The Man Between: An International Romance

  “Were, as are the eagle’s keen,  All the man was aquiline.”

These personal characteristics taking some minutes to describe were almost an instantaneous revelation to Ethel, for what the soul sees it sees in a flash of understanding. But at that time she only answered her impressions without any inquiry concerning them. She was absorbed by the personal presence of the men, and all that was lovely and lovable in her nature responded to their admiration.

As they strolled together through a flowery alley, she made them pass their hands through the thyme and lavender, and listen to a bird singing its verses, loud and then soft, in the scented air above them. They came out where the purple plums and golden apricots were beginning to brighten a southern wall, and there, moodily walking by himself, they met Mostyn face to face. An angry flash and movement interpreted his annoyance, but he immediately recovered himself, and met Ethel and his late political opponent with polite equanimity. But a decided constraint fell on the happy party, and Ethel was relieved to hear the first tones of the great bell swing out from its lofty tower the call to the dining-room.

As far as Mostyn was concerned, this first malapropos meeting indicated the whole evening. His heart was beating quickly to some sense of defeat which he did not take the trouble to analyze. He only saw the man who had shattered his political hopes and wasted his money in possession also of what he thought he might rightly consider his place at Ethel’s side. He had once contemplated making Ethel his bride, and though the matrimonial idea had collapsed as completely as the political one, the envious, selfish misery of the “dog in the manger” was eating at his heartstrings. He did not want Ethel; but oh, how he hated the thought of either John Thomas or that American Raw-don winning her! His seat at the dinner-table also annoyed him. It was far enough from the objects of his resentment to prevent him hearing or interfering in their merry conversation; and he told himself with passionate indignation that Ethel had never once in all their intercourse been so beautiful and bright as she revealed herself that evening to those two Rawdon youths—one a mere loom-master, the other an American whom no one knew anything about.

The long, bewitching hours of the glorious evening added fuel to the flame of his anger. He could only procure from Ethel the promise of one unimportant dance at the close of her programme; and the American had three dances, and the mere loom-man two. And though he attempted to restore his self-complacency by devoting his whole attentions to the only titled young ladies in the room, he had throughout the evening a sense of being snubbed, and of being a person no longer of much importance at Rawdon Court. And the reasoning of wounded self-love is a singular process. Mostyn was quite oblivious of any personal cause for the change; he attributed it entirely to the Squire’s ingratitude.

“I did the Squire a good turn when he needed it, and of course he hates me for the obligation; and as for the Judge and his fine daughter, they interfered with my business—did me a great wrong—and they are only illustrating the old saying, ‘Since I wronged you I never liked you.’” After indulging such thoughts awhile, he resolved to escort the ladies Aurelia and Isolde Danvers to Danvers Castle, and leave Miss Ethel to find a partner for her last dance, a decision that favored John Thomas, greatly relieved Ethel, and bestowed upon himself that most irritating of all punishments, a self-inflicted disappointment.

This evening was the inauguration of a period of undimmed delight. In it the Tyrrel-Rawdons concluded a firm and affectionate alliance with the elder branch at the Court, and one day after a happy family dinner John Thomas made the startling proposal that “the portrait of the disinherited, disowned Tyrrel should be restored to its place in the family gallery.” He said he had “just walked through it, and noticed that the spot was still vacant, and I think surely,” he added, “the young man’s father must have meant to recall him home some day, but perhaps death took him unawares.”

“Died in the hunting-field,” murmured the Squire.

John Thomas bowed his head to the remark, and proceeded, “So perhaps, Squire, it may be in your heart to forgive the dead, and bring back the poor lad’s picture to its place. They who sin for love aren’t so bad, sir, as they who sin for money. I never heard worse of Tyrrel Rawdon than that he loved a poor woman instead of a rich woman—and married her. Those that have gone before us into the next life, I should think are good friends together; and I wouldn’t wonder if we might even make them happier there if we conclude to forget all old wrongs and live together here—as Rawdons ought to live—like one family.”

“I am of your opinion, John Thomas,” said the Squire, rising, and as he did so he looked at the Judge, who immediately indorsed the proposal. One after the other rose with sweet and strong assent, until there was only Tyrrel Rawdon’s voice lacking. But when all had spoken he rose also, and said:

“I am Tyrrel Rawdon’s direct descendant, and I speak for him when I say to-day, ‘Make room for me among my kindred!’ He that loves much may be forgiven much.”

