ONE of the most comfortable things about Frederick Mostyn was his almost boyish delight in the new life which New York opened to him. Every phase of it was so fresh, so unusual, that his Yorkshire existence at Mostyn Hall gave him no precedents and no experiences by which to measure events. The simplest things were surprising or interesting. He was never weary of taking those exciting “lifts” to the top of twenty-three story buildings and admiring the wonderful views such altitudes gave him. He did not perhaps comprehend how much he was influenced by the friction of two million wills and interests; did not realize how they evoked an electric condition that got behind the foreground of existence and stirred something more at the roots of his being than any previous experience had ever done. And this feeling was especially entrancing when he saw the great city and majestic river lying at his feet in the white, uncanny light of electricity, all its color gone, its breath cold, its life strangely remote and quiet, men moving like shadows, and sounds hollow and faint and far off, as if they came from a distant world. It gave him a sense of dreamland quite as much as that of reality. The Yorkshire moors and words grew dull and dreary in his memory; even the thought of the hunting field could not lure his desire. New York was full of marvelous novelties; its daily routine, even in the hotel and on the streets, gripped his heart and his imagination; and he confessed to himself that New York was life at first hand; fresh drawn, its very foam sparkling and intoxicating. He walked from the Park to the Battery and examined all that caught his eye. He had a history of the city and sought out every historical site; he even went over to Weehawken, and did his best to locate the spot where Burr and Hamilton fought. He admired Hamilton, but after reading all about the two men, gave his sympathy to Burr, “a clever, unlucky little chap,” he said. “Why do clever men hate each other?” and then he smiled queerly as he remembered political enemies of great men in his own day and his own country; and concluded that “it was their nature to do so.”
But in these outside enthusiasms he did not forget his personal relations. It took him but a few days to domesticate himself in both the Rawdon houses. When the weather drove him off the streets, he found a pleasant refuge either with Madam or with Ethel and Miss Bayard. Ethel he saw less frequently than he liked; she was nearly always with Dora Denning, but with Ruth Bayard he contracted a very pleasant friendship. He told her all his adventures and found her more sympathetic than Madam ever pretended to be. Madam thought him provincial in his tastes, and was better pleased to hear that he had a visiting entry at two good clubs, and had hired a motor ear, and was learning how to manage it. Then she told herself that if he was good to her, she would buy him one to be proud of before he returned to Yorkshire.
It was at the Elite Club Bryce Denning first saw him. He came in with Shaw McLaren, a young man whose acquaintance was considered as most definitely satisfactory. Vainly Bryce Denning had striven to obtain any notice whatever from McLaren, whose exclusiveness was proverbial. Who then was this stranger he appeared so anxious to entertain? His look of supreme satisfaction, his high-bred air, and peculiar intonation quickly satisfied Bryce as to his nationality.
“English, of course,” he reflected, “and probably one of the aristocrats that Shaw meets at his recently ennobled sister’s place. He is forever bragging about them. I must find out who Shaw’s last British lion is,” and just as he arrived at this decision the person appeared who could satisfy him.
“That man!” was the reply to the inevitable question—“why, he is some relative of the old lady Rawdon. He is staying at the Holland House, but spends his time with the Rawdons, old and young; the young one is a beauty, you know.”
“Do you think so? She is a good deal at our house. I suppose the fellow has some pretentions. Judge Rawdon will be a man hard to satisfy with a son-in-law.”
“I fancy his daughter will take that subject in her own hand. She looks like a girl of spirit; and this man is not as handsome as most Englishmen.”
“Not if you judge him by bulk, but women want more than mere bulk; he has an air of breeding you can’t mistake, and he looks clever.”
“His name is Mostyn. I have heard him spoken of. Would you like to know him?”
“I could live without that honor”—then Bryce turned the conversation upon a recent horse sale, and a few moments later was sauntering up the avenue. He was now resolved to make up his quarrel with Dora. Through Dora he could manage to meet Mostyn socially, and he smiled in anticipation of that proud moment when he should parade in his own friendly leash McLaren’s new British lion. Besides, the introduction to Mr. Mostyn might, if judiciously managed, promote his own acquaintance with Shaw McLaren, a sequence to be much desired; an end he had persistently looked for.
