Some of the sunshine that had helped dry the muddy road, making possible
the path between Jack's abode and MacFarlane's hired villa--where there
was only room for Miss Felicia, Peter still occupying his cell at Mrs.
Hicks's, but taking his meals with Ruth, so that he could be within call
of MacFarlane when needed--some of this same sunshine, I say, may have
been responsible for the temporary drying up of Ruth's tears and the
establishing of various ways of communication between two hearts that
had for some days been floundering in the deeps. Or, perhaps, the
rebound may have been due to the fact that Peter had whispered something
in Jack's ear, or that Ruth had overheard Miss Felicia praising Jack's
heroism to her father--it was common talk everywhere--or it may
have been that the coming of spring which always brings hope and
cheer--making old into new, may have led to the general lighting up
of the gloom that had settled over the house of MacFarlane and its
dependents; but certain it is that such was the case.
MacFarlane began by taking a sudden change for the better--so decided
a change that he was out of his room and dressed on the fifth day
(although half his coat hid his broken arm, tightly bandaged to his
side). He had even talked as far as the geraniums in the window, through
which he could not only see Jack's hotel, but the big “earth fill” and
mouth of The Beast beyond.
Then Bolton surprised everybody by appearing outdoors, his hand alone in
a sling. What was left of the poor shanty men, too, had been buried,
the dreadful newspaper articles had ceased, and work was again in full
blast.
Jack, to be sure, was still in his room, having swallowed more gas and
smoke than the others, badly scorching his insides, as he had panted
under the weight of MacFarlane's body. The crisis, however, brought on
by his imprudence in meeting Ruth at the station, had passed, and even
he was expected to be out in a few days.
As for Miss Felicia, although she had blown hot and blown cold on Ruth's
heart, until that delicate instrument stood at zero one day and at fever
heat the next, she had, on the whole, kept up an equable temperature,
and meant to do so until she shook the dust of Corklesville from her
dainty feet and went back to the clean, moist bricks of her garden.
And as for Peter! Had he not been a continuous joy; cheering everybody;
telling MacFarlane funny stories until that harassed invalid laughed
himself, unconscious of the pain to his arm; bringing roses for the
prim, wizened-up Miss Bolton, that she might have a glimpse of something
fresh and alive while she sat by her brother's bed. And last, and by
no means least, had he not the morning he had left for New York, his
holiday being over, taken Ruth in his arms and putting his lips close
to her ear, whispered something into its pink shell that had started
northern lights dancing all over her cheeks and away up to the roots of
her hair; and had she not given him a good hug and kissed him in return,
a thing she had never done in her whole life before? And had he not
stopped on his way to the station for a last hand-shake with Jack and
to congratulate him for the hundredth time for his plucky rescue of
MacFarlane--a subject he never ceased to talk about--and had he not at
the very last moment, told Jack every word of what he and Ruth talked
about, with all the details elaborated, even to the hug, which was no
sooner told than another set of northern lights got into action at once,
and another hug followed; only this time it took the form of a hearty
hand-shake and a pat on Peter's back, followed by a big tear which the
boy tried his best to conceal? Peter had no theories detrimental to
penniless young gentlemen, pursued by intermeddling old ladies.
And yet with all this there was one corner deep down in Ruth's heart so
overgrown with “wonderings” and “whys,” so thick with tangled doubts
and misgivings, that no cheering ray of certainty had yet been able
to pierce it. Nor had any one tried. Miss Felicia, good as she was and
loving as she had been, had done nothing in the pruning way--that is,
nothing which would let in any sunshine radiating from Jack. She had
talked about him, it is true; not to her, we may be sure, but to her
father, saying how handsome he had grown and what a fine man he was
making of himself. She had, too, more than once commented--and this
before everybody--on his good manners and his breeding, especially on
the way he had received her the first morning she called, and to
his never apologizing for his miserable surroundings, meagre as they
were--just a theodolite, his father's portrait and half a dozen books
alone being visible, the white walls covered with working plans.
But when the poor girl had tried to draw from her some word that was
personal to himself, or one that might become personal--and she did
try even to the verge of betraying herself, which would never have
done--Miss Felicia had always turned the subject at once or had pleaded
forgetfulness. Not a word could she drag out of this very perverse and
determined old lady concerning the state of the patient, nothing except
that he was “better,” or “doing nicely,” or that the bandage was being
shortened, or some other commonplace. Uncle Peter had been kinder. He
understood--she saw that in his eyes. Still even Uncle Peter had not
told her all that she wanted to know, and of course she could not ask
him.
