The Man Between, an International Romance

Three days afterward Ethel called on Dora Stanhope at the Savoy.  She found her alone, and she had evidently been crying.  Indeed, she frankly admitted the fact, declaring that she had been “so bored and so homesick, that she relieved she had cried her beauty away.”  She glanced at Ethel’s radiant face and neat fresh toilet with envy, and added, “I am so glad to see you, Ethel.  But I was sure that you would come as soon as you knew I wanted you.”

“Oh, indeed, Dora, you must not make yourself too sure of such a thing as that!  I really came to London to get some new gowns.  I have been shopping all morning.”

“I thought you had come in answer to my letter.  I was expecting you.  That is the reason I did not go out with Basil.”

“Don’t you expect a little too much, Dora?  I have a great many interests and duties——­”

“I used to be first.”

“When a girl marries she is supposed to——­”

“Please don’t talk nonsense.  Basil does not take the place of everyone and everything else.  I think we are often very tired of each other.  This morning, when I was telling him what trouble I had with my maid, Julia, he actually yawned.  He tried to smother the yawn, but he could not, and of course the honeymoon is over when your bridegroom yawns in your face while you are telling him your troubles.”

“I should think you would be glad it was over.  Of all the words in the English language `honeymoon’ is the most ridiculous and imbecile.”

“I suppose when you get married you will take a honeymoon.”

“I shall have more sense and more selfishness.  A girl could hardly enter a new life through a medium more trying.  I am sure it would need long-tested affections and the sweetest of tempers to make it endurable.”

“I cannot imagine what you mean.”

“I mean that all traveling just after marriage is a great blunder.  Traveling makes the sunniest disposition hasty and peevish, for women don’t love changes as men do.  Not one in a thousand is seen at her best while traveling, and the majority are seen at their very worst.  Then there is the discomfort and desolation of European hotels—­ their mysterious methods and hours, and the ways of foreigners, which are not as our ways.”

“Don’t talk of them, Ethel.  They are dreadful places, and such queer people.”

“Add to these troubles ignorance of language and coinage, the utter weariness of railway travel, the plague of customs, the trunk that won’t pack, the trains that won’t wait, the tiresome sight-seeing, the climatic irritability, broiling suns, headache, loneliness, fretfulness—­consequently the pitiful boredom of the new husband.”

“Ethel, what you say is certainly too true.  I am weary to death of it all.  I want to be at Newport with mother, who is having a lovely time there.  Of course Basil is very nice to me, and yet there have been little tiffs and struggles—­very gentle ones—­for the mastery, which he is not going to get.  To-day he wanted me to go with him and Canon Shackleton to see something or other about the poor of London.  I would not do it.  I am so lonely, Ethel, I want to see some one.  I feel fit to cry all the time.  I like Basil best of anyone in the world, but——­”

“But in the solitude of a honeymoon among strangers you find out that the person you like best in the world can bore you as badly as the person you don’t like at all.  Is that so?”

“Exactly.  Just fancy if we were among our friends in Newport.  I should have some pleasure in dressing and looking lovely.  Why should I dress here?  There is no one to see me.”

“Basil.”

“Of course, but Basil spends all the time in visiting cathedrals and clergymen.  If we go out, it is to see something about the poor, or about schools and such like.  We were not in London two hours until he was off to Westminster Abbey, and I didn’t care a cent about the old place.  He says I must not ask him to go to theaters, but historical old houses don’t interest me at all.  What does it matter if Cromwell slept in a certain ancient shabby room?  And as for all the palaces I have seen, my father’s house is a great deal handsomer, and more convenient, and more comfortable, and I wish I were there.  I hate Europe, and England I hate worst of all.”

“You have not seen England.  We are all enraptured with its beauty and its old houses and pleasant life.”

“You are among friends—­at home, as it were.  I have heard all about Rawdon Court.  Fred Mostyn told me.  He is going to buy it.”

“When?”

“Some time this fall.  Then next year he will entertain us, and that will be a little different to this desolate hotel, I think.”

“How long will you be in London?”

“I cannot say.  We are invited to Stanhope Castle, but I don’t want to go there.  We stayed with the Stanhopes a week when we first came over.  They were then in their London house, and I got enough of them.”

“Did you dislike the family?”

“No, I cared nothing about them.  They just bored me.  They are extremely religious.  We had prayers night and morning, and a prayer before and after every meal.  They read only very good books, and the Honorable Misses Stanhope sew for the poor old women and teach the poor young ones.  They work harder than anyone I ever knew, and they call it `improving the time.’  They thought me a very silly, reckless young woman, and I think they all prayed for me.  One night after they had sung some very nice songs they asked me to play, and I began with `My Little Brown Rose’—­you know they all adore the negro—­ and little by little I dropped into the funniest coon songs I knew, and oh how they laughed!  Even the old lord stroked his knees and laughed out loud, while the young ladies laughed into their handkerchiefs.  Lady Stanhope was the only one who comprehended I was guying them; and she looked at me with half-shut eyes in a way that would have spoiled some girls’ fun.  It only made me the merrier.  So I tried to show them a cake walk, but the old lord rose then and said `I must be tired, and they would excuse me.’  Somehow I could not manage him.  Basil was at a workman’s concert, and when he came home I think there were some advices and remonstrances, but Basil never told me.  I felt as if they were all glad when I went away, and I don’t wish to go to the Castle—­ and I won’t go either.”

