THREE days passed and Ethel had regained
her health and spirits, but Fred Mostyn had
not called since the wedding. Ruth thought
some inquiry ought to be made, and Judge
Rawdon called at the Holland House. There
he was told that Mr. Mostyn had not been
well, and the young man's countenance painfully
confessed the same thing.
"My dear Fred, why did you not send us
word you were ill?" asked the Judge.
"I had fever, sir, and I feared it might be
typhoid. Nothing of the kind, however. I
shall be all right in a day or two."
The truth was far from typhoid, and Fred
knew it. He had left the wedding breakfast
because he had reached the limit of his
endurance. Words, stinging as whips, burned
like hot coals in his mouth, and he felt that
he could not restrain them much longer.
Hastening to his hotel, he locked himself in
his rooms, and passed the night in a frenzy
of passion. The very remembrance of the
bridegroom's confident transport put mur-
der in his heart--murder which he could only
practice by his wishes, impotent to compass
their desires.
"I wish the fellow shot! I wish him
hanged! I would kill him twenty times in
twenty different ways! And Dora! Dora!
Dora! What did she see in him? What
could she see? Love her? He knows nothing
of love--such love as tortures me."
Backwards and forwards he paced the floor
to such imprecations and ejaculations as
welled up from the whirlpool of rage in his
heart, hour following hour, till in the blackness
of his misery he could no longer speak.
His brain had become stupefied by the iteration
of inevitable loss, and so refused any
longer to voice a woe beyond remedy. Then
he stood still and called will and reason to
council him. "This way madness lies," he
thought. "I must be quiet--I must sleep--
I must forget."
But it was not until the third day that a
dismal, sullen stillness succeeded the storm
of rage and grief, and he awoke from a sleep
of exhaustion feeling as if he were withered
at his heart. He knew that life had to be
taken up again, and that in all its farces
he must play his part. At first the thought
of Mostyn Hall presented itself as an asylum.
It stood amid thick woods, and there were
miles of wind-blown wolds and hills around
it. He was lord and master there, no one
could intrude upon his sorrow; he could nurse
it in those lonely rooms to his heart's content.
Every day, however, this gloomy resolution
grew fainter, and one morning he awoke and
laughed it to scorn.
"Frederick's himself again," he quoted,
"and he must have been very far off himself
when he thought of giving up or of running
away. No, Fred Mostyn, you will stay here.
'Tis a country where the impossible does not
exist, and the unlikely is sure to happen--a
country where marriage is not for life or
death, and where the roads to divorce are
manifold and easy. There are a score of
ways and means. I will stay and think them
over; 'twill be odd if I cannot force Fate to
change her mind."
A week after Dora's marriage he found
himself able to walk up the avenue to the
Rawdon house; but he arrived there weary
and wan enough to instantly win the sympathy
of Ruth and Ethel, and he was immensely
strengthened by the sense of home
and kindred, and of genuine kindness to
which he felt a sort of right. He asked Ruth
if he might eat dinner with them. He said
he was hungry, and the hotel fare did not
tempt him. And when Judge Rawdon returned
he welcomed him in the same generous
spirit, and the evening passed delightfully
away. At its close, however, as Mostyn stood
gloved and hatted, and the carriage waited for
him, he said a few words to Judge Rawdon
which changed the mental and social atmosphere.
"I wish to have a little talk with you,
sir, on a business matter of some importance.
At what hour can I see you to-morrow?"
"I am engaged all day until three in the
afternoon, Fred. Suppose I call on you about
four or half-past?"
"Very well, sir."
But both Ethel and Ruth wondered if it
was "very well." A shadow, fleeting as
thought, had passed over Judge Rawdon's
face when he heard the request for a business
interview, and after the young man's departure
he lost himself in a reverie which
was evidently not a happy one. But he said
nothing to the girls, and they were not
accustomed to question him.
The next morning, instead of going direct
to his office, he stopped at Madam, his moth-
er's house in Gramercy Park. A visit at such
an early hour was unusual, and the old lady
looked at him in alarm.
"We are well, mother," he said as she
rose. "I called to talk to you about a little
business." Whereupon Madam sat down,
and became suddenly about twenty years
younger, for "business" was a word like a
watch-cry; she called all her senses together
when it was uttered in her presence.
"Business!" she ejaculated sharply.
"Whose business?"
"I think I may say the business of the
whole family."
"Nay, I am not in it. My business is just
as I want it, and I am not going to talk about
it--one way or the other."
"Is not Rawdon Court of some interest to
you? It has been the home and seat of the
family for many centuries. A good many.
Mostyn women have been its mistress."
"I never heard of any Mostyn woman who
would not have been far happier away from
Rawdon Court. It was a Calvary to them all.
