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J. Walker McSpadden - "The Private Memoirs and Confessions of A Justified Sinner"

Jules Verne - "De la Terre a la Lune"

Andrew Lang - "Books and Bookmen"

Rudyard Kipling - "Rewards and Fairies"

Other Things Being Equal

E >> Emma Wolf >> Other Things Being Equal




"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 making 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.


Chapter XXI

The fire-light threw grotesque shadows on the walls. Ruth and Louis in the
library made no movement to ring for lights; it was quite cosey as it was.
They had both drawn near the crackling wood-blaze, Ruth in a low rocker,
Arnold in Mr. Levice's broad easy-chair.

"I surely thought you intended going to the concert this evening, Louis,"
she said, looking across at him. "I fancy Mamma expected you to accompany
her."

"What! Voluntarily put myself into the cold when there is a fire blazing
right here? Ah, no. At any rate, your mother is all right with the
Lewises, and I am all right with you."

"I give you a guarantee I shall not bite; you look altogether too hard for
my cannibalistic propensities."

"It is something not to be accounted soft. I think a redundancy of flesh
overflows in trickling sentimentality. My worst enemy could not accuse me
of either fault."

"But your best friend would not mind a little thaw now and then. One of
the girls confided to me today that walking on and over-waxed floor was
nothing to attempting an equal footing in conversation with you."

"I am sorry I am such a slippery customer. Does not the fire burn your
face? Shall I hand you a screen?"

"No; I like to toast."

"But your complexion might char; move your chair a little forward."

"In two minutes I intend to have lights and to bring my work down. Will it
make you tired to watch me?"

"Exceedingly. I prefer your undivided attention; it is not often we are
alone, Ruth."

She looked up slightly startled; he seldom made personal remarks. Her
pulses began to flutter with the premonition that reference to a tacitly
buried secret was going to be made.

"We have been going out and receiving a good deal lately, though somehow I
don't feel festive, with Father away in freezing New York. Mamma would
gladly have stayed at home to-night if Jennie had not insisted."

"You think so? I fancy she was a very willing captive; she intimated as
much to me."

"How?"

"Not in words, but her eyes were interesting reading: first, capitulation
to Jennie, then, in rapid succession, inspiration, command, entreaty, a
challenge and retreat, all directed at me. Possibly this eloquence was
lost upon you."

"Entirely. What was your interpretation?"

"Ah, that was confidential. Perhaps I even endowed her with these
thoughts, knowing her desires were in touch with my own."

"It is wanton cruelty to arouse a woman's curiosity and leave it
unsatisfied."

"It is not cruelty; it is cowardice."

She gazed at him in wonder. His apple-blossom cheeks wore a rosier glow
than usual. He seized a log from the box, threw it on the blaze that
illumined their faces, grasped the poker, and leaning forward in his chair
let it grow hot as he held it to the flames. His glasses fell off,
dangling from the cord; and as he adjusted them, he caught the curious,
half-amused smile on Ruth's attentive face. He gave the fire a sharp
raking and addressed her, gazing into the leaping flames.

"I was wondering why, after all, you could not be happy as my wife."

A numbness as of death overspread her.

"I think I could make you happy, Ruth."

In the pregnant silence that followed he looked up, and meeting her sad,
reproachful eyes, laid down the poker softly but resolutely; there was
method in the action.

"In fact, I know I could make you happy."

"Louis, have you forgotten?" she cried in sharp pain.

"I have forgotten nothing," he replied incisively. "Listen to me, Ruth.
It is because I remember that I ask you. Give me the right to care for
you, and you will be happier than you can ever be in these circumstances."

"You do not know what you ask, Louis. Even if I could, you would never be
satisfied."

"Try me, Ruth," he entreated.

She raised herself from her easy, reclining position, and regarded him
earnestly.

"What you desire," she said in a restrained manner, "would be little short
of a crime for me. What manner of wife should I be to you when my every
thought is given to another?"

His face put on the set look of one who has shut his teeth hard together.

