Thrice Tempted
SHE SAT ALONE in the dull, old-fashioned room, a slight, dark girl, with no beauty but much strength of character in her face, which, just then, wore an unwonted expression of happiness, for she was reading her first love-letter.
So absorbed was she that the entrance of another person was unobserved—a tall, brilliant girl, dressed with a taste and skill that enhanced her beauty, and bearing about her the indefinable air of one which instantly marks those who have been luxuriously nurtured from birth.
With noiseless steps and an arch smile on her lips she glided to the reader’s side and glanced over her shoulder.
An expression of surprise rose to her face as she read the first words aloud:
“My own little Ruth!”
“Why, child, who writes to you in that style?” she added, hastily.
With a slight start Ruth turned the leaf, and at the bottom of the closely-written page pointed to a name, smiling a sudden smile, full of tender pride and happiness, as the other read the line:—“Yours always and entirely,Walter Strathsay.”
“Upon my word, this is a revelation, and I must know all about it. Tell me the romance, Ruthie.”
“I meant to have told you soon, but since you have forced my confidence, I need not wait. I am betrothed to Walter.”
Slowly, quietly the girl spoke, and to many she would have seemed cold, but a nice observer would have seen her lips tremble, her eyes shine and in the low voice have detected an undertone of strong emotion.
Laura eyed her keenly, and laughed, with a touch of scorn in her laughter, as she answered:
“No need to tell me that, child; I want to know when and how it came about. You’ve never dropped a hint of it in your letters, and three months ago you solemnly assured me you should never marry.”
“I thought I never should, but Walter came, and I changed my mind. I’ve nothing to tell except that his father was a friend of my father’s and grandmamma asked him here when she heard of his return from the Crimea.”
“He came, saw and conquered. It strikes me as very droll; but I wish you much joy, my dear.”
“Why droll, Laura?”
“One never fancies you with a lover; you are so cool and quiet, so proud, so odd and unlike most girls.”
“So plain and unattractive you mean,” and Ruth’s tone was sharp with pain, though she smiled as she finished the sentence.
“Well, if you don’t mind, I agree to the addition.What sort of a man is this lover of yours? Show me his picture; I know you have one, for I never saw that charming chain on your neck before,” and Laura put forth her hand to examine it.
“Guess before you look,” cried Ruth, guarding her treasure, and speaking with unusual vivacity.
Lounging gracefully on the couch beside her, Laura answered with a sarcastic smile:
“I think he is much older than you, forty, perhaps; a rough, bronzed, gray-headed soldier, who has come home an invalid, and wants a kind, quiet little nurse to take care of him in his old age. He has money enough to be comfortable, and finding you alone, took pity on you, and when the old lady dies you will take her place. I am right, I fancy, by the odd look you wear. Now, let me see.”
Drawing out a golden medallion, Ruth touched the spring, and in a pearl-set oval showed the portrait of a young and strikingly handsome man.
Laura uttered an exclamation, and then sat looking at it in silent admiration, while Ruth watched her with eyes full of triumph, and there was a touch of malice in her tone, as she asked:
“Does my lover suit your description?”
“He is my ideal of a lover and a hero! Tell me more; tell me everything. His age, his fortune, his family and all the story,” answered Laura still holding the picture, and still gazing intently at the painted face, so full of manly beauty.
“He is five and twenty, has just come into the possession of a fine fortune, is the last of the ancient Scotch family of Strathsay, has fought gallantly, received many honors; and, he loves me tenderly.”
As the last words were spoken and Ruth put out her hand to reclaim the likeness of her lover something in her voice made Laura look up and exclaim, in real astonishment:
“Bless the girl! how the ‘grand passion’ has improved her! Why, child, you look quite inspired with that color in your brown cheeks, and your black eyes all afire. It is a miracle; but such a man as this can work greater ones, I fancy.”
Her eyes went back to the miniature, and a sigh rose to her lips, for among her many lovers she had not one like this.
Quickly repressing the involuntary betrayal of regret, she caught up the hand extended for the picture, and holding it fast, laughed mischievously as she examined the costly ring, turned inward for concealment.
“Diamonds, as I live! and such diamonds! seven beauties, and set in a style to win the heart of any woman! Upon my word, Ruthie, your Walter does things in a princely way. Why did you hide your splendor from me all day?”
“I didn’t want to tell you just yet; neither did I want to take off my ring, because he put it on; so I hid it. But if it gives you pleasure to see pretty things, I can show you more, for Walter is indeed princely in his love.”
