The fire-light threw grotesque shadows on the walls. Ruth and Louis in
the library made no movement to ring for lights; it was quite cosey as
it was. They had both drawn near the crackling wood-blaze, Ruth in a low
rocker, Arnold in Mr. Levice’s broad easy-chair.
“I surely thought you intended going to the concert this evening,
Louis,” she said, looking across at him. “I fancy Mamma expected you to
accompany her.”
“What! Voluntarily put myself into the cold when there is a fire blazing
right here? Ah, no. At any rate, your mother is all right with the
Lewises, and I am all right with you.”
“I give you a guarantee I shall not bite; you look altogether too hard
for my cannibalistic propensities.”
“It is something not to be accounted soft. I think a redundancy of flesh
overflows in trickling sentimentality. My worst enemy could not accuse
me of either fault.”
“But your best friend would not mind a little thaw now and then. One of
the girls confided to me today that walking on and over-waxed floor was
nothing to attempting an equal footing in conversation with you.”
“I am sorry I am such a slippery customer. Does not the fire burn your
face? Shall I hand you a screen?”
“No; I like to toast.”
“But your complexion might char; move your chair a little forward.”
“In two minutes I intend to have lights and to bring my work down. Will
it make you tired to watch me?”
“Exceedingly. I prefer your undivided attention; it is not often we are
alone, Ruth.”
She looked up slightly startled; he seldom made personal remarks. Her
pulses began to flutter with the premonition that reference to a tacitly
buried secret was going to be made.
“We have been going out and receiving a good deal lately, though somehow
I don’t feel festive, with Father away in freezing New York. Mamma would
gladly have stayed at home to-night if Jennie had not insisted.”
“You think so? I fancy she was a very willing captive; she intimated as
much to me.”
“How?”
“Not in words, but her eyes were interesting reading: first,
capitulation to Jennie, then, in rapid succession, inspiration, command,
entreaty, a challenge and retreat, all directed at me. Possibly this
eloquence was lost upon you.”
“Entirely. What was your interpretation?”
“Ah, that was confidential. Perhaps I even endowed her with these
thoughts, knowing her desires were in touch with my own.”
“It is wanton cruelty to arouse a woman’s curiosity and leave it
unsatisfied.”
“It is not cruelty; it is cowardice.”
She gazed at him in wonder. His apple-blossom cheeks wore a rosier glow
than usual. He seized a log from the box, threw it on the blaze that
illumined their faces, grasped the poker, and leaning forward in his
chair let it grow hot as he held it to the flames. His glasses fell off,
dangling from the cord; and as he adjusted them, he caught the curious,
half-amused smile on Ruth’s attentive face. He gave the fire a sharp
raking and addressed her, gazing into the leaping flames.
“I was wondering why, after all, you could not be happy as my wife.”
A numbness as of death overspread her.
“I think I could make you happy, Ruth.”
In the pregnant silence that followed he looked up, and meeting her sad,
reproachful eyes, laid down the poker softly but resolutely; there was
method in the action.
“In fact, I know I could make you happy.”
“Louis, have you forgotten?” she cried in sharp pain.
“I have forgotten nothing,” he replied incisively. “Listen to me, Ruth.
It is because I remember that I ask you. Give me the right to care
for you, and you will be happier than you can ever be in these
circumstances.”
“You do not know what you ask, Louis. Even if I could, you would never
be satisfied.”
“Try me, Ruth,” he entreated.
She raised herself from her easy, reclining position, and regarded him
earnestly.
“What you desire,” she said in a restrained manner, “would be little
short of a crime for me. What manner of wife should I be to you when my
every thought is given to another?”
His face put on the set look of one who has shut his teeth hard
together.
“I anticipated this repulse,” he said after a pause; “so what you have
just assured me of does not affect my wish or my resolution to continue
my plea.”
“Would you marry a woman who feels herself as closely bound to another,
or the memory of another, as if the marriage rite had been actually
performed? Oh, Louis, how could you force me to these disclosures?”
“I am seeking no disclosure, but it is impossible for me to continue
silent now.”
“Why?”
“Why? Because I love you.”
They sat so close together he might have touched her by putting out his
hand, but he remained perfectly still, only the pale excitement of long
repression speaking from his face; but she shrank back at his words and
raised her hand as if about to receive a blow.
“Do not be alarmed,” he continued, noticing the action; “my love cannot
hurt you, or it would have killed you long ago.”
“Oh, Louis,” she murmured, “forgive me; I never thought you cared so
much.”
“How should you? I am not a man to wear my heart upon my sleeve. I think
I have always loved you; but living as familiarly as we have lived,
seeing you whenever I wished, the thought that some day this might end
never occurred to me. It was only when the possibility of some other
man’s claiming your love and taking you from me presented itself, that
my heart rose up in arms against it,--and then I asked you to be my
wife.”
“Yes,” she replied, raising her pale face; “and I refused. The same
cause that moved me then, and to which you submitted without protest,
rules me now, and you know it.”
“No; I do not know it. What then might have had a possible issue is now
done with--or do I err?”
Her mouth trembled piteously, but no tears came as she lowered her head.
“Then listen to me. You may think me a poor sort of a fellow even to
wish you to marry me when you assure me that you love another. That
means that you do not love me as a husband should be loved, but it does
not prove that you never could love me so.”
“It proves just that.”
“No, you may think so now, but let me reason you into seeing the falsity
of your thought,--for I do not wish to force or impel you to do a thing
repugnant to your reason as well as to your feelings. To begin with, you
do not dislike me?”
His face was painful in its eagerness.
