University of Virginia Library

52. CHAPTER LII.
RUTH'S BETROTHAL.

She knew that he was dead, and yet she
sat there dumb and motionless, her face white
and still as his, her eyes fixed, her mind wandering
through time and eternity, she knew
not whither.

Through all the chaos into which her life
seemed of a sudden fallen, one thought alone
rose definite and undeniable. He, that dead
man there, the man toward whom she had
assumed such solemn and unending duties,
he had asked her for comfort in his dying
moments, for a word of faith, or promise, or
supplication, and she had none to give him,
not one. No comfort for him, none for herself
were she too dying—not even the poor cry
of unreasoning belief. And this was the result
then of life, this the end toward which
she had so arduously toiled, this the grand
result of philosophy, and intellect, and intelligent
theory as opposed to blind faith. He,
her teacher, and the most learned man she
had ever known, the profoundest thinker, the
clearest reasoner, the most fearless theorist
and analyzer, he had died longing to hear his
mother's voice interceding with God for the
soul of her unbelieving child. Was this the
end of such men? Must such an end be hers
ere long?

So she sat, while the minutes and the hours
went by, and the twilight gave place to night,
and the toad and bat and slimy creeping
things came softly up to glide about her feet,
and stare at the glittering pool of blood, and
flash their moist skins and evil eyes in the dim
light, and creep in beneath the stone which
had crushed out that life but now so full of
power and thought.

And she, never seeing them, sat motionless
beside her dead, and learned from his dumb
lips such teaching as, living, he never had
been capable of giving.

They found her there as the night wore on,
Marston Brent and the rest, and gathered
about her with broken exclamations of pity
and dismay. Brent it was who raised her in
his arms and carried her forth to the living
world once more. He did not speak, and she
said only:

“Bring me to your Ruth.”

And in Ruth's arms he left her.

With infinite labor they raised the great
stone, and drew the poor broken body from
beneath it, then let it fall, and shudderingly
left it, the imprint of the antediluvian monster
soaked in the blood of the man of latest
science who had sought to steal his secret.
The monster had conquered, and he lies there
to-day even more secure from molestation than
when the dead man first discovered him.

They bore the body forth, and the next day
buried it with the Christian ordinances which
the philosopher, despising in life, had clung
to in death, and let us hope that the sleep to
which they laid him shall end in the light of
clearest day.

A week passed away, and then Brent asked
an audience of his guest, who had never yet
left the room whither he had carried her from
the mine.

He found her calm, pale, and silent, receiving
such words of sympathy as he could offer
almost without reply, and seeming to half
forget his presence even while he spoke.

At last he said:

“I trust you will not doubt my pleasure in
retaining you beneath my roof, or my desire
to leave you time to recover from this great
shock before you are troubled with outward
matters, but I think it right to tell you that I
am about to journey to Milvor with Ruth,
that her affairs there may be permanently settled,
and if you think best to go with us—”

“Yes, I will go. I wish to go to Milvor,”
interrupted Beatrice, catching at the name.

“I thought it likely, and perhaps you will
suffer less in the journey now than after a

while. The first effect of such a blow is apathy,
the anguish comes later.”

“How do you know, Marston Brent? You
never have suffered `such a blow,”' exclaimed
Beatrice almost fiercely.

“My life has not been desolated by death,
but I have suffered,” said Brent quietly, and
without waiting for a reply, he recounted the
preparations he had made for the journey, and
mentioned the day and hour in which he proposed
to set forth.

Beatrice listened to all without raising her
heavy eyes or making any remark. When he
had done, she only said:

“Do as you think best. All I wish is to be
at Milvor, and hidden from the world.”

“In another week you will be there, and
may you find the rest you seek. Poor Beatrice!”
said Brent softly, and so left her to the
solitude she seemed to crave.

In the passage he met Ruth, who hesitatingly
said:

“Can I speak with you a moment, sir?”

“Certainly. Come into the office,” said
Brent; and when the door was closed: “Well,
Ruthie?”

“I thought it best to tell you myself, sir,
that I have about concluded to marry Paul,”
said Ruth, turning very pale, and leaning
against the corner of the heavy table in the
centre of the room.

