Читать книгу: «Silverthorns», страница 4

Chapter Five
Lady Mildred

Charlotte went home that Monday looking fagged and unlike herself. Her mother met her as she was going into the school-room, her arms loaded with books.

“My dear, is that you?” said Mrs Waldron. “I did not hear you come in. What a dull, dreary day it is! You have not got wet, I hope?”

“It was not actually raining. My frock got no harm,” Charlotte replied.

But her voice was dull and dreary like the day, and though, as she had just said of the weather, “not actually raining,” the mother’s ears perceived that tears were not very far off.

“Don’t go to lessons again immediately you come in,” she said. ”‘All work and no play’ makes dull girls as well as dull boys. Come into the drawing-room. Jerry came in looking so shivery that I am going to give him a cup of my afternoon tea. Come too, dear, and let us three have a few minutes cosily together. The other boys won’t be home yet.”

Charlotte hesitated.

“Mamma,” she said, “I must work hard – harder than ever; and then – I changed my blue frock immediately. You know I promised you I would, and if any one should come in I would not look very nice,” and she glanced at the old brown dress.

“Nonsense, dear. It is most unlikely that any one will come on such a day. And take my word for it, you will work far better if you give yourself a little interval – a pleasant little interval.”

Mrs Waldron opened the drawing-room door as she spoke, and Charlotte followed her. It did look pleasant and inviting, for well-worn as was much of the furniture, simple – in these days of plush and lace and gorgeous Eastern draperies – as were the few additions that had been made to it from time to time, Charlotte’s mother possessed the touch that seems born with some people, of making a room attractive. Her extreme, exquisite neatness had to do with it – the real underlying spirit of order, which has nothing in common with cold primness or the vulgar hiding away from observation of the occupations of daily life; and joined to this a keen perception of colour, a quick eye and hand for all combinations which give pleasure.

“I can always tell when mamma has been in a room,” Charlotte would say, rather dolefully. “I wonder if I shall ever learn to give things the look she does.”

The tea-table was drawn up near the fire, and Jerry was seated on a low chair beside it.

“Oh, mamma,” he exclaimed, “I thought you were never coming. I have made the tea to perfection. Oh, and here’s Charlotte too. How jolly! It isn’t often that we three get a cosy tea together like this.”

“Are you warmer now, my boy?” his mother asked. “You are very bluey-white-looking still.”

For Jerry, unable to run or even to walk fast, was apt to catch bad colds in chilly weather.

“I’m all right, thank you, mother. I’m quite hungry. Look, Charlotte,” and he raised the cover of a neat little china dish on the table, “isn’t that nice? I bought it for a present to mother. I got it from the old muffin-man – he was just passing. That’s why mamma invited me to tea, I expect.”

Charlotte’s face relaxed. It was impossible to look and feel gloomy with such a welcome.

“It isn’t fair for me to come too,” she said in her own pleasant voice; “one muffin isn’t too much for two.”

“Nor for one, when it’s a proper tea,” said Jerry.

“But this isn’t, you know. This is only a slight refection. We’re going to have our proper school-room tea as usual of course.”

“And how have you got on to-day, Charlotte?” asked her mother, when the muffin and the tea had been discussed. She was a little anxious to hear, though careful not to let it be seen that she was so.

Charlotte’s face clouded over.

“Mamma,” she said, “I think you had better not ask me. You know I would tell you and Jerry more than anybody – but – I want to be good, and I can’t, and – perhaps there are some bad feelings that it’s best not to speak about.”

Jerry looked up with fullest sympathy in his thin white face.

“I don’t know,” said Mrs Waldron. “I can’t judge unless you tell me a little. Is it about that young girl, Charlotte? Has she come?”

“Yes; she was there all day.”

“Well, is she disagreeable? Does she interfere with you in any way?”

“In every way, mamma. At least I feel sure it is going to be in every way. She’s – she’s to be in my class for everything. She’s – it’s no good hiding the truth – she’s awfully clever and far on, and ahead of us all.”

Mrs Waldron’s face looked grave. She felt such sympathy with Charlotte that she was almost shocked at herself. She was only human! She had hoped that her child might be spared the special rivalry which she knew would touch her the most acutely.

“Are you not fanciful, dear? How can you possibly be sure in one day that Miss – what is her name?”

“Meredon, mamma. Claudia Meredon – isn’t it a lovely name?” said Charlotte with a rather curious smile. “Even her name is uncommon and beautiful.” Mrs Waldron could not help laughing.

