After awhile he rose, drank some water, lifted the shade and let the moonlight in. Then about that little room he walked with God through the long night, telling Him his sorrow and perplexity. And there is a depth in our own nature where the divine and human are one. That night Basil Stanhope found it, and henceforward knew that the bitterness of death was behind him, not before. "I made my nest too dear on earth," he sighed, "and it has been swept bare—that is, that I may build in heaven."

Now, the revelation of sorrow is the clearest of all revelations. Stanhope understood that hour what he must do. No doubts weakened his course. He went back to the house Dora called "hers," took away what he valued, and while the servants were eating their breakfast and talking over his marital troubles, he passed across its threshold for the last time. He told no one where he was going; he dropped as silently and dumbly out of the life that had known him as a stone dropped into mid-ocean.

Ethel considered herself fortunate in being from home at the time this disastrous culmination of Basil Stanhope's married life was reached. On that same morning the Judge, accompanied by Ruth and herself, had gone to Lenox to spend the holidays with some old friends, and she was quite ignorant of the matter when she returned after the New Year. Bryce was her first informant. He called specially to give her the news. He said his sister had been too ill and too busy to write. He had no word of sympathy for the unhappy pair. He spoke only of the anxiety it had caused him. "He was now engaged," he said, "to Miss Caldwell, and she was such an extremely proper, innocent lady, and a member of St. Jude's, it had really been a trying time for her." Bryce also reminded Ethel that he had been against Basil Stanhope from the first. "He had always known how that marriage would end," and so on.

Ethel declined to give any opinion. "She must hear both sides," she said. "Dora had been so reasonable lately, she had appeared happy."

"Oh, Dora is a little fox," he replied; "she doubles on herself always."

Ruth was properly regretful. She wondered "if any married woman was really happy." She did not apparently concern herself about Basil. The Judge rather leaned to Basil's consideration. He understood that Dora's overt act had shattered his professional career as well as his personal happiness. He could feel for the man there. "My dears," he said, with his dilettante air, "the goddess Calamity is delicate, and her feet are tender. She treads not upon the ground, but makes her path upon the hearts of men." In this non-committal way he gave his comment, for he usually found a bit of classical wisdom to fit modern emergencies, and the habit had imparted an antique bon-ton to his conversation. Ethel could only wonder at the lack of real sympathy.

In the morning she went to see her grandmother. The old lady had "heard" all she wanted to hear about Dora and Basil Stanhope. If men would marry a fool because she was young and pretty, they must take the consequences. "And why should Stanhope have married at all?" she asked indignantly. "No man can serve God and a woman at the same time. He had to be a bad priest and a good husband, or a bad husband and a good priest. Basil Stanhope was honored, was doing good, and he must needs be happy also. He wanted too much, and lost everything. Serve him right."

"All can now find some fault in poor Basil Stanhope," said Ethel. "Bryce was bitter against him because Miss Caldwell shivers at the word 'divorce.'"

"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] And that evening there was little conversation. Every heart was busy with its own thoughts.

[Footnote 2: Wisdom of Solomon, IV., 13, 14.]



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!"

"She was a famous singer. She was a great and a good woman. I owe her for every excellent quality there is in me."

"No, you don't. You have got your black eyes and hair her way, I'll warrant that, but your solid make-up, your pluck and grit and perseverance is the Rawdon in you. Without Rawdon you would very likely now be strutting about some opera stage, playing at kings and lovemaking."

"As it is——"

"As it is, you will be lord consort of Rawdon Manor, with a silver mine to back you."

"I am sorry about the Manor," said Tyrrel. "I wish the dear old Squire were alive to meet Ethel and myself."

"To be sure you do. But I dare say that he is glad now to have passed out of it. Death is a mystery to those left, but I have no doubt it is satisfying to those who have gone away. He died as he lived, very properly; walked in the garden that morning as far as the strawberry beds, and the gardener gave him the first ripe half-dozen in a young cabbage leaf, and he ate them like a boy, and said they tasted as if grown in Paradise, then strolled home and asked Joel to shake the pillows on the sofa in the hall, laid himself down, shuffled his head easy among them, and fell on sleep. So Death the Deliverer found him. A good going home! Nothing to fear in it."

"Ethel tells me that Mr. Mostyn is now living at Mostyn Hall."

