HORACE CHASE, having by hard work arranged his far-stretching affairs so
that he could leave them, reached L'Hommedieu late in the evening of the
day of Ruth's flight. He had not telegraphed that he was coming; his
plan was to have his wife well on her way to New York and the Liverpool
steamer almost before she knew it. She had always been fond of the
unexpected; this fondness would perhaps serve him now. When he reached
the old house, to which his money had given a new freshness, there was
no one to meet him but Dolly's Diana. Diana, in her moderate, unexcited
way, began to tell him what had happened. But she was soon re-enforced
by Felicite, whose ideas (regarding the same events) were far more
theoretic.
"Miss Franklin had a lunch prepared, and took it with her," Diana went
on.
"Eet ended in a peekneek," interrupted Felicite. "The leaf was so red,
and the time so beautiful, monsieur; no clouds, and the sky of a blue!
Then suddenlee the rain ees come. No doubt they have entered in a house
to wait till morning."
"Which road did my wife take?" inquired Chase, his tone anxious.
"Ah, monsieur, no one _see_ herr, she go so early. Eet was herr joke--to
escape a leetle from herr sistare, if eet is permit to say eet; pardon."
"Which way, then, did Miss Franklin go?" continued Chase, impatiently.
Both women pointed towards the left. "She went _down_ the street. _That_
way."
"Down the street? That's no good. What I want to know is which road she
took after leaving town?"
But naturally neither Felicite nor Miss Pollikett could answer this
question; they had not followed the phaeton.
Chase rang the bell, and sent for one of the stablemen. "Let Pompey and
Zip go and ask at all the last houses (where the three roads that can be
reached from the end of this street turn off) whether any one noticed
Miss Franklin drive past this morning? They all know her pony and trap.
Tell Pompey to step lively, and if the people have gone to bed, he must
knock 'em up."
The two negroes returned in less than fifteen minutes; they had found
the trace without trouble: Miss Franklin had taken the river road
towards Warm Springs.
"Saddle my horse," said Chase; "and you, Jeff, as soon as I have
started, put the pair in the light carriage and drive down to Crumb's.
Have the lamps in good order and burning brightly, and see that the
curtains are buttoned down so as to keep the inside dry. Felicity, put
in shawls and whatever's necessary; the ladies are no doubt under cover
somewhere; but they may have got wet before reaching it. Perhaps one of
you had better go along?" he added, looking at the two women
reflectively, as if deciding which one would be best.
"Yes, sir; I can be ready in a moment," said Diana, going out.
"Ah! for _two_ there is not enough place," murmured Felicite, relieved.
Chase ate a few mouthfuls of something while his horse was being
saddled; then, less than half an hour after his arrival, he was off
again. It was very dark, but he did not slacken his speed for that, nor
for the rough, stony ascents and descents, nor for the places where the
now swollen river had overflowed the track. The distance which Dolly's
slow old pony had taken five hours to traverse, this hard rider covered
in less than half the time. At one o'clock he reached Crumb's. It was
the first house in that direction after the village and its outskirts
had been left behind. Along the mile or two beyond it, farther towards
the west, were three smaller houses, and at one of the four he hoped to
find his wife. As he drew near Crumb's, he saw that the windows were
lighted. "They're here!" he said to himself, with a long breath of
relief. As he rode up to the porch, Portia, who had heard his horse's
footsteps, looked out.
"They're here?" he asked.
"Yes," answered Portia, "they be."
"And all right?"
"I reckon so, by this time. Mis' Chase, she was pretty well beat when
she first come; but she's asleep now, an' restin' well. And Miss Dolly,
she's asleep too."
Chase dismounted. "Can my horse be put up? Just call some one, will
you?"
"Well, Isrul Porter, who works here, has gone home," answered Mrs.
Crumb. "Arter Mis' Chase and Miss Dolly got yere, I sent Isrul arter
their pony, what they'd lef' in the woods more'n two miles off, an' he
'lowed, Isrul did, that he'd take him home with him for the night when
he found him, bekase the Porters's house is nearer than our'n to the
place where he was lef'. An' Dave, he ain't workin' ter-day; he's ailin'
a little. But _I_ kin see to yer hoss."
