The Man Between Part 16

So the days pa.s.sed sweetly and swiftly onward, and there was no trouble in them. Such business as was to be done went on behind the closed doors of the Squire's office, and with no one present but himself, Judge Rawdon, and the attorneys attached to the Rawdon and Mostyn estates. And as there were no entanglements and no possible reason for disputing, a settlement was quickly arrived at. Then, as Mostyn's return was uncertain, an attorney's messenger, properly accredited, was sent to America to procure his signatures. Allowing for unforeseen delays, the perfected papers of release might certainly be on hand by the fifteenth of July, and it was proposed on the first of August to give a dinner and dance in return for the numerous courtesies the American Rawdons had received.

As this date approached Ruth and Ethel began to think of a visit to London. They wanted new gowns and many other pretty things, and why not go to London for them? The journey was but a few hours, and two or three days' shopping in Regent Street and Piccadilly would be delightful. "We will make out a list of all we need this afternoon," said Ruth, "and we might as well go to-morrow morning as later," and at this moment a servant entered with the mail. Ethel lifted her letter with an exclamation. "It is from Dora," she said, and her voice had a tone of annoyance in it. "Dora is in London, at the Savoy. She wants to see me very much."

"I am so sorry. We have been so happy."

"I don't think she will interfere much, Ruth."

"My dears," said Judge Rawdon, "I have a letter from Fred Mostyn. He is coming home. He will be in London in a day or two."

"Why is he coming, father?"

"He says he has a proposal to make about the Manor. I wish he were not coming. No one wants his proposal." Then the breakfast-table, which had been so gay, became silent and depressed, and presently the Judge went away without exhibiting further interest in the London journey.

"I do wish Dora would let us alone," said Ruth. "She always brings disappointment or worry of some kind. And I wonder what is the meaning of this unexpected London visit. I thought she was in Holland."

"She said in her last letter that London would be impossible before August."

"Is it an appointment--or a coincidence?"

And Ethel, lifting her shoulders sarcastically, as if in hostile surrender to the inevitable, answered:

"It is a fatality!"

CHAPTER VIII

THREE days afterward Ethel called on Dora Stanhope at the Savoy. She found her alone, and she had evidently been crying. Indeed, she frankly admitted the fact, declaring that she had been "so bored and so homesick, that she relieved she had cried her beauty away." She glanced at Ethel's radiant face and neat fresh toilet with envy, and added, "I am so glad to see you, Ethel. But I was sure that you would come as soon as you knew I wanted you."

"Oh, indeed, Dora, you must not make yourself too sure of such a thing as that! I really came to London to get some new gowns. I have been shopping all morning."

"I thought you had come in answer to my letter. I was expecting you.

That is the reason I did not go out with Basil."

"Don't you expect a little too much, Dora? I have a great many interests and duties----"

"I used to be first."

"When a girl marries she is supposed to----"

"Please don't talk nonsense. Basil does not take the place of everyone and everything else. I think we are often very tired of each other. This morning, when I was telling him what trouble I had with my maid, Julia, he actually yawned. He tried to smother the yawn, but he could not, and of course the honeymoon is over when your bridegroom yawns in your face while you are telling him your troubles."

"I should think you would be glad it was over. Of all the words in the English language 'honeymoon' is the most ridiculous and imbecile."

"I suppose when you get married you will take a honeymoon."

"I shall have more sense and more selfishness. A girl could hardly enter a new life through a medium more trying. I am sure it would need long-tested affections and the sweetest of tempers to make it endurable."

"I cannot imagine what you mean."

"I mean that all traveling just after marriage is a great blunder.

Traveling makes the sunniest disposition hasty and peevish, for women don't love changes as men do. Not one in a thousand is seen at her best while traveling, and the majority are seen at their very worst. Then there is the discomfort and desolation of European hotels--their mysterious methods and hours, and the ways of foreigners, which are not as our ways."

"Don't talk of them, Ethel. They are dreadful places, and such queer people."

