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Calderon stopped abruptly in the middle of that long road across the moor. Something glittered at the roadside where the heavy sunlight cast tiny, dense shadows from the stones. He stepped back, intent on discovering what had caught his eye.
There, half-raised by a small mound of hardened dust, lay a ring—a plain silver ring—and the sight struck him like a dagger. As he picked it up gently and dusted it with his handkerchief, his fingers trembled. It was his wife's ring. He had given it to her before their marriage as a memento of an exquisitely happy day. Throughout their time together, she had worn it constantly; never had she been without it. The ring was full of memories, memories now painful in their happiness because they belonged to a broken time. These memories pressed upon his heart as he stood in the roadway among the purple heather, gazing at the ring. His face had grown quite gray and hard, and his eyes were troubled.
For a moment he could do nothing but gaze at the ring, his thoughts urgent. He could not yet wonder how the ring had come to be there on this lonely road from dale to dale. Behind him, the road was white, narrowing through the heather, unshadowed by any tree. To left and right, the moor stretched in purple masses until it darkened at the skyline. Ahead, the road began its steep descent into Wensleydale. He could see the grass beyond, and far in the burning mist of late afternoon, a sheet of water gleamed like quicksilver. The wind at that great height came in powerful gusts, freshening the air and pressing warmly against his face and hands, as pleasantly as water against a swimmer. No other person was in sight upon the moor; he was utterly alone, with Evelyn's ring in his hand, and poignant memories assailing him.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-f78f026f09b14a01aa3fa2f6d405aa8a
# book_title: The Silver Ring
# chapter_id: 1-the-silver-ring
# chapter_title: The Silver Ring
# book_page: 1 / 7
# chapter_page: 1
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
Calderon stopped abruptly in the middle of that long road across the moor. Something glittered at the roadside where the heavy sunlight cast tiny, dense shadows from the stones. He stepped back, intent on discovering what had caught his eye.
There, half-raised by a small mound of hardened dust, lay a ring—a plain silver ring—and the sight struck him like a dagger. As he picked it up gently and dusted it with his handkerchief, his fingers trembled. It was his wife's ring. He had given it to her before their marriage as a memento of an exquisitely happy day. Throughout their time together, she had worn it constantly; never had she been without it. The ring was full of memories, memories now painful in their happiness because they belonged to a broken time. These memories pressed upon his heart as he stood in the roadway among the purple heather, gazing at the ring. His face had grown quite gray and hard, and his eyes were troubled.
For a moment he could do nothing but gaze at the ring, his thoughts urgent. He could not yet wonder how the ring had come to be there on this lonely road from dale to dale. Behind him, the road was white, narrowing through the heather, unshadowed by any tree. To left and right, the moor stretched in purple masses until it darkened at the skyline. Ahead, the road began its steep descent into Wensleydale. He could see the grass beyond, and far in the burning mist of late afternoon, a sheet of water gleamed like quicksilver. The wind at that great height came in powerful gusts, freshening the air and pressing warmly against his face and hands, as pleasantly as water against a swimmer. No other person was in sight upon the moor; he was utterly alone, with Evelyn's ring in his hand, and poignant memories assailing him.Calderon's love for his wife had been as intense and true as any love could be. Her love for him, more capricious and ardent, had been equally great. Yet in the fifth year of their marriage, their two strong personalities clashed, and they quarreled bitterly and parted. Both had independent means and many activities. Calderon had worked very hard since that quarrel, and they had not met for two years. The few letters exchanged early in their separation never suggested continued correspondence; although he knew his wife had been living in the eastern counties, he had no idea of her present whereabouts. How strange that he should find her precious ring on this lonely road! Engraved inside it he read: "Evelyn: Maurice"—the inscription she had desired. Calderon sighed, slipped the ring into his pocket, and thoughtfully continued on his way. Was Evelyn before him or behind him? Who could tell? They had never been to Yorkshire together.
He was walking on blind.
Then the question came: if they met, what could he say to her? He knew no more of his journey down into Wensleydale, for the passionate unreasonings overwhelmed him.
Arriving in the little village at the end of the moor road, he hesitated again. So much depended on his action. He must find Evelyn this evening, for his return to London was urgent. The shadows were already growing long, and the evening was heavy. Which way should he go? Upon his choice might depend the whole course of his future life. For a few moments he halted, irresolute. Then he walked slowly forward to the first inn he saw, his fingers playing in his waistcoat pocket with the little ring that had suddenly plunged him into the past. He thought the loss must have been accidental. She would not have kept the ring so long, nor brought it to Yorkshire, if she intended to throw it away forever. Yet how had it come to lie on the moorland road?
