There followed three years of happiness wrung from wretchedness, years
in which the splendor of love would blaze through the shame of
concealment, when joy was always breaking out through fear, when moments
of beautiful peace trembled there in the ugly web of circumstance. Life
was flooded with beauty by a thing called shameful.
Her affairs as a girl went on just the same; the life on the surface did
not change. She continued as Ruth Holland--the girl who went to parties
with the boys of her own set, one of her particular little circle of
girls, the chum of Edith Lawrence, the girl Deane Franklin liked best.
But a life grew underneath that--all the time growing, crowding. She
appeared to remain a girl after passion had swept her over into
womanhood. To be living through the most determining, most intensifying
experience of life while she appeared only to be resting upon the
surface was the harassing thing she went through in those years before
reality came crashing through pretence and disgrace brought relief.
She talked to but one person in those years. That was Deane. The night
he told her that he loved her she let him see.
That was more than a year after the night Stuart Williams took her home
from that last rehearsal; Deane was through school now and had come home
to practice medicine. She had felt all along that once he was at home
for good she might have to tell Deane; not alone because he would
interfere with her meetings with Stuart, but because it seemed she could
not bear the further strain of pretending with him. And somehow she
would particularly hate pretending with Deane. Though the night she did
let him see it was not that there was any determination for doing so,
but because things had become too tense that night and she had no power
to go on dissembling.
It began in irritation at him, the vicious irritation that springs out
against the person who upsets a plan he knows nothing about, and cannot
be told of.
She had come in from an errand down town and was about to dress
hurriedly to go over to Edith's for dinner. She was going to make some
excuse for getting away from there early and would have an hour with
Stuart, one of those stolen hours that often crowded, agitated, a number
of the hours before it, one of those hours of happiness when fear always
stood right there, but when joy had a marvellous power to glow in an
atmosphere of ugly things. A few nights before she had tried to arrange
one of those times, and just as she was about to leave the house, saying
some vague thing about running in somewhere--there was no strict
surveillance on members of the Holland household--a friend who had been
very ill and was just beginning to go about had come to see her and she
had been obliged to sit there through the hour she had been living for,
striving to crowd down what she was feeling and appear delighted that
her friend was able to be about, chatting lightly of inconsequential
things while she could think of nothing but Stuart waiting for her, had
had to smile while she wanted to sob in the fury of disappointed
passion.
The year had brought many disappointments like that, disappointments
which found their way farther into the spirit because they dared not
show on the surface. Of late there had been so many of them that it was
growing hard to hold from her manner her inner chafing against them.
There were times when all the people who loved her seemed trying to
throw things in her way, and it was the more maddening because blindly
done. It was hurting her relations with people; she hated them when they
blunderingly stepped in the way of the thing that had come to mean
everything to her.
She was particularly anxious about this night for Stuart was going out
of town on a business trip and she would not see him again for more than
a week. It was her grandfather who made the first difficulty; as she was
going up the stairs he called, "You going over to the Lawrences'
tonight, Ruth?"
When she had answered yes he continued: "It wouldn't be much out of your
way, would it, to run on over to the Allens'?"
She hesitated; anything her grandfather asked of her was hard to refuse,
not only because she loved him and because he was old, but because it
hurt her to see how he missed the visiting around among his old friends
that his rheumatism had of late cut him off from.
"Why--no," she answered, wondering just how she could get it in, for it
did take her out of her way, and old Mr. Allen would want to talk to
her; it was going to be hard to get away from Edith's anyway, and the
time would be so short, for Stuart would have to leave for his train at
half past nine. She quickly decided that she would go over there before
dinner, even though it made her a little late. Maybe she didn't need to
comb her hair, after all.
She was starting up the stairs when her grandfather called: "Wait a
minute. Come here, Ruth."
She came back, twirling the fingers of one hand nervously. Her
grandfather was fumbling in the drawer of his secretary. "I want you to
take this letter--tell him I got it yesterday--" He stopped, peering at
the letter; Ruth stood there with hand clenched now, foot tapping. "Why
no, that's not the one," he rambled on; "I must have put it up above
here. Or could it--"
"Oh, I'm in a hurry, grandfather!" cried the girl.
He closed the drawer and limped over to his chair. "Just let it go,
then," he said in the hurt voice of one who has been refused a thing he
cannot do for himself.
"Now, grandfather!" Ruth cried, swiftly moving toward him. "How can you
be so _silly_--just because I'm a little nervous about being late!"
"Seems to me you're always a little nervous about something lately," he
remarked, rising and resuming the leisurely search for the letter. "You
young folks make such hard work of your good times nowadays. Anybody'd
think you had the world on your shoulders."
Ruth made no reply, standing there as quietly as she could, waiting
while her grandfather scanned a letter. "Yes, this is the one," he
finally said. "You tell him--" She had the letter and was starting for
the stairs while listening to what she was to tell, considering at the
same time how she'd take the short cut across the high-school ball
park--she could make it all right by half past six. Feeling kindly
toward her grandfather because it was going to be all right, after all,
she called back brightly: "Yes, grandfather, I'll get it to him; I'll
run right over there with it first thing."
