Ragged Trousered Philanthropists by Robert Tressell (fiction novels to read .txt) 📕

finding any trace of her.

Her father lived a short distance outside the town, and this was one

of the first places they went to, although Easton did not think it

likely she would go there, for she had not been on friendly terms with

her stepmother, and as he had anticipated, it was a fruitless journey.

They sought for her in every conceivable place, returning often to

Easton’s house to see if she had come home, but they found no trace of

her, nor met anyone who had seen her, which was, perhaps, because the

dreary, rain-washed streets were deserted by all except those whose

business compelled them to be out.

About eleven o’clock Nora was standing at the front door waiting for

Owen and Easton, when she thought she could discern a woman’s figure

in the shadow of the piers of the gate opposite. It was an unoccupied

house with a garden in front, and the outlines of the bushes it

contained were so vague in the darkness that it was impossible to be

certain; but the longer she looked the more convinced she became that

there was someone there. At last she summoned sufficient courage to

cross over the road, and as she nervously drew near the gate it became

evident that she had not been mistaken. There was a woman standing

there - a woman with a child in her arms, leaning against one of the

pillars and holding the iron bars of the gate with her left hand. It

was Ruth. Nora recognized her even in the semi-darkness. Her

attitude was one of extreme exhaustion, and as Nora touched her, she

perceived that she was wet through and trembling; but although she was

almost fainting with fatigue she would not consent to go indoors until

repeatedly assured that Easton was not there, and that Nora would not

let him see her if he came. And when at length she yielded and went

into the house she would not sit down or take off her hat or jacket

until - crouching on the floor beside Nora’s chair with her face

hidden in the latter’s lap - she had sobbed out her pitiful

confession, the same things that she had unwittingly told to the same

hearer so often before during the illness, the only fact that was new

was the account of her wanderings that night.

She cried so bitterly and looked so forlorn and heartbroken and

ashamed as she faltered out her woeful story; so consumed with

self-condemnation, making no excuse for herself except to repeat over

and over again that she had never meant to do wrong, that Nora could

not refrain from weeping also as she listened.

It appeared that, unable to bear the reproach that Easton’s presence

seemed to imply, or to endure the burden of her secret any longer, and

always haunted by the thought of the lake in the park, Ruth had formed

the dreadful resolution of taking her own life and the child’s. When

she arrived at the park gates they were closed and locked for the

night but she remembered that there was another means of entering -

the place at the far end of the valley where the park was not fenced

in, so she had gone there - nearly three miles - only to find that

railings had recently been erected and therefore it was no longer

possible to get into the park by that way. And then, when she found

it impossible to put her resolve into practice, she had realized for

the first time the folly and wickedness of the act she had meant to

commit. But although she had abandoned her first intention, she said

she could never go home again; she would take a room somewhere and get

some work to do, or perhaps she might be able to get a situation where

they would allow her to have the child with her, or failing that she

would work and pay someone to look after it; but she could never go

home any more. If she only had somewhere to stay for a few days until

she could get something to do, she was sure she would be able to earn

her living, but she could not go back home; she felt that she would

rather walk about the streets all night than go there again.

It was arranged that Ruth should have the small apartment which had

been Frankie’s playroom, the necessary furniture being obtained from a

second-hand shop close by. Easton did not learn the real reason of

her flight until three days afterwards. At first he attributed it to

a recurrence of the mental disorder that she had suffered from after

the birth of the child, and he had been glad to leave her at Owen’s

place in Nora’s care, but on the evening of the third day when he

returned home from work, he found a letter in Ruth’s handwriting which

told him all there was to tell.

When he recovered from the stupefaction into which he was thrown by

the perusal of this letter, his first thought was to seek out Slyme,

but he found upon inquiring that the latter had left the town the

previous morning. Slyme’s landlady said he had told her that he had

been offered several months’ work in London, which he had accepted.

The truth was that Slyme had heard of Ruth’s flight - nearly everyone

knew about it as a result of the inquiries that had been made for her -

and, guessing the cause, he had prudently cleared out.

Easton made no attempt to see Ruth, but he went to Owen’s and took

Freddie away, saying he would pay Mrs Linden to look after the child

whilst he was at work. His manner was that of a deeply injured man -

the possibility that he was in any way to blame for what had happened

did not seem to occur to his mind at all.

