The next day passed like a nightmare. To add to the misery of her
secret, her mother began to fidget over the continued lack of any
communication from her husband. Had the weather been fair, Ruth would
have insisted on her going out with her; but to the rain of the day
before was added a heavy windstorm that made any unnecessary expedition
from home absurd.
Mrs. Levice worried herself into a headache, but would not lie down. She
was sure that the next delivery would bring something. Was it not time
for the second delivery? Would not Ruth please watch for the postman?
By half-past one she took up her station at the window only to see the
jaunty little rubber-encased man go indifferently by. At half-past four
this scene was repeated, and then she decided to act.
“Ring up the telegraph-office, Ruth; I am going to send a despatch.”
“Why, Mamma, probably the mail is delayed; it always is in winter.
Besides, you will only frighten Father.”
“Nonsense; two days is a long delay without the excuse of a blockade. Go
to the telephone, please.”
“The telephone was broken yesterday, you know.”
“I had forgotten. Well, one of the girls must go; I can’t stand it any
longer.”
“You can’t send any of the girls in such weather; both the maids have
terrible colds, and Mary would not go if you asked her. Listen! It is
frightful. I promise to go in the morning if we don’t get a letter,
but we probably shall. Let us play checkers for a while.” With a forced
stoicism she essayed to distract her mother’s thoughts, but with poor
success. The wretched afternoon drew to a close; and immediately after
a show of dining, Mrs. Levice went to bed. At Ruth’s suggestion she took
some headache medicine.
“It will make me sleep, perhaps; and that will be better than worrying
awake and unable to do anything.”
The opiate soon had its effect; and with a sigh of relief Ruth heard
her mother’s regular breathing. It was now her turn to suffer openly the
fox-wounds. Louis had said she would hear to-night; but at what time?
It was now eight o’clock, and the bell might ring at any moment. Mrs.
Levice slept; and Ruth sat dry-eyed and alert, feeling her heart rise to
her throat every time the windows shook or the doors rattled. It was
one of the wildest nights San Francisco ever experienced; trees groaned,
gates slammed, and a perfect war of the elements was abroad. The wailing
wind about the house haunted her like the desolate cry of some one
begging for shelter. The ormolu clock ticked on and chimed forth nine.
Still her mother slept. Ruth from her chair could see that her cheeks
were unnaturally flushed and that her breathing was hurried; but any
degree of oblivion was better than the impatient outlook for menacing
tidings. Despite the heated room, her hands grew cold, and she wrapped
them in the fleecy shawl that enveloped her. The action brought to her
mind the way her father used to tuck her little hands under the coverlet
when a child, after they had clung around his neck in a long good-night,
and how no sooner were they there than out they would pop for “just one
squeeze more, Father;” how long the good-nights were with this play! She
had never called him “papa” like other children, but he had always liked
it best so. She brushed a few drops from her lashes as the sweet
little chimer rang out ten bells; she began to grow heart-sick with her
thoughts; her limbs ached with stiffness, and she began a gentle walk
up and down the room. Would it keep up all night? There! surely somebody
was crunching up the gravel-walk. With one look at her sleeping mother,
she quickly left the room, closing the door carefully behind her. With a
palpitating heart she leaned over the balustrade; was it a false alarm,
after all? The next instant there was a violent pull at the bell, as
startling in the dead of the night as some supernatural summons. Before
Ruth could hurry down, Nora, looking greatly bewildered, came out of
her room and rushed to the door. In a trice she was back again with the
telegram and had put it into Ruth’s hands.
“Fifteen cents’ charges,” she said.
“Pay it,” returned Ruth.
As the maid turned away, she tore open the envelope. Before she could
open the form, a firm hand was placed upon hers.
“Give me that,” said her mother’s voice.
Ruth recoiled; Mrs. Levice stood before her unusually quiet in her white
night-dress; with a strong hand she endeavored to relax Ruth’s fingers
from the paper.
“But, Mamma, it was addressed to me”
“It was a mistake, then; I know it was meant for me. Let go instantly,
or I shall tear the paper. Obey me, Ruth.”
