They had not driven far before the breath of the pinewoods met them, and that sound which is older than all the world beside, the primeval cadence of the league-long surf.
The gate of the Cushats stood open, white and friendly. The pigeons were cooing heart to heart in the woods, and the mingled sweets of heliotrope, rose, and jasmine, streamed out in wordless welcome. The lime-tree outside the bow-window of the drawing-room was casting a tremulous shadow on the lush-green turf of the lawn, and the pale gold of early evening was on the little old gabled house.
The furnishing of Philomène’s room was as innocently white and as hopefully green as any snowdrop; there was no carpet on the floor, only some green and white matting in places. A copy of one of Watts’ pictures, that of a knight standing lost in thought beside his white horse, was hanging where Philomène could see it as she lay in bed.
“The knight’s horse is very beautiful, Godmother,” she murmured just before dropping off to sleep, “but I think I like a white donkey even better.” Her hand was in Isolde’s, and the shoheen of the night wind in the pinewoods sounded in her ears as the sound of the sea.
CHAPTER XII
IN WHICH THE HEROINE PRESENTS HER LETTER OF INTRODUCTION
Philomène’s first day at the Cushats happened to be a Sunday, and after breakfast on the lawn Isolde took her goddaughter to the weekly children’s service. These services were short and simple, and the vicar of Wyndham-on-Ferry was acknowledged by everybody to be at his best when addressing children. He was a tall, spare man, with a somewhat stern expression of face, “and what his servant is about is more than I can tell,” Nurse had once remarked, “for he has the look of a person who lives on nothing but mince and hot water.”
In the side-chapel of the village church hung a copy of an Italian picture, S. Mary Magdalene, black-haired and crimson-robed, and to Philomène the pale sad face, framed in its shadowy tresses, seemed like the face of some sorrowful mermaid. Neither her father nor her godmother had ever insisted upon her attending drearily long services which could have held no meaning for her, and the result was that she was very fond of going to church. She loved the sweet-voiced bells and the vibrating tones of the organ, the rich colouring of the stained-glass and the stately rhythm of the prayers.
“It just makes me feel like a king’s daughter,” she had once confided to Isolde, “and do you know, Godmother, I really think I like it better than the theatre, because there is no tiresome clapping to interrupt in the middle, and disturb one, and make one feel every-dayish again all of a sudden.”
“What would you like to do, little cushat?” asked Isolde, as the two strolled home together across the fields. “I have some letters that I must write, and I am afraid they will take me till lunch-time.”
“I will look at your Granny’s big picture Bible first,” said Philomène, “and then write to Daddy and play with the pussies, and after that I will go and have a look at the dove-cot.”