Sundered
During the next few weeks Ruth continued very ill. Although the
delirium had left her and did not return, her manner was still very
strange, and it was remarkable that she slept but little and at long
intervals. Mrs Owen came to look after her every day, not going back to
her own home till the evening. Frankie used to call for her as he came
out of school and then they used to go home together, taking little
Freddie Easton with them also, for his own mother was not able to look
after him and Mary Linden had so much other work to do.
On Wednesday evening, when the child was about five weeks old, as Mrs
Owen was wishing her good night, Ruth took hold of her hand and after
saying how grateful she was for all that she had done, she asked
whether—supposing anything happened to herself—Nora would promise to
take charge of Freddie for Easton. Owen’s wife gave the required
promise, at the same time affecting to regard the supposition as
altogether unlikely, and assuring her that she would soon be better,
but she secretly wondered why Ruth had not mentioned the other child as
well.
Nora went away about five o’clock, leaving Ruth’s bedroom door open so
that Mrs Linden could hear her call if she needed anything. About a
quarter of an hour after Nora and the two children had gone, Mary
Linden went upstairs to see Ruth, who appeared to have fallen fast
asleep; so she returned to her needlework downstairs. The weather had
been very cloudy all day, there had been rain at intervals and it was a
dark evening, so dark that she had to light the lamp to see her work.
Charley sat on the hearthrug in front of the fire repairing one of the
wheels of a wooden cart that he had made with the assistance of another
boy, and Elsie busied herself preparing the tea.
Easton was not yet home; Rushton & Co. had a few jobs to do and he had
been at work since the previous Thursday. The place where he was
working was some considerable distance away, so it was nearly half past
six when he came home. They heard him at the gate and at her mother’s
direction Elsie went quickly to the front door, which was ajar, to ask
him to walk as quietly as possible so as not to wake Ruth.
Mary had prepared the table for his tea in the kitchen, where there was
a bright fire with the kettle singing on the hob. He lit the lamp and
after removing his hat and overcoat, put the kettle on the fire and
while he was waiting for it to boil he went softly upstairs. There was
no lamp burning in the bedroom and the place would have been in utter
darkness but for the red glow of the fire, which did not dispel the
prevailing obscurity sufficiently to enable him to discern the
different objects in the room distinctly. The intense silence that
reigned struck him with a sudden terror. He crossed swiftly over to the
bed and a moment’s examination sufficed to tell him that it was empty.
He called her name, but there was no answer, and a hurried search only
made it certain that she was nowhere in the house.
Mrs Linden now remembered what Owen’s wife had told her of the strange
request that Ruth had made, and as she recounted it to Easton, his
fears became intensified a thousandfold. He was unable to form any
opinion of the reason of her going or of where she had gone, as he
rushed out to seek for her. Almost unconsciously he directed his steps
to Owen’s house, and afterwards the two men went to every place where
they thought it possible she might have gone, but without finding any
trace of her.
Her father lived a short distance outside the town, and this was one of
the first places they went to, although Easton did not think it likely
she would go there, for she had not been on friendly terms with her
stepmother, and as he had anticipated, it was a fruitless journey.
They sought for her in every conceivable place, returning often to
Easton’s house to see if she had come home, but they found no trace of
her, nor met anyone who had seen her, which was, perhaps, because the
dreary, rain-washed streets were deserted by all except those whose
business compelled them to be out.
About eleven o’clock Nora was standing at the front door waiting for
Owen and Easton, when she thought she could discern a woman’s figure in
the shadow of the piers of the gate opposite. It was an unoccupied
house with a garden in front, and the outlines of the bushes it
contained were so vague in the darkness that it was impossible to be
certain; but the longer she looked the more convinced she became that
there was someone there. At last she summoned sufficient courage to
cross over the road, and as she nervously drew near the gate it became
evident that she had not been mistaken. There was a woman standing
there—a woman with a child in her arms, leaning against one of the
pillars and holding the iron bars of the gate with her left hand. It
was Ruth. Nora recognized her even in the semi-darkness. Her attitude
was one of extreme exhaustion, and as Nora touched her, she perceived
that she was wet through and trembling; but although she was almost
fainting with fatigue she would not consent to go indoors until
repeatedly assured that Easton was not there, and that Nora would not
let him see her if he came. And when at length she yielded and went
into the house she would not sit down or take off her hat or jacket
until—crouching on the floor beside Nora’s chair with her face hidden
in the latter’s lap—she had sobbed out her pitiful confession, the same
things that she had unwittingly told to the same hearer so often before
during the illness, the only fact that was new was the account of her
wanderings that night.
