OTHER THINGS BEING EQUAL
By Emma Wolf
CONTENTS
Chapter I
A humming-bird dipped through the air and lit upon the palm-tree just below the open window; the long drowsy call of a crowing cock came from afar off; the sun spun down in the subdued splendor of a hazy veil. It was a dustless, hence an anomalous, summer’s afternoon in San Francisco.
Ruth Levice sat near the window, lazily rocking, her long lithe arms clasped about her knees, her face a dream of the day. The seasons single out their favorite moods: a violet of spring-time woos one, a dusky June rose another; to-day the soft, languorous air had, unconsciously to her, charmed the girl’s waking dream.
So removed was she in spirit from her surroundings that she heard with an obvious start a knock at the door. The knock was immediately followed by a smiling, plump young woman, sparkling of eye, rosy of cheek, and glistening with jewels and silk.
“Here you are, Ruth,” she exclaimed, kissing her heartily; whereupon she sank into a chair, and threw back her bonnet-strings with an air of relief. “I came up here at once when the maid said your mother was out. Where is she?”
“Out calling. You look heated, Jennie; let me fan you.”
“Thanks. How refreshing! Sandal-wood, is it not? Where is your father?”
“He is writing in the library. Do you wish to see him?”
“Oh, no, no! I must see you alone. I am so glad Aunt Esther is out. Why aren’t you with her, Ruth? You should not let your mother go off alone.”
The young girl laughed in merry surprise.
“Why, Jennie, you forgot that Mamma has been used all her life to going out without me; it is only within the last few months that I have been her companion.”
“I know,” replied her visitor, leaning back with a grim expression of disapproval, “and I think it the queerest arrangement I ever heard of. The idea of a father having the sole care of a daughter up to her twenty-first birthday, and then delivering her, like a piece of joint property, over to her mother! Oh, I know that according to their lights it did not seem absurd, but the very idea of it is contrary to nature. Of course we all know that your father was peculiarly fitted to undertake your training, and in this way your mother could more easily indulge her love of society; but as it is, no wonder she is as jealous of your success in her realm as your father was in his; no wonder she overdoes things to make up for lost time. How do you like it, Ruth?”
“What?” softly inquired her cousin, slowly waving the dainty fan, while a smile lighted up the gravity of her face at this onslaught.
“Going out continually night after night.”
“Mamma likes it.”
“Cela va sans dire. But, Ruth,—stop fanning a minute, please,—I want to know, candidly and seriously, would you mind giving it up?”
“Candidly and seriously, I would do so to-day forever.”
“Ye-es; your father’s daughter,” said Mrs. Lewis, speaking more slowly, her bright eyes noting the perfect repose of the young girl’s person; “and yet you are having some quiet little conquests,—the golden apples of your mother’s Utopia. But to come to the point, do you realize that your mother is very ill?”
“Ill—my mother?” The sudden look of consternation that scattered the soft tranquillity of her face must have fully repaid Mrs. Lewis if she was aiming at a sensation.
“There, sit down. Don’t be alarmed; you know she is out and apparently well.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that Aunt Esther is nervous and hysterical. The other day at our house she had such an attack of hysteria that I was obliged to call in a neighboring doctor. She begged us not to mention it to either of you, and then insisted on attending a meeting of some sort. However, I thought it over and decided to let you know, as I consider it serious. I was afraid to alarm Uncle, so I thought of telling you.”
“Thank you, Jennie; I shall speak to Father about it.” The young girl’s tone was quite unagitated; but two pink spots on her usually colorless cheeks betrayed her emotion.
“That is right, dear. I hope you will forgive me if I seem meddlesome, but Jo and I have noticed it for some time; and your father, by allowing this continual gayety, seems to have overlooked what we find so sadly apparent. Of course you have an engagement for to-night?”
“Yes; we are going to a reception at the Merrills’.”
“Merrill? Christians?” was the sharp reply.
“The name speaks for itself.”
“What does possess your parents to mix so much with Christians?”
“Fellow-feeling, I suppose. We all dance and talk alike; and as we do not hold services at receptions, wherein lies the difference?”
“There is a difference; and the Christians know it as well as we Jewish people. Not only do they know it, but they show it in countless ways; and the difference, they think, is all to their credit. For my part, I always feel as if they looked down on us, and I should like to prove to them how we differ on that point. I have enough courage to let them know I consider myself as good as the best of them.”
“Is that why you wear diamonds and silk on the street, Jennie?” asked Ruth, her serious tones implying no impudence, but carrying a refined reproach.
“Hardly. I wear them because I have them and like them. I see no harm in wearing what is becoming.”
“But don’t you think they look aggressive on the street? They attract attention; and one hates to be conspicuous. I think they are only in place at a gathering of friends of one’s own social standing, where they do not proclaim one’s moneyed value.”
“Perhaps,” replied Mrs. Lewis, her rosy face a little rosier than before. “I suppose you mean to say it is vulgar; well, maybe so. But I scarcely think a little outward show of riches should make others feel they are better because they do not care to make a display. Besides, to be less personal, I don’t think any Christian would care to put himself out to meet a Jew of any description.”
“Don’t you think it would depend a great deal both on Jew and Christian? I always have been led to believe that every broad-minded man of whatever sect will recognize and honor the same quality in any other man. And why should I not move on an equality with my Christian friends? We have had the same schooling, speak the same language, read the same books, are surrounded by the same elements of home refinement. Probably if they had not been congenial, my father would long ago have ceased to associate with them. I think the secret of it all is in the fact that it never occurred to us that the most fastidious could think we were anything but the most fastidious; and so we always met any one we desired to meet on a level footing. I have a great many pleasant friends in the court of your Philistines.”
“Possibly. But not having been brought up by your father, I think differently, and perhaps am different. Their ways are not my ways; and what good can you expect from such association?”
“Why, pleasant companionship. What wouldst thou more?”
“I? Not even that. But tell me, can’t you dissuade Aunt Esther from going to-night? Tell your father, and let him judge if you had better not.”
“I really think Mamma would not care to go, for she said as much to Father; but, averse as he generally is to going out, he insists on our going to-night, and, what is more, intends to accompany us, although Louis is going also. But if you think Mamma is seriously run down, I shall tell him immediately, and—”
A blithe voice at the door interrupted her, calling:
“Open the door, Ruth; my hands are full.”
She rose hastily, and with a signal of silence to her loquacious cousin, opened the door for her mother.
“Ah, Jennie, how are your, dear? But let us inspect this box which Nora has just handed me, before we consider you;” and Mrs. Levice softly deposited a huge box upon Ruth’s lace-enveloped bed.
She was still bonneted and gloved, and with a slight flush in her clear olive cheek she looked like anything but a subject for fears. From the crown of her dainty bonnet to the point of her boot she was the picture of exquisite refinement; tall, beautifully formed, carrying her head like a queen, gowned in perfect, quiet elegance, she appeared more like Ruth’s older sister than her mother.
“Ruth’s gown for this evening,” she announced, deftly unfolding the wrappings.
“Yellow!” exclaimed Mrs. Lewis, in surprise.
“Corn-color,” corrected Mrs. Levice, playfully; “how do you think it will suit my girlie?” She continued, shaking out the clinging silken crepe.
“Charmingly; but I thought Ruth objected to anything but white.”
“So she does; she thinks white keeps her unnoticed among the rest. This time, however, my will overrode hers. Eh, Daughter?”
The girl made a low courtesy.
“I am only lady-in-waiting to your Majesty, O Queen,” she laughed. She had hardly glanced at the gown, being engaged in a silent scrutiny of her mother’s face.
“And how is my prime minister this afternoon?” Mrs. Levice was drawing off her gloves, and Ruth’s look of pained discovery passed unnoticed.
“I have not been down since luncheon,” she replied.
“What! Then go down at once and bring him up. I must see that he gets out of his studiousness and is clothed in festive mind for this evening. Come to my sitting-room, Jennie, and we can have a comfortable chat.”
Left to herself, Ruth hesitated before going to her father with her ill-boding tidings. None knew better than she of the great, silent love that bound her parents. As a quiet, observant child, she had often questioned wherein could be any sympathy between her father, almost old, studious, and reserved, and her beautiful, worldly young mother. But as she matured, she became conscious that because of this apparent disparity it would have been still stranger had Mrs. Levice not loved him with a feeling verging nearer humble adoration than any lower passion. It seemed almost a mockery for her to have to tell him he had been negligent,—not only a mockery, but a cruelty. However, it had to be done, and she was the only one to do it. Having come to this conclusion, she ran quickly downstairs, and softly, without knocking, opened the library door.
She entered so quietly that Mr. Levice, reading by the window, did not glance from his book. She stood a moment regarding the small thoughtful-faced, white-haired man.
If one were to judge but by results, Jules Levice would be accounted a fortunate man. Nearing the allotted threescore and ten, blessed with a loving, beloved wife and this one idolized ewe-lamb, surrounded by luxury, in good health, honored, and honorable,—trouble and travail seemed to have passed him by. But this scene of human happiness was the result of intelligent and unremitting effort. A high state of earthly beatitude has seldom been attained without great labor of mind or body by ourselves or those akin to us. Jules Levice had been thrown on the world when a boy of twelve. He resolved to become happy. Many of us do likewise; but we overlook the fact that we are provided with feet, not wings, and cannot fly to the goal. His dream of happiness was ambitious; it soared beyond contentment. Not being a lily of the field, he knew that he must toil; any honest work was acceptable to him. He was possessed of a fine mind; he cultivated it. He had a keen observation; he became a student of his fellow-men; and being strong and untiring, he became rich. This was but the nucleus of his ambitions, and it came to him late in life, but not too late for him to build round it his happy home, and to surround himself with the luxuries of leisure for attaining the pinnacle of wide information that he had always craved. His was merely the prosperity of an intellectual, self-made man whose time for rest had come.
Ruth seated herself on a low stool that she drew up before him, and laid her hand upon his.
“You, darling?” He spoke in a full, musical voice with a marked French accent.
“Can you spare me a few minutes, Father?”
“I am all ears;” he shut the book, and his hand closed about hers.
“Jennie was here just now.”
“And did not come in to see me?”
“She had something to tell me.”
“A secret?”
“Yes; something I must repeat to you.”
“Yes?”
“Father—Jennie thinks—she has reason to know that—dear, do you think Mother is perfectly well?”
“No, my child; I know she is not.”
This quiet assurance was staggering.
“And you allow her to go on in this way without calling in a physician?” A wave of indignant color suffused her cheeks.
“Yes.”
“But—but—why?” She became a little confused under his calm gaze, feeling on the instant that she had implied an accusation unjustly.
“Because, Ruth, I have become convinced of it only within the past week. Your mother knows it herself, and is trying to hide it from me.”
“Did she admit it?”
“I have not spoken of it to her; she is very excitable, and as she wishes to conceal it, I do not care to annoy her by telling her of my discovery.”
“But isn’t it wrong—unwise—to allow her to dissipate so much?”
“I have managed within the past week to keep you as quiet as possible.”
“But to-night—forgive me, Father—you insist on our going to this reception.”
“Yes, my sweet confessor; but I have a good reason,—one not to be spoken of.”
“‘Those who trust us educate us,’” she pleaded in wistful earnestness.
“Then your education is complete. Well, I knew your mother would resist seeing any physician, for fear of his measures going contrary to her desires; so I have planned for her to meet to-night a certain doctor whom I would trust professionally with my wife’s life, and on whom I can rely for the necessary tact to hide the professional object of their meeting. What do you think of my way, dear?”
For answer she stooped and kissed his hand.
“May I know his name?” she asked after a pause.
“His name is Kemp,—Dr. Herbert Kemp.”
“Why, he lives a few blocks from here; I have seen his sign. Is he an old physician?”
“I should judge him to be between thirty-five and forty. Not old certainly, but one with the highest reputation for skill. Personally he is a man of great dignity, inspiring confidence in every one.”
“Where did you meet him?”
“In the hospitals,” said her father quickly. “But I will introduce him to you to-night. Don’t lose your head when you talk to him.”
“Why should I?”
“Because he is a magnificent fellow; and I wish my daughter to hold her own before a man whom I admire so heartily.”
“Why, this is the first time you have ever given me worldly advice,” she laughed.
“Only a friendly hint,” he answered, rising and putting his book in its place with the precision of a spinster.
Chapter II
“This is what I call a worldly paradise!” A girl with a face like dear Lady Disdain’s sank into a divan placed near the conservatory; her voice chimed in prettily with the music of a spraying fountain and the soft strains of remote stringed instruments.
“Is it a frivolous conceit?” she continued, laughing up to the man who stood beside her; “or do the soft light of many candles, faint music, radiant women, and courtly men, satisfy your predilections also that such a place is as near heaven as this wicked world approaches?”
“You forget; paradise was occupied by but two. To my notion, nothing can be farther removed from Elysium than a modern drawing-room full of guests.”
“And leaving out the guests?”
“They say imagination can make a paradise of a desert, given the necessary contingencies.”
“A solitude of two who love? Dr. Kemp, methinks you are a romantic.”
“You supplied the romance, Miss Gwynne. My knowledge is of the hard, matter-of-fact sort.”
“Such as bones, I suppose. Still you seem to be interested in the soft-looking piece of humanity over by that cabinet.”
“Yes; his expression is reminiscent of a boy’s definition of a vacuum,—a large space with nothing in it. Who is he?”
“And I thought you not unknown! He is the husband of a brilliant woman, Mrs. Ames, who has written a novel.”
“Clever?”
“Decidedly so; it stands the test of being intoxicating and leaving a bad taste in the mouth,—like dry champagne.”
“Which is not made for women.”
“You mean school-girls. There she is,—that wisp of a creature listening so eagerly to that elegant youth of the terrier breed. No wonder he interests her; he is as full of information in piquant personal history as a family lawyer, and his knowledge is as much public property as a social city directory.”
“You have studied him to advantage. Are you sure you have not stolen a leaf from him?”
“Dr. Kemp!” she exclaimed in pouting reproach, “do I appear as promiscuous as that? You may call me a ‘blue book,’ but spare my snobbery the opprobrious epithet of ‘directory.’ There goes the fascinating young Mrs. Shurly with Purcell Burroughs in her toils. Did you catch the fine oratory of the glance she threw us? It said, ‘Dorothy Gwynne, how dare you appropriate Dr. Kemp for ten long minutes? Hand him over; pass him around. I want him; you are only boring him, though you seem to be amusing yourself.”
Kemp’s grave lips twitched at the corners; he was without doubt amused.
“Aren’t you improvising?” he asked. A man need only offer an occasional bumper of a remark to keep the conversation from flagging, when his companion is a woman.
“No; you evidently do not know what a feminine sneer is in words. Ah, here comes the Queen of Sheba.” She broke off with a pleased smile as Ruth Levice approached on the arm of her cousin, Louis Arnold.
Singly, each would have attracted attention anywhere; together they were doubly striking-looking. Arnold, tall and slight, carrying his head high, fair of complexion as a peachy-cheeked girl, was a peculiarly distinguished-looking man. The delicate pince-nez he wore emphasized slightly the elusive air of supercilious courtliness he always conveyed. Now, as he spoke to Ruth, who, although a tall girl, was some inches shorter than he, he maintained a strict perpendicular from the crown of his head to his heels, only looking down with his eyes. Short women resented this trick of his, protesting that it made them stand on tiptoe to speak to him.
There was something almost Oriental about Ruth, with her creamy, colorless face, like a magnolia blossom; her dusky hair was loosely rolled from her forehead and temples; her eyes were soft and brown beneath delicately pencilled brows, and matched the pure oval of her face. But the languorous air of Southern skies was wholly wanting in the sweet sympathy of her glance, and in a certain alertness about the poise of her head.
Arnold stopped perforce at Miss Gwynne’s slight signal.
“Where are you hastening?” she asked as they turned to greet her. “One would think you saw your Nemesis before you, so oblivious were you to the beauties scattered about.” She looked up pertly at Arnold, after giving one comprehensive glance over Ruth’s toilet.
“We both wished to see the orchids of which one hears,” he answered, with pronounced French accent and idiom; adding, with a slight smile, “I did not overlook you, but you were so busily contemplating other ground that it would have been cruelty to disturb you.” He spoke the language slowly, as a stranger upon foreign ground.
“Oh, yes; I forgot. Dr. Kemp, are you acquainted with the Queen of Sheba and her doughty knight Louis, surnamed Arnold?” She paused a moment as the parties acknowledged the curious introduction, and then broke in rather breathlessly: “There, Doctor, I shall leave you with royalty; do not let your republican ignorance forget her proper title. Mr. Arnold, Mrs. Merrill is beckoning to us; will you come?” and with a naive, superbly impish look at Ruth, she drew Arnold away before he could murmur an excuse.
