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Books
FreeDusky Ruth
A. E. (Alfred Edgar) Coppard
Adapt
At the end of a chilly, wet April day, a traveler arrived at a country town in the Cotswolds. Though the towns there are small and pleasant, and the inns cozy, the surrounding landscape is generally bleak and barren. He had just come over upland roads so empty of human activity, so lonely, that they might have been built for some forgotten purpose by departed men and left for the unknowing passage of strangers like himself. Even the endless walls, made of old rough laminated rock that divided the far-spreading fields, had grown ancient again in their courses; there were patches of darkness, moss like buttons, and fossils on every stone. He had passed a few small settlements, sometimes at the bend of a stream or at the crossroads, where old houses with rotting thatch full of bird holes seemed not so much built as just scattered about the place.
Beyond these signs, the only relief from the living loneliness—which was almost as deep by day as by night—was an occasional lark or blackbird, the call of partridges, or the quick dash of a hare. But the traveler was mindful of such times and places.
There are men who love to gaze with the mind at things that can never be seen, to feel at least the throb of a beauty that will never be known, and to hear across vast bleak distances the echo of what is not celestial music but only their own hearts' vain cries. And though his clothes clung to him like clay, it was with a deliberate, searching step that the traveler walked the single street of the town and at last entered the inn, pausing in the doorway to shuffle his shoes and knock the raindrops from his hat. Then he turned into a small smoking-room. Leather-lined benches, much worn, were fixed to the wall under the window and in other odd corners and nooks behind mahogany tables. One wall was fitted with all the proper goods of a bar, but without any counter in between. Across from him a bright fire burned, and a neatly dressed young woman sat before it in a Windsor chair, staring into the flames.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-445c8a1cc7104b48bad66716328e0548
# book_title: Dusky Ruth
# chapter_id: 1-dusky-ruth
# chapter_title: Dusky Ruth
# book_page: 1 / 9
# chapter_page: 1
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
At the end of a chilly, wet April day, a traveler arrived at a country town in the Cotswolds. Though the towns there are small and pleasant, and the inns cozy, the surrounding landscape is generally bleak and barren. He had just come over upland roads so empty of human activity, so lonely, that they might have been built for some forgotten purpose by departed men and left for the unknowing passage of strangers like himself. Even the endless walls, made of old rough laminated rock that divided the far-spreading fields, had grown ancient again in their courses; there were patches of darkness, moss like buttons, and fossils on every stone. He had passed a few small settlements, sometimes at the bend of a stream or at the crossroads, where old houses with rotting thatch full of bird holes seemed not so much built as just scattered about the place.
Beyond these signs, the only relief from the living loneliness—which was almost as deep by day as by night—was an occasional lark or blackbird, the call of partridges, or the quick dash of a hare. But the traveler was mindful of such times and places.
There are men who love to gaze with the mind at things that can never be seen, to feel at least the throb of a beauty that will never be known, and to hear across vast bleak distances the echo of what is not celestial music but only their own hearts' vain cries. And though his clothes clung to him like clay, it was with a deliberate, searching step that the traveler walked the single street of the town and at last entered the inn, pausing in the doorway to shuffle his shoes and knock the raindrops from his hat. Then he turned into a small smoking-room. Leather-lined benches, much worn, were fixed to the wall under the window and in other odd corners and nooks behind mahogany tables. One wall was fitted with all the proper goods of a bar, but without any counter in between. Across from him a bright fire burned, and a neatly dressed young woman sat before it in a Windsor chair, staring into the flames.There was no one else in the room, and as he entered, the girl rose and greeted him. He found he could be accommodated for the night, and in a few moments his hat and scarf were taken and placed inside the fender, his wet overcoat was carried to the kitchen, the landlord—an old fellow—gave him a roomy pair of slippers, and a maid was setting supper in the next room.
While this was being done, he sat and talked to the barmaid. She had a beautiful but rather mournful face as it was lit by the firelight, and when she turned her gaze away from it, her eyes had a piercing brightness. Friendly and well-spoken as she was, the melancholy in her appearance was noticeable—perhaps it was the dim room, or the wet day, or the long hours serving a host of cocktails to thirsty customers.
