Is there any Felicity in the World Superior to This?

Disclaimer: As always, I do not own nor possess Jane Austen's works or her characters. My work is solely based as a creative appreciation. The story has many parts; will post regularly.

Story: Marianne Dashwood finds the Colonel's charms and noble qualities irresistible and it seems that a proposal of marriage from the noble Brandon is pleasantly inevitable. However, as a possible handsome new suitor enters the neighbourhood, eager to grab hold of Marianne's affections, Brandon finds himself, once again, at odds with a rival – will their wishes of a well-suited marriage eventually come about?

Author's Note: For my avid readers, I offer my apologies for a most arduous delay, for my first readers; welcome and I hope you will enjoy the story as much as I have enjoyed writing it (this, of course, may equally refer to my older readers). I offer you then, what shall I call, a little taster of my efforts during the past few whirlwinds of months, and those perhaps disappointed at its length in comparison to its massive chapter of a predecessor, may be glad that this story is well nigh completion and your wait has not been in vain…

Part Four

'…and how can we ever repay you, it is the second time that you have saved her –'

A familiar, deep baritone answered this. 'No, no, pray do not distress yourself, Mrs. Dashwood - I can only be too glad to have been there to be of assistance –' That unique, soothing voice was unmistakable…

My God, is he here? When did he arrive?

Marianne opened her eyes slowly and painfully looked about her. She appeared to be in her bedroom, amidst the pristine white sheets of her bed. Dark shadows appeared through the crack of the door, shifting about in the semi-darkness outside. She strained her eyes but all that welcomed her was a blur and Marianne lay back against the bedcovers, exhausted, nauseous…and frustrated. Oh, why does he always have to find me in need of rescuing…and in the rain? Grey rain hammered against the glass, and the window panes quivered in their hinges. Why couldn't it be on a summer's day or something of that matter, it would be much more pleasurable…? A flash of lightning shot across the dark sky. The voices spoke again.

'Mamma?' Margaret had appeared outside. 'Where was Mr. Farley when this happened?'

Yes, where was that mysterious gentleman?

Marianne could hear her mother clear her throat as politely as she could possible do so.

'Margaret – I would think the Colonel would like to refrain from satisfying your insatiable curiosity at present…you must be exhausted, Colonel…pray, do sit down –'

'Oh, no, Mrs. Dashwood, I would not dare to leave a watermark upon your furniture – pardon my shabby appearance – the mud and rain –' Brandon's voice was firm and Mrs. Dashwood ceased her kind entreaties for him to stay. 'Pray, forgive me, Mrs. Dashwood, I have trespassed on your time for much too long, I should take my leave –' Marianne heard the click of his heels tread quietly across the floorboards, away from the door.

'Could you tell us what happened, Colonel? Could it be that you leaped from your horse and onto the curricle – or did you…' Margaret's voice was insistent, positively trilling with adventurous curiosity.

'Margaret –' Mrs. Dashwood's voice was stern.

'I would advise you to listen to your mother, Margaret –' started Brandon in mock severity. 'But just to satisfy your incomparable curiosity for reports of my brave feats –' Brandon's voice had loosened into kind playfulness. '– let us say it was something along that order, Captain.'

Marianne could barely suppress a weak smile – how the Colonel managed to keep his humour in dire situations such as this was still a mystery to her. In the shadows, Margaret seemingly took little notice of what the Colonel had offered her 'Oh, please, Colonel, do tell us…'

'Margaret, please!'

Taking no notice of her mother's entreaties, Margaret, no doubt in a renewed effort to find another means of persuasion was suddenly silenced in mid-sentence when Brandon said, in a tone of great sincerity: 'Mrs. Dashwood – if you are ever in need of assistance, pray do not hesitate in calling Dr. Lyons or myself.'

Mrs. Dashwood, touched by the roughness in his voice as much as her younger daughter, although she did not know it, replied with a rising jolt of emotion: 'Of course, Colonel. May I show you out…it is the least I can do…'

A pause… then: 'Thank you.'

His firm tread was creaking down the stairs – she opened her mouth to call his name, to at least thank him –

'Colonel Bran –'

But the dark shadows had shifted and the room seemingly grew darker, swirling nauseously about her head. Her eyelids fluttered, stilled then closed and she descended into a dreamless sleep.

