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the impression of being taller than she actually was, owing to the graceful curve of her arched neck, which rose from her shoulders with a daintily-proud poise, marking her demeanour as exceptional and altogether different to that of ordinary women. Her back being turned to Mrs. Spruce for the moment, that sagacious dame decided that she was ā€˜real stately, for all that she was small,ā€™ and also noted that her hair, coiled loosely in a thick knot, which pushed itself with rebellious fulness beyond the close-fitting edge of the dark straw hat she wore, was of a warm auburn gold, rippling here and there into shades of darker brown. Suddenly, with a decided movement, she turned from the terrace and re-entered the morning-room.

ā€œTea ready?ā€ she asked.

ā€œYes, maā€™am!ā€”yes, missā€”my ladyā€”itā€™s just madeā€”perhaps itā€™s best to let it draw a bitā€”ā€

ā€œI donā€™t like it strong!ā€ said Maryllia, sitting down, and leisurely taking off her hat; ā€œAnd you mustnā€™t call me ā€˜my lady.ā€™ Iā€™m not the daughter of an earl, or the wife of a knight. If I were Scotch, I might say ā€˜Iā€™m Mclntosh of Mclntoshā€™; or some other Mac of Mac,ā€”but being English, Iā€™m Vancourt of Vancourt! And you must call me ā€˜Miss,ā€™ till I become ā€˜Maā€™am.ā€™ I donā€™t want to bear any unnecessary dignities before my time! In fact, I think youā€™d better call me Miss Maryllia, as you used to do when my father was alive.ā€

ā€œVery well, maā€™amā€”missā€”Miss Maryllia,ā€ faltered Mrs. Spruce, fumbling distractedly with the tea-things, and putting cream and sugar recklessly into three or four cups without thinking; ā€œThere! Really, I donā€™t know what I am a-doinā€™ ofā€”do you like cream and sugar, my dear?ā€”begginā€™ your pardingā€”Miss Maryllia?ā€

ā€œYes, I like cream and sugar both,ā€ replied the young lady with a mirthful gleam in her eyes, as she noted the old housekeeperā€™s confusion; ā€œBut donā€™t spoil the tea with either! If you put too much cream, you will make the tea cold,ā€”if you put too much sugar, you will make it syrupy,ā€”you must arrive at the juste milieu in a cup of tea! I am VERY particular!ā€

Poor Mrs. Spruce grew warmer and redder in the face than ever. What was the ā€˜juste milieuā€™? Often and often afterwards did she puzzle over that remarkable phrase.

ā€œI think,ā€ continued Maryllia, with a dimpling smile, ā€œif you put one lump of sugar in the cup and two brimming tea-spoonfuls of cream, it will be exactly right!ā€

Gladly, and with relief, Mrs. Spruce obeyed these explicit instructions, and handed her new mistress the desired refreshment with assiduous and respectful care.

ā€œYou are a dear!ā€ said Maryllia, lazily taking the cup from her hand; ā€œJust the kindest and nicest of persons! And good-tempered? I am sure you are good-tempered, arenā€™t you?ā€

ā€œPretty well so, Miss,ā€ responded Mrs. Spruce, now gaining courage to look at the fair smiling face opposite her own, more squarely and openly; ā€œLeastways, Iā€™ve been told I keeps my ā€˜ead under any amount of kitchen jawinā€™. For, as you may believe me, in a kitchen where thereā€™s men as well as women, anā€™ a servantsā€™ ā€˜All leadinā€™ straight through from the kitchen, jawinā€™ there is and jawinā€™ there must be, and such beinā€™ the Lordā€™s will, we must put up with it. But it wants a ā€˜ead to keep things straight, and I generally arranges pretty well, though Iā€™ll not deny but Iā€™m a bit flustered to-day,ā€” howsomever, it will soon be all right, and any think thatā€™s wrong, Miss, if you will be so good as to tell meā€”ā€

