Ruth had continued to live in the apartment. It had not been her intention to do so. From the moment of reading Bonbright's succinct note she was determined to go back to the little cottage and to her mother. But she put it off for a day, then for another day, and days grew into weeks and months. "To-morrow I'll move," she told herself each night, but next day she was no nearer to uprooting herself than she had been the day before.

She gave herself no reasons for remaining. If she had been asked for a reason she might have said it was because Dulac still boarded with her mother. He had not left the city with the breaking of the strike, but had remained. He had remained because he had asked the union he represented to let him remain and had been able to show them reasons for granting his request. He wanted to stay on the ground to work quietly underground, undoing the harm that had been done by the strike; quietly proselyting, preaching his gospel, gaining strength day by day, until he should have reared an organization capable of striking again. The courage of the man was unquenchable…. And he wanted to be near Ruth. Just as he had set his will to force Bonbright Foote, Incorporated, to bow to the will of the men, so he had set his will to force Ruth to bow to his will…. So he remained and labored.

But his presence at her mother's was not the real reason that impelled Ruth to continue in the home Bonbright had made for her. It was something more intangible. She found the thought of leaving that spot unendurable, but she did not, dared not, seek in her heart for what made it unendurable.

For a week she scarcely ventured outside the door; then the loneliness, the lack of occupation, drove her out. She must be busy, for when she sat idly in a room her thoughts became torture. There were many sides to her affliction. First in her mind she placed the failure of her great project. She had wrecked her life for it without accomplishment. Second in the rank of her griefs stood the fact that she had been on the point of giving herself to Dulac. She would have gone with him, disregarding convention, breaking her vows of marriage. For that she despised herself… despised herself the more because she knew now that she did not love Dulac, that she had never loved Dulac. That discovery had shocked and shaken her, and when she thought of what might have happened if she had gone with him a numbness of horror crept over her, leaving her cold and trembling. … She would have gone, and she did not love him. She would not have known she did not love him until it was too late to draw back… and then she would have lived, but her soul would have died!

She accused herself bitterly for mistaking glamour for love. She knew now that Dulac had called from her nothing deeper than a foolish, girlish fascination. His personality, his work, his enthusiasm had enmeshed her, blinded her—and she had mistaken her feelings for love! Of this she was certain…. There were moments when she felt she must tell Bonbright. Once she actually took writing materials to do so, but she did not tell him…. She wanted him to know, because, she thought, it would be a sort of vindication in his eyes. But she was wrong. She wanted him to know for quite another reason than that.

Third in the order of her griefs was the consciousness that she had caused Bonbright grief. She dealt ungently with herself because of it, for Bonbright had not deserved it at her hands. She could appreciate how good he had been to her, how solicitous, how patient, how tender. If a man ever deserved well of a woman, he deserved it. She told herself that a hundred times daily. She remembered small thoughtfulnesses which had been a part of his daily conduct to her. She recalled small forbearances. She pictured to herself the life they had lived together, and saw how it was only the character of her husband that had made it possible at all…. And in the end he had not uttered one word of censure; had not even looked at her with just anger…. There had been no pretense about him, no labored effort to be kind. He had simply been himself.

These were her thoughts; this is how she remembered him….

The house was unbearably lonely. As evening approached she found herself more than once listening for Bonbright's step on the stairs and his hand on the door…. At such times she cried. She puzzled herself. She did not understand why she should be so lonely, nor why the expectation of Bonbright's step—with quick awakening to the knowledge that no foot of his would ever sound at her door again—should bring her tears…. She knew she should have been glad, relieved. With Bonbright she had lived in daily dread. She had not loved him, and the fear that his restraint would break, that he would force his love upon her, had made her days a ghastly dream…. She should be crying out with the joy and relief of his removal. But she felt no relief, felt no joy…. She could not understand it.

If Hilda Lightener, who came often and stayed long, had asked her if she missed Bonbright or were lonely without him, she would have denied it hotly. But Hilda did not ask…. Ruth did not ask that question of herself. She knew she was lonely, miserable, and she thought she knew why—but Bonbright's absence had nothing to do with it.

Hilda watched, she did not talk about Bonbright, for she saw her task was to help Ruth over these first few days. Her suspicions were her own, but, being a woman, she understood the baffling psychology of another woman and what harm a premature word might work…. If the thing she believed were true, then time would bring its realization to Ruth. Ruth must discover the truth for herself….

"I can't stand this," Ruth said one evening. "I can't bear to stay here alone in these rooms. If there were work enough to keep me busy—but there's nothing."

