"I WENT DOWN INTO THE GARDEN
TO SEE IF THE POMEGRANATES BUDDED.
Song of Solomon, VI. 11.
***
IT was a lovely afternoon on the last day
of May. The sea and all the toil and travail
belonging to it was overpass, and Judge Rawdon,
Ruth and Ethel were driving in lazy,
blissful contentment through one of the
lovely roads of the West Riding. On either
hand the beautifully cut hedges were white
and sweet, and a caress of scent--the soul of
the hawthorne flower enfolded them. Robins
were singing on the topmost sprays, and the
linnet's sweet babbling was heard from the
happy nests in its secret places; while from
some unseen steeple the joyful sound of
chiming bells made music between heaven
and earth fit for bands of traveling angels.
They had dined at a wayside inn on jugged
hare, roast beef, and Yorkshire pudding,
clotted cream and haver (oaten) bread, and
the careless stillness of physical well-being
and of minds at ease needed no speech, but
the mutual smiling nod of intimate sympathy.
For the sense of joy and beauty which makes
us eloquent is far inferior to that sense which
makes us silent.
This exquisite pause in life was suddenly
ended by an exclamation from the Judge.
They were at the great iron gates of Rawdon
Park, and soon were slowly traversing its
woody solitudes. The soft light, the unspeakable
green of the turf, the voice of ancient
days murmuring in the great oak trees, the
deer asleep among the ferns, the stillness of
the summer afternoon filling the air with
drowsy peace this was the atmosphere into
which they entered. Their road through this
grand park of three hundred acres was a wide,
straight avenue shaded with beech trees. The
green turf on either hand was starred with
primroses. In the deep undergrowth, ferns
waved and fanned each other, and the scent
of hidden violets saluted as they passed.
Drowsily, as if half asleep, the blackbirds
whistled their couplets, and in the thickest
hedges the little brown thrushes sang softly
to their brooding mates. For half an hour
they kept this heavenly path, and then a sudden
turn brought them their first sight of the
old home.
It was a stately, irregular building of red
brick, sandaled and veiled in ivy. The nu-
merous windows were all latticed, the chimneys
in picturesque stacks, the sloping roof
made of flags of sandstone. It stood in the
center of a large garden, at the bottom of
which ran a babbling little river--a cheerful
tongue of life in the sweet, silent place. They
crossed it by a pretty bridge, and in a few
minutes stood at the great door of the mansion.
It was wide open, and the Squire, with
outstretched hands, rose to meet them. While
yet upon the threshold he kissed both Ethel
and Ruth, and, clasping the Judge's hand,
gazed at him with such a piercing, kindly
look that the eyes of both men filled with
tears.
He led them into the hall, and standing
there he seemed almost a part of it. In his
youth he had been a son of Anak, and his
great size had been matched by his great
strength. His stature was still large, his face
broad and massive, and an abundance of
snow-white hair emphasized the dignity of a
countenance which age had made nobler. The
generations of eight hundred years were crystallized
in this benignant old man, looking
with such eager interest into the faces of his
strange kindred from a far-off land.
In the evening they sat together in the old
hall talking of the Rawdons. "There is
great family of us, living and dead," said the
Squire, "and I count them all my friends.
Bare is the back that has no kin behind it.
That is not our case. Eight hundred years
ago there was a Rawdon in Rawdon, and one
has never been wanting since. Saxon, Danish,
Norman, and Stuart kings have been and
gone their way, and we remain; and I can
tell you every Rawdon born since the House
of Hanover came to England. We have had
our share in all England's strife and glory,
for if there was ever a fight going on anywhere
Rawdon was never far off. Yes, we
can string the centuries together in the battle
flags we have won. See there!" he cried,
pointing to two standards interwoven above
the central chimney-piece; "one was taken
from the Paynim in the first Crusade, and
the other my grandson took in Africa. It
seems but yesterday, and Queen Victoria gave
him the Cross for it. Poor lad, he had it on
when he died. It went to the grave with him.
I wouldn't have it touched. I fancy the Rawdons
would know it. No one dare say they
don't. I think they meddle a good deal more
with this life than we count on."
The days that followed were days in The
House Wonderful. It held the treasure-trove
of centuries; all its rooms were full of secrets.
Even the common sitting-room had an antique
homeliness that provoked questions as
to the dates of its furniture and the whereabouts
of its wall cupboards and hidden recesses.
Its china had the marks of forgotten
makers, its silver was puzzling with half-
obliterated names and dates, its sideboard of
oak was black with age and full of table
accessories, the very names of which were
forgotten. For this house had not been built in
the ordinary sense, it had grown through
centuries; grown out of desire and necessity,
just as a tree grows, and was therefore fit and
beautiful. And it was no wonder that about
every room floated the perfume of ancient
things and the peculiar family aura that had
saturated all the inanimate objects around
them.
In a few days, life settled itself to orderly
occupations. The Squire was a late riser; the
Judge and his family breakfasted very early.
Then the two women had a ride in the park,
or wandered in the garden, or sat reading, or
sewing, or writing in some of the sweet, fair
rooms. Many visitors soon appeared, and
there were calls to return and courtesies to
accept. Among these visitors the Tyrrel-
Rawdons were the earliest. The representatives
of that family were Nicholas Rawdon
and his wife Lydia. Nicholas Rawdon was a
large, stout man, very arrogant, very complete,
very alert for this world, and not caring
much about the other. He was not pleased
at Judge Rawdon's visit, but thought it best
to be cousinly until his cousin interfered with
his plans--"rights" he called them--"and
then!" and his "THEN" implied a great
deal, for Nicholas Rawdon was a man incapable
of conceiving the idea of loving an
enemy.