When he went to his supper, he found cheering food and drink, with pleasant silverware and mahogany surroundings. There were no other guests; he was to be alone. The blinds were drawn, lamps lit, and the fire at his back was comforting. So he sat long over his meal until a pale-faced maid came to clear the table, talking to him of country things as she bustled about. It was a long narrow room, with a sideboard and the door at one end and the fireplace at the other. A bookshelf, almost bare of books, held a number of plates; the long wall facing the windows had almost no pictures, but there were hung upon it, for some mysterious but surely sufficient reason, many solidly shaped dish-covers of the kind held in such curious regard and known as "willow pattern"; one was even hung over a map.
Two musty prints were mixed among them, pictures of horses with stiff, exaggerated bodies, ridden by figures of inhuman, dignified posture, dressed in whiskers, colored jackets, and tight white breeches.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-445c8a1cc7104b48bad66716328e0548
# book_title: Dusky Ruth
# chapter_id: 1-dusky-ruth
# chapter_title: Dusky Ruth
# book_page: 2 / 9
# chapter_page: 2
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
There was no one else in the room, and as he entered, the girl rose and greeted him. He found he could be accommodated for the night, and in a few moments his hat and scarf were taken and placed inside the fender, his wet overcoat was carried to the kitchen, the landlord—an old fellow—gave him a roomy pair of slippers, and a maid was setting supper in the next room.
While this was being done, he sat and talked to the barmaid. She had a beautiful but rather mournful face as it was lit by the firelight, and when she turned her gaze away from it, her eyes had a piercing brightness. Friendly and well-spoken as she was, the melancholy in her appearance was noticeable—perhaps it was the dim room, or the wet day, or the long hours serving a host of cocktails to thirsty customers.
When he went to his supper, he found cheering food and drink, with pleasant silverware and mahogany surroundings. There were no other guests; he was to be alone. The blinds were drawn, lamps lit, and the fire at his back was comforting. So he sat long over his meal until a pale-faced maid came to clear the table, talking to him of country things as she bustled about. It was a long narrow room, with a sideboard and the door at one end and the fireplace at the other. A bookshelf, almost bare of books, held a number of plates; the long wall facing the windows had almost no pictures, but there were hung upon it, for some mysterious but surely sufficient reason, many solidly shaped dish-covers of the kind held in such curious regard and known as "willow pattern"; one was even hung over a map.
Two musty prints were mixed among them, pictures of horses with stiff, exaggerated bodies, ridden by figures of inhuman, dignified posture, dressed in whiskers, colored jackets, and tight white breeches.He took the books down from the shelf, but his interest soon faded, and he exchanged the almanacs, the county directory, and various guide-books for the Cotswold Chronicle. With this, having pulled the deep chair to the hearth, he whiled away the time. The newspaper amused him with its advertisements for stock shows, farm auctions, traveling quacks and conjurers, and there was a long account of the execution of a local criminal, one Timothy Bridger, who had murdered an infant under shameful circumstances. This alarming climax proved rather upsetting to the traveler; he threw down the paper.
The town was as quiet as the hills, and he could hear no sounds in the house. He got up and went across the hall to the smoking-room. The door was shut, but there was light within, and he entered. The girl sat there much as he had seen her on arrival, still alone, her feet on the fender. He closed the door behind him, sat down, and crossing his legs puffed at his pipe, admiring the cozy room and the pretty figure of the girl, which he could do without embarrassment as her pensive head, slightly bowed, was turned away from him.
He could see something of her, too, in the mirror at the bar, which also reflected the pleasant shapes of bottles of colored wines and rich liqueurs—so charming in form and appearance that they seemed destined for lovely stories, even when unused—and those with familiar outlines containing plain spirits or small beer, for which harsher fates were reserved, like base oils, horse medicines, disinfectants, and cold tea. There were colored glasses for bitter wines, white for sweet, a tiny lead sink beneath them, and the four black handles of the beer pump.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-445c8a1cc7104b48bad66716328e0548
# book_title: Dusky Ruth
# chapter_id: 1-dusky-ruth
# chapter_title: Dusky Ruth
# book_page: 3 / 9
# chapter_page: 3
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
He took the books down from the shelf, but his interest soon faded, and he exchanged the almanacs, the county directory, and various guide-books for the Cotswold Chronicle. With this, having pulled the deep chair to the hearth, he whiled away the time. The newspaper amused him with its advertisements for stock shows, farm auctions, traveling quacks and conjurers, and there was a long account of the execution of a local criminal, one Timothy Bridger, who had murdered an infant under shameful circumstances. This alarming climax proved rather upsetting to the traveler; he threw down the paper.
