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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/32432-8.txt b/32432-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e3edd81 --- /dev/null +++ b/32432-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,10388 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Fidelity, by Susan Glaspell + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Fidelity + A Novel + +Author: Susan Glaspell + +Release Date: May 19, 2010 [EBook #32432] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FIDELITY *** + + + + +Produced by Suzanne Shell, Mary Meehan and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) + + + + + + + + FIDELITY + + A NOVEL + + BY SUSAN GLASPELL + + Author of "THE GLORY OF THE CONQUERED," "THE VISIONING," ETC. + + +BOSTON +SMALL, MAYNARD AND COMPANY +PUBLISHERS + +_Copyright, 1915_ +BY SMALL, MAYNARD AND COMPANY +INCORPORATED) + +Printers +S. J. PARKHILL & CO., BOSTON U.S.A. + + +TO +LUCY HUFFAKER + + + + +FIDELITY + + + + +CHAPTER ONE + + +It was hard to get back into the easy current of everyday talk. Cora +Albright's question had too rudely pulled them out of it, disturbing the +quiet flow of inconsequential things. Even when they had recovered and +were safely flowing along on the fact that the new hotel was to cost two +hundred thousand dollars, after they had moved with apparent serenity to +lamentation over a neighbor who was sick in bed and without a cook, it +was as if they were making a display of the ease with which they could +move on those commonplace things, as if thus to deny the consciousness +of whirlpools near by. + +So they seemed to Dr. Deane Franklin, who, secured by the shadow of the +porch vine, could smile to himself at the way he saw through them. +Though Deane Franklin's smile for seeing through people was not so much +a smile as a queer little twist of the left side of his face, a screwing +up of it that half shut one eye and pulled his mouth out of shape, the +same twist that used to make people call him a homely youngster. He was +thinking that Cora's question, or at any rate her manner in asking it, +would itself have told that she had lived away from Freeport for a +number of years. She did not know that they did not talk about Ruth +Holland any more, that certainly they did not speak of her in the tone +of everyday things. + +And yet, looking at it in any but the Freeport way, it was the most +natural thing in the world that Cora should have asked what she did. +Mrs. Lawrence had asked if Mr. Holland--he was Ruth's father--was +getting any better, and then Cora had turned to him with the inquiry: +"Do you ever hear from Ruth?" + +It was queer how it arrested them all. He saw Mrs. Lawrence's start and +her quick look over to her daughter--now Edith Lawrence Blair, the Edith +Lawrence who had been Ruth's dearest friend. It was Edith herself who +had most interested him. She had been leaning to the far side of her big +chair in order to escape the shaft of light from the porch lamp. But at +Cora's question she made a quick turn that brought her directly into the +light. It gave her startled face, so suddenly and sharply revealed, an +unmasked aspect as she turned from Cora to him. And when he quietly +answered: "Yes, I had a letter from Ruth this morning," her look of +amazement, of sudden feeling, seemed for the instant caught there in the +light. He got her quick look over to Amy--his bride, and then her +conscious leaning back from the disclosing shaft into the shadow. + +He himself had become suddenly conscious of Amy. They had been in +California for their honeymoon, and had just returned to Freeport. Amy +was not a Freeport girl, and was new to his old crowd, which the visit +of Cora Albright was bringing together in various little reunions. She +had been sitting over at the far side of the group, talking with Will +Blair, Edith's husband. Now they too had stopped talking. + +"She wanted to know about her father," he added. + +No one said anything. That irritated him. It seemed that Edith or her +mother, now that Cora had opened it up, might make some little attempt +at the common decencies of such a situation, might ask if Ruth would +come home if her father died, speak of her as if she were a human being. + +Cora did not appear to get from their silence that she was violating +Freeport custom. "Her mother died just about a year after Ruth--left, +didn't she?" she pursued. + +"About that," he tersely answered. + +"Died of a broken heart," murmured Mrs. Lawrence. + +"She died of pneumonia," was his retort, a little sharp for a young man +to an older woman. + +Her slight wordless murmur seemed to comment on his failure to see. She +turned to Cora with a tolerant, gently-spoken, "I think Deane would have +to admit that there was little force left for fighting pneumonia. +Certainly it was a broken life!"--that last was less gently said. + +Exasperation showed in his shifting of position. + +"It needn't have been," he muttered stubbornly. + +"Deane--Deane!" she murmured, as if in reproach for something of long +standing. There was a silence in which the whole thing was alive there +for those of them who knew. Cora and Edith, sitting close together, did +not turn to one another. He wondered if they were thinking of the +countless times Ruth had been on that porch with them in the years they +were all growing up together. Edith's face was turned away from the +light now. Suddenly Cora demanded: "Well, there's no prospect at all of +a divorce?" + +Mrs. Lawrence rose and went over to Amy and opened a lively conversation +as to whether she found her new maid satisfactory. It left him and Edith +and Cora to themselves. + +"No," he answered her question, "I guess not. Not that I know of." + +"How terrible it all is!" Cora exclaimed, not without feeling; and then, +following a pause, she and Edith were speaking of how unbecoming the new +hats were, talking of the tea one of their old friends was giving for +Cora next day. + +He sat there thinking how it was usually those little things that closed +in over Ruth. When the thought of her, feeling about her, broke through, +it was soon covered over with--oh, discussion of how some one was +wearing her hair, the health of some one's baby or merits of some one's +cook. + +He listened to their talk about the changes there had been in Freeport +in the last ten or twelve years. They spoke of deaths, of marriages, of +births; of people who had prospered and people who had gone to pieces; +of the growth of the town, of new people, of people who had moved away. +In a word, they spoke of change. Edith would refer things to him and he +occasionally joined in the talk, but he was thinking less of the +incidents they spoke of than of how it was change they were talking +about. This enumeration of changes gave him a sense of life as a +continuous moving on, as a thing going swiftly by. Life had changed for +all those people they were telling Cora about. It had changed for +themselves too. He had continued to think of Edith and the others as +girls. But they had moved on from that; they were moving on all the +time. Why, they were over thirty! As a matter of fact they were women +near the middle thirties. People talked so lightly of change, and yet +change meant that life was swiftly sweeping one on. + +He turned from that too somber thinking to Amy, watched her as she +talked with Mrs. Lawrence. They too were talking of Freeport people and +affairs, the older woman bringing Amy into the current of life there. +His heart warmed a little to Edith's mother for being so gracious to +Amy, though, that did not keep him from marveling at how she could be +both so warm and so hard--so loving within the circle of her approval, +so unrelenting out beyond it. + +Amy would make friends, he was thinking, lovingly proud. How could it be +otherwise when she was so lovely and so charming? She looked so slim, so +very young, in that white dress she was wearing. Well, and she was +young, little older now than these girls had been when they really were +"the girls." That bleak sense of life as going by fell away; here _was_ +life--the beautiful life he was to have with Amy. He watched the breeze +play with her hair and his whole heart warmed to her in the thought of +the happiness she brought him, in his gratitude for what love made of +life. He forgot his resentment about Ruth, forgot the old bitterness and +old hurt that had just been newly stirred in him. Life had been a lonely +thing for a number of years after Ruth went away. He had Amy now--all +was to be different. + +They all stood at the head of the steps for a moment as he and Amy were +bidding the others goodnight. They talked of the tea Edith was to give +for Amy the following week--what Amy would wear--how many people there +would be. "And let me pick you up and take you to the tea tomorrow," +Edith was saying. "It will be small and informal--just Cora's old +friends--and then you won't have so many strangers to meet next week." + +He glowed with new liking of Edith, felt anew that sweetness in her +nature that, after her turning from Ruth, had not been there for him. +Looking at her through this new friendliness he was thinking how +beautifully she had developed. Edith was a mother now, she had two +lovely children. She was larger than in her girlhood; she had indeed +flowered, ripened. Edith was a sweet woman, he was thinking. + +"I do think they're the kindest, most beautiful people!" Amy exclaimed +warmly as they started slowly homeward through the fragrant softness of +the May night. + + + + +CHAPTER TWO + + +He had known that Amy would ask, and wondered a little at her waiting so +long. It was an hour later, as she sat before her dressing-table +brushing her hair that she turned to him with a little laugh and asked: +"Who is this mysterious Ruth?" + +He sighed; he was tired and telling about Ruth seemed a large +undertaking. + +Amy colored and turned from him and picked up her brush. "Don't tell me +if you don't want to," she said formally. + +His hand went round her bared shoulder. "Dearest! Why, I want to, of +course. It's just that it's a long story, and tonight I'm a little +tired." As she did not respond to that he added: "This was a hard day at +the office." + +Amy went on brushing her hair; she did not suggest that he let it go +until another time so he began, "Ruth was a girl who used to live here." + +"I gathered that," she replied quietly. + +Her tone made no opening for him. "I thought a great deal of her," he +said after a moment. + +"Yes, I gathered that too." She said it dryly, and smiled just a little. +He was more conscious than ever of being tired, of its being hard to +tell about Ruth. + +"I gathered," said Amy, still faintly smiling, though, her voice went a +trifle higher, "that you thought more of her--" she hesitated, then +amended--"think more of her--than the rest of them do." + +He answered simply: "Yes, I believe that's so. Though Edith used to care +a great deal for Ruth," he added meditatively. + +"Well, what did she do?" Amy demanded impatiently. "What _is_ it?" + +For a moment his cheek went down to her soft hair that was all around +her, in a surge of love for its softness, a swift, deep gratitude for +her loveliness. He wanted to rest there, letting that, for the time, +shut out all else, secure in new happiness and forgetting old hurts. + +But he felt her waiting for what she wanted to know and so with an +effort he began: "Why, you see, dear, Ruth--it was pretty tough for +Ruth. Things didn't go right for her--not as they did for Cora and Edith +and the girls of her crowd. She--" Something in the calm of Amy's +waiting made it curiously hard to say, "Ruth couldn't marry the man she +cared for." + +"Why not!" she asked dispassionately. + +"Why, because it wasn't possible," he answered a little sharply. "She +couldn't marry him because he wasn't divorced," he said bluntly then. + +Amy's deep gray eyes, they had seemed so unperturbed, so +unsympathetically calm, were upon him now in a queer, steady way. He +felt himself flushing. "Wasn't divorced?" she said with a little laugh. +"Is that a way of saying he was married?" + +He nodded. + +"She cared for a man who was married to someone else?" she asked with +rising voice. + +Again he only nodded, feeling incapable, when Amy looked at him like +that, of saying the things he would like to be saying for Ruth. + +Abruptly she drew her hair away. "And you can sympathize with--_like_--a +person who would do that?" + +"I certainly both sympathize with and like Ruth." + +That had come quick and sharp, and then suddenly he felt it all wrong +that a thing which had gone so deep into his own life should be coming +to Amy like this, that she should be taking the attitude of the town +against his friend, against his own feeling. He blamed his way of +putting it, telling himself it was absurd to expect her to understand a +bald statement like that. At that moment he realized it was very +important she should understand; not only Ruth, but something in +himself--something counting for much in himself would be shut out if she +did not understand. + +It made his voice gentle as he began: "Amy, don't you know that just to +be told of a thing may make it seem very different from what the thing +really was? Seeing a thing from the outside is so different from living +through it. Won't you reserve judgment about Ruth--she is my friend and +I hate to see her unfairly judged--until some time when I can tell it +better?" + +"Why have _you_ so much to do with it? Why is it so important I do +not--judge her?" Amy's sweetness, that soft quality that had been dear +to him seemed to have tightened into a hard shrewdness as she asked: +"How did _you_ happen to know it all from within?" + +He pushed his chair back from her and settled into it wearily. "Why, +because she was my friend, dear. I was in her confidence." + +"I don't think I'd be very proud of being in the confidence of a woman +who ran away with another woman's husband!" + +Her hostile voice fanned the old anger that had so many times flamed +when people were speaking hostilely of Ruth. But he managed to say +quietly: "But you see you don't know much about it yet, Amy." + +He was facing her mirror and what he saw in it made him lean forward, +his arms about her, with an impulsive: "Sweetheart, we're not going to +quarrel, are we?" + +But after his kisses she asked, as if she had only been biding her time +through the interruption; "_Did_ she run away with him?" + +His arm dropped from her shoulder. "They left together," he answered +shortly. + +"Are they married now?" + +"No." + +Amy, who had resumed the brushing of her hair, held the brush suspended. +"_Living_ together--all this time--and _not_ married?" + +"They are not married," was his heated response, "because the man's wife +has not divorced him." He added, not without satisfaction: "She's that +kind of a person." + +Amy turned and her eyes met his. "What kind of a person?" she said +challengingly. "I presume," she added coolly, "that she does not believe +in divorce." + +"I take it that she does not," was his dry answer. + +She flushed, and exclaimed a little tremulously: "Well, really, Deane, +you needn't be so disagreeable about it!" + +Quickly he turned to her, glad to think that he had been disagreeable; +that was so much easier than what he had been trying to keep from +thinking. + +"I didn't mean to be disagreeable, Amy dear. I suppose I've got in the +habit of being disagreeable about Ruth: people here have been so hard +about her; I've resented their attitude so." + +"But why should you _care_? Why is it such a personal matter to you?" + +He was about to say, "She was my friend," but remembering he had said +that before, he had anew a sense of helplessness. He did not want to +talk about it any more. He had become tired out with thinking about it, +with the long grieving for Ruth and the sorrowing with her. When he +found Amy their love had seemed to free him from old hurts and to bring +him out from loneliness. Wonderful as the ecstasy of fresh love was he +had thought even more of the exquisite peace that rests in love. Amy had +seemed to be bringing him to that; and now it seemed that Ruth was still +there holding him away from it. The thought brushed his mind, his face +softening for the instant with it, that Ruth would be so sorry to have +that true. + +Amy had braided her hair; the long fair braid hung over her shoulder, +beautifully framing her face as she turned to him. "Had you supposed, +when you all knew her, when she was in your crowd, that she was--that +kind of a person?" + +His blood quickened in the old anger for Ruth; but there was something +worse than that--a sick feeling, a feeling in which there was +disappointment and into which there crept something that was like shame. + +The telephone rang before he need reply. When he turned from it, it was +to say hurriedly, "I'll have to go to the hospital, Amy. Sorry--that +woman I operated on yesterday--" He was in the next room, gathering +together his things before he had finished it. + +Amy followed him in. "Why, I'm so sorry, dear. It's too bad--when you're +so tired." + +He turned and caught her in his arms and held her there close in a +passion of relief at the gentleness and love of her voice that swept +away those things about her he had tried to think were not in his mind. +Amy was so sweet!--so beautiful, so tender. Why of course she wouldn't +understand about Ruth! How absurd to expect her to understand, he +thought, when he had blurted things out like that, giving her no +satisfaction about it. He was touchy on the subject, he gladly told +himself, as he held her close in all the thankfulness of regaining her. +And when, after he had kissed her good-by she lifted her face and kissed +him again his rush of love for her had power to sweep all else away. + + + + +CHAPTER THREE + + +It was in that mood of passionate tenderness for Amy, a glow of +gratitude for love, that he sent his car swiftly toward the hospital. +His feeling diffused warmth for the town through which he drove, the +little city that had so many times tightened him up in bitterness. +People were kind, after all; how kind they were being to Amy, he +thought, eager to receive her and make her feel at home, anxious that +she be happy among them. The picture of Edith as she stood at the head +of the steps making plans for Amy warmed his heart to her. Perhaps he +had been unfair to Edith; in that one thing, certainly, she had failed +as a friend, but perhaps it was impossible for women to go that far in +friendship, impossible for them to be themselves on the outer side of +the door of their approval. Even Amy.... That showed, of course, how +hard it was for women whose experiences had all fallen within the circle +of things as they should be to understand a thing that was--disrupting. +It was as if their kindly impulses, sympathy, tenderness, were +circumscribed by that circle. Little as he liked that, his own mood of +the moment, his unrecognized efforts at holding it, kept him within that +sphere where good feeling lived. In it were happy anticipations of the +life he and Amy would have in Freeport. He had long been out of humor +with his town, scornful. He told himself now that that was a wrong +attitude. There was a new feeling for the homes he was passing, for the +people in those homes. He had a home there, too; it seemed to make him +one with all those people. There was warmth in that feeling of being one +with others. + +He told himself that it was absurd to expect Amy to adjust herself all +in a minute to a thing he had known about for years, had all the time +known from within. He would make Amy understand; if Ruth came, Amy would +be good to her. At heart she was not like those others, and happiness +would make her want to be kind. + +He saw her face lifted for that second good-by kiss--and quickened his +speed. He hoped he would not have to be long at the hospital, hoped Amy +would not be asleep when he got back home. He lingered happily around +the thought of there being a home to go back to, of how Amy would be +there when he got back. + +But it was at a slower speed that, an hour later, he traveled those same +streets. He had lost his patient. It was no failure of the operator, but +one of those cases where the particular human body is not equal to the +demand made upon it, where there was no reaction. He got no satisfaction +in telling himself that the woman could not have lived long without the +operation; she had not lived with it--that was the only side it turned +to him. The surgery was all right enough, but life had ebbed away. It +brought a sense of who was master. + +He had been practising for twelve years, but death always cut deep into +his spirit. It was more than chagrin, more than the disheartenment of +the workman at failure, when he lost a patient. It was a real sense of +death, and with that a feeling of man's final powerlessness. + +That made it a different town through which he drove upon his return; a +town where people cut their way ruthlessly through life--and to what +end? They might be a little kinder to each other along the way, it would +seem, when this was what it came to for them all. They were kind enough +about death--not so kind about the mean twists in life. + +That feeling was all wrapped up with Ruth Holland; it brought Ruth to +him. He thought of the many times they had traveled that road together, +times when he would take her where she could meet Stuart Williams, then +pick her up again and bring her home, her family thinking she had been +with him. How would he ever make Amy understand about that? It seemed +now that it could not be done, that it would be something they did not +share, perhaps something lying hostilely between them. He wondered why +it had not seemed to him the shameful thing it would appear to anyone he +told of it. Was that something twisted in him, or was it just that utter +difference between knowing things from within and judging from without? +To himself, it was never in the form of argument he defended Ruth. It +was the memory of her face at those times when he had seen what she was +feeling. + +He was about to pass the Hollands'--her old home. He slackened the car +to its slowest. It had seemed a gloomy place in recent years. The big +square house in the middle of the big yard of oak trees used to be one +of the most friendly-looking places of the town. But after Ruth went +away and the family drew within themselves, as they did, the hospitable +spaciousness seemed to become bleakness, as if the place itself changed +with the change of spirit. People began to speak of it as gloomy; now +they said it looked forsaken. Certainly it was in need of painting--new +sidewalks, general repairs. Mr. Holland had seemed to cease caring how +the place looked. There weren't flowers any more. + +In the upper hall he saw the dim light that burns through the night in a +house of sickness. He had been there early in the evening; if he thought +the nurse was up he would like to stop again. But he considered that it +must be almost one--too late for disturbing them. He hoped Mr. Holland +was having a good night; he would not have many more nights to get +through. + +He wished there was some one of them to whom he could talk about sending +for Ruth. They had not sent for her when her mother died, but that was +sudden, everyone was panic-stricken. And that was only two years after +Ruth's going away; time had not worked much then on their feeling +against her. He would have to answer her letter and tell her that her +father could not live. He wanted to have the authority to tell her to +come home. Anything else seemed fairly indecent in its lack of feeling. +Eleven years--and Ruth had never been home; and she loved her +father--though of course no one in the town would believe _that_. + +His car had slowed almost to a stop; there was a low whistle from the +porch and someone was coming down the steps. It was Ted Holland--Ruth's +younger brother. + +"Hello, Deane," he said, coming out to him; "thinking of coming in?" + +"No, I guess not; it's pretty late. I was just passing, and wondering +about your father." + +"He went to sleep; seems quiet, and about the same." + +"That's good; hope it will keep up through the night." + +The young fellow did not reply. The doctor was thinking that it must be +lonely for him--all alone on the porch after midnight, his father dying +upstairs, no member of the immediate family in the house. + +"Sent for Cy, Ted?" he asked. Cyrus was the older brother, older than +both Ted and Ruth. It was he who had been most bitter against Ruth. +Deane had always believed that if it had not been for Cyrus the rest of +them would not have hardened into their pain and humiliation like that. + +Ted nodded. "I had written, and today, after you said what you did, I +wired. I had an answer tonight. He has to finish up a deal that will +take him a few days, but I am to keep him informed--I told him you said +it might be a couple of weeks--and he'll come the first minute he can." + +There was a pause. Deane wanted to say: "And Ruth?" but that was a hard +thing to say to one of the Hollands. + +But Ted himself mentioned her. "Tell you what I'm worrying about, +Deane," he blurted out, "and that's Ruth!" + +Deane nodded appreciatively. He had always liked this young Ted, but +there was a new outgoing to him for this. + +"Father asked for her this afternoon. I don't care whether he was just +right in his mind or not--it shows she's _on_ his mind. 'Hasn't Ruth +come in yet!' he asked, several times." + +"You send for her, Ted," commanded the doctor. "You ought to. I'll back +you up if Cy's disagreeable." + +"He'll be disagreeable all right," muttered the younger brother. + +"Well, what about Harriett?" impatiently demanded Deane. "Doesn't she +see that Ruth ought to be here?" Harriett was Ruth's sister and the +eldest of the four children. + +"Harriett would be all right," said Ted, "if it weren't for that bunch +of piety she's married to!" + +Deane laughed. "Not keen for your brother-in-law, Ted?" + +"Oh, I'll tell you, Deane," the boy burst out, "for a long time I +haven't felt just like the rest of the family have about Ruth. It was an +awful thing--I know that, but just the same it was pretty tough on +_Ruth_. I'll bet she's been up against it, good and plenty, and all +we've seemed to think about is the way it put us in bad. Not mother--Cy +never did really get mother, you know, but father would have softened if +it hadn't been for Cy's everlasting keeping him nagged up to the fact +that he'd been wronged! Even Harriett would have been human if it hadn't +been for Cy--and that upright husband she's got!" + +The boy's face was flushed; he ran his hand back through his hair in an +agitated way; it was evident that his heart was hot with feeling about +it all. "I don't know whether you know, Deane," he said in a lowered +voice, "that mother's last words were for Ruth. They can't deny it, for +I was standing nearest her. 'Where's Ruth?' she said; and then at the +very last--'Ruth?'" + +His voice went unsteady as he repeated it. Deane, nodding, was looking +straight down the street. + +"Well," said Ted, after a minute, "I'm not going to have _that_ happen +again. I've been thinking about it. I did write Ruth a week ago. Now I +shall write to her before I go to bed tonight and tell her to come +home." + +"You do that, Ted," said the doctor with gruff warmth. "You do that. +I'll write her too. Ruth wrote to me." + +"Did she?" Ted quickly replied. "Well"--he hesitated, then threw out in +defiant manner and wistful voice, "well, I guess Ruth'll find she's got +one friend when she comes back to her old town." + +"You bet she will," snapped Deane, adding in another voice: "She knows +that." + +"And as for the family," Ted went on, "there are four of us, and I don't +know why Ruth and I aren't half of that four. Cy and Harriett haven't +got it all to say." + +He said it so hotly that Deane conciliated: "Try not to have any split +up, Ted. That would just make it harder for Ruth, you know." + +"There'll not be any split up if Cy will just act like a human being," +said the boy darkly. + +"Tell him your father was asking for Ruth and that I told you you must +send for her. See Harriett first and get her in line." + +"Harriett would be all right," muttered Ted, "if let alone. Lots of +people would be all right if other people didn't keep nagging at them +about what they ought to be." + +Deane gave him a quick, queer look. "You're right there, my son," he +laughed shortly. + +There was a moment's intimate pause. There seemed not a sound on the +whole street save the subdued chug-chug of Deane's waiting machine. The +only light in the big house back in the shadowy yard was the dim light +that burned because a man was dying. Deane's hand went out to his +steering wheel. "Well, so long, Ted," he said in a voice curiously +gentle. + +"'By, Deane," said the boy. + +He drove on through the silent town in another mood. This boy's feeling +had touched something in his heart that was softening. He had always +been attracted to Ted Holland--his frank hazel eyes, something that +seemed so square and so pleasant in the clear, straight features of his +freckled face. He had been only a youngster of about thirteen when Ruth +went away. She had adored him; "my good-looking baby brother," was her +affectionate way of speaking of him. He was thinking what it would mean +to Ruth to come home and find this warmth in Ted. Why, it might make all +the difference in the world, he was gratefully considering. + +When he came into the room where Amy was sleeping she awoke and sat up +in bed, rubbing sleepy eyes blinded by the light. "Poor dear," she +murmured at sight of his face, "so tired?" + +He sat down on the bed; now that he was home, too tired to move. "Pretty +tired. Woman died." + +"Oh, Deane!" she cried. "Deane, I'm _so_ sorry." + +She reached over and put her arms around him. "You couldn't help it, +dear," she comforted. "You couldn't help it." + +Her sympathy was very sweet to him; as said by her, the fact that he +couldn't help it did make some difference. + +"And you had to be there such a long time. Why it must be most morning." + +"Hardly that. I've been at the Hollands' too--talking to Ted. Poor +kid--it's lonesome for him." + +"Who is he?" asked Amy. + +"Why--" and then he remembered. "Why, Ruth Holland's brother," he said, +trying not to speak consciously. "The father's very sick, you know." + +"Oh," said Amy. She moved over to the other side of her bed. + +"They're going to send for Ruth." + +Amy made no reply. + +He was too utterly tired to think much about it--too worn for acute +sensibilities. He sat there yawning. "I really ought to write to Ruth +myself tonight," he said, sleepily thinking out loud, "but I'm too all +in." He wanted her to take the letter off his conscience for him. "I +think I'd better come to bed, don't you, honey?" + +"I should think you would need rest," was her answer. + +She had turned the other way and seemed to be going to sleep again. +Somehow he felt newly tired but was too exhausted to think it out. He +told himself that Amy had just roused for the minute and was too sleepy +to keep awake. People were that way when waked out of a sound sleep. + + + + +CHAPTER FOUR + + +The next evening Dr. Franklin got home for dinner before his wife had +returned from her tea. "Mrs. Franklin not home yet?" he asked of Doris, +their maid; he still said Mrs. Franklin a little consciously and liked +saying it. She told him, rather fluttered with the splendor of it--Doris +being as new to her profession as he to matrimony--that Mrs. Blair had +come for Mrs. Franklin in her "electric" and they had gone to a tea and +had not yet returned. + +He went out into the yard and busied himself about the place while +waiting: trained a vine on a trellis, moved a garden-seat; then he +walked about the house surveying it, after the fashion of the happy +householder, as if for the first time. The house was new; he had built +it for them. From the first moment of his thinking of it it had been +designed for Amy. That made it much more than mere house. He was +thinking that it showed up pretty well with the houses of most of their +friends; Amy needn't be ashamed of it, anyhow, and it would look better +in a couple of seasons, after things had grown up around it a little +more. There would be plenty of seasons for them to grow in, he thought, +whistling. + +Then he got the gentle sound of Edith's pretty little brougham and went +down to meet them. She and Amy looked charming in there--light dresses +and big hats. + +He made a gallant remark and then a teasing one. "Been tea-tattling all +this time?" + +"No," smiled Edith; "we took a ride." + +"Such a beautiful ride," cried Amy. "Way up the river." + +He had helped her out and Edith was leaning out talking to her. "I think +I'd better come for you about one," she was saying. He thought with +loving pride of how quickly Amy had swung into the life of the town. + +During dinner he sat there adoring her: she was so fair, so beautifully +formed, so poised. She was lovely in that filmy dress of cloudy blue. +Amy's eyes were gray, but the darkness of her long lashes gave an +impression of darkness. Her skin was smooth and fair and the chiseling +of her features clean and strong. She held herself proudly; her fair +hair was braided around a well-poised head. She always appeared +composed; there never seemed any frittering or disorganizing of herself +in trivial feeling or movement. One out of love with her might find her +rather too self-possessed a young person. + +So engaged was Deane in admiring her that it was not until they were +about to leave the table that he was conscious of something unusual +about her; even then he did not make out the excitement just beneath her +collected manner. + +He wanted to show her what he had done to the vines and they went out in +the yard. Presently they sat down on the garden-seat which he had moved +a little while before. He had grown puzzled now by Amy's manner. + +She was smoothing out the sash of her dress. She sang a little under her +breath. Then she said, with apparent carelessness: "Mrs. Williams was at +the tea today." + +He knit his brows. "Mrs.--?" Then, understanding, his face tightened. +"Was she?" was his only reply. + +Amy sang a little more. "It's her husband that your friend is living +with, isn't it?" she asked, and the suppressed excitement came nearer to +the surface though her voice remained indifferent. + +He said "Yes" shortly and volunteered nothing. His face had not relaxed. + +"What a sad face she has," Amy murmured. + +"Think so?" He reached over and picked up a twig and flipped a piece of +it off his finger. "Oh, I don't know. I call it cold rather than sad." + +"Oh, well, of course," cried Amy, "_your_ sympathies are all on the +other side!" + +He did not reply. He would try to say as little as possible. + +"I must say," she resumed excitedly, then drew herself back. "Mrs. Blair +was telling me the whole story this afternoon," she said quietly, but +with challenge. + +The blood came to his face. He cleared his throat and impatiently threw +away the twig he had been playing with. "Well, Edith didn't lose much +time, did she?" he said coldly; then added with a rather hard laugh: +"That was the reason for the long ride, I suppose." + +"I don't know that it is so remarkable," Amy began with quivering +dignity, "that she should tell me something of the affairs of the town." +After an instant she added, "I am a stranger here." + +He caught the different note and turned quickly to her. "Dearest, +there's nothing about the 'affairs of the town' I won't tell you." He +put his arm around the back of the seat, the hand resting on her +shoulder. "And I must say I don't think you're much of a stranger here. +Look at the friends you've made already. I never saw anything like it." + +"Mrs. Blair does seem to like me," she answered with composure. Then +added: "Mrs. Williams was very nice to me too." + +His hand on her shoulder drew away a little and he snapped his fingers. +Then the hand went back to her shoulder. "Well, that's very nice," he +said quietly. + +"She's coming to see me. I'm sure I found her anything but cold and +hard!" + +"I don't think that a woman--" he began hotly, but checked himself. + +But all the feeling that had been alive there just beneath Amy's cool +exterior flamed through. "Well, how you can stand up for a woman who did +what _that_ woman did--!" + +Her cheeks were flaming now, her nostrils quivered. "I guess you're the +only person in town that does stand up for her! But of course you're +right--and the rest of them--" She broke off with a tumultuous little +laugh and abruptly got up and went into the house. + +He sat there for a time alone, sick at heart. He told himself he had +bungled the whole thing. Why hadn't he told Amy all about Ruth, putting +it in a way that would get her sympathies. Surely he could have done +that had he told her the story as he knew it, made her feel what Ruth +had suffered, how tormented and bewildered and desperate she had been. +Now she had the town's side and naturally resented his championing of +what was presented as so outrageous a thing. He went over the story as +Edith would give it. That was enough to vindicate Amy. + +He rose and followed her into the house. She was fingering some music on +the piano. He saw how flushed her face was, how high she carried her +head and how quick her breathing. + +He went and put his arms around her. "Sweetheart," he said very simply +and gently, "I love you. You know that, don't you?" + +An instant she held back in conflict. Then she hid her face against him +and sobbed. He held her close and murmured soothing little things. + +She was saying something. "I was so happy," he made out the smothered +words. "It was all so--beautiful." + +"But you're happy _now_," he insisted. "It's beautiful _now_." + +"I feel as if my marriage was being--spoiled," she choked. + +He shook her, playfully, but his voice as he spoke was not playful. +"Look here, Amy, don't say such a thing. Don't let such a thing get into +your head for an instant! Our happiness isn't a thing to talk like that +about." + +"I feel as if--_that woman_--was standing between us!" + +He raised her face and made her look into his own, at once stern and +very tender. "Amy love, we've got to stop this right _now_. A long time +ago--more than ten years ago--there was a girl here who had an awfully +hard time. I was sorry for her. I'm sorry for her now. Life's hit her +good and hard. We're among the fortunate people things go right for. We +can be together--happy, having friends, everybody approving, everybody +good to us. We're mighty lucky that it is that way. And isn't our own +happiness going to make us a little sorry for people who are outside all +this?" He kissed her. "Come now, sweetheart, you're not going to harden +up like that. Why, that wouldn't be _you_ at all!" + +She was quiet; after a little she smiled up at him, the sweet, +reminiscently plaintive little smile of one just comforted. For the +moment, at least, love had won her. "Sometime I'll tell you anything +about it you want to know," he said, holding her tenderly and smoothing +her hair. "Meanwhile--let's forget it. Come on now, honey, change your +dress--get into something warmer and go for a ride with me. I've got to +make a couple of calls, and I want you along." + +"You know," he was saying as he unfastened her dress for her, "after I +knew I was going to have you, and before I got you here, I used to think +so much about this very thing--the fun of having you going around with +me--doing things together. Now it seems--" He did not finish, for he was +passionately kissing the white shoulder which the unfastened dress had +bared. "Amy, dear,"--his voice choked--"oh, _doesn't_ it seem too good +to be true?" + +His feeling for her had chased the other things away. She softened to +happiness, then grew gay. They were merry and happy again. All seemed +well with them. But when, on his rounds, they passed the Hollands' and +Ted waved from the porch he had an anxious moment of fearing she would +ask who that was and their crust of happiness would let them through. He +quickly began a spirited account of an amusing thing that had happened +in the office that day. His dream had been of a happiness into which he +could sink, not ground on the surface that must be fought for and held +by effort; but he did not let himself consider that then. + + + + +CHAPTER FIVE + + +The train for Chicago was several hours out from Denver when the man who +had decided that it was an uninteresting car began watching the woman +who was facing him from several seats away. He was one of those persons +with a drab exterior but not a similarly colored imagination, and he was +always striving to defeat the meager life his exterior consigned him to +by projecting himself into the possible experiences of people he watched +on the trains. + +Afterwards he wondered that he should at first have passed this woman by +with the mere impression of a nice-looking woman who seemed tired. It +was when he chanced to look at her as she was looking from the window +that she arrested him. Her sweet face had steeled itself to something, +she was as if looking out at a thing that hurt her, but looking with the +courage to bear that hurt. He turned and looked from the window in the +direction of her intense gaze and then smiled at himself as he turned +back from the far-reaching monotonous plain of Eastern Colorado; he +might have known that what she was looking at was not spread out there +for anyone else to see. + +She interested him all through the two days. She puzzled him. He +relieved the tedium of the journey with speculations on what sort of +thing it was she was thinking about, going over. He would arrive at a +conclusion in which he felt considerable satisfaction only to steal +another look at her and find that she did not look at all like the woman +he had made up his mind she was. What held him was the way feeling +shaped her. She had a delicate, sweet face, but there were times when it +was almost repellent in its somberness, when it hardened in a way that +puzzled him. She would sit looking from the window and it was as if a +dense sadness had settled down upon her; then her face would light with +a certain sad tenderness, and once he had the fancy of her lifting her +head out of gloom to listen to a beautiful, far-away call. There were +long meditations, far steady looks out at something, little reminiscent +smiles that lingered about her sensitive mouth after her eyes had gone +sad again. She would grow tired of thinking and close her eyes and seem +to try to rest. Her face, at those times, showed the wear of hard years, +laying bare lines that one took no count of when her eyes were lighted +and her mouth sensitive. Frequently she would turn from herself and +smile at the baby across the aisle; but once, when the baby was crowing +and laughing she abruptly turned away. He tried to construct "a life" +for her, but she did not stay in any life he carefully arranged. There +were times when he impatiently wondered why he should be wondering so +much about her; those were the times when she seemed to have let it all +go, was inert. But though he did not succeed in getting a "life" for +her, she gave him a freshened sense of life as immensely interesting, as +charged with pain and sweetness. + +It was over the pain and the sweetness of life that this woman--Ruth +Holland--brooded during the two days that carried her back to the home +of her girlhood. She seemed to be going back over a long bridge. That +part of her life had been cut away from her. With most lives the past +grew into the future; it was as a growth that spread, the present but +the extent of the growth at the moment. With her there had been the +sharp cut; not a cut, but a tear, a tear that left bleeding ends. Back +there lay the past, a separated thing. During the eleven years since her +life had been torn from that past she had seen it not only as a separate +thing but a thing that had no reach into the future. The very number of +miles between, the fact that she made no journeys back home, contributed +to that sense of the cleavage, the remoteness, the finality. Those she +had left back there remained real and warm in her memory, but her part +with them was a thing finished. It was as if only shoots of pain could +for the minute unite them. + +Turning her face back toward home turned her back to herself there. She +dwelt upon home as she had left it, then formed the picture of what she +would find now. Her mother and her grandfather would not be there. The +father she had left would not be there. A dying man would be there. Ted +would be grown up. She wondered if anyone had taken care of the flowers. +Would there be any roses? She and her mother had always taken care of +them. Edith--? Would Terror be there? He was only about three when she +left; dogs did live as long as that. She had named him Terror because of +his puppy pranks. But there would be no puppy pranks now. It would be a +sedate old dog she would find. He would not know her--she who had cared +for him and romped with him through his puppyhood. But they had not +shared experiences. + +On the train carrying her back home her own story opened freshly to her. +Again and again she would be caught into it.... + + * * * * * + +Ruth Holland--the girl of twenty--was waiting for Deane Franklin to come +and take her to the dance at the Country Club. She was dressed and +wandering restlessly about the house, looking in mirrors as she passed +them, pleased with herself in her new white dress. There was an +excitement in the fact that she had not seen Deane for almost a year; he +had been away, studying medicine at Johns Hopkins. She wondered if he +would seem any different; wondered--really more interested in this than +in the other--if she would seem any different to him. + +She did not think of Deane "that way" she had told Edith Lawrence, her +bosom friend from childhood, when Edith that afternoon had hinted at +romantic possibilities. Edith was in romantic mood because she and Will +Blair were in the happy state of getting over a quarrel. For a month +Ruth had listened to explosions against Will Blair. Now it was made up +and Edith was in sweetly chastened spirit. She explained to Ruth at +great length and with much earnestness that she had not understood Will, +that she had done him a great injustice; and she was going to the party +with him that night. Edith and Will and Deane and Ruth were going +together. + +They were singularly unmatured for girls of twenty. Their experiences +had not taken them outside the social life of the town, and within it +they had found too easy, pre-prepared sailing for any real finding or +tests of themselves. They were daughters of two of the town's most +important families; they were two of the town's most attractive girls. +That fixed their place in a round of things not deepening, not +individualizing. It was pleasant, rather characterless living on a +limited little part of the surface of life. They went to "the parties," +occupied with that social round that is as definite a thing in a town of +forty thousand as in a metropolis. Their emotional experiences had been +little more than part of their social life--within it and of the +character of it. Attractive, popular, of uncontested place in the +society in which they found themselves, they had not known the strivings +and the heart-aches that can intensify life within those social +boundaries. They were always invited. When they sat out dances it was +because they wanted to. Life had dealt too favoringly and too +uneventfully with them to find out what stuff was really in them. They +were almost always spoken of together--Edith Lawrence and Ruth +Holland--Ruth and Edith. That was of long standing; they had gone to +primary school together, to Sunday-school, through the high-school. They +told each other things; they even hinted at emotions concealed within +their breasts, of dissatisfactions and longings there were no words for. +Once Ruth confided that sometimes she wept and could not have said why, +and great seemed the marvel when Edith confessed to similar experiences. +They never suspected that girlhood was like that; they were like that, +and set apart and united in being so. + +But those spiritual indulgences were rare; for the most part they were +what would be called two wholesome, happy girls, girls whose lot had +fallen in pleasant places. + +Ruth wanted to go to college, but her father had kept her from it. Women +should marry and settle down and have families was the belief of Cyrus +Holland. Going to college put foolish notions in their heads. Not being +able to go had been Ruth's first big disappointment. Edith had gone East +to a girls' school. At the last minute, realizing how lonely she would +be at home without her chum, Ruth had begged to go with her. Her mother +had urged it for her. But it was an expensive school to which Edith was +going, and when he found what it would cost Ruth's father refused, +saying he could not afford it, and that it was nonsense, anyway. Ruth +had then put in a final plea for the State University, which would not +cost half as much as Edith's school. Seeing that it meant more to her +than he had known, and having a particular affection for this younger +daughter of his, Mr. Holland was on the point of giving in when the +newspapers came out with a scandal that centered about the suicide of a +girl student at the university. That settled it; Ruth would stay home +with her mother. She could go on with music, and study literature with +Miss Collins. Miss Collins stood for polite learning in the town. There +was not the remotest danger of an education received through her +unfeminizing a girl. But Ruth soon abandoned Miss Collins, scornfully +informing her parent that she would as soon study literature with a +mummy. + +With Ruth, the desire to go to college had been less a definite craving +for knowledge than a diffused longing for an enlarged experience. She +wanted something different, was impatient for something new, something +more. She had more curiosity about the life outside their allotted place +than her friend Edith Lawrence had. She wanted to go to college because +that would open out from what she had. Ruth would have found small +satisfaction in that girls' school of Edith's had her father consented +to her going. It was little more than the polite learning of Miss +Collins fashionably re-dressed. Edith, however, came home with a new +grace and poise, an added gift of living charmingly on the surface of +life, and held that school was lovely. + +During that year her friend was away--Ruth was nineteen then--she was +not so much unhappy as she was growingly impatient for something more, +and expectant of it. She was always thinking that something was going to +happen--that was why things did not go dead for her. The year was +intensifying to her; she missed her friend; she had been baffled in +something she wanted. It made her conscious of wanting more than she +had. Her energies having been shut off from the way they had wanted to +go, she was all the more zestful for new things from life. There was +much in her that her life did not engage. + +She loved dancing. She was happily excited that night because they were +going to a dance. Waiting for Deane, she wondered if he had danced any +during the year, hoping that he had, and was a little better dancer than +of old. Dear Deane! She always had that "Dear Deane!" feeling after she +had been critical about him. + +She wished she did think of Deane "that way"--the way she had told Edith +she did not think of him. But "that way" drew her from thoughts of +Deane. She had stopped before her dressing-table and was toying with her +manicure things. She looked at herself in the glass and saw the color +coming to her cheeks. She sat there dreaming--such dreams as float +through girlhood. + +Her mother came in to see how she looked. Mrs. Holland was a small, +frail-looking woman. Ruth resembled her, but with much added. Things +caught into Ruth were not in her mother. They resembled each other in +certain definite things, but there was something that flushed Ruth to +life--transforming her--that did not live in her mother. They were alike +as a beautiful shell enclosing a light may be like one that is not +lighted. Mrs. Holland was much occupied with the social life of her +town. She was light-hearted, well-liked. She went to the teas and card +parties which abounded there and accepted that as life with no +dissatisfaction beyond a mild desire for more money. + +She also enjoyed the social life of her daughter; where Ruth was to go +and what she would wear were matters of interest and importance. Indeed +life was compounded of matters concerning where one would go and what +one would wear. + +"Well, Sally Gordon certainly did well with that dress," was her +verdict. "Some think she's falling off. Now do try and not get it +spoiled the first thing, Ruth. Dancing is so hard on your clothes." + +She surveyed her daughter with satisfaction. Ruth was a daughter a +mother would survey with satisfaction. The strong life there was in her +was delicately and subtly suggested. She did not have what are thought +to be the easily distinguishable marks of intense feeling. She suggested +fine things--a rare, high quality. She was not out-and-out beautiful; +her beauty lurked within her feeling. It was her fluidity that made her +lovely. Her hazel eyes were ever changing with light and feeling, eyes +that could wonderfully darken, that glowed in a rush of feeling and +shone in expectancy or delight,--eyes that the spirit made. She had a +lovely brow, a sensitive, beautiful mouth. But it needed the light +within to find her beauty. Without it she was only a sweet-looking, +delicately fashioned girl. + +"That's Deane," said Ruth, as the bell rang. + +"I want to see him too," said Mrs. Holland, "and so will your father." + +Ruth met him in the hall, holding out both hands with, "Deane, I'm _so_ +glad to see you!" + +He was not an expressive youth. As he shook Ruth's hands with vigor, he +exclaimed, "Same here! Same here!" and straightway he seemed just the +Deane of old and in the girl's heart was a faint disappointment. + +As a little boy people had called Deane Franklin a homely youngster. His +thick, sandyish hair used to stand up in an amazing manner. He moved in +a peculiarly awkward way, as if the jointing of him had not been +perfectly accomplished. He had a wide generous mouth that was attractive +when it was not screwed out of shape. His keen blue eyes had a nice +twinkle. His abrupt, hearty manner seemed very much his own. He was +better dressed than when Ruth had last seen him. She was thinking that +Deane could actually be called attractive in his own homely, awkward +way. And yet, as he kept shaking her hands up and down, broadly +grinning, nodding his head,--"tickled to death to be back," she felt +anew that she could not think of Deane "that way." Perhaps she had known +him too long. She remembered just how absurd he had looked in his first +long trousers--and those silly little caps he had worn perched way back +on his head! Yet she really loved Deane, in a way; she felt a great deal +nearer to him than to her own brother Cyrus. + +They had gone into the living-room. Mrs. Holland thought he had +grown--grown broader, anyway; Mr. Holland wanted to know about the +medical school, and would he practice in Freeport? Ted wanted to know if +Johns Hopkins had a good team. + +"That's Will, I guess," he said, turning to Ruth as the bell rang. + +"Oh, Will," cried Mrs. Holland, "do ask Edith to come in and show us her +dress! She won't muss it if she's careful. Her mother told me it was the +sweetest dress Edith ever had." + +Edith entered in her bright, charming way, exhibiting her pretty pink +dress with a pleasure that was winning. She had more of definite beauty +than Ruth--golden hair, really sunny hair, it was, and big, deep blue +eyes and fresh, even skin. Ruth often complained that Edith had +something to count on; she could tell how she was going to look, while +with her--Ruth--there was never any knowing. Some of the times when she +was most anxious to look her best, she was, as she bewailed it, a +fright. Edith was larger than Ruth, she had more of a woman's +development. + +Mrs. Holland followed them out to the carriage. "Now don't stay until +_all_ hours," was her parting admonition, in a tone of comfortable +resignation to the fact that that was exactly what they would do. + +"Well," said Mr. Holland, who had gone as far as the door, "I don't know +what young folks are coming to. After nine o'clock now!" + +"That must be a punk school Deane goes to," said Ted, his mind not yet +pried from the football talk. + + + + +CHAPTER SIX + + +"Our dance." + +With a swift little movement the girl turned a glowing face to the man +standing before her. Flushed with dancing, keyed high in the pleasure +and triumphs of the evening, she turned the same radiant face to Stuart +Williams as he claimed their dance that she would have turned to almost +anyone claiming a dance. It was something that came to life in the man's +eyes as he looked down into her flushed face, meeting her happy, shining +eyes, that arrested the flashing, impersonal smile of an instant before +and underneath that impersonal gladness of youth there was a faint +flutter of self. + +He was of the "older crowd;" it happened that she had never danced with +him before. He was a better dancer than the boys of her own set, but +somehow that old impersonal joy in dancing was a lesser thing now than +the sense of dancing with this man. + +"That was worth coming for," he said quietly, when the dance and the +encore to it were over and they found themselves by one of the doors +opening out on the balcony. + +She looked up with a smile. It was a smile curiously touched with +shyness. He saw the color wavering in her sensitive, delicate face. Then +he asked lightly: "Shall we see what's being dispensed from this +punch-bowl?" + +With their ice, they stood looking out into the moonlight over a wide +stretch of meadow to far hills. "A fine night to ride over the hills and +far away," he laughed at last, his voice lingering a little on the +fancy. + +She only laughed a little in reply, looking off there toward over the +hills and far away. Watching her, he wondered why he had never thought +anything much about her before. He would have said that Ruth Holland was +one of the nice attractive girls of the town, and beyond that could have +said little about her. He watched the flow of her slender neck into her +firm delicate little chin, the lovely corners of her mouth where feeling +lurked. The fancy came to him that she had not settled into flesh the +way most people did, that she was not fixed by it. He puzzled for the +word he wanted for her, then got it--luminous was what she was; he felt +a considerable satisfaction in having found that word. + +"Seems to me you and Edith Lawrence grew up in a terrible hurry," he +began in a slow, teasing manner. "Just a day or two ago you were +youngsters racing around with flying pigtails, and now here you are--all +these poor young chaps--and all us poor old ones--fighting for dances +with you. What made you hurry so?" he laughed. + +The coquette in most normal girls of twenty rose like a little imp up +through her dreaming of over the hills and far away. "Why, I don't +know," she said, demurely; "perhaps I was hurrying to catch up with +someone." + +His older to younger person manner fell away, leaving the man delighting +in the girl, a delightfully daring girl it seemed she was, for all that +look of fine things he had felt in her just a moment before. He grew +newly puzzled about her, and interested in the puzzle. "Would you like +to have that someone stand still long enough to give you a good start?" +he asked, zestful for following. + +But she could not go on with it. She was not used to saying daring +things to "older men." She was a little appalled at what she had +done--saying a thing like that to a man who was married; and yet just a +little triumphant in her own audacity, and the way she had been able to +make him feel she was something a long way removed from a little girl +with flying pigtails. + +"I really have been grown up for quite a while," she said, suddenly +grave. + +He did not try to bring her back to the other mood,--that astonishing +little flare of audacity; he was watching her changing face, like her +voice it was sweetly grave. + +The music had begun again--this time a waltz. A light hand upon her arm, +he directed her back towards the dancing floor. + +"I have this taken," she objected hesitatingly. + +"This is an extra," he said. + +She felt sure that it was not; she knew she ought to object, that it was +not right to be treating one of the boys of her own crowd that way. But +that consciousness of what she ought to be doing fell back--pale, +impotent--before the thing she wanted to do.... + +They were silent for a little time after; without commenting on doing +so, they returned to their place outside. "See?" she said presently, +"the moon has found another hill. That wasn't there when we were here +before." + +"And beyond that are more hills," he said, "that we don't see even yet." + +"I suppose," she laughed, "that it's not knowing where we would get +makes over the hills and far away--fun." + +"Well, anything rather than standing still." He said it under his +breath, more to himself than to her. But it was to her he added, +teasingly and a little lingeringly: "Unless, of course, one were waiting +for someone to catch up with one." + +She smiled without turning to him; watching her, the thought found its +way up through the proprieties of his mind that it would be worth +waiting a long time if, after the wait, one could go over the hills and +far away with a girl through whom life glowed as he could see it glowed +in this girl; no, not with a girl like this--boldly, humorously and a +little tenderly he amended in his mind--but with _this_ girl. + +She wheeled about. "I must go back," she said abruptly. "This dance is +with Will Blair--I must go back. I'll have a hard enough time," she +laughed, a little nervously, "making it right with Louis Stephens." + +"I'll tell him I heard it was an extra," he said. + +She halted, looking up at him. "Did you hear that!" she demanded. + +He seemed about to say some light thing, but that died away. "I wanted +the dance," was his quiet reply. + + + + +CHAPTER SEVEN + + +It was a June evening a year later that Stuart Williams sat on the steps +of the porch that ran round the side of his house, humoring the fox +terrier who thought human beings existed to throw sticks for dogs. After +a while the man grew tired of that theory of human existence, and bade +the panting Fritz lie down on the step below him. From there Fritz would +look up to his master appealingly, eyes and tail saying, "Now let's +begin again." But he got no response, so, in philosophic dog fashion, +soon stretched out for a snooze. + +The man was less philosophic: he had not that gift of turning from what +he wanted to what he could have. + +A little later he would go to the rehearsal of the out-of-door play the +Country Club was getting ready to give. Ruth Holland would be there: she +too was in the play. Probably he would take her home, for they lived in +the same neighborhood and a little apart from the others. It was Mrs. +Lawrence who, the night of the first rehearsal, commented with relief +for one more thing smoothly arranged upon their going the same way. + +For five weeks now they had been going the same way; their talk on those +homeward walks had been the lightest of talk, for the most part a +laughing over things that had happened during the rehearsal. And yet the +whole world had become newly alive, until tonight it seemed a tremulous, +waiting world. That light talk had been little more than a pulling back +from the pauses, little more than retreat, safeguard. It was the pauses +that lived on with him, creating his dreams; her face as she turned it +to him after a silence would sometimes be as if she had been caught into +that world touched to new life--world that waited. They would renew the +light talk as if coming back from something. + +He let himself slip into dreaming now; he had told himself that that, at +least, could work no one harm, and in quiet hours, when he smoked, +relaxed, he was now always drawn over where he knew he must not let +himself go. It was as if something stronger than he was all around him. +One drooping hand caressed his dog; he drew in the fragrance from a rose +trellis near by; the leaves of the big tree moved with a gentle little +sound, a sound like the whisper of sweet things; a bird +note--goodnight--floated through the dusk. He was a man whom those +things reached. And in the last year, particularly in those last weeks, +it had come to be that all those things were one with Ruth Holland; to +open to them meant being drawn to her. + +He would tell himself that that was wrong, mad; nothing he could tell +himself seemed to have any check on that pull there was on him in the +thought of her. He and his wife were only keeping up the appearance of +marriage. For two years he had not had love. He was not a man who could +learn to live without it. And now all the desirableness of life, hunger +for love, the whole of earth's lure seemed to break in through the +feeling for this girl--that wrong, wonderful feeling that had of itself +flushed his heart to new life. + +Sharply he pulled himself about, shifting position as if to affirm his +change of thinking. It turned him from the outer world to his house; he +saw Marion sitting in there at her desk writing a letter. He watched +her, thinking about her, about their lives. She was so poised, so cool; +it would seem, so satisfied. Was she satisfied? Did denial of life leave +nothing to be desired? If there were stirrings for living things they +did not appear to disturb her calm surface. He wondered if a night like +this never touched old things in her, if there were no frettings for +what she had put out of her life. + +He watched her small, beautifully shaped dark head, the fine smooth hair +that fell over the little ear he had loved to kiss. She was beautiful; +it was her beauty that had drawn him to her. She was more beautiful than +Ruth Holland, through whom it seemed all the beauty of the world reached +him. Marion's beauty was a definite separate thing; his face went tender +as he thought how Ruth Holland only grew beautiful in beauty, as if it +broke through her, making her. + +Once more he moved sharply, disturbing the little dog at his feet; he +realized where his thoughts had again gone, how looking at his wife it +was to this other girl he was drawn, she seeming near him and Marion +apart. He grew miserable in a growing feeling of helplessness, in a +sense of waiting disaster. It was as if the whole power of life was +drawing him on to disaster. Again that bird call floated through the +dusk; the gentle breeze stirred the fragrance of flowers; it came to +seem that the world was beautiful that it might ensnare him, as if the +whole power of the sweetness of life was trying to pull him over where +he must not go. He grew afraid. He got the feeling that he must do +something--that he must do it at once. After he had sat there brooding +for half an hour he abruptly got up and walked in where his wife was +sitting. + +"Marion," he began brusquely, "I should like to speak to you." + +She had been sitting with her back to the door; at his strange address +of her she turned round in surprise; she looked startled when she saw +his strained face. + +"We've been married about six years, isn't it?" + +He had come a little nearer, but remained standing. He still spoke in +that rough way. She did not reply but nodded slightly, flushing. + +"And now for two years we--haven't been married?" + +She stiffened and there was a slight movement as if drawing back. She +did not answer. + +"I'm thirty-four and you're a little less than that." He paused and it +was more quietly, though none the less tensely that he asked: "Is it +your idea that we go through life like this?" + +She was gathering together the sheets of paper on her desk. She did not +speak. + +"You were angry at me--disappointed. I grant you, as I did at the time, +that it was a silly affair, not--not creditable. I tried to show you how +little it meant, how it had--just happened. Two years have passed; we +are still young people. I want to know--do you intend this to go on? Are +our whole lives to be spoiled by a mere silly episode?" + +She spoke then. "Mere silly episode," she said with a high little laugh, +"seems rather a slight way to dispose of the fact that you were untrue +to me." She folded her letter and was putting it in the envelope. It +would not go in and she refolded it with hands not steady. + +He did not speak until she had sealed the letter and was sitting there +looking down at her hands, rubbing them a little, as if her interest was +in them. "Marion," he asked, and his voice shook now, "doesn't it ever +seem to you that life is too valuable to throw away like this?" She made +no reply and angered by her unresponsiveness he added sharply: "It's +rather dangerous, you know." + +She looked up at him then. "Is this a threat?" she asked with a faint, +mocking smile. + +He moved angrily, starting to leave the room. "Have you no feeling?" he +broke out at her. "Is this all you _want_ from life?" + +She colored and retorted: "It was not the way I expected to live when I +married you." + +He stood there doggedly for a moment, his face working with nervousness. +"I think then," he said roughly, "that we'd better be decent enough to +get a divorce!" At what he saw in her face he cried passionately: "Oh +no, you don't believe in divorce--but you believe in _this_!" + +"Was it _I_ who brought it about?" she cried, stung to anger. + +She had risen and for an instant they stood there facing each other. +"Haven't you any humanity?" he shot rudely at her. "Don't you ever +_feel_?" + +She colored but drew back, in command of herself again. "I do not +desecrate my feelings," she said with composure; "I don't degrade my +humanity." + +"Feeling--humanity!" he sneered, and wheeled about and left the room. + +He started at once for his rehearsal. He was trembling with anger and +yet underneath that passion was an unacknowledged feeling of relief. It +had seemed that he had to do something; now he told himself that he had +done what he could. He walked slowly through the soft night, seeking +control. He was very bitter toward Marion, and yet in his heart he knew +that he had asked for what he no longer wanted. He quickened his step +toward the Lawrences', where they were to hold the rehearsal, where he +would find Ruth Holland. + + + + +CHAPTER EIGHT + + +After the maelstrom of passion had thrown her out where life left her +time to think about what she had felt, Ruth Holland would wonder whether +there was something in her that made her different from the good people +of the world. Through it all she did not have the feeling that it would +seem she would have; what she did did not make her feel as she knew, +when she came to think it out, she would be supposed to feel about such +a thing. In hours that would be most condemned she had had a simple +feeling of life as noble. What would be called the basest things she had +done had seemed to free something within her that made her more kind, +more generous, more tender, made her as a singing part of a fine, +beautiful world. Her degradation had seemed to burn away all that was +not pure, giving her a sense of being lifted up; it was as if through +this illicit love a spiritual fount was unsealed that made her +consciously one with life at its highest. Afterwards she wondered about +it, wondered whether she was indeed different from people who were good, +or whether it could be that hearts had been shown, not as they were, but +as it was deemed meet they should be shown. + +When she and Deane, with Edith and Will Blair, went home from the dance +that night, something new breathed through the night. It was hard to +join in the talk; she wanted to be alone, alone with that new stir. She +was gentle with Deane as they stood for a moment at the door. She felt +tender toward him. A little throb of excitement in her voice, the way +her eyes shone, made him linger there with her a moment or two. It was +as if he wanted to say something but the timid, clumsy words he spoke +just before leaving were, "That sure is a peach of a dress. You had them +all beat tonight, Ruth," and Ruth went into the house knowing now for +sure how impossible it would be ever to think of Deane "that way." In +the hour before she went to sleep what she meant by "that way" was a +more living thing than it had ever been before. + +The year which followed was not a happy one; it was a disturbed, a +fretted year; girlhood was too ruffled for contentment in the old +things, and yet she was not swept on. The social life of the town +brought her and Stuart Williams together from time to time. They always +had several dances together at the parties. It was those dances that +made the party for her. If he were not there, the evening was a dead +thing. When he was, something came to life in her that made everything +different. She would be excited; she had color; her eyes shone. It +made her gay, as an intoxicant may make one gay. Though when she +danced with him she went curiously silent; that stilled her. After +going home she would lie awake for hours, live over every slightest +thing he had said, each glance and move. It was an unreal world +of a new reality--quickened, heightened, delirious, promising. + +In that first year she sometimes wondered if it was what would be called +a flirtation. It did not seem so to her, and it was true that after that +first night at the Country Club the quality of flirtation somehow fell +away. Afterwards, when it became the thing that made her life, she +looked back in wonderment to the light little way it had begun. That too +did not seem as it should be--that a thing of such tremendous and +ruthless power, a thing that swept her whole life on at its will, should +come into life in a way so slight, so light, so much of chance. At first +it was just the faintest little breath; but it stirred something, it +grew, it became a great wind that there was no force anywhere to combat. +In that first year there was between them, unspoken of, a consciousness +of feeling touched in the other, a sense of the disturbance, the pull. +It seemed very wonderful to her that just his presence in the room could +make her feel alive in a way she had never felt alive before. And it was +sweet almost beyond belief, it was intoxicating, to come to know that +her presence was that same strange wine to him. She had seen his eyes +anxiously rove a crowded room and stop with her, his face lighting. She +loved remembering his face once at a card party of the older crowd where +she had been tardily summoned by a disappointed hostess. He had been in +the room several minutes, she watching him unseen. He was not looking +anxiously about this time, as she had seen him do at the dancing +parties. She thought he looked tired as he and his wife came in, not as +if anticipating pleasure. Then he saw her and she never forgot that leap +of glad surprise in his eyes, the quick change in him, the new buoyancy. + +She would have supposed, thinking back to it afterward, that she would +have drawn back; that before feeling really broke through, a girl such +as she, reared as she had been, a part of such a society, a girl, as +they afterward said, who should have known right from wrong would, in +that time of its gathering, have drawn back from so shameful a thing as +love with another woman's husband. It was as mystifying to her that she +did not fight against it as it was that it should have come. She did not +understand the one nor the other. Certainly it was not as she would have +supposed it would be had she heard of such a thing. Something seemed to +have caught her up, to have taken her. She was appalled at times, but +the truth was that she was carried along almost without resistance; +ideas of resistance were there, but they were pale things, not charged +with power. She would suppose, had she known the story only through +hearing it, that she would have thought intensely and become wretched in +the thought of Mrs. Williams. Perhaps if Mrs. Williams had been a plain +little woman, or a sad looking one, that would have come home to her +harder. But one would not readily pity Marion Williams, or get the +feeling of wronging her. As Marion Averley she had been the reigning +girl of the town. Ruth, ten years younger, had not come far enough out +from her little girl's awe of Marion Averley, the young lady, to be +quick in getting the feeling of wronging Marion Williams, the wife. +Perhaps one would be more slow in getting a feeling of wronging the most +smartly dressed woman in the room than would be the case with the wife +dowdy or drab. Mrs. Williams, while not radiating happiness, seemed +somehow impervious to unhappiness, and certainly to any hurt another +woman could bring her. She had an atmosphere of high self-valuation. +While she never appeared to be having an especially good time she gave a +sense of being perfectly able to command a better one had it pleased her +to do so. + +People had supposed that Marion Averley would make a brilliant marriage. +Her grandfather had made his money in lumber, in those early days of +lumber kings on the Mississippi. Locally they were looked upon as rich +people. Marion had gone to a fashionable school, to Europe. People of +the town said there was nothing "local" about her. Other girls had been +as much away and yet would return seeming just a part of the town. That +was why everyone was surprised when the Averleys announced Marion's +engagement to Stuart Williams. He was distinctly local and his people +were less important than hers. He had come home from college and gone +into business. His father had a small canning factory, an industry that +for years had not grown much, remaining one of the small concerns in a +town of rapidly growing manufactories. Stuart went into business with +his father and very soon there were expansions, new methods; he brought +imagination to bear upon it, and a big fund of young man's energy, until +it rapidly came up from a "nice little business" to one of the things +that counted in the town. He had a talent for business; his imagination +worked that way and he was what they called a hustler. He soon became a +part of a number of things, both personal affairs and matters of public +concern. He came to be alluded to as one of the prominent young business +men. Even before Marion Averley married him people were saying that he +would make money. + +They liked her for marrying him. They said it showed that there was more +to her than they had supposed, that there was warmth she did not show. +For she must have married him for the good old reason that she had +fallen in love with him. Their engagement brought Stuart Williams into a +new social conspicuousness, though he had the qualities--in particular a +certain easy, sunny manner--that had made him popular all along. During +the engagement people spoke of the way Marion seemed to thaw out; they +liked her much better than they had in the days of being awed by her +sophistication, her aloofness. + +After their marriage the Williams' were leaders of the young married +set. Their house was the gayest place in town; Stuart Williams had the +same talent in hospitality that he had for business--growing, perhaps, +out of the same qualities. He was very generally and really deeply +liked; they called him a good fellow, a lovable chap. For about four +years people spoke of it as a successful marriage, though there were no +children. And then, just what it was no one knew, but the Williams' +began to seem different, going to their house became a different thing. +The people who knew Marion best had a feeling that she was not the same +after the visit of that gay little Southern matron whom she had known in +school at Washington. It was very gay at the Williams' through that +visit, and then Marion said she was tired out and they were going to +draw in for a little, and somehow they just never seemed to emerge from +that drawing in. Her friends wondered; they talked about how Stuart and +this friend of Marion's had certainly hit it off wonderfully; some of +them suspected, but Marion gave no confidences. She seemed to carry her +head higher than ever; in fact, in some curious way she seemed to become +Marion Averley again while Stuart Williams concentrated more and more +upon the various business affairs he was being drawn into. It came about +that the Williams' were less and less mentioned when the subject of +happy marriages was up, and when time had swung Ruth Holland and Edith +Lawrence into the social life of the town it was the analytical rather +than the romantically minded citizens who were talking about them. + +Perhaps life would have been quite another thing for a number of people +if the Country Club had not decided to replenish its treasury by giving +a play. Mrs. Lawrence was chairman of the entertainment committee. That +naturally brought Edith and Ruth into the play, and one night after one +of those periods of distraction into which the organizer of amateur +theatricals is swept it was Mrs. Lawrence who exclaimed, "Stuart +Williams! Why couldn't he do that part?"--and Stuart Williams, upon +learning who was in the cast, said he would see what he could do with +it. + +Again, at the close of the first rehearsal, as they stood about in the +hall at the Lawrences', laughing over mishaps, it was Mrs. Lawrence who +said, "You and Ruth go the same way, don't you, Stuart?" + +Tonight they were going that way after the final rehearsal. It was later +than usual; they went slowly, saying little. They had fallen silent as +they neared Ruth's home; they walked slowly and in silence outside the +fence; paused an instant at the gate, then, very slowly, started up the +walk which led to the big white square house and came to a stop beneath +the oak tree which was so near the house that its branches brushed the +upper window panes. + +They stood there silent; the man knew that he ought to go at once; that +in that silence the feeling which words had so thinly covered would +break through and take them. But knowing he should go seemed without +power to make him go. He watched the girl's slightly averted face. He +knew why it was averted. He felt sure that he was not alone in what he +felt. + +And so he stood there in the sweetness of that knowing, the sweetness of +that understanding why she held herself almost rigid like that, feeling +surging higher in him in the thought that she too was fighting feeling. +The breeze moved the hair on her temples; he could see the throb in her +uncovered throat, her thin white dress moving over her quick breathing. +Life was in her, and the desire for life. She seemed so tender, so +sensitive. + +He moved a step nearer her, unable to deny himself the sweetness of +confirming what it was so wonderful to think. "I won't be taking you +home tomorrow night," he said. + +She looked at him, then swiftly turned away, but not before he had seen +her eyes. + +"Shall you care?" he pressed it, unsteadily. + +He knew by her high head, her tenseness, that she was fighting something +back; and he saw the quivering of her tender mouth. + +She cared! She _did_ care. Here was a woman who cared; a woman who +wanted love--his love; a woman for whom life counted, as it counted for +him. After barren, baffled days, days of denial and humiliation, the +sweetness of being desired possessed him overwhelmingly as they stood +there in the still, fragrant night before the darkened house. + +He knew that he must go; he _had_ to go; it was go now, or--. But still +he just stood there, unable to do what he knew he should do, reason +trying to get hold of that moment of gathering passion, training +striving to hold life. + +It was she who brought them together. With a smothered passionate little +sob she had swayed toward him, and then she was in his arms and he was +kissing her wet eyes, that tender mouth, the slim throbbing throat. + + + + +CHAPTER NINE + + +There followed three years of happiness wrung from wretchedness, years +in which the splendor of love would blaze through the shame of +concealment, when joy was always breaking out through fear, when moments +of beautiful peace trembled there in the ugly web of circumstance. Life +was flooded with beauty by a thing called shameful. + +Her affairs as a girl went on just the same; the life on the surface did +not change. She continued as Ruth Holland--the girl who went to parties +with the boys of her own set, one of her particular little circle of +girls, the chum of Edith Lawrence, the girl Deane Franklin liked best. +But a life grew underneath that--all the time growing, crowding. She +appeared to remain a girl after passion had swept her over into +womanhood. To be living through the most determining, most intensifying +experience of life while she appeared only to be resting upon the +surface was the harassing thing she went through in those years before +reality came crashing through pretence and disgrace brought relief. + +She talked to but one person in those years. That was Deane. The night +he told her that he loved her she let him see. + +That was more than a year after the night Stuart Williams took her home +from that last rehearsal; Deane was through school now and had come home +to practice medicine. She had felt all along that once he was at home +for good she might have to tell Deane; not alone because he would +interfere with her meetings with Stuart, but because it seemed she could +not bear the further strain of pretending with him. And somehow she +would particularly hate pretending with Deane. Though the night she did +let him see it was not that there was any determination for doing so, +but because things had become too tense that night and she had no power +to go on dissembling. + +It began in irritation at him, the vicious irritation that springs out +against the person who upsets a plan he knows nothing about, and cannot +be told of. + +She had come in from an errand down town and was about to dress +hurriedly to go over to Edith's for dinner. She was going to make some +excuse for getting away from there early and would have an hour with +Stuart, one of those stolen hours that often crowded, agitated, a number +of the hours before it, one of those hours of happiness when fear always +stood right there, but when joy had a marvellous power to glow in an +atmosphere of ugly things. A few nights before she had tried to arrange +one of those times, and just as she was about to leave the house, saying +some vague thing about running in somewhere--there was no strict +surveillance on members of the Holland household--a friend who had been +very ill and was just beginning to go about had come to see her and she +had been obliged to sit there through the hour she had been living for, +striving to crowd down what she was feeling and appear delighted that +her friend was able to be about, chatting lightly of inconsequential +things while she could think of nothing but Stuart waiting for her, had +had to smile while she wanted to sob in the fury of disappointed +passion. + +The year had brought many disappointments like that, disappointments +which found their way farther into the spirit because they dared not +show on the surface. Of late there had been so many of them that it was +growing hard to hold from her manner her inner chafing against them. +There were times when all the people who loved her seemed trying to +throw things in her way, and it was the more maddening because blindly +done. It was hurting her relations with people; she hated them when they +blunderingly stepped in the way of the thing that had come to mean +everything to her. + +She was particularly anxious about this night for Stuart was going out +of town on a business trip and she would not see him again for more than +a week. It was her grandfather who made the first difficulty; as she was +going up the stairs he called, "You going over to the Lawrences' +tonight, Ruth?" + +When she had answered yes he continued: "It wouldn't be much out of your +way, would it, to run on over to the Allens'?" + +She hesitated; anything her grandfather asked of her was hard to refuse, +not only because she loved him and because he was old, but because it +hurt her to see how he missed the visiting around among his old friends +that his rheumatism had of late cut him off from. + +"Why--no," she answered, wondering just how she could get it in, for it +did take her out of her way, and old Mr. Allen would want to talk to +her; it was going to be hard to get away from Edith's anyway, and the +time would be so short, for Stuart would have to leave for his train at +half past nine. She quickly decided that she would go over there before +dinner, even though it made her a little late. Maybe she didn't need to +comb her hair, after all. + +She was starting up the stairs when her grandfather called: "Wait a +minute. Come here, Ruth." + +She came back, twirling the fingers of one hand nervously. Her +grandfather was fumbling in the drawer of his secretary. "I want you to +take this letter--tell him I got it yesterday--" He stopped, peering at +the letter; Ruth stood there with hand clenched now, foot tapping. "Why +no, that's not the one," he rambled on; "I must have put it up above +here. Or could it--" + +"Oh, I'm in a hurry, grandfather!" cried the girl. + +He closed the drawer and limped over to his chair. "Just let it go, +then," he said in the hurt voice of one who has been refused a thing he +cannot do for himself. + +"Now, grandfather!" Ruth cried, swiftly moving toward him. "How can you +be so _silly_--just because I'm a little nervous about being late!" + +"Seems to me you're always a little nervous about something lately," he +remarked, rising and resuming the leisurely search for the letter. "You +young folks make such hard work of your good times nowadays. Anybody'd +think you had the world on your shoulders." + +Ruth made no reply, standing there as quietly as she could, waiting +while her grandfather scanned a letter. "Yes, this is the one," he +finally said. "You tell him--" She had the letter and was starting for +the stairs while listening to what she was to tell, considering at the +same time how she'd take the short cut across the high-school ball +park--she could make it all right by half past six. Feeling kindly +toward her grandfather because it was going to be all right, after all, +she called back brightly: "Yes, grandfather, I'll get it to him; I'll +run right over there with it first thing." + +"Oh, look here, Ruth!" he cried, hobbling out to the hall. "Don't do +that! I want you to go in the evening. He'll not be home till eight +o'clock. He's going--" + +"Yes, grandfather," she called from the head of the stairs in a +peculiarly quiet voice. "I see. It's all right." + +Then she could not find the things she wanted to put on. There was a +button off her dress and her thread broke in sewing it. She was holding +herself very tight when her mother came leisurely into the room and +stood there commenting on the way Ruth's hair was done, on the +untidiness of her dressing-table, mildly reproving her for a growing +carelessness. Then she wandered along about something Ruth was to tell +Edith's mother. Ruth, her trembling fingers tangling her thread, was +thinking that she was always to tell somebody something somebody else +had said, take something from one person to another. The way people were +all held together in trivial things, that thin, seemingly purposeless +web lightly holding them together was eternally throwing threads around +her, keeping her from the one thing that counted. + +"There!" escaped from her at last, breaking the thread and throwing the +dress over her head. Her mother sauntered over to fasten it for her, +pausing to note how the dress was wearing out, speaking of the new one +Ruth must have soon, and who should make it. "Oh, I'm in a _hurry_, +mother!" Ruth finally cried when her mother stopped to consider how the +dress would have had more style if, instead of buttoning down the back, +it had fastened under that fold. + +"Really, my dear," Mrs. Holland remonstrated, jerking the dress straight +with a touch of vexation, "I must say that you are getting positively +peevish!" + +As Ruth did not reply, and the mother could feel her body tightening, +she went on, with a loving little pat as she fastened the dress over the +hip, "And you used to be the most sweet-tempered girl ever lived." + +Still Ruth made no answer. "Your father was saying the other night that +he was sure you couldn't be feeling well. You never used to be a bit +irritable, he said, and you nearly snapped his head off when he +wanted--just to save you--to drive you over to Harriett's." + +Though the dress was all fastened now, Ruth did not turn toward her +mother. Mrs. Holland added gently: "Now that wasn't reasonable, was it?" + +The tear Ruth had been trying to hold back fell to the handkerchief she +was selecting. No, it wouldn't seem reasonable, of course; her father +had wanted to help her, and she had been cross. It was all because she +couldn't tell him the truth--which was that she hadn't told him the +truth, that she wasn't going to Harriett's for an hour, that she was +going to do something else first. There had been a moment of actually +hating her father when, in wanting to help her, he stepped in the way of +a thing he knew nothing about. That, it seemed, was what happened +between people when things could not be told. + +Mrs. Holland, seeing that Ruth's hand was unsteady, went on, in a voice +meant to soothe: "Just take it a little easier, dear. What under the sun +have you got to do but enjoy yourself? Don't get in such a flutter about +it." She sighed and murmured, from the far ground of experience: "Wait +till you have a real worry." + +Ruth was pinning on her hat. She laughed in a jerky little way and said, +in a light voice that was slightly tremulous: "I did get a little +fussed, didn't I? But you see I wanted to get over to Edith's before +dinner time. She wants to talk to me about her shower for Cora +Albright." + +"But you have all evening to talk that over, haven't you?" calmly +admonished Mrs. Holland. + +"Why, of course," Ruth answered, a little crisply, starting for the +door. + +"Your petticoat's showing," her mother called to her. "Here, I'll pin it +up for you." + +"Oh, let it _go_!" cried Ruth desperately. "I'll fix it at Edith's," she +added hurriedly. + +"Ruth, are you crazy?" her mother demanded. "Going through the streets +with your petticoat showing! I guess you're in no such hurry as that." + +It was while she was pinning up the skirt that Mrs. Holland remarked: +"Oh, I very nearly forgot to tell you; Deane's going over there for you +tonight." + +Then to the mother's utter bewilderment and consternation Ruth covered +her face with her hands and burst into sobs. + +"Why, my _dear_," she murmured; "why, Ruth _dear_, what _is_ the +matter?" + +Ruth sank down on the bed, leaning her head against the foot of it, +shaking with sobs. Her mother stood over her murmuring, "Why, my dear, +what _is_ the matter?" + +Ruth, trying to stop crying, began to laugh. "I didn't know he was +coming! I was so surprised. We've quarrelled!" she gulped out +desperately. + +"Why, he was just as natural and nice as could be over the 'phone," said +Mrs. Holland, pouring some water in the bowl that Ruth might bathe her +eyes. "Really, my dear, it seems to me you make too much of things. He +wanted to come here, and when I told him you were going to be at +Edith's, he said he'd go there. I'm sure he was just as nice as could +be." + +Ruth was bathing her eyes, her body still quivering a little. "Yes, I +know," she spluttered, her face in the water; "he is that way +when--after we've quarrelled." + +"I didn't know you and Deane ever did quarrel," ventured Mrs. Holland. +"When you do, I'll warrant it's your fault." She added, significantly: +"Deane's mighty good to you, Ruth." She had said several things like +that of late. + +"Oh, he's good enough," murmured Ruth from the folds of the towel. + +"Now, powder up a little, dear. There! And now just take it a little +easy. Why, it's not a hit like you to be so----touchy." + +She followed Ruth downstairs. "Got that letter?" the grandfather called +out from his room. + +"I'll send Ted with it, father," Mrs. Holland said hastily, seeing +Ruth's face. + +A sudden surge of love for her mother almost swept away Ruth's +self-command. It was wonderful that some one wanted to help her. It made +her want to cry. + +Her mother went with her to the porch. "You look so nice," she said +soothingly. "Have a good time, dearie." + +Ruth waved her hand without turning her face to her mother. + +Tears were right there close all through that evening. The strain within +was so great--(what _was_ she going to do about Deane?)--that there was +that impulse to cry at the slightest friendliness. She was flushed and +tired when she reached Edith's, and Mrs. Lawrence herself went out and +got her a glass of water--a fan, drew up a comfortable chair. The whole +house seemed so kindly, so favoring. Contrasted with her secret turmoil +the reposefulness, friendliness of the place was so beautiful to her +that taut emotions were ready to give. Yet all the while there was that +inner distress about how to get away, what to say. The affectionate +kindness of her friends, the appeal of their well-ordered lives as +something in which to rest, simply had no reach into the thing that +dominated her. + +And now finally she had managed it; Deane had come before she could +possibly get away but she had said she would have to go up to +Harriett's, that she must not be too late about it. Edith had protested, +disappointed at her leaving so early, wanting to know if she couldn't +come back. That waved down, there had been a moment of fearing Edith was +going to propose going with her; so she had quickly spoken of there +being something Harriett wanted to talk to her about. She had a warm, +gentle feeling for Edith when finally she saw the way clearing. That was +the way it was, gratitude to one who had moved out of her way gave her +so warm a feeling that often she would impulsively propose things +letting her in for future complications. + +As she was saying goodnight there was another moment of wanting terribly +to cry. They were so good to her, so loving--and what would they think +if they knew? Her voice was curiously gentle in taking leave of them; +there was pain in that feeling of something that removed her from these +friends who cared for her, who were so good to her. + +She asked Deane if he hadn't something else to do for an hour, someone +to run in and see while she visited with Harriett. When he readily fell +in with that, saying he hadn't been to the Bennetts' since coming home +and that it would be a good time to go there, she grew suddenly gay, +joking with him in a half tender little way, a sort of affectionate +bantering that was the closest they came to intimacy. + +And then at the very last, after one thing and then another had been +disposed of, and just as her whole being was fairly singing with relief +and anticipation, the whole thing was threatened and there was another +of those moments of actually hating one who was dear to her. + +They had about reached the corner near Harriett's where she was going to +insist Deane leave her for the Bennetts' when they came upon her brother +Ted, slouching along, whistling, flipping in his hand the letter he was +taking to his grandfather's old friend. + +"Hello," he said, "where y' goin'?" + +"Just walking," said Ruth, and able to say it with a carelessness that +surprised her. + +"Oh," said Ted, with a nonchalance that made her want to scream out some +awful thing at him, "thought maybe you were making for Harriett's. She +ain't home." + +She would like to have pushed him away! She would have liked to push him +way off somewhere! She dug her nails down into her palm; she could +hardly control the violent, ugly feeling that wanted to leap out at +him--at this "kid brother" whom she adored. Why need he have said just +_that_?--that particular thing, of all things! But she was saying in +calm elderly sister fashion, "Don't lose that letter, Ted," and to +Deane, as they walked on, "Harriett's at a neighbor's; I'll run in for +her; she's expecting me to." + +But it left her weak; her legs were trembling, her heart pounding; there +seemed no power left at the center of her for holding herself in one. + +And now she was rid of Deane! She had shaken them all off; for that +little time she was free! She hurried toward the narrow street that +trailed off into the country. Stuart would be waiting for her there. Her +joy in that, her eagerness, rushed past the dangers all around her, the +thing that possessed her avoiding thought of the disastrous +possibilities around her as a man in a boat on a narrow rushing river +would keep clear of rocks jutting out on either side. Sometimes the +feeling that swept her on did graze the risks so close about her and she +shivered a little. Suppose Harriett were at the Bennetts' when Deane got +there! Suppose Deane said something when they got home; suppose Ted said +something that wouldn't fit in with what Deane said; suppose Deane got +to Harriett's too soon--though she had told him not to be there till +after half past nine. Hadn't Deane looked queer at the last? Wouldn't he +suspect? Wouldn't everybody suspect, with her acting like this? And once +there was the slightest suspecting.... + +But she was hurrying on; none of those worries, fears, had power to lay +any real hold on the thing that possessed her; faster and faster she +hurried; she had turned into the little street, had passed the last +house, turned the bend in the road, and yes! there was Stuart, waiting +for her, coming to her. Everything else fell away. Nothing else in the +world mattered. + + + + +CHAPTER TEN + + +Ten o'clock found Ruth sitting on the porch at home with her mother and +father, her brother Cyrus and Deane. Her father was talking with Deane +about the operation that had been performed on the book-keeper in Mr. +Holland's bank; Cyrus talked of somebody's new touring car, the number +of new machines there were in town that year; her mother wondered where +some of the people who had them got the money for them. The talk moved +placidly from one thing to another, Mr. Holland saying at intervals that +he must be going to bed, his wife slapping at the mosquitoes and talking +about going inside--both delaying, comfortably stupid. + +Ruth was sitting on the top step leaning back against the porch pillar. +She said little, she was very tired now. Something in this dragging talk +soothed her. It seemed safe just because it was so commonplace; it was +relaxing. She was glad to be back to it--to the world of it; in +returning safely to it she felt a curiously tender feeling for it, a +perhaps absurd sense of having come through something for it. She could +rest in it while within herself she continued to live back in that hour +with Stuart, that hour which struggle and fear and the passionate +determination to have in spite of everything had made terribly intense. +They had closed themselves in with that little while of love, holding it +apart from everything else, and yet every minute of it was charged with +the consciousness of what was all around them. They had clung to that +hour with a desperate passion, the joy of the moment that was there +always stabbed with pain for a moment passing. At the last they had +clung to each other as if time too--time, over which they had no +control--was going to beat them apart. So much had been hard that in +returning she had a warm feeling of gratitude to all of them for not +making it harder for her, not questioning, exposing her; relief was so +great that they were all newly dear for thus letting her alone. She had +managed all right with Deane, the clumsy arrangement she had been forced +into appeared to have just that haphazardness which characterizes most +of the arrangements of life. Her mother had merely asked what the +Lawrence's had for dinner; her father joked about the way she had +trained the roses in the back yard. Strangely enough instead of feeling +she had outraged them, been unworthy this easy, affectionate +intercourse, she had a sense, now that she had again come through a +precarious thing safely, of having saved them from something they knew +not of, a strange lifted-up feeling of bearing something for them. +Certainly that would not seem the feeling she should be having, but +there was the odd part of it: the feelings she had were so seldom those +she would expect herself to have. + +Her mother and father had gone indoors; Cyrus sat out there with her and +Deane for a time. Ruth did not love Cyrus as she loved Ted; he had +always had too superior a manner with her for her feeling to be more +than the perfunctory thing which sometimes passes for personal affection +in families. It was simply that she had never admitted, even to herself, +that she did not love him. He belonged to the set just older than +Ruth's, though she and Deane and their friends were arriving now at the +time of ceasing to be a separate entity as the young crowd and were +being merged in the group just above them. That contributed to Cyrus's +condescension, he being tempered for condescension. + +When she and Deane were alone the talk lagged, Ruth sitting there at the +head of the steps leaning against the pillar, he a few steps below her, +sprawled out in awkward boyish fashion, looking up at her from time to +time as she said something. Her silence did not make him feel cut off +from her; the things she said were gently said; her tired smile was +sweet. He spoke several times of going, but lingered. He was held by +something in Ruth; it stirred something in him, not knowing that he was +drawn by what another man had brought into life. He drew himself up and +stole timid glances at Ruth as she looked out into the night, feeling +something new in her tonight, something that touched the feeling that +had all the time been there in him, growing as he grew, of itself +waiting for the future as simply and naturally as all maturing things +wait for the future. Ruth was the girl he had all the time cared for; he +was shy about emotional things--awkward; he had had almost no emotional +life; he had all the time been diffident about what she made him feel +and so they had just gone along for a little time longer than was usual +as boy and girl. But something sweet, mysterious, exhaling from her +tonight liberated the growing, waiting feeling in him. It took him as he +had not been taken before; he watched Ruth and was stilled, moved, +drawn. + +Finally, as if suddenly conscious of a long silence, she turned to him +with something about the plans for Cora Albright's wedding--she was to +be a bridesmaid and he an usher. She went on talking of the man Cora was +to marry, a man she met away from home and had fallen desperately in +love with. He associated the light of her face, the sweetness of her +voice, with the things of romance of which she talked. All in a moment +his feeling for her, what her strange, softened mood touched in him, +leaped up, surging through him, not to be stayed. He moved nearer her. +"You know, Ruth," he said, in queer, jerky voice, "_I_ love you." + +She gave a start, drew a little back and looked at him with a certain +startled fixity as if he had stopped all else in her. For the moment she +just looked at him like that, startled, fixed. + +"Could you care for me at all, Ruth?" he asked wistfully, and with a +bated passionateness. + +And then she moved, and it seemed that feeling, too, moved in her again; +there was a flow of emotions as she sat looking at him now. And then her +strangely shining eyes were misty; her face quivered a little and very +slowly she shook her head. + +"Don't do that, Ruth," he said quickly, in a voice sharp with pain. +"Don't do that! You don't _know_--maybe you hadn't thought about +it--maybe--" He broke off, reached out for her hands, and could only +stammer, "Oh, Ruth!--I love you so!" + +He had her hands; he was clutching them very tight; he looked up at her +again, imploring. She started to shake her head again, but did not +really do it. She seemed about to speak, but did not. What could she say +to Deane--how make him understand?--unless she told him. She thought of +the years she had known him, how much they had been together, how good +he had been to her. Again her eyes were misty. It was all so tangled. +There was so much pain. + +Feeling her softening, her tenderness, he moved nearer, her two hands +pressed together so tight in his that it hurt her. "It wouldn't be so +bad, would it, Ruth?" he urged wistfully, with a little laugh that broke +with emotion. "You and I--mightn't life go pretty well for us?" + +She turned away, looking out into the night. Feeling something in her +that he did not understand he let her hands go. She put one of them up, +still further averting her face, lost to him in the picture forming +itself before her of how life would be if love came right; what it would +mean not to have to hide, but to have those who cared for her happy in +her happiness; what it would mean to give herself to love without fear, +to wear her joy proudly before the world, revealing her womanhood. She +was not thinking of what life with Deane would be but of what love that +could have its place would be: telling her mother and father and Edith, +being able to show the pride of being loved, the triumph of loving. +Sitting there, turning her face from this friend who loved her, she +seemed to be turning it to the years awaiting her, years of desperately +clutching at happiness in tension and fear, not understood because +unable to show herself,--afraid, harassed, perhaps disgraced. She wanted +to take her place among women who loved and were loved! She did not want +to be shut away from her friends, not seeming to understand what she +understood so well. This picture of what life would be if love could +have its place brought home to her what it meant to love and perpetually +conceal, stealing one's happiness from the society in which one lived. +Why could it not have gone right for her too, as it had for Cora and +would for Edith? She too wanted a wedding, she too wanted rejoicing +friends. + +She hid her face in her hands. Her body was quivering. + +The boy's arm stole round her shoulders. She was feeling--maybe she did +care. "Ruth," he whispered, "love does mean something to you, doesn't +it?" + +She raised her head and looked at him. And that look was a thing Deane +Franklin never forgot; all the years did not blur his memory of it--that +flaming claim for love that transformed her face. + +And then it was lost in contrition, for she saw what he had seen, and +what he hoped from that; in her compunction for having let him see what +was not for him, the tender, sorrowing look, the impulsive outreaching +of her hand, there was the dawn of understanding. + +At first he was too bewildered to find words. Then: "You care for some +one else?" he groped unbelievingly. + +She looked away, but nodded; her tears were falling. + +He moved a little away and then sat there quite still. A breeze had come +up and the vines beat against the porch, making a sound that like the +flaming look of a moment ago he never forgot. + +She knew that he must be wondering; he knew her life there, or what +seemed her life. He must be wondering who it was she cared for like +that. + +She laid her hand upon his arm; and when he turned to her she did not +say anything at all, but the appeal that looked through pain perhaps +went where words could not have gone. + +"But you're not happy!" he exclaimed, in a sort of harsh exulting in +that. + +She shook her head; her eyes were brimming over. + +He looked away from her, his own hurt and surprise rousing a savage +thing in him that did not want to do what the pleading pain of her eyes +so eloquently asked of him. He had always thought that _he_ was to have +Ruth. Well, he was not to have her--there were ugly things which, in +that first moment, surged into his disappointment. Some one else was to +have her. But she was not happy! Defeated feeling wrenched its own sorry +satisfaction from that. + +"Why aren't you happy?" he asked of her abruptly, roughly. + +She did not answer, and so he had to look at her. And when he saw Ruth's +face his real love for her broke through the ugliness of thwarted +passion. "Can't you tell me, Ruth?" he asked gently. + +She shook her head, but the concern of his voice loosed feeling she was +worn out with holding in. Her eyes were streaming now. + +His arm went round her shoulder, gently, as if it would shield, help. +His love for her wrenched itself free--for that moment, at least,--from +his own hurt. "Maybe I can help you, Ruth," he was murmuring. + + + + +CHAPTER ELEVEN + + +He went away from there that night not knowing more than that; it was +merely that she let him see. He knew now that there was some big thing +in her life he had known nothing about; that he had not understood Ruth, +though he had known her through all the years and had thought he knew +her so well. He was bewildered, his pain was blunted in that +bewilderment. There was a sick sense of life as all different, but he +was too dazed then for the pain that came later with definite knowing. +He went home that night and because he could not sleep tried to read a +medical book; usually that took all his mind, for the time other things +would not exist for him. But that was not true tonight; that world of +facts could not get him; he lived right on in the world of his own +feeling. He was not to have Ruth; he did not seem able to get a real +sense of that either, there was just a sick feeling about it rather than +actual realization, acceptance. And what did it mean? Surely he knew +Ruth's life, the people she went with; it was always he, when he was at +home, Ruth went about with. Someone away from home? But she had been +very little away from home. Who could it be? He went over and over that. +It came to seem unreal; as if there were some misunderstanding, some +mistake. And yet, that look.... His own disappointment was at times +caught up into his marvel at her; that moment's revelation of what her +caring could be was so wonderful as to bear him out of the fact that it +was not for him she cared. That was the way it was all through, his love +for her deepening with his marvel at her, the revelation of what she +felt for another man claiming more and more of himself for her. It was a +thing he would have scoffed at if told of, it was a thing he could not +somehow justify even to himself, but it was true that the more he saw of +what love meant to Ruth the more Ruth came to mean to him. + +In those next few months, the months before he actually knew, there were +times when he could almost persuade himself that there was something +unreal about it all, torturous wonderings as to who the man could be +trailing off into the possibility of there being no man, because he knew +of none; sometimes he tried to persuade himself that this passionate +feeling he had glimpsed in Ruth was a thing apart from any particular +man--for who _was_ the man? Sometimes he could, for a moment, let in the +hope that since she could care like that she would care for him. Though +he more than half knew he deluded himself in that; there was, now that +his eyes were opened, that in Ruth's manner to indicate something in her +life which did not appear on the surface. He saw how nervous she +was--how strained at times, how worried and cross, which was not like +Ruth at all. There were times when her eyes were imploring, times when +they were afraid, again there were moments of that lovely calm, when +feeling deep and beautiful radiated from her, as it had that night they +sat on the steps and, drawn by something in her, he had to tell her that +he loved her. She did queer unreasonable things, would become +exasperated at him for apparently nothing at all. Once when she had told +him she was going somewhere with her mother he later saw her hurrying by +alone; another time she told him she was going to Edith's, and when he +called up there, wanting to take them both with him for a long trip he +had to make into the country, Edith said Ruth had not been there. +Thoughts that he did not like, that he could not believe, came into his +mind. He was not only unhappy, but he grew more and more worried about +Ruth. + +That went on for several months, and then one day late that same summer +she came to him with the truth. She came because she had to come. He was +a doctor; he was her friend; she was in a girl's most desperate plight +and she had no one else to turn to. It was in his office that she told +him, not looking at him, her face without color and drawn out of shape, +her voice quick, sharp, hard, so unlike Ruth's sweet voice that without +seeing her he would not have known it. She threw out the bare facts at +him as she sat there very straight, hands gripped. He was stupefied at +first, but it was fury which then broke through, the fury of knowing it +was _this_, that not only was he not to have Ruth, but that another man +_had_ her, the fury that rose out of the driving back of all those loose +ends of hope that had eased pain a little. And _Ruth_--_this_! He little +knew what things he might not have said and done in those first moments +of failing her, turning on her because he himself was hurt beyond his +power to bear. And then Ruth spoke to him. "But I thought you believed +in love, Deane," she said, quietly. + +"_Love!_" he brutally flung back at her. + +"Yes, Deane, love," she said, and the simplicity, the dignity of her +quiet voice commanded him and he had to turn from himself to her. She +was different now; she looked at him, steadily, proudly. Out of the +humiliation of her situation she raised a proud face for love; love +could bring her disgrace, it could not strip her of her own sense of the +dignity of loving. Her power was in that, in that claim for love that +pain and humiliation could not beat back. + +"I notice _he's_ not here," he sneered, still too overwhelmed to be won +from his own rage to her feeling. + +"I thought it better for me to come," she said simply, and as she said +it and he remembered her drawn, wretched face in telling him, he was +quieted a little by a sense of what it had cost her to come. "Because," +she added, "you're my friend, you know." + +He did not say anything, miserably wondering what she now thought of him +as her friend. + +"Oh, Deane," she broke out, "don't be hard! If you could know what he's +suffering! Being a man--being a little older--what's that? If you can +understand me, Deane, you've got to understand him, too!" + +He stood there in silence looking at Ruth as, looking away from him now, +she brooded over that. In this hour of her own humiliation her appeal +was for the man who had brought it upon her. "How you love him!" escaped +from him, in bitterness, and yet marvelling. + +She turned to him then in her swift way, again, as on that night of his +first seeing, her face transformed by that flaming claim for love; it +was as if life was shining triumphant through the cloud of misery it had +brought down around her. He could not rage against that look; he had no +scorn for it. It lighted a country between them which words could not +have undarkened. They came together there in that common understanding +of the power and beauty of love. He was suddenly ashamed, humbled, +feeling in her love a quality upon which no shameful circumstance could +encroach. And after that she found relief in words, the words she had +had to deny herself so long. It was as if she found it wonderfully good +to talk, in some little measure linking her love, as love wants to link +itself, with the other people of the world, coming within the human +unit. Things which circumstances had prisoned in her heart, too +intensified by solitude, leaped out like winged things let loose. But in +that hour of talking with him, though words served her well, it was that +proud, flaming claim for love which again and again lighted her face +that brought him into understanding, winning him for her against his own +love of her. + +In the year which followed, that last year before circumstances closed +in too tight and they went away, it was he who made it possible for Ruth +to move a little more freely in the trap in which she found herself. He +helped her in deceiving her family and friends, aided them in the ugly +work of stealing what happiness they could from the society in which +they lived. He did not like doing it. Neither did he like attending the +agonies of child-birth, or standing impotently at the bed of the dying. +It might seem absurd, in trying to explain one's self, to claim for this +love the inevitability of the beginning and the end of life, and yet, +seeing it as he saw it he did think of it, not as a thing that should or +should not be, but as a thing that was; not as life should or should not +be lived, but as life. This much he knew: that whatever they might have +been able to do at the first, it had them now. They were in too powerful +a current to make a well considered retreat to shoals of safety. No +matter what her mood might have been in the beginning, no matter what +she could have done about it then, Ruth was mastered not master now. +Love _had_ her--he saw that too well to reason with her. What he saw of +the way all other people mattered so much less than the passion which +claimed her made him feel, not that Ruth was selfish, but that the +passion was mastering; the way she deceived made him feel, not that she +was deceitful, but that love like that was as unable to be held back in +the thought of wrong to others as in the consideration of safety for +one's self; the two were equally inadequate floodgates. Not that those +other things did not matter--he knew how they did make her suffer--but +that this one thing mattered overwhelmingly more was what he felt in +Ruth in those days when she would be thought to be with him and would be +with Stuart Williams. + +For himself that was a year of misery. He saw Ruth in a peculiarly +intimate way, taken as he was into the great intimacy of her life. His +love for her deepened with his knowing of her; and anxiety about her +preyed upon him all the time, passionate resentment that it should have +gone like that for her, life claiming her only, as it seemed, to destroy +her. + +He never admitted to himself how much he really came to like Stuart +Williams. There seemed something quixotic in that; it did not seem +natural he should have any sympathy with this man who not only had +Ruth's love, but was endangering her whole life. Yet the truth was that +as time went on he not only came to like him but to feel a growing +concern for him. + +For the man changed in that last year. It was not only that he looked +older--harassed, had grown so much more silent, but Deane as a physician +noticed that he was losing weight and there was a cough that often made +him look at him sharply. A number of times Ruth said, "I don't think +Stuart's well," but she looked so wretched in saying it that he always +laughed at her. The Williams' were not patients of his, so he felt that +professional hesitance, even though he thought it foolish +professionalism, in himself approaching Stuart about his health. Once +when he seemed particularly tired and nervous Deane did venture to +suggest a little lay-off from work, a change, but Stuart had answered +irritably that he couldn't stop work, and didn't want to go away, +anyhow. + +It was almost a year after the day Ruth came to him steeled for telling +what had to be told that the man of whom she that day talked came to +tell him what he had been suspecting, that he had tuberculosis and would +have to take that lay-off Deane had been hinting at. It seemed it was +either go away or die, probably, he added, with an attempted laugh, it +was go away and die, but better go away, he thought, than stay there and +give his friends an exhibition in dying. + +They talked along over the surface of it, as is people's way, Deane +speaking mildly of tuberculosis, how prevalent, how easily controlled, +how delightful Arizona was, the charms of living out-of-doors, and all +the time each of them knew that the other was not thinking of that at +all, but thinking of Ruth. + +Finally, bracing himself as for a thing that was all he could do, Stuart +spoke of her. "Ruth said she was coming in to see you about something +this afternoon. I thought I'd get in first and tell you. I wondered what +you'd think--what we'd better do--" + +His voice trailed off miserably. He turned a little away and sat there +in utter dejection. + +And as he looked at him it came to Deane that love could be the most +ruthless, most terrible thing in the world. People talked to him +afterwards about this man's selfishness in taking his own pleasure, his +own happiness, at the cost of everyone else. He said little, for how +could he make real to anyone else his own feeling about what he had seen +of the man's suffering, utter misery, as he spoke of the girl to whom he +must bring new pain. Some one spoke to him afterwards of this "light +love" and he laughed in that person's face. He knew that it was love +bathed in pain. + +A new sense of just how hideous the whole thing was made him suddenly +demand: "Can't you--_do_ anything about it? Isn't there any _way_?--any +way you can get a divorce?" he bluntly asked. + +"Mrs. Williams does not believe in divorce," was the answer, spoken with +more bitterness than Deane had ever heard in any voice before. + +Deane turned away with a little exclamation of rage, rage that one +person should have this clutch on the life of another, of two +others--and one of them Ruth--sickened with a sense of the waste and the +folly of it,--for what was _she_ getting out of it? he savagely put to +himself. How could one get anything from life simply by holding another +from it? + +"Does she know anything about Ruth?" he asked with an abrupt turn to +Stuart. + +"She has mentioned her name several times lately and looked at me in +doing it. She isn't one to speak directly of things," he added with a +more subtle bitterness than that of a moment before. They sat there for +a couple of minutes in silence--a helpless, miserable silence. + +When, after that, Deane stepped out into the waiting-room he found Ruth +among those there; he only nodded to her and went back and told Stuart +that she was there. "But it's only three," said he helplessly, "and she +said she was coming at four." + +"Well, I suppose she came earlier than she intended," Deane replied, +about as helplessly, and went over and stood looking out the window. +After a moment he turned. "Better get it over with, hadn't you! She's +got to be told," he said, a little less brusquely, as he saw the man +wince,--"better get it over with." + +Stuart was silent, head down. After a moment he looked up at Deane. It +was a look one would turn quickly away from. Again Deane stood looking +from the window. He was considering something, considering a thing that +would be very hard to do. After a moment he again abruptly turned +around. "Well, shall I do it!" he asked quietly. + +The man nodded in a wretched gratefulness that went to Deane's heart. + +So he called Ruth in from the waiting-room. He always remembered just +how Ruth looked that day; she had on a blue suit and a hat with flowers +on it that was very becoming to her. She looked very girlish; he had a +sudden sense of all the years he had known her. + +The smile with which she greeted Deane changed when she saw Stuart +sitting there; the instant's pleased surprise went to apprehension at +sight of his face. "What's the matter!" she asked sharply. + +"Stuart's rather bummed up, Ruth," said Deane. + +Swiftly she moved over to the man she loved. "What is it!" she demanded +in quick, frightened voice. + +"Oh, just a bad lung," Deane continued, not looking at them and speaking +with that false cheerfulness so hard fought for and of so little worth. +"Don't amount to much--happens often--but, well--well, you see, he has +to go away--for awhile." + +He was bending over his desk, fumbling among some papers. There was no +sound in the room and at last he looked up. Stuart was not looking at +Ruth and Ruth was standing there very still. When she spoke her voice +was singularly quiet. "When shall we go?" she asked. + + + + +CHAPTER TWELVE + + +Everyone who talked about it--and that meant all who knew anything about +it--blamed Deane Franklin for not stopping Ruth. Perhaps the reason he +did not try to defend himself was simply that he could not hope to show +how simple was his acceptance of the fact that it would have been +impossible to stop her. To understand that, one would have to have seen. +Oh, to be sure, he could have put obstacles in her way, tightened it +around her, but anything he might have done would only have gone to +making it harder for Ruth to get away; it would not have kept her from +going. And after all, he himself saw it as, if not the thing she should +do, the thing--it being what it was then--she could not help doing. But +one would have to have seen Ruth's face, would need to have been with +her in those days to understand that. + +As to warning her family, as he was so blamed by them and by all the +town for not doing, that would have seemed to him just one of those +things he could have thrown in her way. He did feel that he must try to +talk to her of what it was going to mean to her people; he saw that she +saw, that it had cruel power to make her suffer--and no power to stop +her. Nothing could have stopped her; she was like a maddened +thing--desperate, ruthless, indomitable. She would have fought the +world; she would have let the whole world suffer. Love's fear possessed +her utterly. He had had the feeling all along that it was rushing on to +disaster. He stood back from it now with something like awe: a force not +for him to control. + +And he, with it from within, was the only one who did not condemn Stuart +Williams for letting Ruth go. A man, and older than she, they scorned +him for letting an infatuated girl throw her life away like that. And it +was not only that he saw that the man was sick and broken; it was that +he saw that Stuart, just as Ruth, had gone in love beyond his power to +control love, that he was mastered, not master, now. And in those last +days, at least, it was Ruth who dominated him. There was something +terrible in the simplicity with which she saw that she had to go; she +never once admitted it to the things that were to be argued about. He +talked to her, they both tried to talk to her, about the danger of +getting tuberculosis. When he began on that she laughed in his face--and +he could not blame her. As if _that_ could keep her! And as she laughed +her tortured eyes seemed mockingly to put to him--"What difference would +it make?" + +When, after it all came out, he did not join the outraged town in the +outcry against Ruth, when it further transpired that he had known about +her going and had not tried to stop it, he was so much blamed that it +even hurt his practice. There were women who said they would not +countenance a young physician who had the ideas of life he must have. +His own people were incensed at what they called the shameful advantage +Ruth had taken of him, holding that she, as an evil woman, had exerted +an influence over him that made him do what was against his own nature. +As to the Hollands, there had been a stormy hour with Mr. Holland and +Cyrus, and a far worse half hour with Mrs. Holland, when her utterly +stricken face seemed to stiffen in his throat the things he wanted to +say for Ruth, things that might have helped Ruth's mother. And then he +was told that the Hollands were through, not alone with Ruth, but with +him. + +But he was called there two years later when Mrs. Holland was dying. She +had been begging for him. That moved him deeply because of what in +itself it told of her long yearning for Ruth. After that there were a +number of years when he was not inside that gate. Cyrus did not speak to +him and the father might as well not have done so. He was amazed, then, +when Mr. Holland finally came to him about his own health. "I've come to +you, Deane," he said, "because I think you're the best doctor in town +now--and I need help." And then he added, and after that first talk this +was the closest to speaking of it they ever came: "And I guess you +didn't understand, Deane; didn't see it right. You were young--and +you're a queer one, anyway." + +Perhaps the reason he was never able to do better in explaining himself, +or in defending Ruth, was simply because in his own thinking about it +there were never arguments, or thoughts upon conduct, but always just +that memory of Ruth's face as he had seen it in revealing moments. + +Everyone saw something that Ruth should have done differently. In the +weeks they spent upon it they found, if not that they would be able to +forgive her, at least that they could think of her with less horror had +she done this, had she not done that. But Ruth lived through that week +seeing little beyond the one thing that she must get through it. She was +driven; she had to go ahead, bearing things somehow, getting through +them. She had a strange power to steel herself, to keep things, for the +most part, from really getting through to her. She could not go ahead if +she began letting things in. She sealed herself over and drove ahead +with the singleness of purpose, the exclusions, of any tormented thing. +It was all terrible, but it was as if she were frozen at the heart to +all save the one thing. + +She stayed through the week because it was the time of Edith Lawrence's +wedding and she was to be maid-of-honor. "I'll have to stay till after +Edith's wedding," she said to Deane and Stuart. Then on her way home +from Deane's office she saw that she could not go on with her part in +Edith's wedding. That she could see clearly enough despite the thing +driving her on past things she should be seeing. What would she say to +Edith?--how get _that_ over? + +Someone was giving a party for Edith that night; every day now things +were being given for her. She must not go to them. How could she go? It +would be absurd to expect that of herself. She would have to tell Edith +that she could not be her bridesmaid. What a terrible thing Edith would +think that was! She would have to give a reason--a big reason. What +would she tell her?--that she had been called away?--but where? Should +she tell her the truth? Could she? Edith would find it almost +unbelievable. It was almost unbelievable to herself that her life could +be permeated by a thing Edith knew nothing about. It was another of the +things she would have said, had she known her story only through hearing +it, would not be possible. But it was with Edith as it was with her own +family--simply that such a thing would never occur to her. She winced in +thinking of it that way. A number of times she had been right on the +edge of a thing it seemed would surely be disclosing, but it strangely +happened she had never quite gone over that edge. For one thing, Edith +had been away from Freeport a good deal in those three years. Mrs. +Lawrence had opposed Edith's marrying so young, and had taken her to +Europe for one year, and in the last year they had spent part of the +time in California. In the last couple of months, since Edith's return +from the West, she had spoken of Ruth's not seeming like herself, of +fearing she was not well. She had several times hurt Edith's feelings by +refusing, for no apparent reason, to do things with her. But she had +always been able to make that up afterwards and in these plans for the +wedding she and Edith had been drawn close again. + +When she went over to the Lawrences' late that afternoon she had decided +that she would tell Edith. It seemed she must. She could not hope to +tell it in a way that would make Edith sympathize. There was not time +for that, and she dared not open herself to it. She would just say it +briefly, without any attempts at justifying it. Something like: "Edith, +there's been something you haven't known. I'm not like you. I'm not what +you think I am. I love Stuart Williams. We've loved each other for a +long time. He's sick. He's got to go away--and I'm going with him. +Good-bye, Edith,--and I hope the wedding goes just beautifully." + +But that last got through--got down to the feeling she had been trying +to keep closed, the feeling that had seemed to seal itself over the +moment she saw that she must go with Stuart. "I hope the wedding goes +just beautifully!" Somehow the stiff little phrase seemed to mean all +the old things. There was a moment when she _knew_: knew that she was +walking those familiar streets, that she would not be walking them any +more; knew that she was going over to Edith's--that all her life she had +been going over to Edith's--that she would not be going there any more; +knew that she was going away from home, that she loved her father and +mother--Ted--her grandfather--and Terror, her dog. Realization broke +through and flooded her. She had to walk around a number of blocks +before she dared go to Edith's. + +Miss Edith was up in her room, Emma, the maid, said, taking it for +granted that Ruth would go right up. Yes, she always did go right up, +she was thinking. She had always been absolutely at home at the +Lawrences'. They always wanted her; there were times of not wanting to +see anyone else, but it seemed both Edith and her mother always wanted +her. She paused an instant on the stairs, not able to push past that +thought, not able to stay the loving rush of gratefulness that broke out +of the thought of having always been wanted. + +She had a confused sense of Edith as barricaded by her trousseau. She +sat behind a great pile of white things; she had had them all out of her +chest for showing to some of her mother's friends, she said, and her +mother had not yet put them back. Ruth stood there fingering a +wonderfully soft chemise. It had come to her that she was not provided +with things like these. What would Edith think of her, going away +without the things it seemed one should have? It seemed to mark the +setting of her apart from Edith, though there was a wave of +tenderness--she tried to hold it back but could not--for dear Edith +because she did have so many things like this. + +Edith was too deep in the occupation of getting married to mark an +unusual absorption in her friend. She was full of talk about what her +mother's friends had said of her things, the presents that were coming +in, her dress for the party that night, the flowers for the wedding. + +It made Edith seem very young to her. And in her negligee, her hair +down, she looked childish. Her pleasure in the plans for her wedding +seemed like a child's pleasure. It seemed that hurting her in it would +be horribly like spoiling a child's party. Edith's flushed face, her +sparkling eyes, her little excited, happy laugh made it impossible for +Ruth to speak the words she had come to say. + +For three days it went on like that: going ahead with the festivities, +constantly thinking she would tell Edith as soon as they got home from +this place or that, waiting until this or that person had gone, then +dumb before the childish quality of Edith's excitement, deciding to wait +until the next morning because Edith was either too happy or too tired +to talk to her that night. That ingenuousness of her friend's pleasure +in her wedding made Ruth feel, not only older, but removed from her by +experience. Those days of her own frozen misery were days of tenderness +for Edith, that tenderness which one well along the road of living feels +for the one just setting feet upon the path. + +She was never able to understand how she did get through those days. It +was an almost unbelievable thing that, knowing, she was able, up to the +very last, to go right on with the old things, was able to talk to +people as if nothing were different, to laugh, to dance. There were +times when something seemed frozen in her heart and she could go on +doing the usual things mechanically, just because she knew so well how +to do them; then there were other times when every smallest thing was +stabbed through and through with the consciousness that she would not be +doing it again. And yet even then, she could go on, could appear the +same. They were days of a terrible power for bearing pain. When the +people of the town looked back to it, recalling everything they could +about Ruth Holland in those days, some of them, remembering a tenderness +in her manner with Edith, talked of what a hypocrite she was, while +others satisfied themselves of her utter heartlessness in remembering +her gaiety. + +It was two days before the wedding when she saw that she was not going +to be able to tell Edith and got the idea of telling Edith's mother. +Refusing to let herself consider what she would say when she began upon +it, she went over there early that morning--Edith would not be up. + +Mrs. Lawrence was at breakfast alone. Ruth kept herself hard against the +welcoming smile, but it seemed she was surely going to cry when, with a +look of concern, Mrs. Lawrence exclaimed: "Why, Ruth dear, how pale you +are!" + +She was telling Emma to bring Ruth a cup of coffee, talking of how +absurd it was the way the girls were wearing themselves out, how, for +that reason, she would be glad when it was all over. She spoke with +anxiety of how nervous Edith had grown in the past week, how tired she +was as a result of all the gaiety. "We'll have to be very careful of +her, Ruth," she said. "Don't go to Edith with any worries, will you? +Come to me. The slightest thing would upset Edith now." + +Ruth only nodded; she did not know what to say to that; certainly, after +that, she did not know how to say the things she had come to tell. For +what in the world could upset Edith so much as to have her +maid-of-honor, her life-long friend, the girl she cared for most, +refuse, two days before her wedding, to take her part in it? + +"And you can do more than anyone else, Ruth," Mrs. Lawrence urged. "You +know Edith counts so on you," she added with an intimate little smile. + +And again Ruth only nodded, and bent over her coffee. She had a feeling +of having been caught, of being helpless. + +Mrs. Lawrence was talking about the caterer for the wedding; she wished +it were another kind of salad. Then she wanted Ruth to come up and look +at her dress; she wasn't at all satisfied with the touch of velvet they +had put on it. After that some one else came in and Mrs. Lawrence was +called away. Ruth left without saying what she had come to say. She knew +now that she would not say it. + +She went home seeing that she must go through with the wedding. It was +too late now to do anything else. Edith would break down--her pleasure +in her wedding spoiled; no, Edith must be spared--helped. She must do +this for Edith. No matter what people thought of her, no matter what +Edith herself thought--though _wouldn't_ she understand? Ruth considered +with a tortured wistfulness--the thing to do now was to go through with +it. Edith must look beautiful at her wedding; her happiness must be +unmarred. Later, when she was away with Will--happy--she could bear it +better. And she would understand that Ruth had wished to spare her; had +done it to help her. She held that thought with her--and drove ahead. + +There were moments in those last two days at home when it seemed that +now her heart was indeed breaking: a kindly note in the voice of her +father or mother--one of Ted's teasing jokes--little requests from her +grandfather; then doing things she had done for years and knowing while +doing them that she would not be doing them any more--the last time she +cut the flowers, and then that last night when she went to bed in her +own room, the room she had had ever since old enough to have a room of +her own. She lay there that night and listened to the branches of the +great oak tapping the house. She had heard that sound all her life; it +was associated with all the things of her life; it seemed to be speaking +for all those things--mourning for them. But the closest she came to +actual breaking down was that last day when her dog, laying his head +upon her knee, looked with trust and affection up into her eyes. As she +laid her hand upon his head his eyes seemed to speak for all the love +she had known through all the years. It seemed she could not bear it, +that her heart could not bear it, that she would rather die. But she did +bear it; she had that terrible power for bearing. + +If only she had told her mother, they said over and over again. But if +she told her mother she would not go--that was how she saw that; they +would not let her; or rather, she would have no strength left to fight +through their efforts to keep her. And then how could she tell her +mother when her mother would never in the world understand? She did not +believe that her mother could so much as comprehend that she could love +where she should not, that a girl like Ruth--or rather, _Ruth_--could +love a man it was not right she love. She had never talked with her +mother of real things, had never talked with her of the things of her +deepest feeling. She would not know how to do it now, even had she +dared. + +Her mother helped her dress for the wedding, talking all the while about +plans for the evening--just who was going to the church, the details +about serving. Ruth clung to the thought that those _were_ the things +her mother was interested in; they always had been, surely they would +continue to be. In her desperation she tried to think that in those +little things her mother cared so much about she would, after a time, +find healing. + +With that cruel power for bearing pain she got away from home without +breaking down; she got through that last minute when she realized she +would not see Ted or her grandfather again,--they would not be at the +wedding and would be in bed when she returned from it, and she was to +leave that night on the two o'clock train. It was unbelievable to her +that she had borne it, but she had driven ahead through utter misery as +they commented on her dress, praising her and joking with her. That was +in the living-room and she never forgot just how they were grouped--her +grandfather's newspaper across his knees; Mary, who had worked for them +for years, standing at the door; her dog Terror under the reading +table--Ted walking round and round her. Deane was talking with her +father in the hall. Her voice was sharp as she went out and said: "We +must hurry, Deane." + +The wedding was unreal; it seemed that all those people were just making +the movements of life; there were moments when she heard them from a +long way off, saw them and was uncertain whether they were there. And +yet she could go on and appear about the same; if she seemed a little +queer she was sure it was attributed to natural feeling about her +dearest friend's wedding--to emotion, excitement. There were moments +when things suddenly became real: a moment alone with Edith in her room, +just before they went to the church; a moment when Mrs. Lawrence broke +down. Walking down the aisle, the words of the service--that was in a +vague, blurred world; so was Edith's strained face as she turned away, +and her own walking down the aisle with Deane, turning to him and +smiling and saying something and feeling as if her lips were frozen. Yet +for three hours she laughed and talked with people. Mrs. Williams was at +the reception; several times they were in the same group. Oh, it was all +unreal--terrible--just a thing to drive through. There was a moment at +the last when Edith clung to her, and when it seemed that she could not +do the terrible thing she was going to do, that she was _not_ going to +do it--that the whole thing was some hideous nightmare. She wanted to +stay with Edith. She wanted to be like Edith. She felt like a little +girl then, just a frightened little girl who did not want to go away by +herself, away from everything she knew, from people who loved her. She +did not want to do that awful thing! She tried to pretend for a moment +she was not going to do it--just as sometimes she used to hide her face +when afraid. + +At last it was all over; she had gone to the train and seen Edith and +Will off for the East. Edith's face was pressed against the window of +the Pullman as the train pulled out. It was Ruth she was looking for; it +was to Ruth her eyes clung until the train drew her from sight. + +Ruth stood there looking after the train; the rest of their little group +of intimate friends had turned away--laughing, chattering, getting back +in the carriages. Deane finally touched Ruth's arm, for she was standing +in that same place looking after the train which had now passed from +sight. When he saw the woe of her wet face he said gruffly: "Hadn't we +better walk home?" He looked down at her delicate slippers, but better +walk in them than join the others looking like that. He supposed walking +would not be good for that frail dress; and then it came to him, and +stabbed him, that it didn't much matter. Probably Ruth would not wear +that dress again. + +She walked home without speaking to him, looking straight ahead in that +manner she all along had of ruthlessly pressing on to something; her +face now was as if it were frozen in suffering, as if it had somehow +stiffened in that moment of woe when Edith's face was drawn from her +sight. And she looked so tired!--so spent, so miserable; as if she ought +to be cared for, comforted. He took her arm, protectingly, yearningly. +He longed so in that moment to keep Ruth, and care for her! He wanted to +say things, but he seemed to be struck dumb, appalled by what it was +they were about to do. He held her arm close to him. She was going away! +Now that the moment had come he did not know how he was going to let her +go. And looking like this!--suffering like this--needing help. + +But he must not fail her now at the last; he must not fail her now when +she herself was so worn, so wretched, was bearing so much. As they +turned in at the gate he fought with all his strength against the +thought that they would not be turning in at that gate any more and +spoke in matter of fact tones of where he would be waiting for her, what +time she must be there. But when they reached the steps they stood there +for a minute under the big tree, there where they had so many times +stood through a number of years. As they stood there things crowded upon +them hard; Ruth raised her face and looked at him and at the anguish of +her swimming eyes his hands went out to her arms. "Don't go, Ruth!" he +whispered brokenly. "Ruth!--_don't go!_" + +But that made her instantly find herself, that found the fight in her, +to strengthen herself, to resist him; she was at once erect, +indomitable, the purpose that no misery could shake gleamed through her +wet eyes. Then she turned and went into the house. Her mother called out +to her, sleepily asking if she could get out of her dress by herself. +She answered yes, and then Mrs. Holland asked another sleepy question +about Edith. Then the house was still; she knew that they were all +asleep. She got her dress off and hung it carefully in the closet. She +had already put some things in her bag; she put in a few more now, all +the while sobbing under her breath. + +She took off her slippers. After she had done that she stood looking at +her bed. She saw her nightgown hanging in the closet. She wanted to put +on her nightgown and get into bed! She leaned against the bed, crying. +She wanted to put on her nightgown and get into bed! She was so tired, +so frightened, so worn with pain. Then she shook herself, steeled again, +and began putting on her shoes; put on her suit, her hat, got out her +gloves. And then at the very last she had to do what she had been trying +to make herself do all that day, and had not dared begin to do. She went +to her desk and holding herself tight, very rapidly, though with shaking +hand, wrote this note: + + "Dear Mother; I'm going away. I love Stuart Williams. I have for a + long time. Oh, mother--I'm so sorry--but I can't help it. He's + sick. He has to go away, so you see I have to go with him. It's + terrible that it is like this. Mother, try to believe that I can't + help it. After I get away I can write to you more about it. I can't + now. It will be terrible for you--for you all. Mother, it's been + terrible for me. Oh, try not to feel any worse than you can help. + People won't blame _you_. I wish I could help it. I wish--Can't + write more now. Write later. I'm so sorry--for everybody. So good + to me always. I love all--Ruth." + +She put her head down on the desk and cried. Finally she got up and +blindly threw the note over on her bed; with difficulty, because of the +shaking of her hands, put on her gloves, picked up her bag. And then she +stood there for a moment before turning off the light; she saw her +little chair, her dressing-table. She reached up and turned off the +light and then for another moment stood there in the darkened room. She +listened to the branches of the oak tree tapping against the house. Then +she softly opened her bedroom door and carefully closed it behind her. +She could hear her father's breathing; then Ted's, as she passed his +door. On the stairs she stood still: she wanted to hear Ted's breathing +again. But she had already gone where she could not hear Ted's +breathing. Her hand on the door, she stood still. There was something so +unreal about this, so preposterous--not a thing that really happened, +that could happen to _her_. It seemed that in just a minute she would +wake up and find herself safe in her bed. But in another minute she was +leaning against the outside door of her home, crying. She seemed to have +left the Ruth Holland she knew behind when she finally walked down the +steps and around the corner where Deane was waiting for her. + +They spoke scarcely a word until they saw the headlight of her train. +And then she drew back, clinging to him. "Ruth!" he whispered, holding +her, "don't!" But that seemed to make her know that she must; she +straightened, steeled herself, and moved toward the train. A moment +later she was on the platform, looking down at him. When she tried to +smile good-by, he whirled and walked blindly away. + +She did not look from the window as long as the lights of the town were +to be seen. She sat there perfectly still, hands tight together, head +down. For two hours she scarcely moved. Such strange things shot through +her mind. Maybe her mother, thinking she was tired, would not go to her +room until almost noon. At least she would have her coffee first. Had +she remembered to put Edith's handkerchiefs in her bag? Had anyone else +noticed that the hook at the waist of Edith's dress had come unfastened? +Edith was on a train too--going the other way. How strange it all was! +How terrible beyond belief! Just as she neared the junction where she +would meet Stuart and from which they would take the train South +together, the thought came to her that none of the rest of them might +remember always to have water in Terror's drinking pan. When she stepped +from the train she was crying--because Terror might want a drink and +wonder why she was not there to give it to him. He would not +understand--and oh, he would miss her so! Even when Stuart, stepping +from the darkness to meet her, drew her to him, brokenly whispering +passionate, grateful words, she could not stop crying--for Terror, who +would not understand, and who would miss her so! He became the whole +world she knew--loving, needing world, world that would not understand, +and would miss her so! + +The woman who, on that train from Denver, had been drawn into this story +which she had once lived was coming now into familiar country. She would +be home within an hour. She had sometimes ridden this far with Deane on +his cases. Her heart began to beat fast. Why, there was the very grove +in which they had that picnic! She could scarcely control the excitement +she felt in beginning to find old things. There was something so strange +in the old things having remained there just the same when she had +passed so completely away from them. Seeing things she knew brought the +past back with a shock. She could hardly get her breath when first she +saw the town. And there was the Lawrences'! Somehow it was unbelievable. +She did not hear the porter speaking to her about being brushed off; she +was peering hungrily from the window, looking through tears at the town +she had not seen since she left it that awful night eleven years before. +She was trembling as she stood on the platform waiting for the slowing +train to come to a stop. There was a moment of wanting to run back in +the car, of feeling she could not get off. + +The train had stopped; the porter took her by the arm, thinking by her +faltering that she was slipping. She took her bag from him and stood +there, turned a little away from the station crowd. + +Ted Holland had been waiting for that train, he also with fast beating +heart; he too was a little tremulous as he hurried down to the car, far +in the rear, from which passengers were alighting from the long train. +He scanned the faces of the people who began passing him. No, none of +them was Ruth. His picture of Ruth was clear, though he had not seen her +for eleven years. She would be looking about in that eager way--that +swift, bright way; when she saw him there would be that glad nodding of +her head, her face all lighting up. Though of course, he told himself, +she would be older, probably a little more--well, dignified. The romance +that secretly hung about Ruth for him made him picture her as unlike +other women; there would be something different about her, he felt. + +The woman standing there half turned from him was oddly familiar. She +was someone he knew, and somehow she agitated him. He did not tell +himself that that was Ruth--but after seeing her he was not looking at +anyone else for Ruth. This woman was not "stylish looking." She did not +have the smart look of most of the girls of Ruth's old crowd. He had +told himself that Ruth would be older--and yet it was not a woman he had +pictured, or rather, it was a woman who had given all for love, not a +woman who looked as if she had done just the things of women. This woman +stooped a little; care, rather than romance, had put its mark upon her; +instead of the secretly expected glamour of those years of love there +had been a certain settling of time. He knew before he acknowledged it +that it was Ruth, knew it by the way this woman made him feel. He came +nearer; she had timidly--not with the expected old swiftness--started in +the direction he was coming. She saw him--knew him--and in that rush of +feeling which transformed her anything of secret disappointment was +swept from him. + +He kissed her, as sheepishly as a brother would any sister, and was soon +covering his emotion with a practical request for her trunk check. But +as they walked away the boy's heart was strangely warmed. Ruth was back! + +As to Ruth, she did not speak. She could not. + + + + +CHAPTER THIRTEEN + + +It was the afternoon of Ruth Holland's return to Freeport that Edith +Lawrence--now Edith Lawrence Blair--was giving the tea for Deane +Franklin's bride and for Cora Albright, introducing Amy to the society +of the town and giving Cora another opportunity for meeting old friends. +"You see Cora was of our old crowd," Edith was laughingly saying to one +of the older women in introducing her two guests of honor, "and Amy has +married into it." She turned to Amy with a warm little smile and nod, as +if wanting to assure her again that they did look upon her as one of +them. + +They had indeed given her that sense of being made one of them. Their +quick, warm acceptance of her made them seem a wonderfully kindly +people. Her heart warmed to them because of this going out to her, a +stranger. That informality and friendliness which in a society like +theirs prevails well within the bounds made them seem to her a people of +real warmth. She was pleased with the thought of living among them, +being one of them; gratified, not only in the way they seemed to like +her, but by the place they gave her. There were happy little +anticipations of the life just opening up. She was flushed with pleasure +and gratification. + +She was seeing the society of the town at its best that afternoon; the +women who constituted that society were there, and at their best. For +some reason they always were at their best at the Lawrences', as if +living up to the house itself, which was not only one of the most +imposing of the homes of that rich little middle-western city, but had +an atmosphere which other houses, outwardly equally attractive, lacked. +Mrs. Lawrence had taste and hospitality; the two qualities breathed +through her house. She and Edith were Freeport's most successful +hostesses. The society of that town was like the particular thing known +as society in other towns; not distinguished by any unique thing so much +as by its likeness to the thing in general. Amy, knowing society in +other places, in a larger place, was a little surprised and much pleased +at what she recognized. + +And she felt that people were liking her, admiring her, and that always +put her at her best. Sometimes Amy's poise, rare in one so young, made +her seem aloof, not cordial, and she had not been one to make friends +quickly. Edith's friendliness had broken through that; she talked more +than was usual with her--was gayer, more friendly. "You're making a +great hit, my dear," Edith whispered to her gayly, and Amy flushed with +pleasure. People about the room were talking of how charming she was; of +there being something unusual in that combination of girlishness +and--they called it distinction; had Amy been in different mood they +might have spoken of it less sympathetically as an apparent feeling of +superiority. But she felt that she was with what she called her own +sort, and she was warmed in gratification by the place given herself. + +She was gayly telling a little group of an amusing thing that had +happened at her wedding when she overheard someone saying to Edith, by +whom she was standing: "Yes, on the two o'clock train. I was down to see +Helen off, and saw her myself--walking away with Ted." + +Amy noticed that the other women, who also had overheard, were only +politely appearing to be listening to her now, and were really +discreetly trying to hear what these two were saying. She brought her +story to a close. + +"You mean Ruth Holland?" one of the women asked, and the two groups +became one. + +Amy drew herself up; her head went a little higher, her lips tightened; +then, conscious of that, she relaxed and stood a little apart, seeming +only to be courteously listening to a thing in which she had no part. +They talked in lowered tones of how strange it seemed to feel Ruth was +back in that town. They had a different manner now--a sort of carefully +restrained avidity. "How does she look?" one of the women asked in that +lowered tone. + +"Well," said the woman who had been at the train, "she hasn't kept +herself _up_. Really, I was surprised. You'd think a woman in her +position would make a particular effort to--to make the most of herself, +now, wouldn't you? What else has she to go on? But really, she wasn't at +all good style, and sort of--oh, as if she had let herself _go_, I +thought. Though,"--she turned to Edith in saying this--"there's that +same old thing about her; I saw her smile up at Ted as they walked +away--and she seemed all different then. You know how it always used to +be with Ruth--so different from one minute to another." + +Edith turned away, rather abruptly, and joined another group. Amy could +not make out her look; it seemed--why it seemed pain; as if it hurt her +to hear what they were saying. Could it be that she still +_cared_?--after the way she had been treated? That seemed impossible, +even in one who had the sweet nature Mrs. Blair certainly had. + +While the women about her were still talking of Ruth Holland, Amy saw +Stuart Williams' wife come out of the dining room and stand there alone +for a minute looking about the room. It gave her a shock. The whole +thing seemed so terrible, so fascinatingly terrible. And it seemed +unreal; as a thing one might read or hear about, but not the sort of +thing one's own life would come anywhere near. Mrs. Williams' eyes +rested on their little group and Amy had a feeling that somehow she knew +what they were talking about. As her eyes followed the other woman's +about the room she saw that there were several groups in which people +were drawn a little closer together and appeared to be speaking a little +more intimately than was usual upon such an occasion. She felt that Mrs. +Williams' face became more impassive. A moment later she had come over +to Amy and was holding out her hand. There seemed to Amy something very +brave about her, dignified, fine, in the way she went right on, bearing +it, holding her own place, keeping silence. She watched her leave the +room with a new sense of outrage against that terrible woman--that woman +Deane stood up for! The resentment which in the past week she had been +trying to put down leaped to new life. + +The women around her resumed their talk: of Mrs. Williams, the Holland +family, of the night of Edith's wedding when--in that very house--Ruth +Holland had been there up to the very last minute, taking her place with +the rest of them. They spoke of her betrayal of Edith, her deception of +all her friends, of how she was the very last girl in the world they +would have believed it of. + +A little later, when she and Edith were talking with some other guests, +Ruth Holland was mentioned again. "I don't want to talk of Ruth," Edith +said that time; "I'd rather not." There was a catch in her voice and one +of the women impulsively touched her arm. "It was so terrible for you, +dear Edith," she murmured. + +"Sometimes," said Edith, "it comes home to me that it was pretty +terrible for Ruth." Again she turned away, leaving an instant's pause +behind her. Then one of the women said, "I think it's simply wonderful +that Edith can have anything but bitterness in her heart for Ruth +Holland! Why there's not another person in town--oh, except Deane +Franklin, of course--" + +She caught herself, reddened, then turned to Amy with a quick smile. +"And it's just his sympathetic nature, isn't it? That's exactly +Deane--taking the part of one who's down." + +"And then, too, men feel differently about those things," murmured +another one of the young matrons of Deane's crowd. + +Their manner of seeming anxious to smooth something over, to get out of +a difficult situation, enraged Amy, not so much against them as because +of there being something that needed smoothing over, because Deane had +put himself and her in a situation that was difficult. How did it +look?--what must people think?--his standing up for a woman the whole +town had turned against! But she was saying with what seemed a sweet +gravity, "I'm sure Deane would be sorry for any woman who had been +so--unfortunate. And she," she added bravely, "was a dear old friend, +was she not?" + +The woman who had commiserated with Edith now nodded approval at Amy. +"You're sweet, my dear," she said, and the benign looks of them all made +her feel there was something for her to be magnanimous about, something +queer. Her resentment intensified because of having to give that +impression of a sweet spirit. And so people talked about Deane's +standing up for this Ruth Holland! _Why_ did they talk?--just what did +they say? "There's more to it than I know," suspicion whispered. In that +last half hour it was hard to appear gracious and interested; she saw a +number of those little groups in which voices were low and faces were +trying not to appear eager. + +She wished she knew what they were saying; she had an intense desire to +hear more about this thing which she so resented, which was so roiling +to her. It fascinated as well as galled her; she wanted to know just how +this Ruth Holland looked, how she had looked that night of the wedding, +what she had said and done. The fact of being in the very house where +Ruth Holland had been that last night she was with her friends seemed to +bring close something mysterious, terrible, stirring imagination and +curiosity. Had she been with Deane that night? Had he taken her to the +wedding?--taken her home? She hardened to him in the thought of there +being this thing she did not know about. It began to seem he had done +her a great wrong in not preparing her for a thing that could bring her +embarrassment. Everyone else knew about it! Coming there a bride, and +the very first thing encountering something awkward! She persuaded +herself that her pleasure in this party, in this opening up of her life +there, was spoiled, that Deane had spoiled it. And she tormented herself +with a hundred little wonderings. + +She and Cora Albright went home together in Edith's brougham. Cora was +full of talk of Ruth Holland, this new development, Ruth's return, +stirring it all up again for her. Amy's few discreet questions brought +forth a great deal that she wanted to know. Cora had a worldly manner, +and that vague sympathy with evil that poetizes one's self without doing +anything so definite as condoning, or helping, the sinner. + +"I do think," she said, with a little shrug, "that the town has been +pretty hard about it. But then you know what these middle-western towns +are." Amy, at this appeal to her sophistication, gravely nodded. "I do +feel sorry for Ruth," Cora added in a more personal tone. + +"Will you go to see her?" Amy asked, rather pointedly. + +"Oh, I couldn't do that," replied Cora. "My family--you know,--or +perhaps you don't know. I'm related to Mrs. Williams," she laughed. + +"Oh!" Amy ejaculated, aghast, and newly fascinated by the horror, what +somehow seemed the impossibleness of the whole thing--that she should be +talking of Ruth Holland to a woman related to Mrs. Williams! + +"I suppose _she_ felt terribly," Amy murmured. + +Cora laughed a little. "Oh, I don't know. It never seemed to me that +Marion would do much feeling. Feeling is so--ruffling." + +"She looks," said Amy, a little aggressively, "as though she might not +show all she feels." + +"Oh, I suppose not," Cora agreed pleasantly. "Perhaps I do Marion an +injustice. She may have suffered in silence. Certainly she's kept +silence. Truth is, I never liked her so very well. I like Ruth much the +better of the two. I like warmth--feeling." + +She was leaning forward and looking from the window. "That's the +Hollands'," she said. And under her breath, compassionately, she +murmured, "Poor Ruth!" + +"I should think you _would_ go and see her," said Amy, curiously +resentful of this feeling. + +With a little sigh Cora leaned back in the luxurious corner. "We're not +free to do what we might like to do in this life," she said, looking +gravely at Amy and speaking as one actuated by something larger than +personal feeling. "Too many people are associated with me for me to go +and see Ruth--as, for my own part, I'd gladly do. You see it's even +closer than being related to Marion. Cyrus Holland,--Ruth's +brother--married into my family too. Funny, isn't it?" she laughed at +Amy's stare. "Yes, Cyrus Holland married a second cousin of Stuart +Williams' wife." + +"Why--" gasped Amy, "it's positively weird, isn't it?" + +"Things are pretty much mixed up in this world," Cora went on, speaking +with that good-natured sophistication which appealed to Amy as worldly. +"I think one reason Cy was so bitter against Ruth, and kept the whole +family so, was the way it broke into his own plans. He was in love with +Louise at the time Ruth left; of course all her kith and kin--being also +Marion's--were determined she should not marry a Holland. Cy thought he +had lost her, but after a time, as long as no one was quite so bitter +against Ruth as he, the opposition broke down a little--enough for +Louise to ride over it. Oh, yes, in these small towns everybody's +somehow mixed up with everyone else," she laughed. "And of course," she +went on more gravely, "that is where it is hard to answer the people who +seem so hard about Ruth. It isn't just one's self, or even just one's +family--though it broke them pretty completely, you know; but a thing +like that reaches out into so many places--hurts so many lives." + +"Yes," said Amy, "it does." She was thinking of her own life, of how it +was clouding her happiness. + +"One has to admit," said Cora, in the tone of summing it all up, "that +just taking one's own happiness is thorough selfishness. Society as a +whole is greater than the individual, isn't it?" + +That seemed to Amy the heart of it. She felt herself as one within +society, herself faithful to it and guarding it against all who would do +it harm; hard to the traitor, not because of any personal feeling--she +wished to make that clear to herself--but because society as a whole +demanded that hardness. After she had bade Cora good-by and as she was +about to open the door of the house Deane had prepared for her, she told +herself that it was a matter of taking the larger view. She was pleased +with the phrase; it seemed to clear her own feeling of any possible +charge of smallness. + + + + +CHAPTER FOURTEEN + + +Despite the fact that he knew he was going to be late getting home for +dinner, Dr. Franklin was sending his car very slowly along the +twelve-mile stretch of road that lay between him and home. This was not +so much because it was beautiful country through which he went, and the +spring freshness in the softness of late afternoon was grateful to him, +nor because too tired for any kind of hurrying, as it was that he did +not want to cover those twelve miles before he had thought out what he +was going to say to Amy. + +He had seen Ruth that afternoon. He went, as usual, to see her father, +and as he entered the room Ruth was sitting beside the bed. She sat with +her back to him and did not seem to know at once that he was there. She +was bending forward, elbow on her knee, hand to her face, looking at her +father who was asleep, or, rather, in that stupor with which death +reaches out into life, through which the living are drawn to the dead. +She was sitting very still, intent, as she watched the man whom life was +letting go. + +He had not seen Ruth since that night, eleven years before, when she +clung to him as she saw the headlight of her train, then turned from him +to the car that was to carry her away from the whole world she knew. It +had seemed that the best of life was pulling away from him as he heard +her train pull out. He fairly ran away from the sound of it; not alone +because it was taking Ruth out of his own life, but because it was +bearing her to a country where the way would be too hard. + +He knew that that way had been hard, that the years had not spared her; +and yet there had been a little shock when he saw Ruth that afternoon; +he knew now that his fears for her had rather given themselves a color +of romance. She looked worn, as if she had worked, and, just at first, +before she saw him, she looked older than it would seem that number of +years should make her. + +But when she heard him and turned, coming to him with outstretched hand, +it was as it used to be--feeling illumining, transforming her. She was +the old flaming Ruth then, the years that lined her defied. Her eyes--it +was like a steady light shining through trembling waters. No one else +ever gave him that impression Ruth did of a certain deep steadiness +through changing feeling. He had thought he remembered just how +wonderful Ruth's eyes were--how feeling flamed in them and that steady +understanding looked through from her to him--that bridge between +separateness. But they were newly wonderful to him,--so live, so tender, +so potent. + +She had been very quiet; thinking back to it, he pondered that. It +seemed not alone the quiet that comes with the acceptance of death, the +quiet that is the subduing effect of strange or moving circumstances, +but an inner quiet, a quiet of power. The years had taken something from +Ruth, but Ruth had won much from them. She was worn, a little dimmed, +but deepened. A tragedy queen she was not; he had a little smile for +himself for that subconscious romantic expectation that gave him, just +at the first, a little shock of disappointment when he saw Ruth. A +tragedy queen would hold herself more imposingly--and would have taken +better care of her hands. But that moment of a lighted way between Ruth +and him could let him afford to smile at disappointed romantic +expectation. + +He had been there for only a few minutes, having the long trip out in +the country to make. Ruth and Ted seemed to be alone in the house. He +asked her if she had seen Harriett, and she answered, simply, "Not yet." + +She had said, "You're married, Deane--and happy. I'm so glad." That, +too, she had said very simply; it was real; direct. As he thought of it +now it was as if life had simplified her; she had let slip from her, +like useless garments, all those blurring artificialities that keep +people apart. + +As usual he would go over again that evening to see his patient; and +then he would remain for a visit with Ruth. And he wanted to take Amy +with him. He would not let himself realize just how much he wanted to do +that, how much he would hate not doing it. He was thinking it out, +trying to arrive at the best way of putting it to Amy. If only he could +make it seem to her the simple thing it was to him! + +He would be so happy to do this for Ruth, but it was more than that; it +was that he wanted to bring Amy within--within that feeling of his about +Ruth. He wanted her to share in that. He could not bear to leave it a +thing from which she was apart, to which she was hostile. He could not +have said just why he felt it so important Amy become a part of what he +felt about Ruth. + +When at last they were together over their unusually late dinner the +thing he wanted to say seemed to grow more difficult because Amy was so +much dressed up. In her gown of that afternoon she looked so much the +society person that what he had in mind somehow grew less simple. And +there was that in her manner too--like her clothes it seemed a society +manner--to make it less easy to attempt to take her into things outside +the conventional round of life. He felt a little helpless before this +self-contained, lovely young person. She did not seem easy to get at. +Somehow she seemed to be apart from him. There was a real wistfulness in +his desire to take her into what to him were things real and important. +It seemed if he could not do that now that Amy would always be a little +apart from him. + +Her talk was of the tea that afternoon: who was there, what they wore, +what they had said to her, how the house looked; how lovely Mrs. +Lawrence and Edith were. + +What he was thinking was that it was Ruth's old crowd had assembled +there--at Edith's house--to be gracious to Amy that afternoon. She +mentioned this name and that--girls Ruth had grown up with, girls who +had known her so well, and cared for her. And Ruth? Had they spoken of +her? Did they know she was home? If they did, did it leave them all +unmoved? He thought of the easy, pleasant way life had gone with most of +those old friends of Ruth's. Had they neither the imagination nor the +heart to go out in the thought of the different thing it had been to +her? + +He supposed not; certainly they had given no evidence of any such +disposition. It hardened him against them. He hated the thought of the +gay tea given for Amy that afternoon when Ruth, just back after all +those years away, was home alone with her father, who was dying. Amy +they were taking in so graciously--because things had gone right with +her; Ruth, whom they knew, who had been one of them, they left +completely out. There flamed up a desire to take Amy with him, as +against them, to show them that she was sweeter and larger than they, +that she understood and put no false value on a cordiality that left the +heart hard. + +But Amy looked so much one of them, seemed so much one with them in her +talk about them, that he put off what he wanted to say, listening to +her. And yet, he assured himself, that was not the whole of Amy; he +softened and took heart in the thought of her tenderness in moments of +love, her sweetness when the world fell away and they were man and woman +to each other. Those real things were stronger in her than this crust of +worldliness. He would reach through that to the life that glowed behind +it. If he only had the skill, the understanding, to reach through that +crust to the life within, to that which was real, she would understand +that the very thing bringing them their happiness was the thing which in +Ruth put her apart from her friends; she would be larger, more tender, +than those others. He wanted that triumph for her over them. He would +glory in it so! There would be such pride in showing Amy to Ruth as a +woman who was real. And most of all, because it was a thing so deep in +his own life, he wanted Amy to come within, to know from within, his +feeling about Ruth. + +"You know, dear, that was Ruth's old crowd you were meeting this +afternoon," he finally said. + +He saw her instantly stiffen. Her mouth looked actually hard. That, he +quickly told himself, was what those people had done to her. + +"And that house," he went on, his voice remaining quiet, "was like +another home to Ruth." + +Amy cleared her throat. "She didn't make a very good return for the +hospitality, do you think?" she asked sharply. + +Flushing, he started to reply to that, but instead asked abruptly, "Does +Edith know that Ruth is home?" + +"Yes," Amy replied coldly, "they were speaking of her." + +"_Speaking_ of her!" he scoffed. + +"I suppose _you_ would think," she flamed, "that they ought to have met +her at the train!" + +"The idea doesn't seem to me preposterous," he answered. + +Feeling the coldness in his own voice he realized how he was at the very +start getting away from the thing he wanted to do, was estranging Amy by +his resentment of her feeling about a thing she did not understand. +After all--as before, he quickly made this excuse for her--what more +natural than that she should take on the feeling of these people she was +thrown with, particularly when they were so very kindly in their +reception of her? + +"Dear," he began again, "I saw Ruth this afternoon. She seems so alone +there. She's gone through such--such hard things. It's a pretty sad +homecoming for her. I'm going over there again this evening, and, Amy +dear, I do so want you to go with me." + +Amy did not reply. He had not looked at her after he began speaking--not +wanting to lose either his courage or his temper in seeing that +stiffening in her. He did not look at her now, even though she did not +speak. + +"I want you to go, Amy. I ask you to. I want it--you don't know how +much. I'm terribly sorry for Ruth. I knew her very well, we were very +close friends. Now that she is here, and in trouble--and so lonely--I +want to take my wife to see her." + +As even then she remained silent, he turned to her. She sat very +straight; red spots burned in her cheeks and there was a light in her +eyes he had never seen there before. She pushed back her chair +excitedly. "And may I ask,"--her voice was high, tight,--"if you see +nothing insulting to your wife in this--proposal?" + +For an instant he just stared at her. "Insulting?" he faltered. "I--I--" +He stopped, helpless, and helplessly sat looking at her, sitting erect, +breathing fast, face and eyes aflame with anger. And in that moment +something in his heart fell back; a desire that had been dear to him, a +thing that had seemed so beautiful and so necessary, somehow just crept +back where it could not be so much hurt. At the sight of her, hard, +scornful, so sure in her hardness, that high desire of his love that she +share his feeling fell back. And then to his disappointment was added +anger for Ruth; through the years anger against so many people had +leaped up in him because of their hardness to Ruth, that, as if of +itself, it leaped up against Amy now. + +"No," he said, his voice hard now too, "I must say I see nothing +insulting in asking you to go with me to see Ruth Holland!" + +"Oh, you don't!" she cried. "A woman living with another woman's +husband! Why, this very afternoon I was with the wife of the man that +woman is living with!--_she_ is the woman I would meet! And you can ask +me--your wife--to go and see a woman who turned her back on society--on +decency--a woman her own family cast out, and all decent people turn +away from." She paused, struggling, unable to keep her dignity and yet +say the things rushing up to be said. + +He had grown red, as he always did when people talked that way about +Ruth. "Of course,"--he made himself say it quietly--"she isn't those +things to me, you know. She's--quite other things to me." + +"I'd like to know what she _is_ to you!" Amy cried. "It's very +strange--your standing up for her against the whole town!" + +He did not reply; it was impossible to tell Amy, when she was like this, +what Ruth had been--was--to him. + +She looked at him as he sat there silent. And this was the man she had +married!--a man who could treat her like this, asking her to go and see +a woman who wasn't respectable--why, who was as far from respectable as +a woman could be! This was the man for whom she had left her mother and +father--and a home better than this home certainly,--yes, and that other +man who had wanted her and who had so much more to offer! _He_ respected +her. He would never ask her to go and see a woman who wasn't decent! But +she had married for love; had given up all those other things that she +might have love. And now.... Her throat tightened and it was hard to +hold back tears. And then suddenly she wanted to go over to Deane, slip +down beside him, put her arms around him, tell him that she loved him +and ask him to please tell her that he loved her. But there was so +strange an expression on his face; it checked that warm, loving impulse, +holding her where she was, hard. What was he thinking about--_that +woman_? He had so strange a look. She did not believe it had anything to +do with her. No, he had forgotten her. It was this other woman. Why, he +was in love with her--of course! He had always been in love with her. + +Because it seemed the idea would break her heart, because she could not +bear it, it was scoffingly that she threw out: "You were in love with +her, I suppose? You've always been in love with her, haven't you?" + +"Yes, Amy," he answered, "I was in love with Ruth. I loved her--at any +rate, I sorrowed for her--until the day I met you." + +His voice was slow and sad; the whole sadness of it all, all the sadness +of a world in which men and women loved and hurt each other seemed +closing in around him. He did not seem able to rise out of it, to go out +to her; it was as if his new disappointment brought back all the hurt of +old ones. + +Young, all inexperienced in the ways of adjusting love to life, of +saving it for life, the love in her tried to shoot through the self-love +that closed her in, holding her tight. She wanted to follow that +impulse, go over and put her arms around her husband, let her kisses +drive away that look of sadness. She knew that she could do it, that she +ought to do it, that she would be sorry for not having done it, but--she +couldn't. Love did not know how to fight its way through pride. + +He had risen. "I must go. I have a number of calls to make. I--I'm sorry +you feel as you do, Amy." + +He was not going to explain! He was just leaving her outside it all! He +didn't care for her, really, at all--just took her because he couldn't +get that other woman! Took _her_--Amy Forrester--because he couldn't get +the woman he wanted! Great bands of incensed pride bound her heart now, +closing in the love that had fluttered there. Her face, twisted with +varying emotions, was fairly ugly as she cried: "Well, I must say, I +wish you had told me this before we were married!" + +He looked at her in surprise. Then, surprised anew, looked quickly away. +Feeling that he had failed, he tried to put it aside lightly. "Oh, come +now, Amy, you didn't think, did you, that you could marry a man of +thirty-four who had never loved any woman?" + +"I should like to think he had loved a respectable woman!" she cried, +wounded anew by this lightness, unable to hold back things she miserably +knew she would be sorry she had not held back. "And if he had loved that +kind of a woman--_did_ love her--I should like to think he had too much +respect for his wife to ask her to meet such a person!" + +"Ruth Holland is not a woman to speak like that about, Amy," he said +with unconcealed anger. + +"She's not a decent woman! She's not a respectable woman! She's a bad +woman! She's a low woman!" + +She could not hold it back. She knew she looked unlovely, knew she was +saying things that would not make her loved. She could not help it. +Deane turned away from her. After a minute he got a little control of +himself and instead of the hot things that had flashed up, said coldly: +"I don't think you know what you're talking about." + +"Of course I couldn't hope to know as much as _she_ does," she jeered. +"However," she went on, with more of a semblance of dignity, "I do know +a few things. I know that society cannot countenance a woman who did +what that woman did. I know that if a woman is going to selfishly take +her own happiness with no thought of others she must expect to find +herself outside the lives of decent people. Society must protect itself +against such persons as she. I know that much--fortunately." + +Her words fortified her. She, certainly, was in the right. She felt that +she had behind her all those women of that afternoon. Did any of them +receive Ruth Holland? Did they not all see that society must close in +against the individual who defied it? She felt supported. + +For the minute he stood there looking at her--so absolutely unyielding, +so satisfied in her conclusions,--those same things about society and +the individual that he had heard from the rest of them; like the rest of +them so satisfied with the law she had laid down--law justifying +hardness of heart and closing in against the sorrow of a particular +human life; from Amy now that same look, those same words. For a little +time he did not speak. "I'm awfully sorry, Amy," was all he said then. + +He stood there in miserable embarrassment. He always kissed her good-by. + +She saw his hesitancy and turned to the other room. "Hadn't you better +hurry?" she laughed. "You have so many calls to make--and some of them +so important!" + + + + +CHAPTER FIFTEEN + + +It was quiet that evening in the house of Cyrus Holland; the noises that +living makes were muffled by life's awe of death, even sounds that could +not disturb the dying guarded against by the sense of decorum of those +living on. Downstairs were people who had come to inquire for the man +they knew would not be one of them again. For forty years Cyrus Holland +had been a factor in the affairs of the town. He was Freeport's senior +banker, the old-fashioned kind of banker, with neither the imagination +nor the daring to make of himself a rich man, or of his bank an +institution using all the possibilities of its territory. In venturing +days he remained cautious. His friends said that he was +sane--responsible; men of a newer day put it that he was limited, +lacking in that boldness which makes the modern man of affairs. He had +advised many men and always on the side of safety. No one had grown rich +through his suggestions, but more than one had been saved by his +counsels. With the expansion of the business of the town newer banks had +gone ahead of his, and when they said he was one of the good substantial +men of the community they were indicating his limitations with his +virtues. Such a man, not a brilliant figure through his lifetime, would +be lamented in his passing. They had often said that he failed in using +his opportunities; what they said now was that he had never abused +them--death, as usual, inducing the living to turn the kindly side to +the truth about the dying. + +Ruth did not go downstairs to see the people who were coming in. Ted was +down there, and Flora Copeland, a spinster cousin of the Hollands, who +for several years had lived in the house. Once, in passing through the +hall, she heard voices which she recognized. She stood there listening +to them. It was so strange to hear them; and so good. She was hungry for +voices she knew--old voices. Once there was a pause and her heart beat +fast for she got a feeling that maybe they were going to ask for her. +But they broke that pause to say goodnight. She had received no message +about anyone asking for her. + +But even though she was not seeing the people who came she felt the +added strangeness her presence made in that house which had suspended +the usual affairs of living in waiting for death. The nurse was one of +the girls of the town, of a family Ruth knew. She had been only a little +girl at the time Ruth went away. She was conscious, in the young woman's +scrupulously professional manner toward herself, of a covert interest, +as in something mysterious, forbidden. She could see that to this +decorous young person she was a woman out of another world. It hurt her, +and it made her a little angry. She wished that this professional, +proper young woman, stealing glances as at a forbidden thing, could know +the world in which she actually lived. + +And yet it occurred to her that the strain was less great than it would +have been at any other time--something about a room of death making the +living a little less prone to divide themselves into good and bad, +approved and condemned. With the approach of death there are likely to +be only two classes--the living and the dead. After the first few hours, +despite the estranging circumstances, there did seem to be some sort of +a bond between her and this girl who attended her father. + +Ruth and Ted and Flora Copeland had had dinner together. Her Cousin +Flora had evidently pondered the difficult question of a manner with +Ruth and was pursuing it scrupulously. Her plan was clearly indicated in +her manner. She would seem to be acting as if nothing had happened and +yet at the same time made it plain that she in no sense countenanced the +person to whom she was being kind. Her manner was that most dismal of +all things--a punctilious kindliness. + +This same Cousin Flora, now an anæmic woman of forty-five, had not +always been exclusively concerned with propriety. Ruth could remember +Cousin Flora's love affair, which had so greatly disturbed the members +of the family, and which, to save their own pride, they had thwarted. +Cousin Flora had had the misfortune to fall in love with a man quite +outside the social sphere of the Copelands and the Hollands. He was a +young laboring man whom she knew through the social affairs of the +church. He had the presumption to fall in love with her. She had not had +love before, being less generously endowed in other respects than with +social position in Freeport. There had been a brief, mad time when +Cousin Flora had seemed to find love greater than exclusiveness. But the +undesirable affair was frustrated by a family whose democracy did not +extend beyond a working together for the good of the Lord, and Cousin +Flora was, as Ruth remembered their saying with satisfaction, saved. +Looking at her now Ruth wondered if there ever came times when she +regretted having been saved. + +She tried to make the most of all those little things that came into her +mind just because this homecoming was so desolate a thing to be left +alone with. She had many times lived through a homecoming. And when she +had thought of coming home she had always, in spite of it all, thought +of things as much the same. And now even she and Ted were strange with +each other; it was Ted the little boy she knew; it was hard all at once +to bridge years in which they had not shared experiences. + +It was the house itself seemed really to take her in. When she got her +first sight of it all the things in between just rolled away. She was +back. What moved her first was not that things had changed but that they +were so much the same--the gate, the walk up to the house, the big tree, +the steps of the porch; as she went up the walk there was the real +feeling of coming home. + +Then they stepped up on the porch--and her mother was not there to open +the door for her; she knew then with a poignancy even those first days +had not carried that she would never see her mother again, knew as she +stepped into the house that her mother was gone. And yet it would keep +seeming her mother must be somewhere in that house, that in a little +while she would come in the room and tell something about where she had +been. And she would find herself listening for her grandfather's slow, +uncertain step; and for Terror's bark--one of his wild, glad rushes into +the room. Ted said that Terror had been run over by an automobile a +number of years before. + +Nor was it only those whom death kept away who were not there. Her +sister Harriett had not been there to welcome her; now it was evening +and she had not yet seen her. Ted had merely said that he guessed +Harriett was tired out. He seemed embarrassed about it and had hastily +begun to talk of something else. And none of the old girls had come in +to see her. The fact that she had not expected them to come somehow did +not much relieve the hurt of their not coming. When a door opened she +would find herself listening for Edith's voice; there was no putting +down the feeling that surely Edith would be running in soon. + +Most of the time she sat by her father's bed; though she was watching +him dying, to sit there by him was the closest to comfort she could +come. And as she watched the face which already had the look of death +there would come pictures of her father at various times through the +years. There was that day when she was a tiny girl and he came home +bringing her a puppy; she could see his laughing face as he held the +soft, wriggling, fuzzy little ball of life up to her, see him standing +there enjoying her delight. She saw him as he was one day when she said +she was not going to Sunday-school, that she was tired of Sunday-school +and was not going any more. She could hear him saying, "Ruth, go +upstairs and put on your clothes for Sunday-school!"