THREE days afterward Ethel called on Dora
Stanhope at the Savoy. She found her alone,
and she had evidently been crying. Indeed, she
frankly admitted the fact, declaring that she
had been "so bored and so homesick, that she
relieved she had cried her beauty away." She
glanced at Ethel's radiant face and neat fresh
toilet with envy, and added, "I am so glad
to see you, Ethel. But I was sure that you
would come as soon as you knew I wanted
you."
"Oh, indeed, Dora, you must not make
yourself too sure of such a thing as that! I
really came to London to get some new gowns.
I have been shopping 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 interests and 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 everyone and everything
else. I think we are often very tired of each
other. This morning, 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, and of course the
honeymoon is over when your bridegroom
yawns in your face while you are telling him
your troubles."
"I should think you would be glad it was
over. Of all the words in the English 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 hardly enter a new life
through a medium more trying. I am sure it
would need long-tested affections and the
sweetest of tempers to make it endurable."
"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 women don't love changes as men do.
Not one in a thousand is seen at her best
while traveling, and the majority are seen at
their very worst. Then there is the discomfort
and desolation of European hotels--
their mysterious methods and hours, and the
ways of foreigners, which are not as our
ways."
"Don't talk of them, Ethel. They are
dreadful places, and such queer people."
"Add to these troubles ignorance of language
and coinage, the utter weariness of
railway travel, the plague of customs, the
trunk that won'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 it all. I want to be
at Newport with mother, who is having a
lovely time there. Of course Basil is very
nice to me, and yet there have been little tiffs
and struggles--very gentle ones--for the mastery,
which he is not going to get. To-day he
wanted me to go with him and Canon Shackleton
to see something or other about the poor
of London. I would not do it. I am so lonely,
Ethel, I want to see some one. I feel fit to
cry 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 that the person you like
best in the world can bore you as badly as
the person you don't like at all. Is that so?"
"Exactly. Just fancy if we were among
our friends in Newport. I should have some
pleasure in dressing and looking lovely. Why
should I dress here? There is no one to see
me."
"Basil."
"Of course, but Basil spends all the time
in visiting cathedrals and clergymen. If we
go out, it is to see something about the poor,
or about schools and such like. We were not
in London two hours until he was off to Westminster
Abbey, and I didn't care a cent about
the old place. He says I must not ask him to
go to theaters, but historical old houses don't
interest me at all. What does it matter if
Cromwell slept in a certain ancient shabby
room? And as for all the palaces I have
seen, my father's house is a great deal handsomer,
and more convenient, and more comfortable,
and I wish I were there. I hate Europe,
and England I hate worst of all."
"You have not seen England. We are all
enraptured with its beauty and its old houses
and pleasant life."
"You are among friends--at home, as it
were. I have heard all about Rawdon 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 will be 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 go there.
We stayed with the Stanhopes a week when
we first came over. They were 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 extremely religious.
We had prayers night and morning, and a
prayer before and after every meal. They
read only very good books, and the Honorable
Misses Stanhope sew for the poor old women
and teach the poor young ones. They work
harder than anyone I ever knew, and they call
it `improving the time.' They thought me a
very silly, reckless young woman, and I think
they all prayed for me. One night after they
had sung some very nice songs they asked me
to play, and I began with `My Little Brown
Rose'--you know they all adore the negro--
and little by little I dropped into the funniest
coon songs I knew, and oh how they laughed!
Even the old lord stroked his knees and
laughed out loud, while the young ladies
laughed into their handkerchiefs. Lady
Stanhope was the only one who comprehended
I was guying them; and she looked at
me with half-shut eyes in a way that would
have spoiled some girls' fun. It only made
me the merrier. So I tried to show them a
cake walk, but the old lord 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, and when he
came home I think there were some advices
and remonstrances, but Basil 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 few days, and he will
take me to places that Basil will not--innocent
places enough, Ethel, so you need not
look so shocked. Why do you not ask me to
Rawdon 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 how lonely I am, he
would tell you to send for me."
"I do not believe he would. He has old-
fashioned ideas about newly married people.
He would hardly think it possible that you
would be willing 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 very near
Rawdon Court."
"Yes. Fred said as soon as he had possession
of the Court he could put both places
into a ring fence. Then he would live at the
Court. If he asks us there next summer I
shall be sure to beg an invitation for you also;
so I think you might deserve it by getting me
one now. I don't want to go to Mostyn yet.
