November 3. How odd are the turns that fate plays us. Sometimes it seems
as if an unseen power were amusing himself tangling the threads of human
lives just as Peter has been snarling up my worsted for pure fun. Only a
power mighty enough to be able to do this must be too great to be so
heartless. I suppose, too, that the pity of things is often more in the
way in which we look at them than it is in the turn which fate or
fortune has given to affairs. The point of view changes values so.
All this is commonplace, of course; but it is certainly curious that
George's wife should be in my house, almost turned out of her husband's.
When I found her on the steps the other night, wet with the rain, afraid
to ring, afraid of me, and terrified at what had come upon her, I had no
time to think of the strange perversity of events which had brought this
about. She had left George's house, she said, because she was afraid of
him and because he had said she was to go as soon as she was able. He
had called her a horrible name, she added, and he had told her he was
done with her; that she must in the future take care of herself and not
expect to live with him. I know, after seeing the cruel self George
showed the other day, that he could be terrible, and he would have less
restraint with his wife than with me. In the evening, as soon as it was
really dark, in the midst of the storm, she came to me. She said she
knew how I must hate her, that she had said horrid things about me, but
she had nowhere else to go, and she implored I would take her in. She is
asleep now in the south chamber. She is ill, and I cannot tell what the
effects of her exposure will be. Dr. Wentworth looks grave, but he does
not say what he thinks.
What I ought to do is the question. She has been here two days, and her
husband must have found out by this time what I suppose everybody in
town knows,--where she is. I cannot fold my hands and let things go. I
must send for George, much as I shrink from seeing him. How can I run
the risk of having another scene like the one on Friday? and yet I must
do something. She can do nothing for herself. It should be a man to talk
with George; but I cannot ask Tom. He and George do not like each other,
and he could not persuade George to do right to Gertrude. Perhaps Deacon
Richards might effect something.
November 5. After all my difficulty in persuading Deacon Richards to
interfere, his efforts have come to nothing. George was rude to him, and
told him to mind his own affairs. I suppose dear old Deacon Daniel had
not much tact.
"I told him he ought to be ashamed of himself," the Deacon said
indignantly, "and that he was a disgrace to the town; but it didn't seem
to move him any."
"I hope he treated you well," I answered dolefully. "I am sorry I
persuaded you to go."
"He was plain enough," Deacon Daniel responded grimly. "He didn't mince
words any to speak of."
I must see him myself. I wish I dared consult Tom, but it could not do
any good. I must work it out alone; but what can I say?
November 6. Fortunately, I did not have to send for George. He appeared
this afternoon on a singular errand. He wanted to pay me board for his
wife until she was well enough to go away. I assured him he need not be
troubled about board, because I was glad to do what I could for his
wife; and I could not help adding that I did not keep a lodging-house.
"I'm willing to be as kind to her while she's here as I can," he assured
me awkwardly, "and of course I shall not let her go away empty-handed."
"She is not likely to," I retorted, feeling my cheeks get hot. "Dr.
Wentworth says she cannot be moved until after the baby comes."
He flushed in his turn, and looked out of the window.
"I don't think, Ruth," was his reply, "we can discuss that. It isn't a
pleasant subject."
There are women, I know, who can meet obstinacy with guile. I begin to
understand how it may be a woman will stoop to flatter and seem to
yield, simply through despair of carrying her end by any other means.
The hardness of this man almost bred in me a purpose to try and soften
him, to try to bewitch him, somehow to fool and ensnare him for his own
good; to hide how I raged inwardly at his injustice and cruelty, and to
pretend to be acquiescent until I had accomplished my end. I cannot lie,
however, even in acts, and all that sort of thing is beyond my power as
well as my will. I realized how hopeless it was for me to try to do
anything with him, and I rose.
"Very likely you are right," I said. "It is evidently useless for us to
discuss anything. Now I can only say good-by; but I forbid you to come
into my house again until you bring Mr. Saychase with you to remarry you
to Gertrude."
He had risen also, and we stood face to face.
