Amelia Barr - The Man Between: An International Romance стр 2.

That is the truth, Ethel. I was thinking of your grandmother Rawdon. You have your hat onare you going to see her?

I am going to see Dora Denning. I had an urgent note from her last night. She says she has extraordinary news and begs me to come to her immediately. I cannot imagine what her news is. I saw her Friday afternoon.

She has a new poodle, or a new lover, or a new way of crimping her hair, suggested Ruth Bayard scornfully. She imposes on you, Ethel; why do you submit to her selfishness?

I suppose because I have become used to it. Four years ago I began to take her part, when the girls teased and tormented her in the schoolroom, and I have big-sistered her ever since. I suppose we get to love those who make us kind and give us trouble. Dora is not perfect, but I like her better than any friend I have. And she must like me, for she asks my advice about everything in her life.

Does she take it?

Yesgenerally. Sometimes I have to make her take it.

She has a mother. Why does she not go to her?

Mrs. Denning knows nothing about certain subjects. I am Doras social godmother, and she must dress and behave as I tell her to do. Poor Mrs. Denning! I am so sorry for heranother cup of coffee, Ruthit is not very strong.

Why should you be sorry for Mrs. Denning, Her husband is enormously richshe lives in a palace, and has a crowd of men and women servants to wait upon hercarriages, horses, motor cars, what not, at her command.

Yet really, Ruth, she is a most unhappy woman. In that little Western town from which they came, she was everybody. She ran the churches, and was chairwoman in all the clubs, and President of the Temperance Union, and manager of every religious, social, and political festival; and her days were full to the brim of just the things she liked to do. Her dress there was considered magnificent; people begged her for patterns, and regarded her as the very glass of fashion. Servants thought it a great privilege to be employed on the Denning place, and she ordered her house and managed her half-score of men and maids with pleasant autocracy. NOW! Well, I will tell you how it is, NOW. She sits all day in her splendid rooms, or rides out in her car or carriage, and no one knows her, and of course no one speaks to her. Mr. Denning has his Wall Street friends

And enemies, interrupted Judge Rawdon.

And enemies! You are right, father. But he enjoys one as much as the otherthat is, he would as willingly fight his enemies as feast his friends. He says a big day in Wall Street makes him alive from head to foot. He really looks happy. Bryce Denning has got into two clubs, and his money passes him, for he plays, and is willing to love prudently. But no one cares about Mrs. Denning. She is quite oldforty-five, I dare say; and she is stout, and does not wear the colors and style she ought to wearnone of her things have the right look, and of course I cannot advise a matron. Then, her fine English servants take her house out of her hands. She is afraid of them. The butler suavely tries to inform her; the housekeeper removed the white crotcheted scarfs and things from the gilded chairs, and I am sure Mrs. Denning had a heartache about their loss; but she saw that they had also vanished from Doras parlor, so she took the hint, and accepted the lesson. Really, her humility and isolation are pitiful. I am going to ask grandmother to go and see her. Grandmother might take her to church, and get Dr. Simpson and Mrs. Simpson to introduce her. Her money and adaptability would do the rest. There, I have had a good breakfast, though I was late. It is not always the early bird that gets chicken and mushrooms. Now I will go and see what Dora wantsand lifting her furs with a smile, and a Good morning! equally charming, she disappeared.

Did you notice her voice, Ruth? asked Judge Rawdon. What a tone there is in her good morning!

There is a tone in every ones good morning, Edward. I think peoples salutations set to music would reveal their inmost character. Ethels good morning says in D major How good is the day! and her good night drops into the minor third, and says pensively How sweet is the night!

Nay, Ruth, I dont understand all that; but I do understand the voice. It goes straight to my heart.

And to my heart also, Edward. I think too there is a measured music, a central time and tune, in every life. Quick, melodious natures like Ethels never wander far from their keynote, and are therefore joyously set; while slow, irresolute people deviate far, and only come back after painful dissonances and frequent changes.

You are generally right, Ruth, even where I cannot follow you. I hope Ethel will be home for dinner. I like my Sunday dinner with both of you, and I may bring my mother back with me.

Then he said Good morning with an intentional cheerfulness, and Ruth was left alone with her book. She gave a moments thought to the value of good example, and then with a sigh of content let her eyes rest on the words Ethels presence had for awhile silenced:

I am filled with a sense of sweetness and wonder that such, little things can make a mortal so exceedingly rich. But I confess that the chiefest of all my delights is still the religious. (Theodore Parker.) She read the words again, then closed her eyes and let the honey of some sacred memory satisfy her soul. And in those few minutes of reverie, Ruth Bayard revealed the keynote of her being. Wanderings from it, caused by the exigencies and duties of life, frequently occurred; but she quickly returned to its central and controlling harmony; and her serenity and poise were therefore as natural as was her nieces joyousness and hope. Nor was her religious character the result of temperament, or of a secluded life. Ruth Bayard was a woman of thought and culture, and wise in the ways of the world, but not worldly. Her personality was very attractive, she had a good form, an agreeable face, speaking gray eyes, and brown hair, soft and naturally wavy. She was a distant cousin of Ethels mother, but had been brought up with her in the same household, and always regarded her as a sister, and Ethel never remembered that she was only her aunt by adoption. Ten years older than her niece, she had mothered her with a wise and loving patience, and her thoughts never wandered long or far from the girl. Consequently, she soon found herself wondering what reason there could be for Dora Dennings urgency.

In the meantime Ethel had reached her friends residence a new building of unusual size and very ornate architecture. Liveried footmen and waiting women bowed her with mute attention to Miss Dennings suite, an absolutely private arrangement of five rooms, marvelously furnished for the young ladys comfort and delight. The windows of her parlor overlooked the park, and she was standing at one of them as Ethel entered the room. In a passion of welcoming gladness she turned to her, exclaiming: I have been watching for you hours and hours, Ethel. I have the most wonderful thing to tell you. I am so happy! So happy! No one was ever as happy as I am.

Then Ethel took both her hands, and, as they stood together, she looked intently at her friend. Some new charm transfigured her face; for her dark, gazelle eyes were not more lambent than her cheeks, though in a different way; while her black hair in its picturesquely arranged disorder seemed instinct with life, and hardly to be restrained. She was constantly pushing it back, caressing or arranging it; and her white, slender fingers, sparkling with jewels, moved among the crimped and wavy locks, as if there was an intelligent sympathy between them.