Books: The One Woman
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Thomas Dixon >> The One Woman
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Ruth buried her face in her hands, and he silently watched her.
"This one," he cried, with a tremor in his voice and a tightening
about his eyes, "you gave me the night I took you to that ball
at the Hygeia. How soft and delicate your hand felt as you placed
it in the lapel of my coat! I could see myself, as in a mirror,
in your great dark laughing eyes. I never saw that picture again,
Ruth, and the laughter went out of them forever. They were always
full of storm and shadows for me after that night."
Her lips were trembling as she turned these leaves from the story
of the sunlit days of her girlhood.
The man went on steadily and passionately. "I could show you
messages to-day from scores of national leaders offering me their
support for the Presidency. This token I am going to show you now
has no value to the world or at a bank, but there is not money
enough on this earth to buy it."
He drew from his pocketbook a little pink-covered tintype of a boy
and girl.
The tapering fingers shook as she held it.
"This is the one priceless treasure I own--this little old tintype
we had taken together in fun one day in the tent of the strolling
photograph man. You remember he guessed we were sweethearts, and
grouped us by the old rules he knew so well. You see, he placed me
solemnly in his single chair, with my legs crossed, and made you
stand close beside and put your beautiful hand with its slender
fingers on my shoulder. You laughed and took it down. He scowled,
and put it back, and told you to behave. It was your birthday. You
were just seventeen. I was not half as proud to-day, when those
thousands who love me shouted and hailed me as their chief, as
I was that moment with your dear soft hand on my shoulder. I have
felt it there every hour since. You see, I have kissed it until
I've worn your face almost away, but the smile is still there."
He took her hand gently.
"Ruth, dear, let me bring the smile back to your living face. These
great rooms will be empty and lonely. I wish to hear the patter of
your children's feet in them, and the echo of your soft footsteps
behind them. You are just thirty-five, in the full glory of perfect
womanhood, far more beautiful than this girl of seventeen. Promise
me that at the end of a year you will be mine, and let me make your
life as glorious to the world as the beauty of your soul and body
is to me--you, the forsaken, whom fools pity or blame."
Looking away through her tears, she gently withdrew her hand, bent
low and burst into sobs.
"No, no, no! I love him. He is my husband!"
CHAPTER XXVI
AT CLOSE QUARTERS
Ruth had been deeply shaken by the events of the inauguration.
She returned to New York in the Governor's private car in a dazed
stupor, from which she did not recover for several days.
Morris King's appeal had stirred elements of her character she had
long ignored or suppressed. The old pride of blood from races who
had been the conquerors and rulers of the world began to beat its
wings against the bars of love.
The special swept along the banks of the majestic Hudson, roaring
through cities where she saw crowded express trains held on the
side tracks for her to pass.
She drew herself up proudly, and a wave of fierce resentment against
the man who had deserted her came like a blast of icy wind from
the snow-tipped mountains beyond the western shore of the river.
The splendour of the stately mansion on the hill, the enthusiasm of
the people for her old lover, his tenderness and deathless loyalty,
and the memories that linked him to her in a cloudless girlhood,
began to draw her with terrible fascination.
There was something so old-fashioned and chival-rous about King
and his love, she felt a strange melting within her heart. This
element of romance she knew he had inherited from her own medieval,
home-loving South which she loved. It appealed to her now with
a peculiar force--this old-fashioned people and their ways, and
a sense of alienation and hostility to Gordon and his radicalism
swept once more the storm-clouds across her dark eyes.
She began to question her position and the sanity of her course. She
felt the stirrings of social instincts from the high-bred women of
old Virginia, the Mother of Presidents and the home of the great
constructive minds which had created the Republic. She knew instinctively
that she could preside over the White House at Washington with the
ease and distinction of the proudest woman who had ever graced it.
Her old lover seemed certain to be the nominee of his party, and
his chance of election was one in two. Whatever the outcome, he was
young and already a figure of national importance. He was sure to
play a greater role in the future than he had ever played in the
past.
The idea that she ruled his life and made him what he was, and might
be, brought a smile to her lips and the red blood to her cheeks.
His fame as a man of cold and selfish ambitions made her knowledge
of the secret of his inner life the more sacred and charming.
For two months this battle of pride and blood with the one great
passion silently raged in her soul, until she became afraid to hear
the ring of her doorbell lest it should be the Governor.
