“From what I know of Mr. Stanhope, I should doubt it. I am sure he will put his duties before every earthly thing, and I am sure Dora will object to that. Then I wonder if Dora is made on a pattern large enough to be the moneyed partner in matrimony. I should think Mr. Stanhope was a proud man.”
“Dora says he is connected with the English noble family of Stanhopes.”
“We shall certainly have all the connections of the English nobility in America very soon now—but why does he marry Dora? Is it her money?”
“I think not. I have heard from various sources some fine things of Basil Stanhope. There are many richer girls than Dora in St. Jude’s. I dare say some one of them would have married him.”
“You are mistaken. Do you think Margery Starey, Jane Lewes, or any of the girls of their order would marry a man with a few thousands a year? And to marry for love is beyond the frontiers of such women’s intelligence. In their creed a husband is a banker, not a man to be loved and cared for. You know how much of a banker Mr. Stanhope could be.”
“Bryce Denning is very angry at what he evidently considers his sister’s mesalliance.”
“If Mr. Stanhope is connected with the English Stanhopes, the mesalliance must be laid to his charge.”
“Indeed the Dennings have some pretenses to good lineage, and Bryce spoke of his sister ‘disgracing his family by her contemplated marriage.’”
“His family! My dear Ethel, his grandfather was a manufacturer of tin tacks. And now that we have got as far away as the Denning’s grandfather, suppose we drop the subject.”
“Content; I am a little tired of the clan Denning—that is their original name Dora says. I will go now and dress for dinner.”
Then Ruth rose and looked inquisitively around the room. It was as she wished it to be—the very expression of elegant comfort—warm and light, and holding the scent of roses: a place of deep, large chairs with no odds and ends to worry about, a room to lounge and chat in, and where the last touch of perfect home freedom was given by a big mastiff who, having heard the door-bell ring, strolled in to see who had called.
CHAPTER II
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