by Emma Wolf
Chapter XXV
Shafts of pale sunlight darted into the room and rested on Mr. Levice'shair, covering it with a silver glory,--they trailed along the silkencoverlet, but stopped there; one little beam strayed slowly, and almostas if with intention, toward Arnold, seated near the foot of the bed.Ruth, lovely in her pallor, sat near him; Mrs. Levice, on the otherside of the bed, leaned back in her chair placed close to her husband'spillow; more remote, though inadvertently so, sat Dr. Kemp. It was byMr. Levice's desire that these four had assembled here.
He was sitting up, supported by many pillows; his face was hollow andcolorless; his hands lay listlessly upon the counterpane. No one toucheshim; bathed in sunlight, as he was, the others seemed in shadow. When hespoke, his voice was almost a whisper, but it was distinctly audibleto the four intent listeners; only the clock seemed to accompany hisstaccato speech, running a race, as it were, with his failing strength.
"It is a beautiful world," he said dreamily, "a very beautiful world;"the sunbeams kissed his pale hands as if thanking him; no one stirred,letting the old man take his time. Finally he realized that all werewaiting for him, and thought sprang, strong and powerful, to his face.
"Dr. Kemp," he began, "I have something to say to you,--to you inparticular, and to my daughter Ruth. My wife and nephew know in briefwhat I have to say; therefore I need not dwell on the painful eventthat happened here last September; you will pardon me, when you see thenecessity, for my reverting to it at all."
Every one's eyes rested upon him,--that is, all but Arnold's,which seemed holding some secret communion with the cupids on theceiling,--and the look of convulsive agony that swept across Ruth's facewas unnoticed.
"In all my long, diversified life," he went on, "I had never suffered asI did after she told me her decision,--for in all those years no onehad ever been made to suffer through me; that is, so far as I knew.Unconsciously, or in anger, I may have hurt many, but never, as inthis case, with knowledge aforethought,--when the blow fell upon my ownchild. You will understand, and perhaps forgive, when I say I gave nothought to you. She came to me with her sweet, renunciating hands heldout, and with a smile of self-forgetfulness, said, 'Father, you areright; I could not be happy with this man.' At the moment I believedher, thinking she had adopted my views; but with all her bravery, herreal feelings conquered her, and I saw. Not that she had spoken untruly,but she had implied the truth only in part, I knew my child loved me,and she meant honestly that my pain would rob her of perfect happinesswith you,--my pain would form an eclipse strong enough to darkeneverything. Do you think this knowledge made me glad or proud? Do youknow how love, that in the withholding justifies itself, suffers fromthe pain inflicted? But I said, 'After all, it is as I think; shewill thank me for it some day.' I was not altogether selfish, pleaseremember. Then, as I saw her silent wrestling, came distrust of myself;I remembered I was pitted against two, younger and no more fallible thanmyself. As soon as doubt of myself attacked me, I strove to look onthe other side; I strove to rid myself of the old prejudices, the oldsuperstitions, the old narrowness of faith; it was useless,--I was tooold, and my prejudices had become part of me. It was in this state ofperturbation that I had gone one day up to the top floor of the PalaceHotel. Thank you, Doctor."
The latter had quietly risen and administered a stimulant. As he resumedhis seat, Levice continued:
"I was seated at a window overlooking Market Street. Below me surged ablack mass of crowding, jostling, hurrying beings, so far removed theyseemed like little dots, each as large and no larger than his fellows.Above them stretched the same blue arch of heaven, they breathed thesame air, trod in each other's footsteps; and yet I knew they were allso different,--ignorance walked with enlightenment, vice with virtue,rich with poor, low with high,--but I felt, poised thus above them,that they were creatures of the same God. Go once thus, and you willunderstand the feeling. And so I judged these aliens. Which was greater;which was less? This one, who from birth and inheritance is ableto stand the equal of any one, or this one, who through birth andinheritance blinks blindly at the good and beautiful? Character andcircumstance are not altogether of our own making; they are, to agreat degree, results of inherited tendencies over which we have nocontrol,--accidents of birthplace, in the choosing of which we had novoice. The high in the world do not shine altogether by their own light,not do the lowly grovel altogether in their own debasement,--I felt theexcuse for humanity. I was overwhelmed with one feeling,--only Godcan weigh such circumstantial evidence; we, in our little knowledge ofresults, pronounce sentence, but final judgment is reserved for a highercourt, that sees the cross-purposes in which we are blindly caught.So with everything. Below me prayed Christian and Jew, Mohammedan andBrahmin, idolater and agnostic. Why was one man different in this wayfrom his fellows? Because he was born so, because his parents were so,because he was bred so, because it seemed natural and convenient toremain so,--custom and environment had made his religion. Because JesusChrist dared to attack their existing customs and beliefs, the Jews,then powerful, first reviled, then feared, then slew him; because theJews could not honestly say, 'I believe this man to be a God,' they werehurled from their eminence and dragged, living, for centuries in thedust. And yet why? Because God withheld and still withholds from thislittle band the power of believing in Christ as his son. Christians callthis a wilful weakness; Jews call it strength. After all, who is tobe praised or blamed for it? God. Then instead of beating the Jew, andinstead of sneering at the Christian, let each pity the other; becauseone, I know not which, is weak, and because the other, I know not which,is strong. I left the building; I came upon the street. I felt likesaluting every one as my brother. A little ragged child touched me,and as I laid my hand upon her curly head, the thrill of humanity shotthrough me.
