The Man Between: An International Romance

“He deserves it.”

“He is so sensitive about public opinion.”

“In that case he should behave decently in private.”

Then Tyrrel lit another cigar, and there was another silence, which Ethel occupied in irritating thoughts of Dora’s unfortunate fatality in trouble-making. She sat at a little table standing between herself and Tyrrel. It held his smoking utensils, and after awhile she pushed them aside, and let the splendid rings which adorned her hand fall into the cleared space. Tyrrel watched her a few moments, and then asked, “What are you doing, Ethel, my dear?”

She looked up with a smile, and then down at the hand she had laid open upon the table. “I am looking at the Ring of all Rings. See, Tyrrel, it is but a little band of gold, and yet it gave me more than all the gems of earth could buy. Rubies and opals and sapphires are only its guard. The simple wedding ring is the ring of great price. It is the loveliest ornament a happy woman can wear.”

Tyrrel took her hand and kissed it, and kissed the golden band, and then answered, “Truly an ornament if a happy wife wears it; but oh, Ethel, what is it when it binds a woman to such misery as Dora has just fled from?”

“Then it is a fetter, and a woman who has a particle of self-respect will break it. The Ring of all Rings!” she ejaculated again, as she lifted the rubies and opals, and slowly but smilingly encircled the little gold band.

“Let us try now to forget that sorrowful woman,” said Tyrrel. “She will be with her mother in a few hours. Mother-love can cure all griefs. It never fails. It never blames. It never grows weary. It is always young and warm and true. Dora will be comforted. Let us forget; we can do no more.”

For a couple of days this was possible, but then came Mrs. Nicholas Rawdon, and the subject was perforce opened. “It was a bad case,” she said, “but it is being settled as quickly and as quietly as possible. I believe the man has entered into some sort of recognizance to keep the peace, and has disappeared. No one will look for him. The gentry are against pulling one another down in any way, and this affair they don’t want talked about. Being all of them married men, it isn’t to be expected, is it? Justice Manningham was very sorry for the little lady, but he said also ‘it was a bad precedent, and ought not to be discussed.’ And Squire Bentley said, ‘If English gentlemen would marry American women, they must put up with American women’s ways,’ and so on. None of them think it prudent to approve Mrs. Mostyn’s course. But they won’t get off as easy as they think. The women are standing up for her. Did you ever hear anything like that? And I’ll warrant some husbands are none so easy in their minds, as my Nicholas said, ‘Mrs. Mostyn had sown seed that would be seen and heard tell of for many a long day.’ Our Lucy, I suspect, had more to do with the move than she will confess. She got a lot of new, queer notions at college, and I do believe in my heart she set the poor woman up to the business. John Thomas, of course, says not a word, but he looks at Lucy in a very proud kind of way; and I’ll be bound he has got an object lesson he’ll remember as long as he lives. So has Nicholas, though he bluffs more than a little as to what he’d do with a wife that got a running-away notion into her head. Bless you, dear, they are all formulating their laws on the subject, and their wives are smiling queerly at them, and holding their heads a bit higher than usual. I’ve been doing it myself, so I know how they feel.”

Thus, though very little was said in the newspapers about the affair, the notoriety Mostyn dreaded was complete and thorough. It was the private topic of conversation in every household. Men talked it over in all the places where men met, and women hired the old Mostyn servants in order to get the very surest and latest story of the poor wife’s wrongs, and then compared reports and even discussed the circumstances in their own particular clubs.

At the Court, Tyrrel and Ethel tried to forget, and their own interests were so many and so important that they usually succeeded; especially after a few lines from Mrs. Denning assured them of Dora’s safety and comfort. And for many weeks the busy life of the Manor sufficed; there was the hay to cut in the meadow lands, and after it the wheat fields to harvest. The stables, the kennels, the farms and timber, the park and the garden kept Tyrrel constantly busy. And to these duties were added the social ones, the dining and dancing and entertaining, the horse racing, the regattas, and the enthusiasm which automobiling in its first fever engenders.

And yet there were times when Tyrrel looked bored, and when nothing but Squire Percival’s organ or Ethel’s piano seemed to exorcise the unrest and ennui that could not be hid. Ethel watched these moods with a wise and kind curiosity, and in the beginning of September, when they perceptibly increased, she asked one day, “Are you happy, Tyrrel? Quite happy?”