Fred says it needs entire refurnishing, and if
we come to the Court next summer, I have
promised to give him my advice and help in
making the place pretty and up to date. Have
you seen Mostyn Hall?"
"I have passed it several times. It is a
large, gloomy-looking place I was 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 were jealous of
Fred's liking for me. And of course when
he goes down to Mostyn you would prefer me
to be absent."
"Good-by, Dora! I have a deal of shopping
to do, and there is not much time 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 to us, and
the Squire is going to give a dinner and ball
on the first of August."
"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 us at 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 call because she
was too busy."
"Everyone and everything comes before
me now. I used to be first of all. I wish I
were in Newport with dad and mamma; even
Bryce would be a comfort."
"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 Ethel closed the door
to the sound of her sobs. But they did not
cause her to return or to make any foolish
promises. She divined their insincerity and
their motive, and had no mind to take any
part in forwarding the latter.
And Ruth assured her she had acted wisely.
"If trouble should ever come of this friendship,"
she said, "Dora would very likely
complain that you had always thrown Mostyn
in her way, brought him to her house in
New York, and brought her to him at Rawdon,
in England. Marriage is such a risk,
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; scattered seeds, from which
only misery can spring. I hope you will not
see her again at this time."
"I made no promise to do so."
"And where all is so uncertain, we had
better suppose all is right than that all is
wrong. Even if there was the beginning of
wrong, it needs but an accident to prevent it,
and there are so many."
"Accidents!"
"Yes, for accident is God's part in affairs.
We call it accident; it would be better to say
an interposition."
"Dora told me Mostyn intended to buy
Rawdon Court in September, and he has 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 in Hyde Park
with Mostyn, but the smiling greeting which
passed between the parties did not, except in
the case of Basil Stanhope, fairly represent
the dominant feeling of anyone. As for
Stanhope, his nature was so clear and truthful
that he would hardly have comprehended
a smile which was intended to veil feelings
not to be called either quite friendly or quite
pleasant. After this meeting all the joy went
out of Ruth and Ethel's shopping. They
wanted to get back to the Court, and they
attended strictly to business in order to do so.
Mostyn followed them very quickly. He
was exceedingly anxious to see and hear for
himself how his affairs regarding Rawdon
stood. They were easily made plain to him,
and he saw with a pang of disappointment
that all his hopes of being Squire of Rawdon
Manor were over. Every penny he could
righteously claim was paid to him, and on the
title deeds of the ancient place he had no
longer the shadow of a claim. The Squire
looked ten years younger as he affectionately
laid both hands on the redeemed parchments,
and Mostyn with enforced politeness
congratulated him on their integrity and then
made a hurried retreat. Of its own kind this
disappointment was as great as the loss of
Dora. He could think of neither without a
sense of immeasurable and disastrous failure.
One petty satisfaction regarding the
payment of the mortgage was his only com-
fort. He might now show McLean that it
was not want of money that had made him
hitherto shy of "the good investments" offered
him. He had been sure McLean in
their last interview had thought so, and had,
indeed, felt the half-veiled contempt with
which the rich young man had expressed his
pity for Mostyn's inability to take advantage
at the right moment of an exceptional chance
to play the game of beggaring his neighbor.
Now, he told himself, he would show McLean
and his braggart set that good birth and old
family was for once allied with plenty of
money, and he also promised his wounded
sensibilities some very desirable reprisals,
every one of which he felt fully competent
to take.
It was, after all, a poor compensation, but
there was also the gold. He thanked his
father that day for the great thoughtfulness
and care with which he had amassed this
sum for him, and he tried to console himself
with the belief that gold answered all purposes,
and that the yellow metal was a better
possession than the house and lands which
he had longed for with an inherited and insensate
craving.
Two days after this event Ethel, at her
father's direction, signed a number of papers,
and when that duty was completed, the
Squire rose from his chair, kissed her hands
and her cheeks, and in a voice full of tenderness
and pride said, "I pay my respects to
the future lady of Rawdon Manor, and I
thank God for permitting me to see this hour.
Most welcome, Lady Ethel, to the rights you
inherit, and the rights you have bought." It
was a moment hardly likely to be duplicated
in any life, and Ethel escaped from its tense
emotions as soon as possible. She could not
speak, her heart was too full of joy and wonder.
There are souls that say little and love
much. How blessed are they!
On the following morning the invitations
were sent for the dinner and dance, but the
time was put forward to the eighth of August.
