On Silver Wings, Chapter I

by Julia Goddard

Note: original spelling has been maintained.

ON SILVER WINGS.

BY THE AUTHOR OF “JOYCE DORMER'S STORY.”

CHAPTER I.

TWO ROOMS AT THE TOP OF THE HOUSE.

TWO rooms at the top of an old-fashioned country house, that stood on the slope of a hill facing due west, so that the fierce burning sun came pouring in all through the summer afternoons, fading carpets and curtains, and making the somewhat tarnished gilding of the picture frames look more tarnished than ever, in the brilliant, uncompromising light. There was no help for it, unless the Venetian blinds were drawn down, or the outer shutters closed, and the house darkened, as though there had been a death in it. Vivid light, or almost total darkness — there was no alternative; or, at any rate, no one had ever attempted any. Therefore, sometimes the house was closed up in the manner described, sometimes every blind was drawn up as high as it would go, every shutter thrown back, and the dazzling sunshine flooded the rooms in undisturbed brightness.

Just as it suited the humour of the master of the house. Sunshine or cloud, heat or cold, produced no regulating effect. He was his own barometer. As his will willed it, so was the weather to him, entirely independent of atmospheric influences.

A man of middle height, verging on thirty years of age—pale, restless, with dark eyes, that might have had much in them to read if people could only have fathomed them, or if their possessor had been of sufficiently stable mood to retain one expression long enough for any one to comprehend it. But the eyes shone out with such varied meaning in the space of a few seconds, that people came to the conclusion that nothing could be gathered from them, and that Jasper Seaton was a man of too changeable a character to put much faith in.

Perhaps they were right. He was passionate, and full of whims, which made him appear wavering; yet he had no lack of determination—only, unfortunately, it was overruled by caprice.

“ Why has Di the two worst rooms in the house?” asked Jasper Seaton of his mother.

Mrs. Seaton was placidly sitting in the full blaze of the sun, which was gradually turning the faded roses on the carpet to a sicklier autumnal hue, which contrasted unfavourably with their deep crimson counterparts in the more shaded and secluded portions of the room.

Mrs. Seaton did not mind the sun; neither did she mind the gloom when the house was darkened: she was pleased with what pleased her son, and everything that did not please him was in her eyes rank heresy. Therefore his question startled her a little.

“ I wrote to say that she was to have her choice of rooms,” he continued.

“ Of course you did, Jasper; and I showed the letter to Di—and Di flew over the house, in and out of every room, and came down out of breath to tell me that she would have the two at the top of the house, in the north wing, that had been shut up so long. I don’t know why, unless it was that she had found a piece of tapestry on one of the walls.”

“Anne wished her to have the rooms she used to have,” said Jasper, half in soliloquy.

“You did not say so, Jasper, or perhaps Di would have taken them. She was very fond of Anne when she was staying here. Anne was the only one who had any influence over her. She’s terribly wilful.”

“ Pshaw!”

“ Shall I tell her that Anne wished her to have her rooms? I dare say she would move down if she knew it.”

“ No,” said Jasper; “no—don’t say anything about it. She’s chosen for herself: let her keep to her choice. But what can have induced her to go up there?”

“ She says it is so quiet.”

“ Quiet! What does Di care about quietness?”

“ It’s come upon her since her engagement; and perhaps Anne’s death has had something to do with it”

And Mrs. Seaton began to sob gently at the remembrance of her lost daughter.

But Jasper only heard the first part of her speech.

“ Engagement!” he repeated. “ Engaged since I went away? There’s not been time. And who on earth is there for her to get engaged to here?”

“ I thought you would know all about it, Jasper.”

“ How should I?”

“ Did not Di write to you?”

“ Not about that. Who is it? Where did she meet him?”

Mrs. Seaton had been contemplating her son attentively, and saw that he was more than usually annoyed. She began to be doubtful of the part she had taken in countenancing the hasty engagement; so began to defend herself before she was attacked.