He went straight to his sister’s apartments and touched the bell quite gently. Her maid opened the door and looked annoyed and uncertain. She knew all about the cruelly wicked opposition of Miss Denning’s brother to that nice young man, Basil Stanhope; and also the general attitude of the Denning household, which was a comprehensive disapproval of all that Mr. Bryce said and did.
Dora had, however, talked all her anger away; she wished now to be friends with her brother. She knew that his absence from her wedding would cause unpleasant notice, and she had other reasons, purely selfish, all emphasizing the advantages of a reconciliation. So she went to meet Bryce with a pretty, pathetic air of injury patiently endured, and when Bryce put out his hands and said, “Forgive me, Dodo! I cannot bear your anger any longer!” she was quite ready for the next act, which was to lay her pretty head on his shoulder and murmur, “I am not angry, Bryce—I am grieved, dear.”
“I know, Dodo—forgive me! It was all my fault. I think I was jealous of you; it was hard to find that you loved a stranger better than you loved me. Kiss me, and be my own sweet, beautiful sister again. I shall try to like all the people you like—for your sake, you know.”
Then Dora was charming. She sat and talked and planned and told him all that had been done and all that was yet to do. And Bryce never once named either Ethel or Mr. Mostyn. He knew Dora was a shrewd little woman, and that he would have to be very careful in introducing the subject of Mr. Mostyn, or else she would be sure to reach the central truth of his submission to her. But, somehow, things happen for those who are content to leave their desires to contingencies and accidentals. The next morning he breakfasted with the family and felt himself repaid for his concession to Dora by the evident pleasure their renewed affection gave his father and mother; and though the elder Denning made no remark in the renewed family solidarity, Bryce anticipated many little favors and accommodations from his father’s satisfaction.
After breakfast he sat down, lit his cigar and waited. Both his mother and Dora had much to tell him, and he listened, and gave them such excellent advice that they were compelled to regret the arrangements already made had lacked the benefit of his counsels.
“But you had Ethel Rawdon,” he said. “I thought she was everybody rolled into one.”
“Oh, Ethel doesn’t know as much as she thinks she does,” said Mrs. Denning. “I don’t agree with lots of things she advises.”
“Then take my advice, mother.”
“Oh, Bryce, it is the best of all.”
“Bryce does not know about dress and such things, mother. Ethel finds out what she does not know. Bryce cannot go to modistes and milliners with me.”
“Well, Ethel does not pay as much attention as she might—she is always going somewhere or other with that Englishman, that she says is a relative—for my part, I doubt it.”
“Oh, mother!”
“Girls will say anything, Dora, to hide a love affair. Why does she never bring him here to call?”
“Because I asked her not. I do not want to make new friends, especially English ones, now. I am so busy all day, and of course my evenings belong to Basil.”
“Yes, and there is no one to talk to me. Ethel and the Englishman would pass an hour or two very nicely, and your father is very fond of foreigners. I think you ought to ask Ethel to introduce him to us; then we could have a little dinner for him and invite him to our opera box—don’t you agree with me, Bryce?”
“If Dora does. Of course, at this time, Dora’s wishes and engagements are the most important. I have seen the young man at the club with Shaw McLaren and about town with Judge Rawdon and others. He seems a nice little fellow. Jack Lacy wanted to introduce me to him yesterday, but I told him I could live without the honor. Of course, if Dora feels like having him here that is a very different matter. He is certainly distinguished looking, and would give an air to the wedding.”
“Is he handsome, Bryce?”
“Yes—and no. Women would rave about him; men would think him finical and dandified. He looks as if he were the happiest fellow in the world—in fact, he looked to me so provokingly happy that I disliked him; but now that Dodo is my little sister again, I can be happy enough to envy no one.”
