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 numerous 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!”