THE HOUSE IS BUILT
"To which my soul made answer readily:
Trust me, in bliss I shall abide
In this great mansion, that is built for me,
So royal-rich and wide.
"... An English home--grey twilight poured
On dewy pastures, dewy trees,
Softer than sleep--all things in order stored,
A haunt of ancient peace."
--TENNYSON.
Gwendolen Cooper sat with her parents in the drawing-room of
Fransdale Vicarage on an afternoon in late October. She had come
home for a holiday, and also to condole with her parents over the
family troubles.
Theo had gone to Australia, as Principal Boy, with a Pantomime
company. Barbara, the fourth girl, the quietest and most reserved of
the family, had, on her twenty-first birthday, announced her
intention of marrying Alfred Dow.
It was this second calamity which the Vicarage found overwhelming. A
certain gloss might be artistically cast over the doings of Theo in
Australia. Barbara's doings in Fransdale must be proclaimed upon the
house-top; and should she persist in her intention, the vicar felt
that nothing remained for him but to exchange livings and depart from
the scene of his humiliation.
To be openly defied and set at naught by the smallest and most silent
of his daughters, was a blow he had not anticipated; as indeed he had
wholly failed to anticipate in the smallest degree any of his
children's undutifulness. His jet-black hair was silvering fast, his
mien colder and more severe than ever.
Mrs. Cooper was growing very stout, and already somewhat infirm.
Recent events had chafed the surface of her smiling cheerfulness a
little. Her company smile was now wont to come off at times. But
her own belief in her own exemplary rectitude was as unshaken as ever.
"We have nothing to reproach ourselves with, and that is such a
comfort," she remarked to her newly arrived daughter. "It was our
duty to offer poor dear Melicent a home, and we did so. In the space
of three weeks she corrupted the entire family; and we still feel the
effects of her deceit. Had it not been for her, Alfred Dow would
never have forgotten his place in the way he has persistently done of
late years. But really, if one's religious beliefs were not too firm
to be shaken, it would put them to the test, to think that, after
being publicly exposed in the way she was here, in Fransdale this
summer, she is now to marry a millionaire."
"Well," observed Gwendolen drily, "I understand that Captain Brooke
knows the worst of her, so I suppose that is all right."
"But think of his past life, my dear--the son of a poor ignorant Boer
farmer--another Alfred Dow, only worse! And, with his money, his
wife and he will be in the county set, while we, in consequence of
Barbara's conduct, will have to hide our heads in disgrace."
"I don't see any disgrace in marrying Alfred Dow," bluntly observed
Madeline, who was also present.
"With our position and family connections--"
"That does seem such tommy-rot, mother. We couldn't all five have
married Lance Burmester, even if he had wanted to marry one of us,
which, of course, he never did. And he's the only man we were
allowed to think about as a _parti_. Except for Gwendolen's affair
with Freshfield--"
"Oblige me by not slandering your sister," cut in the vicar.
"Tommy-rot again, father," calmly said Gwendolen, who laughed. "You
know, mother knows, I know, how near we were then to a scandal of the
most serious kind. I wonder how many girls in the world would have
held their tongue about that as Millie has, after the way we girls
let her in! What liars she thought us! I say, let Barbara marry a
good man if she likes, and live the life she likes. I would have
married Alfred Dow like a shot if he had asked me. Far better than
slaving away as I do, teaching other people's children."
The vicar, in wrath, said something about the dignity of teaching.
"Yes; if you have brains or education," retorted Gwendolen coolly.
"I have neither. I am only fit to be a farmer's wife."
"Your mother had no more," began the vicar, in his most weighty tones.
"Please let's leave mother out of the discussion," hastily said
Gwendolen, rising and going to the window. "I might say something I
should be sorry for. Here comes Bee."
Beatrice came in hastily.
"I met Sybil Ayres," said she, "and heard quite a lot of things.
Sybil and the General went to London last week, and they called on
the Helstons, and got all the news. First of all, Melicent is to be
married in London, next week, very, very quietly. The Bishop of
Pretoria is staying in England just to perform the ceremony, and
sails the next day. They are going for a few weeks' honeymoon, and
then into rooms at Clunbury, to superintend the finishing of their
house. Melicent is not strong yet. They are quite sure now that the
arm need not be amputated, but she will never have quite the proper
use of it. No bridesmaids or anything at the wedding, because of
Lance Burmester's feelings."
"Well," said Madeline, "I'm hanged if I'd marry a millionaire and
have no bridesmaids!"
"And what do you think? They've had a letter from Major Otis, from
the United States, saying he's sorry."
"What!" cried the vicar.
"Yes; Mr. Helston told the General more about it all than has ever
been allowed to leak out. The General has had such an enthusiastic
admiration for Captain Brooke, ever since the Fransdale sports, so I
suppose they knew he would be interested.... It appears that, after
what happened that day at the sports, Melicent thought it right to
break her engagement. They say she had known in her heart for a long
time that it was a mistake, but did not like to say so, but I suppose
after what had been said about her family, and so on, she thought if
she did not break it off, the Burmesters would, so she wrote to
Lance, and then, feeling very low in her mind, she went off to
confess her sins to Mr. Hall."
Madeline giggled.