In everyone's heart there was a hope
that before that day Mostyn would have left
Rawdon, but the hope was barely mentioned.
In the meantime he came and went between
Mostyn and Rawdon as he desired, and was
received with that modern politeness which
considers it best to ignore offenses that our
grandfathers and grandmothers would have
held for strict account and punishment.
It was evident that he had frequent letters
from Dora. He knew all her movements, and
spoke several times of opening Mostyn Hall
and inviting the Stanhopes to stay with him
until their return to America. But as this
suggestion did not bring from any member of
the Rawdon family the invitation hoped for,
it was not acted upon. He told himself the
expense would be great, and the Hall, in
spite of all he could do in the interim, would
look poor and shabby compared with Rawdon
Court; so he put aside the proposal on the
ground that he could not persuade his aunt
to do the entertaining necessary. And for
all the irritation and humiliations centering
round his loss of Rawdon and his inabilities
with regard to Dora he blamed Ethel. He was
sure if he had been more lovable and encouraging
he could have married her, and thus
finally reached Rawdon Court; and then, with
all the unreason imaginable, nursed a hearty
dislike to her because she would not understand
his desires, and provide means for their
satisfaction. The bright, joyous girl with
her loving heart, her abounding vitality, and
constant cheerfulness, made him angry. In
none of her excellencies he had any share,
consequently he hated her.
He would have quickly returned to London,
but Dora and her husband were staying with
the Stanhopes, and her letters from Stanhope
Castle were lachrymose complaints of
the utter weariness and dreariness of life
there the preaching and reading aloud, the
regular walking and driving--all the innocent
method of lives which recognized they
were here for some higher purpose than mere
physical enjoyment. And it angered Mostyn
that neither Ruth nor Ethel felt any sympathy
for Dora's ennui, and proposed no
means of releasing her from it. He considered
them both disgustingly selfish and ill-
natured, and was certain that all their
reluctance at Dora's presence arose from their
jealousy of her beauty 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
its decoration. They were merrily
laughing and chatting, and were not aware
of the arrival of any visitors until Mrs.
Nicholas Rawdon's rosy, good-natured face
appeared at the open door. Everyone welcomed
her gladly, and the Squire offered her
a seat.
"Nay, Squire," she said, "I'm come to
ask a favor, and I won't sit till I know
whether I get it or not; for if I don't get it,
I shall say good-by as quickly as I can. Our
John Thomas came home this morning and
his friend with him, and I want invitations
for the young men, both of them. My great
pleasure lies that way--if you'll give it to
me."
"Most gladly," answered the Squire, and
Ethel immediately went for the necessary
passports. When she returned she found
Mrs. Nicholas helping Ruth and the Squire
to arrange the large silver and cut crystal on
the sideboard, and talking at the same time
with unabated vivacity.
"Yes," she was saying, "the lads would
have been here two days ago, but they stayed
in London to see some American lady married.
John Thomas's friend knew her. She
was married at the Ambassador's house. A
fine affair enough, but it bewilders me this
taking up marriage without priest 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 Thomas if he
ever got himself married in that kind of a
way, he wouldn't have father or me for witnesses."
"I am glad," said the Squire, "that the
young men are home in time for our dance.
The young like such things."
"To be sure they do. John Thomas
wouldn't give me a moment's rest till I came
here. I didn't want to come. I thought
John Thomas should come himself, and I told
him plainly that I was ready to do anyone a
favor if I could, but if he wanted me to come
because he was afraid to come himself, I was
just as ready to shirk the journey. And he
laughed and said he was not feared for any
woman living, but he did want to make his
first 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 nice lads, indeed.
I can speak for John Thomas, I have
taken his measure long since; and as far as
I can judge his friend, Nature went about
some full work when she made a man of him.
He's got a sweet temper, and a strong mind,
and a straight judgment, if I know anything
about men--which Nicholas sometimes makes
me think I don't. But Nicholas isn't an ordinary
man, he's what you call `an exception.'"
Then shaking her head at Ethel,
she continued reprovingly: "You were
neither of you in church Sunday. I know
some young women who went to the parish
church--Methodists they are--specially to
see your new hats. There's some talk about
them, I can tell you, and the village milliner
is pestered to copy them. She keeps her eyes
open for you. You disappointed a lot of people.
You ought to go to church in the country.
It's the most respectable thing you can
do."
