A corner of the West

Front matter

Chap.-P.-L Copyright No.

Shelf.

P ? z <7 C

Contents

CHAPTER PAGE

I. — Petronel I

II. — Lavinia’s DECISION 22

Chapter I

She made a perfect picture in the sunny garden, and a quaint, old-fashioned picture, too, as she wandered up and down the flower-lined paths on some mysterious business of her own connected with a leaking watering-can and the broken doll which was propped up against the sun-dial. The artist, who had come all the way from London to paint the child’s portrait, stood still and smiled. The little brown shoes and stockings, the crumpled holland pinafore and big sun-bonnet were just what he would have dressed her in himself ; and the sweet flower face, with its sky-blue eyes, seemed to be hiding itself within white calico petals from the tooinquisitive gaze of any outsiders.

“ Isn’t she a perfect darling?” said her mother enthusiastically, and then she ran across the grass to where Petronel was playing, and the artist frowned, for a Redfern gown completely spoiled his picture.

“ Come and speak to this gentleman who is going to draw and paint you,” said Lady Merrivale persuasively.

“ I don’t want to be drawn and painted,” answered her little daughter gravely.

“ But, darling, think what a pretty picture you will make, and it shall be hung in the drawing-room ! She is really pretty, isn’t she ? ” turning to the artist. “ She has been so clever, you know, in having my eyes and mouth, and her father’s nose and curly hair.”

“ I haven’t, Mummy, truly,” interrupted Petronel ; “ I have only got my own mouth and eyes and things.”

The grown-ups laughed.

“ She is the strangest child, too,” her mother explained, “ with such dreadfully solemn thoughts, and awfully interested in religion, and queer things like that. And though she looks such a baby she is really seven years old. I do hope being so small for her age won’t mean she will grow up short and stumpy. That would be such a misfortune.”

“ I suppose she understands everything that is said ? ” asked George Lumsden, who was very fond of children.

“ Oh, yes. I should think so ! I never thought about it. It doesn’t matter. How will you paint her, indoors or out ? ”

“ Oh, out-of-doors ! ” exclaimed the artist ; “ it is a shame to waste any of Devonshire indoors.”

“ I always find Devonshire dreadfully depressing,” continued Lady Merrivale ; “ it is so deadalive, and I get so tired of the country and that tiresome sound of the sea. And the lanes here are simply awful. You really have to wear hideous, thick boots, or else drive everywhere. Petronel ! ” she called, as the child walked away from them, “ where are you going? ”

“ To the wood, Mummy. Fm very busy.”

“ What will you do now, Mr. Lumsden ? I am so sorry there is nobody for you to play with, and nothing to play at. That is what makes the spring such a stupid time of year. There is nothing for men to do. The shooting is all over, and the hunting hardly lasts . long enough, and there is no cricket, and London is emptied for Easter, and altogether it is horrid. My husband had to go to Exeter on some stupid business, which I know would have done itself much better without him, only he will fuss so about things down here. Landlords at home are rather fussy people, don't you think ? ” The artist smiled, and her ladyship rattled on.

“ I am counting the days for the Easter recess to be over so that we can go back to town. I can't think why Parliament will keep on giving holidays, as if the members worked hard enough to want any. Bob says they do; but I know he does not. He never does anything at the House but write letters and smoke and go to sleep. And here we are wasting a whole splendid piece of April, and even a week of May, in this out-of-the-way place. But I quite forgot, what are you going to play at to-day ? ”

“ I will play with Petronel,” said George ; “ but you forget that I have come here to work rather than to play. I have my picture to paint.”

“ Oh ! so you have. It will be dreadfully dull for you staying on down here after we have gone back. I am so sorry for you.”

“ You need not be. I have been working hard in London all the winter, and it will be a fine thing for me having this time in the country, and such a country, Lady Merrivale ! ”

“ It is so tiresome of Dr. Cary not to let me take the children up to town with me. I like having Petronel downstairs after tea, and I wanted to show lots of my friends the baby.”

