I suppose if I had not loved Ruth Carson so much my resentment against
her would not have been so bitter. She was my first friend. She had no
sister, neither had I; and we used to think that no sisters could be
nearer to each other than we were. She had black eyes,--great, earnest,
beautiful eyes, with pride and tenderness both in them; sometimes one
and sometimes the other in the ascendant. I was yellow-haired and
blue-eyed, but we always wanted our gowns and hats alike, and coaxed
our mothers into indulging us. I don’t know whether Ruth suffered more
in appearance when the clear dark of her face was set in my pale blues,
or I, when her brilliant reds and orange turned me into a peony or a
sunflower; but we thought little about such effects in those days. If
Ruth got her new article of attire first, I must have one like it,
whether or no; and if I was first favored, she followed my example.
It was thus in every thing. We studied from the same text-books,
keeping a nearly even pace Ruth was quicker than I at figures, so she
helped me there; and my eyes were better than her near-sighted ones at
finding towns, mountains, and fivers on the atlas, so we always did our
“map questions” together. Of course our play hours were always passed
in company, and one face was almost as familiar as the other in each of
our houses. “The twins,” people used to call us, for fun; and if ever
two girls were all and all to each other, we were.
What did we quarrel about? It is a curious thing that I have forgotten
how it began. It was some little difference of opinion, such as seldom
occurred between us; and then, “what so wild as words are?” We said one
thing after another, until, finally, Ruth’s black eyes flashed, and she
cried out passionately,--
“I just about hate you, Sue Morrison!”
Then my temper flamed. It was a different kind of temper from
Ruth’s,--slower to take fire, but much more sullen and resolute. I
loved her as I did my own life, but I hated her also, just then,--if
you can understand that contradiction. I looked at her, and I remember
I thought, even then, how handsome she was, with the red glow on her
cheeks, and her eyes so strangely bright. I could have kissed her for
love, or cursed her for hate; but the hate triumphed. Slowly I said,--
“Very well, Ruth Carson. I shall not trouble you any more. I shall
never speak to you again, until I see you lie a-dying.”
I don’t know what made me put that last sentence in. I suppose I
thought, even then, that I could not have her go out of the world,
for good and all, without one tender word from me. When I spoke, Ruth
turned pale, and the light died in her eyes. I presume she did not
think I really meant what I said; but, at any rate, it startled her.
She did not answer. She just looked at me a moment. Then she turned
away, and, for the first time in years, she and I walked home, so far
as our roads lay the same way, on opposite sides of the street.
“Where is Ruth?” my mother asked, when I went in.
“Gone home, I believe,” was my only answer.
It seemed to me that I could not tell even my mother of this
estrangement, which had changed in a day the whole current of my life.
Of course, as time went on, she saw that all was different between Ruth
and me; but, finding that I did not voluntarily tell her any thing, she
ceased even to mention Ruth in my presence.
You cannot think how strange and solitary my new life seemed to me. For
the first time since I could remember I felt all alone. I don’t think
Ruth thought this unnatural state of things could last. The first day
after our quarrel she spoke to me, at school, half timidly. I looked at
her, and did not answer. She sighed, and turned away; and again, when
school was over, each of us went home alone on our separate path.
Sometimes I would find a bunch of roses on my desk, for it was June
when our quarrel took place, and all the roses were in bloom. Then,
later, I would lift up the desk cover and come upon an early apple
or a peach; later still, a handful of chestnuts. I always let the
roses wither without touching them; and the fruit I gave away, as if
unconscious where it came from. Ruth would watch me and sigh; but after
that first morning she never spoke to me. I think my rebuff then hurt
her too much for her to be willing to risk receiving such another. What
a strange, new, sad thing it was to get our lessons, as we did now, all
alone! How the hateful figures tormented me, without Ruth’s quick brain
to help me unravel them! How puzzled she looked, as I saw her holding
the map close to her near-sighted eyes, trying to find the rivers and
lakes and mountains all by herself!