"Show a light and I'll do it myself," Chase answered, amused at the idea
of his leaving such work to a woman.
Portia returned to the kitchen, and came back with a burning brand of
pitch-pine, which gave out a bright flare. Carrying this as a torch, she
led the way to the stable, Chase following with the horse. "Your mare,
she's in yere erready," said the farmer's wife, pointing to Kentucky
Belle.
Then, as they went back to the house by the light of the flaring brand,
she asked whether she should go up and wake Ruth.
"Yes, and I'll go along; which room is it? Hold on, though; are you sure
my wife's asleep?"
"When I went up the minute before you come, she was, an' Miss Dolly
too."
"Well, then, I guess I won't disturb 'em just yet," said Chase, and he
went with Portia to her kitchen, where she brought forward her
rocking-chair for his use. "What time did they get here?" he inquired.
Portia, seating herself on a three-legged stool, told what she knew. As
she was finishing her story there came a growl from the dark end of the
long room, the end where the loom stood. "It's only Dave wakin' up," she
explained, and she hastened towards her husband. But as she did so he
roared "Coffee!" in impatient tones, and, hurrying back, she knelt down
and blew up the fire. "I'm comin', Dave; it's all ready," she called.
Then as she continued to work the bellows quickly she went on in a low
voice to Chase: "He'll stay awake now fer an hour or two. An' he'll be
talkin', an' takin' on, p'raps. Mebbe you'd ruther set in the best room
for a whilst? There's a fire; an' the stairs mount right up from there
to the room where yer wife's asleep, so you kin go up whenever you like.
Relse you might lay down yourself, without disturbin' 'em at all till
mawnin'. There's a good bed in the best room; none better."
"Coffee!" demanded the farmer a second time, and Portia quickly took the
cup, which stood waiting with sugar and cream already in it, and lifting
her pot from the coals, poured out the odorous beverage, the strong
coffee of Rio. Though she had an intense desire to be left alone with
"Dave," now that his precious waking-time had come, her inborn sense of
hospitality would never have permitted her to suggest that her guest
should leave her, if she had not believed with all her heart that her
best room was really a bower of beauty; she even had the feeling that
she ought to urge it a little, lest he should be unwilling to "use it
common." Chase, perceiving that she wished him to go, went softly out,
and, entering the bower, closed the door behind him. The fire was low.
He put on some pitch-pine splinters, and added wood; for, in spite of
his water-proof coat (which was now hanging before the fireplace in the
kitchen), his clothes were damp. He lifted the logs carefully, so as not
to waken the sleepers above; then he sat down and stretched out his legs
to the blaze. In spite of Portia's assertion that his wife was "all
right," he was very uneasy; he could scarcely keep himself from stealing
up to get a look at her. But sleeplessness had been for so long one of
her troubles that he knew it was far wiser to let her rest as long as
she could. One thought pleased him; it had pleased him since the moment
he heard it: her stealing off for a ride at dawn simply to tease Dolly.
That certainly looked as if she must be much stronger than she had been
when he left her. It was an escapade worthy of the days when she had
been the frolicking Ruth Franklin. On the other hand loomed up the
results of this freak of hers, namely, her having been out so long in
the storm. Portia's expression, "pretty well beat when she first
come"--that was not encouraging. Thus he weighed the possibilities,
sitting there with his chair tilted back, his eyes fixed on the reviving
flame. He knew that he could not sleep until he had seen her. Portia's
"best bed," therefore, did not tempt him. In addition, he wished to wait
for the carriage, in order to contrive some sort of shelter for it, and
to assist in putting up the horses, since there was no one else to do
it. After a while, with his hands clasped behind his head, he moved his
chair a little and looked vaguely round the room. Everything was the
same as when he had paid his former visit there during the excursion
which he had made over the Great Smoky Mountains with the Franklins and
poor Jared. The red patch-work quilt was spread smoothly over the bed;
the accordion was on the mantel-piece, flanked by the vase whose design
was a pudgy hand holding a cornucopia; on the wall was the long row of
smirking fashion-plates. This means of entertainment, however, was soon
exhausted, and after a while he took some memoranda from his pocket,
and, bending forward towards the fire, began to look them over.
