The Man Between: An International Romance

“Fortune is a baggage. When she is ill to a man she knows no reason. She sent John Thomas to Parliament, and kept Fred out at a loss, too. She took the Court from Fred and gave it to John Thomas, and she gives him two sons about the same time she gives Fred one, and that one she kidnaps out of his sight and knowledge. Poor Fred!”

“Well, grandmother, it is ‘poor Fred’s’ own doing, and, I assure you, Fred would have been most unwelcome at the Court. And the squires and gentry round did not like a woman in the place; they were at a loss what to do with me. I was no good for dinners and politics and hunting. I embarrassed them.” “Of course you would. They would have to talk decently and behave politely, and they would not be able to tell their choicest stories. Your presence would be a bore; but could not Tyrrel take your place?”

“Granny, Tyrrel was really unhappy in that kind of life. And he was a foreigner, so was I. You know what Yorkshire people think of foreigners. They were very courteous, but they were glad to have the Yorkshire Rawdons in our place. And Tyrrel did not like working with the earth; he loves machinery and electricity.”

“To be sure. When a man has got used to delving for gold or silver, cutting grass and wheat does seem a slow kind of business.”

“And he disliked the shut-up feeling the park gave him. He said we were in the midst of solitude three miles thick. It made him depressed and lonely.”

“That is nonsense. I am sure on the Western plains he had solitude sixty miles thick—often.”

“Very likely, but then he had an horizon, even if it were sixty miles away. And no matter how far he rode, there was always that line where earth seemed to rise to heaven. But the park was surrounded by a brick wall fourteen feet high. It had no horizon. You felt as if you were in a large, green box—at least Tyrrel did. The wall was covered with roses and ivy, but still it was a boundary you could not pass, and could not see over. Don’t you understand, Granny, how Tyrrel would feel this?”

“I can’t say I do. Why didn’t he come with you?”

“He had to go to the Customs about our trunks, and there were other things. He will see you to-morrow. Then we are going to dine with father, and if you will join us, we will call at six for you. Do, Granny.”

“Very well, I shall be ready.” But after a moment’s thought she continued, “No, I will not go. I am only a mortal woman, and the company of angels bores me yet.”

“Now, Granny, dear.”

“I mean what I say. Your father has married such a piece of perfection that I feel my shortcomings in her presence more than I can bear. But I’ll tell you what, dearie, Tyrrel may come for me Saturday night at six, and I will have my dinner with you. I want to see the dining-room of a swell hotel in full dress; and I will wear my violet satin and white Spanish lace, and look as smart as can be, dear. And Tyrrel may buy me a bunch of white violets. I am none too old to wear them. Who knows but I may go to the theater also?”

“Oh, Granny, you are just the dearest young lady I know! Tyrrel will be as proud as a peacock.”

“Well, I am not as young as I might be, but I am a deal younger than I look. Listen, dearie, I have never FELT old yet! Isn’t that a thing to be grateful for? I don’t read much poetry, except it be in the Church Hymnal, but I cut a verse out of a magazine a year ago which just suits my idea of life, and, what is still more wonderful, I took the trouble to learn it. Oliver Wendell Holmes wrote it, and I’ll warrant him for a good, cheerful, trust-in-God man, or he’d never have thought of such sensible words.”

“I am listening, Granny, for the verse.”

“Yes, and learn it yourself. It will come in handy some day, when Tyrrel and you are getting white-haired and handsome, as everyone ought to get when they have passed their half-century and are facing the light of the heavenly world:

“At sixty-two life has begun;
At seventy-three begins once more;
Fly swifter as thou near’st the sun,
And brighter shine at eighty-four.
At ninety-five,
Should thou arrive,
Still wait on God, and work and thrive.”

Such words as those, Ethel, keep a woman young, and make her right glad that she was born and thankful that she lives.”

“Thank you for them, dear Granny. Now I must run away as fast as I can. Tyrrel will be wondering what has happened to me.”

In this conjecture she was right. Tyrrel was in evening dress, and walking restlessly about their private parlor. “Ethel,” he said, plaintively, “I have been so uneasy about you.”