She cried so bitterly and looked so forlorn and heartbroken and ashamed
as she faltered out her woeful story; so consumed with
self-condemnation, making no excuse for herself except to repeat over
and over again that she had never meant to do wrong, that Nora could
not refrain from weeping also as she listened.
It appeared that, unable to bear the reproach that Easton’s presence
seemed to imply, or to endure the burden of her secret any longer, and
always haunted by the thought of the lake in the park, Ruth had formed
the dreadful resolution of taking her own life and the child’s. When
she arrived at the park gates they were closed and locked for the night
but she remembered that there was another means of entering—the place
at the far end of the valley where the park was not fenced in, so she
had gone there—nearly three miles—only to find that railings had
recently been erected and therefore it was no longer possible to get
into the park by that way. And then, when she found it impossible to
put her resolve into practice, she had realized for the first time the
folly and wickedness of the act she had meant to commit. But although
she had abandoned her first intention, she said she could never go home
again; she would take a room somewhere and get some work to do, or
perhaps she might be able to get a situation where they would allow her
to have the child with her, or failing that she would work and pay
someone to look after it; but she could never go home any more. If she
only had somewhere to stay for a few days until she could get something
to do, she was sure she would be able to earn her living, but she could
not go back home; she felt that she would rather walk about the streets
all night than go there again.
It was arranged that Ruth should have the small apartment which had
been Frankie’s playroom, the necessary furniture being obtained from a
second-hand shop close by. Easton did not learn the real reason of her
flight until three days afterwards. At first he attributed it to a
recurrence of the mental disorder that she had suffered from after the
birth of the child, and he had been glad to leave her at Owen’s place
in Nora’s care, but on the evening of the third day when he returned
home from work, he found a letter in Ruth’s handwriting which told him
all there was to tell.
When he recovered from the stupefaction into which he was thrown by the
perusal of this letter, his first thought was to seek out Slyme, but he
found upon inquiring that the latter had left the town the previous
morning. Slyme’s landlady said he had told her that he had been offered
several months’ work in London, which he had accepted. The truth was
that Slyme had heard of Ruth’s flight—nearly everyone knew about it as
a result of the inquiries that had been made for her—and, guessing the
cause, he had prudently cleared out.
Easton made no attempt to see Ruth, but he went to Owen’s and took
Freddie away, saying he would pay Mrs Linden to look after the child
whilst he was at work. His manner was that of a deeply injured man—the
possibility that he was in any way to blame for what had happened did
not seem to occur to his mind at all.
As for Ruth she made no resistance to his taking the child away from
her, although she cried about it in secret. She got some work a few
days afterwards—helping the servants at one of the large
boarding-houses on the Grand Parade.
Nora looked after the baby for her while she was at work, an
arrangement that pleased Frankie vastly; he said it was almost as good
as having a baby of their very own.
For the first few weeks after Ruth went away Easton tried to persuade
himself that he did not very much regret what had happened. Mrs Linden
looked after Freddie, and Easton tried to believe that he would really
be better off now that he had only himself and the child to provide
for.
At first, whenever he happened to meet Owen, they used to speak of
Ruth, or to be more correct, Easton used to speak of her; but one day
when the two men were working together Owen had expressed himself
rather offensively. He seemed to think that Easton was more to blame
than she was; and afterwards they avoided the subject, although Easton
found it difficult to avoid the thoughts the other man’s words
suggested.
Now and then he heard of Ruth and learnt that she was still working at
the same place; and once he met her suddenly and unexpectedly in the
street. They passed each other hurriedly and he did not see the scarlet
flush that for an instant dyed her face, nor the deathly pallor that
succeeded it.
He never went to Owen’s place or sent any communication to Ruth, nor
did she ever send him any; but although Easton did not know it she
frequently saw Freddie, for when Elsie Linden took the child out she
often called to see Mrs Owen.
