The next day passed like a nightmare. To add to the misery of her secret, her mother began to fidget over the continued lack of any communication from her husband. Had the weather been fair, Ruth would have insisted on her going out with her; but to the rain of the day before was added a heavy windstorm that made any unnecessary expedition from home absurd.
Mrs. Levice worried herself into a headache, but would not lie down. She was sure that the next delivery would bring something. Was it not time for the second delivery? Would not Ruth please watch for the postman? By half-past one she took up her station at the window only to see the jaunty little rubber-encased man go indifferently by. At half-past four this scene was repeated, and then she decided to act.
"Ring up the telegraph-office, Ruth; I am going to send a despatch."
"Why, Mamma, probably the mail is delayed; it always is in winter.
Besides, you will only frighten Father."
"Nonsense; two days is a long delay without the excuse of a blockade. Go to the telephone, please."
"The telephone was broken yesterday, you know."
"I had forgotten. Well, one of the girls must go; I can't stand it any longer."
"You can't send any of the girls in such weather; both the maids have terrible colds, and Mary would not go if you asked her. Listen! It is frightful. I promise to go in the morning if we don't get a letter, but we probably shall. Let us play checkers for a while." With a forced stoicism she essayed to distract her mother's thoughts, but with poor success. The wretched afternoon drew to a close; and immediately after a show of dining, Mrs. Levice went to bed. At Ruth's suggestion she took some headache medicine.
"It will make me sleep, perhaps; and that will be better than worrying awake and unable to do anything."
The opiate soon had its effect; and with a sigh of relief Ruth heard her mother's regular breathing. It was now her turn to suffer openly the fox-wounds. Louis had said she would hear to-night; but at what time? It was now eight o'clock, and the bell might ring at any moment. Mrs. Levice slept; and Ruth sat dry-eyed and alert, feeling her heart rise to her throat every time the windows shook or the doors rattled. It was one of the wildest nights San Francisco ever experienced; trees groaned, gates slammed, and a perfect war of the elements was abroad. The wailing wind about the house haunted her like the desolate cry of some one begging for shelter. The ormolu clock ticked on and chimed forth nine. Still her mother slept. Ruth from her chair could see that her cheeks were unnaturally flushed and that her breathing was hurried; but any degree of oblivion was better than the impatient outlook for menacing tidings.
Despite the heated room, her hands grew cold, and she wrapped them in the fleecy shawl that enveloped her. The action brought to her mind the way her father used to tuck her little hands under the coverlet when a child, after they had clung around his neck in a long good-night, and how no sooner were they there than out they would pop for "just one squeeze more, Father;" how long the good-nights were with this play! She had never called him "papa" like other children, but he had always liked it best so.
She brushed a few drops from her lashes as the sweet little chimer rang out ten bells; she began to grow heart-sick with her thoughts; her limbs ached with stiffness, and she began a gentle walk up and down the room. Would it keep up all night? There! surely somebody was crunching up the gravel-walk. With one look at her sleeping mother, she quickly left the room, closing the door carefully behind her. With a palpitating heart she leaned over the balustrade; was it a false alarm, after all? The next instant there was a violent pull at the bell, as startling in the dead of the night as some supernatural summons. Before Ruth could hurry down, Nora, looking greatly bewildered, came out of her room and rushed to the door. In a trice she was back again with the telegram and had put it into Ruth's hands.
"Fifteen cents' charges," she said.
"Pay it," returned Ruth.
As the maid turned away, she tore open the envelope. Before she could open the form, a firm hand was placed upon hers.
"Give me that," said her mother's voice.
Ruth recoiled; Mrs. Levice stood before her unusually quiet in her white night-dress; with a strong hand she endeavored to relax Ruth's fingers from the paper.
"But, Mamma, it was addressed to me"
"It was a mistake, then; I know it was meant for me. Let go instantly, or I shall tear the paper. Obey me, Ruth."
Her voice sounded harsh as a man's. At the strange tone Ruth's fingers loosened, and Mrs. Levice, taking the telegram, re-entered the room; Ruth followed her closely.
Standing under the chandelier, Mrs. Levice read. No change came over her face; when she had finished, she handed the paper without a word to Ruth.
This was the message:-- RENO, Jan. 28, 188--
MISS RUTH LEVICE, San Francisco, Cal."
Found your father very weak and feverish and coughing continually. Insists on getting home immediately. Says to inform Dr. Kemp, who will understand, and have him at the house on our arrival at 11.30 Thursday. No present danger.
LOUIS ARNOLD
"Explain," commanded her mother, speaking in her overwrought condition as if to a stranger.
"Get into bed first, Mamma, or you will take cold."
Mrs. Levice suffered herself to be led there, and in a few words Ruth explained what she knew.
"You knew that yesterday before the train left?"
"Yes, Mamma."
"And why didn't you tell me? I should have gone to him. Oh, why didn't you tell me?"
"It would have been too late, dear."
"No, it is too late now; do you hear? I shall never see him again, and it is all your fault--what do you know? Stop crying! will you stop crying, or--"
"Mamma, I am not crying; you are crying, and saying things that are not true. It will not be too late; perhaps it is nothing but the cough. Louis says there is no danger."