"We were both very tired," said Ruth,
"and the sun was hot, and we had a good
Sabbath at home. Ethel read the Psalms,
Epistle and Gospel for the day, and the
Squire gave us some of the grandest organ
music I ever heard."
"Well, well! Everyone knows the Squire
is a grand player. I don't suppose there is
another to match him in the whole world,
and the old feeling about church-going is
getting slack among the young people. They
serve 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 went to their chapel
until I married Nicholas Rawdon. My fa-
ther was a broad-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
and make things cleaner and more respectable.
Well, Squire, you have silver enough
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
be a very important woman to-night. Them
two lads won't know how to fleech and flatter
me enough. I'll be waited on hand and foot.
And Nicholas will get a bit of a set-down.
He was bragging about Miss Ethel bringing
his invitation to his hand and promising to
dance with him. I wouldn't do it if I were
Miss Ethel. She'll find out, if she does, what
it means to dance with a man that weighs
twenty stone, and who has never turned hand
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 made the last rush and crowd of
preparations easily ordered and quickly
accomplished. Before her arrival there had
been some doubt as to the weather. She
brought the shining sun with her, and when
he set, he left them with the promise of a
splendid to-morrow--a promise amply redeemed
when the next day dawned. Indeed,
the sunshine was so brilliant, the garden so
gay and sweet, the lawn so green and firm,
the avenues so shady and full of wandering
songs, that it was resolved to hold the
preliminary reception out of doors. Ethel and
Ruth were to receive on the lawn, and at the
open hall door the Squire would wait to welcome
his guests.
Soon after five o'clock there was a brilliant
crowd wandering and resting in the pleasant
spaces; and Ethel, wearing a diaphanously
white robe and carrying a rush basket full
of white carnations, was moving among them
distributing the flowers. She was thus the
center of a little laughing, bantering group
when the Nicholas Rawdon party arrived.
Nicholas remained with the Squire, Mrs.
Rawdon and the young men went toward
Ethel. Mrs. Rawdon made a very handsome
appearance--"an aristocratic Britannia in
white liberty silk and old lace," whispered
Ruth, and Ethel looked up quickly, to meet
her merry eyes full of some unexplained
triumph. In truth, the proud mother was
anticipating a great pleasure, not only in the
presentation of her adored son, but also in
the curiosity and astonishment she felt sure
would be evoked by his friend. So, with the
boldness of one who brings happy tidings,
she pressed forward. Ethel saw her approach,
and went to meet her. Suddenly her
steps were arrested. An extraordinary thing
was going to happen. The Apollo of her
dreams, the singer of the Holland House
pavement, was at Mrs. 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 his name in
a few moments; all that she had hoped and
believed was coming true. And the clear,
resonant voice of Lydia Rawdon was like
music in her 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, and also
John Thomas's cousin, Mr. Tyrrel Rawdon,
of the United States." Then Mr. Tyrrel
Rawdon looked into Ethel's face, and in that
marvelous meeting of their eyes, swift as the
firing of a gun, their pupils dilated and
flashed with recognition, and the blood rushed
crimson over both faces. She gave the gentlemen
flowers, and listened to Mrs. Rawdon's
chatter, and said in reply she knew not
what. A swift and exquisite excitement had
followed her surprise. Feelings she could
not voice were beating at her lips, and yet
she knew that without her conscious will she
had expressed her astonishment and pleasure.
It was, indeed, doubtful whether any
after speech or explanation would as clearly
satisfy both hearts as did that momentary
flash from soul to soul of mutual remembrance
and interest.
"I thought I'd give you a surprise," said
Mrs. Rawdon delightedly. "You didn't
know the Tyrrel-Rawdons had a branch in
America, did you? We are a bit proud of
them, I can tell you that."
And, indeed, the motherly lady had some
reason. John Thomas was a handsome 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 have declared, the "want" in his
appearance--that all-overish grace and elasticity
which comes only from the development
of the brain and nervous system. His face
was also marred by the seal of commonness
which trade impresses on so many men, the result
of the subjection of the intellect to the
will, and of the impossibility of grasping things
except as they relate to self. In this respect
the American cousin was his antipodes. His
whole body had a psychical expression--slim,
elastic, alert. Over his bright gray eyes the
eyelids drew themselves horizontally, showing
his dexterity and acuteness of mind; indeed,
his whole expression and mien
"Were, as are the eagle's keen,
All the man was aquiline."
