RIPLEY, attorney, New York:
“Draft accepted. Begin immediately.
“Ulrich.”
Such was the cable dispatch that Arthur got a fortnight after he had
mailed his letter to Counselor Ulrich of Vienna. A fortnight later
still, the post brought him an epistle to the same effect. Then ensued
four weeks of silence. During these four weeks one question had received
a good share of his attention. The substance and the solution of it,
may be gathered from the following conversation held between him and
Peixada.
Arthur said, “Suppose the residence of your sister-in-law to be
discovered: what next? Suppose we find that she is living in Europe:
how can we induce her to return hither and render herself liable to the
jurisdiction of our courts? Or suppose even that she should turn out to
be established here in New York: what’s to prevent her from packing
her trunks and taking French leave the day after citations to attend the
probate of her husband’s will are served upon her? In other words,
how are we to compel her to stand and deliver? Ignorant as we are of
the nature and location of her properties, we can’t attach them in the
regular way.”
Peixada said, “Hum! That’s so. I hadn’t thought of that. That’s
a pretty serious question.”
“At first,” said Arthur, “it struck me as more than serious—as
fatal. But there’s a way out of it—the neatest and simplest way you
can imagine.”
“Ah,” sighed Peixada, with manifest relief.
“Now see,” continued Arthur. “Mrs. Peixada shot her husband—was
indicted—tried—acquitted’—yes?”
“To be sure.”
“But at the same time she also took the life of a man named Edward
Bolen, her husband’s coachman—eh?”
“She did—certainly.”
“Was she indicted for his murder as well as for the other?”
“She was indicted, yes, but——”
“But never arraigned for trial. Then the indictment is still in force
against her?”
“I suppose it is—unless the statute of limitations——”
“The statute of limitations does not apply after an indictment has
once been found.”
“Oh.”
“Well, I was thinking the matter over the other day—confronting that
difficulty I have mentioned, and wondering how the mischief it was to
be surmounted—when it occurred to me that it might be possible to
interest the authorities in our behalf, and so get Mrs. Peixada under
lock and key.”
“Splendid!”
“I went over to the district-attorney’s office, and saw Mr. Romer,
the senior assistant, who happens to be a good friend of mine, and told
him the sum and substance of our case. Then I asked him whether for the
sake of justice he wouldn’t lend us the machinery of the law—that
is, upon our finding out her whereabouts, cause her extradition and
imprisonment under the indictment in re Bolen. I promised that you would
assume the entire expense.”
“And he replied?”
“That it was a rather irregular proposition, but that he would think
it over and let me know his conclusion.”
“Well, have you heard from him since?”
“Yes—yesterday morning I received a note, asking me to call at his
office. When I got there, this is what he said. He said that he had read
the indictment, and consulted his chief, Mr. Orson, and pondered the
matter pretty thoroughly. Extraordinary as the proceeding would be, he
had decided to do as I wished. ’Because,’ he added, ’there’s
a mighty strong case against the woman, and I shouldn’t wonder if it
would be worth our while to try her. At any rate, if you can set us on
her track, we’ll arrest her and take our chances. We’ve made quite
a point, you know, of unearthing indictments that our predecessors
had pigeonholed; and more than once we’ve secured a conviction. It
doesn’t follow that because the jury in the Peixada case stultified
themselves, another jury will. So, you go ahead with your inquiries;
and when she’s firmly pinned down, we’ll take her in custody. Then,
after you’ve recovered your money, we can step in and do our best
to send her up to Sing Sing.’—I declare, I was half sorry to have
prepared new troubles for the poor creature; but, you see, our interests
are now perfectly protected.”
“A brilliant stroke!” cried Peixada. “Then we shall not merely
rescue my brother’s property, but, indirectly at least, we shall
avenge his death! I am delighted. Now we must redouble our efforts to
ferret her out.”
“Precisely. And that brings me to another point. I have had a long
letter—sixteen solid pages—from Ulrich, the Austrian lawyer. He has
traced her from Vienna to Paris, from Paris to London. He’s in London
now, working up his clew. The last news of her dates back to May, 1882.