Then Dora slipped her hand into her brother’s hand, and Bryce knew that he might take his way to his little office in William Street, the advent of Mr. Mostyn into his life being now as certain as anything in this questionable, fluctuating world could be. As he was sauntering down the avenue he met Ethel and he turned and walked back with her to the Denning house. He was so good-natured and so good-humored that Ethel could not avoid an inquisitive look at the usually glum young man, and he caught it with a laugh and said, “I suppose you wonder what is the matter with me, Miss Rawdon?”
“You look more than usually happy. If I suppose you have found a wife or a fortune, shall I be wrong?”
“You come near the truth; I have found a sister. Do you know I am very fond of Dora and we have made up our quarrel?”
Then Ethel looked at him again. She did not believe him. She was sure that Dora was not the only evoker of the unbounded satisfaction in Bryce Denning’s face and manner. But she let the reason pass; she had no likely arguments to use against it. And that day Mrs. Denning, with a slight air of injury, opened the subject of Mr. Mostyn’s introduction to them. She thought Ethel had hardly treated the Dennings fairly. Everyone was wondering they had not met him. Of course, she knew they were not aristocrats and she supposed Ethel was ashamed of them, but, for her part, she thought they were as good as most people, and if it came to money, they could put down dollar for dollar with any multi-millionaire in America, or England either, for that matter.
When the reproach took this tone there seemed to be only one thing for Ethel to say or to do; but that one thing was exactly what she did not say or do. She took up Mrs. Denning’s reproach and complained that “her relative and friend had been purposely and definitely ignored. Dora had told her plainly she did not wish to make Mr. Mostyn’s acquaintance; and, in accord with this feeling, no one in the Denning family had called on Mr. Mostyn, or shown him the least courtesy. She thought the whole Rawdon family had the best of reasons for feeling hurt at the neglect.”
This view of the case had not entered Mrs. Denning’s mind. She was quickly sorry and apologetic for Dora’s selfishness and her own thoughtlessness, and Ethel was not difficult to pacify. There was then no duty so imperative as the arrangement of a little dinner for Mr. Mostyn. “We will make it quite a family affair,” said Mrs. Denning, “then we can go to the opera afterwards. Shall I call on Mr. Mostyn at the Holland House?” she asked anxiously.
“I will ask Bryce to call,” said Dora. “Bryce will do anything to please me now, mother.”
In this way, Bryce Denning’s desires were all arranged for him, and that evening Dora made her request. Bryce heard it with a pronounced pout of his lips, but finally told Dora she was “irresistible,” and as his time for pleasing her was nearly out, he would even call on the Englishman at her request.
“Mind!” he added, “I think he is as proud as Lucifer, and I may get nothing for my civility but the excuse of a previous engagement.”
But Bryce Denning expected much more than this, and he got all that he expected. The young men had a common ground to meet on, and they quickly became as intimate as ever Frederick Mostyn permitted himself to be with a stranger. Bryce could hardly help catching enthusiasm from Mostyn on the subject of New York, and he was able to show his new acquaintance phases of life in the marvelous city which were of the greatest interest to the inquisitive Yorkshire squire—Chinese theaters and opium dives; German, Italian, Spanish, Jewish, French cities sheltering themselves within the great arms of the great American city; queer restaurants, where he could eat of the national dishes of every civilized country under the sun; places of amusement, legal and illegal, and the vast under side of the evident life—all the uncared for toiling of the thousands who work through the midnight hours. In these excursions the young men became in a way familiar, though neither of them ever told the other the real feelings of their hearts or the real aim of their lives.
