DURING dinner both Ruth and Ethel were
aware of some sub-interest in the Judge's
manner; his absent-mindedness was unusual,
and once Ruth saw a faint smile that nothing
evident could have induced. Unconsciously
also he set a tone of constraint and hurry;
the meal was not loitered over, the conversation
flagged, and all rose from the table
with a sense of relief; perhaps, indeed, with
a feeling of expectation.
They entered the parlor together, and the
mastiff rose to meet them, asking permission
to remain with the little coaxing push of his
nose which brought the ready answer:
"Certainly, Sultan. Make yourself comfortable."
Then they grouped themselves round the
fire, and the Judge lit his cigar and looked
at Ethel in a way that instantly brought curiosity
to the question:
"You have a secret, father," she said.
"Is it about grandmother?"
"It is news rather than a secret, Ethel.
And grandmother has a good deal to do with
it, for it is about her family--the Mostyns."
"Oh!"
The tone of Ethel's "Oh!" was not encouraging,
and Ruth's look of interest held
in abeyance was just as chilling. But something
like this attitude had been expected,
and Judge Rawdon was not discouraged by
it; he knew that youth is capable of great and
sudden changes, and that its ability to find
reasonable motives for them is unlimited, so
he calmly continued:
"You are aware that your grandmother's
name before marriage was Rachel Mostyn?"
"I have seen it a thousand times at the
bottom of her sampler, father, the one that is
framed and hanging in her morning room--
Rachel Mostyn, November, Anno Domini,
1827."
"Very well. She married George Rawdon,
and they came to New York in 1834.
They had a pretty house on the Bowling
Green and lived very happily there. I was
born in 1850, the youngest of their children.
You know that I sign my name Edward M.
Rawdon; it is really Edward Mostyn Rawdon."
He paused, and Ruth said, "I suppose
Mrs. Rawdon has had some news from her
old home?"
"She had a letter last night, and I shall
probably receive one to-morrow. Frederick
Mostyn, her grand-nephew, is coming to New
York, and Squire Rawdon, of Rawdon
Manor, writes to recommend the young man
to our hospitality."
"But you surely do not intend to invite
him here, Edward. I think that would not
do."
"He is going to the Holland House. But
he is our kinsman, and therefore we must be
hospitable."
"I have been trying to count the kinship.
It is out of my reckoning," said Ethel. "I
hope at least he is nice and presentable."
"The Mostyns are a handsome family.
Look at your grandmother. And Squire
Rawdon speaks very well of Mr. Mostyn.
He has taken the right side in politics, and is
likely to make his mark. They were always
great sportsmen, and I dare say this
representative of the family is a good-looking
fellow, well-mannered, and perfectly dressed."
Ethel laughed. "If his clothes fit him he
will be an English wonder. I have seen lots
of Englishmen; they are all frights as to
trousers and vests. There was Lord Wycomb,
his broadcloths and satins and linen
were marvels in quality, but the make! The
girls hated to be seen walking with him, and
he would walk--`good for the constitution,'
was his explanation for all his peculiarities.
The Caylers were weary to death of them."
"And yet," said Ruth, "they sang songs
of triumph when Lou Cayler married him."
"That was a different thing. Lou would
make him get `fits' and stop wearing sloppy,
baggy arrangements. And I do not suppose
the English lord has now a single peculiarity
left, unless it be his constitutional walk--
that, of course. I have heard English babies
get out of their cradles to take a constitutional."
During this tirade Ruth had been thinking.
"Edward," she asked, "why does
Squire Rawdon introduce Mr. Mostyn?
Their relationship cannot be worth counting."
"There you are wrong, Ruth." He spoke
with a little excitement. "Englishmen never
deny matrimonial relationships, if they are
worthy ones. Mostyn and Rawdon are bound
together by many a gold wedding ring; we
reckon such ties relationships. Squire Raw-
don lost his son and his two grandsons a year
ago. Perhaps this young man may eventually
stand in their place. The Squire is nearly
eighty years old; he is the last of the English
Rawdons--at least of our branch of it."
"You suppose this Mr. Mostyn may become
Squire of Rawdon Manor?"
"He may, Ruth, but it is not certain.
There is a large mortgage on the Manor."
"Oh!"
Both girls made the ejaculation at the same
moment, and in both voices there was the
same curious tone of speculation. It was a
cry after truth apprehended, but not realized.