“But if Basil wishes to go——­”

“He can go alone.  I rather think Fred Mostyn will be here in a few days, and he will take me to places that Basil will not—­innocent places enough, Ethel, so you need not look so shocked.  Why do you not ask me to Rawdon Court?”

“Because I am only a guest there.  I have no right to ask you.”

“I am sure if you told Squire Rawdon how fond you are of me, and how lonely I am, he would tell you to send for me.”

“I do not believe he would.  He has old-fashioned ideas about newly married people.  He would hardly think it possible that you would be willing to go anywhere without Basil—­yet.”

“He could ask Basil too.”

“If Mr. Mostyn is coming home, he can ask you to Mostyn Hall.  It is very near Rawdon Court.”

“Yes.  Fred said as soon as he had possession of the Court he could put both places into a ring fence.  Then he would live at the Court.  If he asks us there next summer I shall be sure to beg an invitation for you also; so I think you might deserve it by getting me one now.  I don’t want to go to Mostyn yet.  Fred says it needs entire refurnishing, and if we come to the Court next summer, I have promised to give him my advice and help in making the place pretty and up to date.  Have you seen Mostyn Hall?”

“I have passed it several times.  It is a large, gloomy-looking place I was going to say haunted-looking.  It stands in a grove of yew trees.”

“So you are not going to ask me to Rawdon Court?”

“I really cannot, Dora.  It is not my house.  I am only a guest there.”

“Never mind.  Make no more excuses.  I see how it is.  You always were jealous of Fred’s liking for me.  And of course when he goes down to Mostyn you would prefer me to be absent.”

“Good-by, Dora!  I have a deal of shopping to do, and there is not much time before the ball, for many things will be to make.”

“The ball!  What ball?”

“Only one at Rawdon Court.  The neighbors have been exceedingly kind to us, and the Squire is going to give a dinner and ball on the first of August.”

“Sit down and tell me about the neighbors —­and the ball.”

“I cannot.  I promised Ruth to be back at five.  Our modiste is to see us at that hour.”

“So Ruth is with you!  Why did she not call on me?”

“Did you think I should come to London alone?  And Ruth did not call because she was too busy.”

“Everyone and everything comes before me now.  I used to be first of all.  I wish I were in Newport with dad and mamma; even Bryce would be a comfort.”

“As I said before, you have Mr. Stanhope.”

“Are you going to send for me to the ball?”

“I cannot promise that, Dora.  Good-by.”

Dora did not answer.  She buried her face in the soft pillow, and Ethel closed the door to the sound of her sobs.  But they did not cause her to return or to make any foolish promises.  She divined their insincerity and their motive, and had no mind to take any part in forwarding the latter.

And Ruth assured her she had acted wisely.  “If trouble should ever come of this friendship,” she said, “Dora would very likely complain that you had always thrown Mostyn in her way, brought him to her house in New York, and brought her to him at Rawdon, in England.  Marriage is such a risk, Ethel, but to marry without the courage to adapt oneself.  Ah!”

“You think that condition unspeakably hard?”

“There are no words for it.”

“Dora was not reticent, I assure you.”

“I am sorry.  A wife’s complaints are self-inflicted wounds; scattered seeds, from which only misery can spring.  I hope you will not see her again at this time.”

“I made no promise to do so.”

“And where all is so uncertain, we had better suppose all is right than that all is wrong.  Even if there was the beginning of wrong, it needs but an accident to prevent it, and there are so many.”

“Accidents!”

“Yes, for accident is God’s part in affairs.  We call it accident; it would be better to say an interposition.”

“Dora told me Mostyn intended to buy Rawdon Court in September, and he has even invited the Stanhopes to stay there next summer.”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing against it.”

“Very good.  Do you think Mostyn is in
London now?”

“I should not wonder.  I am sure Dora is expecting him.”

In fact, the next morning they met Dora and Basil Stanhope, driving in Hyde Park with Mostyn, but the smiling greeting which passed between the parties did not, except in the case of Basil Stanhope, fairly represent the dominant feeling of anyone.  As for Stanhope, his nature was so clear and truthful that he would hardly have comprehended a smile which was intended to veil feelings not to be called either quite friendly or quite pleasant.  After this meeting all the joy went out of Ruth and Ethel’s shopping.  They wanted to get back to the Court, and they attended strictly to business in order to do so.

Mostyn followed them very quickly.  He was exceedingly anxious to see and hear for himself how his affairs regarding Rawdon stood.  They were easily made plain to him, and he saw with a pang of disappointment that all his hopes of being Squire of Rawdon Manor were over.  Every penny he could righteously claim was paid to him, and on the title deeds of the ancient place he had no longer the shadow of a claim.  The Squire looked ten years younger as he affectionately laid both hands on the redeemed parchments, and Mostyn with enforced politeness congratulated him on their integrity and then made a hurried retreat.  Of its own kind this disappointment was as great as the loss of Dora.  He could think of neither without a sense of immeasurable and disastrous failure.  One petty satisfaction regarding the payment of the mortgage was his only com-fort.  He might now show McLean that it was not want of money that had made him hitherto shy of “the good investments” offered him.  He had been sure McLean in their last interview had thought so, and had, indeed, felt the half-veiled contempt with which the rich young man had expressed his pity for Mostyn’s inability to take advantage at the right moment of an exceptional chance to play the game of beggaring his neighbor.  Now, he told himself, he would show McLean and his braggart set that good birth and old family was for once allied with plenty of money, and he also promised his wounded sensibilities some very desirable reprisals, every one of which he felt fully competent to take.

