The Man Between by Amelia Edith Huddleston Barr (e ink ebook reader .TXT) 📕

Stanhope."

"I would not if I were you, Ethel," said Ruth. "Let her come and call on you."

"I had a little note from her this morning, welcoming me home, and entreating me to call."

The Judge rose as Ethel was speaking, and no more was said about the visit at that time but a few hours later Ethel came down from her room ready for the street and frankly told Ruth she had made up her mind to call on Dora.

"Then I will only remind you, Ethel, that Dora is not a fortunate woman to know. As far as I can see, she is one of those who sow pain of heart and vexation of spirit about every house they enter, even their own. But I cannot gather experience for you, it will have to grow in your own garden."

"All right, dear Ruth, and if I do not like its growth, I will pull it up by the roots, I assure you."

Ruth went with her to the door and watched her walk leisurely down the broad steps to the street. The light kindled in her eyes and on her face as she did so. She already felt the magnetism of the great city, and with a laughing farewell walked rapidly toward Dora's house.

Her card brought an instant response, and she heard Dora's welcome before the door was opened. And her first greeting was an enthusiastic compliment, "How beautiful you have grown, Ethel!" she cried. "Ah, that is the European finish. You have gained it, my dear; you really are very much improved."

"And you also, Dora?"

The words were really a question, but Dora accepted them as an assertion, and was satisfied.

"I suppose I am," she answered, "though I'm sure I can't tell how it should be so, unless worry of all kinds is good for good looks. I've had enough of that for a lifetime."

"Now, Dora."

"Oh, it's the solid truth--partly your fault too."

"I never interfered----"

"Of course you didn't, but you ought to have interfered. When you called on me in London you might have seen that I was not happy; and I wanted to come to Rawdon Court, and you would not invite me. I called your behavior then 'very mean,' and I have not altered my opinion of it."

"There were good reasons, Dora, why I could not ask you."

"Good reasons are usually selfish ones, Ethel, and Fred Mostyn told me what they were.

"He likely told you untruths, Dora, for he knew nothing about my reasons. I saw very little of him."

"I know. You treated him as badly as you treated me, and all for some wild West creature--a regular cowboy, Fred said, but then a Rawdon!"

"Mr. Mostyn has misrepresented Mr. Tyrrel Rawdon--that is all about it. I shall not explain 'how' or 'why.' Did you enjoy yourself at Stanhope Castle?"

"Enjoy myself! Are you making fun of me? Ethel, dear, it was the most awful experience. You never can imagine such a life, and such women. They were dressed for a walk at six o'clock; they had breakfast at half-past seven. They went to the village and inspected cottages, and gave lessons in housekeeping or dressmaking or some other drudgery till noon. They walked back to the Castle for lunch. They attended to their own improvement from half-past one until four, had lessons in drawing and chemistry, and, I believe, electricity. They had another walk, and then indulged themselves with a cup of tea. They dressed and received visitors, and read science or theology between whiles. There was always some noted preacher or scholar at the dinner table. The conversation was about acids and explosives, or the planets or bishops, or else on the never, never-ending subject of elevating the workingman and building schools for his children. Basil, of course, enjoyed it. He thought he was giving me a magnificent object lesson. He was never done praising the ladies Mary Elinor and Adelaide Stanhope. I'm sure I wish he had married one or all of them--and I told him so."

"You could not be so cruel, Dora."

"I managed it with the greatest ease imaginable. He was always trotting at their side. They spoke of him as 'the most pious young man.' I have no doubt they were all in love with him. I hope they were. I used to pretend to be very much in love when they were present. I dare say it made them wretched. Besides, they blushed and thought me improper. Basil didn't approve, either, so I hit all round."

She rose at this memory and shook out her silk skirts, and walked up and down the room with an air that was the visible expression of the mockery and jealousy in her heart. This was an entirely different Dora to the lachrymose, untidy wife at the Savoy Hotel in London, and Ethel had a momentary pang at the thought of the suffering which was responsible for the change.

"If I had thought, Dora, you were so uncomfortable, I would have asked Basil and you to the Court."

"You saw I was not happy when I was at the Savoy."

"I thought you and Basil had had a kind of lovers' quarrel, and that it would blow over in an hour or two; no one likes to meddle with an affair of that kind. Are you going to Newport, or is Mrs. Denning in New York?"

"That is another trouble, Ethel. When I wrote mother I wanted to come to her, she sent me word she was going to Lenox with a friend. Then, like you, she said 'she had no liberty to invite me,' and so on. I never knew mother act in such a way before. I nearly broke my heart about it for a few days, then I made up my mind I wouldn't care."

