THE GENTLE INVALID.
Ruth Laurence though an invalid, was pining for something which might
occupy the slender hands which seemed all too frail for labor. She could
do many pretty trifles, however, with those deft fingers, and in her
soul lay a deep love of art, which they were patiently striving to work
out, whenever a bit of wax or a scrap of paper fell in her way.
Sometimes, as the wind swept through the open windows of that little
room, it carried off tiny morsels of paper, on which a butterfly, a
bird, or a flower was sketched, which went whirling off among the
old-fashioned flowers like a living thing. Sometimes Ruth would manage
to get ravelings from scraps of silk, out of which she wrought rose-buds
for pincushions, and groups of blossoms for segar-cases which brought in
a shilling or two, now and then, for the scanty household-fund, and gave
her a world of happiness in the sweet power of creation.
She was lying on her couch, close by the window, with a bit of drawing
paper in her hand, on which the soft shadows of a white rose were
forming themselves, when a click of the gate-latch, and the sound of
strange footsteps made her start and look through the window. She saw
her brother James by the gate, and with him a tall man, whom she had
never seen before. The stranger waited a moment for the boy to complete
what he was saying, and then crossed the little yard, while James ran
forward to open the door.
“Ruthy! Ruthy, dear! just sit up a little, if you can; I have brought a
gentleman, who wants to get acquainted with us. I told him all about
things, you know, and he seems to think—Well, I don’t know what he
thinks—but something awful kind, I’m sure.”
While James stood in the doorway uttering this exciting little speech,
Ruth arose feebly from her pillows, dropped her feet to the floor, and
turned her eyes upon the stranger in breathless expectation. She saw a
tall slender man, some forty or forty-five years of age, with hair that
had once been black as the neck of a raven, large dark eyes full of calm
sadness, a forehead as white as marble, and but faintly lined. To these
were added a fine sensitive mouth, to which laughter seemed to come
never, and smiles but seldom; still, in his face and quiet, gentlemanly
air, was that indescribable something which awakes sympathy and verges
on tenderness.
“Forgive me, young lady; I did not intend to intrude on you in this
abrupt way,” he said, lifting his hat as he crossed the threshold. “I
have met a young lady, your sister, I think, who half gave me permission
to call.”
“My sister is not at home,” answered Ruth, blushing; for she was so
unaccustomed to the sight of a stranger that the presence of this one
set her heart into a wild flutter.
“I know; this good lad told me as much. He also told me some other
things about his family, that made me think—that made me hope—” The
stranger paused, and bent his eyes upon the girl with a long, wistful
look, that seemed pleading with her for help.
“Perhaps you hoped to find some one that you knew?”
“Yes, yes; I did hope that—but it was long ago. No friend of mine could
be young as you are.”
“Was it somebody you wanted to find, then? Perhaps mother may help you.”
“Perhaps,” said the man, abstractedly, still gazing in that delicate
young face, as if searching its features, one by one.
“She knew all my poor father’s friends,” said Ruth, embarrassed by the
silence.
“Ah, yes! I should like to see your mother.”
Ruth lifted her voice a little, and called out:
“Mother! Mother!”
“Well, I must be going. It’s so long since I went out, and they’ll miss
me at the store,” said little James, who had waited in silence for
something strange to happen; for this advent of a stranger seemed full
of importance to him. “Good-bye, Ruthy; good-bye, sir! I’m off.”
As James ran down the front yard, Mrs. Laurence came into the little
parlor, untying the apron in which she had been working as she came in.
Mr. Ross started, and turning in his chair, regarded her with a sharp,
scrutinizing look, which deepened into an expression of keen
disappointment.
“This is my mother,” said Ruth, bending her head, while Mrs. Laurence
paused to fling her apron back into the kitchen, when she saw a stranger
in the room.
Ross arose, and stood a moment, waiting for Mrs. Laurence to advance;
for, though everything was humble, and even poverty-stricken around
them, he felt that these women were naturally far above the level of
their appearance.
“I have intruded, Madam, perhaps rudely,” he said, at last; “but having
met one of your children by accident, her resemblance to one—to an old
friend—was so striking, that I ventured to inquire about her here.”
Mrs. Laurence seemed more than usually disturbed by this speech; she
turned a cold glance on her visitor, and said,
“I cannot remember of ever seeing you before, sir; there must be some
mistake.”
Ross looked searchingly at the woman, as she spoke; her voice was firm
and somewhat harsh; her reception of his polite address a little
repellant; but she motioned him to take a seat, and occupied one
herself, putting down her sleeves, which had been rolled up to the
elbows.
“I once knew a man of your name,” said Ross, regarding the woman with a
look of hesitation.
“Was he a policeman?” questioned Mrs. Laurence.
“Not while I knew him. We were boys in the same school.”
“How long was that ago?”
“More than twenty years—that is, it is almost that since we parted.”
Mrs. Laurence reflected a moment, then lifting her face, said,
“Well?”
“He was the dearest friend I ever had. When I left him, he promised to
watch over my interests, to——”
“May I ask your name,” said Mrs. Laurence now keenly aroused.
“Ross—Herman Ross.”
Mrs. Laurence turned her eyes from the face she had been studying with a
sort of terror, and her voice grew low and hoarse as she questioned him
further.
“And the name of your friend—his full name?”
“Leonard—Leonard Laurence.”
“That was father’s name,” said Ruth, in a half whisper, looking at her
mother, who groaned heavily, without saying a word. Low as the words
were spoken, Ross heard them, and his face kindled.
“Then, young lady, your father was my close friend, and loved me like a
brother. Will you not trust and like me a little for his sake?”
“I love everything that he loved,” said Ruth, with tears in her eyes;
and she held out her frail little hand, which Ross took, reverently;
then he turned to the other woman with a look of touching appeal.
“And you are Leonard Laurence’s wife. I remember seeing you once, a
fair, young bride.”
The iron muscles about the woman’s mouth began to quiver, and a flush
came around her pale-blue eyes.
“There is a long weary stretch between now and then,” she said, turning
away her face.
“There is, indeed!” responded Ross, with a sigh, which stirred his bosom
with the force of a groan. “A long, weary stretch; full of desolation to
more than you and me.”
“It gave him a violent death, and me widowhood like this,” said the
woman, turning cold and white.
“The boy told me something of this, but I was not sure it was the same
man. I hoped to find him alive and prosperous. This is a hard, hard blow
to a man who had so few friends.”
The woman looked at him jealously, as if his evident grief encroached
upon her own melancholy right of sorrow. From the first, she seemed to
regard him as a person to be kept at arms-length.
“Tell me more—tell me how he died?” said Ross, in a tremulous voice. “It
will be a pain, I know; but this suspense and conjecture will have no
end, without a thorough knowledge of all that relates to him. I must
know.”
Ruth looked wistfully at her mother, and was about to utter some tender
protest; but Mrs. Laurence lifted her hand, as if she understood the
kind impulse, and was ready to take up her hard task.