With an air of pride, Ruth opened the old escritoir, and produced a quaint casket, steel-bound and clasped. Placing it on her lap she opened it, and let in the light upon a heap of glittering ornaments.
“They are the Strathsay jewels. Walter brought them all to me, and left them that I might decide upon new settings, for these are very antique, you see. But I like them as they are, for the stones are fine, and the curious setting pleases me.”
“Ruth, they are magnificent! I never saw anything like them. Look how they become my arms. Happy girl to have won such a prize,” and Laura sighed again as she clasped another bracelet on her round, white arm.
“I don’t think this a prize, though I admire the jewels like a woman. Walter is better than a thousand diamond mines, and I care very little for these things, except as his gifts.”
“So like you; but then they are not suited to your style, and that makes a difference, you know. I’ve always wanted to own real old lace and jewels, for money won’t always buy them. I wish ours was an ancient family, and not a very new one. Papa left me a comfortable fortune, but neither rank nor position: and after all, money and beauty are not so valuable as an ancient name and heirlooms like these.”
“Yes; I’ve nothing but my name, yet I find that has won me what richer, handsomer girls have failed to win; and I envy no one.”
Ruth smiled down into her lover’s face and for a moment forgot everything but the happy moment when a word made her lonely life supremely blest.
Laura, sitting with a strew of jewels about her, frowned and bit her lips as her eye went from the casket and the picture to the letter and the girl who had suddenly eclipsed her in everything but beauty. As the thought came, she suddenly glanced at Ruth’s unconscious face, then at her own reflected in the mirror, and as she looked, the frown passed, for the strong contrast reassured her and she felt that one weapon still remained to her.
The letter lay open at their feet, and her keen eye ran down the page reading words that deepened her admiration, increased her envy, and confirmed the purpose already formed in her selfish heart.
“When are you to be married?” she asked abruptly.
“In autumn, if grandmamma is better.”
“Where is Mr. Strathsay now?”
“My colonel is in London for a day or two, but will return soon and you can see him.”
“Is the old lady pleased with the affair?”
“Delighted; she says she always wished it.”
“Is he going to leave the army?”
“Yes; the fighting is over, and we want him at home.”
“Shall you live in Scotland?”
“If I like, and I think I do.Walter leaves it all to me; but his old uncle wants him a little while before he dies, and it is right that we should do our best for the man who does so much for us.”
“What will he do?”
“He leaves Walter his fortune and title, for he will soon be the last of the family. It makes no difference to me, but the people want another Sir Walter, so I consent for his sake.”
“Lady Strathsay!” was all Laura said, as she flung the jewels into the casket, glanced again at the picture and restored the letter, with a curious expression. Her friend did not see it, and said softly:
“I like ‘Little Ruth’ better, and no title can be sweeter to me than what he bid me call him after the old Scottish fashion, ‘my laddie.’ ”
“Very romantic. Long may it last. Marry soon, my dear, or the delightful glamour will pass away and the charm be broken for ever.”
“How bitterly you speak, Laura! Has anything happened to grieve you since we parted? I’ve been so absorbed in my own happiness I forgot to ask how you had fared. Among so many lovers, have you not found one to reward?”
As she spoke with friendly warmth, Ruth put away her treasures and turned to the beauty who lay looking at her with an expression which troubled her, she knew not why.
“No, I’ve no tender secret to confide in return for yours, neither am I unhappy—why should I be? I’m only tired; so play to me and soothe my weariness like a good creature, as you are.”
Ruth gladly complied, and filled the room with music, for this was her one gift, and she was justly proud of it. As she played, Laura lay looking dreamily out into the summer sunshine that shone warm over garden, grove and lawn. So lying, her eyes suddenly grew intent, her languid head rose erect, her cheek flushed, and her voice was unnaturally low, as she begged Ruth to play a stormy overture.
The girl’s back was toward her, so her movements were unseen. Leaving the couch, she stole to the long window, and hidden in the folds of the curtain, peeped out to watch the approach of the man whom she had seen leave his horse at the foot of the lawn and come rapidly yet quietly toward the house, as if anxious to enter unseen. She knew him at a glance, for the picture had not lied, and the original was as comely as the miniature.
Noiselessly he reached the other open window and slipped in. Unconscious, Ruth played on, and pausing an instant to put down hat and gloves, her lover eyed her with a smile that made the watcher’s heart beat with a strange mixture of emotions.
As the last chord died under her hand, Ruth said, without turning:
“Do you like it, Laura?”
“Not so well as the song, ‘Oh,Welcome Hame, my Laddie,’ ” replied a man’s voice, and with a cry that was full of gladder music than any air she played, Ruth ran to meet her lover.
