Mrs. Levice’s gaze strayed pensively from the violets she was
embroidering to Ruth’s pale face. Every time the latter stirred, her
mother started expectantly; but the anxiously awaited disclosure was not
forthcoming. Outside the rain kept up a sullen downpour, deepening the
feeling of comfort indoors; but Mrs. Levice was not what one might call
comfortably-minded. Her frequent inventories of Ruth’s face had at last
led her to believe that the pallor there depicted and the heavy, dark
shadows about her eyes meant something decidedly not gladsome.
“Don’t you feel well, Ruth?” she asked finally with some anxiety.
Ruth raised her heavy eyes.
“I? Oh, I feel perfectly well. Why do you ask? Do I look ill?”
“Yes, you do; your face is pale, and your eyes look tired. Did you sit
up late last night?”
This was a leading move, but Ruth evaded the deeper meaning that was so
evident to her now.
“No,” she replied; “I believe it could not have been nine when I went
upstairs.”
“Why? Were you too fatigued to sit up, or was Louis’s company
unpleasant?”
“Oh, no,” was the abrupt response, and her eyes fell on the open page
again.
Mrs. Levice, once started on the trail, was not to be baffled by such
tactics. Since Ruth was not ill, she had had some mental disturbance of
which her weary appearance was the consequence. She felt almost
positive that Louis had made some advances last night, from the flash
of intelligence with which he had met her telegraphic expression. It
was natural for her to be curious; it was unnatural for Ruth to be so
reserved. With feelings not a little hurt she decided to know something
more.
“For my part,” she observed, as if continuing a discussion, “I
think Louis charming in a tete-a-tete,--when he feels inclined to
be interesting he generally succeeds. Did he tell you anything worth
repeating? It is a dull afternoon, and you might entertain me a little.”
She looked up from the violet petal she had just completed and
encountered Ruth’s full, questioning gaze.
“What is it you would like to know, Mamma?” she asked in a gentle voice.
“Nothing that you do not wish to tell,” her mother answered proudly, but
regarding her intently.
Ruth passed her hand wearily across her brow, and considered a moment
before answering.
“I did not wish to hurt you by my silence, Mamma; but before I had
decided I hardly thought it necessary to say anything. He asked me
to--marry him.”
The avowal was not made with the conventional confusion and trembling.
Mrs. Levice was startled by the dead calm of her manner.
“You say that as if it were a daily occurrence for a man like Louis
Arnold to offer you his hand and name.”
“I hope not.”
“But you do. I confess I think you are not one tenth as excited as I am.
Why didn’t you tell me before? Any other girl would have sat up to tell
her mother in the night. Oh, Ruth darling, I am so glad. I have been
looking forward to this ever since you grew up. What did you mean by
saying you wished to wait till you had decided? Decided what?”
“Upon my answer.”
“As if you could question it, you fortunate girl! Or were you waiting
for me to help you to it? I scarcely need tell you how you have been
honored.”
“Honor is not everything, Mamma.”
At that moment a desperate longing for her mother’s sympathy seized
her; but the next minute the knowledge of the needless sorrow it would
occasion came to her, and her lips remained closed.
“No,” responded her mother, “and you have more than that; surely Louis
did not neglect to tell you.”
“You mean his love, I suppose,--yes, I have that.”
“Then what else would you have? You probably know that he can give you
every luxury within reason,--so much for honest practicality. As to
Louis himself, the most fastidious could find nothing to cavil at,--he
will make you a perfect husband. You are familiar enough with him to
know his faults; but no man is faultless. I hope you are not so silly
as to expect some girlish ideal,--for all the ideals died in the Golden
Age, you know.”
“As mine did. No; I have outgrown imagination in that line.”
“Then why do you hesitate?” Her mother’s eyes were shining; her face
was alive with the excitement of hope fulfilled. “Is there anything else
wanting?”
“No,” she responded dully; “but let us not talk about it any more,
please. I must see Louis again, you know.”
“If your father were here, he could help you better, dear;” there was no
reproach in Mrs. Levice’s gentle acceptance of the fact; “he will be so
happy over it. There, kiss me, girlie; I know you like to think things
out in silence, and I shall not say another word about it till you give
me leave.”
She kept her word. The dreary afternoon dragged on. By four o-clock it
was growing dark, and Mrs. Levice became restless.
“I am going to my room to write to your father now,--he shall have a
good scolding for the non-receipt of a letter to-day;” and forthwith she
betook herself upstairs.
Ruth closed her book and moved restlessly about the room. She wandered
over to the front window, and drawing aside the silken curtain, looked
out into the storm-tossed garden. The pale heliotropes lay wet and sweet
against the trellises; some loosened rose-petals fluttered noiselessly
to the ground; only the gorgeous chrysanthemums looked proudly
indifferent to the elements; and the beautiful, stately palm-tree just
at the side of the window spread its gracious arms like a protecting
temple. She felt suddenly oppressed and feverish, and threw open the
long French window. The rain had ceased for the time, and she stepped
out upon the veranda. The fragrance of the rain-soaked flowers stole to
her senses; the soft, sweet breeze caressed her temples; she stood still
in the perfumed freshness and enjoyed its peace. By and by she began to
walk up and down. Evening was approaching, and Louis would soon be home.
