The Bay State Monthly, Volume 3, No. 1

"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."