There was little Nannie Mostyn, who died
with her first baby because Squire Anthony
struck her in a drunken passion; and the
proud Alethia Mostyn, who suffered twenty
years' martyrdom from Squire John; and
Sara, who took thirty thousand pounds to
Squire Hubert, to fling away at the green
table; and Harriet, who was made by her
husband, Squire Humphrey, to jump a fence
when out hunting with him, and was brought
home crippled and scarred for life--a lovely
girl of twenty who went through agonies for
eleven years without aught of love and help,
and died alone while he was following a fox;
and there was pretty Barbara Mostyn----"
"Come, come, mother. I did not call here
this morning to hear the Rawdons abused,
and you forget your own marriage. It was
a happy one, I am sure. One Rawdon, at
least, must be excepted; and I think I treated
my wife as a good husband ought to treat a
wife."
"Not you! You treated Mary very badly."
"Mother, not even from you----"
"I'll say it again. The little girl was
dying for a year or more, and you were so
busy making money you never saw it. If
she said or looked a little complaint, you
moved restless-like and told her `she moped
too much.' As the end came I spoke to you,
and you pooh-poohed all I said. She went
suddenly, I know, to most people, but she
knew it was her last day, and she longed so
to see you, that I sent a servant to hurry you
home, but she died before you could make up
your mind to leave your `cases.' She and
I were alone when she whispered her last
message for you--a loving one, too."
"Mother! Mother! Why recall that bitter
day? I did not think--I swear I did not
think----"
"Never mind swearing. I was just reminding
you that the Rawdons have not been
the finest specimens of good husbands. They
make landlords, and judges, and soldiers, and
even loom-lords of a very respectable sort;
but husbands! Lord help their poor wives!
So you see, as a Mostyn woman, I have no
special interest in Rawdon Court."
"You would not like it to go out of the
family?"
"I should not worry myself if it did."
"I suppose you know Fred Mostyn has a
mortgage on it that the present Squire is unable
to lift."
"Aye, Fred told me he had eighty thousand
pounds on the old place. I told him he
was a fool to put his money on it."
"One of the finest manors and manor-
houses in England, mother."
"I have seen it. I was born and brought
up near enough to it, I think."
"Eighty thousand pounds is a bagatelle
for the place; yet if Fred forces a sale, it may
go for that, or even less. I can't bear to think
of it."
"Why not buy it yourself?"
"I would lift the mortgage to-morrow if I
had the means. I have not at present."
"Well, I am in the same box. You have
just spoken as if the Mostyns and Rawdons
had an equal interest in Rawdon Court.
Very well, then, it cannot be far wrong for
Fred Mostyn to have it. Many a Mostyn has
gone there as wife and slave. I would dearly
like to see one Mostyn go as master."
"I shall get no help from you, then, I
understand that."
"I'm Mostyn by birth, I'm only Rawdon
by, marriage. The birth-band ties me fast to
my family."
"Good morning, mother. You have failed
me for the first time in your life."
"If the money had been for you, Edward,
or yours----"
"It is--good-by."
She called him back peremptorily, and he
returned and stood at the open door.
"Why don't you ask Ethel?"
"I did not think I had the right, mother."
"More right to ask her than I. See what
she says. She's Rawdon, every inch of her."
"Perhaps I may. Of course, I can sell
securities, but it would be at a sacrifice a great
sacrifice at present."
"Ethel has the cash; and, as I said, she is
Rawdon--I'm not."
"I wish my father were alive."
"He wouldn't move me--you needn't think
that. What I have said to you I would have
said to him. Speak to Ethel. I'll be bound
she'll listen if Rawdon calls her."
"I don't like to speak to Ethel."
"It isn't what you like to do, it's what you
find you'll have to do, that carries the day;
and a good thing, too, considering."
"Good morning, again. You are not quite
yourself, I think."
"Well, I didn't sleep last night, so there's
no wonder if I'm a bit cross this morning.
But if I lose my temper, I keep my understanding."
She was really cross by this time. Her son
had put her in a position she did not like to
assume. No love for Rawdon Court was in
her heart. She would rather have advanced
the money to buy an American estate. She
had been little pleased at Fred's mortgage on
the old place, but to the American Rawdons
she felt it would prove a white elephant; and
the appeal to Ethel was advised because she
thought it would amount to nothing. In the
first place, the Judge had the strictest idea
of the sacredness of the charge committed
to him as guardian of his daughter's fortune.
In the second, Ethel inherited from
her Yorkshire ancestry an intense sense of
the value and obligations of money. She was
an ardent American, and not likely to spend
it on an old English manor; and, furthermore,
Madam's penetration had discovered
a growing dislike in her granddaughter for
Fred Mostyn.
"She'd never abide him for a lifelong
neighbor," the old lady decided. "It is the
Rawdon pride in her. The Rawdon men have
condescended to go to Mostyn for wives many
and many a time, but never once have the
Mostyn men married a Rawdon girl--proud,
set-up women, as far as I remember; and
Ethel has a way with her just like them. Fred
is good enough and nice enough for any girl,
and I wonder what is the matter with him!
