Books: The One Woman
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Thomas Dixon >> The One Woman
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Her voice broke, and he looked away.
"I will tell them that you have gone on a long journey into a strange
country, and that you will come back again because you love them."
He stirred uneasily in his chair, crossed his legs and frowned.
"And I wish you to leave me to-day with the certainty--you can
read it in my eyes, if you doubt my lips--that I will love you to
the end, though you kill me. You can go on no journey so long, in
no world so strange, that I shall not follow. My soul will envelop
you. For better, for worse, through evil report and good report,
I am yours."
Again a convulsive sob shook her, and she was silent.
Gordon felt an almost resistless impulse to take her in his arms
and kiss and soothe her.
Through her tears she smiled at him.
"How beautiful you are, my dear! You will not forget that I love you?
The spring, the summer, the autumn, the winter will only bring to
me messages from our past. The way will be lonely, but the memory of
the touch of your hand, our hours of perfect peace and trustfulness,
the sweetness of your kisses on my lips, the living pictures of
your face in our children, I will cherish."
He stooped to kiss her as he left, but she drew back trembling.
"No, Frank, not while your lips are warm with the touch of another
and your flesh on fire with desire for her. It will be sweet to
remember that you wished it--for I know, what you do not, that deep
down in your soul of souls you love me. I will abide God's time."
He left her with a smile playing around her sensitive mouth and
lighting the shadows of her great dark eyes.
CHAPTER XVII
THE THOUGHT THAT SWEEPS THE CENTURY
On the Saturday following Gordon's drama with Kate and his wife,
his dream of secrecy was rudely shattered. Van Meter's ferret eyes,
by the aid of his detectives, had fathomed the mystery of Kate
Ransom's appearance in the study and her more mysterious disappearance.
They found that Gordon had separated from his wife, after a terrific
scene; that he was a daily visitor to the Ransom house; and that
his great patron was none other than the young mistress of the
Gramercy Park mansion.
All day long he was beseiged by reporters. Ruth was compelled to
hire a man to stand on the doorstep to keep them out. The Ransom
house was barred, but Gordon could not escape.
He saw at once that they knew so much it was useless to make denials,
and he prepared a statement for the press, giving the facts and his
plans for the future in a ringing address. He submitted it to Kate
for her approval, and at three o'clock gave it out for publication.
Their love secret had not been fathomed, but it had been guessed.
He feared the reports would be so written that it would be read
between the lines and a great deal more implied.
His revolutionary views on marriage and divorce and the fact that
he was from Indiana, a state that had granted the year before nearly
five thousand divorces, one for every five marriages celebrated,--were
made the subject of special treatment by one paper. They submitted
to him proofs of a six-column article on the subject, and asked
for his comments. He was compelled to either deny or repeat his
utterances advocating freedom of divorce, and finally was badgered
into admitting that this feature was one of the fundamental tenets
of Socialism.
He was not ready for the full public avowal of this principle,
but he was driven to the wall and was forced to own it or lie. He
boldly gave his position, and declared that marriage was a fetish, and
that its basis on a union for life without regard to the feelings
of the parties was a fountain of corruption, and was the source of
the monopolistic instincts that now cursed the human race.
"Yes, and you can say," he cried, "that I propose to lead a crusade
for the emancipation of women from the degradation of its slavery.
Love bound by chains is not love. Love can only be a reality in
Freedom and Fellowship."
This single sentence had changed the colouring of the whole story
as it appeared in the press on Sunday morning, and was the key to
the tremendous sensation it produced.
The next day long before the hour of service the street in front
of the Pilgrim Church was packed with a dense crowd.
The police could scarcely clear the way for the members' entrance.
Within ten minutes from the time the large doors were opened every
seat was filled and hundreds stood on the pavements outside, waiting
developments, unable to gain admission.
So many statements had been made, and so many vicious insinuations
hinted, Gordon was compelled to lay aside his sermon and devote
the entire hour to a defense of his position.
The crowd listened in breathless stillness, but he knew from the
first he had lost their sympathies and that he was on trial. Unable
to tell the whole truth, his address was as lame and ineffective
as his outburst the Sunday before had been resistless. When he
dismissed the crowd he noticed that some of his warmest friends
were crying.
As he came down from the pulpit, Ludlow took him by the hand and,
with trembling voice, said:
"Pastor, you know how I love you?"
