CHAPTER VIII
THREE days afterward Ethel called on Dora Stanhope at the Savoy. Shefound her alone, and she had evidently been crying. Indeed, shefrankly admitted the fact, declaring that she had been "so bored and sohomesick, that she relieved she had cried her beauty away." She glancedat Ethel's radiant face and neat fresh toilet with envy, and added, "Iam so glad to see you, Ethel. But I was sure that you would come as soonas you knew I wanted you."
"Oh, indeed, Dora, you must not make yourself too sure of such a thingas that! I really came to London to get some new gowns. I have beenshopping all morning."
"I thought you had come in answer to my letter. I was expecting you.That is the reason I did not go out with Basil."
"Don't you expect a little too much, Dora? I have a great many interestsand duties----"
"I used to be first."
"When a girl marries she is supposed to----"
"Please don't talk nonsense. Basil does not take the place of everyoneand everything else. I think we are often very tired of each other. Thismorning, when I was telling him what trouble I had with my maid, Julia,he actually yawned. He tried to smother the yawn, but he could not, andof course the honeymoon is over when your bridegroom yawns in your facewhile you are telling him your troubles."
"I should think you would be glad it was over. Of all the words in theEnglish language 'honeymoon' is the most ridiculous and imbecile."
"I suppose when you get married you will take a honeymoon."
"I shall have more sense and more selfishness. A girl could hardlyenter a new life through a medium more trying. I am sure it wouldneed long-tested affections and the sweetest of tempers to make itendurable."
"I cannot imagine what you mean."
"I mean that all traveling just after marriage is a great blunder.Traveling makes the sunniest disposition hasty and peevish, for womendon't love changes as men do. Not one in a thousand is seen at her bestwhile traveling, and the majority are seen at their very worst. Thenthere is the discomfort and desolation of European hotels--theirmysterious methods and hours, and the ways of foreigners, which are notas our ways."
"Don't talk of them, Ethel. They are dreadful places, and such queerpeople."
"Add to these troubles ignorance of language and coinage, the utterweariness of railway travel, the plague of customs, the trunk thatwon't pack, the trains that won't wait, the tiresome sight-seeing,the climatic irritability, broiling suns, headache, loneliness,fretfulness--consequently the pitiful boredom of the new husband."
"Ethel, what you say is certainly too true. I am weary to death of itall. I want to be at Newport with mother, who is having a lovely timethere. Of course Basil is very nice to me, and yet there have beenlittle tiffs and struggles--very gentle ones--for the mastery, whichhe is not going to get. To-day he wanted me to go with him and CanonShackleton to see something or other about the poor of London. I wouldnot do it. I am so lonely, Ethel, I want to see some one. I feel fit tocry all the time. I like Basil best of anyone in the world, but----"
"But in the solitude of a honeymoon among strangers you find out thatthe person you like best in the world can bore you as badly as theperson you don't like at all. Is that so?"
"Exactly. Just fancy if we were among our friends in Newport. I shouldhave some pleasure in dressing and looking lovely. Why should I dresshere? There is no one to see me."
"Basil."
"Of course, but Basil spends all the time in visiting cathedrals andclergymen. If we go out, it is to see something about the poor, or aboutschools and such like. We were not in London two hours until he was offto Westminster Abbey, and I didn't care a cent about the old place. Hesays I must not ask him to go to theaters, but historical old housesdon't interest me at all. What does it matter if Cromwell slept in acertain ancient shabby room? And as for all the palaces I have seen, myfather's house is a great deal handsomer, and more convenient, and morecomfortable, and I wish I were there. I hate Europe, and England I hateworst of all."
"You have not seen England. We are all enraptured with its beauty andits old houses and pleasant life."
"You are among friends--at home, as it were. I have heard all aboutRawdon Court. Fred Mostyn told me. He is going to buy it."
"When?"
"Some time this fall. Then next year he will entertain us, and that willbe a little different to this desolate hotel, I think."
"How long will you be in London?"
"I cannot say. We are invited to Stanhope Castle, but I don't want to gothere. We stayed with the Stanhopes a week when we first came over. Theywere then in their London house, and I got enough of them."
"Did you dislike the family?"
"No, I cared nothing about them. They just bored me. They are extremelyreligious. We had prayers night and morning, and a prayer before andafter every meal. They read only very good books, and the HonorableMisses Stanhope sew for the poor old women and teach the poor youngones. They work harder than anyone I ever knew, and they call it'improving the time.' They thought me a very silly, reckless youngwoman, and I think they all prayed for me. One night after they had sungsome very nice songs they asked me to play, and I began with 'My LittleBrown Rose'--you know they all adore the negro--and little by little Idropped into the funniest coon songs I knew, and oh how they laughed!Even the old lord stroked his knees and laughed out loud, while theyoung ladies laughed into their handkerchiefs. Lady Stanhope was theonly one who comprehended I was guying them; and she looked at me withhalf-shut eyes in a way that would have spoiled some girls' fun. It onlymade me the merrier. So I tried to show them a cake walk, but the oldlord rose then and said 'I must be tired, and they would excuse me.'Somehow I could not manage him. Basil was at a workman's concert, andwhen he came home I think there were some advices and remonstrances, butBasil never told me. I felt as if they were all glad when I went away,and I don't wish to go to the Castle--and I won't go either."
