Chapter I: At the Green Cottage

"All are not taken! There are left behind
Living Beloved's tender looks to bring,
And make the daylight still a happy thing,
And tender voices to make soft the wind."
E. Browning.

"ROWENA, I hope you mean to be kind to him. Remember he has taken all the trouble to travel down from Yorkshire to see us."

"But we did not invite him."

"Well, on board ship I gave him a kind of general invitation, seeing how smitten he was with you."

Rowena's brows contracted. She was silent.

Mrs. Arbuthnot looked at her a little anxiously.

"You know how desolate I and the chicks would be without you. Don't think for a moment that I want to lose you, but I do want you not to miss the happiness of married life, and dear Ted often used to say to me how he hoped you would marry. We thought when your letters were so full of Hugh Macdonald's child, that you would marry him; personally I never found him attractive. He had no sense of humour. And Ted said he couldn't see you tied up with him somehow." A heavy sigh followed, then impulsively Mrs. Arbuthnot turned to her sister-in-law.

"Oh, Rowena, I can't get accustomed to being without Ted! I can't believe he is silent for ever! I think it is cruel taking men so suddenly away; one day in full enjoyment of health and mental powers, the next struck down, and buried before one realizes they are dead! I wish—I wish we had never gone to India, I wish he had never taken that trip into the cholera-infected region! Nothing will ever comfort me! Men and women ought not to die till they lose their individuality. It is cruel, unreasonable. I never shall understand the reason for it."

"Poor Geraldine! It is difficult for you, but let me pass on a sentence a very nice woman gave me long ago. I have never forgotten it: 'Nothing is a puzzle, nothing is a mystery, if you have enough love and trust.'"

"Love and trust in whom?"

"In the One Who holds our lives in His keeping. Ted is not going to be silent for ever. I never felt so certain as I do now that he has stepped into the Kingdom of Heaven. Just before he went on that trip I had such a nice talk with him."

"Oh, I know, I know! He used to tell me that he believed in what you believed, because of your life. And you aren't a long-faced mute, I will say that for you. You comfort me when you talk so, but I'm a worldling. Don't let us talk of our sorrow, let us return to Major Cunliffe. Don't you like him? Oh, I wish you would, for your own sake! He is an old friend of Ted's, and has such a lovely old house in Yorkshire! We stayed there once when his mother was alive."

"He's a nice man," said Rowena slowly; "but I don't think he will ever be anything more than that to me."

"Don't you ever mean to marry?"

Rowena laughed.

"Nobody axed me, sir," she said.

"Now that's a fib. You had three out in India who were your devoted admirers."

"I feel like a kitchen-maid when you talk so," said Rowena.

She was sitting over the fire with her sister-in-law in a small house in a Surrey village. They had not long returned from India. Colonel Arbuthnot had been carried off by an epidemic of cholera about five months after Rowena had joined them out there. As soon as she was able, his widow returned to England, and Rowena accompanied her. An old friend of Colonel Arbuthnot's, Sir Henry Hazelwood, had offered her a pretty cottage in the village of which he was squire; for young Mrs. Arbuthnot had found it necessary to economize as much as possible. Her husband before his death was finding himself in difficulties, and had arranged to give up his Scotch lodge, much to his sister's regret. They had now just settled in the cottage, and the young widow was striving to take up life again for the sake of her little ones.

Rowena, of course, was the mainstay in the house. Her cheery personality kept them all going, and she was ready to turn her hand to anything, from painting a gate to repairing a lock; she had just started poultry, and they were thinking of having a little rough pony and trap, for the market town was a good three miles away.

It was a cold afternoon in March. Outside it was cheerless and grey. Inside, though simplicity reigned throughout the cottage, the little drawing-room was a picture of cheery comfort. Mrs. Arbuthnot was seated on a comfortable Chesterfield couch by the fire, her sewing in her hand.

Rowena was in a lounge chair opposite her, knitting away at a boy's sock.

"I suppose I must feel snubbed," said Mrs. Arbuthnot with rather a sad little smile. "I will drop the subject. And I am sure, as I said before, it would be my own loss if you left me. Aren't you afraid we shall find this place most painfully dull?"

"No," said Rowena brightly; "why should we? It's a lovely part of the world. Think of the woods and meadows for your pale-faced children. How many picnics we shall have this summer! And Sir Henry and his wife are always wanting us to join their social gatherings. Of course, you don't feel inclined to do so yet, but you will by and by. Ted would not like you to shut yourself up. And I think we're very lucky in our parson. I like him extremely. I have a great admiration for his eldest daughter, mothering the parish as she does, in addition to mothering her small brothers."

