THE REAPING OF THE SOWING
WHEN Ethel and Tyrrel parted at the
steamer they did not expect a long separation,
but Colonel Rawdon never recovered his
health, and for many excellent reasons Tyrrel
could not leave the dying man. Nor did
Ethel wish him to do so. Under these circumstances
began the second beautiful phase
of Ethel's wooing, a sweet, daily correspondence,
the best of all preparations for matrimonial
oneness and understanding. Looking
for Tyrrel's letters, reading them, and
answering them passed many happy hours,
for to both it was an absolute necessity to assure
each other constantly,
"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 Dora Stanhope;
and fortified by her grandmother's opinion,
Ethel went at once to call on her. She found
Basil with his wife, and his efforts to make
Ethel see how much he expected from her
influence, and yet at the same time not even
hint a disapproval of Dora, were almost pathetic,
for he was so void of sophistry that
his innuendoes were flagrantly open to detection.
Dora felt a contempt for them, and
he had hardly left the room ere she said:
"Basil has gone to his vestry in high
spirits. When I told him you were coming
to see me to-day he smiled like an angel. He
believes you will keep me out of mischief, and
he feels a grand confidence in something
which he calls `your influence.'"
"What do you mean by mischief?"
"Oh, I suppose going about with Fred
Mostyn. I can't help that. I must have some
one to look after me. All the young men I
used to know pass me now with a lifted hat
or a word or two. The girls have forgotten
me. I don'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 church except on Sunday
mornings--that is respectable and right; but
as to being the pet of St. Jude's ladies! No,
no! How they would mew over my delinquencies,
and what scratches I should get
from their velvet-shod claws! If I have to
be talked about, I prefer the ladies of the
world to discuss my frailties."
"But if I were you, I would give no one a
reason for saying a word against 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 not such a foolish
woman as to like to be seen with Fred
Mostyn, that little monocular snob, after the
aristocratic, handsome Basil Stanhope. The
comparison 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 are generations of
clergymen behind him, and he is a prince in
the pulpit. Every man that knows him gives
him the highest respect, every woman thinks
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
hundred votes to young Rawdon's twelve
thousand."
"I don't mind that. I am going to the
matinee to-morrow with Fred. He wanted
to take me out in his auto this afternoon, but
when I said I would go if you would he drew
back. What is the reason? Did he make
you offer of his hand? Did you refuse it?"
"He never made me an offer. I count that
to myself as a great compliment. If he had
done such a thing, he would certainly have
been refused."
"I can tell that he really hates you. What
dirty trick did you serve him about Rawdon
Court?"
"So he called the release of Squire Rawdon
a `dirty trick'? It would have been a
very dirty trick to have let Fred Mostyn get
his way with Squire Rawdon."
"Of course, Ethel, when a man lends his
money as an obligation he expects to get it
back again."
"Mostyn got every farthing due him, and
he wanted one of the finest manors 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 sure your father
did not have it."
"Tell him to ask my father. He might
even ask your father. Whether my father
had the money or not was immaterial. Father
could borrow any sum he wanted, I
think."
"Whom did he borrow from?"
"I am sure that Fred told you to ask that
question. Is he writing to you, 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 qualified to bring about
unspeakable misery in Basil's home. But there
is nothing in life like the marriage tie. The
tugs it will bear and not break, the wrongs 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 week
that Basil Stanhope's dream of love and
home was shattered. Dora had frequent and
then less frequent times of return to her
better self; and every such time renewed her
husband's hope that she was merely passing
through a period of transition and assimilation,
and that in the end she would be all his
desire hoped for.
But Ethel saw what he did not see, that
Mostyn was gradually inspiring her with his
own opinions, perhaps even with his own passion.
In this emergency, however, she was
gratified to find that Dora's mother appeared
to have grasped the situation. For if Dora
went to the theater with Mostyn, Mrs. Denning
or Bryce was also there; and the reckless
auto driving, shopping, and lunching had
at least a show of respectable association.
Yet when the opera season opened, the constant
companionship of Mostyn and Dora became
entirely too remarkable, not only in the
public estimation, but in Basil's miserable
conception of his own wrong. The young
husband used every art and persuasion--and
failed. And his failure was too apparent to
be slighted. He became feverish and nervous,
and his friends read his misery in eyes heavy
with 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 was sullen and
passionate by turns; she complained bitterly
to Ethel that her youth and beauty had been
wasted; that she was only nineteen, and her
life was over. She wanted to go to Paris, to
get away from New York anywhere and anyhow.