He had been thus engaged for nearly half an hour when a door opened
behind him, and Dolly Franklin came in.
She had no idea that he was there. The bedroom above, whose flight of
steep stairs she had just descended, possessed windows only towards the
river; and the second-story floors of the old house were so thick that
no sound from below could penetrate them. She had not therefore heard
Chase ride up on the other side; she had not distinguished any sounds in
the kitchen.
He jumped up when he saw her. "I'm _mighty_ glad you've come down,
Dolly. I've been afraid to disturb her. Is she awake?"
Dolly closed the door behind her. "No; she is sleeping soundly. I
wouldn't go up just now if I were you. A good sleep is what she needs
most of all."
"All right; I'll wait. But how in the world came she to be out so long
in the rain, and you too? That's the part I don't understand."
Dolly's heart had stood still when she saw her brother-in-law. "I'll sit
here for a while," she suggested, in order to gain time. "Will you
please pull forward that chair--the one in the corner? I had no idea you
were here. I only came down for the pillows from this bed; they are
better than those upstairs." While she was getting out these words her
quick mind had flown back to L'Hommedieu, and to the impression which
she had left behind her there, carefully arranged and left as
explanation of their absence. The explanation had been intended for any
of their friends who might happen to come to the house during the day.
But it would do equally well for Horace Chase, and Felicite could be
safely trusted to have repeated it to him within five minutes after his
unexpected arrival! For Felicite was not fond of Miss Dora Franklin. The
idea that her young mistress had gone off for a ride at daylight would
be an immense delight to the Frenchwoman, not for the expedition itself
(such amusements in a country so "sauvage" being beyond her
comprehension), but for the annoyance to mademoiselle--mademoiselle
whose watchfulness over everything that concerned her sister (even her
sister's maid) was so insupportably oppressive. Their start, therefore,
Dolly reflected, both Ruth's at dawn and her own a little later, was
probably in a measure accounted for in Horace Chase's mind. But as
regarded the hours in the rain, what could she invent about that? For
Portia had evidently described Ruth's exhaustion and their wet clothes.
She had seated herself by the fire; arrayed in one of the shapeless
dresses of her hostess, with her hair braided and hanging down her back,
her plain face looked plainer than ever. Worn out though she was, she
had not been asleep even for a moment; she had been sitting by the
bedside watching her sister. Ruth had lain motionless, with her head
thrown back lifelessly, her breathing scarcely perceptible. Whenever
Portia had peeped in (and the farmer's wife had stolen softly up the
stairs three times) Dolly had pretended to be asleep; and she knew that
Portia would think that Ruth also was sleeping. But Ruth was not asleep.
And Dolly's mind was filled with apprehension. What would follow this
apathy?
"As I understand it, Ruthie took a notion to go off for a ride at
daybreak," Horace Chase began, "and then, after breakfast, you followed
her. How did you know which way she went? I suppose you asked. But she
left her mare here as early as half-past eight this morning, the woman
of the house tells me, and you yourself got here at two; what happened
afterwards? How came you to stay out in the rain? Unless you got lost, I
don't see what you were about."
"We _were_ lost for a while," answered Dolly, who had now arranged her
legend. "But that was afterwards. Our staying out was my fault, or,
rather, my misfortune." She put out her feet and warmed them calmly.
"After I drove on from here, I didn't find Ruth for some time. When at
last I came upon her, we took our lunch together, and then I tied the
pony to a tree and we strolled off through the woods, picking up the
colored leaves. Suddenly I had one of my attacks. And it must have been
a pretty bad one, for it lasted a long time. How long I don't know; but
when I came to myself it was dark. Ruth, of course, couldn't carry me,
poor child. And she wouldn't leave me. So there we stayed in the rain.
And when finally I was able to move, it took us ages to get here, for
not only was I obliged to walk slowly, but it was so dark that we
couldn't find the road. I am all right now. But meanwhile _she_ is
dreadfully used up."
