Vera Nevill | Page 9

Vera looked from the square red house behind
her over the wide gardens and broad lawns, and down the noble
avenues that spread away into the distance, and said to herself, "This is
what will suit me, to be mistress of a place like this; I should love it
dearly; I should find real happiness and pleasure in the duties that such
a position would bring me. If Sir John Kynaston comes here, it is he
whom I will marry, and none other."
As to what her feelings might be towards the man whom she thus
proposed to marry it cannot be said that Vera took them into
consideration at all. She was not, indeed, aware whether or no she
possessed any feelings; they had never incommoded her hitherto.
Probably they had no existence. Such vague fancy as had been ever
roused within her had been connected with a photograph seen once in a
writing-table drawer. The photograph of Sir John Kynaston! The
reflection did not influence her in the least, only she said to herself also,
"If he is like his photograph, I should be sure to get on with him."
She was an odd mixture, this Vera. Ambitious, worldly-wise,
mercenary even, if you will; conscious of her own beauty, and
determined to exact its full value; and yet she was tender and
affectionate, full of poetry and refinement, honest and true as her own
fanciful name.

The secret of these strange contradictions is simply this. Vera has never
loved. No one spark of divine fire has ever touched her soul or warmed
the latent energies of her being. She has lived in the thick of the world,
but love has passed her scatheless. Her mind, her intellect, her brain,
are all alive, and sharpened acutely; her heart slumbers still. Happier
for her, perhaps, had it never awakened.
She leant upon the stone parapet, supporting her chin upon her hand,
dreaming her dreams. Her hat lay by her side, her long dark dress fell in
straight heavy folds to her feet. The yellow leaves fluttered about her,
the peacocks strutted up and down, the gardeners in the distance were
sweeping up the dead leaves on the lawns, but Vera stirred not; one
motionless, beautiful figure giving grace, and life, and harmony to the
deserted scene.
* * * * *
Some one was passing along among the upper rooms of the house,
followed by Mrs. Eccles, panting and exhausted.
"I am sure, Sir John, I am quite ashamed that you should see the place
so choked up with dust and lumber. If you had only let me have a day's
notice, instead of being took all of a sudden like, I'd have had the house
tidied up a bit; but what with not expecting to see any of the family,
and my being old, and not so quick at the cleaning as I used to be----"
"Never mind, Mrs. Eccles; I had just as soon see it as it is. I only
wanted to see if you could make three or four rooms tolerably habitable
in case I thought of bringing my horses down for a month or so. The
stables, I find, are in good repair."
"Yes, Sir John, and so is the house; though the furniture is that
old-fashioned, that it is hardly fit for you to use."
"Oh! it will do well enough; besides, I have not made up my mind at all.
It is quite uncertain whether I shall come----Who is that?" stopping
suddenly short before the window.

"That! Oh, bless me, Sir John, it's Miss Vera, from the vicarage. I hope
you won't object to her being here; of course, she could not know you
was back. I had given her leave to walk in the grounds."
"The vicarage! Has Mr. Daintree a daughter so old as that?"
"Oh, law! no, Sir John. It is Mrs. Daintree's sister. She came from
abroad to live with them last year. A very nice young lady, Sir John, is
Miss Nevill, and seems lonely like, and it kind of cheers her up to come
and see me and walk in the garden. I am sure I hope you won't take it
amiss that I should have allowed her to come."
"Take it amiss--good gracious, no! Pray, let Miss--Miss Nevill, did you
say?--come as often as she likes. What about the cellars, Mrs. Eccles?"
"I will get the key, Sir John." The housekeeper precedes him out of the
room, but Sir John stands still by the window.
"What a picture," he says to himself below his breath; "how well she
looks there. She gives to the old place just the one thing it lacks--has
always lacked ever since I have known it--the presence of a beautiful
woman. Yes, Mrs. Eccles,