At the impertinent words the soft, rich blood suffused Ruth’s face.
“Will you sit here awhile and wait for Mr. Arnold, or shall we go and see the orchids?” The pleasant, deep voice broke in upon her confusion and calmed her self-consciousness. She raised her eyes to the dark, clever face above her; it was a strong, rather than a handsome face. From the broad sweep of the forehead above the steady scrutiny of the gray eyes, to the grave lip and firm chin under the dark, pointed beard, strength and gentleness spoke in every line. His personality bore the stamp of a letter of credit.
“Thank you,” said she; “I think I shall sit here. My cousin will probably be back soon.”
The doctor seated himself beside her. Miss Gwynne’s appellation was not inaptly chosen, still he would have preferred to know her more conventional title.
“This is a peaceful little corner,” he said. “Do you notice how removed it seems from the rest of the room?”
“Yes,” she answered, meeting and disconcerting his pleasantly questioning look with one of swift resolve. “Dr. Kemp, I wish to tell you that my father has confided to me your joint secret.”
“Your father?” he looked bewildered; his knowledge of the Queen of Sheba’s progenitors was vague.
“My father, yes,” she repeated, smiling at his perplexity. “Our name is not very common; I am Jules Levice’s daughter.”
He was about to exclaim “NO!” The kinship seemed ridiculous in the face of this lovely girl and the remembered picture of the little plain-faced Jew. What he did say was,—
“Mr. Levice is an esteemed friend of mine. He is present, is he not?”
“Yes. Have you met my mother yet?”
The mother would probably unravel the mysterious origin of this beautiful face and this strange, sweet voice, whose subdued tones held an uncommon charm.
“No; but your father is diplomat enough to manage that before the evening is over. So you know our little scheme. Pardon the ‘shop’ which I have of a necessity brought with me this evening, but have you seen any signs of illness in your mother?”
“No; I have been very blind and selfish,” she replied, somewhat bitterly, “for every one but me seems to have seen that something was wrong. She has been very anxious to give me pleasure, and I fear has been burning the candle at both ends for my light. I wish I had known—probably it lay just within my hand to prevent this, instead of leading her on by my often expressed delight. What I wish to ask you is that if you find anything serious, you will tell me, and allay my father’s fears as much as possible. Please do this for me. My father is not young; and I, I think, am trustworthy.”
She had spoken rapidly, but with convincing sincerity, looking her companion full in the face.
The doctor quietly scrutinized the earnest young face before he answered. Then he slightly bowed in acquiescence.
“That is a pact,” he said lightly; “but in all probability your father’s fears are exaggerated.”
“‘Where love is great, the smallest doubts are fears,’” she quoted, softly flushing. The doctor had a singular impersonal habit of keeping his eyes intently bent upon the person with whom he conversed, that made his companion feel that they two were exclusively alone,—a sensation that was slightly bewildering upon first acquaintance. By and by one understood that it was merely his air of interest that evoked the feeling, and so gradually got used to it as to one of his features.
“That is so,” he replied cheerily; “and—I see some one is about to play. Mrs. Merrill told me we should have some music.”
“It is Louis, I think; I know his touch.”
“Your cousin? He plays?”
Ruth looked at him in questioning wonder. Truth to say, the doctor could not but betray his surprise at the idea of the cold-looking Arnold in the light of a musician; his doubts took instant flight after the opening chords. Rubenstein’s Melody in F, played by a master-hand, is one long sound of divine ecstasy thrilling the listener to exquisite rapture. Played by Louis Arnold, what the composer had conceived in his soul was magnificently interpreted. As he finished, there was not a murmur; and the next minute he had dashed into a quaint tarantelle that instantly dispelled the former spell of grandeur.
“An artist,” said some one standing near.
“Something more,” murmured Kemp, rising as he saw Ruth do so. He was about to offer her his arm when Mrs. Merrill, a gently-faced woman, stepped up to them, and laying her hand upon Ruth’s shoulder, said rather hurriedly,—
“I am sorry to trouble you, Doctor, but Mrs. Levice—do not be alarmed, Ruth dear—has become somewhat hysterical, and we cannot calm her; will you come this way, please, and no one need know she is in the study.”
“My family is making itself prominent to-night,” said Ruth, with a little catch in her voice, as they turned with Mrs. Merrill through the conservatory and so across the hall.
“I shall be here, Doctor, if you wish anything,” said Mrs. Merrill, standing without as he and Ruth entered and immediately shut the door after them.
“Stay there,” he said with quiet authority to Ruth, and she stood quite still where he left her. Mrs. Levice was seated in a large easy-chair with her back to the door; her husband had drawn her head to his bosom. There was no one else in the room, and for a second not a sound, till Mrs. Levice began to sob in a frightened manner.
“It’s nothing at all, Jules,” she cried, trying to laugh and failing lamentably; “I—I’m only silly.”
“There, dear, don’t talk.” Levice’s face was white as he soothingly stroked her hair.
“Oh!”
The doctor stepped in front of them, and laying both hands upon her shoulders, motioned Levice aside.
“Hush! Not a word!”
At the sound of his stern, brusque voice, the long quivering shriek stopped halfway.
“Be perfectly still,” he continued, holding her firmly. “Obey this instant,” as she began to whimper; “not a sound must I hear.”
Ruth and her father stood spell-bound at the effect of the stranger’s measures. For a moment Mrs. Levice had started in affright to scream; but the deep, commanding tone, the powerful hands upon her shoulders, the impressive, unswerving eye that held hers, soon began to act almost hypnotically. The sobbing gradually ceased; the shaking limbs slowly regained their calm; and as she sank upon the cushions the strained look in her eyes melted. She was feebly smiling up at the doctor in response to his own persuasive smile that gradually succeeded the gravity of his countenance.
“That is well,” said he, speaking soothingly as to a child, and still keeping his smiling eyes upon hers. “Now just close your eyes for a minute; see, I have your hand,—so. Go to sleep.”
There was not a sound in the room; Ruth stood where she had been placed, and Mr. Levice was behind the doctor, his face quite colorless, scarcely daring to breathe. Finally the faint, even breathing of Mrs. Levice told that she slept.
Kemp turned to Mr. Levice and spoke low, not in a whisper, which hisses, but his voice was so hushed that it would not have disturbed the lightest sleeper.
“Put your hand, palm up, under hers. I am going to withdraw my hand and retire, as I do not wish to excite her; she will probably open her eyes in a few moments. Take her home as quietly as you can.”
“You will call to-morrow?” whispered Levice.
He quietly assented.
“Now be deft.” The transfer was quickly made, and nodding cheerfully, Dr. Kemp left the room.
Ruth came forward. Five minutes later Mrs. Levice opened her eyes.
“Why, what has happened?” she asked languidly.
“You fell asleep, Esther,” replied her husband, gently.
“Yes, I know; but why is Ruth in that gown? Oh—ye-es!” Consciousness was returning to her. “And who was that handsome man who was here?”
“A friend of Ruth.”
“He is very strong,” she observed pensively. She lay back in her chair for a few minutes as if dreaming. Suddenly she started up.
“What thoughtless people we are! Let us go back to the drawing-room, or they will think something dreadful has happened.”
“No, Mamma; I do not feel at all like going back. Stay here with Father while I get our wraps.”
Before Mrs. Levice could demur, Ruth had left the room. As she turned in the direction of the stairs, she was rather startled by a hand laid upon her shoulder.
“Oh, you, Louis! I am going for our wraps.”
“Here they are. How is my aunt?”
“She is quite herself again. Thanks for the wraps. Will you call up the carriage, Louis? We shall go immediately, but do not think of coming yourself.”
“Nonsense! Tell your mother you have made your adieux to Mrs. Merrill,—she understands; the carriage is waiting.”
A few minutes later the Levices and Louis Arnold quietly stole away. Mrs. Levice has had an attack of hysteria. “Nothing at all,” the world said, and dismissed it as carelessly as most of the quiet turning-points in a life-history are dismissed.
Chapter III
The Levices’ house stood well back upon its grounds, almost with an air of reserve in comparison with the rows of stately, bay-windowed houses that faced it and hedged it in on both sides. But the broad, sweeping lawns, the confusion of exquisite roses and heliotropes, the open path to the veranda, whereon stood an hospitable garden settee and chair, the long French windows open this summer’s morning to sun and air, told an inviting tale.
As Dr. Kemp ascended the few steps leading to the front door, he looked around approvingly.
“Not a bad berth for the grave little bookworm,” he mused as he rang the bell.
It was immediately answered by the “grave little bookworm” in person.
“I’ve been on the lookout for you for the past hour,” he explained, leading him into the library and turning the key of the door as they entered.
It was a cosey room, not small or low, as the word would suggest, but large and airy; the cosiness was supplied by comfortable easy-chairs, a lounge or two, a woman’s low rocker, an open piano, a few soft engravings on the walls, and books in cases, books on tables, books on stands, books everywhere. Two long lace-draped windows let in a flood of searching sunlight that brought to light not an atom of dust in the remotest corner. It is the prerogative of every respectable Jewess to keep her house as clean as if at any moment a search-warrant for dirt might be served upon her.
“Will you not be seated?” asked Levice, looking up at Kemp as the latter stood drawing off his gloves.
“Is your wife coming down here?”
“No; she is in her room yet.”
“Then let us go up immediately. I am not at leisure.”
“I know. Still I wish to ask you to treat whatever ailments you may find as lightly as possible in her presence; she has never known anxiety or worry of any kind. It will be necessary to tell only me, and every precaution will be taken.”
Here was a second one of this family of three wishing to take the brunt of the trouble on his shoulders, and the third had been bearing it secretly for some time. Probably a very united family, loving and unselfish doubtless, but the doctor had to stifle an amused smile in the face of the old gentleman’s dignified appeal.
“Still she is not a child, I suppose; she knows of the nature of my visit?” He moved toward the door.
“Ruth—my daughter, you know—was about to tell her as I left the room.”
“Then we will go up directly.”
Levice preceded him up the broad staircase. As they reached the landing, he turned to the doctor.
“Pardon my care, but I must make sure that Ruth has told her. Just step into the sitting-room a second,” and the precautious husband went forward to his wife’s bedroom, leaving the door open.
Standing there in the hallway, Kemp could plainly hear the following words:—
“And being interested in nervous diseases,” the peculiarly low voice was saying, “he told Father he would call and see you,—out of professional curiosity, you know; besides we should not like you to be often taken as you were last night, should we?”
“People with plenty of time on their hands,” soliloquized the doctor, looking at his watch in the hallway.
“What is his name, did you say?”
“Dr. Herbert Kemp.”
“What! Don’t you know that Dr. Kemp is one of the first physicians in the city? Every one knows he has no time for curiosity. Nervous diseases are his specialty; and do you think he would come without—”
“Being asked?” interrupted a pleasant voice; the doctor had remembered the flight of time, and walked in unannounced.
“Keep your seat,” he continued, as Mrs. Levice started up, the excited blood springing to her cheeks.
“You hardly need an introduction, Esther,” said Levice. “You remember Dr. Kemp from last night?”
“Yes. Don’t go, Ruth, please; Jules, hadn’t you something to do downstairs?”
Did she imagine for a moment that she could still conceal her trouble from his tender watchfulness? Great dark rings encircled her now feverishly bright eyes; her mouth trembled visibly; and as Ruth drew aside, her mother’s shaking fingers held tight to her hand.
“I have nothing in the world to do,” replied Levice, heartily; “I am going to sit right here and get interested.”
“You will have to submit to a friendly cross-examination, Mrs. Levice,” said the physician.
He drew a chair up before her and took both her hands in his. As Ruth relinquished her hold, she encountered a pair of pleasantly authoritative gray eyes, and instantly divining their expression, left the room.
She descended a few steps to the windowed landing. Here she intended joining the doctor on his way down. Probably her father would follow him; but it was her intention to intercept any such plan. A fog had arisen, and the struggling rosy beams of the sun glimmered opalescently through the density. Ruth thought it would be clear by noon, when she and her mother could go for a stirring tramp. She stood lost in thought till a firm footfall on the stairs aroused her.
“I see Miss Levice here; don’t come down,” Kemp was saying. “What further directions I have must be given to a woman.”
“Stay with Mamma, Father,” called Ruth, looking up at her hesitating father; “I shall see the doctor out;” and she quickly ran down the few remaining steps to Kemp, awaiting her at the foot. She opened the door of the library, and closing it quickly behind them, turned to him expectantly.
“Nothing to be alarmed at,” he said, answering her mute inquiry. He seated himself at the table, and drew from his vest-pocket pencil and blank. Without another glance at the girl, he wrote rapidly for some minutes; then quickly moving back his chair, he arose and handed her the two slips of paper.
“The first is a tonic which you will have made up,” he explained, picking up his gloves and hat and moving toward the door; “the other is a diet which you are to observe. As I told her just now, she must remain in bed and see no one but her immediate family; you must see that she hears and reads nothing exciting. That is all, I think.”
Indignation and alarm held riot in Ruth’s face and arrested the doctor’s departure.
“Dr. Kemp,” she said, “you force me to remind you of a promise you made me last night. Will you at least tell me what ails my mother that you use such strenuous measures?”
A flash of recollection came to the doctor’s eyes.
“Why, this is an unpardonable breach upon my part, Miss Levice; but I will tell you all the trouble. Your mother is suffering with a certain form of hysteria to a degree that would have prostrated her had we not come forward in time. As it is, by prostrating her ourselves for awhile, say a month or so, she will regain her equilibrium. You have heard of the food and rest cure?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that is what she will undergo mildly. Has she any duties that will suffer by her neglect or that will intrude upon her equanimity?”
“No necessary ones but those of the house. Under no circumstances can I conceive of her giving up their supervision.”
“Yet she must do so under the present state of affairs. Remember, her mind must be kept unoccupied, but time must be made to pass pleasantly for her. This is not an easy task, Miss Levice; but, according to my promise, I have left you to undertake it.”
“Thank you,” she responded quietly.
Kemp looked at her with a sense of calm satisfaction.
“Good-morning,” he said, holding out his hand with a smile.
As the door closed behind him, Ruth felt as if a burden had fallen from, instead of upon her. For the last twenty-four hours her apprehensions had been excessive. Now, though she knew positively that her mother’s condition needed instant and constant care, which she must herself assume, all sense of responsibility fell from her. The few quiet words of this strange physician had made her trust his strength as she would a rock. She could not have explained why it was so; but as her father remarked once, she might have said, “I trust him implicitly, because, though a man of superiority, he implicitly trusts himself.”
As she re-entered her mother’s room, her father regarded her intently.
“So we are going to make a baby of you, Mamma,” she cried playfully, coming forward and folding her arms around her mother, who lay on the lounge.
“So he says; and what he says one cannot resist.” There was an apathetic ring to her mother’s voice that surprised her. Quickly the thought flashed through her that she was too weary to resist now that she was found out.
“Then we won’t try to,” Ruth decided, seating herself on the edge of the lounge close to her mother. From his armchair, Mr. Levice noted with remorseful pride the almost matronly poise and expression of his lovely young daughter as she bent over her weary-looking mother and smoothed her hair.
“And if you are to be baby,” she continued, smiling down, “I shall have to change places with you, and become mother. You will see what a capital one I shall make. Let’s see, what are the duties? First, baby must be kept clean and sweet,—I am an artist at that; secondly, Father and the rest of us must have a perfectly appointed menage; third—”
“I do not doubt that you will make a perfect mother, my child;” the gentle meaning of her father’s words and glance caused Ruth to flush with pleasure. When Levice said, “My child,” the words were a caress. “Just believe in her, Esther; one of her earliest lessons was ‘Whatever you do, do thoroughly.’ She had to learn it through experience. But as you trust me, trust my pupil.”
The soft smile that played upon her husband’s face was reflected on Mrs. Levice’s.
“Oh, Ruth,” she murmured tremulously, “it will be so hard for you.”
This was a virtual laying down of arms, and Ruth was satisfied.
Chapter IV
Louis Arnold, the only other member of the Levice family, had been forced to leave town on some business the morning after Mrs. Levice’s attack at the Merrill reception. He was, therefore, much surprised and shocked on his return a week later at finding his aunt in bed and such rigorous measures for quiet in vogue.
Arnold had been an inmate of the house for the past twelve years. He was a direct importation from France, which he had left just before attaining his majority, the glory of soldier-life not proving seductive to his imagination. He had no sooner taken up his abode with his uncle than he was regarded as the most useful and ornamental piece of foreign vertu in the beautiful house.
Being a business man by nature, keen, wary, and indefatigable, he was soon able to take almost the entire charge of Levice’s affairs. In a few years his uncle ceased to question his business capabilities. From the time he arrived, he naturally fell into the position of his aunt’s escort, thus again relieving Levice, who preferred the quieter life.