On the 23d of that month she left the hotel she had been stopping at in
London, and went—Ulrich is trying to discover where. I think our best
course now will be to retain an English solicitor, and let him carry the
matter on from the point Ulrich has reached. With your approval, I shall
cable Ulrich to put the affair into the hands of Mr. Reginald Graham,
a London attorney in whom I have the utmost confidence. What do you
think?”
“Oh, you’re right. No doubt about that. Meantime, here.”—Peixada
handed his legal adviser a check for one hundred dollars. “This is to
keep up your spirits,” he said.
The above conference had taken place on the forenoon of Wednesday,
the 25th of June. It was on that afternoon that Arthur started to read
“The Snow Image” to Mrs. Lehmyl.
Next day, after an eternity of impatience, he rang her bell.
“Mrs. Lehmyl,” said the servant, “is sick in her room with a
headache.”
“What?” cried Arthur, and stood still, gaping for dismay.
“Yes,” repeated Bridget; “sick in her room.”
“Oh, but she will receive me. I call by appointment. Please tell her
that I am here.”
“She said that she could receive no one; but if you’ll step into the
parlor, I’ll speak to Mrs. Hart.”
Mrs. Hart appeared and corroborated the maid’s statement. A big lump
gathered in Arthur’s throat. He had looked forward so eagerly to this
moment—had hoped so much from it—and it had been such a long
time coming—that now to have it slip away unused, like this—the
disappointment was bitter. He felt utterly miserable and dejected. As
he dragged himself down the stoop—he had sprung up it, two steps at a
stride, a moment since—he noticed a group of urchins, standing on the
curbstone and grinning from ear to ear. He fancied that they had guessed
his secret, and were laughing at his discomfiture; if he had obeyed his
impulse, he would have wrung their necks on the spot. He crossed the
street, locked himself in his room, and surrendered unresistingly to the
blue devils.
These vivacious sprites played fast and loose with the poor boy’s
imagination. They conjured up before him a multitude of unlikely
catastrophes. They persuaded him that his case was worse than hopeless.
Mrs. Lehmyl cared not a fig for him. Why, forsooth, should she? Probably
he had a successful rival. That a woman such as she should love
an insignificant young fellow like himself—the bare idea was
preposterous. He was to blame for having allowed the flower of hope to
take root in his bosom. He laughed bitterly, and wondered how he had
contrived to deceive himself even for a moment.
It was trebly absurd that she should love him after so brief and so
superficial an acquaintance. Life wasn’t worth living; and, but for
his mother and Hetzel, he would put an end to himself forthwith. Yet,
the next instant he was recalling the “Yes” that she had spoken
yesterday, in response to his “May I call to-morrow?” and the
fearless glance with which she had met his eyes. “Ah,” he cries,
“it set my blood afire. It dazzled me with visions of impossible
joy. I could almost hear her murmur—oh, so softly—’I love you,
Arthur!’ You may guess the effect that fancy had upon me.” It is
significant that not once did he pity her for her headache. He took for
granted that it was merely a subterfuge for refusing’ to receive him.
But her motive for refusing to see him— There was the rub! If he could
only have divined it—known it to a certainty—then his suspense
would have been less of an agony, then his mind could have borrowed some
repose, though perhaps the repose of despair.
Well, he got through the night after a fashion. A streak of cold, gray
light lay along the eastern horizon, and the river had put off the
color of ink for the color of lead, before he fell asleep. His sleep was
troubled. A nightmare played frightful antics upon his breast. It was
broad day when he awoke. The river sparkled gayly in the sunlight, the
sky shimmered with warmth, the sparrows outside quarreled vociferously.
A brief glow of cheerfulness was the result. But memory speedily
asserted itself. Heartsick and weary he began his toilet. “What had I
to look forward to?” he demands. He climbed the staircase, and entered
the breakfast room. Hetzel sat near the window, reading a newspaper.
