NEW YORK is at its very brightest and best
in October. This month of the year may be
safely trusted not to disappoint. The skies
are blue, the air balmy, and there is generally
a delightful absence of wind. The summer
exiles are home again from Jersey boarding
houses, and mountain camps, and seaside
hotels, and thankful to the point of hilarity
that this episode of the year is over, that they
can once more dwell under their own roofs
without breaking any of the manifest laws
of the great goddess Custom or Fashion.
Judge Rawdon's house had an especially
charming "at home" appearance. During
the absence of the family it had been made
beautiful inside and outside, and the white
stone, the plate glass, and falling lace evident
to the street, had an almost conscious
look of luxurious propriety.
The Judge frankly admitted his pleasure
in his home surroundings. He said, as they
ate their first meal in the familiar room, that
"a visit to foreign countries was a grand,
patriotic tonic." He vowed that the "first
sight of the Stars and Stripes at Sandy Hook
had given him the finest emotion he had ever
felt in his life," and was altogether in his
proudest American mood. Ruth sympathized
with him. Ethel listened smiling. She knew
well that the English strain had only temporarily
exhausted itself; it would have its
period of revival at the proper time.
"I am going to see grandmother," she
said gayly. "I shall stay with her all day."
"But I have a letter from her," interrupted
the Judge, "and she will not return
home until next week."
"I am sorry. I was anticipating so eagerly
the joy of seeing her. Well, as I cannot do
so, I will go and call on Dora Stanhope."
"I would not if I were you, Ethel," said
Ruth. "Let her come and call on you."
"I had a little note from her this morning,
welcoming me home, and entreating me
to call."
The Judge rose as Ethel was speaking, and
no more was said about the visit at that time
but a few hours later Ethel came down from
her room ready for the street and frankly
told Ruth she had made up her mind to call
on Dora.
"Then I will only remind you, Ethel, that
Dora is not a fortunate woman to know. As
far as I can see, she is one of those who sow
pain of heart and vexation of spirit about
every house they enter, even their own. But I
cannot gather experience for you, it will have
to grow in your own garden."
"All right, dear Ruth, and if I do not like
its growth, I will pull it up by the roots, I
assure you."
Ruth went with her to the door and watched
her walk leisurely down the broad steps to
the street. The light kindled in her eyes and
on her face as she did so. She already felt
the magnetism of the great city, and with a
laughing farewell walked rapidly toward
Dora's house.
Her card brought an instant response, and
she heard Dora's welcome before the door
was opened. And her first greeting was an
enthusiastic compliment, "How beautiful
you have grown, Ethel!" she cried. "Ah,
that is the European finish. You have gained
it, my dear; you really are very much improved."
"And you also, Dora?"
The words were really a question, but Dora
accepted them as an assertion, and was satisfied.
"I suppose I am," she answered, "though
I'm sure I can't tell how it should be so, unless
worry of all kinds is good for good looks.
I've had enough of that for a lifetime."
"Now, Dora."
"Oh, it's the solid truth--partly your
fault too."
"I never interfered----"
"Of course you didn't, but you ought to
have interfered. When you called on me in
London you might have seen that I was not
happy; and I wanted to come to Rawdon
Court, and you would not invite me. I called
your behavior then `very mean,' and I have
not altered my opinion of it."
"There were good reasons, Dora, why I
could not ask you."
"Good reasons are usually selfish ones,
Ethel, and Fred Mostyn told me what they
were.
"He likely told you untruths, Dora, for
he knew nothing about my reasons. I saw
very little of him."
"I know. You treated him as badly as
you treated me, and all for some wild West
creature--a regular cowboy, Fred said, but
then a Rawdon!"
"Mr. Mostyn has misrepresented Mr. Tyrrel
Rawdon--that is all about it. I shall not
explain `how' or `why.' Did you enjoy
yourself at Stanhope Castle?"
"Enjoy myself! Are you making fun of
me? Ethel, dear, it was the most awful experience.