When Ruth began to go into society, his presence was almost a necessity, as Jewish etiquette, or rather Jewish espionage, forbids a young man unattached by blood or intentions to appear as the attendant of a single woman. This is one of the ways Jewish heads of families have got into for keeping the young people apart,—making cowards of the young men, and depriving the young girls of a great deal of innocent pleasure.
Arnold, however, was not an escort to be despised, as Ruth soon discovered. She very quickly felt a sort of family pride in his cool, quizzical manner and caustic repartee, that was wholly distinct from the more girlish admiration of his distinguished person. He and Ruth were great friends in a quiet, unspoken way.
They were sitting together alone in the library on the evening of his return. Mrs. Levice had fallen asleep, and her husband was sitting with her. Ruth had stolen down to keep Louis company, fearing he would feel lonesome in the changed aspect of the house.
Arnold lay at full length on the lounge; Ruth swayed backward and forward in the rocker.
“What I am surprised at,” he was saying, “is that my aunt submits to this confining treatment;” he pronounced the last word “tritment,” but he never stopped at a word because of its pronunciation, thus adding a certain piquancy to his speech.
“You would not be surprised if you knew Dr. Kemp; one follows his directions blindly.”
“So I have heard from a great many—women.”
“And not men?”
“I have never happened to hold a conversation with a man on the powers of Dr. Kemp. Women delight in such things.”
“What things?”
“Why, giving in to the magnetic power of a strong man.”
“You err slightly, Louis; it is the power, not the giving in that we delight in, counting it a necessary part of manliness.”
“Will you allow me to differ with you? Besides, apart from this great first cause, I do not understand how, after a week of it, she has not rebelled.”
“I think I can answer that satisfactorily,” replied his cousin, a mischievous smile parting her lips and showing a row of strong white teeth; “she is in love.”
“Also?”
“With Father; and so does as she knows will please him best. Love is also something every one loves to give in to.”
“Every one who loves, you mean.”
“Every one loves something or some one.”
“Behold the exception, therefore.” He moved his head so as to get a better view of her.
“I do not believe you.”
“That—is rude.” He kept his eyes meditatively fixed upon her.
“Have you made a discovery in my face?” asked the girl presently, slightly moving from his gaze.
“No,” he replied calmly. “My discovery was made some time ago; I am merely going over beautiful and pleasant ground.”
“Really?” she returned, flushing, “then please look away; you annoy me.”
“Why should I, since you know it is done in admiration? You are a woman; do not pretend distaste for it.”
“I shall certainly go upstairs if you persist in talking so disagreeably.”
“Indulge me a little; I feel like talking, and I promise not to be disagreeable. Always wear white; it becomes you. Never forget that beauty needs appropriate surroundings. Another thing, ma belle cousine, this little trick you have of blushing on the slightest provocation spoils your whole appearance. Your complexion should always retain its healthy whiteness, while—”
“You have been indulged quite sufficiently, Louis. Do you know, if you often spoke to me in this manner I should soon hate you?”
“That would indeed be unfortunate. Never hate, Ruth; besides making enemies, hate is an arch enemy to the face, distorting the softest and loveliest.”
“We cannot love people who calmly sit and irritate us like mocking tarantulas.”
“That is exaggerated, I think. Besides, Heaven forbid our loving everybody! Never love, Ruth; let liking be strong enough for you. Love only wears out the body and narrows the mind, all to no purpose. Cupid, you know, died young, or wasted to plainness, for he never had his portrait taken after he matured.”
“A character such as you would have would be unbearable.”
“But sensible and wise.”
“Happily our hearts need no teaching; they love and hate instinctively before the brain can speak.”
“Good—for some. But in me behold the anomaly whose brain always reconnoitres the field beforehand, and has never yet considered it worth while to signal either ‘love’ or ‘hate.’”
He rose with a smile and sauntered over to the piano. The unbecoming blush mounted slowly to Ruth’s face and her eyes were bright as she watched him. When his hands touched the keys, she spoke.
“No doubt you think it adds to your intellect to pretend independence of all emotion. But, do you know, I think feeling, instead of being a weakness, is often more clever than wisdom? At any rate, what you are doing now is proof sufficient that you feel, and perhaps more strongly than many.”
He partly turned on the music-chair, and regarded her questioningly, never, however, lifting his hands from the keys as he played a softly passionate minor strain.
“What am I doing?” he asked.
“Making love to the piano.”
“It does not hurt the piano, does it?”
“No; but never say you do not feel when you play like that.”
“Is not that rather peremptory? Who taught you to read characters?”
“You.”
“I? What a poor teacher I was to allow you to show such bungling work! Will you sing?”
“No, I shall read; I have had quite enough of myself and of you for one night.”
“Alas, poor me!” he retorted mockingly, and seeming to accompany his words with his music; “I am sorry for you, my child, that your emotions are so troublesome. You have but made your entrance into the coldest, most exciting arena,—the world. Remember what I tell you,—all the strong motives, love and hate and jealousy, are mere flotsam and jetsam. You are the only loser by their possession.”
The quiet closing of the door was his only answer. Ruth had left the room.
She knew Arnold too well to be affected by his little splurt of cynicism. If she could escape a cynic either in books or in society, she invariably did so. Life was still beautiful for her; and one of her father’s untaught lessons was that the cynic is a one-sided creature, having lost the eye that sees the compensation balancing all things. As long as Louis attacked things, it did no harm, except to incite a friendly passage-at-arms; hence, most of such talk passed in the speaking. Not so the disparaging insinuations he had cast at Dr. Kemp.
During the week in which Ruth had established herself as nurse-in-chief to her mother she had seen him almost daily. Time in a quiet sick-room passes monotonously; events that are unnoticed in hours of well-being and activity here assume proportions of importance; meal-times are looked forward to as a break in the day; the doctor’s visit especially when it is the only one allowed, is an excitement. Dr. Kemp’s visits were short, but the two learned to look for his coming and the sound of his deep, cheery voice, as to their morning’s tonic that would strengthen the whole day. Naturally, as he was a stranger, Mrs. Levice in her idleness had analyzed and discussed aloud his qualities, both personal and professional, to her satisfaction. She had small ground for basing her judgments, but the doctor formed a good part of her conversation.
Ruth’s knowledge of him was somewhat larger,—about the distance between Mrs. Levice’s bedroom and the front door. She had a homely little way of seeing people to the door, and here it was the doctor gave her any new instructions. Instructions are soon given and taken; and there was always time for a word or two of a different nature.
In the first place, she had been attracted by his horses, a magnificent pair of jetty blacks.
“I wonder if they would despise a lump of sugar,” she said one morning.
“Why should they?” asked Kemp.
“Oh, they seem to hold their heads so haughtily.”
“Still, they are human enough to know sweets when they see them,” their owner replied, taking in the beautiful figure of the young girl in her quaint, flowered morning-gown. “Try them once, and you won’t doubt it.”
She did try them; and as she turned a slightly flushed face to Kemp, who stood beside her, he held out his hand, saying almost boyishly, “Let me thank you and shake hands for my horses.”
One can become eloquent, witty, or tender over the weather. The doctor became neither of these; but Ruth, whose spirits were mercurially affected by the atmosphere, always viewed the elements with the eye of a private signal-service reporter.
“This is the time for a tramp,” she said, as they stood on the veranda, and the summer air, laden with the perfume of heliotrope, stole around them. “That is where the laboring man has the advantage over you, Dr. Kemp.”
“Which, ten to one, he finds a disadvantage. I must confess that in such weather every healthy individual with time at his disposal should be inhaling this air at a leisurely trot or stride as his habit may be. You, Miss Levice, should get on your walking togs instantly.”
“Yes, but not conveniently. My father and I never failed to take our morning constitutional together when all was well. Father always gave me the dubious compliment of saying I walked as straight and took as long strides as a boy. Being a great lover of the exercise, I was sorry my pas was not ladylike.”
“You doubtless make a capital companion, as your father evidently remembered what a troublesome thing it is to conform one’s length of limb to the dainty footsteps of a woman.”
“Father has no trouble on that score,” said Ruth, laughing.
The doctor smiled in response, and raising his hat, said, “That is where he has the advantage over a tall man.”
Going over several such scenes, Ruth could remember nothing in his manner but a sort of invigorating, friendly bluntness, totally at variance with the peculiarities of the “lady’s man” that Louis had insinuated he was accounted. She resolved to scrutinize him more narrowly the next morning.
Mrs. Levice’s room was handsomely furnished and daintily appointed. Even from her pillows she would have detected any lapse in its exquisite neatness, and one of Ruth’s duties was to leave none to be detected. The house was large; and with three servants the young girl had to do a great deal of supervising. She took a natural pride in having things go as smoothly as under her mother’s administration; and Mr. Levice said it was well his wife had laid herself on the shelf, as the new broom was a vast improvement.
Ruth had given the last touches to her mother’s dark hair, and was reading aloud the few unexciting items one finds in the morning’s paper. Mrs. Levice, propped almost to a sitting position by many downy pillows, polished her nails and half listened. Her cheeks were no longer brightly flushed, but rather pale; the expression of her eyes was placid, and her slight hand quite firm; the strain lifted from her, a great weariness had taken its place. The sweet morning air came in unrestrained at the open window.
Ruth’s reading was interrupted by the entrance of the maid, carrying a dainty basket of Duchesse roses.
“For Madame,” she said, handing it to Ruth, who came forward to take it.
“Read the card yourself,” she said, placing it in her mother’s hand as the girl retired. A pleased smile broke over Mrs. Levice’s face; she buried her face in the roses, and then opened the envelope.
“From Louis!” she exclaimed delightedly. “Poor fellow! he was dreadfully upset when he came in. He did not say much, but his look and hand-shake were enough as he bent to kiss me. Do you know, Ruth, I think our Louis has a very loving disposition?”
“Yes, dear?”
“Yes. One would not think so, judging from his manner; but I know him to be unusually sympathetic for a man. I would sooner have him for a friend than many a woman; he has not many equals among the young men I know. Don’t you agree with me, girlie?”
“Oh, yes; I always liked Louis.”
“How coldly you say that! And, by the way, it struck me as very queer last night that you did not kiss him after his absence of a week. Since when has this formal hand-shake come into use?”
A slight flush crimsoned Ruth’s cheek.
“It is not my fault,” she said, smiling; “I always kissed Louis even after a day’s absence. But some few months ago he inaugurated the new regime, and holds me at arm’s length. I can’t ask him why, when he looks at me so matter-of-factly through his eyeglass, can I?”
“No; certainly not.” A slight frown marred the complacency of Mrs. Levice’s brow. Such actions were not at all in accordance with her darling plan. Arnold was much to her; but she wished him to be more. This was a side-track upon which she had not wished her train to move.
Her cogitations took a turn when she heard a quick, firm footfall in the hall.
Ruth anticipated the knock, and opened the door to the doctor.
Bowing slightly to her, he advanced rather hurriedly to the bedside. He had not taken off his gloves, and a certain air of purposeful gravity replaced his usual leisurely manner.
“Good-morning, Mrs. Levice,” he said, taking her hand in his, and looking searchingly down at her. “How are you feeling this morning? Any starts or shakes of any sort?”
“No; I am beginning to feel as impassive and stupid as a well-fed animal. Won’t you sit down, Doctor?”
“No; I have a consultation in a very short time. Keep right on as you have been doing. I do not think it will be necessary for me to call for several days now; probably not before Friday.”
“And to-day is Tuesday! Am I to see no one till then?”
“No one but those you have seen. Pray do not complain, Mrs. Levice,” he continued rather sternly. “You are a very fortunate invalid; illness with you is cushioned in every conceivable corner. I wish I could make you divide some of your blessings. As I cannot, I wish you to appreciate them as they deserve. Do not come down, Miss Levice,” as she moved to follow him; “I am in a great hurry. Good-morning.”
“How harassed he looked! I wonder who is his patient!” observed Mrs. Levice, as Ruth quietly returned to her seat. A sunbeam fell aslant the girl’s preoccupied face. The doctor’s few words had given her food for thought.
When later on she remembered how she was going to disprove for herself Louis’s allegations, she wondered if he could have found anything to mock at, had he been present, in Kemp’s abrupt visit of the morning.
Chapter V
Ruth always dressed well. Indeed, any little jealousy her lovely presence might occasion was usually summed up in the terse innuendo, “Fine feathers make fine birds.”
To dress well is to dress appropriately to time, place, and season. Having a full purse, she could humor every occasion with a change of gown; being possessed of good taste, her toilets never offended; desiring to look pleasing, as every woman should, she studied what was becoming; having a mother to whom a good toilet was one of the most pressing convenances, and who delighted in planning beautiful gowns for her beautiful daughter, there was nothing lacking to prevent Ruth from being well-dressed.
On this summer’s afternoon she was clad from head to foot in soft, pale gray. Every movement of her young body, as she walked toward town, betokened health and elastic strength. Her long, easy gait precluded any idea of hurry; she noticed everything she passed, from a handsome house to a dirty child.
She was approaching that portion of Geary Street which the doctors have appropriated, and she carefully scanned each silvery sign-plate in search of Dr. Kemp’s name. It was the first time she had had occasion to go; and with a little feeling of novel curiosity she ran up the stairs leading to his office.
It was just three,—the time stated as the limit of his office-hours; but when Ruth entered the handsome waiting-room, two or three patients were still awaiting their turns. Seated in one of the easy-chairs, near the window, was an aristocratic-looking woman, whom Ruth recognized as a friend of one of her Christian friends, and with whom she had a speaking acquaintance. Nodding pleasantly in response to the rather frigid bow, she walked to the centre of the room, and laying upon the table a bunch of roses that she carried, proceeded to select one of the magazines scattered about. As she sat down, she found herself opposite a stout Irishwoman, coarsely but cleanly dressed, who with undisguised admiration took in every detail of Ruth’s appearance. She overlooked the evident simplicity of the woman’s stare; but the wistful, yearning look of a little girl who reclined upon the lounge caused her to sit with her magazine unopened. As soon as she perceived that it was her flowers that the child regarded so longingly, she bent forward, and holding out a few roses, said invitingly,—
“Would you like these?”
There is generally something startling in the sudden sound of a voice after a long silence between strangers; but the pretty cadence of Ruth’s gentle voice bore no suggestion of abruptness.
“Indeed, and she just do dote on ‘em,” answered the mother, in a loud tone, for the blushing child.
“So do I,” responded Ruth; and leaning farther forward, she put them in the little hand.
But the child’s hand did not close over them, and the large eyes turned piteously to her mother.
“It’s paralyzed she is,” hurriedly explained the mother. “Shall Mamma hold the beautiful roses for ye, darlint?”
“Please,” answered the childish treble.
Ruth hesitated a second, and then rising and bending over her said,—
“No; I know of a better way. Wouldn’t you like to have me fasten them in your belt? There, now you can smell them all the time.”
“Roses is what she likes mostly,” proceeded the mother, garrulously, “and she’s for giving the doctor one every time she can when he comes. Faith! it’s about all he do get for his goodness, for what with—”
The sudden opening of the folding-door interrupted her flow of talk. Seeing the doctor standing on the threshold as a signal for the next in waiting to come forward, the poor woman arose preparatory to helping her child into the consulting-room.
“Let me help Mamie, Mrs. O’Brien,” said he, coming toward her. At the same moment the elegant-looking woman rose from her chair and swept toward him.
“I believe it is my turn,” she said, in response to his questioning salutation.
“Certainly, if you came before Mrs. O’Brien. If so, walk in,” he answered, moving the portiere aside for the other to enter.
“Sure, Doctor,” broke in Mrs. O’Brien, anxiously, “we came in together.”
“Indeed!” He looked from the florid, flustered face to the haughtily impassive woman beside her.
“Well, then,” said he, courteously, “I know Mrs. O’Brien is wanted at home by her little ones. Mrs. Baker, you will not object, I am sure.”
It was now the elegant woman’s turn to flush as Kemp took up the child.
Ruth felt a leap of delight at the action. It was a quiet lesson to be laid to heart; and she knew she could never see him in a better light than when he left the room holding the little charity patient in his arms.
She also noticed with a tinge of amusement the look of added hauteur on the face of Mrs. Baker, as she returned to her seat at the window.
“Haughtiness,” mused Ruth, “is merely a cloak to selfishness, or the want of a proper spirit of humanity.”
The magazine article remained unread; she drifted into a sort of day-dream, and scarcely noticed when Mrs. Baker left the room.
“Well, Miss Levice.”
She started up, slightly embarrassed, as the doctor’s voice thus aroused her.
“I beg your pardon,” she said, coming forward and flushing slightly under his amused smile. “It was so quiet here that I forgot where I was.”
