Various - The Bay State Monthly, Volume 3, No. 1

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"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.

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