Chapter IV · —FAIRVIEW.

The station at which I stopped was about twelve miles from town, and I found that Fairview was distant a short drive from thence. I took the advice of the driver of a solitary fly in waiting, and engaged it to convey me and my luggage, instead of having the latter sent, and walking, as I had intended to do. 'They'll charge you eighteen-pence for the barrow up to Fairview, and I'll take you and the luggage too for half-a-crown, miss,' said the man, in a fraternal kind of way, which seemed to indicate that he understood the cause of my hesitation, and put the case accordingly.

Very curiously did I gaze about me as the fly jogged slowly through part of a primitively built little village, and turned into a high-road, rising ground the whole way. I caught sight of some exquisite bits of Kentish scenery; beautifully wooded hill and dale, with picturesque-looking homesteads dotted about it; and pictured to myself a delightful old family house to match the scene—a gable end or mullioned window appearing here and there amidst grand old elms, with rooks cawing about them. Dwelling upon this picture, I did not notice that we had left the main road, and turned into a newly-made one branching from it, leading to the top of a hill. It was only as the fly turned sharply in at some showy-looking lodge gates that an enormous structure of bricks and mortar—a modern palace—met my view. Even as I was driven round the sweep, something, which I then tried to persuade myself was size and grandeur, but to which I now give a different name, jarred upon me, and dispelled all my rosy visions of a country home.

A man-servant came out to see to my luggage, looking somewhat surprised at my paying the driver myself, and methodically counting my boxes before ascending the steps. At the hall-door I was received by another servant, and conducted to what he termed the library—a large and lofty room, furnished in costly modern fashion. 'But where were the books?' I asked myself, gazing around. How jealously they were guarded, if they were kept in those closed and lined book-cases! There was not a book nor a paper to be seen, and all the elaborate appliances for study looked new and entirely unused. I could only suppose that Mr Farrar had taken a dislike to the room, and gathered his favourite authors about him in some cosy study, where ideas would flow more freely.

I sat waiting, as patiently as might be, for about ten minutes, when the man-servant looked into the room: 'Will you come this way, if you please, miss?'

I rose and went across the hall, where he threw open a door and ushered me into a large drawing-room, gorgeous with amber satin hangings, and gilded furniture, immense pier-glasses, and every conceivable expenditure in the way of decoration. Still no one to be seen! It almost looked as though I had been taken from room to room in order that I should be duly impressed with the Fairview grandeur. But I presently found that there were other things besides furniture in the room; beautiful works of art, collected from all parts of the world. Indeed they were in such excess as to destroy the general effect, by fatiguing the eye. One longed to isolate them from their too brilliant surroundings and examine them at leisure.

I had contrived to forget where I was and what had brought me there, in examining some treasures on an engraving-stand, when the man again made his appearance: 'Mr Farrar will be glad to see you, if you will please to step this way, miss.'

Mr Farrar at last! I rose and followed the servant across the hall again, feeling anything but as calm and collected as I tried to appear. I was, in fact, oppressed with a sudden dread lest I should not find favour in Mr Farrar's sight, and the consciousness that when I had given the change out of the note to him, I did not possess sufficient money of my own to pay my fare back to my old lodgings again. I suppose the self-restraint which was necessary to conceal my anxiety made me appear to greater disadvantage than usual. Whatever the cause, I was very soon made to understand that first impressions were unfavourable to me.

'I did not expect you to arrive so early, Miss Haddon,' were the first words, not very graciously uttered, which met my ears as the doors closed behind me.

'I thought it best to come at once, Mr Farrar, in case you should require'——

'O yes; very right—very right and proper.'

The haut en bas in the tone strengthened me in a moment, bracing my nerves as suavity and gentleness would not have done.

