All of Ruth's life had been spent in contact with the abnormal, the ultraradical. The tradition which time had reared about HER family—as powerful in its way as the Foote Tradition, but separated from it by a whole world—had brought acquaintanceship and intimacy with strange people and strange cults. In the parlor of her home she had listened to frank, fantastic discussions; to lawless theories. These discussions, beginning anywhere, ended always with the reform of the marriage relation. Anarchist, socialist, nihilist, atheist, Utopian, altruist—all tinkered with the family group, as if they recognized that the civilization they were at war with rested upon this and no other foundation.

So Ruth was well aware how prone the individual is to experiment with the processes of forming and continuing the relations between men and women which have for their cardinal object the peopling of the earth. But in spite of the radicalism which was hers by right of inheritance and training, she had not been attracted by any of them. A certain basic sense of balance had enabled her to see these things were but vain gropings in the dark; that they might flower successfully in abnormal individual cases—orchid growths—but that each was doomed to failure as a universal solution. For mankind in bulk is normal, and its safety lies in a continuance of normality. Ages had evolved the marriage relation as it existed; ages might evolve it into something different as sudden revolution could not. It was the one way, and she knew it to be the one way.

Therefore she recognized that Bonbright and herself were embarked on one of these unstable, experimental craft. She saw, as he did not, that it was unseaworthy and must founder at the first touch of storm. She pinned no false hopes to it; recognized it as a makeshift, welcome to her only as a reprieve—and that it must soon be discarded for a vessel whose planking was reality and whose sails were woven of normal stuff.

As the days went by and they were settled in their little flat, living the exotic life which temporarily solved their problem, she knew it could not last; feared it might dissolve at any moment. Inevitable signs of the gust that should destroy it had been apparent…and her dread returned. Even Bonbright was able to see that his plan was not a perfect success.

If it had not been for Dulac…. He complicated the thing unendurably…. If Bonbright were still heir apparent to the Foote dynasty, and her plan might be carried out…. She felt a duty toward Dulac—she had promised to hold him always in her thoughts, felt he was entitled to a sort of spiritual loyalty from her. And, deprived of him, she fancied her love for him was as deep as the sea and as enduring as time….

Long days alone, with only the slightest labor to occupy her hands and mind, gave her idle time—fertile soil for the raising of a dark crop of morbid thoughts. She brooded much, and, brooding, became restless, unhappy, and she could not conceal it from Bonbright when he came home eagerly for his dinner, ready to take up with boyish hope the absurd game he had invented. She allowed herself to think of Dulac; indeed, she forced herself to think of him….

Five days she had been married, when, going to the door in answer to the bell, she opened it, to find Dulac standing there. She uttered a little cry of fright and half closed the door. He held it open with his knee.

Sudden terror, not of him, but of herself, caused her to thrust against the door with all her strength, but he forced it open slowly and entered.

"Go away," she said, shrinking from him and standing with her back against the wall. "Go away…."

"I stayed away as long as I could," he said. "Now I'm not going away—until we've had a talk."

"There's nothing for us to—say," she whispered. "You must be crazy—to come here."

He was laboring under excitement. She could see the smoldering fire in his black eyes; it was plain that he was worn, tired, a man fighting in the last ditch. His hold upon himself was not secure, but she could not be sorry for him now. The possibilities his presence suggested terrified her and excluded all other thoughts.

He stood with his burning eyes upon her face, not speaking; staring.
"Go away," she begged, but he shook his head.

"You've been cheated," he said, hoarsely. "It doesn't matter if you gave yourself to HIM for the reason you said you did—or for his money. You're cheated…. His kind always cheats. You're getting NOTHING…. Are you going to stand it? That's what I came to find out…. Are you going to stand it?"

She could make no reply.

"What are you going to do about it?" he demanded.

"What can I do?… It's too late."

"Look here, you married him to get something—to be able to do something…. You didn't have any other reason. You didn't love him. … You loved ME. He's been kicked out by his family. He doesn't own anything. He's out for good, and you can't get anything or do anything. I want to know what you're going to do about it."

"Nothing."

"Nothing?… You're not going to stick to him. You don't love him—probably you hate him by this time…. You couldn't help it."

"I married him," she said. "It isn't his fault if his family put him out…. It was MY fault. They did it because he married me…. It was I who cheated HIM—and you can see—what it's—cost him…. I've got to make it up to him—someway. I—I don't hate him…. He's been good…. Oh, he's been wonderfully good."

"Do you want to live with him?"

"No," she said. "No…."

"What about me?… I love you, don't I? Wasn't I before HIM?… Didn't you give yourself to me? What about me?…"

"That's all—over," she said. "Oh, please go away. I mustn't talk about that….I'm MARRIED…."

"Listen," he said, feverishly. "I love you. This fellow you've married doesn't know what love is…. What does he know about it? What would he do for you?…" He leaned forward, his face working, his body quivering with passion. She let her eyes fall, unable to support his gaze, and she trembled. His old fascination was upon her; the glamour of him was drawing her. He poured out a flood of passionate words, bared his soul to her starkly, as he talked swiftly, burningly of his love, and what his love meant to him and what it would mean to her. She closed her eyes to shut out the sight of him; she summoned all the strength of her will to preserve her from his fascination, to resist his temptation….