It was a curious thing that after the first two or three days my
anger had passed away entirely. I held no longer the least bitterness
in my heart toward Ruth; and yet I felt that I must keep my word. I
looked upon my rash utterance as a vow, for which I had a sort of
superstitious reverence. Then, too, there was a queer, evil kind of
pride about me,--something that wouldn’t _let_ me speak to her when
I had said I wouldn’t,--wouldn’t _let_ me show her that I was sorry.
The teacher spoke to me about the trouble between me and Ruth, but he
might as well have spoken to a blank wall,--I did not even answer him.
Whether he said any thing to Ruth I do not know.
In the late fall there was a vacation, which held over Thanksgiving.
I had an idea that my mother watched me curiously to see how I
would pass those weeks without Ruth. But I was resolute to show no
pain or loneliness. I made occupations for myself. I read; I worked
worsted; I crocheted; I copied out poems in my common-place book; I
was busy from morning till night. One thing I did not do,--I did not
take another friend in Ruth’s stead. Several of the girls had shown
themselves willing to fill the vacant place, but they soon found that
“No admittance here” was written over the door. I think they tried the
same experiment with Ruth, with the same result. At any rate, each of
us went on our solitary way, quite alone. Ruth had her own pride, too,
as well as I; and, after a little while, she would no more have spoken
to me than I to her; but she could not help those great, dark eyes
of hers resting on me sometimes with a wistful, inquiring look, that
almost brought the tears to mine.
School commenced again the first of December. Ruth came, the first day,
in her new winter dress. It was a deep, rich red; and somehow she made
me think of the spicy little red roses of Burgundy, that used to grow
in my grandmother’s old-fashioned garden. My own new gown was blue. For
the first time in years, Ruth and I were dressed differently. We were
no longer “the twins.” I thought Ruth looked a little sad. She was very
grave. I never heard her laugh in these days. When it rained or snowed,
and we stayed at school through the noonings, instead of going home
for our dinner, neither of us would join in the games that made the
noontime merry. I suppose each was afraid of too directly encountering
the other.
But when the good skating came, both of us used to be on the pond. The
whole school, teacher and all, would turn out on half holidays. Both
Ruth and I were among the best skaters in school My father had taught
us, two or three winters before, and we had had great pride in our
skill. We had always skated in company before; but now, as in every
thing else we did, we kept at a distance from each other.
The pond used to be a pretty sight, on those crisp, keen winter
afternoons, all alive with boys and girls. A steep hill rose on one
side of it, crowned by a pine wood, green all the winter through. Great
fields of snow stretched far and away on the other side, and in the
midst was the sheet of ice, smooth as glass. Here was a scarlet hood,
and there a boy’s gay Scotch cap. Here some adventurer was cutting
fantastic capers; there a girl was struggling with her first skates,
and falling down at almost every step. I loved the pastime,--the
keen, clear air, the swift motion, the excitement. I loved to watch
Ruth, too, for by this time not only was all the bitterness gone from
my heart, but the old love was welling up, sweet and strong, though
nothing would have made me acknowledge it to myself. Wherever she
moved, my far-sighted eyes followed her; and, indeed, she was a pretty
sight, the prettiest there, in her bright scarlet skating dress, and
with her cheeks scarcely less scarlet, and her great eyes bright as
stars.
There came a day, at last, when we promised ourselves an afternoon
of glorious skating. The ice was in excellent condition, the sky was
cloudless, the weather cold, indeed, but not piercing, and the air
exhilarating as wine. I ate my dinner hurriedly--there was no time to
lose out of such an afternoon. I rose from the table before the rest,
put on my warm jacket and my skating-cap, and was just leaving the
house when my father called after me.
“Be very careful of the west side of the pond, Sue. They have been
cutting a good deal of ice there.”
