had now nothing to hope for in the way of money. Madam’s apparently spontaneous
and truthful assertion, that the Judge cared nothing for Rawdon Court, was, however,
very satisfactory to him. He had been foolish enough to think that the thing he desired so passionately was of equal value in the estimation of others. He saw now that he was wrong, and he then remembered that he had never found Judge Rawdon to evince either interest or curiosity about the family home.
If he had been a keen observer, the Judge’s face when he called might have given his comfortable feelings some pause. It was contracted, subtle, intricate, but he came forward
with a congratulation on Mostyn’s improved appearance. “A few weeks at the seaside
would do you good,” he added, and Mostyn answered, “I think of going to Newport for a month.”
“And then?”
“I want your opinion about that. McLean advises me to see the country–to go to Chicago, St. Louis, Denver, cross the Rockies,
and on to California. It seems as if that would be a grand summer programme. But
my lawyer writes me that the man in charge at Mostyn is cutting too much timber and is generally too extravagant. Then there is the question of Rawdon Court. My finances will not let me carry the mortgage on it longer, unless I buy the place.”
“Are you thinking of that as probable?”
“Yes. It will have to be sold. And Mostyn seems to be the natural owner after Rawdon. The Mostyns have married Rawdons
so frequently that we are almost like one family, and Rawdon Court lies, as it were, at Mostyn’s gate. The Squire is now old, and too easily persuaded for his own welfare, and I hear the Tyrrel-Rawdons have been
visiting him. Such a thing would have been incredible a few years ago.”
“Who are the Tyrrel-Rawdons? I have
no acquaintance with them.”
“They are the descendants of that Tyrrel- Rawdon who a century ago married a handsome girl who was only an innkeeper’s
daughter. He was of course disowned and disinherited, and his children sank to the lowest social grade. Then when power-loom weaving was introduced they went to the
mills, and one of them was clever and saved money and built a little mill of his own, and his son built a much larger one, and made a great deal of money, and became Mayor of Leeds. The next generation saw the Tyrrel- Rawdons the largest loom-lords in Yorkshire. One of the youngest generation was my opponent in the last election and beat me–a
Radical fellow beats the Conservative candidate always where weavers and spinners hold
the vote but I thought it my duty to uphold the Mostyn banner. You know the Mostyns
have always been Tories and Conservatives.”
“Excuse me, but I am afraid I am ignorant concerning Mostyn politics. I take little interest in the English parties.”
“Naturally. Well, I hope you will take an interest in my affairs and give me your advice about the sale of Rawdon Court.”
“I think my advice would be useless. In the first place, I never saw the Court. My father had an old picture of it, which has somehow disappeared since his death, but I cannot say that even this picture interested me at all. You know I am an American, born on the soil, and very proud of it. Then, as you are acquainted with all the ins and outs of the difficulties and embarrassments, and I know nothing at all about them, you would hardly be foolish enough to take my opinion against your own. I suppose the Squire is in favor of your buying the Court?”
“I never named the subject to him. I
thought perhaps he might have written to you on the matter. You are the last male of the house in that line.”
“He has never written to me about the Court. Then, I am not the last male. From what you say, I think the Tyrrel-Rawdons could easily supply an heir to Rawdon.”
“That is the thing to be avoided. It would be a great offense to the county families.”
“Why should they be considered? A
Rawdon is always a Rawdon.”
“But a cotton spinner, sir! A mere mill- owner!”
“Well, I do not feel with you and the other county people in that respect. I think a cotton spinner, giving bread to a thousand families, is a vastly more respectable and important man than a fox-hunting, idle landlord. A mill-owning Rawdon might do a deal of
good in the sleepy old village of Monk-Rawdon.”
“Your sentiments are American, not English, sir.”
“As I told you, we look at things from very different standpoints.”
“Do you feel inclined to lift the mortgage yourself, Judge?”
“I have not the power, even if I had the inclination to do so. My money is well invested, and I could not, at this time, turn bonds and securities into cash without making a sacrifice not to be contemplated. I confess, however, that if the Court has to be sold, I should like the Tyrrel-Rawdons to buy it. I dare say the picture of the offending youth is still in the gallery, and I have heard my mother say that what is another’s always yearns for its lord. Driven from his heritage for Love’s sake, it would be at least interesting if Gold gave back to his children what Love lost them.”