--see him as plainly +as though it had just happened standing there pointing a stern finger +toward the stairs, not moving until she had started to obey him. And +once when she and Edith and some other girls were making a great noise +on the porch he had stepped out from the living-room, where he and some +men were sitting about the table, looking over something, and said, +mildly, affectionately, "My dears, what would you think of making a +little less noise?" Queer things to be remembering, but she saw just how +he looked, holding the screen door open as he said it. + +And as she sat there thinking of how she would never hear his voice +again, he reached out his hand as if groping for something he wanted; +and when with a little sob she quickly took it he clasped her hand, +putting into it a strength that astonished her. He turned toward her +after that and the nature of his sleep changed a little; it seemed more +natural, as if there were something of peace in it. It was as if he had +turned to her, reached out his hand for her, knowing she was there and +wanting her. He was too far from life for more, but he had done what he +could. Her longing gave the little movement big meaning. Sitting there +holding the hand of her father who would never talk to her nor listen to +her again, she wanted as she had never wanted before to tell her story. +She had been a long time away; she had had a hard time. She wanted to +tell him about it, wanted to try and make him understand how it had all +happened. She wanted to tell him how homesick she had been and how she +had always loved them all. It seemed if she could just make him know +what it was she had felt, and what she had gone through, he would be +sorry for her and love her as he used to. + +Someone had come into the room; she did not turn at once, trying to make +her blurred eyes clear. When she looked around she saw her sister +Harriett. Her father had relaxed his hold on her hand and so she rose +and turned to her sister. + +"Well, Ruth," said Harriett, in an uncertain tone. Then she kissed her. +The kiss, too, was uncertain, as if she had not known what to do about +it, but had decided in its favor. But she had kissed her. Again that +hunger to be taken in made much of little. She stood there struggling to +hold back the sobs. If only Harriett would put her arms around her and +really kiss her! + +But Harriett continued to stand there uncertainly. Then she moved, as if +embarrassed. And then she spoke. "Did you have a--comfortable trip?" she +asked. + +The struggle with sobs was over. Ruth took a step back from her sister. +It was a perfectly controlled voice which answered: "Yes, Harriett, my +trip was comfortable--thank you." + +Harriett flushed and still stood there uncertainly. Then, "Did the town +look natural?" she asked, diffidently this time. + +But Ruth did not say whether the town had looked natural or not. She had +noticed something. In a little while Harriett would have another baby. +And she had not known about it! Harriett, to be sure, had had other +babies and she had not known about it, but somehow to see Harriett, not +having known it, brought it home hard that she was not one of them any +more; she did not know when children were to be born; she did not know +what troubled or what pleased them; did not know how they managed the +affairs of living--who their neighbors were--their friends. She had not +known about Harriett; Harriett did not know about her--her longing for a +baby, longing which circumstances made her sternly deny herself. +Unmindful of the hurt of a moment before she now wanted to pour all that +out to Harriett, wanted to talk with her of those deep, common things. + +The nurse had come in the room and was beginning some preparations for +the night. Harriett was moving toward the door. "Harriett," Ruth began +timidly, "won't you come in my room a little while and--talk?" + +Harriett hesitated. They were near the top of the stairs and voices +could be heard below. "I guess not," she said nervously. "Not tonight," +she added hurriedly; "that's Edgar down there. He's waiting for me." + +"Then good night," said Ruth very quietly, and turned to her room. + +All day long she had been trying to keep away from her room. "Thought +probably you'd like to have your old room, Ruth," Ted had said in taking +her to it. He had added, a little hurriedly, "Guess no one's had it +since you left." + +It looked as if it was true enough no one had used it since she went out +of it that night eleven years before. The same things were there; the +bed was in the same position; so was her dressing table, and over by the +big window that opened to her side porch was the same little low chair +she always sat in to put on her shoes and stockings. It took her a long +way back; it made old things very strangely real. She sat down in her +little chair now and looked over at a picture of the Madonna Edith had +once given her on her birthday. She could hear people moving about +downstairs, hear voices. She had never in her whole life felt as alone. + +And then she grew angry. Harriett had no right to treat her like that! +She had worked; she had suffered; she had done her best in meeting the +hard things of living. She had gone the way of women, met the things +women meet. Why, she had done her own washing! Harriett had no right to +treat her as if she were clear outside the common things of life. + +She rose and went to the window and lowering it leaned out. She had +grown used to turning from hard things within to the night. There in the +South-west, where they slept out of doors, she had come to know the +night. Ever since that it had seemed to have something for her, +something from which she could draw. And after they had gone through +those first years and the fight was not for keeping life but for making +a place for it in the world, she had many times stepped from a cramping +little house full of petty questions she did not know how to deal with, +from a hard little routine that threatened their love out to the vast, +still night of that Colorado valley and always something had risen in +herself which gave her power. So many times that had happened that +instinctively she turned to the outside now, leaning her head against +the lowered casing. The oak tree was gently tapping against the +house--that same old sound that had gone all through her girlhood; the +familiar fragrance of a flowering vine on the porch below; the thrill of +the toads off there in the little ravine, a dog's frolicsome barking; +the laughter of some boys and girls who were going by--old things those, +sweeping her back to old things. Down in the next block some boys were +singing that old serenading song, "Good-night, Ladies." Long ago boys +had sung it to her. She stood there listening to it, tears running down +her face. + +She was startled by a tap at the door; dashing her hands across her face +she eagerly called, "Come in." + +"Deane's here, Ruth," said Ted. "Wants to see you. Shall I tell him to +come in here?" + +She nodded, but for an instant Ted stood there looking at her. She was +so strange. She had been crying, and yet she seemed so glad, so excited +about something. + +"Oh, Deane," she cried, holding out her two hands to him, laughter and +sobs crowding out together, "_talk_ to me! How's your mother? How's your +Aunt Margaret's rheumatism? What kind of an automobile have you? What +about your practice? What about your dog? Why, Deane," she rushed on, +"I'm just starving for things like that! You know I'm just Ruth, don't +you, Deane?" She laughed a little wildly. "And I've come home. And I +want to know about things. Why I could listen for hours about what +streets are being paved--and who supports old Mrs. Lynch! Don't you see, +Deane?" she laughed through tears. "But first tell me about Edith! How +does she look? How many children has she? Who are her friends? And oh, +Deane--tell me,--does she _ever_ say anything about me?" + +They talked for more than two hours. She kept pouring out questions at +him every time he would stop for breath. She fairly palpitated with that +desire to hear little things--what Bob Horton did for a living, whether +Helen Matthews still gave music lessons. She hung tremulous upon his +words, laughing and often half crying as he told little stories about +quarrels and jokes--about churches and cooks. In his profession he had +many times seen a system craving a particular thing, but it seemed to +him he had never seen any need more pitifully great than this of hers +for laughing over the little drolleries of life. And then they sank into +deeper channels--he found himself telling her things he had not told +anyone: about his practice, about the men he was associated with, things +he had come to think. + +And she talked to him of Stuart's health, of their efforts at making a +living--what she thought of dry farming, of heaters for apple orchards; +the cattle business, the character of Western people. She told him of +the mountains in winter--snow down to their feet; of Colorado air on a +winter's morning. And then of more personal, intimate things--how lonely +they had been, how much of a struggle they had found it. She talked of +the disadvantage Stuart was at because of his position, how he had grown +sensitive because of suspicion, because there were people who kept away +from him; how she herself had not made friends, afraid to because +several times after she had come to know the people around her they had +"heard," and drawn away. She told it all quite simply, just that she +wanted to let him know about their lives. He could see what it was +meaning to her to talk, that she had been too tight within and was +finding relief. "I try not to talk much to Stuart about things that +would make him feel bad," she said. "He gets despondent. It's been very +hard for Stuart, Deane. He misses his place among men." + +She fell silent there, brooding over that--a touch of that tender, +passionate brooding he knew of old. And as he watched her he himself was +thinking, not of how hard it had been for Stuart, but of what it must +have been to Ruth. That hunger of hers for companionship told him more +than words could possibly have done of what her need had been. He +studied her as she sat there silent. She was the same old Ruth, but a +deepened Ruth; there was the same old sweetness, but new power. He had a +feeling that there was nothing in the world Ruth would not understand; +that bars to her spirit were down, that she would go out in tenderness +to anything that was of life--to sorrow, to joy, with the insight to +understand and the warmth to care. He looked at her: worn down by +living, yet glorified by it; hurt, yet valiant. The life in her had gone +through so much and circumstances had not been able to beat it down. And +this was the woman Amy said it was insulting of him to ask her to meet! + +She looked up at him with her bright, warm smile. "Oh, Deane, it's been +so good! You don't know how you've helped me. Why you wouldn't believe," +she laughed, "how much better I feel." + +They had risen and he had taken her hand for goodnight. "You always +helped me, Deane," she said in her simple way. "You never failed me. You +don't know"--this with one of those flashes of feeling that lighted Ruth +and made her wonderful--"how many times, when things were going badly, +I've thought of you--and wanted to see you." + +They stood there a moment silent; the things they had lived through +together, in which they had shared understanding, making a spiritual +current between them. She broke from it with a light, fond: "Dear Deane, +I'm so glad you're happy. I want you to be happy always." + + + + +CHAPTER SIXTEEN + + +Those words kept coming back to him after he had gone to bed: "I'm so +glad you're happy--I want you to be happy always." Amy was asleep when +he came home, or he took it for granted that she was asleep and was +careful not to disturb her, for it was past midnight. He wished she +would turn to him with a sleepy little smile. He wanted to be made to +feel that it was true he was happy, that he was going to be happy +always. That night was not filled with the sweetness of love's faith in +permanence. He tried to put away the thought of how Amy had looked as +she said those things about Ruth. Knowing the real Ruth, his feeling +about her freshened, deepened, he could not bear to think of Amy as +having said those things. He held it off in telling himself again that +that was what the people of the town had done, that he himself had not +managed well. He would try again--a little differently. Amy was really +so sweet, so loving, he told himself, that she would come to be +different about this. Though he did not dwell on that, either--upon her +coming to be different; her face in saying those things was a little too +hard to forget. He kept up a pretence with himself on the surface, but +down in his heart he asked less now; he was not asking of love that +complete sharing, that deep understanding which had been his dream +before he talked to Amy. He supposed things would go on about the +same--just that that one thing wouldn't be, was the thought with which +he went to sleep, making his first compromise with his ideal for their +love. Just as he was falling asleep there came before him, half of +dreams, Ruth's face as it had been when she seemed to be brooding over +the things life brought one. It was as if pain had endowed her with +understanding. Did it take pain to do it? + +He had an early morning call to make and left home without really +talking to Amy. When he woke in the morning, yearning to be back in the +new joy of her love, he was going to tell her that he was sorry he had +hurt her, sorry there was this thing they looked at differently, but +that he loved her with his whole heart and that they were going to be +happy just the same, and then maybe some time they'd "get together" on +this. It was a thing he would not have said he would do, but there are +many things one will do to get from the shadow back into that necessary +sunlight of love. + +However, there was not opportunity then for doing it; he had to hurry to +the hospital and Amy gave him no chance for such a moment with her. She +had the manner of keeping up an appearance of going on as if nothing had +happened; as if that thing were left behind--frosted over. She kissed +him good-by, but even in that there seemed an immense reservation. It +made him unhappy, worried him. He told himself that he would have to +talk to Amy, that it wouldn't do to leave the thing that way. + +It had been so easy to talk to Ruth; it seemed that one could talk to +her about anything, that there was no danger of saying a thing and +having it bound back from a wall of opinions and prejudices that kept +him from her. There was something resting, relaxing, in the way one +could be one's self with Ruth, the way she seemed to like one for just +what one was. He had always felt more at ease with her than with anyone +else, but now he more than ever had the feeling that her mind was +loosened from the things that held the minds of most of the women he +knew. It was a great thing not to have those holdbacks in talking with a +friend, to be freed of that fear of blundering into a thing that would +be misunderstood. He did not face the fact that that was just the way it +was with Amy, that there was constantly the fear of saying something +that would better have been left unsaid. But he was thinking that being +free to say what one was feeling was like drawing a long breath. + +And in thinking of it as he went about his calls that morning, in +various homes, talking with a number of people, it occurred to him that +many of those things he had come to think, things of which he did not +often try to talk to others, he had arrived at because of Ruth. It was +amazing how his feeling about her, thoughts through her, had run into +all his thinking. It even occurred to him that if it had not been for +her he might have fallen into accepting many things more or less as the +rest of the town did. It seemed now that as well as having caused him +much pain she had brought rich gain; for those questionings of life, +that refusal placidly to accept, had certainly brought keener +satisfactions than he could have had through a closer companionship with +facile acceptors. Ruth had been a big thing in his life, not only in his +heart, but to his mind. + +He had come out of the house of one of his patients and was standing on +the steps talking with the woman who had anxiously followed him to the +door. The house was directly across the street from the Lawrences'. +Edith was sitting out on the porch; her little girl of eight and the +boy, who was younger, were with her. They made an attractive picture. + +He continued his reassuring talk to the woman whose husband was ill, but +he was at the same time thinking of Ruth's eager questionings about +Edith, about Edith's children, her hunger for every smallest thing he +could tell her. When he went down to his car Edith, looking up and +seeing him, gayly waved her hand. He returned the salute and stood there +as if doing something to the car. Sitting there in the morning sunshine +with her two children Edith looked the very picture of the woman for +whom things had gone happily. Life had opened its pleasantest ways to +Edith. He could not bring himself to get in his car and start away; he +could not get rid of the thought of what it would mean to Ruth if Edith +would go to see her, could not banish the picture of Ruth's face if +Edith were to walk into the room. And because he could not banish it he +suddenly turned abruptly from his car and started across the street and +up the steps to the porch. + +She smiled brightly up at him, holding out her hand. "Coming up to talk +to me? How nice!" + +He pulled up a chair, bantering with the children. + +"I know what you've come for," Edith laughed gayly. "You've come to hear +about how lovely Amy was at the tea yesterday. You want to know all the +nice things people are saying about her." + +His face puckered as it did when he was perplexed or annoyed. He laughed +with a little constraint as he said: "That would be pleasant hearing, I +admit. But it was something else I wanted to talk to you about just now, +Edith." + +She raised her brows a little in inquiry, bending forward slightly, +waiting, her eyes touched with the anticipation of something serious. He +felt sure his tone had suggested Ruth to her; that indicated to him that +Ruth had been much in her mind. + +"I had a long visit with Ruth last night," he began quietly. + +She did not speak, bending forward a little more, her eyes upon him +intently, anxiously. + +"Edith?" + +"Yes, Deane?" + +He paused, then asked simply: "Edith, Ruth is very lonely. Won't you go +to see her?" + +She raised her chin in quick, startled way, some emotion, he did not +know just what, breaking over her face. + +"I thought I'd come and tell you, Edith, how lonely--how utterly +lonely--Ruth is, because I felt if you understood you would want to go +and see her." + +Still Edith did not speak. She looked as though she were going to cry. + +"Ruth's had a hard time, Edith. It's been no light life for her--you +don't have to do more than look in her eyes to know that. I wish you +could have heard the way she asked about you--poured out questions about +you. She loves you just as she always did, Edith. She's sorrowed for you +all through these years." + +A tear brimmed over from Edith's blue eyes and rolled +slowly--unheeded--down her cheek. His heart warmed to her and he took +hope as he watched that tear. + +"She was crazy to know about your children. That's been a grief to her, +Edith. Ruth should be a mother--you know that. You must know what a +mother she would have made. If you were to take your youngsters to see +her--" He broke off with a laugh, as if there was no way of expressing +it. + +Edith looked away from him, seemed to be staring straight into a rose +bush at the side of the porch. + +"Couldn't you?" he gently pressed. + +She turned to him. "I'd like to, Deane," she said simply, "but, "--her +dimmed eyes were troubled--"I don't see how I could." + +"Why not?" he pursued. "It's simple enough--just go and see her. We +might go together, if that would seem easier." + +She was pulling at a bit of sewing in her lap. "But, Deane, it _isn't_ +simple," she began hesitatingly. "It isn't just one's self. There's +society--the whole big terrible question. If it were just a simple, +individual matter,--why, the truth is I'd love to go and see Ruth. If it +were just a personal thing--why don't you know that I'd forget +everything--except that she's Ruth?" Her voice choked and she did not go +on, but was fumbling with the sewing in her lap. + +He hitched his chair forward anxiously, concentrated on his great desire +to say it right, to win Edith for Ruth. Edith was a simple sort of +being--really, a loving being; if she could only detach herself from +what she pathetically called the whole terrible question--if he could +just make her see that the thing she wanted to do was the thing to do. +She looked up at him out of big grieving eyes, as if wanting to be +convinced, wanting the way opened for the loving thing she would like to +do. + +"But, Edith," he began, as composedly and gently as he could, for she +was so much a child in her mentality it seemed she must be dealt with +gently and simply, "_is_ it so involved, after all? Isn't it, more than +anything else, just that simple, personal matter? Why not forget +everything but the personal part of it? Ruth is back--lonely--in +trouble. Things came between you and Ruth, but that was a long time ago +and since that she's met hard things. You're not a vindictive person; +you're a loving person. Then for heaven's sake why _wouldn't_ you go and +see her?"--it was impossible to keep the impatience out of that last. + +"I know," she faltered, "but--society--" + +"Society!" he jeered. "_Forget_ society, Edith, and be just a human +being! If _you_ can forget--forgive--what seemed to you the wrong Ruth +did _you_--if _your_ heart goes out to her--then what else is there to +it?" he demanded impatiently. + +"But you see,"--he could feel her reaching out, as if thinking she must, +to the things that had been said to her, was conscious of her mother's +thinking pushing on hers as she fumbled, "but one _isn't_ free, Deane. +Society _has_ to protect itself. What might not happen--if it didn't?" + +He tried to restrain what he wanted to say to that--keep cool, wise, and +say the things that would get Edith. He was sure that Edith wanted to be +had; her eyes asked him to overthrow those things that had been fastened +on her, to free her so that the simple, human approach was the only one +there was to it, justify her in believing one dared be as kind, as +natural and simple and real as one wanted to be. He was sure that in +Edith's heart love for her friend was more real than any sense of duty +to society. + +"But after all what is society, Edith?" he began quietly. "Just a +collection of individuals, isn't it? Why must it be so much harder than +the individuals comprising it? If it is that--then there's something +wrong with it, wouldn't you think?" + +He looked around at the sound of a screen door closing. Edith's mother +had stepped out on the porch. He knew by her startled look, her quick, +keen glance at him, that she had heard his last words. She stepped +forward holding up her hands in mock dismay, with a laughing: "What a +large, solemn issue for an early morning conversation!" + +Deane tried to laugh but he was not good at dissembling and he was +finding it hard to conceal his annoyance at the interruption. Talking to +Mrs. Lawrence was very different from talking to Edith. Edith, against +her own loving impulses, tried to think what she thought she ought to +think; Mrs. Lawrence had hardened into the things she thought should be +thought, and at once less loving and more intelligent than Edith, she +was fixed where her daughter was uncertain, complacent where Edith was +troubled. She was one of those women who, very kind to people they +accept, have no tendrils of kindness running out to those whom they do +not approve. Her qualities of heart did not act outside the circle of +her endorsement. With the exception of Ruth's brother Cyrus, no one in +the town had been harder about her than Edith's mother. He had all the +time felt that, let alone, Edith would have gone back to Ruth. + +He had risen and pulled up a chair for Mrs. Lawrence and now stood there +fumbling with his hat, as if about to leave. It seemed to him he might +as well. + +"Why, my dears!" exclaimed the older woman with a sort of light dryness, +"pray don't let me feel I have broken up a philosophic discussion." + +"Deane was asking me to go and see Ruth, mother," said Edith, simply and +not without dignity. + +He saw her flush, her quick look up at him, and then the slight +tightening of her lips. + +"And doesn't it occur to Deane," she asked pleasantly, "that that is +rather a strange thing to ask of you?" + +"She is very lonely, Deane says," said Edith tremulously. + +Mrs. Lawrence was threading a needle. "I presume so," she answered +quietly. + +Deane felt the blood rising in him. Somehow that quiet reply angered him +as no sharp retort could have done. He turned to Edith, rather pointedly +leaving her mother out. "Well," he asked bluntly, "will you go?" + +Edith's eyes widened. She looked frightened. She stole a look at her +mother, who had serenely begun upon her embroidery. + +"Why, Deane!" laughed the mother, as if tolerantly waving aside a +preposterous proposal, "how absurd! Of course Edith won't go! How could +she? Why should she?" + +He made no reply, fearing to let himself express the things +which--disappointed--he was feeling. + +Mrs. Lawrence looked up. "If you will just cast your mind back," she +said, her voice remaining pleasant though there was a sting in it now, +"to the way Ruth treated Edith, I think it will come home to you, Deane, +that you are asking a rather absurd thing." + +"But Edith says,"--he made a big effort to speak as quietly as she +did--"that that personal part of it is all right with her. She says that +she would really like to go and see Ruth, but doesn't think she can--on +account of society." + +Mrs. Lawrence flushed a little at his tone on that last, but she seemed +quite unruffled as she asked: "And you see no point in that?" + +He had sat down on the railing of the porch. He leaned back against a +pillar, turning a little away from them as he said with a laugh not free +of bitterness: "I don't believe I quite get this idea about society." +Abruptly he turned back to Mrs. Lawrence. "What is it? A collection of +individuals for mutual benefit and self-protection, I gather. Protection +against what? Their own warmest selves? The most real things in them?" + +Mrs. Lawrence colored, though she was smiling composedly enough. Edith +was not smiling. He saw her anxious look over at her mother, as if +expecting her to answer that, and yet--this was what her eyes made him +think--secretly hoping she couldn't. + +But Mrs. Lawrence maintained her manner of gracious, rather amused +tolerance with an absurd hot-headedness, perversity, on his part. "Oh, +come now, Deane," she laughed, "we're not going to get into an absurd +discussion, are we?" + +"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Lawrence," he retorted sharply, "but I don't +think it an absurd discussion. I don't consider a thing that involves +the happiness of as fine a human being as Ruth Holland an absurd thing +to discuss!" + +She laid down her work. "Ruth Holland," she began very quietly, "is a +human being who selfishly--basely--took her own happiness, leaving +misery for others. She outraged society as completely as a woman could +outrage it. She was a thief, really,--stealing from the thing that was +protecting her, taking all the privileges of a thing she was a traitor +to. She was not only what we call a bad woman, she was a hypocrite. More +than that, she was outrageously unfaithful to her dearest friend--to +Edith here who loved and trusted her. Having no respect for marriage +herself, she actually had the effrontery--to say nothing of the lack of +fine feeling--to go to the altar with Edith the very night that she +herself outraged marriage. I don't know, Deane, how a woman could do a +worse thing than that. The most pernicious kind of woman is not the one +who bears the marks of the bad woman upon her. It's the woman like Ruth +Holland, who appears to be what she is not, who deceives, plays a false +part. If you can't see that society must close in against a woman like +that then all I can say, my dear Deane, is that you don't see very +straight. You jeer about society, but society is nothing more than life +as we have arranged it. It is an institution. One living within it must +keep the rules of that institution. One who defies it--deceives it--must +be shut out from it. So much we are forced to do in self-defence. We +_owe_ that to the people who are trying to live decently, to be +faithful. Life, as we have arranged it, must be based on confidence. We +have to keep that confidence. We have to punish a violation of it." She +took up her sewing again. "Your way of looking at it is not a very large +way, Deane," she concluded pleasantly. + +Edith had settled back in her chair--accepting, though her eyes were +grieving. It was that combination which, perhaps even more than the +words of her mother, made it impossible for him to hold back. + +"Perhaps not," he said; "not what you would call a large way of looking +at it. But do you know, Mrs. Lawrence, I'm not sure that I care for that +large way of looking at it. I'm not sure that I care a great deal about +an institution that smothers the kindly things in people--as you are +making this do in Edith. It sometimes occurs to me that life as we have +arranged it is a rather unsatisfactory arrangement. I'm not sure that an +arrangement of life which doesn't leave place for the most real things +in life is going to continue forever. Ruth was driven into a corner and +forced to do things she herself hated and suffered for--it was this same +arrangement of life forced that on her, you know. You talk of marriage. +But you must know there was no real marriage between Marion Averley and +Stuart Williams. And I don't believe you can deny that there is a real +marriage between him and Ruth Holland." He had risen and now moved a +little toward the steps. "So you see I don't believe I care much for +your 'society,' Mrs. Lawrence," he laughed shortly. "This looks to me +like a pretty clear case of life against society--and I see things just +straight enough that life itself strikes me as rather more important +than your precious 'arrangement' of it!" + +That did not bring the color to Mrs. Lawrence's face; there seemed no +color at all there when Deane finished speaking. She sat erect, her +hands folded on her sewing, looking at him with strangely bright eyes. +When she spoke it was with a certain metallic pleasantness. "Why, very +well, Deane," she said; "one is at perfect liberty to choose, isn't one? +And I think it quite right to declare one's self, as you have just done, +that we may know who is of us and who is not." She smiled--a smile that +seemed definitely to shut him out. + +He looked at Edith; her eyes were down; he could see that her lips +trembled. "Good-by," he said. + +Mrs. Lawrence bowed slightly and took up her sewing. + +"Good-by, Edith," he added gently. + +She looked up at him and he saw then why she had been looking down. +"Good-by, Deane," she said a little huskily, her eyes all clouded with +tears. "Though how absurd!" she quickly added with a rather tremulous +laugh. "We shall be seeing you as usual, of course." But it was more +appeal than declaration. + + + + +CHAPTER SEVENTEEN + + +Ruth was different after her talk with Deane that night. Ted felt the +change in her when he went up to say goodnight. The constraint between +them seemed somehow to have fallen away. Ruth was natural now--just +Ruth, he told himself, and felt that talking to Deane had done her good. +He lingered to chat with her awhile--of the arrangements for the night, +various little things about the house, just the things they naturally +would talk of; his feeling of embarrassment, diffidence, melted quite +away before her quiet simplicity, her warm naturalness. She had seemed +timid all day--holding back. Now she seemed just quietly to take her +place. He had been afraid of doing or saying something that would hurt +her, that had kept him from being natural, he knew. But now he forgot +about that. And when Ruth put her hands up on his shoulders and lifted +her face to kiss him goodnight he suddenly knew how many lonely nights +there had been. "I'm so glad I've got you back, Ted," she said; "I want +to talk to you about heaps of things." + +And Ted, as he went to bed, was thinking that there were heaps of things +he wanted to talk to Ruth about. He hadn't had much of anybody to talk +to about the things one does talk to one's own folks about. His father +had been silent and queer the last couple of years, and somehow one +wouldn't think of "talking" to Harriett. He and Ruth had always hit it +off, he told himself. He was glad she had found her feet, as he thought +of it; evidently talking with Deane had made her feel more at home. +Deane was a bully sort! After he had fallen into a light sleep he +awakened and there came all freshly the consciousness that Ruth was +back, asleep in her old room. It made him feel so good; he stretched out +and settled for sleep with satisfaction, drowsily thinking that there +_were_ heaps of things he wanted to talk to Ruth about. + +Ruth, too, was settling to sleep with more calm, something nearer peace +than it had seemed just a little while before she was going to find in +her father's house. Talking with Deane took her in to something from +which she had long felt shut out. It was like coming on a camp fire +after being overawed by too long a time in the forest--warmth and light +and cheerful crackling after loneliness in austere places. Dear Deane! +he was always so good to her; he always helped. It was curious about +Deane--about Deane and her. There seemed a strange openness--she could +not think of it any other way--between them. Things she lived through, +in which he had no part, drew her to him, swung her back to him. There +was something between his spirit and hers that seemed to make him part +even of experiences she had had with another man, as if things of the +emotions, even though not shared, drew them together through the spirit. +Very deeply she hoped that Deane would be happy. She wished she might +meet his wife, but probably she wouldn't. She quickly turned from that +thought, wanting to stay by the camp fire. Anyway, Deane was her friend. +She rested in that thought of having a friend--someone to talk to about +things small and droll, about things large and mysterious. Thoughts +needed to be spoken. It opened something in one to speak them. With +Stuart she had been careful not to talk of certain things, fearing to +see him sink into that absorption, gloom, she had come to dread. + +She cried a little after she had crept into her bed--her own old bed; +but they were just tears of feeling, not of desolation. The oak tree was +tapping against the house, the breeze, carrying familiar scents, blew +through the room. She was back home. All the sadness surrounding her +homecoming could not keep out the sweet feeling of being back that stole +through her senses. + +Next morning she went about the house with new poise; she was quiet, but +it was of a different quality from the quiet of the day before. Flora +Copeland found herself thinking less about maintaining her carefully +thought out manner toward Ruth. She told herself that Ruth did not seem +like "that kind of a woman." She would forget the "difficult situation" +and find herself just talking with Ruth--about the death of her sister +Mary's little girl, of her niece who was about to be married. There was +something about Ruth that made one slip into talking to her about things +one was feeling; and something in the quiet light of her tired sweet +eyes made one forget about not being more than courteous. Even Laura +Abbott, the nurse, found herself talking naturally to this Ruth Holland, +this woman who lived with another woman's husband, who was more "talked +about" than any woman in the town had ever been. But somehow a person +just forgot what she really was, she told a friend; she wasn't at all +like you'd expect that kind of a person to be. Though of course there +were terribly embarrassing things--like not knowing what to call her. + +Between Ruth and Harriett things went much better than they had the day +before. Ruth seemed so much herself when they met that afternoon that +unconsciously Harriett emerged from her uncertainty, from that fumbling +manner of the day before. The things holding them apart somehow fell +back before the things drawing them together. They were two sisters and +their father was dying. The doctor had just been there and said he did +not believe Mr. Holland could live another day. They were together when +he told them that; for the moment, at least, it melted other things +away. + +They stood at the head of the stairs talking of things of common +concern--the efficiency of the nurse, of Ted, who had been with his +father more than any of the rest of them, for whom they feared it would +be very hard when the moment came. Then, after a little pause made +intimate by feeling shared, Harriett told when she would be back, +adding, "But you'll see to it that I'm telephoned at once if--if I +should be wanted, won't you, Ruth?"--as one depending on this other more +than on anyone else. Ruth only answered gently, "Yes, Harriett," but she +felt warmed in her heart. She had been given something to do. She was +depended on. She was not left out. + +She sat beside her father during the hour that the nurse had to be +relieved. Very strongly, wonderfully, she had a feeling that her father +knew she was there, that he wanted her there. In the strange quiet of +that hour she seemed to come close to him, as if things holding them +apart while he was of life had fallen away now that he no longer was +life-bound. It was very real to her. It was communion. Things she could +not have expressed seemed to be flowing out to him, and things he could +not have understood seemed reaching him now. It was as if she was going +with him right up to the border--a long way past the things of life that +drove them apart. The nurse, coming back to resume duty, was arrested, +moved, by Ruth's face. She spoke gently in thanking her, her own face +softened. Flora Copeland, meeting Ruth in the hall, paused, somehow +held, and then, quite forgetful of the manner she was going to maintain +toward Ruth, impulsively called after her: "Are you perfectly +comfortable in your room, Ruth? Don't you--shan't I bring in one of the +big easy chairs?" + +Ruth said no, she liked her own little chair, but she said it very +gently, understanding; she had again that feeling of being taken in, the +feeling that warmed her heart. + +She went in her room and sat quietly in her little chair; and what had +been a pent up agony in her heart flowed out in open sorrowing: for her +mother, who was not there to sit in her room with her; for her father, +who was dying. But it was releasing sorrowing, the sorrowing that makes +one one with the world, drawing one into the whole life of human +feeling, the opened heart that brings one closer to all opened hearts. +It was the sadness that softens; such sadness as finds its own healing +in enriched feeling. It made her feel very near her father and mother; +she loved them; she felt that they loved her. She had hurt +them--terribly hurt them; but it all seemed beyond that now; they +understood; and she was Ruth and they loved her. It was as if the way +had been cleared between her and them. She did not feel shut in alone. + +Ted hesitated when he came to her door a little later, drew back before +the tender light of her illumined face. It did not seem a time to break +in on her. But she held out her hand with a little welcoming gesture +and, though strangely subdued, smiled lovingly at him as she said, "Come +on in, Ted." + +Something that the boy felt in her mood made him scowl anew at the thing +he had to tell her. He went over to the window, his back to her, and was +snapping his finger against the pane. "Well," he said at last, gruffly, +"Cy gets in today. Just had a wire." + +Ruth drew back, as one who has left exposed a place that can be hurt +draws back when hurt threatens. Ted felt it--that retreating within +herself, and said roughly: "Much anybody cares! Between you and me, I +don't think father would care so very much, either." + +"Ted!" she remonstrated in elder sister fashion. + +"Cy's got a hard heart, Ruth," he said with a sudden gravity that came +strangely through his youthfulness. + +Ruth did not reply; she did not want to say what she felt about Cy's +heart. But after a moment the domestic side of it turned itself to her. +"Will Louise come with him, Ted?" + +"No," he answered shortly. + +His tone made her look at him in inquiry, but he had turned his back to +her again. "I was just wondering about getting their room ready," she +said. + +For a moment Ted did not speak, did not turn toward her. Then, "We don't +have to bother getting any room ready for Cy," he said, with a scoffing +little laugh. + +Ruth's hand went up to her throat--a curious movement, as if in defense. +"What do you mean, Ted?" she asked in low quick voice. + +Ted's finger was again snapping the window pane. Once more he laughed +disdainfully. "Our esteemed brother is going to the hotel," he jeered. + +As Ruth did not speak he looked around. He could not bear her face. +"Don't you care, Ruth," he burst out. "Why, what's the difference?" he +went on scoffingly. "The hotel's a good place. He'll get along all right +down there--and it makes it just so much the better for us." + +But even then Ruth could not speak; it had come in too tender a moment, +had found her too exposed; she could only cower back. Then pride broke +through. "Cyrus needn't go to the hotel, Ted. If he can't stay in the +same house with me--even when father is dying--then I'll go somewhere +else." + +"You'll not!" he blazed, with a savagery that at once startled and +wonderfully comforted her. "If Cy wants to be a fool, let him be a fool! +If he can't act decent--then let him do what he pleases--or go to the +devil!" + +She murmured something in remonstrance, but flooded with gratefulness +for the very thing she tried to protest against. And then even that was +struck out. She had brought about this quarrel, this feeling, between +the two brothers. Ted's antagonism against Cyrus, comforting to her, +might work harm to Ted. Those were the things she did. That was what +came through her. + +The comfort, communion, peace of a few minutes before seemed a mockery. +Out of her great longing she had deluded herself. Now she was cast back; +now she knew. It was as if she had only been called out in order to be +struck back. And it seemed that Ted, whom she had just found again, she +must either lose or harm. And the shame of it!--children not coming +together under their father's roof when he was dying! Even death could +not break the bitterness down. It made her know just how it was--just +where she stood. And she thought of the town's new talk because of this. + +"It's pretty bad, isn't it, Ted?" she said finally, looking up to him +with heavy eyes. + +Ted flushed. "Cy makes it worse than it need be," he muttered. + +"But it is pretty bad, isn't it?" she repeated in a voice there was +little life in. "It was about as bad as it could be for you all, wasn't +it?" + +"Well, Ruth," he began diffidently, "of course--of course this house +hasn't been a very cheerful place since you went away." + +"No," she murmured, "of course not." She sat there dwelling upon that, +forming a new picture of just what it had been. "It really made a big +difference, did it, Ted?--even for you?" She asked it very simply, as +one asking a thing in order to know the truth. + +Ted sat down on the bed. He was shuffling his feet a little, +embarrassed, but his face was finely serious, as if this were a grave +thing of which it was right they talk. + +"Of course I was a good deal of a kid, Ruth," he began. "And yet--" He +halted, held by kindness. + +"Yes?" she pressed, as if wanting to get him past kindness. + +"Well, yes, Ruth, it was--rather bad. I minded on account of the +fellows, you see. I knew they were talking and--" Again he stopped; his +face had reddened. Her face too colored up at that. + +"And then of course home--you know it had always been so jolly here at +home--was a pretty different place, Ruth," he took it up gently. "With +Cy charging around, and mother and father so--different." + +"And they were different, were they, Ted?" she asked quietly. + +He looked at her in surprise. "Why, yes, Ruth, they certainly +were--different." + +Silence fell between them, separately dwelling upon that. + +"Just how--different?" Ruth asked, for it seemed he was not going on. + +"Why--mother stopped going out, and of course that made her all +different. You know what a lot those parties and doings meant to +mother." + +She did not at once speak, her face working. Then: "I'm sorry," she +choked. "Need she have done that, Ted?" she added wistfully after a +moment. + +He looked at her with that fine seriousness that made him seem older +than he was--and finer than she had known. "Well, I don't know, Ruth; +you know you don't feel very comfortable if you think people +are--talking. It makes you feel sort of--out of it; as if there was +something different about you." + +"And father?" she urged, her voice quiet, strangely quiet. She was +sitting very still, looking intently at Ted. + +"Well, father rather dropped out of it, too," he went on, his voice +gentle as if it would make less hard what it was saying. "He and mother +just seemed to want to draw back into their shells. I think--" He +stopped, then said: "I guess you really want to know, Ruth; it--it did +make a big difference in father. I think it went deeper than you may +have known--and maybe it's only fair to him you should know. It did make +a difference; I think it made a difference even in business. Maybe that +seems queer, but don't you know when a person doesn't feel right about +things he doesn't get on very well with people? Father got that way. He +didn't seem to want to be with people." + +She did not raise her eyes at that. "Business hasn't gone very well, has +it, Ted?" she asked after a moment of silence, still not looking up. + +"Pretty bad. And of course _that_ gets Cy," he added. + +She nodded. "I guess there's a good deal to be said on Cy's side," she +murmured after a little, her hands working and her voice not steady. + +Ted grunted something disdainful, then muttered: "He played things up +for all they were worth. Don't you think he ever missed anything!" + +"Was that why Cy left town, Ted?" Ruth asked, speaking all the while in +that low, strange voice. + +"Oh, he claims so," scoffed Ted. "But he can't make me believe any +family humiliation would have made him leave town if he hadn't had a +better thing somewhere else. But of course he _says_ that. That it was +too hard for him and Louise! Too bad about that little doll-face, isn't +it?" + +Ruth made a gesture of remonstrance, but the boyish partisanship brought +the tears she had until then been able to hold back. + +Ted rose. And then he hesitated, as if not wanting to leave it like +this. "Well, Ruth, I can tell you one thing," he said gently, a little +bashfully; "with all Cy's grand talk about the wrong done mother and +father, neither of them ever loved him the way they loved you." + +"Oh, _did_ they, Ted?" she cried, and all the held back feeling broke +through, suffusing her. "They _did_?--in spite of everything? Tell me +about that, Ted! Tell me about it!" + +"Mother used to talk a lot to me," he said. "She was always coming into +my room and talking to me about you." + +"Oh, _was_ she, Ted?" she cried again, feeling breaking over her face in +waves. "She _did_ talk about me? What did she say? Tell me!" + +"Just little things, mostly. Telling about things you had said and done +when you were a kid; remembering what you'd worn here and there--who +you'd gone with. Oh,--you know; just little things. + +"Of course," he went on, Ruth leaning forward, hanging on his words, "I +was a good deal of a kid then; she didn't talk to me much about +the--serious part of it. Maybe that was the reason she liked to talk to +me--because she could just talk about the little things--old things. +Though once or twice--" + +"Yes, Ted?" she breathed, as he paused there. + +"Well, she did say things to me, too. I remember once she said, 'It +wasn't like Ruth. Something terrible happened. She didn't know what she +was doing.'" + +Ruth's hands were pressed tight together; unheeded tears were falling on +them. + +"And she used to worry about you, Ruth. When it was cold and she'd come +into my room with an extra cover she'd say--'I wish I knew that my girl +was warm enough tonight.'" + +At that Ruth's face went down in her hands and she was sobbing. + +"I don't know what I'm talking like this for!" muttered the boy angrily. +"Making you feel so bad!" + +She shook her head, but for a little could not look up. Then she choked: +"No, I want to know. Never mind how it hurts, I want to know." And then, +when she had controlled herself a little more she said, simply: "I +didn't know it was like that. I didn't know mother felt--like that." + +"She'd start to write to you, and then lots of times she wouldn't seem +to know how. She wanted to write to you lots more than she did. But I +don't know, Ruth, mother was queer. She seemed sort of bewildered. +She--wasn't herself. She was just kind of powerless to do anything about +things. She'd come in this room a lot. Sit in here by herself. One of +the last days mother was around she called me in here and she had that +dress you wore to Edith Lawrence's wedding spread out on the bed and +was--oh, just kind of fussing with it. And the reason she called me in +was that she wanted to know if I remembered how pretty you looked in it +that night." + +But Ruth had thrown out a hand for him to stop, had covered her face as +if shutting something out. "Oh, I'm sorry, Ruth!" murmured Ted. "I'm a +fool!" he cried angrily. But after a minute he added haltingly, "And +yet--you did want to know, and--maybe it's fairer to mother, Ruth. +Maybe--" but he could not go on and went over and stood by the window, +not wanting to leave her like that, not knowing what to do. + +"Well, one thing I want you to know, Ruth," he said, as he did finally +turn to the door. "I've been talking along about how hard it was for the +rest of us, but don't for a minute think I don't see how terrible it was +for _you_. I get that, all right." + +She looked up at him, wanting to speak, but dumb; dumb in this new +realization of how terrible it had been for them all. + + + + +CHAPTER EIGHTEEN + + +An hour later she had to get away from that room. She did not know where +she was going, but she had to have some escape. Just the physical act of +getting away was something. + +Ted and Harriett were talking in the lower hall. They looked in inquiry +at the hat she held and her face made Ted lay a hand on her arm. She +told them she had to have exercise--air--and was going out for a little +walk. She thought Harriett looked aghast--doubtless preferring Ruth be +seen as little as possible. But she could not help that; she had to get +away--away from that room, that house, away from those old things now +newly charged. Something left with them shut down around her as a fog in +which she could not breathe. Ted asked if he should go with her, but she +shook her head and started for the side door, fearing he might insist. +He called after her that Harriett was going to have Cyrus stay at her +house, that she could make room for him. He said it with a relief which +told how he had really hated having his brother go to the hotel. As she +turned with something about that being better, she noticed how worn and +worried Harriett looked, and then hurried on, wanting to get away, to +escape for a little while from that crushing realization of how hard she +made things for them all. But she could not shut out the thought of the +empty rooms upstairs at their house--Cyrus's old home--and the crowded +quarters at Harriett's. Yet of course this would be better than the +hotel; she was glad Harriett and Ted had been able to arrange it; she +hoped, for their sakes, that Cyrus would not, to emphasize his feeling, +insist upon staying downtown. + +She walked several blocks without giving any thought to where she was +going. She was not thinking then of those familiar streets, of the times +she had walked them. She was getting away, trying, for a little while, +to escape from things she had no more power to bear. She could not have +stayed another minute in her old room. + +A little ahead of her she saw a woman sitting in a market wagon, holding +the horse. She got the impression that the woman was selling vegetables. +She tried to notice, to be interested. She could see, as she came along +toward the wagon, that the vegetables looked nice and fresh. She and +Stuart had raised vegetables once; they had done various things after +what money they had was exhausted and, handicapped both by his lack of +ruggedness and by the shrinking from people which their position bred in +them, they had to do the best they could at making a living. And so she +noticed these vegetables, but it was not until she was close to her that +she saw the woman had relaxed her hold on the lines and was leaning +forward, peering at her. And when she came a little nearer this woman--a +thin, wiry little person whose features were sharp, leaned still further +forward and cried: "Why, how do you do? How d'do, Ruth!" + +For a moment Ruth was too startled to make any reply. Then she only +stammered, "Why, how do you do?" + +But the woman leaned over the side of the wagon. Ruth was trying her +best to think who she was; she knew that she had known her somewhere, in +some way, but that thin, eager little face was way back in the past, and +that she should be spoken to in this way--warm, natural--was itself too +astonishing, moving, to leave her clear-headed for casting back. + +And then, just as she seemed about to say something, her face changed a +little. Ruth heard a gate click behind her and then a man, a stolid +farmer, he appeared, came up to the wagon. The woman kept nodding her +head, as if in continued greeting, but she had leaned back, as though +she had decided against what she had been about to say. Ruth, starting +on, still bewildered, stirred, nodded and smiled too; and then, when the +man had jumped in the wagon and just as the horse was starting, the +woman called: "It seems awful good to have you back on these streets, +Ruth!" + +Ruth could only nod in reply and hurried on; her heart beat fast; her +eyes were blurring. "It seems awful good to have you back on these +streets, Ruth!" Was _that_ what she had said? She turned around, wanting +to run after that wagon, not wanting to lose that pinched, shabby, eager +little woman who was glad to have her back on those streets. But the +wagon had turned a corner and was out of sight. Back on those streets! +It opened her to the fact that she was back on them. She walked more +slowly, thinking about that. And she could walk more slowly; she was +less driven. + +After a block of perplexed thinking she knew who that woman was; it +flashed from her memory where she had known that intent look, that +wistful intentness lighting a thin little face. It was Annie Morris, a +girl in her class at the high-school, a plain, quiet girl--poor she +believed she was, not in Ruth's crowd. Now that she searched back for +what she remembered about it she believed that this Annie Morris had +always liked her; and perhaps she had taken more notice of her than +Edith and the other girls had. She could see her now getting out of the +shabby buggy in which she drove in to school--she lived somewhere out in +the country. She remembered talking to her sometimes at recess--partly +because she seemed a good deal alone and partly because she liked to +talk to her. She remembered that she was what they called awfully bright +in her classes. + +That this girl, whom she had forgotten, should welcome her so warmly +stirred an old wondering: a wondering if somewhere in the world there +were not people who would be her friends. That wondering, longing, had +run through many lonely days. The people she had known would no longer +be her friends. But were there not other people? She knew so little +about the world outside her own life; her own life had seemed to shut +down around her. But she had a feeling that surely somewhere--somewhere +outside the things she had known--were people among whom she could find +friends. So far she had not found them. At the first, seeing how hard it +would be, how bad for them both, to have only each other, she had tried +to go out to people just as if there were nothing in her life to keep +her back from them. And then they would "hear"; that hearing would come +in the most unforeseen little ways, at the most unexpected times; +usually through those coincidences of somebody's knowing somebody else, +perhaps meeting someone from a former place where they had already +"heard"; it was as if the haphazardness of life, those little accidents +of meetings that were without design, equipped the world with a powerful +service for "hearing," which after a time made it impossible for people +to feel that what was known in one place would not come to be known in +another. After she had several times been hurt by the drawing away of +people whom she had grown to like, she herself drew back where she could +not be so easily hurt. And so it came about that her personality changed +in that; from an outgoing nature she came to be one who held back, shut +herself in. Even people who had never "heard" had the feeling she did +not care to know them, that she wanted to be let alone. It crippled her +power for friendship; it hurt her spirit. And it left her very much +alone. In that loneliness she wondered if there were not those other +people--people who could "hear" and not draw away. She had not found +them; perhaps she had at times been near them and in her holding +back--not knowing, afraid--had let them go by. Of that, too, she had +wondered; there had been many lonely wonderings. + +She came now to a corner where she stopped. She stood looking down that +cross street which was shaded by elm trees. That was the corner where +she had always turned for Edith's. Yes, that was the way she used to go. +She stood looking down the old way. She wanted to go that way now! + +She went so far as to cross the street, and on that far corner again +stood still, hesitating, wanting to go that old way. It came to her that +if this other girl--Annie Morris--a girl she could barely remember, was +glad to see her back, then surely Edith--_Edith_--would be glad to see +her. But after a moment she went slowly on--the other way. She +remembered; remembered the one letter she had had from Edith--that +letter of a few lines sent in reply to her two letters written from +Arizona, trying to make Edith understand. + +"Ruth"--Edith had written--she knew the few words by heart; "Yes, I +received your first letter. I did not reply to it because it did not +seem to me there was anything for me to say. And it does not seem to me +now that there is anything for me to say." It was signed, "Edith +Lawrence Blair." The full signature had seemed even more formal than the +cold words. It had hurt more; it seemed actually to be putting in force +the decree that everything between her and Edith was at an end. It was +never to be Ruth and Edith again. + +As she walked slowly on now, away from Edith's, she remembered the day +she walked across that Arizona plain, looking at Edith's letter a +hundred times in the two miles between the little town and their cabin. +She had gone into town that day to see the doctor. Stuart had seemed +weaker and she was terribly frightened. The doctor did not bring her +much comfort; he said she would have to be patient, and hope--probably +it would all come right. She felt very desolate that day in the +far-away, forlorn little town. When she got Edith's letter she did not +dare to open it until she got out from the town. And then she found +those few formal, final words--written, it was evident, to keep her from +writing any more. The only human thing about it was a little blot under +the signature. It was the only thing a bit like Edith; she could see her +making it and frowning over it. And she wondered--she had always +wondered--if that little blot came there because Edith was not as +controlled, as without all feeling, as everything else about her letter +would indicate. As she looked back to it now it seemed that that day of +getting Edith's letter was the worst day of all the hard years. She had +been so lonely--so frightened; when she saw Edith's handwriting it was +hard not to burst into tears right there at the little window in the +queer general store where they gave out letters as well as everything +else. But after she had read the letter there were no tears; there was +no feeling of tears. She walked along through that flat, almost +unpeopled, half desert country and it seemed that the whole world had +shrivelled up. Everything had dried, just as the bushes along the road +were alive and yet dried up. She knew then that it was certain there was +no reach back into the old things. And that night, after they had gone +to bed out of doors and Stuart had fallen asleep, she lay there in the +stillness of that vast Arizona night and she came to seem in another +world. For hours she lay there looking up at the stars, thinking, +fearing. She reached over and very gently, meaning not to wake him, put +her hand in the hand of the man asleep beside her, the man who was all +she had in the world, whom she loved with a passion that made the +possibility of losing him a thing that came in the night to terrorize +her. He had awakened and understood, and had comforted her with his +love, lavishing upon her tender, passionate assurance of how he was +going to get strong and make it all come right for them both. There was +something terrible in that passion for one another that came out of the +consciousness of all else lost. They had each other--there were moments +when that burned with a terrible flame through the feeling that they had +nothing else. That night they went to sleep in a wonderful consciousness +of being alone together in the world. Time after time that swept them +together with an intensity of which finally they came to be afraid. They +stopped speaking of it; it came to seem a thing not to dwell upon. + +The thought of Edith's letter had brought some of that back now. She +turned from it to the things she was passing, houses she recognized, new +houses. Walking on past them she thought of how those homes joined. With +most of them there were no fences between--one yard merging into +another. Children were running from yard to yard; here a woman was +standing in her own yard calling to a woman in the house adjoining. She +passed a porch where four women were sitting sewing; another where two +women were playing with a baby. There were so many meeting places for +their lives; they were not shut in with their own feeling. That feeling +which they as individuals knew reached out into common experiences, into +a life in common growing out of individual things. Passing these houses, +she wanted to share in that life in common. She had been too long by +herself. She needed to be one with others. Life, for a time, had a +certain terrible beauty that burned in that sense of isolation. But it +was not the way. One needed to be one with others. + +She thought of how it was love, more than any other thing, that gave +these people that common life. Love was the fabric of it. Love made new +combinations of people--homes, children. The very thing in her that had +shut her out was the thing drawing them into that oneness, that many in +one. Homes were closed to her because of that very impulse out of which +homes were built. + +She had, without any plan for doing so, turned down the little street +where she used to go to meet Stuart. And when she realized where she was +going thoughts of other things fell away; the feeling of those first +days was strangely revivified, as if going that old way made her for the +moment the girl who had gone that way. Again love was not a thing of +right or wrong, it was the thing that had to have its way--life's great +imperative. Going down that old street made the glow of those days--the +excitement--come to life and quicken her again. It was so real that it +was as if she were living it again--a girl palpitating with love going +to meet her lover, all else left behind, only love now! For the moment +those old surroundings made the old days a living thing to her. The +world was just one palpitating beauty; the earth she walked was vibrant; +the sweetness of life breathed from the air she breathed. She was +charged with the joy of it, bathed in the wonder. Love had touched her +and taken her, and she was different and everything was different. Her +body was one consciousness of love; it lifted her up; it melted her to +tenderness. It made life joyous and noble. She lived; she loved! + +Standing on the spot where they had many times stood in moments of +meeting a very real tenderness for that girl was in the heart of this +woman who had paid so terribly for the girl's love. It brought a feeling +that she had not paid too much, that no paying was ever too much for +love. Love made life; and in turn love was what life was for. To live +without it would be going through life without having been touched +alive. In that moment it seemed no wrong love could bring about would be +as deep as the wrong of denying love. There was again that old feeling +of rising to something higher in her than she had known was there, that +feeling of contact with all the beauty of the world, of being admitted +to the inner sweetness and wonder of life. She had a new understanding +of what she had felt; that was the thing added; that was the gift of the +hard years. + +And of a sudden she wanted terribly to see her mother. It seemed if she +could see her mother now that she could make her understand. She saw it +more simply than she had seen it before. She wanted to tell her mother +that she loved because she could not help loving. She wanted to tell her +that after all those years of paying for it she saw that love as the +thing illumining her life; that if there was anything worthy in her, +anything to love, it was in just this--that she had fought for love, +that she would fight for it again. She wanted to see her mother! She +believed she could help the hurt she had dealt. + +She had walked slowly on, climbing a little hill. From there she looked +back at the town. With fresh pain there came the consciousness that her +mother was not there, that she could not tell her, that she had +gone--gone without understanding, gone bewildered, broken. Her eyes +dimmed until the town was a blur. She wanted to see her mother! + +She was about to start back, but turned for a moment's look the other +way, across that lovely country of little hills and valleys--brooks, and +cattle in the brooks, and fields of many shades of green. + +And then her eye fixed upon one thing and after that saw no other thing. +Behind her was the place where the living were gathered together; but +over there, right over there on the next hill, were the dead. She stood +very still, looking over there passionately through dimmed eyes. And +then swiftly, sobbing a little under her breath, she started that way. +She wanted to see her mother! + +And when she came within those gates she grew strangely quiet. Back +there in the dwelling place of the living she had felt shut out. But she +did not feel shut out here. As slowly she wound her way to the hillside +where she knew she would find her mother's grave, a strange peace +touched her. It was as if she had come within death's tolerance; she +seemed somehow to be taken into death's wonderful, all-inclusive love +for life. There seemed only one distinction: they were dead and she +still lived; she had a sense of being loved because she still lived. + +Slowly, strangely comforted, strangely taken in, she passed the graves +of many who, when she left, had been back there in the place of the +living. The change from dwelling place to dwelling place had been made +in the years she was away. It came with a shock to find some of those +tombstones; she found many she had thought of as back there, a few hills +away, where men still lived. She would pause and think of them, of the +strangeness of finding them here when she had known them there--of +life's onward movement, of death's inevitability. There were stones +marking the burial places of friends of her grandfather--old people who +used to come to the house when she was a little girl; she thought with a +tender pleasure of little services she had done them; she had no feeling +at all that they would not want her to be there. Friends of her father +and mother too were there; yes, and some of her own friends--boys and +girls with whom she had shared youth. + +She sat a long time on the hillside where her mother had been put away. +At first she cried, but they were not bitter tears. And after that she +did not feel that, even if she could have talked to her mother, it would +be important to say the things she had thought she wanted to say. Here, +in this place of the dead, those things seemed understood. Vindication +was not necessary. Was not life life, and should not one live before +death came? She saw the monuments marking the graves of the Lawrences, +the Blairs, the Williams', the Franklins,--her mother's and her father's +people. They seemed so strangely one: people who had lived. She looked +across the hills to the town which these people had built. Right beside +her was her grandfather's grave; she thought of his stories of how, when +a little boy, he came with his people to that place not then a town; his +stories of the beginnings of it, of the struggles and conflicts that had +made it what it was. She thought of their efforts, their +disappointments, their hopes, their loves. Their loves.... She felt very +close to them in that. And as she thought of it there rose a strange +feeling, a feeling that came strangely strong and sure: If these people +who had passed from living were given an after moment of consciousness, +a moment when they could look back on life and speak to it, she felt +that their voices, with all the force they could gather, would be raised +for more living. Why did we not live more abundantly? Why did we not +hold life more precious? Were they given power to say just one word, +would they not, seeing life from death, cry--Live! + +Twilight came; the world had the sweetness of that hour just before +night. A breeze stirred softly; birds called lovingly--loving life. The +whole fragrance of the world was breathed into one word. It was as if +life had caught the passionate feeling of death; it was as if that after +consciousness of those who had left life, and so knew its preciousness, +broke through into things still articulate. The earth breathed--Live! + + + + +CHAPTER NINETEEN + + +Cyrus Holland died just before daybreak next morning. It seemed to Deane +Franklin that he had only just fallen asleep when the telephone beside +him was ringing. When tired out he slept through other noises, but that +one always instantly reached--a call to him that got through sleep. He +wakened just enough to reach out for the 'phone and his "Hello!" was +cross. Was there never a time when one could be let alone? But the voice +that came to him banished both sleep and irritation. It was Ruth's +voice, saying quietly, tensely: "Deane? I'm sorry--but we want you. +There's a change. I'm sure father's going." + +He was dressing almost the instant he hung up the receiver. To Amy, who +had roused, he said: "It's Ruth. Her father's going. I can't do a +thing--but they want me there." + +At first Amy made no reply. He thought nothing about that, engrossed in +getting dressed as quickly as possible. When she burst out, "So of +course you're going!" he was dumbfounded at the passionateness of her +voice. He looked at her in astonishment; then, for the first time the +other side of it, as related to their quarrel about Ruth, turned itself +to him. "Why, of course I'm going, Amy," he said quietly. + +"It makes a difference who it is, doesn't it?" she cried, stormily. "The +other night when somebody called you and there wasn't a thing you could +do, you _said_ so! You _told_ them they mustn't ask you! But _this_ is +different, isn't it?" + +The words had piled up tumultuously; she seemed right on the verge of +angry, tumultuous tears. He paused in what he was doing. "Why, Amy," he +murmured in real astonishment. And then helplessly repeated in tender +reproach, "Why, Amy!" + +But she laughed, it seemed sneeringly. He colored, quickly finished +dressing and left the room without saying anything more. + +When she heard the front door close, heard Deane running down the steps, +she sat up in bed and burst into tears of rage. Always that woman! +Running away to her in the middle of the night! He didn't _have_ to go! +There was nothing for him to do as a doctor--he could do nothing for a +man who had been dying for a couple of days. He _said_ that--just a +couple of nights before when someone wanted him to come. But this was +Ruth Holland! She had only to telephone. Of course he'd go anywhere--any +time--for her! Her sobs grew more and more passionate. Her head down on +her knees she rocked back and forth in that miserable fury only jealousy +and wounded pride can create. + +This gathered together, brought to a head, the resentment accumulating +through a number of incidents. That afternoon she had gone over to the +Lawrences' to thank Edith and her mother for the flowers from the tea +which they had sent her that morning. They had urged her to run in +often, to be friendly. Her unhappiness about her talk with Deane the +night before, when he had actually proposed that she go to see this Ruth +Holland, made her want to be with friends; she wanted to see people who +felt as she did that--though it did not so present itself to her--she +might fortify herself in the conviction that Deane was preposterously +wrong, and she taking the only course a good woman could take in +relation to a bad one. She was prepared to feel that men did not see +those things as clearly as women did, that it was woman who was the +guardian of society, and that she must bear with man in his failure to +see some things right. She had been eager to strengthen herself in that +feeling, not alone because it would, in her own mind, get her out of +reach of any possible charge of hardness or narrowness, but because it +would let her break through her feeling against Deane; she wanted to get +back to the days of his complete adoration of her, back where his +passion for her would sweep all else out of their world. She knew well +enough that Deane loved her, but there was a tightened up place around +her knowing that. It made her miserable. Things would not be right until +she found a way through that tightened up place--a way that would make +her right and Deane wrong, but would let her forgive, largely and gently +understanding. Such, not thought out, were the things that took her to +the Lawrences' that afternoon. + +It was apparent that Edith had been crying. She and her mother were +gracious to Amy, but there was a new constraint. She felt uncomfortable. +When they were alone Edith broke out and told her how she was just sick +at heart about Ruth. Deane had been there that morning urging her to go +and see Ruth--instantly there was all anew that tightening up that held +her from Deane, that feeling against him and against this Ruth Holland +that was as if something virulent had been poured into her blood, +changing her whole system. Edith cried as she told how Deane and her +mother had quarreled because he felt so strongly on the subject, and +didn't seem able to understand her mother's standpoint. Then, she too +wanting to set herself right with herself, she went over the whole +story--the shock to her, how it had hurt her ideal of friendship, had +even seemed to take something from the sanctity of her own marriage. She +silenced something within herself in recounting the wrong done her, +fortified herself in repeating the things she had from her mother about +one's not being free, about what the individual owed to society. + +Amy went home in a turmoil of resentment against her husband. It was +hard to hold back the angry tears. A nice position he was putting +himself in--going about the town pleading for this woman whom nobody +would take in!--estranging his friends--yes, probably hurting his +practice. And _why_? _Why_ was he so wrought up about it? Why was he +making a regular business of going about fighting her battles? Well, +_one_ thing it showed! It showed how much consideration he had for his +own wife. When she came in sight of their house it was harder than ever +to hold back the tears of mortification, of hot resentment. She had been +so sure she was going to be perfectly happy in that house! Now already +her husband was turning away from her--humiliating her--showing how much +he thought of another woman, and _such_ a woman! She did not know what +to do with the way she felt, did not know how to hold from the surface +the ugly things that surged through her, possessed her. Until now she +had had nothing but adulation from love. A pretty, petted girl she had +formed that idea of pretty women in youth that it was for men to give +love and women graciously to accept it. For her vanity to be hurt by a +man who had roused her passion turned that passion to fury against him +and made it seem that a great wrong had been done her. + +As she approached she saw that Deane was standing before the house +talking to a woman in a vegetable wagon. He had one foot up on the spoke +of the wheel and was talking more earnestly than it seemed one would be +talking to a vegetable woman. Doubtless she was one of his patients. As +she came up he said: "Oh, Amy, I want you to know Mrs. Herman." + +She stiffened; his tone in introducing her to a woman of what she +thought of as the lower classes seeming just a new evidence of his +inadequate valuation of her. + +"Your husband and I went to school together," said Mrs. Herman, +pleasantly, but as if explaining. + +"Oh?" murmured Amy. + +Deane abruptly moved back from the wagon. "Well, you do that, Annie. +Ruth would love to see you, I know." + +So _that_ was it! She turned away with a stiff little nod to the woman +in the wagon. Always the same thing!--urging Tom, Dick and Harry to go +and see that woman!--taking up with a person like this, introducing his +wife in that intimate way to a woman who peddled vegetables just because +she was willing to go and see Ruth Holland! She didn't know that she had +to stand such things!--she didn't know that she _would_. She guessed she +could show him that she wasn't going to play second fiddle to that Ruth +Holland! + +Deane came to the door of the room where she was taking off her hat. Her +fingers were trembling so that she could scarcely get the pins. "That +little woman you were so chilly to is a pretty fine sort, Amy," he said +incisively. + +"Because she is going to see Ruth Holland?" she retorted with an excited +laugh. + +"Oh, you were pretty stand-offish before you knew that," he answered +coolly. + +Vanity smarting from deeper hurts made her answer, haughtily: "I'm +rather inexperienced, you know, in meeting people of that class." + +In his heart too there were deeper disappointments than this touched. +"Well, I must say--" he began hotly, "I think if I felt as snobbish as +that I'd try pretty hard to conceal it!" + +Amy was carefully putting away her hat; she had an appearance of cold +composure, of a sense of superiority. It was because she wanted to keep +that that she did not speak. The things within would so completely have +destroyed it. + +"I guess you don't understand, Amy," said Deane, quieted by her silence; +"if you knew all about Annie Morris I think you'd see she is a woman +worth meeting." Thinking of his talk with Edith and her mother that +morning, he added, a good deal of feeling breaking into his voice: "A +good sight more so than some of the people you are meeting!" + +"And of course," she could not hold back, "they--those inferior +people--won't go to see Ruth Holland, and this wonderful woman will! +That's the secret of it, isn't it?" + +"It's one thing that shows her superiority," he replied coolly. "Another +thing is her pluck--grit. Her husband is a dolt, and she's determined +her three children shall have some sort of a show in life, so she's +driven ahead--worked from daylight till dark many a time--to make decent +things possible for them." + +"Well, that's very commendable, I'm sure," replied Amy mildly, appearing +to be chiefly concerned with a loose button on the wrap she had just +taken off. + +"And with all that she's kept her own spirit alive; she's not going to +let life get clear ahead of _her_, either. She's pretty valiant, I +think." He was thinking again of Edith and her mother as he added +contentiously, "I don't know any woman in this town I'd rather talk to!" + +Amy, appearing quite outside the things that were disturbing him, only +smiled politely and threaded a needle for sewing on the button. He stood +there in the doorway, fidgeting, his face red. She seemed so uncaring; +she seemed so far away. "Oh, Amy!" he cried, miserably, appealingly. + +Quickly she looked up; her mouth, which had been so complacent, +twitched. He started toward her, but just then the doorbell rang. "I +presume that's your mother," she said, in matter of fact tone. + +Mrs. Franklin was with them for dinner that night. Amy's social training +made it appear as if nothing were disturbing her. She appeared wholly +composed, serene; it was Deane who seemed ill at ease, out of sorts. + +After dinner he had to go to the hospital and when she was alone with +his mother Amy was not able to keep away from the subject of Ruth +Holland. For one thing, she wanted to hear about her, she was avid for +detail as to how she looked, things she had done and said--that curious +human desire to press on a place that hurts. And there was too the +impulse for further self-exoneration, to be assured that she was right, +to feel that she was injured. + +All of those things it was easy to get from Mrs. Franklin. Amy, not +willing to reveal what there had been between her and Deane, and having +that instinct for drawing sympathy to herself by seeming +self-depreciation, spoke gently of how she feared she did not altogether +understand about Deane's friend Ruth Holland. Was she wrong in not going +with Deane to see her? + +Mrs. Franklin's explosion of indignation at the idea, and the feeling +with which, during the hour that followed, she expressed herself about +Deane's friend Ruth Holland, acted in a double fashion as both +fortification and new hurt. Mrs. Franklin, leader in church and +philanthropic affairs, had absolutely no understanding of things which +went outside the domain of what things should be. The poor and the +wicked did terrible things that society must do something about. There +was no excuse whatever for people who ought to know better. That people +should be dominated by things they ought not to feel was perversity on +their part and the most wilful kind of wickedness. She had Mrs. +Lawrence's point of view, but from a more provincial angle. Deane did +not get his questioning spirit, what she called his stubbornness, from +his mother. + +Added to what she as a church woman and worker for social betterment +felt about the affair was the resentment of the mother at her son's +having been, as she put it, dragged into the outrage. She grew so +inflamed in talking of how this woman had used Deane that she did not +take thought of how she was giving more of an impression of her power +over him than might be pleasant hearing for Deane's young wife. The +indignation of the whole Franklin family at what they called the way +Deane had been made a cat's paw was fanned to full flame in this +preposterous suggestion that Amy should go to see Ruth Holland. In her +indignation at the idea she gave a new sense of what the town felt about +Ruth, and she was more vehement than tactful in her expressions against +Deane for holding out that way against the whole town. "It just shows, +my dear," she said, "what a woman of no principle can do with a man!" + +Amy, hurt to the quick in this thought of the mysterious lure of a woman +of no principle, remarked casually, "She's wonderfully attractive, I +presume." + +Mrs. Franklin was not too blunted by indignation to miss the pain that +was evident in the indifferently asked question. Hastily--more hastily +than subtly, she proceeded to depreciate the attractions of Ruth +Holland, but in the depreciation left an impression of some +quality--elusive, potent--which more than beauty or definite charm gave +her power. Edith too had spoken of that "something" about Ruth; a +something one never forgot; a something, she said, that no one else had. + +And now, awakened by Deane's having been called by this woman in the +night, herself alone there and he hurrying to Ruth Holland, the barriers +of pride broke down and she cried because she was sorry for herself, +because she was hurt and outraged that she should be hurt, because for +the first time in her whole life she was thwarted--not having her way, +set aside. She completely lost her hold on herself, got up and stormed +about the room. When she looked at her face in the mirror she saw that +it was hideous. She couldn't help it!--she didn't care! The resentment, +rage, in her heart was like a poison that went all through her. She was +something that didn't seem herself. She thought horrible things and +ground her teeth and clenched her hands and let her face look as ugly as +it could. She hated this woman! She wished some horrible thing would +happen to her! She hated Deane Franklin! The passion he had roused in +her all turned into this feeling against him. She wouldn't stand it! She +wouldn't stay there and play second fiddle to another woman--she, a +bride! Fresh tears came with that last. Her mother and father would +never have treated her that way. They didn't think Deane Franklin good +enough for her, anyway! She would go back home! _That_ would make things +pretty hard for him! That would show what this woman had done! And he'd +be sorry then--would want her back--and she wouldn't come. She finally +found control in that thought of her power over him used to make him +suffer. + +Deane, meanwhile, was hurrying through the streets that had the +unrealness of that hour just before morning. That aspect of things was +with him associated with death; almost always when he had been on the +streets at that hour it was because someone was fighting death. It was +so still--as if things were awed. And a light that seemed apart from +natural things was formed by the way the street lights grew pale in the +faint light of coming day. Everyone was sleeping--all save those in a +house half a dozen blocks away, the house where they were waiting for +death. + +He was on foot, having left his car down at the garage for some repairs +after taking his mother home. As he slowed for a moment from a walk that +was half run he thought of how useless his hurrying was. What in the +world could he do when he got there? Nothing save assure them he could +do nothing. Poor Ruth!--it seemed she had so much, so many hard things. +This was a time when one needed one's friends, but of course they +couldn't come near her--on account of society. Though--his face softened +with the thought--Annie Morris would come, she not being oppressed by +this duty to society. He thought of the earnestness of her thin face as +she talked of Ruth. That let in the picture of Amy's face as he +introduced them. He tried not to keep seeing it. He did think, however, +that it was pretty unnecessary of Amy to have talked to his mother about +Ruth. All that was unyielding in him had been summoned by the way his +mother talked to him going home--"going for him" like that because he +had wanted Amy to go and see Ruth. That, it seemed to him, was something +between him and Amy. He would not have supposed she would be so ready to +talk with some one else about a thing that was just between themselves. +There had been that same old hardening against his mother when she began +talking of Ruth, and that feeling that shut her out excluded Amy with +her. And he had wanted Amy with him. + +Hurrying on, he tried not to think of it. He didn't know why Amy had +talked to his mother about it--perhaps it just happened so, perhaps his +mother began it. He seized upon that. And Amy didn't understand; she was +young--her life had never touched anything like this. He was going to +talk to her--really talk to her, not fly off the handle at the first +thing she would say. He told himself that he had been stupid, hard--a +bungler. It made him feel better to tell himself that. Yes, he certainly +had been unsympathetic, and it was a shame that anything had come to +make Amy unhappy--and right there at first, too! Why, it was actually +making her sick! When he went back after taking his mother home Amy said +she had a bad headache and didn't want to talk. She was so queer that he +had taken her at her word and had not tried to talk to her--be nice to +her. It seemed now that he hadn't been kind; it helped him to feel that +he hadn't been kind. And it was the headache, being roused in the night +when she was not well that had made her so--well, so wrought up about +his answering to the call of the Hollands--old patients, old friends. He +was going to be different; he was going to be more tender with Amy--that +would be the way to make her understand. Such were the things his +troubled mind and hurt heart tried to be persuaded of as, thinking at +the same time of other things--the death to which he was hurrying, how +hard it would be for Ruth if Cyrus didn't speak to her--he passed +swiftly by the last houses where people slept and turned from a world +tinged with the strangeness of an hour so little known to men's +consciousness, softly opened the door and stepped into the house where +death was touching life with that same unreality with which, without, +day touched night. + +Miss Copeland, wrapped in a bathrobe, sat in the upstairs hall. "He's +still breathing," she whispered in that voice which is for death alone. +In the room Ruth and Ted stood close together, the nurse on the other +side of the bed. Ruth's hair was braided down her back; he remembered +when she used to wear it that way, he had one of those sudden pictures +of her--on her way to school, skipping along with Edith Lawrence. She +turned, hearing him, and there was that rush of feeling to her eyes that +always claimed him for Ruth, that quick, silent assumption of his +understanding that always let down bars between them. But Ruth kept +close to Ted, as if she would shield him; the boy looked as Deane had +seen novices look in the operating room. + +There was nothing for him to do beyond look at his patient and nod to +the nurse in confirmation that it would be any minute now. He walked +around to Ted and Ruth, taking an arm of each of them and walking with +them to the far side of the room. + +"There's nothing to do but wait," he said. + +"I wish Harriett and Cyrus would get here," whispered Ruth. + +"You telephoned?" + +"Before I did you--but of course it's a little farther." + +They stood there together in that strange silence, hearing only the +unlifelike breathing of the man passing from life. Listening to it, +Ruth's hand on Deane's arm tightened. Soothingly he patted her hand. + +Then, at a movement from the nurse, he stepped quickly to the bed. Ruth +and Ted, close together, first followed, then held back. A minute later +he turned to them. "It's over," he said, in the simple way final things +are said. + +There was a choking little cry from Ted. Ruth murmured something, her +face all compassion for him. But after a moment she left her brother and +stood alone beside her father. In that moment of seeing her face, before +turning away because it seemed he should turn away, Deane got one of the +strangest impressions of his life. It was as if she was following her +father--reaching him; as if there was a fullness of feeling, a rising +passionate intensity that could fairly overflow from life. Then she +turned back to Ted. + +Cyrus and Harriett had entered. There was a moment when the four +children were there together. Cyrus did not come up to the bed until +Ruth had left. Deane watched his face as--perfunctorily subdued, +decorous, he stood where Ruth had stood a moment before. Then Cyrus +turned to him and together they walked from the room, Cyrus asking why +they had not been telephoned in time. + +Deane lingered for a little while, hating to go without again seeing +Ruth and Ted. He tapped at Ruth's door; he was not answered, but the +unlatched door had swung a little open at his touch. He saw that the +brother and sister were out on the little porch opening off Ruth's room. +He went out and stood beside them, knowing that he would be wanted. The +sun was just rising, touching the dew on the grass. The birds were +singing for joy in another day. The three who had just seen death stood +there together in silence. + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY + + +The two days when the natural course of life was arrested by death had +passed. Their father had been buried that afternoon, and in the early +evening Ted and Ruth were sitting on the little upper porch, very quiet +in the new poignant emptiness of the house. Many people had been coming +and going in those last few days; now that was over and there was a +pause before the routine of life was to be resumed. The fact that the +nurse had gone seemed to turn the page. + +Ruth had just asked how long Cyrus was going to stay and Ted replied +that he wanted to stay on a week or perhaps more, attending to some +business. She knew how crowded it must be for them at Harriett's, knew +that if she went away Cyrus would come home. There seemed nothing more +to keep her; she would like to be with Ted awhile, but it seemed she +could not do that without continuing a hard condition for them all. They +could settle into a more natural order of things with her not there. It +was time for her to go. + +It was hard to have to think that. She would love to have stayed a +little while. She had been away so long--wanting home for so long. She +knew now, facing the going away, how much she had secretly hoped might +result from this trip back home. + +She had seen a number of people in the past few days--relatives, old +friends of the family, friends of Ted. She had done better in meeting +them than, just a little while before, she would have thought possible. +Something remained with her from that hour at her mother's grave, that +strange hour when she had seemed to see life from outside, beyond it. +That had summoned something within herself that no personal hurt could +scatter, as if taking her in to something from which no circumstance +could drive her out. She had felt an inner quiet, a steadiness within; +there was power in it, and consolation. It took her out of that feeling +of having no place--no right to a place, the feeling that had made her +wretched and powerless. She was of life; her sure inner sense of the +reality and beauty of that seemed a thing not to be broken down from +without. It was hers, her own. It sustained her; it gave her poise. The +embarrassment of other people gave way before her simple steadiness. She +had had but the one point of contact with them--that of her father's +death; it made her want more, made going away hard. It was hard to leave +all the old things after even this slight touch with them again. + +And that new quiet, that new force within was beginning to make for new +thinking. She had thought much about what she had lived through--she +could not help doing that, but she was thinking now with new +questionings. She had not questioned much; she had accepted. What was +gathering within her now was a feeling that a thing so real, so of life +as her love had been should not be a thing to set her apart, should not +be a thing to blight the lives that touched hers. This was not something +called up in vindication, a mere escape from hard thinking, her own way +out from things she could not bear; it was deeper than that, far less +facile. It came from that inner quiet--from that strange new +assurance--this feeling that her love should not have devastated, that +it was too purely of life for that; that it was a thing to build up +life, to give to it; this wondering, at once timid and bold, if there +was not something wrong with an order that could give it no place, that +made it life's enemy. + +She had been afraid of rebellious thinking, of questionings. There had +been so much to fight, so much to make her afraid. At first all the +strength of her feeling had gone into the fight for Stuart's health; she +was afraid of things that made her rebellious--needing all of herself, +not daring to break through. The circumstances had seemed to make her +own life just shut down around her; and even after those first years, +living itself was so hard, there were so many worries and +disappointments--her feeling about it was so tense, life so stern--that +her thoughts did not shoot a long way out into questionings. She had +done a thing that cut her off from her family; she had hurt other people +and because of that she herself must suffer. Life could not be for her +what it was for others. She accepted much that she did not try to +understand. For one thing, she had had no one to talk to about those +things. Seeing how Stuart's resentment against the state of things +weakened him, keeping him from his full powers to meet those hard +conditions, she did not encourage their talking of it and had tried to +keep herself from the thinking that with him went into brooding and was +weakening. She had to do the best she could about things; she could not +spend herself in rebellion against what she had to meet. Like a man who +finds himself on a dizzy ledge she grew fearful of much looking around. + +But now, in these last few days, swept back into the wreckage she had +left, something fluttered to life and beat hard within her spirit, +breaking its way through the fearfulness that shut her in and sending +itself out in new bolder flights. Not that those outgoings took her away +from the place she had devastated; it was out of the poignancy of her +feeling about the harm she had done, out of her new grief in it that +these new questionings were born. The very fact that she did see so +well, and so sorrowingly, what she had done, brought this new feeling +that it should not have been that way, that what she had felt, and her +fidelity to that feeling--ruthless fidelity though it was--should not +have blighted like this. There was something that seemed at the heart of +it all in that feeling of not being ashamed in the presence of +death--she who had not denied life. + +Silence had fallen between her and Ted, she saddened in the thought of +going away and open to the puzzling things that touched her life at +every point; looking at Ted--proud of him--hating to leave him now just +when she had found him again, thinking with loving gratefulness and +pride of how generous and how understanding he had been with her, how he +was at once so boyish and so much more than his years. The fine +seriousness of his face tonight made him very dear and very comforting +to her. She wanted to keep close to him; she could not bear the thought +of again losing him. If her hard visit back home yielded just that she +would have had rich gain from it. She began talking with him about what +he would do. He talked freely of his work, as if glad to talk of it; he +was not satisfied with it, did not think there was much "chance" there +for him. Ted had thought he wanted to study law, but his father, in one +of his periods of depression, had said he could not finish sending him +through college and Ted had gone into one of the big manufactories +there. He was in the sales department, and he talked to Ruth of the +work. He told her of his friends, of what they were doing; they talked +of many things, speaking of the future with that gentle intimacy there +can be between those sorrowing together for things past. Their sensitive +consciousness of the emptiness of the house--the old place, their +home,--brought them together through a deep undercurrent of feeling. +Their voices were low as they spoke of more intimate things than it is +usual to speak of without constraint, something lowered between them as +only a grief shared can lower bars to the spirit, their thinking set in +that poignant sense of life which death alone seems able to create. + +Ted broke a pause to say that he supposed it was getting late and he +must be starting for Harriett's. Cyrus had asked him to come over awhile +that evening. Mr. McFarland, their family lawyer, was going out of town +for a few days, leaving the next morning. He was coming in that evening, +more as the old friend than formally, to speak to them about some +business matters, Cyrus's time being limited and there being a number of +things to arrange. + +"I hate leaving you alone, Ruth," said Ted, lingering. + +She looked over to him with quick affectionate smile. "I don't mind, +Ted. Somehow I don't mind being alone tonight." + +That was true. Being alone would not be loneliness that evening. Things +were somehow opened; all things had so strangely opened. She had been +looking down the deep-shadowed street, that old street down which she +used to go. The girl who used to go down that street was singularly real +to her just then; she had about her the fresh feeling, the vivid sense, +of a thing near in time. Old things were so strangely opened, old +feeling was alive again: the wild joy in the girl's heart, the delirious +expectancy--and the fear. It was strange how completely one could get +back across the years, how things gone could become living things again. +That was why she was not going to mind being alone just then; she had a +sense of the whole flow of her life--living, moving. It did not seem a +thing to turn away from; it was not often that things were all open like +that. + +"I shouldn't wonder if Deane would drop in," said Ted, as if trying to +help himself through leaving her there alone. + +"He may," Ruth answered. She did not say it with enthusiasm, much as she +would like to talk with Deane. Deane was just the one it would be good +to talk with that night. But Deane never mentioned his wife to her. At +first, in her preoccupation, and her pleasure in seeing him, she had not +thought much about that. Then it had come to her that doubtless Deane's +wife would not share his feeling about her, that she would share the +feeling of all the other people; that brought the fear that she might, +again, be making things hard for Deane. She had done enough of that; +much as his loyalty, the rare quality of his affectionate friendship +meant to her, she would rather he did not come than let the slightest +new shadow fall upon his life because of her. And yet it seemed all +wrong, preposterous, to think anyone who was close to Deane, anyone whom +he loved, should not understand this friendship between them. She +thought of how, meeting after all those years, they were not strange +with each other. That seemed rare--to be cherished. + +"What's Deane's wife like, Ted?" she asked. + +"I haven't met her," he replied, "but I've seen her. She's awfully +good-looking; lots of style, and carries herself as if--oh, as if she +knew she was somebody," he laughed. "And I guess Deane thinks she _is_," +he added with another laugh. "Guess he decided that first time he met +her. You know he stopped in Indianapolis to see a classmate who was +practising there--met her at a party, I believe, and--good-by Deane! But +somehow she isn't what you'd expect Deane's wife to be," he went on more +seriously. "Doesn't look that way, anyhow. Looks pretty frigid, I +thought, and, oh--fixed up. As if she wasn't just real." + +Ruth's brows puckered. If there was one thing it seemed the wife of +Deane Franklin should be, it was real. But doubtless Ted was wrong--not +knowing her. It did not seem that Deane would be drawn to anyone who was +not real. + +She lingered in the thought of him. Real was just what Deane was. He had +been wonderfully real with her in those days--days that had made the +pattern of her life. Reality had swept away all other things between +them. That carried her back to the new thinking, the questions. It +seemed it was the things not real that were holding people apart. It was +the artificialities people had let living build up around them made +those people hard. People would be simpler--kinder--could those unreal +things be swept away. She dwelt on the thought of a world like that--a +world of people simple and real as Deane Franklin was simple and real. + +She was called from that by a movement and exclamation from Ted, who had +leaned over the railing. "There goes Mildred Woodbury," he said,--"and +alone." + +His tone made her look at him in inquiry and then down the street at the +slight figure of a girl whose light dress stood out clearly between the +shadows. Mildred was the daughter of a family who lived in the next +block. The Woodburys and the Hollands had been neighbors and friends as +far back as Ruth could remember. Mildred was only a little girl when +Ruth went away--such a pretty little girl, her fair hair always gayly +tied with ribbons. She had been there with her mother the night before +and Ruth had been startled by her coming into the room where she was and +saying impulsively: "You don't remember me, do you? I'm Mildred--Mildred +Woodbury." + +"And you used to call me Wuth!" Ruth had eagerly replied. + +It had touched her, surrounded as she was by perfunctoriness and +embarrassment that this young girl should seek her out in that warm way. +And something in the girl's eyes had puzzled her. She had returned to +thought of it more than once and that made her peculiarly interested in +Ted's queer allusion to Mildred now. + +"Well?" she inquired. + +"Mildred's getting in rather bad," he said shortly. + +"Getting--what do you mean, Ted?" she asked, looking at him in a +startled way. + +"People are talking about her," he said. + +"People are--?" she began, but stopped, looking at him all the while in +that startled way. + +"Talking about her," he repeated. "I guess it's been going on for some +time--though I didn't hear about it until a little while ago." + +"About what, Ted?" Her voice faltered and it seemed to make him suddenly +conscious of what he was saying, to whom he spoke. + +"Why,"--he faltered now too, "Mildred's acting sort of silly--that's +all. I don't know--a flirtation, or something, with Billy Archer. You +don't know him; he came here a few years ago on some construction work. +He's an engineer. He is a fascinating fellow, all right," he added. + +Ruth pushed back her chair into deeper shadow. "And--?" she suggested +faintly. + +"He's married," briefly replied Ted. + +She did not speak for what seemed a long time. Ted was beginning to +fidget. Then, "How old is Mildred, Ted?" Ruth asked in a very quiet +voice. + +"About twenty, I guess; she's a couple of years younger than I am." + +"And this man?--how old is he?" That she asked a little sharply. + +"Oh, I don't know; he's in the older crowd; somewhere in the thirties, I +should say." + +"Well--" But she abruptly checked what she had sharply begun to say, and +pushed her chair still further back into shadow. When Ted stole a timid +glance at her a minute later he saw that she seemed to be holding her +hands tight together. + +"And doesn't Mildred's mother--?" It seemed impossible for her to finish +anything, to say it out. + +He shook his head. "Guess not. It's funny--but you know a person's +folks--" + +There was another silence; then Ted began to whistle softly and was +looking over the railing as if interested in something down on the lawn. + +"And you say people are really--talking about Mildred, Ted?" Ruth +finally asked, speaking with apparent effort. + +He nodded. "Some people are snubbing her. You know this town is long on +that," he threw in with a short laugh. "I saw Mrs. Brewer--remember +her?--she used to be Dorothy Hanlay--out and out snub Mildred at a party +the other night. She came up to her after she'd been dancing with +Billy--Lord knows how many times she'd danced with him that night--and +Mrs. Brewer simply cut her. I saw it myself. Mildred got white for a +moment, then smiled in a funny little way and turned away. Tough on her, +wasn't it?--for really, she's a good deal of a kid, you know. And say, +Ruth, there's something mighty decent about Edith--about Mrs. Blair. She +saw it and right afterwards she went up to Mildred, seemed particularly +interested in her, and drew her into her crowd. Pretty white, don't you +think? That old hen--Mrs. Brewer--got red, let me tell you, for Edith +can put it all over her, you know, on being somebody, and that _got_ +her--good and plenty!" + +There was a queer little sound from Ruth, a sound like a not quite +suppressed sob; Ted rose, as if for leaving, and stood there awkwardly, +his back to her. He felt that Ruth was crying, or at least trying not to +cry. Why had he talked of a thing like that? Why did he have to bring in +Edith Lawrence? + +It seemed better to go on talking about it now, as naturally as he +could. "I never thought there was much to Mildred," he resumed, not +turning round. "She always seemed sort of stuck up with the fellows of +our crowd. But I guess you never can tell. I saw her look at Billy +Archer the other night." He paused with a little laugh. "There wasn't +anything very stuck up about that look." + +As still Ruth did not speak he began to talk about the property across +the street being for sale. When he turned around for taking leave--it +being past the time for going to Harriett's--it made him furious at +himself to see how strained and miserable Ruth's face was. She scarcely +said good-by to him; she was staring down the street where Mildred had +disappeared a few moments before. All the way over to Harriett's he +wondered just what Ruth was thinking. He was curious as well as +self-reproachful. + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE + + +When Ted entered the living-room at his sister Harriett's he felt as if +something damp and heavy had been thrown around him. He got the feeling +of being expected to contribute to the oppressiveness of the occasion. +The way no one was sitting in a comfortable position seemed to suggest +that constraint was deemed fitting. Cyrus was talking to Mr. McFarland +with a certain self-conscious decorousness. Harriett's husband, the Rev. +Edgar Tyler, sat before the library table in more of his pulpit manner +than was usual with him in his household, as if--so it seemed to +Ted--the relation of death to the matter in hand brought it particularly +within his province. Ted had never liked him; especially he had hated +his attitude about Ruth--his avowed sorrowfulness with which the heart +had nothing to do. He resented the way his brother-in-law had made +Harriett feel that she owed it to the community, to the church, not to +countenance her sister. Harriett had grown into that manner of striving +to do the right thing. She had it now--sitting a little apart from the +others, as if not to intrude herself. Sitting there with those others +his heart went out to Ruth; he was _for_ her, he told himself warmly, +and he'd take nothing off of Cy about her, either! He watched Cyrus and +thought of how strange it was that a brother and sister should be as +different as he and Ruth were. They had always been different; as far +back as he could remember they were different about everything. Ruth was +always keyed up about something--delighted, and Cy was always "putting a +crimp" in things. As a little boy, when he told Ruth things he was +pleased about they always grew more delightful for telling her; and +somehow when you told Cyrus about a jolly thing it always flattened out +a little in the telling. + +A shrinking from the appearance of too great haste gave a personal color +to the conversation. It was as old friend quite as much as family +solicitor that the lawyer talked to them, although the occasion for +getting together that night was that Cyrus might learn of an investment +of his father's which demanded immediate attention. + +Mr. McFarland spoke of that, and then of how little else remained. He +hesitated, then ventured: "You know, I presume, that your father has not +left you now what he would have had ten years ago?" + +Ted saw Cyrus's lips tighten, his eyes lower. He glanced at Harriett, +who looked resigned; though he was not thinking much of them, but of his +father, who had met difficulties, borne disappointments. He was thinking +of nights when his father came home tired; mornings when he went away in +that hurried, harassed way. He could see him sitting in his chair +brooding. The picture of him now made him appear more lonely than he had +thought of him while living. And now his father was dead and they were +sitting there talking over his affairs, looking into things that their +father had borne alone, things he had done the best he could about. He +wished he had tried harder to be company for him. In too many of those +pictures which came now his father was alone. + +He heard Cyrus speaking. "Yes," he was saying, "father was broken by our +personal troubles." There was a pause. Ted did not raise his eyes to his +brother. He did not want to look at him, not liking his voice as he said +that. "It is just another way," Cyrus went on, "in which we all have to +suffer for our family disgrace." + +Ted felt himself flushing. Why need Cy have said that! Mr. McFarland had +turned slightly away, as if not caring to hear it. + +And then Cyrus asked about their father's will. + +The attorney's reply was quiet. "He leaves no will." + +Ted looked at him in surprise. Then he looked at Cyrus and saw his +startled, keen, queer look at the attorney. It was after seeing his +brother's face that he realized what this meant--that if his father left +no will Ruth shared with the rest of them. Suddenly his heart was +beating fast. + +"How's that?" Cyrus asked sharply. + +"There was a will, but he destroyed it about two month's ago." + +"He--? Why!" Cyrus pressed in that sharp voice. + +Ted felt certain that the lawyer liked saying what he had to say then. +He said it quietly, but looking right at Cyrus. "He destroyed his will +because it cut off his daughter Ruth." + +Ted got up and walked to the window, stood there staring out at the +street lights. Bless dad! He wished he could see him; he would give +almost anything to see him for just a minute. He wished he had known; he +would love to have told his father just how corking he thought that was. +He stood there a minute not wanting to show the others how much he was +feeling--this new, warm rush of love for his father, and his deep +gladness for Ruth. He thought of what it would mean to her, what it +would mean to know her father had felt like that. He had had to leave +her there at home alone; now he could go home and tell her this news +that would mean so much. + +When he turned back to the group it was to see that he was not alone in +being moved by what they had heard. Harriett too had turned a little +away from the others and was looking down. He saw a tear on her +face--and liked her better than he ever had before. Then he looked at +her husband and in spite of all he was feeling it was hard not to smile; +his brother-in-law's face looked so comical to him, trying to twist +itself into the fitting emotions. Ted watched him unsparingly for a +minute, maliciously saying to himself: "Keep on, old boy, you'll make it +after a little!" + +Then he looked at his brother and his face hardened, seeing too well +what new feeling this roused in Cyrus against Ruth, reading the +resentment toward their father for this final weakening in his stand +against her. + +"Well--" Cyrus began but did not go on, his lips tightening. + +"Your father said," the lawyer added, "that if there was one of his +children--more than the others--needed what he could do for her, it was +his daughter Ruth." + +He was looking at Ted, and Ted nodded eagerly, thinking now of what, in +the practical sense, this would mean to Ruth. Mr. McFarland turned back +to Cyrus as he remarked: "He spoke of Ruth with much feeling." + +Cyrus flushed. "I guess father was pretty much broken--in mind as well +as body--at that time," he said unpleasantly. + +"His mind was all right," answered the lawyer curtly. + +He left a few minutes later; Harriett, who went with him to the door, +did not return to the room. The two men and Ted sat for a moment in +silence. Then Cyrus turned upon him as if angered by what he divined him +to be feeling. "Well," he said roughly, "I suppose you're pleased?" + +"I'm pleased, all right," replied Ted with satisfaction. He looked at +the minister. "Good thing, for I guess I'm the only fellow here who is." + +Harriett's husband colored slightly. "I am neither pleased nor +displeased," was his grave reply. "Surely it was for your father to do +as he wished. For a father to forgive a child is--moving. I only hope," +he added, "that it will not seem in the community to mean the +countenancing--" He paused, looking to Cyrus for approval. + +Then Ten blazed out. "Well, if you want to know what I think, I don't +think a little 'countenancing' of Ruth is going to do this community--or +anybody else--any harm!" + +Cyrus looked at him with that slightly sneering smile that always +enraged Ted. "You're proud of your sister, I suppose?" he inquired +politely. + +Ted reddened. Then he grew strangely quiet. "Yes," he said, "I believe I +am. I've come pretty close to Ruth these last few days, and I think +that's just what I am--proud of her. I can't say I'm proud of what Ruth +did; I'd have to think more about that. But I'm proud of what she _is_. +And I don't know--I don't know but what it's what a person _is_ that +counts." He fell silent, thinking of what he meant by that, of the +things he felt in Ruth. + +Cyrus laughed mockingly. "Rather a curious thing to be proud of, I +should say. What she 'is' is--" + +Ted jumped up. "Don't say it, Cy! Whatever it is you're going to +say--just don't say it!" + +Cyrus had risen and was putting in his pocket a paper Mr. McFarland had +given him. "No?" he said smoothly, as if quite unperturbed. "And why +not?" + +At that uncaring manner something seemed to break inside Ted's head, as +if all the things Cyrus had said about Ruth had suddenly gathered there +and pressed too hard. His arm shot out at his brother. + +"That's why not!" he cried. + +He had knocked Cyrus back against the wall and stood there threatening +him. To the minister, who had stepped up, protesting, he snapped: "None +of _your_ put-in! And after this, just be a little more careful in +_your_ talk--see?" + +He stepped back from Cyrus but stood there glaring, breathing hard with +anger. Cyrus, whose face had gone white, but who was calm, went back to +the table and resumed what he had been doing there. + +"A creditable performance, I must say, for the day of your father's +funeral," he remarked after a moment. + +"That's all right!" retorted Ted. "Don't think I'm sorry! I don't know +any better way to start out new--start out alone--than to tell you what +I think of you!--let you know that I'll not take a thing off of you +about Ruth. You've done enough, Cy. Now you quit. You kept mother and +father away when they didn't want to be kept away--and I want to tell +you that I'm _on_ to you, anyway. Don't think for a minute that I +believe it's your great virtue that's hurting you. You can't put that +over on me. It's pride and stubbornness and just plain meanness makes +you the way you are! Yes, I'm glad to have a chance to tell you what I +think of you--and then I'm through with you, Cy. I think you're a +pin-head! Why, you haven't got the heart of a flea! I don't know how +anybody as fine as Ruth ever came to have a brother like you!" + +His feeling had grown as he spoke, and he stopped now because he was too +close to losing control; he reddened as his brother--calm, apparently +unmoved--surveyed him as if mildly amused. That way Cyrus looked at him +when they were quarrelling always enraged him. If he would only _say_ +something--not stand there as if he were too superior to bother himself +with such a thing! He knew Cyrus knew it maddened him--that that was why +he did it, and so it was quietly that he resumed: "No, Cy, I'm not with +you, and you might as well know it. I'm for Ruth. You've got the world +on your side--and I know the arguments you can put up, and all that, but +Ruth's got a--" he fumbled a minute for the words--"Ruth's got a power +and an understanding about her that you'll never have. She's got a +heart. More than that, she's got--character." + +He paused, thinking, and Cyrus did speak then. "Oh, I don't think I'd +use that word," he said suavely. + +"No, you wouldn't; you wouldn't see it, but that's just what I mean." He +turned to the minister. "Character, I say, is what my sister Ruth has +got. Character is something more than putting up a slick front. It's +something more than doing what's expected of you. It's a kind of--a kind +of being faithful to yourself. _Being_ yourself. Oh, I know--" at a +sound from his brother--"just how you can laugh at it, but there's +something to it just the same. Why, Ruth's got more real stuff in her +than you two put together! After being with her these days you, Cy, +strike a fellow as pretty shallow." + +That brought the color to his brother's face. Stung to a real retort, he +broke out with considerable heat: "If to have a respect for decency is +'shallow'--!" He quickly checked himself as the door opened and +Harriett's maid entered. + +She paused, feeling the tension, startled by their faces. "Excuse me, +sir," she said to the minister, "but Mrs. Tyler said I was to tell you +she had gone out for a few minutes. She said to tell you she had gone to +see her sister." + +She looked startled at Ted's laugh. After she had gone he laughed again. +"Hard luck!" he said to his brother-in-law, and walked from the room. + +He did not go directly home. He was too upset to face Ruth just then; he +did not want her to know, it would trouble her. And he wanted to +walk--walk as fast as he could, walk off steam, he called it. His heart +was pounding and there seemed too much blood in his head. But he wasn't +sorry, he told himself. Cy would have it in for him now, but what did he +care for that? He could get along without him. But his lips trembled as +he thought that. He had had to get along without his mother; from now on +he would have to get along without his father. He had a moment of +feeling very much alone. And then he thought of Ruth. Yes,--there was +Ruth! He wheeled toward home. He wanted to tell her. He hoped Harriett +hadn't got it told; he wanted to tell her himself. Bless dad! He loved +him for doing that. If only he'd known it in time to let him know what +he thought of him for doing it! + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO + + +Harriett had been with Ruth for half an hour and still she had not told +her what she had come to tell her. She was meaning to tell it before she +left, to begin it any minute now, but, much as she wanted to tell it, +she shrank from doing so. It seemed that telling that would open +everything up--and they had opened nothing up. Harriett had grown into a +way of shrinking back from the things she really wanted to do, was +unpracticed in doing what she felt like doing. + +Acting upon an impulse, she had started for Ruth. There had been a +moment of real defiance when she told Mamie to tell Mr. Tyler that she +had gone to see her sister. She had a right to go and see her sister! No +one should keep her from it. Her heart was stirred by what her father +had done about Ruth. It made her know that she too felt more than she +had shown. His having done that made her want to do something. It moved +her to have this manifestation of a softening she had not suspected. It +reached something in her, something that made her feel a little more +free, more bold, more loving. His defiance, for she felt that in it too, +struck a spark in her. She even had a secret satisfaction in the +discomfiture she knew this revelation of her father's--what they would +call weakening--caused her husband and her brother. Unacknowledged +dissatisfactions of her own sharpened her feeling about it. She had not +looked at either her husband or Cyrus when the announcement was made, +but beneath her own emotion was a secret, unacknowledged gloating at +what she knew was their displeasure, at their helplessness to resent. +Ted was a dear boy! Ted's shining eyes somehow made her know just how +glad she herself was. + +So she had hurried along, stirred, eager to tell Ruth. But once with her +she held back from telling her, grew absurdly timid about it. It seemed +so much else might come when that came--things long held back, things +hard to let one's self talk about. + +And then Ruth was so strange tonight. After that first day it had been +easy to talk with Ruth; that first embarrassment over, she had seemed +simple and natural and Harriett could talk with her about the little +things that came up and at times just forget the big thing that held +them apart. After that first meeting she had felt much more comfortable +with Ruth than she would have supposed the terrible circumstances would +let her feel. But tonight Ruth was different, constrained, timid; she +seemed holding herself back, as if afraid of something. It made Harriett +conscious of what there was holding them apart. She did not know how to +begin what she had been so eager to tell. + +And so they talked of surface things--current things: the service that +afternoon; some of the relatives who had been there; of old friends of +their father's. They kept away from the things their hearts were full +of. + +Ruth had been glad to see Harriett; it touched her that Harriett should +come. But she was nervous with her; it was true that she was holding +back. That new assurance which had helped her through the last few days +had deserted her. Since Ted told her of Mildred that inner quiet from +which assurance drew was dispelled. She seemed struck back--bewildered, +baffled. Was it always to be that way? Every time she gained new ground +for her feet was she simply to be struck back to new dismays, new +incertitudes, new pain? Had she only deluded herself in that feeling +which had created the strengthening calm of the last few days? + +After Ted left her she had continued to sit looking down the street +where Mildred had gone; just a little while before she had been looking +down that street as the way she herself had gone--the young girl giving +herself to love, facing all perils, daring all things for the love in +her heart. But now she was not thinking of the love in Mildred's heart; +she was thinking of the perils around her--the pity of it--the waiting +disaster. A little while before it had seemed there should always be a +place in the world for love, that things shutting love out were things +unreal. And now she longed to be one with Edith in getting Mildred back +to those very things--those unreal things that would safeguard. The +mockery of it beat her back, robbing her of the assurance that had been +her new strength. That was why Harriett found her strange, hard to talk +to. She wanted to cower back. She tried not to think of Mildred--to get +back to herself. But that she could not do; Mildred was there in +between--confusing, a mockery. + +Harriett spoke of the house, how she supposed the best thing to do would +be to offer it for sale. Ruth looked startled and pained. "It's in bad +repair," Harriett said; "it's all run down. And then--there's really no +reason for keeping it." + +And then they fell silent, thinking of years gone--years when the house +had not been all run down, when there was good reason for keeping it. To +let the house go to strangers seemed the final acknowledgment that all +those old things had passed away. It was a more intimate, a sympathetic +silence into which that feeling flowed--each thinking of old days in +that house, each knowing that the other was thinking of those days. +Harriett could see Ruth as a little girl running through those rooms. +She remembered a certain little blue gingham dress--and Ruth's hair +braided down her back; pictures of Ruth with their grandfather, their +mother, their father--all those three gone now. She started to tell Ruth +what she had come to tell her, then changed it to something else, still +holding back, afraid of emotion, of breaking through, seeming powerless +and hating herself for being powerless. She would tell that a little +later--before she left. She would wait until Ted came in. She seized +upon that, it let her out--let her out from the thing she had been all +warm eagerness to do. To bridge that time she asked a few diffident +questions about the West; she really wanted very much to know how Ruth +lived, how she "managed." But she put the questions carefully, it would +seem reluctantly, just because almost everything seemed to lead to that +one thing,--the big thing that lay there between her and Ruth. It was +hard to ask questions about the house Ruth lived in and not let her mind +get swamped by that one terrible fact that she lived there with Stuart +Williams--another woman's husband. + +Harriett's manner made Ruth bitter. It seemed Harriett was afraid to +talk to her, evidently afraid that at any moment she would come upon +something she did not want to come near. Harriett needn't be so +afraid!--she wasn't going to contaminate her. + +And so the talk became a pretty miserable affair. It was a relief when +Flora Copeland came in the room. "There's someone here to see you, +Ruth," she said. + +"Deane?" inquired Ruth. + +"No, a woman." + +"A woman?"--and then, at the note of astonishment in her own voice she +laughed in an embarrassed little way. + +"Yes, a Mrs. Herman. She says you may remember her as Annie Morris. She +says she went to school with you." + +"Yes," said Ruth, "I know." She was looking down, pulling at her +handkerchief. After an instant she looked up and said quietly: "Won't +you ask her to come in here?" + +The woman who stood in the doorway a moment later gave the impression of +life, work, having squeezed her too hard. She had quick movements, as if +she were used to doing things in a hurry. She had on a cheap, plain +suit, evidently bought several years before. She was very thin, her face +almost pinched, but two very live eyes looked out from it. She appeared +embarrassed, but somehow the embarrassment seemed only a surface thing. +She held out a red, rough hand to Ruth and smiled in a quick, bright way +as she said: "I don't know that you remember me, Ruth." + +"Oh, yes I do, Annie," Ruth replied, and held on to the red, rough hand. + +"I didn't know; I'm sure," she laughed, "that you've always meant more +to me than I could to you." + +After Ruth had introduced Harriett the stranger explained that with: "I +thought a great deal of Ruth when we were in school together. She never +knew it--she had so many friends." A little pause followed that. + +"So I couldn't bear to go away," Annie went on in her rather sharp, +bright way, "without seeing you, Ruth. I hope I'm not intruding, coming +so--soon." + +"You are not intruding, Annie," said Ruth; her voice shook just a +little. + +Ted had come home, and came in the room then and was introduced to +Annie, with whom, though frankly surprised at seeing her, he shook hands +warmly. "But we do know each other," he said. + +"Oh, yes," she laughed, "I've brought you many a cauliflower." + +"And oh, those eggs!" he laughed back. + +Again there was a slight pause, and then Annie turned to Ruth with the +manner of being bound to get right into the thing she had come to say. +"I didn't wait longer, Ruth, because I was afraid you might get away and +I wondered,"--this she said diffidently, as one perhaps expecting too +much--"if there was any chance of your coming out to make me a little +visit before you go back. + +"You know,"--she turned hastily to Ted, turning away from the things +gathering in Ruth's eyes, "the country is so lovely now. I thought it +might do Ruth good. She must be tired, after the long journey--and all. +I thought a good rest--" She turned back to Ruth. "Don't you think, +Ruth," she coaxed, "that you'd like to come out and play with my baby?" + +And then no one knew what to do for suddenly Ruth was shaken with sobs. +Ted was soothing her, telling Annie that naturally she was nervous that +night. "Ted," she choked, in a queer, wild way, laughing through the +sobs, "did you _hear_? She wants me to come out and play with her +_baby_!" + +Harriett got up and walked to the other side of the room. +Ruth--laughing, crying--was repeating: "She wants me to play with her +_baby_!" Harriett thought of her own children at home, whom Ruth had not +seen. She listened to the plans Annie and Ted and Ruth were making and +wretchedly wished she had done differently years before. + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE + + +Ruth had been with Annie for five days now; the original three days for +which she had said she could come had been lengthened to a week, and she +knew that she would not want to go even then. For here was rest. Here +she could forget about herself as set apart from others. Here she did +not seem apart. After the stress of those days at home it was good to +rest in this simple feeling of being just one with others. It was good +to lie on the grass under the trees, troubled thoughts in abeyance, and +feel spring in the earth, take it in by smell and sound. It was +wonderfully good to play with the children, to lie on the grass and let +the little two year old girl--Annie's baby--pull at her hair, toddling +around her, cooing and crowing. There was healing in that. It was good +to be some place where she did not seem to cause embarrassment, to be +where she was wanted. After the strain of recent events the simple +things of these days were very sweet to her. It had become monstrous +always to have to feel that something about her made her different from +other people. There was something terrible in it--something not good for +one. Here was release from that. + +And it was good to be with Annie; they had not talked much yet--not +seriously talked. Annie seemed to know that it was rest in little things +Ruth needed now, not talk of big ones. They talked about the chickens +and the cows, the flowers and the cauliflowers, about the children's +pranks. It was restoring to talk thus of inconsequential things; Ruth +was beginning to feel more herself than she had felt in years. On that +fifth day her step was lighter than when she came; it was easier to +laugh. Hers had once been so sunny a nature; it was amazingly easy to +break out of the moroseness with which circumstances had clouded her +into that native sunniness. That afternoon she sat on the knoll above +the house, leaning back against a tree and smiling lazily at the +gamboling of the new little pigs. + +Annie was directing the boy who had been helping her cut asparagus to +carry the baskets up where Ruth was sitting. "I'm going to talk to you +while I make this into bunches, Ruth," she called. + +"I'll help," Ruth called back with zest. + +They talked at first of the idiosyncrasies of asparagus beds, of the +marketing of it; then something Annie said set Ruth thinking of +something that had happened when they were in high school. "Oh, do you +remember, Annie--" she laughingly began. There was that sort of talk for +awhile--"Do you remember...?" and "Oh, whatever became of...?" + +As they worked on Ruth thought of the strangeness of her being there +with this girl who, when they were in school together, had meant so +little to her. Her own work lagged, watching Annie as with quick, sure +motions she made the asparagus into bunches for market. She did things +deftly and somehow gave the feeling of subordinating them to something +else, of not letting them take all of her. Ruth watched her with +affectionate interest; she wore an all-over gingham apron, her big sun +hat pushed back from her browned, thin face; she was not at all +attractive unless one saw the eager, living eyes--keenly intelligent +eyes. Ruth thought of her other friends--the girls who had been her +friends when she was in school and whom she had not seen now; she +wondered why it was Annie had none of the feeling that kept those other +girls away. + +Annie's husband was a slow, stolid man; Ruth supposed that in his youth, +when Annie married him, he had perhaps been attractive in his +stalwartness. He was sluggish now; good humored enough, but apparently +as heavy in spirit as in body. Things outside the material round of +life--working, eating, sleeping--simply did not seem to exist for him. +At first she wondered how Annie could be content with life with him, +Annie, who herself was so keenly alive. Thinking of it now it seemed +Annie had the same adjustment to him that she had to the +asparagus,--something subordinated, not taking up very much of herself. +She had about Annie, and she did not know just why she had it, the +feeling that here was a person who could not be very greatly harmed, +could not be completely absorbed by routine, could not, for some reason +she could not have given, be utterly vanquished by any circumstance. She +went about her work as if that were one thing--and then there were other +things; as if she were in no danger of being swallowed up in her manner +of living. There was something apart that was dauntless. Ruth wondered +about her, she wanted to find out about her. She wanted for herself that +valiant spirit, a certain unconquerableness she felt in Annie. + +Annie broke a pause to say: "You can't know, Ruth, how much it means to +have you here." + +Ruth's face lighted and she smiled; she started to speak, but instead +only smiled again. She wanted to tell what it meant to her to be there, +but that seemed a thing not easily told. + +"I wish you could stay longer," Annie went on, all the while working. +"So--" she paused, and continued a little diffidently--"so we could +really get acquainted; really talk. I hardly ever have anyone to talk +to," she said wistfully. "One gets pretty lonely sometimes. It would be +good to have someone to talk to about the things one thinks." + +"What are the things you think, Annie?" Ruth asked impulsively. + +"Oh, no mighty thoughts," laughed Annie; "but of course I'm always +thinking about things. We keep alive by thinking, don't we?" + +Ruth gave her a startled look. + +"Perhaps it's because I haven't had from life itself much of what I'd +like to have," Annie was going on, "that I've made a world within. Can't +let life cheat us, Ruth," she said brightly. "If we can't have things in +one way--have to get them in another." + +Again Ruth looked at her in that startled way. Annie did not see it, +reaching over for more asparagus; she was all the time working along in +that quick, sure way--doing what she was doing cleverly and as if it +weren't very important. "Perhaps, Ruth," she said after a minute, "that +that's why my school-girl fancy for you persisted--deepened--the way it +has." She hesitated, then said simply: "I liked you for not letting life +cheat you." + +She looked up with a quick little nod as she said that but found Ruth's +face very serious, troubled. "But I don't think I've done what you mean, +Annie," she began uncertainly. "I did what I did--because I had to. And +I'm afraid I haven't--gone on. It begins to seem to me now that I've +stayed in a pretty small place. I've been afraid!" she concluded with +sudden scorn. + +"That isn't much wonder," Annie murmured gently. + +"But with me," she took it up after a little, "I've had to go on." Her +voice went hard in saying it. "Things would have just shut right down on +me if I would have let them," she finished grimly. + +"I married for passion," she began quietly after a minute. "Most people +do, I presume. At least most people who marry young." + +Ruth colored. She was not used to saying things right out like that. + +"Romantic love is a wonderful thing," Annie pursued; "I suppose it's the +most beautiful thing in the world--while it lasts." She laughed in a +queer, grim little way and gave a sharp twist to the knot she was tying. +"Sometimes it opens up to another sort of love--love of another +quality--and to companionship. It must be a beautiful thing--when it +does that." She hesitated a moment before she finished with a dryness +that had that grim quality: "With me--it didn't. + +"So there came a time," she went on, and seemed newly to have gained +serenity, "when I saw that I had to give up--go under--or get through +myself what I wasn't going to get through anyone else. Oh, it's not the +beautiful way--not the complete way. But it's one way!" she flashed in +fighting voice. "I fought for something, Ruth. I held it. I don't know +that I've a name for it--but it's the most precious thing in life. My +life itself is pretty limited; aside from the children"--she softened in +speaking of them--"my life is--pretty barren. And as for the +children"--that fighting spirit broke sharply through, "they're all the +more reason for not sinking into things--not sinking into _them_," she +laughed. + +As she stopped there Ruth asked eagerly, eyes intently upon her: "But +just what is it you mean, Annie? Just what is it you fought for--kept?" + +"To be my _own_!" Annie flashed back at her, like steel. + +Then she changed; for the first time her work fell unheeded in her lap; +the eyes which a minute before had flashed fight looked far off and were +dreamy; her face, over which the skin seemed to have become stretched, +burned by years of sun and wind, quivered a little. When she spoke again +it was firmly but with sadness. "It's what we think that counts, Ruth. +It's what we feel. It's what we _are_. Oh, I'd like richer living--more +beauty--more joy. Well, I haven't those things. For various reasons, I +won't have them. That makes it the more important to have all I can +take!"--it leaped out from the gentler thinking like a sent arrow. +"Nobody holds my thoughts. They travel as far as they themselves have +power to travel. They bring me whatever they can bring me--and I shut +nothing out. I'm not afraid!" + +Ruth was looking at her with passionate earnestness. + +"Over there in that town,"--Annie made a little gesture toward it, "are +hundreds of women who would say they have a great deal more than I have. +And it's true enough," she laughed, "that they have some things I'd like +to have. But do you think I'd trade with them? Oh, no! Not much! The +free don't trade with the bond, Ruth." + +And still Ruth did not speak, but listened with that passionate +intentness. + +"There in that town," Annie went on, "are people--most a whole townful +of them--who are going through life without being really awake to life +at all. They move around in a closed place, doing the same silly little +things--copy-cats--repeaters. They're not their _own_--they're not +awake. They're like things run by machinery. Like things going in their +sleep. Take those girls we used to go to school with. Why, take Edith +Lawrence. I see her sometimes. She always speaks sweetly to me; she +means to be nice. But she moves round and round in her little place and +she doesn't even _know_ of the wonderful things going on in the world +today! Do you think I'd trade with _her_?--social leader and all the +rest of it!" She was gathering together the bundles of asparagus. She +had finished her work. "Very sweet--very charming," she disposed of +Edith, "but she simply doesn't count. The world's moving away from her, +and she,"--Annie laughed with a mild scorn--"doesn't even know that!" + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR + + +It was late when Ruth went to sleep that night; she and Annie talked +through the evening--of books Annie was reading, of the things which +were interesting her. She was rich in interests; ideas were as personal +things to her; she found personal satisfactions in them. She was +following things which Ruth knew little about; she had been long away +from the centers of books, and out of touch with awakened people. A +whole new world seemed to open from these things that were vital to +Annie; there was promise in them--a quiet road out from the hard things +of self. There were new poets in the world; there were bold new +thinkers; there was an amazing new art; science was reinterpreting the +world and workers and women were setting themselves free. Everywhere the +old pattern was being shot through with new ideas. Everywhere were new +attempts at a better way of doing things. She had been away from all +that; what she knew of the world's new achievement had seemed unreal, or +at least detached, not having any touch with her own life. But as +disclosed by Annie those things became realities--things to enrich one's +own life. It kindled old fires of her girlhood, fanned the old desire to +know. Personal things had seemed to quell that; the storm in her own +life had shut down around her. Now she saw that she, like those others +whom Annie scorned, had not kept that openness to life, had let her own +life shut her in. She had all along been eager for books, but had not +been fortunate in the things she had come upon. She had not had access +to large libraries--many times not even to small ones; she had had +little money for buying books and was so out of touch with the world +that she had not had much initiative in trying to get hold of things. +She felt now that she had failed miserably in that, but there were years +when she was like a hurt thing that keeps in hiding, most of all wanting +to escape more hurt. It had been a weakness--she clearly saw that now, +and it had been weakening to her powers. Most of the books she had come +upon were of that shut-in life Annie scorned, written from within that +static living, and for it. People in them had the feeling it was right +people should have, unless there were bad people in the book, and then +they were very definitely bad. Many of those books had been not only +unsatisfying, but saddening to her, causing her to feel newly apart from +the experiences of people of her kind. + +But now Annie's books let her glimpse a new world--a world which +questioned, a world of protest, of experiment, a world in which people +unafraid were trying to find the truth, trying to build freshly, to +supplant things outworn with the vital forms of a new reality. It was +quickening. It made her eager. She was going to take some of those books +home, she would send for others, would learn how to keep in touch with +this new world which was emerging from the old. It was like breaking out +from a closed circle. It was adventure! + +Even after she went to her room that night, late though it was, she did +not go at once to bed. She sat for a time looking off at the lights of +that town for which she had so long grieved, the town that had shut her +out. The fact that it had shut her out had been a determining thing in +her life, to her spirit. She wondered now if perhaps she had not +foolishly spent herself in grieving for a thing that would have meant +little could she have had it. For it seemed now that it had remained +very much a fixed thing, and now she knew that, with it all, she herself +had not been fixed. The things of which Annie talked, things men of this +new day were expressing, roused her like this, not because they were all +new, but because of her own inner gropings. Within herself she had been +stumbling toward some of those things. Here was the sure expression of +some halting thoughts of her own. It was exciting to find that there +were people who were feeling the things that, even in that timid, +uncertain way, she had come to feel by herself. She had been half afraid +to formulate some of the things that had come into her mind. This +gathered together the timid little shoots. She was excited about the +things of which Annie talked--those new ideals of freedom--not so much +because they were new and daring and illumining things, as because they +did not come all alien. There was something from within to go out to +them. In that--not that there were interesting things she could have +from without--but that she, opened to the new stimulus, could become +something from within, was the real excitation, the joy of the new +promise was there. And this new stir, this promise of new satisfactions, +let her feel that her life was not all mapped out, designed ahead. She +went to sleep that night with a wonderful new feeling of there being as +much for her in life as she herself had power to take. + +And she woke with that feeling; she was eager to be up, to be out in the +sunshine. Annie, she found, had gone early to town with her vegetables. +Ruth helped eleven-year-old Dorothy, the eldest child, get off for +school and walked with her to the schoolhouse half a mile down the road. +The little girl's shyness wore away and she chatted with Ruth about +school, about teachers and lessons and play. Ruth loved it; it seemed to +set the seal of a human relationship upon her new feeling. What a +wonderful thing for Annie to have these children! Today gladness in +there being children in the world went out past sorrow in her own +deprivation. The night before she had said to Annie, "You have your +children. That makes life worth while to you, doesn't it?" And Annie, +with that hard, swift look of being ruthless for getting at the +truth--for getting her feeling straight and expressing it truly, had +answered, "Not in itself. I mean, it's not all. I think much precious +life has gone dead under that idea of children being enough--letting +them be all. _We_ count--_I_ count! Just leaving life isn't all; living +it while we're here--that counts, too. And keeping open to it in more +than any one relationship. Suppose they, in their turn, have that idea; +then life's never really lived, is it?--always just passed on, always +_put off_." They had talked of that at some length. "Certainly I want my +children to have more than I have," Annie said. "I am working that they +may. But in that working for them I'm not going to let go of the fact +that I count too. Now's my only chance," she finished in that grim +little way as one not afraid to be hard. + +Thinking back to that it seemed to Ruth a bigger mother feeling than the +old one. It was not the sort of maternal feeling to hem in the mother +and oppress the children. It was love in freedom--love that did not hold +in or try to hold in. It would develop a sense of the preciousness of +life. It did not glorify self-sacrifice--that insidious foe to the +fullness of living. + +Thinking of that, and going out from that to other things, she sat down +on a log by the roadside, luxuriating in the opulence and freshness of +the world that May morning, newly tuned to life, vibrant with that same +fresh sense of it, glad gratefulness in return to it, that comes after +long sickness, after imprisonment. The world was full of singing birds +that morning,--glorious to be in a world of singing birds! The earth +smelled so good! There were plum trees in bloom behind her; every little +breeze brought their fragrance. The grass under her feet was +springy--the world was vibrant, beautiful, glad. The earth seemed so +strong, so full of still unused powers, so ready to give. + +She sat there a long time; she had the courage this morning to face the +facts of her life. She was eager to face them, to understand them that +she might go on understandingly. She had the courage to face the facts +relating to herself and Stuart. That was a thing she had not dared do. +With them, love _had_ to last, for love was all they had. They had only +each other. They did not dare let themselves think of such a thing as +the love between them failing. + +Well, it had not failed; but she let herself see now how greatly it had +changed. There was something strangely freeing in just letting herself +see it. Of course there had been change; things always changed. Love +changed within marriage--she did not know why she should expect it to be +different with her. But in the usual way--within marriage--it would +matter less for there would be more ways of adapting one's self to the +changing. Then one could reach out into new places in life, gaining new +channels, taking on new things as old ones slipped away, finding in +common interests, common pleasures, the new adjustment for feeling. But +with them life had seemed to shut right down around them. And they had +never been able to relax in the reassuring sense of the lastingness of +their love. She had held herself tense in the idea that there was no +change, would be none. She had a feeling now of having tried too hard, +of being tired through long trying. There was relief in just admitting +that she was tired. And so she let herself look at it now, admitting +that she had been clutching at a vanished thing. + +It would have been different, she felt, had the usual channels of living +been opened to them. Then together they could have reached out into new +experiences. Their love had been real--great. Related to living, surely +it could have remained the heart of life. Her seeing now that much of +the life had gone out of it did not bear down upon her with the great +sadness she would have expected. She knew now that in her heart she had +known for a long time that passion had gone. Facing it was easier than +refusing to see. It ceased to be a terrible thing once one looked at it. +Of this she was sure: love should be able to be a part of the rest of +life; the big relationship, but one among others; the most intense +interest, but one with other interests. Unrooted, detached, it might for +the time be the more intense, but it had less ways of saving itself. If +simply, naturally, they could have grown into the common life she felt +they might have gone on without too much consciousness of change, +growing into new things as old ones died away, half unconsciously making +adjustments, doubtless feeling something gone but in the sharing of new +things not left desolate through that sense of the passing of old ones. +Frightened by the thought of having nothing else, they had tried too +hard. She was tired; she believed that Stuart too was tired. + +There was a certain tired tenderness in her thinking of him. Dear +Stuart, he loved easy pleasant living. It seemed he was not meant for +the too great tests, for tragically isolated love. She knew that he had +never ceased to miss the things he had let go--his place among men, the +stimulus of the light, pleasant social relationships with women. He was +meant for a love more flexibly related to living, a love big and real +but fitted more loosely, a little more carelessly, to life. There was +always so deep a contrition for his irritations with her. The whole +trouble was indicated right there, that the contrition should be all out +of proportion to the offence. It would have been better had he felt more +free to be irritated; one should not have to feel frightened at a little +bit of one's own bad temper--appalled at crossness, at hours of ennui. +Driving them back together after every drifting apart all of that made +for an intensity of passion--passion whipped to life by fear. But that +was not the way to grow into life. Flames kindled by fear made intense +moments but after a time left too many waste places between them and the +lives of men. + +Today her hope for the future was in the opening of new places. She was +going back with new vision, new courage. They must not any longer cling +together in their one little place, coming finally to actual resentment +of one another for the enforced isolation. They must let themselves go +out into living, dare more, trust more, lose that fear of rebuff, hope +for more from life, _claim_ more. As she rose and started towards home +there was a new spring in her step. For her part, she was through with +that shrinking back! She hoped she could bring Stuart to share her +feeling, could inspire in him this new trust, new courage that had so +stimulated and heartened her. Her hope for their future lay there. + +Climbing a hill she came in sight of the little city which they had +given up, for which they had grieved. Well, they had grieved too much, +she resolutely decided now. There were wider horizons than the one that +shut down upon that town. She was not conquered! She would not be +conquered. She stood on the hilltop exulting in that sense of being +free. She had been a weakling to think her life all settled! Only +cowards and the broken in spirit surrendered the future as payment for +the past. Love was the great and beautiful wonder--but surely one should +not stay with it in the place where it found one. Why, loving should +light the way! Far from engulfing all the rest of life it seemed now +that love should open life to one. Whether one kept it or whether one +lost it, it failed if it did not send one farther along the way. She had +been afraid to think of her love changing because that had seemed to +grant that it had failed. But now it seemed that it failed if it did not +leave her bigger than it had found her. Her eyes filled in response to +the stern beauty of that. Not that one stay with love in the same place, +but rather the meaning of it all was in just this: that it send one on. + +Eyes still dimmed with the feeling of it, she stood looking as if in a +final letting go at that town off there on the bend of the river. It +became to her the world of shut-in people, people not going on, people +who loved and never saw the meaning of love, whose experiences were not +as wings to carry them, but as walls shutting them in. She was through +grieving for those people. She was going on--past them--so far beyond +them that her need for them would fall away. + +She was conscious of an approaching horse and buggy and stepped aside; +then walked on, so aglow with her own thoughts that a passing by did not +break in upon her. She did not even know that the girl in the run-about +had stopped her horse. At the cry: "Oh--I'm so glad!" she was as +startled as if she had thought herself entirely alone. + +It was a big effort to turn, to gather herself together and speak. She +had been so far away, so completely possessed that it took her an +instant to realize that the girl leaning eagerly toward her was Mildred +Woodbury. + +Mildred was moving over on the seat, inviting her to get in. "I'm so +glad!" she repeated. "I went to Mrs. Herman's, and was so disappointed +to miss you. I thought maybe I'd come upon you somewhere," she laughed +gladly, though not without embarrassment. + +There was a moment of wanting to run away, of really considering it. She +knew now--had remembered, realized--what it was about Mildred. + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE + + +Her instinct to protect herself from this young girl was the thing that +gained composure for her. At first it was simply one of those physical +instincts that draw us back from danger, from pain; and then she threw +the whole force of her will to keeping that semblance of composure. Her +instinct was not to let reserves break down, not to show agitation; to +protect herself by never leaving commonplace ground. It was terribly +hard--this driving back the flood-tide of feeling and giving no sign of +the struggle, the resentment. It was as if every nerve had been charged +to full life and then left there outraged. + +But she could do it; she could appear pleasantly surprised at Mildred's +having come to take her for a drive, could talk along about the little +things that must be her shield against the big ones. Something in her +had gone hard in that first moment of realizing who Mildred was. She was +not going to be driven back again! And so she forced herself to talk +pleasantly of the country through which they went, of Mildred's horse, +of driving and riding. + +But it was impossible not to grow a little interested in this young +Mildred Woodbury. She sat erect and drove in a manner that had the +little tricks of worldliness, but was somehow charming in spite of its +artificiality. Ruth was thinking that Mildred was a more sophisticated +young person than she herself had been at that age. She wondered if +sophistication was increasing in the world, if there was more of it in +Freeport than there used to be. + +They talked of Ruth's father, of Mildred's people, of the neighborhood +both knew so well. From that it drifted to the social life of the town. +She was amused, rather sadly amused, at Mildred's air of superiority +about it; it seemed so youthful, so facile. Listening to Mildred now +pictures flashed before her: she and Edith Lawrence--girls of about +fifteen--going over to the Woodburys' and eagerly asking, "Could we take +the baby out, Mrs. Woodbury?" "Now you'll be very, very careful, girls?" +Mrs. Woodbury would say, wrapping Mildred all up in soft pink things. +"Oh, _yes_, Mrs. Woodbury," they would reply, a little shocked that she +could entertain the thought of their not being careful. And then they +would start off cooing girlish things about the cunning little darling. +This was that baby--in spite of her determination to hold aloof from +Mildred there was no banishing it; no banishing the apprehension that +grew with the girl's talk. For Mildred seemed so much a part of the very +thing for which she had this easy scorn. Something in the way she held +the lines made it seem she would not belong anywhere else. She looked so +carefully prepared for the very life for which she expressed disdain. + +She tried to forget the things that were coming back to her--how Mildred +would gleefully hold up her hands to have her mittens put on when she +and Edith were about to take her out, and tried too to turn the +conversation--breaking out with something about Mrs. Herman's children. +But it became apparent that Mildred was not to be put off. Everything +Ruth would call up to hold her off she somehow forced around to an +approach for what she wanted to say. + +And then it came abruptly, as if she were tired of trying to lead up to +it. "I've been wanting to see you--Ruth," she hesitated over the name, +but brought it out bravely, and it occurred to Ruth then that Mildred +had not known how to address her. "When I heard you were here," she +added, "I was determined you shouldn't get away without my seeing you." + +Ruth looked at her with a little smile, moved, in spite of herself, by +the impetuousness of the girl's tone, by something real that broke +through the worldly little manner. + +"I don't feel as the rest of them do." She flushed and said it +hurriedly, a little tremulously; and yet there was something direct and +honest in her eyes, as if she were going to say it whether it seemed +nice taste or not. It reached Ruth, went through her self-protective +determination not to be reached. Her heart went out to Mildred's youth, +to this appeal from youth, moved by the freshness and realness beneath +that surface artificiality, saddened by this defiance of one who, it +seemed, could so little understand how big was the thing she defied, who +seemed so much the product of the thing she scorned, so dependent on +what she was apparently in the mood to flout. "I don't know that they +are to be blamed for their feeling, Mildred," she answered quietly. + +"Oh, yes, they are!" hotly contended the girl. "It's because they don't +understand. It's because they _can't_ understand!" The reins had fallen +loose in her hand; the whip sagged; she drooped--that stiff, chic little +manner gone. She turned a timid, trusting face to Ruth--a light shining +through troubled eyes. "It's love that counts, isn't it,--Ruth?" she +asked, half humble, half defiant. + +It swept Ruth's heart of everything but sympathy. Her hand closed over +Mildred's. "What is it, dear?" she asked. "Just what is it?" + +Mildred's eyes filled. Ruth could understand that so well--what sympathy +meant to a feeling shut in, a feeling the whole world seemed against. +"It's with me--as it was with you," the girl answered very low and +simply. "It's--like that." + +Ruth shut her eyes for an instant; they were passing something fragrant; +it came to her--an old fragrance--like something out of things past; a +robin was singing; she opened her eyes and looked at Mildred, saw the +sunshine finding gold in the girl's hair. The sadness of it--of youth +and suffering, of pain in a world of beauty, that reach of pain into +youth, into love, made it hard to speak. "I'm sorry, dear," was all she +could say. + +They rode a little way in silence; Ruth did not know how to speak, what +to say; and then Mildred began to talk, finding relief in saying things +long held in. Ruth understood that so well. Oh, she understood it all so +well--the whole tumult of it, the confused thinking, the joy, the +passion,--the passion that would sacrifice anything, that would let the +whole world go. Here it was again. She knew just what it was. + +"So you can see," Mildred was saying, "what you have meant to me." + +Yes, she could see that. + +They were driving along the crest of the hills back of the town. Mildred +pointed to it. "That town isn't the whole of the world!" she exclaimed +passionately, after speaking of the feeling that was beginning to form +there against herself. "What do I care?" she demanded defiantly. "It's +not the whole of the world!" + +Ruth looked at it. She could see the Lawrence house--it had a high place +and was visible from all around; Mildred's home was not far from there; +her own old home was only a block farther on. She had another one of +those flashing pictures from things far back: Mrs. Woodbury--Mildred's +mother--standing at the door with a bowl of chicken broth for Mrs. +Holland--Ruth's mother--who was ill. "I thought maybe this would taste +good," she could hear Mrs. Woodbury saying. Strange how things one had +forgotten came back. Other things came back as for a moment she +continued to look at the town where both she and Mildred had been +brought up, where their ties were. Then she turned back to Mildred, to +this other girl who, claimed by passionate love, was in the mood to let +it all go. "But that's just what it is, Mildred," she said. "The trouble +is, it _is_ the whole of the world." + +"It's the whole of the social world," she answered the look of surprise. +"It's just the same everywhere. And it's astonishing how united the +world is. You give it up in one place--you've about given it up for +every place." + +"Then the whole social world's not worth it!" broke from Mildred. "It's +not worth--enough." + +Ruth found it hard to speak; she did not know what to say. She had a +flashing sense of the haphazardness of life, of the power, the flame +this found in Mildred that the usual experiences would never have found, +of how, without it, she would doubtless have developed much like the +other girls of her world--how she might develop because of it--how human +beings were shaped by chance. She looked at Mildred's face--troubled, +passionate, a confused defiance, and yet something real there looking +through the tumult, something flaming, something that would fight, a +something, she secretly knew, more flaming, more fighting, than might +ever break to life in Mildred again. And then she happened to look down +at the girl's feet--the very smart low shoes of dull kid, perfectly +fitted, high arched--the silk stockings, the slender ankle. They seemed +so definitely feet for the places prepared, for the easier ways, not +fitted for going a hard way alone. It made her feel like a mother who +would want to keep a child from a way she herself knew as too hard. + +"But what are you going to put in the place of that social world, +Mildred?" she gently asked. "There must be something to fill its place. +What is that going to be?" + +"Love will fill its place!" came youth's proud, sure answer. + +Ruth was looking straight ahead; the girl's tone had thrilled her--that +faith in love, that courage for it. It was so youthful!--so youthfully +sure, so triumphant in blindness. Youth would dare so much--youth knew +so little. She did not say anything; she could not bear to. + +"Love can fill its place!" Mildred said again, as if challenging that +silence. And as still Ruth did not speak she demanded, sharply, "Can't +it?" + +Ruth turned to her a tender, compassionate face, too full of feeling, of +conflict, to speak. Slowly, as if she could not bear to do it, she shook +her head. + +Mildred looked just dazed for a moment, then so much as if one in whom +she had trusted, on whom she had counted for a great deal had failed her +that Ruth made a little gesture as if to say it was not that, as if to +say she was sorry it seemed like that. + +Mildred did not heed it. "But it has with you," she insisted. + +"It has _not_!" leaped out the low, savage answer that startled the +woman from whom it came. "It has not!" she repeated fiercely. + +Her rage was against the feeling that seemed to trick one like that; the +way love _got_ one--made one believe that nothing else in the world +mattered but just itself. It wasn't fair! It was cruel! That made her +savage--savage for telling Mildred the other side of it, the side love +blinded her too. In that moment it seemed that love was a trap; it took +hold of one and persuaded one things were true that weren't true! Just +then it seemed a horrible thing the way love got one through lovely +things, through beauty and tenderness, through the sweetest things--then +did as it pleased with the life it had stolen in upon. Fiercely she +turned the other face, told Mildred what love in loneliness meant, what +it meant to be shut away from one's own kind, what that hurting of other +lives did to one's self, what isolation made of one, what it did to +love. Things leaped out that she had never faced, had never admitted for +true; the girl to whom she talked was frightened and she was frightened +herself--at what she told of what she herself had felt, feeling that she +had never admitted she had had. She let the light in on things kept in +the dark even in her own soul--a cruel light, a light that spared +nothing, that seemed to find a savage delight in exposing the things +deepest concealed. She would show the other side of it! There was a +certain gloating in doing it--getting ahead of a thing that would trick +one. And then that spent itself as passion will and she grew quieter and +talked in a simple way of what loneliness meant, of what longing for +home meant, of what it meant to know one had hurt those who had always +been good to one, who loved and trusted. She spoke of her mother--of her +father, and then she broke down and cried and Mildred listened in +silence to those only half-smothered sobs. + +When Ruth was able to stop she looked up, timidly, at Mildred. Something +seemed to have gone out of the girl--something youthful and superior, +something radiant and assured. She looked crumpled up. The utter misery +in her eyes, about her mouth, made Ruth whisper: "I'm sorry, Mildred." + +Mildred looked at her with a bitter little laugh and then turned quickly +away. + +Ruth had never felt more wretched in her life than when, without Mildred +having said a word, they turned in the gate leading up to Annie's. She +wanted to say something to comfort. She cast around for something. +"Maybe," she began, "that it will come right--anyway." + +Again Mildred only laughed in that hard little way. + +When they were half way up the hill Mildred spoke, as if, in miserable +uncertainty, thinking things aloud. "Mrs. Blair has asked me to go to +Europe with her for the summer," she said, in a voice that seemed to +have no spring left in it. "She's chaperoning a couple of girls. I could +go with them." + +"Oh, _do_, Mildred!" cried Ruth. "Do that!" It seemed to her wonderfully +tender, wonderfully wise, of Edith. She was all eagerness to induce +Mildred to go with Edith. + +But there was no answering enthusiasm. Mildred drooped. She did not look +at Ruth. "I could do that," she said in a lifeless way, as if it didn't +matter much what she did. + +When they said good-by Mildred's broken smile made Ruth turn hastily +away. But she looked back after the girl had driven off, wanting to see +if she was sitting up in that sophisticated little way she had. But +Mildred was no longer sitting that way. She sagged, as if she did not +care anything about how she sat. Ruth stood looking after her, watching +as far as she could see her, longing to see her sit up, to see her hold +the whip again in that stiff, chic little fashion. But she did not do +it; her horse was going along as if he knew there was no interest in +him. Ruth could not bear it. If only the whip would go up at just that +right little angle! But it did not. She could not see the whip at +all--only the girl's drooping back. + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX + + +When Mildred had passed from sight Ruth slowly turned toward the house. +She noticed the vegetable wagon there in front of the barn--so Annie had +come home. She turned away from the kitchen door she had been about to +enter; she did not want to talk to Annie just then. But when she had +passed around to the other side of the house she saw, standing with +their backs to her in the little flower garden, Annie and a woman she +was astonished to recognize as her sister Harriett. + +She made a move toward the little hill that rose behind the house. She +would get away! But Mr. Herman appeared just then at the top of the +hill. He saw her; he must see that she had seen the others. So she would +have to stay and talk to Harriett. It seemed a thing she absolutely +could not do. It had come to seem she was being made some kind of sport +of, as if the game were to buffet her about between this feeling and +that, let her gain a little ground, get to a clearing, then throw her +back to new confusion. That day, anyway, she could bear no more of it. +It was hard to reply to Mr. Herman when he called something to her. +Annie heard their voices and then she had to join her and Harriett. + +"Why, Ruth!" Annie cried in quick solicitude upon seeing Ruth's face, +"you went too far. How hateful of you," she laughed, as if feeling there +was something to laugh off, "to come looking like this just when I have +been boasting to your sister about how we've set you up!" + +"You do look tired, Ruth," said Harriett compassionately. + +Harriett said she had come for a little visit with Ruth, and Annie +proposed that they go up under the trees at the crest of the hill back +of the house. It was where Ruth had sat with Annie just the day before. +As she sat down there now it seemed it was ages ago since she and Annie +had sat there tying the asparagus into bunches. + +Annie had come up with some buttermilk for them. As she handed Ruth hers +she gave her shoulder an affectionate little pat, as if, looking at her +face, she wanted to tell her to take heart. Then she went back to the +house, leaving the two sisters alone. + +They drank their buttermilk, talking of it, of Annie's place, of her +children. In a languid way Ruth was thinking that it was good of +Harriett to come and see her; had she come the day before, she would +have been much pleased. In that worn way, she was pleased now; doubtless +it had been hard for Harriett to come--so busy, and not well. Perhaps +her coming meant real defiance. Anyway, it was good of her to come. She +tried to be nice to Harriett, to talk about things as if she liked +having her there to talk with. But that final picture of Mildred's +drooping back was right there before her all the time. As she talked +with Harriett about the price of butter and eggs--the living to be had +in selling them, she was all the while seeing Mildred--Mildred as she +had been when Ruth got into the buggy; as she said, "Love can take its +place!"--as she was when she drove away. She had a sick feeling of +having failed; she had failed the very thing in Mildred to which she had +elected to be faithful in herself. And _why_? What right had one to say +that another was not strong enough? How did one _know_? And yet she +wanted Mildred to go with Edith; she believed that she would--now. That +blighting sense of failure, of having been unfaithful, could not kill a +feeling of relief. Did it mean that she was, after all, just like Edith? +Had her venturing, her experience, left her much as she would have been +without it? Just before meeting Mildred she was strong in the feeling of +having gained something from the hard way she had gone alone. She was +going on! That was what it had shown her--that one was to go on. Then +she had to listen to Mildred--and she was back with the very people she +had felt she was going on past--one with those people she had so +triumphantly decided were not worth her grieving for them. + +She had been so sure--so radiantly sure, happy in that sense of having, +at last, found herself, of being rid of fears and griefs and +incertitudes. Then she met Mildred. It came to her then--right while she +was talking with Harriett about what Flora Copeland was going to do now +that the house would be broken up--that it was just that thing which +kept the world conservative. It was fear for others. It was that feeling +she had when she looked down at Mildred's feet. + +One did not have that feeling when one looked at one's own feet. Fear of +pain for others was quite unlike fear for one's self. Courage for one's +self one could gain; in the fires of the heart that courage was forged. +When the heart was warm with the thing one wanted to do one said no +price in pain could be too great. But courage for others had to be +called from the mind. It was another thing. When it was some one +else,--one younger, one who did not seem strong--then one distrusted the +feeling and saw large the pain. One _knew_ one could bear pain one's +self. There was something not to be borne in thinking of another's pain. +That was why, even among venturers, few had the courage to speak for +venturing. There was something in humankind--it was strongest in +womankind--made them, no matter how daring for themselves, cautious for +others. And perhaps that, all crusted round with things formal and +lifeless, was the living thing at the heart of the world's conservatism. + +Harriett was talking of the monument Cyrus thought there should be at +the cemetery; Ruth listened and replied--seemed only tired, and all the +while these thoughts were shaping themselves in her inner confusion and +disheartenment. She would rather have stopped thinking of it, but could +not. She had been too alive when checked; there was too much emotion in +that inner confusion. She wondered if she would ever become sure of +anything; if she would ever have, and keep, that courage of confidence +which she had thought, for just a few radiant moments, she had. She +would like to talk to Annie about it, but she had a feeling that she was +not fit to talk to Annie. Annie was not one of those to run back at the +first thought of another's pain. That, too, Annie could face. Better let +them in for pain than try to keep them from life, Annie would say. She +could hear her saying it--saying that even that concern for others was +not the noblest thing. Fearing would never set the world free, would be +Annie's word. Not to keep people in the safe little places, but to shape +a world where there need not be safe little places! While she listened +to what Harriett said of how much such a monument as Cyrus wanted would +cost, she could hear Annie's sharp-edged little voice making those +replies to her own confusion, could hear her talking of a sterner, +braver people--hardier souls--who would one day make a world where fear +was not the part of kindness. Annie would say that it was not the women +who would protect other women who would shape the future in which there +need not be that tight little protection. + +She sighed heavily and pushed back her hair with a gesture of great +weariness. "Poor Ruth!" it made Harriett murmur, "you haven't really got +rested at all, have you?" + +She pulled herself up and smiled as best she could at her sister, who +had spoken to her with real feeling. "I did," she said with a little +grimace that carried Harriett back a long way, "then I got so rested I +got to thinking about things--then I got tired again." She flushed after +she had said it, for that was the closest they had come to the things +they kept away from. + +"Poor Ruth," Harriett murmured again. "And I'm afraid," she added with a +little laugh, "that now I'm going to make you more tired." + +"Oh, no," said Ruth, though she looked at her inquiringly. + +"Because," said Harriett, "I've come to talk to you about something, +Ruth." + +Ruth's face made her say, "I'm sorry, Ruth, but I'm afraid it's the only +chance. You see you're going away day after tomorrow." + +Ruth only nodded; it seemed if she spoke she would have to cry out what +she felt--that in common decency she ought to be let alone now as any +worn-out thing should be let alone, that it was not fair--humane--to +talk to her now. But of course she could not make that clear to +Harriett, and with it all she did wonder what it was Harriett had to +say. So she only looked at her sister as if waiting. Harriett looked +away from her for an instant before she began to speak: Ruth's eyes were +so tired, so somber; there was something very appealing about her face +as she waited for the new thing that was to be said to her. + +"I have felt terribly, Ruth," Harriett finally began, as if forcing +herself to do so, "about the position in which we are as a family. I'll +not go into what brought it about--or anything like that. I haven't come +to talk about things that happened long ago, haven't come with +reproaches. I've just come to see if, as a family, we can't do a little +better about things as they are now." + +She paused, but Ruth did not speak; she was very still now as she +waited. She did not take her eyes from Harriett's face. + +"Mother and father are gone, Ruth," Harriett went on in a low voice, +"and only we children are left. It seems as if we ought to do the best +we can for each other." Her voice quivered and Ruth's intense eyes, +which did not leave her sister's face, dimmed. She continued to sit +there very still, waiting. + +"I had a feeling," Harriett went on, "that father's doing what he did +was as a--was as a sign, Ruth, that we children should come closer +together. As if father couldn't see his way to do it in his lifetime, +but did this to leave word to us that we were to do something. I took it +that way," she finished simply. + +Ruth's eyes had brimmed over; but still she did not move, did not take +her eyes from her sister's face. She was so strange--as if going out to +Harriett and yet holding herself ready at any moment to crouch back. + +"And so," Harriett pursued, all the while in that low voice, "that is +the way I talked to Edgar and Cyrus. I didn't bring Ted into it," she +said, more in her natural way, "because he's just a boy, and then--" she +paused as if she had got into something that embarrassed her--"well, he +and Cyrus not feeling kindly toward each other just now I thought I +could do better without Ted." + +Ruth flushed slightly at the mention of the feeling between her +brothers; but still she did not speak, scarcely moved. + +Harriett was silent a moment. "That's one of the reasons," she took it +up, "why I am anxious to do something to bring us together. I don't want +Ted to be feeling this way toward Cyrus. And Edgar, too, he seems to be +very bitter against. It makes him defiant. It isn't good for him. I +think Ted has a little disposition to be wild," she said in a +confidential tone. + +Ruth spoke then. "I hadn't noticed any such disposition," she said +simply. + +"Well, he doesn't go to church. It seems to me he doesn't--accept things +as he ought to." + +Ruth said nothing to that, only continued to look at her sister, +waiting. + +"So I talked to them," Harriett went on. "Of course, Ruth, there's no +use pretending it was easy. You know how Cyrus feels; he isn't one to +change much, you know." She turned away and her hand fumbled in a little +patch of clover. + +"But we do want to do something, Ruth," she came back to it. "We all +feel it's terrible this way. So this is what Edgar proposed, and Cyrus +agreed to it, and it seems to me the best thing to do." She stopped +again, then said, in a blurred sort of voice, fumbling with the clover +and not looking at Ruth: "If you will leave the--your--if you will leave +the man you are--living with, promising never to see him again,--if you +will give that up and come home we will do everything we can to stand by +you, go on as best we can as if nothing had happened. We will try to--" + +She looked up--and did not go on, but flushed uncomfortably at sight of +Ruth's face--eyes wide with incredulity, with something like horror. + +"You don't _mean_ that, do you, Harriett?" Ruth asked in a queer, quiet +voice. + +"But we wanted to do something--" Harriett began, and then again halted, +halted before the sudden blaze of anger in Ruth's eyes. + +"And you thought _this_--" She broke off with a short laugh and sat +there a moment trying to gain control of herself. When she spoke her +voice was controlled but full of passion. "I don't think," she said, +"that I've ever known of a more monstrous--a more insulting proposal +being made by one woman to another!" + +"Insulting?" faltered Harriett. + +Ruth did not at once reply but sat there so strangely regarding her +sister. "So this is your idea of life, is it, Harriett?" she began in +the manner of one making a big effort to speak quietly. "This is your +idea of marriage, is it? Here is the man I have lived with for eleven +years. For eleven years we've met hard things together as best we +could--worked, borne things together. Let me tell you something, +Harriett. If _that_ doesn't marry people--tell _me_ something. If that +doesn't marry people--just tell me, Harriett, _what does_?" + +"But you know you're not married, Ruth," Harriett replied, +falteringly--for Ruth's burning eyes never left her sister's face. "You +know--really--you're not married. You know he's not divorced, Ruth. He's +not your husband. He's Marion Averley's." + +"You think so?" Ruth flung back at her. "You really think so, do you, +Harriett? After those years together--brought together by love, united +by living, by effort, by patience, by courage--I ask you again, +Harriett,--if the things there have been between Stuart Williams and me +can't make a marriage real--_what can_?" + +"The law is the law," murmured Harriett. "He is married to her. He never +was married to you." + +Ruth began hotly to speak, but checked it with a laugh and sat there +regarding her sister in silence. When she spoke after that her voice was +singularly calm. "I'm glad to know this, Harriett; glad to know just +what your ideas are--yours and Edgar's and Cyrus's. You have done +something for me, after all. For I've grieved a great deal, Harriett, +for the things I lost, and you see I won't do that any more. I see +now--see what those things are. I see that I don't want them." + +Harriett had colored at that, and her hand was fumbling in the little +patch of clover. When she looked up at Ruth there were tears in her +eyes. "But what could we do, Ruth?" she asked, gently, a little +reproachfully. "We wanted to do something--what else could we do?" + +Her tone touched Ruth. After all, what else--Harriett being as she +was--could she do? Monstrous as the proposal seemed to her, it was +Harriett's way of trying to make things better. She had come in +kindness, and she had not been kindly received. It was in a different +voice that Ruth began: "Harriett, don't you see, when you come to look +at it, that I couldn't do this? Down in your heart--way down in your +heart, Harriett--don't you see that I couldn't? Don't you see that if I +left Stuart now to do the best he could by himself, left him, I mean, +for this reason--came creeping back myself into a little corner of +respectability--the crumbs that fall from the tables of +respectability--! You _know_, Harriett Holland," she flamed, "that if I +did that I'd be less a woman, not a better one?" + +"I--I knew it would be hard," granted Harriett, unhappily. "Of +course--after such a long time together--But you're not married to him, +Ruth," she said again, wretchedly. "Why"--her voice fell almost to a +whisper--"you're living in--adultery." + +"Well if I am," retorted Ruth--"forgive me for saying it, Harriett--that +adultery has given me more decent ideas of life than marriage seems to +have given you!" + +Her feeling about it grew stronger as the day wore on. That evening she +got the Woodburys' on the telephone and asked for Mildred. She did not +know just what she would say, she had no plan, but she wanted to see +Mildred again. She was told, however, that Mildred had gone to Chicago +on a late afternoon train. At the last minute she had decided to go to +Europe with Mrs. Blair, the servant who was speaking said, and had gone +over to Chicago to see about clothes. + +Ruth hung up the receiver and sat looking into the telephone. Then she +laughed. So Mildred had been "saved." + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN + + +On the afternoon of her last day in Freeport Ruth took a long tramp with +Deane. She was going that night; she was all ready for leaving when +Deane came out and asked if he couldn't take her for a ride in his car. +She suggested a walk instead, wanting the tramp before the confinement +of travelling. So they cut through the fields back of Annie's and came +out on a road well known to them of old. They tramped along it a long +way, Ruth speaking of things she remembered, talking of old drives along +that road which had been a favorite with all of their old crowd. They +said things as they felt like it, but there was no constraint in their +silences. It had always been like that with her and Deane. Finally they +sat down on a knoll a little back from the road, overlooking pastures +and fields of blowing green. + +"I love these little hills," Ruth murmured; "so many little hills," she +laughed affectionately--"and so green and blowy and fruitful. With us +it's a great flat valley--a plain, and most of it dry--barren. You have +to do such a lot to make things grow. Here things just love to grow. And +trees!" she laughed. + +"But mountains there," suggested Deane. + +"Yes, but a long way off from us, and sometimes they seem very stern, +Deane. I've so many times had the feeling I couldn't get beyond them. +Sometimes they have seemed like other things I couldn't hope to cross." +After a little she said: "These little hills are so gentle; this country +so open." + +Deane laughed shortly. "Yes, the hills are gentle. The country is open +enough!" + +She laughed too. "It is beautiful country, Deane," she said, as if that +were the thing mattering just then. There was an attractive bit of +pasture just ahead of them: a brook ran through it--a lovely little +valley between two of those gentle hills. + +Deane was lying on the grass a little way from her--sprawled out in much +his old awkward way, his elbow supporting his head, hat pulled down over +his eyes. It was good to be with him this last afternoon. It seemed so +much as it used to be; in that moment it was almost as if the time in +between had not been. It was strange the way things could fall away +sometimes--great stretches of time fall away and seem, for a little +while, to leave things as they had been long before. + +"Well, Ruth," Deane said at last, "so you're going back." + +"Going back, Deane," she answered. + +So much they did not say seemed to flow into that; the whole thing was +right there, opened, living, between them. It had always been like that +with her and Deane. It was not necessary to say things out to him, as it +was with everyone else. Their thinking, feeling, seemed to come together +naturally, of itself; not a matter of direction. She looked at Deane +stretched out there on the grass--older, different in some ways--today +he looked as if something was worrying him--yet with it all so much the +Deane of old. It kept recurring as strange that, after all there had +been in between, they should be together again, and that it could be as +it used to be. Just as of old, a little thing said could swing them to +thinking, feeling, of which perhaps they did not speak, but which they +consciously shared. Many times through the years there had come times +when she wanted nothing so much as to be with Deane, wanted to say +things to him that, she did not know just why, there would have been no +satisfaction in saying to Stuart. Even things she had experienced with +Stuart she could, of the two, more easily have talked of with Deane. It +was to Deane she could have talked of the things Stuart made her feel. +Within a certain circle Stuart was the man to whom she came closest; +somehow, with him, she did not break from that circle. She had always +had that feeling of Deane's understanding what she felt, even though it +was not he who inspired the feeling. That seemed a little absurd to +her--to live through things with one man, and have what that living made +of her seem to swing her to some one else. + +Thinking of their unique companionship, which time and distance and +circumstances had so little affected, she looked at Deane as he lay +there near her on the grass. She was glad to have this renewal of their +old friendship, which had always remained living and dear to her. And +now she was going away for another long time. It was possible she would +never see him again. It made her wish she could come closer to what were +now the big things in his life. + +"I'm so glad, Deane," she said, somewhat timidly, "about you." + +He pushed back his hat and looked up in inquiry. + +"So glad you got married, goose!" she laughed. + +At his laugh for that she looked at him in astonishment, distinctly +shocked. He was chewing a long spear of grass. For a moment he did not +speak. Then, "Amy's gone home," he said shortly. + +Ruth could only stare at him, bewildered. + +He was running his hand over the grass near him. She noticed that it +moved nervously. And she remarked the puckered brows that had all along +made her think he was worried about something that day--she had thought +it must be one of his cases. And there was that compression of the lips +that she knew of old in Deane when he was hurt. Just then his face +looked actually old, the face of a man who has taken hard things. + +"Yes, Amy's gone home for a little while," he said in a more matter of +fact voice, but a voice that had a hard ring. He added: "Her mother's +not well," and looked up at Ruth with that characteristic little +screwing up of his face, as if telling her to make what she could of it. + +"Why, that's too bad," she stammered. + +Again he looked up at her in that queer way of mixed feeling, his face +showing the marks of pain and yet a touch of teasing there too, mocking +her confusion, looking like a man who was suffering and yet a little +like a teasing boy. Then he abruptly pulled his hat down over his eyes +again, as if to shade them from the sun, and lay flat on his back, one +heel kicking at the grass. She could not see his eyes, but she saw his +mouth; that faint touch of pleasure in teasing which had perversely +lurked in pain had gone now; that twist of his compressed lips was pure +pain. + +She was utterly bewildered, and so deeply concerned that she had to get +ahead of Deane some way, not let him shut himself in with a thing that +made his mouth look as if he was bearing physical pain. And then a new +thought shot into her concern for him, a thought that seemed too +preposterous to entertain, but that would not go away. It did not seem a +thing she could speak of; but as she looked at Deane, his mouth more +natural now, but the suggestion of pain left there, she had a sudden new +sense of all that Deane had done for her. She couldn't leave things like +this, no matter how indelicate she might seem. + +"Deane," she began timidly, "I don't--in any way--for any reason--make +things hard for you, do I?" + +For the moment he did not speak, did not push his hat back so she could +see his eyes. Then she saw that he was smiling a little; she had a +feeling that he was not realizing she could see the smile; it was as if +smiling to himself at something that bitterly amused him. It made her +feel rather sick; it let that preposterous idea spread all through her. + +Then he sat up and looked quizzically at her. "Well, Ruth, you don't +expect me to deny, do you, that you did make a thing or two rather +hard?" He said it with that touch of teasing. "Was I so magnanimous," he +added dryly, "that I let you lose sight of the fact that I wanted you?" + +Ruth colored and felt baffled; she was sure he knew well enough that was +not what she referred to. He looked at her, a little mockingly, a little +wistfully, as if daring her to go on. + +"I wasn't talking about things long ago, Deane," she said. "I +wondered--" She hesitated, looking at him in appeal, as if asking him to +admit he understood what she meant without forcing her to say such a +thing. + +For a minute he let the pain look out of his eyes at her, looked for all +the world as if he wanted her to help him. Then quickly he seemed to +shut himself in. He smiled at her in a way that seemed to say, half +mockingly, "I've gone!" He hurt her a little; it was hard to be with +Deane and feel there was something he was not going to let her help him +with. And it made her sick at heart; for surely he knew what she was +driving at, driving at and edging away from, and if he could have +laughed at her fears wouldn't he have done so? She thought of all Deane +had done for her, borne for her. It would be bitter indeed if it were +really true she was bringing him any new trouble. But how _could_ it be +true? It seemed too preposterous; surely she must be entirely on the +wrong track, so utterly wrong that he had no idea what it was she had in +mind. + +As they sat there for a moment in silence she was full of that feeling +of how much Deane had done for her, of a longing to do something for +him. Gently she said: "I must have made things very hard for you, Deane. +The town--your friends--your people, because of me you were against them +all. That does make things hard--to be apart from the people you are +with." She looked at him, her face softened with affectionate regret, +with a newly understanding gratitude. "I've not been very good for your +life, have I, Deane?" she said, more lightly, but her voice touched with +wistfulness. + +He looked at her, as if willing to meet that, as if frankly considering +it. "I can't say that you've been very good for my happiness, Ruth," he +laughed. And then he said simply, with a certain simple manliness, "But +I should say, Ruth, you have been very good for my life." His face +contracted a little, as if with pain. That passed, and he went on in +that simple way: "You see you made me think about things. It was because +of you--through you--I came to think about things. That's good for our +lives, isn't it?" That he said sternly, as if putting down something +that had risen in him. "Because of you I've questioned things, felt +protest. Why, Ruth," he laughed, "if it hadn't been for you I might have +taken things in the slick little way _they_ do,"--he waved a hand off +toward the town. "So just see what I owe you!" he said, more lightly, as +if leaving the serious things behind. Then he began to speak of other +things. + +It left Ruth unsatisfied, troubled. And yet it seemed surely a woman +would be proud of a man who had been as fine in a thing, as big and true +and understanding, as Deane had been with her. Surely a woman would be +proud of a man who had so loyally, at such great cost, been a woman's +friend, who, because of friendship, because of fidelity to his own +feeling, would stand out that way against others. She tried to think +that, for she could not go back to what Deane had left behind. And yet +she could not forget that she had not met Amy. + +They walked toward home talking quietly about things that happened to +come up, more as if they were intimate friends who had constant meetings +than as if they had been years apart and were about to part for what +would probably be years more. But that consciousness was there +underneath; it ruled the silences, made their voices gentler. It was +very sweet to Ruth, just before again leaving all home things behind, to +be walking in the spring twilight with Deane along that road they knew +when they were boy and girl together. + +Twilight was deepening to evening when they came to the hill from which +they could see the town. They stood still looking off at it, speaking of +the beauty of the river, of the bridge, of the strangeness of the town +lights when there was still that faint light of day. And then they stood +still and said nothing, looking off at that town where they had been +brought up. It was beautiful from there, bent round a curve in the broad +river, built upon hills. She was leaving it now--again leaving it. She +had come home, and now she was going away again. And now she knew, in +spite of her anger of the day before, in spite of all there had been to +hurt her, in spite of all that had been denied her, that she was not +leaving it in bitterness. In one sense she had not had much from her +days back home; but in a real sense, she had had much. She looked at +that town now with a feeling of new affection. She believed she would +always have that feeling of affection for it. It stood to her for things +gone--dear things gone; for youth's gladness, for the love of father and +mother, for many happy things now left behind. But now that she had come +back, had gone through those hard days, she was curiously freed from +that town. She had this new affection for it in being freed of it. She +would always love it because of what it had meant in the past, but love +it as one does love a thing past. It seemed she had to come back to it +to let it lose its hold on her. It was of the past, and she knew now +that there was a future. What that future was to be she did not know, +but she would turn from this place of the past with a new sense of the +importance of the future. Standing there with Deane on the hilltop at +evening, looking off at that town where they had both been brought up, +she got a sense of the significance of the whole thing--the eleven years +away, and the three years preceding those years; a sense too of the +meaning of those days just past, those recent days at home when there +were times of being blinded by the newly seen significance of those +years of living. They had been hard days because things had been crowded +so close; it had come too fast; currents had met too violently and the +long way between cause and effect had been lighted by flashes too +blinding. It had been like a great storm in which elements rush +together. It had almost swept her down, but she had come through it and +this was what she had brought out of it: a sense of life as precious, as +worth anything one might have to pay for it, a stirring new sense of the +future as adventure. She had been thinking of her life as defined, and +now it seemed that the future was there, a beautiful untouched thing, a +thing that was left, hers to do what she could with. Somehow she had +broken through, broken through the things that had closed in around her. +A great new thing had happened to her: she was no longer afraid to face +things! In those last few days she had been tossed, now this way, now +that; it seemed she had rather been made a fool of, but things had got +through to her--she was awake, alive, unafraid. Something had been +liberated in her. She turned to Deane, who was looking with a somber +steadiness ahead at the town. She touched his arm and he looked at her, +amazed at her shining eyes, shining just as they used to when as a girl +she was setting out for a good time, for some mischief, excitement. + +"Well, anyway, Deane," she said in a voice that seemed to brush +everything else aside, "we're alive!" + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT + + +The summer had gone by and Ted Holland, who had gone West with Ruth in +May, was back in Freeport "breaking up the house." The place was offered +for sale; things had to be cleared out in one way or another. What none +of the children wanted was being sold to anybody who did happen to want +it; what nobody wanted was to be given away to such people as had to +take what they could get. And there was a great deal of it not even in +the class for giving away; "just truck" Ted kept callously calling it to +Harriett and their Cousin Flora. He whistled vigorously over some of the +"truck,"--a worn dog's collar, an old pair of the queer kind of house +shoes his mother wore, a spectacle case he had used to love to hear his +father snap shut, dusty, leaky sofa-pillows that had bristled with +newness in the "den" which was the delight of his sixteen-year-old +heart. He kept saying to Cousin Flora that there was no end to the +junk--old school readers, Ruth's party slippers. Just burn it all up, he +said, in a crisp voice of efficiency; what was it good for, anyhow? +Certainly it had taught him a lesson. He'd never keep anything. + +They had been at it for a week--sorting, destroying, disbursing, +scattering what a family's life through a generation had assembled, +breaking up "the Hollands." Ted, in his own room that morning, around +him the things he was going to put in his trunk for taking back West, +admitted to himself that it was gruesome business. + +Things were over; things at home were all over. This pulling to pieces +drove that home hard. Father and mother were gone and now "their stuff" +was being got out of the way. After this there would not even be a place +where the things they had used were. But he would be glad when they +could get through with it; he was finding that there was something +wrenching about things that were left, things that had been used and +that now there was no longer any use for. The sight of them stabbed as +no mere thinking about things could do. It was hard work throwing away +"truck" that something seemed to cling to. It was hard to really _get_ +it, he was thinking; a family lived in a place--seemed really a part of +that place, an important part, perhaps; then things changed--people +died, moved away, and that family simply _wasn't_ any more--and things +went on just about the same. Whistling, he put some shirts in his trunk, +trying to fix his mind on how many new shirts he needed. + +He was going back West--to live, to work. Not right where Ruth was, in +southwestern Colorado, but in the country a little to the north. He and +a fellow he had made friends with out there had bought an apple +orchard--the money he was to have from his father would go into it and +some of Ruth's money--she wanted him to invest some of hers with his. It +was that had made it possible for him to go in with this fellow. He was +glad he could do it. The West had "got" him. He believed he could make +things go. + +And he shouldn't have liked staying on in Freeport. Too many things were +different for him to want to stay there. And too many things hurt. Ruth +had come to mean too much to him to let him be happy with people who +felt as the people there did about her. + +He heard Harriett downstairs and went down to speak to her about the +price the stove man offered for the kitchen range. He remembered his +mother's delight in that range as new; somehow it made him hate selling +it for this pittance. + +Harriett thought, however, that they had better let it go. One couldn't +expect to get much for old things, and they didn't want it on their +hands. + +They stayed there awhile in the dining-room, considering the problem of +getting out of the way various other things there was no longer any use +for. Harriett was looking at the bay window. "If the Woodburys take the +house," she said, "they won't want these shades." + +"Oh, no," replied Ted, "they wouldn't be good enough for Mildred." + +The Woodburys had been there the night before to look at the house; they +thought of buying it and Mildred, just recently home from Europe with +Edith Blair--they had had a hard time getting home, because of the +war--had, according to his own way of putting it, made Ted tired. She +was so fretful with her father and her ideas of how the place could +perhaps be made presentable by being all done over had seemed to Ted +"pretty airy." He'd rather strangers had the house. He heard that +Mildred was going about a lot with Bob Gearing--one of the fellows in +town who had money. + +Ted pulled out his watch. "I want to get down and see Deane at his noon +office hours," he said. + +Harriett turned from the window. "What have you got to see him about?" +she asked sharply. + +"Why--just see him," he answered in surprise. "Why shouldn't I want to +see him? Haven't seen him since I got back. He'll want to hear about +Ruth." + +Harriett seemed about to speak, then looked at the door of the kitchen, +where a man was packing dishes. "I don't think I'd go to him for +_that_," she said in lowered voice. + +Ted looked at her in bewildered inquiry. + +"Mrs. Franklin has left him," she said shortly. She glanced at the +kitchen door, then added in a voice that dropped still lower: "And the +talk is that it's because of Ruth." + +For a minute Ted just stood staring at her. Then his face was aflame +with angry blood. "The _talk_!" he choked. "So that's the new 'talk'! +Well--" + +"S--h," warned Harriett, and stepped over and closed the kitchen door. + +"I'd like to tell some of them what I think of their 'talk,'" he blazed. +"Oh, I'd like to tell some of these _warts_--" + +"Ted!" she admonished, nodding her head toward the closed door. + +"What do I care? I'd like to have 'em hear me! I _want_ them to know +that I--" He broke off and stood looking at her. "It doesn't seem to +worry you much!" he thrust at her. + +"It did, Ted," she said patiently. "I--it did." She looked so +distressed, so worn as she said it that it mollified him until she +added: "And still, you mustn't be too hard on people. A woman who has +put herself in that position--" + +"There you go! 'Put herself' in that position! Put herself!" he jeered +angrily, "in that position! As if the position was something Ruth got +into on purpose! And after all these years!