It is a week and more since he was here, and
then he wasn't a bit like himself."
At this moment the bell rang and she heard
Fred's voice inquiring "if Madam was at
home." Instantly she divined the motive of
his call. The young man had come to the
conclusion the Judge would try to influence
his mother, and before meeting him in the
afternoon he wished to have some idea of the
trend matters were likely to take. His policy
--cunning, Madam called it--did not please
her. She immediately assured herself that
"she wouldn't go against her own flesh and
blood for anyone," and his wan face and general
air of wretchedness further antagonized
her. She asked him fretfully "what he had
been doing to himself, for," she added, "it's
mainly what we do to ourselves that makes
us sick. Was it that everlasting wedding of
the Denning girl?"
He flushed angrily, but answered with much
of the same desire to annoy, "I suppose it
was. I felt it very much. Dora was the loveliest
girl in the city. There are none left like
her."
"It will be a good thing for New York if
that is the case. I'm not one that wants the
city to myself, but I can spare Dora STANHOPE,
and feel the better for it."
"The most beautiful of God's creatures!"
"You've surely lost your sight or your
judgment, Fred. She is just a dusky-skinned
girl, with big, brown eyes. You can pick her
sort up by the thousand in any large city.
And a wandering-hearted, giddy creature, too,
that will spread as she goes, no doubt. I'm
sorry for Basil Stanhope, he didn't deserve
such a fate."
"Indeed, he did not! It is beyond measure
too good for him."
"I've always heard that affliction is the
surest way to heaven. Dora will lead him
that road, and it will be more sure than pleasant.
Poor fellow! He'll soon be as ready to
curse his wedding-day as Job was to curse his
birthday. A costly wife she will be to keep,
and misery in the keeping of her. But if you
came to talk to me about Dora STANHOPE, I'll
cease talking, for I don't find it any great
entertainment."
"I came to talk to you about Squire Rawdon."
"What about the Squire? Keep it in your
mind that he and I were sweethearts when we
were children. I haven't forgotten that fact."
"You know Rawdon Court is mortgaged
to me?"
"I've heard you say so--more than once."
"I intend to foreclose the mortgage in
September. I find that I can get twice yes,
three times--the interest for my money in
American securities."
"How do you know they are securities?"
"Bryce Denning has put me up to several
good things."
"Well, if you think good things can come
that road, you are a bigger fool than I ever
thought you."
"Fool! Madam, I allow no one to call me
a fool, especially without reason."
"Reason, indeed! What reason was there
in your dillydallying after Dora Denning
when she was engaged, and then making yourself
like a ghost for her after she is married?
As for the good things Bryce Denning offers
you in exchange for a grand English manor,
take them, and then if I called you not fool
before, I will call you fool in your teeth twice
over, and much too good for you! Aye, I
could call you a worse name when I think of
the old Squire--he's two years older than I
am--being turned out of his lifelong home.
Where is he to go to?"
"If I buy the place, for of course it will
have to be sold, he is welcome to remain at
Rawdon Court."
"And he would deserve to do it if he were
that low-minded; but if I know Squire Percival,
he will go to the poor-house first. Fred,
you would surely scorn such a dirty thing as
selling the old man out of house and home?"
"I want my money, or else I want Rawdon
Manor."
"And I have no objections either to your
wanting it or having it, but, for goodness'
sake, wait until death gives you a decent warrant
for buying it."
"I am afraid to delay. The Squire has
been very cool with me lately, and my agent
tells me the Tyrrel-Rawdons have been visiting
him, also that he has asked a great many
questions about the Judge and Ethel. He
is evidently trying to prevent me getting
possession, and I know that old Nicholas
Rawdon would give his eyelids to own Rawdon
Court. As to the Judge----"
"My son wants none of it. You can make
your mind easy on that score."
"I think I behaved very decently, though,
of course, no one gives me credit for it; for
as soon as I saw I must foreclose in order to
get my own I thought at once of Ethel. It
seemed to me that if we could love each other
the money claims of Mostyn and the inherited
claims of Rawdon would both be satisfied.
Unfortunately, I found that I could not love
Ethel as a wife should be loved."
"And I can tell you, Fred, that Ethel
never could have loved you as a husband
should be loved. She was a good deal disappointed
in you from the very first."
"I thought I made a favorable impression
on her."
"In a way. She said you played the piano
nicely; but Ethel is all for handsome men,
tall, erect six-footers, with a little swing and
swagger to them. She thought you small
and finicky. But Ethel's rich enough to have
her fancy, I hope."
"It is little matter now what she thought.
I can't please every one."