It was, after all, a poor compensation, but there was also the gold.  He thanked his father that day for the great thoughtfulness and care with which he had amassed this sum for him, and he tried to console himself with the belief that gold answered all purposes, and that the yellow metal was a better possession than the house and lands which he had longed for with an inherited and insensate craving.

Two days after this event Ethel, at her father’s direction, signed a number of papers, and when that duty was completed, the Squire rose from his chair, kissed her hands and her cheeks, and in a voice full of tenderness and pride said, “I pay my respects to the future lady of Rawdon Manor, and I thank God for permitting me to see this hour.  Most welcome, Lady Ethel, to the rights you inherit, and the rights you have bought.”  It was a moment hardly likely to be duplicated in any life, and Ethel escaped from its tense emotions as soon as possible.  She could not speak, her heart was too full of joy and wonder.  There are souls that say little and love much.  How blessed are they!

On the following morning the invitations were sent for the dinner and dance, but the time was put forward to the eighth of August.  In everyone’s heart there was a hope that before that day Mostyn would have left Rawdon, but the hope was barely mentioned.  In the meantime he came and went between Mostyn and Rawdon as he desired, and was received with that modern politeness which considers it best to ignore offenses that our grandfathers and grandmothers would have held for strict account and punishment.

It was evident that he had frequent letters from Dora.  He knew all her movements, and spoke several times of opening Mostyn Hall and inviting the Stanhopes to stay with him until their return to America.  But as this suggestion did not bring from any member of the Rawdon family the invitation hoped for, it was not acted upon.  He told himself the expense would be great, and the Hall, in spite of all he could do in the interim, would look poor and shabby compared with Rawdon Court; so he put aside the proposal on the ground that he could not persuade his aunt to do the entertaining necessary.  And for all the irritation and humiliations centering round his loss of Rawdon and his inabilities with regard to Dora he blamed Ethel.  He was sure if he had been more lovable and encouraging he could have married her, and thus finally reached Rawdon Court; and then, with all the unreason imaginable, nursed a hearty dislike to her because she would not understand his desires, and provide means for their satisfaction.  The bright, joyous girl with her loving heart, her abounding vitality, and constant cheerfulness, made him angry.  In none of her excellencies he had any share, consequently he hated her.

He would have quickly returned to London, but Dora and her husband were staying with the Stanhopes, and her letters from Stanhope Castle were lachrymose complaints of the utter weariness and dreariness of life there the preaching and reading aloud, the regular walking and driving—­all the innocent method of lives which recognized they were here for some higher purpose than mere physical enjoyment.  And it angered Mostyn that neither Ruth nor Ethel felt any sympathy for Dora’s ennui, and proposed no means of releasing her from it.  He considered them both disgustingly selfish and ill-natured, and was certain that all their reluctance at Dora’s presence arose from their jealousy of her beauty and her enchanting grace.

On the afternoon of the day preceding the intended entertainment Ruth, Ethel, and the Squire were in the great dining-room superintending its decoration.  They were merrily laughing and chatting, and were not aware of the arrival of any visitors until Mrs. Nicholas Rawdon’s rosy, good-natured face appeared at the open door.  Everyone welcomed her gladly, and the Squire offered her a seat.

“Nay, Squire,” she said, “I’m come to ask a favor, and I won’t sit till I know whether I get it or not; for if I don’t get it, I shall say good-by as quickly as I can.  Our John Thomas came home this morning and his friend with him, and I want invitations for the young men, both of them.  My great pleasure lies that way—­if you’ll give it to me.”

“Most gladly,” answered the Squire, and Ethel immediately went for the necessary passports.  When she returned she found Mrs. Nicholas helping Ruth and the Squire to arrange the large silver and cut crystal on the sideboard, and talking at the same time with unabated vivacity.

“Yes,” she was saying, “the lads would have been here two days ago, but they stayed in London to see some American lady married.  John Thomas’s friend knew her.  She was married at the Ambassador’s house.  A fine affair enough, but it bewilders me this taking up marriage without priest or book.  It’s a new commission.  The Church’s warrant, it seems, is out of date.  It may be right’ it may be legal, but I told John Thomas if he ever got himself married in that kind of a way, he wouldn’t have father or me for witnesses.”

“I am glad,” said the Squire, “that the young men are home in time for our dance.  The young like such things.”

“To be sure they do.  John Thomas wouldn’t give me a moment’s rest till I came here.  I didn’t want to come.  I thought John Thomas should come himself, and I told him plainly that I was ready to do anyone a favor if I could, but if he wanted me to come because he was afraid to come himself, I was just as ready to shirk the journey.  And he laughed and said he was not feared for any woman living, but he did want to make his first appearance in his best clothes—­and that was natural, wasn’t it?  So I came for the two lads.”  Then she looked at the girls with a smile, and said in a comfortable kind of way:  “You’ll find them very nice lads, indeed.  I can speak for John Thomas, I have taken his measure long since; and as far as I can judge his friend, Nature went about some full work when she made a man of him.  He’s got a sweet temper, and a strong mind, and a straight judgment, if I know anything about men—­which Nicholas sometimes makes me think I don’t.  But Nicholas isn’t an ordinary man, he’s what you call `an exception.’” Then shaking her head at Ethel, she continued reprovingly:  “You were neither of you in church Sunday.  I know some young women who went to the parish church—­Methodists they are—­specially to see your new hats.  There’s some talk about them, I can tell you, and the village milliner is pestered to copy them.  She keeps her eyes open for you.  You disappointed a lot of people.  You ought to go to church in the country.  It’s the most respectable thing you can do.”