“I am all right, dearest. I was with grandmother. I shall be ready in half an hour.”

Even if she had been longer, she would have earned the delay, for she returned to him in pink silk and old Venice point de rose, with a pretty ermine tippet across her shoulders. It was a joy to see her, a delight to hear her speak, and she walked as if she heard music. The dining-room was crowded when they entered, but they made a sensation. Many rose and came to welcome them home. Others smiled across the busy space and lifted their wineglass in recognition. The room was electric, sensitive and excited. It was flooded with a soft light; it was full of the perfume of flowers. The brilliant coloring of silks and satins, and the soft miracle of white lace blended with the artistically painted walls and roof. The aroma of delicate food, the tinkle of crystal, the low murmur of happy voices, the thrill of sudden laughter, and the delicious accompaniment of soft, sensuous music completed the charm of the room. To eat in such surroundings was as far beyond the famous flower-crowned feasts of Rome and Greece as the east is from the west. It was impossible to resist its influence. From the point of the senses, the soul was drinking life out of a cup of overflowing delight. And it was only natural that in their hearts both Tyrrel and Ethel should make a swift, though silent, comparison between this feast of sensation and flow of human attraction and the still, sweet order of the Rawdon dining-room, with its noiseless service, and its latticed win-dows open to all the wandering scents and songs of the garden.

Perhaps the latter would have the sweetest and dearest and most abiding place in their hearts; but just in the present they were enthralled and excited by the beauty and good comradeship of the social New York dinner function. Their eyes were shining, their hearts thrilling, they went to their own apartments hand in hand, buoyant, vivacious, feeling that life was good and love unchangeable. And the windows being open, they walked to one and stood looking out upon the avenue. All signs of commerce had gone from the beautiful street, but it was busy and noisy with the traffic of pleasure, and the hum of multitudes, the rattle of carriages, the rush of autos, the light, hurrying footsteps of pleasure-seekers insistently demanded their sympathy.

“We cannot go out to-night,” said Ethel. “We are both more weary than we know.”

“No, we cannot go to-night; but, oh, Ethel, we are in New York again! Is not that joy enough? I am so happy! I am so happy. We are in New York again! There is no city like it in all the world. Men live here, they work here, they enjoy here. How happy, how busy we are going to be, Ethel!”

During these joyful, hopeful expectations he was walking up and down the room, his eyes dilating with rapture, and Ethel closed the window and joined him. They magnified their joy, they wondered at it, they were sure no one before them had ever loved as they loved. “And we are going to live here, Ethel; going to have our home here! Upon my honor, I cannot speak the joy I feel, but”—and he went impetuously to the piano and opened it—“but I can perhaps sing it—

“‘There is not a spot in this wide-peopled earth
So dear to the heart as the Land of our Birth;
‘Tis the home of our childhood, the beautiful spot
Which Memory retains when all else is forgot.
May the blessing of God ever hallow the sod,
And its valleys and hills by our children be trod!

“‘May Columbia long lift her white crest o’er the wave,
The birthplace of science and the home of the brave.
In her cities may peace and prosperity dwell,
And her daughters in virtue and beauty excel.
May the blessing of God ever hallow the sod,
And its valleys and hills by our children be trod.’”

With the patriotic music warbling in his throat he turned to Ethel, and looked at her as a lover can, and she answered the look; and thus leaning toward each other in visible beauty and affection their new life began. Between smiles and kisses they sat speaking, not of the past with all its love and loveliness, but of the high things calling to them from the future, the work and duties of life set to great ends both for public and private good. And as they thus communed Tyrrel took his wife’s hand and slowly turned on her finger the plain gold wedding ring behind its barrier of guarding gems.

“Ethel,” he said tenderly, “what enchantments are in this ring of gold! What romances I used to weave around it, and, dearest, it has turned every Romance into Reality.”

“And, Tyrrel, it will also turn all our Realities into Romances. Nothing in our life will ever become common. Love will glorify everything.”

“And we shall always love as we love now?”

“We shall love far better, far stronger, far more tenderly.”

“Even to the end of our lives, Ethel?”

“Yes, to the very end.”

CHAPTER XIII

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?”