and had begged her to forget all about Brazil. They would be far better off as they were for the first year or two of their married life, and other opportunities would crop up, he knew.
But Ruth was not entirely comforted, and although she seemed as tranquil as before, she watched Stephen secretly, conscious that he was working long hours under strain. But it was a transitory malaise, she felt certain, which would pass away as soon as they were married.
One morning, four days before the wedding, Ruth's dress arrived, a misty white armful of chiffon and lace, which emerged from a cocoon of rustling tissue paper. The post had arrived at the same time and her father sat at the breakfast table, gazing fixedly at a short note written in Stephen Gardiner's hand. He rose from the table and looked across at his daughter and his wife.
Ruth was pirouetting about the room, the fragile frock swirling as she held it against her. Mrs. Bassett's face was alight with wonderment.
"My dear," said Mr. Bassett, in a husky voice, "leave that child to her own devices for a minute and come and help me on with my coat."
The two went into the hall and Mr. Bassett closed the door. Then he handed the note to his wife. Her face crumpled as she read, but she made no sound. The letter bore the address of a Swiss hotel and began without preamble.
I've made a hopeless mess of everything. Tell Ruth it's no use going on with the wedding and better to part now. She'll get a letter by the next post, but tell her not to think too badly of me. She's always been too good for me in any case. Forgive me if you can.
S TEPHEN
"He's ill. He's not himself," whispered Mrs. Bassett at last, raising tear-filled eyes. Her husband looked grim.
"I'll try and book an air passage today," said Mr. Bassett, "to see the fellow."
"And Ruth?" faltered his wife.
"Break it to her before the afternoon post arrives," answered Mr. Bassett, transferring the burden with customary male ability. "You'll do it better than I can. I'll see her when I get back."
He kissed his wife swiftly, crammed the letter in his pocket and escaped through the front door.
Ruth had received the news later that morning with amazing tranquillity. Her reaction had been the same as her mother's. Stephen was not himself. This sudden flight, the agitated note, the panic before the ceremony were all symptoms of intolerable strain. The appalling thought that Stephen might really leave her and that the wedding might never take place hardly entered her head. The plans were made, the guests invited, the beds in the house were already made up awaiting elderly aunts from Cheltenham, a Scottish cousin and a school friend from Holland. The wedding was as inevitable to Ruth as the approach of dawn, and though her heart was wrung with pity for Stephen, she felt none for herself. There was no need.
It was she who calmed her mother that day. She read her letter from Stephen, which arrived that afternoon, in her bedroom, with the white wedding dress at her side. It added little more to the one her father had received, except that the post in Brazil was mentioned. He urged her to forget him, to forgive him, to waste no time in regrets. Better by far to part now, was the gist of the distracted communication, than to find out their mistake too late.
Ruth felt that she should go at once to Switzerland to see Stephen, but her mother insisted that she should await her father's return the next day. Both women slept little that night. Mrs. Bassett knew instinctively that Stephen would never be persuaded to return. Beside her grief on Ruth's account her wracked mind agitated itself with plans for the cancellation of the ceremony. At three o'clock she rose and paced distractedly about the quiet house, and Ruth joined her, equally distraught, but not for herself. She grieved for her unhappy lover, her agitated mother and her father's journeyings. She longed for his return, which she was positive would bring good news, and,
But Ruth was not entirely comforted, and although she seemed as tranquil as before, she watched Stephen secretly, conscious that he was working long hours under strain. But it was a transitory malaise, she felt certain, which would pass away as soon as they were married.
One morning, four days before the wedding, Ruth's dress arrived, a misty white armful of chiffon and lace, which emerged from a cocoon of rustling tissue paper. The post had arrived at the same time and her father sat at the breakfast table, gazing fixedly at a short note written in Stephen Gardiner's hand. He rose from the table and looked across at his daughter and his wife.
Ruth was pirouetting about the room, the fragile frock swirling as she held it against her. Mrs. Bassett's face was alight with wonderment.
"My dear," said Mr. Bassett, in a husky voice, "leave that child to her own devices for a minute and come and help me on with my coat."
The two went into the hall and Mr. Bassett closed the door. Then he handed the note to his wife. Her face crumpled as she read, but she made no sound. The letter bore the address of a Swiss hotel and began without preamble.
I've made a hopeless mess of everything. Tell Ruth it's no use going on with the wedding and better to part now. She'll get a letter by the next post, but tell her not to think too badly of me. She's always been too good for me in any case. Forgive me if you can.
S TEPHEN
"He's ill. He's not himself," whispered Mrs. Bassett at last, raising tear-filled eyes. Her husband looked grim.
"I'll try and book an air passage today," said Mr. Bassett, "to see the fellow."
"And Ruth?" faltered his wife.
"Break it to her before the afternoon post arrives," answered Mr. Bassett, transferring the burden with customary male ability. "You'll do it better than I can. I'll see her when I get back."
He kissed his wife swiftly, crammed the letter in his pocket and escaped through the front door.
Ruth had received the news later that morning with amazing tranquillity. Her reaction had been the same as her mother's. Stephen was not himself. This sudden flight, the agitated note, the panic before the ceremony were all symptoms of intolerable strain. The appalling thought that Stephen might really leave her and that the wedding might never take place hardly entered her head. The plans were made, the guests invited, the beds in the house were already made up awaiting elderly aunts from Cheltenham, a Scottish cousin and a school friend from Holland. The wedding was as inevitable to Ruth as the approach of dawn, and though her heart was wrung with pity for Stephen, she felt none for herself. There was no need.
It was she who calmed her mother that day. She read her letter from Stephen, which arrived that afternoon, in her bedroom, with the white wedding dress at her side. It added little more to the one her father had received, except that the post in Brazil was mentioned. He urged her to forget him, to forgive him, to waste no time in regrets. Better by far to part now, was the gist of the distracted communication, than to find out their mistake too late.
Ruth felt that she should go at once to Switzerland to see Stephen, but her mother insisted that she should await her father's return the next day. Both women slept little that night. Mrs. Bassett knew instinctively that Stephen would never be persuaded to return. Beside her grief on Ruth's account her wracked mind agitated itself with plans for the cancellation of the ceremony. At three o'clock she rose and paced distractedly about the quiet house, and Ruth joined her, equally distraught, but not for herself. She grieved for her unhappy lover, her agitated mother and her father's journeyings. She longed for his return, which she was positive would bring good news, and,
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