The campaign had given scope to his ability, and he more than fulfilled the hopes of his friends. From the moment of his election, he became the leader of the party in the nation, and began at once the work of strengthening his position as a Presidential possibility.
Yet in the din1 and clash of this battle in which his personal fortunes, his future career, and perhaps the destiny of a great national party hung, he had not forgotten Ruth.
He made it a point every day, wherever he was, or whatever the task or excitement of the hour, to write her a love letter. Sometimes it was only a few lines hastily scrawled2 while on the train between stations where he addressed the crowds at each stop. Sometimes he sent a dainty box of flowers.
She never replied to his letters or little gifts. But it made no difference. He kept steadily3 on the course he had mapped out, dogged, purposeful, persistent4.
The night of the election, when he received the first assurance of his success, before he spoke5 to any of his lieutenants6 or received a single congratulation, he closed his door, locked it, and called Ruth over his telephone, which he had connected with her house by special secret arrangement that afternoon.
He recognised her soft contralto voice, and his hand trembled with the joy of the triumph which he felt brought him nearer to his heart’s desire.
He was so excited he could not speak for a moment, and again the low soft voice called,
“What is it? Who is it?”
“This is Morris, Ruth. My door is locked, and this is a private wire connected with your house; I am alone with you and God. I am the Governor-elect of New York. I have spoken to no one until I tell you. One word from you I will prize more than all the shouts of the world with which the streets will ring in a moment.”
There was a movement of the phone at the other end.
“With all my heart I congratulate you, Morris. You are a great man. I can never tell you how deeply I feel the delicate honour you pay me.”
The man sighed and his voice was husky with emotion.
“Ah! Ruth, if you only meant that conventional phrase, ‘with all my heart,’ I’d be the happiest man in the world to-night. But I must go; the boys are trying to beat the door down. My success I lay at your feet, my love. When you hear the shouts of hosts and see the sky red to-night with illuminations, remember that it is all for you. I am yours.—Good-by.”
She sat at her window long past the hour of midnight and watched the blaze of rockets from end to end of Manhattan, over Brooklyn, and from the farthest sand-beaches of Coney Island, dreaming with open eyes, soft with tears, of the mystery of love and life.
The unterrified Democracy of the great city had gone mad with joy over their daring young leader’s success. She could hear the distant murmur7 of the tumult8 of thousands of shouting, screaming men packed around Tammany Hall, filling Fourteenth Street in solid mass, jamming union Square and Madison Square and surging round the Madison Square Garden, where a jollification meeting of twenty thousand cheering, excited men was in progress. It sounded like the boom and roar of some far-off sea breaking on the rocks and echoing among the cliffs. All Harlem was ablaze9 with bonfires now, and the tumult of horns and shouting boys filled the streets on Washington Heights.
She sighed and rested her dimpled chin in her hand.
“Surely, I must be a foolish woman to cling to Frank and reject the glory and strength of this old sweetheart’s chivalrous10 love! I cannot help it. He is my husband. I love him. Perhaps he may need me some dark night in life. Who knows? If he calls, I will be ready.”
The year had proved a trying one to Ruth. The sensation of the completion of the Temple and the stir made by its dedication11 had increased Gordon’s fame, and the story of her sorrow had been repeated again and again. A hundred petty details, utterly12 false, had been added as the story had passed from paper to paper, until she was afraid to look in a public print lest she find her own name staring her in the face. From the Socialist13 point of view, she was attacked as a blatant14 scold who had made her husband’s life intolerable, until he had been rescued by the beautiful woman who was now his wife. By the conservative press, she was timidly defended, damned by faint praise and humiliated15 by pity.
The children, growing rapidly, were beginning to feel the mother’s position. In the public schools, the story of her life and desertion by her husband had tipped the tongues of the spiteful with poison, and Lucy had come home more than once trying to conceal16 from her mother the hurt of her sensitive child’s soul.
Morris King, now the distinguished17 Governor-elect, hastened to press his suit.
Her faithful knight18, he was now laying lovingly at her feet the tribute of a powerful man’s life.
To every worldly view of her position and future his suit was a temptation well nigh resistless. His love had stood the test of years. He would worship her as his wife as he had worshiped her as his ideal. She knew this by an intuition as unerring as that by which she knew she could never love him as she loved Gordon. And yet she felt a singular dependence19 on him, and a tender gratitude20 for the protection he had given her life.
He knew his position was strong, and pressed it with quiet intensity21. He was careful that his attentions should not become the subject of public comment, and the tongue of gossip cause her pain. Not for one moment did he doubt that he would win.
The Sunday before his inauguration22 he spent with her, and, much to his disgust, she insisted on going to the Pilgrim Church.
“Of all churches, Ruth, for heaven’s sake don’t go there,” he pleaded, with impatience23.
