her life, by crushing it
whenever it appeared, obliterating it. I made it a point to bring
beachcombers to the house to fill her with horror of mankind. I
never let her read stories, or have pets, dolls. Anything that
might stir the sense of love And God has mocked me through it all."

"Man, in God's name, come with me and tell her this!" urged
Spurlock.

"It is too late. Besides, I would tear out my tongue rather than
let it speak her mother's infamy. To tell Ruth anything, it would
be necessary to tell her everything; and I cannot and you must not.
She was always asking questions about her mother and supplying the
answers. So she built a shrine. Always her prayers ended--'And may
my beautiful mother guide me!' No. It is better as it is. She is no
longer mine; she is yours."

"What a mistake!"

"Yes. But you--you have a good face. Be kind to her. Whenever you
grow impatient with her, remember the folly of her father. I can
now give myself to God utterly; no human emotion will ever be
shuttling in between."

"And all the time you loved her?"--appalled.

"Perhaps."

Enschede stepped into the proa, and the natives shoved off.
Spurlock remained where he was until the sail became an
infinitesimal speck in the distance. His throat filled; he wanted
to weep. For yonder went the loneliest man in all God's unhappy
world.

CHAPTER XXV

Spurlock pushed back his helmet and sat down in the white sand,
buckling his knees and folding his arms around them--pondering. Was
he really awake? The arrival and departure of this strange father
lacked the essential human touch to make it real. Without a
struggle he could give up his flesh and blood like that! "I can now
give myself to God utterly; no human emotion will ever be shuttling
in between." The mortal agony behind those eyes! And all the while
he had probably loved his child. To take Spring and Love out of her
life, as if there were no human instincts to tell Ruth what was
being denied her! And what must have been the man's thought as he
came upon Ruth wearing a gown of her mother's?--a fair picture of
the mother in the primrose days? Not a flicker of an eyelash; steel
and granite outwardly.

The conceit of Howard Spurlock in imagining he knew what mental
suffering was! But Enschede was right: Ruth must never know. To
find the true father at the expense of the beautiful fairy tale
Ruth had woven around the woman in the locket was an intolerable
thought. But the