THE GUESTS.
The fourth morning from this as Madam Archdale and her guest were on
their way to the garden they met Archdale in the hall.
"Come with us," cried Lady Dacre to him, pointing through the open door.
But Archdale had letters to write and the ladies went on without him. A
few rods away they saw Edmonson seated under an elm near the door. "He
has lost his shadow," whispered Lady Dacre to her companion as they drew
near, and she repeated Stephen's speech. Her listener smiled. Edmonson
rose as he saw them and sauntered beside them through the shaded walks.
But for all his brilliant conversation he did not keep Lady Dacre from
remembering the gloomy look she had surprised upon his face. As they
were walking Bulchester joined them. He explained that he had been
paying a visit to Madam Pepperell, whom he had met in Boston during the
spring. Lady Dacre noticed that he and his friend exchanged significant
glances, but neither spoke to the other. Edmonson devoted himself to
her, while Bulchester walked on with his hostess.
At last they all sat down to rest where the sea-breeze beginning to blow
brought a refreshing coolness. Sir Temple Dacre came out looking for
them, and on being questioned by his wife as to where Archdale was,
professed his ignorance. "He must have a larger correspondence than
you," she returned, "if he is still at work; he told me that he had
letters to write."
"I think he has gone to ask a friend of his to dine with us," said his
mother. "I saw him gallop off half an hour ago. We are going to be very
quiet to-day that you may have a chance to rest; tomorrow guests have
been invited to meet you. Stephen thought that this evening you might
like a sail,--unless you have had too much of the water?" And she turned
inquiringly to Lady Dacre.
"Oh, no," cried her ladyship. "I should be delighted. The moon fulls
to-night Am I right, Temple?"
A few minutes later Edmonson and Bulchester having strolled down to the
beach confronted one another there in silence, until the sound of a wave
breaking seemed to rouse their surprise into speech.
"Edmonson," exclaimed the smaller man, "for once you are at fault. You
did not describe her at all."
"The--!" cried Edmonson with a black look. "I was never so amazed in my
life. What has got into the girl? She is a different creature. That
present air of hers would take in London; better even than in this
out-of-the-world hole, it would be more appreciated. And what thousands
she has to carry it off well, or I ought to say, to carry it on well.
That good-for-nothing," he added, "does not even understand his luck."
There was an undertone in his voice which gave the bitter laugh with
which he tried to hide it an intensity that made Bulchester look at him
anxiously.
"You don't mean that you admire her so much as that?" he asked. Edmonson
laughed again.
"My admiration of any woman will not injure my digestion. I believe you
know my ideas on that subject. But such a figure for the head of one's
table, and such golden accompaniments to her presentablity--all mine,
you know, or to be mine, and here this young lordship steps in between.
Lordship; indeed! he thinks himself no less than a duke by his airs. But
I--." He stopped, and ground his teeth to swallow his rage, and his face
was so lowering that the other cried in trepidation:
"What are you going to do, Edmonson? Nothing,--nothing--uncomfortable,
you know, I hope?"
Edmonson turned slowly upon him with the blackness of his look
lightening into a smile as different from mirth as the brassy gleam
behind a thundercloud is from sunshine. "What concerns your lordship?"
he asked contemptuously. "Do you imagine that I shall forget my
station?"
"Or your position as guest?"
"Or my 'position as guest?' No, indeed," sneered his listener. "What has
come over you, Bulchester?" he added. "For how long are you engaged for
this role of dictator? I shall leave until it is over, you do it so
badly." And he turned on his heel, grinding the pebbles under it hard as
he did so.
"Nonsense, stay where you are, I beg," cried Bulchester with an
assumption of indifference in his manner, and a tone of humility so
incongruous that Edmonson glancing over his shoulder smiled in scorn,
and having remained in that position a moment, came back to his little
squire, and said impressively:
"Bulchester, we are beginning to burn; something will turn up here. I
can't tell you why, but I feel it."
"You mean that you have a clue? That the name amounts to anything?"
cried the other excitedly. "That you have found--?"