She determined to go to Florida for two weeks on a visit to an old
schoolmate in Tampa. There, amid the sunshine and the soft breezes
from the gulf, she hoped to see her life and duty in clearer outline.
It was the first week in March which found her seated in the centre
of a Pullman car of the Florida Limited of the Atlantic Coast Line.
The train had passed Richmond and was sweeping through the desolate
broom-sedge fields still furrowed by those mortal trenches around
Petersburg.
Her father had been killed in one of those trenches, a gallant
colonel cheering a ragged handful of half-starved men in gray,
unmindful of the order of retreat until engulfed by the grand army
that swept over them like a tidal wave.
She took the children into the dining-car and found every table
full except one, and two seats at that one already reserved. Lucy
was placed next to the window, Frank next to the aisle, and the
mother crowded between them with an arm encircling each.
She had given the order to the waiter, and was pointing out to Lucy
the lines of the battle-field on which her father had died.
"There, dear, it is," she said, with a tremor in her voice, pointing
to an angle in the trench on the crest of a ridge. "There is where
grandfather was killed."
While Lucy looked and Frank climbed into her lap and was peering
out the window, the conductor placed a beautiful woman and tall,
distinguished-looking man in the reserved seats at the same table,
opposite.
The boy turned, still on his knees, in his mother's lap, and faced
the newcomers, whom Ruth had not been able to see for the child's
movements.
He stared for a moment at the man with wide-dilated eyes, his body
suddenly stiffened, and with a half sob, half cry, he sprang to
the floor.
"Look! Mama, dear--look! It's Papa!"
He threw himself on Gordon, and his little arms held his neck
convulsively.
The man blushed like a girl as his great trembling fingers smoothed
the boy's hair.
Kate's face was scarlet, Ruth turned pink and white, and Lucy,
trembling and sobbing, began to scramble across her mother's lap.
The boy's hands tenderly framed his father's crimson cheeks, he
kissed him, and again and again his arms clung in passionate clasp
about his neck.
"Oh, Papa, we've got you at last! Why didn't you come? We've been
praying, Lucy and me, every night for you, and we thought you'd
never come back. Mama said you'd gone a long, long way--"
Ruth was choking with emotion, and yet she smiled through her
tears. She knew those tiny hands were deep down in the man's soul
sweeping his heart-strings with wild, sweet music.
The brunette looked across the table into the trembling face of
the fair one. The dark eyes were now tranquil, whatever the storm
within. A faint sinile suffused her face with mantling blushes.
Lucy pulled the boy's arms from around her father's neck and
slipped her own softer, slender ones there. She kissed him, and
laid her brown curls on his breast. Her little hands patted his
broad shoulder, and she murmured:
"Papa, dear, I love you!"
Kate attempted to rise, bit her lip, and fairly hissed in Gordon's
ear:
"End this scene! Find another table!"
Gordon drew Lucy's arm from his neck and whispered:
"They are all filled, my dear."
The blue eyes blazed with fury as she cried under her breath:
"Get up and let me out!"
Gordon gently drew the children's arms away, placed them back in
their seats, rose, still blushing, and accompanied Kate back into
their car.
At first the boy was too astonished to speak or protest. When he
found his voice he whispered in wonder:
"Mama, who is she?"
Ruth placed a finger on her trembling lips and shook her head.
"Will she let him come back?" he asked, anxiously.
"Hush, dear," the mother said, softly.
The boy put his arms on the table and burst into tears.
Lucy sat very quiet, glancing into her mother's face wistfully. And
then she felt under the table, found one of her hands and began to
stroke it gently.
When Gordon returned to his car, immediately behind the one in
which Ruth was riding, Kate sat for half an hour in furious silence,
refusing to speak or answer a question. He had never seen her so
beside herself with anger.
She turned on him in a sudden flash and asked with frowning emphasis:
"I wonder why you dragged me off on this idiotic trip?"
"I was worn out and needed the rest," he answered, quietly.
She looked at him with defiance.
"I don't believe a word of it," she said, indignantly. "You wish
to get me out of New York. You were too much of a coward to tell
Overman your suspicions that he was trying to win your wife."
Gordon looked out of the window in silence.
"We will stop at the next station and go back. I don't care for
any more free vaudeville shows in the dining-car."
"Don't be absurd, my dear; you need not meet again."
Gordon smiled in spite of himself.