--still talking about her +'position.' Let me tell you something! I'll tell you the woman that's +'put herself' in the position I'd think would make her hate herself! +That's Mrs. Williams! _She's_ the one that's 'put herself'--" + +"Ted," she broke in sternly, "you must _not_!" + +But, "You make me _sick_!" he flung back at her and snatched hat and +coat from the hall rack and left the house with a violent bang of the +front door. + +He did not go down to Deane's office. He stalked ahead, trying to hold +down the bitter rage that was almost choking him. At one time when he +looked up he saw that he was passing the house Deane Franklin had built +before his marriage and noted that it was closed, all the shades were +clear down. Flower beds that had been laid out in the spring had been +let go. It looked all wrong to see a new place so deserted, so run down. +He remembered seeing Deane working out in that yard in the spring. He +hurried on by. His heart was hot with resentment--real hatred--of the +town through which he walked. He loathed the place! he told himself. +Picking on Ruth for _this_--ready to seize on her for anything that put +her in bad! He had been with Ruth for four months. He knew now just how +things were with her. It gave him some idea of what it was she had gone +through. It made him hate the town that had no feeling for her. + +He had walked out from town, not giving any thought to where he was +going, just walking because he had to be doing something. He was about +to cross a little bridge and stepped to the side of the road to let the +vehicle right behind him get ahead. He stood glaring down at the creek +and did not look up until he heard the wagon, just as it struck the +bridge, stop. Then he saw that it was a woman driving the market wagon +and recognized her as Mrs. Herman, who had been so good to Ruth. + +He stepped up eagerly to greet her; his face quickly cleared as he held +out his hand and he smiled at her with a sudden boyish warmth that made +her face--it was thin, tired--also light with pleasure. He kept shaking +her hand; it seemed wonderfully good of her to have come along just +then--she was something friendly in a hostile world. He went out +eagerly, gratefully, to the something friendly. He had had about all he +could stand of the other things, other feelings. He had told Ruth that +he would be sure to go and see Mrs. Herman. He got in with her now and +they talked of Ruth as they jogged through the country which he now +noticed was aflame with the red and gold of October. + +He found himself chatting along about Ruth just as if there was not this +other thing about her--the thing that made it impossible to speak of her +to almost anyone else in the town. It helped a lot to talk of Ruth that +way just then. He had seemed all clogged up with hatred and resentment, +fury at the town made him want to do something to somebody, and pity for +Ruth made him feel sick in his sense of helplessness. Now those ugly +things, those choking, blinding things fell away in his talking about +Ruth to this woman who wanted to hear about her because she cared for +her, who wanted to hear the simple little things about her that those +other people had no interest in. He found himself chatting along about +Ruth and Stuart--their house, their land, the field of peas into which +they turned their sheep, the potatoes grown on their place that summer. +He talked of artesian wells and irrigation, of riding western horses and +of camping in the mountains. Thinking of it afterwards he didn't know +when he had talked so much. And of course, as everyone was doing those +days, they talked about the war. She was fairly aflame with feeling +about it. + +He rode all the way home with Mrs. Herman, stayed for lunch and then +lingered about the place for an hour or more after that. He felt more +like himself than he had at any time since coming home; he could forget +a little about that desolate house that was no longer to be his home, +and the simple friendly interest of this woman who was Ruth's friend +helped to heal a very sore place in his heart. + +But afterwards, back there at home where it was as if he was stripping +dead years, what came over him was the feeling that things were not as +they had seemed out there with Mrs. Herman. She was like that, but in +being that way she was different from the whole world, at least from +practically the whole of the world that he knew. Working with old things +cast him back to it all. He brooded over it there in the desolate place +of things left behind; the resentful feeling toward the town, together +with that miserable, helpless feeling of passionate pity for Ruth +settled down upon him and he could not throw it off. + +He saw Deane that night; he saw him at the Club where he went to play a +game of pool, because he had to get away from the house for awhile. +Deane was sitting apart from the various groups, reading a magazine. Ted +stood in the door of that room looking at him a minute before Deane +looked up from the page. He saw that his face was thinner; it made him +look older; indeed he looked a good deal older than when, just the +spring before, Ted used to see him working around that place that was +all shut up now. And in that moment of scrutiny he saw something more +than just looking older. If you didn't know Deane you'd think--well, +you'd think you didn't want to know him. And he looked as if he didn't +care about your knowing him, either; he looked as if he'd thank people +to let him alone. Then he glanced up and saw Ted and it seemed there +were a few people he didn't want to have let him alone. + +But though he brightened on seeing him, looked like himself as he came +quickly up to shake hands, he was not like himself in the talk that +followed. It was as if he wanted to be, tried to be, but he was +constrained in asking about the West, "the folks." He seemed to want to +hear, yet he wasn't like himself, though Ted could scarcely have defined +the difference. He was short in what he said, cut things off sharply, +and in little pauses his face would quickly settle to that moroseness. +Ted told of his own plans and Deane was enthusiastic about that. Then he +fell silent a moment and after that said with intensity: "I wish _I_ was +going to pull out from here!" + +"Well, why don't you?" laughed Ted, a little diffidently. + +"Haven't got the gumption, I guess," said Deane more lightly, and as he +smiled gave Ted the impression of trying to pull himself out from +something. + +Later in the evening a couple of men were talking of someone who was +ill. "They have Franklin, don't they?" was asked, and the answer came, +"Not any more. They've switched." + +Walking home, he thought it had been said as if there was more to it, as +if there had been previous talk about other people who had "switched." +Why, surely it couldn't be that because--for some reason or other--his +wife had left him people were taking it out on his practice? That seemed +not only too unfair but too preposterous. Deane was the best doctor in +town. What had his private affairs--no matter what the state of +them--got to do with him as a physician? Surely even _that_ town +couldn't be as two-by-four as that! + +But it troubled him so persistently that next morning, when they were +alone together in the attic, he brought himself to broach it to +Harriett, asking, in the manner of one interested in a thing because of +its very absurdity, just what the talk was about Ruth and the Franklins. + +Harriett went on to give the town's gossip of how Deane had gone to +Indianapolis to see his wife, to try and make it right, but her people +were strongly of the feeling that she had been badly treated and it had +ended with her going away somewhere with her mother. Harriett sighed +heavily as she said she feared it was one of those things that would not +be made right. + +"I call it the limit!" cried Ted. "The woman must be a fool!" + +Harriett sadly shook her head. "You don't understand women, Ted," she +said. + +"And I don't want to--if _that's_ what they're like!" he retorted hotly. + +"I'm afraid Deane didn't--manage very well," sighed Harriett. + +"Who wants to manage such a little fool!" snapped Ted. + +"Now, Ted--" she began, but "You make me _tired_, Harriett!" he broke in +passionately, and no more was said of it then. + +They worked in silence for awhile, Ted raising a great deal of dust in +the way he threw things about, Harriett looking through a box of old +books and papers, sighing often. Harriett sighed a great deal, it seemed +to Ted, and yet something about Harriett made him sorry for her. From +across the attic he looked at her, awkwardly sitting on the floor, +leaning against an old trunk. She looked tired and he thought with +compassion and remorse for the rough way he had spoken to her, of how +her baby was only a little more than two months old, that it must be +hard for her to be doing the things she was doing that week. Harriett +had grown stout; she had that settled look of many women in middle life; +she looked as if she couldn't change much--in any way. Well, Ted +considered, he guessed Harriett couldn't change much; she was just fixed +in the way she was and that was all there was to it. But she did not +look happy in those things she had settled into; she looked patient. She +seemed to think things couldn't be any different. + +She was turning the pages of an old album she had taken from the box of +her mother's things she was sorting. "Oh!" she exclaimed in a low voice, +bending over the pages. Her tone brought Ted over to her. "A picture of +Ruth as a baby," she murmured. + +He knelt down and looked over her shoulder into the dusty, old-fashioned +album at a picture of a baby a year or so old whose face was all screwed +up into a delighted laugh, tiny hands raised up and clenched in the +intensity of baby excitement, baby abandonment to the joyousness of +existence. + +"She _was_ like that," murmured Harriett, a little tremulously. "She was +the _crowingest_ baby!" + +They bent over it in silence for a minute. "Seems pretty tickled about +things, doesn't she?" said Ted with a queer little laugh. Harriett +sighed heavily, but a moment later a tear had fallen down to one of the +baby hands clenched in joyousness; the tear made him forgive the sigh, +and when he saw her carefully take the picture from the album and put it +in the pocket of her big apron, it was a lot easier, somehow, to go on +working with Harriett. It was even easy, after a little, to ask her what +he wanted to know about Deane's practice. + +It was true, she feared, that the talk had hurt him some. Mrs. Lawrence +had stopped having him. It seemed she had taken a great fancy to Amy +Franklin and felt keenly for her in this. She had made other people feel +that Deane had not been fair or kind and so there was some feeling +against him. + +"I suppose she can't claim," Ted cried hotly, "that it hurts him as a +doctor?" + +"No," Harriett began uncertainly, "except that a doctor--of course the +personal side of things--" + +"Now, there you _go_, Harriett," he interrupted furiously. "You make me +_tired_! If it wasn't that you've a sneaking feeling for Ruth you'd fall +for such a thing yourself!" + +"There's no use trying to talk to you, Ted," said Harriett patiently. + +Two days later the house was about dismantled. Ted was leaving the next +day for the West. He was so sick of the whole thing that it had gone a +little easier toward the last, blunted to everything but getting things +done. When Harriett, her eyes reddened, came downstairs with a _doll_ +and wanted to know if he didn't think Ruth might like to have it, saying +that it was the doll Ruth had loved all through her little girl days, +and that she had just come upon it where her mother had carefully packed +it away, he snatched the doll from her and crammed it into the kitchen +stove and poked at it savagely to make it burn faster. Then he slammed +down the lid and looked ruthlessly up at Harriett with, "We've had about +enough of this sobbing around over _junk_!" + +Harriett wanted him to come over to her house that last night but he +said he'd either go home with one of the fellows or bring one of them +home with him. She did not press it, knowing how little her brother and +her husband liked each other. + +He went to the theatre that night with a couple of his friends. He was +glad to go, for it was as good a way as he could think of for getting +through the evening. They were a little early and he sat there watching +the people coming in; it was what would be called a representative +audience, the society of the town, the "best people" were there. They +were people Ted had known all his life; people who used to come to the +house, people his own family had been one with; friends of his mother +came in, associates of his father, old friends of Ruth. That gathering +of people represented the things in the town that he and his had been +allied with. He watched them, thinking of his own going away, of how it +would be an entirely new group of people he would come to know, would +become one with, thinking of the Hollands, how much they had been a part +of it all and how completely they were out of it now. As he saw all +these people, such pleasant, good-looking people, people he had known as +far back as he could remember, in whose homes he had had good times, +people his own people had been associated with always, a feeling of +really hating to leave the town, of its being hard to go away, crept up +in him. He talked along with the friend next him and watched people +taking their seats with a new feeling for them all; now that he was +actually leaving them he had a feeling of affection for the people with +whom he sat in the theatre that night. He had known them always; they +were "mixed up" with such a lot of old things. + +Some people came into one of the boxes during the first act and when the +lights went up for the intermission he saw that one of the women was +Stuart Williams' wife. + +He turned immediately to his friends and began a lively conversation +about the play, painfully wondering if the fellows he was with had seen +her too, if they were wondering whether he had seen her, whether he was +thinking about it. His feeling of gentle regret about leaving the town +was struck away. He was glad this was his last night. Always something +like this! It was forever coming up, making him feel uncomfortable, +different, making him wonder whether people were thinking about "it," +whether they were wondering whether he was thinking about it. + +Through the years he had grown used to seeing Mrs. Williams; he had +become blunted to it; sometimes he could see her without really being +conscious of "it," just because he was used to seeing her. But now that +he had just come home, had been with Ruth, there was an acute new shock +in seeing her. + +During the first intermission he never looked back after that first +glance; but when the house was darkened again it was not at the stage he +looked most. From his place in the dress circle across the house he +could look over at her, secured by the dim light could covertly watch +her. It was hard to keep his eyes from her. She sat well to the front of +the box; he could see every move she made, and every little thing about +her wretchedly fascinated him. She sat erect, hands loosely clasped in +her lap, seemingly absorbed in the play. Her shoulders seemed very white +above her gauzy black dress; in that light, at least, she was beautiful; +her neck was long and slim and her hair was coiled high on her head. He +saw a woman bend forward from the rear of the box and speak to her; it +brought her face into the light and he saw that it was Mrs. Blair--Edith +Lawrence, Ruth's old chum. He crumpled the program in his hand until his +friend looked at him in inquiry; then he smiled a little and carefully +smoothed the program out. But when, in the next intermission, he was +asked something about how he thought the play was going to turn out, he +was at a loss for a suggestion. He had not known what that act was +about. And he scarcely knew what the other acts were about. It was all +newly strange to him, newly sad. He had a new sense of it, and a new +sense of the pity of it, as he sat there that last night watching the +people who had been Ruth's and Stuart's friends; he thought of how they +had once been a part of all this; how, if things had gone differently it +was the thing they would still be a part of. There was something about +seeing Edith Lawrence there with Mrs. Williams made him so sorry for +Ruth that it was hard to keep himself pulled together. And that house, +this new sense of things, made him deeply sorry for Stuart Williams. He +knew that he missed all this, terribly missed the things this +represented. His constant, off-hand questionings about things--about the +growth of the town, whether so and so was making good, who was running +this or that, showed how he was missing the things he had turned away +from, of which he had once been so promising a part. Here tonight, among +the things they had left, something made him more sorry for Ruth and +Stuart than he had ever been before. And he kept thinking of the +strangeness of things; of how, if there had not been that one thing, so +many things would have been different. For their whole family, for the +Williams' family, yes, for Deane Franklin, too, it would have been all +different if Ruth had just fallen in love with some one else. Somehow +that seemed disloyalty to Ruth. He told himself she couldn't help it. He +guessed _she_ got it the worst; everything would have been different, +easier, for her, certainly, if she, like the other girls of her crowd, +had fallen in love with one of the fellows she could have married. Then +she would be there with Edith Lawrence tonight; probably they would be +in a box together. + +It was hard, even when the lights were up, to keep his eyes from that +box where Ruth's old friend sat with Mrs. Williams. He would seem to be +looking the house over, and then for a minute his eyes would rest there +and it would be an effort to let go. Once he found Mrs. Williams looking +his way; he thought she saw him and was furious at himself for the quick +reddening. He could not tell whether she was looking at him or not. She +had that cool, composed manner she always had. Always when he met her so +directly that they had to speak she would seem quite unperturbed, as if +he stirred in her no more feeling than any other slight acquaintance +would stir. She was perfectly poised; it would not seem that he, what he +must suggest, had any power to disturb her. + +Looking across at her in the house darkened for the last act, covertly +watching her as she sat there in perfect command of herself, apparently +quite without disturbing feeling, he had a rough desire to know what she +actually _did_ feel. A light from the stage surprised her face and he +saw that it showed it more tired than serene. She looked bored; and she +did not look content. Seeing her in that disclosing little shaft of +light--she had drawn back from it--the thought broke into the boy's +mind--What's _she_ getting out of it! + +He had never really considered it purely in the light of what it must be +to her. He thought of her as a hard, revengeful woman, who, because hurt +herself, was going to harm to the full measure of her power. He despised +the pride, the poise, in which she cloaked what he thought of as her +hard, mean spirit; he thought people a pretty poor sort for admiring +that pride. But now, as he saw her face when she was not expecting it to +be clearly seen, he wondered just what she was actually like, just what +she really felt. It would seem that revenge must be appeased by now; or +at least that that one form of taking it--not getting a divorce--must +have lost its satisfaction. It would not seem a very satisfying thing to +fill one's life with. And what else was there! What _was_ she getting +out of it! The question gave him a new interest in her. + +Caught in the crowd leaving the theatre he watched her again for a +moment, standing among the people who were waiting for motors and +carriages. The thin black scarf around her head blew back and Edith +Lawrence adjusted it for her. Her car came up and one of the men helped +her into it. There was a dispute; it seemed someone was meaning to go +with her and she was protesting that it was not necessary. Then they +were saying goodnight to her and she was going away alone. He watched +the car for a moment as it was halted by a carriage, then skirted it and +sharply turned the corner. + +He had intended to take one of his friends home with him, had thought it +would be too dismal alone there in the bare place that last night. But +now he did not want anyone with him, did not want to have to talk. +Though when he let himself in the front door he wished he was not alone. +It was pretty dismal to be coming into the abandoned house. He had a +flashing sense of how absolutely empty the place was--empty of the +people who had lived there, empty even of those people's things. There +was no one to call out to him. His step made a loud noise on the bare +stairs. He went back down stairs for a drink of water; he walked through +the living-room, the dining-room, the kitchen. There used to be people +there--things doing. Not any more. A bare house now--so empty that it +was _queer_. He hurried back upstairs. At the head of the stairs he +stood still and listened to the stillness from the bedrooms. Then he +shook himself angrily, stamped on to his own room, loudly banged the +door behind him and whistled as he hurriedly got ready for bed. + +He tried to go right to sleep, but could not get sleepy. He was thinking +of the house--of things that had gone on there. He thought of Ruth and +Stuart--of the difference they had made in that house. And he kept +thinking of Mrs. Williams, thinking in this new way of the difference it +must have meant to her, must have made in _her_ house. He wondered about +the house she had just gone home to, wondered if she got lonely, +wondered about the feeling there might be beneath that manner of not +seeming to mind. He wondered just what it was made her keep from getting +a divorce. And suddenly the strangest thought shot into his mind--Had +anyone ever _asked_ her to get a divorce! + +Then he laughed; he had to make himself laugh at the preposterousness of +his idea. The laugh made such a strange sound in the bare room that he +lay there very still for a moment. Then loudly he cleared his throat, as +if to show that he was not afraid of making another noise. + +But the house was so strangely still, empty in such a queer way; it was +too strange to let him go to sleep, and he lay there thinking of things +in a queer way. That preposterous idea kept coming back. Maybe nobody +ever _had_ asked her to get the divorce; maybe it had just been taken +for granted that she would be hard, would make it as hard as she could. +He tried to keep away from that thought, something made him want to keep +away from it, but he could not banish that notion that there were people +who would be as decent as it was assumed they would be. He had noticed +that with the fellows. Finally he got a little sleepy and he had a +childish wish that he were not alone, that it could all be again as it +had been long ago when they were all there together--before Ruth went +away. + +He slept heavily toward morning and was at last awakened by the +persistent ringing of the doorbell. It was a special delivery letter +from Ruth. She said she hoped it would catch him before he started West. +She wanted him to stop in Denver and see if he could get one of those +"Jap" men of all work. She said: "Maggie Gordon's mother has 'heard' and +came and took her home. I turn to the Japanese--or Chinese, if it's a +Chinaman you can get to come,--as perhaps having less fear of moral +contamination. Do the best you can, Ted; I need someone badly." + +He was to leave at five o'clock that afternoon. The people whom he saw +thought he was feeling broken up about leaving; he had to hold back all +feeling, they thought; it was that made his face so set and queer and +his manner so abrupt and grim. + +He had lunch with Harriett. She too thought the breaking up, the going +away, had been almost too much for him. She hated to have him go, and +yet, for his sake, she would be glad to have it over. + +At two o'clock he had finished the things he had to do. He had promised +to look in on a few of his friends and say good-by. But when he waited +on the corner for the car that would take him down town he knew in his +heart that he was not going to take that car. He knew, though up to the +very last he tried not to know, that he was going to walk along that +street a block and a half farther and turn in at the house Stuart +Williams had built. He knew he was not going to leave Freeport without +doing that. And when he stood there and let the car go by he faced what +he had in his heart known he was going to do ever since reading Ruth's +letter, turned and started toward Mrs. Williams', walking very fast, as +if to get there before he could turn back. He fairly ran up the steps +and pushed the bell in great haste--having to get it pushed before he +could refuse to push it. + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE + + +When he could not get away, after the maid had let him in and he had +given his name and was waiting in the formal little reception room, he +was not only more frightened than he had ever been in his life, but +frightened in a way he had never known anything about before. He sat far +forward on the stiff little French chair, fairly afraid to let his feet +press on the rug. He did not look around him; he did not believe he +would be able to move when he had to move; he knew he would not be able +to speak. He was appalled at the consciousness of what he had done, of +where he was. He would joyfully have given anything he had in the world +just to be out doors, just not to have been there at all. There was what +seemed a long wait and the only way he got through it was by telling +himself that Mrs. Williams would not see him. Of course she wouldn't see +him! + +There was a step on the stairs; he told himself that it was the maid, +coming to say Mrs. Williams could not see him. But when he knew there +was someone in the doorway he looked up and then, miraculously, he was +on his feet and standing there bowing to Mrs. Williams. + +He thought she looked startled upon actually seeing him, as if she had +not believed it was really he. There was a hesitating moment when she +stood in the doorway, a moment of looking a little as if trying to +overcome a feeling of being suddenly sick. Then she stepped forward and, +though pale, had her usual manner of complete self-possession. "You +wished to see me?" she asked in an even tone faintly tinged with polite +incredulity. + +"Yes," he said, and was so relieved at his voice sounding pretty much +all right that he drew a longer breath. + +She looked hesitatingly at a chair, then sat down; he resumed his seat +on the edge of the stiff little chair. + +She sat there waiting for him to speak; she still had that look of +polite incredulity. She sat erect, her hands loosely clasped; she +appeared perfectly poised, unperturbed, but when she made a movement for +her handkerchief he saw that her hand was shaking. + +"I know I've got my nerve to come here, Mrs. Williams," he blurted out. + +She smiled faintly, and he saw that as she did so her lip twitched. + +"I'm leaving for the West this afternoon. I'm going out there to +live--to work." That he had said quite easily. It was a little more +effort to add: "And I wanted to see you before I went." + +She simply sat there waiting, but there was still that little twitching +of her lip. + +"Mrs. Williams," he began quietly, "I don't know whether or not you know +that I've been with my sister Ruth this summer." + +When she heard that name spoken there was a barely perceptible drawing +back, as when something is flicked before one's eyes. Then her lips set +more firmly. Ted looked down and smoothed out the soft hat he was +holding, which he had clutched out of shape. Then he looked up and said, +voice low: "Ruth has come to mean a great deal to me, Mrs. Williams." + +And still she did not speak, but sat very straight and there were two +small red spots now in her pale cheeks. + +"And so," he murmured, after a moment, "that's why I came to you." + +"I think," she said in a low, incisive, but unsteady voice, "that I do +not quite follow." + +He looked at her in a very simple, earnest way. "You don't?" he asked. +There was a pause and then he said, "I saw you at the theatre last +night." + +"Indeed?" she murmured with a faint note of irony. + +But she did not deflect him from that simple earnestness. "And when I +went home I thought about you." He paused and then added, gently, "Most +all night, I thought about you." + +And still she only sat there looking at him and as if holding herself +very tight. She had tried to smile at that last and the little +disdainful smile had stiffened on her lips, making them look pulled out +of shape and set that way. + +"I said to myself," Ted went on, "'What's _she_ getting out of it?'" His +voice came up on that; he said it rather roughly. + +Her face flamed. "If _this_ is what you have come here to say--" she +began in a low angry voice. "If this is what you have intruded into my +house for--_you_--!" She made a movement as if about to rise. + +Ted threw out his hand with a little gesture of wanting to explain. +"Maybe I shouldn't have put it that way. I hope I didn't seem rude. I +only meant," he said gently, "that as I watched you you didn't look as +though you were happy." + +"And what if I'm not?" she cried, as if stung by that. "What if I'm not? +Does that give you any right to come here and tell me so?" + +He shook his head, as if troubled at again putting things badly. "I +really came," he said, in a low earnest voice, "because it seemed to me +it must be that you did not understand. It occurred to me that perhaps +no one had ever tried to make you understand. I came because it seemed +fairer--to everybody." + +Something new leaped into her eyes. "I presume it was suggested to you?" +she asked sharply. + +"No, Mrs. Williams, it was not suggested to me." As she continued to +look at him with suspicion he colored a little and said quietly: "You +will have to believe that, because I give you my word that it is true." + +She met the direct look of his clear hazel eyes and the suspicion died +out of her own. But new feeling quickly flamed up. "And hasn't it +occurred to you," she asked quiveringly, "that you are rather a--well, +to be very mild indeed, rather a presumptuous young man to come to me, +to come into my house, with _this_?" There was a big rush of feeling as +she choked: "Nobody's spoken to me like this in all these years!" + +"That's just the trouble," said Ted quickly, as if they were really +getting at it now. "That's just the trouble." + +"What do you mean?" she asked sharply. + +"Why--just that. Nobody has talked to you about it. Everybody has been +afraid to, and so you've just been let alone with it. Things get worse, +get all twisted up, get themselves into a tight twist that won't come +out when we're shut up with them." His face looked older as he said, "I +know that myself." He meditated upon that an instant; then, quickly +coming back to her, looked up and added gently: "So it seemed to me that +maybe you hadn't had a fair show just because everybody has been afraid +of you and let you alone." + +Her two trembling hands were pulling at her handkerchief. Her eyes were +very bright. "And you aren't afraid of me?" she asked with a little +laugh that seemed trying to be mocking but was right on the edge of +tears. + +He shook his head. "That is," he qualified it with a slight smile, "not +much--now." Then he said, as if dropping what they were talking about +and giving her a confidence: "While I was waiting for you I was so +scared that I wished I could drop dead." + +His smile in saying it was so boyish that she too dropped the manner of +what they were talking about and faintly smiled back at him. It seemed +to help her gain possession of herself and she returned to the other +with a crisp, "And so, as I understand it, you thought you'd just drop +in and set everything right?" + +He flushed and looked at her a little reproachfully. Then he said, +simply, "It seemed worth trying." He took a letter from his pocket. "I +got this from my sister this morning. The girl who has been working for +her has gone away. Her mother came and took her away. She had 'heard.' +They're always 'hearing.' This has happened time after time." + +"Now just let me understand it," she began in that faintly mocking way, +though her voice was shaking. "You propose that I do something to make +the--the servant problem easier for your sister. Is that it? I am to do +something, you haven't yet said what, to facilitate the domestic +arrangements of the woman who is living with my husband. That's it, +isn't it?" she asked with seeming concern. + +He reddened, but her scoffing seemed to give him courage, as if he had +something not to be scoffed at and could produce it. "It can be made to +sound ridiculous, can't it?" he concurred. "But--" he broke off and his +eyes went very serious. "You never knew Ruth very well, did you, Mrs. +Williams?" he asked quietly. + +The flush spread over her face. "We were not intimate friends," was her +dry answer, but in that voice not steady. + +He again colored, but that steady light was not driven from his eyes. +"Ruth's had a terrible time, Mrs. Williams," he said in a quiet voice of +strong feeling. "And if you had known her very well--knew just what it +is Ruth is like--it seems to me you would have to feel sorry for her." + +She seemed about to speak again in that mocking way, but looking at his +face--the fine seriousness, the tender concern--she kept silence. + +"And just what is it you propose that I do?" she asked after a moment, +as if trying to appear faintly amused. + +Very seriously he looked up at her. "It would help--even at this late +day--if you would get a divorce." + +She gasped; whether she had been prepared for it or not she was +manifestly unprepared for the simple way he said it. For a moment she +stared at him. Then she laughed. "You are a most amazing young man!" she +said quiveringly. + +As he did not speak, but only looked at her in that simple direct way, +she went on, with rising feeling, "You come here, to _me_, into my +house, proposing that--in order to make things easier for your sister in +living with my husband--I get a divorce!" + +He did not flinch. "It might do more than make things easier for my +sister," he said quietly. + +"What do you mean?" she demanded sharply. + +"It might make things easier for you." + +"And what do you mean by _that_?" she asked in that quick sharp way. + +"It might make things easier," he said, "just to feel that, even at this +late day, you've done the decent thing." + +She stood up. "Do you know, young man, that you've said things to me +that are outrageous to have said?" She was trembling so it seemed hard +to speak. "I've let you go on just because I was stupified by your +presumption--staggered, and rather amused at your childish audacity. But +you've gone a little too far! How _dare_ you talk to me like this?" she +demanded with passion. + +He had moved toward the door. He looked at her, then looked away. His +control was all broken down now. "I'm sorry to have it end like this," +he muttered. + +She laughed a little, but she was shaken with the sobs she was plainly +making a big effort to hold back. "I'm so sorry," he said with such real +feeling that the tears brimmed from her eyes. + +He stood there awkwardly. Somehow her house seemed very lonely, +comfortless. And now that her composure was broken down, the way she +looked made him very sorry for her. + +"I don't want you to think," he said gently, "that I don't see how bad +it has been for you." + +She tried to laugh. "You don't think your sister was very--fair to me, +do you?" she asked chokingly, looking at him in a way more appealing +than aggressive. + +"I suppose not," he said. "No, I suppose not." He stood there +considering that. "But I guess," he went on diffidently, "I don't just +know myself--but it seems there come times when being fair gets sort +of--lost sight of." + +The tears were running down her face and she was not trying to check +them. + +He stood there another minute and then timidly held out his hand. +"Good-by, Mrs. Williams," he said gently. + +She took his hand with a queer, choking little laugh and held it very +tight for a minute, as if to steady herself. + +His own eyes had dimmed. Then he smiled--a smile that seemed to want to +go ahead and take any offence or hurt from what he was about to say. +"Maybe, Mrs. Williams, that you will come to feel like being fairer to +Ruth than Ruth was to you." His smile widened and he looked very boyish +as he finished, "And that would be _one_ way of getting back, you know!" + + + + +CHAPTER THIRTY + + +Freeport had a revival of interest in Mrs. Stuart Williams that fall. +They talked so much of her in the first years that discussion had pretty +well spent itself, and latterly it had only been rarely--to a stranger, +or when something came up to bring it to them freshly--that they did +more than occasionally repeat the expressions which that first feeling +had created. There was no new thing to say of their feeling about her. +No one had become intimate with her in those years, and that itself +somehow kept the picture. She was unique, and fascinated them in the way +she was one of them and yet apart. The mystery enveloping her made it +mean more than it could have meant through disclosures from her. It kept +it more poignant to speculate about a concealed suffering than it could +have continued to be through discussing confidences. But even +speculation as to what was beneath that unperturbed surface had rather +talked itself out, certainly had lost its keen edge of interest with the +passing of the years. + +That fall, however, they began to speak of a change in her. They said +first that she did not look well; then they began to talk about her +manner being different. She had always kept so calm, and now there were +times when she appeared nervous. She had had throughout a certain cold +serenity. Now she was sometimes irritable, disclosing a fretfulness +close under the untroubled surface. She looked older, they said; her +brows knit and there were lines about mouth and eyes. She seemed less +sure of herself. It made interest in her a fresh thing. They wondered if +she were not at last breaking, spoke with a careful show of regret, +concern, but whetted anticipations gave eagerness to voices of sympathy. +They wondered if Ruth Holland's having come home in the Spring, the +feeling of her being in the town, could have been too much of a strain, +preying upon the deserted wife and causing her later to break. There +were greedy wonderings as to whether she could possibly have seen Ruth +Holland, whether anything had happened that they did not know about. + +Late one December afternoon Mrs. Williams came home from a church bazaar +and curtly telephoned that she would not be back for the evening. She +spoke of a headache. And her head did ache. It ached, she bitterly +reflected, from being looked at, from knowing they were taking +observations for subsequent speculation. She had been in charge of a +table at the bazaar; a number of little things had gone wrong and she +got out of patience with one of her assistants. Other people got +irritated upon occasions of that sort--and that was all there was to it. +But she was not at liberty to show annoyance. She knew at the time that +they were whispering around about it, connecting it with the thing about +her that it seemed never really went out of their minds. The sense of +that had made her really angry and she had said sharp things she knew +she would be sorry for because they would just be turned over as part of +the thing that was everlastingly being turned over. She was not free; +they were always watching her; even after all these years always +thinking that everything had something to do with _that_. + +Mrs. Hughes, her housekeeper and cook, had followed her upstairs. At the +door of her room she turned impatiently. She had known by the way the +woman hung around downstairs that she wanted to say something to her and +she had petulantly not given her the chance. She did not want anything +said to her. She wanted to be let alone. + +"Well?" she inquired ungraciously. + +Mrs. Hughes was a small trim woman who had a look of modestly trying not +to be obtrusive about her many virtues. She had now that manner of one +who could be depended upon to assume responsibilities a less worthy +person would pass by. + +"I thought perhaps you should know, Mrs. Williams," she said with +faintly rebuking patience, "that Lily has gone to bed." + +"Oh, she's really sick then, is she?" asked Mrs. Williams, unbending a +little. + +"She says so," replied Mrs. Hughes. + +The tone caused her to look at the woman in surprise. "Well, I presume +she is then," she answered sharply. + +Lily was the second girl. Two servants were not needed for the actual +work as the household consisted only of Mrs. Williams and an aged aunt +who had lived with her since she had been alone, but the house itself +did not seem adapted to a one servant menage. There had been two before, +and in that, as in other things, she had gone right on in the same way. +Mrs. Hughes had been with her for several years but Lily had been there +only three or four months. She had been a strange addition to the +household; she laughed a good deal and tripped about at her work and +sang. But she had not sung so much of late and in the last few days had +plainly not been well. + +"If she's really sick, we'll have to have a doctor for her," Mrs. +Williams said, her hand on the knob she was about to turn. + +"She says she doesn't want a doctor," answered Mrs. Hughes, and again +her tone made Mrs. Williams look at her in impatient inquiry. + +"Well, I'll go up after while and see her myself," she said, opening the +door of her room. "Meanwhile you look after her, please. And oh, Mrs. +Hughes," she called back, "I shan't want any dinner. I had a heavy tea +at the bazaar," she added hurriedly, and as if resentful of having to +make any explanation. + +Alone, she took off her hat, pushed back her hair as if it oppressed +her, then sank into a low, luxurious chair and, eyes closed, pressed her +fingers over her temples as if to command quiet within. But after a +moment she impatiently got up and went over to her dressing-table and +sat looking into the mirror. + +The thing that had started her afternoon wrong was that a friend of her +girlhood, whom she had not seen for about thirteen years, had appeared +unexpectedly at her table, startling her and then laughing at her +confusion. She had not known that Stella Cutting was in town; to be +confronted that way with some one out of the past had been unnerving, +and then she had been furious with herself for not being able more +easily to regain composure. People around her had seen; later she saw +them looking at her strangely, covertly interested when she spoke in +that sharp way to Mildred Woodbury because she had tossed things about. +She had been disturbed, for one thing, at finding Mildred Woodbury at +her table. + +She was looking in the glass now because Stella Cutting had been one of +her bridesmaids. She was not able to put down a miserable desire to try +to see just what changes Stella had found. + +The dissatisfaction in her face deepened with her scrutiny of it. +Doubtless Stella was that very minute talking of how pitifully Marion +Averley had changed; how her color used to be clear and even, features +firmly molded, eyes bright. She herself remembered how she had looked +the night Stella Cutting was her bridesmaid. And now her color was muddy +and there were crow's feet about her eyes and deep lines from her +nostrils to the corners of her mouth. + +Stella Cutting looked older herself, very considerably older. But it was +a different way of looking older. She had grown stout and her face was +too full. But she did not look _pulled_ at like this. As she talked of +her children hers was the face of a woman normally, contentedly growing +older. The woman sitting before the mirror bitterly turned away now from +that reflection of dissatisfaction with emptiness. + +It was that boy had done it! she thought with a new rise of resentment. +She had been able to go along very evenly until he impertinently came +into her house and rudely and stupidly broke through the things she had +carefully builded up around herself. Ever since he had plunged into +things even she herself had been careful not to break into, there had +been this inner turmoil that was giving her the look of an old woman. If +Stella Cutting had come just a few months earlier she could not have had +so much to say about how terribly Marion Averley had changed. + +Why was she so absurd as to let herself be upset? she angrily asked of +herself, beginning to unfasten the dress she was wearing that she might +get into something loose and try to relax. A hook caught in some lace +and in her vexation at not being able at once to unfasten it she gave it +a jerk that tore the lace. She bit her lips and could have cried. Those +were the things she did these days!--since that boy came and +blunderingly broke into guarded places. + +She sat in a low, deep chair before the open fire that burned in the +sitting-room adjoining her bedroom. It was the room that had been her +husband's. After he went away she took it for an upstairs +sitting-room--a part of her program of unconcern. As she sank down into +the gracious chair she told herself that she would rest for that +evening, not think about things. But not to think about things was +impossible that night. Stella Cutting had brought old things near and +made them newly real: her girlhood, her falling in love with Stuart +Williams, her wedding. Those reminiscences caught her and swept her on +to other things. She thought of her marriage; thought of things that, +ever since that boy came and made her know how insecure she really was +in the defences she had put up for herself, it had been a struggle to +keep away from. + +She had not done much thinking--probing--as to why it was her marriage +had failed. That was another one of the things her pride shut her out +from. When it failed she turned from it, clothed in pride, never naked +before the truth. There was something relaxing in just letting down the +barriers, barriers which had recently been so shaken that she was +fretted with trying to hold them up. + +She wondered why Stella Cutting's marriage had succeeded and hers had +failed. The old answer that her marriage had failed because her husband +was unfaithful to her--answer that used always to leave her newly +fortified, did not satisfy tonight. She pushed on through that. There +was a curious emotional satisfaction in thus disobeying herself by +rushing into the denied places of self-examination. She was stirred by +what she was doing. + +Her long holding back from this very thing was part of that same +instinct for restraint, what she had been pleased to think of as +fastidiousness, that had always held her back in love. It was alien to +her to let herself go; she had an instinct that held her away from +certain things--from the things themselves and from free thinking about +them. What she was doing now charged her with excitement. + +She was wondering about herself and the man who was still legally her +husband. She was thinking of how different they were in the things of +love; how he gave and wanted giving, while her instinct had always been +to hold herself a little apart. There was something that displeased her +in abandonment to feeling. She did not like herself when she fully gave. +There had been something in her, some holding back, that passionate love +outraged. Intense demonstration was indelicate to her; she was that way, +she had not been able to help it. She loved in what she thought of as +her own fastidious way. Passion violated something in her. Falling in +love had made her happy, but with her love had never been able to sweep +down the reserves, and so things which love should have made beautiful +had remained for her ugly facts of life that she had an instinct to hold +herself away from. What she felt she did not like herself for feeling. +And so their marriage had been less union than man[oe]uvering. + +She supposed she had, to be very blunt, starved Stuart's love. For he +wanted much love, a full and intense love life. He was passionate and +demonstrative. He gave and wanted, perhaps needed, much giving. He did +not understand that constant holding back. For him the beauty of love +was in the expression of it. She supposed, in this curious +self-indulgence of facing things tonight, that it had been he who was +normal; she had memories of many times when she had puzzled and +disappointed and hurt him. + +And so when Gertrude Freemont--an old school friend of hers, a +warm-natured Southern girl--came to visit her, Stuart turned away from +things grudging and often chill to Gertrude's playfulness and sunniness +and warmth. There was a curious shock to her tonight when she found +herself actually thinking that perhaps it was not much to be wondered +at. He was like that. She had not made him over to be like her. + +At first he had found Gertrude enlivening, and from a flirtation it went +to one of those passages of passion between a man and a woman, a thing +that flames up and then dies away, in a measure a matter of +circumstance. That was the way he tried to explain it to her when, just +as Gertrude was leaving, she came to know--even in this present +abandonment to thinking she went hurriedly past the shock of that +terrible sordid night of "finding out." Stuart had weakly and +appealingly said that he hadn't been able to help it, that he was +sorry--that it was all over. + +But with it their marriage was all over. She told him so then--told him +quite calmly, it would seem serenely; went on telling him so through +those first days of his unhappiness and persistence. She was always +quite unperturbed in telling him so. Politely, almost pleasantly, she +would tell him that she would never be his wife again. + +She never was. She had known very certainly from the first that she +never would be. Tonight she probed into that too--why she had been so +sure, why she had never wavered. It was a more inner thing than just +jealousy, resentment, hurt, revenge--though all those things were there +too. But those were things that might have broken down, and this was not +a thing that would break down. It was more particularly temperamental +than any of those things. It was that thing in her which had always held +her back from giving. She _had_ given--and then her giving had been +outraged! Even now she burned in the thought of that. He had called out +a thing in her that she had all along--just because she was as she +was--resented having had called out. And then he had flouted it. Even +after all those years there was tonight that old prickling of her scalp +in thinking of it. The things she might have said--of its being her own +friend, in her own house--she did not much dwell upon, even to herself. +It was a more inner injury than that. Something in her that was +curiously against her had been called to life by him--and then he had +outraged what she had all along resented his finding in her. To give at +all had been so tremendous a thing--then to have it lightly held! It +outraged something that was simply outside the sphere of things +forgivable. + +And that outraged thing had its own satisfaction. What he had called to +life in her and then, as it seemed, left there unwanted, what he had +made in her that was not herself--then left her with, became something +else, something that made her life. From the first until now--or at any +rate until two months ago when that boy came and forced her to look at +herself--the thing in her that had been outraged became something that +took the place of love, that was as the other pole of love, something +that yielded a satisfaction of its own, a satisfaction intense as the +things of love are intense, but cold, ordered, certain. It was the power +to hurt; the power to bring pain by simply doing nothing. It was not +tempestuously done; it had none of the uncertainty of passionate +feeling; it had the satisfaction of power without effort, of disturbing +and remaining undisturbed, of hurting and giving no sign. It was the +revenge of what was deeply herself for calling her out from herself, for +not wanting what was found in her that was not herself. + +Stuart wanted her again; terribly wanted her, more than ever wanted her. +He loved and so could be hurt. He needed love and so could be given +pain. He thought she would give in; she knew that she would not. There +was power in that knowledge. And so she watched him suffer and herself +gained new poise. She did not consider how it was a sorry thing to fill +her life with. When, that night that was like being struck by lightning, +she came to know that the man to whom she had given--_she_--had turned +from her to another woman it was as if she was then and there sealed in. +She would never let herself leave again. Outraged pride blocked every +path out from self. She was shut in with her power to inflict pain. That +was all she had. And then that boy came and made her look at herself and +know that she was poor! That was why Stella Cutting could be talking of +how Marion Averley had "broken." + +They were talking about it, of course; about her and Ruth Holland and +her husband. _Her_ husband, she thought insistently, but without getting +the accustomed satisfaction from the thought. Miserably she wondered +just what they were saying; she flinched in the thought of their talk +about her hurt, her loneliness. And then she felt a little as if she +could cry. She had wondered if she had anybody's real pity. + +That thought of their talking of it opened it to her, drew her to it. +She thought of Ruth Holland, gave up the worn pretense of disinterest +and let herself go in thinking of her. + +The first feeling she had had when she suspected that her husband was +drawn to that girl, Ruth Holland, was one of chagrin, a further hurt to +pride. For her power to give pain would be cut off. Once she saw the +girl's face light as Stuart went up to her for a dance. She knew then +that the man who had that girl's love could not be hurt in the way she +had been hurting. At first she was not so much jealous as strangely +desolated. And then as time went on and in those little ways that can +make things known to those made acute through unhappiness she came to +know that her husband cared for this girl and had her love, anger at +having been again stripped, again left there outraged, made her seize +upon the only power left, that more sordid, more commonplace kind of +power. She could no longer hurt by withholding herself; she could only +hurt by standing in the way. Rage at the humiliation of being reduced to +that fastened her to it with a hold not to be let go. All else was taken +from her and she was left with just that. Somehow she reduced herself to +it; she became of the quality of it. + +Pride, or rather self-valuation, incapacity for self-depreciation, had +never let her be honest with herself. As there were barriers shutting +the world out from her hurt and humiliation, so too were there barriers +shutting herself out. She did not acknowledge pain, loneliness, for that +meant admission that she could not have what she would have. She thought +of it as withdrawal, dignified withdrawal from one not fit. She had +always tried to feel that her only humiliation was in having given to +one not worth her--one lesser. + +But in this reckless and curiously exciting mood of honesty tonight she +got some idea of how great the real hurt had been. She knew now that +when she came to know--to feel in a way that was knowing--that her +husband loved Ruth Holland she suffered something much more than hurt to +pride. It was pride that would not let her look at herself and see how +she was hurt. And pride would not let her say one word, make one effort. +It was simply not in her to bring herself to _try_ to have love given +her. And so she was left with the sordid satisfaction of the hurt she +dealt in just being. That became her reason for existence--the ugly +reason for her barren existence. She lived alone with it for so long +that she came to be of it. Her spirit seemed empty of all else. It had +kept her from everything; it had kept her from herself. + +But now tonight she could strangely get to herself, and now she knew +that far from Ruth Holland not mattering her whole being had from the +first been steeped in hatred of her. Her jealousy had been of a freezing +quality; it had even frozen her power to know about herself. When, after +one little thing and then another had let her know there was love +between her husband and this girl, to go to places where Ruth Holland +was would make her numb--that was the way it was with her. Once in going +somewhere--a part of that hideous doing things together which she kept +up because it was one way of showing she was there, would continue to be +there--she and Stuart drove past the Hollands', and this girl was out in +the yard, romping with her dog, tusseling with him like a little girl. +She looked up, flushed, tumbled, panting, saw them, tried to straighten +her hair, laughed in confusion and retreated. Stuart had raised his hat +to her, trying to look nothing more than discreetly amused. But a little +later after she--his wife--had been looking from the other window as if +not at all concerned she turned her head and saw his face in the mirror +on the opposite side of the carriage. He had forgotten her; she was +taking him unawares. Up to that time she had not been sure--at least not +sure of its meaning much. But when she saw that tender little smile +playing about his mouth she knew it was true that her power to hurt him +had reduced itself to being in his way. That she should be reduced to +that made her feeling about it as ugly as the thing itself. + +She did not sleep that night--after seeing Ruth Holland romping with her +dog. She had cried--and was furious that she should cry, that it could +make her cry. And furious at herself because of the feeling she had--a +strange stir of passion, a wave of that feeling which had seemed to her +unlovely even when it was desired and that it was unbearably humiliating +to feel unwanted. It was in this girl he wanted those things now; that +girl who could let herself go, whom life rioted in, who doubtless could +abandon herself to love as she could in romping with her dog. It +tortured her to think of the girl's flushed, glowing face--panting +there, hair tumbled. She cringed in the thought of how perhaps what she +had given was measured by what this girl could give. + +As time went on she knew that her husband was more happy than he had +ever been before--and increasingly unhappy. Her torture in the thought +of his happiness made her wrest the last drop of satisfaction she could +from the knowledge that she could continue the unhappiness. Sometimes he +would come home and she would know he had been with this girl, know it +as if he had shouted it at her--it fairly breathed from him. To feel +that happiness near would have maddened her had she not been able to +feel that her very being there dealt unhappiness. It was a wretched +thing to live with. Beauty had not come into her life; it would not come +where that was. + +And then she came to know that they were being cornered. +She--knowing--saw misery as well as love in the girl's eyes--a hunted +look. Her husband grew terribly nervous, irritable, like one trapped. It +was hurting his business; it was breaking down his health. Not until +afterward did she know that there was also a disease breaking down his +health. She did not know what difference it might have made had she +known that. By that time she had sunk pretty deep into lust for hurting, +into hating. + +She saw that this love was going to wreck his life. His happiness was +going to break him. If the world came to know it would be known that her +husband did not want her, that he wanted someone else. She smarted under +that--and so fortified herself the stronger in an appearance of +unconcern. She could better bear exposure of his uncaringness for her +than let him suspect that he could hurt her. And they would be hurt! If +it became known it would wreck life for them both. The town would know +then about Ruth Holland--that wanton who looked so spiritual! They would +know then what the girl they had made so much of really was! She would +not any longer have to listen to that talk of Ruth Holland as so sweet, +so fine! + +And so she waited; sure that it would come, would come without her +having given any sign, without her having been moved from her refuge of +unconcern--she who had given and not been wanted! That week before Edith +Lawrence's wedding she knew that it was coming, that something was +happening. Stuart looked like a creature driven into a corner. And he +looked sick; he seemed to have lost hold on himself. Once as she was +passing the door of his room it blew a little open and she saw him +sitting on the bed, face buried in his hands. After she passed the door +she halted--but went on. She heard him moving around in the night; once +she heard him groan. Instinctively she had sat up in bed, but had lain +down again--remembering, remembering that he was groaning because he did +not want her, because she was in the way of the woman he wanted. + +She saw in those days, that week before Edith Lawrence's wedding, that +he was trying to say something to her and could not, that he was +wretched in his fruitless attempts to say it. He would come where she +was, sit there white, miserable, dogged, then go away after having said +only some trivial thing. Once--she was always quite cool, unperturbed, +through those attempts of his--he had passionately cried out, "You're +pretty superior, aren't you, Marion? Pretty damned serene!" It was a cry +of desperation, a cry from unbearable pain, but she gave no sign. Like +steel round her heart was that feeling that he was paying now. + +After that outburst he did not try to talk to her; that was the last +night he was at home. He came home at noon next day and said he was +going away on a business trip. She heard him packing in his room. She +knew--felt sure--that it was something more than a business trip. She +felt sure that he was leaving. And then she wanted to go to him and say +something, whether reproaches or entreaties she did not know; listened +to him moving around in there, wanted to go and say something and could +not; could only sit there listening, hearing every smallest sound. She +heard him speak a surly word to a servant in the hall. He never spoke +that way to the servants. When he shut the front door she knew that he +would not open it again. She got to the window and saw him before he +passed from sight--carrying his bag, head bent, stooped. He was broken, +and he was going away. She knew it. + +Even tonight she could not let herself think much about that afternoon, +the portentous emptiness, the strangeness of the house; going into his +room to see what he had taken, in there being tied up as with panic, +sinking down on his bed and unable to move for a long time. + +She had forced herself to go to Edith Lawrence's wedding. And she knew +by Ruth Holland's face that it was true something was happening, knew it +by the girl's face as she walked down the aisle after attending her +friend at the altar, knew it by her much laughter, by what was not in +the laughter. Once during the evening she saw Edith put her arm around +Ruth Holland and at the girl's face then she knew with certainty, did +not need the letter that came from Stuart next day. She had the picture +of Ruth Holland now as she was that last night, in that filmy dress of +pale yellow that made her look so delicate. She was helped through that +evening by the thought that if she was going to be publicly humiliated +Ruth Holland would be publicly disgraced. She would have heard the last +about that fine, delicate quality--about sweetness and luminousness! +They would know, finally, that she was not those things she looked. + +And after it happened the fact that they did know it helped her to go +on. She went right on, almost as if nothing had happened. She would not +let herself go away because then they would say she went away because +she could not bear it, because she did not want them to see. She must +stay and show them that there was nothing to see. Forcing herself to do +that so occupied her as to help her with things within. She could not +let herself feel for feeling would show on the surface. Even before +herself she had kept up that manner of unconcern and had come to be +influenced by her own front. + +And so the years went by and her life had been made by that going on in +apparent unconcern, and by that inner feeling that she was hurting them +by just being in life. It was not a lovely reason for being in life; she +had not known what a poor thing it was until that boy came and forced +her to look at herself and consider how little she had. + +She rose and stood looking into the mirror above the fireplace. It +seemed to her that she could tell by her face that the desire to do harm +had been her reason for living. + +Several hours had gone by while she sat there given over to old things. +She wished she had a book, something absorbing, something to take her +away from that other thinking that was lying in wait for her--those +thoughts about what there was for her to live with in the years still to +be lived. The magazine she had picked up could not get any hold on her; +that was why, though she had made it clear she did not want to be +disturbed, there was relief in her voice as she answered the tap at her +door. + +She frowned a little though at sight of Mrs. Hughes standing there +deferential but visibly excited. She had that look of trying not to +intrude her worthiness as she said: "Excuse me, Mrs. Williams, for +disturbing you, but there is something I thought you ought to know." In +answer to the not very cordial look of inquiry she went on, "It's about +Lily; she says she won't have a doctor, but--she needs one." + +There was something in her manner, something excited and yet grim, that +Mrs. Williams did not understand. But then she did not much trouble +herself to understand Mrs. Hughes, she was always appearing to see some +hidden significance in things. "I'll go up and see her," she said. + +After the visit she came down to telephone for her doctor. She saw that +the girl was really ill, and she had concluded from her strange manner +that she was feverish. Lily protested that she wanted to be let alone, +that she would be all right in a day or two; but she looked too ill for +those protestations to be respected. + +She telephoned for her own doctor only to learn that he was out of town. +Upon calling another physician's house she was told that he had the grip +and could not go out. She then sat for some minutes in front of the +'phone before she looked up a number in the book and called Dr. Deane +Franklin. When she rose after doing that she felt as if her knees were +likely to give way. The thought of his coming into her house, coming +just when she had been living through old things, was unnerving. But she +was really worried about the girl and knew no one else to call whom she +could trust. + +When he came she was grateful to him for his professional manner which +seemed to take no account of personal things, to have no personal +memory. "I'd like to see you when you come down, doctor," she said as +Mrs. Hughes was taking him to the maid's room on the third floor. + +She was waiting for him at the door of her upstairs sitting-room. He +stepped in and then stood hesitatingly there. He too had a queer grim +look, she thought. + +"And what is the trouble?" she asked. + +He gave her a strange sideways glance and snapped shut a pocket of the +bag he carried. Then he said, brusquely: "It's a miscarriage." + +She felt the blood surging into her face. She had stepped a little back +from him. "Why--I don't see how that's possible," she faltered. + +He smiled a little and she had a feeling that he took a satisfaction in +saying to her, grimly, "Oh, it's possible, all right." + +She colored anew. She resented his manner and that made her collect +herself and ask with dignity what was the best thing to do. + +"I presume we'd better take her to the hospital," he said in that short +way. "She's been--horribly treated. She's going to need attention--and +doubtless it would be disagreeable to have her here." + +That too she suspected him of finding a satisfaction in saying. She made +a curt inquiry as to whether the girl would be all right there for the +night. He said yes and left saying he would be back in the morning. + +She escaped Mrs. Hughes--whom now she understood. She did not go up +again to see Lily; she could not do that then. She was angry with +herself for being unnerved. She told herself that at any other time she +would have been able to deal sensibly with such a situation. But coming +just when things were all opened up like that--old feeling fresh--and +coming from Deane Franklin! She would be quite impersonal, rational, in +the morning. But for a long time she could not go to sleep. Something +had intruded into her guarded places. And the things of life from which +she had withdrawn were here--in her house. It affected her physically, +almost made her sick--this proximity of the things she had shut out of +her life. It was invasion. + +And she thought about Lily. She tried not to, but could not help +wondering about her. She wondered how this had happened--what the girl +was feeling. Was there someone she loved? She lay there thinking of how, +just recently, this girl who lived in her house had been going through +those things. It made her know that the things of life were all the time +around one. There was something singularly disturbing in the thought. + +Next morning she went up to see Lily. She told herself it was only +common decency to do that, her responsibility to a person in her house. + +As she opened the door Lily turned her head and looked at her. When she +saw who it was her eyes went sullen, defiant. But pain was in them too, +and with all the rest something wistful. As she looked at the girl lying +there--in trouble, in pain, she could see Lily, just a little while +before, laughing and singing at her work. Something she had not felt in +years, that she had felt but little in her whole life, stirred in her +heart. + +"Well, Lily," she said, uncertainly but not unkindly. + +The girl's eyes were down, her face turned a little away. But she could +see that her chin was quivering. + +"I'm sorry you are ill," Mrs. Williams murmured, and then gave a little +start at the sound of her own voice. + +The girl turned her head and stole a look. A moment later there were +tears on her lashes. + +"We'll have to get you well," said Mrs. Williams in a practical, +cheerful voice. And then she abruptly left the room. Her heart was +beating too fast. + +Mrs. Hughes lay in wait for her as she came downstairs. "May I speak to +you, Mrs. Williams?" she asked in a manner at once deferential and firm. + +"She's to be taken away, isn't she?" she inquired in a hard voice. + +For a moment Mrs. Williams did not speak. She looked at the woman before +her, all tightened up with outraged virtue. And then she heard herself +saying: "No, I think it will be better for Lily to remain at home." +After she had heard herself say it she had that feeling that her knees +were about to give way. + +For an instant Mrs. Hughes' lips shut tight. Then, "Do you know what's +the matter with her?" she demanded in that sharp, hard voice. + +"Yes," replied Mrs. Williams, "I know." + +"And you're going to keep such a person in your house?" + +"Yes." + +"Then you can't expect _me_ to stay in your house!" flashed the woman +who was outraged. + +"As you like, Mrs. Hughes," was the answer. + +Mrs. Hughes moved a little away, plainly discomfited. + +"I should be sorry to have you go," Mrs. Williams continued courteously, +"but of course that is for you to decide." + +"I'm a respectable woman," she muttered. "You can't expect _me_ to wait +on a person like that!" + +"You needn't wait on her, then," was the reply. "Until the nurse comes, +I will wait on her myself." And again she turned abruptly away. + +Once more her heart was beating too fast. + +When the doctor came and began about the arrangement he had been able to +make at the hospital, she quietly told him that, if it would be as well, +she would rather keep Lily at home. His startled look made her flush. +His manner with her was less brusque as he said good-by. She smiled a +little over that last puzzled glance he stole at her. + +Then she went back to Lily's room. She straightened her bed for her, +telling her that in a little while the nurse would be there to make her +really comfortable. She bathed the girl's hot face and hands. She got +her a cold drink. As she put her hand behind her head to raise her a +little for that, the girl murmured brokenly: "You're so kind!" + +She went out and sat in an adjoining room, to be within call. And as she +sat there a feeling of strange peace stole through her. It was as if she +had been set free, as if something that had chained her for years had +fallen away. When in her talk with Mrs. Hughes she became that other +woman, the woman on the other side, on compassion's side, something just +fell from her. When that poor girl murmured, "You're so kind!" she +suddenly knew that she must have something more from life than that +satisfaction of harming those who had hurt her. When she washed the +girl's face she knew what she could not unknow. She had served. She +could not find the old satisfaction in working harm. The soft, warm +thing that filled her heart with that cry, "You're so kind!" had killed +forever the old cruel satisfaction in being in the way. + +She felt very quiet in this wonderful new liberation. She began shaping +life as something more than a standing in the way of others. It made +life seem a different thing just to think of it as something other than +that. And suddenly she knew that she did not hate Ruth Holland any more; +that she did not even hate the man who had been her husband. Hating had +worn itself out; it fell from her, a thing outlived. It was wonderful to +have it gone. For a long time she sat there very quiet in the wonder of +that peace of knowing that she was free--freed of the long hideous +servitude of hating, freed of wanting to harm. It made life new and +sweet. She wanted something from life. She must have more of that gentle +sweetness that warmed her heart when Lily murmured, "You're so kind!" + + + + +CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE + + +Ruth Holland stood at the window looking out at Colorado in January. The +wide valley was buried under snow. It was late afternoon and the sun was +passing behind the western mountains. From the window where she stood +she could not see the western mountains, but the sunset colors had been +thrown over to the eastern range, some fifty miles away. When she first +came there, five years before, it had seemed strange to find the east +lighted at sunset, more luminous than the west. The eastern range was a +mighty one. Now there was snow down to its feet and there was no warmth +in the colors that lighted it. They only seemed to reveal that the +mountains were frozen. It would not have seemed possible for red--those +mountains had been named Sangre de Cristo because they went red at +sunset--to be so dazzling cold. The lighted snow brought out the contour +of the mountains. They were wonderfully beautiful so, but the woman +looking out at them was not thinking of them as beautiful. She was +thinking of them as monuments of coldness. To her it was as if they had +locked that valley in to merciless cold. + +But it was not the sunset colors that really marked coming night for +her. All through that winter something else had marked night, something +she tried to keep from looking out at, but which she was not able to +hold away from. She was looking at it now, looking off into the +adjoining field where the sheep were huddling for the night. + +They had begun their huddling some time before. With the first dimming +of the light, the first wave of new cold that meant coming night, a few +of them would get together; others would gather around them, then more +and more. Now there was the struggle not to be left on the outside. The +outer ones were pushing toward the center; they knew by other nights +that this night would be frigid, that they could only keep alive by that +warmth they could get from one another. Yet there were always some that +must make that outer rim of the big circle, must be left there to the +unbroken cold. She watched them; it had become a terrible thing for her +to see, but she could not keep from looking. Many of those unprotected +sheep had died that bitter winter; others would die before spring came. +It was a cruel country, a country of cold. + +That was their flock of sheep. They had been driven there the summer +before from the lambing grounds in the mountains. The day they got there +the lambs were exhausted from the long journey. One of them had dropped +before the house and died right there beside the field it had come the +long way to gain. Her efforts to revive it were useless; the little +thing was worn out. They were all of them close to worn out. And now +they had the winter to fight; night after night she watched them +huddling there, the big pitiful mass of them out in the bitter cold. It +was the way of the country to leave them so; the only way, the sheep men +said, that sheep could be made to pay. They estimated that the loss by +freezing was small compared with what would be the cost of shelter for +droves that ran into thousands, into tens of thousands. + +Ruth would wake at night and think of them huddled out there, would lie +thinking of them as she drew the covers around herself, think of them +when the wind drove against the house, and often, as tonight, when it +was every instant growing colder, she wondered if what was before them +filled them with terror. Sometimes she could not keep away and went +nearer and looked at them; they were unbearably pitiful to her, their +necks wrapped around each other's necks, trying to get from one another +the only warmth there was for them, so helpless, so patient, they, +play-loving creatures, gentle things, bearing these lives that men might +finally use them for clothing and for food. There were times when the +pathos of them was a thing she could not bear. They seemed to represent +the whole cruelty of life, made real to her the terrible suffering of +the world that winter of the war. + +She watched the sheep until the quick dusk had fallen, and then stood +thinking of them huddled over there in the frigid darkness. When she +found that her face was wet and realized that she had sobbed aloud she +turned from the window to the stove, drew a chair up close to it and put +her feet on the fender. It was so bitterly cold that the room was warm +only near the stove; over there by the window she had grown chilled. And +as the heat enveloped her ankles she thought of the legs of those poor +frightened things that had been the last comers and not able to get to +the inside of the circle--that living outer rim which was left all +exposed to the frigid January night in that high mountain valley. She +could feel the cold cutting against their legs, could see their +trembling and their vain, frantic efforts to get within the solidly +packed mass. She was crying, and she said to herself, her fingers +clenched down into her palm, "_Stop that! Stop that!_" She did not know +what might not happen to her if she were unable to stop such thinking as +that. + +To try and force herself away from it she got up and lighted a lamp. She +looked about on her desk for a magazine she had put there. She would +make herself read something while waiting for Stuart. He had had to +drive into town. He would be almost frozen when he got back from that +two-mile drive. She paused in her search for the magazine and went into +the kitchen to make sure that the fire there was going well. Then she +put some potatoes in to bake; baked potatoes were hot things--they would +be good after that drive. The heat from the oven poured out to her, and +it swept her again to the thought of the living huddled mass out there +in the frigid darkness. The wind beat against the house; it was beating +against them. She bit her lip hard and again she said to +herself--"_No!_" + +She made some other preparations for supper. She had those things to do +herself now. The Chinaman Ted had brought home with him in the fall had +left in December. He had appeared before her ready for leaving and had +calmly said, "Cold here, missis. And too all alone. Me go where more +others are." She had said nothing at all in reply to him, in protest, +too held by what he had said--"Cold here, and too all alone!" She had +stood at the window and watched him going up the road toward town, going +where "more others" were. + +She went back now into their main room; it was both living and dining +room these days, for since the extreme cold had fastened on them they +had abandoned their two little upstairs bedrooms and taken for sleeping +the room which in summer was used as living-room. That could be heated a +little by leaving the door open, and it had seemed out of the question +to go to bed in those upstairs rooms where the cold had been left +untouched. Since they had been doing their own work all extra things had +had to be cut down; an upstairs fire would mean more work, and it seemed +there was already more work than Ruth could get done and have time for +anything else. She was tired all the time these days; she would think +during the day of the good time she was going to have with a book that +evening, and then night would find her so tired she could scarcely keep +awake, and she would huddle there before the fire, dreading the cold of +the night. + +Life had reduced itself to necessities; things had to be ruthlessly +rearranged for meeting conditions. She loved her own room to sleep in. +She needed it. But she had given that up because it was too cold, +because she could not do any more work. There was something that made +her cringe in the thought of their sharing a bed, not because of love of +being together, but because of the necessity of fighting the cold. And +it made crowded quarters downstairs. She began "picking up" the room +now. Things were piled up on the sewing machine, on the reading table. +It seemed impossible to keep them put away. She tried hard to keep the +room an attractive place to sit in, but it was in disorder, uninviting, +most of the time. Often, after doing the kitchen work, she would clean +it all up with the idea of making it attractive to sit in, then would be +too utterly tired to enjoy it. She lagged in putting things away now; +she would stand holding them helplessly, not knowing where to put them; +she got sick of it and just threw some of them into a closet, anything +to get them out of sight for the time. She knew that was not the way to +do, that it would make it harder another time. She felt like crying. It +seemed things had got ahead of her, that she was swamped by them, and +somehow she did not have the spirit, or the strength, to get a new +start, make a new plan. + +Finally she had the room looking a little less slovenly, not so sordid, +and was about to sit down with her magazine. But the lamp was +flickering, and then she remembered that she had not filled it that day. +She picked the lamp up and slowly, drooping, started for the kitchen. +She gave the can an angry little tilt and the oil overflowed on the +table. She was biting her lips as she went about looking for a cloth to +wipe it up. She heard sleigh bells and knew Stuart was coming. Hastily +she washed the oil from her hands, she always hated herself when her +hands smelled of kerosene, and began getting things ready for supper. + +Stuart came hurrying and stamping in after putting the horse away, +quickly banging the door shut and standing there pounding his feet and +rubbing his stiffened hands. + +"Fearfully cold?" she inquired, hurriedly getting out the box of codfish +she was going to cream for their supper. + +"Cold!" he scoffed, as if in scorn for the inadequacy of the word. After +a minute he came up to the stove. "I was afraid," he said, holding his +right hand in his left, "that it had got these fingers." + +He took off his big bear-skin coat. A package he had taken from the +pocket of it he threw over on the kitchen table. "Don't throw the bacon +there, Stuart," hurriedly advised Ruth, busy with the cream sauce she +was making, "I've just spilled oil there." + +"Heavens!" he said irritably, shoving the bacon farther back. + +His tone made Ruth's hand tremble. "If you think I'm so careless you +might fill the lamps yourself," she said tremulously. + +"Who said you were careless?" he muttered. He went in the other room and +after a minute called out, as one trying to be pleasant, "What we going +to have for supper?" + +"Creamed codfish," she told him. + +"For a little change!" he said, under his breath. + +"I don't think that's very kind, Stuart," she called back, quiveringly. +"It's not so simple a matter to have 'changes' here now." + +"Oh, I know it," he said, wearily. + +She brought the things in and they began the meal in silence. She had +not taken time to lay the table properly. Things were not so placed as +to make them attractive. Stuart tasted a piece of bread and then hastily +put it aside, not concealing a grimace of distaste. "What's the matter?" +Ruth asked sharply. + +"I don't seem to care much for bread and oil," he said in a voice it was +plainly an effort to make light. + +Ruth's eyes filled. She picked up the plate of bread and took it to the +kitchen. Stuart rose and went after her. "I'll get some more bread, +Ruth," he said kindly. "Guess you're tired tonight, aren't you?" + +She turned away from him and took a drink of water. Then she made a big +effort for control and went to the dining-room. She asked some questions +about town and they talked in a perfunctory way until supper was over. + +He had brought papers and a couple of letters from town. Ruth was out in +the kitchen doing the dishes when she heard a queer exclamation from +him. "What is it, Stuart?" it made her ask quickly, going to the +dining-room door with the cup she was wiping. + +He gave her a strange look; and then suddenly he laughed. "What _is_ +it?" the laugh made her repeat in quick, sharp voice. + +"Well, you'll never guess!" he said. + +She frowned and stood there waiting. + +"Marion's going to get a divorce." He looked at her as if he did not +believe what he said. + +Ruth put her hand out to the casement of the door. "She _is_?" she said +dully. + +He held up a legal looking paper. "Official notice," he said. Then +suddenly he threw the thing over on the table and with a short hard +laugh pulled his chair around to the fire. Ruth stood a moment looking +at it lying there. Then she turned and went back to the dishes. When she +returned to the living-room the paper still lay there on the table. She +had some darning to do and she got out her things and sat down, chair +turned to one side, not facing the legal looking document. + +After a little while Stuart, who had been figuring in a memorandum book, +yawned and said he guessed he'd go to bed. He shook down the fire, then +got up and picked up the paper from the table, folded it and took it +over to the big desk in the corner where his business things were. +"Well, Ruth," he remarked, "this would have meant a good deal to us ten +or twelve years ago, wouldn't it?" + +She nodded, her head bent over the sock she was darning. + +"Oh, well," he said, after a pause, "maybe it will help some even yet." + +She made no answer. + +"I suppose Marion wants to get married," he went on meditatively, after +a moment adding bitterly, "Her wanting it is the only thing that would +ever make her do it." + +He went down cellar for coal, and after he had filled the stove began +undressing before it. When ready for bed he sat there a little before +the fire, as if taking in all the heat he could for the night. Ruth had +finished her darning and was putting the things away. "Coming to bed?" +he asked of her. + +"Not right away," she said, her voice restrained. + +"Better not try to sit up late, Ruth," he said kindly. "You need plenty +of sleep. I notice you're often pretty tired at night." + +She did not reply, putting things in the machine drawer. Her back was to +him. "Well, Ruth," he said, in a voice genial but slightly ironic, "we +can get married now." + +She went on doing things and still did not speak. + +"Better late than never," he said pleasantly, yawning. + +He stood up, ready for going into the bedroom, but still hating to leave +the fire, standing there with his back to it. "When shall we get +married, Ruth?" he went on, in a slightly amused voice. + +"Oh, I don't know, Stuart," she replied shortly from the kitchen. + +"Have to plan it out," he said sleepily, yawning once more. Then he +laughed, as if the idea more and more amused him. After that he +murmured, in the voice of one mildly curious about a thing, "I wonder if +Marion _is_ going to get married?" + +Ruth wanted to take a bath before she went to bed. Taking a bath was no +easy matter under their circumstances. It was so much work and usually +she was so tired that she would sometimes let it go longer than she +would have supposed she would ever let bathing go. She was determined +not to let it go tonight. She had the water on heating; she went down +for the tub, went upstairs into her frigid room for the fresh things to +put on in the morning. The room was so cold that there was a sort of +horror about it. She went over to the window; the snow made the valley +bright. Dimly she could see a massed thing--the huddled sheep. With a +hard little laugh for the sob that shook her she hurried out of the +room. + +She took her bath before the fire in the living-room. Stuart had piled +on one chair the clothes that he had taken off and would put on in the +morning. She placed on another the things for herself. And suddenly she +looked at those two chairs and the thing that she had been trying not to +think about--that now they two could be married--seemed to sear her +whole soul with mockery. She was rubbing some lotion on her red, chapped +hands, hands defaced by work and cold. She had a picture of her hands as +they used to be--back there in those years when to have been free to +marry Stuart would have made life radiant. She sat a long time before +the fire, not wanting to go to bed. She particularly wanted to go to bed +alone that night. There seemed something shameful in that night sharing +a bed as a matter of expediency. Stuart was snoring a little. She sat +there, her face buried in her hands. The wind was beating against the +house. It was beating against the sheep out there, too--it had a clean +sweep against that outer rim of living things. She cried for a little +while; and then, so utterly tired that it did not matter much, she went +in the other room and crept into bed. + + + + +CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO + + +But at last the cold had let go of them. It was April, the snow had gone +and the air promised that even to that valley spring would come. Ruth, +out feeding the chickens, felt that spring nearness. She raised her face +gratefully to the breeze. It had seemed almost unbelievable that the +wind would ever again bring anything but blighting cold. + +As she stood there, held by that first feel of spring, an automobile +came along, slowed, and Stuart went running out of the house to meet it. +It was his friend Stoddard, a real-estate man there. He had become +friends with this man in the last few months. He had had little in +friendships with men and this had brightened him amazingly. He had a new +interest in business things, new hopes. It had seemed to make him +younger, keener. He and Mr. Stoddard had a plan for going into Montana +where the latter was interested in a land developing company, and going +into business together. Stuart was alive with interest in it; it +promised new things for him, a new chance. They would live in a town, +and it would be business life, which he cared for as he had never come +to care for ranching. He was beginning to talk to Ruth about moving, of +selling off their stock and some of their things. He was eager to make +the change. + +She had gone in the house as the machine stopped, having seen that there +were people in the car with Mr. Stoddard and not feeling presentably +dressed. She went upstairs to do the work and as she glanced down from +the upper window she saw Stuart in laughing conversation with a girl in +the automobile. Something about it arrested her. He was standing to the +far side of the machine so she could see his face. There was something +in it she had not seen for a long time--that interest in women, an +unmistakable pleasure in talking with an attractive girl. She stood +there, a little back from the window, watching them. There was nothing +at all wrong about it; nothing to resent, simply a little gay bantering +with a girl. It was natural to him; it had been once, it could be again. +His laugh came up to her. So he could still laugh like that; she had not +heard him for a long time. He turned and started hurriedly for the +house, the car waiting for him. He was smiling, his step was buoyant. +"Ruth," he called up to her, and his voice too had the old buoyancy, +"I'm going into town with Stoddard. We want to go over some things. +He'll bring me back before night." + +"All right, Stuart," she called back pleasantly. + +She watched the car out of sight. Stuart, sitting in the front seat with +his friend, had turned and was gayly talking with the women behind. When +she first knew him, when she was still a little girl and used to see him +around with his own set, he had been like that. + +She did not want to stay in the house. That house had shut her in all +winter. The road stretched invitingly away. About a mile down it there +was a creek, willows grew there. Perhaps there she would find some real +spring. Anyway she had an impulse to get out to the moving water. She +had seemed locked in, everything had seemed locked in for so long. + +As she was getting her coat she put into the pocket a letter she had +received the day before from Deane Franklin. After she had sat a little +while by the running water she took the letter out to reread, but did +not at first open it. She was wishing Deane were sitting there with her. +She would like to talk to him. + +This letter was a gloomy one. It seemed that Deane too was locked in. +Soon after Ted came back from Freeport in the fall she had got it out of +him about the Franklins. She had sensed at once that there was something +about Deane he did not want to tell her, and before he left for his own +place she had it from him that the Franklins had indeed separated, and +that the gossip of Freeport was that it was because of Mrs. Franklin's +resentment of her. And that was one of the things had seemed to make it +possible for the winter somehow to _take_ her; that was the thing had +seemed to close the last door to her spirit, the last of those doors +that had been thrown wide open when she left Annie's home in Freeport +the spring before. + +She had tried to write to Deane. She felt that she should write to him, +but she had a feeling of powerlessness. Finally, only a little while +before, she had brought herself to do it. She knew it was a poor letter, +a halting, constrained thing, but it seemed the best she could do, and +so finally, after a great deal of uncertainty, she sent it. + +His reply made her feel that he realized how it had been, why she had +been so long in writing, why the letter had been the stilted thing it +was. It gave her a feeling that her friend had not withdrawn from her +because of what she had brought down upon him, that that open channel +between him and her was there as it had ever been. And though his letter +did not make her happy, it loosened something in her to be able to feel +that the way between her and Deane was not closed. + +"Don't distress yourself, Ruth," she now reread, "or have it upon your +spirit, where too much has lain heavy all these years. You want to know +the truth, and the truth is that Amy did resent my feeling about +you--about you and your situation--and that put us apart. But you see it +was not in us to stay together, or we could not have been thus put +apart. Love can't do it all, Ruth--not for long; I mean love that hasn't +roots down in the spirit can't. And where there isn't that spiritual +underneath, without a hinterland, love is pretty insecure. + +"I could have held on to it a while longer, I suppose, by cutting clear +loose from the thing really me. And I suppose I would have done it if I +could--I did in fact make attempts at it--but that me-ness, I'm afraid, +is most infernal strong in my miserable make-up. And somehow the +withdrawal of one's self seems a lot to pay for even the happiness of +love. There are some of us can't seem able to do it. + +"So it's not you, Ruth; it's that it was like that, and that it came out +through the controversy about you. Cast from your mind any feeling +adding the wrecking of my happiness to your list of crimes. + +"But, Ruth, I'm _not_ happy. I couldn't get along in happiness, and I +don't get along without it. It's a paralyzing thing not to have +happiness--or to lose it, rather. Does it ever seem to you that life is +a pretty paralyzing thing? That little by little--a little here and a +little there--it _gets_ us? We get harness-broke, you see. Seems to have +gone that way with most of the people I know. Seems to be that way with +me. Don't let it do it to you! + +"Somehow I don't believe it will. I think that you, Ruth, would be a +fine little prison-breaker. Might stand some show of being one myself if +I were anywhere but in this town. There's something about it that has +_got_ me, Ruth. If it hadn't--I'd be getting out of it now. + +"But of course I'm a pretty poor sort, not worth making a fight for, or +it wouldn't be like this. And--for that matter--what's the difference? +Lives aren't counting for much these days--men who _are_ the right sort +going down by the thousands, by the hundred of thousands, so what--for +heaven's sake--does it matter about me? + +"I wish I could see you! + +"I'm glad for you about the divorce. I believe the case comes up this +April term, so it may be all over by the time you get this letter. +Pretty late in coming, and I suppose it must seem a good deal of a +mockery--getting it now--but maybe it will help some for the future, +make you feel more comfortable, and I'm awfully glad. + +"Funny about it, isn't it? I wonder what made her do it! I was called +there this winter, maid sick--miscarriage--and Mrs. Williams puzzled me. +Didn't turn the girl out, awfully decent to her. I would have supposed +she would have been quite the other way. And now this. Queer, don't you +think? + +"Write to me sometimes, Ruth. Sometimes write to me what you're thinking +about. Maybe it will stir me up. Write to me to take a brace and get out +of this town! If you went for me hard enough, called me all the +insulting names you could think of, and told me a living dead man was +the most cowardly and most disgusting object cluttering up the earth, +you might get a rise out of me. You're the one could do it, if it can be +done. + +"One thing I _do_ know--writing this has made me want like blazes to see +you! + +"DEANE." + + * * * * * + +Ruth sat there in the arm of a low willow, her hands resting upon +Deane's letter, her eyes closed, the faint breath of coming spring upon +her face. She was tired and very sad. She was thinking of Deane's life, +of her own life, of the way one seemed mocked. She wished that Deane +were there; she could talk to him and she would like to talk. His letter +moved something in her, something that had long seemed locked in stirred +a little. Her feeling about life had seemed a thing frozen within her. +Now the feeling that there was still this open channel between her and +Deane was as a thawing, an outlet. + +She thought of her last talk with Deane, of their walk together that +day, almost a year before, when he came to see her at Annie's, the very +day she was starting back West. She had felt anything but locked in that +day. There was that triumphant sense of openness to life, the joy of new +interest in it, of zest for it. And then she came back West, to Stuart, +and somehow the radiance went, courage ebbed, it came to seem that life +was all fixed, almost as if life, in the real sense, was over. That +sense of having failed, having been inadequate to her own feeling, +struck her down to a wretched powerlessness. And so routine, hard work, +bitter cold, loneliness, that sense of the cruelty of life which the +sternness of the country gave--those things had been able to take her; +it was because something had gone dead in her. + +She thought of that spiritual hinterland Deane talked about. She thought +of her and Stuart. She grew very sad in the thinking. She wondered if it +was her fault. However it was, it was true they no longer found the live +things in one another. She had not been able to communicate to him the +feeling with which she came back from Annie's. It was a lesser thing for +trying to talk of it to him. She did not reach him; she knew that he +only thought her a little absurd. After that she did not try to talk to +him of what she felt. Life lessened; things were as they were; they too +were as they were. It came to seem just a matter of following out what +had been begun. And then that news of the divorce had come to mock her. + +But she must do something for Deane. Deane must not go like that. She +had brought pencil and writing tablet with her, thinking that perhaps +out of doors, away from the house where she had seemed locked in all +winter, she could write to him. She thought of things to say, things +that should be said, but she did not seem to have any power to charge +them with life. How could the dead rouse the dead? She sat there +thinking of her and Deane, of how they had always been able to reach one +another. And finally she began: + + "Dear Deane, + + "You must find your way back to life." + +She did not go on. She sat staring at what she had written. She read it +over; she said it aloud. It surged in upon her, into shut places. She +sat looking at it, frightened at what it was doing. Sat looking at it +after it was all blurred by tears--looking down at the words she herself +had written--"You must find your way back to life." + + + + +CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE + + +Ruth was very quiet through the next week. Stuart was preoccupied with +the plans he was making for going to Montana; when he talked with her it +was of that, of arrangements to be made for it, and his own absorption +apparently kept him from taking note of her being more quiet than usual, +or different. It was all working out very well. He had found a renter +for the ranch, the prospects for the venture in Montana were good. They +were to move within a month. And one night in late April when he came +home from town he handed Ruth a long envelope, with a laughing, "Better +late than never." Then he was soon deep in some papers. + +Ruth was sorting a box of things; there were many things to be gone +through preparatory to moving. She had put the paper announcing his +divorce aside without comment; but she loitered over what she was doing. +She was watching Stuart, thinking about him. + +She was thinking with satisfaction that he looked well. He had thrown +off the trouble that had brought about their departure from Freeport +twelve years before. He was growing rather stout; his fair hair had gone +somewhat gray and his face was lined, he had not the look of a young +man. But he looked strong, alert. His new hopes had given him vigor, a +new buoyancy. She sat there thinking of the years she had lived with +him, of the wonder and the happiness she had known through him, of the +hard things they had faced together. Her voice was gentle as she replied +to his inquiry about what day of the month it was. + +"I think," he said, "that we can get off by the fifteenth, don't you, +Ruth?" + +"Perhaps." Her voice shook a little, but he was following his own +thoughts and did not notice. After a little he came and sat across the +table from her. "And, Ruth, about this getting married business--" He +broke off with a laugh. "Seems absurd, doesn't it?" + +She nodded, fumbling with the things in the box, her head bent over +them. + +"Well, I was thinking we'd better stop somewhere along the way and +attend to it. Can't do it here--don't want to there." + +She lifted her hands from the box and laid them on the table that was +between him and her. She looked over at him and said, quietly, in a +voice that shook only a little: "I do not want to get married, Stuart." + +He was filling his pipe and stopped abruptly, spilling the tobacco on +the table. "What did you say?" he asked in the voice of one sure he must +have heard wrong. + +"I said," she repeated, "that I did not want to get married." + +He stared at her, his face screwed up. Then it relaxed a little. "Oh, +yes--yes, I know how you feel. It seems so absurd--after all this +time--after all there has been. But we must attend to it, Ruth. It's +right that we should--now that we can. God knows we wanted to bad +enough--long ago. And it will make us feel better about going into a new +place. We can face people better." He gathered up the tobacco he had +spilled and put it in his pipe. + +For a moment she did not speak. Then, "That wasn't what I meant, +Stuart," she said, falteringly. + +"Well, then, what in the world _do_ you mean?" he asked impatiently. + +She did not at once say what she meant. Her eyes held him, they were so +strangely steady. "Just why would we be getting married, Stuart?" she +asked simply. + +At first he could only stare at her, appeared to be waiting for her to +throw light on what she had asked. When she did not do that he moved +impatiently, as if resentful of being quizzed this way. "Why--why, +because we can now. Because it's the thing to do. Because it will be +expected of us," he concluded, with gathering impatience for this +unnecessary explanation. + +A faint smile traced itself about Ruth's mouth. It made her face very +sad as she said: "I do not seem to be anxious to marry for any of those +reasons, Stuart." + +"Ruth, what are you driving at?" he demanded, thoroughly vexed at the +way she had bewildered him. + +"This is what I am driving at, Stuart," she began, a little more +spiritedly. But then she stopped, as if dumb before it. She looked over +at him as if hoping her eyes would tell it for her. But as he continued +in that look of waiting, impatient bewilderment she sighed and turned a +little away. "Don't you think, Stuart," she asked, her voice low, "that +the future is rather too important a thing to be given up to ratifying +the past?" + +He pushed his chair back in impatience that was mounting to anger. "Just +what do you mean?" he asked, stiffly. + +She picked up the long envelope lying on the table between them. She +held it in her hand a moment without speaking. For as she touched it she +had a sense of what it would have meant to have held it in her hand +twelve years before, over on the other side of their life together, a +new sense of the irony and the pity of not having had it then--and +having it now. She laid it down between them. "To me," she said, "this +sets me free. + +"Free to choose," she went on, as he only stared at her. There was a +moment of looking at him out of eyes so full of feeling that they held +back the feeling that had flushed his face. "And my choice," she said, +with a strange steadiness, "is that I now go my way alone." + +He spoke then; but it was only to stammer: "Why,--_Ruth!_" Helplessly he +repeated: "_Ruth!_" + +"But you see? You do see?" she cried. "If it had _not_ been so much--so +beautiful! Just because it _was_ what it was--" She choked and could not +go on. + +He came around and sat down beside her. The seriousness of his face, +something she had touched in him, made it finer than it had been in +those last years of routine. It was more as it used to be. His voice too +seemed out of old days as he said: "Ruth, I don't know yet what you +mean--why you're saying this?" + +"I think you do, Stuart," she said simply. "Or I think you will, if +you'll let yourself. It's simply that this--" she touched the envelope +on the table before her--"that this finds us over on the other side of +marriage. And this is what I mean!" she flamed. "I mean that the +marriage between us was too real to go through the mockery this would +make possible now!" She turned away because she was close to tears. + +He sat there in silence. Then, "Have I done anything, Ruth?" he asked in +the hesitating way of one at sea. + +She shook her head without turning back to him. + +"You apparently have got the impression," he went on, a faint touch of +resentment creeping into his voice at having to make the declaration, +"that I don't care any more. That--that isn't so," he said awkwardly and +with a little rise of resentment. + +Ruth had turned a little more toward him, but was looking down at her +hands, working with them as if struggling for better control. "I have +no--complaint on that score," she said very low. + +"Things change," he went on, with a more open manner of defence. "The +first kind of love doesn't last forever. It doesn't with anyone," he +finished, rather sullenly. + +"I know that, Stuart," she said quietly. "I know enough to know that. +But I know this as well. I know that sometimes that first kind of love +leaves a living thing to live by. I know that it does--sometimes. And I +know that with us--it hasn't." + +As if stung by that he got up and began walking angrily about the room. +"You're talking nonsense! Why wouldn't we get married, I'd like to know, +after all this time together? We _will_ get married--that's all there is +to it! A nice spectacle we would make of ourselves if we didn't! Have +you thought of that?" he demanded. "Have you thought of what people +would say?" + +Again her lips traced that faint smile that showed the sadness of her +face. "There was a time, Stuart," she said wearily, "when we were not +governed by what people would say." + +He frowned, but went on more mildly: "You've got the thing all twisted +up, Ruth. You do that sometimes. You often have a queer way of looking +at a thing; not the usual way--a--well, a sort of twisted way." + +She got up. One hand was at her throat as if feeling some impediment +there; the knuckles of her clenched hand were tapping the table. "A +queer way of looking at things," she said in quick, sharp voice that was +like the tapping of her knuckles. "Not the usual way. A--sort of twisted +way. Perhaps. Perhaps that's true. Perhaps that was the way I had of +looking at things twelve years ago--when I left them all behind and went +with you. Perhaps that was what made me do it--that queer, twisted way +of looking at things! But this much is true, Stuart, and this you have +got to know is true. I went with you because I was as I was. I'm going +my way alone now because I am as I am. And what you don't see is +this,--that the thing that made me go with you then is the thing that +makes me go my way alone now." + +For a moment they stood there facing each other, her eyes forcing home +what she had said. But she was trembling and suddenly, weakly, she sat +down. + +"Well, I simply can't understand it!" he cried petulantly and flung open +the door and stood looking out. + +"Look here, Ruth," he turned sharply to her after a little, "have you +thought of the position this puts _me_ in? Have you thought of the +position you would put _me_ in?" he contended hotly. "Do you know what +people would say about me? You ought to know what they'd say! They'd say +_I_ was the one!--they'd say _I_ didn't want to do it!" + +There was a little catch something like a laugh as she replied: "Of +course. They'll say men don't marry women of that sort, won't they?" + +"Oh, you can't do this, Ruth," he went on quickly. "You see, it can't be +done. I tell you it wouldn't be right! It just wouldn't be _right_--in +any sense. Why can't you see that? Can't you see that we've got to +vindicate the whole thing? That we've got to show them that it _does_ +last! That's the vindication for it," he finished stoutly, "that it's +the kind of a love that doesn't die! + +"And I'd like to know where under the sun you'd go!" he demanded hotly, +irritated at the slight smile his last words had brought. + +"What I will do, Stuart, after leaving you, is for me to determine, +isn't it?" + +"A nice way to treat me!" he cried, and threw himself down on the couch, +elbows on his knees and his face buried in his hands. "After all these +years--after all there has been--that's a _nice_ way--" he choked. + +She was quick to go over and sit beside him; she leaned a little against +him, her hand on his arm, just as she had sat many times when he needed +her, when she brought him comfort. The thought of all those times rose +in her and brought tears to her eyes that had been burning dry a moment +before. She felt the feeling this had whipped to life in him and was +moved by it, and by an underlying feeling of the sadness of change. For +his expostulations spoke of just that--change. She knew this for the +last hurt she could help him through, that she must help him through +this hurt brought him by this last thing she could do for him. Something +about things being like that moved her deeply. She saw it all so +clearly, and so sadly. It was not grief this brought him; this was not +the frenzy or the anguish in the thought of losing her that there would +have been in those other years. It was shock, rather--disturbance, and +the forcing home to him that sense of change. He would have gone on +without much taking stock, because, as he had said, it was the thing to +do. Habit, a sense of fitness, rather than deep personal need, would +have made him go on. And now it was his sense that it was gone, his +resentment against that, his momentary feeling of being left desolate. +She looked at his bowed head through tears. Gently she laid her hand on +it. She thought of him as he stood before the automobile the other day +lighting up in the gay talk with that girl. She knew, with a sudden +wrench in her heart she knew it, that he would not be long desolate. She +understood him too well for that. She knew that, hard as she seemed in +that hour, she was doing for Stuart in leaving him the greatest thing +she could now do for him. A tear fell to her hand in her clear knowing +of that. There was deep sadness in knowing that, after all there had +been, to leave the way cleared of herself was doing a greater thing than +anything else she could do for him. + +A sob shook her and he raised his face upon which there were tears and +clutched her two wrists with his hands. "Ruth," he whispered, "it will +come back. I feel that this has--has brought it back." + +The look of old feeling had transformed his face. After barren days it +was sweet to her. It tempted her, tempted her to shut her eyes to what +she knew and sink into the sweetness of believing herself loving and +loved again. Perhaps, for a little time, they could do it. To be deeply +swayed by this common feeling, to go together in an emotion, was like +dear days gone. But it was her very fidelity to those days gone that +made her draw just a little away, and, tears running down her face, +shake her head. She knew too well, and she had the courage of her +knowing. This was something that had seeped up from old feeling; it had +no life of its own. What they were sharing now was grief over a dead +thing that had been theirs together. That grief, that sharing, left them +tender. This was their moment--their moment for leaving it. They must +leave it before it lay there between them both dead and unmourned, +clogging life for them. She whispered to him: "Just because of all it +has meant--let's leave it while we can leave it like this!" + + + + +CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR + + +The man who worked for them had gone ahead in the spring wagon with her +trunk. She was waiting for Ted to hitch the other horse to the buggy and +drive her in to the train. She was all ready and stood there looking +about the house she was leaving. There were things in that room which +they had had since their first years together--that couch, this chair, +had come to them in Arizona in the days when they loved each other with +a passion that made everything else in the world a pale thing before +their love. She stood picking out things that they had had when love was +flaming strong in them and it seemed they two fought together against +the whole world. And as she stood there alone in their place in common +that she was about to leave she was made sick by a sense of +failure--that desolate sense of failure she had tried all along to beat +down. That love had been theirs--and this was what it had come to. That +wonder had been--and it ended in the misery of this leavetaking. She +turned sharply around, opened the door and stood there in the doorway, +her back to the place she was quitting, her pale stern face turned to +the mountains--to that eastern range which she was going to cross. She +tried to draw something from them, draw strength for the final conflict +which she knew she would have with Ted while they drove in to town. She +looked toward the barn-yard to see if he was most ready, and could not +but smile a little at his grim, resolute face as he was checking up the +horse. She could see so well that he was going to make the best of his +time while driving her in to the train. And it seemed she had nothing +left in her for combat; she would be glad to see the train that was to +take her away. + +Three days before Stuart had gone suddenly to Denver. He went with his +friend Stoddard, regarding some of their arrangements for Montana. He +had found only at the last minute that he would have to go, had +hurriedly driven out from town to get his things and tell her he was +going. He had been in the house only a few minutes and was all +excitement about the unexpected trip. It was two days after their talk. +After their moment of being swept together by the feeling of things gone +he had, as if having to get a footing on everyday ground, ended the talk +with saying: "I'll tell you, Ruth, you need a little change. We'll have +to work it out." The next day they were both subdued, more gentle with +each other than they had been of late, but they did not refer to the +night before. After he had hurriedly kissed her good-by when leaving for +Denver he had turned back and said, "And don't you worry--about things, +Ruth. We'll get everything fixed up--and a little change--" He had +hurried down to the machine without finishing it. + +She had gone to the window and watched him disappear. He was sitting +erect, alert, talking animatedly with his friend. She watched him as far +as she could see him. She knew that she would not see him again. + +And then she hitched up the horse and drove into town and telephoned +Ted, who lived about fifty miles to the north. She told him that she was +going East and asked him to come down the next day and see her. + +She had known that Ted would not approve, would not understand, but she +had not expected him to make the fight he had. It had taken every bit of +her will, her force, to meet him. Worn now, and under the stress of the +taking leave, at once too tired and too emotional, she wished that he +would let it rest. But the grim line of his jaw told her that he had no +such intention. She felt almost faint as they drove through the gate. +She closed her eyes and did not open them for some time. + +"You see, Ruth," Ted began gently, as if realizing that she was very +worn, "you just don't realize how crazy the whole thing is. It's +ridiculous for you to go to New York--alone! You've never been there," +he said firmly. + +"No. That is one reason for going," she answered, rather feebly. + +"One reason for going!" he cried. "What'll you do when the train pulls +in? Where'll you _go_?" + +"I don't know, Ted," she said patiently, "just where I will go. And I +rather like that--not knowing where I will go. It's all new, you see. +Nothing is mapped out." + +"It's a fool thing!" he cried. "Don't you know that something will +happen to you?" + +She smiled a little, very wearily. "Lots of things have happened to me, +Ted, and I've come through them somehow." After a moment she added, with +more spirit: "There's just one thing might happen to me that I haven't +the courage to face." He looked at her inquiringly. "Nothing happening," +she said, with a little smile. + +He turned impatiently and slapped the horse with the reins. "You seem to +have lost your senses," he said sharply. + +He drove along in silence for a little. Ruth looked at him and his face +seemed hard. She thought of how close she and Ted had come, how good he +had been, how much it had meant. She could not leave him like this. She +must make the effort, must gather herself together and try and make Ted +see. "Perhaps, Ted," she began tremulously, "you think I have taken +leave of my senses because you haven't tried very hard to understand +just what it is I feel." She smiled wanly as she added, "You've been so +absorbed in your own disapproval, you know." + +"Well, how can I be any other way?" he demanded. "Going away like +this--for no reason--on a wild goose chase! Isn't Stuart good to you?" +he asked abruptly. + +"Yes, Ted," she answered, as if she were tired of saying it, "Stuart is +good enough to me." + +"I suppose things aren't--just as they used to be," he went on, a little +doggedly. "Heavens!--they aren't with anybody! And what will people +say?" he broke out with new force. "Think of what people in Freeport +will say, Ruth. They'll say the whole thing was a failure, and that it +was because you did wrong. They'll say, when the chance finally came, +that Stuart didn't want to marry you." He colored but brought it out +bluntly. + +"I suppose they will," agreed Ruth. + +"And if they knew the truth--or what I know, though heaven knows I'm +balled up enough about what the truth really is!--they'd say it just +shows again that you are different, not--something wrong," he finished +bitterly. + +She said nothing for a moment. "And is that what you think, Ted?" she +asked, choking a little. + +"I don't understand it, Ruth," he said, less aggressively. "I had +thought you would be so glad of the chance to marry. I--" he hesitated +but did not pursue that. He had never told her of going to see Mrs. +Williams, of the effort he had made for her. "It seemed that now, when +your chance came, you ought to show people that you do want to do the +right thing. It surprises me a lot, Ruth, that you don't feel that way, +and--Oh! I don't get it at all," he concluded abruptly. + +Tears were very close when, after a little, she answered: "Well, Ted, +maybe when you have less of life left you will understand better what it +is I feel. Perhaps," she went on in answer to his look inquiry, "when +the future has shrunk down to fewer years you'll see it as more +important to get from it what you can." + +They drove for a little time in silence. They had come in sight of the +town and she had not won Ted; she was going away without his sympathy. +And she was going away alone, more alone this time than she had been +twelve years before. + +She laid her hand on his arm, left it there while she was speaking. +"Ted," she said, "it's like this. This has gone for me. It's all gone. +It was wonderful--but it's gone. Some people, I know, could go on with +the life love had made after love was gone. I am not one of those +people--that's all. You speak of there being something discreditable in +my going away just when I could marry. To me there would be something +discreditable in going on. It would be--" she put her hand over her +heart and said it very simply, "it would be unfaithful to something +here." She choked a little and he turned away. + +"But I don't see how you can bear, Ruth," he said after a moment, made +gentle by her confidence, "to feel that it has--failed. I don't see how +you can bear--after all you paid for it--to let it come to nothing." + +"Don't say that, Ted!" she cried in a voice that told he had touched the +sorest place. "Don't say that!" she repeated, a little wildly. "You +don't know what you're talking about. _Failed?_ A thing that glorified +life for years--_failed_?" + +Her voice broke, but it was more steadily she went on: "That's the very +reason I'm going to New York--simply that it may _not_ come to nothing. +I'm going away from it for that very reason--that it may not come to +nothing! That my life may not come to nothing. What I've had--what I've +gone through--lives in me, Ted. It doesn't come to nothing if I--come to +something!" She stopped abruptly with a choking little laugh. + +Ted looked at her wonderingly; but the hardness had gone out of his +look. "But what are you going to do, Ruth?" he asked gently. + +"I don't know yet. I've got to find out." + +"You must see that I can't help but worry about it," he went on. "Going +so far away--to a place absolutely unknown to you--where I'm afraid it +will be so much harder than you think." + +She did not answer him, looking off to that eastern range she was going +to cross, as if the mountains could help her to hold on to her own +feeling against the doubts he was trying to throw around her. + +"You see, Ruth," he went on, as if feeling his way, not wanting to hurt +her, "what has been may make it hard to go on. You can't tell. You'll +never know--never be sure. Old things may come up to spoil new ones for +you. That's what I'm so afraid of. That's what it seems you aren't +seeing. You would be so much--safer--to stay with Stuart." + +She turned to him with a little laugh, her lashes wet. "Yes, Ted dear, I +suppose I would. But I never did seem to stay where I was safest--did +I?" + +"Don't worry about me, Ted," she said just as they were coming into +town. "I'm going to take some of father's money--yes, yes, I know it +isn't a great deal, but enough for a little while, till I get my +bearings--and I'm going to make things come alive for me again. I'm not +through yet, that's all. I could have stayed with life gone dead; it +would have been safer, as you say. But you see I'm not through yet, +Ted--I guess that's the secret of it all. I want more life--more things +from life. And I'm going to New York just because it will be so +completely new--so completely beginning new--and because it's the center +of so many living things. And it's such a wonderful time, Ted. It seems +to me the war is going to make a new world--a whole new way of looking +at things. It's as if a lot of old things, old ideas, had been melted, +and were fluid now, and were to be shaped anew. That's the way it seems +to me, and that makes me the more eager to get some things from life +that I haven't had. I've been shut in with my own experience. If I +stayed on here I'd be shut in with my own dead experiences. I want to go +on! I can't stop here--that's all. And we have to find our way for going +on. We must find our own way, Ted, even," she choked, "though what we +see as the way may seem a wild goose chase to some one we love. I'll +tell you why I'm going to New York," she flashed with sudden defiance. +"I'm going because I want to!" + +She laughed a little and he laughed with her. Then she went on more +gently: "Because I want to. Just the thought of it has made life come +alive for me--that's reason enough for going to the ends of the earth! +I'm going to _live_ again, Ted--not just go on with what living has +left. I'm going to find some work to do. Yes I _can_!" she cried +passionately in response to his gesture "I suppose to you it seems just +looking out for myself--seems unfaithful to Stuart. Well, it +isn't--that's all I can say, and maybe some day you'll see that it +wasn't. It isn't unfaithful to turn from a person you have nothing more +to offer, for whom you no longer make life a living thing. It's more +faithful to go. You'll see that some time, Ted. But be good to Stuart," +she hastily added. "You stay with him till he can get off. I've made all +the arrangements with Mrs. Baxter for packing up--sending on the things. +It would be hard for him to do that, I know. And once away from +here--new interests--life all new again--oh, no, Ted dear," she laughed +a little chokingly, "don't worry about Stuart." + +"I'm not worrying about Stuart," he muttered. "I'm worrying about you." + +She squeezed his arm in affectionate gratitude for the love in the +growling words. "Don't _worry_ about me, Ted," she implored, "be glad +with me! I'm alive again! It's so wonderful to be alive again. There's +the future--a great, beautiful unknown. It _is_ wonderful, Ted," she +said with insistence, as if she would banish his fears--and her own. + +They had a few minutes to wait, and Ted ran over to the postoffice to +get her mail for her--she was expecting a paper she wanted to read on +the train. She tucked what he handed her into her bag and then when she +heard the train coming she held on to Ted's arm, held it as if she could +not bear letting it go. "It's all right," were her last words to him, +smiling through tears. + + * * * * * + +She had been trying all along to hold her mind from the thought that +they would pass through Freeport. Late the next afternoon, when she knew +they were nearing it, she grew restless. It was then she remembered the +paper in her bag--she had been in no mood for reading, too charged with +her own feeling. She got it out now and found that with the paper was a +letter. It was a letter from Deane Franklin. + +She held it for a little while without opening it. It seemed so strange +to have it just as she was nearing Freeport. + +The letter was dated the week before. It read: + +"_Dear Ruth:_ + +"I'm leaving Freeport tonight. I'm going to Europe--to volunteer my +services as a doctor. Parker, whom I knew well at Hopkins, is right in +the midst of it. He can work me in. And the need for doctors is going to +go on for some time, I fancy; it won't end with the war. + +"I'm happy in this decision, Ruth, and I know you'll be glad for me. It +was your letter that got me--made me see myself and hate myself, made me +know that I had to 'come out of it.' And then this idea came to me, and +I wish I could tell you how different everything seemed as soon as I saw +some reason for my existence. I'm ashamed of myself for not having seen +it this way before. As if this were any time for a man who's had my +training to sit around moping! + +"Life is bigger than just ourselves. And isn't it curious how seeing +that brings us back to ourselves? + +"I'll enclose Parker's address. You can reach me in care of him. I want +to hear from you. + +"I can hardly wait to get there! + +"DEANE." + + * * * * * + +She managed to read the letter through with eyes only a little dimmed. +But by the time she got to Parker's address she could not make it out. +"I knew it!" she kept saying to herself triumphantly. + +Deane had been too big not to save himself. Absorbed in thoughts of him +she did not notice the country through which they were passing. She was +startled by a jolt of the train, by the conductor saying, "Freeport!" + +For several minutes the train waited there. She sat motionless through +that time, Deane Franklin's letter clasped tight in her hand. Freeport! +It claimed her:--what had been, what was behind her; those dead who +lived in her, her own past that lived in her. Freeport.... It laid +strong hold on her. She was held there in what had been. And then a +great thing happened. The train jolted again--moved. It was +moving--moving on. _She_ was moving--moving on. And she knew then beyond +the power of anyone's disapproval to break down that it was right she +move on. She had a feeling of the whole flow of her life--and it was +still moving--moving on. And because she felt she was moving on that +sense of failure slipped from her. In secret she had been fighting that +all along. Now she knew that love had not failed because love had +transpired into life. What she had paid the great price for was not hers +to the end. But what it had made of her was hers! Love could not fail if +it left one richer than it had found one. Love had not failed--nothing +had failed--and life was wonderful, limitless, a great adventure for +which one must have great courage, glad faith. Let come what would +come!--she was moving on. + +THE END + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Fidelity, by Susan Glaspell + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FIDELITY *** + +***** This file should be named 32432-8.txt or 32432-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/2/4/3/32432/ + +Produced by Suzanne Shell, Mary Meehan and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Fidelity + A Novel + +Author: Susan Glaspell + +Release Date: May 19, 2010 [EBook #32432] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FIDELITY *** + + + + +Produced by Suzanne Shell, Mary Meehan and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) + + + + + + +</pre> + + + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/title.jpg" alt=""/> +</div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + + +<h1>FIDELITY</h1> + +<h3>A NOVEL</h3> + +<h2>BY SUSAN GLASPELL</h2> + +<h3>Author of "<span class="smcap">The Glory of the Conquered</span>," "<span class="smcap">The Visioning</span>," <span class="smcap">ETC.</span></h3> + + +<h4>BOSTON<br /> +SMALL, MAYNARD AND COMPANY<br /> +<span class="smcap">Publishers</span></h4> + +<h4><i>Copyright, 1915</i><br /> +<span class="smcap">By Small, Maynard and Company</span><br /> +(INCORPORATED)</h4> + +<h4>Printers<br /> +<span class="smcap">S. J. Parkhill & Co., Boston</span> U.S.A.</h4> + + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<h4>TO<br /> +LUCY HUFFAKER</h4> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> + +<!-- Autogenerated TOC. Modify or delete as required. --> +<p> +<a href="#CHAPTER_ONE">CHAPTER ONE</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_TWO">CHAPTER TWO</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_THREE">CHAPTER THREE</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_FOUR">CHAPTER FOUR</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_FIVE">CHAPTER FIVE</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_SIX">CHAPTER SIX</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_SEVEN">CHAPTER SEVEN</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_EIGHT">CHAPTER EIGHT</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_NINE">CHAPTER NINE</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_TEN">CHAPTER TEN</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_ELEVEN">CHAPTER ELEVEN</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_TWELVE">CHAPTER TWELVE</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_THIRTEEN">CHAPTER THIRTEEN</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_FOURTEEN">CHAPTER FOURTEEN</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_FIFTEEN">CHAPTER FIFTEEN</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_SIXTEEN">CHAPTER SIXTEEN</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_SEVENTEEN">CHAPTER SEVENTEEN</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_EIGHTEEN">CHAPTER EIGHTEEN</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_NINETEEN">CHAPTER NINETEEN</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_TWENTY">CHAPTER TWENTY</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_TWENTY-ONE">CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_TWENTY-TWO">CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_TWENTY-THREE">CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_TWENTY-FOUR">CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_TWENTY-FIVE">CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_TWENTY-SIX">CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_TWENTY-SEVEN">CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_TWENTY-EIGHT">CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_TWENTY-NINE">CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_THIRTY">CHAPTER THIRTY</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_THIRTY-ONE">CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_THIRTY-TWO">CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_THIRTY-THREE">CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_THIRTY-FOUR">CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR</a><br /> +</p> +<!-- End Autogenerated TOC. --> + + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>FIDELITY</h2> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_ONE" id="CHAPTER_ONE"></a>CHAPTER ONE</h2> + + +<p>It was hard to get back into the easy current of everyday talk. Cora +Albright's question had too rudely pulled them out of it, disturbing the +quiet flow of inconsequential things. Even when they had recovered and +were safely flowing along on the fact that the new hotel was to cost two +hundred thousand dollars, after they had moved with apparent serenity to +lamentation over a neighbor who was sick in bed and without a cook, it +was as if they were making a display of the ease with which they could +move on those commonplace things, as if thus to deny the consciousness +of whirlpools near by.</p> + +<p>So they seemed to Dr. Deane Franklin, who, secured by the shadow of the +porch vine, could smile to himself at the way he saw through them. +Though Deane Franklin's smile for seeing through people was not so much +a smile as a queer little twist of the left side of his face, a screwing +up of it that half shut one eye and pulled his mouth out of shape, the +same twist that used to make people call him a homely youngster. He was +thinking that Cora's question, or at any rate her manner in asking it, +would itself have told that she had lived away from Freeport for a +number of years. She did not know that they did not talk about Ruth +Holland any more, that certainly they did not speak of her in the tone +of everyday things.</p> + +<p>And yet, looking at it in any but the Freeport way, it was the most +natural thing in the world that Cora should have asked what she did. +Mrs. Lawrence had asked if Mr. Holland—he was Ruth's father—was +getting any better, and then Cora had turned to him with the inquiry: +"Do you ever hear from Ruth?"</p> + +<p>It was queer how it arrested them all. He saw Mrs. Lawrence's start and +her quick look over to her daughter—now Edith Lawrence Blair, the Edith +Lawrence who had been Ruth's dearest friend. It was Edith herself who +had most interested him. She had been leaning to the far side of her big +chair in order to escape the shaft of light from the porch lamp. But at +Cora's question she made a quick turn that brought her directly into the +light. It gave her startled face, so suddenly and sharply revealed, an +unmasked aspect as she turned from Cora to him. And when he quietly +answered: "Yes, I had a letter from Ruth this morning," her look of +amazement, of sudden feeling, seemed for the instant caught there in the +light. He got her quick look over to Amy—his bride, and then her +conscious leaning back from the disclosing shaft into the shadow.</p> + +<p>He himself had become suddenly conscious of Amy. They had been in +California for their honeymoon, and had just returned to Freeport. Amy +was not a Freeport girl, and was new to his old crowd, which the visit +of Cora Albright was bringing together in various little reunions. She +had been sitting over at the far side of the group, talking with Will +Blair, Edith's husband. Now they too had stopped talking.</p> + +<p>"She wanted to know about her father," he added.</p> + +<p>No one said anything. That irritated him. It seemed that Edith or her +mother, now that Cora had opened it up, might make some little attempt +at the common decencies of such a situation, might ask if Ruth would +come home if her father died, speak of her as if she were a human being.</p> + +<p>Cora did not appear to get from their silence that she was violating +Freeport custom. "Her mother died just about a year after Ruth—left, +didn't she?" she pursued.</p> + +<p>"About that," he tersely answered.</p> + +<p>"Died of a broken heart," murmured Mrs. Lawrence.</p> + +<p>"She died of pneumonia," was his retort, a little sharp for a young man +to an older woman.</p> + +<p>Her slight wordless murmur seemed to comment on his failure to see. She +turned to Cora with a tolerant, gently-spoken, "I think Deane would have +to admit that there was little force left for fighting pneumonia. +Certainly it was a broken life!"—that last was less gently said.</p> + +<p>Exasperation showed in his shifting of position.</p> + +<p>"It needn't have been," he muttered stubbornly.</p> + +<p>"Deane—Deane!" she murmured, as if in reproach for something of long +standing. There was a silence in which the whole thing was alive there +for those of them who knew. Cora and Edith, sitting close together, did +not turn to one another. He wondered if they were thinking of the +countless times Ruth had been on that porch with them in the years they +were all growing up together. Edith's face was turned away from the +light now. Suddenly Cora demanded: "Well, there's no prospect at all of +a divorce?"</p> + +<p>Mrs. Lawrence rose and went over to Amy and opened a lively conversation +as to whether she found her new maid satisfactory. It left him and Edith +and Cora to themselves.</p> + +<p>"No," he answered her question, "I guess not. Not that I know of."</p> + +<p>"How terrible it all is!" Cora exclaimed, not without feeling; and then, +following a pause, she and Edith were speaking of how unbecoming the new +hats were, talking of the tea one of their old friends was giving for +Cora next day.</p> + +<p>He sat there thinking how it was usually those little things that closed +in over Ruth. When the thought of her, feeling about her, broke through, +it was soon covered over with—oh, discussion of how some one was +wearing her hair, the health of some one's baby or merits of some one's +cook.</p> + +<p>He listened to their talk about the changes there had been in Freeport +in the last ten or twelve years. They spoke of deaths, of marriages, of +births; of people who had prospered and people who had gone to pieces; +of the growth of the town, of new people, of people who had moved away. +In a word, they spoke of change. Edith would refer things to him and he +occasionally joined in the talk, but he was thinking less of the +incidents they spoke of than of how it was change they were talking +about. This enumeration of changes gave him a sense of life as a +continuous moving on, as a thing going swiftly by. Life had changed for +all those people they were telling Cora about. It had changed for +themselves too. He had continued to think of Edith and the others as +girls. But they had moved on from that; they were moving on all the +time. Why, they were over thirty! As a matter of fact they were women +near the middle thirties. People talked so lightly of change, and yet +change meant that life was swiftly sweeping one on.</p> + +<p>He turned from that too somber thinking to Amy, watched her as she +talked with Mrs. Lawrence. They too were talking of Freeport people and +affairs, the older woman bringing Amy into the current of life there. +His heart warmed a little to Edith's mother for being so gracious to +Amy, though, that did not keep him from marveling at how she could be +both so warm and so hard—so loving within the circle of her approval, +so unrelenting out beyond it.</p> + +<p>Amy would make friends, he was thinking, lovingly proud. How could it be +otherwise when she was so lovely and so charming? She looked so slim, so +very young, in that white dress she was wearing. Well, and she was +young, little older now than these girls had been when they really were +"the girls." That bleak sense of life as going by fell away; here <i>was</i> +life—the beautiful life he was to have with Amy. He watched the breeze +play with her hair and his whole heart warmed to her in the thought of +the happiness she brought him, in his gratitude for what love made of +life. He forgot his resentment about Ruth, forgot the old bitterness and +old hurt that had just been newly stirred in him. Life had been a lonely +thing for a number of years after Ruth went away. He had Amy now—all +was to be different.</p> + +<p>They all stood at the head of the steps for a moment as he and Amy were +bidding the others goodnight. They talked of the tea Edith was to give +for Amy the following week—what Amy would wear—how many people there +would be. "And let me pick you up and take you to the tea tomorrow," +Edith was saying. "It will be small and informal—just Cora's old +friends—and then you won't have so many strangers to meet next week."</p> + +<p>He glowed with new liking of Edith, felt anew that sweetness in her +nature that, after her turning from Ruth, had not been there for him. +Looking at her through this new friendliness he was thinking how +beautifully she had developed. Edith was a mother now, she had two +lovely children. She was larger than in her girlhood; she had indeed +flowered, ripened. Edith was a sweet woman, he was thinking.</p> + +<p>"I do think they're the kindest, most beautiful people!" Amy exclaimed +warmly as they started slowly homeward through the fragrant softness of +the May night.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_TWO" id="CHAPTER_TWO"></a>CHAPTER TWO</h2> + + +<p>He had known that Amy would ask, and wondered a little at her waiting so +long. It was an hour later, as she sat before her dressing-table +brushing her hair that she turned to him with a little laugh and asked: +"Who is this mysterious Ruth?"</p> + +<p>He sighed; he was tired and telling about Ruth seemed a large +undertaking.</p> + +<p>Amy colored and turned from him and picked up her brush. "Don't tell me +if you don't want to," she said formally.</p> + +<p>His hand went round her bared shoulder. "Dearest! Why, I want to, of +course. It's just that it's a long story, and tonight I'm a little +tired." As she did not respond to that he added: "This was a hard day at +the office."</p> + +<p>Amy went on brushing her hair; she did not suggest that he let it go +until another time so he began, "Ruth was a girl who used to live here."</p> + +<p>"I gathered that," she replied quietly.</p> + +<p>Her tone made no opening for him. "I thought a great deal of her," he +said after a moment.</p> + +<p>"Yes, I gathered that too." She said it dryly, and smiled just a little. +He was more conscious than ever of being tired, of its being hard to +tell about Ruth.</p> + +<p>"I gathered," said Amy, still faintly smiling, though, her voice went a +trifle higher, "that you thought more of her—" she hesitated, then +amended—"think more of her—than the rest of them do."</p> + +<p>He answered simply: "Yes, I believe that's so. Though Edith used to care +a great deal for Ruth," he added meditatively.</p> + +<p>"Well, what did she do?" Amy demanded impatiently. "What <i>is</i> it?"</p> + +<p>For a moment his cheek went down to her soft hair that was all around +her, in a surge of love for its softness, a swift, deep gratitude for +her loveliness. He wanted to rest there, letting that, for the time, +shut out all else, secure in new happiness and forgetting old hurts.</p> + +<p>But he felt her waiting for what she wanted to know and so with an +effort he began: "Why, you see, dear, Ruth—it was pretty tough for +Ruth. Things didn't go right for her—not as they did for Cora and Edith +and the girls of her crowd. She—" Something in the calm of Amy's +waiting made it curiously hard to say, "Ruth couldn't marry the man she +cared for."</p> + +<p>"Why not!" she asked dispassionately.</p> + +<p>"Why, because it wasn't possible," he answered a little sharply. "She +couldn't marry him because he wasn't divorced," he said bluntly then.</p> + +<p>Amy's deep gray eyes, they had seemed so unperturbed, so +unsympathetically calm, were upon him now in a queer, steady way. He +felt himself flushing. "Wasn't divorced?" she said with a little laugh. +"Is that a way of saying he was married?"</p> + +<p>He nodded.</p> + +<p>"She cared for a man who was married to someone else?" she asked with +rising voice.</p> + +<p>Again he only nodded, feeling incapable, when Amy looked at him like +that, of saying the things he would like to be saying for Ruth.</p> + +<p>Abruptly she drew her hair away. "And you can sympathize with—<i>like</i>—a +person who would do that?"</p> + +<p>"I certainly both sympathize with and like Ruth."</p> + +<p>That had come quick and sharp, and then suddenly he felt it all wrong +that a thing which had gone so deep into his own life should be coming +to Amy like this, that she should be taking the attitude of the town +against his friend, against his own feeling. He blamed his way of +putting it, telling himself it was absurd to expect her to understand a +bald statement like that. At that moment he realized it was very +important she should understand; not only Ruth, but something in +himself—something counting for much in himself would be shut out if she +did not understand.</p> + +<p>It made his voice gentle as he began: "Amy, don't you know that just to +be told of a thing may make it seem very different from what the thing +really was? Seeing a thing from the outside is so different from living +through it. Won't you reserve judgment about Ruth—she is my friend and +I hate to see her unfairly judged—until some time when I can tell it +better?"</p> + +<p>"Why have <i>you</i> so much to do with it? Why is it so important I do +not—judge her?" Amy's sweetness, that soft quality that had been dear +to him seemed to have tightened into a hard shrewdness as she asked: +"How did <i>you</i> happen to know it all from within?"</p> + +<p>He pushed his chair back from her and settled into it wearily. "Why, +because she was my friend, dear. I was in her confidence."</p> + +<p>"I don't think I'd be very proud of being in the confidence of a woman +who ran away with another woman's husband!"</p> + +<p>Her hostile voice fanned the old anger that had so many times flamed +when people were speaking hostilely of Ruth. But he managed to say +quietly: "But you see you don't know much about it yet, Amy."</p> + +<p>He was facing her mirror and what he saw in it made him lean forward, +his arms about her, with an impulsive: "Sweetheart, we're not going to +quarrel, are we?"</p> + +<p>But after his kisses she asked, as if she had only been biding her time +through the interruption; "<i>Did</i> she run away with him?"</p> + +<p>His arm dropped from her shoulder. "They left together," he answered +shortly.</p> + +<p>"Are they married now?"</p> + +<p>"No."</p> + +<p>Amy, who had resumed the brushing of her hair, held the brush suspended. +"<i>Living</i> together—all this time—and <i>not</i> married?"</p> + +<p>"They are not married," was his heated response, "because the man's wife +has not divorced him." He added, not without satisfaction: "She's that +kind of a person."</p> + +<p>Amy turned and her eyes met his. "What kind of a person?" she said +challengingly. "I presume," she added coolly, "that she does not believe +in divorce."</p> + +<p>"I take it that she does not," was his dry answer.</p> + +<p>She flushed, and exclaimed a little tremulously: "Well, really, Deane, +you needn't be so disagreeable about it!"</p> + +<p>Quickly he turned to her, glad to think that he had been disagreeable; +that was so much easier than what he had been trying to keep from +thinking.</p> + +<p>"I didn't mean to be disagreeable, Amy dear. I suppose I've got in the +habit of being disagreeable about Ruth: people here have been so hard +about her; I've resented their attitude so."</p> + +<p>"But why should you <i>care</i>? Why is it such a personal matter to you?"</p> + +<p>He was about to say, "She was my friend," but remembering he had said +that before, he had anew a sense of helplessness. He did not want to +talk about it any more. He had become tired out with thinking about it, +with the long grieving for Ruth and the sorrowing with her. When he +found Amy their love had seemed to free him from old hurts and to bring +him out from loneliness. Wonderful as the ecstasy of fresh love was he +had thought even more of the exquisite peace that rests in love. Amy had +seemed to be bringing him to that; and now it seemed that Ruth was still +there holding him away from it. The thought brushed his mind, his face +softening for the instant with it, that Ruth would be so sorry to have +that true.</p> + +<p>Amy had braided her hair; the long fair braid hung over her shoulder, +beautifully framing her face as she turned to him. "Had you supposed, +when you all knew her, when she was in your crowd, that she was—that +kind of a person?"</p> + +<p>His blood quickened in the old anger for Ruth; but there was something +worse than that—a sick feeling, a feeling in which there was +disappointment and into which there crept something that was like shame.</p> + +<p>The telephone rang before he need reply. When he turned from it, it was +to say hurriedly, "I'll have to go to the hospital, Amy. Sorry—that +woman I operated on yesterday—" He was in the next room, gathering +together his things before he had finished it.</p> + +<p>Amy followed him in. "Why, I'm so sorry, dear. It's too bad—when you're +so tired."</p> + +<p>He turned and caught her in his arms and held her there close in a +passion of relief at the gentleness and love of her voice that swept +away those things about her he had tried to think were not in his mind. +Amy was so sweet!—so beautiful, so tender. Why of course she wouldn't +understand about Ruth! How absurd to expect her to understand, he +thought, when he had blurted things out like that, giving her no +satisfaction about it. He was touchy on the subject, he gladly told +himself, as he held her close in all the thankfulness of regaining her. +And when, after he had kissed her good-by she lifted her face and kissed +him again his rush of love for her had power to sweep all else away.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_THREE" id="CHAPTER_THREE"></a>CHAPTER THREE</h2> + + +<p>It was in that mood of passionate tenderness for Amy, a glow of +gratitude for love, that he sent his car swiftly toward the hospital. +His feeling diffused warmth for the town through which he drove, the +little city that had so many times tightened him up in bitterness. +People were kind, after all; how kind they were being to Amy, he +thought, eager to receive her and make her feel at home, anxious that +she be happy among them. The picture of Edith as she stood at the head +of the steps making plans for Amy warmed his heart to her. Perhaps he +had been unfair to Edith; in that one thing, certainly, she had failed +as a friend, but perhaps it was impossible for women to go that far in +friendship, impossible for them to be themselves on the outer side of +the door of their approval. Even Amy.... That showed, of course, how +hard it was for women whose experiences had all fallen within the circle +of things as they should be to understand a thing that was—disrupting. +It was as if their kindly impulses, sympathy, tenderness, were +circumscribed by that circle. Little as he liked that, his own mood of +the moment, his unrecognized efforts at holding it, kept him within that +sphere where good feeling lived. In it were happy anticipations of the +life he and Amy would have in Freeport. He had long been out of humor +with his town, scornful. He told himself now that that was a wrong +attitude. There was a new feeling for the homes he was passing, for the +people in those homes. He had a home there, too; it seemed to make him +one with all those people. There was warmth in that feeling of being one +with others.</p> + +<p>He told himself that it was absurd to expect Amy to adjust herself all +in a minute to a thing he had known about for years, had all the time +known from within. He would make Amy understand; if Ruth came, Amy would +be good to her. At heart she was not like those others, and happiness +would make her want to be kind.</p> + +<p>He saw her face lifted for that second good-by kiss—and quickened his +speed. He hoped he would not have to be long at the hospital, hoped Amy +would not be asleep when he got back home. He lingered happily around +the thought of there being a home to go back to, of how Amy would be +there when he got back.</p> + +<p>But it was at a slower speed that, an hour later, he traveled those same +streets. He had lost his patient. It was no failure of the operator, but +one of those cases where the particular human body is not equal to the +demand made upon it, where there was no reaction. He got no satisfaction +in telling himself that the woman could not have lived long without the +operation; she had not lived with it—that was the only side it turned +to him. The surgery was all right enough, but life had ebbed away. It +brought a sense of who was master.</p> + +<p>He had been practising for twelve years, but death always cut deep into +his spirit. It was more than chagrin, more than the disheartenment of +the workman at failure, when he lost a patient. It was a real sense of +death, and with that a feeling of man's final powerlessness.</p> + +<p>That made it a different town through which he drove upon his return; a +town where people cut their way ruthlessly through life—and to what +end? They might be a little kinder to each other along the way, it would +seem, when this was what it came to for them all. They were kind enough +about death—not so kind about the mean twists in life.</p> + +<p>That feeling was all wrapped up with Ruth Holland; it brought Ruth to +him. He thought of the many times they had traveled that road together, +times when he would take her where she could meet Stuart Williams, then +pick her up again and bring her home, her family thinking she had been +with him. How would he ever make Amy understand about that? It seemed +now that it could not be done, that it would be something they did not +share, perhaps something lying hostilely between them. He wondered why +it had not seemed to him the shameful thing it would appear to anyone he +told of it. Was that something twisted in him, or was it just that utter +difference between knowing things from within and judging from without? +To himself, it was never in the form of argument he defended Ruth. It +was the memory of her face at those times when he had seen what she was +feeling.</p> + +<p>He was about to pass the Hollands'—her old home. He slackened the car +to its slowest. It had seemed a gloomy place in recent years. The big +square house in the middle of the big yard of oak trees used to be one +of the most friendly-looking places of the town. But after Ruth went +away and the family drew within themselves, as they did, the hospitable +spaciousness seemed to become bleakness, as if the place itself changed +with the change of spirit. People began to speak of it as gloomy; now +they said it looked forsaken. Certainly it was in need of painting—new +sidewalks, general repairs. Mr. Holland had seemed to cease caring how +the place looked. There weren't flowers any more.</p> + +<p>In the upper hall he saw the dim light that burns through the night in a +house of sickness. He had been there early in the evening; if he thought +the nurse was up he would like to stop again. But he considered that it +must be almost one—too late for disturbing them. He hoped Mr. Holland +was having a good night; he would not have many more nights to get +through.</p> + +<p>He wished there was some one of them to whom he could talk about sending +for Ruth. They had not sent for her when her mother died, but that was +sudden, everyone was panic-stricken. And that was only two years after +Ruth's going away; time had not worked much then on their feeling +against her. He would have to answer her letter and tell her that her +father could not live. He wanted to have the authority to tell her to +come home. Anything else seemed fairly indecent in its lack of feeling. +Eleven years—and Ruth had never been home; and she loved her +father—though of course no one in the town would believe <i>that</i>.</p> + +<p>His car had slowed almost to a stop; there was a low whistle from the +porch and someone was coming down the steps. It was Ted Holland—Ruth's +younger brother.</p> + +<p>"Hello, Deane," he said, coming out to him; "thinking of coming in?"</p> + +<p>"No, I guess not; it's pretty late. I was just passing, and wondering +about your father."</p> + +<p>"He went to sleep; seems quiet, and about the same."</p> + +<p>"That's good; hope it will keep up through the night."</p> + +<p>The young fellow did not reply. The doctor was thinking that it must be +lonely for him—all alone on the porch after midnight, his father dying +upstairs, no member of the immediate family in the house.</p> + +<p>"Sent for Cy, Ted?" he asked. Cyrus was the older brother, older than +both Ted and Ruth. It was he who had been most bitter against Ruth. +Deane had always believed that if it had not been for Cyrus the rest of +them would not have hardened into their pain and humiliation like that.</p> + +<p>Ted nodded. "I had written, and today, after you said what you did, I +wired. I had an answer tonight. He has to finish up a deal that will +take him a few days, but I am to keep him informed—I told him you said +it might be a couple of weeks—and he'll come the first minute he can."</p> + +<p>There was a pause. Deane wanted to say: "And Ruth?" but that was a hard +thing to say to one of the Hollands.</p> + +<p>But Ted himself mentioned her. "Tell you what I'm worrying about, +Deane," he blurted out, "and that's Ruth!"</p> + +<p>Deane nodded appreciatively. He had always liked this young Ted, but +there was a new outgoing to him for this.</p> + +<p>"Father asked for her this afternoon. I don't care whether he was just +right in his mind or not—it shows she's <i>on</i> his mind. 'Hasn't Ruth +come in yet!' he asked, several times."</p> + +<p>"You send for her, Ted," commanded the doctor. "You ought to. I'll back +you up if Cy's disagreeable."</p> + +<p>"He'll be disagreeable all right," muttered the younger brother.</p> + +<p>"Well, what about Harriett?" impatiently demanded Deane. "Doesn't she +see that Ruth ought to be here?" Harriett was Ruth's sister and the +eldest of the four children.</p> + +<p>"Harriett would be all right," said Ted, "if it weren't for that bunch +of piety she's married to!"</p> + +<p>Deane laughed. "Not keen for your brother-in-law, Ted?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, I'll tell you, Deane," the boy burst out, "for a long time I +haven't felt just like the rest of the family have about Ruth. It was an +awful thing—I know that, but just the same it was pretty tough on +<i>Ruth</i>. I'll bet she's been up against it, good and plenty, and all +we've seemed to think about is the way it put us in bad. Not mother—Cy +never did really get mother, you know, but father would have softened if +it hadn't been for Cy's everlasting keeping him nagged up to the fact +that he'd been wronged! Even Harriett would have been human if it hadn't +been for Cy—and that upright husband she's got!"</p> + +<p>The boy's face was flushed; he ran his hand back through his hair in an +agitated way; it was evident that his heart was hot with feeling about +it all. "I don't know whether you know, Deane," he said in a lowered +voice, "that mother's last words were for Ruth. They can't deny it, for +I was standing nearest her. 'Where's Ruth?' she said; and then at the +very last—'Ruth?'"</p> + +<p>His voice went unsteady as he repeated it. Deane, nodding, was looking +straight down the street.</p> + +<p>"Well," said Ted, after a minute, "I'm not going to have <i>that</i> happen +again. I've been thinking about it. I did write Ruth a week ago. Now I +shall write to her before I go to bed tonight and tell her to come +home."</p> + +<p>"You do that, Ted," said the doctor with gruff warmth. "You do that. +I'll write her too. Ruth wrote to me."</p> + +<p>"Did she?" Ted quickly replied. "Well"—he hesitated, then threw out in +defiant manner and wistful voice, "well, I guess Ruth'll find she's got +one friend when she comes back to her old town."</p> + +<p>"You bet she will," snapped Deane, adding in another voice: "She knows +that."</p> + +<p>"And as for the family," Ted went on, "there are four of us, and I don't +know why Ruth and I aren't half of that four. Cy and Harriett haven't +got it all to say."</p> + +<p>He said it so hotly that Deane conciliated: "Try not to have any split +up, Ted. That would just make it harder for Ruth, you know."</p> + +<p>"There'll not be any split up if Cy will just act like a human being," +said the boy darkly.</p> + +<p>"Tell him your father was asking for Ruth and that I told you you must +send for her. See Harriett first and get her in line."</p> + +<p>"Harriett would be all right," muttered Ted, "if let alone. Lots of +people would be all right if other people didn't keep nagging at them +about what they ought to be."</p> + +<p>Deane gave him a quick, queer look. "You're right there, my son," he +laughed shortly.</p> + +<p>There was a moment's intimate pause. There seemed not a sound on the +whole street save the subdued chug-chug of Deane's waiting machine. The +only light in the big house back in the shadowy yard was the dim light +that burned because a man was dying. Deane's hand went out to his +steering wheel. "Well, so long, Ted," he said in a voice curiously +gentle.</p> + +<p>"'By, Deane," said the boy.</p> + +<p>He drove on through the silent town in another mood. This boy's feeling +had touched something in his heart that was softening. He had always +been attracted to Ted Holland—his frank hazel eyes, something that +seemed so square and so pleasant in the clear, straight features of his +freckled face. He had been only a youngster of about thirteen when Ruth +went away. She had adored him; "my good-looking baby brother," was her +affectionate way of speaking of him. He was thinking what it would mean +to Ruth to come home and find this warmth in Ted. Why, it might make all +the difference in the world, he was gratefully considering.</p> + +<p>When he came into the room where Amy was sleeping she awoke and sat up +in bed, rubbing sleepy eyes blinded by the light. "Poor dear," she +murmured at sight of his face, "so tired?"</p> + +<p>He sat down on the bed; now that he was home, too tired to move. "Pretty +tired. Woman died."</p> + +<p>"Oh, Deane!" she cried. "Deane, I'm <i>so</i> sorry."</p> + +<p>She reached over and put her arms around him. "You couldn't help it, +dear," she comforted. "You couldn't help it."</p> + +<p>Her sympathy was very sweet to him; as said by her, the fact that he +couldn't help it did make some difference.</p> + +<p>"And you had to be there such a long time. Why it must be most morning."</p> + +<p>"Hardly that. I've been at the Hollands' too—talking to Ted. Poor +kid—it's lonesome for him."</p> + +<p>"Who is he?" asked Amy.</p> + +<p>"Why—" and then he remembered. "Why, Ruth Holland's brother," he said, +trying not to speak consciously. "The father's very sick, you know."</p> + +<p>"Oh," said Amy. She moved over to the other side of her bed.</p> + +<p>"They're going to send for Ruth."</p> + +<p>Amy made no reply.</p> + +<p>He was too utterly tired to think much about it—too worn for acute +sensibilities. He sat there yawning. "I really ought to write to Ruth +myself tonight," he said, sleepily thinking out loud, "but I'm too all +in." He wanted her to take the letter off his conscience for him. "I +think I'd better come to bed, don't you, honey?"</p> + +<p>"I should think you would need rest," was her answer.</p> + +<p>She had turned the other way and seemed to be going to sleep again. +Somehow he felt newly tired but was too exhausted to think it out. He +told himself that Amy had just roused for the minute and was too sleepy +to keep awake. People were that way when waked out of a sound sleep.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_FOUR" id="CHAPTER_FOUR"></a>CHAPTER FOUR</h2> + + +<p>The next evening Dr. Franklin got home for dinner before his wife had +returned from her tea. "Mrs. Franklin not home yet?" he asked of Doris, +their maid; he still said Mrs. Franklin a little consciously and liked +saying it. She told him, rather fluttered with the splendor of it—Doris +being as new to her profession as he to matrimony—that Mrs. Blair had +come for Mrs. Franklin in her "electric" and they had gone to a tea and +had not yet returned.</p> + +<p>He went out into the yard and busied himself about the place while +waiting: trained a vine on a trellis, moved a garden-seat; then he +walked about the house surveying it, after the fashion of the happy +householder, as if for the first time. The house was new; he had built +it for them. From the first moment of his thinking of it it had been +designed for Amy. That made it much more than mere house. He was +thinking that it showed up pretty well with the houses of most of their +friends; Amy needn't be ashamed of it, anyhow, and it would look better +in a couple of seasons, after things had grown up around it a little +more. There would be plenty of seasons for them to grow in, he thought, +whistling.</p> + +<p>Then he got the gentle sound of Edith's pretty little brougham and went +down to meet them. She and Amy looked charming in there—light dresses +and big hats.</p> + +<p>He made a gallant remark and then a teasing one. "Been tea-tattling all +this time?"</p> + +<p>"No," smiled Edith; "we took a ride."</p> + +<p>"Such a beautiful ride," cried Amy. "Way up the river."</p> + +<p>He had helped her out and Edith was leaning out talking to her. "I think +I'd better come for you about one," she was saying. He thought with +loving pride of how quickly Amy had swung into the life of the town.</p> + +<p>During dinner he sat there adoring her: she was so fair, so beautifully +formed, so poised. She was lovely in that filmy dress of cloudy blue. +Amy's eyes were gray, but the darkness of her long lashes gave an +impression of darkness. Her skin was smooth and fair and the chiseling +of her features clean and strong. She held herself proudly; her fair +hair was braided around a well-poised head. She always appeared +composed; there never seemed any frittering or disorganizing of herself +in trivial feeling or movement. One out of love with her might find her +rather too self-possessed a young person.</p> + +<p>So engaged was Deane in admiring her that it was not until they were +about to leave the table that he was conscious of something unusual +about her; even then he did not make out the excitement just beneath her +collected manner.</p> + +<p>He wanted to show her what he had done to the vines and they went out in +the yard. Presently they sat down on the garden-seat which he had moved +a little while before. He had grown puzzled now by Amy's manner.</p> + +<p>She was smoothing out the sash of her dress. She sang a little under her +breath. Then she said, with apparent carelessness: "Mrs. Williams was at +the tea today."</p> + +<p>He knit his brows. "Mrs.—?" Then, understanding, his face tightened. +"Was she?" was his only reply.</p> + +<p>Amy sang a little more. "It's her husband that your friend is living +with, isn't it?" she asked, and the suppressed excitement came nearer to +the surface though her voice remained indifferent.</p> + +<p>He said "Yes" shortly and volunteered nothing. His face had not relaxed.</p> + +<p>"What a sad face she has," Amy murmured.</p> + +<p>"Think so?" He reached over and picked up a twig and flipped a piece of +it off his finger. "Oh, I don't know. I call it cold rather than sad."</p> + +<p>"Oh, well, of course," cried Amy, "<i>your</i> sympathies are all on the +other side!"</p> + +<p>He did not reply. He would try to say as little as possible.</p> + +<p>"I must say," she resumed excitedly, then drew herself back. "Mrs. Blair +was telling me the whole story this afternoon," she said quietly, but +with challenge.</p> + +<p>The blood came to his face. He cleared his throat and impatiently threw +away the twig he had been playing with. "Well, Edith didn't lose much +time, did she?" he said coldly; then added with a rather hard laugh: +"That was the reason for the long ride, I suppose."</p> + +<p>"I don't know that it is so remarkable," Amy began with quivering +dignity, "that she should tell me something of the affairs of the town." +After an instant she added, "I am a stranger here."</p> + +<p>He caught the different note and turned quickly to her. "Dearest, +there's nothing about the 'affairs of the town' I won't tell you." He +put his arm around the back of the seat, the hand resting on her +shoulder. "And I must say I don't think you're much of a stranger here. +Look at the friends you've made already. I never saw anything like it."</p> + +<p>"Mrs. Blair does seem to like me," she answered with composure. Then +added: "Mrs. Williams was very nice to me too."</p> + +<p>His hand on her shoulder drew away a little and he snapped his fingers. +Then the hand went back to her shoulder. "Well, that's very nice," he +said quietly.</p> + +<p>"She's coming to see me. I'm sure I found her anything but cold and +hard!"</p> + +<p>"I don't think that a woman—" he began hotly, but checked himself.</p> + +<p>But all the feeling that had been alive there just beneath Amy's cool +exterior flamed through. "Well, how you can stand up for a woman who did +what <i>that</i> woman did—!"</p> + +<p>Her cheeks were flaming now, her nostrils quivered. "I guess you're the +only person in town that does stand up for her! But of course you're +right—and the rest of them—" She broke off with a tumultuous little +laugh and abruptly got up and went into the house.</p> + +<p>He sat there for a time alone, sick at heart. He told himself he had +bungled the whole thing. Why hadn't he told Amy all about Ruth, putting +it in a way that would get her sympathies. Surely he could have done +that had he told her the story as he knew it, made her feel what Ruth +had suffered, how tormented and bewildered and desperate she had been. +Now she had the town's side and naturally resented his championing of +what was presented as so outrageous a thing. He went over the story as +Edith would give it. That was enough to vindicate Amy.</p> + +<p>He rose and followed her into the house. She was fingering some music on +the piano. He saw how flushed her face was, how high she carried her +head and how quick her breathing.</p> + +<p>He went and put his arms around her. "Sweetheart," he said very simply +and gently, "I love you. You know that, don't you?"</p> + +<p>An instant she held back in conflict. Then she hid her face against him +and sobbed. He held her close and murmured soothing little things.</p> + +<p>She was saying something. "I was so happy," he made out the smothered +words. "It was all so—beautiful."</p> + +<p>"But you're happy <i>now</i>," he insisted. "It's beautiful <i>now</i>."</p> + +<p>"I feel as if my marriage was being—spoiled," she choked.</p> + +<p>He shook her, playfully, but his voice as he spoke was not playful. +"Look here, Amy, don't say such a thing. Don't let such a thing get into +your head for an instant! Our happiness isn't a thing to talk like that +about."</p> + +<p>"I feel as if—<i>that woman</i>—was standing between us!"</p> + +<p>He raised her face and made her look into his own, at once stern and +very tender. "Amy love, we've got to stop this right <i>now</i>. A long time +ago—more than ten years ago—there was a girl here who had an awfully +hard time. I was sorry for her. I'm sorry for her now. Life's hit her +good and hard. We're among the fortunate people things go right for. We +can be together—happy, having friends, everybody approving, everybody +good to us. We're mighty lucky that it is that way. And isn't our own +happiness going to make us a little sorry for people who are outside all +this?" He kissed her. "Come now, sweetheart, you're not going to harden +up like that. Why, that wouldn't be <i>you</i> at all!"</p> + +<p>She was quiet; after a little she smiled up at him, the sweet, +reminiscently plaintive little smile of one just comforted. For the +moment, at least, love had won her. "Sometime I'll tell you anything +about it you want to know," he said, holding her tenderly and smoothing +her hair. "Meanwhile—let's forget it. Come on now, honey, change your +dress—get into something warmer and go for a ride with me. I've got to +make a couple of calls, and I want you along."</p> + +<p>"You know," he was saying as he unfastened her dress for her, "after I +knew I was going to have you, and before I got you here, I used to think +so much about this very thing—the fun of having you going around with +me—doing things together. Now it seems—" He did not finish, for he was +passionately kissing the white shoulder which the unfastened dress had +bared. "Amy, dear,"—his voice choked—"oh, <i>doesn't</i> it seem too good +to be true?"</p> + +<p>His feeling for her had chased the other things away. She softened to +happiness, then grew gay. They were merry and happy again. All seemed +well with them. But when, on his rounds, they passed the Hollands' and +Ted waved from the porch he had an anxious moment of fearing she would +ask who that was and their crust of happiness would let them through. He +quickly began a spirited account of an amusing thing that had happened +in the office that day. His dream had been of a happiness into which he +could sink, not ground on the surface that must be fought for and held +by effort; but he did not let himself consider that then.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_FIVE" id="CHAPTER_FIVE"></a>CHAPTER FIVE</h2> + + +<p>The train for Chicago was several hours out from Denver when the man who +had decided that it was an uninteresting car began watching the woman +who was facing him from several seats away. He was one of those persons +with a drab exterior but not a similarly colored imagination, and he was +always striving to defeat the meager life his exterior consigned him to +by projecting himself into the possible experiences of people he watched +on the trains.</p> + +<p>Afterwards he wondered that he should at first have passed this woman by +with the mere impression of a nice-looking woman who seemed tired. It +was when he chanced to look at her as she was looking from the window +that she arrested him. Her sweet face had steeled itself to something, +she was as if looking out at a thing that hurt her, but looking with the +courage to bear that hurt. He turned and looked from the window in the +direction of her intense gaze and then smiled at himself as he turned +back from the far-reaching monotonous plain of Eastern Colorado; he +might have known that what she was looking at was not spread out there +for anyone else to see.</p> + +<p>She interested him all through the two days. She puzzled him. He +relieved the tedium of the journey with speculations on what sort of +thing it was she was thinking about, going over. He would arrive at a +conclusion in which he felt considerable satisfaction only to steal +another look at her and find that she did not look at all like the woman +he had made up his mind she was. What held him was the way feeling +shaped her. She had a delicate, sweet face, but there were times when it +was almost repellent in its somberness, when it hardened in a way that +puzzled him. She would sit looking from the window and it was as if a +dense sadness had settled down upon her; then her face would light with +a certain sad tenderness, and once he had the fancy of her lifting her +head out of gloom to listen to a beautiful, far-away call. There were +long meditations, far steady looks out at something, little reminiscent +smiles that lingered about her sensitive mouth after her eyes had gone +sad again. She would grow tired of thinking and close her eyes and seem +to try to rest. Her face, at those times, showed the wear of hard years, +laying bare lines that one took no count of when her eyes were lighted +and her mouth sensitive. Frequently she would turn from herself and +smile at the baby across the aisle; but once, when the baby was crowing +and laughing she abruptly turned away. He tried to construct "a life" +for her, but she did not stay in any life he carefully arranged. There +were times when he impatiently wondered why he should be wondering so +much about her; those were the times when she seemed to have let it all +go, was inert. But though he did not succeed in getting a "life" for +her, she gave him a freshened sense of life as immensely interesting, as +charged with pain and sweetness.</p> + +<p>It was over the pain and the sweetness of life that this woman—Ruth +Holland—brooded during the two days that carried her back to the home +of her girlhood. She seemed to be going back over a long bridge. That +part of her life had been cut away from her. With most lives the past +grew into the future; it was as a growth that spread, the present but +the extent of the growth at the moment. With her there had been the +sharp cut; not a cut, but a tear, a tear that left bleeding ends. Back +there lay the past, a separated thing. During the eleven years since her +life had been torn from that past she had seen it not only as a separate +thing but a thing that had no reach into the future. The very number of +miles between, the fact that she made no journeys back home, contributed +to that sense of the cleavage, the remoteness, the finality. Those she +had left back there remained real and warm in her memory, but her part +with them was a thing finished. It was as if only shoots of pain could +for the minute unite them.</p> + +<p>Turning her face back toward home turned her back to herself there. She +dwelt upon home as she had left it, then formed the picture of what she +would find now. Her mother and her grandfather would not be there. The +father she had left would not be there. A dying man would be there. Ted +would be grown up. She wondered if anyone had taken care of the flowers. +Would there be any roses? She and her mother had always taken care of +them. Edith—? Would Terror be there? He was only about three when she +left; dogs did live as long as that. She had named him Terror because of +his puppy pranks. But there would be no puppy pranks now. It would be a +sedate old dog she would find. He would not know her—she who had cared +for him and romped with him through his puppyhood. But they had not +shared experiences.</p> + +<p>On the train carrying her back home her own story opened freshly to her. +Again and again she would be caught into it....</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Ruth Holland—the girl of twenty—was waiting for Deane Franklin to come +and take her to the dance at the Country Club. She was dressed and +wandering restlessly about the house, looking in mirrors as she passed +them, pleased with herself in her new white dress. There was an +excitement in the fact that she had not seen Deane for almost a year; he +had been away, studying medicine at Johns Hopkins. She wondered if he +would seem any different; wondered—really more interested in this than +in the other—if she would seem any different to him.</p> + +<p>She did not think of Deane "that way" she had told Edith Lawrence, her +bosom friend from childhood, when Edith that afternoon had hinted at +romantic possibilities. Edith was in romantic mood because she and Will +Blair were in the happy state of getting over a quarrel. For a month +Ruth had listened to explosions against Will Blair. Now it was made up +and Edith was in sweetly chastened spirit. She explained to Ruth at +great length and with much earnestness that she had not understood Will, +that she had done him a great injustice; and she was going to the party +with him that night. Edith and Will and Deane and Ruth were going +together.</p> + +<p>They were singularly unmatured for girls of twenty. Their experiences +had not taken them outside the social life of the town, and within it +they had found too easy, pre-prepared sailing for any real finding or +tests of themselves. They were daughters of two of the town's most +important families; they were two of the town's most attractive girls. +That fixed their place in a round of things not deepening, not +individualizing. It was pleasant, rather characterless living on a +limited little part of the surface of life. They went to "the parties," +occupied with that social round that is as definite a thing in a town of +forty thousand as in a metropolis. Their emotional experiences had been +little more than part of their social life—within it and of the +character of it. Attractive, popular, of uncontested place in the +society in which they found themselves, they had not known the strivings +and the heart-aches that can intensify life within those social +boundaries. They were always invited. When they sat out dances it was +because they wanted to. Life had dealt too favoringly and too +uneventfully with them to find out what stuff was really in them. They +were almost always spoken of together—Edith Lawrence and Ruth +Holland—Ruth and Edith. That was of long standing; they had gone to +primary school together, to Sunday-school, through the high-school. They +told each other things; they even hinted at emotions concealed within +their breasts, of dissatisfactions and longings there were no words for. +Once Ruth confided that sometimes she wept and could not have said why, +and great seemed the marvel when Edith confessed to similar experiences. +They never suspected that girlhood was like that; they were like that, +and set apart and united in being so.</p> + +<p>But those spiritual indulgences were rare; for the most part they were +what would be called two wholesome, happy girls, girls whose lot had +fallen in pleasant places.</p> + +<p>Ruth wanted to go to college, but her father had kept her from it. Women +should marry and settle down and have families was the belief of Cyrus +Holland. Going to college put foolish notions in their heads. Not being +able to go had been Ruth's first big disappointment. Edith had gone East +to a girls' school. At the last minute, realizing how lonely she would +be at home without her chum, Ruth had begged to go with her. Her mother +had urged it for her. But it was an expensive school to which Edith was +going, and when he found what it would cost Ruth's father refused, +saying he could not afford it, and that it was nonsense, anyway. Ruth +had then put in a final plea for the State University, which would not +cost half as much as Edith's school. Seeing that it meant more to her +than he had known, and having a particular affection for this younger +daughter of his, Mr. Holland was on the point of giving in when the +newspapers came out with a scandal that centered about the suicide of a +girl student at the university. That settled it; Ruth would stay home +with her mother. She could go on with music, and study literature with +Miss Collins. Miss Collins stood for polite learning in the town. There +was not the remotest danger of an education received through her +unfeminizing a girl. But Ruth soon abandoned Miss Collins, scornfully +informing her parent that she would as soon study literature with a +mummy.</p> + +<p>With Ruth, the desire to go to college had been less a definite craving +for knowledge than a diffused longing for an enlarged experience. She +wanted something different, was impatient for something new, something +more. She had more curiosity about the life outside their allotted place +than her friend Edith Lawrence had. She wanted to go to college because +that would open out from what she had. Ruth would have found small +satisfaction in that girls' school of Edith's had her father consented +to her going. It was little more than the polite learning of Miss +Collins fashionably re-dressed. Edith, however, came home with a new +grace and poise, an added gift of living charmingly on the surface of +life, and held that school was lovely.</p> + +<p>During that year her friend was away—Ruth was nineteen then—she was +not so much unhappy as she was growingly impatient for something more, +and expectant of it. She was always thinking that something was going to +happen—that was why things did not go dead for her. The year was +intensifying to her; she missed her friend; she had been baffled in +something she wanted. It made her conscious of wanting more than she +had. Her energies having been shut off from the way they had wanted to +go, she was all the more zestful for new things from life. There was +much in her that her life did not engage.</p> + +<p>She loved dancing. She was happily excited that night because they were +going to a dance. Waiting for Deane, she wondered if he had danced any +during the year, hoping that he had, and was a little better dancer than +of old. Dear Deane! She always had that "Dear Deane!" feeling after she +had been critical about him.</p> + +<p>She wished she did think of Deane "that way"—the way she had told Edith +she did not think of him. But "that way" drew her from thoughts of +Deane. She had stopped before her dressing-table and was toying with her +manicure things. She looked at herself in the glass and saw the color +coming to her cheeks. She sat there dreaming—such dreams as float +through girlhood.</p> + +<p>Her mother came in to see how she looked. Mrs. Holland was a small, +frail-looking woman. Ruth resembled her, but with much added. Things +caught into Ruth were not in her mother. They resembled each other in +certain definite things, but there was something that flushed Ruth to +life—transforming her—that did not live in her mother. They were alike +as a beautiful shell enclosing a light may be like one that is not +lighted. Mrs. Holland was much occupied with the social life of her +town. She was light-hearted, well-liked. She went to the teas and card +parties which abounded there and accepted that as life with no +dissatisfaction beyond a mild desire for more money.</p> + +<p>She also enjoyed the social life of her daughter; where Ruth was to go +and what she would wear were matters of interest and importance. Indeed +life was compounded of matters concerning where one would go and what +one would wear.</p> + +<p>"Well, Sally Gordon certainly did well with that dress," was her +verdict. "Some think she's falling off. Now do try and not get it +spoiled the first thing, Ruth. Dancing is so hard on your clothes."</p> + +<p>She surveyed her daughter with satisfaction. Ruth was a daughter a +mother would survey with satisfaction. The strong life there was in her +was delicately and subtly suggested. She did not have what are thought +to be the easily distinguishable marks of intense feeling. She suggested +fine things—a rare, high quality. She was not out-and-out beautiful; +her beauty lurked within her feeling. It was her fluidity that made her +lovely. Her hazel eyes were ever changing with light and feeling, eyes +that could wonderfully darken, that glowed in a rush of feeling and +shone in expectancy or delight,—eyes that the spirit made. She had a +lovely brow, a sensitive, beautiful mouth. But it needed the light +within to find her beauty. Without it she was only a sweet-looking, +delicately fashioned girl.</p> + +<p>"That's Deane," said Ruth, as the bell rang.</p> + +<p>"I want to see him too," said Mrs. Holland, "and so will your father."</p> + +<p>Ruth met him in the hall, holding out both hands with, "Deane, I'm <i>so</i> +glad to see you!"</p> + +<p>He was not an expressive youth. As he shook Ruth's hands with vigor, he +exclaimed, "Same here! Same here!" and straightway he seemed just the +Deane of old and in the girl's heart was a faint disappointment.</p> + +<p>As a little boy people had called Deane Franklin a homely youngster. His +thick, sandyish hair used to stand up in an amazing manner. He moved in +a peculiarly awkward way, as if the jointing of him had not been +perfectly accomplished. He had a wide generous mouth that was attractive +when it was not screwed out of shape. His keen blue eyes had a nice +twinkle. His abrupt, hearty manner seemed very much his own. He was +better dressed than when Ruth had last seen him. She was thinking that +Deane could actually be called attractive in his own homely, awkward +way. And yet, as he kept shaking her hands up and down, broadly +grinning, nodding his head,—"tickled to death to be back," she felt +anew that she could not think of Deane "that way." Perhaps she had known +him too long. She remembered just how absurd he had looked in his first +long trousers—and those silly little caps he had worn perched way back +on his head! Yet she really loved Deane, in a way; she felt a great deal +nearer to him than to her own brother Cyrus.</p> + +<p>They had gone into the living-room. Mrs. Holland thought he had +grown—grown broader, anyway; Mr. Holland wanted to know about the +medical school, and would he practice in Freeport? Ted wanted to know if +Johns Hopkins had a good team.</p> + +<p>"That's Will, I guess," he said, turning to Ruth as the bell rang.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Will," cried Mrs. Holland, "do ask Edith to come in and show us her +dress! She won't muss it if she's careful. Her mother told me it was the +sweetest dress Edith ever had."</p> + +<p>Edith entered in her bright, charming way, exhibiting her pretty pink +dress with a pleasure that was winning. She had more of definite beauty +than Ruth—golden hair, really sunny hair, it was, and big, deep blue +eyes and fresh, even skin. Ruth often complained that Edith had +something to count on; she could tell how she was going to look, while +with her—Ruth—there was never any knowing. Some of the times when she +was most anxious to look her best, she was, as she bewailed it, a +fright. Edith was larger than Ruth, she had more of a woman's +development.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Holland followed them out to the carriage. "Now don't stay until +<i>all</i> hours," was her parting admonition, in a tone of comfortable +resignation to the fact that that was exactly what they would do.</p> + +<p>"Well," said Mr. Holland, who had gone as far as the door, "I don't know +what young folks are coming to. After nine o'clock now!"</p> + +<p>"That must be a punk school Deane goes to," said Ted, his mind not yet +pried from the football talk.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_SIX" id="CHAPTER_SIX"></a>CHAPTER SIX</h2> + + +<p>"Our dance."</p> + +<p>With a swift little movement the girl turned a glowing face to the man +standing before her. Flushed with dancing, keyed high in the pleasure +and triumphs of the evening, she turned the same radiant face to Stuart +Williams as he claimed their dance that she would have turned to almost +anyone claiming a dance. It was something that came to life in the man's +eyes as he looked down into her flushed face, meeting her happy, shining +eyes, that arrested the flashing, impersonal smile of an instant before +and underneath that impersonal gladness of youth there was a faint +flutter of self.</p> + +<p>He was of the "older crowd;" it happened that she had never danced with +him before. He was a better dancer than the boys of her own set, but +somehow that old impersonal joy in dancing was a lesser thing now than +the sense of dancing with this man.</p> + +<p>"That was worth coming for," he said quietly, when the dance and the +encore to it were over and they found themselves by one of the doors +opening out on the balcony.</p> + +<p>She looked up with a smile. It was a smile curiously touched with +shyness. He saw the color wavering in her sensitive, delicate face. Then +he asked lightly: "Shall we see what's being dispensed from this +punch-bowl?"</p> + +<p>With their ice, they stood looking out into the moonlight over a wide +stretch of meadow to far hills. "A fine night to ride over the hills and +far away," he laughed at last, his voice lingering a little on the +fancy.</p> + +<p>She only laughed a little in reply, looking off there toward over the +hills and far away. Watching her, he wondered why he had never thought +anything much about her before. He would have said that Ruth Holland was +one of the nice attractive girls of the town, and beyond that could have +said little about her. He watched the flow of her slender neck into her +firm delicate little chin, the lovely corners of her mouth where feeling +lurked. The fancy came to him that she had not settled into flesh the +way most people did, that she was not fixed by it. He puzzled for the +word he wanted for her, then got it—luminous was what she was; he felt +a considerable satisfaction in having found that word.</p> + +<p>"Seems to me you and Edith Lawrence grew up in a terrible hurry," he +began in a slow, teasing manner. "Just a day or two ago you were +youngsters racing around with flying pigtails, and now here you are—all +these poor young chaps—and all us poor old ones—fighting for dances +with you. What made you hurry so?" he laughed.</p> + +<p>The coquette in most normal girls of twenty rose like a little imp up +through her dreaming of over the hills and far away. "Why, I don't +know," she said, demurely; "perhaps I was hurrying to catch up with +someone."</p> + +<p>His older to younger person manner fell away, leaving the man delighting +in the girl, a delightfully daring girl it seemed she was, for all that +look of fine things he had felt in her just a moment before. He grew +newly puzzled about her, and interested in the puzzle. "Would you like +to have that someone stand still long enough to give you a good start?" +he asked, zestful for following.</p> + +<p>But she could not go on with it. She was not used to saying daring +things to "older men." She was a little appalled at what she had +done—saying a thing like that to a man who was married; and yet just a +little triumphant in her own audacity, and the way she had been able to +make him feel she was something a long way removed from a little girl +with flying pigtails.</p> + +<p>"I really have been grown up for quite a while," she said, suddenly +grave.</p> + +<p>He did not try to bring her back to the other mood,—that astonishing +little flare of audacity; he was watching her changing face, like her +voice it was sweetly grave.</p> + +<p>The music had begun again—this time a waltz. A light hand upon her arm, +he directed her back towards the dancing floor.</p> + +<p>"I have this taken," she objected hesitatingly.</p> + +<p>"This is an extra," he said.</p> + +<p>She felt sure that it was not; she knew she ought to object, that it was +not right to be treating one of the boys of her own crowd that way. But +that consciousness of what she ought to be doing fell back—pale, +impotent—before the thing she wanted to do....</p> + +<p>They were silent for a little time after; without commenting on doing +so, they returned to their place outside. "See?" she said presently, +"the moon has found another hill. That wasn't there when we were here +before."</p> + +<p>"And beyond that are more hills," he said, "that we don't see even yet."</p> + +<p>"I suppose," she laughed, "that it's not knowing where we would get +makes over the hills and far away—fun."</p> + +<p>"Well, anything rather than standing still." He said it under his +breath, more to himself than to her. But it was to her he added, +teasingly and a little lingeringly: "Unless, of course, one were waiting +for someone to catch up with one."</p> + +<p>She smiled without turning to him; watching her, the thought found its +way up through the proprieties of his mind that it would be worth +waiting a long time if, after the wait, one could go over the hills and +far away with a girl through whom life glowed as he could see it glowed +in this girl; no, not with a girl like this—boldly, humorously and a +little tenderly he amended in his mind—but with <i>this</i> girl.</p> + +<p>She wheeled about. "I must go back," she said abruptly. "This dance is +with Will Blair—I must go back. I'll have a hard enough time," she +laughed, a little nervously, "making it right with Louis Stephens."</p> + +<p>"I'll tell him I heard it was an extra," he said.</p> + +<p>She halted, looking up at him. "Did you hear that!" she demanded.</p> + +<p>He seemed about to say some light thing, but that died away. "I wanted +the dance," was his quiet reply.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_SEVEN" id="CHAPTER_SEVEN"></a>CHAPTER SEVEN</h2> + + +<p>It was a June evening a year later that Stuart Williams sat on the steps +of the porch that ran round the side of his house, humoring the fox +terrier who thought human beings existed to throw sticks for dogs. After +a while the man grew tired of that theory of human existence, and bade +the panting Fritz lie down on the step below him. From there Fritz would +look up to his master appealingly, eyes and tail saying, "Now let's +begin again." But he got no response, so, in philosophic dog fashion, +soon stretched out for a snooze.</p> + +<p>The man was less philosophic: he had not that gift of turning from what +he wanted to what he could have.</p> + +<p>A little later he would go to the rehearsal of the out-of-door play the +Country Club was getting ready to give. Ruth Holland would be there: she +too was in the play. Probably he would take her home, for they lived in +the same neighborhood and a little apart from the others. It was Mrs. +Lawrence who, the night of the first rehearsal, commented with relief +for one more thing smoothly arranged upon their going the same way.</p> + +<p>For five weeks now they had been going the same way; their talk on those +homeward walks had been the lightest of talk, for the most part a +laughing over things that had happened during the rehearsal. And yet the +whole world had become newly alive, until tonight it seemed a tremulous, +waiting world. That light talk had been little more than a pulling back +from the pauses, little more than retreat, safeguard. It was the pauses +that lived on with him, creating his dreams; her face as she turned it +to him after a silence would sometimes be as if she had been caught into +that world touched to new life—world that waited. They would renew the +light talk as if coming back from something.</p> + +<p>He let himself slip into dreaming now; he had told himself that that, at +least, could work no one harm, and in quiet hours, when he smoked, +relaxed, he was now always drawn over where he knew he must not let +himself go. It was as if something stronger than he was all around him. +One drooping hand caressed his dog; he drew in the fragrance from a rose +trellis near by; the leaves of the big tree moved with a gentle little +sound, a sound like the whisper of sweet things; a bird +note—goodnight—floated through the dusk. He was a man whom those +things reached. And in the last year, particularly in those last weeks, +it had come to be that all those things were one with Ruth Holland; to +open to them meant being drawn to her.</p> + +<p>He would tell himself that that was wrong, mad; nothing he could tell +himself seemed to have any check on that pull there was on him in the +thought of her. He and his wife were only keeping up the appearance of +marriage. For two years he had not had love. He was not a man who could +learn to live without it. And now all the desirableness of life, hunger +for love, the whole of earth's lure seemed to break in through the +feeling for this girl—that wrong, wonderful feeling that had of itself +flushed his heart to new life.</p> + +<p>Sharply he pulled himself about, shifting position as if to affirm his +change of thinking. It turned him from the outer world to his house; he +saw Marion sitting in there at her desk writing a letter. He watched +her, thinking about her, about their lives. She was so poised, so cool; +it would seem, so satisfied. Was she satisfied? Did denial of life leave +nothing to be desired? If there were stirrings for living things they +did not appear to disturb her calm surface. He wondered if a night like +this never touched old things in her, if there were no frettings for +what she had put out of her life.</p> + +<p>He watched her small, beautifully shaped dark head, the fine smooth hair +that fell over the little ear he had loved to kiss. She was beautiful; +it was her beauty that had drawn him to her. She was more beautiful than +Ruth Holland, through whom it seemed all the beauty of the world reached +him. Marion's beauty was a definite separate thing; his face went tender +as he thought how Ruth Holland only grew beautiful in beauty, as if it +broke through her, making her.</p> + +<p>Once more he moved sharply, disturbing the little dog at his feet; he +realized where his thoughts had again gone, how looking at his wife it +was to this other girl he was drawn, she seeming near him and Marion +apart. He grew miserable in a growing feeling of helplessness, in a +sense of waiting disaster. It was as if the whole power of life was +drawing him on to disaster. Again that bird call floated through the +dusk; the gentle breeze stirred the fragrance of flowers; it came to +seem that the world was beautiful that it might ensnare him, as if the +whole power of the sweetness of life was trying to pull him over where +he must not go. He grew afraid. He got the feeling that he must do +something—that he must do it at once. After he had sat there brooding +for half an hour he abruptly got up and walked in where his wife was +sitting.</p> + +<p>"Marion," he began brusquely, "I should like to speak to you."</p> + +<p>She had been sitting with her back to the door; at his strange address +of her she turned round in surprise; she looked startled when she saw +his strained face.</p> + +<p>"We've been married about six years, isn't it?"</p> + +<p>He had come a little nearer, but remained standing. He still spoke in +that rough way. She did not reply but nodded slightly, flushing.</p> + +<p>"And now for two years we—haven't been married?"</p> + +<p>She stiffened and there was a slight movement as if drawing back. She +did not answer.</p> + +<p>"I'm thirty-four and you're a little less than that." He paused and it +was more quietly, though none the less tensely that he asked: "Is it +your idea that we go through life like this?"</p> + +<p>She was gathering together the sheets of paper on her desk. She did not +speak.</p> + +<p>"You were angry at me—disappointed. I grant you, as I did at the time, +that it was a silly affair, not—not creditable. I tried to show you how +little it meant, how it had—just happened. Two years have passed; we +are still young people. I want to know—do you intend this to go on? Are +our whole lives to be spoiled by a mere silly episode?"</p> + +<p>She spoke then. "Mere silly episode," she said with a high little laugh, +"seems rather a slight way to dispose of the fact that you were untrue +to me." She folded her letter and was putting it in the envelope. It +would not go in and she refolded it with hands not steady.