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 earth
So 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--
‘Tis the home of our childhood, that beautiful spot
Which memory retains when all else is forgot.
The melody was wonderful. I wish we could find out where he is singing.
His voice, as I said, haunts my ear.”
Ethel might have made the same remark, but she was silent. She had
noticed the musician more closely than her father or Fred Mostyn, and
when Ruth Bayard asked her if his personality was interesting, she was
able to give a very clear description of the man.
“I do not believe he is a professional singer; he is too young,” she
answered. “I should think he was about twenty-five years old, tall,
slender, and alert. He was fashionably dressed, as if he had been, or
was going, to an afternoon reception. Above all things, I should say he
was a gentleman.”
Oh, why are our hearts so accessible to our eyes? Only a smiling glance
had passed between Ethel and the Unknown, yet his image was prisoned
behind the bars of her eyelids. On this day of days she had met Love on
the crowded street, and he had
“But touched his lute wherein was audible
The certain secret thing he had to tell;
Only their mirrored eyes met silently”;
and a sweet trouble, a restless, pleasing curiosity, had filled her
consciousness. Who was he? Where had he gone to? When should they meet
again? Ah, she understood now how Emmeline Labiche had felt constrained
to seek her lover from the snows of Canada to the moss-veiled oaks of
Louisiana.
But her joyous, hopeful soul could not think of love and disappointment
at the same moment. “I have seen him, and I shall see him again. We met
by appointment. Destiny introduced us. Neither of us will forget, and
somewhere, some day, I shall be waiting, and he will come.”
Thus this daughter of sunshine and hope answered herself; and why not?
All good things come to those who can wait in sweet tranquillity for
them, and seldom does Fortune fail to bring love and heart’s-ease upon
the changeful stream of changeful days to those who trust her for them.
On the following morning, when the two girls entered the parlor, they
found the Judge smoking there. He had already breakfasted, and looked
over the three or four newspapers whose opinions he thought worthy of
his consideration. They were lying in a state of confusion at his side,
and Ethel glanced at them curiously.
“Did any of the papers speak of the singing before the Holland House?”
she asked.
“Yes. I think reporters must be ubiquitous. All my papers had some sort
of a notice of the affair.”
“What do they say?”
“One gave the bare circumstances of the case; another indulged in what
was supposed to be humorous description; a third thought it might have
been the result of a bet or dare; a fourth was of the opinion that
conspiracy between the old beggar and the young man was not unlikely,
and credited the exhibition as a cleverly original way of obtaining
money. But all agreed in believing the singer to be a member of some
opera company now in the city.”
Ethel was indignant. “It was neither ‘bet’ nor ‘dare’ nor ‘conspiracy,’”
she said. “I saw the singer as he came walking rapidly down the avenue,
and he looked as happy and careless as a boy whistling on a country
lane. When his eyes fell on the old man he hesitated, just a moment,
and then spoke to him. I am sure they were absolute strangers to each
other.”
“But how can you be sure of a thing like that, Ethel?”
“I don’t know ‘how,’ Ruth, but all the same, I am sure. And as for it
being a new way of begging, that is not correct. Not many years ago, one
of the De Reszke brothers led a crippled soldier into a Paris cafe, and
sang the starving man into comfort in twenty minutes.”
“And the angelic Parepa Rosa did as much for a Mexican woman, whom she
found in the depths of sorrow and poverty--brought her lifelong comfort
with a couple of her songs. Is it not likely, then, that the gallant
knight of the Holland House is really a member of some opera company,
that he knew of these examples and followed them?”
“It is not unlikely, Ruth, yet I do not believe that is the
explanation.”
“Well,” said the Judge, throwing his cigarette into the fire, “if the
singer had never heard of De Reszke and Parepa Rosa, we may suppose him
a gentleman of such culture as to be familiar with the exquisite Greek
legend of Phoebus Apollo--that story would be sufficient to inspire any
man with his voice. Do you know it?”
