We do not live wholly through ourselves. What is called fate is but the outcome of the spinning of other individuals twisted into the woof of our own making; so no life should be judged as a unit.
Ruth Levice was not alone in the world; she was neither recluse nor a genius, but a girl with many loving friends and a genial home-life. Having resolved to bear to the world an unchanged front, she outwardly did as she had always done. Her mother’s zealous worldliness returned with her health; and Ruth fell in with all her plans for a gay winter,—that is, the plans were gay; Ruth’s presence could hardly be termed so. The old spontaneous laugh was superseded by a gentle smile, sympathetic perhaps, but never joyous. She listened more, and seldom now took the lead in a general conversation, though there was a charm about a tete-a-tete with her that earnest persons, men and women, felt without being able to define it. For the change, without doubt, was there. It was as if a quiet hand had been passed over her exuberant, happy girlhood and left a serious, thoughtful woman in its stead. A subtile change like this is not speedily noticed by outsiders; it requires usage before an acquaintance will account it a characteristic instead of a mood. But her family knew it. Mrs. Levice, wholly in the dark as to the cause, wondered openly.
“You might be thirty, Ruth, instead of twenty-two, by the staidness of your demeanor. While other girls are laughing and chatting as girls should, you look on with the tolerant dignity of a woman of grave concerns. If you had anything to trouble you, there might be some excuse; but as it is, why can’t you go into enjoyments like the rest of your friends?”
“Don’t I? Why, I hardly know another girl who lives in such constant gayety as I. Are we not going to a dinner this evening and to the ball to-morrow night?”
“Yes; but you might as well be going to a funeral for all the pleasure you seem to anticipate. If you come to a ball with such a grandly serious air, the men will just as soon think of asking a statue to dance as you. A statue may be beautiful in its niche, but people do not care to study its meaning at a ball.”
“What do you wish me to do, Mamma? I should hate the distinction of a wall-flower, which you think imminent. I am afraid I am too big a woman to be frolicsome.”
“You never were that, but you were at least a girl. People will begin to think you consider yourself above them, or else that you have some secret trouble.”
The smile of incredulity with which she answered her would have been heart-breaking had it been understood. No flush stained the ivory pallor of her face at these thrusts in the dark; Louis was never annoyed in this way now. Her old-time excited contradictions never obtruded themselves in their conversations. A silent knowledge lay between them which neither, by word or look, ever alluded to. Mrs. Levice noted with delight their changed relations. Louis’s sarcasm ceased to be directed at Ruth; and though the familiar sparring was missing, Mrs. Levice preferred his deferential bearing when he addressed her, and Ruth’s grave graciousness with him. She drew her own conclusions, and accepted Ruth’s quietness with more patience on this account.
Louis understood somewhat; and in his manliness he could not hide that her suffering had cost him a new code of actions. But he could not understand as her father did. Despite her brave smile, Levice could almost read her heart-beats, and the knowledge brought a hardness and a bitter regret. He grew to scanning her face surreptitiously, looking in vain for the old, untroubled delight in things; and when the unmistakable signs of secret anguish would leave traces at times, he would turn away with a groan. Yet there was nothing to be done. He knew that her love had been no light thing nor could her giving up be so; but feeling that no matter what the present cost, the result would compensate, he trusted to time to heal the wound. Meanwhile his own self-blame at these times left its mark upon him.
For Ruth lived a dual life. The real one was passed in her quiet chamber, in her long solitary walks, and when she sat with her book, apparently reading. She would look up with blank, despairing eyes, clinched hands, and hard-set teeth when the thought of him and all her loss would steal upon her. Her father had caught many such a look upon her face. She had resolved to live without him, but accomplishment is not so easy. Besides, it was not as if she never saw him. San Francisco is not so large a city but that by the turning of a corner you may not come across a friend. Ruth grew to study the sounds the different kinds of vehicles made; and the rolling wheels of a doctor’s carriage behind her would set her pulses fluttering in fright.