These personal characteristics taking some
minutes to describe were almost an instantaneous
revelation to Ethel, for what the soul
sees it sees in a flash of understanding. But
at that time she only answered her impressions
without any inquiry concerning them.
She was absorbed by the personal presence of
the men, and all that was lovely and lovable
in her nature responded to their admiration.
As they strolled together through a flowery
alley, she made them pass their hands through
the thyme and lavender, and listen to a bird
singing its verses, loud and then soft, in the
scented air above them. They came out where
the purple plums and golden apricots were
beginning to brighten a southern wall, and
there, moodily walking by himself, they met
Mostyn face to face. An angry flash and
movement interpreted his annoyance, but he
immediately recovered himself, and met Ethel
and his late political opponent with polite
equanimity. But a decided constraint fell on
the happy party, and Ethel was relieved to
hear the first tones of the great bell swing
out from its lofty tower the call to the dining-room.
As far as Mostyn was concerned, this first
malapropos meeting indicated the whole
evening. His heart was beating quickly to
some sense of defeat which he did not take
the trouble to analyze. He only saw the man
who had shattered his political hopes and
wasted his money in possession also of what
he thought he might rightly consider his
place at Ethel's side. He had once contemplated
making Ethel his bride, and though
the matrimonial idea had collapsed as completely
as the political one, the envious, selfish
misery of the "dog in the manger" was
eating at his heartstrings. He did not want
Ethel; but oh, how he hated the thought of
either John Thomas or that American Raw-
don winning her! His seat at the dinner-
table also annoyed him. It was far enough
from the objects of his resentment to prevent
him hearing or interfering in their merry
conversation; and he told himself with passionate
indignation that Ethel had never once
in all their intercourse been so beautiful and
bright as she revealed herself that evening
to those two Rawdon youths--one a mere
loom-master, the other an American whom
no one knew anything about.
The long, bewitching hours of the glorious
evening added fuel to the flame of his anger.
He could only procure from Ethel the promise
of one unimportant dance at the close of
her programme; and the American had three
dances, and the mere loom-man two. And
though he attempted to restore his self-
complacency by devoting his whole attentions
to the only titled young ladies in the room, he
had throughout the evening a sense of being
snubbed, and of being a person no longer of
much importance at Rawdon Court. And the
reasoning of wounded self-love is a singular
process. Mostyn was quite oblivious of any
personal cause for the 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 hates me for the
obligation; and as for the Judge and his fine
daughter, they interfered with my business
--did me a great wrong--and they are only
illustrating the old saying, `Since I wronged
you I never liked you.'" After indulging
such thoughts awhile, he resolved to escort
the ladies Aurelia and Isolde Danvers to
Danvers Castle, and leave Miss Ethel to find
a partner for her last dance, a decision that
favored John Thomas, greatly relieved Ethel,
and bestowed upon himself that most irritating
of all punishments, a self-inflicted disappointment.
This evening was the inauguration of a
period of undimmed delight. In it the Tyrrel-
Rawdons concluded a firm and affectionate
alliance with the elder branch at the
Court, and one day after a happy family dinner
John Thomas made the startling proposal
that "the portrait of the disinherited,
disowned Tyrrel should be restored to its
place in the family gallery." He said he had
"just walked through it, and noticed that
the spot was still vacant, and I think surely,"
he added, "the young man's father must
have meant to recall him home some day, but
perhaps 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 the poor 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 Rawdon than that he loved a poor
woman instead of a rich woman--and married
her. Those that have gone before us into
the next life, I should think are good friends
together; and I wouldn't wonder if we might
even make them happier there if we conclude
to forget all old wrongs and live together
here--as Rawdons ought to live--like one
family."
"I am of your opinion, John Thomas,"
said the Squire, rising, and as he did so he
looked at the Judge, who immediately indorsed
the proposal. One after the other
rose with sweet and strong assent, until there
was only Tyrrel Rawdon's voice lacking.
But when all had spoken he rose also, and
said:
"I am Tyrrel Rawdon's direct descendant,
and I speak for him when I say to-day, `Make
room for me among my kindred!' He that
loves much may be forgiven 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 century was flung wide open; the shutters
were unbarred, and the sunshine flooded
it; and there amid his fishing tackle, guns,
and whips, and faded ballads upon the wall,
and books of wood lore and botany, and dress
suits of velvet and satin, and hunting suits
of scarlet--all faded and falling to pieces--
stood the picture of Tyrrel Rawdon, with its
face turned to the wall. The Squire made a
motion to his descendant, and the young
American tenderly turned it to the light.