"Fancy confessing one's sins to you, father!" she said. "Our only
idea in old days used to be to hide ours, wasn't it?"
Her father ignored the impertinence. "Proceed, Beatrice," he said.
"Well, Major Otis and the boy were lying in wait for Captain Brooke
by the Ilba Bridge; and Millie saw them, and as far as I could
gather, she spoke to Otis, and asked him to reform; and then she
suddenly got to know that they were waiting for the Captain, and they
gagged her to prevent her crying out, and she fought like a demon,
and the pistol went off and shot her right along the arm, from below
the elbow right up to the shoulder--she had hold of the muzzle, you
see--and then Otis was scared and bolted. But Arnie Lutwyche went
and got help. And they wouldn't have Otis searched for.... They let
him go, and as you know, tried to say it was a poaching affair, only
everybody knew better. And now he has written this letter, saying
that ever since, the things Millie said that night have been ringing
in his head, and he's going to have a try to run straight."
"Beatrice, your slang!" said her father hopelessly.
"Well, I'm quoting the dear Major. I did like that man! Just my
style, down to the ground! I think I'll go to the States and look
him up. Twice as amusing as Captain Brooke! He's a regular
stuck-pig! How hard we all tried to fascinate him! You might as
well have tried to fascinate one of the Three Howes! He'll bore poor
Millie to death, but he seems free with his money. He is doing a lot
for that hideous Boer Lutwyche boy."
"How they must all have laughed in their sleeves next morning at you,
mother, when you solemnly went up to Glen Royd with your mysterious
secret about Captain Brooke!"
Mrs. Cooper grew very pink. The remembrance was among her least
happy reminiscences.
"Beatrice darling, ring for tea," she murmured.
"Sybil saw him, when she was up in town," pursued Beatrice, as she
obeyed.
"Saw whom?"
"Captain Brooke. She saw him and Melicent together. She said you
would hardly have known him, he seemed so gay and lively. She said
she had never thought Melicent pretty before."
"Sybil wasn't likely to think so, as long as Melicent was engaged to
Lance," remarked Madeline caustically.
The maid brought in tea.
"Ingleby's been down to town and brought up a letter," said she.
"Its for Miss Barbie."
"For Barbie?" Gwendolen snatched it. "It's from Millie," she said.
"I'll go and call her."
Barbara presently came in. Her eyelids were rimmed with pink, for
she had done a good deal of weeping lately. But her aspect was
determined. Gwendolen was only just home, and she feared more
brow-beating, but was evidently prepared to face it. In expression
and colouring, she was not unlike Melicent on a larger scale.
"A letter for you, Babs," said her elder sister kindly.
Barbara looked surprised; she had no correspondents. She opened her
letter, and Gwendolen read it aloud over her shoulder.
"MY DEAR BARBARA,--I am writing to tell you that Hubert and I have
just heard from Mr. Dow of his engagement to you. He says that Uncle
Edmund and Aunt Minna are not pleased, which we are sorry to hear, as
we both think Mr. Dow a man in a thousand. We hope that any
difficulties may soon be overcome. Mr. Dow has been having long
talks with Mr. Hall, and I believe the religious barrier can be
removed. He loves you deeply, I feel sure, and that is the great
thing. As long as you know he loves you, you can be content to bear
things.
"We want you to accept this cheque for £500 as our wedding present,
and as soon as Lone Ash is ready, you must both come and stay with us.
"Hubert is as fond of Fransdale as I am, and we shall always be there
some part of the year, so we shall see a good deal of each other in
the future, I hope.
"Hubert wants Uncle Edmund to know that he wishes to give a sum of
£500 to each of you girls on her wedding, as a small acknowledgment
of his goodness in offering to take charge of me when I was left
alone.--I remain, your affectionate cousin,
"MELICENT LUTWYCHE."
Gwendolen rose from her seat as the letter was concluded.
"Well," she said, "I always knew Millie was worth the lot of us. I
shouldn't wonder if she asks you to Lone Ash, girls, and gives you a
good time. She doesn't bear malice, as I should in her place. We
were brought up on scruples, not principles. We were urged to a
certain course of conduct, not because it was right, but because it
was the proper thing. Conventions were to us instead of
Commandments. Here is Barbara, wanting to do a thing which at worst
is only a social blunder, and she is treated as if she wanted her
neighbour's husband. I'm on your side, Babs; you may count on me."
The vicar and his wife found themselves, as usual, in a minority of
two.
* * * * * * * *
Two or three years after these events, the Bishop of Pretoria told
the outlines of the story of Hubert and Melicent to a lady for whom
he had a great respect.
When he had finished, she asked, in dissatisfied tones, whether the
marriage had turned out a happy one?
He replied that it was completely happy; almost ideally so.
"You ask as though the story had not pleased you," he added, in tones
of disappointment.
She shrugged her shoulders.
"To tell you the truth, it does not. I can never give my unqualified
approval to any story in which it was the man who won."
"You forget," he corrected her, "or perhaps I should say, you fail to
grasp the essential point Hubert could never have won Melicent, had
it not been that first of all Melicent won him. Love is like that
spiritual life to which it is so closely akin; who conquers there,
does so by virtue of being himself defeated."
THE END