“I neither know nor care. He is tramping round the world after me, and I intend to keep him at it. But I forget. I must tell you how THAT has come about.”
“We heard from Mrs. Denning. She said she had received you safely.”
“My dear mother! She met me like an angel; comforted and cared for me, never said one word of blame, only kissed and pitied me. We talked things over, and she advised me to go to New York. So we took three passages under the names of Mrs. John Gifford, Miss Gifford, and Miss Diana Gifford. Miss Diana was my maid, but mother thought a party of three would throw Mostyn off our track.”
“A very good idea.”
“We sailed at once. On the second day out I had a son. The poor little fellow died in a few hours, and was buried at sea. But his birth has given me the power to repay to Fred Mostyn some of the misery he caused me.”
“How so? I do not see.”
“Oh, you must see, if you will only remember how crazy Englishmen are about their sons. Daughters don’t count, you know, but a son carries the property in the family name. He is its representative for the next generation. As I lay suffering and weeping, a fine scheme of revenge came clearly to me. Listen! Soon after we got home mother cabled Mostyn’s lawyer that ‘Mrs. Mostyn had had a son.’ Nothing was said of the boy’s death. Almost immediately I was notified that Mr. Mostyn would insist on the surrender of the child to his care. I took no notice of the letters. Then he sent his lawyer to claim the child and a woman to take care of it. I laughed them to scorn, and defied them to find the child. After them came Mostyn himself. He interviewed doctors, overlooked baptismal registers, advertised far and wide, bribed our servants, bearded father in his office, abused Bryce on the avenue, waylaid me in all my usual resorts, and bombarded me with letters, but he knows no more yet than the cable told him. And the man is becoming a monomaniac about HIS SON.”
“Are you doing right, Dora?”
“If you only knew how he had tortured me! Father and mother think he deserves all I can do to him. Anyway, he will have it to bear. If he goes to the asylum he threatened me with, I shall be barely satisfied. The ‘cat-faced woman’ is getting her innings now.”
“Have you never spoken to him or written to him? Surely”
“He caught me one day as I came out of our house, and said, ‘Madam, where is my son?’ And I answered, ‘You have no son. The child WAS MINE. You shall never see his face in this world. I have taken good care of that.’
“‘I will find him some day,’ he said, and I laughed at him, and answered, ‘He is too cunningly hid. Do you think I would let the boy know he had such a father as you? No, indeed. Not unless there was property for the disgrace.’ I touched him on the raw in that remark, and then I got into my carriage and told the coachman to drive quickly. Mostyn attempted to follow me, but the whip lashing the horses was in the way.” And Dora laughed, and the laugh was cruel and mocking and full of meaning.
“Dora, how can you? How can you find pleasure in such revenges?”
“I am having the greatest satisfaction of my life. And I am only beginning the just retribution, for my beauty is enthralling the man again, and he is on the road to a mad jealousy of me.”
“Why don’t you get a divorce? This is a case for that remedy. He might then marry again, and you also.”
“Even so, I should still torment him. If he had sons he would be miserable in the thought that his unknown son might, on his death, take from them the precious Mostyn estate, and that wretched, old, haunted house of his. I am binding him to misery on every hand.”
“Is Mrs. Denning here with you?”
“Both my father and mother are with me. Father is going to take a year’s rest, and we shall visit Berlin, Vienna, Rome, Paris or wherever our fancy leads us.”
“And Mr. Mostyn?”
“He can follow me round, and see nobles and princes and kings pay court to the beauty of the ‘cat-faced woman.’ I shall never notice him, never speak to him; but you need not look so suspicious, Ethel. Neither by word nor deed will I break a single convention of the strictest respectability.”
“Mr. Mostyn ought to give you your freedom.”
“I have given freedom to myself. I have already divorced him. When they brought my dead baby for me to kiss, I slipped into its little hand the ring that made me his mother. They went to the bottom of the sea together. As for ever marrying again, not in this life. I have had enough of it. My first husband was the sweetest saint out of heaven, and my second was some mean little demon that had sneaked his way out of hell; and I found both insupportable.” She lifted her hat as she spoke, and began to pin it on her beautifully dressed hair. “Have no fear for me,” she continued. “I am sure Basil watches over me. Some day I shall be good, and he will be happy.” Then, hand in hand, they walked to the door together, and there were tears in both voices as they softly said “Good-by.”