There was no decay on those painted lineaments.
The almost boyish face, with its loving
eyes and laughing mouth, was still twenty-
four years old; and with a look of pride and
affection the Squire lifted the picture and
placed it in the hands of the Tyrrel Rawdon
of the day.
The hanging of the picture in its old place
was a silent and tender little ceremony, and
after it the party separated. Mrs. Rawdon
went with Ruth to rest a little. She said
"she had a headache," and she also wanted
a good womanly talk over the affair. The
Squire, Judge Rawdon, Mr. Nicholas Rawdon,
and John Thomas returned to the dining-
room to drink a bottle of such mild Madeira
as can only now be found in the cellars of
old county magnates, and Ethel and Tyrrel
Rawdon strolled into the garden. There had
not been in either mind any intention of
leaving the party, but as they passed through
the hall Tyrrel saw Ethel's garden hat and
white parasol lying on a table, and, impelled
by some sudden and unreasoned instinct, he
offered them to her. Not a word of request
was spoken; it was the eager, passionate command
of his eyes she obeyed. And for a few
minutes they were speechless, then so intensely
conscious that words stumbled and were
lame, and they managed only syllables at a
time. But he took her hand, and they came
by sunny alleys of boxwood to a great plane
tree, bearing at wondrous height a mighty
wealth of branches. A bank of soft, green
turf encircled its roots, and they sat down in
the trembling shadows. It was in the midst
of the herb garden; beds of mint and thyme,
rosemary and marjoram, basil, lavender, and
other fragrant plants were around, and close
at hand a little city of straw skeps peopled
by golden brown bees; From these skeps
came a delicious aroma of riced flowers and
virgin wax. It was a new Garden of Eden,
in which life was sweet as perfume and pure
as prayer. Nothing stirred the green, sunny
afternoon but the murmur of the bees, and
the sleepy twittering of the birds in the plane
branches. An inexpressible peace swept like
the breath of heaven through the odorous
places. They sat down sighing for very happiness.
The silence became too eloquent. 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 his pocket a little
purse of woven gold and opal-tinted beads,
and held it in his open hand for her to see,
watching the bright blush that spread over
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. I went there and bought this purse
from him. I knew some day it would bring
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 since that hour."
"What made you sing?"
"Compassion, fate, an urgent impulse;
perhaps, indeed, your piteous face--I saw it
first."
"Really?"
"I saw it first. I saw it all the time I was
singing. When you dropped this 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 ever since. I wanted to tell
you so the hour we met. It has been hard to
keep my secret so long."
"It was my secret also."
"I love you beyond all words. My life is
in your hands. You can make me the gladdest
of mortals. You can send me away forever."
"Oh, no, I could not! I could not do
that!" The rest escapes words; but thus it
was that on this day of days these two came
by God's grace to each 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 all the living creatures
around understood. In the thick, green
branches the birds began to twitter the secret,
and certainly the wise, wise bees knew also,
in some occult way, of the love and joy that
had just been revealed. A wonderful humming
and buzzing filled the hives, and the air
vibrated with the movement of wings. Some
influence more swift and secret than the birds
of the air carried the matter further, for it
finally reached Royal, the Squire's favorite
collie, who came sauntering down the alley,
pushed his nose twice under Ethel's elbow,
and then with a significant look backward,
advised the lovers to follow him to the house.
When they finally accepted his invitation,
they found Mrs. Rawdon drinking a cup of
tea with Ruth in the hall. Ethel joined them
with affected high spirits and random
explanations and excuses, but both women no-
ticed her radiant face and exulting air.
"The garden is such a heavenly place," she
said ecstatically, and Mrs Rawdon remarked,
as she rose and put her cup on the table,
"Girls need chaperons in gardens if they
need them anywhere. I made Nicholas Rawdon
a promise in Mossgill Garden 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 you would
wonder a bit. My father had a great many;
he studied their ways and used to laugh at
the ladies of the hive being so like the ladies
of the world. You see the young lady bees
are just as inexperienced as a schoolgirl.
They get lost in the flowers, and are often so
overtaken and reckless, that the night finds
them far from the hive, heavy with pollen
and chilled with cold. Sometimes father
would lift one of these imprudent young
things, carry it home, and try to get it admitted.
