The Man Between: An International Romance

by Amelia E. Barr

  CHAPTER X

  WHEN Ethel and Tyrrel parted at the steamer they did not expect a longseparation, but Colonel Rawdon never recovered his health, and for manyexcellent reasons Tyrrel could not leave the dying man. Nor did Ethelwish him to do so. Under these circumstances began the second beautifulphase of Ethel's wooing, a sweet, daily correspondence, the best ofall preparations for matrimonial oneness and understanding. Looking forTyrrel's letters, reading them, and answering them passed many happyhours, for to both it was an absolute necessity to assure each otherconstantly,

  "Since I wrote thee yester eve I do love thee, Love, believe, Twelve times dearer, twelve hours longer, One dream deeper one night stronger, One sun surer--this much more Than I loved thee, dear, before."

  And for the rest, she took up her old life with a fresh enthusiasm.

  Among these interests none were more urgent in their claims than DoraStanhope; and fortified by her grandmother's opinion, Ethel went at onceto call on her. She found Basil with his wife, and his efforts to makeEthel see how much he expected from her influence, and yet at the sametime not even hint a disapproval of Dora, were almost pathetic, for hewas so void of sophistry that his innuendoes were flagrantly open todetection. Dora felt a contempt for them, and he had hardly left theroom ere she said:

  "Basil has gone to his vestry in high spirits. When I told him you werecoming to see me to-day he smiled like an angel. He believes you willkeep me out of mischief, and he feels a grand confidence in somethingwhich he calls 'your influence.'"

  "What do you mean by mischief?"

  "Oh, I suppose going about with Fred Mostyn. I can't help that. I musthave some one to look after me. All the young men I used to know pass menow with a lifted hat or a word or two. The girls have forgotten me. Idon't suppose I shall be asked to a single dance this winter."

  "The ladies in St. Jude's church would make a pet of you if----"

  "The old cats and kittens! No, thank you, I am not going to churchexcept on Sunday mornings--that is respectable and right; but as tobeing the pet of St. Jude's ladies! No, no! How they would mew over mydelinquencies, and what scratches I should get from their velvet-shodclaws! If I have to be talked about, I prefer the ladies of the world todiscuss my frailties."

  "But if I were you, I would give no one a reason for saying a wordagainst me. Why should you?"

  "Fred will supply them with reasons. I can't keep the man away from me.I don't believe I want to--he is very nice and useful."

  "You are talking nonsense, things you don't mean, Dora. You are notsuch a foolish woman as to like to be seen with Fred Mostyn, that littlemonocular snob, after the aristocratic, handsome Basil Stanhope. Thecomparison is a mockery. Basil is the finest gentleman I ever saw.Socially, he is perfection, and----"

  "He is only a clergyman."

  "Even as a clergyman he is of religiously royal descent. There aregenerations of clergymen behind him, and he is a prince in the pulpit.Every man that knows him gives him the highest respect, every womanthinks you the most fortunate of wives. No one cares for Fred Mostyn.Even in his native place he is held in contempt. He had nine hundredvotes to young Rawdon's twelve thousand."

  "I don't mind that. I am going to the matinee to-morrow with Fred. Hewanted to take me out in his auto this afternoon, but when I said Iwould go if you would he drew back. What is the reason? Did he make youoffer of his hand? Did you refuse it?"

  "He never made me an offer. I count that to myself as a greatcompliment. If he had done such a thing, he would certainly have beenrefused."

  "I can tell that he really hates you. What dirty trick did you serve himabout Rawdon Court?"

  "So he called the release of Squire Rawdon a 'dirty trick'? It wouldhave been a very dirty trick to have let Fred Mostyn get his way withSquire Rawdon."

  "Of course, Ethel, when a man lends his money as an obligation heexpects to get it back again."

  "Mostyn got every farthing due him, and he wanted one of the finestmanors in Eng-land in return for the obligation. He did not get it,thank God and my father!"

  "He will not forget your father's interference."

  "I hope he will remember it."

  "Do you know who furnished the money to pay Fred? He says he is sureyour father did not have it."

  "Tell him to ask my father. He might even ask your father. Whether myfather had the money or not was immaterial. Father could borrow any sumhe wanted, I think."

  "Whom did he borrow from?"

  "I am sure that Fred told you to ask that question. Is he writing toyou, Dora?"

  "Suppose he is?"

  "I cannot suppose such a thing. It is too impossible."