“I thought you would be delighted, Jasper. It will be such a relief to get Diana off our hands, and comfortably settled in life; and he’s a young man of good family and ex——that is, tolerable prospects; and I am sure that Diana is already beginning to be quite a different creature; and poor Anne, she would be sure to approve—such a very amiable young man. He—”

“Who is it?” asked Jasper Seaton, impatiently.

“I don’t think you have heard his name. He came to read with the rector, the day after you went off to poor Anne. Let me see—that is about two months ago. He’s going into the Church. His uncle, or his godfather, or it may be his grandfather, I cannot be sure,” said Mrs. Seaton—

“Nevermind,” interrupted her son, “what is his name?”

“Carteret—John Carteret. His father is a Chancery barrister. Rather a large family; and this is the third son. His mother is a relation of lady Pechford of Driffington. You remember her, don’t you? I think Mr. Carteret’s second name is Pechford. Yes, it is—John Pechford Carteret Rev. John Pechford Carteret it will be. It is better than we might have expected for a girl without a penny, like Di.”

Jasper Seaton started slightly, then he repeated—

“John Pechford Carteret—going into the Church! What nonsense. Quite unsuitable for a girl like Di. Is he going to teach her theology?” And his lip curled contemptuously.

“I am sure it is a great blessing,” murmured Mrs. Seaton. “Other people’s children are never like one’s own. One never knows what to do with them. How Robert Ellis could think of leaving you guardian to his child I cannot imagine. Why couldn’t he have thrown her upon his own family?”

Jasper Seaton answered nothing. He strode up and down the room in the glaring sunlight, and twenty varied expressions flitted over his restless countenance.

Mrs. Seaton did not puzzle herself with attempting to analyze them: her son was beyond her comprehension, and she was content he should be. He was her only son—her only child, now that Anne was dead. He had been more to her even than her daughter; for her daughter had married early, and had lived all her married life in France, and had died there within the last two months, after a short widowhood spent among her husband’s relatives.

“You were much too young to be made a guardian. Let me see: it’s twelve years since Di came to us—going on for thirteen. It was absurd. But I dare say Robert Ellis thought you would marry her in the end; and, perhaps you might have done, if this had not fortunately happened to prevent it. Di is getting quite a woman now; and there’s no saying what unlikely things may happen when people are thrown together.”

Jasper Seaton might or might not have heard his mother’s speculations; if he had, he paid no attention to them: he was pursuing his own train of thought.

“Only two months since! There has not been time enough! ” he ejaculated.

“Oh, you know how impulsive Di is, and how she settles everything in a moment, and takes a fancy to people at first sight.”

“Does she?” inquired Jasper, half sarcastically.

“Well, to some people,” replied Mrs. Seaton. “If you remember, she was devoted to Anne from the first minute she saw her, and almost broke her heart when she went away again.”

“Anne is not every one; and Anne was very fond of her.” And a peculiar expression passed over Jasper’s face. “I don’t remember any one else having found favour in her eyes.”

“She was infatuatedly attached to Dolly, and is just as foolish about Dolly’s child—”

“Dolly was her nurse.”

“Beggars, and all the idle children in the village.”

“She’s a sort of waif and stray herself; so, perhaps, has a sympathetic feeling.”

“Very likely that may account for it,” said Mrs. Seaton, a grateful ray of light breaking in upon her; “and she’s as wilful and as idle as needs be—and, now I come to think of it, never did take a fancy to respectable people: the rector, for instance —she would go half a mile out of her way at any time rather than meet him, and she shuts her eyes all through the sermons. I believe she determines not to listen to them. No—I suppose she doesn’t take much to respectable sort of people.”

“Such as ourselves,” suggested Jasper, cynically.

“Jasper,” returned Mrs. Seaton, “you know, just as well as I do, that she’s as fanciful as the day’s long; and she takes a liking here, and a dislike there, without any reason whatever.”

Jasper again repeated— “But two months—it’s absurd!”

“Not at all. John Carteret was quiet, and a contrast to herself, and somehow they became friends—through opposition of character, I suppose; and before I thought of anything but their being likely to quarrel in the course of a fortnight, she came and told me that she was engaged. One can’t imagine how such an idea as marriage came into her head—she’s seen nothing of the world.”