He never could manage it. The lady
bees acted just as women are apt to do when
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 the hive behave
to the culprit?"
"They came out and felt her all over,
turned her round and round, and then pushed
her out of their community. There was always
a deal of buzzing about the poor, silly
thing, and I shouldn't wonder if their stings
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 as far as I know."
Ruth laughed softly. "I shall take a
chaperon with me, then, when I go into 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 a
garden and a tree had plenty of sorrow for
herself and every woman that has lived after
her. I wish Nicholas and John Thomas
would come. I'll warrant they're talking
what they call politics."
Politics was precisely the subject which
had been occupying them, for when Tyrrel
entered the dining-room, the Squire, Judge
Rawdon, and Mr. Nicholas Rawdon were all
standing, evidently just finishing a Conservative
argument against the Radical opinions
of John Thomas. The young man was still
sitting, but he rose with smiling good-humor
as Tyrrel entered.
"Here is Cousin Tyrrel," he cried; "he
will tell you that you may call a government
anything you like radical, conservative, republican,
democratic, socialistic, but if it
isn't a CHEAP government, it isn't a good government;
and there won't be a cheap government
in England till poor 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 wonder they are
neither to hold nor to bind."
They were in the hall as John Thomas finished
his political creed, and in 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 a
pause in life--a pause in which they might
rest and try to realize what it had brought
and what it had taken away. The Squire went
at once to his 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 said almost 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 as fresh as if she had just
taken her morning bath. How do the men
stand them?"
"Because they are just as vital. John
Thomas will overlook and scold and order
his thousand hands all day, talk even his
mother down while he eats his dinner, and
then lecture or lead his Musical Union, or
conduct a 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 a
wonderful 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 will say them evermore.
You shall tell me in the morning. I
thought he looked distrait and bored with our
company."
Indeed, Tyrrel was so remarkably quiet
that John Thomas also noticed his mood, and
as they sat smoking in Tyrrel's room, he resolved
to find out the 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 the most sincere
nature, and her high spirit is sweetly tempered
by her affectionate heart."
"I am glad you know so much about her.
Look here, Cousin Tyrrel, I fancied to-night
you were a bit jealous of me. It is easy to
see you are in love, and I've no doubt you
were thinking of the days when you would be
thousands of miles away, and I should have
the ground clear and so on, 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 I should best you; but I
picked out my wife two years ago, and if we
are both 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 a gentleman,
though his salary is less than we give our
overseer. And he is a great scholar. So is
Lucy. She finished her course at college this
summer, and with high honors. Bless you,
Tyrrel, she knows far more than I do about
everything but warps and looms and such
like. I admire a clever 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 to Scarborough for a
few weeks. She has an aunt there. The sea
breezes and salt water soon made her fit for
anything. She may be home very soon now.
Then, Tyrrel, you'll see a beauty--face like
a rose, hair brown as a 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 me kiss her sweet mouth,
I really don't know where I am. What would
you say if a girl whispered, `I love you, and
nobody but you,' and gave you a kiss 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 a man coin new
words. I suppose your family are pleased."
"Well, I never thought about my family
till I had Lucy's word. Then I told mother.
She knew Lucy all through. Mother has a
great respect for Independents, and though
father sulked a bit at first, mother had it out
with him one night, and when mother has father
quiet in their room father comes to see
things just as she wants him. I suppose
that's the way with wives. Lucy will be just
like that. She's got a sharp little temper, 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. There would be no fun
in living with a woman of that kind. My father
would droop and pine if mother didn't
spur him on now and then. And he likes it.
Don't I know? I've seen mother snappy and
awkward with him all breakfast time, tossing
her head, and rattling the china, and declaring
she 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
without strikes. She had no strikes with her
hands, she'd like to see her women stand up
and talk to her about shorter hours, and so on;
and father would look at me sly-like, and as
we walked to the mill together he'd laugh contentedly
and say, `Your mother was quite refreshing
this morning, John Thomas. She has
keyed me up to a right pitch. When Jonathan
Arkroyd comes about that wool he sold us I'll
be all ready for him.' So you see I'm not
against a sharp temper. I like women as Tennyson
says English girls are, `roses set round
with little wilful thorns,' eh?"
Unusual as this conversation was, its general
tone was assumed by Ethel in her confidential
talk with Ruth the following day. Of
course, Ruth was not at all surprised at the
news Ethel brought her, for though the lovers
had been individually sure they had betrayed
their secret to no one, it had really been an
open one to Ruth since the hour of their meeting.