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-f78f026f09b14a01aa3fa2f6d405aa8a
# book_title: The Silver Ring
# chapter_id: 1-the-silver-ring
# chapter_title: The Silver Ring
# book_page: 2 / 7
# chapter_page: 2
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
Calderon's love for his wife had been as intense and true as any love could be. Her love for him, more capricious and ardent, had been equally great. Yet in the fifth year of their marriage, their two strong personalities clashed, and they quarreled bitterly and parted. Both had independent means and many activities. Calderon had worked very hard since that quarrel, and they had not met for two years. The few letters exchanged early in their separation never suggested continued correspondence; although he knew his wife had been living in the eastern counties, he had no idea of her present whereabouts. How strange that he should find her precious ring on this lonely road! Engraved inside it he read: "Evelyn: Maurice"—the inscription she had desired. Calderon sighed, slipped the ring into his pocket, and thoughtfully continued on his way. Was Evelyn before him or behind him? Who could tell? They had never been to Yorkshire together.
He was walking on blind.
Then the question came: if they met, what could he say to her? He knew no more of his journey down into Wensleydale, for the passionate unreasonings overwhelmed him.
Arriving in the little village at the end of the moor road, he hesitated again. So much depended on his action. He must find Evelyn this evening, for his return to London was urgent. The shadows were already growing long, and the evening was heavy. Which way should he go? Upon his choice might depend the whole course of his future life. For a few moments he halted, irresolute. Then he walked slowly forward to the first inn he saw, his fingers playing in his waistcoat pocket with the little ring that had suddenly plunged him into the past. He thought the loss must have been accidental. She would not have kept the ring so long, nor brought it to Yorkshire, if she intended to throw it away forever. Yet how had it come to lie on the moorland road?Calderon paused outside the comfortable inn, attracted to it but, as though relying on telepathy, convinced that Evelyn was not inside. Should he enter and ask? No. He knew she was not there. His steps carried him onward, as if following some invisible thread, through the village and across the dale, marveling at the heavy outline of Mount Caburn silhouetted against the sky. He found himself on a good road, hedged on both sides. It was an adventure; he was following his instinct. He did not really believe in it, he told himself—it was silly. He was bound for disappointment, a sense of being fooled, and the morning would find him unsatisfied, his single opportunity lost. Yet even as his thoughts poured doubt, he kept up a steady pace. It was as though two Calderons existed—one rational brain, the other overwhelming instinct.
"You'll see," he warned himself. "Nothing will happen. You'll have an uncomfortable night and a trudge back in the morning. No good. No good!"
Still he continued beside the silent hedges, knapsack over shoulder, arms swinging, the silver ring hidden in his waistcoat pocket.
It was quite dark when he reached Bainbridge. He knew the open common well, for he had passed through twelve years before, and the place was unforgettable. There was a large green, he remembered, with houses surrounding it, as at East Witton. He smiled at the memory and comparison. Yorkshire offered such variety of scene, from east to west, that he could always find a fond thought for each part. At Bainbridge he knew there was an old inn, quiet and spacious, where Evelyn might stay. She was not one to choose smaller establishments as he would; she would endure the discomforts of talkative company rather than primitive bathing arrangements. Had it been instinct that led him here, a subconscious guess at her tastes? He could not dwell on that now. He was here; it was too late to go farther; he must face whatever disappointment awaited.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-f78f026f09b14a01aa3fa2f6d405aa8a
# book_title: The Silver Ring
# chapter_id: 1-the-silver-ring
# chapter_title: The Silver Ring
# book_page: 3 / 7
# chapter_page: 3
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
Calderon paused outside the comfortable inn, attracted to it but, as though relying on telepathy, convinced that Evelyn was not inside. Should he enter and ask? No. He knew she was not there. His steps carried him onward, as if following some invisible thread, through the village and across the dale, marveling at the heavy outline of Mount Caburn silhouetted against the sky. He found himself on a good road, hedged on both sides. It was an adventure; he was following his instinct. He did not really believe in it, he told himself—it was silly. He was bound for disappointment, a sense of being fooled, and the morning would find him unsatisfied, his single opportunity lost. Yet even as his thoughts poured doubt, he kept up a steady pace. It was as though two Calderons existed—one rational brain, the other overwhelming instinct.
"You'll see," he warned himself. "Nothing will happen. You'll have an uncomfortable night and a trudge back in the morning. No good. No good!"
Still he continued beside the silent hedges, knapsack over shoulder, arms swinging, the silver ring hidden in his waistcoat pocket.
