TRADE and commerce have their heroes as well as arms, and the struggle
in which Tyrrel Rawdon at last plucked victory from apparent failure was
as arduous a campaign as any military operations could have afforded. It
had entailed on him a ceaseless, undaunted watch over antagonists rich
and powerful; and a fight for rights which contained not only his own
fortune, but the honor of his father, so that to give up a fraction of
them was to turn traitor to the memory of a parent whom he believed
to be beyond all doubt or reproach. Money, political power, civic
influence, treachery, bribery, the law’s delay and many other
hindrances met him on every side, but his heart was encouraged daily to
perseverance by love’s tenderest sympathy. For he told Ethel everything,
and received both from her fine intuitions and her father’s legal skill
priceless comfort and advice. But at last the long trial was over, the
marriage day was set, and Tyrrel, with all his rights conceded, was
honorably free to seek the happiness he had safeguarded on every side.
It was a lovely day in the beginning of May, nearly two years after
their first meeting, when Tyrrel reached New York. Ethel knew at what
hour his train would arrive, she was watching and listening for his
step. They met in each other’s arms, and the blessed hours of that happy
evening were an over-payment of delight for the long months of their
separation.
In the morning Ethel was to introduce her lover to Madam Rawdon, and
side by side, almost hand in hand, they walked down the avenue together.
Walked? They were so happy they hardly knew whether their feet touched
earth or not. They had a constant inclination to clasp hands, to run as
little children run; They wished to smile at everyone, to bid all the
world good morning. Madam had resolved to be cool and careful in her
advances, but she quickly found herself unable to resist the sight of
so much love and hope and happiness. The young people together took her
heart by storm, and she felt herself compelled to express an interest in
their future, and to question Tyrrel about it.
“What are you going to do with yourself or make of yourself?” she asked
Tyrrel one evening when they were sitting together. “I do hope you’ll
find some kind of work. Anything is better than loafing about clubs and
such like places.”
“I am going to study law with Judge Rawdon. My late experience has
taught me its value. I do not think I shall loaf in his office.”
“Not if he is anywhere around. He works and makes others work. Lawyering
is a queer business, but men can be honest in it if they want to.”
“And, grandmother,” said Ethel, “my father says Tyrrel has a wonderful
gift for public speaking. He made a fine speech at father’s club last
night. Tyrrel will go into politics.”
“Will he, indeed? Tyrrel is a wonder. If he manages to walk his shoes
straight in the zigzaggery ways of the law, he will be one of that grand
breed called ‘exceptions.’ As for politics, I don’t like them, far from
it. Your grandfather used to say they either found a man a rascal or
made him one. However, I’m ready to compromise on law and politics. I
was afraid with his grand voice he would set up for a tenor.”
Tyrrel laughed. “I did once think of that role,” he said.
“I fancied that. Whoever taught you to use your voice knew a thing or
two about singing. I’ll say that much.”
“My mother taught me.”
“Never! I wonder now!”
“She was a famous singer. She was a great and a good woman. I owe her
for every excellent quality there is in me.”
“No, you don’t. You have got your black eyes and hair her way,
I’ll warrant that, but your solid make-up, your pluck and grit and
perseverance is the Rawdon in you. Without Rawdon you would very
likely now be strutting about some opera stage, playing at kings and
lovemaking.”
“As it is----”
“As it is, you will be lord consort of Rawdon Manor, with a silver mine
to back you.”
“I am sorry about the Manor,” said Tyrrel. “I wish the dear old Squire
were alive to meet Ethel and myself.”
“To be sure you do. But I dare say that he is glad now to have passed
out of it. Death is a mystery to those left, but I have no doubt it
is satisfying to those who have gone away. He died as he lived, very
properly; walked in the garden that morning as far as the strawberry
beds, and the gardener gave him the first ripe half-dozen in a young
cabbage leaf, and he ate them like a boy, and said they tasted as
if grown in Paradise, then strolled home and asked Joel to shake the
pillows on the sofa in the hall, laid himself down, shuffled his head
easy among them, and fell on sleep. So Death the Deliverer found him. A
good going home! Nothing to fear in it.”
“Ethel tells me that Mr. Mostyn is now living at Mostyn Hall.”
“Yes, he married that girl he would have sold his soul for and took her
there, four months only after her husband’s death. When I was young he
durst not have done it, the Yorkshire gentry would have cut them both.”