"Mrs. Denning, I am sure, thought she did the wisest and kindest thing possible."

"I didn't want mother to be wise. I wanted her to understand that I was fairly worn out with my present life and needed a change. I'm sure she did understand. Then why was she so cruel?" and she shrugged her shoulders impatiently and sat down. "I'm so tired of life," she continued. "When did you hear of Fred Mostyn?"

"I know nothing of his movements. Is he in America?"

"Somewhere. I asked mother if he was in Newport, and she never answered the ques-tion. I suppose he will be in New York for the winter season. I hope so."

This topic threatened to be more dangerous than the other, and Ethel, after many and futile attempts to bring conversation into safe commonplace channels, pleaded other engagements and went away. She was painfully depressed by the interview. All the elements of tragedy were gathered together under the roof she had just left, and, as far as she could see, there was no deliverer wise and strong enough to prevent a calamity. She did not repeat to Ruth the conversation which had been so painful to her. She described Dora's dress and appearance, and commented on Fred Mostyn's description of Tyrrel Rawdon, and on Mrs. Denning's refusal of her daughter's proposed visit.

Ruth thought the latter circumstance significant. "I dare say Mostyn was in Newport at that time," she answered. "Mrs. Denning has some very quick perceptions." And Ruth's opinion was probably correct, for during dinner the Judge remarked in a casual manner that he had met Mr. Mostyn on the avenue as he was coming home. "He was well," he said, "and made all the usual inquiries as to your health." And both Ruth and Ethel understood that he wished them to know of Mostyn's presence in the city, and to be prepared for meeting him; but did not care to discuss the subject further, at least at that time. The information brought precisely the same thought at the same moment to both women, and as soon as they were alone they uttered it.

"She knew Mostyn was in the city," said Ethel in a low voice.

"Certainly."

"She was expecting him."

"I am sure of it."

"Her elaborate and beautiful dressing was for him."

"Poor Basil!"

"She asked me to stay and lunch with her, but very coolly, and when I refused, did not press the matter as she used to do. Yes, she was expecting him. I understand now her nervous manner, her restlessness, her indifference to my short visit. I wish I could do anything."

"You cannot, and you must not try."

"Some one must try."

"There is her husband. Have you heard from Tyrrel yet."

"I have had a couple of telegrams. He will write from Chicago."

"Is he going at once to the Hot Springs?"

"As rapidly as possible. Colonel Rawdon is now there, and very ill. Tyrrel will put his father first of all. The trouble at the mine can be investigated afterwards."

"You will miss him very much. You have been so happy together."

"Of course I shall miss him. But it will be a good thing for us to be apart awhile. Love must have some time in which to grow. I am a little tired of being very happy, and I think Tyrrel also will find absence a relief. In 'Lalla Rookh' there is a line about love 'falling asleep in a sameness of splendor.' It might. How melancholy is a long spell of hot, sunshiny weather, and how gratefully we welcome the first shower of rain."

"Love has made you a philosopher, Ethel."

"Well, it is rather an advantage than otherwise. I am going to take a walk, Ruth, into the very heart of Broadway. I have had enough of the peace of the country. I want the crack, and crash, and rattle, and grind of wheels, the confused cries, the snatches of talk and laughter, the tread of crowds, the sound of bells, and clocks, and chimes. I long for all the chaotic, unintelligible noise of the streets. How suggestive it is! Yet it never explains itself. It only gives one a full sense of life. Love may need just the same stimulus. I wish grandmother would come home. I should not require Broadway as a stimulus. I am afraid she will be very angry with me, and there will be a battle royal in Gramercy Park."

It was nearly a week before Ethel had this crisis to meet. She went down to it with a radiant face and charming manner, and her reception was very cordial. Madam would not throw down the glove until the proper moment; besides, there were many very interesting subjects to talk over, and she wanted "to find things out" that would never be told unless tempers were propitious. Added to these reasons was the solid one that she really adored her granddaughter, and was immensely cheered by the very sight of the rosy, smiling countenance lifted to her sitting-room window in passing. She, indeed, pretended to be there in order to get a good light for her new shell pattern, but she was watching for Ethel, and Ethel understood the shell-pattern fiction very well. She had heard something similar often.

"My darling grandmother," she cried, "I thought you would never come home."

"It wasn't my fault, dear. Miss Hillis and an imbecile young doctor made me believe I had a cold. I had no cold. I had nothing at all but what I ought to have. I've been made to take all sorts of things, and do all sorts of things that I hate to take and