A WEEK after this interview Tyrrel and Ethel were in New York. They landed early in the morning, but the Judge and Ruth were on the pier to meet them; and they breakfasted together at the fashionable hotel, where an elegant suite had been reserved for the residence of the Tyrrel-Rawdons until they had perfected their plans for the future. Tyrrel was boyishly excited, but Ethel’s interest could not leave her father and his new wife. These two had lived in the same home for fifteen years, and then they had married each other, and both of them looked fifteen years younger. The Judge was actually merry, and Ruth, in spite of her supposed “docility,” had quite reversed the situation. It was the Judge who was now docile, and even admiringly obedient to all Ruth’s wifely advices and admonitions.
The breakfast was a talkative, tardy one, but at length the Judge went to his office and Tyrrel had to go to the Custom House. Ethel was eager to see her grandmother, and she was sure the dear old lady was anxiously waiting her arrival. And Ruth was just as anxious for Ethel to visit her renovated home. She had the young wife’s delight in its beauty, and she wanted Ethel to admire it with her.
“We will dine with you to-morrow, Ruth,” said Ethel, “and I will come very early and see all the improvements. I feel sure the house is lovely, and I am glad father made you such a pretty nest. Nothing is too pretty for you, Ruth.” And there was no insincerity in this compliment. These two women knew and loved and trusted each other without a shadow of doubt or variableness.
So Ruth went to her home, and Ethel hastened to Gramercy Park. Madam was eagerly watching for her arrival.
“I have been impatient for a whole hour, all in a quiver, dearie,” she cried. “It is nearly noon.”
“I have been impatient also, Granny, but father and Ruth met us at the pier and stayed to breakfast with us, and you know how men talk and talk.”
“Ruth and father down at the pier! How you dream!”
“They were really there. And they do seem so happy, grandmother. They are so much in love with each other.”
“I dare say. There are no fools like old fools. So you have sold the Court to Nicholas Rawdon, and a cotton-spinner is Lord of the Manor. Well, well, how are the mighty fallen!”
“I made twenty thousand pounds by the sale. Nicholas Rawdon is a gentleman, and John Thomas is the most popular man in all the neighborhood. And, Granny, he has two sons—twins—the handsomest little chaps you ever saw. No fear of a Rawdon to heir the Manor now.”
“Fortune is a baggage. When she is ill to a man she knows no reason. She sent John Thomas to Parliament, and kept Fred out at a loss, too. She took the Court from Fred and gave it to John Thomas, and she gives him two sons about the same time she gives Fred one, and that one she kidnaps out of his sight and knowledge. Poor Fred!”
“Well, grandmother, it is ‘poor Fred’s’ own doing, and, I assure you, Fred would have been most unwelcome at the Court. And the squires and gentry round did not like a woman in the place; they were at a loss what to do with me. I was no good for dinners and politics and hunting. I embarrassed them.” “Of course you would. They would have to talk decently and behave politely, and they would not be able to tell their choicest stories. Your presence would be a bore; but could not Tyrrel take your place?”
“Granny, Tyrrel was really unhappy in that kind of life. And he was a foreigner, so was I. You know what Yorkshire people think of foreigners. They were very courteous, but they were glad to have the Yorkshire Rawdons in our place. And Tyrrel did not like working with the earth; he loves machinery and electricity.”
“To be sure. When a man has got used to delving for gold or silver, cutting grass and wheat does seem a slow kind of business.”
“And he disliked the shut-up feeling the park gave him. He said we were in the midst of solitude three miles thick. It made him depressed and lonely.”
“That is nonsense. I am sure on the Western plains he had solitude sixty miles thick—often.”
“Very likely, but then he had an horizon, even if it were sixty miles away. And no matter how far he rode, there was always that line where earth seemed to rise to heaven. But the park was surrounded by a brick wall fourteen feet high. It had no horizon. You felt as if you were in a large, green box—at least Tyrrel did. The wall was covered with roses and ivy, but still it was a boundary you could not pass, and could not see over. Don’t you understand, Granny, how Tyrrel would feel this?”
“I can’t say I do. Why didn’t he come with you?”
“He had to go to the Customs about our trunks, and there were other things. He will see you to-morrow. Then we are going to dine with father, and if you will join us, we will call at six for you. Do, Granny.”
“Very well, I shall be ready.” But after a moment’s thought she continued, “No, I will not go. I am only a mortal woman, and the company of angels bores me yet.”
“Now, Granny, dear.”
