The rain had ceased for the time, and she stepped out upon the veranda.
The fragrance of the rain-soaked flowers stole to her senses; the soft, sweet breeze caressed her temples; she stood still in the perfumed freshness and enjoyed its peace. By and by she began to walk up and down.
Evening was approaching, and Louis would soon be home. She had decided to meet him on his return and have it over with. She must school herself to some show of graciousness. The thing must not be done by halves or it must not be done at all. Her father's happiness; over and over she repeated it.
She went so far as to picture herself in his arms; she heard the old-time words of blessing; she saw his smiling eyes; and a gentleness stole over her whole face, a gentle nobility that made it strangely sweet. The soft patter of rain on the gravel roused her, and she went in; but she felt better, and wished Louis might come in while the mood was upon her.
It was nearing six when Mrs. Levice came back humming a song.
"I thought you would still be here. Make a light, will you, Ruth; it is as pitchy as Hades, only that smouldering log looks purgatorial."
Ruth lit the gas; and as she stood with upturned eyes adjusting the burner, her mother noticed that the heaviness had departed from her face. She sank into a rocker and took up the evening paper.
"What time is it, Ruth?"
"Twenty minutes to six," she answered, glancing at the clock.
"As late as that?" She meant to say, "And Louis not home yet?" but forbore to mention his name.
"It is raining heavily now," said Ruth, throwing a log upon the fire. Mrs.
Levice unfolded the crackling newspaper, and Ruth moved over to the window to draw down the blinds. As she stood looking out with her hand on the chair, she saw the gate swing slowly open, and a messenger-boy came dawdling up the walk as if the sun were streaming full upon him.
Ruth stepped noiselessly out, meaning to anticipate his ring. A vague foreboding drove the blood from her lips as she stood waiting at the open hall-door. Seeing the streaming light, the boy managed to accelerate his snail's pace.
"Miss Ruth Levice live here?" he asked, stopping in the doorway.
"Yes." She took the packet he handed her. "Any charges or answers?" she asked.
"Nom," answered the boy; and noticing her pallor and apprehension, "I'll shet the door for you," he added, laying his hand on the knob.
"Thank you. Here, take two cars if necessary; it is too wet to walk." 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 God, good God, 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, assuming 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.