“You are going too far, my dear child. I am sure your own name is quite nice enough. You have no reason to be ashamed of it.”

“Ashamed of it! no, mamma,” said Charlotte with heightened colour. “It isn’t that.”

“But you are fanciful, dear, about Miss Meredon. How can you be sure in one day that she is going to distance you in all your lessons?”

“She will do so in German, any way,” said Charlotte gloomily, “and that is almost the worst of all. Oh, mamma, if you had heard Herr Märklestatter to-day! Just out of contradiction I got an extra difficult piece to translate, and I stumbled over it rather, I know. At another time I wouldn’t have minded, and he wouldn’t have minded. But to-day – ”

“He wanted you to show off before the new girl of course, and very likely you did too, and that made you worse,” said Jerry bluntly.

“Perhaps,” Charlotte agreed. “But oh, mamma, you would have been sorry for me,” and her voice broke.

“I am sorry for you, my dear. It is a battle you have to fight. But you must be brave – about your lessons; you know we know you always do your best. That should keep you happy.”

Charlotte gave a deep sigh. But before she left the room she stooped and kissed her mother.

“Thank you, mamma,” she said.

Jerry followed her to the school-room.

“Jerry,” she said, as she sat down and spread out her books, “I must have had a sort of feeling that this girl was to do me harm. It is not true that things are even – she has everything, you see. The worst of it is, that I almost believe she is good.”

“Charlotte!” exclaimed Jerry.

“Yes, it sounds awful, but you know what I mean. It makes it horrider of me to hate her, and I’m afraid I do. At least if she gets the German prize – the one he gives for composition at the end of the term – I shall.”

“Shall what?”

“Hate her,” said Charlotte, grimly.

Jerry said no more.

Had Claudia Meredon “everything?”

Charlotte would assuredly have thought so more firmly than ever had she seen her at the moment when she was thus speaking of her. She was driving up the Silverthorns avenue in the pretty pony-carriage which Lady Mildred had appropriated to her use. It was a chilly evening, and the rain had been falling by heavy fits and starts all day. Miss Meredon was well wrapped up, however, and she drove fast. Her cheeks were glowing with excitement, and even in that most unbecoming of attire, a waterproof cloak, she looked, as Charlotte had almost bitterly allowed, “lovely.” Her bright hair crept out in little wavy curls from under her black hat, her eyes were sparkling – she looked a picture of happiness.

“Don’t ring,” she said quickly to the groom, as she threw him the reins, “I’ll let myself in,” and she was out of the carriage and up the steps in a moment.

The great front door was fastened from within, but Claudia ran round the terrace to a side entrance which she knew she should find open. And without waiting to take off even her waterproof, she flew down a passage, across the large hall, and into a smaller one, on to which opened the drawing-room where Lady Mildred usually sat when alone.

“She cannot but be pleased,” thought the girl; “and if I am very quick, I may be able to write a word home to-night.”

She opened the door, and as she did so she seemed to bring in with her a gust of the fresh breezy autumn air. The lady who was reading by the fire, or possibly dozing, for the light was growing faint, started and shivered.

“Claudia,” she exclaimed, “for any sake, shut the door. How can you be so inconsiderate?”

Miss Meredon closed the door gently and came forward.

“Oh, Aunt Mildred, forgive me; I am so sorry,” she replied in her bright eager voice. “I was in such a hurry to tell you how capitally I have got on. I have been so happy. The school is delightful. And, aunt, only fancy – won’t mamma and all of them be pleased? The German master did so praise me! I am to be in the highest class, and – and – he said it would do the others good to have me with them. It’s not for myself I am so pleased – it’s for papa and mamma. And to think that I never had German lessons from any one but mamma.”

She ran on so eagerly that it would have been almost impossible to stop her. And when she at last came to a halt, out of breath, Lady Mildred did not at once speak. When she did her words were more chilling than silence.

“I do wish you were less impulsive and excitable, Claudia,” she said. “Of course I am pleased that you should take a good place, and all that; but I think it rather injudicious of the teachers to have begun praising you up so the first day. They would not have done so had you not been my niece. It is just what I was afraid of.”

“Aunt Mildred, I assure you the German master knew nothing about who I was. And I feel sure he wouldn’t have cared if he had known. And it was more he than any one. Miss Lloyd is nice, but – she isn’t at all gushing. She just told me quietly that so far as she could judge I should be in the highest classes, and – and that it was plain I had been very well taught.”