The whole school was out; only when I first got there I did not see
Ruth. The teacher repeated to us what my father had said, but I
remembered afterward that it was not till he had done speaking that
Ruth came in sight, looking, in her bright scarlet, like some tropical
bird astray under our pale northern skies. As usual she and I began
skating at some distance from each other, but gradually I drew nearer
and nearer to her. I had no reason for this. I did not mean to speak to
her, and the pride that held me from her was as untamed as ever. But
yet something for which I could not account drew me towards her.
Did she see me, and wish to avoid me? I did not know; but suddenly she
began to skate swiftly away from me, and toward the dangerous west side
of the pond. I think I must have called, “Come back! come back!” but
if I did, she did not heed or hear. She was skating on, oh, so fast! I
looked around in despair--I was nearer to her than any one else was. I
shouted, with all my might, to Mr. Hunt, the teacher. I thought I saw
him turn at the sound of my voice, but I did not wait to be sure. I
just skated after Ruth.
I never can tell you about that moment. All the love with which I
had loved her swept back over my heart like a great flood. Pride and
bitterness, what did they mean? I only knew that I had loved Ruth
Carson as I should never, never love any other friend; and that if she
died I wanted to die too, and be friends with her again in the next
world, if I could not here. I think I called to her, but the call was
wasted upon the wind which always bore my voice the other way. So Ruth
skated on and on, and I skated after her. Whether any one was coming
behind me I did not know. I never even looked over my shoulder. It
seemed to me that some mad wind of destiny was sweeping us both ahead.
Suddenly there came a plash, the scarlet cap appeared a moment above
the ice, and then that went under, and there was no Ruth in sight,
anywhere. You cannot think how calm I was. I wonder at it now, looking
back over so many years, to that bright, sad, far-off winter day.
I succeeded in checking my own headlong speed, and, drawing near
cautiously to the spot where Ruth had gone down, I threw myself along
the ice. It was thick and strong, and had been cut into squares, so
it bore me up. I looked over the edge. Ruth was rising toward me. I
reached down and clutched her, I hardly know by what. At that moment I
felt my ankles grasped firmly by two strong hands, and then I knew that
I could save Ruth. I held her until some one helped me to pull her out,
and then I don’t know what came next.
I waked up, long afterward, in my own bed, in my own room. I seemed to
myself to have been quite away from this world, on some long journey.
A consciousness of present things came back to me slowly. I recalled
with a shudder the hard, sharply cut ice, the water gurgling below, and
Ruth, _my_ Ruth, with her great black eyes and her bright, bonny face,
going down, down. I cried out,--
“Ruth! Ruth! where are you?”
And then I turned my head, and there, beside me, she lay, my pretty
Ruth--mine again, after so long.
“She clung to you so tightly we could not separate you,” I heard my
mother say; but all my being was absorbed in looking at Ruth. She was
white as death. I had said I would not speak to her again until I saw
her lie a-dying. _Was_ she dying now? I lifted myself on my elbow
to look at her. I held my own breath to see if any came from her
half-parted lips; and as I looked, her eyes unclosed, and she put her
arm up,--oh, so feebly!--and struggled to get it round my neck. I bent
over her, and one moment our lips clung together, in such a kiss as
neither of us had ever known before--a kiss snatched from death, and
full of peace and pardon, and the unutterable bliss of a restored love.
Then Ruth whispered,--
“Sue, I have been only half a girl since I lost you. I would rather
have died there, in the black water from which you saved me, than not
to find you again.”
“I thought you _were_ dying, Ruth,” I whispered back, holding her
close; “and if you were, I meant to die too. I would have gone after
you into the water but what I would have had you back.”
Then we were too weak to say any thing more. We just lay there, our
hands clasped closely, in an ineffable content. Our mothers came and
went about us; all sorts of tender cares were lavished on us of which
we took no heed. I knew only one thing,--that I had won back Ruth;
Ruth knew only one thing,--that once more she was by my side.
That was our first and our last quarrel. I think no hasty word was ever
spoken between us afterward. The first one had cost us too dear.