“I think,” said Tyrrel, “American gentlemen of to-day felt much the
same. Will Madison told me that the club cut him as soon as Mrs.
Stanhope left her husband. He went there one day after it was known, and
no one saw him; finally he walked up to McLean, and would have sat down,
but McLean said, ‘Your company is not desired, Mr. Mostyn.’ Mostyn said
something in re-ply, and McLean answered sternly, ‘True, we are none
of us saints, but there are lines the worst of us will not pass; and
if there is any member of this club willing to interfere between a
bridegroom and his bride, I would like to kick him out of it.’
Mostyn struck the table with some exclamation, and McLean continued,
‘Especially when the wronged husband is a gentleman of such stainless
character and unsuspecting nature as Basil Stanhope--a clergyman also!
Oh, the thing is beyond palliation entirely!’ And he walked away and
left Mostyn.”
“Well,” said Madam, “if it came to kicking, two could play that game.
Fred is no coward. I don’t want to hear another word about them. They
will punish each other without our help. Let them alone. I hope you are
not going to have a crowd at your wedding. The quietest weddings are the
luckiest ones.”
“About twenty of our most intimate friends are invited to the church,”
said Ethel. “There will be no reception until we return to New York in
the fall.”
“No need of fuss here, there will be enough when you reach Monk-Rawdon.
The village will be garlanded and flagged, the bells ring-ing, and all
your tenants and retainers out to meet you.”
“We intend to get into our own home without anyone being aware of it.
Come, Tyrrel, my dressmaker is waiting, I know. It is my wedding gown,
dear Granny, and oh, so lovely!”
“You will not be any smarter than I intend to be, miss. You are shut off
from color. I can outdo you.”
“I am sure you can--and will. Here comes father. What can he want?” They
met him at the door, and with a few laughing words left him with Madam.
She looked curiously into his face and asked, “What is it, Edward?”
“I suppose they have told you all the arrangements. They are very
simple. Did they say anything about Ruth?”
“They never named her. They said they were going to Washington for a
week, and then to Rawdon Court. Ruth seems out of it all. Are you going
to turn her adrift, or present her with a few thousand dollars? She has
been a mother to Ethel. Something ought to be done for Ruth Bayard.”
“I intend to marry her.”
“I thought so.”
“She will go to her sister’s in Philadelphia for a month ‘s preparation.
I shall marry her there, and bring her home as my wife. She is a sweet,
gentle, docile woman. She will make me happy.”
“Sweet, gentle, docile! Yes, that is the style of wife Rawdon men
prefer. What does Ethel say?”
“She is delighted. It was her idea. I was much pleased with her
thoughtfulness. Any serious break in my life would now be a great
discomfort. You need not look so satirical, mother; I thought of Ruth’s
life also.”
“Also an afterthought; but Ruth is gentle and docile, and she is
satisfied, and I am satisfied, so then everything is proper and everyone
content. Come for me at ten on Wednesday morning. I shall be ready. No
refreshments, I suppose. I must look after my own breakfast. Won’t you
feel a bit shabby, Edward?” And then the look and handclasp between them
turned every word into sweetness and good-will.
And as Ethel regarded her marriage rather as a religious rite than
a social function, she objected to its details becoming in any sense
public, and her desires were to be regarded. Yet everyone may imagine
the white loveliness of the bride, the joy of the bridegroom, the
calm happiness of the family breakfast, and the leisurely, quiet
leave-taking. The whole ceremony was the right note struck at the
beginning of a new life, and they might justly expect it would move
onward in melodious sequence.
Within three weeks after their marriage they arrived at Rawdon Court. It
was on a day and at an hour when no one was looking for them, and
they stepped into the lovely home waiting for them without outside
observation. Hiring a carriage at the railway station, they dismissed it
at the little bridge near the Manor House, and sauntered happily through
the intervening space. The door of the great hall stood open, and the
fire, which had been burning on its big hearth unquenched for more
than three hundred years, was blazing merrily, as if some hand had just
replenished it. On the long table the broad, white beaver hat of the
dead Squire was lying, and his oak walking stick was beside it. No one
had liked to remove them. They remained just as he had put them down,
that last, peaceful morning of his life.
In a few minutes the whole household was aware of their home-coming, and
before the day was over the whole neighborhood. Then there was no way
of avoiding the calls, the congratulations, and the entertainments
that followed, and the old Court was once more the center of a splendid
hospitality. Of course the Tyrrel-Rawdons were first on the scene, and
Ethel was genuinely glad to meet again the good-natured Mrs. Nicholas.