She was sincerely ardent in her praises
of Tyrrel Rawdon, but--and there is always a
but--she wondered if Ethel had "noticed what
a quick temper he had."
"Oh, yes," answered Ethel, "I should not
like him not to have a quick temper. I expect
my husband to stand up at a moment's notice
for either mine or his own rights or opinions."
And in the afternoon when all preliminaries
had been settled and approved, Judge Rawdon
expressed himself in the same manner to
Ruth. "Yes," he said, in reply to her timid
suggestion of temper, "you can strike fire
anywhere with him if you try it, but he has
it under control. Besides, Ethel is just as
quick to flame up. It will be Rawdon against
Rawdon, and Ethel's weapons are of finer,
keener steel than Tyrrel'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 about Ethel having
bought the reversion of Rawdon Manor,
for things have been harder to get into proper
shape than I thought they would be, and it
may be another month before all is finally
settled; but the Squire has the secret satisfaction,
and he was much affected by the certainty
of a Rawdon at Rawdon Court after
him. He declined to think of it in any other
way but `providential,' and of course I let
him take all the satisfaction he could out of
the idea. Ever since he heard of the engagement
he has been at the organ singing the
One Hundred and Third Psalm."
"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 this morning.
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 his destination;
he merely said `he was leaving England on
business.'"
"Well, Ruth, we shall sail as soon as I am
satisfied all is right. There is a little delay
about some leases and other matters. In the
meantime the lovers are in Paradise wherever
we locate them."
And in Paradise they dwelt for another
four weeks. The ancient garden had doubtless
many a dream of love to keep, but none
sweeter or truer than the idyl of Tyrrel and
Ethel Rawdon. They were never weary of
rehearsing it; every incident of its growth
had been charming and romantic, and, as they
believed, appointed from afar. As the sum-
mer waxed hotter the beautiful place took on
an appearance of royal color and splendor,
and the air was languid with the perfume of
the clove carnations and tall white August
lilies. Fluted dahlias, scarlet poppies, and all
the flowers that exhale their spice in the last
hot days of August burned incense for them.
Their very hair was laden with odor, their
fingers flower-sweet, their minds took on the
many colors of their exquisite surroundings.
And it was part of this drama of love and
scent and color that they should see it slowly
assume the more ethereal loveliness of
September, and watch the subtle amber rays
shine through the thinning boughs, and feel
that all nature was becoming idealized. The
birds were then mostly silent. They had left
their best notes on the hawthorns and among
the roses; but the crickets made a cheerful
chirrup, and the great brown butterflies displayed
their richest velvets, and the gossamer-like
insects in the dreamy atmosphere
performed dances and undulations full of
grace and mystery. And all these marvelous
changes imparted to love that sweet sadness
which is beyond all words poetic and enchaining.
Yet however sweet the hours, they pass
away, and it is not much memory can save
from the mutable, happy days of love. Still,
when the hour of departure came they had
garnered enough to sweeten all the after-
straits and stress of time. September had
then perceptibly begun to add to the nights
and shorten the days, and her tender touch
had been laid on everything. With a smile
and a sigh the Rawdons turned their faces to
their pleasant home in the Land of the West.
It was to be but a short farewell. They had
promised the Squire to return the following
summer, but he felt the desolation of the
parting very keenly. With his hat slightly
lifted above his white head, he stood watching
them out of sight. Then he went to his
organ, and very soon grand waves of melody
rolled 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 the Squire
rose weary, but full of gladness. The look of
immortality was in his eyes, its sure and certain
hope in his heart. He let Joel lead him
to his chair by the window, and then he said
to himself with visible triumph:
"What Mr. Spencer or anyone else writes
about `the Unknowable' I care not. I KNOW
IN WHOM I have believed. Joel, sing that last
sequence again. Stand where I can see thee."
And the lad's joyful voice rang exulting out:
"Lord, Thou hast been our dwelling-place
in all generations. Before the mountains
were brought forth, or ever Thou hadst formed
the world, from everlasting to everlasting
Thou art God! Thou art God! Thou art
God!"
"That will do, Joel. Go thy ways now.
Lord, Thou hast been our dwelling-place in
all generations. `Unknowable,' Thou hast
been our dwelling-place in all generations.
No, no, no, what an ungrateful sinner I
would be to change the Lord everlasting for
the Unknowable.'"