He stood aside as she passed into the room, bringing with her an exquisite fragrance of roses.
“Will you be seated?” he asked, as he turned from closing the door.
“No; it is not worth while.”
“What is the trouble,—you or your mother?”
There had been nothing disconcerting in the Irish-woman’s stare; but she felt suddenly hot and uncomfortable under the doctor’s broad gaze.
“Neither of us,” she answered; “I broke the tonic bottle this morning, and as the number was destroyed, I should like to have you give me another prescription.”
“Directly. Take this chair for a moment.”
She seated herself perforce, and he took the chair beside the desk.
“How is she since yesterday?” he asked, as he wrote, without looking up.
“Quite as comfortable.”
He handed her the prescription presently, and she arose at once. He stepped forward to open the outer door for her.
“I hope you no longer feel alarmed over her health,” he remarked, with a hand on the knob.
“No; you have made us feel there was no cause for it. But for your method I am afraid there might have been.”
“Thank you; but do not think anything of the kind. Your nursing was as potent a factor as my directions. It is not Congress, but the people, who make the country, you know.”
“That is condescending, coming from Congress,” she laughed gayly; “but I must disclaim the compliment, I am sorry to say; my nursing was only a name.”
“As you please. Miss Levice, may I beg a rose of you? No, not all. Well, thank you, they will look wonderful in a certain room I am thinking of.”
“Yes?” There was a note of inquiry in the little word in reply to Kemp’s pointed remark spoken as with a sudden purpose.
“Yes,” he continued, leaning his back against the door and looking earnestly down at the tall girl; “the room of a lad without even the presence of a mother to make it pretty;” he paused as if noting the effect of his words. “He is as lonely and uncomplaining as a tree would be in a desert; these roses will be quite a godsend to him.” He finished his sentence pleasantly at sight of the expression of sympathy in the lovely brown eyes.
“Do you think he would care to see any one?”
“Well,” replied the doctor, slowly, “I think he would not mind seeing you.”
“Then will you tell me where he lives so that I can go there some day?”
“Some day? Why not to-day? Would it be impossible to arrange it?”
“Why, no,” she faltered, looking at him in surprise.
“Excuse my curiosity, please; but the boy is in such pressing need of some pleasurable emotion that as soon as I looked at you and your roses I thought, ‘Now, that would not be a bad thing for Bob.’ You see, I was simply answering a question that has bothered me all day. Then will you drive there with me now?”
“Would not that be impossible with your driver?” she asked, searching unaccountably for an excuse.
“I can easily dispense with him.”
“But won’t my presence be annoying?” she persisted, hesitating oddly.
“Not to me,” he replied, turning quickly for his hat. “Come, then, please, I must waste no more time in Bob’s good cause.”
She followed him silently with a sensation of quiet excitement.
Presently she found herself comfortably seated beside the doctor, who drove off at a rapid pace.
“I think,” said he, turning his horses westward, “I shall have to make a call out here on Jones Street before going to Bob. You will not mind the delay, Miss Levice, I hope.”
“Oh, no. This is ‘my afternoon off,’ you know. Father is at home, and my mother will not miss me in the least. I was just thinking—”
She came to a sudden pause. She had just remembered that she was about to become communicative to a comparative stranger; the intent, interested look in Kemp’s eye as he glanced at her was the disturbing element.
“You were thinking what?” he prompted with his eye now to the horses’ heads.
“I am afraid you would not be edified if I continued,” she answered hastily, biting her lip. She had been about to remark that her father would miss her, nevertheless—but such personal platitudes are not always in good taste. Seeing that she was disinclined to finish her sentence, he did not urge her; and a few minutes later he drew up his horses before a rather imposing house.
“I shall not be gone a minute, I think,” he said, as he sprang out and was about to attach the reins to the post.
“Let me hold them, please,” said Ruth, eagerly stretching forth a hand.
He placed them in her hand with a smile, and turned in at the gateway.
He had been in the house about five minutes when she saw him come out hastily. His hat was pulled down over his brows, which were gathered in an unmistakable frown. At the moment when he slammed the gate behind him, a stout woman hurrying along the sidewalk accosted him breathlessly.
He waited stolidly with his foot on the carriage-step till she came up.
“So sorry I had to go out!” she burst forth. “How did you find my husband? What do you think of him?”
“Madame,” he replied shortly, “since you ask, I think your husband is little short of an idiot!”
Ruth felt herself flush as she heard.
The woman looked at him in consternation.
“What is the matter?” she asked.
“Matter? Mayonnaise is the matter. If a man with a weak stomach like his cannot resist gorging himself with things he has been strictly prohibited from touching, he had better proclaim himself irresponsible and be done. It is nonsense to call me in when he persists in cutting up such antics. Good-afternoon.”
And abruptly raising his hat, he sprang in beside Ruth, taking the reins from her without a word.
She felt very meek and small beside the evidently exasperated physician. He seemed to forget her presence entirely, and she had too much tact to break the silence of an angry man. In nine cases out of ten, the explosion is bound to take place; but woe to him who lights the powder!
They were now driving northeast toward the quarter known as North Beach. The sweet, fresh breeze in the western heights toward Golden Gate is here charged with odors redolent of anything but the “shores of Araby the blest.”
Kemp finally gave vent to his feelings.
“Some men,” he said deliberately, as if laying down an axiom, “have no more conception of the dignity of controlled appetites than savages. Here is one who could not withstand anything savory to eat, to save his soul; otherwise he is a strong, sensible man. I can’t account for it.”
“The force of habit, perhaps,” suggested Ruth.
“Probably. Jewish appetite is known to dote on the fat of the land.”
That he said this with as little vituperation as if he had remarked on the weather Ruth knew; and she felt no inclination to resent the remark, although a vision of her cousin Jennie protesting did present itself. Some Jewish people with diseased imaginations take every remark on the race as a personal calumny.
“We always make the reservation that the fat be clean,” she laughed.
Kemp flashed around at her.
“Miss Levice,” he exclaimed contritely, “I completely forgot—I hope I was not rude.”
“Why, certainly not,” she answered half merrily, half earnestly. “Why should you be?”
“As you say, why should I be? Jewish individuals, of course, have their faults like the rest of humanity. As a race, most of their characteristics redound to their honor, in my estimation.”
“Thank you,” said the girl, quietly. “I am very proud of many Jewish traits.”
“Such as a high morality, loyalty, intelligence, filial respect, and countless other things.”
“Yes.”
“Besides, it is wonderful how they hold the balance of power in the musical and histrionic worlds. Still, to be candid, in comparison with these, they do not seem to have made much headway in the other branches of art. Can you explain it, Miss Levice?”
He waited deferentially for a reply.
“I was trying to think of a proper answer,” she responded with earnest simplicity; “and I think that their great musical and histrionic powers are the results not so much of art as of passion inherited from times and circumstances stern and sad since the race began. Painting and sculpture require other things.”
“Which the Jew cannot obtain?”
A soft glow overspread her face and mounted to her brow.
“Dr. Kemp,” she answered, “we have begun. I should like to quote to you the beautiful illustration with which one of our rabbis was inspired to answer a clergyman asking the same question; but I should only spoil that which in his mouth seemed eloquent.”
“You would not, Miss Levice. Tell the story, please.”
They were on level ground, and the doctor could disengage his attention from the horses. He did not fail to note the emotion that lit up her expressive face, and made her sweet voice tremble.
“It is the story of the Rose of Sharon. This is it briefly: A pilgrim was about to start on a voyage to the Holy Land. In bidding a friend good-by, he said: ‘In that far land to which I am journeying, is there not some relic, some sacred souvenir of the time beautiful, that I can bring to you?’ The friend mused awhile. ‘Yes,’ he made answer finally; ‘there is a small thing, and one not difficult to obtain. I beg of you to bring me a single rose from the plains of Sharon.’ The pilgrim promised, and departed. On his return he presented himself before his friend. ‘You have brought it?’ he cried. ‘Friend,’ answered the pilgrim, sadly, ‘I have brought your rose; but, alas! After all this weary travelling it is now but a poor, withered thing.’ ‘Give it me!’ exclaimed the friend, eagerly. The other did so. True, it was lifeless and withered; not a vestige remained of its once fragrant glory. But as the man held it tenderly in his hand, memory and love untold overcame him, and he wept in ecstasy. And as his tears fell on the faded rose, lo! The petals sprang up, flushed into life; an exquisite perfume enveloped it,—it had revived in all its beauty. Sir, in the words of the rabbi, ‘In the light of toleration and love, we too have revived, we too are looking up.’”
As the girl paused, Kemp slightly, almost reverentially, raised his hat.
“Miss Levice, that is exquisite,” he said softly.
They had reached the old, poorer section of the city, and the doctor stopped before a weather-beaten cottage.
“This is where Bob receives,” he said, holding out a hand to Ruth; “in all truth it cannot be called a home.”
Ruth had a peculiar, inexplicable feeling of mutual understanding with the doctor as she went in with him. She hardly realized that she had been an impressionable witness of some of his dominant moods, and that she herself had been led on to an unrestrained display of feeling.
Chapter VI
They walked directly into a bare, dark hallway. There was no one stirring, and Kemp softly opened the door of one of several rooms leading into the passage. Here a broad band of yellow sunlight fell unrestrained athwart the waxen-like face of the sleeping boy. The rest of the simple, poor-looking room was in shadow. The doctor noiselessly closed the door behind them, and stepped to the bed, which was covered with a heavy horse-blanket.
The boy on the bed even in sleep could not be accounted good-looking; there was a heaviness of feature, a plentitude of freckles, a shock of lack-lustre hair, that made poor Bob Bard anything but a thing of beauty. And yet, as Ruth looked at him, and saw Kemp’s strong white hand placed gently on the low forehead, a great wave of tender pity took possession of her. Sleep puts the strongest at the mercy of the watcher; there is a loneliness about it, a silent, expressive plea for protection, that appeals unconsciously. Ruth would have liked to raise the rough, lonely head to her bosom.
“It would be too bad to wake him now,” said the doctor, in a low voice, coming back to her side; “he is sleeping restfully; and that is what he needs. I am sorry our little plan is frustrated; but it would be senseless to wait, as there is no telling when he will waken.”
A shade of disappointment passed over the girl’s face, which he noticed.
“But,” he continued, “you might leave your roses where he cannot fail to see them. His conjectures on their mysterious appearance will rouse him sufficiently for one day.”
He watched her move lightly across the room, and fill a cup with water from an earthenware pitcher. She looked about for a second as if hesitating where to place it, and then quickly drew up a high-backed wooden chair close to the bedside, and placed thereon a cup with roses, so that they looked straight into the face of the slumbering lad.
“We will go now,” Kemp said, and opened the door for Ruth to pass before him. She followed him slowly, but on the threshold drew back, a thoughtful little pucker on her brow.
“I think I shall wait anyway,” she explained. “I should like to talk with Bob a little.”
The doctor looked slightly annoyed.
“You had better drive home with me,” he objected.
“Thank you,” she replied, drawing farther back into the room; “but the Jackson Street cars are very convenient.”
“Nevertheless, I should prefer to have you come with me,” he insisted.
“But I do not wish to,” she repeated quietly; “besides, I have decided to stay.”
“That settles it, then,” smiled Kemp; and shaking her hand, he went out alone.
“When my lady will, she will; and when she won’t, she won’t,” he mused, gathering up his reins. But the terminal point to the thought was a smile.
Ruth, thus left alone, seated herself on the one other chair near the foot of the bed. Strange to say, though she gazed at Bob, her thoughts had flown out of the room. She was dimly conscious that she was pleasantly excited. Had she cared to look the cause boldly in the face, she would have known that Miss Ruth Levice’s vanity had been highly fed by Dr. Kemp’s unmistakable desire for her assistance. He must at least have looked at her with friendly eyes; but here her modesty drew a line even for herself, and giving herself a mental shake, she saw that two lambent brown eyes were looking wonderingly at her from the face of the sick lad.
“How do you feel now, Bob?” she asked, rising immediately and smiling down at him.
The boy forgot to answer.
“The doctor brought me here,” she went on brightly; “but as you were asleep, he could not wait. Are you feeling better, Bob?”
The soft, star-like eyes did not wander in their gaze.
“Why did you come?” he breathed finally. His voice was surprisingly musical.
“Why?” faltered Ruth. “Oh, to bring you these roses. Do you care for flowers, Bob?” She lifted the mass of delicate buds toward him. Two pale, transparent hands went out to meet them. Tenderly as you sometimes see a mother press the cheek of her babe to her own, he drew them to his cheek.
“Oh, my darlings, my darlings!” he murmured passionately, with his lips pressed to the fragrant petals.
“Do you love them, then, so much?”
“Lady,” replied the boy, raising himself to a sitting posture, “there is nothing in the world to me like flowers.”
“I never thought boys cared so for flowers,” remarked Ruth, in surprise.
“I am a gardener,” said he, simply, and again fell to caressing the roses. Sitting up, he looked fully seventeen or eighteen years old.
“You must have missed them during your illness,” observed Ruth.
A long sigh answered her. The boy rested his dreamy eyes upon her. He was no longer ugly, with his thoughts illumining his face.
“Marechal Niel,” she heard him whisper, still with his eyes upon her, “all in soft, radiant robes like a gracious queen. Lady, you fit well next my Homer rose.”
“What Homer rose?” asked Ruth, humoring the flower-poet’s odd conceit.
“My strong, brave Homer. There is none like him for strength, with all his gentle perfume folded close to his heart. I used to think these Duchesses would suit him best; but now, having seen you, I know they were too frail,—Marechal Niel.” It was impossible to resent openly the boy’s musings; but with a quick insistence that stemmed the current of his thoughts, she said,—
“Tell me where you suffer, Bob.”
“I do not suffer. I am only weak; but he is nourishing me, and Mrs. Mills brings me what he orders.”
“And is there anything you would like to have of which you forgot to tell him?”
“I never tell him anything I wish,” replied the boy, proudly. “He knows beforehand. Did you never draw up close to a delicate flower, lay your cheek softly upon it, so,—close your eyes, so,—and listen to the tale it’s telling? Well, that is what my good friend does always.”
It was like listening to music to hear the slow, drawling words of the invalid. Ruth’s hand closed softly over his.
“I have some pretty stories at home about flowers,” she said; “would you like to read them?”
“I can’t read very well,” answered Bob, in unabashed simplicity.
Yet his spoken words were flawless.
“Then I shall read them to you,” she answered pleasantly, “to-morrow, Bob, say at about three.”
“You will come again?” The heavy mouth quivered in eager surprise.
“Why, yes; now that I know you, I must know you better. May I come?”
“Oh, lady!”
Ruth went out enveloped in that look of gratitude. It was the first directly personal expression of honest gratitude she had ever received; and as she walked down the hill, she longed to do something that would be really helpful to some one. She had led, on the whole, so far, an egotistic life. Being their only child, her parents expected much of her. During her school-life she had been a sort of human reservoir for all her father’s ideas, whims, and hobbies. True, he had made her take a wide interest in everything within the line of vision; hanging on his arm, as they wandered off daily in their peripatetic school, he had imbued her with all his manly nobility of soul. But theorizing does not give much hold on a subject, the mind being taken up with its own clever elucidations. For the past six months, after a year’s travel in Europe, her mother had led her on in a whirl of what she called happiness. Ruth had soon gauged the worth of this surface-life, and now that a lull had come, she realized that what she needed was some interest outside of herself,—an interest which the duties of a mere society girl do not allow to develop to a real good.
A plan slowly formed itself in her mind, in which she became so engrossed that she unconsciously crossed the cable of the Jackson Street cars. She did not turn till a hand was suddenly laid upon her arm.
“What are you doing in this part of town?” broke in Louis Arnold’s voice in evident anger.
“Oh, Louis, how you startled me! What is the matter with this part of town?”
“You are on a very disreputable street. Where are you going?”
“Home.”
“Then be so kind as to turn back with me and take the cars.”
She glanced at him quickly, unused to his tone of command, and turned with him.
“How do you happen to be here?” he asked shortly.
“Dr. Kemp took me to see a poor patient of his.”
“Dr. Kemp?” surprise raised his eyebrows half an inch.
“Yes.”
“Indeed! Then,” he continued in cool, biting words, “why didn’t he carry his charity a little farther and take you home again?”
“Because I did not choose to go with him,” she returned, rearing her head and looking calmly at him as they walked along.
“Bah! What had your wishing or not wishing to do with it? The man knew where he had taken you even if you did not know. This quarter is occupied by nothing but negroes and foreign loafers. It was decidedly ungentlemanly to leave you to return alone at this time of the evening.”
“Probably he gave me credit for being able to take care of myself in broad daylight.”