Hetzel grunted forth a gruff good-morning, without looking up. I doubt
however, whether Arthur knew that Hetzel was there at all. For, as he
crossed the threshold, his eye was caught by something white lying upon
his plate. He can’t tell why—but he guessed at once that it was a
note from Mrs. Lehmyl. His lover’s instinct scented the truth from
afar.
He snatched the letter up eagerly. But he delayed about opening it. He
scrutinized the direction—written in a frank, firm, woman’s hand.
The paper exhaled never so faint a perfume. Still he did not open it. He
was afraid. He would wait till his agitation had subsided a little. He
could hear his heart going thump, thump, thump, like a hammer against
his side. He had difficulty with his breath. Then a dreadful possibility
loomed up before him! What—what if it should not be from her after
all! This thought endowed him with the courage of desperation. He tore
the missive open.
He was standing there, one hand grasping the back of his chair,
the other holding the letter to his eyes, when Hetzel, throwing his
newspaper aside, got up, turned about the room, then abruptly came to a
halt, facing Arthur.
“Mercy upon me, man,” cried Hetzel, “what has happened? Cheeks
burning, fingers trembling! No bad news? Speak—quickly.”
But Arthur did not speak.
Hetzel went on: “I’ve noticed lately, there’s been something wrong
with you. You’re nervous, restless, out of kilter. Is there a woman in
the case? Is your feeling for our neighbor something more than a passing
fancy? Are you taking her seriously? Or, are you simply run down-+-in
need of rest and change? Why not make a trip up to Oldbridge, and see
your mother?”
By the time Hetzel had finished speaking, Arthur had folded his letter
and stowed it away in his pocket.
“Eh? What were you saying?” he inquired, with a blank look.
“Oh, I was saying that breakfast is getting cold; coffee spoiling,
biscuit drying up—whatever you choose. Letter from home?”
“Home? No; not from home,” said Arthur.
“Well, draw up, anyhow. Is—is—By Jove, what is the matter with
you? Where are you now? Why don’t you pay attention when I speak? What
has come over you the last week or two? You’re worrying me to death.
Out with it! No secrets from the head of the house.”
“I have no secrets,” Arthur answered, meekly; “only—only, if you
must know it, I’m—” No doubt he was on the point of making a full
confession. He restrained himself, however; added, “There! I won’t
talk about it;” applied himself to his knife and fork, and preserved
a dismal silence till the end of the meal. He went away as soon as
ordinary courtesy would warrant.
No sooner had he closed the door behind him, than his hand made a dive
into his pocket, and brought out Mrs. Lehmyl’s letter. He read it
through for perhaps the twentieth time. It ran thus:
“46 Beekman Place,
“Thursday evening.
“Dear Mr. Ripley After a sleepless night, my head is aching cruelly.
That is why I was unable to receive you. But, since you had told me that
you were coming, I feel that I must write this note to explain and to
apologize. I should have sent you word not to come, except that until
now I have been too ill to use my eyes. The only help for me when I have
a headache like this, is solitary confinement in a darkened room. I have
braved the gaslight for an instant, to write you this note, and already
I am suffering the consequences. But I felt that I really owed you my
excuses. You will accept them in a lenient spirit, will you not?
“Sincerely yours,
“Ruth Lehmyl.”
I think Arthur’s first sentiment on reading this communication, had
been one of disappointment. It was just such an apology as she might
have written to anybody else under similar circumstances. He had nerved
himself, he thought, for the worst before breaking the seal—for
a decree forbidding him future admittance to her presence, for an
announcement of her betrothal to another man—for what not. But a
quite colorless, polite, and amiable “I beg your pardon,” he had not
contemplated. It produced the effect of a wet blanket. From the high and
mighty heroic mood in which he had torn it open, to the unimpassioned
sentences in which it was couched, was too rapid a transition, too
abrupt a plunge from hot to cold, an anti-climax equally unexpected and
depressing.
But after a second perusal—and a second perusal followed immediately
upon the first—his pulse quickened. With a lover’s swift faculty for
seizing hold of and interpreting trifles light as air, he discerned what
he believed to be encouraging tokens. Under what obligation had Mrs.
