Bayard was to be his companion, and with some effort and a few indistinct words he gave her his arm. She asked if he was ill, and when a shake of the head answered the query, she covered the few minutes of his disconcertion with her conversation. He looked at her
gratefully and gathered his personality together. For Love had come to him like a two-
edged sword, dividing the flesh and the spirit, and he longed to cry aloud and relieve the sweet torture of the possession.
Reaction, however, came quickly, and with it a wonderful access of all his powers. The sweet, strong wine of Love went to his brain like celestial nectar. All the witty, amusing things he had ever heard came trooping into his memory, and the dinner was long delayed by his fine humor, his pleasant anecdotes, and the laughing thoughts which others caught up and illustrated in their own way.
It was a feast full of good things, but its spirit was not able to bear transition. The company scattered quickly when it was over to the opera or theater or to the rest of a quiet evening at home, for at the end enthusiasm of any kind has a chilling effect on the feelings. None of the party understood this result, and yet all were, in their way, affected by the sudden fall of mental temperature. Mr. Denning went to his library and took out his private ledger, a penitential sort of reading which he relished after moods of any kind of enjoyment. Mrs. Denning selected Ethel Rawdon for her text of disillusion. She
“thought Ethel had been a little jealous of Dora’s dress,” and Dora said, “It was one of her surprises, and Ethel thought she
ought to know everything.” “You are too obedient to Ethel,” continued Mrs. Denning and Dora looked with a charming demureness at her lover, and said, “She had to be
obedient to some one wiser than herself,” and so slipped her hand into Basil’s hand. And he understood the promise, and with a look of passionate affection raised the little jeweled pledge and kissed it.
Perhaps no one was more affected by this chill, critical after-hour than Miss Bayard and Ethel. Mostyn accompanied them home, but he was depressed, and his courtesy had the air of an obligation. He said he had a sudden headache, and was not sorry when the ladies bid him “good night” on the threshold. Indeed, he felt that he must have refused any invitation to lengthen out the
hours with them or anybody. He wanted one thing, and he wanted that with all his soul–solitude, that he might fill it with images of Dora, and with passionate promises that either by fair means or by foul, by right or by wrong, he would win the bewitching woman for his wife.
CHAPTER IV
“WHAT do you think of the evening, Aunt Ruth?” Ethel was in her aunt’s room, comfortably wrapped in a pink kimono, when she
asked this question.
“What do you think of it, Ethel?”
“I am not sure.”
“The dinner was well served.”
“Yes. Who was the little dark man you talked with, aunt?”
“He was a Mr. Marriot, a banker, and a friend of Bryce Denning’s. He is a fresh addition to society, I think. He had the word `gold’ always on his lips; and he believes in it as good men believe in God. The
general conversation annoyed him; he could not understand men being entertained by it.”
“They were, though, for once Jamie Sayer forgot to talk about his pictures.”
“Is that the name of your escort?”
“Yes.”
“And is he an artist?”
“A second-rate one. He is painting
Dora’s picture, and is a great favorite of Mrs. Denning’s.”
“A strange, wild-looking man. When I
saw him first he was lying, dislocated, over his ottoman rather than sitting on it.”
“Oh, that is a part of his affectations. He is really a childish, self-conscious creature, with a very decided dash of vulgarity.
He only tries to look strange and wild, and he would be delighted if he knew you had thought him so.”
“I was glad to see Claudine Jeffrys. How slim and graceful she is! And, pray, who is that Miss Ullman?”
“A very rich woman. She has Bryce
under consideration. Many other men have been in the same position, for she is sure they all want her money and not her. Perhaps
she is right. I saw you talking to her, aunt.”
“For a short time. I did not enjoy her company. She is so mercilessly realistic, she takes all the color out of life. Everything about her, even her speech, is sharp-lined as the edge of a knife. She could make Bryce’s life very miserable.”
“Perhaps it might turn out the other way. Bryce Denning has capacities in the same line. How far apart, how far above every man there, stood Basil Stanhope!”
“He is strikingly handsome and graceful, and I am sure that his luminous serenity does not arise from apathy. I should say he was a man of very strong and tender feelings.”