The proposed dinner took place ten days after its suggestion. There was nothing remarkable in the function itself; all millionaires have the same delicacies and the same wines, and serve these things with precisely the same ceremonies. And, as a general thing, the company follow rigidly ordained laws of conversation. Stories about public people, remarks about the weather and the opera, are in order; but original ideas or decided opinions are unpardonable social errors. Yet even these commonplace events may contain some element that shall unexpectedly cut a life in two, and so change its aims and desires as to virtually create a new character. It was Frederick Mostyn who in this instance underwent this great personal change; a change totally unexpected and for which he was absolutely unprepared. For the people gathered in Mrs. Denning’s drawing-room were mostly known to him, and the exceptions did not appear to possess any remarkable traits, except Basil Stanhope, who stood thoughtfully at a window, his pale, lofty beauty wearing an air of expectation. Mostyn decided that he was naturally impatient for the presence of his fiancee, whose delayed entrance he perceived was also annoying Ethel. Then there was a slight movement, a sudden silence, and Mostyn saw Stanhope’s face flush and turn magically radiant. Mechanically he followed his movement and the next moment his eyes met Fate, and Love slipped in between. Dora was there, a fairy-like vision in pale amber draperies, softened with silk lace. Diamonds were in her wonderfully waved hair and round her fair white neck. They clasped her belt and adorned the instep of her little amber silk slippers. She held a yellow rose in her hand, and yellow rosebuds lay among the lace at her bosom, and Mostyn, stupefied by her undreamed-of loveliness, saw golden emanations from the clear pallor of her face. He felt for a moment or two as if he should certainly faint; only by a miracle of stubborn will did he drag his consciousness from that golden-tinted, sparkling haze of beauty which had smitten him like an enchantment. Then the girl was looking at him with her soft, dark, gazelle eyes; she was even speaking to him, but what she said, or what reply he made, he could never by any means remember. Miss Bayard was to be his companion, and with some effort and a few indistinct words he gave her his arm. She asked if he was ill, and when a shake of the head answered the query, she covered the few minutes of his disconcertion with her conversation. He looked at her gratefully and gathered his personality together. For Love had come to him like a two-edged sword, dividing the flesh and the spirit, and he longed to cry aloud and relieve the sweet torture of the possession.
Reaction, however, came quickly, and with it a wonderful access of all his powers. The sweet, strong wine of Love went to his brain like celestial nectar. All the witty, amusing things he had ever heard came trooping into his memory, and the dinner was long delayed by his fine humor, his pleasant anecdotes, and the laughing thoughts which others caught up and illustrated in their own way.
It was a feast full of good things, but its spirit was not able to bear transition. The company scattered quickly when it was over to the opera or theater or to the rest of a quiet evening at home, for at the end enthusiasm of any kind has a chilling effect on the feelings. None of the party understood this result, and yet all were, in their way, affected by the sudden fall of mental temperature. Mr. Denning went to his library and took out his private ledger, a penitential sort of reading which he relished after moods of any kind of enjoyment. Mrs. Denning selected Ethel Rawdon for her text of disillusion. She “thought Ethel had been a little jealous of Dora’s dress,” and Dora said, “It was one of her surprises, and Ethel thought she ought to know everything.” “You are too obedient to Ethel,” continued Mrs. Denning and Dora looked with a charming demureness at her lover, and said, “She had to be obedient to some one wiser than herself,” and so slipped her hand into Basil’s hand. And he understood the promise, and with a look of passionate affection raised the little jeweled pledge and kissed it.
Perhaps no one was more affected by this chill, critical after-hour than Miss Bayard and Ethel. Mostyn accompanied them home, but he was depressed, and his courtesy had the air of an obligation. He said he had a sudden headache, and was not sorry when the ladies bid him “good night” on the threshold. Indeed, he felt that he must have refused any invitation to lengthen out the hours with them or anybody. He wanted one thing, and he wanted that with all his soul—solitude, that he might fill it with images of Dora, and with passionate promises that either by fair means or by foul, by right or by wrong, he would win the bewitching woman for his wife.
“WHAT do you think of the evening, Aunt Ruth?” Ethel was in her aunt’s room, comfortably wrapped in a pink kimono, when she asked this question.
“What do you think of it, Ethel?”
“I am not sure.”
“The dinner was well served.”
“Yes. Who was the little dark man you talked with, aunt?”
“He was a Mr. Marriot, a banker, and a friend of Bryce Denning’s. He is a fresh addition to society, I think. He had the word ‘gold’ always on his lips; and he believes in it as good men believe in God. The general conversation annoyed him; he could not understand men being entertained by it.”
“They were, though, for once Jamie Sayer forgot to talk about his pictures.”
“Is that the name of your escort?”
“Yes.”
“And is he an artist?”
