Other Things Being Equal [62]
"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 sch"n 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 passing by in the street were heard singing to the twang 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?"
"You shall pull them out," he answered, drawing her little hand to his lips.
"There, go away," she said quickly, snatching it from him and moving from her chair as he rose. She rested her elbow on the mantel-shelf, and the candles from the silver candelabra shone on her face; it looked strained and weary. Kemp's brows gathered in a frown as he saw it.
"I am going this minute," he said; "and I wish you to go to bed at once. Don't think of anything but sleep. Promise me you will go to bed as soon as I leave."
"Very well."
"Good-night, sweetheart," he said, kissing her softly, "and dream happy dreams." He stooped again to kiss her hands, and moved toward the door.
"Herbert!" His hand was on the portiere, and he turned in alarm at her strange call.
"What is it?" he asked, taking a step toward her.
"Nothing. Don't--don't come back, I say. I just wished to see your face. I shall write to you. Good-night."
And the curtain fell behind him.
As he passed down the gravel walk, a hack drew up and stopped in front of the house. Louis Arnold sprang out. The two men came face to face.
Arnold recognized the doctor immediately and drew back. When Kemp saw who it was, he bowed and passed on. Arnold did likewise, but he went in where the other went out.
It was late, after midnight. He had just arrived on a delayed southern train. He knew the family had come home that morning. Dr. Kemp was rather early in making a visit; it had also taken him long to make it.
Louis put his key in the latch and opened the door. It was very quiet; he supposed every one had retired. He flung his hat and overcoat on a chair and walked toward the staircase. As he passed the drawing-room, a stream of light came from beneath the portiere. He hesitated in surprise, everything was so quiet. Probably the last one had forgotten to put out the lights. He stepped noiselessly up and entered the room. His footfall made no sound on the soft carpet as he moved about putting out the lights. He walked to the mantel to blow out the candles, but stopped, dumfounded, within a foot of it. The thing that disturbed him was the motionless white figure of his cousin. It might have been a marble statue, so lifeless she seemed, though her face was hidden in
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 sch"n 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 passing by in the street were heard singing to the twang 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?"
"You shall pull them out," he answered, drawing her little hand to his lips.
"There, go away," she said quickly, snatching it from him and moving from her chair as he rose. She rested her elbow on the mantel-shelf, and the candles from the silver candelabra shone on her face; it looked strained and weary. Kemp's brows gathered in a frown as he saw it.
"I am going this minute," he said; "and I wish you to go to bed at once. Don't think of anything but sleep. Promise me you will go to bed as soon as I leave."
"Very well."
"Good-night, sweetheart," he said, kissing her softly, "and dream happy dreams." He stooped again to kiss her hands, and moved toward the door.
"Herbert!" His hand was on the portiere, and he turned in alarm at her strange call.
"What is it?" he asked, taking a step toward her.
"Nothing. Don't--don't come back, I say. I just wished to see your face. I shall write to you. Good-night."
And the curtain fell behind him.
As he passed down the gravel walk, a hack drew up and stopped in front of the house. Louis Arnold sprang out. The two men came face to face.
Arnold recognized the doctor immediately and drew back. When Kemp saw who it was, he bowed and passed on. Arnold did likewise, but he went in where the other went out.
It was late, after midnight. He had just arrived on a delayed southern train. He knew the family had come home that morning. Dr. Kemp was rather early in making a visit; it had also taken him long to make it.
Louis put his key in the latch and opened the door. It was very quiet; he supposed every one had retired. He flung his hat and overcoat on a chair and walked toward the staircase. As he passed the drawing-room, a stream of light came from beneath the portiere. He hesitated in surprise, everything was so quiet. Probably the last one had forgotten to put out the lights. He stepped noiselessly up and entered the room. His footfall made no sound on the soft carpet as he moved about putting out the lights. He walked to the mantel to blow out the candles, but stopped, dumfounded, within a foot of it. The thing that disturbed him was the motionless white figure of his cousin. It might have been a marble statue, so lifeless she seemed, though her face was hidden in