Her voice sounded harsh as a man’s. At the strange tone Ruth’s fingers
loosened, and Mrs. Levice, taking the telegram, re-entered the room;
Ruth followed her closely.
Standing under the chandelier, Mrs. Levice read. No change came over
her face; when she had finished, she handed the paper without a word to
Ruth. This was the message:--
RENO, Jan. 28, 188--
MISS RUTH LEVICE, San Francisco, Cal.
Found your father very weak and feverish and coughing continually.
Insists on getting home immediately. Says to inform Dr. Kemp, who will
understand, and have him at the house on our arrival at 11.30 Thursday.
No present danger.
LOUIS ARNOLD
“Explain,” commanded her mother, speaking in her overwrought condition
as if to a stranger.
“Get into bed first, Mamma, or you will take cold.”
Mrs. Levice suffered herself to be led there, and in a few words Ruth
explained what she knew.
“You knew that yesterday before the train left?”
“Yes, Mamma.”
“And why didn’t you tell me? I should have gone to him. Oh, why didn’t
you tell me?”
“It would have been too late, dear.”
“No, it is too late now; do you hear? I shall never see him again,
and it is all your fault--what do you know? Stop crying! will you stop
crying, or--”
“Mamma, I am not crying; you are crying, and saying things that are
not true. It will not be too late; perhaps it is nothing but the cough.
Louis says there is no danger.”
“Hush!” cried her mother, her whole figure trembling. “I know there is
danger now, this minute. Oh, what can I do, what can I do?” With this
cry all her strength seemed to give way; she sobbed and laughed with the
hysteria of long ago; when Ruth strove to put her arms around her, she
shook her off convulsively.
“Don’t touch me!” she breathed; “it is all your fault--he wants
me--needs me--and, oh, look at me here! Why do you stand there like a
ghost? Go away. No, come here--I want Dr. Kemp; now, at once, he said to
have him; send for him, Ruth.”
“On Thursday morning,” she managed to answer.
“No, now--I must, must, must have him! You won’t go? Then I shall; move
aside.”
Ruth, summoning all her strength, strove to hold her in her arms, all to
no avail.
“Lie still,” she said sternly; “I shall go for Dr. Kemp.”
“You can’t; it is night and raining. Oh,” she continued, half
deliriously, “I know I am acting strangely, and he will calm me. Ruth, I
want to be calm; don’t you understand?”
The two maids, frightened by the noise, stood in the doorway. Both had
their heads covered with shawls; both were suffering with heavy colds.
“Come in, girls. Stay here with my mother; I am going for the doctor.”
“Oh, Miss Ruth, ain’t you afraid? It’s a awful night, and black as
pitch, and you all alone?” asked one, with wide, frightened eyes.
“I am not afraid,” said the girl, a great calmness in her voice as she
spoke above her mother’s sobbing; “stay and try to quiet her. I shall
not be gone long.”
She flew into her room, drew on her overshoes and mackintosh, grasped a
sealskin hood, which she tied securely under her chin, and went out into
the howling, raging night.
She had but a few blocks to go, but under ordinary circumstances the
undertaking would have been disagreeable enough. The rain came down in
heavy, wild torrents; the wind roared madly, wrapping her skirts around
her limbs and making walking almost an impossibility; the darkness
was impenetrable save for the sickly, quavering light shed by the few
street-lamps, as far apart as angel visitants. Lowering her head and
keeping her figure as erect as possible, she struggled bravely on.
She met scarcely any one, and those she did meet occasioned her little
uneasiness in the flood of unusual emotions that overwhelmed her soul.
At any other time the thought of her destination would have blotted out
every other perception; now this was but one of many shuddering visions.
Trouble was making her hard; life could offer her little that would find
her unequal to the test. Down the broad, deserted avenue, with its dark,
imposing mansions, she hurried as if she were alone in the havocking
elements. The rain beat her and lashed her in the face; she faced it
unflinchingly as a small part of her trials. Without a tremor she ran
up Dr. Kemp’s steps. It was only when she stood with her finger on the
bell-button that she realized whom she was about to encounter. Then for
the first time she gave one long sob of self-recollection, and pushed
the button.
