University of Virginia Library

48. CHAPTER XLVIII.
RUTH'S OGRE.

She had never heard of Œnone, this poor
little Ruth, “mournful Œnone wandering
forlorn” upon the hills, nor could she so
melodiously phrase her grief, and yet the
burden of her song in those weary days, that
sad, sad song without words, sung in her
secret heart, was like the nymph's lament.

For Brent, who, if never a lover, had always
been the kindest of friends and companions,
ever ready to sympathize, instruct, or counsel,
now found but little time even to notice the
poor child, giving all his leisure to his guests,
and employing himself for the remainder with
almost desperate energy about his business.
And Paul, too, held aloof—Paul, whose devotion,
hardly valued while it was so freely and
constantly bestowed, became of sudden importance
now that it was withdrawn.

“Nobody loves me, nobody cares for me,
and why should I want to live? I will throw
myself down the old pit-hole, and make an
end of it,” moaned Ruth, and crept stealthily
out of the house and into the woods, until she
came to the deserted shaft. Several times, in
her rapid flight, she thought she heard footsteps
behind her, but looking round could see
no one; and when she paused in the lonely
glade beside the pit-hole, it seemed to her
that she must be the only living thing in all
the world, so intense was the stillness surrounding
her. But the black shadows of the
fir-trees fell across the mouth of the pit, and
the water oozing through the stones at the
side fell with a melancholy plash into the
pool at the bottom, and the blackberry-vines
clinging about the verge were red as if the
blood of a murdered man had fallen there;
and Ruth, chilled out of her desperate meaning,
stood shivering and looking about her,
feeling that, although life might be forlorn,
death was terrible, when a rustling footfall
close behind made her start and turn in sudden
fright.

Parting the underbrush away where he
stood, a man peered out at her, his face most
discordantly framed by the tender green
branches of the birches, and his stooping
figure dimly discernible behind them.

At first sight of face and figure, the girl
shrank back with no more than natural terror,
but presently the glance of terror turned to
one of horror, which slowly froze upon the
delicate features until they resembled a marble
mask of some Gorgon-victim, and step by
step the girl drew nearer to the mouth of the
pit, resolute to seek shelter there, if no better
might be found, from the awful doom which
menaced her.

But help was at hand; the sound of footsteps
and voices approached along the path,
and the head among the birches suddenly disappeared,
while Ruth, relieved from the horrible
fascination of those eyes, turned with a
stifled scream, and fled, passing Mr. and Mrs.
Chappelleford without a word, nor pausing
until she was securely hidden in her own
chamber at home.

“Why, what is the matter with the young
woman? It is too late for March madness,”
exclaimed Mr. Chappelleford, turning to look
after the retreating figure.

“I am sure I cannot tell. Perhaps she saw
some wild animal, or fancied a ghost among
the trees,” replied Beatrice, whose pale face
and nervous manner ill-supported the careless
tone she forced herself to assume. Presently
she resumed:

“Then you cannot go to-morrow?”

“No, I tell you, nor the next day. My
workmen are just preparing to take the
most important casts we have obtained yet,
and I think I shall discover something worth
more than all the rest before to-night. I
have said nothing yet to Brent, nor even set
the men at work, but I think that I have a
distinct impression of a gigantic ichthyosaurus
in a bed of slate just below a loose deposit of
shale, which I am picking away myself. I
don't want to say any thing until I am certain,
but if my supposition proves correct, I shall
have conferred a lasting benefit upon my
country and the Historical Society by my
Western journey. We have not such an impression—in
fact, I never have seen such an
impression in any part of the world as this.
It is really marvellous. You must come and
look at it.”

“Where is it?” asked Beatrice faintly.

“In a side-cutting of this old mine. My
men are at work in the main tunnel, and I
wandered away with my lantern yesterday to
see what discoveries I could make. This is
about half a mile from where they are at
work. By the way, Beatrice, you amused yourself
once by calling me Diogenes—”

“How did you know it? I never said so,”
exclaimed Beatrice, a little confused.

“I knew it; my eyes and ears are tolerably
keen, and my mental perceptions not especially
dull. But what I was about to say was,
that, after Diogenes, I have taken to carrying a
lantern in the daylight, and I have discovered
what he did not—an honest man.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes. It is your friend Brent. I don't
know when I have come so near liking any
one as I do him. It is very fortunate you did
not marry him, madam.”

“Why do you say so?”

“Because you would have been in love with
him, and that would have been the end of you.
Now you are something better than an affectionate,
sympathizing woman—you are a companion
for men, and a worthy friend and helpmate
for a seeker after knowledge. Beatrice,
I am glad you decided as you did that evening
in Barstow's drawing-room.”

“Are you, Mr. Chappelleford?”

“Well, what is it? Your eyes are full of
unspoken words, and your lips tremble with
repressed emotion. Speak it out, honestly
and fearlessly. Perhaps I can fancy half the
story beforehand.”

“I wish that we could leave this place to-morrow.
It is very hard for me to stay,” murmured
Beatrice, shrinking beneath the keen
glances shot at her from under the philosopher's
shaggy eyebrows.