"Hush!" interrupted Edmonson. "Lady Dacre! Yes, I have found the air
here delightful. My tedious headache is wearing away already. And here
comes her ladyship to make us appreciate our blessings still more. Say,
Bul," he added in a quick undertone as he was about moving forward to
meet the new-comer, "how good does one have to be among this set? Have
you any idea?"
"No, but I assure you your best will not pall."
Edrnonson's smile of welcome to the lady broadened. "The fellow has
quickness sometimes," he thought, "he has caught that from me."
"They are all following," said Lady Dacre. "But our kind host joined us
just now, and he and his mother are arranging the hour for the sail,
that is, if the wind will favor us."
"I should not think Archdale would be over fond of sailing," remarked
Edmonson dryly.
"Why not?" asked Lady Dacre, then recollecting the story, added
suddenly, "Do you think that is a real marriage, Mr. Edmonson?"
"I am sure I don't know," responded that gentleman nonchalently.
"You see," explained Bulchester, "if that man is really a parson, they
have not much of a set of witnesses to prove that the ceremony was a
joke. Harwin minus, though he has left his confession; Waldo interested
in proving it a real marriage; Mistress Katie interested the other way,
and the Eveleigh,--you have not seen the Eveleigh?"
Lady Dacre replied that she had not had that pleasure. As she spoke she
intercepted a flashing glance from Edmonson to Bulchester. But she did
not overhear the conversation between the two that took place later.
"Bulchester," Edmonson hissed out when they were alone, "what's the
reason you always retail my opinions?"
Bulchester opened his mild eyes.
"Did I say any harm?" he asked. "I am sure I didn't mean it; what
objection can you have to my giving your opinion on that matter, and I
did not even say it was yours."
"Because--I do object," returned the other moodily. Then he said nothing
more, rather to conceal the strength of his objections, than because his
anger was over.
This happened a few hours later. At the same time Lady Dacre was
speaking to her husband about Elizabeth. "I think that Archdale must
feel the situation most on account of the young betrothed," Sir Temple
said.
"That is all you know of a woman," she retorted indignantly. "Suppose I
were tied to you and knew you did not care for me, I need not have come
three thousand miles to find water enough."
"To drink?"
"No, you wretch; to drown myself in."
"You take too much for granted, dont you?" drawled Sir Temple with an
amused look. "And I am afraid you are aping Ophelia. Now, you are not in
her line at all; for one thing, you are too handsome."
Lady Dacre looked at him keenly, smiled with a moisture in her eyes, and
came up to him.
"How much too much do I take for granted?" she asked softly. Sir Temple
burst into a laugh, and kissed her.
"We will borrow poor Archdale's scales, and weigh it, and find out," he
answered.
There was over a week of the beautiful weather that midsummer brings,
and the days passed full of gayety. Both Archdale and his mother did
everything for the enjoyment of their guests. They showed them the most
beautiful views on shore, and by sailing took them to places of interest
not to be reached by land, while dinner-parties and garden-parties made
them acquainted with the best society of the city. From morning until
night the house was full of talk, and jest, and laughter. Among the
guests one day had been Mr. Royal and Mrs. Eveleigh. They had come with
Colonel and Madam Pepperell, at whose house they were then visiting, in
accordance with a promise made the autumn before when the Colonel and
his wife had been guests of Mr. Royal. More than once, Elizabeth had met
the party from Seascape, but she could not come here, she was not sure
enough in her heart of not being Stephen Archdale's wife. She
compromised with her father by promising to go to Colonel Archdale's,
for that gentleman had told them that they were to be asked there.
"Elizabeth was right not to come," Madam Pepperell had said to her guest
on the way to Seascape. "There are people small enough to have said that
she was making an inventory."
"Not any of the Archdale family?" inquired Mr. Royal.
"Not mother or son, certainly. As to the Colonel, it is easy to see that
he admires Elizabeth."
"Um!" commented Elizabeth's father.