“And he gives all the strength and tenderness of his feelings to Dora. Men are strange creatures.”
“Who directed Dora’s dress this evening?”
“Herself or her maid. I had nothing to do with it. The effect was stunning.”
“Fred thought so. In fact, Fred Hostyn—-“
“Fell in love with her.”
“Exactly. `Fell,’ that is the word–fell prostrate. Usually the lover of to-day walks very timidly and carefully into the condition, step by step, and calculating every step before he takes it. Fred plunged headlong into
the whirling vortex. I am very sorry. It is a catastrophe.”
“I never witnessed the accident before. I have heard of men getting wounds and falls, and developing new faculties in consequence, but we saw the phenomenon take place this evening.”
“Love, if it be love, is known in a moment. man who never saw the sun before would
know it was the sun. In Fred’s case it was an instantaneous, impetuous passion, flaming up at the sight of such unexpected beauty– a passion that will probably fade as rapidly as it rose.”
“Fred is not that kind of a man, aunt. He does not like every one and everything, but whoever or whatever he does like becomes a lasting part of his life. Even the old chairs and tables at Mostyn are held as sacred
objects by him, though I have no doubt an American girl would trundle them off to the garret. It is the same with the people. He actually regards the Rawdons as belonging in some way to the Mostyns; and I do not believe he has ever been in love before.”
“Nonsense!”
“He was so surprised by the attack. If it had been the tenth or twentieth time he would have taken it more philosophically; besides, if he had ever loved any woman, he would have gone on loving her, and we should have known all about her perfections by this time.”
“Dora is nearly a married woman, and
Mostyn knows it.”
“Nearly may make all the difference.
When Dora is married he will be compelled to accept the inevitable and make the best of it.”
“When Dora is married he will idealize her, and assure himself that her marriage is the tragedy of both their lives.”
“Dora will give him no reason to suppose such a thing. I am sure she will not. She is too much in love with Mr. Stanhope to notice any other lover.”
“You are mistaken, Ethel. Swiftly as
Fred was vanquished she noticed it, and many times–once even while leaning on Mr. Stanhope’s arm–she turned the arrow in the
heart wound with sweet little glances and smiles, and pretty appeals to the blind adoration of her new lover. It was, to me, a humiliating spectacle. How could she do it?”
“I am sure Dora meant no wrong. It is so natural for a lovely girl to show off a little. She will marry and forget Fred Mostyn lives.”
“And Fred will forget?”
“Fred will not forget.”
“Then I shall be very sorry for your father and grandmother.”
“What have they to do with Fred marrying?”
“A great deal. Fred has been so familiar and homely the last two or three weeks, that they have come to look upon him as a future member of the family. It has been `Cousin Ethel’ and `Aunt Ruth’ and even `grandmother’ and `Cousin Fred,’ and no objections
have been made to the use of such personal terms. I think your father hopes for a
closer tie between you and Fred Mostyn than cousinship.”
“Whatever might have been is over. Do you imagine I could consent to be the secondary deity, to come after Dora–Dora of
all the girls I have ever known? The idea is an insult to my heart and my intelligence. Nothing on earth could make me submit to such an indignity.”
“I do not suppose, Ethel, that any wife is the first object of her husband’s love.”
“At least they tell her she is so, swear it an inch deep; and no woman is fool enough to look beyond that oath, but when she is sure that she is a second best! AH! That is not a position I will ever take in any man’s heart knowingly.”
“Of course, Fred Mostyn will have to
marry.”
“Of course, he will make a duty of the event. The line of Mostyns must be continued. England might go to ruin if the Mostyns
perished off the English earth; but, Aunt Ruth, I count myself worthy of a better fate than to become a mere branch in the genealogical tree of the Mostyns. And that is all Fred Mostyn’s wife will ever be to him, unless he marries Dora.”
“But that very supposition implies tragedy, and it is most unlikely.”
“Yes, for Dora is a good little thing. She has never been familiar with vice. She has even a horror of poor women divorced from impossible husbands. She believes her marriage will be watched by the angels, and
recorded in heaven. Basil has instructed her to regard marriage as a holy sacrament, and I am sure he does the same.”