Then the housekeeper was called, and they went slowly, with soft words, up to the third story of the house. And the room unused for a century was flung wide open; the shutters were unbarred, and the sunshine flooded it; and there amid his fishing tackle, guns, and whips, and faded ballads upon the wall, and books of wood lore and botany, and dress suits of velvet and satin, and hunting suits of scarlet—all faded and falling to pieces—stood the picture of Tyrrel Rawdon, with its face turned to the wall. The Squire made a motion to his descendant, and the young American tenderly turned it to the light. There was no decay on those painted lineaments. The almost boyish face, with its loving eyes and laughing mouth, was still twenty-four years old; and with a look of pride and affection the Squire lifted the picture and placed it in the hands of the Tyrrel Rawdon of the day.

The hanging of the picture in its old place was a silent and tender little ceremony, and after it the party separated. Mrs. Rawdon went with Ruth to rest a little. She said “she had a headache,” and she also wanted a good womanly talk over the affair. The Squire, Judge Rawdon, Mr. Nicholas Rawdon, and John Thomas returned to the dining-room to drink a bottle of such mild Madeira as can only now be found in the cellars of old county magnates, and Ethel and Tyrrel Rawdon strolled into the garden. There had not been in either mind any intention of leaving the party, but as they passed through the hall Tyrrel saw Ethel’s garden hat and white parasol lying on a table, and, impelled by some sudden and unreasoned instinct, he offered them to her. Not a word of request was spoken; it was the eager, passionate command of his eyes she obeyed. And for a few minutes they were speechless, then so intensely conscious that words stumbled and were lame, and they managed only syllables at a time. But he took her hand, and they came by sunny alleys of boxwood to a great plane tree, bearing at wondrous height a mighty wealth of branches. A bank of soft, green turf encircled its roots, and they sat down in the trembling shadows. It was in the midst of the herb garden; beds of mint and thyme, rosemary and marjoram, basil, lavender, and other fragrant plants were around, and close at hand a little city of straw skeps peopled by golden brown bees; From these skeps came a delicious aroma of riced flowers and virgin wax. It was a new Garden of Eden, in which life was sweet as perfume and pure as prayer. Nothing stirred the green, sunny afternoon but the murmur of the bees, and the sleepy twittering of the birds in the plane branches. An inexpressible peace swept like the breath of heaven through the odorous places. They sat down sighing for very happiness. The silence became too eloquent. At length it was almost unendurable, and Ethel said softly:

“How still it is!”

Tyrrel looked at her steadily with beaming eyes. Then he took from his pocket a little purse of woven gold and opal-tinted beads, and held it in his open hand for her to see, watching the bright blush that spread over her face, and the faint, glad smile that parted her lips.

“You understand?”

“Yes. It is mine.”

“It was yours. It is now mine.”

“How did you get it?”

“I bought it from the old man you gave it to.”

“Oh! Then you know him? How is that?”

“The hotel people sent a porter home with him lest he should be robbed. Next day I made inquiries, and this porter told me where he lived. I went there and bought this purse from him. I knew some day it would bring me to you. I have carried it over my heart ever since.”

“So you noticed me?”

“I saw you all the time I was singing. I have never forgotten you since that hour.”

“What made you sing?”

“Compassion, fate, an urgent impulse; perhaps, indeed, your piteous face—I saw it first.”

“Really?”

“I saw it first. I saw it all the time I was singing. When you dropped this purse my soul met yours in a moment’s greeting. It was a promise. I knew I should meet you again. I have loved you ever since. I wanted to tell you so the hour we met. It has been hard to keep my secret so long.”

“It was my secret also.”

“I love you beyond all words. My life is in your hands. You can make me the gladdest of mortals. You can send me away forever.”

“Oh, no, I could not! I could not do that!” The rest escapes words; but thus it was that on this day of days these two came by God’s grace to each other.

  For all things come by fate to flower,  At their unconquerable hour.

