Chapter 12

A WEEK after this interview Tyrrel and
Ethel were in New York. They landed early
in the morning, but the Judge and Ruth were
on the pier to meet them; and they breakfasted
together at the fashionable hotel,
where an elegant suite had been reserved for
the residence of the Tyrrel-Rawdons until
they had perfected their plans for the future.
Tyrrel was boyishly excited, but Ethel's interest
could not leave her father and his new
wife. These two had lived in the same home
for fifteen years, and then they had married
each other, and both of them looked fifteen
years younger. The Judge was actually
merry, and Ruth, in spite of her supposed
"docility," had quite reversed the situation.
It was the Judge who was now docile, and
even admiringly obedient to all Ruth's wifely
advices and admonitions.
The breakfast was a talkative, tardy one,
but at length the Judge went to his office and
Tyrrel had to go to the Custom House. Ethel
was eager to see her grandmother, and she
was sure the dear old lady was anxiously
waiting her arrival. And Ruth was just as
anxious for Ethel to visit her renovated home.
She had the young wife's delight in its beauty,
and she wanted Ethel to admire it with her.
"We will dine with you to-morrow, Ruth,"
said Ethel, "and I will come very early and
see all the improvements. I feel sure the
house is lovely, and I am glad father made
you such a pretty nest. Nothing is too pretty
for you, Ruth." And there was no insincerity
in this compliment. These two women
knew and loved and trusted each other without
a shadow of doubt or variableness.
So Ruth went to her home, and Ethel
hastened to Gramercy Park. Madam was
eagerly watching for her arrival.
"I have been impatient for a whole hour,
all in a quiver, dearie," she cried. "It is
nearly noon."
"I have been impatient also, Granny, but
father and Ruth met us at the pier and stayed
to breakfast with us, and you know how men
talk and talk."
"Ruth and father down at the pier! How
you dream!"
"They were really there. And they do
seem so happy, grandmother. They are so
much in love with each other."
"I dare say. There are no fools like old
fools. So you have sold the Court to Nicholas
Rawdon, and a cotton-spinner is Lord of
the Manor. Well, well, how are the mighty
fallen!"
"I made twenty thousand pounds by the
sale. Nicholas Rawdon is a gentleman, and
John Thomas is the most popular man in all
the neighborhood. And, Granny, he has two
sons--twins--the handsomest little chaps
you ever saw. No fear of a Rawdon to heir
the Manor now."
"Fortune is a baggage. When she is ill
to a man she knows no reason. She sent John
Thomas to Parliament, and kept Fred out at
a loss, too. She took the Court from Fred
and gave it to John Thomas, and she gives
him two sons about the same time she gives
Fred one, and that one she kidnaps out of
his sight and knowledge. Poor Fred!"
"Well, grandmother, it is `poor Fred's'
own doing, and, I assure you, Fred would
have been most unwelcome at the Court. And
the squires and gentry round did not like a
woman in the place; they were at a loss what
to do with me. I was no good for dinners and
politics and hunting. I embarrassed them."
"Of course you would. They would have
to talk decently and behave politely, and they
would not be able to tell their choicest stories.
Your presence would be a bore; but could not
Tyrrel take your place?"
"Granny, Tyrrel was really unhappy in
that kind of life. And he was a foreigner,
so was I. You know what Yorkshire people
think of foreigners. They were very courteous,
but they were glad to have the Yorkshire
Rawdons in our place. And Tyrrel did
not like working with the earth; he loves
machinery and electricity."
"To be sure. When a man has got used
to delving for gold or silver, cutting grass
and wheat does seem a slow kind of business."
"And he disliked the shut-up feeling the
park gave him. He said we were in the midst
of solitude three miles thick. It made him
depressed and lonely."
"That is nonsense. I am sure on the
Western plains he had solitude sixty miles
thick--often."
"Very likely, but then he had an horizon,
even if it were sixty miles away. And no
matter how far he rode, there was always
that line where earth seemed to rise to heaven.
But the park was surrounded by a brick
wall fourteen feet high. It had no horizon.
You felt as if you were in a large, green box
--at least Tyrrel did. The wall was covered
with roses and ivy, but still it was a boundary
you could not pass, and could not see over.
Don't you understand, Granny, how Tyrrel
would feel this?"
"I can't say I do. Why didn't he come
with you?"
"He had to go to the Customs about our
trunks, and there were other things. He will
see you to-morrow. Then we are going to
dine with father, and if you will join us, we
will call at six for you. Do, Granny."
"Very well, I shall be ready." But after
a moment's thought she continued, "No, I
will not go. I am only a mortal woman, and
the company of angels bores me yet."
"Now, Granny, dear."
"I mean what I say. Your father has
married such a piece of perfection that I feel
my shortcomings in her presence more than
I can bear. But I'll tell you what, dearie,
Tyrrel may come for me Saturday night at
six, and I will have my dinner with you. I
want to see the dining-room of a swell hotel
in full dress; and I will wear my violet satin
and white Spanish lace, and look as smart as
can be, dear. And Tyrrel may buy me a
bunch of white violets. I am none too old
to wear them. Who knows but I may go to
the theater also?"
"Oh, Granny, you are just the dearest
young lady I know! Tyrrel will be as proud
as a peacock."
