"No," he said again; "I shall be very busy, and a woman would be a nuisance to me. Besides, I wish to be alone for a while."
They all looked at him in surprise; he was so unused to making testy remarks.
"Grown tired of womankind?" asked Mrs. Levice, playfully. "Well, if you must, you must; don"t overstay your health and visit, and bring us something pretty. How long will you be gone?"
"That depends on the speediness of the courts. No more than three weeks at the utmost, however."
So the following Wednesday being bright and sunny, he set off; the family crossed the bay with him.
"Take care of your mother, Ruth," he said at parting, "and of yourself, my pale darling."
"Don"t worry about me, Father," she said, pulling up his furred collar; "indeed, I am well and happy. If you could believe me, perhaps you would love me as much as you used to."
"As much! My child, I never loved you better than now; remember that. I think I have forgotten everybody else in you."
"Don"t, dear! it makes me feel miserable to think I should cause you a moment"s uneasiness. Won"t you believe that everything is as I wish it?"
"If I could, I should have to lose the memory of the last four months.
Well, try your best to forgive me, child."
"Unless you hate me, don"t hurt me with that thought again. I forgive you? I, who am the cause of it all?"
He kissed her tear-filled eyes tenderly, and turned with a sign to her mother.
They watched to the last his loved face at the window, Ruth with a sad smile and a loving wave of her handkerchief.
Over at the mole it is not a bad place to witness tragedies. Pathos holds the upper hand, and the welcomes are sometimes as heart-rending as the leave-takings. A woman stood on the ferry with a blank, working face down which the tears fell heedlessly; a man, her husband, turned from her, drew his hat down over his eyes, and stalked off toward the train without a backward glance. Parting is a figure of death in this respect,--that only those who are left need mourn; the others have something new beyond.
Chapter XXI
The fire-light threw grotesque shadows on the walls. Ruth and Louis in the library made no movement to ring for lights; it was quite cosey as it was. They had both drawn near the crackling wood-blaze, Ruth in a low rocker, Arnold in Mr. Levice"s broad easy-chair.
"I surely thought you intended going to the concert this evening, Louis," she said, looking across at him. "I fancy Mamma expected you to accompany her."
"What! Voluntarily put myself into the cold when there is a fire blazing right here? Ah, no. At any rate, your mother is all right with the Lewises, and I am all right with you."
"I give you a guarantee I shall not bite; you look altogether too hard for my cannibalistic propensities."
"It is something not to be accounted soft. I think a redundancy of flesh overflows in trickling sentimentality. My worst enemy could not accuse me of either fault."
"But your best friend would not mind a little thaw now and then. One of the girls confided to me today that walking on and over-waxed floor was nothing to attempting an equal footing in conversation with you."
"I am sorry I am such a slippery customer. Does not the fire burn your face? Shall I hand you a screen?"
"No; I like to toast."
"But your complexion might char; move your chair a little forward."
"In two minutes I intend to have lights and to bring my work down. Will it make you tired to watch me?"
"Exceedingly. I prefer your undivided attention; it is not often we are alone, Ruth."
She looked up slightly startled; he seldom made personal remarks. Her pulses began to flutter with the premonition that reference to a tacitly buried secret was going to be made.
"We have been going out and receiving a good deal lately, though somehow I don"t feel festive, with Father away in freezing New York. Mamma would gladly have stayed at home to-night if Jennie had not insisted."
"You think so? I fancy she was a very willing captive; she intimated as much to me."
"How?"
"Not in words, but her eyes were interesting reading: first, capitulation to Jennie, then, in rapid succession, inspiration, command, entreaty, a challenge and retreat, all directed at me. Possibly this eloquence was lost upon you."
"Entirely. What was your interpretation?"
"Ah, that was confidential. Perhaps I even endowed her with these thoughts, knowing her desires were in touch with my own."
"It is wanton cruelty to arouse a woman"s curiosity and leave it unsatisfied."
"It is not cruelty; it is cowardice."
She gazed at him in wonder. His apple-blossom cheeks wore a rosier glow than usual. He seized a log from the box, threw it on the blaze that illumined their faces, grasped the poker, and leaning forward in his chair let it grow hot as he held it to the flames. His gla.s.ses fell off, dangling from the cord; and as he adjusted them, he caught the curious, half-amused smile on Ruth"s attentive face. He gave the fire a sharp raking and addressed her, gazing into the leaping flames.
"I was wondering why, after all, you could not be happy as my wife."
A numbness as of death overspread her.
"I think I could make you happy, Ruth."
In the pregnant silence that followed he looked up, and meeting her sad, reproachful eyes, laid down the poker softly but resolutely; there was method in the action.
"In fact, I know I could make you happy."
"Louis, have you forgotten?" she cried in sharp pain.
"I have forgotten nothing," he replied incisively. "Listen to me, Ruth.
It is because I remember that I ask you. Give me the right to care for you, and you will be happier than you can ever be in these circ.u.mstances."
"You do not know what you ask, Louis. Even if I could, you would never be satisfied."
"Try me, Ruth," he entreated.
She raised herself from her easy, reclining position, and regarded him earnestly.
"What you desire," she said in a restrained manner, "would be little short of a crime for me. What manner of wife should I be to you when my every thought is given to another?"
His face put on the set look of one who has shut his teeth hard together.