“That is pure sentiment. Surely it would be more natural that the Mostyns should succeed the Rawdons. We have, as it were,
bought the right with at least a dozen intermarriages.”
“That also is pure sentiment. Gold at last will carry the succession.”
“But not your gold, I infer?”
“Not my gold; certainly not.”
“Thank you for your decisive words
They make my course clear.”
“That is well. As to your summer movements, I am equally unable to give you advice.
I think you need the sea for a month, and after that McLean’s scheme is good.
And a return to Mostyn to look after your affairs is equally good. If I were you, I should follow my inclinations. If you put your heart into anything, it is well done and enjoyed; if you do a thing because you think you ought to do it, failure and disappointment are often the results. So do as you want to do; it is the only advice I can offer you.”
“Thank you, sir. It is very acceptable. I may leave for Newport to-morrow. I shall call on the ladies in the morning.”
“I will tell them, but it is just possible that they, too, go to the country to-morrow, to look after a little cottage on the Hudson we occupy in the summer. Good-by, and
I hope you will soon recover your usual health.”
Then the Judge lifted his hat, and with a courteous movement left the room. His face had the same suave urbanity of expression, but he could hardly restrain the passion in his heart. Placid as he looked when he entered his house, he threw off all pretenses as soon as he reached his room. The Yorkshire spirit which Ethel had declared found him out once in three hundred and sixty-four days and twenty-three hours was then in full pos- session. The American Judge had disappeared. He looked as like his ancestors as
anything outside of a painted picture could do. His flushed face, his flashing eyes, his passionate exclamations, the stamp of his foot, the blow of his hand, the threatening attitude of his whole figure was but a replica of his great-grandfather, Anthony Rawdon, giving Radicals at the hustings or careless keepers at the kennels “a bit of his mind.”
“`Mostyn, seems to be the natural owner of Rawdon! Rawdon Court lies at Mostyn’s gate! Natural that the Mostyns should succeed the Rawdons! Bought the right by a
dozen intermarriages!’ Confound the impudent rascal! Does he think I will see
Squire Rawdon rogued out of his home? Not if I can help it! Not if Ethel can help it! Not if heaven and earth can help it! He’s a downright rascal! A cool, unruffled, impudent rascal!” And these ejaculations were
followed by a bitter, biting, blasting hailstorm of such epithets as could only be written with one letter and a dash.
But the passion of imprecation cooled and satisfied his anger in this its first impetuous outbreak, and he sat down, clasped the arms of his chair, and gave himself a peremptory order of control. In a short time he rose, bathed his head and face in cold water, and began to dress for dinner. And as he stood before the glass he smiled at the restored color and calm of his countenance.
“You are a prudent lawyer,” he said
sarcastically. “How many actionable words have you just uttered! If the devil and Fred Mostyn have been listening, they can, as mother says, `get the law on you’; but I think Ethel and I and the law will be a match even for the devil and Fred Mostyn.” Then, as he slowly went downstairs, he repeated to himself, “Mostyn seems to be the natural owner of Rawdon. No, sir, neither natural nor legal owner. Rawdon Court lies at Mostyn gate. Not yet. Mostyn lies at Rawdon
gate. Natural that the Mostyns should succeed the Rawdons. Power of God! Neither
in this generation nor the next.”
And at the same moment Mostyn, having thought over his interview with Judge Rawdon, walked thoughtfully to a window and
muttered to himself: “Whatever was the matter with the old man? Polite as a courtier, but something was wrong. The room
felt as if there was an iceberg in it, and he kept his right hand in his pocket. I be- lieve he was afraid I would shake hands with him–it is Ethel, I suppose. Naturally he is disappointed. Wanted her at Rawdon. Well, it is a pity, but I really cannot! Oh, Dora! Dora! My heart, my hungry and thirsty
heart calls you! Burning with love, dying with longing, I am waiting for you!”