"But if Basil wishes to go----"
"He can go alone. I rather think Fred Mostyn will be here in a fewdays, and he will take me to places that Basil will not--innocent placesenough, Ethel, so you need not look so shocked. Why do you not ask me toRawdon Court?"
"Because I am only a guest there. I have no right to ask you."
"I am sure if you told Squire Rawdon how fond you are of me, and howlonely I am, he would tell you to send for me."
"I do not believe he would. He has old-fashioned ideas about newlymarried people. He would hardly think it possible that you would bewilling to go anywhere without Basil--yet."
"He could ask Basil too."
"If Mr. Mostyn is coming home, he can ask you to Mostyn Hall. It is verynear Rawdon Court."
"Yes. Fred said as soon as he had possession of the Court he could putboth places into a ring fence. Then he would live at the Court. If heasks us there next summer I shall be sure to beg an invitation for youalso; so I think you might deserve it by getting me one now. I don'twant to go to Mostyn yet. Fred says it needs entire refurnishing, and ifwe come to the Court next summer, I have promised to give him my adviceand help in making the place pretty and up to date. Have you seen MostynHall?"
"I have passed it several times. It is a large, gloomy-looking place Iwas going to say haunted-looking. It stands in a grove of yew trees."
"So you are not going to ask me to Rawdon Court?"
"I really cannot, Dora. It is not my house. I am only a guest there."
"Never mind. Make no more excuses. I see how it is. You always werejealous of Fred's liking for me. And of course when he goes down toMostyn you would prefer me to be absent."
"Good-by, Dora! I have a deal of shopping to do, and there is not muchtime before the ball, for many things will be to make."
"The ball! What ball?"
"Only one at Rawdon Court. The neighbors have been exceedingly kind tous, and the Squire is going to give a dinner and ball on the first ofAugust."
"Sit down and tell me about the neighbors--and the ball."
"I cannot
. I promised Ruth to be back at five. Our modiste is to see usat that hour."
"So Ruth is with you! Why did she not call on me?"
"Did you think I should come to London alone? And Ruth did not callbecause she was too busy."
"Everyone and everything comes before me now. I used to be first ofall. I wish I were in Newport with dad and mamma; even Bryce would be acomfort."
"As I said before, you have Mr. Stanhope."
"Are you going to send for me to the ball?"
"I cannot promise that, Dora. Good-by."
Dora did not answer. She buried her face in the soft pillow, and Ethelclosed the door to the sound of her sobs. But they did not cause her toreturn or to make any foolish promises. She divined their insincerityand their motive, and had no mind to take any part in forwarding thelatter.
And Ruth assured her she had acted wisely. "If trouble should ever comeof this friendship," she said, "Dora would very likely complain thatyou had always thrown Mostyn in her way, brought him to her house in NewYork, and brought her to him at Rawdon, in England. Marriage is such arisk, Ethel, but to marry without the courage to adapt oneself. AH!"
"You think that condition unspeakably hard?"
"There are no words for it."
"Dora was not reticent, I assure you."
"I am sorry. A wife's complaints are self-inflicted wounds; scatteredseeds, from which only misery can spring. I hope you will not see heragain at this time."
"I made no promise to do so."
"And where all is so uncertain, we had better suppose all is right thanthat all is wrong. Even if there was the beginning of wrong, it needsbut an accident to prevent it, and there are so many."
"Accidents!"
"Yes, for accident is God's part in affairs. We call it accident; itwould be better to say an interposition."
"Dora told me Mostyn intended to buy Rawdon Court in September, and hehas even invited the Stanhopes to stay there next summer."
"What did you say?"
"Nothing against it."
"Very good. Do you think Mostyn is in London now?"
"I should not wonder. I am sure Dora is expecting him."
In fact, the next morning they met Dora and Basil Stanhope, driving inHyde Park with Mostyn, but the smiling greeting which passed between theparties did not, except in the case of Basil Stanhope, fairly representthe dominant feeling of anyone. As for Stanhope, his nature was so clearand truthful that he would hardly have comprehended a smile which wasintended to veil feelings not to be called either quite friendly orquite pleasant. After this meeting all the joy went out of Ruth andEthel's shopping. They wanted to get back to the Court, and theyattended strictly to business in order to do so.
Mostyn followed them very quickly. He was exceedingly anxious to seeand hear for himself how his affairs regarding Rawdon stood. They wereeasily made plain to him, and he saw with a pang of disappointment thatall his hopes of being Squire of Rawdon Manor were over. Every penny hecould righteously claim was paid to him, and on the title deeds of theancient place he had no longer the shadow of a claim. The Squire lookedten years younger as he affectionately laid both hands on the redeemedparchments, and Mostyn with enforced politeness congratulated him ontheir integrity and then made a hurried retreat. Of its own kind thisdisappointment was as great as the loss of Dora. He could think ofneither without a sense of immeasurable and disastrous failure. Onepetty satisfaction regarding the payment of the mortgage was his onlycom-fort. He might now show McLean that it was not want of money thathad made him hitherto shy of "the good investments" offered him. Hehad been sure McLean in their last interview had thought so, and had,indeed, felt the half-veiled contempt with which the rich young man hadexpressed his pity for Mostyn's inability to take advantage at theright moment of an exceptional chance to play the game of beggaring hisneighbor. Now, he told himself, he would show McLean and his braggartset that good birth and old family was for once allied with plentyof money, and he also promised his wounded sensibilities some verydesirable reprisals, every one of which he felt fully competent to take.
