Solitary Island, Part Fourth, Chapters II-IV [pp. 185-212]

SOLITARY ISLAND.
"It was found and given to Ruth. Romantic, wasn't it? They
could no longer hold her in the convent.' She went by hill, she
went by dale,' until she came to me in the city, showed me the
card, and implored me to aid her in finding you. When you
were not to be found she was nearly frantic, and fled to the seclusion of Clayburg to hide her grief. Worse than a convent,
isn't it? And I thought you had settled the matter, and would
take Ruth with you to the city! Well, there's bashfulness for
you! And so, Flo-Mr. Wallace is on the island. Which island,
I'd like to know?"
"Solitary Island I think they call it," said Paul absently, his
whole body hot with mingled feelings of shame and delight.
"Mr. Rossiter," she said suddenly, "you must do me a favor.
I want to see Florian. I must see him to-night. The last train
leaves at ten, and I must be on that train. Will you take me to
Solitary Island?"
"I have to go there myself," the poet said, surprised somewhat, "and you may come with me."
"Thank you-thank you a hundred times!" so earnestly that
Paul had a sudden misgiving as to the prudence of granting the
favor.
"And now, Mr. Rossiter," pleadingly, with sweet confidence,
"you will not go without speaking to Ruth? You will not
leave her and yourself to pine-"
"Thank you," said Paul hastily. "Please do not say any
more about that. I will call for you at seven o'clock. Three
hours will be more than sufficient to take us to the island and
back again. With your permission I will go now, as I have
some business to attend to."
The look of triumph, of delight on Barbara's countenance as
he left the room was spoiled by the baser feeling of satisfied r-evenge. She had, in spite of her enemies, discovered Florian,
and, at the least, wounded Ruth's sterling modesty, if not altogether destroyed its existence in the mind of the sensitive Paul
Rossiter. Paul went out into the open air in a daze of happiness. Ruth loved him; his fate was no longer unceartain, but
he was sorry that her tender secret had found a resting-place
in Barbara's bosom. He could not see the motives of the latter's
coarse revelation of it to him. He was sure, however, that
malice prompted both the coarseness and the revelation, and he
had-a dim suspicion that something might have happened since
Barbara's arrival in town to bring it to pass. Perhaps Ruth
knew and dreaded that Barbara would do something of the kind.
20I