"She--didn't like my marrying you. Of course we knew neither of them would like it, but I didn't think anything like this would happen.

...You know father and I had a fuss the other day, and I left the office. I had thought things over, and was going back. It seemed as if I ought to go back--as if that was the thing to do.... Well, mother said things that made it impossible. I'm through with them for good.

The Family and the Ancestors can go hang." His voice grew angry as recollection of that scene presented itself. "Mother said I shouldn't marry you..."

"You--you don't mean you're not going to--to have anything to do with Bonbright Foote, Incorporated--and all those thousands of men?"

"That's it....I couldn't do anything else. I had to break with them.

Father was bad, but it was mother....She said she would never receive you or recognize you as my wife--and that sort of thing--and I left.

I'm never going back.... On your account I'm sorry. I can't give you so much, and I can't do the things for you that I could.... We'll be quite poor, but I've got a job. Mr. Lightener gave me a job, and I've got to go to work in the morning. That's why we can't go away...."

"You mean," she said, dully, trying to sense this calamity, "that you will never go back? Never own--that--business?"

"It was a choice of giving you up or that. Mother made that clear. If I married you I should never have anything from them...."

She did not see the happiness that might lie for her in the possession of a husband whose love was so great that he could give up the kingdoms of the earth for her. She could not see the strength of the boy, his loyalty, his honor. All she saw was the crushing of her plan before it began to germinate.... She had given herself for the Cause. She was here, this young man's wife, alone in these rooms with him, because she loved the Cause and had martyred herself for it.... Her influence was to ameliorate the conditions of thousands of the Bonbright Foote laborers; she was to usher in a new era for them--and for that she had offered herself up.... And now, having bound herself forever to this boy that she did not love--loving another man--the possibility of achievement was s.n.a.t.c.hed from her and her immolation made futile. It was as if she plunged into a rapids, offering her life to save a child that struggled there, to find, when she reached the little body, and it was too late to save herself, that it was a wax figure from some shop window.... But her position was worse than that; what she faced was worse than swift, merciful death.... It was years of a life of horrid possibilities, tied to a man whose chattel she was. She stood up and clutched his arm.

"You're joking," she said, in a tense, metallic voice.

"I'm sorry, dear. It's very true."

"Oh!" Her voice was a wail. "It can't be--it can't be. I couldn't bear that--not THAT...."

Bonbright seized her by the arms and peered into her face. "Ruth," he said, "what do you mean? Was THAT why you married me? You're not like those women I've heard about who married--for MONEY."

"No....No..." she cried. "Not that--Oh, don't believe that."

She spoke the truth, and Bonbright could not doubt it. Truth was in her words, her tone, her face....It was a thing she was incapable of, and he knew it. She could not be mean, contemptible. He drew her to him and kissed her, and she did not resent it. A surge of happiness filled him....She had been dismayed because of him. There was no other interpretation of her words and actions. She was conscience stricken because she had brought misfortune upon him.

He laughed boyishly. "Don't worry about me. I don't care," he said, gayly, "so long as I have you. You're worth it a dozen times....I'm glad, Ruth--I'm glad I had to pay for you dearly. Somehow it makes me seem worthier--you understand what I mean...."

She understood--understood, too, the interpretation he had put on her words. It brought a flush to her white cheeks....She disengaged herself gently.

"If we're not going away," she said, "I can lie down--and rest."

"Of course."

"Alone? In the next room?"

He opened the door for her. "I'll be as quiet as a mouse," he said.

"Have a good sleep. I'll sit here and read." She read in his eyes a plea for affection, for another kiss, as she left him, but she had not the strength to give it. She went into the adjoining room, and shut the door after her. Then she stood there silently regarding the door--regarding the KEY.... If she locked it she was safe from him. He could not come in.... She could lock him out.

Her hand went to the key, but came away without turning it. No.... She had no right. She had made her bargain and must abide by it. Bonbright was her husband and she was his wife, and as such she must not turn locks upon him.... Marriage gave him the right of free access.

Dressed as she was, in the suit that had been her wedding dress, she threw herself upon the bed and gave up her soul to torment. She had taken her all and paid it for a thing desirable in her eyes--and her all had bought her nothing. She had wrenched her love from the man to whom she had given it, and all her life must counterfeit love for a man whom she did not love--and in return she would receive--nothing. She had seen herself a Joan of Arc. That dream was blown away in a breath.... But the bargain was made. That she did not receive what she had thought to receive was no fault of Bonbright's--and she must endure what was to be endured. She must be honest with him--as honesty showed its face to her. To be honest with him meant to her to deceive him daily, hourly, to make her life a lie. He was cheated enough as matters stood--and he did not deserve to be cheated. He was good, gentle, a man. She appreciated him--but she did not love him. ... And appreciating him, aware of his strength and his goodness to her, she could not keep her eyes off the door. She lay there eying it with ever increasing apprehension--yet she did not, would not, could not, rise to turn the key....

CHAPTER XX

In every formation of a fresh family group there must be readjustments of habit and of thought. Two people who fancy they know each other intimately discover that they are in reality utter strangers. They start a new acquaintanceship at the moment of marriage, and the wonder of it is that so many millions of them manage the thing with success.

