Hilda Lightener had found Ruth strangely quiet, with a manner which was
not indifference to her imminent marriage, but which seemed more like
numbness.
"You act as if you were going to be hanged instead of married," Hilda
told her, and found no smile answering her own.
Ruth was docile. She offered no objection to any suggestion offered by
Hilda, accepted every plan without demurring. Hilda could not
understand her, and was troubled. Wholly lacking was the girlish
excitement to be expected. "Whatever you want me to do I will do, only
get it over with," seemed to be Ruth's attitude. She seemed to be
holding herself in, communing with herself. A dozen times Hilda had to
repeat a question or a statement which Ruth had not heard, though her
eyes were on Hilda's and she seemed to be giving her attention.
She was saying to herself: "I must go through with it.... I can't draw
back.... What I am doing is RIGHT--RIGHT."
She obeyed Hilda, not so much through pliancy as through listlessness,
and presently Hilda was going ahead with matters and acting as a sort
of specially appointed general manager of the marriage. She directed
Ruth what to wear, saw it was put on, almost bundled Ruth and her
mother into the carriage, and convoyed them to the church, where
Bonbright awaited them. She could not prevent a feeling of
exasperation, especially toward Mrs. Frazer, who had moved from chair
to chair, uttering words of self-pity, and pronouncing a constant
jeremiad.... Such preliminaries to a wedding she had never expected to
witness, and she witnessed them with awakened foreboding.
A dozen or so young folks and Malcolm Lightener and his wife witnessed
the brief ceremony. Until Ruth's appearance there had been the usual
chattering and gayety, but even the giddiest of the youngsters was
restrained and subdued by her white, tense face, and her big, unseeing
eyes.
"I don't like it," Lightener whispered to his wife.
"Poor child!... Poor child!" she whispered back, not taking her eyes
from Ruth's face.
After the rector pronounced the final words of the ceremony Ruth stood
motionless. Then she turned slowly toward Bonbright, swaying a trifle
as if her knees were threatening to fail her, and said in a half
whisper, audible to those about: "It's over?... It's all over?"
"Yes, dear."
"It can't be undone," she said, not to her husband, but to herself. "We
are--married."
Hilda, fearing some inauspicious act or word, bustled forward her bevy
of young folks to offer their babel of congratulations. As she
presented them one by one, Ruth mustered a wan smile, let them take her
cold, limp hand. But her mind was not on them. All the while she was
thinking: "This is my HUSBAND.... I belong to this man.... I am his
WIFE." Once in a while she would glance at Bonbright; he seemed more a
stranger to her than he had done the first time her eyes had ever
rested on him--a stranger endowed with odious potentialities. ...
Mrs. Lightener took Ruth into her arms and whispered, "He's a dear,
good boy...." There was comfort in Mrs. Lightener's arms, but scant
comfort in her words, yet they would remain with Ruth and she would
find comfort in them later. Now she heard Malcolm Lightener speaking to
her husband. "You be good to that little girl, young man," he said. "Be
mighty patient and gentle with her." She waited for Bonbright's reply.
"I love her," she heard Bonbright say in a low voice. It was a good
answer, a reassuring answer, but it stabbed Ruth with a new pang, for
she had traded on that love; she was a cheat. Bonbright was giving her
his love in exchange for emptiness. Somehow she could not think of the
Cause now, for this was too intimate, too individual, too personal....
Presently Bonbright and Ruth were being driven to their hotel. The
thought of wedding breakfast or of festivities of any sort had been
repugnant to Ruth, and Hilda had not insisted. They were alone. Ruth
lay back against the soft upholstery of Malcolm Lightener's limousine,
colorless, eyes closed. Bonbright watched her face hungrily,
scrutinizing it for some sign of happiness, for some vestige of feeling
that reciprocated his own. He saw nothing but pallor, weariness.
"Dear," he whispered, and touched her hand almost timorously. Her hand
trembled to his touch, and involuntarily she drew away from him. Her
eyes opened, and in them his own eager eyes read FEAR.... He was
startled, hurt. Being only a boy, with a boy's understanding and a
boy's pride, he was piqued, and himself drew back. This was not what he
had expected, not what the romances he had read had led him to believe
would take place. In stories the bride was timid, yet eager; loving,
yielding, happy. She clung to her husband, her heart beating against
his heart, whispering her adoration and demanding whispered adoration
from him.... Here all of this was lacking, and something which crouched
at the opposite pole of human emotion was present--FEAR.
"You must be patient and gentle with her," Malcolm Lightener had said
with understanding, and Bonbright was wise enough to know that there
spoke experience; probably there spoke truth, not romance, as it is set
down on the printed page. Even if Ruth's attitude were unusual, so the
circumstances were unusual. It was no ordinary marriage preceded by an
ordinary, joyous courtship. In this moment Bonbright took thought, and
it was given him to understand that now, as at no other moment in his
life with Ruth, was the time to exercise patience and gentleness.
