A Letter from Home.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLIX, Issue 23, 4 June 1913, Page 52

A Letter from Home.

Dy

EDWARD BOLTWOOD.

I ©N the threshold of the sitting room, \niory turned, with the same odd hesitancy which had already dinquieted his wife; for Ruth felt the well-bred woman's aversion to a theatrical rscene. ‘‘l may be late—at the office- this evening,” he said. "There is much work to be done.” ‘•The timber land case, isn't it?” /asked Ruth. "Your case against the Zerkel companies, isn’t it?” She smiled faintly. It had been a long time since <she had volunteered interest in his profession. Rut Amory merely scowled at. the bundle of legal documents under his arm. “Why, yes,” said he slowly. “The government’s cases against the Kerkel people, begin next week. I wish they were over!” He snapped a rubberhand, t‘l’ll have good news for you

then, I hope. I may 1 may have it before. I wish they were over!” He went out with the unsatisfied air of one who has not been able to finish what he wished to say. Ruth breathed & tired sigh of relief. Amory’s pr; sedition of the government's cases against the timber-land thieves accounted, of course, for his curious anxiety. It was not due, after all. to any suspicion, mysteriously gathered, of her great resolve. Their sitting room in the hotel was a converted bed-chamber. An unfaded portion of the carpet indicated where a l»ed had stood: and mournful furniture of imitation black walnut and red plush was distributed mathematically. Amory and Ruth had spent in hotels nn st <»f the six years of their married life. At fiir»t he had rented a flat: but the neigh bourhond had not pleased Ruth. lie could not a Hord to build or rent a suitable house, although they had to provide for no children. Ruth looked out of the window at the street of the raw little Western city. Now th.it her resolution was real, she was astonished at its feasible .simplicity. She nerd explain nothing to Amory beyoml the fact that rdie was going to »isit her family in New York, it would be unnecessary at present for her to aid that she should never willingly return. {She could write that to, him —could write that their mirriage wa»* a sorry error, and that she < mid sustain the of wifehood no longer. Il would be cider for both of them if <die wrote that in a letter. She was reminded of the letter which, only that morning, had so suddenly clinched her determination: and she took the grey envelope from tho mantel

and sat down in a rocking-chair by the window. Her idle attention was. arrested by two men across the street. One of them wore a plaid ulster, which would have arrested attention anywhere except on a. Scottish moor. Ruth could not see his face; but the face of the other man was hatefully familiar. It was that of a disreputable local banker, named Bentley. Ruth's husband had once been carried to her from Bentley’s •bachelor quarters, delirious and nearly dead, after days of drinking. She learned indirectly that Amory might have made a plausible plea of an ■inherited curse. But he never did so. He never spoke of it at all to her. He fought it sternly and alone; and his cold silence froze what sympathy there was for him in her weary heart. She believed that he fought victoriously, although she was not sure. When he told her stolidly of his appointment as a United states district attorney, she fan-

cied that there was a tiny gleam of victory in his eye; and. to her own surprise, no less than to his, she kissed him. Ruth spread the sheets of the letter on her lap. It was from her sister. Gertrude. who had recently come back to New York after several years’ absence in Europe; and it overflowed with the girlish joy of home. Between the lines Ruth could almost see pictures of the sunny avenue and the green park, gay theatres, hospitable drawing rooms. While she read her sister’s happy gossip of the town, she seemed to hear the greetings of her friends, with their musical, aristocratic voices; and she had a mental glimpse of them in their perfect gowns, leaning cozily over a pretty tea-tray in the dim lamplight of late afternoon. And then she looked around her dismal walls. ‘•You must remember that horrid Moses Glutton,” wrote Gertrude in one of her numerous postscripts. “He’s just become engaged to Ida Zerkel—you know, the timber king’s daughter. She had the refusal of two dukes; but oil Zerkel was for Glutton, nnd has taken him into partnership. The men tell dreadful stories about him —business stories, 1 mean. When are von coming East ?” When? Huth sprang up and clasped her hands behind her resolutely. She would go East to-morrow; she would go to-morrow, for good and all. 11. Ruth pul on her hat and gloves, and descended the stairs. In the office of the hotel she encountered Mrs. Platt, the proprietor’s wife. “Oh, Mis* Amory!" cried her landlady shrilly. “Step right in the par-