“Probably he never gave it a second’s thought one way or the other. Hereafter you had better consult your natural protectors before starting out on Quixotic excursions with indifferent strangers.”
“Louis!”
She actually stamped her little foot while walking.
“Well?”
“Stop that, please. You are not my keeper.”
Her cousin smiled quizzically. They took their seats on the dummy, just as the sun, a golden ball, was about to glide behind Lone Mountain. Late afternoon is a quiet time, and Ruth and Louis did not speak for a while.
The girl was experiencing a whirl of conflicting emotions,—anger at Louis’s interference, pleasure at his protecting care, annoyance at what he considered gross negligence on the doctor’s part, and a sneaking pride, in defiance of his insinuations, over the thought that Kemp had trusted to her womanliness as a safeguard against any chance annoyance. She also felt ashamed at having showed temper.
“Louis,” she ventured finally, rubbing her shoulder against his, as gentle animals conciliate their mates, “I am sorry I spoke so harshly; but it exasperates me to hear you cast slurs, as you have done before, upon Dr. Kemp in his absence.”
“Why should it, my dear, since it give you a chance to uphold him?”
There is a way of saying “my dear” that is as mortifying as a slap in the face.
The dark blood surged over the girl’s cheeks. She drew a long, hard breath, and then said in a low voice,—
“I think we will not quarrel, Louis. Will you get off at the next corner with me? I have a prescription to be made up at the drug-store.”
“Certainly.”
If Arnold had showed anger, he was man enough not to be ashamed of it; this is one of man’s many lordly rights.
Chapter VII
Mrs. Jules Levice was slowly gaining the high-road to recovery, and many of the restrictions for her cure had been removed. As a consequence, and with an eye ever to Ruth’s social duties, she urged her to leave her more and more to herself.
As a matter of course, Ruth had laid the case of Bob and his neighborhood before her father’s consideration. A Jewish girl’s life is an open page to her family. Matters of small as well as of larger moment are freely discussed. The result is that while it robs her of much of her Christian sister’s spontaneity, which often is the latter’s greatest charm, it also, through the sagacity of more experienced heads, guards her against many indiscretions. This may be a relic of European training, but it enables parents to instil into the minds of their daughters principles which compare favorable with the American girl’s native self-reliance. It was as natural for Ruth to consult her father in this trivial matter, in view of Louis’s disapproval, as it would be for her friend, Dorothy Gwynne, to sally anywhere so long as she herself felt justified in so doing.
Ruth really wished to go; and as her father, after considering the matter, could find no objection, she went. After that it was enough to tell her mother that she was going to see Bob. Mrs. Levice had heard the doctor speak of him to Ruth; and any little charity that came in her way she was only too happy to forward.
Bob’s plain, ungarnished room soon began to show signs of beauty under Ruth’s deft fingers. A pot of mignonette in the window, a small painting of exquisite chrysanthemums on the wall, a daily bunch of fresh roses, were the food she brought for his poet soul. But there were other substantial things.
The day after she had replaced the coarse horse-blanket with a soft down quilt, the doctor made one of his bi-weekly visits to her mother.
As he stood taking leave of Ruth on the veranda, he turned, with his foot on the last step, and looked up at her as if arrested by a sudden thought.
“Miss Levice,” said he, “I should like to give you a friendly scolding. May I?”
“How can I prevent you?”
“Well, if I were you I should not indulge Bob’s love of luxury as you do. He positively refused to get up yesterday on account of the ‘soft feel,’ as he termed it, of that quilt. Now, you know, he must get up; he is able to, and in a week I wish to start him in to work again. Then he won’t be able to afford such ‘soft feels,’ and he will rebel. He has had enough coddling for his own good. I really think it is mistaken kindness on your part, Miss Levice.”
The girl was leaning lightly against one of the supporting columns. A playful smile parted her lips as she listened.
“Dr. Kemp,” she replied, “may I give you a little friendly scolding?”
“You have every right.” His tone was somewhat earnest, despite his smiling eyes. A man of thirty-five does not resent a friendly scolding from a winsome young girl.
“Well, don’t you think it is rather hard of you to deprive poor Bob of any pleasure to-day may bring, on the ground that to-morrow he may wish it too, and will not be able to have it?”
“As you put it, it does seem so; but I am pugnacious enough to wish you to see it as practically as I do. Put sentiment aside, and the only sensible thing to be done now is to prepare him for the hard, uncushioned facts of an active life.”
“But why must it be so hard for him?”
“Why? In the face of the inevitable, that is a time-wasting, useless question. Life is so; even if we find its underlying cause, the discovery will not alter the fact.”
“Yes, it will.”
“How?”
“By its enabling us to turn our backs on the hard way and seek a softer.”
“You forget that strait-jacket to all inclination,—circumstance.”
“And are you not forgetting that friendly hands may help to remove the strait-jacket?”
Her lovely face looked very winning, filled with its kindly meaning.
“Thank you,” said he, raising his hat and forgetting to replace it as he spoke; “that is a gentle truth; some day we shall discuss this further. For the present, use your power in getting Bob upon his feet.”
“Yes.” She gave a hurried glance at the door behind her, and ran quickly down to the lowest step. “Dr. Kemp,” said she, a little breathlessly, “I have wished for some time to ask you to let me know when you have any cases that require assistance outside of a physician’s,—such as my father or I might lend. You must have a broad field for such opportunities. Will you think of me then, please?”
“I will,” he replied, looking with amused pleasure at her flushed face. “Going in for philanthropy, Miss Levice?”
“No; going out for it, thank you;” and she put her hand into his outstretched one. She watched him step into his carriage; he turned and raised his hat again,—a trifling circumstance that Ruth dwelt upon with pleasure; a second glance always presupposes an interested first.
He did not fail to keep his promise; and once on the lookout for “cases” herself, Ruth soon found enough irons in the fire to occupy her spare moments.
Mrs. Levice, however, insisted upon her resuming her place in society.
“A young girl must not withdraw herself from her sphere, or people will either consider her eccentric or will forget her entirely. Don’t be unreasonable, Ruth; there is no reason why you should not enjoy every function in our circle, and Louis is always happy to take you. When he asked you if you would go with him to the Art Exhibition on Friday night, I heard you say you did not know. Now why?”
“Oh, that? I never gave it a second’s thought. I promised Father to go with him in the afternoon; I did not consider it worth an explanation.”
“But, you see, I did. It looks very queer for Louis to be travelling around by himself; couldn’t you go again in the evening with him?”
“Of course, you over-thoughtful aunt. If the pictures are good, a second visit will not be thrown away,—that is, if Louis is really anxious for my companionship. But, ‘I doubt it, I doubt it, I do.’”
“What nonsense!” returned her mother, somewhat testily. “Why shouldn’t he be? You are always amiable together, are you not?”
“Well,” she said, knitting her brows and pursing her lips drolly, “that, methinks, depends on the limits and requirements of amiability. If disputation showeth a friendly spirit, then is my lord overfriendly; for it oft hath seemed of late to pleasure his mood to wax disputations, though, in sooth, lady fair, I have always maintained a wary and decorous demeanor.”
“I can imagine,” laughed her mother, a little anxiously; “then you will go?”
“Why not?”
If Arnold really cared for the outcome of such manoeuvres, Mrs. Levice’s exertions bore some fruit.
Chapter VIII
There are few communities, comparatively speaking, with more enthusiastic theatre-lovers than are to be found in San Francisco. The play was one of the few worldly pleasures that Mr. Levice thoroughly enjoyed. When a great star was heralded, he was in a feverish delight until it had come and gone. When Bernhardt appeared, the quiet little man fully earned the often indiscriminately applied title of “crazy Frenchman.” A Frenchman is never so much one as when confronted in a foreign land with a great French creation; every fibre in his body answers each charm with an appreciation worked to fever-heat by patriotic love; at such times the play of his emotions precludes any idea of reason to an onlooker. Bernhardt was one of Levice’s passions. Booth was another, though he took him more composedly. The first time the latter appeared at the Baldwin (his opening play was “Hamlet”) the Levices—that is, Ruth and her father—went three times in succession to witness his matchless performance, and every succeeding characterization but strengthened their enthusiasm.
Booth was coming again. The announcement had been rapturously hailed by the Levices.
“It will be impossible for us to go together, Father,” Ruth remarked at the breakfast-table. “Louis will have to take me on alternate nights, while you stay at home with Mamma; did you hear, Louis?”
“You will hardly need to do that,” answered Arnold, lowering his cup; “if you and your father prefer going together, I shall enjoy staying with your mother on those nights.”
“Thanks for the offer—and your evident delight in my company,” laughed Ruth; “but there is one play at which you must submit to the infliction of my presence. Don’t you remember we always wished to see the ‘Merchant of Venice’ and judge for ourselves his interpretation of the character? Well, I am determined that we shall see it together.”
“When does he play it?”
“A week from Saturday night.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, but I shall be out of town at the end of next week.”
“Oh, dear? Honestly? Can’t you put it off? I want so much to go.”
“Impossible. Go with your father.”
“You know very well neither of us would go off and leave Mamma alone at night. It is horrid of you to go. I am sure you could manage differently if—”
“Why, my child!”
She was actually pouting; and her father’s quiet tone of surprised reprimand just headed off two great tears that threatened to fall.
“I know,” she said, trying to smile, and showing an April face instead; “but I had just set my heart on going, and with Louis too.”
“That comes of being a spoilt only child,” put in Arnold, suavely. “You ought to know by this time that of the many plans we make with ourselves, nine out of ten come to nought. Before you set your heart on a thing, be sure you will not have to give it up.”
Ruth, still sore with disappointment, acknowledged this philosophic remark with a curled lip.
“There, save your tears for something more worthy,” cut in Levice, briskly; “if you care so much about it, we or chance must arrange it as you wish.”
But chance in this instance was not propitious. Wednesday came, and Arnold saw no way of accommodating her. He left town after taking her to see the “Fool’s Revenge” as a sort of substitution.
“You seemed to be enjoying the poor Fool’s troubles last night,” observed Dr. Kemp, in the morning; they were still standing in Mrs. Levice’s room.
“I? Not enjoying his troubles; I enjoyed Booth, though,—if you can call it enjoyment when your heart is ready to break for him. Were you there? I did not see you.”
“No, I don’t suppose you did, or you would have been in the pitiable condition of the princess who had her head turned. I sat directly back of your box, in the dress-circle. Then you like Booth?”
“Take care! That is a dangerous subject with my family,” broke in Mrs. Levice. “Ruth has actually exhausted every adjective in her admiration vocabulary. The last extravaganza I heard from her on that theme was after she had seen him as Brutus; she wished herself Lucius, that in the tent scene she might kiss Booth’s hand.”
“It sounds gushing enough for a school-girl now,” laughed Ruth merrily, looking up at the doctor; “but at the time I meant it.”
“Have you seen him in all his impersonations?” he asked.
“In everything but ‘Shylock.’”
“You will have a chance for that on Saturday night. It will be a great farewell performance.”
“Undoubtedly, but I shall have to forego that last glimpse of him.”
“Now, Doctor,” cried Mrs. Levice, “will you please impress it on her that I am not a lunatic and can be left alone without fear? She wishes to go Saturday night, but refuses to go with her father on the ground that I shall be left alone, as Mr. Arnold is out of town. Is not that being unnecessarily solicitous?”
“Without doubt. But,” he added, turning deferentially to Ruth, “in lieu of a better escort, how would I do, Miss Levice?”
“I do not understand.”
“Will you come with me Saturday night to see ‘Shylock’?”
To be candid, Ruth was embarrassed. The doctor had said neither “will you honor me” nor “will you please me,” but he had both pleased and honored her. She turned a pair of radiant eyes to her mother. “Come now, Mrs. Levice,” laughed Kemp, noting the action, “will you allow your little girl to go with me? Do not detain me with a refusal; it will be impossible to accept one now, and I shall not be around till then, you know. Good-morning.”
Unwittingly, the doctor had caused an excitement in the hearts both of mother and daughter. The latter was naturally surprised at his unexpected invitation, but surprise was soon obliterated by another and quite different feeling, which she kept rigorously to herself. Mrs. Levice was in a dilemma about it, and consulted her husband in the evening.
“By all means, let her go,” replied he; “why should you have had any misgivings about it? I am sure I am glad she is going.”
“But, Jules, you forget that none of our Jewish friends allow their girls to go out with strangers.”
“Is that part of our religion?”
“No; but custom is in itself a religion. People do talk so at every little innovation against convention.”
“What will they say? Nothing detrimental either to Ruth or the doctor. Pshaw, Esther! You ought to feel proud that Dr. Kemp has asked the child. If she wishes to go, don’t set an impossible bogy in the way of her enjoyment. Besides, you do not care to appear so silly as you would if you said to the doctor, ‘I can’t let her go on account of people’s tongues,’ and that is the only honest excuse you can offer.” So in his manly, practical way he decided it.
On Saturday night Ruth stood in the drawing-room buttoning her pale suede glove. Kemp had not yet come in. She looked unusually well in her dull sage-green gown. A tiny toque of the same color rested on her soft dark hair. The creamy pallor of her face, the firm white throat revealed by the broad rolling collar, her grave lips and dreamy eyes, hardly told that she was feeling a little shy. Presently the bell rang, and Kemp came in, his open topcoat revealing his evening dress beneath. He came forward hastily.
“I am a little late,” he said, taking her hand, “but it was unavoidable. Ten minutes to eight,” looking at his watch; “the horses must make good time.”
“It is slightly chilly to-night, is it not?” asked Ruth, for want of something better to say as she turned for her wrap.
“I did not feel it,” he replied, intercepting her. “But this furry thing will keep the cold off, if there is any,” he continued, as he held it for her, and quite unprofessionally bent his head to hook it at her throat. A strange sensation shot through Ruth as his face approached so close her own.
“How are your mother and father?” He asked, holding the door open, while she turned for her fan, thus concealing a slight embarrassment.
“They are as usual,” she answered. “Father expects to see you after the play. You will come in for a little supper, will you not?”
“That sounds alluring,” he responded lightly, his quick eye remarking, as she came toward him, the dainty femininity of her loveliness, that seemed to have caught a grace beyond the reach of art.
It thus happened that they took their places just as the curtain rose.
Chapter IX
Everybody remembers the sad old comedy, as differently interpreted in its graver sentiment as there are different interpreters. Ruth had seen one who made of Shylock merely a fawning, mercenary, loveless, blood-thirsty wretch. She had seen another who presented a man of quick wit, ready tongue, great dignity, greater vengeance, silent of love, wordy of hate. Booth, without throwing any romantic glamour on the Jew, showed him as God and man, but mostly man, had made him: an old Jew, grown bitter in the world’s disfavor through fault of race; grown old in strife for the only worldly power vouchsafed him,—gold; grown old with but one human love to lighten his hard existence; a man who, at length, shorn of his two loves through the same medium that robbed him of his manly birthright, now turned fiend, endeavors with tooth and nail to wreak the smouldering vengeance of a lifetime upon the chance representative of an inexorable persecution.
All through the performance Ruth sat a silent, attentive listener. Kemp, with his ready laugh at Gratiano’s sallies, would turn a quick look at her for sympathy; he was rather surprised at the grave, unsmiling face beside him. When, however, the old Jew staggered alone and almost blindly from the triumphantly smiling court-room, a little pinch on his arm decidedly startled him.
He lowered his glass and turned round on her so suddenly that Ruth started.
“Oh,” she faltered, “I—I beg your pardon; I had forgotten you were not Louis.”
“I do not mind in the least,” he assured her easily.
The last act passes merrily and quickly; only the severe, great things of life move slowly.
As the doctor and Ruth made their way through the crowded lobby, the latter thought she had never seen so many acquaintances, each of whom turned an interested look at her stalwart escort. Of this she was perfectly aware, but the same human interest with which Kemp’s acquaintances regarded her passed by her unnoticed.
A moment later they were in the fresh, open air.
“How beautiful it is!” said Ruth, looking up at the stars. “The wind has entirely died away.”
“‘On such a night,’” quoth Kemp, as they approached the curb, “a closed carriage seems out of season.”
“And reason,” supplemented Ruth, while the doctor opened the door rather slowly. She glanced at him hesitatingly.
“Would you—” she began.
“Right! I would!” The door was banged to.
“John,” he said, looking up at his man in the box, “take this trap round to the stable; I shall not need the horses again to-night.”
John touched his hat, and Kemp drew his companion’s little hand through his arm.
“Well,” he said, as they turned the corner, “Were you satisfied with the great man to-night?”
“Yes,” she replied meditatively, “fully; there was no exaggeration,—it was all quite natural.”
“Except Jessica in boy’s clothes.”
“Don’t mention her, please; I detest her.”
“And yet she spoke quite prettily on the night.”
“I did not hear her.”
