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Ilya Tolstoy - "Reminiscences of Tolstoy"

John Charles McNeill - "Songs, Merry and Sad"

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Charles Dickens - "Bleak House"

Other Things Being Equal

E >> Emma Wolf >> Other Things Being Equal




Have been delayed by my cough. Feeling too weak to travel alone. Come if
you can.

JULES LEVICE.

Her limbs shook as she sat; her teeth chattered; for one minute she turned
sick and faint. Under the telegram Arnold had written: --

Am sure it is nothing. He has never been ill, and is more frightened than
a more experienced person would be. There is no need to alarm your mother
unnecessarily, so say nothing till you hear from me. Shall wire you as
soon as I arrive, which will be to-morrow night.

LOUIS.

How could she refrain from telling her mother? She felt suddenly weak and
powerless. O God, good God, her heart cried, only make him well!

The sound of the library door closing made her spring to her feet; her
mother stood regarding her.

"What is it, Ruth?" she asked.

"Nothing," she cried, her voice breaking despite her effort to be calm, --
"nothing at all. Louis has just sent me word that he had to leave town
this evening, and says not to wait dinner for him."

"That is very strange," mused her mother, moving slowly toward her and
holding out her hand for the note; but Ruth thrust the papers into her
pocket.

"It is to me, Mamma; you do not care for second-hand love-letters, do you?"
she asked, assuming a desperate gayety. "There is nothing strange about
it; he often leaves like this."

"Not in such weather and not after_ There won't be a man in the house
to-night. I wish your father were home; he would not like it if he knew."
She shivered slightly as they went into the dining-room.


Chapter XXIII

The next day passed like a nightmare. To add to the misery of her secret,
her mother began to fidget over the continued lack of any communication
from her husband. Had the weather been fair, Ruth would have insisted on
her going out with her; but to the rain of the day before was added a heavy
windstorm that made any unnecessary expedition from home absurd.

Mrs. Levice worried herself into a headache, but would not lie down. She
was sure that the next delivery would bring something. Was it not time for
the second delivery? Would not Ruth please watch for the postman? By
half-past one she took up her station at the window only to see the jaunty
little rubber-encased man go indifferently by. At half-past four this
scene was repeated, and then she decided to act.

"Ring up the telegraph-office, Ruth; I am going to send a despatch."

"Why, Mamma, probably the mail is delayed; it always is in winter.
Besides, you will only frighten Father."

"Nonsense; two days is a long delay without the excuse of a blockade. Go
to the telephone, please."

"The telephone was broken yesterday, you know."

"I had forgotten. Well, one of the girls must go; I can't stand it any
longer."

"You can't send any of the girls in such weather; both the maids have
terrible colds, and Mary would not go if you asked her. Listen! It is
frightful. I promise to go in the morning if we don't get a letter, but we
probably shall. Let us play checkers for a while." With a forced stoicism
she essayed to distract her mother's thoughts, but with poor success. The
wretched afternoon drew to a close; and immediately after a show of dining,
Mrs. Levice went to bed. At Ruth's suggestion she took some headache
medicine.

"It will make me sleep, perhaps; and that will be better than worrying
awake and unable to do anything."

The opiate soon had its effect; and with a sigh of relief Ruth heard her
mother's regular breathing. It was now her turn to suffer openly the
fox-wounds. Louis had said she would hear to-night; but at what time? It
was now eight o'clock, and the bell might ring at any moment. Mrs. Levice
slept; and Ruth sat dry-eyed and alert, feeling her heart rise to her
throat every time the windows shook or the doors rattled. It was one of
the wildest nights San Francisco ever experienced; trees groaned, gates
slammed, and a perfect war of the elements was abroad. The wailing wind
about the house haunted her like the desolate cry of some one begging for
shelter. The ormolu clock ticked on and chimed forth nine. Still her
mother slept. Ruth from her chair could see that her cheeks were
unnaturally flushed and that her breathing was hurried; but any degree of
oblivion was better than the impatient outlook for menacing tidings.
Despite the heated room, her hands grew cold, and she wrapped them in the
fleecy shawl that enveloped her. The action brought to her mind the way
her father used to tuck her little hands under the coverlet when a child,
after they had clung around his neck in a long good-night, and how no
sooner were they there than out they would pop for "just one squeeze more,
Father;" how long the good-nights were with this play! She had never
called him "papa" like other children, but he had always liked it best so.
She brushed a few drops from her lashes as the sweet little chimer rang out
ten bells; she began to grow heart-sick with her thoughts; her limbs ached
with stiffness, and she began a gentle walk up and down the room. Would it
keep up all night? There! surely somebody was crunching up the
gravel-walk. With one look at her sleeping mother, she quickly left the
room, closing the door carefully behind her. With a palpitating heart she
leaned over the balustrade; was it a false alarm, after all? The next
instant there was a violent pull at the bell, as startling in the dead of
the night as some supernatural summons. Before Ruth could hurry down,
Nora, looking greatly bewildered, came out of her room and rushed to the
door. In a trice she was back again with the telegram and had put it into
Ruth's hands.