lour, won't you? I want to ask advice ’bout the cut of my kimoner. You bein’ from New Y’ork, I just thought I'd ask you. Step right in here.” Seated in the gaudy parlour next to the office, Huth was mildly amused by Mrs. Platt’s conversation. The commonplace society into which she had drifted bored and disgusted her, as a rule; but to-day, when she was certahi of an escape from it, she could smile at its vulgarities. “And 1 s'pose you’re real proud of your husband,” Mrs. Platt rambled on. “I don’t blame you. Everybody says that the prosecution of these timber robbers will make him an awful big man in politics. ‘Honest Jack Amory,’ folks call him. There’s a paper Jias nominated him for Governor already; and there ain't a pile of papers in the State yet.” Ruth glanced indifferently into the corridor. The man with the plaid ulster was talking to the clerk at the desk. Ruth recognised him as Moses Glutton, of' whom she had just been reading in hei - sister's letter; and the coincidence visibly startled her. Mrs. Platt followed her glance. “Ain't he swell?” she whispered, excitedly. “Name of French, from Chicago.” “French?” said Ruth. “Are you positive Because I thought——” “That’s his name, all right,” insisted Mrs. Platt. “I was there when he registered. He’s got some sort of a deal on with Bentley. At least, lie hired a rig to drive him out to Bentley’s tonight, and then countermanded it, and allowed he’d go in Bentley’s auto. French, from Chicago.” “Oh!” murmured Ruth. “I dare say I was mistaken.” But she knew that she was not mistaken. French, of Chicago, was Moses Glutton, of New York, prospective son-in-law of the timber-land magnate. When he had disappeared from the hotel lobby, Ruth went to the street. It was growing dusk. The ugly buildings and unclean sidewalks looked their worst in the pitiless glare of the electric lamps; and crude masses of clashing colours made the shop windows brilliantly ridiculous. Ruth stopped at a drug-store to buy a few trifles for her journey. She asked to have them charged; then she recollected herself and asked for her bill instead. It was the beginning of her actual preparation; and she rejoined the offensive crowd on the narrow pavement with some contentment of spirit. She imagined the stately shops of Broadway, the well-dressed throng, the line of liveries on the curb—“Home, Peter”; and the door of her coupe clicked. Home! She turned the corner of a cross street. Here it was darker and quieter. Her imagination worked more briskly as she hurried on, with unseeing eyes fixed on the rude planks of the sidewalk. Now Peter had left her at the house, and she was sitting with her mother at the library fire—her widowed mother, who had ever protested, in her sweet, calm way, against her handsome daughter’s

impulsive marriage to the unknown lawyer. The fire burned low; it was time to dress for dinner and the opera. Outside, over the asphalt of the avenue, countless cabs and automobiles rumbled on their errands of pleasure. Ruth lifted her eyes, and her fancies fled. A touring-car was grinding swiftly by her, through the mud of the street.

Ruth identified the car; it was Bentley’s, the only one of the kind in town. On the rear seat were Moses Clutton and her husband. The automobile passed from the blue glow of an electric-light into the blackness beyond. Ruth retraced her steps. She walked with eyes intently fixed on the planks. But she was not dreaming now of her mother by. the library fire; she was wondering why Zerkel’s partner, disguised by a false name, should be in secret consultation with the sworn assailant of Zerkel’s illegal enterprise. 111. The dreary environment of the hotel and her lonely, ill-served supper restored Ruth’s thoughts to their former business. (She determined to inform Amory at once of her pretended visit. She rehearsed the way in which she should inform him; she had not the slightest doubt that he would acquiesce in half a dozen chilly words. It was nearly midnight when Ruth heard his heavy, energetic footsteps in

the corridor. She picked up a magazine. ‘ The office kept you late,” she said. "It is late,” said Amory. Something in his voice made her observe him sharply. He had flung Ins hat and overcoat on the lounge, and was pulling forward a. chair. He sat down on the edge of it, with his broad shoulders thrown back ami a fist clenched on either knee. Amory’s opponents in the court-room had learned to understand the meaning of the pose. "Maybe it’s too late to talk,” he resumed, "but I want this done with, Ruth, right off. I ean’t wait.” Ruth’s hand wavered as she laid the magazine on the table. Had her rehearsals, then,,been wasted? “I told you, this noon, I’d have news for you some day,” said Amory. "I’ve got it now. We’re going East to live." “You—l—to live?” “Yes. Back to New York.” She dropped her hand into her lap and stared at him. Amory leaned forward earnestly. “11l take you out of this place,” he pursued. “I’ll take you where you’ll live well, aa you used to—as you ought to—as it's my duty to have you live.” He evaded Ruth’s bewildered glance, and sought evidently for lighter phrases. “No more seedy hotels!” he said with a strained gaiety. “No more Mrs. Platts and progressive euehre! No more—no more homesick misery for you!” It waj no use; hie feeling mastered him. “Haven't I seen?” he sobbed brokenly. “Good God! haven’t 1 seen? My poor, poor wife!” He w’alked to the window 7, and clumsily hid his face. His weak sob echoed strangely in Ruth’s heart, like a supernatural sound; the primal quality of his nature she had always judged to be a fighting and emotionless strength. Amory’s figure, now dimly outlined against the dark glass of the window, seemed to her to be solitary, vaguely desolate, almost pitiful. Heretofore, Ruth had looked upon him with the various eyes of love, of shame, and of unconcern; but never with the eyes ot pity. “John!” she said very softly. He moved toward her, having quite recovered himself. “Forgive me, Ruth, for acting like a child. But this thing—this great piece of luck for you —has come so suddenly that it’s rather knocked me out. When a man’s wife is rescued from a desert island, lie is bound to act foolish, I suppose. And you are rescued, Ruth!” “Tell me,” she asked. “Shall I?” said Amory. “Is there any need? Don’t we both realise the desert island without my telling you?” “I wish you’d tell me,” she repeated under her breath. Amory touched her hair awkwardly, but she did not stir or meet his gaze. ell,” said he, “there’s one devil I ve been chained here by that I guess you haven t known about. I mean the devil of debt—alebts left behind by my father. The last one I paid off a month ago. The other devil you have known— Heaven help you! But I'm free from him, too. Ruth—free forever. I’ve had that devil beaten to a standstill for over two years; so, when this great chance showed up, I was ready.” “If only you had spoken like this before?” she faltered. “I couldn’t,” he said, simply. “What was to be gained by speaking? Until now 7 , I had no escape to offer you from your unhappiness.” “But, John, -if you go to the East, yon must give up the rewards of your ■work here—your reputation ” “My reputation!” broke in Amory. “What is all that against your contentment ?” He returned, with a disdainful gesture. to tlie window; and Ruth involuntarily arose and went to him. She peered across the shadowy street to the spot where she had first seen Moses Glutton that afternoon. A sickening fear stole upon Jier —a sickening explanation ot Glutton's errand to her husband. In a torture of dread, she lost sight of everything except the honour of this man to whom she had given herself. She pressed her timid fingers on Amory’s arm. “What sort of a great chance have yon found, John?” “Why, a job with a New York trust company—-a big salary.” “But. of course.” she said with a brave effort to steady her voice—“but. ot course, you will stay here until you have yon the Zerkel cases?’* ’ His arm quivered.

