CHAPTER IX
NEW YORK is at its very brightest and best in October. This month of theyear may be safely trusted not to disappoint. The skies are blue, theair balmy, and there is generally a delightful absence of wind. Thesummer exiles are home again from Jersey boarding houses, and mountaincamps, and seaside hotels, and thankful to the point of hilarity thatthis episode of the year is over, that they can once more dwell undertheir own roofs without breaking any of the manifest laws of the greatgoddess Custom or Fashion.
Judge Rawdon's house had an especially charming "at home" appearance.During the absence of the family it had been made beautiful inside andoutside, and the white stone, the plate glass, and falling lace evidentto the street, had an almost conscious look of luxurious propriety.
The Judge frankly admitted his pleasure in his home surroundings. Hesaid, as they ate their first meal in the familiar room, that "a visitto foreign countries was a grand, patriotic tonic." He vowed that the"first sight of the Stars and Stripes at Sandy Hook had given him thefinest emotion he had ever felt in his life," and was altogether inhis proudest American mood. Ruth sympathized with him. Ethel listenedsmiling. She knew well that the English strain had only temporarilyexhausted itself; it would have its period of revival at the propertime.
"I am going to see grandmother," she said gayly. "I shall stay with herall day."
"But I have a letter from her," interrupted the Judge, "and she will notreturn home until next week."
"I am sorry. I was anticipating so eagerly the joy of seeing her. Well,as I cannot do so, I will go and call on Dora Stanhope."
"I would not if I were you, Ethel," said Ruth. "Let her come and call onyou."
"I had a little note from her this morning, welcoming me home, andentreating me to call."
The Judge rose as Ethel was speaking, and no more was said about thevisit at that time but a few hours later Ethel came down from her roomready for the street and frankly told Ruth she had made up her mind tocall on Dora.
"Then I will only remind you, Ethel, that Dora is not a fortunate womanto know. As far as I can see, she is one of those who sow pain of heartand vexation of spirit about every house they enter, even their own.But I cannot gather experience for you, it will have to grow in your owngarden."
"All right, dear Ruth, and if I do not like its growth, I will pull itup by the roots, I assure you."
Ruth went with her to the door and watched her walk leisurely down thebroad steps to the street. The light kindled in her eyes and on her faceas she did so. She already felt the magnetism of the great city, andwith a laughing farewell walked rapidly toward Dora's house.
Her card brought an instant response, and she heard Dora's welcomebefore the door was opened. And her first greeting was an enthusiasticcompliment, "How beautiful you have grown, Ethel!" she cried. "Ah, thatis the European finish. You have gained it, my dear; you really are verymuch improved."
"And you also, Dora?"
The words were really a question, but Dora accepted them as anassertion, and was satisfied.
"I suppose I am," she answered, "though I'm sure I can't tell how itshould be so, unless worry of all kinds is good for good looks. I've hadenough of that for a lifetime."
"Now, Dora."
"Oh, it's the solid truth--partly your fault too."
"I never interfered----"
"Of course you didn't, but you ought to have interfered. When you calledon me in London you might have seen that I was not happy; and I wantedto come to Rawdon Court, and you would not invite me. I called yourbehavior then 'very mean,' and I have not altered my opinion of it."
"There were good reasons, Dora, why I could not ask you."
"Good reasons are usually selfish ones, Ethel, and Fred Mostyn told mewhat they were.
"He likely told you untruths, Dora, for he knew nothing about myreasons. I saw very little of him."
"I know. You treated him as badly as you treated me, and all for somewild West creature--a regular cowboy, Fred said, but then a Rawdon!"
"Mr. Mostyn has misrepresented Mr. Tyrrel Rawdon--that is all about it.I shall not explain 'how' or 'why.' Did you enjoy yourself at StanhopeCastle?"
"Enjoy myself! Are you making fun of me? Ethel, dear, it was the mostawful experience. You never can imagine such a life, and such women.They were dressed for a walk at six o'clock; they had breakfast athalf-past seven. They went to the village and inspected cottages, andgave lessons in housekeeping or dressmaking or some other drudgery tillnoon. They walked back to the Castle for lunch. They attended to theirown improvement from half-past one until four, had lessons in drawingand chemistry, and, I believe, electricity. They had another walk, andthen indulged themselves with a cup of tea. They dressed and receivedvisitors, and read science or theology between whiles. There was alwayssome noted preacher or scholar at the dinner table. The conversation wasabout acids and explosives, or the planets or bishops, or else on thenever, never-ending subject of elevating the workingman and buildingschools for his children. Basil, of course, enjoyed it. He thought hewas giving me a magnificent object lesson. He was never done praisingthe ladies Mary Elinor and Adelaide Stanhope. I'm sure I wish he hadmarried one or all of them--and I told him so."