Lehmyl been to write to him so promptly? At the cost of severe pain, she
had hastened to make her excuses for a thing that there was not really
the least hurry about. If she were quite indifferent to him, would she
not have deferred writing until her headache had passed off? To be sure,
it was just such a note as she might have written to Brown, Jones, or
Robinson; but would she have “braved the gaslight” and “suffered
the consequences” for Brown, Jones, or Robinson? Obviously, she had
felt a strong desire to set herself right with him; the recognition of
which fact afforded Arthur no end of pleasure.
By the time he had committed Mrs. Lehmyl’s note to memory, he was in a
fair way to recover his wonted buoyancy of spirits.
Of course he rang her door-bell in the afternoon.
“How is Mrs. Lehmyl to-day?” he inquired of the maid. “I hope her
headache is better.”
“Oh, she’s all well again to-day—just the same as ever,” was the
reply.
An idea occurred to him. He had intended merely to inform himself
concerning her health, leave the bunch of flowers he held in his right
hand, and go his way. But if she was up and about, why not ask to see
her?
“Is—is she in?” he questioned.
“Oh, yes; she’s in.”
“Will you please give her my card, then?”
He walked into the parlor.
The parlor was darkened—blinds closed to exclude the heat—and
intensely still. The ticking of the clock on the mantel-piece was the
only interruption of the silence, save when at intervals the distant
roar of a train on the elevated railway became audible for a moment.
Mrs. Lehmyl entered, and gave him her hand, and looked up smiling at
him, all without a word. She wore a white gown, and an amber necklace
and bracelet; and my informant says that she had “a halo of sweetness
and purity all around her.” For a trice Arthur was tongue-tied.
At length, “I have brought you a few flowers,” he began.
She took the flowers, and buried her nose in them, and thanked their
donor, and pinned one of the roses at her breast.
“I hope you are quite well again,” he pursued.
“Oh, yes,” she said, “quite well.”
“It was very thoughtful of you to write me that letter—when you were
in such pain.”
“I owed it to you. I had promised to receive you. It would have been
unfair, if I had not written.”
“I—I was quite alarmed about you. I was afraid your headache
might—” He faltered.
“There was no occasion for alarm. I am used to such headaches. I
expect one every now and then.”
“But—do you know?—at first I did not believe in it—not until
your letter confirmed what Mrs. Hart and the servant had said.”
“Why?”
“I thought perhaps—perhaps you did not care to see me, and had
pleaded a headache for politeness’ sake.”
“You did me an injustice.”—A pause.—“I did care to see you.”
A longer pause. Arthur’s heart was beating madly. Well it might. She
had pronounced the last sentence with an emphasis calculated to move a
man less deeply in love than he.
“Do you mean what you have just said?” he asked presently. His voice
quivered.
“Yes.”
“I suppose you knew—I—I suppose you knew what it was I wanted to
say to you—what it was I would have said, if I had been admitted.”
“Yes, I knew,” she answered, in almost a whisper, and bowed her
head.
Arthur sprang toward her and grasped her hand. “You knew—then, you
know that—that I love you—Ruth!”
She withdrew her hand, but did not raise her head. He waited for a
moment, breathless; then, “Ah, speak to me—won’t you speak to
me?” he begged, piteously.
She raised her head now, and gazed into his eyes; but her gaze was not
one of gladness.
“Yes, alas, alas, I know it,” she said, very slowly.
Arthur started back.
“Alas, alas?” he repeated after her.
“Oh, yes,” she said, in the same slow, grave way; “it is very,
very sad.”
“Sad?” His eyes were full of mystification.
“I mean that it is sad that you should care for me. If I had only
foreseen it—but I did not. You knew so little of me, how could I
foresee? But on Wednesday—the way you looked at me—oh, forgive me.
I—I never meant to make you care for me.”
“I do not understand,” said Arthur, shaking his head.