“A second-rate one. He is painting Dora’s picture, and is a great favorite of Mrs. Denning’s.”
“A strange, wild-looking man. When I saw him first he was lying, dislocated, over his ottoman rather than sitting on it.”
“Oh, that is a part of his affectations. He is really a childish, self-conscious creature, with a very decided dash of vulgarity. He only tries to look strange and wild, and he would be delighted if he knew you had thought him so.”
“I was glad to see Claudine Jeffrys. How slim and graceful she is! And, pray, who is that Miss Ullman?”
“A very rich woman. She has Bryce under consideration. Many other men have been in the same position, for she is sure they all want her money and not her. Perhaps she is right. I saw you talking to her, aunt.”
“For a short time. I did not enjoy her company. She is so mercilessly realistic, she takes all the color out of life. Everything about her, even her speech, is sharp-lined as the edge of a knife. She could make Bryce’s life very miserable.”
“Perhaps it might turn out the other way. Bryce Denning has capacities in the same line. How far apart, how far above every man there, stood Basil Stanhope!”
“He is strikingly handsome and graceful, and I am sure that his luminous serenity does not arise from apathy. I should say he was a man of very strong and tender feelings.”
“And he gives all the strength and tenderness of his feelings to Dora. Men are strange creatures.”
“Who directed Dora’s dress this evening?”
“Herself or her maid. I had nothing to do with it. The effect was stunning.”
“Fred thought so. In fact, Fred Hostyn——”
“Fell in love with her.”
“Exactly. ‘Fell,’ that is the word—fell prostrate. Usually the lover of to-day walks very timidly and carefully into the condition, step by step, and calculating every step before he takes it. Fred plunged headlong into the whirling vortex. I am very sorry. It is a catastrophe.”
“I never witnessed the accident before. I have heard of men getting wounds and falls, and developing new faculties in consequence, but we saw the phenomenon take place this evening.”
“Love, if it be love, is known in a moment. Man who never saw the sun before would know it was the sun. In Fred’s case it was an instantaneous, impetuous passion, flaming up at the sight of such unexpected beauty—a passion that will probably fade as rapidly as it rose.”
“Fred is not that kind of a man, aunt. He does not like every one and everything, but whoever or whatever he does like becomes a lasting part of his life. Even the old chairs and tables at Mostyn are held as sacred objects by him, though I have no doubt an American girl would trundle them off to the garret. It is the same with the people. He actually regards the Rawdons as belonging in some way to the Mostyns; and I do not believe he has ever been in love before.”
“Nonsense!”
“He was so surprised by the attack. If it had been the tenth or twentieth time he would have taken it more philosophically; besides, if he had ever loved any woman, he would have gone on loving her, and we should have known all about her perfections by this time.”
“Dora is nearly a married woman, and Mostyn knows it.”
“Nearly may make all the difference. When Dora is married he will be compelled to accept the inevitable and make the best of it.”
“When Dora is married he will idealize her, and assure himself that her marriage is the tragedy of both their lives.”
“Dora will give him no reason to suppose such a thing. I am sure she will not. She is too much in love with Mr. Stanhope to notice any other lover.”
“You are mistaken, Ethel. Swiftly as Fred was vanquished she noticed it, and many times—once even while leaning on Mr. Stanhope’s arm—she turned the arrow in the heart wound with sweet little glances and smiles, and pretty appeals to the blind adoration of her new lover. It was, to me, a humiliating spectacle. How could she do it?”
“I am sure Dora meant no wrong. It is so natural for a lovely girl to show off a little. She will marry and forget Fred Mostyn lives.”
“And Fred will forget?”
“Fred will not forget.”
“Then I shall be very sorry for your father and grandmother.”
“What have they to do with Fred marrying?”
“A great deal. Fred has been so familiar and homely the last two or three weeks, that they have come to look upon him as a future member of the family. It has been ‘Cousin Ethel’ and ‘Aunt Ruth’ and even ‘grandmother’ and ‘Cousin Fred,’ and no objections have been made to the use of such personal terms. I think your father hopes for a closer tie between you and Fred Mostyn than cousinship.”
