Beacham’s lies in a dimple of the inner coast range, and is reached nowadays through one of the finest pieces of engineering skill in the State. The tortuous route through the mountains, over trestle-bridges that span what seem, from the car-windows, like bottomless chasms, needs must hold some compensation at the end to counterbalance the fears engendered on the way. The higher one goes the more beautiful becomes the scenery among the wild, marvellous redwoods that stand like mammoth guides pointing heavenward; and Beacham’s realizes expectation.
It is a quiet little place, with its one hotel and two attached cottages, its old, disused saw-mill, its tiny schoolhouse beyond the fairy-like woods, its one general merchandise store, where cheese and calico, hats and hoes, ham and hominy, are forthcoming upon solicitation. It is by no means a fashionable resort; the Levices had searched for something as unlike the Del Monte and Coronado as milk is unlike champagne. They were looking for a pretty, healthful spot, with good accommodations and few social attractions, and Beacham’s offered this.
They were not disappointed. Ruth’s anticipation was fulfilled when she saw the river. Russian River is about as pretty a stream as one can view upon a summer’s day. Here at Beacham’s it is very narrow and shallow, with low, shelving beaches on either bank; but in the tiny row-boat which she immediately secured, Ruth pushed her way into enchantment. The river winds in and out through exquisite coves entangled in a wilderness of brambles and lace-like ferns that are almost transparent as they bend and dip toward the silvery waters; while, climbing over the rocky cliffs, run bracken and the fragrant yerba-buena, till, on high, they creep as if in awe about the great redwoods and pines of the forest.
Morning and night Ruth, in her little boat, wooed the lisping waters. Often of a morning her mother was her companion; later on, her father or little Ethel Tyrrell; in the evening one of the Tyrrell boys, generally Will, was her gallant chevalier. But it was always Ruth who rowed,—Ruth in her pretty sailor blouses, with her strong round arms and steadily browning hands; Ruth, whose creamy face and neck remained provokingly unreddened, and took on only a little deeper tint, as if a dash of bistre had been softly applied. It was pleasant enough rowing down-stream with Ruth; she always knew when to sing “Nancy Lee,” and when “White Wings” sounded prettiest. There were numerous coves too, where she loved to beach her boat,—here to fill a flask with honey-sweet water from a rollicking little spring that came merrily dashing over the rocks, here to gather some delicate ferns or maiden-hair with which to decorate the table, or the trailing yerba-buena for festooning the boat. But Ethel Tyrrell, aged three, thought they had the “dolliest” time when she and Ruth, having rowed a space out of sight, jumped out, and taking off their shoes and stockings and making other necessary preliminaries to wading, pattered along over the pebbly bottom, screaming when a sharp stone came against their tender feet, and laughing gleefully when the water rose a little higher than they had bargained for; then, when quite tired, they would retire to the beach or the boat and dry themselves with the soft damask of the sun.
Ruth was happy. There were moments when the remembrance of her last meeting with Louis came like a summer cloud over the ineffable brightness of her sky, and she felt a sharp pang at her heart; still, she thought, it was different with Louis. His feeling for her could not be so strong as to make him suffer poignantly over her refusal. She was almost convinced that he had asked her more from a whim of good-fellowship, a sudden desire, perhaps a preference for her close companionship when he did marry, than from any deeper emotion. In consequence of these reflections her musings were not so sad as they might otherwise have been.
Her parents laughed to see how she revelled in the freedom of the old-fashioned little spot, which, though on the river, was decidedly “out of the swim.” It was late in the season, and there were few guests at the hotel. The Levices occupied one of the cottages, the other being used by a pair of belated turtle-doves,—the wife a blushing dot of a woman, the husband an overgrown youth who bent over her in their walks like a devoted weeping-willow; there was a young man with a consumptive cough, a natty little stenographer off on a solitary vacation, and the golden-haired Tyrrell family, little and big, for Papa Tyrrell could not enjoy his hard-earned rest without one and all. They were such a refined, happy, sweet family, for all their pinched circumstances, that the Levices were attracted to them at once. To be with Mrs. Tyrrell one whole day, Mrs. Levice said was a liberal education,—so bright, so uncomplaining, so ambitious for her children was she, and such a help and inspiration to her hard-worked husband. Mr. Levice tramped about the woods with Tyrrell and brier-wood pipes, and appreciated the moral bravery of a man who struggled on with a happy face and small hope for any earthly rest. But the children!—Floy with her dreamy face and busy sketch-book, Will with his halo of golden hair, his manly figure and broad, open ambitions, Boss with his busy step and fishing-tackle, and baby Ethel, the wee darling, who ran after Ruth the first time she saw her and begged her to come and play with her; ever since, she formed a part of the drapery of Ruth’s skirt or a rather cumbersome necklace about her neck. Every girl who has been debarred the blessing of babies in the house loves them promiscuously and passionately. Ruth was no exception; it amused the ladies to watch her cuddle the child and wonder aloud at all her baby-talk.
Will was her next favorite satellite. A young girl with a winsome, sympathetic face, and hearty manner, can easily become the confidante of a fine fellow of fourteen. Will, with his arm tucked through hers, would saunter around after dusk and tell her all his ambitions.
The soft, starry evenings up in the mountains, where heaven seems so near, are just the time for such talk.
