Silverbeach Manor (7 page)

Dances,
fetes,
fancy bazaars,
theatre-going -- in this way she endeavours to secure the girl's
happiness. She herself was wearied of these things long ago
herself, but for Pansy's sake she plunges anew into a vortex of
excitement, and is rewarded by seeing her charge on all sides
courted and admired. As time goes on, proposals of marriage which
Mrs. Adair considers very flattering, are made to Pansy. A nobleman
well known on the horse racing scene would fain share with her his
title and his wealth; an aged and much respected member of
Parliament aspires to make her his second wife; a young dramatist,
making money fast, and quite a lion in society, is one of her most
devoted cavaliers.

Pansy is cool
as concerns her admirers, and Mrs. Adair says indulgently, "I shall
not hurry your choice, my dear. I should prefer to keep you at my
side for many a long year to come. When you are tired of London
society, we might take a long yachting cruise together. Many people
have given us an open invitation. Or perhaps we might settle down
in Italy for two or three years. The air suits me better than this
foggy climate. I should be sorry to lose you so soon, and there is
no need whatever, with your prospects, for you to make a hasty or
loveless marriage."

Pansy thinks
she detects a glance accompanying these words in the direction of a
large oil-painting of Mr. Adair in civic robes -- a very
fretful-looking old gentleman, whose bad-tempered eyes seem to be
following her about all over the room.

For a time the
theatre seems very charming to Pansy, but before long the sameness
and monotony of her theatre-going life make her restless and weary.
The plays seem all alike; the rich dresses, the decorations, the
music seem to conspire to tire her. The idea of seeing a play night
after night would once have been enchanting to Pansy Piper, but the
fashionable Miss Pansy Adair is secretly weary of footlights, stage
scenery, dramatic attitudes, and actors and actresses.

One of their
neighbours at Silverbeach, Miss Mabel Bromley, has recently become
a nurse, and Pansy visits her one day in the midst of her duties at
the small hospital to which she belongs. Sister Mabel, as she is
called, directs Pansy's attention to a poor sufferer from lung
disease, a girl about their own age, and asks her softly if she
recognizes her.

"No,
poor creature," says Pansy compassionately. "I am no district
visitor, you know, Mabel. Mrs. Adair would not let me run the risk
of infection, though sometimes the feeling comes over me that
I
would
like to do something for other
people. I get all the comfort and pleasure I can, and
give
nothing in return. I wish my life were half
as useful as yours."

"Oh, Pansy
dear, you have not the nerves for a sick-nurse! But if only Mrs.
Adair would allow it, a quiet tune on your violin in the
convalescent wards would be a most helpful ministry. Our patients
are so fond of music. We have a nurse here who sings hymns for them
in the evening, and they seem to calm and soothe the sick people
wonderfully."

"I am not
religious," says Pansy, bluntly. "I never sing hymns except at
church. But if I may really come and play here sometimes, it will
be the best use to which I ever put my violin. But, Mabel, who is
that poor, thin creature of whom you spoke just now?"

"Her name is
Elsie Smith, but she is called Miss Genevieve Marechal, of the
theatre. A few months ago she was most popular. Surely you remember
her, Pansy? What beautiful dresses she always wore, and in what a
bright, lively manner she sang and acted. Showers of bouquets were
thrown to her night after night."

"I remember
her quite well now," says Pansy slowly, watching the white face
that is brightened by a trembling smile as a worker of the Flower
Mission goes up to her bed and hands her a beautiful bunch of
carnations, with a text of eternal comfort. "But, Mabel, what a
change in her. She always seemed the most cheerful person
around."

"Even then,"
says Sister Mabel, "her sickness had hold of her, and was
aggravated by late hours, the heat of the theatre, the chilly
out-of-door air, and the unnatural pace of her life. When she could
no longer bring in money, her employers ceased to take interest in
her. She grew poorer and poorer, till at last a worker in a
charitable mission found her suffering alone in a miserable attic,
and arranged her admission here. I respect the poor girl, Pansy.
She is good and virtuous, but I feel sure her theatrical life was
beset by temptation, and she will not hear of her little sister
going on the stage. We have got the child into a training-home for
servants."