"I anticipated this repulse," he said after a pause; "so what you have just
assured me of does not affect my wish or my resolution to continue my
plea."

"Would you marry a woman who feels herself as closely bound to another, or
the memory of another, as if the marriage rite had been actually performed?
Oh, Louis, how could you force me to these disclosures?"

"I am seeking no disclosure, but it is impossible for me to continue silent
now."

"Why?"

"Why? Because I love you."

They sat so close together he might have touched her by putting out his
hand, but he remained perfectly still, only the pale excitement of long
repression speaking from his face; but she shrank back at his words and
raised her hand as if about to receive a blow.

"Do not be alarmed," he continued, noticing the action; "my love cannot
hurt you, or it would have killed you long ago."

"Oh, Louis," she murmured, "forgive me; I never thought you cared so much."

"How should you? I am not a man to wear my heart upon my sleeve. I think
I have always loved you; but living as familiarly as we have lived, seeing
you whenever I wished, the thought that some day this might end never
occurred to me. It was only when the possibility of some other man's
claiming your love and taking you from me presented itself, that my heart
rose up in arms against it, --and then I asked you to be my wife."

"Yes," she replied, raising her pale face; "and I refused. The same cause
that moved me then, and to which you submitted without protest, rules me
now, and you know it."

"No; I do not know it. What then might have had a possible issue is now
done with--or do I err?"

Her mouth trembled piteously, but no tears came as she lowered her head.

"Then listen to me. You may think me a poor sort of a fellow even to wish
you to marry me when you assure me that you love another. That means that
you do not love me as a husband should be loved, but it does not prove that
you never could love me so."

"It proves just that."

"No, you may think so now, but let me reason you into seeing the falsity of
your thought, --for I do not wish to force or impel you to do a thing
repugnant to your reason as well as to your feelings. To begin with, you
do not dislike me?"

His face was painful in its eagerness.

"I have always loved you as a dear brother."

"Some people would consider that worse than hostility; I do not. Another
question: Is there anything about my life or personality to which you
object, or of which your are ashamed?"

"You know how proud we all are of you in your bearing in every relation of
life."

"I was egotist enough to think as much at any rate; otherwise I could not
approach you so confidently. Well, love--indifferent if you will--and
respect are not a bad foundation for something stronger. Will you, for the
sake of argument, suppose that for some reason you have forgotten your
opposition and have been led into marrying me?"

The sad indulgence of her smile was not inspiriting, but he continued, --

"Now, then, say you are my wife; that means I am your husband, and I love
you. You do not return my love, you say; you think you would be wretched
with me because you love another. Still, you are married to me; that gives
me rights that no other man can possess, no matter how much you love him.
You are bound to me, I to you and your happiness; so I pledge myself to
make you happier than you are now, because I shall make you forget this
man."

"You could not, and I should only grow to hate you."

"Impossible," the pallor of his face intensifying; "because I should so act
that my love would wait upon your pleasure: it would never push itself into
another's place, but it would in time overshadow the other. For, remember,
I shall be your husband. I shall give you another life; I shall take you
away with me. You will leave all your old friends and associations for a
while, and I shall be with you always, --not intrusively, but necessarily.
I shall give you every pleasure and novelty that the Old World can afford.
I shall shower my love on you, not myself. In return I shall expect your
tolerance. In time I will make you love me."

His voice shook with the strength of his passion, while she listened in
heart-sick fear. Carried away by his manner, she almost felt as if he had
accomplished his object. He quieted down after this.

"Don't you see, Ruth, that all this change must make you forget? And if
you tried to put the past from you for no other reason than that your
wifehood would be less untrue, you would be but following the instincts of
a truly honorable woman. After that, all would be easy. In every instance
you would be forced to look upon me as your husband, for you would belong
to me. I should be the author of all your surroundings; and always keeping
in mind how I want you to regard me, I should woo you so tenderly that
without knowing it you would finally yield. Then, and only then, when I
had filled your thought to the exclusion of every other man, I should bring
you home; and I think we should be happy."

"And you would be satisfied to give so much and receive so little?"