Lady Mildred looked up sharply.

“You did not – I hope,” she said, “you did not think it necessary to enlighten them as to who had been your teachers?”

“No,” said Claudia, “I did not, because you had told me not to do so. I don’t know in any case that I should have done so, aunt, for though you say I am so childish, I don’t feel inclined to tell everything to people I don’t know. Indeed I am not so silly, only – I couldn’t help running to tell you, just – just as I would have done to mamma,” and Claudia’s voice quivered a little.

“Oh, well,” said her aunt, “don’t excite yourself about it. I am glad to see you have sense of your own – indeed, I always say you have if you would only think a little. But you must learn to be less impulsive – you know how entirely I forbid your making any friendships or intimacies among those girls. What are they like – pretty fair on the whole?”

“They were all very kind,” began Claudia.

“Kind, child! Don’t use such stupid words. Of course they will be all only too civil. That’s not the question. What sort of girls do they seem?”

“Some seem very nice indeed,” replied Miss Meredon. “The nicest looking of all, indeed she is rather a peculiarly pretty girl – I never saw any one quite like her, except – no, I don’t remember who it can be she reminds me of. She has quite dark brown hair, and a rather brown complexion, prettily brown, you know, and yet bright blue eyes. Her name is Charlotte Waldron.”

“Humph!” said Lady Mildred, “like her father.” She was not fond of Mr Waldron’s very “Osbert” characteristics, though she scarcely allowed even to herself that he had any traceable connection with the Silverthorns’ family.

“Oh, do you know them?” exclaimed Claudia, joyfully. “I felt sure when I saw her that you could not object – ”

“Nonsense, Claudia,” Lady Mildred interrupted. “Her father is the Wortherham lawyer, or a Wortherham lawyer; no doubt there are plenty of them. And I should rather more object, if possible, to your making friends with this girl than with any others of the Wortherham misses. Mr Waldron has some little of the Silverthorns business, and I won’t have any gossiping about my affairs. You know the understanding on which you came to me?”

“Of course I do, dear aunt,” Claudia replied. “I wish you would not think because I say out to you whatever I feel that I have any idea of going against your wishes. I only meant that this girl looked so – it sounds rather vulgar to express it so, but it is the only way to say it – she looks so completely a lady that I thought you would probably not mind my knowing her a little better than the others. I fancy we shall be together in most of our lessons.”

“So much the worse,” thought Lady Mildred. “It is really very unlucky. I had no idea that Edward Waldron had a daughter old enough to be at school.”

But aloud, after a moment’s silence, she remarked with a slight touch of sarcasm in her tone, —

“So Miss Waldron also is a remarkably talented young person. She must be so if she is to rank with you, I suppose.”

“Aunt Mildred!” exclaimed Claudia. In her place most girls of her age, Charlotte Waldron certainly, would have burst into tears, or left the room in indignation, but this was fortunately not Claudia’s “way.” She forced back the momentary feeling of irritation, and answered brightly: “I know you are only teasing me, Aunt Mildred. You don’t really think me so dreadfully conceited?”

Even Lady Mildred could not help relaxing.

“You are very sweet-tempered, my dear, whatever else you are or are not, and it is the best of all gifts.” She sighed as she spoke.

“Now you will make me blush,” said Claudia merrily.

“And was this Miss Waldron very ‘kind,’ as you call it – very ‘empressée,’ and all the rest of it?” Lady Mildred asked.

“No-o,” answered Claudia, hesitating a little; “I can’t say that she was. Her manner is rather cold and reserved, but there is something very nice about her. I am sure she would be very nice if one knew her better. Perhaps she is shy. I think that gave me the feeling of wishing to be nice to her,” she added naïvely.

”‘Nice’ in the sense of being civil and courteous, of course you must be. I trust you are quite incapable of being otherwise. And it is the most ill-bred and vulgar idea to suppose that the right way of keeping people in their places is by being rude to them. That at once puts one beneath them. But, on the other hand, that is a very different thing from rushing into school-girl intimacies and bosom friendships, which I cannot have.”

“I know,” said Claudia, but though she sighed a little it was inaudibly. “Aunt Mildred,” she began again, half-timidly.

“Well?”

“Has the letter-bag gone? Can I possibly write to mamma to-night?”