You never can imagine such a life,
and such women. They were dressed for a
walk at six o'clock; they had breakfast at half-
past seven. They went to the village and inspected
cottages, and gave lessons in housekeeping
or dressmaking or some other
drudgery till noon. They walked back to the
Castle for lunch. They attended to their
own improvement from half-past one until
four, had lessons in drawing and chemistry,
and, I believe, electricity. They had another
walk, and then indulged themselves with a
cup of tea. They dressed and received visitors,
and read science or theology between
whiles. There was always some noted
preacher or scholar at the dinner table. The
conversation was about acids and explosives,
or the planets or bishops, or else on the
never, never-ending subject of elevating the
workingman and building schools for his children.
Basil, of course, enjoyed it. He
thought he was giving me a magnificent object
lesson. He was never done praising the
ladies Mary Elinor and Adelaide Stanhope.
I'm sure I wish he had married one or all of
them--and I told him so."
"You could not be so cruel, Dora."
"I managed it with the greatest ease
imaginable. He was always trotting at their
side. They spoke of him as `the most pious
young man.' I have no doubt they were all
in love with him. I hope they were. I used
to pretend to be very much in love when they
were present. I dare say it made them
wretched. Besides, they blushed and thought
me improper. Basil didn't approve, either,
so I hit all round."
She rose at this memory and shook out her
silk skirts, and walked up and down the room
with an air that was the visible expression of
the mockery and jealousy in her heart. This
was an entirely different Dora to the lachrymose,
untidy wife at the Savoy Hotel in London,
and Ethel had a momentary pang at the
thought of the suffering which was responsible
for the change.
"If I had thought, Dora, you were so
uncomfortable, I would have asked Basil and
you to the Court."
"You saw I was not happy when I was at
the Savoy."
"I thought you and Basil had had a kind
of lovers' quarrel, and that it would blow
over in an hour or two; no one likes to meddle
with an affair of that kind. Are you going
to Newport, or is Mrs. Denning in New
York?"
"That is another trouble, Ethel. When I
wrote mother I wanted to come to her, she
sent me word she was going to Lenox with a
friend. Then, like you, she said `she had no
liberty to invite me,' and so on. I never knew
mother act in such a way before. I nearly
broke my heart about it for a few days, then
I made up my mind I wouldn't care."
"Mrs. Denning, I am sure, thought she did
the wisest and kindest thing possible."
"I didn't want mother to be wise. I wanted
her to understand that I was fairly worn out
with my present life and needed a change.
I'm sure she did understand. Then why was
she so cruel?" and she shrugged her shoulders
impatiently and sat down. "I'm so
tired of life," she continued. "When did
you hear of Fred Mostyn?"
"I know nothing of his movements. Is
he in America?"
"Somewhere. I asked mother if he was
in Newport, and she never answered the ques-
tion. I suppose he will be in New York for
the winter season. I hope so."
This topic threatened to be more dangerous
than the other, and Ethel, after many and
futile attempts to bring conversation into
safe commonplace channels, pleaded other
engagements and went away. She was painfully
depressed by the interview. All the
elements of tragedy were gathered together
under the roof she had just left, and, as far
as she could see, there was no deliverer wise
and strong enough to prevent a calamity.
She did not repeat to Ruth the conversation
which had been so painful to her. She
described Dora's dress and appearance, and
commented on Fred Mostyn's description of
Tyrrel Rawdon, and on Mrs. Denning's refusal
of her daughter's proposed visit.
Ruth thought the latter circumstance
significant. "I dare say Mostyn was in
Newport at that time," she answered. "Mrs.
Denning has some very quick perceptions."
And Ruth's opinion was probably correct, for
during dinner the Judge remarked in a casual
manner that he had met Mr. Mostyn on the
avenue as he was coming home. "He was
well," he said, "and made all the usual
inquiries as to your health." And both Ruth
and Ethel understood that he wished them to
know of Mostyn's presence in the city, and
to be prepared for meeting him; but did not
care to discuss the subject further, at least
at that time. The information brought precisely
the same thought at the same moment
to both women, and as soon as they were
alone they uttered it.
"She knew Mostyn was in the city," said
Ethel in a low voice.
