CHAPTER VI.—“THE WOMAN WHO HESITATES.”
RIPLEY, attorney, New York:
“Draft accepted. Begin immediately.
“Ulrich.”
Such was the cable dispatch that Arthur got a fortnight after he hadmailed his letter to Counselor Ulrich of Vienna. A fortnight laterstill, the post brought him an epistle to the same effect. Then ensuedfour weeks of silence. During these four weeks one question had receiveda good share of his attention. The substance and the solution of it,may be gathered from the following conversation held between him andPeixada.
Arthur said, “Suppose the residence of your sister-in-law to bediscovered: what next? Suppose we find that she is living in Europe:how can we induce her to return hither and render herself liable to thejurisdiction of our courts? Or suppose even that she should turn out tobe established here in New York: what’s to prevent her from packingher trunks and taking French leave the day after citations to attend theprobate 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 ofthe nature and location of her properties, we can’t attach them in theregular way.”
Peixada said, “Hum! That’s so. I hadn’t thought of that. That’sa pretty serious question.”
“At first,” said Arthur, “it struck me as more than serious—asfatal. But there’s a way out of it—the neatest and simplest way youcan imagine.”
“Ah,” sighed Peixada, with manifest relief.
“Now see,” continued Arthur. “Mrs. Peixada shot her husband—wasindicted—tried—acquitted’—yes?”
“To be sure.”
“But at the same time she also took the life of a man named EdwardBolen, 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 forceagainst her?”
“I suppose it is—unless the statute of limitations——”
“The statute of limitations does not apply after an indictment hasonce been found.”
“Oh.”
“Well, I was thinking the matter over the other day—confronting thatdifficulty I have mentioned, and wondering how the mischief it was tobe surmounted—when it occurred to me that it might be possible tointerest the authorities in our behalf, and so get Mrs. Peixada underlock 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 toldhim the sum and substance of our case. Then I asked him whether for thesake of justice he wouldn’t lend us the machinery of the law—thatis, upon our finding out her whereabouts, cause her extradition andimprisonment under the indictment in re Bolen. I promised that you wouldassume the entire expense.”
“And he replied?”
“That it was a rather irregular proposition, but that he would thinkit 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 hisoffice. When I got there, this is what he said. He said that he had readthe indictment, and consulted his chief, Mr. Orson, and pondered thematter pretty thoroughly. Extraordinary as the proceeding would be, hehad decided to do as I wished. ’Because,’ he added, ’there’sa mighty strong case against the woman, and I shouldn’t wonder if itwould be worth our while to try her. At any rate, if you can set us onher track, we’ll arrest her and take our chances. We’ve made quitea point, you know, of unearthing indictments that our predecessorshad pigeonholed; and more than once we’ve secured a conviction. Itdoesn’t follow that because the jury in the Peixada case stultifiedthemselves, 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 bestto send her up to Sing Sing.’—I declare, I was half sorry to haveprepared new troubles for the poor creature; but, you see, our interestsare now perfectly protected.”
“A brilliant stroke!” cried Peixada. “Then we shall not merelyrescue my brother’s property, but, indirectly at least, we shallavenge his death! I am delighted. Now we must redouble our efforts toferret her out.”
“Precisely. And that brings me to another point. I have had a longletter—sixteen solid pages—from Ulrich, the Austrian lawyer. He hastraced her from Vienna to Paris, from Paris to London. He’s in Londonnow, 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 inLondon, and went—Ulrich is trying to discover where. I think our bestcourse now will be to retain an English solicitor, and let him carry thematter on from the point Ulrich has reached. With your approval, I shallcable Ulrich to put the affair into the hands of Mr. Reginald Graham,a London attorney in whom I have the utmost confidence. What do youthink?”
“Oh, you’re right. No doubt about that. Meantime, here.”—Peixadahanded his legal adviser a check for one hundred dollars. “This is tokeep 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 aheadache.”
“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 herthat I am here.”
“She said that she could receive no one; but if you’ll step into theparlor, I’ll speak to Mrs. Hart.”
Mrs. Hart appeared and corroborated the maid’s statement. A big lumpgathered in Arthur’s throat. He had looked forward so eagerly to thismoment—had hoped so much from it—and it had been such a longtime coming—that now to have it slip away unused, like this—thedisappointment was bitter. He felt utterly miserable and dejected. Ashe dragged himself down the stoop—he had sprung up it, two steps at astride, a moment since—he noticed a group of urchins, standing on thecurbstone and grinning from ear to ear. He fancied that they had guessedhis secret, and were laughing at his discomfiture; if he had obeyed hisimpulse, he would have wrung their necks on the spot. He crossed thestreet, locked himself in his room, and surrendered unresistingly to theblue devils.
