Part 14 (1/2)

”We! we! Come, Ruth. You aren't one of them in an hour, are you? Better wait and consult Bob first.”

”Oh, Bob will agree with me. I know he will. It's such a progressive idea. And I _am_ one of them. I'm proud to be. I'm going to march in the parade next week.”

I came to life at that. ”Oh, Ruth, not really--not in Boston!”

”What? Up the center of Was.h.i.+ngton Street in French heels and a shadow veil?” scoffed Will.

”Up the center of Was.h.i.+ngton Street in something,” announced Ruth, ”if that's the line of march. Remember, Will, French heels and shadow veils have been my stock in trade, and not through any choice of mine, either.

So don't throw them at me, please.”

Will subsided. ”Well, well, what next? A raring, tearing little suffragette, in one afternoon, too!”

Ruth went upstairs.

”Poor old Bob,” remarked Will to me when we were alone.

CHAPTER XV

ANOTHER CATASTROPHE

I didn't know whether it was more ”poor old Bob” or ”poor old Ruth.”

Ruth was so arduous at first, so in earnest--like a child with a new and engrossing plaything for a day or two, and then, I suppose, she showed her new toy to Bob, and he took it away from her. Anyway, she put it by.

It seemed rather a shame to me. The new would have worn off after a while.

”And after all, Will,” I maintained to my husband, ”Robert Jennings is terribly old-school, sweet and chivalrous as can be toward women, but he can't treat Ruth in the way he does that helpless little miniature of a mother of his. He simply lives to protect her from anything practical or disagreeable. She adores it, but Ruth's a different proposition. The trouble with Robert is, he's about ten years behind the times.”

”And Ruth,” commented Will, ”is about ten years ahead of the times.”

”That is true of the different members of lots of households, in these times, but they don't need to come to blows because of it. Everybody ought to be patient and wait. Ruth has a p.r.o.nounced individuality, for all you think she is nothing but a society b.u.t.terfly. I can see it hurts to cram it into Robert Jennings' ideal of what a woman should be. It makes me feel badly to see Ruth so quiet and resigned, like a little beaten thing, so pitiably anxious to please. Self-confidence became her more. She hasn't mentioned suffrage since Robert called and stayed so late Wednesday, except to say briefly, 'I'm not going to march in the parade.' 'Why not?' I asked. 'Doesn't Bob want you to?' 'Oh, certainly.

He leaves it to me,' she pretended proudly. 'But, you see, women in parades do offend some people. It isn't according to tradition, and I think it's only courteous to Bob, just before we are to be married, not to do anything offensive. After all, I must bear in mind,' she said, 'that this parade is only a matter of walking--putting one foot in front of the other. I'm bound to be happy, and I don't intend to allow suffrage to stand in my way either. Even convictions are only a certain condition of gray matter.' Oh, it was just pitiful to hear her trying to convince herself. I'm just afraid, Will, afraid for the future.”

Not long after that outburst of mine to Will, my fears came true. One late afternoon, white-faced, wide-eyed, Ruth came in to me. She closed the door behind her. Her outside things were still on. I saw Robert Jennings out the window going slowly down the walk. Before Ruth spoke I knew exactly what she had to say.

”We aren't going to be married,” she half whispered to me.

”Oh, Ruth----”

”No. Please. Don't, don't talk about it,” she said. ”And don't tell Will. Don't tell any one. Promise me. I've tried so hard--so hard. But my life has spoiled me for a man like Bob. Don't talk of it, please.”

”I won't, Ruth,” I a.s.sured her.

”I can do it. I thought I couldn't at first. But I _can_!” she said fiercely, ”I _can_! I'll be misunderstood, I know. But I can't help that. We've decided it together. It isn't I alone. Bob has decided it, too. We both prefer to be unhappy alone, rather than unhappy together.”

”In every marriage, readjustments are necessary,” I commented.

”Don't argue,” she burst out at me. ”Don't! Don't you suppose Bob and I have thought of every argument that exists to save our happiness? For heaven's sake, Lucy, don't argue. I can't quite bear it.” She turned away and went upstairs.

She didn't want any dinner. ”I'm going to bed early,” she told me an hour later when I knocked at her door. ”No, not even toast and tea.