They were walking thus one evening toward the river, Ruth in a creamy gown and with a white burnous thrown over her head, Will holding his hat in his hand and letting the sweet air play through his hair, as he loved to do.
“What do you think are the greatest professions, Miss Ruth?” asked the boy suddenly.
“Well, law is one—” she began.
“That’s the way Papa begins,” he interrupted impatiently; “but I’ll tell you what I think is the greatest. Guess, now.”
“The ministry?” she ventured.
“Oh, of course; but I’m not good enough for that,—that takes exceptions. Guess again.”
“Well, there are the fine arts, or soldiery,—that is it. You would be a brave soldier, Willikins, my man.”
“No, sir,” he replied, flinging back his head; “I don’t want to take lives; I want to save them.”
“You mean a physician, Will?”
“That’s it—but not exactly—I mean a surgeon. Don’t you think that takes bravery? And it’s a long sight better than being a soldier; he draws blood to kill, we do it to save. What do you think, Miss Ruth?”
“Indeed, you are right,” she answered dreamily, her thoughts wandering beyond the river. So they walked along; and as they were about to descent the slope, a man in overalls and carrying a leather bag came suddenly upon them in the gloaming. He stood stock-still, his mouth gaping wide.
When Ruth saw it was Ben, the steward, she laughed.
“Why, Ben!” she exclaimed.
The man’s mouth slowly closed, and his hand went up to his cap.
“Begging your pardon, Miss,—I mean Her pardon,—the Lord forgive me, I took you for the Lady Madonna and the blessed Boy with the shining hair. Now, don’t be telling of me, will you?”
“Indeed, we won’t; we’ll keep the pretty compliment to ourselves. Have you the mail? I wonder if there is a letter for me.”
Ben immediately drew out his little pack, and handed her two. It was still light enough to read; and as Ben moved on, she stood and opened them.
“This,” she announced in a matter-of-course way, “is from Miss Dorothy Gwynne, who requests the pleasure of my company at a high-tea next Saturday. That, or the hay-ride, Will? And this—this—”
It was a simple envelope addressed to
Miss RUTH LEVICE—Beacham’s—... County—Cal.
It was the sight of the dashes that caused the hiatus in her sentence, and made her heart give one great rushing bound. The enclosure was to the point.
SAN FRANCISCO, Aug. 18, 188—.
MISS RUTH LEVICE:
MY DEAR FRIEND,—That you may not denounce me as too presumptuous, I shall at once explain that I am writing this at Bob’s urgent desire. He has at length got the position at the florist’s, and tells me to tell you that he is now happy. I dropped in there last night; and when he gave me this message, I told him that I feared you would take it as an advertisement. He merely smiled, picked up a Marechal Niel that lay on the counter, and said, “Drop this in. It’s my mark; she’ll understand.” So here are Bob’s rose and my apology.
HERBERT KEMP.
She was pale when she turned round to the courteously waiting boy. It was a very cold note, and she put it in her pocket to keep it warm. The rose she showed to Will, and told him the story of the sender.
“Didn’t I tell you,” he cried, when she had finished, “a doctor has the greatest opportunity in the world to be great—and a surgeon comes near it? I say, Miss Ruth, your Dr. Kemp must be a brick. Isn’t he?”
“Boys would call him so,” she answered, shivering slightly.
It was so like him, she thought, to fulfil Bob’s request in his hearty, friendly way; she supposed he wanted her to understand that he wrote to her only as Bob’s amanuensis,—it was plain enough. And yet, and yet, she thought passionately, it would have been no more than common etiquette to send a friendly word from himself to her mother. Still the note was not thrown away. Girls are so irrational; if they cannot have the hand-shake, they will content themselves with a sight of the glove.
And Ruth in the warm, throbbing, summer days was happy. She was not always active; there were long afternoons when mere existence was intensely beautiful. To lie at full length upon the soft turf in the depths of the small enchanted woods, and hear and feel the countless spells of Nature, was unspeakable rapture.
“Ah, Floy,” she cried one afternoon, as she lay with her face turned up to the great green boughs that seemed pencilled against the azure sky, “if one could paint what one feels! Look at these silent, living trees that stand in all their grandeur under some mighty spell; see how the wonderful heaven steals through the leaves and throws its blue softness upon the twilight gloom; here at our feet nestle the soft, green ferns, and over all is the indescribable fragrance of the redwoods. Turn there, to your right, little artist, high up on that mountain; can you see through the shimmering haze a great team moving as if through the air? It is like the vision of the Bethshemites in Dore’s mystic work, when in the valley they lifted up their eyes and beheld the ark returning. Oh, Floy, it is not Nature; it is God. And who can paint God?”
“No one. If one could paint Him, He would no longer be great,” answered the girl, resting her sober eyes upon Ruth’s enraptured countenance.
One afternoon Ruth took a book and Ethel over the tramway to this fairy spot. It was very warm and still. Mrs. Levice had swung herself to sleep in the hammock, and Mr. Levice was dozing and talking in snatches to the Tyrrells, who were likewise resting on the Levices’ veranda. All Nature was drowsy, as Ruth wandered off with the little one, who chattered on as was her wont.
“Me and you’s yunnin’ away,” she chatted; “we’s goin’ to a fowest, and by and by two ‘ittle birdies will cover us up wid leaves. My! Won’t my mamma be sorry? No darlin’ ‘ittle Ethel to pank and tiss no more. Poor Mamma!”