Soon a certain vague antagonism began to assert itself toward the old
lady who knew so much and yet who said so little! who was too old really
to understand--no old person, in fact, could understand--that is, no old
woman. This proved, too, that this particular person could never have
loved any other particular person in her life. Not that she, Ruth, loved
Jack--by no manner of means--not in that way, at least. But she would
have liked to know what he said, and how he said it, and whether his
eyes had lost that terrible look which they wore when he turned away
at the station to go back to his sick bed in the dingy hotel. All these
things her Aunt Felicia knew about and yet she could not drag a word out
of her.
What she ought to have done was to go herself that first night, bravely,
honestly, fearlessly as any friend had a right to do; go to him in his
miserable little hotel and try to cheer him up as Miss Felicia, and
perhaps Miss Bolton, had done. Then she might have found out all about
it. Exactly what it was that she wanted to find out all about--and this
increased her perplexity--she could not formulate, although she was
convinced it would help her to bear the anxiety she was suffering. Now
it was too late; more than a week had passed, and no excuse for going
was possible.
It was not until the morning after Peter's departure,--she, sitting
alone, sad and silent in her chair at the head of her father's breakfast
table (Miss Felicia, as was her custom, had her coffee in her room),
that the first ray of light had crept into her troubled brain. It had
only shone a brief moment,--and had then gone out in darkness, but it
held a certain promise for better days, and on this she had built her
hopes.
“I am going to send for Breen to-morrow, Ruth,” her father had said as
he kissed her good-night. “There are some things I want to talk over
with him, and then I want to thank him for what he did for me. He's
a man, every inch of him; I haven't told him so yet,--not to his
face,--but I will to-morrow. Fine fellow is Breen; blood will always
tell in the end, my daughter, and he's got the best in the country in
his veins. Looks more like his father every day he lives.”
She had hardly slept all night, thinking of the pleasure in store
for her. She had dressed herself, too, in her most becoming breakfast
gown--one she had worn when Jack first arrived at Corklesville, and
which he said reminded him of a picture he had seen as a boy. There
were pink rosebuds woven in its soft texture, and the wide peach-blossom
ribbon that bound her dainty waist contrasted so delightfully, as he had
timidly hinted, with the tones of her hair and cheeks.
It was the puffy, bespectacled little doctor who shut out the light.
“No, your father has still one degree of fever,” he grumbled, with a
wise shake of his bushy head. “No--nobody, Miss MacFarlane,--do you
understand? He can see NOBODY--or I won't be responsible,” and with this
the crabbed old fellow climbed into his gig and drove away.
She looked after him for a moment and two hot tears dropped from her
eyes and dashed themselves to pieces on the peach-blossom ribbon.
But the sky was clearing again--she didn't realize it,--but it was.
April skies always make alternate lights and darks. The old curmudgeon
had gone, but the garden gate was again a-swing.
Ruth heard the tread on the porch and drawing back the curtains looked
out. The most brilliant sunbeams were but dull rays compared with what
now flashed from her eyes. Nor did she wait for any other hand than her
own to turn the knob of the door.
“Why, Mr. Breen!”
“Yes, Miss Ruth,” Jack answered, lifting his hat, an unrestrained
gladness at the sight of her beauty and freshness illumining his face.
“I have come to report for duty to your father.”
“But you cannot see him. You must report to me,” she laughed gayly, her
heart brimming over now that he was before her again. “Father was going
to send for you to-day, but the doctor would not let him. Hush! he
musn't hear us.”
“He would not let me go out either, but as I am tired to death of being
cooped up in my room, I broke jail. Can't I see him?” he continued in
a lower key. He had his coat off and had hung it on the rack, she
following him into the sitting-room, absorbing every inch of his strong,
well-knit body from his short-cropped hair where the bandages had been
wound, down to the sprained wrist which was still in splints. She noted,
too, with a little choke in her throat, the shadows under the cheek
bones and the thinness of the nose. She could see plainly how he had
suffered.
“I am sorry you cannot see father.” She was too moved to say more. “He
still has one degree of fever.”
“I have two degrees myself,” Jack laughed softly,--“one records how
anxious I was to get out of my cell and the other how eager I was to get
here. And now I suppose I can't stay.”
“Oh, yes, you can stay if you will keep as still as a mouse so father
can't hear you,” she whispered, a note of joy woven in her tones.