Both girls answered with an enthusiastic entreaty for its recital, and
the Judge went to the library and returned with a queer-looking little
book, bound in marbled paper.
“It was my father’s copy,” he said, “an Oxford edition.” And he turned
the leaves with loving carefulness until he came to the incident. Then
being a fine reader, the words fell from his lips in a stately measure
better than music:
“After Troy fell there came to Argos a scarred soldier seeking alms.
Not deigning to beg, he played upon a lyre; but the handling of arms had
robbed him of his youthful power, and he stood by the portico hour after
hour, and no one dropped him a lepton. Weary, hungry and thirsty, he
leaned in despair against a pillar. A youth came to him and asked, ‘Why
not play on, Akeratos?’ And Akeratos meekly answered, ‘I am no longer
skilled.’ ‘Then,’ said the stranger, ‘hire me thy lyre; here is a
didrachmon. I will play, and thou shalt hold out thy cap and be dumb.’
So the stranger took the lyre and swept the strings, and men heard,
as it were, the clashing of swords. And he sang the fall of Troy--how
Hector perished, slain by Achilles, the rush of chariots, the ring of
hoofs, the roar of flames--and as he sang the people stopped to listen,
breathless and eager, with rapt, attentive ear. And when the singer
ceased the soldier’s cap was filled with coins, and the people begged
for yet another song. Then he sang of Venus, till all men’s hearts were
softly stirred, and the air was purple and misty and full of the scent
of roses. And in their joy men cast before Akeratos not coins only, but
silver bracelets and rings, and gems and ornaments of gold, until the
heap had to its utmost grown, making Akeratos rich in all men’s sight.
Then suddenly the singer stood in a blaze of light, and the men of Argos
saw their god of song, Phoebus Apollo, rise in glory to the skies.”
The girls were delighted; the Judge pleased both with his own rendering
of the legend and the manifest appreciation with which it had been
received. For a moment or two all felt the exquisite touch of the
antique world, and Ethel said, in a tone of longing,
“I wish that I had been a Greek and lived in Argos.”
“You would not have liked it as well as being an American and living in
New York,” said her father.
“And you would have been a pagan,” added Ruth.
“They were such lovely pagans, Ruth, and they dreamed such beautiful
dreams of life. Leave the book with me, father; I will take good care of
it.”
Then the Judge gave her the book, and with a sigh looked into the modern
street. “I ought to be down at Bowling Green instead of reading
Greek stories to you girls,” he said rather brusquely. “I have a very
important railway case on my mind, and Phoebus Apollo has nothing to
do with it. Good morning. And, Ethel, do not deify the singer on the
avenue. He will not turn out, like the singer by the portico, to be a
god; be sure of that.”
The door closed before she could answer, and both women remained silent
a few minutes. Then Ethel went to the window, and Ruth asked if she was
going to Dora’s.
“Yes,” was the answer, but without interest.
“You are tired with all this shopping and worry?”
“It is not only that I am tired, I am troubled about Fred Mostyn.”
“Why?”
“I do not know why. It is only a vague unrest as yet. But one thing I
know, I shall oppose anything like Fred making himself intimate with
Dora.”
“I think you will do wisely in that.”
But in a week Ethel realized that in opposing a lover like Fred Mostyn
she had a task beyond her ability. Fred had nothing to do as important
in his opinion as the cultivation of his friendship with Dora Denning.
He called it “friendship,” but this misnomer deceived no one, not even
Dora. And when Dora encouraged his attentions, how was Ethel to prevent
them without some explanation which would give a sort of reality to what
was as yet a nameless suspicion?