Edward was not at all at ease. The afternoon's events had stirred him deeply and he feared that he would not sleep at all tonight despite it having been quite a wearing day for him. Glancing at his various notes and pieces of parchment scattered about his desk, and looking down at the letter, which Brandon had set him to write; he realised that he had only managed an illegible scribble across the top of the page. Sighing and crossing out the words quickly with his quill, he sank back into his chair and looked about him.

The silver moonlight streaming through the loosely curtained windows that stretched magnificently across the far wall of the room told him of the lateness of the hour. He judged it to be roughly past midnight. A reddish-orange hue crackled fiercely in the grate, illuminating the fireplace and the several feet before it – and Edward could not be but amazed, as he always was, at the pure sophistication of his patron's study, the roaring fire, the soft glow of the candles and the moonlight combined all made the room grander than it really was.

He had been sitting here long – and his back ached and his eyes sore by much too much staring at the elegant covering of the walls in his reverie and he was pleased to have finally torn his eyes from the piece of parchment that swam blurrily before him. Edward fumbled for his watch and briefly consulted it: it was half-past midnight. His brows raised unconsciously in surprise. He had been at this desk for nearly six hours and Brandon had not yet once come down to check his progress, as was his usual custom.

Perhaps he has retired for the night. And judging by Brandon's looks and temperament, he had no cause for any suspicion. It is almost certainly so that he has forgotten about my presence – and perhaps my letter, added he rather dryly.

Sighing rather tiredly and feeling more exhausted than he thought himself to be, Edward gathered his papers at last and returned his quill to its rightful place in its inkwell. Elinor was not to be forgotten – and even more so as the afternoon's events had no doubt stirred her sibling anxiety. Perhaps it was within these very thoughts that Edward's mind grew careless and he knocked over a few books placed near the edge of the desk, scattering its contents across the carpet.

Fighting the urge to curse loudly at his clumsiness and praying for forgiveness simultaneously, he stood and bent to retrieve the various bits of parchment, notes, receipts and letters that lay strewn chaotically across the floor. Once he had done so, it came as quite an arduous task to return them to their original places. He was bound to be found out; Brandon was a methodical and tidy man, and any disorganisation of his belongings; whether a single page was creased or torn within his books or when his quill was not replaced in the same way as he had last done so, the Colonel would always be the very man to have realised these facts…first and foremost.

However, Edward had no cause to be afraid of his patron's displeasure; despite Brandon's orderly habits, he was exceedingly genial and lenient and his anger was not usually ignited by minor or insignificant errors. Comforted albeit only slightly by this fact, Edward set to work, replacing the various bits of parchment into their places. Within five minutes, he had returned almost all of them to their original places. But after ten minutes of staring at the books and then to the parchment and back to the books again, his patience grew thin. A large letter was proving to be particularly troublesome and Edward almost half-heartedly wished that he had paid more attention in staring at the books than at his failed attempt of a letter or the wall before him during his recent reverie at his patron's desk.

Turning the letter repeatedly in his hands, he suddenly recalled that Brandon was usually inclined to place certain pieces of parchment or letters in chronological order when he was currently engrossed within a new book or volume of his to serve as practical bookmarks. Therefore, if his presumption were to be proved correct, he would only need to consult the date of the letter to find a reasonably proper place to return it to. Shaking his head and laughing inwardly at his foolishness, he unfolded the piece of parchment. He glanced at the date briefly but before reverting to refold the letter, the sight of the name Farley caught his eye.

London, 21st February 1810

Dear Brandon,

I can hardly express my surprise at your writing to me about this matter of Mr. Farley and of all the times in the world when you might have chosen to do so. But the matter has been decided – and you have decided to ask for my information now and therefore, I have no choice but to obey your wishes.

I hardly know much about Mr. Farley myself, save only the fact that he is the beau of London and all that pompous nonsense of him being wealthy and leading a glamorous life as all rich, young men are expected to do at their age and rank in society. But you did not come writing to me for what is already engrained in your mind, Brandon – surely? I can sense your impatience, and therefore I shall complete the task, which I have set myself to do.