Tears of vexation filled the violet eyes. "For all of your loud
talk of freedom, I believe you still love that first wife of yours!
And I am beginning to despise you."
"Come, Kate, this is too absurd. How could I help the accident of
such a meeting? I had not seen the children since our separation.
She has always taught them to love me. How could I prevent it if
I wished?"
"Yes; and you love her, too," she insisted stubbornly, and the full
red lips trembled and parted, and then softened into a--smile.
"But don't flatter yourself I care, or am jealous, because this
scene has humiliated and angered me. You're not worth a moment's
jealousy, you great hulking baby!"
Gordon pressed the button and ordered a lunch served in their seat,
and smilingly refused to continue the quarrel.
When the train crossed the North Carolina line it ran into the
belt of the advancing spring rains from the South. At Wilson, it
was pouring in torrents and had been raining steadily for two days.
At Fayetteville, the train was an hour late, delayed by a washout.
Lucy had gone to sleep with her arm around her mother's neck and
one hand resting softly on her cheek. Ruth's heart had been deeply
touched by this gentle and silent sympathy of the dawning sex
consciousness of her daughter's soul. The quick little eyes had
seen the tragedy, and a voice within whispered its soft words of
new, mysterious kinship.
Soon after the train pulled out of Fayetteville it struck the
long, straight run of the South Carolina low country. For thirty
miles the track is as straight as an arrow, and before the gleaming
headlight of the engine shows on the track the watchers at the
stations can see the trembling light in the distant sky beyond the
sixteen-mile line of the horizon.
The dark eyes were dozing in fitful sleep with the old spell of love
once more enveloping the soul. She was dreaming of him, laughing
at some boyish prank.
Over the straight track, down grade, the Limited was sweeping at
full speed through the black storm.
Suddenly Ruth was awakened by a sickening crash as though the earth
had collided with a star and been crushed as an egg-shell. The car
seemed to leap a hundred feet into the air, plunge through space,
and strike the ground with a dull smash that sent dust and splinters
flying through every inch of space.
She instinctively seized the children, trembling and dazed, and
hugged them close. Merciful God, would it never stop! Now the car
was plowing through the earth--now falling end over end, straining,
grinding, roaring, smashing into death and eternity!
At last--it had seemed an hour--it stopped with a shivering crash.
And then the blackness of night, the swash of gusts of rain overhead,
and the moan of the wind. Not another sound. Not a groan or a cry
or a human voice.
Was she dead or alive? Ruth felt she must scream this awful question
or faint. The children began to sob and she gasped in gratitude:
"Thank God, they are not dead!"
She attempted to get out of her berth and found she must climb. The
car was lying on its side. She looked out into the aisle through
her curtains and everything was dark. The air choked her with
dust, and she caught the odour of burning wool. Deep down below
somewhere she could hear, in the lull of the wind, the roar of
waters, and feel the car sway as though it were hanging on the edge
of an embankment or trestle and about to topple into a torrent.
She pulled the children out into the aisle and tried to crawl toward
the end of the car, only to find it crushed into a shapeless mass
and the way piled with debris.
A light suddenly flashed up and the steady crackle of flames began.
From the debris below came the scream of a woman for help.
She drew back her slender fist and tried to smash the double plate
glass windows and only bruised her tapering fingers.
She found a step-ladder and broke the windows out.
Lifting herself on the seat, and peering through, she saw by the
glare of the buring wreck the swirling waters of the river twenty
feet below.
She rushed back to her berth, on the lower side, smashed the windows,
and found the car resting on another sleeper. The blow had broken
through both sets of windows.
She lightly sprang through and drew the children after her. A stifled
groan, as from one straining the last muscle in some desperate
effort, came from a berth. Rushing forward, still dragging the
children, she found Kate pinned on her back, with the flames leaping
closer each moment.
The violet eyes turned pitifully on Ruth, staring wide with the set
agony of speechless fear and searched her face for the verdict of
life.
A faint cry came from the full lips, white at the thought of death:
"Help me, for God's sake; I'll be burning in a moment!"
Did the dark eyes waver with an instant's hesitation as she thought
of her children imperiled by the delay and of the shame this woman's
life meant to her? If so, she who cried did not see it. Swiftly
the lithe form sprang to the rescue. She ran her hands over Kate's
magnificent figure and tore her robe loose where it was pinioned
between the timbers, loosed the wealth of auburn hair caught in
the snap of the folding rack of the berth, and she was free.
