Spurlock pushed back his helmet and sat down in the white sand,
buckling his knees and folding his arms around them--pondering. Was
he really awake? The arrival and departure of this strange father
lacked the essential human touch to make it real. Without a
struggle he could give up his flesh and blood like that! "I can now
give myself to God utterly; no human emotion will ever be shuttling
in between." The mortal agony behind those eyes! And all the while
he had probably loved his child. To take Spring and Love out of her
life, as if there were no human instincts to tell Ruth what was
being denied her! And what must have been the man's thought as he
came upon Ruth wearing a gown of her mother's?--a fair picture of
the mother in the primrose days? Not a flicker of an eyelash; steel
and granite outwardly.
The conceit of Howard Spurlock in imagining he knew what mental
suffering was! But Enschede was right: Ruth must never know. To
find the true father at the expense of the beautiful fairy tale
Ruth had woven around the woman in the locket was an intolerable
thought. But the father, to go his way forever alone! The iron in
the man!--the iron in this child of his!
Wanting a little love, a caress now and then. Spurlock bent his
head to his knees. He took into his soul some of the father's
misery, some of the daughter's, to mingle with his own. Enschede,
to have starved his heart as well as Ruth's because, having laid a
curse, he knew not how to turn aside from it! How easily he might
have forgotten the unworthy mother in the love of the child! And
this day to hear her voice lifted in a quality of anathema. Poor
Ruth: for a father, a madman; for a husband--a thief!
Spurlock rocked his body slightly. He knew that at this moment Ruth
lay upon her bed in torment, for she was by nature tender; and the
reaction of her scathing words, no matter how justifiable, would be
putting scars on her soul. And he, her lawful husband, dared not go
to her and console her! Accursed--all of them--Enschede, Ruth, and
himself.
"What's the matter, lad, after all the wonderful fireworks at
lunch?"
Spurlock beheld McClintock standing beside him. He waved a hand
toward the sea.
"A sail?" said McClintock. "What about it?"
"Enschede."
"Enschede?--her father? What's happened?" McClintock sat down. "Do
you mean to tell me he's come and gone in an hour? What the devil
kind of a father is he?"
Spurlock shook his head.
"What's become of Ruth?"
"Gone to her room."
"Come, lad; let's have it," said McClintock. "Anything that
concerns Ruth is of interest to me. What happened between Ruth and
her father that made him hurry off without passing ordinary
courtesies with me?"
"I suppose I ought to tell you," said Spurlock; "but it is
understood that Ruth shall never know the truth."
"Not if it will hurt her."
"Hurt her? It would tear her to pieces; God knows she has had
enough. Her mother.... Do you recall the night she showed you the
face in the locket? Do you remember how she said--'If only my
mother had lived'? Did you ever see anything more tender or
beautiful?"
"I remember. Go on and tell me."
When Spurlock had finished the tale, touched here and there by his
own imagination, McClintock made a negative sign.
"So that was it? And what the devil are you doing here, moping
alone on the beach? Why aren't you with her in this hour of
bitterness?"
"What can I do?"
"You can go to her and take her in your arms."
"I might have been able to do that if you hadn't told me ... she
cared."
"Man, she's your wife!"
"And I am a thief."
"You're a damn fool, too!" exploded the trader.
"I am as God made me."
"No. God gives us an equal chance; but we make ourselves. You are
captain of your soul; don't forget your Henley. But I see now. That
poor child, trying to escape, and not knowing how. Her father for
fifteen years, and you now for the rest of her life! Tell her
you're a thief. Get it off your soul."
"Add that to what she is now suffering? It's too late. She would
not forgive me."
"And why should you care whether she forgave you or not?"
Spurlock jumped to his feet, the look of the damned upon his face.
"Why? Because I love her! Because I loved her at the start, but was
too big a fool to know it!"
His own astonishment was quite equal to McClintock's. The latter
began to heave himself up from the sand.
"Did I hear you ..." began McClintock.
"Yes!" interrupted Spurlock, savagely. "You heard me say it! It was
inevitable. I might have known it. Another labyrinth in hell!"
A smile broke over the trader's face. It began in the eyes and
spread to the lips: warm, embracing, even fatherly.
"Man, man! You're coming to life. There's something human about you
now. Go to her and tell her. Put your arms around her and tell her
you love her. Dear God, what a beautiful moment!"
The fire went out of Spurlock's eyes and the shadow of hopeless
weariness fell upon him. "I can't make you understand; I can't make
you see things as I see them. As matters now stand, I'm only a
thief, not a blackguard. What!--add another drop to her cup? Who
knows? Any day they may find me. So long as matters remain as they
are, and they found me, there would be no shame for Ruth. Can't I
make you see?"
"But I'm telling you Ruth loves you. And her kind of love forgives
everything and anything but infidelity."