“Yes,” she quietly answered. “I’ve tried the others. I don’t seem at home. I’ve ceased to mind what any one there thinks. The congregation has changed completely in the past two years, Deacon Van Meter tells me. He called to see us the other day to ask after the children and my financial welfare, offering to help me in any way his experience could serve me. He has aged24 very much lately, and the death of his wife seems to have completely broken the old man’s heart. He has withdrawn25 from business entirely26. My sorrow seems to have touched him in a very tender spot. He begged me in such an earnest way to come back to the church and join in its work, I’ve made up my mind to go.”
King rubbed his hand over his head hopelessly.
“Well, if you’ve made up your mind, you will go. Ruth, you are the hardest-headed woman to have such a beautiful spirit I ever knew.”
The dark eyes smiled into his face.
“You may go with me, Morris.”
He took up his cane27 and coat.
“I’ll grudge28 the minutes I can’t talk, but I’ll sit and look at you. You are growing more beautiful every day, Ruth. I am grateful for the honour you are going to do me in attending the inauguration. I’ll agree to anything you say to-day.”
They slipped into a seat under the gallery unobserved. The new usher29 did not recognise either Ruth or her distinguished escort.
The services moved her with a strange power. In every hymn30 she heard the deep rich voice of Gordon as she had seen him so often stand in that pulpit. The swell31 of the organ’s full notes throbbed32 with his memory. The man she heard was no longer the new pastor33, but her beloved, and she was living over again the sweet days of the past when he was her own and she had filled his life.
The preacher was reading the most beautiful psalm34 in the language of man: “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul.”
A strange peace came over her as the music of these grand old sentences, throbbing35 with the passionate36 faith of centuries, swept her heart.
He was reading from the old Bible that rested on the same golden lectern pulpit Gordon had hurled37 behind him that awful day in their history. The same crimson38 cloth he had twisted into a shapeless mass and thrown aside once more hung from its front. She could see a ragged39 break in the gold of the cross where his enormous hand had crushed it that day.
The thought of God’s eternal life and unchanging purpose, binding40 all time within His mighty41 plan, soothed42 her spirit. Men might come and go behind that pulpit and from its pews, but the Church of God, symbol of the eternal, would go on forever. In the deep rhythm of the psalm to which she listened she felt the heart-beat of its continuous unbroken life stretching back to creation’s dawn and on until Time shall roll into the ocean of Eternity43.
Suddenly the red blood leaped from her heart with a thought, “What God hath joined together man cannot put asunder44!”
King’s face grew somber45 as he saw her elation46.
He knew that some mysterious spirit had suddenly dropped a veil between them.
When they returned home she was very quiet and her dark eyes shone with unusual brilliance47.
“Ruth, you are thinking of that man,” he said, with a scowl48.
She nodded gently.
King trembled and his fists clenched49.
“I could kill him, the great egotistical brute50! How strange the madness that binds51 a woman to the man to whom she first surrenders! I sometimes think it is the most blind, pathetic and tragic52 instinct that ever shadowed the soul of a human being. It is degrading. You are a woman of character and intelligence. You must shake off this peasant’s mania53.”
She shook her head with a yearning54, mystic look.
“I believe God had a great purpose when He made a woman’s heart like that. I love him. My very soul and body have become in some mysterious way one with him.”
King’s eyes blazed.
“Yet he flaunts55 his love for another woman in your face.”
She flinched56 as from a blow, but answered tenderly.
“Yes; he is mad now. The flesh has mastered the spirit in its struggle for the moment. She holds his body”—a pause and a smile—“but his soul is mine. He may not know it now. He will some day. I know it, and I abide57 God’s time.”
“How long can you hold such a delusion58, I wonder?” he asked, with angry amazement59.
“Forever.” she softly whispered.
He drew himself up with grim force.
“I am going to win you, Ruth,” he said, slowly lingering with his lips over her name as though he could taste its sweetness.
He looked at her beautiful face and figure tenderly and with an intensity that gave to his eyes a strange glitter.
She turned from him with a sigh and gazed on Gordon’s portrait hanging over the mantel.
“No, Morris. I have made up my mind to play my part in harmony with Love’s eternal law. If the world is full of discord60, I will still make the sweetest music my soul can sing. I will not try to drown the din, but in my own way sing in perfect time with the beat of God’s heart. Perhaps some soul beside me on life’s way will catch the note, and it will not be in vain. This may be a blind instinct, but it is not degrading. He who counts the beat of a sparrow’s wing, teaches the stork61 her appointed time, and whispers his call to the swallow in the autumn wind, will not lead me astray.”
The man shaded his eyes with his hand as though to hide their misery62.
“You are throwing your sweet life away,” he said, reproachfully.
“But I shall find it again. When I see the fury of murder in your eyes, and gaze into the gulf63 of fierce passions into which Frank has descended64, I cannot seek my own happiness. The sense of motherhood, the feeling of kinship to all women, brings to me again the certainty that I am right, that one great love unto death can alone give the soul peace and strength, and give to man and the world happiness.”
He bent65 forward quickly.
