The Man Between: An International Romance

“Father, who are the Tyrrel-Rawdons?”

Then the Judge told the story of the young Tyrrel-Rawdon, who a century ago had lost his world for Love, and Ethel said “she liked him better than any Rawdon she had ever heard of.”

“Except your father, Ethel.”

“Except my father; my dear, good father. And I am glad that Love did not always make them poor. They must now be rich, if they want to buy the Court.”

“They are rich manufacturers. Mostyn is much annoyed that the Squire has begun to notice them. He says one of the grandsons of the Tyrrel-Rawdons, disinherited for love’s sake, came to America some time in the forties. I asked your grandmother if this story was true. She said it is quite true; that my father was his friend in the matter, and that it was his reports about America which made them decide to try their fortune in New York.”

“Does she know what became of him?”

“No. In his last letter to them he said he had just joined a party going to the gold fields of California. That was in 1850. He never wrote again. It is likely he perished on the terrible journey across the plains. Many thousands did.”

“When I am in England I intend to call upon these Tyrrel-Rawdons. I think I shall like them. My heart goes out to them. I am proud of this bit of romance in the family.”

“Oh, there is plenty of romance behind you, Ethel. When you see the old Squire standing at the entrance to the Manor House, you may see the hags of Cressy and Agincourt, of Marston and Worcester behind him. And the Rawdon women have frequently been daughters of Destiny. Many of them have lived romances that would be incredible if written down. Oh, Ethel, dear, we cannot, we cannot for our lives, let the old home fall into the hands of strangers. At any rate, if on inspection we think it wrong to interfere, I can at least try and get the children of the disinherited Tyrrel back to their home. Shall we leave it at this point for the present?”

This decision was agreeable to all, and then the few preparations necessary for the journey were talked over, and in this happy discussion the evening passed rapidly. The dream of Ethel’s life had been this visit to the home of her family, and to go as its savior was a consummation of the pleasure that filled her with loving pride. She could not sleep for her waking dreams. She made all sorts of resolutions about the despised Tyrrel-Rawdons. She intended to show the proud, indolent world of the English land-aristocracy that Americans, just as well born as themselves, respected business energy and enterprise; and she had other plans and propositions just as interesting and as full of youth’s impossible enthusiasm.

In the morning she went to talk the subject over with her grandmother. The old lady received the news with affected indifference. She said, “It mattered nothing to her who sat in Rawdon’s seat; but she would not hear Mostyn blamed for seeking his right. Money and sentiment are no kin,” she added, “and Fred has no sentiment about Rawdon. Why should he? Only last summer Rawdon kept him out of Parliament, and made him spend a lot of money beside. He’s right to get even with the family if he can.”

“But the old Squire! He is now–”

“I know; he’s older than I am. But Squire Percival has had his day, and Fred would not do anything out of the way to him—he could not; the county would make both Mostyn and Rawdon very uncomfortable places to live in, if he did.”

“If you turn a man out of his home when he is eighty years old, I think that is ‘out of the way.’ And Mr. Mostyn is not to be trusted. I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could see him.”

“Highty-tighty! He has not asked you to trust him. You lost your chance there, miss.”

“Grandmother, I am astonished at you!”

“Well, it was a mean thing to say, Ethel; but I like Fred, and I see the rest of my family are against him. It’s natural for Yorkshire to help the weakest side. But there, Fred can do his own fighting, I’ll warrant. He’s not an ordinary man.”

“I’m sorry to say he isn’t, grandmother. If he were he would speak without a drawl, and get rid of his monocle, and not pay such minute attention to his coats and vests and walking sticks.”

Then Ethel proceeded to explain her resolves with regard to the Tyrrel-Rawdons. “I shall pay them the greatest attention,” she said. “It was a noble thing in young Tyrrel-Rawdon to give up everything for honorable love, and I think everyone ought to have stood by him.”

“That wouldn’t have done at all. If Tyrrel had been petted as you think he ought to have been, every respectable young man and woman in the county would have married where their fancy led them; and the fancies of young people mostly lead them to the road it is ruin to take.”

“From what Fred Mostyn says, Tyrrel’s descendants seem to have taken a very respectable road.”

“I’ve nothing to say for or against them. It’s years and years since I laid eyes on any of the family. Your grandfather helped one of the young men to come to America, and I remember his mother getting into a passion about it. She was a fat woman in a Paisley shawl and a love-bird on her bonnet. I saw his sister often. She weighed about twelve stone, and had red hair and red cheeks and bare red elbows. She was called a ‘strapping lass.’ That is quite a complimentary term in the West Riding.”

“Please, grandmother, I don’t want to hear any more. In two weeks I shall be able to judge for myself. Since then there have been two generations, and if a member of the present one is fit for Parliament–”

“That’s nothing. We needn’t look for anything specially refined in Parliament in these days. There’s another thing. These Tyrrel-Rawdons are chapel people. The rector of Rawdon church would not marry Tyrrel to his low-born love, and so they went to the Methodist preacher, and after that to the Methodist chapel. That put them down, more than you can imagine here in America.”