</p> + +<p>He did not speak until she had sealed the letter and was sitting there +looking down at her hands, rubbing them a little, as if her interest was +in them. "Marion," he asked, and his voice shook now, "doesn't it ever +seem to you that life is too valuable to throw away like this?" She made +no reply and angered by her unresponsiveness he added sharply: "It's +rather dangerous, you know."</p> + +<p>She looked up at him then. "Is this a threat?" she asked with a faint, +mocking smile.</p> + +<p>He moved angrily, starting to leave the room. "Have you no feeling?" he +broke out at her. "Is this all you <i>want</i> from life?"</p> + +<p>She colored and retorted: "It was not the way I expected to live when I +married you."</p> + +<p>He stood there doggedly for a moment, his face working with nervousness. +"I think then," he said roughly, "that we'd better be decent enough to +get a divorce!" At what he saw in her face he cried passionately: "Oh +no, you don't believe in divorce—but you believe in <i>this</i>!"</p> + +<p>"Was it <i>I</i> who brought it about?" she cried, stung to anger.</p> + +<p>She had risen and for an instant they stood there facing each other. +"Haven't you any humanity?" he shot rudely at her. "Don't you ever +<i>feel</i>?"</p> + +<p>She colored but drew back, in command of herself again. "I do not +desecrate my feelings," she said with composure; "I don't degrade my +humanity."</p> + +<p>"Feeling—humanity!" he sneered, and wheeled about and left the room.</p> + +<p>He started at once for his rehearsal. He was trembling with anger and +yet underneath that passion was an unacknowledged feeling of relief. It +had seemed that he had to do something; now he told himself that he had +done what he could. He walked slowly through the soft night, seeking +control. He was very bitter toward Marion, and yet in his heart he knew +that he had asked for what he no longer wanted. He quickened his step +toward the Lawrences', where they were to hold the rehearsal, where he +would find Ruth Holland.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_EIGHT" id="CHAPTER_EIGHT"></a>CHAPTER EIGHT</h2> + + +<p>After the maelstrom of passion had thrown her out where life left her +time to think about what she had felt, Ruth Holland would wonder whether +there was something in her that made her different from the good people +of the world. Through it all she did not have the feeling that it would +seem she would have; what she did did not make her feel as she knew, +when she came to think it out, she would be supposed to feel about such +a thing. In hours that would be most condemned she had had a simple +feeling of life as noble. What would be called the basest things she had +done had seemed to free something within her that made her more kind, +more generous, more tender, made her as a singing part of a fine, +beautiful world. Her degradation had seemed to burn away all that was +not pure, giving her a sense of being lifted up; it was as if through +this illicit love a spiritual fount was unsealed that made her +consciously one with life at its highest. Afterwards she wondered about +it, wondered whether she was indeed different from people who were good, +or whether it could be that hearts had been shown, not as they were, but +as it was deemed meet they should be shown.</p> + +<p>When she and Deane, with Edith and Will Blair, went home from the dance +that night, something new breathed through the night. It was hard to +join in the talk; she wanted to be alone, alone with that new stir. She +was gentle with Deane as they stood for a moment at the door. She felt +tender toward him. A little throb of excitement in her voice, the way +her eyes shone, made him linger there with her a moment or two. It was +as if he wanted to say something but the timid, clumsy words he spoke +just before leaving were, "That sure is a peach of a dress. You had them +all beat tonight, Ruth," and Ruth went into the house knowing now for +sure how impossible it would be ever to think of Deane "that way." In +the hour before she went to sleep what she meant by "that way" was a +more living thing than it had ever been before.</p> + +<p>The year which followed was not a happy one; it was a disturbed, a +fretted year; girlhood was too ruffled for contentment in the old +things, and yet she was not swept on. The social life of the town +brought her and Stuart Williams together from time to time. They always +had several dances together at the parties. It was those dances that +made the party for her. If he were not there, the evening was a dead +thing. When he was, something came to life in her that made everything +different. She would be excited; she had color; her eyes shone. It +made her gay, as an intoxicant may make one gay. Though when she +danced with him she went curiously silent; that stilled her. After +going home she would lie awake for hours, live over every slightest +thing he had said, each glance and move. It was an unreal world +of a new reality—quickened, heightened, delirious, promising.</p> + +<p>In that first year she sometimes wondered if it was what would be called +a flirtation. It did not seem so to her, and it was true that after that +first night at the Country Club the quality of flirtation somehow fell +away. Afterwards, when it became the thing that made her life, she +looked back in wonderment to the light little way it had begun. That too +did not seem as it should be—that a thing of such tremendous and +ruthless power, a thing that swept her whole life on at its will, should +come into life in a way so slight, so light, so much of chance. At first +it was just the faintest little breath; but it stirred something, it +grew, it became a great wind that there was no force anywhere to combat. +In that first year there was between them, unspoken of, a consciousness +of feeling touched in the other, a sense of the disturbance, the pull. +It seemed very wonderful to her that just his presence in the room could +make her feel alive in a way she had never felt alive before. And it was +sweet almost beyond belief, it was intoxicating, to come to know that +her presence was that same strange wine to him. She had seen his eyes +anxiously rove a crowded room and stop with her, his face lighting. She +loved remembering his face once at a card party of the older crowd where +she had been tardily summoned by a disappointed hostess. He had been in +the room several minutes, she watching him unseen. He was not looking +anxiously about this time, as she had seen him do at the dancing +parties. She thought he looked tired as he and his wife came in, not as +if anticipating pleasure. Then he saw her and she never forgot that leap +of glad surprise in his eyes, the quick change in him, the new buoyancy.</p> + +<p>She would have supposed, thinking back to it afterward, that she would +have drawn back; that before feeling really broke through, a girl such +as she, reared as she had been, a part of such a society, a girl, as +they afterward said, who should have known right from wrong would, in +that time of its gathering, have drawn back from so shameful a thing as +love with another woman's husband. It was as mystifying to her that she +did not fight against it as it was that it should have come. She did not +understand the one nor the other. Certainly it was not as she would have +supposed it would be had she heard of such a thing. Something seemed to +have caught her up, to have taken her. She was appalled at times, but +the truth was that she was carried along almost without resistance; +ideas of resistance were there, but they were pale things, not charged +with power. She would suppose, had she known the story only through +hearing it, that she would have thought intensely and become wretched in +the thought of Mrs. Williams. Perhaps if Mrs. Williams had been a plain +little woman, or a sad looking one, that would have come home to her +harder. But one would not readily pity Marion Williams, or get the +feeling of wronging her. As Marion Averley she had been the reigning +girl of the town. Ruth, ten years younger, had not come far enough out +from her little girl's awe of Marion Averley, the young lady, to be +quick in getting the feeling of wronging Marion Williams, the wife. +Perhaps one would be more slow in getting a feeling of wronging the most +smartly dressed woman in the room than would be the case with the wife +dowdy or drab. Mrs. Williams, while not radiating happiness, seemed +somehow impervious to unhappiness, and certainly to any hurt another +woman could bring her. She had an atmosphere of high self-valuation. +While she never appeared to be having an especially good time she gave a +sense of being perfectly able to command a better one had it pleased her +to do so.</p> + +<p>People had supposed that Marion Averley would make a brilliant marriage. +Her grandfather had made his money in lumber, in those early days of +lumber kings on the Mississippi. Locally they were looked upon as rich +people. Marion had gone to a fashionable school, to Europe. People of +the town said there was nothing "local" about her. Other girls had been +as much away and yet would return seeming just a part of the town. That +was why everyone was surprised when the Averleys announced Marion's +engagement to Stuart Williams. He was distinctly local and his people +were less important than hers. He had come home from college and gone +into business. His father had a small canning factory, an industry that +for years had not grown much, remaining one of the small concerns in a +town of rapidly growing manufactories. Stuart went into business with +his father and very soon there were expansions, new methods; he brought +imagination to bear upon it, and a big fund of young man's energy, until +it rapidly came up from a "nice little business" to one of the things +that counted in the town. He had a talent for business; his imagination +worked that way and he was what they called a hustler. He soon became a +part of a number of things, both personal affairs and matters of public +concern. He came to be alluded to as one of the prominent young business +men. Even before Marion Averley married him people were saying that he +would make money.</p> + +<p>They liked her for marrying him. They said it showed that there was more +to her than they had supposed, that there was warmth she did not show. +For she must have married him for the good old reason that she had +fallen in love with him. Their engagement brought Stuart Williams into a +new social conspicuousness, though he had the qualities—in particular a +certain easy, sunny manner—that had made him popular all along. During +the engagement people spoke of the way Marion seemed to thaw out; they +liked her much better than they had in the days of being awed by her +sophistication, her aloofness.</p> + +<p>After their marriage the Williams' were leaders of the young married +set. Their house was the gayest place in town; Stuart Williams had the +same talent in hospitality that he had for business—growing, perhaps, +out of the same qualities. He was very generally and really deeply +liked; they called him a good fellow, a lovable chap. For about four +years people spoke of it as a successful marriage, though there were no +children. And then, just what it was no one knew, but the Williams' +began to seem different, going to their house became a different thing. +The people who knew Marion best had a feeling that she was not the same +after the visit of that gay little Southern matron whom she had known in +school at Washington. It was very gay at the Williams' through that +visit, and then Marion said she was tired out and they were going to +draw in for a little, and somehow they just never seemed to emerge from +that drawing in. Her friends wondered; they talked about how Stuart and +this friend of Marion's had certainly hit it off wonderfully; some of +them suspected, but Marion gave no confidences. She seemed to carry her +head higher than ever; in fact, in some curious way she seemed to become +Marion Averley again while Stuart Williams concentrated more and more +upon the various business affairs he was being drawn into. It came about +that the Williams' were less and less mentioned when the subject of +happy marriages was up, and when time had swung Ruth Holland and Edith +Lawrence into the social life of the town it was the analytical rather +than the romantically minded citizens who were talking about them.</p> + +<p>Perhaps life would have been quite another thing for a number of people +if the Country Club had not decided to replenish its treasury by giving +a play. Mrs. Lawrence was chairman of the entertainment committee. That +naturally brought Edith and Ruth into the play, and one night after one +of those periods of distraction into which the organizer of amateur +theatricals is swept it was Mrs. Lawrence who exclaimed, "Stuart +Williams! Why couldn't he do that part?"—and Stuart Williams, upon +learning who was in the cast, said he would see what he could do with +it.</p> + +<p>Again, at the close of the first rehearsal, as they stood about in the +hall at the Lawrences', laughing over mishaps, it was Mrs. Lawrence who +said, "You and Ruth go the same way, don't you, Stuart?"</p> + +<p>Tonight they were going that way after the final rehearsal. It was later +than usual; they went slowly, saying little. They had fallen silent as +they neared Ruth's home; they walked slowly and in silence outside the +fence; paused an instant at the gate, then, very slowly, started up the +walk which led to the big white square house and came to a stop beneath +the oak tree which was so near the house that its branches brushed the +upper window panes.</p> + +<p>They stood there silent; the man knew that he ought to go at once; that +in that silence the feeling which words had so thinly covered would +break through and take them. But knowing he should go seemed without +power to make him go. He watched the girl's slightly averted face. He +knew why it was averted. He felt sure that he was not alone in what he +felt.</p> + +<p>And so he stood there in the sweetness of that knowing, the sweetness of +that understanding why she held herself almost rigid like that, feeling +surging higher in him in the thought that she too was fighting feeling. +The breeze moved the hair on her temples; he could see the throb in her +uncovered throat, her thin white dress moving over her quick breathing. +Life was in her, and the desire for life. She seemed so tender, so +sensitive.</p> + +<p>He moved a step nearer her, unable to deny himself the sweetness of +confirming what it was so wonderful to think. "I won't be taking you +home tomorrow night," he said.</p> + +<p>She looked at him, then swiftly turned away, but not before he had seen +her eyes.</p> + +<p>"Shall you care?" he pressed it, unsteadily.</p> + +<p>He knew by her high head, her tenseness, that she was fighting something +back; and he saw the quivering of her tender mouth.</p> + +<p>She cared! She <i>did</i> care. Here was a woman who cared; a woman who +wanted love—his love; a woman for whom life counted, as it counted for +him. After barren, baffled days, days of denial and humiliation, the +sweetness of being desired possessed him overwhelmingly as they stood +there in the still, fragrant night before the darkened house.</p> + +<p>He knew that he must go; he <i>had</i> to go; it was go now, or—. But still +he just stood there, unable to do what he knew he should do, reason +trying to get hold of that moment of gathering passion, training +striving to hold life.</p> + +<p>It was she who brought them together. With a smothered passionate little +sob she had swayed toward him, and then she was in his arms and he was +kissing her wet eyes, that tender mouth, the slim throbbing throat.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_NINE" id="CHAPTER_NINE"></a>CHAPTER NINE</h2> + + +<p>There followed three years of happiness wrung from wretchedness, years +in which the splendor of love would blaze through the shame of +concealment, when joy was always breaking out through fear, when moments +of beautiful peace trembled there in the ugly web of circumstance. Life +was flooded with beauty by a thing called shameful.</p> + +<p>Her affairs as a girl went on just the same; the life on the surface did +not change. She continued as Ruth Holland—the girl who went to parties +with the boys of her own set, one of her particular little circle of +girls, the chum of Edith Lawrence, the girl Deane Franklin liked best. +But a life grew underneath that—all the time growing, crowding. She +appeared to remain a girl after passion had swept her over into +womanhood. To be living through the most determining, most intensifying +experience of life while she appeared only to be resting upon the +surface was the harassing thing she went through in those years before +reality came crashing through pretence and disgrace brought relief.</p> + +<p>She talked to but one person in those years. That was Deane. The night +he told her that he loved her she let him see.</p> + +<p>That was more than a year after the night Stuart Williams took her home +from that last rehearsal; Deane was through school now and had come home +to practice medicine. She had felt all along that once he was at home +for good she might have to tell Deane; not alone because he would +interfere with her meetings with Stuart, but because it seemed she could +not bear the further strain of pretending with him. And somehow she +would particularly hate pretending with Deane. Though the night she did +let him see it was not that there was any determination for doing so, +but because things had become too tense that night and she had no power +to go on dissembling.</p> + +<p>It began in irritation at him, the vicious irritation that springs out +against the person who upsets a plan he knows nothing about, and cannot +be told of.</p> + +<p>She had come in from an errand down town and was about to dress +hurriedly to go over to Edith's for dinner. She was going to make some +excuse for getting away from there early and would have an hour with +Stuart, one of those stolen hours that often crowded, agitated, a number +of the hours before it, one of those hours of happiness when fear always +stood right there, but when joy had a marvellous power to glow in an +atmosphere of ugly things. A few nights before she had tried to arrange +one of those times, and just as she was about to leave the house, saying +some vague thing about running in somewhere—there was no strict +surveillance on members of the Holland household—a friend who had been +very ill and was just beginning to go about had come to see her and she +had been obliged to sit there through the hour she had been living for, +striving to crowd down what she was feeling and appear delighted that +her friend was able to be about, chatting lightly of inconsequential +things while she could think of nothing but Stuart waiting for her, had +had to smile while she wanted to sob in the fury of disappointed +passion.</p> + +<p>The year had brought many disappointments like that, disappointments +which found their way farther into the spirit because they dared not +show on the surface. Of late there had been so many of them that it was +growing hard to hold from her manner her inner chafing against them. +There were times when all the people who loved her seemed trying to +throw things in her way, and it was the more maddening because blindly +done. It was hurting her relations with people; she hated them when they +blunderingly stepped in the way of the thing that had come to mean +everything to her.</p> + +<p>She was particularly anxious about this night for Stuart was going out +of town on a business trip and she would not see him again for more than +a week. It was her grandfather who made the first difficulty; as she was +going up the stairs he called, "You going over to the Lawrences' +tonight, Ruth?"</p> + +<p>When she had answered yes he continued: "It wouldn't be much out of your +way, would it, to run on over to the Allens'?"</p> + +<p>She hesitated; anything her grandfather asked of her was hard to refuse, +not only because she loved him and because he was old, but because it +hurt her to see how he missed the visiting around among his old friends +that his rheumatism had of late cut him off from.</p> + +<p>"Why—no," she answered, wondering just how she could get it in, for it +did take her out of her way, and old Mr. Allen would want to talk to +her; it was going to be hard to get away from Edith's anyway, and the +time would be so short, for Stuart would have to leave for his train at +half past nine. She quickly decided that she would go over there before +dinner, even though it made her a little late. Maybe she didn't need to +comb her hair, after all.</p> + +<p>She was starting up the stairs when her grandfather called: "Wait a +minute. Come here, Ruth."</p> + +<p>She came back, twirling the fingers of one hand nervously. Her +grandfather was fumbling in the drawer of his secretary. "I want you to +take this letter—tell him I got it yesterday—" He stopped, peering at +the letter; Ruth stood there with hand clenched now, foot tapping. "Why +no, that's not the one," he rambled on; "I must have put it up above +here. Or could it—"</p> + +<p>"Oh, I'm in a hurry, grandfather!" cried the girl.</p> + +<p>He closed the drawer and limped over to his chair. "Just let it go, +then," he said in the hurt voice of one who has been refused a thing he +cannot do for himself.</p> + +<p>"Now, grandfather!" Ruth cried, swiftly moving toward him. "How can you +be so <i>silly</i>—just because I'm a little nervous about being late!"</p> + +<p>"Seems to me you're always a little nervous about something lately," he +remarked, rising and resuming the leisurely search for the letter. "You +young folks make such hard work of your good times nowadays. Anybody'd +think you had the world on your shoulders."</p> + +<p>Ruth made no reply, standing there as quietly as she could, waiting +while her grandfather scanned a letter. "Yes, this is the one," he +finally said. "You tell him—" She had the letter and was starting for +the stairs while listening to what she was to tell, considering at the +same time how she'd take the short cut across the high-school ball +park—she could make it all right by half past six. Feeling kindly +toward her grandfather because it was going to be all right, after all, +she called back brightly: "Yes, grandfather, I'll get it to him; I'll +run right over there with it first thing."</p> + +<p>"Oh, look here, Ruth!" he cried, hobbling out to the hall. "Don't do +that! I want you to go in the evening. He'll not be home till eight +o'clock. He's going—"</p> + +<p>"Yes, grandfather," she called from the head of the stairs in a +peculiarly quiet voice. "I see. It's all right."</p> + +<p>Then she could not find the things she wanted to put on. There was a +button off her dress and her thread broke in sewing it. She was holding +herself very tight when her mother came leisurely into the room and +stood there commenting on the way Ruth's hair was done, on the +untidiness of her dressing-table, mildly reproving her for a growing +carelessness. Then she wandered along about something Ruth was to tell +Edith's mother. Ruth, her trembling fingers tangling her thread, was +thinking that she was always to tell somebody something somebody else +had said, take something from one person to another. The way people were +all held together in trivial things, that thin, seemingly purposeless +web lightly holding them together was eternally throwing threads around +her, keeping her from the one thing that counted.</p> + +<p>"There!" escaped from her at last, breaking the thread and throwing the +dress over her head. Her mother sauntered over to fasten it for her, +pausing to note how the dress was wearing out, speaking of the new one +Ruth must have soon, and who should make it. "Oh, I'm in a <i>hurry</i>, +mother!" Ruth finally cried when her mother stopped to consider how the +dress would have had more style if, instead of buttoning down the back, +it had fastened under that fold.</p> + +<p>"Really, my dear," Mrs. Holland remonstrated, jerking the dress straight +with a touch of vexation, "I must say that you are getting positively +peevish!"</p> + +<p>As Ruth did not reply, and the mother could feel her body tightening, +she went on, with a loving little pat as she fastened the dress over the +hip, "And you used to be the most sweet-tempered girl ever lived."</p> + +<p>Still Ruth made no answer. "Your father was saying the other night that +he was sure you couldn't be feeling well. You never used to be a bit +irritable, he said, and you nearly snapped his head off when he +wanted—just to save you—to drive you over to Harriett's."</p> + +<p>Though the dress was all fastened now, Ruth did not turn toward her +mother. Mrs. Holland added gently: "Now that wasn't reasonable, was it?"</p> + +<p>The tear Ruth had been trying to hold back fell to the handkerchief she +was selecting. No, it wouldn't seem reasonable, of course; her father +had wanted to help her, and she had been cross. It was all because she +couldn't tell him the truth—which was that she hadn't told him the +truth, that she wasn't going to Harriett's for an hour, that she was +going to do something else first. There had been a moment of actually +hating her father when, in wanting to help her, he stepped in the way of +a thing he knew nothing about. That, it seemed, was what happened +between people when things could not be told.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Holland, seeing that Ruth's hand was unsteady, went on, in a voice +meant to soothe: "Just take it a little easier, dear. What under the sun +have you got to do but enjoy yourself? Don't get in such a flutter about +it." She sighed and murmured, from the far ground of experience: "Wait +till you have a real worry."</p> + +<p>Ruth was pinning on her hat. She laughed in a jerky little way and said, +in a light voice that was slightly tremulous: "I did get a little +fussed, didn't I? But you see I wanted to get over to Edith's before +dinner time. She wants to talk to me about her shower for Cora +Albright."</p> + +<p>"But you have all evening to talk that over, haven't you?" calmly +admonished Mrs. Holland.</p> + +<p>"Why, of course," Ruth answered, a little crisply, starting for the +door.</p> + +<p>"Your petticoat's showing," her mother called to her. "Here, I'll pin it +up for you."</p> + +<p>"Oh, let it <i>go</i>!" cried Ruth desperately. "I'll fix it at Edith's," she +added hurriedly.</p> + +<p>"Ruth, are you crazy?" her mother demanded. "Going through the streets +with your petticoat showing! I guess you're in no such hurry as that."</p> + +<p>It was while she was pinning up the skirt that Mrs. Holland remarked: +"Oh, I very nearly forgot to tell you; Deane's going over there for you +tonight."</p> + +<p>Then to the mother's utter bewilderment and consternation Ruth covered +her face with her hands and burst into sobs.</p> + +<p>"Why, my <i>dear</i>," she murmured; "why, Ruth <i>dear</i>, what <i>is</i> the +matter?"</p> + +<p>Ruth sank down on the bed, leaning her head against the foot of it, +shaking with sobs. Her mother stood over her murmuring, "Why, my dear, +what <i>is</i> the matter?"</p> + +<p>Ruth, trying to stop crying, began to laugh. "I didn't know he was +coming! I was so surprised. We've quarrelled!" she gulped out +desperately.</p> + +<p>"Why, he was just as natural and nice as could be over the 'phone," said +Mrs. Holland, pouring some water in the bowl that Ruth might bathe her +eyes. "Really, my dear, it seems to me you make too much of things. He +wanted to come here, and when I told him you were going to be at +Edith's, he said he'd go there. I'm sure he was just as nice as could +be."</p> + +<p>Ruth was bathing her eyes, her body still quivering a little. "Yes, I +know," she spluttered, her face in the water; "he is that way +when—after we've quarrelled."</p> + +<p>"I didn't know you and Deane ever did quarrel," ventured Mrs. Holland. +"When you do, I'll warrant it's your fault." She added, significantly: +"Deane's mighty good to you, Ruth." She had said several things like +that of late.</p> + +<p>"Oh, he's good enough," murmured Ruth from the folds of the towel.</p> + +<p>"Now, powder up a little, dear. There! And now just take it a little +easy. Why, it's not a hit like you to be so——touchy."</p> + +<p>She followed Ruth downstairs. "Got that letter?" the grandfather called +out from his room.</p> + +<p>"I'll send Ted with it, father," Mrs. Holland said hastily, seeing +Ruth's face.</p> + +<p>A sudden surge of love for her mother almost swept away Ruth's +self-command. It was wonderful that some one wanted to help her. It made +her want to cry.</p> + +<p>Her mother went with her to the porch. "You look so nice," she said +soothingly. "Have a good time, dearie."</p> + +<p>Ruth waved her hand without turning her face to her mother.</p> + +<p>Tears were right there close all through that evening. The strain within +was so great—(what <i>was</i> she going to do about Deane?)—that there was +that impulse to cry at the slightest friendliness. She was flushed and +tired when she reached Edith's, and Mrs. Lawrence herself went out and +got her a glass of water—a fan, drew up a comfortable chair. The whole +house seemed so kindly, so favoring. Contrasted with her secret turmoil +the reposefulness, friendliness of the place was so beautiful to her +that taut emotions were ready to give. Yet all the while there was that +inner distress about how to get away, what to say. The affectionate +kindness of her friends, the appeal of their well-ordered lives as +something in which to rest, simply had no reach into the thing that +dominated her.</p> + +<p>And now finally she had managed it; Deane had come before she could +possibly get away but she had said she would have to go up to +Harriett's, that she must not be too late about it. Edith had protested, +disappointed at her leaving so early, wanting to know if she couldn't +come back. That waved down, there had been a moment of fearing Edith was +going to propose going with her; so she had quickly spoken of there +being something Harriett wanted to talk to her about. She had a warm, +gentle feeling for Edith when finally she saw the way clearing. That was +the way it was, gratitude to one who had moved out of her way gave her +so warm a feeling that often she would impulsively propose things +letting her in for future complications.</p> + +<p>As she was saying goodnight there was another moment of wanting terribly +to cry. They were so good to her, so loving—and what would they think +if they knew? Her voice was curiously gentle in taking leave of them; +there was pain in that feeling of something that removed her from these +friends who cared for her, who were so good to her.</p> + +<p>She asked Deane if he hadn't something else to do for an hour, someone +to run in and see while she visited with Harriett. When he readily fell +in with that, saying he hadn't been to the Bennetts' since coming home +and that it would be a good time to go there, she grew suddenly gay, +joking with him in a half tender little way, a sort of affectionate +bantering that was the closest they came to intimacy.</p> + +<p>And then at the very last, after one thing and then another had been +disposed of, and just as her whole being was fairly singing with relief +and anticipation, the whole thing was threatened and there was another +of those moments of actually hating one who was dear to her.</p> + +<p>They had about reached the corner near Harriett's where she was going to +insist Deane leave her for the Bennetts' when they came upon her brother +Ted, slouching along, whistling, flipping in his hand the letter he was +taking to his grandfather's old friend.</p> + +<p>"Hello," he said, "where y' goin'?"</p> + +<p>"Just walking," said Ruth, and able to say it with a carelessness that +surprised her.</p> + +<p>"Oh," said Ted, with a nonchalance that made her want to scream out some +awful thing at him, "thought maybe you were making for Harriett's. She +ain't home."</p> + +<p>She would like to have pushed him away! She would have liked to push him +way off somewhere! She dug her nails down into her palm; she could +hardly control the violent, ugly feeling that wanted to leap out at +him—at this "kid brother" whom she adored. Why need he have said just +<i>that</i>?—that particular thing, of all things! But she was saying in +calm elderly sister fashion, "Don't lose that letter, Ted," and to +Deane, as they walked on, "Harriett's at a neighbor's; I'll run in for +her; she's expecting me to."</p> + +<p>But it left her weak; her legs were trembling, her heart pounding; there +seemed no power left at the center of her for holding herself in one.</p> + +<p>And now she was rid of Deane! She had shaken them all off; for that +little time she was free! She hurried toward the narrow street that +trailed off into the country. Stuart would be waiting for her there. Her +joy in that, her eagerness, rushed past the dangers all around her, the +thing that possessed her avoiding thought of the disastrous +possibilities around her as a man in a boat on a narrow rushing river +would keep clear of rocks jutting out on either side. Sometimes the +feeling that swept her on did graze the risks so close about her and she +shivered a little. Suppose Harriett were at the Bennetts' when Deane got +there! Suppose Deane said something when they got home; suppose Ted said +something that wouldn't fit in with what Deane said; suppose Deane got +to Harriett's too soon—though she had told him not to be there till +after half past nine. Hadn't Deane looked queer at the last? Wouldn't he +suspect? Wouldn't everybody suspect, with her acting like this? And once +there was the slightest suspecting....</p> + +<p>But she was hurrying on; none of those worries, fears, had power to lay +any real hold on the thing that possessed her; faster and faster she +hurried; she had turned into the little street, had passed the last +house, turned the bend in the road, and yes! there was Stuart, waiting +for her, coming to her. Everything else fell away. Nothing else in the +world mattered.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_TEN" id="CHAPTER_TEN"></a>CHAPTER TEN</h2> + + +<p>Ten o'clock found Ruth sitting on the porch at home with her mother and +father, her brother Cyrus and Deane. Her father was talking with Deane +about the operation that had been performed on the book-keeper in Mr. +Holland's bank; Cyrus talked of somebody's new touring car, the number +of new machines there were in town that year; her mother wondered where +some of the people who had them got the money for them. The talk moved +placidly from one thing to another, Mr. Holland saying at intervals that +he must be going to bed, his wife slapping at the mosquitoes and talking +about going inside—both delaying, comfortably stupid.</p> + +<p>Ruth was sitting on the top step leaning back against the porch pillar. +She said little, she was very tired now. Something in this dragging talk +soothed her. It seemed safe just because it was so commonplace; it was +relaxing. She was glad to be back to it—to the world of it; in +returning safely to it she felt a curiously tender feeling for it, a +perhaps absurd sense of having come through something for it. She could +rest in it while within herself she continued to live back in that hour +with Stuart, that hour which struggle and fear and the passionate +determination to have in spite of everything had made terribly intense. +They had closed themselves in with that little while of love, holding it +apart from everything else, and yet every minute of it was charged with +the consciousness of what was all around them. They had clung to that +hour with a desperate passion, the joy of the moment that was there +always stabbed with pain for a moment passing. At the last they had +clung to each other as if time too—time, over which they had no +control—was going to beat them apart. So much had been hard that in +returning she had a warm feeling of gratitude to all of them for not +making it harder for her, not questioning, exposing her; relief was so +great that they were all newly dear for thus letting her alone. She had +managed all right with Deane, the clumsy arrangement she had been forced +into appeared to have just that haphazardness which characterizes most +of the arrangements of life. Her mother had merely asked what the +Lawrence's had for dinner; her father joked about the way she had +trained the roses in the back yard. Strangely enough instead of feeling +she had outraged them, been unworthy this easy, affectionate +intercourse, she had a sense, now that she had again come through a +precarious thing safely, of having saved them from something they knew +not of, a strange lifted-up feeling of bearing something for them. +Certainly that would not seem the feeling she should be having, but +there was the odd part of it: the feelings she had were so seldom those +she would expect herself to have.</p> + +<p>Her mother and father had gone indoors; Cyrus sat out there with her and +Deane for a time. Ruth did not love Cyrus as she loved Ted; he had +always had too superior a manner with her for her feeling to be more +than the perfunctory thing which sometimes passes for personal affection +in families. It was simply that she had never admitted, even to herself, +that she did not love him. He belonged to the set just older than +Ruth's, though she and Deane and their friends were arriving now at the +time of ceasing to be a separate entity as the young crowd and were +being merged in the group just above them. That contributed to Cyrus's +condescension, he being tempered for condescension.</p> + +<p>When she and Deane were alone the talk lagged, Ruth sitting there at the +head of the steps leaning against the pillar, he a few steps below her, +sprawled out in awkward boyish fashion, looking up at her from time to +time as she said something. Her silence did not make him feel cut off +from her; the things she said were gently said; her tired smile was +sweet. He spoke several times of going, but lingered. He was held by +something in Ruth; it stirred something in him, not knowing that he was +drawn by what another man had brought into life. He drew himself up and +stole timid glances at Ruth as she looked out into the night, feeling +something new in her tonight, something that touched the feeling that +had all the time been there in him, growing as he grew, of itself +waiting for the future as simply and naturally as all maturing things +wait for the future. Ruth was the girl he had all the time cared for; he +was shy about emotional things—awkward; he had had almost no emotional +life; he had all the time been diffident about what she made him feel +and so they had just gone along for a little time longer than was usual +as boy and girl. But something sweet, mysterious, exhaling from her +tonight liberated the growing, waiting feeling in him. It took him as he +had not been taken before; he watched Ruth and was stilled, moved, +drawn.</p> + +<p>Finally, as if suddenly conscious of a long silence, she turned to him +with something about the plans for Cora Albright's wedding—she was to +be a bridesmaid and he an usher. She went on talking of the man Cora was +to marry, a man she met away from home and had fallen desperately in +love with. He associated the light of her face, the sweetness of her +voice, with the things of romance of which she talked. All in a moment +his feeling for her, what her strange, softened mood touched in him, +leaped up, surging through him, not to be stayed. He moved nearer her. +"You know, Ruth," he said, in queer, jerky voice, "<i>I</i> love you."</p> + +<p>She gave a start, drew a little back and looked at him with a certain +startled fixity as if he had stopped all else in her. For the moment she +just looked at him like that, startled, fixed.</p> + +<p>"Could you care for me at all, Ruth?" he asked wistfully, and with a +bated passionateness.</p> + +<p>And then she moved, and it seemed that feeling, too, moved in her again; +there was a flow of emotions as she sat looking at him now. And then her +strangely shining eyes were misty; her face quivered a little and very +slowly she shook her head.</p> + +<p>"Don't do that, Ruth," he said quickly, in a voice sharp with pain. +"Don't do that! You don't <i>know</i>—maybe you hadn't thought about +it—maybe—" He broke off, reached out for her hands, and could only +stammer, "Oh, Ruth!—I love you so!"</p> + +<p>He had her hands; he was clutching them very tight; he looked up at her +again, imploring. She started to shake her head again, but did not +really do it. She seemed about to speak, but did not. What could she say +to Deane—how make him understand?—unless she told him. She thought of +the years she had known him, how much they had been together, how good +he had been to her. Again her eyes were misty. It was all so tangled. +There was so much pain.</p> + +<p>Feeling her softening, her tenderness, he moved nearer, her two hands +pressed together so tight in his that it hurt her. "It wouldn't be so +bad, would it, Ruth?" he urged wistfully, with a little laugh that broke +with emotion. "You and I—mightn't life go pretty well for us?"</p> + +<p>She turned away, looking out into the night. Feeling something in her +that he did not understand he let her hands go. She put one of them up, +still further averting her face, lost to him in the picture forming +itself before her of how life would be if love came right; what it would +mean not to have to hide, but to have those who cared for her happy in +her happiness; what it would mean to give herself to love without fear, +to wear her joy proudly before the world, revealing her womanhood. She +was not thinking of what life with Deane would be but of what love that +could have its place would be: telling her mother and father and Edith, +being able to show the pride of being loved, the triumph of loving. +Sitting there, turning her face from this friend who loved her, she +seemed to be turning it to the years awaiting her, years of desperately +clutching at happiness in tension and fear, not understood because +unable to show herself,—afraid, harassed, perhaps disgraced. She wanted +to take her place among women who loved and were loved! She did not want +to be shut away from her friends, not seeming to understand what she +understood so well. This picture of what life would be if love could +have its place brought home to her what it meant to love and perpetually +conceal, stealing one's happiness from the society in which one lived. +Why could it not have gone right for her too, as it had for Cora and +would for Edith? She too wanted a wedding, she too wanted rejoicing +friends.</p> + +<p>She hid her face in her hands. Her body was quivering.</p> + +<p>The boy's arm stole round her shoulders. She was feeling—maybe she did +care. "Ruth," he whispered, "love does mean something to you, doesn't +it?"</p> + +<p>She raised her head and looked at him. And that look was a thing Deane +Franklin never forgot; all the years did not blur his memory of it—that +flaming claim for love that transformed her face.</p> + +<p>And then it was lost in contrition, for she saw what he had seen, and +what he hoped from that; in her compunction for having let him see what +was not for him, the tender, sorrowing look, the impulsive outreaching +of her hand, there was the dawn of understanding.</p> + +<p>At first he was too bewildered to find words. Then: "You care for some +one else?" he groped unbelievingly.</p> + +<p>She looked away, but nodded; her tears were falling.</p> + +<p>He moved a little away and then sat there quite still. A breeze had come +up and the vines beat against the porch, making a sound that like the +flaming look of a moment ago he never forgot.</p> + +<p>She knew that he must be wondering; he knew her life there, or what +seemed her life. He must be wondering who it was she cared for like +that.</p> + +<p>She laid her hand upon his arm; and when he turned to her she did not +say anything at all, but the appeal that looked through pain perhaps +went where words could not have gone.</p> + +<p>"But you're not happy!" he exclaimed, in a sort of harsh exulting in +that.</p> + +<p>She shook her head; her eyes were brimming over.</p> + +<p>He looked away from her, his own hurt and surprise rousing a savage +thing in him that did not want to do what the pleading pain of her eyes +so eloquently asked of him. He had always thought that <i>he</i> was to have +Ruth. Well, he was not to have her—there were ugly things which, in +that first moment, surged into his disappointment. Some one else was to +have her. But she was not happy! Defeated feeling wrenched its own sorry +satisfaction from that.</p> + +<p>"Why aren't you happy?" he asked of her abruptly, roughly.</p> + +<p>She did not answer, and so he had to look at her. And when he saw Ruth's +face his real love for her broke through the ugliness of thwarted +passion. "Can't you tell me, Ruth?" he asked gently.</p> + +<p>She shook her head, but the concern of his voice loosed feeling she was +worn out with holding in. Her eyes were streaming now.</p> + +<p>His arm went round her shoulder, gently, as if it would shield, help. +His love for her wrenched itself free—for that moment, at least,—from +his own hurt. "Maybe I can help you, Ruth," he was murmuring.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_ELEVEN" id="CHAPTER_ELEVEN"></a>CHAPTER ELEVEN</h2> + + +<p>He went away from there that night not knowing more than that; it was +merely that she let him see. He knew now that there was some big thing +in her life he had known nothing about; that he had not understood Ruth, +though he had known her through all the years and had thought he knew +her so well. He was bewildered, his pain was blunted in that +bewilderment. There was a sick sense of life as all different, but he +was too dazed then for the pain that came later with definite knowing. +He went home that night and because he could not sleep tried to read a +medical book; usually that took all his mind, for the time other things +would not exist for him. But that was not true tonight; that world of +facts could not get him; he lived right on in the world of his own +feeling. He was not to have Ruth; he did not seem able to get a real +sense of that either, there was just a sick feeling about it rather than +actual realization, acceptance. And what did it mean? Surely he knew +Ruth's life, the people she went with; it was always he, when he was at +home, Ruth went about with. Someone away from home? But she had been +very little away from home. Who could it be? He went over and over that. +It came to seem unreal; as if there were some misunderstanding, some +mistake. And yet, that look.... His own disappointment was at times +caught up into his marvel at her; that moment's revelation of what her +caring could be was so wonderful as to bear him out of the fact that it +was not for him she cared. That was the way it was all through, his love +for her deepening with his marvel at her, the revelation of what she +felt for another man claiming more and more of himself for her. It was a +thing he would have scoffed at if told of, it was a thing he could not +somehow justify even to himself, but it was true that the more he saw of +what love meant to Ruth the more Ruth came to mean to him.</p> + +<p>In those next few months, the months before he actually knew, there were +times when he could almost persuade himself that there was something +unreal about it all, torturous wonderings as to who the man could be +trailing off into the possibility of there being no man, because he knew +of none; sometimes he tried to persuade himself that this passionate +feeling he had glimpsed in Ruth was a thing apart from any particular +man—for who <i>was</i> the man? Sometimes he could, for a moment, let in the +hope that since she could care like that she would care for him. Though +he more than half knew he deluded himself in that; there was, now that +his eyes were opened, that in Ruth's manner to indicate something in her +life which did not appear on the surface. He saw how nervous she +was—how strained at times, how worried and cross, which was not like +Ruth at all. There were times when her eyes were imploring, times when +they were afraid, again there were moments of that lovely calm, when +feeling deep and beautiful radiated from her, as it had that night they +sat on the steps and, drawn by something in her, he had to tell her that +he loved her. She did queer unreasonable things, would become +exasperated at him for apparently nothing at all. Once when she had told +him she was going somewhere with her mother he later saw her hurrying by +alone; another time she told him she was going to Edith's, and when he +called up there, wanting to take them both with him for a long trip he +had to make into the country, Edith said Ruth had not been there. +Thoughts that he did not like, that he could not believe, came into his +mind. He was not only unhappy, but he grew more and more worried about +Ruth.</p> + +<p>That went on for several months, and then one day late that same summer +she came to him with the truth. She came because she had to come. He was +a doctor; he was her friend; she was in a girl's most desperate plight +and she had no one else to turn to. It was in his office that she told +him, not looking at him, her face without color and drawn out of shape, +her voice quick, sharp, hard, so unlike Ruth's sweet voice that without +seeing her he would not have known it. She threw out the bare facts at +him as she sat there very straight, hands gripped. He was stupefied at +first, but it was fury which then broke through, the fury of knowing it +was <i>this</i>, that not only was he not to have Ruth, but that another man +<i>had</i> her, the fury that rose out of the driving back of all those loose +ends of hope that had eased pain a little. And <i>Ruth</i>—<i>this</i>! He little +knew what things he might not have said and done in those first moments +of failing her, turning on her because he himself was hurt beyond his +power to bear. And then Ruth spoke to him. "But I thought you believed +in love, Deane," she said, quietly.</p> + +<p>"<i>Love!</i>" he brutally flung back at her.</p> + +<p>"Yes, Deane, love," she said, and the simplicity, the dignity of her +quiet voice commanded him and he had to turn from himself to her. She +was different now; she looked at him, steadily, proudly. Out of the +humiliation of her situation she raised a proud face for love; love +could bring her disgrace, it could not strip her of her own sense of the +dignity of loving. Her power was in that, in that claim for love that +pain and humiliation could not beat back.</p> + +<p>"I notice <i>he's</i> not here," he sneered, still too overwhelmed to be won +from his own rage to her feeling.</p> + +<p>"I thought it better for me to come," she said simply, and as she said +it and he remembered her drawn, wretched face in telling him, he was +quieted a little by a sense of what it had cost her to come. "Because," +she added, "you're my friend, you know."</p> + +<p>He did not say anything, miserably wondering what she now thought of him +as her friend.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Deane," she broke out, "don't be hard! If you could know what he's +suffering! Being a man—being a little older—what's that? If you can +understand me, Deane, you've got to understand him, too!"</p> + +<p>He stood there in silence looking at Ruth as, looking away from him now, +she brooded over that. In this hour of her own humiliation her appeal +was for the man who had brought it upon her. "How you love him!" escaped +from him, in bitterness, and yet marvelling.</p> + +<p>She turned to him then in her swift way, again, as on that night of his +first seeing, her face transformed by that flaming claim for love; it +was as if life was shining triumphant through the cloud of misery it had +brought down around her. He could not rage against that look; he had no +scorn for it. It lighted a country between them which words could not +have undarkened. They came together there in that common understanding +of the power and beauty of love. He was suddenly ashamed, humbled, +feeling in her love a quality upon which no shameful circumstance could +encroach. And after that she found relief in words, the words she had +had to deny herself so long. It was as if she found it wonderfully good +to talk, in some little measure linking her love, as love wants to link +itself, with the other people of the world, coming within the human +unit. Things which circumstances had prisoned in her heart, too +intensified by solitude, leaped out like winged things let loose. But in +that hour of talking with him, though words served her well, it was that +proud, flaming claim for love which again and again lighted her face +that brought him into understanding, winning him for her against his own +love of her.</p> + +<p>In the year which followed, that last year before circumstances closed +in too tight and they went away, it was he who made it possible for Ruth +to move a little more freely in the trap in which she found herself. He +helped her in deceiving her family and friends, aided them in the ugly +work of stealing what happiness they could from the society in which +they lived. He did not like doing it. Neither did he like attending the +agonies of child-birth, or standing impotently at the bed of the dying. +It might seem absurd, in trying to explain one's self, to claim for this +love the inevitability of the beginning and the end of life, and yet, +seeing it as he saw it he did think of it, not as a thing that should or +should not be, but as a thing that was; not as life should or should not +be lived, but as life. This much he knew: that whatever they might have +been able to do at the first, it had them now. They were in too powerful +a current to make a well considered retreat to shoals of safety. No +matter what her mood might have been in the beginning, no matter what +she could have done about it then, Ruth was mastered not master now. +Love <i>had</i> her—he saw that too well to reason with her. What he saw of +the way all other people mattered so much less than the passion which +claimed her made him feel, not that Ruth was selfish, but that the +passion was mastering; the way she deceived made him feel, not that she +was deceitful, but that love like that was as unable to be held back in +the thought of wrong to others as in the consideration of safety for +one's self; the two were equally inadequate floodgates. Not that those +other things did not matter—he knew how they did make her suffer—but +that this one thing mattered overwhelmingly more was what he felt in +Ruth in those days when she would be thought to be with him and would be +with Stuart Williams.</p> + +<p>For himself that was a year of misery. He saw Ruth in a peculiarly +intimate way, taken as he was into the great intimacy of her life. His +love for her deepened with his knowing of her; and anxiety about her +preyed upon him all the time, passionate resentment that it should have +gone like that for her, life claiming her only, as it seemed, to destroy +her.</p> + +<p>He never admitted to himself how much he really came to like Stuart +Williams. There seemed something quixotic in that; it did not seem +natural he should have any sympathy with this man who not only had +Ruth's love, but was endangering her whole life. Yet the truth was that +as time went on he not only came to like him but to feel a growing +concern for him.</p> + +<p>For the man changed in that last year. It was not only that he looked +older—harassed, had grown so much more silent, but Deane as a physician +noticed that he was losing weight and there was a cough that often made +him look at him sharply. A number of times Ruth said, "I don't think +Stuart's well," but she looked so wretched in saying it that he always +laughed at her. The Williams' were not patients of his, so he felt that +professional hesitance, even though he thought it foolish +professionalism, in himself approaching Stuart about his health. Once +when he seemed particularly tired and nervous Deane did venture to +suggest a little lay-off from work, a change, but Stuart had answered +irritably that he couldn't stop work, and didn't want to go away, +anyhow.</p> + +<p>It was almost a year after the day Ruth came to him steeled for telling +what had to be told that the man of whom she that day talked came to +tell him what he had been suspecting, that he had tuberculosis and would +have to take that lay-off Deane had been hinting at. It seemed it was +either go away or die, probably, he added, with an attempted laugh, it +was go away and die, but better go away, he thought, than stay there and +give his friends an exhibition in dying.</p> + +<p>They talked along over the surface of it, as is people's way, Deane +speaking mildly of tuberculosis, how prevalent, how easily controlled, +how delightful Arizona was, the charms of living out-of-doors, and all +the time each of them knew that the other was not thinking of that at +all, but thinking of Ruth.</p> + +<p>Finally, bracing himself as for a thing that was all he could do, Stuart +spoke of her. "Ruth said she was coming in to see you about something +this afternoon. I thought I'd get in first and tell you. I wondered what +you'd think—what we'd better do—"</p> + +<p>His voice trailed off miserably. He turned a little away and sat there +in utter dejection.</p> + +<p>And as he looked at him it came to Deane that love could be the most +ruthless, most terrible thing in the world. People talked to him +afterwards about this man's selfishness in taking his own pleasure, his +own happiness, at the cost of everyone else. He said little, for how +could he make real to anyone else his own feeling about what he had seen +of the man's suffering, utter misery, as he spoke of the girl to whom he +must bring new pain. Some one spoke to him afterwards of this "light +love" and he laughed in that person's face. He knew that it was love +bathed in pain.</p> + +<p>A new sense of just how hideous the whole thing was made him suddenly +demand: "Can't you—<i>do</i> anything about it? Isn't there any <i>way</i>?—any +way you can get a divorce?" he bluntly asked.</p> + +<p>"Mrs. Williams does not believe in divorce," was the answer, spoken with +more bitterness than Deane had ever heard in any voice before.</p> + +<p>Deane turned away with a little exclamation of rage, rage that one +person should have this clutch on the life of another, of two +others—and one of them Ruth—sickened with a sense of the waste and the +folly of it,—for what was <i>she</i> getting out of it? he savagely put to +himself. How could one get anything from life simply by holding another +from it?</p> + +<p>"Does she know anything about Ruth?" he asked with an abrupt turn to +Stuart.</p> + +<p>"She has mentioned her name several times lately and looked at me in +doing it. She isn't one to speak directly of things," he added with a +more subtle bitterness than that of a moment before. They sat there for +a couple of minutes in silence—a helpless, miserable silence.</p> + +<p>When, after that, Deane stepped out into the waiting-room he found Ruth +among those there; he only nodded to her and went back and told Stuart +that she was there. "But it's only three," said he helplessly, "and she +said she was coming at four."</p> + +<p>"Well, I suppose she came earlier than she intended," Deane replied, +about as helplessly, and went over and stood looking out the window. +After a moment he turned. "Better get it over with, hadn't you! She's +got to be told," he said, a little less brusquely, as he saw the man +wince,—"better get it over with."</p> + +<p>Stuart was silent, head down. After a moment he looked up at Deane. It +was a look one would turn quickly away from. Again Deane stood looking +from the window. He was considering something, considering a thing that +would be very hard to do. After a moment he again abruptly turned +around. "Well, shall I do it!" he asked quietly.</p> + +<p>The man nodded in a wretched gratefulness that went to Deane's heart.</p> + +<p>So he called Ruth in from the waiting-room. He always remembered just +how Ruth looked that day; she had on a blue suit and a hat with flowers +on it that was very becoming to her. She looked very girlish; he had a +sudden sense of all the years he had known her.</p> + +<p>The smile with which she greeted Deane changed when she saw Stuart +sitting there; the instant's pleased surprise went to apprehension at +sight of his face. "What's the matter!" she asked sharply.</p> + +<p>"Stuart's rather bummed up, Ruth," said Deane.</p> + +<p>Swiftly she moved over to the man she loved. "What is it!" she demanded +in quick, frightened voice.</p> + +<p>"Oh, just a bad lung," Deane continued, not looking at them and speaking +with that false cheerfulness so hard fought for and of so little worth. +"Don't amount to much—happens often—but, well—well, you see, he has +to go away—for awhile."</p> + +<p>He was bending over his desk, fumbling among some papers. There was no +sound in the room and at last he looked up. Stuart was not looking at +Ruth and Ruth was standing there very still. When she spoke her voice +was singularly quiet. "When shall we go?" she asked.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_TWELVE" id="CHAPTER_TWELVE"></a>CHAPTER TWELVE</h2> + + +<p>Everyone who talked about it—and that meant all who knew anything about +it—blamed Deane Franklin for not stopping Ruth. Perhaps the reason he +did not try to defend himself was simply that he could not hope to show +how simple was his acceptance of the fact that it would have been +impossible to stop her. To understand that, one would have to have seen. +Oh, to be sure, he could have put obstacles in her way, tightened it +around her, but anything he might have done would only have gone to +making it harder for Ruth to get away; it would not have kept her from +going. And after all, he himself saw it as, if not the thing she should +do, the thing—it being what it was then—she could not help doing. But +one would have to have seen Ruth's face, would need to have been with +her in those days to understand that.</p> + +<p>As to warning her family, as he was so blamed by them and by all the +town for not doing, that would have seemed to him just one of those +things he could have thrown in her way. He did feel that he must try to +talk to her of what it was going to mean to her people; he saw that she +saw, that it had cruel power to make her suffer—and no power to stop +her. Nothing could have stopped her; she was like a maddened +thing—desperate, ruthless, indomitable. She would have fought the +world; she would have let the whole world suffer. Love's fear possessed +her utterly. He had had the feeling all along that it was rushing on to +disaster. He stood back from it now with something like awe: a force not +for him to control.</p> + +<p>And he, with it from within, was the only one who did not condemn Stuart +Williams for letting Ruth go. A man, and older than she, they scorned +him for letting an infatuated girl throw her life away like that. And it +was not only that he saw that the man was sick and broken; it was that +he saw that Stuart, just as Ruth, had gone in love beyond his power to +control love, that he was mastered, not master, now. And in those last +days, at least, it was Ruth who dominated him. There was something +terrible in the simplicity with which she saw that she had to go; she +never once admitted it to the things that were to be argued about. He +talked to her, they both tried to talk to her, about the danger of +getting tuberculosis. When he began on that she laughed in his face—and +he could not blame her. As if <i>that</i> could keep her! And as she laughed +her tortured eyes seemed mockingly to put to him—"What difference would +it make?"</p> + +<p>When, after it all came out, he did not join the outraged town in the +outcry against Ruth, when it further transpired that he had known about +her going and had not tried to stop it, he was so much blamed that it +even hurt his practice. There were women who said they would not +countenance a young physician who had the ideas of life he must have. +His own people were incensed at what they called the shameful advantage +Ruth had taken of him, holding that she, as an evil woman, had exerted +an influence over him that made him do what was against his own nature. +As to the Hollands, there had been a stormy hour with Mr. Holland and +Cyrus, and a far worse half hour with Mrs. Holland, when her utterly +stricken face seemed to stiffen in his throat the things he wanted to +say for Ruth, things that might have helped Ruth's mother. And then he +was told that the Hollands were through, not alone with Ruth, but with +him.</p> + +<p>But he was called there two years later when Mrs. Holland was dying. She +had been begging for him. That moved him deeply because of what in +itself it told of her long yearning for Ruth. After that there were a +number of years when he was not inside that gate. Cyrus did not speak to +him and the father might as well not have done so. He was amazed, then, +when Mr. Holland finally came to him about his own health. "I've come to +you, Deane," he said, "because I think you're the best doctor in town +now—and I need help." And then he added, and after that first talk this +was the closest to speaking of it they ever came: "And I guess you +didn't understand, Deane; didn't see it right. You were young—and +you're a queer one, anyway."</p> + +<p>Perhaps the reason he was never able to do better in explaining himself, +or in defending Ruth, was simply because in his own thinking about it +there were never arguments, or thoughts upon conduct, but always just +that memory of Ruth's face as he had seen it in revealing moments.</p> + +<p>Everyone saw something that Ruth should have done differently. In the +weeks they spent upon it they found, if not that they would be able to +forgive her, at least that they could think of her with less horror had +she done this, had she not done that. But Ruth lived through that week +seeing little beyond the one thing that she must get through it. She was +driven; she had to go ahead, bearing things somehow, getting through +them. She had a strange power to steel herself, to keep things, for the +most part, from really getting through to her. She could not go ahead if +she began letting things in. She sealed herself over and drove ahead +with the singleness of purpose, the exclusions, of any tormented thing. +It was all terrible, but it was as if she were frozen at the heart to +all save the one thing.</p> + +<p>She stayed through the week because it was the time of Edith Lawrence's +wedding and she was to be maid-of-honor. "I'll have to stay till after +Edith's wedding," she said to Deane and Stuart. Then on her way home +from Deane's office she saw that she could not go on with her part in +Edith's wedding. That she could see clearly enough despite the thing +driving her on past things she should be seeing. What would she say to +Edith?—how get <i>that</i> over?</p> + +<p>Someone was giving a party for Edith that night; every day now things +were being given for her. She must not go to them. How could she go? It +would be absurd to expect that of herself. She would have to tell Edith +that she could not be her bridesmaid. What a terrible thing Edith would +think that was! She would have to give a reason—a big reason. What +would she tell her?—that she had been called away?—but where? Should +she tell her the truth? Could she? Edith would find it almost +unbelievable. It was almost unbelievable to herself that her life could +be permeated by a thing Edith knew nothing about. It was another of the +things she would have said, had she known her story only through hearing +it, would not be possible. But it was with Edith as it was with her own +family—simply that such a thing would never occur to her. She winced in +thinking of it that way. A number of times she had been right on the +edge of a thing it seemed would surely be disclosing, but it strangely +happened she had never quite gone over that edge. For one thing, Edith +had been away from Freeport a good deal in those three years. Mrs. +Lawrence had opposed Edith's marrying so young, and had taken her to +Europe for one year, and in the last year they had spent part of the +time in California. In the last couple of months, since Edith's return +from the West, she had spoken of Ruth's not seeming like herself, of +fearing she was not well. She had several times hurt Edith's feelings by +refusing, for no apparent reason, to do things with her. But she had +always been able to make that up afterwards and in these plans for the +wedding she and Edith had been drawn close again.</p> + +<p>When she went over to the Lawrences' late that afternoon she had decided +that she would tell Edith. It seemed she must. She could not hope to +tell it in a way that would make Edith sympathize. There was not time +for that, and she dared not open herself to it. She would just say it +briefly, without any attempts at justifying it. Something like: "Edith, +there's been something you haven't known. I'm not like you. I'm not what +you think I am. I love Stuart Williams. We've loved each other for a +long time. He's sick. He's got to go away—and I'm going with him. +Good-bye, Edith,—and I hope the wedding goes just beautifully."</p> + +<p>But that last got through—got down to the feeling she had been trying +to keep closed, the feeling that had seemed to seal itself over the +moment she saw that she must go with Stuart. "I hope the wedding goes +just beautifully!" Somehow the stiff little phrase seemed to mean all +the old things. There was a moment when she <i>knew</i>: knew that she was +walking those familiar streets, that she would not be walking them any +more; knew that she was going over to Edith's—that all her life she had +been going over to Edith's—that she would not be going there any more; +knew that she was going away from home, that she loved her father and +mother—Ted—her grandfather—and Terror, her dog. Realization broke +through and flooded her. She had to walk around a number of blocks +before she dared go to Edith's.</p> + +<p>Miss Edith was up in her room, Emma, the maid, said, taking it for +granted that Ruth would go right up. Yes, she always did go right up, +she was thinking. She had always been absolutely at home at the +Lawrences'. They always wanted her; there were times of not wanting to +see anyone else, but it seemed both Edith and her mother always wanted +her. She paused an instant on the stairs, not able to push past that +thought, not able to stay the loving rush of gratefulness that broke out +of the thought of having always been wanted.</p> + +<p>She had a confused sense of Edith as barricaded by her trousseau. She +sat behind a great pile of white things; she had had them all out of her +chest for showing to some of her mother's friends, she said, and her +mother had not yet put them back. Ruth stood there fingering a +wonderfully soft chemise. It had come to her that she was not provided +with things like these. What would Edith think of her, going away +without the things it seemed one should have? It seemed to mark the +setting of her apart from Edith, though there was a wave of +tenderness—she tried to hold it back but could not—for dear Edith +because she did have so many things like this.</p> + +<p>Edith was too deep in the occupation of getting married to mark an +unusual absorption in her friend. She was full of talk about what her +mother's friends had said of her things, the presents that were coming +in, her dress for the party that night, the flowers for the wedding.</p> + +<p>It made Edith seem very young to her. And in her negligee, her hair +down, she looked childish. Her pleasure in the plans for her wedding +seemed like a child's pleasure. It seemed that hurting her in it would +be horribly like spoiling a child's party. Edith's flushed face, her +sparkling eyes, her little excited, happy laugh made it impossible for +Ruth to speak the words she had come to say.</p> + +<p>For three days it went on like that: going ahead with the festivities, +constantly thinking she would tell Edith as soon as they got home from +this place or that, waiting until this or that person had gone, then +dumb before the childish quality of Edith's excitement, deciding to wait +until the next morning because Edith was either too happy or too tired +to talk to her that night. That ingenuousness of her friend's pleasure +in her wedding made Ruth feel, not only older, but removed from her by +experience. Those days of her own frozen misery were days of tenderness +for Edith, that tenderness which one well along the road of living feels +for the one just setting feet upon the path.</p> + +<p>She was never able to understand how she did get through those days. It +was an almost unbelievable thing that, knowing, she was able, up to the +very last, to go right on with the old things, was able to talk to +people as if nothing were different, to laugh, to dance. There were +times when something seemed frozen in her heart and she could go on +doing the usual things mechanically, just because she knew so well how +to do them; then there were other times when every smallest thing was +stabbed through and through with the consciousness that she would not be +doing it again. And yet even then, she could go on, could appear the +same. They were days of a terrible power for bearing pain. When the +people of the town looked back to it, recalling everything they could +about Ruth Holland in those days, some of them, remembering a tenderness +in her manner with Edith, talked of what a hypocrite she was, while +others satisfied themselves of her utter heartlessness in remembering +her gaiety.</p> + +<p>It was two days before the wedding when she saw that she was not going +to be able to tell Edith and got the idea of telling Edith's mother. +Refusing to let herself consider what she would say when she began upon +it, she went over there early that morning—Edith would not be up.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Lawrence was at breakfast alone. Ruth kept herself hard against the +welcoming smile, but it seemed she was surely going to cry when, with a +look of concern, Mrs. Lawrence exclaimed: "Why, Ruth dear, how pale you +are!"</p> + +<p>She was telling Emma to bring Ruth a cup of coffee, talking of how +absurd it was the way the girls were wearing themselves out, how, for +that reason, she would be glad when it was all over. She spoke with +anxiety of how nervous Edith had grown in the past week, how tired she +was as a result of all the gaiety. "We'll have to be very careful of +her, Ruth," she said. "Don't go to Edith with any worries, will you? +Come to me. The slightest thing would upset Edith now."</p> + +<p>Ruth only nodded; she did not know what to say to that; certainly, after +that, she did not know how to say the things she had come to tell. For +what in the world could upset Edith so much as to have her +maid-of-honor, her life-long friend, the girl she cared for most, +refuse, two days before her wedding, to take her part in it?</p> + +<p>"And you can do more than anyone else, Ruth," Mrs. Lawrence urged. "You +know Edith counts so on you," she added with an intimate little smile.</p> + +<p>And again Ruth only nodded, and bent over her coffee. She had a feeling +of having been caught, of being helpless.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Lawrence was talking about the caterer for the wedding; she wished +it were another kind of salad. Then she wanted Ruth to come up and look +at her dress; she wasn't at all satisfied with the touch of velvet they +had put on it. After that some one else came in and Mrs. Lawrence was +called away. Ruth left without saying what she had come to say. She knew +now that she would not say it.</p> + +<p>She went home seeing that she must go through with the wedding. It was +too late now to do anything else. Edith would break down—her pleasure +in her wedding spoiled; no, Edith must be spared—helped. She must do +this for Edith. No matter what people thought of her, no matter what +Edith herself thought—though <i>wouldn't</i> she understand? Ruth considered +with a tortured wistfulness—the thing to do now was to go through with +it. Edith must look beautiful at her wedding; her happiness must be +unmarred. Later, when she was away with Will—happy—she could bear it +better. And she would understand that Ruth had wished to spare her; had +done it to help her. She held that thought with her—and drove ahead.</p> + +<p>There were moments in those last two days at home when it seemed that +now her heart was indeed breaking: a kindly note in the voice of her +father or mother—one of Ted's teasing jokes—little requests from her +grandfather; then doing things she had done for years and knowing while +doing them that she would not be doing them any more—the last time she +cut the flowers, and then that last night when she went to bed in her +own room, the room she had had ever since old enough to have a room of +her own. She lay there that night and listened to the branches of the +great oak tapping the house. She had heard that sound all her life; it +was associated with all the things of her life; it seemed to be speaking +for all those things—mourning for them. But the closest she came to +actual breaking down was that last day when her dog, laying his head +upon her knee, looked with trust and affection up into her eyes. As she +laid her hand upon his head his eyes seemed to speak for all the love +she had known through all the years. It seemed she could not bear it, +that her heart could not bear it, that she would rather die. But she did +bear it; she had that terrible power for bearing.</p> + +<p>If only she had told her mother, they said over and over again. But if +she told her mother she would not go—that was how she saw that; they +would not let her; or rather, she would have no strength left to fight +through their efforts to keep her. And then how could she tell her +mother when her mother would never in the world understand? She did not +believe that her mother could so much as comprehend that she could love +where she should not, that a girl like Ruth—or rather, <i>Ruth</i>—could +love a man it was not right she love. She had never talked with her +mother of real things, had never talked with her of the things of her +deepest feeling. She would not know how to do it now, even had she +dared.</p> + +<p>Her mother helped her dress for the wedding, talking all the while about +plans for the evening—just who was going to the church, the details +about serving. Ruth clung to the thought that those <i>were</i> the things +her mother was interested in; they always had been, surely they would +continue to be. In her desperation she tried to think that in those +little things her mother cared so much about she would, after a time, +find healing.</p> + +<p>With that cruel power for bearing pain she got away from home without +breaking down; she got through that last minute when she realized she +would not see Ted or her grandfather again,—they would not be at the +wedding and would be in bed when she returned from it, and she was to +leave that night on the two o'clock train. It was unbelievable to her +that she had borne it, but she had driven ahead through utter misery as +they commented on her dress, praising her and joking with her. That was +in the living-room and she never forgot just how they were grouped—her +grandfather's newspaper across his knees; Mary, who had worked for them +for years, standing at the door; her dog Terror under the reading +table—Ted walking round and round her. Deane was talking with her +father in the hall. Her voice was sharp as she went out and said: "We +must hurry, Deane."</p> + +<p>The wedding was unreal; it seemed that all those people were just making +the movements of life; there were moments when she heard them from a +long way off, saw them and was uncertain whether they were there. And +yet she could go on and appear about the same; if she seemed a little +queer she was sure it was attributed to natural feeling about her +dearest friend's wedding—to emotion, excitement. There were moments +when things suddenly became real: a moment alone with Edith in her room, +just before they went to the church; a moment when Mrs. Lawrence broke +down. Walking down the aisle, the words of the service—that was in a +vague, blurred world; so was Edith's strained face as she turned away, +and her own walking down the aisle with Deane, turning to him and +smiling and saying something and feeling as if her lips were frozen. Yet +for three hours she laughed and talked with people. Mrs. Williams was at +the reception; several times they were in the same group. Oh, it was all +unreal—terrible—just a thing to drive through. There was a moment at +the last when Edith clung to her, and when it seemed that she could not +do the terrible thing she was going to do, that she was <i>not</i> going to +do it—that the whole thing was some hideous nightmare. She wanted to +stay with Edith. She wanted to be like Edith. She felt like a little +girl then, just a frightened little girl who did not want to go away by +herself, away from everything she knew, from people who loved her. She +did not want to do that awful thing! She tried to pretend for a moment +she was not going to do it—just as sometimes she used to hide her face +when afraid.</p> + +<p>At last it was all over; she had gone to the train and seen Edith and +Will off for the East. Edith's face was pressed against the window of +the Pullman as the train pulled out. It was Ruth she was looking for; it +was to Ruth her eyes clung until the train drew her from sight.</p> + +<p>Ruth stood there looking after the train; the rest of their little group +of intimate friends had turned away—laughing, chattering, getting back +in the carriages. Deane finally touched Ruth's arm, for she was standing +in that same place looking after the train which had now passed from +sight. When he saw the woe of her wet face he said gruffly: "Hadn't we +better walk home?" He looked down at her delicate slippers, but better +walk in them than join the others looking like that. He supposed walking +would not be good for that frail dress; and then it came to him, and +stabbed him, that it didn't much matter. Probably Ruth would not wear +that dress again.</p> + +<p>She walked home without speaking to him, looking straight ahead in that +manner she all along had of ruthlessly pressing on to something; her +face now was as if it were frozen in suffering, as if it had somehow +stiffened in that moment of woe when Edith's face was drawn from her +sight. And she looked so tired!—so spent, so miserable; as if she ought +to be cared for, comforted. He took her arm, protectingly, yearningly. +He longed so in that moment to keep Ruth, and care for her! He wanted to +say things, but he seemed to be struck dumb, appalled by what it was +they were about to do. He held her arm close to him. She was going away! +Now that the moment had come he did not know how he was going to let her +go. And looking like this!—suffering like this—needing help.</p> + +<p>But he must not fail her now at the last; he must not fail her now when +she herself was so worn, so wretched, was bearing so much. As they +turned in at the gate he fought with all his strength against the +thought that they would not be turning in at that gate any more and +spoke in matter of fact tones of where he would be waiting for her, what +time she must be there. But when they reached the steps they stood there +for a minute under the big tree, there where they had so many times +stood through a number of years. As they stood there things crowded upon +them hard; Ruth raised her face and looked at him and at the anguish of +her swimming eyes his hands went out to her arms. "Don't go, Ruth!" he +whispered brokenly. "Ruth!—<i>don't go!</i>"</p> + +<p>But that made her instantly find herself, that found the fight in her, +to strengthen herself, to resist him; she was at once erect, +indomitable, the purpose that no misery could shake gleamed through her +wet eyes. Then she turned and went into the house. Her mother called out +to her, sleepily asking if she could get out of her dress by herself. +She answered yes, and then Mrs. Holland asked another sleepy question +about Edith. Then the house was still; she knew that they were all +asleep. She got her dress off and hung it carefully in the closet. She +had already put some things in her bag; she put in a few more now, all +the while sobbing under her breath.</p> + +<p>She took off her slippers. After she had done that she stood looking at +her bed. She saw her nightgown hanging in the closet. She wanted to put +on her nightgown and get into bed! She leaned against the bed, crying. +She wanted to put on her nightgown and get into bed! She was so tired, +so frightened, so worn with pain. Then she shook herself, steeled again, +and began putting on her shoes; put on her suit, her hat, got out her +gloves. And then at the very last she had to do what she had been trying +to make herself do all that day, and had not dared begin to do. She went +to her desk and holding herself tight, very rapidly, though with shaking +hand, wrote this note:</p> + +<blockquote><p>"Dear Mother; I'm going away. I love Stuart Williams. I have for a +long time. Oh, mother—I'm so sorry—but I can't help it. He's +sick. He has to go away, so you see I have to go with him. It's +terrible that it is like this. Mother, try to believe that I can't +help it. After I get away I can write to you more about it. I can't +now. It will be terrible for you—for you all. Mother, it's been +terrible for me. Oh, try not to feel any worse than you can help. +People won't blame <i>you</i>. I wish I could help it. I wish—Can't +write more now. Write later. I'm so sorry—for everybody. So good +to me always. I love all—Ruth."</p></blockquote> + +<p>She put her head down on the desk and cried. Finally she got up and +blindly threw the note over on her bed; with difficulty, because of the +shaking of her hands, put on her gloves, picked up her bag. And then she +stood there for a moment before turning off the light; she saw her +little chair, her dressing-table. She reached up and turned off the +light and then for another moment stood there in the darkened room. She +listened to the branches of the oak tree tapping against the house. Then +she softly opened her bedroom door and carefully closed it behind her. +She could hear her father's breathing; then Ted's, as she passed his +door. On the stairs she stood still: she wanted to hear Ted's breathing +again. But she had already gone where she could not hear Ted's +breathing. Her hand on the door, she stood still. There was something so +unreal about this, so preposterous—not a thing that really happened, +that could happen to <i>her</i>. It seemed that in just a minute she would +wake up and find herself safe in her bed. But in another minute she was +leaning against the outside door of her home, crying. She seemed to have +left the Ruth Holland she knew behind when she finally walked down the +steps and around the corner where Deane was waiting for her.</p> + +<p>They spoke scarcely a word until they saw the headlight of her train. +And then she drew back, clinging to him. "Ruth!" he whispered, holding +her, "don't!" But that seemed to make her know that she must; she +straightened, steeled herself, and moved toward the train. A moment +later she was on the platform, looking down at him. When she tried to +smile good-by, he whirled and walked blindly away.</p> + +<p>She did not look from the window as long as the lights of the town were +to be seen. She sat there perfectly still, hands tight together, head +down. For two hours she scarcely moved. Such strange things shot through +her mind. Maybe her mother, thinking she was tired, would not go to her +room until almost noon. At least she would have her coffee first. Had +she remembered to put Edith's handkerchiefs in her bag? Had anyone else +noticed that the hook at the waist of Edith's dress had come unfastened? +Edith was on a train too—going the other way. How strange it all was! +How terrible beyond belief! Just as she neared the junction where she +would meet Stuart and from which they would take the train South +together, the thought came to her that none of the rest of them might +remember always to have water in Terror's drinking pan. When she stepped +from the train she was crying—because Terror might want a drink and +wonder why she was not there to give it to him. He would not +understand—and oh, he would miss her so! Even when Stuart, stepping +from the darkness to meet her, drew her to him, brokenly whispering +passionate, grateful words, she could not stop crying—for Terror, who +would not understand, and who would miss her so! He became the whole +world she knew—loving, needing world, world that would not understand, +and would miss her so!</p> + +<p>The woman who, on that train from Denver, had been drawn into this story +which she had once lived was coming now into familiar country. She would +be home within an hour. She had sometimes ridden this far with Deane on +his cases. Her heart began to beat fast. Why, there was the very grove +in which they had that picnic! She could scarcely control the excitement +she felt in beginning to find old things. There was something so strange +in the old things having remained there just the same when she had +passed so completely away from them. Seeing things she knew brought the +past back with a shock. She could hardly get her breath when first she +saw the town. And there was the Lawrences'! Somehow it was unbelievable. +She did not hear the porter speaking to her about being brushed off; she +was peering hungrily from the window, looking through tears at the town +she had not seen since she left it that awful night eleven years before. +She was trembling as she stood on the platform waiting for the slowing +train to come to a stop. There was a moment of wanting to run back in +the car, of feeling she could not get off.</p> + +<p>The train had stopped; the porter took her by the arm, thinking by her +faltering that she was slipping. She took her bag from him and stood +there, turned a little away from the station crowd.</p> + +<p>Ted Holland had been waiting for that train, he also with fast beating +heart; he too was a little tremulous as he hurried down to the car, far +in the rear, from which passengers were alighting from the long train. +He scanned the faces of the people who began passing him. No, none of +them was Ruth. His picture of Ruth was clear, though he had not seen her +for eleven years. She would be looking about in that eager way—that +swift, bright way; when she saw him there would be that glad nodding of +her head, her face all lighting up. Though of course, he told himself, +she would be older, probably a little more—well, dignified. The romance +that secretly hung about Ruth for him made him picture her as unlike +other women; there would be something different about her, he felt.</p> + +<p>The woman standing there half turned from him was oddly familiar. She +was someone he knew, and somehow she agitated him. He did not tell +himself that that was Ruth—but after seeing her he was not looking at +anyone else for Ruth. This woman was not "stylish looking." She did not +have the smart look of most of the girls of Ruth's old crowd. He had +told himself that Ruth would be older—and yet it was not a woman he had +pictured, or rather, it was a woman who had given all for love, not a +woman who looked as if she had done just the things of women. This woman +stooped a little; care, rather than romance, had put its mark upon her; +instead of the secretly expected glamour of those years of love there +had been a certain settling of time. He knew before he acknowledged it +that it was Ruth, knew it by the way this woman made him feel. He came +nearer; she had timidly—not with the expected old swiftness—started in +the direction he was coming. She saw him—knew him—and in that rush of +feeling which transformed her anything of secret disappointment was +swept from him.</p> + +<p>He kissed her, as sheepishly as a brother would any sister, and was soon +covering his emotion with a practical request for her trunk check. But +as they walked away the boy's heart was strangely warmed. Ruth was back!</p> + +<p>As to Ruth, she did not speak. She could not.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_THIRTEEN" id="CHAPTER_THIRTEEN"></a>CHAPTER THIRTEEN</h2> + + +<p>It was the afternoon of Ruth Holland's return to Freeport that Edith +Lawrence—now Edith Lawrence Blair—was giving the tea for Deane +Franklin's bride and for Cora Albright, introducing Amy to the society +of the town and giving Cora another opportunity for meeting old friends. +"You see Cora was of our old crowd," Edith was laughingly saying to one +of the older women in introducing her two guests of honor, "and Amy has +married into it." She turned to Amy with a warm little smile and nod, as +if wanting to assure her again that they did look upon her as one of +them.</p> + +<p>They had indeed given her that sense of being made one of them. Their +quick, warm acceptance of her made them seem a wonderfully kindly +people. Her heart warmed to them because of this going out to her, a +stranger. That informality and friendliness which in a society like +theirs prevails well within the bounds made them seem to her a people of +real warmth. She was pleased with the thought of living among them, +being one of them; gratified, not only in the way they seemed to like +her, but by the place they gave her. There were happy little +anticipations of the life just opening up. She was flushed with pleasure +and gratification.</p> + +<p>She was seeing the society of the town at its best that afternoon; the +women who constituted that society were there, and at their best. For +some reason they always were at their best at the Lawrences', as if +living up to the house itself, which was not only one of the most +imposing of the homes of that rich little middle-western city, but had +an atmosphere which other houses, outwardly equally attractive, lacked. +Mrs. Lawrence had taste and hospitality; the two qualities breathed +through her house. She and Edith were Freeport's most successful +hostesses. The society of that town was like the particular thing known +as society in other towns; not distinguished by any unique thing so much +as by its likeness to the thing in general. Amy, knowing society in +other places, in a larger place, was a little surprised and much pleased +at what she recognized.</p> + +<p>And she felt that people were liking her, admiring her, and that always +put her at her best. Sometimes Amy's poise, rare in one so young, made +her seem aloof, not cordial, and she had not been one to make friends +quickly. Edith's friendliness had broken through that; she talked more +than was usual with her—was gayer, more friendly. "You're making a +great hit, my dear," Edith whispered to her gayly, and Amy flushed with +pleasure. People about the room were talking of how charming she was; of +there being something unusual in that combination of girlishness +and—they called it distinction; had Amy been in different mood they +might have spoken of it less sympathetically as an apparent feeling of +superiority. But she felt that she was with what she called her own +sort, and she was warmed in gratification by the place given herself.</p> + +<p>She was gayly telling a little group of an amusing thing that had +happened at her wedding when she overheard someone saying to Edith, by +whom she was standing: "Yes, on the two o'clock train. I was down to see +Helen off, and saw her myself—walking away with Ted."</p> + +<p>Amy noticed that the other women, who also had overheard, were only +politely appearing to be listening to her now, and were really +discreetly trying to hear what these two were saying. She brought her +story to a close.</p> + +<p>"You mean Ruth Holland?" one of the women asked, and the two groups +became one.</p> + +<p>Amy drew herself up; her head went a little higher, her lips tightened; +then, conscious of that, she relaxed and stood a little apart, seeming +only to be courteously listening to a thing in which she had no part. +They talked in lowered tones of how strange it seemed to feel Ruth was +back in that town. They had a different manner now—a sort of carefully +restrained avidity. "How does she look?" one of the women asked in that +lowered tone.</p> + +<p>"Well," said the woman who had been at the train, "she hasn't kept +herself <i>up</i>. Really, I was surprised. You'd think a woman in her +position would make a particular effort to—to make the most of herself, +now, wouldn't you? What else has she to go on? But really, she wasn't at +all good style, and sort of—oh, as if she had let herself <i>go</i>, I +thought. Though,"—she turned to Edith in saying this—"there's that +same old thing about her; I saw her smile up at Ted as they walked +away—and she seemed all different then. You know how it always used to +be with Ruth—so different from one minute to another."</p> + +<p>Edith turned away, rather abruptly, and joined another group. Amy could +not make out her look; it seemed—why it seemed pain; as if it hurt her +to hear what they were saying. Could it be that she still +<i>cared</i>?—after the way she had been treated? That seemed impossible, +even in one who had the sweet nature Mrs. Blair certainly had.</p> + +<p>While the women about her were still talking of Ruth Holland, Amy saw +Stuart Williams' wife come out of the dining room and stand there alone +for a minute looking about the room. It gave her a shock. The whole +thing seemed so terrible, so fascinatingly terrible. And it seemed +unreal; as a thing one might read or hear about, but not the sort of +thing one's own life would come anywhere near. Mrs. Williams' eyes +rested on their little group and Amy had a feeling that somehow she knew +what they were talking about. As her eyes followed the other woman's +about the room she saw that there were several groups in which people +were drawn a little closer together and appeared to be speaking a little +more intimately than was usual upon such an occasion. She felt that Mrs. +Williams' face became more impassive. A moment later she had come over +to Amy and was holding out her hand. There seemed to Amy something very +brave about her, dignified, fine, in the way she went right on, bearing +it, holding her own place, keeping silence. She watched her leave the +room with a new sense of outrage against that terrible woman—that woman +Deane stood up for! The resentment which in the past week she had been +trying to put down leaped to new life.</p> + +<p>The women around her resumed their talk: of Mrs. Williams, the Holland +family, of the night of Edith's wedding when—in that very house—Ruth +Holland had been there up to the very last minute, taking her place with +the rest of them. They spoke of her betrayal of Edith, her deception of +all her friends, of how she was the very last girl in the world they +would have believed it of.</p> + +<p>A little later, when she and Edith were talking with some other guests, +Ruth Holland was mentioned again. "I don't want to talk of Ruth," Edith +said that time; "I'd rather not." There was a catch in her voice and one +of the women impulsively touched her arm. "It was so terrible for you, +dear Edith," she murmured.</p> + +<p>"Sometimes," said Edith, "it comes home to me that it was pretty +terrible for Ruth." Again she turned away, leaving an instant's pause +behind her. Then one of the women said, "I think it's simply wonderful +that Edith can have anything but bitterness in her heart for Ruth +Holland! Why there's not another person in town—oh, except Deane +Franklin, of course—"</p> + +<p>She caught herself, reddened, then turned to Amy with a quick smile. +"And it's just his sympathetic nature, isn't it? That's exactly +Deane—taking the part of one who's down."</p> + +<p>"And then, too, men feel differently about those things," murmured +another one of the young matrons of Deane's crowd.</p> + +<p>Their manner of seeming anxious to smooth something over, to get out of +a difficult situation, enraged Amy, not so much against them as because +of there being something that needed smoothing over, because Deane had +put himself and her in a situation that was difficult. How did it +look?—what must people think?—his standing up for a woman the whole +town had turned against! But she was saying with what seemed a sweet +gravity, "I'm sure Deane would be sorry for any woman who had been +so—unfortunate. And she," she added bravely, "was a dear old friend, +was she not?"</p> + +<p>The woman who had commiserated with Edith now nodded approval at Amy. +"You're sweet, my dear," she said, and the benign looks of them all made +her feel there was something for her to be magnanimous about, something +queer. Her resentment intensified because of having to give that +impression of a sweet spirit. And so people talked about Deane's +standing up for this Ruth Holland! <i>Why</i> did they talk?—just what did +they say? "There's more to it than I know," suspicion whispered. In that +last half hour it was hard to appear gracious and interested; she saw a +number of those little groups in which voices were low and faces were +trying not to appear eager.</p> + +<p>She wished she knew what they were saying; she had an intense desire to +hear more about this thing which she so resented, which was so roiling +to her. It fascinated as well as galled her; she wanted to know just how +this Ruth Holland looked, how she had looked that night of the wedding, +what she had said and done. The fact of being in the very house where +Ruth Holland had been that last night she was with her friends seemed to +bring close something mysterious, terrible, stirring imagination and +curiosity. Had she been with Deane that night? Had he taken her to the +wedding?—taken her home? She hardened to him in the thought of there +being this thing she did not know about. It began to seem he had done +her a great wrong in not preparing her for a thing that could bring her +embarrassment. Everyone else knew about it! Coming there a bride, and +the very first thing encountering something awkward! She persuaded +herself that her pleasure in this party, in this opening up of her life +there, was spoiled, that Deane had spoiled it. And she tormented herself +with a hundred little wonderings.</p> + +<p>She and Cora Albright went home together in Edith's brougham. Cora was +full of talk of Ruth Holland, this new development, Ruth's return, +stirring it all up again for her. Amy's few discreet questions brought +forth a great deal that she wanted to know. Cora had a worldly manner, +and that vague sympathy with evil that poetizes one's self without doing +anything so definite as condoning, or helping, the sinner.</p> + +<p>"I do think," she said, with a little shrug, "that the town has been +pretty hard about it. But then you know what these middle-western towns +are." Amy, at this appeal to her sophistication, gravely nodded. "I do +feel sorry for Ruth," Cora added in a more personal tone.</p> + +<p>"Will you go to see her?" Amy asked, rather pointedly.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I couldn't do that," replied Cora. "My family—you know,—or +perhaps you don't know. I'm related to Mrs. Williams," she laughed.</p> + +<p>"Oh!" Amy ejaculated, aghast, and newly fascinated by the horror, what +somehow seemed the impossibleness of the whole thing—that she should be +talking of Ruth Holland to a woman related to Mrs. Williams!</p> + +<p>"I suppose <i>she</i> felt terribly," Amy murmured.</p> + +<p>Cora laughed a little. "Oh, I don't know. It never seemed to me that +Marion would do much feeling. Feeling is so—ruffling."</p> + +<p>"She looks," said Amy, a little aggressively, "as though she might not +show all she feels."</p> + +<p>"Oh, I suppose not," Cora agreed pleasantly. "Perhaps I do Marion an +injustice. She may have suffered in silence. Certainly she's kept +silence. Truth is, I never liked her so very well. I like Ruth much the +better of the two. I like warmth—feeling."</p> + +<p>She was leaning forward and looking from the window. "That's the +Hollands'," she said. And under her breath, compassionately, she +murmured, "Poor Ruth!"</p> + +<p>"I should think you <i>would</i> go and see her," said Amy, curiously +resentful of this feeling.</p> + +<p>With a little sigh Cora leaned back in the luxurious corner. "We're not +free to do what we might like to do in this life," she said, looking +gravely at Amy and speaking as one actuated by something larger than +personal feeling. "Too many people are associated with me for me to go +and see Ruth—as, for my own part, I'd gladly do. You see it's even +closer than being related to Marion. Cyrus Holland,—Ruth's +brother—married into my family too. Funny, isn't it?" she laughed at +Amy's stare. "Yes, Cyrus Holland married a second cousin of Stuart +Williams' wife."</p> + +<p>"Why—" gasped Amy, "it's positively weird, isn't it?"</p> + +<p>"Things are pretty much mixed up in this world," Cora went on, speaking +with that good-natured sophistication which appealed to Amy as worldly. +"I think one reason Cy was so bitter against Ruth, and kept the whole +family so, was the way it broke into his own plans. He was in love with +Louise at the time Ruth left; of course all her kith and kin—being also +Marion's—were determined she should not marry a Holland. Cy thought he +had lost her, but after a time, as long as no one was quite so bitter +against Ruth as he, the opposition broke down a little—enough for +Louise to ride over it. Oh, yes, in these small towns everybody's +somehow mixed up with everyone else," she laughed. "And of course," she +went on more gravely, "that is where it is hard to answer the people who +seem so hard about Ruth. It isn't just one's self, or even just one's +family—though it broke them pretty completely, you know; but a thing +like that reaches out into so many places—hurts so many lives."</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Amy, "it does." She was thinking of her own life, of how it +was clouding her happiness.</p> + +<p>"One has to admit," said Cora, in the tone of summing it all up, "that +just taking one's own happiness is thorough selfishness. Society as a +whole is greater than the individual, isn't it?"</p> + +<p>That seemed to Amy the heart of it. She felt herself as one within +society, herself faithful to it and guarding it against all who would do +it harm; hard to the traitor, not because of any personal feeling—she +wished to make that clear to herself—but because society as a whole +demanded that hardness. After she had bade Cora good-by and as she was +about to open the door of the house Deane had prepared for her, she told +herself that it was a matter of taking the larger view. She was pleased +with the phrase; it seemed to clear her own feeling of any possible +charge of smallness.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_FOURTEEN" id="CHAPTER_FOURTEEN"></a>CHAPTER FOURTEEN</h2> + + +<p>Despite the fact that he knew he was going to be late getting home for +dinner, Dr. Franklin was sending his car very slowly along the +twelve-mile stretch of road that lay between him and home. This was not +so much because it was beautiful country through which he went, and the +spring freshness in the softness of late afternoon was grateful to him, +nor because too tired for any kind of hurrying, as it was that he did +not want to cover those twelve miles before he had thought out what he +was going to say to Amy.</p> + +<p>He had seen Ruth that afternoon. He went, as usual, to see her father, +and as he entered the room Ruth was sitting beside the bed. She sat with +her back to him and did not seem to know at once that he was there. She +was bending forward, elbow on her knee, hand to her face, looking at her +father who was asleep, or, rather, in that stupor with which death +reaches out into life, through which the living are drawn to the dead. +She was sitting very still, intent, as she watched the man whom life was +letting go.</p> + +<p>He had not seen Ruth since that night, eleven years before, when she +clung to him as she saw the headlight of her train, then turned from him +to the car that was to carry her away from the whole world she knew. It +had seemed that the best of life was pulling away from him as he heard +her train pull out. He fairly ran away from the sound of it; not alone +because it was taking Ruth out of his own life, but because it was +bearing her to a country where the way would be too hard.</p> + +<p>He knew that that way had been hard, that the years had not spared her; +and yet there had been a little shock when he saw Ruth that afternoon; +he knew now that his fears for her had rather given themselves a color +of romance. She looked worn, as if she had worked, and, just at first, +before she saw him, she looked older than it would seem that number of +years should make her.</p> + +<p>But when she heard him and turned, coming to him with outstretched hand, +it was as it used to be—feeling illumining, transforming her. She was +the old flaming Ruth then, the years that lined her defied. Her eyes—it +was like a steady light shining through trembling waters. No one else +ever gave him that impression Ruth did of a certain deep steadiness +through changing feeling. He had thought he remembered just how +wonderful Ruth's eyes were—how feeling flamed in them and that steady +understanding looked through from her to him—that bridge between +separateness. But they were newly wonderful to him,—so live, so tender, +so potent.</p> + +<p>She had been very quiet; thinking back to it, he pondered that. It +seemed not alone the quiet that comes with the acceptance of death, the +quiet that is the subduing effect of strange or moving circumstances, +but an inner quiet, a quiet of power. The years had taken something from +Ruth, but Ruth had won much from them. She was worn, a little dimmed, +but deepened. A tragedy queen she was not; he had a little smile for +himself for that subconscious romantic expectation that gave him, just +at the first, a little shock of disappointment when he saw Ruth. A +tragedy queen would hold herself more imposingly—and would have taken +better care of her hands. But that moment of a lighted way between Ruth +and him could let him afford to smile at disappointed romantic +expectation.</p> + +<p>He had been there for only a few minutes, having the long trip out in +the country to make. Ruth and Ted seemed to be alone in the house. He +asked her if she had seen Harriett, and she answered, simply, "Not yet."</p> + +<p>She had said, "You're married, Deane—and happy. I'm so glad." That, +too, she had said very simply; it was real; direct. As he thought of it +now it was as if life had simplified her; she had let slip from her, +like useless garments, all those blurring artificialities that keep +people apart.</p> + +<p>As usual he would go over again that evening to see his patient; and +then he would remain for a visit with Ruth. And he wanted to take Amy +with him. He would not let himself realize just how much he wanted to do +that, how much he would hate not doing it. He was thinking it out, +trying to arrive at the best way of putting it to Amy. If only he could +make it seem to her the simple thing it was to him!</p> + +<p>He would be so happy to do this for Ruth, but it was more than that; it +was that he wanted to bring Amy within—within that feeling of his about +Ruth. He wanted her to share in that. He could not bear to leave it a +thing from which she was apart, to which she was hostile. He could not +have said just why he felt it so important Amy become a part of what he +felt about Ruth.</p> + +<p>When at last they were together over their unusually late dinner the +thing he wanted to say seemed to grow more difficult because Amy was so +much dressed up. In her gown of that afternoon she looked so much the +society person that what he had in mind somehow grew less simple. And +there was that in her manner too—like her clothes it seemed a society +manner—to make it less easy to attempt to take her into things outside +the conventional round of life. He felt a little helpless before this +self-contained, lovely young person. She did not seem easy to get at. +Somehow she seemed to be apart from him. There was a real wistfulness in +his desire to take her into what to him were things real and important. +It seemed if he could not do that now that Amy would always be a little +apart from him.</p> + +<p>Her talk was of the tea that afternoon: who was there, what they wore, +what they had said to her, how the house looked; how lovely Mrs. +Lawrence and Edith were.</p> + +<p>What he was thinking was that it was Ruth's old crowd had assembled +there—at Edith's house—to be gracious to Amy that afternoon. She +mentioned this name and that—girls Ruth had grown up with, girls who +had known her so well, and cared for her. And Ruth? Had they spoken of +her? Did they know she was home? If they did, did it leave them all +unmoved? He thought of the easy, pleasant way life had gone with most of +those old friends of Ruth's. Had they neither the imagination nor the +heart to go out in the thought of the different thing it had been to +her?</p> + +<p>He supposed not; certainly they had given no evidence of any such +disposition. It hardened him against them. He hated the thought of the +gay tea given for Amy that afternoon when Ruth, just back after all +those years away, was home alone with her father, who was dying. Amy +they were taking in so graciously—because things had gone right with +her; Ruth, whom they knew, who had been one of them, they left +completely out. There flamed up a desire to take Amy with him, as +against them, to show them that she was sweeter and larger than they, +that she understood and put no false value on a cordiality that left the +heart hard.</p> + +<p>But Amy looked so much one of them, seemed so much one with them in her +talk about them, that he put off what he wanted to say, listening to +her. And yet, he assured himself, that was not the whole of Amy; he +softened and took heart in the thought of her tenderness in moments of +love, her sweetness when the world fell away and they were man and woman +to each other. Those real things were stronger in her than this crust of +worldliness. He would reach through that to the life that glowed behind +it. If he only had the skill, the understanding, to reach through that +crust to the life within, to that which was real, she would understand +that the very thing bringing them their happiness was the thing which in +Ruth put her apart from her friends; she would be larger, more tender, +than those others. He wanted that triumph for her over them. He would +glory in it so! There would be such pride in showing Amy to Ruth as a +woman who was real. And most of all, because it was a thing so deep in +his own life, he wanted Amy to come within, to know from within, his +feeling about Ruth.</p> + +<p>"You know, dear, that was Ruth's old crowd you were meeting this +afternoon," he finally said.</p> + +<p>He saw her instantly stiffen. Her mouth looked actually hard. That, he +quickly told himself, was what those people had done to her.</p> + +<p>"And that house," he went on, his voice remaining quiet, "was like +another home to Ruth."</p> + +<p>Amy cleared her throat. "She didn't make a very good return for the +hospitality, do you think?" she asked sharply.</p> + +<p>Flushing, he started to reply to that, but instead asked abruptly, "Does +Edith know that Ruth is home?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," Amy replied coldly, "they were speaking of her."</p> + +<p>"<i>Speaking</i> of her!" he scoffed.</p> + +<p>"I suppose <i>you</i> would think," she flamed, "that they ought to have met +her at the train!"</p> + +<p>"The idea doesn't seem to me preposterous," he answered.</p> + +<p>Feeling the coldness in his own voice he realized how he was at the very +start getting away from the thing he wanted to do, was estranging Amy by +his resentment of her feeling about a thing she did not understand. +After all—as before, he quickly made this excuse for her—what more +natural than that she should take on the feeling of these people she was +thrown with, particularly when they were so very kindly in their +reception of her?</p> + +<p>"Dear," he began again, "I saw Ruth this afternoon. She seems so alone +there. She's gone through such—such hard things. It's a pretty sad +homecoming for her. I'm going over there again this evening, and, Amy +dear, I do so want you to go with me."</p> + +<p>Amy did not reply. He had not looked at her after he began speaking—not +wanting to lose either his courage or his temper in seeing that +stiffening in her. He did not look at her now, even though she did not +speak.</p> + +<p>"I want you to go, Amy. I ask you to. I want it—you don't know how +much. I'm terribly sorry for Ruth. I knew her very well, we were very +close friends. Now that she is here, and in trouble—and so lonely—I +want to take my wife to see her."</p> + +<p>As even then she remained silent, he turned to her. She sat very +straight; red spots burned in her cheeks and there was a light in her +eyes he had never seen there before. She pushed back her chair +excitedly. "And may I ask,"—her voice was high, tight,—"if you see +nothing insulting to your wife in this—proposal?"</p> + +<p>For an instant he just stared at her. "Insulting?" he faltered. "I—I—" +He stopped, helpless, and helplessly sat looking at her, sitting erect, +breathing fast, face and eyes aflame with anger. And in that moment +something in his heart fell back; a desire that had been dear to him, a +thing that had seemed so beautiful and so necessary, somehow just crept +back where it could not be so much hurt. At the sight of her, hard, +scornful, so sure in her hardness, that high desire of his love that she +share his feeling fell back. And then to his disappointment was added +anger for Ruth; through the years anger against so many people had +leaped up in him because of their hardness to Ruth, that, as if of +itself, it leaped up against Amy now.</p> + +<p>"No," he said, his voice hard now too, "I must say I see nothing +insulting in asking you to go with me to see Ruth Holland!"</p> + +<p>"Oh, you don't!" she cried. "A woman living with another woman's +husband! Why, this very afternoon I was with the wife of the man that +woman is living with!—<i>she</i> is the woman I would meet! And you can ask +me—your wife—to go and see a woman who turned her back on society—on +decency—a woman her own family cast out, and all decent people turn +away from." She paused, struggling, unable to keep her dignity and yet +say the things rushing up to be said.</p> + +<p>He had grown red, as he always did when people talked that way about +Ruth. "Of course,"—he made himself say it quietly—"she isn't those +things to me, you know. She's—quite other things to me."</p> + +<p>"I'd like to know what she <i>is</i> to you!" Amy cried. "It's very +strange—your standing up for her against the whole town!"</p> + +<p>He did not reply; it was impossible to tell Amy, when she was like this, +what Ruth had been—was—to him.</p> + +<p>She looked at him as he sat there silent. And this was the man she had +married!—a man who could treat her like this, asking her to go and see +a woman who wasn't respectable—why, who was as far from respectable as +a woman could be! This was the man for whom she had left her mother and +father—and a home better than this home certainly,—yes, and that other +man who had wanted her and who had so much more to offer! <i>He</i> respected +her. He would never ask her to go and see a woman who wasn't decent! But +she had married for love; had given up all those other things that she +might have love. And now.... Her throat tightened and it was hard to +hold back tears. And then suddenly she wanted to go over to Deane, slip +down beside him, put her arms around him, tell him that she loved him +and ask him to please tell her that he loved her. But there was so +strange an expression on his face; it checked that warm, loving impulse, +holding her where she was, hard. What was he thinking about—<i>that +woman</i>? He had so strange a look. She did not believe it had anything to +do with her. No, he had forgotten her. It was this other woman. Why, he +was in love with her—of course! He had always been in love with her.</p> + +<p>Because it seemed the idea would break her heart, because she could not +bear it, it was scoffingly that she threw out: "You were in love with +her, I suppose? You've always been in love with her, haven't you?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, Amy," he answered, "I was in love with Ruth. I loved her—at any +rate, I sorrowed for her—until the day I met you."</p> + +<p>His voice was slow and sad; the whole sadness of it all, all the sadness +of a world in which men and women loved and hurt each other seemed +closing in around him. He did not seem able to rise out of it, to go out +to her; it was as if his new disappointment brought back all the hurt of +old ones.</p> + +<p>Young, all inexperienced in the ways of adjusting love to life, of +saving it for life, the love in her tried to shoot through the self-love +that closed her in, holding her tight. She wanted to follow that +impulse, go over and put her arms around her husband, let her kisses +drive away that look of sadness. She knew that she could do it, that she +ought to do it, that she would be sorry for not having done it, but—she +couldn't. Love did not know how to fight its way through pride.</p> + +<p>He had risen. "I must go. I have a number of calls to make. I—I'm sorry +you feel as you do, Amy."</p> + +<p>He was not going to explain! He was just leaving her outside it all! He +didn't care for her, really, at all—just took her because he couldn't +get that other woman! Took <i>her</i>—Amy Forrester—because he couldn't get +the woman he wanted! Great bands of incensed pride bound her heart now, +closing in the love that had fluttered there. Her face, twisted with +varying emotions, was fairly ugly as she cried: "Well, I must say, I +wish you had told me this before we were married!"</p> + +<p>He looked at her in surprise. Then, surprised anew, looked quickly away. +Feeling that he had failed, he tried to put it aside lightly. "Oh, come +now, Amy, you didn't think, did you, that you could marry a man of +thirty-four who had never loved any woman?"</p> + +<p>"I should like to think he had loved a respectable woman!" she cried, +wounded anew by this lightness, unable to hold back things she miserably +knew she would be sorry she had not held back. "And if he had loved that +kind of a woman—<i>did</i> love her—I should like to think he had too much +respect for his wife to ask her to meet such a person!"</p> + +<p>"Ruth Holland is not a woman to speak like that about, Amy," he said +with unconcealed anger.</p> + +<p>"She's not a decent woman! She's not a respectable woman! She's a bad +woman! She's a low woman!"</p> + +<p>She could not hold it back. She knew she looked unlovely, knew she was +saying things that would not make her loved. She could not help it. +Deane turned away from her. After a minute he got a little control of +himself and instead of the hot things that had flashed up, said coldly: +"I don't think you know what you're talking about."</p> + +<p>"Of course I couldn't hope to know as much as <i>she</i> does," she jeered. +"However," she went on, with more of a semblance of dignity, "I do know +a few things. I know that society cannot countenance a woman who did +what that woman did. I know that if a woman is going to selfishly take +her own happiness with no thought of others she must expect to find +herself outside the lives of decent people. Society must protect itself +against such persons as she. I know that much—fortunately."</p> + +<p>Her words fortified her. She, certainly, was in the right. She felt that +she had behind her all those women of that afternoon. Did any of them +receive Ruth Holland? Did they not all see that society must close in +against the individual who defied it? She felt supported.</p> + +<p>For the minute he stood there looking at her—so absolutely unyielding, +so satisfied in her conclusions,—those same things about society and +the individual that he had heard from the rest of them; like the rest of +them so satisfied with the law she had laid down—law justifying +hardness of heart and closing in against the sorrow of a particular +human life; from Amy now that same look, those same words. For a little +time he did not speak. "I'm awfully sorry, Amy," was all he said then.</p> + +<p>He stood there in miserable embarrassment. He always kissed her good-by.</p> + +<p>She saw his hesitancy and turned to the other room. "Hadn't you better +hurry?" she laughed. "You have so many calls to make—and some of them +so important!"</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_FIFTEEN" id="CHAPTER_FIFTEEN"></a>CHAPTER FIFTEEN</h2> + + +<p>It was quiet that evening in the house of Cyrus Holland; the noises that +living makes were muffled by life's awe of death, even sounds that could +not disturb the dying guarded against by the sense of decorum of those +living on. Downstairs were people who had come to inquire for the man +they knew would not be one of them again. For forty years Cyrus Holland +had been a factor in the affairs of the town. He was Freeport's senior +banker, the old-fashioned kind of banker, with neither the imagination +nor the daring to make of himself a rich man, or of his bank an +institution using all the possibilities of its territory. In venturing +days he remained cautious. His friends said that he was +sane—responsible; men of a newer day put it that he was limited, +lacking in that boldness which makes the modern man of affairs. He had +advised many men and always on the side of safety. No one had grown rich +through his suggestions, but more than one had been saved by his +counsels. With the expansion of the business of the town newer banks had +gone ahead of his, and when they said he was one of the good substantial +men of the community they were indicating his limitations with his +virtues. Such a man, not a brilliant figure through his lifetime, would +be lamented in his passing. They had often said that he failed in using +his opportunities; what they said now was that he had never abused +them—death, as usual, inducing the living to turn the kindly side to +the truth about the dying.</p> + +<p>Ruth did not go downstairs to see the people who were coming in. Ted was +down there, and Flora Copeland, a spinster cousin of the Hollands, who +for several years had lived in the house. Once, in passing through the +hall, she heard voices which she recognized. She stood there listening +to them. It was so strange to hear them; and so good. She was hungry for +voices she knew—old voices. Once there was a pause and her heart beat +fast for she got a feeling that maybe they were going to ask for her. +But they broke that pause to say goodnight. She had received no message +about anyone asking for her.</p> + +<p>But even though she was not seeing the people who came she felt the +added strangeness her presence made in that house which had suspended +the usual affairs of living in waiting for death. The nurse was one of +the girls of the town, of a family Ruth knew. She had been only a little +girl at the time Ruth went away. She was conscious, in the young woman's +scrupulously professional manner toward herself, of a covert interest, +as in something mysterious, forbidden. She could see that to this +decorous young person she was a woman out of another world. It hurt her, +and it made her a little angry. She wished that this professional, +proper young woman, stealing glances as at a forbidden thing, could know +the world in which she actually lived.</p> + +<p>And yet it occurred to her that the strain was less great than it would +have been at any other time—something about a room of death making the +living a little less prone to divide themselves into good and bad, +approved and condemned. With the approach of death there are likely to +be only two classes—the living and the dead. After the first few hours, +despite the estranging circumstances, there did seem to be some sort of +a bond between her and this girl who attended her father.</p> + +<p>Ruth and Ted and Flora Copeland had had dinner together. Her Cousin +Flora had evidently pondered the difficult question of a manner with +Ruth and was pursuing it scrupulously. Her plan was clearly indicated in +her manner. She would seem to be acting as if nothing had happened and +yet at the same time made it plain that she in no sense countenanced the +person to whom she was being kind. Her manner was that most dismal of +all things—a punctilious kindliness.</p> + +<p>This same Cousin Flora, now an anæmic woman of forty-five, had not +always been exclusively concerned with propriety. Ruth could remember +Cousin Flora's love affair, which had so greatly disturbed the members +of the family, and which, to save their own pride, they had thwarted. +Cousin Flora had had the misfortune to fall in love with a man quite +outside the social sphere of the Copelands and the Hollands. He was a +young laboring man whom she knew through the social affairs of the +church. He had the presumption to fall in love with her. She had not had +love before, being less generously endowed in other respects than with +social position in Freeport. There had been a brief, mad time when +Cousin Flora had seemed to find love greater than exclusiveness. But the +undesirable affair was frustrated by a family whose democracy did not +extend beyond a working together for the good of the Lord, and Cousin +Flora was, as Ruth remembered their saying with satisfaction, saved. +Looking at her now Ruth wondered if there ever came times when she +regretted having been saved.</p> + +<p>She tried to make the most of all those little things that came into her +mind just because this homecoming was so desolate a thing to be left +alone with. She had many times lived through a homecoming. And when she +had thought of coming home she had always, in spite of it all, thought +of things as much the same. And now even she and Ted were strange with +each other; it was Ted the little boy she knew; it was hard all at once +to bridge years in which they had not shared experiences.</p> + +<p>It was the house itself seemed really to take her in. When she got her +first sight of it all the things in between just rolled away. She was +back. What moved her first was not that things had changed but that they +were so much the same—the gate, the walk up to the house, the big tree, +the steps of the porch; as she went up the walk there was the real +feeling of coming home.</p> + +<p>Then they stepped up on the porch—and her mother was not there to open +the door for her; she knew then with a poignancy even those first days +had not carried that she would never see her mother again, knew as she +stepped into the house that her mother was gone. And yet it would keep +seeming her mother must be somewhere in that house, that in a little +while she would come in the room and tell something about where she had +been. And she would find herself listening for her grandfather's slow, +uncertain step; and for Terror's bark—one of his wild, glad rushes into +the room. Ted said that Terror had been run over by an automobile a +number of years before.</p> + +<p>Nor was it only those whom death kept away who were not there. Her +sister Harriett had not been there to welcome her; now it was evening +and she had not yet seen her. Ted had merely said that he guessed +Harriett was tired out. He seemed embarrassed about it and had hastily +begun to talk of something else. And none of the old girls had come in +to see her. The fact that she had not expected them to come somehow did +not much relieve the hurt of their not coming. When a door opened she +would find herself listening for Edith's voice; there was no putting +down the feeling that surely Edith would be running in soon.</p> + +<p>Most of the time she sat by her father's bed; though she was watching +him dying, to sit there by him was the closest to comfort she could +come. And as she watched the face which already had the look of death +there would come pictures of her father at various times through the +years. There was that day when she was a tiny girl and he came home +bringing her a puppy; she could see his laughing face as he held the +soft, wriggling, fuzzy little ball of life up to her, see him standing +there enjoying her delight. She saw him as he was one day when she said +she was not going to Sunday-school, that she was tired of Sunday-school +and was not going any more. She could hear him saying, "Ruth, go +upstairs and put on your clothes for Sunday-school!"—see him as plainly +as though it had just happened standing there pointing a stern finger +toward the stairs, not moving until she had started to obey him. And +once when she and Edith and some other girls were making a great noise +on the porch he had stepped out from the living-room, where he and some +men were sitting about the table, looking over something, and said, +mildly, affectionately, "My dears, what would you think of making a +little less noise?" Queer things to be remembering, but she saw just how +he looked, holding the screen door open as he said it.</p> + +<p>And as she sat there thinking of how she would never hear his voice +again, he reached out his hand as if groping for something he wanted; +and when with a little sob she quickly took it he clasped her hand, +putting into it a strength that astonished her. He turned toward her +after that and the nature of his sleep changed a little; it seemed more +natural, as if there were something of peace in it. It was as if he had +turned to her, reached out his hand for her, knowing she was there and +wanting her. He was too far from life for more, but he had done what he +could. Her longing gave the little movement big meaning. Sitting there +holding the hand of her father who would never talk to her nor listen to +her again, she wanted as she had never wanted before to tell her story. +She had been a long time away; she had had a hard time. She wanted to +tell him about it, wanted to try and make him understand how it had all +happened. She wanted to tell him how homesick she had been and how she +had always loved them all. It seemed if she could just make him know +what it was she had felt, and what she had gone through, he would be +sorry for her and love her as he used to.</p> + +<p>Someone had come into the room; she did not turn at once, trying to make +her blurred eyes clear. When she looked around she saw her sister +Harriett. Her father had relaxed his hold on her hand and so she rose +and turned to her sister.</p> + +<p>"Well, Ruth," said Harriett, in an uncertain tone. Then she kissed her. +The kiss, too, was uncertain, as if she had not known what to do about +it, but had decided in its favor. But she had kissed her. Again that +hunger to be taken in made much of little. She stood there struggling to +hold back the sobs. If only Harriett would put her arms around her and +really kiss her!</p> + +<p>But Harriett continued to stand there uncertainly. Then she moved, as if +embarrassed. And then she spoke. "Did you have a—comfortable trip?" she +asked.</p> + +<p>The struggle with sobs was over. Ruth took a step back from her sister. +It was a perfectly controlled voice which answered: "Yes, Harriett, my +trip was comfortable—thank you."</p> + +<p>Harriett flushed and still stood there uncertainly. Then, "Did the town +look natural?" she asked, diffidently this time.</p> + +<p>But Ruth did not say whether the town had looked natural or not. She had +noticed something. In a little while Harriett would have another baby. +And she had not known about it! Harriett, to be sure, had had other +babies and she had not known about it, but somehow to see Harriett, not +having known it, brought it home hard that she was not one of them any +more; she did not know when children were to be born; she did not know +what troubled or what pleased them; did not know how they managed the +affairs of living—who their neighbors were—their friends. She had not +known about Harriett; Harriett did not know about her—her longing for a +baby, longing which circumstances made her sternly deny herself. +Unmindful of the hurt of a moment before she now wanted to pour all that +out to Harriett, wanted to talk with her of those deep, common things.</p> + +<p>The nurse had come in the room and was beginning some preparations for +the night. Harriett was moving toward the door. "Harriett," Ruth began +timidly, "won't you come in my room a little while and—talk?"</p> + +<p>Harriett hesitated. They were near the top of the stairs and voices +could be heard below. "I guess not," she said nervously. "Not tonight," +she added hurriedly; "that's Edgar down there. He's waiting for me."</p> + +<p>"Then good night," said Ruth very quietly, and turned to her room.</p> + +<p>All day long she had been trying to keep away from her room. "Thought +probably you'd like to have your old room, Ruth," Ted had said in taking +her to it. He had added, a little hurriedly, "Guess no one's had it +since you left."</p> + +<p>It looked as if it was true enough no one had used it since she went out +of it that night eleven years before. The same things were there; the +bed was in the same position; so was her dressing table, and over by the +big window that opened to her side porch was the same little low chair +she always sat in to put on her shoes and stockings. It took her a long +way back; it made old things very strangely real. She sat down in her +little chair now and looked over at a picture of the Madonna Edith had +once given her on her birthday. She could hear people moving about +downstairs, hear voices. She had never in her whole life felt as alone.</p> + +<p>And then she grew angry. Harriett had no right to treat her like that! +She had worked; she had suffered; she had done her best in meeting the +hard things of living. She had gone the way of women, met the things +women meet. Why, she had done her own washing! Harriett had no right to +treat her as if she were clear outside the common things of life.</p> + +<p>She rose and went to the window and lowering it leaned out. She had +grown used to turning from hard things within to the night. There in the +South-west, where they slept out of doors, she had come to know the +night. Ever since that it had seemed to have something for her, +something from which she could draw. And after they had gone through +those first years and the fight was not for keeping life but for making +a place for it in the world, she had many times stepped from a cramping +little house full of petty questions she did not know how to deal with, +from a hard little routine that threatened their love out to the vast, +still night of that Colorado valley and always something had risen in +herself which gave her power. So many times that had happened that +instinctively she turned to the outside now, leaning her head against +the lowered casing. The oak tree was gently tapping against the +house—that same old sound that had gone all through her girlhood; the +familiar fragrance of a flowering vine on the porch below; the thrill of +the toads off there in the little ravine, a dog's frolicsome barking; +the laughter of some boys and girls who were going by—old things those, +sweeping her back to old things. Down in the next block some boys were +singing that old serenading song, "Good-night, Ladies." Long ago boys +had sung it to her. She stood there listening to it, tears running down +her face.</p> + +<p>She was startled by a tap at the door; dashing her hands across her face +she eagerly called, "Come in."</p> + +<p>"Deane's here, Ruth," said Ted. "Wants to see you. Shall I tell him to +come in here?"</p> + +<p>She nodded, but for an instant Ted stood there looking at her. She was +so strange. She had been crying, and yet she seemed so glad, so excited +about something.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Deane," she cried, holding out her two hands to him, laughter and +sobs crowding out together, "<i>talk</i> to me! How's your mother? How's your +Aunt Margaret's rheumatism? What kind of an automobile have you? What +about your practice? What about your dog? Why, Deane," she rushed on, +"I'm just starving for things like that! You know I'm just Ruth, don't +you, Deane?" She laughed a little wildly. "And I've come home. And I +want to know about things. Why I could listen for hours about what +streets are being paved—and who supports old Mrs. Lynch! Don't you see, +Deane?" she laughed through tears. "But first tell me about Edith! How +does she look? How many children has she? Who are her friends? And oh, +Deane—tell me,—does she <i>ever</i> say anything about me?"</p> + +<p>They talked for more than two hours. She kept pouring out questions at +him every time he would stop for breath. She fairly palpitated with that +desire to hear little things—what Bob Horton did for a living, whether +Helen Matthews still gave music lessons. She hung tremulous upon his +words, laughing and often half crying as he told little stories about +quarrels and jokes—about churches and cooks. In his profession he had +many times seen a system craving a particular thing, but it seemed to +him he had never seen any need more pitifully great than this of hers +for laughing over the little drolleries of life. And then they sank into +deeper channels—he found himself telling her things he had not told +anyone: about his practice, about the men he was associated with, things +he had come to think.</p> + +<p>And she talked to him of Stuart's health, of their efforts at making a +living—what she thought of dry farming, of heaters for apple orchards; +the cattle business, the character of Western people. She told him of +the mountains in winter—snow down to their feet; of Colorado air on a +winter's morning. And then of more personal, intimate things—how lonely +they had been, how much of a struggle they had found it. She talked of +the disadvantage Stuart was at because of his position, how he had grown +sensitive because of suspicion, because there were people who kept away +from him; how she herself had not made friends, afraid to because +several times after she had come to know the people around her they had +"heard," and drawn away. She told it all quite simply, just that she +wanted to let him know about their lives. He could see what it was +meaning to her to talk, that she had been too tight within and was +finding relief. "I try not to talk much to Stuart about things that +would make him feel bad," she said. "He gets despondent. It's been very +hard for Stuart, Deane. He misses his place among men."</p> + +<p>She fell silent there, brooding over that—a touch of that tender, +passionate brooding he knew of old. And as he watched her he himself was +thinking, not of how hard it had been for Stuart, but of what it must +have been to Ruth. That hunger of hers for companionship told him more +than words could possibly have done of what her need had been. He +studied her as she sat there silent. She was the same old Ruth, but a +deepened Ruth; there was the same old sweetness, but new power. He had a +feeling that there was nothing in the world Ruth would not understand; +that bars to her spirit were down, that she would go out in tenderness +to anything that was of life—to sorrow, to joy, with the insight to +understand and the warmth to care. He looked at her: worn down by +living, yet glorified by it; hurt, yet valiant. The life in her had gone +through so much and circumstances had not been able to beat it down. And +this was the woman Amy said it was insulting of him to ask her to meet!</p> + +<p>She looked up at him with her bright, warm smile. "Oh, Deane, it's been +so good! You don't know how you've helped me. Why you wouldn't believe," +she laughed, "how much better I feel."</p> + +<p>They had risen and he had taken her hand for goodnight. "You always +helped me, Deane," she said in her simple way. "You never failed me. You +don't know"—this with one of those flashes of feeling that lighted Ruth +and made her wonderful—"how many times, when things were going badly, +I've thought of you—and wanted to see you."</p> + +<p>They stood there a moment silent; the things they had lived through +together, in which they had shared understanding, making a spiritual +current between them. She broke from it with a light, fond: "Dear Deane, +I'm so glad you're happy. I want you to be happy always."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_SIXTEEN" id="CHAPTER_SIXTEEN"></a>CHAPTER SIXTEEN</h2> + + +<p>Those words kept coming back to him after he had gone to bed: "I'm so +glad you're happy—I want you to be happy always." Amy was asleep when +he came home, or he took it for granted that she was asleep and was +careful not to disturb her, for it was past midnight. He wished she +would turn to him with a sleepy little smile. He wanted to be made to +feel that it was true he was happy, that he was going to be happy +always. That night was not filled with the sweetness of love's faith in +permanence. He tried to put away the thought of how Amy had looked as +she said those things about Ruth. Knowing the real Ruth, his feeling +about her freshened, deepened, he could not bear to think of Amy as +having said those things. He held it off in telling himself again that +that was what the people of the town had done, that he himself had not +managed well. He would try again—a little differently. Amy was really +so sweet, so loving, he told himself, that she would come to be +different about this. Though he did not dwell on that, either—upon her +coming to be different; her face in saying those things was a little too +hard to forget. He kept up a pretence with himself on the surface, but +down in his heart he asked less now; he was not asking of love that +complete sharing, that deep understanding which had been his dream +before he talked to Amy. He supposed things would go on about the +same—just that that one thing wouldn't be, was the thought with which +he went to sleep, making his first compromise with his ideal for their +love. Just as he was falling asleep there came before him, half of +dreams, Ruth's face as it had been when she seemed to be brooding over +the things life brought one. It was as if pain had endowed her with +understanding. Did it take pain to do it?</p> + +<p>He had an early morning call to make and left home without really +talking to Amy. When he woke in the morning, yearning to be back in the +new joy of her love, he was going to tell her that he was sorry he had +hurt her, sorry there was this thing they looked at differently, but +that he loved her with his whole heart and that they were going to be +happy just the same, and then maybe some time they'd "get together" on +this. It was a thing he would not have said he would do, but there are +many things one will do to get from the shadow back into that necessary +sunlight of love.</p> + +<p>However, there was not opportunity then for doing it; he had to hurry to +the hospital and Amy gave him no chance for such a moment with her. She +had the manner of keeping up an appearance of going on as if nothing had +happened; as if that thing were left behind—frosted over. She kissed +him good-by, but even in that there seemed an immense reservation. It +made him unhappy, worried him. He told himself that he would have to +talk to Amy, that it wouldn't do to leave the thing that way.</p> + +<p>It had been so easy to talk to Ruth; it seemed that one could talk to +her about anything, that there was no danger of saying a thing and +having it bound back from a wall of opinions and prejudices that kept +him from her. There was something resting, relaxing, in the way one +could be one's self with Ruth, the way she seemed to like one for just +what one was. He had always felt more at ease with her than with anyone +else, but now he more than ever had the feeling that her mind was +loosened from the things that held the minds of most of the women he +knew. It was a great thing not to have those holdbacks in talking with a +friend, to be freed of that fear of blundering into a thing that would +be misunderstood. He did not face the fact that that was just the way it +was with Amy, that there was constantly the fear of saying something +that would better have been left unsaid. But he was thinking that being +free to say what one was feeling was like drawing a long breath.</p> + +<p>And in thinking of it as he went about his calls that morning, in +various homes, talking with a number of people, it occurred to him that +many of those things he had come to think, things of which he did not +often try to talk to others, he had arrived at because of Ruth. It was +amazing how his feeling about her, thoughts through her, had run into +all his thinking. It even occurred to him that if it had not been for +her he might have fallen into accepting many things more or less as the +rest of the town did. It seemed now that as well as having caused him +much pain she had brought rich gain; for those questionings of life, +that refusal placidly to accept, had certainly brought keener +satisfactions than he could have had through a closer companionship with +facile acceptors. Ruth had been a big thing in his life, not only in his +heart, but to his mind.</p> + +<p>He had come out of the house of one of his patients and was standing on +the steps talking with the woman who had anxiously followed him to the +door. The house was directly across the street from the Lawrences'. +Edith was sitting out on the porch; her little girl of eight and the +boy, who was younger, were with her. They made an attractive picture.</p> + +<p>He continued his reassuring talk to the woman whose husband was ill, but +he was at the same time thinking of Ruth's eager questionings about +Edith, about Edith's children, her hunger for every smallest thing he +could tell her. When he went down to his car Edith, looking up and +seeing him, gayly waved her hand. He returned the salute and stood there +as if doing something to the car. Sitting there in the morning sunshine +with her two children Edith looked the very picture of the woman for +whom things had gone happily. Life had opened its pleasantest ways to +Edith. He could not bring himself to get in his car and start away; he +could not get rid of the thought of what it would mean to Ruth if Edith +would go to see her, could not banish the picture of Ruth's face if +Edith were to walk into the room. And because he could not banish it he +suddenly turned abruptly from his car and started across the street and +up the steps to the porch.</p> + +<p>She smiled brightly up at him, holding out her hand. "Coming up to talk +to me? How nice!"</p> + +<p>He pulled up a chair, bantering with the children.</p> + +<p>"I know what you've come for," Edith laughed gayly. "You've come to hear +about how lovely Amy was at the tea yesterday. You want to know all the +nice things people are saying about her."</p> + +<p>His face puckered as it did when he was perplexed or annoyed. He laughed +with a little constraint as he said: "That would be pleasant hearing, I +admit. But it was something else I wanted to talk to you about just now, +Edith."</p> + +<p>She raised her brows a little in inquiry, bending forward slightly, +waiting, her eyes touched with the anticipation of something serious. He +felt sure his tone had suggested Ruth to her; that indicated to him that +Ruth had been much in her mind.</p> + +<p>"I had a long visit with Ruth last night," he began quietly.</p> + +<p>She did not speak, bending forward a little more, her eyes upon him +intently, anxiously.</p> + +<p>"Edith?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, Deane?"</p> + +<p>He paused, then asked simply: "Edith, Ruth is very lonely. Won't you go +to see her?"</p> + +<p>She raised her chin in quick, startled way, some emotion, he did not +know just what, breaking over her face.</p> + +<p>"I thought I'd come and tell you, Edith, how lonely—how utterly +lonely—Ruth is, because I felt if you understood you would want to go +and see her."</p> + +<p>Still Edith did not speak. She looked as though she were going to cry.</p> + +<p>"Ruth's had a hard time, Edith. It's been no light life for her—you +don't have to do more than look in her eyes to know that. I wish you +could have heard the way she asked about you—poured out questions about +you. She loves you just as she always did, Edith. She's sorrowed for you +all through these years."</p> + +<p>A tear brimmed over from Edith's blue eyes and rolled +slowly—unheeded—down her cheek. His heart warmed to her and he took +hope as he watched that tear.</p> + +<p>"She was crazy to know about your children. That's been a grief to her, +Edith. Ruth should be a mother—you know that. You must know what a +mother she would have made. If you were to take your youngsters to see +her—" He broke off with a laugh, as if there was no way of expressing +it.</p> + +<p>Edith looked away from him, seemed to be staring straight into a rose +bush at the side of the porch.</p> + +<p>"Couldn't you?" he gently pressed.</p> + +<p>She turned to him. "I'd like to, Deane," she said simply, "but, "—her +dimmed eyes were troubled—"I don't see how I could."</p> + +<p>"Why not?" he pursued. "It's simple enough—just go and see her. We +might go together, if that would seem easier."</p> + +<p>She was pulling at a bit of sewing in her lap. "But, Deane, it <i>isn't</i> +simple," she began hesitatingly. "It isn't just one's self. There's +society—the whole big terrible question. If it were just a simple, +individual matter,—why, the truth is I'd love to go and see Ruth. If it +were just a personal thing—why don't you know that I'd forget +everything—except that she's Ruth?" Her voice choked and she did not go +on, but was fumbling with the sewing in her lap.</p> + +<p>He hitched his chair forward anxiously, concentrated on his great desire +to say it right, to win Edith for Ruth. Edith was a simple sort of +being—really, a loving being; if she could only detach herself from +what she pathetically called the whole terrible question—if he could +just make her see that the thing she wanted to do was the thing to do. +She looked up at him out of big grieving eyes, as if wanting to be +convinced, wanting the way opened for the loving thing she would like to +do.</p> + +<p>"But, Edith," he began, as composedly and gently as he could, for she +was so much a child in her mentality it seemed she must be dealt with +gently and simply, "<i>is</i> it so involved, after all? Isn't it, more than +anything else, just that simple, personal matter? Why not forget +everything but the personal part of it? Ruth is back—lonely—in +trouble. Things came between you and Ruth, but that was a long time ago +and since that she's met hard things. You're not a vindictive person; +you're a loving person. Then for heaven's sake why <i>wouldn't</i> you go and +see her?"—it was impossible to keep the impatience out of that last.</p> + +<p>"I know," she faltered, "but—society—"</p> + +<p>"Society!" he jeered. "<i>Forget</i> society, Edith, and be just a human +being! If <i>you</i> can forget—forgive—what seemed to you the wrong Ruth +did <i>you</i>—if <i>your</i> heart goes out to her—then what else is there to +it?" he demanded impatiently.</p> + +<p>"But you see,"—he could feel her reaching out, as if thinking she must, +to the things that had been said to her, was conscious of her mother's +thinking pushing on hers as she fumbled, "but one <i>isn't</i> free, Deane. +Society <i>has</i> to protect itself. What might not happen—if it didn't?"</p> + +<p>He tried to restrain what he wanted to say to that—keep cool, wise, and +say the things that would get Edith. He was sure that Edith wanted to be +had; her eyes asked him to overthrow those things that had been fastened +on her, to free her so that the simple, human approach was the only one +there was to it, justify her in believing one dared be as kind, as +natural and simple and real as one wanted to be. He was sure that in +Edith's heart love for her friend was more real than any sense of duty +to society.</p> + +<p>"But after all what is society, Edith?" he began quietly. "Just a +collection of individuals, isn't it? Why must it be so much harder than +the individuals comprising it? If it is that—then there's something +wrong with it, wouldn't you think?"</p> + +<p>He looked around at the sound of a screen door closing. Edith's mother +had stepped out on the porch. He knew by her startled look, her quick, +keen glance at him, that she had heard his last words. She stepped +forward holding up her hands in mock dismay, with a laughing: "What a +large, solemn issue for an early morning conversation!"</p> + +<p>Deane tried to laugh but he was not good at dissembling and he was +finding it hard to conceal his annoyance at the interruption. Talking to +Mrs. Lawrence was very different from talking to Edith. Edith, against +her own loving impulses, tried to think what she thought she ought to +think; Mrs. Lawrence had hardened into the things she thought should be +thought, and at once less loving and more intelligent than Edith, she +was fixed where her daughter was uncertain, complacent where Edith was +troubled. She was one of those women who, very kind to people they +accept, have no tendrils of kindness running out to those whom they do +not approve. Her qualities of heart did not act outside the circle of +her endorsement. With the exception of Ruth's brother Cyrus, no one in +the town had been harder about her than Edith's mother. He had all the +time felt that, let alone, Edith would have gone back to Ruth.</p> + +<p>He had risen and pulled up a chair for Mrs. Lawrence and now stood there +fumbling with his hat, as if about to leave. It seemed to him he might +as well.</p> + +<p>"Why, my dears!" exclaimed the older woman with a sort of light dryness, +"pray don't let me feel I have broken up a philosophic discussion."</p> + +<p>"Deane was asking me to go and see Ruth, mother," said Edith, simply and +not without dignity.</p> + +<p>He saw her flush, her quick look up at him, and then the slight +tightening of her lips.</p> + +<p>"And doesn't it occur to Deane," she asked pleasantly, "that that is +rather a strange thing to ask of you?"</p> + +<p>"She is very lonely, Deane says," said Edith tremulously.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Lawrence was threading a needle. "I presume so," she answered +quietly.</p> + +<p>Deane felt the blood rising in him. Somehow that quiet reply angered him +as no sharp retort could have done. He turned to Edith, rather pointedly +leaving her mother out. "Well," he asked bluntly, "will you go?"</p> + +<p>Edith's eyes widened. She looked frightened. She stole a look at her +mother, who had serenely begun upon her embroidery.</p> + +<p>"Why, Deane!" laughed the mother, as if tolerantly waving aside a +preposterous proposal, "how absurd! Of course Edith won't go! How could +she? Why should she?"</p> + +<p>He made no reply, fearing to let himself express the things +which—disappointed—he was feeling.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Lawrence looked up. "If you will just cast your mind back," she +said, her voice remaining pleasant though there was a sting in it now, +"to the way Ruth treated Edith, I think it will come home to you, Deane, +that you are asking a rather absurd thing."</p> + +<p>"But Edith says,"—he made a big effort to speak as quietly as she +did—"that that personal part of it is all right with her. She says that +she would really like to go and see Ruth, but doesn't think she can—on +account of society."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Lawrence flushed a little at his tone on that last, but she seemed +quite unruffled as she asked: "And you see no point in that?"</p> + +<p>He had sat down on the railing of the porch. He leaned back against a +pillar, turning a little away from them as he said with a laugh not free +of bitterness: "I don't believe I quite get this idea about society." +Abruptly he turned back to Mrs. Lawrence. "What is it? A collection of +individuals for mutual benefit and self-protection, I gather. Protection +against what? Their own warmest selves? The most real things in them?"</p> + +<p>Mrs. Lawrence colored, though she was smiling composedly enough. Edith +was not smiling. He saw her anxious look over at her mother, as if +expecting her to answer that, and yet—this was what her eyes made him +think—secretly hoping she couldn't.</p> + +<p>But Mrs. Lawrence maintained her manner of gracious, rather amused +tolerance with an absurd hot-headedness, perversity, on his part. "Oh, +come now, Deane," she laughed, "we're not going to get into an absurd +discussion, are we?"</p> + +<p>"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Lawrence," he retorted sharply, "but I don't +think it an absurd discussion. I don't consider a thing that involves +the happiness of as fine a human being as Ruth Holland an absurd thing +to discuss!"</p> + +<p>She laid down her work. "Ruth Holland," she began very quietly, "is a +human being who selfishly—basely—took her own happiness, leaving +misery for others. She outraged society as completely as a woman could +outrage it. She was a thief, really,—stealing from the thing that was +protecting her, taking all the privileges of a thing she was a traitor +to. She was not only what we call a bad woman, she was a hypocrite. More +than that, she was outrageously unfaithful to her dearest friend—to +Edith here who loved and trusted her. Having no respect for marriage +herself, she actually had the effrontery—to say nothing of the lack of +fine feeling—to go to the altar with Edith the very night that she +herself outraged marriage. I don't know, Deane, how a woman could do a +worse thing than that. The most pernicious kind of woman is not the one +who bears the marks of the bad woman upon her. It's the woman like Ruth +Holland, who appears to be what she is not, who deceives, plays a false +part. If you can't see that society must close in against a woman like +that then all I can say, my dear Deane, is that you don't see very +straight. You jeer about society, but society is nothing more than life +as we have arranged it. It is an institution. One living within it must +keep the rules of that institution. One who defies it—deceives it—must +be shut out from it. So much we are forced to do in self-defence. We +<i>owe</i> that to the people who are trying to live decently, to be +faithful. Life, as we have arranged it, must be based on confidence. We +have to keep that confidence. We have to punish a violation of it." She +took up her sewing again. "Your way of looking at it is not a very large +way, Deane," she concluded pleasantly.</p> + +<p>Edith had settled back in her chair—accepting, though her eyes were +grieving. It was that combination which, perhaps even more than the +words of her mother, made it impossible for him to hold back.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps not," he said; "not what you would call a large way of looking +at it. But do you know, Mrs. Lawrence, I'm not sure that I care for that +large way of looking at it. I'm not sure that I care a great deal about +an institution that smothers the kindly things in people—as you are +making this do in Edith. It sometimes occurs to me that life as we have +arranged it is a rather unsatisfactory arrangement. I'm not sure that an +arrangement of life which doesn't leave place for the most real things +in life is going to continue forever. Ruth was driven into a corner and +forced to do things she herself hated and suffered for—it was this same +arrangement of life forced that on her, you know. You talk of marriage. +But you must know there was no real marriage between Marion Averley and +Stuart Williams. And I don't believe you can deny that there is a real +marriage between him and Ruth Holland." He had risen and now moved a +little toward the steps. "So you see I don't believe I care much for +your 'society,' Mrs. Lawrence," he laughed shortly. "This looks to me +like a pretty clear case of life against society—and I see things just +straight enough that life itself strikes me as rather more important +than your precious 'arrangement' of it!"</p> + +<p>That did not bring the color to Mrs. Lawrence's face; there seemed no +color at all there when Deane finished speaking. She sat erect, her +hands folded on her sewing, looking at him with strangely bright eyes. +When she spoke it was with a certain metallic pleasantness. "Why, very +well, Deane," she said; "one is at perfect liberty to choose, isn't one? +And I think it quite right to declare one's self, as you have just done, +that we may know who is of us and who is not." She smiled—a smile that +seemed definitely to shut him out.</p> + +<p>He looked at Edith; her eyes were down; he could see that her lips +trembled. "Good-by," he said.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Lawrence bowed slightly and took up her sewing.</p> + +<p>"Good-by, Edith," he added gently.</p> + +<p>She looked up at him and he saw then why she had been looking down. +"Good-by, Deane," she said a little huskily, her eyes all clouded with +tears. "Though how absurd!" she quickly added with a rather tremulous +laugh. "We shall be seeing you as usual, of course." But it was more +appeal than declaration.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_SEVENTEEN" id="CHAPTER_SEVENTEEN"></a>CHAPTER SEVENTEEN</h2> + + +<p>Ruth was different after her talk with Deane that night. Ted felt the +change in her when he went up to say goodnight. The constraint between +them seemed somehow to have fallen away. Ruth was natural now—just +Ruth, he told himself, and felt that talking to Deane had done her good. +He lingered to chat with her awhile—of the arrangements for the night, +various little things about the house, just the things they naturally +would talk of; his feeling of embarrassment, diffidence, melted quite +away before her quiet simplicity, her warm naturalness. She had seemed +timid all day—holding back. Now she seemed just quietly to take her +place. He had been afraid of doing or saying something that would hurt +her, that had kept him from being natural, he knew. But now he forgot +about that. And when Ruth put her hands up on his shoulders and lifted +her face to kiss him goodnight he suddenly knew how many lonely nights +there had been. "I'm so glad I've got you back, Ted," she said; "I want +to talk to you about heaps of things."</p> + +<p>And Ted, as he went to bed, was thinking that there were heaps of things +he wanted to talk to Ruth about. He hadn't had much of anybody to talk +to about the things one does talk to one's own folks about. His father +had been silent and queer the last couple of years, and somehow one +wouldn't think of "talking" to Harriett. He and Ruth had always hit it +off, he told himself. He was glad she had found her feet, as he thought +of it; evidently talking with Deane had made her feel more at home. +Deane was a bully sort! After he had fallen into a light sleep he +awakened and there came all freshly the consciousness that Ruth was +back, asleep in her old room. It made him feel so good; he stretched out +and settled for sleep with satisfaction, drowsily thinking that there +<i>were</i> heaps of things he wanted to talk to Ruth about.</p> + +<p>Ruth, too, was settling to sleep with more calm, something nearer peace +than it had seemed just a little while before she was going to find in +her father's house. Talking with Deane took her in to something from +which she had long felt shut out. It was like coming on a camp fire +after being overawed by too long a time in the forest—warmth and light +and cheerful crackling after loneliness in austere places. Dear Deane! +he was always so good to her; he always helped. It was curious about +Deane—about Deane and her. There seemed a strange openness—she could +not think of it any other way—between them. Things she lived through, +in which he had no part, drew her to him, swung her back to him. There +was something between his spirit and hers that seemed to make him part +even of experiences she had had with another man, as if things of the +emotions, even though not shared, drew them together through the spirit. +Very deeply she hoped that Deane would be happy. She wished she might +meet his wife, but probably she wouldn't. She quickly turned from that +thought, wanting to stay by the camp fire. Anyway, Deane was her friend. +She rested in that thought of having a friend—someone to talk to about +things small and droll, about things large and mysterious. Thoughts +needed to be spoken. It opened something in one to speak them. With +Stuart she had been careful not to talk of certain things, fearing to +see him sink into that absorption, gloom, she had come to dread.</p> + +<p>She cried a little after she had crept into her bed—her own old bed; +but they were just tears of feeling, not of desolation. The oak tree was +tapping against the house, the breeze, carrying familiar scents, blew +through the room. She was back home. All the sadness surrounding her +homecoming could not keep out the sweet feeling of being back that stole +through her senses.</p> + +<p>Next morning she went about the house with new poise; she was quiet, but +it was of a different quality from the quiet of the day before. Flora +Copeland found herself thinking less about maintaining her carefully +thought out manner toward Ruth. She told herself that Ruth did not seem +like "that kind of a woman." She would forget the "difficult situation" +and find herself just talking with Ruth—about the death of her sister +Mary's little girl, of her niece who was about to be married. There was +something about Ruth that made one slip into talking to her about things +one was feeling; and something in the quiet light of her tired sweet +eyes made one forget about not being more than courteous. Even Laura +Abbott, the nurse, found herself talking naturally to this Ruth Holland, +this woman who lived with another woman's husband, who was more "talked +about" than any woman in the town had ever been. But somehow a person +just forgot what she really was, she told a friend; she wasn't at all +like you'd expect that kind of a person to be. Though of course there +were terribly embarrassing things—like not knowing what to call her.</p> + +<p>Between Ruth and Harriett things went much better than they had the day +before. Ruth seemed so much herself when they met that afternoon that +unconsciously Harriett emerged from her uncertainty, from that fumbling +manner of the day before. The things holding them apart somehow fell +back before the things drawing them together. They were two sisters and +their father was dying. The doctor had just been there and said he did +not believe Mr. Holland could live another day. They were together when +he told them that; for the moment, at least, it melted other things +away.</p> + +<p>They stood at the head of the stairs talking of things of common +concern—the efficiency of the nurse, of Ted, who had been with his +father more than any of the rest of them, for whom they feared it would +be very hard when the moment came. Then, after a little pause made +intimate by feeling shared, Harriett told when she would be back, +adding, "But you'll see to it that I'm telephoned at once if—if I +should be wanted, won't you, Ruth?"—as one depending on this other more +than on anyone else. Ruth only answered gently, "Yes, Harriett," but she +felt warmed in her heart. She had been given something to do. She was +depended on. She was not left out.</p> + +<p>She sat beside her father during the hour that the nurse had to be +relieved. Very strongly, wonderfully, she had a feeling that her father +knew she was there, that he wanted her there. In the strange quiet of +that hour she seemed to come close to him, as if things holding them +apart while he was of life had fallen away now that he no longer was +life-bound. It was very real to her. It was communion. Things she could +not have expressed seemed to be flowing out to him, and things he could +not have understood seemed reaching him now. It was as if she was going +with him right up to the border—a long way past the things of life that +drove them apart. The nurse, coming back to resume duty, was arrested, +moved, by Ruth's face. She spoke gently in thanking her, her own face +softened. Flora Copeland, meeting Ruth in the hall, paused, somehow +held, and then, quite forgetful of the manner she was going to maintain +toward Ruth, impulsively called after her: "Are you perfectly +comfortable in your room, Ruth? Don't you—shan't I bring in one of the +big easy chairs?"</p> + +<p>Ruth said no, she liked her own little chair, but she said it very +gently, understanding; she had again that feeling of being taken in, the +feeling that warmed her heart.</p> + +<p>She went in her room and sat quietly in her little chair; and what had +been a pent up agony in her heart flowed out in open sorrowing: for her +mother, who was not there to sit in her room with her; for her father, +who was dying. But it was releasing sorrowing, the sorrowing that makes +one one with the world, drawing one into the whole life of human +feeling, the opened heart that brings one closer to all opened hearts. +It was the sadness that softens; such sadness as finds its own healing +in enriched feeling. It made her feel very near her father and mother; +she loved them; she felt that they loved her. She had hurt +them—terribly hurt them; but it all seemed beyond that now; they +understood; and she was Ruth and they loved her. It was as if the way +had been cleared between her and them. She did not feel shut in alone.</p> + +<p>Ted hesitated when he came to her door a little later, drew back before +the tender light of her illumined face. It did not seem a time to break +in on her. But she held out her hand with a little welcoming gesture +and, though strangely subdued, smiled lovingly at him as she said, "Come +on in, Ted."</p> + +<p>Something that the boy felt in her mood made him scowl anew at the thing +he had to tell her. He went over to the window, his back to her, and was +snapping his finger against the pane. "Well," he said at last, gruffly, +"Cy gets in today. Just had a wire."</p> + +<p>Ruth drew back, as one who has left exposed a place that can be hurt +draws back when hurt threatens. Ted felt it—that retreating within +herself, and said roughly: "Much anybody cares! Between you and me, I +don't think father would care so very much, either."</p> + +<p>"Ted!" she remonstrated in elder sister fashion.</p> + +<p>"Cy's got a hard heart, Ruth," he said with a sudden gravity that came +strangely through his youthfulness.</p> + +<p>Ruth did not reply; she did not want to say what she felt about Cy's +heart. But after a moment the domestic side of it turned itself to her. +"Will Louise come with him, Ted?"</p> + +<p>"No," he answered shortly.</p> + +<p>His tone made her look at him in inquiry, but he had turned his back to +her again. "I was just wondering about getting their room ready," she +said.</p> + +<p>For a moment Ted did not speak, did not turn toward her. Then, "We don't +have to bother getting any room ready for Cy," he said, with a scoffing +little laugh.</p> + +<p>Ruth's hand went up to her throat—a curious movement, as if in defense. +"What do you mean, Ted?" she asked in low quick voice.</p> + +<p>Ted's finger was again snapping the window pane. Once more he laughed +disdainfully. "Our esteemed brother is going to the hotel," he jeered.</p> + +<p>As Ruth did not speak he looked around. He could not bear her face. +"Don't you care, Ruth," he burst out. "Why, what's the difference?" he +went on scoffingly. "The hotel's a good place. He'll get along all right +down there—and it makes it just so much the better for us."</p> + +<p>But even then Ruth could not speak; it had come in too tender a moment, +had found her too exposed; she could only cower back. Then pride broke +through. "Cyrus needn't go to the hotel, Ted. If he can't stay in the +same house with me—even when father is dying—then I'll go somewhere +else."</p> + +<p>"You'll not!" he blazed, with a savagery that at once startled and +wonderfully comforted her. "If Cy wants to be a fool, let him be a fool! +If he can't act decent—then let him do what he pleases—or go to the +devil!"</p> + +<p>She murmured something in remonstrance, but flooded with gratefulness +for the very thing she tried to protest against. And then even that was +struck out. She had brought about this quarrel, this feeling, between +the two brothers. Ted's antagonism against Cyrus, comforting to her, +might work harm to Ted. Those were the things she did. That was what +came through her.</p> + +<p>The comfort, communion, peace of a few minutes before seemed a mockery. +Out of her great longing she had deluded herself. Now she was cast back; +now she knew. It was as if she had only been called out in order to be +struck back. And it seemed that Ted, whom she had just found again, she +must either lose or harm. And the shame of it!—children not coming +together under their father's roof when he was dying! Even death could +not break the bitterness down. It made her know just how it was—just +where she stood. And she thought of the town's new talk because of this.</p> + +<p>"It's pretty bad, isn't it, Ted?" she said finally, looking up to him +with heavy eyes.</p> + +<p>Ted flushed. "Cy makes it worse than it need be," he muttered.</p> + +<p>"But it is pretty bad, isn't it?" she repeated in a voice there was +little life in. "It was about as bad as it could be for you all, wasn't +it?"</p> + +<p>"Well, Ruth," he began diffidently, "of course—of course this house +hasn't been a very cheerful place since you went away."</p> + +<p>"No," she murmured, "of course not." She sat there dwelling upon that, +forming a new picture of just what it had been. "It really made a big +difference, did it, Ted?—even for you?" She asked it very simply, as +one asking a thing in order to know the truth.</p> + +<p>Ted sat down on the bed. He was shuffling his feet a little, +embarrassed, but his face was finely serious, as if this were a grave +thing of which it was right they talk.</p> + +<p>"Of course I was a good deal of a kid, Ruth," he began. "And yet—" He +halted, held by kindness.</p> + +<p>"Yes?" she pressed, as if wanting to get him past kindness.</p> + +<p>"Well, yes, Ruth, it was—rather bad. I minded on account of the +fellows, you see. I knew they were talking and—" Again he stopped; his +face had reddened. Her face too colored up at that.</p> + +<p>"And then of course home—you know it had always been so jolly here at +home—was a pretty different place, Ruth," he took it up gently. "With +Cy charging around, and mother and father so—different."</p> + +<p>"And they were different, were they, Ted?" she asked quietly.</p> + +<p>He looked at her in surprise. "Why, yes, Ruth, they certainly +were—different."</p> + +<p>Silence fell between them, separately dwelling upon that.</p> + +<p>"Just how—different?" Ruth asked, for it seemed he was not going on.</p> + +<p>"Why—mother stopped going out, and of course that made her all +different. You know what a lot those parties and doings meant to +mother."</p> + +<p>She did not at once speak, her face working. Then: "I'm sorry," she +choked. "Need she have done that, Ted?" she added wistfully after a +moment.</p> + +<p>He looked at her with that fine seriousness that made him seem older +than he was—and finer than she had known. "Well, I don't know, Ruth; +you know you don't feel very comfortable if you think people +are—talking. It makes you feel sort of—out of it; as if there was +something different about you."</p> + +<p>"And father?" she urged, her voice quiet, strangely quiet. She was +sitting very still, looking intently at Ted.</p> + +<p>"Well, father rather dropped out of it, too," he went on, his voice +gentle as if it would make less hard what it was saying. "He and mother +just seemed to want to draw back into their shells. I think—" He +stopped, then said: "I guess you really want to know, Ruth; it—it did +make a big difference in father. I think it went deeper than you may +have known—and maybe it's only fair to him you should know. It did make +a difference; I think it made a difference even in business. Maybe that +seems queer, but don't you know when a person doesn't feel right about +things he doesn't get on very well with people? Father got that way. He +didn't seem to want to be with people."</p> + +<p>She did not raise her eyes at that. "Business hasn't gone very well, has +it, Ted?" she asked after a moment of silence, still not looking up.</p> + +<p>"Pretty bad. And of course <i>that</i> gets Cy," he added.</p> + +<p>She nodded. "I guess there's a good deal to be said on Cy's side," she +murmured after a little, her hands working and her voice not steady.</p> + +<p>Ted grunted something disdainful, then muttered: "He played things up +for all they were worth. Don't you think he ever missed anything!"</p> + +<p>"Was that why Cy left town, Ted?" Ruth asked, speaking all the while in +that low, strange voice.</p> + +<p>"Oh, he claims so," scoffed Ted. "But he can't make me believe any +family humiliation would have made him leave town if he hadn't had a +better thing somewhere else. But of course he <i>says</i> that. That it was +too hard for him and Louise! Too bad about that little doll-face, isn't +it?"</p> + +<p>Ruth made a gesture of remonstrance, but the boyish partisanship brought +the tears she had until then been able to hold back.</p> + +<p>Ted rose. And then he hesitated, as if not wanting to leave it like +this. "Well, Ruth, I can tell you one thing," he said gently, a little +bashfully; "with all Cy's grand talk about the wrong done mother and +father, neither of them ever loved him the way they loved you."</p> + +<p>"Oh, <i>did</i> they, Ted?" she cried, and all the held back feeling broke +through, suffusing her. "They <i>did</i>?—in spite of everything? Tell me +about that, Ted! Tell me about it!"</p> + +<p>"Mother used to talk a lot to me," he said. "She was always coming into +my room and talking to me about you."</p> + +<p>"Oh, <i>was</i> she, Ted?" she cried again, feeling breaking over her face in +waves. "She <i>did</i> talk about me? What did she say? Tell me!"</p> + +<p>"Just little things, mostly. Telling about things you had said and done +when you were a kid; remembering what you'd worn here and there—who +you'd gone with. Oh,—you know; just little things.</p> + +<p>"Of course," he went on, Ruth leaning forward, hanging on his words, "I +was a good deal of a kid then; she didn't talk to me much about +the—serious part of it. Maybe that was the reason she liked to talk to +me—because she could just talk about the little things—old things. +Though once or twice—"</p> + +<p>"Yes, Ted?" she breathed, as he paused there.</p> + +<p>"Well, she did say things to me, too. I remember once she said, 'It +wasn't like Ruth. Something terrible happened. She didn't know what she +was doing.'"</p> + +<p>Ruth's hands were pressed tight together; unheeded tears were falling on +them.</p> + +<p>"And she used to worry about you, Ruth. When it was cold and she'd come +into my room with an extra cover she'd say—'I wish I knew that my girl +was warm enough tonight.'"</p> + +<p>At that Ruth's face went down in her hands and she was sobbing.</p> + +<p>"I don't know what I'm talking like this for!" muttered the boy angrily. +"Making you feel so bad!"</p> + +<p>She shook her head, but for a little could not look up. Then she choked: +"No, I want to know. Never mind how it hurts, I want to know." And then, +when she had controlled herself a little more she said, simply: "I +didn't know it was like that. I didn't know mother felt—like that."</p> + +<p>"She'd start to write to you, and then lots of times she wouldn't seem +to know how. She wanted to write to you lots more than she did. But I +don't know, Ruth, mother was queer. She seemed sort of bewildered. +She—wasn't herself. She was just kind of powerless to do anything about +things. She'd come in this room a lot. Sit in here by herself. One of +the last days mother was around she called me in here and she had that +dress you wore to Edith Lawrence's wedding spread out on the bed and +was—oh, just kind of fussing with it. And the reason she called me in +was that she wanted to know if I remembered how pretty you looked in it +that night."</p> + +<p>But Ruth had thrown out a hand for him to stop, had covered her face as +if shutting something out. "Oh, I'm sorry, Ruth!" murmured Ted. "I'm a +fool!" he cried angrily. But after a minute he added haltingly, "And +yet—you did want to know, and—maybe it's fairer to mother, Ruth. +Maybe—" but he could not go on and went over and stood by the window, +not wanting to leave her like that, not knowing what to do.</p> + +<p>"Well, one thing I want you to know, Ruth," he said, as he did finally +turn to the door. "I've been talking along about how hard it was for the +rest of us, but don't for a minute think I don't see how terrible it was +for <i>you</i>. I get that, all right."</p> + +<p>She looked up at him, wanting to speak, but dumb; dumb in this new +realization of how terrible it had been for them all.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_EIGHTEEN" id="CHAPTER_EIGHTEEN"></a>CHAPTER EIGHTEEN</h2> + + +<p>An hour later she had to get away from that room. She did not know where +she was going, but she had to have some escape. Just the physical act of +getting away was something.</p> + +<p>Ted and Harriett were talking in the lower hall. They looked in inquiry +at the hat she held and her face made Ted lay a hand on her arm. She +told them she had to have exercise—air—and was going out for a little +walk. She thought Harriett looked aghast—doubtless preferring Ruth be +seen as little as possible. But she could not help that; she had to get +away—away from that room, that house, away from those old things now +newly charged. Something left with them shut down around her as a fog in +which she could not breathe. Ted asked if he should go with her, but she +shook her head and started for the side door, fearing he might insist. +He called after her that Harriett was going to have Cyrus stay at her +house, that she could make room for him. He said it with a relief which +told how he had really hated having his brother go to the hotel. As she +turned with something about that being better, she noticed how worn and +worried Harriett looked, and then hurried on, wanting to get away, to +escape for a little while from that crushing realization of how hard she +made things for them all. But she could not shut out the thought of the +empty rooms upstairs at their house—Cyrus's old home—and the crowded +quarters at Harriett's. Yet of course this would be better than the +hotel; she was glad Harriett and Ted had been able to arrange it; she +hoped, for their sakes, that Cyrus would not, to emphasize his feeling, +insist upon staying downtown.</p> + +<p>She walked several blocks without giving any thought to where she was +going. She was not thinking then of those familiar streets, of the times +she had walked them. She was getting away, trying, for a little while, +to escape from things she had no more power to bear. She could not have +stayed another minute in her old room.</p> + +<p>A little ahead of her she saw a woman sitting in a market wagon, holding +the horse. She got the impression that the woman was selling vegetables. +She tried to notice, to be interested. She could see, as she came along +toward the wagon, that the vegetables looked nice and fresh. She and +Stuart had raised vegetables once; they had done various things after +what money they had was exhausted and, handicapped both by his lack of +ruggedness and by the shrinking from people which their position bred in +them, they had to do the best they could at making a living. And so she +noticed these vegetables, but it was not until she was close to her that +she saw the woman had relaxed her hold on the lines and was leaning +forward, peering at her. And when she came a little nearer this woman—a +thin, wiry little person whose features were sharp, leaned still further +forward and cried: "Why, how do you do? How d'do, Ruth!"</p> + +<p>For a moment Ruth was too startled to make any reply. Then she only +stammered, "Why, how do you do?"</p> + +<p>But the woman leaned over the side of the wagon. Ruth was trying her +best to think who she was; she knew that she had known her somewhere, in +some way, but that thin, eager little face was way back in the past, and +that she should be spoken to in this way—warm, natural—was itself too +astonishing, moving, to leave her clear-headed for casting back.</p> + +<p>And then, just as she seemed about to say something, her face changed a +little. Ruth heard a gate click behind her and then a man, a stolid +farmer, he appeared, came up to the wagon. The woman kept nodding her +head, as if in continued greeting, but she had leaned back, as though +she had decided against what she had been about to say. Ruth, starting +on, still bewildered, stirred, nodded and smiled too; and then, when the +man had jumped in the wagon and just as the horse was starting, the +woman called: "It seems awful good to have you back on these streets, +Ruth!"</p> + +<p>Ruth could only nod in reply and hurried on; her heart beat fast; her +eyes were blurring. "It seems awful good to have you back on these +streets, Ruth!" Was <i>that</i> what she had said? She turned around, wanting +to run after that wagon, not wanting to lose that pinched, shabby, eager +little woman who was glad to have her back on those streets. But the +wagon had turned a corner and was out of sight. Back on those streets! +It opened her to the fact that she was back on them. She walked more +slowly, thinking about that. And she could walk more slowly; she was +less driven.</p> + +<p>After a block of perplexed thinking she knew who that woman was; it +flashed from her memory where she had known that intent look, that +wistful intentness lighting a thin little face. It was Annie Morris, a +girl in her class at the high-school, a plain, quiet girl—poor she +believed she was, not in Ruth's crowd. Now that she searched back for +what she remembered about it she believed that this Annie Morris had +always liked her; and perhaps she had taken more notice of her than +Edith and the other girls had. She could see her now getting out of the +shabby buggy in which she drove in to school—she lived somewhere out in +the country. She remembered talking to her sometimes at recess—partly +because she seemed a good deal alone and partly because she liked to +talk to her. She remembered that she was what they called awfully bright +in her classes.</p> + +<p>That this girl, whom she had forgotten, should welcome her so warmly +stirred an old wondering: a wondering if somewhere in the world there +were not people who would be her friends. That wondering, longing, had +run through many lonely days. The people she had known would no longer +be her friends. But were there not other people? She knew so little +about the world outside her own life; her own life had seemed to shut +down around her. But she had a feeling that surely somewhere—somewhere +outside the things she had known—were people among whom she could find +friends. So far she had not found them. At the first, seeing how hard it +would be, how bad for them both, to have only each other, she had tried +to go out to people just as if there were nothing in her life to keep +her back from them. And then they would "hear"; that hearing would come +in the most unforeseen little ways, at the most unexpected times; +usually through those coincidences of somebody's knowing somebody else, +perhaps meeting someone from a former place where they had already +"heard"; it was as if the haphazardness of life, those little accidents +of meetings that were without design, equipped the world with a powerful +service for "hearing," which after a time made it impossible for people +to feel that what was known in one place would not come to be known in +another. After she had several times been hurt by the drawing away of +people whom she had grown to like, she herself drew back where she could +not be so easily hurt. And so it came about that her personality changed +in that; from an outgoing nature she came to be one who held back, shut +herself in. Even people who had never "heard" had the feeling she did +not care to know them, that she wanted to be let alone. It crippled her +power for friendship; it hurt her spirit. And it left her very much +alone. In that loneliness she wondered if there were not those other +people—people who could "hear" and not draw away. She had not found +them; perhaps she had at times been near them and in her holding +back—not knowing, afraid—had let them go by. Of that, too, she had +wondered; there had been many lonely wonderings.</p> + +<p>She came now to a corner where she stopped. She stood looking down that +cross street which was shaded by elm trees. That was the corner where +she had always turned for Edith's. Yes, that was the way she used to go. +She stood looking down the old way. She wanted to go that way now!</p> + +<p>She went so far as to cross the street, and on that far corner again +stood still, hesitating, wanting to go that old way. It came to her that +if this other girl—Annie Morris—a girl she could barely remember, was +glad to see her back, then surely Edith—<i>Edith</i>—would be glad to see +her. But after a moment she went slowly on—the other way. She +remembered; remembered the one letter she had had from Edith—that +letter of a few lines sent in reply to her two letters written from +Arizona, trying to make Edith understand.</p> + +<p>"Ruth"—Edith had written—she knew the few words by heart; "Yes, I +received your first letter. I did not reply to it because it did not +seem to me there was anything for me to say. And it does not seem to me +now that there is anything for me to say." It was signed, "Edith +Lawrence Blair." The full signature had seemed even more formal than the +cold words. It had hurt more; it seemed actually to be putting in force +the decree that everything between her and Edith was at an end. It was +never to be Ruth and Edith again.</p> + +<p>As she walked slowly on now, away from Edith's, she remembered the day +she walked across that Arizona plain, looking at Edith's letter a +hundred times in the two miles between the little town and their cabin. +She had gone into town that day to see the doctor. Stuart had seemed +weaker and she was terribly frightened. The doctor did not bring her +much comfort; he said she would have to be patient, and hope—probably +it would all come right. She felt very desolate that day in the +far-away, forlorn little town. When she got Edith's letter she did not +dare to open it until she got out from the town. And then she found +those few formal, final words—written, it was evident, to keep her from +writing any more. The only human thing about it was a little blot under +the signature. It was the only thing a bit like Edith; she could see her +making it and frowning over it. And she wondered—she had always +wondered—if that little blot came there because Edith was not as +controlled, as without all feeling, as everything else about her letter +would indicate. As she looked back to it now it seemed that that day of +getting Edith's letter was the worst day of all the hard years. She had +been so lonely—so frightened; when she saw Edith's handwriting it was +hard not to burst into tears right there at the little window in the +queer general store where they gave out letters as well as everything +else. But after she had read the letter there were no tears; there was +no feeling of tears. She walked along through that flat, almost +unpeopled, half desert country and it seemed that the whole world had +shrivelled up. Everything had dried, just as the bushes along the road +were alive and yet dried up. She knew then that it was certain there was +no reach back into the old things. And that night, after they had gone +to bed out of doors and Stuart had fallen asleep, she lay there in the +stillness of that vast Arizona night and she came to seem in another +world. For hours she lay there looking up at the stars, thinking, +fearing. She reached over and very gently, meaning not to wake him, put +her hand in the hand of the man asleep beside her, the man who was all +she had in the world, whom she loved with a passion that made the +possibility of losing him a thing that came in the night to terrorize +her. He had awakened and understood, and had comforted her with his +love, lavishing upon her tender, passionate assurance of how he was +going to get strong and make it all come right for them both. There was +something terrible in that passion for one another that came out of the +consciousness of all else lost. They had each other—there were moments +when that burned with a terrible flame through the feeling that they had +nothing else. That night they went to sleep in a wonderful consciousness +of being alone together in the world. Time after time that swept them +together with an intensity of which finally they came to be afraid. They +stopped speaking of it; it came to seem a thing not to dwell upon.</p> + +<p>The thought of Edith's letter had brought some of that back now. She +turned from it to the things she was passing, houses she recognized, new +houses. Walking on past them she thought of how those homes joined. With +most of them there were no fences between—one yard merging into +another. Children were running from yard to yard; here a woman was +standing in her own yard calling to a woman in the house adjoining. She +passed a porch where four women were sitting sewing; another where two +women were playing with a baby. There were so many meeting places for +their lives; they were not shut in with their own feeling. That feeling +which they as individuals knew reached out into common experiences, into +a life in common growing out of individual things. Passing these houses, +she wanted to share in that life in common. She had been too long by +herself. She needed to be one with others. Life, for a time, had a +certain terrible beauty that burned in that sense of isolation. But it +was not the way. One needed to be one with others.</p> + +<p>She thought of how it was love, more than any other thing, that gave +these people that common life. Love was the fabric of it. Love made new +combinations of people—homes, children. The very thing in her that had +shut her out was the thing drawing them into that oneness, that many in +one. Homes were closed to her because of that very impulse out of which +homes were built.</p> + +<p>She had, without any plan for doing so, turned down the little street +where she used to go to meet Stuart. And when she realized where she was +going thoughts of other things fell away; the feeling of those first +days was strangely revivified, as if going that old way made her for the +moment the girl who had gone that way. Again love was not a thing of +right or wrong, it was the thing that had to have its way—life's great +imperative. Going down that old street made the glow of those days—the +excitement—come to life and quicken her again. It was so real that it +was as if she were living it again—a girl palpitating with love going +to meet her lover, all else left behind, only love now! For the moment +those old surroundings made the old days a living thing to her. The +world was just one palpitating beauty; the earth she walked was vibrant; +the sweetness of life breathed from the air she breathed. She was +charged with the joy of it, bathed in the wonder. Love had touched her +and taken her, and she was different and everything was different. Her +body was one consciousness of love; it lifted her up; it melted her to +tenderness. It made life joyous and noble. She lived; she loved!</p> + +<p>Standing on the spot where they had many times stood in moments of +meeting a very real tenderness for that girl was in the heart of this +woman who had paid so terribly for the girl's love. It brought a feeling +that she had not paid too much, that no paying was ever too much for +love. Love made life; and in turn love was what life was for. To live +without it would be going through life without having been touched +alive. In that moment it seemed no wrong love could bring about would be +as deep as the wrong of denying love. There was again that old feeling +of rising to something higher in her than she had known was there, that +feeling of contact with all the beauty of the world, of being admitted +to the inner sweetness and wonder of life. She had a new understanding +of what she had felt; that was the thing added; that was the gift of the +hard years.</p> + +<p>And of a sudden she wanted terribly to see her mother. It seemed if she +could see her mother now that she could make her understand. She saw it +more simply than she had seen it before. She wanted to tell her mother +that she loved because she could not help loving. She wanted to tell her +that after all those years of paying for it she saw that love as the +thing illumining her life; that if there was anything worthy in her, +anything to love, it was in just this—that she had fought for love, +that she would fight for it again. She wanted to see her mother! She +believed she could help the hurt she had dealt.</p> + +<p>She had walked slowly on, climbing a little hill. From there she looked +back at the town. With fresh pain there came the consciousness that her +mother was not there, that she could not tell her, that she had +gone—gone without understanding, gone bewildered, broken. Her eyes +dimmed until the town was a blur. She wanted to see her mother!</p> + +<p>She was about to start back, but turned for a moment's look the other +way, across that lovely country of little hills and valleys—brooks, and +cattle in the brooks, and fields of many shades of green.</p> + +<p>And then her eye fixed upon one thing and after that saw no other thing. +Behind her was the place where the living were gathered together; but +over there, right over there on the next hill, were the dead. She stood +very still, looking over there passionately through dimmed eyes. And +then swiftly, sobbing a little under her breath, she started that way. +She wanted to see her mother!</p> + +<p>And when she came within those gates she grew strangely quiet. Back +there in the dwelling place of the living she had felt shut out. But she +did not feel shut out here. As slowly she wound her way to the hillside +where she knew she would find her mother's grave, a strange peace +touched her. It was as if she had come within death's tolerance; she +seemed somehow to be taken into death's wonderful, all-inclusive love +for life. There seemed only one distinction: they were dead and she +still lived; she had a sense of being loved because she still lived.</p> + +<p>Slowly, strangely comforted, strangely taken in, she passed the graves +of many who, when she left, had been back there in the place of the +living. The change from dwelling place to dwelling place had been made +in the years she was away. It came with a shock to find some of those +tombstones; she found many she had thought of as back there, a few hills +away, where men still lived. She would pause and think of them, of the +strangeness of finding them here when she had known them there—of +life's onward movement, of death's inevitability. There were stones +marking the burial places of friends of her grandfather—old people who +used to come to the house when she was a little girl; she thought with a +tender pleasure of little services she had done them; she had no feeling +at all that they would not want her to be there. Friends of her father +and mother too were there; yes, and some of her own friends—boys and +girls with whom she had shared youth.</p> + +<p>She sat a long time on the hillside where her mother had been put away. +At first she cried, but they were not bitter tears. And after that she +did not feel that, even if she could have talked to her mother, it would +be important to say the things she had thought she wanted to say. Here, +in this place of the dead, those things seemed understood. Vindication +was not necessary. Was not life life, and should not one live before +death came? She saw the monuments marking the graves of the Lawrences, +the Blairs, the Williams', the Franklins,—her mother's and her father's +people. They seemed so strangely one: people who had lived. She looked +across the hills to the town which these people had built. Right beside +her was her grandfather's grave; she thought of his stories of how, when +a little boy, he came with his people to that place not then a town; his +stories of the beginnings of it, of the struggles and conflicts that had +made it what it was. She thought of their efforts, their +disappointments, their hopes, their loves. Their loves.... She felt very +close to them in that. And as she thought of it there rose a strange +feeling, a feeling that came strangely strong and sure: If these people +who had passed from living were given an after moment of consciousness, +a moment when they could look back on life and speak to it, she felt +that their voices, with all the force they could gather, would be raised +for more living. Why did we not live more abundantly? Why did we not +hold life more precious? Were they given power to say just one word, +would they not, seeing life from death, cry—Live!