  This was the beginning of a series of events all more or less qualifiedto bring about unspeakable misery in Basil's home. But there is nothingin life like the marriage tie. The tugs it will bear and not break, thewrongs it will look over, the chronic misunderstandings it will forgive,make it one of the mysteries of humanity. It was not in a day or a weekthat Basil Stanhope's dream of love and home was shattered. Dora hadfrequent and then less frequent times of return to her better self; andevery such time renewed her husband's hope that she was merely passingthrough a period of transition and assimilation, and that in the end shewould be all his desire hoped for.

  But Ethel saw what he did not see, that Mostyn was gradually inspiringher with his own opinions, perhaps even with his own passion. Inthis emergency, however, she was gratified to find that Dora's motherappeared to have grasped the situation. For if Dora went to the theaterwith Mostyn, Mrs. Denning or Bryce was also there; and the recklessauto driving, shopping, and lunching had at least a show ofrespectable association. Yet when the opera season opened, the constantcompanionship of Mostyn and Dora became entirely too remarkable, notonly in the public estimation, but in Basil's miserable conception ofhis own wrong. The young husband used every art and persuasion--andfailed. And his failure was too apparent to be slighted. He becamefeverish and nervous, and his friends read his misery in eyes heavywith unshed tears, and in the wasting pallor caused by his sleepless,sorrowful nights.

  Dora also showed signs of the change so rapidly working on her. She wassullen and passionate by turns; she complained bitterly to Ethel thather youth and beauty had been wasted; that she was only nineteen, andher life was over. She wanted to go to Paris, to get away from New Yorkanywhere and anyhow. She began to dislike even the presence of Basil.His stately beauty offended her, his low, calm voice was the verykeynote 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 totell you. Mrs. Colby and Mrs. Schaffler and some other ladies have abeautiful idea. They wish to give all the children of the church undereight years old the grandest Christmas tree imaginable--really richpresents 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 Ipromised 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 andgave 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 whenyou come with such ridiculous proposals--in fact, you intrude very oftenlately."

  "Does Mr. Mostyn intrude?"

  "Mr. Mostyn takes me out, gives me a little sensible pleasure. You thinkI can be interested in a Christmas tree. The idea!"

  "Alas, alas, Dora, you are tired of me! You do not love me! You do notlove me!"

  "I love nobody. I am sorry I got married. It was all a mistake. I willgo home and then you can get a divorce."

  At this last word the whole man
changed. He was suffused, transfiguredwith an anger that was at once righteous and impetuous.

  "How dare you use that word to me?" he demanded. "To the priest ofGod no such word exists. I do not know it. You are my wife, willing orunwilling. You are my wife forever, whether you dwell with me ornot. You cannot sever bonds the Almighty has tied. You are mine, DoraStanhope! Mine for time and eternity! Mine forever and ever!"

  She looked at him in amazement, and saw a man after an image she hadnever imagined. She was terrified. She flung herself on the sofa ina whirlwind of passion. She cried aloud against his claim. She gaveherself up to a vehement rage that was strongly infused with a childishdismay and panic.

  "I will not be your wife forever!" she shrieked. "I will never be yourwife 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 inhis arms said, even on her lips, "You ARE my dear wife! You are my veryown dear wife! Tell me what to do. Anything that is right, reasonable Iwill do. We can never part."

  "I will go to my father. I will never come back to you." And with thesewords she rose, threw off his embrace, and with a sobbing cry ran, likea terrified child, out of the room.

  He sat down exhausted by his emotion, and sick with the thought she hadevoked in that one evil word. The publicity, the disgrace, the wrongto Holy Church--ah, that was the cruelest wound! His own wrong was hardenough, but that he, who would gladly die for the Church, should puther to open shame! How could he bear it? Though it killed him, he mustprevent that wrong; yes, if the right eye offended it must be pluckedout. He must throw off his cassock, and turn away from the sacredaisles; he must--he could not say the word; he would wait a little. Dorawould not leave him; it was impossible. He waited in a trance of achingsuspense. Nothing for an hour or more broke it--no footfall, no sound ofcommand or complaint. He was finally in hopes that Dora slept. Then hewas called to lunch, and he made a pretense of eating it alone. Dorasent no excuse for her absence, and he could not trust himself to makeinquiry about her. In the middle of the afternoon he heard a carriagedrive to the door, and Dora, with her jewel-case in her hand, enteredit and was driven away. The sight astounded him. He ran to her room, andfound her maid packing her clothing. The woman answered his questionssullenly. She said "Mrs. Stanhope had gone to Mrs. Denning's, and hadleft orders for her trunks to be sent there." Beyond this she was silentand ignorant. No sympathy for either husband or wife was in her heart.Their quarrel was interfering with her own plans; she hated both of themin consequence.

