Ruth was different after her talk with Deane that night. Ted felt the
change in her when he went up to say goodnight. The constraint between
them seemed somehow to have fallen away. Ruth was natural now--just
Ruth, he told himself, and felt that talking to Deane had done her good.
He lingered to chat with her awhile--of the arrangements for the night,
various little things about the house, just the things they naturally
would talk of; his feeling of embarrassment, diffidence, melted quite
away before her quiet simplicity, her warm naturalness. She had seemed
timid all day--holding back. Now she seemed just quietly to take her
place. He had been afraid of doing or saying something that would hurt
her, that had kept him from being natural, he knew. But now he forgot
about that. And when Ruth put her hands up on his shoulders and lifted
her face to kiss him goodnight he suddenly knew how many lonely nights
there had been. "I'm so glad I've got you back, Ted," she said; "I want
to talk to you about heaps of things."
And Ted, as he went to bed, was thinking that there were heaps of things
he wanted to talk to Ruth about. He hadn't had much of anybody to talk
to about the things one does talk to one's own folks about. His father
had been silent and queer the last couple of years, and somehow one
wouldn't think of "talking" to Harriett. He and Ruth had always hit it
off, he told himself. He was glad she had found her feet, as he thought
of it; evidently talking with Deane had made her feel more at home.
Deane was a bully sort! After he had fallen into a light sleep he
awakened and there came all freshly the consciousness that Ruth was
back, asleep in her old room. It made him feel so good; he stretched out
and settled for sleep with satisfaction, drowsily thinking that there
_were_ heaps of things he wanted to talk to Ruth about.
Ruth, too, was settling to sleep with more calm, something nearer peace
than it had seemed just a little while before she was going to find in
her father's house. Talking with Deane took her in to something from
which she had long felt shut out. It was like coming on a camp fire
after being overawed by too long a time in the forest--warmth and light
and cheerful crackling after loneliness in austere places. Dear Deane!
he was always so good to her; he always helped. It was curious about
Deane--about Deane and her. There seemed a strange openness--she could
not think of it any other way--between them. Things she lived through,
in which he had no part, drew her to him, swung her back to him. There
was something between his spirit and hers that seemed to make him part
even of experiences she had had with another man, as if things of the
emotions, even though not shared, drew them together through the spirit.
Very deeply she hoped that Deane would be happy. She wished she might
meet his wife, but probably she wouldn't. She quickly turned from that
thought, wanting to stay by the camp fire. Anyway, Deane was her friend.
She rested in that thought of having a friend--someone to talk to about
things small and droll, about things large and mysterious. Thoughts
needed to be spoken. It opened something in one to speak them. With
Stuart she had been careful not to talk of certain things, fearing to
see him sink into that absorption, gloom, she had come to dread.
She cried a little after she had crept into her bed--her own old bed;
but they were just tears of feeling, not of desolation. The oak tree was
tapping against the house, the breeze, carrying familiar scents, blew
through the room. She was back home. All the sadness surrounding her
homecoming could not keep out the sweet feeling of being back that stole
through her senses.
Next morning she went about the house with new poise; she was quiet, but
it was of a different quality from the quiet of the day before. Flora
Copeland found herself thinking less about maintaining her carefully
thought out manner toward Ruth. She told herself that Ruth did not seem
like "that kind of a woman." She would forget the "difficult situation"
and find herself just talking with Ruth--about the death of her sister
Mary's little girl, of her niece who was about to be married. There was
something about Ruth that made one slip into talking to her about things
one was feeling; and something in the quiet light of her tired sweet
eyes made one forget about not being more than courteous. Even Laura
Abbott, the nurse, found herself talking naturally to this Ruth Holland,
this woman who lived with another woman's husband, who was more "talked
about" than any woman in the town had ever been. But somehow a person
just forgot what she really was, she told a friend; she wasn't at all
like you'd expect that kind of a person to be. Though of course there
were terribly embarrassing things--like not knowing what to call her.
