She looked up at the house, and scanned its ivy-grown walls, its noble turrets, and quaint old windows, its carved terraces, the profusion of radiant flowers and stately shrubs and grand old trees, the statues that gleamed here and there from their leafy, embowering shades, the fountain that flung up its glittering waters in the summer sunshine; and while she mentally agreed with her friend and patroness, she felt that this must be some glowing, fantastical dream.
CHAPTER XVI.
GILARDONI’S LOVE-GIFT.
Flore Hall was naturally a quiet, silent place, for it had rarely been favored by the presence of its owners since the days when it had passed from the hands of Squire Rashleigh, whose extravagant habits had ended in his losing a pretty, well-cultivated estate that had been in the family since the reign of King Henry II.
The late Mr. Vere Gardiner would have settled tranquilly down into the calm beatitude of a country gentleman’s existence, had he succeeded in obtaining the long-yearned-for desire of his heart—had his one only love consented to become his wife.
As a bachelor, however, he preferred the busy, changeful round of a city or town life to the stately solitude of the grand retreat he had purchased.
The household was left almost exclusively under the supervision of a very capable personage—Mrs. Ormsby. This was the housekeeper whom Mr. Gardiner had found in possession when he acquired the property, and he did not think of displacing her.
For a short time this excellent widow had dreamed of capturing the rich owner of Flore Hall and its desirable belongings. She was a fine woman and clever in her way, and at first thought the wealthy yet plain Vere Gardiner would fall an easy victim. But, after a while, she was obliged to relinquish her ambitious hopes, for hardly any opportunity was offered of even meeting with the master of the stately abode where she held vice-regal sway. Then she was fain to turn her attention to the steward—a wiry, cool-headed old bachelor, who saw her innocent little arts clearly enough, and amused himself by laughing in his sleeve at the sly, good-looking widow.
Due notice had been given to the housekeeper, steward, and servants of the change of dynasty. At present, Mrs. Ormsby knew just the name of her future mistress—no more, not even her age or social standing.
Mrs. Ormsby anticipated a very grand scene indeed when Miss Turquand should pay her first visit to the Hall. She hardly knew whether to feel indifferent or disgusted by the impending alterations, but wisely determined to wait the course of events. No one could tell her anything whatever of Miss Turquand. In her imagination, the new proprietress seemed to be a starched old maid, who might perhaps “come and settle here, and worry my life out,” the widow fancied. Of a charming young girl of eighteen, she never for an instant dreamed.