“ London is not very nice for children.”

“ I suppose not. But I can’t see why. Our house overlooks the Park.”

“ Still the Park is not Devonshire.”

“ No, thank goodness!” exclaimed Lady Merrivale fervently.

“ And Jim Cary is an old friend of mine,” continued George ; “ I shall be glad to see something of him again.”

“ He has behaved like a perfect goose in getting engaged to Lavinia Garland; but I knew how it would be when I found he had come to be old Dr. Garland’s partner.”

“ I had not heard of this,” said George, much interested. “ What is the girl like ? ”

“ Not much like a girl at all, I can tell you. Not that she is much more than thirty, but she has the primmest, most old-maidish ways I ever saw.”

TETRONEL

“ What made him become engaged to her ? ”

“ Because they had neither of them anything else to do, of course. And she has rather pretty blue eyes. But the thought of a man with Jim Cary's physique, and belonging to such a good old sea-faring family as the Carys, settling down in Barnscombe as a village doctor, and married to Lavinia Garland, makes me positively ill.”

“ Is he in love with her?” George asked, as he opened the gate which led into Petronel's wood.

“ Not he — and it's all rubbish if he says he is ! The fact is,” continued Lady Merrivale, waxing confidential, “ that Lavinia fell frightfully in love with him, and I suppose he liked it — men generally do — and then the people in the village talked, and I expect that old termagant, Mrs. Garland, had a finger in the pie; anyhow they drifted into an engagement, a folly which would never have happened if Jim had gone to sea as all his fathers did before him.”

“ Why didn't he?”

“ Because he was another goose,” answered her ladyship decisively. “ Do look at Petronel. Isn't she too sweet ? ”

The child stood in the sloping wood with her pinafore full of the bluebells she had gathered. Bright sunshine flecked the grass all round her, and the colour of the wild hyacinths lay like blue smoke all down the hillside. Up between the trees the blue sky showed deep and clear, and far away in glimpses here and there lay the blue sea. But

Petroners eyes were the purest bit of blue even in that landscape.

“ Here is my picture/’ said George quietly, “ only I can never half do justice to it.”

“ That frock is rather old,” her mother observed doubtfully; but the artist laughed at the idea of spoiling Petronel with a best frock.

“ I must go down to the Rectory now about those bothering decorations,” said Lady Merrivale. “You won’t mind, will you?”

“ I should like to stay and talk to Petronel,” George answered, with a smile. “ I might even begin my sketch of her. The colouring is so perfect to-day.”

“ I like my dirty pinney,” began the child gravely, “ because it is out-of-doors’ dirt. Indoors is cleaner, but it is not nice like out-of-doors, is it?”

“ Certainly not,” answered the artist.

“ And I paint pictures, too,” Petronel went on confidingly.

“ Do you know what a picture is ? ” asked George.

The child looked thoughtful. “ A picture is my think with a line drawn round it,” she explained.

“ Yes, that is it, my child,” exclaimed George, with delight at the description. “ And, do you know, I think you and I will be great friends.”

“ I have lots of friends. My doll, and the cowboy, and the clockman, and the stable cat, and my long-clothes baby, and all the lambs, ’specially the newest ones, and — I can’t hardly remember what a lot of friends I have.”

“ I should like to be one of them.”

Petronel looked up with a smile.

“ I have taken quite a fancy to you,” she said slowly. “ I think you have such a nice face and a kind voice.”

“ I am glad you think so. I think you have a nice face, too.”

“ Nurse says it is wicked to like your own face.”

“ Perhaps she is afraid of your becoming vain,” suggested the artist.

Petronel looked serious.

“ I do think Pm better looking than a frog ; but I don’t call that vainness,” she pleaded sweetly.

And George agreed with her on both points.

“ I’ve been thinking,” began Petronel, after a pause, “ that I would like you to paint my doll’s picture, too. Her name is Gladys Rhubarb, and I’m afraid she might be lonely if she was left out.”