“Why, where were you while all the world was making merry on the stage?”
“Not with them; I was with the weary, heart-broken old man who passed out when joy began.”
“Ah! I fancied you did not half appreciate Gratiano’s jesting. Miss Levice, I am afraid you allow the sorry things of life to take too strong a hold on you. It is not right. I assure you for every tear there is a laugh, and you must learn to forget the former in the latter.”
“I am sorry,” replied Ruth, quite sadly; “but I fear I cannot learn that,—tears are always stronger than laughter. How could I listen to the others’ nonsense when my heart was sobbing with that lonely old man? Forgive me, but I cannot forget him.”
They walked along silently for some time. Instinctively, each felt the perfect accord with which they kept step. Ruth’s little ear was just about on a level with the doctor’s chin. He hardly felt the soft touch of her hand upon his sleeve; but as he looked at the white profile of her cheek against the dark fur of her collar, the knowledge that she was there was a pleasing one.
“Did you consider the length of our walk when you fell in with my desire?” he asked presently.
“I like a long walk in pleasant weather; I never tire of walking.”
“You have found the essentials of a good pedestrian,—health and strength.”
“Yes; if everybody were like me, all your skill would be thrown away,—I am never ill.”
“Apparently there is no reason why you should be, with common-sense to back your blessings. If common-sense could be bought at the drug-store, I should be rid of a great many patients.”
“That reminds me of a snatch of conversation I once overheard between my mother and a doctor’s wife. I am reminded of it because the spirit of your meaning is diametrically opposed to her own. After some talk my mother asked, ‘And how is the doctor?’ ‘Oh,’ replied the visitor, with a long sigh, ‘he’s well enough in body, but he’s blue, terribly blue; everybody is so well, you know.’”
“Her sentiment was more human than humane,” laughed Kemp. He was glad to see that she had roused herself from her sad musings; but a certain set purpose he had formed robbed him now of his former lightness of manner.
He was about to broach a subject that required delicate handling; but an intuitive knowledge of the womanly character of the young girl aided him much. It was not so much what he had seen her do as what he knew she was, that led him to begin his recital.
“We have a good many blocks before us yet,” he said, “and I am going to tell you a little story. Why don’t you take the full benefit of my arm? There,” he proceeded, drawing her hand farther through his arm, “now you feel more like a big girl than like a bit of thistledown. If I get tiresome, just call ‘time,’ will you?”
“All right,” she laughed. She was beginning to meet halfway this matter-of-fact, unadorned, friendly manner of his; and when she did meet it, she felt a comfortable security in it. From the beginning to the end of his short narrative he looked straight ahead.
“How shall I begin? Do you like fairy tales? Well, this is the soul of one without the fictional wings. Once upon a time,—I think that is the very best introduction extant,—a woman was left a widow with one little girl. She lived in New Orleans, where the blow of her husband’s death and the loss of her good fortune came almost simultaneously. She must have had little moral courage, for as soon as she could, she left her home, not being able to bear the inevitable falling off of friends that follows loss of fortune. She wandered over the intermediate States between here and Louisiana, stopping nowhere long, but endeavoring to keep together the bodies and souls of herself and child by teaching. They kept this up for years until the mother succumbed. They were on the way from Nevada to Los Angeles when she died. The daughter, then not eighteen, went on to Los Angeles, where she buried her mother, and endeavored to continue teaching as she had been doing. She was young, unsophisticated, sad, and in want in a strange town. She applied for advice to a man highly honored and recommended by his fellow-citizens. The man played the brute. The girl fled—anywhere. Had she been less brave, she would have fled from herself. She came to San Francisco and took a position as nurse-girl; children, she thought, could not play her false, and she might outlive it. The hope was cruel. She was living near my home, had seen my sign probably, and in the extremity of her distress came to me. There is a good woman who keeps a lodging-house, and who delights in doing me favors. I left the poor child in her hands, and she is now fully recovered. As a physician I can do no more for her, and yet melancholy has almost made a wreck of her. Nothing I say has any effect; all she answers is, ‘It isn’t worth while.’ I understand her perfectly, but I wished to infuse into her some of her old spirit of independence. This morning I asked her if she intended to let herself drift on in this way. I may have spoken a little more harshly than necessary, for my words broke down completely the wall of dogged silence she had built around herself. ‘Oh, sir,’ she cried, weeping like the child she is, ‘what can I do? Can I dare to take little children by the hand, stained as I am? Can I go as an impostor where, if people knew, they would snatch their loved ones from me? Oh, it would be too wretched!’ I tried to remonstrate with her, told her that the lily in the dust is no less a lily than is her spotless sister held high above contamination. She looked at me miserably from her tear-stained face, and then said, ‘Men may think so, but women don’t; a stain with them is ignoble whether made by one’s self or another. No woman knowing my story would think me free from dishonor, and hold out her clean hands to me.’ ‘Plenty,’ I contradicted. ‘Maybe,’ she said humbly; ‘but what would it mean? The hand would be held out at arm’s length by women safe in their position, who would not fail to show me how debased they think me. I am young yet; can you show me a girl, like myself in years, but white as snow, kept safe from contamination, as you say, who, knowing my story, would hold out her hand to me and not feel herself besmirched by the contact? Do not say you can, for I know you cannot.’ She was crying so violently that she would not listen to me. When I left her, I myself could think of none of my young friends to whom I could propound the question. I know many sweet, kind girls, but I could count not one among them all who in such a case would be brave as she was womanly—until I thought of you.”
Complete silence followed his words. He did not turn his glance from the street ahead of him. He had made no appeal, would make none, in fact. He had told the story with scarcely a reflection on its impropriety, that would have arrested another man from introducing such an element into his gentle fellowship with a girl like Ruth. His lack of hesitancy was born of his manly view of the outcast’s blamelessness, of her dire necessity for help, and of a premonition that Ruth Levice would be as free from the artificiality of conventional surface modesty as was he, through the earnestness of the undertaking.
There is something very sweet to a woman in being singled out by a man for some ennobling virtue. Ruth felt this so strongly that she could almost hear her heart beat with the intoxicating knowledge. No question had been asked, but she felt an answer was expected. Yet had her life depended on it, the words could not have come at that moment. Was she indeed what he esteemed her? Unconsciously Dr. Kemp had, in thought, placed her on a pedestal. Did she deserve the high place he had given her, or would she?
With many women the question would have been, did she care for Dr. Kemp’s good opinion? Now, though Ruth was indeed put on her mettle, her quick sympathy had been instantly touched by the girl’s miserable story. Perhaps the doctor’s own feelings had influenced her, but had the girl stood before her at the moment, she would have seized her hand with all her own gentle nobility of soul.
As they turned the corner of the block where Ruth’s house stood, Kemp said deliberately,—
“Well?”
“I thank you. Where does she live?”
Her quiet, natural tone told nothing of the tumult of sweet thoughts within. They had reached the house, and the doctor opened the gate before he answered. When he did, after they had passed through, he took both her hands in his.
“I shall take you there,” he said, looking down at her with grave, smiling eyes; “I knew you would not fail me. When shall I call for you?”
“Do not call for me at all; I think—I know it will be better for me to walk in alone, as of my own accord.”
“Ah, yes!” he said, and told her the address. She ran lightly up the steps, and as he turned her key in the door for her, she raised a pair of starry eyes to his.
“Dr. Kemp,” she said, “I have had an exceptionally lovely evening. I shall not soon forget it.”
“Nor I,” he returned, raising his hat; holding it in his hand, he gently raised her gloved hand to his lips. Herbert Kemp was a gentleman of the old school in his manner of showing reverence to women.
“My brave young friend!” he said; and the next minute his firm footfall was crunching the gravel of the walk. Neither of them had remembered that he was to have come in with her. She waited till the gate clicked behind him, and then softly closed the heavy door.
“My brave young friend!” The words mounted like wine to her head. She forgot her surroundings and stood in a sweet dream in the hall, slowly unbuttoning her glove. She must have remained in this attitude for five minutes, when, raising her eyes, still shadowy with thought, she saw her cousin before her down the hall, his arm resting on the newel-post.
“Louis!” she cried in surprise; and without considering, she hurried to him, threw her arm around his neck, and kissed him on the cheek. Arnold, taken by storm, stepped slightly back.
“When did you get home?” she asked, the pale rose-flush that mantled her cheeks making her face exquisite.
“A half an hour ago.”
She looked at him quickly.
“Are you tired, Louis?” she inquired gently. “You are somewhat pale, and you speak in that way.”
“Did you enjoy the play?” he asked quietly, passing by her remarks.
“The play!” she echoed, and then a quick burning blush suffused her face. The epilogue had wholly obliterated the play from her recollection.
“Oh, of course,” she responded, turning from the rather sardonic smile of his lips and seating herself on the stairs; “do you want to hear about it now?”
“Why not?”
“Well,” she began, laying her gloves in her lap and snuggling her chin in the palms of her hands, “shall I tell you how I felt about it? In the first place, I was not ashamed of Shylock; if his vengeance was distorted, the cause distorted it. But, oh, Louis, the misery of that poor old man! After all, his punishment was as fiendish as his guilt. Booth was great. I wish you could have seen the play of his wonderful eyebrow and the eloquence of his fine hand. Poor old, lonely Shylock! With all his intellect, how could he regret that wretched little Jessica?”
“He was a Jewish father.”
“How singularly you say that! Of course he was a Jew; but Jewish hardly describes him,—at least, according to the modern idea. Are you coming up?”
“Yes. Go on; I will lower the gas.”
“Wouldn’t you like something to eat or drink? You look so worn out; let me get you something.”
“Thanks; I have dined. Good-night.” The girl passed on to her pretty white and gold room. Shylock had again fled from her memory, but there was singing in her heart a deep, grave voice saying,—
“My brave young friend!”
Chapter X
“A humble bard presents his respects to my Lady Marechal Niel, and begs her to step down to the gate for about two minutes.”
The note was handed to Ruth early the next morning as she stood in the kitchen beating up eggs for an omelette for her mother’s breakfast. A smile of mingled surprise and amusement overspread her face as she read; instinctively turning the card, she saw, “Herbert Kemp, M. D.,” in simple lithograph.
“Do I look all right, Mary?” she asked hurriedly, placing the bowl on the table and half turning to the cook as she walked to the door. Mary deliberately placed both hands on her hips and eyed her sharply.
“And striped flannel dresses and hairs in braids,” she began, as she always did, as if continuing a thought, “being nice, pretty flannel and nice, pretty braids, Miss Ruth do look sweet-like, which is nothing out of the common, for she always do!”
The last was almost shouted after Ruth, who had run from the cook’s prolixity.
As she hurried down the walk, she recognized the doctor’s carriage, containing the doctor himself with Bob in state beside him. Two hands went up to two respective hats as the gate swung behind her, and she advanced with hand extended to Bob.
“You are looking much better,” she exclaimed heartily, shaking the rather bashfully outstretched hand; “your first outing, is it not?”
“Yes, lady.” It had been impossible for her to make him call her by name.
“He elected to pay his first devoirs to the Queen of Roses, as he expressed it,” spoke up Kemp, with his disengaged hand on the boy’s shoulder, and looking with a puzzled expression at Ruth. Last night she had been a young woman; this morning she was a young girl; it was only after he had driven off that he discovered the cause lay in the arrangement of her hair.
“Thank you, Bob; presently I expect to have you paying me a visit on foot, when we can come to a clearer understanding about my flower-beds.”
“He says,” returned the boy, turning an almost humbly devoted look on Kemp, “that I must not think of gardening for some weeks. And so—and so—”
“Yes?”
“And so,” explained the doctor, briskly, “he is going to hold my reins on our rounds, and imbibe a world of sunshine to expend on some flowers—yours or mine, perhaps—by and by.”
Bob’s eyes were luminous with feeling as they rested on the dark, bearded face of his benefactor.
“Now say all you have to say, and we’ll be off,” said Kemp, tucking in the robe at Bob’s side.
“I didn’t have anything to say, sir; I came only to let her know.”
“And I am so glad, Bob,” said Ruth, smiling up into the boy’s shy, speaking eyes. People always will try to add to the comfort of a convalescent, and Ruth, in turn, drew down the robe over the lad’s hands. As she did so, her cousin, Jennie Lewis, passed hurriedly by. Her quick blue eyes took in to a detail the attitudes of the trio.
“Good-morning, Jennie,” said Ruth, turning; “are you coming in?”
“Not now,” bowing stiffly and hurrying on.
“Cabbage-rose.”
Bob delivered himself of this sentiment as gently as if he had let fall a pearl.
The doctor gave a quick look at Ruth, which she met, smiling.
“He cannot help his inspiration,” she remarked easily, and stepped back as the doctor pulled the reins.
“Come again, Bob,” she called, and with a smile to Kemp she ran in.
“And I was going to say,” continued Mary, as she re-entered the kitchen, “that a speck of aig splashed on your cheek, Miss Ruth.”
“Oh, Mary, where?”
“But not knowin’ that you would see anybody, I didn’t think to run after you; so it’s just this side your mouth, like if you hadn’t wiped it good after breakfast.”
Ruth rubbed it off, wondering with vexation if the doctor had noticed it. Truth to say, the doctor had noticed it, and naturally placed the same passing construction on it that Mary had suggested. Not that the little yellow splash occupied much of his attention. When he drove off, all he thought of Ruth’s appearance was that her braided hair hung gracefully and heavily down her back; that she looked young,—decidedly young and missish; and that he had probably spoken indiscreetly and impulsively to the wrong person on a wrong subject the night before.
Dress has a subtile influence upon our actions: one gown can make a romp, another a princess, another a boor, another a sparkling coquette, out of the same woman. The female mood is susceptibly sympathetic to the fitness or unfitness of dress. Now, Ruth was without doubt the same girl who had so earnestly and sympathetically heard the doctor’s unconventional story; but the fashion of her gown had changed the impression she had made a few hours back.
An hour later, and Dr. Kemp could not have failed to recognize Ruth, the woman of his confidence. Something, perhaps a dormant spirit of worldliness, kept her from disclosing to her mother the reason of her going out. She herself felt no shame or doubt as to the advisability of her action; but the certain knowledge of her mother’s disapproval of such a proceeding restrained the disclosure which, of a surety, would have cost her the non-fulfilment of a kindly act. A bit of subterfuge which hurts no one is often not only excusable, but commendable. Besides, it saved her mother an annoying controversy; and so, fully satisfied as to her part, Ruth took her way down the street. The question as to whether the doctor had gone beyond the bounds of their brief acquaintance had of course been presented to her mind; but if a slight flush came into her face when she remembered the nature of the narrative and the personality of the narrator, it was quickly banished by the sweet assurance that in this way he had honored her beyond the reach of current flattery.
A certain placid strength possessed her and showed in her grave brown eyes; with her whole heart and soul she wished to do this thing, and she longed to do it well. Her purpose robbed her of every trace of nervousness; and it was a sweet-faced young woman who gently knocked at room Number 10 on the second floor of a respectable lodging-house on Polk Street.
Receiving no answer to her knock, she repeated it somewhat more loudly. At this a tired voice called, “Come in.”
She turned the knob, which yielded to her touch, and found herself in a small, well-lighted, and neat room. Seated in an armchair near the window, but with her back toward it, was what on first view appeared to be a golden-haired child in black; one elbow rested on the arm of the chair, and a childish hand supported the flower-like head. As Ruth hesitated after closing the door behind her, she found a pair of listless violet eyes regarding her from a small white face.
“Well?” queried the girl, without changing her position except to allow her gaze to travel to the floor.
“You are Miss Rose Delano?” said Ruth, as she came a step nearer.
“What of that?” Asked the girl, lifelessly, her dull eyes wandering everywhere but to the face of her strange interlocutor.
“I am Ruth Levice, a friend of Dr. Kemp. Will that introduction be enough to make you shake hands with me?”
She advanced toward her, holding out her hand. A burning flame shot across Rose Delano’s face, and she shrank farther back among her pillows.
“No,” she said, putting up a repellent hand; “it is not enough. Do not touch me, or you will regret it. You must not, I say.” She arose quickly from her chair and stood at bay, regarding Ruth. The latter, taller than she by head and shoulders, looked down at her smiling.
“I know no reason why I must not,” she replied gently.
“You do not know me.”
“No; but I know of you.”
“Then why did you come; why don’t you go?” The blue eyes looked with passionate resentment at her.
“Because I have come to see you; because I wish to shake hands with you.”
“Why?”
“Why?”
“Why do you wish to do that?”
“Because I wish to be your friend. May we not be friends? I am not much older than you, I think.”
“You are centuries younger. Who sent you here? Dr. Kemp?”
“No one sent me; I came of my own free will.”
“Then go as you came.”
“No.”