“Does Ethel think Mamma likes to spank her?”
“Yes; Mamma does des what she likes.”
“But it is only when Ethel is naughty that Mamma spanks her. Here, sweetheart, let me tie your sunbonnet tighter. Now Ruth is going to lie here and read, and you can play hide-and-seek all about these trees.”
“Can I go wound and sit on dat log by a bwook?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, I’s afwaid. I’s dweffully afwaid.”
“Why, you can turn round and talk to me all the time.”
“But nobody’ll be sitting by me at all.”
“I am here just where you can see me; besides, God will be right next to you.”
“Will He? Ven all yight.”
Ruth took off her hat and prepared to enjoy herself. As her head touched the green earth, she saw the little maiden seat herself on the log, and turning her face sideways, say in her pleasant, piping voice,—
“How-de-do, Dod?” And having made her acknowledgments, all her fears vanished.
Ruth laughed softly to herself, and straightway began to read. The afternoon burned itself away. Ethel played and sang and danced about her, quite oblivious of the heat, till, tired out, she threw herself into Ruth’s arms.
“Sing by-low now,” she demanded sleepily; “pay it’s night, and you and me’s in a yockin’-chair goin’ to by-low land.”
Ruth realized that the child was weary, and drawing her little head to her bosom, threw off the huge sunbonnet and ruffled up the damp, golden locks.
“What shall I sing, darling?” she mused: she was unused to singing babies to sleep. Suddenly a little kindergarten melody she had heard came to her, and she sang softly in her rich, tender contralto the swinging cradle-song:—
“In a cradle, on the treetop,Sleeps a tiny bird;Sweeter sound than mother’s chirpingNever yet was heard.See, the green leaves spread like curtainsRound the tiny bed,While the mother’s wings, outstretching,Shield—the—tiny—head?”
As her voice died slowly into silence, she found Ethel looking over her shoulder and nodding her head.
“No; I won’t tell,” she said loudly.
“Tell what?” asked Ruth, amused.
“Hush! He put his finger on his mouf—sh!”
“Who?” asked Ruth, turning her head hurriedly. Not being able to see through the tree, she started to her feet, still holding the child. Between two trees stood the stalwart figure of Dr. Kemp,—Dr. Kemp in loose, light gray tweeds and white flannel shirt; on the back of his head was a small, soft felt hat, which he lifted as she turned,—a wave of color springing to his cheek with the action. As for Ruth,—a woman’s face dare not speak sometimes.
“Did I startle you?” he asked, coming slowly forward, hat in hand, the golden shafts of the sun falling upon his head and figure.
“Yes,” she answered, trying to speak calmly, and failing, dropped into silence.
She made no movement toward him, but let the child glide softly down till she stood at her side.
“I interrupted you,” he continued; “will you shake hands with me, nevertheless?”
She put her hand in his proffered one, which lingered in the touch; and then, without looking at her, he stooped and spoke to the child. In that moment she had time to compose herself.
“Do you often come up this way?” she questioned.
He turned from the child, straightened himself, and leaning one arm against the tree, answered,—
“Once or twice every summer I run away from humanity for a few days, and generally find myself in this part of the country. This is one of my select spots. I knew you would ferret it out.”
“It is very lovely here. But we are going home now; the afternoon is growing old. Come, Ethel.”
A shadow fell upon his dark eyes as she spoke, scarcely looking at him. Why should she hurry off at his coming?
“I am sorry my presence disturbs you,” he said quietly; “But I can easily go away again.”
“Was I so rude?” she asked, looking up with a sudden smile. “I did not mean it so; but Ethel’s mother will want her now.”
“Ethel wants to be carried,” begged the child.
“All right; Ruth will carry you,” and she stooped to raise her; but as she did so, Kemp’s strong hand was laid upon her arm and held her back.
“Ethel will ride home on my shoulder,” he said in the gay, winning voice he knew how so well to use with children. The baby’s blue eyes smiled in response to his as he swing her lightly to his broad shoulder. There is nothing prettier to a woman than to see the confidence that a little child reposes in a strong man.
So through the mellow, golden sunlight they strolled slowly homeward.
Mr. Levice, sauntering down the garden-path, saw the trio approaching. For a moment he did not recognize the gentleman in his summer attire. When he did, surprise, then pleasure, then a spirit of inquietude, took possession of him. He had been unexpectedly startled on Ruth’s birthnight by a vague something in Kemp’s eyes. The feeling, however, had vanished gradually in the knowledge that the doctor always had a peculiarly intent gaze, and, moreover, no one could have helped appreciating her loveliness that night. This, of itself, will bring a softness into a man’s manner; and without doubt his fears had been groundless,—fears that he had not dared to put into words. For old man as he was, he realized that Dr. Kemp’s strong personality was such as would prove dangerously seductive to any woman whom he cared to honor with his favor; but with a “Get thee behind me, Satan” desire, he had put the question from him. He could have taken his oath on Ruth’s heart-wholeness, yet now, as he recognized her companion, his misgivings returned threefold. The courteous gentleman, however, was at his ease as they came up.
“This is a surprise, Doctor,” he exclaimed cordially, opening the gate and extending his hand. “Who would have thought of meeting you here?”