"Oh, Mr. Waring is all right enough! He's a gentleman and a scholar, and you and he have a good deal in common. I suppose India spoils one, and nothing will ever be the same to me without Ted—I hate a house without a man! It is like a cart without the horse, a train without an engine."

"Well, now turn your attention upon Major Cunliffe. I see him walking up the path."

A moment after, a tall handsome man was shaking hands with them both. But it was easy to see which of the women was the object of his visit.

Rowena leant back in her chair with easy friendliness. Not a blush on her cheek, or quiver of her eyelash, told that she was in the least impressed by his personality.

"We heard you were coming to the Hall," she said, looking at him with the usual twinkle in her eyes; "but we did not expect to see you quite so soon. You only arrived yesterday evening, did you not? Sir Henry called here just before he drove to the station to meet you."

"My inclination was to come round immediately after breakfast," Major Cunliffe replied promptly; "but Lady Hazelwood insisted upon inspecting her pet rock-garden, and she kept me there the greater part of the morning. I do not like people with hobbies. They ride them so hard."

"I think if a woman has no children it's a good thing to have a hobby," said Mrs. Arbuthnot, "especially in the country. The Hazelwoods are hardly ever in town. He's a born farmer. Don't you remember how he used to yarn in India about his shorthorns and pigs?"

"By Jove, yes. And we called him 'Mangels' in the mess. What a ripping little house you have here. How are the youngsters?"

"You remind me of my duties," said Mrs. Arbuthnot. "I promised to go up to them to-day when nursery tea was on. I shan't be long."

She slipped quietly out of the room.

Instinctively Major Cunliffe drew his chair a little nearer Rowena.

She looked up at him with her frank smile.

"Geraldine's hobby is her children, and they have comforted her a lot."

"Poor Mrs. Arbuthnot, she must be feeling rotten. But she's awfully sensible—she knew I wanted to see you alone, so she's bolted. Now, please don't put on that careless bored expression. I mean to have it out with you, and now is my chance. You kept me from speaking on board ship—circumstances always seemed to favour you. I shan't forget that ass of a Captain in a hurry, but you must listen now. I beseech you to be kind. You know I just adore you, and can't live without you."

"I don't know anything of the sort," Rowena replied very calmly and sweetly. "I know you were a most kind friend to us on board, and I always had a liking for you, because you were so fond of—my poor brother." Her voice faltered. He broke in quickly:

"Yes—I felt you had a liking for me—one can tell it—and now I want something more. Don't say you can't give it to me."

She looked at him gravely, and shook her head.

"I'm afraid it is no use, Major Cunliffe. I hate to give pain. You can never say I have encouraged you. I honestly think I shall never marry."

"It will be a sinful shame if you don't," said the Major hotly; "and I'm positive you and I would pull together A 1. Do just think of it—I'll wait a bit longer if you like. Why on earth should you be so detached? I suppose I'm not up to your level."

"Oh, please, please don't make me out such a brute."

There was real feeling in Rowena's voice. She went on a little unsteadily:

"I tried to make you see on board that I could never be anything but a friend. I was afraid of this. You would make anyone a good husband, Major Cunliffe; you are so unselfish, so tender as far as women and children are concerned. But I will be frank with you. My heart is not mine to give away. We women are foolish creatures; and I am the most foolish of my sex—I can say no more."

"You love some one else."

He murmured the words, but blank dismay was in his eyes—Rowena was absolutely, silent, then she put out her hand.

"Shake hands, and bear me no ill will. I shall live and die a single woman. Of that I feel sure, but life is full of interest to single women, and we do value friendship. May I think that I can still have yours, even if our paths in life lie apart. I wish I could give you the answer you want, but I cannot."

Major Cunliffe looked at her in a dazed sort of way. Then he wheeled round towards the window, and stood looking out with his back to her trying to bear his disappointment courageously.

Rowena sat with clasped hands and dejected mien. She was very tender-hearted, and could not bear to give pain. In a few minutes he turned to her.

"Well—you seem sure of your own mind. I will say no more. It's no good prolonging our interview. Say good-bye to Mrs. Arbuthnot. I feel I can't face her—and if ever you do happen to think differently, I hope you'll let me know."