She was walking one day along Sutter Street toward Gough from Octavia. The street takes a sudden down-grade midway in the block. She was approaching this declension just before the Boys’ High School when a carriage drove quickly up the hill toward her. The horses gave a bound as if the reins had been jerked; there was the momentary flash of a man’s stern, white face as he raised his hat; and Ruth was walking down the hill, trembling and pale. It was the first time; and for one minute her heart seemed to stop beating and then rushed wildly on. Whether she had bowed or made any sign of recognition, she did not know. It did not matter, though; if he thought her cold or strange or anything, what difference could it possibly make? For her there would be left forever this dead emptiness. These casual meetings were inevitable; and she would come home after them worn-out and heavy-eyed. “A slight headache” was a recurrent excuse with her.
They had common friends, and it would not have been surprising had she met him at the different affairs to which she went, always through her mother’s desire. But the dread of coming upon him slowly departed as the months rolled by and with them all token of him. Time and again she would hear allusions to him. “Dr. Kemp has developed into a misogynist,” pouted Dorothy Gwynne. “He was one of the few decided eligibles on the horizon, but it requires the magnet of illness to draw him now. I really must look up the symptoms of a possible ache; the toilet and expression of an invalid are very becoming, you know.”
“Dr. Kemp made a splendid donation to our kindergarten to-day. I have not seen him since we were in the country, and he thought me looking very well. He inquired after the family, and I told him we had a residence, at which he smiled.” This from Mrs. Levice. Ruth would have given much to have been able to ask after him with self-possession, but the muscles of her throat seemed to swell and choke her while silent. She went now and then to see Bob Bard in his flower-store; he would without fail inquire after “our friend” or tell her of his having passed that day. Here was her one chance of inquiring if he was looking well, to which the answer was invariably “yes.”
She sat one night at the opera in her wonted beauty, with her soft, dusky hair rolled from her sweet Madonna face. Many a lorgnette was raised a second and a third time toward her. Louis, seated next to her, resented with unaccountable ferocity this free admiration that she did not see or feel.
As the curtain went down on the first act, he drew her attention to some celebrity then passing out. She raised her glass, but her hand fell nerveless in her lap. Immediately following him came Dr. Kemp. Their eyes met, and he bowed low, passing on immediately. The rest of the evening passed like a nightmare; she heard nothing but her heart-throbs, saw nothing but his beloved face regarding her with simple courtesy. Louis knew that for her the opera was over; the tell-tale bistrous shadows grew around her eyes, and she became deadly silent.
“What a magnificent man he is,” murmured Mrs. Levice, “and what an impressive bow he has!” Ruth did not hear her; but when she reached her own room, she threw herself face downward on her bed in intolerable anguish. She was not a girl who cried easily. If she had been, her suffering would not have been so intense,—when the flood-gates are opened, the river finds relief. Over and over again she wished she might die and end this eager, passionate craving for some token of love from him, or for the power of letting him know how it was with her. And it would always be thus as long as she lived. She did not deceive herself; no mere friendship would have sufficed,—all or nothing after what had been.
Physically, however, she bore no traces of this continual restraint. On the contrary, her slender figure matured to womanly proportions. Little children, seeing her, smiled responsively at her, or clamored to be taken into her arms, there was such a tender mother-look about her. By degrees her friends began to feel the repose of her intellect and the sympathy of her face, and came to regard her as the queen of confidantes. Young girls with their continual love episodes and excitements, ambitious youths with their whimsical schemes of life and aspirations of love, sought her out openly. Few of these latter dared hope for any individual thought from her, though any of the older men would have staked a good deal for the knowledge that she singled him for her consideration.
Arnold viewed it all with inward satisfaction. He regarded memory but as a sort of palimpsest; and he was patiently waiting until his own name should appear again, when the other’s should have been sufficiently obliterated.
It was a severe winter, and everybody appreciated the luxury of a warm home. December came in wet and cold, and la grippe held the country in its disagreeable hold. The Levices were congratulating themselves one evening on their having escaped the epidemic.