“And therefore believes in it,” added Jasper Seaton, bitterly. “This is the most absurd thing that ever happened—it can’t be thought of for a moment”

“Why?” and Mrs. Seaton looked up, bewildered.

She could not in the least follow out the arguments that were going on in her son’s mind. She could not understand why he should wish to oppose a marriage that would relieve them of what she had long felt to be a burden. “Unless”—and here a new idea darted into her mind—“unless it may turn out a more expensive thing than her being unmarried. He might think he ought to give her a handsome dowry, as John Carteret has to make his way in the world; and doubtless he feels that he has spent enough upon her already, which I am sure he has done. Yes, he must want her to marry a rich man. Of course he does. Jasper is far-seeing; and I am afraid I have been very unwise in allowing this engagement; but it’s impossible to contend with such a girl as Di.”

And Mrs. Seaton—without waiting for an answer to her “Why?”—felt perfectly satisfied that there was no occasion for one. So, folding her hands complacently, she basked in the great yellow rays that came burning into the room, and fell to lamenting the day that Robert Ellis had died, and sent his daughter home to England.

Jasper Seaton continued pacing up and down the room. Perhaps it was the heat that had sent the dark, angry flush across his face. Perhaps it was the dazzling light that had caused his eyebrows to contract; and yet the clear, dark eyes gleamed steadily from under them, as though gifted with the property of the eagle's.

Presently he spoke again, but without the slightest reference to the intermediate conversation—

“ And so badly furnished. Where did all the rubbish come from?”

“ Di chose it all, arranged it all, and was in an ecstasy of delight when it was finished.

“ I can't think why Di wanted to change at all: her old room was much more comfortable.”

“ Then you have been up there, mother?”

“ Yes.”

“ The only redeeming feature is the collection of flowers just outside the west window.”

“ I did not look at it. It made me shudder to see Di standing out on that unprotected ledge, or roof, or whatever it may be—she calls it a balcony. There must be a railing put up.”

“ Only a square of carpet in the middle of the floor.”

“ Di said it was summer time, and it would be cooler without carpets.”

“ She used not to mind the heat. And a deal table with a worsted cloth on it.”

“ She preferred it to any other.”

“ What can have come over the girl? She was so luxurious, so gorgeous in her tastes.”

“ I don't know. I suppose it’s a new phase of character,” answered Mrs. Seaton, a little wearily.

The sun was so overpowering now, that she was compelled to move more into the shade.

“ I really think the blinds might be down to-day—it is so hot,” said she, involuntarily.

“ Hot” replied her son, and he laid his hand upon hers.

“ Why, Jasper!” she exclaimed, “your hand is as cold as ice.”

CHAPTER II.

THE OCCUPANT OF THE TWO ROOMS.

A LOW room in the roof, with heavy beams across; one window looking northward along a low range of hills that sloped gently down into the broad valley, their sunny sides covered in spring with a glowing mass of apple blossom; another window opening upon the flat roof of an under-projection, and looking towards the west, where, evening after evening, the sun descended in a blaze of splendour, sinking to rest in a clear, cloudless space of purest daffodil, or dropping down through amethyst and crimson bars, until the distant forest seemed on fire—and then the sun was lost.

This western window looked over the valley, with its winding stream, the village spire, the dotted cottages, and the half-hidden peaks of the rectory; over park-like sweeps of pasture land that lay between the house and the high road, and upon the great avenue of chestnut trees that led to the great iron gates with dolphins standing on their curled tails, executed in tolerable workmanship, on the summit of the pillars,“It was the pleasantest room in the house,” Diana had declared, when Mrs. Seaton remonstrated with her on her choice. “She liked to have a room high up: it seemed nearer to heaven.”

Whereat Mrs. Seaton wondered; for Diana was not given to serious meditation.

One side of the room was covered with an old piece of tapestry, a good deal faded in parts, but whereon one might trace part of the story of Persephone; and a classical dictionary, lying upon the table, showed that Di had been making researches, and piecing the story together.

