Rose o' the River by Kate Douglas Smith Wiggin
THE TURQUOISE RING
Stephen stood absolutely still in front of the opening in the trees, andas Rose turned she met him face to face. She had never dreamed his eyescould be so stern, his mouth so hard, and she gave a sob like a child.
"You seem to be in trouble," Stephen said in a voice so cold she thoughtit could not be his.
"I am not in trouble, exactly," Rose stammered, concealing herdiscomfiture as well as possible. "I am a little unhappy because I havemade some one else unhappy; and now that you know it, you will beunhappy too, and angry besides, I suppose, though you've seen everythingthere was to see."
"There is no occasion for sorrow," Stephen said. "I didn't mean to breakin on any interview; I came over to give you back your freedom. If youever cared enough for me to marry me, the time has gone by. I am willingto own that I over-persuaded you, but I am not the man to take a girlagainst her inclinations, so we will say good-by and end the thing hereand now. I can only wish"--here his smothered rage at fate almost chokedhim--"that, when you were selecting another husband, you had chosen awhole man!"
Rose quivered with the scorn of his tone. "Size isn't everything!" sheblazed.
"Not in bodies, perhaps; but it counts for something in hearts andbrains, and it is convenient to have a sense of honor that's at least asbig as a grain of mustard-seed."
"Claude Merrill is not dishonorable," Rose exclaimed impetuously; "or atleast he isn't as bad as you think: he has never asked me to marry him."
"Then he probably was not quite ready to speak, or perhaps you were notquite ready to hear," retorted Stephen, bitterly; "but don't let us havewords,--there'll be enough to regret without adding those. I have seen,ever since New Year's, that you were not really happy or contented; onlyI wouldn't allow it to myself: I kept hoping against hope that I wasmistaken. There have been times when I would have married you, willingor unwilling, but I didn't love you so well then; and now that there'sanother man in the case, it's different, and I'm strong enough to do theright thing. Follow your heart and be happy; in a year or two I shall beglad I had the grit to tell you so. Good-by, Rose!"
Rose, pale with amazement, summoned all her pride, and drawing theturquoise engagement ring from her finger, handed it silently toStephen, hiding her face as he flung it vehemently down the river-bank.His dull eyes followed it and half uncomprehendingly saw it settle andglisten in a nest of brown pine-needles. Then he put out his hand for alast clasp and strode away without a word.
HIDING HER FACE AS HE FLUNG IT DOWN THE RIVER-BANK]
Presently Rose heard first the scrape of his boat on the sand, then thesoft sound of his paddles against the water, then nothing but thesquirrels and the woodpeckers and the thrushes, then not eventhese,--nothing but the beating of her own heart.
She sat down heavily, feeling as if she were wide awake for the firsttime in many weeks. How had things come to this pass with her?
Claude Merrill had flattered her vanity and given her some moments ofrestlessness and dissatisfaction with her lot; but he had not untilto-day really touched her heart or tempted her, even momentarily, fromher allegiance to Stephen. His eyes had always looked unspeakablethings; his voice had seemed to breathe feelings that he had never daredput in words; but to-day he had really stirred her, for although he hadstill been vague, it was easy to see that his love for her had passedall bounds of discretion. She remembered his impassioned farewells, hisdespair, his doubt as to whether he could forget her by plunging intothe vortex of business, or whether he had better end it all in theriver, as so many other broken-hearted fellows had done. She had beentouched by his misery, even against her better judgment; and she hadintended to confess it all to Stephen sometime, telling him that sheshould never again accept attentions from a stranger, lest a tragedylike this should happen twice in a lifetime.
She had imagined that Stephen would be his large-minded, great-hearted,magnanimous self, and beg her to forget this fascinating will-o'the-wispby resting in his deeper, serener love. She had meant to be contrite andfaithful, praying nightly that poor Claude might live down his presentanguish, of which she had been the innocent cause.
Instead, what had happened? She had been put altogether in the wrong.Stephen had almost cast her off, and that, too, without argument. He hadgiven her her liberty before she had asked for it, taking it forgranted, without question, that she desired to be rid of him. Instead ofcomforting her in her remorse, or sympathizing with her for so noblyrefusing to shine in Claude's larger world of Boston, Stephen hadassumed that she was disloyal in every particular.
And pray how was she to cope with such a disagreeable and complicatedsituation?
It would not be long before the gossips rolled under their tongues thedelicious morsel of a broken engagement, and sooner or later she mustbrave the displeasure of her grandmother.
And the little house--that was worse than anything. Her tears flowedfaster as she thought of Stephen's joy in it, of his faithful labor, ofthe savings he had invested in it. She hated and despised her self whenshe thought of the house, and for the first time in her life sherealized the limitations of her nature, the poverty of her ideals.
What should she do? She had lost Stephen and ruined his life. Now, inorder that she need not blight a second career, must she contrive toreturn Claude's love! To be sure, she thought, it seemed indecent tomarry any other man than Stephen, when they had built a house together,and chosen wall-papers, and a kitchen stove, and dining-room chairs; butwas it not the only way to evade the difficulties?
Suppose that Stephen, in a fit of pique, should ask somebody else toshare the new cottage?
As this dreadful possibility came into view, Rose's sobs actuallyfrightened the birds and the squirrels. She paced back and forth underthe trees, wondering how she could have been engaged to a man for eightmonths and know so little about him as she seemed to know about StephenWaterman to-day. Who would have believed he could be so autocratic, sosevere, so unapproachable! Who could have foreseen that she, Rose Wiley,would ever be given up to another man,--handed over as coolly as if shehad been a bale of cotton? She wanted to return Claude Merrill's lovebecause it was the only way out of the tangle; but at the moment shealmost hated him for making so much trouble, for hurting Stephen, forabasing her in her own eyes, and, above all, for giving her rustic loverthe chance of impersonating an injured emperor.
It did not simplify the situation to have Mite Shapley come in duringthe evening and run upstairs, uninvited, to sit on the toot of her bedand chatter.
Rose had closed her blinds and lay in the dark, pleading a headache.
Mite was in high feather. She had met Claude Merrill going to thestation that afternoon. He was much too early for the train, which thestation agent reported to be behind time, so he had asked her to take adrive. She didn't know how it happened, for he looked at his watch everynow and then; but, anyway, they got to laughing and "carrying on," andwhen they came back to the station the train had gone. Wasn't that thegreatest joke of the season? What did Rose suppose they did next?
Rose didn't know and didn't care; her head ached too badly.
Well, they had driven to Wareham, and Claude had hired a livery teamthere, and had been taken into Portland with his trunk, and she hadbrought Mrs. Brooks's horse back to Edgewood. Wasn't that ridiculous?And hadn't she cut out Rose where she least expected?
Rose was distinctly apathetic, and Mite Shapley departed after a verybrief call, leaving behind her an entirely new train of thought.
If Claude Merrill were so love-blighted that he could only by thegreatest self-control keep from flinging himself into the river, howcould he conceal his sufferings so completely from Mite Shapley,--littleshallow-pated, scheming coquette?
"So that pretty Merrill feller has gone, has he, mother?" inquired OldKennebec that night, as he took off his wet shoes and warmed his feet atthe kitchen oven. "Well, it ain't a mite too soon. I allers distrustthat pink-an'-white, rosy-posy kind of a man. One of the most turriblethings that ever h
But Mrs. Wiley, being already somewhat familiar with the circumstances,had taken her candle and retired to her virtuous couch.