ā€œI will!ā€ said Maryllia, sweetly; and she leaned back in her chair, whimsically surveying the garrulous old dame with eyes which Mrs. Spruce then and there discovered to be ā€˜the most beautiful blue eyes ever seen,ā€™ā€”ā€œI will tell you all I do like, and all I donā€™t like. Iā€™m sure we shall get on well together. The tea is perfect,ā€”and this room is exquisite. In fact, everything is delightful, and Iā€™m so happy to be in my own home once more! I wish I had never left it!ā€

Her eyes darkened suddenly, and she sighed. Mrs. Spruce watched her in submissive silence, realising as she gazed that Miss Maryllia was ā€˜a real beauty and no mistake.ā€™ Why and how she came to that conclusion, she could not very well have explained. Her ideas of feminine loveliness were somewhat hazy and restricted. She privately considered her own girl, Kitty, ā€˜the handsomest lass in all the country-sideā€™ and she had been known to bitterly depreciate what she called ā€˜the pink and white dolly-faceā€™ of Susie Prescott, the acknowledged young belle of the village. But there was an indefinable air of charm about her new lady which was quite foreign to all her experience,ā€”a bewildering grace and ease of manner arising from high education and social cultivation, that confused her and robbed her of all her usual self-sufficiency; and for once in her life she checked her customary volubility and decided that it was perhaps best to say as little as possible till she saw exactly how things were going to turn out. Miss Maryllia was very kind,ā€”but who could tell whether she was not also capricious? There was something slightly quizzical as well as sweet in her smile,ā€” something subtleā€”something almost mysterious. She had greeted her fatherā€™s old servant as affectionately as a child,ā€”but her enthusiasm might be only temporary. So Mrs. Spruce vaguely reflected as she stood with her hands folded on her apron, waiting for the next word. That next word came with a startling suddenness.

ā€œOh, you wicked Spruce! How could you!ā€

And Maryllia, springing up from her chair, made a bound to the opposite corner of the room, where there was a tall vase filled with peacocksā€™ feathers. Gathering all these in her hand, she flourished them dramatically in the old housekeeperā€™s face.

ā€œThe most unlucky things in the world!ā€ she exclaimed; ā€œPeacocksā€™ feathers! How could you allow them to be in this room on the very day of my return! Itā€™s dreadful!ā€”quite dreadful!ā€”you know it is! Nothing is quite so awful as a peacockā€™s feather!ā€

Mrs. Spruce stared, gasped and blinked,ā€”her hand involuntarily wandered to her side in search for convenient ā€˜spasms.ā€™

ā€œTheyā€™ve always been ā€˜ere, Miss,ā€ she stammered; ā€œI ā€˜adnā€™t no idee as ā€˜ow you wouldnā€™t like them, though to tell the truth, I ā€˜ave ā€˜eard somethinā€™ about their beinā€™ onlucky---ā€

ā€œUnlucky! I should think so!ā€ replied Maryllia, holding the objectionable plumes as far away from herself as possible,ā€”ā€œNo wonder weā€™ve been unfortunate, if these feathers were always in the old house! No wonder everything went wrong! I must break the spell at once and for ever. Are there more of these horrible ā€˜witch-eyesā€™ in any of the rooms?ā€

Poor Mrs. Spruce made a great effort to cudgel her memory. She was affected by ā€˜a palpitation,ā€™ as she expressed it. There was her newly-arrived mistress confronting her with the authoritative air of a young empress, holding the bunch of glittering peacocksā€™ plumes aloft, like a rod uplifted for summary chastisement, and asking her to instantly remember whether there were any more ā€˜horrible witch- eyesā€™ about. Mrs. Spruce had never before heard such a term applied to the tail-sheddings of the imperial fowl,ā€”but she never forgot it, and never afterwards saw a peacockā€™s feather without a qualm.