"You could not be so cruel, Dora."
"I managed it with the greatest ease imaginable. He was always trottingat their side. They spoke of him as 'the most pious young man.' I haveno doubt they were all in love with him. I hope they were. I used topretend to be very much in love when they were present. I dare say itmade them wretched. Besides, they blushed and thought me improper. Basildidn't approve, either, so I hit all round."
She rose at this memory and shook out her silk skirts, and walked up anddown the room with an air that was the visible expression of the mockeryand jealousy in her heart. This was an entirely different Dora to thelachrymose, untidy wife at the Savoy Hotel in London, and Ethel had amomentary pang at the thought of the suffering which was responsible forthe change.
"If I had thought, Dora, you were so uncomfortable, I would have askedBasil and you to the Court."
"You saw I was not happy when I was at the Savoy."
"I thought you and Basil had had a kind of lovers' quarrel, and that itwould blow over in an hour or two; no one likes to meddle with an affairof that kind. Are you going to Newport, or is Mrs. Denning in New York?"
"That is another trouble, Ethel. When I wrote mother I wanted to come toher, she sent me word she was going to Lenox with a friend. Then, likeyou, she said 'she had no liberty to invite me,' and so on. I never knewmother act in such a way before. I nearly broke my heart about it for afew days, then I made up my mind I wouldn't care."
"Mrs. Denning, I am sure, thought she did the wisest and kindest thingpossible."
"I didn't want mother to be wise. I wanted her to understand that I wasfairly worn out with my present life and needed a change. I'm sureshe did understand. Then why was she so cruel?" and she shruggedher shoulders impatiently and sat down. "I'm so tired of life," shecontinued. "When did you hear of Fred Mostyn?"
"I know nothing of his movements. Is he in America?"
"Somewhere. I asked mother if he was in Newport, and she never answeredthe ques-tion. I suppose he will be in New York for the winter season. Ihope so."
This topic threatened to be more dangerous than the other, andEthel, after many and futile attempts to bring conversation into safecommonplace channels, pleaded other engagements and went away. She waspainfully depressed by the interview. All the elements of tragedy weregathered together under the roof she had just left, and, as far as shecould see, there was no deliverer wise and strong enough to prevent acalamity. She did not repeat to Ruth the conversation which had been sopainful to her. She described Dora's dress and appearance, and commentedon Fred Mostyn's description of Tyrrel Rawdon, and on Mrs. Denning'srefusal of her daughter's proposed visit.
Ruth thought the latter circumstance significant. "I dare say Mostynwas in Newport at that time," she answered. "Mrs. Denn
ing has some veryquick perceptions." And Ruth's opinion was probably correct, for duringdinner the Judge remarked in a casual manner that he had met Mr. Mostynon the avenue as he was coming home. "He was well," he said, "and madeall the usual inquiries as to your health." And both Ruth and Ethelunderstood that he wished them to know of Mostyn's presence in the city,and to be prepared for meeting him; but did not care to discussthe subject further, at least at that time. The information broughtprecisely the same thought at the same moment to both women, and as soonas they were alone they uttered it.
"She knew Mostyn was in the city," said Ethel in a low voice.
"Certainly."
"She was expecting him."
"I am sure of it."
"Her elaborate and beautiful dressing was for him."
"Poor Basil!"
"She asked me to stay and lunch with her, but very coolly, and whenI refused, did not press the matter as she used to do. Yes, she wasexpecting him. I understand now her nervous manner, her restlessness,her indifference to my short visit. I wish I could do anything."
"You cannot, and you must not try."
"Some one must try."
"There is her husband. Have you heard from Tyrrel yet."
"I have had a couple of telegrams. He will write from Chicago."
"Is he going at once to the Hot Springs?"
"As rapidly as possible. Colonel Rawdon is now there, and very ill.Tyrrel will put his father first of all. The trouble at the mine can beinvestigated afterwards."
"You will miss him very much. You have been so happy together."
"Of course I shall miss him. But it will be a good thing for us to beapart awhile. Love must have some time in which to grow. I am a littletired of being very happy, and I think Tyrrel also will find absence arelief. In 'Lalla Rookh' there is a line about love 'falling asleep in asameness of splendor.' It might. How melancholy is a long spell of hot,sunshiny weather, and how gratefully we welcome the first shower ofrain."
