A PAUSE of blissful silence followed this
assurance. It was broken by a little exclamation
from Ethel. "Oh, dear," she said, "how
selfishly thoughtless my happiness makes me!
I have forgotten to tell you, until this moment,
that I have a letter from Dora. It was
sent to grandmother's care, and I got it this
afternoon; also one from Lucy Rawdon. The
two together bring Dora's affairs, I should
say, to a pleasanter termination than we could
have hoped for."
"Where is the Enchantress?"
"In Paris at present."
"I expected that answer."
"But listen, she is living the quietest of
lives; the most devoted daughter cannot excel
her."
"Is she her own authority for that astonishing
statement? Do you believe it?"
"Yes, under the circumstances. Mr. Denning
went to Paris for a critical and painful
operation, and Dora is giving all her love and
time toward making his convalescence as
pleasant as it can be. In fact, her description
of their life in the pretty chateau they
have rented outside of Paris is quite idyllic.
When her father is able to travel they are
going to Algiers for the winter, and will return
to New York about next May. Dora
says she never intends to leave America
again."
"Where is her husband? Keeping watch
on the French chateau?"
"That is over. Mr. Denning persuaded
Dora to write a statement of all the facts concerning
the birth of the child. She told her
husband the name under which they traveled,
the names of the ship, the captain, and the
ship's doctor, and Mrs. Denning authenticated
the statement; but, oh, what a mean,
suspicious creature Mostyn is!"
"What makes you reiterate that description
of him?"
"He was quite unable to see any good or
kind intent in this paper. He proved its correctness,
and then wrote Mr. Denning a very
contemptible letter."
"Which was characteristic enough. What
did he say?"
"That the amende honorable was too late;
that he supposed Dora wished to have the
divorce proceedings stopped and be reinstated
as his wife, but he desired the whole Denning
family to understand that was now impossible;
he was `fervently, feverishly awaiting
his freedom, which he expected at any hour.'
He said it was `sickening to remember the
weariness of body and soul Dora had given
him about a non-existing child, and though
this could never be atoned for, he did think
he ought to be refunded the money Dora's
contemptible revenge had cost him."'
"How could he? How could he?"
"Of course Mr. Denning sent him a check,
a pretty large one, I dare say. And I suppose
he has his freedom by this time, unless
he has married again."
"He will never marry again."
"Indeed, that is the strange part of the
story. It was because he wanted to marry
again that he was `fervently, feverishly awaiting
his freedom.'"
"I can hardly believe it, Ethel. What
does Dora say?"
"I have the news from Lucy. She says
when Mostyn was ignored by everyone in the
neighborhood, one woman stood up for him
almost passionately. Do you remember Miss
Sadler?"
"That remarkable governess of the Surreys?
Why, Ethel, she is the very ugliest
woman I ever saw."
"She is so ugly that she is fascinating. If
you see her one minute you can never forget
her, and she is brains to her finger tips. She
ruled everyone at Surrey House. She was
Lord Surrey's secretary and Lady Surrey's
adviser. She educated the children, and they
adored her; she ruled the servants, and they
obeyed her with fear and trembling. Nothing
was done in Surrey House without her approval.
And if her face was not handsome,
she had a noble presence and a manner that
was irresistible."
"And she took Mostyn's part?"
"With enthusiasm. She abused Dora individually,
and American women generally.
She pitied Mr. Mostyn, and made others do
so; and when she perceived there would be
but a shabby and tardy restoration for him
socially, she advised him to shake off the dust
of his feet from Monk-Rawdon, and begin life
in some more civilized place. And in order
that he might do so, she induced Lord Surrey
to get him a very excellent civil appointment
in Calcutta."
"Then he is going to India?"
"He is probably now on the way there.
He sold the Mostyn estate----"
"I can hardly believe it."
"He sold it to John Thomas Rawdon.
John Thomas told me it belonged to Rawdon
until the middle of the seventeenth century,
and he meant to have it back. He has
got it."
"Miss Sadler must be a witch."