</p> + +<p>Twilight came; the world had the sweetness of that hour just before +night. A breeze stirred softly; birds called lovingly—loving life. The +whole fragrance of the world was breathed into one word. It was as if +life had caught the passionate feeling of death; it was as if that after +consciousness of those who had left life, and so knew its preciousness, +broke through into things still articulate. The earth breathed—Live!</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_NINETEEN" id="CHAPTER_NINETEEN"></a>CHAPTER NINETEEN</h2> + + +<p>Cyrus Holland died just before daybreak next morning. It seemed to Deane +Franklin that he had only just fallen asleep when the telephone beside +him was ringing. When tired out he slept through other noises, but that +one always instantly reached—a call to him that got through sleep. He +wakened just enough to reach out for the 'phone and his "Hello!" was +cross. Was there never a time when one could be let alone? But the voice +that came to him banished both sleep and irritation. It was Ruth's +voice, saying quietly, tensely: "Deane? I'm sorry—but we want you. +There's a change. I'm sure father's going."</p> + +<p>He was dressing almost the instant he hung up the receiver. To Amy, who +had roused, he said: "It's Ruth. Her father's going. I can't do a +thing—but they want me there."</p> + +<p>At first Amy made no reply. He thought nothing about that, engrossed in +getting dressed as quickly as possible. When she burst out, "So of +course you're going!" he was dumbfounded at the passionateness of her +voice. He looked at her in astonishment; then, for the first time the +other side of it, as related to their quarrel about Ruth, turned itself +to him. "Why, of course I'm going, Amy," he said quietly.</p> + +<p>"It makes a difference who it is, doesn't it?" she cried, stormily. "The +other night when somebody called you and there wasn't a thing you could +do, you <i>said</i> so! You <i>told</i> them they mustn't ask you! But <i>this</i> is +different, isn't it?"</p> + +<p>The words had piled up tumultuously; she seemed right on the verge of +angry, tumultuous tears. He paused in what he was doing. "Why, Amy," he +murmured in real astonishment. And then helplessly repeated in tender +reproach, "Why, Amy!"</p> + +<p>But she laughed, it seemed sneeringly. He colored, quickly finished +dressing and left the room without saying anything more.</p> + +<p>When she heard the front door close, heard Deane running down the steps, +she sat up in bed and burst into tears of rage. Always that woman! +Running away to her in the middle of the night! He didn't <i>have</i> to go! +There was nothing for him to do as a doctor—he could do nothing for a +man who had been dying for a couple of days. He <i>said</i> that—just a +couple of nights before when someone wanted him to come. But this was +Ruth Holland! She had only to telephone. Of course he'd go anywhere—any +time—for her! Her sobs grew more and more passionate. Her head down on +her knees she rocked back and forth in that miserable fury only jealousy +and wounded pride can create.</p> + +<p>This gathered together, brought to a head, the resentment accumulating +through a number of incidents. That afternoon she had gone over to the +Lawrences' to thank Edith and her mother for the flowers from the tea +which they had sent her that morning. They had urged her to run in +often, to be friendly. Her unhappiness about her talk with Deane the +night before, when he had actually proposed that she go to see this Ruth +Holland, made her want to be with friends; she wanted to see people who +felt as she did that—though it did not so present itself to her—she +might fortify herself in the conviction that Deane was preposterously +wrong, and she taking the only course a good woman could take in +relation to a bad one. She was prepared to feel that men did not see +those things as clearly as women did, that it was woman who was the +guardian of society, and that she must bear with man in his failure to +see some things right. She had been eager to strengthen herself in that +feeling, not alone because it would, in her own mind, get her out of +reach of any possible charge of hardness or narrowness, but because it +would let her break through her feeling against Deane; she wanted to get +back to the days of his complete adoration of her, back where his +passion for her would sweep all else out of their world. She knew well +enough that Deane loved her, but there was a tightened up place around +her knowing that. It made her miserable. Things would not be right until +she found a way through that tightened up place—a way that would make +her right and Deane wrong, but would let her forgive, largely and gently +understanding. Such, not thought out, were the things that took her to +the Lawrences' that afternoon.</p> + +<p>It was apparent that Edith had been crying. She and her mother were +gracious to Amy, but there was a new constraint. She felt uncomfortable. +When they were alone Edith broke out and told her how she was just sick +at heart about Ruth. Deane had been there that morning urging her to go +and see Ruth—instantly there was all anew that tightening up that held +her from Deane, that feeling against him and against this Ruth Holland +that was as if something virulent had been poured into her blood, +changing her whole system. Edith cried as she told how Deane and her +mother had quarreled because he felt so strongly on the subject, and +didn't seem able to understand her mother's standpoint. Then, she too +wanting to set herself right with herself, she went over the whole +story—the shock to her, how it had hurt her ideal of friendship, had +even seemed to take something from the sanctity of her own marriage. She +silenced something within herself in recounting the wrong done her, +fortified herself in repeating the things she had from her mother about +one's not being free, about what the individual owed to society.</p> + +<p>Amy went home in a turmoil of resentment against her husband. It was +hard to hold back the angry tears. A nice position he was putting +himself in—going about the town pleading for this woman whom nobody +would take in!—estranging his friends—yes, probably hurting his +practice. And <i>why</i>? <i>Why</i> was he so wrought up about it? Why was he +making a regular business of going about fighting her battles? Well, +<i>one</i> thing it showed! It showed how much consideration he had for his +own wife. When she came in sight of their house it was harder than ever +to hold back the tears of mortification, of hot resentment. She had been +so sure she was going to be perfectly happy in that house! Now already +her husband was turning away from her—humiliating her—showing how much +he thought of another woman, and <i>such</i> a woman! She did not know what +to do with the way she felt, did not know how to hold from the surface +the ugly things that surged through her, possessed her. Until now she +had had nothing but adulation from love. A pretty, petted girl she had +formed that idea of pretty women in youth that it was for men to give +love and women graciously to accept it. For her vanity to be hurt by a +man who had roused her passion turned that passion to fury against him +and made it seem that a great wrong had been done her.</p> + +<p>As she approached she saw that Deane was standing before the house +talking to a woman in a vegetable wagon. He had one foot up on the spoke +of the wheel and was talking more earnestly than it seemed one would be +talking to a vegetable woman. Doubtless she was one of his patients. As +she came up he said: "Oh, Amy, I want you to know Mrs. Herman."</p> + +<p>She stiffened; his tone in introducing her to a woman of what she +thought of as the lower classes seeming just a new evidence of his +inadequate valuation of her.</p> + +<p>"Your husband and I went to school together," said Mrs. Herman, +pleasantly, but as if explaining.</p> + +<p>"Oh?" murmured Amy.</p> + +<p>Deane abruptly moved back from the wagon. "Well, you do that, Annie. +Ruth would love to see you, I know."</p> + +<p>So <i>that</i> was it! She turned away with a stiff little nod to the woman +in the wagon. Always the same thing!—urging Tom, Dick and Harry to go +and see that woman!—taking up with a person like this, introducing his +wife in that intimate way to a woman who peddled vegetables just because +she was willing to go and see Ruth Holland! She didn't know that she had +to stand such things!—she didn't know that she <i>would</i>. She guessed she +could show him that she wasn't going to play second fiddle to that Ruth +Holland!</p> + +<p>Deane came to the door of the room where she was taking off her hat. Her +fingers were trembling so that she could scarcely get the pins. "That +little woman you were so chilly to is a pretty fine sort, Amy," he said +incisively.</p> + +<p>"Because she is going to see Ruth Holland?" she retorted with an excited +laugh.</p> + +<p>"Oh, you were pretty stand-offish before you knew that," he answered +coolly.</p> + +<p>Vanity smarting from deeper hurts made her answer, haughtily: "I'm +rather inexperienced, you know, in meeting people of that class."</p> + +<p>In his heart too there were deeper disappointments than this touched. +"Well, I must say—" he began hotly, "I think if I felt as snobbish as +that I'd try pretty hard to conceal it!"</p> + +<p>Amy was carefully putting away her hat; she had an appearance of cold +composure, of a sense of superiority. It was because she wanted to keep +that that she did not speak. The things within would so completely have +destroyed it.</p> + +<p>"I guess you don't understand, Amy," said Deane, quieted by her silence; +"if you knew all about Annie Morris I think you'd see she is a woman +worth meeting." Thinking of his talk with Edith and her mother that +morning, he added, a good deal of feeling breaking into his voice: "A +good sight more so than some of the people you are meeting!"</p> + +<p>"And of course," she could not hold back, "they—those inferior +people—won't go to see Ruth Holland, and this wonderful woman will! +That's the secret of it, isn't it?"</p> + +<p>"It's one thing that shows her superiority," he replied coolly. "Another +thing is her pluck—grit. Her husband is a dolt, and she's determined +her three children shall have some sort of a show in life, so she's +driven ahead—worked from daylight till dark many a time—to make decent +things possible for them."</p> + +<p>"Well, that's very commendable, I'm sure," replied Amy mildly, appearing +to be chiefly concerned with a loose button on the wrap she had just +taken off.</p> + +<p>"And with all that she's kept her own spirit alive; she's not going to +let life get clear ahead of <i>her</i>, either. She's pretty valiant, I +think." He was thinking again of Edith and her mother as he added +contentiously, "I don't know any woman in this town I'd rather talk to!"</p> + +<p>Amy, appearing quite outside the things that were disturbing him, only +smiled politely and threaded a needle for sewing on the button. He stood +there in the doorway, fidgeting, his face red. She seemed so uncaring; +she seemed so far away. "Oh, Amy!" he cried, miserably, appealingly.</p> + +<p>Quickly she looked up; her mouth, which had been so complacent, +twitched. He started toward her, but just then the doorbell rang. "I +presume that's your mother," she said, in matter of fact tone.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Franklin was with them for dinner that night. Amy's social training +made it appear as if nothing were disturbing her. She appeared wholly +composed, serene; it was Deane who seemed ill at ease, out of sorts.</p> + +<p>After dinner he had to go to the hospital and when she was alone with +his mother Amy was not able to keep away from the subject of Ruth +Holland. For one thing, she wanted to hear about her, she was avid for +detail as to how she looked, things she had done and said—that curious +human desire to press on a place that hurts. And there was too the +impulse for further self-exoneration, to be assured that she was right, +to feel that she was injured.</p> + +<p>All of those things it was easy to get from Mrs. Franklin. Amy, not +willing to reveal what there had been between her and Deane, and having +that instinct for drawing sympathy to herself by seeming +self-depreciation, spoke gently of how she feared she did not altogether +understand about Deane's friend Ruth Holland. Was she wrong in not going +with Deane to see her?</p> + +<p>Mrs. Franklin's explosion of indignation at the idea, and the feeling +with which, during the hour that followed, she expressed herself about +Deane's friend Ruth Holland, acted in a double fashion as both +fortification and new hurt. Mrs. Franklin, leader in church and +philanthropic affairs, had absolutely no understanding of things which +went outside the domain of what things should be. The poor and the +wicked did terrible things that society must do something about. There +was no excuse whatever for people who ought to know better. That people +should be dominated by things they ought not to feel was perversity on +their part and the most wilful kind of wickedness. She had Mrs. +Lawrence's point of view, but from a more provincial angle. Deane did +not get his questioning spirit, what she called his stubbornness, from +his mother.</p> + +<p>Added to what she as a church woman and worker for social betterment +felt about the affair was the resentment of the mother at her son's +having been, as she put it, dragged into the outrage. She grew so +inflamed in talking of how this woman had used Deane that she did not +take thought of how she was giving more of an impression of her power +over him than might be pleasant hearing for Deane's young wife. The +indignation of the whole Franklin family at what they called the way +Deane had been made a cat's paw was fanned to full flame in this +preposterous suggestion that Amy should go to see Ruth Holland. In her +indignation at the idea she gave a new sense of what the town felt about +Ruth, and she was more vehement than tactful in her expressions against +Deane for holding out that way against the whole town. "It just shows, +my dear," she said, "what a woman of no principle can do with a man!"</p> + +<p>Amy, hurt to the quick in this thought of the mysterious lure of a woman +of no principle, remarked casually, "She's wonderfully attractive, I +presume."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Franklin was not too blunted by indignation to miss the pain that +was evident in the indifferently asked question. Hastily—more hastily +than subtly, she proceeded to depreciate the attractions of Ruth +Holland, but in the depreciation left an impression of some +quality—elusive, potent—which more than beauty or definite charm gave +her power. Edith too had spoken of that "something" about Ruth; a +something one never forgot; a something, she said, that no one else had.</p> + +<p>And now, awakened by Deane's having been called by this woman in the +night, herself alone there and he hurrying to Ruth Holland, the barriers +of pride broke down and she cried because she was sorry for herself, +because she was hurt and outraged that she should be hurt, because for +the first time in her whole life she was thwarted—not having her way, +set aside. She completely lost her hold on herself, got up and stormed +about the room. When she looked at her face in the mirror she saw that +it was hideous. She couldn't help it!—she didn't care! The resentment, +rage, in her heart was like a poison that went all through her. She was +something that didn't seem herself. She thought horrible things and +ground her teeth and clenched her hands and let her face look as ugly as +it could. She hated this woman! She wished some horrible thing would +happen to her! She hated Deane Franklin! The passion he had roused in +her all turned into this feeling against him. She wouldn't stand it! She +wouldn't stay there and play second fiddle to another woman—she, a +bride! Fresh tears came with that last. Her mother and father would +never have treated her that way. They didn't think Deane Franklin good +enough for her, anyway! She would go back home! <i>That</i> would make things +pretty hard for him! That would show what this woman had done! And he'd +be sorry then—would want her back—and she wouldn't come. She finally +found control in that thought of her power over him used to make him +suffer.</p> + +<p>Deane, meanwhile, was hurrying through the streets that had the +unrealness of that hour just before morning. That aspect of things was +with him associated with death; almost always when he had been on the +streets at that hour it was because someone was fighting death. It was +so still—as if things were awed. And a light that seemed apart from +natural things was formed by the way the street lights grew pale in the +faint light of coming day. Everyone was sleeping—all save those in a +house half a dozen blocks away, the house where they were waiting for +death.</p> + +<p>He was on foot, having left his car down at the garage for some repairs +after taking his mother home. As he slowed for a moment from a walk that +was half run he thought of how useless his hurrying was. What in the +world could he do when he got there? Nothing save assure them he could +do nothing. Poor Ruth!—it seemed she had so much, so many hard things. +This was a time when one needed one's friends, but of course they +couldn't come near her—on account of society. Though—his face softened +with the thought—Annie Morris would come, she not being oppressed by +this duty to society. He thought of the earnestness of her thin face as +she talked of Ruth. That let in the picture of Amy's face as he +introduced them. He tried not to keep seeing it. He did think, however, +that it was pretty unnecessary of Amy to have talked to his mother about +Ruth. All that was unyielding in him had been summoned by the way his +mother talked to him going home—"going for him" like that because he +had wanted Amy to go and see Ruth. That, it seemed to him, was something +between him and Amy. He would not have supposed she would be so ready to +talk with some one else about a thing that was just between themselves. +There had been that same old hardening against his mother when she began +talking of Ruth, and that feeling that shut her out excluded Amy with +her. And he had wanted Amy with him.</p> + +<p>Hurrying on, he tried not to think of it. He didn't know why Amy had +talked to his mother about it—perhaps it just happened so, perhaps his +mother began it. He seized upon that. And Amy didn't understand; she was +young—her life had never touched anything like this. He was going to +talk to her—really talk to her, not fly off the handle at the first +thing she would say. He told himself that he had been stupid, hard—a +bungler. It made him feel better to tell himself that. Yes, he certainly +had been unsympathetic, and it was a shame that anything had come to +make Amy unhappy—and right there at first, too! Why, it was actually +making her sick! When he went back after taking his mother home Amy said +she had a bad headache and didn't want to talk. She was so queer that he +had taken her at her word and had not tried to talk to her—be nice to +her. It seemed now that he hadn't been kind; it helped him to feel that +he hadn't been kind. And it was the headache, being roused in the night +when she was not well that had made her so—well, so wrought up about +his answering to the call of the Hollands—old patients, old friends. He +was going to be different; he was going to be more tender with Amy—that +would be the way to make her understand. Such were the things his +troubled mind and hurt heart tried to be persuaded of as, thinking at +the same time of other things—the death to which he was hurrying, how +hard it would be for Ruth if Cyrus didn't speak to her—he passed +swiftly by the last houses where people slept and turned from a world +tinged with the strangeness of an hour so little known to men's +consciousness, softly opened the door and stepped into the house where +death was touching life with that same unreality with which, without, +day touched night.</p> + +<p>Miss Copeland, wrapped in a bathrobe, sat in the upstairs hall. "He's +still breathing," she whispered in that voice which is for death alone. +In the room Ruth and Ted stood close together, the nurse on the other +side of the bed. Ruth's hair was braided down her back; he remembered +when she used to wear it that way, he had one of those sudden pictures +of her—on her way to school, skipping along with Edith Lawrence. She +turned, hearing him, and there was that rush of feeling to her eyes that +always claimed him for Ruth, that quick, silent assumption of his +understanding that always let down bars between them. But Ruth kept +close to Ted, as if she would shield him; the boy looked as Deane had +seen novices look in the operating room.</p> + +<p>There was nothing for him to do beyond look at his patient and nod to +the nurse in confirmation that it would be any minute now. He walked +around to Ted and Ruth, taking an arm of each of them and walking with +them to the far side of the room.</p> + +<p>"There's nothing to do but wait," he said.</p> + +<p>"I wish Harriett and Cyrus would get here," whispered Ruth.</p> + +<p>"You telephoned?"</p> + +<p>"Before I did you—but of course it's a little farther."</p> + +<p>They stood there together in that strange silence, hearing only the +unlifelike breathing of the man passing from life. Listening to it, +Ruth's hand on Deane's arm tightened. Soothingly he patted her hand.</p> + +<p>Then, at a movement from the nurse, he stepped quickly to the bed. Ruth +and Ted, close together, first followed, then held back. A minute later +he turned to them. "It's over," he said, in the simple way final things +are said.</p> + +<p>There was a choking little cry from Ted. Ruth murmured something, her +face all compassion for him. But after a moment she left her brother and +stood alone beside her father. In that moment of seeing her face, before +turning away because it seemed he should turn away, Deane got one of the +strangest impressions of his life. It was as if she was following her +father—reaching him; as if there was a fullness of feeling, a rising +passionate intensity that could fairly overflow from life. Then she +turned back to Ted.</p> + +<p>Cyrus and Harriett had entered. There was a moment when the four +children were there together. Cyrus did not come up to the bed until +Ruth had left. Deane watched his face as—perfunctorily subdued, +decorous, he stood where Ruth had stood a moment before. Then Cyrus +turned to him and together they walked from the room, Cyrus asking why +they had not been telephoned in time.</p> + +<p>Deane lingered for a little while, hating to go without again seeing +Ruth and Ted. He tapped at Ruth's door; he was not answered, but the +unlatched door had swung a little open at his touch. He saw that the +brother and sister were out on the little porch opening off Ruth's room. +He went out and stood beside them, knowing that he would be wanted. The +sun was just rising, touching the dew on the grass. The birds were +singing for joy in another day. The three who had just seen death stood +there together in silence.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_TWENTY" id="CHAPTER_TWENTY"></a>CHAPTER TWENTY</h2> + + +<p>The two days when the natural course of life was arrested by death had +passed. Their father had been buried that afternoon, and in the early +evening Ted and Ruth were sitting on the little upper porch, very quiet +in the new poignant emptiness of the house. Many people had been coming +and going in those last few days; now that was over and there was a +pause before the routine of life was to be resumed. The fact that the +nurse had gone seemed to turn the page.</p> + +<p>Ruth had just asked how long Cyrus was going to stay and Ted replied +that he wanted to stay on a week or perhaps more, attending to some +business. She knew how crowded it must be for them at Harriett's, knew +that if she went away Cyrus would come home. There seemed nothing more +to keep her; she would like to be with Ted awhile, but it seemed she +could not do that without continuing a hard condition for them all. They +could settle into a more natural order of things with her not there. It +was time for her to go.</p> + +<p>It was hard to have to think that. She would love to have stayed a +little while. She had been away so long—wanting home for so long. She +knew now, facing the going away, how much she had secretly hoped might +result from this trip back home.</p> + +<p>She had seen a number of people in the past few days—relatives, old +friends of the family, friends of Ted. She had done better in meeting +them than, just a little while before, she would have thought possible. +Something remained with her from that hour at her mother's grave, that +strange hour when she had seemed to see life from outside, beyond it. +That had summoned something within herself that no personal hurt could +scatter, as if taking her in to something from which no circumstance +could drive her out. She had felt an inner quiet, a steadiness within; +there was power in it, and consolation. It took her out of that feeling +of having no place—no right to a place, the feeling that had made her +wretched and powerless. She was of life; her sure inner sense of the +reality and beauty of that seemed a thing not to be broken down from +without. It was hers, her own. It sustained her; it gave her poise. The +embarrassment of other people gave way before her simple steadiness. She +had had but the one point of contact with them—that of her father's +death; it made her want more, made going away hard. It was hard to leave +all the old things after even this slight touch with them again.</p> + +<p>And that new quiet, that new force within was beginning to make for new +thinking. She had thought much about what she had lived through—she +could not help doing that, but she was thinking now with new +questionings. She had not questioned much; she had accepted. What was +gathering within her now was a feeling that a thing so real, so of life +as her love had been should not be a thing to set her apart, should not +be a thing to blight the lives that touched hers. This was not something +called up in vindication, a mere escape from hard thinking, her own way +out from things she could not bear; it was deeper than that, far less +facile. It came from that inner quiet—from that strange new +assurance—this feeling that her love should not have devastated, that +it was too purely of life for that; that it was a thing to build up +life, to give to it; this wondering, at once timid and bold, if there +was not something wrong with an order that could give it no place, that +made it life's enemy.</p> + +<p>She had been afraid of rebellious thinking, of questionings. There had +been so much to fight, so much to make her afraid. At first all the +strength of her feeling had gone into the fight for Stuart's health; she +was afraid of things that made her rebellious—needing all of herself, +not daring to break through. The circumstances had seemed to make her +own life just shut down around her; and even after those first years, +living itself was so hard, there were so many worries and +disappointments—her feeling about it was so tense, life so stern—that +her thoughts did not shoot a long way out into questionings. She had +done a thing that cut her off from her family; she had hurt other people +and because of that she herself must suffer. Life could not be for her +what it was for others. She accepted much that she did not try to +understand. For one thing, she had had no one to talk to about those +things. Seeing how Stuart's resentment against the state of things +weakened him, keeping him from his full powers to meet those hard +conditions, she did not encourage their talking of it and had tried to +keep herself from the thinking that with him went into brooding and was +weakening. She had to do the best she could about things; she could not +spend herself in rebellion against what she had to meet. Like a man who +finds himself on a dizzy ledge she grew fearful of much looking around.</p> + +<p>But now, in these last few days, swept back into the wreckage she had +left, something fluttered to life and beat hard within her spirit, +breaking its way through the fearfulness that shut her in and sending +itself out in new bolder flights. Not that those outgoings took her away +from the place she had devastated; it was out of the poignancy of her +feeling about the harm she had done, out of her new grief in it that +these new questionings were born. The very fact that she did see so +well, and so sorrowingly, what she had done, brought this new feeling +that it should not have been that way, that what she had felt, and her +fidelity to that feeling—ruthless fidelity though it was—should not +have blighted like this. There was something that seemed at the heart of +it all in that feeling of not being ashamed in the presence of +death—she who had not denied life.</p> + +<p>Silence had fallen between her and Ted, she saddened in the thought of +going away and open to the puzzling things that touched her life at +every point; looking at Ted—proud of him—hating to leave him now just +when she had found him again, thinking with loving gratefulness and +pride of how generous and how understanding he had been with her, how he +was at once so boyish and so much more than his years. The fine +seriousness of his face tonight made him very dear and very comforting +to her. She wanted to keep close to him; she could not bear the thought +of again losing him. If her hard visit back home yielded just that she +would have had rich gain from it. She began talking with him about what +he would do. He talked freely of his work, as if glad to talk of it; he +was not satisfied with it, did not think there was much "chance" there +for him. Ted had thought he wanted to study law, but his father, in one +of his periods of depression, had said he could not finish sending him +through college and Ted had gone into one of the big manufactories +there. He was in the sales department, and he talked to Ruth of the +work. He told her of his friends, of what they were doing; they talked +of many things, speaking of the future with that gentle intimacy there +can be between those sorrowing together for things past. Their sensitive +consciousness of the emptiness of the house—the old place, their +home,—brought them together through a deep undercurrent of feeling. +Their voices were low as they spoke of more intimate things than it is +usual to speak of without constraint, something lowered between them as +only a grief shared can lower bars to the spirit, their thinking set in +that poignant sense of life which death alone seems able to create.</p> + +<p>Ted broke a pause to say that he supposed it was getting late and he +must be starting for Harriett's. Cyrus had asked him to come over awhile +that evening. Mr. McFarland, their family lawyer, was going out of town +for a few days, leaving the next morning. He was coming in that evening, +more as the old friend than formally, to speak to them about some +business matters, Cyrus's time being limited and there being a number of +things to arrange.</p> + +<p>"I hate leaving you alone, Ruth," said Ted, lingering.</p> + +<p>She looked over to him with quick affectionate smile. "I don't mind, +Ted. Somehow I don't mind being alone tonight."</p> + +<p>That was true. Being alone would not be loneliness that evening. Things +were somehow opened; all things had so strangely opened. She had been +looking down the deep-shadowed street, that old street down which she +used to go. The girl who used to go down that street was singularly real +to her just then; she had about her the fresh feeling, the vivid sense, +of a thing near in time. Old things were so strangely opened, old +feeling was alive again: the wild joy in the girl's heart, the delirious +expectancy—and the fear. It was strange how completely one could get +back across the years, how things gone could become living things again. +That was why she was not going to mind being alone just then; she had a +sense of the whole flow of her life—living, moving. It did not seem a +thing to turn away from; it was not often that things were all open like +that.</p> + +<p>"I shouldn't wonder if Deane would drop in," said Ted, as if trying to +help himself through leaving her there alone.</p> + +<p>"He may," Ruth answered. She did not say it with enthusiasm, much as she +would like to talk with Deane. Deane was just the one it would be good +to talk with that night. But Deane never mentioned his wife to her. At +first, in her preoccupation, and her pleasure in seeing him, she had not +thought much about that. Then it had come to her that doubtless Deane's +wife would not share his feeling about her, that she would share the +feeling of all the other people; that brought the fear that she might, +again, be making things hard for Deane. She had done enough of that; +much as his loyalty, the rare quality of his affectionate friendship +meant to her, she would rather he did not come than let the slightest +new shadow fall upon his life because of her. And yet it seemed all +wrong, preposterous, to think anyone who was close to Deane, anyone whom +he loved, should not understand this friendship between them. She +thought of how, meeting after all those years, they were not strange +with each other. That seemed rare—to be cherished.</p> + +<p>"What's Deane's wife like, Ted?" she asked.</p> + +<p>"I haven't met her," he replied, "but I've seen her. She's awfully +good-looking; lots of style, and carries herself as if—oh, as if she +knew she was somebody," he laughed. "And I guess Deane thinks she <i>is</i>," +he added with another laugh. "Guess he decided that first time he met +her. You know he stopped in Indianapolis to see a classmate who was +practising there—met her at a party, I believe, and—good-by Deane! But +somehow she isn't what you'd expect Deane's wife to be," he went on more +seriously. "Doesn't look that way, anyhow. Looks pretty frigid, I +thought, and, oh—fixed up. As if she wasn't just real."</p> + +<p>Ruth's brows puckered. If there was one thing it seemed the wife of +Deane Franklin should be, it was real. But doubtless Ted was wrong—not +knowing her. It did not seem that Deane would be drawn to anyone who was +not real.</p> + +<p>She lingered in the thought of him. Real was just what Deane was. He had +been wonderfully real with her in those days—days that had made the +pattern of her life. Reality had swept away all other things between +them. That carried her back to the new thinking, the questions. It +seemed it was the things not real that were holding people apart. It was +the artificialities people had let living build up around them made +those people hard. People would be simpler—kinder—could those unreal +things be swept away. She dwelt on the thought of a world like that—a +world of people simple and real as Deane Franklin was simple and real.</p> + +<p>She was called from that by a movement and exclamation from Ted, who had +leaned over the railing. "There goes Mildred Woodbury," he said,—"and +alone."</p> + +<p>His tone made her look at him in inquiry and then down the street at the +slight figure of a girl whose light dress stood out clearly between the +shadows. Mildred was the daughter of a family who lived in the next +block. The Woodburys and the Hollands had been neighbors and friends as +far back as Ruth could remember. Mildred was only a little girl when +Ruth went away—such a pretty little girl, her fair hair always gayly +tied with ribbons. She had been there with her mother the night before +and Ruth had been startled by her coming into the room where she was and +saying impulsively: "You don't remember me, do you? I'm Mildred—Mildred +Woodbury."</p> + +<p>"And you used to call me Wuth!" Ruth had eagerly replied.</p> + +<p>It had touched her, surrounded as she was by perfunctoriness and +embarrassment that this young girl should seek her out in that warm way. +And something in the girl's eyes had puzzled her. She had returned to +thought of it more than once and that made her peculiarly interested in +Ted's queer allusion to Mildred now.</p> + +<p>"Well?" she inquired.</p> + +<p>"Mildred's getting in rather bad," he said shortly.</p> + +<p>"Getting—what do you mean, Ted?" she asked, looking at him in a +startled way.</p> + +<p>"People are talking about her," he said.</p> + +<p>"People are—?" she began, but stopped, looking at him all the while in +that startled way.</p> + +<p>"Talking about her," he repeated. "I guess it's been going on for some +time—though I didn't hear about it until a little while ago."</p> + +<p>"About what, Ted?" Her voice faltered and it seemed to make him suddenly +conscious of what he was saying, to whom he spoke.</p> + +<p>"Why,"—he faltered now too, "Mildred's acting sort of silly—that's +all. I don't know—a flirtation, or something, with Billy Archer. You +don't know him; he came here a few years ago on some construction work. +He's an engineer. He is a fascinating fellow, all right," he added.</p> + +<p>Ruth pushed back her chair into deeper shadow. "And—?" she suggested +faintly.</p> + +<p>"He's married," briefly replied Ted.</p> + +<p>She did not speak for what seemed a long time. Ted was beginning to +fidget. Then, "How old is Mildred, Ted?" Ruth asked in a very quiet +voice.</p> + +<p>"About twenty, I guess; she's a couple of years younger than I am."</p> + +<p>"And this man?—how old is he?" That she asked a little sharply.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I don't know; he's in the older crowd; somewhere in the thirties, I +should say."</p> + +<p>"Well—" But she abruptly checked what she had sharply begun to say, and +pushed her chair still further back into shadow. When Ted stole a timid +glance at her a minute later he saw that she seemed to be holding her +hands tight together.</p> + +<p>"And doesn't Mildred's mother—?" It seemed impossible for her to finish +anything, to say it out.</p> + +<p>He shook his head. "Guess not. It's funny—but you know a person's +folks—"</p> + +<p>There was another silence; then Ted began to whistle softly and was +looking over the railing as if interested in something down on the lawn.</p> + +<p>"And you say people are really—talking about Mildred, Ted?" Ruth +finally asked, speaking with apparent effort.</p> + +<p>He nodded. "Some people are snubbing her. You know this town is long on +that," he threw in with a short laugh. "I saw Mrs. Brewer—remember +her?—she used to be Dorothy Hanlay—out and out snub Mildred at a party +the other night. She came up to her after she'd been dancing with +Billy—Lord knows how many times she'd danced with him that night—and +Mrs. Brewer simply cut her. I saw it myself. Mildred got white for a +moment, then smiled in a funny little way and turned away. Tough on her, +wasn't it?—for really, she's a good deal of a kid, you know. And say, +Ruth, there's something mighty decent about Edith—about Mrs. Blair. She +saw it and right afterwards she went up to Mildred, seemed particularly +interested in her, and drew her into her crowd. Pretty white, don't you +think? That old hen—Mrs. Brewer—got red, let me tell you, for Edith +can put it all over her, you know, on being somebody, and that <i>got</i> +her—good and plenty!"</p> + +<p>There was a queer little sound from Ruth, a sound like a not quite +suppressed sob; Ted rose, as if for leaving, and stood there awkwardly, +his back to her. He felt that Ruth was crying, or at least trying not to +cry. Why had he talked of a thing like that? Why did he have to bring in +Edith Lawrence?</p> + +<p>It seemed better to go on talking about it now, as naturally as he +could. "I never thought there was much to Mildred," he resumed, not +turning round. "She always seemed sort of stuck up with the fellows of +our crowd. But I guess you never can tell. I saw her look at Billy +Archer the other night." He paused with a little laugh. "There wasn't +anything very stuck up about that look."</p> + +<p>As still Ruth did not speak he began to talk about the property across +the street being for sale. When he turned around for taking leave—it +being past the time for going to Harriett's—it made him furious at +himself to see how strained and miserable Ruth's face was. She scarcely +said good-by to him; she was staring down the street where Mildred had +disappeared a few moments before. All the way over to Harriett's he +wondered just what Ruth was thinking. He was curious as well as +self-reproachful.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_TWENTY-ONE" id="CHAPTER_TWENTY-ONE"></a>CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE</h2> + + +<p>When Ted entered the living-room at his sister Harriett's he felt as if +something damp and heavy had been thrown around him. He got the feeling +of being expected to contribute to the oppressiveness of the occasion. +The way no one was sitting in a comfortable position seemed to suggest +that constraint was deemed fitting. Cyrus was talking to Mr. McFarland +with a certain self-conscious decorousness. Harriett's husband, the Rev. +Edgar Tyler, sat before the library table in more of his pulpit manner +than was usual with him in his household, as if—so it seemed to +Ted—the relation of death to the matter in hand brought it particularly +within his province. Ted had never liked him; especially he had hated +his attitude about Ruth—his avowed sorrowfulness with which the heart +had nothing to do. He resented the way his brother-in-law had made +Harriett feel that she owed it to the community, to the church, not to +countenance her sister. Harriett had grown into that manner of striving +to do the right thing. She had it now—sitting a little apart from the +others, as if not to intrude herself. Sitting there with those others +his heart went out to Ruth; he was <i>for</i> her, he told himself warmly, +and he'd take nothing off of Cy about her, either! He watched Cyrus and +thought of how strange it was that a brother and sister should be as +different as he and Ruth were. They had always been different; as far +back as he could remember they were different about everything. Ruth was +always keyed up about something—delighted, and Cy was always "putting a +crimp" in things. As a little boy, when he told Ruth things he was +pleased about they always grew more delightful for telling her; and +somehow when you told Cyrus about a jolly thing it always flattened out +a little in the telling.</p> + +<p>A shrinking from the appearance of too great haste gave a personal color +to the conversation. It was as old friend quite as much as family +solicitor that the lawyer talked to them, although the occasion for +getting together that night was that Cyrus might learn of an investment +of his father's which demanded immediate attention.</p> + +<p>Mr. McFarland spoke of that, and then of how little else remained. He +hesitated, then ventured: "You know, I presume, that your father has not +left you now what he would have had ten years ago?"</p> + +<p>Ted saw Cyrus's lips tighten, his eyes lower. He glanced at Harriett, +who looked resigned; though he was not thinking much of them, but of his +father, who had met difficulties, borne disappointments. He was thinking +of nights when his father came home tired; mornings when he went away in +that hurried, harassed way. He could see him sitting in his chair +brooding. The picture of him now made him appear more lonely than he had +thought of him while living. And now his father was dead and they were +sitting there talking over his affairs, looking into things that their +father had borne alone, things he had done the best he could about. He +wished he had tried harder to be company for him. In too many of those +pictures which came now his father was alone.</p> + +<p>He heard Cyrus speaking. "Yes," he was saying, "father was broken by our +personal troubles." There was a pause. Ted did not raise his eyes to his +brother. He did not want to look at him, not liking his voice as he said +that. "It is just another way," Cyrus went on, "in which we all have to +suffer for our family disgrace."</p> + +<p>Ted felt himself flushing. Why need Cy have said that! Mr. McFarland had +turned slightly away, as if not caring to hear it.</p> + +<p>And then Cyrus asked about their father's will.</p> + +<p>The attorney's reply was quiet. "He leaves no will."</p> + +<p>Ted looked at him in surprise. Then he looked at Cyrus and saw his +startled, keen, queer look at the attorney. It was after seeing his +brother's face that he realized what this meant—that if his father left +no will Ruth shared with the rest of them. Suddenly his heart was +beating fast.</p> + +<p>"How's that?" Cyrus asked sharply.</p> + +<p>"There was a will, but he destroyed it about two month's ago."</p> + +<p>"He—? Why!" Cyrus pressed in that sharp voice.</p> + +<p>Ted felt certain that the lawyer liked saying what he had to say then. +He said it quietly, but looking right at Cyrus. "He destroyed his will +because it cut off his daughter Ruth."</p> + +<p>Ted got up and walked to the window, stood there staring out at the +street lights. Bless dad! He wished he could see him; he would give +almost anything to see him for just a minute. He wished he had known; he +would love to have told his father just how corking he thought that was. +He stood there a minute not wanting to show the others how much he was +feeling—this new, warm rush of love for his father, and his deep +gladness for Ruth. He thought of what it would mean to her, what it +would mean to know her father had felt like that. He had had to leave +her there at home alone; now he could go home and tell her this news +that would mean so much.</p> + +<p>When he turned back to the group it was to see that he was not alone in +being moved by what they had heard. Harriett too had turned a little +away from the others and was looking down. He saw a tear on her +face—and liked her better than he ever had before. Then he looked at +her husband and in spite of all he was feeling it was hard not to smile; +his brother-in-law's face looked so comical to him, trying to twist +itself into the fitting emotions. Ted watched him unsparingly for a +minute, maliciously saying to himself: "Keep on, old boy, you'll make it +after a little!"</p> + +<p>Then he looked at his brother and his face hardened, seeing too well +what new feeling this roused in Cyrus against Ruth, reading the +resentment toward their father for this final weakening in his stand +against her.</p> + +<p>"Well—" Cyrus began but did not go on, his lips tightening.</p> + +<p>"Your father said," the lawyer added, "that if there was one of his +children—more than the others—needed what he could do for her, it was +his daughter Ruth."</p> + +<p>He was looking at Ted, and Ted nodded eagerly, thinking now of what, in +the practical sense, this would mean to Ruth. Mr. McFarland turned back +to Cyrus as he remarked: "He spoke of Ruth with much feeling."</p> + +<p>Cyrus flushed. "I guess father was pretty much broken—in mind as well +as body—at that time," he said unpleasantly.</p> + +<p>"His mind was all right," answered the lawyer curtly.</p> + +<p>He left a few minutes later; Harriett, who went with him to the door, +did not return to the room. The two men and Ted sat for a moment in +silence. Then Cyrus turned upon him as if angered by what he divined him +to be feeling. "Well," he said roughly, "I suppose you're pleased?"</p> + +<p>"I'm pleased, all right," replied Ted with satisfaction. He looked at +the minister. "Good thing, for I guess I'm the only fellow here who is."</p> + +<p>Harriett's husband colored slightly. "I am neither pleased nor +displeased," was his grave reply. "Surely it was for your father to do +as he wished. For a father to forgive a child is—moving. I only hope," +he added, "that it will not seem in the community to mean the +countenancing—" He paused, looking to Cyrus for approval.</p> + +<p>Then Ten blazed out. "Well, if you want to know what I think, I don't +think a little 'countenancing' of Ruth is going to do this community—or +anybody else—any harm!"</p> + +<p>Cyrus looked at him with that slightly sneering smile that always +enraged Ted. "You're proud of your sister, I suppose?" he inquired +politely.</p> + +<p>Ted reddened. Then he grew strangely quiet. "Yes," he said, "I believe I +am. I've come pretty close to Ruth these last few days, and I think +that's just what I am—proud of her. I can't say I'm proud of what Ruth +did; I'd have to think more about that. But I'm proud of what she <i>is</i>. +And I don't know—I don't know but what it's what a person <i>is</i> that +counts." He fell silent, thinking of what he meant by that, of the +things he felt in Ruth.</p> + +<p>Cyrus laughed mockingly. "Rather a curious thing to be proud of, I +should say. What she 'is' is—"</p> + +<p>Ted jumped up. "Don't say it, Cy! Whatever it is you're going to +say—just don't say it!"</p> + +<p>Cyrus had risen and was putting in his pocket a paper Mr. McFarland had +given him. "No?" he said smoothly, as if quite unperturbed. "And why +not?"</p> + +<p>At that uncaring manner something seemed to break inside Ted's head, as +if all the things Cyrus had said about Ruth had suddenly gathered there +and pressed too hard. His arm shot out at his brother.</p> + +<p>"That's why not!" he cried.</p> + +<p>He had knocked Cyrus back against the wall and stood there threatening +him. To the minister, who had stepped up, protesting, he snapped: "None +of <i>your</i> put-in! And after this, just be a little more careful in +<i>your</i> talk—see?"</p> + +<p>He stepped back from Cyrus but stood there glaring, breathing hard with +anger. Cyrus, whose face had gone white, but who was calm, went back to +the table and resumed what he had been doing there.</p> + +<p>"A creditable performance, I must say, for the day of your father's +funeral," he remarked after a moment.</p> + +<p>"That's all right!" retorted Ted. "Don't think I'm sorry! I don't know +any better way to start out new—start out alone—than to tell you what +I think of you!—let you know that I'll not take a thing off of you +about Ruth. You've done enough, Cy. Now you quit. You kept mother and +father away when they didn't want to be kept away—and I want to tell +you that I'm <i>on</i> to you, anyway. Don't think for a minute that I +believe it's your great virtue that's hurting you. You can't put that +over on me. It's pride and stubbornness and just plain meanness makes +you the way you are! Yes, I'm glad to have a chance to tell you what I +think of you—and then I'm through with you, Cy. I think you're a +pin-head! Why, you haven't got the heart of a flea! I don't know how +anybody as fine as Ruth ever came to have a brother like you!"</p> + +<p>His feeling had grown as he spoke, and he stopped now because he was too +close to losing control; he reddened as his brother—calm, apparently +unmoved—surveyed him as if mildly amused. That way Cyrus looked at him +when they were quarrelling always enraged him. If he would only <i>say</i> +something—not stand there as if he were too superior to bother himself +with such a thing! He knew Cyrus knew it maddened him—that that was why +he did it, and so it was quietly that he resumed: "No, Cy, I'm not with +you, and you might as well know it. I'm for Ruth. You've got the world +on your side—and I know the arguments you can put up, and all that, but +Ruth's got a—" he fumbled a minute for the words—"Ruth's got a power +and an understanding about her that you'll never have. She's got a +heart. More than that, she's got—character."</p> + +<p>He paused, thinking, and Cyrus did speak then. "Oh, I don't think I'd +use that word," he said suavely.</p> + +<p>"No, you wouldn't; you wouldn't see it, but that's just what I mean." He +turned to the minister. "Character, I say, is what my sister Ruth has +got. Character is something more than putting up a slick front. It's +something more than doing what's expected of you. It's a kind of—a kind +of being faithful to yourself. <i>Being</i> yourself. Oh, I know—" at a +sound from his brother—"just how you can laugh at it, but there's +something to it just the same. Why, Ruth's got more real stuff in her +than you two put together! After being with her these days you, Cy, +strike a fellow as pretty shallow."</p> + +<p>That brought the color to his brother's face. Stung to a real retort, he +broke out with considerable heat: "If to have a respect for decency is +'shallow'—!" He quickly checked himself as the door opened and +Harriett's maid entered.</p> + +<p>She paused, feeling the tension, startled by their faces. "Excuse me, +sir," she said to the minister, "but Mrs. Tyler said I was to tell you +she had gone out for a few minutes. She said to tell you she had gone to +see her sister."</p> + +<p>She looked startled at Ted's laugh. After she had gone he laughed again. +"Hard luck!" he said to his brother-in-law, and walked from the room.</p> + +<p>He did not go directly home. He was too upset to face Ruth just then; he +did not want her to know, it would trouble her. And he wanted to +walk—walk as fast as he could, walk off steam, he called it. His heart +was pounding and there seemed too much blood in his head. But he wasn't +sorry, he told himself. Cy would have it in for him now, but what did he +care for that? He could get along without him. But his lips trembled as +he thought that. He had had to get along without his mother; from now on +he would have to get along without his father. He had a moment of +feeling very much alone. And then he thought of Ruth. Yes,—there was +Ruth! He wheeled toward home. He wanted to tell her. He hoped Harriett +hadn't got it told; he wanted to tell her himself. Bless dad! He loved +him for doing that. If only he'd known it in time to let him know what +he thought of him for doing it!</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_TWENTY-TWO" id="CHAPTER_TWENTY-TWO"></a>CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO</h2> + + +<p>Harriett had been with Ruth for half an hour and still she had not told +her what she had come to tell her. She was meaning to tell it before she +left, to begin it any minute now, but, much as she wanted to tell it, +she shrank from doing so. It seemed that telling that would open +everything up—and they had opened nothing up. Harriett had grown into a +way of shrinking back from the things she really wanted to do, was +unpracticed in doing what she felt like doing.</p> + +<p>Acting upon an impulse, she had started for Ruth. There had been a +moment of real defiance when she told Mamie to tell Mr. Tyler that she +had gone to see her sister. She had a right to go and see her sister! No +one should keep her from it. Her heart was stirred by what her father +had done about Ruth. It made her know that she too felt more than she +had shown. His having done that made her want to do something. It moved +her to have this manifestation of a softening she had not suspected. It +reached something in her, something that made her feel a little more +free, more bold, more loving. His defiance, for she felt that in it too, +struck a spark in her. She even had a secret satisfaction in the +discomfiture she knew this revelation of her father's—what they would +call weakening—caused her husband and her brother. Unacknowledged +dissatisfactions of her own sharpened her feeling about it. She had not +looked at either her husband or Cyrus when the announcement was made, +but beneath her own emotion was a secret, unacknowledged gloating at +what she knew was their displeasure, at their helplessness to resent. +Ted was a dear boy! Ted's shining eyes somehow made her know just how +glad she herself was.</p> + +<p>So she had hurried along, stirred, eager to tell Ruth. But once with her +she held back from telling her, grew absurdly timid about it. It seemed +so much else might come when that came—things long held back, things +hard to let one's self talk about.</p> + +<p>And then Ruth was so strange tonight. After that first day it had been +easy to talk with Ruth; that first embarrassment over, she had seemed +simple and natural and Harriett could talk with her about the little +things that came up and at times just forget the big thing that held +them apart. After that first meeting she had felt much more comfortable +with Ruth than she would have supposed the terrible circumstances would +let her feel. But tonight Ruth was different, constrained, timid; she +seemed holding herself back, as if afraid of something. It made Harriett +conscious of what there was holding them apart. She did not know how to +begin what she had been so eager to tell.</p> + +<p>And so they talked of surface things—current things: the service that +afternoon; some of the relatives who had been there; of old friends of +their father's. They kept away from the things their hearts were full +of.</p> + +<p>Ruth had been glad to see Harriett; it touched her that Harriett should +come. But she was nervous with her; it was true that she was holding +back. That new assurance which had helped her through the last few days +had deserted her. Since Ted told her of Mildred that inner quiet from +which assurance drew was dispelled. She seemed struck back—bewildered, +baffled. Was it always to be that way? Every time she gained new ground +for her feet was she simply to be struck back to new dismays, new +incertitudes, new pain? Had she only deluded herself in that feeling +which had created the strengthening calm of the last few days?</p> + +<p>After Ted left her she had continued to sit looking down the street +where Mildred had gone; just a little while before she had been looking +down that street as the way she herself had gone—the young girl giving +herself to love, facing all perils, daring all things for the love in +her heart. But now she was not thinking of the love in Mildred's heart; +she was thinking of the perils around her—the pity of it—the waiting +disaster. A little while before it had seemed there should always be a +place in the world for love, that things shutting love out were things +unreal. And now she longed to be one with Edith in getting Mildred back +to those very things—those unreal things that would safeguard. The +mockery of it beat her back, robbing her of the assurance that had been +her new strength. That was why Harriett found her strange, hard to talk +to. She wanted to cower back. She tried not to think of Mildred—to get +back to herself. But that she could not do; Mildred was there in +between—confusing, a mockery.</p> + +<p>Harriett spoke of the house, how she supposed the best thing to do would +be to offer it for sale. Ruth looked startled and pained. "It's in bad +repair," Harriett said; "it's all run down. And then—there's really no +reason for keeping it."</p> + +<p>And then they fell silent, thinking of years gone—years when the house +had not been all run down, when there was good reason for keeping it. To +let the house go to strangers seemed the final acknowledgment that all +those old things had passed away. It was a more intimate, a sympathetic +silence into which that feeling flowed—each thinking of old days in +that house, each knowing that the other was thinking of those days. +Harriett could see Ruth as a little girl running through those rooms. +She remembered a certain little blue gingham dress—and Ruth's hair +braided down her back; pictures of Ruth with their grandfather, their +mother, their father—all those three gone now. She started to tell Ruth +what she had come to tell her, then changed it to something else, still +holding back, afraid of emotion, of breaking through, seeming powerless +and hating herself for being powerless. She would tell that a little +later—before she left. She would wait until Ted came in. She seized +upon that, it let her out—let her out from the thing she had been all +warm eagerness to do. To bridge that time she asked a few diffident +questions about the West; she really wanted very much to know how Ruth +lived, how she "managed." But she put the questions carefully, it would +seem reluctantly, just because almost everything seemed to lead to that +one thing,—the big thing that lay there between her and Ruth. It was +hard to ask questions about the house Ruth lived in and not let her mind +get swamped by that one terrible fact that she lived there with Stuart +Williams—another woman's husband.</p> + +<p>Harriett's manner made Ruth bitter. It seemed Harriett was afraid to +talk to her, evidently afraid that at any moment she would come upon +something she did not want to come near. Harriett needn't be so +afraid!—she wasn't going to contaminate her.</p> + +<p>And so the talk became a pretty miserable affair. It was a relief when +Flora Copeland came in the room. "There's someone here to see you, +Ruth," she said.</p> + +<p>"Deane?" inquired Ruth.</p> + +<p>"No, a woman."</p> + +<p>"A woman?"—and then, at the note of astonishment in her own voice she +laughed in an embarrassed little way.</p> + +<p>"Yes, a Mrs. Herman. She says you may remember her as Annie Morris. She +says she went to school with you."</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Ruth, "I know." She was looking down, pulling at her +handkerchief. After an instant she looked up and said quietly: "Won't +you ask her to come in here?"</p> + +<p>The woman who stood in the doorway a moment later gave the impression of +life, work, having squeezed her too hard. She had quick movements, as if +she were used to doing things in a hurry. She had on a cheap, plain +suit, evidently bought several years before. She was very thin, her face +almost pinched, but two very live eyes looked out from it. She appeared +embarrassed, but somehow the embarrassment seemed only a surface thing. +She held out a red, rough hand to Ruth and smiled in a quick, bright way +as she said: "I don't know that you remember me, Ruth."</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes I do, Annie," Ruth replied, and held on to the red, rough hand.</p> + +<p>"I didn't know; I'm sure," she laughed, "that you've always meant more +to me than I could to you."</p> + +<p>After Ruth had introduced Harriett the stranger explained that with: "I +thought a great deal of Ruth when we were in school together. She never +knew it—she had so many friends." A little pause followed that.</p> + +<p>"So I couldn't bear to go away," Annie went on in her rather sharp, +bright way, "without seeing you, Ruth. I hope I'm not intruding, coming +so—soon."</p> + +<p>"You are not intruding, Annie," said Ruth; her voice shook just a +little.</p> + +<p>Ted had come home, and came in the room then and was introduced to +Annie, with whom, though frankly surprised at seeing her, he shook hands +warmly. "But we do know each other," he said.</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes," she laughed, "I've brought you many a cauliflower."</p> + +<p>"And oh, those eggs!" he laughed back.</p> + +<p>Again there was a slight pause, and then Annie turned to Ruth with the +manner of being bound to get right into the thing she had come to say. +"I didn't wait longer, Ruth, because I was afraid you might get away and +I wondered,"—this she said diffidently, as one perhaps expecting too +much—"if there was any chance of your coming out to make me a little +visit before you go back.</p> + +<p>"You know,"—she turned hastily to Ted, turning away from the things +gathering in Ruth's eyes, "the country is so lovely now. I thought it +might do Ruth good. She must be tired, after the long journey—and all. +I thought a good rest—" She turned back to Ruth. "Don't you think, +Ruth," she coaxed, "that you'd like to come out and play with my baby?"</p> + +<p>And then no one knew what to do for suddenly Ruth was shaken with sobs. +Ted was soothing her, telling Annie that naturally she was nervous that +night. "Ted," she choked, in a queer, wild way, laughing through the +sobs, "did you <i>hear</i>? She wants me to come out and play with her +<i>baby</i>!"</p> + +<p>Harriett got up and walked to the other side of the room. +Ruth—laughing, crying—was repeating: "She wants me to play with her +<i>baby</i>!" Harriett thought of her own children at home, whom Ruth had not +seen. She listened to the plans Annie and Ted and Ruth were making and +wretchedly wished she had done differently years before.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_TWENTY-THREE" id="CHAPTER_TWENTY-THREE"></a>CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE</h2> + + +<p>Ruth had been with Annie for five days now; the original three days for +which she had said she could come had been lengthened to a week, and she +knew that she would not want to go even then. For here was rest. Here +she could forget about herself as set apart from others. Here she did +not seem apart. After the stress of those days at home it was good to +rest in this simple feeling of being just one with others. It was good +to lie on the grass under the trees, troubled thoughts in abeyance, and +feel spring in the earth, take it in by smell and sound. It was +wonderfully good to play with the children, to lie on the grass and let +the little two year old girl—Annie's baby—pull at her hair, toddling +around her, cooing and crowing. There was healing in that. It was good +to be some place where she did not seem to cause embarrassment, to be +where she was wanted. After the strain of recent events the simple +things of these days were very sweet to her. It had become monstrous +always to have to feel that something about her made her different from +other people. There was something terrible in it—something not good for +one. Here was release from that.</p> + +<p>And it was good to be with Annie; they had not talked much yet—not +seriously talked. Annie seemed to know that it was rest in little things +Ruth needed now, not talk of big ones. They talked about the chickens +and the cows, the flowers and the cauliflowers, about the children's +pranks. It was restoring to talk thus of inconsequential things; Ruth +was beginning to feel more herself than she had felt in years. On that +fifth day her step was lighter than when she came; it was easier to +laugh. Hers had once been so sunny a nature; it was amazingly easy to +break out of the moroseness with which circumstances had clouded her +into that native sunniness. That afternoon she sat on the knoll above +the house, leaning back against a tree and smiling lazily at the +gamboling of the new little pigs.</p> + +<p>Annie was directing the boy who had been helping her cut asparagus to +carry the baskets up where Ruth was sitting. "I'm going to talk to you +while I make this into bunches, Ruth," she called.</p> + +<p>"I'll help," Ruth called back with zest.</p> + +<p>They talked at first of the idiosyncrasies of asparagus beds, of the +marketing of it; then something Annie said set Ruth thinking of +something that had happened when they were in high school. "Oh, do you +remember, Annie—" she laughingly began. There was that sort of talk for +awhile—"Do you remember...?" and "Oh, whatever became of...?"</p> + +<p>As they worked on Ruth thought of the strangeness of her being there +with this girl who, when they were in school together, had meant so +little to her. Her own work lagged, watching Annie as with quick, sure +motions she made the asparagus into bunches for market. She did things +deftly and somehow gave the feeling of subordinating them to something +else, of not letting them take all of her. Ruth watched her with +affectionate interest; she wore an all-over gingham apron, her big sun +hat pushed back from her browned, thin face; she was not at all +attractive unless one saw the eager, living eyes—keenly intelligent +eyes. Ruth thought of her other friends—the girls who had been her +friends when she was in school and whom she had not seen now; she +wondered why it was Annie had none of the feeling that kept those other +girls away.</p> + +<p>Annie's husband was a slow, stolid man; Ruth supposed that in his youth, +when Annie married him, he had perhaps been attractive in his +stalwartness. He was sluggish now; good humored enough, but apparently +as heavy in spirit as in body. Things outside the material round of +life—working, eating, sleeping—simply did not seem to exist for him. +At first she wondered how Annie could be content with life with him, +Annie, who herself was so keenly alive. Thinking of it now it seemed +Annie had the same adjustment to him that she had to the +asparagus,—something subordinated, not taking up very much of herself. +She had about Annie, and she did not know just why she had it, the +feeling that here was a person who could not be very greatly harmed, +could not be completely absorbed by routine, could not, for some reason +she could not have given, be utterly vanquished by any circumstance. She +went about her work as if that were one thing—and then there were other +things; as if she were in no danger of being swallowed up in her manner +of living. There was something apart that was dauntless. Ruth wondered +about her, she wanted to find out about her. She wanted for herself that +valiant spirit, a certain unconquerableness she felt in Annie.</p> + +<p>Annie broke a pause to say: "You can't know, Ruth, how much it means to +have you here."</p> + +<p>Ruth's face lighted and she smiled; she started to speak, but instead +only smiled again. She wanted to tell what it meant to her to be there, +but that seemed a thing not easily told.</p> + +<p>"I wish you could stay longer," Annie went on, all the while working. +"So—" she paused, and continued a little diffidently—"so we could +really get acquainted; really talk. I hardly ever have anyone to talk +to," she said wistfully. "One gets pretty lonely sometimes. It would be +good to have someone to talk to about the things one thinks."</p> + +<p>"What are the things you think, Annie?" Ruth asked impulsively.</p> + +<p>"Oh, no mighty thoughts," laughed Annie; "but of course I'm always +thinking about things. We keep alive by thinking, don't we?"</p> + +<p>Ruth gave her a startled look.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps it's because I haven't had from life itself much of what I'd +like to have," Annie was going on, "that I've made a world within. Can't +let life cheat us, Ruth," she said brightly. "If we can't have things in +one way—have to get them in another."</p> + +<p>Again Ruth looked at her in that startled way. Annie did not see it, +reaching over for more asparagus; she was all the time working along in +that quick, sure way—doing what she was doing cleverly and as if it +weren't very important. "Perhaps, Ruth," she said after a minute, "that +that's why my school-girl fancy for you persisted—deepened—the way it +has." She hesitated, then said simply: "I liked you for not letting life +cheat you."</p> + +<p>She looked up with a quick little nod as she said that but found Ruth's +face very serious, troubled. "But I don't think I've done what you mean, +Annie," she began uncertainly. "I did what I did—because I had to. And +I'm afraid I haven't—gone on. It begins to seem to me now that I've +stayed in a pretty small place. I've been afraid!" she concluded with +sudden scorn.</p> + +<p>"That isn't much wonder," Annie murmured gently.</p> + +<p>"But with me," she took it up after a little, "I've had to go on." Her +voice went hard in saying it. "Things would have just shut right down on +me if I would have let them," she finished grimly.</p> + +<p>"I married for passion," she began quietly after a minute. "Most people +do, I presume. At least most people who marry young."</p> + +<p>Ruth colored. She was not used to saying things right out like that.</p> + +<p>"Romantic love is a wonderful thing," Annie pursued; "I suppose it's the +most beautiful thing in the world—while it lasts." She laughed in a +queer, grim little way and gave a sharp twist to the knot she was tying. +"Sometimes it opens up to another sort of love—love of another +quality—and to companionship. It must be a beautiful thing—when it +does that." She hesitated a moment before she finished with a dryness +that had that grim quality: "With me—it didn't.</p> + +<p>"So there came a time," she went on, and seemed newly to have gained +serenity, "when I saw that I had to give up—go under—or get through +myself what I wasn't going to get through anyone else. Oh, it's not the +beautiful way—not the complete way. But it's one way!" she flashed in +fighting voice. "I fought for something, Ruth. I held it. I don't know +that I've a name for it—but it's the most precious thing in life. My +life itself is pretty limited; aside from the children"—she softened in +speaking of them—"my life is—pretty barren. And as for the +children"—that fighting spirit broke sharply through, "they're all the +more reason for not sinking into things—not sinking into <i>them</i>," she +laughed.</p> + +<p>As she stopped there Ruth asked eagerly, eyes intently upon her: "But +just what is it you mean, Annie? Just what is it you fought for—kept?"</p> + +<p>"To be my <i>own</i>!" Annie flashed back at her, like steel.</p> + +<p>Then she changed; for the first time her work fell unheeded in her lap; +the eyes which a minute before had flashed fight looked far off and were +dreamy; her face, over which the skin seemed to have become stretched, +burned by years of sun and wind, quivered a little. When she spoke again +it was firmly but with sadness. "It's what we think that counts, Ruth. +It's what we feel. It's what we <i>are</i>. Oh, I'd like richer living—more +beauty—more joy. Well, I haven't those things. For various reasons, I +won't have them. That makes it the more important to have all I can +take!"—it leaped out from the gentler thinking like a sent arrow. +"Nobody holds my thoughts. They travel as far as they themselves have +power to travel. They bring me whatever they can bring me—and I shut +nothing out. I'm not afraid!"</p> + +<p>Ruth was looking at her with passionate earnestness.</p> + +<p>"Over there in that town,"—Annie made a little gesture toward it, "are +hundreds of women who would say they have a great deal more than I have. +And it's true enough," she laughed, "that they have some things I'd like +to have. But do you think I'd trade with them? Oh, no! Not much! The +free don't trade with the bond, Ruth."</p> + +<p>And still Ruth did not speak, but listened with that passionate +intentness.</p> + +<p>"There in that town," Annie went on, "are people—most a whole townful +of them—who are going through life without being really awake to life +at all. They move around in a closed place, doing the same silly little +things—copy-cats—repeaters. They're not their <i>own</i>—they're not +awake. They're like things run by machinery. Like things going in their +sleep. Take those girls we used to go to school with. Why, take Edith +Lawrence. I see her sometimes. She always speaks sweetly to me; she +means to be nice. But she moves round and round in her little place and +she doesn't even <i>know</i> of the wonderful things going on in the world +today! Do you think I'd trade with <i>her</i>?—social leader and all the +rest of it!" She was gathering together the bundles of asparagus. She +had finished her work. "Very sweet—very charming," she disposed of +Edith, "but she simply doesn't count. The world's moving away from her, +and she,"—Annie laughed with a mild scorn—"doesn't even know that!"</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_TWENTY-FOUR" id="CHAPTER_TWENTY-FOUR"></a>CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR</h2> + + +<p>It was late when Ruth went to sleep that night; she and Annie talked +through the evening—of books Annie was reading, of the things which +were interesting her. She was rich in interests; ideas were as personal +things to her; she found personal satisfactions in them. She was +following things which Ruth knew little about; she had been long away +from the centers of books, and out of touch with awakened people. A +whole new world seemed to open from these things that were vital to +Annie; there was promise in them—a quiet road out from the hard things +of self. There were new poets in the world; there were bold new +thinkers; there was an amazing new art; science was reinterpreting the +world and workers and women were setting themselves free. Everywhere the +old pattern was being shot through with new ideas. Everywhere were new +attempts at a better way of doing things. She had been away from all +that; what she knew of the world's new achievement had seemed unreal, or +at least detached, not having any touch with her own life. But as +disclosed by Annie those things became realities—things to enrich one's +own life. It kindled old fires of her girlhood, fanned the old desire to +know. Personal things had seemed to quell that; the storm in her own +life had shut down around her. Now she saw that she, like those others +whom Annie scorned, had not kept that openness to life, had let her own +life shut her in. She had all along been eager for books, but had not +been fortunate in the things she had come upon. She had not had access +to large libraries—many times not even to small ones; she had had +little money for buying books and was so out of touch with the world +that she had not had much initiative in trying to get hold of things. +She felt now that she had failed miserably in that, but there were years +when she was like a hurt thing that keeps in hiding, most of all wanting +to escape more hurt. It had been a weakness—she clearly saw that now, +and it had been weakening to her powers. Most of the books she had come +upon were of that shut-in life Annie scorned, written from within that +static living, and for it. People in them had the feeling it was right +people should have, unless there were bad people in the book, and then +they were very definitely bad. Many of those books had been not only +unsatisfying, but saddening to her, causing her to feel newly apart from +the experiences of people of her kind.</p> + +<p>But now Annie's books let her glimpse a new world—a world which +questioned, a world of protest, of experiment, a world in which people +unafraid were trying to find the truth, trying to build freshly, to +supplant things outworn with the vital forms of a new reality. It was +quickening. It made her eager. She was going to take some of those books +home, she would send for others, would learn how to keep in touch with +this new world which was emerging from the old. It was like breaking out +from a closed circle. It was adventure!</p> + +<p>Even after she went to her room that night, late though it was, she did +not go at once to bed. She sat for a time looking off at the lights of +that town for which she had so long grieved, the town that had shut her +out. The fact that it had shut her out had been a determining thing in +her life, to her spirit. She wondered now if perhaps she had not +foolishly spent herself in grieving for a thing that would have meant +little could she have had it. For it seemed now that it had remained +very much a fixed thing, and now she knew that, with it all, she herself +had not been fixed. The things of which Annie talked, things men of this +new day were expressing, roused her like this, not because they were all +new, but because of her own inner gropings. Within herself she had been +stumbling toward some of those things. Here was the sure expression of +some halting thoughts of her own. It was exciting to find that there +were people who were feeling the things that, even in that timid, +uncertain way, she had come to feel by herself. She had been half afraid +to formulate some of the things that had come into her mind. This +gathered together the timid little shoots. She was excited about the +things of which Annie talked—those new ideals of freedom—not so much +because they were new and daring and illumining things, as because they +did not come all alien. There was something from within to go out to +them. In that—not that there were interesting things she could have +from without—but that she, opened to the new stimulus, could become +something from within, was the real excitation, the joy of the new +promise was there. And this new stir, this promise of new satisfactions, +let her feel that her life was not all mapped out, designed ahead. She +went to sleep that night with a wonderful new feeling of there being as +much for her in life as she herself had power to take.</p> + +<p>And she woke with that feeling; she was eager to be up, to be out in the +sunshine. Annie, she found, had gone early to town with her vegetables. +Ruth helped eleven-year-old Dorothy, the eldest child, get off for +school and walked with her to the schoolhouse half a mile down the road. +The little girl's shyness wore away and she chatted with Ruth about +school, about teachers and lessons and play. Ruth loved it; it seemed to +set the seal of a human relationship upon her new feeling. What a +wonderful thing for Annie to have these children! Today gladness in +there being children in the world went out past sorrow in her own +deprivation. The night before she had said to Annie, "You have your +children. That makes life worth while to you, doesn't it?" And Annie, +with that hard, swift look of being ruthless for getting at the +truth—for getting her feeling straight and expressing it truly, had +answered, "Not in itself. I mean, it's not all. I think much precious +life has gone dead under that idea of children being enough—letting +them be all. <i>We</i> count—<i>I</i> count! Just leaving life isn't all; living +it while we're here—that counts, too. And keeping open to it in more +than any one relationship. Suppose they, in their turn, have that idea; +then life's never really lived, is it?—always just passed on, always +<i>put off</i>." They had talked of that at some length. "Certainly I want my +children to have more than I have," Annie said. "I am working that they +may. But in that working for them I'm not going to let go of the fact +that I count too. Now's my only chance," she finished in that grim +little way as one not afraid to be hard.</p> + +<p>Thinking back to that it seemed to Ruth a bigger mother feeling than the +old one. It was not the sort of maternal feeling to hem in the mother +and oppress the children. It was love in freedom—love that did not hold +in or try to hold in. It would develop a sense of the preciousness of +life. It did not glorify self-sacrifice—that insidious foe to the +fullness of living.</p> + +<p>Thinking of that, and going out from that to other things, she sat down +on a log by the roadside, luxuriating in the opulence and freshness of +the world that May morning, newly tuned to life, vibrant with that same +fresh sense of it, glad gratefulness in return to it, that comes after +long sickness, after imprisonment. The world was full of singing birds +that morning,—glorious to be in a world of singing birds! The earth +smelled so good! There were plum trees in bloom behind her; every little +breeze brought their fragrance. The grass under her feet was +springy—the world was vibrant, beautiful, glad. The earth seemed so +strong, so full of still unused powers, so ready to give.</p> + +<p>She sat there a long time; she had the courage this morning to face the +facts of her life. She was eager to face them, to understand them that +she might go on understandingly. She had the courage to face the facts +relating to herself and Stuart. That was a thing she had not dared do. +With them, love <i>had</i> to last, for love was all they had. They had only +each other. They did not dare let themselves think of such a thing as +the love between them failing.</p> + +<p>Well, it had not failed; but she let herself see now how greatly it had +changed. There was something strangely freeing in just letting herself +see it. Of course there had been change; things always changed. Love +changed within marriage—she did not know why she should expect it to be +different with her. But in the usual way—within marriage—it would +matter less for there would be more ways of adapting one's self to the +changing. Then one could reach out into new places in life, gaining new +channels, taking on new things as old ones slipped away, finding in +common interests, common pleasures, the new adjustment for feeling. But +with them life had seemed to shut right down around them. And they had +never been able to relax in the reassuring sense of the lastingness of +their love. She had held herself tense in the idea that there was no +change, would be none. She had a feeling now of having tried too hard, +of being tired through long trying. There was relief in just admitting +that she was tired. And so she let herself look at it now, admitting +that she had been clutching at a vanished thing.</p> + +<p>It would have been different, she felt, had the usual channels of living +been opened to them. Then together they could have reached out into new +experiences. Their love had been real—great. Related to living, surely +it could have remained the heart of life. Her seeing now that much of +the life had gone out of it did not bear down upon her with the great +sadness she would have expected. She knew now that in her heart she had +known for a long time that passion had gone. Facing it was easier than +refusing to see. It ceased to be a terrible thing once one looked at it. +Of this she was sure: love should be able to be a part of the rest of +life; the big relationship, but one among others; the most intense +interest, but one with other interests. Unrooted, detached, it might for +the time be the more intense, but it had less ways of saving itself. If +simply, naturally, they could have grown into the common life she felt +they might have gone on without too much consciousness of change, +growing into new things as old ones died away, half unconsciously making +adjustments, doubtless feeling something gone but in the sharing of new +things not left desolate through that sense of the passing of old ones. +Frightened by the thought of having nothing else, they had tried too +hard. She was tired; she believed that Stuart too was tired.</p> + +<p>There was a certain tired tenderness in her thinking of him. Dear +Stuart, he loved easy pleasant living. It seemed he was not meant for +the too great tests, for tragically isolated love. She knew that he had +never ceased to miss the things he had let go—his place among men, the +stimulus of the light, pleasant social relationships with women. He was +meant for a love more flexibly related to living, a love big and real +but fitted more loosely, a little more carelessly, to life. There was +always so deep a contrition for his irritations with her. The whole +trouble was indicated right there, that the contrition should be all out +of proportion to the offence. It would have been better had he felt more +free to be irritated; one should not have to feel frightened at a little +bit of one's own bad temper—appalled at crossness, at hours of ennui. +Driving them back together after every drifting apart all of that made +for an intensity of passion—passion whipped to life by fear. But that +was not the way to grow into life. Flames kindled by fear made intense +moments but after a time left too many waste places between them and the +lives of men.</p> + +<p>Today her hope for the future was in the opening of new places. She was +going back with new vision, new courage. They must not any longer cling +together in their one little place, coming finally to actual resentment +of one another for the enforced isolation. They must let themselves go +out into living, dare more, trust more, lose that fear of rebuff, hope +for more from life, <i>claim</i> more. As she rose and started towards home +there was a new spring in her step. For her part, she was through with +that shrinking back! She hoped she could bring Stuart to share her +feeling, could inspire in him this new trust, new courage that had so +stimulated and heartened her. Her hope for their future lay there.</p> + +<p>Climbing a hill she came in sight of the little city which they had +given up, for which they had grieved. Well, they had grieved too much, +she resolutely decided now. There were wider horizons than the one that +shut down upon that town. She was not conquered! She would not be +conquered. She stood on the hilltop exulting in that sense of being +free. She had been a weakling to think her life all settled! Only +cowards and the broken in spirit surrendered the future as payment for +the past. Love was the great and beautiful wonder—but surely one should +not stay with it in the place where it found one. Why, loving should +light the way! Far from engulfing all the rest of life it seemed now +that love should open life to one. Whether one kept it or whether one +lost it, it failed if it did not send one farther along the way. She had +been afraid to think of her love changing because that had seemed to +grant that it had failed. But now it seemed that it failed if it did not +leave her bigger than it had found her. Her eyes filled in response to +the stern beauty of that. Not that one stay with love in the same place, +but rather the meaning of it all was in just this: that it send one on.</p> + +<p>Eyes still dimmed with the feeling of it, she stood looking as if in a +final letting go at that town off there on the bend of the river. It +became to her the world of shut-in people, people not going on, people +who loved and never saw the meaning of love, whose experiences were not +as wings to carry them, but as walls shutting them in. She was through +grieving for those people. She was going on—past them—so far beyond +them that her need for them would fall away.</p> + +<p>She was conscious of an approaching horse and buggy and stepped aside; +then walked on, so aglow with her own thoughts that a passing by did not +break in upon her. She did not even know that the girl in the run-about +had stopped her horse. At the cry: "Oh—I'm so glad!" she was as +startled as if she had thought herself entirely alone.</p> + +<p>It was a big effort to turn, to gather herself together and speak. She +had been so far away, so completely possessed that it took her an +instant to realize that the girl leaning eagerly toward her was Mildred +Woodbury.</p> + +<p>Mildred was moving over on the seat, inviting her to get in. "I'm so +glad!" she repeated. "I went to Mrs. Herman's, and was so disappointed +to miss you. I thought maybe I'd come upon you somewhere," she laughed +gladly, though not without embarrassment.</p> + +<p>There was a moment of wanting to run away, of really considering it. She +knew now—had remembered, realized—what it was about Mildred.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_TWENTY-FIVE" id="CHAPTER_TWENTY-FIVE"></a>CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE</h2> + + +<p>Her instinct to protect herself from this young girl was the thing that +gained composure for her. At first it was simply one of those physical +instincts that draw us back from danger, from pain; and then she threw +the whole force of her will to keeping that semblance of composure. Her +instinct was not to let reserves break down, not to show agitation; to +protect herself by never leaving commonplace ground. It was terribly +hard—this driving back the flood-tide of feeling and giving no sign of +the struggle, the resentment. It was as if every nerve had been charged +to full life and then left there outraged.</p> + +<p>But she could do it; she could appear pleasantly surprised at Mildred's +having come to take her for a drive, could talk along about the little +things that must be her shield against the big ones. Something in her +had gone hard in that first moment of realizing who Mildred was. She was +not going to be driven back again! And so she forced herself to talk +pleasantly of the country through which they went, of Mildred's horse, +of driving and riding.</p> + +<p>But it was impossible not to grow a little interested in this young +Mildred Woodbury. She sat erect and drove in a manner that had the +little tricks of worldliness, but was somehow charming in spite of its +artificiality. Ruth was thinking that Mildred was a more sophisticated +young person than she herself had been at that age. She wondered if +sophistication was increasing in the world, if there was more of it in +Freeport than there used to be.</p> + +<p>They talked of Ruth's father, of Mildred's people, of the neighborhood +both knew so well. From that it drifted to the social life of the town. +She was amused, rather sadly amused, at Mildred's air of superiority +about it; it seemed so youthful, so facile. Listening to Mildred now +pictures flashed before her: she and Edith Lawrence—girls of about +fifteen—going over to the Woodburys' and eagerly asking, "Could we take +the baby out, Mrs. Woodbury?" "Now you'll be very, very careful, girls?" +Mrs. Woodbury would say, wrapping Mildred all up in soft pink things. +"Oh, <i>yes</i>, Mrs. Woodbury," they would reply, a little shocked that she +could entertain the thought of their not being careful. And then they +would start off cooing girlish things about the cunning little darling. +This was that baby—in spite of her determination to hold aloof from +Mildred there was no banishing it; no banishing the apprehension that +grew with the girl's talk. For Mildred seemed so much a part of the very +thing for which she had this easy scorn. Something in the way she held +the lines made it seem she would not belong anywhere else. She looked so +carefully prepared for the very life for which she expressed disdain.</p> + +<p>She tried to forget the things that were coming back to her—how Mildred +would gleefully hold up her hands to have her mittens put on when she +and Edith were about to take her out, and tried too to turn the +conversation—breaking out with something about Mrs. Herman's children. +But it became apparent that Mildred was not to be put off. Everything +Ruth would call up to hold her off she somehow forced around to an +approach for what she wanted to say.</p> + +<p>And then it came abruptly, as if she were tired of trying to lead up to +it. "I've been wanting to see you—Ruth," she hesitated over the name, +but brought it out bravely, and it occurred to Ruth then that Mildred +had not known how to address her. "When I heard you were here," she +added, "I was determined you shouldn't get away without my seeing you."</p> + +<p>Ruth looked at her with a little smile, moved, in spite of herself, by +the impetuousness of the girl's tone, by something real that broke +through the worldly little manner.</p> + +<p>"I don't feel as the rest of them do." She flushed and said it +hurriedly, a little tremulously; and yet there was something direct and +honest in her eyes, as if she were going to say it whether it seemed +nice taste or not. It reached Ruth, went through her self-protective +determination not to be reached. Her heart went out to Mildred's youth, +to this appeal from youth, moved by the freshness and realness beneath +that surface artificiality, saddened by this defiance of one who, it +seemed, could so little understand how big was the thing she defied, who +seemed so much the product of the thing she scorned, so dependent on +what she was apparently in the mood to flout. "I don't know that they +are to be blamed for their feeling, Mildred," she answered quietly.</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes, they are!" hotly contended the girl. "It's because they don't +understand. It's because they <i>can't</i> understand!" The reins had fallen +loose in her hand; the whip sagged; she drooped—that stiff, chic little +manner gone. She turned a timid, trusting face to Ruth—a light shining +through troubled eyes. "It's love that counts, isn't it,—Ruth?" she +asked, half humble, half defiant.</p> + +<p>It swept Ruth's heart of everything but sympathy. Her hand closed over +Mildred's. "What is it, dear?" she asked. "Just what is it?"</p> + +<p>Mildred's eyes filled. Ruth could understand that so well—what sympathy +meant to a feeling shut in, a feeling the whole world seemed against. +"It's with me—as it was with you," the girl answered very low and +simply. "It's—like that."</p> + +<p>Ruth shut her eyes for an instant; they were passing something fragrant; +it came to her—an old fragrance—like something out of things past; a +robin was singing; she opened her eyes and looked at Mildred, saw the +sunshine finding gold in the girl's hair. The sadness of it—of youth +and suffering, of pain in a world of beauty, that reach of pain into +youth, into love, made it hard to speak. "I'm sorry, dear," was all she +could say.</p> + +<p>They rode a little way in silence; Ruth did not know how to speak, what +to say; and then Mildred began to talk, finding relief in saying things +long held in. Ruth understood that so well. Oh, she understood it all so +well—the whole tumult of it, the confused thinking, the joy, the +passion,—the passion that would sacrifice anything, that would let the +whole world go. Here it was again. She knew just what it was.</p> + +<p>"So you can see," Mildred was saying, "what you have meant to me."</p> + +<p>Yes, she could see that.</p> + +<p>They were driving along the crest of the hills back of the town. Mildred +pointed to it. "That town isn't the whole of the world!" she exclaimed +passionately, after speaking of the feeling that was beginning to form +there against herself. "What do I care?" she demanded defiantly. "It's +not the whole of the world!"</p> + +<p>Ruth looked at it. She could see the Lawrence house—it had a high place +and was visible from all around; Mildred's home was not far from there; +her own old home was only a block farther on. She had another one of +those flashing pictures from things far back: Mrs. Woodbury—Mildred's +mother—standing at the door with a bowl of chicken broth for Mrs. +Holland—Ruth's mother—who was ill. "I thought maybe this would taste +good," she could hear Mrs. Woodbury saying. Strange how things one had +forgotten came back. Other things came back as for a moment she +continued to look at the town where both she and Mildred had been +brought up, where their ties were. Then she turned back to Mildred, to +this other girl who, claimed by passionate love, was in the mood to let +it all go. "But that's just what it is, Mildred," she said. "The trouble +is, it <i>is</i> the whole of the world."</p> + +<p>"It's the whole of the social world," she answered the look of surprise. +"It's just the same everywhere. And it's astonishing how united the +world is. You give it up in one place—you've about given it up for +every place."</p> + +<p>"Then the whole social world's not worth it!" broke from Mildred. "It's +not worth—enough."</p> + +<p>Ruth found it hard to speak; she did not know what to say. She had a +flashing sense of the haphazardness of life, of the power, the flame +this found in Mildred that the usual experiences would never have found, +of how, without it, she would doubtless have developed much like the +other girls of her world—how she might develop because of it—how human +beings were shaped by chance. She looked at Mildred's face—troubled, +passionate, a confused defiance, and yet something real there looking +through the tumult, something flaming, something that would fight, a +something, she secretly knew, more flaming, more fighting, than might +ever break to life in Mildred again. And then she happened to look down +at the girl's feet—the very smart low shoes of dull kid, perfectly +fitted, high arched—the silk stockings, the slender ankle. They seemed +so definitely feet for the places prepared, for the easier ways, not +fitted for going a hard way alone. It made her feel like a mother who +would want to keep a child from a way she herself knew as too hard.</p> + +<p>"But what are you going to put in the place of that social world, +Mildred?" she gently asked. "There must be something to fill its place. +What is that going to be?"</p> + +<p>"Love will fill its place!" came youth's proud, sure answer.</p> + +<p>Ruth was looking straight ahead; the girl's tone had thrilled her—that +faith in love, that courage for it. It was so youthful!—so youthfully +sure, so triumphant in blindness. Youth would dare so much—youth knew +so little. She did not say anything; she could not bear to.</p> + +<p>"Love can fill its place!" Mildred said again, as if challenging that +silence. And as still Ruth did not speak she demanded, sharply, "Can't +it?"</p> + +<p>Ruth turned to her a tender, compassionate face, too full of feeling, of +conflict, to speak. Slowly, as if she could not bear to do it, she shook +her head.</p> + +<p>Mildred looked just dazed for a moment, then so much as if one in whom +she had trusted, on whom she had counted for a great deal had failed her +that Ruth made a little gesture as if to say it was not that, as if to +say she was sorry it seemed like that.</p> + +<p>Mildred did not heed it. "But it has with you," she insisted.</p> + +<p>"It has <i>not</i>!" leaped out the low, savage answer that startled the +woman from whom it came. "It has not!" she repeated fiercely.</p> + +<p>Her rage was against the feeling that seemed to trick one like that; the +way love <i>got</i> one—made one believe that nothing else in the world +mattered but just itself. It wasn't fair! It was cruel! That made her +savage—savage for telling Mildred the other side of it, the side love +blinded her too. In that moment it seemed that love was a trap; it took +hold of one and persuaded one things were true that weren't true! Just +then it seemed a horrible thing the way love got one through lovely +things, through beauty and tenderness, through the sweetest things—then +did as it pleased with the life it had stolen in upon. Fiercely she +turned the other face, told Mildred what love in loneliness meant, what +it meant to be shut away from one's own kind, what that hurting of other +lives did to one's self, what isolation made of one, what it did to +love. Things leaped out that she had never faced, had never admitted for +true; the girl to whom she talked was frightened and she was frightened +herself—at what she told of what she herself had felt, feeling that she +had never admitted she had had. She let the light in on things kept in +the dark even in her own soul—a cruel light, a light that spared +nothing, that seemed to find a savage delight in exposing the things +deepest concealed. She would show the other side of it! There was a +certain gloating in doing it—getting ahead of a thing that would trick +one. And then that spent itself as passion will and she grew quieter and +talked in a simple way of what loneliness meant, of what longing for +home meant, of what it meant to know one had hurt those who had always +been good to one, who loved and trusted. She spoke of her mother—of her +father, and then she broke down and cried and Mildred listened in +silence to those only half-smothered sobs.</p> + +<p>When Ruth was able to stop she looked up, timidly, at Mildred. Something +seemed to have gone out of the girl—something youthful and superior, +something radiant and assured. She looked crumpled up. The utter misery +in her eyes, about her mouth, made Ruth whisper: "I'm sorry, Mildred."</p> + +<p>Mildred looked at her with a bitter little laugh and then turned quickly +away.</p> + +<p>Ruth had never felt more wretched in her life than when, without Mildred +having said a word, they turned in the gate leading up to Annie's. She +wanted to say something to comfort. She cast around for something. +"Maybe," she began, "that it will come right—anyway."</p> + +<p>Again Mildred only laughed in that hard little way.</p> + +<p>When they were half way up the hill Mildred spoke, as if, in miserable +uncertainty, thinking things aloud. "Mrs. Blair has asked me to go to +Europe with her for the summer," she said, in a voice that seemed to +have no spring left in it. "She's chaperoning a couple of girls. I could +go with them."</p> + +<p>"Oh, <i>do</i>, Mildred!" cried Ruth. "Do that!" It seemed to her wonderfully +tender, wonderfully wise, of Edith. She was all eagerness to induce +Mildred to go with Edith.</p> + +<p>But there was no answering enthusiasm. Mildred drooped. She did not look +at Ruth. "I could do that," she said in a lifeless way, as if it didn't +matter much what she did.</p> + +<p>When they said good-by Mildred's broken smile made Ruth turn hastily +away. But she looked back after the girl had driven off, wanting to see +if she was sitting up in that sophisticated little way she had. But +Mildred was no longer sitting that way. She sagged, as if she did not +care anything about how she sat. Ruth stood looking after her, watching +as far as she could see her, longing to see her sit up, to see her hold +the whip again in that stiff, chic little fashion. But she did not do +it; her horse was going along as if he knew there was no interest in +him. Ruth could not bear it. If only the whip would go up at just that +right little angle! But it did not. She could not see the whip at +all—only the girl's drooping back.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_TWENTY-SIX" id="CHAPTER_TWENTY-SIX"></a>CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX</h2> + + +<p>When Mildred had passed from sight Ruth slowly turned toward the house. +She noticed the vegetable wagon there in front of the barn—so Annie had +come home. She turned away from the kitchen door she had been about to +enter; she did not want to talk to Annie just then. But when she had +passed around to the other side of the house she saw, standing with +their backs to her in the little flower garden, Annie and a woman she +was astonished to recognize as her sister Harriett.</p> + +<p>She made a move toward the little hill that rose behind the house. She +would get away! But Mr. Herman appeared just then at the top of the +hill. He saw her; he must see that she had seen the others. So she would +have to stay and talk to Harriett. It seemed a thing she absolutely +could not do. It had come to seem she was being made some kind of sport +of, as if the game were to buffet her about between this feeling and +that, let her gain a little ground, get to a clearing, then throw her +back to new confusion. That day, anyway, she could bear no more of it. +It was hard to reply to Mr. Herman when he called something to her. +Annie heard their voices and then she had to join her and Harriett.</p> + +<p>"Why, Ruth!" Annie cried in quick solicitude upon seeing Ruth's face, +"you went too far. How hateful of you," she laughed, as if feeling there +was something to laugh off, "to come looking like this just when I have +been boasting to your sister about how we've set you up!"</p> + +<p>"You do look tired, Ruth," said Harriett compassionately.</p> + +<p>Harriett said she had come for a little visit with Ruth, and Annie +proposed that they go up under the trees at the crest of the hill back +of the house. It was where Ruth had sat with Annie just the day before. +As she sat down there now it seemed it was ages ago since she and Annie +had sat there tying the asparagus into bunches.</p> + +<p>Annie had come up with some buttermilk for them. As she handed Ruth hers +she gave her shoulder an affectionate little pat, as if, looking at her +face, she wanted to tell her to take heart. Then she went back to the +house, leaving the two sisters alone.</p> + +<p>They drank their buttermilk, talking of it, of Annie's place, of her +children. In a languid way Ruth was thinking that it was good of +Harriett to come and see her; had she come the day before, she would +have been much pleased. In that worn way, she was pleased now; doubtless +it had been hard for Harriett to come—so busy, and not well. Perhaps +her coming meant real defiance. Anyway, it was good of her to come. She +tried to be nice to Harriett, to talk about things as if she liked +having her there to talk with. But that final picture of Mildred's +drooping back was right there before her all the time. As she talked +with Harriett about the price of butter and eggs—the living to be had +in selling them, she was all the while seeing Mildred—Mildred as she +had been when Ruth got into the buggy; as she said, "Love can take its +place!"—as she was when she drove away. She had a sick feeling of +having failed; she had failed the very thing in Mildred to which she had +elected to be faithful in herself. And <i>why</i>? What right had one to say +that another was not strong enough? How did one <i>know</i>? And yet she +wanted Mildred to go with Edith; she believed that she would—now. That +blighting sense of failure, of having been unfaithful, could not kill a +feeling of relief. Did it mean that she was, after all, just like Edith? +Had her venturing, her experience, left her much as she would have been +without it? Just before meeting Mildred she was strong in the feeling of +having gained something from the hard way she had gone alone. She was +going on! That was what it had shown her—that one was to go on. Then +she had to listen to Mildred—and she was back with the very people she +had felt she was going on past—one with those people she had so +triumphantly decided were not worth her grieving for them.</p> + +<p>She had been so sure—so radiantly sure, happy in that sense of having, +at last, found herself, of being rid of fears and griefs and +incertitudes. Then she met Mildred. It came to her then—right while she +was talking with Harriett about what Flora Copeland was going to do now +that the house would be broken up—that it was just that thing which +kept the world conservative. It was fear for others. It was that feeling +she had when she looked down at Mildred's feet.</p> + +<p>One did not have that feeling when one looked at one's own feet. Fear of +pain for others was quite unlike fear for one's self. Courage for one's +self one could gain; in the fires of the heart that courage was forged. +When the heart was warm with the thing one wanted to do one said no +price in pain could be too great. But courage for others had to be +called from the mind. It was another thing. When it was some one +else,—one younger, one who did not seem strong—then one distrusted the +feeling and saw large the pain. One <i>knew</i> one could bear pain one's +self. There was something not to be borne in thinking of another's pain. +That was why, even among venturers, few had the courage to speak for +venturing. There was something in humankind—it was strongest in +womankind—made them, no matter how daring for themselves, cautious for +others. And perhaps that, all crusted round with things formal and +lifeless, was the living thing at the heart of the world's conservatism.</p> + +<p>Harriett was talking of the monument Cyrus thought there should be at +the cemetery; Ruth listened and replied—seemed only tired, and all the +while these thoughts were shaping themselves in her inner confusion and +disheartenment. She would rather have stopped thinking of it, but could +not. She had been too alive when checked; there was too much emotion in +that inner confusion. She wondered if she would ever become sure of +anything; if she would ever have, and keep, that courage of confidence +which she had thought, for just a few radiant moments, she had. She +would like to talk to Annie about it, but she had a feeling that she was +not fit to talk to Annie. Annie was not one of those to run back at the +first thought of another's pain. That, too, Annie could face. Better let +them in for pain than try to keep them from life, Annie would say. She +could hear her saying it—saying that even that concern for others was +not the noblest thing. Fearing would never set the world free, would be +Annie's word. Not to keep people in the safe little places, but to shape +a world where there need not be safe little places! While she listened +to what Harriett said of how much such a monument as Cyrus wanted would +cost, she could hear Annie's sharp-edged little voice making those +replies to her own confusion, could hear her talking of a sterner, +braver people—hardier souls—who would one day make a world where fear +was not the part of kindness. Annie would say that it was not the women +who would protect other women who would shape the future in which there +need not be that tight little protection.</p> + +<p>She sighed heavily and pushed back her hair with a gesture of great +weariness. "Poor Ruth!" it made Harriett murmur, "you haven't really got +rested at all, have you?"</p> + +<p>She pulled herself up and smiled as best she could at her sister, who +had spoken to her with real feeling. "I did," she said with a little +grimace that carried Harriett back a long way, "then I got so rested I +got to thinking about things—then I got tired again." She flushed after +she had said it, for that was the closest they had come to the things +they kept away from.</p> + +<p>"Poor Ruth," Harriett murmured again. "And I'm afraid," she added with a +little laugh, "that now I'm going to make you more tired."</p> + +<p>"Oh, no," said Ruth, though she looked at her inquiringly.</p> + +<p>"Because," said Harriett, "I've come to talk to you about something, +Ruth."</p> + +<p>Ruth's face made her say, "I'm sorry, Ruth, but I'm afraid it's the only +chance. You see you're going away day after tomorrow."</p> + +<p>Ruth only nodded; it seemed if she spoke she would have to cry out what +she felt—that in common decency she ought to be let alone now as any +worn-out thing should be let alone, that it was not fair—humane—to +talk to her now. But of course she could not make that clear to +Harriett, and with it all she did wonder what it was Harriett had to +say. So she only looked at her sister as if waiting. Harriett looked +away from her for an instant before she began to speak: Ruth's eyes were +so tired, so somber; there was something very appealing about her face +as she waited for the new thing that was to be said to her.</p> + +<p>"I have felt terribly, Ruth," Harriett finally began, as if forcing +herself to do so, "about the position in which we are as a family. I'll +not go into what brought it about—or anything like that. I haven't come +to talk about things that happened long ago, haven't come with +reproaches. I've just come to see if, as a family, we can't do a little +better about things as they are now."</p> + +<p>She paused, but Ruth did not speak; she was very still now as she +waited. She did not take her eyes from Harriett's face.</p> + +<p>"Mother and father are gone, Ruth," Harriett went on in a low voice, +"and only we children are left. It seems as if we ought to do the best +we can for each other." Her voice quivered and Ruth's intense eyes, +which did not leave her sister's face, dimmed. She continued to sit +there very still, waiting.</p> + +<p>"I had a feeling," Harriett went on, "that father's doing what he did +was as a—was as a sign, Ruth, that we children should come closer +together. As if father couldn't see his way to do it in his lifetime, +but did this to leave word to us that we were to do something. I took it +that way," she finished simply.</p> + +<p>Ruth's eyes had brimmed over; but still she did not move, did not take +her eyes from her sister's face. She was so strange—as if going out to +Harriett and yet holding herself ready at any moment to crouch back.</p> + +<p>"And so," Harriett pursued, all the while in that low voice, "that is +the way I talked to Edgar and Cyrus. I didn't bring Ted into it," she +said, more in her natural way, "because he's just a boy, and then—" she +paused as if she had got into something that embarrassed her—"well, he +and Cyrus not feeling kindly toward each other just now I thought I +could do better without Ted."</p> + +<p>Ruth flushed slightly at the mention of the feeling between her +brothers; but still she did not speak, scarcely moved.</p> + +<p>Harriett was silent a moment. "That's one of the reasons," she took it +up, "why I am anxious to do something to bring us together. I don't want +Ted to be feeling this way toward Cyrus. And Edgar, too, he seems to be +very bitter against. It makes him defiant. It isn't good for him. I +think Ted has a little disposition to be wild," she said in a +confidential tone.</p> + +<p>Ruth spoke then. "I hadn't noticed any such disposition," she said +simply.</p> + +<p>"Well, he doesn't go to church. It seems to me he doesn't—accept things +as he ought to."</p> + +<p>Ruth said nothing to that, only continued to look at her sister, +waiting.</p> + +<p>"So I talked to them," Harriett went on. "Of course, Ruth, there's no +use pretending it was easy. You know how Cyrus feels; he isn't one to +change much, you know." She turned away and her hand fumbled in a little +patch of clover.</p> + +<p>"But we do want to do something, Ruth," she came back to it. "We all +feel it's terrible this way. So this is what Edgar proposed, and Cyrus +agreed to it, and it seems to me the best thing to do." She stopped +again, then said, in a blurred sort of voice, fumbling with the clover +and not looking at Ruth: "If you will leave the—your—if you will leave +the man you are—living with, promising never to see him again,—if you +will give that up and come home we will do everything we can to stand by +you, go on as best we can as if nothing had happened. We will try to—"</p> + +<p>She looked up—and did not go on, but flushed uncomfortably at sight of +Ruth's face—eyes wide with incredulity, with something like horror.</p> + +<p>"You don't <i>mean</i> that, do you, Harriett?" Ruth asked in a queer, quiet +voice.</p> + +<p>"But we wanted to do something—" Harriett began, and then again halted, +halted before the sudden blaze of anger in Ruth's eyes.</p> + +<p>"And you thought <i>this</i>—" She broke off with a short laugh and sat +there a moment trying to gain control of herself. When she spoke her +voice was controlled but full of passion. "I don't think," she said, +"that I've ever known of a more monstrous—a more insulting proposal +being made by one woman to another!"</p> + +<p>"Insulting?" faltered Harriett.</p> + +<p>Ruth did not at once reply but sat there so strangely regarding her +sister. "So this is your idea of life, is it, Harriett?" she began in +the manner of one making a big effort to speak quietly. "This is your +idea of marriage, is it? Here is the man I have lived with for eleven +years. For eleven years we've met hard things together as best we +could—worked, borne things together. Let me tell you something, +Harriett. If <i>that</i> doesn't marry people—tell <i>me</i> something. If that +doesn't marry people—just tell me, Harriett, <i>what does</i>?"</p> + +<p>"But you know you're not married, Ruth," Harriett replied, +falteringly—for Ruth's burning eyes never left her sister's face. "You +know—really—you're not married. You know he's not divorced, Ruth. He's +not your husband. He's Marion Averley's."</p> + +<p>"You think so?" Ruth flung back at her. "You really think so, do you, +Harriett? After those years together—brought together by love, united +by living, by effort, by patience, by courage—I ask you again, +Harriett,—if the things there have been between Stuart Williams and me +can't make a marriage real—<i>what can</i>?"</p> + +<p>"The law is the law," murmured Harriett. "He is married to her. He never +was married to you."</p> + +<p>Ruth began hotly to speak, but checked it with a laugh and sat there +regarding her sister in silence. When she spoke after that her voice was +singularly calm. "I'm glad to know this, Harriett; glad to know just +what your ideas are—yours and Edgar's and Cyrus's. You have done +something for me, after all. For I've grieved a great deal, Harriett, +for the things I lost, and you see I won't do that any more. I see +now—see what those things are. I see that I don't want them."</p> + +<p>Harriett had colored at that, and her hand was fumbling in the little +patch of clover. When she looked up at Ruth there were tears in her +eyes. "But what could we do, Ruth?" she asked, gently, a little +reproachfully. "We wanted to do something—what else could we do?"</p> + +<p>Her tone touched Ruth. After all, what else—Harriett being as she +was—could she do? Monstrous as the proposal seemed to her, it was +Harriett's way of trying to make things better. She had come in +kindness, and she had not been kindly received. It was in a different +voice that Ruth began: "Harriett, don't you see, when you come to look +at it, that I couldn't do this? Down in your heart—way down in your +heart, Harriett—don't you see that I couldn't? Don't you see that if I +left Stuart now to do the best he could by himself, left him, I mean, +for this reason—came creeping back myself into a little corner of +respectability—the crumbs that fall from the tables of +respectability—! You <i>know</i>, Harriett Holland," she flamed, "that if I +did that I'd be less a woman, not a better one?"</p> + +<p>"I—I knew it would be hard," granted Harriett, unhappily. "Of +course—after such a long time together—But you're not married to him, +Ruth," she said again, wretchedly. "Why"—her voice fell almost to a +whisper—"you're living in—adultery."</p> + +<p>"Well if I am," retorted Ruth—"forgive me for saying it, Harriett—that +adultery has given me more decent ideas of life than marriage seems to +have given you!"</p> + +<p>Her feeling about it grew stronger as the day wore on. That evening she +got the Woodburys' on the telephone and asked for Mildred. She did not +know just what she would say, she had no plan, but she wanted to see +Mildred again. She was told, however, that Mildred had gone to Chicago +on a late afternoon train. At the last minute she had decided to go to +Europe with Mrs. Blair, the servant who was speaking said, and had gone +over to Chicago to see about clothes.</p> + +<p>Ruth hung up the receiver and sat looking into the telephone. Then she +laughed. So Mildred had been "saved."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_TWENTY-SEVEN" id="CHAPTER_TWENTY-SEVEN"></a>CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN</h2> + + +<p>On the afternoon of her last day in Freeport Ruth took a long tramp with +Deane. She was going that night; she was all ready for leaving when +Deane came out and asked if he couldn't take her for a ride in his car. +She suggested a walk instead, wanting the tramp before the confinement +of travelling. So they cut through the fields back of Annie's and came +out on a road well known to them of old. They tramped along it a long +way, Ruth speaking of things she remembered, talking of old drives along +that road which had been a favorite with all of their old crowd. They +said things as they felt like it, but there was no constraint in their +silences. It had always been like that with her and Deane. Finally they +sat down on a knoll a little back from the road, overlooking pastures +and fields of blowing green.</p> + +<p>"I love these little hills," Ruth murmured; "so many little hills," she +laughed affectionately—"and so green and blowy and fruitful. With us +it's a great flat valley—a plain, and most of it dry—barren. You have +to do such a lot to make things grow. Here things just love to grow. And +trees!" she laughed.</p> + +<p>"But mountains there," suggested Deane.</p> + +<p>"Yes, but a long way off from us, and sometimes they seem very stern, +Deane. I've so many times had the feeling I couldn't get beyond them. +Sometimes they have seemed like other things I couldn't hope to cross." +After a little she said: "These little hills are so gentle; this country +so open."</p> + +<p>Deane laughed shortly. "Yes, the hills are gentle. The country is open +enough!"</p> + +<p>She laughed too. "It is beautiful country, Deane," she said, as if that +were the thing mattering just then. There was an attractive bit of +pasture just ahead of them: a brook ran through it—a lovely little +valley between two of those gentle hills.</p> + +<p>Deane was lying on the grass a little way from her—sprawled out in much +his old awkward way, his elbow supporting his head, hat pulled down over +his eyes. It was good to be with him this last afternoon. It seemed so +much as it used to be; in that moment it was almost as if the time in +between had not been. It was strange the way things could fall away +sometimes—great stretches of time fall away and seem, for a little +while, to leave things as they had been long before.</p> + +<p>"Well, Ruth," Deane said at last, "so you're going back."</p> + +<p>"Going back, Deane," she answered.</p> + +<p>So much they did not say seemed to flow into that; the whole thing was +right there, opened, living, between them. It had always been like that +with her and Deane. It was not necessary to say things out to him, as it +was with everyone else. Their thinking, feeling, seemed to come together +naturally, of itself; not a matter of direction. She looked at Deane +stretched out there on the grass—older, different in some ways—today +he looked as if something was worrying him—yet with it all so much the +Deane of old. It kept recurring as strange that, after all there had +been in between, they should be together again, and that it could be as +it used to be. Just as of old, a little thing said could swing them to +thinking, feeling, of which perhaps they did not speak, but which they +consciously shared. Many times through the years there had come times +when she wanted nothing so much as to be with Deane, wanted to say +things to him that, she did not know just why, there would have been no +satisfaction in saying to Stuart. Even things she had experienced with +Stuart she could, of the two, more easily have talked of with Deane. It +was to Deane she could have talked of the things Stuart made her feel. +Within a certain circle Stuart was the man to whom she came closest; +somehow, with him, she did not break from that circle. She had always +had that feeling of Deane's understanding what she felt, even though it +was not he who inspired the feeling. That seemed a little absurd to +her—to live through things with one man, and have what that living made +of her seem to swing her to some one else.</p> + +<p>Thinking of their unique companionship, which time and distance and +circumstances had so little affected, she looked at Deane as he lay +there near her on the grass. She was glad to have this renewal of their +old friendship, which had always remained living and dear to her. And +now she was going away for another long time. It was possible she would +never see him again. It made her wish she could come closer to what were +now the big things in his life.</p> + +<p>"I'm so glad, Deane," she said, somewhat timidly, "about you."</p> + +<p>He pushed back his hat and looked up in inquiry.</p> + +<p>"So glad you got married, goose!" she laughed.</p> + +<p>At his laugh for that she looked at him in astonishment, distinctly +shocked. He was chewing a long spear of grass. For a moment he did not +speak. Then, "Amy's gone home," he said shortly.</p> + +<p>Ruth could only stare at him, bewildered.</p> + +<p>He was running his hand over the grass near him. She noticed that it +moved nervously. And she remarked the puckered brows that had all along +made her think he was worried about something that day—she had thought +it must be one of his cases. And there was that compression of the lips +that she knew of old in Deane when he was hurt. Just then his face +looked actually old, the face of a man who has taken hard things.</p> + +<p>"Yes, Amy's gone home for a little while," he said in a more matter of +fact voice, but a voice that had a hard ring. He added: "Her mother's +not well," and looked up at Ruth with that characteristic little +screwing up of his face, as if telling her to make what she could of it.</p> + +<p>"Why, that's too bad," she stammered.</p> + +<p>Again he looked up at her in that queer way of mixed feeling, his face +showing the marks of pain and yet a touch of teasing there too, mocking +her confusion, looking like a man who was suffering and yet a little +like a teasing boy. Then he abruptly pulled his hat down over his eyes +again, as if to shade them from the sun, and lay flat on his back, one +heel kicking at the grass. She could not see his eyes, but she saw his +mouth; that faint touch of pleasure in teasing which had perversely +lurked in pain had gone now; that twist of his compressed lips was pure +pain.</p> + +<p>She was utterly bewildered, and so deeply concerned that she had to get +ahead of Deane some way, not let him shut himself in with a thing that +made his mouth look as if he was bearing physical pain. And then a new +thought shot into her concern for him, a thought that seemed too +preposterous to entertain, but that would not go away. It did not seem a +thing she could speak of; but as she looked at Deane, his mouth more +natural now, but the suggestion of pain left there, she had a sudden new +sense of all that Deane had done for her. She couldn't leave things like +this, no matter how indelicate she might seem.</p> + +<p>"Deane," she began timidly, "I don't—in any way—for any reason—make +things hard for you, do I?"</p> + +<p>For the moment he did not speak, did not push his hat back so she could +see his eyes. Then she saw that he was smiling a little; she had a +feeling that he was not realizing she could see the smile; it was as if +smiling to himself at something that bitterly amused him. It made her +feel rather sick; it let that preposterous idea spread all through her.</p> + +<p>Then he sat up and looked quizzically at her. "Well, Ruth, you don't +expect me to deny, do you, that you did make a thing or two rather +hard?" He said it with that touch of teasing. "Was I so magnanimous," he +added dryly, "that I let you lose sight of the fact that I wanted you?"</p> + +<p>Ruth colored and felt baffled; she was sure he knew well enough that was +not what she referred to. He looked at her, a little mockingly, a little +wistfully, as if daring her to go on.</p> + +<p>"I wasn't talking about things long ago, Deane," she said. "I +wondered—" She hesitated, looking at him in appeal, as if asking him to +admit he understood what she meant without forcing her to say such a +thing.</p> + +<p>For a minute he let the pain look out of his eyes at her, looked for all +the world as if he wanted her to help him. Then quickly he seemed to +shut himself in. He smiled at her in a way that seemed to say, half +mockingly, "I've gone!" He hurt her a little; it was hard to be with +Deane and feel there was something he was not going to let her help him +with. And it made her sick at heart; for surely he knew what she was +driving at, driving at and edging away from, and if he could have +laughed at her fears wouldn't he have done so? She thought of all Deane +had done for her, borne for her. It would be bitter indeed if it were +really true she was bringing him any new trouble. But how <i>could</i> it be +true? It seemed too preposterous; surely she must be entirely on the +wrong track, so utterly wrong that he had no idea what it was she had in +mind.</p> + +<p>As they sat there for a moment in silence she was full of that feeling +of how much Deane had done for her, of a longing to do something for +him. Gently she said: "I must have made things very hard for you, Deane. +The town—your friends—your people, because of me you were against them +all. That does make things hard—to be apart from the people you are +with." She looked at him, her face softened with affectionate regret, +with a newly understanding gratitude. "I've not been very good for your +life, have I, Deane?" she said, more lightly, but her voice touched with +wistfulness.</p> + +<p>He looked at her, as if willing to meet that, as if frankly considering +it. "I can't say that you've been very good for my happiness, Ruth," he +laughed. And then he said simply, with a certain simple manliness, "But +I should say, Ruth, you have been very good for my life." His face +contracted a little, as if with pain. That passed, and he went on in +that simple way: "You see you made me think about things. It was because +of you—through you—I came to think about things. That's good for our +lives, isn't it?" That he said sternly, as if putting down something +that had risen in him. "Because of you I've questioned things, felt +protest. Why, Ruth," he laughed, "if it hadn't been for you I might have +taken things in the slick little way <i>they</i> do,"—he waved a hand off +toward the town. "So just see what I owe you!" he said, more lightly, as +if leaving the serious things behind. Then he began to speak of other +things.</p> + +<p>It left Ruth unsatisfied, troubled. And yet it seemed surely a woman +would be proud of a man who had been as fine in a thing, as big and true +and understanding, as Deane had been with her. Surely a woman would be +proud of a man who had so loyally, at such great cost, been a woman's +friend, who, because of friendship, because of fidelity to his own +feeling, would stand out that way against others. She tried to think +that, for she could not go back to what Deane had left behind. And yet +she could not forget that she had not met Amy.</p> + +<p>They walked toward home talking quietly about things that happened to +come up, more as if they were intimate friends who had constant meetings +than as if they had been years apart and were about to part for what +would probably be years more. But that consciousness was there +underneath; it ruled the silences, made their voices gentler. It was +very sweet to Ruth, just before again leaving all home things behind, to +be walking in the spring twilight with Deane along that road they knew +when they were boy and girl together.</p> + +<p>Twilight was deepening to evening when they came to the hill from which +they could see the town. They stood still looking off at it, speaking of +the beauty of the river, of the bridge, of the strangeness of the town +lights when there was still that faint light of day. And then they stood +still and said nothing, looking off at that town where they had been +brought up. It was beautiful from there, bent round a curve in the broad +river, built upon hills. She was leaving it now—again leaving it. She +had come home, and now she was going away again. And now she knew, in +spite of her anger of the day before, in spite of all there had been to +hurt her, in spite of all that had been denied her, that she was not +leaving it in bitterness. In one sense she had not had much from her +days back home; but in a real sense, she had had much. She looked at +that town now with a feeling of new affection. She believed she would +always have that feeling of affection for it. It stood to her for things +gone—dear things gone; for youth's gladness, for the love of father and +mother, for many happy things now left behind. But now that she had come +back, had gone through those hard days, she was curiously freed from +that town. She had this new affection for it in being freed of it. She +would always love it because of what it had meant in the past, but love +it as one does love a thing past. It seemed she had to come back to it +to let it lose its hold on her. It was of the past, and she knew now +that there was a future. What that future was to be she did not know, +but she would turn from this place of the past with a new sense of the +importance of the future. Standing there with Deane on the hilltop at +evening, looking off at that town where they had both been brought up, +she got a sense of the significance of the whole thing—the eleven years +away, and the three years preceding those years; a sense too of the +meaning of those days just past, those recent days at home when there +were times of being blinded by the newly seen significance of those +years of living. They had been hard days because things had been crowded +so close; it had come too fast; currents had met too violently and the +long way between cause and effect had been lighted by flashes too +blinding. It had been like a great storm in which elements rush +together. It had almost swept her down, but she had come through it and +this was what she had brought out of it: a sense of life as precious, as +worth anything one might have to pay for it, a stirring new sense of the +future as adventure. She had been thinking of her life as defined, and +now it seemed that the future was there, a beautiful untouched thing, a +thing that was left, hers to do what she could with. Somehow she had +broken through, broken through the things that had closed in around her. +A great new thing had happened to her: she was no longer afraid to face +things! In those last few days she had been tossed, now this way, now +that; it seemed she had rather been made a fool of, but things had got +through to her—she was awake, alive, unafraid. Something had been +liberated in her. She turned to Deane, who was looking with a somber +steadiness ahead at the town. She touched his arm and he looked at her, +amazed at her shining eyes, shining just as they used to when as a girl +she was setting out for a good time, for some mischief, excitement.</p> + +<p>"Well, anyway, Deane," she said in a voice that seemed to brush +everything else aside, "we're alive!"</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_TWENTY-EIGHT" id="CHAPTER_TWENTY-EIGHT"></a>CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT</h2> + + +<p>The summer had gone by and Ted Holland, who had gone West with Ruth in +May, was back in Freeport "breaking up the house." The place was offered +for sale; things had to be cleared out in one way or another. What none +of the children wanted was being sold to anybody who did happen to want +it; what nobody wanted was to be given away to such people as had to +take what they could get. And there was a great deal of it not even in +the class for giving away; "just truck" Ted kept callously calling it to +Harriett and their Cousin Flora. He whistled vigorously over some of the +"truck,"—a worn dog's collar, an old pair of the queer kind of house +shoes his mother wore, a spectacle case he had used to love to hear his +father snap shut, dusty, leaky sofa-pillows that had bristled with +newness in the "den" which was the delight of his sixteen-year-old +heart. He kept saying to Cousin Flora that there was no end to the +junk—old school readers, Ruth's party slippers. Just burn it all up, he +said, in a crisp voice of efficiency; what was it good for, anyhow? +Certainly it had taught him a lesson. He'd never keep anything.</p> + +<p>They had been at it for a week—sorting, destroying, disbursing, +scattering what a family's life through a generation had assembled, +breaking up "the Hollands." Ted, in his own room that morning, around +him the things he was going to put in his trunk for taking back West, +admitted to himself that it was gruesome business.</p> + +<p>Things were over; things at home were all over. This pulling to pieces +drove that home hard. Father and mother were gone and now "their stuff" +was being got out of the way. After this there would not even be a place +where the things they had used were. But he would be glad when they +could get through with it; he was finding that there was something +wrenching about things that were left, things that had been used and +that now there was no longer any use for. The sight of them stabbed as +no mere thinking about things could do. It was hard work throwing away +"truck" that something seemed to cling to. It was hard to really <i>get</i> +it, he was thinking; a family lived in a place—seemed really a part of +that place, an important part, perhaps; then things changed—people +died, moved away, and that family simply <i>wasn't</i> any more—and things +went on just about the same. Whistling, he put some shirts in his trunk, +trying to fix his mind on how many new shirts he needed.</p> + +<p>He was going back West—to live, to work. Not right where Ruth was, in +southwestern Colorado, but in the country a little to the north. He and +a fellow he had made friends with out there had bought an apple +orchard—the money he was to have from his father would go into it and +some of Ruth's money—she wanted him to invest some of hers with his. It +was that had made it possible for him to go in with this fellow. He was +glad he could do it. The West had "got" him. He believed he could make +things go.</p> + +<p>And he shouldn't have liked staying on in Freeport. Too many things were +different for him to want to stay there. And too many things hurt. Ruth +had come to mean too much to him to let him be happy with people who +felt as the people there did about her.</p> + +<p>He heard Harriett downstairs and went down to speak to her about the +price the stove man offered for the kitchen range. He remembered his +mother's delight in that range as new; somehow it made him hate selling +it for this pittance.</p> + +<p>Harriett thought, however, that they had better let it go. One couldn't +expect to get much for old things, and they didn't want it on their +hands.</p> + +<p>They stayed there awhile in the dining-room, considering the problem of +getting out of the way various other things there was no longer any use +for. Harriett was looking at the bay window. "If the Woodburys take the +house," she said, "they won't want these shades."</p> + +<p>"Oh, no," replied Ted, "they wouldn't be good enough for Mildred."</p> + +<p>The Woodburys had been there the night before to look at the house; they +thought of buying it and Mildred, just recently home from Europe with +Edith Blair—they had had a hard time getting home, because of the +war—had, according to his own way of putting it, made Ted tired. She +was so fretful with her father and her ideas of how the place could +perhaps be made presentable by being all done over had seemed to Ted +"pretty airy." He'd rather strangers had the house. He heard that +Mildred was going about a lot with Bob Gearing—one of the fellows in +town who had money.</p> + +<p>Ted pulled out his watch. "I want to get down and see Deane at his noon +office hours," he said.</p> + +<p>Harriett turned from the window. "What have you got to see him about?" +she asked sharply.</p> + +<p>"Why—just see him," he answered in surprise. "Why shouldn't I want to +see him? Haven't seen him since I got back. He'll want to hear about +Ruth."</p> + +<p>Harriett seemed about to speak, then looked at the door of the kitchen, +where a man was packing dishes. "I don't think I'd go to him for +<i>that</i>," she said in lowered voice.</p> + +<p>Ted looked at her in bewildered inquiry.</p> + +<p>"Mrs. Franklin has left him," she said shortly. She glanced at the +kitchen door, then added in a voice that dropped still lower: "And the +talk is that it's because of Ruth."</p> + +<p>For a minute Ted just stood staring at her. Then his face was aflame +with angry blood. "The <i>talk</i>!" he choked. "So that's the new 'talk'! +Well—"</p> + +<p>"S—h," warned Harriett, and stepped over and closed the kitchen door.</p> + +<p>"I'd like to tell some of them what I think of their 'talk,'" he blazed. +"Oh, I'd like to tell some of these <i>warts</i>—"</p> + +<p>"Ted!" she admonished, nodding her head toward the closed door.</p> + +<p>"What do I care? I'd like to have 'em hear me! I <i>want</i> them to know +that I—" He broke off and stood looking at her. "It doesn't seem to +worry you much!" he thrust at her.</p> + +<p>"It did, Ted," she said patiently. "I—it did." She looked so +distressed, so worn as she said it that it mollified him until she +added: "And still, you mustn't be too hard on people. A woman who has +put herself in that position—"</p> + +<p>"There you go! 'Put herself' in that position! Put herself!" he jeered +angrily, "in that position! As if the position was something Ruth got +into on purpose! And after all these years!—still talking about her +'position.' Let me tell you something! I'll tell you the woman that's +'put herself' in the position I'd think would make her hate herself! +That's Mrs. Williams! <i>She's</i> the one that's 'put herself'—"</p> + +<p>"Ted," she broke in sternly, "you must <i>not</i>!"</p> + +<p>But, "You make me <i>sick</i>!" he flung back at her and snatched hat and +coat from the hall rack and left the house with a violent bang of the +front door.</p> + +<p>He did not go down to Deane's office. He stalked ahead, trying to hold +down the bitter rage that was almost choking him. At one time when he +looked up he saw that he was passing the house Deane Franklin had built +before his marriage and noted that it was closed, all the shades were +clear down. Flower beds that had been laid out in the spring had been +let go. It looked all wrong to see a new place so deserted, so run down. +He remembered seeing Deane working out in that yard in the spring. He +hurried on by. His heart was hot with resentment—real hatred—of the +town through which he walked. He loathed the place! he told himself. +Picking on Ruth for <i>this</i>—ready to seize on her for anything that put +her in bad! He had been with Ruth for four months. He knew now just how +things were with her. It gave him some idea of what it was she had gone +through. It made him hate the town that had no feeling for her.</p> + +<p>He had walked out from town, not giving any thought to where he was +going, just walking because he had to be doing something. He was about +to cross a little bridge and stepped to the side of the road to let the +vehicle right behind him get ahead. He stood glaring down at the creek +and did not look up until he heard the wagon, just as it struck the +bridge, stop. Then he saw that it was a woman driving the market wagon +and recognized her as Mrs. Herman, who had been so good to Ruth.</p> + +<p>He stepped up eagerly to greet her; his face quickly cleared as he held +out his hand and he smiled at her with a sudden boyish warmth that made +her face—it was thin, tired—also light with pleasure. He kept shaking +her hand; it seemed wonderfully good of her to have come along just +then—she was something friendly in a hostile world. He went out +eagerly, gratefully, to the something friendly. He had had about all he +could stand of the other things, other feelings. He had told Ruth that +he would be sure to go and see Mrs. Herman. He got in with her now and +they talked of Ruth as they jogged through the country which he now +noticed was aflame with the red and gold of October.</p> + +<p>He found himself chatting along about Ruth just as if there was not this +other thing about her—the thing that made it impossible to speak of her +to almost anyone else in the town. It helped a lot to talk of Ruth that +way just then. He had seemed all clogged up with hatred and resentment, +fury at the town made him want to do something to somebody, and pity for +Ruth made him feel sick in his sense of helplessness. Now those ugly +things, those choking, blinding things fell away in his talking about +Ruth to this woman who wanted to hear about her because she cared for +her, who wanted to hear the simple little things about her that those +other people had no interest in. He found himself chatting along about +Ruth and Stuart—their house, their land, the field of peas into which +they turned their sheep, the potatoes grown on their place that summer. +He talked of artesian wells and irrigation, of riding western horses and +of camping in the mountains. Thinking of it afterwards he didn't know +when he had talked so much. And of course, as everyone was doing those +days, they talked about the war. She was fairly aflame with feeling +about it.</p> + +<p>He rode all the way home with Mrs. Herman, stayed for lunch and then +lingered about the place for an hour or more after that. He felt more +like himself than he had at any time since coming home; he could forget +a little about that desolate house that was no longer to be his home, +and the simple friendly interest of this woman who was Ruth's friend +helped to heal a very sore place in his heart.</p> + +<p>But afterwards, back there at home where it was as if he was stripping +dead years, what came over him was the feeling that things were not as +they had seemed out there with Mrs. Herman. She was like that, but in +being that way she was different from the whole world, at least from +practically the whole of the world that he knew. Working with old things +cast him back to it all. He brooded over it there in the desolate place +of things left behind; the resentful feeling toward the town, together +with that miserable, helpless feeling of passionate pity for Ruth +settled down upon him and he could not throw it off.</p> + +<p>He saw Deane that night; he saw him at the Club where he went to play a +game of pool, because he had to get away from the house for awhile. +Deane was sitting apart from the various groups, reading a magazine. Ted +stood in the door of that room looking at him a minute before Deane +looked up from the page. He saw that his face was thinner; it made him +look older; indeed he looked a good deal older than when, just the +spring before, Ted used to see him working around that place that was +all shut up now. And in that moment of scrutiny he saw something more +than just looking older. If you didn't know Deane you'd think—well, +you'd think you didn't want to know him. And he looked as if he didn't +care about your knowing him, either; he looked as if he'd thank people +to let him alone. Then he glanced up and saw Ted and it seemed there +were a few people he didn't want to have let him alone.</p> + +<p>But though he brightened on seeing him, looked like himself as he came +quickly up to shake hands, he was not like himself in the talk that +followed. It was as if he wanted to be, tried to be, but he was +constrained in asking about the West, "the folks." He seemed to want to +hear, yet he wasn't like himself, though Ted could scarcely have defined +the difference. He was short in what he said, cut things off sharply, +and in little pauses his face would quickly settle to that moroseness. +Ted told of his own plans and Deane was enthusiastic about that. Then he +fell silent a moment and after that said with intensity: "I wish <i>I</i> was +going to pull out from here!"</p> + +<p>"Well, why don't you?" laughed Ted, a little diffidently.</p> + +<p>"Haven't got the gumption, I guess," said Deane more lightly, and as he +smiled gave Ted the impression of trying to pull himself out from +something.</p> + +<p>Later in the evening a couple of men were talking of someone who was +ill. "They have Franklin, don't they?" was asked, and the answer came, +"Not any more. They've switched."</p> + +<p>Walking home, he thought it had been said as if there was more to it, as +if there had been previous talk about other people who had "switched." +Why, surely it couldn't be that because—for some reason or other—his +wife had left him people were taking it out on his practice? That seemed +not only too unfair but too preposterous. Deane was the best doctor in +town. What had his private affairs—no matter what the state of +them—got to do with him as a physician? Surely even <i>that</i> town +couldn't be as two-by-four as that!</p> + +<p>But it troubled him so persistently that next morning, when they were +alone together in the attic, he brought himself to broach it to +Harriett, asking, in the manner of one interested in a thing because of +its very absurdity, just what the talk was about Ruth and the Franklins.</p> + +<p>Harriett went on to give the town's gossip of how Deane had gone to +Indianapolis to see his wife, to try and make it right, but her people +were strongly of the feeling that she had been badly treated and it had +ended with her going away somewhere with her mother. Harriett sighed +heavily as she said she feared it was one of those things that would not +be made right.</p> + +<p>"I call it the limit!" cried Ted. "The woman must be a fool!"</p> + +<p>Harriett sadly shook her head. "You don't understand women, Ted," she +said.</p> + +<p>"And I don't want to—if <i>that's</i> what they're like!" he retorted hotly.</p> + +<p>"I'm afraid Deane didn't—manage very well," sighed Harriett.</p> + +<p>"Who wants to manage such a little fool!" snapped Ted.</p> + +<p>"Now, Ted—" she began, but "You make me <i>tired</i>, Harriett!" he broke in +passionately, and no more was said of it then.</p> + +<p>They worked in silence for awhile, Ted raising a great deal of dust in +the way he threw things about, Harriett looking through a box of old +books and papers, sighing often. Harriett sighed a great deal, it seemed +to Ted, and yet something about Harriett made him sorry for her. From +across the attic he looked at her, awkwardly sitting on the floor, +leaning against an old trunk. She looked tired and he thought with +compassion and remorse for the rough way he had spoken to her, of how +her baby was only a little more than two months old, that it must be +hard for her to be doing the things she was doing that week. Harriett +had grown stout; she had that settled look of many women in middle life; +she looked as if she couldn't change much—in any way. Well, Ted +considered, he guessed Harriett couldn't change much; she was just fixed +in the way she was and that was all there was to it. But she did not +look happy in those things she had settled into; she looked patient. She +seemed to think things couldn't be any different.</p> + +<p>She was turning the pages of an old album she had taken from the box of +her mother's things she was sorting. "Oh!" she exclaimed in a low voice, +bending over the pages. Her tone brought Ted over to her. "A picture of +Ruth as a baby," she murmured.</p> + +<p>He knelt down and looked over her shoulder into the dusty, old-fashioned +album at a picture of a baby a year or so old whose face was all screwed +up into a delighted laugh, tiny hands raised up and clenched in the +intensity of baby excitement, baby abandonment to the joyousness of +existence.</p> + +<p>"She <i>was</i> like that," murmured Harriett, a little tremulously. "She was +the <i>crowingest</i> baby!"</p> + +<p>They bent over it in silence for a minute. "Seems pretty tickled about +things, doesn't she?" said Ted with a queer little laugh. Harriett +sighed heavily, but a moment later a tear had fallen down to one of the +baby hands clenched in joyousness; the tear made him forgive the sigh, +and when he saw her carefully take the picture from the album and put it +in the pocket of her big apron, it was a lot easier, somehow, to go on +working with Harriett. It was even easy, after a little, to ask her what +he wanted to know about Deane's practice.</p> + +<p>It was true, she feared, that the talk had hurt him some. Mrs. Lawrence +had stopped having him. It seemed she had taken a great fancy to Amy +Franklin and felt keenly for her in this. She had made other people feel +that Deane had not been fair or kind and so there was some feeling +against him.</p> + +<p>"I suppose she can't claim," Ted cried hotly, "that it hurts him as a +doctor?"</p> + +<p>"No," Harriett began uncertainly, "except that a doctor—of course the +personal side of things—"</p> + +<p>"Now, there you <i>go</i>, Harriett," he interrupted furiously. "You make me +<i>tired</i>! If it wasn't that you've a sneaking feeling for Ruth you'd fall +for such a thing yourself!"</p> + +<p>"There's no use trying to talk to you, Ted," said Harriett patiently.</p> + +<p>Two days later the house was about dismantled. Ted was leaving the next +day for the West. He was so sick of the whole thing that it had gone a +little easier toward the last, blunted to everything but getting things +done. When Harriett, her eyes reddened, came downstairs with a <i>doll</i> +and wanted to know if he didn't think Ruth might like to have it, saying +that it was the doll Ruth had loved all through her little girl days, +and that she had just come upon it where her mother had carefully packed +it away, he snatched the doll from her and crammed it into the kitchen +stove and poked at it savagely to make it burn faster. Then he slammed +down the lid and looked ruthlessly up at Harriett with, "We've had about +enough of this sobbing around over <i>junk</i>!"</p> + +<p>Harriett wanted him to come over to her house that last night but he +said he'd either go home with one of the fellows or bring one of them +home with him. She did not press it, knowing how little her brother and +her husband liked each other.</p> + +<p>He went to the theatre that night with a couple of his friends. He was +glad to go, for it was as good a way as he could think of for getting +through the evening. They were a little early and he sat there watching +the people coming in; it was what would be called a representative +audience, the society of the town, the "best people" were there. They +were people Ted had known all his life; people who used to come to the +house, people his own family had been one with; friends of his mother +came in, associates of his father, old friends of Ruth. That gathering +of people represented the things in the town that he and his had been +allied with. He watched them, thinking of his own going away, of how it +would be an entirely new group of people he would come to know, would +become one with, thinking of the Hollands, how much they had been a part +of it all and how completely they were out of it now. As he saw all +these people, such pleasant, good-looking people, people he had known as +far back as he could remember, in whose homes he had had good times, +people his own people had been associated with always, a feeling of +really hating to leave the town, of its being hard to go away, crept up +in him. He talked along with the friend next him and watched people +taking their seats with a new feeling for them all; now that he was +actually leaving them he had a feeling of affection for the people with +whom he sat in the theatre that night. He had known them always; they +were "mixed up" with such a lot of old things.</p> + +<p>Some people came into one of the boxes during the first act and when the +lights went up for the intermission he saw that one of the women was +Stuart Williams' wife.</p> + +<p>He turned immediately to his friends and began a lively conversation +about the play, painfully wondering if the fellows he was with had seen +her too, if they were wondering whether he had seen her, whether he was +thinking about it. His feeling of gentle regret about leaving the town +was struck away. He was glad this was his last night. Always something +like this! It was forever coming up, making him feel uncomfortable, +different, making him wonder whether people were thinking about "it," +whether they were wondering whether he was thinking about it.</p> + +<p>Through the years he had grown used to seeing Mrs. Williams; he had +become blunted to it; sometimes he could see her without really being +conscious of "it," just because he was used to seeing her. But now that +he had just come home, had been with Ruth, there was an acute new shock +in seeing her.</p> + +<p>During the first intermission he never looked back after that first +glance; but when the house was darkened again it was not at the stage he +looked most. From his place in the dress circle across the house he +could look over at her, secured by the dim light could covertly watch +her. It was hard to keep his eyes from her. She sat well to the front of +the box; he could see every move she made, and every little thing about +her wretchedly fascinated him. She sat erect, hands loosely clasped in +her lap, seemingly absorbed in the play. Her shoulders seemed very white +above her gauzy black dress; in that light, at least, she was beautiful; +her neck was long and slim and her hair was coiled high on her head. He +saw a woman bend forward from the rear of the box and speak to her; it +brought her face into the light and he saw that it was Mrs. Blair—Edith +Lawrence, Ruth's old chum. He crumpled the program in his hand until his +friend looked at him in inquiry; then he smiled a little and carefully +smoothed the program out. But when, in the next intermission, he was +asked something about how he thought the play was going to turn out, he +was at a loss for a suggestion. He had not known what that act was +about. And he scarcely knew what the other acts were about. It was all +newly strange to him, newly sad. He had a new sense of it, and a new +sense of the pity of it, as he sat there that last night watching the +people who had been Ruth's and Stuart's friends; he thought of how they +had once been a part of all this; how, if things had gone differently it +was the thing they would still be a part of. There was something about +seeing Edith Lawrence there with Mrs. Williams made him so sorry for +Ruth that it was hard to keep himself pulled together. And that house, +this new sense of things, made him deeply sorry for Stuart Williams. He +knew that he missed all this, terribly missed the things this +represented. His constant, off-hand questionings about things—about the +growth of the town, whether so and so was making good, who was running +this or that, showed how he was missing the things he had turned away +from, of which he had once been so promising a part. Here tonight, among +the things they had left, something made him more sorry for Ruth and +Stuart than he had ever been before. And he kept thinking of the +strangeness of things; of how, if there had not been that one thing, so +many things would have been different. For their whole family, for the +Williams' family, yes, for Deane Franklin, too, it would have been all +different if Ruth had just fallen in love with some one else. Somehow +that seemed disloyalty to Ruth. He told himself she couldn't help it. He +guessed <i>she</i> got it the worst; everything would have been different, +easier, for her, certainly, if she, like the other girls of her crowd, +had fallen in love with one of the fellows she could have married. Then +she would be there with Edith Lawrence tonight; probably they would be +in a box together.</p> + +<p>It was hard, even when the lights were up, to keep his eyes from that +box where Ruth's old friend sat with Mrs. Williams. He would seem to be +looking the house over, and then for a minute his eyes would rest there +and it would be an effort to let go. Once he found Mrs. Williams looking +his way; he thought she saw him and was furious at himself for the quick +reddening. He could not tell whether she was looking at him or not. She +had that cool, composed manner she always had. Always when he met her so +directly that they had to speak she would seem quite unperturbed, as if +he stirred in her no more feeling than any other slight acquaintance +would stir. She was perfectly poised; it would not seem that he, what he +must suggest, had any power to disturb her.</p> + +<p>Looking across at her in the house darkened for the last act, covertly +watching her as she sat there in perfect command of herself, apparently +quite without disturbing feeling, he had a rough desire to know what she +actually <i>did</i> feel. A light from the stage surprised her face and he +saw that it showed it more tired than serene. She looked bored; and she +did not look content. Seeing her in that disclosing little shaft of +light—she had drawn back from it—the thought broke into the boy's +mind—What's <i>she</i> getting out of it!</p> + +<p>He had never really considered it purely in the light of what it must be +to her. He thought of her as a hard, revengeful woman, who, because hurt +herself, was going to harm to the full measure of her power. He despised +the pride, the poise, in which she cloaked what he thought of as her +hard, mean spirit; he thought people a pretty poor sort for admiring +that pride. But now, as he saw her face when she was not expecting it to +be clearly seen, he wondered just what she was actually like, just what +she really felt. It would seem that revenge must be appeased by now; or +at least that that one form of taking it—not getting a divorce—must +have lost its satisfaction. It would not seem a very satisfying thing to +fill one's life with. And what else was there! What <i>was</i> she getting +out of it! The question gave him a new interest in her.</p> + +<p>Caught in the crowd leaving the theatre he watched her again for a +moment, standing among the people who were waiting for motors and +carriages. The thin black scarf around her head blew back and Edith +Lawrence adjusted it for her. Her car came up and one of the men helped +her into it. There was a dispute; it seemed someone was meaning to go +with her and she was protesting that it was not necessary. Then they +were saying goodnight to her and she was going away alone. He watched +the car for a moment as it was halted by a carriage, then skirted it and +sharply turned the corner.</p> + +<p>He had intended to take one of his friends home with him, had thought it +would be too dismal alone there in the bare place that last night. But +now he did not want anyone with him, did not want to have to talk. +Though when he let himself in the front door he wished he was not alone. +It was pretty dismal to be coming into the abandoned house. He had a +flashing sense of how absolutely empty the place was—empty of the +people who had lived there, empty even of those people's things. There +was no one to call out to him. His step made a loud noise on the bare +stairs. He went back down stairs for a drink of water; he walked through +the living-room, the dining-room, the kitchen. There used to be people +there—things doing. Not any more. A bare house now—so empty that it +was <i>queer</i>. He hurried back upstairs. At the head of the stairs he +stood still and listened to the stillness from the bedrooms. Then he +shook himself angrily, stamped on to his own room, loudly banged the +door behind him and whistled as he hurriedly got ready for bed.</p> + +<p>He tried to go right to sleep, but could not get sleepy. He was thinking +of the house—of things that had gone on there. He thought of Ruth and +Stuart—of the difference they had made in that house. And he kept +thinking of Mrs. Williams, thinking in this new way of the difference it +must have meant to her, must have made in <i>her</i> house. He wondered about +the house she had just gone home to, wondered if she got lonely, +wondered about the feeling there might be beneath that manner of not +seeming to mind. He wondered just what it was made her keep from getting +a divorce. And suddenly the strangest thought shot into his mind—Had +anyone ever <i>asked</i> her to get a divorce!</p> + +<p>Then he laughed; he had to make himself laugh at the preposterousness of +his idea. The laugh made such a strange sound in the bare room that he +lay there very still for a moment. Then loudly he cleared his throat, as +if to show that he was not afraid of making another noise.</p> + +<p>But the house was so strangely still, empty in such a queer way; it was +too strange to let him go to sleep, and he lay there thinking of things +in a queer way. That preposterous idea kept coming back. Maybe nobody +ever <i>had</i> asked her to get the divorce; maybe it had just been taken +for granted that she would be hard, would make it as hard as she could. +He tried to keep away from that thought, something made him want to keep +away from it, but he could not banish that notion that there were people +who would be as decent as it was assumed they would be. He had noticed +that with the fellows. Finally he got a little sleepy and he had a +childish wish that he were not alone, that it could all be again as it +had been long ago when they were all there together—before Ruth went +away.</p> + +<p>He slept heavily toward morning and was at last awakened by the +persistent ringing of the doorbell. It was a special delivery letter +from Ruth. She said she hoped it would catch him before he started West. +She wanted him to stop in Denver and see if he could get one of those +"Jap" men of all work. She said: "Maggie Gordon's mother has 'heard' and +came and took her home. I turn to the Japanese—or Chinese, if it's a +Chinaman you can get to come,—as perhaps having less fear of moral +contamination. Do the best you can, Ted; I need someone badly."</p> + +<p>He was to leave at five o'clock that afternoon. The people whom he saw +thought he was feeling broken up about leaving; he had to hold back all +feeling, they thought; it was that made his face so set and queer and +his manner so abrupt and grim.</p> + +<p>He had lunch with Harriett. She too thought the breaking up, the going +away, had been almost too much for him. She hated to have him go, and +yet, for his sake, she would be glad to have it over.</p> + +<p>At two o'clock he had finished the things he had to do. He had promised +to look in on a few of his friends and say good-by. But when he waited +on the corner for the car that would take him down town he knew in his +heart that he was not going to take that car. He knew, though up to the +very last he tried not to know, that he was going to walk along that +street a block and a half farther and turn in at the house Stuart +Williams had built. He knew he was not going to leave Freeport without +doing that. And when he stood there and let the car go by he faced what +he had in his heart known he was going to do ever since reading Ruth's +letter, turned and started toward Mrs. Williams', walking very fast, as +if to get there before he could turn back. He fairly ran up the steps +and pushed the bell in great haste—having to get it pushed before he +could refuse to push it.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_TWENTY-NINE" id="CHAPTER_TWENTY-NINE"></a>CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE</h2> + + +<p>When he could not get away, after the maid had let him in and he had +given his name and was waiting in the formal little reception room, he +was not only more frightened than he had ever been in his life, but +frightened in a way he had never known anything about before. He sat far +forward on the stiff little French chair, fairly afraid to let his feet +press on the rug. He did not look around him; he did not believe he +would be able to move when he had to move; he knew he would not be able +to speak. He was appalled at the consciousness of what he had done, of +where he was. He would joyfully have given anything he had in the world +just to be out doors, just not to have been there at all. There was what +seemed a long wait and the only way he got through it was by telling +himself that Mrs. Williams would not see him. Of course she wouldn't see +him!</p> + +<p>There was a step on the stairs; he told himself that it was the maid, +coming to say Mrs. Williams could not see him. But when he knew there +was someone in the doorway he looked up and then, miraculously, he was +on his feet and standing there bowing to Mrs. Williams.</p> + +<p>He thought she looked startled upon actually seeing him, as if she had +not believed it was really he. There was a hesitating moment when she +stood in the doorway, a moment of looking a little as if trying to +overcome a feeling of being suddenly sick. Then she stepped forward and, +though pale, had her usual manner of complete self-possession. "You +wished to see me?" she asked in an even tone faintly tinged with polite +incredulity.</p> + +<p>"Yes," he said, and was so relieved at his voice sounding pretty much +all right that he drew a longer breath.</p> + +<p>She looked hesitatingly at a chair, then sat down; he resumed his seat +on the edge of the stiff little chair.</p> + +<p>She sat there waiting for him to speak; she still had that look of +polite incredulity. She sat erect, her hands loosely clasped; she +appeared perfectly poised, unperturbed, but when she made a movement for +her handkerchief he saw that her hand was shaking.</p> + +<p>"I know I've got my nerve to come here, Mrs. Williams," he blurted out.</p> + +<p>She smiled faintly, and he saw that as she did so her lip twitched.</p> + +<p>"I'm leaving for the West this afternoon. I'm going out there to +live—to work." That he had said quite easily. It was a little more +effort to add: "And I wanted to see you before I went."</p> + +<p>She simply sat there waiting, but there was still that little twitching +of her lip.</p> + +<p>"Mrs. Williams," he began quietly, "I don't know whether or not you know +that I've been with my sister Ruth this summer."</p> + +<p>When she heard that name spoken there was a barely perceptible drawing +back, as when something is flicked before one's eyes. Then her lips set +more firmly. Ted looked down and smoothed out the soft hat he was +holding, which he had clutched out of shape. Then he looked up and said, +voice low: "Ruth has come to mean a great deal to me, Mrs. Williams."</p> + +<p>And still she did not speak, but sat very straight and there were two +small red spots now in her pale cheeks.</p> + +<p>"And so," he murmured, after a moment, "that's why I came to you."</p> + +<p>"I think," she said in a low, incisive, but unsteady voice, "that I do +not quite follow."</p> + +<p>He looked at her in a very simple, earnest way. "You don't?" he asked. +There was a pause and then he said, "I saw you at the theatre last +night."</p> + +<p>"Indeed?" she murmured with a faint note of irony.</p> + +<p>But she did not deflect him from that simple earnestness. "And when I +went home I thought about you." He paused and then added, gently, "Most +all night, I thought about you."</p> + +<p>And still she only sat there looking at him and as if holding herself +very tight. She had tried to smile at that last and the little +disdainful smile had stiffened on her lips, making them look pulled out +of shape and set that way.</p> + +<p>"I said to myself," Ted went on, "'What's <i>she</i> getting out of it?'" His +voice came up on that; he said it rather roughly.</p> + +<p>Her face flamed. "If <i>this</i> is what you have come here to say—" she +began in a low angry voice. "If this is what you have intruded into my +house for—<i>you</i>—!" She made a movement as if about to rise.</p> + +<p>Ted threw out his hand with a little gesture of wanting to explain. +"Maybe I shouldn't have put it that way. I hope I didn't seem rude. I +only meant," he said gently, "that as I watched you you didn't look as +though you were happy."</p> + +<p>"And what if I'm not?" she cried, as if stung by that. "What if I'm not? +Does that give you any right to come here and tell me so?"</p> + +<p>He shook his head, as if troubled at again putting things badly. "I +really came," he said, in a low earnest voice, "because it seemed to me +it must be that you did not understand. It occurred to me that perhaps +no one had ever tried to make you understand. I came because it seemed +fairer—to everybody."</p> + +<p>Something new leaped into her eyes. "I presume it was suggested to you?" +she asked sharply.</p> + +<p>"No, Mrs. Williams, it was not suggested to me." As she continued to +look at him with suspicion he colored a little and said quietly: "You +will have to believe that, because I give you my word that it is true."</p> + +<p>She met the direct look of his clear hazel eyes and the suspicion died +out of her own. But new feeling quickly flamed up. "And hasn't it +occurred to you," she asked quiveringly, "that you are rather a—well, +to be very mild indeed, rather a presumptuous young man to come to me, +to come into my house, with <i>this</i>?" There was a big rush of feeling as +she choked: "Nobody's spoken to me like this in all these years!"</p> + +<p>"That's just the trouble," said Ted quickly, as if they were really +getting at it now. "That's just the trouble."</p> + +<p>"What do you mean?" she asked sharply.</p> + +<p>"Why—just that. Nobody has talked to you about it. Everybody has been +afraid to, and so you've just been let alone with it. Things get worse, +get all twisted up, get themselves into a tight twist that won't come +out when we're shut up with them." His face looked older as he said, "I +know that myself." He meditated upon that an instant; then, quickly +coming back to her, looked up and added gently: "So it seemed to me that +maybe you hadn't had a fair show just because everybody has been afraid +of you and let you alone."</p> + +<p>Her two trembling hands were pulling at her handkerchief. Her eyes were +very bright. "And you aren't afraid of me?" she asked with a little +laugh that seemed trying to be mocking but was right on the edge of +tears.</p> + +<p>He shook his head. "That is," he qualified it with a slight smile, "not +much—now." Then he said, as if dropping what they were talking about +and giving her a confidence: "While I was waiting for you I was so +scared that I wished I could drop dead."</p> + +<p>His smile in saying it was so boyish that she too dropped the manner of +what they were talking about and faintly smiled back at him. It seemed +to help her gain possession of herself and she returned to the other +with a crisp, "And so, as I understand it, you thought you'd just drop +in and set everything right?"</p> + +<p>He flushed and looked at her a little reproachfully. Then he said, +simply, "It seemed worth trying." He took a letter from his pocket. "I +got this from my sister this morning. The girl who has been working for +her has gone away. Her mother came and took her away. She had 'heard.' +They're always 'hearing.' This has happened time after time."</p> + +<p>"Now just let me understand it," she began in that faintly mocking way, +though her voice was shaking. "You propose that I do something to make +the—the servant problem easier for your sister. Is that it? I am to do +something, you haven't yet said what, to facilitate the domestic +arrangements of the woman who is living with my husband. That's it, +isn't it?" she asked with seeming concern.</p> + +<p>He reddened, but her scoffing seemed to give him courage, as if he had +something not to be scoffed at and could produce it. "It can be made to +sound ridiculous, can't it?" he concurred. "But—" he broke off and his +eyes went very serious. "You never knew Ruth very well, did you, Mrs. +Williams?" he asked quietly.</p> + +<p>The flush spread over her face. "We were not intimate friends," was her +dry answer, but in that voice not steady.</p> + +<p>He again colored, but that steady light was not driven from his eyes. +"Ruth's had a terrible time, Mrs. Williams," he said in a quiet voice of +strong feeling. "And if you had known her very well—knew just what it +is Ruth is like—it seems to me you would have to feel sorry for her."</p> + +<p>She seemed about to speak again in that mocking way, but looking at his +face—the fine seriousness, the tender concern—she kept silence.</p> + +<p>"And just what is it you propose that I do?" she asked after a moment, +as if trying to appear faintly amused.</p> + +<p>Very seriously he looked up at her. "It would help—even at this late +day—if you would get a divorce."</p> + +<p>She gasped; whether she had been prepared for it or not she was +manifestly unprepared for the simple way he said it. For a moment she +stared at him. Then she laughed. "You are a most amazing young man!" she +said quiveringly.</p> + +<p>As he did not speak, but only looked at her in that simple direct way, +she went on, with rising feeling, "You come here, to <i>me</i>, into my +house, proposing that—in order to make things easier for your sister in +living with my husband—I get a divorce!"</p> + +<p>He did not flinch. "It might do more than make things easier for my +sister," he said quietly.</p> + +<p>"What do you mean?" she demanded sharply.</p> + +<p>"It might make things easier for you."</p> + +<p>"And what do you mean by <i>that</i>?" she asked in that quick sharp way.</p> + +<p>"It might make things easier," he said, "just to feel that, even at this +late day, you've done the decent thing."</p> + +<p>She stood up. "Do you know, young man, that you've said things to me +that are outrageous to have said?" She was trembling so it seemed hard +to speak. "I've let you go on just because I was stupified by your +presumption—staggered, and rather amused at your childish audacity. But +you've gone a little too far! How <i>dare</i> you talk to me like this?" she +demanded with passion.</p> + +<p>He had moved toward the door. He looked at her, then looked away. His +control was all broken down now. "I'm sorry to have it end like this," +he muttered.</p> + +<p>She laughed a little, but she was shaken with the sobs she was plainly +making a big effort to hold back. "I'm so sorry," he said with such real +feeling that the tears brimmed from her eyes.</p> + +<p>He stood there awkwardly. Somehow her house seemed very lonely, +comfortless. And now that her composure was broken down, the way she +looked made him very sorry for her.</p> + +<p>"I don't want you to think," he said gently, "that I don't see how bad +it has been for you."</p> + +<p>She tried to laugh. "You don't think your sister was very—fair to me, +do you?" she asked chokingly, looking at him in a way more appealing +than aggressive.</p> + +<p>"I suppose not," he said. "No, I suppose not." He stood there +considering that. "But I guess," he went on diffidently, "I don't just +know myself—but it seems there come times when being fair gets sort +of—lost sight of."</p> + +<p>The tears were running down her face and she was not trying to check +them.</p> + +<p>He stood there another minute and then timidly held out his hand. +"Good-by, Mrs. Williams," he said gently.</p> + +<p>She took his hand with a queer, choking little laugh and held it very +tight for a minute, as if to steady herself.</p> + +<p>His own eyes had dimmed. Then he smiled—a smile that seemed to want to +go ahead and take any offence or hurt from what he was about to say. +"Maybe, Mrs. Williams, that you will come to feel like being fairer to +Ruth than Ruth was to you." His smile widened and he looked very boyish +as he finished, "And that would be <i>one</i> way of getting back, you know!"</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_THIRTY" id="CHAPTER_THIRTY"></a>CHAPTER THIRTY</h2> + + +<p>Freeport had a revival of interest in Mrs. Stuart Williams that fall. +They talked so much of her in the first years that discussion had pretty +well spent itself, and latterly it had only been rarely—to a stranger, +or when something came up to bring it to them freshly—that they did +more than occasionally repeat the expressions which that first feeling +had created. There was no new thing to say of their feeling about her. +No one had become intimate with her in those years, and that itself +somehow kept the picture. She was unique, and fascinated them in the way +she was one of them and yet apart. The mystery enveloping her made it +mean more than it could have meant through disclosures from her. It kept +it more poignant to speculate about a concealed suffering than it could +have continued to be through discussing confidences. But even +speculation as to what was beneath that unperturbed surface had rather +talked itself out, certainly had lost its keen edge of interest with the +passing of the years.</p> + +<p>That fall, however, they began to speak of a change in her. They said +first that she did not look well; then they began to talk about her +manner being different. She had always kept so calm, and now there were +times when she appeared nervous. She had had throughout a certain cold +serenity. Now she was sometimes irritable, disclosing a fretfulness +close under the untroubled surface. She looked older, they said; her +brows knit and there were lines about mouth and eyes. She seemed less +sure of herself. It made interest in her a fresh thing. They wondered if +she were not at last breaking, spoke with a careful show of regret, +concern, but whetted anticipations gave eagerness to voices of sympathy. +They wondered if Ruth Holland's having come home in the Spring, the +feeling of her being in the town, could have been too much of a strain, +preying upon the deserted wife and causing her later to break. There +were greedy wonderings as to whether she could possibly have seen Ruth +Holland, whether anything had happened that they did not know about.</p> + +<p>Late one December afternoon Mrs. Williams came home from a church bazaar +and curtly telephoned that she would not be back for the evening. She +spoke of a headache. And her head did ache. It ached, she bitterly +reflected, from being looked at, from knowing they were taking +observations for subsequent speculation. She had been in charge of a +table at the bazaar; a number of little things had gone wrong and she +got out of patience with one of her assistants. Other people got +irritated upon occasions of that sort—and that was all there was to it. +But she was not at liberty to show annoyance. She knew at the time that +they were whispering around about it, connecting it with the thing about +her that it seemed never really went out of their minds. The sense of +that had made her really angry and she had said sharp things she knew +she would be sorry for because they would just be turned over as part of +the thing that was everlastingly being turned over. She was not free; +they were always watching her; even after all these years always +thinking that everything had something to do with <i>that</i>.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Hughes, her housekeeper and cook, had followed her upstairs. At the +door of her room she turned impatiently. She had known by the way the +woman hung around downstairs that she wanted to say something to her and +she had petulantly not given her the chance. She did not want anything +said to her. She wanted to be let alone.</p> + +<p>"Well?" she inquired ungraciously.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Hughes was a small trim woman who had a look of modestly trying not +to be obtrusive about her many virtues. She had now that manner of one +who could be depended upon to assume responsibilities a less worthy +person would pass by.</p> + +<p>"I thought perhaps you should know, Mrs. Williams," she said with +faintly rebuking patience, "that Lily has gone to bed."</p> + +<p>"Oh, she's really sick then, is she?" asked Mrs. Williams, unbending a +little.</p> + +<p>"She says so," replied Mrs. Hughes.</p> + +<p>The tone caused her to look at the woman in surprise. "Well, I presume +she is then," she answered sharply.</p> + +<p>Lily was the second girl. Two servants were not needed for the actual +work as the household consisted only of Mrs. Williams and an aged aunt +who had lived with her since she had been alone, but the house itself +did not seem adapted to a one servant menage. There had been two before, +and in that, as in other things, she had gone right on in the same way. +Mrs. Hughes had been with her for several years but Lily had been there +only three or four months. She had been a strange addition to the +household; she laughed a good deal and tripped about at her work and +sang. But she had not sung so much of late and in the last few days had +plainly not been well.</p> + +<p>"If she's really sick, we'll have to have a doctor for her," Mrs. +Williams said, her hand on the knob she was about to turn.</p> + +<p>"She says she doesn't want a doctor," answered Mrs. Hughes, and again +her tone made Mrs. Williams look at her in impatient inquiry.</p> + +<p>"Well, I'll go up after while and see her myself," she said, opening the +door of her room. "Meanwhile you look after her, please. And oh, Mrs. +Hughes," she called back, "I shan't want any dinner. I had a heavy tea +at the bazaar," she added hurriedly, and as if resentful of having to +make any explanation.</p> + +<p>Alone, she took off her hat, pushed back her hair as if it oppressed +her, then sank into a low, luxurious chair and, eyes closed, pressed her +fingers over her temples as if to command quiet within. But after a +moment she impatiently got up and went over to her dressing-table and +sat looking into the mirror.</p> + +<p>The thing that had started her afternoon wrong was that a friend of her +girlhood, whom she had not seen for about thirteen years, had appeared +unexpectedly at her table, startling her and then laughing at her +confusion. She had not known that Stella Cutting was in town; to be +confronted that way with some one out of the past had been unnerving, +and then she had been furious with herself for not being able more +easily to regain composure. People around her had seen; later she saw +them looking at her strangely, covertly interested when she spoke in +that sharp way to Mildred Woodbury because she had tossed things about. +She had been disturbed, for one thing, at finding Mildred Woodbury at +her table.</p> + +<p>She was looking in the glass now because Stella Cutting had been one of +her bridesmaids. She was not able to put down a miserable desire to try +to see just what changes Stella had found.</p> + +<p>The dissatisfaction in her face deepened with her scrutiny of it. +Doubtless Stella was that very minute talking of how pitifully Marion +Averley had changed; how her color used to be clear and even, features +firmly molded, eyes bright. She herself remembered how she had looked +the night Stella Cutting was her bridesmaid. And now her color was muddy +and there were crow's feet about her eyes and deep lines from her +nostrils to the corners of her mouth.</p> + +<p>Stella Cutting looked older herself, very considerably older. But it was +a different way of looking older. She had grown stout and her face was +too full. But she did not look <i>pulled</i> at like this. As she talked of +her children hers was the face of a woman normally, contentedly growing +older. The woman sitting before the mirror bitterly turned away now from +that reflection of dissatisfaction with emptiness.</p> + +<p>It was that boy had done it! she thought with a new rise of resentment. +She had been able to go along very evenly until he impertinently came +into her house and rudely and stupidly broke through the things she had +carefully builded up around herself. Ever since he had plunged into +things even she herself had been careful not to break into, there had +been this inner turmoil that was giving her the look of an old woman. If +Stella Cutting had come just a few months earlier she could not have had +so much to say about how terribly Marion Averley had changed.</p> + +<p>Why was she so absurd as to let herself be upset? she angrily asked of +herself, beginning to unfasten the dress she was wearing that she might +get into something loose and try to relax. A hook caught in some lace +and in her vexation at not being able at once to unfasten it she gave it +a jerk that tore the lace. She bit her lips and could have cried. Those +were the things she did these days!—since that boy came and +blunderingly broke into guarded places.</p> + +<p>She sat in a low, deep chair before the open fire that burned in the +sitting-room adjoining her bedroom. It was the room that had been her +husband's. After he went away she took it for an upstairs +sitting-room—a part of her program of unconcern. As she sank down into +the gracious chair she told herself that she would rest for that +evening, not think about things. But not to think about things was +impossible that night. Stella Cutting had brought old things near and +made them newly real: her girlhood, her falling in love with Stuart +Williams, her wedding. Those reminiscences caught her and swept her on +to other things. She thought of her marriage; thought of things that, +ever since that boy came and made her know how insecure she really was +in the defences she had put up for herself, it had been a struggle to +keep away from.</p> + +<p>She had not done much thinking—probing—as to why it was her marriage +had failed. That was another one of the things her pride shut her out +from. When it failed she turned from it, clothed in pride, never naked +before the truth. There was something relaxing in just letting down the +barriers, barriers which had recently been so shaken that she was +fretted with trying to hold them up.</p> + +<p>She wondered why Stella Cutting's marriage had succeeded and hers had +failed. The old answer that her marriage had failed because her husband +was unfaithful to her—answer that used always to leave her newly +fortified, did not satisfy tonight. She pushed on through that. There +was a curious emotional satisfaction in thus disobeying herself by +rushing into the denied places of self-examination. She was stirred by +what she was doing.</p> + +<p>Her long holding back from this very thing was part of that same +instinct for restraint, what she had been pleased to think of as +fastidiousness, that had always held her back in love. It was alien to +her to let herself go; she had an instinct that held her away from +certain things—from the things themselves and from free thinking about +them. What she was doing now charged her with excitement.</p> + +<p>She was wondering about herself and the man who was still legally her +husband. She was thinking of how different they were in the things of +love; how he gave and wanted giving, while her instinct had always been +to hold herself a little apart. There was something that displeased her +in abandonment to feeling. She did not like herself when she fully gave. +There had been something in her, some holding back, that passionate love +outraged. Intense demonstration was indelicate to her; she was that way, +she had not been able to help it. She loved in what she thought of as +her own fastidious way. Passion violated something in her. Falling in +love had made her happy, but with her love had never been able to sweep +down the reserves, and so things which love should have made beautiful +had remained for her ugly facts of life that she had an instinct to hold +herself away from. What she felt she did not like herself for feeling. +And so their marriage had been less union than man[oe]uvering.</p> + +<p>She supposed she had, to be very blunt, starved Stuart's love. For he +wanted much love, a full and intense love life. He was passionate and +demonstrative. He gave and wanted, perhaps needed, much giving. He did +not understand that constant holding back. For him the beauty of love +was in the expression of it. She supposed, in this curious +self-indulgence of facing things tonight, that it had been he who was +normal; she had memories of many times when she had puzzled and +disappointed and hurt him.</p> + +<p>And so when Gertrude Freemont—an old school friend of hers, a +warm-natured Southern girl—came to visit her, Stuart turned away from +things grudging and often chill to Gertrude's playfulness and sunniness +and warmth. There was a curious shock to her tonight when she found +herself actually thinking that perhaps it was not much to be wondered +at. He was like that. She had not made him over to be like her.</p> + +<p>At first he had found Gertrude enlivening, and from a flirtation it went +to one of those passages of passion between a man and a woman, a thing +that flames up and then dies away, in a measure a matter of +circumstance. That was the way he tried to explain it to her when, just +as Gertrude was leaving, she came to know—even in this present +abandonment to thinking she went hurriedly past the shock of that +terrible sordid night of "finding out." Stuart had weakly and +appealingly said that he hadn't been able to help it, that he was +sorry—that it was all over.</p> + +<p>But with it their marriage was all over. She told him so then—told him +quite calmly, it would seem serenely; went on telling him so through +those first days of his unhappiness and persistence. She was always +quite unperturbed in telling him so. Politely, almost pleasantly, she +would tell him that she would never be his wife again.</p> + +<p>She never was. She had known very certainly from the first that she +never would be. Tonight she probed into that too—why she had been so +sure, why she had never wavered. It was a more inner thing than just +jealousy, resentment, hurt, revenge—though all those things were there +too. But those were things that might have broken down, and this was not +a thing that would break down. It was more particularly temperamental +than any of those things. It was that thing in her which had always held +her back from giving. She <i>had</i> given—and then her giving had been +outraged! Even now she burned in the thought of that. He had called out +a thing in her that she had all along—just because she was as she +was—resented having had called out. And then he had flouted it. Even +after all those years there was tonight that old prickling of her scalp +in thinking of it. The things she might have said—of its being her own +friend, in her own house—she did not much dwell upon, even to herself. +It was a more inner injury than that. Something in her that was +curiously against her had been called to life by him—and then he had +outraged what she had all along resented his finding in her. To give at +all had been so tremendous a thing—then to have it lightly held! It +outraged something that was simply outside the sphere of things +forgivable.</p> + +<p>And that outraged thing had its own satisfaction. What he had called to +life in her and then, as it seemed, left there unwanted, what he had +made in her that was not herself—then left her with, became something +else, something that made her life. From the first until now—or at any +rate until two months ago when that boy came and forced her to look at +herself—the thing in her that had been outraged became something that +took the place of love, that was as the other pole of love, something +that yielded a satisfaction of its own, a satisfaction intense as the +things of love are intense, but cold, ordered, certain. It was the power +to hurt; the power to bring pain by simply doing nothing. It was not +tempestuously done; it had none of the uncertainty of passionate +feeling; it had the satisfaction of power without effort, of disturbing +and remaining undisturbed, of hurting and giving no sign. It was the +revenge of what was deeply herself for calling her out from herself, for +not wanting what was found in her that was not herself.</p> + +<p>Stuart wanted her again; terribly wanted her, more than ever wanted her. +He loved and so could be hurt. He needed love and so could be given +pain. He thought she would give in; she knew that she would not. There +was power in that knowledge. And so she watched him suffer and herself +gained new poise. She did not consider how it was a sorry thing to fill +her life with. When, that night that was like being struck by lightning, +she came to know that the man to whom she had given—<i>she</i>—had turned +from her to another woman it was as if she was then and there sealed in. +She would never let herself leave again. Outraged pride blocked every +path out from self. She was shut in with her power to inflict pain. That +was all she had. And then that boy came and made her look at herself and +know that she was poor! That was why Stella Cutting could be talking of +how Marion Averley had "broken."</p> + +<p>They were talking about it, of course; about her and Ruth Holland and +her husband. <i>Her</i> husband, she thought insistently, but without getting +the accustomed satisfaction from the thought. Miserably she wondered +just what they were saying; she flinched in the thought of their talk +about her hurt, her loneliness. And then she felt a little as if she +could cry. She had wondered if she had anybody's real pity.</p> + +<p>That thought of their talking of it opened it to her, drew her to it. +She thought of Ruth Holland, gave up the worn pretense of disinterest +and let herself go in thinking of her.</p> + +<p>The first feeling she had had when she suspected that her husband was +drawn to that girl, Ruth Holland, was one of chagrin, a further hurt to +pride. For her power to give pain would be cut off. Once she saw the +girl's face light as Stuart went up to her for a dance. She knew then +that the man who had that girl's love could not be hurt in the way she +had been hurting. At first she was not so much jealous as strangely +desolated. And then as time went on and in those little ways that can +make things known to those made acute through unhappiness she came to +know that her husband cared for this girl and had her love, anger at +having been again stripped, again left there outraged, made her seize +upon the only power left, that more sordid, more commonplace kind of +power. She could no longer hurt by withholding herself; she could only +hurt by standing in the way. Rage at the humiliation of being reduced to +that fastened her to it with a hold not to be let go. All else was taken +from her and she was left with just that. Somehow she reduced herself to +it; she became of the quality of it.</p> + +<p>Pride, or rather self-valuation, incapacity for self-depreciation, had +never let her be honest with herself. As there were barriers shutting +the world out from her hurt and humiliation, so too were there barriers +shutting herself out. She did not acknowledge pain, loneliness, for that +meant admission that she could not have what she would have. She thought +of it as withdrawal, dignified withdrawal from one not fit. She had +always tried to feel that her only humiliation was in having given to +one not worth her—one lesser.</p> + +<p>But in this reckless and curiously exciting mood of honesty tonight she +got some idea of how great the real hurt had been. She knew now that +when she came to know—to feel in a way that was knowing—that her +husband loved Ruth Holland she suffered something much more than hurt to +pride. It was pride that would not let her look at herself and see how +she was hurt. And pride would not let her say one word, make one effort. +It was simply not in her to bring herself to <i>try</i> to have love given +her. And so she was left with the sordid satisfaction of the hurt she +dealt in just being. That became her reason for existence—the ugly +reason for her barren existence. She lived alone with it for so long +that she came to be of it. Her spirit seemed empty of all else. It had +kept her from everything; it had kept her from herself.</p> + +<p>But now tonight she could strangely get to herself, and now she knew +that far from Ruth Holland not mattering her whole being had from the +first been steeped in hatred of her. Her jealousy had been of a freezing +quality; it had even frozen her power to know about herself. When, after +one little thing and then another had let her know there was love +between her husband and this girl, to go to places where Ruth Holland +was would make her numb—that was the way it was with her. Once in going +somewhere—a part of that hideous doing things together which she kept +up because it was one way of showing she was there, would continue to be +there—she and Stuart drove past the Hollands', and this girl was out in +the yard, romping with her dog, tusseling with him like a little girl. +She looked up, flushed, tumbled, panting, saw them, tried to straighten +her hair, laughed in confusion and retreated. Stuart had raised his hat +to her, trying to look nothing more than discreetly amused. But a little +later after she—his wife—had been looking from the other window as if +not at all concerned she turned her head and saw his face in the mirror +on the opposite side of the carriage. He had forgotten her; she was +taking him unawares. Up to that time she had not been sure—at least not +sure of its meaning much. But when she saw that tender little smile +playing about his mouth she knew it was true that her power to hurt him +had reduced itself to being in his way. That she should be reduced to +that made her feeling about it as ugly as the thing itself.</p> + +<p>She did not sleep that night—after seeing Ruth Holland romping with her +dog. She had cried—and was furious that she should cry, that it could +make her cry. And furious at herself because of the feeling she had—a +strange stir of passion, a wave of that feeling which had seemed to her +unlovely even when it was desired and that it was unbearably humiliating +to feel unwanted. It was in this girl he wanted those things now; that +girl who could let herself go, whom life rioted in, who doubtless could +abandon herself to love as she could in romping with her dog. It +tortured her to think of the girl's flushed, glowing face—panting +there, hair tumbled. She cringed in the thought of how perhaps what she +had given was measured by what this girl could give.</p> + +<p>As time went on she knew that her husband was more happy than he had +ever been before—and increasingly unhappy. Her torture in the thought +of his happiness made her wrest the last drop of satisfaction she could +from the knowledge that she could continue the unhappiness. Sometimes he +would come home and she would know he had been with this girl, know it +as if he had shouted it at her—it fairly breathed from him. To feel +that happiness near would have maddened her had she not been able to +feel that her very being there dealt unhappiness. It was a wretched +thing to live with. Beauty had not come into her life; it would not come +where that was.</p> + +<p>And then she came to know that they were being cornered. +She—knowing—saw misery as well as love in the girl's eyes—a hunted +look. Her husband grew terribly nervous, irritable, like one trapped. It +was hurting his business; it was breaking down his health. Not until +afterward did she know that there was also a disease breaking down his +health. She did not know what difference it might have made had she +known that. By that time she had sunk pretty deep into lust for hurting, +into hating.</p> + +<p>She saw that this love was going to wreck his life. His happiness was +going to break him. If the world came to know it would be known that her +husband did not want her, that he wanted someone else. She smarted under +that—and so fortified herself the stronger in an appearance of +unconcern. She could better bear exposure of his uncaringness for her +than let him suspect that he could hurt her. And they would be hurt! If +it became known it would wreck life for them both. The town would know +then about Ruth Holland—that wanton who looked so spiritual! They would +know then what the girl they had made so much of really was! She would +not any longer have to listen to that talk of Ruth Holland as so sweet, +so fine!