“I suppose the secret of it lies in the fact that we do not coddle ourselves,” observed Levice.
“If you were to coddle yourself a little more,” retorted his wife, “you would not cough every morning as you do. Really, Jules, if you do not consult a physician, I shall send for Kemp myself. I actually think it is making you thin.”
“Nonsense!” he replied carelessly; “it is only a little irritation of the throat every morning. If the weather is clear next week, I must go to New York. Eh, Louis?”
“At this time of the year!” cried Mrs. Levice, in expostulation.
“Some one has to go, and the only one that should is I.”
“I think I could manage it,” said Louis, “if you would see about the other adjustment while I am gone.”
“No, you could not,”—when Levice said “no,” it seldom meant an ultimate “yes.” “Besides, the trip will do me good.”
“I shall go with you,” put in Mrs. Levice, decidedly.
“No, dear; you could not stand the cold in New York, and I could not be bothered with a woman’s grip-sack.”
“Take Ruth, then.”
“I should love to go with you, Father,” she replied to the questioning glance of his eyes. He seemed to ponder over it for a while, but shook his head finally.
“No,” he said again; “I shall be very busy, and a woman would be a nuisance to me. Besides, I wish to be alone for a while.”
They all looked at him in surprise; he was so unused to making testy remarks.
“Grown tired of womankind?” asked Mrs. Levice, playfully. “Well, if you must, you must; don’t overstay your health and visit, and bring us something pretty. How long will you be gone?”
“That depends on the speediness of the courts. No more than three weeks at the utmost, however.”
So the following Wednesday being bright and sunny, he set off; the family crossed the bay with him.
“Take care of your mother, Ruth,” he said at parting, “and of yourself, my pale darling.”
“Don’t worry about me, Father,” she said, pulling up his furred collar; “indeed, I am well and happy. If you could believe me, perhaps you would love me as much as you used to.”
“As much! My child, I never loved you better than now; remember that. I think I have forgotten everybody else in you.”
“Don’t, dear! it makes me feel miserable to think I should cause you a moment’s uneasiness. Won’t you believe that everything is as I wish it?”
“If I could, I should have to lose the memory of the last four months. Well, try your best to forgive me, child.”
“Unless you hate me, don’t hurt me with that thought again. I forgive you? I, who am the cause of it all?”
He kissed her tear-filled eyes tenderly, and turned with a sign to her mother.
They watched to the last his loved face at the window, Ruth with a sad smile and a loving wave of her handkerchief.
Over at the mole it is not a bad place to witness tragedies. Pathos holds the upper hand, and the welcomes are sometimes as heart-rending as the leave-takings. A woman stood on the ferry with a blank, working face down which the tears fell heedlessly; a man, her husband, turned from her, drew his hat down over his eyes, and stalked off toward the train without a backward glance. Parting is a figure of death in this respect,—that only those who are left need mourn; the others have something new beyond.
The fire-light threw grotesque shadows on the walls. Ruth and Louis in the library made no movement to ring for lights; it was quite cosey as it was. They had both drawn near the crackling wood-blaze, Ruth in a low rocker, Arnold in Mr. Levice’s broad easy-chair.
“I surely thought you intended going to the concert this evening, Louis,” she said, looking across at him. “I fancy Mamma expected you to accompany her.”
“What! Voluntarily put myself into the cold when there is a fire blazing right here? Ah, no. At any rate, your mother is all right with the Lewises, and I am all right with you.”
“I give you a guarantee I shall not bite; you look altogether too hard for my cannibalistic propensities.”
“It is something not to be accounted soft. I think a redundancy of flesh overflows in trickling sentimentality. My worst enemy could not accuse me of either fault.”
“But your best friend would not mind a little thaw now and then. One of the girls confided to me today that walking on and over-waxed floor was nothing to attempting an equal footing in conversation with you.”
