“Ay, old master, he never reckoned nowt to the Cheviots,” interpolated Barrow. “A foreigner, Mr. Cheviot was. Come out of Kent, so I believe.”
“Hush!” said his wife reprovingly. “Not but what it’s true enough, ma’am. No one hereabouts reckoned much to Mr. Cheviot, and it was for mistress’s sake we stayed here when she died.”
“Besides the pension,” Barrow assured Elinor.
Elinor allowed Mrs. Barrow to run on in this fashion while she went over the house with her, inspecting closets and linen cupboards, for she had no wish to alienate the good woman by snubbing her, and was, moreover, sufficiently curious not to object to listening to some gossip. She gathered that her late husband’s career had been one of ruinous dissipation, and that when he had visited his home, which was not often, it was usually in the company of a set of men—and sometimes not men only, said Mrs. Barrow repressively—association with whom could scarcely have been expected to improve the tone of his mind.
“And to think he should not have been in the house above a day when he should have met his end like he did!” Mrs. Barrow said. “And at Master Nicky’s hands, too, which does beat all, I will say! I was never more upset in my days, ma’am, me having known Master Nicky from the cradle. But his lordship will settle it!”
Elinor soon found that Carlyon was the great man of the neighborhood, a good landlord, as his father had been before him, and, in Mrs. Barrow’s estimation, a personage whose will was law and whose actions were above criticism. She had to suppress a smile as she listened, but while making every allowance for the loyalty of a woman born on his estate and attached to his family by every interest, she gained the impression of an estimable character who had the trick of endearing himself to his dependents.
The afternoon was soon gone, but not without certain plans having been made between the two women and decisions arrived at. By the time Elinor sat down to an early dinner it had been agreed that a niece of Mrs. Barrow’s should be engaged on the morrow and the old coachman’s wife summoned up from the lodge to scrub and to scour; and Elinor had found time to walk round the neglected gardens.’ There was a shrubbery which must once have made a pleasant winter walk but which was so overgrown that in some places it was almost impassable. Elinor made up her mind to set the groom to clear it, a resolve which was highly applauded by Barrow, who had had some qualms lest she should have settled on himself as being the properest person for the task.
She went back to the bookroom after dinner and sent Barrow for some working candles. The linen chest had yielded tasks enough for the most zealous needlewoman, and a formidable pile of sheets, towels, and tablecloths had been brought downstairs to be mended. Until Barrow presently brought in the tea tray, Elinor remained occupied with this work, her brain busy at once with schemes for the immediate future and with reflections upon all that had passed since she had come into Sussex. With the coming of the tea tray she laid aside her work and began to look along the dusty bookshelves in search of something to divert her mind for an hour. None of the books was of very recent date, and quite a large amount of space seemed to be devoted to collections of sermons, very dry histories, and the ancient classical authors, bound in crumbling calf. But after wandering round the shelves for some time in growing disappointment, she came upon some books clearly acquired by the late Mrs. Cheviot. Here, jumbled among some bound copies of the Lady’s Magazine, were all Elinor’s favorite poets and a number of novels in marbled boards. Most of these were already known to her, but just as she was hesitating between Mrs. Edgeworth’s Tales of Fashionable Life and a battered copy of Thaddeus of Warsaw, her eye was caught by a title which seemed so apposite to her situation that she could not help but be diverted. She drew The School for Widows out and stood for some moments turning over the pages. Unfortunately, too many were found to be missing to make the perusal of this work eligible. She restored it to its place and took out instead a promising but not so well-worn novel by the same author, entitled The Old English Baron. With this in her hand she retired again to her chair, put another log on the fire, and settled down to be cosy for an hour before retiring to bed.
For one who had had little leisure of late years to indulge a taste for light reading this was luxury indeed, and not even the desponding tone of Miss Clara Reeve’s story or the lachrymose behavior of her heroine had the power to disgust Elinor. She read on, heedless of the time, alternately amused and interested by the exploits of the perfect Orlando, and very wisely skimming over his Monimia’s all too frequent fainting fits. The guttering of one of the candles at last recalled her to a sense of the time. She glanced instinctively up at the bracket clock on the mantelpiece, but its hands still pointed mendaciously to a quarter to five. The candles, however, had burned so low in their sockets that it was evident the hour was far advanced. Elinor got up, feeling a little guilty, as though an irate employer might later demand of her why she had so grossly wasted the candles, and restored her novel to its place on the shelf. A slight sound, as of a creaking stair, made her start. She realized that all had been silent in the house for a long time, and had certainly supposed that the servants must long since have gone up to bed. For a moment she was frightened Then she recollected how old stairs would creak long after they had been trodden on, picked up the bedroom candlestick which Barrow had brought in to her, and kindled the wick at one of those still burning in the room. A glance at the grate to assure herself that there was no danger of the smoldering remnant of the log falling out to set the house on fire, and she snuffed the candles in the chandelier and walked over to the door. She opened it and stepped out into the hall, only to be brought up short by the unnerving sight of a complete stranger in the act of crossing it in the direction of the bookroom.
She gave a gasp of shock, and for an instant felt her heart stand still. But, unlike Miss Reeve’s Monimia, she did not suffer from an excess of sensibility, but was, on the contrary, a very levelheaded young woman, and it did not take her more than a moment to perceive that the stranger was looking quite as aghast as she herself felt.