"Fifteen cents' charges," she said.

"Pay it," returned Ruth.

As the maid turned away, she tore open the envelope. Before she could open
the form, a firm hand was placed upon hers.

"Give me that," said her mother's voice.

Ruth recoiled; Mrs. Levice stood before her unusually quiet in her white
night-dress; with a strong hand she endeavored to relax Ruth's fingers from
the paper.

"But, Mamma, it was addressed to me"

"It was a mistake, then; I know it was meant for me. Let go instantly, or
I shall tear the paper. Obey me, Ruth."

Her voice sounded harsh as a man's. At the strange tone Ruth's fingers
loosened, and Mrs. Levice, taking the telegram, re-entered the room; Ruth
followed her closely.

Standing under the chandelier, Mrs. Levice read. No change came over her
face; when she had finished, she handed the paper without a word to Ruth.
This was the message: --

RENO, Jan. 28, 188--

MISS RUTH LEVICE, San Francisco, Cal."

Found your father very weak and feverish and coughing continually. Insists
on getting home immediately. Says to inform Dr. Kemp, who will understand,
and have him at the house on our arrival at 11.30 Thursday. No present
danger.

LOUIS ARNOLD

"Explain," commanded her mother, speaking in her overwrought condition as
if to a stranger.

"Get into bed first, Mamma, or you will take cold."

Mrs. Levice suffered herself to be led there, and in a few words Ruth
explained what she knew.

"You knew that yesterday before the train left?"

"Yes, Mamma."

"And why didn't you tell me? I should have gone to him. Oh, why didn't
you tell me?"

"It would have been too late, dear."

"No, it is too late now; do you hear? I shall never see him again, and it
is all your fault--what do you know? Stop crying! will you stop crying,
or--"

"Mamma, I am not crying; you are crying, and saying things that are not
true. It will not be too late; perhaps it is nothing but the cough. Louis
says there is no danger."

"Hush!" cried her mother, her whole figure trembling. "I know there is
danger now, this minute. Oh, what can I do, what can I do?" With this cry
all her strength seemed to give way; she sobbed and laughed with the
hysteria of long ago; when Ruth strove to put her arms around her, she
shook her off convulsively.

"Don't touch me!" she breathed; "it is all your fault--he wants me--needs
me--and, oh, look at me here! Why do you stand there like a ghost? Go
away. No, come here--I want Dr. Kemp; now, at once, he said to have him;
send for him, Ruth."

"On Thursday morning," she managed to answer.

"No, now--I must, must, must have him! You won't go? Then I shall; move
aside."

Ruth, summoning all her strength, strove to hold her in her arms, all to no
avail.

"Lie still," she said sternly; "I shall go for Dr. Kemp."

"You can't; it is night and raining. Oh," she continued, half deliriously,
"I know I am acting strangely, and he will calm me. Ruth, I want to be
calm; don't you understand?"

The two maids, frightened by the noise, stood in the doorway. Both had
their heads covered with shawls; both were suffering with heavy colds.

"Come in, girls. Stay here with my mother; I am going for the doctor."

"Oh, Miss Ruth, ain't you afraid? It's a awful night, and black as pitch,
and you all alone?" asked one, with wide, frightened eyes.

"I am not afraid," said the girl, a great calmness in her voice as she
spoke above her mother's sobbing; "stay and try to quiet her. I shall not
be gone long."

She flew into her room, drew on her overshoes and mackintosh, grasped a
sealskin hood, which she tied securely under her chin, and went out into
the howling, raging night.