“The post-bag has not gone, I believe,” said Lady Mildred. “No doubt you can write. I suppose you are in a fever to report the German master’s compliments – if you think it amiable and considerate to leave your old aunt alone when she has been alone all day, instead of making tea for her and sitting talking with her comfortably. But of course you very intellectual young ladies now-a-days think such small attentions to old people quite beneath you. You will prefer to write in your own room, I suppose – you have a fire. I will send you up some tea if you wish it. May I trouble you to ring the bell?” But as Claudia, without speaking, came forward to do so, Lady Mildred gave a little scream.

“Good gracious, child, you haven’t taken off your waterproof, and you have been standing beside me all this time with that soakingly wet cloak. If you are determined to kill yourself I object to your killing me too.”

“It is scarcely wet, aunt,” said Claudia, gently. “But I am very sorry all the same,” and she left the room as she spoke.

“Why do I constantly vex her?” she said to herself, despairingly. “I must be very stupid and clumsy. I do so want to please her, as papa and mamma said, not only because she is so good to us, but even more, because she is so lonely – poor Aunt Mildred. Of course my letter can wait till to-morrow. Oh, I know what I’ll do – I’ll be very quiet, and I’ll creep into the drawing-room behind Ball with the tea-tray, and Aunt Mildred will not know I’m there.”

And the smiles returned to Claudia’s face as she flew up-stairs and along the gallery to her room. Such a pretty, comfortable room as it was! A bright fire burned in the grate, her writing-table stood temptingly ready. Claudia would dearly have liked to have sat down there and then, to rejoice the home hearts with her good news. For they, as well as she, had been awaiting rather anxiously the results of her measuring her forces against those of her compeers. So much depended on the opinion of qualified and impartial judges as to her capacities; for, as her mother had said laughingly, —

“It may be the old story of our thinking our goose a swan, you know, dear.”

Yes, it would have been delightful to write off at once – a day sooner than they had been expecting to hear. But the very sight of her room confirmed the girl in not yielding to the temptation, for it recalled Lady Mildred’s constant though undemonstrative kindness.

“No doubt it was she who told the servants to keep the fire up for fear I should be cold,” she thought. “Dear me, how very good she is to me. How I wish mamma, and Lalage, and Alix, and all of them, for that matter, could see me here really like a little princess! But oh! how I wish I could send some of all this luxury to them – if I could but send dear mamma a fire in her room to-night! They won’t even be allowing themselves one in the drawing-room yet – they’ll all be sitting together in the study. Monday evening, poor papa’s holiday evening, as he calls it.”

All the time she was thus thinking she was taking off her things as fast as possible. In two minutes she was ready, her hair in order, the rebellious curls in their place, her collar, and all the little details of her dress fit to stand the scrutiny of even Lady Mildred’s sharp eyes; and as she flew down-stairs again, she met, as she had counted upon, the footman carrying in the tea-tray. The drawing-room was quite dark now, as far as light from outside was concerned, and Lady Mildred’s lamp left the corners in shadow. It was easy for Claudia to slip in unperceived, for her aunt was not expecting her, and did not even raise her eyes when the door opened, and the slight clatter that always accompanies cups and saucers announced the arrival of the tea.

“Tell Crossley to come in a few minutes to take Miss Meredon’s tea up-stairs,” said Lady Mildred, not knowing that the footman had already left the room, and that the movements she still heard were made by Claudia, safely ensconced behind the tray, and laughing quietly to herself. In another minute a voice close beside her made the old lady start.

“Aunt Mildred,” it said, “here is your tea.”

“Claudia!” she exclaimed. “I thought you were up-stairs in your room.”

“Selfishly writing my letter home! Oh, aunt! how could you think I would be so horrid! My letter will do very well to-morrow. I did not think it was so near tea-time when I thoughtlessly spoke of it. Do you think I don’t enjoy making tea for you? – almost the only thing I can do for you,” said the girl with a kind of affectionate reproach.

Lady Mildred was silent for a few moments. Then she said again, with a tone in her voice which was not often heard, —

“Claudia, you have the best of gifts – a sweet and sunny nature. Try to keep it, my dear.”

And Claudia felt rewarded.

She sat up in her own room that night for half-an-hour to write the home letter.

“Mamma would forgive my doing so for once,” she said to herself, “for I may not have time to-morrow. If I am really to do well at school I must work hard, and it will not be easy to do so, and yet to please Aunt Mildred. But I don’t mind how difficult it is – it will be worth it all to be able to help them at home without being separated. But oh, mamma, mamma! it is very hard to be away from you all!”

