Other Things Being Equal [18]
bed. Strange to say, though she gazed at Bob, her thoughts had flown out of the room. She was dimly conscious that she was pleasantly excited. Had she cared to look the cause boldly in the face, she would have known that Miss Ruth Levice's vanity had been highly fed by Dr. Kemp's unmistakable desire for her assistance. He must at least have looked at her with friendly eyes; but here her modesty drew a line even for herself, and giving herself a mental shake, she saw that two lambent brown eyes were looking wonderingly at her from the face of the sick lad.
"How do you feel now, Bob?" she asked, rising immediately and smiling down at him.
The boy forgot to answer.
"The doctor brought me here," she went on brightly; "but as you were asleep, he could not wait. Are you feeling better, Bob?"
The soft, star-like eyes did not wander in their gaze.
"Why did you come?" he breathed finally. His voice was surprisingly musical.
"Why?" faltered Ruth. "Oh, to bring you these roses. Do you care for flowers, Bob?" She lifted the mass of delicate buds toward him. Two pale, transparent hands went out to meet them. Tenderly as you sometimes see a mother press the cheek of her babe to her own, he drew them to his cheek.
"Oh, my darlings, my darlings!" he murmured passionately, with his lips pressed to the fragrant petals.
"Do you love them, then, so much?"
"Lady," replied the boy, raising himself to a sitting posture, "there is nothing in the world to me like flowers."
"I never thought boys cared so for flowers," remarked Ruth, in surprise.
"I am a gardener," said he, simply, and again fell to caressing the roses. Sitting up, he looked fully seventeen or eighteen years old.
"You must have missed them during your illness," observed Ruth.
A long sigh answered her. The boy rested his dreamy eyes upon her. He was no longer ugly, with his thoughts illumining his face.
"Marechal Niel," she heard him whisper, still with his eyes upon her, "all in soft, radiant robes like a gracious queen. Lady, you fit well next my Homer rose."
"What Homer rose?" asked Ruth, humoring the flower-poet's odd conceit.
"My strong, brave Homer. There is none like him for strength, with all his gentle perfume folded close to his heart. I used to think these Duchesses would suit him best; but now, having seen you, I know they were too frail, --Marechal Niel." It was impossible to resent openly the boy's musings; but with a quick insistence that stemmed the current of his thoughts, she said, --
"Tell me where you suffer, Bob."
"I do not suffer. I am only weak; but he is nourishing me, and Mrs. Mills brings me what he orders."
"And is there anything you would like to have of which you forgot to tell him?"
"I never tell him anything I wish," replied the boy, proudly. "He knows beforehand. Did you never draw up close to a delicate flower, lay your cheek softly upon it, so, --close your eyes, so, --and listen to the tale it's telling? Well, that is what my good friend does always."
It was like listening to music to hear the slow, drawling words of the invalid. Ruth's hand closed softly over his.
"I have some pretty stories at home about flowers," she said; "would you like to read them?"
"I can't read very well," answered Bob, in unabashed simplicity.
Yet his spoken words were flawless.
"Then I shall read them to you," she answered pleasantly, "to-morrow, Bob, say at about three."
"You will come again?" The heavy mouth quivered in eager surprise.
"Why, yes; now that I know you, I must know you better. May I come?"
"Oh, lady!"
Ruth went out enveloped in that look of gratitude. It was the first directly personal expression of honest gratitude she had ever received; and as she walked down the hill, she longed to do something that would be really helpful to some one. She had led, on the whole, so far, an egotistic life. Being their only child, her parents expected much of her. During her school-life she had been a sort of human reservoir for all her father's ideas, whims,
"How do you feel now, Bob?" she asked, rising immediately and smiling down at him.
The boy forgot to answer.
"The doctor brought me here," she went on brightly; "but as you were asleep, he could not wait. Are you feeling better, Bob?"
The soft, star-like eyes did not wander in their gaze.
"Why did you come?" he breathed finally. His voice was surprisingly musical.
"Why?" faltered Ruth. "Oh, to bring you these roses. Do you care for flowers, Bob?" She lifted the mass of delicate buds toward him. Two pale, transparent hands went out to meet them. Tenderly as you sometimes see a mother press the cheek of her babe to her own, he drew them to his cheek.
"Oh, my darlings, my darlings!" he murmured passionately, with his lips pressed to the fragrant petals.
"Do you love them, then, so much?"
"Lady," replied the boy, raising himself to a sitting posture, "there is nothing in the world to me like flowers."
"I never thought boys cared so for flowers," remarked Ruth, in surprise.
"I am a gardener," said he, simply, and again fell to caressing the roses. Sitting up, he looked fully seventeen or eighteen years old.
"You must have missed them during your illness," observed Ruth.
A long sigh answered her. The boy rested his dreamy eyes upon her. He was no longer ugly, with his thoughts illumining his face.
"Marechal Niel," she heard him whisper, still with his eyes upon her, "all in soft, radiant robes like a gracious queen. Lady, you fit well next my Homer rose."
"What Homer rose?" asked Ruth, humoring the flower-poet's odd conceit.
"My strong, brave Homer. There is none like him for strength, with all his gentle perfume folded close to his heart. I used to think these Duchesses would suit him best; but now, having seen you, I know they were too frail, --Marechal Niel." It was impossible to resent openly the boy's musings; but with a quick insistence that stemmed the current of his thoughts, she said, --
"Tell me where you suffer, Bob."
"I do not suffer. I am only weak; but he is nourishing me, and Mrs. Mills brings me what he orders."
"And is there anything you would like to have of which you forgot to tell him?"
"I never tell him anything I wish," replied the boy, proudly. "He knows beforehand. Did you never draw up close to a delicate flower, lay your cheek softly upon it, so, --close your eyes, so, --and listen to the tale it's telling? Well, that is what my good friend does always."
It was like listening to music to hear the slow, drawling words of the invalid. Ruth's hand closed softly over his.
"I have some pretty stories at home about flowers," she said; "would you like to read them?"
"I can't read very well," answered Bob, in unabashed simplicity.
Yet his spoken words were flawless.
"Then I shall read them to you," she answered pleasantly, "to-morrow, Bob, say at about three."
"You will come again?" The heavy mouth quivered in eager surprise.
"Why, yes; now that I know you, I must know you better. May I come?"
"Oh, lady!"
Ruth went out enveloped in that look of gratitude. It was the first directly personal expression of honest gratitude she had ever received; and as she walked down the hill, she longed to do something that would be really helpful to some one. She had led, on the whole, so far, an egotistic life. Being their only child, her parents expected much of her. During her school-life she had been a sort of human reservoir for all her father's ideas, whims,