His wife was a pleasant, garrulous woman,
who interested Ethel very much. Her family
was her chief topic of conversation. She had
two daughters, one of whom had married a
baronet, "a man with money and easy to
manage"; and the other, "a rich cotton lord
in Manchester."
"They haven't done badly," she said
confidentially, "and it's a great thing to get girls
off your hands early. Adelaide and Martha
were well educated and suitable, but, "she
added with a glow of pride, "you should see
my John Thomas. He's manager of the mill,
and he loves the mill, and he knows every
pound of warp or weft that comes in or goes
out of the mill; and what his father would
do without him, I'm sure I don't know. And
he is a member of Parliament, too--Radical
ticket. Won over Mostyn. Wiped Mostyn
out pretty well. That was a thing to do,
wasn't it?"
"I suppose Mr. Mostyn was the Conservative
candidate?"
"You may be sure of that. But my John
Thomas doesn't blame him for it--the gentry
have to be Conservatives. John Thomas said
little against his politics; he just set the crowd
laughing at his ways--his dandified ways.
And he tried to wear one eyeglass, and let it
fall, and fall, and then told the men `he
couldn't manage half a pair of spectacles;
but he could manage their interests and fight
for their rights,' and such like talk. And he
walked like Mostyn, and he talked like Mostyn,
and spread out his legs, and twirled his
walking stick like Mostyn, and asked them
`if they would wish him to go to Parliament
in that kind of a shape, as he'd try and do it
if they wanted a tailor-made man'; and they
laughed him down, and then he spoke reasonable
to them. John Thomas knows what
Yorkshire weavers want, and he just prom-
ised them everything they had set their hearts
on; and so they sent him to Parliament, and
Mostyn went to America, where, perhaps,
they'll teach him that a man's life is worth
a bit more than a bird or a rabbit. Mostyn
is all for preserving game, and his father was
a mean creature. When one thinks of his
father, one has to excuse the young man a
little bit."
"I saw a good deal of Mr. Mostyn in New
York," said Ethel. "He used to speak highly
of his father."
"I'll warrant he did; and he ought to keep
at it, for he's the only one in this world that
will use his tongue for that end. Old Samuel
Mostyn never learned to live godly or even
manly, but after his death he ceased to do
evil, and that, I've no doubt, often feels like
a blessing to them that had to live anyway
near to him. But my John Thomas!"
"Oh," cried Ethel, laughing, "you must
not tell me so much about John Thomas; he
might not like it."
"John Thomas can look all he does and
all he says straight in the face. You may
talk of him all day, and find nothing to say
that a good girl like you might not listen to.
I should have brought him with us, but he's
away now taking a bit of a holiday. I'm sure
he needs it."
"Where is he taking his holiday?"
"Why, he went with a cousin to show
him the sights of London; but somehow they
got through London sights very quick, and
thought they might as well put Paris in. I
wish they hadn't. I don't trust foreigners and
foreign ways, and they don't have the same
kind of money as ours; but Nicholas says I
needn't worry; he is sure that our John
Thomas, if change is to make, will make it to
suit himself."
"How soon will he be home?"
"I might say to-day or any other early
day. He's been idling for a month now, and
his father says `the very looms are calling
out for him.' I'll bring him to see you just
as soon as he comes home, looms or no looms,
and he'll be fain to come. No one appreciates
a pretty girl more than John Thomas does."
So the days passed sweetly and swiftly onward,
and there was no trouble in them. Such
business as was to be done went on behind
the closed doors of the Squire's office, and
with no one present but himself, Judge Rawdon,
and the attorneys attached to the Rawdon
and Mostyn estates. And as there were
no entanglements and no possible reason for
disputing, a settlement was quickly arrived
at. Then, as Mostyn's return was uncertain,
an attorney's messenger, properly accredited,
was sent to America to procure his signatures.
Allowing for unforeseen delays, the perfected
papers of release might certainly be on hand
by the fifteenth of July, and it was proposed
on the first of August to give a dinner and
dance in return for the numerous courtesies
the American Rawdons had received.
As this date approached Ruth and Ethel
began to think of a visit to London. They
wanted new gowns and many other pretty
things, and why not go to London for them?
The journey was but a few hours, and two or
three days' shopping in Regent Street and
Piccadilly would be delightful. "We will
make out a list of all we need this afternoon,"
said Ruth, "and we might as well go to-morrow
morning as later," and at this moment a
servant entered with the mail. Ethel lifted
her letter with an exclamation. "It is from
Dora," she said, and her voice had a tone of
annoyance in it. "Dora is in London, at the
Savoy. She wants to see me very much."
"I am so sorry. We have been so happy."
"I don't think she will interfere much,
Ruth."
"My dears," said Judge Rawdon, "I have
a letter from Fred Mostyn. He is coming
home. He will be in London in a day or two."
"Why is he coming, father?"
"He says he has a proposal to make about
the Manor. I wish he were not coming. No
one wants his proposal." Then the breakfast-
table, which had been so gay, became silent
and depressed, and presently the Judge went
away without exhibiting further interest in
the London journey.
"I do wish Dora would let us alone," said
Ruth. "She always brings disappointment
or worry of some kind. And I wonder what
is the meaning of this unexpected London
visit. I thought she was in Holland."
"She said in her last letter that London
would be impossible before August."
"Is it an appointment--or a coincidence?"
And Ethel, lifting her shoulders sarcastically,
as if in hostile surrender to the inevitable,
answered:
"It is a fatality!"