  In the meantime Dora had reached her home. Her mother was dismayed andhesitating, and her attitude raised again in Dora's heart the passionwhich 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 onlya child. She said she had been cruelly used in order to get the familyinto social recognition. She was in a frenzy of grief at her supposedsacrifice when her father came home. Her case was then won. With herarms round his neck, sobbing against his heart, her tears and entreatieson his lips, Ben Denning had no feeling and no care for anyone but hisdaughter. 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 waslike shutting her up in a convent." Dora's tears and complaints firedhim beyond reason. He promised her freedom whatever it cost him.

  And while he sat in his private room considering the case, all theracial passions of his rough ancestry burning within him, Basil Stanhopecalled to see him. He permitted him to come into his presence, but herose 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 owncare."

  "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 aninsult; 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 toogood for a good little girl that wants a bit of innocent amusement.Sermons and Christmas trees! Great Scott, what sensible woman would notbe 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 houseas quietly as possible." And he walked to the door, flung it open, andstood 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 toyou."

  Basil went, but not to his desolate home. He had a private key to thevestry in his church, and in its darkness and solitude he faced thefirst shock of his ruined life, for he knew well all was over. All hadbeen. He sank to the floor at the foot of the large cross which hung onits bare white walls. Grief's illimitable wave went over him, and like adrowning man he uttered an inarticulate cry of agony--the cry of a soulthat had wronged its destiny. Love had betrayed him to ruin. All he haddone must be abandoned. All he had won must be given up. Sin and shameindeed it would be if in his person a sacrament of the Church should bedragged through a divorce court. All other considerations paled beforethis disgrace. He must resign his curacy, strip himself of the honorablelivery of heaven, obliterate his person and his name. It was a kind ofdeath.

  After awhile he rose, drank some water, lifted the shade and let themoonlight in. Then about that little room he walked with God through thelong night, telling Him his sorrow and perplexity. And there is a depthin our own nature where the divine and human are one. That night BasilStanhope found it, and henceforward knew that the bitterness of deathwas behind him, not before. "I made my nest too dear on earth," hesighed, "and it has been swept bare--that is, that I may build inheaven."

  Now, the revelation of sorrow is the clearest of all revelations.Stanhope understood that hour what he must do. No doubts weakened hiscourse. He went back to the house Dora called "hers," took away what hevalued, and while the servants were eating their breakfast and talkingover his marital troubles, he passed across its threshold for the lasttime. He told no one where he was going; he dropped as silently anddumbly out of the life that had known him as a stone dropped intomid-ocean.

  Ethel considered herself fortunate in being from home at the time thisdisastrous culmination of Basil Stanhope's married life was reached. Onthat same morning the Judge, accompanied by Ruth and herself, had goneto Lenox to spend the holidays with some old friends, and she was quiteignorant of the matter when she returned after the New Year. Bryce washer first informant. He called specially to give her the news. He saidhis sister had been too ill and too busy to write. He had no word ofsympathy for the unhappy pair. He spoke only of the anxiety it hadcaused him. "He was now engaged," he said, "to Miss Caldwell, and shewas 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 Ethelthat he had been against Basil Stanhope from the first. "He had alwaysknown how that marriage would end," and so on.

  Ethel declined to give any opinion. "She must hear both sides," shesaid. "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 wasreally happy." She did not apparently concern herself about Basil. TheJudge rather leaned to Basil's consideration. He understood that Dora'sovert act had shattered his professional career as well as his personalhappiness. He could feel for the man there. "My dears," he said, withhis
dilettante air, "the goddess Calamity is delicate, and her feetare tender. She treads not upon the ground, but makes her path upon thehearts of men." In this non-committal way he gave his comment, for heusually found a bit of classical wisdom to fit modern emergencies, andthe habit had imparted an antique bon-ton to his conversation. Ethelcould only wonder at the lack of real sympathy.