"Oh, look here, Ruth!" he cried, hobbling out to the hall. "Don't do
that! I want you to go in the evening. He'll not be home till eight
o'clock. He's going--"
"Yes, grandfather," she called from the head of the stairs in a
peculiarly quiet voice. "I see. It's all right."
Then she could not find the things she wanted to put on. There was a
button off her dress and her thread broke in sewing it. She was holding
herself very tight when her mother came leisurely into the room and
stood there commenting on the way Ruth's hair was done, on the
untidiness of her dressing-table, mildly reproving her for a growing
carelessness. Then she wandered along about something Ruth was to tell
Edith's mother. Ruth, her trembling fingers tangling her thread, was
thinking that she was always to tell somebody something somebody else
had said, take something from one person to another. The way people were
all held together in trivial things, that thin, seemingly purposeless
web lightly holding them together was eternally throwing threads around
her, keeping her from the one thing that counted.
"There!" escaped from her at last, breaking the thread and throwing the
dress over her head. Her mother sauntered over to fasten it for her,
pausing to note how the dress was wearing out, speaking of the new one
Ruth must have soon, and who should make it. "Oh, I'm in a _hurry_,
mother!" Ruth finally cried when her mother stopped to consider how the
dress would have had more style if, instead of buttoning down the back,
it had fastened under that fold.
"Really, my dear," Mrs. Holland remonstrated, jerking the dress straight
with a touch of vexation, "I must say that you are getting positively
peevish!"
As Ruth did not reply, and the mother could feel her body tightening,
she went on, with a loving little pat as she fastened the dress over the
hip, "And you used to be the most sweet-tempered girl ever lived."
Still Ruth made no answer. "Your father was saying the other night that
he was sure you couldn't be feeling well. You never used to be a bit
irritable, he said, and you nearly snapped his head off when he
wanted--just to save you--to drive you over to Harriett's."
Though the dress was all fastened now, Ruth did not turn toward her
mother. Mrs. Holland added gently: "Now that wasn't reasonable, was it?"
The tear Ruth had been trying to hold back fell to the handkerchief she
was selecting. No, it wouldn't seem reasonable, of course; her father
had wanted to help her, and she had been cross. It was all because she
couldn't tell him the truth--which was that she hadn't told him the
truth, that she wasn't going to Harriett's for an hour, that she was
going to do something else first. There had been a moment of actually
hating her father when, in wanting to help her, he stepped in the way of
a thing he knew nothing about. That, it seemed, was what happened
between people when things could not be told.
Mrs. Holland, seeing that Ruth's hand was unsteady, went on, in a voice
meant to soothe: "Just take it a little easier, dear. What under the sun
have you got to do but enjoy yourself? Don't get in such a flutter about
it." She sighed and murmured, from the far ground of experience: "Wait
till you have a real worry."
Ruth was pinning on her hat. She laughed in a jerky little way and said,
in a light voice that was slightly tremulous: "I did get a little
fussed, didn't I? But you see I wanted to get over to Edith's before
dinner time. She wants to talk to me about her shower for Cora
Albright."
"But you have all evening to talk that over, haven't you?" calmly
admonished Mrs. Holland.
"Why, of course," Ruth answered, a little crisply, starting for the
door.
"Your petticoat's showing," her mother called to her. "Here, I'll pin it
up for you."
"Oh, let it _go_!" cried Ruth desperately. "I'll fix it at Edith's," she
added hurriedly.
"Ruth, are you crazy?" her mother demanded. "Going through the streets
with your petticoat showing! I guess you're in no such hurry as that."
It was while she was pinning up the skirt that Mrs. Holland remarked:
"Oh, I very nearly forgot to tell you; Deane's going over there for you
tonight."
Then to the mother's utter bewilderment and consternation Ruth covered
her face with her hands and burst into sobs.
"Why, my _dear_," she murmured; "why, Ruth _dear_, what _is_ the
matter?"
Ruth sank down on the bed, leaning her head against the foot of it,
shaking with sobs. Her mother stood over her murmuring, "Why, my dear,
what _is_ the matter?"
Ruth, trying to stop crying, began to laugh. "I didn't know he was
coming! I was so surprised. We've quarrelled!" she gulped out
desperately.
"Why, he was just as natural and nice as could be over the 'phone," said
Mrs. Holland, pouring some water in the bowl that Ruth might bathe her
eyes. "Really, my dear, it seems to me you make too much of things. He
wanted to come here, and when I told him you were going to be at
Edith's, he said he'd go there. I'm sure he was just as nice as could
be."
Ruth was bathing her eyes, her body still quivering a little. "Yes, I
know," she spluttered, her face in the water; "he is that way
when--after we've quarrelled."
"I didn't know you and Deane ever did quarrel," ventured Mrs. Holland.