No one could give her better local advice, and Ethel quickly discovered
that the best general social laws require a local interpretation. Her
hands were full, her heart full, she had so many interests to share, so
many people to receive and to visit, and yet when two weeks passed and
Dora neither came nor wrote she was worried and dissatisfied.
“Are the Mostyns at the Hall?” she asked Mrs. Nicholas at last. “I have
been expecting Mrs. Mostyn every day, but she neither comes nor writes
to me.”
“I dare say not. Poor little woman! I’ll warrant she has been forbid to
do either. If Mostyn thought she wanted to see you, he would watch day
and night to prevent her coming. He’s turning out as cruel a man as his
father was, and you need not say a word worse than that.”
“Cruel! Oh, dear, how dreadful! Men will drink and cheat and swear, but
a cruel man seems so unnatural, so wicked.”
“To be sure, cruelty is the joy of devils. As I said to John Thomas when
we heard about Mostyn’s goings-on, we have got rid of the Wicked One,
but the wicked still remain with us.”
This conversation having been opened, was naturally prolonged by the
relation of incidents which had come through various sources to Mrs.
Rawdon’s ears, all of them indicating an almost incredible system of
petty tyranny and cruel contradiction. Ethel was amazed, and finally
angry at what she heard. Dora was her countrywoman and her friend;
she instantly began to express her sympathy and her intention of
interfering.
“You had better neither meddle nor make in the matter,” answered Mrs.
Rawdon. “Our Lucy went to see her, and gave her some advice about
managing Yorkshiremen. And as she was talking Mostyn came in, and was as
rude as he dared to be. Then Lucy asked him ‘if he was sick.’ She said,
‘All the men in the neighborhood, gentle and simple, were talking about
him, and that it wasn’t a pleasant thing to be talked about in the
way they were doing it. You must begin to look more like yourself, Mr.
Mostyn; it is good advice I am giving you,’ she added; and Mostyn told
her he would look as he felt, whether it was liked or not liked.
And Lucy laughed, and said, ‘In that case he would have to go to his
looking-glass for company.’ Well, Ethel, there was a time to joy a
devil after Lucy left, and some one of the servants went on their own
responsibility for a doctor; and Mostyn ordered him out of the house,
and he would not go until he saw Mrs. Mostyn; and the little woman was
forced to come and say ‘she was quite well,’ though she was sobbing all
the time she spoke. Then the doctor told Mostyn what he thought, and
there is a quarrel between them every time they meet.”
But Ethel was not deterred by these statements; on the contrary, they
stimulated her interest in her friend. Dora needed her, and the old
feeling of protection stirred her to interference. At any rate, she
could call and see the unhappy woman; and though Tyrrel was opposed to
the visit, and thought it every way unwise, Ethel was resolved to
make it. “You can drive me there,” she said, “then go and see Justice
Manningham and call for me in half an hour.” And this resolution was
strengthened by a pitiful little note received from Dora just after her
decision. “Mostyn has gone to Thirsk,” it said; “for pity’s sake come
and see me about two o’clock this afternoon.”
The request was promptly answered. As the clock struck two Ethel crossed
the threshold of the home that might have been hers. She shuddered at
the thought. The atmosphere of the house was full of fear and gloom, the
furniture dark and shabby, and she fancied the wraiths of old forgotten
crimes and sorrows were gliding about the sad, dim rooms and stairways.
Dora rose in a passion of tears to welcome her, and because time was
short instantly began her pitiful story.
“You know how he adored me once,” she said; “would you believe it,
Ethel, we were not two weeks married when he began to hate me. He
dragged me through Europe in blazing heat and blinding snows when I was
sick and unfit to move. He brought me here in the depth of winter, and
when no one called on us he blamed me; and from morning till night, and
sometimes all night long, he taunts and torments me. After he heard that
you had bought the Manor he lost all control of himself. He will not let
me sleep. He walks the floor hour after hour, declaring he could have
had you and the finest manor in England but for a cat-faced woman
like me. And he blames me for poor Basil’s death--says we murdered
him together, and that he sees blood on my hands.” And she looked with
terror at her small, thin hands, and held them up as if to protest
against the charge. When she next spoke it was to sob out, “Poor Basil!
He would pity me! He would help me! He would forgive me! He knows now
that Mostyn was, and is, my evil genius.”
