CHAPTER I

A LETTER

SHE stood at the dining-room window looking out upon a snowy world. The cypresses and firs at the end of the lawn were bowed down with their weight of purity. There was great light, great stillness in the atmosphere. And there was majestic grandeur in the groups of snow-laden trees, and in the white hills that held tiny villages in their folds.

The girl's eyes were dreamy, and a trifle wistful. Her dark curly hair was unfashionably twisted up into a thick knot at the back of her small, well-shaped head. She had straight determined features, and a slim dainty figure. Her dark wine-coloured jumper and skirt suited her.

As she stood there, one hand tightly clenched a letter; and no one who saw her still attitude could have imagined what a tumult was sweeping over her soul. Behind her was the breakfast table. The silver tea-kettle was boiling on its stand. A packet of letters lay on the corner of the table. There was a fragrant scent of bacon and kidneys from a chafing dish. A bright-eyed Cairn terrier stood near the blazing fire, occasionally giving quick glances at his mistress, but rejoicing too much in the warmth and comfort of his position to join her at the window.

And then the door suddenly burst open and in came a short square elderly man, with a slight grey moustache and a tanned weather-beaten face. He looked the essence of fussy energy, and of health.

He snapped his fingers at the terrier, and spoke to the girl:

"What ho, Adrienne! How's yourself? No hunting for me! If I weren't such a busy man, I should be hipped by such an outlook. Drake has been telling me the stable pipes have burst. I must go and have a look at them after breakfast. Now where on earth did I put that new-fangled stuff for mending pipes, and grates, and holes of every description? Didn't I give it to you to keep safely in your store cupboard?"

Adrienne slipped her letter in her pocket, and turned a smiling face towards her uncle, General Chesterton.

"Now, Uncle Tom, you know very well you did not. Your patent foods and plasters and patchers-up are always in the gun-room. Since I kept your sticking-plaster in my store-room, and you turned my whole cupboard topsy-turvy one day when I was out, I have refused to keep anything more. Come and have breakfast, and don't touch your fat packet of letters till we have had some food."

"Where's Derrick? What a little martinet you try to be! But that packet is mostly bills, I bet! Here's the lazybones! What do you think of our white world? I told you snow was in the air last night."

The new-comer had made his entry very quietly, and took his seat at the table without a word.

His appearance was hardly that of a naval man, though he was an Admiral with a good many medals. He was a tall, handsome man, with an intellectual brow, clean-shaven face and dreamy eyes like his niece's.

The brothers were devoted to each other and had lived together since their retirement, in their old home, a small manor-house in Devon. Adrienne had come to them three years ago, fresh from her boarding school at Folkestone.

She bullied them, she coaxed them, and she mothered them by turns. All three were on the happiest possible terms. General Chesterton's chief hobby was horses and hunting; but he was only able to afford to keep one hunter, and depended very often on mounts from his nearest neighbour, Sir Godfrey Sutherland.

Admiral Chesterton was a keen fisherman and a great reader. He was gentle, neat, and very particular about conventions and propriety. He had a small room of his own which he called his study, and when he was not reading or manufacturing flies, he was compiling the family pedigree. He was as tidy as the tidiest spinster, a marked contrast to his brother the General, who never put a thing in its place, and was perpetually mislaying and losing what he wanted, in a hurry.

The General was a great talker and very impulsive. If the Admiral was a gentle southerly breeze throughout the house, the General was a blustering noisy sou'wester. Nobody was in doubt as to whether he was in or out. He rarely sat down before dinnertime.

But in the evening the two brothers played chess together. Neither of them cared for cards, and if laughed at by their friends for such an old-fashioned taste, would reply:

"We have always played chess, and always will." And it was the only time that General Chesterton was comparatively quiet.

Adrienne sat behind her tea and coffee, and poured out for her uncles.

"I'm rather glad of a day indoors," observed the Admiral, as he stirred his coffee in a leisurely way; "our box from Mudie's arrived last night, did it not, Adrienne?"

"Yes. I hadn't time to open it. Drake will take it to your study. I will tell him. I'm not going to have a day in the house, oh dear no!"

"Where are you off to?" questioned the General. "If you go to the village, get me a pound of French nails, will you? That trellis kept me awake last night, tapping like a ghost against my window-ledge. There's always something annoying me at night. Two nights ago it was the donkey braying. And I can't do without my sleep. Extraordinary difficult thing to make yourself sleepy. I pounded my pillow, and turned it a dozen times, and then I rattled off all the limericks I could remember, and by that time I felt electricity all through me—my hair positively bristled. I struck a light and smoked two cigarettes, and I tried right side, left side and back in rotation one after each other. Still I couldn't droop an eyelid!"