It was, after all, a poor compensation, but there was also the gold. Hethanked his father that day for the great thoughtfulness and care withwhich he had amassed this sum for him, and he tried to console himselfwith the belief that gold answered all purposes, and that the yellowmetal was a better possession than the house and lands which he hadlonged for with an inherited and insensate craving.
Two days after this event Ethel, at her father's direction, signed anumber of papers, and when that duty was completed, the Squire rosefrom his chair, kissed her hands and her cheeks, and in a voice fullof tenderness and pride said, "I pay my respects to the future lady ofRawdon Manor, and I thank God for permitting me to see this hour. Mostwelcome, Lady Ethel, to the rights you inherit, and the rights you havebought." It was a moment hardly likely to be duplicated in any life, andEthel escaped from its tense emotions as soon as possible. She could notspeak, her heart was too full of joy and wonder. There are souls thatsay little and love much. How blessed are they!
On the following morning the invitations were sent for the dinnerand dance, but the time was put forward to the eighth of August. Ineveryone's heart there was a hope that before that day Mostyn would haveleft Rawdon, but the hope was barely mentioned. In the meantime he cameand went between Mostyn and Rawdon as he desired, and was received withthat modern politeness which considers it best to ignore offenses thatour grandfathers and grandmothers would have held for strict account andpunishment.
It was evident that he had frequent letters from Dora. He knew all hermovements, and spoke several times of opening Mostyn Hall and invitingthe Stanhopes to stay with him until their return to America. But asthis suggestion did not bring from any member of the Rawdon family theinvitation hoped for, it was not acted upon. He told himself theexpense would be great, and the Hall, in spite of all he could do in theinterim, would look poor and shabby compared with Rawdon Court; so heput aside the proposal on the ground that he could not persuade hisaunt to do the entertaining necessary. And for all the irritation andhumiliations centering round his loss of Rawdon and his inabilities withregard to Dora he blamed Ethel. He was sure if he had been more lovableand encouraging he could have married her, and thus finally reachedRawdon Court; and then, with all the unreason imaginable, nursed ahearty dislike to her because she would not understand his desires, andprovide means for their satisfaction. The bright, joyous girl with herloving heart, her abounding vitality, and constant cheerfulness, madehim angry. In none of her excellencies he had any share, consequently hehated her.
He would have quickly returned to London, but Dora and her husband werestaying with the Stanhopes, and her letters from Stanhope Castle werelachrymose complaints of the utter weariness and dreariness oflife there the preaching and reading aloud, the regular walking anddriving--all the innocent method of lives which recognized they werehere for some higher purpose than mere physical enjoyment. And itangered Mostyn that neither Ruth nor Ethel felt any sympathy for Dora'sennui, and proposed no means of releasing her from it. He consideredthem both disgustingly selfish and ill-natured, and was certain thatall their reluctance at Dora's presence arose from their jealousy of herbeauty and her enchanting grace.
On the afternoon of the day preceding the intended entertainment Ruth,Ethel, and the Squire were in the great dining-room superintending itsdecoration. They were merrily laughing and chatting, and were notaware of the arrival of any visitors until Mrs. Nicholas Rawdon's rosy,good-natured face appeared at the open door. Everyone welcomed hergladly, and the Squire offered her a seat.
"Nay, Squire," she said, "I'm come to ask a favor, and I won't sittill I know whether I get it or not; for if I don't get it, I shall saygood-by as quickly as I can. Our John Thomas came home this morning andhis friend with him, and I want invitations for the young men, both ofthem. My great pleasure lies that way--if you'll give it to me."
"Most gladly," answered the Squire, and Ethel immediately w
ent for thenecessary passports. When she returned she found Mrs. Nicholas helpingRuth and the Squire to arrange the large silver and cut crystal on thesideboard, and talking at the same time with unabated vivacity.
"Yes," she was saying, "the lads would have been here two days ago, butthey stayed in London to see some American lady married. John Thomas'sfriend knew her. She was married at the Ambassador's house. A fineaffair enough, but it bewilders me this taking up marriage withoutpriest or book. It's a new commission. The Church's warrant, it seems,is out of date. It may be right' it may be legal, but I told John Thomasif he ever got himself married in that kind of a way, he wouldn't havefather or me for witnesses."
"I am glad," said the Squire, "that the young men are home in time forour dance. The young like such things."
"To be sure they do. John Thomas wouldn't give me a moment's rest tillI came here. I didn't want to come. I thought John Thomas should comehimself, and I told him plainly that I was ready to do anyone a favorif I could, but if he wanted me to come because he was afraid to comehimself, I was just as ready to shirk the journey. And he laughed andsaid he was not feared for any woman living, but he did want to make hisfirst appearance in his best clothes--and that was natural, wasn't it?So I came for the two lads." Then she looked at the girls with a smile,and said in a comfortable kind of way: "You'll find them very nicelads, indeed. I can speak for John Thomas, I have taken his measure longsince; and as far as I can judge his friend, Nature went about some fullwork when she made a man of him. He's got a sweet temper, and a strongmind, and a straight judgment, if I know anything about men--whichNicholas sometimes makes me think I don't. But Nicholas isn't anordinary man, he's what you call 'an exception.'" Then shaking her headat Ethel, she continued reprovingly: "You were neither of you inchurch Sunday. I know some young women who went to the parishchurch--Methodists they are--specially to see your new hats. There'ssome talk about them, I can tell you, and the village milliner ispestered to copy them. She keeps her eyes open for you. You disappointeda lot of people. You ought to go to church in the country. It's the mostrespectable thing you can do."
