The face of an old friend is good to see after a long absence. Tears
filled my eyes when the sunny blue ones looked into them, and the
handsome face, quivering with emotion, smiled into mine. I was glad to
feel once more the clasp of that honest hand.
"Ah, Lance," I cried, "I would travel twice as far for one hour with
you!"
I shall never forget that pretty station at Vale Royal. A beautiful
brawling river ran close by, spanned by an old-fashioned rustic bridge;
three huge chestnut trees, now in full flower, seemed to shade the whole
place.
"A pretty spot," said proud, happy Lance; "but wait till you see Dutton!
I tell Frances that I am quite sure it is the original garden of
Paradise!"
"Let us pray that no serpent may enter therein," I said.
"There is no fear, John," he replied; "my Frances would be an antidote
against all the serpents in the world. We shall have a glorious drive
home! How do you like my carriage?"
It was perfect, so were the horses, so was the groom in his neat livery,
so was the dogcart waiting for the luggage, so was the magnificent
retriever that ran with the carriage. What a drive it was! Of all
seasons, in all climes, give me an English spring. The hedges were
covered with white and pink hawthorn; the apple trees were all in bloom;
the air was redolent of mariets. The white lambs were in the meadows;
the leaves were springing on the trees; the birds singing.
"It is like a new life, John," said the happy young fellow by my side;
then, quite unable to keep his thoughts or his words long away from her,
he continued: "Frances will be so pleased to see you; we have talked of
nothing else for a week."
"I am afraid that she will be disappointed when she sees me, Lance."
"No, indeed," he replied, heartily. "You look better than you did when
you went to America, John--you look younger, less haggard, less worn.
Perhaps you have found some comfort?"
"Not of the kind you mean, Lance," I answered, "and I never shall."
"Ah," he said, musingly, "what mischief one bad woman can make! And she
was a bad woman, this false love of yours, John."
"If she had been a good one, she would have been true," I replied.
"I think," said Lance, musingly, "that in all this world there is
nothing so horrible as a bad--a really bad or wicked woman! They seem to
me much worse than men, just as a good woman is better than a man could
ever be--is little less than an angel.
"Do you know," he continued, his voice trembling with emotion, "I did
not understand how good a woman could be! My wife, Frances, is quite an
angel. When I see her in the morning, her fair face so fresh and pure,
kneeling down to say her prayers, I feel quite unworthy of her; when I
see the rapt, earnest expression of her face, as we sit side by side in
church, I long to be like her! She is one of the gentlest and sweetest
of women; there is no one like her!"
"I am heartily glad that you are so happy, my dearest Lance," I said.
He continued: "I know that my talking does not bore you; you are too
true a friend; it eases my heart, for it is always full of her. You do
not know how good she is! Why, John, the soul of a good woman is clear
and transparent, like a deep, clear lake; and in it one sees such
beautiful things. When my Frances speaks to a little child there comes
into her voice a beautiful tenderness--a ring of such clear music, that
I say to myself it is more like the voice of an angel than of a woman;
it is just the same when she speaks to any one in sorrow or sickness.
The strange thing to me is this: that though she is so good herself, so
pure and innocent, she has such profound compassion for the fallen and
the miserable. At Vale Royal, only a few months ago, there was one of
those unfortunate cases. A poor servant-girl--a very pretty and nice
girl, too, she was--was turned out of her mistress' house in the cold of
a winter's night; her boxes and wages were put in the street, and she
was told to go to the work-house. She almost went mad with despair and
shame. Frances would go to the rescue, and I honestly believe that
through my wife's charity and goodness that unhappy girl will be
restored to her place in the world, or that, at least, she will not go,
as she would otherwise have done, to the bad. I thought that a most
beautiful trait in her character."
"So it was," I replied, liking my dear old friend all the better for his
great love for his wife.
"She is always the same," he continued, "full of charity and tenderness
for the poor. You could not think how much they love her. All around
Vale Royal she is worshiped. I am a very fortunate man, John."
"You are indeed," I replied.
He went on:
"I always had my ideal. I have known many. None ever reached my standard
but Frances, and she is my ideal come to life--the reality found, fair,
sweet, and true, a blonde, queenly woman. I should think that very few
men meet and marry their ideal as I have met and married mine. Ah, there
is the avenue that leads to the old manor-house! Who could have thought
that I should ever be master of a manor-house, John? Neither that nor
the handsome income belonging to it would be of any use without Frances.
It is Frances who makes the world to me."
