Bylow Hill Part 11

Leonard had spent the day at the polls; his party had won an easy victory; and, though not on the ticket, he was now awaiting a telegraphic summons to the state capital. His fortunes were growing.

Yet that was not a thing to be wordy about, and now, when the murmur of his voice continued so long and steadily that it found even the dulled ear of the aged father in the upper room, that father knew what the topic must be. On all other matters the son and brother had become more silent than ever,--was being nicknamed far and near, flatteringly and otherwise, for his reticence; but let Ruth sit down with him alone and barely draw near this theme,--this wound,--and his speech bled from him and would not be stanched.

"I can admit I have made the mistake of my life," he said, "but I cannot and will not, even now, give up and say there is nothing to be saved out of it. It's a mistake that has bound me to her, to you, to G.o.dfrey, to him, to all, and demands of me, pinioned and blindfolded as I am, every effort I can make, every device I can contrive, to compel him to free her and you and all of us from this torture.

"He shall not go on eating out our lives. I have dawdled with him weakly, pitifully, but I did it in my hope to save him. I tried to save him for his own sake, Ruth, truly,--as truly as for her sake and ours; and I wanted to save his work with him,--his church, his and hers; so much of it is hers. Oh, Ruth, I love that little bird-box, spite of all its s.p.u.n.ky beliefs and twittering complacencies. I wanted to save it and him; and over and over there has seemed such good ground of hope in him.

It's been always so unbelievable that he should utterly fail us.

Ruth, if you could have seen his contrition the night I tore up that shameful, servile resignation! I don't need to see Isabel to know he is wearing the soul out of her. You needn't have answered one of my questions,--which I honor you for answering so unwillingly; Mrs. Morris gave me their answer in five minutes, though we talked only of investments. And Mrs. Morris needn't have given it; to see Arthur himself is enough. All the genuineness has gone out of the man,--out of his words, out of his face, out of his voice. I wonder it hasn't gone from all of us, driven out by this smirking masquerade into which he has trapped us."

"Have you determined what to do?" asked the sister, gazing into the fire.

"Not yet. But I sha'n't go back West. Flight doesn't avail. And, Ruth"--

"Yes, brother; you've cabled?"

"I have. He'll come at once, this time." A step on the porch drew the speaker to the door.

The telegram from the capital had come. But until its bearer had gone again and was out of hearing down the street the young man lingered in the porch. His mind was wholly on that evening when Isabel had pa.s.sed with the lantern. Would she pa.s.s now? From the idle query he turned to go in, when Ruth came out, and they stayed another moment together.

Presently their ear caught a stir at the side of the Morris cottage.

"Hmm," murmured Ruth half consciously, and, with a playful shudder at the cold, whispered, "Come in, come in!"

But then quickly, lest this should carry a hint of distrust, she tripped in alone, closed the door, and glided to the bright hearth. There a moment of waiting changed her mind. She ran again to the door, and began to say as she threw it open, "My brother! you'll catch your"--

But no brother was there.

XV

THE THIN ICE BREAKS

Isabel, who had never confessed her trouble to her mother until now, had this evening told all there was to tell.

"No, no, my dear," she said as she moved to go, "I have no dread of his blows. I don't suppose he will ever strike me again. Ah, there's the worst of it; he's got away, away beyond blows. I wish sometimes he'd brain me, if only that would stop his secretly watching me.

"If he'd never gone beyond blows, I would have died before I would have told; not for meekness, dearie, nor even for love,--of you, or my child, or any one,--but just for pride and shame. But to know, every day and hour, that I'm watched, and that every path I tread is full of traps,--there's what's killing me. And I could let it kill me and never tell, if being killed were all. But I tell you because--Oh, my poor little mother dearie, do I wear you out, saying the same things over and over?

"This is all I ask you to remember: that my reason for telling you is to save the honor of my husband himself, and of you, dear heart, and of--of my child, you know. For, mother, every innocent thing I do is being woven into a net of criminating evidence. Sooner or later it's certain to catch me fast and give me over, you and me and--and baby, to public shame."

As they went toward the arbor door Isabel warily hushed, but her mother said: "There's no one to overhear, honey-blossom; Minnie's at your house with Sarah."

