by Emma Wolf
Chapter XXI
The fire-light threw grotesque shadows on the walls. Ruth and Louis inthe library made no movement to ring for lights; it was quite cosey asit was. They had both drawn near the crackling wood-blaze, Ruth in a lowrocker, Arnold in Mr. Levice's broad easy-chair.
"I surely thought you intended going to the concert this evening,Louis," she said, looking across at him. "I fancy Mamma expected you toaccompany her."
"What! Voluntarily put myself into the cold when there is a fire blazingright here? Ah, no. At any rate, your mother is all right with theLewises, and I am all right with you."
"I give you a guarantee I shall not bite; you look altogether too hardfor my cannibalistic propensities."
"It is something not to be accounted soft. I think a redundancy of fleshoverflows in trickling sentimentality. My worst enemy could not accuseme of either fault."
"But your best friend would not mind a little thaw now and then. One ofthe girls confided to me today that walking on and over-waxed floor wasnothing to attempting an equal footing in conversation with you."
"I am sorry I am such a slippery customer. Does not the fire burn yourface? Shall I hand you a screen?"
"No; I like to toast."
"But your complexion might char; move your chair a little forward."
"In two minutes I intend to have lights and to bring my work down. Willit make you tired to watch me?"
"Exceedingly. I prefer your undivided attention; it is not often we arealone, Ruth."
She looked up slightly startled; he seldom made personal remarks. Herpulses began to flutter with the premonition that reference to a tacitlyburied secret was going to be made.
"We have been going out and receiving a good deal lately, though somehowI don't feel festive, with Father away in freezing New York. Mamma wouldgladly have stayed at home to-night if Jennie had not insisted."
"You think so? I fancy she was a very willing captive; she intimated asmuch to me."
"How?"
"Not in words, but her eyes were interesting reading: first,capitulation to Jennie, then, in rapid succession, inspiration, command,entreaty, a challenge and retreat, all directed at me. Possibly thiseloquence was lost upon you."
"Entirely. What was your interpretation?"
"Ah, that was confidential. Perhaps I even endowed her with thesethoughts, knowing her desires were in touch with my own."
"It is wanton cruelty to arouse a woman's curiosity and leave itunsatisfied."
"It is not cruelty; it is cowardice."
She gazed at him in wonder. His apple-blossom cheeks wore a rosier glowthan usual. He seized a log from the box, threw it on the blaze thatillumined their faces, grasped the poker, and leaning forward in hischair let it grow hot as he held it to the flames. His glasses fell off,dangling from the cord; and as he adjusted them, he caught the curious,half-amused smile on Ruth's attentive face. He gave the fire a sharpraking and addressed her, gazing into the leaping flames.
"I was wondering why, after all, you could not be happy as my wife."
A numbness as of death overspread her.
"I think I could make you happy, Ruth."
In the pregnant silence that followed he looked up, and meeting her sad,reproachful eyes, laid down the poker softly but resolutely; there wasmethod in the action.
"In fact, I know I could make you happy."
"Louis, have you forgotten?" she cried in sharp pain.
"I have forgotten nothing," he replied incisively. "Listen to me, Ruth.It is because I remember that I ask you. Give me the right to carefor you, and you will be happier than you can ever be in thesecircumstances."
"You do not know what you ask, Louis. Even if I could, you would neverbe satisfied."
"Try me, Ruth," he entreated.
She raised herself from her easy, reclining position, and regarded himearnestly.
"What you desire," she said in a restrained manner, "would be littleshort of a crime for me. What manner of wife should I be to you when myevery thought is given to another?"
His face put on the set look of one who has shut his teeth hardtogether.
"I anticipated this repulse," he said after a pause; "so what you havejust assured me of does not affect my wish or my resolution to continuemy plea."
"Would you marry a woman who feels herself as closely bound to another,or the memory of another, as if the marriage rite had been actuallyperformed? Oh, Louis, how could you force me to these disclosures?"
"I am seeking no disclosure, but it is impossible for me to continuesilent now."
"Why?"
"Why? Because I love you."
They sat so close together he might have touched her by putting out hishand, but he remained perfectly still, only the pale excitement of longrepression speaking from his face; but she shrank back at his words andraised her hand as if about to receive a blow.
"Do not be alarmed," he continued, noticing the action; "my love cannothurt you, or it would have killed you long ago."
"Oh, Louis," she murmured, "forgive me; I never thought you cared somuch."
"How should you? I am not a man to wear my heart upon my sleeve. I thinkI have always loved you; but living as familiarly as we have lived,seeing you whenever I wished, the thought that some day this might endnever occurred to me. It was only when the possibility of some otherman's claiming your love and taking you from me presented itself, thatmy heart rose up in arms against it,--and then I asked you to be mywife."
"Yes," she replied, raising her pale face; "and I refused. The samecause that moved me then, and to which you submitted without protest,rules me now, and you know it."
"No; I do not know it. What then might have had a possible issue is nowdone with--or do I err?"
Her mouth trembled piteously, but no tears came as she lowered her head.
"Then listen to me. You may think me a poor sort of a fellow even towish you to marry me when you assure me that you love another. Thatmeans that you do not love me as a husband should be loved, but it doesnot prove that you never could love me so."
"It proves just that."
"No, you may think so now, but let me reason you into seeing the falsityof your thought,--for I do not wish to force or impel you to do a thingrepugnant to your reason as well as to your feelings. To begin with, youdo not dislike me?"
His face was painful in its eagerness.