"Add to these troubles ignorance of language and coinage, the utter weariness of railway travel, the plague of customs, the trunk that won't pack, the trains that won't wait, the tiresome sight-seeing, the climatic irritability, broiling suns, headache, loneliness, fretfulness--consequently the pitiful boredom of the new husband."

"Ethel, what you say is certainly too true. I am weary to death of it all. I want to be at Newport with mother, who is having a lovely time there. Of course Basil is very nice to me, and yet there have been little tiffs and struggles--very gentle ones--for the mastery, which he is not going to get. To-day he wanted me to go with him and Canon Shackleton to see something or other about the poor of London. I would not do it. I am so lonely, Ethel, I want to see some one. I feel fit to cry all the time. I like Basil best of anyone in the world, but----"

"But in the solitude of a honeymoon among strangers you find out that the person you like best in the world can bore you as badly as the person you don't like at all. Is that so?"

"Exactly. Just fancy if we were among our friends in Newport. I should have some pleasure in dressing and looking lovely. Why should I dress here? There is no one to see me."

"Basil."

"Of course, but Basil spends all the time in visiting cathedrals and clergymen. If we go out, it is to see something about the poor, or about schools and such like. We were not in London two hours until he was off to Westminster Abbey, and I didn't care a cent about the old place. He says I must not ask him to go to theaters, but historical old houses don't interest me at all. What does it matter if Cromwell slept in a certain ancient shabby room? And as for all the palaces I have seen, my father's house is a great deal handsomer, and more convenient, and more comfortable, and I wish I were there. I hate Europe, and England I hate worst of all."

"You have not seen England. We are all enraptured with its beauty and its old houses and pleasant life."

"You are among friends--at home, as it were. I have heard all about Rawdon Court. Fred Mostyn told me. He is going to buy it."

"When?"

"Some time this fall. Then next year he will entertain us, and that will be a little different to this desolate hotel, I think."

"How long will you be in London?"

"I cannot say. We are invited to Stanhope Castle, but I don't want to go there. We stayed with the Stanhopes a week when we first came over. They were then in their London house, and I got enough of them."

"Did you dislike the family?"

"No, I cared nothing about them. They just bored me. They are extremely religious. We had prayers night and morning, and a prayer before and after every meal. They read only very good books, and the Honorable Misses Stanhope sew for the poor old women and teach the poor young ones. They work harder than anyone I ever knew, and they call it 'improving the time.' They thought me a very silly, reckless young woman, and I think they all prayed for me. One night after they had sung some very nice songs they asked me to play, and I began with 'My Little Brown Rose'--you know they all adore the negro--and little by little I dropped into the funniest c.o.o.n songs I knew, and oh how they laughed!

Even the old lord stroked his knees and laughed out loud, while the young ladies laughed into their handkerchiefs. Lady Stanhope was the only one who comprehended I was guying them; and she looked at me with half-shut eyes in a way that would have spoiled some girls' fun. It only made me the merrier. So I tried to show them a cake walk, but the old lord rose then and said 'I must be tired, and they would excuse me.'

Somehow I could not manage him. Basil was at a workman's concert, and when he came home I think there were some advices and remonstrances, but Basil never told me. I felt as if they were all glad when I went away, and I don't wish to go to the Castle--and I won't go either."

"But if Basil wishes to go----"

"He can go alone. I rather think Fred Mostyn will be here in a few days, and he will take me to places that Basil will not--innocent places enough, Ethel, so you need not look so shocked. Why do you not ask me to Rawdon Court?"

"Because I am only a guest there. I have no right to ask you."

"I am sure if you told Squire Rawdon how fond you are of me, and how lonely I am, he would tell you to send for me."

"I do not believe he would. He has old-fas.h.i.+oned ideas about newly married people. He would hardly think it possible that you would be willing to go anywhere without Basil--yet."

"He could ask Basil too."

"If Mr. Mostyn is coming home, he can ask you to Mostyn Hall. It is very near Rawdon Court."