Part 4 (2/2)

Once again she longed for Wistaria Terrace. There was no place for her in _this_ world, she said to herself; and sent a tender reproach in her own mind to the father who had given her up for her good. Then she felt contrite about Lady Anne. How good the old lady was to her, and how she stood up for her, would stand up for her, even to the terrible Lady Drummond! Still, it was not her world; it never would be. She thought, with sudden childish tears filling her eyes, that the next time Lady Anne went to see any of her fine friends she would pray to be left at home.

The great suite of rooms opened one into the other. Mary was in the last of them--a library walled in books from floor to ceiling. The heavy velvet curtains that draped the arched entrance by which she had come had fallen behind her. The silence in the room where the feet fell so softly could be felt. There was not a sound but the ticking of a clock on the mantel-shelf.

Suddenly she came to a standstill. She had entered the room, but how was she to leave it? The doors were constructed of a piece with the book-shelves. The backs of them were dummy books. Mary did not know in the least how to discover the doors. In fact, she supposed that there were not any. She would have to retrace the way she came--perhaps even ask the terrible Lady Drummond how to get out.

She looked up at the long windows with the eye of a bird who has strayed in and cannot find the way out. The elusive air of flight that was hers was more p.r.o.nounced at the moment.

Suddenly there was a sound, and, as Mary thought, the book-shelves opened. She saw light through the opening. A tall boy came in, whistling, and pulled up short as his eyes fell on her. He was about her own age, or a little older.

Mary never forgot in after years the kindness and friendliness of his face as his eyes rested upon her. He came forward slowly, putting out his hand. The colour flooded his face to the roots of his fair hair.

”You came with Lady Anne Hamilton,” he said. ”I found the carriage outside. I have sent it round to the stables and told the man to put up the horses for a while. He will want some refreshment; and they need a rest.”

Mary put a limp hand into the frankly extended one.

”I couldn't find my way out,” she said, with a sigh of relief. ”I thought there were no doors. I was going to see the gardens while Lady Anne and Lady Drummond talked.”

”Let me come with you,” the boy said eagerly. ”I don't know how anybody stays in the house on such a day. Do you like puppies? I have a beautiful litter of Clumber spaniels. And I should like you to see my pony. I have just been out on him. It's a bit slow here, all alone, after so many fellows at school. I'm at Eton, you know. I am going back next Thursday. Shan't be altogether sorry, either, though I'll miss some things.”

They went out together into the golden autumn afternoon. First they went round the gardens, where the boy picked some roses and made them into a little bunch for Mary. He took a peach from a red wall and gave it to her. They sat down together on a seat to eat their fruit. Gardeners and gardeners' a.s.sistants pa.s.sing by touched their hats respectfully. It was, ”Yes, Sir Robin,” and ”No, Sir Robin.” The young master had a good many questions to ask of the gardeners. He was evidently well liked, to judge by the smiles with which they greeted him.

”They're no end of good fellows,” he confided to Mary. ”The mater's rather down on them; thinks they don't do enough. It's a mistake, a woman trying to run a place like this. She can't understand as a man does. Now, if you've finished your peach, Miss Gray, we'll go round to the stable yard and see the puppies. After that I'll show you the pony.

His name's Ajax, and he's rather rippin'. Do you like Kerry cows? The mater has a herd of them--jolly little beasts, but a bit wicked, some of them. You needn't be afraid of them. They wouldn't touch you while I'm there.”

Mary inspected the Clumber puppies, and was promised the pick of the litter if Lady Anne would allow her to accept it.

”She won't refuse,” said the boy, confidently. ”She thinks no end of me.”

”Unless the puppy might worry Fifine.”

”The puppy wouldn't take any notice of that thing--the old dog, I mean.

Besides, she lives in her basket, doesn't she? You might keep the puppy in the stables and take him for walks whenever you can. He'll have a beautiful coat like his mother, and if he's half as clever as she is...!”

”He's a lovely thing,” said Mary, hugging the puppy, who was licking her face energetically and patting her with tremendous paws.

They visited the paddock next; and Sir Robin, springing on Ajax's back, trotted him up and down for Mary's inspection. He had a good seat in the saddle, and he looked his best on horseback. To be sure, Mary had not discovered that Sir Robin was plain, his mother's plainness militating in him against what share of beauty he might have inherited from his father. There was something so exhilarating to Mary in the afternoon's experience, after its beginning so badly, that she forgot what had gone before. She thought Sir Robin a kind and delightful boy. They saw the Kerries, and afterwards there were the rabbits, and the ferrets, and the guinea-pigs to be visited. Intimacy advanced by leaps and bounds. Before the inspection had concluded she was ”Mary” to her new-found friend, although she was too reticent by nature to think of addressing him so familiarly.

They had forgotten the time till half-past five struck from a clock in the stable-yard. At this time they were down by a pond in the shrubbery, where there was an islet with a water-hen's nest and a couple of swans sailing on the water. There was a boat, too, and Sir Robin was just getting it out preparatory to rowing Mary round the pond.

”Oh!” she said, with a little start. ”What time is that?”

”Half-past five. I'd no idea it was so late.”

”Nor I. I must go back at once. Lady Anne said we should be returning about five. I hope she will not be very angry with me.”

Mary had begun to tremble. She always trembled in moments of agitation, as a slender young poplar might s.h.i.+ver in the wind.

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