"I have always loved you as a dear brother."
"Some people would consider that worse than hostility; I do not. Anotherquestion: Is there anything about my life or personality to which youobject, or of which your are ashamed?"
"You know how proud we all are of you in your bearing in every relationof life."
"I was egotist enough to think as much at any rate; otherwise Icould not approach you so confidently. Well, love--indifferent if youwill--and respect are not a bad foundation for something stronger. Willyou, for the sake of argument, suppose that for some reason you haveforgotten your opposition and have been led into marrying me?"
The sad indulgence of her smile was not inspiriting, but he continued,--
"Now, then, say you are my wife; that means I am your husband, and Ilove you. You do not return my love, you say; you think you would bewretched with me because you love another. Still, you are married to me;that gives me rights that no other man can possess, no matter how muchyou love him. You are bound to me, I to you and your happiness; so Ipledge myself to make you happier than you are now, because I shall makeyou forget this man."
"You could not, and I should only grow to hate you."
"Impossible," the pallor of his face intensifying; "because I shouldso act that my love would wait upon your pleasure: it would never pushitself into another's place, but it would in time overshadow the other.For, remember, I shall be your husband. I shall give you another life;I shall take you away with me. You will leave all your old friendsand associations for a while, and I shall be with you always,--notintrusively, but necessarily. I shall give you every pl
easure andnovelty that the Old World can afford. I shall shower my love on you,not myself. In return I shall expect your tolerance. In time I will makeyou love me."
His voice shook with the strength of his passion, while she listened inheart-sick fear. Carried away by his manner, she almost felt as if hehad accomplished his object. He quieted down after this.
"Don't you see, Ruth, that all this change must make you forget? And ifyou tried to put the past from you for no other reason than that yourwifehood would be less untrue, you would be but following the instinctsof a truly honorable woman. After that, all would be easy. In everyinstance you would be forced to look upon me as your husband, for youwould belong to me. I should be the author of all your surroundings; andalways keeping in mind how I want you to regard me, I should woo you sotenderly that without knowing it you would finally yield. Then, and onlythen, when I had filled your thought to the exclusion of every otherman, I should bring you home; and I think we should be happy."
"And you would be satisfied to give so much and receive so little?"
"The end would repay me."
"It is a pretty story," she said, letting her hands fall listlessly intoher lap, "but the denouement is a castle in Spain that we should neverinhabit. You think your love is strong enough to kill mine first ofall; well, I tell you, nothing is strong enough for that. With this factestablished the rest is needless to speak of. It is only your dream,Louis; forgive me that I unwittingly intruded into it; reality wouldmean disillusion,--we are happy only when we dream."
"You are bitter."
"Our relations are turned, then; I have put into practice your oldtheories of the uselessness of life. No; I am wrong. It is better to diethan not to have loved."
"You think you have lived your life, then. I can't convince youotherwise now; but I am going to beg you to think this over, to tryto imagine yourself my wife. I will not hasten your decision, but in aweek's time you should be able to answer me yes or no. If anything canhelp my cause, I cannot overlook it; so I may tell you now that for someoccult reason your mother's one wish is to see you my wife."
"And my father?" her voice was harsh now.
"Your father has expressed to your mother that such a course would makehim happy."
She rose suddenly as if oppressed. Her face looked hard to a degree. Shestood before him, tall and rigid. He stood up and faced her, readingher face so intently that he straightened himself as if to receive anattack.
"I will consider what you have said," she said mechanically.
The reaction was so unexpected that he turned giddy and caught on to theback of a chair to steady himself.
"It will not take me a week," she went on with no change in hermonotone; "I can give you an answer in a day or two. To-morrow night,perhaps."
He made a step forward, a movement to seize her hand; but she steppedback and waved him off.
"Don't touch me," she cried in a suppressed voice; "at least you are notmy husband--yet."
She turned hastily toward the door without another word.
"Wait!"
His vibrant voice compelled her to turn.
"I want no martyr for a wife, nor yet a tragedy queen. If you can cometo me and honestly say, 'I trust my happiness to you,' well and good.But as I told you once before, I am not a saint, and I cannot alwayscontrol myself as I have been forced to do tonight. If this admission isdamaging, it is too true to be put lightly aside. I shall not detain youlonger."
He looked haughty and cold regarding her from this dim distance. Hergentleness struggled to get the better of her, and she came back andheld out her hand.
"I am sorry if I offended you, Louis; good-night. Will you not pardon myselfishness?"
His eyes gleamed behind their glasses; he did not take her hand, butmerely bent over the little peace-offering as over a sacrament. Seeingthat he had no intention of doing more, her hand fell passively to herside, and she left the room.
As the door closed softly, Arnold sank with a hopeless gesture intoa chair and buried his face in his hands. He was not a stoic, but aman,--a Frenchman, who loved much; but Arnold, half-blinded by his ownlove, scarcely appreciated the depths of self-forgetfulness to whichRuth would have to succumb in order to accept the guaranty of happinesswhich he offered her.
The question now presented itself in the light of a duty: if by thisaction she could undo the remorse that her former offence had inflicted,had she the right to ignore the opportunity? A vision of her own sadface obtruded itself, but she put it sternly from her. If she were to dothis thing, the motive alone must be considered; and she rigidly keptin view the fact that her marriage would be the only means by which herfather might be relieved of the haunting knowledge of her lost peaceof mind. Had she given one thought to Louis, the possibility of the actwould have been abhorrent to her. One picture she kept constantly beforeher,--her father's happy eyes.