by Emma Wolf
Chapter XXII
Mrs. Levice's gaze strayed pensively from the violets she wasembroidering to Ruth's pale face. Every time the latter stirred, hermother started expectantly; but the anxiously awaited disclosure was notforthcoming. Outside the rain kept up a sullen downpour, deepening thefeeling of comfort indoors; but Mrs. Levice was not what one might callcomfortably-minded. Her frequent inventories of Ruth's face had at lastled her to believe that the pallor there depicted and the heavy, darkshadows 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 situp late last night?"
This was a leading move, but Ruth evaded the deeper meaning that was soevident to her now.
"No," she replied; "I believe it could not have been nine when I wentupstairs."
"Why? Were you too fatigued to sit up, or was Louis's companyunpleasant?"
"Oh, no," was the abrupt response, and her eyes fell on the open pageagain.
Mrs. Levice, once started on the trail, was not to be baffled by suchtactics. Since Ruth was not ill, she had had some mental disturbance ofwhich her weary appearance was the consequence. She felt almostpositive that Louis had made some advances last night, from the flashof intelligence with which he had met her telegraphic expression. Itwas natural for her to be curious; it was unnatural for Ruth to be soreserved. With feelings not a little hurt she decided to know somethingmore.
"For my part," she observed, as if continuing a discussion, "Ithink Louis charming in a tete-a-tete,--when he feels inclined tobe interesting he generally succeeds. Did he tell you anything worthrepeating? It is a dull afternoon, and you might entertain me a little."
She looked up from the violet petal she had just completed andencountered 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, butregarding her intently.
Ruth passed her hand wearily across her brow, and considered a momentbefore answering.
"I did not wish to hurt you by my silence, Mamma; but before I haddecided I hardly thought it necessary to say anything. He asked meto--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 LouisArnold 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 tellher mother in the night. Oh, Ruth darling, I am so glad. I have beenlooking forward to this ever since you grew up. What did you mean bysaying 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 waitingfor me to help you to it? I scarcely need tell you how you have beenhonored."
"Honor is not everything, Mamma."
At that moment a desperate longing for her mother's sympathy seizedher; but the next minute the knowledge of the needless sorrow it wouldoccasion came to her, and her lips remained closed.
"No," responded her mother, "and you have more than that; surely Louisdid 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 youevery luxury within reason,--so much for honest practicality. As toLouis himself, the most fastidious could find nothing to cavil at,--hewill make you a perfect husband. You are familiar enough with him toknow his faults; but no man is faultless. I hope you are not so sillyas to expect some girlish ideal,--for all the ideals died in the GoldenAge, 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 facewas alive with the excitement of hope fulfilled. "Is there anything elsewanting?"
"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 noreproach in Mrs. Levice's gentle acceptance of the fact; "he will be sohappy over it. There, kiss me, girlie; I know you like to think thingsout in silence, and I shall not say another word about it till you giveme leave."
She kept her word. The dreary afternoon dragged on. By four o-clock itwas growing dark, and Mrs. Levice became restless.
"I am going to my room to write to your father now,--he shall have agood scolding for the non-receipt of a letter to-day;" and forthwith shebetook herself upstairs.
Ruth closed her book and moved restlessly about the room. She wanderedover to the front window, and drawing aside the silken curtain, lookedout into the storm-tossed garden. The pale heliotropes lay wet and sweetagainst the trellises; some loosened rose-petals fluttered noiselesslyto the ground; only the gorgeous chrysanthemums looked proudlyindifferent to the elements; and the beautiful, stately palm-tree justat the side of the window spread its gracious arms like a protectingtemple. She felt suddenly oppressed and feverish, and threw open thelong French window. The rain had ceased for the time, and she steppedout upon the veranda. The fragrance of the rain-soaked flowers stole toher senses; the soft, sweet breeze caressed her temples; she stood stillin the perfumed freshness and enjoyed its peace. By and by she began towalk 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. Shemust school herself to some show of graciousness. The thing must not bedone 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 inhis arms; she heard the old-time words of blessing; she saw his smilingeyes; and a gentleness stole over her whole face, a gentle nobility thatmade it strangely sweet. The soft patter of rain on the gravel rousedher, and she went in; but she felt better, and wished Louis might comein 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 isas pitchy as Hades, only that smouldering log looks purgatorial."
Ruth lit the gas; and as she stood with upturned eyes adjusting theburner, her mother noticed that the heaviness had departed from herface. 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?" butforbore 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 thewindow to draw down the blinds. As she stood looking out with her handon the chair, she saw the gate swing slowly open, and a messenger-boycame dawdling up the walk as if the sun were streaming full upon him.
Ruth stepped noiselessly out, meaning to anticipate his ring. A vagueforeboding drove the blood from her lips as she stood waiting atthe open hall-door. Seeing the streaming light, the boy managed toaccelerate 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?" sheasked.
"Nom," answered the boy; and noticing her pallor and apprehension, "I'llshet 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 recognizedLouis's handwriting on the wrapper, and her heart fluttered ominously.She tore of
f the damp covering, and the first thing she encountered wasanother wrapper on which was written in large characters:--
DEAR RUTH,--Do not be alarmed; everything is all right. I had to leavetown 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; onefear was stilled. She drew out the letter; she saw in perplexity that itwas 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 confinedfor the last week with pneumonia, although I managed to write a dailypostal. Have been quite ill, but am on the mend and only anxious tostart home again. I really cannot rest here, and have made arrangementsto leave to-morrow. Have taken every precaution against catching cold,and apart from feeling a trifle weak and annoyed by a cough, am allright. Shall come home directly. Say nothing of this to Esther or Ruth;shall apprise them by telegram of my home-coming. Had almost completedthe 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 nervequivering 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 ifyou can.
JULES LEVICE.
Her limbs shook as she sat; her teeth chattered; for one minute sheturned sick and faint. Under the telegram Arnold had written:--
Am sure it is nothing. He has never been ill, and is more frightenedthan a more experienced person would be. There is no need to alarm yourmother unnecessarily, so say nothing till you hear from me. Shall wireyou as soon as I arrive, which will be to-morrow night.
LOUIS.
How could she refrain from telling her mother? She felt suddenly weakand 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; hermother stood regarding her.
"What is it, Ruth?" she asked.
"Nothing," she cried, her voice breaking despite her effort to becalm,--"nothing at all. Louis has just sent me word that he had to leavetown this evening, and says not to wait dinner for him."
"That is very strange," mused her mother, moving slowly toward her andholding out her hand for the note; but Ruth thrust the papers into herpocket.
"It is to me, Mamma; you do not care for second-hand love-letters, doyou?" she asked, assuming a desperate gayety. "There is nothing strangeabout it; he often leaves like this."
"Not in such weather and not after---- There won't be a man in the houseto-night. I wish your father were home; he would not like it if heknew." She shivered slightly as they went into the dining-room.