Between Ruth and Harriett things went much better than they had the day
before. Ruth seemed so much herself when they met that afternoon that
unconsciously Harriett emerged from her uncertainty, from that fumbling
manner of the day before. The things holding them apart somehow fell
back before the things drawing them together. They were two sisters and
their father was dying. The doctor had just been there and said he did
not believe Mr. Holland could live another day. They were together when
he told them that; for the moment, at least, it melted other things
away.
They stood at the head of the stairs talking of things of common
concern--the efficiency of the nurse, of Ted, who had been with his
father more than any of the rest of them, for whom they feared it would
be very hard when the moment came. Then, after a little pause made
intimate by feeling shared, Harriett told when she would be back,
adding, "But you'll see to it that I'm telephoned at once if--if I
should be wanted, won't you, Ruth?"--as one depending on this other more
than on anyone else. Ruth only answered gently, "Yes, Harriett," but she
felt warmed in her heart. She had been given something to do. She was
depended on. She was not left out.
She sat beside her father during the hour that the nurse had to be
relieved. Very strongly, wonderfully, she had a feeling that her father
knew she was there, that he wanted her there. In the strange quiet of
that hour she seemed to come close to him, as if things holding them
apart while he was of life had fallen away now that he no longer was
life-bound. It was very real to her. It was communion. Things she could
not have expressed seemed to be flowing out to him, and things he could
not have understood seemed reaching him now. It was as if she was going
with him right up to the border--a long way past the things of life that
drove them apart. The nurse, coming back to resume duty, was arrested,
moved, by Ruth's face. She spoke gently in thanking her, her own face
softened. Flora Copeland, meeting Ruth in the hall, paused, somehow
held, and then, quite forgetful of the manner she was going to maintain
toward Ruth, impulsively called after her: "Are you perfectly
comfortable in your room, Ruth? Don't you--shan't I bring in one of the
big easy chairs?"
Ruth said no, she liked her own little chair, but she said it very
gently, understanding; she had again that feeling of being taken in, the
feeling that warmed her heart.
She went in her room and sat quietly in her little chair; and what had
been a pent up agony in her heart flowed out in open sorrowing: for her
mother, who was not there to sit in her room with her; for her father,
who was dying. But it was releasing sorrowing, the sorrowing that makes
one one with the world, drawing one into the whole life of human
feeling, the opened heart that brings one closer to all opened hearts.
It was the sadness that softens; such sadness as finds its own healing
in enriched feeling. It made her feel very near her father and mother;
she loved them; she felt that they loved her. She had hurt
them--terribly hurt them; but it all seemed beyond that now; they
understood; and she was Ruth and they loved her. It was as if the way
had been cleared between her and them. She did not feel shut in alone.
Ted hesitated when he came to her door a little later, drew back before
the tender light of her illumined face. It did not seem a time to break
in on her. But she held out her hand with a little welcoming gesture
and, though strangely subdued, smiled lovingly at him as she said, "Come
on in, Ted."
Something that the boy felt in her mood made him scowl anew at the thing
he had to tell her. He went over to the window, his back to her, and was
snapping his finger against the pane. "Well," he said at last, gruffly,
"Cy gets in today. Just had a wire."
Ruth drew back, as one who has left exposed a place that can be hurt
draws back when hurt threatens. Ted felt it--that retreating within
herself, and said roughly: "Much anybody cares! Between you and me, I
don't think father would care so very much, either."
"Ted!" she remonstrated in elder sister fashion.
"Cy's got a hard heart, Ruth," he said with a sudden gravity that came
strangely through his youthfulness.
Ruth did not reply; she did not want to say what she felt about Cy's
heart. But after a moment the domestic side of it turned itself to her.
"Will Louise come with him, Ted?"
"No," he answered shortly.
His tone made her look at him in inquiry, but he had turned his back to
her again. "I was just wondering about getting their room ready," she
said.
For a moment Ted did not speak, did not turn toward her. Then, "We don't
have to bother getting any room ready for Cy," he said, with a scoffing
little laugh.
Ruth's hand went up to her throat--a curious movement, as if in defense.
"What do you mean, Ted?" she asked in low quick voice.
Ted's finger was again snapping the window pane. Once more he laughed
disdainfully. "Our esteemed brother is going to the hotel," he jeered.