'I presume you have heard from Mr Wentworth respecting'——

'Yes, O yes; I received a letter this morning apprising me of his success in finding a lady to act as chaperon to Miss Farrar. Pray be seated, Miss—O yes—Haddon, Miss Haddon. Unfortunately, I am just at present an invalid. It is that, in fact, which necessitates the engaging a lady to act as chaperon to Miss Farrar.'

Miss Farrar again; not his child; not his motherless girl, but Miss Farrar! I bowed, leaving him to proceed.

'Not that she is the only lady here; my—sister resides with me, Miss Haddon. But she—in point of fact, she belongs to the old school, and therefore is not altogether fitted—that is, she is independent of anything of the kind, and does not care to undertake the duties required. I came to the conclusion that a somewhat younger lady would be more fitted for the office, and consequently begged my friend, Mr Wentworth, to undertake the selection of a lady for me.' He paused a moment, then went on, half interrogatively, I thought. 'He understood that it was a desideratum that the lady should be one accustomed to the best society, and in other respects a suitable companion for a young lady who will, at a future period, be the wife of a man of family holding a distinguished position in the world.'

This was serious. A lady accustomed to the best society, and capable of inducting a young girl into the mysteries (they were mysteries to me) of fashionable life. The only society I had been accustomed to was that to be found in my dear mother's sick-room, and such faded gentility as people who live about in second-class lodgings are likely to meet with. Undoubtedly my mother was a gentlewoman, and Philip a gentleman according to my creed; but what society might think about it I did not know.

I anxiously debated the matter in my own mind for a few moments. Was I justified in accepting the position? What if I gave Mr Farrar an exact account of my past life, and left him to decide? I could have done so without a moment's hesitation to Mr Wentworth. But I very quickly came to the conclusion that it would not do here. The cold, calculating eyes, narrow brow, and heavy, loose lips, seemed to indicate a very different character to that of his friend; and it was therefore probable that he had a very different standard as to what constitutes a gentlewoman. Then there arose the difficulty—could I satisfy my own conscience in the matter? which presently brought me back again to the question, what constitutes a gentlewoman? and I resolved to make the attempt.

He had been drumming his fingers on the arms of his chair, waiting, I suppose, rather impatiently for some sort of rejoinder to his peroration; but I was obliged to think the matter carefully over in my own mind, and he had to wait a few moments. He was probably not in the habit of being kept waiting for a reply, as he went on in a somewhat irritated tone: 'Mr Wentworth informs me that you are well connected, Miss Haddon?'

The very best speech he could have made, in the way of leading up to what I felt obliged to say, and yet rather shrank from saying.

'My father was a Haddon of Haddon, and held a commission in the Guards, Mr Farrar,' I replied, hardly able to repress a smile at the thought of making them useful to me at last and in this way. If they were of any service to me now, it would be for the first time.

'Oh, indeed; very good; the Haddons of Haddon. Yes; that is satisfactory certainly—Haddons of Haddon; quite satisfactory.'

I could only smile, making a deep mental courtesy to the Haddons of Haddon. To think of my former want of reverence for so great a power!

With a wave of the hand he graciously went on: 'I was sure I might trust to Mr Wentworth's discrimination. I hope you will soon feel at home here, Miss Haddon' (I could not help noticing that the name was uttered in quite a different tone now); 'I keep a good housekeeper; and I trust you will find all the servants in my establishment treat you with proper respect.'

'I expect one generally gets one's deserts in that way, Mr Farrar,' I replied, smilingly; 'I will try to deserve their respect.'

He looked a little dubious. 'A strong hand—a firm hand.' Then, I fancy, reverting to the Haddons of Haddon again, he added pleasantly: 'But of course they will be kept in their place by you. And now, perhaps you would like to see my daughter.'

'Allow me first to give you this change from the five pounds, and to thank you, Mr Farrar.'

'O yes; Wentworth mentioned something about it. He knows I like everything of that kind done in a large spirit. No consequence—no consequence at all, Miss Haddon,' as I put the change on to the table at his elbow, and mentioned something about third class, the cost of which was all I had deducted.

