Part 18 (1/2)

”Is this your train?” I asked with a nod toward the sweating monster that had just come to a standstill on the first track.

”It's the New York train,” said Ruth.

”Well, I've brought some money,” I went on quickly. ”Fifty dollars. It will last for a while. They don't know about it yet, back there at the house. I shall have to tell them when I go back. I can't predict. Tom may wire Malcolm to meet you and drag you back home. I don't know. But I'll use all the influence I can against it. I'll do my very best, Ruth.”

Ruth's hand found mine in a sudden grasp and held it tightly. Another train roared into the train-shed.

”Where shall you stay tonight?” I shrieked at her.

She gave the name of a well-known hotel reserved especially for women.

”I shall be all right,” she called. ”I'll drop you a line tomorrow. You needn't worry about me. I'll let you know if I need anything.”

A deep megaphoned voice announced the New York train.

”Your ticket?” I reminded.

”I have it. I was going anyway,” she replied.

”Well, then,” I said, and opened my bag and produced the two checks. She took them. ”Promise me, Ruth, promise _always_ to let me know--always if you need anything, or are unhappy.”

Her eyes suddenly brimmed with tears. Her under lip quavered. She broke down at last. I held her in my arms.

”Oh, Lucy, Lucy,” she cried. ”You're so good to me. I miss him so. I left the ring in the corner of your top drawer. You give it to Bob. I can't. You're all I have. I've been so horrid to you all my life. I miss Bob so. I hate Tom. I almost hate Tom. Oh, Lucy, what's to become of me?

Whatever is to become of me?”

The train gave a little jerk.

”All aboard, Miss,” called a porter.

”Your train, Ruth dear,” I said gently and actually pushed her a little toward New York, which even now was beginning to appall me. She kissed me good-by. I looked up and saw her floating away in a cloud of fitful steam.

CHAPTER XVIII

A YEAR LATER

That was nearly a year ago. Until one day last week I have not seen Ruth since, not because of the busy life of a young mother--for such I have become since Ruth went away--no, though busy I have been, and proud and happy and selfish, too, like every other mother of a first son in the world, I suppose--but because Ruth hasn't wished to be seen. That is why I have heard from her only through letters, why I direct my answers in care of a certain woman's club with a request to forward them, and why I have neither sent down Will, nor appointed Malcolm to look her up and find out how she was getting along.

Ruth has requested that I make no endeavor to drag her forth into the light of criticism and comment. She has written every week punctually; she has reported good health; and has invariably a.s.sured me that she is congenially employed. I have allowed her her seclusion. In olden days broken-hearted women and distracted men withdrew to the protection of religion, and hid their scars inside the walls of nunneries and monasteries. Why not let Ruth conceal her wounds, too, for a while, without fear of disturbance from commenting friends and an inquisitive family?

However, a fortnight ago, I had a letter from Ruth that set me to planning. It casually referred to the fact that she was going to march in the New York suffrage parade. I knew that she is still deeply interested in suffrage. Any one of her letters bore witness to that. I decided to see that parade. My son was six months old; I hadn't left him for a night since he was born; he was a healthy little animal, gaining ounces every week; and for all I knew the first little baby I had been appointed to take care of was losing ounces. I made up my mind to go down to New York and have a look at Ruth anyway. I told Will about it; he fell in with my scheme; and I began to make arrangements.

When I announced to Robert Jennings that we were going to New York, I tried to be casual about it.

”I haven't been down there for two years,” I said one night when he dropped in upon us, as was his occasional custom. ”I require a polis.h.i.+ng in New York about every six months. Besides I want to begin disciplining myself in leaving that little rascal of mine upstairs, just to prove that he won't swallow a safety-pin or develop pneumonia the moment my back's turned. Don't you think I'm wise?”

”New York?” took up Bob. ”Shall you--do you plan to see anybody I know?”

he inquired.