The hospital
is close to a railway station, and Pansy returns alone to
Silverbeach by train. One passenger after another in her
compartment alights at intervening stations. Her only companion at
last is a young man engaged in reading. She is absorbed in her own
thoughts, for her soul has been stirred today by the sight of the
patient nurses, the workers in the Flower Mission, and the
sufferers whose lives are so different from her own.

If, like some
of these, she were lying today on a bed of sickness from which she
might never rise, she asks herself what value to her heart would be
her dresses and jewels, her musical achievements, even wonderful
Silverbeach Manor? At this moment Pansy remembers the old Sunday
school of her childhood -- the plain, whitewashed room, brightened
by texts on the walls, and by the presence of loving, earnest
teachers and smiling young faces. How joyously she had sung of
Heaven and of home in those far-distant days.

And then she
thinks of those solemn times when, as a child, a growing girl, she
listened to the voice of her aunt praying for her and with her that
she might be a disciple of Him who died for us -- that the Lord
Jesus would set His seal upon her as His own ransomed child.

"Ah, well,"
she thinks, with something between a smile and a sigh, "my aunt's
prayer is one of the many unanswered petitions that have been
offered up. I am certainly not religious -- I wonder how anyone
could be at Silverbeach Manor."

There is a
young housemaid, fresh from Bible class crowned and wreathed with
prayer, shining alone for Jesus in the servants' hall at
Silverbeach. She might testify that there is no place where the
soul cannot serve and honour the Lord. But the young disciple is
only third housemaid, and Pansy takes little notice of the comings
and goings of the servants under Fox, Mrs. Adair's housekeeper.

Presently she
puts her hand listlessly in her pocket for her small purse, and
then more carefully. Then she rises, and with a heightened colour
makes a search for her ticket. What has become of it, and where is
the purse that held it? The purse contained a ten pound note
besides some gold. Can it be that one of the patients at the
hospital, skilled, perhaps, in stealing, has secured the purse?

Pansy is not
used to travelling alone, and it was only with difficulty that she
persuaded Mrs. Adair to let her visit town unattended today. She
shrinks from an encounter with the guard who will come round for
tickets at Morfill Junction, where she has to change trains. By
this time her agitated movements have disturbed her companion, who
politely inquires if he can assist her in any way. Pansy eyes him
distrustfully. He looks nothing like the dandies to whom she is
accustomed. She is surprised that he should be riding in a
first-class carriage. His hat is clearly not of the newest, and the
collar of his overcoat has seen service, and he is not wearing
gloves.

Only lately
she was reading in a journal that a railway thief had robbed a
gentleman, and then politely lent him half a crown to take him
home, when the poor old gentleman could nowhere find his purse. The
conviction flashes upon Pansy that this quiet young man, hidden so
long behind the newspaper, has possession of her purse.

"I think you
have taken my purse," she says, with burning cheeks. "I had it only
just now, some time after the last passenger got out. Nobody but
you can have taken it. Unless you restore it directly, I will pull
the communication cord and stop the train."

"Wait a
few minutes," says her companion, soothingly. "We shall soon be at
Morfill, and then you can state your complaint. Have you
seen
The Graphic
this week?"

In his own
mind he thinks the excited, indignant girl is not quite right in
her head, and he experiences a passing thought of regret that one
so attractive-looking should be unaccountable for her ways.

"I am not so
foolish as all that," says Pansy, astutely. "I have been reading
about the ways of railway thieves, and you cannot deceive me. When
we get to Morfill you will make your escape, so I will stop the
train immediately unless you give me my purse."

"My dear young
lady, I know nothing about your purse. Let us make a search for it
in the carriage."

