“But, Frank, I can’t give you up. It was the touch of your hand, the music of your voice that first awoke my woman’s soul. You are my mate. You cannot know the young mother-wonder, pain and joy that thrilled my heart as I first bent over Lucy’s face, your dear eyes in hers smiling at me. Our very flesh became one in Nature’s miracle of love.”
“And yet our lives have somehow drifted apart, Ruth.”
“But not so far, dear, as this woman has made you believe,” she answered tenderly. “I have been selfish and resentful, but I will make it all up. I will lift up my head and be cheerful—live for you, work for you, think only of you, ask nothing for myself but only your presence and your love.”
“But if I have given it to another—”
Again she put her hand on his lips.
“But you have not. It is madness. You could not forget our life. Last night I lay alone in silence, with wide-open eyes, dreaming it all over again. This woman I know is more beautiful than I—three years younger; her hair is gold, mine the raven’s. She is fair and full and tall, and I am dark and small; but, Frank, dear, love is more than eyes and hair and lips and form. We have been made one in our flesh and blood and inmost soul. There is no other man than you for me. There is no music save your voice.”
“Yet, if you feel this for me, and I thus wait in love on another, how can I live the lie?”
“Can you forget the sunlit days of our past?” she pleaded wistfully. “When you lay on the sands of the beach in old Virginia and held my hand while I read to you, idly dreaming through that wonderful summer before our first-born came sailing into port from God’s blue sea! You said I was beautiful then. And you were so tender and gracious in your strength. No other woman can ever be to you this first girl-mother.”
Her voice melted into a sob. She tried to go on and bit her swollen lips.
Then she rose quietly, and walked to the window and looked down at the city below, whose roar had drowned the music of her life.