What he did not say was more eloquent than a thousand words, and
it cut Gordon to his inmost soul. He knew his failure had been
pathetic, and that his enemies were laughing over the certainty of
his ruin.
It angered him for a moment as he looked over the silent crowd
filing out of his presence and out of his life.
He cursed their stolid conservatism.
"The average man does not aspire to liberty of thought," he mused
with bitterness, "but slavery of thought. The mob must have its
fixed formulas easy to read, requiring no thought. Well, let them
go."
Suddenly a confused murmur, with loud voices mingled, came through
the doors of the vestibules. The exits were blocked, and the moving
crowd halted and recoiled on itself as if hurled back by the charge
of an opposing army, and a cheer echoed over their heads.
The people inside, who had been halted, stretched their necks to
see over the heads of those in front, crying:
"What is it?"
"What's the matter?"
"It sounds like a riot," some one answered near doors.
Gordon wedged himself through the mass that had been thrown back
on the advancing stream and reached the doorway. He was astonished
to find packed in the street more than five thousand men, evidently
working-men and Socialists. They had been quick to recognise his
position in the vigorous statement he had given to the press.
When Gordon's giant figure appeared between the two opposing forces
a wild cheer rent the air.
A Socialist leaped on the steps beside him and, lifting his hat
above his head, cried:
"Now again, men, three times three for a dauntless leader, a free
man in the image of God, who dares to think and speak the truth!"
Three times the storm rolled over the sea of faces, and every hat
was in the air.
Gordon lifted his big hand and the tumult hushed.
"My friends, I thank you for this mark of your fellowship. At the
old Grand Opera House, next Sunday morning, the seats will be yours.
You will get a comrade's welcome. I will have something to say to
you that may be worth your while to hear."
The crowd, who had never seen or heard him, were impressed by his
magnificent presence and his trumpet voice. They liked its clear
ringing tones and its consciousness of power.
The unexpected demonstration restored his self-respect and blotted
out the aching sense of failure.
His few words were greeted with tumultuous applause, renewed again
and again. The air was charged with the electric thrill of their
enthusiasm.
Gordon looked over the seething mass of excited men with exultant
response.
He flushed and his big fists involuntarily closed. He had felt in
his face the breath of the spirit that is driving the century before
it.
CHAPTER XVIII
A VOICE FROM THE PAST
From a college town in Indiana the aged father, William Gordon,
Professor Emeritus of History and Belles Lettres, hurried to New
York to see his son.
When he read the Sunday morning papers, which reached him about
three o'clock, he pooh-poohed the wild reports the Associated Press
had sent out from New York announcing the separation from Ruth and
linking his son's name in vulgar insinuations with another woman.
He hastened to find the telegraph operator, and got him to open
the office. He sent a long telegram to Frank, urging on him the
importance of correcting these slanderous reports immediately.
He walked about the town to see his friends and explain to them.
"It's all a base slander," he said, drawing himself up proudly. "My
son's success has been so phenomenal, he has made bitter enemies.
The press has published these lies out of malice. His popularity
is the cause of it. I have wired him. He will correct it immediately."
But when he failed to receive a denial, and the Monday's press
confirmed the facts with embellishments, he quietly left home and
hastened to New York.
He was a man of striking personality, a little taller than his
distinguished son, six feet four and a half inches in height. Now,
in his eighty-fifth year, he still walked with quick, nervous step,
and held himself erect with military bearing. His face was smooth
and ruddy, and his voice, in contrast with his enormous body, was
keen and penetrating. When he rose in a church assembly his commanding
figure, with its high nervous voice, caught every eye and ear and
held them to the last word.
He was the most popular man that had ever occupied a chair in the
faculty of Wabash College. He taught his classes regularly until
he was eighty years old, and when he quit his active work he was
still the youngest man in spirit in the institution. He read with
avidity every new book on serious themes, and he was not only the
best read man in the college town--he was the best informed man
on history and philosophy in the state, if not in the entire West.
He had the gift of sympathy with the mind of youth that fascinated
every boy who came in contact with him. His genial and beautiful
manners, his high sense of honour, the knightly deference he paid
his students, his enthusiasm in the pursuit of knowledge, his
quenchless thirst for truth, were to them a source of boundless
admiration and loyalty.
