The Man Between, an International Romance

A pause of blissful silence followed this assurance.  It was broken by a little exclamation from Ethel.  “Oh, dear,” she said, “how selfishly thoughtless my happiness makes me!  I have forgotten to tell you, until this moment, that I have a letter from Dora.  It was sent to grandmother’s care, and I got it this afternoon; also one from Lucy Rawdon.  The two together bring Dora’s affairs, I should say, to a pleasanter termination than we could have hoped for.”

“Where is the Enchantress?”

“In Paris at present.”

“I expected that answer.”

“But listen, she is living the quietest of lives; the most devoted daughter cannot excel her.”

“Is she her own authority for that astonishing statement?  Do you believe it?”

“Yes, under the circumstances.  Mr. Denning went to Paris for a critical and painful operation, and Dora is giving all her love and time toward making his convalescence as pleasant as it can be.  In fact, her description of their life in the pretty chateau they have rented outside of Paris is quite idyllic.  When her father is able to travel they are going to Algiers for the winter, and will return to New York about next May.  Dora says she never intends to leave America again.”

“Where is her husband?  Keeping watch on the French chateau?”

“That is over.  Mr. Denning persuaded Dora to write a statement of all the facts concerning the birth of the child.  She told her husband the name under which they traveled, the names of the ship, the captain, and the ship’s doctor, and Mrs. Denning authenticated the statement; but, oh, what a mean, suspicious creature Mostyn is!”

“What makes you reiterate that description of him?”

“He was quite unable to see any good or kind intent in this paper.  He proved its correctness, and then wrote Mr. Denning a very contemptible letter.”

“Which was characteristic enough.  What did he say?”

“That the amende honorable was too late; that he supposed Dora wished to have the divorce proceedings stopped and be reinstated as his wife, but he desired the whole Denning family to understand that was now impossible; he was `fervently, feverishly awaiting his freedom, which he expected at any hour.’  He said it was `sickening to remember the weariness of body and soul Dora had given him about a non-existing child, and though this could never be atoned for, he did think he ought to be refunded the money Dora’s contemptible revenge had cost him.”’

“How could he?  How could he?”

“Of course Mr. Denning sent him a check, a pretty large one, I dare say.  And I suppose he has his freedom by this time, unless he has married again.”

“He will never marry again.”

“Indeed, that is the strange part of the story.  It was because he wanted to marry again that he was `fervently, feverishly awaiting his freedom.’”

“I can hardly believe it, Ethel.  What does Dora say?”

“I have the news from Lucy.  She says when Mostyn was ignored by everyone in the neighborhood, one woman stood up for him almost passionately.  Do you remember Miss Sadler?”

“That remarkable governess of the Surreys?  Why, Ethel, she is the very ugliest woman I ever saw.”

“She is so ugly that she is fascinating.  If you see her one minute you can never forget her, and she is brains to her finger tips.  She ruled everyone at Surrey House.  She was Lord Surrey’s secretary and Lady Surrey’s adviser.  She educated the children, and they adored her; she ruled the servants, and they obeyed her with fear and trembling.  Nothing was done in Surrey House without her approval.  And if her face was not handsome, she had a noble presence and a manner that was irresistible.”

“And she took Mostyn’s part?”

“With enthusiasm.  She abused Dora individually, and American women generally.  She pitied Mr. Mostyn, and made others do so; and when she perceived there would be but a shabby and tardy restoration for him socially, she advised him to shake off the dust of his feet from Monk-Rawdon, and begin life in some more civilized place.  And in order that he might do so, she induced Lord Surrey to get him a very excellent civil appointment in Calcutta.”

“Then he is going to India?”

“He is probably now on the way there. 
He sold the Mostyn estate——­”

“I can hardly believe it.”

“He sold it to John Thomas Rawdon.  John Thomas told me it belonged to Rawdon until the middle of the seventeenth century, and he meant to have it back.  He has got it.”

“Miss Sadler must be a witch.”

