Other Things Being Equal Part 24

"Why, Ben!" she exclaimed.

The man's mouth slowly closed, and his hand went up to his cap.

"Begging your pardon, Miss,--I mean Her pardon,--the Lord forgive me, I took you for the Lady Madonna and the blessed Boy with the shining hair.

Now, don't be telling of me, will you?"

"Indeed, we won't; we'll keep the pretty compliment to ourselves. Have you the mail? I wonder if there is a letter for me."

Ben immediately drew out his little pack, and handed her two. It was still light enough to read; and as Ben moved on, she stood and opened them.

"This," she announced in a matter-of-course way, "is from Miss Dorothy Gwynne, who requests the pleasure of my company at a high-tea next Sat.u.r.day. That, or the hay-ride, Will? And this--this--"

It was a simple envelope addressed to

Miss RUTH LEVICE-- Beacham's-- ... County-- Cal.

It was the sight of the dashes that caused the hiatus in her sentence, and made her heart give one great rushing bound. The enclosure was to the point.

SAN FRANCISCO, Aug. 18, 188--.

MISS RUTH LEVICE:

MY DEAR FRIEND,--That you may not denounce me as too presumptuous, I shall at once explain that I am writing this at Bob's urgent desire. He has at length got the position at the florist's, and tells me to tell you that he is now happy. I dropped in there last night; and when he gave me this message, I told him that I feared you would take it as an advertis.e.m.e.nt. He merely smiled, picked up a Marechal Niel that lay on the counter, and said, "Drop this in. It's my mark; she'll understand."

So here are Bob's rose and my apology.

HERBERT KEMP.

She was pale when she turned round to the courteously waiting boy. It was a very cold note, and she put it in her pocket to keep it warm. The rose she showed to Will, and told him the story of the sender.

"Didn't I tell you," he cried, when she had finished, "a doctor has the greatest opportunity in the world to be great--and a surgeon comes near it? I say, Miss Ruth, your Dr. Kemp must be a brick. Isn't he?"

"Boys would call him so," she answered, shivering slightly.

It was so like him, she thought, to fulfil Bob's request in his hearty, friendly way; she supposed he wanted her to understand that he wrote to her only as Bob's amanuensis,--it was plain enough. And yet, and yet, she thought pa.s.sionately, it would have been no more than common etiquette to send a friendly word from himself to her mother. Still the note was not thrown away. Girls are so irrational; if they cannot have the hand-shake, they will content themselves with a sight of the glove.

And Ruth in the warm, throbbing, summer days was happy. She was not always active; there were long afternoons when mere existence was intensely beautiful. To lie at full length upon the soft turf in the depths of the small enchanted woods, and hear and feel the countless spells of Nature, was unspeakable rapture.

"Ah, Floy," she cried one afternoon, as she lay with her face turned up to the great green boughs that seemed pencilled against the azure sky, "if one could paint what one feels! Look at these silent, living trees that stand in all their grandeur under some mighty spell; see how the wonderful heaven steals through the leaves and throws its blue softness upon the twilight gloom; here at our feet nestle the soft, green ferns, and over all is the indescribable fragrance of the redwoods. Turn there, to your right, little artist, high up on that mountain; can you see through the shimmering haze a great team moving as if through the air?

It is like the vision of the Bethshemites in Dore's mystic work, when in the valley they lifted up their eyes and beheld the ark returning. Oh, Floy, it is not Nature; it is G.o.d. And who can paint G.o.d?"

"No one. If one could paint Him, He would no longer be great," answered the girl, resting her sober eyes upon Ruth's enraptured countenance.

One afternoon Ruth took a book and Ethel over the tramway to this fairy spot. It was very warm and still. Mrs. Levice had swung herself to sleep in the hammock, and Mr. Levice was dozing and talking in s.n.a.t.c.hes to the Tyrrells, who were likewise resting on the Levices' veranda. All Nature was drowsy, as Ruth wandered off with the little one, who chattered on as was her wont.

"Me and you's yunnin' away," she chatted; "we's goin' to a fowest, and by and by two 'ittle birdies will cover us up wid leaves. My! Won't my mamma be sorry? No darlin' 'ittle Ethel to pank and tiss no more. Poor Mamma!"

"Does Ethel think Mamma likes to spank her?"

"Yes; Mamma does des what she likes."

"But it is only when Ethel is naughty that Mamma spanks her. Here, sweetheart, let me tie your sunbonnet tighter. Now Ruth is going to lie here and read, and you can play hide-and-seek all about these trees."

"Can I go wound and sit on dat log by a bwook?"

"Yes."

"Oh, I's afwaid. I's dweffully afwaid."

"Why, you can turn round and talk to me all the time."

"But n.o.body'll be sitting by me at all."

"I am here just where you can see me; besides, G.o.d will be right next to you."

"Will He? Ven all yight."

Ruth took off her hat and prepared to enjoy herself. As her head touched the green earth, she saw the little maiden seat herself on the log, and turning her face sideways, say in her pleasant, piping voice,--

"How-de-do, Dod?" And having made her acknowledgments, all her fears vanished.

Ruth laughed softly to herself, and straightway began to read. The afternoon burned itself away. Ethel played and sang and danced about her, quite oblivious of the heat, till, tired out, she threw herself into Ruth's arms.

"Sing by-low now," she demanded sleepily; "pay it's night, and you and me's in a yockin'-chair goin' to by-low land."

Ruth realized that the child was weary, and drawing her little head to her bosom, threw off the huge sunbonnet and ruffled up the damp, golden locks.

"What shall I sing, darling?" she mused: she was unused to singing babies to sleep. Suddenly a little kindergarten melody she had heard came to her, and she sang softly in her rich, tender contralto the swinging cradle-song:--

"In a cradle, on the treetop, Sleeps a tiny bird; Sweeter sound than mother's chirping Never yet was heard.

See, the green leaves spread like curtains Round the tiny bed, While the mother's wings, outstretching, Shield--the--tiny--head?"

As her voice died slowly into silence, she found Ethel looking over her shoulder and nodding her head.

"No; I won't tell," she said loudly.

"Tell what?" asked Ruth, amused.

"Hush! He put his finger on his mouf--sh!"

"Who?" asked Ruth, turning her head hurriedly. Not being able to see through the tree, she started to her feet, still holding the child.

Between two trees stood the stalwart figure of Dr. Kemp,--Dr. Kemp in loose, light gray tweeds and white flannel shirt; on the back of his head was a small, soft felt hat, which he lifted as she turned,--a wave of color springing to his cheek with the action. As for Ruth,--a woman's face dare not speak sometimes.

"Did I startle you?" he asked, coming slowly forward, hat in hand, the golden shafts of the sun falling upon his head and figure.

"Yes," she answered, trying to speak calmly, and failing, dropped into silence.

She made no movement toward him, but let the child glide softly down till she stood at her side.