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Not a sail showed, not a wing anywhere under the leaden clouds that still dropped their rain in patches, smurring out the horizon. The wind had died down, but the ships kept their harbours and the sea-birds their inland shelters. Alone of animate things, Captain Vyell's coach-and-six crept forth and along the beach, as though tempted by the promise of a wintry gleam to landward.
The landlady desired to be informed how to spell it. "For," said she, "I keep a list of all the quality that honour the Bowling Green." Ruth signed it boldly in the book presented, and ordered supper to be brought to her room; also a fire to be lit. She was given the same room in which she had knelt to pull off Oliver Vyell's boots.
Yet all is congruous. The dog scouts the Villa d'Este for a "toy-shop." The house at first disappoints one, being straight and simple to the last degree. To this portico a flight of sixteen steps conducts you from the uppermost terrace. Such is Vyell's new pleasance of Eagles, Boston's latest wonder.
Well, the Youth sits down to his plans, and at once orders begin to fly across ocean to this port and that for the rarest marbles rosso antico from Mount Taenarus, verde antico from Thessally; with green Carystian, likewise shipped from Corinth; Carrara, Veronese Orange, Spanish broccatello, Derbyshire alabaster, black granite from Vyell's Cornish estate, red and purple porphyries from high up the Nile. . . . The Youth conjures up his gardens as by magic.
"Well," said he ingenuously, "I'm no judge of these things, you know; but I always supposed the tower was the oldest bit." He broke off in confusion not at his speech, but because Clement Vyell's eyes were resting on the back of his hand, which shook with a tell-tale palsy.
Already ships were heading for Boston Harbour with statuary and wrought marble in their holds, all to beautify a palace meet for Oliver Vyell's bride. Thus love wrought in him, in a not extraordinary way if we allow for his extraordinary means. He and Ruth, between them, were beginning to sing the eternal duet of courtship: He.
The daughter, so near as I gather, is of an age near-about Vyell's. See?" "I am afraid I do not." Ruth had recovered her book and her composure. A rose-flush showed yet on either cheek, but it lay not within Mr. Silk's competence to read so delicate a signal. "Will you explain?" "Well" he leered "it did occur to me there might be some cleverness in the lady's search after consolation.
A rumour is current through Boston, touching Lady Vyell's virtue; or, at least, her conduct before marriage." "'Tis a censorious world, Mr. Langton." "Maybe; but let us avoid generalities, Mr. Silk. What grounds have you for imputing this misconduct to Lady Vyell?" "Me, sir?" cried Mr. Silk, startled out of his grammar. "You, sir." Mr.
Dicky had not quite outgrown his infantile lisp "and if she's come for stuff to put on them, please I want to pay for it." "But I don't want you to," put in the girl, still hesitating by the counter. "But I'd rather insisted Dicky. "Tut!" said the drug-seller. "A matter of twopence won't break either of us. Captain Vyell's boy, are you? Well, then, I'll take your coppers on principle."
Weighing on the one hand her love and Oliver Vyell's, on the other the half-guessed injury their marriage might do to him and to others of his race; weighing them not hastily but through long hours of thought: carrying her doubts off to the hills and there considering them in solitude, under the open sky; casting out from the problem all of self save only her exceeding love; this strange girl made strange by man's cruelty decided to give herself in due time, but to exact no marriage.
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