It was August. The Levices had purposely postponed leaving town until the gay, merry-making crowds had disappeared, when Mrs. Levice, in the quiet autumn, could put a crown to her recovery.
Ruth had quite a busy time getting all three ready, as she was to continue the management of the household affairs until their return, a month later. Besides which, numerous little private incidentals had to be put in running order for a month, and she realized with a pang at parting with some of her simple, sincere proteges that were this part of her life withdrawn, the rest would pall insufferably.
The evening before their departure she stood bareheaded upon the steps of the veranda with Louis, who was enjoying a post-prandial smoke. Mr. and Mrs. Levice, in the soft golden gloaming of late summer, were strolling arm-in-arm among the flower-beds. Mrs. Levice, without obviously looking toward them, felt with satisfaction that Ruth was looking well in a plain black gown which she had had no time to change after her late shopping. She did not know that, close and isolated as the young man and woman stood, not only were they silent, but each appeared oblivious of the other’s presence.
Ruth, with her hands clasped behind her, and Arnold, blowing wreaths of blue smoke into the heliotrope-scented air, looked as if under a dream-spell.
As Mrs. Levice passed within ear-shot, Ruth heard snatches of the broken sentence,—
“Jennie—good-by—to-day.”
This roused her from her revery, and she called to her mother,—
“Why, I forgot to drop in at Jennie’s this afternoon, as I promised.”
“How annoying! When you know how sensitive she is and how angry she gets at any neglect.”
“I can run out there now. It is light enough.”
“But it will be dark in less than an hour. Louis, will you go out to Jennie’s with Ruth?”
“Eh? Oh, certainly, if she wishes me.”
“I wish you to come if you yourself wish it. I’ll run in and get my hat and jacket while you decide.”
Ruth came back in a few minutes with a jaunty little sailor hat on and a light gray jacket, which she handed to Louis to hold for her.
“New?” he asked, pulling it into place in the back.
“Yes,” she answered; “do you like it for travelling?”
“Under a duster. Otherwise its delicate complexion will be rather freckled when you arrive at Beacham’s.”
He pulled his hat on from ease to respectability and followed her down to the gate. They turned the corner, walking southward toward the valley. Mrs. Levice and her husband stood at the gate and watched them saunter off. When they were quite out of sight, Mrs. Levice turned around and sang gayly to Mr. Levice, “‘Ca va bien!’”
The other two walked on silently. The evening was perfect. To the west and sweeping toward Golden Gate a hazy glory flushed the sky rose-color and molten gold, purple and silver; and then seas of glinting pale green to the northward held the eye with their beauty. The air was soft and languorous after a very warm day; now and then a piano, violin, or mandolin sounded through open windows; the peace and beauty of rest was over all.
They continued down Van Ness Avenue a few blocks, and unconsciously turned into one of the dividing streets toward Franklin. Suddenly Arnold felt his companion start, and saw she had taken her far-off gaze from the landscape. Following the direction of her eyes, he also straightened up. The disturbing object was a slight black column attached to a garden fence and bearing in small gold letters the simple name, Dr. Herbert Kemp.
As they approached nearer, Arnold knew of a certainty that there would be more speaking signs of the doctor’s propinquity. His forecasting was not at fault.
Dr. Kemp’s quaint, dark-red cottage, with its flower-edged lawn, was reached by a flight of low granite steps, at the top of which lounged the medical gentleman in person. He was not heaven-gazing, but seemed plunged in tobacco-inspired meditation of the flowers beneath him. Arnold’s quick eye detected the pink flush that rose to the little ear of his cousin. The sound of their footsteps on the stone sidewalk came faintly to Kemp; he raised his eyes slowly and indifferently. The indifference vanished when he recognized them.
With a hasty movement he threw the cigar from him and ran down the steps.
“Good-evening,” he called, raising his old slouch hat and arresting their evident intention of proceeding on their way. They came up, perforce, and met him at the foot of the steps.
“A beautiful evening,” he said originally, holding out a cordial hand to Arnold and looking with happy eyes at Ruth. She noticed that there was a marked difference in his appearance from anything she had been used to. His figure looked particularly tall and easy in a loose dark velvet jacket, thrown open from his broad chest; the large sombrero-like hat which had settled on the back of his head left to view his dark hair brushed carelessly backward; an unusual color was on his cheek, and a warm glow in his gray eyes.
“I hope,” he went on, frankly transferring his attention to Ruth, “this weather will continue. We shall have a magnificent autumn; the woods must be beginning to look gorgeous.”
“I shall know better to-morrow.”
“To-morrow?”
“Yes; we leave for Beacham’s to-morrow, you know.”
“No, I did not know;” an indefinable shadow over-clouded his face, but he said quickly,—
“That is an old hunting-ground of mine. The river teems with speckled treasures. Are you a disciple of old Walton, Mr. Arnold?” he added, turning with courtesy to the silent Frenchman.