The avenue was a superb one. It consisted of tall chestnut trees
standing four deep. I have seen nothing finer. Just now the flowers were
all in bloom, the bees and butterflies had been all drawn there by their
odor; the birds were flitting in and out, making grand discoveries in
the great boughs; the ground was a carpet of flowers, white daisies and
golden buttercups mixed with wild hyacinths and graceful blue-bells. We
drove for some few minutes over this carpet, and then the old gray
manor-house stood before us, the prettiest picture ever seen on a
summer's day. The whole front of the house was covered with flowers, and
the ivy grew green and thick; it climbed to the very top of the towers.
"Famous ivy," said Lance. "People come to Dutton to look at the ivy."
"I do not wonder at it," I said.
I was somewhat surprised at the style o the house. I had not expected
anything so grand, so beautiful.
"We shall have time for a cigar and a stroll before dinner," said Lance,
as he threw the reins to the groom; "but you must see Frances first,
John--you must see her."
But one of the servants told us that Mrs. Fleming was in the
drawing-room, engaged with Lady Ledbitter. Lance's face fell.
"You do not seem to care for Lady Ledbitter," I said to him.
"In truth I do not; she is a county magnate, and a local horror I call
her. She leads all the ladies of the country; they are frightened to
death of her; they frown when she frowns, smile when she smiles. I
begged of Frances not to fall under her sway, but I have begged in vain,
no doubt. If she has been there for half and hour Frances will have
given in."
He turned on me suddenly, so suddenly, indeed, that he almost startled
me.
"Do you know," he said, "those kind of women, fair and calm, whose
thoughts seem to be always turned inward? My wife is one of those; when
one talks to her she listens with her eyes down, and seems as though she
had left another world of thought just for your sake. Her manner always
piques one to go on talking for the sake of making her smile. I can just
imagine how she looks now, while Lady Ledbitter talks to her. Well, come
to your own room, John, and we will stroll round the grounds until her
ladyship has retreated."
What a beautiful old house it was! One could tell so easily that a lady
of taste and refinement presided over it. The fine old oak was not
covered, but contrasting with it were thick, crimson rugs, hangings of
crimson velvet, and it was relieved by any amount of flowers; beautiful
pictures were hung with exquisite taste; white statues stood out in
grand relief against the dark walls.
"Your wife is a woman of taste, that is quite evident, Lance," I said.
My own room--a spacious chamber called the Blue Chamber--a large,
old-fashioned room with three windows, each window seat as large as a
small room; the hangings were of blue and white; there were a few
jardinieres with costly, odorous flowers; easy chairs, a comfortable
couch. Little stands had been placed with easy chairs in the window
seats; the room looked as though bluebells had been strewn with a
liberal hand on white ground.
"How beautiful!" I cried; "I shall never want to leave this room again,
Lance."
"I wish you would stay and never leave us; I am happy enough in having
Frances; if I had you as well, my happiness would be complete. You have
all you want, John; I will send your portmanteau."
When Lance had gone I looked round my room and fell in love with it. It
had the charm of old fashion, of elegance, of space, of height, and from
the windows there was a magnificent view of the park and the gardens.
"Lance must indeed be a happy man." I thought to myself.
He came to me when I was dressed and we went out for a stroll through
the gardens.
"We shall hear the dinner-bell," said Lance. "We will not go too far."
We saw the stately equipage of Lady Ledbitter driven down the avenue.
"Thank Heaven!" said Lance. "Now Frances is free. She will have gone to
her room. That good Lady Ledbitter has robbed us of a pleasant hour."
I was surprised and delighted at the magnificence of the grounds. I had
never dreamed that Dutton manor-house was so extensive or so beautiful.
"The great artist, Lilias, is coming here next week," said Lance. "I
want him to paint my wife's portrait. She will make a superb picture,
and when completed, that picture shall have the place of honor here in
the drawing-room. You will enjoy meeting him; he is a most intelligent,
amiable man."
That good Lance; it seemed to me quite impossible that he could speak
even these words without bringing in Frances; but how bright and happy
he looked! I envied him.
"Do as I have done, John," he said "Marry. Believe me, no man knows what
happiness means until he does marry."
"You must find me a wife just like your own," I said, and the words came
back to me afterward with a fervent prayer of "Heaven forbid!--may
Heaven forbid!"
"I shall never marry now, Lance," I said. "The only woman I could ever
love is dead to me."
He looked at me very earnestly.
"I wish you would forget all about her, John. She was not worthy of
you."
"Perhaps not," I replied; "but that does not interfere with the love."
"Why should you give all that loving heart of yours to one woman, John?"
he said. "If one fails, try another."
"If your Frances died, should you love another woman?" I asked.
"That is quite another thing," he said, and I saw in his heart he
resented the fact that I should place the woman who had been faithless
to me on an equality with his wife. Poor Lance!