Chapter II: The Best Thing in the World

Even while Melville, with despair gnawing at his heart, was speeding on his journey back to England, Sir Geoffrey Holt was keeping festival at Fairbridge Manor. That very evening he had given a final dinner party to celebrate the betrothal of his god-child, Gwendolen Austen, to his favourite nephew, Ralph Ashley.

In the whole of a land which is proud to claim as its children so many fair women and brave men, it would be difficult to find a fairer woman or a braver man than now engrossed Sir Geoffrey's thoughts, and in their approaching union he looked to see the culmination of his own happiness. It was infinitely pleasant to know that the two, over whose lives he had watched so tenderly, would never leave him now, but hand-in-hand would walk in quiet contentment by his side, lightening the burden of his increasing years, and giving him fresh pleasure in their own unfolding joys. No man could ever hope to win richer reward for his unfailing goodness to others than Sir Geoffrey was reaping now for his long care of this boy and girl.

So he threw wide his hospitable doors, and asked the county to come and shower congratulations upon the happy couple. For a week he kept open house, and his pleasure was so apparent, his high spirits so contagious, that he made himself loved the more by his unaffected delight and his manner of displaying it. To his succession of dinner parties practically the entire county came, until both Ralph and Gwendolen were at a loss to find fresh ways of saying, "Thank you," for so many expressions of goodwill.

But this evening had brought the entertainments to a close, and when Sir Geoffrey, standing by his open door, had bade the latest guest good-bye, he turned with a sigh of satisfaction into the great hall where his children, as he called them, were laughing over some incident which had amused them during the day.

Sir Geoffrey pulled his god-daughter towards him and held her face between his hands.

"The last guest gone," he said, smiling at her; "now, Gwen, confess you are not sorry."

"I didn't know there was so much kindness in the world," she answered, smiling back at him, and her eyes were shining; "but I confess I am glad we are all by ourselves again."

"Tired?" he asked.

"Not a bit," she answered brightly; "unless it be of seeming to occupy so much attention."

"And you don't want to go to bed?"

"Indeed, no," she said indignantly. "When one is as happy as I am it would be a shame to spend a single hour asleep."

"Then let us go down to the house-boat," Sir Geoffrey said. "I daresay Ralph can manage to amuse you somehow, and I want to talk to your mother."

"Do you want to talk to me, Ralph?" said Gwendolen, turning to her lover, who was looking at her with affectionate pride.

"I don't seem to have had a chance of talking to you for a week," Ralph answered promptly. "Let's go at once and--and get a deck chair ready for your mother."

Sir Geoffrey chuckled.

"An admirable reason for both of you hurrying away. Ralph is too weak to move one by himself; you must help him, Gwendolen."

Ralph put a wrap round Gwendolen, and, linking her arm in his, went through the French window across the garden.

It was a glorious night. A full moon shed a mellow splendour across the lawns, throwing the masses of the cedars into bold relief against the sky, and glinting in all the diamond panes of the heavy-leaded windows. Over the phloxes and tobacco plants that adorned the borders great moths were wheeling, and bats were flickering in and out of the plantation that screened the stables from the house. As the garden sloped towards the river the turf was more closely shaven, and along the water's edge were sunk pots in which magnificent geraniums and sweet heliotrope were growing.

Moored by the extreme boundary of the garden Ralph's house-boat lay; it contained a little bedroom and two sitting-rooms, fragrant with flowers and light with mirrors and thin curtains, and the upper part, covered in with a pale green awning, was a mass of flowers and palms. Here were deck chairs, and little tables, and Japanese lanterns.

Ralph put two chairs ready for Mrs. Austen and Sir Geoffrey, and then looked at Gwendolen.

"Shall we wait here for them, or would you like me to punt you up the stream?"

"Let us stay here," she answered; "somehow----"

"Yes?" he said enquiringly.

"Somehow I fancy the others will not come," she said, rippling with laughter. "Sir Geoffrey is always so thoughtful."

Ralph took her in his arms and kissed her passionately.

"I love you--I love you," he said, between set teeth, and Gwendolen drew a sigh of perfect content. "If it could always be like this," he went on. "Just you and I in the peace, with the river and the moonlight to reflect our happiness."

But Gwendolen shook her head.

"You would soon tire of that," she said, and when he would have demurred laid her hand upon his lips. "I hope you would, at any rate, for I would not like you to be a lotos-eater dreaming your days away. There is so much to do in the world, Ralph, and surely we, to whom so much has been given, would not wish to give nothing in return."

He kissed the hand that caressed him.

"Tell me what I am to do."

Gwendolen considered.

"It is not easy to see just at first," she admitted, "but work, like charity, begins at home. You will be a good master to your household, and will take an active interest in the estate. You will be so anxious to make the tenants happier in their respective stations that you will be surprised to find how many things go to make up their lives. Life is a big bundle of little things, you know, not a little bundle of big ones. If you really set your heart upon doing good you will never stop for lack of something to do. That is a wonderful thought, Ralph: there is no end to the good you can do in the world."

"Go on," he said tenderly; "go on, dear, good little woman!"