"Certainly."
"She was expecting him."
"I am sure of it."
"Her elaborate and beautiful dressing was
for him."
"Poor Basil!"
"She asked me to stay and lunch with her,
but very coolly, and when I refused, did not
press the matter as she used to do. Yes, she
was expecting him. I understand now her
nervous manner, her restlessness, her indifference
to my short visit. I wish I could do
anything."
"You cannot, and you must not try."
"Some one must try."
"There is her husband. Have you heard
from Tyrrel yet,"
"I have had a couple of telegrams. He
will write from Chicago."
"Is he going at once to the Hot Springs?"
"As rapidly as possible. Colonel Rawdon
is now there, and very ill. Tyrrel will put
his father first of all. The trouble at the
mine can be investigated afterwards."
"You will miss him very much. You have
been so happy together."
"Of course I shall miss him. But it will
be a good thing for us to be apart awhile.
Love must have some time in which to grow.
I am a little tired of being very happy, and I
think Tyrrel also will find absence a relief.
In `Lalla Rookh' there is a line about love
`falling asleep in a sameness of splendor.'
It might. How melancholy is a long spell
of hot, sunshiny weather, and how gratefully
we welcome the first shower of rain."
"Love has made you a philosopher, Ethel."
"Well, it is rather an advantage than
otherwise. I am going to take a walk, Ruth,
into the very heart of Broadway. I have had
enough of the peace of the country. I want
the crack, and crash, and rattle, and grind
of wheels, the confused cries, the snatches of
talk and laughter, the tread of crowds, the
sound of bells, and clocks, and chimes. I
long for all the chaotic, unintelligible noise
of the streets. How suggestive it is! Yet it
never explains itself. It only gives one a full
sense of life. Love may need just the same
stimulus. I wish grandmother would come
home. I should not require Broadway as a
stimulus. I am afraid she will be very angry
with me, and there will be a battle royal in
Gramercy Park."
It was nearly a week before Ethel had this
crisis to meet. She went down to it with a
radiant face and charming manner, and her
reception was very cordial. Madam would
not throw down the glove until the proper
moment; besides, there were many very interesting
subjects to talk over, and she wanted
"to find things out" that would never be told
unless tempers were propitious. Added to
these reasons was the solid one that she really
adored her granddaughter, and was immensely
cheered by the very sight of the rosy, smiling
countenance lifted to her sitting-room window
in passing. She, indeed, pretended to be
there in order to get a good light for her new
shell pattern, but she was watching for Ethel,
and Ethel understood the shell-pattern fiction
very well. She had heard something similar
often.
"My darling grandmother," she cried, "I
thought you would never come home."
"It wasn't my fault, dear. Miss Hillis
and an imbecile young doctor made me believe
I had a cold. I had no cold. I had
nothing at all but what I ought to have. I've
been made to take all sorts of things, and do
all sorts of things that I hate to take and hate
to do. For ten days I've been kicking my old
heels against bedclothes. Yesterday I took
things in my own hands."
"Never mind, Granny dear, it was all a
good discipline."
"Discipline! You impertinent young
lady! Discipline for your grandmother!
Discipline, indeed! That one word may cost
you a thousand dollars, miss."
"I don't care if it does, only you must give
the thousand dollars to poor Miss Hillis."
"Poor Miss Hillis has had a most comfortable
time with me all summer."
"I know she has, consequently she will
feel her comfortless room and poverty all the
more after it. Give her the thousand, Granny.
I'm willing."
"What kind of company have you been
keeping, Ethel Rawdon? Who has taught
you to squander dollars by the thousand?
Discipline! I think you are giving me a little
now--a thousand dollars a lesson, it seems--
no wonder, after the carryings-on at Rawdon
Court."
"Dear grandmother, we had the loveliest
time you can imagine. And there is not, in
all the world, such a noble old gentleman as
Squire Percival Rawdon."
"I know all about Percival Rawdon--a
proud, careless, extravagant, loose-at-ends
man, dancing and singing and loving as it
suited time and season, taking no thought for
the future, and spending with both hands;
hard on women, too, as could be."