And Claudia leant her head on the table and burst into tears.

Chapter Six
Claudia’s Home

The Rectory at Britton-Garnett was one of those picturesque, tempting-looking, old cottage-like houses which, seen in summer by a passer-by, embowered in greenery and roses, remain in the memory as a sort of little earthly paradise. And its inhabitants, who loved it well in spite of its imperfections, would have accepted the verdict without much protest.

“It is a sweet little place,” Mrs Meredon would say, “and for rich people it might really be made almost perfect. But with these old houses, you see, there seems always something that wants doing or repairing. The roof is in a very bad state, and we are sometimes very much afraid that there is dry-rot in the old wainscoting.”

But the roof had to be patched up, and the incipient dry-rot had to be left to itself. Mr Meredon was far too poor to spend a shilling or even a sixpence that he could possibly help; and as the house was his own private property, – for what had been the Rectory was a very small house in the village, quite out of the question as the abode of a large family, – there was no one to appeal to for necessary repairs, as is usually the case. The Rectory proper was, in point of fact, large enough for the living, which was a very small one. Long ago now, when the Meredons first came there, shortly after their marriage, it had been with the idea that Britton-Garnett was but the stepping-stone to better things. But years had gone on without the better things coming, and now for some considerable time past the Rector had left off hoping that they ever would, or that he could be able conscientiously to accept them should they do so. For a terrible misfortune had come over him, literally to darken his life. He had grown almost totally blind.

It had been softened to some extent by a very slow and gradual approach. The sufferer himself, and his wife and elder children, had had time to prepare for it, and to make their account with it. There was even now a good hope that, with great care and prudence, the glimmering of sight that remained to him might be preserved; that the disease had, so to speak, done its worst. But adieu to all prospects of a more active career, of the wide-spread usefulness and distinction Mr Meredon had sometimes dreamt of, of “the better things,” in the practical sense even, that he had hoped for, when he and his light-hearted and talented but portionless young bride had, like so many thousands of others in fact and fiction, “so very imprudently married.” It was even harder in some ways than if the poor man had become completely blind, for then there would have been nothing more to fear, no use in precautions or care.

“Sometimes I could wish it had been so,” he once confessed to his wife. “I don’t know but that it would have been easier for you all.”

“Easier for you, perhaps, dear Basil,” said his wife. “But for us – oh no! Think what it would be for you not to know the children’s faces as they grow up, not to – ”

“The loss would be mine in all that,” interrupted Mr Meredon.

“But, papa dear, it would be much more trouble for us if we had always to trot about with you, if you couldn’t go anywhere alone. We should have to get a little dog for you – or else I should have to leave off my lessons and my music and everything to go everywhere with you. No, you are a very selfish old man to wish to be quite blind,” said Claudia gaily. “I like you much better as you are.”

“I should not see how thin your mother’s face is growing. I can see that. The grey hairs – if they are coming – I can’t see as it is.”

“Nor can I – for the very good reason that there are none to see,” Claudia replied.

There were several children – all younger, considerably younger than Claudia, and the two next her were girls. So for the moment the family cares were not so heavy as in the future they would assuredly be, when the little boys’ schooling would have to be thought of, and college, or starting them in the world, beyond that again. Mr Meredon was the younger son of a large family. All that he could hope for had been done for him, and the seniors of his family were not rich men for their position.

“There is only Aunt Mildred,” he said more than once to his wife: “she is alone now, and she used to be fond of me.”

“Till you married,” said Mrs Meredon. “And – it is not exactly as if her money was Meredon money. She only has it for life, has she not?”

“Yes, only for her life; and she has, by her husband’s instructions, to keep up the place in such perfect order, – besides its being temporarily rather heavily burdened, – that she is really not very rich in ready money. General Osbert, the next owner, will be better off than she. Still, if she could see us, she might do something for the children. Anything would be something – even helping Claudia’s education.”

“That would be almost the best help she could give us,” said Mrs Meredon, eagerly. “Claudia is, I feel almost certain, unusually clever, and – you must not be vexed, Basil – an idea has struck me, her and me I should say, which would make things easier in the future. If Claudia could have the chance of some really first-rate teaching for a couple of years or so, she would then be eighteen, and she might turn her knowledge to account.”

“You mean by becoming a governess?” said Mr Meredon. “I doubt if Aunt Mildred would give any help towards such an end as that.”