“Whatever might have been is over. Do you imagine I could consent to be the secondary deity, to come after Dora—Dora of all the girls I have ever known? The idea is an insult to my heart and my intelligence. Nothing on earth could make me submit to such an indignity.”
“I do not suppose, Ethel, that any wife is the first object of her husband’s love.”
“At least they tell her she is so, swear it an inch deep; and no woman is fool enough to look beyond that oath, but when she is sure that she is a second best! AH! That is not a position I will ever take in any man’s heart knowingly.”
“Of course, Fred Mostyn will have to marry.”
“Of course, he will make a duty of the event. The line of Mostyns must be continued. England might go to ruin if the Mostyns perished off the English earth; but, Aunt Ruth, I count myself worthy of a better fate than to become a mere branch in the genealogical tree of the Mostyns. And that is all Fred Mostyn’s wife will ever be to him, unless he marries Dora.”
“But that very supposition implies tragedy, and it is most unlikely.”
“Yes, for Dora is a good little thing. She has never been familiar with vice. She has even a horror of poor women divorced from impossible husbands. She believes her marriage will be watched by the angels, and recorded in heaven. Basil has instructed her to regard marriage as a holy sacrament, and I am sure he does the same.”
“Then why should we forecast evil to their names? As for Cousin Fred, I dare say he is comfortably asleep.”
“I am sure he is not. I believe he is smoking and calling himself names for not having come to New York last May, when father first invited him. Had he done so things might have been different.”
“Yes, they might. When Good Fortune calls, and the called ‘will not when they may,’ then, ‘when they will’ Good Fortune has become Misfortune. Welcome a pleasure or a gain at once, or don’t answer it at all. It was on this rock, Ethel, the bark that carried my love went to pieces. I know; yes, I know!”
“My dear aunt!”
“It is all right now, dear; but things might have been that are not. As to Dora, I think she may be trusted with Basil Stanhope. He is one of the best and handsomest men I ever saw, and he has now rights in Dora’s love no one can tamper with. Mostyn is an honorable man.”
“All right, but—
“Love will venture in,Where he daurna well be seen;O Love will venture in,Where Wisdom once has been—
and then, aunt, what then?”
THE next day after lunch Ethel said she was going to walk down to Gramercy Park and spend an hour or two with her grandmother, and “Will you send the carriage for me at five o’clock?” she asked.
“Your father has ordered the carriage to be at the Holland House at five o’clock. It can call for you first, and then go to the Holland House. But do not keep your father waiting. If he is not at the entrance give your card to the outside porter; he will have it sent up to Fred’s apartments.”
“Then father is calling on Fred? What for? Is he sick?”
“Oh, no, business of some kind. I hope you will have a pleasant walk.”
“There is no doubt of it.”
Indeed, she was radiant with its exhilaration when she reached Gramercy Park. As she ran up the steps of the big, old-fashioned house she saw Madam at the window picking up some dropped stitches in her knitting. Madam saw her at the same moment, and the old face and the young face both alike kindled with love, as well as with happy anticipation of coveted intercourse.
“I am so glad to see you, darling Granny. I could not wait until to-morrow.”
“And why should you, child? I have been watching for you all morning. I want to hear about the Denning dinner. I suppose you went?”
“Yes, we went; we had to. Dinners in strange houses are a common calamity; I can’t expect to be spared what everyone has to endure.”
“Don’t be affected, Ethel. You like going out to dinner. Of course, you do! It is only natural, considering.”
“I don’t, Granny. I like dances and theaters and operas, but I don’t like dinners. However, the Denning dinner was a grand exception. It gave me and the others a sensation.”
“I expected that.”
“It was beautifully ordered. Majordomo Parkinson saw to that. If he had arranged it for his late employer, the Duke of Richmond, it could not have been finer. There was not a break anywhere.”
“How many were present?”
“Just a dozen.”
“Mr. Denning and Bryce, of course. Who were the others?”
“Mr. Stanhope, of course. Granny, he wore his clerical dress. It made him look so remarkable.”
