It was August. The Levices had purposely postponed leaving town until
the gay, merry-making crowds had disappeared, when Mrs. Levice, in the
quiet autumn, could put a crown to her recovery.
Ruth had quite a busy time getting all three ready, as she was to
continue the management of the household affairs until their return, a
month later. Besides which, numerous little private incidentals had to
be put in running order for a month, and she realized with a pang at
parting with some of her simple, sincere proteges that were this part of
her life withdrawn, the rest would pall insufferably.
The evening before their departure she stood bareheaded upon the steps
of the veranda with Louis, who was enjoying a post-prandial smoke.
Mr. and Mrs. Levice, in the soft golden gloaming of late summer,
were strolling arm-in-arm among the flower-beds. Mrs. Levice, without
obviously looking toward them, felt with satisfaction that Ruth was
looking well in a plain black gown which she had had no time to change
after her late shopping. She did not know that, close and isolated
as the young man and woman stood, not only were they silent, but each
appeared oblivious of the other’s presence.
Ruth, with her hands clasped behind her, and Arnold, blowing wreaths
of blue smoke into the heliotrope-scented air, looked as if under a
dream-spell.
As Mrs. Levice passed within ear-shot, Ruth heard snatches of the broken
sentence,--
“Jennie--good-by--to-day.”
This roused her from her revery, and she called to her mother,--
“Why, I forgot to drop in at Jennie’s this afternoon, as I promised.”
“How annoying! When you know how sensitive she is and how angry she gets
at any neglect.”
“I can run out there now. It is light enough.”
“But it will be dark in less than an hour. Louis, will you go out to
Jennie’s with Ruth?”
“Eh? Oh, certainly, if she wishes me.”
“I wish you to come if you yourself wish it. I’ll run in and get my hat
and jacket while you decide.”
Ruth came back in a few minutes with a jaunty little sailor hat on and a
light gray jacket, which she handed to Louis to hold for her.
“New?” he asked, pulling it into place in the back.
“Yes,” she answered; “do you like it for travelling?”
“Under a duster. Otherwise its delicate complexion will be rather
freckled when you arrive at Beacham’s.”
He pulled his hat on from ease to respectability and followed her
down to the gate. They turned the corner, walking southward toward the
valley. Mrs. Levice and her husband stood at the gate and watched them
saunter off. When they were quite out of sight, Mrs. Levice turned
around and sang gayly to Mr. Levice, “‘Ca va bien!’”
The other two walked on silently. The evening was perfect. To the west
and sweeping toward Golden Gate a hazy glory flushed the sky rose-color
and molten gold, purple and silver; and then seas of glinting pale green
to the northward held the eye with their beauty. The air was soft and
languorous after a very warm day; now and then a piano, violin, or
mandolin sounded through open windows; the peace and beauty of rest was
over all.
They continued down Van Ness Avenue a few blocks, and unconsciously
turned into one of the dividing streets toward Franklin. Suddenly Arnold
felt his companion start, and saw she had taken her far-off gaze from
the landscape. Following the direction of her eyes, he also straightened
up. The disturbing object was a slight black column attached to a garden
fence and bearing in small gold letters the simple name, Dr. Herbert
Kemp.
As they approached nearer, Arnold knew of a certainty that there would
be more speaking signs of the doctor’s propinquity. His forecasting was
not at fault.
Dr. Kemp’s quaint, dark-red cottage, with its flower-edged lawn, was
reached by a flight of low granite steps, at the top of which lounged
the medical gentleman in person. He was not heaven-gazing, but seemed
plunged in tobacco-inspired meditation of the flowers beneath him.
Arnold’s quick eye detected the pink flush that rose to the little ear
of his cousin. The sound of their footsteps on the stone sidewalk
came faintly to Kemp; he raised his eyes slowly and indifferently. The
indifference vanished when he recognized them.
With a hasty movement he threw the cigar from him and ran down the
steps.
“Good-evening,” he called, raising his old slouch hat and arresting
their evident intention of proceeding on their way. They came up,
perforce, and met him at the foot of the steps.
“A beautiful evening,” he said originally, holding out a cordial hand to
Arnold and looking with happy eyes at Ruth. She noticed that there was a
marked difference in his appearance from anything she had been used
to. His figure looked particularly tall and easy in a loose dark velvet
jacket, thrown open from his broad chest; the large sombrero-like hat
which had settled on the back of his head left to view his dark hair
brushed carelessly backward; an unusual color was on his cheek, and a
warm glow in his gray eyes.
“I hope,” he went on, frankly transferring his attention to Ruth, “this
weather will continue. We shall have a magnificent autumn; the woods
must be beginning to look gorgeous.”
“I shall know better to-morrow.”
“To-morrow?”
“Yes; we leave for Beacham’s to-morrow, you know.”
“No, I did not know;” an indefinable shadow over-clouded his face, but
he said quickly,--
“That is an old hunting-ground of mine. The river teems with speckled
treasures. Are you a disciple of old Walton, Mr. Arnold?” he added,
turning with courtesy to the silent Frenchman.