“She is a sensible, practical woman, who knows how to manage men.  She has soothed Mostyn’s wounded pride with appreciative flattery and stimulated his ambition.  She has promised him great things in India, and she will see that he gets them.”

“He must be completely under her control.”

“She will never let him call his soul his own, but she will manage his affairs to perfection.  And Dora is forever rid of that wretched influence.  The man can never again come between her and her love; never again come between her and happiness.  There will be the circumference of the world as a barrier.”

“There will be Jane Sadler as a barrier.  She will be sufficient.  The Woman Between will annihilate The Man Between.  Dora is now safe.  What will she do with herself?”

“She will come back to New York and be a social power.  She is young, beautiful, rich, and her father has tremendous financial influence.  Social affairs are ruled by finance.  I should not wonder to see her in St. Jude’s, a devotee and eminent for good works.”

“And if Basil Stanhope should return?”

“Poor Basil—­he is dead.”

“How do you know that?”

“What do you mean, Tyrrel?”

“Are you sure Basil is dead?  What proof have you?”

“You must be dreaming!  Of course he is dead!  His friend came and told me so—­told me everything.”

“Is that all?”

“There were notices in the papers.”

“Is that all?”

“Mr. Denning must have known it when he stopped divorce proceedings.”

“Doubtless he believed it; he wished to do so.”

“Tyrrel, tell me what you mean.”

“I always wondered about his death rather than believed in it.  Basil had a consuming sense of honor and affection for the Church and its sacred offices.  He would have died willingly rather than drag them into the mire of a divorce court.  When the fear became certainty he disappeared—­really died to all his previous life.”

“But I cannot conceive of Basil lying for any purpose.”

“He disappeared.  His family and friends took on themselves the means they thought most likely to make that disappearance a finality.”

“Have you heard anything, seen anything?”

“One night just before I left the West a traveler asked me for a night’s lodging. He had been prospecting in British America in the region of the Klondike, and was full of incidental conversation. Among many other things he told me of a wonderful sermon he had heard from a young man in a large mining camp. I did not give the story any attention at the time, but after he had gone away it came to me like a flash of light that the preacher was Basil Stanhope.”

“Oh, Tyrrel, if it was—if it was! What a beautiful dream! But it is only a dream. If it could be true, would he forgive Dora? Would he come back to her?”

“No!” Tyrrel’s voice was positive and even stern. “No, he could never come back to her. She might go to him. She left him without any reason. I do not think he would care to see her again.”

“I would say no more, Tyrrel. I do not think as you do. It is a dream, a fancy, just an imagination. But if it were true, Basil would wish no pilgrimage of abasement. He would say to her, `Dear one, HUSH! Love is here, travel-stained, sore and weary, but so happy to welcome you!’ And he would open all his great, sweet heart to her. May I tell Dora some day what you have thought and said? It will be something good for her to dream about.”

“Do you think she cares? Did she ever love him?”

“He was her first love. She loved him once with all her heart. If it would be right -safe, I mean, to tell Dora—-“

“On this subject there is so much NOT to say. I would never speak of it.”

“It may be a truth”

“Then it is among those truths that should be held back, and it is likely only a trick of my imagination, a supposition, a fancy.”

A miracle! And of two miracles I prefer the least, and that is that Basil is dead. Your young preacher is a dream; and, oh, Tyrrel, I am so tired! It has been such a long, long, happy day! I want to sleep. My eyes are shutting as I talk to you. Such a long, long, happy day!”

“And so many long, happy days to come, dearest.”

“So many,” she answered, as she took Tyrrel’s hand, and lifted her fur and fan and gloves. “What were those lines we read together the night before we were married? I forget, I am so tired. I know that life should have many a hope and aim, duties enough, and little cares, and now be quiet, and now astir, till God’s hand beckoned us unawares--“

The rest was inaudible. But between that long, happy day and the present time there has been an arc of life large enough to place the union of Tyrrel and Ethel Rawdon among those blessed bridals that are

“The best of life’s romances.”