"I should think not," said Adrienne, with a merry laugh; "don't you know that you shouldn't be strenuous in bed?"

"But was I? I was doing all in my power to put myself to sleep. Working at it till I got in a perfect fever of heat!"

The Admiral was looking through the letters, and sorting out his from amongst them.

"An invitation to dine at the Hall next Thursday."

"I'm bothered if I'll go," said the General hastily; "for I'm hunting that day, and won't turn out again at night—not if I know it!"

"But if this frost goes on, you won't be hunting," said Adrienne.

She quitted the room, leaving her uncles discussing the weather prospects, and made her way to the kitchen. Her housekeeping duties were not very heavy, for Mrs. Page, the old cook-housekeeper, had been nearly twenty years in the family; but Adrienne as a matter of form discussed the meals with her every day, and she took charge of the store-room, and supplied all necessary stores when needed.

Half an hour later she stood in the hall, clad in her long fur coat. A soft grey felt hat was crammed down on her curly head, and she had strong brogue shoes and cloth gaiters on her feet.

"Now I'm off," she sang out, as she passed the smoking-room door; "and I'm going through the village, so I'll get your nails, Uncle Tom."

The General came out, pipe in mouth, and accompanied her to the hall door; Bruce, the Cairn terrier, was at her heels.

"Ugh!" he shuddered as he looked out at the soft snow which the gardener was sweeping away from the drive as fast as he could. "My old bones don't like snow. We oughtn't to have it down here in the west."

"Oh, I love it!" cried Adrienne, starting out gaily with bright eyes and a flush on her cheeks.

But when she was out of sight of the house, she pulled a letter out of her pocket, and began to read it over for the second time.

The contents brought a grave look upon her face.

And then, with a little sigh, she folded it up, and put it back into her pocket.

The snow was crisp under her feet. As she walked along the road bordered with fir woods on either side, it was a fairy-like scene. From every branch the snow drooped in icicles which were sparkling in the sun. Along a snowy glade under the pines she saw a rabbit scuttling. Bruce scampered after it, and she had to wait till he rejoined her. Then, suddenly, round a corner appeared a young man, accompanied by a huge Alsatian wolf-hound.

"Hullo, Adrienne!"

"Hullo, Godfrey! You're the very person I want."

The young fellow looked pleased. "I'm on my way to Strake's Farm. But it will wait."

"Walk to the village with me. Have you company on Thursday?"

"Only the Rector and wife, besides Colonel and Mrs. Blake, who are staying with us. I hope you're coming. These small dinner parties are deadly, but you know my mother loves them."

"Oh, yes, we are coming; but if there's a thaw, don't expect Uncle Tom."

"He'll be hunting, I suppose."

They were walking on together, Bruce making overtures to the big dog, who viewed him indifferently. Young Sir Godfrey Sutherland, the Squire of Compton Down village, was a big, broad-shouldered man, with a frank smiling face and genial manners. He limped slightly as he walked, the effect of a wounded leg in the War. He and Adrienne had been good comrades and chums from the time when she first came to live with her uncles. As a schoolgirl and boy, they had spent their holidays together. Fishing, riding, and rabbiting in the woods; taking long walks with the dogs; but never unless they could help it, keeping indoors for long. Adrienne had no brothers or sisters, and had turned to Godfrey for advice, comfort, and sympathy whenever the occasion required it.

He did not hurry her now; he knew by her face that something was wrong.

And very soon she commenced:

"Godfrey, I've had a letter this morning from my aunt in France."

"I know. The Comtesse de Beaudessert, isn't she? She's not descending upon you again, is she?"

"Oh, no. I'll let you read her letter. She's in bad health, she says. I haven't said a word to the uncles. They get so fussed and worried at the very sound of her name. But it's the same old story: only much more difficult to combat now."

"She wants you to go to her?"

"Read what she says."

The letter was handed to him. It was as follows:

"MY DEAR ADRIENNE,—

"I write to you distracted and désolée. As you know your Cousin Mathilde left me, and has gone over to America with her bridegroom. I have struggled on in weak health and shattered nerves. My doctor says it is imperative that I should have young cheerful society; somebody to take some of the burden of housekeeping off my frail shoulders. With my diminished income, I cannot keep the retainers who used to make life easy to me. It is one long battle with old Fanchette and Pierre. They are nearly past work, but very obstinate, and very inefficient. The under servants come and go, they will not conform to their rules. I am rapidly losing weight, and losing sleep.