Colonel Archdale at this time was away a good deal upon business. When
he was at home he usually rode over to his son's house to dine. But he
resolved to give a dinner party himself, and it was to this that
Elizabeth Royal had promised to come. Madam Archdale being thus obliged
to preside over two houses at once was full of secret uneasiness as to
how matters would turn out, and for three mornings before the event
excused herself to her guests from breakfast until dinner, and drove
home to superintend arrangements. Dinner parties were frequent at that
house, and there was not much danger that anything would go wrong.
Still, the Colonel was unusually critical, and his wife had her
anxieties. On the whole, Sir Temple Dacre enjoyed himself most of anyone
at that time, he gave himself up to observation and a proper amount of
attention to his dinners, which he remarked to his wife were for
provincial affairs uncommonly good. Lord Bulchester, trying to follow
Edmonson's meanings, had a feeling of uncertainty which, as it did not
rest upon a foundation of faith, such as used to underlie all his
considerations of his friend's actions, ended by making him somewhat
uncomfortable. Edmonson kept to himself whatever clue he had gained, or
whatever ground for suspicion he had that one object of his visit to the
Colonies was nearing its accomplishment. He kept to himself also as much
as possible the fact that his eyes were constantly following Elizabeth
whenever they had opportunity, for the new position in which she was
placed had called forth unexpected resources in her which made her
well-poised in bearing and manner. "She is great in reserve forces,"
he said to himself, swearing under his breath that she was growing
more fascinating every time that he saw her, and for this he made
opportunities as well as found them. Stephen Archdale with his
alternations of gloom and gayety and the ubiquitousness necessary to a
host, had begun to find this direction of Edmonson's eyes a matter that
roused some slight speculation. His glances followed the arrowy glances
of his guest to see what marks they made. But he saw nothing, except
that Miss Royal avoided Edmonson as much as she could in courtesy, and
that she seldom met his eyes fully. From these things both young men
drew their conclusions, which were somewhat alike, and should both have
been subject to correction. More than once they measured one another
covertly, and from the heart of him who feared that he had lost her
there stretched out toward the other a terrible shadow which in the
wavering of his changing thoughts grew, and lessened, and grew again,
and sometimes reached forward and clutched with its hideous hands, and
then drew back, and crouched, and waited.
It was a perfect summer night when Elizabeth leaned out of her window
into the stillness. The roar of the surf was as distinct as if it came
from the pebbled beach below; yet, modulated by distance, it formed the
base, sustained and rythmic, into which there fell harmoniously that
legato treble of murmur which makes us seem to hear the stillness, and
that staccato note of some accidental sound softened to accord with the
mood of the night. She needed the peace that she felt in the air, for
her cheeks were wet with passionate tears and her lips still trembled.
She could give utterance to her trouble now, she was free for hours from
every ear, from every eye, hidden away from all but the sight and
hearing of the God she sought in the dark and the silence.
Brought up in the creed of the Puritans, believing it entirely, as she
supposed, there was yet in her heart when she sent it Heavenward a joy
which sprang from a more loving faith. Perhaps it was because of her own
beautiful human associations with the name that at the words "Our
Father," her heart swelled with confidence that God listened to her
voice, and that his loving kindness wrapped her about. If her prayers
were not always granted as she wished, she perceived that the hands she
stretched out in pleading were never drawn back empty, for when they did
not hold her requests, they were filled with what was to be given her
tonight,--courage to meet the trials that she dreaded. The next day's
trial was to be the worst of all, for it was then that they were to dine
at the Colonel's, and Katie was to be there,--Katie, whom she loved
dearly, whom she had robbed so unintentionally, and who would not
forgive her. It would be hard for Archdale; but Elizabeth dismissed him
from her thoughts, for her heart was-full to overflowing of her own
grief, and of Katie. Kneeling there, sobs shook her with an abandonment
to her sorrow that was in itself a relief after her restraint. But at
last the calmness and the strength of a life greater than its trials
fell upon her. And when in the hush of these she went to her bed and
fell asleep, it was a face like a child's that the stars shining in at
her window looked down upon, a face fallen into lines of peace while the
tears were yet undried upon the pale cheeks. But only in its simplicity
was it a child's heart that met the next day's sunshine, for the courage
of a strong woman looked from Elizabeth Royal's eyes.