“ All right. She shall sit on the branch of a tree, and you must watch her so that she doesn’t move.”

So Petronel’s eyes looked up in her portrait, and the doll’s likeness was a striking one. It seemed unfortunate that, on the very day it was finished, the paint-brush fell with a splash of green right on to Gladys Rhubarb’s face ; but, with Petronel’s consent, the artist turned the green paint into fresh leaves, and settled to come another time to paint the doll on a canvas all by herself, and without the life-size figure of Petronel, standing in the foreground with her pinafore full of bluebells, an earnest look on her dear little face, and the colour of heaven in her eyes.

On some of those sweet, spring days when Petronel was tired of standing so still, she and George would go for a walk together down to the sea, and have many interesting talks about kind lions, and pretty crocodiles, and the fairy families who lived in the rock pools. And the artist learned how the pretending people are the really important ones, while fathers and mothers are often ranked with the sideboard and the drawing-room piano, at least in such homes as Petronel’s. And he could not imagine how the merry, easy-going squire and his frivolous wife had succeeded in having a little puritan daughter like this, and he wondered who had taught the child her depths of more than childish lore.

“ How do you like my long-clothes baby ? ” she asked him on the day when he had first been introduced to the youthful heir of all the Merrivales.

“ It seems a: nice little thing,” answered George, who was not much of an authority.

“ I wanted one so much I prayed for quite a fortnight in my proper prayers. So God sent it, you see.”

“ It is nice for you to be its little sister.”

But Petronel shook her head at such ignorance.

“ I am not its sister,” she exclaimed ; “ I am its head-mother, and I do hope I shall grow up into a good, pretty lady, so that my baby may have a nice mother.”

George felt sure she would.

“ God only sent one night-gown,” she added thoughtfully. “ But Mummy can easily buy some more from London, and it was very kind of Him to remember to send one. You know about Him being so kind, I suppose ? ”

“ Oh, yes ! ” George answered gravely. “ No one was ever so kind and good before.”

“ And so clever,” added the child loyally. “ I never knew all this till about three weeks ago. Miss Lavinia Garland told me. I do like to know things.”

“ Did not your mother ever tell you ? ” George asked, with a feeling of pity deep down out of sight in his masculine heart.

“ I don’t believe Mummy knows, nor Daddy. ’Sides I expect they’d call me silly. They always do when I’m sad about nice things.”

“ But why are you sad about nice things?” asked her friend, working hard at his canvas to catch the pathetic, wistful little look.

“ I don’t know. But nice things like Alice Darnley’s wedding, and singing my favourite hymn in church, and being sorry for people I love, all make me sad. At Alice Darnley’s wedding I was the saddest person in the church.”

“ But why, dear child ? ”

“ Because she looked down, and there was so many flowers. I was sad all day till I went to old

IO

Mrs. Cowan’s funeral after tea, but I enjoyed that very much. I love Alice. I wish she was my mother.”

“ Who is Alice Darnley ? ” George asked absently, so intent was he on his work.

“ She dress-maked for almost everybody in Barnscombe ’cept Mummy. But now she is too rich, and will live at a splendid farm-house and have cows of her very own.”

“ Who else are you sorry for?” continued George, who wanted to prolong the sad expression.

“ I was for Miss Lavinia when her father died, and she wore a sad black dress. It made me love her so much I always wanted to kiss her. You do want to kiss sad people, you know. I don’t now, ’cause her dress is gray. I am frightened when people cry and I go out of the room, but I love them most when they look sad and don’t cry.”

“ The child is an epicure in emotions,” George told his friend Jim Cary, with whom he went to smoke his pipe that night.

The doctor’s face grew grave.

“ Poor little soul ! The world’s handling will be a bit rough for her, I am afraid. And Lady Merrivale isn’t much of a mother.”

“ Petronel often talks of Miss Garland,” continued George. He had thought much of Lady Merrivale’s history of Jim’s engagement, and he wanted to find out the truth.

