"Not only that, but I desire your most earnest attention and calm reasoning powers to be brought with you. You have not forgotten what I told you to consider, Ruth?"
"No, Father."
She felt, though in a greater degree, as she had often felt in childhood, when, in taking her to task for some naughtiness, he had worn this same sad and distant look. He had never punished her nominally; the pain he himself showed had always affected her as the severest reprimand never could have done.
She looked like a peaceful, sweet-faced nun in her simple white gown, that fell in long straight folds to her feet; not another sign of color was upon her.
A calmness pervaded her whole person as she paced the softly lighted drawing-room and waited for Kemp.
When he was shown into the room, this tranquillity struck him immediately.
She stood quite still as he came toward her. He certainly had some old-time manners, for the reverence he felt for her caused him first of all to raise her hand to his lips. The curious, well-known flush rose slowly to her sensitive face at the action; when he had caught her swiftly to him, a sobbing sigh escaped her.
"What is it?" he asked, drawing her down to a seat beside him. "Are you tired of me already, love?"
"Not of you; of waiting," she answered, half shyly meeting his look.
"I hardly expected this," he said after a pause; "has your father flown bodily from the enemy and left you to face him alone?"
"Not exactly. But really it was kind of him to keep away for a while, was it not?" she asked simply.
"It was unusually kind. I suppose, however, you will have to make your exit on his entrance."
"No," she laughed quietly; "I am going to play the role of the audience to-night. He expressly desires my presence; but if you differ--"
He looked at her curiously. The earnestness with which she had greeted him settled like a mask upon his face. The hand that held hers drew it quickly to his breast.
"I think it is well that you remain," he said, "because we agree at any rate on the main point,--that we love each other. Always that, darling?"
"Always that--love."
The low, sweet voice that for the first time so caressed him thrilled him oddly; but a measured step was heard in the hall, and Ruth moved like a bird to a chair. He could not know that the sound of the step had given her the momentary courage thus to address him.
He arose deferentially as Mr. Levice entered. The two men formed a striking contrast. Kemp stood tall, stalwart, straight as an arrow; Levice, with his short stature, his stooping shoulders, and his silvery hair falling about and softening somewhat his plain Jewish face, served as a foil to the other"s bright, handsome figure.
Kemp came forward to meet him and grasped his hand. Nothing is more thoroughly expressive than this shaking of hands between men. It is a freemasonry that women lack and are the losers thereby. The kiss is a sign of emotion; the hand-clasp bespeaks strong esteem or otherwise.
Levice"s hand closed tightly about the doctor"s large one; there was a great feeling of mutual respect between these two.
"How are you and your wife?" asked the doctor, seating himself in a low, silken easy-chair as Levice took one opposite him.
"She is well, but tired this evening, and has gone to bed. She wished to be remembered to you." As he spoke, he half turned his head to where Ruth sat in a corner, a little removed.
"Why do you sit back there, Ruth?"
She arose, and seeing no other convenient seat at hand, drew up the curious ivory-topped chair. Thus seated, they formed the figure of an isosceles triangle, with Ruth at the apex, the men at the angles of the base. It is a rigid outline, that of the isosceles, bespeaking each point an alien from the others.
There was an uncomfortable pause for some moments after she had seated herself, during which Ruth noted how, as the candle-light from the sconce behind fell upon her father"s head, each silvery hair seemed to speak of quiet old age.
Kemp was the first to speak, and, as usual, came straight to the point.
"Mr. Levice, there is no use in disguising or beating around the bush the thought that is uppermost in all our minds. I ask you now, in person, what I asked you in writing last Friday,--will you give me your daughter to be my wife?"
"I will answer you as I did in writing. Have you considered that you are a Christian; that she is a Jewess?"
"I have."
It was the first gun and the answering shot of a strenuous battle.
"And you, my child?" he addressed her in the old sweet way that she had missed in the afternoon.
"I have also done so to the best of my ability."
"Then you have found it raised no barrier to your desire to become Dr.
Kemp"s wife?"
"None."
The two men drew a deep breath at the sound of the little decisive word, but with a difference. Kemp"s face shone exultantly. Levice pressed his lips hard together as the shuddering breath left him; his heavy-veined hands were tightly clinched; when he spoke, however, his voice was quite peaceful.
"It is an old and just custom for parents to be consulted by their children upon their choice of husband or wife. In France the parents are consulted before the daughter; it is not a bad plan. It often saves some unnecessary pangs--for the daughter. I am sorry in this case that we are not living in France."
"Then you object?" Kemp almost hurled the words at him.
"I crave your patience," answered the old man, slowly; "I have grown accustomed to doing things deliberately, and will not be hurried in this instance. But as you have put the question, I may answer you now. I do most solemnly and seriously object."
Ruth, sitting intently listening to her father, paled slowly. The doctor also changed color.
"My child," Levice continued, looking her sadly in the face, "by allowing you to fall blindly into this trouble, without warning, with my apparent sanction for any relationship with Christians, I have done you a great wrong; I admit it with anguish. I ask your forgiveness."
"Don"t, Father!"
Dr. Kemp"s clinched hand came down with force upon his knee. He was white to the lips, for though Levice spoke so quietly, a strong decisiveness rang unmistakably in every word.
"Mr. Levice, I trust I am not speaking disrespectfully," he began, his manly voice plainly agitated, "but I must say that it was a great oversight on your part when you threw your daughter, equipped as she is, into Christian society,--put her right in the way of loving or being loved by any Christian, knowing all along that such a state of affairs could lead to nothing. It was not only wrong, but, holding such views, it was cruel."
"I acknowledge my culpability; my only excuse lies in the fact that such an event never presented itself as a possibility to my imagination. If it had, I should probably have trusted that her own Jewish conscience and bringing-up would protest against her allowing herself to think seriously upon such an issue."
"But, sir, I do not understand your exception; you are not orthodox."
"No; but I am intensely Jewish," answered the old man, proudly regarding his antagonist. "I tell you I object to this marriage; that is not saying I oppose it. There are certain things connected with it of which neither you nor my daughter have probably thought. To me they are all-powerful obstacles to your happiness. Being an old man and more experienced, will you permit me to suggest these points? My friend, I am seeking nothing but my child"s happiness; if, by opening the eyes of both of you to what menaces her future welfare, I can avert what promises but a sometime misery, I must do it, late though it may be. If, when I have stated my view, you can convince me that I am wrong, I shall be persuaded and admit it. Will you accept my plan?"
Kemp bowed his head. The dogged earnestness about his mouth and eyes deepened; he kept his gaze steadily and attentively fixed upon Levice.
Ruth, who was the cause of the whole painful scene, seemed remote and shadowy.
"As you say," began Levice, "we are not orthodox; but before we become orthodox or reform, we are born, and being born, we are invested with certain hereditary traits that are unconvertible. Every Jew bears in his blood the glory, the triumph, the misery, the abjectness of Israel. The farther we move in the generations, the fainter grown the inheritance.
In most countries in these times the abjectness is vanishing; we have been set upon our feet; we have been allowed to walk; we are beginning to smile,--that is, some of us. Those whose fathers were helped on are nearer the man as he should be than those whose fathers are still grovelling. My child, I think, stands a perfect type of what culture and refinement can give. She is not an exception; there are thousands like her among our Jewish girls. Take any intrinsically pure-souled Jew from his coa.r.s.er surroundings and give him the highest advantages, and he will stand forth the equal, at least, of any man; but he could not mix forever with pitch and remain undefiled."
"No man could," observed Kemp, as Levice paused. "But what are these things to me?"