THE HOSTESS.
The second morning of the visit was delightful. Madam Archdale had taken
Lady Dacre to the cupola, and the view that met their eyes would have
more admiration from people more travelled than these. On the east was
the sea, looking in the early sunshine like a great flashing crescent of
silver laid with both its arcs upon the earth. Down to it wandered the
creek winding by the grounds beneath the watchers, turned out of its
straight course, now to lave the foot of some large tree that in return
spread a circle of shade to cool its waters before they passed out under
the hot sun again; now to creep through some field, perhaps of daises,
to send its freshness through all their roots and renew their courage in
the contest with the farmers, so that the more they were cut down, the
more they flourished, for the sun, and the stream, the summer air, and
the soil, all were upon their side. Shadows fell upon the water from the
bridge across the road over which the lumbering carts went sometimes,
and the heavy carriages still more seldom. On the other hand, looking up
the stream, were the hills from among which this little river slipped
out rippling along with its musical undertone, as if they had sent it as
a messenger to express their delight in summer. In the distance the
Piscataqua broadened out to the sea, and beyond the river the city was
outlined against the sky. To the left of this, and in great sweeps along
the horizon stretched the forests. As one looked at these forests, the
fields of com, the scattered houses, the pastures dotted with cattle,
the city, all signs of civilization, seemed like a forlorn hope sent
against these dense barriers of nature; yet it was that forlorn hope
that is destined always to win.
"Do you know, I like it?" said Lady Dacre turning to her hostess. "I
think it all very nice. So does Sir Temple. Yet I don't see how you can
get along without a bit of London, sometimes. London is the spice, you
know, the flavor of the cake, the bouquet of the wine."
"Only, it differs from these, since one cannot get too much of it,"
answered Madam Archdale smiling, thinking as her eyes swept over the
landscape that there were charms in her own land which it would be hard
to lose.
Lady Dacre settled herself comfortably in one of the chairs of the
cupola, and turning to her companion, said abruptly:
"Dear Madam Archdale, what is going to be done about that poor son of
yours; he is in a terrible situation?"
"Indeed, he is."
"When is he going to get out? Have you done anything about it?"
"Done anything? Everything, rather. To say nothing of Stephen and my
poor little niece. Elizabeth Royal is not a woman to sit down calmly
under the imputation of having married a man against his will. And,
besides, I have heard that she would like to marry one of her suitors."
"Do you know him?"
"Not even who it is. I imagine that Stephen does, but he does not tell
all he knows."
"I have found that out," laughed Lady Dacre. "Indeed, I don't feel like
laughing," she added quickly, "but it seems to me only an awkward
predicament, you see, and I am thinking of the time when the young
people will be free to tie themselves according to their fancies.
"I don't take it so lightly," answered the lady, "and my husband, when
Stephen is out of the way, shakes his head dolefully over it. He
believes Harwin's story, and in that case he argues badly. My husband
has a conscience, and he does not intend that his son shall commit
bigamy. Neither does Stephen, of course, intend to; but then, Stephen is
in love with Katie, and he and Elizabeth Royal are disposed to carry
matters with a high hand. But Katie has scruples, too, and she must, of
course, be satisfied."
"Of course. What kind of person is this Elizabeth Royal?" asked Lady
Dacre after a pause. "Is she pretty, or plain?"
"Not plain, certainly. She has a kind of beauty at times, a beauty of
expression quite remarkable, Katie tells me. But I have not seen
anything especial about her."
"You don't like her?" questioned Lady Dacre.
"Oh, yes, only that I think her rather cool in her manners. She is the
soul of honor. She comes of good stock, some of the best in the country.
Her mother was a connection of Madam Pepperell. I believe she is about
to visit there with her father. We shall meet them both." And the
speaker explained that the Colonel knew Mr. Royal well, and would be
anxious to pay them some attention. "I suppose I am no judge of the
young lady," she added. "I have not seen her since the wedding, and only
a few times before that when she was visiting Katie. She is an heiress;
I understand that she is very wealthy, much richer than my little niece
will ever be."
"Ah!" said Lady Dacre. It seemed to her that she understood how
troublesome Colonel Archdale's conscience must be to him in this matter.
But the Colonel was a stranger to her, and at times Lady Dacre was
severe in her judgments. Sir Temple declared that she never had any
scruples over that second line of the famous poem of aversion,
"I do not like you. Dr. Fell."
"There is something I want to tell you," she said after a pause,
"something about Sir Temple and myself." And her listener received the
confidence that had been withheld from Stephen a few evenings before in
the garden.
Lady Dacre had scarcely finished when there came the sound of feet on
the stairs, a blonde head appeared in the narrow opening, another head
of dull brown hair came close behind, and Gerald Edmonson, followed by
Lord Bulchester, stepped into the cupola. Lady Dacre remembered at the
moment what Archdale had said on the journey, that most peoples' shadows
changed about,--now before, now on one side or the other, but Edmonson's
always went straight behind him.
"May we come?" asked the foremost young man, bowing to each of the
ladies.
"It is rather late to ask that," returned Madam Archdale, "but as you
are here, we will try to make you welcome."
And they sat there talking until the sun grew too hot for them.
Meanwhile, Elizabeth Royal, the subject of Lady Dacre's curiosity, was
thinking of the visit she was on her way to make which would bring her
within a few miles of Seascape. She dreaded it, yet she knew that her
father was right when he told her that the more she could appear to
treat the question of this marriage as a jest,--a thing which meant
nothing to her,--the wiser she would be. This was the course that by her
father's advice she had marked out for herself. Elizabeth Royal had her
faults; she sometimes tried her friends a good deal by them; but if she
had been Lot's wife, and had gone out of Sodom with him, she would never
have been left on the plain as a bitter warning against vacillation.
Only, it seemed to her a very long time since her restful days had gone
by, and she realized that the one course she hated was to do things
because it was good policy to do them. Before Archdale she was brave;
not only from pride, but out of pity to him; before others, all but her
father, pride restrained her from complaint, even from admission of the
possibility of the disaster she feared. But alone her courage often
ebbed.