“ Lavinia is always good to children,” answered the doctor simply — so simply that George was a

II little disappointed. He had hoped his friend would have ignored the interruption — for when a man loves a woman he usually will not talk about her at all. But Jim Cary continued:

“ And children always seem to cling to Lavinia. Even her Sunday-school youngsters are devoted to her, and there is never a birthday party without Lavinia’s being invited. I like a woman to be fond of children. It is one of her most beautiful, natural instincts.”

George raised his eyebrows.

“ Lady Merrivale was right,” he thought to himself, and then he changed the subject.

“ What made you give up the Navy after all, Jim? You were mad on it as a boy.”

“ Both my elder brothers were lost at sea, and my mother could not bear my going after that. It would have killed her, I believe, so I had to give it up.”

“ That was a bit rough on a fellow like you ! ” And George’s voice was full of sympathy.

Jim Cary smiled.

“ I am an enthusiastic doctor now, and I was able to give my mother a home for the last five years of her life. Besides I still have the sound of the sea always in my ears.”

“ Is that why you stop on down here ? ”

“ Partly. And also because I love Barnscombe, and like to help the quaint, old-world folk whom no one else would take the trouble to look after.”

“ But think how much higher you would rise in your profession in London.”

“ I am afraid the Carys are not orthodoxly ambitious. I don’t care a rap about making a name — my ancestors fortunately did that for me; but I care tremendously about being able to give my best help to old friends and neighbours who are in need of it. It was simply dreadful in Dr. Garland’s life — his ideas of the art of healing were bounded by a blister and a black draught, and heaps of lives were sacrificed that might have been saved. If I am not in London, you see, there are plenty others who are ; but if I were not down here, the people would have to be doctored by the village apothecary.”

And there came into Jim Cary’s face a glow which was not there when he talked of Lavinia.

“ And the fees?” queried George.

His friend laughed his big, best laugh.

“ You ought to be ashamed of yourself — you an artist, and to talk like that! Go and paint aidermen’s portraits, and advertisements for popular soaps, and modern fashion-plates with the heads of your lady-friends on the top of them, and then you will know more about fees.”

“ But, joking apart, do you get anything for your work? I shall be paid even for a picture of Petronel.”

v “ Oh, yes, I am paid — at least, I suppose I am. But I have plenty without, you know. Have you heard about my cottage hospital here ? ”

And the doctor launched forth into an eager description of his work and schemes for the healing of the people of Barnscombe and its wide, outlying districts. And George listened, feeling the charm of his friend's strong personality, and the breath of enthusiasm for ideals, which had from old days made the Carys a fine people, whether on sea or land. But he also decided that this particular Cary — the last representative of that noble race — was more in love with his profession than with anything or anybody else.

One day Petronel decided that she and George should go and call on Miss Garland.

“ But would she like me to come too ? ” he asked.

Petronel looked surprised.

“ Miss Lavinia always loves people, and is glad to see them," she explained. “ She even loves people with big noses. Mrs. Garland has a very big nose, but Miss Lavinia loves her."

“ I have rather a big nose, you see," suggested George.

“ Never mind," said his little friend kindly; “ you couldn't help it."

“ But I am afraid you do not like it?" replied George, in mournful tones.

Petronel was such a dear, delicate, little instrument to play upon.

“ I do like it," she hastened to explain, with crimson cheeks ; “ but I am very glad it isn't any bigger."

“ Yes, I am glad about that, too," said the artist, with a laugh.

“ Miss Lavinia is going to teach me the piano, now the Rectory governess has gone away. I shall like that much better.”

“ Why?”

“ Because the one I have now is rather cross, you see. She thumps with agony when I play wrong notes. ,,

“ And who will teach you other things now ? ”

“ I’ve learnt all the other things,” said Petronel simply — “ all ’cept just finishing how to read.”

George Lumsden was growing very fond of his small model, she had such a sweet face, and such gentle, earnest ways. He thought of her sometimes as grown up into a beautiful woman, and then he was afraid she was too good to grow up at all.

