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

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