"Love has made you a philosopher, Ethel."
"Well, it is rather an advantage than otherwise. I am going to take awalk, Ruth, into the very heart of Broadway. I have had enough of thepeace of the country. I want the crack, and crash, and rattle, and grindof wheels, the confused cries, the snatches of talk and laughter, thetread of crowds, the sound of bells, and clocks, and chimes. I long forall the chaotic, unintelligible noise of the streets. How suggestiveit is! Yet it never explains itself. It only gives one a full sense oflife. Love may need just the same stimulus. I wish grandmother wouldcome home. I should not require Broadway as a stimulus. I am afraid shewill be very angry with me, and there will be a battle royal in GramercyPark."
It was nearly a week before Ethel had this crisis to meet. She went downto it with a radiant face and charming manner, and her reception wasvery cordial. Madam would not throw down the glove until the propermoment; besides, there were many very interesting subjects to talk over,and she wanted "to find things out" that would never be told unlesstempers were propitious. Added to these reasons was the solid one thatshe really adored her granddaughter, and was immensely cheered by thevery sight of the rosy, smiling countenance lifted to her sitting-roomwindow in passing. She, indeed, pretended to be there in order to geta good light for her new shell pattern, but she was watching for Ethel,and Ethel understood the shell-pattern fiction very well. She had heardsomething similar often.
"My darling grandmother," she cried, "I thought you would never comehome."
"It wasn't my fault, dear. Miss Hillis and an imbecile young doctor mademe believe I had a cold. I had no cold. I had nothing at all but whatI ought to have. I've been made to take all sorts of things, and do allsorts of things that I hate to take and hate to do. For ten days I'vebeen kicking my old heels against bedclothes. Yesterday I took things inmy own hands."
"Never mind, Granny dear, it was all a good discipline."
"Discipline! You impertinent young lady! Discipline for yourgrandmother! Discipline, indeed! That one word may cost you a thousanddollars, miss."
"I don't care if it does, only you must give the thousand dollars topoor Miss Hillis."
"Poor Miss Hillis has had a most comfortable time with me all summer."
"I know she has, consequently she will feel her comfortless room andpoverty all the more after it. Give her the thousand, Granny. I'mwilling."
"What kind of company have you been keeping, Ethel Rawdon? Who hastaught you to squander dollars by the thousand? Discipline! I think youare giving me a little now--a thousand dollars a lesson, it seems--nowonder, after the carryings-on at Rawdon Court."
"Dear grandmother, we had the loveliest time you can imagine. And thereis not, in all the world, such a noble old gentleman as Squire PercivalRawdon."
"I know all about Percival Rawdon--a proud, careless, extravagant,loose-at-ends man, dancing and singing and loving as it suited time andseason, taking no thought for the future, and spending with both hands;hard on women, too, as could be."
"Grandmother, I never saw a more courteous gentleman. He worships women.He was never tired of talking about you."
"What had he to say about me?"
"That you were the loveliest girl in the county, and that he never couldforget the first time he saw you. He said you were like the vision of anangel."
"Nonsense! I was just a pretty girl in a book muslin frock and a whitesash, with a rose at my breast. I believe they use book muslin forlinings now, but it did make the sheerest, lightest frocks any girlcould want. Yes, I remember that time. I was going to a little party andcrossing a meadow to shorten the walk, and Squire Percival had been outwith his gun, and he laid it down and ran to help me over the stile. Ahandsome young fellow he was then as ever stepped in shoe leather."
"And he must have loved you dearly. He would sit hour after hour tellingRuth and me how bright you were, and how all the young beaux aroundMonk-Rawdon adored you."
"Nonsense! Nonsense! I had beaux to be sure. What pretty girl hasn't?"
"And he said his brother Edward won you because he was most worthy ofyour love."
"Well, now, I chose Edward Rawdon because he was willing to come toAmerica. I longed to get away from Monk-Rawdon. I was faint and wearywith the whole stupid place. And the idea of living a free and equallife, and not caring what lords and squires and their proud ladies saidor did, pleased me wonderfully. We read about Niagara and the greatprairies and the new bright cities, and Edward and I resolved tomake our home there. Your grandfather wasn't a man to like being 'theSquire's brother.' He could stand alone."
"Are you glad you came to America?"
