Chapter X: A Summer Lodger

"A transient visit intervening,
And made almost without a meaning,
* * * *
Produced a friendship, then begun,
That has cemented us in one."
COWPER.

THE next month dragged very heavily. Heather brought all her pride and pluck into requisition, and never betrayed to those around how bitterly she bewailed her lot in private. Abigail looked on and wondered. She saw her young mistress taking a keener interest in all that concerned the villagers than ever before. She was always ready with a laugh and jest, and her spirit and energy never seemed to flag.

Yet Abigail knew well that she was not really happy. The old servant had keen sight, and there were hard strained lines round the young girl's eyes that never used to be there. She watched her in silence. It had been a great shock to find how entirely her former rule was now cast lightly aside. Heather was always pleasant, but there was a reserve and dignity about her that forbade any familiarity on the part of Abigail. She was mistress of the household, and showed every one that she meant to be treated as such.

Abigail waited on her for the most part in silence, but her old heart was full of love and pity for the lonely girl. And as Heather seemed to increase rather than diminish the distance between them, so did Abigail's affection rise proportionately.

A few weeks after Heather's return, she had visitors.

A Lady Monteith, living about four miles off, came to call with her daughters. Heather had met some connections of theirs in town, and she found to her amusement that she and Bluebell could no longer be buried in oblivion. Their season in town had made a great difference in their social status, and the county families who had ignored them before, now intended to stretch out a welcome to the bright young beauties of fashion. Lady Monteith was followed by others, and Heather was not surprised to receive soon the following letter from her cousin:—

"MY DEAREST HEATHER,—I am getting distinctly anxious about you, and though you have cast me off for a time, I will not yet disclaim all responsibility of your actions. How long are you going to be in the country? All the winter? Because, if so, I think you ought to have some worthy duenna living with you. Lady Monteith is talking about you, and you know what that means. If you weren't so good-looking, it would not matter. But if the county is opening its arms to you, as I hear from her it intends doing, you must have some one to go about with you. I think I can find some one for you if you wish it, but I know of old what a decided little person you are, so won't do anything till I hear from you. I can't offer to come and stay with you myself, for your worthy handmaiden is too much for my temper. Hal sends love. He expects you back next spring, and says you will take London by storm. Cyril has gone off to a Scotch moor with a new friend of his whom I fear and dislike. He is deeply religious, and you don't suspect from his manners at first what traps he is laying for you. I fell into his clutches once, and keep a safe distance off now, I can assure you! I suppose you hear from Bluebell? I don't, but I am told matters are proceeding very smoothly between her and Sir Herbert.

"In haste, with love, your affectionate cousin,—

"IDA."

Her answer was brief and to the point:—

"My DEAR IDA,—Do not distress yourself about me. If I intended to continue my gay life in the country, I should not have come. I may return a few calls, but beyond that I shall not mix in society. I have quite enough to do in attending to my home duties and the needs of our poor people to keep me occupied. I came home to retrench my expenses. That I am doing.

"With love, your affectionate cousin,—

"HEATHER."

"It sounds curt and cold," she mused, as she read it over before sending off. "But I fancy Cousin Ida is not so genial as she was. I can never forget what she has done for us, but I know she is vexed at my coming home, and disappointing some of her hopes. Her letter sounds uninterested. I have taken my choice, and she will soon forget me, I expect."

Perhaps Heather judged harshly, but she was not far from the truth. Mrs. Carter was getting a little tired of her chaperonage. Her views were that girls ought to become engaged in their first season. She had been gratified by her young cousins' favourable impression upon society when first introduced, and their growing popularity had been very pleasant to witness. But after a time, she grew a little tired of her responsibility regarding their movements. She found them more difficult to manage, and when Heather explained her motives for returning home, she resented them, and chose to consider they cast a reflection on her superintendence of dress and expenditure.

When she received Heather's letter, she tossed it across to her husband with a laugh.

"She is a cool young woman, isn't she? I cannot quite understand her. I think she has a puritanical vein in her nature—hereditary, I suppose."

"She took to town life very easily," said Captain Carter.

"As a duck takes to water! Well, I have relieved my conscience, and shall let her 'gang her ain gait.' I only wrote because I was smarting from Lady Monteith's scathing comments on 'girls of the present day, and the farce of chaperons.' I looked after her well as long as she was under my roof. She left it of her own accord, so I shall trouble no more about her."

A little later than this, Heather was one day asked by George Thatcher if she would object to his wife taking in lodgers for a month or so. It appeared that a sister of his in service had written to ask him if he knew of any rooms in the neighbourhood that would suit an invalid lady. Times were rather bad; Annie had two or three spare rooms, and would like to accommodate the lady.

"But we weren't certain if you'd like it, miss. 'Tis your farm, and we wouldn't do nothink to put you about."

Heather laughed.

"Of course I don't object. Why should I? I envy the invalid such cosy quarters. I will come down and see Annie, and find out if I can do anything to help her in this new venture." Which she accordingly did.

In her quiet, uneventful life, even the advent of a summer lodger brought interest and pleasure. And when the invalid finally arrived, Heather resolved to go and call upon her.

So, one bright afternoon, she set out for the farm. On the way, she passed Watty and old Ralph in the midst of an animated discourse. They were leaning over the old stone bridge which arched the river, and which was called by many "The Idler's Corner."