Farley's old family butler, having been an old friend of mine for many years, has finally refreshed my knowledge of the young man as well as his dealings in the world and – well, I must admit that it was rather more scandalous than I had expected of this seemingly polite and courteous gentleman. It seems to be that this young Henry Farley is nothing less than a rampant libertine, paying disgracefully overwhelming attentions on any young lady who strays upon his path. You can hardly begin to imagine my amazement at all of the poor girls this man has seduced, Brandon – if he is to be called a man at all, or much more appropriately called perhaps the Devil himself. There has been poor Lucy Graham, if you remember, the elder daughter of Lieutenant Graham who served with us in Ceylon all those years ago as well as the youngest sister of Sergeant Johnson, who is currently residing in Bath – forgive me for not telling you sooner of Johnson's whereabouts, Brandon – I have only just recalled that you enquired after him a month or two ago.

I wonder if it would be best to inform them of the braggart who broke their dear girls' hearts…and Farley would most probably end up with a musket ball in his head if he were lucky. And these two poor lasses are only the beginning, Brandon – why, by God – I could have written down a list of all Farley's 'conquests', as vulgar the term might be. However, I shall not tempt Providence – for I am certain that you are feeling the wrath and rage that is brought and instilled within our souls at the sound of this news, as was the case with me.

I wonder that you ask me about Farley, Brandon – you have not consulted me on such a matter as this since that similar scoundrel John Willoughby strayed across your young lady's path a year ago…

You may wonder at Mr. Farley's change of home, Brandon – it is hardly a crime to be suspicious of this man's actions being the vile man that he has proven himself to be. Herbert, Farley's butler, has written to me that his young master's intentions into moving into the country were simply based on the matter of 'recognising his sins and repenting for them by changing his ways and leaving the temptations of town'. I treat this as utter nonsense – a man proven to be a sinner of such ways can hardly change – it would be tantamount to asking water to turn into milk; it cannot be done. Moreover, I can hardly see you, despite the justness and forgivingness of your nature, to bring yourself to forgive or much less think about trusting this man.

Your caution has again proved your suspicions correct, Brandon – I marvel at your accuracy but then it is no wonder that you are a Colonel and I have never yet strayed above the modest rank of Lieutenant, is it not? Nevertheless, I urge you again to be cautious and be wary of this man's behaviour…and more particularly so since he has gained the attentions of Miss Dashwood. Ah, are you surprised, Brandon, at my presumption? You refused to tell me in your letter of the source of your suspicions – but you need not fear, we are friends, after all and I shall hold my vow of silence.

Inform me of any further developments, Brandon, and I shall be sure to tell you of more of Farley's history if needs be. Again, be wary. Be cautious.

Yours etc,.

Taylor

'Now, it is hardly surprising at my being out of spirits earlier today, is it, Mr. Ferrars?'

Edward started abruptly and his heart gave a nervous jolt as he recognized his patron as he loomed out of the shadows of the doorway. Brandon's countenance was grave and his eyes, usually glittering with bright humour were closed and severe. Edward fumbled nervously with the letter in his hands, folding it in haste and in doing so, only succeeded in dropping it onto the floor.

Brandon put out a hand to stop him as he bent and in a fluid, sweeping motion placed it deftly into his own hands. He turned an eye disapprovingly over the page, seemingly more displeased with the information held within it than at the writer.

'Colonel – I am quite sorry, it was to be none of my business –'

'Ah, but it is now, is it not?' replied Brandon coolly as he turned and discarded the letter unceremoniously onto a small table near the two armchairs that faced the fireplace. Edward knew hardly how to respond – or what to do. Rigidly, he watched the Colonel, his face expressionless, retrieve two glasses and fill them with a generous helping of red wine. He then looked up and held a glass out in his direction, attempting an unconvincing but brave smile.

'Forgive my moodiness, Mr. Ferrars – I fear that tonight I have been neglecting my duties as a suitable patron to a faithful clergyman such as yourself.'

'As with I, Colonel,' said Edward smilingly, relieved at Brandon's efforts at courtesy despite the great breach of the man's privacy. He then added tentatively with a grave look in his eye; 'I fear that I have not yet managed to complete the letter you have assigned me.'

Brandon glanced at him briefly as he stepped forth to take the glass grasped in his outstretched hand. 'Another time, perhaps,' said he finally. He swiftly turned and placed himself moodily in an armchair. 'Another time,' he repeated quietly before he took a large sip of his wine. 'When we are not preoccupied with severe matters at hand.'