“So soon—so soon! I thought it would be days before you came, Walter,” she said, clinging to him in a quiet rapture of delight.
“I thought so too; but the time seemed so interminable I could not bear it, and came down almost as soon as my letter, for I cannot keep away from my little sweetheart a whole week.”
“I’m glad, very glad, for if London is dull, what must this quiet place be? How long can you stay?”
“Two or three days, dear. Then I must run up again to get this tedious army business over. Now come and tell me everything you’ve done. Ah, ha! been playing my lady, have you, and trying on your trinkets. I’ll take them back with me to have them reset, if you have decided.”
“I’ve not changed my mind; I like them as they are. I did not take them out to play with, but to show to my friend. Laura has come, and wants so much to see you!”
“She does me honor; but I haven’t the least desire to see her. I want you all to myself, little Ruth. Will she stay long?” asked Strathsay, leading the girl toward the door.
“Why, where is she? I forgot her entirely and she was here a minute before you came,” cried Ruth, looking about her with sudden recollection.
“Gone like a shadow, it seems. So much the better. Come and see the dear old lady with me, and then let us go and be happy in rest.”
They went away, arm-in-arm, leaving the room empty, for Laura had slipped out while the lovers were absorbed in each other.
Half an hour later, as they sat together in a flowery nook of the old garden, Ruth paused suddenly in something she was saying, for it was evident that Strathsay’s attention wandered. Her eye followed his, and saw Laura in the grape walk, with her little Italian greyhound prancing beside her.
She looked very lovely, coming down the cool, green vista, her rosy muslins blowing in the balmy wind and her sunny-brown hair bound with a chaplet of young vine leaves. A book was in her hand, but she read little, and her fine eyes were fixed on the river that rolled below.
Grace is often more powerful than beauty, but when the two are united, few can resist the spell. Laura possessed both, and knew how to use them with the skill of an actress. Apparently unconscious, she went to and fro, artfully making every look, gesture, attitude and tone serve a purpose. Now, she walked with indolent ease, long lashes hiding the violet eyes, and lips smiling as at what she read. Then pausing, she displayed a fine arm by reaching to draw down a cluster of climbing roses, or drew attention to a slender waist by setting the flowers in her belt. The little greyhound frisked before her with a leaf from her book, and she pursued him with flying feet, chiding as she ran, and when the culprit crouched before her, she relented and petted the dainty creature with all manner of pretty words and caresses.
As if weary, she threw by her book, put down the dog, and dropping on a seat, half sat, half lay there in an attitude full of listless grace, and seemed to fall into a waking dream.
“Is that your friend?” asked Strathsay, forgetting to apologize for his absence.
“Yes, that is Laura.”
“You never told me she was beautiful, Ruth.”
“Indeed I did, and you said you hated beauties.”
“So I do—mere dolls, such as one sees in society. That is no doll, but a very lovely girl. How long have you known her?”
“Only since last March.We met in town, and though she was a belle and I a nobody, she was kind to me, for my odd ways amused her. I asked her to come and see me in the summer, and here she is. Will you go and speak with her? I’ll let you admire her, but no more. She has many lovers and does not need you, so beware.”
As Ruth spoke, she rose and beckoned, but Strathsay drew her back, saying earnestly:
“Do you doubt me, dear?”
“No, but I know the power of beauty, and Laura has great skill in winning hearts.You are my all, and I cannot lose you, unworthy as I am to possess so much.”
“Nay, I’ll not go; if this girl is such a siren, I had better shun her for both our sakes, though upon my life, a touch of jealousy improves you, little Ruth.”
He laughed as he spoke, and stroked the smooth cheek grown rosy with a sudden flush.The girl’s dark eyes were full of tears, and a foreboding fear chilled her heart, as she answered with a troubled look:
“A strange feeling came over me just then, and all the sunshine seemed to vanish.You told me that you had known few women in your busy life, and that now every one you met seemed charming. I’m not even pretty, and though you love me now, I feel a sudden fear that I may lose you.”
“Shall I swear and protest, or will you trust me entirely?” he asked, as if hurt by her doubt.
“I’ll trust entirely. But Walter, a time may come when you will repent of your generosity to me; promise that if it should, you will frankly tell me. I can hear anything but deceit.”
“I promise. Now forget this foolish fancy and take me to your friend; she sees us, and it is rude to leave her so long.”
“Come then,” and Ruth gave him her hand, trying to feel at ease; but a shadow had fallen on her sunshine, and her happy mood was gone.