"Well, Watty," said Heather, as she came up to them, "aren't you supposed to be on your afternoon rounds? Have you any letters for me?"

"Didn't I bring you three this mornin', miss?" said Watty, not attempting to move. "You couldn't go for to expec' any more to-day. We be havin' an argiment, Ralph and me, and he be such a one with his tongue that I can't get my innin's."

"Ha, ha!" laughed Ralph, cheerily, as he spread out his beloved paper before him. "Well, Miss Heather, here be Watty shakin' his head over strangers a-comin' to lodge to your farm. I sez, the more we get, the better it be for trade; he sez, importation of any sort ruins our country. I sez, we want our village to grow; he sez, railways and telegraphs are a curse instead of a blessin'. I sez, they brings work to hundreds; he sez, increase o' poppylation means increase o' crime and taxes. I sez—"

"Oh, please stop," said Heather, laughingly putting her hands to her ears. "I never will discuss such questions. What does it matter? If you waste your time much longer, Watty, you will get into trouble. Good afternoon! I am too busy to stay gossiping here."

She left them, and as her light steps sped on their way, Watty shook his head after her.

"She have taken up grand airs since she have a bin in Lunnon; she rules as strong as a master, and it ought not to be! Women be sadly fallin' off, in these wicked days, and everything be turnin' topsy-turvy and inside out!"

Heather reached the farm, and paused just before she went up the garden to look around her. The orchard close by was full of ripe and rosy fruit, the virginian creeper over the old porch was in its scarlet mantle; everything around seemed united in glowing gold and crimson. The old-fashioned border that went right round the smooth grass-plot was full of bright dahlias, sunflowers, and hollyhocks, and the foliage of the woods in the distance would have delighted any artist's eye, for every shade from gold to deep copper quivered in the autumn sunshine. Heather drew a deep breath as she gazed.

"There is nothing in London like this," she said.

And then feeling soothed and comforted, she entered the house.

She was shown at once into the best parlour, a pretty old room with large bay window overlooking the orchard. In an easy chair drawn up to the window was the invalid, and Heather, who had quite expected to see a fragile old lady, almost started at the contrast to her expectation. Miss Vaughan was not a very young woman, but there was no sign of feebleness or of age about her, and Heather thought her face was the handsomest she had ever seen. Very dark eyes which flashed and glowed with intense feeling, rippling brown hair with hardly a streak of grey discernible, finely cut features, and a broad intellectual forehead, and, lastly, lips that parted in a most bewitching smile,—these were the points that Heather's quick glance took note of.

She introduced herself very simply, and laid an exquisite bunch of tea-roses on the small table by the invalid's side.

"I thought you might like a few roses," she said. "It may be vain of me, but I never think any roses smell like ours!"

Miss Vaughan looked delighted.

"You have indeed given me a treat. I have heard a great deal about you, Miss Fotheringay. Mrs. Thatcher has a great affection for you and your sister."

"She was one of our maids a few years ago. I hope she will make you comfortable."

"I am quite sure she will. This is such a delicious contrast to my London lodgings."

"Do you live in London?"

"No, but I have been staying there for the last six months. Not a very bright time, for I went up for treatment, and have been in the doctor's hands until now."

"I hope you are better," said Heather, sympathetically.

Miss Vaughan answered brightly, "I am not worse, and I know now that nothing more can be done. Certainty is always preferable to doubt."

Heather was silent. She did not like to appear too inquisitive.

But Miss Vaughan, after a glance at her, said frankly, "It is my spine. I hurt it two years ago out hunting, and I have been living in the hopes of getting about on my feet again. I have had the best advice, and know now that that can never be."

"How dreadful for you! How can you bear it?"

Such a glad light shone out of Miss Vaughan's speaking eyes.

"I don't think I could have borne it two years ago, but I have had great happiness since I have been laid aside, and nothing seems to matter much now."

Heather looked at her inquiringly, and Miss Vaughan responded to her look.

"I only thought of earth and its pleasures before," she said softly. "I have had my eyes and heart opened to so much more since."

Heather was silent, but there was a wistful look in her eyes that Miss Vaughan noticed at once.

"Do you know my receipt for happiness?" was the next question gently put.

"I ought to know it, Miss Vaughan. I thought I did once, but I don't know it now. It is all unreal and far away."

Encouraged by the sympathetic voice of the stranger, Heather was surprised afterwards to realize how fully she confided to her the events of her life for the past few years. She did not say much about her inner feelings, but what was omitted Miss Vaughan was able to fill in for herself. She had a very good idea of what the girl was passing through.

"And now," said Heather, trying to speak gaily, "I am settling into a quiet country life, and am trying to do my duty in every respect. If I had my sister with me, I think I should be quite happy."

Then, being a little afraid of Miss Vaughan's probing her too deeply, she deftly turned the subject.

"I am wondering how you get about. Don't you go out at all? Do you drive?"

"I am out a great deal. I have a wheelchair, and I have brought my little attendant with me. He is a small ugly boy with a shock of red hair, but with the warmest heart imaginable, and faithful to the last degree. I have sent him out to buy me some stamps. He wheels me out, and looks after me as an old nurse would. Can you tell me if there is good fishing in the neighbourhood?"

"Yes; our river is splendid for trout."

They talked a little longer, and then Heather took her leave, feeling keenly interested in this fresh-comer.