"We were both very tired," said Ruth, "and the sun was hot, and we had agood Sabbath at home. Ethel read the Psalms, Epistle and Gospel forthe day, and the Squire gave us some of the grandest organ music I everheard."
"Well, well! Everyone knows the Squire is a grand player. I don'tsuppose there is another to match him in the whole world, and the oldfeeling about church-going is getting slack among the young people. Theyserve God now very much at their ease."
"Is not that better than serving Him on compulsion?" asked Ruth.
"I dare say. I'm no bigot. I was brought up an Independent, and wentto their chapel until I married Nicholas Rawdon. My father was abroad-thinking man. He never taught me to locate God in any building;and I'm sure I don't believe our parish church is His dwelling-place.If it is, they ought to mend the roof and put a new carpet down andmake things cleaner and more respectable. Well, Squire, you have silverenough to tempt all the rogues in Yorkshire, and there's a lot of them.But now I've seen it, I'll go home with these bits of paper. I shall bea very important woman to-night. Them two lads won't know how to fleechand flatter me enough. I'll be waited on hand and foot. And Nicholaswill get a bit of a set-down. He was bragging about Miss Ethel bringinghis invitation to his hand and promising to dance with him. I wouldn'tdo it if I were Miss Ethel. She'll find out, if she does, what it meansto dance with a man that weighs twenty stone, and who has never turnedhand nor foot to anything but money-making for thirty years."
She went away with a sweep and a rustle of her shimmering silk skirt,and left behind her such an atmosphere of hearty good-nature as madethe last rush and crowd of preparations easily ordered and quicklyaccomplished. Before her arrival there had been some doubt as to theweather. She brought the shining sun with her, and when he set, he leftthem with the promise of a splendid to-morrow--a promise amply redeemedwhen the next day dawned. Indeed, the sunshine was so brilliant, thegarden so gay and sweet, the lawn so green and firm, the avenues soshady and full of wandering songs, that it was resolved to hold thepreliminary reception out of doors. Ethel and Ruth were to receive onthe lawn, and at the open hall door the Squire would wait to welcome hisguests.
Soon after five o'clock there was a brilliant crowd wandering andresting in the pleasant spaces; and Ethel, wearing a diaphanously whiterobe and carrying a rush basket full of white carnations, was movingamong them distributing the flowers. She was thus the center of alittle laughing, bantering group when the Nicholas Rawdon party arrived.Nicholas remained with the Squire, Mrs. Rawdon and the young menwent toward Ethel. Mrs. Rawdon made a very handsome appearance--"anaristocratic Britannia in white liberty silk and old lace," whisperedRuth, and Ethel looked up quickly, to meet her merry eyes full of someunexplained triumph. In truth, the proud mother was anticipating a greatpleasure, not only in the presentation of her adored son, but also inthe curiosity and astonishment she felt sure would be evoked by hisfriend. So, with the boldness of one who brings happy tidings, shepressed forward. Ethel saw her approach, and went to meet her. Suddenlyher steps were arrested. An extraordinary thing was going to happen. TheApollo of her dreams, the singer of the Holland House pavement, was atMrs. Rawdon's side, was talking to her, was evidently a familiar friend.She was going to meet him, to speak to him at last. She would hear hisname in a few moments; all that she had hoped and believed was comingtrue. And the clear, resonant voice of Lydia Rawdon was like music inher ears as she said, with an air of triumph she could not hide:
"Miss Rawdon, I want you to know my son, Mr. John Thomas Rawdon, andalso John Thomas's cousin, Mr. Tyrrel Rawdon, of the United States."Then Mr. Tyrrel Rawdon looked into Ethel's face, and in that marvelousmeeting of their eyes, swift as the firing of a gun, their pupilsdilated and flashed with recognition, and the blood rushed crimsonover both faces. She gave the gentlemen flowers, and listened to Mrs.Rawdon's chatter, and said in reply she knew not what. A swift andexquisite excitement had followed her surprise. Feelings she couldnot voice were beating at her lips, and yet she knew that without herconscious will she had expressed her astonishment and pleasure. Itwas, indeed, doubtful whether any after speech or explanation would asclearly satisfy both hearts as did that momentary flash from soul tosoul of mutual remembrance and interest.
"I thought I'd give you a surprise," said Mrs. Rawdon delightedly. "Youdidn't know the Tyrrel-Rawdons had a branch in America, did you? We area bit proud of them, I can tell you that."
And, indeed, the motherly lady had some reason. John Thomas was ahandsome youth of symmetrical bone and flesh and well-developed muscle.He had clear, steady, humorous eyes; a manner frank and independent,not to be put upon; and yet Ethel divined, though she could not havedeclared, the "want" in his appearance--that all-overish grace andelasticity which comes only from the development of the brain andnervous system. His face was also marred by the seal of commonness whichtrade impresses on so many men, the result of the subjection of theintellect to the will, and of the impossibility of grasping thingsexcept as they relate to self. In this respect the American cousin washis antipodes. His whole body had a psychical expression--slim,elastic, alert. Over his bright gray eyes the eyelids drew themselveshorizontally, showing his dexterity and acuteness of mind; indeed, hiswhole expression and mien
"Were, as are the eagle's keen, All the man was aquiline."