"The end would repay me."

"It is a pretty story," she said, letting her hands fall listlessly into
her lap, "but the denouement is a castle in Spain that we should never
inhabit. You think your love is strong enough to kill mine first of all;
well, I tell you, nothing is strong enough for that. With this fact
established the rest is needless to speak of. It is only your dream,
Louis; forgive me that I unwittingly intruded into it; reality would mean
disillusion, --we are happy only when we dream."

"You are bitter."

"Our relations are turned, then; I have put into practice your old theories
of the uselessness of life. No; I am wrong. It is better to die than not
to have loved."

"You think you have lived your life, then. I can't convince you otherwise
now; but I am going to beg you to think this over, to try to imagine
yourself my wife. I will not hasten your decision, but in a week's time
you should be able to answer me yes or no. If anything can help my cause,
I cannot overlook it; so I may tell you now that for some occult reason
your mother's one wish is to see you my wife."

"And my father?" her voice was harsh now.

"Your father has expressed to your mother that such a course would make him
happy."

She rose suddenly as if oppressed. Her face looked hard to a degree. She
stood before him, tall and rigid. He stood up and faced her, reading her
face so intently that he straightened himself as if to receive an attack.

"I will consider what you have said," she said mechanically.

The reaction was so unexpected that he turned giddy and caught on to the
back of a chair to steady himself.

"It will not take me a week," she went on with no change in her monotone;
"I can give you an answer in a day or two. To-morrow night, perhaps."

He made a step forward, a movement to seize her hand; but she stepped back
and waved him off.

"Don't touch me," she cried in a suppressed voice; "at least you are not my
husband--yet."

She turned hastily toward the door without another word.

"Wait!"

His vibrant voice compelled her to turn.

"I want no martyr for a wife, nor yet a tragedy queen. If you can come to
me and honestly say, 'I trust my happiness to you,' well and good. But as
I told you once before, I am not a saint, and I cannot always control
myself as I have been forced to do tonight. If this admission is damaging,
it is too true to be put lightly aside. I shall not detain you longer."

He looked haughty and cold regarding her from this dim distance. Her
gentleness struggled to get the better of her, and she came back and held
out her hand.

"I am sorry if I offended you, Louis; good-night. Will you not pardon my
selfishness?"

His eyes gleamed behind their glasses; he did not take her hand, but merely
bent over the little peace-offering as over a sacrament. Seeing that he
had no intention of doing more, her hand fell passively to her side, and
she left the room.

As the door closed softly, Arnold sank with a hopeless gesture into a chair
and buried his face in his hands. He was not a stoic, but a man, --a
Frenchman, who loved much; but Arnold, half-blinded by his own love,
scarcely appreciated the depths of self-forgetfulness to which Ruth would
have to succumb in order to accept the guaranty of happiness which he
offered her.

The question now presented itself in the light of a duty: if by this action
she could undo the remorse that her former offence had inflicted, had she
the right to ignore the opportunity? A vision of her own sad face obtruded
itself, but she put it sternly from her. If she were to do this thing, the
motive alone must be considered; and she rigidly kept in view the fact that
her marriage would be the only means by which her father might be relieved
of the haunting knowledge of her lost peace of mind. Had she given one
thought to Louis, the possibility of the act would have been abhorrent to
her. One picture she kept constantly before her, --her father's happy
eyes.


Chapter XXII

Mrs. Levice's gaze strayed pensively from the violets she was embroidering
to Ruth's pale face. Every time the latter stirred, her mother started
expectantly; but the anxiously awaited disclosure was not forthcoming.
Outside the rain kept up a sullen downpour, deepening the feeling of
comfort indoors; but Mrs. Levice was not what one might call
comfortably-minded. Her frequent inventories of Ruth's face had at last
led her to believe that the pallor there depicted and the heavy, dark
shadows about her eyes meant something decidedly not gladsome.

"Don't you feel well, Ruth?" she asked finally with some anxiety.

Ruth raised her heavy eyes.