“Well, go on. Speak it out.”

“There is nothing to speak. I want to
leave this place.”

“And Marston Brent? You find that the
old folly rises too vividly to memory, and
shames the calmer and wiser present? You
dislike to recall the stupidities you have outlived?
Is that it?”

“No, I dread to discover that I have not
outlived them,” said Beatrice desperately.
“I wish to leave this place before I add the
crime of living, present love to the anguish—
folly, if you will—of that which I believed
dead and buried.”

They had by this time reached the entrance
of the horizontal shaft of the deserted mine,
and Mr. Chappelleford paused, leaning against
the gray rocks, with an air of profound discomfiture,
while before him stood his wife,
her hands clasped together, her head drooping,
her whole attitude that of a criminal
awaiting sentence.

It came at last, sentence and punishment
in one:

“I once knew a man,” said the philosopher
slowly, “an ardent Darwinian, who undertook
the education of a very promising monkey,
hoping to develop in him the intelligence
of a man. The work went on, with
varying success, until one day, as the master
was giving a lesson in the alphabet,
and the monkey attending to it with the
most promising gravity of demeanor, a mischievous
boy rolled an apple across the floor,
at which sight, the monkey, uttering a cry
of delight, dropped upon all fours, pursued
and seized the prey, and when his master
would have snatched it from him, dealt
him a blow upon the head with his own ruler,
which nearly knocked him down. As he recovered
his balance, he saw the monkey scuttling
away across some sheds, holding fast to
the apple, and uttering wild cries of brutish
defiance and terror. My friend looked after
him a moment, then slowly shook his fist in
dismissal, crying: `Go! It is I that was a
fool in trying to make a man out of a monkey.'
Mrs. Chappelleford, amuse yourself
with whatever toys suit you best; but do not
concern yourself farther about my History of
the Saurian or Treatise upon Philology. I release
you from all such labors and interests.”

He turned as he spoke, and entered the
cave, leaving Beatrice to slowly and sadly
retrace her steps.

“To lose even the respect and friendship
of my husband! To feel myself shut out from
the pursuits that have been my life since I
lost all other hope! What will become of
me next? What is left—”

And Beatrice raised her sad and wistful
eyes to the trees, the sky, to nature, whom
her teacher had set for her in place of God.
But where was comfort?

“Could I speak with you a minute, lady?”
said a hoarse voice at her side, and Mrs.
Chappelleford turned to find herself face to
face with a rough and rugged man, whose
pale face and shaking limbs told of disease,
as plainly as his coward eyes and shrinking
manner did of guilt. A man whom a timid
woman would have feared to meet, alone and
unprotected; but Mrs. Chappelleford was not
timid at any time, and just now was too
deeply absorbed in her own unhappiness to
care much for danger from without.

“You wish to speak to me?” asked she
coldly.

“Yes, ma'am. I think I've seen you before.
You was at Milvor, at old Deacon Barstow's
funeral, wa'n't you? You're she that was
Beatrice Wansted?”

“Very well. What then?”

“Well, ma'am, it's a long story, and a
pretty hard one for me to tell, but I've come
all the way here on purpose, and I'll do it, if
I can see my way clear to get away afterward.
You're stopping at Mr. Brent's, a'n't
you?”

“Yes.”

“And he's a justice, a'n't he?”

“Yes.”

“And there's a girl there, about eighteen or
so. What do they call her?”

“Ruth.”

“What other name?”

“I do not know.”

“Well, ma'am, I've got something to tell
that girl, or to tell a justice before her, and
Square Brent would do better than any one;
but I darsn't go anigh him, without somebody
to go surety that he won't touch me.”

“Touch you for what?”

“Why, there's something in my story that
would lay me in jail if it was acted on, but
I've got to tell it all out, or I can't settle to
nothing, and I don't know as I could die if I
set out to—not die comf'table anyhow. And
I want to tell it, but I want the Square's
promise, solemn, that he won't touch me for
it. Couldn't you get it for me, ma'am?”

“Perhaps. But why do you select Mr.
Brent as the most suitable person to hear
your deposition?”

“Because, ma'am, he's a sort of gardeen to
the girl, this Ruth. It's about her the story
is.”

“Something to her advantage, or to her
hurt?”

“Well, pretty consid'able to her advantage,
I should say.”

“Very well; I will speak to Mr. Brent, and
if he chooses to hear you, and to give you safe
conduct, he can send here for you. You had
better wait near that old well I just passed.”

“And how 'll I be sure, when I see some
one come after me, that it a'n't a trap?”
asked the man with a look of mingled cunning
and terror.

“You will have to leave that to me,” replied
Mrs. Chappelleford disdainfully. “I
shall not be likely to betray a person who has
trusted himself to me; but I can give you
no proof other than my word.”

“Very well, ma'am, I'll trust you, and I'll
wait by the old well. I was there this morning,
and saw Ruth herself, but she run as
soon as she saw me, and no wonder either.”