There are few communities, comparatively speaking, with more
enthusiastic theatre-lovers than are to be found in San Francisco. The
play was one of the few worldly pleasures that Mr. Levice thoroughly
enjoyed. When a great star was heralded, he was in a feverish delight
until it had come and gone. When Bernhardt appeared, the quiet little
man fully earned the often indiscriminately applied title of “crazy
Frenchman.” A Frenchman is never so much one as when confronted in
a foreign land with a great French creation; every fibre in his
body answers each charm with an appreciation worked to fever-heat by
patriotic love; at such times the play of his emotions precludes any
idea of reason to an onlooker. Bernhardt was one of Levice’s passions.
Booth was another, though he took him more composedly. The first time
the latter appeared at the Baldwin (his opening play was “Hamlet”) the
Levices--that is, Ruth and her father--went three times in succession to
witness his matchless performance, and every succeeding characterization
but strengthened their enthusiasm.
Booth was coming again. The announcement had been rapturously hailed by
the Levices.
“It will be impossible for us to go together, Father,” Ruth remarked at
the breakfast-table. “Louis will have to take me on alternate nights,
while you stay at home with Mamma; did you hear, Louis?”
“You will hardly need to do that,” answered Arnold, lowering his cup;
“if you and your father prefer going together, I shall enjoy staying
with your mother on those nights.”
“Thanks for the offer--and your evident delight in my company,” laughed
Ruth; “but there is one play at which you must submit to the infliction
of my presence. Don’t you remember we always wished to see the ‘Merchant
of Venice’ and judge for ourselves his interpretation of the character?
Well, I am determined that we shall see it together.”
“When does he play it?”
“A week from Saturday night.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, but I shall be out of town at the end of next
week.”
“Oh, dear? Honestly? Can’t you put it off? I want so much to go.”
“Impossible. Go with your father.”
“You know very well neither of us would go off and leave Mamma alone at
night. It is horrid of you to go. I am sure you could manage differently
if--”
“Why, my child!”
She was actually pouting; and her father’s quiet tone of surprised
reprimand just headed off two great tears that threatened to fall.
“I know,” she said, trying to smile, and showing an April face instead;
“but I had just set my heart on going, and with Louis too.”
“That comes of being a spoilt only child,” put in Arnold, suavely.
“You ought to know by this time that of the many plans we make with
ourselves, nine out of ten come to nought. Before you set your heart on
a thing, be sure you will not have to give it up.”
Ruth, still sore with disappointment, acknowledged this philosophic
remark with a curled lip.
“There, save your tears for something more worthy,” cut in Levice,
briskly; “if you care so much about it, we or chance must arrange it as
you wish.”
But chance in this instance was not propitious. Wednesday came, and
Arnold saw no way of accommodating her. He left town after taking her to
see the “Fool’s Revenge” as a sort of substitution.
“You seemed to be enjoying the poor Fool’s troubles last night,”
observed Dr. Kemp, in the morning; they were still standing in Mrs.
Levice’s room.
“I? Not enjoying his troubles; I enjoyed Booth, though,--if you can call
it enjoyment when your heart is ready to break for him. Were you there?
I did not see you.”
“No, I don’t suppose you did, or you would have been in the pitiable
condition of the princess who had her head turned. I sat directly back
of your box, in the dress-circle. Then you like Booth?”
“Take care! That is a dangerous subject with my family,” broke in Mrs.
Levice. “Ruth has actually exhausted every adjective in her admiration
vocabulary. The last extravaganza I heard from her on that theme was
after she had seen him as Brutus; she wished herself Lucius, that in the
tent scene she might kiss Booth’s hand.”
“It sounds gushing enough for a school-girl now,” laughed Ruth merrily,
looking up at the doctor; “but at the time I meant it.”
“Have you seen him in all his impersonations?” he asked.
“In everything but ‘Shylock.’”
“You will have a chance for that on Saturday night. It will be a great
farewell performance.”
“Undoubtedly, but I shall have to forego that last glimpse of him.”
“Now, Doctor,” cried Mrs. Levice, “will you please impress it on her
that I am not a lunatic and can be left alone without fear? She wishes
to go Saturday night, but refuses to go with her father on the ground
that I shall be left alone, as Mr. Arnold is out of town. Is not that
being unnecessarily solicitous?”
“Without doubt. But,” he added, turning deferentially to Ruth, “in lieu
of a better escort, how would I do, Miss Levice?”
“I do not understand.”
“Will you come with me Saturday night to see ‘Shylock’?”
To be candid, Ruth was embarrassed. The doctor had said neither “will
you honor me” nor “will you please me,” but he had both pleased and
honored her. She turned a pair of radiant eyes to her mother. “Come
now, Mrs. Levice,” laughed Kemp, noting the action, “will you allow your
little girl to go with me? Do not detain me with a refusal; it will be
impossible to accept one now, and I shall not be around till then, you
know. Good-morning.”
Unwittingly, the doctor had caused an excitement in the hearts both
of mother and daughter. The latter was naturally surprised at his
unexpected invitation, but surprise was soon obliterated by another
and quite different feeling, which she kept rigorously to herself.
Mrs. Levice was in a dilemma about it, and consulted her husband in the
evening.
“By all means, let her go,” replied he; “why should you have had any
misgivings about it? I am sure I am glad she is going.”
“But, Jules, you forget that none of our Jewish friends allow their
girls to go out with strangers.”
“Is that part of our religion?”
“No; but custom is in itself a religion. People do talk so at every
little innovation against convention.”
“What will they say? Nothing detrimental either to Ruth or the doctor.
Pshaw, Esther! You ought to feel proud that Dr. Kemp has asked the
child. If she wishes to go, don’t set an impossible bogy in the way of
her enjoyment. Besides, you do not care to appear so silly as you would
if you said to the doctor, ‘I can’t let her go on account of people’s
tongues,’ and that is the only honest excuse you can offer.” So in his
manly, practical way he decided it.
On Saturday night Ruth stood in the drawing-room buttoning her pale
suede glove. Kemp had not yet come in. She looked unusually well in her
dull sage-green gown. A tiny toque of the same color rested on her soft
dark hair. The creamy pallor of her face, the firm white throat revealed
by the broad rolling collar, her grave lips and dreamy eyes, hardly told
that she was feeling a little shy. Presently the bell rang, and Kemp
came in, his open topcoat revealing his evening dress beneath. He came
forward hastily.
“I am a little late,” he said, taking her hand, “but it was unavoidable.
Ten minutes to eight,” looking at his watch; “the horses must make good
time.”
“It is slightly chilly to-night, is it not?” asked Ruth, for want of
something better to say as she turned for her wrap.
“I did not feel it,” he replied, intercepting her. “But this furry thing
will keep the cold off, if there is any,” he continued, as he held it
for her, and quite unprofessionally bent his head to hook it at her
throat. A strange sensation shot through Ruth as his face approached so
close her own.
“How are your mother and father?” He asked, holding the door open, while
she turned for her fan, thus concealing a slight embarrassment.
“They are as usual,” she answered. “Father expects to see you after the
play. You will come in for a little supper, will you not?”
“That sounds alluring,” he responded lightly, his quick eye remarking,
as she came toward him, the dainty femininity of her loveliness, that
seemed to have caught a grace beyond the reach of art.
It thus happened that they took their places just as the curtain rose.