“That is why I wanted to see you. After what passed on Wednesday, I
felt that it was best for us both that I should see you and tell you
what a mistake you had made. I wanted to tell you that you must try hard
to forget about it. It would be useless and cruel for me to pretend not
to have understood, when you looked at me so. It was best that we should
meet again, and that I should explain it to you.”
“But your explanation puts me in the dark.”
“You would not want to love a woman unless there was hope that some
day you might marry her. Would not that be a great unhappiness?”
“It is not a question of want. I should love you under any and all
conditions.”
“But you never, never can marry me.”
“I will not believe it until—”
“Wait. Do not say things that you may wish to unsay a moment hence.
You never can marry me, for one sufficient reason—because—” She
hesitated.
“Because?” There was panic in Arthur’s heart. Was she not a widow,
after all?
She drew a deep breath, and bit her lip. Her cheek had been pale. Now a
hot blush suffused it. With an air of summoning her utmost strength,
she went on, “You never can marry me, because you never would marry
me—never, unless I should tell you—something—something about
my life—my life in the past—which I can never tell—not even to
you.”
“Oh!” cried Arthur, with manifest relief. “Is that all?”
“It is enough—it is final, fatal.”
“Oh, I thought it might be worse.”
There befell a silence. Arthur was mustering his forces, to get them
under control.. He dared not speak till he had done this. At last,
struggling hard to be calm, he said, “Do you suppose I care any thing
about your past life? Do you suppose that my love for you is so mean
and so small as that? I know all that it is needful for me to know about
your past. I know you, do I not? I know, then, that every act, every
thought, every breath of your life, has been as pure and as beautiful
as you are yourself. But what I know best, and what it is most essential
for me to know, is this, Ruth, that I love you. I love you! I can not
see that what you have spoken of is a bar to our marriage.”
“Ah, but I—I would not let you enter blindfold into a union which
some time you might repent. Should I be worthy of your love, if I would?
But, what is worse, were I—were I to tell you this thing—which I can
not tell you—then you—you would not ask me to marry you. Then you
would not love me. The truth—the truth which, if I should become your
wife, I could never share with you—which would remain forever a secret
kept by me from my husband—it is—you would abhor me if you should
find it out. If you should find it out after we were married—if
somebody should come to you and tell you—oh, you would hate me. It is
far more dreadful than you can fancy.”
“No—no; for I will fancy the worst, and still beg of you to become
my wife. If I loved you less—if I did not know you so well—the hints
you utter might prompt some horrible suspicion in my mind. Will you take
it as a proof of my love, that I dare assert positively, confidently,
this?—Whatever the past may have been, so far as you were concerned in
shaping it, it was good beyond reproach. Whatever your secret may be, it
is not a secret that could show you to be one jot or tittle less noble
than I know you to be. Whatever the truth you speak of is, it is a truth
which, if it were understood in its entirety, would only serve to shed
new luster upon the whiteness of your soul. And should I—should I by
accident ever find it out—and should its form seem, as you have said,
dreadful to me—why, I should say to myself, ’You have not pierced
its substance? You do not understand it. However it may appear to you,
you know that your wife’s part in it was the part of a good angel from
first to last 1’—Now do you think I love you?”
“But if—if you should find out that I had been guilty of sin—do
you mean to say that—that you would care for me in spite of that?”
“I mean to say that I love you. I mean to say that no power under
heaven can destroy my love of you. I mean to say that no power under
heaven can prevent my marrying you, if you love me. I mean to say that
my heart and soul—the \ inmost life of me—are already married
to you, and that they will remain inseparably bound to you—to
you!—until I die. More than this I mean to say. You speak of sin. You
sin, forsooth! Well, talk of sin, if you like. Tell me that you have
been guilty of—of what you will—of the blackest crimes in the
calendar. I will not believe it. I will not believe that you were
answerable for it. I will tell you that it was not your fault. I will
tell you that if your hand has ever done any human being wrong, it was
some other will than your own that compelled it. For this I know—I
know it as I know that fire burns, that light illuminates—I know that
you, the true, intrinsic you, have always been as sweet and undefiled
as—as the breath that escapes now from your lips. There are some
things that can not be—that no man could believe, though he beheld
them with his open eyes. Can a circle be square? Can black be white? No
man, knowing you as I know you, could believe that you in your soul were
capable of sin.”