"Ruth," he said, taking her hand and holding it with both his own, "you
mustn't be afraid of ME.... You are afraid. You're my wife," he said,
boyishly. "It's my job to make you happy--the most important job I've
got--and to look after you and to keep away from you everything that
might--make you afraid." He lifted her fingers to his lips; they were
cold. "I want to take you in my arms and hold you... but not until you
want me to. I can wait.... I can do ANYTHING that you want me to do.
Both of us have just gone through unpleasant things--and they've tired
and worried you.... I wish I might comfort you, dear...." His voice was
low and yearning.
She let her hand remain in his, and with eyes from which the terror was
fading she looked into his eyes to find them clear, honest, filled with
love and care for her. They were good eyes, such as any bride might
rejoice to find looking upon her from her husband's face.
"You're--so good," she whispered. Then: "I'm tired, Bonbright, so
tired--and--Oh, you don't understand, you CAN'T understand.... I'll be
different presently--I know I shall. Don't be angry..."
"Angry!"
"I'll be a good wife to you, Bonbright," she said, tremulously, a bit
wildly. "I--You sha'n't be disappointed in me.... I'll not cheat. ...
But wait--WAIT. Let me rest and think. It's all been so quick."
"You asked that," he said, hurt and puzzled.
"Yes.... It had to be--and now I'm your wife... and I feel as if I
didn't know you--as if you were a stranger. Don't you understand?...
It's because I'm so helpless now--just as if you owned me and could do
what you wanted to with me... and it makes me afraid...."
"I--I don't understand very well," he said, slowly. "Maybe it's because
I'm a man--but it doesn't seem as if it ought to be that way." He
stopped and regarded her a moment, then he said, "Ruth, you've never
told me you loved me."
She sensed the sudden fear in his voice and saw the question that had
to be answered, but she could not answer it. To-day she could not bring
herself to the lie--neither to the spoken lie nor the more difficult
lying action. "Not now," she said, hysterically. "Not to-day....
Wait.... I've married you. I've given myself to you.... Isn't that
enough for now?... Give me time."
It was not resentment he felt, not doubt of her. Her pitiful face, her
cold little hands, the fear that lurked in her eyes, demanded his
sympathy and forbearance, and, boy though he was, with all a boy's
inexperience, he was man enough to give them, intuitive enough to
understand something of the part he must play until she could adjust
herself to her new condition.
He pressed her hand--and released it. "I sha'n't bother you," he said,
"until you want me.... But it isn't because I don't want you--don't
want to hold you--to LOVE you... and to have you love me.... It will be
all right, dear. You needn't be afraid of me...."
The car was stopping before the hotel. Now the doorman opened the door
and Bonbright helped his bride to alight. She tottered as her feet
touched the sidewalk, and he took her arm to support her as he might
have helped an invalid. The elevator carried them up to the floor on
which were the rooms that had been prepared for them, and they stopped
before the door while he inserted the key and turned the lock for their
admission. On the threshold she halted, swept by a wave of terror, but,
clenching her hands and pressing shut her eyes, she stepped within. The
door closed behind them--closed out her girlhood, closed out her
independence, shut away from her forever that ownership of herself
which had been so precious, yet so unrecognized and unconsidered. It
seemed to her that the closing of that door--even more than the
ceremony of marriage--was symbolical of turning over to this young man
the title deeds of her soul and body. ...
Bonbright was helping her to rid herself of her wraps, leading her to a
sofa.
"Lie down," he said, gently. "You're tired and bothered. Just lie down
and rest."
"Are we going away?" she asked, presently. "Have I got to get ready?"
He had promised her they would go away--and had not seen her since that
moment to tell her what had happened. Hilda would not let him go to her
that morning, so she was in ignorance of the change in his condition,
of his break with his family, and of the fact that he was nothing but a
boy with a job, dependent upon his wages. Until this moment he had not
thought how it might affect her; of her disappointment, of the fact
that she might have expected and looked forward to the position he
could give her as the wife of the heir apparent to the Foote
dynasty.... It embarrassed him, shamed him as a boy might be shamed who
was unable to buy for his girl a trinket she coveted at some country
fair. Now she must be told, and she was in no condition to bear
disappointments.
"I promised you we should go away," he said, haltingly, "but--but I
can't manage it. Things have happened....I've got to be at work in the
morning. Maybe I should have told you. Maybe I should have come last
night after it happened--"
She opened her eyes, and at the expression of his face she sat up,
alarmed. It told her that no ordinary, small, casual mishap had
befallen, but something vital, something which might affect him--and
her tremendously.
"What is it?" she asked. "What has happened?"
"I went home last night," he said, slowly. "After--you promised to
marry me--I went home to tell father....Mother was there. There was a
row--but mother was worse than father. She was--rather bad."
"Rather bad--how, Bonbright?"
"She--didn't like my marrying you. Of course we knew neither of them
would like it, but I didn't think anything like this would happen.