“But if he were dead you might love me?”
“Not as I love him.”
“He is dead a thousand times to you and your life,” he cried, bitterly. “He is your wilful66 murderer. You will see this by and by, and I will win you. I will be content with such love as you can give me. Mine will be so full, so tender, so warm it will be resistless.”
She shook his hand kindly67 and bade him good-by.
“I will send a carriage for you and the children to-morrow. You will go to the capital with me in my private car.”
“I’d rather not, Morris, but I have promised you, and it shall be so.”
The ceremony of the inauguration was the most elaborate seen at Albany in years.
Tammany came to the capital thirty thousand strong, and thirty thousand strong they marched through the streets, with their shining silk hats glistening68 in the sun and their lusty throats shouting for their leader. They had voted the ticket faithfully, and sometimes too often the same day, unkind critics had said, in the years of the past, but for the first time in generations they had placed a full-fledged Grand Sachem of their own Great Wigwam in the Governor’s chair, and they made the welkin ring. In the joy of their faces, the steady hoof-beat of their big feet on the pavement and the stalwart pride with which they marched, one saw the secret of their victory. They were in dead earnest. Politics was the breath they breathed and the blood that fed their hearts.
King felt the contagion69 of their loyalty70 and enthusiasm, and his inaugural71 address was inspired and inspiring.
He placed Ruth and the children in choice seats near the speaker’s stand, and in every movement of his body, every word and accent, from the moment he appeared till the last shout of his victorious72 henchmen died away, he was conscious of her presence.
She could feel the intensity of his powerful will pressing upon her in this triumph he was deliberately73 laying at her feet.
When the ceremonies were over, and his address was being flashed over a thousand wires, he sent the children for a drive, and showed Ruth over the stately executive mansion74. He knew the hour was propitious75, and he had planned to make a desperate attempt to win some sort of promise from her for their future.
“Now, Ruth,” he said, softly, “sit here on this sofa by the open fire. We will be alone for awhile. I’ve something to show you.”
His face was still aglow76 from the excitement of his triumph. He drew from his inner pocket an official envelope tied with a piece of ribbon.
She leaned over with interest, thinking he was going to read to her some scheme of legislation on which he had been at work.
Instead he drew out a package of her old letters and a lot of faded flowers—every scrap77 of paper and trinket she had ever given him in her life. He showed her each one, and gave the history of every flower, when she had given it to him, and what she had said.
Ruth buried her face in her hands, and he silently watched her.
“This one,” he cried, with a tremor78 in his voice and a tightening79 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 passionately80. “I could show you messages to-day from scores of national leaders offering me their support for the Presidency81. 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 tapering82 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 scowled83, 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 forsaken84, whom fools pity or blame.”
Looking away through her tears, she gently withdrew her hand, bent low and burst into sobs85.
“No, no, no! I love him. He is my husband!”
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1
din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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scrawled
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| 乱涂，潦草地写( scrawl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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6
lieutenants
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| n.陆军中尉( lieutenant的名词复数 )；副职官员；空军；仅低于…官阶的官员 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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ablaze
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| adj.着火的，燃烧的；闪耀的，灯火辉煌的 | |
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chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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dedication
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| n.奉献，献身，致力，题献，献辞 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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socialist
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| n.社会主义者；adj.社会主义的 | |
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blatant
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| adj.厚颜无耻的；显眼的；炫耀的 | |
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humiliated
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| 感到羞愧的 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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inauguration
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| n.开幕、就职典礼 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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usher
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| n.带位员，招待员；vt.引导，护送；vi.做招待，担任引座员 | |
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hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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psalm
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| n.赞美诗，圣诗 | |
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throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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somber
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| adj.昏暗的，阴天的，阴森的，忧郁的 | |
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elation
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| n.兴高采烈，洋洋得意 | |
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brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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scowl
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| vi.(at)生气地皱眉，沉下脸，怒视；n.怒容 | |
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clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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51
binds
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| v.约束( bind的第三人称单数 )；装订；捆绑；（用长布条）缠绕 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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mania
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| n.疯狂；躁狂症，狂热，癖好 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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flaunts
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| v.炫耀，夸耀( flaunt的第三人称单数 )；有什么能耐就施展出来 | |
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56
flinched
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| v.（因危险和痛苦）退缩，畏惧( flinch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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57
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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58
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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discord
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| n.不和，意见不合，争论，（音乐）不和谐 | |
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stork
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| n.鹳 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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contagion
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| n.(通过接触的疾病)传染；蔓延 | |
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loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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inaugural
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| adj.就职的；n.就职典礼 | |
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victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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propitious
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| adj.吉利的；顺利的 | |
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aglow
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| adj.发亮的；发红的；adv.发亮地 | |
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scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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tightening
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| 上紧，固定，紧密 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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presidency
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| n.总统(校长，总经理)的职位(任期) | |
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tapering
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| adj.尖端细的 | |
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83
scowled
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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