The dinner passed pleasantly enough, but both Ethel and Ruth noticed the Judge was under strong but well-controlled feeling. While servants were present it passed for high spirits, but as soon as the three were alone in the library, the excitement took at once a serious aspect.
“My dears,” he said, standing up and
facing them, “I have had a very painful interview with Fred Mostyn. He holds a mortgage
over Rawdon Court, and is going to
press it in September–that is, he proposes to sell the place in order to obtain his money –and the poor Squire!” He ceased speaking, walked across the room and back again,
and appeared greatly disturbed.
“What of the Squire?” asked Ruth.
“God knows, Ruth. He has no other
home.”
“Why is this thing to be done? Is there no way to prevent it?”
“Mostyn wants the money, he says, to invest in American securities. He does not.
He wants to force a sale, so that he may buy the place for the mortgage, and then either keep it for his pride, or more likely resell it to the Tyrrel-Rawdons for double the money.” Then with gradually increasing passion he repeated in a low, intense voice the remarks which Mostyn had made, and which had so
infuriated the Judge. Before he had finished speaking the two women had caught his temper and spirit. Ethel’s face was white with
anger, her eyes flashing, her whole attitude full of fight. Ruth was troubled and sorrowful, and she looked anxiously at the Judge
for some solution of the condition. It was Ethel who voiced the anxiety. “Father,”
she asked, “what is to be done? What can you do?”
“Nothing, I am sorry to say, Ethel. My money is absolutely tied up–for this year, at any rate. I cannot touch it without wronging others as well as myself, nor yet without the most ruinous sacrifice.”
“If I could do anything, I would not care at what sacrifice.”
“You can do all that is necessary, Ethel, and you are the only person who can. You have at least eight hundred thousand dollars in cash and negotiable securities. Your
mother’s fortune is all yours, with its legitimate accruements, and it was left at your
own disposal after your twenty-first birthday. It has been at your own disposal WITH
MY CONSENT since your nineteenth birthday.”
“Then, father, we need not trouble about the Squire. I wish with all my heart to make his home sure to him as long as he lives. You are a lawyer, you know what ought to be
done.”
“Good girl! I knew what you would say and do, or I should not have told you the trouble there was at Rawdon. Now, I propose we all make a visit to Rawdon Court, see the Squire and the property, and while there perfect such arrangements as seem kindest and wisest. Ruth, how soon can we be ready to sail?”
“Father, do you really mean that we are to go to England?”
“It is the only thing to do. I must see that all is as Mostyn says. I must not let you throw your money away.”
“That is only prudent,” said Ruth, “and we can be ready for the first steamer if you wish it.”
“I am delighted, father. I long to see England; more than all, I long to see Rawdon. I did not know until this moment how
much I loved it.”
“Well, then, I will have all ready for us to sail next Saturday. Say nothing about it to Mostyn. He will call to-morrow morning to bid you good-by before leaving for Newport with McLean. Try and be out.”
“I shall certainly be out,” said Ethel. “I do not wish ever to see his face again, and I must see grandmother and tell her what we are going to do.”
“I dare say she guesses already. She advised me to ask you about the mortgage. She
knew what you would say.”
“Father, who are the Tyrrel-Rawdons?”
Then the Judge told the story of the young Tyrrel-Rawdon, who a century ago had lost his world for Love, and Ethel said “she
liked him better than any Rawdon she had ever heard of.”
“Except your father, Ethel.”
“Except my father; my dear, good father. And I am glad that Love did not always make them poor. They must now be rich, if they want to buy the Court.”
“They are rich manufacturers. Mostyn
is much annoyed that the Squire has begun to notice them. He says one of the grandsons of the Tyrrel-Rawdons, disinherited for
love’s sake, came to America some time in the forties. I asked your grandmother if this story was true. She said it is quite true; that my father was his friend in the matter, and that it was his reports about America which made them decide to try their fortune in New York.”
“Does she know what became of him?”
“No. In his last letter to them he said he had just joined a party going to the gold fields of California. That was in 1850. He never wrote again. It is likely he perished on the terrible journey across the plains. Many thousands did.”
“When I am in England I intend to call upon these Tyrrel-Rawdons. I think I shall like them. My heart goes out to them. I am proud of this bit of romance in the family.”
