The Man Between | Page 3

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The Man Between
AN INTERNATIONAL ROMANCE
By AMELIA E. BARR

PART FIRST
O LOVE WILL VENTURE IN!

THE MAN BETWEEN

CHAPTER I
THE thing that I know least about is my beginning. For it is possible to
introduce Ethel Rawdon in so many picturesque ways that the choice is
embarrassing, and forces me to the conclusion that the actual
circumstances, though commonplace, may be the most suitable.
Certainly the events that shape our lives are seldom ushered in with
pomp or ceremony; they steal upon us unannounced, and begin their
work without giving any premonition of their importance.

Consequently Ethel had no idea when she returned home one night
from a rather stupid entertainment that she was about to open a new and
important chapter of her life. Hitherto that life had been one of the
sweetest and simplest character--the lessons and sports of childhood
and girlhood had claimed her nineteen years; and Ethel was just at that
wonderful age when, the brook and the river having met, she was
feeling the first swell of those irresistible tides which would carry her
day by day to the haven of all days.
It was Saturday night in the January of 1900, verging toward twelve
o'clock. When she entered her room, she saw that one of the windows
was open, and she stood a moment or two at it, looking across the
straight miles of white lights, in whose illumined shadows thousands of
sleepers were holding their lives in pause.
"It is not New York at all," she whispered, "it is some magical city that
I have seen, but have never trod. It will vanish about six o'clock in the
morning, and there will be only common streets, full of common
people. Of course," and here she closed the window and leisurely
removed her opera cloak, "of course, this is only dreaming, but to
dream waking, or to dream sleeping, is very pleasant. In dreams we can
have men as we like them, and women as we want them, and make all
the world happy and beautiful."
She was in no hurry of feeling or movement. She had been in a crowd
for some hours, and was glad to be quite alone and talk to herself a
little. It was also so restful to gradually relinquish all the restraining
gauds of fashionable attire, and as she leisurely performed these duties,
she entered into conversation with her own heart--talked over with it
the events of the past week, and decided that its fretless days, full of
good things, had been, from the beginning to the end, sweet as a cup of
new milk. For a woman's heart is very talkative, and requires little to
make it eloquent in its own way.
In the midst of this intimate companionship she turned her head, and
saw two letters lying upon a table. She rose and lifted them. One was
an invitation to a studio reception, and she let it flutter indeterminately
from her hand; the other was both familiar and appealing; none of her

correspondents but Dora Denning used that peculiar shade of blue
paper, and she instantly began to wonder why Dora had written to her.
"I saw her yesterday afternoon," she reflected, "and she told me
everything she had to tell--and what does she-mean by such a
tantalizing message as this? `Dearest Ethel: I have the most
extraordinary news. Come to me immediately. Dora.' How exactly like
Dora!" she commented. "Come to me im- mediately--whether you are
in bed or asleep --whether you are sick or well--whether it is midnight
or high noon--come to me immediately. Well, Dora, I am going to
sleep now, and to-morrow is Sunday, and I never know what view
father is going to take of Sunday. He may ask me to go to church with
him, and he may not. He may