"If you'd only go the places I ask you to," said Hilda.

"I don't want to meet people—your sort of people. They must know what has happened…. I couldn't have them looking at me with their catty, curious eyes."

"Most of them would be very kind," Hilda said.

"No…. I'm going to work. I'm going to find a place and work…."

"But—" Hilda wondered what Bonbright would think of that. She imagined he would not like it.

"I know what you were going to say. He wouldn't want me to. Maybe he wouldn't—but if he knew he'd let me do it. I tell you I've got to, Hilda."

"You've got to decide for yourself," Hilda admitted, so Ruth became a job hunter, and because intelligent stenographers are by no means as plentiful as daisies in a July field, she was not long in finding employment…. From that day life was easier. She found her wages were ample to support herself and pay the rent of her apartment. Ample, in that they sufficed. There was no surplus. So she folded and put away the weekly checks she received from Bonbright. She did not send them back to him because, to her mind, that would have been a weekly slap in his face. But she would not cash them. There was a difference to her; probably there was a real difference.

Of a Sunday Ruth often went driving with Hilda, and Hilda noticed how closely her companion watched the sidewalks, how she scrutinized the passing crowds. It was as though Ruth were trying to catch sight of somebody…. While daylight lasted Hilda saw that Ruth was drawn to her windows to sit looking down at the street. Once Hilda ventured dangerously.

"Why do you always sit there watching folks go by?" she asked.

Ruth turned and looked at her strangely. "I—why, I don't know," she said.

Of herself Ruth rarely mentioned Bonbright; never unless in some recollection of him, or if Hilda meddled with some portion of the household that had been peculiarly Bonbright's. As, for instance:

"Why don't you move that leather chair out of the other bedroom?" Hilda asked. "It's doing no good there and it looks mighty comfortable."

"That was HIS chair," Ruth said, quickly. "He used to sit there and read after—after I had gone to bed."

Once Ruth asked for news of Bonbright. After that Hilda brought her news voluntarily. Not too frequently, but often enough according to her notion. Betweentimes she gave Ruth plenty of time to wonder what was happening to her husband. Ruth knew Hilda saw him often. She wondered if they talked about her, and what they said, but that she never asked, nor did Hilda refer to such conversations. Indeed, these were few and sparing, for Bonbright could not be made to talk about his wife—even to her. But she gave Bonbright news of Ruth just as she gave Ruth news of Bonbright.

Sometimes Hilda tormented Ruth with set purpose.

"Bonbright looks mighty thin," she said. "I think he's working too hard. If he keeps it up he'll make himself sick."

"Oh…" said Ruth—nothing more, but for the rest of that Sunday she was quiet—very quiet.

Once Hilda found Ruth in a passion of tears, and when she sought the reason she learned that Ruth had met Dulac on the street, face to face, and that he had spoken to her. He had told Ruth that he was staying in the city because of her; that he would not go without her. … He had been careless of listening ears, not concealing his emotions.

"Well, he didn't hurt you, did he?"

"No," said Ruth.

"You weren't afraid of him?"

"No."

"You—didn't want to go away with him?"

"No…. No…."

"Then what are you making all the fuss about? He can't carry you off"

'HE might have seen us together," said Ruth. "And—and it made me—remember—that horrid afternoon."

"What if Bonbright did see you together? Don't you suppose Bonbright thinks you are seeing him? Of course he does. What else would he think? Naturally he supposes you are going to have your divorce when the year is up, and marry Mr. Dulac." Hilda was merciless.

"Does he think that? Are you sure?"

Hilda shrugged her shoulders.

"He mustn't think it," Ruth said, affrightedly. "Why, he—If he thought that—"

"If he thought that—what?"

Ruth bit her lips and turned away. "Nothing," she said. Then: "Can't you let him know?… Not tell him, you know, but—sort of let him understand."

"If I can see a good chance," Hilda said; but in her mind was the resolution that she would never see the chance.

"Does he—seem cheerful?" Ruth asked. "It's been quite a long time now—months…. He—must have gotten over—caring for me now. Do you think so?" Her voice was anxious, pleading.

Hilda could not hold out against that appeal. "No, silly, he hasn't. He isn't that sort…. It's too bad."

"Yes—it's too bad," said Ruth, but it was not sympathy that put the tiny thrill into her voice.

"He's just a boy…. He can't go on all his life loving a girl that doesn't want him. Some day he's going to fall in love again. It's natural he should."

