Chapter 13: The Vernons--Particularly Frances

Dorothy had never seen a prospect which pleased her better. There was grass beneath her feet--the exquisite grass which one seems to find only on an English lawn--thick and soft and springy, of such a restful green. There was croquet on one side; two tennis courts were beyond; with a well-shorn piece of grass, with big numbers on it, whose use she did not understand, which was really a clock for putting at golf; flowers were in beds and borders, on banks, and everywhere; there were great trees and smaller ones, shrubs and clustered bushes; behind was the long, low, old house, with its rose and creeper covered walls; in front was the river, sparkling, laughing in the sunshine, already alive with a greater variety of small pleasure craft than she had ever heard of. She had read of such places in English books at the convent; but she had scarcely even hoped ever to see one. Yet, here she was, transported, as if by the touch of a magician’s wand, into what seemed to her to be a more perfect paradise than any of those she had read of, which she had been told she might regard, at least for some little time to come, almost as if it were her own home. After fourteen years spent within one set of walls, where nothing ever happened, events had crowded on her, all at once, so quickly; she had been so passed, as it were, from hand to hand; so hurried from scene to scene, that it was not strange if this final transformation almost seemed to her as if it were part and parcel of some long-continued dream, and that as she stood there, inhaling the pleasant air, the smell of the flowers, the sunshine, the indescribable aroma of the whole delightful scene, she was conscious, amid all the charm and sweetness, of a sense of shivering fear, lest this, the only pleasant phase of that drawn-out dream, should pass, as the rest of it had done, and its terror should return.

It was in an effort to escape this haunting fear that she moved quickly down to the river’s brink. There was a sloping bank at the foot of the lawn; the stream ran just beneath; the grass growing almost down to the water’s edge--there was nothing whatever to prevent your stepping from the bank into the river if you felt disposed. She stood on the slope to take in new aspects of what seemed to her to be the ever-changing scene. How nice some of the boats looked--and how pretty were some of their occupants--and what pretty clothes they wore! Dorothy was wearing the frock and the hat which Mr Frazer had brought with him in the parcel from Newcaster; yesterday they had seemed to her to be in the height of fashion--and compared to the garments which she discarded for them they were. Now she felt how out of harmony they were with her surroundings. The frock was of dark blue serge, the hat of dark grey felt; both good in their way--she did not doubt that they had cost more money than any two garments of hers had ever done before. But then the men in the boats were all in white flannels, and the girls and women in gossamer fabrics of the airiest kind, with hats which were radiant visions. They were in accord with the spirit of the scene. The longer Dorothy stood to watch the stronger her conviction grew that she was not. As far as appearance went she was nothing but a blot on the landscape. Ashamed though she was of such a feeling it was there, and would not away. She knew, none better, how indebted she was to the generosity of a stranger for being able to look as well as she did. She called herself a little pig for wishing that her clothes went better with that fairylike garden, those radiant skies, the silver stream; were more in the vein of poetry which marked the costume of the girl in the boat with the two men, an old and a young one, which was crossing from the opposite bank towards the lawn on which she stood. She was a study in the palest of pale blues; Dorothy thought what a charming bit of colour she made, in the smart boat; in which the two oarsmen, of such contrasting ages, were evidently so much at home. What a good-looking pair they were, in their different styles! The fact became plainer as the boat drew near; the one with the silvery hair and moustache, the other with the light brown curls, and smooth cheeks on which was the glow of youth and health.

It had just dawned on Dorothy that the boat was being steered, by the vision in blue, towards the spot on which she was standing; when, on a sudden, the young lady in question, rising in her seat, began to exclaim aloud, in a state of unmistakable agitation:

“Why, if it isn’t Dorothy Gilbert! Dorothy Gilbert, where have you come from?”