“Do not cry so bitterly, Dora, it hurts me. Let us think. Is there
nothing you can do?”
“I want to go to mother.” Then she drew Ethel’s head close to her and
whispered a few words, and Ethel answered, “You poor little one, you
shall go to your mother. Where is she?”
“She will be in London next week, and I must see her. He will not let me
go, but go I must if I die for it. Mrs. John Thomas Rawdon told me what
to do, and I have been following her advice.”
Ethel did not ask what it was, but added,
“If Tyrrel and I can help you, send for us. We will come. And, Dora,
do stop weeping, and be brave. Remember you are an American woman. Your
father has often told me how you could ride with Indians or cowboys
and shoot with any miner in Colorado. A bully like Mostyn is always a
coward. Lift up your heart and stand for every one of your rights. You
will find plenty of friends to stand with you.” And with the words she
took her by the hands and raised her to her feet, and looked at her
with such a beaming, courageous smile that Dora caught its spirit, and
promised to insist on her claims for rest and sleep.
“When shall I come again, Dora?”
“Not till I send for you. Mother will be in London next Wednesday at
the Savoy. I intend to leave here Wednesday some time, and may need you;
will you come?”
“Surely, both Tyrrel and I.”
Then the time being on a dangerous line they parted. But Ethel could
think of nothing and talk of nothing but the frightful change in her
friend, and the unceasing misery which had produced it. Tyrrel shared
all her indignation. The slow torture of any creature was an intolerable
crime in his eyes, but when the brutality was exercised on a woman, and
on a countrywoman, he was roused to the highest pitch of indignation.
When Wednesday arrived he did not leave the house, but waited with
Ethel for the message they confidently expected. It came about five
o’clock--urgent, imperative, entreating, “Come, for God’s sake! He will
kill me.”
The carriage was ready, and in half an hour they were at Mostyn Hall. No
one answered their summons, but as they stood listening and waiting,
a shrill cry of pain and anger pierced the silence. It was followed by
loud voices and a confused noise--noise of many talking and exclaiming.
Then Tyrrel no longer hesitated. He opened the door easily, and taking
Ethel on his arm, suddenly entered the parlor from which the clamor
came. Dora stood in the center of the room like an enraged pythoness,
her eyes blazing with passion.
“See!” she cried as Tyrrel entered the room--“see!” And she held out
her arm, and pointed to her shoulder from which the lace hung in shreds,
showing the white flesh, red and bruised, where Mostyn had gripped her.
Then Tyrrel turned to Mostyn, who was held tightly in the grasp of
his gardener and coachman, and foaming with a rage that rendered his
explanation almost inarticulate, especially as the three women servants
gathered around their mistress added their railing and invectives to the
general confusion.
“The witch! The cat-faced woman!” he screamed. “She wants to go to her
mother! Wants to play the trick she killed Basil Stanhope with! She
shall not! She shall not! I will kill her first! She is mad! I will
send her to an asylum! She is a little devil! I will send her to hell!
Nothing is bad enough--nothing----”
“Mr. Mostyn,” said Tyrrel.
“Out of my house! What are you doing here? Away! This is my house! Out
of it immediately!”
“This man is insane,” said Tyrrel to Dora. “Put on your hat and cloak,
and come home with us.”
“I am waiting for Justice Manningham,” she answered with a calm
subsidence of passion that angered Mostyn more than her reproaches.
“I have sent for him. He will be here in five minutes now. That
brute”--pointing to Mostyn--“must be kept under guard till I reach my
mother. The magistrate will bring a couple of constables with him.”
“This is a plot, then! You hear it! You! You, Tyrrel Rawdon, and you,
Saint Ethel, are in it, all here on time. A plot, I say! Let me loose
that I may strangle the cat-faced creature. Look at her hands, they are
already bloody!”
At these words Dora began to sob passionately, the servants, one and
all, to comfort her, or to abuse Mostyn, and in the height of the hubbub
Justice Manningham entered with two constables behind him.
“Take charge of Mr. Mostyn,” he said to them, and as they laid their big
hands on his shoulders the Justice added, “You will consider yourself
under arrest, Mr. Mostyn.”
And when nothing else could cow Mostyn, he was cowed by the law. He
sank almost fainting into his chair, and the Justice listened to Dora’s
story, and looked indignantly at the brutal man, when she showed him her
torn dress and bruised shoulder. “I entreat your Honor,” she said, “to
permit me to go to my mother who is now in London.” And he answered
kindly, “You shall go. You are in a condition only a mother can help and
comfort. As soon as I have taken your deposition you shall go.”