These vivacious sprites played fast and loose with the poor boy’simagination. They conjured up before him a multitude of unlikelycatastrophes. They persuaded him that his case was worse than hopeless.Mrs. Lehmyl cared not a fig for him. Why, forsooth, should she? Probablyhe had a successful rival. That a woman such as she should lovean insignificant young fellow like himself—the bare idea waspreposterous. He was to blame for having allowed the flower of hope totake root in his bosom. He laughed bitterly, and wondered how he hadcontrived to deceive himself even for a moment.
It was trebly absurd that she should love him after so brief and sosuperficial an acquaintance. Life wasn’t worth living; and, but forhis mother and Hetzel, he would put an end to himself forthwith. Yet,the next instant he was recalling the “Yes” that she had spokenyesterday, in response to his “May I call to-morrow?” and thefearless glance with which she had met his eyes. “Ah,” he cries,“it set my blood afire. It dazzled me with visions of impossiblejoy. I could almost hear her murmur—oh, so softly—’I love you,Arthur!’ You may guess the effect that fancy had upon me.” It issignificant that not once did he pity her for her headache. He took forgranted 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 couldonly have divined it—known it to a certainty—then his suspensewould have been less of an agony, then his mind could have borrowed somerepose,
though perhaps the repose of despair.
Well, he got through the night after a fashion. A streak of cold, graylight lay along the eastern horizon, and the river had put off thecolor of ink for the color of lead, before he fell asleep. His sleep wastroubled. A nightmare played frightful antics upon his breast. It wasbroad day when he awoke. The river sparkled gayly in the sunlight, thesky shimmered with warmth, the sparrows outside quarreled vociferously.A brief glow of cheerfulness was the result. But memory speedilyasserted itself. Heartsick and weary he began his toilet. “What had Ito look forward to?” he demands. He climbed the staircase, and enteredthe breakfast room. Hetzel sat near the window, reading a newspaper.Hetzel grunted forth a gruff good-morning, without looking up. I doubthowever, whether Arthur knew that Hetzel was there at all. For, as hecrossed the threshold, his eye was caught by something white lying uponhis plate. He can’t tell why—but he guessed at once that it was anote from Mrs. Lehmyl. His lover’s instinct scented the truth fromafar.
He snatched the letter up eagerly. But he delayed about opening it. Hescrutinized the direction—written in a frank, firm, woman’s hand.The paper exhaled never so faint a perfume. Still he did not open it. Hewas afraid. He would wait till his agitation had subsided a little. Hecould hear his heart going thump, thump, thump, like a hammer againsthis side. He had difficulty with his breath. Then a dreadful possibilityloomed up before him! What—what if it should not be from her afterall! This thought endowed him with the courage of desperation. He torethe 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 hisnewspaper aside, got up, turned about the room, then abruptly came to ahalt, facing Arthur.
“Mercy upon me, man,” cried Hetzel, “what has happened? Cheeksburning, fingers trembling! No bad news? Speak—quickly.”
But Arthur did not speak.
Hetzel went on: “I’ve noticed lately, there’s been something wrongwith you. You’re nervous, restless, out of kilter. Is there a woman inthe case? Is your feeling for our neighbor something more than a passingfancy? Are you taking her seriously? Or, are you simply run down-+-inneed of rest and change? Why not make a trip up to Oldbridge, and seeyour mother?”
By the time Hetzel had finished speaking, Arthur had folded his letterand 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 withyou? Where are you now? Why don’t you pay attention when I speak? Whathas 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 youmust know it, I’m—” No doubt he was on the point of making a fullconfession. He restrained himself, however; added, “There! I won’ttalk about it;” applied himself to his knife and fork, and preserveda dismal silence till the end of the meal. He went away as soon asordinary courtesy would warrant.