He wrung her hand, and stumbled out of the room. Rowena watched him striding down the little path to the gate with tears in her eyes.

"I hope we shall not be meeting any more of them here," she murmured to herself. "And now I shall have to smooth down Geraldine's ruffled feathers." That was soon done. Mrs. Arbuthnot was too truly fond of her sister-in-law to wish her to marry a man she did not care for; but she was disappointed, and it needed all Rowena's brightness to bring smiles to her face again.

Fortunately another visitor called that afternoon.

Mrs. Arbuthnot loved society, and for the time she forgot Major Cunliffe's dismissal.

This visitor was a wealthy widow who lived alone in a big house about three miles off.

Her husband belonged to the county, and had died many years previously.

Mrs. Burke was very popular with her neighbours, but the Hazelwoods had told Rowena that she was a little too rapid and go ahead for them.

"She is never quiet; the life she leads would wear me out in a month," gentle Lady Hazelwood said. "She has a house in Park Lane, and is hospitality itself, and very kindhearted. Young people adore her, for she gives them such a good time. Even in this quiet place, she keeps the ball of gaiety rolling. She has plenty of money, and spends it on amusements for herself and her guests."

Mrs. Burke was a handsome woman about fifty. As Rowena watched her talking to her sister-in-law, she felt a sudden liking for her.

"Oh, you mustn't be dull or unhappy," she was saying; "you will have nice neighbours, and I always have house-parties during the summer. There will be plenty going on soon. Come over and see me before my visitors arrive, if you like. I am alone now, and it would be a charity to take pity on me. The only time I get the blues is when I have nobody to talk to."

"Have you a dog?" asked Rowena. "I had a winter of solitude up in the Highlands and found my little 'Shags' a great comfort when I wanted to deliver my soul!"

Mrs. Burke turned quickly to her.

"I never make friends with my dogs. I have no time. It takes me all my time to live. I tried companions, but oh! how they bored me! They were either a mild echo of myself, or tried to manage me. Will you waive ceremony and come to lunch with me next Wednesday? Do—I have quite a good cook, and she does hate wasting her dainties on me. I never know or care what I eat when I'm alone."

Mrs. Arbuthnot accepted the invitation, but when the day came, her little girl was not well, and she would not leave her. She insisted upon Rowena going, and begged her to enjoy herself.

"There is so little going on here, that I am quite glad of a sociable neighbour, and I shall look forward to your account of her when you return. You always see the amusing side of everybody!"

Rowena walked off. She thought nothing of the three miles, and enjoyed every step of her way. She found that Mrs. Burke was not alone; two girls, by name Violet and Diana Dunstan, were lunching with her, and the talk was chiefly on hunting, and the last meet which was taking place the following week. The girls went off directly after lunch, but Mrs. Burke pressed Rowena to stay, and took her into a very cosy little morning-room.

"I'm very fond of Vi and Di, as they are called, but one soon gets to the end of them, and I haven't got to the beginning of you yet."

"I shan't take much knowing," said Rowena easily. "I am pretty well what I look. An ordinary sort of every-day person."

"You are neither one nor the other," replied Mrs. Burke promptly. "Now I have powers of observation, and you're a reader; that I know from the way you scanned my bookshelves when you came in here."

"Well, yes, I am. My truant eyes betrayed me."

"You'll find nothing but novels, and books of travel and adventure," said Mrs. Burke. "I cannot understand poetry, and history is most unsatisfactory. Theology and all the other ologies are too stiff and dry. I have no time for thinking. Like the Americans, I like to make things hum. And people interest me more than anything else in the world. Would you like to hear about your neighbours?"

"Very much," was Rowena's response.

"Well, to begin with, Vi and Di, they live with their brother, who only came into his property two years ago. It came to him through an uncle. They lived up in the north, and are thorough sportswomen—up to any larks, and make the hair of old-fashioned folk about here stand on end at their pranks. Their brother Bob is a good sort, but a little rough. You know the Hazelwoods, they're a model squire and wife, and are nothing if not correct. Eight miles distant are the Easterbrooks: he's a new-made peer, and everything about them is new—their house, their garments, their furniture, and their manners. There are two old Miss Humbers of whom I'm rather fond, they pretend they are old-fashioned and out of date, but they love to be shocked, and I and my friends do it pretty often. They have one of the loveliest gardens in the country, and of course their gardener is an autocratic tyrant. Then there is a bachelor establishment about four miles off. Two brothers, both been in the army and retired—one a general, the other a colonel. They live together; one hunts and shoots, the other gardens, and has a pet aviary. Their name is Sheringham. The parsons and doctors never interest me in the least, nor do their families, and most of my friends come down to me from town. I may as well tell you that I was a parson's daughter myself and lived in the Cotswolds before I married. I know too much about parsons and their kind to have much to do with them now."

