It was the men of London Town who had begot liberty. It was the heirs of Dick Whittington who had not turned back at any time but had flung their flag over every continent and over multitudes of islands. If they ‘exploited’ the ‘lesser breeds without the law’, as Kipling had called them, they had also brought civilization to them in their merchant ships, and Bibles and science and a code of honor and justice, and the Christian imperative. They had revitalized an ancient world; they had built a new one. It was in London where feudalism had really died in the Western world.
Amanda was not given to brooding, but all at once, looking at London, she was strangely depressed, as if with a premonition. Empires passed. They died, not from without, but from within. They rotted first at the core. Who could win over a brave, resolute, and honorable man? Not even Satan. It was the man himself who defaulted his nature and fell into the pit where lay the monuments of dead civilizations and the bones of self-betrayers. Would this happen to London and the empire of which she was the hub? Amanda remembered snatches of conversations she had heard in English drawing rooms, murmurs of misgivings. “There is something on the move in the world,” she had heard. “And it isn’t good.” “You can just almost get a glimpse of evil faces,” one gentleman said, “as they slip around corners.”
“The King despises Asquith,” others remarked. “Let’s hope he won’t be elected.” “But what does the Anglo-Russian Agreement mean?” a lady asked. “Germany seems suspicious.” A gentleman grumbled, “And well she should be!”
King Edward, said his loyal subjects, certainly knew what he was about when he had negotiated the Anglo-French Entente. (“Why agreements? Why ententes?” asked some. “It’s been a long and peaceful time since Britain had coolly detached herself from the Continent. Why this sudden diplomatic flurry, these visits ‘abroad’ on the part of the King? Did His Majesty know something we do not know? Germany — ?”)
The press constantly discussed the Anglo-German rivalry. “The beggars are invading our trade areas,” said one of Timothy’s friends.
“They have the highest standard of living in the world,” said another. “You’ll not find any slums in Germany, or panics. You must admit they know how to work! Yet the working people there have an eight-hour day, and we have a ten. Our people accomplish less than the German worker with his shorter hours. Our industrialists are uneasy, and envious.”
“You must admit that Germany has her reasons to be suspicious,” said a nobleman of ancient family. “Not only that agreement and that entente. But a general air of isolating Germany. Then we’re ‘strengthening ties’ with Spain and Portugal. No wonder the Kaiser sat up when King Alfonso was maneuvered into marrying Edward’s niece, Ena of Battenberg.”
Amanda had listened eagerly, for she loved these Englishmen. Then she observed that Timothy was listening also, apparently relaxed, but intent and slightly smiling. Later he said to Amanda, “Give an Englishman his politics and his port or beer, and he’s happy for hours. Men, it’s been said, are political animals. Englishmen are even more so.”
Something was stirring darkly underground in sunlit and happy London. Amanda could feel it as she stood on the balcony this hot July day. A pity England did not have a George Washington, who had warned of foreign entanglements as the way to war. But what had Karl Marx and the Battenbergs and ententes and agreements to do with each other? Amanda shook her head. Let Timothy laugh lightly. His English friends were not laughing.
Amanda resumed her packing. There was surely no connection, but all at once she thought of her sons Henry and Harper, kind and goodhearted American boys. And she was terribly frightened; she a wholesome woman of much common sense and no vague fears.
Timothy never took this pleasant journey to Devon without remembering, with the same pain, that long-ago June day when he had taken this exact journey, thinking only of Melinda and his hopes of marrying her. He never forgot the flight from Devon the following day and his new hatred for Caroline Ames. He knew that she had been perfectly right in not informing him before he had left New York; as a Bostonian woman, it would have been unthinkable for her to tell him of his mother and John Ames. But she was the daughter of the dead John Ames. The daughter remained, ‘the old gray hag’. Her father had brought that misery to him.
He and his family and Elizabeth Sheldon completely occupied one first-class compartment from London to Devon. The day was very hot, and the sun had a stinging quality to the eye. The window was wide open, as well as the door to the compartment, in a hopeless effort to create a cooling breeze. As a result, everyone in the compartment, including the fastidious Timothy, was gritty with soot, choking with smoke, and was constantly fishing cinders out of eyes. All, with the exception of Elizabeth Sheldon.
Timothy looked at this daughter of Caroline without appearing to do so. He often thought of her more as the granddaughter of John Ames than as the daughter of Caroline. How the young devil resembled him! She was a young and female replica, cold, aloof, immaculate in her dark blue linen suit with the white shirtwaist and the broad yellow straw hat bound about the crown with a ribbon to match her clothing. Her gloved hands rested in her lap; there was no soot, miraculously, on their whiteness. She rarely spoke, even more rarely smiled; she appeared remote from her companions in the compartment. Her profile, turned occasionally to the window, had the rigidity of stone about it, just as her grandfather’s once had had. The lips were palely pink and beautifully formed, yet gave an impression of hardness. The line from her ear to her fine chin was sharply drawn and austere. The light brown hair, slightly waving, was not disordered by the hot wind. To think of her as corrupt, as Timothy did now and often had in the past, seemed absurd.