“I am sorry I am such a slippery customer. Does not the fire burn your face? Shall I hand you a screen?”
“No; I like to toast.”
“But your complexion might char; move your chair a little forward.”
“In two minutes I intend to have lights and to bring my work down. Will it make you tired to watch me?”
“Exceedingly. I prefer your undivided attention; it is not often we are alone, Ruth.”
She looked up slightly startled; he seldom made personal remarks. Her pulses began to flutter with the premonition that reference to a tacitly buried secret was going to be made.
“We have been going out and receiving a good deal lately, though somehow I don’t feel festive, with Father away in freezing New York. Mamma would gladly have stayed at home to-night if Jennie had not insisted.”
“You think so? I fancy she was a very willing captive; she intimated as much to me.”
“How?”
“Not in words, but her eyes were interesting reading: first, capitulation to Jennie, then, in rapid succession, inspiration, command, entreaty, a challenge and retreat, all directed at me. Possibly this eloquence was lost upon you.”
“Entirely. What was your interpretation?”
“Ah, that was confidential. Perhaps I even endowed her with these thoughts, knowing her desires were in touch with my own.”
“It is wanton cruelty to arouse a woman’s curiosity and leave it unsatisfied.”
“It is not cruelty; it is cowardice.”
She gazed at him in wonder. His apple-blossom cheeks wore a rosier glow than usual. He seized a log from the box, threw it on the blaze that illumined their faces, grasped the poker, and leaning forward in his chair let it grow hot as he held it to the flames. His glasses fell off, dangling from the cord; and as he adjusted them, he caught the curious, half-amused smile on Ruth’s attentive face. He gave the fire a sharp raking and addressed her, gazing into the leaping flames.
“I was wondering why, after all, you could not be happy as my wife.”
A numbness as of death overspread her.
“I think I could make you happy, Ruth.”
In the pregnant silence that followed he looked up, and meeting her sad, reproachful eyes, laid down the poker softly but resolutely; there was method in the action.
“In fact, I know I could make you happy.”
“Louis, have you forgotten?” she cried in sharp pain.
“I have forgotten nothing,” he replied incisively. “Listen to me, Ruth. It is because I remember that I ask you. Give me the right to care for you, and you will be happier than you can ever be in these circumstances.”
“You do not know what you ask, Louis. Even if I could, you would never be satisfied.”
“Try me, Ruth,” he entreated.
She raised herself from her easy, reclining position, and regarded him earnestly.
“What you desire,” she said in a restrained manner, “would be little short of a crime for me. What manner of wife should I be to you when my every thought is given to another?”
His face put on the set look of one who has shut his teeth hard together.
“I anticipated this repulse,” he said after a pause; “so what you have just assured me of does not affect my wish or my resolution to continue my plea.”
“Would you marry a woman who feels herself as closely bound to another, or the memory of another, as if the marriage rite had been actually performed? Oh, Louis, how could you force me to these disclosures?”
“I am seeking no disclosure, but it is impossible for me to continue silent now.”
“Why?”
“Why? Because I love you.”
They sat so close together he might have touched her by putting out his hand, but he remained perfectly still, only the pale excitement of long repression speaking from his face; but she shrank back at his words and raised her hand as if about to receive a blow.
“Do not be alarmed,” he continued, noticing the action; “my love cannot hurt you, or it would have killed you long ago.”
“Oh, Louis,” she murmured, “forgive me; I never thought you cared so much.”
“How should you? I am not a man to wear my heart upon my sleeve. I think I have always loved you; but living as familiarly as we have lived, seeing you whenever I wished, the thought that some day this might end never occurred to me. It was only when the possibility of some other man’s claiming your love and taking you from me presented itself, that my heart rose up in arms against it,—and then I asked you to be my wife.”
“Yes,” she replied, raising her pale face; “and I refused. The same cause that moved me then, and to which you submitted without protest, rules me now, and you know it.”
“No; I do not know it. What then might have had a possible issue is now done with—or do I err?”