She compressed her lips rather bitterly, then laughed. "My motto is 'keep the world rolling with smiles'; nobody can say I do otherwise. But, oh dear, I have times when I long for a secretary or companion to take some of my duties from me. Just look here!" She opened a bureau, which seemed almost bursting with letters and papers. "That's a week's correspondence, and I haven't touched it yet. I sometimes want to burn the contents of my postbag before I look it through. I get such thousands of begging letters, and my friends are always worrying me with their wants!"

"That is one of the penalties of wealth," said Rowena. "You can't escape its responsibilities."

"Don't you hate that word responsibility? I try to be as irresponsible as I can. And if you're clever, you can always shift your burdens on to other's shoulders. Now I've talked about myself enough. Tell me what your line is. You're neither a prude, nor a rollicker."

"I don't think I have ever set to work to dissect myself," said Rowena, amused. "I'm interested at present in my sister-in-law and her family, and in making two shillings go as far as five. We have never been used to economy before, at least she has not, and it takes a bit of doing. And just now I'm on the look-out for a rough pony and trap in which we can jog about the lanes, and enjoy the country."

"I know the very thing for you. A farmer wants to sell one: his wife used to drive about in it, for she was lame, and now she is dead, poor thing!"

In discussing a possible bargain, personal topics were dropped. Rowena returned home well pleased with her neighbour, but she said to her sister-in-law:

"She's a jolly easy-going soul, and kindness and good nature personified, but she's hiding away from something in spite of all her careless abandon of talk: I should like to know her better."

In a short time Mrs. Arbuthnot had contentedly settled down to their quiet life. Rowena got her trap and pony, and trundled about the sweet-smelling lanes with the children inside it.

Before long they were on pleasant terms of intimacy with their neighbours, but to Rowena Mrs. Burke was the most interesting personality of them all.

She was always entertaining; and as the summer drew on, private theatricals, tennis parties, and picnics followed each other in quick succession. Her friends from town were not always liked by the county. She had a good many Bohemians, and stray geniuses, who contributed towards the general gaiety with their freakish talent.

Once she arrived at the Green Cottage early in the morning, and besought Rowena to return with her at once.

"I want you to take the place of a girl whose father has just died. So tiresome of him to choose this week to do it in! She's simply unique in running my musical programme for the village concert coming off; she keeps every one in good temper, and plays all the accompaniments. I know you'll do that all right, and I'm sure you'll help to keep the peace. My dear Italian Countess is nearly tearing out the eyes of my best tenor because he said she sang sharp in the duet they have together. To sing sharp is a more deadly crime than to sing flat, I find. Come along just as you are, we must have a rehearsal this morning, for we're all going off to the sea in cars this afternoon, and you know it is only fifteen miles away?"

Rowena went off obligingly. She returned about three in the afternoon, tired, but very interested.

"Oh, Geraldine, she reminds me of those men with a happy family in a cage! Her elements of humanity do not harmonize. Aristocrats and violent radicals, oldish women who have been beauties, and young intolerant girls who laugh at them. I admire her wonderful adaptability, and good temper in dealing with them all. But I wouldn't have such guests in a house of mine for all the wealth in the world! And yet she hasn't a wrinkle on her face, and her energy in 'rolling the ball,' as she expresses it, is superhuman!"

"She's a very tiring old woman," said Mrs. Arbuthnot; "she ought to be content with a quiet life at her age."

Rowena laughed.

"She does not consider she is a day older than she feels, and that is about twenty-three, I should say! But I hope she is not going to come upon me to make up all her guests' deficiencies. I like the simple life, and a little of hers goes a long way!"

"Sometimes," said Mrs. Arbuthnot slowly, "I think that year of solitude in the Highlands was bad for you, Rowena. You ought to love gadding round at your age."

"My age, madam, is past that of giddy youth!" And then Rowena quitted the room, singing as she went:

"I have a smiling face, she said
I have a gist for all I meet,
I have a garland for my head,
And all its flowers are sweet—"