Kitabı oku: «The Man Between: An International Romance», sayfa 12
“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.”