"Grandmother, I never saw a more courteous
gentleman. He worships women. He
was never tired of talking about you."
"What had he to say about me?"
"That you were the loveliest girl in the
county, and that he never could forget the
first time he saw you. He said you were like
the vision of an angel."
"Nonsense! I was just a pretty girl in a
book muslin frock and a white sash, with a
rose at my breast. I believe they use book
muslin for linings now, but it did make the
sheerest, lightest frocks any girl could want.
Yes, I remember that time. I was going to
a little party and crossing a meadow to shorten
the walk, and Squire Percival had been out
with his gun, and he laid it down and ran to
help me over the stile. A handsome young
fellow he was then as ever stepped in shoe
leather."
"And he must have loved you dearly. He
would sit hour after hour telling Ruth and
me how bright you were, and how all the
young beaux around Monk-Rawdon adored
you."
"Nonsense! Nonsense! I had beaux to
be sure. What pretty girl hasn't?"
"And he said his brother Edward won
you because he was most worthy of your
love."
"Well, now, I chose Edward Rawdon because
he was willing to come to America. I
longed to get away from Monk-Rawdon. I
was faint and weary with the whole stupid
place. And the idea of living a free and
equal life, and not caring what lords and
squires and their proud ladies said or did,
pleased me wonderfully. We read about
Niagara and the great prairies and the new
bright cities, and Edward and I resolved to
make our home there. Your grandfather
wasn't a man to like being `the Squire's
brother.' He could stand alone."
"Are you glad you came to America?"
"Never sorry a minute for it. Ten years
in New York is worth fifty years in Monk-
Rawdon, or Rawdon Court either."
"Squire Percival was very fond of me.
He thought I resembled you, grandmother,
but he never admitted I was as handsome as
you were."
"Well, Ethel dear, you are handsome
enough for the kind of men you'll pick up
in this generation--most of them bald at
thirty, wearing spectacles at twenty or earlier,
and in spite of the fuss they make about
athletics breaking all to nervous bits about
fifty."
"Grandmother, that is pure slander. I
know some very fine young men, handsome
and athletic both."
"Beauty is a matter of taste, and as to
their athletics, they can run a mile with a
blacksmith, but when the thermometer rises
to eighty-five degrees it knocks them all to
pieces. They sit fanning themselves like
schoolgirls, and call for juleps and ice-water.
I've got eyes yet, my dear. Squire Percival
was a different kind of man; he could follow
the hounds all day and dance all night. The
hunt had not a rider like him; he balked at
neither hedge, gate, nor water; a right gallant,
courageous, honorable, affectionate gentleman
as ever Yorkshire bred, and she's
bred lots of superfine ones. What ever made
him get into such a mess with his estate?
Your grandfather thought him as straight as
a string in money matters."
"You said just now he was careless and
extravagant."
"Well, I did him wrong, and I'm sorry for
it. How did he manage to need eighty thousand
pounds?"
"It is rather a pitiful story, grandmother,
but he never once blamed those who were in
the wrong. His son for many years had been
the real manager of the estate. He was a
speculator; his grandsons were wild and
extravagant. They began to borrow money ten
years ago and had to go on."
"Whom did they borrow from?"
"Fred Mostyn's father."
"The devil! Excuse me, Ethel--but the
name suits and may stand."
"The dear old Squire would have taken the
fault on himself if he could have done so.
They that wronged him were his own, and
they were dead. He never spoke of them but
with affection."
"Poor Percival! Your father told me he
was now out of Mostyn's power; he said you
had saved the estate, but he gave me no
particulars. How did you save it?"
"Bought it!"
"Nonsense!"
"House and lands and outlying farms and
timber--everything."
Then a rosy color overspread Madam's
face, her eyes sparkled, she rose to her feet,
made Ethel a sweeping courtesy, and said:
"My respect and congratulations to Ethel,
Lady of Rawdon Manor."
"Dear grandmother, what else could I
do?"
"You did right."
"The Squire is Lord of the Manor as long
as he lives. My father says I have done well
to buy it. In the future, if I do not wish to
keep it, Nicholas Rawdon will relieve me at
a great financial advantage."