"No, it's rather harder to do that than
most people think it is. I would please my
conscience first of all, Fred. That's the point
worth mentioning. And I shall just remind
you of one thing more: your money all in a
lump on Rawdon Manor is safe. It is in one
place, and in such shape as it can't run away
nor be smuggled away by any man's trickery.
Now, then, turn your eighty thousand pounds
into dollars, and divide them among a score
of securities, and you'll soon find out that a
fortune may be easily squandered when it is
in a great many hands, and that what looks
satisfactory enough when reckoned up on
paper doesn't often realize in hard money to
the same tune. I've said all now I am going
to say."
"Thank you for the advice given me. I
will take it as far as I can. This afternoon
the Judge has promised to talk over the business
with me."
"The Judge never saw Rawdon Court, and
he cares nothing about it, but he can give you
counsel about the `good things' Bryce Denning
offers you. And you may safely listen
to it, for, right or wrong, I see plainly it is
your own advice you will take in the long
run."
Mostyn laughed pleasantly and went back
to his hotel to think over the facts gleaned
from his conversation with Madam. In the
first place, he understood that any overt act
against Squire Rawdon would be deeply resented
by his American relatives. But then
he reminded himself that his own relationship
with them was merely sentiment. He
had now nothing to hope for in the way of
money. Madam's apparently spontaneous
and truthful assertion, that the Judge cared
nothing for Rawdon Court, was, however,
very satisfactory to him. He had been foolish
enough to think that the thing he desired
so passionately was of equal value in the
estimation of others. He saw now that he was
wrong, and he then remembered that he had
never found Judge Rawdon to evince either
interest or curiosity about the family home.
If he had been a keen observer, the Judge's
face when he called might have given his
comfortable feelings some pause. It was contracted,
subtle, intricate, but he came forward
with a congratulation on Mostyn's improved
appearance. "A few weeks at the seaside
would do you good," he added, and Mostyn
answered, "I think of going to Newport for
a month."
"And then?"
"I want your opinion about that. McLean
advises me to see the country--to go to Chicago,
St. Louis, Denver, cross the Rockies,
and on to California. It seems as if that
would be a grand summer programme. But
my lawyer writes me that the man in charge
at Mostyn is cutting too much timber and is
generally too extravagant. Then there is the
question of Rawdon Court. My finances will
not let me carry the mortgage on it longer,
unless I buy the place."
"Are you thinking of that as probable?"
"Yes. It will have to be sold. And Mostyn
seems to be the natural owner after Rawdon.
The Mostyns have married Rawdons
so frequently that we are almost like one
family, and Rawdon Court lies, as it were,
at Mostyn's gate. The Squire is now old,
and too easily persuaded for his own welfare,
and I hear the Tyrrel-Rawdons have been
visiting him. Such a thing would have been
incredible a few years ago."
"Who are the Tyrrel-Rawdons? I have
no acquaintance with them."
"They are the descendants of that Tyrrel-
Rawdon who a century ago married a handsome
girl who was only an innkeeper's
daughter. He was of course disowned and
disinherited, and his children sank to the
lowest social grade. Then when power-loom
weaving was introduced they went to the
mills, and one of them was clever and saved
money and built a little mill of his own, and
his son built a much larger one, and made a
great deal of money, and became Mayor of
Leeds. The next generation saw the Tyrrel-
Rawdons the largest loom-lords in Yorkshire.
One of the youngest generation was my opponent
in the last election and beat me--a
Radical fellow beats the Conservative candidate
always where weavers and spinners hold
the vote but I thought it my duty to uphold
the Mostyn banner. You know the Mostyns
have always been Tories and Conservatives."
"Excuse me, but I am afraid I am ignorant
concerning Mostyn politics. I take little interest
in the English parties."
"Naturally. Well, I hope you will take an
interest in my affairs and give me your advice
about the sale of Rawdon Court."
"I think my advice would be useless. In
the first place, I never saw the Court. My
father had an old picture of it, which has
somehow disappeared since his death, but I
cannot say that even this picture interested
me at all. You know I am an American, born
on the soil, and very proud of it. Then, as
you are acquainted with all the ins and outs
of the difficulties and embarrassments, and I
know nothing at all about them, you would
hardly be foolish enough to take my opinion
against your own. I suppose the Squire is
in favor of your buying the Court?"
"I never named the subject to him. I
thought perhaps he might have written to
you on the matter. You are the last male of
the house in that line."
"He has never written to me about the
Court. Then, I am not the last male. From
what you say, I think the Tyrrel-Rawdons
could easily supply an heir to Rawdon."
"That is the thing to be avoided. It would
be a great offense to the county families."
"Why should they be considered? A
Rawdon is always a Rawdon."
"But a cotton spinner, sir! A mere mill-
owner!"
"Well, I do not feel with you and the
other county people in that respect. I think
a cotton spinner, giving bread to a thousand
families, is a vastly more respectable and
important man than a fox-hunting, idle landlord.
