The Man Between [39]
wife. Don't be interested in any man on unknown ground, Ethel. It is not prudent--it is not right."
"Time will show. He will very likely be looking for me this summer at Newport and elsewhere. He will be glad to see me when I come home. Don't worry, Ruth. It is all right."
"Fred called soon after you went out this morning. He left for Newport this afternoon. He will be at sea now."
"And we shall be there in a few days. When I am at the seaside I always feel a delicious torpor; yet Nelly Baldwin told me she loved an Atlantic passage because she had such fun on board. You have crossed several times, Ruth; is it fun or torpor?"
"All mirth at sea soon fades away, Ethel. Passengers are a very dull class of people, and they know it; they rebel against it, but every hour it becomes more natural to be dull. Very soon all mentally accommodate themselves to being bored, dreamy and dreary. Then, as soon as it is dark, comes that old mysterious, hungering sound of the sea; and I for one listen till I can bear it no longer, and so steal away to bed with a pain in my heart."
"I think I shall like the ocean. There are games, and books, and company, and dinners, and other things."
"Certainly, and you can think yourself happy, until gradually a contented cretinism steals over you, body and mind."
"No, no!" said Ethel enthusiastically. "I shall do according to Swinburne--
"`Have therefore in my heart, and in my mouth, The sound of song that mingles North and South; And in my Soul the sense of all the Sea!'"
And Ruth laughed at her dramatic attitude, and answered: "The soul of all the sea is a contented cretinism, Ethel. But in ten days we may be in Yorkshire. And then, my dear, you may meet your Prince--some fine Yorkshire gentleman."
"I have strictly and positively promised myself that my Prince shall be a fine American gentleman."
"My dear Ethel, it is very seldom
"`the time, and the place, And the Loved One, come together.'"
"I live in the land of good hope, Ruth, and my hopes will be realized."
"We shall see."
PART THIRD
"I WENT DOWN INTO THE GARDEN TO SEE IF THE POMEGRANATES BUDDED. Song of Solomon, VI. 11.
CHAPTER VII
IT was a lovely afternoon on the last day of May. The sea and all the toil and travail belonging to it was overpass, and Judge Rawdon, Ruth and Ethel were driving in lazy, blissful contentment through one of the lovely roads of the West Riding. On either hand the beautifully cut hedges were white and sweet, and a caress of scent--the soul of the hawthorne flower enfolded them. Robins were singing on the topmost sprays, and the linnet's sweet babbling was heard from the happy nests in its secret places; while from some unseen steeple the joyful sound of chiming bells made music between heaven and earth fit for bands of traveling angels.
They had dined at a wayside inn on jugged hare, roast beef, and Yorkshire pudding, clotted cream and haver (oaten) bread, and the careless stillness of physical well-being and of minds at ease needed no speech, but the mutual smiling nod of intimate sympathy. For the sense of joy and beauty which makes us eloquent is far inferior to that sense which makes us silent.
This exquisite pause in life was suddenly ended by an exclamation from the Judge. They were at the great iron gates of Rawdon Park, and soon were slowly traversing its woody solitudes. The soft light, the unspeakable green of the turf, the voice of ancient days murmuring in the great oak trees, the deer asleep among the ferns, the stillness of the summer afternoon filling the air with drowsy peace this was the atmosphere into which they entered. Their road through this grand park of three hundred acres was a wide, straight avenue shaded with beech trees. The green turf on either hand was starred with primroses. In the deep undergrowth, ferns waved and fanned each other, and the scent of hidden violets saluted as they passed. Drowsily, as if half asleep, the blackbirds whistled their couplets, and in the thickest hedges the little brown
"Time will show. He will very likely be looking for me this summer at Newport and elsewhere. He will be glad to see me when I come home. Don't worry, Ruth. It is all right."
"Fred called soon after you went out this morning. He left for Newport this afternoon. He will be at sea now."
"And we shall be there in a few days. When I am at the seaside I always feel a delicious torpor; yet Nelly Baldwin told me she loved an Atlantic passage because she had such fun on board. You have crossed several times, Ruth; is it fun or torpor?"
"All mirth at sea soon fades away, Ethel. Passengers are a very dull class of people, and they know it; they rebel against it, but every hour it becomes more natural to be dull. Very soon all mentally accommodate themselves to being bored, dreamy and dreary. Then, as soon as it is dark, comes that old mysterious, hungering sound of the sea; and I for one listen till I can bear it no longer, and so steal away to bed with a pain in my heart."
"I think I shall like the ocean. There are games, and books, and company, and dinners, and other things."
"Certainly, and you can think yourself happy, until gradually a contented cretinism steals over you, body and mind."
"No, no!" said Ethel enthusiastically. "I shall do according to Swinburne--
"`Have therefore in my heart, and in my mouth, The sound of song that mingles North and South; And in my Soul the sense of all the Sea!'"
And Ruth laughed at her dramatic attitude, and answered: "The soul of all the sea is a contented cretinism, Ethel. But in ten days we may be in Yorkshire. And then, my dear, you may meet your Prince--some fine Yorkshire gentleman."
"I have strictly and positively promised myself that my Prince shall be a fine American gentleman."
"My dear Ethel, it is very seldom
"`the time, and the place, And the Loved One, come together.'"
"I live in the land of good hope, Ruth, and my hopes will be realized."
"We shall see."
PART THIRD
"I WENT DOWN INTO THE GARDEN TO SEE IF THE POMEGRANATES BUDDED. Song of Solomon, VI. 11.
CHAPTER VII
IT was a lovely afternoon on the last day of May. The sea and all the toil and travail belonging to it was overpass, and Judge Rawdon, Ruth and Ethel were driving in lazy, blissful contentment through one of the lovely roads of the West Riding. On either hand the beautifully cut hedges were white and sweet, and a caress of scent--the soul of the hawthorne flower enfolded them. Robins were singing on the topmost sprays, and the linnet's sweet babbling was heard from the happy nests in its secret places; while from some unseen steeple the joyful sound of chiming bells made music between heaven and earth fit for bands of traveling angels.
They had dined at a wayside inn on jugged hare, roast beef, and Yorkshire pudding, clotted cream and haver (oaten) bread, and the careless stillness of physical well-being and of minds at ease needed no speech, but the mutual smiling nod of intimate sympathy. For the sense of joy and beauty which makes us eloquent is far inferior to that sense which makes us silent.
This exquisite pause in life was suddenly ended by an exclamation from the Judge. They were at the great iron gates of Rawdon Park, and soon were slowly traversing its woody solitudes. The soft light, the unspeakable green of the turf, the voice of ancient days murmuring in the great oak trees, the deer asleep among the ferns, the stillness of the summer afternoon filling the air with drowsy peace this was the atmosphere into which they entered. Their road through this grand park of three hundred acres was a wide, straight avenue shaded with beech trees. The green turf on either hand was starred with primroses. In the deep undergrowth, ferns waved and fanned each other, and the scent of hidden violets saluted as they passed. Drowsily, as if half asleep, the blackbirds whistled their couplets, and in the thickest hedges the little brown