My best enjoyment, as time went on, was to go down (the grounds sloped down a side of the hill upon which the house was built) through the kitchen gardens, seat myself upon the low wall which bounded them, and turning my back upon the glories of Fairview, refresh my eyes by gazing upon the beautiful undulating country, stretching far into distance beyond. I never tired of gazing at the varied scene—pasture-lands, deep woods, ripening hop and wheat fields, pretty homesteads, an occasional glimpse of the winding river, and a primitive-looking little ivy-covered church. It was this little church that Lilian and I elected to attend, instead of going in state to the newly built edifice near Fairview, to which Mr Farrar had given large donations. There was one nest of a house, peeping out from its woody retreat, on the slope of a hill, rising from a small straggling village in a lonely valley, half a mile or so to the left of Fairview, which made a special appeal to my fancy. A long, low, old-fashioned house, with veranda and green terrace walk, I pictured to myself the lovely view as seen from that aspect; and what life might be with Philip in such a home—the rest and peace we two wanderers might find in such a haven as that. Had not I been a wanderer too? He was writing more and more hopefully of being able to return and settle in England in another year.
'Thank God, there will be no more need for money-grubbing, Mary. We can live with a few chosen friends and our books in some cottage-home free from care.' It was part of our arrangement to live simply as well as largely, our only ambition being to gather congenial friends about us. Ah, me—ah, Philip! what a glorious dream it was!
Lilian was very impatient to hear my praises of her lover—or to talk them; it did not much matter which—and that first evening instituted a custom to come to my room the last thing every night. 'If you do not mind, Miss Haddon?' in her sweet pleading way. Mind, indeed! It would be the very best way of finishing the day which she could invent, I told her; taking her face between my hands, and putting my lips to her brow.
'But—I fear you are engaged; you must not let me be selfish,' she murmured, glancing at my open desk.
I had commenced a letter to Philip, telling him of my change of abode, and doing my best to convey to him the impression that my engagement at Fairview was a less business one than it really was. I closed my blotting-book at once. Philip would get his letter quite as soon if I wrote later; and it was my fancy to write to him during the silent hours of the night.
She took a seat upon a stool at my feet, for that also was to be an institution, she laughingly observed; and commenced with a few words expressive of the hope that I should like Fairview; and then, in charming Lilian fashion, told me that '"Dear Arthur" (you must let me call him that to you when we are alone, dear Miss Haddon) is delighted at my good fortune in having you. He sees, as we all do, how very different it might have been.'
She seemed to think that nothing could be more gratifying than to find favour in 'Arthur's' sight. The possibility of his not finding favour in my sight, did not, I think, for one moment enter her thoughts. Fortunately, she took my admiration of him for granted. I should have found it difficult to satisfy her expectations upon the point. How pleasant it was to listen to her ideal talk of her lover—her vivid imagination investing him with all the grandest attributes of a hero; though it would have been even more pleasant, had I had no misgivings upon the point, or felt sure that she would never be disillusioned. As it was, the fear that she might some day be roughly awakened from her bright dream, and the knowledge of what such an awakening would cost her, caused me to listen rather gravely and abstractedly.
I was a little disturbed from another cause, not sufficiently appreciative of the wisdom which comes with years. Ah, me! how far apart that twelve years' difference between our ages seemed to set us! I was so sensitive upon the point, that it did not occur to me that the difference between our characters or temperaments might in some measure account for my reticence. I was not naturally so expansive in my manner as are many women. Though the thought of Philip would set my pulses throbbing and my cheeks aflame, I could no more have talked of my love to Lilian Farrar than I could have cried it aloud in the streets. The rhapsodies over a certain portrait—the kisses pressed upon the paper that his hands would touch—and sundry other vagaries committed after she had left me that night. Could she have seen it all, she would no longer have thought it necessary to apologise for talking so much love-talk to me. I was illogical enough to be wounded at her supposing it to be necessary to apologise; whilst I took no steps to shew her that no apology was needed. But the kisses and rhapsodies notwithstanding, the tone of the letter written that night to Philip was tinged with a soupçon of melancholy. It contained more than one reminder that he must not expect to find me exactly the same in appearance as the girl he had parted with eight years ago.
But I do not think mine is a morbid nature, apart from that one subject, and fortunately there were now too many demands upon me, and my time was too fully employed in the duties of my position, to leave leisure for unhealthy study of my feelings.
Mrs Tipper at once left everything in the way of management to me; only too glad to resign the reins of government, which had been but loosely held, into my hands, and cease to have any recognised individuality in the household.