Here, from the kitchen, came the sound of Portia's gentle voice:
"When _shell_ these eyes thy heavenly walls
An' peerly gates behold?
Thy buildin's with salvation strong,
An' streets of shinin' gold?
An'-an' streets of shi-i-_nin_' gold!"
"Crumb has arrived at his religious stage, and his wife is celebrating,"
commented Dolly. "He goes through them all in regular succession every
time he is drunk. Obstinacy. Savagery. Lethargy. And then, finally,
Repentance, for he isn't one of those unimportant just persons who need
none."
Chase glanced at her with inward disfavor; cynicism in a woman was
extremely unpleasant to him. His mental comment, after she had explained
their adventures, had been: "Well, if _Dolly_ had let the whole job
alone, none of this would have happened; Ruth would have had her lark
out and come home all right, and that would have been the end of it. But
Dolly must needs have _her_ finger in the pie, and out she goes. Then of
course she gets sick, and the end is that instead of her seeing to Ruth,
Ruth has to see to her." But he kept these reflections to himself. He
brought forward instead the idea that was important to him: "Isn't it a
pretty good sign she's better, that she _wanted_ to go off for a ride in
that way? It's like the things she used to do when I first knew her.
Don't you remember how she stayed out so long that cold, windy night
without her hat, talking with Malachi Hill over the back fence about his
Big Moose masquerade? And how she even went on, bareheaded and in the
dark, half across the village to find Achilles Larue and get him to
come, so that she could tease Miss Billy?" He gave a short laugh over
the remembrance. "I cannot help thinking, Dolly, that she isn't half as
sick as you made out; in fact, I've never thought she was, though I've
more or less fallen in with your idea of giving her a change. I _had_
made arrangements to start for New York to-morrow morning, so as to hit
the Cunarder of Wednesday. But, as things have turned out, I don't know
that we need pull up stakes so completely, after all. She's evidently
better."
For one instant Dolly thought. Then she spoke: "No, carry out your plan.
Take her away to-morrow morning just as you intended. Even if she _is_
somewhat stronger (though I think you'll find that she isn't), she needs
a change." She said this decidedly. But the decision was for her own
sake; it was an effort to make herself believe, by the sound of the
spoken words, that this course would still be possible. "It _shall_ be
possible," she resolved in her own mind.
"Well, I guess I won't decide till I see her," Chase answered. "Perhaps
she's awake by this time?"
Dolly got up quickly. "I will go and see; my step is lighter than yours.
If I do not come back, that will mean that she is still asleep, and that
I think it best not to disturb her. The moment she does wake, however,
I will come and call you. Will that do?"
"All right," said Chase, briefly, a second time. He did not especially
enjoy the prospect of several years in Europe. But at least it would be
agreeable to have his wife to himself, with no Dolly to meddle and
dictate.
After she had gone, he sat expectant for nearly fifteen minutes. But she
did not return; Ruth evidently had not wakened. He rose, gave a stretch,
and, going to the window, raised the curtain and looked out. The rain
was pouring down; there was no sign of the carriage; it was so dark that
he could not see even the nearest trees. Dropping the curtain again, he
walked about the room for a while. Then he started to go to the kitchen,
to see how his wet coat was coming on; but remembering Portia's vigil
(which nothing could have induced him to break in upon, now that he
understood its nature), he stopped. He looked at all the simpering
ladies of the fashion-plates, ladies whose bodies were formed on the
model which seems to be peculiar to such publications, and to exist only
for them; he lifted the vase and inspected it a third time; he even
tried the accordion softly. Finally he sat down by the fire, and, taking
out his memoranda again, he went back to business calculations.
Dolly had gone swiftly up the stairs and along the entry which led to
the bedroom. Ruth was lying just as she had left her, with her eyes
shut, her head thrown back. Dolly closed the door and locked it; then
she came and leaned over her.
"Ruth, do you hear me?"
"Yes," answered Ruth, mechanically.
Dolly sat down by the side of the bed and drew her sister towards her.
