Beacham’s lies in a dimple of the inner coast range, and is reached
nowadays through one of the finest pieces of engineering skill in the
State. The tortuous route through the mountains, over trestle-bridges
that span what seem, from the car-windows, like bottomless chasms,
needs must hold some compensation at the end to counterbalance the fears
engendered on the way. The higher one goes the more beautiful becomes
the scenery among the wild, marvellous redwoods that stand like mammoth
guides pointing heavenward; and Beacham’s realizes expectation.
It is a quiet little place, with its one hotel and two attached
cottages, its old, disused saw-mill, its tiny schoolhouse beyond the
fairy-like woods, its one general merchandise store, where cheese
and calico, hats and hoes, ham and hominy, are forthcoming upon
solicitation. It is by no means a fashionable resort; the Levices had
searched for something as unlike the Del Monte and Coronado as milk is
unlike champagne. They were looking for a pretty, healthful spot, with
good accommodations and few social attractions, and Beacham’s offered
this.
They were not disappointed. Ruth’s anticipation was fulfilled when she
saw the river. Russian River is about as pretty a stream as one can view
upon a summer’s day. Here at Beacham’s it is very narrow and shallow,
with low, shelving beaches on either bank; but in the tiny row-boat
which she immediately secured, Ruth pushed her way into enchantment. The
river winds in and out through exquisite coves entangled in a wilderness
of brambles and lace-like ferns that are almost transparent as they
bend and dip toward the silvery waters; while, climbing over the rocky
cliffs, run bracken and the fragrant yerba-buena, till, on high, they
creep as if in awe about the great redwoods and pines of the forest.
Morning and night Ruth, in her little boat, wooed the lisping waters.
Often of a morning her mother was her companion; later on, her father or
little Ethel Tyrrell; in the evening one of the Tyrrell boys, generally
Will, was her gallant chevalier. But it was always Ruth who rowed,--Ruth
in her pretty sailor blouses, with her strong round arms and steadily
browning hands; Ruth, whose creamy face and neck remained provokingly
unreddened, and took on only a little deeper tint, as if a dash
of bistre had been softly applied. It was pleasant enough rowing
down-stream with Ruth; she always knew when to sing “Nancy Lee,” and
when “White Wings” sounded prettiest. There were numerous coves
too, where she loved to beach her boat,--here to fill a flask with
honey-sweet water from a rollicking little spring that came merrily
dashing over the rocks, here to gather some delicate ferns or
maiden-hair with which to decorate the table, or the trailing
yerba-buena for festooning the boat. But Ethel Tyrrell, aged three,
thought they had the “dolliest” time when she and Ruth, having rowed a
space out of sight, jumped out, and taking off their shoes and stockings
and making other necessary preliminaries to wading, pattered along
over the pebbly bottom, screaming when a sharp stone came against their
tender feet, and laughing gleefully when the water rose a little higher
than they had bargained for; then, when quite tired, they would retire
to the beach or the boat and dry themselves with the soft damask of the
sun.
Ruth was happy. There were moments when the remembrance of her
last meeting with Louis came like a summer cloud over the ineffable
brightness of her sky, and she felt a sharp pang at her heart; still,
she thought, it was different with Louis. His feeling for her could not
be so strong as to make him suffer poignantly over her refusal. She
was almost convinced that he had asked her more from a whim of
good-fellowship, a sudden desire, perhaps a preference for her close
companionship when he did marry, than from any deeper emotion. In
consequence of these reflections her musings were not so sad as they
might otherwise have been.
Her parents laughed to see how she revelled in the freedom of the
old-fashioned little spot, which, though on the river, was decidedly
“out of the swim.” It was late in the season, and there were few guests
at the hotel. The Levices occupied one of the cottages, the other being
used by a pair of belated turtle-doves,--the wife a blushing dot of a
woman, the husband an overgrown youth who bent over her in their walks
like a devoted weeping-willow; there was a young man with a consumptive
cough, a natty little stenographer off on a solitary vacation, and the
golden-haired Tyrrell family, little and big, for Papa Tyrrell could
not enjoy his hard-earned rest without one and all. They were such a
refined, happy, sweet family, for all their pinched circumstances, that
the Levices were attracted to them at once. To be with Mrs. Tyrrell
one whole day, Mrs. Levice said was a liberal education,--so bright, so
uncomplaining, so ambitious for her children was she, and such a help
and inspiration to her hard-worked husband. Mr. Levice tramped about
the woods with Tyrrell and brier-wood pipes, and appreciated the moral
bravery of a man who struggled on with a happy face and small hope for
any earthly rest. But the children!--Floy with her dreamy face and busy
sketch-book, Will with his halo of golden hair, his manly figure and
broad, open ambitions, Boss with his busy step and fishing-tackle, and
baby Ethel, the wee darling, who ran after Ruth the first time she saw
her and begged her to come and play with her; ever since, she formed
a part of the drapery of Ruth’s skirt or a rather cumbersome necklace
about her neck. Every girl who has been debarred the blessing of babies
in the house loves them promiscuously and passionately. Ruth was no
exception; it amused the ladies to watch her cuddle the child and wonder
aloud at all her baby-talk.