“I am having a splendid holiday,” he answered, “but–”

“But what, dear?”

“One could not turn life into a long holiday—that would be harder than the hardest work.”

She answered “Yes,” and as soon as she was alone fell to thinking, and in the midst of her meditation Mrs. Nicholas Rawdon entered in a whirl of tempestuous delight.

“What do you think?” she asked between laughing and crying. “Whatever do you think? Our Lucy had twins yesterday, two fine boys as ever was. And I wish you could see their grandfather and their father. They are out of themselves with joy. They stand hour after hour beside the two cradles, looking at the little fellows, and they nearly came to words this morning about their names.”

“I am so delighted!” cried Ethel. “And what are you going to call them?”

“One is an hour older than the other, and John Thomas wanted them called Percival and Nicholas. But my Nicholas wanted the eldest called after himself, and he said so plain enough. And John Thomas said ‘he could surely name his own sons; and then Nicholas told him to remember he wouldn’t have been here to have any sons at all but for his father.’ And just then I came into the room to have a look at the little lads, and when I heard what they were fratching about, I told them it was none of their business, that Lucy had the right to name the children, and they would just have to put up with the names she gave them.”

“And has Lucy named them?”

“To be sure. I went right away to her and explained the dilemma, and I said, ‘Now, Lucy, it is your place to settle this question.’ And she answered in her positive little way, ‘You tell father the eldest is to be called Nicholas, and tell John Thomas the youngest is to be called John Thomas. I can manage two of that name very well. And say that I won’t have any more disputing about names, the boys are as good as christened already.’ And of course when Lucy said that we all knew it was settled. And I’m glad the eldest is Nicholas. He is a fine, sturdy little Yorkshireman, bawling out already for what he wants, and flying into a temper if he doesn’t get it as soon as he wants it. Dearie me, Ethel, I am a proud woman this morning. And Nicholas is going to give all the hands a holiday, and a trip up to Ambleside on Saturday, though John Thomas is very much against it.”

“Why is he against it?”

“He says they will be holding a meeting on Monday night to try and find out what Old Nicholas is up to, and that if he doesn’t give them the same treat on the same date next year, they’ll hold an indignation meeting about being swindled out of their rights. And I’ll pledge you my word John Thomas knows the men he’s talking about. However, Nicholas is close with his money, and it will do him good happen to lose a bit. Blood-letting is healthy for the body, and perhaps gold-letting may help the soul more than we think for.”

This news stimulated Ethel’s thinking, and when she also stood beside the two cradles, and the little Nicholas opened his big blue eyes and began to “bawl for what he wanted,” a certain idea took fast hold of her, and she nursed it silently for the next month, watch-ing Tyrrel at the same time. It was near October, however, before she found the proper opportunity for speaking. There had been a long letter from the Judge. It said Ruth and he were home again after a wonderful trip over the Northern Pacific road. He wrote with enthusiasm of the country and its opportunities, and of the big cities they had visited on their return from the Pacific coast. Every word was alive, the magnitude and stir of traffic and wrestling humanity seemed to rustle the paper. He described New York as overflowing with business. His own plans, the plans of others, the jar of politics, the thrill of music and the drama—all the multitudinous vitality that crowded the streets and filled the air, even to the roofs of the twenty-story buildings, contributed to the potent exhilaration of the letter.

“Great George!” exclaimed Tyrrel. “That is life! That is living! I wish we were back in America!”

“So do I, Tyrrel.”

“I am so glad. When shall we go? It is now the twenty-eighth of September.”

“Are you very weary of Rawdon Court”’

“Yes. If a man could live for the sake of eating and sleeping and having a pleasant time, why Rawdon Court would be a heaven to him; but if he wants to DO something with his life, he would be most unhappy here.”

“And you want to do something?”

“You would not have loved a man who did not want TO DO. We have been here four months. Think of it! If I take four months out of every year for twenty years, I shall lose, with travel, about seven years of my life, and the other things to be dropped with them may be of incalculable value.”

“I see, Tyrrel. I am not bound in any way to keep Rawdon Court. I can sell it to-morrow.”

“But you would be grieved to do so?”

“Not at all. Being a lady of the Manor does not flatter me. The other squires would rather have a good man in my place.”

“Why did you buy it?”