She had but a few blocks to go, but under ordinary circumstances the
undertaking would have been disagreeable enough. The rain came down in
heavy, wild torrents; the wind roared madly, wrapping her skirts around her
limbs and making walking almost an impossibility; the darkness was
impenetrable save for the sickly, quavering light shed by the few
street-lamps, as far apart as angel visitants. Lowering her head and
keeping her figure as erect as possible, she struggled bravely on. She met
scarcely any one, and those she did meet occasioned her little uneasiness
in the flood of unusual emotions that overwhelmed her soul. At any other
time the thought of her destination would have blotted out every other
perception; now this was but one of many shuddering visions. Trouble was
making her hard; life could offer her little that would find her unequal to
the test. Down the broad, deserted avenue, with its dark, imposing
mansions, she hurried as if she were alone in the havocking elements. The
rain beat her and lashed her in the face; she faced it unflinchingly as a
small part of her trials. Without a tremor she ran up Dr. Kemp's steps.
It was only when she stood with her finger on the bell-button that she
realized whom she was about to encounter. Then for the first time she gave
one long sob of self-recollection, and pushed the button.

Burke almost immediately opened the door. Ruth had no intention of
entering; it would be sufficient to leave her message and hurry home.

"Who's there?" asked Burke, peering out into the darkness. "It's a divil
of a night for any one but--"

"Is Dr. Kemp in?" The sweet woman-voice so startled him that he opened the
door wide.

"Come in, mum," he said apologetically; "come in out of the night."

"No. Is the doctor in?"

"I don't know," he grumbled, "and I can't stand here with the door open."

"Close it, then, but see if he is in, please."

"I'll lave it open, and ye can come in or stay out according if ye are
dry-humored or wet-soled;" and he shuffled off. The door was open! Her
father had assured her of this once long ago. Inside were warmth and
light; outside, in the shadow, were cold and darkness. Here she stood.
Would the man never return? Ah, here he came hurrying along; she drew
nearer the door; within a half-foot she stood still with locked jaw and
swimming senses.

"My good woman," said the grave, kindly voice which calmed while it
unnerved her, "come in and speak to me here. Am I wanted anywhere? Come
in, please; the door must be closed."

With almost superhuman will she drew herself together and came closer.
Seeing the dark, moving figure, he opened the door wide, and she stepped
in; then as it closed she faced him, turning up her white, haggard face to
his.

"You!"

He recoiled as if stunned, but quickly recovered himself.

"What trouble has brought you to me?" he cried.

"My mother," she replied in a low, stifled voice, adding almost instantly
in a distant and formal tone, "can you come at once? She is suffering with
hysteria and calls you incessantly."

He drew himself up and looked at her with a cold, grand air. This girl had
been the only woman who had signally affected his life; yet if her only
recognition of it was this cold manner, he could command the same.

"I will come," he replied, looking unbendingly, with steely gray eyes, into
her white passionless face, framed in its dark hood.

She bowed her head--further words were impossible--and turned to the door.

He watched her tugging in blind stupefaction at the strange bolt, but did
not move to her assistance. Her head was bent low over the intricate
thing; but it was useless, --it would not move, and she suddenly raised her
eyes beseechingly to him; with a great revulsion of feeling he saw that
they were swimming in tears. His own lips trembled, and his heart gave a
wild leap. Then one of those unaccountable moods that sometimes masters
the best swayed him strongly.

She was alone with him there; he could keep her if he wished. One look at
her lovely, beloved face, and his higher manhood asserted itself. He
unlatched the door, and still holding it closed, said in a deferential
tone, --

"Will you not wait till I ring for my carriage?"

"I would rather go at once."

Nothing was left but for him to comply with her wishes; and as she walked
out, he quickly got himself into his proper vestments, seized a vial from
his office, and hurried after her. At this juncture the storm was
frightful. Up the street he could see come one trying ineffectually to
move on. Being a powerful man, he strode on, though the great gusts
carried his breath away. In a few minutes he came alongside of Ruth, who
was making small progress.

"Will you take my arm?" he asked quietly. "It will help you."

She drew back in alarm.

"There is no necessity," he indistinctly heard in the roar of the gale.