The town was as quiet as the hills, and he could hear no sounds in the house. He got up and went across the hall to the smoking-room. The door was shut, but there was light within, and he entered. The girl sat there much as he had seen her on arrival, still alone, her feet on the fender. He closed the door behind him, sat down, and crossing his legs puffed at his pipe, admiring the cozy room and the pretty figure of the girl, which he could do without embarrassment as her pensive head, slightly bowed, was turned away from him.
He could see something of her, too, in the mirror at the bar, which also reflected the pleasant shapes of bottles of colored wines and rich liqueurs—so charming in form and appearance that they seemed destined for lovely stories, even when unused—and those with familiar outlines containing plain spirits or small beer, for which harsher fates were reserved, like base oils, horse medicines, disinfectants, and cold tea. There were colored glasses for bitter wines, white for sweet, a tiny lead sink beneath them, and the four black handles of the beer pump.The girl wore a light silk blouse, a short black velvet skirt, and a pair of very thin silk stockings that showed the skin of her instep and shin so plainly that he could see they were reddened by the warmth of the fire. She had on a pair of dainty cloth shoes with high heels, but what was wonderful about her was the mass of rich black hair piled at the back of her head and shadowing her dusky neck. He sat puffing his pipe and letting the loud tick of the clock fill the quiet room. She did not stir, and he could not move a muscle. It was as if he had been drawn there to wait silently. He felt now that had been his desire all evening; and here, in her presence, he was more strangely stirred than by any event he could remember.
In his youth he had viewed women as futile, pitiable creatures that grew long hair, wore corsets and garters, and prayed incomprehensible prayers. Watching them in the theater stalls from his high perch in the gallery, he had always disliked the look of their bare shoulders. But still, there was a god in the sky, a god with flowing hair and exquisite eyes, whose single stride with a grandly rendered passion took him across the whole round world to which his buoyant limbs were bound like spokes to the eternal rim and axle, his bright hair burning in the pity of sunsets and tossing in the anger of dawns.
The master traveler had indeed come into this room to be with this woman; she as surely desired him, and for all its accidental occasion, it was as if he, walking the paths of the world, had suddenly come upon... what could be imagined with all due reverence but, well, just a shrine; and he, admirably humble, bowed his head at once.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-445c8a1cc7104b48bad66716328e0548
# book_title: Dusky Ruth
# chapter_id: 1-dusky-ruth
# chapter_title: Dusky Ruth
# book_page: 4 / 9
# chapter_page: 4
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
The girl wore a light silk blouse, a short black velvet skirt, and a pair of very thin silk stockings that showed the skin of her instep and shin so plainly that he could see they were reddened by the warmth of the fire. She had on a pair of dainty cloth shoes with high heels, but what was wonderful about her was the mass of rich black hair piled at the back of her head and shadowing her dusky neck. He sat puffing his pipe and letting the loud tick of the clock fill the quiet room. She did not stir, and he could not move a muscle. It was as if he had been drawn there to wait silently. He felt now that had been his desire all evening; and here, in her presence, he was more strangely stirred than by any event he could remember.
In his youth he had viewed women as futile, pitiable creatures that grew long hair, wore corsets and garters, and prayed incomprehensible prayers. Watching them in the theater stalls from his high perch in the gallery, he had always disliked the look of their bare shoulders. But still, there was a god in the sky, a god with flowing hair and exquisite eyes, whose single stride with a grandly rendered passion took him across the whole round world to which his buoyant limbs were bound like spokes to the eternal rim and axle, his bright hair burning in the pity of sunsets and tossing in the anger of dawns.
The master traveler had indeed come into this room to be with this woman; she as surely desired him, and for all its accidental occasion, it was as if he, walking the paths of the world, had suddenly come upon... what could be imagined with all due reverence but, well, just a shrine; and he, admirably humble, bowed his head at once.Were there no other people within? The clock showed a few minutes to nine. He sat on, still as stone, and the woman might have been made of wax for all the movement or sound she made. There was allure in the air between them; he had stopped smoking, and the pipe grew cold between his teeth. He waited for a look from her, a movement to break the trance of silence. No footstep in street or house, no voice in the inn but the clock beating away as if announcing doom. Suddenly it struck nine loud notes, a bell in the town repeated them mournfully, and a cuckoo no farther away than the kitchen mocked them with three times three. After that came the weak steps of the old landlord along the hall, the slam of doors, the rattle of locks and bolts, and then the silence returned, unbearable between them.
