The tradition of Lord Althorp's confidence in him, and of how he requited it by securing Caxton's "Golden Legend"for the library of that distinguished collector, under the very nose of his hot rival, the Duke of Marlborough, was tenderly cherished as an heirloom in the old shop.
And Thorpe's father, too, though no such single achievement crowned his memory, had been the adviser and, as one might say, the friend of many notable writers and patrons of literature.
The son of such forbears needed only money to be recognized by everybody as a gentleman.
On his mother's side, now that he thought of it, there was something perhaps better still than a heritage of librarians' craft and tastes. His mother's maiden name was Stormont, and he remembered well enough the solemnity with which she had always alluded to the fact, in the course of domestic discussions. Who the Stormonts were he could not recall that he had ever learned, but his mother had been very clear indeed about their superiority to the usual ruck of people. He would ask his sister whether she knew anything about them.
In the meantime there was no denying that Stormont was a fine-sounding name. He reflected that it was his own middle name--and, on the instant, fancy engraved for him a card-plate on which appeared the legend--"Mr. Stormont Thorpe."It was an inspiration! "Joel" he had not used for so many years that now, after six months' familiarity with it on his sister's lips, he could not get accustomed to it.
The colourless and non-committal style of "J. S. Thorpe,"under which he had lived so long, had been well enough for the term of his exile--the weary time of obscure toil and suspense. But now, in this sunburst of smiling fortune, when he had achieved the right to a name of distinction--here it was ready to his hand. A fleeting question as to whether he should carry the "J" along as an initial put itself to his mind. He decided vigorously against it.
He had always had a prejudice against men who, in the transatlantic phrase, parted either their hair or their names in the middle.
He had made his unheeding way past the house to the beginning of the avenue of trees, which he remembered from the previous evening's drive. To his right, an open space of roadway led off in the direction of the stables.
As he hesitated, in momentary doubt which course to take, the sound of hoofs in the avenue caught his ear, and he stood still. In a moment there came into view, round a curve in the leafy distance, two horses with riders, advancing at a brisk canter. Soon he perceived that the riders were ladies; they drew rein as they approached him, and then it was to be seen that they were the pair he had judged to be such close friends last night--Lady Cressage and the daughter of the house.
They smiled and nodded down at him, as he lifted his cap and bowed. Their cheeks were glowing and their eyes sparkling with the exhilaration of their ride.
Even the Hon. Winifred looked comely and distinguished in his eyes, under the charm of this heightened vivacity.
She seemed to carry herself better in the saddle than she did out of it; the sweep of her habit below the stirrup lent dignity to her figure.
But her companion, whose big chestnut mount was pacing slowly toward the stepping-block--how should he bring within the compass of thought the impressions he had had of her as she passed? There seemed to have been no memory in his mind to prepare him for the beauty of the picture she had made.
Slender, erect, exquisitely-tailored, she had gone by like some queen in a pageant, gracious yet unapproachable.
He stared after her, mutely bewildered at the effect she produced upon him--until he saw that a groom had run from the stable-yard, and was helping the divinity to dismount.
The angry thought that he might have done this himself rose within him--but there followed swiftly enough the answering conviction that he lacked the courage.
He did not even advance to proffer his services to the other young lady, while there was still time. The truth was, he admitted ruefully to himself, they unnerved him.
He had talked freely enough to them, or rather to the company of which they made part, the previous evening. There had been an hour or more, indeed, before the party broke up, in which he had borne the lion's share of the talk--and they had appeared as frankly entertained as the others.
In fact, when he recalled the circle of faces to which he had addressed his monologue of reminiscences--curious experiences and adventures in Java and the Argentine, in Brazil and the Antilles and Mexico and the far West--it was in the face of Lady Cressage that he seemed to discern the most genuine interest.
Why should she frighten him, then, by daylight? The whimsical theory that the wine at dinner had given him a spurious courage occurred to him. He shrugged his shoulders at it, and, with his hands in his pockets, turned toward the stables.
The stable-yard is, from some points of view, the prettiest thing about Hadlow. There is a big, uneven, grass-grown space, in the centre of which, from a slight mound, springs an aged oak of tremendous girth and height. All around this enclosure are buildings of the same pale yellowish brick as the mansion itself, but quaintly differing one from another in design and size.
Stables, carriage-houses, kennels, a laundry, a brewery, and half a dozen structures the intention of which is now somewhat uncertain--some flat-topped, some gabled, others with turrets, or massive grouped chimneys, or overhanging timbered upper stories--form round this unkempt, shadowed green a sort of village, with a communal individuality of its own.
A glance shows its feudal relation to, and dependence upon, the great house behind which it nestles;some of the back-kitchens and offices of this great house, indeed, straggle out till they meet and merge themselves into this quadrangle. None the less, it presents to the enquiring gaze a specific character, of as old a growth, one might think, as the oak itself.