The one supreme passion of his age was love for his handsome son
and pride in his achievements. He had married late in life, and
Frank's mother had died in giving him birth. The tragedy had crushed
him for a year and he went abroad, leaving the child with a nurse.
But on his return he gave to the laughing baby, with the blond
curling hair of his mother, all the tenderness of his love for the
dead, and his sorrow tinged his whole after life with sweetness
and romance.
The only evidence of advancing age was his absentmindedness from
boylike brooding over the days of his courtship and marriage and
his day dreams about his long-lost love. He recognised it at once
and laid down his class work.
Gordon met him at the Grand Central Depot with keenest dread and
embarrassment. Hurrying out of the crowd, they boarded a downtown
car on Fourth Avenue.
The old man glanced uneasily about and said:
"Son, isn't this car going down the avenue?"
"Yes, father. We are going to my hotel."
"Hotel? I don't want to go to a hotel. I want to go to your house.
I want to see Ruth and the children at once."
"We'll go to my study at the church first, then, and I'll explain
to you."
The old man's brow wrinkled, and he pressed his lips tightly together
to keep them from trembling.
Gordon was glad he had not yet given orders for the removal of his
study, and when they entered he drew the lid of his roll-top desk
down quickly, that his father might not see Kate's picture where
he had once seen Ruth's.
"Of course, my boy," the old man began, "I know there is some
terrible mistake about this. I told my friends so at the College.
But I couldn't wait for a letter, and I couldn't somehow understand
your telegram. I'm getting a little old now, so I hurried on to
see you. I'm sure if you and Ruth have quarreled you can make up
and begin over again. Lovers' quarrels are not so serious."
"No, father, our separation is final."
The old man raised his hand in protest.
"Nonsense, boy, you have an iron will and Ruth a fiery temper, but
a more lovable and beautiful spirit was never born than your wife.
I was so proud of her when you brought her home! Of all the women
in the world, I felt she was The One Woman God had meant for the
mother of your children. In every way, mentally and physically, she
is your complement and mate. Your differences only make the needed
contrast for perfect happiness."
"But we have drifted hopelessly apart, father,"
"My son, the man and woman whom God hath made one in the beat of
a child's heart cannot get hopelessly apart. It's a physical and
moral impossibility. Do you mean to tell me that if your mother
had lived after your birth, and we had bowed together over your
cradle, height or depth, things past, present or to come, or any
other creature, could have torn us asunder? You must make up this
foolish quarrel. You must be patient with her little jealousies.
It's natural she should feel them when you are the centre of so
many flattering eyes."
Gordon saw it was useless to avoid the heart of the difficulty.
So with all the earnestness and eloquence he could command he told
his father the history of Kate Ransom's work in the church, the
growth of their love, the drifting apart from Ruth, and the final
dramatic climax of the day that she gave the money to build the
Temple.
The old man with fine courtesy listened attentively, now and then
brushing away a tear, and sighing.
"And so, father," he concluded, "a divorce is the only possible
end of it all."
"And what has Ruth to say?" he asked, pathetically.
"She has accepted the situation, and at my request will bring the
suit."
"And you will marry this other woman while Ruth lives?"
"Yes, father, and our union will be a prophecy of a redeemed society
in which love, fellowship, Comradeship and brotherhood shall become
the laws of life."
The old man's brow wrinkled in pain.
"But the family at which you aim this blow, my son, is the basis
of all law, state, national, and international. It is the unit
of society, the basis of civilisation itself. To destroy it is to
return to the beast of the field."
"It must be modified in the evolution of human freedom, father."
"But, my son, it is the law of the Lord, and the law of the Lord is
perfect!" the old man cried, with his voice quivering with anguish
and yet in it the triumphant ring of the prophet and seer.
"Yes, father, your view of the law," the younger man quietly
answered.
"My boy, since man has written the story of his life, saint and
seer, statesman and chieftain, philosopher and poet have all agreed
on this. There can be nothing more certain than that my view is
true."
"Just as men have agreed on delusions and traditions in theology,
but you now see as clearly as I how foolish many of these things
are."
"But, my son, new theology or old theology, Bible or no Bible,
Heaven or no Heaven, Hell or no Hell, God or no God, it is right to
do right!" Again his high nervous voice rang like a silver trumpet.
"I am trying to do right."