“We were both very tired,” said Ruth, “and the sun was hot, and we had a good Sabbath at home.  Ethel read the Psalms, Epistle and Gospel for the day, and the Squire gave us some of the grandest organ music I ever heard.”

“Well, well!  Everyone knows the Squire is a grand player.  I don’t suppose there is another to match him in the whole world, and the old feeling about church-going is getting slack among the young people.  They serve God now very much at their ease.”

“Is not that better than serving Him on compulsion?” asked Ruth.

“I dare say.  I’m no bigot.  I was brought up an Independent, and went to their chapel until I married Nicholas Rawdon.  My fa-ther was a broad-thinking man.  He never taught me to locate God in any building; and I’m sure I don’t believe our parish church is His dwelling-place.  If it is, they ought to mend the roof and put a new carpet down and make things cleaner and more respectable.  Well, Squire, you have silver enough to tempt all the rogues in Yorkshire, and there’s a lot of them.  But now I’ve seen it, I’ll go home with these bits of paper.  I shall be a very important woman to-night.  Them two lads won’t know how to fleech and flatter me enough.  I’ll be waited on hand and foot.  And Nicholas will get a bit of a set-down.  He was bragging about Miss Ethel bringing his invitation to his hand and promising to dance with him.  I wouldn’t do it if I were Miss Ethel.  She’ll find out, if she does, what it means to dance with a man that weighs twenty stone, and who has never turned hand nor foot to anything but money-making for thirty years.”

She went away with a sweep and a rustle of her shimmering silk skirt, and left behind her such an atmosphere of hearty good-nature as made the last rush and crowd of preparations easily ordered and quickly accomplished.  Before her arrival there had been some doubt as to the weather.  She brought the shining sun with her, and when he set, he left them with the promise of a splendid to-morrow—­a promise amply redeemed when the next day dawned.  Indeed, the sunshine was so brilliant, the garden so gay and sweet, the lawn so green and firm, the avenues so shady and full of wandering songs, that it was resolved to hold the preliminary reception out of doors.  Ethel and Ruth were to receive on the lawn, and at the open hall door the Squire would wait to welcome his guests.

Soon after five o’clock there was a brilliant crowd wandering and resting in the pleasant spaces; and Ethel, wearing a diaphanously white robe and carrying a rush basket full of white carnations, was moving among them distributing the flowers.  She was thus the center of a little laughing, bantering group when the Nicholas Rawdon party arrived.  Nicholas remained with the Squire, Mrs. Rawdon and the young men went toward Ethel.  Mrs. Rawdon made a very handsome appearance—­“an aristocratic Britannia in white liberty silk and old lace,” whispered Ruth, and Ethel looked up quickly, to meet her merry eyes full of some unexplained triumph.  In truth, the proud mother was anticipating a great pleasure, not only in the presentation of her adored son, but also in the curiosity and astonishment she felt sure would be evoked by his friend.  So, with the boldness of one who brings happy tidings, she pressed forward.  Ethel saw her approach, and went to meet her.  Suddenly her steps were arrested.  An extraordinary thing was going to happen.  The Apollo of her dreams, the singer of the Holland House pavement, was at Mrs. Rawdon’s side, was talking to her, was evidently a familiar friend.  She was going to meet him, to speak to him at last.  She would hear his name in a few moments; all that she had hoped and believed was coming true.  And the clear, resonant voice of Lydia Rawdon was like music in her ears as she said, with an air of triumph she could not hide: 

“Miss Rawdon, I want you to know my son, Mr. John Thomas Rawdon, and also John Thomas’s cousin, Mr. Tyrrel Rawdon, of the United States.”  Then Mr. Tyrrel Rawdon looked into Ethel’s face, and in that marvelous meeting of their eyes, swift as the firing of a gun, their pupils dilated and flashed with recognition, and the blood rushed crimson over both faces.  She gave the gentlemen flowers, and listened to Mrs. Rawdon’s chatter, and said in reply she knew not what.  A swift and exquisite excitement had followed her surprise.  Feelings she could not voice were beating at her lips, and yet she knew that without her conscious will she had expressed her astonishment and pleasure.  It was, indeed, doubtful whether any after speech or explanation would as clearly satisfy both hearts as did that momentary flash from soul to soul of mutual remembrance and interest.

“I thought I’d give you a surprise,” said Mrs. Rawdon delightedly.  “You didn’t know the Tyrrel-Rawdons had a branch in America, did you?  We are a bit proud of them, I can tell you that.”

And, indeed, the motherly lady had some reason.  John Thomas was a handsome youth of symmetrical bone and flesh and well-developed muscle.  He had clear, steady, humorous eyes; a manner frank and independent, not to be put upon; and yet Ethel divined, though she could not have declared, the “want” in his appearance—­that all-overish grace and elasticity which comes only from the development of the brain and nervous system.  His face was also marred by the seal of commonness which trade impresses on so many men, the result of the subjection of the intellect to the will, and of the impossibility of grasping things except as they relate to self.  In this respect the American cousin was his antipodes.  His whole body had a psychical expression—­slim, elastic, alert.  Over his bright gray eyes the eyelids drew themselves horizontally, showing his dexterity and acuteness of mind; indeed, his whole expression and mien

  “Were, as are the eagle’s keen,
  All the man was aquiline.”