“I mean what I say. Your father has married such a piece of perfection that I feel my shortcomings in her presence more than I can bear. But I’ll tell you what, dearie, Tyrrel may come for me Saturday night at six, and I will have my dinner with you. I want to see the dining-room of a swell hotel in full dress; and I will wear my violet satin and white Spanish lace, and look as smart as can be, dear. And Tyrrel may buy me a bunch of white violets. I am none too old to wear them. Who knows but I may go to the theater also?”
“Oh, Granny, you are just the dearest young lady I know! Tyrrel will be as proud as a peacock.”
“Well, I am not as young as I might be, but I am a deal younger than I look. Listen, dearie, I have never FELT old yet! Isn’t that a thing to be grateful for? I don’t read much poetry, except it be in the Church Hymnal, but I cut a verse out of a magazine a year ago which just suits my idea of life, and, what is still more wonderful, I took the trouble to learn it. Oliver Wendell Holmes wrote it, and I’ll warrant him for a good, cheerful, trust-in-God man, or he’d never have thought of such sensible words.”
“I am listening, Granny, for the verse.”
“Yes, and learn it yourself. It will come in handy some day, when Tyrrel and you are getting white-haired and handsome, as everyone ought to get when they have passed their half-century and are facing the light of the heavenly world:
“At sixty-two life has begun;At seventy-three begins once more;Fly swifter as thou near’st the sun,And brighter shine at eighty-four.At ninety-five,Should thou arrive,Still wait on God, and work and thrive.”
Such words as those, Ethel, keep a woman young, and make her right glad that she was born and thankful that she lives.”
“Thank you for them, dear Granny. Now I must run away as fast as I can. Tyrrel will be wondering what has happened to me.”
In this conjecture she was right. Tyrrel was in evening dress, and walking restlessly about their private parlor. “Ethel,” he said, plaintively, “I have been so uneasy about you.”
“I am all right, dearest. I was with grandmother. I shall be ready in half an hour.”
Even if she had been longer, she would have earned the delay, for she returned to him in pink silk and old Venice point de rose, with a pretty ermine tippet across her shoulders. It was a joy to see her, a delight to hear her speak, and she walked as if she heard music. The dining-room was crowded when they entered, but they made a sensation. Many rose and came to welcome them home. Others smiled across the busy space and lifted their wineglass in recognition. The room was electric, sensitive and excited. It was flooded with a soft light; it was full of the perfume of flowers. The brilliant coloring of silks and satins, and the soft miracle of white lace blended with the artistically painted walls and roof. The aroma of delicate food, the tinkle of crystal, the low murmur of happy voices, the thrill of sudden laughter, and the delicious accompaniment of soft, sensuous music completed the charm of the room. To eat in such surroundings was as far beyond the famous flower-crowned feasts of Rome and Greece as the east is from the west. It was impossible to resist its influence. From the point of the senses, the soul was drinking life out of a cup of overflowing delight. And it was only natural that in their hearts both Tyrrel and Ethel should make a swift, though silent, comparison between this feast of sensation and flow of human attraction and the still, sweet order of the Rawdon dining-room, with its noiseless service, and its latticed win-dows open to all the wandering scents and songs of the garden.
Perhaps the latter would have the sweetest and dearest and most abiding place in their hearts; but just in the present they were enthralled and excited by the beauty and good comradeship of the social New York dinner function. Their eyes were shining, their hearts thrilling, they went to their own apartments hand in hand, buoyant, vivacious, feeling that life was good and love unchangeable. And the windows being open, they walked to one and stood looking out upon the avenue. All signs of commerce had gone from the beautiful street, but it was busy and noisy with the traffic of pleasure, and the hum of multitudes, the rattle of carriages, the rush of autos, the light, hurrying footsteps of pleasure-seekers insistently demanded their sympathy.
“We cannot go out to-night,” said Ethel. “We are both more weary than we know.”
“No, we cannot go to-night; but, oh, Ethel, we are in New York again! Is not that joy enough? I am so happy! I am so happy. We are in New York again! There is no city like it in all the world. Men live here, they work here, they enjoy here. How happy, how busy we are going to be, Ethel!”
During these joyful, hopeful expectations he was walking up and down the room, his eyes dilating with rapture, and Ethel closed the window and joined him. They magnified their joy, they wondered at it, they were sure no one before them had ever loved as they loved. “And we are going to live here, Ethel; going to have our home here! Upon my honor, I cannot speak the joy I feel, but”—and he went impetuously to the piano and opened it—“but I can perhaps sing it—
“‘There is not a spot in this wide-peopled earthSo dear to the heart as the Land of our Birth;‘Tis the home of our childhood, the beautiful spotWhich Memory retains when all else is forgot.May the blessing of God ever hallow the sod,And its valleys and hills by our children be trod!“‘May Columbia long lift her white crest o’er the wave,The birthplace of science and the home of the brave.In her cities may peace and prosperity dwell,And her daughters in virtue and beauty excel.May the blessing of God ever hallow the sod,And its valleys and hills by our children be trod.’”
