The Man Between: An International Romance

“What has Bryce to do with Jane Caldwell?”

“He is going to marry her, he says.”

“Like enough; she’s a merry miss of two-score, and rich. Bryce’s marriage with anyone will be a well-considered affair—a marriage with all the advantages of a good bargain. I’m tired of the whole subject. If women will marry they should be as patient as Griselda, in case there ever was such a woman; if not, there’s an end of the matter.”

“There are no Griseldas in this century, grandmother.”

“Then there ought to be no marriages. Basil Stanhope was a grand man in public. What kind of a man was he in his home? Measure a man by his home conduct, and you’ll not go wrong. It’s the right place to draw your picture of him, I can tell you that.”

“He has no home now, poor fellow.”

“Whose fault was it? God only knows. Where is his wife?”

“She has gone to Paris.”

“She has gone to the right place if she wants to play the fool. But there, now, God forbid I should judge her in the dark. Women should stand by women—considering.”

“Considering?”

“What they may have to put up with. It is easy to see faults in others. I have sometimes met with people who should see faults in themselves. They are rather uncommon, though.”

“I am sure Basil Stanhope will be miserable all his life. He will break his heart, I do believe.”

“Not so. A good heart is hard to break, it grows strong in trouble. Basil Stanhope’s body will fail long before his heart does; and even so an end must come to life, and after that peace or what God wills.”

This scant sympathy Ethel found to be the usual tone among her acquaintances. St. Jude’s got a new rector and a new idol, and the Stanhope affair was relegated to the limbo of things “it was proper to forget.”

So the weeks of the long winter went by, and Ethel in the joy and hope of her own love-life naturally put out of her mind the sorrow of lives she could no longer help or influence. Indeed, as to Dora, there were frequent reports of her marvelous social success in Paris; and Ethel did not doubt Stanhope had found some everlasting gospel of holy work to comfort his desolation. And then also

“Each day brings its petty dust,
Our soon-choked souls to fill;
And we forget because we must,
And not because we will.”

One evening when May with heavy clouds and slant rains was making the city as miserable as possible, Ethel had a caller. His card bore a name quite unknown, and his appearance gave no clew to his identity.

“Mr. Edmonds?” she said interrogatively.

“Are you Miss Ethel Rawdon?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Mr. Basil Stanhope told me to put this parcel in your hands.”

“Oh, Mr. Stanhope! I am glad to hear from him. Where is he now?”

“We buried him yesterday. He died last Sunday as the bells were ringing for church—pneumonia, miss. While reading the ser-vice over a poor young man he had nursed many weeks he took cold. The poor will miss him sorely.”

“DEAD!” She looked aghast at the speaker, and again ejaculated the pitiful, astounding word.

“Good evening, miss. I promised him to return at once to the work he left me to do.” And he quietly departed, leaving Ethel standing with the parcel in her hands. She ran upstairs and locked it away. Just then she could not bear to open it.

“And it is hardly twelve months since he was married,” she sobbed. “Oh, Ruth, Ruth, it is too cruel!”

“Dear,” answered Ruth, “there is no death to such a man as Basil Stanhope.”

“He was so young, Ruth.”

“I know. ‘His high-born brothers called him hence’ at the age of twenty-nine, but

“‘It is not growing like a tree,
In bulk, doth make men better be;
Or standing like an oak three hundred year,
To fall at last, dry, bald and sear:
A lily of a day
Is fairer far in May;
Although it fall and die that night,
It was the plant and flower of light.’”

At these words the Judge put down his Review to listen to Ethel’s story, and when she ceased speaking he had gone far further back than any antique classic for compensation and satisfaction:

“He being made perfect in a short time fulfilled a long time. For his soul pleased the Lord, therefore hasted He to take him away from among the wicked.”[2 - Wisdom of Solomon, IV., 13, 14.] And that evening there was little conversation. Every heart was busy with its own thoughts.

CHAPTER XI

TRADE and commerce have their heroes as well as arms, and the struggle in which Tyrrel Rawdon at last plucked victory from apparent failure was as arduous a campaign as any military operations could have afforded. It had entailed on him a ceaseless, undaunted watch over antagonists rich and powerful; and a fight for rights which contained not only his own fortune, but the honor of his father, so that to give up a fraction of them was to turn traitor to the memory of a parent whom he believed to be beyond all doubt or reproach. Money, political power, civic influence, treachery, bribery, the law’s delay and many other hindrances met him on every side, but his heart was encouraged daily to perseverance by love’s tenderest sympathy. For he told Ethel everything, and received both from her fine intuitions and her father’s legal skill priceless comfort and advice. But at last the long trial was over, the marriage day was set, and Tyrrel, with all his rights conceded, was honorably free to seek the happiness he had safeguarded on every side.

It was a lovely day in the beginning of May, nearly two years after their first meeting, when Tyrrel reached New York. Ethel knew at what hour his train would arrive, she was watching and listening for his step. They met in each other’s arms, and the blessed hours of that happy evening were an over-payment of delight for the long months of their separation.

In the morning Ethel was to introduce her lover to Madam Rawdon, and side by side, almost hand in hand, they walked down the avenue together. Walked? They were so happy they hardly knew whether their feet touched earth or not. They had a constant inclination to clasp hands, to run as little children run; They wished to smile at everyone, to bid all the world good morning. Madam had resolved to be cool and careful in her advances, but she quickly found herself unable to resist the sight of so much love and hope and happiness. The young people together took her heart by storm, and she felt herself compelled to express an interest in their future, and to question Tyrrel about it.

“What are you going to do with yourself or make of yourself?” she asked Tyrrel one evening when they were sitting together. “I do hope you’ll find some kind of work. Anything is better than loafing about clubs and such like places.”

“I am going to study law with Judge Rawdon. My late experience has taught me its value. I do not think I shall loaf in his office.”

“Not if he is anywhere around. He works and makes others work. Lawyering is a queer business, but men can be honest in it if they want to.”

“And, grandmother,” said Ethel, “my father says Tyrrel has a wonderful gift for public speaking. He made a fine speech at father’s club last night. Tyrrel will go into politics.”

“Will he, indeed? Tyrrel is a wonder. If he manages to walk his shoes straight in the zigzaggery ways of the law, he will be one of that grand breed called ‘exceptions.’ As for politics, I don’t like them, far from it. Your grandfather used to say they either found a man a rascal or made him one. However, I’m ready to compromise on law and politics. I was afraid with his grand voice he would set up for a tenor.”

Tyrrel laughed. “I did once think of that role,” he said.

“I fancied that. Whoever taught you to use your voice knew a thing or two about singing. I’ll say that much.”

“My mother taught me.”

“Never! I wonder now!”