Each morning he was certain there would be a letter; each
morning the postman rung the bell below, and Waters would tumble down
the stairs at breakneck speed, but not a word from Natalie or her
mother.
At the little Buckinghamshire station at which he stopped he found a
dog-cart waiting to convey him to Hill Beeches; and speedily he was
driving away through the country he knew so well, now somewhat desolate
in the faded tints of the waning of the year; and perhaps, as he drew
near to the red and white house on the hill, he began to reproach
himself that he had not made the place more his home. Though the grounds
and shrubberies were neat and trim enough, there was a neglected look
about the house itself. When he entered, his footsteps rung hollow on
the uncarpeted floors. Chintz covered the furniture; muslin smothered
the chandeliers; everything seemed to be locked up and put away. And
this comely woman of sixty or so who came forward to meet him--a
smiling, gracious dame, with silvery-white hair, and peach-like cheeks,
and the most winning little laugh--was not her first word some hint to
the young master that he had been a long time away, and how the
neighbors were many a time asking her when a young mistress was coming
to the Beeches, to keep the place as it used to be kept in the olden
days?
"Ah well, sir, you know how the people do talk," she said, with an
apologetic smile.
Pages:
651
652
653
654
655
656
657
658
659
660
661
662
663
664
665
666
667
668
669
670
671
672
673
674
675