"I? Oh, I feel perfectly well. Why do you ask? Do I look ill?"

"Yes, you do; your face is pale, and your eyes look tired. Did you sit up
late last night?"

This was a leading move, but Ruth evaded the deeper meaning that was so
evident to her now.

"No," she replied; "I believe it could not have been nine when I went
upstairs."

"Why? Were you too fatigued to sit up, or was Louis's company unpleasant?"

"Oh, no," was the abrupt response, and her eyes fell on the open page
again.

Mrs. Levice, once started on the trail, was not to be baffled by such
tactics. Since Ruth was not ill, she had had some mental disturbance of
which her weary appearance was the consequence. She felt almost positive
that Louis had made some advances last night, from the flash of
intelligence with which he had met her telegraphic expression. It was
natural for her to be curious; it was unnatural for Ruth to be so reserved.
With feelings not a little hurt she decided to know something more.

"For my part," she observed, as if continuing a discussion, "I think Louis
charming in a tete-a-tete, --when he feels inclined to be interesting he
generally succeeds. Did he tell you anything worth repeating? It is a
dull afternoon, and you might entertain me a little."

She looked up from the violet petal she had just completed and encountered
Ruth's full, questioning gaze.

"What is it you would like to know, Mamma?" she asked in a gentle voice.

"Nothing that you do not wish to tell," her mother answered proudly, but
regarding her intently.

Ruth passed her hand wearily across her brow, and considered a moment
before answering.

"I did not wish to hurt you by my silence, Mamma; but before I had decided
I hardly thought it necessary to say anything. He asked me to--marry him."

The avowal was not made with the conventional confusion and trembling.

Mrs. Levice was startled by the dead calm of her manner.

"You say that as if it were a daily occurrence for a man like Louis Arnold
to offer you his hand and name."

"I hope not."

"But you do. I confess I think you are not one tenth as excited as I am.
Why didn't you tell me before? Any other girl would have sat up to tell
her mother in the night. Oh, Ruth darling, I am so glad. I have been
looking forward to this ever since you grew up. What did you mean by
saying you wished to wait till you had decided? Decided what?"

"Upon my answer."

"As if you could question it, you fortunate girl! Or were you waiting for
me to help you to it? I scarcely need tell you how you have been honored."

"Honor is not everything, Mamma."

At that moment a desperate longing for her mother's sympathy seized her;
but the next minute the knowledge of the needless sorrow it would occasion
came to her, and her lips remained closed.

"No," responded her mother, "and you have more than that; surely Louis did
not neglect to tell you."

"You mean his love, I suppose, --yes, I have that."

"Then what else would you have? You probably know that he can give you
every luxury within reason, --so much for honest practicality. As to Louis
himself, the most fastidious could find nothing to cavil at, --he will make
you a perfect husband. You are familiar enough with him to know his
faults; but no man is faultless. I hope you are not so silly as to expect
some girlish ideal, --for all the ideals died in the Golden Age, you know."

"As mine did. No; I have outgrown imagination in that line."

"Then why do you hesitate?" Her mother's eyes were shining; her face was
alive with the excitement of hope fulfilled. "Is there anything else
wanting?"

"No," she responded dully; "but let us not talk about it any more, please.
I must see Louis again, you know."

"If your father were here, he could help you better, dear;" there was no
reproach in Mrs. Levice's gentle acceptance of the fact; "he will be so
happy over it. There, kiss me, girlie; I know you like to think things out
in silence, and I shall not say another word about it till you give me
leave."

She kept her word. The dreary afternoon dragged on. By four o-clock it
was growing dark, and Mrs. Levice became restless.

"I am going to my room to write to your father now, --he shall have a good
scolding for the non-receipt of a letter to-day;" and forthwith she betook
herself upstairs.

