Silverbeach Manor by Margaret S. Haycraft Page A

says Pansy, incredulously. "Why don't you do
something to bring her round? She was as well as possible
yesterday."
    "So they tell
me, Miss Adair, and I never shall forgive myself that I was away on
a visit to my married sister at Brixton. I would have begged the
mistress not to tire and excite herself over the doings in the
park. The doctor has often told her to keep quiet. But there's no
one can do any more for the poor dear mistress, Miss Pansy dear.
Lizzie and me closed her eyes, and Lizzie has been a great comfort
all night, miss; I'll say that for her. And the doctor have written
to mistress's lawyer. I'm not aware that mistress had any near
relations to be communicated with, but you know better than I
do."
    "No," says
Pansy; "her husband had a cousin, I believe, but he emigrated. She
often said she was without relations. Oh, it cannot be true. Let me
go to her."
    It is not till
Pansy stands beside the bed and kisses the calm, cold brow that she
realizes the end has come indeed to the life so lately garlanded
with every comfort and pleasure that wealth can bring.
    Only a
few hours ago the lips that are silent spoke of summers and winters
yet to come, of enjoyable trips in Switzerland, of a new plan of
lighting and warming the beautiful villa designed for the residence abroad. Now through all these
plans and schemes God has struck eternal silence. The tears fall
like rain from Pansy's wistful eyes, and a solemn whisper seems to
reach her heart beside that bed: "Therefore, be ye also ready, for
in such an hour as ye think not the Son of Man cometh."
    "Do come and
take some refreshment, madam. You really must not neglect yourself.
So much will fall upon you now that you owe a duty to your
constitution, and you had better let me assist you to lie down, and
bring you up a little luncheon to your room." Mrs. Adair's lady's
maid, always obsequious, is doubly so this morning, and her manner,
as she draws Pansy solicitously from that quiet room, reminds the
girl what a different position is her own henceforth. She has not
the slightest doubt that her guardian, who outpoured upon her so
much affection, has bequeathed to her this fair inheritance. She is
mistress of Silverbeach, of the beautiful home she has learnt to
love, and all its costly possessions.
    But she stands
alone in the world, for the courtesies of her numerous
acquaintances cannot comfort or rest her heart. It is natural that
her wistful thoughts should go out at this hour to the aunt who
gave her up so patiently to a brighter, grander life. She will seek
out poor Aunt Piper, and install her somewhere in plenty and
comfort. What a welcome will be hers when she enters Polesheaton
again, and goes quietly into the post office and twines her arms
around Aunt Temperance, whose heart, she knows, has room for her
still.
    The days that
follow are busy ones for Pansy. Everyone seems to acknowledge her
as mistress and head, and Lady Grace Summit tells her of a very
expensive and much sought-after lady companion connected with the
aristocracy, who for suitable remuneration might be induced to
reside at Silverbeach. Mr. Traylon, the solicitor, is much at the
Manor, and makes arrangements for that solemn ceremony wherein he
and the doctor and the clergymen are mourners, and which is
complimented by a string of empty carriages representing the
sorrowing of various families of repute around.
    Pansy is a
little surprised to see Marlow Holme amid the people near the
grave. He stands there with uncovered head, listening reverently to
the service, but he makes no attempt to intrude himself on her
notice, though he sends her a few lines of heartfelt sympathy.
    After the
funeral, the contents of Mrs. Adair's will are made known in
private to Pansy. Most people look upon her as mistress of
Silverbeach as truly as was its departed owner, but Mr. Traylon and
Pansy and one or two others are aware that the inheritance has not
been bequeathed unconditionally. It is absolutely forfeited if
Pansy