"Never sorry a minute for it. Ten years in New York is worth fifty yearsin Monk-Rawdon, or Rawdon Court either."
"Squire Percival was very fond of me. He thought I resembled you,grandmother, but he never admitted I was as handsome as you were."
"Well, Ethel dear, you are handsome enough for the kind of men you'llpick up in this generation--most of them bald at thirty, wearingspectacles at twenty or earlier, and in spite of the fuss they makeabout athletics breaking all to nervous bits about fifty."
"Grandmother, that is pure slander. I know some very fine young men,handsome and athletic both."
"Beauty is a matter of taste, and as to their athletics, they can runa mile with a blacksmith, but when the thermometer rises to eighty-fivedegrees it knocks them all to pieces. They sit fanning themselves likeschoolgirls, and call for juleps and ice-water. I've got eyes yet, mydear. Squire Percival was a different kind of man; he could follow thehounds all day and dance all night. The hunt had not a rider likehim; he balked at neither hedge, gate, nor water; a right gallant,courageous, honorable, affectionate gentleman as ever Yorkshire bred,and she's bred lots of superfine ones. What ever made him get into sucha mess with his estate? Your grandfather thought him as straight as astring in money matters."
"You said just now he was careless and extravagant."
"Well, I did him wrong, and I'm sorry for it. How did he manage to needeighty t
housand pounds?"
"It is rather a pitiful story, grandmother, but he never once blamedthose who were in the wrong. His son for many years had been the realmanager of the estate. He was a speculator; his grandsons were wild andextravagant. They began to borrow money ten years ago and had to go on."
"Whom did they borrow from?"
"Fred Mostyn's father."
"The devil! Excuse me, Ethel--but the name suits and may stand."
"The dear old Squire would have taken the fault on himself if he couldhave done so. They that wronged him were his own, and they were dead. Henever spoke of them but with affection."
"Poor Percival! Your father told me he was now out of Mostyn's power;he said you had saved the estate, but he gave me no particulars. How didyou save it?"
"Bought it!"
"Nonsense!"
"House and lands and outlying farms and timber--everything."
Then a rosy color overspread Madam's face, her eyes sparkled, she roseto her feet, made Ethel a sweeping courtesy, and said:
"My respect and congratulations to Ethel, Lady of Rawdon Manor."
"Dear grandmother, what else could I do?"
"You did right."
"The Squire is Lord of the Manor as long as he lives. My father says Ihave done well to buy it. In the future, if I do not wish to keep it,Nicholas Rawdon will relieve me at a great financial advantage."
"Why didn't you let Nicholas Rawdon buy it now?"
"He would have wanted prompt possession. The Squire would have had toleave his home. It would have broken his heart."
"I dare say. He has a soft, loving heart. That isn't always a blessing.It can give one a deal of suffering. And I hear you have all been makingidols of these Tyrrel-Rawdons. Fred tells me they are as vulgar a lot ascan be."
"Fred lies! Excuse me, grandmother--but the word suits and may stand.Mr. Nicholas is pompous, and walks as slowly as if he had to carry theweight of his great fortune; but his manners are all right, and hiswife and son are delightful. She is handsome, well dressed, and sogood-hearted that her pretty county idioms are really charming. JohnThomas is a man by himself--not handsome, but running over with goodtemper, and exceedingly clever and wide-awake. Many times I was forcedto tell myself, John Thomas would make an ideal Squire of Rawdon."
"Why don't you marry him."
"He never asked me."
"What was the matter with the men?"
"He was already engaged to a very lovely young lady."
"I am glad she is a lady."
"She is also very clever. She has been to college and taken high honors,a thing I have not done."
"You might have done and overdone that caper; you were too sensible totry it. Well, I'm glad that part of the family is looking up. They hadthe right stuff in them, and it is a good thing for families to dwelltogether in unity. We have King David's word for that. My observationleads me to think it is far better for families to dwell apart, inunity. They seldom get along comfortably together."
Then Ethel related many pleasant, piquant scenes between the twofamilies at Monk-Rawdon, and especially that one in which the room ofthe first Tyrrel had been opened and his likeness restored to itsplace in the family gallery. It touched the old lady to tears, and shemurmured, "Poor lad! Poor lad! I wonder if he knows! I wonder if heknows!"
The crucial point of Ethel's revelations had not yet been revealed,but Madam was now in a gentle mood, and Ethel took the opportunity tointroduce her to Tyrrel Rawdon. She was expecting and waiting for thistopic, but stubbornly refused to give Ethel any help toward bringingit forward. At last, the girl felt a little anger at her pretendedindifference, and said, "I suppose Fred Mostyn told you about Mr. TyrrelRawdon, of California?"