There was, as Jasper had said, only a square of carpet in the middle of the floor, and that of somewhat dingy appearance. Against the wall, opposite to the tapestry, were all the pictures of which Di was possessed, and which she had collected since childhood—some in frames, some without; and over the fireplace—which was of Gothic design—reared on brackets, were two figures, painted bronze colour—one a soldier of the time of Francis I., the other a Roman warrior. The mantelpiece boasted two plaster casts of classic subjects; two lions, after Michael Angelo, also in plaster; several china cats and dogs; a china cottage, with & scarlet roof and a chimney much too large for it; a scent bottle, and a pair of doll’s candlesticks.

The furniture of the apartment consisted of one or two shabby cane chairs, a low rocking-chair, a footstool, some bookshelves, an old-fashioned press, and the deal table with the worsted table cover of which Jasper had spoken with so much contempt.

In fact, if one came to analyze the contents of the sitting-room, one would come to the conclusion that they consisted of an assortment of odds and ends that had been turned out of every other room in the house. There was, however, one exception to the shabbiness of the general belongings, and this was a beautiful inlaid cabinet, of Indian workmanship, upon which were placed a rare Indian vase—holding at the present time a bouquet of large white lilies—and a small Bible, splendidly bound, with a gold clasp, whereon was engraven, “ Diana Ellis, the Gift of her Father.” That it had scarcely ever been opened was very apparent; yet, that it was held in peculiar reverence was equally apparent also.

But, despite its incongruous contents, the general effect of the room was not ungraceful; the general arrangement was harmonious, and the colours blended so as to be in keeping with the faded tapestry; whilst the brilliant scarlet of the table cover was toned down by the rusty bindings of the books that lay upon it, the dark mahogany chest, and a great china bowl, filled with roses of all shades, from faint blush to deep crimson, whose delicate fragrance stole through the room, and mingled with the cent that the west wind wafted in from the flowers in the so-called balcony.

Into this room and the adjoining one— that served as a bed-room, and might have belonged to an ascetic—had Diana Ellis moved all her worldly possessions. As may be judged, they were not great; and had they been put up at auction, it would probably have puzzled the most imaginative auctioneer to appraise them to any advantage. And in the midst of her household gods, with her head leaning against the back of the low chair, sat Diana herself, contemplating, with supreme content, the result of her labours.

Small, slender, with a slightly brunette complexion and yellow hair—regularly yellow, soft, tawny yellow, and no other colour —her eyes were the deepest imaginable violet, with black lashes. She was, perhaps, more singular-looking than pretty; but, as one came to know the face, the singularity grew into something more charming even than regular beauty.

There was a scornful twist in the lips, and a defiant flash in the dark eyes, and a nervous clenching of the hands that lay as passive as it was possible for one of so mobile a nature to keep them—all telling of a quick, passionate nature, unused to much control; whilst her little foot tapped impatiently on the floor. And yet Diana was comparatively at rest. Suddenly, a softer gleam stole into her eyes, and the lips parted in a half-smile, as she pushed back a lock of yellow hair that had fallen down, and a flush of happiness spread itself over her face like a halo of glory.

Over twelve years since she had come to live with Jasper Seaton and his mother. How bright everything was growing all at once!

Over twelve years since, a yellow, sickly looking child, under the convoy of a good-humoured sunburnt captain of an East India man, had arrived at Broadmead. It had glowered furtively from under its shock of tangled hair at Mrs. Seaton and her son, and had evidently not been favourably impressed—for it screamed convulsively when they attempted to disengage it from the jovial sailor, to whom it clung like a wild animal. But when at length the separation was accomplished, and the captain drove off, the child crouched in a corner of the room and sobbed until it could sob no longer; and, exhausted, fell asleep with its head on a footstool, and the unkempt locks falling about, and the yellow face swollen and patched with red.

“ What a very ugly child!” said Mrs. Seaton, contemplating the new arrival.

The swollen eyelids slowly unclosed, and the child gazed fixedly upon her.

“ Hush, mother, she is not asleep.”

