CHAPTER XIII.THE GENTLE INVALID.
Ruth Laurence though an invalid, was pining for something which might occupy the slender hands which seemed all too frail for labor. She could do many pretty trifles, however, with those deft fingers, and in her soul lay a deep love of art, which they were patiently striving to work out, whenever a bit of wax or a scrap of paper fell in her way. Sometimes, as the wind swept through the open windows of that little room, it carried off tiny morsels of paper, on which a butterfly, a bird, or a flower was sketched, which went whirling off among the old-fashioned flowers like a living thing. Sometimes Ruth would manage to get ravelings from scraps of silk, out of which she wrought rose-buds for pincushions, and groups of blossoms for segar-cases which brought in a shilling or two, now and then, for the scanty household-fund, and gave her a world of happiness in the sweet power of creation.
She was lying on her couch, close by the window, with a bit of drawing paper in her hand, on which the soft shadows of a white rose were forming themselves, when a click of the gate-latch, and the sound of strange footsteps made her start and look through the window. She saw her brother James by the gate, and with him a tall man, whom she had never seen before. The stranger waited a moment for the boy to complete what he was saying, and then crossed the little yard, while James ran forward to open the door.
“Ruthy! Ruthy, dear! just sit up a little, if you can; I have brought a gentleman, who wants to get acquainted with us. I told him all about things, you know, and he seems to think—Well, I don’t know what he thinks—but something awful kind, I’m sure.”
While James stood in the doorway uttering this exciting little speech, Ruth arose feebly from her pillows, dropped her feet to the floor, and turned her eyes upon the stranger in breathless expectation. She saw a tall slender man, some forty or forty-five years of age, with hair that had once been black as the neck of a raven, large dark eyes full of calm sadness, a forehead as white as marble, and but faintly lined. To these were added a fine sensitive mouth, to which laughter seemed to come never, and smiles but seldom; still, in his face and quiet, gentlemanly air, was that indescribable something which awakes sympathy and verges on tenderness.
“Forgive me, young lady; I did not intend to intrude on you in this abrupt way,” he said, lifting his hat as he crossed the threshold. “I have met a young lady, your sister, I think, who half gave me permission to call.”
“My sister is not at home,” answered Ruth, blushing; for she was so unaccustomed to the sight of a stranger that the presence of this one set her heart into a wild flutter.
“I know; this good lad told me as much. He also told me some other things about his family, that made me think—that made me hope—” The stranger paused, and bent his eyes upon the girl with a long, wistful look, that seemed pleading with her for help.
“Perhaps you hoped to find some one that you knew?”
“Yes, yes; I did hope that—but it was long ago. No friend of mine could be young as you are.”
“Was it somebody you wanted to find, then? Perhaps mother may help you.”
“Perhaps,” said the man, abstractedly, still gazing in that delicate young face, as if searching its features, one by one.
“She knew all my poor father’s friends,” said Ruth, embarrassed by the silence.
“Ah, yes! I should like to see your mother.”
Ruth lifted her voice a little, and called out:
“Mother! Mother!”
“Well, I must be going. It’s so long since I went out, and they’ll miss me at the store,” said little James, who had waited in silence for something strange to happen; for this advent of a stranger seemed full of importance to him. “Good-bye, Ruthy; good-bye, sir! I’m off.”
As James ran down the front yard, Mrs. Laurence came into the little parlor, untying the apron in which she had been working as she came in. Mr. Ross started, and turning in his chair, regarded her with a sharp, scrutinizing look, which deepened into an expression of keen disappointment.
“This is my mother,” said Ruth, bending her head, while Mrs. Laurence paused to fling her apron back into the kitchen, when she saw a stranger in the room.
Ross arose, and stood a moment, waiting for Mrs. Laurence to advance; for, though everything was humble, and even poverty-stricken around them, he felt that these women were naturally far above the level of their appearance.
“I have intruded, Madam, perhaps rudely,” he said, at last; “but having met one of your children by accident, her resemblance to one—to an old friend—was so striking, that I ventured to inquire about her here.”
Mrs. Laurence seemed more than usually disturbed by this speech; she turned a cold glance on her visitor, and said,
“I cannot remember of ever seeing you before, sir; there must be some mistake.”
Ross looked searchingly at the woman, as she spoke; her voice was firm and somewhat harsh; her reception of his polite address a little repellant; but she motioned him to take a seat, and occupied one herself, putting down her sleeves, which had been rolled up to the elbows.
“I once knew a man of your name,” said Ross, regarding the woman with a look of hesitation.
“Was he a policeman?” questioned Mrs. Laurence.
“Not while I knew him. We were boys in the same school.”
“How long was that ago?”
“More than twenty years—that is, it is almost that since we parted.”
Mrs. Laurence reflected a moment, then lifting her face, said,
“Well?”
“He was the dearest friend I ever had. When I left him, he promised to watch over my interests, to——”
“May I ask your name,” said Mrs. Laurence now keenly aroused.
“Ross—Herman Ross.”
Mrs. Laurence turned her eyes from the face she had been studying with a sort of terror, and her voice grew low and hoarse as she questioned him further.
“And the name of your friend—his full name?”
“Leonard—Leonard Laurence.”
“That was father’s name,” said Ruth, in a half whisper, looking at her mother, who groaned heavily, without saying a word. Low as the words were spoken, Ross heard them, and his face kindled.
“Then, young lady, your father was my close friend, and loved me like a brother. Will you not trust and like me a little for his sake?”
“I love everything that he loved,” said Ruth, with tears in her eyes; and she held out her frail little hand, which Ross took, reverently; then he turned to the other woman with a look of touching appeal.
“And you are Leonard Laurence’s wife. I remember seeing you once, a fair, young bride.”
The iron muscles about the woman’s mouth began to quiver, and a flush came around her pale-blue eyes.
“There is a long weary stretch between now and then,” she said, turning away her face.
“There is, indeed!” responded Ross, with a sigh, which stirred his bosom with the force of a groan. “A long, weary stretch; full of desolation to more than you and me.”
“It gave him a violent death, and me widowhood like this,” said the woman, turning cold and white.
“The boy told me something of this, but I was not sure it was the same man. I hoped to find him alive and prosperous. This is a hard, hard blow to a man who had so few friends.”
The woman looked at him jealously, as if his evident grief encroached upon her own melancholy right of sorrow. From the first, she seemed to regard him as a person to be kept at arms-length.
“Tell me more—tell me how he died?” said Ross, in a tremulous voice. “It will be a pain, I know; but this suspense and conjecture will have no end, without a thorough knowledge of all that relates to him. I must know.”
Ruth looked wistfully at her mother, and was about to utter some tender protest; but Mrs. Laurence lifted her hand, as if she understood the kind impulse, and was ready to take up her hard task.