“As I have told you, to keep Mostyn out, and to keep a Rawdon here. But Nicholas Rawdon craves the place, and will pay well for his desire. It cost me eighty thousand pounds. He told father he would gladly give me one hundred thousand pounds whenever I was tired of my bargain. I will take the hundred thousand pounds to-morrow. There would then be four good heirs to Rawdon on the place.”

Here the conversation was interrupted by Mrs. Nicholas, who came to invite them to the christening feast of the twins. Tyrrel soon left the ladies together, and Ethel at once opened the desired conversation.

“I am afraid we may have left the Court before the christening,” she said. “Mr. Rawdon is very unhappy here. He is really homesick.”

“But this is his home, isn’t it? And a very fine one.”

“He cannot feel it so. He has large interests in America. I doubt if I ever induce him to come here again. You see, this visit has been our marriage trip.”

“And you won’t live here! I never heard the line. What will you do with the Court? It will be badly used if it is left to servants seven or eight months every year.”

“I suppose I must sell it. I see no–”

“If you only would let Nicholas buy it. You might be sure then it would be well cared for, and the little lads growing up in it, who would finally heir it. Oh, Ethel, if you would think of Nicholas first. He would honor the place and be an honor to it.”

Out of this conversation the outcome was as satisfactory as it was certain, and within two weeks Nicholas Rawdon was Squire of Rawdon Manor, and possessor of the famous old Manor House. Then there followed a busy two weeks for Tyrrel, who had the superintendence of the packing, which was no light business. For though Ethel would not denude the Court of its ancient furniture and ornaments, there were many things belonging to the personal estate of the late Squire which had been given to her by his will, and could not be left behind. But by the end of October cases and trunks were all sent off to the steamship in which their passage was taken; and the Rawdon estate, which had played such a momentous part in Ethel’s life having finished its mission, had no further influence, and without regret passed out of her physical life forever.

Indeed, their willingness to resign all claims to the old home was a marvel to both Tyrrel and Ethel. On their last afternoon there they walked through the garden, and stood under the plane tree where their vows of love had been pledged, and smiled and wondered at their indifference. The beauteous glamor of first love was gone as completely as the flowers and scents and songs that had then filled the charming place. But amid the sweet decay of these things they once more clasped hands, looking with supreme confidence into each other’s eyes. All that had then been promised was now certain; and with an affection infinitely sweeter and surer, Tyrrel drew Ethel to his heart, and on her lips kissed the tenderest, proudest words a woman hears, “My dear wife!”

This visit was their last adieu, all the rest had been said, and early the next morning they left Monk-Rawdon station as quietly as they had arrived. During their short reign at Rawdon Court they had been very popular, and perhaps their resignation was equally so. After all, they were foreigners, and Nicholas Rawdon was Yorkshire, root and branch.

“Nice young people,” said Justice Manningham at a hunt dinner, “but our ways are not their ways, nor like to be. The young man was born a fighter, and there are neither bears nor Indians here for him to fight; and our politics are Greek to him; and the lady, very sweet and beautiful, but full of new ideas—ideas not suitable for women, and we do not wish our women changed.”

“Good enough as they are,” mumbled Squire Oakes.

“Nicest Americans I ever met,” added Earl Danvers, “but Nicholas Rawdon will be better at Rawdon Court.” To which statement there was a general assent, and then the subject was considered settled.

In the meantime Tyrrel and Ethel had reached London and gone to the Metropole Hotel; because, as Ethel said, no one knew where Dora was; but if in England, she was likely to be at the Savoy. They were to be two days in London. Tyrrel had banking and other business to fully occupy the time, and Ethel remembered she had some shopping to do, a thing any woman would discover if she found herself in the neighborhood of Regent Street and Piccadilly. On the afternoon of the second day this duty was finished, and she returned to her hotel satisfied but a little weary. As she was going up the steps she noticed a woman coming slowly down them. It was Dora Mostyn. They met with great enthusiasm on Dora’s part, and she turned back and went with Ethel to her room.

Ethel looked at her with astonishment. She was not like any Dora she had previously seen. Her beauty had developed wondrously, she had grown much taller, and her childish manner had been superseded by a carriage and air of superb grace and dignity. She had now a fine color, and her eyes were darker, softer, and more dreamy than ever. “Take off your hat, Dora,” said Ethel, “and tell me what has happened. You are positively splendid. Where is Mr. Mostyn?”