“Then why should we forecast evil to their names? As for Cousin Fred, I dare say he is comfortably asleep.”
“I am sure he is not. I believe he is smoking and calling himself names for not having come to New York last May, when
father first invited him. Had he done so things might have been different.”
“Yes, they might. When Good Fortune
calls, and the called `will not when they may,’ then, `when they will’ Good Fortune has become Misfortune. Welcome a pleasure or a
gain at once, or don’t answer it at all. It was on this rock, Ethel, the bark that carried my love went to pieces. I know; yes, I know!”
“My dear aunt!”
“It is all right now, dear; but things might have been that are not. As to Dora, I think she may be trusted with Basil Stanhope. He is one of the best and handsomest men I ever saw, and he has now rights in Dora’s love no one can tamper with. Mostyn is an honorable man.”
“All right, but–
“Love will venture in,
Where he daurna well be seen;
O Love will venture in,
Where Wisdom once has been–
and then, aunt, what then?”
PART SECOND
PLAYING WITH FIRE
CHAPTER V
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. Major-domo 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 to- gether 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-reluc- tantly 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.”
[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.”
CHAPTER VI
THREE days passed and Ethel had regained her health and spirits, but Fred Mostyn had not called since the wedding. Ruth thought some inquiry ought to be made, and Judge Rawdon called at the Holland House. There he was told that Mr. Mostyn had not been well, and the young man’s countenance painfully confessed the same thing.
“My dear Fred, why did you not send us word you were ill?” asked the Judge.
“I had fever, sir, and I feared it might be typhoid. Nothing of the kind, however. I shall be all right in a day or two.”
The truth was far from typhoid, and Fred knew it. He had left the wedding breakfast because he had reached the limit of his
endurance. Words, stinging as whips, burned like hot coals in his mouth, and he felt that he could not restrain them much longer.
Hastening to his hotel, he locked himself in his rooms, and passed the night in a frenzy of passion. The very remembrance of the
bridegroom’s confident transport put mur- der in his heart–murder which he could only practice by his wishes, impotent to compass their desires.
“I wish the fellow shot! I wish him
hanged! I would kill him twenty times in twenty different ways! And Dora! Dora!
Dora! What did she see in him? What could she see? Love her? He knows nothing of love–such love as tortures me.”
Backwards and forwards he paced the floor to such imprecations and ejaculations as welled up from the whirlpool of rage in his heart, hour following hour, till in the blackness of his misery he could no longer speak.
His brain had become stupefied by the iteration of inevitable loss, and so refused any
longer to voice a woe beyond remedy. Then he stood still and called will and reason to council him. “This way madness lies,” he thought. “I must be quiet–I must sleep– I must forget.”
But it was not until the third day that a dismal, sullen stillness succeeded the storm of rage and grief, and he awoke from a sleep of exhaustion feeling as if he were withered at his heart. He knew that life had to be taken up again, and that in all its farces he must play his part. At first the thought of Mostyn Hall presented itself as an asylum. It stood amid thick woods, and there were miles of wind-blown wolds and hills around it. He was lord and master there, no one could intrude upon his sorrow; he could nurse it in those lonely rooms to his heart’s content. Every day, however, this gloomy resolution grew fainter, and one morning he awoke and laughed it to scorn.
“Frederick’s himself again,” he quoted, “and he must have been very far off himself when he thought of giving up or of running away. No, Fred Mostyn, you will stay here. ‘Tis a country where the impossible does not exist, and the unlikely is sure to happen–a country where marriage is not for life or death, and where the roads to divorce are manifold and easy. There are a score of
ways and means. I will stay and think them over; ’twill be odd if I cannot force Fate to change her mind.”