As Ruth did not speak he looked around. He could not bear her face.
"Don't you care, Ruth," he burst out. "Why, what's the difference?" he
went on scoffingly. "The hotel's a good place. He'll get along all right
down there--and it makes it just so much the better for us."
But even then Ruth could not speak; it had come in too tender a moment,
had found her too exposed; she could only cower back. Then pride broke
through. "Cyrus needn't go to the hotel, Ted. If he can't stay in the
same house with me--even when father is dying--then I'll go somewhere
else."
"You'll not!" he blazed, with a savagery that at once startled and
wonderfully comforted her. "If Cy wants to be a fool, let him be a fool!
If he can't act decent--then let him do what he pleases--or go to the
devil!"
She murmured something in remonstrance, but flooded with gratefulness
for the very thing she tried to protest against. And then even that was
struck out. She had brought about this quarrel, this feeling, between
the two brothers. Ted's antagonism against Cyrus, comforting to her,
might work harm to Ted. Those were the things she did. That was what
came through her.
The comfort, communion, peace of a few minutes before seemed a mockery.
Out of her great longing she had deluded herself. Now she was cast back;
now she knew. It was as if she had only been called out in order to be
struck back. And it seemed that Ted, whom she had just found again, she
must either lose or harm. And the shame of it!--children not coming
together under their father's roof when he was dying! Even death could
not break the bitterness down. It made her know just how it was--just
where she stood. And she thought of the town's new talk because of this.
"It's pretty bad, isn't it, Ted?" she said finally, looking up to him
with heavy eyes.
Ted flushed. "Cy makes it worse than it need be," he muttered.
"But it is pretty bad, isn't it?" she repeated in a voice there was
little life in. "It was about as bad as it could be for you all, wasn't
it?"
"Well, Ruth," he began diffidently, "of course--of course this house
hasn't been a very cheerful place since you went away."
"No," she murmured, "of course not." She sat there dwelling upon that,
forming a new picture of just what it had been. "It really made a big
difference, did it, Ted?--even for you?" She asked it very simply, as
one asking a thing in order to know the truth.
Ted sat down on the bed. He was shuffling his feet a little,
embarrassed, but his face was finely serious, as if this were a grave
thing of which it was right they talk.
"Of course I was a good deal of a kid, Ruth," he began. "And yet--" He
halted, held by kindness.
"Yes?" she pressed, as if wanting to get him past kindness.
"Well, yes, Ruth, it was--rather bad. I minded on account of the
fellows, you see. I knew they were talking and--" Again he stopped; his
face had reddened. Her face too colored up at that.
"And then of course home--you know it had always been so jolly here at
home--was a pretty different place, Ruth," he took it up gently. "With
Cy charging around, and mother and father so--different."
"And they were different, were they, Ted?" she asked quietly.
He looked at her in surprise. "Why, yes, Ruth, they certainly
were--different."
Silence fell between them, separately dwelling upon that.
"Just how--different?" Ruth asked, for it seemed he was not going on.
"Why--mother stopped going out, and of course that made her all
different. You know what a lot those parties and doings meant to
mother."
She did not at once speak, her face working. Then: "I'm sorry," she
choked. "Need she have done that, Ted?" she added wistfully after a
moment.
He looked at her with that fine seriousness that made him seem older
than he was--and finer than she had known. "Well, I don't know, Ruth;
you know you don't feel very comfortable if you think people
are--talking. It makes you feel sort of--out of it; as if there was
something different about you."
"And father?" she urged, her voice quiet, strangely quiet. She was
sitting very still, looking intently at Ted.
"Well, father rather dropped out of it, too," he went on, his voice
gentle as if it would make less hard what it was saying. "He and mother
just seemed to want to draw back into their shells. I think--" He
stopped, then said: "I guess you really want to know, Ruth; it--it did
make a big difference in father. I think it went deeper than you may
have known--and maybe it's only fair to him you should know. It did make
a difference; I think it made a difference even in business. Maybe that
seems queer, but don't you know when a person doesn't feel right about
things he doesn't get on very well with people? Father got that way. He
didn't seem to want to be with people."