“He did right. A clergyman ought to look different from other men. I do not believe Basil Stanhope, having assumed the dress of a servant of God, would put it off one hour for any social exigency. Why should he? It is a grander attire than any military or naval uniform, and no court dress is comparable, for it is the court dress of the King of kings.”
“All right, dear Granny; you always make things clear to me, yet I meet lots of clergymen in evening dress.”
“Then they ought not to be clergymen. They ought not to wear coats in which they can hold any kind of opinions. Who was your companion?”
“Jamie Sayer.”
“I never heard of the man.”
“He is an artist, and is painting Dora’s likeness. He is getting on now, but in the past, like all artists, he has suffered a deal.”
“God’s will be done. Let them suffer. It is good for genius to suffer. Is he in love with you?”
“Gracious, Granny! His head is so full of pictures that no woman could find room there, and if one did, the next new picture would crowd her out.”
“End that story, it is long enough.”
“Do you know Miss Ullman?”
“I have heard of her. Who has not?”
“She has Bryce Denning on trial now. If he marries her I shall pity him.”
“Pity him! Not I, indeed! He would have his just reward. Like to like, and Amen to it.”
“Then there was Claudine Jeffrys, looking quite ethereal, but very lovely.”
“I know. Her lover was killed in Cuba, and she has been the type of faithful grief ever since. She looks it and dresses it to perfection.”
“And feels it?”
“Perhaps she does. I am not skilled in the feelings of pensive, heart-broken maidens. But her case is a very common one. Lovers are nowhere against husbands, yet how many thousands of good women lose their husbands every year? If they are poor, they have to hide their grief and work for them-selves and their families; if they are rich, very few people believe that they are really sorry to be widows. Are any poor creatures more jeered at than widows? No man believes they are grieving for the loss of their husbands. Then why should they all sympathize with Claudine about the loss of a lover?”
“Perhaps lovers are nicer than husbands.”
“Pretty much all alike. I have known a few good husbands. Your grandfather was one, your father another. But you have said nothing about Fred. Did he look handsome? Did he make a sensation? Was he a cousin to be proud of?”
“Indeed, Granny, Fred was the whole party. He is not naturally handsome, but he has distinction, and he was well-dressed. And I never heard anyone talk as he did. He told the most delightful stories, he was full of mimicry and wit, and said things that brought everyone into the merry talk; and I am sure he charmed and astonished the whole party. Mr. Denning asked me quietly afterwards ‘what university he was educated at.’ I think he took it all as education, and had some wild ideas of finishing Bryce in a similar manner.”
Madam was radiant. “I told you so,” she said proudly. “The Mostyns have intellect as well as land. There are no stupid Mostyns. I hope you asked him to play. I think his way of handling a piano would have taught them a few things Russians and Poles know nothing about. Poor things! How can they have any feelings left?”
“There was no piano in the room, Granny, and the company separated very soon after dinner.”
“Somehow you ought to have managed it, Ethel.” Then with a touch of anxiety, “I hope all this cleverness was natural—I mean, I hope it wasn’t champagne. You know, Ethel, we think as we drink, and Fred isn’t used to those frisky wines. Mostyn cellars are full of old sherry and claret, and Fred’s father was always against frothing, sparkling wines.”
“Granny, it was all Fred. Wine had nothing to do with it, but a certain woman had; in fact, she was the inspirer, and Fred fell fifty fathoms deep in love with her the very moment she entered the room. He heard not, felt not, thought not, so struck with love was he. Ruth got him to a window for a few moments and so hid his emotion until he could get himself together.”
“Oh, what a tale! What a cobweb tale! I don’t believe a word of it,” and she laughed merrily.
“‘Tis true as gospel, Granny.”
“Name her, then. Who was the woman?”
“Dora.”
“It is beyond belief, above belief, out of all reason. It cannot be, and it shall not be, and if you are making up a story to tease me, Ethel Rawdon——”
“Grandmother, let me tell you just how it came about. We were all in the room waiting for Dora, and she suddenly entered. She was dressed in soft amber silk from head to feet; diamonds were in her black hair, and on the bands across her shoulders, on her corsage, on her belt, her hands, and even her slippers. Under the electric lights she looked as if she was in a golden aura, scintillating with stars. She took Fred’s breath away. He was talking to Ruth, and he could not finish the word he was saying. Ruth thought he was going to faint——”
“Don’t tell me such nonsense.”
