The Man Between: An International Romance

PART FOURTH — THE REAPING OF THE SOWING

CHAPTER X

WHEN Ethel and Tyrrel parted at the steamer they did not expect a long separation, but Colonel Rawdon never recovered his health, and for many excellent reasons Tyrrel could not leave the dying man. Nor did Ethel wish him to do so. Under these circumstances began the second beautiful phase of Ethel’s wooing, a sweet, daily correspondence, the best of all preparations for matrimonial oneness and understanding. Looking for Tyrrel’s letters, reading them, and answering them passed many happy hours, for to both it was an absolute necessity to assure each other constantly,

And for the rest, she took up her old life with a fresh enthusiasm.

Among these interests none were more urgent in their claims than Dora Stanhope; and fortified by her grandmother’s opinion, Ethel went at once to call on her. She found Basil with his wife, and his efforts to make Ethel see how much he expected from her influence, and yet at the same time not even hint a disapproval of Dora, were almost pathetic, for he was so void of sophistry that his innuendoes were flagrantly open to detection. Dora felt a contempt for them, and he had hardly left the room ere she said:

“Basil has gone to his vestry in high spirits. When I told him you were coming to see me to-day he smiled like an angel. He believes you will keep me out of mischief, and he feels a grand confidence in something which he calls ‘your influence.’”

“What do you mean by mischief?”

“Oh, I suppose going about with Fred Mostyn. I can’t help that. I must have some one to look after me. All the young men I used to know pass me now with a lifted hat or a word or two. The girls have forgotten me. I don’t suppose I shall be asked to a single dance this winter.”

“The ladies in St. Jude’s church would make a pet of you if——”

“The old cats and kittens! No, thank you, I am not going to church except on Sunday mornings—that is respectable and right; but as to being the pet of St. Jude’s ladies! No, no! How they would mew over my delinquencies, and what scratches I should get from their velvet-shod claws! If I have to be talked about, I prefer the ladies of the world to discuss my frailties.”

“But if I were you, I would give no one a reason for saying a word against me. Why should you?”

“Fred will supply them with reasons. I can’t keep the man away from me. I don’t believe I want to—he is very nice and useful.”

“You are talking nonsense, things you don’t mean, Dora. You are not such a foolish woman as to like to be seen with Fred Mostyn, that little monocular snob, after the aristocratic, handsome Basil Stanhope. The comparison is a mockery. Basil is the finest gentleman I ever saw. Socially, he is perfection, and——”

“He is only a clergyman.”

“Even as a clergyman he is of religiously royal descent. There are generations of clergymen behind him, and he is a prince in the pulpit. Every man that knows him gives him the highest respect, every woman thinks you the most fortunate of wives. No one cares for Fred Mostyn. Even in his native place he is held in contempt. He had nine hundred votes to young Rawdon’s twelve thousand.”

“I don’t mind that. I am going to the matinee to-morrow with Fred. He wanted to take me out in his auto this afternoon, but when I said I would go if you would he drew back. What is the reason? Did he make you offer of his hand? Did you refuse it?”

“He never made me an offer. I count that to myself as a great compliment. If he had done such a thing, he would certainly have been refused.”

“I can tell that he really hates you. What dirty trick did you serve him about Rawdon Court?”

“So he called the release of Squire Rawdon a ‘dirty trick’? It would have been a very dirty trick to have let Fred Mostyn get his way with Squire Rawdon.”

“Of course, Ethel, when a man lends his money as an obligation he expects to get it back again.”

“Mostyn got every farthing due him, and he wanted one of the finest manors in Eng-land in return for the obligation. He did not get it, thank God and my father!”

“He will not forget your father’s interference.”

“I hope he will remember it.”

“Do you know who furnished the money to pay Fred? He says he is sure your father did not have it.”

“Tell him to ask my father. He might even ask your father. Whether my father had the money or not was immaterial. Father could borrow any sum he wanted, I think.”

“Whom did he borrow from?”

“I am sure that Fred told you to ask that question. Is he writing to you, Dora?”

“Suppose he is?”

“I cannot suppose such a thing. It is too impossible.”

