The Man Between: An International Romance

“She says he is very kind to her in his way.”

“And his way is to drag her over the world to see the cathedrals thereof, and to vary that pleasure with inspecting schools and reformatories and listening to great preachers. Upon my word, I feel sorry for the child! And I know all about such excellent people as the Stanhopes. I used to go to what they call ‘a pleasant evening’ with them. We sat around a big room lit with wax candles, and held improving conversation, or some one sang one or two of Mrs. Hemans’ songs, like ‘Passing Away’ or ‘He Never Smiled Again.’ Perhaps there was a comic recitation, at which no one laughed, and finally we had wine and hot water—they called it ‘port negus’—and tongue sandwiches and caraway cakes. My dear Ethel, I yawn now when I think of those dreary evenings. What must Dora have felt, right out of the maelstrom of New York’s operas and theaters and dancing parties?”

“Still, Dora ought to try to feel some interest in the church affairs. She says she does not care a hairpin for them, and Basil feels so hurt.”

“I dare say he does, poor fellow! He thinks St. Jude’s Kindergarten and sewing circles and missionary societies are the only joys in the world. Right enough for Basil, but how about Dora?”

“They are his profession; she ought to feel an interest in them.”

“Come now, look at the question sensibly. Did Dora’s father bring his ‘deals’ and stock-jobbery home, and expect Dora and her mother to feel an interest in them? Do doctors tell their wives about their patients, and expect them to pay sympathizing visits? Does your father expect Ruth and yourself to listen to his cases and arguments, and visit his poor clients or make underclothing for them? Do men, in general, consider it a wife’s place to interfere in their profession or business?”

“Clergymen are different.”

“Not at all. Preaching and philanthropy is their business. They get so much a year for doing it. I don’t believe St. Jude’s pays Mrs. Stanhope a red cent. There now, and if she isn’t paid, she’s right not to work. Amen to that!”

“Before she was married Dora said she felt a great interest in church work.”

“I dare say she did. Marriage makes a deal of difference in a woman’s likes and dislikes. Church work was courting-time before marriage; after marriage she had other opportunities.”

“I think you might speak to Fred Mostyn–”

“I might, but it wouldn’t be worth while. Be true to your friend as long as you can. In Yorkshire we stand by our friends, right or wrong, and we aren’t too particular as to their being right. My father enjoyed justifying a man that everyone else was down on; and I’ve stood by many a woman nobody had a good word for. I was never sorry for doing it, either. I’ll be going into a strange country soon, and I should not wonder if some of them that have gone there first will be ready to stand by me. We don’t know what friends we’ll be glad of there.”

The dinner bell broke up this conversation, and Ethel during it told Madam about the cook and cooking at the Court and at Nicholas Rawdon’s, where John Thomas had installed a French chef. Other domestic arrangements were discussed, and when the Judge called for his daughter at four o’clock, Madam vowed “she had spent one of the happiest days of her life.”

“Ruth tells me,” said the Judge, “that Dora Stanhope called for Ethel soon after she left home this morning. Ruth seems troubled at the continuance of this friendship. Have you spoken to your grandmother, Ethel, about Dora?”

“She has told me all there is to tell, I dare say,” answered Madam.

“Well, mother, what do you think?”

“I see no harm in it yet awhile. It is not fair, Edward, to condemn upon likelihoods. We are no saints, sinful men and women, all of us, and as much inclined to forbidden fruit as any good Christians can be. Ethel can do as she feels about it; she’s got a mind of her own, and I hope to goodness she’ll not let Ruth Bayard bit and bridle it.”

Going home the Judge evidently pondered this question, for he said after a lengthy silence, “Grandmother’s ethics do not always fit the social ethics of this day, Ethel. She criticises people with her heart, not her intellect. You must be prudent. There is a remarkable thing called Respectability to be reckoned with remember that.”

And Ethel answered, “No one need worry about Dora. Some women may show the edges of their character soiled and ragged, but Dora will be sure to have hers reputably finished with a hem of the widest propriety.” And after a short silence the Judge added, almost in soliloquy, “And, moreover, Ethel,

“‘There’s a divinity that shapes our ends,
Rough-hew them how we will.’”