She stood gracefully and quietly before her. Rose Delano moved farther from her, as if to escape her grave brown eyes.
“You do not know what you are doing,” cried the girl, excitedly; “have you no father or mother, no one to tell you what a girl should not do?”
“I have both; but I have also a friend,—Dr. Kemp.”
“He is my friend too,” affirmed Rose, tremulously.
“Then we have one good thing in common; and since he is my friend and yours, why should we not be friends?”
“Because he is a man, and you are a woman. He has then told you my story?”
“Yes.”
“And you feel yourself unharmed in coming here—to such a creature as I?”
“I feel nothing but pity for you; I do not blame you. But, oh, little one, I do so grieve for you because you won’t believe that the world is not all merciless. Come, give me your hand.”
“No,” she said, clasping her hands behind her and retreating as the other advanced; “go away, please. You are very good, but you are very foolish. Bad as I am, however, I shall not let you harm yourself more; leave my room, please.”
“Not till I have held your hands in mine.”
“Stop! I tell you I don’t want you to come here; I don’t want your friendship. Can’t you go now, or are you afraid that your sweetheart will upbraid you if you fail to carry out his will?”
“My sweetheart?” she asked in questioning wonder.
“Yes; only a lover could make a girl like you so forget herself. I speak of Dr. Kemp.”
“But he is not my lover,” she stated, still speaking gently, but with a pale face turned to her companion.
“I—I—beg your pardon,” faltered the girl, humbly drooping her head, shamed by the cold pride in her tormentor’s face; “but why, oh, why, then, won’t you go?” she continued, wildly sobbing. “I assure you it is best.”
“This is best,” said Ruth, deliberately; and before Rose knew it she had seized her two hands, and unclasping them from behind her, drew them to her own breast.
“Now,” she said, holding them tightly, “who is the stronger, you or I?” She looked pleasantly down at the tear-stained face so close to hers.
“O God!” breathed the girl, her storm-beaten eyes held by the power of her captor’s calmness.
“Now we are friends,” said Ruth, softly, “shall we sit down and talk?”
Still holding the slender hands, she drew up a chair, and seating the frail girl in the armchair, sat down beside her.
“Oh, wait!” whispered Rose; “let me tell you everything before you make me live again.”
“I know everything; and truly, Rose, nothing you can say could make me wish to befriend you less.”
“How nobly, how kindly he must have told you!”
“Hush! He told me nothing but the truth. To me you are a victim, not a culprit. And now, tell me, do you feel perfectly strong?”
“Oh, yes.” The little hand swept in agony over her sad, childish face.
“Then you ought to go out for a nice walk. You have no idea how pleasant it is this morning.”
“I can’t, indeed I can’t! and, oh, why should I?”
“You can and you must, because you must go to work soon.”
Two frightened eyes were raised to hers.
“Yes,” she added, patting the hand she held; “you are a teacher, are you not?”
“I was,” she replied, the catch in her voice still audible.
“What are you used to teaching?”
“Spanish, and English literature.”
“Spanish—with your blue eyes!” The sudden outburst of surprise sent a faint April-like beam into Rose’s face.
“Si, Senorita.”
“Then you must teach me. Let me see. Wednesdays,—Wednesday afternoon, yes?”
Again the frightened eyes appealed to her; but Ruth ignored them.
“And so many of my friends would like to speak Spanish. Will you teach them too?”
“Oh, Miss Levice, how can I go with such a past?”
“I tell you,” said Ruth, proudly rearing her head, “if I introduce you as my friend, you are, you must be, presentable.”
The pale lips strove to answer her.
“To-morrow I shall come with a number of names of girls who are ‘dying,’ as they say, to speak Spanish, and then you can go and make arrangements with them. Will you?”
Thus pushed to the wall, Rose’s tear-filled eyes were her only answer.
Ruth’s own filled in turn.
“Dear little Rose,” she said, her usual sweet voice coming back to her, “won’t it be lovely to do this? You will feel so much better when you once get out and are earning your independent, pleasant living again. And now will you forgive me for having been so harsh?”
“Forgive you!” A red spot glowed on each pallid cheek; she raised her eyes and said with simple fervor, “I would die for you.”
“No, but you may live for me,” laughed Ruth, rising; “will you promise me to go out this morning, just for a block or two?”
“I promise you.”
“Well, then, good-by.” She held out her hand meaningly; a little fluttering one was placed in hers, and Ruth bent and kissed the wistful mouth. That pure kiss would have wiped out every stain from Rose’s worshipping soul.
“I shall see you to-morrow surely,” she called back, turning a radiant face to the lonely little figure in the doorway. She felt deliriously happy as she ran down the stairs; her eyes shone like stars; a buoyant joyfulness spoke in her step.
“It is so easy to be happy when one has everything,” she mused. She forgot to add, “And gives much.” There is so much happiness derived from a kind action that were it not for the motive, charity might be called supreme selfishness.
Chapter XI.
She told her mother in a few words at luncheon that she had arranged to take Spanish lessons from a young protege of Dr. Kemp, who had been ill and was in want.
“And I was thinking,” she added with naive policy, “that I might combine a little business with pleasure this afternoon,—pay off some of those ever urgent calls you accuse me of outlawing, and at the same time try to get up a class of pupils for Miss Delano. What do you think?”
“That would be nice; don’t forget Mrs. Bunker. I know you don’t like her, but you must pay a call for the musical which we did not attend; and she has children who might like to learn Spanish. I wonder if I could take lessons too; it would not be exciting, and I am not yet so old but I may learn.”
“You might ask the doctor. He has almost dismissed himself now; and after we get back from the country perhaps Jennie would join us two in a class. Mother and daughter can then go to school together.”
“It is very fortunate,” Mrs. Levice observed pensively, sipping her necessary glass of port, “that C—— sent your hat this morning to wear with your new gown. Isn’t it?”
“Fortunate!” Ruth exclaimed, laughing banteringly; “it is destiny.”
So Mrs. Levice slipped easily into Ruth’s plan from a social standpoint, and Ruth slipped out, trim and graceful, from her mother’s artistic manipulations.
Meanwhile Mrs. Levice intended writing some delayed letters till her husband’s return, which promised to be early in the afternoon.
She had just about settled herself at her desk when Jennie Lewis came bustling in. Mrs. Lewis always brought in a sense of importance; one looked upon her presence with that exhilarating feeling with which one anticipates the latest number of a society journal.
“Go right on with your writing, Aunt Esther,” she said after they had exchanged greetings. “I have brought my work, so I shall not mind the quiet in the least.”
“As if I would bore you in that way!” returned Mrs. Levice, with a laughing glance at her, as she closed her desk. “Lay off your things, and let us have a downright comfortable afternoon. Don’t forget a single sensation; I am actually starving for one.”
Mrs. Lewis smiled grimly as she fluffed up her bang with her hat-pin. She drew up a second cosey rocking-chair near her aunt’s, drew out her needle and crochet-work, and as the steel hook flashed in and out, her tongue soon acquired its accustomed momentum.
“Where is Ruth?” she began, winding her thread round her chubby, ring-bedecked finger.
“She is paying off some calls for a change.”
“Indeed! Got down to conventionality again?” “You would not call her unconventional, would you?”
“Oh, well; every one has a right to an opinion.”
Mrs. Levice glanced at her inquiringly. Without doubt there was an underground mine beneath this non-committal remark. Mrs. Lewis rocked violently backward and forward without raising her eyes. Her face was beet-red, and it looked as if an explosion were imminent. Mrs. Levice waited with no little speculation as to what act of Ruth her cousin disapproved of so obviously. She like Jennie; every one who knew her recognized her sterling good heart; but almost every one who knew her agreed that a grain of flour was a whole cake, baked and iced, to Mrs. Lewis’s imagination, and these airy comfits were passed around promiscuously to whoever was on hand. Not a sound broke the portentous silence but the decided snap with which Mrs. Lewis pulled her needle through, and the hurricane she raised with her rocking.
“I was at the theatre last night.”
The blow drew no blood.
“Which theatre?” asked Mrs. Levice, innocently.
“The Baldwin; Booth played the ‘Merchant of Venice.’”
“Did you enjoy it?” queried her aunt, either evading or failing to perceive the meaning.
“I did.” A pause, and then, “Did Ruth?”
Mrs. Levice saw a flash of daylight, but her answer hinted at no perturbation.
“Very much. Booth is her actor-idol, you know.”
“So I have heard.” She spread her crochet work on her knee as if measuring its length, then with striking indifference picked it up again and adjusted her needle,—
“She came in rather late, didn’t she?”
“Did she?” questioned Mrs. Levice, parrying with enjoyment the indirect thrusts. “I did not know; had the curtain risen?”
“No; there was plenty of time for every one to recognize her.”
“I had no idea she was so well known.”
“Those who did not know her, knew her escort. Dr. Kemp is well known, and his presence is naturally remarked.”
“Yes; his appearance is very striking.”
“Aunt Esther!” The vehemence of Mrs. Lewis’s feelings sent her ball of cotton rolling to the other end of the room.
“My dear, what is it?” Mrs. Levice turned a pair of bright, interested eyes on her niece.
“You know very well what I wish to say: everybody wondered to see Ruth with Dr. Kemp.”
“Why?”
“Because every one knows that she never goes out with any gentleman but Uncle or Louis, and we all were surprised. The Hoffmans sat behind us, and Miss Hoffman leaned forward to ask what it meant. I met several acquaintances this morning who had been there, and each one made some remark about Ruth. One said, ‘I had no idea the Levices were so intimate with Dr. Kemp;’ another young girl laughed and said, ‘Ruth Levice had a swell escort last night, didn’t she?’ Still another asked, ‘Anything on the tapis in your family, Mrs. Lewis?’ And what could I say?”
“What did you say?”
Mrs. Levice’s quiet tone did not betray her vexation. She had feared just such a little disturbance from the Jewish community, but her husband’s views had overruled hers, and she was now bound to uphold his. Nevertheless, she hated anything of the kind.
“I simply said I knew nothing at all about it, except that he was your physician. Even if I had known, I wouldn’t have said more.”
“There is no more to be said. Dr. Kemp and Ruth have become friendly through their mutual interest in several poor patients; and in the course of conversation one morning he heard that Ruth was anxious to see this play, and had no escort. So he asked her, and her father saw no objection to her going. It is a pity she didn’t think to hand round a written explanation to her different Jewish friends in the theatre.”
“There you go, Aunt Esther! Jewish friends! I am sure that no matter how indifferent Uncle is to such things, you must remember that our Jewish girls never go alone to the theatre with any one outside of the family, and certainly not with a Christian.”
“What has that to do with it, so long as he is a gentleman?”
“Nothing. Only I didn’t think you cared to have Ruth’s name coupled with one.”
“No, nor with any one. But as I cannot control people’s tongues—”
“Then I would not give them cause for wagging. Aunt Esther, is there anything between Ruth and Dr. Kemp?”
“Jennie, you surprise and anger me. Do you know what you insinuate?”
“I can’t help it. Either you are crazy, or ignorant of what is going on, and I consider it my duty to enlighten you,”—a gossip’s duties are all away from home,—“unless, of course, you prefer to remain in blissful or wilful ignorance.”
“Speak out, please.”
“Of course I knew you must have sanctioned her going last night, though, I must confess, I still think you did very wrongly; but do you know where she went this morning?”
Mrs. Levice was put out. She was enough of a Jewess to realize that if you dislike Jewish comment, you must never step out of the narrowly conventional Jewish pathway. That Ruth, her only daughter, should be the subject of vulgar bandying was more bitter than wormwood to her; but that her own niece could come with these wild conjectures incensed her beyond endurance.
“I do know,” she said in response to the foregoing question. “Ruth is not a sneak,—she tells me everything; but her enterprises are so mild that there would be no harm if she left them untold. She called on a poor young girl who, after a long illness, desires pupils in Spanish.”
“A friend of Dr. Kemp.”
“Exactly.”
“A young girl, unmarried, who, a few weeks ago, through a merciful fate, lost her child at its birth.”
The faint flush on Mrs. Levice’s cheek receded.
“Who told you this?” she questioned in an even, low voice.
“I thought you could not know. Mrs. Blake, the landlady where the girl lives, told me.”
“And how, pray, do you connect Ruth with this girl?”
“I will tell you. Mrs. Blake does my white sewing. I was there this morning; and just as I went into her room, I saw Ruth leaving another farther down the hall. Naturally I asked Mrs. Blake who had the room, and she told me the story.”
“Naturally.” The cutting sarcasm drove the blood to Mrs. Lewis’s face.
“For me it was; and in this case,” she retorted with rising accents, “my vulgar curiosity had its vulgar reward. I heard a scandalous account of the girl whom my cousin was visiting, and, outside of Dr. Kemp, Ruth is the only visitor she has had.”
“I am sorry to hear this, Jennie.”
“I know you are, Aunt Esther. But what I find so very queer is that Dr. Kemp, who pretends to be her friend,—and I have seen them together many times,—should have sent her there. Don’t you?”
“I do not understand it at all,—neither Ruth nor him.”
“Surely you don’t think Ruth knew anything of this?” questioned Mrs. Lewis, leaning forward and raising her voice in horror.
“Of course not,” returned Mrs. Levice, rather lamely. She had long ago acknowledged to herself that there were depths in her daughter’s nature that she had never gauged.
“I know what an idol his patients make of him, but he is a man nevertheless; and though you may think it horrible of me, it struck me as very suggestive that he was that girl’s only friend.”
“Therefore he must have been a good friend.”
Mrs. Lewis bounded from her chair and turned a startled face to Mr. Levice, who had thus spoken, standing in the doorway. Mrs. Levice breathed a sigh of hysterical relief.
“Good-afternoon, Jennie,” he said, coming into the room and shaking her hand; “sit down again. Good-afternoon Esther;” he stooped to kiss his wife.
Mrs. Lewis’s hands trembled; she looked, to say the least, ashamed. She had been caught scandal-mongering by her uncle, Jules Levice, the head and pride of the whole family.
“I am sorry I heard what I did, Jennie; sorry to think that you are so poor as to lay the vilest construction on an affair of which you evidently know nothing, and sorry you could not keep your views to yourself.” It was the habit of all of Levice’s relatives to listen in silence to any personal reprimand the dignified old man might offer.
“I heard a good part of your conversation, and I can only characterize it as—petty. Can’t you and your friends see anything without springing at shilling-shocker conclusions? Don’t you know that people sometimes enjoy themselves without any further design? So much for the theatre talk. What is more serious is the fact that you could so misjudge my honorable friend, Dr. Kemp. Such a thing, Jennie, my girl, would be as remote from Dr. Kemp’s possibilities as the antipodes. Remember, what I say is indisputable. Whether Ruth knew the story of this girl or not, I cannot say, but either way I feel assured that what she did was well done—if innocently; if with knowledge, so much the better. And I venture to assert that she is not a whit harmed by the action. In all probability she will tell us all the particulars if we ask her. Otherwise, Jennie, don’t you think you have been unnecessarily alarmed?” The benign gentleness of his question calmed Mrs. Lewis.
“Uncle,” she replied earnestly, “in my life such things are not trivial; perhaps because my life is narrower. I know you and Ruth take a different view of everything.”
“Don’t disparage yourself; people generally do that to be contradicted or to show that they know their weaknesses and have never cared to change them. A woman of your intelligence need never sink to the level of a spiteful chatterbox; every one should keep his tongue sheathed, for it is more deadly than a sword. Your higher interests should make you overlook every little action of your neighbors. You only see or hear what takes place when the window is open; you can never judge from this what takes place when the window is shut. How are the children?”
By dint of great tenderness he strove to make her more at ease.
Ruth, confronted with their knowledge, confessed, with flushed cheeks and glowing eyes, her contretemps.
“And,” she said in conclusion, “Father, Mamma, nothing you can say will make me retract anything I have done or purpose doing.”
“Nothing?” repeated her father.
“I hope you won’t ask me to, but that is my decision.”
“My darling, I dislike to hear you call yourself a mule,” said her father, looking at her with something softer than disapproval; “but in this case I shall not use the whip to turn you from your purpose. Eh, Esther?”
“It is Quixotic,” affirmed Mrs. Levice; “but since you have gone so far, there is no reasonable way of getting out of it. When next I see the doctor, I shall speak to him of it.”
“There will be no occasion, dear,” remonstrated the indulgent father, at sight of the annoyed flash in Ruth’s eyes; “I shall.”
By which it will be seen that the course of an only child is not so smooth as one of many children may think; every action of the former assumes such prominence that it is examined and cross-examined, and very often sent to Coventry; whereas, in a large family, the happy-go-lucky offspring has his little light dimmed, and therefore less remarked, through the propinquity of others.
