Читать книгу: «The Bay State Monthly, Volume 3, No. 1», страница 7

ELIZABETH.¹³

A ROMANCE OF COLONIAL DAYS

By Frances C. Sparhawk, Author of "A Lazy Man's Work."

CHAPTER XIII.—Continued

Half an hour later Edmonson marched into his friend's room. His face was flushed, and his eyes had a triumphant glitter. It was an expression that heightened most the kind of beauty he had.

"You are booked for a visit, Bulchester," he began, seating himself in the chair opposite the other. "I have accepted for you; knew you would be glad to go with me."

"That is cool!" And Bulchester's light blue eyes glowed with anger for a moment. His moods of resentment against his companion's domination, though few and far between, were very real.

"Not at all. In fact it is a delightful place, and I don't know to what good fortune we are indebted for an invitation. Neither of us has much acquaintance with Archdale."

"Archdale? Stephen Archdale?"

"Yes. You look amazed, man. We are asked to meet Sir Temple and Lady Dacre. I don't exactly see how it came about, but I do see that it is the very thing I want in order to go on with the search. Another city, other families."

"But—." Bulchester stopped.

"But what?"

"Why, the possible Mistress Archdale,—Elizabeth. Of course I am happy to go, if you enjoy the situation."

A dangerous look rayed out from Edmonson's eyes.

"I can stand it, if Archdale can," he answered. "How fate works to bring us together," he mused.

"I don't understand," cried the other. "What has fate to do with this invitation?" Edmonson, who had spoken, forgetting that he was not alone, looked at his companion with sudden suspicion. But Bulchester went on in the same tone. "If it is to carry out your purpose though, little you will care for having been a suitor of Mistress Archdale."

"On the contrary, it will add piquancy to the visit." Then he added, "Don't you see, Bulchester, that I dare not throw away an opportunity? Ship 'Number One' has foundered. 'Number Two' must come to land. That is the amount of it."

"Yes," returned Bulchester with so much assurance that the other's scrutiny relaxed.

"I suppose it is settled," said his lordship after a pause.

"Certainly," answered Edmonson; and he smiled.

Lady Dacre and train, having fairly started on their two day's journey, she settled herself luxuriously and again began her observations. But as they were not especially striking, no chronicle of them can be found, except that she called Brattle Street an alley, begged pardon for it with a mixture of contrition and amusement, and generally patronized the country a little. Sir Temple enjoyed it greatly, and Archdale was glad of any diversion. When they had stopped for the night, as they sat by the open windows of the inn and looked out into the garden which was too much a tangle for anything but moonlight and June to give it beauty, Lady Dacre sprang up, interrupting her husband in one of his remarks, and declaring it a shame to stay indoors such a night.

"Give me your arm," she said to Archdale, "and let us take a turn out here. We don't want you, Temple; we want to talk."

Sir Temple, serenely sure of hearing, before he slept, the purport of any conversation that his wife might have had, took up a book which he had brought with him. He was an excellent traveler in regard to one kind of luggage; the same book lasted him a good while.

Lady Dacre moved off with Stephen. They went out of the house and down the walk. She commented on the neglected appearance of things until Stephen asked her if weeds were peculiar to the American soil. In answer she struck him lightly with her fan and walked on laughing. But when they reached the end of the garden, she turned upon him suddenly.

"Now tell me," she said.

"Tell you what?"

"Tell me what, indeed! What a speech for a lover, a young husband. Has the light of your honeymoon faded so quickly? Mine has not yet. Tell me about her, of course, your charming bride."

Stephen came to a dead halt, and stood looking into the smiling eyes gazing up into his.

"Lady Dacre," he said, "the Mistress Archdale you will find at Seascape is my mother." Then he gave the history of his intended marriage, and of that other marriage which might prove real. His listener was more moved than she liked to show.

"It will all be right," she said tearfully. "But it is dreadful for you, and for the young ladies, both of them."

"Yes," he answered, "for both of them."

"You know," she began eagerly, "that I am the–?" then she stopped.

Stephen waited courteously for the end of the sentence that was never to be finished. He felt no curiosity at her sudden breaking off; it seemed to him that curiosity and interest, except on one subject, were over for him forever.

When Lady Dacre repeated this story to her husband she finished by saying: "Why do you suppose it is, Temple, that my heart goes out to the married one?"

"Natural perversity, my dear."

"Then you think she is married?"

"Don't know; it is very probable."

"Poor Archdale!"

Sir Temple burst into a laugh. "Is he poor, Archdale, because you think he has made the best bargain?"

"No, you heartless man, but because he does not see it. Besides, I cannot even tell if it is so. I believe I pity everybody."

"That's a good way," responded her husband. "Then you will be sure to hit right somewhere."

"I will remember that," returned Lady Dacre between vexation and laughing, "and lay it up against you, too. But, poor fellow, he is so in love with his pretty cousin, and she with him."

"Poor cousin! Is she like a certain lady I know who chose to be married in a dowdy dress and a poke bonnet for fear of losing her husband altogether?"

But Lady Dacre did not hear a word. She was listening to a mouse behind the wainscotting, and spying out a nail-hole which she was sure was big enough for it to come out of, and she insisted that her husband should ring and have the place stopped up.

When the party reached Seascape the summer clouds that floated over the ocean were beginning to glow with the warmth of coming sunset. The sea lay so tranquil that the flash of the waves on the pebbly shore sounded like the rythmic accompaniment to the beautiful vision of earth and sky, and the boom of the water against the cliffs beyond came now and then, accentuating this like the beat of a heavy drum muffled or distant. The mansion at Seascape with its forty rooms, although new, was so substantial and stately that as they drove up the avenue Lady Dacre, accustomed to grandeur, ran her quick eye over its ample dimensions, its gambrel roof, its immense chimneys, its generous hall door, and turning to Archdale, without her condescension, she asked him how he had contrived to combine newness and dignity.

"One sees it in nature sometimes," he answered. "Dignity and youth are a fascinating combination."

In the hall stood a lady whom Archdale looked at with pride. He was fond of his mother without recognizing a certain likeness between them. She was dressed elegantly, although without ostentation, and she came towards her guests with an ease as delightful as their own. Stephen going to meet her, led her forward and introduced her. Lady Dacre looked at her scrutinizingly, and gave a little nod of satisfaction.

"I am pleased to come to see you Madam Archdale," she said in answer to the other's greeting. There was a touch of sadness in her face and the clasp of her hand had a silent sympathy in it. It was as if the two women already made moan over the desolation of the man in whom they both were interested, though in so different degrees. But the tact of both saved awkwardness in their meeting.

Archdale stood a little apart, silent for a moment, struggling against the overwhelming suggestions of the situation. Even his mother did not belong here; she had her own home. Perhaps it would be found that no woman for whom he cared could ever have a right in this lovely house. When these guests had gone he would shut up the place forever, unless–. But possibilities of delight seemed very vague to Stephen as he stood there in his home unlighted by Katie's presence. All at once he felt a long keen ray from Sir Temple's eyes upon his face. That gentleman had a fondness for making out his own narratives of people and things; he preferred Mss. to print, that is, the Mss. of the histories he found written on the faces of those about him, which, although sometimes difficult to decipher, had the charm of novelty, and often that of not being decipherable by the multitude. Stephen immediately turned his glance upon Sir Temple.

"You are tired," he said with decision, "and Lady Dacre must be quite exhausted, animated as she looks. But I see that my mother is already leading her away. Let me show you your rooms."

Sir Temple's eyes had fallen, and with a bow and a half smile upon his lips, he walked beside his host in silence.

CHAPTER XIV

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.

CHAPTER XV

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.