"Do you mean to say she dreamed all that?" Gladys exclaimed.

"Yes," the Vicar's wife said. "She told me so and I have no reason to doubt her. She doesn't romance as a rule, and is certainly not the least bit in the world poetical--on the contrary she is most practical and matter-of-fact. Her only hobby, as far as I know, is flowers."

"Mine, too!" Gladys interrupted. "Were you able to explain the verses?"

"No, I can't interpret dreams. I'm intensely interested in them; as I am in all things psychic. I was at a lecture given by Mrs. Annie Besant last night! She--"

"Do you know any one who does interpret dreams?" Gladys asked.

"Why, yes! A firm, claiming to do all sorts of wonderful things--to tell dreams, solve tricks, divine the presence of metals and water, and so on, has just set up in c.o.c.kspur Street. I read a short notice about them in this morning's paper. I will get it for you."

She left the room and in a few moments returned.

"Here it is," she said. And under the heading of "Sorcery Revived"

Gladys read as follows:--

"There is really no end to the devices to which people resort nowadays to make money, but for sheer novelty, nothing, we think, beats this.

Three Americans, Messrs. Hamar, Kelson and Curtis, fresh from San Francisco, California, have just bought premises in c.o.c.kspur Street, S.W., and set up there as Sorcerers!

"They style themselves 'The Modern Sorcery Company Ltd.,' and profess to interpret dreams, read people's thoughts, tell their pasts, solve all manner of tricks and detect the presence of metals and water. One wonders what next!"

"This paper evidently has its doubts," Gladys commented. "They are frauds, of course."

"I dare say they are," the Vicar's wife replied, "though I believe in thought-reading and other things they say they can do. I advised Miss Rosenberg to see them about her dream. She went in by the nine o'clock train. Had you come a few minutes earlier you would have seen her."

"Well, thanks awfully," Gladys said, "for telling me about these people. Very probably I'll go in to Town some time during the day and call at c.o.c.kspur Street. I must apologize again for calling at such an unearthly hour. Good-bye," and Gladys smilingly took her departure.

CHAPTER IX

LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT

Shortly after Gladys reached home after her visit to the Vicarage, a young man with a serious expression somewhat out of keeping with his jaunty walk, entered the gate of Pine Cottage, and came to an abrupt halt.

"Well," he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, "this is a pretty place, and what's more--for dozens of houses and gardens are pretty--it's artistic!" In front of him stretched a miniature avenue of chestnut trees, which was rendered striking, even to the most casual observer, probably, not only on account of the irregular mounds of moss-covered stones that occupied its intervening s.p.a.ces, but also, by reason of the ma.s.ses of wild flowers (great clumps of which were springing up in the crevices of this impromptu wall) that lent to it an appearance half negligent, but wholly and entrancingly picturesque. Here, undoubtedly, was art. That did not astonish the young man. All avenues, in the ordinary sense, are works of art; and the mere excess of art he saw manifested did not surprise him; it was the character of the art that had brought him to a standstill and held him spellbound. And the longer he looked the more he became convinced, that whoever had superintended the arrangement of this scenery was an artist--an artist with a scrupulous eye for form.

The greatest care had been taken to keep the balance between neatness and gracefulness on the one hand and picturesqueness on the other.

There were few straight lines, and no long uninterrupted ones; whilst at no one point of view did the same effect of curvature or colour appear twice. Variety in uniformity was the keynote.

At last tearing himself away from this one spot--where he felt he could have spent centuries--he turned to the right and then again to the left--for the path had now become serpentine, and at no moment could be traced for more than two or three paces in advance. Presently the sound of water fell gently on his ear, and in the shadiest of diminutive forests, amidst the interlacing branches of elm and beech, he caught the glimpse of a fountain. For an instant the wild thought of forcing his way through it, of plunging his burning forehead in its cooling spray, well-nigh mastered him. But his better sense conquered, and he kept to the path. Another turn, and he caught his first glimpse of a chimney; another--and the summit of a gable showed above the trees. The sun, which had been hitherto obscured, now came out, and suddenly--as if by the hand of magic--the whole scene was a brilliant blaze of colour. He had arrived at the end of the avenue, where the path forked; one branch turning sharply round in the direction of a side entrance to the house, whilst the other led with a gentle curvature to the front.

Facing the building was a broad expanse of velvety turf, relieved occasionally, here and there, by such showy shrubs as the hydrangea, rhododendron, or lilac; but more frequently, and at closer intervals, by clumps of geraniums, or roses--roses of every variety. There was nothing pretentious in the garden, any more than there was in the adjoining edifice. Its unusually pleasing effect lay altogether in its artistic arrangement; and one could hardly help imagining that the whole scene had, in reality, been called into existence by the brush of some eminent landscape painter.