"Tyrrel Rawdon, of California! Pray, who may he be?"
"The son of Colonel Rawdon, of the United States Army."
"Oh, to be sure! Well, what of him?"
"I am going to marry him."
"I shall see about that."
"We were coming here together to see you, but before we left the steamerhe got a telegram urging him to go at once to his father, who is veryill."
"I have not asked him to come and see me. Perhaps he will wait till I doso."
"If you are not going to love Tyrrel, you need not love me. I won't haveyou for a grandmother any longer."
"I did without you sixty years. I shall not live another twelve months,and I think I can manage to do without you for a granddaughter anylonger."
"You cannot do without me. You would break your heart, and I shouldbreak mine." Whereupon Ethel began to cry with a passion that quitegratified the old lady. She watched her a few moments, and then saidgently:
"There now, that will do. When he comes to New York bring him to see me.And don't name the man in the meantime. I won't talk about him till I'veseen him. It isn't fair either way. Fred didn't like him."
"Fred likes no one but Dora Stanhope."
"Eh! What! Is that nonsense going on yet?"
Then Ethel described her last two interviews with Dora. She did thiswith scrupulous fidelity, making no suggestions that might prejudice thecase. For she really wanted her grandmother's decision in order to frameher own conduct by it. Madam was not, however, in a hurry to give it.
"What do you think?" she asked Ethel.
"I have known Dora for many years; she has always told me everything."
"But nothing about Fred?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing to tell, perhaps?"
"Perhaps."
"Where does her excellent husband come in?"
"She says he is very kind to her in his way."
"And his way is to drag her over the world to see the cathedralsthereof, and to vary that pleasure with inspecting schools andreformatories and listening to great preachers. Upon my word, I feelsorry for the child! And I know all about such excellent people as theStanhopes. I used to go to what they call 'a pleasant evening' withthem. We sat around a big room lit with wax candles, and held improvingconversation, or some one sang one or two of Mrs. Hemans' songs, like'Passing Away' or 'He Never Smiled Again.' Perhaps there was a comicrecitation, at which no one laughed, and finally we had wine and hotwater--they called it 'port negus'--and tongue sandwiches and carawaycakes. 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'soperas 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 andsewing 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 feelan interest in them? Do doctors tell their wives about their patients,and expect them to pay sympathizing visits? Does your father expect Ruthand yourself to listen to his cases and arguments, and visit his poorclients or make underclothing for them? Do men, in general, consider ita wife's place to interfere in their profession or business?"
"Clergymen are different."
"Not at all. Preaching and philanthropy is their business. They get somuch a year for doing it. I don't believe St. Jude's pays Mrs. Stanhopea 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 churchwork."
"I dare say she did. Marriage makes a deal of difference in a woman'slikes and dislikes. Church work was courting-time before marriage; aftermarriage 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 longas you can. In Yorkshire we stand by our friends, right or wrong, andwe aren't too particular as to their
being right. My father enjoyedjustifying a man that everyone else was down on; and I've stood by manya 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 notwonder if some of them that have gone there first will be ready to standby me. We don't know what friends we'll be glad of there."
The dinner bell broke up this conversation, and Ethel during it toldMadam about the cook and cooking at the Court and at NicholasRawdon's, where John Thomas had installed a French chef. Other domesticarrangements were discussed, and when the Judge called for his daughterat four o'clock, Madam vowed "she had spent one of the happiest days ofher life."
"Ruth tells me," said the Judge, "that Dora Stanhope called for Ethelsoon after she left home this morning. Ruth seems troubled at thecontinuance 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 uponlikelihoods. We are no saints, sinful men and women, all of us, and asmuch inclined to forbidden fruit as any good Christians can be. Ethelcan do as she feels about it; she's got a mind of her own, and I hope togoodness she'll not let Ruth Bayard bit and bridle it."
Going home the Judge evidently pondered this question, for he said aftera lengthy silence, "Grandmother's ethics do not always fit the socialethics of this day, Ethel. She criticises people with her heart, nother intellect. You must be prudent. There is a remarkable thing calledRespectability to be reckoned with remember that."
And Ethel answered, "No one need worry about Dora. Some women may showthe edges of their character soiled and ragged, but Dora will be sureto 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
The Man Between: An International Romance Page 9