"I have something to tell you," she whispered. "Your husband is
down-stairs."
Ruth did not start. After a moment she opened her eyes and turned them
slowly towards her sister.
"He came home unexpectedly," Dolly went on, in the same low tone. "He
reached L'Hommedieu this evening, and when they told him that we had not
returned he had inquiries made as to the road we had taken, and came
down here himself on horseback. At L'Hommedieu, Ruth, they think that
you slipped out at dawn for a ride, just to play me a trick, because I
have watched you so closely about your health lately that you were out
of all patience. I let them think this; or, rather, I made them think
it. And they have repeated it to your husband, who accepts it just as
they did. The only thing he could not understand was why we stayed out
so long in the storm, for Portia had evidently told him how late it was
when we came in, and how exhausted you looked. So I have just said that
after I found you we had our lunch together, and then, after tying the
pony to a tree, we strolled through the woods, picking up the colored
leaves. Suddenly one of my attacks came on, and it was a bad attack; I
was unconscious for a long time. You wouldn't leave me; and so there we
had to stay in the rain. When at last I could walk I had to come slowly.
And we couldn't find the road for a long while--it was so dark. All this
seems to him perfectly natural, Ruth; he suspects nothing. The only
point he is troubled about is your health--how that will come out after
the exposure. He is sitting by the fire down-stairs waiting for you to
wake, for I told him you were asleep. And here is something supremely
fortunate: his plan is to take you off to New York to-morrow morning, to
hit the Wednesday's Cunard steamer for Liverpool. He has had this idea
for some weeks--the idea of going abroad. That was the reason he went
away--to make ready. He didn't tell you about it, because he thought he
would take you by surprise. And he still hopes to sail on Wednesday,
provided you are well enough, it isn't to be a flying trip this time; he
is willing to stay over there for years if you like. Now, Ruth, listen
to me. You _must_ go. You need make no effort of any kind; just let
yourself slip on from day to day, passively. There is nothing difficult
about that. If there were, I should not ask you to do it, for I know you
could never play a part. But here there is no part; you need do no more
than you always have done. That has never been much, for from the first
the devotion has been on his side, not on yours, and he will expect no
more. Now try to sleep a little, and then at sunrise I will let him come
up. When he comes you needn't talk; you can say you are too tired to
talk. He is so uneasy about your health that he will fall in with
anything. Don't think about it any more. The whole thing's settled."
Suiting her actions to her words, Dolly rearranged the coverlet over her
sister, and then, rising, she began to make a screen before the fire
with two chairs and a blanket, so that its light should not fall across
the bed. While she was thus engaged she heard a sound, and, turning her
head, she saw that Ruth was getting up.
"What is it?" she said, going to her. "Do you want anything?"
"Where are my clothes?" Ruth asked. She was sitting on the edge of the
bed, her bare feet resting on the rag mat by its side.
"Portia is drying them. She left some of her things on that chair for
you. But don't get up now; the night isn't anywhere near over."
Ruth went to the chair where lay the garments, coarse but clean; she
unbuttoned her night-gown (also one of Portia's). Then her strength
failed, and she sank down on the chair. "Come back to bed," said Dolly,
urgently.
Ruth let her head rest on the chair-back for a moment or two. Then she
said: "I won't try to dress; I don't feel strong enough. But please get
me some stockings and shoes, and a shawl. That will be enough."
"Are you tired of the bed? I can make you comfortable in that chair by
the fire, then," Dolly answered. "Here are stockings. And shoes,
too--Portia's. But I'm afraid they will drop off!" Kneeling down, she
drew on the stockings, and then Ruth, rising, stepped into the shoes.
Dolly went to spread a blanket over the chair, and while she was thus
engaged Ruth, seeing a homespun dress of Portia's hanging from a peg,
took it and put it on over her night-gown.
"You need not have done that," commented Dolly; "here is a second
blanket to wrap you up in."
But Ruth was going towards the door. Dolly hurried after her and caught
her arm. "You are not going down? What for?"
