The sun shone with its usual winter favoritism upon San Francisco this
Thursday morning. After the rain the air felt as exhilarating as a day
in spring. Young girls tripped forth “in their figures,” as the French
have it; and even the matrons unfastened their wraps under the genial
wooing of sunbeams.
Everything was quiet about the Levice mansion. Neither Ruth nor her
mother felt inclined to talk; so when Mrs. Levice took up her position
in her husband’s room, Ruth wandered downstairs. The silence seemed
vocal with her fears.
“So I tell ye’s two,” remarked the cook as her young mistress passed
from the kitchen, “that darter and father is more than kin, they is
soul-kin, if ye know what that means; an’ the boss’s girl do love him
more’n seven times seven children which such a man-angel should ‘a’
had.” For the “boss” was to those who served him “little lower than the
angels;” and their prayers the night before had held an eloquent appeal
for his welfare.
Ruth, with her face against the window, watched in sickening anxiety.
She knew they were not to be expected for some time, but it was better
to stand here than in the fear-haunted background.
Suddenly and almost miraculously, it seemed to her, a carriage stood
before the gate. She flew to the door, and as she opened it leaned for
one second blindly against the wall.
“Tell my mother they have come,” she gasped to the maid, who had entered
the hall.
Then she looked out. Two men were carrying one between them up the walk.
As they came nearer, she saw how it was. That bundled-up figure was her
father’s; that emaciated, dark, furrowed face was her father’s; but as
they carefully helped him up the steps, and the loud, painful, panting
breaths came to her, were they her father’s too? No need, Ruth, to
rush forward and vainly implore some power to tear from yourself the
respiration withheld from him. Air, air! So, man, so; one step more and
then relief. Ah!
She paused in agony at the foot of the stairs as the closing door shut
out the dreadful sound. We never value our blessings till we have lost
them; who thinks it a boon to be able to breathe without thinking of the
action?
He had not seen her; his eyes had been closed as if in exhaustion as
they gently helped him along, and she had understood at once that the
only thing to be thought of was, by some manner of means, to remove the
choking obstacle from his lungs. Oh, to be able in her young strength
to hold the weak, loved form in her arms and breathe into him her
overflowing life-breath! She walked upstairs presently; he would be
expecting her. As she reached the upper landing, Kemp came from the
room, closing the door behind him. His bearing revealed a gravity she
had never witnessed before. In his tightly buttoned morning-suit, with
the small white tie at his throat, he might have been officiating at
some solemn ceremonial. He stood still as Ruth confronted him at the
head of the stairs, and met her lovely, miserable eyes with a look of
sympathy. She essayed to speak, but succeeded only in gazing at him in
speechless entreaty.
“Yes, I know,” he responded to her silent appeal; “you were shocked at
what you heard: it was the asthma that has completely overpowered him.
His illness has made him extremely weak.”
“And you think--”
“We must wait till he has rested; the trip was severe for one in his
condition.”
“Tell me the truth, please, with no reservations; is there danger?”
Her eager, abrupt questions told clearly what she suffered.
“He has never had any serious illness; if the asthma has not overleaped
itself, we have much to hope for.”
The intended consolation conveyed a contrary admission which she
immediately grasped.
“That means--the worst,” she said, her clasped fingers speaking the
language of despair. “Oh, Doctor, you who know so much, can’t you help
him? Think, think of everything; there must be something! Only do your
best, do your utmost; you will, won’t you?”
His deep, grave eyes answered her silently as he took both her little
clasped hands in his one strong one, saying simply,--
“Trust me, but only so far as lies within my human power. He is somewhat
eased, and asks for you. Look at your mother: she is surpassing herself;
if your love for him can achieve one half such a conquest, you will but
be making good your inheritance. I shall be in again at one, and will
send some medicines up at once.” He ended in his usual businesslike
tone, and walked hastily downstairs.
There was perfect quiet in the room as Ruth entered. Propped high by
many pillows, Jules Levice lay in his bed; his wife’s arm was about him;
his head rested on her bosom; with her one disengaged hand she smoothed
his white hair. Never was the difference between them more marked than
now, when her beautiful face shone above his, which had the touch of the
destroyer already upon it; never was the love between them more marked
than now, when he leaned in his weakness upon her who had never failed
him in all their wedded years.
His eyes were half closed as if in rest; but he heard her enter, and
Mrs. Levice felt the tremor that thrilled him as Ruth approached.
“My child.”
The softly whispered love-name of old made her tremble; she smiled
through her tears, but when his feeble arms strove to draw her to him,
she stooped, and laying them about her neck, placed her cheek upon his.
For some minutes these three remained knit in a close embrace; love,
strong and tender, spoke and answered in that silence.
“It is good to be at home,” he said, speaking with difficulty.
“It was not home without you, dear,” murmured his wife, laying her lips
softly upon his forehead. Ruth, kneeling beside the bed, noticed how
loosely the dark signet-ring he wore hung upon his slender finger.
“You look ill, my Ruth,” he said, after a pause. “Lay my head down,
Esther love; you must be tired. Sit before me, dear, I want to see your
two faces together.”
