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Updated: May 26, 2025
Manstey's more meditative moods it was the narrowing perspective of far-off yards which pleased her best. She loved, at twilight, when the distant brown-stone spire seemed melting in the fluid yellow of the west, to lose herself in vague memories of a trip to Europe, made years ago, and now reduced in her mind's eye to a pale phantasmagoria of indistinct steeples and dreamy skies.
"It shan't begin, I promise you that; I'll send word to the builder this very night." Mrs. Manstey tightened her hold. "You are not deceiving me, are you?" she said. "No no," stammered Mrs. Black. "How can you think such a thing of me, Mrs. Manstey?" Slowly Mrs. Manstey's clutch relaxed, and she passed through the open door.
Manstey repeated. "Is it, indeed? I didn't know there was a magnolia there," said Mrs. Sampson, carelessly. Mrs. Manstey looked at her; she did not know that there was a magnolia in the next yard! "By the way," Mrs. Sampson continued, "speaking of Mrs. Black reminds me that the work on the extension is to begin next week." "The what?" it was Mrs. Manstey's turn to ask. "The extension," said Mrs.
If she could have tasted the air, sweet with the penetrating ailanthus savor, it would have eased her; but the view at least was there the spire was golden now, the heavens had warmed from pearl to blue, day was alight from east to west, even the magnolia had caught the sun. Mrs. Manstey's head fell back and smiling she died. That day the building of the extension was resumed. The End
Manstey's big country-house was temporarily empty of the guests she had gathered for a week-end in June when the two Eversley girls reached it, Saturday at noon. Their hostess met them at the door when the carriage wheels crunched on the gravelled curve of the drive before the house a charming gray-haired woman of sixty, with a youthful face and a delicate girlish color.
Manstey's grounds for the uneven country road, that became shortly, by courtesy, the village street, they had a view of the little church with its tiny tower. "The post-office," Farringdon explained, "is at the other end of the street. Service is beginning, I dare say. Shall we wait until it is over, or post the letter now?"
Manstey's name. "One of Mrs. Sampson's boarders; wants to move, I suppose. Well, I can give her a room next year in the extension. Dinah," said Mrs. Black, "tell the lady I'll be upstairs in a minute." Mrs. Black found Mrs. Manstey standing in the long parlor garnished with statuettes and antimacassars; in that house she could not sit down.
But if nature occupied the front rank in Mrs. Manstey's view, there was much of a more personal character to interest her in the aspect of the houses and their inmates. She deeply disapproved of the mustard-colored curtains which had lately been hung in the doctor's window opposite; but she glowed with pleasure when the house farther down had its old bricks washed with a coat of paint.
She found herself accepting this proposition, for the blaze of the sun on the length of the dusty street was deterring. They walked back almost in silence the way they had come; but with his hand on Mrs. Manstey's gate and the house less than two hundred yards away, Farringdon paused. "You have been writing to 'Christopher," he said, quietly. "I don't want you to send the letter."
After all, in the course of his life two great things had happened to him: he had loved romantically, and he must have talked with Pascal... The End As first published in Scribner's Magazine, July, 1891 The view from Mrs. Manstey's window was not a striking one, but to her at least it was full of interest and beauty. Mrs.
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