Kemp grasped his hand heartily.
“I am a sort of surprise-party,” he answered, swinging Ethel to the ground and watching her scamper off to the hotel; “and what is more,” he continued, turning to him, “I have not brought a hamper, which makes one of me.”
“You calculate without your host,” responded Levice; “this is a veritable land of milk and honey. Come up and listen to my wife rhapsodize.”
“How is she?” he asked, turning with him and catching a glimpse of Ruth’s vanishing figure.
“Feeling quite well,” replied Levice; “she is all impatience now for a delirious winter season.”
“I thought so,” laughed the doctor; “but if you take my advice, you will draw the bit slightly.”
Mrs. Levice was delighted to see him; she said it was like the sight of a cable-car in a desert. He protested at such a stupendous comparison, and insisted that she make clear that the dummy was not included. The short afternoon glided into evening, and Dr. Kemp went over to the hotel and dined at the Levices’ table.
Ruth, in a white wool gown, sat opposite him. It was the first time he had dined with them; and he enjoyed a singular feeling over the situation. He noticed that although Mrs. Levice kept up an almost incessant flow of talk, she ate a hearty meal, and that Ruth, who was unusually quiet, tasted scarcely anything. Her father also observed it, and resolved upon a course of strict surveillance. He was glad to hear that the doctor had to leave on the early morning’s train, though, of course, he did not say so. As they strolled about afterward, he managed to keep his daughter with him and allowed Kemp to appropriate his wife.
They finally drifted to the cottage-steps, and were enjoying the beauty of the night when Will Tyrrell presented himself before them.
“Good-evening,” he said, taking off his hat as he stood at the foot of the steps. “Mr. Levice, Father says he has at last scared up two other gentlemen; and will you please come over and play a rubber of whist?”
Mr. Levice felt himself a victim of circumstances. He and Mr. Tyrrell had been looking for a couple of opponents, and had almost given up the search. Now, when he decidedly objected to moving, it would have been heartless not to go.
“Don’t consider me,” said the doctor, observing his hesitancy. “If it ill relieve you, I assure you I shall not miss you in the least.”
“Go right ahead, Jules” urged his wife; “Ruth and I will take care of the doctor.”
If she had promised to take care of Ruth, it would have been more to his mind; but since his wife was there, what harm could accrue that his presence would prevent? So with a sincere apology he went over to the hotel.
He hardly appreciated what an admirable aide he had left behind him in his wife.
Kemp sat upon the top step, and leaned his back against the railing; although outwardly he kept up a constant low run of conversation with Mrs. Levice, who swayed to and fro in her rocker, he was intently conscious of Ruth’s white figure perched on the window-sill.
How Mrs. Levice happened to broach the subject, Ruth never knew; but she was rather startled when she perceived that Kemp was addressing her.
“I should like to show my prowess to you, Miss Levice.”
“In what?” she asked, somewhat dazed.
“Ruth, Ruth,” laughed her mother, “do you mean to say you have not heard a word of all my glowing compliments on your rowing?”
“And I was telling your mother that in all modesty I was considered a fine oar at my Alma Mater.”
“And I hazarded the suggestion,” added Mrs. Levice, “that as it is such a beautiful night, there is nothing to prevent your taking a little row, and then each can judge of the other’s claim to superiority?”
“My claim has never been justly established,” said Ruth. “I have never allowed any one to usurp my oars.”
“As yet,” corrected Kemp. “Then will you wrap something about you and come down to the river?”
“Certainly she will,” answered her mother; “run in and get some wraps, Ruth.”
“You will come too, Mamma?”
“Of course; but considering Dr. Kemp’s length, a third in your little boat will be the proverbial trumpery. Still, I suppose I can rely on you two crack oarsmen, though you know the slightest tremble in the boat in the fairest weather is likely to create a squall on my part.”
If Dr. Kemp wished to row, he should row; and since the Jewish Mrs. Grundy was not on hand, anything harmlessly enjoyable was permissible.
Ruth went indoors. This was certainly something she had not bargained for. How could her mother be so blind as not to know or feel her desire to evade Dr. Kemp? She felt a positive contempt for herself that his presence should affect her as it did; she dared not look at him lest her heart should flutter to her eyes. Probably the display amused him. What was she to him anyway but a girl with whom he could flirt in his idle moments? Well (with a passionate fling of her arms), she would extinguish her uncontrollable little beater for the nonce; she would meet and answer every one of his long glances in kind.
She wound a black lace shawl around her head, and with some wraps for her mother, came out.
“Hadn’t you better put something over your shoulders?” he asked deferentially as she appeared.
“And disgust the night with lack of appreciation?”
She turned to a corner of the porch and lifted a pair of oars to her shoulder.
“Why,” he said in surprise, coming toward her, “you keep your oars at home?”
“On the principle of ‘neither a borrower nor a lender be;’ we find it saves both time and spleen.”
She held them lightly in place on her shoulder.
“Allow me,” he said, placing his hand upon the oars.
A spirit of contradiction took possession of her.
“Indeed, no,” she answered; “why should I? They are not at all heavy.”
He gently lifted her resisting fingers one by one and raised the broad bone of contention to his shoulder. Then without a look he turned and offered his arm to Mrs. Levice.