“I have always loved you as a dear brother.”
“Some people would consider that worse than hostility; I do not. Another
question: Is there anything about my life or personality to which you
object, or of which your are ashamed?”
“You know how proud we all are of you in your bearing in every relation
of life.”
“I was egotist enough to think as much at any rate; otherwise I
could not approach you so confidently. Well, love--indifferent if you
will--and respect are not a bad foundation for something stronger. Will
you, for the sake of argument, suppose that for some reason you have
forgotten your opposition and have been led into marrying me?”
The sad indulgence of her smile was not inspiriting, but he continued,--
“Now, then, say you are my wife; that means I am your husband, and I
love you. You do not return my love, you say; you think you would be
wretched with me because you love another. Still, you are married to me;
that gives me rights that no other man can possess, no matter how much
you love him. You are bound to me, I to you and your happiness; so I
pledge myself to make you happier than you are now, because I shall make
you forget this man.”
“You could not, and I should only grow to hate you.”
“Impossible,” the pallor of his face intensifying; “because I should
so act that my love would wait upon your pleasure: it would never push
itself into another’s place, but it would in time overshadow the other.
For, remember, I shall be your husband. I shall give you another life;
I shall take you away with me. You will leave all your old friends
and associations for a while, and I shall be with you always,--not
intrusively, but necessarily. I shall give you every pleasure and
novelty that the Old World can afford. I shall shower my love on you,
not myself. In return I shall expect your tolerance. In time I will make
you love me.”
His voice shook with the strength of his passion, while she listened in
heart-sick fear. Carried away by his manner, she almost felt as if he
had accomplished his object. He quieted down after this.
“Don’t you see, Ruth, that all this change must make you forget? And if
you tried to put the past from you for no other reason than that your
wifehood would be less untrue, you would be but following the instincts
of a truly honorable woman. After that, all would be easy. In every
instance you would be forced to look upon me as your husband, for you
would belong to me. I should be the author of all your surroundings; and
always keeping in mind how I want you to regard me, I should woo you so
tenderly that without knowing it you would finally yield. Then, and only
then, when I had filled your thought to the exclusion of every other
man, I should bring you home; and I think we should be happy.”
“And you would be satisfied to give so much and receive so little?”
“The end would repay me.”
“It is a pretty story,” she said, letting her hands fall listlessly into
her lap, “but the denouement is a castle in Spain that we should never
inhabit. You think your love is strong enough to kill mine first of
all; well, I tell you, nothing is strong enough for that. With this fact
established the rest is needless to speak of. It is only your dream,
Louis; forgive me that I unwittingly intruded into it; reality would
mean disillusion,--we are happy only when we dream.”
“You are bitter.”
“Our relations are turned, then; I have put into practice your old
theories of the uselessness of life. No; I am wrong. It is better to die
than not to have loved.”
“You think you have lived your life, then. I can’t convince you
otherwise now; but I am going to beg you to think this over, to try
to imagine yourself my wife. I will not hasten your decision, but in a
week’s time you should be able to answer me yes or no. If anything can
help my cause, I cannot overlook it; so I may tell you now that for some
occult reason your mother’s one wish is to see you my wife.”
“And my father?” her voice was harsh now.
“Your father has expressed to your mother that such a course would make
him happy.”
She rose suddenly as if oppressed. Her face looked hard to a degree. She
stood before him, tall and rigid. He stood up and faced her, reading
her face so intently that he straightened himself as if to receive an
attack.
“I will consider what you have said,” she said mechanically.
The reaction was so unexpected that he turned giddy and caught on to the
back of a chair to steady himself.
“It will not take me a week,” she went on with no change in her
monotone; “I can give you an answer in a day or two. To-morrow night,
perhaps.”
He made a step forward, a movement to seize her hand; but she stepped
back and waved him off.
“Don’t touch me,” she cried in a suppressed voice; “at least you are not
my husband--yet.”
She turned hastily toward the door without another word.
“Wait!”
His vibrant voice compelled her to turn.
“I want no martyr for a wife, nor yet a tragedy queen. If you can come
to me and honestly say, ‘I trust my happiness to you,’ well and good.
But as I told you once before, I am not a saint, and I cannot always
control myself as I have been forced to do tonight. If this admission is
damaging, it is too true to be put lightly aside. I shall not detain you
longer.”
He looked haughty and cold regarding her from this dim distance. Her
gentleness struggled to get the better of her, and she came back and
held out her hand.
“I am sorry if I offended you, Louis; good-night. Will you not pardon my
selfishness?”
His eyes gleamed behind their glasses; he did not take her hand, but
merely bent over the little peace-offering as over a sacrament. Seeing
that he had no intention of doing more, her hand fell passively to her
side, and she left the room.
As the door closed softly, Arnold sank with a hopeless gesture into
a chair and buried his face in his hands. He was not a stoic, but a
man,--a Frenchman, who loved much; but Arnold, half-blinded by his own
love, scarcely appreciated the depths of self-forgetfulness to which
Ruth would have to succumb in order to accept the guaranty of happiness
which he offered her.
The question now presented itself in the light of a duty: if by this
action she could undo the remorse that her former offence had inflicted,
had she the right to ignore the opportunity? A vision of her own sad
face obtruded itself, but she put it sternly from her. If she were to do
this thing, the motive alone must be considered; and she rigidly kept
in view the fact that her marriage would be the only means by which her
father might be relieved of the haunting knowledge of her lost peace
of mind. Had she given one thought to Louis, the possibility of the act
would have been abhorrent to her. One picture she kept constantly before
her,--her father’s happy eyes.