Robinetta

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Findlater Jane Helen. Robinetta

I. THE PLUM TREE

II. THE MANOR HOUSE

III. YOUNG MRS. LORING

IV. A CHILLY RECEPTION

V. AT WITTISHAM

VI. MARK LAVENDAR

VII. A CROSS-EXAMINATION

VIII. SUNDAY AT STOKE REVEL

IX. POINTS OF VIEW

X. A NEW KINSMAN

XI. THE SANDS AT WESTON

XII. LOVE IN THE MUD

XIII. CARNABY TO THE RESCUE

XIV. THE EMPTY SHRINE

XV “NOW LUBIN IS AWAY”

XVI. TWO LETTERS

XVII. MRS. DE TRACY CROSSES THE FERRY

XVIII. THE STOKE REVEL JEWELS

XIX. LAWYER AND CLIENT

XX. THE NEW HOME

XXI. CARNABY CUTS THE KNOT

XXII. CONSEQUENCES

XXIII. DEATH AND LIFE

XXIV. GRANDMOTHER AND GRANDSON

XXV. THE BELLS OF STOKE REVEL

Отрывок из книги

The long, low drawing room of the Manor at Stoke Revel was the warmest and most genial room in the old Georgian house. It was four-windowed and faced south, and even on this morning of a chilly and backward spring, the tentative sunshine of April had contrived to put out the fire in the steel grate. One of the windows opened wide to the garden, and let in a scent which was less of flowers than of the promise of flowers–a scent of earth and green leaves, of the leafless daphne still a-bloom in the shrubbery, of hyacinths and daffodils and tulips and primroses still sheathed in their buds and awaiting a warmer air.

But this promise of spring borne into the room by the wandering breeze from the river, was nipped, as it were, by the frigid spirit of age and formalism in its living occupants. Mrs. de Tracy, a lady of seventy-five, sat at her writing-table. Her companion, Miss Smeardon, a person of indeterminate age, nursed the lap-dog Rupert during such time as her employer was too deeply engaged to fulfil that agreeable duty. Mrs. de Tracy, as she wrote, was surrounded by countless photographs of her family and her wide connection, most prominent among them two–that of her husband, Admiral de Tracy, who had died many years ago, and that of her grandson, his successor, whose guardian she was, and whose minority she directed. Her eldest son, the father of this boy, who had died on his ship off the coast of Africa; his wife, dead too these many years; her other sons as well (she had borne four); their wives and children–grown men, fashionable women, beautiful children, fat babies: the likenesses of them all were around her, standing amid china and flowers and bric-a-brac on the crowded tables and what-nots of the not inharmonious and yet shabby Victorian room. Mrs. de Tracy, it might at a glance be seen, was no innovator, either in furniture, in dress, or probably in ideas. As she was dressed now, in the severely simple black of a widow, so she had been dressed when she first mourned Admiral de Tracy. The muslin ends of her widow’s cap fell upon her shoulders, and its border rested on the hard lines of iron-grey hair which framed a face small, pale, aquiline in character and decidedly austere in expression.

.....

She caught Robinette’s white ringed hands in hers, and Robinette bent down and kissed the wrinkled old face.

“I know that mother loved you, Nurse,” she said. “She used often, often to tell me about you.”

.....