A mill-owning Rawdon might do a deal of
good in the sleepy old village of Monk-Rawdon."
"Your sentiments are American, not English,
sir."
"As I told you, we look at things from
very different standpoints."
"Do you feel inclined to lift the mortgage
yourself, Judge?"
"I have not the power, even if I had the
inclination to do so. My money is well invested,
and I could not, at this time, turn bonds and
securities into cash without making a sacrifice
not to be contemplated. I confess, however,
that if the Court has to be sold, I should
like the Tyrrel-Rawdons to buy it. I dare
say the picture of the offending youth is still
in the gallery, and I have heard my mother
say that what is another's always yearns for
its lord. Driven from his heritage for Love's
sake, it would be at least interesting if Gold
gave back to his children what Love lost
them."
"That is pure sentiment. Surely it would
be more natural that the Mostyns should succeed
the Rawdons. We have, as it were,
bought the right with at least a dozen
intermarriages."
"That also is pure sentiment. Gold at
last will carry the succession."
"But not your gold, I infer?"
"Not my gold; certainly not."
"Thank you for your decisive words
They make my course clear."
"That is well. As to your summer movements,
I am equally unable to give you advice.
I think you need the sea for a month,
and after that McLean's scheme is good.
And a return to Mostyn to look after your
affairs is equally good. If I were you, I
should follow my inclinations. If you put
your heart into anything, it is well done and
enjoyed; if you do a thing because you think
you ought to do it, failure and disappointment
are often the results. So do as you want
to do; it is the only advice I can offer you."
"Thank you, sir. It is very acceptable. I
may leave for Newport to-morrow. I shall
call on the ladies in the morning."
"I will tell them, but it is just possible
that they, too, go to the country to-morrow,
to look after a little cottage on the Hudson
we occupy in the summer. Good-by, and
I hope you will soon recover your usual
health."
Then the Judge lifted his hat, and with a
courteous movement left the room. His face
had the same suave urbanity of expression,
but he could hardly restrain the passion in
his heart. Placid as he looked when he entered
his house, he threw off all pretenses as
soon as he reached his room. The Yorkshire
spirit which Ethel had declared found him out
once in three hundred and sixty-four days
and twenty-three hours was then in full pos-
session. The American Judge had disappeared.
He looked as like his ancestors as
anything outside of a painted picture could
do. His flushed face, his flashing eyes, his
passionate exclamations, the stamp of his
foot, the blow of his hand, the threatening
attitude of his whole figure was but a replica
of his great-grandfather, Anthony Rawdon,
giving Radicals at the hustings or careless
keepers at the kennels "a bit of his mind."
"`Mostyn, seems to be the natural owner
of Rawdon! Rawdon Court lies at Mostyn's
gate! Natural that the Mostyns should succeed
the Rawdons! Bought the right by a
dozen intermarriages!' Confound the impudent
rascal! Does he think I will see
Squire Rawdon rogued out of his home? Not
if I can help it! Not if Ethel can help it!
Not if heaven and earth can help it! He's
a downright rascal! A cool, unruffled, impudent
rascal!" And these ejaculations were
followed by a bitter, biting, blasting hailstorm
of such epithets as could only be written
with one letter and a dash.
But the passion of imprecation cooled and
satisfied his anger in this its first impetuous
outbreak, and he sat down, clasped the arms
of his chair, and gave himself a peremptory
order of control. In a short time he rose,
bathed his head and face in cold water, and
began to dress for dinner. And as he stood
before the glass he smiled at the restored
color and calm of his countenance.
"You are a prudent lawyer," he said
sarcastically. "How many actionable words
have you just uttered! If the devil and Fred
Mostyn have been listening, they can, as
mother says, `get the law on you'; but I
think Ethel and I and the law will be a match
even for the devil and Fred Mostyn." Then,
as he slowly went downstairs, he repeated to
himself, "Mostyn seems to be the natural
owner of Rawdon. No, sir, neither natural
nor legal owner. Rawdon Court lies at Mostyn
gate. Not yet. Mostyn lies at Rawdon
gate. Natural that the Mostyns should succeed
the Rawdons. Power of God! Neither
in this generation nor the next."
And at the same moment Mostyn, having
thought over his interview with Judge Rawdon,
walked thoughtfully to a window and
muttered to himself: "Whatever was the
matter with the old man? Polite as a courtier,
but something was wrong. The room
felt as if there was an iceberg in it, and
he kept his right hand in his pocket. I be-
lieve he was afraid I would shake hands with
him--it is Ethel, I suppose. Naturally he is
disappointed. Wanted her at Rawdon. Well,
it is a pity, but I really cannot! Oh, Dora!
Dora! My heart, my hungry and thirsty
heart calls you! Burning with love, dying
with longing, I am waiting for you!"
The dinner passed pleasantly enough, but
both Ethel and Ruth noticed the Judge was
under strong but well-controlled feeling.