The crickets chirped in the hedges; now and then a firefly flashed before them; the trees seemed wrapped in silent awe at the majesty of the bewildering heavens. As they approached the river, the faint susurra came to them, mingled with the sound of a guitar and some one singing in the distance.
“Others are enjoying themselves also,” he remarked as their feet touched the pebbly beach. A faint crescent moon shone over the water. Ruth went straight to the little boat aground on the shore.
“It looks like a cockle-shell,” he said, as he put one foot in after shoving it off. “Will you sit in the stern or the bow, Mrs. Levice?”
“In the bow; I dislike to see dangers before we come to them.”
He helped her carefully to her place; she thanked him laughingly for his exceptionally strong arm, and he turned to Ruth.
“I was waiting for you to move from my place,” she said in defiant mischief, standing motionless beside the boat.
“Your place? Ah, yes; now,” he said, holding out his hand to her, “will you step in?”
She took his hand and stepped in; they were both standing, and as the little bark swayed he made a movement to catch hold of her.
“You had better sit down,” he said, motioning to the rower’s seat.
“And you?” she asked.
“I shall sit beside you and use the other oar,” he answered nonchalantly, smiling down at her.
With a half-pleased feeling of discomfiture Ruth seated herself in the stern, whereupon Kemp sat in the contested throne.
“You will have to excuse my turning my back on you, Mrs. Levice,” he said pleasantly.
“That is no hindrance to my volubility, I am glad to say; a back is not very inspiring or expressive, but Ruth can tell me when you look bored if I wax too discursive.”
It was a tiny boat; and seated thus, Kemp’s knees were not half a foot from Ruth’s white gown.
“Will you direct me?” he said, as he swept around. “I have not rowed on this river for two or three years.”
“You can keep straight ahead for some distance,” she said, leaning back in her seat.
She could not fail to notice the easy motion of his figure as he rowed lightly down the river. His flannel shirt, low at the throat, showed his strong white neck rising like a column from his broad shoulders, and his dark face with the steady gray eyes looked across at her with grave sweetness. She would have been glad enough to be able to turn from the short range of vision between them; but the stars and river afforded her good vantage-ground, and on them she fixed her gaze.
Mrs. Levice was in bright spirits, and seemed striving to outdo the night in brilliancy. For a while Kemp maintained a sort of Roland-for-an-Oliver conversation with her; but with his eyes continually straying to the girl before him, it became rather difficult. Some merry rowers down the river were singing college songs harmoniously; and Mrs. Levice soon began to hum with them, her voice gradually subsiding into a faint murmur. The balmy, summer-freighted air made her feel drowsy. She listened absently to Ruth’s occasional warnings to Kemp, and to the swift dip of the oars.
“Now we have clear sailing for a stretch,” said Ruth, as they came to a broad curve. “Did you think you were going to be capsized when we shot over that snag, Mamma?”
She leaned a little farther forward, looking past Kemp.
“Mamma!”
Then she straightened herself back in her seat. Kemp, noting the sudden flush that had rushed to and from her cheek, turned halfway to look at Mrs. Levice. Her head was leaning against the flag-staff; her eyes were closed, in the manner of more wary chaperones,—Mrs. Levice slept.
Dr. Kemp moved quietly back to his former position.
Far across the river a woman’s silvery voice was singing the sweet old love-song, “Juanita;” overhead, the golden crescent moon hung low from the floor of heaven pulsating with stars; it was a passionate, tender night, and Ruth, with her face raised to the holy beauty, was a dreamy part of it. Against the black lace about her head her face shone like a cameo, her eyes were brown wells of starlight; she scarcely seemed to breathe, so still she sat, her slender hands loosely clasped in her lap.
Dr. Kemp sat opposite her—and Mrs. Levice slept.
Slowly and more slowly sped the tiny boat; long gentle strokes touched the water; and presently the oars lay idle in their locks,—they were unconsciously drifting. The water dipped and lapped about the sides; the tender woman’s voice across the water stole to them, singing of love; their eyes met—and Mrs. Levice slept.
Ever, in the after time, when Ruth heard that song, she was again rocking in the frail row-boat upon the lovely river, and a man’s deep, grave eyes held hers as if they would never let them go, till under his worshipping eyes her own filled with slow ecstatic tears.
“Doctor,” called a startled voice, “row out; I am right under the trees.”
They both started. Mrs. Levice was, without doubt, awake. They had drifted into a cove, and she was cowering from the over-hanging boughs.
“I do not care to be Absalomed; where were your eyes, Ruth?” she complained, as Kemp pushed out with a happy, apologetic laugh. “Did not you see where we were going?”
“No,” she answered a little breathlessly; “I believe I am growing far-sighted.”
“It must be time to sight home now,” said her mother; “I am quite chilly.”
In five minutes Kemp had grounded the boat and helped Mrs. Levice out. When he turned for Ruth, she had already sprung ashore and had started up the slope; for the first time the oars lay forgotten in the bottom of the boat.
“Wait for us, Ruth,” called Mrs. Levice, and the slight white figure stood still till they came up.
“You are so slow,” she said with a reckless little laugh; “I feel as if I could fly home.”
“Are you light-headed, Ruth?” asked her mother, but the girl had fallen behind them. She could not yet meet his eyes again.