"Yes, he married that girl he would have sold his soul for and took her there, four months only after her husband's death. When I was young he durst not have done it, the Yorkshire gentry would have cut them both."

"I think," said Tyrrel, "American gentlemen of to-day felt much the same. Will Madison told me that the club cut him as soon as Mrs. Stanhope left her husband. He went there one day after it was known, and no one saw him; finally he walked up to McLean, and would have sat down, but McLean said, 'Your company is not desired, Mr. Mostyn.' Mostyn said something in re-ply, and McLean answered sternly, 'True, we are none of us saints, but there are lines the worst of us will not pass; and if there is any member of this club willing to interfere between a bridegroom and his bride, I would like to kick him out of it.' Mostyn struck the table with some exclamation, and McLean continued, 'Especially when the wronged husband is a gentleman of such stainless character and unsuspecting nature as Basil Stanhope—a clergyman also! Oh, the thing is beyond palliation entirely!' And he walked away and left Mostyn."

"Well," said Madam, "if it came to kicking, two could play that game. Fred is no coward. I don't want to hear another word about them. They will punish each other without our help. Let them alone. I hope you are not going to have a crowd at your wedding. The quietest weddings are the luckiest ones."

"About twenty of our most intimate friends are invited to the church," said Ethel. "There will be no reception until we return to New York in the fall."

"No need of fuss here, there will be enough when you reach Monk-Rawdon. The village will be garlanded and flagged, the bells ring-ing, and all your tenants and retainers out to meet you."

"We intend to get into our own home without anyone being aware of it. Come, Tyrrel, my dressmaker is waiting, I know. It is my wedding gown, dear Granny, and oh, so lovely!"

"You will not be any smarter than I intend to be, miss. You are shut off from color. I can outdo you."

"I am sure you can—and will. Here comes father. What can he want?" They met him at the door, and with a few laughing words left him with Madam. She looked curiously into his face and asked, "What is it, Edward?"

"I suppose they have told you all the arrangements. They are very simple. Did they say anything about Ruth?"

"They never named her. They said they were going to Washington for a week, and then to Rawdon Court. Ruth seems out of it all. Are you going to turn her adrift, or present her with a few thousand dollars? She has been a mother to Ethel. Something ought to be done for Ruth Bayard."

"I intend to marry her."

"I thought so."

"She will go to her sister's in Philadelphia for a month 's preparation. I shall marry her there, and bring her home as my wife. She is a sweet, gentle, docile woman. She will make me happy."

"Sweet, gentle, docile! Yes, that is the style of wife Rawdon men prefer. What does Ethel say?"

"She is delighted. It was her idea. I was much pleased with her thoughtfulness. Any serious break in my life would now be a great discomfort. You need not look so satirical, mother; I thought of Ruth's life also."

"Also an afterthought; but Ruth is gentle and docile, and she is satisfied, and I am satisfied, so then everything is proper and everyone content. Come for me at ten on Wednesday morning. I shall be ready. No refreshments, I suppose. I must look after my own breakfast. Won't you feel a bit shabby, Edward?" And then the look and handclasp between them turned every word into sweetness and good-will.

And as Ethel regarded her marriage rather as a religious rite than a social function, she objected to its details becoming in any sense public, and her desires were to be regarded. Yet everyone may imagine the white loveliness of the bride, the joy of the bridegroom, the calm happiness of the family breakfast, and the leisurely, quiet leave-taking. The whole ceremony was the right note struck at the beginning of a new life, and they might justly expect it would move onward in melodious sequence.

Within three weeks after their marriage they arrived at Rawdon Court. It was on a day and at an hour when no one was looking for them, and they stepped into the lovely home waiting for them without outside observation. Hiring a carriage at the railway station, they dismissed it at the little bridge near the Manor House, and sauntered happily through the intervening space. The door of the great hall stood open, and the fire, which had been burning on its big hearth unquenched for more than three hundred years, was blazing merrily, as if some hand had just replenished it. On the long table the broad, white beaver hat of the dead Squire was lying, and his oak walking stick was beside it. No one had liked to remove them. They remained just as he had put them down, that last, peaceful morning of his life.

