When Ruth Wakefield awoke the next morning after her arrival in the
village of San Domingo, she became conscious of her surroundings with a
sudden start; at first, she scarcely realized just where she was, for
her long trip on the boat following her strenuous and nerve-wracking
labor of the past few weeks, had left her very weary in mind as well as
in body, so that her sleep had been profound and restful; she looked
about her wonderingly and did not recognize anything near to her except
little Tid-i-wats who was cuddled up in a little soft round ball right
beside her pillow; then, from the adjoining room, she began to hear old
Mage, who was, evidently, making her customary strenuous efforts to
continue her slumbers.
Gradually, Ruth remembered the desolation to which she had returned,
and, hastily dressing, she left the refectory intending to go at once to
the spot where her much-loved home had been, and ascertain, under the
light of day, the extent of her loss, also, she wished to make some
plans, while she could do so quietly and unobserved, as to the future of
her little family, who, as it seemed, was now without a roof to shelter
them.
She slowly and cautiously ascended the hill; the pathway was almost
obliterated by the growth of the wild things that had been allowed to
run riot over it and she followed it more by instinct than anything
else; as she gained the point from which the proud edifice she had so
loved used to become visible to anyone approaching it, the fact that no
buildings of any kind were in sight pressed upon her inner
consciousness, and it was only with great effort that she proceeded at
all; somehow, she had hoped, she now found, that the hasty survey they
had made the night before might have been overdrawn in some respects and
the corroboration of her worst fears was hard for her to bear; but she
had become accustomed, from long endurance, to meet whatever came with
calmness and courage; so she straightened her slim, tall figure to its
full height, and advanced with the air of a soldier marching forth to
meet the foe.
She had passed the spot where the entrance gates had been; the pillars
on either side of the entrance were almost entirely demolished and there
was nothing to be seen of the gates themselves; all along the driveway
debris was piled in disordered heaps; evidently, no one had been here,
or so it seemed at a first glance, anyway, for some time; vegetation had
even partially covered a part of the ruins of the dwelling itself; with
repeated gasps of horror, she ran from what had been the front entrance
to her home to first one side and then the other; finally, she sat down,
disconsolately, like Niobe, amid the ruins of her former happiness; she
knew that she was where her library had been; here she had found her
most satisfying, lasting happiness, surrounded as she had been by the
books she had loved; she could see the half-burned remains of many of
her favorites lying all around her; thinking to save some portion of one
of these, she picked it up, fondly, and laid it in her lap, while she
bent over it searching for some word of comfort or some sustaining
sentence; it seemed to her that some of the authors she had so dearly
loved and almost reverenced, would surely come to her aid in this dire
calamity ... it almost seemed to her as if one or more of them would
actually speak to her in such a way as to impress her mind with their
fine thoughts.
Suddenly, she became conscious of the nearness of some human being;
looking up, surprised and even alarmed, she beheld the man whose life
she had been instrumental in saving after the battle of San Juan Hill.
"Tender Heart," he said, softly, "Tender Heart, what have we here? Why
are you so sad? You came to me in grievous trouble and I, it seems, have
found you under similar circumstances. Tender Heart," he pleaded,
"Tender Heart, let me help you as you helped me if I can do so."
She turned and looked into his eyes ... she rose to her feet and took
one hesitating step toward him ... she stretched out both her hands,
and, somehow, then, she felt his strong arms fold themselves around her
yielding form ... she felt his heart beat very near to hers ... she felt
his lips against her hair ... and, then, she turned her face from his
broad shoulder where it had found a resting-place, and, as her lips met
his, it seemed to her that, after all, she had come home; a feeling of
deep security and sweet peace crept over her:
"Tender Heart," he murmured very near to her small, shell-like ear, for
she had, once more, put her head against his shoulder, "Tender Heart,
you do not know my name.... I am, to you, but one of those five men who
volunteered, at once, to follow Teddy up San Juan Hill.... I am, to you,
but only him you rescued from almost certain death upon that bloody
battle-field. Are you sure you are not making a mistake, sweet, trusting
Tender Heart, to grant me this great privilege, knowing as little of me
as you do?"
He waited for her answer, for some time, but, then, he waited willingly
indeed, for her soft nearness was enough to make him very happy; when
her answer came she spoke in such low tones he had to listen very
closely ... he had to put his arms about her a little closer than they
had been yet ... he had to lift her from the ground and bring her soft,
red mouth upon a level with his head, indeed ... and then, he heard her
say:
"I know you just as well as you know me. We do not know each other's
names ... we do not need to know them ... now ... I only know I love
you, Dear ... and, now, I know that you love me."
And, then, he set her feet upon the ground again and looked down into
her clear, gray eyes, and found within their shining depths the very
things he wanted most to know; and she looked up and saw a man who was a
man indeed ... a man on whom she knew that she could lean ... a man whom
she would love to walk beside ... a man of whom she could be always
proud.