"Yet greater wrong than this can no man do on earth--lead, captivate
the soul and body of a gracious and innocent girl, teach her the
miracle of love in motherhood, and then desert her for a fairer
and younger face."
"But, father, I cannot live a lie."
"Then you will cherish, honour, love and protect your wife until
death; and the old marriage ceremony read, 'until death us depart.'
Your vow is eternal and goes beyond the physical incident of death
itself."
"Yet how can I control the beat of my heart? We must go back to
the reality of Nature and her eternal laws, in spite of illusions
and theories," maintained the younger man.
"Ah, my boy, these things you call illusions I call the great
faiths of our fathers, the revelation of God. Call them what you
will, even if we say they are illusions, they are blessed illusions.
They are the steel bars behind which we have caged the crouching,
blind and silent forces of nature, fierce, savage and cruel as
death."
His voice sank to a whisper, he leaned over and placed his trembling
hand on Gordon's arm and added:
"I once felt the impulse to kill a man. It was natural, elemental
and all but overpowering. Remember that civilisation itself is
impossible without tradition. I know that progress is made only
by its modification in growth. But growth is not destruction, and
progress is never backward to beast or savage. Marriage is not a
mere convention between a man and a woman, subject to the whim of
either party. It is a divine social ordinance on which the structure
of human civilisation has been reared. It cannot be broken without
two people's consent and the consent of society, and then only for
great causes which have destroyed its meaning."
"But I have begun to question, father, whether our civilisation is
civilised and worth preserving?"
"And would you civilise it by giving free rein to impulses of nature
that are subconscious, that lead direct to the reign of lust and
murder? Is not man more than brute? Has he not a soul? Is the spirit
a delusion? Ah, my boy, do you doubt my love?"
"I know that you love me."
"Yes, with a love you cannot understand. You can touch no depths to
which I will not follow with that love. But I'd rather a thousand
times see you cold in death than hear from your lips the awful
words you have spoken in this room here this morning with the face
of Jesus looking down upon us from your walls."
He seemed to sink into a stupor for several moments, and was silent
as he gazed into the glowing grate.
At length he said:
"You must take me to your house. I will spend a few days with Ruth
and the children."
Gordon could not face the meeting between his father and Ruth. He
accompanied him to the door and gently bade him good-by, promising
to call the next day.
A singularly beautiful love the old man had bestowed on Ruth, and
she on him; for he was resistless to all the young. When he kissed
her as Frank's bride he seemed to have first fully recovered his
spirits from the shadows of his own tragedy. In her great soft
eyes with the lashes mirrored in their depths, her dimpled chin
and sensitive mouth, her refined and timid nature, the grace and
delicacy of her footsteps, he saw come back into life his own lost
love. Above all, he was fascinated by her spiritual charm, haunting
and vivid. He had never tired of boasting of his son's charming
little wife, and he loved her with a devotion as deep as that he
gave his own flesh and blood.
When she entered the room, in spite of his efforts at control,
he burst into tears as he kissed her tenderly and slipped his arm
softly around her.
"Ruth, my sweet daughter!" he sobbed.
"Father, dear!"
"You must cheer up, my little one; I've come to help you."
"You must not take it so hard, father. It will all come out for
the best. God is not dead; He will not forget me. I'm a tiny mite
in body, but you know I've a valiant soul. You must cheer up."
She led him gently to a seat.
"I'll bring the children now; they'll be wild with joy when I tell
them grandfather is here."
But at the sight of the children the old man broke completely down
and sat with his great head sunk on his breast.
He drew Ruth down and whispered:
"Take them away, dear. It's too much. I--can't see them now."
When she returned from the nursery, he said:
"Come, Ruth, sit beside me and tell me about it, and I'll see my
way clearer how to help you."
She drew a stool beside his chair, leaned her head against his
knee, took one of his hands in hers, and, while his other stroked
her raven hair, she gently and without reproach told him all.
When she had finished, his eyes were heavy with grief beyond the
power of tears.
"And my boy told you to--take--this--money, Ruth?" he slowly and
sorrowfully asked.
"Yes, father."
"Do you know an honest lawyer, dear?"
"Yes; an old friend of mine, Morris King."
"Call him over your telephone immediately, and take me to your
desk. My fortune is not large, as the world reckons wealth--perhaps
fifty thousand dollars carefully saved during the past thirty years
of frugal living. It shall be yours, my dear."