These personal characteristics taking some minutes to describe were almost an instantaneous revelation to Ethel, for what the soul sees it sees in a flash of understanding.  But at that time she only answered her impressions without any inquiry concerning them.  She was absorbed by the personal presence of the men, and all that was lovely and lovable in her nature responded to their admiration.

As they strolled together through a flowery alley, she made them pass their hands through the thyme and lavender, and listen to a bird singing its verses, loud and then soft, in the scented air above them.  They came out where the purple plums and golden apricots were beginning to brighten a southern wall, and there, moodily walking by himself, they met Mostyn face to face.  An angry flash and movement interpreted his annoyance, but he immediately recovered himself, and met Ethel and his late political opponent with polite equanimity.  But a decided constraint fell on the happy party, and Ethel was relieved to hear the first tones of the great bell swing out from its lofty tower the call to the dining-room.

As far as Mostyn was concerned, this first malapropos meeting indicated the whole evening.  His heart was beating quickly to some sense of defeat which he did not take the trouble to analyze.  He only saw the man who had shattered his political hopes and wasted his money in possession also of what he thought he might rightly consider his place at Ethel’s side.  He had once contemplated making Ethel his bride, and though the matrimonial idea had collapsed as completely as the political one, the envious, selfish misery of the “dog in the manger” was eating at his heartstrings.  He did not want Ethel; but oh, how he hated the thought of either John Thomas or that American Raw-don winning her!  His seat at the dinner-table also annoyed him.  It was far enough from the objects of his resentment to prevent him hearing or interfering in their merry conversation; and he told himself with passionate indignation that Ethel had never once in all their intercourse been so beautiful and bright as she revealed herself that evening to those two Rawdon youths—­one a mere loom-master, the other an American whom no one knew anything about.

The long, bewitching hours of the glorious evening added fuel to the flame of his anger.  He could only procure from Ethel the promise of one unimportant dance at the close of her programme; and the American had three dances, and the mere loom-man two.  And though he attempted to restore his self-complacency by devoting his whole attentions to the only titled young ladies in the room, he had throughout the evening a sense of being snubbed, and of being a person no longer of much importance at Rawdon Court.  And the reasoning of wounded self-love is a singular process.  Mostyn was quite oblivious of any personal cause for the change; he attributed it entirely to the Squire’s ingratitude.

“I did the Squire a good turn when he needed it, and of course he hates me for the obligation; and as for the Judge and his fine daughter, they interfered with my business —­did me a great wrong—­and they are only illustrating the old saying, `Since I wronged you I never liked you.’” After indulging such thoughts awhile, he resolved to escort the ladies Aurelia and Isolde Danvers to Danvers Castle, and leave Miss Ethel to find a partner for her last dance, a decision that favored John Thomas, greatly relieved Ethel, and bestowed upon himself that most irritating of all punishments, a self-inflicted disappointment.

This evening was the inauguration of a period of undimmed delight.  In it the Tyrrel-Rawdons concluded a firm and affectionate alliance with the elder branch at the Court, and one day after a happy family dinner John Thomas made the startling proposal that “the portrait of the disinherited, disowned Tyrrel should be restored to its place in the family gallery.”  He said he had “just walked through it, and noticed that the spot was still vacant, and I think surely,” he added, “the young man’s father must have meant to recall him home some day, but perhaps death took him unawares.”

“Died in the hunting-field,” murmured the Squire.

John Thomas bowed his head to the remark, and proceeded, “So perhaps, Squire, it may be in your heart to forgive the dead, and bring back the poor lad’s picture to its place.  They who sin for love aren’t so bad, sir, as they who sin for money.  I never heard worse of Tyrrel Rawdon than that he loved a poor woman instead of a rich woman—­and married her.  Those that have gone before us into the next life, I should think are good friends together; and I wouldn’t wonder if we might even make them happier there if we conclude to forget all old wrongs and live together here—­as Rawdons ought to live—­like one family.”

“I am of your opinion, John Thomas,” said the Squire, rising, and as he did so he looked at the Judge, who immediately indorsed the proposal.  One after the other rose with sweet and strong assent, until there was only Tyrrel Rawdon’s voice lacking.  But when all had spoken he rose also, and said: 

“I am Tyrrel Rawdon’s direct descendant, and I speak for him when I say to-day, `Make room for me among my kindred!’ He that loves much may be forgiven much.”

Then the housekeeper was called, and they went slowly, with soft words, up to the third story of the house.  And the room unused for a century was flung wide open; the shutters were unbarred, and the sunshine flooded it; and there amid his fishing tackle, guns, and whips, and faded ballads upon the wall, and books of wood lore and botany, and dress suits of velvet and satin, and hunting suits of scarlet—­all faded and falling to pieces—­ stood the picture of Tyrrel Rawdon, with its face turned to the wall.  The Squire made a motion to his descendant, and the young American tenderly turned it to the light.  There was no decay on those painted lineaments.  The almost boyish face, with its loving eyes and laughing mouth, was still twenty-four years old; and with a look of pride and affection the Squire lifted the picture and placed it in the hands of the Tyrrel Rawdon of the day.