And the very atmosphere of such bliss is diffusive; it seemed as if all the living creatures around understood. In the thick, green branches the birds began to twitter the secret, and certainly the wise, wise bees knew also, in some occult way, of the love and joy that had just been revealed. A wonderful humming and buzzing filled the hives, and the air vibrated with the movement of wings. Some influence more swift and secret than the birds of the air carried the matter further, for it finally reached Royal, the Squire’s favorite collie, who came sauntering down the alley, pushed his nose twice under Ethel’s elbow, and then with a significant look backward, advised the lovers to follow him to the house.

When they finally accepted his invitation, they found Mrs. Rawdon drinking a cup of tea with Ruth in the hall. Ethel joined them with affected high spirits and random explanations and excuses, but both women no-ticed her radiant face and exulting air. “The garden is such a heavenly place,” she said ecstatically, and Mrs Rawdon remarked, as she rose and put her cup on the table, “Girls need chaperons in gardens if they need them anywhere. I made Nicholas Rawdon a promise in Mossgill Garden I’ve had to spend all my life since trying to keep.”

“Tyrrel and I have been sitting under the plane tree watching the bees. They are such busy, sensible creatures.”

“They are that,” answered Mrs. Rawdon. “If you knew all about them you would wonder a bit. My father had a great many; he studied their ways and used to laugh at the ladies of the hive being so like the ladies of the world. You see the young lady bees are just as inexperienced as a schoolgirl. They get lost in the flowers, and are often so overtaken and reckless, that the night finds them far from the hive, heavy with pollen and chilled with cold. Sometimes father would lift one of these imprudent young things, carry it home, and try to get it admitted. He never could manage it. The lady bees acted just as women are apt to do when other women GO where they don’t go, or DO as they don’t do.”

“But this is interesting,” said Ruth. “Pray, how did the ladies of the hive behave to the culprit?”

“They came out and felt her all over, turned her round and round, and then pushed her out of their community. There was always a deal of buzzing about the poor, silly thing, and I shouldn’t wonder if their stings were busy too. Bees are ill-natured as they can be. Well, well, I don’t blame anyone for sitting in the garden such a day as this; only, as I was saying, gardens have been very dangerous places for women as far as I know.”

Ruth laughed softly. “I shall take a chaperon with me, then, when I go into the garden.”

“I would, dearie. There’s the Judge; he’s a very suitable, sedate-looking one but you never can tell. The first woman found in a garden and a tree had plenty of sorrow for herself and every woman that has lived after her. I wish Nicholas and John Thomas would come. I’ll warrant they’re talking what they call politics.”

Politics was precisely the subject which had been occupying them, for when Tyrrel entered the dining-room, the Squire, Judge Rawdon, and Mr. Nicholas Rawdon were all standing, evidently just finishing a Conservative argument against the Radical opinions of John Thomas. The young man was still sitting, but he rose with smiling good-humor as Tyrrel entered.

“Here is Cousin Tyrrel,” he cried; “he will tell you that you may call a government anything you like radical, conservative, republican, democratic, socialistic, but if it isn’t a CHEAP government, it isn’t a good government; and there won’t be a cheap government in England till poor men have a deal to say about making laws and voting taxes.”

“Is that the kind of stuff you talk to our hands, John Thomas? No wonder they are neither to hold nor to bind.”

They were in the hall as John Thomas finished his political creed, and in a few minutes the adieux were said, and the wonderful day was over. It had been a wonderful day for all, but perhaps no one was sorry for a pause in life—a pause in which they might rest and try to realize what it had brought and what it had taken away. The Squire went at once to his room, and Ethel looked at Ruth inquiringly. She seemed exhausted, and was out of sympathy with all her surroundings.

“What enormous vitality these Yorkshire women must have!” she said almost crossly. “Mrs. Rawdon has been talking incessantly for six hours. She has felt all she said. She has frequently risen and walked about. She has used all sorts of actions to emphasize her words, and she is as fresh as if she had just taken her morning bath. How do the men stand them?”

“Because they are just as vital. John Thomas will overlook and scold and order his thousand hands all day, talk even his mother down while he eats his dinner, and then lecture or lead his Musical Union, or conduct a poor man’s concert, or go to ‘the Weaver’s Union,’ and what he calls ‘threep them’ for two or three hours that labor is ruining capital, and killing the goose that lays golden eggs for them. Oh, they are a wonderful race, Ruth!”