He rose and stood behind her; he touched the black hair. She made no movement or sign. He pulled out two or three combs, dropping them into her lap, letting the whole mass tumble about his hands. It had a curious rough texture as it came undone, but it was so full and shining; black as a rook's wings. He slid his palms through it. His fingers searched it and tangled with its fine strangeness. Into his mind came a serious thought, stilling his wayward fancy—this was no mere whim, but a rite fulfilling itself! (Run, run, silly man, you're lost.) But having gone so far, he burned his bridges, leaned over, and drew her face back to him. And at that, seizing his wrists, she gave him passion for passion, pressing his hands to her bosom, sealing the kiss again and again. Then she sprang up and, picking his hat and scarf from the fender, said:
"I've been drying them for you, but the hat has shrunk a bit, I'm sure—I tried it on."
He took them from her and put them behind him; he leaned back lightly against the table, holding it with both hands behind him; he could not speak.
"Aren't you going to thank me for drying them?" she asked, picking her combs from the rug and pinning her hair up again.
"I wonder why we did that?" he asked, ashamed.
"That's what I'm thinking too," she said.
"You were so beautiful about... about it, you know."
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-445c8a1cc7104b48bad66716328e0548
# book_title: Dusky Ruth
# chapter_id: 1-dusky-ruth
# chapter_title: Dusky Ruth
# book_page: 5 / 9
# chapter_page: 5
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
Were there no other people within? The clock showed a few minutes to nine. He sat on, still as stone, and the woman might have been made of wax for all the movement or sound she made. There was allure in the air between them; he had stopped smoking, and the pipe grew cold between his teeth. He waited for a look from her, a movement to break the trance of silence. No footstep in street or house, no voice in the inn but the clock beating away as if announcing doom. Suddenly it struck nine loud notes, a bell in the town repeated them mournfully, and a cuckoo no farther away than the kitchen mocked them with three times three. After that came the weak steps of the old landlord along the hall, the slam of doors, the rattle of locks and bolts, and then the silence returned, unbearable between them.
He rose and stood behind her; he touched the black hair. She made no movement or sign. He pulled out two or three combs, dropping them into her lap, letting the whole mass tumble about his hands. It had a curious rough texture as it came undone, but it was so full and shining; black as a rook's wings. He slid his palms through it. His fingers searched it and tangled with its fine strangeness. Into his mind came a serious thought, stilling his wayward fancy—this was no mere whim, but a rite fulfilling itself! (Run, run, silly man, you're lost.) But having gone so far, he burned his bridges, leaned over, and drew her face back to him. And at that, seizing his wrists, she gave him passion for passion, pressing his hands to her bosom, sealing the kiss again and again. Then she sprang up and, picking his hat and scarf from the fender, said:
"I've been drying them for you, but the hat has shrunk a bit, I'm sure—I tried it on."
He took them from her and put them behind him; he leaned back lightly against the table, holding it with both hands behind him; he could not speak.
"Aren't you going to thank me for drying them?" she asked, picking her combs from the rug and pinning her hair up again.
"I wonder why we did that?" he asked, ashamed.
"That's what I'm thinking too," she said.
"You were so beautiful about... about it, you know."She made no reply, but continued to pin up her hair, looking at him brightly from under her brows. When she had finished, she went close to him.
"Will that do?"
"I'll take it down again."
"No, no, the old man or the old woman will be coming in."
"What of that?" he said, taking her into his arms. "Tell me your name."
She shook her head, but she returned his kisses and stroked his hair and shoulders with beautifully soft movements.
"What is your name? I want to call you by your name," he said. "I can't keep calling you Lovely Woman, Lovely Woman."
Again she shook her head and remained silent.
"I'll call you Ruth, then—Dusky Ruth, Ruth of the black, beautiful hair."
"That's a nice-sounding name—I knew a deaf and dumb girl named Ruth; she went to Nottingham and married an organ-grinder—but I'd like it for my name."
"Then I give it to you."
"Mine is so ugly."
"What is it?"
Again the shaken head and the burning caress.
"Then you shall be Ruth. Will you keep that name?"
"Yes, if you give me the name, I will keep it for you."
Time had indeed taken them by the forelock, and they looked upon a glowing world.