The hanging of the picture in its old place was a silent and tender little ceremony, and after it the party separated.  Mrs. Rawdon went with Ruth to rest a little.  She said “she had a headache,” and she also wanted a good womanly talk over the affair.  The Squire, Judge Rawdon, Mr. Nicholas Rawdon, and John Thomas returned to the dining-room to drink a bottle of such mild Madeira as can only now be found in the cellars of old county magnates, and Ethel and Tyrrel Rawdon strolled into the garden.  There had not been in either mind any intention of leaving the party, but as they passed through the hall Tyrrel saw Ethel’s garden hat and white parasol lying on a table, and, impelled by some sudden and unreasoned instinct, he offered them to her.  Not a word of request was spoken; it was the eager, passionate command of his eyes she obeyed.  And for a few minutes they were speechless, then so intensely conscious that words stumbled and were lame, and they managed only syllables at a time.  But he took her hand, and they came by sunny alleys of boxwood to a great plane tree, bearing at wondrous height a mighty wealth of branches.  A bank of soft, green turf encircled its roots, and they sat down in the trembling shadows.  It was in the midst of the herb garden; beds of mint and thyme, rosemary and marjoram, basil, lavender, and other fragrant plants were around, and close at hand a little city of straw skeps peopled by golden brown bees; From these skeps came a delicious aroma of riced flowers and virgin wax.  It was a new Garden of Eden, in which life was sweet as perfume and pure as prayer.  Nothing stirred the green, sunny afternoon but the murmur of the bees, and the sleepy twittering of the birds in the plane branches.  An inexpressible peace swept like the breath of heaven through the odorous places.  They sat down sighing for very happiness.  The silence became too eloquent.  At length it was almost unendurable, and Ethel said softly: 

“How still it is!”

Tyrrel looked at her steadily with beaming eyes.  Then he took from his pocket a little purse of woven gold and opal-tinted beads, and held it in his open hand for her to see, watching the bright blush that spread over her face, and the faint, glad smile that parted her lips.

“You understand?”

“Yes.  It is mine.”

“It was yours.  It is now mine.”

“How did you get it?”

“I bought it from the old man you gave it to.”

“Oh!  Then you know him?  How is that?”

“The hotel people sent a porter home with him lest he should be robbed.  Next day I made inquiries, and this porter told me where he lived.  I went there and bought this purse from him.  I knew some day it would bring me to you.  I have carried it over my heart ever since.”

“So you noticed me?”

“I saw you all the time I was singing.  I have never forgotten you since that hour.”

“What made you sing?”

“Compassion, fate, an urgent impulse; perhaps, indeed, your piteous face—­I saw it first.”

“Really?”

“I saw it first.  I saw it all the time I was singing.  When you dropped this purse my soul met yours in a moment’s greeting.  It was a promise.  I knew I should meet you again.  I have loved you ever since.  I wanted to tell you so the hour we met.  It has been hard to keep my secret so long.”

“It was my secret also.”

“I love you beyond all words.  My life is in your hands.  You can make me the gladdest of mortals.  You can send me away forever.”

“Oh, no, I could not!  I could not do that!” The rest escapes words; but thus it was that on this day of days these two came by God’s grace to each other.

  For all things come by fate to flower,
  At their unconquerable hour.

And the very atmosphere of such bliss is diffusive; it seemed as if all the living creatures around understood.  In the thick, green branches the birds began to twitter the secret, and certainly the wise, wise bees knew also, in some occult way, of the love and joy that had just been revealed.  A wonderful humming and buzzing filled the hives, and the air vibrated with the movement of wings.  Some influence more swift and secret than the birds of the air carried the matter further, for it finally reached Royal, the Squire’s favorite collie, who came sauntering down the alley, pushed his nose twice under Ethel’s elbow, and then with a significant look backward, advised the lovers to follow him to the house.

When they finally accepted his invitation, they found Mrs. Rawdon drinking a cup of tea with Ruth in the hall.  Ethel joined them with affected high spirits and random explanations and excuses, but both women no-ticed her radiant face and exulting air.  “The garden is such a heavenly place,” she said ecstatically, and Mrs Rawdon remarked, as she rose and put her cup on the table, “Girls need chaperons in gardens if they need them anywhere.  I made Nicholas Rawdon a promise in Mossgill Garden I’ve had to spend all my life since trying to keep.”

“Tyrrel and I have been sitting under the plane tree watching the bees.  They are such busy, sensible creatures.”

“They are that,” answered Mrs. Rawdon.  “If you knew all about them you would wonder a bit.  My father had a great many; he studied their ways and used to laugh at the ladies of the hive being so like the ladies of the world.  You see the young lady bees are just as inexperienced as a schoolgirl.  They get lost in the flowers, and are often so overtaken and reckless, that the night finds them far from the hive, heavy with pollen and chilled with cold.  Sometimes father would lift one of these imprudent young things, carry it home, and try to get it admitted.  He never could manage it.  The lady bees acted just as women are apt to do when other women go where they don’t go, or do as they don’t do.”

“But this is interesting,” said Ruth.  “Pray, how did the ladies of the hive behave to the culprit?”

“They came out and felt her all over, turned her round and round, and then pushed her out of their community.  There was always a deal of buzzing about the poor, silly thing, and I shouldn’t wonder if their stings were busy too.  Bees are ill-natured as they can be.  Well, well, I don’t blame anyone for sitting in the garden such a day as this; only, as I was saying, gardens have been very dangerous places for women as far as I know.”

Ruth laughed softly.  “I shall take a chaperon with me, then, when I go into the garden.”