Burke almost immediately opened the door. Ruth had no intention of
entering; it would be sufficient to leave her message and hurry home.
“Who’s there?” asked Burke, peering out into the darkness. “It’s a divil
of a night for any one but--”
“Is Dr. Kemp in?” The sweet woman-voice so startled him that he opened
the door wide.
“Come in, mum,” he said apologetically; “come in out of the night.”
“No. Is the doctor in?”
“I don’t know,” he grumbled, “and I can’t stand here with the door
open.”
“Close it, then, but see if he is in, please.”
“I’ll lave it open, and ye can come in or stay out according if ye are
dry-humored or wet-soled;” and he shuffled off. The door was open! Her
father had assured her of this once long ago. Inside were warmth and
light; outside, in the shadow, were cold and darkness. Here she stood.
Would the man never return? Ah, here he came hurrying along; she drew
nearer the door; within a half-foot she stood still with locked jaw and
swimming senses.
“My good woman,” said the grave, kindly voice which calmed while it
unnerved her, “come in and speak to me here. Am I wanted anywhere? Come
in, please; the door must be closed.”
With almost superhuman will she drew herself together and came closer.
Seeing the dark, moving figure, he opened the door wide, and she stepped
in; then as it closed she faced him, turning up her white, haggard face
to his.
“You!”
He recoiled as if stunned, but quickly recovered himself.
“What trouble has brought you to me?” he cried.
“My mother,” she replied in a low, stifled voice, adding almost
instantly in a distant and formal tone, “can you come at once? She is
suffering with hysteria and calls you incessantly.”
He drew himself up and looked at her with a cold, grand air. This girl
had been the only woman who had signally affected his life; yet if her
only recognition of it was this cold manner, he could command the same.
“I will come,” he replied, looking unbendingly, with steely gray eyes,
into her white passionless face, framed in its dark hood.
She bowed her head--further words were impossible--and turned to the
door.
He watched her tugging in blind stupefaction at the strange bolt, but
did not move to her assistance. Her head was bent low over the intricate
thing; but it was useless,--it would not move, and she suddenly raised
her eyes beseechingly to him; with a great revulsion of feeling he saw
that they were swimming in tears. His own lips trembled, and his heart
gave a wild leap. Then one of those unaccountable moods that sometimes
masters the best swayed him strongly.
She was alone with him there; he could keep her if he wished. One look
at her lovely, beloved face, and his higher manhood asserted itself. He
unlatched the door, and still holding it closed, said in a deferential
tone,--
“Will you not wait till I ring for my carriage?”
“I would rather go at once.”
Nothing was left but for him to comply with her wishes; and as she
walked out, he quickly got himself into his proper vestments, seized a
vial from his office, and hurried after her. At this juncture the storm
was frightful. Up the street he could see come one trying ineffectually
to move on. Being a powerful man, he strode on, though the great gusts
carried his breath away. In a few minutes he came alongside of Ruth, who
was making small progress.
“Will you take my arm?” he asked quietly. “It will help you.”
She drew back in alarm.
“There is no necessity,” he indistinctly heard in the roar of the gale.
He kept near enough to her, however, to see her. All along this block of
Van Ness Avenue is a row of tall, heavy-foliaged eucalyptus-trees;
they tossed and creaked and groaned in the furious wind. A violent gust
almost took the two pedestrians off their feet, but not too quickly for
Dr. Kemp to make a stride toward Ruth and drag her back. At the same
moment, one of the trees lurched forward and fell with a crash upon
them. By a great effort he had turned and, holding her before him,
received the greater blow upon his back.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, bending his head so near her face that his
short wet beard brushed her cheek.
“No,” she said, wresting herself from him; “I thank you--but you have
hurt yourself.”
“You are mistaken,” he said abruptly. “Take my arm, please.”
He did not wait for her yea or nay; but drawing her arm through his,
he strode on in silence, holding it closely pinioned against his heart.
When they reached the house, they were both white and breathless. Nora
opened the door for them.
“Oh, Miss Ruth, do hurry up!” she cried, wringing her hands as the
doctor threw off his coat and hat; “all she does now is to stare at us
with her teeth all chattering.”