In a few minutes the whole household was aware of their home-coming, and before the day was over the whole neighborhood. Then there was no way of avoiding the calls, the congratulations, and the entertainments that followed, and the old Court was once more the center of a splendid hospitality. Of course the Tyrrel-Rawdons were first on the scene, and Ethel was genuinely glad to meet again the good-natured Mrs. Nicholas. No one could give her better local advice, and Ethel quickly discovered that the best general social laws require a local interpretation. Her hands were full, her heart full, she had so many interests to share, so many people to receive and to visit, and yet when two weeks passed and Dora neither came nor wrote she was worried and dissatisfied.

"Are the Mostyns at the Hall?" she asked Mrs. Nicholas at last. "I have been expecting Mrs. Mostyn every day, but she neither comes nor writes to me."

"I dare say not. Poor little woman! I'll warrant she has been forbid to do either. If Mostyn thought she wanted to see you, he would watch day and night to prevent her coming. He's turning out as cruel a man as his father was, and you need not say a word worse than that."

"Cruel! Oh, dear, how dreadful! Men will drink and cheat and swear, but a cruel man seems so unnatural, so wicked."

"To be sure, cruelty is the joy of devils. As I said to John Thomas when we heard about Mostyn's goings-on, we have got rid of the Wicked One, but the wicked still remain with us."

This conversation having been opened, was naturally prolonged by the relation of incidents which had come through various sources to Mrs. Rawdon's ears, all of them indicating an almost incredible system of petty tyranny and cruel contradiction. Ethel was amazed, and finally angry at what she heard. Dora was her countrywoman and her friend; she instantly began to express her sympathy and her intention of interfering.

"You had better neither meddle nor make in the matter," answered Mrs. Rawdon. "Our Lucy went to see her, and gave her some advice about managing Yorkshiremen. And as she was talking Mostyn came in, and was as rude as he dared to be. Then Lucy asked him 'if he was sick.' She said, 'All the men in the neighborhood, gentle and simple, were talking about him, and that it wasn't a pleasant thing to be talked about in the way they were doing it. You must begin to look more like yourself, Mr. Mostyn; it is good advice I am giving you,' she added; and Mostyn told her he would look as he felt, whether it was liked or not liked. And Lucy laughed, and said, 'In that case he would have to go to his looking-glass for company.' Well, Ethel, there was a time to joy a devil after Lucy left, and some one of the servants went on their own responsibility for a doctor; and Mostyn ordered him out of the house, and he would not go until he saw Mrs. Mostyn; and the little woman was forced to come and say 'she was quite well,' though she was sobbing all the time she spoke. Then the doctor told Mostyn what he thought, and there is a quarrel between them every time they meet."

But Ethel was not deterred by these statements; on the contrary, they stimulated her interest in her friend. Dora needed her, and the old feeling of protection stirred her to interference. At any rate, she could call and see the unhappy woman; and though Tyrrel was opposed to the visit, and thought it every way unwise, Ethel was resolved to make it. "You can drive me there," she said, "then go and see Justice Manningham and call for me in half an hour." And this resolution was strengthened by a pitiful little note received from Dora just after her decision. "Mostyn has gone to Thirsk," it said; "for pity's sake come and see me about two o'clock this afternoon."

The request was promptly answered. As the clock struck two Ethel crossed the threshold of the home that might have been hers. She shuddered at the thought. The atmosphere of the house was full of fear and gloom, the furniture dark and shabby, and she fancied the wraiths of old forgotten crimes and sorrows were gliding about the sad, dim rooms and stairways. Dora rose in a passion of tears to welcome her, and because time was short instantly began her pitiful story.

"You know how he adored me once," she said; "would you believe it, Ethel, we were not two weeks married when he began to hate me. He dragged me through Europe in blazing heat and blinding snows when I was sick and unfit to move. He brought me here in the depth of winter, and when no one called on us he blamed me; and from morning till night, and sometimes all night long, he taunts and torments me. After he heard that you had bought the Manor he lost all control of himself. He will not let me sleep. He walks the floor hour after hour, declaring he could have had you and the finest manor in England but for a cat-faced woman like me. And he blames me for poor Basil's death—says we murdered him together, and that he sees blood on my hands." And she looked with terror at her small, thin hands, and held them up as if to protest against the charge. When she next spoke it was to sob out, "Poor Basil! He would pity me! He would help me! He would forgive me! He knows now that Mostyn was, and is, my evil genius."

"Do not cry so bitterly, Dora, it hurts me. Let us think. Is there nothing you can do?"