Chapter XII
If Ruth, in the privacy of her heart, realized that she was sailing toward dangerous rapids, the premonition gave her no unpleasant fears. Possibly she used no lens, being content to glide forever on her smooth stream of delight. When the sun blinds us, we cannot see the warning black lurking in the far horizon. Without doubt the girl’s soul and sympathies were receiving their proper food. Life was full for her, not because she was occupied,—for a busy life does not always prove a full one,—but because she entered thoroughly into the lives of others, struggled with their struggles, triumphed in their triumphs, and was beginning to see in everything, good or bad, its necessity of existence. Under ordinary circumstances one cannot see much misery without experiencing a world of disillusion and futile rebellion of spirit; but Ruth was not living just at that time under ordinary circumstances.
Something of the nature of electricity seemed to envelop her, that made her pulses bound, her lips quick to smile, and her eyes shine like twin dreamstars. She seemed to be moving to some rapturous music unheard save only by herself. At night, alone with her heart, she dared hardly name to herself the meaning of it all, a puritanic modesty withheld her. Yet all the sweet humility of which she was possessed could not banish from her memory the lingering clasp of a hand, the warm light that fell from eyes that glanced at her. For the present, these were grace sufficient for her daily need. Given the perfume, what need to name the flower?
Her family, without understanding it, noted the difference in their different ways. Mrs. Levice saw with a thrill of delight that she was growing more softly beautiful. Her father, holding his hands a few inches from her shoulders, said, one morning, with a drolly puzzled look, “I am afraid to touch you; sparks might fly.”
Arnold surprised her standing in the gloaming by a window, her hands clasped over her head, a smile parting her lips, her eyes haunting in the witchery of their expression. By some occult power her glance fell unconsciously on him; and he beheld, with mingled amazement and speculation, a rosy hue overspread her face and throat; her hands went swiftly to her face as if she would hide something it might reveal, and she passed quickly from the room. Arnold sat down to solve this problem of an unknown quantity.
Ruth’s birthday came in its course, a few days after her meeting with Rose Delano.
The family celebrated it in their usual simple way, which consisted only in making the day pass pleasantly for the one whose day of days it was,—a graceful way of showing that the birth has been a happy one for all concerned.
On this evening of her twenty-second birthday, Ruth seemed to be in her element. She had donned, in a spirit of mischief, a gown she had worn five years before on the occasion of some festivity. The girlish fashion of the white frock, with its straight, full skirt to her ankles, the round baby waist, and short puffs on her shoulders made a very child of her.
“Who can imagine me seventeen?” she asked gayly as she entered the library, softly lighted by many wax candles. Her mother, who was again enjoying the freedom of the house, and who was now snugly ensconced in her own particular chair, looked up at her.
“That little frock makes me long to take you in my lap,” said she, brightly.
“And it makes me long to be there,” answered Ruth, throwing herself into her mother’s arms and twining her arms about her neck.
“How now, Mr. Arnold, you can’t scare me tonight with your sarcastic disapproval!” she laughed, glancing provokingly over at her cousin seated in a deep blue-cushioned chair.
“I have no desire to scare you, little one,” he answered pleasantly. “I only do that to children or grown-up people.”
“And what am I, pray, good sir?”
“You are neither; you are neither child or woman; you are neither flesh nor spirit; you are uncanny.”
“Dear me! In other words, I am a conundrum. Who will guess me?”
“You are the Sphinx,” replied her cousin.
“I won’t be that ugly-faced thing,” she retorted; “guess again.”
“Impossible. Once acquire a sphinx’s elusiveness and you are a mystery perpetual. You alone can unriddle the riddle.”
“I can’t. I give myself up.”
“Not so fast, young woman,” broke in her father, shutting his magazine and settling his glasses more firmly upon his nose; “that is an office I alone can perform. Who has been hunting on my preserves?”
“Alas! They are not tempting, so be quite calm on that score.” She sat up with a forlorn sigh, adding, “Think of it, Father, twenty-two, and not a heart to hang on my chatelaine.”
“Hands are supposed to mean hearts nowadays,” said Louis, reassuringly; “I am sure you have mittened one or two.”
“Oh, yes,” she answered, laughing evasively, “both of little Toddie Flynn’s. Mamma, don’t you think I am too big a baby for you to hold long?” She sprang up, and drawing a stool before her father’s chair, exclaimed,—
“Now, Father, a grown-up Mother-Goose story for my birthday; make it short and sweet and with a moral like you.”
Mr. Levice patted her head and rumpled the loosely gathered hair.
“Once upon a time,” he began, “a little boy went into his father’s warehouse and ate up all the sugar in the land. He did not die, but he was so sweet that everybody wanted to bite him. That is short and sweet; and what is the moral?”
“Selfishness brings misery,” answered Ruth, promptly; “clever of both of us, but what is the analogy? Louis, you look lonesome over there. I feel as if I were masquerading; come nearer the footlights.”
“And get scorched for my pains? Thanks; this is very comfortable. Distance adds to illusion.”
“You don’t mean to admit you have any illusions, do you? Why, those glasses of yours could see through a rhinoceros, I verily believe. Did you ever see anything you did not consider a delusion and a snare?”
“Yes; there is a standing institution of whose honest value there is no doubt.”
“And that is?”
“My bed.”
“After all, it is a lying institution, my friend; and are you not deposing your masculine muse,—your cigar? Oh, that reminds me of the annual peace-pipe.”
She jumped up, snatched a candle, and left the room. As she turned toward the staircase she was arrested by the ringing of the doorbell. She stood quite still, holding the lighted candle while the maid opened the door.
“Is Miss Levice in?” asked the voice that made the little candle-light seem like myriads of swimming stars. As the maid answered in the affirmative, she came mechanically forward and met the bright-glancing eyes of Dr. Kemp.
“Good-evening,” she said, holding out her disengaged hand, which he grasped and shook heartily.
“Is it Santa Filomena?” he asked, smiling into her eyes.
“No, only Ruth Levice, who is pleased to see you. Will you step into the library? We are having a little home evening together.”
“Thank you. Directly.” He slipped out of his topcoat, and turning quietly to her, said, “But before we go in, and I enact the odd number, I wish to say a few words to you alone, please.”
She bent a look of inquiry upon him, and meeting the gaze of his compelling eyes, led him across the hall into the drawing-room. He noticed how the soft light she held made her the only white spot in the dark room, till, touching a tall silver lamp, she threw a rosy halo over everything. That it was an exquisite, graceful apartment he felt at a glance.
She placed her candle upon a tiny rococo table, and seated herself in a quaint, low chair overtopped by two tiny ivory horns that spread like hands of blessing above her head. The doctor declined to sit down, but stood with one hand upon the fragile table and looked down at her.
“I am inclined to think, after all,” he said slowly, “that you are in truth the divine lady with the light. It is a pretty name and a pretty fame,—that of Santa Filomena.”
What had come over her eyelids that they refused to be raised?
“I think,” he continued with a low laugh, “that I shall always call you so, and have all rights reserved. May I?”
“I am afraid,” she answered, raising her eyes, “that your poem would be without rhyme or reason; a candle is too slight a thing for such an assumption.”
“But not a Rose Delano. I saw her to-day, and at least one sufferer would turn to kiss your shadow. Do you know what a wonderfully beautiful thing you have done? I came to-night to thank you; for any one who makes good our ideals is a subject for thanks. Of course, the thing had no personal bearing upon myself; but being an officious fellow, I thought it proper to let you know that I know. That is my only excuse for coming.”
“Did you need an excuse?”
“That, or an invitation.”
“Oh, I never thought of you—as—as—”
“As a man?”
How to answer this? Then finally she said,—
“As caring to waste an evening.”
“Would it be a waste? There is an old adage that one might adapt, then, ‘A wilful waste makes a woful want.’ Want is a bad thing, so economy would not be a half-bad idea. Shall we go in to your family now, or will they not think you have been spirited away?”
He took the candle from her, and they retraced their steps. As she turned the handle of the door, she said,—
“Will you give me the candle, please, and walk in? I am going upstairs.”
“Are you coming down again?” he asked, standing abruptly still.
“Oh, yes. Father,” she called, opening wide the door, “here is Dr. Kemp.”
With this announcement she fled up the staircase.
She had come up for some cigars; but when she got into her father’s room, she seated herself blindly and looked aimlessly down at her hands. What a blessed reprieve this was! If she could but stay here! She could if it were not for the peace-pipe. Such a silly performance too! Father kept those superfine cigars over in the cabinet there. Should she bring only two as usual? Then she was going? Why not? It would look very rude not to do so. Besides, she wondered what they were talking about. She supposed she must have looked very foolish in that gown with her hair all mussed; and then his eyes—— She arose suddenly and walked to the dressing-table with her light. After all, it was not very unbecoming. Had her face been so white all the evening? Louis liked her face to be colorless. Oh, she had better hurry down.
“Here comes the chief!” cried her mother as she entered. “Now, Doctor, you can see the native celebrating her natal day.”
“She enacts the witch,” said her father “and sends us, living, to the happy hunting-grounds. Will you join us, Doctor?”
“If Lachesis thinks me worthy. Is the operation painful?”
He received no answer as Ruth came forward with a box of tempting Havanas. She selected one, and placing the box on a chair, reached to the high-tiled mantel-shelf, whence she took a tiny pair of scissors and deftly cut off the point of the cigar. She seemed quite unconscious that all were watching her. Louis handed her a lighted match, and putting the cigar between her lips, she lit it into life. The doctor was amused.
She blew up a wreath of the fragrant smoke and handing it to her father, said,—
“With this year’s love, Father.”
The doctor grew interested.
She took another, and lighting it as gracefully, and without the slightest approach to Bohemianism, gave it into Louis’s outstretched hand.
“Well?” he suggested, holding it from his lips till she had spoken.
“I can think of nothing you care for sufficiently to wish you.”
“Nothing?”
“Unless,” with sudden mischief, “I wish you a comfortable bed all the year round—and pleasant dreams, Louis.”
“That is much,” he answered dryly as he drew a cloud of smoke.
The doctor became anticipative.
Ruth’s embarrassment was evident as she turned and offered him a cigar.
“Do you smoke?” she asked, holding out the box.
“Like a chimney,” he replied, looking at her, but taking none, “and in the same manner as other common mortals.”
She stood still, but withdrew her hand a little as if repelling the hint his words conveyed; whereupon he immediately selected a cigar, saying as he did so, “So you were born in summer,—the time of all good things. Well, ‘Thy dearest wish, wish I thee,’ and may it not pass in the smoking!”
She swept him a deep, mock courtesy.
After this, Ruth sat a rather silent listener to the conversation. She knew that they were discussing the pros and cons of the advantages for a bachelor of club life over home life. She knew that Louis was making some brilliantly cynical remarks,—asserting that the apparent privacy of the latter was delusive, and that the reputed publicity of the former was deceptive, as it was even more isolated than the latter. All of which the doctor laughed down as untruly epigrammatic.
“Then there is only one loophole for the poor bachelor,” Mrs. Levice summed up, “and that is to marry. Louis complains of the club, and thinks himself a sort of cynosure in a large household. You, Doctor, complain of the want of coseyness in a bachelor establishment. To state it simply, you need a wife.”
“And oust my Pooh-ba! Madame, you do not know what a treasure that old soldier of mine is. If I call him a veritable Martha, I shall but be paying proper tribute to the neatness with which he keeps my house and linen; he entertains my palate as deliciously as a Corinne her salon, and—is never in my way or thoughts. Can you commend me any woman so self-abnegatory?”
“Many women, but no wife, I am glad to say. But you need one.”
“So! Pray explain wherein the lack is apparent.”
“Oh, not to me, but—”
“You mean you consider a wife an adjunct to a doctor’s certificate.”
“It is a great guarantee with women,” put in Louis, “as a voucher against impatience with their own foibles. They think only home practice can secure the adequate tolerance. Eh, Aunt Esther?”
“Nonsense, Louis!” interrupted Mr. Levice; “what has that to do with skill?”
“Skill is one thing; the manner of man is another—with women.”
“That is worth considering—or adding to the curriculum,” observed Kemp, turning his steady, quiet gaze upon Arnold.
Ruth noticed that the two men had taken the same position,—vis—vis to each other in their respective easy-chairs, their heads thrown back upon the cushions, their arms resting on the chair-arms. Something in Louis’s veiled eyes caused her to interpose.
“Will you play, Louis?” she asked.
“Not to-night, ma cousine,” he replied, glancing at her from lowered lids.
“It is not optional with you to-night, Louis,” she insisted playfully, rising; “we—desire you to play.”
“Or be punished for treason? Has your Majesty any other behest?”
“No; I shall even turn the leaves for you.”
“The leaves of what,—memory? I’ll play by rote.”
He strolled over to the piano and sat down. He struck a few random chords, some soft, some florid, some harsh, some melting; he strung them together and then glided into a dreamy, melodious rhythm, that faded into a bird-like hallelujah,—swelling now into grandeur, then fainting into sobs, then rushing into an allegro so brilliantly bewildering that when the closing chords came like the pealing tones of an organ, Ruth drew a long sigh with the last lingering vibrations.
“What is that?” asked Levice, looking curiously at his nephew, who, turning on his music-chair, took up his cigar again.
“That,” he replied, flecking an ash from his coat lapel, “has no name that I know of; some people call it ‘The Soul.’”
A pained sensation shot through Ruth at his words, for he had plainly been improvising, and he must have felt what he had played.
“Here, Ruth, sing this,” he continued, turning round and picking up a sheet of music.
“What?” she asked without moving.
“‘The bugle;’ I like it.”
Kemp looked at her expectantly. He said he had not known she sang; but since she did, he was sure her voice was contralto.
“Why?” she asked.
“Because your face is contralto.”
She turned from his eyes as if they hurt her, and walked over to Louis’s side.
It could hardly be called singing. Louis had often said that her voice needed merely to be set to rhythmic time to be music; in pursuance of which idea he would put into her hand some poem that touched his fancy, tell her to read it, and as she read, he would adapt to it an accompaniment according to the meaning and measure of the lines,—grandly solemn, daintily tripping, or wildly inspiriting. It was more like a chant than a song. To-night he chose Tennyson’s Bugle-song. Her voice was subservient to the accompaniment, that shook its faint, sweet bugle-notes at first as in a rosy splendor; it rose and swelled and echoed and reverberated and died away slowly as if loath to depart. Arnold’s playing was the poem, Ruth’s voice the music the poet might have heard as he wrote, sweet as a violin, deep as the feeling evolved,—for when she came to the line beginning, “oh, love, they die in yon rich sky,” she might have stood alone with one, in some high, clear place, so mellow was the thrill of her voice, so rapt the expression of her face. Kemp looked as if he would not tire if the sound should “grow forever and forever.”
Mrs. Levice was wakeful after she had gone to bed. Her husband also seemed inclined to prolong the night, for he made no move to undress.
“Jules,” said she in a low, confidential tone, “do you realize that our daughter is twenty-two?”
He looked at her with a half-smile.
“Is not this her birthday?”
“Her twenty-second, and she is still unmarried.”
“Well?”
“Well, it is time she were. I should like to see it.”
“So should I,” he acquiesced with marked decision.
Mrs. Levice straightened herself up in bed and looked at her husband eagerly.
“Is it possible,” she exclaimed, “that we have both thought of the same parti?”
It was now Mr. Levice’s turn to start into an interested position.
“Of whom,” he asked with some restraint, “are you speaking?”
“Hush! Come here; I have longed for it for some time, but have never breathed it to a soul,—Louis.”
“Levice had become quite pale, but as she pronounced the familiar name, the color returned to his cheek, and a surprised look sprang into his eyes.
“Louis? Why do you think of such a thing?”
“Because I think them particularly well suited. Ruth, pardon me, dear, has imbibed some very peculiar and high-flown notions. No merely commonplace young man would make her happy. A man must have some ideas outside of what his daily life brings him, if she is to spend a moment’s interested thought on him. She has repelled some of the most eligible advances for no obvious reasons whatever. Now, she does not care a rap for society, and goes only because I exact it. That is no condition for a young girl to allow herself to sink into; she owes a duty to her future. I am telling you this because, of course, you see nothing peculiar in such a course. But it is time you were roused; you know one look from you is worth a whole sermon from me. As to my thinking of Louis, well, in running over my list of eligibles, I found he fulfilled every condition,—good-looking, clever, cultivated, well-to-do, and—of good family. Why should it not be? They like each other, and see enough of each other to learn to love. We, however, must bring it to a head.”
“First provide the hearts, little woman. What can I do, ask Louis or Ruth?”
“Jules,” she returned with vexation, “how childish! Don’t you feel well? Your cheeks are rather flushed.”
“They are somewhat warm. I am going in to kiss the child good-night; she ran off while I saw Dr. Kemp out.”