"I stake my one talent," he said jokingly, "and look, it returns me fortyfold. I feel like the boy who catches three mice with one piece of cheese."
At ten o'clock the girl said:
"I must go and see how they are getting on," and she went to the door.
"Are we keeping them up?"
She nodded.
"Are you tired?"
"No, I'm not tired."
She looked at him doubtfully.
"We ought not to stay in here. Go into the coffee-room, and I'll come there in a few minutes."
"Right," he whispered gaily. "We'll sit up all night."
She stood at the door for him to pass, and he crossed the hall to the other room. It was dark except for the glow of the fire. Standing at the hearth, he lit a match for the lamp but paused at the globe; then he put out the match.
"No, it's better to sit in the firelight."
He heard voices at the other end of the house that seemed to have a scolding note.
"Lord," he thought, "is she getting into trouble?"
Then her steps echoed over the stone floor of the hall; she opened the door and stood there with a lit candle in her hand. He stood at the other end of the room, smiling.
"Good night," she said.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-445c8a1cc7104b48bad66716328e0548
# book_title: Dusky Ruth
# chapter_id: 1-dusky-ruth
# chapter_title: Dusky Ruth
# book_page: 6 / 9
# chapter_page: 6
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
She made no reply, but continued to pin up her hair, looking at him brightly from under her brows. When she had finished, she went close to him.
"Will that do?"
"I'll take it down again."
"No, no, the old man or the old woman will be coming in."
"What of that?" he said, taking her into his arms. "Tell me your name."
She shook her head, but she returned his kisses and stroked his hair and shoulders with beautifully soft movements.
"What is your name? I want to call you by your name," he said. "I can't keep calling you Lovely Woman, Lovely Woman."
Again she shook her head and remained silent.
"I'll call you Ruth, then—Dusky Ruth, Ruth of the black, beautiful hair."
"That's a nice-sounding name—I knew a deaf and dumb girl named Ruth; she went to Nottingham and married an organ-grinder—but I'd like it for my name."
"Then I give it to you."
"Mine is so ugly."
"What is it?"
Again the shaken head and the burning caress.
"Then you shall be Ruth. Will you keep that name?"
"Yes, if you give me the name, I will keep it for you."
Time had indeed taken them by the forelock, and they looked upon a glowing world.
"I stake my one talent," he said jokingly, "and look, it returns me fortyfold. I feel like the boy who catches three mice with one piece of cheese."
At ten o'clock the girl said:
"I must go and see how they are getting on," and she went to the door.
"Are we keeping them up?"
She nodded.
"Are you tired?"
"No, I'm not tired."
She looked at him doubtfully.
"We ought not to stay in here. Go into the coffee-room, and I'll come there in a few minutes."
"Right," he whispered gaily. "We'll sit up all night."
She stood at the door for him to pass, and he crossed the hall to the other room. It was dark except for the glow of the fire. Standing at the hearth, he lit a match for the lamp but paused at the globe; then he put out the match.
"No, it's better to sit in the firelight."
He heard voices at the other end of the house that seemed to have a scolding note.
"Lord," he thought, "is she getting into trouble?"
Then her steps echoed over the stone floor of the hall; she opened the door and stood there with a lit candle in her hand. He stood at the other end of the room, smiling.
"Good night," she said."Oh no, no! Come along," he protested, but he did not move from the hearth.
"Got to go to bed," she answered.
"Are they angry with you?"
"No."
"Well, then, come over here and sit down."
"Got to go to bed," she said again, but she had meanwhile put her candlestick on the little sideboard and was trimming the wick with a burnt match.
"Oh, come on, just half an hour," he protested. She did not answer but went on poking at the candlewick.
"Ten minutes, then," he said, still not moving toward her.
"Five minutes," he begged.
She shook her head and, picking up the candlestick, turned to the door. He did not move; he just called her name: "Ruth!"
She came back then, put down the candlestick, and tiptoed across the room until he met her. The bliss of the embrace was so sharp that he was almost glad when she stood up again and said with forced composure, though he heard the tremor in her voice:
"I must get you your candle."
She brought one from the hall, set it on the table in front of him, and struck a match.
"What is my room number?" he asked.
"Number six," she answered, poking the wick vaguely with her match, while a thin piece of white wax dropped over the shoulder of the new candle. "Number six... next to mine."
