CHAPTER LVII

THE SURPRISE

A few evenings later, he dropped off the lorry in the market-square, determined to pay Ruth a surprise visit two hours before his time, and walk home over Wind-hover afterwards.

He ran down River Lane at the back of the slaughter-house, grinning to himself. At the bottom of the lane a group of young willows bending plume-like over the wall at the corner ambushed him from Frogs' Hall. Covered thus he approached the cottage on tip-toe with the grins, the conspicuous elbow-work and elaborate stealth of the happy conspirator.

Ruth would have put the babe to bed. He would surprise her alone.

Frogs' Hall stood on a bank a foot or two above the Brooks to lift it over the winter floods and high leap-tides. Two windows only, one above the other, looked out over the river. Ernie peeped from his ambush. The lower window was open; and a voice came through it.

The voice was not that of Ruth, nor of her father or mother, but it was strangely familiar.

"You don't want me," it was urging. "Very well. So be it. And I don't want to do you no harm. Why should I?--I shan't tell no one what I know. Only you must give me back that letter in exchange. Fair is fair. See, we've both made mistakes, you and me. That's the short of it. But there's no reason any one should know if you'll only be sensible."

Ernie heard Ruth's answer, low and passionate.

"I wun't give it you then!--I'll hold it over you. Then I'll know I got you safe. Show it your Church friends and Mrs. Trupp and all."

Alf laughed harshly.

"Think it over, my lass," he said. "I'll call again in a day or two. I can twist your tail, and I will if you want."

He came out of the low-browed door, his eyes down, a thwarted look upon his face. It was not till he had descended the steps into the Brooks that he was aware of the man standing against the bunch of willows on his left.

He turned about with a grunt and made off in the direction of Parson's Tye.

A few yards away he turned again and came back swiftly, his eyes down, and face troubled.

"Say, Ernie!" he began.

Ernie, under the tossing willow-plumes, awaited him coldly.

Alf seemed to feel that he had run up against the wall of the other's hostility. He stopped short, turned abruptly once more, and bustled away, jerking a handful of words over his shoulder.

"All right," he said. "Have it your own way. Only don't blame me. That's all. But there is a law in the land."

Ernie stood with folded arms, and watched his brother across the Tye and out of sight.

Then thoughtfully he mounted the steps of the cottage, knocked at the door, and entered the kitchen.

Ruth sat by the fire, staring into it, on her face that formidable look of an animal driven to bay he had before remarked.

He stood in the door and watched her.

"Ruth," he said at last.

Her profile was to him, her hands bound about her knees. She did not stir, but she was aware of his presence.

"He ain't got nothing against you, Alf ain't?" Ernie continued.

His face was wrung, his voice thick and unnatural.

Ruth rose slowly; slowly she came to him, and put both hands on his shoulders.

She lifted her face, and it was blind and quivering.

"O, Ernie!" she cried. "It was him drove me that day."

Ernie smiled, in his relief his hands clasping her elbows, his eyes dwelling on her twittering lids.

"I knaw'd that then," he answered broadly.

She opened her eyes on him swiftly, and stared aghast.

"Did you?" she panted. "How?"

"I saw ye."

She huddled closer to him, and laid her head upon his shoulder as though to hide her face.

"Where did you see me?" she whispered.

"At the Decoy. East Gate. That afternoon."

Suddenly she drooped, and seemed to hang about him. He put his arms about her; otherwise she would surely have fallen.

He sank into a chair; and it was some while before she gathered herself and rose.

One hand on the mantel-piece, she stood gazing into the fire, panting.

"Alf's the only one as knows who he was--only you and Madame," she said at last. "And you're safe." She lifted her eyes to his and continued appealingly. "He done me wrong, Ernie. But he's her father all said. And I wouldn't for worlds any harm come to him through me. He was mine one time o day, tany rate. And I must protect him, best I can."

"He can protect himself, I reck'n," said Ernie bitterly. "Don't ardly need you to see to him, I reck'n."

She looked up swiftly.

"It'd wreck his career if it was known. They'd bowl him out of the Army surely."

"Who told you that?" asked Ernie.

For a fraction of a second she hesitated.

"He did," she said: and instantly saw her mistake.

Ernie rose, slow and white.

"Does he write then still?"

She felt the storms beating about her, and her bosom heaved.

"Only that once," she answered at length and lamely.

Ernie came pressing in on her with ruthless determination.

"May I see the letter?"

She flashed up at him with astonishing ferocity.

"No," and added heavily--"It's burnt."

She was clearly fencing with him; clearly not telling all the truth. He did not blame her. But he felt that helplessness, that irritation, of the male whose bull-headed rush is baffled by the woman's weapon, imponderable as air, elusive as twilight, soft and blinding as a fog; the weapons she has wrought in self-defence upon the anvil of her necessities through the immemorial ages of her evolution.

"He asked you to burn it, I suppose?" said Ernie bitterly.

Her bosom heaved. She did not answer him.

"Ah," continued Ernie remorselessly. "He knew you. Took advantage to the end."

Ernie was troubled for the moment by the incident, but the emotion it aroused in him was pity rather than anger.

Ruth had deceived him, he was sure. He did not believe that Royal had written her a letter. So skilled an adventurer, so expert a cad, would be little likely to commit himself on paper in such a matter. That ten-pound note had wound up the incident for him.

But the shifts to which a girl in Ruth's position must inevitably be driven seemed to him excusable, even in this case, admirable. Royal had betrayed and deserted her; and she repaid his treachery by a steadfastness beyond words.

With the capacity of true love, he made beauty out of an obvious blemish.

Here was a woman indeed!--Here was a lover!

Quietly he persevered.