It was quite dark when he reached Bainbridge. He knew the open common well, for he had passed through twelve years before, and the place was unforgettable. There was a large green, he remembered, with houses surrounding it, as at East Witton. He smiled at the memory and comparison. Yorkshire offered such variety of scene, from east to west, that he could always find a fond thought for each part. At Bainbridge he knew there was an old inn, quiet and spacious, where Evelyn might stay. She was not one to choose smaller establishments as he would; she would endure the discomforts of talkative company rather than primitive bathing arrangements. Had it been instinct that led him here, a subconscious guess at her tastes? He could not dwell on that now. He was here; it was too late to go farther; he must face whatever disappointment awaited.A bedroom was available. He was provided with hot water and groomed himself as best he could. Whimsically, he imagined a number of women in semi-evening dress, a few men in dark suits, and himself the unmistakable tourist. Dinner would be over, and he would eat alone, then seek the owner of the silver ring among the guests. Calderon laughed nervously, trembling slightly. He would see what happened. He went downstairs, grinning at the possibility that Evelyn might appear from any of the doors along that silent passage.
At the foot of the stairs, he moved instinctively to the door and watched the few faint lights that flickered across the green in the darkness. It was a very dark night; clouds had rolled in from the southwest, covering the sky. There was a wind, and he thought rain might soon begin to patter.
And then, as he predicted the weather, Calderon was held still by a new sensation. From a room he had not entered came an unknown voice singing. The voice was sweet, but he did not listen to the singer; the tune alone drew him, and words formed in his mind as though he were singing them himself:
"The little silver ring that once you gave to me keeps in its narrow band every promise of ours..."
Surely he was dreaming! He could not move. The clouds hurried; darkness wrapped around him. He could not smile at coincidence because he could not believe the song was real. It was too much to absorb. If Evelyn were there, what could she be feeling or thinking? Calderon was an honest man, generally regarded as cool and unsentimental, but this one love easily moved him. Evelyn was the only woman for him; they were parted; he had found a ring full of such associations, as the song described. The ring was not mere ornament; it symbolized their love, and Calderon was deeply stirred.
While he stood there, not daring to move, he sensed he was not alone. A female figure stood in the doorway—he could see her light dress and the whiteness of her neck. Breathless, suffocated by this sudden turn in his dream, he gasped, "Evelyn!"
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-f78f026f09b14a01aa3fa2f6d405aa8a
# book_title: The Silver Ring
# chapter_id: 1-the-silver-ring
# chapter_title: The Silver Ring
# book_page: 4 / 7
# chapter_page: 4
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
A bedroom was available. He was provided with hot water and groomed himself as best he could. Whimsically, he imagined a number of women in semi-evening dress, a few men in dark suits, and himself the unmistakable tourist. Dinner would be over, and he would eat alone, then seek the owner of the silver ring among the guests. Calderon laughed nervously, trembling slightly. He would see what happened. He went downstairs, grinning at the possibility that Evelyn might appear from any of the doors along that silent passage.
At the foot of the stairs, he moved instinctively to the door and watched the few faint lights that flickered across the green in the darkness. It was a very dark night; clouds had rolled in from the southwest, covering the sky. There was a wind, and he thought rain might soon begin to patter.
And then, as he predicted the weather, Calderon was held still by a new sensation. From a room he had not entered came an unknown voice singing. The voice was sweet, but he did not listen to the singer; the tune alone drew him, and words formed in his mind as though he were singing them himself:
"The little silver ring that once you gave to me keeps in its narrow band every promise of ours..."
Surely he was dreaming! He could not move. The clouds hurried; darkness wrapped around him. He could not smile at coincidence because he could not believe the song was real. It was too much to absorb. If Evelyn were there, what could she be feeling or thinking? Calderon was an honest man, generally regarded as cool and unsentimental, but this one love easily moved him. Evelyn was the only woman for him; they were parted; he had found a ring full of such associations, as the song described. The ring was not mere ornament; it symbolized their love, and Calderon was deeply stirred.
While he stood there, not daring to move, he sensed he was not alone. A female figure stood in the doorway—he could see her light dress and the whiteness of her neck. Breathless, suffocated by this sudden turn in his dream, he gasped, "Evelyn!"There was a quick recoil. For a moment he thought all was lost, that he was alone. Then the woman stood very still, breathing quickly, half hidden by the doorpost, her face invisible in the gloom.
"I didn't see anybody," she said unsteadily. "Who are you?" Her voice sounded strained and afraid.