No sooner had he closed the door behind him, than his hand made a diveinto his pocket, and brought out Mrs. Lehmyl’s letter. He read itthrough 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 thatyou were coming, I feel that I must write this note to explain and toapologize. I should have sent you word not to come, except that untilnow I have been too ill to use my eyes. The only help for me when I havea headache like this, is solitary confinement in a darkened room. I havebraved the gaslight for an instant, to write you this note, and alreadyI am suffering the consequences. But I felt that I really owed you myexcuses. 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, hadbeen one of disappointment. It was just such an apology as she mighthave written to anybody else under similar circumstances. He had nervedhimself, he thought, for the worst before breaking the seal—fora decree forbidding him future admittance to her presence, for anannouncement of her betrothal to another man—for what not. But aquite colorless, polite, and amiable “I beg your pardon,” he had notcontemplated. It produced the effect of a wet blanket. From the high andmighty heroic mood in which he had torn it open, to the unimpassionedsentences in which it was couched, was too rapid a transition, tooabrupt a plunge from hot to cold, an anti-climax equally unexpected anddepressing.
But after a second perusal—and a second perusal followed immediatelyupon the first—his pulse quickened. With a lover’s swift faculty forseizing hold of and interpreting trifles light as air, he discerned whathe believed to be encouraging tokens. Under what obligation had Mrs.Lehmyl been to write to him so promptly? At the cost of severe pain, shehad hastened to make her excuses for a thing that there was not reallythe least hurry about. If she were quite indifferent to him, would shenot 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, orRobinson; but would she have “braved the gaslight” and “sufferedthe consequences” for Brown, Jones, or Robinson? Obviously, she hadfelt a strong desire to set herself right with him; the recognition ofwhich fact afforded Arthur no end of pleasure.
By the time he had committed Mrs. Lehmyl’s note to memory, he was in afair 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 herheadache is better.”
“Oh, she’s all well again to-day—just the same as ever,” was thereply.
An idea occurred to him. He had intended merely to inform himselfconcerning her health, leave the bunch of flowers he held in his righthand, and go his way. But if she was up and about, why not ask to seeher?
“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—andintensely still. The ticking of the clock on the mantel-piece was theonly interruption of the silence, save when at intervals the distantroar of a train on the elevated railway became audible for a moment.
Mrs. Lehmyl entered, and gave him her hand, and looked up smiling athim, all without a word. She wore a white gown, and an amber necklaceand bracelet; and my informant says that she had “a halo of sweetnessand 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 theirdonor, 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 werein such pain.”
“I owed it to you. I had promised to receive you. It would have beenunfair, if I had not written.”
“I—I was quite alarmed about you. I was afraid your headachemight—” He faltered.
“There was no occasion for alarm. I am used to such headaches. Iexpect one every now and then.”
“But—do you know?—at first I did not believe in it—not untilyour letter confirmed what Mrs. Hart and the servant had said.”
“Why?”
“I thought perhaps—perhaps you did not care to see me, and hadpleaded 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. Shehad pronounced the last sentence with an emphasis calculated to move aman less deeply in love than he.
“Do you mean what you have just said?” he asked presently. His voicequivered.
“Yes.”
“I suppose you knew—I—I suppose you knew what it was I wanted tosay 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 herhead.
Arthur sprang toward her and grasped her hand. “You knew—then, youknow that—that I love you—Ruth!”
She withdrew her hand, but did not raise her head. He waited for amoment, breathless; then, “Ah, speak to me—won’t you speak tome?” he begged, piteously.
She raised her head now, and gazed into his eyes; but her gaze was notone 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 onlyforeseen it—but I did not. You knew so little of me, how could Iforesee? 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, Ifelt that it was best for us both that I should see you and tell youwhat a mistake you had made. I wanted to tell you that you must try hardto forget about it. It would be useless and cruel for me to pretend notto have understood, when you looked at me so. It was best that we shouldmeet 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 someday 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 allconditions.”
“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—” Shehesitated.
“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 ahot blush suffused it. With an air of summoning her utmost strength,she went on, “You never can marry me, because you never would marryme—never, unless I should tell you—something—something aboutmy life—my life in the past—which I can never tell—not even toyou.”
“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 themunder 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 thingabout your past life? Do you suppose that my love for you is so meanand so small as that? I know all that it is needful for me to know aboutyour past. I know you, do I not? I know, then, that every act, everythought, every breath of your life, has been as pure and as beautifulas you are yourself. But what I know best, and what it is most essentialfor me to know, is this, Ruth, that I love you. I love you! I can notsee 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 whichsome 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 cannot tell you—then you—you would not ask me to marry you. Then youwould not love me. The truth—the truth which, if I should become yourwife, I could never share with you—which would remain forever a secretkept by me from my husband—it is—you would abhor me if you shouldfind it out. If you should find it out after we were married—ifsomebody should come to you and tell you—oh, you would hate me. It isfar more dreadful than you can fancy.”