"Has he—Do you think—"

"No, I haven't seen any signs of it yet…. And I'd be jealous if he did. I think I could manage to fall in love with him myself if—"

"—he wasn't tied to me," interrupted Ruth, with a little whimper. "I—I wish he knew—about Mr. Dulac…. He wouldn't think so—hard of me, maybe… if he knew I didn't—never did—love Mr. Dulac…."

"The only thing that would make any difference to him would be to know that you loved him," said Hilda.

Ruth had no answer, but she was saying to herself, with a sort of secret surprise: "If I loved him…. If I loved him…." Presently she spoke aloud: "You won't be angry with me, Hilda?… You won't misunderstand, but—but won't you please—go away?… Please…. I—I don't want to see anybody. I want to be alone."

"Well, of all things!" said Hilda. But she was not offended. Her resemblance to her father was very faint indeed, at that moment. She looked more like her mother, softer, more motherly. She put on her hat and went away quietly. "Poor Bonbright!" she was thinking. Then: "It's come to her…. She's got a hint of it. It will come now with a rush…."

Ruth sat in her chair without movement. "If I loved him…" she said, aloud, and then repeated it, "… loved him…." She was questioning herself now, asking herself the meaning of things, of why she had been lonely, of why she had sat in her window peering down into the street—and she found the answer. As Hilda had said in her thoughts, it was coming with a rush…. She was frightened by it, dared not admit it…. She dared not admit that the biggest, weightiest of her woes was that she no longer had Bonbright with her; that she was lonesome for him; that her heart had been crying out for him; that she loved him! She dared not admit that. It would be too bitter, too ironically bitter…. If she loved him now she had loved him then! Was her life to be filled with such ironies—? Was she forever to eat of Dead Sea fruit?

Did she love Bonbright? At last she dared to put the question squarely…. Her answer came quickly. "Oh, I do… I do!" she cried, aloud. "I love him…." A surge of happiness welled up from her heart at the words. "I love him," she repeated, to hear the sound of them again.

The happiness was of short life. "I love him—but it's too late….
It's always too late," she sobbed. "I've lost him…. He's gone. …"

The girl who could give herself to a man she did not love for the Cause was not weak; she did not lack resolution, nor did she lack the sublimity of soul which is the heritage of women. She had lost her happiness; she had wrecked her life, and until this moment there seemed no possibility of recovering anything from the wreckage…. But she loved…. There was a foundation to build from. If she had been weak, a waverer, no structure could have risen on the foundation; it must have lain futile, accusing. But there was strength in her, humility, a will that would dare much, suffer much, to fight its way to peace.

"If he loves me still," she thought; and there hope was born.

"If I go to him…. If I tell him—everything?" she asked herself, and in asking made her resolution. She would venture, she would dare, for her happiness and for his. She would go, and she would say: "Bonbright, I love you…. I have never loved anybody but you…. You must believe me." He would believe her, she knew. There was no reason why he should not believe her. There was nothing for her to gain now by another lie. "I'll make him believe," she said, and smiled and cried and smiled again. "Hilda will tell me where he lives and I'll go to him—now…."

At that instant Hilda was coming to her, was on the stairs, and Hilda looked grave, troubled. She walked slowly up the stairs and rapped on the door. "Ruth," she called, "it's Hilda…. May I come in now?"

Ruth ran to the door and threw it open. "Come in…. Come in." Her voice was a song. "Oh, Hilda…"

"Honey," said Hilda, holding her at arm's length, '-his father is dead.
They found him dead just after noon…."

"Oh!…" said Ruth. It was an instant before the full significance of this news was shown to her. Then she clutched Hilda with terror-stricken fingers. "No…. No!…" she cried. "It can't be…. It mustn't be…."

"Why—what is it? I—I didn't think you'd take it like this…."

"I love him…. I love Bonbright," Ruth said, in a blank, dead voice. "I was going to him…. I was going to tell him… and he would have believed. But now—-he wouldn't believe. He would think I came—because his father was dead—because he—he was what I thought he was when I married him…. Don't you see? He'd think I was coming to him for the same reason…. He'd think I was willing to give myself to him—for that…."

Hilda took the slight form in her arms and rocked her to and fro, while she thought…. "Yes," she said, sorrowfully, "you can't go to him now…. It would look—oh, why couldn't his father have made a will, as he was going to?… If he'd left his old money to charity or something…. We thought he had…. But there has been no will. Everything is Bonbright's…."

"I'm always—too—late…" Ruth said, quietly.