But neither was there more to be said. The daughter shut herself out, and stood alone on the doorstep pondering what she had done. For she had acted as well as spoken, and, without knowledge of Leonard's move, was calling G.o.dfrey home herself. Her mother was to send the dispatch in the morning.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "But to know every day and hour that I'm watched."]

So standing and distressfully musing, she heard the click of the Byingtons' door as Ruth left Leonard on the porch. But her thought went after Arthur. Where was he? That he had honestly gone where he had said he was going she painfully doubted. She stirred to move on, but had not taken a step when a feminine cry of terror set her blood leaping and sent her flying down the arbor, and where the two paths crossed she and Leonard met at such a speed that only by seizing her with both his hands did he avoid trampling her down. The scream was repeated again and again.

"It's Minnie!" cried Isabel as they sprang down the path to the mill pond; and Leonard, outrunning her, called back,--

"We'll get her out! She's not gone under!"

The next moment he, and then she, were on the scene. Minnie stood on the firmer ice away from the bank, moaning in continued agitation, but already rescued. It was Arthur Winslow who had saved her.

Now he gained the bank with the dripping girl, where he yielded her to his wife, and without a word from him, from Isabel, or from Leonard to any one but the incessantly talking maid, the four hurried up the path.

When they reached the arbor Ruth had joined them, and there the three women turned to the cottage. Leonard pa.s.sed on toward his home. Arthur went into his own house.

In the cottage, while being hurried into dry clothes, Minnie more coherently explained her mishap. Wis.h.i.+ng to play a joke on Giles, she had slipped away from the fireside company of him and Sarah to put a match to his f.a.gots on the pond, run back with word that they were burning, and laugh with Sarah while Giles should plunge out to find the incendiaries. But she had forgotten how frail good ice may be against a warm bank, and leaping down, had promptly broken through. She had had the fortune to hold on by the ice's outer edge until Arthur, whom she felt sure only Providence could have sent there, drew her out. She was tearfully ashamed, yet not so broken in spirit but she fiercely vowed she would get even with Giles for this yet.

Leonard went to his room, Arthur to his, and each in his way shut himself in to darkness, silence, and the fury of his own heart.

One of the things most harrowing to Leonard was that, at every turn, the active part fell to Arthur, while him fate held mercilessly to the pa.s.sive; and his soul writhed in unworded prayer for any conceivable turn of events that would give him leave to act, to do!

But all he could do was done. G.o.dfrey was sent for: everything must await his coming. Heaven hold Arthur's hand till G.o.dfrey could come!

Ruth returned home and began to lock up the house. When, presently, she tapped at her brother's door and looked in, he had lighted the room and was reading his telegram.

"All right over the way," she said, and to hurry on over the grim untruth repeated briefly Minnie's story. "Good-night. You go--to-morrow?

Well, you'll make haste back."

She left him, but later returned.

"Leonard." At the slightly opened door she thrust in her Bible, with a finger on the line, "My soul, wait thou only upon G.o.d."

"Thank you," said the brother. "Good-night. I'm afraid we've kept Him waiting on us."

XVI

MUST GIVE YOU UP

Over on the Winslow side of the way, Isabel, having tarried in the cottage to explain to her frightened mother how perfectly natural it was that Arthur, after his tramp across the meadows, should have made a circuit to the upper side of the old mill pool, went pensively home.

Presently, holding a lamp, she stood in the door between her room and Arthur's, lifted the light above her head, and, shading her brows, called his name. Hidden in the gloom, silent and motionless, he stared for a moment on the beautiful apparition, and then moved without a sound into the beams of the lamp, a picture of misery and desperation.

"Why in the dark?" amiably inquired the wife.

With widening eyes and spectral motions he drew near.

"In the dark?" he asked. "Why in the dark? The darkness is in me, and all the lamps that light the world's s.h.i.+ps into harbor could not dispel it."

All at once he went to his knees. "Oh, my wife, my wife! save me, save me! h.e.l.l is in my soul!"

She drew back, and with low vehemence urged him to his feet. "Up! up! My husband shall not kneel to me!"