“I really can’t discuss them now, Ethel.”

“Don’t you want to know what Tyrrel said to me this afternoon?”

“My dear, I know. Lovers have said such things before, and lovers will say them evermore. You shall tell me in the morning. I thought he looked distrait and bored with our company.”

Indeed, Tyrrel was so remarkably quiet that John Thomas also noticed his mood, and as they sat smoking in Tyrrel’s room, he resolved to find out the reason, and with his usual directness asked:

“What do you think of Ethel Rawdon, Tyrrel.”

“I think she is the most beautiful woman I ever saw. She has also the most sincere nature, and her high spirit is sweetly tempered by her affectionate heart.”

“I am glad you know so much about her. Look here, Cousin Tyrrel, I fancied to-night you were a bit jealous of me. It is easy to see you are in love, and I’ve no doubt you were thinking of the days when you would be thousands of miles away, and I should have the ground clear and so on, eh?”

“Suppose I was, cousin, what then?”

“You would be worrying for nothing. I don’t want to marry Ethel Rawdon. If I did, you would have to be on the ground all the time, and then I should best you; but I picked out my wife two years ago, and if we are both alive and well, we are going to be married next Christmas.”

“I am delighted. I–”

“I thought you would be.”

“Who is the young lady?”

“Miss Lucy Watson. Her father is the Independent minister. He is a gentleman, though his salary is less than we give our overseer. And he is a great scholar. So is Lucy. She finished her course at college this summer, and with high honors. Bless you, Tyrrel, she knows far more than I do about everything but warps and looms and such like. I admire a clever woman, and I’m proud of Lucy.”

“Where is she now?”

“Well, she was a bit done up with so much study, and so she went to Scarborough for a few weeks. She has an aunt there. The sea breezes and salt water soon made her fit for anything. She may be home very soon now. Then, Tyrrel, you’ll see a beauty—face like a rose, hair brown as a nut, eyes that make your heart go galloping, the most enticing mouth, the prettiest figure, and she loves me with all her heart. When she says ‘John Thomas, dear one,’ I tremble with pleasure, and when she lets me kiss her sweet mouth, I really don’t know where I am. What would you say if a girl whispered, ‘I love you, and nobody but you,’ and gave you a kiss that was like—like wine and roses? Now what would you say?”

“I know as little as you do what I would say. It’s a situation to make a man coin new words. I suppose your family are pleased.”

“Well, I never thought about my family till I had Lucy’s word. Then I told mother. She knew Lucy all through. Mother has a great respect for Independents, and though father sulked a bit at first, mother had it out with him one night, and when mother has father quiet in their room father comes to see things just as she wants him. I suppose that’s the way with wives. Lucy will be just like that. She’s got a sharp little temper, too. She’ll let me have a bit of it, no doubt, now and then.”

“Will you like that?”

“I wouldn’t care a farthing for a wife without a bit of temper. There would be no fun in living with a woman of that kind. My father would droop and pine if mother didn’t spur him on now and then. And he likes it. Don’t I know? I’ve seen mother snappy and awkward with him all breakfast time, tossing her head, and rattling the china, and declaring she was worn out with men that let all the good bargains pass them; perhaps making fun of us because we couldn’t manage to get along without strikes. She had no strikes with her hands, she’d like to see her women stand up and talk to her about shorter hours, and so on; and father would look at me sly-like, and as we walked to the mill together he’d laugh contentedly and say, ‘Your mother was quite refreshing this morning, John Thomas. She has keyed me up to a right pitch. When Jonathan Arkroyd comes about that wool he sold us I’ll be all ready for him.’ So you see I’m not against a sharp temper. I like women as Tennyson says English girls are, ‘roses set round with little wilful thorns,’ eh?”

Unusual as this conversation was, its general tone was assumed by Ethel in her confidential talk with Ruth the following day. Of course, Ruth was not at all surprised at the news Ethel brought her, for though the lovers had been individually sure they had betrayed their secret to no one, it had really been an open one to Ruth since the hour of their meeting. She was sincerely ardent in her praises of Tyrrel Rawdon, but—and there is always a but—she wondered if Ethel had “noticed what a quick temper he had.”

“Oh, yes,” answered Ethel, “I should not like him not to have a quick temper. I expect my husband to stand up at a moment’s notice for either mine or his own rights or opinions.”