</p> + +<p>And so she waited; sure that it would come, would come without her +having given any sign, without her having been moved from her refuge of +unconcern—she who had given and not been wanted! That week before Edith +Lawrence's wedding she knew that it was coming, that something was +happening. Stuart looked like a creature driven into a corner. And he +looked sick; he seemed to have lost hold on himself. Once as she was +passing the door of his room it blew a little open and she saw him +sitting on the bed, face buried in his hands. After she passed the door +she halted—but went on. She heard him moving around in the night; once +she heard him groan. Instinctively she had sat up in bed, but had lain +down again—remembering, remembering that he was groaning because he did +not want her, because she was in the way of the woman he wanted.</p> + +<p>She saw in those days, that week before Edith Lawrence's wedding, that +he was trying to say something to her and could not, that he was +wretched in his fruitless attempts to say it. He would come where she +was, sit there white, miserable, dogged, then go away after having said +only some trivial thing. Once—she was always quite cool, unperturbed, +through those attempts of his—he had passionately cried out, "You're +pretty superior, aren't you, Marion? Pretty damned serene!" It was a cry +of desperation, a cry from unbearable pain, but she gave no sign. Like +steel round her heart was that feeling that he was paying now.</p> + +<p>After that outburst he did not try to talk to her; that was the last +night he was at home. He came home at noon next day and said he was +going away on a business trip. She heard him packing in his room. She +knew—felt sure—that it was something more than a business trip. She +felt sure that he was leaving. And then she wanted to go to him and say +something, whether reproaches or entreaties she did not know; listened +to him moving around in there, wanted to go and say something and could +not; could only sit there listening, hearing every smallest sound. She +heard him speak a surly word to a servant in the hall. He never spoke +that way to the servants. When he shut the front door she knew that he +would not open it again. She got to the window and saw him before he +passed from sight—carrying his bag, head bent, stooped. He was broken, +and he was going away. She knew it.</p> + +<p>Even tonight she could not let herself think much about that afternoon, +the portentous emptiness, the strangeness of the house; going into his +room to see what he had taken, in there being tied up as with panic, +sinking down on his bed and unable to move for a long time.</p> + +<p>She had forced herself to go to Edith Lawrence's wedding. And she knew +by Ruth Holland's face that it was true something was happening, knew it +by the girl's face as she walked down the aisle after attending her +friend at the altar, knew it by her much laughter, by what was not in +the laughter. Once during the evening she saw Edith put her arm around +Ruth Holland and at the girl's face then she knew with certainty, did +not need the letter that came from Stuart next day. She had the picture +of Ruth Holland now as she was that last night, in that filmy dress of +pale yellow that made her look so delicate. She was helped through that +evening by the thought that if she was going to be publicly humiliated +Ruth Holland would be publicly disgraced. She would have heard the last +about that fine, delicate quality—about sweetness and luminousness! +They would know, finally, that she was not those things she looked.</p> + +<p>And after it happened the fact that they did know it helped her to go +on. She went right on, almost as if nothing had happened. She would not +let herself go away because then they would say she went away because +she could not bear it, because she did not want them to see. She must +stay and show them that there was nothing to see. Forcing herself to do +that so occupied her as to help her with things within. She could not +let herself feel for feeling would show on the surface. Even before +herself she had kept up that manner of unconcern and had come to be +influenced by her own front.</p> + +<p>And so the years went by and her life had been made by that going on in +apparent unconcern, and by that inner feeling that she was hurting them +by just being in life. It was not a lovely reason for being in life; she +had not known what a poor thing it was until that boy came and forced +her to look at herself and consider how little she had.</p> + +<p>She rose and stood looking into the mirror above the fireplace. It +seemed to her that she could tell by her face that the desire to do harm +had been her reason for living.</p> + +<p>Several hours had gone by while she sat there given over to old things. +She wished she had a book, something absorbing, something to take her +away from that other thinking that was lying in wait for her—those +thoughts about what there was for her to live with in the years still to +be lived. The magazine she had picked up could not get any hold on her; +that was why, though she had made it clear she did not want to be +disturbed, there was relief in her voice as she answered the tap at her +door.</p> + +<p>She frowned a little though at sight of Mrs. Hughes standing there +deferential but visibly excited. She had that look of trying not to +intrude her worthiness as she said: "Excuse me, Mrs. Williams, for +disturbing you, but there is something I thought you ought to know." In +answer to the not very cordial look of inquiry she went on, "It's about +Lily; she says she won't have a doctor, but—she needs one."</p> + +<p>There was something in her manner, something excited and yet grim, that +Mrs. Williams did not understand. But then she did not much trouble +herself to understand Mrs. Hughes, she was always appearing to see some +hidden significance in things. "I'll go up and see her," she said.</p> + +<p>After the visit she came down to telephone for her doctor. She saw that +the girl was really ill, and she had concluded from her strange manner +that she was feverish. Lily protested that she wanted to be let alone, +that she would be all right in a day or two; but she looked too ill for +those protestations to be respected.</p> + +<p>She telephoned for her own doctor only to learn that he was out of town. +Upon calling another physician's house she was told that he had the grip +and could not go out. She then sat for some minutes in front of the +'phone before she looked up a number in the book and called Dr. Deane +Franklin. When she rose after doing that she felt as if her knees were +likely to give way. The thought of his coming into her house, coming +just when she had been living through old things, was unnerving. But she +was really worried about the girl and knew no one else to call whom she +could trust.</p> + +<p>When he came she was grateful to him for his professional manner which +seemed to take no account of personal things, to have no personal +memory. "I'd like to see you when you come down, doctor," she said as +Mrs. Hughes was taking him to the maid's room on the third floor.</p> + +<p>She was waiting for him at the door of her upstairs sitting-room. He +stepped in and then stood hesitatingly there. He too had a queer grim +look, she thought.</p> + +<p>"And what is the trouble?" she asked.</p> + +<p>He gave her a strange sideways glance and snapped shut a pocket of the +bag he carried. Then he said, brusquely: "It's a miscarriage."</p> + +<p>She felt the blood surging into her face. She had stepped a little back +from him. "Why—I don't see how that's possible," she faltered.</p> + +<p>He smiled a little and she had a feeling that he took a satisfaction in +saying to her, grimly, "Oh, it's possible, all right."</p> + +<p>She colored anew. She resented his manner and that made her collect +herself and ask with dignity what was the best thing to do.</p> + +<p>"I presume we'd better take her to the hospital," he said in that short +way. "She's been—horribly treated. She's going to need attention—and +doubtless it would be disagreeable to have her here."</p> + +<p>That too she suspected him of finding a satisfaction in saying. She made +a curt inquiry as to whether the girl would be all right there for the +night. He said yes and left saying he would be back in the morning.</p> + +<p>She escaped Mrs. Hughes—whom now she understood. She did not go up +again to see Lily; she could not do that then. She was angry with +herself for being unnerved. She told herself that at any other time she +would have been able to deal sensibly with such a situation. But coming +just when things were all opened up like that—old feeling fresh—and +coming from Deane Franklin! She would be quite impersonal, rational, in +the morning. But for a long time she could not go to sleep. Something +had intruded into her guarded places. And the things of life from which +she had withdrawn were here—in her house. It affected her physically, +almost made her sick—this proximity of the things she had shut out of +her life. It was invasion.</p> + +<p>And she thought about Lily. She tried not to, but could not help +wondering about her. She wondered how this had happened—what the girl +was feeling. Was there someone she loved? She lay there thinking of how, +just recently, this girl who lived in her house had been going through +those things. It made her know that the things of life were all the time +around one. There was something singularly disturbing in the thought.</p> + +<p>Next morning she went up to see Lily. She told herself it was only +common decency to do that, her responsibility to a person in her house.</p> + +<p>As she opened the door Lily turned her head and looked at her. When she +saw who it was her eyes went sullen, defiant. But pain was in them too, +and with all the rest something wistful. As she looked at the girl lying +there—in trouble, in pain, she could see Lily, just a little while +before, laughing and singing at her work. Something she had not felt in +years, that she had felt but little in her whole life, stirred in her +heart.</p> + +<p>"Well, Lily," she said, uncertainly but not unkindly.</p> + +<p>The girl's eyes were down, her face turned a little away. But she could +see that her chin was quivering.</p> + +<p>"I'm sorry you are ill," Mrs. Williams murmured, and then gave a little +start at the sound of her own voice.</p> + +<p>The girl turned her head and stole a look. A moment later there were +tears on her lashes.</p> + +<p>"We'll have to get you well," said Mrs. Williams in a practical, +cheerful voice. And then she abruptly left the room. Her heart was +beating too fast.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Hughes lay in wait for her as she came downstairs. "May I speak to +you, Mrs. Williams?" she asked in a manner at once deferential and firm.</p> + +<p>"She's to be taken away, isn't she?" she inquired in a hard voice.</p> + +<p>For a moment Mrs. Williams did not speak. She looked at the woman before +her, all tightened up with outraged virtue. And then she heard herself +saying: "No, I think it will be better for Lily to remain at home." +After she had heard herself say it she had that feeling that her knees +were about to give way.</p> + +<p>For an instant Mrs. Hughes' lips shut tight. Then, "Do you know what's +the matter with her?" she demanded in that sharp, hard voice.</p> + +<p>"Yes," replied Mrs. Williams, "I know."</p> + +<p>"And you're going to keep such a person in your house?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"Then you can't expect <i>me</i> to stay in your house!" flashed the woman +who was outraged.</p> + +<p>"As you like, Mrs. Hughes," was the answer.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Hughes moved a little away, plainly discomfited.</p> + +<p>"I should be sorry to have you go," Mrs. Williams continued courteously, +"but of course that is for you to decide."</p> + +<p>"I'm a respectable woman," she muttered. "You can't expect <i>me</i> to wait +on a person like that!"</p> + +<p>"You needn't wait on her, then," was the reply. "Until the nurse comes, +I will wait on her myself." And again she turned abruptly away.</p> + +<p>Once more her heart was beating too fast.</p> + +<p>When the doctor came and began about the arrangement he had been able to +make at the hospital, she quietly told him that, if it would be as well, +she would rather keep Lily at home. His startled look made her flush. +His manner with her was less brusque as he said good-by. She smiled a +little over that last puzzled glance he stole at her.</p> + +<p>Then she went back to Lily's room. She straightened her bed for her, +telling her that in a little while the nurse would be there to make her +really comfortable. She bathed the girl's hot face and hands. She got +her a cold drink. As she put her hand behind her head to raise her a +little for that, the girl murmured brokenly: "You're so kind!"</p> + +<p>She went out and sat in an adjoining room, to be within call. And as she +sat there a feeling of strange peace stole through her. It was as if she +had been set free, as if something that had chained her for years had +fallen away. When in her talk with Mrs. Hughes she became that other +woman, the woman on the other side, on compassion's side, something just +fell from her. When that poor girl murmured, "You're so kind!" she +suddenly knew that she must have something more from life than that +satisfaction of harming those who had hurt her. When she washed the +girl's face she knew what she could not unknow. She had served. She +could not find the old satisfaction in working harm. The soft, warm +thing that filled her heart with that cry, "You're so kind!" had killed +forever the old cruel satisfaction in being in the way.</p> + +<p>She felt very quiet in this wonderful new liberation. She began shaping +life as something more than a standing in the way of others. It made +life seem a different thing just to think of it as something other than +that. And suddenly she knew that she did not hate Ruth Holland any more; +that she did not even hate the man who had been her husband. Hating had +worn itself out; it fell from her, a thing outlived. It was wonderful to +have it gone. For a long time she sat there very quiet in the wonder of +that peace of knowing that she was free—freed of the long hideous +servitude of hating, freed of wanting to harm. It made life new and +sweet. She wanted something from life. She must have more of that gentle +sweetness that warmed her heart when Lily murmured, "You're so kind!"</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_THIRTY-ONE" id="CHAPTER_THIRTY-ONE"></a>CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE</h2> + + +<p>Ruth Holland stood at the window looking out at Colorado in January. The +wide valley was buried under snow. It was late afternoon and the sun was +passing behind the western mountains. From the window where she stood +she could not see the western mountains, but the sunset colors had been +thrown over to the eastern range, some fifty miles away. When she first +came there, five years before, it had seemed strange to find the east +lighted at sunset, more luminous than the west. The eastern range was a +mighty one. Now there was snow down to its feet and there was no warmth +in the colors that lighted it. They only seemed to reveal that the +mountains were frozen. It would not have seemed possible for red—those +mountains had been named Sangre de Cristo because they went red at +sunset—to be so dazzling cold. The lighted snow brought out the contour +of the mountains. They were wonderfully beautiful so, but the woman +looking out at them was not thinking of them as beautiful. She was +thinking of them as monuments of coldness. To her it was as if they had +locked that valley in to merciless cold.</p> + +<p>But it was not the sunset colors that really marked coming night for +her. All through that winter something else had marked night, something +she tried to keep from looking out at, but which she was not able to +hold away from. She was looking at it now, looking off into the +adjoining field where the sheep were huddling for the night.</p> + +<p>They had begun their huddling some time before. With the first dimming +of the light, the first wave of new cold that meant coming night, a few +of them would get together; others would gather around them, then more +and more. Now there was the struggle not to be left on the outside. The +outer ones were pushing toward the center; they knew by other nights +that this night would be frigid, that they could only keep alive by that +warmth they could get from one another. Yet there were always some that +must make that outer rim of the big circle, must be left there to the +unbroken cold. She watched them; it had become a terrible thing for her +to see, but she could not keep from looking. Many of those unprotected +sheep had died that bitter winter; others would die before spring came. +It was a cruel country, a country of cold.</p> + +<p>That was their flock of sheep. They had been driven there the summer +before from the lambing grounds in the mountains. The day they got there +the lambs were exhausted from the long journey. One of them had dropped +before the house and died right there beside the field it had come the +long way to gain. Her efforts to revive it were useless; the little +thing was worn out. They were all of them close to worn out. And now +they had the winter to fight; night after night she watched them +huddling there, the big pitiful mass of them out in the bitter cold. It +was the way of the country to leave them so; the only way, the sheep men +said, that sheep could be made to pay. They estimated that the loss by +freezing was small compared with what would be the cost of shelter for +droves that ran into thousands, into tens of thousands.</p> + +<p>Ruth would wake at night and think of them huddled out there, would lie +thinking of them as she drew the covers around herself, think of them +when the wind drove against the house, and often, as tonight, when it +was every instant growing colder, she wondered if what was before them +filled them with terror. Sometimes she could not keep away and went +nearer and looked at them; they were unbearably pitiful to her, their +necks wrapped around each other's necks, trying to get from one another +the only warmth there was for them, so helpless, so patient, they, +play-loving creatures, gentle things, bearing these lives that men might +finally use them for clothing and for food. There were times when the +pathos of them was a thing she could not bear. They seemed to represent +the whole cruelty of life, made real to her the terrible suffering of +the world that winter of the war.</p> + +<p>She watched the sheep until the quick dusk had fallen, and then stood +thinking of them huddled over there in the frigid darkness. When she +found that her face was wet and realized that she had sobbed aloud she +turned from the window to the stove, drew a chair up close to it and put +her feet on the fender. It was so bitterly cold that the room was warm +only near the stove; over there by the window she had grown chilled. And +as the heat enveloped her ankles she thought of the legs of those poor +frightened things that had been the last comers and not able to get to +the inside of the circle—that living outer rim which was left all +exposed to the frigid January night in that high mountain valley. She +could feel the cold cutting against their legs, could see their +trembling and their vain, frantic efforts to get within the solidly +packed mass. She was crying, and she said to herself, her fingers +clenched down into her palm, "<i>Stop that! Stop that!</i>" She did not know +what might not happen to her if she were unable to stop such thinking as +that.</p> + +<p>To try and force herself away from it she got up and lighted a lamp. She +looked about on her desk for a magazine she had put there. She would +make herself read something while waiting for Stuart. He had had to +drive into town. He would be almost frozen when he got back from that +two-mile drive. She paused in her search for the magazine and went into +the kitchen to make sure that the fire there was going well. Then she +put some potatoes in to bake; baked potatoes were hot things—they would +be good after that drive. The heat from the oven poured out to her, and +it swept her again to the thought of the living huddled mass out there +in the frigid darkness. The wind beat against the house; it was beating +against them. She bit her lip hard and again she said to +herself—"<i>No!</i>"</p> + +<p>She made some other preparations for supper. She had those things to do +herself now. The Chinaman Ted had brought home with him in the fall had +left in December. He had appeared before her ready for leaving and had +calmly said, "Cold here, missis. And too all alone. Me go where more +others are." She had said nothing at all in reply to him, in protest, +too held by what he had said—"Cold here, and too all alone!" She had +stood at the window and watched him going up the road toward town, going +where "more others" were.</p> + +<p>She went back now into their main room; it was both living and dining +room these days, for since the extreme cold had fastened on them they +had abandoned their two little upstairs bedrooms and taken for sleeping +the room which in summer was used as living-room. That could be heated a +little by leaving the door open, and it had seemed out of the question +to go to bed in those upstairs rooms where the cold had been left +untouched. Since they had been doing their own work all extra things had +had to be cut down; an upstairs fire would mean more work, and it seemed +there was already more work than Ruth could get done and have time for +anything else. She was tired all the time these days; she would think +during the day of the good time she was going to have with a book that +evening, and then night would find her so tired she could scarcely keep +awake, and she would huddle there before the fire, dreading the cold of +the night.</p> + +<p>Life had reduced itself to necessities; things had to be ruthlessly +rearranged for meeting conditions. She loved her own room to sleep in. +She needed it. But she had given that up because it was too cold, +because she could not do any more work. There was something that made +her cringe in the thought of their sharing a bed, not because of love of +being together, but because of the necessity of fighting the cold. And +it made crowded quarters downstairs. She began "picking up" the room +now. Things were piled up on the sewing machine, on the reading table. +It seemed impossible to keep them put away. She tried hard to keep the +room an attractive place to sit in, but it was in disorder, uninviting, +most of the time. Often, after doing the kitchen work, she would clean +it all up with the idea of making it attractive to sit in, then would be +too utterly tired to enjoy it. She lagged in putting things away now; +she would stand holding them helplessly, not knowing where to put them; +she got sick of it and just threw some of them into a closet, anything +to get them out of sight for the time. She knew that was not the way to +do, that it would make it harder another time. She felt like crying. It +seemed things had got ahead of her, that she was swamped by them, and +somehow she did not have the spirit, or the strength, to get a new +start, make a new plan.</p> + +<p>Finally she had the room looking a little less slovenly, not so sordid, +and was about to sit down with her magazine. But the lamp was +flickering, and then she remembered that she had not filled it that day. +She picked the lamp up and slowly, drooping, started for the kitchen. +She gave the can an angry little tilt and the oil overflowed on the +table. She was biting her lips as she went about looking for a cloth to +wipe it up. She heard sleigh bells and knew Stuart was coming. Hastily +she washed the oil from her hands, she always hated herself when her +hands smelled of kerosene, and began getting things ready for supper.</p> + +<p>Stuart came hurrying and stamping in after putting the horse away, +quickly banging the door shut and standing there pounding his feet and +rubbing his stiffened hands.</p> + +<p>"Fearfully cold?" she inquired, hurriedly getting out the box of codfish +she was going to cream for their supper.</p> + +<p>"Cold!" he scoffed, as if in scorn for the inadequacy of the word. After +a minute he came up to the stove. "I was afraid," he said, holding his +right hand in his left, "that it had got these fingers."</p> + +<p>He took off his big bear-skin coat. A package he had taken from the +pocket of it he threw over on the kitchen table. "Don't throw the bacon +there, Stuart," hurriedly advised Ruth, busy with the cream sauce she +was making, "I've just spilled oil there."</p> + +<p>"Heavens!" he said irritably, shoving the bacon farther back.</p> + +<p>His tone made Ruth's hand tremble. "If you think I'm so careless you +might fill the lamps yourself," she said tremulously.</p> + +<p>"Who said you were careless?" he muttered. He went in the other room and +after a minute called out, as one trying to be pleasant, "What we going +to have for supper?"</p> + +<p>"Creamed codfish," she told him.</p> + +<p>"For a little change!" he said, under his breath.</p> + +<p>"I don't think that's very kind, Stuart," she called back, quiveringly. +"It's not so simple a matter to have 'changes' here now."</p> + +<p>"Oh, I know it," he said, wearily.</p> + +<p>She brought the things in and they began the meal in silence. She had +not taken time to lay the table properly. Things were not so placed as +to make them attractive. Stuart tasted a piece of bread and then hastily +put it aside, not concealing a grimace of distaste. "What's the matter?" +Ruth asked sharply.</p> + +<p>"I don't seem to care much for bread and oil," he said in a voice it was +plainly an effort to make light.</p> + +<p>Ruth's eyes filled. She picked up the plate of bread and took it to the +kitchen. Stuart rose and went after her. "I'll get some more bread, +Ruth," he said kindly. "Guess you're tired tonight, aren't you?"</p> + +<p>She turned away from him and took a drink of water. Then she made a big +effort for control and went to the dining-room. She asked some questions +about town and they talked in a perfunctory way until supper was over.</p> + +<p>He had brought papers and a couple of letters from town. Ruth was out in +the kitchen doing the dishes when she heard a queer exclamation from +him. "What is it, Stuart?" it made her ask quickly, going to the +dining-room door with the cup she was wiping.</p> + +<p>He gave her a strange look; and then suddenly he laughed. "What <i>is</i> +it?" the laugh made her repeat in quick, sharp voice.</p> + +<p>"Well, you'll never guess!" he said.</p> + +<p>She frowned and stood there waiting.</p> + +<p>"Marion's going to get a divorce." He looked at her as if he did not +believe what he said.</p> + +<p>Ruth put her hand out to the casement of the door. "She <i>is</i>?" she said +dully.</p> + +<p>He held up a legal looking paper. "Official notice," he said. Then +suddenly he threw the thing over on the table and with a short hard +laugh pulled his chair around to the fire. Ruth stood a moment looking +at it lying there. Then she turned and went back to the dishes. When she +returned to the living-room the paper still lay there on the table. She +had some darning to do and she got out her things and sat down, chair +turned to one side, not facing the legal looking document.</p> + +<p>After a little while Stuart, who had been figuring in a memorandum book, +yawned and said he guessed he'd go to bed. He shook down the fire, then +got up and picked up the paper from the table, folded it and took it +over to the big desk in the corner where his business things were. +"Well, Ruth," he remarked, "this would have meant a good deal to us ten +or twelve years ago, wouldn't it?"</p> + +<p>She nodded, her head bent over the sock she was darning.</p> + +<p>"Oh, well," he said, after a pause, "maybe it will help some even yet."</p> + +<p>She made no answer.</p> + +<p>"I suppose Marion wants to get married," he went on meditatively, after +a moment adding bitterly, "Her wanting it is the only thing that would +ever make her do it."</p> + +<p>He went down cellar for coal, and after he had filled the stove began +undressing before it. When ready for bed he sat there a little before +the fire, as if taking in all the heat he could for the night. Ruth had +finished her darning and was putting the things away. "Coming to bed?" +he asked of her.</p> + +<p>"Not right away," she said, her voice restrained.</p> + +<p>"Better not try to sit up late, Ruth," he said kindly. "You need plenty +of sleep. I notice you're often pretty tired at night."</p> + +<p>She did not reply, putting things in the machine drawer. Her back was to +him. "Well, Ruth," he said, in a voice genial but slightly ironic, "we +can get married now."</p> + +<p>She went on doing things and still did not speak.</p> + +<p>"Better late than never," he said pleasantly, yawning.</p> + +<p>He stood up, ready for going into the bedroom, but still hating to leave +the fire, standing there with his back to it. "When shall we get +married, Ruth?" he went on, in a slightly amused voice.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I don't know, Stuart," she replied shortly from the kitchen.</p> + +<p>"Have to plan it out," he said sleepily, yawning once more. Then he +laughed, as if the idea more and more amused him. After that he +murmured, in the voice of one mildly curious about a thing, "I wonder if +Marion <i>is</i> going to get married?"</p> + +<p>Ruth wanted to take a bath before she went to bed. Taking a bath was no +easy matter under their circumstances. It was so much work and usually +she was so tired that she would sometimes let it go longer than she +would have supposed she would ever let bathing go. She was determined +not to let it go tonight. She had the water on heating; she went down +for the tub, went upstairs into her frigid room for the fresh things to +put on in the morning. The room was so cold that there was a sort of +horror about it. She went over to the window; the snow made the valley +bright. Dimly she could see a massed thing—the huddled sheep. With a +hard little laugh for the sob that shook her she hurried out of the +room.</p> + +<p>She took her bath before the fire in the living-room. Stuart had piled +on one chair the clothes that he had taken off and would put on in the +morning. She placed on another the things for herself. And suddenly she +looked at those two chairs and the thing that she had been trying not to +think about—that now they two could be married—seemed to sear her +whole soul with mockery. She was rubbing some lotion on her red, chapped +hands, hands defaced by work and cold. She had a picture of her hands as +they used to be—back there in those years when to have been free to +marry Stuart would have made life radiant. She sat a long time before +the fire, not wanting to go to bed. She particularly wanted to go to bed +alone that night. There seemed something shameful in that night sharing +a bed as a matter of expediency. Stuart was snoring a little. She sat +there, her face buried in her hands. The wind was beating against the +house. It was beating against the sheep out there, too—it had a clean +sweep against that outer rim of living things. She cried for a little +while; and then, so utterly tired that it did not matter much, she went +in the other room and crept into bed.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_THIRTY-TWO" id="CHAPTER_THIRTY-TWO"></a>CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO</h2> + + +<p>But at last the cold had let go of them. It was April, the snow had gone +and the air promised that even to that valley spring would come. Ruth, +out feeding the chickens, felt that spring nearness. She raised her face +gratefully to the breeze. It had seemed almost unbelievable that the +wind would ever again bring anything but blighting cold.</p> + +<p>As she stood there, held by that first feel of spring, an automobile +came along, slowed, and Stuart went running out of the house to meet it. +It was his friend Stoddard, a real-estate man there. He had become +friends with this man in the last few months. He had had little in +friendships with men and this had brightened him amazingly. He had a new +interest in business things, new hopes. It had seemed to make him +younger, keener. He and Mr. Stoddard had a plan for going into Montana +where the latter was interested in a land developing company, and going +into business together. Stuart was alive with interest in it; it +promised new things for him, a new chance. They would live in a town, +and it would be business life, which he cared for as he had never come +to care for ranching. He was beginning to talk to Ruth about moving, of +selling off their stock and some of their things. He was eager to make +the change.</p> + +<p>She had gone in the house as the machine stopped, having seen that there +were people in the car with Mr. Stoddard and not feeling presentably +dressed. She went upstairs to do the work and as she glanced down from +the upper window she saw Stuart in laughing conversation with a girl in +the automobile. Something about it arrested her. He was standing to the +far side of the machine so she could see his face. There was something +in it she had not seen for a long time—that interest in women, an +unmistakable pleasure in talking with an attractive girl. She stood +there, a little back from the window, watching them. There was nothing +at all wrong about it; nothing to resent, simply a little gay bantering +with a girl. It was natural to him; it had been once, it could be again. +His laugh came up to her. So he could still laugh like that; she had not +heard him for a long time. He turned and started hurriedly for the +house, the car waiting for him. He was smiling, his step was buoyant. +"Ruth," he called up to her, and his voice too had the old buoyancy, +"I'm going into town with Stoddard. We want to go over some things. +He'll bring me back before night."</p> + +<p>"All right, Stuart," she called back pleasantly.</p> + +<p>She watched the car out of sight. Stuart, sitting in the front seat with +his friend, had turned and was gayly talking with the women behind. When +she first knew him, when she was still a little girl and used to see him +around with his own set, he had been like that.</p> + +<p>She did not want to stay in the house. That house had shut her in all +winter. The road stretched invitingly away. About a mile down it there +was a creek, willows grew there. Perhaps there she would find some real +spring. Anyway she had an impulse to get out to the moving water. She +had seemed locked in, everything had seemed locked in for so long.</p> + +<p>As she was getting her coat she put into the pocket a letter she had +received the day before from Deane Franklin. After she had sat a little +while by the running water she took the letter out to reread, but did +not at first open it. She was wishing Deane were sitting there with her. +She would like to talk to him.</p> + +<p>This letter was a gloomy one. It seemed that Deane too was locked in. +Soon after Ted came back from Freeport in the fall she had got it out of +him about the Franklins. She had sensed at once that there was something +about Deane he did not want to tell her, and before he left for his own +place she had it from him that the Franklins had indeed separated, and +that the gossip of Freeport was that it was because of Mrs. Franklin's +resentment of her. And that was one of the things had seemed to make it +possible for the winter somehow to <i>take</i> her; that was the thing had +seemed to close the last door to her spirit, the last of those doors +that had been thrown wide open when she left Annie's home in Freeport +the spring before.</p> + +<p>She had tried to write to Deane. She felt that she should write to him, +but she had a feeling of powerlessness. Finally, only a little while +before, she had brought herself to do it. She knew it was a poor letter, +a halting, constrained thing, but it seemed the best she could do, and +so finally, after a great deal of uncertainty, she sent it.</p> + +<p>His reply made her feel that he realized how it had been, why she had +been so long in writing, why the letter had been the stilted thing it +was. It gave her a feeling that her friend had not withdrawn from her +because of what she had brought down upon him, that that open channel +between him and her was there as it had ever been. And though his letter +did not make her happy, it loosened something in her to be able to feel +that the way between her and Deane was not closed.</p> + +<p>"Don't distress yourself, Ruth," she now reread, "or have it upon your +spirit, where too much has lain heavy all these years. You want to know +the truth, and the truth is that Amy did resent my feeling about +you—about you and your situation—and that put us apart. But you see it +was not in us to stay together, or we could not have been thus put +apart. Love can't do it all, Ruth—not for long; I mean love that hasn't +roots down in the spirit can't. And where there isn't that spiritual +underneath, without a hinterland, love is pretty insecure.</p> + +<p>"I could have held on to it a while longer, I suppose, by cutting clear +loose from the thing really me. And I suppose I would have done it if I +could—I did in fact make attempts at it—but that me-ness, I'm afraid, +is most infernal strong in my miserable make-up. And somehow the +withdrawal of one's self seems a lot to pay for even the happiness of +love. There are some of us can't seem able to do it.</p> + +<p>"So it's not you, Ruth; it's that it was like that, and that it came out +through the controversy about you. Cast from your mind any feeling +adding the wrecking of my happiness to your list of crimes.</p> + +<p>"But, Ruth, I'm <i>not</i> happy. I couldn't get along in happiness, and I +don't get along without it. It's a paralyzing thing not to have +happiness—or to lose it, rather. Does it ever seem to you that life is +a pretty paralyzing thing? That little by little—a little here and a +little there—it <i>gets</i> us? We get harness-broke, you see. Seems to have +gone that way with most of the people I know. Seems to be that way with +me. Don't let it do it to you!</p> + +<p>"Somehow I don't believe it will. I think that you, Ruth, would be a +fine little prison-breaker. Might stand some show of being one myself if +I were anywhere but in this town. There's something about it that has +<i>got</i> me, Ruth. If it hadn't—I'd be getting out of it now.</p> + +<p>"But of course I'm a pretty poor sort, not worth making a fight for, or +it wouldn't be like this. And—for that matter—what's the difference? +Lives aren't counting for much these days—men who <i>are</i> the right sort +going down by the thousands, by the hundred of thousands, so what—for +heaven's sake—does it matter about me?</p> + +<p>"I wish I could see you!</p> + +<p>"I'm glad for you about the divorce. I believe the case comes up this +April term, so it may be all over by the time you get this letter. +Pretty late in coming, and I suppose it must seem a good deal of a +mockery—getting it now—but maybe it will help some for the future, +make you feel more comfortable, and I'm awfully glad.</p> + +<p>"Funny about it, isn't it? I wonder what made her do it! I was called +there this winter, maid sick—miscarriage—and Mrs. Williams puzzled me. +Didn't turn the girl out, awfully decent to her. I would have supposed +she would have been quite the other way. And now this. Queer, don't you +think?</p> + +<p>"Write to me sometimes, Ruth. Sometimes write to me what you're thinking +about. Maybe it will stir me up. Write to me to take a brace and get out +of this town! If you went for me hard enough, called me all the +insulting names you could think of, and told me a living dead man was +the most cowardly and most disgusting object cluttering up the earth, +you might get a rise out of me. You're the one could do it, if it can be +done.</p> + +<p>"One thing I <i>do</i> know—writing this has made me want like blazes to see +you!</p> + +<p>"<span class="smcap">Deane.</span>"</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Ruth sat there in the arm of a low willow, her hands resting upon +Deane's letter, her eyes closed, the faint breath of coming spring upon +her face. She was tired and very sad. She was thinking of Deane's life, +of her own life, of the way one seemed mocked. She wished that Deane +were there; she could talk to him and she would like to talk. His letter +moved something in her, something that had long seemed locked in stirred +a little. Her feeling about life had seemed a thing frozen within her. +Now the feeling that there was still this open channel between her and +Deane was as a thawing, an outlet.</p> + +<p>She thought of her last talk with Deane, of their walk together that +day, almost a year before, when he came to see her at Annie's, the very +day she was starting back West. She had felt anything but locked in that +day. There was that triumphant sense of openness to life, the joy of new +interest in it, of zest for it. And then she came back West, to Stuart, +and somehow the radiance went, courage ebbed, it came to seem that life +was all fixed, almost as if life, in the real sense, was over. That +sense of having failed, having been inadequate to her own feeling, +struck her down to a wretched powerlessness. And so routine, hard work, +bitter cold, loneliness, that sense of the cruelty of life which the +sternness of the country gave—those things had been able to take her; +it was because something had gone dead in her.</p> + +<p>She thought of that spiritual hinterland Deane talked about. She thought +of her and Stuart. She grew very sad in the thinking. She wondered if it +was her fault. However it was, it was true they no longer found the live +things in one another. She had not been able to communicate to him the +feeling with which she came back from Annie's. It was a lesser thing for +trying to talk of it to him. She did not reach him; she knew that he +only thought her a little absurd. After that she did not try to talk to +him of what she felt. Life lessened; things were as they were; they too +were as they were. It came to seem just a matter of following out what +had been begun. And then that news of the divorce had come to mock her.</p> + +<p>But she must do something for Deane. Deane must not go like that. She +had brought pencil and writing tablet with her, thinking that perhaps +out of doors, away from the house where she had seemed locked in all +winter, she could write to him. She thought of things to say, things +that should be said, but she did not seem to have any power to charge +them with life. How could the dead rouse the dead? She sat there +thinking of her and Deane, of how they had always been able to reach one +another. And finally she began:</p> + + +<blockquote><p>"Dear Deane,</p> + +<p>"You must find your way back to life."</p></blockquote> + +<p>She did not go on. She sat staring at what she had written. She read it +over; she said it aloud. It surged in upon her, into shut places. She +sat looking at it, frightened at what it was doing. Sat looking at it +after it was all blurred by tears—looking down at the words she herself +had written—"You must find your way back to life."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_THIRTY-THREE" id="CHAPTER_THIRTY-THREE"></a>CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE</h2> + + +<p>Ruth was very quiet through the next week. Stuart was preoccupied with +the plans he was making for going to Montana; when he talked with her it +was of that, of arrangements to be made for it, and his own absorption +apparently kept him from taking note of her being more quiet than usual, +or different. It was all working out very well. He had found a renter +for the ranch, the prospects for the venture in Montana were good. They +were to move within a month. And one night in late April when he came +home from town he handed Ruth a long envelope, with a laughing, "Better +late than never." Then he was soon deep in some papers.</p> + +<p>Ruth was sorting a box of things; there were many things to be gone +through preparatory to moving. She had put the paper announcing his +divorce aside without comment; but she loitered over what she was doing. +She was watching Stuart, thinking about him.</p> + +<p>She was thinking with satisfaction that he looked well. He had thrown +off the trouble that had brought about their departure from Freeport +twelve years before. He was growing rather stout; his fair hair had gone +somewhat gray and his face was lined, he had not the look of a young +man. But he looked strong, alert. His new hopes had given him vigor, a +new buoyancy. She sat there thinking of the years she had lived with +him, of the wonder and the happiness she had known through him, of the +hard things they had faced together. Her voice was gentle as she replied +to his inquiry about what day of the month it was.</p> + +<p>"I think," he said, "that we can get off by the fifteenth, don't you, +Ruth?"</p> + +<p>"Perhaps." Her voice shook a little, but he was following his own +thoughts and did not notice. After a little he came and sat across the +table from her. "And, Ruth, about this getting married business—" He +broke off with a laugh. "Seems absurd, doesn't it?"</p> + +<p>She nodded, fumbling with the things in the box, her head bent over +them.</p> + +<p>"Well, I was thinking we'd better stop somewhere along the way and +attend to it. Can't do it here—don't want to there."</p> + +<p>She lifted her hands from the box and laid them on the table that was +between him and her. She looked over at him and said, quietly, in a +voice that shook only a little: "I do not want to get married, Stuart."</p> + +<p>He was filling his pipe and stopped abruptly, spilling the tobacco on +the table. "What did you say?" he asked in the voice of one sure he must +have heard wrong.</p> + +<p>"I said," she repeated, "that I did not want to get married."</p> + +<p>He stared at her, his face screwed up. Then it relaxed a little. "Oh, +yes—yes, I know how you feel. It seems so absurd—after all this +time—after all there has been. But we must attend to it, Ruth. It's +right that we should—now that we can. God knows we wanted to bad +enough—long ago. And it will make us feel better about going into a new +place. We can face people better." He gathered up the tobacco he had +spilled and put it in his pipe.</p> + +<p>For a moment she did not speak. Then, "That wasn't what I meant, +Stuart," she said, falteringly.</p> + +<p>"Well, then, what in the world <i>do</i> you mean?" he asked impatiently.</p> + +<p>She did not at once say what she meant. Her eyes held him, they were so +strangely steady. "Just why would we be getting married, Stuart?" she +asked simply.</p> + +<p>At first he could only stare at her, appeared to be waiting for her to +throw light on what she had asked. When she did not do that he moved +impatiently, as if resentful of being quizzed this way. "Why—why, +because we can now. Because it's the thing to do. Because it will be +expected of us," he concluded, with gathering impatience for this +unnecessary explanation.</p> + +<p>A faint smile traced itself about Ruth's mouth. It made her face very +sad as she said: "I do not seem to be anxious to marry for any of those +reasons, Stuart."</p> + +<p>"Ruth, what are you driving at?" he demanded, thoroughly vexed at the +way she had bewildered him.</p> + +<p>"This is what I am driving at, Stuart," she began, a little more +spiritedly. But then she stopped, as if dumb before it. She looked over +at him as if hoping her eyes would tell it for her. But as he continued +in that look of waiting, impatient bewilderment she sighed and turned a +little away. "Don't you think, Stuart," she asked, her voice low, "that +the future is rather too important a thing to be given up to ratifying +the past?"</p> + +<p>He pushed his chair back in impatience that was mounting to anger. "Just +what do you mean?" he asked, stiffly.</p> + +<p>She picked up the long envelope lying on the table between them. She +held it in her hand a moment without speaking. For as she touched it she +had a sense of what it would have meant to have held it in her hand +twelve years before, over on the other side of their life together, a +new sense of the irony and the pity of not having had it then—and +having it now. She laid it down between them. "To me," she said, "this +sets me free.</p> + +<p>"Free to choose," she went on, as he only stared at her. There was a +moment of looking at him out of eyes so full of feeling that they held +back the feeling that had flushed his face. "And my choice," she said, +with a strange steadiness, "is that I now go my way alone."</p> + +<p>He spoke then; but it was only to stammer: "Why,—<i>Ruth!</i>" Helplessly he +repeated: "<i>Ruth!</i>"</p> + +<p>"But you see? You do see?" she cried. "If it had <i>not</i> been so much—so +beautiful! Just because it <i>was</i> what it was—" She choked and could not +go on.</p> + +<p>He came around and sat down beside her. The seriousness of his face, +something she had touched in him, made it finer than it had been in +those last years of routine. It was more as it used to be. His voice too +seemed out of old days as he said: "Ruth, I don't know yet what you +mean—why you're saying this?"</p> + +<p>"I think you do, Stuart," she said simply. "Or I think you will, if +you'll let yourself. It's simply that this—" she touched the envelope +on the table before her—"that this finds us over on the other side of +marriage. And this is what I mean!" she flamed. "I mean that the +marriage between us was too real to go through the mockery this would +make possible now!" She turned away because she was close to tears.</p> + +<p>He sat there in silence. Then, "Have I done anything, Ruth?" he asked in +the hesitating way of one at sea.</p> + +<p>She shook her head without turning back to him.</p> + +<p>"You apparently have got the impression," he went on, a faint touch of +resentment creeping into his voice at having to make the declaration, +"that I don't care any more. That—that isn't so," he said awkwardly and +with a little rise of resentment.</p> + +<p>Ruth had turned a little more toward him, but was looking down at her +hands, working with them as if struggling for better control. "I have +no—complaint on that score," she said very low.</p> + +<p>"Things change," he went on, with a more open manner of defence. "The +first kind of love doesn't last forever. It doesn't with anyone," he +finished, rather sullenly.</p> + +<p>"I know that, Stuart," she said quietly. "I know enough to know that. +But I know this as well. I know that sometimes that first kind of love +leaves a living thing to live by. I know that it does—sometimes. And I +know that with us—it hasn't."</p> + +<p>As if stung by that he got up and began walking angrily about the room. +"You're talking nonsense! Why wouldn't we get married, I'd like to know, +after all this time together? We <i>will</i> get married—that's all there is +to it! A nice spectacle we would make of ourselves if we didn't! Have +you thought of that?" he demanded. "Have you thought of what people +would say?"</p> + +<p>Again her lips traced that faint smile that showed the sadness of her +face. "There was a time, Stuart," she said wearily, "when we were not +governed by what people would say."</p> + +<p>He frowned, but went on more mildly: "You've got the thing all twisted +up, Ruth. You do that sometimes. You often have a queer way of looking +at a thing; not the usual way—a—well, a sort of twisted way."</p> + +<p>She got up. One hand was at her throat as if feeling some impediment +there; the knuckles of her clenched hand were tapping the table. "A +queer way of looking at things," she said in quick, sharp voice that was +like the tapping of her knuckles. "Not the usual way. A—sort of twisted +way. Perhaps. Perhaps that's true. Perhaps that was the way I had of +looking at things twelve years ago—when I left them all behind and went +with you. Perhaps that was what made me do it—that queer, twisted way +of looking at things! But this much is true, Stuart, and this you have +got to know is true. I went with you because I was as I was. I'm going +my way alone now because I am as I am. And what you don't see is +this,—that the thing that made me go with you then is the thing that +makes me go my way alone now."</p> + +<p>For a moment they stood there facing each other, her eyes forcing home +what she had said. But she was trembling and suddenly, weakly, she sat +down.</p> + +<p>"Well, I simply can't understand it!" he cried petulantly and flung open +the door and stood looking out.</p> + +<p>"Look here, Ruth," he turned sharply to her after a little, "have you +thought of the position this puts <i>me</i> in? Have you thought of the +position you would put <i>me</i> in?" he contended hotly. "Do you know what +people would say about me? You ought to know what they'd say! They'd say +<i>I</i> was the one!—they'd say <i>I</i> didn't want to do it!"</p> + +<p>There was a little catch something like a laugh as she replied: "Of +course. They'll say men don't marry women of that sort, won't they?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, you can't do this, Ruth," he went on quickly. "You see, it can't be +done. I tell you it wouldn't be right! It just wouldn't be <i>right</i>—in +any sense. Why can't you see that? Can't you see that we've got to +vindicate the whole thing? That we've got to show them that it <i>does</i> +last! That's the vindication for it," he finished stoutly, "that it's +the kind of a love that doesn't die!</p> + +<p>"And I'd like to know where under the sun you'd go!" he demanded hotly, +irritated at the slight smile his last words had brought.</p> + +<p>"What I will do, Stuart, after leaving you, is for me to determine, +isn't it?"</p> + +<p>"A nice way to treat me!" he cried, and threw himself down on the couch, +elbows on his knees and his face buried in his hands. "After all these +years—after all there has been—that's a <i>nice</i> way—" he choked.</p> + +<p>She was quick to go over and sit beside him; she leaned a little against +him, her hand on his arm, just as she had sat many times when he needed +her, when she brought him comfort. The thought of all those times rose +in her and brought tears to her eyes that had been burning dry a moment +before. She felt the feeling this had whipped to life in him and was +moved by it, and by an underlying feeling of the sadness of change. For +his expostulations spoke of just that—change. She knew this for the +last hurt she could help him through, that she must help him through +this hurt brought him by this last thing she could do for him. Something +about things being like that moved her deeply. She saw it all so +clearly, and so sadly. It was not grief this brought him; this was not +the frenzy or the anguish in the thought of losing her that there would +have been in those other years. It was shock, rather—disturbance, and +the forcing home to him that sense of change. He would have gone on +without much taking stock, because, as he had said, it was the thing to +do. Habit, a sense of fitness, rather than deep personal need, would +have made him go on. And now it was his sense that it was gone, his +resentment against that, his momentary feeling of being left desolate. +She looked at his bowed head through tears. Gently she laid her hand on +it. She thought of him as he stood before the automobile the other day +lighting up in the gay talk with that girl. She knew, with a sudden +wrench in her heart she knew it, that he would not be long desolate. She +understood him too well for that. She knew that, hard as she seemed in +that hour, she was doing for Stuart in leaving him the greatest thing +she could now do for him. A tear fell to her hand in her clear knowing +of that. There was deep sadness in knowing that, after all there had +been, to leave the way cleared of herself was doing a greater thing than +anything else she could do for him.</p> + +<p>A sob shook her and he raised his face upon which there were tears and +clutched her two wrists with his hands. "Ruth," he whispered, "it will +come back. I feel that this has—has brought it back."</p> + +<p>The look of old feeling had transformed his face. After barren days it +was sweet to her. It tempted her, tempted her to shut her eyes to what +she knew and sink into the sweetness of believing herself loving and +loved again. Perhaps, for a little time, they could do it. To be deeply +swayed by this common feeling, to go together in an emotion, was like +dear days gone. But it was her very fidelity to those days gone that +made her draw just a little away, and, tears running down her face, +shake her head. She knew too well, and she had the courage of her +knowing. This was something that had seeped up from old feeling; it had +no life of its own. What they were sharing now was grief over a dead +thing that had been theirs together. That grief, that sharing, left them +tender. This was their moment—their moment for leaving it. They must +leave it before it lay there between them both dead and unmourned, +clogging life for them. She whispered to him: "Just because of all it +has meant—let's leave it while we can leave it like this!"</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_THIRTY-FOUR" id="CHAPTER_THIRTY-FOUR"></a>CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR</h2> + + +<p>The man who worked for them had gone ahead in the spring wagon with her +trunk. She was waiting for Ted to hitch the other horse to the buggy and +drive her in to the train. She was all ready and stood there looking +about the house she was leaving. There were things in that room which +they had had since their first years together—that couch, this chair, +had come to them in Arizona in the days when they loved each other with +a passion that made everything else in the world a pale thing before +their love. She stood picking out things that they had had when love was +flaming strong in them and it seemed they two fought together against +the whole world. And as she stood there alone in their place in common +that she was about to leave she was made sick by a sense of +failure—that desolate sense of failure she had tried all along to beat +down. That love had been theirs—and this was what it had come to. That +wonder had been—and it ended in the misery of this leavetaking. She +turned sharply around, opened the door and stood there in the doorway, +her back to the place she was quitting, her pale stern face turned to +the mountains—to that eastern range which she was going to cross. She +tried to draw something from them, draw strength for the final conflict +which she knew she would have with Ted while they drove in to town. She +looked toward the barn-yard to see if he was most ready, and could not +but smile a little at his grim, resolute face as he was checking up the +horse. She could see so well that he was going to make the best of his +time while driving her in to the train. And it seemed she had nothing +left in her for combat; she would be glad to see the train that was to +take her away.</p> + +<p>Three days before Stuart had gone suddenly to Denver. He went with his +friend Stoddard, regarding some of their arrangements for Montana. He +had found only at the last minute that he would have to go, had +hurriedly driven out from town to get his things and tell her he was +going. He had been in the house only a few minutes and was all +excitement about the unexpected trip. It was two days after their talk. +After their moment of being swept together by the feeling of things gone +he had, as if having to get a footing on everyday ground, ended the talk +with saying: "I'll tell you, Ruth, you need a little change. We'll have +to work it out." The next day they were both subdued, more gentle with +each other than they had been of late, but they did not refer to the +night before. After he had hurriedly kissed her good-by when leaving for +Denver he had turned back and said, "And don't you worry—about things, +Ruth. We'll get everything fixed up—and a little change—" He had +hurried down to the machine without finishing it.</p> + +<p>She had gone to the window and watched him disappear. He was sitting +erect, alert, talking animatedly with his friend. She watched him as far +as she could see him. She knew that she would not see him again.</p> + +<p>And then she hitched up the horse and drove into town and telephoned +Ted, who lived about fifty miles to the north. She told him that she was +going East and asked him to come down the next day and see her.</p> + +<p>She had known that Ted would not approve, would not understand, but she +had not expected him to make the fight he had. It had taken every bit of +her will, her force, to meet him. Worn now, and under the stress of the +taking leave, at once too tired and too emotional, she wished that he +would let it rest. But the grim line of his jaw told her that he had no +such intention. She felt almost faint as they drove through the gate. +She closed her eyes and did not open them for some time.</p> + +<p>"You see, Ruth," Ted began gently, as if realizing that she was very +worn, "you just don't realize how crazy the whole thing is. It's +ridiculous for you to go to New York—alone! You've never been there," +he said firmly.</p> + +<p>"No. That is one reason for going," she answered, rather feebly.</p> + +<p>"One reason for going!" he cried. "What'll you do when the train pulls +in? Where'll you <i>go</i>?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know, Ted," she said patiently, "just where I will go. And I +rather like that—not knowing where I will go. It's all new, you see. +Nothing is mapped out."</p> + +<p>"It's a fool thing!" he cried. "Don't you know that something will +happen to you?"</p> + +<p>She smiled a little, very wearily. "Lots of things have happened to me, +Ted, and I've come through them somehow." After a moment she added, with +more spirit: "There's just one thing might happen to me that I haven't +the courage to face." He looked at her inquiringly. "Nothing happening," +she said, with a little smile.</p> + +<p>He turned impatiently and slapped the horse with the reins. "You seem to +have lost your senses," he said sharply.</p> + +<p>He drove along in silence for a little. Ruth looked at him and his face +seemed hard. She thought of how close she and Ted had come, how good he +had been, how much it had meant. She could not leave him like this. She +must make the effort, must gather herself together and try and make Ted +see. "Perhaps, Ted," she began tremulously, "you think I have taken +leave of my senses because you haven't tried very hard to understand +just what it is I feel." She smiled wanly as she added, "You've been so +absorbed in your own disapproval, you know."</p> + +<p>"Well, how can I be any other way?" he demanded. "Going away like +this—for no reason—on a wild goose chase! Isn't Stuart good to you?" +he asked abruptly.</p> + +<p>"Yes, Ted," she answered, as if she were tired of saying it, "Stuart is +good enough to me."</p> + +<p>"I suppose things aren't—just as they used to be," he went on, a little +doggedly. "Heavens!—they aren't with anybody! And what will people +say?" he broke out with new force. "Think of what people in Freeport +will say, Ruth. They'll say the whole thing was a failure, and that it +was because you did wrong. They'll say, when the chance finally came, +that Stuart didn't want to marry you." He colored but brought it out +bluntly.</p> + +<p>"I suppose they will," agreed Ruth.</p> + +<p>"And if they knew the truth—or what I know, though heaven knows I'm +balled up enough about what the truth really is!—they'd say it just +shows again that you are different, not—something wrong," he finished +bitterly.</p> + +<p>She said nothing for a moment. "And is that what you think, Ted?" she +asked, choking a little.</p> + +<p>"I don't understand it, Ruth," he said, less aggressively. "I had +thought you would be so glad of the chance to marry. I—" he hesitated +but did not pursue that. He had never told her of going to see Mrs. +Williams, of the effort he had made for her. "It seemed that now, when +your chance came, you ought to show people that you do want to do the +right thing. It surprises me a lot, Ruth, that you don't feel that way, +and—Oh! I don't get it at all," he concluded abruptly.</p> + +<p>Tears were very close when, after a little, she answered: "Well, Ted, +maybe when you have less of life left you will understand better what it +is I feel. Perhaps," she went on in answer to his look inquiry, "when +the future has shrunk down to fewer years you'll see it as more +important to get from it what you can."</p> + +<p>They drove for a little time in silence. They had come in sight of the +town and she had not won Ted; she was going away without his sympathy. +And she was going away alone, more alone this time than she had been +twelve years before.</p> + +<p>She laid her hand on his arm, left it there while she was speaking. +"Ted," she said, "it's like this. This has gone for me. It's all gone. +It was wonderful—but it's gone. Some people, I know, could go on with +the life love had made after love was gone. I am not one of those +people—that's all. You speak of there being something discreditable in +my going away just when I could marry. To me there would be something +discreditable in going on. It would be—" she put her hand over her +heart and said it very simply, "it would be unfaithful to something +here." She choked a little and he turned away.</p> + +<p>"But I don't see how you can bear, Ruth," he said after a moment, made +gentle by her confidence, "to feel that it has—failed. I don't see how +you can bear—after all you paid for it—to let it come to nothing."</p> + +<p>"Don't say that, Ted!" she cried in a voice that told he had touched the +sorest place. "Don't say that!" she repeated, a little wildly. "You +don't know what you're talking about. <i>Failed?</i> A thing that glorified +life for years—<i>failed</i>?"</p> + +<p>Her voice broke, but it was more steadily she went on: "That's the very +reason I'm going to New York—simply that it may <i>not</i> come to nothing. +I'm going away from it for that very reason—that it may not come to +nothing! That my life may not come to nothing. What I've had—what I've +gone through—lives in me, Ted. It doesn't come to nothing if I—come to +something!" She stopped abruptly with a choking little laugh.</p> + +<p>Ted looked at her wonderingly; but the hardness had gone out of his +look. "But what are you going to do, Ruth?" he asked gently.</p> + +<p>"I don't know yet. I've got to find out."</p> + +<p>"You must see that I can't help but worry about it," he went on. "Going +so far away—to a place absolutely unknown to you—where I'm afraid it +will be so much harder than you think."</p> + +<p>She did not answer him, looking off to that eastern range she was going +to cross, as if the mountains could help her to hold on to her own +feeling against the doubts he was trying to throw around her.</p> + +<p>"You see, Ruth," he went on, as if feeling his way, not wanting to hurt +her, "what has been may make it hard to go on. You can't tell. You'll +never know—never be sure. Old things may come up to spoil new ones for +you. That's what I'm so afraid of. That's what it seems you aren't +seeing. You would be so much—safer—to stay with Stuart."</p> + +<p>She turned to him with a little laugh, her lashes wet. "Yes, Ted dear, I +suppose I would. But I never did seem to stay where I was safest—did +I?"</p> + +<p>"Don't worry about me, Ted," she said just as they were coming into +town. "I'm going to take some of father's money—yes, yes, I know it +isn't a great deal, but enough for a little while, till I get my +bearings—and I'm going to make things come alive for me again. I'm not +through yet, that's all. I could have stayed with life gone dead; it +would have been safer, as you say. But you see I'm not through yet, +Ted—I guess that's the secret of it all. I want more life—more things +from life. And I'm going to New York just because it will be so +completely new—so completely beginning new—and because it's the center +of so many living things. And it's such a wonderful time, Ted. It seems +to me the war is going to make a new world—a whole new way of looking +at things. It's as if a lot of old things, old ideas, had been melted, +and were fluid now, and were to be shaped anew. That's the way it seems +to me, and that makes me the more eager to get some things from life +that I haven't had. I've been shut in with my own experience. If I +stayed on here I'd be shut in with my own dead experiences. I want to go +on! I can't stop here—that's all. And we have to find our way for going +on. We must find our own way, Ted, even," she choked, "though what we +see as the way may seem a wild goose chase to some one we love. I'll +tell you why I'm going to New York," she flashed with sudden defiance. +"I'm going because I want to!"</p> + +<p>She laughed a little and he laughed with her. Then she went on more +gently: "Because I want to. Just the thought of it has made life come +alive for me—that's reason enough for going to the ends of the earth! +I'm going to <i>live</i> again, Ted—not just go on with what living has +left. I'm going to find some work to do. Yes I <i>can</i>!" she cried +passionately in response to his gesture "I suppose to you it seems just +looking out for myself—seems unfaithful to Stuart. Well, it +isn't—that's all I can say, and maybe some day you'll see that it +wasn't. It isn't unfaithful to turn from a person you have nothing more +to offer, for whom you no longer make life a living thing. It's more +faithful to go. You'll see that some time, Ted. But be good to Stuart," +she hastily added. "You stay with him till he can get off. I've made all +the arrangements with Mrs. Baxter for packing up—sending on the things. +It would be hard for him to do that, I know. And once away from +here—new interests—life all new again—oh, no, Ted dear," she laughed +a little chokingly, "don't worry about Stuart."</p> + +<p>"I'm not worrying about Stuart," he muttered. "I'm worrying about you."</p> + +<p>She squeezed his arm in affectionate gratitude for the love in the +growling words. "Don't <i>worry</i> about me, Ted," she implored, "be glad +with me! I'm alive again! It's so wonderful to be alive again. There's +the future—a great, beautiful unknown. It <i>is</i> wonderful, Ted," she +said with insistence, as if she would banish his fears—and her own.</p> + +<p>They had a few minutes to wait, and Ted ran over to the postoffice to +get her mail for her—she was expecting a paper she wanted to read on +the train. She tucked what he handed her into her bag and then when she +heard the train coming she held on to Ted's arm, held it as if she could +not bear letting it go. "It's all right," were her last words to him, +smiling through tears.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>She had been trying all along to hold her mind from the thought that +they would pass through Freeport. Late the next afternoon, when she knew +they were nearing it, she grew restless. It was then she remembered the +paper in her bag—she had been in no mood for reading, too charged with +her own feeling. She got it out now and found that with the paper was a +letter. It was a letter from Deane Franklin.</p> + +<p>She held it for a little while without opening it. It seemed so strange +to have it just as she was nearing Freeport.</p> + +<p>The letter was dated the week before. It read:</p> + +<p>"<i>Dear Ruth:</i></p> + +<p>"I'm leaving Freeport tonight. I'm going to Europe—to volunteer my +services as a doctor. Parker, whom I knew well at Hopkins, is right in +the midst of it. He can work me in. And the need for doctors is going to +go on for some time, I fancy; it won't end with the war.</p> + +<p>"I'm happy in this decision, Ruth, and I know you'll be glad for me. It +was your letter that got me—made me see myself and hate myself, made me +know that I had to 'come out of it.' And then this idea came to me, and +I wish I could tell you how different everything seemed as soon as I saw +some reason for my existence. I'm ashamed of myself for not having seen +it this way before. As if this were any time for a man who's had my +training to sit around moping!</p> + +<p>"Life is bigger than just ourselves. And isn't it curious how seeing +that brings us back to ourselves?</p> + +<p>"I'll enclose Parker's address. You can reach me in care of him. I want +to hear from you.</p> + +<p>"I can hardly wait to get there!</p> + +<p>"<span class="smcap">Deane.</span>"</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>She managed to read the letter through with eyes only a little dimmed. +But by the time she got to Parker's address she could not make it out. +"I knew it!" she kept saying to herself triumphantly.</p> + +<p>Deane had been too big not to save himself. Absorbed in thoughts of him +she did not notice the country through which they were passing. She was +startled by a jolt of the train, by the conductor saying, "Freeport!"</p> + +<p>For several minutes the train waited there. She sat motionless through +that time, Deane Franklin's letter clasped tight in her hand. Freeport! +It claimed her:—what had been, what was behind her; those dead who +lived in her, her own past that lived in her. Freeport.... It laid +strong hold on her. She was held there in what had been. And then a +great thing happened. The train jolted again—moved. It was +moving—moving on. <i>She</i> was moving—moving on. And she knew then beyond +the power of anyone's disapproval to break down that it was right she +move on. She had a feeling of the whole flow of her life—and it was +still moving—moving on. And because she felt she was moving on that +sense of failure slipped from her. In secret she had been fighting that +all along. Now she knew that love had not failed because love had +transpired into life. What she had paid the great price for was not hers +to the end. But what it had made of her was hers! Love could not fail if +it left one richer than it had found one. Love had not failed—nothing +had failed—and life was wonderful, limitless, a great adventure for +which one must have great courage, glad faith. Let come what would +come!—she was moving on.</p> + +<h3>THE END</h3> + + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Fidelity, by Susan Glaspell + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FIDELITY *** + +***** This file should be named 32432-h.htm or 32432-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/2/4/3/32432/ + +Produced by Suzanne Shell, Mary Meehan and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Fidelity + A Novel + +Author: Susan Glaspell + +Release Date: May 19, 2010 [EBook #32432] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FIDELITY *** + + + + +Produced by Suzanne Shell, Mary Meehan and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) + + + + + + + + FIDELITY + + A NOVEL + + BY SUSAN GLASPELL + + Author of "THE GLORY OF THE CONQUERED," "THE VISIONING," ETC. + + +BOSTON +SMALL, MAYNARD AND COMPANY +PUBLISHERS + +_Copyright, 1915_ +BY SMALL, MAYNARD AND COMPANY +INCORPORATED) + +Printers +S. J. PARKHILL & CO., BOSTON U.S.A. + + +TO +LUCY HUFFAKER + + + + +FIDELITY + + + + +CHAPTER ONE + + +It was hard to get back into the easy current of everyday talk. Cora +Albright's question had too rudely pulled them out of it, disturbing the +quiet flow of inconsequential things. Even when they had recovered and +were safely flowing along on the fact that the new hotel was to cost two +hundred thousand dollars, after they had moved with apparent serenity to +lamentation over a neighbor who was sick in bed and without a cook, it +was as if they were making a display of the ease with which they could +move on those commonplace things, as if thus to deny the consciousness +of whirlpools near by. + +So they seemed to Dr. Deane Franklin, who, secured by the shadow of the +porch vine, could smile to himself at the way he saw through them. +Though Deane Franklin's smile for seeing through people was not so much +a smile as a queer little twist of the left side of his face, a screwing +up of it that half shut one eye and pulled his mouth out of shape, the +same twist that used to make people call him a homely youngster. He was +thinking that Cora's question, or at any rate her manner in asking it, +would itself have told that she had lived away from Freeport for a +number of years. She did not know that they did not talk about Ruth +Holland any more, that certainly they did not speak of her in the tone +of everyday things. + +And yet, looking at it in any but the Freeport way, it was the most +natural thing in the world that Cora should have asked what she did. +Mrs. Lawrence had asked if Mr. Holland--he was Ruth's father--was +getting any better, and then Cora had turned to him with the inquiry: +"Do you ever hear from Ruth?" + +It was queer how it arrested them all. He saw Mrs. Lawrence's start and +her quick look over to her daughter--now Edith Lawrence Blair, the Edith +Lawrence who had been Ruth's dearest friend. It was Edith herself who +had most interested him. She had been leaning to the far side of her big +chair in order to escape the shaft of light from the porch lamp. But at +Cora's question she made a quick turn that brought her directly into the +light. It gave her startled face, so suddenly and sharply revealed, an +unmasked aspect as she turned from Cora to him. And when he quietly +answered: "Yes, I had a letter from Ruth this morning," her look of +amazement, of sudden feeling, seemed for the instant caught there in the +light. He got her quick look over to Amy--his bride, and then her +conscious leaning back from the disclosing shaft into the shadow. + +He himself had become suddenly conscious of Amy. They had been in +California for their honeymoon, and had just returned to Freeport. Amy +was not a Freeport girl, and was new to his old crowd, which the visit +of Cora Albright was bringing together in various little reunions. She +had been sitting over at the far side of the group, talking with Will +Blair, Edith's husband. Now they too had stopped talking. + +"She wanted to know about her father," he added. + +No one said anything. That irritated him. It seemed that Edith or her +mother, now that Cora had opened it up, might make some little attempt +at the common decencies of such a situation, might ask if Ruth would +come home if her father died, speak of her as if she were a human being. + +Cora did not appear to get from their silence that she was violating +Freeport custom. "Her mother died just about a year after Ruth--left, +didn't she?" she pursued. + +"About that," he tersely answered. + +"Died of a broken heart," murmured Mrs. Lawrence. + +"She died of pneumonia," was his retort, a little sharp for a young man +to an older woman. + +Her slight wordless murmur seemed to comment on his failure to see. She +turned to Cora with a tolerant, gently-spoken, "I think Deane would have +to admit that there was little force left for fighting pneumonia. +Certainly it was a broken life!"--that last was less gently said. + +Exasperation showed in his shifting of position. + +"It needn't have been," he muttered stubbornly. + +"Deane--Deane!" she murmured, as if in reproach for something of long +standing. There was a silence in which the whole thing was alive there +for those of them who knew. Cora and Edith, sitting close together, did +not turn to one another. He wondered if they were thinking of the +countless times Ruth had been on that porch with them in the years they +were all growing up together. Edith's face was turned away from the +light now. Suddenly Cora demanded: "Well, there's no prospect at all of +a divorce?" + +Mrs. Lawrence rose and went over to Amy and opened a lively conversation +as to whether she found her new maid satisfactory. It left him and Edith +and Cora to themselves. + +"No," he answered her question, "I guess not. Not that I know of." + +"How terrible it all is!" Cora exclaimed, not without feeling; and then, +following a pause, she and Edith were speaking of how unbecoming the new +hats were, talking of the tea one of their old friends was giving for +Cora next day. + +He sat there thinking how it was usually those little things that closed +in over Ruth. When the thought of her, feeling about her, broke through, +it was soon covered over with--oh, discussion of how some one was +wearing her hair, the health of some one's baby or merits of some one's +cook. + +He listened to their talk about the changes there had been in Freeport +in the last ten or twelve years. They spoke of deaths, of marriages, of +births; of people who had prospered and people who had gone to pieces; +of the growth of the town, of new people, of people who had moved away. +In a word, they spoke of change. Edith would refer things to him and he +occasionally joined in the talk, but he was thinking less of the +incidents they spoke of than of how it was change they were talking +about. This enumeration of changes gave him a sense of life as a +continuous moving on, as a thing going swiftly by. Life had changed for +all those people they were telling Cora about. It had changed for +themselves too. He had continued to think of Edith and the others as +girls. But they had moved on from that; they were moving on all the +time. Why, they were over thirty! As a matter of fact they were women +near the middle thirties. People talked so lightly of change, and yet +change meant that life was swiftly sweeping one on. + +He turned from that too somber thinking to Amy, watched her as she +talked with Mrs. Lawrence. They too were talking of Freeport people and +affairs, the older woman bringing Amy into the current of life there. +His heart warmed a little to Edith's mother for being so gracious to +Amy, though, that did not keep him from marveling at how she could be +both so warm and so hard--so loving within the circle of her approval, +so unrelenting out beyond it. + +Amy would make friends, he was thinking, lovingly proud. How could it be +otherwise when she was so lovely and so charming? She looked so slim, so +very young, in that white dress she was wearing. Well, and she was +young, little older now than these girls had been when they really were +"the girls." That bleak sense of life as going by fell away; here _was_ +life--the beautiful life he was to have with Amy. He watched the breeze +play with her hair and his whole heart warmed to her in the thought of +the happiness she brought him, in his gratitude for what love made of +life. He forgot his resentment about Ruth, forgot the old bitterness and +old hurt that had just been newly stirred in him. Life had been a lonely +thing for a number of years after Ruth went away. He had Amy now--all +was to be different. + +They all stood at the head of the steps for a moment as he and Amy were +bidding the others goodnight. They talked of the tea Edith was to give +for Amy the following week--what Amy would wear--how many people there +would be. "And let me pick you up and take you to the tea tomorrow," +Edith was saying. "It will be small and informal--just Cora's old +friends--and then you won't have so many strangers to meet next week." + +He glowed with new liking of Edith, felt anew that sweetness in her +nature that, after her turning from Ruth, had not been there for him. +Looking at her through this new friendliness he was thinking how +beautifully she had developed. Edith was a mother now, she had two +lovely children. She was larger than in her girlhood; she had indeed +flowered, ripened. Edith was a sweet woman, he was thinking. + +"I do think they're the kindest, most beautiful people!" Amy exclaimed +warmly as they started slowly homeward through the fragrant softness of +the May night. + + + + +CHAPTER TWO + + +He had known that Amy would ask, and wondered a little at her waiting so +long. It was an hour later, as she sat before her dressing-table +brushing her hair that she turned to him with a little laugh and asked: +"Who is this mysterious Ruth?" + +He sighed; he was tired and telling about Ruth seemed a large +undertaking. + +Amy colored and turned from him and picked up her brush. "Don't tell me +if you don't want to," she said formally. + +His hand went round her bared shoulder. "Dearest! Why, I want to, of +course. It's just that it's a long story, and tonight I'm a little +tired." As she did not respond to that he added: "This was a hard day at +the office." + +Amy went on brushing her hair; she did not suggest that he let it go +until another time so he began, "Ruth was a girl who used to live here." + +"I gathered that," she replied quietly. + +Her tone made no opening for him. "I thought a great deal of her," he +said after a moment. + +"Yes, I gathered that too." She said it dryly, and smiled just a little. +He was more conscious than ever of being tired, of its being hard to +tell about Ruth. + +"I gathered," said Amy, still faintly smiling, though, her voice went a +trifle higher, "that you thought more of her--" she hesitated, then +amended--"think more of her--than the rest of them do." + +He answered simply: "Yes, I believe that's so. Though Edith used to care +a great deal for Ruth," he added meditatively. + +"Well, what did she do?" Amy demanded impatiently. "What _is_ it?" + +For a moment his cheek went down to her soft hair that was all around +her, in a surge of love for its softness, a swift, deep gratitude for +her loveliness. He wanted to rest there, letting that, for the time, +shut out all else, secure in new happiness and forgetting old hurts. + +But he felt her waiting for what she wanted to know and so with an +effort he began: "Why, you see, dear, Ruth--it was pretty tough for +Ruth. Things didn't go right for her--not as they did for Cora and Edith +and the girls of her crowd. She--" Something in the calm of Amy's +waiting made it curiously hard to say, "Ruth couldn't marry the man she +cared for." + +"Why not!" she asked dispassionately. + +"Why, because it wasn't possible," he answered a little sharply. "She +couldn't marry him because he wasn't divorced," he said bluntly then. + +Amy's deep gray eyes, they had seemed so unperturbed, so +unsympathetically calm, were upon him now in a queer, steady way. He +felt himself flushing. "Wasn't divorced?" she said with a little laugh. +"Is that a way of saying he was married?" + +He nodded. + +"She cared for a man who was married to someone else?" she asked with +rising voice. + +Again he only nodded, feeling incapable, when Amy looked at him like +that, of saying the things he would like to be saying for Ruth. + +Abruptly she drew her hair away. "And you can sympathize with--_like_--a +person who would do that?" + +"I certainly both sympathize with and like Ruth." + +That had come quick and sharp, and then suddenly he felt it all wrong +that a thing which had gone so deep into his own life should be coming +to Amy like this, that she should be taking the attitude of the town +against his friend, against his own feeling. He blamed his way of +putting it, telling himself it was absurd to expect her to understand a +bald statement like that. At that moment he realized it was very +important she should understand; not only Ruth, but something in +himself--something counting for much in himself would be shut out if she +did not understand. + +It made his voice gentle as he began: "Amy, don't you know that just to +be told of a thing may make it seem very different from what the thing +really was? Seeing a thing from the outside is so different from living +through it. Won't you reserve judgment about Ruth--she is my friend and +I hate to see her unfairly judged--until some time when I can tell it +better?" + +"Why have _you_ so much to do with it? Why is it so important I do +not--judge her?" Amy's sweetness, that soft quality that had been dear +to him seemed to have tightened into a hard shrewdness as she asked: +"How did _you_ happen to know it all from within?" + +He pushed his chair back from her and settled into it wearily. "Why, +because she was my friend, dear. I was in her confidence." + +"I don't think I'd be very proud of being in the confidence of a woman +who ran away with another woman's husband!" + +Her hostile voice fanned the old anger that had so many times flamed +when people were speaking hostilely of Ruth. But he managed to say +quietly: "But you see you don't know much about it yet, Amy." + +He was facing her mirror and what he saw in it made him lean forward, +his arms about her, with an impulsive: "Sweetheart, we're not going to +quarrel, are we?" + +But after his kisses she asked, as if she had only been biding her time +through the interruption; "_Did_ she run away with him?" + +His arm dropped from her shoulder. "They left together," he answered +shortly. + +"Are they married now?" + +"No." + +Amy, who had resumed the brushing of her hair, held the brush suspended. +"_Living_ together--all this time--and _not_ married?" + +"They are not married," was his heated response, "because the man's wife +has not divorced him." He added, not without satisfaction: "She's that +kind of a person." + +Amy turned and her eyes met his. "What kind of a person?" she said +challengingly. "I presume," she added coolly, "that she does not believe +in divorce." + +"I take it that she does not," was his dry answer. + +She flushed, and exclaimed a little tremulously: "Well, really, Deane, +you needn't be so disagreeable about it!" + +Quickly he turned to her, glad to think that he had been disagreeable; +that was so much easier than what he had been trying to keep from +thinking. + +"I didn't mean to be disagreeable, Amy dear. I suppose I've got in the +habit of being disagreeable about Ruth: people here have been so hard +about her; I've resented their attitude so." + +"But why should you _care_? Why is it such a personal matter to you?" + +He was about to say, "She was my friend," but remembering he had said +that before, he had anew a sense of helplessness. He did not want to +talk about it any more. He had become tired out with thinking about it, +with the long grieving for Ruth and the sorrowing with her. When he +found Amy their love had seemed to free him from old hurts and to bring +him out from loneliness. Wonderful as the ecstasy of fresh love was he +had thought even more of the exquisite peace that rests in love. Amy had +seemed to be bringing him to that; and now it seemed that Ruth was still +there holding him away from it. The thought brushed his mind, his face +softening for the instant with it, that Ruth would be so sorry to have +that true. + +Amy had braided her hair; the long fair braid hung over her shoulder, +beautifully framing her face as she turned to him. "Had you supposed, +when you all knew her, when she was in your crowd, that she was--that +kind of a person?" + +His blood quickened in the old anger for Ruth; but there was something +worse than that--a sick feeling, a feeling in which there was +disappointment and into which there crept something that was like shame. + +The telephone rang before he need reply. When he turned from it, it was +to say hurriedly, "I'll have to go to the hospital, Amy. Sorry--that +woman I operated on yesterday--" He was in the next room, gathering +together his things before he had finished it. + +Amy followed him in. "Why, I'm so sorry, dear. It's too bad--when you're +so tired." + +He turned and caught her in his arms and held her there close in a +passion of relief at the gentleness and love of her voice that swept +away those things about her he had tried to think were not in his mind. +Amy was so sweet!--so beautiful, so tender. Why of course she wouldn't +understand about Ruth! How absurd to expect her to understand, he +thought, when he had blurted things out like that, giving her no +satisfaction about it. He was touchy on the subject, he gladly told +himself, as he held her close in all the thankfulness of regaining her. +And when, after he had kissed her good-by she lifted her face and kissed +him again his rush of love for her had power to sweep all else away. + + + + +CHAPTER THREE + + +It was in that mood of passionate tenderness for Amy, a glow of +gratitude for love, that he sent his car swiftly toward the hospital. +His feeling diffused warmth for the town through which he drove, the +little city that had so many times tightened him up in bitterness. +People were kind, after all; how kind they were being to Amy, he +thought, eager to receive her and make her feel at home, anxious that +she be happy among them. The picture of Edith as she stood at the head +of the steps making plans for Amy warmed his heart to her. Perhaps he +had been unfair to Edith; in that one thing, certainly, she had failed +as a friend, but perhaps it was impossible for women to go that far in +friendship, impossible for them to be themselves on the outer side of +the door of their approval. Even Amy.... That showed, of course, how +hard it was for women whose experiences had all fallen within the circle +of things as they should be to understand a thing that was--disrupting. +It was as if their kindly impulses, sympathy, tenderness, were +circumscribed by that circle. Little as he liked that, his own mood of +the moment, his unrecognized efforts at holding it, kept him within that +sphere where good feeling lived. In it were happy anticipations of the +life he and Amy would have in Freeport. He had long been out of humor +with his town, scornful. He told himself now that that was a wrong +attitude. There was a new feeling for the homes he was passing, for the +people in those homes. He had a home there, too; it seemed to make him +one with all those people. There was warmth in that feeling of being one +with others. + +He told himself that it was absurd to expect Amy to adjust herself all +in a minute to a thing he had known about for years, had all the time +known from within. He would make Amy understand; if Ruth came, Amy would +be good to her. At heart she was not like those others, and happiness +would make her want to be kind. + +He saw her face lifted for that second good-by kiss--and quickened his +speed. He hoped he would not have to be long at the hospital, hoped Amy +would not be asleep when he got back home. He lingered happily around +the thought of there being a home to go back to, of how Amy would be +there when he got back. + +But it was at a slower speed that, an hour later, he traveled those same +streets. He had lost his patient. It was no failure of the operator, but +one of those cases where the particular human body is not equal to the +demand made upon it, where there was no reaction. He got no satisfaction +in telling himself that the woman could not have lived long without the +operation; she had not lived with it--that was the only side it turned +to him. The surgery was all right enough, but life had ebbed away. It +brought a sense of who was master. + +He had been practising for twelve years, but death always cut deep into +his spirit. It was more than chagrin, more than the disheartenment of +the workman at failure, when he lost a patient. It was a real sense of +death, and with that a feeling of man's final powerlessness. + +That made it a different town through which he drove upon his return; a +town where people cut their way ruthlessly through life--and to what +end? They might be a little kinder to each other along the way, it would +seem, when this was what it came to for them all. They were kind enough +about death--not so kind about the mean twists in life. + +That feeling was all wrapped up with Ruth Holland; it brought Ruth to +him. He thought of the many times they had traveled that road together, +times when he would take her where she could meet Stuart Williams, then +pick her up again and bring her home, her family thinking she had been +with him. How would he ever make Amy understand about that? It seemed +now that it could not be done, that it would be something they did not +share, perhaps something lying hostilely between them. He wondered why +it had not seemed to him the shameful thing it would appear to anyone he +told of it. Was that something twisted in him, or was it just that utter +difference between knowing things from within and judging from without? +To himself, it was never in the form of argument he defended Ruth. It +was the memory of her face at those times when he had seen what she was +feeling. + +He was about to pass the Hollands'--her old home. He slackened the car +to its slowest. It had seemed a gloomy place in recent years. The big +square house in the middle of the big yard of oak trees used to be one +of the most friendly-looking places of the town. But after Ruth went +away and the family drew within themselves, as they did, the hospitable +spaciousness seemed to become bleakness, as if the place itself changed +with the change of spirit. People began to speak of it as gloomy; now +they said it looked forsaken. Certainly it was in need of painting--new +sidewalks, general repairs. Mr. Holland had seemed to cease caring how +the place looked. There weren't flowers any more. + +In the upper hall he saw the dim light that burns through the night in a +house of sickness. He had been there early in the evening; if he thought +the nurse was up he would like to stop again. But he considered that it +must be almost one--too late for disturbing them. He hoped Mr. Holland +was having a good night; he would not have many more nights to get +through. + +He wished there was some one of them to whom he could talk about sending +for Ruth. They had not sent for her when her mother died, but that was +sudden, everyone was panic-stricken. And that was only two years after +Ruth's going away; time had not worked much then on their feeling +against her. He would have to answer her letter and tell her that her +father could not live. He wanted to have the authority to tell her to +come home. Anything else seemed fairly indecent in its lack of feeling. +Eleven years--and Ruth had never been home; and she loved her +father--though of course no one in the town would believe _that_. + +His car had slowed almost to a stop; there was a low whistle from the +porch and someone was coming down the steps. It was Ted Holland--Ruth's +younger brother. + +"Hello, Deane," he said, coming out to him; "thinking of coming in?" + +"No, I guess not; it's pretty late. I was just passing, and wondering +about your father." + +"He went to sleep; seems quiet, and about the same." + +"That's good; hope it will keep up through the night." + +The young fellow did not reply. The doctor was thinking that it must be +lonely for him--all alone on the porch after midnight, his father dying +upstairs, no member of the immediate family in the house. + +"Sent for Cy, Ted?" he asked. Cyrus was the older brother, older than +both Ted and Ruth. It was he who had been most bitter against Ruth. +Deane had always believed that if it had not been for Cyrus the rest of +them would not have hardened into their pain and humiliation like that. + +Ted nodded. "I had written, and today, after you said what you did, I +wired. I had an answer tonight. He has to finish up a deal that will +take him a few days, but I am to keep him informed--I told him you said +it might be a couple of weeks--and he'll come the first minute he can." + +There was a pause. Deane wanted to say: "And Ruth?" but that was a hard +thing to say to one of the Hollands. + +But Ted himself mentioned her. "Tell you what I'm worrying about, +Deane," he blurted out, "and that's Ruth!" + +Deane nodded appreciatively. He had always liked this young Ted, but +there was a new outgoing to him for this. + +"Father asked for her this afternoon. I don't care whether he was just +right in his mind or not--it shows she's _on_ his mind. 'Hasn't Ruth +come in yet!' he asked, several times." + +"You send for her, Ted," commanded the doctor. "You ought to. I'll back +you up if Cy's disagreeable." + +"He'll be disagreeable all right," muttered the younger brother. + +"Well, what about Harriett?" impatiently demanded Deane. "Doesn't she +see that Ruth ought to be here?" Harriett was Ruth's sister and the +eldest of the four children. + +"Harriett would be all right," said Ted, "if it weren't for that bunch +of piety she's married to!" + +Deane laughed. "Not keen for your brother-in-law, Ted?" + +"Oh, I'll tell you, Deane," the boy burst out, "for a long time I +haven't felt just like the rest of the family have about Ruth. It was an +awful thing--I know that, but just the same it was pretty tough on +_Ruth_. I'll bet she's been up against it, good and plenty, and all +we've seemed to think about is the way it put us in bad. Not mother--Cy +never did really get mother, you know, but father would have softened if +it hadn't been for Cy's everlasting keeping him nagged up to the fact +that he'd been wronged! Even Harriett would have been human if it hadn't +been for Cy--and that upright husband she's got!" + +The boy's face was flushed; he ran his hand back through his hair in an +agitated way; it was evident that his heart was hot with feeling about +it all. "I don't know whether you know, Deane," he said in a lowered +voice, "that mother's last words were for Ruth. They can't deny it, for +I was standing nearest her. 'Where's Ruth?' she said; and then at the +very last--'Ruth?'" + +His voice went unsteady as he repeated it. Deane, nodding, was looking +straight down the street. + +"Well," said Ted, after a minute, "I'm not going to have _that_ happen +again. I've been thinking about it. I did write Ruth a week ago. Now I +shall write to her before I go to bed tonight and tell her to come +home." + +"You do that, Ted," said the doctor with gruff warmth. "You do that. +I'll write her too. Ruth wrote to me." + +"Did she?" Ted quickly replied. "Well"--he hesitated, then threw out in +defiant manner and wistful voice, "well, I guess Ruth'll find she's got +one friend when she comes back to her old town." + +"You bet she will," snapped Deane, adding in another voice: "She knows +that." + +"And as for the family," Ted went on, "there are four of us, and I don't +know why Ruth and I aren't half of that four. Cy and Harriett haven't +got it all to say." + +He said it so hotly that Deane conciliated: "Try not to have any split +up, Ted. That would just make it harder for Ruth, you know." + +"There'll not be any split up if Cy will just act like a human being," +said the boy darkly. + +"Tell him your father was asking for Ruth and that I told you you must +send for her. See Harriett first and get her in line." + +"Harriett would be all right," muttered Ted, "if let alone. Lots of +people would be all right if other people didn't keep nagging at them +about what they ought to be." + +Deane gave him a quick, queer look. "You're right there, my son," he +laughed shortly. + +There was a moment's intimate pause. There seemed not a sound on the +whole street save the subdued chug-chug of Deane's waiting machine. The +only light in the big house back in the shadowy yard was the dim light +that burned because a man was dying. Deane's hand went out to his +steering wheel. "Well, so long, Ted," he said in a voice curiously +gentle. + +"'By, Deane," said the boy. + +He drove on through the silent town in another mood. This boy's feeling +had touched something in his heart that was softening. He had always +been attracted to Ted Holland--his frank hazel eyes, something that +seemed so square and so pleasant in the clear, straight features of his +freckled face. He had been only a youngster of about thirteen when Ruth +went away. She had adored him; "my good-looking baby brother," was her +affectionate way of speaking of him. He was thinking what it would mean +to Ruth to come home and find this warmth in Ted. Why, it might make all +the difference in the world, he was gratefully considering. + +When he came into the room where Amy was sleeping she awoke and sat up +in bed, rubbing sleepy eyes blinded by the light. "Poor dear," she +murmured at sight of his face, "so tired?" + +He sat down on the bed; now that he was home, too tired to move. "Pretty +tired. Woman died." + +"Oh, Deane!" she cried. "Deane, I'm _so_ sorry." + +She reached over and put her arms around him. "You couldn't help it, +dear," she comforted. "You couldn't help it." + +Her sympathy was very sweet to him; as said by her, the fact that he +couldn't help it did make some difference. + +"And you had to be there such a long time. Why it must be most morning." + +"Hardly that. I've been at the Hollands' too--talking to Ted. Poor +kid--it's lonesome for him." + +"Who is he?" asked Amy. + +"Why--" and then he remembered. "Why, Ruth Holland's brother," he said, +trying not to speak consciously. "The father's very sick, you know." + +"Oh," said Amy. She moved over to the other side of her bed. + +"They're going to send for Ruth." + +Amy made no reply. + +He was too utterly tired to think much about it--too worn for acute +sensibilities. He sat there yawning. "I really ought to write to Ruth +myself tonight," he said, sleepily thinking out loud, "but I'm too all +in." He wanted her to take the letter off his conscience for him. "I +think I'd better come to bed, don't you, honey?" + +"I should think you would need rest," was her answer. + +She had turned the other way and seemed to be going to sleep again. +Somehow he felt newly tired but was too exhausted to think it out. He +told himself that Amy had just roused for the minute and was too sleepy +to keep awake. People were that way when waked out of a sound sleep. + + + + +CHAPTER FOUR + + +The next evening Dr. Franklin got home for dinner before his wife had +returned from her tea. "Mrs. Franklin not home yet?" he asked of Doris, +their maid; he still said Mrs. Franklin a little consciously and liked +saying it. She told him, rather fluttered with the splendor of it--Doris +being as new to her profession as he to matrimony--that Mrs. Blair had +come for Mrs. Franklin in her "electric" and they had gone to a tea and +had not yet returned. + +He went out into the yard and busied himself about the place while +waiting: trained a vine on a trellis, moved a garden-seat; then he +walked about the house surveying it, after the fashion of the happy +householder, as if for the first time. The house was new; he had built +it for them. From the first moment of his thinking of it it had been +designed for Amy. That made it much more than mere house. He was +thinking that it showed up pretty well with the houses of most of their +friends; Amy needn't be ashamed of it, anyhow, and it would look better +in a couple of seasons, after things had grown up around it a little +more. There would be plenty of seasons for them to grow in, he thought, +whistling. + +Then he got the gentle sound of Edith's pretty little brougham and went +down to meet them. She and Amy looked charming in there--light dresses +and big hats. + +He made a gallant remark and then a teasing one. "Been tea-tattling all +this time?" + +"No," smiled Edith; "we took a ride." + +"Such a beautiful ride," cried Amy. "Way up the river." + +He had helped her out and Edith was leaning out talking to her. "I think +I'd better come for you about one," she was saying. He thought with +loving pride of how quickly Amy had swung into the life of the town. + +During dinner he sat there adoring her: she was so fair, so beautifully +formed, so poised. She was lovely in that filmy dress of cloudy blue. +Amy's eyes were gray, but the darkness of her long lashes gave an +impression of darkness. Her skin was smooth and fair and the chiseling +of her features clean and strong. She held herself proudly; her fair +hair was braided around a well-poised head. She always appeared +composed; there never seemed any frittering or disorganizing of herself +in trivial feeling or movement. One out of love with her might find her +rather too self-possessed a young person. + +So engaged was Deane in admiring her that it was not until they were +about to leave the table that he was conscious of something unusual +about her; even then he did not make out the excitement just beneath her +collected manner. + +He wanted to show her what he had done to the vines and they went out in +the yard. Presently they sat down on the garden-seat which he had moved +a little while before. He had grown puzzled now by Amy's manner. + +She was smoothing out the sash of her dress. She sang a little under her +breath. Then she said, with apparent carelessness: "Mrs. Williams was at +the tea today." + +He knit his brows. "Mrs.--?" Then, understanding, his face tightened. +"Was she?" was his only reply. + +Amy sang a little more. "It's her husband that your friend is living +with, isn't it?" she asked, and the suppressed excitement came nearer to +the surface though her voice remained indifferent. + +He said "Yes" shortly and volunteered nothing. His face had not relaxed. + +"What a sad face she has," Amy murmured. + +"Think so?" He reached over and picked up a twig and flipped a piece of +it off his finger. "Oh, I don't know. I call it cold rather than sad." + +"Oh, well, of course," cried Amy, "_your_ sympathies are all on the +other side!" + +He did not reply. He would try to say as little as possible. + +"I must say," she resumed excitedly, then drew herself back. "Mrs. Blair +was telling me the whole story this afternoon," she said quietly, but +with challenge. + +The blood came to his face. He cleared his throat and impatiently threw +away the twig he had been playing with. "Well, Edith didn't lose much +time, did she?" he said coldly; then added with a rather hard laugh: +"That was the reason for the long ride, I suppose." + +"I don't know that it is so remarkable," Amy began with quivering +dignity, "that she should tell me something of the affairs of the town." +After an instant she added, "I am a stranger here." + +He caught the different note and turned quickly to her. "Dearest, +there's nothing about the 'affairs of the town' I won't tell you." He +put his arm around the back of the seat, the hand resting on her +shoulder. "And I must say I don't think you're much of a stranger here. +Look at the friends you've made already. I never saw anything like it." + +"Mrs. Blair does seem to like me," she answered with composure. Then +added: "Mrs. Williams was very nice to me too." + +His hand on her shoulder drew away a little and he snapped his fingers. +Then the hand went back to her shoulder. "Well, that's very nice," he +said quietly. + +"She's coming to see me. I'm sure I found her anything but cold and +hard!" + +"I don't think that a woman--" he began hotly, but checked himself. + +But all the feeling that had been alive there just beneath Amy's cool +exterior flamed through. "Well, how you can stand up for a woman who did +what _that_ woman did--!" + +Her cheeks were flaming now, her nostrils quivered. "I guess you're the +only person in town that does stand up for her! But of course you're +right--and the rest of them--" She broke off with a tumultuous little +laugh and abruptly got up and went into the house. + +He sat there for a time alone, sick at heart. He told himself he had +bungled the whole thing. Why hadn't he told Amy all about Ruth, putting +it in a way that would get her sympathies. Surely he could have done +that had he told her the story as he knew it, made her feel what Ruth +had suffered, how tormented and bewildered and desperate she had been. +Now she had the town's side and naturally resented his championing of +what was presented as so outrageous a thing. He went over the story as +Edith would give it. That was enough to vindicate Amy. + +He rose and followed her into the house. She was fingering some music on +the piano. He saw how flushed her face was, how high she carried her +head and how quick her breathing. + +He went and put his arms around her. "Sweetheart," he said very simply +and gently, "I love you. You know that, don't you?" + +An instant she held back in conflict. Then she hid her face against him +and sobbed. He held her close and murmured soothing little things. + +She was saying something. "I was so happy," he made out the smothered +words. "It was all so--beautiful." + +"But you're happy _now_," he insisted. "It's beautiful _now_." + +"I feel as if my marriage was being--spoiled," she choked. + +He shook her, playfully, but his voice as he spoke was not playful. +"Look here, Amy, don't say such a thing. Don't let such a thing get into +your head for an instant! Our happiness isn't a thing to talk like that +about." + +"I feel as if--_that woman_--was standing between us!" + +He raised her face and made her look into his own, at once stern and +very tender. "Amy love, we've got to stop this right _now_. A long time +ago--more than ten years ago--there was a girl here who had an awfully +hard time. I was sorry for her. I'm sorry for her now. Life's hit her +good and hard. We're among the fortunate people things go right for. We +can be together--happy, having friends, everybody approving, everybody +good to us. We're mighty lucky that it is that way. And isn't our own +happiness going to make us a little sorry for people who are outside all +this?" He kissed her. "Come now, sweetheart, you're not going to harden +up like that. Why, that wouldn't be _you_ at all!" + +She was quiet; after a little she smiled up at him, the sweet, +reminiscently plaintive little smile of one just comforted. For the +moment, at least, love had won her. "Sometime I'll tell you anything +about it you want to know," he said, holding her tenderly and smoothing +her hair. "Meanwhile--let's forget it. Come on now, honey, change your +dress--get into something warmer and go for a ride with me. I've got to +make a couple of calls, and I want you along." + +"You know," he was saying as he unfastened her dress for her, "after I +knew I was going to have you, and before I got you here, I used to think +so much about this very thing--the fun of having you going around with +me--doing things together. Now it seems--" He did not finish, for he was +passionately kissing the white shoulder which the unfastened dress had +bared. "Amy, dear,"--his voice choked--"oh, _doesn't_ it seem too good +to be true?" + +His feeling for her had chased the other things away. She softened to +happiness, then grew gay. They were merry and happy again. All seemed +well with them. But when, on his rounds, they passed the Hollands' and +Ted waved from the porch he had an anxious moment of fearing she would +ask who that was and their crust of happiness would let them through. He +quickly began a spirited account of an amusing thing that had happened +in the office that day. His dream had been of a happiness into which he +could sink, not ground on the surface that must be fought for and held +by effort; but he did not let himself consider that then. + + + + +CHAPTER FIVE + + +The train for Chicago was several hours out from Denver when the man who +had decided that it was an uninteresting car began watching the woman +who was facing him from several seats away. He was one of those persons +with a drab exterior but not a similarly colored imagination, and he was +always striving to defeat the meager life his exterior consigned him to +by projecting himself into the possible experiences of people he watched +on the trains. + +Afterwards he wondered that he should at first have passed this woman by +with the mere impression of a nice-looking woman who seemed tired. It +was when he chanced to look at her as she was looking from the window +that she arrested him. Her sweet face had steeled itself to something, +she was as if looking out at a thing that hurt her, but looking with the +courage to bear that hurt. He turned and looked from the window in the +direction of her intense gaze and then smiled at himself as he turned +back from the far-reaching monotonous plain of Eastern Colorado; he +might have known that what she was looking at was not spread out there +for anyone else to see. + +She interested him all through the two days. She puzzled him. He +relieved the tedium of the journey with speculations on what sort of +thing it was she was thinking about, going over. He would arrive at a +conclusion in which he felt considerable satisfaction only to steal +another look at her and find that she did not look at all like the woman +he had made up his mind she was. What held him was the way feeling +shaped her. She had a delicate, sweet face, but there were times when it +was almost repellent in its somberness, when it hardened in a way that +puzzled him. She would sit looking from the window and it was as if a +dense sadness had settled down upon her; then her face would light with +a certain sad tenderness, and once he had the fancy of her lifting her +head out of gloom to listen to a beautiful, far-away call. There were +long meditations, far steady looks out at something, little reminiscent +smiles that lingered about her sensitive mouth after her eyes had gone +sad again. She would grow tired of thinking and close her eyes and seem +to try to rest. Her face, at those times, showed the wear of hard years, +laying bare lines that one took no count of when her eyes were lighted +and her mouth sensitive. Frequently she would turn from herself and +smile at the baby across the aisle; but once, when the baby was crowing +and laughing she abruptly turned away. He tried to construct "a life" +for her, but she did not stay in any life he carefully arranged. There +were times when he impatiently wondered why he should be wondering so +much about her; those were the times when she seemed to have let it all +go, was inert. But though he did not succeed in getting a "life" for +her, she gave him a freshened sense of life as immensely interesting, as +charged with pain and sweetness. + +It was over the pain and the sweetness of life that this woman--Ruth +Holland--brooded during the two days that carried her back to the home +of her girlhood. She seemed to be going back over a long bridge. That +part of her life had been cut away from her. With most lives the past +grew into the future; it was as a growth that spread, the present but +the extent of the growth at the moment. With her there had been the +sharp cut; not a cut, but a tear, a tear that left bleeding ends. Back +there lay the past, a separated thing. During the eleven years since her +life had been torn from that past she had seen it not only as a separate +thing but a thing that had no reach into the future. The very number of +miles between, the fact that she made no journeys back home, contributed +to that sense of the cleavage, the remoteness, the finality. Those she +had left back there remained real and warm in her memory, but her part +with them was a thing finished. It was as if only shoots of pain could +for the minute unite them. + +Turning her face back toward home turned her back to herself there. She +dwelt upon home as she had left it, then formed the picture of what she +would find now. Her mother and her grandfather would not be there. The +father she had left would not be there. A dying man would be there. Ted +would be grown up. She wondered if anyone had taken care of the flowers. +Would there be any roses? She and her mother had always taken care of +them. Edith--? Would Terror be there? He was only about three when she +left; dogs did live as long as that. She had named him Terror because of +his puppy pranks. But there would be no puppy pranks now. It would be a +sedate old dog she would find. He would not know her--she who had cared +for him and romped with him through his puppyhood. But they had not +shared experiences. + +On the train carrying her back home her own story opened freshly to her. +Again and again she would be caught into it.... + + * * * * * + +Ruth Holland--the girl of twenty--was waiting for Deane Franklin to come +and take her to the dance at the Country Club. She was dressed and +wandering restlessly about the house, looking in mirrors as she passed +them, pleased with herself in her new white dress. There was an +excitement in the fact that she had not seen Deane for almost a year; he +had been away, studying medicine at Johns Hopkins. She wondered if he +would seem any different; wondered--really more interested in this than +in the other--if she would seem any different to him. + +She did not think of Deane "that way" she had told Edith Lawrence, her +bosom friend from childhood, when Edith that afternoon had hinted at +romantic possibilities. Edith was in romantic mood because she and Will +Blair were in the happy state of getting over a quarrel. For a month +Ruth had listened to explosions against Will Blair. Now it was made up +and Edith was in sweetly chastened spirit. She explained to Ruth at +great length and with much earnestness that she had not understood Will, +that she had done him a great injustice; and she was going to the party +with him that night. Edith and Will and Deane and Ruth were going +together. + +They were singularly unmatured for girls of twenty. Their experiences +had not taken them outside the social life of the town, and within it +they had found too easy, pre-prepared sailing for any real finding or +tests of themselves. They were daughters of two of the town's most +important families; they were two of the town's most attractive girls. +That fixed their place in a round of things not deepening, not +individualizing. It was pleasant, rather characterless living on a +limited little part of the surface of life. They went to "the parties," +occupied with that social round that is as definite a thing in a town of +forty thousand as in a metropolis. Their emotional experiences had been +little more than part of their social life--within it and of the +character of it. Attractive, popular, of uncontested place in the +society in which they found themselves, they had not known the strivings +and the heart-aches that can intensify life within those social +boundaries. They were always invited. When they sat out dances it was +because they wanted to. Life had dealt too favoringly and too +uneventfully with them to find out what stuff was really in them. They +were almost always spoken of together--Edith Lawrence and Ruth +Holland--Ruth and Edith. That was of long standing; they had gone to +primary school together, to Sunday-school, through the high-school. They +told each other things; they even hinted at emotions concealed within +their breasts, of dissatisfactions and longings there were no words for. +Once Ruth confided that sometimes she wept and could not have said why, +and great seemed the marvel when Edith confessed to similar experiences. +They never suspected that girlhood was like that; they were like that, +and set apart and united in being so. + +But those spiritual indulgences were rare; for the most part they were +what would be called two wholesome, happy girls, girls whose lot had +fallen in pleasant places. + +Ruth wanted to go to college, but her father had kept her from it. Women +should marry and settle down and have families was the belief of Cyrus +Holland. Going to college put foolish notions in their heads. Not being +able to go had been Ruth's first big disappointment. Edith had gone East +to a girls' school. At the last minute, realizing how lonely she would +be at home without her chum, Ruth had begged to go with her. Her mother +had urged it for her. But it was an expensive school to which Edith was +going, and when he found what it would cost Ruth's father refused, +saying he could not afford it, and that it was nonsense, anyway. Ruth +had then put in a final plea for the State University, which would not +cost half as much as Edith's school. Seeing that it meant more to her +than he had known, and having a particular affection for this younger +daughter of his, Mr. Holland was on the point of giving in when the +newspapers came out with a scandal that centered about the suicide of a +girl student at the university. That settled it; Ruth would stay home +with her mother. She could go on with music, and study literature with +Miss Collins. Miss Collins stood for polite learning in the town. There +was not the remotest danger of an education received through her +unfeminizing a girl. But Ruth soon abandoned Miss Collins, scornfully +informing her parent that she would as soon study literature with a +mummy. + +With Ruth, the desire to go to college had been less a definite craving +for knowledge than a diffused longing for an enlarged experience. She +wanted something different, was impatient for something new, something +more. She had more curiosity about the life outside their allotted place +than her friend Edith Lawrence had. She wanted to go to college because +that would open out from what she had. Ruth would have found small +satisfaction in that girls' school of Edith's had her father consented +to her going. It was little more than the polite learning of Miss +Collins fashionably re-dressed. Edith, however, came home with a new +grace and poise, an added gift of living charmingly on the surface of +life, and held that school was lovely. + +During that year her friend was away--Ruth was nineteen then--she was +not so much unhappy as she was growingly impatient for something more, +and expectant of it. She was always thinking that something was going to +happen--that was why things did not go dead for her. The year was +intensifying to her; she missed her friend; she had been baffled in +something she wanted. It made her conscious of wanting more than she +had. Her energies having been shut off from the way they had wanted to +go, she was all the more zestful for new things from life. There was +much in her that her life did not engage. + +She loved dancing. She was happily excited that night because they were +going to a dance. Waiting for Deane, she wondered if he had danced any +during the year, hoping that he had, and was a little better dancer than +of old. Dear Deane! She always had that "Dear Deane!" feeling after she +had been critical about him. + +She wished she did think of Deane "that way"--the way she had told Edith +she did not think of him. But "that way" drew her from thoughts of +Deane. She had stopped before her dressing-table and was toying with her +manicure things. She looked at herself in the glass and saw the color +coming to her cheeks. She sat there dreaming--such dreams as float +through girlhood. + +Her mother came in to see how she looked. Mrs. Holland was a small, +frail-looking woman. Ruth resembled her, but with much added. Things +caught into Ruth were not in her mother. They resembled each other in +certain definite things, but there was something that flushed Ruth to +life--transforming her--that did not live in her mother. They were alike +as a beautiful shell enclosing a light may be like one that is not +lighted. Mrs. Holland was much occupied with the social life of her +town. She was light-hearted, well-liked. She went to the teas and card +parties which abounded there and accepted that as life with no +dissatisfaction beyond a mild desire for more money. + +She also enjoyed the social life of her daughter; where Ruth was to go +and what she would wear were matters of interest and importance. Indeed +life was compounded of matters concerning where one would go and what +one would wear. + +"Well, Sally Gordon certainly did well with that dress," was her +verdict. "Some think she's falling off. Now do try and not get it +spoiled the first thing, Ruth. Dancing is so hard on your clothes." + +She surveyed her daughter with satisfaction. Ruth was a daughter a +mother would survey with satisfaction. The strong life there was in her +was delicately and subtly suggested. She did not have what are thought +to be the easily distinguishable marks of intense feeling. She suggested +fine things--a rare, high quality. She was not out-and-out beautiful; +her beauty lurked within her feeling. It was her fluidity that made her +lovely. Her hazel eyes were ever changing with light and feeling, eyes +that could wonderfully darken, that glowed in a rush of feeling and +shone in expectancy or delight,--eyes that the spirit made. She had a +lovely brow, a sensitive, beautiful mouth. But it needed the light +within to find her beauty. Without it she was only a sweet-looking, +delicately fashioned girl. + +"That's Deane," said Ruth, as the bell rang. + +"I want to see him too," said Mrs. Holland, "and so will your father." + +Ruth met him in the hall, holding out both hands with, "Deane, I'm _so_ +glad to see you!" + +He was not an expressive youth. As he shook Ruth's hands with vigor, he +exclaimed, "Same here! Same here!" and straightway he seemed just the +Deane of old and in the girl's heart was a faint disappointment. + +As a little boy people had called Deane Franklin a homely youngster. His +thick, sandyish hair used to stand up in an amazing manner. He moved in +a peculiarly awkward way, as if the jointing of him had not been +perfectly accomplished. He had a wide generous mouth that was attractive +when it was not screwed out of shape. His keen blue eyes had a nice +twinkle. His abrupt, hearty manner seemed very much his own. He was +better dressed than when Ruth had last seen him. She was thinking that +Deane could actually be called attractive in his own homely, awkward +way. And yet, as he kept shaking her hands up and down, broadly +grinning, nodding his head,--"tickled to death to be back," she felt +anew that she could not think of Deane "that way." Perhaps she had known +him too long. She remembered just how absurd he had looked in his first +long trousers--and those silly little caps he had worn perched way back +on his head! Yet she really loved Deane, in a way; she felt a great deal +nearer to him than to her own brother Cyrus. + +They had gone into the living-room. Mrs. Holland thought he had +grown--grown broader, anyway; Mr. Holland wanted to know about the +medical school, and would he practice in Freeport? Ted wanted to know if +Johns Hopkins had a good team. + +"That's Will, I guess," he said, turning to Ruth as the bell rang. + +"Oh, Will," cried Mrs. Holland, "do ask Edith to come in and show us her +dress! She won't muss it if she's careful. Her mother told me it was the +sweetest dress Edith ever had." + +Edith entered in her bright, charming way, exhibiting her pretty pink +dress with a pleasure that was winning. She had more of definite beauty +than Ruth--golden hair, really sunny hair, it was, and big, deep blue +eyes and fresh, even skin. Ruth often complained that Edith had +something to count on; she could tell how she was going to look, while +with her--Ruth--there was never any knowing. Some of the times when she +was most anxious to look her best, she was, as she bewailed it, a +fright. Edith was larger than Ruth, she had more of a woman's +development. + +Mrs. Holland followed them out to the carriage. "Now don't stay until +_all_ hours," was her parting admonition, in a tone of comfortable +resignation to the fact that that was exactly what they would do. + +"Well," said Mr. Holland, who had gone as far as the door, "I don't know +what young folks are coming to. After nine o'clock now!" + +"That must be a punk school Deane goes to," said Ted, his mind not yet +pried from the football talk. + + + + +CHAPTER SIX + + +"Our dance." + +With a swift little movement the girl turned a glowing face to the man +standing before her. Flushed with dancing, keyed high in the pleasure +and triumphs of the evening, she turned the same radiant face to Stuart +Williams as he claimed their dance that she would have turned to almost +anyone claiming a dance. It was something that came to life in the man's +eyes as he looked down into her flushed face, meeting her happy, shining +eyes, that arrested the flashing, impersonal smile of an instant before +and underneath that impersonal gladness of youth there was a faint +flutter of self. + +He was of the "older crowd;" it happened that she had never danced with +him before. He was a better dancer than the boys of her own set, but +somehow that old impersonal joy in dancing was a lesser thing now than +the sense of dancing with this man. + +"That was worth coming for," he said quietly, when the dance and the +encore to it were over and they found themselves by one of the doors +opening out on the balcony. + +She looked up with a smile. It was a smile curiously touched with +shyness. He saw the color wavering in her sensitive, delicate face. Then +he asked lightly: "Shall we see what's being dispensed from this +punch-bowl?" + +With their ice, they stood looking out into the moonlight over a wide +stretch of meadow to far hills. "A fine night to ride over the hills and +far away," he laughed at last, his voice lingering a little on the +fancy. + +She only laughed a little in reply, looking off there toward over the +hills and far away. Watching her, he wondered why he had never thought +anything much about her before. He would have said that Ruth Holland was +one of the nice attractive girls of the town, and beyond that could have +said little about her. He watched the flow of her slender neck into her +firm delicate little chin, the lovely corners of her mouth where feeling +lurked. The fancy came to him that she had not settled into flesh the +way most people did, that she was not fixed by it. He puzzled for the +word he wanted for her, then got it--luminous was what she was; he felt +a considerable satisfaction in having found that word. + +"Seems to me you and Edith Lawrence grew up in a terrible hurry," he +began in a slow, teasing manner. "Just a day or two ago you were +youngsters racing around with flying pigtails, and now here you are--all +these poor young chaps--and all us poor old ones--fighting for dances +with you. What made you hurry so?" he laughed. + +The coquette in most normal girls of twenty rose like a little imp up +through her dreaming of over the hills and far away. "Why, I don't +know," she said, demurely; "perhaps I was hurrying to catch up with +someone." + +His older to younger person manner fell away, leaving the man delighting +in the girl, a delightfully daring girl it seemed she was, for all that +look of fine things he had felt in her just a moment before. He grew +newly puzzled about her, and interested in the puzzle. "Would you like +to have that someone stand still long enough to give you a good start?" +he asked, zestful for following. + +But she could not go on with it. She was not used to saying daring +things to "older men." She was a little appalled at what she had +done--saying a thing like that to a man who was married; and yet just a +little triumphant in her own audacity, and the way she had been able to +make him feel she was something a long way removed from a little girl +with flying pigtails. + +"I really have been grown up for quite a while," she said, suddenly +grave. + +He did not try to bring her back to the other mood,--that astonishing +little flare of audacity; he was watching her changing face, like her +voice it was sweetly grave. + +The music had begun again--this time a waltz. A light hand upon her arm, +he directed her back towards the dancing floor. + +"I have this taken," she objected hesitatingly. + +"This is an extra," he said. + +She felt sure that it was not; she knew she ought to object, that it was +not right to be treating one of the boys of her own crowd that way. But +that consciousness of what she ought to be doing fell back--pale, +impotent--before the thing she wanted to do.... + +They were silent for a little time after; without commenting on doing +so, they returned to their place outside. "See?" she said presently, +"the moon has found another hill. That wasn't there when we were here +before." + +"And beyond that are more hills," he said, "that we don't see even yet." + +"I suppose," she laughed, "that it's not knowing where we would get +makes over the hills and far away--fun." + +"Well, anything rather than standing still." He said it under his +breath, more to himself than to her. But it was to her he added, +teasingly and a little lingeringly: "Unless, of course, one were waiting +for someone to catch up with one." + +She smiled without turning to him; watching her, the thought found its +way up through the proprieties of his mind that it would be worth +waiting a long time if, after the wait, one could go over the hills and +far away with a girl through whom life glowed as he could see it glowed +in this girl; no, not with a girl like this--boldly, humorously and a +little tenderly he amended in his mind--but with _this_ girl. + +She wheeled about. "I must go back," she said abruptly. "This dance is +with Will Blair--I must go back. I'll have a hard enough time," she +laughed, a little nervously, "making it right with Louis Stephens." + +"I'll tell him I heard it was an extra," he said. + +She halted, looking up at him. "Did you hear that!" she demanded. + +He seemed about to say some light thing, but that died away. "I wanted +the dance," was his quiet reply. + + + + +CHAPTER SEVEN + + +It was a June evening a year later that Stuart Williams sat on the steps +of the porch that ran round the side of his house, humoring the fox +terrier who thought human beings existed to throw sticks for dogs. After +a while the man grew tired of that theory of human existence, and bade +the panting Fritz lie down on the step below him. From there Fritz would +look up to his master appealingly, eyes and tail saying, "Now let's +begin again." But he got no response, so, in philosophic dog fashion, +soon stretched out for a snooze. + +The man was less philosophic: he had not that gift of turning from what +he wanted to what he could have. + +A little later he would go to the rehearsal of the out-of-door play the +Country Club was getting ready to give. Ruth Holland would be there: she +too was in the play. Probably he would take her home, for they lived in +the same neighborhood and a little apart from the others. It was Mrs. +Lawrence who, the night of the first rehearsal, commented with relief +for one more thing smoothly arranged upon their going the same way. + +For five weeks now they had been going the same way; their talk on those +homeward walks had been the lightest of talk, for the most part a +laughing over things that had happened during the rehearsal. And yet the +whole world had become newly alive, until tonight it seemed a tremulous, +waiting world. That light talk had been little more than a pulling back +from the pauses, little more than retreat, safeguard. It was the pauses +that lived on with him, creating his dreams; her face as she turned it +to him after a silence would sometimes be as if she had been caught into +that world touched to new life--world that waited. They would renew the +light talk as if coming back from something. + +He let himself slip into dreaming now; he had told himself that that, at +least, could work no one harm, and in quiet hours, when he smoked, +relaxed, he was now always drawn over where he knew he must not let +himself go. It was as if something stronger than he was all around him. +One drooping hand caressed his dog; he drew in the fragrance from a rose +trellis near by; the leaves of the big tree moved with a gentle little +sound, a sound like the whisper of sweet things; a bird +note--goodnight--floated through the dusk. He was a man whom those +things reached. And in the last year, particularly in those last weeks, +it had come to be that all those things were one with Ruth Holland; to +open to them meant being drawn to her. + +He would tell himself that that was wrong, mad; nothing he could tell +himself seemed to have any check on that pull there was on him in the +thought of her. He and his wife were only keeping up the appearance of +marriage. For two years he had not had love. He was not a man who could +learn to live without it. And now all the desirableness of life, hunger +for love, the whole of earth's lure seemed to break in through the +feeling for this girl--that wrong, wonderful feeling that had of itself +flushed his heart to new life. + +Sharply he pulled himself about, shifting position as if to affirm his +change of thinking. It turned him from the outer world to his house; he +saw Marion sitting in there at her desk writing a letter. He watched +her, thinking about her, about their lives. She was so poised, so cool; +it would seem, so satisfied. Was she satisfied? Did denial of life leave +nothing to be desired? If there were stirrings for living things they +did not appear to disturb her calm surface. He wondered if a night like +this never touched old things in her, if there were no frettings for +what she had put out of her life. + +He watched her small, beautifully shaped dark head, the fine smooth hair +that fell over the little ear he had loved to kiss. She was beautiful; +it was her beauty that had drawn him to her. She was more beautiful than +Ruth Holland, through whom it seemed all the beauty of the world reached +him. Marion's beauty was a definite separate thing; his face went tender +as he thought how Ruth Holland only grew beautiful in beauty, as if it +broke through her, making her. + +Once more he moved sharply, disturbing the little dog at his feet; he +realized where his thoughts had again gone, how looking at his wife it +was to this other girl he was drawn, she seeming near him and Marion +apart. He grew miserable in a growing feeling of helplessness, in a +sense of waiting disaster. It was as if the whole power of life was +drawing him on to disaster. Again that bird call floated through the +dusk; the gentle breeze stirred the fragrance of flowers; it came to +seem that the world was beautiful that it might ensnare him, as if the +whole power of the sweetness of life was trying to pull him over where +he must not go. He grew afraid. He got the feeling that he must do +something--that he must do it at once. After he had sat there brooding +for half an hour he abruptly got up and walked in where his wife was +sitting. + +"Marion," he began brusquely, "I should like to speak to you." + +She had been sitting with her back to the door; at his strange address +of her she turned round in surprise; she looked startled when she saw +his strained face. + +"We've been married about six years, isn't it?" + +He had come a little nearer, but remained standing. He still spoke in +that rough way. She did not reply but nodded slightly, flushing. + +"And now for two years we--haven't been married?" + +She stiffened and there was a slight movement as if drawing back. She +did not answer. + +"I'm thirty-four and you're a little less than that." He paused and it +was more quietly, though none the less tensely that he asked: "Is it +your idea that we go through life like this?" + +She was gathering together the sheets of paper on her desk. She did not +speak. + +"You were angry at me--disappointed. I grant you, as I did at the time, +that it was a silly affair, not--not creditable. I tried to show you how +little it meant, how it had--just happened. Two years have passed; we +are still young people. I want to know--do you intend this to go on? Are +our whole lives to be spoiled by a mere silly episode?" + +She spoke then. "Mere silly episode," she said with a high little laugh, +"seems rather a slight way to dispose of the fact that you were untrue +to me." She folded her letter and was putting it in the envelope. It +would not go in and she refolded it with hands not steady. + +He did not speak until she had sealed the letter and was sitting there +looking down at her hands, rubbing them a little, as if her interest was +in them. "Marion," he asked, and his voice shook now, "doesn't it ever +seem to you that life is too valuable to throw away like this?" She made +no reply and angered by her unresponsiveness he added sharply: "It's +rather dangerous, you know." + +She looked up at him then. "Is this a threat?" she asked with a faint, +mocking smile. + +He moved angrily, starting to leave the room. "Have you no feeling?" he +broke out at her. "Is this all you _want_ from life?" + +She colored and retorted: "It was not the way I expected to live when I +married you." + +He stood there doggedly for a moment, his face working with nervousness. +"I think then," he said roughly, "that we'd better be decent enough to +get a divorce!" At what he saw in her face he cried passionately: "Oh +no, you don't believe in divorce--but you believe in _this_!" + +"Was it _I_ who brought it about?" she cried, stung to anger. + +She had risen and for an instant they stood there facing each other. +"Haven't you any humanity?" he shot rudely at her. "Don't you ever +_feel_?" + +She colored but drew back, in command of herself again. "I do not +desecrate my feelings," she said with composure; "I don't degrade my +humanity." + +"Feeling--humanity!" he sneered, and wheeled about and left the room. + +He started at once for his rehearsal. He was trembling with anger and +yet underneath that passion was an unacknowledged feeling of relief. It +had seemed that he had to do something; now he told himself that he had +done what he could. He walked slowly through the soft night, seeking +control. He was very bitter toward Marion, and yet in his heart he knew +that he had asked for what he no longer wanted. He quickened his step +toward the Lawrences', where they were to hold the rehearsal, where he +would find Ruth Holland. + + + + +CHAPTER EIGHT + + +After the maelstrom of passion had thrown her out where life left her +time to think about what she had felt, Ruth Holland would wonder whether +there was something in her that made her different from the good people +of the world. Through it all she did not have the feeling that it would +seem she would have; what she did did not make her feel as she knew, +when she came to think it out, she would be supposed to feel about such +a thing. In hours that would be most condemned she had had a simple +feeling of life as noble. What would be called the basest things she had +done had seemed to free something within her that made her more kind, +more generous, more tender, made her as a singing part of a fine, +beautiful world. Her degradation had seemed to burn away all that was +not pure, giving her a sense of being lifted up; it was as if through +this illicit love a spiritual fount was unsealed that made her +consciously one with life at its highest. Afterwards she wondered about +it, wondered whether she was indeed different from people who were good, +or whether it could be that hearts had been shown, not as they were, but +as it was deemed meet they should be shown. + +When she and Deane, with Edith and Will Blair, went home from the dance +that night, something new breathed through the night. It was hard to +join in the talk; she wanted to be alone, alone with that new stir. She +was gentle with Deane as they stood for a moment at the door. She felt +tender toward him. A little throb of excitement in her voice, the way +her eyes shone, made him linger there with her a moment or two. It was +as if he wanted to say something but the timid, clumsy words he spoke +just before leaving were, "That sure is a peach of a dress. You had them +all beat tonight, Ruth," and Ruth went into the house knowing now for +sure how impossible it would be ever to think of Deane "that way." In +the hour before she went to sleep what she meant by "that way" was a +more living thing than it had ever been before. + +The year which followed was not a happy one; it was a disturbed, a +fretted year; girlhood was too ruffled for contentment in the old +things, and yet she was not swept on. The social life of the town +brought her and Stuart Williams together from time to time. They always +had several dances together at the parties. It was those dances that +made the party for her. If he were not there, the evening was a dead +thing. When he was, something came to life in her that made everything +different. She would be excited; she had color; her eyes shone. It +made her gay, as an intoxicant may make one gay. Though when she +danced with him she went curiously silent; that stilled her. After +going home she would lie awake for hours, live over every slightest +thing he had said, each glance and move. It was an unreal world +of a new reality--quickened, heightened, delirious, promising. + +In that first year she sometimes wondered if it was what would be called +a flirtation. It did not seem so to her, and it was true that after that +first night at the Country Club the quality of flirtation somehow fell +away. Afterwards, when it became the thing that made her life, she +looked back in wonderment to the light little way it had begun. That too +did not seem as it should be--that a thing of such tremendous and +ruthless power, a thing that swept her whole life on at its will, should +come into life in a way so slight, so light, so much of chance. At first +it was just the faintest little breath; but it stirred something, it +grew, it became a great wind that there was no force anywhere to combat. +In that first year there was between them, unspoken of, a consciousness +of feeling touched in the other, a sense of the disturbance, the pull. +It seemed very wonderful to her that just his presence in the room could +make her feel alive in a way she had never felt alive before. And it was +sweet almost beyond belief, it was intoxicating, to come to know that +her presence was that same strange wine to him. She had seen his eyes +anxiously rove a crowded room and stop with her, his face lighting. She +loved remembering his face once at a card party of the older crowd where +she had been tardily summoned by a disappointed hostess. He had been in +the room several minutes, she watching him unseen. He was not looking +anxiously about this time, as she had seen him do at the dancing +parties. She thought he looked tired as he and his wife came in, not as +if anticipating pleasure. Then he saw her and she never forgot that leap +of glad surprise in his eyes, the quick change in him, the new buoyancy. + +She would have supposed, thinking back to it afterward, that she would +have drawn back; that before feeling really broke through, a girl such +as she, reared as she had been, a part of such a society, a girl, as +they afterward said, who should have known right from wrong would, in +that time of its gathering, have drawn back from so shameful a thing as +love with another woman's husband. It was as mystifying to her that she +did not fight against it as it was that it should have come. She did not +understand the one nor the other. Certainly it was not as she would have +supposed it would be had she heard of such a thing. Something seemed to +have caught her up, to have taken her. She was appalled at times, but +the truth was that she was carried along almost without resistance; +ideas of resistance were there, but they were pale things, not charged +with power. She would suppose, had she known the story only through +hearing it, that she would have thought intensely and become wretched in +the thought of Mrs. Williams. Perhaps if Mrs. Williams had been a plain +little woman, or a sad looking one, that would have come home to her +harder. But one would not readily pity Marion Williams, or get the +feeling of wronging her. As Marion Averley she had been the reigning +girl of the town. Ruth, ten years younger, had not come far enough out +from her little girl's awe of Marion Averley, the young lady, to be +quick in getting the feeling of wronging Marion Williams, the wife. +Perhaps one would be more slow in getting a feeling of wronging the most +smartly dressed woman in the room than would be the case with the wife +dowdy or drab. Mrs. Williams, while not radiating happiness, seemed +somehow impervious to unhappiness, and certainly to any hurt another +woman could bring her. She had an atmosphere of high self-valuation. +While she never appeared to be having an especially good time she gave a +sense of being perfectly able to command a better one had it pleased her +to do so. + +People had supposed that Marion Averley would make a brilliant marriage. +Her grandfather had made his money in lumber, in those early days of +lumber kings on the Mississippi. Locally they were looked upon as rich +people. Marion had gone to a fashionable school, to Europe. People of +the town said there was nothing "local" about her. Other girls had been +as much away and yet would return seeming just a part of the town. That +was why everyone was surprised when the Averleys announced Marion's +engagement to Stuart Williams. He was distinctly local and his people +were less important than hers. He had come home from college and gone +into business. His father had a small canning factory, an industry that +for years had not grown much, remaining one of the small concerns in a +town of rapidly growing manufactories. Stuart went into business with +his father and very soon there were expansions, new methods; he brought +imagination to bear upon it, and a big fund of young man's energy, until +it rapidly came up from a "nice little business" to one of the things +that counted in the town. He had a talent for business; his imagination +worked that way and he was what they called a hustler. He soon became a +part of a number of things, both personal affairs and matters of public +concern. He came to be alluded to as one of the prominent young business +men. Even before Marion Averley married him people were saying that he +would make money. + +They liked her for marrying him. They said it showed that there was more +to her than they had supposed, that there was warmth she did not show. +For she must have married him for the good old reason that she had +fallen in love with him. Their engagement brought Stuart Williams into a +new social conspicuousness, though he had the qualities--in particular a +certain easy, sunny manner--that had made him popular all along. During +the engagement people spoke of the way Marion seemed to thaw out; they +liked her much better than they had in the days of being awed by her +sophistication, her aloofness. + +After their marriage the Williams' were leaders of the young married +set. Their house was the gayest place in town; Stuart Williams had the +same talent in hospitality that he had for business--growing, perhaps, +out of the same qualities. He was very generally and really deeply +liked; they called him a good fellow, a lovable chap. For about four +years people spoke of it as a successful marriage, though there were no +children. And then, just what it was no one knew, but the Williams' +began to seem different, going to their house became a different thing. +The people who knew Marion best had a feeling that she was not the same +after the visit of that gay little Southern matron whom she had known in +school at Washington. It was very gay at the Williams' through that +visit, and then Marion said she was tired out and they were going to +draw in for a little, and somehow they just never seemed to emerge from +that drawing in. Her friends wondered; they talked about how Stuart and +this friend of Marion's had certainly hit it off wonderfully; some of +them suspected, but Marion gave no confidences. She seemed to carry her +head higher than ever; in fact, in some curious way she seemed to become +Marion Averley again while Stuart Williams concentrated more and more +upon the various business affairs he was being drawn into. It came about +that the Williams' were less and less mentioned when the subject of +happy marriages was up, and when time had swung Ruth Holland and Edith +Lawrence into the social life of the town it was the analytical rather +than the romantically minded citizens who were talking about them. + +Perhaps life would have been quite another thing for a number of people +if the Country Club had not decided to replenish its treasury by giving +a play. Mrs. Lawrence was chairman of the entertainment committee. That +naturally brought Edith and Ruth into the play, and one night after one +of those periods of distraction into which the organizer of amateur +theatricals is swept it was Mrs. Lawrence who exclaimed, "Stuart +Williams! Why couldn't he do that part?"--and Stuart Williams, upon +learning who was in the cast, said he would see what he could do with +it. + +Again, at the close of the first rehearsal, as they stood about in the +hall at the Lawrences', laughing over mishaps, it was Mrs. Lawrence who +said, "You and Ruth go the same way, don't you, Stuart?" + +Tonight they were going that way after the final rehearsal. It was later +than usual; they went slowly, saying little. They had fallen silent as +they neared Ruth's home; they walked slowly and in silence outside the +fence; paused an instant at the gate, then, very slowly, started up the +walk which led to the big white square house and came to a stop beneath +the oak tree which was so near the house that its branches brushed the +upper window panes. + +They stood there silent; the man knew that he ought to go at once; that +in that silence the feeling which words had so thinly covered would +break through and take them. But knowing he should go seemed without +power to make him go. He watched the girl's slightly averted face. He +knew why it was averted. He felt sure that he was not alone in what he +felt. + +And so he stood there in the sweetness of that knowing, the sweetness of +that understanding why she held herself almost rigid like that, feeling +surging higher in him in the thought that she too was fighting feeling. +The breeze moved the hair on her temples; he could see the throb in her +uncovered throat, her thin white dress moving over her quick breathing. +Life was in her, and the desire for life. She seemed so tender, so +sensitive. + +He moved a step nearer her, unable to deny himself the sweetness of +confirming what it was so wonderful to think. "I won't be taking you +home tomorrow night," he said. + +She looked at him, then swiftly turned away, but not before he had seen +her eyes. + +"Shall you care?" he pressed it, unsteadily. + +He knew by her high head, her tenseness, that she was fighting something +back; and he saw the quivering of her tender mouth. + +She cared! She _did_ care. Here was a woman who cared; a woman who +wanted love--his love; a woman for whom life counted, as it counted for +him. After barren, baffled days, days of denial and humiliation, the +sweetness of being desired possessed him overwhelmingly as they stood +there in the still, fragrant night before the darkened house. + +He knew that he must go; he _had_ to go; it was go now, or--. But still +he just stood there, unable to do what he knew he should do, reason +trying to get hold of that moment of gathering passion, training +striving to hold life. + +It was she who brought them together. With a smothered passionate little +sob she had swayed toward him, and then she was in his arms and he was +kissing her wet eyes, that tender mouth, the slim throbbing throat. + + + + +CHAPTER NINE + + +There followed three years of happiness wrung from wretchedness, years +in which the splendor of love would blaze through the shame of +concealment, when joy was always breaking out through fear, when moments +of beautiful peace trembled there in the ugly web of circumstance. Life +was flooded with beauty by a thing called shameful. + +Her affairs as a girl went on just the same; the life on the surface did +not change. She continued as Ruth Holland--the girl who went to parties +with the boys of her own set, one of her particular little circle of +girls, the chum of Edith Lawrence, the girl Deane Franklin liked best. +But a life grew underneath that--all the time growing, crowding. She +appeared to remain a girl after passion had swept her over into +womanhood. To be living through the most determining, most intensifying +experience of life while she appeared only to be resting upon the +surface was the harassing thing she went through in those years before +reality came crashing through pretence and disgrace brought relief. + +She talked to but one person in those years. That was Deane. The night +he told her that he loved her she let him see. + +That was more than a year after the night Stuart Williams took her home +from that last rehearsal; Deane was through school now and had come home +to practice medicine. She had felt all along that once he was at home +for good she might have to tell Deane; not alone because he would +interfere with her meetings with Stuart, but because it seemed she could +not bear the further strain of pretending with him. And somehow she +would particularly hate pretending with Deane. Though the night she did +let him see it was not that there was any determination for doing so, +but because things had become too tense that night and she had no power +to go on dissembling. + +It began in irritation at him, the vicious irritation that springs out +against the person who upsets a plan he knows nothing about, and cannot +be told of. + +She had come in from an errand down town and was about to dress +hurriedly to go over to Edith's for dinner. She was going to make some +excuse for getting away from there early and would have an hour with +Stuart, one of those stolen hours that often crowded, agitated, a number +of the hours before it, one of those hours of happiness when fear always +stood right there, but when joy had a marvellous power to glow in an +atmosphere of ugly things. A few nights before she had tried to arrange +one of those times, and just as she was about to leave the house, saying +some vague thing about running in somewhere--there was no strict +surveillance on members of the Holland household--a friend who had been +very ill and was just beginning to go about had come to see her and she +had been obliged to sit there through the hour she had been living for, +striving to crowd down what she was feeling and appear delighted that +her friend was able to be about, chatting lightly of inconsequential +things while she could think of nothing but Stuart waiting for her, had +had to smile while she wanted to sob in the fury of disappointed +passion. + +The year had brought many disappointments like that, disappointments +which found their way farther into the spirit because they dared not +show on the surface. Of late there had been so many of them that it was +growing hard to hold from her manner her inner chafing against them. +There were times when all the people who loved her seemed trying to +throw things in her way, and it was the more maddening because blindly +done. It was hurting her relations with people; she hated them when they +blunderingly stepped in the way of the thing that had come to mean +everything to her. + +She was particularly anxious about this night for Stuart was going out +of town on a business trip and she would not see him again for more than +a week. It was her grandfather who made the first difficulty; as she was +going up the stairs he called, "You going over to the Lawrences' +tonight, Ruth?" + +When she had answered yes he continued: "It wouldn't be much out of your +way, would it, to run on over to the Allens'?" + +She hesitated; anything her grandfather asked of her was hard to refuse, +not only because she loved him and because he was old, but because it +hurt her to see how he missed the visiting around among his old friends +that his rheumatism had of late cut him off from. + +"Why--no," she answered, wondering just how she could get it in, for it +did take her out of her way, and old Mr. Allen would want to talk to +her; it was going to be hard to get away from Edith's anyway, and the +time would be so short, for Stuart would have to leave for his train at +half past nine. She quickly decided that she would go over there before +dinner, even though it made her a little late. Maybe she didn't need to +comb her hair, after all. + +She was starting up the stairs when her grandfather called: "Wait a +minute. Come here, Ruth." + +She came back, twirling the fingers of one hand nervously. Her +grandfather was fumbling in the drawer of his secretary. "I want you to +take this letter--tell him I got it yesterday--" He stopped, peering at +the letter; Ruth stood there with hand clenched now, foot tapping. "Why +no, that's not the one," he rambled on; "I must have put it up above +here. Or could it--" + +"Oh, I'm in a hurry, grandfather!" cried the girl. + +He closed the drawer and limped over to his chair. "Just let it go, +then," he said in the hurt voice of one who has been refused a thing he +cannot do for himself. + +"Now, grandfather!" Ruth cried, swiftly moving toward him. "How can you +be so _silly_--just because I'm a little nervous about being late!" + +"Seems to me you're always a little nervous about something lately," he +remarked, rising and resuming the leisurely search for the letter. "You +young folks make such hard work of your good times nowadays. Anybody'd +think you had the world on your shoulders." + +Ruth made no reply, standing there as quietly as she could, waiting +while her grandfather scanned a letter. "Yes, this is the one," he +finally said. "You tell him--" She had the letter and was starting for +the stairs while listening to what she was to tell, considering at the +same time how she'd take the short cut across the high-school ball +park--she could make it all right by half past six. Feeling kindly +toward her grandfather because it was going to be all right, after all, +she called back brightly: "Yes, grandfather, I'll get it to him; I'll +run right over there with it first thing." + +"Oh, look here, Ruth!" he cried, hobbling out to the hall. "Don't do +that! I want you to go in the evening. He'll not be home till eight +o'clock. He's going--" + +"Yes, grandfather," she called from the head of the stairs in a +peculiarly quiet voice. "I see. It's all right." + +Then she could not find the things she wanted to put on. There was a +button off her dress and her thread broke in sewing it. She was holding +herself very tight when her mother came leisurely into the room and +stood there commenting on the way Ruth's hair was done, on the +untidiness of her dressing-table, mildly reproving her for a growing +carelessness. Then she wandered along about something Ruth was to tell +Edith's mother. Ruth, her trembling fingers tangling her thread, was +thinking that she was always to tell somebody something somebody else +had said, take something from one person to another. The way people were +all held together in trivial things, that thin, seemingly purposeless +web lightly holding them together was eternally throwing threads around +her, keeping her from the one thing that counted. + +"There!" escaped from her at last, breaking the thread and throwing the +dress over her head. Her mother sauntered over to fasten it for her, +pausing to note how the dress was wearing out, speaking of the new one +Ruth must have soon, and who should make it. "Oh, I'm in a _hurry_, +mother!" Ruth finally cried when her mother stopped to consider how the +dress would have had more style if, instead of buttoning down the back, +it had fastened under that fold. + +"Really, my dear," Mrs. Holland remonstrated, jerking the dress straight +with a touch of vexation, "I must say that you are getting positively +peevish!" + +As Ruth did not reply, and the mother could feel her body tightening, +she went on, with a loving little pat as she fastened the dress over the +hip, "And you used to be the most sweet-tempered girl ever lived." + +Still Ruth made no answer. "Your father was saying the other night that +he was sure you couldn't be feeling well. You never used to be a bit +irritable, he said, and you nearly snapped his head off when he +wanted--just to save you--to drive you over to Harriett's." + +Though the dress was all fastened now, Ruth did not turn toward her +mother. Mrs. Holland added gently: "Now that wasn't reasonable, was it?" + +The tear Ruth had been trying to hold back fell to the handkerchief she +was selecting. No, it wouldn't seem reasonable, of course; her father +had wanted to help her, and she had been cross. It was all because she +couldn't tell him the truth--which was that she hadn't told him the +truth, that she wasn't going to Harriett's for an hour, that she was +going to do something else first. There had been a moment of actually +hating her father when, in wanting to help her, he stepped in the way of +a thing he knew nothing about. That, it seemed, was what happened +between people when things could not be told. + +Mrs. Holland, seeing that Ruth's hand was unsteady, went on, in a voice +meant to soothe: "Just take it a little easier, dear. What under the sun +have you got to do but enjoy yourself? Don't get in such a flutter about +it." She sighed and murmured, from the far ground of experience: "Wait +till you have a real worry." + +Ruth was pinning on her hat. She laughed in a jerky little way and said, +in a light voice that was slightly tremulous: "I did get a little +fussed, didn't I? But you see I wanted to get over to Edith's before +dinner time. She wants to talk to me about her shower for Cora +Albright." + +"But you have all evening to talk that over, haven't you?" calmly +admonished Mrs. Holland. + +"Why, of course," Ruth answered, a little crisply, starting for the +door. + +"Your petticoat's showing," her mother called to her. "Here, I'll pin it +up for you." + +"Oh, let it _go_!" cried Ruth desperately. "I'll fix it at Edith's," she +added hurriedly. + +"Ruth, are you crazy?" her mother demanded. "Going through the streets +with your petticoat showing! I guess you're in no such hurry as that." + +It was while she was pinning up the skirt that Mrs. Holland remarked: +"Oh, I very nearly forgot to tell you; Deane's going over there for you +tonight." + +Then to the mother's utter bewilderment and consternation Ruth covered +her face with her hands and burst into sobs. + +"Why, my _dear_," she murmured; "why, Ruth _dear_, what _is_ the +matter?" + +Ruth sank down on the bed, leaning her head against the foot of it, +shaking with sobs. Her mother stood over her murmuring, "Why, my dear, +what _is_ the matter?" + +Ruth, trying to stop crying, began to laugh. "I didn't know he was +coming! I was so surprised. We've quarrelled!" she gulped out +desperately. + +"Why, he was just as natural and nice as could be over the 'phone," said +Mrs. Holland, pouring some water in the bowl that Ruth might bathe her +eyes. "Really, my dear, it seems to me you make too much of things. He +wanted to come here, and when I told him you were going to be at +Edith's, he said he'd go there. I'm sure he was just as nice as could +be." + +Ruth was bathing her eyes, her body still quivering a little. "Yes, I +know," she spluttered, her face in the water; "he is that way +when--after we've quarrelled." + +"I didn't know you and Deane ever did quarrel," ventured Mrs. Holland. +"When you do, I'll warrant it's your fault." She added, significantly: +"Deane's mighty good to you, Ruth." She had said several things like +that of late. + +"Oh, he's good enough," murmured Ruth from the folds of the towel. + +"Now, powder up a little, dear. There! And now just take it a little +easy. Why, it's not a hit like you to be so----touchy." + +She followed Ruth downstairs. "Got that letter?" the grandfather called +out from his room. + +"I'll send Ted with it, father," Mrs. Holland said hastily, seeing +Ruth's face. + +A sudden surge of love for her mother almost swept away Ruth's +self-command. It was wonderful that some one wanted to help her. It made +her want to cry. + +Her mother went with her to the porch. "You look so nice," she said +soothingly. "Have a good time, dearie." + +Ruth waved her hand without turning her face to her mother. + +Tears were right there close all through that evening. The strain within +was so great--(what _was_ she going to do about Deane?)--that there was +that impulse to cry at the slightest friendliness. She was flushed and +tired when she reached Edith's, and Mrs. Lawrence herself went out and +got her a glass of water--a fan, drew up a comfortable chair. The whole +house seemed so kindly, so favoring. Contrasted with her secret turmoil +the reposefulness, friendliness of the place was so beautiful to her +that taut emotions were ready to give. Yet all the while there was that +inner distress about how to get away, what to say. The affectionate +kindness of her friends, the appeal of their well-ordered lives as +something in which to rest, simply had no reach into the thing that +dominated her. + +And now finally she had managed it; Deane had come before she could +possibly get away but she had said she would have to go up to +Harriett's, that she must not be too late about it. Edith had protested, +disappointed at her leaving so early, wanting to know if she couldn't +come back. That waved down, there had been a moment of fearing Edith was +going to propose going with her; so she had quickly spoken of there +being something Harriett wanted to talk to her about. She had a warm, +gentle feeling for Edith when finally she saw the way clearing. That was +the way it was, gratitude to one who had moved out of her way gave her +so warm a feeling that often she would impulsively propose things +letting her in for future complications. + +As she was saying goodnight there was another moment of wanting terribly +to cry. They were so good to her, so loving--and what would they think +if they knew? Her voice was curiously gentle in taking leave of them; +there was pain in that feeling of something that removed her from these +friends who cared for her, who were so good to her. + +She asked Deane if he hadn't something else to do for an hour, someone +to run in and see while she visited with Harriett. When he readily fell +in with that, saying he hadn't been to the Bennetts' since coming home +and that it would be a good time to go there, she grew suddenly gay, +joking with him in a half tender little way, a sort of affectionate +bantering that was the closest they came to intimacy. + +And then at the very last, after one thing and then another had been +disposed of, and just as her whole being was fairly singing with relief +and anticipation, the whole thing was threatened and there was another +of those moments of actually hating one who was dear to her. + +They had about reached the corner near Harriett's where she was going to +insist Deane leave her for the Bennetts' when they came upon her brother +Ted, slouching along, whistling, flipping in his hand the letter he was +taking to his grandfather's old friend. + +"Hello," he said, "where y' goin'?" + +"Just walking," said Ruth, and able to say it with a carelessness that +surprised her. + +"Oh," said Ted, with a nonchalance that made her want to scream out some +awful thing at him, "thought maybe you were making for Harriett's. She +ain't home." + +She would like to have pushed him away! She would have liked to push him +way off somewhere! She dug her nails down into her palm; she could +hardly control the violent, ugly feeling that wanted to leap out at +him--at this "kid brother" whom she adored. Why need he have said just +_that_?--that particular thing, of all things! But she was saying in +calm elderly sister fashion, "Don't lose that letter, Ted," and to +Deane, as they walked on, "Harriett's at a neighbor's; I'll run in for +her; she's expecting me to." + +But it left her weak; her legs were trembling, her heart pounding; there +seemed no power left at the center of her for holding herself in one. + +And now she was rid of Deane! She had shaken them all off; for that +little time she was free! She hurried toward the narrow street that +trailed off into the country. Stuart would be waiting for her there. Her +joy in that, her eagerness, rushed past the dangers all around her, the +thing that possessed her avoiding thought of the disastrous +possibilities around her as a man in a boat on a narrow rushing river +would keep clear of rocks jutting out on either side. Sometimes the +feeling that swept her on did graze the risks so close about her and she +shivered a little. Suppose Harriett were at the Bennetts' when Deane got +there! Suppose Deane said something when they got home; suppose Ted said +something that wouldn't fit in with what Deane said; suppose Deane got +to Harriett's too soon--though she had told him not to be there till +after half past nine. Hadn't Deane looked queer at the last? Wouldn't he +suspect? Wouldn't everybody suspect, with her acting like this? And once +there was the slightest suspecting.... + +But she was hurrying on; none of those worries, fears, had power to lay +any real hold on the thing that possessed her; faster and faster she +hurried; she had turned into the little street, had passed the last +house, turned the bend in the road, and yes! there was Stuart, waiting +for her, coming to her. Everything else fell away. Nothing else in the +world mattered. + + + + +CHAPTER TEN + + +Ten o'clock found Ruth sitting on the porch at home with her mother and +father, her brother Cyrus and Deane. Her father was talking with Deane +about the operation that had been performed on the book-keeper in Mr. +Holland's bank; Cyrus talked of somebody's new touring car, the number +of new machines there were in town that year; her mother wondered where +some of the people who had them got the money for them. The talk moved +placidly from one thing to another, Mr. Holland saying at intervals that +he must be going to bed, his wife slapping at the mosquitoes and talking +about going inside--both delaying, comfortably stupid. + +Ruth was sitting on the top step leaning back against the porch pillar. +She said little, she was very tired now. Something in this dragging talk +soothed her. It seemed safe just because it was so commonplace; it was +relaxing. She was glad to be back to it--to the world of it; in +returning safely to it she felt a curiously tender feeling for it, a +perhaps absurd sense of having come through something for it. She could +rest in it while within herself she continued to live back in that hour +with Stuart, that hour which struggle and fear and the passionate +determination to have in spite of everything had made terribly intense. +They had closed themselves in with that little while of love, holding it +apart from everything else, and yet every minute of it was charged with +the consciousness of what was all around them. They had clung to that +hour with a desperate passion, the joy of the moment that was there +always stabbed with pain for a moment passing. At the last they had +clung to each other as if time too--time, over which they had no +control--was going to beat them apart. So much had been hard that in +returning she had a warm feeling of gratitude to all of them for not +making it harder for her, not questioning, exposing her; relief was so +great that they were all newly dear for thus letting her alone. She had +managed all right with Deane, the clumsy arrangement she had been forced +into appeared to have just that haphazardness which characterizes most +of the arrangements of life. Her mother had merely asked what the +Lawrence's had for dinner; her father joked about the way she had +trained the roses in the back yard. Strangely enough instead of feeling +she had outraged them, been unworthy this easy, affectionate +intercourse, she had a sense, now that she had again come through a +precarious thing safely, of having saved them from something they knew +not of, a strange lifted-up feeling of bearing something for them. +Certainly that would not seem the feeling she should be having, but +there was the odd part of it: the feelings she had were so seldom those +she would expect herself to have. + +Her mother and father had gone indoors; Cyrus sat out there with her and +Deane for a time. Ruth did not love Cyrus as she loved Ted; he had +always had too superior a manner with her for her feeling to be more +than the perfunctory thing which sometimes passes for personal affection +in families. It was simply that she had never admitted, even to herself, +that she did not love him. He belonged to the set just older than +Ruth's, though she and Deane and their friends were arriving now at the +time of ceasing to be a separate entity as the young crowd and were +being merged in the group just above them. That contributed to Cyrus's +condescension, he being tempered for condescension. + +When she and Deane were alone the talk lagged, Ruth sitting there at the +head of the steps leaning against the pillar, he a few steps below her, +sprawled out in awkward boyish fashion, looking up at her from time to +time as she said something. Her silence did not make him feel cut off +from her; the things she said were gently said; her tired smile was +sweet. He spoke several times of going, but lingered. He was held by +something in Ruth; it stirred something in him, not knowing that he was +drawn by what another man had brought into life. He drew himself up and +stole timid glances at Ruth as she looked out into the night, feeling +something new in her tonight, something that touched the feeling that +had all the time been there in him, growing as he grew, of itself +waiting for the future as simply and naturally as all maturing things +wait for the future. Ruth was the girl he had all the time cared for; he +was shy about emotional things--awkward; he had had almost no emotional +life; he had all the time been diffident about what she made him feel +and so they had just gone along for a little time longer than was usual +as boy and girl. But something sweet, mysterious, exhaling from her +tonight liberated the growing, waiting feeling in him. It took him as he +had not been taken before; he watched Ruth and was stilled, moved, +drawn. + +Finally, as if suddenly conscious of a long silence, she turned to him +with something about the plans for Cora Albright's wedding--she was to +be a bridesmaid and he an usher. She went on talking of the man Cora was +to marry, a man she met away from home and had fallen desperately in +love with. He associated the light of her face, the sweetness of her +voice, with the things of romance of which she talked. All in a moment +his feeling for her, what her strange, softened mood touched in him, +leaped up, surging through him, not to be stayed. He moved nearer her. +"You know, Ruth," he said, in queer, jerky voice, "_I_ love you." + +She gave a start, drew a little back and looked at him with a certain +startled fixity as if he had stopped all else in her. For the moment she +just looked at him like that, startled, fixed. + +"Could you care for me at all, Ruth?" he asked wistfully, and with a +bated passionateness. + +And then she moved, and it seemed that feeling, too, moved in her again; +there was a flow of emotions as she sat looking at him now. And then her +strangely shining eyes were misty; her face quivered a little and very +slowly she shook her head. + +"Don't do that, Ruth," he said quickly, in a voice sharp with pain. +"Don't do that! You don't _know_--maybe you hadn't thought about +it--maybe--" He broke off, reached out for her hands, and could only +stammer, "Oh, Ruth!--I love you so!" + +He had her hands; he was clutching them very tight; he looked up at her +again, imploring. She started to shake her head again, but did not +really do it. She seemed about to speak, but did not. What could she say +to Deane--how make him understand?--unless she told him. She thought of +the years she had known him, how much they had been together, how good +he had been to her. Again her eyes were misty. It was all so tangled. +There was so much pain. + +Feeling her softening, her tenderness, he moved nearer, her two hands +pressed together so tight in his that it hurt her. "It wouldn't be so +bad, would it, Ruth?" he urged wistfully, with a little laugh that broke +with emotion. "You and I--mightn't life go pretty well for us?" + +She turned away, looking out into the night. Feeling something in her +that he did not understand he let her hands go. She put one of them up, +still further averting her face, lost to him in the picture forming +itself before her of how life would be if love came right; what it would +mean not to have to hide, but to have those who cared for her happy in +her happiness; what it would mean to give herself to love without fear, +to wear her joy proudly before the world, revealing her womanhood. She +was not thinking of what life with Deane would be but of what love that +could have its place would be: telling her mother and father and Edith, +being able to show the pride of being loved, the triumph of loving. +Sitting there, turning her face from this friend who loved her, she +seemed to be turning it to the years awaiting her, years of desperately +clutching at happiness in tension and fear, not understood because +unable to show herself,--afraid, harassed, perhaps disgraced. She wanted +to take her place among women who loved and were loved! She did not want +to be shut away from her friends, not seeming to understand what she +understood so well. This picture of what life would be if love could +have its place brought home to her what it meant to love and perpetually +conceal, stealing one's happiness from the society in which one lived. +Why could it not have gone right for her too, as it had for Cora and +would for Edith? She too wanted a wedding, she too wanted rejoicing +friends. + +She hid her face in her hands. Her body was quivering. + +The boy's arm stole round her shoulders. She was feeling--maybe she did +care. "Ruth," he whispered, "love does mean something to you, doesn't +it?" + +She raised her head and looked at him. And that look was a thing Deane +Franklin never forgot; all the years did not blur his memory of it--that +flaming claim for love that transformed her face. + +And then it was lost in contrition, for she saw what he had seen, and +what he hoped from that; in her compunction for having let him see what +was not for him, the tender, sorrowing look, the impulsive outreaching +of her hand, there was the dawn of understanding. + +At first he was too bewildered to find words. Then: "You care for some +one else?" he groped unbelievingly. + +She looked away, but nodded; her tears were falling. + +He moved a little away and then sat there quite still. A breeze had come +up and the vines beat against the porch, making a sound that like the +flaming look of a moment ago he never forgot. + +She knew that he must be wondering; he knew her life there, or what +seemed her life. He must be wondering who it was she cared for like +that. + +She laid her hand upon his arm; and when he turned to her she did not +say anything at all, but the appeal that looked through pain perhaps +went where words could not have gone. + +"But you're not happy!" he exclaimed, in a sort of harsh exulting in +that. + +She shook her head; her eyes were brimming over. + +He looked away from her, his own hurt and surprise rousing a savage +thing in him that did not want to do what the pleading pain of her eyes +so eloquently asked of him. He had always thought that _he_ was to have +Ruth. Well, he was not to have her--there were ugly things which, in +that first moment, surged into his disappointment. Some one else was to +have her. But she was not happy! Defeated feeling wrenched its own sorry +satisfaction from that. + +"Why aren't you happy?" he asked of her abruptly, roughly. + +She did not answer, and so he had to look at her. And when he saw Ruth's +face his real love for her broke through the ugliness of thwarted +passion. "Can't you tell me, Ruth?" he asked gently. + +She shook her head, but the concern of his voice loosed feeling she was +worn out with holding in. Her eyes were streaming now. + +His arm went round her shoulder, gently, as if it would shield, help. +His love for her wrenched itself free--for that moment, at least,--from +his own hurt. "Maybe I can help you, Ruth," he was murmuring. + + + + +CHAPTER ELEVEN + + +He went away from there that night not knowing more than that; it was +merely that she let him see. He knew now that there was some big thing +in her life he had known nothing about; that he had not understood Ruth, +though he had known her through all the years and had thought he knew +her so well. He was bewildered, his pain was blunted in that +bewilderment. There was a sick sense of life as all different, but he +was too dazed then for the pain that came later with definite knowing. +He went home that night and because he could not sleep tried to read a +medical book; usually that took all his mind, for the time other things +would not exist for him. But that was not true tonight; that world of +facts could not get him; he lived right on in the world of his own +feeling. He was not to have Ruth; he did not seem able to get a real +sense of that either, there was just a sick feeling about it rather than +actual realization, acceptance. And what did it mean? Surely he knew +Ruth's life, the people she went with; it was always he, when he was at +home, Ruth went about with. Someone away from home? But she had been +very little away from home. Who could it be? He went over and over that. +It came to seem unreal; as if there were some misunderstanding, some +mistake. And yet, that look.... His own disappointment was at times +caught up into his marvel at her; that moment's revelation of what her +caring could be was so wonderful as to bear him out of the fact that it +was not for him she cared. That was the way it was all through, his love +for her deepening with his marvel at her, the revelation of what she +felt for another man claiming more and more of himself for her. It was a +thing he would have scoffed at if told of, it was a thing he could not +somehow justify even to himself, but it was true that the more he saw of +what love meant to Ruth the more Ruth came to mean to him. + +In those next few months, the months before he actually knew, there were +times when he could almost persuade himself that there was something +unreal about it all, torturous wonderings as to who the man could be +trailing off into the possibility of there being no man, because he knew +of none; sometimes he tried to persuade himself that this passionate +feeling he had glimpsed in Ruth was a thing apart from any particular +man--for who _was_ the man? Sometimes he could, for a moment, let in the +hope that since she could care like that she would care for him. Though +he more than half knew he deluded himself in that; there was, now that +his eyes were opened, that in Ruth's manner to indicate something in her +life which did not appear on the surface. He saw how nervous she +was--how strained at times, how worried and cross, which was not like +Ruth at all. There were times when her eyes were imploring, times when +they were afraid, again there were moments of that lovely calm, when +feeling deep and beautiful radiated from her, as it had that night they +sat on the steps and, drawn by something in her, he had to tell her that +he loved her. She did queer unreasonable things, would become +exasperated at him for apparently nothing at all. Once when she had told +him she was going somewhere with her mother he later saw her hurrying by +alone; another time she told him she was going to Edith's, and when he +called up there, wanting to take them both with him for a long trip he +had to make into the country, Edith said Ruth had not been there. +Thoughts that he did not like, that he could not believe, came into his +mind. He was not only unhappy, but he grew more and more worried about +Ruth. + +That went on for several months, and then one day late that same summer +she came to him with the truth. She came because she had to come. He was +a doctor; he was her friend; she was in a girl's most desperate plight +and she had no one else to turn to. It was in his office that she told +him, not looking at him, her face without color and drawn out of shape, +her voice quick, sharp, hard, so unlike Ruth's sweet voice that without +seeing her he would not have known it. She threw out the bare facts at +him as she sat there very straight, hands gripped. He was stupefied at +first, but it was fury which then broke through, the fury of knowing it +was _this_, that not only was he not to have Ruth, but that another man +_had_ her, the fury that rose out of the driving back of all those loose +ends of hope that had eased pain a little. And _Ruth_--_this_! He little +knew what things he might not have said and done in those first moments +of failing her, turning on her because he himself was hurt beyond his +power to bear. And then Ruth spoke to him. "But I thought you believed +in love, Deane," she said, quietly. + +"_Love!_" he brutally flung back at her. + +"Yes, Deane, love," she said, and the simplicity, the dignity of her +quiet voice commanded him and he had to turn from himself to her. She +was different now; she looked at him, steadily, proudly. Out of the +humiliation of her situation she raised a proud face for love; love +could bring her disgrace, it could not strip her of her own sense of the +dignity of loving. Her power was in that, in that claim for love that +pain and humiliation could not beat back. + +"I notice _he's_ not here," he sneered, still too overwhelmed to be won +from his own rage to her feeling. + +"I thought it better for me to come," she said simply, and as she said +it and he remembered her drawn, wretched face in telling him, he was +quieted a little by a sense of what it had cost her to come. "Because," +she added, "you're my friend, you know." + +He did not say anything, miserably wondering what she now thought of him +as her friend. + +"Oh, Deane," she broke out, "don't be hard! If you could know what he's +suffering! Being a man--being a little older--what's that? If you can +understand me, Deane, you've got to understand him, too!" + +He stood there in silence looking at Ruth as, looking away from him now, +she brooded over that. In this hour of her own humiliation her appeal +was for the man who had brought it upon her. "How you love him!" escaped +from him, in bitterness, and yet marvelling. + +She turned to him then in her swift way, again, as on that night of his +first seeing, her face transformed by that flaming claim for love; it +was as if life was shining triumphant through the cloud of misery it had +brought down around her. He could not rage against that look; he had no +scorn for it. It lighted a country between them which words could not +have undarkened. They came together there in that common understanding +of the power and beauty of love. He was suddenly ashamed, humbled, +feeling in her love a quality upon which no shameful circumstance could +encroach. And after that she found relief in words, the words she had +had to deny herself so long. It was as if she found it wonderfully good +to talk, in some little measure linking her love, as love wants to link +itself, with the other people of the world, coming within the human +unit. Things which circumstances had prisoned in her heart, too +intensified by solitude, leaped out like winged things let loose. But in +that hour of talking with him, though words served her well, it was that +proud, flaming claim for love which again and again lighted her face +that brought him into understanding, winning him for her against his own +love of her. + +In the year which followed, that last year before circumstances closed +in too tight and they went away, it was he who made it possible for Ruth +to move a little more freely in the trap in which she found herself. He +helped her in deceiving her family and friends, aided them in the ugly +work of stealing what happiness they could from the society in which +they lived. He did not like doing it. Neither did he like attending the +agonies of child-birth, or standing impotently at the bed of the dying. +It might seem absurd, in trying to explain one's self, to claim for this +love the inevitability of the beginning and the end of life, and yet, +seeing it as he saw it he did think of it, not as a thing that should or +should not be, but as a thing that was; not as life should or should not +be lived, but as life. This much he knew: that whatever they might have +been able to do at the first, it had them now. They were in too powerful +a current to make a well considered retreat to shoals of safety. No +matter what her mood might have been in the beginning, no matter what +she could have done about it then, Ruth was mastered not master now. +Love _had_ her--he saw that too well to reason with her. What he saw of +the way all other people mattered so much less than the passion which +claimed her made him feel, not that Ruth was selfish, but that the +passion was mastering; the way she deceived made him feel, not that she +was deceitful, but that love like that was as unable to be held back in +the thought of wrong to others as in the consideration of safety for +one's self; the two were equally inadequate floodgates. Not that those +other things did not matter--he knew how they did make her suffer--but +that this one thing mattered overwhelmingly more was what he felt in +Ruth in those days when she would be thought to be with him and would be +with Stuart Williams. + +For himself that was a year of misery. He saw Ruth in a peculiarly +intimate way, taken as he was into the great intimacy of her life. His +love for her deepened with his knowing of her; and anxiety about her +preyed upon him all the time, passionate resentment that it should have +gone like that for her, life claiming her only, as it seemed, to destroy +her. + +He never admitted to himself how much he really came to like Stuart +Williams. There seemed something quixotic in that; it did not seem +natural he should have any sympathy with this man who not only had +Ruth's love, but was endangering her whole life. Yet the truth was that +as time went on he not only came to like him but to feel a growing +concern for him. + +For the man changed in that last year. It was not only that he looked +older--harassed, had grown so much more silent, but Deane as a physician +noticed that he was losing weight and there was a cough that often made +him look at him sharply. A number of times Ruth said, "I don't think +Stuart's well," but she looked so wretched in saying it that he always +laughed at her. The Williams' were not patients of his, so he felt that +professional hesitance, even though he thought it foolish +professionalism, in himself approaching Stuart about his health. Once +when he seemed particularly tired and nervous Deane did venture to +suggest a little lay-off from work, a change, but Stuart had answered +irritably that he couldn't stop work, and didn't want to go away, +anyhow. + +It was almost a year after the day Ruth came to him steeled for telling +what had to be told that the man of whom she that day talked came to +tell him what he had been suspecting, that he had tuberculosis and would +have to take that lay-off Deane had been hinting at. It seemed it was +either go away or die, probably, he added, with an attempted laugh, it +was go away and die, but better go away, he thought, than stay there and +give his friends an exhibition in dying. + +They talked along over the surface of it, as is people's way, Deane +speaking mildly of tuberculosis, how prevalent, how easily controlled, +how delightful Arizona was, the charms of living out-of-doors, and all +the time each of them knew that the other was not thinking of that at +all, but thinking of Ruth. + +Finally, bracing himself as for a thing that was all he could do, Stuart +spoke of her. "Ruth said she was coming in to see you about something +this afternoon. I thought I'd get in first and tell you. I wondered what +you'd think--what we'd better do--" + +His voice trailed off miserably. He turned a little away and sat there +in utter dejection. + +And as he looked at him it came to Deane that love could be the most +ruthless, most terrible thing in the world. People talked to him +afterwards about this man's selfishness in taking his own pleasure, his +own happiness, at the cost of everyone else. He said little, for how +could he make real to anyone else his own feeling about what he had seen +of the man's suffering, utter misery, as he spoke of the girl to whom he +must bring new pain. Some one spoke to him afterwards of this "light +love" and he laughed in that person's face. He knew that it was love +bathed in pain. + +A new sense of just how hideous the whole thing was made him suddenly +demand: "Can't you--_do_ anything about it? Isn't there any _way_?--any +way you can get a divorce?" he bluntly asked. + +"Mrs. Williams does not believe in divorce," was the answer, spoken with +more bitterness than Deane had ever heard in any voice before. + +Deane turned away with a little exclamation of rage, rage that one +person should have this clutch on the life of another, of two +others--and one of them Ruth--sickened with a sense of the waste and the +folly of it,--for what was _she_ getting out of it? he savagely put to +himself. How could one get anything from life simply by holding another +from it? + +"Does she know anything about Ruth?" he asked with an abrupt turn to +Stuart. + +"She has mentioned her name several times lately and looked at me in +doing it. She isn't one to speak directly of things," he added with a +more subtle bitterness than that of a moment before. They sat there for +a couple of minutes in silence--a helpless, miserable silence. + +When, after that, Deane stepped out into the waiting-room he found Ruth +among those there; he only nodded to her and went back and told Stuart +that she was there. "But it's only three," said he helplessly, "and she +said she was coming at four." + +"Well, I suppose she came earlier than she intended," Deane replied, +about as helplessly, and went over and stood looking out the window. +After a moment he turned. "Better get it over with, hadn't you! She's +got to be told," he said, a little less brusquely, as he saw the man +wince,--"better get it over with." + +Stuart was silent, head down. After a moment he looked up at Deane. It +was a look one would turn quickly away from. Again Deane stood looking +from the window. He was considering something, considering a thing that +would be very hard to do. After a moment he again abruptly turned +around. "Well, shall I do it!" he asked quietly. + +The man nodded in a wretched gratefulness that went to Deane's heart. + +So he called Ruth in from the waiting-room. He always remembered just +how Ruth looked that day; she had on a blue suit and a hat with flowers +on it that was very becoming to her. She looked very girlish; he had a +sudden sense of all the years he had known her. + +The smile with which she greeted Deane changed when she saw Stuart +sitting there; the instant's pleased surprise went to apprehension at +sight of his face. "What's the matter!" she asked sharply. + +"Stuart's rather bummed up, Ruth," said Deane. + +Swiftly she moved over to the man she loved. "What is it!" she demanded +in quick, frightened voice. + +"Oh, just a bad lung," Deane continued, not looking at them and speaking +with that false cheerfulness so hard fought for and of so little worth. +"Don't amount to much--happens often--but, well--well, you see, he has +to go away--for awhile." + +He was bending over his desk, fumbling among some papers. There was no +sound in the room and at last he looked up. Stuart was not looking at +Ruth and Ruth was standing there very still. When she spoke her voice +was singularly quiet. "When shall we go?" she asked. + + + + +CHAPTER TWELVE + + +Everyone who talked about it--and that meant all who knew anything about +it--blamed Deane Franklin for not stopping Ruth. Perhaps the reason he +did not try to defend himself was simply that he could not hope to show +how simple was his acceptance of the fact that it would have been +impossible to stop her. To understand that, one would have to have seen. +Oh, to be sure, he could have put obstacles in her way, tightened it +around her, but anything he might have done would only have gone to +making it harder for Ruth to get away; it would not have kept her from +going. And after all, he himself saw it as, if not the thing she should +do, the thing--it being what it was then--she could not help doing. But +one would have to have seen Ruth's face, would need to have been with +her in those days to understand that. + +As to warning her family, as he was so blamed by them and by all the +town for not doing, that would have seemed to him just one of those +things he could have thrown in her way. He did feel that he must try to +talk to her of what it was going to mean to her people; he saw that she +saw, that it had cruel power to make her suffer--and no power to stop +her. Nothing could have stopped her; she was like a maddened +thing--desperate, ruthless, indomitable. She would have fought the +world; she would have let the whole world suffer. Love's fear possessed +her utterly. He had had the feeling all along that it was rushing on to +disaster. He stood back from it now with something like awe: a force not +for him to control. + +And he, with it from within, was the only one who did not condemn Stuart +Williams for letting Ruth go. A man, and older than she, they scorned +him for letting an infatuated girl throw her life away like that. And it +was not only that he saw that the man was sick and broken; it was that +he saw that Stuart, just as Ruth, had gone in love beyond his power to +control love, that he was mastered, not master, now. And in those last +days, at least, it was Ruth who dominated him. There was something +terrible in the simplicity with which she saw that she had to go; she +never once admitted it to the things that were to be argued about. He +talked to her, they both tried to talk to her, about the danger of +getting tuberculosis. When he began on that she laughed in his face--and +he could not blame her. As if _that_ could keep her! And as she laughed +her tortured eyes seemed mockingly to put to him--"What difference would +it make?" + +When, after it all came out, he did not join the outraged town in the +outcry against Ruth, when it further transpired that he had known about +her going and had not tried to stop it, he was so much blamed that it +even hurt his practice. There were women who said they would not +countenance a young physician who had the ideas of life he must have. +His own people were incensed at what they called the shameful advantage +Ruth had taken of him, holding that she, as an evil woman, had exerted +an influence over him that made him do what was against his own nature. +As to the Hollands, there had been a stormy hour with Mr. Holland and +Cyrus, and a far worse half hour with Mrs. Holland, when her utterly +stricken face seemed to stiffen in his throat the things he wanted to +say for Ruth, things that might have helped Ruth's mother. And then he +was told that the Hollands were through, not alone with Ruth, but with +him. + +But he was called there two years later when Mrs. Holland was dying. She +had been begging for him. That moved him deeply because of what in +itself it told of her long yearning for Ruth. After that there were a +number of years when he was not inside that gate. Cyrus did not speak to +him and the father might as well not have done so. He was amazed, then, +when Mr. Holland finally came to him about his own health. "I've come to +you, Deane," he said, "because I think you're the best doctor in town +now--and I need help." And then he added, and after that first talk this +was the closest to speaking of it they ever came: "And I guess you +didn't understand, Deane; didn't see it right. You were young--and +you're a queer one, anyway." + +Perhaps the reason he was never able to do better in explaining himself, +or in defending Ruth, was simply because in his own thinking about it +there were never arguments, or thoughts upon conduct, but always just +that memory of Ruth's face as he had seen it in revealing moments. + +Everyone saw something that Ruth should have done differently. In the +weeks they spent upon it they found, if not that they would be able to +forgive her, at least that they could think of her with less horror had +she done this, had she not done that. But Ruth lived through that week +seeing little beyond the one thing that she must get through it. She was +driven; she had to go ahead, bearing things somehow, getting through +them. She had a strange power to steel herself, to keep things, for the +most part, from really getting through to her. She could not go ahead if +she began letting things in. She sealed herself over and drove ahead +with the singleness of purpose, the exclusions, of any tormented thing. +It was all terrible, but it was as if she were frozen at the heart to +all save the one thing. + +She stayed through the week because it was the time of Edith Lawrence's +wedding and she was to be maid-of-honor. "I'll have to stay till after +Edith's wedding," she said to Deane and Stuart. Then on her way home +from Deane's office she saw that she could not go on with her part in +Edith's wedding. That she could see clearly enough despite the thing +driving her on past things she should be seeing. What would she say to +Edith?