The doctor sprang up three steps at a time, Ruth quickly following.
The room was in a blaze of light; Mrs. Levice sat up in bed, her
large dark eyes staring into vacancy, her face as white as the snowy
counterpane.
Kemp looked like a pillar of strength as he came up to the bedside.
“Well?” he said, holding out his hand and smiling at her.
As he took her hand in his, she strove to speak; but the sobbing result
was painful.
“None of that!” he said sternly, laying his hand on her shoulders. “If
you try, you can stop this. Now see, I am holding you. Look at me, and
you will understand you must quiet down.”
He used his well-known power of magnetism. Gradually the quivering
shoulders quieted beneath his hands; the staring eyes relaxed, and he
gently laid her head upon the pillow.
“Don’t go away!” she implored piteously, as she felt his hands move from
her.
“No, indeed,” he replied in a bright, soothing voice; “see, I am going
to give you a few drops of this, which will make you all right in a
short time. Now then, open your mouth.”
“But, Doctor, I wish to speak to you.”
“After you have taken this and rested awhile.”
“And you won’t go away?” she persisted.
“I shall stay right here.” She obediently swallowed the dose; and as he
drew up an easy-chair and seated himself, the drawn lines on her face
relaxed.
“It is so strengthening to have you here,” she murmured.
“It will be more strengthening for you to close your eyes.”
Ruth, who still stood in her wet clothes, lowered the lights.
“You had better change your clothes immediately,” said Kemp, in a low
tone from his chair.
She did not look at him, but at his voice she left the room.
Quickly removing her wet garments, she slipped into a loose, dull
red gown. As the dry warmth of it reached her senses, she suddenly
remembered that his feet might be wet. She lit a candle, and going into
Louis’s room, appropriated a pair of slippers that stood in his closet.
It was now past midnight; but no thought of sleep occurred to her till,
entering her mother’s room, she perceived in the semi-darkness that the
doctor lay back with closed eyes. He was not asleep, however, for he
opened his eyes at her light footfall. She looked very beautiful in her
unconfined gown, the red tone heightening the creamy colorlessness of
her face.
“Will you put them on?” she asked in a hushed voice, holding out the
slippers.
“You are very kind,” he replied, looking with hungry eyes into her face.
Seeing that he did not take them, she placed them on the carpet. The
action recalled him to himself, and wishing to detain her, he said,--
“Do they belong to a man as big as I?”
“They are my cousin’s.”
She had half turned to leave.
“Ah,” he returned, “and will he relish the idea of my standing in his
shoes?”
No double-entendre was intended, but Ruth’s thoughts gave one miserable
bound to Arnold.
“He will be pleased to add to your comfort,” spoke Mrs. Levice from the
bed, thus saving Ruth an answer.
“I do not need them,” said the doctor, turning to her swiftly; “and,
Mrs. Levice, if you do not go to sleep, I shall leave.”
“I want Ruth to stay in the room,” she murmured petulantly.
“Very well, Mamma,” said Ruth, wearily, seating herself in a low,
soft-cushioned chair in a remote corner. She knew how to sit perfectly
still. It was a peculiar situation,--the mother, who had been the means
of drawing these two together first and last, slept peacefully; and he
and she, the only waking mortals in the house, with the miserable gulf
between them, sat there without a word.
Ruth’s temples throbbed painfully; she felt weak and tired; toward
morning she sank into a heavy sleep. Kemp did not sleep; he kept his
face turned from her, trying to quiet his thoughts with the dull lullaby
of the rain. But he knew when she slept; his gaze wandered searchingly
around the room till it fell upon a slumber-robe thrown across a divan.
He arose softly and picked it up; his light step made no sound in the
soft carpet. As he came up to Ruth, he saw with an inward groan the
change upon her sleeping face. Great, dark shadows lay about her eyes
not caused by the curling lashes; her mouth drooped pathetically at the
corners; her temples, from which her soft hair was rolled, showed the
blue veins; he would have given much to touch her hair with his hand,
but he laid the cover over her shoulders without touching her, and
tucked it lightly about her knees and feet. Then he went back to his
chair. It was five o’clock before either mother or daughter opened her
eyes; they started up almost simultaneously. Ruth noticed the warm robe
about her, and her eyes sped to the doctor. He, however, was speaking to
Mrs. Levice, who in the dim light looked pale but calm.