"Ah! You're not Evelyn!" Calderon cried. He still could not see her—only that white glimmer. "I'm—my name's Calderon. I beg your pardon. I thought you were my wife."
"Calderon!" the voice said, and it seemed to gain a sudden warmth, as if with gaiety. Then: "How funny!" And he imagined her head lowering, turning away. Was she smiling? Who could tell in that foglike darkness? He could barely see that she was still before him. But funny? What did that mean?
"Funny?" he repeated eagerly. "Is—" He stopped himself. Here was a complication! If he asked about Evelyn, might he not create new difficulties? He could not casually ask, for any question could lead to gossip. He could not expose Evelyn to a company of mischievous tourists who, without understanding the situation, might amuse themselves dissecting an unhappy marriage. So he said nothing further.
"Perhaps you've heard—" the voice began again, "perhaps you've heard of Alice Bradshaw." She had recovered from her shock and seemed ready to banter with him in the doorway. "I've known Evelyn for two years."
"I've an idea—" Calderon hesitated, racking his brains, lying. It became worse! How could he continue without revealing his ignorance of Evelyn's recent life? He frowned and smiled nervously into the dark. "I—it's possible—"
"But not probable!" the laughing voice interrupted. "Don't pretend to remember me."
"Well, I don't," Calderon admitted. "That's the truth."
"Honest man!" she said. Something urged him forward. The figure withdrew. Calderon instinctively reached out to stop her, inadvertently flipping the ring out of his hand.
"Oh!" he cried. "Here, I say!"
He dropped to his knees, groping on the ground. A match flickered in his fingers. He looked up quickly hoping to see her face, but the wind blew out the match.
"What have you dropped?" her voice asked. She had returned to the doorway.
"A ring!" Calderon answered sharply.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-f78f026f09b14a01aa3fa2f6d405aa8a
# book_title: The Silver Ring
# chapter_id: 1-the-silver-ring
# chapter_title: The Silver Ring
# book_page: 5 / 7
# chapter_page: 5
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
There was a quick recoil. For a moment he thought all was lost, that he was alone. Then the woman stood very still, breathing quickly, half hidden by the doorpost, her face invisible in the gloom.
"I didn't see anybody," she said unsteadily. "Who are you?" Her voice sounded strained and afraid.
"Ah! You're not Evelyn!" Calderon cried. He still could not see her—only that white glimmer. "I'm—my name's Calderon. I beg your pardon. I thought you were my wife."
"Calderon!" the voice said, and it seemed to gain a sudden warmth, as if with gaiety. Then: "How funny!" And he imagined her head lowering, turning away. Was she smiling? Who could tell in that foglike darkness? He could barely see that she was still before him. But funny? What did that mean?
"Funny?" he repeated eagerly. "Is—" He stopped himself. Here was a complication! If he asked about Evelyn, might he not create new difficulties? He could not casually ask, for any question could lead to gossip. He could not expose Evelyn to a company of mischievous tourists who, without understanding the situation, might amuse themselves dissecting an unhappy marriage. So he said nothing further.
"Perhaps you've heard—" the voice began again, "perhaps you've heard of Alice Bradshaw." She had recovered from her shock and seemed ready to banter with him in the doorway. "I've known Evelyn for two years."
"I've an idea—" Calderon hesitated, racking his brains, lying. It became worse! How could he continue without revealing his ignorance of Evelyn's recent life? He frowned and smiled nervously into the dark. "I—it's possible—"
"But not probable!" the laughing voice interrupted. "Don't pretend to remember me."
"Well, I don't," Calderon admitted. "That's the truth."
"Honest man!" she said. Something urged him forward. The figure withdrew. Calderon instinctively reached out to stop her, inadvertently flipping the ring out of his hand.
"Oh!" he cried. "Here, I say!"
He dropped to his knees, groping on the ground. A match flickered in his fingers. He looked up quickly hoping to see her face, but the wind blew out the match.
"What have you dropped?" her voice asked. She had returned to the doorway.
"A ring!" Calderon answered sharply."A ring!" She sounded sympathetic. "What a pity! Let me look."
He struck another match and searched again, without luck. The match died; beyond a brief glimpse of the dirt he saw nothing.
"It's your fault," he said to her, "for starting away."
"Was it on your finger?"
"No. It's not mine. It's a silver ring."
"A silver—" She paused, startled. "Did you hear the song just now?"
"Yes—Ah!" With the third match he spotted the ring. "Good!"
"Is it your ring?" she asked. "I mean... Evelyn... wears one, doesn't she?"
"Does she?" he replied dryly. "She did."