'I am sorry you came third class, Miss Haddon. But in future it must be always first, as befits a lady of gentle breeding.'

'You are very kind.'

'Not at all—not at all.' He rang the bell within reach of his chair, and inquired of the man who obeyed the summons: 'Is Miss Farrar in, Drew?'

'No, sir.'

'Shew this lady to the morning-room;' adding, after a moment's hesitation: 'Mrs—Tipper is there, I suppose?'

'Yes, sir.'

He half rose from his chair, keeping his hands on the arms, and bowed to the Haddons of Haddon. Their representative bent low in return, and then once more followed the man-servant.

What a palace the place seemed in size! I was ushered into a fourth great room, although I was much relieved to find that this last had an entirely different aspect from the others I had seen. A cheerful homelike room, with windows to the ground, looking on to terraces and flower-gardens, and different, in every other way, from the show-rooms to which I had previously been introduced. I breathed a sigh of relief; quite refreshed by the sight of books, work, an easel, &c., the usual pretty feminine litter of a morning-room. Some one at anyrate played at having ideas here.

But a slight cough drew my attention to a corner of the room near one of the open windows; and I saw a lady rising from an easy-chair—a short, stout, little lady, of about sixty years of age, who could never have resembled her brother at any time, and was a great deal pleasanter to look at now. To me she was quite pretty, in a homely, motherly way, with bright blue eyes, a mouth used to smile, and a dear little button of a nose, which combined charmingly with all the rest. The simple honesty and thorough good-nature so evident in every line of her face, appealed directly to my heart; and I felt that if she and I did not become friends, the blame would rest with me. The sight of her was my first welcome to Fairview.

'You are the lady'—— she began, a little hesitatingly.

'My name is Mary Haddon, and Mr Farrar has just engaged me to act as companion to his daughter, madam.'

'Oh, indeed—O yes, I am charmed I am sure. Charmed to make your acquaintance, Miss Haddon. Lovely weather we are having, are we not?' with a tone and manner in such singular contrast with her appearance, that I was for the moment dumb with astonishment. She half extended her hand, then drew it back again, and gave me a stiff little bow instead. 'May I offer you any refreshments after your journey, Miss Haddon?'

I declined rather stiffly, not a little chilled and disappointed. One really had a right to expect something different from this homely, good-natured looking little woman. She appeared rather at a loss what to do next, and presently hoped I was not fatigued with the journey.

No; I was not fatigued with the journey. Then, after a moment or two's reflection, I went on: 'The truth is, I am not a fine lady, Mrs Tipper; I have been accustomed to all sorts of endurance, poverty amongst the rest, and it takes a hard day's work to fatigue me.'

It was an inspiration. In a moment, her whole bearing changed to one which appeared to come a great deal more naturally to her.

'I'm heartily glad to hear it, my dear. I mean, about your not being a fine lady, you know, it does make such a difference, does not it? Do come and sit in this chair, and make yourself comfortable, if you are quite sure you won't have a little snack before lunch! Or perhaps you would like to be shewn to your room at once? Make yourself at home—now do.'

I smilingly seated myself on the chair by her side, explaining that I preferred sitting a short time with her, if she would allow me. Half an hour with this kind old lady—I knew now that my first impression had been a correct one, and that she was as kind and good as she looked—would help me to become better acquainted with Fairview. After once more suggesting refreshments, in a kindly, fussy, homely fashion, she drew her chair closer to mine, and proceeded to take me into her confidence.

'To tell the truth, I have been quite uncomfortable at the thought of your coming—no, not your coming, my dear; but the sort of lady I was afraid you were going to be. The relief it is to see you as you are, instead of being some grand lady too fine to speak to me, as some of the great people who come here are, is more than I can tell.' Here she became amiably afraid lest I should think that she meant to imply that I was not a lady; and anxiously began to apologise and explain. But I soon succeeded in setting her mind at ease upon that score; and she was chatting confidentially on again. 'You see, my dear, I'm not a lady.'