“It was a shame! Methodists are most respectable people.”

“I’m saying nothing contrary.”

“The President is a Methodist.”

“I never asked what he was. I am a Church of England woman, you know that. Born and bred in the Church, baptized, confirmed, and married in the Church, and I was always taught it was the only proper Church for gentlemen and gentlewomen to be saved in. However, English Methodists often go back to the Church when they get rich.”

“Church or chapel makes no difference to me, grandmother. If people are only good.”

“To be sure; but you won’t be long in England until you’ll find out that some things make a great deal of difference. Do you know your father was here this morning? He wanted me to go with you—a likely, thing.”

“But, grandmother, do come. We will take such good care of you, and–”

“I know, but I’d rather keep my old memories of Yorkshire than get new-fashioned ones. All is changed. I can tell that by what Fred says. My three great friends are dead. They have left children and grandchildren, of course, but I don’t want to make new acquaintances at my age, unless I have the picking of them. No, I shall get Miss Hillis to go with me to my little cabin on the Jersey coast. We’ll take our knitting and the fresh novels, and I’ll warrant we’ll see as much of the new men and women in them as will more than satisfy us. But you must write me long letters, and tell me everything about the Squire and the way he keeps house, and I don’t care if you fill up the paper with the Tyrrel-Rawdons.”

“I will write you often, Granny, and tell you everything.”

“I shouldn’t wonder if you come across Dora Stanhope, but I wouldn’t ask her to Rawdon. She’ll mix some cup of bother if you do.”

“I know.”

In such loving and intimate conversation the hours sped quickly, and Ethel could not bear to cut short her visit. It was nearly five when she left Gramercy Park, but the day being lovely, and the avenue full of carriages and pedestrians, she took the drive at its enforced tardiness without disapproval. Almost on entering the avenue from Madison Square there was a crush, and her carriage came to a standstill. She was then opposite the store of a famous English saddler, and near her was an open carriage occupied by a middle-aged gentleman in military uniform. He appeared to be waiting for someone, and in a moment or two a young man came out of the saddlery store, and with a pleasant laugh entered the carriage. It was the Apollo of her dreams, the singer of the Holland House pavement. She could not doubt it. His face, his figure, his walk, and the pleasant smile with which he spoke to his companion were all positive characteristics. She had forgotten none of them. His dress was altered to suit the season, but that was an improvement; for divested of his heavy coat, and clothed only in a stylish afternoon suit, his tall, fine figure showed to great advantage; and Ethel told herself that he was even handsomer than she had supposed him to be.

Almost as soon as he entered his carriage there was a movement, and she hoped her driver might advance sufficiently to make recognition possible, but some feeling, she knew not what, prevented her giving any order leading to this result. Perhaps she had an instinctive presentiment that it was best to leave all to Destiny. Toward the upper part of the avenue the carriage of her eager observation came to a stand before a warehouse of antique furniture and bric-a-brac, and, as it did so, a beautiful woman ran down the steps, and Apollo, for so Ethel had men-tally called him, went hurriedly to meet her. Finally her coachman passed the party, and there was a momentary recognition. He was bending forward, listening to something the lady was saying, when the vehicles almost touched each other. He flashed a glance at them, and met the flash of Ethel’s eyes full of interest and curiosity.

It was over in a moment, but in that moment Ethel saw his astonishment and delight, and felt her own eager questioning answered. Then she was joyous and full of hope, for “these two silent meetings are promises,” she said to Ruth. “I feel sure I shall see him again, and then we shall speak to each other.”

“I hope you are not allowing yourself to feel too much interest in this man, Ethel; he is very likely married.”

“Oh, no! I am sure he is not, Ruth.”

“How can you be sure? You know nothing about him.”

“I cannot tell HOW I know, nor WHY I know, but I believe what I feel; and he is as much interested in me as I am in him. I confess that is a great deal.”

“You may never see him again.”

“I shall expect to see him next winter, he evidently lives in New York.”

“The lady you saw may be his wife. Don’t be interested in any man on unknown ground, Ethel. It is not prudent—it is not right.”

“Time will show. He will very likely be looking for me this summer at Newport and elsewhere. He will be glad to see me when I come home. Don’t worry, Ruth. It is all right.”

“Fred called soon after you went out this morning. He left for Newport this afternoon. He will be at sea now.”

“And we shall be there in a few days. When I am at the seaside I always feel a delicious torpor; yet Nelly Baldwin told me she loved an Atlantic passage because she had such fun on board. You have crossed several times, Ruth; is it fun or torpor?”

“All mirth at sea soon fades away, Ethel. Passengers are a very dull class of people, and they know it; they rebel against it, but every hour it becomes more natural to be dull. Very soon all mentally accommodate themselves to being bored, dreamy and dreary. Then, as soon as it is dark, comes that old mysterious, hungering sound of the sea; and I for one listen till I can bear it no longer, and so steal away to bed with a pain in my heart.”

“I think I shall like the ocean. There are games, and books, and company, and dinners, and other things.”