It is true that a man and woman who join their hands and their fortunes because of a deep-seated, genuine, calm affection have a greater chance of lasting happiness than those who unite because of the spur of sudden, flaring pa.s.sion. There are those who contend that friendship and mutual confidence are a firmer foundation for marriage than the emotion that we call love. Thousands of men and women have married because prudence told them a certain other individual would make a trustworthy, efficient, comfortable husband or wife, and as days and weeks and years pa.s.sed this respect and trust and regard has blossomed into a beautifully permanent flower of love....Doubtless happiness has resulted from marriages which resulted from motives purely mercenary, for human beings are blessed by Heaven with a quality called adaptability. Of no marriage can one predict happiness surely. At the altar the best one can do is to hope for the best....But what can be said of a marriage brought about by the causes and motives that led Bonbright Foote to Ruth Frazer and Ruth Frazer to Bonbright Foote?

Of the two, Bonbright's reasons most nearly approached the normal, and therefore the safe; Ruth had been urged by a motive, lofty perhaps, visionary, but supremely abnormal. Therefore the adjustments to be made, the problems to be mastered, the difficulties in their road to a comfortable, reasonably happy future, were multiplied many times.

Instead of being probable, the success of their little social ent.i.ty became merely possible, doubtfully possible.

Ruth, being a woman, understood something of this. Bonbright, being a boy, and a singularly inexperienced boy, understood it not at all, and as he sat alone, a closed door between him and his wife, he wearied his brain upon the puzzle of it. He came to the conclusion that the present difficult situation was the natural thing. It was natural for the bride to be timid, frightened, reluctant, for she was entering a dark forest of strange, new experiences. He understood that his own case might be exaggerated because their marriage had been preceded by no ordinary courtship, with the opportunity which a courtship gives to begin the inevitable readjustments, and to become accustomed to intimacy of thought and act.

The ordinary man has little intuition, but a world of good intentions.

Men blunder woefully in their relations with women, not because of innate boorishness in the s.e.x, not because of willful brashness, but because of lack of understanding. They mean well, but their performance is deplorable.... In that moment Bonbright's most valuable possession was a certain intuition, a fineness, a decency, a reserve, a natural modesty. As he sat there alone he reached a conclusion which was, probably, the most profoundly wise conclusion he was to arrive at in his life. It came not so much from taking thought, as by blessed inspiration. This conclusion was that he must court Ruth Frazer as a sweetheart, not approach her as a husband....

It was a course that would require infinite patience, forbearance, fineness. In his love for Ruth he felt himself capable of it; felt that it would bring its reward.

So he sat and waited. He did not approach the door which she had watched with apprehensive eyes until weariness had closed them in sleep....

The luncheon hour had pa.s.sed when he heard Ruth moving about within.

"Hungry?" he called to her, boyishly. His voice rea.s.sured her. It was comradely. There was nothing in it that menaced her security....The sleep and the rest had bettered her. She was less tense, more calmly resigned to events. She had marshaled her will; had set it to bear her up and to compel her to carry on bravely and without hysteria the part of a wife.

"I am hungry," she said, and presently she appeared in the door, stood there a moment, and then walked across the room to Bonbright. "Thank you," she said, simply, and he understood.

"You don't mind being poor for a while?" he asked.

"I've always been poor," she said, with something that approached her old smile.

"Because," he said, "we are poor. I am going to earn about thirty dollars a week. So, you see, we can't afford to live here. We've got to find a little house or flat...."

"Let's begin," she cried. It was not the delight of a woman at the thought of hunting for her first home, but the idea of having something to do, of escaping from these rooms. "Let's go right out to look."

"First," he said, with pretended severity, "we eat."

So they went down to the dining room, and after they had eaten they inaugurated their house hunting. Perhaps Providence intervened at this difficult moment to give them occupation. If so, Providence acted with amazing wisdom and kindness.

Ruth found an interest in the search. She forgot. Her mind was taken from morbid breedings as they climbed stairs and explored rooms and questioned agents. Bonbright was very happy--happier because he was openly and without shame adapting his circ.u.mstances to his purse....

They found a tiny flat, to be had for a fourth of their income. Ruth said that was the highest proportion of their earnings it was safe to pay for rent, and Bonbright marveled at her wisdom in such matters. ...

Then there were the furnishings to select. Bonbright left the selection and the chaffering wholly to Ruth--and she enjoyed it. The business rested, refreshed, stimulated her. It pushed her fears into the dim background and brought again to the light of day her old self that Bonbright loved. More than once she turned the light of her famous grin upon him or upon some thrice lucky salesman.

But the end was reached at last; everything was done that could be done, and there was nothing to do but to return to the hotel. Ruth did her best to keep up her spirits, but by every block that they approached the hotel, by so much her lightness vanished, by so much her apprehension, her heartache, the black disappointment of the failure of her great plan, returned.

Bonbright saw the change and it grieved him--it strengthened the determination he had made. When they reached their rooms he drew her over to the sofa.

"Let's sit here together, dear," he said. "We haven't had a decent talk, and there are a heap of things to talk about, aren't there?"

She forced herself to sit down close to him, and waited icily, steeling herself to yield to his demonstrations of affection if he offered them, but he did not.

"I've an idea," he said. "I--I hope you'll like it. It'll be sort of--fun. Sort of a game, you know.... While I sat here this afternoon I was thinking about us--and--how I want to make you happy....We were married--suddenly. Most folks play along and get to know each other, and grow to love each other gradually, I guess....I didn't grow to love you gradually. I don't know how it was with you. But, anyhow, we missed our courtship. We started right in by being husband and wife. Of course I'm glad of that....Don't think I'm not. I wanted you--right away.

But--but my idea was that maybe we could--have our courtship now--after we are married....Mayn't we?"