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.”