The heat had made both Amy and Amanda drowsy; they had removed their hats and were frankly dozing. Harper and Henry yawned. They got up, sleepily restless, and went into the corridor, where they leaned over the edge of the window and watched the calm green landscape pass, and the moors and the blue ponds and little blue streams. They pointed out the wild horses to each other and craned their necks after lonely farmhouses. Timothy gave all his attention to his young cousin Elizabeth, who was apparently unaware of her companions in the compartment.
Why had the girl been so quietly insistent on visiting her great-aunt, Timothy’s mother? Her own mother would be enraged when she heard of it. Elizabeth did not enrage people like her mother without a reason, and it had to be an imperative one. She had seen Cynthia only a very few times. The old woman and the young had not been attracted to each other. In fact, Cynthia had expressed both aversion and troubled sadness. The two had hardly exchanged a hundred words in those years. Yet Elizabeth had made things impossible until she had got her wish to visit Devon.
As Amanda had accused, Timothy had not actively opposed Elizabeth’s accompanying the family to Devon. There had been a reason: he was powerfully curious. Precisely, carefully, he went over the last few years. Cynthia. Elizabeth. Meeting briefly, the girl without obvious interest. She had not seemed impressed by Cynthia’s title and riches and position. She had hauteur. Why was it so important to her that she visit Devon and a woman who was nothing to her? Timothy concentrated again on every occasion when the young and the old woman had met so briefly. Who else had been there, connected with England, with Devon?
William Lord Halnes, Timothy’s half brother.
Timothy sat up so abruptly that his elbow jogged his drowsing wife, and she murmured a sleepy protest. Now he began to remember other things which had escaped his usual alertness: Elizabeth’s apparently idle and uninterested questions about William. Her voice had been polite but not eager.
So the significance had escaped Timothy until now. Elizabeth never expressed much interest in anyone. In spite of her casual and remote manner, there had surely been interest, if only in the fact that she had mentioned the young man at all. “He’s very rich, isn’t he? He’s going into the Church? Why? He’s twenty-four — twenty-five? Don’t the High Church clergy marry? I thought it was
something like the Roman Catholic Church — celibate clergy. I see. Is he engaged yet? No? He’s entitled to be in the House of Lords? Something like our Senate? I see.”
Yes, she had ‘seen’. Timothy had not. He saw now. The questions had not been merely to make conversation, for Elizabeth detested social exchanges just as her grandfather had detested them. If she were interested in young William, then she was totally interested. She had that sort of character.
Timothy had a sudden mental image of his brother. He resembled his father in appearance but not in nature. Respectable. Inconspicuous. Round-faced, sober-faced, with thoughtful and intelligent eyes. When in repose, his expression and his face were undistinguished. When he smiled he was completely charming and could move even Timothy with that look of gentleness and mirth. Timothy loathed ‘goodness’ in people. He did not loathe it in his brother. He was very fond of William, who was intellectual as well as virtuous, good without being boring, informed without being pedantic, religious without being dogmatic.
Was it possible, Timothy asked himself incredulously, that this young woman who he thought as ruthless as a dagger could be in love — in love! — with William? She had seen him only briefly and at long intervals. When writing to his American relatives, William had never once mentioned Elizabeth Sheldon. During this trip Elizabeth herself had not spoken of him. That, in itself, could be very significant.
Timothy’s thoughts rushed rapidly from point to point. Caroline would be angered at this visit. If she became angry enough she would put a ‘spendthrift’ clause in her will against her daughter, as she had done with her sons. Elizabeth was risking all that, coldly. A woman had only one reason for that risk, any woman. Love. There could be no other explanation.
But Timothy was still incredulous. He coughed and said in a low voice so as not to disturb his wife and daughter, “I hope it won’t be very dull for you down in the country, Elizabeth.”
“Why should it be?” asked Elizabeth, turning her face to him.
“Well, everyone will be either too young or too old for you.”
Elizabeth was silent. But he saw that she was watching him intently.
“William, of course, is down from Oxford. But my mother mentioned he had an invitation to visit friends — ”
Did her face actually change? She shook a cinder from her gloves. She said indifferently, “Then you won’t see him on this visit?”
Timothy did not answer. He found this effective with others. Silence in reply to a question always brought up eyes. It did so now. Timothy was startled. He had never seen this expression in Elizabeth’s eyes before, full, totally directed, and entirely unguarded.
“Oh, I expect we’ll see him,” said Timothy. “After all, we’re brothers. I don’t want him to shorten his holiday, though. If necessary, I’ll run up to see him where he’s visiting; very nice County people, the Havens.” He smiled. “There’s a hint in my mother’s letters that young Lady Rose Haven and William are more than interested in each other. There may be an announcement when we’re there.”
Elizabeth was naturally pale. But now she became very white and very still. She said quietly, “Won’t Amanda and the others want to see William too?”
“Well, we may all run down for a day; it’s only twenty miles by train. Mother’s arthritis is bad now, so she won’t be going. You can entertain each other for a few hours.” He smiled blandly at Elizabeth. “The Havens are often at Mother’s house. Lovely girl, Rose. Typically English, and just twenty. The family is very old and noble, and rich, too, a little horsy, but all the English are. Who was it who said that Paris is paradise for women, Italy for children, and England for horses? I must admit, though, that Rose is superb on a horse. She’s won prizes for jumping too.”