“ Nonsense, these Indian children don't understand much English; and this one seems a stupid little thing.”

“ Take care; she’s doubtless picked up a good deal coming over.”

“ Captain, captain—me want me’s captain,” wailed the child.

“ The captain’s gone away—you won't see him any more,” said Mrs. Seaton. “You must get up now, and be a good child, and not cry any more.”

“ Me not be good! Me not 'tay here! Captain, captain!”

And she began to sob louder than ever, and to scream so vehemently, that Mrs.Seaton, retiring to a distance, regarded her in despair.

“ What on earth shall we do with her, Jasper?”

Jasper approached, and tried his powers of consolation.

“Det away—det away, bad man!” and she raised her hand, and dealt so sharp a blow on Jasper’s cheek, that he started with surprise.

“Passionate — a young tigress!” commented Mrs. Seaton, contemplating her from her position of security. “One would think her father had been a heathen; at any rate, she’s been brought up one.”

Jasper looked round the room in search of some diversion, and his eye fell upon a dish of strawberries that was on the table. He put some on a plate, and, approaching cautiously, offered them to her. “ Nice strawberries,” said he.

The child turned away her head languidly.

“ Very nice,” he continued, encouraged by her apathy; and he held the plate nearer. Still she kept her face turned away; and he laid it down beside her.

The cold edge touched one little brown hand. She started round; and, raising the plate, flung it and its contents across the room. The beautiful china shivered into fragments, and one of the strawberries, rebounding against Mrs. Seaton’s delicate silk dress, left thereon a crimson stain.

“ You naughty child,” she exclaimed, starting up, “ you very naughty, bad child!” And she gave her a sharp slap on the arm.

The child uttered no cry, but looked up at Mrs. Seaton with a perplexed look, in which amazement, anger, and terror were strangely mingled. Then crouching back into the corner, she glared at Jasper and his mother like a savage creature brought to bay.

“ I don’t know what is to be done with her. I can’t let Prime be worried with her. She’ll be one person's work, that is very certain. She must be tamed before she can come into civilized society.”

And Mrs. Seaton, struck with a sudden idea, rang the bell.

“ Send Dolly here.”

Dolly was the under-housemaid, who had recently been promoted from her village home to a situation at the great house. A buxom, comely country girl, strong and stalwart, but withal soft and tender-hearted, especially to dumb animals and young children.

“ Dolly,” said Mrs. Seaton, “you’ve been accustomed to children — see if you can make anything of that untamed one.”

“ Poor little soul!” said Dolly, compassionately.

Dolly had been on the look-out for some days for the little Indian orphan, who was coming hundreds of miles over the sea.

“ Naughty little soul!” responded Mrs. Seaton; “though I doubt if she’s got one. Take her away at once, and don’t let me see her again to-day.”

Dolly approached her charge.

“Don’t it cry, darling; poor darling, poor birdie,” she said, in a sort of cooing voice, as though she were speaking to a pet pigeon. “Come with its own Dolly, there’s a love. Hush it, hush it,” cooed Dolly, though the child did not utter a sound. “ Hush it,” continued Dolly, soothingly, as she approached. “Poor pigeon, poor pigeon—hush it, hush it!”

There was some fascination in the voice or manner; for the child, thus apostrophized, suffered Dolly to take it in her arms, and, laying its head on Dolly’s shoulder, was carried off in triumph.

Jasper and his mother looked at each other.

“ Wonderful!” said Jasper.

“ Some people have a way with children,” said Mrs. Seaton. “ I have not. Though I scarcely call that a child; she seems like a young fiend—or, at any rate, a changeling, if one could believe in fairy superstitions. What eyes she has!—they are scarcely human.”

Jasper Seaton was tempted to agree with his mother, and to vituperate Robert Ellis for leaving him guardian to his child.

“She must be sent to school as soon as possible,” he said.

“I suppose they will know how to teach her there.” Mrs. Seaton sighed.

“If Robert Ellis did like Anne, and Anne didn’t like him, I don’t see that it was any reason why he should leave his child a burden to our family,” she said.

Which reasoning seemed rational enough.