“Oh, there is plenty of romance behind you, Ethel. When you see the old Squire
standing at the entrance to the Manor House, you may see the hags of Cressy and Agincourt, of Marston and Worcester behind him.
And the Rawdon women have frequently been daughters of Destiny. Many of them have
lived romances that would be incredible if written down. Oh, Ethel, dear, we cannot, we cannot for our lives, let the old home fall into the hands of strangers. At any rate, if on inspection we think it wrong to interfere, I can at least try and get the children of the disinherited Tyrrel back to their home. Shall we leave it at this point for the present?”
This decision was agreeable to all, and then the few preparations necessary for the journey were talked over, and in this happy discussion the evening passed rapidly. The dream of Ethel’s life had been this visit to the home of her family, and to go as its savior was a consummation of the pleasure that
filled her with loving pride. She could not sleep for her waking dreams. She made all sorts of resolutions about the despised Tyrrel- Rawdons. She intended to show the
proud, indolent world of the English land- aristocracy that Americans, just as well born as themselves, respected business energy and enterprise; and she had other plans and
propositions just as interesting and as full of youth’s impossible enthusiasm.
In the morning she went to talk the subject over with her grandmother. The old
lady received the news with affected indif- ference. She said, “It mattered nothing
to her who sat in Rawdon’s seat; but she would not hear Mostyn blamed for seeking his right. Money and sentiment are no kin,” she added, “and Fred has no sentiment about Rawdon. Why should he? Only last summer
Rawdon kept him out of Parliament,
and made him spend a lot of money beside. He’s right to get even with the family if he can.”
“But the old Squire! He is now—-“
“I know; he’s older than I am. But
Squire Percival has had his day, and Fred would not do anything out of the way to
him–he could not; the county would make both Mostyn and Rawdon very uncomfortable places to live in, if he did.”
“If you turn a man out of his home when he is eighty years old, I think that is `out of the way.’ And Mr. Mostyn is not to be
trusted. I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could see him.”
“Highty-tighty! He has not asked you
to trust him. You lost your chance there, miss.”
“Grandmother, I am astonished at you!”
“Well, it was a mean thing to say, Ethel; but I like Fred, and I see the rest of my family are against him. It’s natural for Yorkshire to help the weakest side. But
there, Fred can do his own fighting, I’ll warrant. He’s not an ordinary man.”
“I’m sorry to say he isn’t, grandmother. If he were he would speak without a drawl, and get rid of his monocle, and not pay such minute attention to his coats and vests and walking sticks.”
Then Ethel proceeded to explain her resolves with regard to the Tyrrel-Rawdons.
“I shall pay them the greatest attention,” she said. “It was a noble thing in young Tyrrel-Rawdon to give up everything for
honorable love, and I think everyone ought to have stood by him.”
“That wouldn’t have done at all. If Tyrrel had been petted as you think he ought to have been, every respectable young man and woman in the county would have married
where their fancy led them; and the fancies of young people mostly lead them to the road it is ruin to take.”
“From what Fred Mostyn says, Tyrrel’s descendants seem to have taken a very respectable road.”
“I’ve nothing to say for or against them. It’s years and years since I laid eyes on any of the family. Your grandfather helped one of the young men to come to America, and I remember his mother getting into a passion about it. She was a fat woman in a
Paisley shawl and a love-bird on her bonnet. I saw his sister often. She weighed about twelve stone, and had red hair and red
cheeks and bare red elbows. She was called a `strapping lass.’ That is quite a complimentary term in the West Riding.”
“Please, grandmother, I don’t want to hear any more. In two weeks I shall be able to judge for myself. Since then there have been two generations, and if a member of the present one is fit for Parliament—-“
“That’s nothing. We needn’t look for
anything specially refined in Parliament in these days. There’s another thing. These Tyrrel-Rawdons are chapel people. The rector of Rawdon church would not marry Tyrrel
to his low-born love, and so they went to the Methodist preacher, and after that to the Methodist chapel. That put them down, more than you can imagine here in America.”
“It was a shame! Methodists are most
respectable people.”
“I’m saying nothing contrary.”
“The President is a Methodist.”