Pansy
looks at his pockets, but he is so strongly built that she does not
attempt the assault. "I
know
it is in
your possession," she says passionately. "I have two diamonds in it
that fell out of my ring, and I would not lose them for anything.
Once and for all, will you give me my purse? If you do, I promise
to let you go unpunished."

"I can only
repeat, madam, that I know nothing whatever about your purse."

"Then I will
stop the train, and the guard shall search you."

Pansy moves
haughtily towards the communication cord, and can scarcely credit
that the thief has the audacity to seize her hands.

"Excuse me,"
he says, "we are just approaching the long tunnel, and it might be
dangerous to bring the train to a standstill here. You really must
not pull the communication cord, madam. This is a very busy line,
and at this point it would be a great risk. I hope I am not hurting
you."

He registers a
mental resolution not to be left alone with a possible monomaniac
again, and Pansy, having some idea he may have concealed a
revolver, dares not resist his hold, though she trembles like a
leaf between fear and anger. No sooner are they out of the tunnel
than she commences to scream as loudly as possible, thereby much
discomforting her companion, and causing a number of people to put
their heads out of the windows of adjacent compartments.

At Morfill
quite a little crowd surrounds the windows of her carriage.

"Hello," says
the guard, "what is all this about, sir? Stand aside please,
gentlemen, and let the lady make her complaint."

"He has my
purse," gasps Pansy, pointing at the much-annoyed young man, who
vainly looks about for a way of escape. "He stole it from me during
the journey. I know he did."

"A most
evil-looking fellow," she hears someone say in the crowd. "These
railway robberies are on the increase, and it is to be hoped the
magistrate will make an example of this man. The poor young lady is
almost fainting from fright."

"It is quite a
delusion," says the accused individual, earnestly. "The charge is
ridiculous. Here is my card," and he hands one to the guard. "I
really cannot wait. I have a particular appointment at Masden, and
the train is waiting at the other platform."

"So it
do," says the guard, "but I'm afraid you can't catch that there
train this time, young man. Them as steals purses can steal cards.
We've no means of knowing this here
is
your
name and address. Anyways,
you'll have to come along to the stationmaster's office. This way
if you please, miss. Mr. Spinks will inquire into this affair. He
were in the police force once, were Mr. Spinks."

The accused
evidently resigns himself to his fate, and though he looks
wistfully after the Masden train he walks beside the watchful guard
to the office, followed by inquisitive spectators, some of whom
say, audibly, "It's the young lady from Silverbeach, Miss Adair.
What a fright it do seem to have given the poor young lady, to be
sure!"

The
stationmaster listens attentively to Pansy's agitated complaint,
and scans, with quick scrutiny, the quiet face of the accused.

"Nobody
else
can
have stolen it," says
Pansy.
"
I took out my purse to see if my
ticket was all right just after we passed Highdale, and the last
passenger got out
there.
Only this man
remained."

The young
fellow wishes he had got out at Highdale as well, and escaped all
this annoyance. "I am sorry you have lost your purse," he says to
Pansy, "but after an examination of my pockets, I trust the
officials here will permit me to proceed on my journey, as I am
pressed for time."

"Oh, the
search is nothing," says Pansy. "People like you can hide things
anywhere in a moment. I have read all about you. I dare say you
gave it to a confederate in the crowd just now."

"Your opinion
is scarcely flattering," says the young man, quietly, "but time
presses. Where can I be searched, if it has to be done? "

"One
moment," says the station master. "Is the young lady quite sure the
purse
is
lost? I have known cases where
articles have been found about the dress. If the lady would not
mind examining the folds of her skirt, it may be somewhere in the
drapery."

"Oh dear, no!"
says Pansy, but the remembrance flashes across her that a little
while ago she put a letter, as she thought, in the pocket of that
dress, and found out afterwards that it had slipped into quite
another part of her skirt. Certainly it is a most awkward pocket to
reach. At this moment she detects that the bottom of the skirt is
unduly heavy. She puts down her hand with a burning face, and up
comes the purse, which has slipped through another part instead of
her pocket.