Standing there, they gazed into each other's eyes and read their future
in them ... read the happiness that they might know together on the
earth, and, then, they saw beyond the chance and change that seem to to
govern earthly things, and saw themselves together in some higher,
better sphere. They plainly saw, there, in each other's eyes, the
promise of another, more etherial world, where they might spend long
ages of eternal joy and gladness in each other's company.
Father Felix found them so, for he had followed Ruth to see if he could
help her meet the problems that confronted her; the good Priest
hesitated for only a moment before he said:
"My Daughter, I trust that you have found true happiness. Sir, I do not
know you very well, but I can give you most profound assurance that you
have found a jewel among women; if she has any faults I have not found
them, yet, and I have spent full many happy hours in her society; my
work is to find faults, if so be I can trace them out; I am a hunter,
and a most successful one, of human frailties, and, when I give you my
most profound assurance that I have not found a fault in this one woman,
the statement is worthy of respect.
"Your coming at this time is most propitious, for I was almost at my
wit's end as to how to help her bear the direful calamity that has just
come upon her. She has not remembered half she's lost, and, now that she
has found you, Sir, I trust that she will nevermore remember much of it,
but that she will go on, with you beside her, leaving far behind her in
her earthly path sad memories of happy days that nevermore can come to
her."
The man, then, gave to Father Felix his right hand and kept his left arm
round Ruth's slender waist:
"I do not doubt your word," he answered the good Priest. "I feel that
every single word of what you've said is strictly true, and, yet, I have
some fault to find with this young lady, here; she came away and did
not leave a message behind for me, and I have had a weary, most
disheartening time since she departed. I came to San Domingo, I traced
her that far, easily, and, then, I found a little girl named Tessa
something, who said she knew the very place to find her in ... she said
she knew she'd go where, once, the mansion on the hill had stood ...
and, so, I came straight here, and, so, I've found her. Tender Heart,"
he asked, "have you told the good Priest how we met?"
Then Ruth blushed her pretty, fleeting, characteristic little blush, and
said:
"Father Felix knows me even better than I know myself, for he has told
me many times what I would do before I did it. Father Felix knows me
better, even, that _you_ do," then she turned to Father Felix, laughing
like a happy little child, and added, "He don't even know my name and I
have no idea what _his_ is; he calls me Tender Heart because I am so
easily misled by tenderness and I call him ... why, I have never called
him anything at all."
"Yes, you have!" he interrupted, eagerly. "You called me 'Dear' just
now ... so she is Tender Heart and I am Dear and that's enough, I think,
don't you?"
The good Priest smiled upon them almost condescendingly, for he was far
above such little human twists and turns, or so he seemed to be at
least, and so he was in very truth, for he had had his romance ... he
had seen the grave close over the bright curls of one he dearly loved
who loved him just as dearly as he did her; it was after that that he
had taken up the work he did so well; he left his human happiness behind
him in that narrow grave and looked beyond it to a higher, better kind
of happiness; Ruth knew a little of this romantic sorrow for the good
Priest had imparted it to her, and, so, her tender eyes filled up with
sudden tears and her low, sweet voice trembled into even softer cadences
than usual as she said:
"Dear Father Felix, you are more to me than any loving brother that a
woman ever had ... you are the only one who ever understood my human
sorrow and I think that you will fully understand my human happiness. I
wish with all my heart that you could be as happy as we are," her fair
face flushed again, "for you deserve far more of happiness than I do ...
as for him," she added, archly, "as for him ... do not be too sure of
perfect human happiness for him.... I am but a mere child in very many
ways.... I have so very much to learn.... I'm sure I'll always do the
very best I can, but whether that will be the very best that could be
done, of course I do not know."
"I'll risk it, anyway, and I will risk it gladly, joyfully," the man
averred. "I'd go again upon that bloody battle-field if you'd be sure
to find me, Tender Heart," he ended, "if only in that way we two were
meant to meet."
When Ruth went back to the refectory she found old Mage and Tid-i-wats
as lively as two crickets and as cheery as could be ... she introduced
the man whose life she'd saved, or so it seemed, to them, and each of
them acknowledged the introduction in her own peculiar way; old Mage
stared at the man and sized him up most shrewdly, and, then, she gave
her verdict very plainly by her manner of addressing him:
"I'm glad to see you, Sir," she said. "I'm surely very glad to see you
for I've often heard my dear young lady speak of you; I hope you'll stay
around here near to us for we will have another home to build and
Tid-i-wats and I are not much help to her.... I'm growing to be an old
woman, now, and Tid-i-wats is so peculiar that she never is much help to
anyone."
And, then, the little cat came close to him and smelled his hands and
rubbed against his legs, and, finally, when he sat down, she jumped up
in his lap and settled down and twisted round and licked herself and
washed her face and made herself entirely at home; and then she looked
up at old Mage and Ruth and whispered to them that she liked him very
well indeed, and, so, he was adopted into that small family.