"I don't know," answered Ruth, vaguely. Then, with quickened breath, she
added, "Yes, I _do_ know; I am going to tell--tell what I did." She was
panting a little; Dolly could hear the sound.
The elder sister held her tightly. But Ruth did not struggle, she stood
passive. "What are you going to tell?" Dolly asked, sternly. "What _is_
there to tell? You took a ride; you walked in the forest; you stood in a
thicket; you came back. That is all. No one saw you; no one on earth
knows anything more. And there _was_ nothing more, save in thought. Your
thoughts are your own affair, you are not required to tell them; it
would be a strange world indeed if we had to tell all our thoughts! In
your _acts_ as it has turned out, there has been nothing wrong. Leave it
so, then. Let it rest."
Ruth did not reply. But in her clouded eyes Dolly thought she read
refusal. "Ruth, let me judge for you," she pleaded. "Could I possibly
advise you to do anything that was not your best course? Your very best?
If you force an account of your inward feelings upon your husband--who
does not ask for them or want them--you destroy his happiness, you make
him wretched. Don't you care for that? If I have never liked him--and I
may as well confess that I never have--at least I know his devotion to
you. If you tell, therefore, tell so unnecessarily, it will be a great
cruelty. Think of all he did for mother! Of all he did and tried to do
for Jared!"
Two tears welled up in Ruth's eyes. But she did not speak.
"And then there is another thing," Dolly went on. "If he knows the
truth, all the good in him will be changed to bitterness. And, besides,
he will be very harsh to you, Ruth; he will be brutal; and he will even
think that it is right that he should be so. For those are the ideas
of--of some people about wives who go wrong." To the woman who had
married Horace Chase Dolly could say no more. But if she had spoken out
all that was in her heart, her phrase would have been, "For those are
the ideas of common people about wives who go wrong." (For to Dolly,
Horace Chase's commonness--or what seemed to her commonness--had always
been the insupportable thing.) But what she was saying now about her
dread of his possible brutality was not in the least a fiction invented
to influence Ruth; she had in reality the greatest possible dread of it.
Ruth, however, seemed either to have no fears at all, or else she was
all fear--fear that had reached the stage of torpor.
"Think of _this_, too," urged Dolly, finally. "If you tell, have you the
slightest idea that your husband will be able to keep himself from
breaking off instantly all relations with the Willoughbys--with the
uncles as well as the nephew? And do you want Walter Willoughby to
suspect--as he certainly would suspect--the cause? Do you wish this
young fellow who has merely played with you, who from the beginning has
amused himself at your expense, and, no doubt, laughed at you over and
over again--do you wish him to have a fresh joke at the sight of your
imbittered husband's jealousy? Is he to tell the whole story to Marion
Barclay? And have _her_ laughing also at your hopeless passion for
him?--at the way you have thrown yourself at his head? If you are
silent, not only will your husband be saved from all his wretchedness,
but Walter Willoughby will have no story to tell!"
For answer, Ruth gave a moan of physical weakness; she did not try to
free herself from her sister's hold; she stood motionless, her figure
drooping, her eyes closed. "Dolly," she murmured, "if you keep on
opposing me--and my strength won't hold out very long--you will end by
preventing it, preventing my telling. But there is something you won't
be able to prevent: I am so tired that I want to die! And I shouldn't
be afraid of _that_; I mean, finding a way."
Dolly's hands dropped.
And then Ruth, after a moment more of delay, pushed back the bolt,
passed along the entry, and began to go down the dark stairs. She went
slowly, a step at a time. A step; then a hesitation; then another step.
Finally she reached the bottom, and opened the door.
Her descent had been noiseless; it was not until her hand touched the
latch that Chase turned his head. When he saw her, he sprang up. "_You_,
Ruthie!" he exclaimed, delightedly, as she entered, followed, after a
moment, by the frightened, wretched Dolly. "Are you well enough to be
up?" He put his arm round her and kissed her. "Come to the fire."
But Ruth drew herself away; she moved off to a little distance. "Wait; I
have something to tell you," she answered.