Laura received Strathsay with a charming mixture of eagerness, timidity, and half-hidden admiration, which was very flattering. She had friends in the Crimea, and leading the conversation in that direction, irresistibly interested the young officer and brought out many exciting episodes and warlike reminiscences. She possessed the art of putting others at their ease, of making them do their best, and imparting to them a pleasurable consciousness that they charmed her as she did them. Ruth had none of this skill; cold and shy externally, few knew what a depth of passion and power lay below, for self-control had been early learned, and pride led her to conceal both pain and pleasure from all but a chosen few. As she watched her lover and her friend growing more and more absorbed in the conversation, Strathsay unconsciously betraying his admiration, and Laura freely expressing hers in praises of his bravery and interest in his fortunes, her heart grew heavier and heavier with the morning instinct, born of love. So strong grew this foreboding, that when she parted from Laura after a long evening of seeming harmony and gayety, she could not resist saying in a tone she tried to render playful:
“No poaching on my grounds; remember your power, and use it generously.”
“What do you mean?” asked Laura, with well-feigned surprise.
“I mean that you must not take my one lover away, for the pleasure of adding another conquest to the many you have already won.”
“Jealous creature, do you think he would be worth regretting if his love was so fickle that another could rob you of it? You insult him by the fear and me by the warning.”
“Forgive me; I could not help it. I have been so poor, that my sudden riches make me suspicious and miserly. I will do better, and trust you both.”
She did implicitly, for generous natures are easiest to deceive, and Laura’s anger quieted Ruth’s fears for a time. Strathsay’s visit lengthened to a week, and so happily did the days pass, that Ruth scarcely heeded their flight, till some accidental trifle reminded her of the lapse of time. When she spoke of business to her lover, he told her it could be carried on by letter, and he should not leave her yet. At this she rejoiced and resigned herself to the new happiness, blindly trusting that all was well. Nothing could be more irreproachable than Laura’s conduct, nothing more devoted than his to Ruth, and all three seemed frank and friendly in their daily intercourse. So another week went by, and then Ruth’s trouble came again.
“Little girl, I must go to-morrow,” abruptly began Strathsay as they sat alone one evening.
“Why so suddenly, Walter?”
“I’ve neglected my affairs too long, and must be off without delay.”
“When will you return?”
“Can’t say; you’ve had enough of me for a month at least, so I will leave you in peace.”
“You know I have not.What is the matter? You look excited, yet sad; your voice is bitter and you turn your eyes away. Have I offended you, my laddie?” and the girl’s tender face looked wistfully into his averted one, as her hand stole to his shoulder with an appealing touch.
An instant he sat silent, then turned to her, and with a deep flush on his bronzed cheek, but honest eyes fixed on her own, and steady voice full of humility, yet earnest with the truth, he said, rapidly:
“I promised not to deceive you, Ruth, and I will keep my word. With shame and contrition I confess that I go because I dare not stay.”
“You love her, then?” faltered poor Ruth, pale and panic-stricken in a moment.
“No, I can truly say I do not yet, but I fear I may. She fascinates me by her beauty. Tell her to be less lovely and less kind; it will be better for us both. Indeed I do not love her, but her face haunts me, and makes me miserable because it is wrong. I have kept my word to you, and made you unhappy by the truth; but I am impetuous and weak, and fear that I may, in some unguarded moment, look or say more than I ought. Help me to be true to my real love and to cast off this unhappy delusion before it is too late.”
“I will! Flee temptation, Walter. Leave me before a rash word mars our peace. Go away, and if it is a delusion you will forget it; if it is not, I can do my duty, and endure to see you happy even with Laura.”
Both had spoken impulsively, and both were so absorbed that neither saw the shadow that flitted in and out behind them, or dreamed that Laura overheard their words.
Long they talked, each trying to be just and generous, and each conscious that the love they bore each other was true and deep, in spite of all delusions, doubts, or temptations.
On the morrow Strathsay went, and though Ruth watched eagerly, Laura betrayed no concern, but said good-by with her blithest smile, and gave him sundry trifling commissions, as if unconscious of his gravity, or the covert glances he gave at the beautiful face which haunted him against his will, and was to prove the phantom of his life.
Very dull and quiet were the days that followed Strathsay’s departure, for he wrote but seldom, and the friends felt that they were friends no longer. Not a word was said, but the coldness increased, and neither made any effort to change it.
Fortunately for Ruth her invalid grandmother needed unusual care just then, and thus she was freed from the constraint of Laura’s presence some hours of each day.
To her surprise Laura did not shorten her visit, but remained, and seemed happy in the quiet place, and the various amusements she devised for herself.