"She is a sensible, practical woman, who
knows how to manage men. She has soothed
Mostyn's wounded pride with appreciative
flattery and stimulated his ambition. She
has promised him great things in India, and
she will see that he gets them."
"He must be completely under her control."
"She will never let him call his soul his
own, but she will manage his affairs to
perfection. And Dora is forever rid of that
wretched influence. The man can never again
come between her and her love; never again
come between her and happiness. There will
be the circumference of the world as a barrier."
"There will be Jane Sadler as a barrier.
She will be sufficient. The Woman Between
will annihilate The Man Between. Dora is
now safe. What will she do with herself?"
"She will come back to New York and be
a social power. She is young, beautiful, rich,
and her father has tremendous financial influence.
Social affairs are ruled by finance.
I should not wonder to see her in St. Jude's,
a devotee and eminent for good works."
"And if Basil Stanhope should return?"
"Poor Basil--he is dead."
"How do you know that?"
"What DO you mean, Tyrrel?"
"Are you sure Basil is dead? What proof
have you?"
"You must be dreaming! Of course he is
dead! His friend came and told me so--told
me everything."
"Is that all?"
"There were notices in the papers."
"Is that all?"
"Mr. Denning must have known it when he
stopped divorce proceedings."
"Doubtless he believed it; he wished to do
so."
"Tyrrel, tell me what you mean."
"I always wondered about his death rather
than believed in it. Basil had a consuming
sense of honor and affection for the Church
and its sacred offices. He would have died
willingly rather than drag them into the mire
of a divorce court. When the fear became
certainty he disappeared--really died to all
his previous life."
"But I cannot conceive of Basil lying for
any purpose."
"He disappeared. His family and friends
took on themselves the means they thought
most likely to make that disappearance a
finality."
"Have you heard anything, seen anything?"
"One night just before I left the West a
traveler asked me for a night's lodging. He
had been prospecting in British America in
the region of the Klondike, and was full of
incidental conversation. Among many other
things he told me of a wonderful sermon he
had heard from a young man in a large mining
camp. I did not give the story any attention
at the time, but after he had gone
away it came to me like a flash of light that
the preacher was Basil Stanhope."
"Oh, Tyrrel, if it was--if it was! What a
beautiful dream! But it is only a dream.
If it could be true, would he forgive Dora?
Would he come back to her?"
"No!" Tyrrel's voice was positive and
even stern. "No, he could never come back
to her. She might go to him. She left him
without any reason. I do not think he would
care to see her again."
"I would say no more, Tyrrel. I do not
think as you do. It is a dream, a fancy, just
an imagination. But if it were true, Basil
would wish no pilgrimage of abasement. He
would say to her, `Dear one, HUSH! Love is
here, travel-stained, sore and weary, but so
happy to welcome you!' And he would open
all his great, sweet heart to her. May I tell
Dora some day what you have thought and
said? It will be something good for her to
dream about."
"Do you think she cares? Did she ever
love him?"
"He was her first love. She loved him
once with all her heart. If it would be right
--safe, I mean, to tell Dora----"
"On this subject there is so much NOT to
say. I would never speak of it."
"It may be a truth"
"Then it is among those truths that should
be held back, and it is likely only a trick of
my imagination, a supposition, a fancy."
A miracle! And of two miracles I prefer
the least, and that is that Basil is dead. Your
young preacher is a dream; and, oh, Tyrrel,
I am so tired! It has been such a long, long,
happy day! I want to sleep. My eyes are
shutting as I talk to you. Such a long, long,
happy day!"
"And so many long, happy days to come,
dearest."
"So many," she answered, as she took
Tyrrel's hand, and lifted her fur and fan
and gloves. "What were those lines we read
together the night before we were married?
I forget, I am so tired. I know that life
should have many a hope and aim, duties
enough, and little cares, and now be quiet,
and now astir, till God's hand beckoned us
unawares----"
The rest was inaudible. But between that
long, happy day and the present time there
has been an arc of life large enough to place
the union of Tyrrel and Ethel Rawdon among
those blessed bridals that are
"The best of life's romances."