"You shall pull them out," he answered, drawing her little hand to his lips.
"There, go away," she said quickly, s.n.a.t.c.hing it from him and moving from her chair as he rose. She rested her elbow on the mantel-shelf, and the candles from the silver candelabra shone on her face; it looked strained and weary. Kemp"s brows gathered in a frown as he saw it.
"I am going this minute," he said; "and I wish you to go to bed at once.
Don"t think of anything but sleep. Promise me you will go to bed as soon as I leave."
"Very well."
"Good-night, sweetheart," he said, kissing her softly, "and dream happy dreams." He stooped again to kiss her hands, and moved toward the door.
"Herbert!" His hand was on the portiere, and he turned in alarm at her strange call.
"What is it?" he asked, taking a step toward her.
"Nothing. Don"t--don"t come back, I say. I just wished to see your face.
I shall write to you. Good-night."
And the curtain fell behind him.
As he pa.s.sed down the gravel walk, a hack drew up and stopped in front of the house. Louis Arnold sprang out. The two men came face to face.
Arnold recognized the doctor immediately and drew back. When Kemp saw who it was, he bowed and pa.s.sed on. Arnold did likewise, but he went in where the other went out.
It was late, after midnight. He had just arrived on a delayed southern train. He knew the family had come home that morning. Dr. Kemp was rather early in making a visit; it had also taken him long to make it.
Louis put his key in the latch and opened the door. It was very quiet; he supposed every one had retired. He flung his hat and overcoat on a chair and walked toward the staircase. As he pa.s.sed the drawing-room, a stream of light came from beneath the portiere. He hesitated in surprise, everything was so quiet. Probably the last one had forgotten to put out the lights. He stepped noiselessly up and entered the room.
His footfall made no sound on the soft carpet as he moved about putting out the lights. He walked to the mantel to blow out the candles, but stopped, dumfounded, within a foot of it. The thing that disturbed him was the motionless white figure of his cousin. It might have been a marble statue, so lifeless she seemed, though her face was hidden in her hands.
For a moment Arnold was terrified; but the feeling was immediately succeeded by one of exquisite pain. He was a man not slow to conjecture; by some intuition he understood.
He regained his presence of mind and turned quietly to quit the room; his innate delicacy demanded it. He had but turned when a low, moaning sound arrested him; he came back irresolutely.
"Did you call, Ruth?"
Silence.
"Ruth, it is I, Louis, who is speaking to you. Do you know how late it is?"
With gentle force he drew her fingers from her face. The mute misery there depicted was pitiful.
"Come, go to bed, Ruth," he said as to a child.
She made a movement to rise, but sank back again.
"I am so tired, Louis," she pleaded in a voice of tears, like a weary child.
"Yes, I know; but I will help you." The unfamiliar, gentle quality of his voice penetrated even to her numbed senses.
She had not seen him since the night he had asked her to be his wife. No remembrance of this came to her, but his presence held something new and restful. She allowed him to draw her to her feet; and as calmly as a brother he led her upstairs and into her room. Without a question he lit the gas for her.
"Good-night, Ruth," he said, blowing out the match. "Go right to bed; your head will be relieved by sleep."
"Thank you, Louis," she said, feeling dimly grateful for something his words implied; "good-night."
Arnold noiselessly closed the door behind him. She quickly locked it and sat down in the nearest chair.
Her hands were interlaced so tightly that her nails left imprints in the flesh. She had something to consider. Oh dear, it was such a simple thing; was she to break her father"s heart, or her own and--his? Her father"s, or his.
It was so stupid to sit and repeat it. Surely it was decided long ago.
Such a long time ago, when her father"s loving face had put on its misery. Would it look that way always? No, no, no! She would not have it; she dared not; it was too utterly wretched.
Still, there was some one else at the thought of whom her temples throbbed wildly. It would hurt him; she knew it. The thought for a moment was a miserable ecstasy; for he loved her,--her, simple Ruth Levice,--beyond all doubting she knew he loved her; and, oh, father, father, how she loved him! Why must she give it all up? she questioned fiercely; did she owe no duty to herself? Was she to drag out all the rest of her weary life without his love? Life! It would be a lingering death, and she was young yet in years. Other girls had married with graver obstacles, in open rupture with their parents, and they had been happy. Why could not she? It was not as if he were at fault; no one dared breathe a word against his fair fame. To look at his strong, handsome face meant confidence. That was when he left the room.