His gaunt eyes flitted from one to the other.
“It is a fair picture to take with one,” he whispered.
“To keep with one,” softly trembled his wife’s voice; his eyes met hers
in a commiserating smile.
Suddenly he started up.
“Ruth,” he gasped, “will you go to Louis? He must be worn out.”
She left the room hurriedly. Her faint knock was not immediately
answered, and she called softly; receiving no reply, she turned the
knob, which yielded to her hand. Sunbeams danced merrily about the room
of the young man, who sat in their light in a dejected attitude. He
evidently had made no change in his toilet; and as Ruth stood
unnoticed beside him, her eyes wandered over his gray, unshaven face,
travel-stained and weary to a degree. She laid her hand upon his
shoulder.
“Louis,” she called gently.
He shook under her touch, but made no further sign that he knew of her
presence.
“You must be so tired, Louis,” she continued sympathetically.
It may have been the words, it may have been the tone, it may have been
that she touched some hidden thought, for suddenly, without premonition,
his breast heaved, and he sobbed heavily as only a man can sob.
She started back in pain. That such emotion could so unstring Louis
Arnold was a marvel. It did not last long; and as he rose from his chair
he spoke in his accustomed, quiet tone.
“Forgive my unmanliness,” he said; “it was kind of you to come to me.”
“You look very ill, Louis; can’t I bring you something to refresh you,
or will you lie down?”
“We shall see; is there anything you wish to ask me?
“Nothing.”
After a pause he said,--
“You must not be hopeless; he is in good hands, and everything that can
be done will be done. Is he resting now?”
“Yes; if to breathe like that is to rest. Oh, Louis, when I think how
for months he has suffered alone, it almost drives me crazy.”
“Why think of it, then? Or, if you must, remember that in his surpassing
unselfishness he saved you much anxiety; for you could not have helped
him.”
“Not with our sympathy?”
“Not him, Ruth; to know that you suffered for him was--would have been
his crowning sorrow. Is there anything I can do now?”
“No, only think of yourself for a moment; perhaps you can rest a little,
for you need it, dear.”
A flame of color burned in his cheek at the unusual endearment.
“I shall bring you a cup of tea presently,” she said as she left him.
The morning passed into afternoon. Silence hung upon the house. A card
had been pinned under the door-bell; and the many friends, who in
the short time since the sick man’s arrival had heard of his illness,
dropped in quietly and left as they came.
Dr. Kemp came in after luncheon. Mr. Levice was sleeping,--in all truth,
one could say easily, but the doctor counted much from the rest. He
expected Dr. H----- for a consultation. This he had done as a voucher
and a sort of comforting assurance that nothing would be left undone.
Dr. H----- came in blandly; he went out gravely. There was little to be
said.
Kemp walked thoughtfully upstairs after his colleague had left, and went
straight to Arnold’s room. The freedom of the house was his; he seemed
to have established himself here simply through his earnestness and
devotion.
“Mr. Arnold,” he said to the Frenchman, who quickly rose from his desk,
“I want you to prepare your aunt and your cousin for the worst. You
know this; but if he should have a spell of coughing, the end might be
sudden.”
A cold pallor overspread Louis’s face at the confirmation of his secret
fears.
He bowed slightly and cleared his throat before answering.
“There will be no necessity,” he said; “my uncle intends doing so
himself.”
“He must not hasten it by excitement,” said Kemp, moving toward the
door.
“That is unavoidable,” returned Arnold. “You must know he had an object
in hurrying home.”
“I did not know; but I shall prevent any unnecessary effort to speak. If
you can do this for him, will you not?”
“I cannot.”
“And you know what it is in detail?”
“I do.”
“Then for his sake--”
“And for the others, he must be allowed to speak.”
Kemp regarded him steadily, wondering wherein lay the impression of
concealed power which emanated from him. He left the room without
another word.
“Dr. H----- must have gone to school with you,” panted Levice, as Dr.
Kemp entered; “even his eyes have been educated to express the same
feeling; except for a little--”
“There, there,” quieted Kemp; “don’t exhaust yourself. Miss Levice, that
fan, please. A little higher? How’s that?”
“Do not go, Doctor,” he said feebly; “I have something to say, to do,
and you--I want you--give me something--I must say it now. Esther, where
are you?”
“Here, love.”
“Mr. Levice, you must not talk now,” put in Kemp, authoritatively;
“whatever you have to say will last till morning.”
“And I?”
“And you. Now go to sleep.”
Mrs. Levice followed him to the door.
“You spoke just now of a nurse,” she said through her pale lips; “I
shall not want one: I alone can nurse him.”
“There is much required; I doubt if you are strong enough.”
“I am strong.”
He clasped her hand in assent; he could not deny her.
“I shall come in and stay with you to-night,” he said simply.
“You. Why should you?”
“Because I too love him.”
Her mouth trembled and the lines of her face quivered, but she drew her
hand quickly over it.
Kemp gave one sharp glance over to the bed; Ruth had laid her head
beside her father’s and held his hand. In such a house, in every Jewish
house, one finds the best nurses in the family.