I smiled. 'Like myself, you are not a fine lady, perhaps, Mrs Tipper.'

'It's very kind of you to say it; but I know the difference between us, my dear,' she replied, her eyes beaming with kindness. 'Jacob would be very vexed with me if he knew I said it to you; but if I did not, you would soon find it out for yourself; and I am sure you would not like me any the more for pretending to be different in the beginning, would you?'

'I should be very sorry to see you different, Mrs Tipper,' I replied in all sincerity.

'I don't know, my dear. It's been very trying for Jacob. But I tell him it's no use beginning now. I am too old to learn new ways, you know; not that I haven't tried; no one could have tried harder than I did, when Brother Jacob brought me to live with him; it was only my duty so to do. Between ourselves, I took lessons of a lady who advertises to teach ease and elegance to those unaccustomed to society. Worked hard, that I did, making courtesies and all the rest of it; but it wasn't much use. I can manage pretty well when there's a large party and I've only got to smile and bow, and say I'm charmed to see you, and all that; but as I told Jacob, it would never do with a lady living with us. You must not think that Jacob is not kind, for he is very kind. He was not so ashamed of his old sister as to let me live somewhere out of the way by myself, as I wanted him to do, when first I was left a widow. He wouldn't hear of it, my dear; and though I know he feels the difference between me and his great friends, and of course it's trying to have a sister named Tipper, he always treats me in the kindest way. You must excuse my saying all this to you, my dear; but really you look so kind, and I thought it was just as well for you to know the worst about me in the beginning.'

'You have begun in the kindest way possible for me, in giving me the hope that I have found a friend, Mrs Tipper,' I replied, lifting the hand she had laid upon mine, to my lips.

'You said you have seen my brother, and that it is all settled about your staying with us?' she inquired, looking a little doubtful; not, I fancy, quite understanding how it was that I could satisfy tastes so very opposite as were her brother's and her own.

'Yes; Mr Farrar was quite satisfied,' I returned, half smiling as I thought of the very different means by which he had been satisfied. Not for the world would I have introduced the Haddons of Haddon here!

'And I am sure I am a great deal more than satisfied, and so will Lilian be; though you must not think she is like me; no, indeed: my darling is quite a lady, like her mother before her. My brother's wife was a beautiful young creature, and as good as she was beautiful. It was said that she had married him for his money; but no one who knew her would believe that. It was a love-match on both sides; and poor Jacob was never the same after her death. Lilian was almost a baby when her mother died, and Jacob kept the promise which he made to his wife on her deathbed. Lilian was sent to a lady who was a connection of her mother's, where she was brought up, and did not come home to stay until six months ago, when her education was finished. You will find her everything a lady ought to be.'

I was a little dubious upon that point. The idea of Mr Farrar's daughter 'finished,' was rather depressing; and I became somewhat distraite as Mrs Tipper went gently ambling on about Lilian's beauty, Lilian's accomplishments, elegant manners, and so forth. But it presently occurred to me that a 'finished' young lady might possibly be inclined to be critical about the appearance of her chaperon, so I asked the kind little lady to allow me to go to my room. She rang the bell, and the man-servant summoned a housemaid, by whom I was conducted to a bedroom so large and luxuriously furnished that, in my ignorance, I imagined she must have made a mistake, and brought me to one of the state chambers, until I noticed my boxes with the covers and straps off. She pleasantly offered her assistance in unpacking, adding the information that she was appointed to attend to my bedroom bell for dressing or what not. This was grandeur indeed! I could not help noticing the contrast between this well-trained and well-dressed servant and poor Becky, and made a mental vow to procure equal advantage for the latter as soon as I had it in my power so to do.

I told Lucy that I was accustomed to wait upon myself, and should therefore trouble her very little, dispensing with her assistance for the present.