These personal characteristics taking some minutes to describe werealmost an instantaneous revelation to Ethel, for what the soul sees itsees in a flash of understanding. But at that time she only answered herimpressions without any inquiry concerning them. She was absorbed by thepersonal presence of the men, and all that was lovely and lovable in hernature responded to their admiration.
As they strolled together through a flowery alley, she made them passtheir hands through the thyme and lavender, and listen to a bird singingits verses, loud and then soft, in the scented air above them. Theycame out where the purple plum
s and golden apricots were beginning tobrighten a southern wall, and there, moodily walking by himself, theymet Mostyn face to face. An angry flash and movement interpreted hisannoyance, but he immediately recovered himself, and met Ethel and hislate political opponent with polite equanimity. But a decided constraintfell on the happy party, and Ethel was relieved to hear the firsttones of the great bell swing out from its lofty tower the call to thedining-room.
As far as Mostyn was concerned, this first malapropos meeting indicatedthe whole evening. His heart was beating quickly to some sense of defeatwhich he did not take the trouble to analyze. He only saw the man whohad shattered his political hopes and wasted his money in possessionalso of what he thought he might rightly consider his place at Ethel'sside. He had once contemplated making Ethel his bride, and though thematrimonial idea had collapsed as completely as the political one, theenvious, selfish misery of the "dog in the manger" was eating at hisheartstrings. He did not want Ethel; but oh, how he hated the thought ofeither John Thomas or that American Raw-don winning her! His seat at thedinner-table also annoyed him. It was far enough from the objects ofhis resentment to prevent him hearing or interfering in their merryconversation; and he told himself with passionate indignation that Ethelhad never once in all their intercourse been so beautiful and bright asshe revealed herself that evening to those two Rawdon youths--one a mereloom-master, the other an American whom no one knew anything about.
The long, bewitching hours of the glorious evening added fuel to theflame of his anger. He could only procure from Ethel the promise of oneunimportant dance at the close of her programme; and the American hadthree dances, and the mere loom-man two. And though he attempted torestore his self-complacency by devoting his whole attentions to theonly titled young ladies in the room, he had throughout the eveninga sense of being snubbed, and of being a person no longer of muchimportance at Rawdon Court. And the reasoning of wounded self-love is asingular process. Mostyn was quite oblivious of any personal cause forthe change; he attributed it entirely to the Squire's ingratitude.
"I did the Squire a good turn when he needed it, and of course he hatesme for the obligation; and as for the Judge and his fine daughter, theyinterfered with my business--did me a great wrong--and they are onlyillustrating the old saying, 'Since I wronged you I never liked you.'"After indulging such thoughts awhile, he resolved to escort the ladiesAurelia and Isolde Danvers to Danvers Castle, and leave Miss Ethel tofind a partner for her last dance, a decision that favored John Thomas,greatly relieved Ethel, and bestowed upon himself that most irritatingof all punishments, a self-inflicted disappointment.
This evening was the inauguration of a period of undimmed delight. In itthe Tyrrel-Rawdons concluded a firm and affectionate alliance with theelder branch at the Court, and one day after a happy family dinnerJohn Thomas made the startling proposal that "the portrait of thedisinherited, disowned Tyrrel should be restored to its place in thefamily gallery." He said he had "just walked through it, and noticedthat the spot was still vacant, and I think surely," he added, "theyoung man's father must have meant to recall him home some day, butperhaps death took him unawares."
"Died in the hunting-field," murmured the Squire.
John Thomas bowed his head to the remark, and proceeded, "So perhaps,Squire, it may be in your heart to forgive the dead, and bring back thepoor lad's picture to its place. They who sin for love aren't so bad,sir, as they who sin for money. I never heard worse of Tyrrel Rawdonthan that he loved a poor woman instead of a rich woman--and marriedher. Those that have gone before us into the next life, I should thinkare good friends together; and I wouldn't wonder if we might even makethem happier there if we conclude to forget all old wrongs and livetogether here--as Rawdons ought to live--like one family."
"I am of your opinion, John Thomas," said the Squire, rising, and as hedid so he looked at the Judge, who immediately indorsed the proposal.One after the other rose with sweet and strong assent, until there wasonly Tyrrel Rawdon's voice lacking. But when all had spoken he rosealso, and said:
"I am Tyrrel Rawdon's direct descendant, and I speak for him when I sayto-day, 'Make room for me among my kindred!' He that loves much may beforgiven much."
Then the housekeeper was called, and they went slowly, with soft words,up to the third story of the house. And the room unused for a centurywas flung wide open; the shutters were unbarred, and the sunshineflooded it; and there amid his fishing tackle, guns, and whips, andfaded ballads upon the wall, and books of wood lore and botany, anddress suits of velvet and satin, and hunting suits of scarlet--all fadedand falling to pieces--stood the picture of Tyrrel Rawdon, with its faceturned to the wall. The Squire made a motion to his descendant, and theyoung American tenderly turned it to the light. There was no decay onthose painted lineaments. The almost boyish face, with its loving eyesand laughing mouth, was still twenty-four years old; and with a look ofpride and affection the Squire lifted the picture and placed it in thehands of the Tyrrel Rawdon of the day.