A short silence followed and Edward grew increasingly uncomfortable with Brandon's gravity of manner. As if in an attempt to strengthen his spirits, he took a sip of the rich red liquid that swirled within his glass but Brandon seemed hardly to notice. His eyes, dark and pensive, stared at the reddish-gold flames that danced energetically within the steel grate – and the glow reflected dangerously within his gaze.

'Tell me…' started Brandon suddenly without shifting his gaze; Edward turned swiftly, startled. 'Tell me, Mr. Ferrars – what would one do if one were in my situation…now that you know more of Mr. Farley's character?'

'Do you seek after my own personal opinion or the word of a clergyman, sir?'

It was at this that Brandon finally diverted his gaze from the swirling flames; the dark and grave look within them pierced his soul like daggers. 'If it is not much to ask…your own, Mr. Ferrars.'

'It is hardly an easy question you ask of me, Colonel…'

'And it is hardly an easy question for me to articulate, but since – ' Edward saw his grave exterior break slightly before he managed: ' – since Mr. Farley has seemingly attained the attentions of your sister, it is likely that she is in the gravest danger of being another one of his – immoral pursuits. I am afraid that even after numerous evenings of contemplation, the answer – has so far proved – elusive.' Brandon's jaw involuntarily stiffened and Edward could perceive that the poor man was very close to breaking point. He firmly set down his glass.

'Colonel, there is no point in hiding your affections much longer…and I say this as a friend, sir. Let us abandon our roles as patron and beneficiary for the time being, as it would be hardly convenient for us to go about in this manner.' He fixed Brandon with a stern look, expecting some word or another of protest at his newfound expediency but Brandon simply said not a word. 'It is not a secret amongst the villagers of your high regard for Marianne and indeed it can serve at times as a source of vibrant discussion.'

Brandon instinctively felt a small, amused smile tug at his lips at this but sustained his composure. He had known this all along, of course – but his customary reserve had prevented him from acknowledging it forthright.

'Indeed, Mr. Ferrars, indeed – you are quite right,' said Brandon eventually, for once, letting down his guard and acknowledging the simple facts laid down before him. 'One would be a fool to deny so…I feel greatly for your sister – but, alas – ' Here he bowed his head slightly in defeat. ' – that is the root of the problem. My being involved in any action against Mr. Farley, violent or otherwise, would irreversibly lead to the idea that I have some qualm or some sort against him, that my hatred of his person would have undoubtedly stemmed from the fact that I was –'

He stopped here, but Edward quietly and with all the subtlety of priests of his kind, finished his sentence for him: ' Jealous.'

Brandon simply stared at him, astonished. Jealousy. All the nights of countless contemplation in his study, all the revolving, complex and contradicting emotions that had been gnawing and rooting agonizingly in his heart, the innumerable moments where he had dearly wished to see nothing but Mr. Farley crushed and defeated at his feet…all of these…were they simply to be described in this mere, plain yet strangely subtle word? A word in three mere syllables…it could not be…but it could not be expressed simpler…Strange, he thought, and yet not.

A sudden cough interrupted him from his distracted state of thoughts and glancing at Edward's solemn countenance, he knew that his musings had apparently been professionally interpreted, examined and finally accepted. Brandon shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Edward in view of this finally found the courage to break the silence.

'There is no need to look so guilty, Colonel – all men – including priests – are susceptible to the throes of human emotion,' added he quickly as a brief look of scepticism passed across his companion's face. 'To not feel so can hardly be normal or human.'

He saw Brandon nod – albeit very slowly in response. What thoughts must be running through the man's mind now? Brandon's eyes closed briefly…his expression one almost of inexplicable pain and then opened just as suddenly, his gaze sombre yet…enlightened.

'I see how it is, Mr. Ferrars…' started he quietly. 'I, alone, cannot seek justice…'

'As the Lord will do so in his own good time.' Their voices echoed solemnly across the room.

'That is the very truth of the matter, Colonel. Forgive me if I speak plainly…but there is simply no reason in seeking justice from a man who has created no harm whatsoever against your name or person. However…'

Edward stumbled here, awkwardly and there came a slightly embarrassed pause. Elinor's words unconsciously rifted through his thoughts, the words she had shared with him at dinner on the day of the Colonel's departure. I have no doubt of the Colonel's affection for Marianne, Edward…and so is the case with Marianne's affection for the Colonel, although she clearly does not realize the true height of it just yet. Talk with him, Edward…tell him at least of what is turning his way. Both have suffered enough…let us not squander the opportunity! It had all seemed very trifling in realizing his task in encouraging the Colonel's affections at the time in the safety of his own comfortable dining room – but here, in this grand, imposing study and in the Colonel's solemn and serious presence…the task seemed positively daunting.

