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The escape

By Hazel Gardner,2014-04-07 00:30
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The escape

    The escape

    I’ve always been convinced that if a woman once made up the mind to marry a man, nothing but instant flight could save him. Not always that; for once, a friend of mine, seeing the inevitable loon before him, took ship from a certain port (with a toothbrush for all his luggage, so conscious was he of his danger and the necessity for immediate action) and spent a year traveling round the world; but when, thinking of himself safe (“ women are fickle”, he said, “and in twelve months she will have forgotten all about

    me.”), he landed at the same port, the first person he saw gaily waving to him from the quay away was the little lady from whom he had left.

     I have only once known a man in such circumstances who managed to extricate himself. His name was Roger Charging. He was no longer young when he fell in love with Ruth Barlow and he had had sufficient experience to make himself careful; but Ruth Barlow had a gift (or should I call it a quality) that renders most men defenseless, and it was this that down like a row of a ninepins. This was the gift of pathos. Mrs. Barlow, for she was twice a widow, had splendid dark eyes and they were the most moving I ever saw; they seemed to be ever the point of filling with tears; they suggested that’s the world was too

    much for her, and you felt that, poor dear, her sufferings had been more than anyone should be asked to bear. If, like Roger Charing, you were a strong, hefty fellow with plenty of money, it was almost inevitable that you would say to yourself: I must stand between the hazards of life and this helpless little thing, oh, how wonderful it would be to take the sadness out of these big and lovely eyes! I gathered from Roger that everyone has treated Mrs. Barlow very badly. She was apparently one of those unfortunate persons with whom nothing by any chance goes right, if she married a husband he beat her; if she engaged a cook she drank. She never had a little lamb but it was sure to die.

    When Roger told me that he had at last persuaded her to marry him, I wished him joy. “I hope you’ll be good friends”, he said. “She’s a little afraid of you, you know. She thinks you’re callous.”

    “Upon my word, I don’t know why she should think that.”

    “You like her, don’t you?”

    “Very much.”

    “She’s had a rotten time, poor dear, I feel so dreadfully sorry for her.”

    “Yes.” I said.

    I couldn’t say less. I knew she was stupid and I thought she was scheming. My own belief was that she was as hard as nails.

    The first time I met her we had played bridge together and when she was my partner she twice trumped my best card. I behaved like an angel, but I confess that I thought if the tears were going to well up into anybody’s eyes they should have been mine rather than hers. And when, having by the end of the evening

    lost a good deal of money to me, she said she should send me a cheque and never did. I could not but think that I and no she should have worn a pathetic expression when next we met.

    Roger introduced her to his friends. He gave her lovely jewels. He tools her here, there, and everywhere. Their marriage was announced for the immediate future. Roger was very happy. He was committing a good action at the same time doing something he had very much a mind to. It is an uncommon situation and it is not surprising if he was a trifle more pleased with himself than was all together becoming. Then, on a sudden, he fell out of love. I do not know why. It could hardly have been that he grew tired of her conversation, for she had never had any conversation. Perhaps it was merely that this pathetic look of hers ceased to wring his heart-strings. His eyes were opened and he was one more the shrewd man of the world he had been. He became acutely conscious that Ruth Barlow had made up her mind to marry him and he swore a solemn oath that nothing would induce him to marry Ruth Barlow. But he was in a quandary. Now that he was in possession of his senses he saw with clearness the sort of woman he had to deal with and he was aware that, if he asked her to release him, she would (in her appealing way) assess her wounded feelings at an immoderately high figure. Besides, it is always awkward for a man to jilt a woman. People are apt to think he has behaved badly.

    Roger kept his own counsel. He gave neither by word nor gesture an indication that his feelings toward Ruth Barlow had changed. He remained attentive to all her wishes, he took her to dine at restaurants, they went to the play together, he sent her flowers; he was sympathetic and charming. They had made up their minds that they would be married as soon as they found a house that suited them, for he lived in chambers and she in furnished rooms; and they set about looking at desirable residences. The agents sent Roger orders to view and he took Ruth to see a number of houses. It was very hard to find that was quite satisfactory. Roger applied to more agents. They visited house. They went over them thoroughly examining then from the cellars in the basement to the attics under the roof. Sometimes they were too large and sometimes they were too small, sometimes they were too expensive and sometimes they wanted too many repairs; sometimes they were too stuffy and sometimes they were too dark and sometime they were too bleak. Roger always found a fault that made the house unsuitable. Of course he was hard to please; he could not bear to ask his dear Ruth to live in any but the perfect house and the perfect house wanted finding. House-hunting is a tiring and tiresome business and presently Ruth began to grow peevish; Roger begged her to have patience. Somewhere, surely, existed, the very house they were looking for and it only needed a little perseverance and they would find it. They looked at hundreds of house; they climbed thousands of stairs; they inspected innumerable kitchens. Ruth was exhausted and more than once lost her temper.

    “if you don’t find a house soon”, she said “I shall have to reconsider my position. Why, if you go on like this we shan’t be married for year.”

    “Don’t say that” he answered, “I beseech you to have patience. I’ve just received some entirely new lists

    from agents I’ve only just heard of. There must be at least sixty houses on them”

    They set out on the chase again. They looked at more houses and two years, they only looked at house, Ruth grew silent and scornful; her pathetic, beautiful eyes acquired an expression that was almost sullen. There are limits to human en durance. Mrs. Barlow had the patience of an angel, but at last she revolted.

“do you want to marry me of do you not?” she asked him

    There was an unaccustomed hardness in her voice, but is did not affect the gentleness of his reply. “Of course I do. We’ll get married the very moments we find a house. By the way, I’ve just heard of something that might suit us”

    “I don’t feel well enough to look at more houses just yet.”

    “Poor dear. I was afraid you were looking rather tired.”

    Ruth Barlow took to her bed. She would not see Roger and he had to content himself with calling her art the lodgings to inquire and sending her flowers. He was as ever assiduous and gallants. Every day he wrote and told her that he had heard of another house for them to look at. A week passed and then he received the following letter.

    Roger,

    I do think you really love me. I have found someone who is anxious to take care of me and I’m going to be married to him today.

    Ruth”

    He sent back his reply by special messenger.

    “Ruth,

    Your news shatters me. I shall never get over the blow, but of course your happiness must be my first consideration. I sent you here with seven orders to view; they arrived by this morning’s post and I’m

    quite sure you will find among them a house that will exactly suit you.

    Roger”.

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