She took Ruth's hand and kissed it impulsively.
"Thank you. You are an angel."
"Come, we will be burned to death if we don't get out of here in
a minute," Ruth cried, excitedly.
She found the berth ladder she had thrown through the window and
broke the windows out on the lower side of the car, and called:
"Is any one down there?"
Only the roar of the water and crackling flames answered.
She looked and saw a strip of ground on the bank of the river some
eight feet below. They might slide down the trestle if no one could
help.
The black eyes flashed into the blue for a moment and the little
brunette face went white.
"Where is Frank?" she gasped.
Kate shivered and glanced at the flames.
"I don't know. He was in the berth in front of mine. I hope he is
gone for help."
Ruth handed her the children and leaped back to the berth. It was
smashed upward and a great hole torn through the roof.
She hurried back and again peered down through the broken window at
the narrow strip of ground on the river's brink lit by the rising
flames.
And then she gave a cry of joy at the sound of a voice somewhere
amid the mass beneath,
"Ruth! Ruth! Is that you and the children in that car?"
"Yes, Frank," came back the steady answer.
"Are you hurt?" he cried, with breathless intensity.
"I think not," she replied, cheerfully.
"Thank God!" she heard his deep voice burst out with trembling
fervour.
"Have you seen Kate?" he called.
"Yes; she is here."
"Come, get out of there quick. You will be burned to death!" he
shouted. "Hand the children to me and then swing down--I can catch
you, one at a time."
She held the boy's hands and dropped him in his father's arms,
then swung Lucy through and saw her clasp his neck and kiss him.
She helped Kate hold and swing down into his arms. And when she
felt him tremble at the touch of her own petite figure her arms
tightened about his neck, she kissed him and whispered:
"My own dear love!"
They climbed up the river bank and walked around in the pouring
rain, barefoot and treading on broken glass at every step.
Neither the conductor of the train or Pullman cars were anywhere
to be seen. Only one porter appeared to have survived, and he sat
moaning on a piece of debris.
The great engine, like a huge living monster that had seen with
its single eye the abyss of the broken bridge in time, had leaped
the chasm and gone plunging and faring over the ties and rails a
half mile beyond the wreck, with the engineer and fireman clinging
to it.
The lighter portion of the train had struck the embankment of the
narrow river. The day cars were piled across the track beyond; the
threes Pullmans, smashed and heaped on top of one another, hung on
the edge of the broken bridge.
Gordon, with the two women and children, finally found a man who
had some sense--a fat drummer seated on his sample-cases calmly
putting on his shoes by the light of the burning cars.
He was talking to a younger drummer sitting near, who fidgeted and
kept looking about nervously.
"Take it easy, sonny. Put on your shoes," he said, soothingly.
"This is awful!" the young one sighed.
"Well, we're all right, top side up, marked 'with care.' Don't
worry. Put on your shoes. You can't walk in this glass barefoot."
When he saw Gordon and his party he stopped tying his shoes and
laughed.
"Well, partner, you look like a patriarch who's lost his way. Ain't
none of your family got shoes?"
He looked at Gordon's bleeding feet and at Kate and Ruth shivering
behind him in the rain.
Gordon smiled and shook his head.
The fat man hastily pulled off his own shoes, snatched off those
of the younger man beside him and offered them to the ladies.
"They won't be what you might call a stylish fit, madam," he said
gallantly to Ruth, "but they'll beat broken glass for comfort."
Paying no attention to their protests, he made them sit down on
the sample-cases and put them on.
Turning to Gordon and his companion, he called cheerfully:
"Come, men, that Pullman's full of blankets; we must get them out
for the women and children before it's too late. It's too dark to
find our umbrellas. I believe that fool conductor's got mine anyhow
and gone home with it. I haven't seen him anywhere."
In a few minutes, he had blankets for all the passengers who had
lost their clothes. By daybreak he had found the conductor, counted
his tickets, and discovered that out of fifty passengers on the train
twenty had been wounded, none fatally, and that thirty had escaped
without a scratch. The train had dropped most of its passengers
during the day and had only an average of ten people to a coach,
and they were seated and sleeping near the centres of each car. By
what seemed a miracle, none were killed.
Just as the sun rose, the drummer formed the passengers in line,
with the conductor bringing up the rear, and marched them to a
cabin where he saw smoke curling up from the edge of a field.
