he said, 'give me, I pray you, one grain of that corn; I will plant and replant it until my fields wave with it.' We answered the request with a shout, and Houston gave it away grain by grain. Phyllis shall plant and watch mine. In two years one grain will give us enough to sow a decent lot, and, if we live, we shall see many a broad acre ta.s.seled with San Jacinto corn."

"You must take me to see your general, John."

"Bishop, we will go to-morrow. You are sure to like him--though, it is wonderful, but even now he has enemies."

"Not at all wonderful, John. No man can be liked by every one. G.o.d himself does not please all; nay as men are, I think it may stand with divinity to say He cannot."

"He will like to see you, sir. He told me himself, that nearly all the Texan colonies brought not only their religion, but their preachers with them. He said it was these Protestant preachers who had fanned and kept alive the spirit of resistance to Spanish tyranny and to Roman priest-craft."

"I have not a doubt of it, John. You cannot have a free faith in an enslaved country. They knew that the way of the Lord must be prepared.

"'Their free-bred souls Went not with priests to school, To trim the tippet and the stole, And pray by printed rule.

"'And they would cast the eager word From their hearts fiery core, Smoking and red, as G.o.d had stirred The Hebrew men of yore.'"

During the next two weeks many similar conversations made the hours to all three hearts something far more than time chopped up into minutes. There was scarcely a barren moment, and faith and hope and love grew in them rapidly toward higher skies and wider horizons. Then General Houston was so much relieved that he insisted on going back to His post, and John returned to Texas with him.

But with the pleasant memories of this short, stirring visit, and frequent letters from John and Richard, the summer pa.s.sed rapidly to Phyllis. Her strength was nearly restored, and she went singing about the house full of joy and of loving-kindness to all living things.

The youngest servant on the place caught her spirit, and the flowers and sunshine and warmth all seemed a part of that ampler life and happiness which had come to her.

Richard returned in the fall. He had remained a little later than he intended in order to be present at Antony's marriage. "A very splendid affair, indeed," he said; "but I doubt if Lady Evelyn's heart was in it." It was rather provoking to Phyllis that Richard had taken entirely a masculine view of the ceremony, and had quite neglected to notice all the small details which are so important in a woman's estimate.

He could not describe a single dress. "It seemed as if every one wore white, and made a vast display of jewelry. Pshaw! Phyllis, one wedding is just like another."

"Not at all, Richard. Who married them?"

"There was a Bishop, a dean; and a couple of clergymen present. I imagine the knot was very securely tied."

"Was the squire present?"

"No. They were married from the earl's town house. The squire was unable to take the journey. He was very quiet and somber about the affair."

"George Eltham, I suppose, was Antony's chief friend?"

"He was not there at all. The Elthams went to the Continent shortly before the wedding. It troubled the squire."

"Why? What particular difference could it make?"

"He said to me that it was the beginning of a change which he feared.

'George will leave t' firm next. Antony ought to have married Cicely Eltham. I know Eltham--he'll be angry at Cicely having been pa.s.sed by--and he'll show it, soon or later, I'm sure.'"

"But Antony had a right to please himself."

"I fancy that he had been very attentive to Miss Eltham. I remember noticing something like it myself the summer you and I were first at Hallam."

"Elizabeth says, in her last letter, that they are in Paris."

"Probably they are back in England by this time. Antony has taken a very fine mansion at Richmond."

"Is the bride pretty?"

"Very--only cold and indifferent, also. I am almost inclined to say that she was sad."

Then they talked of John's visit, and the subject had a great fascination for Richard. Perhaps Phyllis unconsciously described Texas, and Texan affairs, in the light of her own heart; it is certain that Richard never wearied of hearing her talk upon the subject; and the following spring he determined to see the country of which he had heard so much. John met him with a fine horse at the Buffalo Bayou, and they took their course direct west to the Colorado.

To one coming from the old world it was like a new world that had been lying asleep for centuries. It had such a fresh odor of earth and clover and wild flowers. The clear pure air caused a peculiar buoyancy of spirits. The sky was perfectly blue, and the earth freshly green.

The sunrises had the pomp of Persian mornings, the nights the soft bright glory of the Texan moon. They rode for days over a prairie studded with islands of fine trees, the gra.s.s smooth as a park, and beautiful with blue salvias and columbines, with yellow coronella and small starry pinks, and near the numerous creeks the white feathery tufts of the fragrant meadow-sweet. It looked like miles and miles of green rumpled velvet, full of dainty crinklings, mottled with pale maroon, and cuir, purple, and cream-color.

"How beautiful is this place!" cried Richard, reverently; "surely this is one of the many mansions of our Father! One would be ashamed to be caught sinning or worrying in it!"

As they reached the pine sands the breeze was keener, and their spirits were still more joyous and elastic. The golden dust of the pine flower floated round in soft clouds, and sunk gently down to the ground. Was it not from the flower of the pine the old G.o.ds of Olympus extracted the odorous resin with which they perfumed their nectar? And then, shortly afterward, they came to the magnificent rolling prairies of the Colorado, with their bottomless black soil, and their timbered creeks, and their air full of the clean dainty scent of miles of wild honeysuckle.

"Now, Richard, drink--drink of the Colorado. It has a charm to lure you back to Texas, no matter how far away you stray. Soon or later 'the mustang feeling' will seize you, and you'll leave every thing and come back. Do you see yonder hilly roll, with the belt of timber at its foot?"

"Yes, I see it."

"On its summit I am going to build a home--a long, low log-house, spreading out under the live oaks, and draped with honeysuckles.