“I would, dearie.  There’s the Judge; he’s a very suitable, sedate-looking one but you never can tell.  The first woman found in a garden and a tree had plenty of sorrow for herself and every woman that has lived after her.  I wish Nicholas and John Thomas would come.  I’ll warrant they’re talking what they call politics.”

Politics was precisely the subject which had been occupying them, for when Tyrrel entered the dining-room, the Squire, Judge Rawdon, and Mr. Nicholas Rawdon were all standing, evidently just finishing a Conservative argument against the Radical opinions of John Thomas.  The young man was still sitting, but he rose with smiling good-humor as Tyrrel entered.

“Here is Cousin Tyrrel,” he cried; “he will tell you that you may call a government anything you like radical, conservative, republican, democratic, socialistic, but if it isn’t a cheap government, it isn’t a good government; and there won’t be a cheap government in England till poor men have a deal to say about making laws and voting taxes.”

“Is that the kind of stuff you talk to our hands, John Thomas?  No wonder they are neither to hold nor to bind.”

They were in the hall as John Thomas finished his political creed, and in a few minutes the adieux were said, and the wonderful day was over.  It had been a wonderful day for all, but perhaps no one was sorry for a pause in life—­a pause in which they might rest and try to realize what it had brought and what it had taken away.  The Squire went at once to his room, and Ethel looked at Ruth inquiringly.  She seemed exhausted, and was out of sympathy with all her surroundings.

“What enormous vitality these Yorkshire women must have!” she said almost crossly.  “Mrs. Rawdon has been talking incessantly for six hours.  She has felt all she said.  She has frequently risen and walked about.  She has used all sorts of actions to emphasize her words, and she is as fresh as if she had just taken her morning bath.  How do the men stand them?”

“Because they are just as vital.  John Thomas will overlook and scold and order his thousand hands all day, talk even his mother down while he eats his dinner, and then lecture or lead his Musical Union, or conduct a poor man’s concert, or go to `the Weaver’s Union,’ and what he calls `threep them’ for two or three hours that labor is ruining capital, and killing the goose that lays golden eggs for them.  Oh, they are a wonderful race, Ruth!”

“I really can’t discuss them now, Ethel.”

“Don’t you want to know what Tyrrel said to me this afternoon?”

“My dear, I know.  Lovers have said such things before, and lovers will say them evermore.  You shall tell me in the morning.  I thought he looked distrait and bored with our company.”

Indeed, Tyrrel was so remarkably quiet that John Thomas also noticed his mood, and as they sat smoking in Tyrrel’s room, he resolved to find out the reason, and with his usual directness asked: 

“What do you think of Ethel Rawdon, Tyrrel,”

“I think she is the most beautiful woman I ever saw.  She has also the most sincere nature, and her high spirit is sweetly tempered by her affectionate heart.”

“I am glad you know so much about her.  Look here, Cousin Tyrrel, I fancied to-night you were a bit jealous of me.  It is easy to see you are in love, and I’ve no doubt you were thinking of the days when you would be thousands of miles away, and I should have the ground clear and so on, eh?”

“Suppose I was, cousin, what then?”

“You would be worrying for nothing.  I don’t want to marry Ethel Rawdon.  If I did, you would have to be on the ground all the time, and then I should best you; but I picked out my wife two years ago, and if we are both alive and well, we are going to be married next Christmas.”

“I am delighted.  I——­”

“I thought you would be.”

“Who is the young lady?”

“Miss Lucy Watson.  Her father is the Independent minister.  He is a gentleman, though his salary is less than we give our overseer.  And he is a great scholar.  So is Lucy.  She finished her course at college this summer, and with high honors.  Bless you, Tyrrel, she knows far more than I do about everything but warps and looms and such like.  I admire a clever woman, and I’m proud of Lucy.”

“Where is she now?”

“Well, she was a bit done up with so much study, and so she went to Scarborough for a few weeks.  She has an aunt there.  The sea breezes and salt water soon made her fit for anything.  She may be home very soon now.  Then, Tyrrel, you’ll see a beauty—­face like a rose, hair brown as a nut, eyes that make your heart go galloping, the most enticing mouth, the prettiest figure, and she loves me with all her heart.  When she says `John Thomas, dear one,’ I tremble with pleasure, and when she lets me kiss her sweet mouth, I really don’t know where I am.  What would you say if a girl whispered, `I love you, and nobody but you,’ and gave you a kiss that was like—­like wine and roses?  Now what would you say?”

“I know as little as you do what I would say.  It’s a situation to make a man coin new words.  I suppose your family are pleased.”

“Well, I never thought about my family till I had Lucy’s word.  Then I told mother.  She knew Lucy all through.  Mother has a great respect for Independents, and though father sulked a bit at first, mother had it out with him one night, and when mother has father quiet in their room father comes to see things just as she wants him.  I suppose that’s the way with wives.  Lucy will be just like that.  She’s got a sharp little temper, too.  She’ll let me have a bit of it, no doubt, now and then.”

“Will you like that?”

“I wouldn’t care a farthing for a wife without a bit of temper.  There would be no fun in living with a woman of that kind.  My father would droop and pine if mother didn’t spur him on now and then.  And he likes it.  Don’t I know?  I’ve seen mother snappy and awkward with him all breakfast time, tossing her head, and rattling the china, and declaring she was worn out with men that let all the good bargains pass them; perhaps making fun of us because we couldn’t manage to get along without strikes.  She had no strikes with her hands, she’d like to see her women stand up and talk to her about shorter hours, and so on; and father would look at me sly-like, and as we walked to the mill together he’d laugh contentedly and say, `Your mother was quite refreshing this morning, John Thomas.  She has keyed me up to a right pitch.  When Jonathan Arkroyd comes about that wool he sold us I’ll be all ready for him.’  So you see I’m not against a sharp temper.  I like women as Tennyson says English girls are, `roses set round with little wilful thorns,’ eh?”