"At any rate, sit down," Chase responded, bringing the best arm-chair
and placing it before her. He had had a long experience regarding her
changing caprices; he never disputed them.
But she did not seat herself; she only leaned on the back of the chair,
her hands grasping its top. "I did not take that ride this morning for
the reason you think," she began. "I was going to Walter Willoughby; I
knew he was at The Lodge."
"Well, then, I wish you hadn't," replied Chase. He looked annoyed, but
not angry. "Fellows like Walter are conceited enough without that sort
of thing. If you wanted to see him, you could have sent a note, asking
him to come to L'Hommedieu. Or Dolly could have written it for you; that
would have been the best way. But don't stand there; sit down."
Ruth took a fresh grasp of the chair. "You do not comprehend," she said,
her voice showing how little strength she had. But though she was weak
physically, there was no nervousness; she was perfectly calm. "You do
not comprehend. I was going to him because I loved him, Horace. I have
loved him for a long time. I loved him so that I _had_ to go!"
As she said this her husband's face changed--changed in a way that was
pitiful to see. He looked stunned, stricken.
"I did not mean to," Ruth went on. "I did not know what it was at first.
And then--it was too late. I thought he loved me; I was sure of it. And
so--I went to him."
Dolly, hurrying forward, laid her hand restrainingly on Chase's wrist.
"He didn't see her, no one saw her. And she did no harm, no harm
whatever."
But Chase shook Dolly off with a motion of his shoulder. Ruth, too, paid
no heed to her sister; she looked straight at her husband, not
defiantly, but drearily; she went on with her tale almost mechanically,
and with the same desperate calmness as before. "So I went to him; I
left my horse here, and went up through the woods. But he had Marion
Barclay there; I saw her. And I saw his face, the expression of his
face, as he talked to her; it is Marion he loves!"
"I could have told you that. At least I could have told you that he has
been trying to get that girl for a long time," said Chase, bitterly.
"But there was nothing in that to hold him back as regards _you_. And it
hasn't held him back; it hasn't prevented him from--But he shall answer
for this! Answer to _me_." The rage in his face was deep; his eyes
gleamed; his hands were clinched. Dolly turned cold. "He will _kill_
Walter," she thought. "Oh, what will he do to Ruth?"
Ruth had left her chair; she came and stood before her husband. "He
isn't to blame, Horace. I would tell you if he were; I should like to
see Marion Barclay suffer! But if you go to him, he will only laugh at
you, and with reason; for he has never cared for me, and he has never
even pretended to care; I see that now. It is _I_ who have been in love
with _him_. It began that first winter we spent in Florida," she went
on. She had returned to her place behind the chair, and her eyes were
again fixed upon her husband's face. "And when he told me, suddenly,
that he was going to California, going for years, I could not breathe.
Then, when Jared died, and mother died, and you were so good to me, I
tried to forget him. But as soon as I saw him again I knew that it was
of no use--no sort of use!"
"You'll never make me believe that _he_ did nothing all this time," said
Chase, savagely. "That he didn't profit--that he didn't take
advantage--"
But Ruth shook her head. "No. Perhaps he amused himself a little. Once
or twice he said a few words. But that was all. And even this was called
out by me--by _my_ love. Left to himself, he always drew back, he always
stopped. But _I_--I never did! You must believe me about this--I mean
about its having been _my_ doing. How can I make you believe it? If I
say that by my mother's memory, by Jared's, what I have told you is
true, will you believe it then? Very well; I _do_ say so." Exhausted,
she put her face down upon her hands on the top of the chair-back.
The firelight, which was now brilliant, had revealed her clearly. Her
figure in the homespun dress looked wasted; in her face there was now no
beauty, the irregularity of its outlines was conspicuous, the bright
color was gone, the eyes were dull and dead.
Something in her bowed head touched Chase keenly. A memory of her as she
was when he married her came before him, the radiant young creature who
had given herself to him so willingly and so joyously.