"I want to go to mother." Then she drew Ethel's head close to her and whispered a few words, and Ethel answered, "You poor little one, you shall go to your mother. Where is she?"

"She will be in London next week, and I must see her. He will not let me go, but go I must if I die for it. Mrs. John Thomas Rawdon told me what to do, and I have been following her advice."

Ethel did not ask what it was, but added,

"If Tyrrel and I can help you, send for us. We will come. And, Dora, do stop weeping, and be brave. Remember you are an American woman. Your father has often told me how you could ride with Indians or cowboys and shoot with any miner in Colorado. A bully like Mostyn is always a coward. Lift up your heart and stand for every one of your rights. You will find plenty of friends to stand with you." And with the words she took her by the hands and raised her to her feet, and looked at her with such a beaming, courageous smile that Dora caught its spirit, and promised to insist on her claims for rest and sleep.

"When shall I come again, Dora?"

"Not till I send for you. Mother will be in London next Wednesday at the Savoy. I intend to leave here Wednesday some time, and may need you; will you come?"

"Surely, both Tyrrel and I."

Then the time being on a dangerous line they parted. But Ethel could think of nothing and talk of nothing but the frightful change in her friend, and the unceasing misery which had produced it. Tyrrel shared all her indignation. The slow torture of any creature was an intolerable crime in his eyes, but when the brutality was exercised on a woman, and on a countrywoman, he was roused to the highest pitch of indignation. When Wednesday arrived he did not leave the house, but waited with Ethel for the message they confidently expected. It came about five o'clock—urgent, imperative, entreating, "Come, for God's sake! He will kill me."

The carriage was ready, and in half an hour they were at Mostyn Hall. No one answered their summons, but as they stood listening and waiting, a shrill cry of pain and anger pierced the silence. It was followed by loud voices and a confused noise—noise of many talking and exclaiming. Then Tyrrel no longer hesitated. He opened the door easily, and taking Ethel on his arm, suddenly entered the parlor from which the clamor came. Dora stood in the center of the room like an enraged pythoness, her eyes blazing with passion.

"See!" she cried as Tyrrel entered the room—"see!" And she held out her arm, and pointed to her shoulder from which the lace hung in shreds, showing the white flesh, red and bruised, where Mostyn had gripped her. Then Tyrrel turned to Mostyn, who was held tightly in the grasp of his gardener and coachman, and foaming with a rage that rendered his explanation almost inarticulate, especially as the three women servants gathered around their mistress added their railing and invectives to the general confusion.

"The witch! The cat-faced woman!" he screamed. "She wants to go to her mother! Wants to play the trick she killed Basil Stanhope with! She shall not! She shall not! I will kill her first! She is mad! I will send her to an asylum! She is a little devil! I will send her to hell! Nothing is bad enough—nothing——"

"Mr. Mostyn," said Tyrrel.

"Out of my house! What are you doing here? Away! This is my house! Out of it immediately!"

"This man is insane," said Tyrrel to Dora. "Put on your hat and cloak, and come home with us."

"I am waiting for Justice Manningham," she answered with a calm subsidence of passion that angered Mostyn more than her reproaches. "I have sent for him. He will be here in five minutes now. That brute"—pointing to Mostyn—"must be kept under guard till I reach my mother. The magistrate will bring a couple of constables with him."

"This is a plot, then! You hear it! You! You, Tyrrel Rawdon, and you, Saint Ethel, are in it, all here on time. A plot, I say! Let me loose that I may strangle the cat-faced creature. Look at her hands, they are already bloody!"

At these words Dora began to sob passionately, the servants, one and all, to comfort her, or to abuse Mostyn, and in the height of the hubbub Justice Manningham entered with two constables behind him.

"Take charge of Mr. Mostyn," he said to them, and as they laid their big hands on his shoulders the Justice added, "You will consider yourself under arrest, Mr. Mostyn."

And when nothing else could cow Mostyn, he was cowed by the law. He sank almost fainting into his chair, and the Justice listened to Dora's story, and looked indignantly at the brutal man, when she showed him her torn dress and bruised shoulder. "I entreat your Honor," she said, "to permit me to go to my mother who is now in London." And he answered kindly, "You shall go. You are in a condition only a mother can help and comfort. As soon as I have taken your deposition you shall go."