She was leading him to the sofa as she spoke. He placed a cushion for
her, and took his place beside her, resting his injured hand, which was
in a sling, on the arm. He was still weak and shaking.
“Daddy is still in his room,” she rattled on nervously, “but he may be
out and prowling about the upstairs hall any minute. He has a heap of
things to talk over with you--he told me so last night--and if he knew
you were here nothing would stop him. Wait till I shut the door. And now
tell me about yourself,” she continued in a louder voice, regaining her
seat. “You have had a dreadful time, I hear--it was the wrist, wasn't
it?” She felt she was beginning badly; although conscious of her nervous
joy and her desire to conceal it, somehow it seemed hard for her to say
the right thing.
“Oh, I reckon it was everything, Miss Ruth, but it's all over now.” He
was not nervous. He was in an ecstasy. His eyes were drinking in the
round of her throat and the waves of glorious hair that crowned her
lovely head. He noticed, too, some tiny threads that lay close to her
ears: he had been so hungry for a glimpse of them!
“Oh, I hope so, but you shouldn't have come to the station that day,”
she struggled on. “We had Uncle Peter with us, and only a hand-bag, each
of us,--we came away so suddenly.”
“I didn't want you to be frightened about your father. I didn't know
that Uncle Peter was with you; in fact, I didn't know much of anything
until it was all over. Bolton sent the telegram as soon as he got his
breath.”
“That's what frightened us. Why didn't YOU send it?” she was gaining
control of herself now and something of her old poise had returned.
“I hadn't got MY breath,--not all of it. I remember his coming into my
room where they were tying me up and bawling out something about how
to reach you by wire, and he says now that I gave him Mr. Grayson's
address. I cannot remember that part of it, except that I--Well, never
mind about that--” he hesitated turning away his gaze--the memory seemed
to bring with it a certain pain.
“Yes,--tell me,” she pleaded. She was too happy. This was what she had
been waiting for. There was no detail he must omit.
“It was nothing, only I kept thinking it was you who were hurt,” he
stammered.
“Me!” she cried, her eyes dancing. The ray of light was breaking--one
with a promise in it for the future!
“Yes,--you, Miss Ruth! Funny, isn't it, how when you are half dead you
get things mixed up.” Oh, the stupidity of these lovers! Not a thing
had he seen of the flash of expectation in her eyes or of the hot color
rising to her cheeks. “I thought somebody was trying to tell your father
that you were hurt, and I was fighting to keep him from hearing it. But
you must thank Bolton for letting you know.”
Ruth's face clouded and the sparkle died out in her eyes. What was Mr.
Bolton to her, and at a time like this?
“It was most kind of Mr. Bolton,” she answered in a constrained voice.
“I only wish he had said something more; we had a terrible day. Uncle
Peter was nearly crazy about you; he telegraphed and telegraphed, but we
could get no answer. That's why it was such a relief to find you at the
station.”
But the bat had not finished banging his head against the wall. “Then I
did do some good by going?” he asked earnestly.
“Oh, indeed you did.” If he did not care whether she had been hurt or
not, even in his delirium, she was not going to betray herself. “It was
the first time anybody had seen Uncle Peter smile; he was wretched all
day. He loves you very dearly, Mr. Breen.”
Jack's hand dropped so suddenly to his side that the pain made him
tighten his lips. For a moment he did not answer.
“Then it was only Uncle Peter who was anxious, was it? I am glad he
loves me. I love him, too,” he said at last in a perfunctory tone--“he's
been everything to me.”
“And you have been everything to him.” She determined to change the
subject now. “He told me only--well,--two days ago--that you had made him
ten years younger.”
“Me?--Miss Ruth!” Still the same monotonous cadence.
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Well,--maybe because he is old and you are young.” As she spoke her
eyes measured the width of his shoulders and his broad chest--she saw
now to what her father owed his life--“and another thing; he said that
he would always thank you for getting out alive. And I owe you a debt of
gratitude, too, Mr. Breen;--you gave me back my dear daddy,” she added
in a more assured tone. Here at last was something she could talk
unreservedly about. Something that she had wanted to say ever since he
came.
Jack straightened and threw back his shoulders: that word again! Was
that all that Ruth had to say?
“No, Miss Ruth, you don't.” There was a slight ring of defiance
now. “You do not owe me anything, and please don't think so, and
please--please--do not say so!”
“I don't owe you anything! Not for saving my father's life?” This came
with genuine surprise.