“Come, Ruth, either stay with us or just ahead of us.” Mrs. Levice, awake, was an exemplary duenna.
“There is nothing abroad here but the stars,” she answered, flitting before them.
“And they are stanch, silent friends on such a night,” remarked Kemp, softly.
She kept before them till they reached the gate, and stood inside of it as they drew near.
“Then you will not be home till Monday,” he said, taking Mrs. Levice’s hand and raising his hat; “and I am off on the early morning train. Good-by.”
As she turned in at the gate, he held out his hand to Ruth. His fingers closed softly, tightly over hers; she heard him say almost inaudibly,—
“Till Monday.”
She raised her shy eyes for one brief second to his glowing ones; and he passed, a tall, dark figure, down the shadowy road.
When Mr. Levice returned from his game of whist, he quietly opened the door of his daughter’s bedroom and looked in. All was well; the wolf had departed, and his lamb slept safe in the fold.
But in the dark his lamb’s eyes were mysteriously bright. Sleep! With this new crown upon her! Humble as the beautiful beggar-maid must have felt when the king raised her, she wondered why she had been thus chosen by one whom she had deemed so immeasurably above her. And this is another phase of woman’s love,—that it exalts the beloved beyond all reasoning.
At six o’clock the hills in their soft carpet of dull browns and greens were gently warming under the sun’s first rays. At seven the early train that Dr. Kemp purposed taking would leave. Ruth, with this knowledge at heart, had softly risen and left the cottage. Close behind the depot rose a wooded hill. She had often climbed it with the Tyrrell boys; and what was to prevent her doing so now? It afforded an excellent view of the station.
It was very little past six, and she began leisurely to ascend the hill. The sweet morning air was in her nostrils, and she pushed the broad hat form her happy eyes. She paused a moment, looking up at the wooded hill-top, which the sun was jewelling in silver.
“Do you see something beautiful up there?”
With an inarticulate cry she wheeled around and faced Dr. Kemp within a hand’s breadth of her.
“Oh,” she cried, stepping back with burning cheeks, “I did not mean—I did not expect—”
“Nor did I,” he said in a low voice; “chance is kinder to us than ourselves—beloved.”
She turned quite white at the low, intense word.
“You understood me last night—and I was not—deceived?”
Her head drooped lower till the broad brim of her hat hid her face.
With one quick step he reached her side.
“Ruth, look at me.”
She never had been able to resist his compelling voice; and now with a swift-drawn breath she threw back her head and looked up at him fairly, with all her soul in her eyes.
“Are you satisfied?” she asked tremulously.
“Not yet,” he answered as with one movement he drew her to him.
“My Santa Filomena,” he murmured with his lips against her hair, “this is worth a lifetime of waiting; and I have waited long.”
In his close, passionate clasp her face was hidden; she hardly dared meet his eyes when he finally held her from him.
“Why, you are not afraid to look at me? No one knows you better than I, dear; you can trust me, I think.”
“I know,” she said, her hand fluttering in his; “but isn’t—the train coming?”
“Are you so anxious to have me go?”
Her hand closed tightly around his.
“Because,” laying his bearded cheek against her fair one, “I have something to ask you.”
“To ask me?”
“Yes; are you surprised, can’t you guess? Ruth, will you bless me still further? Will you be my wife, love?”
A strange thrill stole over her; his voice had assumed a bewildering tenderness. “If you really want me,” she replied, with a sobbing laugh.
“Soon?” he persisted.
“Why?”
“Because you must. You will find me a tyrant in love, my Ruth.”
“I am not afraid of you, sir.”
“Then you should be. Think, child, I am an old man, already thirty-five; did you remember that when you made me king among men?”
“Then I am quite an old lady; I am twenty-two.”
“As ancient as that? Then you should be able to answer me. Make it soon, sweetheart.”
“Why, how you beg—for a king. Besides, there is Father, you know; he decides everything for me.”
“I know; and I have already asked him on paper. There is a note awaiting him at the hotel; you will see I took a great deal for granted last night, and—Ah, the whistle! What day is this, Ruth?”
“Friday.”
“Good Friday, sweet, I think.”
“Oh, I am not at all superstitious.”
“And Monday is four days off; well, it must make up for all we lose. Monday will be four days rolled into one.”
“Remember,” he continued hurriedly, “you are doubly precious now, darling, and take good care of yourself till our ‘Auf Wiedersehn.’”
“And—and—you will remember that for me too, D-doctor?”
“Who? There is no doctor here that I know of.”
“But I know one—Herbert.”
“God bless you for that, dear!” he answered gravely.
Mr. Levice, sleepily turning on his pillow, heard the whistle of the out-going train with benignant satisfaction. It was taking Dr. Kemp where he belonged,—to his busy practice,—and leaving his child’s peace undisturbed. Confound the man, anyway! he mused; what had possessed him to drop down upon them in that manner and rob Ruth of her appetite and happy talk? No doubt she had been flattered by the interest he had shown in her; but he was too old and too dignified a gentleman to resort to flirtation, and anything deeper was out of the question. He must certainly have a little plain talk with the child this morning, and, well, he could cry “Ebenezer!” on his departure. With this conclusion, he softly rose, taking care not to disturb his placidly sleeping wife, who never dreamed of waking till nine.