No one paid any attention to Mostyn's disclaimers and denials. The Justice saw the state of affairs. Squire Rawdon and Mrs. Rawdon testified to Dora's ill-usage; the butler, the coachman, the stablemen, the cook, the housemaids were all eager to bear witness to the same; and Mrs. Mostyn's appearance was too eloquent a plea for any humane man to deny her the mother-help she asked for.

Though neighbors and members of the same hunt and clubs, the Justice took no more friendly notice of Mostyn than he would have taken of any wife-beating cotton-weaver; and when all lawful preliminaries had been arranged, he told Mrs. Mostyn that he should not take up Mr. Mostyn's case till Friday; and in the interval she would have time to put herself under her mother's care. She thanked him, weeping, and in her old, pretty way kissed his hands, and "vowed he had saved her life, and she would forever remember his goodness." Mostyn mocked at her "play-acting," and was sternly reproved by the Justice; and then Tyrrel and Ethel took charge of Mrs. Mostyn until she was ready to leave for London.

She was more nearly ready than they expected. All her trunks were packed, and the butler promised to take them immediately to the railway station. In a quarter of an hour she appeared in traveling costume, with her jewels in a bag, which she carried in her hand. There was a train for London passing Monk-Rawdon at eight o'clock; and after Justice Manningham had left, the cook brought in some dinner, which Dora asked the Rawdons to share with her. It was, perhaps, a necessary but a painful meal. No one noticed Mostyn. He was enforced to sit still and watch its progress, which he accompanied with curses it would be a kind of sacrilege to write down. But no one answered him, and no one noticed the orders he gave for his own dinner, until Dora rose to leave forever the house of bondage. Then she said to the cook:

"See that those gentlemanly constables have something good to eat and to drink, and when they have been served you may give that man"—pointing to Mostyn—"the dinner of bread and water he has so often prescribed for me. After my train leaves you are all free to go to your own homes. Farewell, friends!"

Then Mostyn raved again, and finally tried his old loving terms. "Come back to me, Dora," he called frantically. "Come back, dearest, sweetest Dora, I will be your lover forever. I will never say another cross word to you."

But Dora heard not and saw not. She left the room without a glance at the man sitting cowering between the officers, and blubbering with shame and passion and the sense of total loss. In a few minutes he heard the Rawdon carriage drive to the door. Tyrrel and Ethel assisted Dora into it, and the party drove at once to the railway station. They were just able to catch the London train. The butler came up to report all the trunks safely forwarded, and Dora dropped gold into his hand, and bade him clear the house of servants as soon as the morning broke. Fortunately there was no time for last words and promises; the train began to move, and Tyrrel and Ethel, after watching Dora's white face glide into the darkness, turned silently away. That depression which so often follows the lifting of burdens not intended for our shoulders weighed on their hearts and made speech difficult. Tyrrel was especially affected by it. A quick feeling of something like sympathy for Mostyn would not be reasoned away, and he drew Ethel close within his arm, and gave the coachman an order to drive home as quickly as possible, for twilight was already becoming night, and under the trees the darkness felt oppressive.

The little fire on the hearth and their belated dinner somewhat relieved the tension; but it was not until they had retired to a small parlor, and Tyrrel had smoked a cigar, that the tragedy of the evening became a possible topic of conversation. Tyrrel opened the subject by a question as to whether "he ought to have gone with Dora to London."

"Dora opposed the idea strongly when I named it to her," answered Ethel. "She said it would give opportunities for Mostyn to slander both herself and you, and I think she was correct. Every way she was best alone."

"Perhaps, but I feel as if I ought to have gone, as if I had been something less than a gentleman; in fact, as if I had been very un-gentle."

"There is no need," answered Ethel a little coldly.

"It is a terrible position for Mostyn."

"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."



CHAPTER XII

A WEEK after this interview Tyrrel and Ethel were in New York. They landed early in the morning, but the Judge and Ruth were on the pier to meet them; and they breakfasted together at the fashionable hotel, where an elegant suite had been reserved for the residence of the Tyrrel-Rawdons until they had perfected their plans for the future. Tyrrel was boyishly excited, but Ethel's interest could not leave her father and his new wife. These two had lived in the same home for fifteen years, and then they had married each other, and both of them looked fifteen years younger. The Judge was actually merry, and Ruth, in spite of her supposed "docility," had quite reversed the situation. It was the Judge who was now docile, and even admiringly obedient to all Ruth's wifely advices and admonitions.