"Ruthie, we'll forget it," he said, in a changed voice. "I was too old
for you, I am afraid. I ought not to have asked you to marry me. But
it's done now, past mending, and we must make the best of it. But we'll
begin all over again, my poor little girl." For his wife had always
seemed to him a child, an impulsive, lovely child; a little spoiled, no
doubt, but enchantingly sweet and dear. Her affection for him, as far as
it went, had been sincere; he had comprehended that from the beginning.
And alluring though she was to him in her young beauty, he would not
have married her without it; her consent, even her willing consent,
would not have been enough. And now it seemed to him that he could go
back to that girlish liking, that he could foster it and draw it out. He
had not protected her from her own fancies, he had not guarded her or
guided her. Now he would make her more a part of his life; he would no
longer think of her as a child.
He had come to her as he spoke. This time she did not draw herself away;
but, looking at him with the same fixed gaze, she went on. She had been
speaking slowly, but now her words came pouring forth in a flood as
though she felt that it was the only way in which she could get them
spoken at all; each brief phrase was hurried out with a quick pant.
"Oh, you don't understand. You think it was a fancy. But it wasn't, it
wasn't; I _loved_ him! I was going to stay with him forever. I would
have gone to the ends of the earth with him. I would never have asked a
question. I hadn't the least hesitation; you mustn't think that I had. I
sang to myself as I rode out here, I was so happy and glad. I didn't
care what became of you; I didn't even think of you. If he had been
alone at The Lodge, I should have gone straight into his arms. And you
might have come in, and I shouldn't have minded; I shouldn't even have
known you were there! From the moment I started, you were nothing to
me--nothing; you didn't exist! I am as guilty as a woman can be. I had
every intention, every inclination. What was lacking was _his_ will; but
never mine! It was only twelve hours ago. I haven't changed in that
time. The only change is that now I know he doesn't care for _me_. I
would have accepted anything--yes, anything. It was only twelve hours
ago, and if he _had_ been alone at The Lodge, whether he really loved me
or not, he would not have--turned me out."
"No; damn him!" answered Chase.
"And _I_ should have been glad to stay," Ruth concluded, inflexibly.
Her husband turned away. It was a strong man's anguish. He sat down by
the fire, his face covered by his hands.
Into the pause there now came again the strains of Portia's hymn in the
kitchen--that verse about "the peerly gates" which she was hopefully
singing a second time to Dave. Then, in the silence that followed, the
room seemed filled with the rushing sound of the rain.
Ruth had remained motionless. "I shall never be any better," she went on
with the same desperation; "I wish you to understand me just as I really
am. I might even do it a second time; I don't know. You may make
whatever arrangements you like about me; I agree to all in advance. And
now--I'll go." Turning, she went towards the door of the stairway, the
pale Dolly joining her in silence.
Then Horace Chase got up. His face showed how profoundly he had
suffered; it was changed, changed for life. "After all this that you've
told me, Ruth, I don't press myself upon you--I never shall again; I
_couldn't;_ that's ended. You haven't got any father or mother, and
you're very young yet; so I shall have to see to you for the present.
But it can be done from a distance, and that's the way I'll fix it. You
mustn't think I don't feel this thing because I don't say much. It just
about kills me! But as to condemning, coming down on you out and out, I
don't do it, I haven't got the cheek! Who am I that I should dare to?
Have I been so faultless myself that I have any right to judge _you?_"
And as he said this, his rugged face had, for the moment, an expression
that was striking in its beauty; its mixture of sorrow, honesty, and
grandeur.
Ruth gazed at him. Then she gave an inarticulate entreating cry, and ran
to him.
But she was so weak that she fell, and Dolly rushed forward.
Horace Chase put Dolly aside--put her aside forever. He lifted his wife
in his arms, and silently bent his head over hers as it lay on his
breast.
THE END
* * * * *
BY CONSTANCE F. WOOLSON.
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Constance Fenimore Woolson may easily become the novelist
laureate.--_Boston Globe._
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Miss Woolson never once follows the beaten track of the orthodox
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THE PRINCE OF INDIA;
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* * * * *
The following typographical error was corrected by the etext
transcriber:
Two woman joined them=>Two women joined them
End of Project Gutenberg's Horace Chase, by Constance Fenimore Woolson