The Man Between, an International Romance

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.”