He had spoken with immense fervor, consuming her the while with his
eyes, and wrenching the hand he held until it must have ached in every
bone. She, again as pale as death, had trembled under his fierce, hot
utterance, like a reed in the wind. But now that he had done, she seemed
to recover herself. She withdrew her hand from his, and moved her chair
away.
“Mr. Ripley,” she began, “you must not speak to me like this. It
was not to hear you speak like this that I wished to see you to-day. You
make it very hard for me to say what I have to say—what it was hard
enough to say, at the best. But I must say it, and you must listen and
understand. You have not understood yet. Now, please try to.”
She pressed her hand to her throat, and swallowed convulsively. It
was evident that she was nerving herself to the performance of a most
painful task. Finally she went on, “I have told you frankly that I
understood the other day—understood what you meant when you looked at
me that way. After you were gone, I thought it all over—all that I had
learned. I thought at first that the only thing for me to do would be
never to see you again—to refuse to receive you when you called—to
avoid you as much as I possibly could. That, I thought, would be the
best thing to do. But then I thought further about it, and then it
seemed that that would not be right. To break off in that sudden way
with you, and not to explain it, would be wrong and cruel. So I put
aside that first thought, and said, ’No, I will not refuse to receive
him. I will receive him just as before. Only I will act in such a manner
toward him that he will not say any thing about caring for me. I will
act so as to prevent him from saying any thing about that. Then we will
go on and be friends the same as ever.’ But by and by that did not
seem right either. It would be as cruel as the other, because, if you
really did care for me, it would be a long suspense, a long agony for
you; and perhaps, if nothing were said about it, you might get to caring
still more for me, and might allow yourself to cherish false hopes,
hopes that could never come true. So I decided that this course was
as far from right as the first one. And, besides, I distrusted my own
power—my power to keep you from speaking. It would be a long, long
battle. I doubted whether I should have the strength to carry it
through—always to be on my guard, and prevent you from speaking.
’No,’ I said, ’it is bound to come. Sooner or later, if we go on
seeing each other, he will surely speak. Is it not better that I should
let him know at once—what waiting will make harder for him to hear
and for me to tell him—that I can never become his wife? Then, when he
knows that he has made a mistake in caring for me, then he will go away,
and think of other things, and see other women, and perhaps, by and by,
get over it, and forget about me.’ I knew that if I told you that it
was impossible for us to get married, and why it was impossible, I knew
that you would give up hoping; and I thought that this course was the
best of all. It was very hard. I shrank from the idea of speaking to you
as I have done. Your good opinion is very precious to me. It was hard to
persuade myself to say things to you that would, perhaps, make you
think differently of me. But I felt that it was best. I had no right
to procrastinate—to let you go on caring for me, and hoping for what
could never be. Then I decided that I would see you and tell you about
it right away.”
She paused and breathed deeply; but before Arthur had had time to put in
a word, she resumed: “I do not believe that you have meant to make
it more difficult for me to-day than it had to be; but it has pained me
very much to hear you speak as you have spoken. You have not understood;
but now you understand—must understand. I never can be your wife. You
must try to get over caring for me. You must go away, now that I have
explained, and never come any more.”
She had said all this in a low tone, though each syllable had been
fraught with earnestness, and had manifestly cost an effort. Arthur,
during the last few sentences, had been pacing up and down the room. Now
he came to a standstill before her.
“And do you mean to say,” he demanded, “that that is your
last word, your ultimatum? Do you mean to say that you will send me
away—banish me from your presence—forbid me the happiness of seeing
you and hearing you—all for a mere paltry nothing? If there were a
real impediment to our marriage, I should be the first to
acknowledge it, to bow before it. But this thing that you have
mentioned—this—well, call it a secret, if you will—is this empty
memory to rise up as a barrier between your life and mine? Oh, no, no!