While Ruth sat with the old lady she walked, and always came home gay and rosy, with some little adventure to relate, or some report of the poor souls she had comforted, for she was charitable with that cheap charity which gives money, but neither sympathy nor care.
Ruth smiled at her caprices, especially the last one, till accident enlightened her.
Some three weeks after Strathsay’s departure, old madam was one day possessed with a strong desire for a certain kind of jelly which no one could make but a former maid of her own, now married and living in the village.
Ruth was dispatched with the order, and as she approached the cottage, overtook a little lad carrying a letter with great care.
Being one of Martha’s boys, she chatted with him as they walked, and in so doing her eye fell on the letter. There was nothing remarkable about it to other eyes, for it was simply directed to “Mrs. Martha Hale,” in a plain, clear hand, and post-marked “London.”
But Ruth looked long at it, and felt a curious interest in it, for the writing was wonderfully like Strathsay’s, especially three letters in one corner, with a dash below.
The rest of the address was a little changed, but the letters were in his peculiar hand, “L.C.R.,” and as she looked she involuntarily said to herself, “Laura Catharine Richmond.”
Something in the child’s manner struck her also, for as he saw her examining the letter, he dropped his hands beside him, saying, with a droll mixture of importance and anxiety:
“Mammy bids me always put ’em in my pocket, but it’s all wet with berries, and I can’t. Don’t you tell you see it, else she’ll scold.”
“Why,Teddy?”
“Don’t know, but she does if I ain’t careful of her old letters, and she won’t even give me the seals on ’em; they are pretty stags’ heads, and I like ’em.”
An intense desire to see the letter again seized Ruth on hearing that, and she managed to do so by interesting the child in a marvelous tale, till he forgot to hide his hand and the paper it held. No seal was visible, and she hoped her fear was groundless.
Coming to the cottage, Teddy hurried to find his mother, and Ruth gave her message. She was on her way home when a fine flower in a wayside field caused her to climb the bank to get it. As she sat in the long grass to rest, Laura passed in the path below.
Ruth was about to speak, when Laura took a letter from her pocket, tore off the cover, broke the seal of the enclosed envelope, and passed into the grove, reading eagerly as she went.
The instant she disappeared Ruth sprang down to the path, caught up the crumpled cover, and saw it was the same that Teddy had just taken to his mother.
There was no doubt now in her mind that Strathsay wrote to Laura, and a stern calmness came over Ruth as her quick wit cleared up the mystery of Laura’s charitable freak of late. No tears, reproaches, or complaints; but an instant resolution to know all took possession of the girl, and that night she executed her purpose.
Laura was unusually gay and amiable, but went early to bed. Ruth watched till her light was out and she was unmistakably asleep, then, with soundless steps she entered the room, found the desk, possessed herself of the key, and returning to her own room, opened and searched the papers of this fair false friend. The letters were there, several from Strathsay, and two or three copies of those Laura had written, beginning with a brief note of thanks for the well-executed commissions, and a delicately expressed regret that Ruth’s unhappy temper should disturb their pleasant friendship.
This had produced an explanation and defense from the lover, followed by further notes from Laura, hinting that Ruth loved to show her power and was proud of the prize she had won.
It was evident that she had told him Ruth was happy in his absence, contented with her narrow life, and in no haste to recall him.
Skillfully had she worked upon his pride and temper, overcoming honorable scruples, silencing self-reproachful condemnation, and mingling her falsehoods with such pity, sympathy, and half-confessed affection, that it was little wonder an ardent, impressionable man should be deceived and taught to think Ruth the cold, shallow-hearted, ambitious girl her false friend painted her.
His letters proved that he had not yielded without a struggle, and as she read, Ruth forgave him, for that last letter was full of remorse, doubts of the depth of the new passion, and regrets that he had ever seen the fair face which had robbed him of peace and self-respect. Ruth forgave and loved him still, believing him more sinned against than sinning; but such hatred and contempt for Laura sprang up within her, she trembled lest it should lead her to some rash act of retribution. When all was read, she safely restored the stolen desk and went back to a sleepless pillow, feeling as if a year had passed since that discovery was made.
Pale and quiet she rose next day, with a firm resolve to save Strathsay and unmask Laura.
Secretly they had wronged her, and as secretly would she revenge herself upon the chief sinner; the means she left to time and her own address.
“Jane tells me that fever has broken out in the village, so be careful how you and Laura go there, for it is a dangerous and malignant disease,” said old madam next day, as her grandchild left her.
