The Man Between | Page 4

I must try and see her to-morrow--it may be difficult--but I must make the effort"--and with this satisfying resolution she easily fell asleep.
When she awoke the church bells were ringing and she knew that her father and aunt would have breakfasted. The feet did not trouble her. It was an accidental sleep-over; she had not planned it, and circumstances would take care of themselves. In any case, she had no fear of rebuke. No one was ever cross with Ethel. It was a matter of pretty general belief that whatever Ethel did was just right. So she dressed herself becomingly in a cloth suit, and, with her plumed hat on her head, went down to see what the day had to offer her.
"The first thing is coffee, and then, all being agreeable, Dora. I shall not look further ahead," she thought.
As she entered the room she called "Good morning!" and her voice was like the voice of the birds when they call "Spring!"; and her face was radiant with smiles, and the touch of her lips and the clasp of her hand warm with love and life; and her father and aunt forgot that she was late, and that her breakfast was yet to order.
She took up the reproach herself. "I am so sorry, Aunt Ruth. I only want a cup of coffee and a roll."
"My dear, you cannot go without a proper breakfast. Never mind the hour. What would you like best?"
"You are so good, Ruth. I should like a nice breakfast--a breast of chicken and mushrooms, and some hot muffins and marmalade would do. How comfortable you look here! Father, you are buried in newspapers. Is anyone going to church?"
Ruth ordered the desired breakfast and Mr. Rawdon took out his watch--"I am afraid you have delayed us too long this morning, Ethel."
"Am I to be the scapegoat? Now, I do not believe anyone wanted to go to church. Ruth had her book, you, the newspapers. It is warm and pleasant here, it is cold and windy outside. I know what confession would be made, if honesty were the fashion."
"Well, my little girl, honesty is the fashion in this house. I believe in going to church. Religion is the Mother of Duty, and we should all make a sad mess of life without duty. Is not that so, Ruth?"
"Truth itself, Edward; but religion is not going to church and listening to sermons. Those who built the old cathedrals of Europe had no idea that sitting in comfortable pews and listening to some man talking was worshiping God. Those great naves were intended for men and women to stand or kneel in before God. And there were no high or low standing or kneeling places; all were on a level before Him. It is our modern Protestantism which has brought in lazy lolling in cushioned pews; and the gallery, which makes a church as like a playhouse as possible!"
"What are you aiming at, Ruth?"
"I only meant to say, I would like going to church much better if we went solely to praise God, and entreat His mercy. I do not care to hear sermons."
"My dear Ruth, sermons are a large fact in our social economy. When a million or two are preached every year, they have a strong claim on our attention. To use a trade phrase, sermons are firm, and I believe a moderate tax on them would yield an astonishing income."
"See how you talk of them, Edward; as if they were a commercial commodity. If you respected them----"
"I do. I grant them a steady pneumatic pressure in the region of morals, and even faith. Picture to yourself, Ruth, New York without sermons. The dear old city would be like a ship without ballast, heeling over with every wind, and letting in the waters of immorality and scepticism. Remove this pulpit balance just for one week from New York City, and where should we be?"
"Well then," said Ethel, "the clergy ought to give New York a first-rate article in sermons, either of home or foreign manufacture. New York expects the very best of everything; and when she gets it, she opens her heart and her pocketbook enjoys it, and pays for it."
"That is the truth, Ethel. I was thinking of your grandmother Rawdon. You have your hat on--are 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