Again she was softly praying: "Dear Lord, whatever shall come to her, poverty or riches, joy or pain, honour or shame, sunshine or shadow, save her from this. My feet will climb this Calvary, and my lips drink its gall, but may the cup pa.s.s from her!"
After a few hours of fitful sleep, she rose and looked out her window on another radiant November morning. So clear was the sky she could see the flag-staffs of the great downtown buildings and back of them in the distant bay the pennant masts of ships at anchor.
The trees in Central Park seemed to glow with the splendour of the dying autumn"s sun. The glory of the day mocked her sorrow.
"What does Nature care?" she sighed. "And yet who knows, it may be a token! I must bravely play my part and leave the rest with G.o.d."
Watching at the window she saw Gordon coming, his broad feet measuring a giant"s stride, his wide shoulders and magnificent head high with unconscious strength.
She wondered if he would stop in the parlour as a visitor or come to her room as was his custom, and a sharp pain cut her with the thought of their changed relationship.
He stopped in the hall, asked the maid to send the children down at once, and stepped into the parlour.
He felt a strange embarra.s.sment in his own home. This house he had bought for Ruth soon after their arrival in New York. It had just been built in the wide-open s.p.a.ce of the cliffs on Washington Heights.
The Pilgrim Church"s members were long since scattered over every quarter of the city, and, by arranging his study in the church, he was able to have his home so far removed from the noise of the downtown district. He had thus fulfilled Ruth"s pa.s.sionate desire for a home of her own within their moderate means. He recalled now with tender melancholy how happy they had been decorating this little nest, and how far from his wildest dream had been such an ending of it all.
But he had come with important news, and he hoped her pain would be softened by its announcement.
The children entered with shouts of delight. First one would hug him, and then the other, and then both would try at the same time.
Lucy put her hands on his smooth ruddy cheeks and kissed his lips and eyes with the quaintest imitation of her mother"s trick of gesture.
"Where have you been, Papa? We thought you were never coming? Mama said you were gone for a trip and would come to-day, but"--her voice sank--"she"s been crying, and crying, and we don"t know what"s the matter. I"m so glad you"ve come."
"Well, you and brother run upstairs to play and tell her Papa wishes to see her."
The children left and Ruth came down at once.
As she entered the room, he was struck by the change in her face and manner. She seemed transfigured by a strange, spiritual elation.
She was gracious, natural and friendly. The anxiety had pa.s.sed from her face, and the storm in her dark eyes seemed stilled by a steady radiance from the soul.
"I"m glad to see you looking better, Ruth," he said, with feeling.
"Yes, I have a new standard now of measuring life, its pain and its joy. The soul can only pa.s.s once through such a moment as that I lived, prostrate on the floor at your feet last Monday. I have looked Death in the face. I am no longer afraid."
"I am very, very sorry to give you such pain. I did not think you cared so deeply," he said, gently.
"Yes, I know I have seemed indifferent and resentful for the past year. I thought you would come back to your old self by and by.
In my poor proud soul I thought I was punishing you. How little, dear, I dreamed of this! The thought of really losing you never once entered my heart. It was unthinkable. I do not believe it yet.
Such love as ours, such tenderness and devotion as you gave to me once, the delirium of love"s joy that found itself in my motherhood and wrought itself in the forms of our babies--no, Frank, it cannot die, unless G.o.d dies! And I shall not lose you at last, unless G.o.d forgets me, and He will not."
Her face, even through her tears, was illumined by an a.s.surance so strong, so prophetic, the man was startled.
"I need not tell you, Ruth, that I desire your happiness. And, strange as it may seem to you, Miss Ransom regards you with tenderness."
The dark eyes flashed a gleam of lightning from their depths.
"Thanks. I can live without her maudlin pity."
"You misjudge her," he cried, raising his hand.
"Perhaps; but I"ll ask you, Frank, not to dishonour me, or this little home you were once good enough to give to me, by mentioning that woman"s name within its doors again."
The sensitive mouth closed with an emphasis he could not mistake.
"But I am the bearer from her to-day of a token of her regard.
She has determined to turn over to you as quickly as possible a half-million dollars of her remaining fortune."
Ruth sprang to her feet, her face scarlet, her breast heaving, her lithe figure erect and trembling.
"And you dare bring this message to me? This offer to sell my husband and my love!"
"Come, come, Ruth, a woman has no need to sacrifice a great fortune in New York for a husband. They are cheaper than that."
"They do seem cheap," she answered, bitterly.
"You should have common sense. The spirit of sacrifice in this great gift to you and the children is too deep and honest to be met with a sneer. It is my desire and hers that you shall be forever beyond want."
Ruth"s face softened and a tender smile lit it once more.
"Frank, my darling, you cannot think me so base? You know there is not a drop of mean blood in me. Can gold pay for my heart"s desire?
The price for my beloved? Pile the earth with diamonds to the stars, I"d hold it trash for the touch of your hand!"
The man moved nervously.
"You must have some sense, Ruth. Surely, I"m not worth all this if I leave you so. You must take this money."
She moved closer to him and held up her delicate hands, with the sunlight gleaming through the red blood of her tapering fingers.
"You see these hands? They have only known the gentle tasks of love.
Well, I"ll scrub, sew and wash the clothes of working-men before one dollar of her gold shall stain them!"
"You cannot be so foolish," he protested, impatiently. "Besides, she has given me this money to give to you."
"Ah, my love," she went on, as though she had not heard his last words, "if you were frankly evil as other men, I might bear this shame with better grace. Others before me, as good as I, have borne its burden. But when I think that you are making your sin a religion, and that you are going to preach with the zeal of a prophet this gospel of the brute and call it freedom, how can I bear it?"
They were both silent for a moment.
"Let us change this disgusting subject, Frank," she said at length.
"I wish you to leave with something kindlier to remember in my face than this shadow. You see, I have taken your pictures all down and locked them up. I have placed your clothes, all I could spare, in your trunk--for even these little things to me are heart treasures now. I could not let you take the slippers I have made for you with my own hands, or your dressing-gowns. That woman shall never touch them. The marriage certificate, with the little poem written to me on the birth of Lucy, I"ve packed up, too, with your pictures.
I"ve put them away, because, just now, it would break my heart to look at them after this parting with you. When I come back from the South I will be stronger, and I will bring them out again. Your ring is mine until G.o.d"s hand shall take it. I"ll teach our babies always to love you."
Her voice broke, and he looked away.
"I will tell them that you have gone on a long journey into a strange country, and that you will come back again because you love them."
He stirred uneasily in his chair, crossed his legs and frowned.
"And I wish you to leave me to-day with the certainty--you can read it in my eyes, if you doubt my lips--that I will love you to the end, though you kill me. You can go on no journey so long, in no world so strange, that I shall not follow. My soul will envelop you. For better, for worse, through evil report and good report, I am yours."