Will was her next favorite satellite. A young girl with a winsome,
sympathetic face, and hearty manner, can easily become the confidante of
a fine fellow of fourteen. Will, with his arm tucked through hers, would
saunter around after dusk and tell her all his ambitions.
The soft, starry evenings up in the mountains, where heaven seems so
near, are just the time for such talk.
They were walking thus one evening toward the river, Ruth in a creamy
gown and with a white burnous thrown over her head, Will holding his hat
in his hand and letting the sweet air play through his hair, as he loved
to do.
“What do you think are the greatest professions, Miss Ruth?” asked the
boy suddenly.
“Well, law is one--” she began.
“That’s the way Papa begins,” he interrupted impatiently; “but I’ll tell
you what I think is the greatest. Guess, now.”
“The ministry?” she ventured.
“Oh, of course; but I’m not good enough for that,--that takes
exceptions. Guess again.”
“Well, there are the fine arts, or soldiery,--that is it. You would be a
brave soldier, Willikins, my man.”
“No, sir,” he replied, flinging back his head; “I don’t want to take
lives; I want to save them.”
“You mean a physician, Will?”
“That’s it--but not exactly--I mean a surgeon. Don’t you think that
takes bravery? And it’s a long sight better than being a soldier; he
draws blood to kill, we do it to save. What do you think, Miss Ruth?”
“Indeed, you are right,” she answered dreamily, her thoughts wandering
beyond the river. So they walked along; and as they were about to
descent the slope, a man in overalls and carrying a leather bag came
suddenly upon them in the gloaming. He stood stock-still, his mouth
gaping wide.
When Ruth saw it was Ben, the steward, she laughed.
“Why, Ben!” she exclaimed.
The man’s mouth slowly closed, and his hand went up to his cap.
“Begging your pardon, Miss,--I mean Her pardon,--the Lord forgive me, I
took you for the Lady Madonna and the blessed Boy with the shining hair.
Now, don’t be telling of me, will you?”
“Indeed, we won’t; we’ll keep the pretty compliment to ourselves. Have
you the mail? I wonder if there is a letter for me.”
Ben immediately drew out his little pack, and handed her two. It was
still light enough to read; and as Ben moved on, she stood and opened
them.
“This,” she announced in a matter-of-course way, “is from Miss Dorothy
Gwynne, who requests the pleasure of my company at a high-tea next
Saturday. That, or the hay-ride, Will? And this--this--”
It was a simple envelope addressed to
Miss RUTH LEVICE--
Beacham’s--
... County--
Cal.
It was the sight of the dashes that caused the hiatus in her sentence,
and made her heart give one great rushing bound. The enclosure was to
the point.
SAN FRANCISCO, Aug. 18, 188--.
MISS RUTH LEVICE:
MY DEAR FRIEND,--That you may not denounce me as too presumptuous, I
shall at once explain that I am writing this at Bob’s urgent desire. He
has at length got the position at the florist’s, and tells me to tell
you that he is now happy. I dropped in there last night; and when he
gave me this message, I told him that I feared you would take it as an
advertisement. He merely smiled, picked up a Marechal Niel that lay on
the counter, and said, “Drop this in. It’s my mark; she’ll understand.”
So here are Bob’s rose and my apology.
HERBERT KEMP.
She was pale when she turned round to the courteously waiting boy. It
was a very cold note, and she put it in her pocket to keep it warm. The
rose she showed to Will, and told him the story of the sender.
“Didn’t I tell you,” he cried, when she had finished, “a doctor has the
greatest opportunity in the world to be great--and a surgeon comes near
it? I say, Miss Ruth, your Dr. Kemp must be a brick. Isn’t he?”
“Boys would call him so,” she answered, shivering slightly.
It was so like him, she thought, to fulfil Bob’s request in his hearty,
friendly way; she supposed he wanted her to understand that he wrote to
her only as Bob’s amanuensis,--it was plain enough. And yet, and
yet, she thought passionately, it would have been no more than common
etiquette to send a friendly word from himself to her mother. Still the
note was not thrown away. Girls are so irrational; if they cannot have
the hand-shake, they will content themselves with a sight of the glove.
And Ruth in the warm, throbbing, summer days was happy. She was not
always active; there were long afternoons when mere existence was
intensely beautiful. To lie at full length upon the soft turf in the
depths of the small enchanted woods, and hear and feel the countless
spells of Nature, was unspeakable rapture.
“Ah, Floy,” she cried one afternoon, as she lay with her face turned up
to the great green boughs that seemed pencilled against the azure sky,
“if one could paint what one feels! Look at these silent, living trees
that stand in all their grandeur under some mighty spell; see how the
wonderful heaven steals through the leaves and throws its blue softness
upon the twilight gloom; here at our feet nestle the soft, green ferns,
and over all is the indescribable fragrance of the redwoods. Turn there,
to your right, little artist, high up on that mountain; can you see
through the shimmering haze a great team moving as if through the air?
It is like the vision of the Bethshemites in Dore’s mystic work, when in
the valley they lifted up their eyes and beheld the ark returning. Oh,
Floy, it is not Nature; it is God. And who can paint God?”