The hanging of the picture in its old place was a silent and tenderlittle ceremony, and after it the party separated. Mrs. Rawdon wentwith Ruth to rest a little. She said "she had a headache," and she alsowanted a good womanly talk over the affair. The Squire, Judge Rawdon,Mr. Nicholas Rawdon, and John Thomas returned to the dining-room todrink a bottle of such mild Madeira as can only now be found in thecellars of old county magnates, and Ethel and Tyrrel Rawdon strolledinto the garden. There had not been in either mind any intention ofleaving the party, but as they passed through the hall Tyrrel sawEthel's garden hat and white parasol lying on a table, and, impelled bysome sudden and unreasoned instinct, he offered them to her. Not a wordof request was spoken; it was the eager, passionate command of hiseyes she obeyed. And for a few minutes they were speechless, then sointensely conscious that words stumbled and were lame, and they managedonly syllables at a time. But he took her hand, and they came by sunnyalleys of boxwood to a great plane tree, bearing at wondrous heighta mighty wealth of branches. A bank of soft, green turf encircled itsroots, and they sat down in the trembling shadows. It was in the midstof the herb garden; beds of mint and thyme, rosemary and marjoram,basil, lavender, and other fragrant plants were around, and close athand a little city of straw skeps peopled by golden brown bees; Fromthese skeps came a delicious aroma of riced flowers and virgin wax. Itwas a new Garden of Eden, in which life was sweet as perfume and pure asprayer. Nothing stirred the green, sunny afternoon but the murmur of thebees, and the sleepy twittering of the birds in the plane branches. Aninexpressible peace swept like the breath of heaven through the odorousplaces. They sat down sighing for very happiness. The silence became tooeloquent. At length it was almost unendurable, and Ethel said softly:
"How still it is!"
Tyrrel looked at her steadily with beaming eyes. Then he took from hispocket a little purse of woven gold and opal-tinted beads, and held itin his open hand for her to see, watching the bright blush that spreadover her face, and the faint, glad smile that parted her lips.
"You understand?"
"Yes. It is mine."
"It was yours. It is now mine."
"How did you get it?"
"I bought it from the old man you gave it to."
"Oh! Then you know him? How is that?"
"The hotel people sent a porter home with him lest he should be robbed.Next day I made inquiries, and this porter told me where he lived. Iwent there and bought this purse from him. I knew some day it wouldbring me to you. I have carried it over my heart ever since."
"So you noticed me?"
"I saw you all the time I was singing. I have never forgotten you sincethat hour."
"What made you sing?"
"Compassion, fate, an urgent impulse; perhaps, indeed, your piteousface--I saw it first."
"Really?"
"I saw it first. I saw it all the time I was singing. When you droppedthis purse my soul met yours in a moment's greeting. It was a promise.I knew I should meet you again. I have loved you ev
er since. I wantedto tell you so the hour we met. It has been hard to keep my secret solong."
"It was my secret also."
"I love you beyond all words. My life is in your hands. You can make methe gladdest of mortals. You can send me away forever."
"Oh, no, I could not! I could not do that!" The rest escapes words; butthus it was that on this day of days these two came by God's grace toeach other.
For all things come by fate to flower, At their unconquerable hour.
And the very atmosphere of such bliss is diffusive; it seemed as if allthe living creatures around understood. In the thick, green branchesthe birds began to twitter the secret, and certainly the wise, wise beesknew also, in some occult way, of the love and joy that had just beenrevealed. A wonderful humming and buzzing filled the hives, and theair vibrated with the movement of wings. Some influence more swift andsecret than the birds of the air carried the matter further, for itfinally reached Royal, the Squire's favorite collie, who came saunteringdown the alley, pushed his nose twice under Ethel's elbow, and then witha significant look backward, advised the lovers to follow him to thehouse.
When they finally accepted his invitation, they found Mrs. Rawdondrinking a cup of tea with Ruth in the hall. Ethel joined them withaffected high spirits and random explanations and excuses, but bothwomen no-ticed her radiant face and exulting air. "The garden is such aheavenly place," she said ecstatically, and Mrs Rawdon remarked, as sherose and put her cup on the table, "Girls need chaperons in gardens ifthey need them anywhere. I made Nicholas Rawdon a promise in MossgillGarden I've had to spend all my life since trying to keep."
"Tyrrel and I have been sitting under the plane tree watching the bees.They are such busy, sensible creatures."
"They are that," answered Mrs. Rawdon. "If you knew all about them youwould wonder a bit. My father had a great many; he studied their waysand used to laugh at the ladies of the hive being so like the ladies ofthe world. You see the young lady bees are just as inexperienced as aschoolgirl. They get lost in the flowers, and are often so overtaken andreckless, that the night finds them far from the hive, heavy withpollen and chilled with cold. Sometimes father would lift one of theseimprudent young things, carry it home, and try to get it admitted. Henever could manage it. The lady bees acted just as women are apt to dowhen other women GO where they don't go, or DO as they don't do."
"But this is interesting," said Ruth. "Pray, how did the ladies of thehive behave to the culprit?"
"They came out and felt her all over, turned her round and round, andthen pushed her out of their community. There was always a deal ofbuzzing about the poor, silly thing, and I shouldn't wonder if theirstings were busy too. Bees are ill-natured as they can be. Well, well,I don't blame anyone for sitting in the garden such a day as this; only,as I was saying, gardens have been very dangerous places for women asfar as I know."
Ruth laughed softly. "I shall take a chaperon with me, then, when I gointo the garden."