While servants were present it passed for
high spirits, but as soon as the three were
alone in the library, the excitement took at
once a serious aspect.
"My dears," he said, standing up and
facing them, "I have had a very painful interview
with Fred Mostyn. He holds a mortgage
over Rawdon Court, and is going to
press it in September--that is, he proposes
to sell the place in order to obtain his money
--and the poor Squire!" He ceased speaking,
walked across the room and back again,
and appeared greatly disturbed.
"What of the Squire?" asked Ruth.
"God knows, Ruth. He has no other
home."
"Why is this thing to be done? Is there
no way to prevent it?"
"Mostyn wants the money, he says, to invest
in American securities. He does not.
He wants to force a sale, so that he may buy
the place for the mortgage, and then either
keep it for his pride, or more likely resell it
to the Tyrrel-Rawdons for double the money."
Then with gradually increasing passion he
repeated in a low, intense voice the remarks
which Mostyn had made, and which had so
infuriated the Judge. Before he had finished
speaking the two women had caught his temper
and spirit. Ethel's face was white with
anger, her eyes flashing, her whole attitude
full of fight. Ruth was troubled and sorrowful,
and she looked anxiously at the Judge
for some solution of the condition. It was
Ethel who voiced the anxiety. "Father,"
she asked, "what is to be done? What can
you do?"
"Nothing, I am sorry to say, Ethel. My
money is absolutely tied up--for this year,
at any rate. I cannot touch it without wronging
others as well as myself, nor yet without
the most ruinous sacrifice."
"If I could do anything, I would not care
at what sacrifice."
"You can do all that is necessary, Ethel,
and you are the only person who can. You
have at least eight hundred thousand dollars
in cash and negotiable securities. Your
mother's fortune is all yours, with its legitimate
accruements, and it was left at your
own disposal after your twenty-first birthday.
It has been at your own disposal WITH
MY CONSENT since your nineteenth birthday."
"Then, father, we need not trouble about
the Squire. I wish with all my heart to make
his home sure to him as long as he lives. You
are a lawyer, you know what ought to be
done."
"Good girl! I knew what you would say
and do, or I should not have told you the
trouble there was at Rawdon. Now, I propose
we all make a visit to Rawdon Court, see
the Squire and the property, and while there
perfect such arrangements as seem kindest
and wisest. Ruth, how soon can we be ready
to sail?"
"Father, do you really mean that we are
to go to England?"
"It is the only thing to do. I must see that
all is as Mostyn says. I must not let you
throw your money away."
"That is only prudent," said Ruth, "and
we can be ready for the first steamer if you
wish it."
"I am delighted, father. I long to see
England; more than all, I long to see Rawdon.
I did not know until this moment how
much I loved it."
"Well, then, I will have all ready for us
to sail next Saturday. Say nothing about it
to Mostyn. He will call to-morrow morning
to bid you good-by before leaving for Newport
with McLean. Try and be out."
"I shall certainly be out," said Ethel.
"I do not wish ever to see his face again, and
I must see grandmother and tell her what we
are going to do."
"I dare say she guesses already. She advised
me to ask you about the mortgage. She
knew what you would say."
"Father, who are the Tyrrel-Rawdons?"
Then the Judge told the story of the young
Tyrrel-Rawdon, who a century ago had lost
his world for Love, and Ethel said "she
liked him better than any Rawdon she had
ever heard of."
"Except your father, Ethel."
"Except my father; my dear, good father.
And I am glad that Love did not always make
them poor. They must now be rich, if they
want to buy the Court."
"They are rich manufacturers. Mostyn
is much annoyed that the Squire has begun
to notice them. He says one of the grandsons
of the Tyrrel-Rawdons, disinherited for
love's sake, came to America some time in
the forties. I asked your grandmother if
this story was true. She said it is quite true;
that my father was his friend in the matter,
and that it was his reports about America
which made them decide to try their fortune
in New York."
"Does she know what became of him?"
"No. In his last letter to them he said he
had just joined a party going to the gold
fields of California. That was in 1850. He
never wrote again. It is likely he perished
on the terrible journey across the plains.
Many thousands did."
"When I am in England I intend to call
upon these Tyrrel-Rawdons. I think I shall
like them. My heart goes out to them. I am
proud of this bit of romance in the family."
"Oh, there is plenty of romance behind
you, Ethel. When you see the old Squire
standing at the entrance to the Manor House,
you may see the hags of Cressy and Agincourt,
of Marston and Worcester behind him.
And the Rawdon women have frequently been
daughters of Destiny. Many of them have
lived romances that would be incredible if
written down. Oh, Ethel, dear, we cannot,
we cannot for our lives, let the old home fall
into the hands of strangers. At any rate, if
on inspection we think it wrong to interfere,
I can at least try and get the children of the
disinherited Tyrrel back to their home. Shall
we leave it at this point for the present?"