“You mean fishing? No; life is too short to hang my humor of a whole day on the end of a line. I have never been at Beacham’s.”
“It is a fine spot. You will probably go down there this year.”
“My business keeps me tied to the city just at present. A professional man has no such bond; his will is his master.”
“Hardly, or I should have slipped cables long ago. A restful night is an unknown indulgence sometimes for weeks.”
His gaze moved from Arnold’s peachy cheek, and falling upon Ruth, surprised her dark eyes resting upon him in anxious questioning. He smiled.
“We shall have to be moving on,” she said, holding out a gloved hand.
“Will you be gone long?” he asked, pressing it cordially.
“About a month.”
“You will be missed—by the Flynns. Good-by.” He raised his hat as he looked at her.
Arnold drew her arm within his, and they walked off.
They say that the first thing a Frenchman learns in studying the English language is the use of that highly expressive outlet of emotion, “Damn.” Arnold was an old-timer, but he had not outgrown the charm of his first linguistic victory; and now as he replaced his hat in reply to Kemp, he distinctly though coolly said, “Damn him.”
Ruth looked at him, startled; but the composed, non-committal expression of his face led her to believe that her ears had deceived her.
A few more blocks were passed, and they stopped at a pretentious, many-windowed, Queen Anne house. Ruth ran lightly up the steps, her cousin following her leisurely.
She had scarcely rung the bell when the door was opened by Mrs. Lewis herself.
“Good-evening, Ruth; why, Mr. Arnold doesn’t mean to say that he does us the honor?”
Mr. Arnold had said nothing of the kind; but he offered no disclaimer, and giving her rather a loose hand-shake, walked in.
“Come right into the dining-room,” she continued. “I suppose you were surprised to find me in the hall; I had just come from putting the children to bed. They were in mischievous spirits and annoyed their father, who wished to be very quiet this evening.”
By this time they had reached the room at the end of the hall, the door of which she threw open.
Jewish people, as a rule, use their dining-rooms to sit in, keeping the drawing-rooms for company only. This is always presupposing that they have no extra sitting-room. After all, a dining-room is not a bad place for the family gathering, having a large table as an objective plane for a round game, which also serves as a support for reading matter; while from an economical point of view it preserves the drawing-rooms in reception stiffness and ceremonious newness.
The apartment they entered was large and square, and contained the regulation chairs, table, and silver and crystal loaded sideboard.
Upon the mantel-piece, the unflickering light from a waxen taper burning in a glass of oil lent an unusual air of Sabbath quiet to the room.
“I have ‘Yahrzeit’ for my mother,” explained Jo Lewis, glancing toward the taper after greeting his visitors. He sat down quietly again.
“Do you always burn the light?” asked Arnold.
“Always. A light once a year to a mother’s memory is not much to ask of a son.”
“How long is it since you lost your mother?” questioned Ruth, gently.
Jo Lewis was a man with whom she had little in common. To her he seemed to have but one idea,—the amassing of wealth. With her more intellectual cravings, the continual striving for this, to the exclusion of all higher aspirations, put him on a plane too narrow for her footing. Unpolished he certainly was, but the rough, exposed grain of his unhewn nature showed many strata of strength and virility. In this gentle mood a tenderness had come into view that drew her to him with a touch of kinship.
“Thirty years,” he answered musingly,—“thirty years. It is a long time, Ruth; but every year when I light the taper it seems as if but yesterday I was a boy crying because my mother had gone away forever.” The strong man wiped his eyes.
“The little light casts a long ray,” observed Ruth. “Love builds its own lighthouse, and by its gleaming we travel back as at a leap to that which seemed eternally lost.”
Jo Lewis sighed. Presently the thoughts that so strongly possessed him found an outlet.
“There was a woman for you!” he cried with glowing eyes. “Why, Arnold, you talk of men being great financiers; I wonder what you would have said to the powers my mother showed. We were poor, but poor to a degree of which you can know nothing. Well, with a large family of small children she struggled on alone and managed to keep us not only alive, but clean and respectable. In our village Sara Lewis was a name that every man and woman honored as if it belonged to a princess. Jennie is a good woman, but life is made easy for her. I often think how grand my mother would feel if she were here, and I were able to give her every comfort. God knows how proud and happy I would have been to say, ‘You have struggled enough, Mother; life is going to be a heaven on earth to you now.’ Well, well, what is the good of thinking of it? To-morrow I shall go down town and deal with men, not memories; it is more profitable.”
“Not always,” said Arnold, dryly. The two men drifted into a business discussion that neither Mrs. Lewis nor Ruth cared to follow.
“Are you quite ready?” asked Mrs. Lewis, drawing her chair closer to Ruth’s.
“Entirely,” she replied; “we start on the 8.30 train in the morning.”
“You will be gone a month, will you not?”
“Yes; we wish to get back for the holidays. New Year’s falls on the 12th of September, and we must give the house its usual holiday cleaning.”