"Well, I am not as young as I might be,
but I am a deal younger than I look. Listen,
dearie, I have never FELT old yet! Isn't that
a thing to be grateful for? I don't read
much poetry, except it be in the Church
Hymnal, but I cut a verse out of a magazine
a year ago which just suits my idea of life,
and, what is still more wonderful, I took the
trouble to learn it. Oliver Wendell Holmes
wrote it, and I'll warrant him for a good,
cheerful, trust-in-God man, or he'd never
have thought of such sensible words."
"I am listening, Granny, for the verse."
"Yes, and learn it yourself. It will come
in handy some day, when Tyrrel and you are
getting white-haired and handsome, as everyone
ought to get when they have passed their
half-century and are facing the light of the
heavenly world:
  "At sixty-two life has begun;
       At seventy-three begins once more;
  Fly swifter as thou near'st the sun,
       And brighter shine at eighty-four.
            At ninety-five,
            Should thou arrive,
  Still wait on God, and work and thrive."
Such words as those, Ethel, keep a woman
young, and make her right glad that she was
born and thankful that she lives."
"Thank you for them, dear Granny. Now
I must run away as fast as I can. Tyrrel will
be wondering what has happened to me."
In this conjecture she was right. Tyrrel
was in evening dress, and walking restlessly
about their private parlor. "Ethel," he said,
plaintively, "I have been so uneasy about
you."
"I am all right, dearest. I was with grandmother.
I shall be ready in half an hour."
Even if she had been longer, she would
have earned the delay, for she returned to him
in pink silk and old Venice point de rose,
with a pretty ermine tippet across her shoulders.
It was a joy to see her, a delight to
hear her speak, and she walked as if she
heard music. The dining-room was crowded
when they entered, but they made a sensation.
Many rose and came to welcome them home.
Others smiled across the busy space and lifted
their wineglass in recognition. The room was
electric, sensitive and excited. It was flooded
with a soft light; it was full of the perfume
of flowers. The brilliant coloring of silks and
satins, and the soft miracle of white lace
blended with the artistically painted walls
and roof. The aroma of delicate food, the
tinkle of crystal, the low murmur of happy
voices, the thrill of sudden laughter, and the
delicious accompaniment of soft, sensuous
music completed the charm of the room. To
eat in such surroundings was as far beyond
the famous flower-crowned feasts of Rome
and Greece as the east is from the west. It
was impossible to resist its influence. From
the point of the senses, the soul was drinking
life out of a cup of overflowing delight. And
it was only natural that in their hearts both
Tyrrel and Ethel should make a swift, though
silent, comparison between this feast of sensation
and flow of human attraction and the
still, sweet order of the Rawdon dining-room,
with its noiseless service, and its latticed win-
dows open to all the wandering scents and
songs of the garden.
Perhaps the latter would have the sweetest
and dearest and most abiding place in their
hearts; but just in the present they were
enthralled and excited by the beauty and good
comradeship of the social New York dinner
function. Their eyes were shining, their
hearts thrilling, they went to their own apartments
hand in hand, buoyant, vivacious, feeling
that life was good and love unchangeable.
And the windows being open, they walked to
one and stood looking out upon the avenue.
All signs of commerce had gone from the
beautiful street, but it was busy and noisy
with the traffic of pleasure, and the hum of
multitudes, the rattle of carriages, the rush
of autos, the light, hurrying footsteps of
pleasure-seekers insistently demanded their
sympathy.
"We cannot go out to-night," said Ethel.
"We are both more weary than we know."
"No, we cannot go to-night; but, oh, Ethel,
we are in New York again! Is not that joy
enough? I am so happy! I am so happy.
We are in New York again! There is no city
like it in all the world. Men live here, they
work here, they enjoy here. How happy, how
busy we are going to be, Ethel!"
During these joyful, hopeful expectations
he was walking up and down the room, his
eyes dilating with rapture, and Ethel closed
the window and joined him. They magnified
their joy, they wondered at it, they were sure
no one before them had ever loved as they
loved. "And we are going to live here,
Ethel; going to have our home here! Upon
my honor, I cannot speak the joy I feel, but"
--and he went impetuously to the piano and
opened it--"but I can perhaps sing it--
  "`There is not a spot in this wide-peopled earth
  So dear to the heart as the Land of our Birth;
  'Tis the home of our childhood, the beautiful spot
  Which Memory retains when all else is forgot.
  May the blessing of God ever hallow the sod,
  And its valleys and hills by our children be trod!
  "`May Columbia long lift her white crest o'er the wave,
  The birthplace of science and the home of the brave.
  In her cities may peace and prosperity dwell,
  And her daughters in virtue and beauty excel.
  May the blessing of God ever hallow the sod,
  And its valleys and hills by our children be trod.'"

With the patriotic music warbling in his
throat he turned to Ethel, and looked at her
as a lover can, and she answered the look; and
thus leaning toward each other in visible
beauty and affection their new life began.
Between smiles and kisses they sat speaking,
not of the past with all its love and loveliness,
but of the high things calling to them from
the future, the work and duties of life set to
great ends both for public and private good.
And as they thus communed Tyrrel took his
wife's hand and slowly turned on her finger
the plain gold wedding ring behind its barrier
of guarding gems.
"Ethel," he said tenderly, "what enchantments
are in this ring of gold! What romances
I used to weave around it, and, dearest,
it has turned every Romance into Reality."
"And, Tyrrel, it will also turn all our
Realities into Romances. Nothing in our life
will ever become common. Love will glorify
everything."
"And we shall always love as we love
now?"
"We shall love far better, far stronger,
far more tenderly."
"Even to the end of our lives, Ethel?"
"Yes, to the very end."