This decision was agreeable to all, and
then the few preparations necessary for the
journey were talked over, and in this happy
discussion the evening passed rapidly. The
dream of Ethel's life had been this visit to
the home of her family, and to go as its savior
was a consummation of the pleasure that
filled her with loving pride. She could not
sleep for her waking dreams. She made all
sorts of resolutions about the despised Tyrrel-
Rawdons. She intended to show the
proud, indolent world of the English land-
aristocracy that Americans, just as well born
as themselves, respected business energy and
enterprise; and she had other plans and
propositions just as interesting and as full of
youth's impossible enthusiasm.
In the morning she went to talk the subject
over with her grandmother. The old
lady received the news with affected indif-
ference. She said, "It mattered nothing
to her who sat in Rawdon's seat; but she
would not hear Mostyn blamed for seeking
his right. Money and sentiment are no kin,"
she added, "and Fred has no sentiment about
Rawdon. Why should he? Only last summer
Rawdon kept him out of Parliament,
and made him spend a lot of money beside.
He's right to get even with the family if he
can."
"But the old Squire! He is now----"
"I know; he's older than I am. But
Squire Percival has had his day, and Fred
would not do anything out of the way to
him--he could not; the county would make
both Mostyn and Rawdon very uncomfortable
places to live in, if he did."
"If you turn a man out of his home when
he is eighty years old, I think that is `out of
the way.' And Mr. Mostyn is not to be
trusted. I wouldn't trust him as far as I
could see him."
"Highty-tighty! He has not asked you
to trust him. You lost your chance there,
miss."
"Grandmother, I am astonished at you!"
"Well, it was a mean thing to say, Ethel;
but I like Fred, and I see the rest of my
family are against him. It's natural for
Yorkshire to help the weakest side. But
there, Fred can do his own fighting, I'll warrant.
He's not an ordinary man."
"I'm sorry to say he isn't, grandmother.
If he were he would speak without a drawl,
and get rid of his monocle, and not pay such
minute attention to his coats and vests and
walking sticks."
Then Ethel proceeded to explain her resolves
with regard to the Tyrrel-Rawdons.
"I shall pay them the greatest attention,"
she said. "It was a noble thing in young
Tyrrel-Rawdon to give up everything for
honorable love, and I think everyone ought
to have stood by him."
"That wouldn't have done at all. If Tyrrel
had been petted as you think he ought to
have been, every respectable young man and
woman in the county would have married
where their fancy led them; and the fancies
of young people mostly lead them to the road
it is ruin to take."
"From what Fred Mostyn says, Tyrrel's
descendants seem to have taken a very respectable
road."
"I've nothing to say for or against them.
It's years and years since I laid eyes on any
of the family. Your grandfather helped one
of the young men to come to America, and
I remember his mother getting into a passion
about it. She was a fat woman in a
Paisley shawl and a love-bird on her bonnet.
I saw his sister often. She weighed about
twelve stone, and had red hair and red
cheeks and bare red elbows. She was called
a `strapping lass.' That is quite a complimentary
term in the West Riding."
"Please, grandmother, I don't want to
hear any more. In two weeks I shall be able
to judge for myself. Since then there have
been two generations, and if a member of
the present one is fit for Parliament----"
"That's nothing. We needn't look for
anything specially refined in Parliament in
these days. There's another thing. These
Tyrrel-Rawdons are chapel people. The rector
of Rawdon church would not marry Tyrrel
to his low-born love, and so they went to
the Methodist preacher, and after that to the
Methodist chapel. That put them down, more
than you can imagine here in America."
"It was a shame! Methodists are most
respectable people."
"I'm saying nothing contrary."
"The President is a Methodist."
"I never asked what he was. I am a
Church of England woman, you know that.
Born and bred in the Church, baptized,
confirmed, and married in the Church, and I
was always taught it was the only proper
Church for gentlemen and gentlewomen to be
saved in. However, English Methodists often
go back to the Church when they get rich."
"Church or chapel makes no difference to
me, grandmother. If people are only good."
"To be sure; but you won't be long in England
until you'll find out that some things
make a great deal of difference. Do you
know your father was here this morning?
He wanted me to go with you--a likely,
thing."
"But, grandmother, do come. We will
take such good care of you, and----"
"I know, but I'd rather keep my old
memories of Yorkshire than get new-fashioned
ones. All is changed. I can tell that
by what Fred says. My three great friends
are dead. They have left children and grandchildren,
of course, but I don't want to make
new acquaintances at my age, unless I have
the picking of them. No, I shall get Miss
Hillis to go with me to my little cabin on the
Jersey coast. We'll take our knitting and
the fresh novels, and I'll warrant we'll see
as much of the new men and women in them
as will more than satisfy us. But you must
write me long letters, and tell me everything
about the Squire and the way he keeps house,
and I don't care if you fill up the paper with
the Tyrrel-Rawdons."