“I can’t win nil the time,” he parried Hiillenly. “People mustn’t expect too much of me.” <: Do you know what they do expect of you, John?” said Ruth. “Do you know what they call you? They call you ‘Honest Jack Amory.’ ’• The sonorous bell of a church rang in n new day with twelve deliberate strokes; and, as if by a common jnstinct, Amory and his wife were silent until the echoes died. But, plainer than speech, his white and suspicious face told Ruth the story of how he had planned to sell his soul’s honour to Zerkel to buy comfort for her. Ruth’s fingers slipped around his hand—not timid fingers, now; their grasp was the powerful protection of a gutue. “You love me more than 1 deserve.” tshe fr.aid. "when you make -such a sacrifice for me.” “A sacrifice of what?” he blurted hoarsely. “What are. you thinking of?” “ I was thinking,” lied Ruth, “of your political future in the West.” Amory’ts •countenance cleared, and he withdrew' his hand. “Oh, that!” he exclaimed. “Think of our financial future in New* York!” “If I wanted to live there, John. But 1 don’t.” “Ruth!” gasped Amory. “Is that true? 1 though I wan sure- - “I don’t want to live in New York,” she said stoutly. "I want to live here, where I can be proud of you, and of •your work, and of the name you have earned. New York haa never entered my .mind. I’ve never wished for it. I wouldn’t go back there for anything, unless you send me.” “Unlests I send you! But 1 was convinced that you were heart-sick for your old life. And you have been- you have been lonely- unhappy.” “If I have been, it was because I was silly, John; because I would not let myself be taught, until this morning, how much I loved you, or how much you loved me.” His voice sank reverently, like a priest’s at an altar. “1 love you,” he Baid, “more than- --” “I know,” said Ruth. . ■ IV. A hall-boy knocked for the second t ime on the door of the sitting-room. There was noresponse. He Blooped to the keyhole* and greeted with a sarcastic grin the gentle Bound which Lsued therefrom. “Gee—-honeymoonin’!” he chuckled; and knocked again. “Well?” called Amory. “Mr French- party in two eleven,” said the boy, “wants io see you up there forgot something.” “Tell Mr 'French I don’t . No, tell him I’ll be there right away,” replied the 'lawyer. “At thus hour?” objected Ruth. “Yes, at this very minute,” said Amory, smiling eagerly. "It’s a fellow from the Eaist, who- who. came to me about that trust company position. Ruth, are you positive -are you quite certain of yourself?” “More certain of myself, .Tulin, than over in my life, I think.” “It won’t take, me long,” he said. “I’ll tell him my wife positively declines to return to New York.” The smile faded, and he tightened his lips. “It won’t take me long now,” declared Amory, “to say ‘No’ to the kind oilers of Mr French.” He closed the door. Ruth leaned her •elbow on the mantel, but not for support; her attitude was one of pride and strength. For it had been given to her at last to prove herself a helpmate. She had saved from stain the man who would have endured .stain for her sake. The shabby sitting-room seemed to be glorified into a golden temple by the light of her rediscovered love. Her hand chanced upon a grey envelope, lying on the mantel. Decisively, ■‘he tore it. in two; ami the fragments of her sister’s letter fell harmlessly to (he floor.