The relief train from Florence, four miles away, arrived at eight,
just four hours from the time the accident occurred, bringing the
surgeons and new officers to take charge, and the drummer resigned
his command.
The new conductor took the name and address of each passenger as
they sat in grim array swathed in blankets in the cabin.
Gordon gave the name of "Mr. and Mrs. Frank Gordon, New York," for
himself and Kate, who sat beside him. Ruth, not hearing him, with
an absent look gave the address, "Mrs. Frank Gordon, New York."
The conductor looked from one to the other, puzzled, and the drummer
grinned.
"A Mormon Elder, by the Lord--and he lives in Gotham!" he whispered
to the youngster he had in tow.
Lucy lay in her mother's lap suffering from an ugly gash across
her forehead. Gordon had bathed her forehead as soon as he had
discovered it, and carried her to the cabin, with her soft arms
clinging around his neck.
He was watching her lips twitch.
She had grown in the three years out of all resemblance to the child
he had left. Her eyes now looked at him with the timid light of a
maiden.
As she had clung to him while he carried her to the house, he had
felt her lips soft and warm with the dawn of sex when she kissed
him and murmured:
"Papa, dear, it's so good to have you carry me. I love you."
For the first time there came into his soul the sweet and terrible
realisation that his own flesh and blood had become one with Ruth's
in the greatest miracle of earth, the heart of a woman--a woman
who could live and suffer and whose heart could break even as her
mother's! Her eyes were all his, her hair a perfect mixture of the
pigments with which theirs had been coloured. The strength of the
man trembled with tender pride and wonder as he looked at her--his
living marriage vow, written out before his eyes in a beautiful
poem of flesh and blood. In the gentle beauty of her face he saw
reflected himself blended with the young vision of Ruth as he had
first met her a laughing girl--the little stranger a growing woman,
himself and his first love dream in one. Her face held him fascinated.
Kate watched him furtively.
The doctor examined and dressed Lucy's wound, and told Ruth it must
be sewed up at once if the child were saved from an ugly scar that
would disfigure her for life. He pronounced the heart action too
weak from the shock to use an anesthetic.
"It can only be done, madam," he gravely said to her, "if you can
get her consent to endure the pain."
"Will you bear it, dear?" the mother asked.
She raised herself up and beckoned to her father.
Gordon had heard the doctor's remark, came at once and bent over
her.
"I can if Papa will hold me in his arms and you take one hand and
he the other," she said, eagerly.
Gordon took her and told the surgeon to take the stitches without
delay.
The first one she bore bravely. But when the steel needle cut the
flesh the second time, and the sharp pain sent its chill to her
heart, the little face went white and she gasped:
"Kiss me, Papa--Mama, quick--"
They both bent at once, and the blond locks of the man mingled with
the dark hair of the woman as their lips touched her face.
The doctor paused, and Lucy smiled faintly.
"I'm better now. I can stand it."
Gordon felt a strange thrill to the last depths of his soul as he
sat there holding one of his daughter's hands while Ruth held the
other. A sense of mysterious unity with their life came over him.
The little woman saw his emotion and knew its meaning.
She bent close and, while a smile played around her eyes, whispered
softly and triumphantly:
"Frank, I'd go through another wreck for this."
And the man was silent.
At Florence, clothes were brought to the train, and those who had
none were rigged out after a fashion for the return home.
Not a passenger on the train wished to continue his journey except
the fat drummer. He went on to the next station where he had intended
to stop, as though nothing worth talking about had happened, and
sold a bill of goods before dinner.
Ruth and the children returned to New York on the first train, and
Gordon and Kate followed on the next.
Kate had scarcely spoken a word since he had lifted her from the
wreck. She was in a deep reverie, but from the occasional gleam
of her eyes Gordon knew she was passing through some great crisis.
He wondered what the effects of this hour face to face with death
would be on her character.
He was amazed at the changes in Ruth since he had last seen her.
She had blossomed into the perfect beauty of womanhood. Not a trace
of anxiety was left on her face. Her great dark eyes were calm
and soft. Her lips were fuller, and her complexion white and pink,
wreathed in its raven hair. Her figure was now the perfection of the
petite Spanish type, in full, voluptuous lines, yet erect, lithe,
with small hands and feet and tiny wrists, her whole being breathing
a spiritual charm. Grace, delicacy, and distinction were in every
movement of her body, and over it all, an unconscious and winning
dignity.
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