“No, I don’t mean a governess in the ordinary way. But in the first place she could teach Lalage and Alix, and the boys too for some time to come. And besides that, I quite think she could have other pupils. Mrs Carteret has been speaking to me about her three girls – they are quite little still, you know, but in a year or two she will have to arrange something. Of course they are not the sort of people to send their girls to school; but, on the other hand, she is very averse to having a resident governess, as their house is already so full. She almost said to me that they would gladly pay as much as to a resident governess if they could meet with any lady in the neighbourhood who could undertake to give the children daily lessons. And Mr Fade, I rather fancy he would be delighted to join in any plan of the kind. He wants companionship for Sydney, and yet he would certainly never send her to school.”

“So we should have a select establishment for young ladies here,” said Mr Meredon, half amused, half incredulous. “I doubt if the Meredon prejudices would not be even more shocked by that than if Claudia became a governess.”

“I don’t think so; besides, we can’t afford to consider that. Our circumstances are very peculiar. We must do what we can for ourselves. And Claudia is a very exceptional girl.”

“Yes, I allow that. But would such a scheme not entail too much fatigue and work for her? She will be very young even at eighteen. And no teacher can teach everything.”

“No; but if it were arranged, Claudia and I are sure that both the Carterets and Mr Fade would join to have one or two masters once a week or so from Curwen. Claudia could superintend the preparation for them, and I, of course, would give what help I could if it were in this house. But most likely Mrs Carteret would wish the lessons to be there. There would be an advantage in that, for it would leave me more time for reading and writing with you.”

Mr Meredon was silent for a little.

“That would be a very great comfort,” he said at last, “and possibly even more. I can’t bear to take up your time just now, when you have all the teaching to do; but if you were freer I might perhaps go on with some of the work I had in hand when my eyes first got so bad. I could dictate to you,” and Mr Meredon looked up eagerly.

But the brighter expression soon faded.

“I am afraid,” he said, “we are reckoning on our chickens not only before they are hatched, but before we have got any eggs! In the first place, Mrs Carteret may not think Claudia fit for it. No man is a prophet in his own country – and you see they have known her since she was a baby.”

Mrs Meredon smiled.

“I will ask Mrs Carteret about it,” she said.

“And then the two years’ schooling for her. Where is that to come from?” he asked.

“Ah! that is the question. Well, Basil, I love our independence as much as you do, but with this prospect of steady and remunerative employment for her, I think we should swallow our false pride, – it surely would be false pride in such a case, – and ask Lady Mildred to help us. It would not be asking much, or burdening her for long.”

“I will think it over,” Mr Meredon replied, “and you perhaps had better sound Mrs Carteret, and, if you like, Mr Fade also.”

Perhaps Mrs Meredon had already done so. Be that as it may, the results were satisfactory. And a few days later the letter on which hung so many hopes was written by his wife to Mr Meredon’s dictation.

“And now,” she said wisely, “we have done what we could. Let us try in the mean time to put the matter off our minds.”

Their patience, however, was not so taxed as often happens in such cases. Nor was the answer what they had expected. How seldom, how strangely seldom are expectations realised! If ever in the long run things turn out as we have anticipated, the details of their fulfilment are so curiously unlike what we had pictured that we scarcely recognise them. Mrs Meredon and Claudia, the blind father too probably, had lain awake many an hour reading in imagination Lady Mildred’s reply. Would it be curt and cold, at once negativing all hopes, or condescendingly benevolent, or simply kind and kinswomanlike? The last, after so many years, and after too her expressed disapproval of her nephew’s marriage, was scarcely to be hoped for. It was none of all these, for in the shape of a letter her answer never came at all.

But one late August afternoon, about a month before the rainy Saturday when Charlotte and Gervais Waldron sat discussing the expected “new girl” at Miss Lloyd’s, the nameless heiress of Silverthorns, the old fly from Welby, the Britton-Garnett railway station, turned in at the Rectory gate and slowly crawled up the drive, already slushy with early autumn rains and want of rolling, – for carriage wheels were rare at the Meredons’ – and in answer to the scared little maid’s information that “missus was at home,” a tall, upright old lady in deep mourning descended, and was ushered into the drawing-room. It was empty. She had time to look about her – to note the shabby furniture, the scrupulous care with which the carpet, faded though it was, was covered to protect it from the sun, the darned curtains looped up so as to show to the best advantage, the one real ornament of the room, a lovely nosegay of roses, freshly cut and fragrant, placed so as to make a bright spot where most wanted.