Unusual as this conversation was, its general tone was assumed by Ethel in her confidential talk with Ruth the following day.  Of course, Ruth was not at all surprised at the news Ethel brought her, for though the lovers had been individually sure they had betrayed their secret to no one, it had really been an open one to Ruth since the hour of their meeting.  She was sincerely ardent in her praises of Tyrrel Rawdon, but—­and there is always a but—­she wondered if Ethel had “noticed what a quick temper he had.”

“Oh, yes,” answered Ethel, “I should not like him not to have a quick temper.  I expect my husband to stand up at a moment’s notice for either mine or his own rights or opinions.”

And in the afternoon when all preliminaries had been settled and approved, Judge Rawdon expressed himself in the same manner to Ruth.  “Yes,” he said, in reply to her timid suggestion of temper, “you can strike fire anywhere with him if you try it, but he has it under control.  Besides, Ethel is just as quick to flame up.  It will be Rawdon against Rawdon, and Ethel’s weapons are of finer, keener steel than Tyrrel’s.  Ethel will hold her own.  It is best so.”

“How did the Squire feel about such a marriage?”

“He was quite overcome with delight.  Nothing was said to Tyrrel about Ethel having bought the reversion of Rawdon Manor, for things have been harder to get into proper shape than I thought they would be, and it may be another month before all is finally settled; but the Squire has the secret satisfaction, and he was much affected by the certainty of a Rawdon at Rawdon Court after him.  He declined to think of it in any other way but `providential,’ and of course I let him take all the satisfaction he could out of the idea.  Ever since he heard of the engagement he has been at the organ singing the One Hundred and Third Psalm.”

“He is the dearest and noblest of men.  How soon shall we go home now?”

“In about a month.  Are you tired of England?”

“I shall be glad to see America again.  There was a letter from Dora this morning.  They sail on the twenty-third.”

“Do you know anything of Mostyn?”

“Since he wrote us a polite farewell we have heard nothing.”

“Do you think he went to America?”

“I cannot tell.  When he bid us good-by he made no statement as to his destination; he merely said `he was leaving England on business.’”

“Well, Ruth, we shall sail as soon as I am satisfied all is right.  There is a little delay about some leases and other matters.  In the meantime the lovers are in Paradise wherever we locate them.”

And in Paradise they dwelt for another four weeks.  The ancient garden had doubtless many a dream of love to keep, but none sweeter or truer than the idyl of Tyrrel and Ethel Rawdon.  They were never weary of rehearsing it; every incident of its growth had been charming and romantic, and, as they believed, appointed from afar.  As the sum-mer waxed hotter the beautiful place took on an appearance of royal color and splendor, and the air was languid with the perfume of the clove carnations and tall white August lilies.  Fluted dahlias, scarlet poppies, and all the flowers that exhale their spice in the last hot days of August burned incense for them.  Their very hair was laden with odor, their fingers flower-sweet, their minds took on the many colors of their exquisite surroundings.

And it was part of this drama of love and scent and color that they should see it slowly assume the more ethereal loveliness of September, and watch the subtle amber rays shine through the thinning boughs, and feel that all nature was becoming idealized.  The birds were then mostly silent.  They had left their best notes on the hawthorns and among the roses; but the crickets made a cheerful chirrup, and the great brown butterflies displayed their richest velvets, and the gossamer-like insects in the dreamy atmosphere performed dances and undulations full of grace and mystery.  And all these marvelous changes imparted to love that sweet sadness which is beyond all words poetic and enchaining.

Yet however sweet the hours, they pass away, and it is not much memory can save from the mutable, happy days of love.  Still, when the hour of departure came they had garnered enough to sweeten all the after-straits and stress of time.  September had then perceptibly begun to add to the nights and shorten the days, and her tender touch had been laid on everything.  With a smile and a sigh the Rawdons turned their faces to their pleasant home in the Land of the West.  It was to be but a short farewell.  They had promised the Squire to return the following summer, but he felt the desolation of the parting very keenly.  With his hat slightly lifted above his white head, he stood watching them out of sight.  Then he went to his organ, and very soon grand waves of melody rolled outward and upward, and blended themselves with the clear, soaring voice of Joel, the lad who blew the bellows of the instrument, and shared all his master’s joy in it.  They played and sang until the Squire rose weary, but full of gladness.  The look of immortality was in his eyes, its sure and certain hope in his heart.  He let Joel lead him to his chair by the window, and then he said to himself with visible triumph: 

“What Mr. Spencer or anyone else writes about `the Unknowable’ I care not.  I know in whom I have believed.  Joel, sing that last sequence again.  Stand where I can see thee.”  And the lad’s joyful voice rang exulting out: 

“Lord, Thou hast been our dwelling-place in all generations.  Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever Thou hadst formed the world, from everlasting to everlasting Thou art God!  Thou art God!  Thou art God!”

“That will do, Joel.  Go thy ways now.  Lord, Thou hast been our dwelling-place in all generations. `Unknowable,’ Thou hast been our dwelling-place in all generations.  No, no, no, what an ungrateful sinner I would be to change the Lord everlasting for the Unknowable.’”