"I would, dearie. There's the Judge; he's a very suitable,sedate-looking one but you never can tell. The first woman found in agarden and a tree had plenty of sorrow for herself and every woman thathas lived after her. I wish Nicholas and John Thomas would come. I'llwarrant they're talking what they call politics."
Politics was precisely the subject which had been occupying them, forwhen Tyrrel entered the dining-room, the Squire, Judge Rawdon, andMr. Nicholas Rawdon were all standing, evidently just finishing aConservative argument against the Radical opinions of John Thomas. Theyoung man was still sitting, but he rose with smiling good-humor asTyrrel entered.
"Here is Cousin Tyrrel," he cried; "he will tell you that you may calla government anything you like radical, conservative, republican,democratic, socialistic, but if it isn't a CHEAP government, it isn't agood government; and there won't be a cheap government in England tillpoor men have a deal to say about making laws and voting taxes."
"Is that the kind of stuff you talk to our hands, John Thomas? No wonderthey are neither to hold nor to bind."
They were in the hall as John Thomas finished his political creed, andin a few minutes the adieux were said, and the wonderful day was over.It had been a wonderful day for all, but perhaps no one was sorry for apause in life--a pause in which they might rest and try to realize whatit had brought and what it had taken away. The Squire went at once tohis room, and Ethel looked at Ruth inquiringly. She seemed exhausted,and was out of sympathy with all her surroundings.
"What enormous vitality these Yorkshire women must have!" she saidalmost crossly. "Mrs. Rawdon has been talking incessantly for six hours.She has felt all she said. She has frequently risen and walked about.She has used all sorts of actions to emphasize her words, and she is asfresh as if she had just taken her morning bath. How do the men standthem?"
"Because they are just as vital. John Thomas will overlook and scoldand order his thousand hands all day, talk even his mother down while heeats his dinner, and then lecture or lead his Musical Union, or conducta poor man's concert, or go to 'the Weaver's Union,' and what he calls'threep them' for two or three hours that labor is ruining capital,and killing the goose that lays golden eggs for them. Oh, they are awonderful race, Ruth!"
"I really can't discuss them now, Ethel."
"Don't you want to know what Tyrrel said to me this afternoon?"
"My dear, I know. Lovers have said such things before, and lovers willsay them evermore. You shall tell me in the morning. I thought he lookeddistrait and bored with our company."
Indeed, Tyrrel was so remarkably quiet that John Thomas also noticed hismood, and as they sat smoking in Tyrrel's room, he resolved to find outthe reason, and with his usual directness asked:
"What do you think of Ethel Rawdon, Tyrrel."
"I think she is the most beautiful woman I ever saw. She has also themost sincere nature, and her high spirit is sweetly tempered by heraffectionate heart."
"I am glad you know so much about her. Look here, Cousin Tyrrel, Ifancied to-night you were a bit jealous of me. It is easy to see you arein love, and I've no doubt you were thinking of the days when you wouldbe thousands of miles away, and I should have the ground clear and soon, eh?"
"Suppose I was, cousin, what then?"
"You would be worrying for nothing. I don't want to marry Ethel Rawdon.If I did, you would have to be on the ground all the time, and then Ishould best you; but I picked out my wife two years ago, and if we areboth alive and well, we are going to be married next Christmas."
"I am delighted. I----"
"I thought you would be."
"Who is the young lady?"
"Miss Lucy Watson. Her father is the Independent minister. He is agentleman, though his salary is less than we give our overseer. And heis a great scholar. So is Lucy. She finished her course at college thissummer, and with high honors. Bless you, Tyrrel, she knows far morethan I do about everything but warps and looms and such like. I admire aclever woman, and I'm proud of Lucy."
"Where is she now?"
"Well, she was a bit done up with so much study, and so she went toScarborough for a few weeks. She has an aunt there. The sea breezes andsalt water soon made her fit for anything. She may be home very soonnow. Then, Tyrrel, you'll see a beauty--face like a rose, hair brown asa nut, eyes that make your heart go galloping, the most enticing mouth,the prettiest figure, and she loves me with all her heart. When she says'John Thomas, dear one,' I tremble with pleasure, and when she lets mekiss her sweet mouth, I really don't know where I am. What would you sayif a girl whispered, 'I love you, and nobody but you,' and gave you akiss that was like--like wine and roses? Now what would you say?"
"I know as little as you do what I would say. It's a situation to make aman coin new words. I suppose your family are pleased."
"Well, I never thought about my family till I had Lucy's word. Then Itold mother. She knew Lucy all through. Mother has a great respect forIndependents, and though father sulked a bit at first, mother had itout with him one night, and
when mother has father quiet in their roomfather comes to see things just as she wants him. I suppose that's theway with wives. Lucy will be just like that. She's got a sharp littletemper, too. She'll let me have a bit of it, no doubt, now and then."
"Will you like that?"
"I wouldn't care a farthing for a wife without a bit of temper. Therewould be no fun in living with a woman of that kind. My father woulddroop and pine if mother didn't spur him on now and then. And he likesit. Don't I know? I've seen mother snappy and awkward with him allbreakfast time, tossing her head, and rattling the china, and declaringshe was worn out with men that let all the good bargains pass them;perhaps making fun of us because we couldn't manage to get along withoutstrikes. She had no strikes with her hands, she'd like to see her womenstand up and talk to her about shorter hours, and so on; and fatherwould look at me sly-like, and as we walked to the mill together he'dlaugh contentedly and say, 'Your mother was quite refreshing thismorning, John Thomas. She has keyed me up to a right pitch. WhenJonathan Arkroyd comes about that wool he sold us I'll be all readyfor him.' So you see I'm not against a sharp temper. I like women asTennyson says English girls are, 'roses set round with little wilfulthorns,' eh?"
