She handed him a quarter, and the boy went off, gayly whistling.
She closed the heavy door softly and sat down on a chair. She recognized Louis"s handwriting on the wrapper, and her heart fluttered ominously.
She tore off the damp covering, and the first thing she encountered was another wrapper on which was written in large characters:--
DEAR RUTH,--Do not be alarmed; everything is all right. I had to leave town on the overland at 6 P.M. Read the letter first, then the telegram; they will explain.
LOUIS
The kindly feeling that had prompted this warning was appreciated; one fear was stilled. She drew out the letter; she saw in perplexity that it was from her father. She hurriedly opened it and read:
NEW YORK, Jan. 21, 188--.
DEAR LOUIS,--I am writing this from my bed, where I have been confined for the last week with pneumonia, although I managed to write a daily postal. Have been quite ill, but am on the mend and only anxious to start home again. I really cannot rest here, and have made arrangements to leave to-morrow. Have taken every precaution against catching cold, and apart from feeling a trifle weak and annoyed by a cough, am all right. Shall come home directly. Say nothing of this to Esther or Ruth; shall apprise them by telegram of my home-coming. Had almost completed the business, and can leave the rest to Hamilton.
My love to you all.
Your loving Uncle,
JULES LEVICE.
Under this Louis had pencilled,
Received this this morning at 10.30.
Ruth closed her eyes as she unfolded the telegram; then with every nerve quivering she read the yellow missive:--
RENO, Jan. 27, 188--.
LOUIS ARNOLD, San Francisco, Cal.:
Have been delayed by my cough. Feeling too weak to travel alone. Come if you can.
JULES LEVICE.
Her limbs shook as she sat; her teeth chattered; for one minute she turned sick and faint. Under the telegram Arnold had written:--
Am sure it is nothing. He has never been ill, and is more frightened than a more experienced person would be. There is no need to alarm your mother unnecessarily, so say nothing till you hear from me. Shall wire you as soon as I arrive, which will be to-morrow night.
LOUIS.
How could she refrain from telling her mother? She felt suddenly weak and powerless. O G.o.d, good G.o.d, her heart cried, only make him well!
The sound of the library door closing made her spring to her feet; her mother stood regarding her.
"What is it, Ruth?" she asked.
"Nothing," she cried, her voice breaking despite her effort to be calm,--"nothing at all. Louis has just sent me word that he had to leave town this evening, and says not to wait dinner for him."
"That is very strange," mused her mother, moving slowly toward her and holding out her hand for the note; but Ruth thrust the papers into her pocket.
"It is to me, Mamma; you do not care for second-hand love-letters, do you?" she asked, a.s.suming a desperate gayety. "There is nothing strange about it; he often leaves like this."
"Not in such weather and not after---- There won"t be a man in the house to-night. I wish your father were home; he would not like it if he knew." She shivered slightly as they went into the dining-room.
Chapter XXIII
The next day pa.s.sed like a nightmare. To add to the misery of her secret, her mother began to fidget over the continued lack of any communication from her husband. Had the weather been fair, Ruth would have insisted on her going out with her; but to the rain of the day before was added a heavy windstorm that made any unnecessary expedition from home absurd.
Mrs. Levice worried herself into a headache, but would not lie down. She was sure that the next delivery would bring something. Was it not time for the second delivery? Would not Ruth please watch for the postman?
By half-past one she took up her station at the window only to see the jaunty little rubber-encased man go indifferently by. At half-past four this scene was repeated, and then she decided to act.
"Ring up the telegraph-office, Ruth; I am going to send a despatch."
"Why, Mamma, probably the mail is delayed; it always is in winter.
Besides, you will only frighten Father."
"Nonsense; two days is a long delay without the excuse of a blockade. Go to the telephone, please."
"The telephone was broken yesterday, you know."
"I had forgotten. Well, one of the girls must go; I can"t stand it any longer."
"You can"t send any of the girls in such weather; both the maids have terrible colds, and Mary would not go if you asked her. Listen! It is frightful. I promise to go in the morning if we don"t get a letter, but we probably shall. Let us play checkers for a while." With a forced stoicism she essayed to distract her mother"s thoughts, but with poor success. The wretched afternoon drew to a close; and immediately after a show of dining, Mrs. Levice went to bed. At Ruth"s suggestion she took some headache medicine.
"It will make me sleep, perhaps; and that will be better than worrying awake and unable to do anything."
The opiate soon had its effect; and with a sigh of relief Ruth heard her mother"s regular breathing. It was now her turn to suffer openly the fox-wounds. Louis had said she would hear to-night; but at what time?
It was now eight o"clock, and the bell might ring at any moment. Mrs.
Levice slept; and Ruth sat dry-eyed and alert, feeling her heart rise to her throat every time the windows shook or the doors rattled. It was one of the wildest nights San Francisco ever experienced; trees groaned, gates slammed, and a perfect war of the elements was abroad. The wailing wind about the house haunted her like the desolate cry of some one begging for shelter. The ormolu clock ticked on and chimed forth nine.
Still her mother slept. Ruth from her chair could see that her cheeks were unnaturally flushed and that her breathing was hurried; but any degree of oblivion was better than the impatient outlook for menacing tidings. Despite the heated room, her hands grew cold, and she wrapped them in the fleecy shawl that enveloped her. The action brought to her mind the way her father used to tuck her little hands under the coverlet when a child, after they had clung around his neck in a long good-night, and how no sooner were they there than out they would pop for "just one squeeze more, Father;" how long the good-nights were with this play! She had never called him "papa" like other children, but he had always liked it best so. She brushed a few drops from her lashes as the sweet little chimer rang out ten bells; she began to grow heart-sick with her thoughts; her limbs ached with stiffness, and she began a gentle walk up and down the room. Would it keep up all night? There! surely somebody was crunching up the gravel-walk. With one look at her sleeping mother, she quickly left the room, closing the door carefully behind her. With a palpitating heart she leaned over the bal.u.s.trade; was it a false alarm, after all? The next instant there was a violent pull at the bell, as startling in the dead of the night as some supernatural summons. Before Ruth could hurry down, Nora, looking greatly bewildered, came out of her room and rushed to the door. In a trice she was back again with the telegram and had put it into Ruth"s hands.
"Fifteen cents" charges," she said.
"Pay it," returned Ruth.
As the maid turned away, she tore open the envelope. Before she could open the form, a firm hand was placed upon hers.
"Give me that," said her mother"s voice.
Ruth recoiled; Mrs. Levice stood before her unusually quiet in her white night-dress; with a strong hand she endeavored to relax Ruth"s fingers from the paper.
"But, Mamma, it was addressed to me"
"It was a mistake, then; I know it was meant for me. Let go instantly, or I shall tear the paper. Obey me, Ruth."
Her voice sounded harsh as a man"s. At the strange tone Ruth"s fingers loosened, and Mrs. Levice, taking the telegram, re-entered the room; Ruth followed her closely.