“Jumping?” murmured Elizabeth, looking again at her gloves.
“Steeple jumping, I think it is called. On a horse. Yes, Rose is a lovely girl. Fine figure. Just the girl for William.”
Timothy was sure now. He became excited. Was the first move in his years’ old determination for vengeance going to be successful? John Ames, Caroline, Elizabeth; they were all one in his unrelenting mind.
I think, said Timothy to Elizabeth in his thoughts, that I’m going to find this visit very interesting.
It was disconcerting to see that Elizabeth was watching him closely. It was impossible that she could have read his mind. But she was smiling just a little. It was a secret smile, and she turned away. Her long fair lashes touched her cheek.
Chapter 3
William was at home, as Timothy had known he would be, and he and his mother greeted their guests with love and affection. “It’s been some time, hasn’t it, Elizabeth?” William said to his cousin, holding her long hand in both of his warm and pudgy ones. He had the power to project his kindness, for it was genuine. He already had a priestly look in his black clothing, and his round and serious face resembled that of a young monk, until he smiled. Then his eyes shone gaily, his smile was delightful. Elizabeth found herself smiling in answer. Her chill heart lurched and quickened, and she knew for certain now that she honestly and blindly loved and that there would be no one else for her in all the world. Her childish impulse of years ago toward this man had been direct and profound. Her pale cheeks flushed and her blue eyes sparkled.
Elizabeth had never been conscious of atmosphere before. The homes of others in Boston and in Lyme never excited her imagination or longing. Only the trivial demanded pleasantness and beauty around them, and ornament and perfect coloring. But Elizabeth was deeply impressed by the casual magnificence of this English country mansion, its warm and inviting vistas, its mullioned windows open to the scent of the sea and late roses, its air of strength and endurance and dignity. She would live here; there was nothing else for her.
How beautiful the girl is, thought Cynthia, even while embracing her granddaughter Amy, whom she loved dearly; she could not help glancing over Amy’s shoulder at Elizabeth standing with such quiet elegance near William, who was exchanging witticisms with his brother.
“When I look at all of you,” said Cynthia, sighing and smiling, “you make me feel so old and so sad. I remember that I am over seventy and that when you go away I may never see you again, any of you.”
“Nonsense,” said Amanda. “You’ll always be young.” Even the arthritis which Cynthia suffered could not take away the quick sprightliness of her smile, though her undyed hair was white and soft now and rolled neatly at the back of her head. She had shriveled considerably and moved with slowness and caution, but her smoky gray eyes were the eyes of a girl, and she dressed with taste. Her mauve tea dress of silk had a subtle air and grace, and her profile, when she smiled, took on young contours.
They had tea. The sun was lowering over the scalloped bay. Elizabeth had never heard a nightingale before, and when the pure cry of music came to her through the windows on the first murmur of the evening breeze, she was both enthralled and startled. There had been silence in her mother’s house, oppressive and secret. She had never known peace and serenity. She was like one who had gained sight and hearing after a lifetime of blindness and deafness. She saw blue shadows moving slowly over the thick lawns and settling in purplish hollows under the great old oaks and plane trees. She had not known such a transparent sky before, such light and delicate pink fingerings of sun on the uppermost leaves. The wideness of the peace here, the sweet fragrance of flowers and grass and wood and tea, the tranquility, lay on that ascetic young spirit like a blessing. She could hear now the clear ringing of the church bells in the village below the headland, the call of thrushes, the deeper passion of the nightingale’s voice. She could not remember when she had last cried, or even if she had ever cried. She wanted to cry now. She looked at William. He was gazing at her thoughtfully, and when he caught her glance he smiled as if he understood, and she smiled at him with her very first innocent smile. He lifted his teacup and bent his head a little and wondered why he was suddenly disturbed and moved.
The
family went to their rooms to rest and supervise unpacking and then bathe and dress for dinner at eight. The light lingered. Elizabeth was in her large and pretty room overlooking the land and then the sea. A golden mist was invading the grounds; the lower branches of the trees swam dreamily in it, as if enchanted. She opened the windows wide and looked at the sea, crimson and gilded, far below. Little sailboats with red and blue and white sails were drifting into harbor. In copses of entranced trees the girl could see distant houses on the headlands and on sloping hillsides that ran down to the sea. The scents of southern England were almost overpowering to Elizabeth; the limitless peace crept over her, and she forgot everything except William and the joy of being here. In those moments she was only a girl, soft and hoping.
She could not leave this place. She would not leave it. Resolutely she opened the polished mahogany wardrobe where a maid had already hung her gowns and frocks and gave thought as to what she would wear that night. She found herself deliriously shivering. She selected a white silk dress embroidered with fine traceries of azure flowers, and silver slippers. The maid knocked discreetly and brought in a brass pitcher of hot water and fresh towels and opened a packet of scented soap. Murmuring, she lit the oil lamps and turned them up and then touched a light to a small fire in the black marble hearth. For, though it was southern England and July, the evenings were tangy and chill so near the sea.
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