"Oh, she—"
"I found it on the moor. It's hers. I brought it—" Calderon stopped himself again, wiping the ring with his handkerchief.
"How did you know we were here?" the voice asked curiously.
"Then—!" cried Calderon, feeling his face grow hot. He wanted to shout at this confirmation of his wildest hopes. With great effort, he restrained himself. "Oh," he said vaguely, "one does know." He heard a real laugh this time, though smothered, as if she held a handkerchief to her mouth.
"Evidently," she said. "But how?"
"How do you know Evelyn didn't tell me?" he retorted, feeling he had made a masterstroke. "You haven't exhausted the possibilities."
"No, of course. She might have," the voice admitted. There was a tiny pause. "But I don't think she did. Of course, I don't know."
"No, of course," Calderon agreed politely. "Is she quite well?"
"Oh!" cried the voice, shaking with laughter. "Don't you know? Hasn't she told you? It's too bad!"
"What!" Calderon stepped closer. "She's not ill!"
"No, I meant she's quite well."
"She tells me very little about herself," he explained. "You must have noticed she never thinks of herself at all."
A new dryness came into her tone. "You still idealize her, then?"
"Yes. You see—it's odd, one doesn't talk about it—but I'm still in love with her."
Another silence, meaningful. "I think you're very forgiving," she finally said, her voice muffled. "I—"
"What I'd like to know," Calderon continued, as if weighing his words, "is whether she is also forgiving."
"Oh," said the voice, now very low, "you must ask her that."
"I do," he ventured. "Are you?"
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-f78f026f09b14a01aa3fa2f6d405aa8a
# book_title: The Silver Ring
# chapter_id: 1-the-silver-ring
# chapter_title: The Silver Ring
# book_page: 6 / 7
# chapter_page: 6
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
"A ring!" She sounded sympathetic. "What a pity! Let me look."
He struck another match and searched again, without luck. The match died; beyond a brief glimpse of the dirt he saw nothing.
"It's your fault," he said to her, "for starting away."
"Was it on your finger?"
"No. It's not mine. It's a silver ring."
"A silver—" She paused, startled. "Did you hear the song just now?"
"Yes—Ah!" With the third match he spotted the ring. "Good!"
"Is it your ring?" she asked. "I mean... Evelyn... wears one, doesn't she?"
"Does she?" he replied dryly. "She did."
"Oh, she—"
"I found it on the moor. It's hers. I brought it—" Calderon stopped himself again, wiping the ring with his handkerchief.
"How did you know we were here?" the voice asked curiously.
"Then—!" cried Calderon, feeling his face grow hot. He wanted to shout at this confirmation of his wildest hopes. With great effort, he restrained himself. "Oh," he said vaguely, "one does know." He heard a real laugh this time, though smothered, as if she held a handkerchief to her mouth.
"Evidently," she said. "But how?"
"How do you know Evelyn didn't tell me?" he retorted, feeling he had made a masterstroke. "You haven't exhausted the possibilities."
"No, of course. She might have," the voice admitted. There was a tiny pause. "But I don't think she did. Of course, I don't know."
"No, of course," Calderon agreed politely. "Is she quite well?"
"Oh!" cried the voice, shaking with laughter. "Don't you know? Hasn't she told you? It's too bad!"
"What!" Calderon stepped closer. "She's not ill!"
"No, I meant she's quite well."
"She tells me very little about herself," he explained. "You must have noticed she never thinks of herself at all."
A new dryness came into her tone. "You still idealize her, then?"
"Yes. You see—it's odd, one doesn't talk about it—but I'm still in love with her."
Another silence, meaningful. "I think you're very forgiving," she finally said, her voice muffled. "I—"
"What I'd like to know," Calderon continued, as if weighing his words, "is whether she is also forgiving."
"Oh," said the voice, now very low, "you must ask her that."
"I do," he ventured. "Are you?"
"Oh, Maurice, you're crushing me!" the voice suddenly cried. "Alice has finished singing. She'll be coming... Give me my ring... Oh, my dear, of course I do!"
And the ring was restored, to rest in its old place until memory's course should be run.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-f78f026f09b14a01aa3fa2f6d405aa8a
# book_title: The Silver Ring
# chapter_id: 1-the-silver-ring
# chapter_title: The Silver Ring
# book_page: 7 / 7
# chapter_page: 7
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
"Oh, Maurice, you're crushing me!" the voice suddenly cried. "Alice has finished singing. She'll be coming... Give me my ring... Oh, my dear, of course I do!"
And the ring was restored, to rest in its old place until memory's course should be run.
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