Her mouth trembled piteously, but no tears came as she lowered her head.
“Then listen to me. You may think me a poor sort of a fellow even to wish you to marry me when you assure me that you love another. That means that you do not love me as a husband should be loved, but it does not prove that you never could love me so.”
“It proves just that.”
“No, you may think so now, but let me reason you into seeing the falsity of your thought,—for I do not wish to force or impel you to do a thing repugnant to your reason as well as to your feelings. To begin with, you do not dislike me?”
His face was painful in its eagerness.
“I have always loved you as a dear brother.”
“Some people would consider that worse than hostility; I do not. Another question: Is there anything about my life or personality to which you object, or of which your are ashamed?”
“You know how proud we all are of you in your bearing in every relation of life.”
“I was egotist enough to think as much at any rate; otherwise I could not approach you so confidently. Well, love—indifferent if you will—and respect are not a bad foundation for something stronger. Will you, for the sake of argument, suppose that for some reason you have forgotten your opposition and have been led into marrying me?”
The sad indulgence of her smile was not inspiriting, but he continued,—
“Now, then, say you are my wife; that means I am your husband, and I love you. You do not return my love, you say; you think you would be wretched with me because you love another. Still, you are married to me; that gives me rights that no other man can possess, no matter how much you love him. You are bound to me, I to you and your happiness; so I pledge myself to make you happier than you are now, because I shall make you forget this man.”
“You could not, and I should only grow to hate you.”
“Impossible,” the pallor of his face intensifying; “because I should so act that my love would wait upon your pleasure: it would never push itself into another’s place, but it would in time overshadow the other. For, remember, I shall be your husband. I shall give you another life; I shall take you away with me. You will leave all your old friends and associations for a while, and I shall be with you always,—not intrusively, but necessarily. I shall give you every pleasure and novelty that the Old World can afford. I shall shower my love on you, not myself. In return I shall expect your tolerance. In time I will make you love me.”
His voice shook with the strength of his passion, while she listened in heart-sick fear. Carried away by his manner, she almost felt as if he had accomplished his object. He quieted down after this.
“Don’t you see, Ruth, that all this change must make you forget? And if you tried to put the past from you for no other reason than that your wifehood would be less untrue, you would be but following the instincts of a truly honorable woman. After that, all would be easy. In every instance you would be forced to look upon me as your husband, for you would belong to me. I should be the author of all your surroundings; and always keeping in mind how I want you to regard me, I should woo you so tenderly that without knowing it you would finally yield. Then, and only then, when I had filled your thought to the exclusion of every other man, I should bring you home; and I think we should be happy.”
“And you would be satisfied to give so much and receive so little?”
“The end would repay me.”
“It is a pretty story,” she said, letting her hands fall listlessly into her lap, “but the denouement is a castle in Spain that we should never inhabit. You think your love is strong enough to kill mine first of all; well, I tell you, nothing is strong enough for that. With this fact established the rest is needless to speak of. It is only your dream, Louis; forgive me that I unwittingly intruded into it; reality would mean disillusion,—we are happy only when we dream.”
“You are bitter.”
“Our relations are turned, then; I have put into practice your old theories of the uselessness of life. No; I am wrong. It is better to die than not to have loved.”
“You think you have lived your life, then. I can’t convince you otherwise now; but I am going to beg you to think this over, to try to imagine yourself my wife. I will not hasten your decision, but in a week’s time you should be able to answer me yes or no. If anything can help my cause, I cannot overlook it; so I may tell you now that for some occult reason your mother’s one wish is to see you my wife.”
“And my father?” her voice was harsh now.
“Your father has expressed to your mother that such a course would make him happy.”
She rose suddenly as if oppressed. Her face looked hard to a degree. She stood before him, tall and rigid. He stood up and faced her, reading her face so intently that he straightened himself as if to receive an attack.
“I will consider what you have said,” she said mechanically.
The reaction was so unexpected that he turned giddy and caught on to the back of a chair to steady himself.