No one paid any attention to Mostyn’s disclaimers and denials. The
Justice saw the state of affairs. Squire Rawdon and Mrs. Rawdon
testified to Dora’s ill-usage; the butler, the coachman, the stablemen,
the cook, the housemaids were all eager to bear witness to the same; and
Mrs. Mostyn’s appearance was too eloquent a plea for any humane man to
deny her the mother-help she asked for.
Though neighbors and members of the same hunt and clubs, the Justice
took no more friendly notice of Mostyn than he would have taken of any
wife-beating cotton-weaver; and when all lawful preliminaries had been
arranged, he told Mrs. Mostyn that he should not take up Mr. Mostyn’s
case till Friday; and in the interval she would have time to put herself
under her mother’s care. She thanked him, weeping, and in her old,
pretty way kissed his hands, and “vowed he had saved her life, and
she would forever remember his goodness.” Mostyn mocked at her
“play-acting,” and was sternly reproved by the Justice; and then Tyrrel
and Ethel took charge of Mrs. Mostyn until she was ready to leave for
London.
She was more nearly ready than they expected. All her trunks were
packed, and the butler promised to take them immediately to the railway
station. In a quarter of an hour she appeared in traveling costume, with
her jewels in a bag, which she carried in her hand. There was a train
for London passing Monk-Rawdon at eight o’clock; and after Justice
Manningham had left, the cook brought in some dinner, which Dora asked
the Rawdons to share with her. It was, perhaps, a necessary but a
painful meal. No one noticed Mostyn. He was enforced to sit still and
watch its progress, which he accompanied with curses it would be a kind
of sacrilege to write down. But no one answered him, and no one noticed
the orders he gave for his own dinner, until Dora rose to leave forever
the house of bondage. Then she said to the cook:
“See that those gentlemanly constables have something good to eat and to
drink, and when they have been served you may give that man”--pointing
to Mostyn--“the dinner of bread and water he has so often prescribed
for me. After my train leaves you are all free to go to your own homes.
Farewell, friends!”
Then Mostyn raved again, and finally tried his old loving terms. “Come
back to me, Dora,” he called frantically. “Come back, dearest, sweetest
Dora, I will be your lover forever. I will never say another cross word
to you.”
But Dora heard not and saw not. She left the room without a glance at
the man sitting cowering between the officers, and blubbering with shame
and passion and the sense of total loss. In a few minutes he heard the
Rawdon carriage drive to the door. Tyrrel and Ethel assisted Dora into
it, and the party drove at once to the railway station. They were just
able to catch the London train. The butler came up to report all the
trunks safely forwarded, and Dora dropped gold into his hand, and
bade him clear the house of servants as soon as the morning broke.
Fortunately there was no time for last words and promises; the train
began to move, and Tyrrel and Ethel, after watching Dora’s white face
glide into the darkness, turned silently away. That depression which
so often follows the lifting of burdens not intended for our shoulders
weighed on their hearts and made speech difficult. Tyrrel was especially
affected by it. A quick feeling of something like sympathy for Mostyn
would not be reasoned away, and he drew Ethel close within his arm, and
gave the coachman an order to drive home as quickly as possible, for
twilight was already becoming night, and under the trees the darkness
felt oppressive.
The little fire on the hearth and their belated dinner somewhat relieved
the tension; but it was not until they had retired to a small parlor,
and Tyrrel had smoked a cigar, that the tragedy of the evening became a
possible topic of conversation. Tyrrel opened the subject by a question
as to whether “he ought to have gone with Dora to London.”
“Dora opposed the idea strongly when I named it to her,” answered Ethel.
“She said it would give opportunities for Mostyn to slander both herself
and you, and I think she was correct. Every way she was best alone.”
“Perhaps, but I feel as if I ought to have gone, as if I had been
something less than a gentleman; in fact, as if I had been very
un-gentle.”
“There is no need,” answered Ethel a little coldly.
“It is a terrible position for Mostyn.”
“He deserves it.”
“He is so sensitive about public opinion.”
“In that case he should behave decently in private.”
