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.