“It will not take me a week,” she went on with no change in her monotone; “I can give you an answer in a day or two. To-morrow night, perhaps.”
He made a step forward, a movement to seize her hand; but she stepped back and waved him off.
“Don’t touch me,” she cried in a suppressed voice; “at least you are not my husband—yet.”
She turned hastily toward the door without another word.
“Wait!”
His vibrant voice compelled her to turn.
“I want no martyr for a wife, nor yet a tragedy queen. If you can come to me and honestly say, ‘I trust my happiness to you,’ well and good. But as I told you once before, I am not a saint, and I cannot always control myself as I have been forced to do tonight. If this admission is damaging, it is too true to be put lightly aside. I shall not detain you longer.”
He looked haughty and cold regarding her from this dim distance. Her gentleness struggled to get the better of her, and she came back and held out her hand.
“I am sorry if I offended you, Louis; good-night. Will you not pardon my selfishness?”
His eyes gleamed behind their glasses; he did not take her hand, but merely bent over the little peace-offering as over a sacrament. Seeing that he had no intention of doing more, her hand fell passively to her side, and she left the room.
As the door closed softly, Arnold sank with a hopeless gesture into a chair and buried his face in his hands. He was not a stoic, but a man,—a Frenchman, who loved much; but Arnold, half-blinded by his own love, scarcely appreciated the depths of self-forgetfulness to which Ruth would have to succumb in order to accept the guaranty of happiness which he offered her.
The question now presented itself in the light of a duty: if by this action she could undo the remorse that her former offence had inflicted, had she the right to ignore the opportunity? A vision of her own sad face obtruded itself, but she put it sternly from her. If she were to do this thing, the motive alone must be considered; and she rigidly kept in view the fact that her marriage would be the only means by which her father might be relieved of the haunting knowledge of her lost peace of mind. Had she given one thought to Louis, the possibility of the act would have been abhorrent to her. One picture she kept constantly before her,—her father’s happy eyes.
Mrs. Levice’s gaze strayed pensively from the violets she was embroidering to Ruth’s pale face. Every time the latter stirred, her mother started expectantly; but the anxiously awaited disclosure was not forthcoming. Outside the rain kept up a sullen downpour, deepening the feeling of comfort indoors; but Mrs. Levice was not what one might call comfortably-minded. Her frequent inventories of Ruth’s face had at last led her to believe that the pallor there depicted and the heavy, dark shadows about her eyes meant something decidedly not gladsome.
“Don’t you feel well, Ruth?” she asked finally with some anxiety.
Ruth raised her heavy eyes.
“I? Oh, I feel perfectly well. Why do you ask? Do I look ill?”
“Yes, you do; your face is pale, and your eyes look tired. Did you sit up late last night?”
This was a leading move, but Ruth evaded the deeper meaning that was so evident to her now.
“No,” she replied; “I believe it could not have been nine when I went upstairs.”
“Why? Were you too fatigued to sit up, or was Louis’s company unpleasant?”
“Oh, no,” was the abrupt response, and her eyes fell on the open page again.
Mrs. Levice, once started on the trail, was not to be baffled by such tactics. Since Ruth was not ill, she had had some mental disturbance of which her weary appearance was the consequence. She felt almost positive that Louis had made some advances last night, from the flash of intelligence with which he had met her telegraphic expression. It was natural for her to be curious; it was unnatural for Ruth to be so reserved. With feelings not a little hurt she decided to know something more.
“For my part,” she observed, as if continuing a discussion, “I think Louis charming in a tete-a-tete,—when he feels inclined to be interesting he generally succeeds. Did he tell you anything worth repeating? It is a dull afternoon, and you might entertain me a little.”
She looked up from the violet petal she had just completed and encountered Ruth’s full, questioning gaze.
“What is it you would like to know, Mamma?” she asked in a gentle voice.
“Nothing that you do not wish to tell,” her mother answered proudly, but regarding her intently.
