Everybody remembers the sad old comedy, as differently interpreted in its graver sentiment as there are different interpreters. Ruth had seen one who made of Shylock merely a fawning, mercenary, loveless, blood-thirsty wretch. She had seen another who presented a man of quick wit, ready tongue, great dignity, greater vengeance, silent of love, wordy of hate.
Booth, without throwing any romantic glamour on the Jew, showed him as God and man, but mostly man, had made him: an old Jew, grown bitter in the world's disfavor through fault of race; grown old in strife for the only worldly power vouchsafed him, --gold; grown old with but one human love to lighten his hard existence; a man who, at length, shorn of his two loves through the same medium that robbed him of his manly birthright, now turned fiend, endeavors with tooth and nail to wreak the smouldering vengeance of a lifetime upon the chance representative of an inexorable persecution.
All through the performance Ruth sat a silent, attentive listener. Kemp, with his ready laugh at Gratiano's sallies, would turn a quick look at her for sympathy; he was rather surprised at the grave, unsmiling face beside him. When, however, the old Jew staggered alone and almost blindly from the triumphantly smiling court-room, a little pinch on his arm decidedly startled him.
He lowered his glass and turned round on her so suddenly that Ruth started.
"Oh," she faltered, "I--I beg your pardon; I had forgotten you were not Louis."
"I do not mind in the least," he assured her easily.
The last act passes merrily and quickly; only the severe, great things of life move slowly.
As the doctor and Ruth made their way through the crowded lobby, the latter thought she had never seen so many acquaintances, each of whom turned an interested look at her stalwart escort. Of this she was perfectly aware, but the same human interest with which Kemp's acquaintances regarded her passed by her unnoticed.
A moment later they were in the fresh, open air.
"How beautiful it is!" said Ruth, looking up at the stars. "The wind has entirely died away."
"'On such a night,'" quoth Kemp, as they approached the curb, "a closed carriage seems out of season."
"And reason," supplemented Ruth, while the doctor opened the door rather slowly. She glanced at him hesitatingly.
"Would you--" she began.
"Right! I would!" The door was banged to.
"John," he said, looking up at his man in the box, "take this trap round to the stable; I shall not need the horses again to-night."
John touched his hat, and Kemp drew his companion's little hand through his arm.
"Well," he said, as they turned the corner, "Were you satisfied with the great man to-night?"
"Yes," she replied meditatively, "fully; there was no exaggeration, --it was all quite natural."
"Except Jessica in boy's clothes."
"Don't mention her, please; I detest her."
"And yet she spoke quite prettily on the night."
"I did not hear her."
"Why, where were you while all the world was ****** merry on the stage?"
"Not with them; I was with the weary, heart-broken old man who passed out when joy began."
"Ah! I fancied you did not half appreciate Gratiano's jesting. Miss Levice, I am afraid you allow the sorry things of life to take too strong a hold on you. It is not right. I assure you for every tear there is a laugh, and you must learn to forget the former in the latter."
"I am sorry," replied Ruth, quite sadly; "but I fear I cannot learn that, --tears are always stronger than laughter. How could I listen to the others' nonsense when my heart was sobbing with that lonely old man?
Forgive me, but I cannot forget him."
They walked along silently for some time. Instinctively, each felt the perfect accord with which they kept step. Ruth's little ear was just about on a level with the doctor's chin. He hardly felt the soft touch of her hand upon his sleeve; but as he looked at the white profile of her cheek against the dark fur of her collar, the knowledge that she was there was a pleasing one.
"Did you consider the length of our walk when you fell in with my desire?" he asked presently.
"I like a long walk in pleasant weather; I never tire of walking."
"You have found the essentials of a good pedestrian, --health and strength."
"Yes; if everybody were like me, all your skill would be thrown away, --I am never ill."
"Apparently there is no reason why you should be, with common-sense to back your blessings. If common-sense could be bought at the drug-store, I should be rid of a great many patients."
"That reminds me of a snatch of conversation I once overheard between my mother and a doctor's wife. I am reminded of it because the spirit of your meaning is diametrically opposed to her own. After some talk my mother asked, 'And how is the doctor?' 'Oh,' replied the visitor, with a long sigh, 'he's well enough in body, but he's blue, terribly blue; everybody is so well, you know.'"
"Her sentiment was more human than humane," laughed Kemp. He was glad to see that she had roused herself from her sad musings; but a certain set purpose he had formed robbed him now of his former lightness of manner.
He was about to broach a subject that required delicate handling; but an intuitive knowledge of the womanly character of the young girl aided him much. It was not so much what he had seen her do as what he knew she was, that led him to begin his recital.
"We have a good many blocks before us yet," he said, "and I am going to tell you a little story. Why don't you take the full benefit of my arm?
There," he proceeded, drawing her hand farther through his arm, "now you feel more like a big girl than like a bit of thistledown. If I get tiresome, just call 'time,' will you?"
"All right," she laughed. She was beginning to meet halfway this matter-of-fact, unadorned, friendly manner of his; and when she did meet it, she felt a comfortable security in it. From the beginning to the end of his short narrative he looked straight ahead.
