Mrs. Levice's gaze strayed pensively from the violets she was embroidering to Ruth's pale face. Every time the latter stirred, her mother started expectantly; but the anxiously awaited disclosure was not forthcoming.
Outside the rain kept up a sullen downpour, deepening the feeling of comfort indoors; but Mrs. Levice was not what one might call comfortably-minded. Her frequent inventories of Ruth's face had at last led her to believe that the pallor there depicted and the heavy, dark shadows about her eyes meant something decidedly not gladsome.
"Don't you feel well, Ruth?" she asked finally with some anxiety.
Ruth raised her heavy eyes.
"I? Oh, I feel perfectly well. Why do you ask? Do I look ill?"
"Yes, you do; your face is pale, and your eyes look tired. Did you sit up late last night?"
This was a leading move, but Ruth evaded the deeper meaning that was so evident to her now.
"No," she replied; "I believe it could not have been nine when I went upstairs."
"Why? Were you too fatigued to sit up, or was Louis's company unpleasant?"
"Oh, no," was the abrupt response, and her eyes fell on the open page again.
Mrs. Levice, once started on the trail, was not to be baffled by such tactics. Since Ruth was not ill, she had had some mental disturbance of which her weary appearance was the consequence. She felt almost positive that Louis had made some advances last night, from the flash of intelligence with which he had met her telegraphic expression. It was natural for her to be curious; it was unnatural for Ruth to be so reserved.
With feelings not a little hurt she decided to know something more.
"For my part," she observed, as if continuing a discussion, "I think Louis charming in a tete-a-tete, --when he feels inclined to be interesting he generally succeeds. Did he tell you anything worth repeating? It is a dull afternoon, and you might entertain me a little."
She looked up from the violet petal she had just completed and encountered Ruth's full, questioning gaze.
"What is it you would like to know, Mamma?" she asked in a gentle voice.
"Nothing that you do not wish to tell," her mother answered proudly, but regarding her intently.
Ruth passed her hand wearily across her brow, and considered a moment before answering.
"I did not wish to hurt you by my silence, Mamma; but before I had decided I hardly thought it necessary to say anything. He asked me to--marry him."
The avowal was not made with the conventional confusion and trembling.
Mrs. Levice was startled by the dead calm of her manner.
"You say that as if it were a daily occurrence for a man like Louis Arnold to offer you his hand and name."
"I hope not."
"But you do. I confess I think you are not one tenth as excited as I am.
Why didn't you tell me before? Any other girl would have sat up to tell her mother in the night. Oh, Ruth darling, I am so glad. I have been looking forward to this ever since you grew up. What did you mean by saying you wished to wait till you had decided? Decided what?"
"Upon my answer."
"As if you could question it, you fortunate girl! Or were you waiting for me to help you to it? I scarcely need tell you how you have been honored."
"Honor is not everything, Mamma."
At that moment a desperate longing for her mother's sympathy seized her; but the next minute the knowledge of the needless sorrow it would occasion came to her, and her lips remained closed.
"No," responded her mother, "and you have more than that; surely Louis did not neglect to tell you."
"You mean his love, I suppose, --yes, I have that."
"Then what else would you have? You probably know that he can give you every luxury within reason, --so much for honest practicality. As to Louis himself, the most fastidious could find nothing to cavil at, --he will make you a perfect husband. You are familiar enough with him to know his faults; but no man is faultless. I hope you are not so silly as to expect some girlish ideal, --for all the ideals died in the Golden Age, you know."
"As mine did. No; I have outgrown imagination in that line."
"Then why do you hesitate?" Her mother's eyes were shining; her face was alive with the excitement of hope fulfilled. "Is there anything else wanting?"
"No," she responded dully; "but let us not talk about it any more, please.
I must see Louis again, you know."
"If your father were here, he could help you better, dear;" there was no reproach in Mrs. Levice's gentle acceptance of the fact; "he will be so happy over it. There, kiss me, girlie; I know you like to think things out in silence, and I shall not say another word about it till you give me leave."
She kept her word. The dreary afternoon dragged on. By four o-clock it was growing dark, and Mrs. Levice became restless.
"I am going to my room to write to your father now, --he shall have a good scolding for the non-receipt of a letter to-day;" and forthwith she betook herself upstairs.
Ruth closed her book and moved restlessly about the room. She wandered over to the front window, and drawing aside the silken curtain, looked out into the storm-tossed garden. The pale heliotropes lay wet and sweet against the trellises; some loosened rose-petals fluttered noiselessly to the ground; only the gorgeous chrysanthemums looked proudly indifferent to the elements; and the beautiful, stately palm-tree just at the side of the window spread its gracious arms like a protecting temple. She felt suddenly oppressed and feverish, and threw open the long French window.