--how get _that_ over? + +Someone was giving a party for Edith that night; every day now things +were being given for her. She must not go to them. How could she go? It +would be absurd to expect that of herself. She would have to tell Edith +that she could not be her bridesmaid. What a terrible thing Edith would +think that was! She would have to give a reason--a big reason. What +would she tell her?--that she had been called away?--but where? Should +she tell her the truth? Could she? Edith would find it almost +unbelievable. It was almost unbelievable to herself that her life could +be permeated by a thing Edith knew nothing about. It was another of the +things she would have said, had she known her story only through hearing +it, would not be possible. But it was with Edith as it was with her own +family--simply that such a thing would never occur to her. She winced in +thinking of it that way. A number of times she had been right on the +edge of a thing it seemed would surely be disclosing, but it strangely +happened she had never quite gone over that edge. For one thing, Edith +had been away from Freeport a good deal in those three years. Mrs. +Lawrence had opposed Edith's marrying so young, and had taken her to +Europe for one year, and in the last year they had spent part of the +time in California. In the last couple of months, since Edith's return +from the West, she had spoken of Ruth's not seeming like herself, of +fearing she was not well. She had several times hurt Edith's feelings by +refusing, for no apparent reason, to do things with her. But she had +always been able to make that up afterwards and in these plans for the +wedding she and Edith had been drawn close again. + +When she went over to the Lawrences' late that afternoon she had decided +that she would tell Edith. It seemed she must. She could not hope to +tell it in a way that would make Edith sympathize. There was not time +for that, and she dared not open herself to it. She would just say it +briefly, without any attempts at justifying it. Something like: "Edith, +there's been something you haven't known. I'm not like you. I'm not what +you think I am. I love Stuart Williams. We've loved each other for a +long time. He's sick. He's got to go away--and I'm going with him. +Good-bye, Edith,--and I hope the wedding goes just beautifully." + +But that last got through--got down to the feeling she had been trying +to keep closed, the feeling that had seemed to seal itself over the +moment she saw that she must go with Stuart. "I hope the wedding goes +just beautifully!" Somehow the stiff little phrase seemed to mean all +the old things. There was a moment when she _knew_: knew that she was +walking those familiar streets, that she would not be walking them any +more; knew that she was going over to Edith's--that all her life she had +been going over to Edith's--that she would not be going there any more; +knew that she was going away from home, that she loved her father and +mother--Ted--her grandfather--and Terror, her dog. Realization broke +through and flooded her. She had to walk around a number of blocks +before she dared go to Edith's. + +Miss Edith was up in her room, Emma, the maid, said, taking it for +granted that Ruth would go right up. Yes, she always did go right up, +she was thinking. She had always been absolutely at home at the +Lawrences'. They always wanted her; there were times of not wanting to +see anyone else, but it seemed both Edith and her mother always wanted +her. She paused an instant on the stairs, not able to push past that +thought, not able to stay the loving rush of gratefulness that broke out +of the thought of having always been wanted. + +She had a confused sense of Edith as barricaded by her trousseau. She +sat behind a great pile of white things; she had had them all out of her +chest for showing to some of her mother's friends, she said, and her +mother had not yet put them back. Ruth stood there fingering a +wonderfully soft chemise. It had come to her that she was not provided +with things like these. What would Edith think of her, going away +without the things it seemed one should have? It seemed to mark the +setting of her apart from Edith, though there was a wave of +tenderness--she tried to hold it back but could not--for dear Edith +because she did have so many things like this. + +Edith was too deep in the occupation of getting married to mark an +unusual absorption in her friend. She was full of talk about what her +mother's friends had said of her things, the presents that were coming +in, her dress for the party that night, the flowers for the wedding. + +It made Edith seem very young to her. And in her negligee, her hair +down, she looked childish. Her pleasure in the plans for her wedding +seemed like a child's pleasure. It seemed that hurting her in it would +be horribly like spoiling a child's party. Edith's flushed face, her +sparkling eyes, her little excited, happy laugh made it impossible for +Ruth to speak the words she had come to say. + +For three days it went on like that: going ahead with the festivities, +constantly thinking she would tell Edith as soon as they got home from +this place or that, waiting until this or that person had gone, then +dumb before the childish quality of Edith's excitement, deciding to wait +until the next morning because Edith was either too happy or too tired +to talk to her that night. That ingenuousness of her friend's pleasure +in her wedding made Ruth feel, not only older, but removed from her by +experience. Those days of her own frozen misery were days of tenderness +for Edith, that tenderness which one well along the road of living feels +for the one just setting feet upon the path. + +She was never able to understand how she did get through those days. It +was an almost unbelievable thing that, knowing, she was able, up to the +very last, to go right on with the old things, was able to talk to +people as if nothing were different, to laugh, to dance. There were +times when something seemed frozen in her heart and she could go on +doing the usual things mechanically, just because she knew so well how +to do them; then there were other times when every smallest thing was +stabbed through and through with the consciousness that she would not be +doing it again. And yet even then, she could go on, could appear the +same. They were days of a terrible power for bearing pain. When the +people of the town looked back to it, recalling everything they could +about Ruth Holland in those days, some of them, remembering a tenderness +in her manner with Edith, talked of what a hypocrite she was, while +others satisfied themselves of her utter heartlessness in remembering +her gaiety. + +It was two days before the wedding when she saw that she was not going +to be able to tell Edith and got the idea of telling Edith's mother. +Refusing to let herself consider what she would say when she began upon +it, she went over there early that morning--Edith would not be up. + +Mrs. Lawrence was at breakfast alone. Ruth kept herself hard against the +welcoming smile, but it seemed she was surely going to cry when, with a +look of concern, Mrs. Lawrence exclaimed: "Why, Ruth dear, how pale you +are!" + +She was telling Emma to bring Ruth a cup of coffee, talking of how +absurd it was the way the girls were wearing themselves out, how, for +that reason, she would be glad when it was all over. She spoke with +anxiety of how nervous Edith had grown in the past week, how tired she +was as a result of all the gaiety. "We'll have to be very careful of +her, Ruth," she said. "Don't go to Edith with any worries, will you? +Come to me. The slightest thing would upset Edith now." + +Ruth only nodded; she did not know what to say to that; certainly, after +that, she did not know how to say the things she had come to tell. For +what in the world could upset Edith so much as to have her +maid-of-honor, her life-long friend, the girl she cared for most, +refuse, two days before her wedding, to take her part in it? + +"And you can do more than anyone else, Ruth," Mrs. Lawrence urged. "You +know Edith counts so on you," she added with an intimate little smile. + +And again Ruth only nodded, and bent over her coffee. She had a feeling +of having been caught, of being helpless. + +Mrs. Lawrence was talking about the caterer for the wedding; she wished +it were another kind of salad. Then she wanted Ruth to come up and look +at her dress; she wasn't at all satisfied with the touch of velvet they +had put on it. After that some one else came in and Mrs. Lawrence was +called away. Ruth left without saying what she had come to say. She knew +now that she would not say it. + +She went home seeing that she must go through with the wedding. It was +too late now to do anything else. Edith would break down--her pleasure +in her wedding spoiled; no, Edith must be spared--helped. She must do +this for Edith. No matter what people thought of her, no matter what +Edith herself thought--though _wouldn't_ she understand? Ruth considered +with a tortured wistfulness--the thing to do now was to go through with +it. Edith must look beautiful at her wedding; her happiness must be +unmarred. Later, when she was away with Will--happy--she could bear it +better. And she would understand that Ruth had wished to spare her; had +done it to help her. She held that thought with her--and drove ahead. + +There were moments in those last two days at home when it seemed that +now her heart was indeed breaking: a kindly note in the voice of her +father or mother--one of Ted's teasing jokes--little requests from her +grandfather; then doing things she had done for years and knowing while +doing them that she would not be doing them any more--the last time she +cut the flowers, and then that last night when she went to bed in her +own room, the room she had had ever since old enough to have a room of +her own. She lay there that night and listened to the branches of the +great oak tapping the house. She had heard that sound all her life; it +was associated with all the things of her life; it seemed to be speaking +for all those things--mourning for them. But the closest she came to +actual breaking down was that last day when her dog, laying his head +upon her knee, looked with trust and affection up into her eyes. As she +laid her hand upon his head his eyes seemed to speak for all the love +she had known through all the years. It seemed she could not bear it, +that her heart could not bear it, that she would rather die. But she did +bear it; she had that terrible power for bearing. + +If only she had told her mother, they said over and over again. But if +she told her mother she would not go--that was how she saw that; they +would not let her; or rather, she would have no strength left to fight +through their efforts to keep her. And then how could she tell her +mother when her mother would never in the world understand? She did not +believe that her mother could so much as comprehend that she could love +where she should not, that a girl like Ruth--or rather, _Ruth_--could +love a man it was not right she love. She had never talked with her +mother of real things, had never talked with her of the things of her +deepest feeling. She would not know how to do it now, even had she +dared. + +Her mother helped her dress for the wedding, talking all the while about +plans for the evening--just who was going to the church, the details +about serving. Ruth clung to the thought that those _were_ the things +her mother was interested in; they always had been, surely they would +continue to be. In her desperation she tried to think that in those +little things her mother cared so much about she would, after a time, +find healing. + +With that cruel power for bearing pain she got away from home without +breaking down; she got through that last minute when she realized she +would not see Ted or her grandfather again,--they would not be at the +wedding and would be in bed when she returned from it, and she was to +leave that night on the two o'clock train. It was unbelievable to her +that she had borne it, but she had driven ahead through utter misery as +they commented on her dress, praising her and joking with her. That was +in the living-room and she never forgot just how they were grouped--her +grandfather's newspaper across his knees; Mary, who had worked for them +for years, standing at the door; her dog Terror under the reading +table--Ted walking round and round her. Deane was talking with her +father in the hall. Her voice was sharp as she went out and said: "We +must hurry, Deane." + +The wedding was unreal; it seemed that all those people were just making +the movements of life; there were moments when she heard them from a +long way off, saw them and was uncertain whether they were there. And +yet she could go on and appear about the same; if she seemed a little +queer she was sure it was attributed to natural feeling about her +dearest friend's wedding--to emotion, excitement. There were moments +when things suddenly became real: a moment alone with Edith in her room, +just before they went to the church; a moment when Mrs. Lawrence broke +down. Walking down the aisle, the words of the service--that was in a +vague, blurred world; so was Edith's strained face as she turned away, +and her own walking down the aisle with Deane, turning to him and +smiling and saying something and feeling as if her lips were frozen. Yet +for three hours she laughed and talked with people. Mrs. Williams was at +the reception; several times they were in the same group. Oh, it was all +unreal--terrible--just a thing to drive through. There was a moment at +the last when Edith clung to her, and when it seemed that she could not +do the terrible thing she was going to do, that she was _not_ going to +do it--that the whole thing was some hideous nightmare. She wanted to +stay with Edith. She wanted to be like Edith. She felt like a little +girl then, just a frightened little girl who did not want to go away by +herself, away from everything she knew, from people who loved her. She +did not want to do that awful thing! She tried to pretend for a moment +she was not going to do it--just as sometimes she used to hide her face +when afraid. + +At last it was all over; she had gone to the train and seen Edith and +Will off for the East. Edith's face was pressed against the window of +the Pullman as the train pulled out. It was Ruth she was looking for; it +was to Ruth her eyes clung until the train drew her from sight. + +Ruth stood there looking after the train; the rest of their little group +of intimate friends had turned away--laughing, chattering, getting back +in the carriages. Deane finally touched Ruth's arm, for she was standing +in that same place looking after the train which had now passed from +sight. When he saw the woe of her wet face he said gruffly: "Hadn't we +better walk home?" He looked down at her delicate slippers, but better +walk in them than join the others looking like that. He supposed walking +would not be good for that frail dress; and then it came to him, and +stabbed him, that it didn't much matter. Probably Ruth would not wear +that dress again. + +She walked home without speaking to him, looking straight ahead in that +manner she all along had of ruthlessly pressing on to something; her +face now was as if it were frozen in suffering, as if it had somehow +stiffened in that moment of woe when Edith's face was drawn from her +sight. And she looked so tired!--so spent, so miserable; as if she ought +to be cared for, comforted. He took her arm, protectingly, yearningly. +He longed so in that moment to keep Ruth, and care for her! He wanted to +say things, but he seemed to be struck dumb, appalled by what it was +they were about to do. He held her arm close to him. She was going away! +Now that the moment had come he did not know how he was going to let her +go. And looking like this!--suffering like this--needing help. + +But he must not fail her now at the last; he must not fail her now when +she herself was so worn, so wretched, was bearing so much. As they +turned in at the gate he fought with all his strength against the +thought that they would not be turning in at that gate any more and +spoke in matter of fact tones of where he would be waiting for her, what +time she must be there. But when they reached the steps they stood there +for a minute under the big tree, there where they had so many times +stood through a number of years. As they stood there things crowded upon +them hard; Ruth raised her face and looked at him and at the anguish of +her swimming eyes his hands went out to her arms. "Don't go, Ruth!" he +whispered brokenly. "Ruth!--_don't go!_" + +But that made her instantly find herself, that found the fight in her, +to strengthen herself, to resist him; she was at once erect, +indomitable, the purpose that no misery could shake gleamed through her +wet eyes. Then she turned and went into the house. Her mother called out +to her, sleepily asking if she could get out of her dress by herself. +She answered yes, and then Mrs. Holland asked another sleepy question +about Edith. Then the house was still; she knew that they were all +asleep. She got her dress off and hung it carefully in the closet. She +had already put some things in her bag; she put in a few more now, all +the while sobbing under her breath. + +She took off her slippers. After she had done that she stood looking at +her bed. She saw her nightgown hanging in the closet. She wanted to put +on her nightgown and get into bed! She leaned against the bed, crying. +She wanted to put on her nightgown and get into bed! She was so tired, +so frightened, so worn with pain. Then she shook herself, steeled again, +and began putting on her shoes; put on her suit, her hat, got out her +gloves. And then at the very last she had to do what she had been trying +to make herself do all that day, and had not dared begin to do. She went +to her desk and holding herself tight, very rapidly, though with shaking +hand, wrote this note: + + "Dear Mother; I'm going away. I love Stuart Williams. I have for a + long time. Oh, mother--I'm so sorry--but I can't help it. He's + sick. He has to go away, so you see I have to go with him. It's + terrible that it is like this. Mother, try to believe that I can't + help it. After I get away I can write to you more about it. I can't + now. It will be terrible for you--for you all. Mother, it's been + terrible for me. Oh, try not to feel any worse than you can help. + People won't blame _you_. I wish I could help it. I wish--Can't + write more now. Write later. I'm so sorry--for everybody. So good + to me always. I love all--Ruth." + +She put her head down on the desk and cried. Finally she got up and +blindly threw the note over on her bed; with difficulty, because of the +shaking of her hands, put on her gloves, picked up her bag. And then she +stood there for a moment before turning off the light; she saw her +little chair, her dressing-table. She reached up and turned off the +light and then for another moment stood there in the darkened room. She +listened to the branches of the oak tree tapping against the house. Then +she softly opened her bedroom door and carefully closed it behind her. +She could hear her father's breathing; then Ted's, as she passed his +door. On the stairs she stood still: she wanted to hear Ted's breathing +again. But she had already gone where she could not hear Ted's +breathing. Her hand on the door, she stood still. There was something so +unreal about this, so preposterous--not a thing that really happened, +that could happen to _her_. It seemed that in just a minute she would +wake up and find herself safe in her bed. But in another minute she was +leaning against the outside door of her home, crying. She seemed to have +left the Ruth Holland she knew behind when she finally walked down the +steps and around the corner where Deane was waiting for her. + +They spoke scarcely a word until they saw the headlight of her train. +And then she drew back, clinging to him. "Ruth!" he whispered, holding +her, "don't!" But that seemed to make her know that she must; she +straightened, steeled herself, and moved toward the train. A moment +later she was on the platform, looking down at him. When she tried to +smile good-by, he whirled and walked blindly away. + +She did not look from the window as long as the lights of the town were +to be seen. She sat there perfectly still, hands tight together, head +down. For two hours she scarcely moved. Such strange things shot through +her mind. Maybe her mother, thinking she was tired, would not go to her +room until almost noon. At least she would have her coffee first. Had +she remembered to put Edith's handkerchiefs in her bag? Had anyone else +noticed that the hook at the waist of Edith's dress had come unfastened? +Edith was on a train too--going the other way. How strange it all was! +How terrible beyond belief! Just as she neared the junction where she +would meet Stuart and from which they would take the train South +together, the thought came to her that none of the rest of them might +remember always to have water in Terror's drinking pan. When she stepped +from the train she was crying--because Terror might want a drink and +wonder why she was not there to give it to him. He would not +understand--and oh, he would miss her so! Even when Stuart, stepping +from the darkness to meet her, drew her to him, brokenly whispering +passionate, grateful words, she could not stop crying--for Terror, who +would not understand, and who would miss her so! He became the whole +world she knew--loving, needing world, world that would not understand, +and would miss her so! + +The woman who, on that train from Denver, had been drawn into this story +which she had once lived was coming now into familiar country. She would +be home within an hour. She had sometimes ridden this far with Deane on +his cases. Her heart began to beat fast. Why, there was the very grove +in which they had that picnic! She could scarcely control the excitement +she felt in beginning to find old things. There was something so strange +in the old things having remained there just the same when she had +passed so completely away from them. Seeing things she knew brought the +past back with a shock. She could hardly get her breath when first she +saw the town. And there was the Lawrences'! Somehow it was unbelievable. +She did not hear the porter speaking to her about being brushed off; she +was peering hungrily from the window, looking through tears at the town +she had not seen since she left it that awful night eleven years before. +She was trembling as she stood on the platform waiting for the slowing +train to come to a stop. There was a moment of wanting to run back in +the car, of feeling she could not get off. + +The train had stopped; the porter took her by the arm, thinking by her +faltering that she was slipping. She took her bag from him and stood +there, turned a little away from the station crowd. + +Ted Holland had been waiting for that train, he also with fast beating +heart; he too was a little tremulous as he hurried down to the car, far +in the rear, from which passengers were alighting from the long train. +He scanned the faces of the people who began passing him. No, none of +them was Ruth. His picture of Ruth was clear, though he had not seen her +for eleven years. She would be looking about in that eager way--that +swift, bright way; when she saw him there would be that glad nodding of +her head, her face all lighting up. Though of course, he told himself, +she would be older, probably a little more--well, dignified. The romance +that secretly hung about Ruth for him made him picture her as unlike +other women; there would be something different about her, he felt. + +The woman standing there half turned from him was oddly familiar. She +was someone he knew, and somehow she agitated him. He did not tell +himself that that was Ruth--but after seeing her he was not looking at +anyone else for Ruth. This woman was not "stylish looking." She did not +have the smart look of most of the girls of Ruth's old crowd. He had +told himself that Ruth would be older--and yet it was not a woman he had +pictured, or rather, it was a woman who had given all for love, not a +woman who looked as if she had done just the things of women. This woman +stooped a little; care, rather than romance, had put its mark upon her; +instead of the secretly expected glamour of those years of love there +had been a certain settling of time. He knew before he acknowledged it +that it was Ruth, knew it by the way this woman made him feel. He came +nearer; she had timidly--not with the expected old swiftness--started in +the direction he was coming. She saw him--knew him--and in that rush of +feeling which transformed her anything of secret disappointment was +swept from him. + +He kissed her, as sheepishly as a brother would any sister, and was soon +covering his emotion with a practical request for her trunk check. But +as they walked away the boy's heart was strangely warmed. Ruth was back! + +As to Ruth, she did not speak. She could not. + + + + +CHAPTER THIRTEEN + + +It was the afternoon of Ruth Holland's return to Freeport that Edith +Lawrence--now Edith Lawrence Blair--was giving the tea for Deane +Franklin's bride and for Cora Albright, introducing Amy to the society +of the town and giving Cora another opportunity for meeting old friends. +"You see Cora was of our old crowd," Edith was laughingly saying to one +of the older women in introducing her two guests of honor, "and Amy has +married into it." She turned to Amy with a warm little smile and nod, as +if wanting to assure her again that they did look upon her as one of +them. + +They had indeed given her that sense of being made one of them. Their +quick, warm acceptance of her made them seem a wonderfully kindly +people. Her heart warmed to them because of this going out to her, a +stranger. That informality and friendliness which in a society like +theirs prevails well within the bounds made them seem to her a people of +real warmth. She was pleased with the thought of living among them, +being one of them; gratified, not only in the way they seemed to like +her, but by the place they gave her. There were happy little +anticipations of the life just opening up. She was flushed with pleasure +and gratification. + +She was seeing the society of the town at its best that afternoon; the +women who constituted that society were there, and at their best. For +some reason they always were at their best at the Lawrences', as if +living up to the house itself, which was not only one of the most +imposing of the homes of that rich little middle-western city, but had +an atmosphere which other houses, outwardly equally attractive, lacked. +Mrs. Lawrence had taste and hospitality; the two qualities breathed +through her house. She and Edith were Freeport's most successful +hostesses. The society of that town was like the particular thing known +as society in other towns; not distinguished by any unique thing so much +as by its likeness to the thing in general. Amy, knowing society in +other places, in a larger place, was a little surprised and much pleased +at what she recognized. + +And she felt that people were liking her, admiring her, and that always +put her at her best. Sometimes Amy's poise, rare in one so young, made +her seem aloof, not cordial, and she had not been one to make friends +quickly. Edith's friendliness had broken through that; she talked more +than was usual with her--was gayer, more friendly. "You're making a +great hit, my dear," Edith whispered to her gayly, and Amy flushed with +pleasure. People about the room were talking of how charming she was; of +there being something unusual in that combination of girlishness +and--they called it distinction; had Amy been in different mood they +might have spoken of it less sympathetically as an apparent feeling of +superiority. But she felt that she was with what she called her own +sort, and she was warmed in gratification by the place given herself. + +She was gayly telling a little group of an amusing thing that had +happened at her wedding when she overheard someone saying to Edith, by +whom she was standing: "Yes, on the two o'clock train. I was down to see +Helen off, and saw her myself--walking away with Ted." + +Amy noticed that the other women, who also had overheard, were only +politely appearing to be listening to her now, and were really +discreetly trying to hear what these two were saying. She brought her +story to a close. + +"You mean Ruth Holland?" one of the women asked, and the two groups +became one. + +Amy drew herself up; her head went a little higher, her lips tightened; +then, conscious of that, she relaxed and stood a little apart, seeming +only to be courteously listening to a thing in which she had no part. +They talked in lowered tones of how strange it seemed to feel Ruth was +back in that town. They had a different manner now--a sort of carefully +restrained avidity. "How does she look?" one of the women asked in that +lowered tone. + +"Well," said the woman who had been at the train, "she hasn't kept +herself _up_. Really, I was surprised. You'd think a woman in her +position would make a particular effort to--to make the most of herself, +now, wouldn't you? What else has she to go on? But really, she wasn't at +all good style, and sort of--oh, as if she had let herself _go_, I +thought. Though,"--she turned to Edith in saying this--"there's that +same old thing about her; I saw her smile up at Ted as they walked +away--and she seemed all different then. You know how it always used to +be with Ruth--so different from one minute to another." + +Edith turned away, rather abruptly, and joined another group. Amy could +not make out her look; it seemed--why it seemed pain; as if it hurt her +to hear what they were saying. Could it be that she still +_cared_?--after the way she had been treated? That seemed impossible, +even in one who had the sweet nature Mrs. Blair certainly had. + +While the women about her were still talking of Ruth Holland, Amy saw +Stuart Williams' wife come out of the dining room and stand there alone +for a minute looking about the room. It gave her a shock. The whole +thing seemed so terrible, so fascinatingly terrible. And it seemed +unreal; as a thing one might read or hear about, but not the sort of +thing one's own life would come anywhere near. Mrs. Williams' eyes +rested on their little group and Amy had a feeling that somehow she knew +what they were talking about. As her eyes followed the other woman's +about the room she saw that there were several groups in which people +were drawn a little closer together and appeared to be speaking a little +more intimately than was usual upon such an occasion. She felt that Mrs. +Williams' face became more impassive. A moment later she had come over +to Amy and was holding out her hand. There seemed to Amy something very +brave about her, dignified, fine, in the way she went right on, bearing +it, holding her own place, keeping silence. She watched her leave the +room with a new sense of outrage against that terrible woman--that woman +Deane stood up for! The resentment which in the past week she had been +trying to put down leaped to new life. + +The women around her resumed their talk: of Mrs. Williams, the Holland +family, of the night of Edith's wedding when--in that very house--Ruth +Holland had been there up to the very last minute, taking her place with +the rest of them. They spoke of her betrayal of Edith, her deception of +all her friends, of how she was the very last girl in the world they +would have believed it of. + +A little later, when she and Edith were talking with some other guests, +Ruth Holland was mentioned again. "I don't want to talk of Ruth," Edith +said that time; "I'd rather not." There was a catch in her voice and one +of the women impulsively touched her arm. "It was so terrible for you, +dear Edith," she murmured. + +"Sometimes," said Edith, "it comes home to me that it was pretty +terrible for Ruth." Again she turned away, leaving an instant's pause +behind her. Then one of the women said, "I think it's simply wonderful +that Edith can have anything but bitterness in her heart for Ruth +Holland! Why there's not another person in town--oh, except Deane +Franklin, of course--" + +She caught herself, reddened, then turned to Amy with a quick smile. +"And it's just his sympathetic nature, isn't it? That's exactly +Deane--taking the part of one who's down." + +"And then, too, men feel differently about those things," murmured +another one of the young matrons of Deane's crowd. + +Their manner of seeming anxious to smooth something over, to get out of +a difficult situation, enraged Amy, not so much against them as because +of there being something that needed smoothing over, because Deane had +put himself and her in a situation that was difficult. How did it +look?--what must people think?--his standing up for a woman the whole +town had turned against! But she was saying with what seemed a sweet +gravity, "I'm sure Deane would be sorry for any woman who had been +so--unfortunate. And she," she added bravely, "was a dear old friend, +was she not?" + +The woman who had commiserated with Edith now nodded approval at Amy. +"You're sweet, my dear," she said, and the benign looks of them all made +her feel there was something for her to be magnanimous about, something +queer. Her resentment intensified because of having to give that +impression of a sweet spirit. And so people talked about Deane's +standing up for this Ruth Holland! _Why_ did they talk?--just what did +they say? "There's more to it than I know," suspicion whispered. In that +last half hour it was hard to appear gracious and interested; she saw a +number of those little groups in which voices were low and faces were +trying not to appear eager. + +She wished she knew what they were saying; she had an intense desire to +hear more about this thing which she so resented, which was so roiling +to her. It fascinated as well as galled her; she wanted to know just how +this Ruth Holland looked, how she had looked that night of the wedding, +what she had said and done. The fact of being in the very house where +Ruth Holland had been that last night she was with her friends seemed to +bring close something mysterious, terrible, stirring imagination and +curiosity. Had she been with Deane that night? Had he taken her to the +wedding?--taken her home? She hardened to him in the thought of there +being this thing she did not know about. It began to seem he had done +her a great wrong in not preparing her for a thing that could bring her +embarrassment. Everyone else knew about it! Coming there a bride, and +the very first thing encountering something awkward! She persuaded +herself that her pleasure in this party, in this opening up of her life +there, was spoiled, that Deane had spoiled it. And she tormented herself +with a hundred little wonderings. + +She and Cora Albright went home together in Edith's brougham. Cora was +full of talk of Ruth Holland, this new development, Ruth's return, +stirring it all up again for her. Amy's few discreet questions brought +forth a great deal that she wanted to know. Cora had a worldly manner, +and that vague sympathy with evil that poetizes one's self without doing +anything so definite as condoning, or helping, the sinner. + +"I do think," she said, with a little shrug, "that the town has been +pretty hard about it. But then you know what these middle-western towns +are." Amy, at this appeal to her sophistication, gravely nodded. "I do +feel sorry for Ruth," Cora added in a more personal tone. + +"Will you go to see her?" Amy asked, rather pointedly. + +"Oh, I couldn't do that," replied Cora. "My family--you know,--or +perhaps you don't know. I'm related to Mrs. Williams," she laughed. + +"Oh!" Amy ejaculated, aghast, and newly fascinated by the horror, what +somehow seemed the impossibleness of the whole thing--that she should be +talking of Ruth Holland to a woman related to Mrs. Williams! + +"I suppose _she_ felt terribly," Amy murmured. + +Cora laughed a little. "Oh, I don't know. It never seemed to me that +Marion would do much feeling. Feeling is so--ruffling." + +"She looks," said Amy, a little aggressively, "as though she might not +show all she feels." + +"Oh, I suppose not," Cora agreed pleasantly. "Perhaps I do Marion an +injustice. She may have suffered in silence. Certainly she's kept +silence. Truth is, I never liked her so very well. I like Ruth much the +better of the two. I like warmth--feeling." + +She was leaning forward and looking from the window. "That's the +Hollands'," she said. And under her breath, compassionately, she +murmured, "Poor Ruth!" + +"I should think you _would_ go and see her," said Amy, curiously +resentful of this feeling. + +With a little sigh Cora leaned back in the luxurious corner. "We're not +free to do what we might like to do in this life," she said, looking +gravely at Amy and speaking as one actuated by something larger than +personal feeling. "Too many people are associated with me for me to go +and see Ruth--as, for my own part, I'd gladly do. You see it's even +closer than being related to Marion. Cyrus Holland,--Ruth's +brother--married into my family too. Funny, isn't it?" she laughed at +Amy's stare. "Yes, Cyrus Holland married a second cousin of Stuart +Williams' wife." + +"Why--" gasped Amy, "it's positively weird, isn't it?" + +"Things are pretty much mixed up in this world," Cora went on, speaking +with that good-natured sophistication which appealed to Amy as worldly. +"I think one reason Cy was so bitter against Ruth, and kept the whole +family so, was the way it broke into his own plans. He was in love with +Louise at the time Ruth left; of course all her kith and kin--being also +Marion's--were determined she should not marry a Holland. Cy thought he +had lost her, but after a time, as long as no one was quite so bitter +against Ruth as he, the opposition broke down a little--enough for +Louise to ride over it. Oh, yes, in these small towns everybody's +somehow mixed up with everyone else," she laughed. "And of course," she +went on more gravely, "that is where it is hard to answer the people who +seem so hard about Ruth. It isn't just one's self, or even just one's +family--though it broke them pretty completely, you know; but a thing +like that reaches out into so many places--hurts so many lives." + +"Yes," said Amy, "it does." She was thinking of her own life, of how it +was clouding her happiness. + +"One has to admit," said Cora, in the tone of summing it all up, "that +just taking one's own happiness is thorough selfishness. Society as a +whole is greater than the individual, isn't it?" + +That seemed to Amy the heart of it. She felt herself as one within +society, herself faithful to it and guarding it against all who would do +it harm; hard to the traitor, not because of any personal feeling--she +wished to make that clear to herself--but because society as a whole +demanded that hardness. After she had bade Cora good-by and as she was +about to open the door of the house Deane had prepared for her, she told +herself that it was a matter of taking the larger view. She was pleased +with the phrase; it seemed to clear her own feeling of any possible +charge of smallness. + + + + +CHAPTER FOURTEEN + + +Despite the fact that he knew he was going to be late getting home for +dinner, Dr. Franklin was sending his car very slowly along the +twelve-mile stretch of road that lay between him and home. This was not +so much because it was beautiful country through which he went, and the +spring freshness in the softness of late afternoon was grateful to him, +nor because too tired for any kind of hurrying, as it was that he did +not want to cover those twelve miles before he had thought out what he +was going to say to Amy. + +He had seen Ruth that afternoon. He went, as usual, to see her father, +and as he entered the room Ruth was sitting beside the bed. She sat with +her back to him and did not seem to know at once that he was there. She +was bending forward, elbow on her knee, hand to her face, looking at her +father who was asleep, or, rather, in that stupor with which death +reaches out into life, through which the living are drawn to the dead. +She was sitting very still, intent, as she watched the man whom life was +letting go. + +He had not seen Ruth since that night, eleven years before, when she +clung to him as she saw the headlight of her train, then turned from him +to the car that was to carry her away from the whole world she knew. It +had seemed that the best of life was pulling away from him as he heard +her train pull out. He fairly ran away from the sound of it; not alone +because it was taking Ruth out of his own life, but because it was +bearing her to a country where the way would be too hard. + +He knew that that way had been hard, that the years had not spared her; +and yet there had been a little shock when he saw Ruth that afternoon; +he knew now that his fears for her had rather given themselves a color +of romance. She looked worn, as if she had worked, and, just at first, +before she saw him, she looked older than it would seem that number of +years should make her. + +But when she heard him and turned, coming to him with outstretched hand, +it was as it used to be--feeling illumining, transforming her. She was +the old flaming Ruth then, the years that lined her defied. Her eyes--it +was like a steady light shining through trembling waters. No one else +ever gave him that impression Ruth did of a certain deep steadiness +through changing feeling. He had thought he remembered just how +wonderful Ruth's eyes were--how feeling flamed in them and that steady +understanding looked through from her to him--that bridge between +separateness. But they were newly wonderful to him,--so live, so tender, +so potent. + +She had been very quiet; thinking back to it, he pondered that. It +seemed not alone the quiet that comes with the acceptance of death, the +quiet that is the subduing effect of strange or moving circumstances, +but an inner quiet, a quiet of power. The years had taken something from +Ruth, but Ruth had won much from them. She was worn, a little dimmed, +but deepened. A tragedy queen she was not; he had a little smile for +himself for that subconscious romantic expectation that gave him, just +at the first, a little shock of disappointment when he saw Ruth. A +tragedy queen would hold herself more imposingly--and would have taken +better care of her hands. But that moment of a lighted way between Ruth +and him could let him afford to smile at disappointed romantic +expectation. + +He had been there for only a few minutes, having the long trip out in +the country to make. Ruth and Ted seemed to be alone in the house. He +asked her if she had seen Harriett, and she answered, simply, "Not yet." + +She had said, "You're married, Deane--and happy. I'm so glad." That, +too, she had said very simply; it was real; direct. As he thought of it +now it was as if life had simplified her; she had let slip from her, +like useless garments, all those blurring artificialities that keep +people apart. + +As usual he would go over again that evening to see his patient; and +then he would remain for a visit with Ruth. And he wanted to take Amy +with him. He would not let himself realize just how much he wanted to do +that, how much he would hate not doing it. He was thinking it out, +trying to arrive at the best way of putting it to Amy. If only he could +make it seem to her the simple thing it was to him! + +He would be so happy to do this for Ruth, but it was more than that; it +was that he wanted to bring Amy within--within that feeling of his about +Ruth. He wanted her to share in that. He could not bear to leave it a +thing from which she was apart, to which she was hostile. He could not +have said just why he felt it so important Amy become a part of what he +felt about Ruth. + +When at last they were together over their unusually late dinner the +thing he wanted to say seemed to grow more difficult because Amy was so +much dressed up. In her gown of that afternoon she looked so much the +society person that what he had in mind somehow grew less simple. And +there was that in her manner too--like her clothes it seemed a society +manner--to make it less easy to attempt to take her into things outside +the conventional round of life. He felt a little helpless before this +self-contained, lovely young person. She did not seem easy to get at. +Somehow she seemed to be apart from him. There was a real wistfulness in +his desire to take her into what to him were things real and important. +It seemed if he could not do that now that Amy would always be a little +apart from him. + +Her talk was of the tea that afternoon: who was there, what they wore, +what they had said to her, how the house looked; how lovely Mrs. +Lawrence and Edith were. + +What he was thinking was that it was Ruth's old crowd had assembled +there--at Edith's house--to be gracious to Amy that afternoon. She +mentioned this name and that--girls Ruth had grown up with, girls who +had known her so well, and cared for her. And Ruth? Had they spoken of +her? Did they know she was home? If they did, did it leave them all +unmoved? He thought of the easy, pleasant way life had gone with most of +those old friends of Ruth's. Had they neither the imagination nor the +heart to go out in the thought of the different thing it had been to +her? + +He supposed not; certainly they had given no evidence of any such +disposition. It hardened him against them. He hated the thought of the +gay tea given for Amy that afternoon when Ruth, just back after all +those years away, was home alone with her father, who was dying. Amy +they were taking in so graciously--because things had gone right with +her; Ruth, whom they knew, who had been one of them, they left +completely out. There flamed up a desire to take Amy with him, as +against them, to show them that she was sweeter and larger than they, +that she understood and put no false value on a cordiality that left the +heart hard. + +But Amy looked so much one of them, seemed so much one with them in her +talk about them, that he put off what he wanted to say, listening to +her. And yet, he assured himself, that was not the whole of Amy; he +softened and took heart in the thought of her tenderness in moments of +love, her sweetness when the world fell away and they were man and woman +to each other. Those real things were stronger in her than this crust of +worldliness. He would reach through that to the life that glowed behind +it. If he only had the skill, the understanding, to reach through that +crust to the life within, to that which was real, she would understand +that the very thing bringing them their happiness was the thing which in +Ruth put her apart from her friends; she would be larger, more tender, +than those others. He wanted that triumph for her over them. He would +glory in it so! There would be such pride in showing Amy to Ruth as a +woman who was real. And most of all, because it was a thing so deep in +his own life, he wanted Amy to come within, to know from within, his +feeling about Ruth. + +"You know, dear, that was Ruth's old crowd you were meeting this +afternoon," he finally said. + +He saw her instantly stiffen. Her mouth looked actually hard. That, he +quickly told himself, was what those people had done to her. + +"And that house," he went on, his voice remaining quiet, "was like +another home to Ruth." + +Amy cleared her throat. "She didn't make a very good return for the +hospitality, do you think?" she asked sharply. + +Flushing, he started to reply to that, but instead asked abruptly, "Does +Edith know that Ruth is home?" + +"Yes," Amy replied coldly, "they were speaking of her." + +"_Speaking_ of her!" he scoffed. + +"I suppose _you_ would think," she flamed, "that they ought to have met +her at the train!" + +"The idea doesn't seem to me preposterous," he answered. + +Feeling the coldness in his own voice he realized how he was at the very +start getting away from the thing he wanted to do, was estranging Amy by +his resentment of her feeling about a thing she did not understand. +After all--as before, he quickly made this excuse for her--what more +natural than that she should take on the feeling of these people she was +thrown with, particularly when they were so very kindly in their +reception of her? + +"Dear," he began again, "I saw Ruth this afternoon. She seems so alone +there. She's gone through such--such hard things. It's a pretty sad +homecoming for her. I'm going over there again this evening, and, Amy +dear, I do so want you to go with me." + +Amy did not reply. He had not looked at her after he began speaking--not +wanting to lose either his courage or his temper in seeing that +stiffening in her. He did not look at her now, even though she did not +speak. + +"I want you to go, Amy. I ask you to. I want it--you don't know how +much. I'm terribly sorry for Ruth. I knew her very well, we were very +close friends. Now that she is here, and in trouble--and so lonely--I +want to take my wife to see her." + +As even then she remained silent, he turned to her. She sat very +straight; red spots burned in her cheeks and there was a light in her +eyes he had never seen there before. She pushed back her chair +excitedly. "And may I ask,"--her voice was high, tight,--"if you see +nothing insulting to your wife in this--proposal?" + +For an instant he just stared at her. "Insulting?" he faltered. "I--I--" +He stopped, helpless, and helplessly sat looking at her, sitting erect, +breathing fast, face and eyes aflame with anger. And in that moment +something in his heart fell back; a desire that had been dear to him, a +thing that had seemed so beautiful and so necessary, somehow just crept +back where it could not be so much hurt. At the sight of her, hard, +scornful, so sure in her hardness, that high desire of his love that she +share his feeling fell back. And then to his disappointment was added +anger for Ruth; through the years anger against so many people had +leaped up in him because of their hardness to Ruth, that, as if of +itself, it leaped up against Amy now. + +"No," he said, his voice hard now too, "I must say I see nothing +insulting in asking you to go with me to see Ruth Holland!" + +"Oh, you don't!" she cried. "A woman living with another woman's +husband! Why, this very afternoon I was with the wife of the man that +woman is living with!--_she_ is the woman I would meet! And you can ask +me--your wife--to go and see a woman who turned her back on society--on +decency--a woman her own family cast out, and all decent people turn +away from." She paused, struggling, unable to keep her dignity and yet +say the things rushing up to be said. + +He had grown red, as he always did when people talked that way about +Ruth. "Of course,"--he made himself say it quietly--"she isn't those +things to me, you know. She's--quite other things to me." + +"I'd like to know what she _is_ to you!" Amy cried. "It's very +strange--your standing up for her against the whole town!" + +He did not reply; it was impossible to tell Amy, when she was like this, +what Ruth had been--was--to him. + +She looked at him as he sat there silent. And this was the man she had +married!--a man who could treat her like this, asking her to go and see +a woman who wasn't respectable--why, who was as far from respectable as +a woman could be! This was the man for whom she had left her mother and +father--and a home better than this home certainly,--yes, and that other +man who had wanted her and who had so much more to offer! _He_ respected +her. He would never ask her to go and see a woman who wasn't decent! But +she had married for love; had given up all those other things that she +might have love. And now.... Her throat tightened and it was hard to +hold back tears. And then suddenly she wanted to go over to Deane, slip +down beside him, put her arms around him, tell him that she loved him +and ask him to please tell her that he loved her. But there was so +strange an expression on his face; it checked that warm, loving impulse, +holding her where she was, hard. What was he thinking about--_that +woman_? He had so strange a look. She did not believe it had anything to +do with her. No, he had forgotten her. It was this other woman. Why, he +was in love with her--of course! He had always been in love with her. + +Because it seemed the idea would break her heart, because she could not +bear it, it was scoffingly that she threw out: "You were in love with +her, I suppose? You've always been in love with her, haven't you?" + +"Yes, Amy," he answered, "I was in love with Ruth. I loved her--at any +rate, I sorrowed for her--until the day I met you." + +His voice was slow and sad; the whole sadness of it all, all the sadness +of a world in which men and women loved and hurt each other seemed +closing in around him. He did not seem able to rise out of it, to go out +to her; it was as if his new disappointment brought back all the hurt of +old ones. + +Young, all inexperienced in the ways of adjusting love to life, of +saving it for life, the love in her tried to shoot through the self-love +that closed her in, holding her tight. She wanted to follow that +impulse, go over and put her arms around her husband, let her kisses +drive away that look of sadness. She knew that she could do it, that she +ought to do it, that she would be sorry for not having done it, but--she +couldn't. Love did not know how to fight its way through pride. + +He had risen. "I must go. I have a number of calls to make. I--I'm sorry +you feel as you do, Amy." + +He was not going to explain! He was just leaving her outside it all! He +didn't care for her, really, at all--just took her because he couldn't +get that other woman! Took _her_--Amy Forrester--because he couldn't get +the woman he wanted! Great bands of incensed pride bound her heart now, +closing in the love that had fluttered there. Her face, twisted with +varying emotions, was fairly ugly as she cried: "Well, I must say, I +wish you had told me this before we were married!" + +He looked at her in surprise. Then, surprised anew, looked quickly away. +Feeling that he had failed, he tried to put it aside lightly. "Oh, come +now, Amy, you didn't think, did you, that you could marry a man of +thirty-four who had never loved any woman?" + +"I should like to think he had loved a respectable woman!" she cried, +wounded anew by this lightness, unable to hold back things she miserably +knew she would be sorry she had not held back. "And if he had loved that +kind of a woman--_did_ love her--I should like to think he had too much +respect for his wife to ask her to meet such a person!" + +"Ruth Holland is not a woman to speak like that about, Amy," he said +with unconcealed anger. + +"She's not a decent woman! She's not a respectable woman! She's a bad +woman! She's a low woman!" + +She could not hold it back. She knew she looked unlovely, knew she was +saying things that would not make her loved. She could not help it. +Deane turned away from her. After a minute he got a little control of +himself and instead of the hot things that had flashed up, said coldly: +"I don't think you know what you're talking about." + +"Of course I couldn't hope to know as much as _she_ does," she jeered. +"However," she went on, with more of a semblance of dignity, "I do know +a few things. I know that society cannot countenance a woman who did +what that woman did. I know that if a woman is going to selfishly take +her own happiness with no thought of others she must expect to find +herself outside the lives of decent people. Society must protect itself +against such persons as she. I know that much--fortunately." + +Her words fortified her. She, certainly, was in the right. She felt that +she had behind her all those women of that afternoon. Did any of them +receive Ruth Holland? Did they not all see that society must close in +against the individual who defied it? She felt supported. + +For the minute he stood there looking at her--so absolutely unyielding, +so satisfied in her conclusions,--those same things about society and +the individual that he had heard from the rest of them; like the rest of +them so satisfied with the law she had laid down--law justifying +hardness of heart and closing in against the sorrow of a particular +human life; from Amy now that same look, those same words. For a little +time he did not speak. "I'm awfully sorry, Amy," was all he said then. + +He stood there in miserable embarrassment. He always kissed her good-by. + +She saw his hesitancy and turned to the other room. "Hadn't you better +hurry?" she laughed. "You have so many calls to make--and some of them +so important!" + + + + +CHAPTER FIFTEEN + + +It was quiet that evening in the house of Cyrus Holland; the noises that +living makes were muffled by life's awe of death, even sounds that could +not disturb the dying guarded against by the sense of decorum of those +living on. Downstairs were people who had come to inquire for the man +they knew would not be one of them again. For forty years Cyrus Holland +had been a factor in the affairs of the town. He was Freeport's senior +banker, the old-fashioned kind of banker, with neither the imagination +nor the daring to make of himself a rich man, or of his bank an +institution using all the possibilities of its territory. In venturing +days he remained cautious. His friends said that he was +sane--responsible; men of a newer day put it that he was limited, +lacking in that boldness which makes the modern man of affairs. He had +advised many men and always on the side of safety. No one had grown rich +through his suggestions, but more than one had been saved by his +counsels. With the expansion of the business of the town newer banks had +gone ahead of his, and when they said he was one of the good substantial +men of the community they were indicating his limitations with his +virtues. Such a man, not a brilliant figure through his lifetime, would +be lamented in his passing. They had often said that he failed in using +his opportunities; what they said now was that he had never abused +them--death, as usual, inducing the living to turn the kindly side to +the truth about the dying. + +Ruth did not go downstairs to see the people who were coming in. Ted was +down there, and Flora Copeland, a spinster cousin of the Hollands, who +for several years had lived in the house. Once, in passing through the +hall, she heard voices which she recognized. She stood there listening +to them. It was so strange to hear them; and so good. She was hungry for +voices she knew--old voices. Once there was a pause and her heart beat +fast for she got a feeling that maybe they were going to ask for her. +But they broke that pause to say goodnight. She had received no message +about anyone asking for her. + +But even though she was not seeing the people who came she felt the +added strangeness her presence made in that house which had suspended +the usual affairs of living in waiting for death. The nurse was one of +the girls of the town, of a family Ruth knew. She had been only a little +girl at the time Ruth went away. She was conscious, in the young woman's +scrupulously professional manner toward herself, of a covert interest, +as in something mysterious, forbidden. She could see that to this +decorous young person she was a woman out of another world. It hurt her, +and it made her a little angry. She wished that this professional, +proper young woman, stealing glances as at a forbidden thing, could know +the world in which she actually lived. + +And yet it occurred to her that the strain was less great than it would +have been at any other time--something about a room of death making the +living a little less prone to divide themselves into good and bad, +approved and condemned. With the approach of death there are likely to +be only two classes--the living and the dead. After the first few hours, +despite the estranging circumstances, there did seem to be some sort of +a bond between her and this girl who attended her father. + +Ruth and Ted and Flora Copeland had had dinner together. Her Cousin +Flora had evidently pondered the difficult question of a manner with +Ruth and was pursuing it scrupulously. Her plan was clearly indicated in +her manner. She would seem to be acting as if nothing had happened and +yet at the same time made it plain that she in no sense countenanced the +person to whom she was being kind. Her manner was that most dismal of +all things--a punctilious kindliness. + +This same Cousin Flora, now an anaemic woman of forty-five, had not +always been exclusively concerned with propriety. Ruth could remember +Cousin Flora's love affair, which had so greatly disturbed the members +of the family, and which, to save their own pride, they had thwarted. +Cousin Flora had had the misfortune to fall in love with a man quite +outside the social sphere of the Copelands and the Hollands. He was a +young laboring man whom she knew through the social affairs of the +church. He had the presumption to fall in love with her. She had not had +love before, being less generously endowed in other respects than with +social position in Freeport. There had been a brief, mad time when +Cousin Flora had seemed to find love greater than exclusiveness. But the +undesirable affair was frustrated by a family whose democracy did not +extend beyond a working together for the good of the Lord, and Cousin +Flora was, as Ruth remembered their saying with satisfaction, saved. +Looking at her now Ruth wondered if there ever came times when she +regretted having been saved. + +She tried to make the most of all those little things that came into her +mind just because this homecoming was so desolate a thing to be left +alone with. She had many times lived through a homecoming. And when she +had thought of coming home she had always, in spite of it all, thought +of things as much the same. And now even she and Ted were strange with +each other; it was Ted the little boy she knew; it was hard all at once +to bridge years in which they had not shared experiences. + +It was the house itself seemed really to take her in. When she got her +first sight of it all the things in between just rolled away. She was +back. What moved her first was not that things had changed but that they +were so much the same--the gate, the walk up to the house, the big tree, +the steps of the porch; as she went up the walk there was the real +feeling of coming home. + +Then they stepped up on the porch--and her mother was not there to open +the door for her; she knew then with a poignancy even those first days +had not carried that she would never see her mother again, knew as she +stepped into the house that her mother was gone. And yet it would keep +seeming her mother must be somewhere in that house, that in a little +while she would come in the room and tell something about where she had +been. And she would find herself listening for her grandfather's slow, +uncertain step; and for Terror's bark--one of his wild, glad rushes into +the room. Ted said that Terror had been run over by an automobile a +number of years before. + +Nor was it only those whom death kept away who were not there. Her +sister Harriett had not been there to welcome her; now it was evening +and she had not yet seen her. Ted had merely said that he guessed +Harriett was tired out. He seemed embarrassed about it and had hastily +begun to talk of something else. And none of the old girls had come in +to see her. The fact that she had not expected them to come somehow did +not much relieve the hurt of their not coming. When a door opened she +would find herself listening for Edith's voice; there was no putting +down the feeling that surely Edith would be running in soon. + +Most of the time she sat by her father's bed; though she was watching +him dying, to sit there by him was the closest to comfort she could +come. And as she watched the face which already had the look of death +there would come pictures of her father at various times through the +years. There was that day when she was a tiny girl and he came home +bringing her a puppy; she could see his laughing face as he held the +soft, wriggling, fuzzy little ball of life up to her, see him standing +there enjoying her delight. She saw him as he was one day when she said +she was not going to Sunday-school, that she was tired of Sunday-school +and was not going any more. She could hear him saying, "Ruth, go +upstairs and put on your clothes for Sunday-school!"--see him as plainly +as though it had just happened standing there pointing a stern finger +toward the stairs, not moving until she had started to obey him. And +once when she and Edith and some other girls were making a great noise +on the porch he had stepped out from the living-room, where he and some +men were sitting about the table, looking over something, and said, +mildly, affectionately, "My dears, what would you think of making a +little less noise?" Queer things to be remembering, but she saw just how +he looked, holding the screen door open as he said it. + +And as she sat there thinking of how she would never hear his voice +again, he reached out his hand as if groping for something he wanted; +and when with a little sob she quickly took it he clasped her hand, +putting into it a strength that astonished her. He turned toward her +after that and the nature of his sleep changed a little; it seemed more +natural, as if there were something of peace in it. It was as if he had +turned to her, reached out his hand for her, knowing she was there and +wanting her. He was too far from life for more, but he had done what he +could. Her longing gave the little movement big meaning. Sitting there +holding the hand of her father who would never talk to her nor listen to +her again, she wanted as she had never wanted before to tell her story. +She had been a long time away; she had had a hard time. She wanted to +tell him about it, wanted to try and make him understand how it had all +happened. She wanted to tell him how homesick she had been and how she +had always loved them all. It seemed if she could just make him know +what it was she had felt, and what she had gone through, he would be +sorry for her and love her as he used to. + +Someone had come into the room; she did not turn at once, trying to make +her blurred eyes clear. When she looked around she saw her sister +Harriett. Her father had relaxed his hold on her hand and so she rose +and turned to her sister. + +"Well, Ruth," said Harriett, in an uncertain tone. Then she kissed her. +The kiss, too, was uncertain, as if she had not known what to do about +it, but had decided in its favor. But she had kissed her. Again that +hunger to be taken in made much of little. She stood there struggling to +hold back the sobs. If only Harriett would put her arms around her and +really kiss her! + +But Harriett continued to stand there uncertainly. Then she moved, as if +embarrassed. And then she spoke. "Did you have a--comfortable trip?" she +asked. + +The struggle with sobs was over. Ruth took a step back from her sister. +It was a perfectly controlled voice which answered: "Yes, Harriett, my +trip was comfortable--thank you." + +Harriett flushed and still stood there uncertainly. Then, "Did the town +look natural?" she asked, diffidently this time. + +But Ruth did not say whether the town had looked natural or not. She had +noticed something. In a little while Harriett would have another baby. +And she had not known about it! Harriett, to be sure, had had other +babies and she had not known about it, but somehow to see Harriett, not +having known it, brought it home hard that she was not one of them any +more; she did not know when children were to be born; she did not know +what troubled or what pleased them; did not know how they managed the +affairs of living--who their neighbors were--their friends. She had not +known about Harriett; Harriett did not know about her--her longing for a +baby, longing which circumstances made her sternly deny herself. +Unmindful of the hurt of a moment before she now wanted to pour all that +out to Harriett, wanted to talk with her of those deep, common things. + +The nurse had come in the room and was beginning some preparations for +the night. Harriett was moving toward the door. "Harriett," Ruth began +timidly, "won't you come in my room a little while and--talk?" + +Harriett hesitated. They were near the top of the stairs and voices +could be heard below. "I guess not," she said nervously. "Not tonight," +she added hurriedly; "that's Edgar down there. He's waiting for me." + +"Then good night," said Ruth very quietly, and turned to her room. + +All day long she had been trying to keep away from her room. "Thought +probably you'd like to have your old room, Ruth," Ted had said in taking +her to it. He had added, a little hurriedly, "Guess no one's had it +since you left." + +It looked as if it was true enough no one had used it since she went out +of it that night eleven years before. The same things were there; the +bed was in the same position; so was her dressing table, and over by the +big window that opened to her side porch was the same little low chair +she always sat in to put on her shoes and stockings. It took her a long +way back; it made old things very strangely real. She sat down in her +little chair now and looked over at a picture of the Madonna Edith had +once given her on her birthday. She could hear people moving about +downstairs, hear voices. She had never in her whole life felt as alone. + +And then she grew angry. Harriett had no right to treat her like that! +She had worked; she had suffered; she had done her best in meeting the +hard things of living. She had gone the way of women, met the things +women meet. Why, she had done her own washing! Harriett had no right to +treat her as if she were clear outside the common things of life. + +She rose and went to the window and lowering it leaned out. She had +grown used to turning from hard things within to the night. There in the +South-west, where they slept out of doors, she had come to know the +night. Ever since that it had seemed to have something for her, +something from which she could draw. And after they had gone through +those first years and the fight was not for keeping life but for making +a place for it in the world, she had many times stepped from a cramping +little house full of petty questions she did not know how to deal with, +from a hard little routine that threatened their love out to the vast, +still night of that Colorado valley and always something had risen in +herself which gave her power. So many times that had happened that +instinctively she turned to the outside now, leaning her head against +the lowered casing. The oak tree was gently tapping against the +house--that same old sound that had gone all through her girlhood; the +familiar fragrance of a flowering vine on the porch below; the thrill of +the toads off there in the little ravine, a dog's frolicsome barking; +the laughter of some boys and girls who were going by--old things those, +sweeping her back to old things. Down in the next block some boys were +singing that old serenading song, "Good-night, Ladies." Long ago boys +had sung it to her. She stood there listening to it, tears running down +her face. + +She was startled by a tap at the door; dashing her hands across her face +she eagerly called, "Come in." + +"Deane's here, Ruth," said Ted. "Wants to see you. Shall I tell him to +come in here?" + +She nodded, but for an instant Ted stood there looking at her. She was +so strange. She had been crying, and yet she seemed so glad, so excited +about something. + +"Oh, Deane," she cried, holding out her two hands to him, laughter and +sobs crowding out together, "_talk_ to me! How's your mother? How's your +Aunt Margaret's rheumatism? What kind of an automobile have you? What +about your practice? What about your dog? Why, Deane," she rushed on, +"I'm just starving for things like that! You know I'm just Ruth, don't +you, Deane?" She laughed a little wildly. "And I've come home. And I +want to know about things. Why I could listen for hours about what +streets are being paved--and who supports old Mrs. Lynch! Don't you see, +Deane?" she laughed through tears. "But first tell me about Edith! How +does she look? How many children has she? Who are her friends? And oh, +Deane--tell me,--does she _ever_ say anything about me?" + +They talked for more than two hours. She kept pouring out questions at +him every time he would stop for breath. She fairly palpitated with that +desire to hear little things--what Bob Horton did for a living, whether +Helen Matthews still gave music lessons. She hung tremulous upon his +words, laughing and often half crying as he told little stories about +quarrels and jokes--about churches and cooks. In his profession he had +many times seen a system craving a particular thing, but it seemed to +him he had never seen any need more pitifully great than this of hers +for laughing over the little drolleries of life. And then they sank into +deeper channels--he found himself telling her things he had not told +anyone: about his practice, about the men he was associated with, things +he had come to think. + +And she talked to him of Stuart's health, of their efforts at making a +living--what she thought of dry farming, of heaters for apple orchards; +the cattle business, the character of Western people. She told him of +the mountains in winter--snow down to their feet; of Colorado air on a +winter's morning. And then of more personal, intimate things--how lonely +they had been, how much of a struggle they had found it. She talked of +the disadvantage Stuart was at because of his position, how he had grown +sensitive because of suspicion, because there were people who kept away +from him; how she herself had not made friends, afraid to because +several times after she had come to know the people around her they had +"heard," and drawn away. She told it all quite simply, just that she +wanted to let him know about their lives. He could see what it was +meaning to her to talk, that she had been too tight within and was +finding relief. "I try not to talk much to Stuart about things that +would make him feel bad," she said. "He gets despondent. It's been very +hard for Stuart, Deane. He misses his place among men." + +She fell silent there, brooding over that--a touch of that tender, +passionate brooding he knew of old. And as he watched her he himself was +thinking, not of how hard it had been for Stuart, but of what it must +have been to Ruth. That hunger of hers for companionship told him more +than words could possibly have done of what her need had been. He +studied her as she sat there silent. She was the same old Ruth, but a +deepened Ruth; there was the same old sweetness, but new power. He had a +feeling that there was nothing in the world Ruth would not understand; +that bars to her spirit were down, that she would go out in tenderness +to anything that was of life--to sorrow, to joy, with the insight to +understand and the warmth to care. He looked at her: worn down by +living, yet glorified by it; hurt, yet valiant. The life in her had gone +through so much and circumstances had not been able to beat it down. And +this was the woman Amy said it was insulting of him to ask her to meet! + +She looked up at him with her bright, warm smile. "Oh, Deane, it's been +so good! You don't know how you've helped me. Why you wouldn't believe," +she laughed, "how much better I feel." + +They had risen and he had taken her hand for goodnight. "You always +helped me, Deane," she said in her simple way. "You never failed me. You +don't know"--this with one of those flashes of feeling that lighted Ruth +and made her wonderful--"how many times, when things were going badly, +I've thought of you--and wanted to see you." + +They stood there a moment silent; the things they had lived through +together, in which they had shared understanding, making a spiritual +current between them. She broke from it with a light, fond: "Dear Deane, +I'm so glad you're happy. I want you to be happy always." + + + + +CHAPTER SIXTEEN + + +Those words kept coming back to him after he had gone to bed: "I'm so +glad you're happy--I want you to be happy always." Amy was asleep when +he came home, or he took it for granted that she was asleep and was +careful not to disturb her, for it was past midnight. He wished she +would turn to him with a sleepy little smile. He wanted to be made to +feel that it was true he was happy, that he was going to be happy +always. That night was not filled with the sweetness of love's faith in +permanence. He tried to put away the thought of how Amy had looked as +she said those things about Ruth. Knowing the real Ruth, his feeling +about her freshened, deepened, he could not bear to think of Amy as +having said those things. He held it off in telling himself again that +that was what the people of the town had done, that he himself had not +managed well. He would try again--a little differently. Amy was really +so sweet, so loving, he told himself, that she would come to be +different about this. Though he did not dwell on that, either--upon her +coming to be different; her face in saying those things was a little too +hard to forget. He kept up a pretence with himself on the surface, but +down in his heart he asked less now; he was not asking of love that +complete sharing, that deep understanding which had been his dream +before he talked to Amy. He supposed things would go on about the +same--just that that one thing wouldn't be, was the thought with which +he went to sleep, making his first compromise with his ideal for their +love. Just as he was falling asleep there came before him, half of +dreams, Ruth's face as it had been when she seemed to be brooding over +the things life brought one. It was as if pain had endowed her with +understanding. Did it take pain to do it? + +He had an early morning call to make and left home without really +talking to Amy. When he woke in the morning, yearning to be back in the +new joy of her love, he was going to tell her that he was sorry he had +hurt her, sorry there was this thing they looked at differently, but +that he loved her with his whole heart and that they were going to be +happy just the same, and then maybe some time they'd "get together" on +this. It was a thing he would not have said he would do, but there are +many things one will do to get from the shadow back into that necessary +sunlight of love. + +However, there was not opportunity then for doing it; he had to hurry to +the hospital and Amy gave him no chance for such a moment with her. She +had the manner of keeping up an appearance of going on as if nothing had +happened; as if that thing were left behind--frosted over. She kissed +him good-by, but even in that there seemed an immense reservation. It +made him unhappy, worried him. He told himself that he would have to +talk to Amy, that it wouldn't do to leave the thing that way. + +It had been so easy to talk to Ruth; it seemed that one could talk to +her about anything, that there was no danger of saying a thing and +having it bound back from a wall of opinions and prejudices that kept +him from her. There was something resting, relaxing, in the way one +could be one's self with Ruth, the way she seemed to like one for just +what one was. He had always felt more at ease with her than with anyone +else, but now he more than ever had the feeling that her mind was +loosened from the things that held the minds of most of the women he +knew. It was a great thing not to have those holdbacks in talking with a +friend, to be freed of that fear of blundering into a thing that would +be misunderstood. He did not face the fact that that was just the way it +was with Amy, that there was constantly the fear of saying something +that would better have been left unsaid. But he was thinking that being +free to say what one was feeling was like drawing a long breath. + +And in thinking of it as he went about his calls that morning, in +various homes, talking with a number of people, it occurred to him that +many of those things he had come to think, things of which he did not +often try to talk to others, he had arrived at because of Ruth. It was +amazing how his feeling about her, thoughts through her, had run into +all his thinking. It even occurred to him that if it had not been for +her he might have fallen into accepting many things more or less as the +rest of the town did. It seemed now that as well as having caused him +much pain she had brought rich gain; for those questionings of life, +that refusal placidly to accept, had certainly brought keener +satisfactions than he could have had through a closer companionship with +facile acceptors. Ruth had been a big thing in his life, not only in his +heart, but to his mind. + +He had come out of the house of one of his patients and was standing on +the steps talking with the woman who had anxiously followed him to the +door. The house was directly across the street from the Lawrences'. +Edith was sitting out on the porch; her little girl of eight and the +boy, who was younger, were with her. They made an attractive picture. + +He continued his reassuring talk to the woman whose husband was ill, but +he was at the same time thinking of Ruth's eager questionings about +Edith, about Edith's children, her hunger for every smallest thing he +could tell her. When he went down to his car Edith, looking up and +seeing him, gayly waved her hand. He returned the salute and stood there +as if doing something to the car. Sitting there in the morning sunshine +with her two children Edith looked the very picture of the woman for +whom things had gone happily. Life had opened its pleasantest ways to +Edith. He could not bring himself to get in his car and start away; he +could not get rid of the thought of what it would mean to Ruth if Edith +would go to see her, could not banish the picture of Ruth's face if +Edith were to walk into the room. And because he could not banish it he +suddenly turned abruptly from his car and started across the street and +up the steps to the porch. + +She smiled brightly up at him, holding out her hand. "Coming up to talk +to me? How nice!" + +He pulled up a chair, bantering with the children. + +"I know what you've come for," Edith laughed gayly. "You've come to hear +about how lovely Amy was at the tea yesterday. You want to know all the +nice things people are saying about her." + +His face puckered as it did when he was perplexed or annoyed. He laughed +with a little constraint as he said: "That would be pleasant hearing, I +admit. But it was something else I wanted to talk to you about just now, +Edith." + +She raised her brows a little in inquiry, bending forward slightly, +waiting, her eyes touched with the anticipation of something serious. He +felt sure his tone had suggested Ruth to her; that indicated to him that +Ruth had been much in her mind. + +"I had a long visit with Ruth last night," he began quietly. + +She did not speak, bending forward a little more, her eyes upon him +intently, anxiously. + +"Edith?" + +"Yes, Deane?" + +He paused, then asked simply: "Edith, Ruth is very lonely. Won't you go +to see her?" + +She raised her chin in quick, startled way, some emotion, he did not +know just what, breaking over her face. + +"I thought I'd come and tell you, Edith, how lonely--how utterly +lonely--Ruth is, because I felt if you understood you would want to go +and see her." + +Still Edith did not speak. She looked as though she were going to cry. + +"Ruth's had a hard time, Edith. It's been no light life for her--you +don't have to do more than look in her eyes to know that. I wish you +could have heard the way she asked about you--poured out questions about +you. She loves you just as she always did, Edith. She's sorrowed for you +all through these years." + +A tear brimmed over from Edith's blue eyes and rolled +slowly--unheeded--down her cheek. His heart warmed to her and he took +hope as he watched that tear. + +"She was crazy to know about your children. That's been a grief to her, +Edith. Ruth should be a mother--you know that. You must know what a +mother she would have made. If you were to take your youngsters to see +her--" He broke off with a laugh, as if there was no way of expressing +it. + +Edith looked away from him, seemed to be staring straight into a rose +bush at the side of the porch. + +"Couldn't you?" he gently pressed. + +She turned to him. "I'd like to, Deane," she said simply, "but, "--her +dimmed eyes were troubled--"I don't see how I could." + +"Why not?" he pursued. "It's simple enough--just go and see her. We +might go together, if that would seem easier." + +She was pulling at a bit of sewing in her lap. "But, Deane, it _isn't_ +simple," she began hesitatingly. "It isn't just one's self. There's +society--the whole big terrible question. If it were just a simple, +individual matter,--why, the truth is I'd love to go and see Ruth. If it +were just a personal thing--why don't you know that I'd forget +everything--except that she's Ruth?" Her voice choked and she did not go +on, but was fumbling with the sewing in her lap. + +He hitched his chair forward anxiously, concentrated on his great desire +to say it right, to win Edith for Ruth. Edith was a simple sort of +being--really, a loving being; if she could only detach herself from +what she pathetically called the whole terrible question--if he could +just make her see that the thing she wanted to do was the thing to do. +She looked up at him out of big grieving eyes, as if wanting to be +convinced, wanting the way opened for the loving thing she would like to +do. + +"But, Edith," he began, as composedly and gently as he could, for she +was so much a child in her mentality it seemed she must be dealt with +gently and simply, "_is_ it so involved, after all? Isn't it, more than +anything else, just that simple, personal matter? Why not forget +everything but the personal part of it? Ruth is back--lonely--in +trouble. Things came between you and Ruth, but that was a long time ago +and since that she's met hard things. You're not a vindictive person; +you're a loving person. Then for heaven's sake why _wouldn't_ you go and +see her?"--it was impossible to keep the impatience out of that last. + +"I know," she faltered, "but--society--" + +"Society!" he jeered. "_Forget_ society, Edith, and be just a human +being! If _you_ can forget--forgive--what seemed to you the wrong Ruth +did _you_--if _your_ heart goes out to her--then what else is there to +it?" he demanded impatiently. + +"But you see,"--he could feel her reaching out, as if thinking she must, +to the things that had been said to her, was conscious of her mother's +thinking pushing on hers as she fumbled, "but one _isn't_ free, Deane. +Society _has_ to protect itself. What might not happen--if it didn't?" + +He tried to restrain what he wanted to say to that--keep cool, wise, and +say the things that would get Edith. He was sure that Edith wanted to be +had; her eyes asked him to overthrow those things that had been fastened +on her, to free her so that the simple, human approach was the only one +there was to it, justify her in believing one dared be as kind, as +natural and simple and real as one wanted to be. He was sure that in +Edith's heart love for her friend was more real than any sense of duty +to society. + +"But after all what is society, Edith?" he began quietly. "Just a +collection of individuals, isn't it? Why must it be so much harder than +the individuals comprising it? If it is that--then there's something +wrong with it, wouldn't you think?" + +He looked around at the sound of a screen door closing. Edith's mother +had stepped out on the porch. He knew by her startled look, her quick, +keen glance at him, that she had heard his last words. She stepped +forward holding up her hands in mock dismay, with a laughing: "What a +large, solemn issue for an early morning conversation!" + +Deane tried to laugh but he was not good at dissembling and he was +finding it hard to conceal his annoyance at the interruption. Talking to +Mrs. Lawrence was very different from talking to Edith. Edith, against +her own loving impulses, tried to think what she thought she ought to +think; Mrs. Lawrence had hardened into the things she thought should be +thought, and at once less loving and more intelligent than Edith, she +was fixed where her daughter was uncertain, complacent where Edith was +troubled. She was one of those women who, very kind to people they +accept, have no tendrils of kindness running out to those whom they do +not approve. Her qualities of heart did not act outside the circle of +her endorsement. With the exception of Ruth's brother Cyrus, no one in +the town had been harder about her than Edith's mother. He had all the +time felt that, let alone, Edith would have gone back to Ruth. + +He had risen and pulled up a chair for Mrs. Lawrence and now stood there +fumbling with his hat, as if about to leave. It seemed to him he might +as well. + +"Why, my dears!" exclaimed the older woman with a sort of light dryness, +"pray don't let me feel I have broken up a philosophic discussion." + +"Deane was asking me to go and see Ruth, mother," said Edith, simply and +not without dignity. + +He saw her flush, her quick look up at him, and then the slight +tightening of her lips. + +"And doesn't it occur to Deane," she asked pleasantly, "that that is +rather a strange thing to ask of you?" + +"She is very lonely, Deane says," said Edith tremulously. + +Mrs. Lawrence was threading a needle. "I presume so," she answered +quietly. + +Deane felt the blood rising in him. Somehow that quiet reply angered him +as no sharp retort could have done. He turned to Edith, rather pointedly +leaving her mother out. "Well," he asked bluntly, "will you go?" + +Edith's eyes widened. She looked frightened. She stole a look at her +mother, who had serenely begun upon her embroidery. + +"Why, Deane!" laughed the mother, as if tolerantly waving aside a +preposterous proposal, "how absurd! Of course Edith won't go! How could +she? Why should she?" + +He made no reply, fearing to let himself express the things +which--disappointed--he was feeling. + +Mrs. Lawrence looked up. "If you will just cast your mind back," she +said, her voice remaining pleasant though there was a sting in it now, +"to the way Ruth treated Edith, I think it will come home to you, Deane, +that you are asking a rather absurd thing." + +"But Edith says,"--he made a big effort to speak as quietly as she +did--"that that personal part of it is all right with her. She says that +she would really like to go and see Ruth, but doesn't think she can--on +account of society." + +Mrs. Lawrence flushed a little at his tone on that last, but she seemed +quite unruffled as she asked: "And you see no point in that?" + +He had sat down on the railing of the porch. He leaned back against a +pillar, turning a little away from them as he said with a laugh not free +of bitterness: "I don't believe I quite get this idea about society." +Abruptly he turned back to Mrs. Lawrence. "What is it? A collection of +individuals for mutual benefit and self-protection, I gather. Protection +against what? Their own warmest selves? The most real things in them?" + +Mrs. Lawrence colored, though she was smiling composedly enough. Edith +was not smiling. He saw her anxious look over at her mother, as if +expecting her to answer that, and yet--this was what her eyes made him +think--secretly hoping she couldn't. + +But Mrs. Lawrence maintained her manner of gracious, rather amused +tolerance with an absurd hot-headedness, perversity, on his part. "Oh, +come now, Deane," she laughed, "we're not going to get into an absurd +discussion, are we?" + +"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Lawrence," he retorted sharply, "but I don't +think it an absurd discussion. I don't consider a thing that involves +the happiness of as fine a human being as Ruth Holland an absurd thing +to discuss!" + +She laid down her work. "Ruth Holland," she began very quietly, "is a +human being who selfishly--basely--took her own happiness, leaving +misery for others. She outraged society as completely as a woman could +outrage it. She was a thief, really,--stealing from the thing that was +protecting her, taking all the privileges of a thing she was a traitor +to. She was not only what we call a bad woman, she was a hypocrite. More +than that, she was outrageously unfaithful to her dearest friend--to +Edith here who loved and trusted her. Having no respect for marriage +herself, she actually had the effrontery--to say nothing of the lack of +fine feeling--to go to the altar with Edith the very night that she +herself outraged marriage. I don't know, Deane, how a woman could do a +worse thing than that. The most pernicious kind of woman is not the one +who bears the marks of the bad woman upon her. It's the woman like Ruth +Holland, who appears to be what she is not, who deceives, plays a false +part. If you can't see that society must close in against a woman like +that then all I can say, my dear Deane, is that you don't see very +straight. You jeer about society, but society is nothing more than life +as we have arranged it. It is an institution. One living within it must +keep the rules of that institution. One who defies it--deceives it--must +be shut out from it. So much we are forced to do in self-defence. We +_owe_ that to the people who are trying to live decently, to be +faithful. Life, as we have arranged it, must be based on confidence. We +have to keep that confidence. We have to punish a violation of it." She +took up her sewing again. "Your way of looking at it is not a very large +way, Deane," she concluded pleasantly. + +Edith had settled back in her chair--accepting, though her eyes were +grieving. It was that combination which, perhaps even more than the +words of her mother, made it impossible for him to hold back. + +"Perhaps not," he said; "not what you would call a large way of looking +at it. But do you know, Mrs. Lawrence, I'm not sure that I care for that +large way of looking at it. I'm not sure that I care a great deal about +an institution that smothers the kindly things in people--as you are +making this do in Edith. It sometimes occurs to me that life as we have +arranged it is a rather unsatisfactory arrangement. I'm not sure that an +arrangement of life which doesn't leave place for the most real things +in life is going to continue forever. Ruth was driven into a corner and +forced to do things she herself hated and suffered for--it was this same +arrangement of life forced that on her, you know. You talk of marriage. +But you must know there was no real marriage between Marion Averley and +Stuart Williams. And I don't believe you can deny that there is a real +marriage between him and Ruth Holland." He had risen and now moved a +little toward the steps. "So you see I don't believe I care much for +your 'society,' Mrs. Lawrence," he laughed shortly. "This looks to me +like a pretty clear case of life against society--and I see things just +straight enough that life itself strikes me as rather more important +than your precious 'arrangement' of it!" + +That did not bring the color to Mrs. Lawrence's face; there seemed no +color at all there when Deane finished speaking. She sat erect, her +hands folded on her sewing, looking at him with strangely bright eyes. +When she spoke it was with a certain metallic pleasantness. "Why, very +well, Deane," she said; "one is at perfect liberty to choose, isn't one? +And I think it quite right to declare one's self, as you have just done, +that we may know who is of us and who is not." She smiled--a smile that +seemed definitely to shut him out. + +He looked at Edith; her eyes were down; he could see that her lips +trembled. "Good-by," he said. + +Mrs. Lawrence bowed slightly and took up her sewing. + +"Good-by, Edith," he added gently. + +She looked up at him and he saw then why she had been looking down. +"Good-by, Deane," she said a little huskily, her eyes all clouded with +tears. "Though how absurd!" she quickly added with a rather tremulous +laugh. "We shall be seeing you as usual, of course." But it was more +appeal than declaration. + + + + +CHAPTER SEVENTEEN + + +Ruth was different after her talk with Deane that night. Ted felt the +change in her when he went up to say goodnight. The constraint between +them seemed somehow to have fallen away. Ruth was natural now--just +Ruth, he told himself, and felt that talking to Deane had done her good. +He lingered to chat with her awhile--of the arrangements for the night, +various little things about the house, just the things they naturally +would talk of; his feeling of embarrassment, diffidence, melted quite +away before her quiet simplicity, her warm naturalness. She had seemed +timid all day--holding back. Now she seemed just quietly to take her +place. He had been afraid of doing or saying something that would hurt +her, that had kept him from being natural, he knew. But now he forgot +about that. And when Ruth put her hands up on his shoulders and lifted +her face to kiss him goodnight he suddenly knew how many lonely nights +there had been. "I'm so glad I've got you back, Ted," she said; "I want +to talk to you about heaps of things." + +And Ted, as he went to bed, was thinking that there were heaps of things +he wanted to talk to Ruth about. He hadn't had much of anybody to talk +to about the things one does talk to one's own folks about. His father +had been silent and queer the last couple of years, and somehow one +wouldn't think of "talking" to Harriett. He and Ruth had always hit it +off, he told himself. He was glad she had found her feet, as he thought +of it; evidently talking with Deane had made her feel more at home. +Deane was a bully sort! After he had fallen into a light sleep he +awakened and there came all freshly the consciousness that Ruth was +back, asleep in her old room. It made him feel so good; he stretched out +and settled for sleep with satisfaction, drowsily thinking that there +_were_ heaps of things he wanted to talk to Ruth about. + +Ruth, too, was settling to sleep with more calm, something nearer peace +than it had seemed just a little while before she was going to find in +her father's house. Talking with Deane took her in to something from +which she had long felt shut out. It was like coming on a camp fire +after being overawed by too long a time in the forest--warmth and light +and cheerful crackling after loneliness in austere places. Dear Deane! +he was always so good to her; he always helped. It was curious about +Deane--about Deane and her. There seemed a strange openness--she could +not think of it any other way--between them. Things she lived through, +in which he had no part, drew her to him, swung her back to him. There +was something between his spirit and hers that seemed to make him part +even of experiences she had had with another man, as if things of the +emotions, even though not shared, drew them together through the spirit. +Very deeply she hoped that Deane would be happy. She wished she might +meet his wife, but probably she wouldn't. She quickly turned from that +thought, wanting to stay by the camp fire. Anyway, Deane was her friend. +She rested in that thought of having a friend--someone to talk to about +things small and droll, about things large and mysterious. Thoughts +needed to be spoken. It opened something in one to speak them. With +Stuart she had been careful not to talk of certain things, fearing to +see him sink into that absorption, gloom, she had come to dread. + +She cried a little after she had crept into her bed--her own old bed; +but they were just tears of feeling, not of desolation. The oak tree was +tapping against the house, the breeze, carrying familiar scents, blew +through the room. She was back home. All the sadness surrounding her +homecoming could not keep out the sweet feeling of being back that stole +through her senses. + +Next morning she went about the house with new poise; she was quiet, but +it was of a different quality from the quiet of the day before. Flora +Copeland found herself thinking less about maintaining her carefully +thought out manner toward Ruth. She told herself that Ruth did not seem +like "that kind of a woman." She would forget the "difficult situation" +and find herself just talking with Ruth--about the death of her sister +Mary's little girl, of her niece who was about to be married. There was +something about Ruth that made one slip into talking to her about things +one was feeling; and something in the quiet light of her tired sweet +eyes made one forget about not being more than courteous. Even Laura +Abbott, the nurse, found herself talking naturally to this Ruth Holland, +this woman who lived with another woman's husband, who was more "talked +about" than any woman in the town had ever been. But somehow a person +just forgot what she really was, she told a friend; she wasn't at all +like you'd expect that kind of a person to be. Though of course there +were terribly embarrassing things--like not knowing what to call her. + +Between Ruth and Harriett things went much better than they had the day +before. Ruth seemed so much herself when they met that afternoon that +unconsciously Harriett emerged from her uncertainty, from that fumbling +manner of the day before. The things holding them apart somehow fell +back before the things drawing them together. They were two sisters and +their father was dying. The doctor had just been there and said he did +not believe Mr. Holland could live another day. They were together when +he told them that; for the moment, at least, it melted other things +away. + +They stood at the head of the stairs talking of things of common +concern--the efficiency of the nurse, of Ted, who had been with his +father more than any of the rest of them, for whom they feared it would +be very hard when the moment came. Then, after a little pause made +intimate by feeling shared, Harriett told when she would be back, +adding, "But you'll see to it that I'm telephoned at once if--if I +should be wanted, won't you, Ruth?"--as one depending on this other more +than on anyone else. Ruth only answered gently, "Yes, Harriett," but she +felt warmed in her heart. She had been given something to do. She was +depended on. She was not left out. + +She sat beside her father during the hour that the nurse had to be +relieved. Very strongly, wonderfully, she had a feeling that her father +knew she was there, that he wanted her there. In the strange quiet of +that hour she seemed to come close to him, as if things holding them +apart while he was of life had fallen away now that he no longer was +life-bound. It was very real to her. It was communion. Things she could +not have expressed seemed to be flowing out to him, and things he could +not have understood seemed reaching him now. It was as if she was going +with him right up to the border--a long way past the things of life that +drove them apart. The nurse, coming back to resume duty, was arrested, +moved, by Ruth's face. She spoke gently in thanking her, her own face +softened. Flora Copeland, meeting Ruth in the hall, paused, somehow +held, and then, quite forgetful of the manner she was going to maintain +toward Ruth, impulsively called after her: "Are you perfectly +comfortable in your room, Ruth? Don't you--shan't I bring in one of the +big easy chairs?" + +Ruth said no, she liked her own little chair, but she said it very +gently, understanding; she had again that feeling of being taken in, the +feeling that warmed her heart. + +She went in her room and sat quietly in her little chair; and what had +been a pent up agony in her heart flowed out in open sorrowing: for her +mother, who was not there to sit in her room with her; for her father, +who was dying. But it was releasing sorrowing, the sorrowing that makes +one one with the world, drawing one into the whole life of human +feeling, the opened heart that brings one closer to all opened hearts. +It was the sadness that softens; such sadness as finds its own healing +in enriched feeling. It made her feel very near her father and mother; +she loved them; she felt that they loved her. She had hurt +them--terribly hurt them; but it all seemed beyond that now; they +understood; and she was Ruth and they loved her. It was as if the way +had been cleared between her and them. She did not feel shut in alone. + +Ted hesitated when he came to her door a little later, drew back before +the tender light of her illumined face. It did not seem a time to break +in on her. But she held out her hand with a little welcoming gesture +and, though strangely subdued, smiled lovingly at him as she said, "Come +on in, Ted." + +Something that the boy felt in her mood made him scowl anew at the thing +he had to tell her. He went over to the window, his back to her, and was +snapping his finger against the pane. "Well," he said at last, gruffly, +"Cy gets in today. Just had a wire." + +Ruth drew back, as one who has left exposed a place that can be hurt +draws back when hurt threatens. Ted felt it--that retreating within +herself, and said roughly: "Much anybody cares! Between you and me, I +don't think father would care so very much, either." + +"Ted!" she remonstrated in elder sister fashion. + +"Cy's got a hard heart, Ruth," he said with a sudden gravity that came +strangely through his youthfulness. + +Ruth did not reply; she did not want to say what she felt about Cy's +heart. But after a moment the domestic side of it turned itself to her. +"Will Louise come with him, Ted?" + +"No," he answered shortly. + +His tone made her look at him in inquiry, but he had turned his back to +her again. "I was just wondering about getting their room ready," she +said. + +For a moment Ted did not speak, did not turn toward her. Then, "We don't +have to bother getting any room ready for Cy," he said, with a scoffing +little laugh. + +Ruth's hand went up to her throat--a curious movement, as if in defense. +"What do you mean, Ted?" she asked in low quick voice. + +Ted's finger was again snapping the window pane. Once more he laughed +disdainfully. "Our esteemed brother is going to the hotel," he jeered. + +As Ruth did not speak he looked around. He could not bear her face. +"Don't you care, Ruth," he burst out. "Why, what's the difference?" he +went on scoffingly. "The hotel's a good place. He'll get along all right +down there--and it makes it just so much the better for us." + +But even then Ruth could not speak; it had come in too tender a moment, +had found her too exposed; she could only cower back. Then pride broke +through. "Cyrus needn't go to the hotel, Ted. If he can't stay in the +same house with me--even when father is dying--then I'll go somewhere +else." + +"You'll not!" he blazed, with a savagery that at once startled and +wonderfully comforted her. "If Cy wants to be a fool, let him be a fool! +If he can't act decent--then let him do what he pleases--or go to the +devil!" + +She murmured something in remonstrance, but flooded with gratefulness +for the very thing she tried to protest against. And then even that was +struck out. She had brought about this quarrel, this feeling, between +the two brothers. Ted's antagonism against Cyrus, comforting to her, +might work harm to Ted. Those were the things she did. That was what +came through her. + +The comfort, communion, peace of a few minutes before seemed a mockery. +Out of her great longing she had deluded herself. Now she was cast back; +now she knew. It was as if she had only been called out in order to be +struck back. And it seemed that Ted, whom she had just found again, she +must either lose or harm. And the shame of it!--children not coming +together under their father's roof when he was dying! Even death could +not break the bitterness down. It made her know just how it was--just +where she stood. And she thought of the town's new talk because of this. + +"It's pretty bad, isn't it, Ted?" she said finally, looking up to him +with heavy eyes. + +Ted flushed. "Cy makes it worse than it need be," he muttered. + +"But it is pretty bad, isn't it?" she repeated in a voice there was +little life in. "It was about as bad as it could be for you all, wasn't +it?" + +"Well, Ruth," he began diffidently, "of course--of course this house +hasn't been a very cheerful place since you went away." + +"No," she murmured, "of course not." She sat there dwelling upon that, +forming a new picture of just what it had been. "It really made a big +difference, did it, Ted?--even for you?" She asked it very simply, as +one asking a thing in order to know the truth. + +Ted sat down on the bed. He was shuffling his feet a little, +embarrassed, but his face was finely serious, as if this were a grave +thing of which it was right they talk. + +"Of course I was a good deal of a kid, Ruth," he began. "And yet--" He +halted, held by kindness. + +"Yes?" she pressed, as if wanting to get him past kindness. + +"Well, yes, Ruth, it was--rather bad. I minded on account of the +fellows, you see. I knew they were talking and--" Again he stopped; his +face had reddened. Her face too colored up at that. + +"And then of course home--you know it had always been so jolly here at +home--was a pretty different place, Ruth," he took it up gently. "With +Cy charging around, and mother and father so--different." + +"And they were different, were they, Ted?" she asked quietly. + +He looked at her in surprise. "Why, yes, Ruth, they certainly +were--different." + +Silence fell between them, separately dwelling upon that. + +"Just how--different?" Ruth asked, for it seemed he was not going on. + +"Why--mother stopped going out, and of course that made her all +different. You know what a lot those parties and doings meant to +mother." + +She did not at once speak, her face working. Then: "I'm sorry," she +choked. "Need she have done that, Ted?" she added wistfully after a +moment. + +He looked at her with that fine seriousness that made him seem older +than he was--and finer than she had known. "Well, I don't know, Ruth; +you know you don't feel very comfortable if you think people +are--talking. It makes you feel sort of--out of it; as if there was +something different about you." + +"And father?" she urged, her voice quiet, strangely quiet. She was +sitting very still, looking intently at Ted. + +"Well, father rather dropped out of it, too," he went on, his voice +gentle as if it would make less hard what it was saying. "He and mother +just seemed to want to draw back into their shells. I think--" He +stopped, then said: "I guess you really want to know, Ruth; it--it did +make a big difference in father. I think it went deeper than you may +have known--and maybe it's only fair to him you should know. It did make +a difference; I think it made a difference even in business. Maybe that +seems queer, but don't you know when a person doesn't feel right about +things he doesn't get on very well with people? Father got that way. He +didn't seem to want to be with people." + +She did not raise her eyes at that. "Business hasn't gone very well, has +it, Ted?" she asked after a moment of silence, still not looking up. + +"Pretty bad. And of course _that_ gets Cy," he added. + +She nodded. "I guess there's a good deal to be said on Cy's side," she +murmured after a little, her hands working and her voice not steady. + +Ted grunted something disdainful, then muttered: "He played things up +for all they were worth. Don't you think he ever missed anything!" + +"Was that why Cy left town, Ted?" Ruth asked, speaking all the while in +that low, strange voice. + +"Oh, he claims so," scoffed Ted. "But he can't make me believe any +family humiliation would have made him leave town if he hadn't had a +better thing somewhere else. But of course he _says_ that. That it was +too hard for him and Louise! Too bad about that little doll-face, isn't +it?" + +Ruth made a gesture of remonstrance, but the boyish partisanship brought +the tears she had until then been able to hold back. + +Ted rose. And then he hesitated, as if not wanting to leave it like +this. "Well, Ruth, I can tell you one thing," he said gently, a little +bashfully; "with all Cy's grand talk about the wrong done mother and +father, neither of them ever loved him the way they loved you." + +"Oh, _did_ they, Ted?" she cried, and all the held back feeling broke +through, suffusing her. "They _did_?--in spite of everything? Tell me +about that, Ted! Tell me about it!" + +"Mother used to talk a lot to me," he said. "She was always coming into +my room and talking to me about you." + +"Oh, _was_ she, Ted?" she cried again, feeling breaking over her face in +waves. "She _did_ talk about me? What did she say? Tell me!" + +"Just little things, mostly. Telling about things you had said and done +when you were a kid; remembering what you'd worn here and there--who +you'd gone with. Oh,--you know; just little things. + +"Of course," he went on, Ruth leaning forward, hanging on his words, "I +was a good deal of a kid then; she didn't talk to me much about +the--serious part of it. Maybe that was the reason she liked to talk to +me--because she could just talk about the little things--old things. +Though once or twice--" + +"Yes, Ted?" she breathed, as he paused there. + +"Well, she did say things to me, too. I remember once she said, 'It +wasn't like Ruth. Something terrible happened. She didn't know what she +was doing.'" + +Ruth's hands were pressed tight together; unheeded tears were falling on +them. + +"And she used to worry about you, Ruth. When it was cold and she'd come +into my room with an extra cover she'd say--'I wish I knew that my girl +was warm enough tonight.'" + +At that Ruth's face went down in her hands and she was sobbing. + +"I don't know what I'm talking like this for!" muttered the boy angrily. +"Making you feel so bad!" + +She shook her head, but for a little could not look up. Then she choked: +"No, I want to know. Never mind how it hurts, I want to know." And then, +when she had controlled herself a little more she said, simply: "I +didn't know it was like that. I didn't know mother felt--like that." + +"She'd start to write to you, and then lots of times she wouldn't seem +to know how. She wanted to write to you lots more than she did. But I +don't know, Ruth, mother was queer. She seemed sort of bewildered. +She--wasn't herself. She was just kind of powerless to do anything about +things. She'd come in this room a lot. Sit in here by herself. One of +the last days mother was around she called me in here and she had that +dress you wore to Edith Lawrence's wedding spread out on the bed and +was--oh, just kind of fussing with it. And the reason she called me in +was that she wanted to know if I remembered how pretty you looked in it +that night." + +But Ruth had thrown out a hand for him to stop, had covered her face as +if shutting something out. "Oh, I'm sorry, Ruth!" murmured Ted. "I'm a +fool!" he cried angrily. But after a minute he added haltingly, "And +yet--you did want to know, and--maybe it's fairer to mother, Ruth. +Maybe--" but he could not go on and went over and stood by the window, +not wanting to leave her like that, not knowing what to do. + +"Well, one thing I want you to know, Ruth," he said, as he did finally +turn to the door. "I've been talking along about how hard it was for the +rest of us, but don't for a minute think I don't see how terrible it was +for _you_. I get that, all right." + +She looked up at him, wanting to speak, but dumb; dumb in this new +realization of how terrible it had been for them all. + + + + +CHAPTER EIGHTEEN + + +An hour later she had to get away from that room. She did not know where +she was going, but she had to have some escape. Just the physical act of +getting away was something. + +Ted and Harriett were talking in the lower hall. They looked in inquiry +at the hat she held and her face made Ted lay a hand on her arm. She +told them she had to have exercise--air--and was going out for a little +walk. She thought Harriett looked aghast--doubtless preferring Ruth be +seen as little as possible. But she could not help that; she had to get +away--away from that room, that house, away from those old things now +newly charged. Something left with them shut down around her as a fog in +which she could not breathe. Ted asked if he should go with her, but she +shook her head and started for the side door, fearing he might insist. +He called after her that Harriett was going to have Cyrus stay at her +house, that she could make room for him. He said it with a relief which +told how he had really hated having his brother go to the hotel. As she +turned with something about that being better, she noticed how worn and +worried Harriett looked, and then hurried on, wanting to get away, to +escape for a little while from that crushing realization of how hard she +made things for them all. But she could not shut out the thought of the +empty rooms upstairs at their house--Cyrus's old home--and the crowded +quarters at Harriett's. Yet of course this would be better than the +hotel; she was glad Harriett and Ted had been able to arrange it; she +hoped, for their sakes, that Cyrus would not, to emphasize his feeling, +insist upon staying downtown. + +She walked several blocks without giving any thought to where she was +going. She was not thinking then of those familiar streets, of the times +she had walked them. She was getting away, trying, for a little while, +to escape from things she had no more power to bear. She could not have +stayed another minute in her old room. + +A little ahead of her she saw a woman sitting in a market wagon, holding +the horse. She got the impression that the woman was selling vegetables. +She tried to notice, to be interested. She could see, as she came along +toward the wagon, that the vegetables looked nice and fresh. She and +Stuart had raised vegetables once; they had done various things after +what money they had was exhausted and, handicapped both by his lack of +ruggedness and by the shrinking from people which their position bred in +them, they had to do the best they could at making a living. And so she +noticed these vegetables, but it was not until she was close to her that +she saw the woman had relaxed her hold on the lines and was leaning +forward, peering at her. And when she came a little nearer this woman--a +thin, wiry little person whose features were sharp, leaned still further +forward and cried: "Why, how do you do? How d'do, Ruth!" + +For a moment Ruth was too startled to make any reply. Then she only +stammered, "Why, how do you do?" + +But the woman leaned over the side of the wagon. Ruth was trying her +best to think who she was; she knew that she had known her somewhere, in +some way, but that thin, eager little face was way back in the past, and +that she should be spoken to in this way--warm, natural--was itself too +astonishing, moving, to leave her clear-headed for casting back. + +And then, just as she seemed about to say something, her face changed a +little. Ruth heard a gate click behind her and then a man, a stolid +farmer, he appeared, came up to the wagon. The woman kept nodding her +head, as if in continued greeting, but she had leaned back, as though +she had decided against what she had been about to say. Ruth, starting +on, still bewildered, stirred, nodded and smiled too; and then, when the +man had jumped in the wagon and just as the horse was starting, the +woman called: "It seems awful good to have you back on these streets, +Ruth!" + +Ruth could only nod in reply and hurried on; her heart beat fast; her +eyes were blurring. "It seems awful good to have you back on these +streets, Ruth!" Was _that_ what she had said? She turned around, wanting +to run after that wagon, not wanting to lose that pinched, shabby, eager +little woman who was glad to have her back on those streets. But the +wagon had turned a corner and was out of sight. Back on those streets! +It opened her to the fact that she was back on them. She walked more +slowly, thinking about that. And she could walk more slowly; she was +less driven. + +After a block of perplexed thinking she knew who that woman was; it +flashed from her memory where she had known that intent look, that +wistful intentness lighting a thin little face. It was Annie Morris, a +girl in her class at the high-school, a plain, quiet girl--poor she +believed she was, not in Ruth's crowd. Now that she searched back for +what she remembered about it she believed that this Annie Morris had +always liked her; and perhaps she had taken more notice of her than +Edith and the other girls had. She could see her now getting out of the +shabby buggy in which she drove in to school--she lived somewhere out in +the country. She remembered talking to her sometimes at recess--partly +because she seemed a good deal alone and partly because she liked to +talk to her. She remembered that she was what they called awfully bright +in her classes. + +That this girl, whom she had forgotten, should welcome her so warmly +stirred an old wondering: a wondering if somewhere in the world there +were not people who would be her friends. That wondering, longing, had +run through many lonely days. The people she had known would no longer +be her friends. But were there not other people? She knew so little +about the world outside her own life; her own life had seemed to shut +down around her. But she had a feeling that surely somewhere--somewhere +outside the things she had known--were people among whom she could find +friends. So far she had not found them. At the first, seeing how hard it +would be, how bad for them both, to have only each other, she had tried +to go out to people just as if there were nothing in her life to keep +her back from them. And then they would "hear"; that hearing would come +in the most unforeseen little ways, at the most unexpected times; +usually through those coincidences of somebody's knowing somebody else, +perhaps meeting someone from a former place where they had already +"heard"; it was as if the haphazardness of life, those little accidents +of meetings that were without design, equipped the world with a powerful +service for "hearing," which after a time made it impossible for people +to feel that what was known in one place would not come to be known in +another. After she had several times been hurt by the drawing away of +people whom she had grown to like, she herself drew back where she could +not be so easily hurt. And so it came about that her personality changed +in that; from an outgoing nature she came to be one who held back, shut +herself in. Even people who had never "heard" had the feeling she did +not care to know them, that she wanted to be let alone. It crippled her +power for friendship; it hurt her spirit. And it left her very much +alone. In that loneliness she wondered if there were not those other +people--people who could "hear" and not draw away. She had not found +them; perhaps she had at times been near them and in her holding +back--not knowing, afraid--had let them go by. Of that, too, she had +wondered; there had been many lonely wonderings. + +She came now to a corner where she stopped. She stood looking down that +cross street which was shaded by elm trees. That was the corner where +she had always turned for Edith's. Yes, that was the way she used to go. +She stood looking down the old way. She wanted to go that way now! + +She went so far as to cross the street, and on that far corner again +stood still, hesitating, wanting to go that old way. It came to her that +if this other girl--Annie Morris--a girl she could barely remember, was +glad to see her back, then surely Edith--_Edith_--would be glad to see +her. But after a moment she went slowly on--the other way. She +remembered; remembered the one letter she had had from Edith--that +letter of a few lines sent in reply to her two letters written from +Arizona, trying to make Edith understand. + +"Ruth"--Edith had written--she knew the few words by heart; "Yes, I +received your first letter. I did not reply to it because it did not +seem to me there was anything for me to say. And it does not seem to me +now that there is anything for me to say." It was signed, "Edith +Lawrence Blair." The full signature had seemed even more formal than the +cold words. It had hurt more; it seemed actually to be putting in force +the decree that everything between her and Edith was at an end. It was +never to be Ruth and Edith again. + +As she walked slowly on now, away from Edith's, she remembered the day +she walked across that Arizona plain, looking at Edith's letter a +hundred times in the two miles between the little town and their cabin. +She had gone into town that day to see the doctor. Stuart had seemed +weaker and she was terribly frightened. The doctor did not bring her +much comfort; he said she would have to be patient, and hope--probably +it would all come right. She felt very desolate that day in the +far-away, forlorn little town. When she got Edith's letter she did not +dare to open it until she got out from the town. And then she found +those few formal, final words--written, it was evident, to keep her from +writing any more. The only human thing about it was a little blot under +the signature. It was the only thing a bit like Edith; she could see her +making it and frowning over it. And she wondered--she had always +wondered--if that little blot came there because Edith was not as +controlled, as without all feeling, as everything else about her letter +would indicate. As she looked back to it now it seemed that that day of +getting Edith's letter was the worst day of all the hard years. She had +been so lonely--so frightened; when she saw Edith's handwriting it was +hard not to burst into tears right there at the little window in the +queer general store where they gave out letters as well as everything +else. But after she had read the letter there were no tears; there was +no feeling of tears. She walked along through that flat, almost +unpeopled, half desert country and it seemed that the whole world had +shrivelled up. Everything had dried, just as the bushes along the road +were alive and yet dried up. She knew then that it was certain there was +no reach back into the old things. And that night, after they had gone +to bed out of doors and Stuart had fallen asleep, she lay there in the +stillness of that vast Arizona night and she came to seem in another +world. For hours she lay there looking up at the stars, thinking, +fearing. She reached over and very gently, meaning not to wake him, put +her hand in the hand of the man asleep beside her, the man who was all +she had in the world, whom she loved with a passion that made the +possibility of losing him a thing that came in the night to terrorize +her. He had awakened and understood, and had comforted her with his +love, lavishing upon her tender, passionate assurance of how he was +going to get strong and make it all come right for them both. There was +something terrible in that passion for one another that came out of the +consciousness of all else lost. They had each other--there were moments +when that burned with a terrible flame through the feeling that they had +nothing else. That night they went to sleep in a wonderful consciousness +of being alone together in the world. Time after time that swept them +together with an intensity of which finally they came to be afraid. They +stopped speaking of it; it came to seem a thing not to dwell upon. + +The thought of Edith's letter had brought some of that back now. She +turned from it to the things she was passing, houses she recognized, new +houses. Walking on past them she thought of how those homes joined. With +most of them there were no fences between--one yard merging into +another. Children were running from yard to yard; here a woman was +standing in her own yard calling to a woman in the house adjoining. She +passed a porch where four women were sitting sewing; another where two +women were playing with a baby. There were so many meeting places for +their lives; they were not shut in with their own feeling. That feeling +which they as individuals knew reached out into common experiences, into +a life in common growing out of individual things. Passing these houses, +she wanted to share in that life in common. She had been too long by +herself. She needed to be one with others. Life, for a time, had a +certain terrible beauty that burned in that sense of isolation. But it +was not the way. One needed to be one with others. + +She thought of how it was love, more than any other thing, that gave +these people that common life. Love was the fabric of it. Love made new +combinations of people--homes, children. The very thing in her that had +shut her out was the thing drawing them into that oneness, that many in +one. Homes were closed to her because of that very impulse out of which +homes were built. + +She had, without any plan for doing so, turned down the little street +where she used to go to meet Stuart. And when she realized where she was +going thoughts of other things fell away; the feeling of those first +days was strangely revivified, as if going that old way made her for the +moment the girl who had gone that way. Again love was not a thing of +right or wrong, it was the thing that had to have its way--life's great +imperative. Going down that old street made the glow of those days--the +excitement--come to life and quicken her again. It was so real that it +was as if she were living it again--a girl palpitating with love going +to meet her lover, all else left behind, only love now! For the moment +those old surroundings made the old days a living thing to her. The +world was just one palpitating beauty; the earth she walked was vibrant; +the sweetness of life breathed from the air she breathed. She was +charged with the joy of it, bathed in the wonder. Love had touched her +and taken her, and she was different and everything was different. Her +body was one consciousness of love; it lifted her up; it melted her to +tenderness. It made life joyous and noble. She lived; she loved! + +Standing on the spot where they had many times stood in moments of +meeting a very real tenderness for that girl was in the heart of this +woman who had paid so terribly for the girl's love. It brought a feeling +that she had not paid too much, that no paying was ever too much for +love. Love made life; and in turn love was what life was for. To live +without it would be going through life without having been touched +alive. In that moment it seemed no wrong love could bring about would be +as deep as the wrong of denying love. There was again that old feeling +of rising to something higher in her than she had known was there, that +feeling of contact with all the beauty of the world, of being admitted +to the inner sweetness and wonder of life. She had a new understanding +of what she had felt; that was the thing added; that was the gift of the +hard years. + +And of a sudden she wanted terribly to see her mother. It seemed if she +could see her mother now that she could make her understand. She saw it +more simply than she had seen it before. She wanted to tell her mother +that she loved because she could not help loving. She wanted to tell her +that after all those years of paying for it she saw that love as the +thing illumining her life; that if there was anything worthy in her, +anything to love, it was in just this--that she had fought for love, +that she would fight for it again. She wanted to see her mother! She +believed she could help the hurt she had dealt. + +She had walked slowly on, climbing a little hill. From there she looked +back at the town. With fresh pain there came the consciousness that her +mother was not there, that she could not tell her, that she had +gone--gone without understanding, gone bewildered, broken. Her eyes +dimmed until the town was a blur. She wanted to see her mother! + +She was about to start back, but turned for a moment's look the other +way, across that lovely country of little hills and valleys--brooks, and +cattle in the brooks, and fields of many shades of green. + +And then her eye fixed upon one thing and after that saw no other thing. +Behind her was the place where the living were gathered together; but +over there, right over there on the next hill, were the dead. She stood +very still, looking over there passionately through dimmed eyes. And +then swiftly, sobbing a little under her breath, she started that way. +She wanted to see her mother! + +And when she came within those gates she grew strangely quiet. Back +there in the dwelling place of the living she had felt shut out. But she +did not feel shut out here. As slowly she wound her way to the hillside +where she knew she would find her mother's grave, a strange peace +touched her. It was as if she had come within death's tolerance; she +seemed somehow to be taken into death's wonderful, all-inclusive love +for life. There seemed only one distinction: they were dead and she +still lived; she had a sense of being loved because she still lived. + +Slowly, strangely comforted, strangely taken in, she passed the graves +of many who, when she left, had been back there in the place of the +living. The change from dwelling place to dwelling place had been made +in the years she was away. It came with a shock to find some of those +tombstones; she found many she had thought of as back there, a few hills +away, where men still lived. She would pause and think of them, of the +strangeness of finding them here when she had known them there--of +life's onward movement, of death's inevitability. There were stones +marking the burial places of friends of her grandfather--old people who +used to come to the house when she was a little girl; she thought with a +tender pleasure of little services she had done them; she had no feeling +at all that they would not want her to be there. Friends of her father +and mother too were there; yes, and some of her own friends--boys and +girls with whom she had shared youth. + +She sat a long time on the hillside where her mother had been put away. +At first she cried, but they were not bitter tears. And after that she +did not feel that, even if she could have talked to her mother, it would +be important to say the things she had thought she wanted to say. Here, +in this place of the dead, those things seemed understood. Vindication +was not necessary. Was not life life, and should not one live before +death came? She saw the monuments marking the graves of the Lawrences, +the Blairs, the Williams', the Franklins,--her mother's and her father's +people. They seemed so strangely one: people who had lived. She looked +across the hills to the town which these people had built. Right beside +her was her grandfather's grave; she thought of his stories of how, when +a little boy, he came with his people to that place not then a town; his +stories of the beginnings of it, of the struggles and conflicts that had +made it what it was. She thought of their efforts, their +disappointments, their hopes, their loves. Their loves.... She felt very +close to them in that. And as she thought of it there rose a strange +feeling, a feeling that came strangely strong and sure: If these people +who had passed from living were given an after moment of consciousness, +a moment when they could look back on life and speak to it, she felt +that their voices, with all the force they could gather, would be raised +for more living. Why did we not live more abundantly? Why did we not +hold life more precious? Were they given power to say just one word, +would they not, seeing life from death, cry--Live! + +Twilight came; the world had the sweetness of that hour just before +night. A breeze stirred softly; birds called lovingly--loving life. The +whole fragrance of the world was breathed into one word. It was as if +life had caught the passionate feeling of death; it was as if that after +consciousness of those who had left life, and so knew its preciousness, +broke through into things still articulate. The earth breathed--Live! + + + + +CHAPTER NINETEEN + + +Cyrus Holland died just before daybreak next morning. It seemed to Deane +Franklin that he had only just fallen asleep when the telephone beside +him was ringing. When tired out he slept through other noises, but that +one always instantly reached--a call to him that got through sleep. He +wakened just enough to reach out for the 'phone and his "Hello!" was +cross. Was there never a time when one could be let alone? But the voice +that came to him banished both sleep and irritation. It was Ruth's +voice, saying quietly, tensely: "Deane? I'm sorry--but we want you. +There's a change. I'm sure father's going." + +He was dressing almost the instant he hung up the receiver. To Amy, who +had roused, he said: "It's Ruth. Her father's going. I can't do a +thing--but they want me there." + +At first Amy made no reply. He thought nothing about that, engrossed in +getting dressed as quickly as possible. When she burst out, "So of +course you're going!" he was dumbfounded at the passionateness of her +voice. He looked at her in astonishment; then, for the first time the +other side of it, as related to their quarrel about Ruth, turned itself +to him. "Why, of course I'm going, Amy," he said quietly. + +"It makes a difference who it is, doesn't it?" she cried, stormily. "The +other night when somebody called you and there wasn't a thing you could +do, you _said_ so! You _told_ them they mustn't ask you! But _this_ is +different, isn't it?" + +The words had piled up tumultuously; she seemed right on the verge of +angry, tumultuous tears. He paused in what he was doing. "Why, Amy," he +murmured in real astonishment. And then helplessly repeated in tender +reproach, "Why, Amy!" + +But she laughed, it seemed sneeringly. He colored, quickly finished +dressing and left the room without saying anything more. + +When she heard the front door close, heard Deane running down the steps, +she sat up in bed and burst into tears of rage. Always that woman! +Running away to her in the middle of the night! He didn't _have_ to go! +There was nothing for him to do as a doctor--he could do nothing for a +man who had been dying for a couple of days. He _said_ that--just a +couple of nights before when someone wanted him to come. But this was +Ruth Holland! She had only to telephone. Of course he'd go anywhere--any +time--for her! Her sobs grew more and more passionate. Her head down on +her knees she rocked back and forth in that miserable fury only jealousy +and wounded pride can create. + +This gathered together, brought to a head, the resentment accumulating +through a number of incidents. That afternoon she had gone over to the +Lawrences' to thank Edith and her mother for the flowers from the tea +which they had sent her that morning. They had urged her to run in +often, to be friendly. Her unhappiness about her talk with Deane the +night before, when he had actually proposed that she go to see this Ruth +Holland, made her want to be with friends; she wanted to see people who +felt as she did that--though it did not so present itself to her--she +might fortify herself in the conviction that Deane was preposterously +wrong, and she taking the only course a good woman could take in +relation to a bad one. She was prepared to feel that men did not see +those things as clearly as women did, that it was woman who was the +guardian of society, and that she must bear with man in his failure to +see some things right. She had been eager to strengthen herself in that +feeling, not alone because it would, in her own mind, get her out of +reach of any possible charge of hardness or narrowness, but because it +would let her break through her feeling against Deane; she wanted to get +back to the days of his complete adoration of her, back where his +passion for her would sweep all else out of their world. She knew well +enough that Deane loved her, but there was a tightened up place around +her knowing that. It made her miserable. Things would not be right until +she found a way through that tightened up place--a way that would make +her right and Deane wrong, but would let her forgive, largely and gently +understanding. Such, not thought out, were the things that took her to +the Lawrences' that afternoon. + +It was apparent that Edith had been crying. She and her mother were +gracious to Amy, but there was a new constraint. She felt uncomfortable. +When they were alone Edith broke out and told her how she was just sick +at heart about Ruth. Deane had been there that morning urging her to go +and see Ruth--instantly there was all anew that tightening up that held +her from Deane, that feeling against him and against this Ruth Holland +that was as if something virulent had been poured into her blood, +changing her whole system. Edith cried as she told how Deane and her +mother had quarreled because he felt so strongly on the subject, and +didn't seem able to understand her mother's standpoint. Then, she too +wanting to set herself right with herself, she went over the whole +story--the shock to her, how it had hurt her ideal of friendship, had +even seemed to take something from the sanctity of her own marriage. She +silenced something within herself in recounting the wrong done her, +fortified herself in repeating the things she had from her mother about +one's not being free, about what the individual owed to society. + +Amy went home in a turmoil of resentment against her husband. It was +hard to hold back the angry tears. A nice position he was putting +himself in--going about the town pleading for this woman whom nobody +would take in!--estranging his friends--yes, probably hurting his +practice. And _why_? _Why_ was he so wrought up about it? Why was he +making a regular business of going about fighting her battles? Well, +_one_ thing it showed! It showed how much consideration he had for his +own wife. When she came in sight of their house it was harder than ever +to hold back the tears of mortification, of hot resentment. She had been +so sure she was going to be perfectly happy in that house! Now already +her husband was turning away from her--humiliating her--showing how much +he thought of another woman, and _such_ a woman! She did not know what +to do with the way she felt, did not know how to hold from the surface +the ugly things that surged through her, possessed her. Until now she +had had nothing but adulation from love. A pretty, petted girl she had +formed that idea of pretty women in youth that it was for men to give +love and women graciously to accept it. For her vanity to be hurt by a +man who had roused her passion turned that passion to fury against him +and made it seem that a great wrong had been done her. + +As she approached she saw that Deane was standing before the house +talking to a woman in a vegetable wagon. He had one foot up on the spoke +of the wheel and was talking more earnestly than it seemed one would be +talking to a vegetable woman. Doubtless she was one of his patients. As +she came up he said: "Oh, Amy, I want you to know Mrs. Herman." + +She stiffened; his tone in introducing her to a woman of what she +thought of as the lower classes seeming just a new evidence of his +inadequate valuation of her. + +"Your husband and I went to school together," said Mrs. Herman, +pleasantly, but as if explaining. + +"Oh?" murmured Amy. + +Deane abruptly moved back from the wagon. "Well, you do that, Annie. +Ruth would love to see you, I know." + +So _that_ was it! She turned away with a stiff little nod to the woman +in the wagon. Always the same thing!--urging Tom, Dick and Harry to go +and see that woman!--taking up with a person like this, introducing his +wife in that intimate way to a woman who peddled vegetables just because +she was willing to go and see Ruth Holland! She didn't know that she had +to stand such things!--she didn't know that she _would_. She guessed she +could show him that she wasn't going to play second fiddle to that Ruth +Holland! + +Deane came to the door of the room where she was taking off her hat. Her +fingers were trembling so that she could scarcely get the pins. "That +little woman you were so chilly to is a pretty fine sort, Amy," he said +incisively. + +"Because she is going to see Ruth Holland?" she retorted with an excited +laugh. + +"Oh, you were pretty stand-offish before you knew that," he answered +coolly. + +Vanity smarting from deeper hurts made her answer, haughtily: "I'm +rather inexperienced, you know, in meeting people of that class." + +In his heart too there were deeper disappointments than this touched. +"Well, I must say--" he began hotly, "I think if I felt as snobbish as +that I'd try pretty hard to conceal it!" + +Amy was carefully putting away her hat; she had an appearance of cold +composure, of a sense of superiority. It was because she wanted to keep +that that she did not speak. The things within would so completely have +destroyed it. + +"I guess you don't understand, Amy," said Deane, quieted by her silence; +"if you knew all about Annie Morris I think you'd see she is a woman +worth meeting." Thinking of his talk with Edith and her mother that +morning, he added, a good deal of feeling breaking into his voice: "A +good sight more so than some of the people you are meeting!" + +"And of course," she could not hold back, "they--those inferior +people--won't go to see Ruth Holland, and this wonderful woman will! +That's the secret of it, isn't it?" + +"It's one thing that shows her superiority," he replied coolly. "Another +thing is her pluck--grit. Her husband is a dolt, and she's determined +her three children shall have some sort of a show in life, so she's +driven ahead--worked from daylight till dark many a time--to make decent +things possible for them." + +"Well, that's very commendable, I'm sure," replied Amy mildly, appearing +to be chiefly concerned with a loose button on the wrap she had just +taken off. + +"And with all that she's kept her own spirit alive; she's not going to +let life get clear ahead of _her_, either. She's pretty valiant, I +think." He was thinking again of Edith and her mother as he added +contentiously, "I don't know any woman in this town I'd rather talk to!" + +Amy, appearing quite outside the things that were disturbing him, only +smiled politely and threaded a needle for sewing on the button. He stood +there in the doorway, fidgeting, his face red. She seemed so uncaring; +she seemed so far away. "Oh, Amy!" he cried, miserably, appealingly. + +Quickly she looked up; her mouth, which had been so complacent, +twitched. He started toward her, but just then the doorbell rang. "I +presume that's your mother," she said, in matter of fact tone. + +Mrs. Franklin was with them for dinner that night. Amy's social training +made it appear as if nothing were disturbing her. She appeared wholly +composed, serene; it was Deane who seemed ill at ease, out of sorts. + +After dinner he had to go to the hospital and when she was alone with +his mother Amy was not able to keep away from the subject of Ruth +Holland. For one thing, she wanted to hear about her, she was avid for +detail as to how she looked, things she had done and said--that curious +human desire to press on a place that hurts. And there was too the +impulse for further self-exoneration, to be assured that she was right, +to feel that she was injured. + +All of those things it was easy to get from Mrs. Franklin. Amy, not +willing to reveal what there had been between her and Deane, and having +that instinct for drawing sympathy to herself by seeming +self-depreciation, spoke gently of how she feared she did not altogether +understand about Deane's friend Ruth Holland. Was she wrong in not going +with Deane to see her? + +Mrs. Franklin's explosion of indignation at the idea, and the feeling +with which, during the hour that followed, she expressed herself about +Deane's friend Ruth Holland, acted in a double fashion as both +fortification and new hurt. Mrs. Franklin, leader in church and +philanthropic affairs, had absolutely no understanding of things which +went outside the domain of what things should be. The poor and the +wicked did terrible things that society must do something about. There +was no excuse whatever for people who ought to know better. That people +should be dominated by things they ought not to feel was perversity on +their part and the most wilful kind of wickedness. She had Mrs. +Lawrence's point of view, but from a more provincial angle. Deane did +not get his questioning spirit, what she called his stubbornness, from +his mother. + +Added to what she as a church woman and worker for social betterment +felt about the affair was the resentment of the mother at her son's +having been, as she put it, dragged into the outrage. She grew so +inflamed in talking of how this woman had used Deane that she did not +take thought of how she was giving more of an impression of her power +over him than might be pleasant hearing for Deane's young wife. The +indignation of the whole Franklin family at what they called the way +Deane had been made a cat's paw was fanned to full flame in this +preposterous suggestion that Amy should go to see Ruth Holland. In her +indignation at the idea she gave a new sense of what the town felt about +Ruth, and she was more vehement than tactful in her expressions against +Deane for holding out that way against the whole town. "It just shows, +my dear," she said, "what a woman of no principle can do with a man!" + +Amy, hurt to the quick in this thought of the mysterious lure of a woman +of no principle, remarked casually, "She's wonderfully attractive, I +presume." + +Mrs. Franklin was not too blunted by indignation to miss the pain that +was evident in the indifferently asked question. Hastily--more hastily +than subtly, she proceeded to depreciate the attractions of Ruth +Holland, but in the depreciation left an impression of some +quality--elusive, potent--which more than beauty or definite charm gave +her power. Edith too had spoken of that "something" about Ruth; a +something one never forgot; a something, she said, that no one else had. + +And now, awakened by Deane's having been called by this woman in the +night, herself alone there and he hurrying to Ruth Holland, the barriers +of pride broke down and she cried because she was sorry for herself, +because she was hurt and outraged that she should be hurt, because for +the first time in her whole life she was thwarted--not having her way, +set aside. She completely lost her hold on herself, got up and stormed +about the room. When she looked at her face in the mirror she saw that +it was hideous. She couldn't help it!--she didn't care! The resentment, +rage, in her heart was like a poison that went all through her. She was +something that didn't seem herself. She thought horrible things and +ground her teeth and clenched her hands and let her face look as ugly as +it could. She hated this woman! She wished some horrible thing would +happen to her! She hated Deane Franklin! The passion he had roused in +her all turned into this feeling against him. She wouldn't stand it! She +wouldn't stay there and play second fiddle to another woman--she, a +bride! Fresh tears came with that last. Her mother and father would +never have treated her that way. They didn't think Deane Franklin good +enough for her, anyway! She would go back home! _That_ would make things +pretty hard for him! That would show what this woman had done! And he'd +be sorry then--would want her back--and she wouldn't come. She finally +found control in that thought of her power over him used to make him +suffer. + +Deane, meanwhile, was hurrying through the streets that had the +unrealness of that hour just before morning. That aspect of things was +with him associated with death; almost always when he had been on the +streets at that hour it was because someone was fighting death. It was +so still--as if things were awed. And a light that seemed apart from +natural things was formed by the way the street lights grew pale in the +faint light of coming day. Everyone was sleeping--all save those in a +house half a dozen blocks away, the house where they were waiting for +death. + +He was on foot, having left his car down at the garage for some repairs +after taking his mother home. As he slowed for a moment from a walk that +was half run he thought of how useless his hurrying was. What in the +world could he do when he got there? Nothing save assure them he could +do nothing. Poor Ruth!--it seemed she had so much, so many hard things. +This was a time when one needed one's friends, but of course they +couldn't come near her--on account of society. Though--his face softened +with the thought--Annie Morris would come, she not being oppressed by +this duty to society. He thought of the earnestness of her thin face as +she talked of Ruth. That let in the picture of Amy's face as he +introduced them. He tried not to keep seeing it. He did think, however, +that it was pretty unnecessary of Amy to have talked to his mother about +Ruth. All that was unyielding in him had been summoned by the way his +mother talked to him going home--"going for him" like that because he +had wanted Amy to go and see Ruth. That, it seemed to him, was something +between him and Amy. He would not have supposed she would be so ready to +talk with some one else about a thing that was just between themselves. +There had been that same old hardening against his mother when she began +talking of Ruth, and that feeling that shut her out excluded Amy with +her. And he had wanted Amy with him. + +Hurrying on, he tried not to think of it. He didn't know why Amy had +talked to his mother about it--perhaps it just happened so, perhaps his +mother began it. He seized upon that. And Amy didn't understand; she was +young--her life had never touched anything like this. He was going to +talk to her--really talk to her, not fly off the handle at the first +thing she would say. He told himself that he had been stupid, hard--a +bungler. It made him feel better to tell himself that. Yes, he certainly +had been unsympathetic, and it was a shame that anything had come to +make Amy unhappy--and right there at first, too! Why, it was actually +making her sick! When he went back after taking his mother home Amy said +she had a bad headache and didn't want to talk. She was so queer that he +had taken her at her word and had not tried to talk to her--be nice to +her. It seemed now that he hadn't been kind; it helped him to feel that +he hadn't been kind. And it was the headache, being roused in the night +when she was not well that had made her so--well, so wrought up about +his answering to the call of the Hollands--old patients, old friends. He +was going to be different; he was going to be more tender with Amy--that +would be the way to make her understand. Such were the things his +troubled mind and hurt heart tried to be persuaded of as, thinking at +the same time of other things--the death to which he was hurrying, how +hard it would be for Ruth if Cyrus didn't speak to her--he passed +swiftly by the last houses where people slept and turned from a world +tinged with the strangeness of an hour so little known to men's +consciousness, softly opened the door and stepped into the house where +death was touching life with that same unreality with which, without, +day touched night. + +Miss Copeland, wrapped in a bathrobe, sat in the upstairs hall. "He's +still breathing," she whispered in that voice which is for death alone. +In the room Ruth and Ted stood close together, the nurse on the other +side of the bed. Ruth's hair was braided down her back; he remembered +when she used to wear it that way, he had one of those sudden pictures +of her--on her way to school, skipping along with Edith Lawrence. She +turned, hearing him, and there was that rush of feeling to her eyes that +always claimed him for Ruth, that quick, silent assumption of his +understanding that always let down bars between them. But Ruth kept +close to Ted, as if she would shield him; the boy looked as Deane had +seen novices look in the operating room. + +There was nothing for him to do beyond look at his patient and nod to +the nurse in confirmation that it would be any minute now. He walked +around to Ted and Ruth, taking an arm of each of them and walking with +them to the far side of the room. + +"There's nothing to do but wait," he said. + +"I wish Harriett and Cyrus would get here," whispered Ruth. + +"You telephoned?" + +"Before I did you--but of course it's a little farther." + +They stood there together in that strange silence, hearing only the +unlifelike breathing of the man passing from life. Listening to it, +Ruth's hand on Deane's arm tightened. Soothingly he patted her hand. + +Then, at a movement from the nurse, he stepped quickly to the bed. Ruth +and Ted, close together, first followed, then held back. A minute later +he turned to them. "It's over," he said, in the simple way final things +are said. + +There was a choking little cry from Ted. Ruth murmured something, her +face all compassion for him. But after a moment she left her brother and +stood alone beside her father. In that moment of seeing her face, before +turning away because it seemed he should turn away, Deane got one of the +strangest impressions of his life. It was as if she was following her +father--reaching him; as if there was a fullness of feeling, a rising +passionate intensity that could fairly overflow from life. Then she +turned back to Ted. + +Cyrus and Harriett had entered. There was a moment when the four +children were there together. Cyrus did not come up to the bed until +Ruth had left. Deane watched his face as--perfunctorily subdued, +decorous, he stood where Ruth had stood a moment before. Then Cyrus +turned to him and together they walked from the room, Cyrus asking why +they had not been telephoned in time. + +Deane lingered for a little while, hating to go without again seeing +Ruth and Ted. He tapped at Ruth's door; he was not answered, but the +unlatched door had swung a little open at his touch. He saw that the +brother and sister were out on the little porch opening off Ruth's room. +He went out and stood beside them, knowing that he would be wanted. The +sun was just rising, touching the dew on the grass. The birds were +singing for joy in another day. The three who had just seen death stood +there together in silence. + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY + + +The two days when the natural course of life was arrested by death had +passed. Their father had been buried that afternoon, and in the early +evening Ted and Ruth were sitting on the little upper porch, very quiet +in the new poignant emptiness of the house. Many people had been coming +and going in those last few days; now that was over and there was a +pause before the routine of life was to be resumed. The fact that the +nurse had gone seemed to turn the page. + +Ruth had just asked how long Cyrus was going to stay and Ted replied +that he wanted to stay on a week or perhaps more, attending to some +business. She knew how crowded it must be for them at Harriett's, knew +that if she went away Cyrus would come home. There seemed nothing more +to keep her; she would like to be with Ted awhile, but it seemed she +could not do that without continuing a hard condition for them all. They +could settle into a more natural order of things with her not there. It +was time for her to go. + +It was hard to have to think that. She would love to have stayed a +little while. She had been away so long--wanting home for so long. She +knew now, facing the going away, how much she had secretly hoped might +result from this trip back home. + +She had seen a number of people in the past few days--relatives, old +friends of the family, friends of Ted. She had done better in meeting +them than, just a little while before, she would have thought possible. +Something remained with her from that hour at her mother's grave, that +strange hour when she had seemed to see life from outside, beyond it. +That had summoned something within herself that no personal hurt could +scatter, as if taking her in to something from which no circumstance +could drive her out. She had felt an inner quiet, a steadiness within; +there was power in it, and consolation. It took her out of that feeling +of having no place--no right to a place, the feeling that had made her +wretched and powerless. She was of life; her sure inner sense of the +reality and beauty of that seemed a thing not to be broken down from +without. It was hers, her own. It sustained her; it gave her poise. The +embarrassment of other people gave way before her simple steadiness. She +had had but the one point of contact with them--that of her father's +death; it made her want more, made going away hard. It was hard to leave +all the old things after even this slight touch with them again. + +And that new quiet, that new force within was beginning to make for new +thinking. She had thought much about what she had lived through--she +could not help doing that, but she was thinking now with new +questionings. She had not questioned much; she had accepted. What was +gathering within her now was a feeling that a thing so real, so of life +as her love had been should not be a thing to set her apart, should not +be a thing to blight the lives that touched hers. This was not something +called up in vindication, a mere escape from hard thinking, her own way +out from things she could not bear; it was deeper than that, far less +facile. It came from that inner quiet--from that strange new +assurance--this feeling that her love should not have devastated, that +it was too purely of life for that; that it was a thing to build up +life, to give to it; this wondering, at once timid and bold, if there +was not something wrong with an order that could give it no place, that +made it life's enemy. + +She had been afraid of rebellious thinking, of questionings. There had +been so much to fight, so much to make her afraid. At first all the +strength of her feeling had gone into the fight for Stuart's health; she +was afraid of things that made her rebellious--needing all of herself, +not daring to break through. The circumstances had seemed to make her +own life just shut down around her; and even after those first years, +living itself was so hard, there were so many worries and +disappointments--her feeling about it was so tense, life so stern--that +her thoughts did not shoot a long way out into questionings. She had +done a thing that cut her off from her family; she had hurt other people +and because of that she herself must suffer. Life could not be for her +what it was for others. She accepted much that she did not try to +understand. For one thing, she had had no one to talk to about those +things. Seeing how Stuart's resentment against the state of things +weakened him, keeping him from his full powers to meet those hard +conditions, she did not encourage their talking of it and had tried to +keep herself from the thinking that with him went into brooding and was +weakening. She had to do the best she could about things; she could not +spend herself in rebellion against what she had to meet. Like a man who +finds himself on a dizzy ledge she grew fearful of much looking around. + +But now, in these last few days, swept back into the wreckage she had +left, something fluttered to life and beat hard within her spirit, +breaking its way through the fearfulness that shut her in and sending +itself out in new bolder flights. Not that those outgoings took her away +from the place she had devastated; it was out of the poignancy of her +feeling about the harm she had done, out of her new grief in it that +these new questionings were born. The very fact that she did see so +well, and so sorrowingly, what she had done, brought this new feeling +that it should not have been that way, that what she had felt, and her +fidelity to that feeling--ruthless fidelity though it was--should not +have blighted like this. There was something that seemed at the heart of +it all in that feeling of not being ashamed in the presence of +death--she who had not denied life. + +Silence had fallen between her and Ted, she saddened in the thought of +going away and open to the puzzling things that touched her life at +every point; looking at Ted--proud of him--hating to leave him now just +when she had found him again, thinking with loving gratefulness and +pride of how generous and how understanding he had been with her, how he +was at once so boyish and so much more than his years. The fine +seriousness of his face tonight made him very dear and very comforting +to her. She wanted to keep close to him; she could not bear the thought +of again losing him. If her hard visit back home yielded just that she +would have had rich gain from it. She began talking with him about what +he would do. He talked freely of his work, as if glad to talk of it; he +was not satisfied with it, did not think there was much "chance" there +for him. Ted had thought he wanted to study law, but his father, in one +of his periods of depression, had said he could not finish sending him +through college and Ted had gone into one of the big manufactories +there. He was in the sales department, and he talked to Ruth of the +work. He told her of his friends, of what they were doing; they talked +of many things, speaking of the future with that gentle intimacy there +can be between those sorrowing together for things past. Their sensitive +consciousness of the emptiness of the house--the old place, their +home,--brought them together through a deep undercurrent of feeling. +Their voices were low as they spoke of more intimate things than it is +usual to speak of without constraint, something lowered between them as +only a grief shared can lower bars to the spirit, their thinking set in +that poignant sense of life which death alone seems able to create. + +Ted broke a pause to say that he supposed it was getting late and he +must be starting for Harriett's. Cyrus had asked him to come over awhile +that evening. Mr. McFarland, their family lawyer, was going out of town +for a few days, leaving the next morning. He was coming in that evening, +more as the old friend than formally, to speak to them about some +business matters, Cyrus's time being limited and there being a number of +things to arrange. + +"I hate leaving you alone, Ruth," said Ted, lingering. + +She looked over to him with quick affectionate smile. "I don't mind, +Ted. Somehow I don't mind being alone tonight." + +That was true. Being alone would not be loneliness that evening. Things +were somehow opened; all things had so strangely opened. She had been +looking down the deep-shadowed street, that old street down which she +used to go. The girl who used to go down that street was singularly real +to her just then; she had about her the fresh feeling, the vivid sense, +of a thing near in time. Old things were so strangely opened, old +feeling was alive again: the wild joy in the girl's heart, the delirious +expectancy--and the fear. It was strange how completely one could get +back across the years, how things gone could become living things again. +That was why she was not going to mind being alone just then; she had a +sense of the whole flow of her life--living, moving. It did not seem a +thing to turn away from; it was not often that things were all open like +that. + +"I shouldn't wonder if Deane would drop in," said Ted, as if trying to +help himself through leaving her there alone. + +"He may," Ruth answered. She did not say it with enthusiasm, much as she +would like to talk with Deane. Deane was just the one it would be good +to talk with that night. But Deane never mentioned his wife to her. At +first, in her preoccupation, and her pleasure in seeing him, she had not +thought much about that. Then it had come to her that doubtless Deane's +wife would not share his feeling about her, that she would share the +feeling of all the other people; that brought the fear that she might, +again, be making things hard for Deane. She had done enough of that; +much as his loyalty, the rare quality of his affectionate friendship +meant to her, she would rather he did not come than let the slightest +new shadow fall upon his life because of her. And yet it seemed all +wrong, preposterous, to think anyone who was close to Deane, anyone whom +he loved, should not understand this friendship between them. She +thought of how, meeting after all those years, they were not strange +with each other. That seemed rare--to be cherished. + +"What's Deane's wife like, Ted?" she asked. + +"I haven't met her," he replied, "but I've seen her. She's awfully +good-looking; lots of style, and carries herself as if--oh, as if she +knew she was somebody," he laughed. "And I guess Deane thinks she _is_," +he added with another laugh. "Guess he decided that first time he met +her. You know he stopped in Indianapolis to see a classmate who was +practising there--met her at a party, I believe, and--good-by Deane! But +somehow she isn't what you'd expect Deane's wife to be," he went on more +seriously. "Doesn't look that way, anyhow. Looks pretty frigid, I +thought, and, oh--fixed up. As if she wasn't just real." + +Ruth's brows puckered. If there was one thing it seemed the wife of +Deane Franklin should be, it was real. But doubtless Ted was wrong--not +knowing her. It did not seem that Deane would be drawn to anyone who was +not real. + +She lingered in the thought of him. Real was just what Deane was. He had +been wonderfully real with her in those days--days that had made the +pattern of her life. Reality had swept away all other things between +them. That carried her back to the new thinking, the questions. It +seemed it was the things not real that were holding people apart. It was +the artificialities people had let living build up around them made +those people hard. People would be simpler--kinder--could those unreal +things be swept away. She dwelt on the thought of a world like that--a +world of people simple and real as Deane Franklin was simple and real. + +She was called from that by a movement and exclamation from Ted, who had +leaned over the railing. "There goes Mildred Woodbury," he said,--"and +alone." + +His tone made her look at him in inquiry and then down the street at the +slight figure of a girl whose light dress stood out clearly between the +shadows. Mildred was the daughter of a family who lived in the next +block. The Woodburys and the Hollands had been neighbors and friends as +far back as Ruth could remember. Mildred was only a little girl when +Ruth went away--such a pretty little girl, her fair hair always gayly +tied with ribbons. She had been there with her mother the night before +and Ruth had been startled by her coming into the room where she was and +saying impulsively: "You don't remember me, do you? I'm Mildred--Mildred +Woodbury." + +"And you used to call me Wuth!" Ruth had eagerly replied. + +It had touched her, surrounded as she was by perfunctoriness and +embarrassment that this young girl should seek her out in that warm way. +And something in the girl's eyes had puzzled her. She had returned to +thought of it more than once and that made her peculiarly interested in +Ted's queer allusion to Mildred now. + +"Well?" she inquired. + +"Mildred's getting in rather bad," he said shortly. + +"Getting--what do you mean, Ted?" she asked, looking at him in a +startled way. + +"People are talking about her," he said. + +"People are--?" she began, but stopped, looking at him all the while in +that startled way. + +"Talking about her," he repeated. "I guess it's been going on for some +time--though I didn't hear about it until a little while ago." + +"About what, Ted?" Her voice faltered and it seemed to make him suddenly +conscious of what he was saying, to whom he spoke. + +"Why,"--he faltered now too, "Mildred's acting sort of silly--that's +all. I don't know--a flirtation, or something, with Billy Archer. You +don't know him; he came here a few years ago on some construction work. +He's an engineer. He is a fascinating fellow, all right," he added. + +Ruth pushed back her chair into deeper shadow. "And--?" she suggested +faintly. + +"He's married," briefly replied Ted. + +She did not speak for what seemed a long time. Ted was beginning to +fidget. Then, "How old is Mildred, Ted?" Ruth asked in a very quiet +voice. + +"About twenty, I guess; she's a couple of years younger than I am." + +"And this man?--how old is he?" That she asked a little sharply. + +"Oh, I don't know; he's in the older crowd; somewhere in the thirties, I +should say." + +"Well--" But she abruptly checked what she had sharply begun to say, and +pushed her chair still further back into shadow. When Ted stole a timid +glance at her a minute later he saw that she seemed to be holding her +hands tight together. + +"And doesn't Mildred's mother--?" It seemed impossible for her to finish +anything, to say it out. + +He shook his head. "Guess not. It's funny--but you know a person's +folks--" + +There was another silence; then Ted began to whistle softly and was +looking over the railing as if interested in something down on the lawn. + +"And you say people are really--talking about Mildred, Ted?" Ruth +finally asked, speaking with apparent effort. + +He nodded. "Some people are snubbing her. You know this town is long on +that," he threw in with a short laugh. "I saw Mrs. Brewer--remember +her?--she used to be Dorothy Hanlay--out and out snub Mildred at a party +the other night. She came up to her after she'd been dancing with +Billy--Lord knows how many times she'd danced with him that night--and +Mrs. Brewer simply cut her. I saw it myself. Mildred got white for a +moment, then smiled in a funny little way and turned away. Tough on her, +wasn't it?--for really, she's a good deal of a kid, you know. And say, +Ruth, there's something mighty decent about Edith--about Mrs. Blair. She +saw it and right afterwards she went up to Mildred, seemed particularly +interested in her, and drew her into her crowd. Pretty white, don't you +think? That old hen--Mrs. Brewer--got red, let me tell you, for Edith +can put it all over her, you know, on being somebody, and that _got_ +her--good and plenty!" + +There was a queer little sound from Ruth, a sound like a not quite +suppressed sob; Ted rose, as if for leaving, and stood there awkwardly, +his back to her. He felt that Ruth was crying, or at least trying not to +cry. Why had he talked of a thing like that? Why did he have to bring in +Edith Lawrence? + +It seemed better to go on talking about it now, as naturally as he +could. "I never thought there was much to Mildred," he resumed, not +turning round. "She always seemed sort of stuck up with the fellows of +our crowd. But I guess you never can tell. I saw her look at Billy +Archer the other night." He paused with a little laugh. "There wasn't +anything very stuck up about that look." + +As still Ruth did not speak he began to talk about the property across +the street being for sale. When he turned around for taking leave--it +being past the time for going to Harriett's--it made him furious at +himself to see how strained and miserable Ruth's face was. She scarcely +said good-by to him; she was staring down the street where Mildred had +disappeared a few moments before. All the way over to Harriett's he +wondered just what Ruth was thinking. He was curious as well as +self-reproachful. + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE + + +When Ted entered the living-room at his sister Harriett's he felt as if +something damp and heavy had been thrown around him. He got the feeling +of being expected to contribute to the oppressiveness of the occasion. +The way no one was sitting in a comfortable position seemed to suggest +that constraint was deemed fitting. Cyrus was talking to Mr. McFarland +with a certain self-conscious decorousness. Harriett's husband, the Rev. +Edgar Tyler, sat before the library table in more of his pulpit manner +than was usual with him in his household, as if--so it seemed to +Ted--the relation of death to the matter in hand brought it particularly +within his province. Ted had never liked him; especially he had hated +his attitude about Ruth--his avowed sorrowfulness with which the heart +had nothing to do. He resented the way his brother-in-law had made +Harriett feel that she owed it to the community, to the church, not to +countenance her sister. Harriett had grown into that manner of striving +to do the right thing. She had it now--sitting a little apart from the +others, as if not to intrude herself. Sitting there with those others +his heart went out to Ruth; he was _for_ her, he told himself warmly, +and he'd take nothing off of Cy about her, either! He watched Cyrus and +thought of how strange it was that a brother and sister should be as +different as he and Ruth were. They had always been different; as far +back as he could remember they were different about everything. Ruth was +always keyed up about something--delighted, and Cy was always "putting a +crimp" in things. As a little boy, when he told Ruth things he was +pleased about they always grew more delightful for telling her; and +somehow when you told Cyrus about a jolly thing it always flattened out +a little in the telling. + +A shrinking from the appearance of too great haste gave a personal color +to the conversation. It was as old friend quite as much as family +solicitor that the lawyer talked to them, although the occasion for +getting together that night was that Cyrus might learn of an investment +of his father's which demanded immediate attention. + +Mr. McFarland spoke of that, and then of how little else remained. He +hesitated, then ventured: "You know, I presume, that your father has not +left you now what he would have had ten years ago?" + +Ted saw Cyrus's lips tighten, his eyes lower. He glanced at Harriett, +who looked resigned; though he was not thinking much of them, but of his +father, who had met difficulties, borne disappointments. He was thinking +of nights when his father came home tired; mornings when he went away in +that hurried, harassed way. He could see him sitting in his chair +brooding. The picture of him now made him appear more lonely than he had +thought of him while living. And now his father was dead and they were +sitting there talking over his affairs, looking into things that their +father had borne alone, things he had done the best he could about. He +wished he had tried harder to be company for him. In too many of those +pictures which came now his father was alone. + +He heard Cyrus speaking. "Yes," he was saying, "father was broken by our +personal troubles." There was a pause. Ted did not raise his eyes to his +brother. He did not want to look at him, not liking his voice as he said +that. "It is just another way," Cyrus went on, "in which we all have to +suffer for our family disgrace." + +Ted felt himself flushing. Why need Cy have said that! Mr. McFarland had +turned slightly away, as if not caring to hear it. + +And then Cyrus asked about their father's will. + +The attorney's reply was quiet. "He leaves no will." + +Ted looked at him in surprise. Then he looked at Cyrus and saw his +startled, keen, queer look at the attorney. It was after seeing his +brother's face that he realized what this meant--that if his father left +no will Ruth shared with the rest of them. Suddenly his heart was +beating fast. + +"How's that?" Cyrus asked sharply. + +"There was a will, but he destroyed it about two month's ago." + +"He--? Why!" Cyrus pressed in that sharp voice. + +Ted felt certain that the lawyer liked saying what he had to say then. +He said it quietly, but looking right at Cyrus. "He destroyed his will +because it cut off his daughter Ruth." + +Ted got up and walked to the window, stood there staring out at the +street lights. Bless dad! He wished he could see him; he would give +almost anything to see him for just a minute. He wished he had known; he +would love to have told his father just how corking he thought that was. +He stood there a minute not wanting to show the others how much he was +feeling--this new, warm rush of love for his father, and his deep +gladness for Ruth. He thought of what it would mean to her, what it +would mean to know her father had felt like that. He had had to leave +her there at home alone; now he could go home and tell her this news +that would mean so much. + +When he turned back to the group it was to see that he was not alone in +being moved by what they had heard. Harriett too had turned a little +away from the others and was looking down. He saw a tear on her +face--and liked her better than he ever had before. Then he looked at +her husband and in spite of all he was feeling it was hard not to smile; +his brother-in-law's face looked so comical to him, trying to twist +itself into the fitting emotions. Ted watched him unsparingly for a +minute, maliciously saying to himself: "Keep on, old boy, you'll make it +after a little!" + +Then he looked at his brother and his face hardened, seeing too well +what new feeling this roused in Cyrus against Ruth, reading the +resentment toward their father for this final weakening in his stand +against her. + +"Well--" Cyrus began but did not go on, his lips tightening. + +"Your father said," the lawyer added, "that if there was one of his +children--more than the others--needed what he could do for her, it was +his daughter Ruth." + +He was looking at Ted, and Ted nodded eagerly, thinking now of what, in +the practical sense, this would mean to Ruth. Mr. McFarland turned back +to Cyrus as he remarked: "He spoke of Ruth with much feeling." + +Cyrus flushed. "I guess father was pretty much broken--in mind as well +as body--at that time," he said unpleasantly. + +"His mind was all right," answered the lawyer curtly. + +He left a few minutes later; Harriett, who went with him to the door, +did not return to the room. The two men and Ted sat for a moment in +silence. Then Cyrus turned upon him as if angered by what he divined him +to be feeling. "Well," he said roughly, "I suppose you're pleased?" + +"I'm pleased, all right," replied Ted with satisfaction. He looked at +the minister. "Good thing, for I guess I'm the only fellow here who is." + +Harriett's husband colored slightly. "I am neither pleased nor +displeased," was his grave reply. "Surely it was for your father to do +as he wished. For a father to forgive a child is--moving. I only hope," +he added, "that it will not seem in the community to mean the +countenancing--" He paused, looking to Cyrus for approval. + +Then Ten blazed out. "Well, if you want to know what I think, I don't +think a little 'countenancing' of Ruth is going to do this community--or +anybody else--any harm!" + +Cyrus looked at him with that slightly sneering smile that always +enraged Ted. "You're proud of your sister, I suppose?" he inquired +politely. + +Ted reddened. Then he grew strangely quiet. "Yes," he said, "I believe I +am. I've come pretty close to Ruth these last few days, and I think +that's just what I am--proud of her. I can't say I'm proud of what Ruth +did; I'd have to think more about that. But I'm proud of what she _is_. +And I don't know--I don't know but what it's what a person _is_ that +counts." He fell silent, thinking of what he meant by that, of the +things he felt in Ruth. + +Cyrus laughed mockingly. "Rather a curious thing to be proud of, I +should say. What she 'is' is--" + +Ted jumped up. "Don't say it, Cy! Whatever it is you're going to +say--just don't say it!" + +Cyrus had risen and was putting in his pocket a paper Mr. McFarland had +given him. "No?" he said smoothly, as if quite unperturbed. "And why +not?" + +At that uncaring manner something seemed to break inside Ted's head, as +if all the things Cyrus had said about Ruth had suddenly gathered there +and pressed too hard. His arm shot out at his brother. + +"That's why not!" he cried. + +He had knocked Cyrus back against the wall and stood there threatening +him. To the minister, who had stepped up, protesting, he snapped: "None +of _your_ put-in! And after this, just be a little more careful in +_your_ talk--see?" + +He stepped back from Cyrus but stood there glaring, breathing hard with +anger. Cyrus, whose face had gone white, but who was calm, went back to +the table and resumed what he had been doing there. + +"A creditable performance, I must say, for the day of your father's +funeral," he remarked after a moment. + +"That's all right!" retorted Ted. "Don't think I'm sorry! I don't know +any better way to start out new--start out alone--than to tell you what +I think of you!--let you know that I'll not take a thing off of you +about Ruth. You've done enough, Cy. Now you quit. You kept mother and +father away when they didn't want to be kept away--and I want to tell +you that I'm _on_ to you, anyway. Don't think for a minute that I +believe it's your great virtue that's hurting you. You can't put that +over on me. It's pride and stubbornness and just plain meanness makes +you the way you are! Yes, I'm glad to have a chance to tell you what I +think of you--and then I'm through with you, Cy. I think you're a +pin-head! Why, you haven't got the heart of a flea! I don't know how +anybody as fine as Ruth ever came to have a brother like you!" + +His feeling had grown as he spoke, and he stopped now because he was too +close to losing control; he reddened as his brother--calm, apparently +unmoved--surveyed him as if mildly amused. That way Cyrus looked at him +when they were quarrelling always enraged him. If he would only _say_ +something--not stand there as if he were too superior to bother himself +with such a thing! He knew Cyrus knew it maddened him--that that was why +he did it, and so it was quietly that he resumed: "No, Cy, I'm not with +you, and you might as well know it. I'm for Ruth. You've got the world +on your side--and I know the arguments you can put up, and all that, but +Ruth's got a--" he fumbled a minute for the words--"Ruth's got a power +and an understanding about her that you'll never have. She's got a +heart. More than that, she's got--character." + +He paused, thinking, and Cyrus did speak then. "Oh, I don't think I'd +use that word," he said suavely. + +"No, you wouldn't; you wouldn't see it, but that's just what I mean." He +turned to the minister. "Character, I say, is what my sister Ruth has +got. Character is something more than putting up a slick front. It's +something more than doing what's expected of you. It's a kind of--a kind +of being faithful to yourself. _Being_ yourself. Oh, I know--" at a +sound from his brother--"just how you can laugh at it, but there's +something to it just the same. Why, Ruth's got more real stuff in her +than you two put together! After being with her these days you, Cy, +strike a fellow as pretty shallow." + +That brought the color to his brother's face. Stung to a real retort, he +broke out with considerable heat: "If to have a respect for decency is +'shallow'--!" He quickly checked himself as the door opened and +Harriett's maid entered. + +She paused, feeling the tension, startled by their faces. "Excuse me, +sir," she said to the minister, "but Mrs. Tyler said I was to tell you +she had gone out for a few minutes. She said to tell you she had gone to +see her sister." + +She looked startled at Ted's laugh. After she had gone he laughed again. +"Hard luck!" he said to his brother-in-law, and walked from the room. + +He did not go directly home. He was too upset to face Ruth just then; he +did not want her to know, it would trouble her. And he wanted to +walk--walk as fast as he could, walk off steam, he called it. His heart +was pounding and there seemed too much blood in his head. But he wasn't +sorry, he told himself. Cy would have it in for him now, but what did he +care for that? He could get along without him. But his lips trembled as +he thought that. He had had to get along without his mother; from now on +he would have to get along without his father. He had a moment of +feeling very much alone. And then he thought of Ruth. Yes,--there was +Ruth! He wheeled toward home. He wanted to tell her. He hoped Harriett +hadn't got it told; he wanted to tell her himself. Bless dad! He loved +him for doing that. If only he'd known it in time to let him know what +he thought of him for doing it! + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO + + +Harriett had been with Ruth for half an hour and still she had not told +her what she had come to tell her. She was meaning to tell it before she +left, to begin it any minute now, but, much as she wanted to tell it, +she shrank from doing so. It seemed that telling that would open +everything up--and they had opened nothing up. Harriett had grown into a +way of shrinking back from the things she really wanted to do, was +unpracticed in doing what she felt like doing. + +Acting upon an impulse, she had started for Ruth. There had been a +moment of real defiance when she told Mamie to tell Mr. Tyler that she +had gone to see her sister. She had a right to go and see her sister! No +one should keep her from it. Her heart was stirred by what her father +had done about Ruth. It made her know that she too felt more than she +had shown. His having done that made her want to do something. It moved +her to have this manifestation of a softening she had not suspected. It +reached something in her, something that made her feel a little more +free, more bold, more loving. His defiance, for she felt that in it too, +struck a spark in her. She even had a secret satisfaction in the +discomfiture she knew this revelation of her father's--what they would +call weakening--caused her husband and her brother. Unacknowledged +dissatisfactions of her own sharpened her feeling about it. She had not +looked at either her husband or Cyrus when the announcement was made, +but beneath her own emotion was a secret, unacknowledged gloating at +what she knew was their displeasure, at their helplessness to resent. +Ted was a dear boy! Ted's shining eyes somehow made her know just how +glad she herself was. + +So she had hurried along, stirred, eager to tell Ruth. But once with her +she held back from telling her, grew absurdly timid about it. It seemed +so much else might come when that came--things long held back, things +hard to let one's self talk about. + +And then Ruth was so strange tonight. After that first day it had been +easy to talk with Ruth; that first embarrassment over, she had seemed +simple and natural and Harriett could talk with her about the little +things that came up and at times just forget the big thing that held +them apart. After that first meeting she had felt much more comfortable +with Ruth than she would have supposed the terrible circumstances would +let her feel. But tonight Ruth was different, constrained, timid; she +seemed holding herself back, as if afraid of something. It made Harriett +conscious of what there was holding them apart. She did not know how to +begin what she had been so eager to tell. + +And so they talked of surface things--current things: the service that +afternoon; some of the relatives who had been there; of old friends of +their father's. They kept away from the things their hearts were full +of. + +Ruth had been glad to see Harriett; it touched her that Harriett should +come. But she was nervous with her; it was true that she was holding +back. That new assurance which had helped her through the last few days +had deserted her. Since Ted told her of Mildred that inner quiet from +which assurance drew was dispelled. She seemed struck back--bewildered, +baffled. Was it always to be that way? Every time she gained new ground +for her feet was she simply to be struck back to new dismays, new +incertitudes, new pain? Had she only deluded herself in that feeling +which had created the strengthening calm of the last few days? + +After Ted left her she had continued to sit looking down the street +where Mildred had gone; just a little while before she had been looking +down that street as the way she herself had gone--the young girl giving +herself to love, facing all perils, daring all things for the love in +her heart. But now she was not thinking of the love in Mildred's heart; +she was thinking of the perils around her--the pity of it--the waiting +disaster. A little while before it had seemed there should always be a +place in the world for love, that things shutting love out were things +unreal. And now she longed to be one with Edith in getting Mildred back +to those very things--those unreal things that would safeguard. The +mockery of it beat her back, robbing her of the assurance that had been +her new strength. That was why Harriett found her strange, hard to talk +to. She wanted to cower back. She tried not to think of Mildred--to get +back to herself. But that she could not do; Mildred was there in +between--confusing, a mockery. + +Harriett spoke of the house, how she supposed the best thing to do would +be to offer it for sale. Ruth looked startled and pained. "It's in bad +repair," Harriett said; "it's all run down. And then--there's really no +reason for keeping it." + +And then they fell silent, thinking of years gone--years when the house +had not been all run down, when there was good reason for keeping it. To +let the house go to strangers seemed the final acknowledgment that all +those old things had passed away. It was a more intimate, a sympathetic +silence into which that feeling flowed--each thinking of old days in +that house, each knowing that the other was thinking of those days. +Harriett could see Ruth as a little girl running through those rooms. +She remembered a certain little blue gingham dress--and Ruth's hair +braided down her back; pictures of Ruth with their grandfather, their +mother, their father--all those three gone now. She started to tell Ruth +what she had come to tell her, then changed it to something else, still +holding back, afraid of emotion, of breaking through, seeming powerless +and hating herself for being powerless. She would tell that a little +later--before she left. She would wait until Ted came in. She seized +upon that, it let her out--let her out from the thing she had been all +warm eagerness to do. To bridge that time she asked a few diffident +questions about the West; she really wanted very much to know how Ruth +lived, how she "managed." But she put the questions carefully, it would +seem reluctantly, just because almost everything seemed to lead to that +one thing,--the big thing that lay there between her and Ruth. It was +hard to ask questions about the house Ruth lived in and not let her mind +get swamped by that one terrible fact that she lived there with Stuart +Williams--another woman's husband. + +Harriett's manner made Ruth bitter. It seemed Harriett was afraid to +talk to her, evidently afraid that at any moment she would come upon +something she did not want to come near. Harriett needn't be so +afraid!--she wasn't going to contaminate her. + +And so the talk became a pretty miserable affair. It was a relief when +Flora Copeland came in the room. "There's someone here to see you, +Ruth," she said. + +"Deane?" inquired Ruth. + +"No, a woman." + +"A woman?"--and then, at the note of astonishment in her own voice she +laughed in an embarrassed little way. + +"Yes, a Mrs. Herman. She says you may remember her as Annie Morris. She +says she went to school with you." + +"Yes," said Ruth, "I know." She was looking down, pulling at her +handkerchief. After an instant she looked up and said quietly: "Won't +you ask her to come in here?" + +The woman who stood in the doorway a moment later gave the impression of +life, work, having squeezed her too hard. She had quick movements, as if +she were used to doing things in a hurry. She had on a cheap, plain +suit, evidently bought several years before. She was very thin, her face +almost pinched, but two very live eyes looked out from it. She appeared +embarrassed, but somehow the embarrassment seemed only a surface thing. +She held out a red, rough hand to Ruth and smiled in a quick, bright way +as she said: "I don't know that you remember me, Ruth." + +"Oh, yes I do, Annie," Ruth replied, and held on to the red, rough hand. + +"I didn't know; I'm sure," she laughed, "that you've always meant more +to me than I could to you." + +After Ruth had introduced Harriett the stranger explained that with: "I +thought a great deal of Ruth when we were in school together. She never +knew it--she had so many friends." A little pause followed that. + +"So I couldn't bear to go away," Annie went on in her rather sharp, +bright way, "without seeing you, Ruth. I hope I'm not intruding, coming +so--soon." + +"You are not intruding, Annie," said Ruth; her voice shook just a +little. + +Ted had come home, and came in the room then and was introduced to +Annie, with whom, though frankly surprised at seeing her, he shook hands +warmly. "But we do know each other," he said. + +"Oh, yes," she laughed, "I've brought you many a cauliflower." + +"And oh, those eggs!" he laughed back. + +Again there was a slight pause, and then Annie turned to Ruth with the +manner of being bound to get right into the thing she had come to say. +"I didn't wait longer, Ruth, because I was afraid you might get away and +I wondered,"--this she said diffidently, as one perhaps expecting too +much--"if there was any chance of your coming out to make me a little +visit before you go back. + +"You know,"--she turned hastily to Ted, turning away from the things +gathering in Ruth's eyes, "the country is so lovely now. I thought it +might do Ruth good. She must be tired, after the long journey--and all. +I thought a good rest--" She turned back to Ruth. "Don't you think, +Ruth," she coaxed, "that you'd like to come out and play with my baby?" + +And then no one knew what to do for suddenly Ruth was shaken with sobs. +Ted was soothing her, telling Annie that naturally she was nervous that +night. "Ted," she choked, in a queer, wild way, laughing through the +sobs, "did you _hear_? She wants me to come out and play with her +_baby_!" + +Harriett got up and walked to the other side of the room. +Ruth--laughing, crying--was repeating: "She wants me to play with her +_baby_!" Harriett thought of her own children at home, whom Ruth had not +seen. She listened to the plans Annie and Ted and Ruth were making and +wretchedly wished she had done differently years before. + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE + + +Ruth had been with Annie for five days now; the original three days for +which she had said she could come had been lengthened to a week, and she +knew that she would not want to go even then. For here was rest. Here +she could forget about herself as set apart from others. Here she did +not seem apart. After the stress of those days at home it was good to +rest in this simple feeling of being just one with others. It was good +to lie on the grass under the trees, troubled thoughts in abeyance, and +feel spring in the earth, take it in by smell and sound. It was +wonderfully good to play with the children, to lie on the grass and let +the little two year old girl--Annie's baby--pull at her hair, toddling +around her, cooing and crowing. There was healing in that. It was good +to be some place where she did not seem to cause embarrassment, to be +where she was wanted. After the strain of recent events the simple +things of these days were very sweet to her. It had become monstrous +always to have to feel that something about her made her different from +other people. There was something terrible in it--something not good for +one. Here was release from that. + +And it was good to be with Annie; they had not talked much yet--not +seriously talked. Annie seemed to know that it was rest in little things +Ruth needed now, not talk of big ones. They talked about the chickens +and the cows, the flowers and the cauliflowers, about the children's +pranks. It was restoring to talk thus of inconsequential things; Ruth +was beginning to feel more herself than she had felt in years. On that +fifth day her step was lighter than when she came; it was easier to +laugh. Hers had once been so sunny a nature; it was amazingly easy to +break out of the moroseness with which circumstances had clouded her +into that native sunniness. That afternoon she sat on the knoll above +the house, leaning back against a tree and smiling lazily at the +gamboling of the new little pigs. + +Annie was directing the boy who had been helping her cut asparagus to +carry the baskets up where Ruth was sitting. "I'm going to talk to you +while I make this into bunches, Ruth," she called. + +"I'll help," Ruth called back with zest. + +They talked at first of the idiosyncrasies of asparagus beds, of the +marketing of it; then something Annie said set Ruth thinking of +something that had happened when they were in high school. "Oh, do you +remember, Annie--" she laughingly began. There was that sort of talk for +awhile--"Do you remember...?" and "Oh, whatever became of...?" + +As they worked on Ruth thought of the strangeness of her being there +with this girl who, when they were in school together, had meant so +little to her. Her own work lagged, watching Annie as with quick, sure +motions she made the asparagus into bunches for market. She did things +deftly and somehow gave the feeling of subordinating them to something +else, of not letting them take all of her. Ruth watched her with +affectionate interest; she wore an all-over gingham apron, her big sun +hat pushed back from her browned, thin face; she was not at all +attractive unless one saw the eager, living eyes--keenly intelligent +eyes. Ruth thought of her other friends--the girls who had been her +friends when she was in school and whom she had not seen now; she +wondered why it was Annie had none of the feeling that kept those other +girls away. + +Annie's husband was a slow, stolid man; Ruth supposed that in his youth, +when Annie married him, he had perhaps been attractive in his +stalwartness. He was sluggish now; good humored enough, but apparently +as heavy in spirit as in body. Things outside the material round of +life--working, eating, sleeping--simply did not seem to exist for him. +At first she wondered how Annie could be content with life with him, +Annie, who herself was so keenly alive. Thinking of it now it seemed +Annie had the same adjustment to him that she had to the +asparagus,--something subordinated, not taking up very much of herself. +She had about Annie, and she did not know just why she had it, the +feeling that here was a person who could not be very greatly harmed, +could not be completely absorbed by routine, could not, for some reason +she could not have given, be utterly vanquished by any circumstance. She +went about her work as if that were one thing--and then there were other +things; as if she were in no danger of being swallowed up in her manner +of living. There was something apart that was dauntless. Ruth wondered +about her, she wanted to find out about her. She wanted for herself that +valiant spirit, a certain unconquerableness she felt in Annie. + +Annie broke a pause to say: "You can't know, Ruth, how much it means to +have you here." + +Ruth's face lighted and she smiled; she started to speak, but instead +only smiled again. She wanted to tell what it meant to her to be there, +but that seemed a thing not easily told. + +"I wish you could stay longer," Annie went on, all the while working. +"So--" she paused, and continued a little diffidently--"so we could +really get acquainted; really talk. I hardly ever have anyone to talk +to," she said wistfully. "One gets pretty lonely sometimes. It would be +good to have someone to talk to about the things one thinks." + +"What are the things you think, Annie?" Ruth asked impulsively. + +"Oh, no mighty thoughts," laughed Annie; "but of course I'm always +thinking about things. We keep alive by thinking, don't we?" + +Ruth gave her a startled look. + +"Perhaps it's because I haven't had from life itself much of what I'd +like to have," Annie was going on, "that I've made a world within. Can't +let life cheat us, Ruth," she said brightly. "If we can't have things in +one way--have to get them in another." + +Again Ruth looked at her in that startled way. Annie did not see it, +reaching over for more asparagus; she was all the time working along in +that quick, sure way--doing what she was doing cleverly and as if it +weren't very important. "Perhaps, Ruth," she said after a minute, "that +that's why my school-girl fancy for you persisted--deepened--the way it +has." She hesitated, then said simply: "I liked you for not letting life +cheat you." + +She looked up with a quick little nod as she said that but found Ruth's +face very serious, troubled. "But I don't think I've done what you mean, +Annie," she began uncertainly. "I did what I did--because I had to. And +I'm afraid I haven't--gone on. It begins to seem to me now that I've +stayed in a pretty small place. I've been afraid!" she concluded with +sudden scorn. + +"That isn't much wonder," Annie murmured gently. + +"But with me," she took it up after a little, "I've had to go on." Her +voice went hard in saying it. "Things would have just shut right down on +me if I would have let them," she finished grimly. + +"I married for passion," she began quietly after a minute. "Most people +do, I presume. At least most people who marry young." + +Ruth colored. She was not used to saying things right out like that. + +"Romantic love is a wonderful thing," Annie pursued; "I suppose it's the +most beautiful thing in the world--while it lasts." She laughed in a +queer, grim little way and gave a sharp twist to the knot she was tying. +"Sometimes it opens up to another sort of love--love of another +quality--and to companionship. It must be a beautiful thing--when it +does that." She hesitated a moment before she finished with a dryness +that had that grim quality: "With me--it didn't. + +"So there came a time," she went on, and seemed newly to have gained +serenity, "when I saw that I had to give up--go under--or get through +myself what I wasn't going to get through anyone else. Oh, it's not the +beautiful way--not the complete way. But it's one way!" she flashed in +fighting voice. "I fought for something, Ruth. I held it. I don't know +that I've a name for it--but it's the most precious thing in life. My +life itself is pretty limited; aside from the children"--she softened in +speaking of them--"my life is--pretty barren. And as for the +children"--that fighting spirit broke sharply through, "they're all the +more reason for not sinking into things--not sinking into _them_," she +laughed. + +As she stopped there Ruth asked eagerly, eyes intently upon her: "But +just what is it you mean, Annie? Just what is it you fought for--kept?" + +"To be my _own_!" Annie flashed back at her, like steel. + +Then she changed; for the first time her work fell unheeded in her lap; +the eyes which a minute before had flashed fight looked far off and were +dreamy; her face, over which the skin seemed to have become stretched, +burned by years of sun and wind, quivered a little. When she spoke again +it was firmly but with sadness. "It's what we think that counts, Ruth. +It's what we feel. It's what we _are_. Oh, I'd like richer living--more +beauty--more joy. Well, I haven't those things. For various reasons, I +won't have them. That makes it the more important to have all I can +take!"