“Indeed! Why, Ruth, I thought—he told
me, in fact, that you had refused him, or nearly
so,” said Brent in sudden bewilderment, for
out of Paul Freeman's bitter revealings and
Ruth's own artless confessions, and the desperate
need of his own heart, he had built a
shadowy scheme for the future, hardly confessed
as yet even to himself, but growing
every day more clear and certain.

“I thought you did not love Paul, Ruthie,”
said he again as the girl stood mute and white
before him.

“He loves me very much indeed, sir, and
perhaps that is better than for me to love him,
and he not care any thing about me.” said
Ruth, with hidden fire.

“Why, yes, I suppose so; and yet, Ruth, if
you do not love him, or if you could love
some one else now, do not be in such haste.
Wait a little, and—'

“No, sir, I don't want to wait—that's just
what I had rather not do,” replied the girl, so
vehemently that even Brent suspected a hid
den meaning in her words, and after a moment's
thought took her hand, saying:

“Ruth, my dear, you must explain this.
What has happened to make you angry and
doubtful of me? What has Paul been saying
to you?”

“He says, sir, that you were going to—to
take pity on me — because — because — you
thought I liked you, and that now you will be
sorry, but you will keep to the promise you
have made yourself because you are so strict
in keeping your word; but—but I'd rather a
great deal that you should not, sir.”

“Paul has done very wrong, and has shown
himself dishonorable in putting such ideas in
your head,” said Brent in much displeasure.
“If I have for a moment dreamed of asking
you to be my wife, it was hoping to receive
as much happiness as I could give, but I have
never put the idea in words to Paul or to myself,
and—”

“And please don't do it now, sir, for indeed
I had rather not,” hastily interposed Ruth,
her cheeks aflame.

“Then I will not; but tell me why not now
as well as some weeks ago, when I spoke of
this matter with Paul?”

“Because, sir, Mrs. Chappelleford is a widow
now, and though you might ask me to
marry you, and try to feel contented, you
never would forget the chance you lost for me,
and I should know it, and I should suffer
more than—than—and I had rather marry
Paul, who loves me truly and wholly, and
never has loved any one else.”

She turned toward the door, and laid her
hand upon the latch, yet lingered with downcast
eyes and quick-throbbing heart, lingered
for his reply. It came:

“Ruth, can you believe that never until this
moment have I connected the thought of
Mrs. Chappelleford's widowhood with any
possible advantage to myself, never until you
yourself suggested it? And, Ruth, had you
accepted the offer I was about to make to you
I never should have associated the two ideas,
for having once given my faith to you, I humbly
trust that there is nothing in my nature
so base that I could have broken it, even in
thought. I say, Ruth, had I been your promised
husband, those words of yours would
have been of no effect. But now—”

“But now that I have suggested it, you see
that you love her, and only her,” cried Ruth
in a sharp, passionate voice.

“No. I have so long and so resolutely disconnected
Beatrice Chappelleford, wife of another
man, from Beatrice Wansted, whom I
loved devotedly, that I may boldly say I do
not love her now, and had her husband lived,
or had I bound myself to you or another
woman, I never should have loved her, other
than as the angels love. But now, Ruth, were
I to become your husband, I cannot promise,
I cannot be sure that I should never remember
her. I do not wish to speak to her of love,
but the thought of her might come between
me and other love. I cannot be certain—
I dare not bind myself.”

“And you shall not to me, Mr. Brent. My
mind is quite made up, and I am going to give
Paul Freeman his answer this minute. I am
so sorry that you fancied I cared, for though
I am very, very grateful for all your kindness,
I never thought, I am sure—”

“There, child, there! Say no more. We
understand each other now, and for all our
lives you are my dear sister, friend, daughter,
in one. Perhaps all that I shall ever find of
woman's love is what Paul will spare to me
from the treasure you will bring him.”

And Ruth without reply, without turning
her face toward him, left the room, and finding
Paul, threw herself into his arms, sobbing:

“There, take me, Paul, take me and comfort
me.”