“No! What would you have thought of me, what would I have thought
of myself had I left him to suffocate when I could just as well have
brought him out? Do you think I could ever have looked you in the face
again? You might not have ever known I could have saved him--but I
should have hated myself every hour of my life. Men are not to be
thanked for these things; they are to be despised if they don't do them.
Can't you see the difference?”
“But you might have been killed, too!” she exclaimed. Her own voice was
rising, irritation and disappointment swaying it. “Everybody says it was
a miracle you were not.”
“Not a miracle at all. All I was afraid of was stumbling over something
in the dark--and it was nearly dark--only a few of the rock lights
burning--and not be able to get on my feet again. But don't let us talk
about it any more.”
“Yes--but I will, I MUST. I must feel right about it all, and I cannot
unless you listen. I shall never forget you for it as long as I live.”
There was a note of pathos in her voice. Why did he make it so hard for
her, she thought. Why would he not look in her face and see? Why would
he not let her thank him? “Nothing in the world is so precious to me
as daddy, and never will be,” she went on resolutely, driving back the
feeling of injustice that surged up in her heart at his attitude--“and
it is you, Mr. Breen, who have given him back to me. And daddy feels
the same way about it; and he is going to tell you so the minute he sees
you,” she insisted. “He has sent you a lot of messages, he says, but
they do not count. Please, now won't you let me thank you?”
Jack raised his head. He had been fingering a tassel on the end of the
sofa, missing all the play of feeling in her eyes, taking in nothing but
the changes that she rang on that one word “gratitude.” Gratitude!--when
he loved the ground she stepped on. But he must face the issue fairly
now:
“No,--I don't want you to thank me,” he answered simply.
“Well, what do you want, then?” She was at sea now,--compass and rudder
gone,--wind blowing from every quarter at once,--she trying to reach the
harbor of his heart while every tack was taking her farther from port.
If the Scribe had his way the whole coast of love would be lighted and
all rocks of doubt and misunderstanding charted for just such hapless
lovers as these two. How often a twist of the tiller could send them
into the haven of each other's arms, and yet how often they go ashore
and stay ashore and worse still, stay ashore all their lives.
Jack looked into her eyes and a hopeless, tired expression crossed his
face.
“I don't know,” he said in a barely audible voice:--“I just--please,
Miss Ruth, let us talk of something else; let me tell you how lovely
your gown is and how glad I am you wore it to-day. I always liked it,
and--”
“No,--never mind about my gown; I would rather you did not like
anything about me than misunderstand me!” The tears were just under the
lids;--one more thrust like the last and they would be streaming down
her cheeks.
“But I haven't misunderstood you.” He saw the lips quiver, but it was
anger, he thought, that caused it.
“Yes, you have!”--a great lump had risen in her throat. “You have done a
brave, noble act,--everybody says so; you carried my dear father out on
your back when there was not but one chance in a thousand you would ever
get out alive; you lay in a faint for hours and once they gave you up
for dead; then you thought enough of Uncle Peter and all of us to get
that telegram sent so we wouldn't be terrified to death and then at the
risk of your life you met us at the station and have been in bed ever
since, and yet I am to sit still and not say a word!” It was all she
could do to control herself. “I do feel grateful to you and I always
shall feel grateful to you as long as I live. And now will you take my
hand and tell me you are sorry, and let me say it all over again, and
with my whole heart? for that's the way I mean it.”
She was facing him now, her hand held out, her head thrown back, her
dark eyes flashing, her bosom heaving. Slowly and reverently, as a
devotee would kiss the robe of a passing priest, Jack bent his head and
touched her fingers with his lips.
Then, raising his eyes to hers, he asked, “And is that all, Miss
Ruth? Isn't there something more?” Not once had she mentioned his
own safety--not once had she been glad over him--“Something more?” he
repeated, an ineffable tenderness in his tones--“something--it isn't
all, is it?”
“Why, how can I say anything more?” she murmured in a lowered voice,
withdrawing her hand as the sound of a step in the hall reached her ear.
The door swung wide: “Well, what are you two young people quarrelling
about?” came a soft, purring voice.
“We weren't quarrelling, Aunty. Mr. Breen is so modest he doesn't want
anybody to thank him, and I just would.”
Miss Felicia felt that she had entered just in time. Scarred and
penniless heroes fresh from battle-fields of glory and desirable young
women whose fathers have been carried bodily out of burning death pits
must never be left too long together.