Some one else had left the room also. Some one who had loved her all her life, some one who had grown accustomed in more than twenty years to listen gladly for her voice, to antic.i.p.ate every wish, to hold her as in the palm of a loving hand, to look for and rest on her unquestioned love. He too had left the room; but he was not strong and handsome, poor, poor old father with his small bent shoulders. What a wretched thing it is to be old and have the heart-strings that have so confidently twisted themselves all these years around another rudely cut off,--and that by your only child!
At the thought an icy quiet stole over her. How long she sat there, musing, debating, she did not know. When the gray dawn broke, she rose up calmly and seated herself at her writing-table. She wrote steadily for some time without erasing a single word. She addressed the envelope without a falter over the name.
"That is over," she said audibly and deliberately.
A c.o.c.k crowed. It was the beginning of another day.
Chapter XIX
Dr. Kemp tossed the reins to his man, sprang from his carriage, and hurried into his house. "Burke!" he called while closing the door, "Burke!" He walked toward the back of the house and into the kitchen, still calling. Finding it empty, he walked back again and began a still hunt about the pieces of furniture in the various rooms. Being unsuccessful, he went into his bedroom, made a hasty toilet, and hurried again to the kitchen.
"Where have you been, Burke?" he exclaimed as that spare-looking personage turned, spoon in hand, from the range.
"Right here, General," he replied in surprise, "except when I went out."
"Well; did any mail come here for me?"
"One little Billy-do, General. I put it under your dinner-plate; and shall I serve the soup?" the last was bellowed after his master"s retreating form.
"Wait till I ring," he called back.
He lifted his solitary plate, s.n.a.t.c.hed up the little letter, and sat down hastily, conscious of a slight excitement.
His name and address stared at him from the white envelope in a round, firm hand. There was something about the loop-letters that reminded him of her, and he pa.s.sed his hand caressingly over the surface. He did not break the seal for some minutes,--antic.i.p.ation is sometimes sweeter than realization. Finally it was done, but he closed his eyes for a second,--a boyish trick of his that had survived when he wished some expected pleasure to spring suddenly upon him. How would she address him? The memory of their last meeting gave him courage, and he opened his eyes. The denouement was disconcerting. Directly under the tiny white monogram she had begun without heading of any description:--
It was cruel of me to let you go as I did: you were hopeful when you left. I led you to this state for a purely selfish reason. After all, it saved you the anguish of knowing it was a final farewell; for even then I knew it could never be. Never! Forever!--do you know the meaning of those two long words? I do. They have burned themselves irrevocably into my brain; try to understand them,--they are final.
I retract nothing that I said to my father in your presence; you know exactly how I still consider what is separating us. I am wrong. Only I am causing this separation; no one else could or would. Do not blame my father; if he were to see me writing thus he would beg me to desist; he would think I am sacrificing my happiness for him. I have no doubt you think so now. Let me try to make you understand how different it really is. I am no Jephthah"s daughter,--he wants no sacrifice, and I make none. Duty, the hardest word to learn, is not leading me. You heard my father"s words; but not holding him as I do, his face could not recoil upon your heart like a death"s hand.
I am trying to write coherently and to the point: see what a coward I am! Let me say it now,--I could never be happy with you. Do you remember Shylock,--the old man who withdrew from the merry-making with a breaking heart? I could not make merry while he wept; my heart would weep also.
You see how selfish I am; I am doing it for my own sake, and for no one"s else.
And that is why I ask you now to forgive me,--because I am not n.o.ble enough to consider you when my happiness is at stake. I suppose I am a light person seemingly to play thus with a man"s heart. If this reflection can rob you of regret, think me so. Does it sound presumptuous or ironical for me to say I shall pray you may be happy without me? Well, it is said hearts do not break for love,--that is, not quickly. If you will just think of what I have done, surely you will not regret your release; you may yet find a paradise with some other and better woman. No, I am not harsh or unreasonable; even I expect to be happy. Why should not you, then,--you, a man; I, a woman? Forget me. In your busy, full life this should be easy. Trust me, no woman is worthy of spoiling your life for you.