You have spoken of cruelty—you have wished not to be cruel. And yet
this utmost cruelty you seem willing to perpetrate in cold blood. Stop,
think, reflect upon what you are doing! Have you not seen how much I
love you? how my whole life is in my love of you? Do you not know
that what you propose to do—to send me away, all on account of this
miserable secret—is to break my life forever? is to put out the light
forever from my sky, and turn my world to a waste of dust and ashes? Can
you—you who recoil from cruelty—be as wantonly cruel as this? Have
I not told you that I care nothing for your secret, that I shall never
think of your secret, if you will only speak one word? Oh, it is not
possible that you can deliberately break my heart, for a mere dead thing
like that! If it were something actual, something substantial, something
existing now and here, it would be different. Then I, too, should
recognize the size and the weight of it. I should accept the inevitable,
and resign myself as best I could. But a bygone, a thing that is past
and done with, how can you let that stand between us? I can never resign
myself to that. Can’t you imagine the torture of my position? To want
a thing with all my soul, to know that there is no earthly reason why I
should not have it, and yet to know that I can not have it—why, it is
like being defeated by a soap bubble, a vapor. Of what use is all this
talk? We are merely confusing each other, merely beating about the bush.
I have told you what you did not expect to hear. You thought that I
would be swerved from my purpose when you said that you had a secret.
You thought I would go away, satisfied that it was best for us not to
marry. But, you see, you did yourself an injustice. You did not guess
the real depth of the love you had inspired. You see, I love you too
much to care about the past. Confess that you did not consider this,
when, you made up your mind to send me away. But this talk is of no use.
All the talk in the world can not alter the way we stand. Here are the
simple facts: I love you. I love you! I ask you to be my wife. I kneel
down before you, and take your hand in mine, and beg of you not to spurn
my love—not to be guided by a blind, deluded conscience—not to think
of the past—but to think only of the present and the future—to think
only of how much I love you—of how all the happiness of my life is now
at stake, for you to make or to destroy. I ask you to be merciful. I
ask you to look into your heart, and let that prompt you how to act. If
there is one atom of love for me in it—you—”
He broke off sharply; drew a quick, hard breath. Something—a sudden,
furtive gleam far down in her eyes—a swift coming and going of color
to and from her cheek—caused his heart to throb with an exultant
thrill, that for an instant deprived him of the power of speech. Then,
all at once, “Oh, my God! You do love me. You do love me!” he cried.
He caught her in his arms, and strained her rapturously to his breast.
For a moment she did not resist. Her face lay for a moment buried upon
his shoulder. It was a supreme moment of silence. Then she broke away.
There were tears in her eyes. She sobbed out, “It is wrong, all
wrong.”
But Arthur knew that he had gained the day. Her first sign of weakness
was his assurance of success. Protest now as she might, she could no
longer hide her love from him. And if she loved him, what had he to
fear? There was much further talk between them. She tried to regain the
ground she had lost. Failing in this, she wept, and spoke of the wrong
she had done him, and said that she had forfeited her self-respect. But
Arthur summoned all his eloquence to induce her to look at the matter
through his eyes, and in the end—Somewhat later an eavesdropper
outside the parlor door might have caught the following dialogue passing
within:
Ruth’s voice: “It is strange, Arthur, but a little while ago it
seemed to me that I could never tell that—that thing—I spoke about,
to any living soul; yet now—now I feel quite otherwise. I feel as
though I could tell it to you. I want to tell it to you. It is only
right that I should tell you every thing about my life. It is a long
story; shall I begin?”
Arthur’s voice: “No, Ruth. Shall I let the happiness of this hour be
marred for you and me, by your thinking and speaking of what would pain
you? Besides, I prefer that you should keep this—this thing—this
secret—as an evidence of my unwavering confidence in you. Why should
we trouble ourselves about the past at all, when the present is at hand,
and the future is waiting for us? You and I—we have only just been
born. The past is dead. Our life dates from this moment. Oh, it is to
the future that we must look!”