With the patriotic music warbling in his throat he turned to Ethel, and looked at her as a lover can, and she answered the look; and thus leaning toward each other in visible beauty and affection their new life began. Between smiles and kisses they sat speaking, not of the past with all its love and loveliness, but of the high things calling to them from the future, the work and duties of life set to great ends both for public and private good. And as they thus communed Tyrrel took his wife’s hand and slowly turned on her finger the plain gold wedding ring behind its barrier of guarding gems.
“Ethel,” he said tenderly, “what enchantments are in this ring of gold! What romances I used to weave around it, and, dearest, it has turned every Romance into Reality.”
“And, Tyrrel, it will also turn all our Realities into Romances. Nothing in our life will ever become common. Love will glorify everything.”
“And we shall always love as we love now?”
“We shall love far better, far stronger, far more tenderly.”
“Even to the end of our lives, Ethel?”
“Yes, to the very end.”
A PAUSE of blissful silence followed this assurance. It was broken by a little exclamation from Ethel. “Oh, dear,” she said, “how selfishly thoughtless my happiness makes me! I have forgotten to tell you, until this moment, that I have a letter from Dora. It was sent to grandmother’s care, and I got it this afternoon; also one from Lucy Rawdon. The two together bring Dora’s affairs, I should say, to a pleasanter termination than we could have hoped for.”
“Where is the Enchantress?”
“In Paris at present.”
“I expected that answer.”
“But listen, she is living the quietest of lives; the most devoted daughter cannot excel her.”
“Is she her own authority for that astonishing statement? Do you believe it?”
“Yes, under the circumstances. Mr. Denning went to Paris for a critical and painful operation, and Dora is giving all her love and time toward making his convalescence as pleasant as it can be. In fact, her description of their life in the pretty chateau they have rented outside of Paris is quite idyllic. When her father is able to travel they are going to Algiers for the winter, and will return to New York about next May. Dora says she never intends to leave America again.”
“Where is her husband? Keeping watch on the French chateau?”
“That is over. Mr. Denning persuaded Dora to write a statement of all the facts concerning the birth of the child. She told her husband the name under which they traveled, the names of the ship, the captain, and the ship’s doctor, and Mrs. Denning authenticated the statement; but, oh, what a mean, suspicious creature Mostyn is!”
“What makes you reiterate that description of him?”
“He was quite unable to see any good or kind intent in this paper. He proved its correctness, and then wrote Mr. Denning a very contemptible letter.”
“Which was characteristic enough. What did he say?”
“That the amende honorable was too late; that he supposed Dora wished to have the divorce proceedings stopped and be reinstated as his wife, but he desired the whole Denning family to understand that was now impossible; he was ‘fervently, feverishly awaiting his freedom, which he expected at any hour.’ He said it was ‘sickening to remember the weariness of body and soul Dora had given him about a non-existing child, and though this could never be atoned for, he did think he ought to be refunded the money Dora’s contemptible revenge had cost him.”’
“How could he? How could he?”
“Of course Mr. Denning sent him a check, a pretty large one, I dare say. And I suppose he has his freedom by this time, unless he has married again.”
“He will never marry again.”
“Indeed, that is the strange part of the story. It was because he wanted to marry again that he was ‘fervently, feverishly awaiting his freedom.’”
“I can hardly believe it, Ethel. What does Dora say?”
“I have the news from Lucy. She says when Mostyn was ignored by everyone in the neighborhood, one woman stood up for him almost passionately. Do you remember Miss Sadler?”
“That remarkable governess of the Surreys? Why, Ethel, she is the very ugliest woman I ever saw.”
“She is so ugly that she is fascinating. If you see her one minute you can never forget her, and she is brains to her finger tips. She ruled everyone at Surrey House. She was Lord Surrey’s secretary and Lady Surrey’s adviser. She educated the children, and they adored her; she ruled the servants, and they obeyed her with fear and trembling. Nothing was done in Surrey House without her approval. And if her face was not handsome, she had a noble presence and a manner that was irresistible.”
“And she took Mostyn’s part?”