“I feel perfectly well,” she was saying, “and shall get up immediately.”
“Where is the necessity?” he inquired. “Lie still to-day; it is not bad
weather for staying in bed.”
“Did not Ruth tell you?”
“Tell me?” he repeated in surprise.
“Of the cause of this attack?”
“No.”
“Then I must. Briefly, my husband has been in New York for the past
five weeks; he suffered there with acute pneumonia for a week, told us
nothing, but hurried home as soon as possible,--too soon, I suppose. Day
before yesterday my nephew received a letter stating these facts, and,
later, a telegram asking him to come to Reno, where he was delayed,
feeling too ill to go farther alone. The first I heard of this was last
night, when Ruth received this telegram from Louis.” She handed it to
him.
As Kemp read, an unmistakable gravity settled on his face. As he was
folding the paper thoughtfully, Mrs. Levice addressed him again in her
unfamiliar, calm voice,--
“Will you please explain what he means by your understanding?”
“Yes; I suppose it is expedient for me to tell you at once,” he said
slowly, reseating himself and pausing as if trying to recall something.
“Last year,” he began, “probably as early as February, your husband came
to me complaining of a cough that annoyed him nights and mornings;
he further told me that when he felt it coming, he went to another
apartment so as not to disturb you. I examined him, and found he was
suffering with the first stages of asthma, and that one of his lungs
was slightly diseased already. I treated him and gave him directions for
living carefully. You knew nothing of this?”
“Nothing,” she answered hoarsely.
“Well,” he went on gently, “there was no cause for worry; if checked in
time, a man may live to second childhood with asthma, and the loss of a
small portion of a lung is not necessarily fatal. He knew this, and was
mending slowly; I examined him several times and found no increase in
the loss of tissue, while he told me the cough was not so troublesome.”
“But for some weeks before he left,” said Mrs. Levice, “he coughed every
morning and night. When I besought him to see a doctor, he ridiculed me
out of the idea. How did you find him before he left?”
“I have not seen Mr. Levice for some months,” he replied gravely.
Mrs. Levice eyed him questioningly, but he offered no explanation.
“Then do you think,” she continued, “that this asthma made the pneumonia
more dangerous?”
“Undoubtedly.”
Her fingers clutched at the sheet convulsively; but the strength of her
voice and aspect remained unbroken.
“Thank you,” she said, “for telling me so candidly. Then will you be
here to-morrow morning?”
“I shall manage to meet him at Oakland with a closed carriage.”
“May I go with you?”
“Pardon me; but it will be best for you to receive him quietly at
home. There must be nothing whatever to disturb him. Have all ready,
especially yourself.”
“I understand,” she said. “And now, Doctor, let me thank you for your
kindness to me;” she held out both hands. “Will you let Ruth show you to
a room, and will you breakfast with us when you have rested?”
“I thank you; it is impossible,” he replied, looking at his watch. “I
shall hurry home now. Good-morning, Mrs. Levice. There may be small
cause for anxiety; and, remember, the less excited you remain, the more
you can help him.”
He turned from her.
“Ruth, will you see the doctor to the door?”
She followed him down the broad staircase, as in former days, but with
a difference. Then he had waited for her to come abreast with him, and
they had descended together, talking pleasantly. Now not a word was
said till he had put on his heavy outer coat. As he laid his hand on the
knob, Ruth spoke,--
“Is there anything I can do for my father, do you think?”
She started as he turned a tired, haggard face to hers.
“I can think of nothing but to have his bed in readiness and complete
quiet about the house.”
“Yes; and--and do you think there is any danger?”
“No, no! at least, I hope not. I shall be able to tell better when I see
him. Is there anything I can do for you?”
She shook her head; she dared not trust herself to speak in the light
of his tender eyes. He hastily opened the door, and bowing, closed it
quickly behind him.