"Why didn't you let Nicholas Rawdon buy
it now?"
"He would have wanted prompt possession.
The Squire would have had to leave his
home. It would have broken his heart."
"I dare say. He has a soft, loving heart.
That isn't always a blessing. It can give one
a deal of suffering. And I hear you have all
been making idols of these Tyrrel-Rawdons.
Fred tells me they are as vulgar a lot as can
be."
"Fred lies! Excuse me, grandmother--but
the word suits and may stand. Mr. Nicholas
is pompous, and walks as slowly as if he had
to carry the weight of his great fortune; but
his manners are all right, and his wife and
son are delightful. She is handsome, well
dressed, and so good-hearted that her pretty
county idioms are really charming. John
Thomas is a man by himself--not handsome,
but running over with good temper, and
exceedingly clever and wide-awake. Many
times I was forced to tell myself, John
Thomas would make an ideal Squire of Rawdon."
"Why don't you marry him."
"He never asked me."
"What was the matter with the men?"
"He was already engaged to a very lovely
young lady."
"I am glad she is a lady."
"She is also very clever. She has been to
college and taken high honors, a thing I have
not done."
"You might have done and overdone that
caper; you were too sensible to try it. Well,
I'm glad that part of the family is looking
up. They had the right stuff in them, and it
is a good thing for families to dwell together
in unity. We have King David's word for
that. My observation leads me to think it is
far better for families to dwell apart, in
unity. They seldom get along comfortably
together."
Then Ethel related many pleasant, piquant
scenes between the two families at Monk-
Rawdon, and especially that one in which the
room of the first Tyrrel had been opened and
his likeness restored to its place in the family
gallery. It touched the old lady to tears, and
she murmured, "Poor lad! Poor lad! I
wonder if he knows! I wonder if he knows!"
The crucial point of Ethel's revelations had
not yet been revealed, but Madam was now
in a gentle mood, and Ethel took the opportunity
to introduce her to Tyrrel Rawdon.
She was expecting and waiting for this topic,
but stubbornly refused to give Ethel any help
toward bringing it forward. At last, the girl
felt a little anger at her pretended indifference,
and said, "I suppose Fred Mostyn told
you about Mr. Tyrrel Rawdon, of California?"
"Tyrrel Rawdon, of California! Pray,
who may he be?"
"The son of Colonel Rawdon, of the United
States Army."
"Oh, to be sure! Well, what of him?"
"I am going to marry him."
"I shall see about that."
"We were coming here together to see you,
but before we left the steamer he got a telegram
urging him to go at once to his father,
who is very ill."
"I have not asked him to come and see
me. Perhaps he will wait till I do so."
"If you are not going to love Tyrrel, you
need not love me. I won't have you for a
grandmother any longer."
"I did without you sixty years. I shall
not live another twelve months, and I think
I can manage to do without you for a granddaughter
any longer."
"You cannot do without me. You would
break your heart, and I should break mine."
Whereupon Ethel began to cry with a passion
that quite gratified the old lady. She watched
her a few moments, and then said gently:
"There now, that will do. When he comes
to New York bring him to see me. And don't
name the man in the meantime. I won't talk
about him till I've seen him. It isn't fair
either way. Fred didn't like him."
"Fred likes no one but Dora Stanhope."
"Eh! What! Is that nonsense going on
yet?"
Then Ethel described her last two interviews
with Dora. She did this with scrupulous
fidelity, making no suggestions that
might prejudice the case. For she really
wanted her grandmother's decision in order
to frame her own conduct by it. Madam was
not, however, in a hurry to give it.
"What do you think?" she asked Ethel.
"I have known Dora for many years; she
has always told me everything."
"But nothing about Fred?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing to tell, perhaps?"
"Perhaps."
"Where does her excellent husband come
in?"
"She says he is very kind to her in his
way."