  In the morning she went to see her grandmother. The old lady had "heard"all she wanted to hear about Dora and Basil Stanhope. If men wouldmarry a fool because she was young and pretty, they must take theconsequences. "And why should Stanhope have married at all?" she askedindignantly. "No man can serve God and a woman at the same time. Hehad to be a bad priest and a good husband, or a bad husband and a goodpriest. Basil Stanhope was honored, was doing good, and he must needs behappy also. He wanted too much, and lost everything. Serve him right."

  "All can now find some fault in poor Basil Stanhope," said Ethel."Bryce was bitter against him because Miss Caldwell shivers at the word'divorce.'"

  "What has Bryce to do with Jane Caldwell?"

  "He is going to marry her, he says."

  "Like enough; she's a merry miss of two-score, and rich. Bryce'smarriage with anyone will be a well-considered affair--a marriage withall the advantages of a good bargain. I'm tired of the whole subject.If women will marry they should be as patient as Griselda, in case thereever was such a woman; if not, there's an end of the matter."

  "There are no Griseldas in this century, grandmother."

  "Then there ought to be no marriages. Basil Stanhope was a grand man inpublic. What kind of a man was he in his home? Measure a man by hishome conduct, and you'll not go wrong. It's the right place to draw yourpicture of him, I can tell you that."

  "He has no home now, poor fellow."

  "Whose fault was it? God only knows. Where is his wife?"

  "She has gone to Paris."

  "She has gone to the right place if she wants to play the fool. Butthere, now, God forbid I should judge her in the dark. Women shouldstand by women--considering."

  "Considering?"

  "What they may have to put up with. It is easy to see faults in others.I have sometimes met with people who should see faults in themselves.They are rather uncommon, though."

  "I am sure Basil Stanhope will be miserable all his life. He will breakhis heart, I do believe."

  "Not so. A good heart is hard to break, it grows strong in trouble.Basil Stanhope's body will fail long before his heart does; and even soan end must come to life, and after that peace or what God wills."

  This scant sympathy Ethel found to be the usual tone among heracquaintances. St. Jude's got a new rector and a new idol, and theStanhope affair was relegated to the limbo of things "it was proper toforget."

  So the weeks of the long winter went by, and Ethel in the joy and hopeof her own love-life naturally put out of her mind the sorrow of livesshe could no longer help or influence. Indeed, as to Dora, there werefrequent reports of her marvelous social success in Paris; and Etheldid not doubt Stanhope had found some everlasting gospel of holy work tocomfort his desolation. And then also

  "Each day brings its petty dust, Our soon-choked souls to fill; And we forget because we must, And not because we will."

  One evening when May with heavy clouds and slant rains was making thecity as miserable as possible, Ethel had a caller. His card bore a namequite unknown, and his appearance gave no clew to his identity.

  "Mr. Edmonds?" she said interrogatively.

  "Are you Miss Ethel Rawdon?" he asked.

  "Yes."

  "Mr. Basil Stanhope told me to put this parcel in your hands."

  "Oh, Mr. Stanhope! I am glad to hear from him. Where is he now?"

  "We buried him yesterday. He died last Sunday as the bells were ringingfor church--pneumonia, miss. While reading the ser-vice over a pooryoung man he had nursed many weeks he took cold. The poor will miss himsorely."

  "DEAD!" She looked aghast at the speaker, and again ejaculated thepitiful, astounding word.

  "Good evening, miss. I promised him to return at once to the work heleft me to do." And he quietly departed, leaving Ethel standing with theparcel in her hands. She ran upstairs and locked it away. Just then shecould not bear to open it.

  "And it is hardly twelve months since he was married," she sobbed. "Oh,Ruth, Ruth, it is too cruel!"

  "Dear," answered Ruth, "there is no death to such a man as BasilStanhope."

  "He was so young, Ruth."

  "I know. 'His high-born brothers called him hence' at the age oftwenty-nine, but

  "'It is not growing like a tree, In bulk, doth make men better be; Or standing like an oak three hundred year, To fall at last, dry, bald and sear: A lily of a day Is fairer far in May; Although it fall and die that night, It was the plant and flower of light.'"

  At these words the Judge put down his Review to listen to Ethel's story,and when she ceased speaking he had gone far further back than anyantique classic for compensation and satisfaction:

  "He being made perfect in a short time fulfilled a long time. For hissoul pleased the Lord, therefore hasted He to take him away from amongthe wicked." [2] And that evening there was little conversation. Everyheart was busy with its own thoughts.

  [Footnote 2: Wisdom of Solomon, IV., 13, 14.]