Yet every day the familiarity increased. He seemed to divine their
engagements. If they went to their jeweler’s, or to a bazaar, he was
sure to stroll in after them. When they came out of the milliner’s or
modiste’s, Fred was waiting. “He had secured a table at Sherry’s; he had
ordered lunch, and all was ready.” It was too great an effort to resist
his entreaty. Perhaps no one wished to do so. The girls were utterly
tired and hungry, and the thought of one of Fred’s lunches was very
pleasant. Even if Basil Stanhope was with them, it appeared to be all
the better. Fred always included Dora’s lover with a charming courtesy;
and, indeed, at such hours, was in his most delightful mood. Stanhope
appeared to inspire him. His mentality when the clergyman was present
took possession of every incident that came and went, and clothed it
in wit and pleasantry. Dora’s plighted lover honestly thought Dora’s
undeclared lover the cleverest and most delightful of men. And he had no
opportunity of noting, as Ethel did, the difference in Fred’s attitude
when he was not present. Then Mostyn’s merry mood became sentimental,
and his words were charged with soft meanings and looks of adoration,
and every tone and every movement made to express far more than the
tongue would have dared to utter.
As this flirtation progressed--for on Dora’s part it was only vanity and
flirtation--Ethel grew more and more uneasy. She almost wished for some
trifling overt act which would give her an excuse for warning Dora; and
one day, after three weeks of such philandering, the opportunity came.
“I think you permit Fred Mostyn to take too much liberty with you,
Dora,” she said as soon as they were in Dora’s parlor, and as she spoke
she threw off her coat in a temper which effectively emphasized the
words.
“I have been expecting this ill-nature, Ethel. You were cross all the
time we were at lunch. You spoiled all our pleasure Pray, what have I
been doing wrong with Fred Mostyn?”
“It was Fred who did wrong. His compliments to you were outrageous.
He has no right to say such things, and you have no right to listen to
them.”
“I am not to blame if he compliments me instead of you. He was simply
polite, but then it was to the wrong person.”
“Of course it was. Such politeness he had no right to offer you.”
“It would have been quite proper if offered you, I suppose?”
“It would not. It would have been a great impertinence. I have given
him neither claim nor privilege to address me as ‘My lovely Ethel!’ He
called you many times ‘My lovely Dora!’ You are not his lovely Dora.
When he put on your coat, he drew you closer than was proper; and I saw
him take your hand and hold it in a clasp--not necessary.”
“Why do you listen and watch? It is vulgar. You told me so yourself. And
I am lovely. Basil says that as well as Fred. Do you want a man to lie
and say I am ugly?”
“You are fencing the real question. He had no business to use the word
‘my.’ You are engaged to Basil Stanhope, not to Fred Mostyn.”
“I am Basil’s lovely fiancee; I am Fred’s lovely friend.”
“Oh! I hope Fred understands the difference.”
“Of course he does. Some people are always thinking evil.”
“I was thinking of Mr. Stanhope’s rights.”
“Thank you, Ethel; but I can take care of Mr. Stanhope’s rights without
your assistance. If you had said you were thinking of Ethel Rawdon’s
rights you would have been nearer the truth.”
“Dora, I will not listen----”
“Oh, you shall listen to me! I know that you expected Fred to fall in
love with you, but if he did not like to do so, am I to blame?” Ethel
was resuming her coat at this point in the conversation, and Dora
understood the proud silence with which the act was being accomplished.
Then a score of good reasons for preventing such a definite quarrel
flashed through her selfish little mind, and she threw her arms around
Ethel and begged a thousand pardons for her rudeness. And Ethel had
also reasons for avoiding dissension at this time. A break in their
friendship now would bring Dora forward to explain, and Dora had a
wonderful cleverness in presenting her own side of any question. Ethel
shrunk from her innuendoes concerning Fred, and she knew that Basil
would be made to consider her a meddling, jealous girl who willingly saw
evil in Dora’s guileless enjoyment of a clever man’s company.
To be misunderstood, to be blamed and pitied, to be made a pedestal
for Dora’s superiority, was a situation not to be contemplated. It was
better to look over Dora’s rudeness in the flush of Dora’s pretended
sorrow for it. So they forgave each other, or said they did, and
then Dora explained herself. She declared that she had not the least
intention of any wrong. “You see, Ethel, what a fool the man is about
me. Somebody says we ought to treat a fool according to his folly. That
is all I was doing. I am sure Basil is so far above Fred Mostyn that I
could never put them in comparison--and Basil knows it. He trusts me.”