"And his way is to drag her over the world
to see the cathedrals thereof, and to vary that
pleasure with inspecting schools and reformatories
and listening to great preachers. Upon
my word, I feel sorry for the child! And I
know all about such excellent people as the
Stanhopes. I used to go to what they call
`a pleasant evening' with them. We sat
around a big room lit with wax candles, and
held improving conversation, or some one
sang one or two of Mrs. Hemans' songs, like
`Passing Away' or `He Never Smiled
Again.' Perhaps there was a comic recitation,
at which no one laughed, and finally we
had wine and hot water--they called it `port
negus'--and tongue sandwiches and caraway
cakes. My dear Ethel, I yawn now when I
think of those dreary evenings. What must
Dora have felt, right out of the maelstrom of
New York's operas and theaters and dancing
parties?"
"Still, Dora ought to try to feel some interest
in the church affairs. She says she
does not care a hairpin for them, and Basil
feels so hurt."
"I dare say he does, poor fellow! He
thinks St. Jude's Kindergarten and sewing
circles and missionary societies are the only
joys in the world. Right enough for Basil,
but how about Dora?"
"They are his profession; she ought to
feel an interest in them."
"Come now, look at the question sensibly.
Did Dora's father bring his `deals' and
stock-jobbery home, and expect Dora and her
mother to feel an interest in them? Do doctors
tell their wives about their patients, and
expect them to pay sympathizing visits?
Does your father expect Ruth and yourself
to listen to his cases and arguments, and visit
his poor clients or make underclothing for
them? Do men, in general, consider it a
wife's place to interfere in their profession
or business?"
"Clergymen are different."
"Not at all. Preaching and philanthropy
is their business. They get so much a year
for doing it. I don't believe St. Jude's pays
Mrs. Stanhope a red cent. There now, and if
she isn't paid, she's right not to work. Amen
to that!"
"Before she was married Dora said she
felt a great interest in church work."
"I dare say she did. Marriage makes a
deal of difference in a woman's likes and dislikes.
Church work was courting-time before
marriage; after marriage she had other
opportunities."
"I think you might speak to Fred Mostyn----"
"I might, but it wouldn't be worth while.
Be true to your friend as long as you can.
In Yorkshire we stand by our friends, right
or wrong, and we aren't too particular as to
their being right. My father enjoyed justifying
a man that everyone else was down on;
and I've stood by many a woman nobody had
a good word for. I was never sorry for doing
it, either. I'll be going into a strange country
soon, and I should not wonder if some of
them that have gone there first will be ready
to stand by me. We don't know what friends
we'll be glad of there."
The dinner bell broke up this conversation,
and Ethel during it told Madam about the
cook and cooking at the Court and at
Nicholas Rawdon's, where John Thomas had
installed a French chef. Other domestic
arrangements were discussed, and when the
Judge called for his daughter at four o'clock,
Madam vowed "she had spent one of the
happiest days of her life."
"Ruth tells me," said the Judge, "that
Dora Stanhope called for Ethel soon after
she left home this morning. Ruth seems
troubled at the continuance of this friendship.
Have you spoken to your grandmother,
Ethel, about Dora?"
"She has told me all there is to tell, I dare
say," answered Madam.
"Well, mother, what do you think?"
"I see no harm in it yet awhile. It is not
fair, Edward, to condemn upon likelihoods.
We are no saints, sinful men and women, all
of us, and as much inclined to forbidden fruit
as any good Christians can be. Ethel can do
as she feels about it; she's got a mind of her
own, and I hope to goodness she'll not let
Ruth Bayard bit and bridle it."
Going home the Judge evidently pondered
this question, for he said after a lengthy
silence, "Grandmother's ethics do not always
fit the social ethics of this day, Ethel. She
criticises people with her heart, not her intellect.
You must be prudent. There is a remarkable
thing called Respectability to be
reckoned with remember that."
And Ethel answered, "No one need worry
about Dora. Some women may show the
edges of their character soiled and ragged,
but Dora will be sure to have hers reputably
finished with a hem of the widest propriety."
And after a short silence the Judge added,
almost in soliloquy, "And, moreover, Ethel,
"`There's a divinity that shapes our ends,
Rough-hew them how we will.'"