Ruth passed her hand wearily across her brow, and considered a moment before answering.
“I did not wish to hurt you by my silence, Mamma; but before I had decided I hardly thought it necessary to say anything. He asked me to—marry him.”
The avowal was not made with the conventional confusion and trembling.
Mrs. Levice was startled by the dead calm of her manner.
“You say that as if it were a daily occurrence for a man like Louis Arnold to offer you his hand and name.”
“I hope not.”
“But you do. I confess I think you are not one tenth as excited as I am. Why didn’t you tell me before? Any other girl would have sat up to tell her mother in the night. Oh, Ruth darling, I am so glad. I have been looking forward to this ever since you grew up. What did you mean by saying you wished to wait till you had decided? Decided what?”
“Upon my answer.”
“As if you could question it, you fortunate girl! Or were you waiting for me to help you to it? I scarcely need tell you how you have been honored.”
“Honor is not everything, Mamma.”
At that moment a desperate longing for her mother’s sympathy seized her; but the next minute the knowledge of the needless sorrow it would occasion came to her, and her lips remained closed.
“No,” responded her mother, “and you have more than that; surely Louis did not neglect to tell you.”
“You mean his love, I suppose,—yes, I have that.”
“Then what else would you have? You probably know that he can give you every luxury within reason,—so much for honest practicality. As to Louis himself, the most fastidious could find nothing to cavil at,—he will make you a perfect husband. You are familiar enough with him to know his faults; but no man is faultless. I hope you are not so silly as to expect some girlish ideal,—for all the ideals died in the Golden Age, you know.”
“As mine did. No; I have outgrown imagination in that line.”
“Then why do you hesitate?” Her mother’s eyes were shining; her face was alive with the excitement of hope fulfilled. “Is there anything else wanting?”
“No,” she responded dully; “but let us not talk about it any more, please. I must see Louis again, you know.”
“If your father were here, he could help you better, dear;” there was no reproach in Mrs. Levice’s gentle acceptance of the fact; “he will be so happy over it. There, kiss me, girlie; I know you like to think things out in silence, and I shall not say another word about it till you give me leave.”
She kept her word. The dreary afternoon dragged on. By four o-clock it was growing dark, and Mrs. Levice became restless.
“I am going to my room to write to your father now,—he shall have a good scolding for the non-receipt of a letter to-day;” and forthwith she betook herself upstairs.
Ruth closed her book and moved restlessly about the room. She wandered over to the front window, and drawing aside the silken curtain, looked out into the storm-tossed garden. The pale heliotropes lay wet and sweet against the trellises; some loosened rose-petals fluttered noiselessly to the ground; only the gorgeous chrysanthemums looked proudly indifferent to the elements; and the beautiful, stately palm-tree just at the side of the window spread its gracious arms like a protecting temple. She felt suddenly oppressed and feverish, and threw open the long French window. The rain had ceased for the time, and she stepped out upon the veranda. The fragrance of the rain-soaked flowers stole to her senses; the soft, sweet breeze caressed her temples; she stood still in the perfumed freshness and enjoyed its peace. By and by she began to walk up and down. Evening was approaching, and Louis would soon be home. She had decided to meet him on his return and have it over with. She must school herself to some show of graciousness. The thing must not be done by halves or it must not be done at all. Her father’s happiness; over and over she repeated it. She went so far as to picture herself in his arms; she heard the old-time words of blessing; she saw his smiling eyes; and a gentleness stole over her whole face, a gentle nobility that made it strangely sweet. The soft patter of rain on the gravel roused her, and she went in; but she felt better, and wished Louis might come in while the mood was upon her.
It was nearing six when Mrs. Levice came back humming a song.
“I thought you would still be here. Make a light, will you, Ruth; it is as pitchy as Hades, only that smouldering log looks purgatorial.”
Ruth lit the gas; and as she stood with upturned eyes adjusting the burner, her mother noticed that the heaviness had departed from her face. She sank into a rocker and took up the evening paper.