Mr. Rawdon remained silent; he was debating
with himself the advisability of further
confidence, but he came quickly to the
conclusion that enough had been told for the
present. Turning to Ethel, he said: "I suppose
girls have a code of honor about their
secrets. Is Dora Denning's `extraordinary
news' shut up in it?"
"Oh, no, father. She is going to be married.
That is all."
"That is enough. Who is the man?"
"Reverend Mr. Stanhope."
"Nonsense!"
"Positively."
"I never heard anything more ridiculous.
That saintly young priest! Why, Dora will
be tired to death of him in a month. And he?
Poor fellow!"
"Why poor fellow? He is very much in
love with her."
"It is hard to understand. St. Jerome's
love `pale with midnight prayer' would be
more believable than the butterfly Dora.
Goodness, gracious! The idea of that man
being in love! It pulls him down a bit. I
thought he never looked at a woman."
"Do you know him, father?"
"As many people know him--by good report.
I know that he is a clergyman who believes
what he preaches. I know a Wall
Street broker who left St. Jude's church
because Mr. Stanhope's sermons on Sunday put
such a fine edge on his conscience that Mondays
were dangerous days for him to do business
on. And whatever Wall Street financiers
think of the Bible personally, they do like a
man who sticks to his colors, and who holds
intact the truth committed to him. Stanhope
does this emphatically; and he is so
well trusted that if he wanted to build a new
church he could get all the money necessary,
from Wall Street men in an hour. And he
is going to marry! Going to marry Dora
Denning! It is `extraordinary news,' indeed!"
Ethel was a little offended at such unusual
surprise. "I think you don't quite understand
Dora," she said. "It will be Mr. Stanhope's
fault if she is not led in the right way;
for if he only loves and pets her enough he
may do all he wishes with her. I know, I
have both coaxed and ordered her for four
years--sometimes one way is best, and sometimes
the other."
"How is a man to tell which way to take?
What do her parents think of the marriage?"
"They are pleased with it."
"Pleased with it! Then I have nothing
more to say, except that I hope they will not
appeal to me on any question of divorce that
may arise from such an unlikely marriage."
"They are only lovers yet, Edward," said
Ruth. "It is not fair, or kind, to even think
of divorce."
"My dear Ruth, the fashionable girl of today
accepts marriage with the provision of
divorce."
"Dora is hardly one of that set."
"I hope she may keep out of it, but marriage
will give her many opportunities. Well,
I am sorry for the young priest. He isn't
fit to manage a woman like Dora Denning.
I am afraid he will get the worst of it."
"I think you are very unkind, father.
Dora is my friend, and I know her. She is
a girl of intense feelings and very affectionate.
And she has dissolved all her life and
mind in Mr. Stanhope's life and mind, just
as a lump of sugar is dissolved in water."
Ruth laughed. "Can you not find a more
poetic simile, Ethel?"
"It will do. This is an age of matter; a
material symbol is the proper thing."
"I am glad to hear she has dissolved her
mind in Stanhope's," said Judge Rawdon.
"Dora's intellect in itself is childish. What
did the man see in her that he should desire
her?"
"Father, you never can tell how much
brains men like with their beauty. Very
little will do generally. And Dora has beauty
--great beauty; no one can deny that. I
think Dora is giving up a great deal. To
her, at least, marriage is a state of passing
from perfect freedom into the comparative
condition of a slave, giving up her own way
constantly for some one else's way."
"Well, Ethel, the remedy is in the lady's
hands. She is not forced to marry, and the
slavery that is voluntary is no hardship.
Now, my dear, I have a case to look over, and
you must excuse me to-night. To-morrow
we shall know more concerning Mr. Mostyn,
and it is easier to talk about certainties than
probabilities."
But if conversation ceased about Mr. Mostyn,
thought did not; for, a couple of hours
afterwards, Ethel tapped at her aunt's door
and said, "Just a moment, Ruth."
"Yes, dear, what is it?"
"Did you notice what father said about
the mortgage on Rawdon Manor"'
"Yes."
"He seemed to know all about it."
"I think he does know all about it."
"Do you think he holds it?"
"He may do so--it is not unlikely."
"Oh! Then Mr. Fred Mostyn, if he is to
inherit Rawdon, would like the mortgage removed?"
"Of course he would."
"And the way to remove it would be to
marry the daughter of the holder of the
mortgage?"
"It would be one way."
"So he is coming to look me over. I am
a matrimonial possibility. How do you like
that idea, Aunt Ruth?"
"I do not entertain it for a moment.
Mr. Mostyn may not even know of the mortgage.
