“I understand that,” admitted the other; “but a few minutes ago you imputed a possibility to me that would be an impossibility to any gentleman. You may have heard of such happenings among some, but an event of that kind would be as removed from us as the meeting of the poles. Everything depends on the parties concerned.”
“Besides, Father,” added Ruth, her sweet voice full with feeling, “when one loves greatly, one is great through love. Can true married love ever be divided and sink to this?”
The little white and gold clock ticked on; it was the only sound. Levice’s forehead rested upon his hand over which his silvery hair hung. Kemp’s strong face was as calm as a block of granite; Ruth’s was pale with thought.
Suddenly the old man threw back his head. They both started at the revelation: great dark rings were about his eyes; his mouth was set in a strained smile.
“I--I,” he cleared his throat as if something impeded his utterance,--“I have one last suggestion to make. You may have children. What will be their religion?”
The little clock ticked on; a dark hue overspread Kemp’s face. As for the girl, she scarcely seemed to hear; her eyes were riveted upon her father’s changed face.
The doctor gave one quick glance at Ruth and answered,--
“If God should so bless us, I think the simple religion of love enough for childhood. Later, as their judgment ripened, I should let them choose for themselves, as all should be allowed.”
A shudder shook her frame; she answered mechanically,--
The little clock ticked on, backward and forward, and forward and back, dully reiterating, “Time flies, time flies.”
“I have quite finished,” said Levice, rising.
“After all,” he said deferentially, “you have not answered my question.”
“I--think--I--have,” replied the old man, slowly. “But to what question do you refer?”
“The simple one,--will you give me your daughter?”
Kemp drew himself up, bowed low, and stood waiting some further word, his face ashy white. Levice’s lips trembled nervously, and then he spoke in a gentle, restrained way, half apologetically and in strange contrast to his former violence.
“You see, I am an old man rooted in old ideas; my wife, not so old, holds with me in this. I do not know how wildly she would take such a proposition. But, Dr. Kemp, as I said before, though I object, I shall not oppose this marriage. I love my daughter too dearly to place my beliefs as an obstacle to what she considers her happiness; it is she who will have to live the life, not I. You and I, sir, have been friends; outside of this one great difference there is no man to whom I would more gladly trust my child. I honor and esteem you as a gentleman who has honored my child in his love for her. If I have hurt you in these bitter words, forgive me; as my daughter’s husband, we must be more than friends.”