She began to dislike even the presence
of Basil. His stately beauty offended her,
his low, calm voice was the very keynote 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 to tell you. Mrs. Colby and
Mrs. Schaffler and some other ladies have a
beautiful idea. They wish to give all the
children of the church under eight years old
the grandest Christmas tree imaginable--
really rich presents 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 I promised 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 and gave 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 when you come
with such ridiculous proposals--in fact, you
intrude very often lately."
"Does Mr. Mostyn intrude?"
"Mr. Mostyn takes me out, gives me a little
sensible pleasure. You think I can be interested
in a Christmas tree. The idea!"
"Alas, alas, Dora, you are tired of me!
You do not love me! You do not love me!"
"I love nobody. I am sorry I got married.
It was all a mistake. I will go home
and then you can get a divorce."
At this last word the whole man changed.
He was suffused, transfigured with an anger
that was at once righteous and impetuous.
"How dare you use that word to me?" he
demanded. "To the priest of God no such
word exists. I do not know it. You are my
wife, willing or unwilling. You are my wife
forever, whether you dwell with me or not.
You cannot sever bonds the Almighty has
tied. You are mine, Dora Stanhope! Mine
for time and eternity! Mine forever and
ever!"
She looked at him in amazement, and saw
a man after an image she had never imagined.
She was terrified. She flung herself on the
sofa in a whirlwind of passion. She cried
aloud against his claim. She gave herself up
to a vehement rage that was strongly infused
with a childish dismay and panic.
"I will not be your wife forever!" she
shrieked. "I will never be your wife 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 in his arms said, even on her lips, "You
ARE my dear wife! You are my very own
dear wife! Tell me what to do. Anything
that is right, reasonable I will do. We can
never part."
"I will go to my father. I will never come
back to you." And with these words she rose,
threw off his embrace, and with a sobbing
cry ran, like a terrified child, out of the room.
He sat down exhausted by his emotion, and
sick with the thought she had evoked in that
one evil word. The publicity, the disgrace,
the wrong to Holy Church--ah, that was the
cruelest wound! His own wrong was hard
enough, but that he, who would gladly die
for the Church, should put her to open
shame! How could he bear it? Though it
killed him, he must prevent that wrong; yes,
if the right eye offended it must be plucked
out. He must throw off his cassock, and turn
away from the sacred aisles; he must--he
could not say the word; he would wait a little.
Dora would not leave him; it was impossible.
He waited in a trance of aching suspense.
Nothing for an hour or more broke it--no
footfall, no sound of command or complaint.
He was finally in hopes that Dora slept.
Then he was called to lunch, and he made a
pretense of eating it alone. Dora sent no excuse
for her absence, and he could not trust
himself to make inquiry about her. In the
middle of the afternoon he heard a carriage
drive to the door, and Dora, with her jewel-
case in her hand, entered it and was driven
away. The sight astounded him. He ran to
her room, and found her maid packing her
clothing. The woman answered his questions
sullenly. She said "Mrs. Stanhope had gone
to Mrs. Denning's, and had left orders for
her trunks to be sent there." Beyond this
she was silent and ignorant. No sympathy
for either husband or wife was in her heart.
Their quarrel was interfering with her own
plans; she hated both of them in consequence.
In the meantime Dora had reached her
home. Her mother was dismayed and hesitating,
and her attitude raised again in Dora's
heart the passion which 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 only a child. She said
she had been cruelly used in order to get the
family into social recognition. She was in a
frenzy of grief at her supposed sacrifice when
her father came home. Her case was then
won. With her arms round his neck, sobbing
against his heart, her tears and entreaties on
his lips, Ben Denning had no feeling and no
care for anyone but his daughter. 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 was like
shutting her up in a convent." Dora's tears
and complaints fired him beyond reason. He
promised her freedom whatever it cost him.
And while he sat in his private room
considering the case, all the racial passions of
his rough ancestry burning within him, Basil
Stanhope called to see him. He permitted
him to come into his presence, but he rose 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 own care."
"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 an insult; 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 too good for a good little girl that
wants a bit of innocent amusement. Sermons
and Christmas trees! Great Scott,
what sensible woman would not be 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 house
as quietly as possible." And he walked to
the door, flung it open, and stood 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 to you."
Basil went, but not to his desolate home.
He had a private key to the vestry in his
church, and in its darkness and solitude he
faced the first shock of his ruined life, for he
knew well all was over. All had been. He sank
to the floor at the foot of the large cross which
hung on its bare white walls. Grief's illimitable
wave went over him, and like a drowning
man he uttered an inarticulate cry of agony
--the cry of a soul that had wronged its destiny.