“With enthusiasm. She abused Dora individually, and American women generally. She pitied Mr. Mostyn, and made others do so; and when she perceived there would be but a shabby and tardy restoration for him socially, she advised him to shake off the dust of his feet from Monk-Rawdon, and begin life in some more civilized place. And in order that he might do so, she induced Lord Surrey to get him a very excellent civil appointment in Calcutta.”
“Then he is going to India?”
“He is probably now on the way there. He sold the Mostyn estate——”
“I can hardly believe it.”
“He sold it to John Thomas Rawdon. John Thomas told me it belonged to Rawdon until the middle of the seventeenth century, and he meant to have it back. He has got it.”
“Miss Sadler must be a witch.”
“She is a sensible, practical woman, who knows how to manage men. She has soothed Mostyn’s wounded pride with appreciative flattery and stimulated his ambition. She has promised him great things in India, and she will see that he gets them.”
“He must be completely under her control.”
“She will never let him call his soul his own, but she will manage his affairs to perfection. And Dora is forever rid of that wretched influence. The man can never again come between her and her love; never again come between her and happiness. There will be the circumference of the world as a barrier.”
“There will be Jane Sadler as a barrier. She will be sufficient. The Woman Between will annihilate The Man Between. Dora is now safe. What will she do with herself?”
“She will come back to New York and be a social power. She is young, beautiful, rich, and her father has tremendous financial influence. Social affairs are ruled by finance. I should not wonder to see her in St. Jude’s, a devotee and eminent for good works.”
“And if Basil Stanhope should return?”
“Poor Basil—he is dead.”
“How do you know that?”
“What DO you mean, Tyrrel?”
“Are you sure Basil is dead? What proof have you?”
“You must be dreaming! Of course he is dead! His friend came and told me so—told me everything.”
“Is that all?”
“There were notices in the papers.”
“Is that all?”
“Mr. Denning must have known it when he stopped divorce proceedings.”
“Doubtless he believed it; he wished to do so.”
“Tyrrel, tell me what you mean.”
“I always wondered about his death rather than believed in it. Basil had a consuming sense of honor and affection for the Church and its sacred offices. He would have died willingly rather than drag them into the mire of a divorce court. When the fear became certainty he disappeared—really died to all his previous life.”
“But I cannot conceive of Basil lying for any purpose.”
“He disappeared. His family and friends took on themselves the means they thought most likely to make that disappearance a finality.”
“Have you heard anything, seen anything?”
“One night just before I left the West a traveler asked me for a night’s lodging. He had been prospecting in British America in the region of the Klondike, and was full of incidental conversation. Among many other things he told me of a wonderful sermon he had heard from a young man in a large mining camp. I did not give the story any attention at the time, but after he had gone away it came to me like a flash of light that the preacher was Basil Stanhope.”
“Oh, Tyrrel, if it was—if it was! What a beautiful dream! But it is only a dream. If it could be true, would he forgive Dora? Would he come back to her?”
“No!” Tyrrel’s voice was positive and even stern. “No, he could never come back to her. She might go to him. She left him without any reason. I do not think he would care to see her again.”
“I would say no more, Tyrrel. I do not think as you do. It is a dream, a fancy, just an imagination. But if it were true, Basil would wish no pilgrimage of abasement. He would say to her, ‘Dear one, HUSH! Love is here, travel-stained, sore and weary, but so happy to welcome you!’ And he would open all his great, sweet heart to her. May I tell Dora some day what you have thought and said? It will be something good for her to dream about.”
“Do you think she cares? Did she ever love him?”
“He was her first love. She loved him once with all her heart. If it would be right—safe, I mean, to tell Dora——”
“On this subject there is so much NOT to say. I would never speak of it.”
“It may be a truth”
“Then it is among those truths that should be held back, and it is likely only a trick of my imagination, a supposition, a fancy.”
“A miracle! And of two miracles I prefer the least, and that is that Basil is dead. Your young preacher is a dream; and, oh, Tyrrel, I am so tired! It has been such a long, long, happy day! I want to sleep. My eyes are shutting as I talk to you. Such a long, long, happy day!”
“And so many long, happy days to come, dearest.”
“So many,” she answered, as she took Tyrrel’s hand, and lifted her fur and fan and gloves. “What were those lines we read together the night before we were married? I forget, I am so tired. I know that life should have many a hope and aim, duties enough, and little cares, and now be quiet, and now astir, till God’s hand beckoned us unawares——”
The rest was inaudible. But between that long, happy day and the present time there has been an arc of life large enough to place the union of Tyrrel and Ethel Rawdon among those blessed bridals that are
“The best of life’s romances.”