As time went on and the resentment he had felt towards her lost its
first bitterness, Easton began to think there was perhaps some little
justification for what Owen had said, and gradually there grew within
him an immense desire for reconciliation—to start afresh and to forget
all that had happened; but the more he thought of this the more
hopeless and impossible of realization it seemed.
Although perhaps he was not conscious of it, this desire arose solely
from selfish motives. The money he earned seemed to melt away almost as
soon as he received it; to his surprise he found that he was not nearly
so well off in regard to personal comfort as he had been formerly, and
the house seemed to grow more dreary and desolate as the wintry days
dragged slowly by. Sometimes—when he had the money—he sought
forgetfulness in the society of Crass and the other frequenters of the
Cricketers, but somehow or other he could not take the same pleasure in
the conversation of these people as formerly, when he had found it—as
he now sometimes wondered to remember—so entertaining as to almost make
him forget Ruth’s existence.
One evening about three weeks before Christmas, as he and Owen were
walking homewards together from work, Easton reverted for the first
time to their former conversation. He spoke with a superior air: his
manner and tone indicating that he thought he was behaving with great
generosity. He would be willing to forgive her and have her back, he
said, if she would come: but he would never be able to tolerate the
child. Of course it might be sent to an orphanage or some similar
institution, but he was afraid Ruth would never consent to that, and he
knew that her stepmother would not take it.
“If you can persuade her to return to you, we’ll take the child,” said
Owen.
“Do you think your wife would be willing?”
“She has already suggested doing so.”
“To Ruth?”
“No: to me. We thought it a possible way for you, and my wife would
like to have the child.”
“But would you be able to afford it?” said Easton.
“We should manage all right.”
“Of course,” said Easton, “if Slyme comes back he might agree to pay
something for its keep.”
Owen flushed.
“I wouldn’t take his money.”
After a long pause Easton continued: “Would you mind asking Mrs Owen to
suggest it to Ruth?”
“If you like I’ll get her to suggest it—as a message from you.”
“What I meant,” said Easton hesitatingly, “was that your wife might
just suggest it—casual like—and advise her that it would be the best
way, and then you could let me know what Ruth said.”
“No,” replied Owen, unable any longer to control his resentment of the
other’s manner, “as things stand now, if it were not for the other
child, I should advise her to have nothing further to do with you. You
seem to think that you are acting a very generous part in being
‘willing’ to have her back, but she’s better off now than she was with
you. I see no reason—except for the other child—why she should go back
to you. As far as I understand it, you had a good wife and you
ill-treated her.”
“I never ill-treated her! I never raised my hand to her—at least only
once, and then I didn’t hurt her. Does she say I ill-treated her.”
“Oh no: from what my wife tells me she only blames herself, but I’m
drawing my own conclusions. You may not have struck her, but you did
worse—you treated her with indifference and exposed her to temptation.
What has happened is the natural result of your neglect and want of
care for her. The responsibility for what has happened is mainly yours,
but apparently you wish to pose now as being very generous and to
‘forgive her’—you’re ‘willing’ to take her back; but it seems to me
that it would be more fitting that you should ask her to forgive you.”
Easton made no answer and after a long silence the other continued:
“I would not advise her to go back to you on such terms as you seem to
think right, because if you became reconciled on such terms I don’t
think either of you could be happy. Your only chance of happiness is to
realize that you have both done wrong; that each of you has something
to forgive; to forgive and never speak of it again.”
Easton made no reply and a few minutes afterwards, their ways
diverging, they wished each other “Good night”.
They were working for Rushton—painting the outside of a new
conservatory at Mr Sweater’s house, “The Cave”. This job was finished
the next day and at four o’clock the boy brought the handcart, which
they loaded with their ladders and other materials. They took these
back to the yard and then, as it was Friday night, they went up to the
front shop and handed in their time sheets. Afterwards, as they were
about to separate, Easton again referred to the subject of their
conversation of the previous evening. He had been very reserved and
silent all day, scarcely uttering a word except when the work they had
been engaged in made it necessary to do so, and there was now a sort of
catch in his voice as he spoke.
“I’ve been thinking over what you said last night; it’s quite true.
I’ve been a great deal to blame. I wrote to Ruth last night and
admitted it to her. I’ll take it as a favour if you and your wife will
say what you can to help me get her back.”
Owen stretched out his hand and as the other took it, said: “You may
rely on us both to do our best.”