--it leaped out from the gentler thinking like a sent arrow. +"Nobody holds my thoughts. They travel as far as they themselves have +power to travel. They bring me whatever they can bring me--and I shut +nothing out. I'm not afraid!" + +Ruth was looking at her with passionate earnestness. + +"Over there in that town,"--Annie made a little gesture toward it, "are +hundreds of women who would say they have a great deal more than I have. +And it's true enough," she laughed, "that they have some things I'd like +to have. But do you think I'd trade with them? Oh, no! Not much! The +free don't trade with the bond, Ruth." + +And still Ruth did not speak, but listened with that passionate +intentness. + +"There in that town," Annie went on, "are people--most a whole townful +of them--who are going through life without being really awake to life +at all. They move around in a closed place, doing the same silly little +things--copy-cats--repeaters. They're not their _own_--they're not +awake. They're like things run by machinery. Like things going in their +sleep. Take those girls we used to go to school with. Why, take Edith +Lawrence. I see her sometimes. She always speaks sweetly to me; she +means to be nice. But she moves round and round in her little place and +she doesn't even _know_ of the wonderful things going on in the world +today! Do you think I'd trade with _her_?--social leader and all the +rest of it!" She was gathering together the bundles of asparagus. She +had finished her work. "Very sweet--very charming," she disposed of +Edith, "but she simply doesn't count. The world's moving away from her, +and she,"--Annie laughed with a mild scorn--"doesn't even know that!" + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR + + +It was late when Ruth went to sleep that night; she and Annie talked +through the evening--of books Annie was reading, of the things which +were interesting her. She was rich in interests; ideas were as personal +things to her; she found personal satisfactions in them. She was +following things which Ruth knew little about; she had been long away +from the centers of books, and out of touch with awakened people. A +whole new world seemed to open from these things that were vital to +Annie; there was promise in them--a quiet road out from the hard things +of self. There were new poets in the world; there were bold new +thinkers; there was an amazing new art; science was reinterpreting the +world and workers and women were setting themselves free. Everywhere the +old pattern was being shot through with new ideas. Everywhere were new +attempts at a better way of doing things. She had been away from all +that; what she knew of the world's new achievement had seemed unreal, or +at least detached, not having any touch with her own life. But as +disclosed by Annie those things became realities--things to enrich one's +own life. It kindled old fires of her girlhood, fanned the old desire to +know. Personal things had seemed to quell that; the storm in her own +life had shut down around her. Now she saw that she, like those others +whom Annie scorned, had not kept that openness to life, had let her own +life shut her in. She had all along been eager for books, but had not +been fortunate in the things she had come upon. She had not had access +to large libraries--many times not even to small ones; she had had +little money for buying books and was so out of touch with the world +that she had not had much initiative in trying to get hold of things. +She felt now that she had failed miserably in that, but there were years +when she was like a hurt thing that keeps in hiding, most of all wanting +to escape more hurt. It had been a weakness--she clearly saw that now, +and it had been weakening to her powers. Most of the books she had come +upon were of that shut-in life Annie scorned, written from within that +static living, and for it. People in them had the feeling it was right +people should have, unless there were bad people in the book, and then +they were very definitely bad. Many of those books had been not only +unsatisfying, but saddening to her, causing her to feel newly apart from +the experiences of people of her kind. + +But now Annie's books let her glimpse a new world--a world which +questioned, a world of protest, of experiment, a world in which people +unafraid were trying to find the truth, trying to build freshly, to +supplant things outworn with the vital forms of a new reality. It was +quickening. It made her eager. She was going to take some of those books +home, she would send for others, would learn how to keep in touch with +this new world which was emerging from the old. It was like breaking out +from a closed circle. It was adventure! + +Even after she went to her room that night, late though it was, she did +not go at once to bed. She sat for a time looking off at the lights of +that town for which she had so long grieved, the town that had shut her +out. The fact that it had shut her out had been a determining thing in +her life, to her spirit. She wondered now if perhaps she had not +foolishly spent herself in grieving for a thing that would have meant +little could she have had it. For it seemed now that it had remained +very much a fixed thing, and now she knew that, with it all, she herself +had not been fixed. The things of which Annie talked, things men of this +new day were expressing, roused her like this, not because they were all +new, but because of her own inner gropings. Within herself she had been +stumbling toward some of those things. Here was the sure expression of +some halting thoughts of her own. It was exciting to find that there +were people who were feeling the things that, even in that timid, +uncertain way, she had come to feel by herself. She had been half afraid +to formulate some of the things that had come into her mind. This +gathered together the timid little shoots. She was excited about the +things of which Annie talked--those new ideals of freedom--not so much +because they were new and daring and illumining things, as because they +did not come all alien. There was something from within to go out to +them. In that--not that there were interesting things she could have +from without--but that she, opened to the new stimulus, could become +something from within, was the real excitation, the joy of the new +promise was there. And this new stir, this promise of new satisfactions, +let her feel that her life was not all mapped out, designed ahead. She +went to sleep that night with a wonderful new feeling of there being as +much for her in life as she herself had power to take. + +And she woke with that feeling; she was eager to be up, to be out in the +sunshine. Annie, she found, had gone early to town with her vegetables. +Ruth helped eleven-year-old Dorothy, the eldest child, get off for +school and walked with her to the schoolhouse half a mile down the road. +The little girl's shyness wore away and she chatted with Ruth about +school, about teachers and lessons and play. Ruth loved it; it seemed to +set the seal of a human relationship upon her new feeling. What a +wonderful thing for Annie to have these children! Today gladness in +there being children in the world went out past sorrow in her own +deprivation. The night before she had said to Annie, "You have your +children. That makes life worth while to you, doesn't it?" And Annie, +with that hard, swift look of being ruthless for getting at the +truth--for getting her feeling straight and expressing it truly, had +answered, "Not in itself. I mean, it's not all. I think much precious +life has gone dead under that idea of children being enough--letting +them be all. _We_ count--_I_ count! Just leaving life isn't all; living +it while we're here--that counts, too. And keeping open to it in more +than any one relationship. Suppose they, in their turn, have that idea; +then life's never really lived, is it?--always just passed on, always +_put off_." They had talked of that at some length. "Certainly I want my +children to have more than I have," Annie said. "I am working that they +may. But in that working for them I'm not going to let go of the fact +that I count too. Now's my only chance," she finished in that grim +little way as one not afraid to be hard. + +Thinking back to that it seemed to Ruth a bigger mother feeling than the +old one. It was not the sort of maternal feeling to hem in the mother +and oppress the children. It was love in freedom--love that did not hold +in or try to hold in. It would develop a sense of the preciousness of +life. It did not glorify self-sacrifice--that insidious foe to the +fullness of living. + +Thinking of that, and going out from that to other things, she sat down +on a log by the roadside, luxuriating in the opulence and freshness of +the world that May morning, newly tuned to life, vibrant with that same +fresh sense of it, glad gratefulness in return to it, that comes after +long sickness, after imprisonment. The world was full of singing birds +that morning,--glorious to be in a world of singing birds! The earth +smelled so good! There were plum trees in bloom behind her; every little +breeze brought their fragrance. The grass under her feet was +springy--the world was vibrant, beautiful, glad. The earth seemed so +strong, so full of still unused powers, so ready to give. + +She sat there a long time; she had the courage this morning to face the +facts of her life. She was eager to face them, to understand them that +she might go on understandingly. She had the courage to face the facts +relating to herself and Stuart. That was a thing she had not dared do. +With them, love _had_ to last, for love was all they had. They had only +each other. They did not dare let themselves think of such a thing as +the love between them failing. + +Well, it had not failed; but she let herself see now how greatly it had +changed. There was something strangely freeing in just letting herself +see it. Of course there had been change; things always changed. Love +changed within marriage--she did not know why she should expect it to be +different with her. But in the usual way--within marriage--it would +matter less for there would be more ways of adapting one's self to the +changing. Then one could reach out into new places in life, gaining new +channels, taking on new things as old ones slipped away, finding in +common interests, common pleasures, the new adjustment for feeling. But +with them life had seemed to shut right down around them. And they had +never been able to relax in the reassuring sense of the lastingness of +their love. She had held herself tense in the idea that there was no +change, would be none. She had a feeling now of having tried too hard, +of being tired through long trying. There was relief in just admitting +that she was tired. And so she let herself look at it now, admitting +that she had been clutching at a vanished thing. + +It would have been different, she felt, had the usual channels of living +been opened to them. Then together they could have reached out into new +experiences. Their love had been real--great. Related to living, surely +it could have remained the heart of life. Her seeing now that much of +the life had gone out of it did not bear down upon her with the great +sadness she would have expected. She knew now that in her heart she had +known for a long time that passion had gone. Facing it was easier than +refusing to see. It ceased to be a terrible thing once one looked at it. +Of this she was sure: love should be able to be a part of the rest of +life; the big relationship, but one among others; the most intense +interest, but one with other interests. Unrooted, detached, it might for +the time be the more intense, but it had less ways of saving itself. If +simply, naturally, they could have grown into the common life she felt +they might have gone on without too much consciousness of change, +growing into new things as old ones died away, half unconsciously making +adjustments, doubtless feeling something gone but in the sharing of new +things not left desolate through that sense of the passing of old ones. +Frightened by the thought of having nothing else, they had tried too +hard. She was tired; she believed that Stuart too was tired. + +There was a certain tired tenderness in her thinking of him. Dear +Stuart, he loved easy pleasant living. It seemed he was not meant for +the too great tests, for tragically isolated love. She knew that he had +never ceased to miss the things he had let go--his place among men, the +stimulus of the light, pleasant social relationships with women. He was +meant for a love more flexibly related to living, a love big and real +but fitted more loosely, a little more carelessly, to life. There was +always so deep a contrition for his irritations with her. The whole +trouble was indicated right there, that the contrition should be all out +of proportion to the offence. It would have been better had he felt more +free to be irritated; one should not have to feel frightened at a little +bit of one's own bad temper--appalled at crossness, at hours of ennui. +Driving them back together after every drifting apart all of that made +for an intensity of passion--passion whipped to life by fear. But that +was not the way to grow into life. Flames kindled by fear made intense +moments but after a time left too many waste places between them and the +lives of men. + +Today her hope for the future was in the opening of new places. She was +going back with new vision, new courage. They must not any longer cling +together in their one little place, coming finally to actual resentment +of one another for the enforced isolation. They must let themselves go +out into living, dare more, trust more, lose that fear of rebuff, hope +for more from life, _claim_ more. As she rose and started towards home +there was a new spring in her step. For her part, she was through with +that shrinking back! She hoped she could bring Stuart to share her +feeling, could inspire in him this new trust, new courage that had so +stimulated and heartened her. Her hope for their future lay there. + +Climbing a hill she came in sight of the little city which they had +given up, for which they had grieved. Well, they had grieved too much, +she resolutely decided now. There were wider horizons than the one that +shut down upon that town. She was not conquered! She would not be +conquered. She stood on the hilltop exulting in that sense of being +free. She had been a weakling to think her life all settled! Only +cowards and the broken in spirit surrendered the future as payment for +the past. Love was the great and beautiful wonder--but surely one should +not stay with it in the place where it found one. Why, loving should +light the way! Far from engulfing all the rest of life it seemed now +that love should open life to one. Whether one kept it or whether one +lost it, it failed if it did not send one farther along the way. She had +been afraid to think of her love changing because that had seemed to +grant that it had failed. But now it seemed that it failed if it did not +leave her bigger than it had found her. Her eyes filled in response to +the stern beauty of that. Not that one stay with love in the same place, +but rather the meaning of it all was in just this: that it send one on. + +Eyes still dimmed with the feeling of it, she stood looking as if in a +final letting go at that town off there on the bend of the river. It +became to her the world of shut-in people, people not going on, people +who loved and never saw the meaning of love, whose experiences were not +as wings to carry them, but as walls shutting them in. She was through +grieving for those people. She was going on--past them--so far beyond +them that her need for them would fall away. + +She was conscious of an approaching horse and buggy and stepped aside; +then walked on, so aglow with her own thoughts that a passing by did not +break in upon her. She did not even know that the girl in the run-about +had stopped her horse. At the cry: "Oh--I'm so glad!" she was as +startled as if she had thought herself entirely alone. + +It was a big effort to turn, to gather herself together and speak. She +had been so far away, so completely possessed that it took her an +instant to realize that the girl leaning eagerly toward her was Mildred +Woodbury. + +Mildred was moving over on the seat, inviting her to get in. "I'm so +glad!" she repeated. "I went to Mrs. Herman's, and was so disappointed +to miss you. I thought maybe I'd come upon you somewhere," she laughed +gladly, though not without embarrassment. + +There was a moment of wanting to run away, of really considering it. She +knew now--had remembered, realized--what it was about Mildred. + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE + + +Her instinct to protect herself from this young girl was the thing that +gained composure for her. At first it was simply one of those physical +instincts that draw us back from danger, from pain; and then she threw +the whole force of her will to keeping that semblance of composure. Her +instinct was not to let reserves break down, not to show agitation; to +protect herself by never leaving commonplace ground. It was terribly +hard--this driving back the flood-tide of feeling and giving no sign of +the struggle, the resentment. It was as if every nerve had been charged +to full life and then left there outraged. + +But she could do it; she could appear pleasantly surprised at Mildred's +having come to take her for a drive, could talk along about the little +things that must be her shield against the big ones. Something in her +had gone hard in that first moment of realizing who Mildred was. She was +not going to be driven back again! And so she forced herself to talk +pleasantly of the country through which they went, of Mildred's horse, +of driving and riding. + +But it was impossible not to grow a little interested in this young +Mildred Woodbury. She sat erect and drove in a manner that had the +little tricks of worldliness, but was somehow charming in spite of its +artificiality. Ruth was thinking that Mildred was a more sophisticated +young person than she herself had been at that age. She wondered if +sophistication was increasing in the world, if there was more of it in +Freeport than there used to be. + +They talked of Ruth's father, of Mildred's people, of the neighborhood +both knew so well. From that it drifted to the social life of the town. +She was amused, rather sadly amused, at Mildred's air of superiority +about it; it seemed so youthful, so facile. Listening to Mildred now +pictures flashed before her: she and Edith Lawrence--girls of about +fifteen--going over to the Woodburys' and eagerly asking, "Could we take +the baby out, Mrs. Woodbury?" "Now you'll be very, very careful, girls?" +Mrs. Woodbury would say, wrapping Mildred all up in soft pink things. +"Oh, _yes_, Mrs. Woodbury," they would reply, a little shocked that she +could entertain the thought of their not being careful. And then they +would start off cooing girlish things about the cunning little darling. +This was that baby--in spite of her determination to hold aloof from +Mildred there was no banishing it; no banishing the apprehension that +grew with the girl's talk. For Mildred seemed so much a part of the very +thing for which she had this easy scorn. Something in the way she held +the lines made it seem she would not belong anywhere else. She looked so +carefully prepared for the very life for which she expressed disdain. + +She tried to forget the things that were coming back to her--how Mildred +would gleefully hold up her hands to have her mittens put on when she +and Edith were about to take her out, and tried too to turn the +conversation--breaking out with something about Mrs. Herman's children. +But it became apparent that Mildred was not to be put off. Everything +Ruth would call up to hold her off she somehow forced around to an +approach for what she wanted to say. + +And then it came abruptly, as if she were tired of trying to lead up to +it. "I've been wanting to see you--Ruth," she hesitated over the name, +but brought it out bravely, and it occurred to Ruth then that Mildred +had not known how to address her. "When I heard you were here," she +added, "I was determined you shouldn't get away without my seeing you." + +Ruth looked at her with a little smile, moved, in spite of herself, by +the impetuousness of the girl's tone, by something real that broke +through the worldly little manner. + +"I don't feel as the rest of them do." She flushed and said it +hurriedly, a little tremulously; and yet there was something direct and +honest in her eyes, as if she were going to say it whether it seemed +nice taste or not. It reached Ruth, went through her self-protective +determination not to be reached. Her heart went out to Mildred's youth, +to this appeal from youth, moved by the freshness and realness beneath +that surface artificiality, saddened by this defiance of one who, it +seemed, could so little understand how big was the thing she defied, who +seemed so much the product of the thing she scorned, so dependent on +what she was apparently in the mood to flout. "I don't know that they +are to be blamed for their feeling, Mildred," she answered quietly. + +"Oh, yes, they are!" hotly contended the girl. "It's because they don't +understand. It's because they _can't_ understand!" The reins had fallen +loose in her hand; the whip sagged; she drooped--that stiff, chic little +manner gone. She turned a timid, trusting face to Ruth--a light shining +through troubled eyes. "It's love that counts, isn't it,--Ruth?" she +asked, half humble, half defiant. + +It swept Ruth's heart of everything but sympathy. Her hand closed over +Mildred's. "What is it, dear?" she asked. "Just what is it?" + +Mildred's eyes filled. Ruth could understand that so well--what sympathy +meant to a feeling shut in, a feeling the whole world seemed against. +"It's with me--as it was with you," the girl answered very low and +simply. "It's--like that." + +Ruth shut her eyes for an instant; they were passing something fragrant; +it came to her--an old fragrance--like something out of things past; a +robin was singing; she opened her eyes and looked at Mildred, saw the +sunshine finding gold in the girl's hair. The sadness of it--of youth +and suffering, of pain in a world of beauty, that reach of pain into +youth, into love, made it hard to speak. "I'm sorry, dear," was all she +could say. + +They rode a little way in silence; Ruth did not know how to speak, what +to say; and then Mildred began to talk, finding relief in saying things +long held in. Ruth understood that so well. Oh, she understood it all so +well--the whole tumult of it, the confused thinking, the joy, the +passion,--the passion that would sacrifice anything, that would let the +whole world go. Here it was again. She knew just what it was. + +"So you can see," Mildred was saying, "what you have meant to me." + +Yes, she could see that. + +They were driving along the crest of the hills back of the town. Mildred +pointed to it. "That town isn't the whole of the world!" she exclaimed +passionately, after speaking of the feeling that was beginning to form +there against herself. "What do I care?" she demanded defiantly. "It's +not the whole of the world!" + +Ruth looked at it. She could see the Lawrence house--it had a high place +and was visible from all around; Mildred's home was not far from there; +her own old home was only a block farther on. She had another one of +those flashing pictures from things far back: Mrs. Woodbury--Mildred's +mother--standing at the door with a bowl of chicken broth for Mrs. +Holland--Ruth's mother--who was ill. "I thought maybe this would taste +good," she could hear Mrs. Woodbury saying. Strange how things one had +forgotten came back. Other things came back as for a moment she +continued to look at the town where both she and Mildred had been +brought up, where their ties were. Then she turned back to Mildred, to +this other girl who, claimed by passionate love, was in the mood to let +it all go. "But that's just what it is, Mildred," she said. "The trouble +is, it _is_ the whole of the world." + +"It's the whole of the social world," she answered the look of surprise. +"It's just the same everywhere. And it's astonishing how united the +world is. You give it up in one place--you've about given it up for +every place." + +"Then the whole social world's not worth it!" broke from Mildred. "It's +not worth--enough." + +Ruth found it hard to speak; she did not know what to say. She had a +flashing sense of the haphazardness of life, of the power, the flame +this found in Mildred that the usual experiences would never have found, +of how, without it, she would doubtless have developed much like the +other girls of her world--how she might develop because of it--how human +beings were shaped by chance. She looked at Mildred's face--troubled, +passionate, a confused defiance, and yet something real there looking +through the tumult, something flaming, something that would fight, a +something, she secretly knew, more flaming, more fighting, than might +ever break to life in Mildred again. And then she happened to look down +at the girl's feet--the very smart low shoes of dull kid, perfectly +fitted, high arched--the silk stockings, the slender ankle. They seemed +so definitely feet for the places prepared, for the easier ways, not +fitted for going a hard way alone. It made her feel like a mother who +would want to keep a child from a way she herself knew as too hard. + +"But what are you going to put in the place of that social world, +Mildred?" she gently asked. "There must be something to fill its place. +What is that going to be?" + +"Love will fill its place!" came youth's proud, sure answer. + +Ruth was looking straight ahead; the girl's tone had thrilled her--that +faith in love, that courage for it. It was so youthful!--so youthfully +sure, so triumphant in blindness. Youth would dare so much--youth knew +so little. She did not say anything; she could not bear to. + +"Love can fill its place!" Mildred said again, as if challenging that +silence. And as still Ruth did not speak she demanded, sharply, "Can't +it?" + +Ruth turned to her a tender, compassionate face, too full of feeling, of +conflict, to speak. Slowly, as if she could not bear to do it, she shook +her head. + +Mildred looked just dazed for a moment, then so much as if one in whom +she had trusted, on whom she had counted for a great deal had failed her +that Ruth made a little gesture as if to say it was not that, as if to +say she was sorry it seemed like that. + +Mildred did not heed it. "But it has with you," she insisted. + +"It has _not_!" leaped out the low, savage answer that startled the +woman from whom it came. "It has not!" she repeated fiercely. + +Her rage was against the feeling that seemed to trick one like that; the +way love _got_ one--made one believe that nothing else in the world +mattered but just itself. It wasn't fair! It was cruel! That made her +savage--savage for telling Mildred the other side of it, the side love +blinded her too. In that moment it seemed that love was a trap; it took +hold of one and persuaded one things were true that weren't true! Just +then it seemed a horrible thing the way love got one through lovely +things, through beauty and tenderness, through the sweetest things--then +did as it pleased with the life it had stolen in upon. Fiercely she +turned the other face, told Mildred what love in loneliness meant, what +it meant to be shut away from one's own kind, what that hurting of other +lives did to one's self, what isolation made of one, what it did to +love. Things leaped out that she had never faced, had never admitted for +true; the girl to whom she talked was frightened and she was frightened +herself--at what she told of what she herself had felt, feeling that she +had never admitted she had had. She let the light in on things kept in +the dark even in her own soul--a cruel light, a light that spared +nothing, that seemed to find a savage delight in exposing the things +deepest concealed. She would show the other side of it! There was a +certain gloating in doing it--getting ahead of a thing that would trick +one. And then that spent itself as passion will and she grew quieter and +talked in a simple way of what loneliness meant, of what longing for +home meant, of what it meant to know one had hurt those who had always +been good to one, who loved and trusted. She spoke of her mother--of her +father, and then she broke down and cried and Mildred listened in +silence to those only half-smothered sobs. + +When Ruth was able to stop she looked up, timidly, at Mildred. Something +seemed to have gone out of the girl--something youthful and superior, +something radiant and assured. She looked crumpled up. The utter misery +in her eyes, about her mouth, made Ruth whisper: "I'm sorry, Mildred." + +Mildred looked at her with a bitter little laugh and then turned quickly +away. + +Ruth had never felt more wretched in her life than when, without Mildred +having said a word, they turned in the gate leading up to Annie's. She +wanted to say something to comfort. She cast around for something. +"Maybe," she began, "that it will come right--anyway." + +Again Mildred only laughed in that hard little way. + +When they were half way up the hill Mildred spoke, as if, in miserable +uncertainty, thinking things aloud. "Mrs. Blair has asked me to go to +Europe with her for the summer," she said, in a voice that seemed to +have no spring left in it. "She's chaperoning a couple of girls. I could +go with them." + +"Oh, _do_, Mildred!" cried Ruth. "Do that!" It seemed to her wonderfully +tender, wonderfully wise, of Edith. She was all eagerness to induce +Mildred to go with Edith. + +But there was no answering enthusiasm. Mildred drooped. She did not look +at Ruth. "I could do that," she said in a lifeless way, as if it didn't +matter much what she did. + +When they said good-by Mildred's broken smile made Ruth turn hastily +away. But she looked back after the girl had driven off, wanting to see +if she was sitting up in that sophisticated little way she had. But +Mildred was no longer sitting that way. She sagged, as if she did not +care anything about how she sat. Ruth stood looking after her, watching +as far as she could see her, longing to see her sit up, to see her hold +the whip again in that stiff, chic little fashion. But she did not do +it; her horse was going along as if he knew there was no interest in +him. Ruth could not bear it. If only the whip would go up at just that +right little angle! But it did not. She could not see the whip at +all--only the girl's drooping back. + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX + + +When Mildred had passed from sight Ruth slowly turned toward the house. +She noticed the vegetable wagon there in front of the barn--so Annie had +come home. She turned away from the kitchen door she had been about to +enter; she did not want to talk to Annie just then. But when she had +passed around to the other side of the house she saw, standing with +their backs to her in the little flower garden, Annie and a woman she +was astonished to recognize as her sister Harriett. + +She made a move toward the little hill that rose behind the house. She +would get away! But Mr. Herman appeared just then at the top of the +hill. He saw her; he must see that she had seen the others. So she would +have to stay and talk to Harriett. It seemed a thing she absolutely +could not do. It had come to seem she was being made some kind of sport +of, as if the game were to buffet her about between this feeling and +that, let her gain a little ground, get to a clearing, then throw her +back to new confusion. That day, anyway, she could bear no more of it. +It was hard to reply to Mr. Herman when he called something to her. +Annie heard their voices and then she had to join her and Harriett. + +"Why, Ruth!" Annie cried in quick solicitude upon seeing Ruth's face, +"you went too far. How hateful of you," she laughed, as if feeling there +was something to laugh off, "to come looking like this just when I have +been boasting to your sister about how we've set you up!" + +"You do look tired, Ruth," said Harriett compassionately. + +Harriett said she had come for a little visit with Ruth, and Annie +proposed that they go up under the trees at the crest of the hill back +of the house. It was where Ruth had sat with Annie just the day before. +As she sat down there now it seemed it was ages ago since she and Annie +had sat there tying the asparagus into bunches. + +Annie had come up with some buttermilk for them. As she handed Ruth hers +she gave her shoulder an affectionate little pat, as if, looking at her +face, she wanted to tell her to take heart. Then she went back to the +house, leaving the two sisters alone. + +They drank their buttermilk, talking of it, of Annie's place, of her +children. In a languid way Ruth was thinking that it was good of +Harriett to come and see her; had she come the day before, she would +have been much pleased. In that worn way, she was pleased now; doubtless +it had been hard for Harriett to come--so busy, and not well. Perhaps +her coming meant real defiance. Anyway, it was good of her to come. She +tried to be nice to Harriett, to talk about things as if she liked +having her there to talk with. But that final picture of Mildred's +drooping back was right there before her all the time. As she talked +with Harriett about the price of butter and eggs--the living to be had +in selling them, she was all the while seeing Mildred--Mildred as she +had been when Ruth got into the buggy; as she said, "Love can take its +place!"--as she was when she drove away. She had a sick feeling of +having failed; she had failed the very thing in Mildred to which she had +elected to be faithful in herself. And _why_? What right had one to say +that another was not strong enough? How did one _know_? And yet she +wanted Mildred to go with Edith; she believed that she would--now. That +blighting sense of failure, of having been unfaithful, could not kill a +feeling of relief. Did it mean that she was, after all, just like Edith? +Had her venturing, her experience, left her much as she would have been +without it? Just before meeting Mildred she was strong in the feeling of +having gained something from the hard way she had gone alone. She was +going on! That was what it had shown her--that one was to go on. Then +she had to listen to Mildred--and she was back with the very people she +had felt she was going on past--one with those people she had so +triumphantly decided were not worth her grieving for them. + +She had been so sure--so radiantly sure, happy in that sense of having, +at last, found herself, of being rid of fears and griefs and +incertitudes. Then she met Mildred. It came to her then--right while she +was talking with Harriett about what Flora Copeland was going to do now +that the house would be broken up--that it was just that thing which +kept the world conservative. It was fear for others. It was that feeling +she had when she looked down at Mildred's feet. + +One did not have that feeling when one looked at one's own feet. Fear of +pain for others was quite unlike fear for one's self. Courage for one's +self one could gain; in the fires of the heart that courage was forged. +When the heart was warm with the thing one wanted to do one said no +price in pain could be too great. But courage for others had to be +called from the mind. It was another thing. When it was some one +else,--one younger, one who did not seem strong--then one distrusted the +feeling and saw large the pain. One _knew_ one could bear pain one's +self. There was something not to be borne in thinking of another's pain. +That was why, even among venturers, few had the courage to speak for +venturing. There was something in humankind--it was strongest in +womankind--made them, no matter how daring for themselves, cautious for +others. And perhaps that, all crusted round with things formal and +lifeless, was the living thing at the heart of the world's conservatism. + +Harriett was talking of the monument Cyrus thought there should be at +the cemetery; Ruth listened and replied--seemed only tired, and all the +while these thoughts were shaping themselves in her inner confusion and +disheartenment. She would rather have stopped thinking of it, but could +not. She had been too alive when checked; there was too much emotion in +that inner confusion. She wondered if she would ever become sure of +anything; if she would ever have, and keep, that courage of confidence +which she had thought, for just a few radiant moments, she had. She +would like to talk to Annie about it, but she had a feeling that she was +not fit to talk to Annie. Annie was not one of those to run back at the +first thought of another's pain. That, too, Annie could face. Better let +them in for pain than try to keep them from life, Annie would say. She +could hear her saying it--saying that even that concern for others was +not the noblest thing. Fearing would never set the world free, would be +Annie's word. Not to keep people in the safe little places, but to shape +a world where there need not be safe little places! While she listened +to what Harriett said of how much such a monument as Cyrus wanted would +cost, she could hear Annie's sharp-edged little voice making those +replies to her own confusion, could hear her talking of a sterner, +braver people--hardier souls--who would one day make a world where fear +was not the part of kindness. Annie would say that it was not the women +who would protect other women who would shape the future in which there +need not be that tight little protection. + +She sighed heavily and pushed back her hair with a gesture of great +weariness. "Poor Ruth!" it made Harriett murmur, "you haven't really got +rested at all, have you?" + +She pulled herself up and smiled as best she could at her sister, who +had spoken to her with real feeling. "I did," she said with a little +grimace that carried Harriett back a long way, "then I got so rested I +got to thinking about things--then I got tired again." She flushed after +she had said it, for that was the closest they had come to the things +they kept away from. + +"Poor Ruth," Harriett murmured again. "And I'm afraid," she added with a +little laugh, "that now I'm going to make you more tired." + +"Oh, no," said Ruth, though she looked at her inquiringly. + +"Because," said Harriett, "I've come to talk to you about something, +Ruth." + +Ruth's face made her say, "I'm sorry, Ruth, but I'm afraid it's the only +chance. You see you're going away day after tomorrow." + +Ruth only nodded; it seemed if she spoke she would have to cry out what +she felt--that in common decency she ought to be let alone now as any +worn-out thing should be let alone, that it was not fair--humane--to +talk to her now. But of course she could not make that clear to +Harriett, and with it all she did wonder what it was Harriett had to +say. So she only looked at her sister as if waiting. Harriett looked +away from her for an instant before she began to speak: Ruth's eyes were +so tired, so somber; there was something very appealing about her face +as she waited for the new thing that was to be said to her. + +"I have felt terribly, Ruth," Harriett finally began, as if forcing +herself to do so, "about the position in which we are as a family. I'll +not go into what brought it about--or anything like that. I haven't come +to talk about things that happened long ago, haven't come with +reproaches. I've just come to see if, as a family, we can't do a little +better about things as they are now." + +She paused, but Ruth did not speak; she was very still now as she +waited. She did not take her eyes from Harriett's face. + +"Mother and father are gone, Ruth," Harriett went on in a low voice, +"and only we children are left. It seems as if we ought to do the best +we can for each other." Her voice quivered and Ruth's intense eyes, +which did not leave her sister's face, dimmed. She continued to sit +there very still, waiting. + +"I had a feeling," Harriett went on, "that father's doing what he did +was as a--was as a sign, Ruth, that we children should come closer +together. As if father couldn't see his way to do it in his lifetime, +but did this to leave word to us that we were to do something. I took it +that way," she finished simply. + +Ruth's eyes had brimmed over; but still she did not move, did not take +her eyes from her sister's face. She was so strange--as if going out to +Harriett and yet holding herself ready at any moment to crouch back. + +"And so," Harriett pursued, all the while in that low voice, "that is +the way I talked to Edgar and Cyrus. I didn't bring Ted into it," she +said, more in her natural way, "because he's just a boy, and then--" she +paused as if she had got into something that embarrassed her--"well, he +and Cyrus not feeling kindly toward each other just now I thought I +could do better without Ted." + +Ruth flushed slightly at the mention of the feeling between her +brothers; but still she did not speak, scarcely moved. + +Harriett was silent a moment. "That's one of the reasons," she took it +up, "why I am anxious to do something to bring us together. I don't want +Ted to be feeling this way toward Cyrus. And Edgar, too, he seems to be +very bitter against. It makes him defiant. It isn't good for him. I +think Ted has a little disposition to be wild," she said in a +confidential tone. + +Ruth spoke then. "I hadn't noticed any such disposition," she said +simply. + +"Well, he doesn't go to church. It seems to me he doesn't--accept things +as he ought to." + +Ruth said nothing to that, only continued to look at her sister, +waiting. + +"So I talked to them," Harriett went on. "Of course, Ruth, there's no +use pretending it was easy. You know how Cyrus feels; he isn't one to +change much, you know." She turned away and her hand fumbled in a little +patch of clover. + +"But we do want to do something, Ruth," she came back to it. "We all +feel it's terrible this way. So this is what Edgar proposed, and Cyrus +agreed to it, and it seems to me the best thing to do." She stopped +again, then said, in a blurred sort of voice, fumbling with the clover +and not looking at Ruth: "If you will leave the--your--if you will leave +the man you are--living with, promising never to see him again,--if you +will give that up and come home we will do everything we can to stand by +you, go on as best we can as if nothing had happened. We will try to--" + +She looked up--and did not go on, but flushed uncomfortably at sight of +Ruth's face--eyes wide with incredulity, with something like horror. + +"You don't _mean_ that, do you, Harriett?" Ruth asked in a queer, quiet +voice. + +"But we wanted to do something--" Harriett began, and then again halted, +halted before the sudden blaze of anger in Ruth's eyes. + +"And you thought _this_--" She broke off with a short laugh and sat +there a moment trying to gain control of herself. When she spoke her +voice was controlled but full of passion. "I don't think," she said, +"that I've ever known of a more monstrous--a more insulting proposal +being made by one woman to another!" + +"Insulting?" faltered Harriett. + +Ruth did not at once reply but sat there so strangely regarding her +sister. "So this is your idea of life, is it, Harriett?" she began in +the manner of one making a big effort to speak quietly. "This is your +idea of marriage, is it? Here is the man I have lived with for eleven +years. For eleven years we've met hard things together as best we +could--worked, borne things together. Let me tell you something, +Harriett. If _that_ doesn't marry people--tell _me_ something. If that +doesn't marry people--just tell me, Harriett, _what does_?" + +"But you know you're not married, Ruth," Harriett replied, +falteringly--for Ruth's burning eyes never left her sister's face. "You +know--really--you're not married. You know he's not divorced, Ruth. He's +not your husband. He's Marion Averley's." + +"You think so?" Ruth flung back at her. "You really think so, do you, +Harriett? After those years together--brought together by love, united +by living, by effort, by patience, by courage--I ask you again, +Harriett,--if the things there have been between Stuart Williams and me +can't make a marriage real--_what can_?" + +"The law is the law," murmured Harriett. "He is married to her. He never +was married to you." + +Ruth began hotly to speak, but checked it with a laugh and sat there +regarding her sister in silence. When she spoke after that her voice was +singularly calm. "I'm glad to know this, Harriett; glad to know just +what your ideas are--yours and Edgar's and Cyrus's. You have done +something for me, after all. For I've grieved a great deal, Harriett, +for the things I lost, and you see I won't do that any more. I see +now--see what those things are. I see that I don't want them." + +Harriett had colored at that, and her hand was fumbling in the little +patch of clover. When she looked up at Ruth there were tears in her +eyes. "But what could we do, Ruth?" she asked, gently, a little +reproachfully. "We wanted to do something--what else could we do?" + +Her tone touched Ruth. After all, what else--Harriett being as she +was--could she do? Monstrous as the proposal seemed to her, it was +Harriett's way of trying to make things better. She had come in +kindness, and she had not been kindly received. It was in a different +voice that Ruth began: "Harriett, don't you see, when you come to look +at it, that I couldn't do this? Down in your heart--way down in your +heart, Harriett--don't you see that I couldn't? Don't you see that if I +left Stuart now to do the best he could by himself, left him, I mean, +for this reason--came creeping back myself into a little corner of +respectability--the crumbs that fall from the tables of +respectability--! You _know_, Harriett Holland," she flamed, "that if I +did that I'd be less a woman, not a better one?" + +"I--I knew it would be hard," granted Harriett, unhappily. "Of +course--after such a long time together--But you're not married to him, +Ruth," she said again, wretchedly. "Why"--her voice fell almost to a +whisper--"you're living in--adultery." + +"Well if I am," retorted Ruth--"forgive me for saying it, Harriett--that +adultery has given me more decent ideas of life than marriage seems to +have given you!" + +Her feeling about it grew stronger as the day wore on. That evening she +got the Woodburys' on the telephone and asked for Mildred. She did not +know just what she would say, she had no plan, but she wanted to see +Mildred again. She was told, however, that Mildred had gone to Chicago +on a late afternoon train. At the last minute she had decided to go to +Europe with Mrs. Blair, the servant who was speaking said, and had gone +over to Chicago to see about clothes. + +Ruth hung up the receiver and sat looking into the telephone. Then she +laughed. So Mildred had been "saved." + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN + + +On the afternoon of her last day in Freeport Ruth took a long tramp with +Deane. She was going that night; she was all ready for leaving when +Deane came out and asked if he couldn't take her for a ride in his car. +She suggested a walk instead, wanting the tramp before the confinement +of travelling. So they cut through the fields back of Annie's and came +out on a road well known to them of old. They tramped along it a long +way, Ruth speaking of things she remembered, talking of old drives along +that road which had been a favorite with all of their old crowd. They +said things as they felt like it, but there was no constraint in their +silences. It had always been like that with her and Deane. Finally they +sat down on a knoll a little back from the road, overlooking pastures +and fields of blowing green. + +"I love these little hills," Ruth murmured; "so many little hills," she +laughed affectionately--"and so green and blowy and fruitful. With us +it's a great flat valley--a plain, and most of it dry--barren. You have +to do such a lot to make things grow. Here things just love to grow. And +trees!" she laughed. + +"But mountains there," suggested Deane. + +"Yes, but a long way off from us, and sometimes they seem very stern, +Deane. I've so many times had the feeling I couldn't get beyond them. +Sometimes they have seemed like other things I couldn't hope to cross." +After a little she said: "These little hills are so gentle; this country +so open." + +Deane laughed shortly. "Yes, the hills are gentle. The country is open +enough!" + +She laughed too. "It is beautiful country, Deane," she said, as if that +were the thing mattering just then. There was an attractive bit of +pasture just ahead of them: a brook ran through it--a lovely little +valley between two of those gentle hills. + +Deane was lying on the grass a little way from her--sprawled out in much +his old awkward way, his elbow supporting his head, hat pulled down over +his eyes. It was good to be with him this last afternoon. It seemed so +much as it used to be; in that moment it was almost as if the time in +between had not been. It was strange the way things could fall away +sometimes--great stretches of time fall away and seem, for a little +while, to leave things as they had been long before. + +"Well, Ruth," Deane said at last, "so you're going back." + +"Going back, Deane," she answered. + +So much they did not say seemed to flow into that; the whole thing was +right there, opened, living, between them. It had always been like that +with her and Deane. It was not necessary to say things out to him, as it +was with everyone else. Their thinking, feeling, seemed to come together +naturally, of itself; not a matter of direction. She looked at Deane +stretched out there on the grass--older, different in some ways--today +he looked as if something was worrying him--yet with it all so much the +Deane of old. It kept recurring as strange that, after all there had +been in between, they should be together again, and that it could be as +it used to be. Just as of old, a little thing said could swing them to +thinking, feeling, of which perhaps they did not speak, but which they +consciously shared. Many times through the years there had come times +when she wanted nothing so much as to be with Deane, wanted to say +things to him that, she did not know just why, there would have been no +satisfaction in saying to Stuart. Even things she had experienced with +Stuart she could, of the two, more easily have talked of with Deane. It +was to Deane she could have talked of the things Stuart made her feel. +Within a certain circle Stuart was the man to whom she came closest; +somehow, with him, she did not break from that circle. She had always +had that feeling of Deane's understanding what she felt, even though it +was not he who inspired the feeling. That seemed a little absurd to +her--to live through things with one man, and have what that living made +of her seem to swing her to some one else. + +Thinking of their unique companionship, which time and distance and +circumstances had so little affected, she looked at Deane as he lay +there near her on the grass. She was glad to have this renewal of their +old friendship, which had always remained living and dear to her. And +now she was going away for another long time. It was possible she would +never see him again. It made her wish she could come closer to what were +now the big things in his life. + +"I'm so glad, Deane," she said, somewhat timidly, "about you." + +He pushed back his hat and looked up in inquiry. + +"So glad you got married, goose!" she laughed. + +At his laugh for that she looked at him in astonishment, distinctly +shocked. He was chewing a long spear of grass. For a moment he did not +speak. Then, "Amy's gone home," he said shortly. + +Ruth could only stare at him, bewildered. + +He was running his hand over the grass near him. She noticed that it +moved nervously. And she remarked the puckered brows that had all along +made her think he was worried about something that day--she had thought +it must be one of his cases. And there was that compression of the lips +that she knew of old in Deane when he was hurt. Just then his face +looked actually old, the face of a man who has taken hard things. + +"Yes, Amy's gone home for a little while," he said in a more matter of +fact voice, but a voice that had a hard ring. He added: "Her mother's +not well," and looked up at Ruth with that characteristic little +screwing up of his face, as if telling her to make what she could of it. + +"Why, that's too bad," she stammered. + +Again he looked up at her in that queer way of mixed feeling, his face +showing the marks of pain and yet a touch of teasing there too, mocking +her confusion, looking like a man who was suffering and yet a little +like a teasing boy. Then he abruptly pulled his hat down over his eyes +again, as if to shade them from the sun, and lay flat on his back, one +heel kicking at the grass. She could not see his eyes, but she saw his +mouth; that faint touch of pleasure in teasing which had perversely +lurked in pain had gone now; that twist of his compressed lips was pure +pain. + +She was utterly bewildered, and so deeply concerned that she had to get +ahead of Deane some way, not let him shut himself in with a thing that +made his mouth look as if he was bearing physical pain. And then a new +thought shot into her concern for him, a thought that seemed too +preposterous to entertain, but that would not go away. It did not seem a +thing she could speak of; but as she looked at Deane, his mouth more +natural now, but the suggestion of pain left there, she had a sudden new +sense of all that Deane had done for her. She couldn't leave things like +this, no matter how indelicate she might seem. + +"Deane," she began timidly, "I don't--in any way--for any reason--make +things hard for you, do I?" + +For the moment he did not speak, did not push his hat back so she could +see his eyes. Then she saw that he was smiling a little; she had a +feeling that he was not realizing she could see the smile; it was as if +smiling to himself at something that bitterly amused him. It made her +feel rather sick; it let that preposterous idea spread all through her. + +Then he sat up and looked quizzically at her. "Well, Ruth, you don't +expect me to deny, do you, that you did make a thing or two rather +hard?" He said it with that touch of teasing. "Was I so magnanimous," he +added dryly, "that I let you lose sight of the fact that I wanted you?" + +Ruth colored and felt baffled; she was sure he knew well enough that was +not what she referred to. He looked at her, a little mockingly, a little +wistfully, as if daring her to go on. + +"I wasn't talking about things long ago, Deane," she said. "I +wondered--" She hesitated, looking at him in appeal, as if asking him to +admit he understood what she meant without forcing her to say such a +thing. + +For a minute he let the pain look out of his eyes at her, looked for all +the world as if he wanted her to help him. Then quickly he seemed to +shut himself in. He smiled at her in a way that seemed to say, half +mockingly, "I've gone!" He hurt her a little; it was hard to be with +Deane and feel there was something he was not going to let her help him +with. And it made her sick at heart; for surely he knew what she was +driving at, driving at and edging away from, and if he could have +laughed at her fears wouldn't he have done so? She thought of all Deane +had done for her, borne for her. It would be bitter indeed if it were +really true she was bringing him any new trouble. But how _could_ it be +true? It seemed too preposterous; surely she must be entirely on the +wrong track, so utterly wrong that he had no idea what it was she had in +mind. + +As they sat there for a moment in silence she was full of that feeling +of how much Deane had done for her, of a longing to do something for +him. Gently she said: "I must have made things very hard for you, Deane. +The town--your friends--your people, because of me you were against them +all. That does make things hard--to be apart from the people you are +with." She looked at him, her face softened with affectionate regret, +with a newly understanding gratitude. "I've not been very good for your +life, have I, Deane?" she said, more lightly, but her voice touched with +wistfulness. + +He looked at her, as if willing to meet that, as if frankly considering +it. "I can't say that you've been very good for my happiness, Ruth," he +laughed. And then he said simply, with a certain simple manliness, "But +I should say, Ruth, you have been very good for my life." His face +contracted a little, as if with pain. That passed, and he went on in +that simple way: "You see you made me think about things. It was because +of you--through you--I came to think about things. That's good for our +lives, isn't it?" That he said sternly, as if putting down something +that had risen in him. "Because of you I've questioned things, felt +protest. Why, Ruth," he laughed, "if it hadn't been for you I might have +taken things in the slick little way _they_ do,"--he waved a hand off +toward the town. "So just see what I owe you!" he said, more lightly, as +if leaving the serious things behind. Then he began to speak of other +things. + +It left Ruth unsatisfied, troubled. And yet it seemed surely a woman +would be proud of a man who had been as fine in a thing, as big and true +and understanding, as Deane had been with her. Surely a woman would be +proud of a man who had so loyally, at such great cost, been a woman's +friend, who, because of friendship, because of fidelity to his own +feeling, would stand out that way against others. She tried to think +that, for she could not go back to what Deane had left behind. And yet +she could not forget that she had not met Amy. + +They walked toward home talking quietly about things that happened to +come up, more as if they were intimate friends who had constant meetings +than as if they had been years apart and were about to part for what +would probably be years more. But that consciousness was there +underneath; it ruled the silences, made their voices gentler. It was +very sweet to Ruth, just before again leaving all home things behind, to +be walking in the spring twilight with Deane along that road they knew +when they were boy and girl together. + +Twilight was deepening to evening when they came to the hill from which +they could see the town. They stood still looking off at it, speaking of +the beauty of the river, of the bridge, of the strangeness of the town +lights when there was still that faint light of day. And then they stood +still and said nothing, looking off at that town where they had been +brought up. It was beautiful from there, bent round a curve in the broad +river, built upon hills. She was leaving it now--again leaving it. She +had come home, and now she was going away again. And now she knew, in +spite of her anger of the day before, in spite of all there had been to +hurt her, in spite of all that had been denied her, that she was not +leaving it in bitterness. In one sense she had not had much from her +days back home; but in a real sense, she had had much. She looked at +that town now with a feeling of new affection. She believed she would +always have that feeling of affection for it. It stood to her for things +gone--dear things gone; for youth's gladness, for the love of father and +mother, for many happy things now left behind. But now that she had come +back, had gone through those hard days, she was curiously freed from +that town. She had this new affection for it in being freed of it. She +would always love it because of what it had meant in the past, but love +it as one does love a thing past. It seemed she had to come back to it +to let it lose its hold on her. It was of the past, and she knew now +that there was a future. What that future was to be she did not know, +but she would turn from this place of the past with a new sense of the +importance of the future. Standing there with Deane on the hilltop at +evening, looking off at that town where they had both been brought up, +she got a sense of the significance of the whole thing--the eleven years +away, and the three years preceding those years; a sense too of the +meaning of those days just past, those recent days at home when there +were times of being blinded by the newly seen significance of those +years of living. They had been hard days because things had been crowded +so close; it had come too fast; currents had met too violently and the +long way between cause and effect had been lighted by flashes too +blinding. It had been like a great storm in which elements rush +together. It had almost swept her down, but she had come through it and +this was what she had brought out of it: a sense of life as precious, as +worth anything one might have to pay for it, a stirring new sense of the +future as adventure. She had been thinking of her life as defined, and +now it seemed that the future was there, a beautiful untouched thing, a +thing that was left, hers to do what she could with. Somehow she had +broken through, broken through the things that had closed in around her. +A great new thing had happened to her: she was no longer afraid to face +things! In those last few days she had been tossed, now this way, now +that; it seemed she had rather been made a fool of, but things had got +through to her--she was awake, alive, unafraid. Something had been +liberated in her. She turned to Deane, who was looking with a somber +steadiness ahead at the town. She touched his arm and he looked at her, +amazed at her shining eyes, shining just as they used to when as a girl +she was setting out for a good time, for some mischief, excitement. + +"Well, anyway, Deane," she said in a voice that seemed to brush +everything else aside, "we're alive!" + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT + + +The summer had gone by and Ted Holland, who had gone West with Ruth in +May, was back in Freeport "breaking up the house." The place was offered +for sale; things had to be cleared out in one way or another. What none +of the children wanted was being sold to anybody who did happen to want +it; what nobody wanted was to be given away to such people as had to +take what they could get. And there was a great deal of it not even in +the class for giving away; "just truck" Ted kept callously calling it to +Harriett and their Cousin Flora. He whistled vigorously over some of the +"truck,"--a worn dog's collar, an old pair of the queer kind of house +shoes his mother wore, a spectacle case he had used to love to hear his +father snap shut, dusty, leaky sofa-pillows that had bristled with +newness in the "den" which was the delight of his sixteen-year-old +heart. He kept saying to Cousin Flora that there was no end to the +junk--old school readers, Ruth's party slippers. Just burn it all up, he +said, in a crisp voice of efficiency; what was it good for, anyhow? +Certainly it had taught him a lesson. He'd never keep anything. + +They had been at it for a week--sorting, destroying, disbursing, +scattering what a family's life through a generation had assembled, +breaking up "the Hollands." Ted, in his own room that morning, around +him the things he was going to put in his trunk for taking back West, +admitted to himself that it was gruesome business. + +Things were over; things at home were all over. This pulling to pieces +drove that home hard. Father and mother were gone and now "their stuff" +was being got out of the way. After this there would not even be a place +where the things they had used were. But he would be glad when they +could get through with it; he was finding that there was something +wrenching about things that were left, things that had been used and +that now there was no longer any use for. The sight of them stabbed as +no mere thinking about things could do. It was hard work throwing away +"truck" that something seemed to cling to. It was hard to really _get_ +it, he was thinking; a family lived in a place--seemed really a part of +that place, an important part, perhaps; then things changed--people +died, moved away, and that family simply _wasn't_ any more--and things +went on just about the same. Whistling, he put some shirts in his trunk, +trying to fix his mind on how many new shirts he needed. + +He was going back West--to live, to work. Not right where Ruth was, in +southwestern Colorado, but in the country a little to the north. He and +a fellow he had made friends with out there had bought an apple +orchard--the money he was to have from his father would go into it and +some of Ruth's money--she wanted him to invest some of hers with his. It +was that had made it possible for him to go in with this fellow. He was +glad he could do it. The West had "got" him. He believed he could make +things go. + +And he shouldn't have liked staying on in Freeport. Too many things were +different for him to want to stay there. And too many things hurt. Ruth +had come to mean too much to him to let him be happy with people who +felt as the people there did about her. + +He heard Harriett downstairs and went down to speak to her about the +price the stove man offered for the kitchen range. He remembered his +mother's delight in that range as new; somehow it made him hate selling +it for this pittance. + +Harriett thought, however, that they had better let it go. One couldn't +expect to get much for old things, and they didn't want it on their +hands. + +They stayed there awhile in the dining-room, considering the problem of +getting out of the way various other things there was no longer any use +for. Harriett was looking at the bay window. "If the Woodburys take the +house," she said, "they won't want these shades." + +"Oh, no," replied Ted, "they wouldn't be good enough for Mildred." + +The Woodburys had been there the night before to look at the house; they +thought of buying it and Mildred, just recently home from Europe with +Edith Blair--they had had a hard time getting home, because of the +war--had, according to his own way of putting it, made Ted tired. She +was so fretful with her father and her ideas of how the place could +perhaps be made presentable by being all done over had seemed to Ted +"pretty airy." He'd rather strangers had the house. He heard that +Mildred was going about a lot with Bob Gearing--one of the fellows in +town who had money. + +Ted pulled out his watch. "I want to get down and see Deane at his noon +office hours," he said. + +Harriett turned from the window. "What have you got to see him about?" +she asked sharply. + +"Why--just see him," he answered in surprise. "Why shouldn't I want to +see him? Haven't seen him since I got back. He'll want to hear about +Ruth." + +Harriett seemed about to speak, then looked at the door of the kitchen, +where a man was packing dishes. "I don't think I'd go to him for +_that_," she said in lowered voice. + +Ted looked at her in bewildered inquiry. + +"Mrs. Franklin has left him," she said shortly. She glanced at the +kitchen door, then added in a voice that dropped still lower: "And the +talk is that it's because of Ruth." + +For a minute Ted just stood staring at her. Then his face was aflame +with angry blood. "The _talk_!" he choked. "So that's the new 'talk'! +Well--" + +"S--h," warned Harriett, and stepped over and closed the kitchen door. + +"I'd like to tell some of them what I think of their 'talk,'" he blazed. +"Oh, I'd like to tell some of these _warts_--" + +"Ted!" she admonished, nodding her head toward the closed door. + +"What do I care? I'd like to have 'em hear me! I _want_ them to know +that I--" He broke off and stood looking at her. "It doesn't seem to +worry you much!" he thrust at her. + +"It did, Ted," she said patiently. "I--it did." She looked so +distressed, so worn as she said it that it mollified him until she +added: "And still, you mustn't be too hard on people. A woman who has +put herself in that position--" + +"There you go! 'Put herself' in that position! Put herself!" he jeered +angrily, "in that position! As if the position was something Ruth got +into on purpose! And after all these years!--still talking about her +'position.' Let me tell you something! I'll tell you the woman that's +'put herself' in the position I'd think would make her hate herself! +That's Mrs. Williams! _She's_ the one that's 'put herself'--" + +"Ted," she broke in sternly, "you must _not_!" + +But, "You make me _sick_!" he flung back at her and snatched hat and +coat from the hall rack and left the house with a violent bang of the +front door. + +He did not go down to Deane's office. He stalked ahead, trying to hold +down the bitter rage that was almost choking him. At one time when he +looked up he saw that he was passing the house Deane Franklin had built +before his marriage and noted that it was closed, all the shades were +clear down. Flower beds that had been laid out in the spring had been +let go. It looked all wrong to see a new place so deserted, so run down. +He remembered seeing Deane working out in that yard in the spring. He +hurried on by. His heart was hot with resentment--real hatred--of the +town through which he walked. He loathed the place! he told himself. +Picking on Ruth for _this_--ready to seize on her for anything that put +her in bad! He had been with Ruth for four months. He knew now just how +things were with her. It gave him some idea of what it was she had gone +through. It made him hate the town that had no feeling for her. + +He had walked out from town, not giving any thought to where he was +going, just walking because he had to be doing something. He was about +to cross a little bridge and stepped to the side of the road to let the +vehicle right behind him get ahead. He stood glaring down at the creek +and did not look up until he heard the wagon, just as it struck the +bridge, stop. Then he saw that it was a woman driving the market wagon +and recognized her as Mrs. Herman, who had been so good to Ruth. + +He stepped up eagerly to greet her; his face quickly cleared as he held +out his hand and he smiled at her with a sudden boyish warmth that made +her face--it was thin, tired--also light with pleasure. He kept shaking +her hand; it seemed wonderfully good of her to have come along just +then--she was something friendly in a hostile world. He went out +eagerly, gratefully, to the something friendly. He had had about all he +could stand of the other things, other feelings. He had told Ruth that +he would be sure to go and see Mrs. Herman. He got in with her now and +they talked of Ruth as they jogged through the country which he now +noticed was aflame with the red and gold of October. + +He found himself chatting along about Ruth just as if there was not this +other thing about her--the thing that made it impossible to speak of her +to almost anyone else in the town. It helped a lot to talk of Ruth that +way just then. He had seemed all clogged up with hatred and resentment, +fury at the town made him want to do something to somebody, and pity for +Ruth made him feel sick in his sense of helplessness. Now those ugly +things, those choking, blinding things fell away in his talking about +Ruth to this woman who wanted to hear about her because she cared for +her, who wanted to hear the simple little things about her that those +other people had no interest in. He found himself chatting along about +Ruth and Stuart--their house, their land, the field of peas into which +they turned their sheep, the potatoes grown on their place that summer. +He talked of artesian wells and irrigation, of riding western horses and +of camping in the mountains. Thinking of it afterwards he didn't know +when he had talked so much. And of course, as everyone was doing those +days, they talked about the war. She was fairly aflame with feeling +about it. + +He rode all the way home with Mrs. Herman, stayed for lunch and then +lingered about the place for an hour or more after that. He felt more +like himself than he had at any time since coming home; he could forget +a little about that desolate house that was no longer to be his home, +and the simple friendly interest of this woman who was Ruth's friend +helped to heal a very sore place in his heart. + +But afterwards, back there at home where it was as if he was stripping +dead years, what came over him was the feeling that things were not as +they had seemed out there with Mrs. Herman. She was like that, but in +being that way she was different from the whole world, at least from +practically the whole of the world that he knew. Working with old things +cast him back to it all. He brooded over it there in the desolate place +of things left behind; the resentful feeling toward the town, together +with that miserable, helpless feeling of passionate pity for Ruth +settled down upon him and he could not throw it off. + +He saw Deane that night; he saw him at the Club where he went to play a +game of pool, because he had to get away from the house for awhile. +Deane was sitting apart from the various groups, reading a magazine. Ted +stood in the door of that room looking at him a minute before Deane +looked up from the page. He saw that his face was thinner; it made him +look older; indeed he looked a good deal older than when, just the +spring before, Ted used to see him working around that place that was +all shut up now. And in that moment of scrutiny he saw something more +than just looking older. If you didn't know Deane you'd think--well, +you'd think you didn't want to know him. And he looked as if he didn't +care about your knowing him, either; he looked as if he'd thank people +to let him alone. Then he glanced up and saw Ted and it seemed there +were a few people he didn't want to have let him alone. + +But though he brightened on seeing him, looked like himself as he came +quickly up to shake hands, he was not like himself in the talk that +followed. It was as if he wanted to be, tried to be, but he was +constrained in asking about the West, "the folks." He seemed to want to +hear, yet he wasn't like himself, though Ted could scarcely have defined +the difference. He was short in what he said, cut things off sharply, +and in little pauses his face would quickly settle to that moroseness. +Ted told of his own plans and Deane was enthusiastic about that. Then he +fell silent a moment and after that said with intensity: "I wish _I_ was +going to pull out from here!" + +"Well, why don't you?" laughed Ted, a little diffidently. + +"Haven't got the gumption, I guess," said Deane more lightly, and as he +smiled gave Ted the impression of trying to pull himself out from +something. + +Later in the evening a couple of men were talking of someone who was +ill. "They have Franklin, don't they?" was asked, and the answer came, +"Not any more. They've switched." + +Walking home, he thought it had been said as if there was more to it, as +if there had been previous talk about other people who had "switched." +Why, surely it couldn't be that because--for some reason or other--his +wife had left him people were taking it out on his practice? That seemed +not only too unfair but too preposterous. Deane was the best doctor in +town. What had his private affairs--no matter what the state of +them--got to do with him as a physician? Surely even _that_ town +couldn't be as two-by-four as that! + +But it troubled him so persistently that next morning, when they were +alone together in the attic, he brought himself to broach it to +Harriett, asking, in the manner of one interested in a thing because of +its very absurdity, just what the talk was about Ruth and the Franklins. + +Harriett went on to give the town's gossip of how Deane had gone to +Indianapolis to see his wife, to try and make it right, but her people +were strongly of the feeling that she had been badly treated and it had +ended with her going away somewhere with her mother. Harriett sighed +heavily as she said she feared it was one of those things that would not +be made right. + +"I call it the limit!" cried Ted. "The woman must be a fool!" + +Harriett sadly shook her head. "You don't understand women, Ted," she +said. + +"And I don't want to--if _that's_ what they're like!" he retorted hotly. + +"I'm afraid Deane didn't--manage very well," sighed Harriett. + +"Who wants to manage such a little fool!" snapped Ted. + +"Now, Ted--" she began, but "You make me _tired_, Harriett!" he broke in +passionately, and no more was said of it then. + +They worked in silence for awhile, Ted raising a great deal of dust in +the way he threw things about, Harriett looking through a box of old +books and papers, sighing often. Harriett sighed a great deal, it seemed +to Ted, and yet something about Harriett made him sorry for her. From +across the attic he looked at her, awkwardly sitting on the floor, +leaning against an old trunk. She looked tired and he thought with +compassion and remorse for the rough way he had spoken to her, of how +her baby was only a little more than two months old, that it must be +hard for her to be doing the things she was doing that week. Harriett +had grown stout; she had that settled look of many women in middle life; +she looked as if she couldn't change much--in any way. Well, Ted +considered, he guessed Harriett couldn't change much; she was just fixed +in the way she was and that was all there was to it. But she did not +look happy in those things she had settled into; she looked patient. She +seemed to think things couldn't be any different. + +She was turning the pages of an old album she had taken from the box of +her mother's things she was sorting. "Oh!" she exclaimed in a low voice, +bending over the pages. Her tone brought Ted over to her. "A picture of +Ruth as a baby," she murmured. + +He knelt down and looked over her shoulder into the dusty, old-fashioned +album at a picture of a baby a year or so old whose face was all screwed +up into a delighted laugh, tiny hands raised up and clenched in the +intensity of baby excitement, baby abandonment to the joyousness of +existence. + +"She _was_ like that," murmured Harriett, a little tremulously. "She was +the _crowingest_ baby!" + +They bent over it in silence for a minute. "Seems pretty tickled about +things, doesn't she?" said Ted with a queer little laugh. Harriett +sighed heavily, but a moment later a tear had fallen down to one of the +baby hands clenched in joyousness; the tear made him forgive the sigh, +and when he saw her carefully take the picture from the album and put it +in the pocket of her big apron, it was a lot easier, somehow, to go on +working with Harriett. It was even easy, after a little, to ask her what +he wanted to know about Deane's practice. + +It was true, she feared, that the talk had hurt him some. Mrs. Lawrence +had stopped having him. It seemed she had taken a great fancy to Amy +Franklin and felt keenly for her in this. She had made other people feel +that Deane had not been fair or kind and so there was some feeling +against him. + +"I suppose she can't claim," Ted cried hotly, "that it hurts him as a +doctor?" + +"No," Harriett began uncertainly, "except that a doctor--of course the +personal side of things--" + +"Now, there you _go_, Harriett," he interrupted furiously. "You make me +_tired_! If it wasn't that you've a sneaking feeling for Ruth you'd fall +for such a thing yourself!" + +"There's no use trying to talk to you, Ted," said Harriett patiently. + +Two days later the house was about dismantled. Ted was leaving the next +day for the West. He was so sick of the whole thing that it had gone a +little easier toward the last, blunted to everything but getting things +done. When Harriett, her eyes reddened, came downstairs with a _doll_ +and wanted to know if he didn't think Ruth might like to have it, saying +that it was the doll Ruth had loved all through her little girl days, +and that she had just come upon it where her mother had carefully packed +it away, he snatched the doll from her and crammed it into the kitchen +stove and poked at it savagely to make it burn faster. Then he slammed +down the lid and looked ruthlessly up at Harriett with, "We've had about +enough of this sobbing around over _junk_!" + +Harriett wanted him to come over to her house that last night but he +said he'd either go home with one of the fellows or bring one of them +home with him. She did not press it, knowing how little her brother and +her husband liked each other. + +He went to the theatre that night with a couple of his friends. He was +glad to go, for it was as good a way as he could think of for getting +through the evening. They were a little early and he sat there watching +the people coming in; it was what would be called a representative +audience, the society of the town, the "best people" were there. They +were people Ted had known all his life; people who used to come to the +house, people his own family had been one with; friends of his mother +came in, associates of his father, old friends of Ruth. That gathering +of people represented the things in the town that he and his had been +allied with. He watched them, thinking of his own going away, of how it +would be an entirely new group of people he would come to know, would +become one with, thinking of the Hollands, how much they had been a part +of it all and how completely they were out of it now. As he saw all +these people, such pleasant, good-looking people, people he had known as +far back as he could remember, in whose homes he had had good times, +people his own people had been associated with always, a feeling of +really hating to leave the town, of its being hard to go away, crept up +in him. He talked along with the friend next him and watched people +taking their seats with a new feeling for them all; now that he was +actually leaving them he had a feeling of affection for the people with +whom he sat in the theatre that night. He had known them always; they +were "mixed up" with such a lot of old things. + +Some people came into one of the boxes during the first act and when the +lights went up for the intermission he saw that one of the women was +Stuart Williams' wife. + +He turned immediately to his friends and began a lively conversation +about the play, painfully wondering if the fellows he was with had seen +her too, if they were wondering whether he had seen her, whether he was +thinking about it. His feeling of gentle regret about leaving the town +was struck away. He was glad this was his last night. Always something +like this! It was forever coming up, making him feel uncomfortable, +different, making him wonder whether people were thinking about "it," +whether they were wondering whether he was thinking about it. + +Through the years he had grown used to seeing Mrs. Williams; he had +become blunted to it; sometimes he could see her without really being +conscious of "it," just because he was used to seeing her. But now that +he had just come home, had been with Ruth, there was an acute new shock +in seeing her. + +During the first intermission he never looked back after that first +glance; but when the house was darkened again it was not at the stage he +looked most. From his place in the dress circle across the house he +could look over at her, secured by the dim light could covertly watch +her. It was hard to keep his eyes from her. She sat well to the front of +the box; he could see every move she made, and every little thing about +her wretchedly fascinated him. She sat erect, hands loosely clasped in +her lap, seemingly absorbed in the play. Her shoulders seemed very white +above her gauzy black dress; in that light, at least, she was beautiful; +her neck was long and slim and her hair was coiled high on her head. He +saw a woman bend forward from the rear of the box and speak to her; it +brought her face into the light and he saw that it was Mrs. Blair--Edith +Lawrence, Ruth's old chum. He crumpled the program in his hand until his +friend looked at him in inquiry; then he smiled a little and carefully +smoothed the program out. But when, in the next intermission, he was +asked something about how he thought the play was going to turn out, he +was at a loss for a suggestion. He had not known what that act was +about. And he scarcely knew what the other acts were about. It was all +newly strange to him, newly sad. He had a new sense of it, and a new +sense of the pity of it, as he sat there that last night watching the +people who had been Ruth's and Stuart's friends; he thought of how they +had once been a part of all this; how, if things had gone differently it +was the thing they would still be a part of. There was something about +seeing Edith Lawrence there with Mrs. Williams made him so sorry for +Ruth that it was hard to keep himself pulled together. And that house, +this new sense of things, made him deeply sorry for Stuart Williams. He +knew that he missed all this, terribly missed the things this +represented. His constant, off-hand questionings about things--about the +growth of the town, whether so and so was making good, who was running +this or that, showed how he was missing the things he had turned away +from, of which he had once been so promising a part. Here tonight, among +the things they had left, something made him more sorry for Ruth and +Stuart than he had ever been before. And he kept thinking of the +strangeness of things; of how, if there had not been that one thing, so +many things would have been different. For their whole family, for the +Williams' family, yes, for Deane Franklin, too, it would have been all +different if Ruth had just fallen in love with some one else. Somehow +that seemed disloyalty to Ruth. He told himself she couldn't help it. He +guessed _she_ got it the worst; everything would have been different, +easier, for her, certainly, if she, like the other girls of her crowd, +had fallen in love with one of the fellows she could have married. Then +she would be there with Edith Lawrence tonight; probably they would be +in a box together. + +It was hard, even when the lights were up, to keep his eyes from that +box where Ruth's old friend sat with Mrs. Williams. He would seem to be +looking the house over, and then for a minute his eyes would rest there +and it would be an effort to let go. Once he found Mrs. Williams looking +his way; he thought she saw him and was furious at himself for the quick +reddening. He could not tell whether she was looking at him or not. She +had that cool, composed manner she always had. Always when he met her so +directly that they had to speak she would seem quite unperturbed, as if +he stirred in her no more feeling than any other slight acquaintance +would stir. She was perfectly poised; it would not seem that he, what he +must suggest, had any power to disturb her. + +Looking across at her in the house darkened for the last act, covertly +watching her as she sat there in perfect command of herself, apparently +quite without disturbing feeling, he had a rough desire to know what she +actually _did_ feel. A light from the stage surprised her face and he +saw that it showed it more tired than serene. She looked bored; and she +did not look content. Seeing her in that disclosing little shaft of +light--she had drawn back from it--the thought broke into the boy's +mind--What's _she_ getting out of it! + +He had never really considered it purely in the light of what it must be +to her. He thought of her as a hard, revengeful woman, who, because hurt +herself, was going to harm to the full measure of her power. He despised +the pride, the poise, in which she cloaked what he thought of as her +hard, mean spirit; he thought people a pretty poor sort for admiring +that pride. But now, as he saw her face when she was not expecting it to +be clearly seen, he wondered just what she was actually like, just what +she really felt. It would seem that revenge must be appeased by now; or +at least that that one form of taking it--not getting a divorce--must +have lost its satisfaction. It would not seem a very satisfying thing to +fill one's life with. And what else was there! What _was_ she getting +out of it! The question gave him a new interest in her. + +Caught in the crowd leaving the theatre he watched her again for a +moment, standing among the people who were waiting for motors and +carriages. The thin black scarf around her head blew back and Edith +Lawrence adjusted it for her. Her car came up and one of the men helped +her into it. There was a dispute; it seemed someone was meaning to go +with her and she was protesting that it was not necessary. Then they +were saying goodnight to her and she was going away alone. He watched +the car for a moment as it was halted by a carriage, then skirted it and +sharply turned the corner. + +He had intended to take one of his friends home with him, had thought it +would be too dismal alone there in the bare place that last night. But +now he did not want anyone with him, did not want to have to talk. +Though when he let himself in the front door he wished he was not alone. +It was pretty dismal to be coming into the abandoned house. He had a +flashing sense of how absolutely empty the place was--empty of the +people who had lived there, empty even of those people's things. There +was no one to call out to him. His step made a loud noise on the bare +stairs. He went back down stairs for a drink of water; he walked through +the living-room, the dining-room, the kitchen. There used to be people +there--things doing. Not any more. A bare house now--so empty that it +was _queer_. He hurried back upstairs. At the head of the stairs he +stood still and listened to the stillness from the bedrooms. Then he +shook himself angrily, stamped on to his own room, loudly banged the +door behind him and whistled as he hurriedly got ready for bed. + +He tried to go right to sleep, but could not get sleepy. He was thinking +of the house--of things that had gone on there. He thought of Ruth and +Stuart--of the difference they had made in that house. And he kept +thinking of Mrs. Williams, thinking in this new way of the difference it +must have meant to her, must have made in _her_ house. He wondered about +the house she had just gone home to, wondered if she got lonely, +wondered about the feeling there might be beneath that manner of not +seeming to mind. He wondered just what it was made her keep from getting +a divorce. And suddenly the strangest thought shot into his mind--Had +anyone ever _asked_ her to get a divorce! + +Then he laughed; he had to make himself laugh at the preposterousness of +his idea. The laugh made such a strange sound in the bare room that he +lay there very still for a moment. Then loudly he cleared his throat, as +if to show that he was not afraid of making another noise. + +But the house was so strangely still, empty in such a queer way; it was +too strange to let him go to sleep, and he lay there thinking of things +in a queer way. That preposterous idea kept coming back. Maybe nobody +ever _had_ asked her to get the divorce; maybe it had just been taken +for granted that she would be hard, would make it as hard as she could. +He tried to keep away from that thought, something made him want to keep +away from it, but he could not banish that notion that there were people +who would be as decent as it was assumed they would be. He had noticed +that with the fellows. Finally he got a little sleepy and he had a +childish wish that he were not alone, that it could all be again as it +had been long ago when they were all there together--before Ruth went +away. + +He slept heavily toward morning and was at last awakened by the +persistent ringing of the doorbell. It was a special delivery letter +from Ruth. She said she hoped it would catch him before he started West. +She wanted him to stop in Denver and see if he could get one of those +"Jap" men of all work. She said: "Maggie Gordon's mother has 'heard' and +came and took her home. I turn to the Japanese--or Chinese, if it's a +Chinaman you can get to come,--as perhaps having less fear of moral +contamination. Do the best you can, Ted; I need someone badly." + +He was to leave at five o'clock that afternoon. The people whom he saw +thought he was feeling broken up about leaving; he had to hold back all +feeling, they thought; it was that made his face so set and queer and +his manner so abrupt and grim. + +He had lunch with Harriett. She too thought the breaking up, the going +away, had been almost too much for him. She hated to have him go, and +yet, for his sake, she would be glad to have it over. + +At two o'clock he had finished the things he had to do. He had promised +to look in on a few of his friends and say good-by. But when he waited +on the corner for the car that would take him down town he knew in his +heart that he was not going to take that car. He knew, though up to the +very last he tried not to know, that he was going to walk along that +street a block and a half farther and turn in at the house Stuart +Williams had built. He knew he was not going to leave Freeport without +doing that. And when he stood there and let the car go by he faced what +he had in his heart known he was going to do ever since reading Ruth's +letter, turned and started toward Mrs. Williams', walking very fast, as +if to get there before he could turn back. He fairly ran up the steps +and pushed the bell in great haste--having to get it pushed before he +could refuse to push it. + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE + + +When he could not get away, after the maid had let him in and he had +given his name and was waiting in the formal little reception room, he +was not only more frightened than he had ever been in his life, but +frightened in a way he had never known anything about before. He sat far +forward on the stiff little French chair, fairly afraid to let his feet +press on the rug. He did not look around him; he did not believe he +would be able to move when he had to move; he knew he would not be able +to speak. He was appalled at the consciousness of what he had done, of +where he was. He would joyfully have given anything he had in the world +just to be out doors, just not to have been there at all. There was what +seemed a long wait and the only way he got through it was by telling +himself that Mrs. Williams would not see him. Of course she wouldn't see +him! + +There was a step on the stairs; he told himself that it was the maid, +coming to say Mrs. Williams could not see him. But when he knew there +was someone in the doorway he looked up and then, miraculously, he was +on his feet and standing there bowing to Mrs. Williams. + +He thought she looked startled upon actually seeing him, as if she had +not believed it was really he. There was a hesitating moment when she +stood in the doorway, a moment of looking a little as if trying to +overcome a feeling of being suddenly sick. Then she stepped forward and, +though pale, had her usual manner of complete self-possession. "You +wished to see me?" she asked in an even tone faintly tinged with polite +incredulity. + +"Yes," he said, and was so relieved at his voice sounding pretty much +all right that he drew a longer breath. + +She looked hesitatingly at a chair, then sat down; he resumed his seat +on the edge of the stiff little chair. + +She sat there waiting for him to speak; she still had that look of +polite incredulity. She sat erect, her hands loosely clasped; she +appeared perfectly poised, unperturbed, but when she made a movement for +her handkerchief he saw that her hand was shaking. + +"I know I've got my nerve to come here, Mrs. Williams," he blurted out. + +She smiled faintly, and he saw that as she did so her lip twitched. + +"I'm leaving for the West this afternoon. I'm going out there to +live--to work." That he had said quite easily. It was a little more +effort to add: "And I wanted to see you before I went." + +She simply sat there waiting, but there was still that little twitching +of her lip. + +"Mrs. Williams," he began quietly, "I don't know whether or not you know +that I've been with my sister Ruth this summer." + +When she heard that name spoken there was a barely perceptible drawing +back, as when something is flicked before one's eyes. Then her lips set +more firmly. Ted looked down and smoothed out the soft hat he was +holding, which he had clutched out of shape. Then he looked up and said, +voice low: "Ruth has come to mean a great deal to me, Mrs. Williams." + +And still she did not speak, but sat very straight and there were two +small red spots now in her pale cheeks. + +"And so," he murmured, after a moment, "that's why I came to you." + +"I think," she said in a low, incisive, but unsteady voice, "that I do +not quite follow." + +He looked at her in a very simple, earnest way. "You don't?" he asked. +There was a pause and then he said, "I saw you at the theatre last +night." + +"Indeed?" she murmured with a faint note of irony. + +But she did not deflect him from that simple earnestness. "And when I +went home I thought about you." He paused and then added, gently, "Most +all night, I thought about you." + +And still she only sat there looking at him and as if holding herself +very tight. She had tried to smile at that last and the little +disdainful smile had stiffened on her lips, making them look pulled out +of shape and set that way. + +"I said to myself," Ted went on, "'What's _she_ getting out of it?'" His +voice came up on that; he said it rather roughly. + +Her face flamed. "If _this_ is what you have come here to say--" she +began in a low angry voice. "If this is what you have intruded into my +house for--_you_--!" She made a movement as if about to rise. + +Ted threw out his hand with a little gesture of wanting to explain. +"Maybe I shouldn't have put it that way. I hope I didn't seem rude. I +only meant," he said gently, "that as I watched you you didn't look as +though you were happy." + +"And what if I'm not?" she cried, as if stung by that. "What if I'm not? +Does that give you any right to come here and tell me so?" + +He shook his head, as if troubled at again putting things badly. "I +really came," he said, in a low earnest voice, "because it seemed to me +it must be that you did not understand. It occurred to me that perhaps +no one had ever tried to make you understand. I came because it seemed +fairer--to everybody." + +Something new leaped into her eyes. "I presume it was suggested to you?" +she asked sharply. + +"No, Mrs. Williams, it was not suggested to me." As she continued to +look at him with suspicion he colored a little and said quietly: "You +will have to believe that, because I give you my word that it is true." + +She met the direct look of his clear hazel eyes and the suspicion died +out of her own. But new feeling quickly flamed up. "And hasn't it +occurred to you," she asked quiveringly, "that you are rather a--well, +to be very mild indeed, rather a presumptuous young man to come to me, +to come into my house, with _this_?" There was a big rush of feeling as +she choked: "Nobody's spoken to me like this in all these years!" + +"That's just the trouble," said Ted quickly, as if they were really +getting at it now. "That's just the trouble." + +"What do you mean?" she asked sharply. + +"Why--just that. Nobody has talked to you about it. Everybody has been +afraid to, and so you've just been let alone with it. Things get worse, +get all twisted up, get themselves into a tight twist that won't come +out when we're shut up with them." His face looked older as he said, "I +know that myself." He meditated upon that an instant; then, quickly +coming back to her, looked up and added gently: "So it seemed to me that +maybe you hadn't had a fair show just because everybody has been afraid +of you and let you alone." + +Her two trembling hands were pulling at her handkerchief. Her eyes were +very bright. "And you aren't afraid of me?" she asked with a little +laugh that seemed trying to be mocking but was right on the edge of +tears. + +He shook his head. "That is," he qualified it with a slight smile, "not +much--now." Then he said, as if dropping what they were talking about +and giving her a confidence: "While I was waiting for you I was so +scared that I wished I could drop dead." + +His smile in saying it was so boyish that she too dropped the manner of +what they were talking about and faintly smiled back at him. It seemed +to help her gain possession of herself and she returned to the other +with a crisp, "And so, as I understand it, you thought you'd just drop +in and set everything right?" + +He flushed and looked at her a little reproachfully. Then he said, +simply, "It seemed worth trying." He took a letter from his pocket. "I +got this from my sister this morning. The girl who has been working for +her has gone away. Her mother came and took her away. She had 'heard.' +They're always 'hearing.' This has happened time after time." + +"Now just let me understand it," she began in that faintly mocking way, +though her voice was shaking. "You propose that I do something to make +the--the servant problem easier for your sister. Is that it? I am to do +something, you haven't yet said what, to facilitate the domestic +arrangements of the woman who is living with my husband. That's it, +isn't it?" she asked with seeming concern. + +He reddened, but her scoffing seemed to give him courage, as if he had +something not to be scoffed at and could produce it. "It can be made to +sound ridiculous, can't it?" he concurred. "But--" he broke off and his +eyes went very serious. "You never knew Ruth very well, did you, Mrs. +Williams?" he asked quietly. + +The flush spread over her face. "We were not intimate friends," was her +dry answer, but in that voice not steady. + +He again colored, but that steady light was not driven from his eyes. +"Ruth's had a terrible time, Mrs. Williams," he said in a quiet voice of +strong feeling. "And if you had known her very well--knew just what it +is Ruth is like--it seems to me you would have to feel sorry for her." + +She seemed about to speak again in that mocking way, but looking at his +face--the fine seriousness, the tender concern--she kept silence. + +"And just what is it you propose that I do?" she asked after a moment, +as if trying to appear faintly amused. + +Very seriously he looked up at her. "It would help--even at this late +day--if you would get a divorce." + +She gasped; whether she had been prepared for it or not she was +manifestly unprepared for the simple way he said it. For a moment she +stared at him. Then she laughed. "You are a most amazing young man!" she +said quiveringly. + +As he did not speak, but only looked at her in that simple direct way, +she went on, with rising feeling, "You come here, to _me_, into my +house, proposing that--in order to make things easier for your sister in +living with my husband--I get a divorce!" + +He did not flinch. "It might do more than make things easier for my +sister," he said quietly. + +"What do you mean?" she demanded sharply. + +"It might make things easier for you." + +"And what do you mean by _that_?" she asked in that quick sharp way. + +"It might make things easier," he said, "just to feel that, even at this +late day, you've done the decent thing." + +She stood up. "Do you know, young man, that you've said things to me +that are outrageous to have said?" She was trembling so it seemed hard +to speak. "I've let you go on just because I was stupified by your +presumption--staggered, and rather amused at your childish audacity. But +you've gone a little too far! How _dare_ you talk to me like this?" she +demanded with passion. + +He had moved toward the door. He looked at her, then looked away. His +control was all broken down now. "I'm sorry to have it end like this," +he muttered. + +She laughed a little, but she was shaken with the sobs she was plainly +making a big effort to hold back. "I'm so sorry," he said with such real +feeling that the tears brimmed from her eyes. + +He stood there awkwardly. Somehow her house seemed very lonely, +comfortless. And now that her composure was broken down, the way she +looked made him very sorry for her. + +"I don't want you to think," he said gently, "that I don't see how bad +it has been for you." + +She tried to laugh. "You don't think your sister was very--fair to me, +do you?" she asked chokingly, looking at him in a way more appealing +than aggressive. + +"I suppose not," he said. "No, I suppose not." He stood there +considering that. "But I guess," he went on diffidently, "I don't just +know myself--but it seems there come times when being fair gets sort +of--lost sight of." + +The tears were running down her face and she was not trying to check +them. + +He stood there another minute and then timidly held out his hand. +"Good-by, Mrs. Williams," he said gently. + +She took his hand with a queer, choking little laugh and held it very +tight for a minute, as if to steady herself. + +His own eyes had dimmed. Then he smiled--a smile that seemed to want to +go ahead and take any offence or hurt from what he was about to say. +"Maybe, Mrs. Williams, that you will come to feel like being fairer to +Ruth than Ruth was to you." His smile widened and he looked very boyish +as he finished, "And that would be _one_ way of getting back, you know!" + + + + +CHAPTER THIRTY + + +Freeport had a revival of interest in Mrs. Stuart Williams that fall. +They talked so much of her in the first years that discussion had pretty +well spent itself, and latterly it had only been rarely--to a stranger, +or when something came up to bring it to them freshly--that they did +more than occasionally repeat the expressions which that first feeling +had created. There was no new thing to say of their feeling about her. +No one had become intimate with her in those years, and that itself +somehow kept the picture. She was unique, and fascinated them in the way +she was one of them and yet apart. The mystery enveloping her made it +mean more than it could have meant through disclosures from her. It kept +it more poignant to speculate about a concealed suffering than it could +have continued to be through discussing confidences. But even +speculation as to what was beneath that unperturbed surface had rather +talked itself out, certainly had lost its keen edge of interest with the +passing of the years. + +That fall, however, they began to speak of a change in her. They said +first that she did not look well; then they began to talk about her +manner being different. She had always kept so calm, and now there were +times when she appeared nervous. She had had throughout a certain cold +serenity. Now she was sometimes irritable, disclosing a fretfulness +close under the untroubled surface. She looked older, they said; her +brows knit and there were lines about mouth and eyes. She seemed less +sure of herself. It made interest in her a fresh thing. They wondered if +she were not at last breaking, spoke with a careful show of regret, +concern, but whetted anticipations gave eagerness to voices of sympathy. +They wondered if Ruth Holland's having come home in the Spring, the +feeling of her being in the town, could have been too much of a strain, +preying upon the deserted wife and causing her later to break. There +were greedy wonderings as to whether she could possibly have seen Ruth +Holland, whether anything had happened that they did not know about. + +Late one December afternoon Mrs. Williams came home from a church bazaar +and curtly telephoned that she would not be back for the evening. She +spoke of a headache. And her head did ache. It ached, she bitterly +reflected, from being looked at, from knowing they were taking +observations for subsequent speculation. She had been in charge of a +table at the bazaar; a number of little things had gone wrong and she +got out of patience with one of her assistants. Other people got +irritated upon occasions of that sort--and that was all there was to it. +But she was not at liberty to show annoyance. She knew at the time that +they were whispering around about it, connecting it with the thing about +her that it seemed never really went out of their minds. The sense of +that had made her really angry and she had said sharp things she knew +she would be sorry for because they would just be turned over as part of +the thing that was everlastingly being turned over. She was not free; +they were always watching her; even after all these years always +thinking that everything had something to do with _that_. + +Mrs. Hughes, her housekeeper and cook, had followed her upstairs. At the +door of her room she turned impatiently. She had known by the way the +woman hung around downstairs that she wanted to say something to her and +she had petulantly not given her the chance. She did not want anything +said to her. She wanted to be let alone. + +"Well?" she inquired ungraciously. + +Mrs. Hughes was a small trim woman who had a look of modestly trying not +to be obtrusive about her many virtues. She had now that manner of one +who could be depended upon to assume responsibilities a less worthy +person would pass by. + +"I thought perhaps you should know, Mrs. Williams," she said with +faintly rebuking patience, "that Lily has gone to bed." + +"Oh, she's really sick then, is she?" asked Mrs. Williams, unbending a +little. + +"She says so," replied Mrs. Hughes. + +The tone caused her to look at the woman in surprise. "Well, I presume +she is then," she answered sharply. + +Lily was the second girl. Two servants were not needed for the actual +work as the household consisted only of Mrs. Williams and an aged aunt +who had lived with her since she had been alone, but the house itself +did not seem adapted to a one servant menage. There had been two before, +and in that, as in other things, she had gone right on in the same way. +Mrs. Hughes had been with her for several years but Lily had been there +only three or four months. She had been a strange addition to the +household; she laughed a good deal and tripped about at her work and +sang. But she had not sung so much of late and in the last few days had +plainly not been well. + +"If she's really sick, we'll have to have a doctor for her," Mrs. +Williams said, her hand on the knob she was about to turn. + +"She says she doesn't want a doctor," answered Mrs. Hughes, and again +her tone made Mrs. Williams look at her in impatient inquiry. + +"Well, I'll go up after while and see her myself," she said, opening the +door of her room. "Meanwhile you look after her, please. And oh, Mrs. +Hughes," she called back, "I shan't want any dinner. I had a heavy tea +at the bazaar," she added hurriedly, and as if resentful of having to +make any explanation. + +Alone, she took off her hat, pushed back her hair as if it oppressed +her, then sank into a low, luxurious chair and, eyes closed, pressed her +fingers over her temples as if to command quiet within. But after a +moment she impatiently got up and went over to her dressing-table and +sat looking into the mirror. + +The thing that had started her afternoon wrong was that a friend of her +girlhood, whom she had not seen for about thirteen years, had appeared +unexpectedly at her table, startling her and then laughing at her +confusion. She had not known that Stella Cutting was in town; to be +confronted that way with some one out of the past had been unnerving, +and then she had been furious with herself for not being able more +easily to regain composure. People around her had seen; later she saw +them looking at her strangely, covertly interested when she spoke in +that sharp way to Mildred Woodbury because she had tossed things about. +She had been disturbed, for one thing, at finding Mildred Woodbury at +her table. + +She was looking in the glass now because Stella Cutting had been one of +her bridesmaids. She was not able to put down a miserable desire to try +to see just what changes Stella had found. + +The dissatisfaction in her face deepened with her scrutiny of it. +Doubtless Stella was that very minute talking of how pitifully Marion +Averley had changed; how her color used to be clear and even, features +firmly molded, eyes bright. She herself remembered how she had looked +the night Stella Cutting was her bridesmaid. And now her color was muddy +and there were crow's feet about her eyes and deep lines from her +nostrils to the corners of her mouth. + +Stella Cutting looked older herself, very considerably older. But it was +a different way of looking older. She had grown stout and her face was +too full. But she did not look _pulled_ at like this. As she talked of +her children hers was the face of a woman normally, contentedly growing +older. The woman sitting before the mirror bitterly turned away now from +that reflection of dissatisfaction with emptiness. + +It was that boy had done it! she thought with a new rise of resentment. +She had been able to go along very evenly until he impertinently came +into her house and rudely and stupidly broke through the things she had +carefully builded up around herself. Ever since he had plunged into +things even she herself had been careful not to break into, there had +been this inner turmoil that was giving her the look of an old woman. If +Stella Cutting had come just a few months earlier she could not have had +so much to say about how terribly Marion Averley had changed. + +Why was she so absurd as to let herself be upset? she angrily asked of +herself, beginning to unfasten the dress she was wearing that she might +get into something loose and try to relax. A hook caught in some lace +and in her vexation at not being able at once to unfasten it she gave it +a jerk that tore the lace. She bit her lips and could have cried. Those +were the things she did these days!--since that boy came and +blunderingly broke into guarded places. + +She sat in a low, deep chair before the open fire that burned in the +sitting-room adjoining her bedroom. It was the room that had been her +husband's. After he went away she took it for an upstairs +sitting-room--a part of her program of unconcern. As she sank down into +the gracious chair she told herself that she would rest for that +evening, not think about things. But not to think about things was +impossible that night. Stella Cutting had brought old things near and +made them newly real: her girlhood, her falling in love with Stuart +Williams, her wedding. Those reminiscences caught her and swept her on +to other things. She thought of her marriage; thought of things that, +ever since that boy came and made her know how insecure she really was +in the defences she had put up for herself, it had been a struggle to +keep away from. + +She had not done much thinking--probing--as to why it was her marriage +had failed. That was another one of the things her pride shut her out +from. When it failed she turned from it, clothed in pride, never naked +before the truth. There was something relaxing in just letting down the +barriers, barriers which had recently been so shaken that she was +fretted with trying to hold them up. + +She wondered why Stella Cutting's marriage had succeeded and hers had +failed. The old answer that her marriage had failed because her husband +was unfaithful to her--answer that used always to leave her newly +fortified, did not satisfy tonight. She pushed on through that. There +was a curious emotional satisfaction in thus disobeying herself by +rushing into the denied places of self-examination. She was stirred by +what she was doing. + +Her long holding back from this very thing was part of that same +instinct for restraint, what she had been pleased to think of as +fastidiousness, that had always held her back in love. It was alien to +her to let herself go; she had an instinct that held her away from +certain things--from the things themselves and from free thinking about +them. What she was doing now charged her with excitement. + +She was wondering about herself and the man who was still legally her +husband. She was thinking of how different they were in the things of +love; how he gave and wanted giving, while her instinct had always been +to hold herself a little apart. There was something that displeased her +in abandonment to feeling. She did not like herself when she fully gave. +There had been something in her, some holding back, that passionate love +outraged. Intense demonstration was indelicate to her; she was that way, +she had not been able to help it. She loved in what she thought of as +her own fastidious way. Passion violated something in her. Falling in +love had made her happy, but with her love had never been able to sweep +down the reserves, and so things which love should have made beautiful +had remained for her ugly facts of life that she had an instinct to hold +herself away from. What she felt she did not like herself for feeling. +And so their marriage had been less union than man[oe]uvering. + +She supposed she had, to be very blunt, starved Stuart's love. For he +wanted much love, a full and intense love life. He was passionate and +demonstrative. He gave and wanted, perhaps needed, much giving. He did +not understand that constant holding back. For him the beauty of love +was in the expression of it. She supposed, in this curious +self-indulgence of facing things tonight, that it had been he who was +normal; she had memories of many times when she had puzzled and +disappointed and hurt him. + +And so when Gertrude Freemont--an old school friend of hers, a +warm-natured Southern girl--came to visit her, Stuart turned away from +things grudging and often chill to Gertrude's playfulness and sunniness +and warmth. There was a curious shock to her tonight when she found +herself actually thinking that perhaps it was not much to be wondered +at. He was like that. She had not made him over to be like her. + +At first he had found Gertrude enlivening, and from a flirtation it went +to one of those passages of passion between a man and a woman, a thing +that flames up and then dies away, in a measure a matter of +circumstance. That was the way he tried to explain it to her when, just +as Gertrude was leaving, she came to know--even in this present +abandonment to thinking she went hurriedly past the shock of that +terrible sordid night of "finding out." Stuart had weakly and +appealingly said that he hadn't been able to help it, that he was +sorry--that it was all over. + +But with it their marriage was all over. She told him so then--told him +quite calmly, it would seem serenely; went on telling him so through +those first days of his unhappiness and persistence. She was always +quite unperturbed in telling him so. Politely, almost pleasantly, she +would tell him that she would never be his wife again. + +She never was. She had known very certainly from the first that she +never would be. Tonight she probed into that too--why she had been so +sure, why she had never wavered. It was a more inner thing than just +jealousy, resentment, hurt, revenge--though all those things were there +too. But those were things that might have broken down, and this was not +a thing that would break down. It was more particularly temperamental +than any of those things. It was that thing in her which had always held +her back from giving. She _had_ given--and then her giving had been +outraged! Even now she burned in the thought of that. He had called out +a thing in her that she had all along--just because she was as she +was--resented having had called out. And then he had flouted it. Even +after all those years there was tonight that old prickling of her scalp +in thinking of it. The things she might have said--of its being her own +friend, in her own house--she did not much dwell upon, even to herself. +It was a more inner injury than that. Something in her that was +curiously against her had been called to life by him--and then he had +outraged what she had all along resented his finding in her. To give at +all had been so tremendous a thing--then to have it lightly held! It +outraged something that was simply outside the sphere of things +forgivable. + +And that outraged thing had its own satisfaction. What he had called to +life in her and then, as it seemed, left there unwanted, what he had +made in her that was not herself--then left her with, became something +else, something that made her life. From the first until now--or at any +rate until two months ago when that boy came and forced her to look at +herself--the thing in her that had been outraged became something that +took the place of love, that was as the other pole of love, something +that yielded a satisfaction of its own, a satisfaction intense as the +things of love are intense, but cold, ordered, certain. It was the power +to hurt; the power to bring pain by simply doing nothing. It was not +tempestuously done; it had none of the uncertainty of passionate +feeling; it had the satisfaction of power without effort, of disturbing +and remaining undisturbed, of hurting and giving no sign. It was the +revenge of what was deeply herself for calling her out from herself, for +not wanting what was found in her that was not herself. + +Stuart wanted her again; terribly wanted her, more than ever wanted her. +He loved and so could be hurt. He needed love and so could be given +pain. He thought she would give in; she knew that she would not. There +was power in that knowledge. And so she watched him suffer and herself +gained new poise. She did not consider how it was a sorry thing to fill +her life with. When, that night that was like being struck by lightning, +she came to know that the man to whom she had given--_she_--had turned +from her to another woman it was as if she was then and there sealed in. +She would never let herself leave again. Outraged pride blocked every +path out from self. She was shut in with her power to inflict pain. That +was all she had. And then that boy came and made her look at herself and +know that she was poor! That was why Stella Cutting could be talking of +how Marion Averley had "broken." + +They were talking about it, of course; about her and Ruth Holland and +her husband. _Her_ husband, she thought insistently, but without getting +the accustomed satisfaction from the thought. Miserably she wondered +just what they were saying; she flinched in the thought of their talk +about her hurt, her loneliness. And then she felt a little as if she +could cry. She had wondered if she had anybody's real pity. + +That thought of their talking of it opened it to her, drew her to it. +She thought of Ruth Holland, gave up the worn pretense of disinterest +and let herself go in thinking of her. + +The first feeling she had had when she suspected that her husband was +drawn to that girl, Ruth Holland, was one of chagrin, a further hurt to +pride. For her power to give pain would be cut off. Once she saw the +girl's face light as Stuart went up to her for a dance. She knew then +that the man who had that girl's love could not be hurt in the way she +had been hurting. At first she was not so much jealous as strangely +desolated. And then as time went on and in those little ways that can +make things known to those made acute through unhappiness she came to +know that her husband cared for this girl and had her love, anger at +having been again stripped, again left there outraged, made her seize +upon the only power left, that more sordid, more commonplace kind of +power. She could no longer hurt by withholding herself; she could only +hurt by standing in the way. Rage at the humiliation of being reduced to +that fastened her to it with a hold not to be let go. All else was taken +from her and she was left with just that. Somehow she reduced herself to +it; she became of the quality of it. + +Pride, or rather self-valuation, incapacity for self-depreciation, had +never let her be honest with herself. As there were barriers shutting +the world out from her hurt and humiliation, so too were there barriers +shutting herself out. She did not acknowledge pain, loneliness, for that +meant admission that she could not have what she would have. She thought +of it as withdrawal, dignified withdrawal from one not fit. She had +always tried to feel that her only humiliation was in having given to +one not worth her--one lesser. + +But in this reckless and curiously exciting mood of honesty tonight she +got some idea of how great the real hurt had been. She knew now that +when she came to know--to feel in a way that was knowing--that her +husband loved Ruth Holland she suffered something much more than hurt to +pride. It was pride that would not let her look at herself and see how +she was hurt. And pride would not let her say one word, make one effort. +It was simply not in her to bring herself to _try_ to have love given +her. And so she was left with the sordid satisfaction of the hurt she +dealt in just being. That became her reason for existence--the ugly +reason for her barren existence. She lived alone with it for so long +that she came to be of it. Her spirit seemed empty of all else. It had +kept her from everything; it had kept her from herself. + +But now tonight she could strangely get to herself, and now she knew +that far from Ruth Holland not mattering her whole being had from the +first been steeped in hatred of her. Her jealousy had been of a freezing +quality; it had even frozen her power to know about herself. When, after +one little thing and then another had let her know there was love +between her husband and this girl, to go to places where Ruth Holland +was would make her numb--that was the way it was with her. Once in going +somewhere--a part of that hideous doing things together which she kept +up because it was one way of showing she was there, would continue to be +there--she and Stuart drove past the Hollands', and this girl was out in +the yard, romping with her dog, tusseling with him like a little girl. +She looked up, flushed, tumbled, panting, saw them, tried to straighten +her hair, laughed in confusion and retreated. Stuart had raised his hat +to her, trying to look nothing more than discreetly amused. But a little +later after she--his wife--had been looking from the other window as if +not at all concerned she turned her head and saw his face in the mirror +on the opposite side of the carriage. He had forgotten her; she was +taking him unawares. Up to that time she had not been sure--at least not +sure of its meaning much. But when she saw that tender little smile +playing about his mouth she knew it was true that her power to hurt him +had reduced itself to being in his way. That she should be reduced to +that made her feeling about it as ugly as the thing itself. + +She did not sleep that night--after seeing Ruth Holland romping with her +dog. She had cried--and was furious that she should cry, that it could +make her cry. And furious at herself because of the feeling she had--a +strange stir of passion, a wave of that feeling which had seemed to her +unlovely even when it was desired and that it was unbearably humiliating +to feel unwanted. It was in this girl he wanted those things now; that +girl who could let herself go, whom life rioted in, who doubtless could +abandon herself to love as she could in romping with her dog. It +tortured her to think of the girl's flushed, glowing face--panting +there, hair tumbled. She cringed in the thought of how perhaps what she +had given was measured by what this girl could give. + +As time went on she knew that her husband was more happy than he had +ever been before--and increasingly unhappy. Her torture in the thought +of his happiness made her wrest the last drop of satisfaction she could +from the knowledge that she could continue the unhappiness. Sometimes he +would come home and she would know he had been with this girl, know it +as if he had shouted it at her--it fairly breathed from him. To feel +that happiness near would have maddened her had she not been able to +feel that her very being there dealt unhappiness. It was a wretched +thing to live with. Beauty had not come into her life; it would not come +where that was. + +And then she came to know that they were being cornered. +She--knowing--saw misery as well as love in the girl's eyes--a hunted +look. Her husband grew terribly nervous, irritable, like one trapped. It +was hurting his business; it was breaking down his health. Not until +afterward did she know that there was also a disease breaking down his +health. She did not know what difference it might have made had she +known that. By that time she had sunk pretty deep into lust for hurting, +into hating. + +She saw that this love was going to wreck his life. His happiness was +going to break him. If the world came to know it would be known that her +husband did not want her, that he wanted someone else. She smarted under +that--and so fortified herself the stronger in an appearance of +unconcern. She could better bear exposure of his uncaringness for her +than let him suspect that he could hurt her. And they would be hurt! If +it became known it would wreck life for them both. The town would know +then about Ruth Holland--that wanton who looked so spiritual! They would +know then what the girl they had made so much of really was! She would +not any longer have to listen to that talk of Ruth Holland as so sweet, +so fine! + +And so she waited; sure that it would come, would come without her +having given any sign, without her having been moved from her refuge of +unconcern--she who had given and not been wanted! That week before Edith +Lawrence's wedding she knew that it was coming, that something was +happening. Stuart looked like a creature driven into a corner. And he +looked sick; he seemed to have lost hold on himself. Once as she was +passing the door of his room it blew a little open and she saw him +sitting on the bed, face buried in his hands. After she passed the door +she halted--but went on. She heard him moving around in the night; once +she heard him groan. Instinctively she had sat up in bed, but had lain +down again--remembering, remembering that he was groaning because he did +not want her, because she was in the way of the woman he wanted. + +She saw in those days, that week before Edith Lawrence's wedding, that +he was trying to say something to her and could not, that he was +wretched in his fruitless attempts to say it. He would come where she +was, sit there white, miserable, dogged, then go away after having said +only some trivial thing. Once--she was always quite cool, unperturbed, +through those attempts of his--he had passionately cried out, "You're +pretty superior, aren't you, Marion? Pretty damned serene!" It was a cry +of desperation, a cry from unbearable pain, but she gave no sign. Like +steel round her heart was that feeling that he was paying now. + +After that outburst he did not try to talk to her; that was the last +night he was at home. He came home at noon next day and said he was +going away on a business trip. She heard him packing in his room. She +knew--felt sure--that it was something more than a business trip. She +felt sure that he was leaving. And then she wanted to go to him and say +something, whether reproaches or entreaties she did not know; listened +to him moving around in there, wanted to go and say something and could +not; could only sit there listening, hearing every smallest sound. She +heard him speak a surly word to a servant in the hall. He never spoke +that way to the servants. When he shut the front door she knew that he +would not open it again. She got to the window and saw him before he +passed from sight--carrying his bag, head bent, stooped. He was broken, +and he was going away. She knew it. + +Even tonight she could not let herself think much about that afternoon, +the portentous emptiness, the strangeness of the house; going into his +room to see what he had taken, in there being tied up as with panic, +sinking down on his bed and unable to move for a long time. + +She had forced herself to go to Edith Lawrence's wedding. And she knew +by Ruth Holland's face that it was true something was happening, knew it +by the girl's face as she walked down the aisle after attending her +friend at the altar, knew it by her much laughter, by what was not in +the laughter. Once during the evening she saw Edith put her arm around +Ruth Holland and at the girl's face then she knew with certainty, did +not need the letter that came from Stuart next day. She had the picture +of Ruth Holland now as she was that last night, in that filmy dress of +pale yellow that made her look so delicate. She was helped through that +evening by the thought that if she was going to be publicly humiliated +Ruth Holland would be publicly disgraced. She would have heard the last +about that fine, delicate quality--about sweetness and luminousness! +They would know, finally, that she was not those things she looked. + +And after it happened the fact that they did know it helped her to go +on. She went right on, almost as if nothing had happened. She would not +let herself go away because then they would say she went away because +she could not bear it, because she did not want them to see. She must +stay and show them that there was nothing to see. Forcing herself to do +that so occupied her as to help her with things within. She could not +let herself feel for feeling would show on the surface. Even before +herself she had kept up that manner of unconcern and had come to be +influenced by her own front. + +And so the years went by and her life had been made by that going on in +apparent unconcern, and by that inner feeling that she was hurting them +by just being in life. It was not a lovely reason for being in life; she +had not known what a poor thing it was until that boy came and forced +her to look at herself and consider how little she had. + +She rose and stood looking into the mirror above the fireplace. It +seemed to her that she could tell by her face that the desire to do harm +had been her reason for living. + +Several hours had gone by while she sat there given over to old things. +She wished she had a book, something absorbing, something to take her +away from that other thinking that was lying in wait for her--those +thoughts about what there was for her to live with in the years still to +be lived. The magazine she had picked up could not get any hold on her; +that was why, though she had made it clear she did not want to be +disturbed, there was relief in her voice as she answered the tap at her +door. + +She frowned a little though at sight of Mrs. Hughes standing there +deferential but visibly excited. She had that look of trying not to +intrude her worthiness as she said: "Excuse me, Mrs. Williams, for +disturbing you, but there is something I thought you ought to know." In +answer to the not very cordial look of inquiry she went on, "It's about +Lily; she says she won't have a doctor, but--she needs one." + +There was something in her manner, something excited and yet grim, that +Mrs. Williams did not understand. But then she did not much trouble +herself to understand Mrs. Hughes, she was always appearing to see some +hidden significance in things. "I'll go up and see her," she said. + +After the visit she came down to telephone for her doctor. She saw that +the girl was really ill, and she had concluded from her strange manner +that she was feverish. Lily protested that she wanted to be let alone, +that she would be all right in a day or two; but she looked too ill for +those protestations to be respected. + +She telephoned for her own doctor only to learn that he was out of town. +Upon calling another physician's house she was told that he had the grip +and could not go out. She then sat for some minutes in front of the +'phone before she looked up a number in the book and called Dr. Deane +Franklin. When she rose after doing that she felt as if her knees were +likely to give way. The thought of his coming into her house, coming +just when she had been living through old things, was unnerving. But she +was really worried about the girl and knew no one else to call whom she +could trust. + +When he came she was grateful to him for his professional manner which +seemed to take no account of personal things, to have no personal +memory. "I'd like to see you when you come down, doctor," she said as +Mrs. Hughes was taking him to the maid's room on the third floor. + +She was waiting for him at the door of her upstairs sitting-room. He +stepped in and then stood hesitatingly there. He too had a queer grim +look, she thought. + +"And what is the trouble?" she asked. + +He gave her a strange sideways glance and snapped shut a pocket of the +bag he carried. Then he said, brusquely: "It's a miscarriage." + +She felt the blood surging into her face. She had stepped a little back +from him. "Why--I don't see how that's possible," she faltered. + +He smiled a little and she had a feeling that he took a satisfaction in +saying to her, grimly, "Oh, it's possible, all right." + +She colored anew. She resented his manner and that made her collect +herself and ask with dignity what was the best thing to do. + +"I presume we'd better take her to the hospital," he said in that short +way. "She's been--horribly treated. She's going to need attention--and +doubtless it would be disagreeable to have her here." + +That too she suspected him of finding a satisfaction in saying. She made +a curt inquiry as to whether the girl would be all right there for the +night. He said yes and left saying he would be back in the morning. + +She escaped Mrs. Hughes--whom now she understood. She did not go up +again to see Lily; she could not do that then. She was angry with +herself for being unnerved. She told herself that at any other time she +would have been able to deal sensibly with such a situation. But coming +just when things were all opened up like that--old feeling fresh--and +coming from Deane Franklin! She would be quite impersonal, rational, in +the morning. But for a long time she could not go to sleep. Something +had intruded into her guarded places. And the things of life from which +she had withdrawn were here--in her house. It affected her physically, +almost made her sick--this proximity of the things she had shut out of +her life. It was invasion. + +And she thought about Lily. She tried not to, but could not help +wondering about her. She wondered how this had happened--what the girl +was feeling. Was there someone she loved? She lay there thinking of how, +just recently, this girl who lived in her house had been going through +those things. It made her know that the things of life were all the time +around one. There was something singularly disturbing in the thought. + +Next morning she went up to see Lily. She told herself it was only +common decency to do that, her responsibility to a person in her house. + +As she opened the door Lily turned her head and looked at her. When she +saw who it was her eyes went sullen, defiant. But pain was in them too, +and with all the rest something wistful. As she looked at the girl lying +there--in trouble, in pain, she could see Lily, just a little while +before, laughing and singing at her work. Something she had not felt in +years, that she had felt but little in her whole life, stirred in her +heart. + +"Well, Lily," she said, uncertainly but not unkindly. + +The girl's eyes were down, her face turned a little away. But she could +see that her chin was quivering. + +"I'm sorry you are ill," Mrs. Williams murmured, and then gave a little +start at the sound of her own voice. + +The girl turned her head and stole a look. A moment later there were +tears on her lashes. + +"We'll have to get you well," said Mrs. Williams in a practical, +cheerful voice. And then she abruptly left the room. Her heart was +beating too fast. + +Mrs. Hughes lay in wait for her as she came downstairs. "May I speak to +you, Mrs. Williams?" she asked in a manner at once deferential and firm. + +"She's to be taken away, isn't she?" she inquired in a hard voice. + +For a moment Mrs. Williams did not speak. She looked at the woman before +her, all tightened up with outraged virtue. And then she heard herself +saying: "No, I think it will be better for Lily to remain at home." +After she had heard herself say it she had that feeling that her knees +were about to give way. + +For an instant Mrs. Hughes' lips shut tight. Then, "Do you know what's +the matter with her?" she demanded in that sharp, hard voice. + +"Yes," replied Mrs. Williams, "I know." + +"And you're going to keep such a person in your house?" + +"Yes." + +"Then you can't expect _me_ to stay in your house!" flashed the woman +who was outraged. + +"As you like, Mrs. Hughes," was the answer. + +Mrs. Hughes moved a little away, plainly discomfited. + +"I should be sorry to have you go," Mrs. Williams continued courteously, +"but of course that is for you to decide." + +"I'm a respectable woman," she muttered. "You can't expect _me_ to wait +on a person like that!" + +"You needn't wait on her, then," was the reply. "Until the nurse comes, +I will wait on her myself." And again she turned abruptly away. + +Once more her heart was beating too fast. + +When the doctor came and began about the arrangement he had been able to +make at the hospital, she quietly told him that, if it would be as well, +she would rather keep Lily at home. His startled look made her flush. +His manner with her was less brusque as he said good-by. She smiled a +little over that last puzzled glance he stole at her. + +Then she went back to Lily's room. She straightened her bed for her, +telling her that in a little while the nurse would be there to make her +really comfortable. She bathed the girl's hot face and hands. She got +her a cold drink. As she put her hand behind her head to raise her a +little for that, the girl murmured brokenly: "You're so kind!" + +She went out and sat in an adjoining room, to be within call. And as she +sat there a feeling of strange peace stole through her. It was as if she +had been set free, as if something that had chained her for years had +fallen away. When in her talk with Mrs. Hughes she became that other +woman, the woman on the other side, on compassion's side, something just +fell from her. When that poor girl murmured, "You're so kind!" she +suddenly knew that she must have something more from life than that +satisfaction of harming those who had hurt her. When she washed the +girl's face she knew what she could not unknow. She had served. She +could not find the old satisfaction in working harm. The soft, warm +thing that filled her heart with that cry, "You're so kind!" had killed +forever the old cruel satisfaction in being in the way. + +She felt very quiet in this wonderful new liberation. She began shaping +life as something more than a standing in the way of others. It made +life seem a different thing just to think of it as something other than +that. And suddenly she knew that she did not hate Ruth Holland any more; +that she did not even hate the man who had been her husband. Hating had +worn itself out; it fell from her, a thing outlived. It was wonderful to +have it gone. For a long time she sat there very quiet in the wonder of +that peace of knowing that she was free--freed of the long hideous +servitude of hating, freed of wanting to harm. It made life new and +sweet. She wanted something from life. She must have more of that gentle +sweetness that warmed her heart when Lily murmured, "You're so kind!" + + + + +CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE + + +Ruth Holland stood at the window looking out at Colorado in January. The +wide valley was buried under snow. It was late afternoon and the sun was +passing behind the western mountains. From the window where she stood +she could not see the western mountains, but the sunset colors had been +thrown over to the eastern range, some fifty miles away. When she first +came there, five years before, it had seemed strange to find the east +lighted at sunset, more luminous than the west. The eastern range was a +mighty one. Now there was snow down to its feet and there was no warmth +in the colors that lighted it. They only seemed to reveal that the +mountains were frozen. It would not have seemed possible for red--those +mountains had been named Sangre de Cristo because they went red at +sunset--to be so dazzling cold. The lighted snow brought out the contour +of the mountains. They were wonderfully beautiful so, but the woman +looking out at them was not thinking of them as beautiful. She was +thinking of them as monuments of coldness. To her it was as if they had +locked that valley in to merciless cold. + +But it was not the sunset colors that really marked coming night for +her. All through that winter something else had marked night, something +she tried to keep from looking out at, but which she was not able to +hold away from. She was looking at it now, looking off into the +adjoining field where the sheep were huddling for the night. + +They had begun their huddling some time before. With the first dimming +of the light, the first wave of new cold that meant coming night, a few +of them would get together; others would gather around them, then more +and more. Now there was the struggle not to be left on the outside. The +outer ones were pushing toward the center; they knew by other nights +that this night would be frigid, that they could only keep alive by that +warmth they could get from one another. Yet there were always some that +must make that outer rim of the big circle, must be left there to the +unbroken cold. She watched them; it had become a terrible thing for her +to see, but she could not keep from looking. Many of those unprotected +sheep had died that bitter winter; others would die before spring came. +It was a cruel country, a country of cold. + +That was their flock of sheep. They had been driven there the summer +before from the lambing grounds in the mountains. The day they got there +the lambs were exhausted from the long journey. One of them had dropped +before the house and died right there beside the field it had come the +long way to gain. Her efforts to revive it were useless; the little +thing was worn out. They were all of them close to worn out. And now +they had the winter to fight; night after night she watched them +huddling there, the big pitiful mass of them out in the bitter cold. It +was the way of the country to leave them so; the only way, the sheep men +said, that sheep could be made to pay. They estimated that the loss by +freezing was small compared with what would be the cost of shelter for +droves that ran into thousands, into tens of thousands. + +Ruth would wake at night and think of them huddled out there, would lie +thinking of them as she drew the covers around herself, think of them +when the wind drove against the house, and often, as tonight, when it +was every instant growing colder, she wondered if what was before them +filled them with terror. Sometimes she could not keep away and went +nearer and looked at them; they were unbearably pitiful to her, their +necks wrapped around each other's necks, trying to get from one another +the only warmth there was for them, so helpless, so patient, they, +play-loving creatures, gentle things, bearing these lives that men might +finally use them for clothing and for food. There were times when the +pathos of them was a thing she could not bear. They seemed to represent +the whole cruelty of life, made real to her the terrible suffering of +the world that winter of the war. + +She watched the sheep until the quick dusk had fallen, and then stood +thinking of them huddled over there in the frigid darkness. When she +found that her face was wet and realized that she had sobbed aloud she +turned from the window to the stove, drew a chair up close to it and put +her feet on the fender. It was so bitterly cold that the room was warm +only near the stove; over there by the window she had grown chilled. And +as the heat enveloped her ankles she thought of the legs of those poor +frightened things that had been the last comers and not able to get to +the inside of the circle--that living outer rim which was left all +exposed to the frigid January night in that high mountain valley. She +could feel the cold cutting against their legs, could see their +trembling and their vain, frantic efforts to get within the solidly +packed mass. She was crying, and she said to herself, her fingers +clenched down into her palm, "_Stop that! Stop that!_" She did not know +what might not happen to her if she were unable to stop such thinking as +that. + +To try and force herself away from it she got up and lighted a lamp. She +looked about on her desk for a magazine she had put there. She would +make herself read something while waiting for Stuart. He had had to +drive into town. He would be almost frozen when he got back from that +two-mile drive. She paused in her search for the magazine and went into +the kitchen to make sure that the fire there was going well. Then she +put some potatoes in to bake; baked potatoes were hot things--they would +be good after that drive. The heat from the oven poured out to her, and +it swept her again to the thought of the living huddled mass out there +in the frigid darkness. The wind beat against the house; it was beating +against them. She bit her lip hard and again she said to +herself--"_No!_" + +She made some other preparations for supper. She had those things to do +herself now. The Chinaman Ted had brought home with him in the fall had +left in December. He had appeared before her ready for leaving and had +calmly said, "Cold here, missis. And too all alone. Me go where more +others are." She had said nothing at all in reply to him, in protest, +too held by what he had said--"Cold here, and too all alone!" She had +stood at the window and watched him going up the road toward town, going +where "more others" were. + +She went back now into their main room; it was both living and dining +room these days, for since the extreme cold had fastened on them they +had abandoned their two little upstairs bedrooms and taken for sleeping +the room which in summer was used as living-room. That could be heated a +little by leaving the door open, and it had seemed out of the question +to go to bed in those upstairs rooms where the cold had been left +untouched. Since they had been doing their own work all extra things had +had to be cut down; an upstairs fire would mean more work, and it seemed +there was already more work than Ruth could get done and have time for +anything else. She was tired all the time these days; she would think +during the day of the good time she was going to have with a book that +evening, and then night would find her so tired she could scarcely keep +awake, and she would huddle there before the fire, dreading the cold of +the night. + +Life had reduced itself to necessities; things had to be ruthlessly +rearranged for meeting conditions. She loved her own room to sleep in. +She needed it. But she had given that up because it was too cold, +because she could not do any more work. There was something that made +her cringe in the thought of their sharing a bed, not because of love of +being together, but because of the necessity of fighting the cold. And +it made crowded quarters downstairs. She began "picking up" the room +now. Things were piled up on the sewing machine, on the reading table. +It seemed impossible to keep them put away. She tried hard to keep the +room an attractive place to sit in, but it was in disorder, uninviting, +most of the time. Often, after doing the kitchen work, she would clean +it all up with the idea of making it attractive to sit in, then would be +too utterly tired to enjoy it. She lagged in putting things away now; +she would stand holding them helplessly, not knowing where to put them; +she got sick of it and just threw some of them into a closet, anything +to get them out of sight for the time. She knew that was not the way to +do, that it would make it harder another time. She felt like crying. It +seemed things had got ahead of her, that she was swamped by them, and +somehow she did not have the spirit, or the strength, to get a new +start, make a new plan. + +Finally she had the room looking a little less slovenly, not so sordid, +and was about to sit down with her magazine. But the lamp was +flickering, and then she remembered that she had not filled it that day. +She picked the lamp up and slowly, drooping, started for the kitchen. +She gave the can an angry little tilt and the oil overflowed on the +table. She was biting her lips as she went about looking for a cloth to +wipe it up. She heard sleigh bells and knew Stuart was coming. Hastily +she washed the oil from her hands, she always hated herself when her +hands smelled of kerosene, and began getting things ready for supper. + +Stuart came hurrying and stamping in after putting the horse away, +quickly banging the door shut and standing there pounding his feet and +rubbing his stiffened hands. + +"Fearfully cold?" she inquired, hurriedly getting out the box of codfish +she was going to cream for their supper. + +"Cold!" he scoffed, as if in scorn for the inadequacy of the word. After +a minute he came up to the stove. "I was afraid," he said, holding his +right hand in his left, "that it had got these fingers." + +He took off his big bear-skin coat. A package he had taken from the +pocket of it he threw over on the kitchen table. "Don't throw the bacon +there, Stuart," hurriedly advised Ruth, busy with the cream sauce she +was making, "I've just spilled oil there." + +"Heavens!" he said irritably, shoving the bacon farther back. + +His tone made Ruth's hand tremble. "If you think I'm so careless you +might fill the lamps yourself," she said tremulously. + +"Who said you were careless?" he muttered. He went in the other room and +after a minute called out, as one trying to be pleasant, "What we going +to have for supper?" + +"Creamed codfish," she told him. + +"For a little change!" he said, under his breath. + +"I don't think that's very kind, Stuart," she called back, quiveringly. +"It's not so simple a matter to have 'changes' here now." + +"Oh, I know it," he said, wearily. + +She brought the things in and they began the meal in silence. She had +not taken time to lay the table properly. Things were not so placed as +to make them attractive. Stuart tasted a piece of bread and then hastily +put it aside, not concealing a grimace of distaste. "What's the matter?" +Ruth asked sharply. + +"I don't seem to care much for bread and oil," he said in a voice it was +plainly an effort to make light. + +Ruth's eyes filled. She picked up the plate of bread and took it to the +kitchen. Stuart rose and went after her. "I'll get some more bread, +Ruth," he said kindly. "Guess you're tired tonight, aren't you?" + +She turned away from him and took a drink of water. Then she made a big +effort for control and went to the dining-room. She asked some questions +about town and they talked in a perfunctory way until supper was over. + +He had brought papers and a couple of letters from town. Ruth was out in +the kitchen doing the dishes when she heard a queer exclamation from +him. "What is it, Stuart?" it made her ask quickly, going to the +dining-room door with the cup she was wiping. + +He gave her a strange look; and then suddenly he laughed. "What _is_ +it?" the laugh made her repeat in quick, sharp voice. + +"Well, you'll never guess!" he said. + +She frowned and stood there waiting. + +"Marion's going to get a divorce." He looked at her as if he did not +believe what he said. + +Ruth put her hand out to the casement of the door. "She _is_?" she said +dully. + +He held up a legal looking paper. "Official notice," he said. Then +suddenly he threw the thing over on the table and with a short hard +laugh pulled his chair around to the fire. Ruth stood a moment looking +at it lying there. Then she turned and went back to the dishes. When she +returned to the living-room the paper still lay there on the table. She +had some darning to do and she got out her things and sat down, chair +turned to one side, not facing the legal looking document. + +After a little while Stuart, who had been figuring in a memorandum book, +yawned and said he guessed he'd go to bed. He shook down the fire, then +got up and picked up the paper from the table, folded it and took it +over to the big desk in the corner where his business things were. +"Well, Ruth," he remarked, "this would have meant a good deal to us ten +or twelve years ago, wouldn't it?" + +She nodded, her head bent over the sock she was darning. + +"Oh, well," he said, after a pause, "maybe it will help some even yet." + +She made no answer. + +"I suppose Marion wants to get married," he went on meditatively, after +a moment adding bitterly, "Her wanting it is the only thing that would +ever make her do it." + +He went down cellar for coal, and after he had filled the stove began +undressing before it. When ready for bed he sat there a little before +the fire, as if taking in all the heat he could for the night. Ruth had +finished her darning and was putting the things away. "Coming to bed?" +he asked of her. + +"Not right away," she said, her voice restrained. + +"Better not try to sit up late, Ruth," he said kindly. "You need plenty +of sleep. I notice you're often pretty tired at night." + +She did not reply, putting things in the machine drawer. Her back was to +him. "Well, Ruth," he said, in a voice genial but slightly ironic, "we +can get married now." + +She went on doing things and still did not speak. + +"Better late than never," he said pleasantly, yawning. + +He stood up, ready for going into the bedroom, but still hating to leave +the fire, standing there with his back to it. "When shall we get +married, Ruth?" he went on, in a slightly amused voice. + +"Oh, I don't know, Stuart," she replied shortly from the kitchen. + +"Have to plan it out," he said sleepily, yawning once more. Then he +laughed, as if the idea more and more amused him. After that he +murmured, in the voice of one mildly curious about a thing, "I wonder if +Marion _is_ going to get married?" + +Ruth wanted to take a bath before she went to bed. Taking a bath was no +easy matter under their circumstances. It was so much work and usually +she was so tired that she would sometimes let it go longer than she +would have supposed she would ever let bathing go. She was determined +not to let it go tonight. She had the water on heating; she went down +for the tub, went upstairs into her frigid room for the fresh things to +put on in the morning. The room was so cold that there was a sort of +horror about it. She went over to the window; the snow made the valley +bright. Dimly she could see a massed thing--the huddled sheep. With a +hard little laugh for the sob that shook her she hurried out of the +room. + +She took her bath before the fire in the living-room. Stuart had piled +on one chair the clothes that he had taken off and would put on in the +morning. She placed on another the things for herself. And suddenly she +looked at those two chairs and the thing that she had been trying not to +think about--that now they two could be married--seemed to sear her +whole soul with mockery. She was rubbing some lotion on her red, chapped +hands, hands defaced by work and cold. She had a picture of her hands as +they used to be--back there in those years when to have been free to +marry Stuart would have made life radiant. She sat a long time before +the fire, not wanting to go to bed. She particularly wanted to go to bed +alone that night. There seemed something shameful in that night sharing +a bed as a matter of expediency. Stuart was snoring a little. She sat +there, her face buried in her hands. The wind was beating against the +house. It was beating against the sheep out there, too--it had a clean +sweep against that outer rim of living things. She cried for a little +while; and then, so utterly tired that it did not matter much, she went +in the other room and crept into bed. + + + + +CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO + + +But at last the cold had let go of them. It was April, the snow had gone +and the air promised that even to that valley spring would come. Ruth, +out feeding the chickens, felt that spring nearness. She raised her face +gratefully to the breeze. It had seemed almost unbelievable that the +wind would ever again bring anything but blighting cold. + +As she stood there, held by that first feel of spring, an automobile +came along, slowed, and Stuart went running out of the house to meet it. +It was his friend Stoddard, a real-estate man there. He had become +friends with this man in the last few months. He had had little in +friendships with men and this had brightened him amazingly. He had a new +interest in business things, new hopes. It had seemed to make him +younger, keener. He and Mr. Stoddard had a plan for going into Montana +where the latter was interested in a land developing company, and going +into business together. Stuart was alive with interest in it; it +promised new things for him, a new chance. They would live in a town, +and it would be business life, which he cared for as he had never come +to care for ranching. He was beginning to talk to Ruth about moving, of +selling off their stock and some of their things. He was eager to make +the change. + +She had gone in the house as the machine stopped, having seen that there +were people in the car with Mr. Stoddard and not feeling presentably +dressed. She went upstairs to do the work and as she glanced down from +the upper window she saw Stuart in laughing conversation with a girl in +the automobile. Something about it arrested her. He was standing to the +far side of the machine so she could see his face. There was something +in it she had not seen for a long time--that interest in women, an +unmistakable pleasure in talking with an attractive girl. She stood +there, a little back from the window, watching them. There was nothing +at all wrong about it; nothing to resent, simply a little gay bantering +with a girl. It was natural to him; it had been once, it could be again. +His laugh came up to her. So he could still laugh like that; she had not +heard him for a long time. He turned and started hurriedly for the +house, the car waiting for him. He was smiling, his step was buoyant. +"Ruth," he called up to her, and his voice too had the old buoyancy, +"I'm going into town with Stoddard. We want to go over some things. +He'll bring me back before night." + +"All right, Stuart," she called back pleasantly. + +She watched the car out of sight. Stuart, sitting in the front seat with +his friend, had turned and was gayly talking with the women behind. When +she first knew him, when she was still a little girl and used to see him +around with his own set, he had been like that. + +She did not want to stay in the house. That house had shut her in all +winter. The road stretched invitingly away. About a mile down it there +was a creek, willows grew there. Perhaps there she would find some real +spring. Anyway she had an impulse to get out to the moving water. She +had seemed locked in, everything had seemed locked in for so long. + +As she was getting her coat she put into the pocket a letter she had +received the day before from Deane Franklin. After she had sat a little +while by the running water she took the letter out to reread, but did +not at first open it. She was wishing Deane were sitting there with her. +She would like to talk to him. + +This letter was a gloomy one. It seemed that Deane too was locked in. +Soon after Ted came back from Freeport in the fall she had got it out of +him about the Franklins. She had sensed at once that there was something +about Deane he did not want to tell her, and before he left for his own +place she had it from him that the Franklins had indeed separated, and +that the gossip of Freeport was that it was because of Mrs. Franklin's +resentment of her. And that was one of the things had seemed to make it +possible for the winter somehow to _take_ her; that was the thing had +seemed to close the last door to her spirit, the last of those doors +that had been thrown wide open when she left Annie's home in Freeport +the spring before. + +She had tried to write to Deane. She felt that she should write to him, +but she had a feeling of powerlessness. Finally, only a little while +before, she had brought herself to do it. She knew it was a poor letter, +a halting, constrained thing, but it seemed the best she could do, and +so finally, after a great deal of uncertainty, she sent it. + +His reply made her feel that he realized how it had been, why she had +been so long in writing, why the letter had been the stilted thing it +was. It gave her a feeling that her friend had not withdrawn from her +because of what she had brought down upon him, that that open channel +between him and her was there as it had ever been. And though his letter +did not make her happy, it loosened something in her to be able to feel +that the way between her and Deane was not closed. + +"Don't distress yourself, Ruth," she now reread, "or have it upon your +spirit, where too much has lain heavy all these years. You want to know +the truth, and the truth is that Amy did resent my feeling about +you--about you and your situation--and that put us apart. But you see it +was not in us to stay together, or we could not have been thus put +apart. Love can't do it all, Ruth--not for long; I mean love that hasn't +roots down in the spirit can't. And where there isn't that spiritual +underneath, without a hinterland, love is pretty insecure. + +"I could have held on to it a while longer, I suppose, by cutting clear +loose from the thing really me. And I suppose I would have done it if I +could--I did in fact make attempts at it--but that me-ness, I'm afraid, +is most infernal strong in my miserable make-up. And somehow the +withdrawal of one's self seems a lot to pay for even the happiness of +love. There are some of us can't seem able to do it. + +"So it's not you, Ruth; it's that it was like that, and that it came out +through the controversy about you. Cast from your mind any feeling +adding the wrecking of my happiness to your list of crimes. + +"But, Ruth, I'm _not_ happy. I couldn't get along in happiness, and I +don't get along without it. It's a paralyzing thing not to have +happiness--or to lose it, rather. Does it ever seem to you that life is +a pretty paralyzing thing? That little by little--a little here and a +little there--it _gets_ us? We get harness-broke, you see. Seems to have +gone that way with most of the people I know. Seems to be that way with +me. Don't let it do it to you! + +"Somehow I don't believe it will. I think that you, Ruth, would be a +fine little prison-breaker. Might stand some show of being one myself if +I were anywhere but in this town. There's something about it that has +_got_ me, Ruth. If it hadn't--I'd be getting out of it now. + +"But of course I'm a pretty poor sort, not worth making a fight for, or +it wouldn't be like this. And--for that matter--what's the difference? +Lives aren't counting for much these days--men who _are_ the right sort +going down by the thousands, by the hundred of thousands, so what--for +heaven's sake--does it matter about me? + +"I wish I could see you! + +"I'm glad for you about the divorce. I believe the case comes up this +April term, so it may be all over by the time you get this letter. +Pretty late in coming, and I suppose it must seem a good deal of a +mockery--getting it now--but maybe it will help some for the future, +make you feel more comfortable, and I'm awfully glad. + +"Funny about it, isn't it? I wonder what made her do it! I was called +there this winter, maid sick--miscarriage--and Mrs. Williams puzzled me. +Didn't turn the girl out, awfully decent to her. I would have supposed +she would have been quite the other way. And now this. Queer, don't you +think? + +"Write to me sometimes, Ruth. Sometimes write to me what you're thinking +about. Maybe it will stir me up. Write to me to take a brace and get out +of this town! If you went for me hard enough, called me all the +insulting names you could think of, and told me a living dead man was +the most cowardly and most disgusting object cluttering up the earth, +you might get a rise out of me. You're the one could do it, if it can be +done. + +"One thing I _do_ know--writing this has made me want like blazes to see +you! + +"DEANE." + + * * * * * + +Ruth sat there in the arm of a low willow, her hands resting upon +Deane's letter, her eyes closed, the faint breath of coming spring upon +her face. She was tired and very sad. She was thinking of Deane's life, +of her own life, of the way one seemed mocked. She wished that Deane +were there; she could talk to him and she would like to talk. His letter +moved something in her, something that had long seemed locked in stirred +a little. Her feeling about life had seemed a thing frozen within her. +Now the feeling that there was still this open channel between her and +Deane was as a thawing, an outlet. + +She thought of her last talk with Deane, of their walk together that +day, almost a year before, when he came to see her at Annie's, the very +day she was starting back West. She had felt anything but locked in that +day. There was that triumphant sense of openness to life, the joy of new +interest in it, of zest for it. And then she came back West, to Stuart, +and somehow the radiance went, courage ebbed, it came to seem that life +was all fixed, almost as if life, in the real sense, was over. That +sense of having failed, having been inadequate to her own feeling, +struck her down to a wretched powerlessness. And so routine, hard work, +bitter cold, loneliness, that sense of the cruelty of life which the +sternness of the country gave--those things had been able to take her; +it was because something had gone dead in her. + +She thought of that spiritual hinterland Deane talked about. She thought +of her and Stuart. She grew very sad in the thinking. She wondered if it +was her fault. However it was, it was true they no longer found the live +things in one another. She had not been able to communicate to him the +feeling with which she came back from Annie's. It was a lesser thing for +trying to talk of it to him. She did not reach him; she knew that he +only thought her a little absurd. After that she did not try to talk to +him of what she felt. Life lessened; things were as they were; they too +were as they were. It came to seem just a matter of following out what +had been begun. And then that news of the divorce had come to mock her. + +But she must do something for Deane. Deane must not go like that. She +had brought pencil and writing tablet with her, thinking that perhaps +out of doors, away from the house where she had seemed locked in all +winter, she could write to him. She thought of things to say, things +that should be said, but she did not seem to have any power to charge +them with life. How could the dead rouse the dead? She sat there +thinking of her and Deane, of how they had always been able to reach one +another. And finally she began: + + "Dear Deane, + + "You must find your way back to life." + +She did not go on. She sat staring at what she had written. She read it +over; she said it aloud. It surged in upon her, into shut places. She +sat looking at it, frightened at what it was doing. Sat looking at it +after it was all blurred by tears--looking down at the words she herself +had written--"You must find your way back to life." + + + + +CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE + + +Ruth was very quiet through the next week. Stuart was preoccupied with +the plans he was making for going to Montana; when he talked with her it +was of that, of arrangements to be made for it, and his own absorption +apparently kept him from taking note of her being more quiet than usual, +or different. It was all working out very well. He had found a renter +for the ranch, the prospects for the venture in Montana were good. They +were to move within a month. And one night in late April when he came +home from town he handed Ruth a long envelope, with a laughing, "Better +late than never." Then he was soon deep in some papers. + +Ruth was sorting a box of things; there were many things to be gone +through preparatory to moving. She had put the paper announcing his +divorce aside without comment; but she loitered over what she was doing. +She was watching Stuart, thinking about him. + +She was thinking with satisfaction that he looked well. He had thrown +off the trouble that had brought about their departure from Freeport +twelve years before. He was growing rather stout; his fair hair had gone +somewhat gray and his face was lined, he had not the look of a young +man. But he looked strong, alert. His new hopes had given him vigor, a +new buoyancy. She sat there thinking of the years she had lived with +him, of the wonder and the happiness she had known through him, of the +hard things they had faced together. Her voice was gentle as she replied +to his inquiry about what day of the month it was. + +"I think," he said, "that we can get off by the fifteenth, don't you, +Ruth?" + +"Perhaps." Her voice shook a little, but he was following his own +thoughts and did not notice. After a little he came and sat across the +table from her. "And, Ruth, about this getting married business--" He +broke off with a laugh. "Seems absurd, doesn't it?" + +She nodded, fumbling with the things in the box, her head bent over +them. + +"Well, I was thinking we'd better stop somewhere along the way and +attend to it. Can't do it here--don't want to there." + +She lifted her hands from the box and laid them on the table that was +between him and her. She looked over at him and said, quietly, in a +voice that shook only a little: "I do not want to get married, Stuart." + +He was filling his pipe and stopped abruptly, spilling the tobacco on +the table. "What did you say?" he asked in the voice of one sure he must +have heard wrong. + +"I said," she repeated, "that I did not want to get married." + +He stared at her, his face screwed up. Then it relaxed a little. "Oh, +yes--yes, I know how you feel. It seems so absurd--after all this +time--after all there has been. But we must attend to it, Ruth. It's +right that we should--now that we can. God knows we wanted to bad +enough--long ago. And it will make us feel better about going into a new +place. We can face people better." He gathered up the tobacco he had +spilled and put it in his pipe. + +For a moment she did not speak. Then, "That wasn't what I meant, +Stuart," she said, falteringly. + +"Well, then, what in the world _do_ you mean?" he asked impatiently. + +She did not at once say what she meant. Her eyes held him, they were so +strangely steady. "Just why would we be getting married, Stuart?" she +asked simply. + +At first he could only stare at her, appeared to be waiting for her to +throw light on what she had asked. When she did not do that he moved +impatiently, as if resentful of being quizzed this way. "Why--why, +because we can now. Because it's the thing to do. Because it will be +expected of us," he concluded, with gathering impatience for this +unnecessary explanation. + +A faint smile traced itself about Ruth's mouth. It made her face very +sad as she said: "I do not seem to be anxious to marry for any of those +reasons, Stuart." + +"Ruth, what are you driving at?" he demanded, thoroughly vexed at the +way she had bewildered him. + +"This is what I am driving at, Stuart," she began, a little more +spiritedly. But then she stopped, as if dumb before it. She looked over +at him as if hoping her eyes would tell it for her. But as he continued +in that look of waiting, impatient bewilderment she sighed and turned a +little away. "Don't you think, Stuart," she asked, her voice low, "that +the future is rather too important a thing to be given up to ratifying +the past?" + +He pushed his chair back in impatience that was mounting to anger. "Just +what do you mean?" he asked, stiffly. + +She picked up the long envelope lying on the table between them. She +held it in her hand a moment without speaking. For as she touched it she +had a sense of what it would have meant to have held it in her hand +twelve years before, over on the other side of their life together, a +new sense of the irony and the pity of not having had it then--and +having it now. She laid it down between them. "To me," she said, "this +sets me free. + +"Free to choose," she went on, as he only stared at her. There was a +moment of looking at him out of eyes so full of feeling that they held +back the feeling that had flushed his face. "And my choice," she said, +with a strange steadiness, "is that I now go my way alone." + +He spoke then; but it was only to stammer: "Why,--_Ruth!_" Helplessly he +repeated: "_Ruth!_" + +"But you see? You do see?" she cried. "If it had _not_ been so much--so +beautiful! Just because it _was_ what it was--" She choked and could not +go on. + +He came around and sat down beside her. The seriousness of his face, +something she had touched in him, made it finer than it had been in +those last years of routine. It was more as it used to be. His voice too +seemed out of old days as he said: "Ruth, I don't know yet what you +mean--why you're saying this?" + +"I think you do, Stuart," she said simply. "Or I think you will, if +you'll let yourself. It's simply that this--" she touched the envelope +on the table before her--"that this finds us over on the other side of +marriage. And this is what I mean!" she flamed. "I mean that the +marriage between us was too real to go through the mockery this would +make possible now!" She turned away because she was close to tears. + +He sat there in silence. Then, "Have I done anything, Ruth?" he asked in +the hesitating way of one at sea. + +She shook her head without turning back to him. + +"You apparently have got the impression," he went on, a faint touch of +resentment creeping into his voice at having to make the declaration, +"that I don't care any more. That--that isn't so," he said awkwardly and +with a little rise of resentment. + +Ruth had turned a little more toward him, but was looking down at her +hands, working with them as if struggling for better control. "I have +no--complaint on that score," she said very low. + +"Things change," he went on, with a more open manner of defence. "The +first kind of love doesn't last forever. It doesn't with anyone," he +finished, rather sullenly. + +"I know that, Stuart," she said quietly. "I know enough to know that. +But I know this as well. I know that sometimes that first kind of love +leaves a living thing to live by. I know that it does--sometimes. And I +know that with us--it hasn't." + +As if stung by that he got up and began walking angrily about the room. +"You're talking nonsense! Why wouldn't we get married, I'd like to know, +after all this time together? We _will_ get married--that's all there is +to it! A nice spectacle we would make of ourselves if we didn't! Have +you thought of that?" he demanded. "Have you thought of what people +would say?" + +Again her lips traced that faint smile that showed the sadness of her +face. "There was a time, Stuart," she said wearily, "when we were not +governed by what people would say." + +He frowned, but went on more mildly: "You've got the thing all twisted +up, Ruth. You do that sometimes. You often have a queer way of looking +at a thing; not the usual way--a--well, a sort of twisted way." + +She got up. One hand was at her throat as if feeling some impediment +there; the knuckles of her clenched hand were tapping the table. "A +queer way of looking at things," she said in quick, sharp voice that was +like the tapping of her knuckles. "Not the usual way. A--sort of twisted +way. Perhaps. Perhaps that's true. Perhaps that was the way I had of +looking at things twelve years ago--when I left them all behind and went +with you. Perhaps that was what made me do it--that queer, twisted way +of looking at things! But this much is true, Stuart, and this you have +got to know is true. I went with you because I was as I was. I'm going +my way alone now because I am as I am. And what you don't see is +this,--that the thing that made me go with you then is the thing that +makes me go my way alone now." + +For a moment they stood there facing each other, her eyes forcing home +what she had said. But she was trembling and suddenly, weakly, she sat +down. + +"Well, I simply can't understand it!" he cried petulantly and flung open +the door and stood looking out. + +"Look here, Ruth," he turned sharply to her after a little, "have you +thought of the position this puts _me_ in? Have you thought of the +position you would put _me_ in?" he contended hotly. "Do you know what +people would say about me? You ought to know what they'd say! They'd say +_I_ was the one!--they'd say _I_ didn't want to do it!" + +There was a little catch something like a laugh as she replied: "Of +course. They'll say men don't marry women of that sort, won't they?" + +"Oh, you can't do this, Ruth," he went on quickly. "You see, it can't be +done. I tell you it wouldn't be right! It just wouldn't be _right_--in +any sense. Why can't you see that? Can't you see that we've got to +vindicate the whole thing? That we've got to show them that it _does_ +last! That's the vindication for it," he finished stoutly, "that it's +the kind of a love that doesn't die! + +"And I'd like to know where under the sun you'd go!" he demanded hotly, +irritated at the slight smile his last words had brought. + +"What I will do, Stuart, after leaving you, is for me to determine, +isn't it?" + +"A nice way to treat me!" he cried, and threw himself down on the couch, +elbows on his knees and his face buried in his hands. "After all these +years--after all there has been--that's a _nice_ way--" he choked. + +She was quick to go over and sit beside him; she leaned a little against +him, her hand on his arm, just as she had sat many times when he needed +her, when she brought him comfort. The thought of all those times rose +in her and brought tears to her eyes that had been burning dry a moment +before. She felt the feeling this had whipped to life in him and was +moved by it, and by an underlying feeling of the sadness of change. For +his expostulations spoke of just that--change. She knew this for the +last hurt she could help him through, that she must help him through +this hurt brought him by this last thing she could do for him. Something +about things being like that moved her deeply. She saw it all so +clearly, and so sadly. It was not grief this brought him; this was not +the frenzy or the anguish in the thought of losing her that there would +have been in those other years. It was shock, rather--disturbance, and +the forcing home to him that sense of change. He would have gone on +without much taking stock, because, as he had said, it was the thing to +do. Habit, a sense of fitness, rather than deep personal need, would +have made him go on. And now it was his sense that it was gone, his +resentment against that, his momentary feeling of being left desolate. +She looked at his bowed head through tears. Gently she laid her hand on +it. She thought of him as he stood before the automobile the other day +lighting up in the gay talk with that girl. She knew, with a sudden +wrench in her heart she knew it, that he would not be long desolate. She +understood him too well for that. She knew that, hard as she seemed in +that hour, she was doing for Stuart in leaving him the greatest thing +she could now do for him. A tear fell to her hand in her clear knowing +of that. There was deep sadness in knowing that, after all there had +been, to leave the way cleared of herself was doing a greater thing than +anything else she could do for him. + +A sob shook her and he raised his face upon which there were tears and +clutched her two wrists with his hands. "Ruth," he whispered, "it will +come back. I feel that this has--has brought it back." + +The look of old feeling had transformed his face. After barren days it +was sweet to her. It tempted her, tempted her to shut her eyes to what +she knew and sink into the sweetness of believing herself loving and +loved again. Perhaps, for a little time, they could do it. To be deeply +swayed by this common feeling, to go together in an emotion, was like +dear days gone. But it was her very fidelity to those days gone that +made her draw just a little away, and, tears running down her face, +shake her head. She knew too well, and she had the courage of her +knowing. This was something that had seeped up from old feeling; it had +no life of its own. What they were sharing now was grief over a dead +thing that had been theirs together. That grief, that sharing, left them +tender. This was their moment--their moment for leaving it. They must +leave it before it lay there between them both dead and unmourned, +clogging life for them. She whispered to him: "Just because of all it +has meant--let's leave it while we can leave it like this!" + + + + +CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR + + +The man who worked for them had gone ahead in the spring wagon with her +trunk. She was waiting for Ted to hitch the other horse to the buggy and +drive her in to the train. She was all ready and stood there looking +about the house she was leaving. There were things in that room which +they had had since their first years together--that couch, this chair, +had come to them in Arizona in the days when they loved each other with +a passion that made everything else in the world a pale thing before +their love. She stood picking out things that they had had when love was +flaming strong in them and it seemed they two fought together against +the whole world. And as she stood there alone in their place in common +that she was about to leave she was made sick by a sense of +failure--that desolate sense of failure she had tried all along to beat +down. That love had been theirs--and this was what it had come to. That +wonder had been--and it ended in the misery of this leavetaking. She +turned sharply around, opened the door and stood there in the doorway, +her back to the place she was quitting, her pale stern face turned to +the mountains--to that eastern range which she was going to cross. She +tried to draw something from them, draw strength for the final conflict +which she knew she would have with Ted while they drove in to town. She +looked toward the barn-yard to see if he was most ready, and could not +but smile a little at his grim, resolute face as he was checking up the +horse. She could see so well that he was going to make the best of his +time while driving her in to the train. And it seemed she had nothing +left in her for combat; she would be glad to see the train that was to +take her away. + +Three days before Stuart had gone suddenly to Denver. He went with his +friend Stoddard, regarding some of their arrangements for Montana. He +had found only at the last minute that he would have to go, had +hurriedly driven out from town to get his things and tell her he was +going. He had been in the house only a few minutes and was all +excitement about the unexpected trip. It was two days after their talk. +After their moment of being swept together by the feeling of things gone +he had, as if having to get a footing on everyday ground, ended the talk +with saying: "I'll tell you, Ruth, you need a little change. We'll have +to work it out." The next day they were both subdued, more gentle with +each other than they had been of late, but they did not refer to the +night before. After he had hurriedly kissed her good-by when leaving for +Denver he had turned back and said, "And don't you worry--about things, +Ruth. We'll get everything fixed up--and a little change--" He had +hurried down to the machine without finishing it. + +She had gone to the window and watched him disappear. He was sitting +erect, alert, talking animatedly with his friend. She watched him as far +as she could see him. She knew that she would not see him again. + +And then she hitched up the horse and drove into town and telephoned +Ted, who lived about fifty miles to the north. She told him that she was +going East and asked him to come down the next day and see her. + +She had known that Ted would not approve, would not understand, but she +had not expected him to make the fight he had. It had taken every bit of +her will, her force, to meet him. Worn now, and under the stress of the +taking leave, at once too tired and too emotional, she wished that he +would let it rest. But the grim line of his jaw told her that he had no +such intention. She felt almost faint as they drove through the gate. +She closed her eyes and did not open them for some time. + +"You see, Ruth," Ted began gently, as if realizing that she was very +worn, "you just don't realize how crazy the whole thing is. It's +ridiculous for you to go to New York--alone! You've never been there," +he said firmly. + +"No. That is one reason for going," she answered, rather feebly. + +"One reason for going!" he cried. "What'll you do when the train pulls +in? Where'll you _go_?" + +"I don't know, Ted," she said patiently, "just where I will go. And I +rather like that--not knowing where I will go. It's all new, you see. +Nothing is mapped out." + +"It's a fool thing!" he cried. "Don't you know that something will +happen to you?" + +She smiled a little, very wearily. "Lots of things have happened to me, +Ted, and I've come through them somehow." After a moment she added, with +more spirit: "There's just one thing might happen to me that I haven't +the courage to face." He looked at her inquiringly. "Nothing happening," +she said, with a little smile. + +He turned impatiently and slapped the horse with the reins. "You seem to +have lost your senses," he said sharply. + +He drove along in silence for a little. Ruth looked at him and his face +seemed hard. She thought of how close she and Ted had come, how good he +had been, how much it had meant. She could not leave him like this. She +must make the effort, must gather herself together and try and make Ted +see. "Perhaps, Ted," she began tremulously, "you think I have taken +leave of my senses because you haven't tried very hard to understand +just what it is I feel." She smiled wanly as she added, "You've been so +absorbed in your own disapproval, you know." + +"Well, how can I be any other way?" he demanded. "Going away like +this--for no reason--on a wild goose chase! Isn't Stuart good to you?" +he asked abruptly. + +"Yes, Ted," she answered, as if she were tired of saying it, "Stuart is +good enough to me." + +"I suppose things aren't--just as they used to be," he went on, a little +doggedly. "Heavens!--they aren't with anybody! And what will people +say?" he broke out with new force. "Think of what people in Freeport +will say, Ruth. They'll say the whole thing was a failure, and that it +was because you did wrong. They'll say, when the chance finally came, +that Stuart didn't want to marry you." He colored but brought it out +bluntly. + +"I suppose they will," agreed Ruth. + +"And if they knew the truth--or what I know, though heaven knows I'm +balled up enough about what the truth really is!--they'd say it just +shows again that you are different, not--something wrong," he finished +bitterly. + +She said nothing for a moment. "And is that what you think, Ted?" she +asked, choking a little. + +"I don't understand it, Ruth," he said, less aggressively. "I had +thought you would be so glad of the chance to marry. I--" he hesitated +but did not pursue that. He had never told her of going to see Mrs. +Williams, of the effort he had made for her. "It seemed that now, when +your chance came, you ought to show people that you do want to do the +right thing. It surprises me a lot, Ruth, that you don't feel that way, +and--Oh! I don't get it at all," he concluded abruptly. + +Tears were very close when, after a little, she answered: "Well, Ted, +maybe when you have less of life left you will understand better what it +is I feel. Perhaps," she went on in answer to his look inquiry, "when +the future has shrunk down to fewer years you'll see it as more +important to get from it what you can." + +They drove for a little time in silence. They had come in sight of the +town and she had not won Ted; she was going away without his sympathy. +And she was going away alone, more alone this time than she had been +twelve years before. + +She laid her hand on his arm, left it there while she was speaking. +"Ted," she said, "it's like this. This has gone for me. It's all gone. +It was wonderful--but it's gone. Some people, I know, could go on with +the life love had made after love was gone. I am not one of those +people--that's all. You speak of there being something discreditable in +my going away just when I could marry. To me there would be something +discreditable in going on. It would be--" she put her hand over her +heart and said it very simply, "it would be unfaithful to something +here." She choked a little and he turned away. + +"But I don't see how you can bear, Ruth," he said after a moment, made +gentle by her confidence, "to feel that it has--failed. I don't see how +you can bear--after all you paid for it--to let it come to nothing." + +"Don't say that, Ted!" she cried in a voice that told he had touched the +sorest place. "Don't say that!" she repeated, a little wildly. "You +don't know what you're talking about. _Failed?_ A thing that glorified +life for years--_failed_?" + +Her voice broke, but it was more steadily she went on: "That's the very +reason I'm going to New York--simply that it may _not_ come to nothing. +I'm going away from it for that very reason--that it may not come to +nothing! That my life may not come to nothing. What I've had--what I've +gone through--lives in me, Ted. It doesn't come to nothing if I--come to +something!" She stopped abruptly with a choking little laugh. + +Ted looked at her wonderingly; but the hardness had gone out of his +look. "But what are you going to do, Ruth?" he asked gently. + +"I don't know yet. I've got to find out." + +"You must see that I can't help but worry about it," he went on. "Going +so far away--to a place absolutely unknown to you--where I'm afraid it +will be so much harder than you think." + +She did not answer him, looking off to that eastern range she was going +to cross, as if the mountains could help her to hold on to her own +feeling against the doubts he was trying to throw around her. + +"You see, Ruth," he went on, as if feeling his way, not wanting to hurt +her, "what has been may make it hard to go on. You can't tell. You'll +never know--never be sure. Old things may come up to spoil new ones for +you. That's what I'm so afraid of. That's what it seems you aren't +seeing. You would be so much--safer--to stay with Stuart." + +She turned to him with a little laugh, her lashes wet. "Yes, Ted dear, I +suppose I would. But I never did seem to stay where I was safest--did +I?" + +"Don't worry about me, Ted," she said just as they were coming into +town. "I'm going to take some of father's money--yes, yes, I know it +isn't a great deal, but enough for a little while, till I get my +bearings--and I'm going to make things come alive for me again. I'm not +through yet, that's all. I could have stayed with life gone dead; it +would have been safer, as you say. But you see I'm not through yet, +Ted--I guess that's the secret of it all. I want more life--more things +from life. And I'm going to New York just because it will be so +completely new--so completely beginning new--and because it's the center +of so many living things. And it's such a wonderful time, Ted. It seems +to me the war is going to make a new world--a whole new way of looking +at things. It's as if a lot of old things, old ideas, had been melted, +and were fluid now, and were to be shaped anew. That's the way it seems +to me, and that makes me the more eager to get some things from life +that I haven't had. I've been shut in with my own experience. If I +stayed on here I'd be shut in with my own dead experiences. I want to go +on! I can't stop here--that's all. And we have to find our way for going +on. We must find our own way, Ted, even," she choked, "though what we +see as the way may seem a wild goose chase to some one we love. I'll +tell you why I'm going to New York," she flashed with sudden defiance. +"I'm going because I want to!" + +She laughed a little and he laughed with her. Then she went on more +gently: "Because I want to. Just the thought of it has made life come +alive for me--that's reason enough for going to the ends of the earth! +I'm going to _live_ again, Ted--not just go on with what living has +left. I'm going to find some work to do. Yes I _can_!" she cried +passionately in response to his gesture "I suppose to you it seems just +looking out for myself--seems unfaithful to Stuart. Well, it +isn't--that's all I can say, and maybe some day you'll see that it +wasn't. It isn't unfaithful to turn from a person you have nothing more +to offer, for whom you no longer make life a living thing. It's more +faithful to go. You'll see that some time, Ted. But be good to Stuart," +she hastily added. "You stay with him till he can get off. I've made all +the arrangements with Mrs. Baxter for packing up--sending on the things. +It would be hard for him to do that, I know. And once away from +here--new interests--life all new again--oh, no, Ted dear," she laughed +a little chokingly, "don't worry about Stuart." + +"I'm not worrying about Stuart," he muttered. "I'm worrying about you." + +She squeezed his arm in affectionate gratitude for the love in the +growling words. "Don't _worry_ about me, Ted," she implored, "be glad +with me! I'm alive again! It's so wonderful to be alive again. There's +the future--a great, beautiful unknown. It _is_ wonderful, Ted," she +said with insistence, as if she would banish his fears--and her own. + +They had a few minutes to wait, and Ted ran over to the postoffice to +get her mail for her--she was expecting a paper she wanted to read on +the train. She tucked what he handed her into her bag and then when she +heard the train coming she held on to Ted's arm, held it as if she could +not bear letting it go. "It's all right," were her last words to him, +smiling through tears. + + * * * * * + +She had been trying all along to hold her mind from the thought that +they would pass through Freeport. Late the next afternoon, when she knew +they were nearing it, she grew restless. It was then she remembered the +paper in her bag--she had been in no mood for reading, too charged with +her own feeling. She got it out now and found that with the paper was a +letter. It was a letter from Deane Franklin. + +She held it for a little while without opening it. It seemed so strange +to have it just as she was nearing Freeport. + +The letter was dated the week before. It read: + +"_Dear Ruth:_ + +"I'm leaving Freeport tonight. I'm going to Europe--to volunteer my +services as a doctor. Parker, whom I knew well at Hopkins, is right in +the midst of it. He can work me in. And the need for doctors is going to +go on for some time, I fancy; it won't end with the war. + +"I'm happy in this decision, Ruth, and I know you'll be glad for me. It +was your letter that got me--made me see myself and hate myself, made me +know that I had to 'come out of it.' And then this idea came to me, and +I wish I could tell you how different everything seemed as soon as I saw +some reason for my existence. I'm ashamed of myself for not having seen +it this way before. As if this were any time for a man who's had my +training to sit around moping! + +"Life is bigger than just ourselves. And isn't it curious how seeing +that brings us back to ourselves? + +"I'll enclose Parker's address. You can reach me in care of him. I want +to hear from you. + +"I can hardly wait to get there! + +"DEANE." + + * * * * * + +She managed to read the letter through with eyes only a little dimmed. +But by the time she got to Parker's address she could not make it out. +"I knew it!" she kept saying to herself triumphantly. + +Deane had been too big not to save himself. Absorbed in thoughts of him +she did not notice the country through which they were passing. She was +startled by a jolt of the train, by the conductor saying, "Freeport!" + +For several minutes the train waited there. She sat motionless through +that time, Deane Franklin's letter clasped tight in her hand. Freeport! +It claimed her:--what had been, what was behind her; those dead who +lived in her, her own past that lived in her. Freeport.... It laid +strong hold on her. She was held there in what had been. And then a +great thing happened. The train jolted again--moved. It was +moving--moving on. _She_ was moving--moving on. And she knew then beyond +the power of anyone's disapproval to break down that it was right she +move on. She had a feeling of the whole flow of her life--and it was +still moving--moving on. And because she felt she was moving on that +sense of failure slipped from her. In secret she had been fighting that +all along. Now she knew that love had not failed because love had +transpired into life. What she had paid the great price for was not hers +to the end. But what it had made of her was hers! Love could not fail if +it left one richer than it had found one. Love had not failed--nothing +had failed--and life was wonderful, limitless, a great adventure for +which one must have great courage, glad faith. Let come what would +come!--she was moving on. + +THE END + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Fidelity, by Susan Glaspell + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FIDELITY *** + +***** This file should be named 32432.txt or 32432.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/2/4/3/32432/ + +Produced by Suzanne Shell, Mary Meehan and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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