“No—no; for I will fancy the worst, and still beg of you to becomemy wife. If I loved you less—if I did not know you so well—the hintsyou utter might prompt some horrible suspicion in my mind. Will you takeit 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 inshaping it, it was good beyond reproach. Whatever your secret may be, itis not a secret that could show you to be one jot or tittle less noblethan I know you to be. Whatever the truth you speak of is, it is a truthwhich, if it were understood in its entirety, would only serve to shednew luster upon the whiteness of your soul. And should I—should I byaccident 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 piercedits 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 fromfirst to last 1’—Now do you think I love you?”
“But if—if you should find out that I had been guilty of sin—doyou 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 underheaven can destroy my love of you. I mean to say that no power underheaven can prevent my marrying you, if you love me. I mean to say thatmy heart and soul—the inmost life of me—are already marriedto you, and that they will remain inseparably bound to you—toyou!—until I die. More than this I mean to say. You speak of sin. Yousin, forsooth! Well, talk of sin, if you like. Tell me that you havebeen guilty of—of what you will—of the blackest crimes in thecalendar. I will not believe it. I will not believe that you wereanswerable for it. I will tell you that it was not your fault. I willtell you that if your hand has ever done any human being wrong, it wassome other will than your own that compelled it. For this I know—Iknow it as I know that fire burns, that light illuminates—I know thatyou, the true, intrinsic you, have always been as sweet and undefiledas—as the breath that escapes now from your lips. There are somethings that can not be—that no man could believe, though he beheldthem with his open eyes. Can a circle be square? Can black be white? Noman, knowing you as I know you, could believe that you in your soul werecapable of sin.”
He had spoken with immense fervor, consuming her the while with hiseyes, and wrenching the hand he held until it must have ached in everybone. She, again as pale as death, had trembled under his fierce, hotutterance, like a reed in the wind. But now that he had done, she seemedto recover herself. She withdrew her hand from his, and moved her chairaway.
“Mr. Ripley,” she began, “you must not speak to me like this. Itwas not to hear you speak like this that I wished to see you to-day. Youmake it very hard for me to say what I have to say—what it was hardenough to say, at the best. But I must say it, and you must listen andunderstand. You have not understood yet. Now, please try to.”
She pressed her hand to her throat, and swallowed convulsively. Itwas evident that she was nerving herself to the performance of a mostpainful task. Finally she went on, “I have told you frankly that Iunderstood the other day—understood what you meant when you looked atme that way. After you were gone, I thought it all over—all that I hadlearned. I thought at first that the only thing for me to do would benever to see you again—to refuse to receive you when you called—toavoid you as much as I possibly could. That, I thought, would be thebest thing to do. But then I thought further about it, and then itseemed that that would not be right. To break off in that sudden waywith you, and not to explain it, would be wrong and cruel. So I putaside that first thought, and said, ’No, I will not refuse to receivehim. I will receive him just as before. Only I will act in such a mannertoward him that he will not say any thing about caring for me. I willact so as to prevent
him from saying any thing about that. Then we willgo on and be friends the same as ever.’ But by and by that did notseem right either. It would be as cruel as the other, because, if youreally did care for me, it would be a long suspense, a long agony foryou; and perhaps, if nothing were said about it, you might get to caringstill more for me, and might allow yourself to cherish false hopes,hopes that could never come true. So I decided that this course wasas far from right as the first one. And, besides, I distrusted my ownpower—my power to keep you from speaking. It would be a long, longbattle. I doubted whether I should have the strength to carry itthrough—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 onseeing each other, he will surely speak. Is it not better that I shouldlet him know at once—what waiting will make harder for him to hearand for me to tell him—that I can never become his wife? Then, when heknows 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 itwas impossible for us to get married, and why it was impossible, I knewthat you would give up hoping; and I thought that this course was thebest of all. It was very hard. I shrank from the idea of speaking to youas I have done. Your good opinion is very precious to me. It was hard topersuade myself to say things to you that would, perhaps, make youthink differently of me. But I felt that it was best. I had no rightto procrastinate—to let you go on caring for me, and hoping for whatcould never be. Then I decided that I would see you and tell you aboutit right away.”
She paused and breathed deeply; but before Arthur had had time to put ina word, she resumed: “I do not believe that you have meant to makeit more difficult for me to-day than it had to be; but it has pained mevery 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. Youmust try to get over caring for me. You must go away, now that I haveexplained, and never come any more.”
She had said all this in a low tone, though each syllable had beenfraught with earnestness, and had manifestly cost an effort. Arthur,during the last few sentences, had been pacing up and down the room. Nowhe came to a standstill before her.