Ruth generally waited for him for breakfast, but not seeing her around, he went in and took a solitary meal. Sauntering out afterward toward the hotel porch, his hat on, his stick under his are, and busily lighting a cigar, he was met at the door of the billiard-room by one of the clerks.
“Dr. Kemp left this for you this morning,” said he, holding out a small envelope. A flush rose to the old gentleman’s sallow cheek as he took it.
“Thank you,” he said; “I believe I shall come in here for a few minutes.”
He passed by the clerk and seated himself in a deep, cane-bottomed chair near the window. He fumbled for the cord of his glasses in a slightly nervous manner, and adjusted them hastily. The missive was addressed to him, certainly; and with no little wonder he tore it open and read:—
BEACHAM’S Friday morning.
MR. LEVICE:
MY DEAR SIR,—Pardon the hurried nature of this communication, but I must leave shortly on the in-coming train, having an important operation to undertake this morning; otherwise I should have liked to prepare you more fully, but time presses. Simply, then, I love your daughter. I told her so last night upon the river, and she has made me the proudest and happiest of men by returning my love. I am well aware what I am asking of you when I ask her of you to be my wife. You know me personally; you know my financial standing; I trust to you to remember my failings with mercy in the knowledge of our great love. Till Monday night, then, I leave her and my happiness to your consideration and love.
With the greatest respect,
Yours Sincerely,
HERBERT KEMP.
“My God!”
The clerk standing near him in the doorway turned hurriedly.
“Any trouble?” he asked, moving toward him and noticing the ashy pallor of his face.
The old man’s hand closed spasmodically over the paper.
“Nothing,” he managed to answer, waving the man away; “don’t notice me.”
The clerk, seeing his presence was undesirable, took up his position in the doorway again.
Levice sat on. No further sound broke from him; he had clinched his teeth hard. It had come to this, then. She loved him; it was too late. If the man’s heart alone were concerned, it would have been an easy matter; but hers, Ruth’s. God! If she really loved, her father knew only too well how she would love. Was the man crazy? Had he entirely forgotten the gulf that lay between them? Great drops of perspiration rose to his forehead. Two ideas held him in a desperate struggle,—his child’s happiness; the prejudice of a lifetime. Something conquered finally, and he arose quietly and walked slowly off.
Through the trees he heard laughter. He walked round and saw her swinging Will Tyrrell.
“There’s your father,” cried Boss, from the limb of a tree.
She looked up, startled. With a newborn shyness she had endeavored to put off this meeting with her father. She gave the swing another push and waited his approach with beating heart.
“The boys will excuse you, Ruth, I think; I wish you to come for a short walk with me.”
At his voice, the gentle seriousness of which penetrated even to the Tyrrell boys’ understanding, she felt that her secret was known.
She laid her arm about his neck and gave him his usual morning kiss, reddening slowly under his long searching look as he held her to him. She followed him almost blindly as he turned from the grounds and struck into the lane leading to the woods. Mr. Levice walked along, aimlessly knocking off with his stick the dandelions and camomile in the hedges. It was with a wrench he spoke.
“My child,” he said, and now the stick acted as a support, “I was just handed a note from Dr. Kemp. He has asked me for your hand.”
In the pause that followed Ruth’s lovely face was hidden in her hat.
“He also told me that he loves you,” he continued slowly, “and that you return his love. Will you turn your face to me, Ruth?”
She did so with dignity.
“You love this man?”
“I do.” As reverently as if at the altar, she faced and answered her father. All her love was in the eyes she raised to his. Beneath their happy glow Levice’s sank and his steady lips grew pale.
They were away from mankind in the shelter of the woods, the birds gayly carolling their matins above them.
“And you desire to become his wife?”
Neck, face, and ears were suffused with color as she faltered unsteadily,—
“Oh, Father, he loves me.” Then at the wonder of it, she exclaimed, throwing her arms about his neck impulsively and hiding her face in his shoulder, “I am so happy, so happy! It seems almost too beautiful to be true.”
The old man’s trembling hand smoothed the soft little tendrils of hair that had escaped from their pins. He stifled a groan as he was thus disarmed.
“And what,” she asked, her sweet eyes holding his as she stepped back, “what do you think of Herbert Kemp, M. D.? Will you be proud of your son-in-law, Father darling?”
Levice’s hand fell suddenly on her shoulder. He schooled himself to smile quietly upon her.
“Dr. Kemp is a great friend of mine. He is a gentleman whom all the world honors, not only for his professional worth, but for his manly qualities. I am not surprised that you love him, nor yet that he loves you—except for one thing.”
“And that?” she asked, smiling confidently at him.
“Child, you are a Jewess; Dr. Kemp is a Christian.”
And still his daughter smiled trustingly.
“What difference can that make, since we love each other?” she asked.
“Will you believe me, Ruth, when I say that all I desire is your happiness?”
“Father, I know it.”
“Then I tell you I can never bring myself to approve of a marriage between you and a Christian. There can be no true happiness in such a union.”
“Why not? Inasmuch as all my life you have taught me to look upon my Christian friends as upon my Jewish, and since you admit him irreproachable from every standpoint, why can he not be my husband?”
“Have you ever thought of what such a marriage entails?”
“Never.”
“Then do so now: think of every sacrifice, social and religious, it enforces; think of the great difference between the Jewish race and the Christians; and if, after you have measured with the deadliest earnestness every duty that married life brings, you can still believe that you will be happy, then marry him.”
