CHAPTER VII
AS Lee sat alone, pondering deeply over her father-in-law’s advice, her American mail was brought up. She opened a letter from Mrs. Montgomery. After several pages of lamentation in many keys for her lost child, and several more of advice, the good lady got down to news.
“And I’ve lost another, for a whole year at the very least—I’ll join him somewhere in Europe when Tiny goes back, and then, of course, he’ll come with us to England, and has almost persuaded me to take up my real abode in Europe and pay visits to California. Of course I mean Randolph, darling. He decided, after all, not to sell his share in the mine, but formed a syndicate—himself, Mr. Geary, Mr. Trennahan, Mr. Brannan, and others of unimpeachable integrity—and now they own the mine, and Randolph says he’ll be worth five millions at least. As soon as it was all settled he told me that as there was nothing in particular for him to do he should go abroad. I couldn’t believe my ears when he said: ‘I never want to hear the word “business” again. I am sick of being a hustling American. I want the repose of the old world, and all it must be able to give and do for a man. I want to read and study, too. I feel half-educated, half-baked. If I could only have got a million out of the mine I should have been satisfied, and turned my back on money-grabbing just the same, but of course my instincts were too strong to take one millionwhere there was chance of five.’ So he’s gone! I’ve cried until I can’t see, for, although Arthur’s the best of men, and I love him like my own son, he’s not Randolph, and even Tiny couldn’t call him entertaining. When I tell him my troubles, he merely says, ‘Ah!’ at regular intervals. But I’m glad, for one reason: I’ve alwayshatedmoney-making; money was never made for anything but to spend with an open hand without asking for change, and I could never shut my eyes to the fact that Randolph was not what his grandfathers were—and his father when the latter was a young man. And he looks so like his paternal grandfather—the very image, and old Colonel Montgomery always looked as if he’d just come from a private audience with the king—of course there wasn’t any king, but he made one think there was. Europe does wonders for people. I never saw an American woman go over for one year that she didn’t come back improved. The men don’t usually stay long enough, but when they do—look at Mr. Trennahan. I’m sure it will give Randolph just the one thing he needs....”
“And I’ve lost another, for a whole year at the very least—I’ll join him somewhere in Europe when Tiny goes back, and then, of course, he’ll come with us to England, and has almost persuaded me to take up my real abode in Europe and pay visits to California. Of course I mean Randolph, darling. He decided, after all, not to sell his share in the mine, but formed a syndicate—himself, Mr. Geary, Mr. Trennahan, Mr. Brannan, and others of unimpeachable integrity—and now they own the mine, and Randolph says he’ll be worth five millions at least. As soon as it was all settled he told me that as there was nothing in particular for him to do he should go abroad. I couldn’t believe my ears when he said: ‘I never want to hear the word “business” again. I am sick of being a hustling American. I want the repose of the old world, and all it must be able to give and do for a man. I want to read and study, too. I feel half-educated, half-baked. If I could only have got a million out of the mine I should have been satisfied, and turned my back on money-grabbing just the same, but of course my instincts were too strong to take one millionwhere there was chance of five.’ So he’s gone! I’ve cried until I can’t see, for, although Arthur’s the best of men, and I love him like my own son, he’s not Randolph, and even Tiny couldn’t call him entertaining. When I tell him my troubles, he merely says, ‘Ah!’ at regular intervals. But I’m glad, for one reason: I’ve alwayshatedmoney-making; money was never made for anything but to spend with an open hand without asking for change, and I could never shut my eyes to the fact that Randolph was not what his grandfathers were—and his father when the latter was a young man. And he looks so like his paternal grandfather—the very image, and old Colonel Montgomery always looked as if he’d just come from a private audience with the king—of course there wasn’t any king, but he made one think there was. Europe does wonders for people. I never saw an American woman go over for one year that she didn’t come back improved. The men don’t usually stay long enough, but when they do—look at Mr. Trennahan. I’m sure it will give Randolph just the one thing he needs....”
Lee dropped the letter in dismay. If hers ever reached Randolph, would he interrupt his first real holiday to attend to her affairs? And it would be a year at least before he arrived in England. For a few moments she was nervously excited and very depressed. Then she bethought herself of her resolution to worry about nothing she could not alter. Both her parents-in-law would, in all probability, live for many years to come, and Lady Barnstaple seemed by no means at the end of her resources. By hook or by crook she would get the money before it was needed; but until she could take her next step she would agitate herself no further about it.
Her mind wandered to Randolph. It was on the cards that he would be much changed and improved the next time they met. He inspired her with quite a new interest, and she anticipated his advent with a lively curiosity.
She opened a letter from Coralie:
“I am going to marry, too,” announced Miss Brannan; “Ned Geary. I used to fancy myself ratheréprisewith Randolph, as you know; but really one’s affections can’t thrive on disinterested friendship, so I’ve transferred mine, bag and baggage, to the uncertain Teddy. I don’t believe Randolph will ever marry. I’m light and Ned is light, like the North American atmosphere and Californian claret; but Randolph is the kind that takes things clear down to his boots. He’s as blue as paint, and it’ll be a long while before he spruces up. However, he’s got several millions to console him, so I expect he’ll pull through.”
“I am going to marry, too,” announced Miss Brannan; “Ned Geary. I used to fancy myself ratheréprisewith Randolph, as you know; but really one’s affections can’t thrive on disinterested friendship, so I’ve transferred mine, bag and baggage, to the uncertain Teddy. I don’t believe Randolph will ever marry. I’m light and Ned is light, like the North American atmosphere and Californian claret; but Randolph is the kind that takes things clear down to his boots. He’s as blue as paint, and it’ll be a long while before he spruces up. However, he’s got several millions to console him, so I expect he’ll pull through.”
Lee felt a slight irritation at the rapid consolement of Mr. Geary, and smiled at the assurance of Randolph’s unaltered devotion. Then, out of her fuller knowledge, she sent him a little sigh of pity, and shortly after dismissed him from her mind.
In a few moments she went out to meet Cecil on his return from the moors. On the top of a hillock she turned and looked back at the Abbey. During the last fortnight she had studied it in every light and from every side. She understood why even Emmy loved it, and why Cecil had cared for no other home, even when a child, and with a bare prospect of inheritance; she herself had conceived a feeling that was almost a passion for it. Cecil hadrehabilitated its past, and the tales were heroic and dramatic and ghostly enough to satisfy even her girlish imagination; small wonder that she loved the Abbey as the one thing that had been wholly without disappointment, and had made no demands upon her powers of adaptability.
It was nearly half an hour before she met the brakes with the returning sportsmen. The undulations of the moor soon hid every other feature of the landscape. It was a vast and lonely expanse, as primitive and as widely lonely as any prairie of the New World. And it was so beautiful that Lee was faithless to her redwoods; for it came to her with something of a shock that the expression “purple twilight” was not a mere poetic felicity. Whether or not the atmosphere absorbed the heather’s colour, all the light on the moor, and on the mountain beyond, was purple. She had read of the dreary moorland, and had pictured it a dun grey thing; possibly it was in winter. But in its autumn purples it was mysterious and enchanting. And it gave the impression of shouldering the horizon on every side—of possessing the Earth. Far away was a solitary hut; near by a pond of ugly traditions. It was all as it should be, Lee reflected with a quizzical smile. Within the walls of the Abbey Emmy held romance by the throat, but out here on the moor it was impossible to realise her existence, or anything but the England of the poets.