The Levices’ house stood well back upon its grounds, almost with an air of reserve in comparison with the rows of stately, bay-windowed houses that faced it and hedged it in on both sides. But the broad, sweeping lawns, the confusion of exquisite roses and heliotropes, the open path to the veranda, whereon stood an hospitable garden settee and chair, the long French windows open this summer’s morning to sun and air, told an inviting tale.
As Dr. Kemp ascended the few steps leading to the front door, he looked around approvingly.
“Not a bad berth for the grave little bookworm,” he mused as he rang the bell.
It was immediately answered by the “grave little bookworm” in person.
“I’ve been on the lookout for you for the past hour,” he explained, leading him into the library and turning the key of the door as they entered.
It was a cosey room, not small or low, as the word would suggest, but large and airy; the cosiness was supplied by comfortable easy-chairs, a lounge or two, a woman’s low rocker, an open piano, a few soft engravings on the walls, and books in cases, books on tables, books on stands, books everywhere. Two long lace-draped windows let in a flood of searching sunlight that brought to light not an atom of dust in the remotest corner. It is the prerogative of every respectable Jewess to keep her house as clean as if at any moment a search-warrant for dirt might be served upon her.
“Will you not be seated?” asked Levice, looking up at Kemp as the latter stood drawing off his gloves.
“Is your wife coming down here?”
“No; she is in her room yet.”
“Then let us go up immediately. I am not at leisure.”
“I know. Still I wish to ask you to treat whatever ailments you may find as lightly as possible in her presence; she has never known anxiety or worry of any kind. It will be necessary to tell only me, and every precaution will be taken.”
Here was a second one of this family of three wishing to take the brunt of the trouble on his shoulders, and the third had been bearing it secretly for some time. Probably a very united family, loving and unselfish doubtless, but the doctor had to stifle an amused smile in the face of the old gentleman’s dignified appeal.
“Still she is not a child, I suppose; she knows of the nature of my visit?” He moved toward the door.
“Ruth—my daughter, you know—was about to tell her as I left the room.”
“Then we will go up directly.”
Levice preceded him up the broad staircase. As they reached the landing, he turned to the doctor.
“Pardon my care, but I must make sure that Ruth has told her. Just step into the sitting-room a second,” and the precautious husband went forward to his wife’s bedroom, leaving the door open.
Standing there in the hallway, Kemp could plainly hear the following words:—
“And being interested in nervous diseases,” the peculiarly low voice was saying, “he told Father he would call and see you,—out of professional curiosity, you know; besides we should not like you to be often taken as you were last night, should we?”
“People with plenty of time on their hands,” soliloquized the doctor, looking at his watch in the hallway.
“What is his name, did you say?”
“Dr. Herbert Kemp.”
“What! Don’t you know that Dr. Kemp is one of the first physicians in the city? Every one knows he has no time for curiosity. Nervous diseases are his specialty; and do you think he would come without—”
“Being asked?” interrupted a pleasant voice; the doctor had remembered the flight of time, and walked in unannounced.
“Keep your seat,” he continued, as Mrs. Levice started up, the excited blood springing to her cheeks.
“You hardly need an introduction, Esther,” said Levice. “You remember Dr. Kemp from last night?”
“Yes. Don’t go, Ruth, please; Jules, hadn’t you something to do downstairs?”
Did she imagine for a moment that she could still conceal her trouble from his tender watchfulness? Great dark rings encircled her now feverishly bright eyes; her mouth trembled visibly; and as Ruth drew aside, her mother’s shaking fingers held tight to her hand.
“I have nothing in the world to do,” replied Levice, heartily; “I am going to sit right here and get interested.”
“You will have to submit to a friendly cross-examination, Mrs. Levice,” said the physician.
He drew a chair up before her and took both her hands in his. As Ruth relinquished her hold, she encountered a pair of pleasantly authoritative gray eyes, and instantly divining their expression, left the room.
She descended a few steps to the windowed landing. Here she intended joining the doctor on his way down. Probably her father would follow him; but it was her intention to intercept any such plan. A fog had arisen, and the struggling rosy beams of the sun glimmered opalescently through the density. Ruth thought it would be clear by noon, when she and her mother could go for a stirring tramp. She stood lost in thought till a firm footfall on the stairs aroused her.