Unusual as this conversation was, its general tone was assumed by Ethelin her confidential talk with Ruth the following day. Of course, Ruthwas not at all surprised at the news Ethel brought her, for though thelovers had been individually sure they had betrayed their secret tono one, it had really been an open one to Ruth since the hour of theirmeeting. She was sincerely ardent in her praises of Tyrrel Rawdon,but--and there is always a but--she wondered if Ethel had "noticed whata quick temper he had."
"Oh, yes," answered Ethel, "I should not like him not to have a quicktemper. I expect my husband to stand up at a moment's notice for eithermine or his own rights or opinions."
And in the afternoon when all preliminaries had been settled andapproved, Judge Rawdon expressed himself in the same manner to Ruth."Yes," he said, in reply to her timid suggestion of temper, "youcan strike fire anywhere with him if you try it, but he has it undercontrol. Besides, Ethel is just as quick to flame up. It will be Rawdonagainst Rawdon, and Ethel's weapons are of finer, keener steel thanTyrrel's. Ethel will hold her own. It is best so."
"How did the Squire feel about such a marriage?"
"He was quite overcome with delight. Nothing was said to Tyrrel aboutEthel having bought the reversion of Rawdon Manor, for things have beenharder to get into proper shape than I thought they would be, and it maybe another month before all is finally settled; but the Squire has thesecret satisfaction, and he was much affected by the certainty of aRawdon at Rawdon Court after him. He declined to think of it in anyother way but 'providential,' and of course I let him take all thesatisfaction he could out of the idea. Ever since he heard of theengagement he has been at the organ singing the One Hundred and ThirdPsalm."
"He is the dearest and noblest of men. How soon shall we go home now?"
"In about a month. Are you tired of England?"
"I shall be glad to see America again. There was a letter from Dora thismorning. They sail on the twenty-third."
"Do you know anything of Mostyn?"
"Since he wrote us a polite farewell we have heard nothing."
"Do you think he went to America?"
"I cannot tell. When he bid us good-by he made no statement as to hisdestination; he merely said 'he was leaving England on business.'"
"Well, Ruth, we shall sail as soon as I am satisfied all is right. Thereis a little delay about some leases and other matters. In the meantimethe lovers are in Paradise wherever we locate them."
And in Paradise they dwelt for another four weeks. The ancient gardenhad doubtless many a dream of love to keep, but none sweeter or truerthan the idyl of Tyrrel and Ethel Rawdon. They were never weary ofrehearsing it; every incident of its growth had been charming andromantic, and, as they believed, appointed from afar. As the sum-merwaxed hotter the beautiful place took on an appearance of royal colorand splendor, and the air was languid with the perfume of the clovecarnations and tall white August lilies. Fluted dahlias, scarletpoppies, and all the flowers that exhale their spice in the last hotdays of August burned incense for them. Their very hair was laden withodor, their fingers flower-sweet, their minds took on the many colors oftheir exquisite surroundings.
And it was part of this drama of love and scent and color that theyshould see it slowly assume the more ethereal loveliness of September,and watch the subtle amber rays shine through the thinning boughs, andfeel that all nature was becoming idealized. The birds were then mostlysilent. They had left their best notes on the hawthorns and among theroses; but the crickets made a cheerful chirrup, and the great brownbutterflies displayed their richest velvets, and the gossamer-likeinsects in the dreamy atmosphere performed dances and undulations fullof grace and mystery. And all these marvelous changes imparted to lovethat sweet sadness which is beyond all words poetic and enchaining.
Yet however sweet the hours, they pass away, and it is not much memorycan save from the mutable, happy days of love. Still, when the hour ofdeparture came they had garnered enough to sweeten all the after-straitsand stress of time. September had then perceptibly begun to add tothe nights and shorten the days, and her tender touch had been laid oneverything. With a smile and a sigh the Rawdons turned their faces totheir pleasant home in the Land of the West. It was to be but a shortfarewell. They had promised the Squire to return the following summer,but he felt the desolation of the parting very keenly. With his hatslightly lifted above his white head, he stood watching them out ofsight. Then he went to his organ, and very soon grand waves of melodyrolled outward and upward, and blended themselves with the clear,soaring voice of Joel, the lad who blew the bellows of the instrument,and shared all his master's joy in it. They played and sang until theSquire rose weary, but full of gladness. The look of immortality was inhis eyes, its sure and certain hope in his heart. He let Joel lead himto his chair by the window, and then he said to himself with visibletriumph:
"What Mr. Spencer or anyone else writes about 'the Unknowable' I carenot. I KNOW IN WHOM I have believed. Joel, sing that last sequenceagain. Stand where I can see thee." And the lad's joyful voice rangexulting out:
"Lord, Thou hast been our dwelling-place in all generations. Before themountains were brought forth, or ever Thou hadst formed the world, fromeverlasting to everlasting Thou art God! Thou art God! Thou art God!"
"That will do, Joel. Go thy ways now. Lord, Thou hast been ourdwelling-place in all generations. 'Unknowable,' Thou hast been ourdwelling-place in all generations. No, no, no, what an ungrateful sinnerI would be to change the Lord everlasting for the Unknowable.'"