"That is only thinking of your life at home," said Gwendolen; "but there are wider interests outside. I should like you to make a name for yourself in the great world; it might be in philanthropy, it might be in politics. I'm often sorry you have no profession, but the world has always need of good men, and I won't let you hold wool for me while the world wants one pair of honest hands. Oh! Ralph, wouldn't that be more worth while than idling your life away, even if it could always be like this?"

"Much more worth while," he answered gravely. "You have made me happy; you will make me good; you may make me famous. That is a great deal for one little woman to do for a man. What am I to do in return for you?"

"Only love me," she said. "Love me always as you do now; never any less tenderly or truly, even when the other interests are nearer than they are to-night. What more can you do than give me love--the best thing in the world?"

"I think I may safely promise that," Ralph said, and his deep voice quivered. What had he done that Providence should heap blessings on him so lavishly? For what had already been bestowed upon him he could never show sufficient gratitude, and now there was the crowning gift of all--the love of a pure and beautiful girl, whom he knew he had loved all his life.

Gwendolen lay back in one of the deck chairs, and Ralph, leaning against the wooden railing, feasted his eyes upon the picture that she made. In a dress of white _mousseline-de-soie_, trimmed with rare point lace, she looked ethereally beautiful in this setting of coloured lamps and lovely flowers. Her hands were clasped upon her lap, and the moonlight caught the diamonds in the ring that he had given her, and even sought out the little diamond drop that did duty as an earring. Against the scarlet cushions on which she reclined her fair skin showed like ivory, and Ralph was filled with something akin to amazement that this incarnation of all that was sweet and lovely in English womanhood would soon be his to have and to hold for ever.

Her eyes, large, brown, and true, were fixed steadfastly on him, and found no less pleasure in what they saw than his did. In his evening dress Ralph looked taller than the six feet that he actually measured; fair hair curled crisply over a sun-tanned face, in every line of which frank candour was written, and his athletic figure was graceful in every involuntary pose. Gwendolen had reason to be proud of her lover as he thus stood silhouetted against the moonlit sky, and she made no secret of it to herself that she found pleasure in his unconscious show of great strength in restraint. He could kill her with so little effort of those well-shaped, nervous hands, and yet one look from her could make his whole frame tremble.

So in silence they communed together, as is the way with lovers who know that no words can express a tithe of their deep emotion. And, indeed, while lovers have eyes to see, they do not need tongues to speak. Silence is best when two hearts are in accord.

The silence was broken by Sir Geoffrey's voice talking to Mrs. Austen as they came over the velvety turf. Sir Geoffrey helped his companion on to the houseboat and followed her up the stairway.

"Forgive us for being so long, Gwendolen," he said in his cheery, bantering fashion. "I hope my nephew has been doing his best to entertain you."

"He has been behaving very nicely," Gwendolen replied, "and I think you have brought him up very well."

"I told Martin to bring us some coffee and liqueurs," Sir Geoffrey went on, "and I'm going to smoke, if you ladies will allow me, and look at the reflections in the water, and fancy I'm young again."

Mrs. Austen protested.

"You are young, until you feel old," she said, "and you don't feel that to-night."

"No, I don't," said Sir Geoffrey stoutly. "This is an ideal ending to one of the happiest days of my life, and if a man is only as old as he feels, I shall come of age on Ralph's wedding-day." He lighted a cigar and flung the match into the river. "Have a cigar, Ralph? I'm sure you have earned it." The old fellow was pleased that his nephew could not chime in with his trivial chatter, and pulling up a chair by Gwendolen's side, he patted her hand. "Happy, Gwen?" he asked, and as the answering smile dawned in the girl's dark eyes, he wiped his own, which suddenly grew misty. "That's right, that's right," he said quickly. "Ah! here is Martin with the tray."

Allured by the material pleasures of tobacco and liqueurs, Ralph descended to earth again, and soon the little party were laughing and chatting merrily enough. Soft strains of music from another houseboat were carried down to them, and presently a young fellow poled a racing punt swiftly down the stream; two swans floated out from underneath the trees, rocking gracefully on the water ruffled by the punt; and from the tender came suggestively domestic sounds as the old butler put away the cups and saucers and decanted whiskey for the men.

Then presently they strolled back to the manor house and lingered for a little in the hall; and while Ralph took his time to bid Gwendolen good-night, Sir Geoffrey found opportunity to say a few more words to Mrs. Austen.

"I wish I could tell you how happy I am," he said. "I have hoped for this all my life, and now it has come to pass. They both are worthy of each other, and to see such happiness as theirs is almost as good as having it oneself."

Mrs. Austen cordially agreed, but she wondered if Sir Geoffrey's hearty words were at all belied by the sigh that accompanied them. Yet she stifled the suspicion as it was born, for no woman lives long enough to give her child in marriage without learning the truth that underlies the words:

"Our sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught;
Our sweetest songs are those that
tell of saddest thought."

Then, with the curiosity of her sex, she wondered again, as she had so often wondered before, why Sir Geoffrey Holt himself had never married.