“And do you mean to say,” he demanded, “that that is yourlast word, your ultimatum? Do you mean to say that you will send meaway—banish me from your presence—forbid me the happiness of seeingyou and hearing you—all for a mere paltry nothing? If there were areal impediment to our marriage, I should be the first toacknowledge it, to bow before it. But this thing that you havementioned—this—well, call it a secret, if you will—is this emptymemory 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 yetthis utmost cruelty you seem willing to perpetrate in cold blood. Stop,think, reflect upon what you are doing! Have you not seen how much Ilove you? how my whole life is in my love of you? Do you not knowthat what you propose to do—to send me away, all on account of thismiserable secret—is to break my life forever? is to put out the lightforever from my sky, and turn my world to a waste of dust and ashes? Canyou—you who recoil from cruelty—be as wantonly cruel as this? HaveI not told you that I care nothing for your secret, that I shall neverthink of your secret, if you will only speak one word? Oh, it is notpossible that you can deliberately break my heart, for a mere dead thinglike that! If it were something actual, something substantial, somethingexisting now and here, it would be different. Then I, too, shouldrecognize 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 pastand done with, how can you let that stand between us? I can never resignmyself to that. Can’t you imagine the torture of my position? To wanta thing with all my soul, to know that there is no earthly reason why Ishould not have it, and yet to know that I can not have it—why, it islike being defeated by a soap bubble, a vapor. Of what use is all thistalk? 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 Iwould 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 tomarry. But, you see, you did yourself an injustice. You did not guessthe real depth of the love you had inspired. You see, I love you toomuch 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 thesimple facts: I love you. I love you! I ask you to be my wife. I kneeldown before you, and take your hand in mine, and beg of you not to spurnmy love—not to be guided by a blind, deluded conscience—not to thinkof the past—but to think only of the present and the future—to thinkonly of how much I love you—of how all the happiness of my life is nowat stake, for you to make or to destroy. I ask you to be merciful. Iask you to look into your heart, and let that prompt you how to act. Ifthere 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 colorto and from her cheek—caused his heart to throb with an exultantthrill, 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 uponhis shoulder. It was a supreme moment of silence. Then she broke away.There were tears in her eyes. She sobbed out, “It is wrong, allwrong.”
But Arthur knew that he had gained the day. Her first sign of weaknesswas his assurance of success. Protest now as she might, she could nolonger hide her love from him. And if she loved him, what had he tofear? There was much further talk between them. She tried to regain theground she had lost. Failing in this, she wept, and spoke of the wrongshe had done him, and said that she had forfeited her self-respect. ButArthur summoned all his eloquence to induce her to look at the matterthrough his eyes, and in the end—Somewhat later an eavesdropperoutside the parlor door might have caught the following dialogue passingwithin:
Ruth’s voice: “It is strange, Arthur, but a little while ago itseemed 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 asthough I could tell it to you. I want to tell it to you. It is onlyright that I should tell you every thing about my life. It is a longstory; shall I begin?”
Arthur’s voice: “No, Ruth. Shall I let the happiness of this hour bemarred for you and me, by your thinking and speaking of what would painyou? Besides, I prefer that you should keep this—this thing—thissecret—as an evidence of my unwavering confidence in you. Why shouldwe 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 beenborn. The past is dead. Our life dates from this moment. Oh, it is tothe future that we must look!”
“But it seems as though you ought to know—ought to know yourwife—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. Iknow it all by instinct. I want her to have this constant proof of mylove—that I can trust her without, learning her secrets.”
“But you will not forget—never forget—that I have offered totell you, will you? You will remember that I am always willing to tellyou—that whenever you wish to know it, you will only have to askme.”
“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. Everything 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, ratherthis 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 ofsurprise. Ruth blushed and smiled. For an instant the two ladies stoodoff and eyed each other. Then simultaneously they rushed toward eachother, and fell into each other’s arms; and then there were tears andkisses and incoherent sounds.
Finally, “I congratulate you trebly,” said Mrs. Hart, turning toArthur.
For a while every body was very happy and very sentimental.
When, toward midnight, Arthur returned to his own abode, Hetzel askedhim 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 bemarried.”
“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 nextmonth.”
“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 didit 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 alonefeeding and clothing her.”
“I hadn’t thought about it, but I’m sure we can get along onfifteen 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 todo?”
“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 sensiblething; that your bride’s an angel, yourself a trump, and each of youto be envied above all man and woman kind.”
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