THE landlord of the inn of the Green Dragon watched his two English visitors ride away up the steep road that led to Beirnfels with unquestionable regret.
They had been lodging at the Green Dragon for the past fortnight, and he had discovered that English milords, whatever else they might be, were not niggardly with their money. They required a good deal of attention, it is true, and had a strange, outlandish predilection for innumerable baths, demanding a quite unheard-of quantity of water for the same. And at all unlikely hours of the day, too—when returning from a ride or before going up to the castle to dine, mark you!
Still, they made no difficulty about paying—and paying handsomely—for all they wanted, and if a man chooses to spend his money upon the superfluous scrubbing of his epidermis, it is, after all, his own affair!
And now the two English milords were taking their departure from the Green Dragon and, so the landlord understood, proposed to stay at the castle itself until their return to England.
It appeared that their lady-mother—who, it was rumoured in the village, was the daughter of an English archduke, no less!—was coming to Beirnfels and there was much talk amongst the village girls of weddings and the like. Apparently the Green Dragon’s two eccentric visitors, not withstanding their altogether abnormal liking for soap and water, were much as most men in other respects and had lost their hearts to the two pretty English ladies living at the castle.
So, no doubt, the “daughter of an English archduke, no less” was coming from England post haste to enquire into the suitability of the brides-elect—and also into the important point of the amount of the dowry each might be expected to bring her future husband.
There was no question that Lady Anne was certainly coming post haste—in reply to a series of joyful and imperative telegrams demanding that she should pack up and come to Beirnfels immediately—“for we are all enjoying ourselves far too much to return to England at present,” as Nick wired her with an iniquitous disregard for the cost per word of foreign telegrams. And Lady Anne, who always considered money well-spent if it purchased happiness, proceeded to wire back with equal extravagance that she was delighted to hear it and that she and her maid would start at once.
It was a very happy party that gathered round the table in the great dining-hall at Beirnfels on the night of Lady Anne’s arrival, and beneath all the surface laughter and gaiety lay the deep, quiet thanksgiving that only comes to those who have emerged out of the night of darkness and sorrow into a glorious sunlight of happiness and hope.
After dinner, in the soft, candle-lit dusk—for Peterson had never introduced the garish anomaly of electric light into the ancient castle—Jean sang to them in that quaintly appealing, husky voice of hers, simple tender folk-songs of the country-side, and finally, at a murmured request from Blaise, she gave them The House of Dreams.
"It’s a strange road leads to the House of Dreams,
To the House of Dreams-Come-True,
Its hills are steep and its valleys deep,
And salt with tears the Wayfarers weep,
The Wayfarers—I and you.
"But there’s sure a way to the House of Dreams,
To the House of Dreams-Come-True.
We shall find it yet, ere the sun has set,
If we fare straight on, come fine, come wet,
Wayfarers—I and you.”
As the last words died away into silence, she looked up and met Blaise’s eyes. He was leaning against the piano, looking down at her with a tranquil happiness in his gaze.