Part 13 (1/2)

But Edith didn't give Ruth her wedding. There was no wedding. Ruth didn't marry Robert Jennings!

I cannot feel the pain that is Ruth's, the daily loss of Bob's eyes that wors.h.i.+ped, voice that caressed--no, not that hurt--but I do feel bitterness and disappointment. They loved each other. I thought that love always could rescue. I was mistaken. Love is not the most important thing in marriage. No. They tell me ideals should be considered first.

And yet as I sit here in my room and listen to the emptiness of the house--Ruth's song gone out of it, Ruth fled with her wound, I know not where--and see Bob, a new, quiet, subdued Bob, walking along by the house to the University, looking up to my window and smiling (a queer smile that hurts every time), the sparkle and joy gone out like a flame, I whisper to myself fiercely, ”It's all wrong. Ideals to the winds. They loved each other, and it is all wrong.”

They were engaged about three months in all. They were so jubilant at first that they wanted the engagement announced immediately. The college paper triumphantly blazoned the news, and of course the daily papers too. Everybody was interested. Everybody congratulated them. Ruth has hosts of friends, Robert too. Ruth's mail for a month was enormous. The house was sweet with flowers for days. Her presents rivaled a bride's.

And yet she gave it all up--even loving Bob. She chose to face disapproval and distrust. Will called her heartless for it; Tom, fickle; Edith, a fool; but I call her courageous.

There was no doubt of the sincerity of Ruth's love for Robert Jennings.

No other man before had got beneath the veneer of her worldliness.

Robert laid bare secret expanses of her nature, and then, like warm sunlight on a hillside from which the snow has melted away, persuaded the expanses into bloom and beauty. Timid generosities sprang forth in Ruth. Tolerance, grat.i.tude, appreciation blossomed frailly; and over all there spread, like those hosts of four-petaled flowers we used to call bluets, which grew in such abundance among rarer violets or wild strawberry--there spread through Ruth's awakened nature a thousand and one little kindly impulses that had to do with smiles for servants, kind words for old people, and courtesy to clerks in shops. I don't believe that anything but love could work such a miracle with Ruth. If only she had waited, perhaps it would have performed more wonderful feats.

The book incident was the first indication of trouble. The second was more trivial. It happened one Sunday noon. We had been to church that morning together--Ruth, Will and I--and Robert Jennings was expected for our mid-day dinner at one-thirty. He hadn't arrived when we returned at one, and after Ruth had taken off her church clothes and changed to something soft and filmy, she sat down at the piano and played a little while--five minutes or so--then rose and strolled over toward the front window. She seated herself, humming softly, by a table there. ”Bob's late,” she remarked and lazily reached across the table, opened my auction-bridge box, selected a pack of cards, and still humming began to play solitaire.

The cards were all laid out before her when Robert finally did arrive.

Ruth gave him one of her long, sweet glances, then demurely began laying out more cards. ”Good morning, Bob,” she said richly.

Bob said good morning, too, but I discerned something forced and peremptory in his voice. I felt that that pack of playing cards laid out before Ruth on the Sabbath-day affected him just as it had me when first Ruth came to live with us. I had been brought up to look upon card-playing on Sunday as forbidden. In Hilton I could remember when policemen searched vacant lots and fields on Sunday for crowds of bad boys engaged in the shocking pastime beneath secreted shade trees. Ruth had traveled so widely and spent so many months visiting in various communities where card-playing on Sunday was the custom that I knew it didn't occur to her as anything out of the ordinary. I tried to listen to what Will was reading out loud to me from the paper, but the fascination of the argument going on behind my back by the window held me.

”But, Bob dear,” I heard Ruth's surprised voice expostulate pleasantly, ”you play golf occasionally on Sunday. What's the difference? Both a game, one played with sticks and a ball, and the other with black and red cards. I was allowed to play Bible authors when I was a child, and it's terribly narrow, when you look at it squarely, to say that one pack of cards is any more wicked than another.”

”It's not a matter of wickedness,” Bob replied in a low, disturbed voice. ”It's a matter of taste, and reverence for pervading custom.”

”But----” put in Ruth.

”Irreverence for pervading custom,” went on Bob, ”is shown by certain men when they smoke, with no word of apology, in a lady's reception-room, or track mud in on their boots, as if it was a country club. Some people enjoy having their Sundays observed as Sunday, just as they do their reception-rooms as reception-rooms.”

”But, Bob----”

”I think of you as such an exquisite person,” he pursued, ”so fine, so sensitive, I cannot a.s.sociate you with any form of offense or vulgarity, like this,” he must have pointed to the cards, ”or extreme fas.h.i.+ons, or cigarette smoking. Do you see what I mean?”

”Vulgarity! Cigarette smoking! Why, Bob, some of the most refined women in the world smoke cigarettes--clever, intelligent women, too. And I never could see any justice at all in the idea some people have that it's any worse, or more vulgar, as you say, for women to smoke cigarettes than for men.”

”Irreverence for custom again, I suppose,” sighed Bob.

”Well, then, if it's a custom that's unjust and based on prejudice, why keep on observing it? It used to be the custom for men to wear satin knickerbockers and lace ruffles over their wrists, but some one was sensible enough--or irreverent enough--” she tucked in good-naturedly, ”to object--and you're the gainer. There! How's that for an answer?

Doesn't solitaire win?”

”Custom and tradition,” replied Bob earnestly, anxiously, ”is the work of the conservative and thoughtful majority, and to custom and tradition every civilization must look for a solid foundation. Ignore them and we wouldn't be much of a people.”

”Then how shall we ever progress?” eagerly took up Ruth, ”if we just keep blindly following old-fogey laws and fas.h.i.+ons? It seems to me that the only way people ever get ahead is by breaking traditions. Father broke a few in his generation--he had to to keep up with the game--and so must I.”

”Oh, well,” said Bob, almost wearily, ”let's not argue, you and I.”

”Why not?” inquired Ruth, and I heard her dealing out more cards as she went on talking gaily. ”I love a good argument. It wakes me up intellectually. My mind's been so lazy. It _needs_ to be waked up. It feels good, like the first spring plunge in a pond of cold water to a sleepy old bear who's been rolled up in a ball in some dark hole all winter. That's what it feels like. I never knew what fun it was to think and argue till I began taking the English course at s.h.i.+rley. We argue by the hour there. It's great fun. But I suppose I'm terribly illogical and no fun to argue with. That's the way with most women. It isn't our fault. Men seem to want to make just nice soft p.u.s.s.y-cats out of us, with ribbons round our necks,” she laughed, ”and hear us purr. There!

wait a minute. I'm going to get this. Come and see.” Then abruptly, ”Why, Bob, do the cards shock _you_?”

[Ill.u.s.tration: ”'Men seem to want to make just nice soft p.u.s.s.y-cats out of us, with ribbons round our necks, and hear us purr'”--_Page 129_]

”No, no--not a bit,” he a.s.sured her.