The match burned out; she said abruptly, "Good night," took up her own candle, and left him there.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-445c8a1cc7104b48bad66716328e0548
# book_title: Dusky Ruth
# chapter_id: 1-dusky-ruth
# chapter_title: Dusky Ruth
# book_page: 7 / 9
# chapter_page: 7
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
"Oh no, no! Come along," he protested, but he did not move from the hearth.
"Got to go to bed," she answered.
"Are they angry with you?"
"No."
"Well, then, come over here and sit down."
"Got to go to bed," she said again, but she had meanwhile put her candlestick on the little sideboard and was trimming the wick with a burnt match.
"Oh, come on, just half an hour," he protested. She did not answer but went on poking at the candlewick.
"Ten minutes, then," he said, still not moving toward her.
"Five minutes," he begged.
She shook her head and, picking up the candlestick, turned to the door. He did not move; he just called her name: "Ruth!"
She came back then, put down the candlestick, and tiptoed across the room until he met her. The bliss of the embrace was so sharp that he was almost glad when she stood up again and said with forced composure, though he heard the tremor in her voice:
"I must get you your candle."
She brought one from the hall, set it on the table in front of him, and struck a match.
"What is my room number?" he asked.
"Number six," she answered, poking the wick vaguely with her match, while a thin piece of white wax dropped over the shoulder of the new candle. "Number six... next to mine."
The match burned out; she said abruptly, "Good night," took up her own candle, and left him there.In a few moments he went upstairs and entered his room. He locked the door, removed his coat, collar, and slippers, but the fever of passion had seized him, and he paced about with no desire to sleep. He sat down, but there was no way to distract himself. He tried to read the newspaper he had carried upstairs, and without taking in a single sentence, he forced himself to read again the entire account of the execution of the criminal Bridger. When he had finished, he carefully folded the paper and stood up, listening. He went to the adjoining wall and tapped on it with his fingertips. He waited half a minute, one minute, two minutes; there was no answering sign. He tapped again, more loudly, with his knuckles, but there was no response, and he tapped many times. He opened his door as silently as possible; along the dark passage, there were slivers of light under the other doors—the one next to his and the one beyond that.
He stood in the corridor listening to the low murmur of old voices in the farthest room, the old man and his wife getting ready for bed. Holding his breath fearfully, he stepped to her door and tapped softly. There was no answer, but he could sense that she knew he was there; he tapped again. She came to the door and whispered, "No, no, go away." He turned the handle; the door was locked.
"Let me in," he pleaded. He knew she was standing only inches away.
"Hush," she whispered. "Go away; the old woman has ears like a fox."
He stood silent for a moment.
"Unlock it," he urged. But he got no further reply, and feeling foolish and frustrated, he returned to his own room, tore off his clothes, extinguished the candle, and climbed into bed with his soul as wild as a storm-swept forest, his heart beating a frantic call. The room grew hot with strange heat; there was no peace for mind or limb, only flaming visions and desperate embraces.
"Morality... what is it but agreement with your own soul?"
So he lay for two hours—the clocks chimed twelve—listening with foolish persistence for her step along the corridor, imagining every faint sound—and the night was full of them—was her hand on the door.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-445c8a1cc7104b48bad66716328e0548
# book_title: Dusky Ruth
# chapter_id: 1-dusky-ruth
# chapter_title: Dusky Ruth
# book_page: 8 / 9
# chapter_page: 8
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
In a few moments he went upstairs and entered his room. He locked the door, removed his coat, collar, and slippers, but the fever of passion had seized him, and he paced about with no desire to sleep. He sat down, but there was no way to distract himself. He tried to read the newspaper he had carried upstairs, and without taking in a single sentence, he forced himself to read again the entire account of the execution of the criminal Bridger. When he had finished, he carefully folded the paper and stood up, listening. He went to the adjoining wall and tapped on it with his fingertips. He waited half a minute, one minute, two minutes; there was no answering sign. He tapped again, more loudly, with his knuckles, but there was no response, and he tapped many times. He opened his door as silently as possible; along the dark passage, there were slivers of light under the other doors—the one next to his and the one beyond that.
He stood in the corridor listening to the low murmur of old voices in the farthest room, the old man and his wife getting ready for bed. Holding his breath fearfully, he stepped to her door and tapped softly. There was no answer, but he could sense that she knew he was there; he tapped again. She came to the door and whispered, "No, no, go away." He turned the handle; the door was locked.
"Let me in," he pleaded. He knew she was standing only inches away.