"When you do, I'll warrant it's your fault." She added, significantly:
"Deane's mighty good to you, Ruth." She had said several things like
that of late.
"Oh, he's good enough," murmured Ruth from the folds of the towel.
"Now, powder up a little, dear. There! And now just take it a little
easy. Why, it's not a hit like you to be so----touchy."
She followed Ruth downstairs. "Got that letter?" the grandfather called
out from his room.
"I'll send Ted with it, father," Mrs. Holland said hastily, seeing
Ruth's face.
A sudden surge of love for her mother almost swept away Ruth's
self-command. It was wonderful that some one wanted to help her. It made
her want to cry.
Her mother went with her to the porch. "You look so nice," she said
soothingly. "Have a good time, dearie."
Ruth waved her hand without turning her face to her mother.
Tears were right there close all through that evening. The strain within
was so great--(what _was_ she going to do about Deane?)--that there was
that impulse to cry at the slightest friendliness. She was flushed and
tired when she reached Edith's, and Mrs. Lawrence herself went out and
got her a glass of water--a fan, drew up a comfortable chair. The whole
house seemed so kindly, so favoring. Contrasted with her secret turmoil
the reposefulness, friendliness of the place was so beautiful to her
that taut emotions were ready to give. Yet all the while there was that
inner distress about how to get away, what to say. The affectionate
kindness of her friends, the appeal of their well-ordered lives as
something in which to rest, simply had no reach into the thing that
dominated her.
And now finally she had managed it; Deane had come before she could
possibly get away but she had said she would have to go up to
Harriett's, that she must not be too late about it. Edith had protested,
disappointed at her leaving so early, wanting to know if she couldn't
come back. That waved down, there had been a moment of fearing Edith was
going to propose going with her; so she had quickly spoken of there
being something Harriett wanted to talk to her about. She had a warm,
gentle feeling for Edith when finally she saw the way clearing. That was
the way it was, gratitude to one who had moved out of her way gave her
so warm a feeling that often she would impulsively propose things
letting her in for future complications.
As she was saying goodnight there was another moment of wanting terribly
to cry. They were so good to her, so loving--and what would they think
if they knew? Her voice was curiously gentle in taking leave of them;
there was pain in that feeling of something that removed her from these
friends who cared for her, who were so good to her.
She asked Deane if he hadn't something else to do for an hour, someone
to run in and see while she visited with Harriett. When he readily fell
in with that, saying he hadn't been to the Bennetts' since coming home
and that it would be a good time to go there, she grew suddenly gay,
joking with him in a half tender little way, a sort of affectionate
bantering that was the closest they came to intimacy.
And then at the very last, after one thing and then another had been
disposed of, and just as her whole being was fairly singing with relief
and anticipation, the whole thing was threatened and there was another
of those moments of actually hating one who was dear to her.
They had about reached the corner near Harriett's where she was going to
insist Deane leave her for the Bennetts' when they came upon her brother
Ted, slouching along, whistling, flipping in his hand the letter he was
taking to his grandfather's old friend.
"Hello," he said, "where y' goin'?"
"Just walking," said Ruth, and able to say it with a carelessness that
surprised her.
"Oh," said Ted, with a nonchalance that made her want to scream out some
awful thing at him, "thought maybe you were making for Harriett's. She
ain't home."
She would like to have pushed him away! She would have liked to push him
way off somewhere! She dug her nails down into her palm; she could
hardly control the violent, ugly feeling that wanted to leap out at
him--at this "kid brother" whom she adored. Why need he have said just
_that_?--that particular thing, of all things! But she was saying in
calm elderly sister fashion, "Don't lose that letter, Ted," and to
Deane, as they walked on, "Harriett's at a neighbor's; I'll run in for
her; she's expecting me to."
But it left her weak; her legs were trembling, her heart pounding; there
seemed no power left at the center of her for holding herself in one.
And now she was rid of Deane! She had shaken them all off; for that
little time she was free! She hurried toward the narrow street that
trailed off into the country. Stuart would be waiting for her there. Her
joy in that, her eagerness, rushed past the dangers all around her, the
thing that possessed her avoiding thought of the disastrous
possibilities around her as a man in a boat on a narrow rushing river
would keep clear of rocks jutting out on either side. Sometimes the
feeling that swept her on did graze the risks so close about her and she
shivered a little. Suppose Harriett were at the Bennetts' when Deane got
there! Suppose Deane said something when they got home; suppose Ted said
something that wouldn't fit in with what Deane said; suppose Deane got
to Harriett's too soon--though she had told him not to be there till
after half past nine. Hadn't Deane looked queer at the last? Wouldn't he
suspect? Wouldn't everybody suspect, with her acting like this? And once
there was the slightest suspecting....
But she was hurrying on; none of those worries, fears, had power to lay
any real hold on the thing that possessed her; faster and faster she
hurried; she had turned into the little street, had passed the last
house, turned the bend in the road, and yes! there was Stuart, waiting
for her, coming to her. Everything else fell away. Nothing else in the
world mattered.