She did not raise her eyes at that. "Business hasn't gone very well, has
it, Ted?" she asked after a moment of silence, still not looking up.
"Pretty bad. And of course _that_ gets Cy," he added.
She nodded. "I guess there's a good deal to be said on Cy's side," she
murmured after a little, her hands working and her voice not steady.
Ted grunted something disdainful, then muttered: "He played things up
for all they were worth. Don't you think he ever missed anything!"
"Was that why Cy left town, Ted?" Ruth asked, speaking all the while in
that low, strange voice.
"Oh, he claims so," scoffed Ted. "But he can't make me believe any
family humiliation would have made him leave town if he hadn't had a
better thing somewhere else. But of course he _says_ that. That it was
too hard for him and Louise! Too bad about that little doll-face, isn't
it?"
Ruth made a gesture of remonstrance, but the boyish partisanship brought
the tears she had until then been able to hold back.
Ted rose. And then he hesitated, as if not wanting to leave it like
this. "Well, Ruth, I can tell you one thing," he said gently, a little
bashfully; "with all Cy's grand talk about the wrong done mother and
father, neither of them ever loved him the way they loved you."
"Oh, _did_ they, Ted?" she cried, and all the held back feeling broke
through, suffusing her. "They _did_?--in spite of everything? Tell me
about that, Ted! Tell me about it!"
"Mother used to talk a lot to me," he said. "She was always coming into
my room and talking to me about you."
"Oh, _was_ she, Ted?" she cried again, feeling breaking over her face in
waves. "She _did_ talk about me? What did she say? Tell me!"
"Just little things, mostly. Telling about things you had said and done
when you were a kid; remembering what you'd worn here and there--who
you'd gone with. Oh,--you know; just little things.
"Of course," he went on, Ruth leaning forward, hanging on his words, "I
was a good deal of a kid then; she didn't talk to me much about
the--serious part of it. Maybe that was the reason she liked to talk to
me--because she could just talk about the little things--old things.
Though once or twice--"
"Yes, Ted?" she breathed, as he paused there.
"Well, she did say things to me, too. I remember once she said, 'It
wasn't like Ruth. Something terrible happened. She didn't know what she
was doing.'"
Ruth's hands were pressed tight together; unheeded tears were falling on
them.
"And she used to worry about you, Ruth. When it was cold and she'd come
into my room with an extra cover she'd say--'I wish I knew that my girl
was warm enough tonight.'"
At that Ruth's face went down in her hands and she was sobbing.
"I don't know what I'm talking like this for!" muttered the boy angrily.
"Making you feel so bad!"
She shook her head, but for a little could not look up. Then she choked:
"No, I want to know. Never mind how it hurts, I want to know." And then,
when she had controlled herself a little more she said, simply: "I
didn't know it was like that. I didn't know mother felt--like that."
"She'd start to write to you, and then lots of times she wouldn't seem
to know how. She wanted to write to you lots more than she did. But I
don't know, Ruth, mother was queer. She seemed sort of bewildered.
She--wasn't herself. She was just kind of powerless to do anything about
things. She'd come in this room a lot. Sit in here by herself. One of
the last days mother was around she called me in here and she had that
dress you wore to Edith Lawrence's wedding spread out on the bed and
was--oh, just kind of fussing with it. And the reason she called me in
was that she wanted to know if I remembered how pretty you looked in it
that night."
But Ruth had thrown out a hand for him to stop, had covered her face as
if shutting something out. "Oh, I'm sorry, Ruth!" murmured Ted. "I'm a
fool!" he cried angrily. But after a minute he added haltingly, "And
yet--you did want to know, and--maybe it's fairer to mother, Ruth.
Maybe--" but he could not go on and went over and stood by the window,
not wanting to leave her like that, not knowing what to do.
"Well, one thing I want you to know, Ruth," he said, as he did finally
turn to the door. "I've been talking along about how hard it was for the
rest of us, but don't for a minute think I don't see how terrible it was
for _you_. I get that, all right."
She looked up at him, wanting to speak, but dumb; dumb in this new
realization of how terrible it had been for them all.