When men mortgage their estates
they do not make confidences about the matter,
or talk it over with their friends. They
always conceal and hide the transaction. If
your father holds the mortgage, I feel sure
that no one but himself and Squire Rawdon
know anything about it. Don't look at the
wrong side of events, Ethel; be content with
the right side of life's tapestry. Why are
you not asleep? What are you worrying
about?"
"Nothing, only I have not heard all I
wanted to hear."
"And perhaps that is good for you."
"I shall go and see grandmother first thing
in the morning."
"I would not if I were you. You cannot
make any excuse she will not see through.
Your father will call on Mr. Mostyn to-morrow,
and we shall get unprejudiced information."
"Oh, I don't know that, Ruth. Father is
intensely American three hundred and sixty-
four days and twenty-three hours in a year,
and then in the odd hour he will flare up
Yorkshire like a conflagration."
"English, you mean?"
"No. Yorkshire IS England to grandmother
and father. They don't think anything
much of the other counties, and people
from them are just respectable foreigners.
You may depend upon it, whatever grandmother
says of Mr. Fred Mostyn, father will
believe it, too."
"Your father always believes whatever
your grandmother says. Good night, dear."
"Good night. I think I shall go to grandmother
in the morning. I know how to
manage her. I shall meet her squarely with
the truth, and acknowledge that I am dying
with curiosity about Mr. Mostyn."
"And she will tease and lecture you, say
you are `not sweetheart high yet, only a little
maid,' and so on. Far better go and talk with
Dora. To-morrow she will need you, I am
sure. Ethel, I am very sleepy. Good night
again, dear."
"Good night!" Then with a sudden animation,
"I know what to do, I shall tell
grandmother about Dora's marriage. It is
all plain enough now. Good night, Ruth."
And this good night, though dropping sweetly
into the minor third, had yet on its final inflection
something of the pleasant hopefulness
of its major key--it expressed anticipation
and satisfaction.
What happened in the night session she
could not tell, but she awoke with a positive
disinclination to ask a question about Mr.
Mostyn. "I have received orders from some
one," she said to Ruth; "I simply do not
care whether I ever see or hear of the man
again. I am going to Dora, and I may not
come home until late. You know they will
depend upon me for every suggestion."
In fact, Ethel did not return home until the
following day, for a snowstorm came up in
the afternoon, and the girl was weary with
planning and writing, and well inclined to
eat with Dora the delicate little dinner served
to them in Dora's private parlor. Then
about nine o'clock Mr. Stanhope called, and
Ethel found it pleasant enough to watch the
lovers and listen to Mrs. Denning's opinions
of what had been already planned. And the
next day she seemed to be so absolutely necessary
to the movement of the marriage preparations,
that it was nearly dark before she
was permitted to return home.
It was but a short walk between the two
houses, and Ethel was resolved to have the
refreshment of the exercise. And how good
it was to feel the pinch of the frost and the
gust of the north wind, and after it to come
to the happy portal of home, and the familiar
atmosphere of the cheerful hall, and then to
peep into the firelit room in which Ruth lay
dreaming in the dusky shadows.
"Ruth, darling!"
"Ethel! I have just sent for you to come
home." Then she rose and took Ethel in her
arms. "How delightfully cold you are!
And what rosy cheeks! Do you know that
we have a little dinner party?"
"Mr. Mostyn?"
"Yes, and your grandmother, and perhaps
Dr. Fisher--the Doctor is not certain."
"And I see that you are already dressed.
How handsome you look! That black lace
dress, with the dull gold ornaments, is all
right."
"I felt as if jewels would be overdress for
a family dinner."
"Yes, but jewels always snub men so completely.
It is not altogether that they represent
money; they give an air of royalty,
and a woman without jewels is like an uncrowned
queen--she does not get the homage.
I can't account for it, but there it is. I shall
wear my sapphire necklace. What did father
say about our new kinsman?"
"Very little. It was impossible to judge
from his words what he thought. I fancied
that he might have been a little disappointed."
"I should not wonder. We shall see."
"You will be dressed in an hour?"
"In less time. Shall I wear white or
blue?"
"Pale blue and white flowers. There are
some white violets in the library. I have a
red rose. We shall contrast each other very
well."
"What is it all about? Do we really care
how we look in the eyes of this Mr. Mostyn?"
"Of course we care. We should not be
women if we did not care. We must make
some sort of an impression, and naturally
we prefer that it should be a pleasant one."
"If we consider the mortgage----"
"Nonsense! The mortgage is not in it."