“You mean fishing? No; life is too short to hang my humor of a whole day
on the end of a line. I have never been at Beacham’s.”
“It is a fine spot. You will probably go down there this year.”
“My business keeps me tied to the city just at present. A professional
man has no such bond; his will is his master.”
“Hardly, or I should have slipped cables long ago. A restful night is an
unknown indulgence sometimes for weeks.”
His gaze moved from Arnold’s peachy cheek, and falling upon Ruth,
surprised her dark eyes resting upon him in anxious questioning. He
smiled.
“We shall have to be moving on,” she said, holding out a gloved hand.
“Will you be gone long?” he asked, pressing it cordially.
“About a month.”
“You will be missed--by the Flynns. Good-by.” He raised his hat as he
looked at her.
Arnold drew her arm within his, and they walked off.
They say that the first thing a Frenchman learns in studying the English
language is the use of that highly expressive outlet of emotion, “Damn.”
Arnold was an old-timer, but he had not outgrown the charm of his first
linguistic victory; and now as he replaced his hat in reply to Kemp, he
distinctly though coolly said, “Damn him.”
Ruth looked at him, startled; but the composed, non-committal expression
of his face led her to believe that her ears had deceived her.
A few more blocks were passed, and they stopped at a pretentious,
many-windowed, Queen Anne house. Ruth ran lightly up the steps, her
cousin following her leisurely.
She had scarcely rung the bell when the door was opened by Mrs. Lewis
herself.
“Good-evening, Ruth; why, Mr. Arnold doesn’t mean to say that he does us
the honor?”
Mr. Arnold had said nothing of the kind; but he offered no disclaimer,
and giving her rather a loose hand-shake, walked in.
“Come right into the dining-room,” she continued. “I suppose you were
surprised to find me in the hall; I had just come from putting the
children to bed. They were in mischievous spirits and annoyed their
father, who wished to be very quiet this evening.”
By this time they had reached the room at the end of the hall, the door
of which she threw open.
Jewish people, as a rule, use their dining-rooms to sit in, keeping the
drawing-rooms for company only. This is always presupposing that they
have no extra sitting-room. After all, a dining-room is not a bad place
for the family gathering, having a large table as an objective plane for
a round game, which also serves as a support for reading matter; while
from an economical point of view it preserves the drawing-rooms in
reception stiffness and ceremonious newness.
The apartment they entered was large and square, and contained the
regulation chairs, table, and silver and crystal loaded sideboard.
Upon the mantel-piece, the unflickering light from a waxen taper burning
in a glass of oil lent an unusual air of Sabbath quiet to the room.
“I have ‘Yahrzeit’ for my mother,” explained Jo Lewis, glancing toward
the taper after greeting his visitors. He sat down quietly again.
“Do you always burn the light?” asked Arnold.
“Always. A light once a year to a mother’s memory is not much to ask of
a son.”
“How long is it since you lost your mother?” questioned Ruth, gently.
Jo Lewis was a man with whom she had little in common. To her he
seemed to have but one idea,--the amassing of wealth. With her more
intellectual cravings, the continual striving for this, to the exclusion
of all higher aspirations, put him on a plane too narrow for her
footing. Unpolished he certainly was, but the rough, exposed grain of
his unhewn nature showed many strata of strength and virility. In this
gentle mood a tenderness had come into view that drew her to him with a
touch of kinship.
“Thirty years,” he answered musingly,--“thirty years. It is a long time,
Ruth; but every year when I light the taper it seems as if but yesterday
I was a boy crying because my mother had gone away forever.” The strong
man wiped his eyes.
“The little light casts a long ray,” observed Ruth. “Love builds its
own lighthouse, and by its gleaming we travel back as at a leap to that
which seemed eternally lost.”
Jo Lewis sighed. Presently the thoughts that so strongly possessed him
found an outlet.
“There was a woman for you!” he cried with glowing eyes. “Why, Arnold,
you talk of men being great financiers; I wonder what you would have
said to the powers my mother showed. We were poor, but poor to a degree
of which you can know nothing. Well, with a large family of small
children she struggled on alone and managed to keep us not only alive,
but clean and respectable. In our village Sara Lewis was a name that
every man and woman honored as if it belonged to a princess. Jennie is
a good woman, but life is made easy for her. I often think how grand my
mother would feel if she were here, and I were able to give her every
comfort. God knows how proud and happy I would have been to say, ‘You
have struggled enough, Mother; life is going to be a heaven on earth to
you now.’ Well, well, what is the good of thinking of it? To-morrow
I shall go down town and deal with men, not memories; it is more
profitable.”
“Not always,” said Arnold, dryly. The two men drifted into a business
discussion that neither Mrs. Lewis nor Ruth cared to follow.
“Are you quite ready?” asked Mrs. Lewis, drawing her chair closer to
Ruth’s.
“Entirely,” she replied; “we start on the 8.30 train in the morning.”
“You will be gone a month, will you not?”
“Yes; we wish to get back for the holidays. New Year’s falls on the 12th
of September, and we must give the house its usual holiday cleaning.”