“I never asked what he was. I am a
Church of England woman, you know that. Born and bred in the Church, baptized,
confirmed, and married in the Church, and I was always taught it was the only proper Church for gentlemen and gentlewomen to be saved in. However, English Methodists often go back to the Church when they get rich.”
“Church or chapel makes no difference to me, grandmother. If people are only good.”
“To be sure; but you won’t be long in England until you’ll find out that some things
make a great deal of difference. Do you know your father was here this morning?
He wanted me to go with you–a likely, thing.”
“But, grandmother, do come. We will
take such good care of you, and—-“
“I know, but I’d rather keep my old
memories of Yorkshire than get new-fashioned ones. All is changed. I can tell that
by what Fred says. My three great friends are dead. They have left children and grandchildren, of course, but I don’t want to make
new acquaintances at my age, unless I have the picking of them. No, I shall get Miss Hillis to go with me to my little cabin on the Jersey coast. We’ll take our knitting and the fresh novels, and I’ll warrant we’ll see as much of the new men and women in them as will more than satisfy us. But you must write me long letters, and tell me everything about the Squire and the way he keeps house, and I don’t care if you fill up the paper with the Tyrrel-Rawdons.”
“I will write you often, Granny, and tell you everything.”
“I shouldn’t wonder if you come across Dora Stanhope, but I wouldn’t ask her to Rawdon. She’ll mix some cup of bother if you do.”
“I know.”
In such loving and intimate conversation the hours sped quickly, and Ethel could not bear to cut short her visit. It was nearly five when she left Gramercy Park, but the day being lovely, and the avenue full of carriages and pedestrians, she took the drive at its enforced tardiness without disapproval.
Almost on entering the avenue from Madison Square there was a crush, and her carriage came to a standstill. She was then opposite the store of a famous English saddler, and near her was an open carriage occupied by a middle-aged gentleman in military uniform. He appeared to be waiting for someone, and in a moment or two a young man came out of the saddlery store, and with a pleasant laugh entered the carriage. It was the Apollo of her dreams, the singer of the Holland House pavement. She could not doubt it. His face, his figure, his walk, and the pleasant smile with which he spoke to his companion were all positive characteristics. She had forgotten none of them. His dress was altered to suit the season, but that was an improvement; for divested of his heavy coat, and clothed only in a stylish afternoon suit, his tall, fine figure showed to great advantage; and Ethel told herself that he was even handsomer than she had supposed him to be.
Almost as soon as he entered his carriage there was a movement, and she hoped her
driver might advance sufficiently to make recognition possible, but some feeling, she knew not what, prevented her giving any
order leading to this result. Perhaps she had an instinctive presentiment that it was best to leave all to Destiny. Toward the upper part of the avenue the carriage of her eager observation came to a stand before a warehouse of antique furniture and bric-a-brac,
and, as it did so, a beautiful woman ran down the steps, and Apollo, for so Ethel had men- tally called him, went hurriedly to meet her. Finally her coachman passed the party, and there was a momentary recognition. He was bending forward, listening to something the lady was saying, when the vehicles almost touched each other. He flashed a glance at them, and met the flash of Ethel’s eyes full of interest and curiosity.
It was over in a moment, but in that moment Ethel saw his astonishment and delight,
and felt her own eager questioning answered. Then she was joyous and full of hope, for “these two silent meetings are promises,” she said to Ruth. “I feel sure I shall see him again, and then we shall speak to each other.”
“I hope you are not allowing yourself to feel too much interest in this man, Ethel; he is very likely married.”
“Oh, no! I am sure he is not, Ruth.”
“How can you be sure? You know nothing about him.”
“I cannot tell HOW I know, nor WHY I know, but I believe what I feel; and he is as much interested in me as I am in him. I confess that is a great deal.”
“You may never see him again.”
“I shall expect to see him next winter, he evidently lives in New York.”
“The lady you saw may be his wife. Don’t be interested in any man on unknown ground, Ethel. It is not prudent–it is not right.”
“Time will show. He will very likely be looking for me this summer at Newport and elsewhere. He will be glad to see me when I come home. Don’t worry, Ruth. It is all
right.”