"It was not until I went to New York that the feelings I thenexperienced took on a definite shape. There, removed from my old haunts,I wandered alone when I could. Then I thought of you, my friend, ofyou, my child, and beside you I was pitiful,--pitiful, because in mynarrowness I had thought myself strong enough to uphold a vanishingrestriction. I resolved to be practical; I have been accused of beinga dreamer. I grasped your two images before me and drew parallels.Socially each was as high as the other. Mentally the woman was as strongin her sphere as the man was in his. Physically both were perfect typesof pure, healthy blood. Morally both were irreproachable. Religiouslyeach held a broad love for God and man. I stood convicted; I was inthe position of a blind fool who, with a beautiful picture before him,fastens his critical, condemning gaze upon a rusting nail in the rustingwall behind,--a nail even now loosened, and which in another generationwill be displaced. Yet what was I to do? Come back and tell you that Ihad been needlessly cruel? What would that avail? True, I might make youbelieve that I no longer thought marriage between you wrong; but thatwould not remove the fact that the world, which so easily makes us happyor otherwise, did not see as I saw. In this vortex I was stricken ill.All the while I wanted to hasten to you, to tell you how it was withme, and it seemed as if I never could get to you. 'Is this Nemesis,' Ithought, 'or divine interposition?' So I struggled till Louis came. Thenall was easier. I told him everything and said, 'Louis, what shallI do?' 'only this,' he answered simply: 'tell them that their happymarriage will be your happiness, and the rest of the world will be asnothing to these two who love each other.'"
The old man paused; the little sunbeam had reached the end of thecoverlet and gave a leap upon Louis's shoulder like an angle's finger,but his gaze remained fixed upon the cupids on the ceiling. Ruth hadcovered her face with her hands. Mrs. Levice was softly weeping, withher eyes on Louis. Dr. Kemp had risen and stood, tall and pale, meetingLevice's eyes.
"I believe--and my wife believes," said Levice, heavily, as if the wordswere so many burdens, "that our child will be happy only as your wife,and that nothing should stand in the way of the consummation of thishappiness. Dr. Kemp, you have assured me you still love my daughter.Ruth!"
She spran
g to her feet, looking only at her father.
"Little one," he faltered, "I have been very cruel in my ignorance."
"Do not think of this, Father," she whispered.
"I must," he said, taking her hand in his. "Kemp, your hand, please."
He grasped the strong white hand and drew the two together; and asKemp's large hand closed firmly over her little one, Levice stooped hishead, kissed them thus clasped, and laid his hand upon them.
"There is one thing more," he said. "At the utmost I have but a few daysto live. I shall not see your happiness: I shall not see you, myRuth, as I have often pictured you. Ah, well, darling, a father may bepermitted sweet dreams of his only child. You have always been a goodgirl, and now I am going to ask you to do one thing more--you also,Doctor. Will you be married now, this day, here, so that I may yet blessyour new life? Will you let me see this? And listen,--will you let theworld know that you were married with my sanction, and did not have towait till the old man was dead? Will you do this for me, my dear ones?"
"Will you, Ruth?" asked Kemp, softly, his fingers pressing hers gently.
Ruth stifled a sob as she met her father's eager eyes.
"I will," she answered so low that only the intense silence in the roommade it audible.
Levice separated their hands and held one on each of his cheeks.
"Always doing things for her ugly old father," he murmured; "this timegiving up a pretty wedding-day that all girls so love."
"Oh, hush, my darling."
"You will have no guests, unless, Doctor, there is some one you wouldlike to have."
"I think not," he decided, noting with a pang the pale, weary face ofLevice; "we will have it all as quiet as possible. You must rest now,and leave everything to me. Would you prefer Dr. Stephens or a justice?"
"Either. Dr. Stephens is a good man, whom I know, however; and one goodman with the legal right is as good as another to marry you."
There was little more said then. Kemp turned to Mrs. Levice and raisedher hand to his lips. Arnold confronted him with a pale, smiling face;the two men wrung each other's hands, passing out together immediatelyafter.