in her hand, and a look half-perplexed and half-pleased upon her face. “Father,” she said, “there is a letter from America; Richard and Phyllis are coming; and I am afraid I shall not know how to make them happy.”
“Don’t thee meet troubles half ‘way; they arn’t worth th’ compliment. What is ta feared for, dearie?”
“Their life is so different from ours—and, father, I do believe they are Methodists.”
The squire fastened the bit of gaudy feather to the trout “fly” he was making, before he answered. “Surely to goodness, they’ll nivver be that! Sibbald Hallam, my uncle, was a varry thick Churchman when he went to th’ Carolinas—but he married a foreigner; she had plenty o’ brass, and acres o’ land, but I never heard tell owt o’ her religion. They had four lads and lasses, but only one o’ them lived to wed, and that was my cousin, Matilda Hallam—t’ mother o’ these two youngsters that are speaking o’ coming here.”
“Who did she marry, father?”
“Nay, I knowt o’ th’ man she married. He was a Colonel Fontaine. I was thinking a deal more o’ my own wedding than o’ hers at that time. It’s like enough he were a Methodist. T’ Carolinas hed rebelled against English government, and it’s nobbut reasonable to suppose t’ English Church would be as little to their liking. But they’re Hallams, whativer else they be, Elizabeth, and t’ best I hev is for them.”
He had risen as he spoke; the puppies were barking and gamboling at his feet, and Fanny watching his face with dignified eagerness. They knew he was going to walk, and were asking to go with him. “Be still wi’ you, Rattle and Tory!—Yes, yes, Fanny!—and Elizabeth, open up t’ varry best rooms, and give them a right hearty welcome. Where’s Antony?”
“Somewhere in the house.”
“Hedn’t ta better ask him what to do? He knows ivery thing.”
There was a touch of sarcasm in the voice, but Elizabeth was too much occupied to notice it; and as the squire and his dogs took the road to the park, she turned, with the letter still open in her hand, and went thoughtfully from room to room, seeking her brother. There was no deeper motive in her thought than what was apparent; her cares were simply those of hospitality. But when a life has been bounded by household hopes and anxieties, they assume an undue importance, and since her mother’s death, two years previously, there had been no company at Hallam. This was to be Elizabeth’s first effort of active hospitality.
She found Antony in the library reading “The Gentleman’s Magazine,” or, perhaps, using it for a sedative; for he was either half asleep, or lost in thought. He moved a little petulantly when his sister spoke. One saw at a glance that he had inherited his father’s fine physique and presence, but not his father’s calm, clear nature. His eyes were restless, his expression preoccupied, his manner haughty. Neither was his voice quite pleasant. There are human instruments, which always seem to have a false note, and Antony’s had this peculiarity.
“Antony, I have a letter from Richard and Phyllis Fontaine. They are going to visit us this summer.”
“I am delighted. Life is dreadfully dull here, with nothing to do.”
“Come to the parlor, and I will give you a cup of tea, and read you cousin Phyllis’s letter.”
The squire had never thought of asking Elizabeth why she supposed her cousins to be Methodists. Antony seized at once upon the point in the letter which regarded it.
“They are sailing with Bishop Elliott, and will remain until September, in order to allow the Bishop to attend Conference; what does that mean, Elizabeth?”
“I suppose it means they are Methodists.”
The young man was silent a moment, and then he replied, emphatically, “I am very glad of it.”
“How can you say so, Antony? And there is the rector, and the Elthams—”
“I was thinking of the Hallams. After a thousand years of stagnation one ought to welcome a ripple of life. A Methodist isn’t asleep. I have often felt inclined to drop into their chapel as I passed it. I wonder how it would feel to be awake soul and body at once!”
“Antony, you ought not to talk so recklessly. Some people might imagine you meant what you said. You know very well that the thousand years of ‘stagnation,’ as you call it, of the Hallams, is a most respectable thing.”
“Very respectable indeed! That is all women think about—born conservatives every one of them—‘dyed in the wool,’ as a Bradford man would say.”
“Why do you quote what Bradford men say? I cannot imagine what makes you go among a crowd of weavers, when you might be at Eltham Castle with gentlemen.”
“I will tell you why. At Eltham we yawn and stagnate together. The weavers prick and pinch me in a thousand places. They make me dream of living.”
“Drink your tea, Antony and don’t be foolish.”
He shrugged his shoulders and laughed. Upon the whole, he rather liked the look of astonishment in his sister’s gray eyes, and the air of puzzled disapproval in her manner. He regarded ignorance on a great many matters as the natural and admirable condition of womanhood.
“It is very good tea, Elizabeth, and I like this American news. I shall not go to the Tyrol now. Two new specimens of humanity to study are better than glaciers.”
“Antony, do remember that you are speaking of your own cousins—‘two new specimens of humanity’—they are Hallams at the root.”
“I meant no disrespect; but I am naturally a little excited at the idea of American Hallams—Americans in Hallam-Croft! I only hope the shades of Hengist and Horsa wont haunt the old rooms out of simple curiosity. When are they to be here?”
“They will be in Liverpool about the end of May. You have two weeks to prepare yourself, Antony.”
Antony did not reply, but just what kind of a young lady his cousin Phyllis Fontaine might be he had no idea. People could not in those days buy their pictures by the dozen, and distribute them, so that Antony’s imagination, in this direction, had the field entirely to itself. His fancy painted her in many charming forms, and yet he was never able to invest her with any other distinguishing traits than those with which he was familiar—the brilliant blonde beauty and resplendent health of his countrywomen.
Therefore, when the real Phyllis Fontaine met his vision she was a revelation to him. It was in the afternoon of the last day of May, and Hallam seemed to have put on a more radiant beauty for the occasion. The sun was so bright, the park so green, the garden so sweet and balmy. Heart’s-ease were every-where, honeysuckles filled the air, and in the wood behind, the blackbirds whistled, and the chaffinches and tomtits kept up a merry, musical chattering. The squire, with his son and daughter, was waiting at the great open door of the main entrance for his visitors, and as the carriage stopped he cried out, cheerily, “Welcome to Hallam!” Then there was a few minutes of pleasant confusion, and in them Phyllis had made a distinct picture on every mind.
“She’s a dainty little woman,” said the squire to himself, as he sat calmly smoking his pipe after the bustle of the arrival was over; “not much like a Hallam, but t’ eye as isn’t charmed wi’ her ‘ell hev no white in it, that’s a’ about it.”
Antony was much interested, and soon sought his sister.
“If that is Cousin Phyllis, she is beautiful. Don’t you think so, Elizabeth?”
“Yes; how perfectly she was dressed.”
“That is a woman’s criticism. Did you see her soft, dark eyes, her small bow-shaped mouth—a beauty one rarely finds in English women—her exquisite complexion, her little feet?”
“That is a man’s criticism. How could you see all that in a moment or two of such confusion?”
“Easily;