"But, father, you must not take it from yourself in your age!"
"Are you not my beloved daughter? And do not your babies call me
grandfather? It's such a poor little thing I can do. I've enough in
bank to last me to the journey's end, and I'll stay near to watch
over you. I can have no other home now."
The lawyer came within an hour, and the will was duly witnessed.
He handed it to Ruth and she kissed and thanked him.
He wandered about the house in a helpless sort of way for half an
hour, sighing. His great shoulders for the first time in his long
life lost their military bearing and drooped heavily.
Ruth watched him pace slowly back and forth with his hands folded
behind him, his head sunk in a stupor of dull pain, wondering what
she could do or say to cheer him, when he suddenly stopped and sank
into a heap on the floor.
The doctor came and shook his head.
"He may regain consciousness, Mrs. Gordon, but he cannot live."
Ruth called the hotel and summoned Frank. He was out and did not
get the message until five o'clock. When he reached the house, she
was by the bedside. The old man was holding her hand and talking
in a half-delirious way to his friends, explaining to them how
impossible that these wild reports could be true about his son.
Soon after Gordon came he regained consciousness. Taking him by
the hand he said:
"Well, my boy, my work is done. I have fought a good fight. I have
kept the faith. I love you always. You will not forget--right or
wrong, you are my heart's blood and your mother's, dearer to me than
life. When I go from this lump of clay, if you will open my breast
you will find an old man's broken heart, and across the rent your
name will be written in the ragged edges. How handsome you are
to-night! How fair a lad you were! Such face and form and high-strung
soul, the heart of an ancient knight come back to earth, I used to
boast! God's grace is wonderful, His ways past finding out. When
we seem forsaken, He is but preparing larger blessings on some
grander plan whose end we do not see. He is my shepherd; I shall
not want. He leadeth me--I rest in Him."
As the twilight wrapped the great city in its gray shadows, slowly
deepening into night, he fell asleep.
CHAPTER XIX
THE WEDDING OF THE ANNUNCIATION
At the end of a year from the death of Gordon's father the divorce
was granted, and Ruth elected to retain her married name.
The Temple of Man was rapidly rising. The building fronted three
hundred feet on each cross street. Its great steel-ribbed dome,
modeled on the capitol at Washington, was slowly climbing into the
sky from the centre to dominate the architecture of the Metropolitan
district.
The success of Gordon's meetings in the old Grand Opera House had
been enormous. Its four thousand seats were filled and every inch
of standing-room the police would allow. The religious element
in Socialism had found in him its high priest. His eloquence, his
magnetism, his daring, his aggressive and radical instinct for
leadership made him at once their idol.
The prestige given him by the rapid building of his magnificent
Temple in the heart of the wealth and splendour of the Metropolis,
and the crush for admission by strangers who had read of him and
his work, were adding daily to his power.
His bold avowal of love for Kate Ransom, and his determination to
win and marry her by a new ceremony of "announcement," which should
challenge the forms of civilisation, had stilled the tongue of
gossip and made him the hero of the sentimental.
At the same time it had made him the object of bitter attack by the
conservative forces of society, and the violence of these attacks
daily added importance to his every act.
His triumphant appeal to the masses against the classes was making
him a master spirit of the modern mob that has humbled king,
emperor and pope, at whose breath statesmen tremble, and at whose
feet coward and sycophant of every cult cringe and fawn.
With fierce enthusiasm he proclaimed, "Now is Eternity. To reach
Heaven we must build a new earth, and lo! we are in Heaven."
The response from sullen working-men who had hitherto held aloof
from Socialism and its leaders was remarkable. With the fiery zeal
of the pioneer of a religious movement he preached in season and
out of season his new faith, and proselyted with success even among
those who scoffed.
He gave a new emphasis to the dogma of the Immanence of God, the
charming Pantheism of which appealed to the childlike minds of the
people. With mystic fervour he proclaimed the unity of life, and in
all and over all and working through all--God! In bud and flower,
in sun and storm, in dewdrop and star, in man and beast, in soul
and body, the divine everywhere. As never before he glorified the
body and its beauty as the incarnation of God, His veritable image.
The advent of every child he hailed as great a miracle as the birth
of the Babe of Bethlehem.
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