Then Tyrrel lit another cigar, and there was another silence, which
Ethel occupied in irritating thoughts of Dora’s unfortunate fatality in
trouble-making. She sat at a little table standing between herself and
Tyrrel. It held his smoking utensils, and after awhile she pushed them
aside, and let the splendid rings which adorned her hand fall into the
cleared space. Tyrrel watched her a few moments, and then asked, “What
are you doing, Ethel, my dear?”
She looked up with a smile, and then down at the hand she had laid open
upon the table. “I am looking at the Ring of all Rings. See, Tyrrel, it
is but a little band of gold, and yet it gave me more than all the gems
of earth could buy. Rubies and opals and sapphires are only its guard.
The simple wedding ring is the ring of great price. It is the loveliest
ornament a happy woman can wear.”
Tyrrel took her hand and kissed it, and kissed the golden band, and then
answered, “Truly an ornament if a happy wife wears it; but oh, Ethel,
what is it when it binds a woman to such misery as Dora has just fled
from?”
“Then it is a fetter, and a woman who has a particle of self-respect
will break it. The Ring of all Rings!” she ejaculated again, as she
lifted the rubies and opals, and slowly but smilingly encircled the
little gold band.
“Let us try now to forget that sorrowful woman,” said Tyrrel. “She will
be with her mother in a few hours. Mother-love can cure all griefs. It
never fails. It never blames. It never grows weary. It is always young
and warm and true. Dora will be comforted. Let us forget; we can do no
more.”
For a couple of days this was possible, but then came Mrs. Nicholas
Rawdon, and the subject was perforce opened. “It was a bad case,” she
said, “but it is being settled as quickly and as quietly as possible. I
believe the man has entered into some sort of recognizance to keep the
peace, and has disappeared. No one will look for him. The gentry are
against pulling one another down in any way, and this affair they
don’t want talked about. Being all of them married men, it isn’t to be
expected, is it? Justice Manningham was very sorry for the little
lady, but he said also ‘it was a bad precedent, and ought not to be
discussed.’ And Squire Bentley said, ‘If English gentlemen would marry
American women, they must put up with American women’s ways,’ and so on.
None of them think it prudent to approve Mrs. Mostyn’s course. But they
won’t get off as easy as they think. The women are standing up for her.
Did you ever hear anything like that? And I’ll warrant some husbands are
none so easy in their minds, as my Nicholas said, ‘Mrs. Mostyn had sown
seed that would be seen and heard tell of for many a long day.’ Our
Lucy, I suspect, had more to do with the move than she will confess. She
got a lot of new, queer notions at college, and I do believe in my heart
she set the poor woman up to the business. John Thomas, of course, says
not a word, but he looks at Lucy in a very proud kind of way; and I’ll
be bound he has got an object lesson he’ll remember as long as he lives.
So has Nicholas, though he bluffs more than a little as to what he’d
do with a wife that got a running-away notion into her head. Bless you,
dear, they are all formulating their laws on the subject, and their
wives are smiling queerly at them, and holding their heads a bit higher
than usual. I’ve been doing it myself, so I know how they feel.”
Thus, though very little was said in the newspapers about the affair,
the notoriety Mostyn dreaded was complete and thorough. It was the
private topic of conversation in every household. Men talked it over in
all the places where men met, and women hired the old Mostyn servants in
order to get the very surest and latest story of the poor wife’s wrongs,
and then compared reports and even discussed the circumstances in their
own particular clubs.
At the Court, Tyrrel and Ethel tried to forget, and their own interests
were so many and so important that they usually succeeded; especially
after a few lines from Mrs. Denning assured them of Dora’s safety and
comfort. And for many weeks the busy life of the Manor sufficed; there
was the hay to cut in the meadow lands, and after it the wheat fields
to harvest. The stables, the kennels, the farms and timber, the park and
the garden kept Tyrrel constantly busy. And to these duties were added
the social ones, the dining and dancing and entertaining, the horse
racing, the regattas, and the enthusiasm which automobiling in its first
fever engenders.
And yet there were times when Tyrrel looked bored, and when nothing but
Squire Percival’s organ or Ethel’s piano seemed to exorcise the unrest
and ennui that could not be hid. Ethel watched these moods with a
wise and kind curiosity, and in the beginning of September, when they
perceptibly increased, she asked one day, “Are you happy, Tyrrel? Quite
happy?”
“I am having a splendid holiday,” he answered, “but----”
“But what, dear?”
“One could not turn life into a long holiday--that would be harder than
the hardest work.”