“Very well, Dora. If Basil knows it, and trusts you, I have no more to
say. I am now sorry I named the subject.”
“Never mind, we will forget that it was named. The fact is, Ethel, I
want all the fun I can get now. When I am Basil’s wife I shall have to
be very sedate, and of course not even pretend to know if any other man
admires me. Little lunches with Fred, theater and opera parties, and
even dances will be over for me. Oh, dear, how much I am giving up for
Basil! And sometimes I think he never realizes how dreadful it must be
for me.”
“You will have your lover all the time then. Surely his constant
companionship will atone for all you relinquish.”
“Take off your coat and hat, Ethel, and sit down comfortably. I don’t
know about Basil’s constant companionship. Tete-a-tetes are tiresome
affairs sometimes.”
“Yes,” replied Ethel, as she half-reluctantly removed her coat, “they
were a bore undoubtedly even in Paradise. I wonder if Eve was tired of
Adam’s conversation, and if that made her listen to--the other party.”
“I am so glad you mentioned that circumstance, Ethel. I shall remember
it. Some day, no doubt, I shall have to remind Basil of the failure of
Adam to satisfy Eve’s idea of perfect companionship.” And Dora put her
pretty, jeweled hands up to her ears and laughed a low, musical laugh
with a childish note of malice running through it.
This pseudo-reconciliation was not conducive to pleasant intercourse.
After a short delay Ethel made an excuse for an early departure, and
Dora accepted it without her usual remonstrance. The day had been one
of continual friction, and Dora’s irritable pettishness hard to bear,
because it had now lost that childish unreason which had always
induced Ethel’s patience, for Dora had lately put away all her ignorant
immaturities. She had become a person of importance, and had realized
the fact. The young ladies of St. Jude’s had made a pet of their revered
rector’s love, and the elder ladies had also shown a marked interest in
her. The Dennings’ fine house was now talked about and visited. Men of
high financial power respected Mr. Dan Denning, and advised the social
recognition of his family; and Mrs. Denning was not now found more
eccentric than many other of the new rich, who had been tolerated in
the ranks of the older plutocrats. Even Bryce had made the standing
he desired. He was seen with the richest and idlest young men, and was
invited to the best houses. Those fashionable women who had marriageable
daughters considered him not ineligible, and men temporarily
hampered for cash knew that they could find smiling assistance for a
consideration at Bryce’s little office on William Street.
These and other points of reflection troubled Ethel, and she was
glad the long trial was nearing its end, for she knew quite well the
disagreement of that evening had done no good. Dora would certainly
repeat their conversation, in her own way of interpreting it, to both
Basil Stanhope and Fred Mostyn. More than likely both Bryce and Mrs.
Denning would also hear how her innocent kindness had been misconstrued;
and in each case she could imagine the conversation that took place, and
the subsequent bestowal of pitying, scornful or angry feeling that would
insensibly find its way to her consciousness without any bird of the air
to carry it.
She felt, too, that reprisals of any kind were out of the question. They
were not only impolitic, they were difficult. Her father had an aversion
to Dora, and was likely to seize the first opportunity for requesting
Ethel to drop the girl’s acquaintance. Ruth also had urged her to
withdraw from any active part in the wedding, strengthening her advice
with the assurance that when a friendship began to decline it ought to
be abandoned at once. There was only her grandmother to go to, and at
first she did not find her at all interested in the trouble. She had
just had a dispute with her milkman, was inclined to give him all her
suspicions and all her angry words--“an impertinent, cheating creature,”
she said; and then Ethel had to hear the history of the month’s cream
and of the milkman’s extortion, with the old lady’s characteristic
declaration:
“I told him plain what I thought of his ways, but I paid him every cent
I owed him. Thank God, I am not unreasonable!”
Neither was she unreasonable when Ethel finally got her to listen to her
own serious grievance with Dora.
