«Wolverden Tower»

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Wolverden Tower

by Grant Allen

I

MAISIE LLEWELYN had never been asked to Wolverden before; therefore, she was not
a little elated at Mrs. West's invitation. For Wolverden Hall, one of the
loveliest Elizabethan manor-houses in the Weald of Kent, had been bought and
fitted up in appropriate style (the phrase is the upholsterer's) by Colonel West,
the famous millionaire from South Australia. The Colonel had lavished upon it
untold wealth, fleeced from the backs of ten thousand sheep and an equal number
of his fellow-countrymen; and Wolverden was now, if not the most beautiful, at
least the most opulent country-house within easy reach of London.

Mrs. West was waiting at the station to meet Maisie. The house was full of
Christmas guests already, it is true; but Mrs. West was a model of stately, old-fashioned
courtesy: she would not have omitted meeting one among the number on any less
excuse than a royal command to appear at Windsor. She kissed Maisie on both
cheeks — she had always been fond of Maisie — and, leaving two haughty young
aristocrats (in powdered hair and blue-and-gold livery) to hunt up her luggage
by the light of nature, sailed forth with her through the door to the obsequious
carriage.

The drive up the avenue to Wolverden Hall Maisie found quite delicious. Even in
their leafless winter condition the great limes looked so noble; and the ivy-covered
hall at the end, with its mullioned windows, its Inigo Jones porch, and its
creeper-clad gables, was as picturesque a building as the ideals one sees in Mr.
Abbey's sketches. If only Arthur Hume had been one of the party now, Maisie's
joy would have been complete. But what was the use of thinking so much about
Arthur Hume, when she didn't even know whether Arthur Hume cared for her?

A tall, slim girl, Maisie Llewelyn, with rich black hair, and ethereal features,
as became a descendant of Llewelyn ap Iorwerth — the sort of girl we none of us
would have called anything more than "interesting" till Rossetti and Burne-Jones
found eyes for us to see that the type is beautiful with a deeper beauty than
that of your obvious pink-and-white prettiness. Her eyes, in particular, had a
lustrous depth that was almost superhuman, and her fingers and nails were
strangely transparent in their waxen softness.

"You won't mind my having put you in a ground-floor room in the new wing, my
dear, will you?" Mrs West inquired, as she led Maisie personally to the quarters
chosen for her. "You see, we 're so unusually full, because of these tableaux!"

Maisie gazed round the ground-floor room in the new wing with eyes of mute
wonder. If this was the kind of lodging for which Mrs. West thought it necessary
to apologise, Maisie wondered of what sort were those better rooms which she
gave to the guests she delighted to honour.