"I'd have left you alone," he said, "if you'd got what you paid for. …But when you didn't—when you got nothing—there was no reason for me to stay away…. You belonged to me. You do belong to me…. Why should you stick to him? Why?"

She could not answer him. The only reason she should cling to her husband was because he WAS her husband, but she knew that would be no reason to Dulac.

"There's been a marriage ceremony," he said, scornfully. "What of it? It isn't marriage ceremonies that unite men and women…. It's love—nothing else…. When you told me you loved me you married me more really than any minister can marry you. That was a real marriage—but you didn't think you were breaking any laws or violating any morals when you left me and married HIM. Just because we hadn't gone to a church…. You're married to ME and living with him—that's what it amounts to…. Now I'm here demanding you. I'm after my wife."

"No…" she said, weakly.

"Yes, my wife…. I want you back and I'm going to have you back. …
With the bringing up you've had, you're not going to let this
CONVENTION—this word—marriage—hold you…. You're coming with me."

The thing was possible. She saw the possibility of it, the danger that she might yield. The man's power drew her. She WANTED to go; she WANTED to believe his sophistry, but there was a stanchness of soul in her that continued to resist.

"No…" she said, again.

"You'll come," he said, "because you can't stand it. I know…. Every time he touches you you want to scream. I know. It's torture. … He'll find out. Don't you think he'll find out you don't love him—how you feel when he comes near you? And what then?… You'll come to me willingly now—or you'll come when he pushes you out."

"He'll—not—find out."

Dulac laughed. "Anybody but a young fool would have known before this….But I don't want to wait for that. I want you now." He came toward her eagerly to take her in his arms. She could not move; her knees refused to carry her from him….Her senses swam. If he touched her it would be the end—she knew it would be the end. If he seized her in his arms she would never be able to escape. His will would master her will. Yet she could not move—she was under his spell. It was only subconsciously that she wanted to escape. It was only the true instinct in her that urged her to escape.

His arms were reaching out for her now; in an instant his hands would touch her; she would be clutched tightly to him—and she would be lost….

Her back was against the wall….In that supreme instant, the instant that stood between her and the thing that might be, the virtue in her recoiled, the stanchness asserted itself, the command to choose the better from the worse course made itself heard to her will. She cried out inarticulately, thrust out with terrified arms, and pushed him from her.

"Don't touch me," she cried. "What you say is not true. I know. …I'm his wife—and—you must go. You must—never come back. …Bonbright is my husband—and I'll—stay with him….I'll do what I've got to do. I sha'n't listen to you. Go—please, oh, please go—NOW."

The moment had come to Dulac and he had not been swift enough to grasp it. He realized it, realized he had failed, that nothing he could do or say would avail him now….He backed toward the door, never removing his eyes from her face.

"You're MY wife," he said. "You won't come now, but you'll come. …I'll make you come." He stopped a moment in the door, gazing at her with haggard eyes…. "And you know it," he said. Then he closed the door, and she was alone.

She sank to the floor and covered her face with her hands, not to hide her tears—for there were no tears to flow—but because she was ashamed and because she was afraid….She knew how close she had been to yielding, how narrow had been the margin of her rescue—and she was afraid of what might happen next time, of what might happen when her life with Bonbright became unbearable, as she knew it must become unbearable.

She crouched and trembled…and then she began to think. It was given her to perceive what she must do. Instead of fondling Dulac in her thoughts, she must put him out of her heart, she must not permit him in her dreams….She had promised him he should be always present in her thoughts. That promise she must break. Daily, hourly, she must steel herself against him in preparation for his next appearance, for she knew he would appear again, demanding her….It was not in the man to give her up, as it was not in him to surrender any object which he had set his soul to attain.

In spite of cults and theories and makeshifts and sophistries, she knew where her duty lay, where the safety of her soul lay—it was in fidelity to her husband. She resolved that fidelity should be his, and as she resolved it she knew that he deserved it of her. She resolved that she would eject Dulac from her life, and that, with all the strength of her will, she would try to bring herself to give that love to Bonbright which she had promised him by implication, but never by word. She did not know that love cannot be created by an effort of the will….

Before she arose from her pitiful posture she considered many plans, and discarded them all. There was no plan. It must all be left to the future. First she believed it was required that she should tell Bonbright she had married him without love, and beg of him to be patient and to wait, for she was trying to turn her love to him. But that, she saw, would not serve. He was being patient now, wonderfully, unbelievably patient. What more could she ask of him? It would only wound him, who had suffered such wounds through her. She could not do that. She could do nothing but wait and hope—and meet her problems as best she could when they arose. It was not an encouraging outlook.

Resolve as she would, she could not quiet her fears. Dulac would come again. He might find her in a weaker moment. Now, instead of one terror she harbored two….