"When last I was over, I told both Tom and Derrick that your father would wish you to spend as much time with me as with them. Your education is finished. It will improve you in every way to come to me. Your French accent is horrible. Your manners are blunt, not finished or refined. And I have my town flat in Orleans, and there is good society there. And finally you are my niece, and I need you. Your uncles have each other, and have not a Château to keep up minus retainers and means. It was a mistake your settling down with them. You ought as I have repeatedly told you, to have come straight to me when you left school. I was content to let them have you as long as you were a school girl. Their monotonous country life was good for a child. But an idle girl with nothing to occupy her hands or thoughts, needs a woman's guidance and supervision.

"My head is aching so much, I must lay down my pen. But now to be practical. A very great friend of mine, Madame de Nicholas, is leaving London on the fifteenth of this month. That will be three days after you receive this letter. Lose no time but wire at once to her at the Hotel Grosvenor, and tell her you will meet her at Victoria Station and travel here with her.

"And will you bring me from the Army and Navy Stores some of this printed note-paper and envelopes to match. I always get mine there.

"Tell your uncles it is imperative that I have a niece with me in my present delicate health. I cannot be left alone any longer.

"Your affectionate Aunt,

"CECILY."

Godfrey read this letter through in silence, and gave a low whistle as he handed it back to her.

"Well," said Adrienne, looking at him with anxious eyes, "don't you think it is a shame of her to write to me like that?"

"I suppose you know her better than I do. I only saw her once when she came to stay with you two years ago, and brought her rather pretty daughter with her."

"Yes, that was when Mathilde told me she would marry anyone—a hunchback, or a dwarf, or a man who broke stones in the road—to get away from home. She told me her mother really wanted a white slave to live with her. So, you see, Godfrey, I know what would be in store for me if I went."

"It's a letter of an unhappy woman," said Godfrey, looking at her with his clear blue eyes; "and she seems to want you badly."

"Now don't tell me I ought to go. My duty is to remain in that state of life in which God has called me. That is in the catechism of my youth. I am happy where I am. Why should I deliberately choose to leave my present life for one in which I know I should be miserable?"

"Is our own happiness the chief aim in our lives?" said the young man slowly. "And do we really know what makes our happiness? I rather doubt it. I thought at one time when I gave up going into the Church that I was giving up my happiness, but I found I was not."

Adrienne looked at him thoughtfully. She knew that from his boyhood Godfrey's whole aim had been to take Holy Orders. He was at Oxford when his eldest brother had died. Things were not going smoothly at home. His father had died when his sons were quite children. His mother knew nothing of business and had been for many years in the hands of a dishonest agent; the estate was in a very bad way when the eldest boy Ernest came into his property. He manfully put his shoulder to the wheel, dismissed the agent and worked the estate himself, but just at a critical stage, he was struck down by pneumonia and died after a few days' illness. Lady Sutherland summoned Godfrey home, and told him it was his duty to come back and take his brother's place.

And after a terrible conflict in his own mind, Godfrey gave up his own will and heart's desire, and came home to be the comfort and joy of his mother's life. His frank sunny nature did not alter; and though many of his college friends blamed him for having, as they said, "put his hand to the plough and looked back," Godfrey went on his way serenely, perhaps influencing more people by his personality as a landed proprietor than as a parson, for he had something in his heart and soul worth passing on, and was not ashamed to do it.

But a few of his friends—and Adrienne was one of them—knew that the sacrifice of his soul's desire had been a heavy one. She had always admired his serenity and cheerfulness, as he had carried out the wishes and whims of a rather capricious mother. And now, as she met his gaze, the colour mounted into her cheeks.

"You think me a selfish pig to talk or think about my own happiness. But I can't help it. I hate being unhappy. When I was a little girl I always did, and I remember saying to a governess who punished me for some impertinent remark to her:

"'If I was wrong to speak rudely to you, you're much more wrong to make me miserable!'

"Besides, I know your creed—it is that in making others happy, our own happiness comes. And that's what I'm doing. I know I make my uncles happy by living with them. We're all as jolly as we can be together. And they want me. They've always told me so. They paid for my schooling; my aunt never did. She was always a spoiled selfish wayward girl. Uncle Derrick told me so."

Adrienne spoke eagerly, but there was a pleading tone in her voice. She added:

"Oh, do tell me it wouldn't be right to leave the uncles!"

Godfrey laughed.

"I am not your Father Confessor. I wish I could advise you one way or the other, but it wouldn't be wise. You are old enough to judge for yourself. We must come to cross-ways in our journey when we have to decide which path is to be ours."

"I hate cross-ways!" exclaimed Adrienne vehemently and childishly.

"You have been in the sunshine so long, and you have so much of it in your heart," said Godfrey slowly, "that it does not follow you will lose it by going into the shade for a time. Isn't it possible that you could make the dark corner sunny?"