A week after Dora’s marriage he found himself able to walk up the avenue to the Rawdon house; but he arrived there weary and wan enough to instantly win the sympathy of Ruth and Ethel, and he was immensely
strengthened by the sense of home
and kindred, and of genuine kindness to which he felt a sort of right. He asked Ruth if he might eat dinner with them. He said he was hungry, and the hotel fare did not tempt him. And when Judge Rawdon returned he welcomed him in the same generous
spirit, and the evening passed delightfully away. At its close, however, as Mostyn stood gloved and hatted, and the carriage waited for him, he said a few words to Judge Rawdon which changed the mental and social atmosphere. “I wish to have a little talk with you,
sir, on a business matter of some importance. At what hour can I see you to-morrow?”
“I am engaged all day until three in the afternoon, Fred. Suppose I call on you about four or half-past?”
“Very well, sir.”
But both Ethel and Ruth wondered if it was “very well.” A shadow, fleeting as
thought, had passed over Judge Rawdon’s face when he heard the request for a business interview, and after the young man’s departure he lost himself in a reverie which
was evidently not a happy one. But he said nothing to the girls, and they were not
accustomed to question him.
The next morning, instead of going direct to his office, he stopped at Madam, his moth- er’s house in Gramercy Park. A visit at such an early hour was unusual, and the old lady looked at him in alarm.
“We are well, mother,” he said as she rose. “I called to talk to you about a little business.” Whereupon Madam sat down,
and became suddenly about twenty years younger, for “business” was a word like a watch-cry; she called all her senses together when it was uttered in her presence.
“Business!” she ejaculated sharply.
“Whose business?”
“I think I may say the business of the whole family.”
“Nay, I am not in it. My business is just as I want it, and I am not going to talk about it–one way or the other.”
“Is not Rawdon Court of some interest to you? It has been the home and seat of the family for many centuries. A good many.
Mostyn women have been its mistress.”
“I never heard of any Mostyn woman who would not have been far happier away from Rawdon Court. It was a Calvary to them all. There was little Nannie Mostyn, who died with her first baby because Squire Anthony struck her in a drunken passion; and the proud Alethia Mostyn, who suffered twenty years’ martyrdom from Squire John; and
Sara, who took thirty thousand pounds to Squire Hubert, to fling away at the green table; and Harriet, who was made by her
husband, Squire Humphrey, to jump a fence when out hunting with him, and was brought home crippled and scarred for life–a lovely girl of twenty who went through agonies for eleven years without aught of love and help, and died alone while he was following a fox; and there was pretty Barbara Mostyn—-“
“Come, come, mother. I did not call here this morning to hear the Rawdons abused, and you forget your own marriage. It was a happy one, I am sure. One Rawdon, at
least, must be excepted; and I think I treated my wife as a good husband ought to treat a wife.”
“Not you! You treated Mary very badly.”
“Mother, not even from you—-“
“I’ll say it again. The little girl was dying for a year or more, and you were so busy making money you never saw it. If
she said or looked a little complaint, you moved restless-like and told her `she moped too much.’ As the end came I spoke to you, and you pooh-poohed all I said. She went suddenly, I know, to most people, but she knew it was her last day, and she longed so to see you, that I sent a servant to hurry you home, but she died before you could make up your mind to leave your `cases.’ She and I were alone when she whispered her last message for you–a loving one, too.”
“Mother! Mother! Why recall that bitter day? I did not think–I swear I did not
think—-“
“Never mind swearing. I was just reminding you that the Rawdons have not been
the finest specimens of good husbands. They make landlords, and judges, and soldiers, and even loom-lords of a very respectable sort; but husbands! Lord help their poor wives! So you see, as a Mostyn woman, I have no special interest in Rawdon Court.”
“You would not like it to go out of the family?”
“I should not worry myself if it did.”
“I suppose you know Fred Mostyn has a mortgage on it that the present Squire is unable to lift.”
“Aye, Fred told me he had eighty thousand pounds on the old place. I told him he
was a fool to put his money on it.”
“One of the finest manors and manor-
houses in England, mother.”
“I have seen it. I was born and brought up near enough to it, I think.”
“Eighty thousand pounds is a bagatelle for the place; yet if Fred forces a sale, it may go for that, or even less. I can’t bear to think of it.”
“Why not buy it yourself?”
“I would lift the mortgage to-morrow if I had the means. I have not at present.”
“Well, I am in the same box. You have just spoken as if the Mostyns and Rawdons had an equal interest in Rawdon Court.