'By your staunch silence…I think I can take your meaning very clearly, Mr. Ferrars. There is no need to explain.'

Edward started and realized that Brandon was looking in his direction, a small, knowing smile playing about his lips at his friend's embarrassed hesitation. How Brandon had interpreted exactly what he had been going through his mind was a complete mystery to him but Edward saw no justification in taking the matter further. The Colonel seemed to have decided the very same. The clock upon the mantelpiece was currently reading a quarter past one and Brandon rose to his feet and motioned towards the window, aglow with streaming moonlight.

'However, I feel that indeed a high level of explanation would be required in your case, Mr. Ferrars, especially to your wife at this late hour. I have kept you too long on my account and I sense that Mrs. Ferrars would be far less forgiving than you would at my uncharitable hours if I am to postpone your leave any longer,' he smiled dryly. 'You may leave now, Mr. Ferrars.'

Retrieving his case, coat and hat, Edward allowed himself to be escorted to the front door. There the two men shook hands and offered their salutations before the good clergyman took his leave into the darkened expanse of the country night, their friendship no doubt having been mutually much improved.

Precisely a week after her unfortunate accident, Marianne Dashwood was pronounced to be well on the mend and within hours of it being reported so, numerous visitors flooded through the modest gates of Barton in rapid succession. Even the poorly Mrs. Stoddard had been seen to depart the cottage in good spirits. Marianne smiled and endured the visits as well as she could. She had thanked them graciously all the while for troubling themselves to keep her company and accepting their genuine wishes of her rapid recovery, although she thought quite frankly that the whole village paying visits to her, although in friendly earnest, was on the verge of being highly unnecessary. She had been, undoubtedly, shaken by the whole experience but not mortally so and had the honest opinion that all of the action that had invariably taken place (though she knew very little of it) was in gross exaggeration.

Edward and Elinor were the first to be admitted to see their much beloved sister after a thorough examination by the village's doctor, Dr. Lyons, pronounced Marianne to be satisfactorily well enough to be allowed out of bed although cautioning her to refrain from any strenuous activity until the slight fracture in her head had fully healed. Despite this, it was generally agreed that the patient's mobility had improved and Marianne made her own way down to the sitting room without any aid at all, although her observant brother and sister had very readily offered it.

However, much to the woe of no less than everyone in the cottage, Edward had the difficult task of disengaging himself from an energetic Margaret who demanded him to recount Marianne's 'escape from the clutches of certain death in the utmost and exact detail'.

'You should consider a career in becoming a novelist, Margaret,' remarked Elinor wryly after Margaret had unsuccessfully forced and interrogated Edward, though the poor man confessed that he knew nothing of it, to recount the story before defeatedly allowing him entry to the sitting room. 'Fierce interrogation of characters results in superb characterization...and with the additional advantage of resulting in the least possible inconvenience for the rest of us.'

'Margaret has an inclination to be adventurous at times, Edward,' whispered Marianne smilingly as the surprised parson allowed himself to be seated in the parlour, smiling weakly in thanks as a large cup of tea was handed gently into his hands. His young interrogator, in search of other amusements and much to the relief of her unfortunate victim, ran back out into the garden.

'Indeed, I hope that I have seen the last of it…for the while,' replied Edward shakily as he took a large sip of his tea as if in an attempt to strengthen his spirits. There was then a while where they jointly made their enquiries, Edward and Elinor offering their well wishes and Marianne, earnestly accepted them with all the sincerity that was to be expected between brothers and sisters.

They soon launched into a conversation of the progress of the expansion of the parish school – 'It is progressing very well, Marianne – we can expect that if all goes well, that it will be completed by the end of May…' but as speaking of the school, the parsonage and the parish itself – it inescapably led to the mention of their generous benefactor. A tentative silence soon followed…and one could have hardly missed the hesitant glance that was passed from the uncertain grey eyes of the parson and into the calm blue of his wife.

Marianne steeled herself. There was no use evading the subject any longer. She stared into her cup contemplatively and then in a voice of such innocent quietness that startled both her listeners, she began: 'Do you know what happened, Edward? I feel that you have not told the whole – truth…of the matter to Margaret.'