“With your blessing?” Her lovely, pleading eyes still held his.
“Always with my blessing, child. One thing more: did Dr. Kemp mention anything of this to you?”
“No; he must have forgotten it as I did, or rather, if I ever thought of it, it was a mere passing shadow. I put it aside with the thought that though you and I had never discussed such a circumstance, judging by all your other actions in our relations with Christians, you would be above considering such a thing a serious obstacle to two people’s happiness.”
“You see, when it comes to action, my broad views dwindle down to detail, and I am only an old man with old-fashioned ideas. However, I shall remind Dr. Kemp of this grave consideration, and then—you will not object to this?”
“Oh, no; but I know—I know—” What did she know except of the greatness of his love that would annihilate all her father’s forebodings?
“Yes,” her father answered the half-spoken thought; “I know too. But ponder this well, as I shall insist on his doing; then, on Monday night, when you have both satisfactorily answered to each other every phase of this terrible difference, I shall have nothing more to say.”
Love is so selfish. Ruth, hugging her happiness, failed, as she had never failed before, to mark the wearied voice, the pale face, and the sad eyes of her father.
“Your mother will soon be awake,” he said; “had you not better go back?”
Something that she had expected was wanting in this meeting; she looked at him reproachfully, her mouth visibly trembling.
“What is it?” he asked gently.
“Why, Father, you are so cold and hard, and you have not even—”
“Wait till Monday night, Ruth. Then I will do anything you ask me. Now go back to your mother, but understand, not a word of this to her yet. I shall not recur to this again; meanwhile we shall both have something to think of.”
That afternoon Dr. Kemp received the following brief note:—
BEACHAM’S, August 25, 188—
DR. KEMP:
DEAR SIR,—Have you forgotten that my daughter is a Jewess; that you are a Christian? Till Monday night I shall expect you to consider this question from every possible point of view. If then both you and my daughter can satisfactorily override the many objections I undoubtedly have, I shall raise no obstacle to your desires.
Sincerely your friend,
JULES LEVICE.
In the mean time Ruth was thinking it all out. Love was blinding her, dazzling her; and the giants that rose before her were dwarfed into pygmies, at which she tried to look gravely, but succeeded only in smiling at their feebleness. Love was an Armada, and bore down upon the little armament that thought called up, and rode it all to atoms.
Small wonder, then, that on their return on Monday morning, as little Rose Delano stood in Ruth’s room looking up into her friend’s face, the dreamy, starry eyes, the smiles that crept in thoughtful dimples about the corners of her mouth, the whole air of a mysterious something, baffled and bewildered her.
Upon Ruth’s writing-table rested a basket of delicate Marechal Niel buds, almost veiled in tender maiden-hair; the anonymous sender was not unknown.
“It has agreed well with you, Miss Levice,” said Rose, in her gentle, patient voice, that seemed so out of keeping with her young face. “You look as if you had been dipped in a love-elixir.”
“So I have,” laughed Ruth, her hand straying to the velvety buds; “it has made a ‘nut-brown mayde’ of me, I think, Rosebud. But tell me the city news. Everything in running order? Tell me.”
“Everything is as your kind help has willed it. I have a pleasant little room with a middle-aged couple on Post Street. Altogether I earn ten dollars over my actual monthly expenses. Oh, Miss Levice, when shall I be able to make you understand how deeply grateful I am?”
“Never, Rose; believe me, I never could understand deep things; that is why I am so happy.”
“You are teasing now, with that mischievous light in your eyes. Yet the first time I saw your face I thought that either you had or would have a history.”
“Sad?” The sudden poignancy of the question startled Rose.
She looked quickly at her to note if she were as earnest as her voice sounded. The dark eyes smiled daringly, defiantly at her.
“I am no sorceress,” she answered evasively but lightly; “look in the glass and see.”
“You remind me of Floy Tyrrell. Pooh! Let us talk of something else. Then it can’t be Wednesdays?”
“It can be any day. The Page children can have Friday.”
“Do you know how Mr. Page is?”
“Did you not hear of the great operations he—Dr. Kemp—performed Friday?”
“No.” She could have shaken herself for the telltale, inevitable rush of blood that overspread her face. If Rose saw, she made no sign; she had had one lesson.
“I did not know such a thing was in his line. I had been giving Miss Dora a lesson in the nursery. The old nurse had brought the two little ones in there, and kept us all on tenter-hooks running in and out. One of the doctors, Wells, I think she said, had fainted; it was a very delicate and dangerous operation. When my lesson was over, I slipped quietly out; I was passing through the corridor when Dr. Kemp came out of one of the rooms. He was quite pale. He recognized me immediately; and though I wished to pass straight on, he stopped me and shook my hand so very friendly. And now I hear it was a great success. Oh, Miss Levice, he has no parallel but himself!”
It did not sound exaggerated to Ruth to hear him thus made much of. It was only very sweet and true.
“I knew just what he must be when I saw him,” the girl babbled on; “that was why I went to him. I knew he was a doctor by his carriage, and his strong, kind face was my only stimulus. But there, you must forgive me if I tire you; you see he sent you to me.”
“You do not tire me, Rose,” she said gravely. And the same expression rested upon her face till evening.