"I will answer you nothing!" murmured Isabel, still facing her husband
as she moved round into the garden driveway. "Arthur Winslow, it is you
who are on trial, not I!"
"I on trial! God, listen to that!"
He sprang after her, gripped her shoulders, and hung over her, snarling,
"You two-faced runaway! what have I done but suffer?"
She kept the lantern hid. "What have you done? Oh, my husband, will you
hear if I tell you? You have hung the fates of all of us, living or yet
to live, on one thread,--please, dear, don't bear so heavily on me,--on
one poor thread which the jar of another misstep will surely break. Oh,
let us not make it! Come, Arthur,--my husband,--into the house; maybe
we can yet save ourselves and our dear ones! Arthur, you're hurting me
dreadfully. If you press me down that way, you'll force me to my knees."
Still she spoke in undertone, and still she muffled the light, while
steadily the weight of his arms increased. Suddenly he crowded her to
the earth. "Arthur," she murmured, "Arthur, what are you going to do?
Don't kill me here and now, Arthur; wait till to-morrow. I have that to
pass through to-night which may end my life peaceably in bed; and if it
should, then there will be no infamy on any of us,--on you or our child,
living, or on me, dead; and Godfrey, and Ruth, and mother, and all can
be"--
"Give me that lantern!" He held her with one hand, snatched the light
from cover, and thrust it into her face. "So this is what you signal him
with, is it?"
"Oh no, no! Arthur, dear, no! Before God's throne, no!"
He lifted it as high as his arm would go, and with all his force swung
it down, crashing and quenched, upon her head.
She gave a gentle sigh and rolled at his feet. Groaning with horror and
fright, he lifted her in his arms and bore her to her room and bed.
There she presently opened her eyes to find him laving her face and
head, moaning, covering them with kisses, and imploring her forgiveness
in a thousand hysterical repetitions.
"Hush, dear," she whispered. "I see how it all happened. Does anybody
know? Oh, God be thanked! don't let any one find out! It was all a
misunderstanding. So many things crowded together to mislead you!"
"Oh yes, so many, many things at once, my treasure! Oh yes, yes!"
"Call Sarah, will you, dear?"
"Oh, beloved, why should I? You don't need Sarah for anything."
"Yes, I need her. I must send her for mother--and Ruth--I promised Ruth;
and you must send Giles for the doctor; my hour is come."
* * * * *
In the Byington house Ruth and her brother met at the foot of the
stairs.
"Leonard," she whispered, "what is it? Is father ill? Leonard! Oh, what
have you seen?"
"Let me pass! quick!" He would have pressed her aside, but she laid
hands on him.
"What has Arthur done?" she asked. "What is he doing?"
"Ruth! Ruth! he is putting her out of his own gate!" The brother
extended both hands to turn the sister from his path, but she twined her
arms on his.
"Leonard! Leonard! for the love of heaven, let him do it! She has only
to go to her mother; let her go! It's the last hope. But she'd better be
dead, and she'd a hundred times rather be dead, than that Leonard
Byington should be her rescuer! Come in here a minute."
Slipping both hands into his she drew him into the lighted room, adding
as they went, "In a few minutes I can make some errand to her and find
how matters stand"--
They stumbled over a disordered rug. She fell into a chair; he sank to
his knees, and with his face in her hands he moaned, "Oh, Ruth! Oh,
Ruth! it's my fault after all! I should have gone away at the
beginning!"
Ruth and Arthur met face to face in the Winslow garden. "I was just
coming for you," he said, excitedly.
"For Isabel?"
"Yes, her mother is with her, and"--a sound of wheels--"here's Giles,
now, off for the doctor."
The servant passed. "Yes, I got here by the sunset express. I couldn't
stay away--with this impending."
"I didn't see you come."
"No, of course you didn't see me, for I didn't go to the station, and so
I didn't pass anywhere near your house. I got off at the tank and came
up the hill path."
"You must have got drenched; you _are_ drenched."
"Oh no! I got in before the rain began. Let myself in without seeing any
one, and found Isabel was over at her mother's. So I waited here."
"Didn't let her know you were home?" asked Ruth, with a penetrating
gaze.
"No, I haven't been off the place since I came, but I stepped out so
many times into the garden to see if she was coming that I'm soaking
wet."
They entered the lighted house, and he turned upon her a glance heavy
and wavering with falsehood. His tongue ran like a terrified horse.
"Oh--eh--before you go upstairs--Ruth--there's one thing I'm distressed
about. I've told Mrs. Morris, and she's promised to see that the doctor
understands it perfectly,--though I shall explain it to him myself the
moment he comes. And still I wish you'd see that he understands, will
you?"
"What is it?"
"Why, at last, as I was waiting for Isabel, and saw her coming, I went
to meet her. Unfortunately she took me for a stranger, turned to run,
and tripped and fell headlong! She somehow got her lantern between the
base of a tree and the crown of her head, smashed the lantern, and cut
and bruised her head pitifully!"
To hide her start of distress Ruth moved up the stair; but after a step
or two she turned. "Arthur, why say anything about it, if nothing is
asked?"
The husband stared at her and turned deadly pale.
"Th--that's tr--true!" he said, with an eager gesture. "I'll not mention
it. And--Ruth!"--she was leaving him--"you might s--say the same to Mrs.
Morris!"
She nodded, but would not trust her eyes to meet his. He was right; she
had divined his deed.
He went loiteringly into the library and gently closed the door. Then he
turned the light low, paced once up and down the room, and all at once
slammed himself full length upon a lounge, and lay face up, face down,
by turns, writhing and tearing his hair.
Soon again he was pacing the floor, and presently was prone once more,
and then once more up.
Giles, his English man, brought the doctor, and Arthur heard him
discoursing as the vehicle drew up.
"Yes, sir, quite so; quite so, sir. And yet I believe, sir, if h-all
money and lands was 'eld in common, the 'ole 'uman ryce would be as
'appy as the gentlemen and lydies on Bylow 'Ill!"
The young husband met the physician cheerily, sent him up, and went back
to his solitude.
An hour passed, and then Sarah Stebbens knocked and leaned in. "Mr.
Arthur!"
"What, Sarah?"
"Oh! I didn't see you. All's well, and it's a daughter."