...You know father and I had a fuss the other day, and I left the
office. I had thought things over, and was going back. It seemed as if
I ought to go back--as if that was the thing to do.... Well, mother
said things that made it impossible. I'm through with them for good.
The Family and the Ancestors can go hang." His voice grew angry as
recollection of that scene presented itself. "Mother said I shouldn't
marry you..."
"You--you don't mean you're not going to--to have anything to do with
Bonbright Foote, Incorporated--and all those thousands of men?"
"That's it....I couldn't do anything else. I had to break with them.
Father was bad, but it was mother....She said she would never receive
you or recognize you as my wife--and that sort of thing--and I left.
I'm never going back.... On your account I'm sorry. I can't give you so
much, and I can't do the things for you that I could.... We'll be quite
poor, but I've got a job. Mr. Lightener gave me a job, and I've got to
go to work in the morning. That's why we can't go away...."
"You mean," she said, dully, trying to sense this calamity, "that you
will never go back? Never own--that--business?"
"It was a choice of giving you up or that. Mother made that clear. If I
married you I should never have anything from them...."
She did not see the happiness that might lie for her in the possession
of a husband whose love was so great that he could give up the kingdoms
of the earth for her. She could not see the strength of the boy, his
loyalty, his honor. All she saw was the crushing of her plan before it
began to germinate.... She had given herself for the Cause. She was
here, this young man's wife, alone in these rooms with him, because she
loved the Cause and had martyred herself for it.... Her influence was
to ameliorate the conditions of thousands of the Bonbright Foote
laborers; she was to usher in a new era for them--and for that she had
offered herself up.... And now, having bound herself forever to this
boy that she did not love--loving another man--the possibility of
achievement was snatched from her and her immolation made futile. It
was as if she plunged into a rapids, offering her life to save a child
that struggled there, to find, when she reached the little body, and it
was too late to save herself, that it was a wax figure from some shop
window.... But her position was worse than that; what she faced was
worse than swift, merciful death.... It was years of a life of horrid
possibilities, tied to a man whose chattel she was. She stood up and
clutched his arm.
"You're joking," she said, in a tense, metallic voice.
"I'm sorry, dear. It's very true."
"Oh!" Her voice was a wail. "It can't be--it can't be. I couldn't bear
that--not THAT...."
Bonbright seized her by the arms and peered into her face. "Ruth," he
said, "what do you mean? Was THAT why you married me? You're not like
those women I've heard about who married--for MONEY."
"No....No..." she cried. "Not that--Oh, don't believe that."
She spoke the truth, and Bonbright could not doubt it. Truth was in her
words, her tone, her face....It was a thing she was incapable of, and
he knew it. She could not be mean, contemptible. He drew her to him and
kissed her, and she did not resent it. A surge of happiness filled
him....She had been dismayed because of him. There was no other
interpretation of her words and actions. She was conscience stricken
because she had brought misfortune upon him.
He laughed boyishly. "Don't worry about me. I don't care," he said,
gayly, "so long as I have you. You're worth it a dozen times....I'm
glad, Ruth--I'm glad I had to pay for you dearly. Somehow it makes me
seem worthier--you understand what I mean...."
She understood--understood, too, the interpretation he had put on her
words. It brought a flush to her white cheeks....She disengaged herself
gently.
"If we're not going away," she said, "I can lie down--and rest."
"Of course."
"Alone? In the next room?"
He opened the door for her. "I'll be as quiet as a mouse," he said.
"Have a good sleep. I'll sit here and read." She read in his eyes a
plea for affection, for another kiss, as she left him, but she had not
the strength to give it. She went into the adjoining room, and shut the
door after her. Then she stood there silently regarding the
door--regarding the KEY.... If she locked it she was safe from him. He
could not come in.... She could lock him out.
Her hand went to the key, but came away without turning it. No.... She
had no right. She had made her bargain and must abide by it. Bonbright
was her husband and she was his wife, and as such she must not turn
locks upon him.... Marriage gave him the right of free access.
Dressed as she was, in the suit that had been her wedding dress, she
threw herself upon the bed and gave up her soul to torment. She had
taken her all and paid it for a thing desirable in her eyes--and her
all had bought her nothing. She had wrenched her love from the man to
whom she had given it, and all her life must counterfeit love for a man
whom she did not love--and in return she would receive--nothing. She
had seen herself a Joan of Arc. That dream was blown away in a
breath.... But the bargain was made. That she did not receive what she
had thought to receive was no fault of Bonbright's--and she must endure
what was to be endured. She must be honest with him--as honesty showed
its face to her. To be honest with him meant to her to deceive him
daily, hourly, to make her life a lie. He was cheated enough as matters
stood--and he did not deserve to be cheated. He was good, gentle, a
man. She appreciated him--but she did not love him. ... And
appreciating him, aware of his strength and his goodness to her, she
could not keep her eyes off the door. She lay there eying it with ever
increasing apprehension--yet she did not, would not, could not, rise to
turn the key....