Louis Arnold, the only other member of the Levice family, had been forced to leave town on some business the morning after Mrs. Levice's attack at the Merrill reception. He was, therefore, much surprised and shocked on his return a week later at finding his aunt in bed and such rigorous measures for quiet in vogue.
Arnold had been an inmate of the house for the past twelve years. He was a direct importation from France, which he had left just before attaining his majority, the glory of soldier-life not proving seductive to his imagination. He had no sooner taken up his abode with his uncle than he was regarded as the most useful and ornamental piece of foreign vertu in the beautiful house.
Being a business man by nature, keen, wary, and indefatigable, he was soon able to take almost the entire charge of Levice's affairs. In a few years his uncle ceased to question his business capabilities. From the time he arrived, he naturally fell into the position of his aunt's escort, thus again relieving Levice, who preferred the quieter life.
When Ruth began to go into society, his presence was almost a necessity, as Jewish etiquette, or rather Jewish espionage, forbids a young man unattached by blood or intentions to appear as the attendant of a single woman. This is one of the ways Jewish heads of families have got into for keeping the young people apart, --making cowards of the young men, and depriving the young girls of a great deal of innocent pleasure.
Arnold, however, was not an escort to be despised, as Ruth soon discovered.
She very quickly felt a sort of family pride in his cool, quizzical manner and caustic repartee, that was wholly distinct from the more girlish admiration of his distinguished person. He and Ruth were great friends in a quiet, unspoken way.
They were sitting together alone in the library on the evening of his return. Mrs. Levice had fallen asleep, and her husband was sitting with her. Ruth had stolen down to keep Louis company, fearing he would feel lonesome in the changed aspect of the house.
Arnold lay at full length on the lounge; Ruth swayed backward and forward in the rocker.
"What I am surprised at," he was saying, "is that my aunt submits to this confining treatment;" he pronounced the last word "tritment," but he never stopped at a word because of its pronunciation, thus adding a certain piquancy to his speech.
"You would not be surprised if you knew Dr. Kemp; one follows his directions blindly."
"So I have heard from a great many--women."
"And not men?"
"I have never happened to hold a conversation with a man on the powers of Dr. Kemp. Women delight in such things."
"What things?"
"Why, giving in to the magnetic power of a strong man."
"You err slightly, Louis; it is the power, not the giving in that we delight in, counting it a necessary part of manliness."
"Will you allow me to differ with you? Besides, apart from this great first cause, I do not understand how, after a week of it, she has not rebelled."
"I think I can answer that satisfactorily," replied his cousin, a mischievous smile parting her lips and showing a row of strong white teeth;
"she is in love."
"Also?"
"With Father; and so does as she knows will please him best. Love is also something every one loves to give in to."
"Every one who loves, you mean."
"Every one loves something or some one."
"Behold the exception, therefore." He moved his head so as to get a better view of her.
"I do not believe you."
"That--is rude." He kept his eyes meditatively fixed upon her.
"Have you made a discovery in my face?" asked the girl presently, slightly moving from his gaze.
"No," he replied calmly. "My discovery was made some time ago; I am merely going over beautiful and pleasant ground."
"Really?" she returned, flushing, "then please look away; you annoy me."
"Why should I, since you know it is done in admiration? You are a woman; do not pretend distaste for it."
"I shall certainly go upstairs if you persist in talking so disagreeably."
"Indulge me a little; I feel like talking, and I promise not to be disagreeable. Always wear white; it becomes you. Never forget that beauty needs appropriate surroundings. Another thing, ma belle cousine, this little trick you have of blushing on the slightest provocation spoils your whole appearance. Your complexion should always retain its healthy whiteness, while--"
"You have been indulged quite sufficiently, Louis. Do you know, if you often spoke to me in this manner I should soon hate you?"
"That would indeed be unfortunate. Never hate, Ruth; besides making enemies, hate is an arch enemy to the face, distorting the softest and loveliest."
"We cannot love people who calmly sit and irritate us like mocking tarantulas."
"That is exaggerated, I think. Besides, Heaven forbid our loving everybody! Never love, Ruth; let liking be strong enough for you. Love only wears out the body and narrows the mind, all to no purpose. Cupid, you know, died young, or wasted to plainness, for he never had his portrait taken after he matured."
"A character such as you would have would be unbearable."
"But sensible and wise."
"Happily our hearts need no teaching; they love and hate instinctively before the brain can speak."
"Good--for some. But in me behold the anomaly whose brain always reconnoitres the field beforehand, and has never yet considered it worth while to signal either 'love' or 'hate.'"
He rose with a smile and sauntered over to the piano. The unbecoming blush mounted slowly to Ruth's face and her eyes were bright as she watched him.
When his hands touched the keys, she spoke.
"No doubt you think it adds to your intellect to pretend independence of all emotion. But, do you know, I think feeling, instead of being a weakness, is often more clever than wisdom? At any rate, what you are doing now is proof sufficient that you feel, and perhaps more strongly than many."
He partly turned on the music-chair, and regarded her questioningly, never, however, lifting his hands from the keys as he played a softly passionate minor strain.