Ruth closed her book and moved restlessly about the room. She wandered
over to the front window, and drawing aside the silken curtain, looked out
into the storm-tossed garden. The pale heliotropes lay wet and sweet
against the trellises; some loosened rose-petals fluttered noiselessly to
the ground; only the gorgeous chrysanthemums looked proudly indifferent to
the elements; and the beautiful, stately palm-tree just at the side of the
window spread its gracious arms like a protecting temple. She felt
suddenly oppressed and feverish, and threw open the long French window.
The rain had ceased for the time, and she stepped out upon the veranda.
The fragrance of the rain-soaked flowers stole to her senses; the soft,
sweet breeze caressed her temples; she stood still in the perfumed
freshness and enjoyed its peace. By and by she began to walk up and down.
Evening was approaching, and Louis would soon be home. She had decided to
meet him on his return and have it over with. She must school herself to
some show of graciousness. The thing must not be done by halves or it must
not be done at all. Her father's happiness; over and over she repeated it.
She went so far as to picture herself in his arms; she heard the old-time
words of blessing; she saw his smiling eyes; and a gentleness stole over
her whole face, a gentle nobility that made it strangely sweet. The soft
patter of rain on the gravel roused her, and she went in; but she felt
better, and wished Louis might come in while the mood was upon her.

It was nearing six when Mrs. Levice came back humming a song.

"I thought you would still be here. Make a light, will you, Ruth; it is as
pitchy as Hades, only that smouldering log looks purgatorial."

Ruth lit the gas; and as she stood with upturned eyes adjusting the burner,
her mother noticed that the heaviness had departed from her face. She sank
into a rocker and took up the evening paper.

"What time is it, Ruth?"

"Twenty minutes to six," she answered, glancing at the clock.

"As late as that?" She meant to say, "And Louis not home yet?" but forbore
to mention his name.

"It is raining heavily now," said Ruth, throwing a log upon the fire. Mrs.
Levice unfolded the crackling newspaper, and Ruth moved over to the window
to draw down the blinds. As she stood looking out with her hand on the
chair, she saw the gate swing slowly open, and a messenger-boy came
dawdling up the walk as if the sun were streaming full upon him.

Ruth stepped noiselessly out, meaning to anticipate his ring. A vague
foreboding drove the blood from her lips as she stood waiting at the open
hall-door. Seeing the streaming light, the boy managed to accelerate his
snail's pace.

"Miss Ruth Levice live here?" he asked, stopping in the doorway.

"Yes." She took the packet he handed her. "Any charges or answers?" she
asked.

"Nom," answered the boy; and noticing her pallor and apprehension, "I'll
shet the door for you," he added , laying his hand on the knob.

"Thank you. Here, take two cars if necessary; it is too wet to walk." She
handed him a quarter, and the boy went off, gayly whistling.

She closed the heavy door softly and sat down on a chair. She recognized
Louis's handwriting on the wrapper, and her heart fluttered ominously. She
tore off the damp covering, and the first thing she encountered was another
wrapper on which was written in large characters: --

DEAR RUTH, --Do not be alarmed; everything is all right. I had to leave
town on the overland at 6 P.M. Read the letter first, then the telegram;
they will explain.

LOUIS

The kindly feeling that had prompted this warning was appreciated; one fear
was stilled. She drew out the letter; she saw in perplexity that it was
from her father. She hurriedly opened it and read:

NEW YORK, Jan. 21, 188--.

DEAR LOUIS, --I am writing this from my bed, where I have been confined for
the last week with pneumonia, although I managed to write a daily postal.
Have been quite ill, but am on the mend and only anxious to start home
again. I really cannot rest here, and have made arrangements to leave
to-morrow. Have taken every precaution against catching cold, and apart
from feeling a trifle weak and annoyed by a cough, am all right. Shall
come home directly. Say nothing of this to Esther or Ruth; shall apprise
them by telegram of my home-coming. Had almost completed the business, and
can leave the rest to Hamilton.

My love to you all.

Your loving Uncle,

JULES LEVICE.

Under this Louis had pencilled,

Received this this morning at 10.30.

Ruth closed her eyes as she unfolded the telegram; then with every nerve
quivering she read the yellow missive: --

RENO, Jan. 27, 188--.

LOUIS ARNOLD, San Francisco, Cal.:

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