ā€œI couldnā€™t say, Miss; Iā€™m not sureā€”ā€ she answered flutteringly; ā€œBut Iā€™ll have every ā€˜ole and corner searched to-morrow---ā€

ā€œNo, to-night!ā€ said Maryllia, with determination; ā€œI will not sleep in the house if ONE peacockā€™s feather remains in it! There!ā€ Her brows were bent tragically;ā€”in another moment she laughed; ā€œTake them away!ā€ she continued, picking up Mrs. Spruceā€™s apron at the corners and huddling all the glittering plumage into its capacious folds; ā€œTake them all away! And go right through the house, and collect every remaining feather you can findā€”and thenā€”and then---ā€

Here she paused dubiously. ā€œYou mustnā€™t burn them, you know! That would be unluckier still!ā€

ā€œLor! Would it now, Miss? I never should ā€˜ave thought it!ā€ murmured Mrs. Spruce plaintively, grasping her apronful of ā€˜horrible witch- eyesā€™; ā€œWhat on earth shall I do with them?ā€

Maryllia considered. Very pretty she looked at that moment, with one small finger placed meditatively on her lips, which were curved close like a folded rosebud. ā€œYou must either bury them, or drown them!ā€ she said at last, with the gravest decision; ā€œIf you drown them, you must tie them to a stone, so that they will not float. If you bury them, you must dig ten feet deep! You must really! If you donā€™t, they will all come up again, and the eyes will be all over the place, haunting you!ā€ Here she broke into the merriest little laugh possible. ā€œPoor Spruce! You do look so miserable! See hereā€” Iā€™ll tell you what to do! Pack them ail in a box, and I will send them to my aunt Emily! She loves them! She likes to see them stuck all over the drawing-room. Theyā€™re never unlucky to her. She has a fellow-feeling for peacocks; there is a sort of affinity between herself and them! Pack up every feather you can find, Spruce! The box must go to-night by parcelā€™s post Address to Mrs. Fred Vancourt, at the Langham Hotel. Sheā€™s staying there just now. Will you be sure to send them off to-night?ā€

She held up her little white hand entreatingly, and her blue eyes wonderfully sweet and childlike, yet grave and passionate, looked straight into the elder womanā€™s wrinkled apple face.

ā€œWhen she looked at me like that, Iā€™d a gone barefoot to kingdom- come for her!ā€ Mrs. Spruce afterwards declared to some of her village intimatesā€”ā€œAnd as for the peacocksā€™ feathers, Iā€™d a scrubbed though the ā€˜ole ā€˜ouse from top to bottom afore Iā€™d a let one be in it!ā€

To Maryllia she said:

ā€œYou may take my word for it, Miss! Theyā€™ll all go out of the ā€˜ouse ā€˜fore seven oā€™clock. Iā€™ll send them myself to the post.ā€

ā€œThank you, so much!ā€ said Maryllia, with a comical little sigh of relief. ā€œAnd now, Spruce, I will go to my bedroom and lie down for an hour. Iā€™m just a little tired. Have you managed to get a maid for me?ā€

ā€œWell, Miss, thereā€™s jest a gel-she donā€™t know anythink much, but sheā€™s ā€˜andy and willinā€™ and ā€˜umble, and quick with her needle, and tidy at foldinā€™, and got a good character. Sheā€™s the best I could do, Miss. Her name is Nancy Pyrleā€”Iā€™ll send her to you directly.ā€

ā€œYes, do!ā€ answered Miss Vancourt, with a little yawn; ā€œAnd show me to my rooms;ā€”you prepared the ones I told youā€”my motherā€™s rooms?ā€

ā€œYes, Miss,ā€ answered Mrs. Spruce in subdued accents; ā€œIā€™ve made them all fresh and sweet and clean; but of course the furniture is left jest as it was when the Squire locked ā€˜em all up after he lost his ladyā€”ā€

Maryllia said nothing, but followed the housekeeper upstairs, the great dog Plato in attendance on her steps. On reaching the bedroom, hung with faded rose silk hangings, and furnished with sixteenth century oak, she looked at everything: with a curious wistfulness and reverence. Approaching the dressing-table, she glanced at her own reflection in the mirror; but fair as the reflection was that glanced back at her, she gave it no smile. She was serious and absorbed, and her eyes were clouded with a sudden mist of tears. Mrs. Spruce took the opportunity to slip away with her collection of peacocksā€™ feathers, and descended in haste to the kitchen, where for some time the various orders she issued caused much domestic perturbation, and fully expressed the chaotic condition of her own mind. The maid, Nancy Pyrle, was hustled off to ā€˜wait on Miss Vancourt upstairs, and donā€™t be clumsy with

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