When Ruth left the train and took the stage for Longfields her spirit
was in revolt--in revolt against herself, against Cyrus and against the
progress of the vehicle. But any vehicle, however fast, would have been
too slow on that afternoon. She left the conveyance at Cyrus Alton's
driveway. This was her first visit to the Alton's home since her sudden
departure, so many years ago. And now, as she walked toward the house,
almost every foot of ground, every object in the spacious yard, the
old maples and the house itself, seemed accusing her of treason and
of heartless murder. From every side, however, came pleasant memories
of bygone days,--like flowers in a forsaken garden. And all of Cyrus!
Never was a yard so full of history. And now that Cyrus was gone--gone
forever, driven from the world by her own cruelty,--her over sensitive
spirit writhed beneath the stings of conscience. Every recollection
seemed to increase her guilt. Hardest to bear, in all this vista of the
past, was the clear, undying fact that the cherubic, sleepy eyed little
boy always stood between herself and trouble.
These memories overwhelmed her. There was the old maple in whose shade
she and Drowsy played keeping house. They pretended Zac was President
of the United States who had dropped in for dinner. Only gingerbread
and sour grapes were served and Drowsy gave her the biggest half of the
gingerbread because she, also, was a guest. Zac, always loyal, ate one
or two of the green grapes just because Cyrus did. And the stone wall
that saved their lives;--at least, she thought so when Mr. Randall's
horse came snorting toward them across the field, on the other side.
He seemed close at their heels when Cyrus boosted her up and pushed
her over before he climbed up himself. He pushed so hard--against that
part of the body on which we sit--that she landed on her face, and the
short, stiff blades of grass that had just been mowed, cut the inside
of her nose. She tried to smile as she remembered, with a gulp, that
although he was badly scared himself he was the last to climb over the
wall. Yes, he always gave her first chance at everything--in peace or
war!
And there the well, where she and Susie Jordan had a quarrel one Sunday
after Church, and Susie threw a dipperful of water on Ruth's head.
It spoiled her new hat and she burst into tears. Then Cyrus walked up
to Susie--Ruth could see him now as if it were yesterday--made one of
his lowest bows, as if to apologize in advance, then slapped her hard
on both cheeks. After slapping her he backed away a few steps and made
yet another profound obeisance, as a judge, after performing a painful
duty, might salute a prisoner of high degree.
But now she was in too great haste to linger long over memories, or
anything else. She hurried on to the house. Tearful, smiling, but on
the very edge of sobs, she rang the door bell. Too impatient to wait
she entered and walked into the sitting room. The same old sitting
room, and changed but little since she saw it last. On the walls the
same green paper, just a little more faded, perhaps, at certain places
where the morning sun had loitered. Almost covering the center table
were books, papers and magazines.
Joanna entered. The greetings were cordial. Then, for a few moments
they sat facing each other, Ruth in an arm chair, Joanna on the old
sofa.
In a casual way, Ruth remarked:
"I suppose Cyrus is out in the old barn, hard at work on his new
machine."
"Not now. It is all finished."
"Is it there now,--the machine?"
"No, he went away in it."
"When did he go?"
"Last night."
"Where has he gone?"
"I don't know."
Ruth leaned back in her chair and the color left her face.
"Oh, Miss Ruth, are you ill?"
"No, no! I am not ill. But didn't he say when he was coming back?"
"He said he might not be back for some days. But he has often done
that."
Ruth suddenly jumped from her chair, began walking about the room, and
exclaimed:
"He's a contemptible thing!"
"Not Cyrus?"
"Yes, Cyrus. And what a fool! Oh, what a fool!"
Into Joanna's placid, serious face came a look of amazement.
"You don't mean to say, Miss Ruth, that, Cyrus--is
a--contemptible--thing and--and a fool!"
"That's just exactly what I mean. He's a fool--a contemptible, weak,
half-hearted, easily discouraged, stupid fool!"
Ruth was clearly excited. She spoke rapidly and with vehemence,
marching to and fro as if lashed to fury by some strange obsession. As
Joanna watched the little figure she could hardly believe that this was
the ever gentle Ruth Heywood of her acquaintance.
Ruth went on: "Not a speck of perseverance! And what a coward! I never
suspected he was such a hopeless coward!"
"Cyrus a coward! Oh, but--Miss Ruth, you really----"
"Of course he's a coward! Why has he run away? Do brave men run away?
No. Cowards run away. A mean, contemptible thing. That covers it. A
contemptible cowardly act by a contemptible, cowardly man. And so
ungrateful! Even as a boy he was ungrateful."
Now, to Joanna, who had known Cyrus intimately since the age of seven,
he was the one perfect thing in creation. Morally he was an example
for the angels; mentally the wonder of the age. So, being a somewhat
literal person, these words came like stabs from a dagger and struck
deep into her own heart. But she answered--more in sadness than in
anger:
"I really can't imagine anybody thinking Cyrus ungrateful."
"Well, I do! He has no real love for anybody but himself. He thinks
only of himself; only of himself!"
"Why, Miss Ruth, when Mrs. Eagan was laid up for nearly a whole summer,
years ago, Cyrus took her a bowl of ice cream himself, every Sunday,
after our own dinner. We had ice cream once a week. He was nothing but
a boy then, but he----"
"Of course he did! Why not? Any boy would carry ice cream--just for the
sake of holding it."