She answered “Yes,” and as soon as she was alone fell to thinking, and
in the midst of her meditation Mrs. Nicholas Rawdon entered in a whirl
of tempestuous delight.
“What do you think?” she asked between laughing and crying. “Whatever do
you think? Our Lucy had twins yesterday, two fine boys as ever was. And
I wish you could see their grandfather and their father. They are out of
themselves with joy. They stand hour after hour beside the two cradles,
looking at the little fellows, and they nearly came to words this
morning about their names.”
“I am so delighted!” cried Ethel. “And what are you going to call them?”
“One is an hour older than the other, and John Thomas wanted them called
Percival and Nicholas. But my Nicholas wanted the eldest called after
himself, and he said so plain enough. And John Thomas said ‘he could
surely name his own sons; and then Nicholas told him to remember he
wouldn’t have been here to have any sons at all but for his father.’ And
just then I came into the room to have a look at the little lads, and
when I heard what they were fratching about, I told them it was none of
their business, that Lucy had the right to name the children, and they
would just have to put up with the names she gave them.”
“And has Lucy named them?”
“To be sure. I went right away to her and explained the dilemma, and
I said, ‘Now, Lucy, it is your place to settle this question.’ And she
answered in her positive little way, ‘You tell father the eldest is to
be called Nicholas, and tell John Thomas the youngest is to be called
John Thomas. I can manage two of that name very well. And say that
I won’t have any more disputing about names, the boys are as good as
christened already.’ And of course when Lucy said that we all knew it
was settled. And I’m glad the eldest is Nicholas. He is a fine, sturdy
little Yorkshireman, bawling out already for what he wants, and flying
into a temper if he doesn’t get it as soon as he wants it. Dearie me,
Ethel, I am a proud woman this morning. And Nicholas is going to give
all the hands a holiday, and a trip up to Ambleside on Saturday, though
John Thomas is very much against it.”
“Why is he against it?”
“He says they will be holding a meeting on Monday night to try and find
out what Old Nicholas is up to, and that if he doesn’t give them the
same treat on the same date next year, they’ll hold an indignation
meeting about being swindled out of their rights. And I’ll pledge you my
word John Thomas knows the men he’s talking about. However, Nicholas
is close with his money, and it will do him good happen to lose a bit.
Blood-letting is healthy for the body, and perhaps gold-letting may help
the soul more than we think for.”
This news stimulated Ethel’s thinking, and when she also stood beside
the two cradles, and the little Nicholas opened his big blue eyes and
began to “bawl for what he wanted,” a certain idea took fast hold of
her, and she nursed it silently for the next month, watch-ing Tyrrel at
the same time. It was near October, however, before she found the proper
opportunity for speaking. There had been a long letter from the Judge.
It said Ruth and he were home again after a wonderful trip over the
Northern Pacific road. He wrote with enthusiasm of the country and its
opportunities, and of the big cities they had visited on their return
from the Pacific coast. Every word was alive, the magnitude and stir of
traffic and wrestling humanity seemed to rustle the paper. He described
New York as overflowing with business. His own plans, the plans of
others, the jar of politics, the thrill of music and the drama--all the
multitudinous vitality that crowded the streets and filled the air, even
to the roofs of the twenty-story buildings, contributed to the potent
exhilaration of the letter.
“Great George!” exclaimed Tyrrel. “That is life! That is living! I wish
we were back in America!”
“So do I, Tyrrel.”
“I am so glad. When shall we go? It is now the twenty-eighth of
September.”
“Are you very weary of Rawdon Court”’
“Yes. If a man could live for the sake of eating and sleeping and having
a pleasant time, why Rawdon Court would be a heaven to him; but if he
wants to DO something with his life, he would be most unhappy here.”
“And you want to do something?”
“You would not have loved a man who did not want TO DO. We have been
here four months. Think of it! If I take four months out of every year
for twenty years, I shall lose, with travel, about seven years of
my life, and the other things to be dropped with them may be of
incalculable value.”
“I see, Tyrrel. I am not bound in any way to keep Rawdon Court. I can
sell it to-morrow.”
“But you would be grieved to do so?”
“Not at all. Being a lady of the Manor does not flatter me. The other
squires would rather have a good man in my place.”
“Why did you buy it?”