“Fred called soon after you went out this morning. He left for Newport this afternoon. He will be at sea now.”
“And we shall be there in a few days. When I am at the seaside I always feel a delicious torpor; yet Nelly Baldwin told me she loved an Atlantic passage because she had such fun on board. You have crossed several times, Ruth; is it fun or torpor?”
“All mirth at sea soon fades away, Ethel. Passengers are a very dull class of people, and they know it; they rebel against it, but every hour it becomes more natural to be dull. Very soon all mentally accommodate themselves to being bored, dreamy and dreary.
Then, as soon as it is dark, comes that old mysterious, hungering sound of the sea; and I for one listen till I can bear it no longer, and so steal away to bed with a pain in my heart.”
“I think I shall like the ocean. There are games, and books, and company, and dinners, and other things.”
“Certainly, and you can think yourself happy, until gradually a contented cretinism steals over you, body and mind.”
“No, no!” said Ethel enthusiastically. “I shall do according to Swinburne–
“`Have therefore in my heart, and in my mouth, The sound of song that mingles North and South; And in my Soul the sense of all the Sea!'”
And Ruth laughed at her dramatic attitude, and answered: “The soul of all the sea is a contented cretinism, Ethel. But in ten days we may be in Yorkshire. And then, my dear, you may meet your Prince–some fine Yorkshire gentleman.”
“I have strictly and positively promised myself that my Prince shall be a fine American gentleman.”
“My dear Ethel, it is very seldom
“`the time, and the place,
And the Loved One, come together.'”
“I live in the land of good hope, Ruth, and my hopes will be realized.”
“We shall see.”
PART THIRD
“I WENT DOWN INTO THE GARDEN
TO SEE IF THE POMEGRANATES BUDDED.
Song of Solomon, VI. 11.
CHAPTER VII
IT was a lovely afternoon on the last day of May. The sea and all the toil and travail belonging to it was overpass, and Judge Rawdon, Ruth and Ethel were driving in lazy,
blissful contentment through one of the lovely roads of the West Riding. On either hand the beautifully cut hedges were white and sweet, and a caress of scent–the soul of the hawthorne flower enfolded them. Robins were singing on the topmost sprays, and the linnet’s sweet babbling was heard from the happy nests in its secret places; while from some unseen steeple the joyful sound of
chiming bells made music between heaven and earth fit for bands of traveling angels.
They had dined at a wayside inn on jugged hare, roast beef, and Yorkshire pudding, clotted cream and haver (oaten) bread, and the careless stillness of physical well-being and of minds at ease needed no speech, but the mutual smiling nod of intimate sympathy. For the sense of joy and beauty which makes us eloquent is far inferior to that sense which makes us silent.
This exquisite pause in life was suddenly ended by an exclamation from the Judge.
They were at the great iron gates of Rawdon Park, and soon were slowly traversing its woody solitudes. The soft light, the unspeakable green of the turf, the voice of ancient
days murmuring in the great oak trees, the deer asleep among the ferns, the stillness of the summer afternoon filling the air with drowsy peace this was the atmosphere into which they entered. Their road through this grand park of three hundred acres was a wide, straight avenue shaded with beech trees. The green turf on either hand was starred with primroses. In the deep undergrowth, ferns waved and fanned each other, and the scent of hidden violets saluted as they passed. Drowsily, as if half asleep, the blackbirds whistled their couplets, and in the thickest hedges the little brown thrushes sang softly to their brooding mates. For half an hour they kept this heavenly path, and then a sudden turn brought them their first sight of the old home.
It was a stately, irregular building of red brick, sandaled and veiled in ivy. The nu- merous windows were all latticed, the chimneys in picturesque stacks, the sloping roof
made of flags of sandstone. It stood in the center of a large garden, at the bottom of which ran a babbling little river–a cheerful tongue of life in the sweet, silent place. They crossed it by a pretty bridge, and in a few minutes stood at the great door of the mansion. It was wide open, and the Squire, with
outstretched hands, rose to meet them. While yet upon the threshold he kissed both Ethel and Ruth, and, clasping the Judge’s hand, gazed at him with such a piercing, kindly look that the eyes of both men filled with tears.