There was nothing in the words to startle Ruth, but she suddenly turned pale, for a black thought rose up in her mind, and like an evil spirit tempted her.
Laura would go to carry her reply; one of Martha’s children lay sick; perhaps it was the fever; or if not already there, the air was full of it. She might take it, and then—
A host of conflicting emotions filled her mind, but out of the confusion rose the wish that Laura was dead and Strathsay all her own again. She sat and thought of this till her temples throbbed, and her heart beat quick with the guilty purpose stirring in it, for to that poor, passionate heart it seemed right to be revenged for the wrong so cruelly done it.
As Ruth’s eyes roved restlessly to and fro they fell on Laura’s figure going down the green lane to the town. She guessed her errand, and watched her tripping away, looking lovelier than ever as she glanced back with a smile, and then went on rejoicing in her treachery and conquest. Ruth set her teeth and clinched her hands, but never stirred till the girl was out of sight. Then, with a shiver, she dropped her head upon her arm, feeling the first bitterness of sin. In the act the miniature slid from her bosom and swung open before her, wearing to her eyes a reproachful look, that smote her heart. The memory of the past touched her better self, and, forgetting hatred in love, she put away the purpose that made her so unworthy of it.
Without pausing for a second thought, Ruth hurried after her friend, and reached her in time to tell her of the danger she incurred.
An expression of sudden shame passed over Laura’s face as she turned back, warmly thanking the girl for the warning.
But it was given too late; she had been often among the cottages where the contagion had just broken out, and a week from that day Ruth watched beside her, listening to her incoherent ravings, thanking God that she had not yielded to the strong temptation, and that if Laura died it would not be through her. For many days the fever raged, then left her weak and wan as a shadow of her former self. Ruth nursed her faithfully, trying to stifle sinful regrets that she was spared for further harm. She could have forgiven her if any sign of penitence or sorrow had escaped her; but the utter falseness of her nature hardened Ruth’s heart and left no room for any softer feeling than contempt.
Strathsay wrote seldom now, and knowing the cause, Ruth made no complaint. She could not deceive him, and so waited till she could put an end to his struggle and her own.
She watched if any note came from him to Laura; but her friend’s maid was wrong, and Ruth discovered nothing till one night, as she lay apparently asleep on the couch in Laura’s room, she saw her draw a paper from under her pillow, read it, kiss it, and then put it back, to drop asleep, little dreaming whose eyes were on her.
No need for Ruth to read the note; she knew whence it came; and sitting in the hush of midnight, she brooded over her misery till no sin, no sacrifice seemed too great, if it but won her back the heart she had lost.
As she sat thus gazing at the face whose beauty had been so fatal to her peace, a sudden gust of air from the half-opened window wafted the muslin drapery of the bed across the night-lamp burning near. Ruth would have risen to move the light, but the evil spell was on her, and she sat unmoved, watching with fascinated eyes the white curtains floating nearer and nearer the dangerous lamp.
Laura lay in a deep sleep, the house was lonely and the maids in distant rooms. She heard the rustle of the rising breeze, saw the quickened sweep of the bright drapery, but neither spoke nor stirred.
A dreadful calm possessed her, and when a sudden blaze lit the room, she only smiled—an awful smile—she saw it in the mirror and trembled at herself.
The flames shot up brighter and hotter as the woodwork caught; Laura woke suddenly, and stretching her arms through smoke and fire, cried feebly:
“Walter, save me! save me!”
He could not answer her, but he saved Ruth, for the sound of his name freed her from the evil spell that bound her. She tore Laura from the burning bed and fought the flames till they were conquered, finding a fierce delight in the excitement and danger. But when the peril was over and Laura soothed to sleep again, then Ruth felt weak and helpless as a child.
Burdened with the weight of the nearly-committed crime, and conscious of the power her unhappy love possessed to lead her into evil, she cried within herself:
“This must end; I can lead this life no longer for it will ruin me body and soul.Walter must decide between us, and the struggle cease.”
In the gray dawn she wrote to her lover, bidding him come home, simply telling him she knew everything, and would forgive it if he would end both doubt and misery at once.
She sent the letter, told Laura what she had done, and besought her to make his happiness if she truly loved him, for there was no other claim upon him now.
Laura seemed annoyed at the act, but not humbled by the discovery of her own treason. She called Ruth “a romantic child,” and promised to see what she could do for Walter. Her heartless words were daggers to Ruth, but she bore it patiently, longing to have all over and past doubt.
A line from Strathsay arrived, appointing a day for his return, but nothing more; and in this alacrity, this silence, Ruth read her fate.