The breakfast was a talkative, tardy one, but at length the Judge went to his office and Tyrrel had to go to the Custom House. Ethel was eager to see her grandmother, and she was sure the dear old lady was anxiously waiting her arrival. And Ruth was just as anxious for Ethel to visit her renovated home. She had the young wife's delight in its beauty, and she wanted Ethel to admire it with her.

"We will dine with you to-morrow, Ruth," said Ethel, "and I will come very early and see all the improvements. I feel sure the house is lovely, and I am glad father made you such a pretty nest. Nothing is too pretty for you, Ruth." And there was no insincerity in this compliment. These two women knew and loved and trusted each other without a shadow of doubt or variableness.

So Ruth went to her home, and Ethel hastened to Gramercy Park. Madam was eagerly watching for her arrival.

"I have been impatient for a whole hour, all in a quiver, dearie," she cried. "It is nearly noon."

"I have been impatient also, Granny, but father and Ruth met us at the pier and stayed to breakfast with us, and you know how men talk and talk."

"Ruth and father down at the pier! How you dream!"

"They were really there. And they do seem so happy, grandmother. They are so much in love with each other."

"I dare say. There are no fools like old fools. So you have sold the Court to Nicholas Rawdon, and a cotton-spinner is Lord of the Manor. Well, well, how are the mighty fallen!"

"I made twenty thousand pounds by the sale. Nicholas Rawdon is a gentleman, and John Thomas is the most popular man in all the neighborhood. And, Granny, he has two sons—twins—the handsomest little chaps you ever saw. No fear of a Rawdon to heir the Manor now."

"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?"

"Yes, under the circumstances. Mr. Denning went to Paris for a critical and painful operation, and Dora is giving all her love and time toward making his convalescence as pleasant as it can be. In fact, her description of their life in the pretty chateau they have rented outside of Paris is quite idyllic. When her father is able to travel they are going to Algiers for the winter, and will return to New York about next May. Dora says she never intends to leave America again."

"Where is her husband? Keeping watch on the French chateau?"

"That is over. Mr. Denning persuaded Dora to write a statement of all the facts concerning the birth of the child. She told her husband the name under which they traveled, the names of the ship, the captain, and the ship's doctor, and Mrs. Denning authenticated the statement; but, oh, what a mean, suspicious creature Mostyn is!"

"What makes you reiterate that description of him?"

"He was quite unable to see any good or kind intent in this paper. He proved its correctness, and then wrote Mr. Denning a very contemptible letter."

"Which was characteristic enough. What did he say?"

"That the amende honorable was too late; that he supposed Dora wished to have the divorce proceedings stopped and be reinstated as his wife, but he desired the whole Denning family to understand that was now impossible; he was 'fervently, feverishly awaiting his freedom, which he expected at any hour.' He said it was 'sickening to remember the weariness of body and soul Dora had given him about a non-existing child, and though this could never be atoned for, he did think he ought to be refunded the money Dora's contemptible revenge had cost him."'

"How could he? How could he?"

"Of course Mr. Denning sent him a check, a pretty large one, I dare say. And I suppose he has his freedom by this time, unless he has married again."

"He will never marry again."

"Indeed, that is the strange part of the story. It was because he wanted to marry again that he was 'fervently, feverishly awaiting his freedom.'"

"I can hardly believe it, Ethel. What does Dora say?"

"I have the news from Lucy. She says when Mostyn was ignored by everyone in the neighborhood, one woman stood up for him almost passionately. Do you remember Miss Sadler?"

"That remarkable governess of the Surreys? Why, Ethel, she is the very ugliest woman I ever saw."

"She is so ugly that she is fascinating. If you see her one minute you can never forget her, and she is brains to her finger tips. She ruled everyone at Surrey House. She was Lord Surrey's secretary and Lady Surrey's adviser. She educated the children, and they adored her; she ruled the servants, and they obeyed her with fear and trembling. Nothing was done in Surrey House without her approval. And if her face was not handsome, she had a noble presence and a manner that was irresistible."

"And she took Mostyn's part?"

"With enthusiasm. She abused Dora individually, and American women generally. She pitied Mr. Mostyn, and made others do so; and when she perceived there would be but a shabby and tardy restoration for him socially, she advised him to shake off the dust of his feet from Monk-Rawdon, and begin life in some more civilized place. And in order that he might do so, she induced Lord Surrey to get him a very excellent civil appointment in Calcutta."