Love had betrayed him to ruin. All
he had done must be abandoned. All he
had won must be given up. Sin and shame
indeed it would be if in his person a sacrament
of the Church should be dragged through
a divorce court. All other considerations
paled before this disgrace. He must resign
his curacy, strip himself of the honorable
livery of heaven, obliterate his person and
his name. It was a kind of death.
After awhile he rose, drank some water,
lifted the shade and let the moonlight in.
Then about that little room he walked with
God through the long night, telling Him his
sorrow and perplexity. And there is a depth
in our own nature where the divine and human
are one. That night Basil Stanhope
found it, and henceforward knew that the
bitterness of death was behind him, not before.
"I made my nest too dear on earth,"
he sighed, "and it has been swept bare--that
is, that I may build in heaven.
Now, the revelation of sorrow is the clearest
of all revelations. Stanhope understood that
hour what he must do. No doubts weakened
his course. He went back to the house Dora
called "hers," took away what he valued,
and while the servants were eating their
breakfast and talking over his marital
troubles, he passed across its threshold for
the last time. He told no one where he was
going; he dropped as silently and dumbly out
of the life that had known him as a stone
dropped into mid-ocean.
Ethel considered herself fortunate in being
from home at the time this disastrous culmination
of Basil Stanhope's married life
was reached. On that same morning the
Judge, accompanied by Ruth and herself, had
gone to Lenox to spend the holidays with
some old friends, and she was quite ignorant
of the matter when she returned after the
New Year. Bryce was her first informant.
He called specially to give her the news. He
said his sister had been too ill and too busy
to write. He had no word of sympathy for
the unhappy pair. He spoke only of the anxiety
it had caused him. "He was now engaged,"
he said, "to Miss Caldwell, and she
was 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
Ethel that he had been against Basil
Stanhope from the first. "He had always
known how that marriage would end," and
so on.
Ethel declined to give any opinion. "She
must hear both sides," she said. "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 was really
happy." She did not apparently concern
herself about Basil. The Judge rather leaned
to Basil's consideration. He understood that
Dora's overt act had shattered his professional
career as well as his personal happiness.
He could feel for the man there. "My
dears," he said, with his dilettante air, "the
goddess Calamity is delicate, and her feet are
tender. She treads not upon the ground, but
makes her path upon the hearts of men." In
this non-committal way he gave his comment,
for he usually found a bit of classical wisdom
to fit modern emergencies, and the habit
had imparted an antique bon-ton to his
conversation. Ethel could 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 would marry a fool because
she was young and pretty, they must take the
consequences. "And why should Stanhope
have married at all?" she asked indignantly.
"No man can serve God and a woman at the
same time. He had to be a bad priest and a
good husband, or a bad husband and a good
priest. Basil Stanhope was honored, was
doing good, and he must needs be happy 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's marriage with anyone
will be a well-considered affair--a marriage
with all 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 there ever 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 in public.
What kind of a man was he in his home?
Measure a man by his home conduct, and
you'll not go wrong. It's the right place to
draw your picture 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. But there, now, God
forbid I should judge her in the dark.
Women should stand 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 break his 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 so an end must come to life, and after
that peace or what God wills."
This scant sympathy Ethel found to be the
usual tone among her acquaintances. St.
Jude's got a new rector and a new idol, and
the Stanhope affair was relegated to the
limbo of things "it was proper to forget."
So the weeks of the long winter went by,
and Ethel in the joy and hope of her own
love-life naturally put out of her mind the
sorrow of lives she could no longer help or
influence. Indeed, as to Dora, there were
frequent reports of her marvelous social success
in Paris; and Ethel did not doubt Stanhope
had found some everlasting gospel of
holy work to comfort 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 the city as miserable
as possible, Ethel had a caller. His card
bore a name quite 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 ringing for church
--pneumonia, miss. While reading the ser-
vice over a poor young man he had nursed
many weeks he took cold. The poor will miss
him sorely."
"DEAD!" She looked aghast at the
speaker, and again ejaculated the pitiful,
astounding word.
"Good evening, miss. I promised him to
return at once to the work he left me to do."
And he quietly departed, leaving Ethel standing
with the parcel in her hands. She ran
upstairs and locked it away. Just then she
could 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 Basil Stanhope."
"He was so young, Ruth."
"I know. `His high-born brothers called
him hence' at the age of twenty-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 any antique classic for compensation
and satisfaction:
"He being made perfect in a short time
fulfilled a long time. For his soul pleased
the Lord, therefore hasted He to take him
away from among the wicked."[2] And that
evening there was little conversation. Every
heart was busy with its own thoughts.
[2] Wisdom of Solomon, IV., 13, 14.