The Man Between: An International Romance

“And then?”

“I want your opinion about that. McLean advises me to see the country—to go to Chicago, St. Louis, Denver, cross the Rockies, and on to California. It seems as if that would be a grand summer programme. But my lawyer writes me that the man in charge at Mostyn is cutting too much timber and is generally too extravagant. Then there is the question of Rawdon Court. My finances will not let me carry the mortgage on it longer, unless I buy the place.”

“Are you thinking of that as probable?”

“Yes. It will have to be sold. And Mostyn seems to be the natural owner after Rawdon. The Mostyns have married Rawdons so frequently that we are almost like one family, and Rawdon Court lies, as it were, at Mostyn’s gate. The Squire is now old, and too easily persuaded for his own welfare, and I hear the Tyrrel-Rawdons have been visiting him. Such a thing would have been incredible a few years ago.”

“Who are the Tyrrel-Rawdons? I have no acquaintance with them.”

“They are the descendants of that Tyrrel-Rawdon who a century ago married a handsome girl who was only an innkeeper’s daughter. He was of course disowned and disinherited, and his children sank to the lowest social grade. Then when power-loom weaving was introduced they went to the mills, and one of them was clever and saved money and built a little mill of his own, and his son built a much larger one, and made a great deal of money, and became Mayor of Leeds. The next generation saw the Tyrrel-Rawdons the largest loom-lords in Yorkshire. One of the youngest generation was my opponent in the last election and beat me—a Radical fellow beats the Conservative candidate always where weavers and spinners hold the vote but I thought it my duty to uphold the Mostyn banner. You know the Mostyns have always been Tories and Conservatives.”

“Excuse me, but I am afraid I am ignorant concerning Mostyn politics. I take little interest in the English parties.”

“Naturally. Well, I hope you will take an interest in my affairs and give me your advice about the sale of Rawdon Court.”

“I think my advice would be useless. In the first place, I never saw the Court. My father had an old picture of it, which has somehow disappeared since his death, but I cannot say that even this picture interested me at all. You know I am an American, born on the soil, and very proud of it. Then, as you are acquainted with all the ins and outs of the difficulties and embarrassments, and I know nothing at all about them, you would hardly be foolish enough to take my opinion against your own. I suppose the Squire is in favor of your buying the Court?”

“I never named the subject to him. I thought perhaps he might have written to you on the matter. You are the last male of the house in that line.”

“He has never written to me about the Court. Then, I am not the last male. From what you say, I think the Tyrrel-Rawdons could easily supply an heir to Rawdon.”

“That is the thing to be avoided. It would be a great offense to the county families.”

“Why should they be considered? A Rawdon is always a Rawdon.”

“But a cotton spinner, sir! A mere mill-owner!”

“Well, I do not feel with you and the other county people in that respect. I think a cotton spinner, giving bread to a thousand families, is a vastly more respectable and important man than a fox-hunting, idle landlord. A mill-owning Rawdon might do a deal of good in the sleepy old village of Monk-Rawdon.”

“Your sentiments are American, not English, sir.”

“As I told you, we look at things from very different standpoints.”

“Do you feel inclined to lift the mortgage yourself, Judge?”

“I have not the power, even if I had the inclination to do so. My money is well invested, and I could not, at this time, turn bonds and securities into cash without making a sacrifice not to be contemplated. I confess, however, that if the Court has to be sold, I should like the Tyrrel-Rawdons to buy it. I dare say the picture of the offending youth is still in the gallery, and I have heard my mother say that what is another’s always yearns for its lord. Driven from his heritage for Love’s sake, it would be at least interesting if Gold gave back to his children what Love lost them.”

“That is pure sentiment. Surely it would be more natural that the Mostyns should succeed the Rawdons. We have, as it were, bought the right with at least a dozen intermarriages.”

“That also is pure sentiment. Gold at last will carry the succession.”

“But not your gold, I infer?”

“Not my gold; certainly not.”

“Thank you for your decisive words They make my course clear.”

“That is well. As to your summer movements, I am equally unable to give you advice. I think you need the sea for a month, and after that McLean’s scheme is good. And a return to Mostyn to look after your affairs is equally good. If I were you, I should follow my inclinations. If you put your heart into anything, it is well done and enjoyed; if you do a thing because you think you ought to do it, failure and disappointment are often the results. So do as you want to do; it is the only advice I can offer you.”

“Thank you, sir. It is very acceptable. I may leave for Newport to-morrow. I shall call on the ladies in the morning.”

“I will tell them, but it is just possible that they, too, go to the country to-morrow, to look after a little cottage on the Hudson we occupy in the summer. Good-by, and I hope you will soon recover your usual health.”

Then the Judge lifted his hat, and with a courteous movement left the room. His face had the same suave urbanity of expression, but he could hardly restrain the passion in his heart. Placid as he looked when he entered his house, he threw off all pretenses as soon as he reached his room. The Yorkshire spirit which Ethel had declared found him out once in three hundred and sixty-four days and twenty-three hours was then in full pos-session. The American Judge had disappeared. He looked as like his ancestors as anything outside of a painted picture could do. His flushed face, his flashing eyes, his passionate exclamations, the stamp of his foot, the blow of his hand, the threatening attitude of his whole figure was but a replica of his great-grandfather, Anthony Rawdon, giving Radicals at the hustings or careless keepers at the kennels “a bit of his mind.”