Edward set down his cup almost guiltily – and yet in unmistakable relief. He glanced up, a small amused glint in his eyes. 'Perhaps I am not as convincing an orator that Colonel Brandon has so recently praised me to be.' He continued in a graver tone: 'Nevertheless, there are, at certain times and circumstances, that the truth is better kept hidden than revealed. Especially at times when the truth to a young, adventurous and innocent soul as Margaret can be much too difficult to contend with.'

He paused here, waiting for encouragement. The ladies were fixed in rapt attention. Inhaling deeply, Edward began his narrative.

'The afternoon began in a most ordinary fashion. As usual, I had ceased my daily rounds in the village by dusk and was making my way through the main road to Barton in order to return to the parsonage. To my surprise, I encountered Brandon upon the road and then rushed to greet him…'

Brandon had not looked well upon his first glance at him. His eyes were weary and his usual graceful form had seemed to sag slightly as if under an invisible weight hung upon his shoulders. But the salutations had been friendly and passed in a most genial fashion.

'…I inquired on when he had left town for he looked quite exhausted. To my astonishment, he replied that he had left London only in the early hours of the morning…'

'Good heaven, Colonel! It is no wonder that you look most exhausted… I wonder what business would cause you to leave at so early an hour.'

He thought he saw a strange look pass across Brandon's eyes at that but he had merely given a tired smile in response. They rode on in silence, uncommunicative. Brandon had seemed rarely inclined to speak, his brow furrowed and his countenance grave. After they had gone half a mile or so, Edward, discomfited by the looming silence, had started to talk in the sole objective of lightening the mood, only to be punctuated by –

'A sudden neighing of horses and a horrified yell alerted us of what was unravelling quite a distance ahead of us…'

Stopping in their tracks, they had shared a brief look of alarm before Brandon, as if he had been possessed with a new-found energy, spurred his horse forwards, all weariness and exhaustion forgotten, leaving only an astonished Edward to reluctantly follow suit. Only twenty yards later, they had seen the tall figure of Mr. Farley struggling to his feet, his nose bleeding profusely.

'It was only then that we learnt of what had just happened. His horses had bolted and having found no alternative way of reinstating control or restrain upon them, he had jumped…which had obviously resulted in his having a badly broken nose…'

Brandon had reacted, as his behaviour had persuaded him to believe, rather coolly to the situation until his offer of retrieving the frightened horses allowed him to think otherwise. However, the horror on Brandon's countenance when he realised that Marianne had been struck across the head and was now unconscious inside the runaway curricle was one that Edward could not easily forget.

'It was frightening to see him thus – I have never once seen a man so wretchedly horrified or enraged as he was in my entire life…he – accosted – Mr. Farley quite harshly for his cowardice…'

Yet it had only been a moment before Brandon had spurred his horse forwards once again, his black travelling cloak billowing rapidly behind him.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Marianne stare self-consciously into her cup of tea. She seemed to be immersed in her thoughts…and Edward knew it would be best if he did not mention the intimidating volley of threats that had issued from the Colonel's lips at Mr. Farley's trembling figure: 'I swear upon my soul, Mr. Farley, that if I find her in any serious danger, any at all…I shall hold you eternally responsible and as God as my witness, defend her honour if duty calls me to do so.'

'It was only a quarter of an hour before he returned with you safe and sound,' continued Edward, taking a sip of his tea after a short pause filled the expanse of the room. 'I do not know how he saved you nor did he tell me so…he was very – unwilling – to communicate the details of what had just happened. He was no doubt exceedingly angry with Mr. Farley and the only remark I ever received from him was that I should escort Mr. Farley to his manor but this was refused. Instead, I was told to fetch Dr. Lyons while the Colonel brought you back to Barton.' Edward shook his head, the memory still very vivid in his mind and added almost involuntarily, a small shiver running down his spine at the thought: 'It was a cold night…and the rain made the incident even more dismal.'

A shock-filled silence enveloped them and they sat there, still and motionless while the setting sun beamed dancing shadows against pale walls of the cottage. Only the melodious chirping of the birds outdoors and the faint rustles and clicks resounding off Margaret's dress and shoes up amidst the leafy shade of the tree house informed that time, though it seemed so, had not stood still.