“What time is it, Ruth?”
“Twenty minutes to six,” she answered, glancing at the clock.
“As late as that?” She meant to say, “And Louis not home yet?” but forbore to mention his name.
“It is raining heavily now,” said Ruth, throwing a log upon the fire. Mrs. Levice unfolded the crackling newspaper, and Ruth moved over to the window to draw down the blinds. As she stood looking out with her hand on the chair, she saw the gate swing slowly open, and a messenger-boy came dawdling up the walk as if the sun were streaming full upon him.
Ruth stepped noiselessly out, meaning to anticipate his ring. A vague foreboding drove the blood from her lips as she stood waiting at the open hall-door. Seeing the streaming light, the boy managed to accelerate his snail’s pace.
“Miss Ruth Levice live here?” he asked, stopping in the doorway.
“Yes.” She took the packet he handed her. “Any charges or answers?” she asked.
“Nom,” answered the boy; and noticing her pallor and apprehension, “I’ll shet the door for you,” he added, laying his hand on the knob.
“Thank you. Here, take two cars if necessary; it is too wet to walk.” She handed him a quarter, and the boy went off, gayly whistling.
She closed the heavy door softly and sat down on a chair. She recognized Louis’s handwriting on the wrapper, and her heart fluttered ominously. She tore off the damp covering, and the first thing she encountered was another wrapper on which was written in large characters:—
DEAR RUTH,—Do not be alarmed; everything is all right. I had to leave town on the overland at 6 P.M. Read the letter first, then the telegram; they will explain.
LOUIS
The kindly feeling that had prompted this warning was appreciated; one fear was stilled. She drew out the letter; she saw in perplexity that it was from her father. She hurriedly opened it and read:
NEW YORK, Jan. 21, 188—.
DEAR LOUIS,—I am writing this from my bed, where I have been confined for the last week with pneumonia, although I managed to write a daily postal. Have been quite ill, but am on the mend and only anxious to start home again. I really cannot rest here, and have made arrangements to leave to-morrow. Have taken every precaution against catching cold, and apart from feeling a trifle weak and annoyed by a cough, am all right. Shall come home directly. Say nothing of this to Esther or Ruth; shall apprise them by telegram of my home-coming. Had almost completed the business, and can leave the rest to Hamilton.
My love to you all.
Your loving Uncle,
JULES LEVICE.
Under this Louis had pencilled,
Received this this morning at 10.30.
Ruth closed her eyes as she unfolded the telegram; then with every nerve quivering she read the yellow missive:—
RENO, Jan. 27, 188—.
LOUIS ARNOLD, San Francisco, Cal.:
Have been delayed by my cough. Feeling too weak to travel alone. Come if you can.
JULES LEVICE.
Her limbs shook as she sat; her teeth chattered; for one minute she turned sick and faint. Under the telegram Arnold had written:—
Am sure it is nothing. He has never been ill, and is more frightened than a more experienced person would be. There is no need to alarm your mother unnecessarily, so say nothing till you hear from me. Shall wire you as soon as I arrive, which will be to-morrow night.
LOUIS.
How could she refrain from telling her mother? She felt suddenly weak and powerless. O God, good God, her heart cried, only make him well!
The sound of the library door closing made her spring to her feet; her mother stood regarding her.
“What is it, Ruth?” she asked.
“Nothing,” she cried, her voice breaking despite her effort to be calm,—“nothing at all. Louis has just sent me word that he had to leave town this evening, and says not to wait dinner for him.”
“That is very strange,” mused her mother, moving slowly toward her and holding out her hand for the note; but Ruth thrust the papers into her pocket.
“It is to me, Mamma; you do not care for second-hand love-letters, do you?” she asked, assuming a desperate gayety. “There is nothing strange about it; he often leaves like this.”
“Not in such weather and not after—— There won’t be a man in the house to-night. I wish your father were home; he would not like it if he knew.” She shivered slightly as they went into the dining-room.