"Good-by. Tell Mattie to bring me a cup
of tea upstairs. I will be dressed in an hour."
The tea was brought and drank, and Ethel
fell asleep while her maid prepared every
item for her toilet. Then she spoke to her
mistress, and Ethel awakened, as she always
did, with a smile; nature's surest sign of a
radically sweet temper. And everything went
in accord with the smile; her hair fell naturally
into its most becoming waves, her dress
into its most graceful folds; the sapphire
necklace matched the blue of her happy eyes,
the roses of youth were on her cheeks, and
white violets on her breast. She felt her own
beauty and was glad of it, and with a laughing
word of pleasure went down to the parlor.
Madam Rawdon was standing before the
fire, but when she heard the door open she
turned her face toward it.
"Come here, Ethel Rawdon," she said,
"and let me have a look at you." And Ethel
went to her side, laid her hand lightly on the
old lady's shoulder and kissed her cheek.
"You do look middling well," she continued,
"and your dress is about as it should be. I
like a girl to dress like a girl--still, the
sapphires. Are they necessary?"
"You would not say corals, would you,
grandmother? I have those you gave me
when I was three years old."
"Keep your wit, my dear, for this evening.
I should not wonder but you might need
it. Fred Mostyn is rather better than I expected.
It was a great pleasure to see him.
It was like a bit of my own youth back again.
When you are a very old woman there are
few things sweeter, Ethel."
"But you are not an old woman, grandmother."
Nor was she. In spite of her seventy-five
years she stood erect at the side of her grand-
daughter. Her abundant hair was partly
gray, but the gray mingled with the little oval
of costly lace that lay upon it, and the effect
was soft and fair as powdering. She had
been very handsome, and her beauty lingered
as the beauty of some flowers linger, in fainter
tints and in less firm outlines; for she had
never fallen from that "grace of God vouchsafed
to children," and therefore she had
kept not only the enthusiasms of her youth,
but that sweet promise of the "times of
restitution" when the child shall die one
hundred years old, because the child-heart
shall be kept in all its freshness and trust.
Yes, in Rachel Rawdon's heart the well-
springs of love and life lay too deep for the
frosts of age to touch. She would be eternally
young before she grew old.
She sat down as Ethel spoke, and drew the
girl to her side. "I hear your friend is going
to marry," she said.
"Dora? Yes."
"Are you sorry?"
"Perhaps not. Dora has been a care to
me for four years. I hope her husband may
manage her as well as I have done."
"Are you afraid he will not?"
"I cannot tell, grandmother. I see all
Dora's faults. Mr. Stanhope is certain that
she has no faults. Hitherto she has had her
own way in everything. Excepting myself,
no one has ventured to contradict her. But,
then, Dora is over head and ears in love, and
love, it is said, makes all things easy to bear
and to do."
"One thing, girls, amazes me--it is how
readily women go to church and promise to
love, honor, and obey their husbands, when
they never intend to do anything of the kind."
"There is a still more amazing thing,
Madam," answered Ruth; "that is that
men should be so foolish as to think, or hope,
they perhaps might do so."
"Old-fashioned women used to manage it
some way or other, Ruth. But the old-fashioned
woman was a very soft-hearted creature,
and, maybe, it was just as well that she
was."
"But Woman's Dark Ages are nearly
over, Madam; and is not the New Woman a
great improvement on the Old Woman?"
"I haven't made up my mind yet, Ruth,
about the New Woman. I notice one thing
that a few of the new kind have got into their
pretty heads, and that is, that they ought to
have been men; and they have followed up
that idea so far that there is now very little
difference in their looks, and still less in their
walk; they go stamping along with the step
of an athlete and the stride of a peasant on
fresh plowed fields. It is the most hideous
of walks imaginable. The Grecian bend,
which you cannot remember, but may have
heard of, was a lackadaisical, vulgar walking
fad, but it was grace itself compared with the
hideous stride which the New Woman has acquired
on the golf links or somewhere else."
"But men stamp and stride in the same
way, grandmother."
"A long stride suits a man's anatomy well
enough; it does not suit a woman's--she feels
every stride she takes, I'll warrant her."
"If she plays golf----"
"My dear Ethel, there is no need for her to
play golf. It is a man's game and was played
for centuries by men only. In Scotland, the
home of golf, it was not thought nice for
women to even go to the links, because of the
awful language they were likely to hear."
