Laughing a little in his relief, he held her off and looked at her. She was tall and slender, like his mother, and had a delicate figure set off by her white duck skirt which flared about her ankles and by her white blouse with its rows of exquisite lace. She was hatless; her curling hair hung down her back, restrained only by a blue ribbon, in the English fashion. Her white slippers and silk stockings enhanced her appearance of fragility. “You are thinner, darling,” said Timothy with tender accusation. She laughed softly and patted his cheek, and her young face was full of light and her gray eyes shone in the evening radiance. Now his last apprehension was gone. Melinda was all joy and serenity. She took his hand and led him to a dogcart drawn by a fat pony. The porter was informed by the girl that a carriage would pick up the luggage at once. “I wanted us to be alone on the way home,” she said to Timothy.
She sprang into the dogcart and Timothy followed, taking off his hard hat to let the evening breeze cool his forehead. Melinda gathered up the reins, clucked to the mottled pony, and they drove away. For a while Timothy was content to sit in silence beside the girl as she deftly guided the pony down the cobbled hill to the village. He looked at the high and quiet sky, the walls, the little gardens, the thatched roofs, the children at gates, the blowing curtains at tiny leaded windows, the curving hedges, the traps and the occasional carriage, the drowsing cats on window sills, the hollyhocks and the ancient twisted chestnuts and the white-limbed birches.
Melinda was smiling gently; sometimes she glanced at Timothy and a quick happiness darted across her face like a soft light. Her long silken curls blew about her shoulders; he looked at the touching line from her chin to her ear, so vulnerable, so sweet to him. He took her hand and said, “Melinda, I’m not going home without you, you know.”
“I know,” she said. The dogcart left the little hamlet and swung between high hedgerows blowing with buttercups and ferns and little white flowers. From the meadows above came the lowing of home-going cattle and the tinkle of their bells. Swallows rose against the falling sun; the scent of salt water mingled with the perfume of warm grass. Somewhere church bells rang, their infinitely melancholy and nostalgic sound falling over the countryside, and birds clamored in the trees and a distant dog barked.
Timothy said, “Have you told Mother yet, dear?”
Melinda hesitated, and she was grave again. “No, Timothy. I don’t know why, but I thought I should wait until you came. I didn’t want her to think that it was all — stealthy.”
Timothy sat up, and his apprehensions were sharp again. “You should have told her,” he said. And then, “Never mind, dear. Perhaps you are right.”
She smiled at him timidly. “I hope so. And I do think you are wrong about Mama objecting. Why should she? My friend Lady Agnes married a viscount eighteen years older than herself, and everyone thought it was a fine match, including Mama. As for Uncle Montague, I’m sure he’ll approve; he’s so fond of you, Timothy.”
“Pernicious, like me,” said Timothy, laughing a little.
“Oh, Timothy,” said the girl, “I couldn’t live without you. And I do so want to go home. It’s beautiful here, and I love London, too, but it’s not home.”
He was very moved, and he held her slender elbow. “What? You prefer old dowdy Boston and the fusty old ladies in bombazine and the dry Common and all the imitations of England and the respectable vulgarity? But then, we’ll be living in New York too.”
He told her of his progress with Caroline as the dogcart climbed up the winding and silent road to the headland, and Melinda smiled again, her sweet and affectionate smile. “Once,” she said, “Caroline really loved me; that was when I was a little girl. I never told you, but one day she brought out a box of water colors and she tried to paint me in my pink frock with a blue sash. She was terribly discouraged; she said the colors were so pale.”
“Caroline — paint?” said Timothy in astonishment.
“Why, yes. She was fierce about the paleness of the colors. It was a lovely little portrait of me; I wanted to keep it, but she tore it up at once. I cried, and she cried too. I couldn’t have been more than five, a year after I came from the orphan home.”
Timothy thought about Caroline. She had many aspects, and he suspected that there were many which would even make him uncomfortable, but art was one he had never considered. Then he said, shrugging, “All the girls at Miss Stockington’s school were taught to dabble in water colors. You did, yourself.”
“Yes. But Caroline’s work was different. I was so little, but even at that age her painting looked strong and brilliant to me. It reminds me of a painter whose work I saw in Paris. Ames! Yes, that was the name. Isn’t it strange that he should have the same name?”
But Timothy was already tired of Caroline. He wanted to look at Melinda and talk about her. The dogcart reached the high green headland, broad and filled with blue evening shadows, silent and full of peace. Far beyond lay the bay, sparkling like silver fire and streaked with scarlet below the setting sun. And now they saw Lord Halnes’ country seat, a house of gray stone under heavy trees, without gates or walls, and surrounded by deep gardens. The road was private, soft with dry dust.
Melinda and Timothy ran into the stone hall together, and stained-glass windows threw jeweled light down upon them. The paneled walls were lined with armor and pennants, and a low fire burned in a wide fireplace against the rising evening chill. Timothy looked about him with pleasure; it never smelled old and musty here, or damp or unfriendly, though it was an ancient house. There was a warmth and wideness in the hall, in the curve of the great stairway, in the breadth of oaken chairs and settees filled with bright cushions. Timothy knew that his mother had brought her charm to this old mansion, and air and grace, and he was always glad to arrive and be part of the gracious household.