“ I am not so clever at sums as Kathleen Fane,” continued the child, “ but I am jointier in dancing. I don’t like Kathleen much, she is so very rough, and pinches rather quickly.”

“ That is extremely naughty,” interpolated George.

“ I am so afraid of roughness. I do hope my baby won’t grow up into a rough brother.”

“ It won’t matter to you, dear, because you are so much older than he is. When he is only seven you will be fourteen, and quite a big girl.”

Petronel looked up with a puzzled face. “ Are you quite sure of that ? ” she asked doubtfully.

“ Perfectly,” George assured her.

After a few minutes’ meditation, Petronel remarked :

“ I almost wish Kathleen Fane wouldn't go to Heaven."

“ But she won't until she has grown quite gentle and good," said George, by way of consolation.

“ I suppose angels are never rough, nor pinch ? "

George felt the theological difficulties were thickening, so he changed the subject.

“ Where do you get your frocks ? " he asked. “ Does Alice Darnley make them ? "

“ No ; my nurse. Once I went to a big shop in London with Mummy, and she bought me a ready-made frock for best." Then, after a moment's thought, she added : “ I suppose God makes all the ready-made clothes in shops ? "

Before her friend could reply they reached the Old House, where Lavinia Garland lived with her mother — a dear, gabled homestead, with a little path and wicket-gate into the road, that straggled out of the village street, and a huge garden behind, sloping down to the meadow where the tiny river ran. The orchard was white with blossom, and up behind it rose the hill, from which could be seen the country round about Barnscombe stretching out for miles inland, and bounded on the west by the blue Atlantic.

Lavinia herself was watering the flowers in the garden. George looked at her with deep interest. A tall, slim, young woman, with a sweet face and graceful, willowy figure. In an instant the artist knew that she had quantities of fair, fluffy hair and large, light blue eyes; that the contour of her face was almost beautiful, and its colouring delicate and good. Her manner was very gentle, even timid, as she advanced to meet them, and her voice soft and low.

“ She is pretty, and womanly, and sweet/' he thought to himself, “ but she will never hold Jim."

“ This is one of my greatest friends," explained Petronel, “ who is painting a picture of my doll and me. I thought you'd like to see him."

“ Petronel and her friends are always welcome at the Old House," answered Lavinia, with old-fashioned courtesy. “ I will call my mother."

“ I told Mr. Lumsden your honey was very nice," continued Petronel. “ Him and me likes honey."

“ You shall have some, my dear," Lavinia promised, “ if Mr. Lumsden will be good enough to stay for tea."

“ I should like it immensely," said George, feeling as if he were suddenly invited to tea in an old-fashioned picture book.

“ Mrs. Garland and Mis s Lavinia has proper tea with grace in the dining-room," Petronel confided in him. “ They are much nicer than Mummy’s kind of teas, what all slip about when you hand them."

Mrs. Garland was delighted to see the artist, and welcomed him with the warm hospitality of the sunny west country.

“ So you are painting the child's portrait ? " she observed, as she presided over the tea-pot. “ I do not hold with art and science and such-like new-fangled ideas myself, but, for those who do, I hear it is a fine thing to paint an Academy picture, which Lady Merrivale tells me yours is to be.”

“ I hope so,” said George, spreading bread and honey.

“ Might I go and speak something very important to Eliza in the middle of my tea ? ” asked Petronel suddenly.

“ Will not it do afterwards, my dear? ” said Lavinia, “ for I expect Eliza is busy just now.”

“ And it is not good manners for little girls to leave the table in the middle of their teas,” remarked Mrs. Garland.

“ It is very important,” pleaded the child.

“ What is it you want to say ? ” queried George.

“ I want to ask her if she likes cats,” Petronel explained solemnly. “ Do let me go.”

George laughed, but Mrs. Garland was as adamant.

“ It will do afterwards, my dear,” said Lavinia soothingly.