Phyllis helped me to draw the plan of it when I saw her last. The house will be built, and the vines planted by the end of this year. Then she has promised to come. I hope you will be glad, Richard."

"I shall be glad to see her and you happy."

But although the pretty nest was built, and the vines growing luxuriantly, it was not until the close of 1838, nearly two years and a half after San Jacinto, that the lovers could venture to begin their housekeeping. The Indians hung persistently about the timber of the Colorado, and it was necessary to keep armed men constantly on the 'range' to protect the lives of the advance corps of Anglo-American civilization. During this time John was almost constantly in the saddle, and Phyllis knew that it would be folly to add to his responsibility until his service was performed.

As it frequently happens, one change brings another. While the preparations were making for Phyllis's marriage, a letter arrived from Hallam which Richard could not refuse to answer in person. "My father is dying," wrote Elizabeth, "and he wishes much to see you." So the marriage was hurried forward, and took place in the last days of September. Some marriages do not much affect the old home, but that of Phyllis was likely to induce many changes. She would take with her to Texas Harriet and several of the old servants; and there was no one to fill her place as mistress of the house, or as her brother's companion. So that when she thought of the cheery rooms, closed and silent, she was glad that Richard had to leave them, until the first shock of their separation was over.

She went away with a pretty and cheerful eclat. A steamer had been chartered to take the party and all their household belongings from New Orleans to Texas, for Phyllis was carrying much of her old life into her new one. The deck was crowded with boxes of every description; the cabin full of a cheerful party who had gone down to send away the bride with blessings and good wishes. It seemed all sad enough to Richard. After our first youth we have lost that recklessness of change Which throws off the old and welcomes the new without regret. The past had been so happy, what the future might be none could tell.

He turned his face eastward without much hope. Elizabeth's letter had been short and inexplicit. "She would see him soon; letters never fully explained any thing." He arrived at Hallam toward the end of October, and having come by an earlier packet than had been named, he was not expected, and there was no one at the coach to meet him. It was one of those dying days of summer when there is a pale haze over the brown bare fields of the gathered harvests. Elizabeth was walking on the terrace; he saw her turn and come unconsciously toward him. She was pale and worn, and an inexpressible sadness was in her face. But the surprise revealed the full beauty and tenderness of her soul. "O, Richard! Richard! my love! my love!" and so saying, she came forward with hands outstretched and level palms; and the rose came blushing into her cheeks, and the love-light into her eyes; and when Richard kissed her, she whispered, "Thank G.o.d you are come! I am so glad!"

People are apt to suppose that in old countries and among the wealthy cla.s.ses years come and go and leave few traces. The fact is that no family is precisely in the same circ.u.mstances after an interval of a year or two. Gold cannot bar the door against sorrow, and tapestry and eider-down have no covenant with change. Richard had not been many hours in Hallam when he felt the influence of unusual currents and the want of customary ones. The squire's face no longer made a kind of sunshine in the big, low rooms and on the pleasant terraces. He was confined to his own apartments, and there Richard went to talk to him. But he was facing death with a calm and grand simplicity. "I'd hev liked to hev lived a bit longer, Richard, if it hed been _His will_; but he knows what's best. I s'all answer willingly when he calls me. He knows t' right hour to make t' change; I'd happen order it too soon or too late. Now sit thee down, and tell me about this last fight for liberty. Phyllis hes fair made my old heart burn and beat to t' varry name o' Texas. I'm none bound by Yorkshire, though I do think it's the best bit o' land on t' face o' t' world. And I like to stand up for t' weakest side--that's Yorkshire! If I hed known nowt o' t' quarrel, I'd hev gone wi' t' seven hundred instead o' t'

two thousand; ay, would I!" Decay had not touched his mind or his heart; his eyes flashed, and he spoke out with all the fervor of his youth: "If I'd n.o.bbut been a young man when a' this happened, I'm varry sure I'd hev pitch'd in and helped 'em. It's natural for Englishmen to hate t' Spaniards and Papists. Why, thou knows, we've hed some tussles wi' them ourselves; and Americans are our children, I reckon."

"Then Texans are your grandchildren; Texas is an American colony."

"They hed t' sense to choose a varry fine country, it seems. If I was young again, I'd travel and see more o' t' world. But when I was thy age folks thought t' sun rose and set i' England; that they did."

He was still able, leaning upon Richard's arm, to walk slowly up and down his room, and sometimes into the long, central gallery, where the likenesses of the older Hallams hung. He often visited them, pausing before individuals: "I seem ta be getting nearer to them, Richard," he said, one day; "I wonder if they know that I'm coming."

"I remember reading of a good man who, when he was dying, said to some presence invisible to mortal eyes, 'Go! and tell my dead, I come!'"

"I would like to send a message to my father and mother, and to my dear wife, and my dead son, Edward. It would be a varry pleasant thing to see a face you know and loved after that dark journey."

"I have read that

"'Eyes watch us that we cannot see, Lips warn us that we may not kiss, They wait for us, and starrily Lean toward us, from heaven's lattices.'"

"That's a varry comforting thought, Richard. Thou sees, as I draw near to t' other life, I think more about it; and t' things o' this life that used to worry me above a bit, hev kind of slipped away from me."

It seemed to be very true that the things of this life had slipped away from him. Richard expected him every day to speak about Hallam and Elizabeth; but week after week pa.s.sed, and he did not name the estate. As Christmas drew near he was, however, much excited. Lady Evelyn was expected, and she was to bring with her Antony's son, who had been called after the squire. He longed to see the child, and at once took him to his heart. And he was a very beautiful boy, bright and bold, and never weary of lisping, "Gran'pa."