Hotel life is about the same in every latitude. At Beach Cliff there
was the usual number of vapid, fashionable mothers; dressy, brainless
daughters; half-fledged wine-bibbing sons; impudent, whisker-dyed roués;
bachelors, anxious to give their bashfulness an airing; bronchial
clergymen, in search of health and a text; waning virgins, languishing
by candle-light; gouty uncles, dyspeptic aunts, whist-playing old
ladies, flirting nursery maids and neglected children.
Then there were "hops" in the hall, and sails upon the lake; there
were nine-pin alleys, and a gymnasium; there were bathing parties, and
horse-back parties; there were billiard rooms, and smoking rooms;
reading rooms, flirtation rooms,--room for everything but--thought.
There could be little or nothing in such an artificial atmosphere
congenial with a nature like Ruth's. In all this motley crowd there
was but one person who interested her, a Mrs. Leon, upon whose queenly
figure all eyes were bent as she passed; and who received the homage
paid her, with an indifference which (whether real or assumed) became
her passing well. Her husband was a tall, prim, proper-looking person,
who dyed his hair and whiskers every Saturday, was extremely punctilious
in all points of etiquette, very particular in his stated inquiries as
to his wife's and his horse's health, very fastidious in regard to the
brand of his wine, and the quality of his venison; maintaining, under
all circumstances, the same rigidity of feature, the same immobility
of the cold, stony, gray eye, the same studied, stereotyped,
conventionalism of manner.
Ruth, although shunning society, found herself drawn to Mrs. Leon by an
unaccountable magnetism. Little Katy, too, with that unerring instinct
with which childhood selects from the crowd an unselfish and loving
nature, had already made rapid advances toward acquaintance. What road
to a mother's heart so direct, as through the heart of her children?
With Katy for a "medium," the two ladies soon found themselves in
frequent conversation. Ruth had always shrunk from female friendship.
It might be that her boarding-school experience had something to
do in effecting this wholesale disgust of the commodity. Be that as
it may, she had never found any woman who had not misunderstood and
misinterpreted her. For the common female employments and recreations,
she had an unqualified disgust. Satin patchwork, the manufacture
of German worsted animals, bead-netting, crotchet-stitching, long
discussions with milliners, dress-makers, and modistes, long forenoons
spent in shopping, or leaving bits of paste-board, party-giving,
party-going, prinking and coquetting, all these were her aversion.
Equally with herself, Mrs. Leon seemed to despise these air bubbles.
Ruth was sure that, under that faultless, marble exterior, a glowing,
living, loving heart lay slumbering; waiting only the enchanter's touch
to wake it into life. The more she looked into those dark eyes, the
deeper seemed their depths. Ruth longed, she scarce knew why, to make
her life happy. Oh, if she _had_ a soul!
Ruth thought of _Mr._ Leon and shuddered.
Mrs. Leon was often subject to severe and prostrating attacks of nervous
headache. On these occasions, Ruth's magnetic touch seemed to woo coy
slumber, like a spell; and the fair sufferer would lie peacefully for
hours, while Ruth's fingers strayed over her temples, or her musical
voice, like David's harp, exorcised the demon Pain.
"You are better now," said Ruth, as Mrs. Leon slowly opened her eyes,
and looked about her; "you have had such a nice sleep, I think you will
be able to join us at the tea table to-night. I will brush these long
dishevelled locks, and robe these dainty limbs; though, to my eye, you
look lovelier just as you are. You are very beautiful, Mary. I heard a
couple of young ladies discussing you, in the drawing-room, the other
evening, envying your beauty and your jewels, and the magnificence of
your wardrobe."
"Did they envy me my _husband_?" asked Mary, in a slow, measured tone.
"That would have been useless," said Ruth, averting her eyes; "but they
said he denied you nothing in the way of dress, equipage, or ornament."
"Yes," said Mary; "I have all those pretty toys to satisfy my
heart-cravings; they, equally with myself, are necessary appendages to
Mr. Leon's establishment. Oh, Ruth!" and the tears streamed through her
jewelled fingers--"love me--pity me; you who are so blessed. I too
_could_ love; that is the drop of poison in my cup. When _your_
daughters stand at the altar, Ruth, never compel them to say words to
which the heart yields no response. The chain is none the less galling,
because its links are golden. God bless you, Ruth; 'tis long since I
have shed such tears. You have touched the rock; forget that the waters
have gushed forth."