"Hush," she whispered. "Go away; the old woman has ears like a fox."
He stood silent for a moment.
"Unlock it," he urged. But he got no further reply, and feeling foolish and frustrated, he returned to his own room, tore off his clothes, extinguished the candle, and climbed into bed with his soul as wild as a storm-swept forest, his heart beating a frantic call. The room grew hot with strange heat; there was no peace for mind or limb, only flaming visions and desperate embraces.
"Morality... what is it but agreement with your own soul?"
So he lay for two hours—the clocks chimed twelve—listening with foolish persistence for her step along the corridor, imagining every faint sound—and the night was full of them—was her hand on the door.Suddenly—and then it seemed as if his very heart would shake the house with its thunder—he heard clearly someone knocking on the wall. He got quickly out of bed and stood by the door, listening. He heard the knocking again, and having pulled on some clothes, he crept into the passage, which was now completely dark, feeling his way along the wall until he touched her door. It stood open. He entered her room and closed the door behind him. There was not the faintest glimmer of light; he could see nothing. He whispered "Ruth!" and she was standing there. She touched him, but said nothing. He reached out, and his hands met around her neck; her hair was flowing in a great wave around her. He put his lips to her face and found her eyes streaming with tears—salty, strange, and unsettling.
In the close darkness, he put his arms around her with no thought but to comfort her; one hand plunged through the long, rough tresses and the other across her hips before he realized she was not wearing a gown. Then he became aware of the softness of her breasts and the cold, smooth skin of her shoulders. But she was crying, crying silently with great tears, her strange sorrow dousing his desire.
"Ruth, Ruth, my beautiful dear!" he murmured soothingly. He felt for the bed with one hand, and turning back the quilt and sheets, he lifted her in as easily as a mother does her child, covered her, and still in his clothes, lay stretched beside her, comforting her. They lay like that, innocent as children, for an hour, until she seemed to have fallen asleep. Then he rose and went silently back to his room, full of weariness.
In the morning he breakfasted without seeing her, but as he had some business in the world that gave him just an hour more at the inn before leaving it for good, he went into the smoking-room and found her. She greeted him with a curious look but cheerfully enough, for there were other men now—farmers, a butcher, a registrar, and a very old man. The hour passed, but the men did not leave, and at last he put on his coat, took up his stick, and said good-bye. Her shining eyes followed him to the door, and she watched from the window as far as she could see him.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-445c8a1cc7104b48bad66716328e0548
# book_title: Dusky Ruth
# chapter_id: 1-dusky-ruth
# chapter_title: Dusky Ruth
# book_page: 9 / 9
# chapter_page: 9
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
Suddenly—and then it seemed as if his very heart would shake the house with its thunder—he heard clearly someone knocking on the wall. He got quickly out of bed and stood by the door, listening. He heard the knocking again, and having pulled on some clothes, he crept into the passage, which was now completely dark, feeling his way along the wall until he touched her door. It stood open. He entered her room and closed the door behind him. There was not the faintest glimmer of light; he could see nothing. He whispered "Ruth!" and she was standing there. She touched him, but said nothing. He reached out, and his hands met around her neck; her hair was flowing in a great wave around her. He put his lips to her face and found her eyes streaming with tears—salty, strange, and unsettling.
In the close darkness, he put his arms around her with no thought but to comfort her; one hand plunged through the long, rough tresses and the other across her hips before he realized she was not wearing a gown. Then he became aware of the softness of her breasts and the cold, smooth skin of her shoulders. But she was crying, crying silently with great tears, her strange sorrow dousing his desire.
"Ruth, Ruth, my beautiful dear!" he murmured soothingly. He felt for the bed with one hand, and turning back the quilt and sheets, he lifted her in as easily as a mother does her child, covered her, and still in his clothes, lay stretched beside her, comforting her. They lay like that, innocent as children, for an hour, until she seemed to have fallen asleep. Then he rose and went silently back to his room, full of weariness.
In the morning he breakfasted without seeing her, but as he had some business in the world that gave him just an hour more at the inn before leaving it for good, he went into the smoking-room and found her. She greeted him with a curious look but cheerfully enough, for there were other men now—farmers, a butcher, a registrar, and a very old man. The hour passed, but the men did not leave, and at last he put on his coat, took up his stick, and said good-bye. Her shining eyes followed him to the door, and she watched from the window as far as she could see him.
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