"Do you suppose," he asked doggedly, "now I am free I'd consent to marry
any woman but you? I'll make you marry me yet, Ruth Privet, for I know
perfectly well you love me. Think how long we were engaged."
I remembered the question he asked me when he came back from Franklin
after he had seen her: "How long have we been engaged?"
"I shall keep your wife," was all I said, "until she is well and chooses
to go. George, I beg of you not to let her baby be born fatherless."
A hateful look came into his eyes.
"I thought you were fond of fatherless babies," he sneered.
"Go," I said, hardly controlling myself, "and don't come here again
without Mr. Saychase."
"If I bring him it will be to marry you, Ruth."
Something in me rose up and spoke without my volition. I did not know
what I was saying until the words were half said. I crossed the room and
rang the bell for Rosa, and as I did it I said:--
"I see I must have a husband to protect me from your insults, and I will
marry Tom Webbe."
Before he could answer, Rosa appeared.
"Rosa," I said, and all my calmness had come back, "will you show Mr.
Weston to the door. I am not at home to him again until he comes with
Mr. Saychase."
She restrained her surprise and amusement better than I expected, but
before she had had time to do more than toss her head George had rushed
away without ceremony. By this time, I suppose, every man, woman, and
child in town knows that I have turned him out of my house.
November 7. "And after the fire a still, small voice!" I have been
saying this over and over to myself; and remembering, not irreverently,
that God was in the voice.
I have had a talk with Tom which has moved me more than all the trouble
with George. The very fact that George so outraged all my feelings and
made me so angry kept me from being touched as I might have been
otherwise; but this explanation with Tom has left me shaken and tired
out. It is emotion and not physical work that wears humanity to shreds.
Tom came to discuss the reading-room. He is delighted that it has
started so well and is going on so swimmingly; and he is full of plans
for increasing the interest. I was, I confess, so preoccupied with what
I had made up my mind to say to him I could hardly follow what he was
saying. I felt as if something were grasping me by the throat. He looked
at me strangely, but he went on talking as if he did not notice my
uneasiness.
"Tom," I broke out at last, when I could endure it no longer, "did you
know that Mrs. Weston is here, very ill?"
"Yes," was all he answered.
"And, Tom," I hurried on, "George won't remarry her."
"Won't remarry her?" he echoed. "The cur!"
"He was here yesterday," I went on desperately, "and he said he is
determined to marry me."
Tom started forward with hot face and clenched fist.
"The blackguard! I wish I'd been here to kick him out of the house! What
did you say to him?"
"I told him he had insulted me, and forbade him to come here again
without Mr. Saychase to remarry them," I said. Then before Tom's
searching look I became so confused he could not help seeing there was
more.
"Well?" he demanded.
He was almost peremptory, although he was courteous. Men have such a way
in a crisis of instinctively taking the lead that a woman yields to it
almost of necessity.
"Tom," I answered, more and more confused, "I must tell you, but I hope
you'll understand. I had a frightful time with him. I was ashamed of him
and ashamed of myself, and very angry; and when he said he'd make me
marry him sometime, I told him"--
"Well?" demanded Tom, his voice much lower than before, but even more
compelling.
"I told him," said I, the blood fairly throbbing in my cheeks, "that I
should marry you. You've asked me, you know!"
He grew fairly white, but for a moment he did not move. His eyes had a
look in them I had never seen, and which made me tremble. It seemed to
me that he was fighting down what he wanted to say, and to get control
of himself.
"Ruth," he asked me at last, with an odd hoarseness in his voice, "do
you want George Weston to marry that woman?"
"Of course I do," I cried, so surprised and relieved that the question
was not more personal the tears started to my eyes. "I want it more than
anything else in the world."
Again he was still for a moment, his eyes looking into mine as if he
meant to drag out my most secret thought. These silences were too much
for me to bear, and I broke this one. I asked him if he were vexed at
what I had said to George, and told him the words had seemed to say
themselves without any will of mine.
"I could only be sorry at anything you said, Ruth," he returned, "never
vexed. I only think it a pity for you to link your name with mine."