“ He was my father’s friend. Besides, I am in Robert Ellis’s debt,” answered Jasper, shortly.

“ Well, you’re in a way to repay it with interest,” returned his mother.

And Jasper answered— “So it seems.”

Thus Diana had arrived like a whirlwind, spreading confusion in the household of Broadmead. And she continued on in a whirlwind. She and Mrs. Seaton appeared to act as irritants to each other; and therefore it came to pass that Diana was given over entirely to Dolly, who was installed as nursemaid in a remote part of the house.

Consequently, Dolly was in the seventh heaven of importance and delight; and Diana infinitely preferred the nursery domains to those of the drawing-room. The latter she seldom entered without leaving it in disgrace; therefore she spent most of her time in retirement with Dolly, a pet spaniel, and occasional kittens.

This continued until she was ten years of I age, by which time she had learned to read and write, and could play any tune by ear on the pianoforte.

“Should she not be sent to school?” asked Jasper.

But Mrs. Seaton demurred.

“It was a useless expense; but, as she seemed to have a talent for music, she could take lessons from the village organist. If a girl could read and write, and had one accomplishment, it was enough for her. Perhaps she might have a voice, and many girls were married for their singing. Perhaps Diana might be, if people did not find out what a fearful temper she had.”

So Diana took lessons from the village organist, and had an old piano sent up into the nursery, upon which she practised half the day, to her heart’s great content.

The village organist was a foreigner, a musical genius—a man who had grown old over his beloved organ, and his musty old volumes of Corelli, Clementi, Pergolesi, Marcello, and a host of other beloved Italian composers. He was enthusiastic over his pupil; and Diana progressed marvellously.

The music appeared to have a beneficial influence upon her.

“ ‘Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast,”’ quoted Mrs. Seaton; and she exulted in the success of her plan.

Still the drawing-room visits were generally productive of a storm.

“ If you would only try to be good, Miss Diana,” said Dolly, after one of these constantly recurring outbreaks.

“ It’s of no use trying, for I don’t know how,” returned Diana. Then, after a meditative pause, she asked, “How did you become good, Dolly?”

“ Me, miss!” returned Dolly, overcome by the suggestion, and recurring to her early teaching. “I’m not good, miss—I’m naturally a child of wrath, miss; but I try to do my duty.”

“ I thought your mother lived in the village, and your father was Thomas, the gardener, Dolly,” returned Diana, with a puzzled look.

“ So they are, miss. It’s something else I mean. It’s all in the Catechism. I learned it when I wasn’t as old as you, miss. It’s all in the Prayer Book, if you would like to look at it.”

And Dolly looked eagerly at her young charge, who had hitherto persistently declined all Dolly’s well-meant efforts at religious instruction.

“ Should I be good if I learned the Catechism?”

“ You’d be a deal better, miss, no doubt.”

“ I will look at it,” said Diana, condescendingly. “Get it.”

Dolly brought out the Prayer Book, and, turning to the Catechism, selected the passage relating to one’s duty towards one’s neighbour. Diana took it, and read attentively until she came to the sentence, “to order myself lowly and reverently to all my betters.”

“ What does ‘reverently’ mean?” she asked.

“ Humbly and with respect,” responded Dolly, promptly.

“ Who are my betters?”

“ The rector, miss, and the mistress, and Mr. Jasper, and—”

But Diana interrupted her.

“ If that is what the Catechism teaches, I'm not going to learn it.” And she closed the book deliberately, and gave it back to Dolly. “I believe,” she continued, after a moment’s consideration, “that they are not as good as you are. You’re not as greedy as the rector, and you don’t go into passions and be cross, like Mrs. Seaton and Jasper. Besides, you always speak the truth. I should think you were my better, Dolly.”

“ Oh! no, miss,” replied Dolly, shocked at the heterodox idea. “I’m not your better, miss; it’s only the mistress and such like.”

“ Oh!” said Diana, nodding her head, gravely—“ then, Dolly, I have no opinion of the Catechism.”

And thus ended Dolly’s ethical and religious effort.