He led them into the hall, and standing there he seemed almost a part of it. In his youth he had been a son of Anak, and his great size had been matched by his great strength. His stature was still large, his face broad and massive, and an abundance of
snow-white hair emphasized the dignity of a countenance which age had made nobler. The generations of eight hundred years were crystallized in this benignant old man, looking
with such eager interest into the faces of his strange kindred from a far-off land.
In the evening they sat together in the old hall talking of the Rawdons. “There is
great family of us, living and dead,” said the Squire, “and I count them all my friends. Bare is the back that has no kin behind it. That is not our case. Eight hundred years ago there was a Rawdon in Rawdon, and one has never been wanting since. Saxon, Danish, Norman, and Stuart kings have been and
gone their way, and we remain; and I can tell you every Rawdon born since the House of Hanover came to England. We have had
our share in all England’s strife and glory, for if there was ever a fight going on anywhere Rawdon was never far off. Yes, we
can string the centuries together in the battle flags we have won. See there!” he cried, pointing to two standards interwoven above the central chimney-piece; “one was taken from the Paynim in the first Crusade, and the other my grandson took in Africa. It seems but yesterday, and Queen Victoria gave him the Cross for it. Poor lad, he had it on when he died. It went to the grave with him. I wouldn’t have it touched. I fancy the Rawdons would know it. No one dare say they
don’t. I think they meddle a good deal more with this life than we count on.”
The days that followed were days in The House Wonderful. It held the treasure-trove of centuries; all its rooms were full of secrets. Even the common sitting-room had an antique homeliness that provoked questions as
to the dates of its furniture and the whereabouts of its wall cupboards and hidden recesses. Its china had the marks of forgotten
makers, its silver was puzzling with half- obliterated names and dates, its sideboard of oak was black with age and full of table accessories, the very names of which were forgotten. For this house had not been built in the ordinary sense, it had grown through centuries; grown out of desire and necessity, just as a tree grows, and was therefore fit and beautiful. And it was no wonder that about every room floated the perfume of ancient things and the peculiar family aura that had saturated all the inanimate objects around them.
In a few days, life settled itself to orderly occupations. The Squire was a late riser; the Judge and his family breakfasted very early. Then the two women had a ride in the park, or wandered in the garden, or sat reading, or sewing, or writing in some of the sweet, fair rooms. Many visitors soon appeared, and
there were calls to return and courtesies to accept. Among these visitors the Tyrrel- Rawdons were the earliest. The representatives of that family were Nicholas Rawdon
and his wife Lydia. Nicholas Rawdon was a large, stout man, very arrogant, very complete, very alert for this world, and not caring much about the other. He was not pleased at Judge Rawdon’s visit, but thought it best to be cousinly until his cousin interfered with his plans–“rights” he called them–“and then!” and his “THEN” implied a great
deal, for Nicholas Rawdon was a man incapable of conceiving the idea of loving an
enemy.
His wife was a pleasant, garrulous woman, who interested Ethel very much. Her family was her chief topic of conversation. She had two daughters, one of whom had married a baronet, “a man with money and easy to
manage”; and the other, “a rich cotton lord in Manchester.”
“They haven’t done badly,” she said
confidentially, “and it’s a great thing to get girls off your hands early. Adelaide and Martha were well educated and suitable, but, “she added with a glow of pride, “you should see my John Thomas. He’s manager of the mill, and he loves the mill, and he knows every pound of warp or weft that comes in or goes out of the mill; and what his father would do without him, I’m sure I don’t know. And he is a member of Parliament, too–Radical ticket. Won over Mostyn. Wiped Mostyn
out pretty well. That was a thing to do, wasn’t it?”
“I suppose Mr. Mostyn was the Conservative candidate?”