“I have begun already. Somehow I never thought you would mind being away.”
“Why, we always go to the Temple, you know; and I would not miss the Atonement services for a great deal.”
“Why don’t you say ‘Yom Kippur,’ as everybody else does?”
“Because ‘Atonement’ is English and means something to me. Is there anything odd about that?”
“I suppose not. By the way, if there is anything you would like to have done while you are away, let me know.”
“I think I have seen to everything. You might run in and see Louis now and then.”
“Louis,” Mrs. Lewis called instantly, “be sure to come in often for dinner while the folks are gone.”
“Thank you; I shall. The last dinner I ate with you was delicious enough to do away with any verbal invitation to another.”
He arose, seeing Ruth had risen and was kissing her cousins good-by.
Mrs. Lewis beamed with pleasure at his words.
“Now, won’t you take something before you go?” she asked. “Ruth, I have the loveliest cakes.”
“Oh, Jennie,” remonstrated Ruth, as her cousin bustled off, “we have just dined.”
“Let her enjoy herself,” observed Louis; “she is never so happy as when she is feeding somebody.”
The clink of glasses was soon heard, and Mrs. Lewis’s rosy face appeared behind a tray with tiny glasses and a plate of rich, brown-looking little cakes.
“Jo, get the Kirsch. You must try one, Ruth; I made them myself.”
When they had complimented her on her cakes and Louis had drunk to his next undertaking, suggested by Jo Lewis, the visitors departed.
They had been walking in almost total silence for a number of blocks, when Ruth turned suddenly to him and said with great earnestness,—
“Louis, what is the matter with you? For the last few days you have hardly spoken to me. Have I done anything to annoy you?”
“You? Why, no, not that I remember.”
“Then, please, before we go off, be friendly with me again.”
“I am afraid I am not of a very hilarious temperament.”
“Still, you manage to talk to others.”
“Have you cared very much who talked to you lately?”
Her cheek changed color in the starlight.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“Anything or nothing.”
Ruth looked at him haughtily.
“If nothing,” he continued, observing her askance from lowered lids, “what I am about to say will be harmless. If anything, I still hope you will find it pardonable.”
“What are you about to say?”
“It won’t take long. Will you be my wife?”
And the stars still shone up in heaven!
Her face turned white as a Niphetos rose.
“Louis,” she said finally and speaking with difficulty, “why do you ask me this?”
“Why does any man ask a woman to be his wife?”
“Generally because he loves her.”
“Well?”
If he had spoken outright, she might have answered him; but the simple monosyllable, implying a world of restrained avowal, confronted her like a wall, before which she stood silent.
“Answer me, Ruth.”
“If you mean it, Louis, I am very, very sorry.”
“Why?”
“Because I can never be your wife.”
“Why not?”
“I do not love you—like that.”
Silence for half a block, the man’s lips pressed hard together under his mustache, the girl’s heart beating suffocatingly. When he spoke, his voice sounded oddly clear in the hushed night air.
“What do you mean by ‘like that’?”
Her little hand was clinched tight as it lay on his arm. The perfect silence that followed the words of each made every movement significant.
“You know,—as a woman loves the man she would marry, not as she loves a brotherly cousin.”
“The difference is not clear to me—but—how did you learn the difference?”
“How dare you?” she cried, flashing a pair of dark, wet eyes upon him.
“In such a case, ‘I dare do all that may become a man.’ Besides, even if there is a difference, I still ask you to be my wife. You would not regret it, Ruth, I think.”
His voice was not soft, but there was a certain strained pleading about it that pained her inexpressibly.
“Louis,” she said, with slow distinctness, her hand moving down until it touched his, “I never thought of this as a possibility. You know how much I have always loved you, dear; but oh, Louis, will it hurt you very much, will you forgive me if I have to say no, I cannot be your wife?”
“Wait. I wish you to consider this well. I am offering you all that I have in the world; it is not despicable. Your family, I know, would be pleased. Besides, it would be well for you—God knows, not because I am what I am, but for other reasons. Wait. I beg of you not to answer me till you have thought it over. You know me; I am no saint, but a man who would give his life for you. I ask of you nothing but the right to guard yours. Do not answer me now.”
They had turned the corner of their block.
“I need no time,” said Ruth, with a sad sob in her voice; “I cannot marry you, Louis. My answer would be the same to-morrow or at the end of all time,—I can never, never be your wife.”
“It is then as I feared,—anything.”
The girl’s bowed head was the only answer to his bitter words.
“Well,” he said, with a hard laugh, “that ends it, then. Don’t let it bother you. Your answer has put it entirely from my mind. I should be pleased if you would forget it as readily as I shall. I hardly think we shall meet in the morning. I am going down to the club now. Good-by; enjoy yourself.”
He held out his hand carelessly; Ruth carried it in both hers to her lips. Being at the gate, he lifted his hat with a smile and walked away. Ruth did not smile; neither did Arnold when he had turned from her.
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