“But it seems as though you ought to know—ought to know your
wife—ought to know who she is, and what she has done.”
“But I do know her. I do know who she is and what she has done. I
know it all by instinct. I want her to have this constant proof of my
love—that I can trust her without, learning her secrets.”
“But you will not forget—never forget—that I have offered to
tell you, will you? You will remember that I am always willing to tell
you—that whenever you wish to know it, you will only have to ask
me.”
“Yes, I will remember it; and it will make me happy to remember it.
But if you wish to tell me something now that I should like to hear,
tell me on what day we shall be married?”
“Oh, it is too soon to fix that—we can wait about fixing that.”
“No, no. It must be fixed before I take leave of you to-day. Every
thing must be finally settled. When?”
“Whenever you wish.”
“To-morrow.”
“Of course I did not mean that.”
“As soon, then, as possible.”
“Not sooner than—”
“Not longer at the utmost than a month.”
“A month? It is a very short time, a month.”
“But it is a month too long. Make it a month, or less.”
“Well, a month, then: this day month.”
“This day month—to-day being Friday—falls on Sunday. Say, rather
this day four weeks, the 25th of July.”
“How shall I get ready in that interval?”
“How shall I live through that interval?”
“What interval? Talking about music, as usual?” said Mrs. Hart,
entering at this moment. “Mr. Ripley, how do you do?”
“I am the happiest man in the world,” he answered.
“I congratulate you. Have you won a case?”
“No; I have won a wife.”
“I congratulate you doubly. Who is the lady?”
“Let me present her to you,” he laughed, taking Ruth by the hand.
Mrs. Hart dropped every thing she held—scissors, spectacles,
knitting-bag—struck an astonished attitude, and uttered a sharp cry of
surprise. Ruth blushed and smiled. For an instant the two ladies stood
off and eyed each other. Then simultaneously they rushed toward each
other, and fell into each other’s arms; and then there were tears and
kisses and incoherent sounds.
Finally, “I congratulate you trebly,” said Mrs. Hart, turning to
Arthur.
For a while every body was very happy and very sentimental.
When, toward midnight, Arthur returned to his own abode, Hetzel asked
him where he had spent the evening.
“In heaven,” he replied.
“And with what particular divinity?”
“With Mrs. Lehmyl.”
“So?”
“Yes, sir. And—and what do you suppose? She and I are going to be
married.”
“What?” cried Hetzel.
“Yes; we are engaged, betrothed. We are going to be married.”
“Engaged? Betrothed? Married? You? Nonsense!”
“Nothing of the kind. Our wedding day is fixed for the 25th of next
month.”
“Oh, come, be rational.”
“I am rational. Why should I jest about it?”
“Have you suddenly fallen heir to a fortune?”
“Of course not; why?”
“Why? Why, what are you going to get married on?”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean who’s to foot the bills?”
“I have my income, have I not?”
“Oh, your income. Oh, to be sure. Let’s see—how many thousands did
it amount to last year?”
“It amounted to fifteen hundred.”
“Fifteen hundred what?”
“Hundred dollars.”
“Is that all?”
“It is enough.”
“Do you seriously intend to marry on that?”
“Why not?”
“Why, it won’t keep your wife in pocket handkerchiefs, let alone
feeding and clothing her.”
“I hadn’t thought about it, but I’m sure we can get along on
fifteen hundred—added to what I can earn.”
“What was her opinion?”
“I didn’t mention the subject.”
“You asked her to marry you without exhibiting your bank account.
Shame!”
“We love each other.”
“When poverty comes in at the door, what is it love’s habit to
do?”
“Such love as ours waxes greater.”
“And—and your mother. What will she say?”
“I’m going to write to her to-night—now.”
“Has your mother much respect for my judgment?”
“You know she has.”
“Well, then, tell her from me that you’ve just done a most sensible
thing; that your bride’s an angel, yourself a trump, and each of you
to be envied above all man and woman kind.”