PART FOURTH – THE REAPING OF THE SOWING

CHAPTER X

WHEN Ethel and Tyrrel parted at the steamer they did not expect a long separation, but Colonel Rawdon never recovered his health, and for many excellent reasons Tyrrel could not leave the dying man. Nor did Ethel wish him to do so. Under these circumstances began the second beautiful phase of Ethel’s wooing, a sweet, daily correspondence, the best of all preparations for matrimonial oneness and understanding. Looking for Tyrrel’s letters, reading them, and answering them passed many happy hours, for to both it was an absolute necessity to assure each other constantly,

“Since I wrote thee yester eve
I do love thee, Love, believe,
Twelve times dearer, twelve hours longer,
One dream deeper one night stronger,
One sun surer—this much more
Than I loved thee, dear, before.”

And for the rest, she took up her old life with a fresh enthusiasm.

Among these interests none were more urgent in their claims than Dora Stanhope; and fortified by her grandmother’s opinion, Ethel went at once to call on her. She found Basil with his wife, and his efforts to make Ethel see how much he expected from her influence, and yet at the same time not even hint a disapproval of Dora, were almost pathetic, for he was so void of sophistry that his innuendoes were flagrantly open to detection. Dora felt a contempt for them, and he had hardly left the room ere she said:

“Basil has gone to his vestry in high spirits. When I told him you were coming to see me to-day he smiled like an angel. He believes you will keep me out of mischief, and he feels a grand confidence in something which he calls ‘your influence.’”

“What do you mean by mischief?”

“Oh, I suppose going about with Fred Mostyn. I can’t help that. I must have some one to look after me. All the young men I used to know pass me now with a lifted hat or a word or two. The girls have forgotten me. I don’t suppose I shall be asked to a single dance this winter.”

“The ladies in St. Jude’s church would make a pet of you if–”

“The old cats and kittens! No, thank you, I am not going to church except on Sunday mornings—that is respectable and right; but as to being the pet of St. Jude’s ladies! No, no! How they would mew over my delinquencies, and what scratches I should get from their velvet-shod claws! If I have to be talked about, I prefer the ladies of the world to discuss my frailties.”

“But if I were you, I would give no one a reason for saying a word against me. Why should you?”

“Fred will supply them with reasons. I can’t keep the man away from me. I don’t believe I want to—he is very nice and useful.”

“You are talking nonsense, things you don’t mean, Dora. You are not such a foolish woman as to like to be seen with Fred Mostyn, that little monocular snob, after the aristocratic, handsome Basil Stanhope. The comparison is a mockery. Basil is the finest gentleman I ever saw. Socially, he is perfection, and–”

“He is only a clergyman.”

“Even as a clergyman he is of religiously royal descent. There are generations of clergymen behind him, and he is a prince in the pulpit. Every man that knows him gives him the highest respect, every woman thinks you the most fortunate of wives. No one cares for Fred Mostyn. Even in his native place he is held in contempt. He had nine hundred votes to young Rawdon’s twelve thousand.”

“I don’t mind that. I am going to the matinee to-morrow with Fred. He wanted to take me out in his auto this afternoon, but when I said I would go if you would he drew back. What is the reason? Did he make you offer of his hand? Did you refuse it?”

“He never made me an offer. I count that to myself as a great compliment. If he had done such a thing, he would certainly have been refused.”

“I can tell that he really hates you. What dirty trick did you serve him about Rawdon Court?”

“So he called the release of Squire Rawdon a ‘dirty trick’? It would have been a very dirty trick to have let Fred Mostyn get his way with Squire Rawdon.”

“Of course, Ethel, when a man lends his money as an obligation he expects to get it back again.”

“Mostyn got every farthing due him, and he wanted one of the finest manors in Eng-land in return for the obligation. He did not get it, thank God and my father!”

“He will not forget your father’s interference.”

“I hope he will remember it.”

“Do you know who furnished the money to pay Fred? He says he is sure your father did not have it.”

“Tell him to ask my father. He might even ask your father. Whether my father had the money or not was immaterial. Father could borrow any sum he wanted, I think.”

“Whom did he borrow from?”