“No one. If one could paint Him, He would no longer be great,” answered
the girl, resting her sober eyes upon Ruth’s enraptured countenance.
One afternoon Ruth took a book and Ethel over the tramway to this fairy
spot. It was very warm and still. Mrs. Levice had swung herself to sleep
in the hammock, and Mr. Levice was dozing and talking in snatches to the
Tyrrells, who were likewise resting on the Levices’ veranda. All Nature
was drowsy, as Ruth wandered off with the little one, who chattered on
as was her wont.
“Me and you’s yunnin’ away,” she chatted; “we’s goin’ to a fowest, and
by and by two ‘ittle birdies will cover us up wid leaves. My! Won’t my
mamma be sorry? No darlin’ ‘ittle Ethel to pank and tiss no more. Poor
Mamma!”
“Does Ethel think Mamma likes to spank her?”
“Yes; Mamma does des what she likes.”
“But it is only when Ethel is naughty that Mamma spanks her. Here,
sweetheart, let me tie your sunbonnet tighter. Now Ruth is going to lie
here and read, and you can play hide-and-seek all about these trees.”
“Can I go wound and sit on dat log by a bwook?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, I’s afwaid. I’s dweffully afwaid.”
“Why, you can turn round and talk to me all the time.”
“But nobody’ll be sitting by me at all.”
“I am here just where you can see me; besides, God will be right next to
you.”
“Will He? Ven all yight.”
Ruth took off her hat and prepared to enjoy herself. As her head touched
the green earth, she saw the little maiden seat herself on the log, and
turning her face sideways, say in her pleasant, piping voice,--
“How-de-do, Dod?” And having made her acknowledgments, all her fears
vanished.
Ruth laughed softly to herself, and straightway began to read. The
afternoon burned itself away. Ethel played and sang and danced about
her, quite oblivious of the heat, till, tired out, she threw herself
into Ruth’s arms.
“Sing by-low now,” she demanded sleepily; “pay it’s night, and you and
me’s in a yockin’-chair goin’ to by-low land.”
Ruth realized that the child was weary, and drawing her little head to
her bosom, threw off the huge sunbonnet and ruffled up the damp, golden
locks.
“What shall I sing, darling?” she mused: she was unused to singing
babies to sleep. Suddenly a little kindergarten melody she had heard
came to her, and she sang softly in her rich, tender contralto the
swinging cradle-song:--
“In a cradle, on the treetop,
Sleeps a tiny bird;
Sweeter sound than mother’s chirping
Never yet was heard.
See, the green leaves spread like curtains
Round the tiny bed,
While the mother’s wings, outstretching,
Shield--the--tiny--head?”
As her voice died slowly into silence, she found Ethel looking over her
shoulder and nodding her head.
“No; I won’t tell,” she said loudly.
“Tell what?” asked Ruth, amused.
“Hush! He put his finger on his mouf--sh!”
“Who?” asked Ruth, turning her head hurriedly. Not being able to see
through the tree, she started to her feet, still holding the child.
Between two trees stood the stalwart figure of Dr. Kemp,--Dr. Kemp in
loose, light gray tweeds and white flannel shirt; on the back of his
head was a small, soft felt hat, which he lifted as she turned,--a wave
of color springing to his cheek with the action. As for Ruth,--a woman’s
face dare not speak sometimes.
“Did I startle you?” he asked, coming slowly forward, hat in hand, the
golden shafts of the sun falling upon his head and figure.
“Yes,” she answered, trying to speak calmly, and failing, dropped into
silence.
She made no movement toward him, but let the child glide softly down
till she stood at her side.
“I interrupted you,” he continued; “will you shake hands with me,
nevertheless?”
She put her hand in his proffered one, which lingered in the touch; and
then, without looking at her, he stooped and spoke to the child. In that
moment she had time to compose herself.
“Do you often come up this way?” she questioned.
He turned from the child, straightened himself, and leaning one arm
against the tree, answered,--
“Once or twice every summer I run away from humanity for a few days,
and generally find myself in this part of the country. This is one of my
select spots. I knew you would ferret it out.”
“It is very lovely here. But we are going home now; the afternoon is
growing old. Come, Ethel.”
A shadow fell upon his dark eyes as she spoke, scarcely looking at him.
Why should she hurry off at his coming?
“I am sorry my presence disturbs you,” he said quietly; “But I can
easily go away again.”
“Was I so rude?” she asked, looking up with a sudden smile. “I did not
mean it so; but Ethel’s mother will want her now.”
“Ethel wants to be carried,” begged the child.
“All right; Ruth will carry you,” and she stooped to raise her; but as
she did so, Kemp’s strong hand was laid upon her arm and held her back.
“Ethel will ride home on my shoulder,” he said in the gay, winning voice
he knew how so well to use with children. The baby’s blue eyes smiled in
response to his as he swing her lightly to his broad shoulder. There
is nothing prettier to a woman than to see the confidence that a little
child reposes in a strong man.
So through the mellow, golden sunlight they strolled slowly homeward.