Miss Cherry, who had gone to the window too, and stood by his side, looked out somewhat wistfully at her old aunt. Cherry was not like her, but took after the other side of the family, her own mother, who had died young, and had not possessed any physique to speak of. ‘It is very sweet to-day in the garden,’ she said, inconsequently, and stepped out into the world of flowers and sunshine. Sunninghill was an ideal house for two ladies, a place which people who were shut out from such delights considered quite enough for happiness. Indeed, Miss Cherry Beresford’s friends in general resented deeply the little plaintive air she sometimes took upon her. ‘What could she wish for more?’ they said, indignantly; ‘a place that was just too good to be wasted on two single women. There should be a family in it.’ This was especially the sentiment of the rector’s wife, who was a friend of Cherry’s, and who felt it a personal slight to herself, who had a large family and many cares, when Cherry Beresford, with not a thing in the world to trouble her, presumed to look as if she was not quite happy. The house stood upon a hill, fringed round with small but delightful woods. These woods were on a level with the highest turrets of the great beautiful royal Castle of St. George, which lay full within sight in the afternoon sunshine. So you may imagine what a view it was that was visible from the old smooth velvet lawn round the house, which formed the apex to these woods. The quiet plain all around lay basking in the light underneath, and the Castle upon its hill dominated, with a broad and placid grandeur, that majestic sweep of country, with all its lights and shadows. The royal flag fluttered on the breeze, the great tower rose grey and solid against the sky. Green branches framed in this picture on every side; the cuttings in the trees made a picture-gallery indeed of different views for different hours, according to the lights. ‘What a lovely place it is!’ Mr. Maxwell said, with sudden enthusiasm; ‘I always forget how lovely it is till I come back.’
‘Yes, it is beautiful,’ said Cherry, who was used to it. ‘If you are going to send them away, I suppose Cara may come to us for the summer?—that makes such a difference.’ Cherry was very well used to the different lights. She acknowledged the beauty of her home, and yet I can fancy circumstances under which she would have liked a little house in a street better. Man or woman either cannot live by beauty alone any more than by bread.
‘Here’s a pretty business,’ said Miss Beresford, briskly; ‘half of my roses, I believe, spoiled for this year; no second show this time. Jones is the greatest idiot; he pretends to know everything, and he knows nothing. Your protégé, Cherry, of course. All the incapables hang on by you.’
‘I can’t see any signs of deficiency,’ said the doctor, looking round.
‘Not at this moment; if there were, he should have his dismissal on the spot. If those two go off again, as you are always sending them off, tell James I insist on the child coming here. Ah! that’s what your women of nervous temperament do—leave their children at home in a poky London square, while they go wandering over the world. Tell them I wish it,’ said Miss Beresford, with a laugh; ‘they never go against me.’
‘They know how kind you always are.’
‘They know I’m old and will have something to leave behind me, that’s the plain English of it—as if I was going to accept poor Cherry’s subjection, poor soul, without rewarding her for it! It is she who will have everything when I’m gone. I’ve told them that, but still they think there’s a chance that Cara might cut her old aunt out. I can see through them. I see through most people,’ she added, with a laugh, looking at him full. How could she know the thought passing through his mind at the moment, which was the abrupt reflection, uncalled for perhaps, that for a professional man, who had made no extraordinary name in his profession, Cherry Beresford, though an old maiden, would make not such a bad wife? Could the old witch see through broadcloth, and the comfortable coating of middle-aged flesh and blood, straight into a man’s heart? He grew red foolishly, as if that were possible, and stammered a little in his reply:
‘I can believe everything that is clever of you as well as everything that is kind; though why you ladies should make such a point of having a little chit like that, who can only disturb your quiet in this paradise of a place——’
‘Oh, how can you say so!’ said Cherry. ‘The child’s voice and the child’s face make all the difference—they are better than sunshine. They make the place beautiful. I would give it all, twenty times over, to have the child.’
‘Whom her mother is very glad to leave behind her.’