"Now I know that you are on Aunt Cecily's side," said Adrienne; and tears were not far from her eyes as she spoke.

They were now approaching the village, which lay covered in snow, and looked silent and deserted. As they came up to the little general shop next the post office, a girl came out of it. She was rather taller than Adrienne and had a fair freckled face, and reddish golden hair which was bobbed in the modern fashion. She was clad in a rough frieze coat and Russian boots reaching to her knees. A close green felt hat covered her head and ears.

She waved her hand cheerily as Godfrey and Adrienne approached her.

"A jolly morning, eh? I'm not going to market to-day. Am trying to dispose of three dozen eggs in the village. We never expected this weather, and the drifts are four feet deep they say on the Newton Road."

"Are you going home, Phemie? Wait for me," pleaded Adrienne. Then she turned to Godfrey, who was about to leave her.

"I came out on purpose to hunt you up, and see what you would say. You've done me good, though you may not think it. Good-bye."

"If this frost holds, we'll have skating on the ponds," he said. "Anyhow, I'll see you again before you settle anything. Good-bye to you both. How's Dick, Miss Moray?"

"First-rate," the girl replied; "but very cross at the snow stopping his ploughing to-day."

The young squire with his big dog went his way.

Adrienne went into the shop, and got her pound of nails and a few other trifles as well.

Then she linked her arm into that of Phemie Moray's, and the two girls began to chat together in a light-hearted fashion. Adrienne was her sunny self again, she cast off all thoughts of the letter in her pocket, and listened to Phemie's humorous account of her struggles with two belligerent cows that morning, and the arrival of a calf the evening before.

"I believe you are getting to love your farm life," said Adrienne presently.

But Phemie shook her head.

"It is too absorbing; and you know how strenuous and strong and dogged Mother is? Of course I know she is splendid; she is determined that Dick shall make his farm pay, but she works us both like carthorses. And often I ask myself, is it worth it? I've never time to read a book, hardly a minute to mend and keep myself tidy. If it isn't the poultry or the pigs or the cows, it is the meals and the house. Oh, how I hate the mud that makes such work round a farm!

"But I don't mean to grumble. And when I think of Mother and me stuck away in dingy lodgings in a Bayswater road, and Dick, poor Dick tramping round with his discharge papers and medals in search of work, and coming home in the evening to eat margarine and a bit of cold mutton, and to tell Mother once again of his non-success, I can thank God for where he has placed us now. Mother and Dick are always blessing Sir Godfrey for his remembrance and interest in his old war chums. And I think that is what makes Mother so eager over it. She's so grateful for the farm, that she wants to show Sir Godfrey he won't be the loser by his generosity. And if pertinacity and continuous hard grinding work will do it, we ought to make the farm a success."

"I'm sure you will," said Adrienne cheerfully. "Everyone is saying that your brother might be a born farmer from the way he works."

"They don't know how much he owes to Mother. She is behind him. What he doesn't know, she gets out of practical farm books, or out of talks with the farmers round. She never forgets what she reads or hears. I wish I were more like her."

"Do you never wish yourself back in London again?"

"Oh, often. I dream of a big legacy coming to us. And of my going back there and taking up my life in a Kensington studio and studying art. You don't know what cravings come over me to handle pencil and paints again. Mother never had any sympathy with artists. She used to tell me that they were an improvident immoral set, and she will never believe that I could have earned my living by art. She said only one in a hundred made their fortunes by painting, and that I would certainly not be that one. Doesn't it seem hard that here, where I see the wonderful sunsets over the hills, and the beautiful nooks in woods and valleys which are crying out to be painted, I have not the leisure to reproduce them for the benefit of others? I always say that artists are benefactors. It is not a selfish profession. Nothing that you produce is."

"And now you're producing milk and butter and corn and all the necessities of life for others by your labour," said Adrienne. "What an idle drone I am beside you!"

Phemie laughed merrily, then she pointed down over some fields to a valley in the distance, lined on one side by a fringe of snow-clad pines:

"Isn't that a picture?" she exclaimed. "There is one thing—if I am not allowed to make a poor attempt at reproduction, I get pictures for my own delight and pleasure, and pictures fresh from the Hands of God."

She soon parted with Adrienne, who went on her way thoughtfully pondering over two round pegs in square holes—Godfrey, who had been turned from a parson into a squire, and Phemie, who had been turned from an artist into a farmer.

"And they are both contented and happy," she said. "I wonder if everyone in this world is baulked of their own desires, and I wonder, how I wonder, whether I ought to go to Aunt Cecily or not."