But the child looked a little sad. It was just one of those momentous, questions which she wanted settled without delay, only grown-ups are so slow to understand these things.

“ I suppose you have a very busy life in the village here ? ” George asked, by way of making conversation with Lavinia.

“ Oh, yes ! There are always plenty of people to see after, and to take soup and jellies to when they are ill. ,,

“ Lavinia is a wonderful hand at making invalid messes for folk,” explained her mother. “ I never approve of things between meals myself, but the girl is so tender-hearted, and James Cary only encourages her.”

Lavinia blushed hotly at the mention of her lover's name before a stranger. It seemed to her a little improper of her mother to introduce it.

“ I have been sitting with Mrs. Benbow this afternoon,” she said softly. “ Poor thing ! She suffers dreadfully, and is such a sweet, good woman.”

Petronel stopped in the middle of a bite of cake.

“ Why does God let good people be hurt? ” she asked, with a puzzled look on her dear little face.

George felt this was beyond his power to solve, and looked helplessly at Lavinia. Even Mrs. Garland hesitated for a reply, and then Petronel herself kindly came to the rescue.

“ Never mind, if you don't know. We can easily find out in Child's Guide to Knowledge.”

And they were all glad to leave it at that.

“ I suppose you will soon be going back to London now ? ” queried Lavinia, “ for Petronel tells me the picture is nearly finished.”

“ Yes. I shall be sorry.” George could hardly realise that clubland and this Old House existed in the same country, or even the same century. “ Do you know London well ?”

*9

“ I have stayed there twice/’ explained Mrs. Garland ; “ but there were such a lot of folks I did not know, I could not get over it. The sights are fine, to be sure, but the number of people is astonishing, all cramped up in a parcel of streets, with not so much as an orchard in which to hang out a week’s washing. Lavinia went with us the last time.”

“ And what did you think of it ? ” George wanted to know. 0

Oh ! I had a cold in London,” said Lavinia.

“ I wish,” began Petronel wistfully, “ I knowed what is behind the wardrobe in the night-nursery.”

“ I can tell you, dear child,” replied the artist quickly, for he saw the little lines and curves that fear drew on Petronel’s face. “ There is only just a plain wall.”

“ I thought there was a big hole,” and she laid her tiny hand on his knee and looked up with starry eyes, “ a big, black hole full of enemies. That is why I take Daddy’s stick to bed with me, , and Mummy’s parasol. They would be very useful if the enemies came out.”

“ But there are no enemies,” George hastened to assure her.

“ P’r’aps not now. But they might come in the night, you see.”

“ Little girls should not think of such things,” reproved Mrs. Garland, “ but go to sleep with the birds and wake up with them.”

When tea was over George felt somewhat tired of the Garlands. Conversation was such uphill work, especially with Lavinia, that he wondered afresh how it was that Jim Cary had become engaged to any one so dull, and shrugged his shoulders at the prospect of their future married life. Still he was wise enough to know that the wonder of what lovers see in each other to love can never possibly be explained to a third person. It ranks with all those other best things in life, which no reason can explain and no science prove.

“ Let you and me go back to our work,” suggested Petronel, as they walked together across the fields which lay between the village and the woods. “ I’m in the middle of painting a very exciting picture. All the sky is black and the darkest I can paint.”

“ But why such a cloudy sky? ” the artist wanted to know.

Petronel’s voice sank into an awe-stricken whisper.

“.To show there’s a wolf about,” she explained, “ a great, savage, wicked wolf what bites.”

“ You have the artistic temperament, my child,” observed George.

“ What is that ? Is it a pain ? ”

And Petronel looked anxious.

“ I am afraid it develops into one sometimes in this working-day world of ours,” he replied whimsically.

“ I don’t feel it yet,” the child assured him, as she patted her pinafore.

It was a few days after this that George Lumsden’s picture of Petronel was finished. It was with great reluctance that he packed up his possessions and turned his thoughts once more to the far-away London which he had left behind him.