As the time approached Laura grew restless and excited. She insisted on making a fine toilet though still too feeble to leave her room, and rouged her wan cheeks, that his eye should miss as little as possible of the beauty that won him.
“He is coming! I know his step along the garden path! Are you faint?” said Ruth, as Laura lay back in the deep chair with pale lips, and a look of pain in her face.
“I am only tired of waiting. Bring him to me quickly, Ruth,” she answered, sitting erect, with the old smile, the old attitude and glance.
“Walter, let me say a few words first,” said Ruth, as he came in, wearing an expression of mingled shame, sorrow, and relief, that wrung her heart. “I release you from the promise which has become a burden. I want a free heart or none. Choose for yourself beauty or love, and let the trial end at once. One word more—and believe me, I try to say it in a kind spirit. Let me warn you that a false friend may not make a true wife. Now go, and let it soon be over.”
He faltered and looked at her with a searching glance; but she stood resolute and calm, as unable to express her sorrow as she had been to demonstrate her love, yet feeling both the deeper for that cause. He could not read the suffering heart. He thought her cold and careless, for with a few hurried words of gratitude and regret he left her.
A moment after a cry brought Ruth to his side. She found him distractedly chafing Laura’s cold hand, and imploring her to speak to him. But no answer came, for there in the full glare of the sunshine, with the false bloom on her wasted cheeks, the set smile on her breathless lips, lay Laura, dead.
The physicians seemed little surprised, saying she was very frail, and the fever had left her too weak for any excitement. So when all restoratives failed, she was made ready for her last sleep, and her friends came to carry her to her last home.
Ruth had longed for this—had prayed that one of them might die; but now, when in a moment the wicked wish was granted, she repented and forgave her enemy.
“Rest in peace, Laura. I pardon you as I hope to be pardoned,” she said, softly, as, standing alone beside the coffin, she looked down upon the quiet face, so powerless to harm her now. Uttering the words, she bent to put away a lock of hair fallen from its place. In doing so her hand touched Laura’s forehead, and a strange thrill shot through her, for it was damp. She put her hand on the heart, pulse and lips, but all were cold and still. She touched the brow again, but the first touch had wiped the slight dew from it, and it was now like ice. For several minutes Ruth stood white and motionless as the dead girl, while the old struggle, fiercer than ever, raged in her heart. Fear whispered that she was not dead. Pity pleaded for her, lying helplessly before her, and conscience sternly bade her do the right, forgetful of all else. But she would not listen, for Love cried out, passionately:
“Walter is my own again; she cannot separate us any more, or rob me of the one blessing of my life. Twice I have conquered temptation, and been generous only to be more wronged. Now, I will yield to it, and if a word could save this traitorous friend, I will not utter it.”
Then, hardening her heart, Ruth shut out from her sight the face she hated, and left the doubt unsolved. She was the last who saw Laura; she never told the fear that haunted her; the girl was buried and the lovers took up their life again.
Strathsay seemed more bewildered than bereaved by the sudden check his infatuation had received.The charm was broken and when the first shock was over he never spoke of her, and seemed to wake from his short dream himself again.
Ruth uttered no reproach, but by every tender art showed how gladly she welcomed back the love, not lost but led astray. Strathsay soon seemed fonder than ever, trying eagerly to atone for the past. The future lay clear before her, and life would have been all sunshine but for the shadow of a single cloud. A vague sense of guilt weighed on her, growing heavier day by day, for the horrible fancy that Laura was not dead haunted her like a ghost. She had held her peace at first, fearing that the evil genius of her life should return to torment her again. She had kept her sinful vow till it was too late, and now the hidden memory became a spectre to mar her peace.
Months went on, the wedding-day was fixed, and in the excitement of that event, Ruth hoped she might forget. But it was in vain; the fear was always lying heavy at her heart, making her days wearisome with ceaseless anxiety, her nights terrible with dark dreams. She would not believe it anything but a wild fancy, yet felt that it was wearing upon her. She saw her cheeks grow thin, her eyes full of feverish unrest, her spirits failing, her life a daily struggle to cast off the gloom that poisoned her happiness. Her only comfort was in the hope that the approaching change might banish the hidden trouble.
Once Strathsay’s wife, she believed that his love would banish every care and allay every haunting fear. She fancied that a time would come when she would dare to confide her foolish dread and see him smile at it. She clung to this hope, and often in those miserable nights, when the dead face confronted her in the darkness with a mute reproach in its dim eyes that scared sleep from her pillow, she would lie framing her confession into fitting words for his ear, mingling self-accusations with whispered prayers for pardon, and fond reminders that these trials and temptations were caused by her great love for him.