“If you will have a woman for a friend, Ethel, you must put up with
womanly ways; and it is best to keep your mouth shut concerning such
ways. I hate to see you whimpering and whining about wrongs you have
been cordially inviting for weeks and months and years.”
“Grandmother!”
“Yes, you have been sowing thorns for yourself, and then you go unshod
over them. I mean that Dora has this fine clergyman, and Fred Mostyn,
and her brother, and mother, and father all on her side; all of them
sure that Dora can do no wrong, all of them sure that Ethel, poor girl,
must be mistaken, or prudish, or jealous, or envious.”
“Oh, grandmother, you are too cruel.”
“Why didn’t you have a few friends on your own side?”
“Father and Ruth never liked Dora. And Fred--I told you how Fred acted
as soon as he saw her!”
“There was Royal Wheelock, James Clifton, or that handsome Dick Potter.
Why didn’t you ask them to join you at your lunches and dances? You
ought to have pillared your own side. A girl without her beaux is always
on the wrong side if the girl with beaux is against her.”
“It was the great time of Dora’s life. I wished her to have all the
glory of it.”
“All her own share--that was right. All of your share, also--that was as
wrong as it could be.”
“Clifton is yachting, Royal and I had a little misunderstanding, and
Dick Potter is too effusive.”
“But Dick’s effusiveness would have been a good thing for Fred’s
effusiveness. Two men can’t go on a complimentary ran-tan at the same
table. They freeze one another out. That goes without saying. But Dora’s
indiscretions are none of your business while she is under her father’s
roof; and I don’t know if she hadn’t a friend in the world, if they
would be your business. I have always been against people trying to do
the work of THEM that are above us. We are told THEY seek and THEY
save, and it’s likely they will look after Dora in spite of her being so
unknowing of herself as to marry a priest in a surplice, when a fool in
motley would have been more like the thing.”
“I don’t want to quarrel with Dora. After all, I like her. We have been
friends a long time.”
“Well, then, don’t make an enemy of her. One hundred friends are too few
against one enemy. One hundred friends will wish you well, and one enemy
will DO you ill. God love you, child! Take the world as you find it.
Only God can make it any better. When is this blessed wedding to come
off?”
“In two weeks. You got cards, did you not?”
“I believe I did. They don’t matter. Let Dora and her flirtations alone,
unless you set your own against them. Like cures like. If the priest
sees nothing wrong----”
“He thinks all she does is perfect.”
“I dare say. Priests are a soft lot, they’ll believe anything. He’s
love-blind at present. Some day, like the prophet of Pethor, [1] he will
get his eyes opened. As for Fred Mostyn, I shall have a good deal to say
about him by and by, so I’ll say nothing now.”
[Footnote 1: One of the Hebrew prophets.]
“You promised, grandmother, not to talk to me any more about Fred.”
“It was a very inconsiderate promise, a very irrational promise! I am
sorry I made it--and I don’t intend to keep it.”
“Well, it takes two to hold a conversation, grandmother.”
“To be sure it does. But if I talk to you, I hope to goodness you will
have the decency to answer me. I wouldn’t believe anything different.”
And she looked into Ethel’s face with such a smiling confidence in her
good will and obedience, that Ethel could only laugh and give her twenty
kisses as she stood up to put on her hat and coat.
“You always get your way, Granny,” she said; and the old lady, as she
walked with her to the door, answered, “I have had my way for nearly
eighty years, dearie, and I’ve found it a very good way. I’m not likely
to change it now.”
“And none of us want you to change it, dear. Granny’s way is always a
wise way.” And she kissed her again ere she ran down the steps to her
carriage. Yet as the old lady stepped slowly back to the parlor, she
muttered, “Fred Mostyn is a fool! If he had any sense when he left
England, he has lost it since he came here.”
