Vera Nevill | Page 8

once seen in passing from one
station to the other on her way to Sutton, to a life in this quiet old-world
red-brick house, with the rooks cawing among trees, and the long
chestnut glades stretching away into the park, and all the venerable
associations of those portraits of his ancestors. Some trouble, some
sorrow, must have kept him away from it, she felt.
But she would not question Mrs. Eccles about him; she encouraged her
to talk of the dead and gone generations as much as she pleased, but of
the man who was her master Vera would have thought it scarcely
honourable to have spoken to his servant. Perhaps, too, she preferred
her dreams. One day, idly opening the drawer of an old bureau in the
little room which Mrs. Eccles always called religiously "My lady's
morning room," Vera came upon a modern photograph that arrested her
attention wonderfully.
It represented, however, nothing very remarkable; only a
broad-shouldered, good-looking young man, with an aquiline noise and
a close-cropped head. On the reverse side of the card was written in
pencil, "My son--for Mrs. Eccles." Lady Kynaston, she supposed, must
therefore have sent it to the old housekeeper, and of course it was Sir
John. Vera pushed it back again into the drawer with a little flush, as
though she had been guilty of an indiscretion in looking at it, and she
said no word of her discovery to the housekeeper. A day or two later
she sought for it again in the same place, but it had been taken away.
But the face thus seen made an impression upon her. She did not forget
it; and when Sir John Kynaston's name was mentioned, she invested
him with the living likeness of the photograph she had seen.

On this particular October morning that Vera strolled up idly to the old
house she did not feel inclined to wander among the deserted rooms;
the sunshine came down too pleasantly through the autumn leaves; the
air was too full of the lingering breath of the dying summer for her to
care to go indoors. She paused a minute by the open window of the
housekeeper's room, and called the old lady by name.
The room, however, was empty and she received no answer, so she
wandered on to the terrace and leant over the stone parapet that looked
over the gardens and the fountains, and the distant park beyond, and
she thought of the photograph in the drawer.
And then and there there came into Vera Neville's mind a thought that,
beginning with nothing more than an indistinct and idle fancy, ended in
a set and determined purpose.
The thought was this:--
"If Sir John Kynaston ever comes down here, I will marry him."
She said it to herself, deliberately and calmly, without the slightest
particle of hesitation or bashfulness. She told herself that what her
relations were perpetually impressing upon her concerning the
desirableness of her marrying and making a home of her own, was
perfectly just and true. It would undoubtedly be a good thing for her to
marry; her life was neither very pleasant nor very satisfactory to herself
or to any one else. She had never intended to end her days at Sutton
Vicarage; it had only been an intermediate condition of things. She had
no vocation for visiting the poor, or for filling that useful but
unexciting family office of maiden aunt; and, moreover, she felt that,
with all their kindness to her, her brother-in-law and his wife ought not
to be burdened with her support for longer than was necessary. As to
turning governess, or companion, or lady-help, there was an
incongruity in the idea that made it too ludicrous to contemplate even
for an instant. There is no other way that a handsome and penniless
woman can deliver her friends of the burden of her existence than by
marriage.

Marriage decidedly was what Vera had to look to. She was in no way
averse to the idea, only she intended to look at the subject from the
most practical and matter-of-fact point of view.
She was not going to render herself wretched for life by rashly
consenting to marry Mr. Gisburne, or any other equally unsuitable
husband that her friends might choose to press upon her. Vera differed
in one important respect from the vast majority of young ladies of the
present day--she had no vague and indistinct dreams as to what
marriage might bring her. She knew exactly what she wanted from it.
She wanted wealth and position, because she knew what they were and
what life became without them; and because she knew that she was
utterly unfitted to be the wife of any one but a rich man.
And therefore it was that