It was August. The Levices had purposely postponed leaving town until the gay, merry-making crowds had disappeared, when Mrs. Levice, in the quiet autumn, could put a crown to her recovery.
Ruth had quite a busy time getting all three ready, as she was to continue the management of the household affairs until their return, a month later.
Besides which, numerous little private incidentals had to be put in running order for a month, and she realized with a pang at parting with some of her simple, sincere proteges that were this part of her life withdrawn, the rest would pall insufferably.
The evening before their departure she stood bareheaded upon the steps of the veranda with Louis, who was enjoying a post-prandial smoke. Mr. and Mrs. Levice, in the soft golden gloaming of late summer, were strolling arm-in-arm among the flower-beds. Mrs. Levice, without obviously looking toward them, felt with satisfaction that Ruth was looking well in a plain black gown which she had had no time to change after her late shopping.
She did not know that, close and isolated as the young man and woman stood, not only were they silent, but each appeared oblivious of the other's presence.
Ruth, with her hands clasped behind her, and Arnold, blowing wreaths of blue smoke into the heliotrope-scented air, looked as if under a dream-spell.
As Mrs. Levice passed within ear-shot, Ruth heard snatches of the broken sentence,-- "Jennie--good-by--to-day."
This roused her from her revery, and she called to her mother,-- "Why, I forgot to drop in at Jennie's this afternoon, as I promised."
"How annoying! When you know how sensitive she is and how angry she gets at any neglect."
"I can run out there now. It is light enough."
"But it will be dark in less than an hour. Louis, will you go out to Jennie's with Ruth?"
"Eh? Oh, certainly, if she wishes me."
"I wish you to come if you yourself wish it. I'll run in and get my hat and jacket while you decide."
Ruth came back in a few minutes with a jaunty little sailor hat on and a light gray jacket, which she handed to Louis to hold for her.
"New?" he asked, pulling it into place in the back.
"Yes," she answered; "do you like it for travelling?"
"Under a duster. Otherwise its delicate complexion will be rather freckled when you arrive at Beacham's."
He pulled his hat on from ease to respectability and followed her down to the gate. They turned the corner, walking southward toward the valley.
Mrs. Levice and her husband stood at the gate and watched them saunter off.
When they were quite out of sight, Mrs. Levice turned around and sang gayly to Mr. Levice, "'Ca va bien!'"
The other two walked on silently. The evening was perfect. To the west and sweeping toward Golden Gate a hazy glory flushed the sky rose-color and molten gold, purple and silver; and then seas of glinting pale green to the northward held the eye with their beauty. The air was soft and languorous after a very warm day; now and then a piano, violin, or mandolin sounded through open windows; the peace and beauty of rest was over all.
They continued down Van Ness Avenue a few blocks, and unconsciously turned into one of the dividing streets toward Franklin. Suddenly Arnold felt his companion start, and saw she had taken her far-off gaze from the landscape.
Following the direction of her eyes, he also straightened up. The disturbing object was a slight black column attached to a garden fence and bearing in small gold letters the simple name, Dr. Herbert Kemp.
As they approached nearer, Arnold knew of a certainty that there would be more speaking signs of the doctor's propinquity. His forecasting was not at fault.
Dr. Kemp's quaint, dark-red cottage, with its flower-edged lawn, was reached by a flight of low granite steps, at the top of which lounged the medical gentleman in person. He was not heaven-gazing, but seemed plunged in tobacco-inspired meditation of the flowers beneath him. Arnold's quick eye detected the pink flush that rose to the little ear of his cousin. The sound of their footsteps on the stone sidewalk came faintly to Kemp; he raised his eyes slowly and indifferently. The indifference vanished when he recognized them.
With a hasty movement he threw the cigar from him and ran down the steps.
"Good-evening," he called, raising his old slouch hat and arresting their evident intention of proceeding on their way. They came up, perforce, and met him at the foot of the steps.
"A beautiful evening," he said originally, holding out a cordial hand to Arnold and looking with happy eyes at Ruth. She noticed that there was a marked difference in his appearance from anything she had been used to.
His figure looked particularly tall and easy in a loose dark velvet jacket, thrown open from his broad chest; the large sombrero-like hat which had settled on the back of his head left to view his dark hair brushed carelessly backward; an unusual color was on his cheek, and a warm glow in his gray eyes.
"I hope," he went on, frankly transferring his attention to Ruth, "this weather will continue. We shall have a magnificent autumn; the woods must be beginning to look gorgeous."
"I shall know better to-morrow."
"To-morrow?"
"Yes; we leave for Beacham's to-morrow, you know."
"No, I did not know;" an indefinable shadow over-clouded his face, but he said quickly,-- "That is an old hunting-ground of mine. The river teems with speckled treasures. Are you a disciple of old Walton, Mr. Arnold?" he added, turning with courtesy to the silent Frenchman.
"You mean fishing? No; life is too short to hang my humor of a whole day on the end of a line. I have never been at Beacham's."
"It is a fine spot. You will probably go down there this year."
"My business keeps me tied to the city just at present. A professional man has no such bond; his will is his master."
"Hardly, or I should have slipped cables long ago. A restful night is an unknown indulgence sometimes for weeks."