Of course nothing good came of this irritable interference. Meddling
with the conscience of another person is a delicate and difficult
affair, and Ruth had already warned Ethel of its certain futility. But
the days were rapidly wearing away to the great day, for which so
many other days had been wasted in fatiguing worry, and incredible
extravagance of health and temper and money--and after it? There would
certainly be a break in associations. Temptation would be removed, and
Basil Stanhope, relieved for a time from all the duties of his office,
would have continual opportunities for making eternally secure the
affection of the woman he had chosen.
It was to be a white wedding, and for twenty hours previous to its
celebration it seemed as if all the florists in New York were at work in
the Denning house and in St. Jude’s church. The sacred place was radiant
with white lilies. White lilies everywhere; and the perfume would have
been overpowering, had not the weather been so exquisite that open
windows were possible and even pleasant. To the softest strains of music
Dora entered leaning on her father’s arm and her beauty and splendor
evoked from the crowd present an involuntary, simultaneous stir of
wonder and delight. She had hesitated many days between the simplicity
of white chiffon and lilies of the valley, and the magnificence of
brocaded satin in which a glittering thread of silver was interwoven.
The satin had won the day, and the sunshine fell upon its beauty, as
she knelt at the altar, like sunshine falling upon snow. It shone
and gleamed and glistened as if it were an angel’s robe; and this
scintillating effect was much increased by the sparkling of the diamonds
in her hair, and at her throat and waist and hands and feet. Nor was
her brilliant youth affected by the overshadowing tulle usually so
unbecoming. It veiled her from head to feet, and was held in place by
a diamond coronal. All her eight maids, though lovely girls, looked wan
and of the earth beside her. For her sake they had been content with
the simplicity of chiffon and white lace hats, and she stood among them
lustrous as some angelic being. Stanhope was entranced by her beauty,
and no one on this day wondered at his infatuation or thought remarkable
the ecstasy of reverent rapture with which he received the hand of his
bride. His sense of the gift was ravishing. She was now his love, his
wife forever, and when Ethel slipped forward to part and throw backward
the concealing veil, he very gently restrained her, and with his own
hands uncovered the blushing beauty, and kissed her there at the altar.
Then amid a murmur and stir of delighted sympathy he took his wife upon
his arm, and turned with her to the life they were to face together.
Two hours later all was a past dream. Bride and bridegroom had slipped
quietly away, and the wedding guests had arrived at that rather noisy
indifference which presages the end of an entertainment. Then flushed
and tired with hurrying congratulations and good wishes that stumbled
over each other, carriage after carriage departed; and Ethel and her
companions went to Dora’s parlor to rest awhile and discuss the event of
the day. But Dora’s parlor was in a state of confusion. It had, too, an
air of loss, and felt like a gilded cage from which the bird had flown.
They looked dismally at its discomfort and went downstairs. Men were
removing the faded flowers or sitting at the abandoned table eating
and drinking. Everywhere there was disorder and waste, and from the
servants’ quarter came a noisy sense of riotous feasting.
“Where is Mrs. Denning?” Ethel asked a footman who was gathering
together the silver with the easy unconcern of a man whose ideas were
rosy with champagne. He looked up with a provoking familiarity at the
question, and sputtered out, “She’s lying down crying and making a fuss.
Miss Day is with her, soothing of her.”
“Let us go home,” said Ethel.
And so, weary with pleasure, and heart-heavy with feelings that had no
longer any reason to exist, pale with fatigue, untidy with crush, their
pretty white gowns sullied and passe, each went her way; in every heart
a wonder whether the few hilarious hours of strange emotions were worth
all they claimed as their right and due.
Ruth had gone home earlier, and Ethel found her resting in her room. “I
am worn out, Ruth,” was her first remark. “I am going to bed for three
or four days. It was a dreadful ordeal.”
“One to which you may have to submit.”
“Certainly not. My marriage will be a religious ceremony, with half a
dozen of my nearest relatives as witnesses.”
“I noticed Fred slip away before Dora went. He looked ill.”
“I dare say he is ill--and no wonder. Good night, Ruth. I am going to
sleep. Tell father all about the wedding. I don’t want to hear it named
again--not as long as I live.”