"Then, grandmother, is it not well for
ladies to play golf if it keeps men from using
`awful language' to each other)"
"God love you, child! Men will think what
they dare not speak."
"If we could only have some new men!"
sighed Ethel. "The lover of to-day is just
what a girl can pick up; he has no wit and no
wisdom and no illusions. He talks of his muscles
and smells of cigarettes--perhaps of
whisky"--and at these words, Judge Rawdon,
accompanied by Mr. Fred Mostyn, entered
the room.
The introductions slipped over easily, they
hardly seemed to be necessary, and the young
man took the chair offered as naturally as if
he had sat by the hearth all his life. There
was no pause and no embarrassment and no
useless polite platitudes; and Ethel's first
feeling about her kinsman was one of admiration
for the perfect ease and almost instinctive
at-homeness with which he took his place.
He had come to his own and his own had received
him; that was the situation, a very
pleasant one, which he accepted with the
smiling trust that was at once the most perfect
and polite of acknowledgments.
"So you do not enjoy traveling?" said
Judge Rawdon as if continuing a conversation.
"I think it the most painful way of taking
pleasure, sir--that is the actual transit. And
sleeping cars and electric-lighted steamers
and hotels do not mitigate the suffering. If
Dante was writing now he might depict a constant
round of personally conducted tours in
Purgatory. I should think the punishment
adequate for any offense. But I like arriving
at places. New York has given me a lot of
new sensations to-day, and I have forgotten
the transit troubles already."
He talked well and temperately, and yet
Ethel could not avoid the conclusion that he
was a man of positive character and
uncompromising prejudices. And she also felt a
little disappointed in his personality, which
contradicted her ideal of a Yorkshire squire.
For he was small and slender in stature, and
his face was keen and thin, from the high
cheek bones to the sharp point of the clean-
shaven chin. Yet it was an interesting face,
for the brows were broad and the eyes bright
and glancing. That his nature held the op-
posite of his qualities was evident from the
mouth, which was composed and discreet and
generally clothed with a frank smile, negatived
by the deep, sonorous voice which belongs
to the indiscreet and quarrelsome. His
dress was perfect. Ethel could find no fault
in it, except the monocle which he did not use
once during the evening, and which she therefore
decided was a quite idle and unhandsome
adjunct.
One feature of his character was definite--
he was a home-loving man. He liked the society
of women with whom he could be familiar,
and he preferred the company of books
and music to fashionable social functions.
This pleasant habit of domesticity was illustrated
during the evening by an accidental incident--
a noisy, mechanical street organ
stopped before the windows, and in a blatant
manner began its performance. Conversation
was paralyzed by the intrusion and when
it was removed Judge Rawdon said: "What
a democratic, leveling, aggressive thing music
is! It insists on being heard. It is always
in the way, it thrusts itself upon you, whether
you want it or not. Now art is different.
You go to see pictures when you wish to."
Mostyn did not notice the criticism on
music itself, but added in a soft, disapproving
way: "That man has no music in him. Do you
know that was one of Mendelssohn's delicious
dreams. This is how it should have been rendered,"
and he went impulsively to the piano
and then the sweet monotonous cadences and
melodious reveries slipped from his long white
fingers till the whole room was permeated
with a delicious sense of moonlit solitude and
conversation was stilled in its languor. The
young man had played his own dismissal, but
it was an effective one, and he complimented
himself on his readiness to seize opportunities
for display, and on his genius in satisfying
them.
"I think I astonished them a little," he
mused, "and I wonder what that pretty,
cousin of mine thought of the music and the
musician. I fancy we shall be good friends;
she is proud--that is no fault; and she has
very decided opinions--which might be a
great fault; but I think I rather astonished
them."
To such reflections he stepped rather pompously
down the avenue, not at all influenced by
any premonition that his satisfactory feelings
might be imperfectly shared. Yet silence
was the first result of his departure. Judge
Rawdon took out his pocketbook and began
to study its entries. Ruth Bayard rose and
closed the piano. Ethel lifted a magazine,
while it was Madam who finally asked in an
impatient tone:
"What do you think of Frederick? I suppose,
Edward, you have an opinion. Isn't he
a very clever man?"
"I should not wonder if he were, mother,
clever to a fault."
"I never heard a young man talk better."
"He talked a great deal, but then, you
know, he was not on his oath."
"I'll warrant every word he said."
"Your warrant is fine surety, mother, but
I am not bound to believe all I hear. You
women can please yourselves."
And with these words he left the women to
find out, if they could, what manner of man
their newly-found kinsman might be.