Arnold viewed it all with inward satisfaction. He regarded memory but as a sort of palimpsest; and he was patiently waiting until his own name should appear again, when the other's should have been sufficiently obliterated.
It was a severe winter, and everybody appreciated the luxury of a warm home. December came in wet and cold, and la grippe held the country in its disagreeable hold. The Levices were congratulating themselves one evening on their having escaped the epidemic.
"I suppose the secret of it lies in the fact that we do not coddle ourselves," observed Levice.
"If you were to coddle yourself a little more," retorted his wife, "you would not cough every morning as you do. Really, Jules, if you do not consult a physician, I shall send for Kemp myself. I actually think it is ****** you thin."
"Nonsense!" he replied carelessly; "it is only a little irritation of the throat every morning. If the weather is clear next week, I must go to New York. Eh, Louis?"
"At this time of the year!" cried Mrs. Levice, in expostulation.
"Some one has to go, and the only one that should is I."
"I think I could manage it," said Louis, "if you would see about the other adjustment while I am gone."
"No, you could not,"--when Levice said "no," it seldom meant an ultimate "yes." "Besides, the trip will do me good."
"I shall go with you," put in Mrs. Levice, decidedly.
"No, dear; you could not stand the cold in New York, and I could not be bothered with a woman's grip-sack."
"Take Ruth, then."
"I should love to go with you, Father," she replied to the questioning glance of his eyes. He seemed to ponder over it for a while, but shook his head finally.
"No," he said again; "I shall be very busy, and a woman would be a nuisance to me. Besides, I wish to be alone for a while."
They all looked at him in surprise; he was so unused to ****** testy remarks.
"Grown tired of womankind?" asked Mrs. Levice, playfully. "Well, if you must, you must; don't overstay your health and visit, and bring us something pretty. How long will you be gone?"
"That depends on the speediness of the courts. No more than three weeks at the utmost, however."
So the following Wednesday being bright and sunny, he set off; the family crossed the bay with him.
"Take care of your mother, Ruth," he said at parting, "and of yourself, my pale darling."
"Don't worry about me, Father," she said, pulling up his furred collar;
"indeed, I am well and happy. If you could believe me, perhaps you would love me as much as you used to."
"As much! My child, I never loved you better than now; remember that. I think I have forgotten everybody else in you."
"Don't, dear! it makes me feel miserable to think I should cause you a moment's uneasiness. Won't you believe that everything is as I wish it?"
"If I could, I should have to lose the memory of the last four months.
Well, try your best to forgive me, child."
"Unless you hate me, don't hurt me with that thought again. I forgive you?
I, who am the cause of it all?"
He kissed her tear-filled eyes tenderly, and turned with a sign to her mother.
They watched to the last his loved face at the window, Ruth with a sad smile and a loving wave of her handkerchief.
Over at the mole it is not a bad place to witness tragedies. Pathos holds the upper hand, and the welcomes are sometimes as heart-rending as the leave-takings. A woman stood on the ferry with a blank, working face down which the tears fell heedlessly; a man, her husband, turned from her, drew his hat down over his eyes, and stalked off toward the train without a backward glance. Parting is a figure of death in this respect, --that only those who are left need mourn; the others have something new beyond.