Very well, then, it cannot be far wrong for Fred Mostyn to have it. Many a Mostyn has gone there as wife and slave. I would dearly like to see one Mostyn go as master.”
“I shall get no help from you, then, I understand that.”
“I’m Mostyn by birth, I’m only Rawdon by, marriage. The birth-band ties me fast to my family.”
“Good morning, mother. You have failed me for the first time in your life.”
“If the money had been for you, Edward, or yours—-“
“It is–good-by.”
She called him back peremptorily, and he returned and stood at the open door.
“Why don’t you ask Ethel?”
“I did not think I had the right, mother.”
“More right to ask her than I. See what she says. She’s Rawdon, every inch of her.”
“Perhaps I may. Of course, I can sell securities, but it would be at a sacrifice a great sacrifice at present.”
“Ethel has the cash; and, as I said, she is Rawdon–I’m not.”
“I wish my father were alive.”
“He wouldn’t move me–you needn’t think that. What I have said to you I would have said to him. Speak to Ethel. I’ll be bound she’ll listen if Rawdon calls her.”
“I don’t like to speak to Ethel.”
“It isn’t what you like to do, it’s what you find you’ll have to do, that carries the day; and a good thing, too, considering.”
“Good morning, again. You are not quite yourself, I think.”
“Well, I didn’t sleep last night, so there’s no wonder if I’m a bit cross this morning. But if I lose my temper, I keep my understanding.”
She was really cross by this time. Her son had put her in a position she did not like to assume. No love for Rawdon Court was in
her heart. She would rather have advanced the money to buy an American estate. She had been little pleased at Fred’s mortgage on the old place, but to the American Rawdons she felt it would prove a white elephant; and the appeal to Ethel was advised because she thought it would amount to nothing. In the first place, the Judge had the strictest idea of the sacredness of the charge committed to him as guardian of his daughter’s fortune. In the second, Ethel inherited from
her Yorkshire ancestry an intense sense of the value and obligations of money. She was an ardent American, and not likely to spend it on an old English manor; and, furthermore, Madam’s penetration had discovered
a growing dislike in her granddaughter for Fred Mostyn.
“She’d never abide him for a lifelong neighbor,” the old lady decided. “It is the Rawdon pride in her. The Rawdon men have condescended to go to Mostyn for wives many and many a time, but never once have the Mostyn men married a Rawdon girl–proud, set-up women, as far as I remember; and
Ethel has a way with her just like them. Fred is good enough and nice enough for any girl, and I wonder what is the matter with him! It is a week and more since he was here, and then he wasn’t a bit like himself.”
At this moment the bell rang and she heard Fred’s voice inquiring “if Madam was at
home.” Instantly she divined the motive of his call. The young man had come to the
conclusion the Judge would try to influence his mother, and before meeting him in the afternoon he wished to have some idea of the trend matters were likely to take. His policy –cunning, Madam called it–did not please her. She immediately assured herself that “she wouldn’t go against her own flesh and blood for anyone,” and his wan face and general air of wretchedness further antagonized
her. She asked him fretfully “what he had been doing to himself, for,” she added, “it’s mainly what we do to ourselves that makes us sick. Was it that everlasting wedding of the Denning girl?”
He flushed angrily, but answered with much of the same desire to annoy, “I suppose it was. I felt it very much. Dora was the loveliest girl in the city. There are none left like her.”
“It will be a good thing for New York if that is the case. I’m not one that wants the city to myself, but I can spare Dora STANHOPE, and feel the better for it.”
“The most beautiful of God’s creatures!”
“You’ve surely lost your sight or your judgment, Fred. She is just a dusky-skinned girl, with big, brown eyes. You can pick her sort up by the thousand in any large city. And a wandering-hearted, giddy creature, too, that will spread as she goes, no doubt. I’m sorry for Basil Stanhope, he didn’t deserve such a fate.”
“Indeed, he did not! It is beyond measure too good for him.”