“As I have told you, to keep Mostyn out, and to keep a Rawdon here. But
Nicholas Rawdon craves the place, and will pay well for his desire. It
cost me eighty thousand pounds. He told father he would gladly give me
one hundred thousand pounds whenever I was tired of my bargain. I will
take the hundred thousand pounds to-morrow. There would then be four
good heirs to Rawdon on the place.”
Here the conversation was interrupted by Mrs. Nicholas, who came to
invite them to the christening feast of the twins. Tyrrel soon left the
ladies together, and Ethel at once opened the desired conversation.
“I am afraid we may have left the Court before the christening,” she
said. “Mr. Rawdon is very unhappy here. He is really homesick.”
“But this is his home, isn’t it? And a very fine one.”
“He cannot feel it so. He has large interests in America. I doubt if
I ever induce him to come here again. You see, this visit has been our
marriage trip.”
“And you won’t live here! I never heard the line. What will you do with
the Court? It will be badly used if it is left to servants seven or
eight months every year.”
“I suppose I must sell it. I see no----”
“If you only would let Nicholas buy it. You might be sure then it would
be well cared for, and the little lads growing up in it, who would
finally heir it. Oh, Ethel, if you would think of Nicholas first. He
would honor the place and be an honor to it.”
Out of this conversation the outcome was as satisfactory as it was
certain, and within two weeks Nicholas Rawdon was Squire of Rawdon
Manor, and possessor of the famous old Manor House. Then there followed
a busy two weeks for Tyrrel, who had the superintendence of the packing,
which was no light business. For though Ethel would not denude the Court
of its ancient furniture and ornaments, there were many things belonging
to the personal estate of the late Squire which had been given to her by
his will, and could not be left behind. But by the end of October cases
and trunks were all sent off to the steamship in which their passage was
taken; and the Rawdon estate, which had played such a momentous part in
Ethel’s life having finished its mission, had no further influence, and
without regret passed out of her physical life forever.
Indeed, their willingness to resign all claims to the old home was a
marvel to both Tyrrel and Ethel. On their last afternoon there they
walked through the garden, and stood under the plane tree where
their vows of love had been pledged, and smiled and wondered at their
indifference. The beauteous glamor of first love was gone as completely
as the flowers and scents and songs that had then filled the charming
place. But amid the sweet decay of these things they once more clasped
hands, looking with supreme confidence into each other’s eyes. All that
had then been promised was now certain; and with an affection infinitely
sweeter and surer, Tyrrel drew Ethel to his heart, and on her lips
kissed the tenderest, proudest words a woman hears, “My dear wife!”
This visit was their last adieu, all the rest had been said, and early
the next morning they left Monk-Rawdon station as quietly as they had
arrived. During their short reign at Rawdon Court they had been very
popular, and perhaps their resignation was equally so. After all, they
were foreigners, and Nicholas Rawdon was Yorkshire, root and branch.
“Nice young people,” said Justice Manningham at a hunt dinner, “but
our ways are not their ways, nor like to be. The young man was born a
fighter, and there are neither bears nor Indians here for him to
fight; and our politics are Greek to him; and the lady, very sweet and
beautiful, but full of new ideas--ideas not suitable for women, and we
do not wish our women changed.”
“Good enough as they are,” mumbled Squire Oakes.
“Nicest Americans I ever met,” added Earl Danvers, “but Nicholas Rawdon
will be better at Rawdon Court.” To which statement there was a general
assent, and then the subject was considered settled.
In the meantime Tyrrel and Ethel had reached London and gone to the
Metropole Hotel; because, as Ethel said, no one knew where Dora was; but
if in England, she was likely to be at the Savoy. They were to be two
days in London. Tyrrel had banking and other business to fully occupy
the time, and Ethel remembered she had some shopping to do, a thing any
woman would discover if she found herself in the neighborhood of Regent
Street and Piccadilly. On the afternoon of the second day this duty was
finished, and she returned to her hotel satisfied but a little weary. As
she was going up the steps she noticed a woman coming slowly down them.
It was Dora Mostyn. They met with great enthusiasm on Dora’s part, and
she turned back and went with Ethel to her room.
Ethel looked at her with astonishment. She was not like any Dora she had
previously seen. Her beauty had developed wondrously, she had grown much
taller, and her childish manner had been superseded by a carriage and
air of superb grace and dignity. She had now a fine color, and her eyes
were darker, softer, and more dreamy than ever. “Take off your hat,
Dora,” said Ethel, “and tell me what has happened. You are positively
splendid. Where is Mr. Mostyn?”
“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.”