Cynthia came down the stairway in a light blue dress, a string of fine pearls about her throat, and in that mellow air she did not appear to be more than fifty years old. Her hair was as soft and vivid as ever, though discreetly dressed now, and her skin was still fine and clear, her chin line still distinct. She was leading a little boy by the hand, and he climbed slowly and carefully down the stairs beside her. “Dear Timothy!” she cried. “William! Here is your brother!”
Timothy kissed her, patted her shoulder in his usual bantering manner, picked up his small brother, and kissed him. The child gave him Melinda’s own serious look and her timid smile, and when he smiled he lost his resemblance to his father, for his smile was not quite Montague’s. “You’ve forgotten me, haven’t you, William?” asked Timothy. He was fond of his brother, who amused him with his solemnity. The child shook his head mutely and stopped smiling, and Timothy put him down.
“Let me look at you,” said Cynthia, taking Timothy’s thin shoulders in her hands and looking up at him searchingly. “Good heavens. It seems preposterous that such a big young man is my son! You make me feel old, dear.”
“Age cannot wither nor custom stale her infinite variety,” said Timothy with some malice.
“I hate that phrase,” said Cynthia, smoothing her dress about her excellent waist and exhaling perfume. “It isn’t in the least gallant; it’s usually said of old ladies who are fat and rich, and it’s always said by their hopeful nephews who hopefully count their aunts’ years. But tell me all about New York and Boston. We haven’t seen you since Christmas. Do come into the sitting room; tea is waiting.”
“Where’s old Montague?” asked Timothy as they went into the wide and pleasant sitting room where a fire rustled invitingly and windows stood half open to the evening breeze and looked upon the gardens.
“Don’t be disrespectful, dear,” said Cynthia with her old coquettish way of tapping him on the arm. “Montague will be here for dinner; he’s in the village about something. He becomes quite the country squire in Devonshire and potters about and discusses crops and has beer at the inn.”
“Square, rugged, homespun Montague,” said Timothy. “I love to see him in h
is country boots and with his brown stick and his walking gaiters. Honest Montague, and his pipe and his old dad’s big gold watch and chain which he never wears in London. I’ve often wondered if it still runs.”
“Now you are mocking again,” said Cynthia, and smiled her gay and charming smile. “Montague’s just like every other Englishman; he’s a different man in the country.”
“That’s good,” said Timothy. “If the old boys in these parts ever saw him as he is there’d be another hanging on the village green, title or no title.”
“I thought you were fond of him!” cried Cynthia, beginning to pour tea. “Melinda darling, do give Timothy some of these sandwiches so he can chew them and stop his nasty remarks.”
“I am fond of Montague,” said Timothy. “It’s just that I envy him. I would like to be a ruddy Englishman with a title and a country seat and a house in London and a shooting box in Scotland and an ermine cloak and coronet for coronations and practically all the money in the British Empire — that is, all the money the Queen hasn’t snatched for herself.”
“Well,” said Cynthia, “she has all those children, you know, and then the grandchildren too. Just swarms of them.”
Timothy laughed. He refilled little William’s cup himself; the child gazed at him with great wide eyes.
“Melinda, you look so pale,” said Cynthia. “Timothy, do tell me it’s my imagination.”
“She needs to go home permanently,” said Timothy. “It’s wrong to leave me there all alone while the three of you nest cozily in England. I’ll have to change it.
He looked at her closely as he said this, but her happy smile did not alter. “I suppose it is lonely for you,” she said. “But how nice it is for all my family to be with me here. It makes up for everything. Besides, dear, you’ll be marrying one of these days. By the way, how is Caroline?”
He told her of Caroline, and she regarded him proudly and nodded her pretty head and poured more tea. “I always told you the poor girl was no fool; she’s proved that by appreciating you, dear. Is her third baby born yet?”
“No, but imminent,” said Timothy. Cynthia laughed; she waited for Melinda’s laugh, but the quiet girl seemed to be abstracted. “Melinda,” said Cynthia, “is something wrong?”
“No, Mama,” said Melinda. “I was just thinking about Caroline. I don’t know why, but I was thinking.”
“Poor thing,” said Cynthia. “How is that country boy, her husband, Timothy?”
“As boorish and dull as ever,” answered her son. “We hate each other heartily; he’d like to boot me out of his frightful house whenever I’m there.”
The long English twilight set in, clear as water, and as still. Lord Halnes came into the sitting room in his tweeds, his respectable face cordial as he saw Timothy. They shook hands, and Cynthia rang for more hot tea. The fire brightened; one last bird sang to the coming night, and the song was infinitely sweet and sad and close. The family chattered, but Melinda was silent, listening to the bird. She did not know why, but tears came to her eyes and a faint pain to her heart. When she turned her head she saw Timothy watching her.
After dinner that night Timothy and Lord Halnes were left alone to drink their brandy together. The two men talked in low and serious voices now that Melinda and Cynthia had left them.