"You did not hear her when she spoke to her father; I did."
"But she would understand you; whereas she will never understand
her father. Spurlock: 'tis Roundhead, sure enough. Go to her, I
say, and take her in your arms, you poor benighted Ironsides! I
can't make _you_ see. Man, if you tell her you love her, and later
they took you away to prison, who would sit at the prison gate
until your term was up? Ruth. Why am I here--thirty years of
loneliness? Because I know women, the good and the bad; and because
I could not have the good, I would not take the bad. The woman I
wanted was another man's wife. So here I am, king of all I survey,
with a predilection for poker, a scorched liver, and a piano-player.
But you! Ruth is your lawful wife. Not to go to her is wickeder than
if I had run away with my friend's wife. You're a queer lad. With
your pencil you see into the hearts of all; and without your pencil
you are dumb and blind. Ruth is not another man's wife; she is all
your own, for better or for worse. Have you thought of the monstrous
lie you are adding to your theft?"
"Lie?" said Spurlock, astounded.
"Aye--to pretend to her that you don't care. That's a most damnable
lie; and when she finds out, 'tis then she will not forgive. She'll
have this hour always with her; and you failed her. Go to her."
"I can't."
"Afraid?"
"Yes."
This simple admission disarmed McClintock. "Well, well; I have
given out of my wisdom. I'd like to shake you until your bones
rattled; but the bones of a Roundhead wouldn't rattle to any
purpose. Lad, I admire you even in your folly. Mountains out of
molehills and armies out of windmills; and you'll tire yourself in
one direction and shatter yourself in the other. There is strength
in you--misguided. You will torture yourself and torture her all
through life; but in the end she will pour the wine of her faith
into a sound chalice. I would that you were my own."
"I, a thief?"
"Aye; thief, Roundhead and all. If a certain kink in your sense of
honour will not permit you to go to her as a lover, go to her as a
comrade. Talk to her of the new story; divert her; for this day her
heart has been twisted sorely."
McClintock without further speech strode toward his bungalow; and
half an hour later Spurlock, passing, heard the piano-tuning key at
work.
Spurlock plodded through the heavy sand, leaden in the heart and
mind as well as in the feet. But recently he had asked God to pile
it all on him; and God had added this, with a fresh portion for
Ruth. One thing--he could be thankful for that--the peak of his
misfortunes had been reached; the world might come to an end now
and not matter in the least.
Love ... to take her in his arms and to comfort her: and then to
add to her cup of bitterness the knowledge that her husband was a
thief! For himself he did not care; God could continue to grind and
pulverize him; but to add another grain to the evil he had already
wrought upon Ruth was unthinkable. The future? He dared not
speculate upon that.
He paused at the bamboo curtain of her room, which was in
semi-darkness. He heard Rollo's stump beat a gentle tattoo on the
floor.
"Ruth?"
Silence for a moment. "Yes. What is it?"
"Is there anything I can do?" The idiocy of the question filled him
with the craving of laughter. Was there anything he could do!
"No, Hoddy; nothing."
"Would you like to have me come in and talk?" How tender that
sounded!--talk!
"If you want to."
Bamboo and bead tinkled and slithered behind him. The dusky
obscurity of the room was twice welcome. He did not want Ruth to
see his own stricken countenance; nor did he care to see hers,
ravaged by tears. He knew she had been weeping. He drew a chair to
the side of the bed and sat down, terrified by the utter fallowness
of his mind. Filled as he was with conflicting emotions, any
stretch of silence would be dangerous. The fascination of the idea
of throwing himself upon his knees and crying out all that was in
his heart! As his eyes began to focus objects, he saw one of her
arms extended upon the counterpane, in his direction, the hand
clenched tightly.
"I am very wicked," she said. "After all, he is my father, Hoddy;
and I cursed him. But all those empty years!... My heart was hot.
I'm sorry. I do forgive him; but he will never know now."
"Write him," urged Spurlock, finding speech.
"He would return my letters unopened or destroy them."
That was true, thought Spurlock. No matter what happened, whether
the road smoothed out or became still rougher, he would always be
carrying this secret with him; and each time he recalled it, the
rack.
"Would you rather be alone?"
"No. It's kind of comforting to have you there. You understand. I
sha'n't cry any more. Tell me a story--with apple-blossoms in
it--about people who are happy."
Miserably his thoughts shuttled to and fro in search of what he
knew she wanted--a love story. Presently he began to weave a tale,
sorry enough, with all the ancient claptraps and rusted platitudes.
How long he sat there, reeling off this drivel, he never knew. When
he reached the happy ending, he waited. But there was no sign from
her. By and by he gathered enough courage to lean toward her. She
had fallen asleep. The hand that had been clenched lay open,
relaxed; and upon the palm he saw her mother's locket.