“I’ve always heard that affliction is the surest way to heaven. Dora will lead him that road, and it will be more sure than pleasant. Poor fellow! He’ll soon be as ready to
curse his wedding-day as Job was to curse his birthday. A costly wife she will be to keep, and misery in the keeping of her. But if you came to talk to me about Dora STANHOPE, I’ll cease talking, for I don’t find it any great entertainment.”
“I came to talk to you about Squire Rawdon.”
“What about the Squire? Keep it in your mind that he and I were sweethearts when we were children. I haven’t forgotten that fact.”
“You know Rawdon Court is mortgaged
to me?”
“I’ve heard you say so–more than once.”
“I intend to foreclose the mortgage in September. I find that I can get twice yes, three times–the interest for my money in American securities.”
“How do you know they are securities?”
“Bryce Denning has put me up to several good things.”
“Well, if you think good things can come that road, you are a bigger fool than I ever thought you.”
“Fool! Madam, I allow no one to call me a fool, especially without reason.”
“Reason, indeed! What reason was there in your dillydallying after Dora Denning when she was engaged, and then making yourself like a ghost for her after she is married? As for the good things Bryce Denning offers you in exchange for a grand English manor, take them, and then if I called you not fool before, I will call you fool in your teeth twice over, and much too good for you! Aye, I
could call you a worse name when I think of the old Squire–he’s two years older than I am–being turned out of his lifelong home. Where is he to go to?”
“If I buy the place, for of course it will have to be sold, he is welcome to remain at Rawdon Court.”
“And he would deserve to do it if he were that low-minded; but if I know Squire Percival, he will go to the poor-house first. Fred, you would surely scorn such a dirty thing as selling the old man out of house and home?”
“I want my money, or else I want Rawdon Manor.”
“And I have no objections either to your wanting it or having it, but, for goodness’ sake, wait until death gives you a decent warrant for buying it.”
“I am afraid to delay. The Squire has been very cool with me lately, and my agent tells me the Tyrrel-Rawdons have been visiting him, also that he has asked a great many questions about the Judge and Ethel. He
is evidently trying to prevent me getting possession, and I know that old Nicholas Rawdon would give his eyelids to own Rawdon Court. As to the Judge—-“
“My son wants none of it. You can make your mind easy on that score.”
“I think I behaved very decently, though, of course, no one gives me credit for it; for as soon as I saw I must foreclose in order to get my own I thought at once of Ethel. It seemed to me that if we could love each other the money claims of Mostyn and the inherited claims of Rawdon would both be satisfied. Unfortunately, I found that I could not love Ethel as a wife should be loved.”
“And I can tell you, Fred, that Ethel never could have loved you as a husband
should be loved. She was a good deal disappointed in you from the very first.”
“I thought I made a favorable impression on her.”
“In a way. She said you played the piano nicely; but Ethel is all for handsome men, tall, erect six-footers, with a little swing and swagger to them. She thought you small
and finicky. But Ethel’s rich enough to have her fancy, I hope.”
“It is little matter now what she thought. I can’t please every one.”
“No, it’s rather harder to do that than most people think it is. I would please my conscience first of all, Fred. That’s the point worth mentioning. And I shall just remind you of one thing more: your money all in a lump on Rawdon Manor is safe. It is in one place, and in such shape as it can’t run away nor be smuggled away by any man’s trickery. Now, then, turn your eighty thousand pounds into dollars, and divide them among a score of securities, and you’ll soon find out that a fortune may be easily squandered when it is in a great many hands, and that what looks satisfactory enough when reckoned up on
paper doesn’t often realize in hard money to the same tune. I’ve said all now I am going to say.”
“Thank you for the advice given me. I will take it as far as I can. This afternoon the Judge has promised to talk over the business with me.”
“The Judge never saw Rawdon Court, and he cares nothing about it, but he can give you counsel about the `good things’ Bryce Denning offers you. And you may safely listen
to it, for, right or wrong, I see plainly it is your own advice you will take in the long run.”
Mostyn laughed pleasantly and went back to his hotel to think over the facts gleaned from his conversation with Madam. In the first place, he understood that any overt act against Squire Rawdon would be deeply resented by his American relatives. But then
he reminded himself that his own relationship with them was merely sentiment. He