“‘Mostyn, seems to be the natural owner of Rawdon! Rawdon Court lies at Mostyn’s gate! Natural that the Mostyns should succeed the Rawdons! Bought the right by a dozen intermarriages!’ Confound the impudent rascal! Does he think I will see Squire Rawdon rogued out of his home? Not if I can help it! Not if Ethel can help it! Not if heaven and earth can help it! He’s a downright rascal! A cool, unruffled, impudent rascal!” And these ejaculations were followed by a bitter, biting, blasting hailstorm of such epithets as could only be written with one letter and a dash.

But the passion of imprecation cooled and satisfied his anger in this its first impetuous outbreak, and he sat down, clasped the arms of his chair, and gave himself a peremptory order of control. In a short time he rose, bathed his head and face in cold water, and began to dress for dinner. And as he stood before the glass he smiled at the restored color and calm of his countenance.

“You are a prudent lawyer,” he said sarcastically. “How many actionable words have you just uttered! If the devil and Fred Mostyn have been listening, they can, as mother says, ‘get the law on you’; but I think Ethel and I and the law will be a match even for the devil and Fred Mostyn.” Then, as he slowly went downstairs, he repeated to himself, “Mostyn seems to be the natural owner of Rawdon. No, sir, neither natural nor legal owner. Rawdon Court lies at Mostyn gate. Not yet. Mostyn lies at Rawdon gate. Natural that the Mostyns should succeed the Rawdons. Power of God! Neither in this generation nor the next.”

And at the same moment Mostyn, having thought over his interview with Judge Rawdon, walked thoughtfully to a window and muttered to himself: “Whatever was the matter with the old man? Polite as a courtier, but something was wrong. The room felt as if there was an iceberg in it, and he kept his right hand in his pocket. I be-lieve he was afraid I would shake hands with him—it is Ethel, I suppose. Naturally he is disappointed. Wanted her at Rawdon. Well, it is a pity, but I really cannot! Oh, Dora! Dora! My heart, my hungry and thirsty heart calls you! Burning with love, dying with longing, I am waiting for you!”

The dinner passed pleasantly enough, but both Ethel and Ruth noticed the Judge was under strong but well-controlled feeling. While servants were present it passed for high spirits, but as soon as the three were alone in the library, the excitement took at once a serious aspect.

“My dears,” he said, standing up and facing them, “I have had a very painful interview with Fred Mostyn. He holds a mortgage over Rawdon Court, and is going to press it in September—that is, he proposes to sell the place in order to obtain his money—and the poor Squire!” He ceased speaking, walked across the room and back again, and appeared greatly disturbed.

“What of the Squire?” asked Ruth.

“God knows, Ruth. He has no other home.”

“Why is this thing to be done? Is there no way to prevent it?”

“Mostyn wants the money, he says, to invest in American securities. He does not. He wants to force a sale, so that he may buy the place for the mortgage, and then either keep it for his pride, or more likely resell it to the Tyrrel-Rawdons for double the money.” Then with gradually increasing passion he repeated in a low, intense voice the remarks which Mostyn had made, and which had so infuriated the Judge. Before he had finished speaking the two women had caught his temper and spirit. Ethel’s face was white with anger, her eyes flashing, her whole attitude full of fight. Ruth was troubled and sorrowful, and she looked anxiously at the Judge for some solution of the condition. It was Ethel who voiced the anxiety. “Father,” she asked, “what is to be done? What can you do?”

“Nothing, I am sorry to say, Ethel. My money is absolutely tied up—for this year, at any rate. I cannot touch it without wronging others as well as myself, nor yet without the most ruinous sacrifice.”

“If I could do anything, I would not care at what sacrifice.”

“You can do all that is necessary, Ethel, and you are the only person who can. You have at least eight hundred thousand dollars in cash and negotiable securities. Your mother’s fortune is all yours, with its legitimate accruements, and it was left at your own disposal after your twenty-first birthday. It has been at your own disposal WITH MY CONSENT since your nineteenth birthday.”

“Then, father, we need not trouble about the Squire. I wish with all my heart to make his home sure to him as long as he lives. You are a lawyer, you know what ought to be done.”

“Good girl! I knew what you would say and do, or I should not have told you the trouble there was at Rawdon. Now, I propose we all make a visit to Rawdon Court, see the Squire and the property, and while there perfect such arrangements as seem kindest and wisest. Ruth, how soon can we be ready to sail?”

“Father, do you really mean that we are to go to England?”

“It is the only thing to do. I must see that all is as Mostyn says. I must not let you throw your money away.”

“That is only prudent,” said Ruth, “and we can be ready for the first steamer if you wish it.”

“I am delighted, father. I long to see England; more than all, I long to see Rawdon. I did not know until this moment how much I loved it.”

“Well, then, I will have all ready for us to sail next Saturday. Say nothing about it to Mostyn. He will call to-morrow morning to bid you good-by before leaving for Newport with McLean. Try and be out.”

“I shall certainly be out,” said Ethel. “I do not wish ever to see his face again, and I must see grandmother and tell her what we are going to do.”

“I dare say she guesses already. She advised me to ask you about the mortgage. She knew what you would say.”