“And you are really convinced, sir,” said Timothy, “that we are actually about to enter the age of prolonged and universal wars?”
Montague nodded. He looked at his pipe distastefully. “I don’t know why I smoke this thing,” he said, “but it seems expected of me in the country. Yes, Timothy. These are the last years of peace. And grace. We’re all preparing for the new century and what it will bring us. My father told me that his father was certain that the year 1800 would mark a change in the world, but my father had at first thought him merely elderly and full of crochets. But my grandfather was quite right, you know. The world changed violently. The Age of Reason, or the Age of Enlightenment as they liked to call it, passed with extraordinary suddenness after the turn of the century. There was old Bony and his wars; there was also Waterloo and the Congress of Vienna and the industrial revolution and a tremendous change in mores and the solid rise of the middle class and a new Puritanism. They blame the last on poor old Victoria, but she is the symptom of her times and not its cause. She is the living symbol of the middle class, and now we have mean middle-class virtues, middle-class dullness, middle-class obstinacy, middle-class determination to have its day, and all the other dreary matters. Dash and joy, grandeur and aristocracy, intellect and pride and privilege, glory and passion — all these, my boy, began to pass away with extreme speed after 1800.
“I’ll probably never see these things again in my lifetime; I only saw their passing. When your southern states lost that war of yours, your country also lost its last grace, poetry, spaciousness, and the charm of living. No wonder we English loved your South. It was not all greed for profits, I assure you, which sent England to the aid of southern gentlemen.”
Timothy listened with sympathetic alertness and nodded over and over.
“There was a time,” said Lord Halnes, sipping his brandy and looking at Timothy over the glass, “when money and aristocracy were the same thing, for it was inconceivable in a civilized society that an aristocrat should be poor and that the barbarian should have money. It made for intellectualism and the privileges of intellectualism. Where is there a Voltaire today in the world? Unless he owned a factory, a Voltaire of today would starve to death. There is only one god today, and his name is industry and Marx is his prophet.” Lord Halnes smiled. “I am not averse to industry, my boy. It brings me a pretty profit, I admit. But it is also in the wrong hands.”
He stood up, and Timothy saw his undistinguished profile. Lord Halnes poked the fire.
He smiled pleasantly at Timothy. “Do you know, I had this same talk with old Johnny Ames one time, just before he died. He would not join us.”
“Could you expect otherwise?” asked Timothy. “He was a low-bred rascal.”
But Lord Halnes frowned thoughtfully. “No,” he said slowly, “I don’t think so, Timothy. He never spoke of his family, but I’m certain he had one and it was of no small reputation. There was something about him; you can’t mistake good blood. Yet he refused us.”
He sat down. “And now we’ll have wars. There are many reasons for wars. As many reasons as men have vices. What was it your Benjamin Franklin said? ‘There was never a good war or a bad peace’. He was not a gentleman, but he was shrewd and intelligent. He knew his humanity and despised it and feared it and he had no hope that the American Republic would survive. And it will not.
“And now,” said Lord Halnes, “tell me more about your cousin Caroline.”
Chapter 4
Cynthia let her son into her private sitting room, which was as graceful and charming as herself, and full of firelight and the scent of roses and expensive perfume. She had had the dull oaken walls painted old ivory with touches of gold, and her furniture was definitely French in origin and light and airy. She was dressed in a white satin robe, and her hair hung free and she looked like a young woman. “Dear Timothy,” she said, yawning, “what on earth were you and Montague talking about so long? We go to bed early in the country.” She smiled; her contentment had made her flesh silky and vibrant.
Timothy sat down near her where she had reclined on her chaise lounge. “I won’t keep you up, Mother,” he said. “Just give me five minutes.”
“Darling, I’m not the Queen,” she said. “Dear me, you must have had a tiring journey. You look positively wan; if you keep the muscles in your face so tight all the time you’ll be old before your time. I never saw you so serious! What is it, Timothy?”
“It’s very simple,” he said, and he clasped his hands tightly between his knees. “It’s possible you’ve already guessed it. I love Melly.”
“Why, dear, we all do,” she replied with tenderness. “Now, Timothy, don’t be tiresome again. You ar
e always saying that the English climate doesn’t agree with her. The climate in Boston is much worse than in London and just as dank and steamy. And we intend to spend much more time here in Devonshire, for Melinda’s sake, and I hope that satisfies you. Surely you must admit that the weather here is perfect, so balmy and mild. Melinda enjoys herself here; she has many friends in the country and is a great favorite. There is a certain family — you haven’t met them yet — but one of the sons — ”
Timothy broke in, “Mother! You didn’t hear me. I said I love Melly, and she loves me. We want to be married; we always did, since she was twelve years old.”
It was not possible. His mother had sat up abruptly as though struck, and she had become old, older than her years, old as death in her color and the starkness of her face and the bright terror of her eyes. Her hair fell back from her face. She caught the arms of the chaise lounge, and her hands clung to them, and her mouth opened and her jaw dropped.