“Well, grandmother, this nonsense is truth. As I said before, Ruth took him aside until he got control of himself; then, as he was Dora’s escort, he had to go to her. Ruth introduced them, and as she raised her soft, black eyes to his, and put her hand on his arm, something happened again, but this time it was like possession. He was the courtier in a moment, his eyes flashed back her glances, he gave her smile for smile, and then when they were seated side by side he became inspired and talked as I have told you. It is the truth, grandmother.”
“Well, there are many different kinds of fools, but Fred Mostyn is the worst I ever heard tell of. Does he not know that the girl is engaged?”
“Knows it as well as I do.”
“None of our family were ever fools before, and I hope Fred will come round quickly. Do you think Dora noticed the impression she made?”
“Yes, Aunt Ruth noticed Dora; and Ruth says Dora ‘turned the arrow in the heart wound’ all the evening.”
“What rubbish you are talking! Say in good English what you mean.”
“She tried every moment they, were together to make him more and more in love with her.”
“What is her intention? A girl doesn’t carry on that way for nothing.”
“I do not know. Dora has got beyond me lately. And, grandmother, I am not troubling about the event as it regards Dora or Fred or Basil Stanhope, but as it regards Ethel.”
“What have you to do with it?”
“That is just what I want to have clearly understood. Aunt Ruth told me that father and you would be disappointed if I did not marry Fred.”
“Well?”
“I am sorry to disappoint you, but I never shall marry Fred Mostyn. Never!”
“I rather think you will have to settle that question with your father, Ethel.”
“No. I have settled it with myself. The man has given to Dora all the love that he has to give. I will have a man’s whole heart, and not fragments and finger-ends of it.”
“To be sure, that is right. But I can’t say much, Ethel, when I only know one side of the case, can I? I must wait and hear what Fred has to say. But I like your spirit and your way of bringing what is wrong straight up to question. You are a bit Yorkshire yet, whatever you think gets quick to your tongue, and then out it comes. Good girl, your heart is on your lips.”
They talked the afternoon away on this subject, but Madam’s last words were not only advisory, they were in a great measure sympathetic. “Be straight with yourself, Ethel,” she said, “then Fred Mostyn can do as he likes; you will be all right.”
She accepted the counsel with a kiss, and then drove to the Holland House for her father. He was not waiting, as Ruth had supposed he would be, but then she was five minutes too soon. She sent up her card, and then let her eyes fall upon a wretched beggar man who was trying to play a violin, but was unable by reason of hunger and cold. He looked as if he was dying, and she was moved with a great pity, and longed for her father to come and give some help. While she was anxiously watching, a young man was also struck with the suffering on the violinist’s face. He spoke a few words to him, and taking the violin, drew from it such strains of melody, that in a few moments a crowd had gathered within the hotel and before it. First there was silence, then a shout of delight; and when it ceased the player’s voice thrilled every heart to passionate patriotism, as he sang with magnificent power and feeling—
There is not a spot on this wide-peopled earthSo dear to our heart as the Land of our Birth, etc.
A tumult of hearty applause followed, and then he cried, “Gentlemen, this old man fought for the land of our birth. He is dying of hunger,” and into the old man’s hat he dropped a bill and then handed it round to millionaire and workingman alike. Ethel’s purse was in her hand. As he passed along the curb at which her carriage stood, he looked at her eager face, and with a smile held out the battered hat. She, also smiling, dropped her purse into it. In a few moments the hat was nearly full; the old man and the money were confided to the care of an hotel officer, the stream of traffic and pleasure went on its usual way, and the musician disappeared.
All that evening the conversation turned constantly to this event. Mostyn was sure he was a member of some operatic troupe. “Voices of such rare compass and exceptional training were not to be found among non-professional people,” he said, and Judge Rawdon was of his opinion.
“His voice will haunt me for many days,” he said. “Those two lines, for instance—