As for Ruth she made no resistance to his taking the child away from

her, although she cried about it in secret. She got some work a few

days afterwards - helping the servants at one of the large boarding-houses on the Grand Parade.

Nora looked after the baby for her while she was at work, an

arrangement that pleased Frankie vastly; he said it was almost as good

as having a baby of their very own.

For the first few weeks after Ruth went away Easton tried to persuade

himself that he did not very much regret what had happened. Mrs

Linden looked after Freddie, and Easton tried to believe that he would

really be better off now that he had only himself and the child to

provide for.

At first, whenever he happened to meet Owen, they used to speak of

Ruth, or to be more correct, Easton used to speak of her; but one day

when the two men were working together Owen had expressed himself

rather offensively. He seemed to think that Easton was more to blame

than she was; and afterwards they avoided the subject, although Easton

found it difficult to avoid the thoughts the other man’s words

suggested.

Now and then he heard of Ruth and learnt that she was still working at

the same place; and once he met her suddenly and unexpectedly in the

street. They passed each other hurriedly and he did not see the

scarlet flush that for an instant dyed her face, nor the deathly

pallor that succeeded it.

He never went to Owen’s place or sent any communication to Ruth, nor

did she ever send him any; but although Easton did not know it she

frequently saw Freddie, for when Elsie Linden took the child out she

often called to see Mrs Owen.

As time went on and the resentment he had felt towards her lost its

first bitterness, Easton began to think there was perhaps some little

justification for what Owen had said, and gradually there grew within

him an immense desire for reconciliation - to start afresh and to

forget all that had happened; but the more he thought of this the more

hopeless and impossible of realization it seemed.

Although perhaps he was not conscious of it, this desire arose solely

from selfish motives. The money he earned seemed to melt away almost

as soon as he received it; to his surprise he found that he was not

nearly so well off in regard to personal comfort as he had been

formerly, and the house seemed to grow more dreary and desolate as the

wintry days dragged slowly by. Sometimes - when he had the money - he

sought forgetfulness in the society of Crass and the other frequenters

of the Cricketers, but somehow or other he could not take the same

pleasure in the conversation of these people as formerly, when he had

found it - as he now sometimes wondered to remember - so entertaining

as to almost make him forget Ruth’s existence.

One evening about three weeks before Christmas, as he and Owen were

walking homewards together from work, Easton reverted for the first

time to their former conversation. He spoke with a superior air: his

manner and tone indicating that he thought he was behaving with great

generosity. He would be willing to forgive her and have her back, he

said, if she would come: but he would never be able to tolerate the

child. Of course it might be sent to an orphanage or some similar

institution, but he was afraid Ruth would never consent to that, and

he knew that her stepmother would not take it.

`If you can persuade her to return to you, we’ll take the child,’ said

Owen.

`Do you think your wife would be willing?’

`She has already suggested doing so.’

`To Ruth?’

`No: to me. We thought it a possible way for you, and my wife would

like to have the child.’

`But would you be able to afford it?’ said Easton.

`We should manage all right.’

`Of course,’ said Easton, `if Slyme comes back he might agree to pay

something for its keep.’

Owen flushed.

`I wouldn’t take his money.’

After a long pause Easton continued: `Would you mind asking Mrs Owen

to suggest it to Ruth?’

`If you like I’ll get her to suggest it - as a message from you.’

`What I meant,’ said Easton hesitatingly, `was that your wife might

just suggest it - casual like - and advise her that it would be the

best way, and then you could let me know what Ruth said.’

`No,’ replied Owen, unable any longer to control his resentment of the

other’s manner, `as things stand now, if it were not for the other

child, I should advise her to have nothing further to do with you.

You seem to think that you are acting a very generous part in being

“willing” to have her back, but she’s better off now than she was with

you. I see no reason - except for the other child - why she should go

back to you. As far as I understand it, you had a good wife and you

ill-treated her.’

`I never ill-treated her! I never raised my hand to her - at least

only once, and then I didn’t hurt her. Does she say I ill-treated

her.’

`Oh no: from what my wife tells me she only blames herself, but I’m

drawing my own conclusions. You may not have struck her, but you did

worse - you treated her with indifference and exposed her to

temptation. What has happened is the natural result of your neglect

and want of care for her.