And in the afternoon when all preliminaries had been settled and approved, Judge Rawdon expressed himself in the same manner to Ruth. “Yes,” he said, in reply to her timid suggestion of temper, “you can strike fire anywhere with him if you try it, but he has it under control. Besides, Ethel is just as quick to flame up. It will be Rawdon against Rawdon, and Ethel’s weapons are of finer, keener steel than Tyrrel’s. Ethel will hold her own. It is best so.”

“How did the Squire feel about such a marriage?”

“He was quite overcome with delight. Nothing was said to Tyrrel about Ethel having bought the reversion of Rawdon Manor, for things have been harder to get into proper shape than I thought they would be, and it may be another month before all is finally settled; but the Squire has the secret satisfaction, and he was much affected by the certainty of a Rawdon at Rawdon Court after him. He declined to think of it in any other way but ‘providential,’ and of course I let him take all the satisfaction he could out of the idea. Ever since he heard of the engagement he has been at the organ singing the One Hundred and Third Psalm.”

“He is the dearest and noblest of men. How soon shall we go home now?”

“In about a month. Are you tired of England?”

“I shall be glad to see America again. There was a letter from Dora this morning. They sail on the twenty-third.”

“Do you know anything of Mostyn?”

“Since he wrote us a polite farewell we have heard nothing.”

“Do you think he went to America?”

“I cannot tell. When he bid us good-by he made no statement as to his destination; he merely said ‘he was leaving England on business.’”

“Well, Ruth, we shall sail as soon as I am satisfied all is right. There is a little delay about some leases and other matters. In the meantime the lovers are in Paradise wherever we locate them.”

And in Paradise they dwelt for another four weeks. The ancient garden had doubtless many a dream of love to keep, but none sweeter or truer than the idyl of Tyrrel and Ethel Rawdon. They were never weary of rehearsing it; every incident of its growth had been charming and romantic, and, as they believed, appointed from afar. As the sum-mer waxed hotter the beautiful place took on an appearance of royal color and splendor, and the air was languid with the perfume of the clove carnations and tall white August lilies. Fluted dahlias, scarlet poppies, and all the flowers that exhale their spice in the last hot days of August burned incense for them. Their very hair was laden with odor, their fingers flower-sweet, their minds took on the many colors of their exquisite surroundings.

And it was part of this drama of love and scent and color that they should see it slowly assume the more ethereal loveliness of September, and watch the subtle amber rays shine through the thinning boughs, and feel that all nature was becoming idealized. The birds were then mostly silent. They had left their best notes on the hawthorns and among the roses; but the crickets made a cheerful chirrup, and the great brown butterflies displayed their richest velvets, and the gossamer-like insects in the dreamy atmosphere performed dances and undulations full of grace and mystery. And all these marvelous changes imparted to love that sweet sadness which is beyond all words poetic and enchaining.

Yet however sweet the hours, they pass away, and it is not much memory can save from the mutable, happy days of love. Still, when the hour of departure came they had garnered enough to sweeten all the after-straits and stress of time. September had then perceptibly begun to add to the nights and shorten the days, and her tender touch had been laid on everything. With a smile and a sigh the Rawdons turned their faces to their pleasant home in the Land of the West. It was to be but a short farewell. They had promised the Squire to return the following summer, but he felt the desolation of the parting very keenly. With his hat slightly lifted above his white head, he stood watching them out of sight. Then he went to his organ, and very soon grand waves of melody rolled outward and upward, and blended themselves with the clear, soaring voice of Joel, the lad who blew the bellows of the instrument, and shared all his master’s joy in it. They played and sang until the Squire rose weary, but full of gladness. The look of immortality was in his eyes, its sure and certain hope in his heart. He let Joel lead him to his chair by the window, and then he said to himself with visible triumph:

“What Mr. Spencer or anyone else writes about ‘the Unknowable’ I care not. I KNOW IN WHOM I have believed. Joel, sing that last sequence again. Stand where I can see thee.” And the lad’s joyful voice rang exulting out:

“Lord, Thou hast been our dwelling-place in all generations. Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever Thou hadst formed the world, from everlasting to everlasting Thou art God! Thou art God! Thou art God!”