"I will write you often, Granny, and tell
you everything."
"I shouldn't wonder if you come across
Dora Stanhope, but I wouldn't ask her to
Rawdon. She'll mix some cup of bother if
you do."
"I know."
In such loving and intimate conversation
the hours sped quickly, and Ethel could not
bear to cut short her visit. It was nearly five
when she left Gramercy Park, but the day
being lovely, and the avenue full of carriages
and pedestrians, she took the drive at its
enforced tardiness without disapproval.
Almost on entering the avenue from Madison
Square there was a crush, and her carriage
came to a standstill. She was then opposite
the store of a famous English saddler, and
near her was an open carriage occupied by a
middle-aged gentleman in military uniform.
He appeared to be waiting for someone, and
in a moment or two a young man came out of
the saddlery store, and with a pleasant laugh
entered the carriage. It was the Apollo of
her dreams, the singer of the Holland House
pavement. She could not doubt it. His face,
his figure, his walk, and the pleasant smile
with which he spoke to his companion were all
positive characteristics. She had forgotten
none of them. His dress was altered to suit
the season, but that was an improvement;
for divested of his heavy coat, and clothed
only in a stylish afternoon suit, his tall, fine
figure showed to great advantage; and Ethel
told herself that he was even handsomer than
she had supposed him to be.
Almost as soon as he entered his carriage
there was a movement, and she hoped her
driver might advance sufficiently to make
recognition possible, but some feeling, she
knew not what, prevented her giving any
order leading to this result. Perhaps she had
an instinctive presentiment that it was best
to leave all to Destiny. Toward the upper
part of the avenue the carriage of her eager
observation came to a stand before a warehouse
of antique furniture and bric-a-brac,
and, as it did so, a beautiful woman ran down
the steps, and Apollo, for so Ethel had men-
tally called him, went hurriedly to meet her.
Finally her coachman passed the party, and
there was a momentary recognition. He was
bending forward, listening to something the
lady was saying, when the vehicles almost
touched each other. He flashed a glance at
them, and met the flash of Ethel's eyes full of
interest and curiosity.
It was over in a moment, but in that moment
Ethel saw his astonishment and delight,
and felt her own eager questioning answered.
Then she was joyous and full of hope, for
"these two silent meetings are promises," she
said to Ruth. "I feel sure I shall see him
again, and then we shall speak to each other."
"I hope you are not allowing yourself to
feel too much interest in this man, Ethel; he
is very likely married."
"Oh, no! I am sure he is not, Ruth."
"How can you be sure? You know nothing
about him."
"I cannot tell HOW I know, nor WHY I know,
but I believe what I feel; and he is as much
interested in me as I am in him. I confess
that is a great deal."
"You may never see him again."
"I shall expect to see him next winter, he
evidently lives in New York."
"The lady you saw may be his wife. Don't
be interested in any man on unknown ground,
Ethel. It is not prudent--it is not right."
"Time will show. He will very likely be
looking for me this summer at Newport and
elsewhere. He will be glad to see me when I
come home. Don't worry, Ruth. It is all
right."
"Fred called soon after you went out this
morning. He left for Newport this afternoon.
He will be at sea now."
"And we shall be there in a few days.
When I am at the seaside I always feel a
delicious torpor; yet Nelly Baldwin told me
she loved an Atlantic passage because she had
such fun on board. You have crossed several
times, Ruth; is it fun or torpor?"
"All mirth at sea soon fades away, Ethel.
Passengers are a very dull class of people,
and they know it; they rebel against it, but
every hour it becomes more natural to be dull.
Very soon all mentally accommodate themselves
to being bored, dreamy and dreary.
Then, as soon as it is dark, comes that old
mysterious, hungering sound of the sea; and
I for one listen till I can bear it no longer,
and so steal away to bed with a pain in my
heart."
"I think I shall like the ocean. There are
games, and books, and company, and dinners,
and other things."
"Certainly, and you can think yourself
happy, until gradually a contented cretinism
steals over you, body and mind."
"No, no!" said Ethel enthusiastically.
"I shall do according to Swinburne--
"`Have therefore in my heart, and in my mouth,
The sound of song that mingles North and South;
And in my Soul the sense of all the Sea!'"
And Ruth laughed at her dramatic attitude,
and answered: "The soul of all the sea is a
contented cretinism, Ethel. But in ten days
we may be in Yorkshire. And then, my dear,
you may meet your Prince--some fine Yorkshire
gentleman."
"I have strictly and positively promised
myself that my Prince shall be a fine American
gentleman."
"My dear Ethel, it is very seldom
"`the time, and the place,
And the Loved One, come together.'"
"I live in the land of good hope, Ruth, and
my hopes will be realized."
"We shall see."