“You may be sure of that. But my John Thomas doesn’t blame him for it–the gentry have to be Conservatives. John Thomas said little against his politics; he just set the crowd laughing at his ways–his dandified ways. And he tried to wear one eyeglass, and let it fall, and fall, and then told the men `he couldn’t manage half a pair of spectacles; but he could manage their interests and fight for their rights,’ and such like talk. And he walked like Mostyn, and he talked like Mostyn, and spread out his legs, and twirled his walking stick like Mostyn, and asked them `if they would wish him to go to Parliament in that kind of a shape, as he’d try and do it if they wanted a tailor-made man’; and they laughed him down, and then he spoke reasonable to them. John Thomas knows what
Yorkshire weavers want, and he just prom- ised them everything they had set their hearts on; and so they sent him to Parliament, and Mostyn went to America, where, perhaps,
they’ll teach him that a man’s life is worth a bit more than a bird or a rabbit. Mostyn is all for preserving game, and his father was a mean creature. When one thinks of his
father, one has to excuse the young man a little bit.”
“I saw a good deal of Mr. Mostyn in New York,” said Ethel. “He used to speak highly of his father.”
“I’ll warrant he did; and he ought to keep at it, for he’s the only one in this world that will use his tongue for that end. Old Samuel Mostyn never learned to live godly or even manly, but after his death he ceased to do evil, and that, I’ve no doubt, often feels like a blessing to them that had to live anyway near to him. But my John Thomas!”
“Oh,” cried Ethel, laughing, “you must not tell me so much about John Thomas; he might not like it.”
“John Thomas can look all he does and all he says straight in the face. You may talk of him all day, and find nothing to say that a good girl like you might not listen to. I should have brought him with us, but he’s away now taking a bit of a holiday. I’m sure he needs it.”
“Where is he taking his holiday?”
“Why, he went with a cousin to show
him the sights of London; but somehow they got through London sights very quick, and thought they might as well put Paris in. I wish they hadn’t. I don’t trust foreigners and foreign ways, and they don’t have the same kind of money as ours; but Nicholas says I needn’t worry; he is sure that our John
Thomas, if change is to make, will make it to suit himself.”
“How soon will he be home?”
“I might say to-day or any other early day. He’s been idling for a month now, and his father says `the very looms are calling out for him.’ I’ll bring him to see you just as soon as he comes home, looms or no looms, and he’ll be fain to come. No one appreciates a pretty girl more than John Thomas does.”
So the days passed sweetly and swiftly onward, and there was no trouble in them. Such
business as was to be done went on behind the closed doors of the Squire’s office, and with no one present but himself, Judge Rawdon, and the attorneys attached to the Rawdon and Mostyn estates. And as there were
no entanglements and no possible reason for disputing, a settlement was quickly arrived at. Then, as Mostyn’s return was uncertain, an attorney’s messenger, properly accredited, was sent to America to procure his signatures. Allowing for unforeseen delays, the perfected papers of release might certainly be on hand by the fifteenth of July, and it was proposed on the first of August to give a dinner and dance in return for the numerous courtesies the American Rawdons had received.
As this date approached Ruth and Ethel began to think of a visit to London. They wanted new gowns and many other pretty
things, and why not go to London for them? The journey was but a few hours, and two or three days’ shopping in Regent Street and Piccadilly would be delightful. “We will make out a list of all we need this afternoon,” said Ruth, “and we might as well go to-morrow morning as later,” and at this moment a
servant entered with the mail. Ethel lifted her letter with an exclamation. “It is from Dora,” she said, and her voice had a tone of annoyance in it. “Dora is in London, at the Savoy. She wants to see me very much.”
“I am so sorry. We have been so happy.”
“I don’t think she will interfere much, Ruth.”
“My dears,” said Judge Rawdon, “I have a letter from Fred Mostyn. He is coming
home. He will be in London in a day or two.”
“Why is he coming, father?”
“He says he has a proposal to make about the Manor. I wish he were not coming. No one wants his proposal.” Then the breakfast- table, which had been so gay, became silent and depressed, and presently the Judge went away without exhibiting further interest in the London journey.
“I do wish Dora would let us alone,” said Ruth. “She always brings disappointment
or worry of some kind. And I wonder what is the meaning of this unexpected London visit. I thought she was in Holland.”
“She said in her last letter that London would be impossible before August.”
“Is it an appointment–or a coincidence?”
And Ethel, lifting her shoulders sarcastically, as if in hostile surrender to the inevitable, answered:
“It is a fatality!”
CHAPTER VIII
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