This was the beginning of a series of events all more or less qualified to bring about unspeakable misery in Basil’s home. But there is nothing in life like the marriage tie. The tugs it will bear and not break, the wrongs it will look over, the chronic misunderstandings it will forgive, make it one of the mysteries of humanity. It was not in a day or a week that Basil Stanhope’s dream of love and home was shattered. Dora had frequent and then less frequent times of return to her better self; and every such time renewed her husband’s hope that she was merely passing through a period of transition and assimilation, and that in the end she would be all his desire hoped for.

But Ethel saw what he did not see, that Mostyn was gradually inspiring her with his own opinions, perhaps even with his own passion. In this emergency, however, she was gratified to find that Dora’s mother appeared to have grasped the situation. For if Dora went to the theater with Mostyn, Mrs. Denning or Bryce was also there; and the reckless auto driving, shopping, and lunching had at least a show of respectable association. Yet when the opera season opened, the constant companionship of Mostyn and Dora became entirely too remarkable, not only in the public estimation, but in Basil’s miserable conception of his own wrong. The young husband used every art and persuasion—and failed. And his failure was too apparent to be slighted. He became feverish and nervous, and his friends read his misery in eyes heavy with unshed tears, and in the wasting pallor caused by his sleepless, sorrowful nights.

Dora also showed signs of the change so rapidly working on her. She was sullen and passionate by turns; she complained bitterly to Ethel that her youth and beauty had been wasted; that she was only nineteen, and her life was over. She wanted to go to Paris, to get away from New York anywhere and anyhow. She began to dislike even the presence of Basil. His stately beauty offended her, his low, calm voice was the very keynote of irritation.

One morning near Christmas he came to her with a smiling, radiant face. “Dora,” he said, “Dora, my love, I have something so interesting to tell you. Mrs. Colby and Mrs. Schaffler and some other ladies have a beautiful idea. They wish to give all the children of the church under eight years old the grandest Christmas tree imaginable—really rich presents and they thought you might like to have it here.”

“What do you say, Basil!”

“You were always so fond of children. You——”

“I never could endure them.”

“We all thought you might enjoy it. Indeed, I was so sure that I promised for you. It will be such a pleasure to me also, dear.”

“I will have no such childish nonsense in my house.”

“I promised it, Dora.”

“You had no right to do so. This is my house. My father bought it and gave me it, and it is my own. I——”

“It seems, then, that I intrude in your house. Is it so? Speak, Dora.”

“If you will ask questions you must take the answer. You do intrude when you come with such ridiculous proposals—in fact, you intrude very often lately.”

“Does Mr. Mostyn intrude?”

“Mr. Mostyn takes me out, gives me a little sensible pleasure. You think I can be interested in a Christmas tree. The idea!”

“Alas, alas, Dora, you are tired of me! You do not love me! You do not love me!”

“I love nobody. I am sorry I got married. It was all a mistake. I will go home and then you can get a divorce.”

At this last word the whole man changed. He was suffused, transfigured with an anger that was at once righteous and impetuous.

“How dare you use that word to me?” he demanded. “To the priest of God no such word exists. I do not know it. You are my wife, willing or unwilling. You are my wife forever, whether you dwell with me or not. You cannot sever bonds the Almighty has tied. You are mine, Dora Stanhope! Mine for time and eternity! Mine forever and ever!”

She looked at him in amazement, and saw a man after an image she had never imagined. She was terrified. She flung herself on the sofa in a whirlwind of passion. She cried aloud against his claim. She gave herself up to a vehement rage that was strongly infused with a childish dismay and panic.

“I will not be your wife forever!” she shrieked. “I will never be your wife again—never, not for one hour! Let me go! Take your hands off me!” For Basil had knelt down by the distraught woman, and clasping her in his arms said, even on her lips, “You ARE my dear wife! You are my very own dear wife! Tell me what to do. Anything that is right, reasonable I will do. We can never part.”

“I will go to my father. I will never come back to you.” And with these words she rose, threw off his embrace, and with a sobbing cry ran, like a terrified child, out of the room.