“I neither know nor care. He is tramping round the world after me, and I intend to keep him at it. But I forget. I must tell you how THAT has come about.”

“We heard from Mrs. Denning. She said she had received you safely.”

“My dear mother! She met me like an angel; comforted and cared for me, never said one word of blame, only kissed and pitied me. We talked things over, and she advised me to go to New York. So we took three passages under the names of Mrs. John Gifford, Miss Gifford, and Miss Diana Gifford. Miss Diana was my maid, but mother thought a party of three would throw Mostyn off our track.”

“A very good idea.”

“We sailed at once. On the second day out I had a son. The poor little fellow died in a few hours, and was buried at sea. But his birth has given me the power to repay to Fred Mostyn some of the misery he caused me.”

“How so? I do not see.”

“Oh, you must see, if you will only remember how crazy Englishmen are about their sons. Daughters don’t count, you know, but a son carries the property in the family name. He is its representative for the next generation. As I lay suffering and weeping, a fine scheme of revenge came clearly to me. Listen! Soon after we got home mother cabled Mostyn’s lawyer that ‘Mrs. Mostyn had had a son.’ Nothing was said of the boy’s death. Almost immediately I was notified that Mr. Mostyn would insist on the surrender of the child to his care. I took no notice of the letters. Then he sent his lawyer to claim the child and a woman to take care of it. I laughed them to scorn, and defied them to find the child. After them came Mostyn himself. He interviewed doctors, overlooked baptismal registers, advertised far and wide, bribed our servants, bearded father in his office, abused Bryce on the avenue, waylaid me in all my usual resorts, and bombarded me with letters, but he knows no more yet than the cable told him. And the man is becoming a monomaniac about HIS SON.”

“Are you doing right, Dora?”

“If you only knew how he had tortured me! Father and mother think he deserves all I can do to him. Anyway, he will have it to bear. If he goes to the asylum he threatened me with, I shall be barely satisfied. The ‘cat-faced woman’ is getting her innings now.”

“Have you never spoken to him or written to him? Surely”

“He caught me one day as I came out of our house, and said, ‘Madam, where is my son?’ And I answered, ‘You have no son. The child WAS MINE. You shall never see his face in this world. I have taken good care of that.’

“‘I will find him some day,’ he said, and I laughed at him, and answered, ‘He is too cunningly hid. Do you think I would let the boy know he had such a father as you? No, indeed. Not unless there was property for the disgrace.’ I touched him on the raw in that remark, and then I got into my carriage and told the coachman to drive quickly. Mostyn attempted to follow me, but the whip lashing the horses was in the way.” And Dora laughed, and the laugh was cruel and mocking and full of meaning.

“Dora, how can you? How can you find pleasure in such revenges?”

“I am having the greatest satisfaction of my life. And I am only beginning the just retribution, for my beauty is enthralling the man again, and he is on the road to a mad jealousy of me.”

“Why don’t you get a divorce? This is a case for that remedy. He might then marry again, and you also.”

“Even so, I should still torment him. If he had sons he would be miserable in the thought that his unknown son might, on his death, take from them the precious Mostyn estate, and that wretched, old, haunted house of his. I am binding him to misery on every hand.”

“Is Mrs. Denning here with you?”

“Both my father and mother are with me. Father is going to take a year’s rest, and we shall visit Berlin, Vienna, Rome, Paris or wherever our fancy leads us.”

“And Mr. Mostyn?”

“He can follow me round, and see nobles and princes and kings pay court to the beauty of the ‘cat-faced woman.’ I shall never notice him, never speak to him; but you need not look so suspicious, Ethel. Neither by word nor deed will I break a single convention of the strictest respectability.”

“Mr. Mostyn ought to give you your freedom.”

“I have given freedom to myself. I have already divorced him. When they brought my dead baby for me to kiss, I slipped into its little hand the ring that made me his mother. They went to the bottom of the sea together. As for ever marrying again, not in this life. I have had enough of it. My first husband was the sweetest saint out of heaven, and my second was some mean little demon that had sneaked his way out of hell; and I found both insupportable.” She lifted her hat as she spoke, and began to pin it on her beautifully dressed hair. “Have no fear for me,” she continued. “I am sure Basil watches over me. Some day I shall be good, and he will be happy.” Then, hand in hand, they walked to the door together, and there were tears in both voices as they softly said “Good-by.”