She had decided to meet him on his return and have it over with. She
must school herself to some show of graciousness. The thing must not be
done by halves or it must not be done at all. Her father’s happiness;
over and over she repeated it. She went so far as to picture herself in
his arms; she heard the old-time words of blessing; she saw his smiling
eyes; and a gentleness stole over her whole face, a gentle nobility that
made it strangely sweet. The soft patter of rain on the gravel roused
her, and she went in; but she felt better, and wished Louis might come
in while the mood was upon her.
It was nearing six when Mrs. Levice came back humming a song.
“I thought you would still be here. Make a light, will you, Ruth; it is
as pitchy as Hades, only that smouldering log looks purgatorial.”
Ruth lit the gas; and as she stood with upturned eyes adjusting the
burner, her mother noticed that the heaviness had departed from her
face. She sank into a rocker and took up the evening paper.
“What time is it, Ruth?”
“Twenty minutes to six,” she answered, glancing at the clock.
“As late as that?” She meant to say, “And Louis not home yet?” but
forbore to mention his name.
“It is raining heavily now,” said Ruth, throwing a log upon the fire.
Mrs. Levice unfolded the crackling newspaper, and Ruth moved over to the
window to draw down the blinds. As she stood looking out with her hand
on the chair, she saw the gate swing slowly open, and a messenger-boy
came dawdling up the walk as if the sun were streaming full upon him.
Ruth stepped noiselessly out, meaning to anticipate his ring. A vague
foreboding drove the blood from her lips as she stood waiting at
the open hall-door. Seeing the streaming light, the boy managed to
accelerate his snail’s pace.
“Miss Ruth Levice live here?” he asked, stopping in the doorway.
“Yes.” She took the packet he handed her. “Any charges or answers?” she
asked.
“Nom,” answered the boy; and noticing her pallor and apprehension, “I’ll
shet the door for you,” he added, laying his hand on the knob.
“Thank you. Here, take two cars if necessary; it is too wet to walk.”
She handed him a quarter, and the boy went off, gayly whistling.
She closed the heavy door softly and sat down on a chair. She recognized
Louis’s handwriting on the wrapper, and her heart fluttered ominously.
She tore off the damp covering, and the first thing she encountered was
another wrapper on which was written in large characters:--
DEAR RUTH,--Do not be alarmed; everything is all right. I had to leave
town on the overland at 6 P.M. Read the letter first, then the telegram;
they will explain.
LOUIS
The kindly feeling that had prompted this warning was appreciated; one
fear was stilled. She drew out the letter; she saw in perplexity that it
was from her father. She hurriedly opened it and read:
NEW YORK, Jan. 21, 188--.
DEAR LOUIS,--I am writing this from my bed, where I have been confined
for the last week with pneumonia, although I managed to write a daily
postal. Have been quite ill, but am on the mend and only anxious to
start home again. I really cannot rest here, and have made arrangements
to leave to-morrow. Have taken every precaution against catching cold,
and apart from feeling a trifle weak and annoyed by a cough, am all
right. Shall come home directly. Say nothing of this to Esther or Ruth;
shall apprise them by telegram of my home-coming. Had almost completed
the business, and can leave the rest to Hamilton.
My love to you all.
Your loving Uncle,
JULES LEVICE.
Under this Louis had pencilled,
Received this this morning at 10.30.
Ruth closed her eyes as she unfolded the telegram; then with every nerve
quivering she read the yellow missive:--
RENO, Jan. 27, 188--.
LOUIS ARNOLD, San Francisco, Cal.:
Have been delayed by my cough. Feeling too weak to travel alone. Come if
you can.
JULES LEVICE.
Her limbs shook as she sat; her teeth chattered; for one minute she
turned sick and faint. Under the telegram Arnold had written:--
Am sure it is nothing. He has never been ill, and is more frightened
than a more experienced person would be. There is no need to alarm your
mother unnecessarily, so say nothing till you hear from me. Shall wire
you as soon as I arrive, which will be to-morrow night.
LOUIS.
How could she refrain from telling her mother? She felt suddenly weak
and powerless. O God, good God, her heart cried, only make him well!
The sound of the library door closing made her spring to her feet; her
mother stood regarding her.
“What is it, Ruth?” she asked.
“Nothing,” she cried, her voice breaking despite her effort to be
calm,--“nothing at all. Louis has just sent me word that he had to leave
town this evening, and says not to wait dinner for him.”
“That is very strange,” mused her mother, moving slowly toward her and
holding out her hand for the note; but Ruth thrust the papers into her
pocket.
“It is to me, Mamma; you do not care for second-hand love-letters, do
you?” she asked, assuming a desperate gayety. “There is nothing strange
about it; he often leaves like this.”
“Not in such weather and not after---- There won’t be a man in the house
to-night. I wish your father were home; he would not like it if he
knew.” She shivered slightly as they went into the dining-room.