“But I don’t wish you to do anything!” objected Henrietta. “You are our guest, Cherry, not a hired servant!”
“No,” said Cherry, flushing, and lifting her determined chin. “It is only your kindness which makes you say that, and—and it gives me such a warm feel in my heart that I couldn’t be happy if you didn’t permit me to make myself useful here. I can see, of course, that you have a great many servants, but there must be hundreds of things I could do for you, and for Lady Silverdale, that perhaps you would not ask the servants to do! Running errands—fetching things—searching for things you have mislaid—darning holes in your stockings—oh, all the things which I daresay you do for yourselves, and think a dead bore!”
Since Henrietta had yet to discover anything her parent would hesitate to ask her servants to do for her she could not help laughing, but she naturally did not tell Cherry why she laughed. All she said was: “Well, I’ll do my best to oblige you, but I think it only right to warn you that if you encourage me to shuffle off every dull task it is my duty to perform you will rapidly turn me into the most indolent, selfish creature imaginable!”
“No. That I know I couldn’t do!” said Cherry, mistily smiling at her.
She spent most of the morning happily engaged in cutting out the green cambric, and tacking the pieces together. In this she had the expert assistance of Miss Hephzibah Cardle, my lady’s own dresser, whose spinsterish form and acidulated countenance could have led no one to suppose that she combined a rare talent for turning her mistress out complete to the last feather with a jealous adoration of that singularly unappreciative lady. Her services to Miss Steane were proffered with extreme reluctance, and would not have been proffered at all if her ladyship had not commanded her to do what she could to give Miss Steane a new touch. Professional pride overcame less admirable feelings, and even led her (to save my lady the expense of sending for her own hairdresser, she said) to trim Miss Steane’s unruly locks into a more manageable, and very much more becoming style, which won for her one of my lady’s rare encomiums. But although nothing could have been more prettily expressed than Cherry’s gratitude for her kind offices she could not like her. She found only one sympathizer in the household: Mrs Honeybourne, the stout and goodnatured housekeeper, might declare that Miss was a sweet young lady; the maids and the two footmen, and even the cross-grained head-gardener smiled indulgently upon her, but Grimshaw regarded her with dislike and suspicion. He and Miss Cardle were convinced that she was an artful humbugger, bent on insinuating herself into my lady’s and Miss Hetta’s good graces by palavering them, and playing off all manner of cajoleries. “If you was to ask me for my opinion, Miss Cardle,” he said portentously, “I should feel myself bound to say that I consider she is cutting a wheedle. And what I think of my Lord Desford’s conduct in foisting her on to my lady is something I wouldn’t demean myself by divulging.”
Happily for Cherry’s peace of mind the punctilious civility with which both these ill-wishers treated her precluded her from realizing how bitterly they resented her presence at Inglehurst. Within three days of her arrival she had lost her apprehensive look, and was unfolding shy petals in the warmth of a hitherto unknown approval. To be greeted with a smile, when she entered a room; to be addressed as “dear child” by Lady Silverdale; to be fondly scolded by that lady for running an unnecessary errand; to be encouraged by Miss Silverdale to roam about the grounds at will; and to be treated as though she had been an invited guest, and not the unwanted incubus she felt herself to be, were such hitherto unexperienced circumstances that she was passionately anxious to repay her kind hostesses by every means that lay within her power. It did not take her more than a day to realize that there was little she could do for Henrietta, but much she could do for Lady Silverdale; and since she had never previously encountered Lady Silverdale’s like she did not for a moment suspect that that lady’s plaintive voice and caressing manner concealed a selfishness and a determination to have her own way far more ruthless than the cruder methods employed by Aunt Bugle. Where Lady Bugle would have imperiously commanded her to go in search of something she had mislaid, and reward her, when she brought the object to her, by wondering what in the world had taken her so long to find it, Lady Silverdale would initiate the search by saying, at the outset: “Oh dear, how stupid of me! I’ve lost my embroidery-scissors! Now, where can I have left them? No, no, dear child! Why should you suffer for my carelessness?” And when Cherry, after an exhaustive search, found the missing scissors, and presented them, Lady Silverdale would say: “Oh, Cherry, you dear child! You shouldn’t have troubled yourself!”
It was small wonder that she should blossom under such treatment, and think no task too laborious or too irksome to be performed for so amiable a benefactress. She had never been so happy in her life; and Henrietta, realising this, forebore to intervene. She did, however, drop a gentle hint in Cherry’s ear that Lady Silverdale’s disposition was a trifle uncertain, and depended largely on how she happened to be feeling, the state of the weather, or the shortcomings of her domestic staff. It was by no means unknown for her to take sudden dislikes to persons whom she had previously, and just as suddenly, taken into the warmest favour; and while such capricious fits seldom lasted for very long they made life extremely uncomfortable for their victim.
Cherry listened to this, and nodded wisely, saying that old Lady Bugle had been subject to just such distempered freaks. “Only her crotchets were worse, because she wasn’t at all kind, or amiable, even at her best, which dear Lady Silverdale is! Indeed, I think she and you are the kindest people I have ever met!”
This was said with a glowing look. Henrietta could only hope that her parent’s sunny mood would outlast Cherry’s visit.
It was three days before Sir Charles Silverdale was allowed to leave his bedchamber, and it was plain to his mother and his sister that he was much more shaken by his accident than he would admit. He insisted on coming downstairs but when, leaning heavily on his valet, he reached the library he was only too glad to stretch himself out on the sofa, and even to drink the cordial his mama pressed upon him. He was a handsome youth, but his features were too often marred by his expression, which was inclined to be petulant, and even, when he could not have his own way, or anything went amiss, sullen. In temperament, as in looks, he was very like his mother; but owing to the circumstance of his having been bereft of a father at an early age, and grossly indulged by his doting mama, all the faults which he had inherited from her were exaggerated. He had a good deal of charm; an ease of manner which made him generally an acceptable guest; and a reckless daring which won him the admiration of a number of like-minded young gentlemen. His servants liked him, for although he was quite as exacting as his mother, and very much more selfish, he had inherited her genius for making his most outrageous demands appear to be the merest requests; and because he always thanked them, with the sweetest of smiles, expressed contrition for any outburst of temper, and gave them leave of absence whenever he foresaw no need of their services, he was thought to be very goodnatured. His harebrained exploits were regarded by them with indulgence, as being the natural conduct to be expected of any high-spirited young gentleman; and his carelessness was excused on the score of his youth. Only his sister, whose natural fondness for him did not prevent her from recognizing his faults, had said once, when exasperated by some example of churlishness, that since he seemed to have a number of friends it was to be supposed that he reserved his bad temper for his family, conducting himself with propriety everywhere that lay beyond the bounds of his home; and since this caustic comment had drawn down upon her the instant wrath and long-lasting reproaches of her mother, she had never repeated the offence.