The night before her wedding day she lay down with the old fear stronger than ever, and fell into a deep sleep, filled with troubled dreams, which tormented her till dawn.Then she sprang up with a sense of unutterable relief, and for a while forgot herself in glad preparations for the approaching ceremony.
The day was fair and Ruth was happy, for the phantom fear was gone. A few friends came with good wishes, to celebrate the quiet nuptials ; the hour arrived and all was ready, but Strathsay did not come.
They waited long, and still no bridegroom appeared. Messengers were sent to find him, but returned saying he had gone away at dawn and had not yet returned. Then Ruth’s heart died within her, feeling that some affliction was in store for her, and she waited, racked with apprehensions that almost drove her wild. But still he did not come.
One by one the friends departed, wondering, and she was left alone with old madam and the clergyman. They tried to comfort her, but their words went by her like the wind.
Hour after hour she paced the room with eye, ear and mind strained to the utmost. Still Strathsay did not come.
Old madam slept at last, the good man went away, and friendly neighbors ceased to question and condole. She was utterly alone, and the red fire-light which she thought would have shone upon a happy wife now glimmered faintly on a pale, anxious woman with dead flowers on her breast and bridal garments mocking her desolation, as she sat waiting for the coming sorrow.
Suddenly Strathsay’s step sounded in the hall, and, speechless with relief, she sprang to welcome him; but there was that in his face which drove her back. Haggard and wild it looked, as with white lips and eyes dilated with some secret horror, he stood gazing at her till she was cold with ominous dread.
She could not bear it long, and going to him, would have given him a tender greeting; but he shrank from her touch with averted head and hands outstretched to keep her off.
“Walter, what is it? Do not kill me with such looks—such dreadful silence! Tell me what has happened. I can bear anything but this!” she cried, clinging to him with a desperate hold.
A look of bitter pain swept over his face as his eyes met her imploring gaze. He held her close a moment, then put her from him with a shudder.
She sat where he placed her, without power to move or speak, while standing before her, with a countenance as hard and stern as rock, he said with an abrupt calmness, far more terrible than the wildest agitation:
“Ruth, last night I sat alone in this room after you left me; and while here a white figure with vacant eyes and pallid cheeks came gliding in and pausing there, it told a sad tale of deceit and wrong, of hidden sins and struggles, and confessed one crime which drove it like a restless ghost to betray its secrets when most fatal to its peace.”
“It was Laura come back from her tomb to wrong and rob me again,” cried Ruth, half unconscious of what she said as the old fear overwhelmed her anew.
“No, it was you, coming in your haunted sleep to tell the secret that is wearing your life away. It was awful to see you standing there with no light in your open eyes, no color in your expressionless face, and hear the tender words, meant to be spoken with repentant tears, uttered in unearthly tones by lips unconscious of their meaning, and then to see the self-accusing apparition glide away unmoved into the gloom, leaving such misery behind.”
“Forgive me!—you will, you must, for it was you who drove me to this. I loved you better than my own soul, and she came between us. I have been sorely tempted, but for your sake I resisted more than once. Did I not set you free when my whole heart was bound up in you? Did I not relinquish everything for you and have I not proved how strong my love is by these sacrifices for your sake? Do not reproach me that I unconsciously betrayed the struggles I have endured, nor chide me that I rejoiced when Laura died. She is dead, and nothing, but my feverish fancy would ever have doubted it.”
Strathsay’s calmness vanished as she rapidly poured out this appeal. The horror-stricken look returned to his eyes, and his voice sounded hoarsely through the silent room as he replied, with lips that whitened as he spoke:
“She is dead, thank God! but was not when they buried her. Ay, you may well fall on your knees and hide your guilty face, for you murdered her. Hear me, and cheat yourself with doubts no longer. Filled with alarm by your confession, and remembering the strange restlessness which has possessed you since her death, I went to-day to R——, where Laura lies. Alone I went into the tomb, but was brought out senseless; she had been buried alive! There was no doubt of it. She had turned in her coffin, and, too weak to break it, had perished miserably. May God forgive you, Ruth; I never can!”
“Oh! be merciful, Walter. I had suffered so much from her, I could not give you up. Be merciful, and do not cast me off when all the sin was for your dear sake,” she cried, overcoming in her despair the horror and remorse that froze her blood.
But Strathsay never heeded her, and his stern purpose never wavered. He tore himself away with an aspect of deeper despair than her own, saying, solemnly, as he passed from her sight for ever:
“God pardon us both; our sins have wrought out their own punishment, and we must never meet again.”