"Then he is going to India?"

"He is probably now on the way there. He sold the Mostyn estate——"

"I can hardly believe it."

"He sold it to John Thomas Rawdon. John Thomas told me it belonged to Rawdon until the middle of the seventeenth century, and he meant to have it back. He has got it."

"Miss Sadler must be a witch."

"She is a sensible, practical woman, who knows how to manage men. She has soothed Mostyn's wounded pride with appreciative flattery and stimulated his ambition. She has promised him great things in India, and she will see that he gets them."

"He must be completely under her control."

"She will never let him call his soul his own, but she will manage his affairs to perfection. And Dora is forever rid of that wretched influence. The man can never again come between her and her love; never again come between her and happiness. There will be the circumference of the world as a barrier."

"There will be Jane Sadler as a barrier. She will be sufficient. The Woman Between will annihilate The Man Between. Dora is now safe. What will she do with herself?"

"She will come back to New York and be a social power. She is young, beautiful, rich, and her father has tremendous financial influence. Social affairs are ruled by finance. I should not wonder to see her in St. Jude's, a devotee and eminent for good works."

"And if Basil Stanhope should return?"

"Poor Basil—he is dead."

"How do you know that?"

"What DO you mean, Tyrrel?"

"Are you sure Basil is dead? What proof have you?"

"You must be dreaming! Of course he is dead! His friend came and told me so—told me everything."

"Is that all?"

"There were notices in the papers."

"Is that all?"

"Mr. Denning must have known it when he stopped divorce proceedings."

"Doubtless he believed it; he wished to do so."

"Tyrrel, tell me what you mean."

"I always wondered about his death rather than believed in it. Basil had a consuming sense of honor and affection for the Church and its sacred offices. He would have died willingly rather than drag them into the mire of a divorce court. When the fear became certainty he disappeared—really died to all his previous life."

"But I cannot conceive of Basil lying for any purpose."

"He disappeared. His family and friends took on themselves the means they thought most likely to make that disappearance a finality."

"Have you heard anything, seen anything?"

"One night just before I left the West a traveler asked me for a night's lodging. He had been prospecting in British America in the region of the Klondike, and was full of incidental conversation. Among many other things he told me of a wonderful sermon he had heard from a young man in a large mining camp. I did not give the story any attention at the time, but after he had gone away it came to me like a flash of light that the preacher was Basil Stanhope."

"Oh, Tyrrel, if it was—if it was! What a beautiful dream! But it is only a dream. If it could be true, would he forgive Dora? Would he come back to her?"

"No!" Tyrrel's voice was positive and even stern. "No, he could never come back to her. She might go to him. She left him without any reason. I do not think he would care to see her again."

"I would say no more, Tyrrel. I do not think as you do. It is a dream, a fancy, just an imagination. But if it were true, Basil would wish no pilgrimage of abasement. He would say to her, 'Dear one, HUSH! Love is here, travel-stained, sore and weary, but so happy to welcome you!' And he would open all his great, sweet heart to her. May I tell Dora some day what you have thought and said? It will be something good for her to dream about."

"Do you think she cares? Did she ever love him?"

"He was her first love. She loved him once with all her heart. If it would be right—safe, I mean, to tell Dora——"

"On this subject there is so much NOT to say. I would never speak of it."

"It may be a truth"

"Then it is among those truths that should be held back, and it is likely only a trick of my imagination, a supposition, a fancy."

"A miracle! And of two miracles I prefer the least, and that is that Basil is dead. Your young preacher is a dream; and, oh, Tyrrel, I am so tired! It has been such a long, long, happy day! I want to sleep. My eyes are shutting as I talk to you. Such a long, long, happy day!"

"And so many long, happy days to come, dearest."

"So many," she answered, as she took Tyrrel's hand, and lifted her fur and fan and gloves. "What were those lines we read together the night before we were married? I forget, I am so tired. I know that life should have many a hope and aim, duties enough, and little cares, and now be quiet, and now astir, till God's hand beckoned us unawares——"

The rest was inaudible. But between that long, happy day and the present time there has been an arc of life large enough to place the union of Tyrrel and Ethel Rawdon among those blessed bridals that are

"The best of life's romances."

THE END