He sat down exhausted by his emotion, and sick with the thought she had evoked in that one evil word. The publicity, the disgrace, the wrong to Holy Church—ah, that was the cruelest wound! His own wrong was hard enough, but that he, who would gladly die for the Church, should put her to open shame! How could he bear it? Though it killed him, he must prevent that wrong; yes, if the right eye offended it must be plucked out. He must throw off his cassock, and turn away from the sacred aisles; he must—he could not say the word; he would wait a little. Dora would not leave him; it was impossible. He waited in a trance of aching suspense. Nothing for an hour or more broke it—no footfall, no sound of command or complaint. He was finally in hopes that Dora slept. Then he was called to lunch, and he made a pretense of eating it alone. Dora sent no excuse for her absence, and he could not trust himself to make inquiry about her. In the middle of the afternoon he heard a carriage drive to the door, and Dora, with her jewel-case in her hand, entered it and was driven away. The sight astounded him. He ran to her room, and found her maid packing her clothing. The woman answered his questions sullenly. She said “Mrs. Stanhope had gone to Mrs. Denning’s, and had left orders for her trunks to be sent there.” Beyond this she was silent and ignorant. No sympathy for either husband or wife was in her heart. Their quarrel was interfering with her own plans; she hated both of them in consequence.

In the meantime Dora had reached her home. Her mother was dismayed and hesitating, and her attitude raised again in Dora’s heart the passion which had provoked the step she had taken. She wept like a lost child. She exclaimed against the horror of being Basil’s wife forever and ever. She reproached her mother for suffering her to marry while she was only a child. She said she had been cruelly used in order to get the family into social recognition. She was in a frenzy of grief at her supposed sacrifice when her father came home. Her case was then won. With her arms round his neck, sobbing against his heart, her tears and entreaties on his lips, Ben Denning had no feeling and no care for anyone but his daughter. He took her view of things at once. “She HAD been badly used. It WAS a shame to tie a girl like Dora to sermons and such like. It was like shutting her up in a convent.” Dora’s tears and complaints fired him beyond reason. He promised her freedom whatever it cost him.

And while he sat in his private room considering the case, all the racial passions of his rough ancestry burning within him, Basil Stanhope called to see him. He permitted him to come into his presence, but he rose as he entered, and walked hastily a few steps to meet him.

“What do you want here, sir?” he asked.

“My wife.”

“My daughter. You shall not see her. I have taken her back to my own care.”

“She is my wife. No one can take her from me.”

“I will teach you a different lesson.”

“The law of God.”

“The law of the land goes here. You’ll find it more than you can defy.”

“Sir, I entreat you to let me speak to Dora.”

“I will not.”

“I will stay here until I see her.”

“I will give you five minutes. I do not wish to offer your profession an insult; if you have any respect for it you will obey me.”

“Answer me one question—what have I done wrong?”

“A man can be so intolerably right, that he becomes unbearably wrong. You have no business with a wife and a home. You are a d—— sight too good for a good little girl that wants a bit of innocent amusement. Sermons and Christmas trees! Great Scott, what sensible woman would not be sick of it all? Sir, I don’t want another minute of your company. Little wonder that my Dora is ill with it. Oblige me by leaving my house as quietly as possible.” And he walked to the door, flung it open, and stood glaring at the distracted husband. “Go,” he said. “Go at once. My lawyer will see you in the future. I have nothing further to say to you.”

Basil went, but not to his desolate home. He had a private key to the vestry in his church, and in its darkness and solitude he faced the first shock of his ruined life, for he knew well all was over. All had been. He sank to the floor at the foot of the large cross which hung on its bare white walls. Grief’s illimitable wave went over him, and like a drowning man he uttered an inarticulate cry of agony—the cry of a soul that had wronged its destiny. Love had betrayed him to ruin. All he had done must be abandoned. All he had won must be given up. Sin and shame indeed it would be if in his person a sacrament of the Church should be dragged through a divorce court. All other considerations paled before this disgrace. He must resign his curacy, strip himself of the honorable livery of heaven, obliterate his person and his name. It was a kind of death.

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

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

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.

2 (return)
[ 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?”