The cottage itself was constructed of old-fashioned Dutch shingles--broad and with rounded corners--and painted a dull grey; a tint which, when contrasted with the vivid green of the tulip trees that overshadowed the entrance to the house, and reared themselves high above it on either side, afforded an artistic happiness perfectly intoxicating to its present visitor. The architecture of the cottage was--if not Early Tudor--something equally pleasing. Its roofs were divided into many gables; its windows were diamond paned and projecting, whilst oaken beams ran lat.i.tudinally and vertically over its grey shingle front. Encompa.s.sing the whole base of the exterior were ma.s.ses of flowers--pinks, carnations, heliotrope, pansies, poppies, lilies, wallflowers, roses and jasmines; and besides the latter several other creepers had been planted beneath the walls, but had not yet attained to any height.

Shiel Davenport, for it was he, could not resist the temptation of peeping in at the windows; and he saw that the interior of the cottage was artistry and simplicity itself. At the windows, curtains of heavy white jaconet muslin, not too full, hung in sharp parallel plaits to the floor--just to the floor. The walls were papered with French papers of rare delicacy--to match the seasons; (spring, summer, autumn and winter were all most effectively depicted), and the furniture though light, was at the same time costly. And here again was the same effect of arrangement--an arrangement obviously designed by the same brain that had planned the building and grounds. Shiel could not conceive anything more graceful. Flowers--flowers of every hue and odour were the chief decoration of the cottage. On almost every table were vases--in themselves beautiful enough--yet filled to overflowing with the finest roses. Ox-eye daisies, hollyhocks and forget-me-nots cl.u.s.tered about the open windows. And every puff of wind, every breath of air transmitted scent--the most delicious medley of scent imaginable.

The young man drew in deep draughts of it; he threw back his head, and, opening his mouth, revelled in the joy of feeling it steal softly down his throat and permeate his lungs. He was thus engaged when the sound of a voice brought him sharply back to earth.

In the open doorway of the house, an amused expression in her violet eyes, stood a girl--so wondrously pretty, that at the sight of her Shiel was again overcome, and could only gaze in helpless admiration.

"Do you want to see my father?" she inquired. "He is getting ready to go out, but I daresay he will see you first."

"I--I am sure he will," the young man replied, "I'm Shiel Davenport.

I've come to tell him my uncle died at four o'clock this morning."

"Oh, dear!" the girl exclaimed, "I am so sorry--sorry for you, and for my father. I'm sure he will be terribly upset. I'm Gladys Martin, perhaps you've heard of me--I knew your uncle."

"Often," Shiel said, "And I think my uncle's description of you an excellent one."

"His description of me!"

"Yes! he always spoke of you as the Queen of Flowers, and said you had a mania for all things beautiful, which was not surprising, seeing how beautiful you were yourself."

"That was very nice of him," Gladys said, looking amused again. "Won't you come in? If you will wait here"--she led him to the drawing-room--"I'll tell my father."

She disappeared, and Shiel heard her run lightly up the stairs.

"By Jove," he said to himself, "she's the loveliest girl I've ever seen. From being so much among flowers, she has become one herself.

Violets, roses, and heliotrope have all had a share in her creation!

What eyes, what a mouth! what teeth! what hands! Surely I have found here, not only the perfection of all things beautiful, but the perfection of all things natural, the perfection of natural grace in contradistinction from artificial grace. Moreover, she is a romanticist. There is an expression of romance, of unworldliness, in those deep-set eyes of hers, that sinks into my heart of hearts.

'Romance' and 'womanliness,' and the two terms appear to me to be convertible, are her distinguishing features. She is an artist, an idealist, and, over and above all--a woman! Hang it! I'm in love with her!"

More he could not evolve, for his meditations were abruptly cut short by the entrance of a servant, who ushered him, straightway, into the presence of John Martin.

The latter, though visibly affected by the news of his friend's death, was a man of the world, and, consequently, came to business at once.

Much had to be discussed--arrangements for the funeral, the examination of correspondence relative to the firm, and plans for the immediate future.

"You don't know how my uncle's affairs stand, I suppose?" Shiel asked somewhat nervously.

"Yes," John Martin said, "I do. May I ask if you have any private means at all--or are you solely dependent on what you earn? By the way, what is your calling?"

"I am an artist," Shiel said. "No, I've nothing beyond what my uncle was good enough to allow me."

"An artist!" John Martin murmured, "how like d.i.c.k! Have you entertained the idea of inheriting a fortune? Have you any reason to suppose that your uncle was well off and had made you his heir!"

"I gathered so, sir, from the manner in which he lived and his att.i.tude towards me."

"Well! we won't talk it over now--leave it till after the funeral. Are you bent on continuing painting? There is very little remuneration in it, is there?"

"Not much," Shiel answered gloomily, "but I shouldn't care to give it up--unless of course it is absolutely necessary for me to do so."

"Being an artist you wouldn't be much good in business."

"None!"