Other Things Being Equal [65]
shocked at the altered face.
"Take it away," said his master, hoarsely, rising from his chair. "I do not wish any dinner, Burke. I am going to my office, and must not be disturbed."
The man looked after him with a sadly wondering shake of his head, and went back to his more comprehensible pots and kettles.
Kemp walked steadily into his office, lit the gas, and sat down at his desk. He began to re-read the letter slowly from the beginning. It took a long time, for he read between the lines. A deep groan escaped him as he laid it down. It was written as she would have spoken; he could see the expression of her face in the written words, and a miserable empty feeling of powerlessness came upon him. He did not blame her, --how could he, with that sad evidence of her breaking heart before him? He got up and paced the floor. His head was throbbing, and a cold, sick feeling almost overpowered him. The words of the letter repeated themselves to him. "Paradise with some other, better woman," --she might have left that out; she knew better; she was only trying to cheat herself. "I too shall be happy." Not that, not some other man's wife, --the thought was demoniacal. He caught his reflection in the glass in passing. "I must get out of this," he laughed with dry, parched lips. He seized his hat and went out. The wind was blowing stiffly; for hours he wrestled with it, and then came home and wrote to her: --
I can never forgive you; love's litany holds no such word. Be happy if you can, my santa Filomena; it will help me much, --the fact that you are somewhere in the world and not desolate will make life more worth the living. If it will strengthen you to know that I shall always love you, the knowledge will be eternally true. Wherever you are, whatever the need, remember--I am at hand.
HERBERT KEMP.
Mr. Levice's face was more haggard than Ruth's when, after this answer was received, she came to him with a gentle smile, despite the heavy shadows around her eyes.
"It is all over, Father," she said; "we have parted forever. Perhaps I did not love him enough to give up so much for him. At any rate I shall be happier with you, dear."
"Are you sure, my darling?"
"Quite sure; and there is no more to be said of it. Remember, it is dead and buried; we must never remind each other of it again. Kiss me, Father, and forget that it has been."
Mr. Levice drew a long sigh, partly of relief, partly of pain, as he looked into her lovely, resolute face.
Chapter XX
We do not live wholly through ourselves. What is called fate is but the outcome of the spinning of other individuals twisted into the woof of our own making; so no life should be judged as a unit.
Ruth Levice was not alone in the world; she was neither recluse nor a genius, but a girl with many loving friends and a genial home-life. Having resolved to bear to the world an unchanged front, she outwardly did as she had always done. Her mother's zealous worldliness returned with her health; and Ruth fell in with all her plans for a gay winter, --that is, the plans were gay; Ruth's presence could hardly be termed so. The old spontaneous laugh was superseded by a gentle smile, sympathetic perhaps, but never joyous. She listened more, and seldom now took the lead in a general conversation, though there was a charm about a t te- -t te with her that earnest persons, men and women, felt without being able to define it. For the change, without doubt, was there. It was as if a quiet hand had been passed over her exuberant, happy girlhood and left a serious, thoughtful woman in its stead. A subtile change like this is not speedily noticed by outsiders; it requires usage before an acquaintance will account it a characteristic instead of a mood. But her family knew it. Mrs. Levice, wholly in the dark as to the cause, wondered openly.
"You might be thirty, Ruth, instead of twenty-two, by the staidness of your demeanor. While other girls are laughing and chatting as girls should, you look on with the tolerant dignity of a woman of
"Take it away," said his master, hoarsely, rising from his chair. "I do not wish any dinner, Burke. I am going to my office, and must not be disturbed."
The man looked after him with a sadly wondering shake of his head, and went back to his more comprehensible pots and kettles.
Kemp walked steadily into his office, lit the gas, and sat down at his desk. He began to re-read the letter slowly from the beginning. It took a long time, for he read between the lines. A deep groan escaped him as he laid it down. It was written as she would have spoken; he could see the expression of her face in the written words, and a miserable empty feeling of powerlessness came upon him. He did not blame her, --how could he, with that sad evidence of her breaking heart before him? He got up and paced the floor. His head was throbbing, and a cold, sick feeling almost overpowered him. The words of the letter repeated themselves to him. "Paradise with some other, better woman," --she might have left that out; she knew better; she was only trying to cheat herself. "I too shall be happy." Not that, not some other man's wife, --the thought was demoniacal. He caught his reflection in the glass in passing. "I must get out of this," he laughed with dry, parched lips. He seized his hat and went out. The wind was blowing stiffly; for hours he wrestled with it, and then came home and wrote to her: --
I can never forgive you; love's litany holds no such word. Be happy if you can, my santa Filomena; it will help me much, --the fact that you are somewhere in the world and not desolate will make life more worth the living. If it will strengthen you to know that I shall always love you, the knowledge will be eternally true. Wherever you are, whatever the need, remember--I am at hand.
HERBERT KEMP.
Mr. Levice's face was more haggard than Ruth's when, after this answer was received, she came to him with a gentle smile, despite the heavy shadows around her eyes.
"It is all over, Father," she said; "we have parted forever. Perhaps I did not love him enough to give up so much for him. At any rate I shall be happier with you, dear."
"Are you sure, my darling?"
"Quite sure; and there is no more to be said of it. Remember, it is dead and buried; we must never remind each other of it again. Kiss me, Father, and forget that it has been."
Mr. Levice drew a long sigh, partly of relief, partly of pain, as he looked into her lovely, resolute face.
Chapter XX
We do not live wholly through ourselves. What is called fate is but the outcome of the spinning of other individuals twisted into the woof of our own making; so no life should be judged as a unit.
Ruth Levice was not alone in the world; she was neither recluse nor a genius, but a girl with many loving friends and a genial home-life. Having resolved to bear to the world an unchanged front, she outwardly did as she had always done. Her mother's zealous worldliness returned with her health; and Ruth fell in with all her plans for a gay winter, --that is, the plans were gay; Ruth's presence could hardly be termed so. The old spontaneous laugh was superseded by a gentle smile, sympathetic perhaps, but never joyous. She listened more, and seldom now took the lead in a general conversation, though there was a charm about a t te- -t te with her that earnest persons, men and women, felt without being able to define it. For the change, without doubt, was there. It was as if a quiet hand had been passed over her exuberant, happy girlhood and left a serious, thoughtful woman in its stead. A subtile change like this is not speedily noticed by outsiders; it requires usage before an acquaintance will account it a characteristic instead of a mood. But her family knew it. Mrs. Levice, wholly in the dark as to the cause, wondered openly.
"You might be thirty, Ruth, instead of twenty-two, by the staidness of your demeanor. While other girls are laughing and chatting as girls should, you look on with the tolerant dignity of a woman of