“I see Miss Levice here; don’t come down,” Kemp was saying. “What further directions I have must be given to a woman.”
“Stay with Mamma, Father,” called Ruth, looking up at her hesitating father; “I shall see the doctor out;” and she quickly ran down the few remaining steps to Kemp, awaiting her at the foot. She opened the door of the library, and closing it quickly behind them, turned to him expectantly.
“Nothing to be alarmed at,” he said, answering her mute inquiry. He seated himself at the table, and drew from his vest-pocket pencil and blank. Without another glance at the girl, he wrote rapidly for some minutes; then quickly moving back his chair, he arose and handed her the two slips of paper.
“The first is a tonic which you will have made up,” he explained, picking up his gloves and hat and moving toward the door; “the other is a diet which you are to observe. As I told her just now, she must remain in bed and see no one but her immediate family; you must see that she hears and reads nothing exciting. That is all, I think.”
Indignation and alarm held riot in Ruth’s face and arrested the doctor’s departure.
“Dr. Kemp,” she said, “you force me to remind you of a promise you made me last night. Will you at least tell me what ails my mother that you use such strenuous measures?”
A flash of recollection came to the doctor’s eyes.
“Why, this is an unpardonable breach upon my part, Miss Levice; but I will tell you all the trouble. Your mother is suffering with a certain form of hysteria to a degree that would have prostrated her had we not come forward in time. As it is, by prostrating her ourselves for awhile, say a month or so, she will regain her equilibrium. You have heard of the food and rest cure?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that is what she will undergo mildly. Has she any duties that will suffer by her neglect or that will intrude upon her equanimity?”
“No necessary ones but those of the house. Under no circumstances can I conceive of her giving up their supervision.”
“Yet she must do so under the present state of affairs. Remember, her mind must be kept unoccupied, but time must be made to pass pleasantly for her. This is not an easy task, Miss Levice; but, according to my promise, I have left you to undertake it.”
“Thank you,” she responded quietly.
Kemp looked at her with a sense of calm satisfaction.
“Good-morning,” he said, holding out his hand with a smile.
As the door closed behind him, Ruth felt as if a burden had fallen from, instead of upon her. For the last twenty-four hours her apprehensions had been excessive. Now, though she knew positively that her mother’s condition needed instant and constant care, which she must herself assume, all sense of responsibility fell from her. The few quiet words of this strange physician had made her trust his strength as she would a rock. She could not have explained why it was so; but as her father remarked once, she might have said, “I trust him implicitly, because, though a man of superiority, he implicitly trusts himself.”
As she re-entered her mother’s room, her father regarded her intently.
“So we are going to make a baby of you, Mamma,” she cried playfully, coming forward and folding her arms around her mother, who lay on the lounge.
“So he says; and what he says one cannot resist.” There was an apathetic ring to her mother’s voice that surprised her. Quickly the thought flashed through her that she was too weary to resist now that she was found out.
“Then we won’t try to,” Ruth decided, seating herself on the edge of the lounge close to her mother. From his armchair, Mr. Levice noted with remorseful pride the almost matronly poise and expression of his lovely young daughter as she bent over her weary-looking mother and smoothed her hair.
“And if you are to be baby,” she continued, smiling down, “I shall have to change places with you, and become mother. You will see what a capital one I shall make. Let’s see, what are the duties? First, baby must be kept clean and sweet,—I am an artist at that; secondly, Father and the rest of us must have a perfectly appointed menage; third—”
“I do not doubt that you will make a perfect mother, my child;” the gentle meaning of her father’s words and glance caused Ruth to flush with pleasure. When Levice said, “My child,” the words were a caress. “Just believe in her, Esther; one of her earliest lessons was ‘Whatever you do, do thoroughly.’ She had to learn it through experience. But as you trust me, trust my pupil.”
The soft smile that played upon her husband’s face was reflected on Mrs. Levice’s.
“Oh, Ruth,” she murmured tremulously, “it will be so hard for you.”
This was a virtual laying down of arms, and Ruth was satisfied.
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