III
“Next station?—O—Oldbridge,” sang out the cherubic faced conductor and Ruth's heart began to palpitate.
“I will smile,” she said, “I won't be absurd.” And she fixed her gaze resolutely on the landscape, arrested, at once, by some subtle change in it.
Perceptibly, the meadows displayed a softer, more velvety grass; the trees grew, more finely luxuriant, the cliffs rose boldly. A hint of human intention, the touch of elegance, a something thoroughbred, spoke aloud.... The few last miles through which Miss Adgate jolted gave symptoms of civilisation.
“O—O—ldbridge!”
The guard intoned it nasally, with complete resignation,—a twenty years' fatiguing habit; and an intimation too, in his voice, that the goal of human travel had been reached. The train slackened.... One saw, spanning the river, a black bridge latticing the green and the blue; one caught glimpses of a town, white houses scattered up the slopes of wooded hills.
Several trim white yachts rested on the water; small sailboats glided, hither and yon, and little skiffs and slim rowboats floated by to a leisurely motion, manned by a single young oarsman, a girl seated hatless, in the bow. The gay scene under the yellow sunlight, the rippling, the smiling river, the warm waning afternoon—alive, sparkling, seemed an invitation to her full of promise.
“Come, Paolina,” said Ruth, with inward trepidation. “Come, Paolina.”
Miss Adgate summoned her courage as the train stopped with a jerk.
She passed—heroic effort—through the car to the platform, while Paolina took the dressing-case and followed, moved like her mistress and as tremulous.