“I have begun already. Somehow I never thought you would mind being
away.”
“Why, we always go to the Temple, you know; and I would not miss the
Atonement services for a great deal.”
“Why don’t you say ‘Yom Kippur,’ as everybody else does?”
“Because ‘Atonement’ is English and means something to me. Is there
anything odd about that?”
“I suppose not. By the way, if there is anything you would like to have
done while you are away, let me know.”
“I think I have seen to everything. You might run in and see Louis now
and then.”
“Louis,” Mrs. Lewis called instantly, “be sure to come in often for
dinner while the folks are gone.”
“Thank you; I shall. The last dinner I ate with you was delicious enough
to do away with any verbal invitation to another.”
He arose, seeing Ruth had risen and was kissing her cousins good-by.
Mrs. Lewis beamed with pleasure at his words.
“Now, won’t you take something before you go?” she asked. “Ruth, I have
the loveliest cakes.”
“Oh, Jennie,” remonstrated Ruth, as her cousin bustled off, “we have
just dined.”
“Let her enjoy herself,” observed Louis; “she is never so happy as when
she is feeding somebody.”
The clink of glasses was soon heard, and Mrs. Lewis’s rosy face appeared
behind a tray with tiny glasses and a plate of rich, brown-looking
little cakes.
“Jo, get the Kirsch. You must try one, Ruth; I made them myself.”
When they had complimented her on her cakes and Louis had drunk to his
next undertaking, suggested by Jo Lewis, the visitors departed.
They had been walking in almost total silence for a number of blocks,
when Ruth turned suddenly to him and said with great earnestness,--
“Louis, what is the matter with you? For the last few days you have
hardly spoken to me. Have I done anything to annoy you?”
“You? Why, no, not that I remember.”
“Then, please, before we go off, be friendly with me again.”
“I am afraid I am not of a very hilarious temperament.”
“Still, you manage to talk to others.”
“Have you cared very much who talked to you lately?”
Her cheek changed color in the starlight.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“Anything or nothing.”
Ruth looked at him haughtily.
“If nothing,” he continued, observing her askance from lowered lids,
“what I am about to say will be harmless. If anything, I still hope you
will find it pardonable.”
“What are you about to say?”
“It won’t take long. Will you be my wife?”
And the stars still shone up in heaven!
Her face turned white as a Niphetos rose.
“Louis,” she said finally and speaking with difficulty, “why do you ask
me this?”
“Why does any man ask a woman to be his wife?”
“Generally because he loves her.”
“Well?”
If he had spoken outright, she might have answered him; but the simple
monosyllable, implying a world of restrained avowal, confronted her like
a wall, before which she stood silent.
“Answer me, Ruth.”
“If you mean it, Louis, I am very, very sorry.”
“Why?”
“Because I can never be your wife.”
“Why not?”
“I do not love you--like that.”
Silence for half a block, the man’s lips pressed hard together under
his mustache, the girl’s heart beating suffocatingly. When he spoke, his
voice sounded oddly clear in the hushed night air.
“What do you mean by ‘like that’?”
Her little hand was clinched tight as it lay on his arm. The perfect
silence that followed the words of each made every movement significant.
“You know,--as a woman loves the man she would marry, not as she loves a
brotherly cousin.”
“The difference is not clear to me--but--how did you learn the
difference?”
“How dare you?” she cried, flashing a pair of dark, wet eyes upon him.
“In such a case, ‘I dare do all that may become a man.’ Besides, even
if there is a difference, I still ask you to be my wife. You would not
regret it, Ruth, I think.”
His voice was not soft, but there was a certain strained pleading about
it that pained her inexpressibly.
“Louis,” she said, with slow distinctness, her hand moving down until
it touched his, “I never thought of this as a possibility. You know how
much I have always loved you, dear; but oh, Louis, will it hurt you very
much, will you forgive me if I have to say no, I cannot be your wife?”
“Wait. I wish you to consider this well. I am offering you all that I
have in the world; it is not despicable. Your family, I know, would be
pleased. Besides, it would be well for you--God knows, not because I am
what I am, but for other reasons. Wait. I beg of you not to answer me
till you have thought it over. You know me; I am no saint, but a man who
would give his life for you. I ask of you nothing but the right to guard
yours. Do not answer me now.”
They had turned the corner of their block.
“I need no time,” said Ruth, with a sad sob in her voice; “I cannot
marry you, Louis. My answer would be the same to-morrow or at the end of
all time,--I can never, never be your wife.”
“It is then as I feared,--anything.”
The girl’s bowed head was the only answer to his bitter words.
“Well,” he said, with a hard laugh, “that ends it, then. Don’t let it
bother you. Your answer has put it entirely from my mind. I should be
pleased if you would forget it as readily as I shall. I hardly think
we shall meet in the morning. I am going down to the club now. Good-by;
enjoy yourself.”
He held out his hand carelessly; Ruth carried it in both hers to her
lips. Being at the gate, he lifted his hat with a smile and walked away.
Ruth did not smile; neither did Arnold when he had turned from her.