Other Things Being Equal Part 32

The little white and gold clock ticked on; it was the only sound.

Levice's forehead rested upon his hand over which his silvery hair hung.

Kemp's strong face was as calm as a block of granite; Ruth's was pale with thought.

Suddenly the old man threw back his head. They both started at the revelation: great dark rings were about his eyes; his mouth was set in a strained smile.

"I--I," he cleared his throat as if something impeded his utterance,--"I have one last suggestion to make. You may have children. What will be their religion?"

The little clock ticked on; a dark hue overspread Kemp's face. As for the girl, she scarcely seemed to hear; her eyes were riveted upon her father's changed face.

"Well?"

The doctor gave one quick glance at Ruth and answered,--

"If G.o.d should so bless us, I think the simple religion of love enough for childhood. Later, as their judgment ripened, I should let them choose for themselves, as all should be allowed."

"And you, my Ruth?"

A shudder shook her frame; she answered mechanically,--

"I should be guided by my husband."

The little clock ticked on, backward and forward, and forward and back, dully reiterating, "Time flies, time flies."

"I have quite finished," said Levice, rising.

Kemp did likewise.

"After all," he said deferentially, "you have not answered my question."

"I--think--I--have," replied the old man, slowly. "But to what question do you refer?"

"The simple one,--will you give me your daughter?"

"No, sir; I will not."

Kemp drew himself up, bowed low, and stood waiting some further word, his face ashy white. Levice's lips trembled nervously, and then he spoke in a gentle, restrained way, half apologetically and in strange contrast to his former violence.

"You see, I am an old man rooted in old ideas; my wife, not so old, holds with me in this. I do not know how wildly she would take such a proposition. But, Dr. Kemp, as I said before, though I object, I shall not oppose this marriage. I love my daughter too dearly to place my beliefs as an obstacle to what she considers her happiness; it is she who will have to live the life, not I. You and I, sir, have been friends; outside of this one great difference there is no man to whom I would more gladly trust my child. I honor and esteem you as a gentleman who has honored my child in his love for her. If I have hurt you in these bitter words, forgive me; as my daughter's husband, we must be more than friends."

He held out his hand. The doctor took it, and holding it tightly in his, made answer somewhat confusedly,--

"Mr. Levice, I thank you. I can say no more now, except that no son could love and honor you more than I shall."

Levice bent his head, and turned to Ruth, who sat, without a movement, looking straight ahead of her.

"My darling," said her father, softly laying his hand on her head and raising her lovely face, "if I have seemed selfish and peculiar, trust me, dear, it was through no lack of love for you. Do not consider me; forget, if you will, all I have said. You are better able, perhaps, than I to judge what is best for you. Since you love Dr. Kemp, and if after all this thought, you feel you will be happy with him, then marry him.

You know that I hold him highly, and though I cannot honestly give you to him, I shall not keep you from him. My child, the door is open; you can pa.s.s through without my hand. Good-night, my little girl."

His voice quavered sadly over the old-time pet name as he stooped and kissed her. He wrung the doctor's hand again in pa.s.sing, and abruptly turned to leave the room. It was a long room to cross. Kemp and Ruth followed with their eyes the small, slightly stooped figure of the old man pa.s.sing slowly out by himself. As the heavy portiere fell into place behind him, the doctor turned to Ruth, still seated in her chair.

Chapter XVIII

She was perfectly still. Her eyes seemed gazing into vacancy.

"Ruth," he said softly; but she did not move. His own face showed signs of the emotions through which he had pa.s.sed, but was peaceful as if after a long, triumphant struggle. He came nearer and laid his hand gently upon her shoulder.

"Love," he whispered, "have you forgotten me entirely?"

His hand shook slightly; but Ruth gave no sign that she saw or heard.

"This has been too much for you," he said, drawing her head to his breast. She lay there as if in a trance, with eyes closed, her face lily-white against him. They remained in this position for some minutes till he became alarmed at her pa.s.sivity.

"You are tired, darling," he said, stroking her cheek; "shall I leave you?"

She started up as if alive to his presence for the first time, and sprang to her feet. She turned giddy and swayed toward him. He caught her in his arms.

"I am so dizzy," she laughed in a broken voice, looking with dry, shining eyes at him; "hold me for a minute."

He experienced a feeling of surprise as she clasped her arms around his neck; Ruth had been very shy with her caresses.

His eyes met hers in a long, strange look.

"Of what are you thinking?" he asked in a low voice.

"There is an old German song I used to sing," she replied musingly; "will you think me very foolish if I say it is repeating itself to me now, over and over again?"

"What is it, dear?' he asked, humoring her.

"Do you understand German? Oh, of course, my student; but this is a sad old song; students don't sing such things. These are some of the words: 'Beh te Gott! es war zu schoen gewesen.' I wish--"

"It is a miserable song," he said lightly; "forget it."

She disengaged herself from his arms and sat down. Some late roisterers pa.s.sing by in the street were heard singing to the tw.a.n.g of a mandolin.

It was a full, deep song, and the casual voices blended in perfect accord. As the harmony floated out of hearing, she looked up at him with a haunting smile.

"People are always singing to us; I wish they wouldn't. Music is so sad; it is like a heart-break."

He knelt beside her; he was a tall man, and the action seemed natural.

"You are pale and tired," he said; "and I am going to take a doctor's privilege and send you to bed. To-morrow you can answer better what I so long to hear. You heard what your father said; your answer rests entirely with you. Will you write, or shall I come?"

"Do you know," she answered, her eyes burning in her pale face, "you have very pretty, soft dark hair? Does it feel as soft as it looks?"

She raised her hand, and ran her fingers lingeringly through his short, thick hair.

"Why," she said brightly, "here are some silvery threads on your temples. Troubles, darling?"