He kept near enough to her, however, to see her. All along this block of
Van Ness Avenue is a row of tall, heavy-foliaged eucalyptus-trees; they
tossed and creaked and groaned in the furious wind. A violent gust almost
took the two pedestrians off their feet, but not too quickly for Dr. Kemp
to make a stride toward Ruth and drag her back. At the same moment, one of
the trees lurched forward and fell with a crash upon them. By a great
effort he had turned and, holding her before him, received the greater blow
upon his back.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, bending his head so near her face that his short
wet beard brushed her cheek.

"No," she said, wresting herself from him; "I thank you--but you have hurt
yourself."

"You are mistaken," he said abruptly. "Take my arm, please."

He did not wait for her yea or nay; but drawing her arm through his, he
strode on in silence, holding it closely pinioned against his heart. When
they reached the house, they were both white and breathless. Nora opened
the door for them.

"Oh, Miss Ruth, do hurry up!" she cried, wringing her hands as the doctor
threw off his coat and hat; "all she does now is to stare at us with her
teeth all chattering."

The doctor sprang up three steps at a time, Ruth quickly following.

The room was in a blaze of light; Mrs. Levice sat up in bed, her large dark
eyes staring into vacancy, her face as white as the snowy counterpane.

Kemp looked like a pillar of strength as he came up to the bedside.

"Well?" he said, holding out his hand and smiling at her.

As he took her hand in his, she strove to speak; but the sobbing result was
painful.

"None of that!" he said sternly, laying his hand on her shoulders. "If you
try, you can stop this. Now see, I am holding you. Look at me, and you
will understand you must quiet down."

He used his well-known power of magnetism. Gradually the quivering
shoulders quieted beneath his hands; the staring eyes relaxed, and he
gently laid her head upon the pillow.

"Don't go away!" she implored piteously, as she felt his hands move from
her.

"No, indeed," he replied in a bright, soothing voice; "see, I am going to
give you a few drops of this, which will make you all right in a short
time. Now then, open your mouth."

"But, Doctor, I wish to speak to you."

"After you have taken this and rested awhile."

"And you won't go away?" she persisted.

"I shall stay right here." She obediently swallowed the dose; and as he
drew up an easy-chair and seated himself, the drawn lines on her face
relaxed.

"It is so strengthening to have you here," she murmured.

"It will be more strengthening for you to close your eyes."

Ruth, who still stood in her wet clothes, lowered the lights.

"You had better change your clothes immediately," said Kemp, in a low tone
from his chair.

She did not look at him, but at his voice she left the room.

Quickly removing her wet garments, she slipped into a loose, dull red gown.
As the dry warmth of it reached her senses, she suddenly remembered that
his feet might be wet. She lit a candle, and going into Louis's room,
appropriated a pair of slippers that stood in his closet.

It was now past midnight; but no thought of sleep occurred to her till,
entering her mother's room, she perceived in the semi-darkness that the
doctor lay back with closed eyes. He was not asleep, however, for he
opened his eyes at her light footfall. She looked very beautiful in her
unconfined gown, the red tone heightening the creamy colorlessness of her
face.

"Will you put them on?" she asked in a hushed voice, holding out the
slippers.

"You are very kind," he replied, looking with hungry eyes into her face.
Seeing that he did not take them, she placed them on the carpet. The
action recalled him to himself, and wishing to detain her, he said, --

"Do they belong to a man as big as I?"

"They are my cousin's."

She had half turned to leave.

"Ah," he returned, "and will he relish the idea of my standing in his
shoes?"

No double-entendre was intended, but Ruth's thoughts gave one miserable
bound to Arnold.

"He will be pleased to add to your comfort," spoke Mrs. Levice from the
bed, thus saving Ruth an answer.

"I do not need them," said the doctor, turning to her swiftly; "and, Mrs.
Levice, if you do not go to sleep, I shall leave."

"I want Ruth to stay in the room," she murmured petulantly.

"Very well, Mamma," said Ruth, wearily, seating herself in a low,
soft-cushioned chair in a remote corner. She knew how to sit perfectly
still. It was a peculiar situation, --the mother, who had been the means
of drawing these two together first and last, slept peacefully; and he and
she, the only waking mortals in the house, with the miserable gulf between
them, sat there without a word.

Ruth's temples throbbed painfully; she felt weak and tired; toward morning
she sank into a heavy sleep. Kemp did not sleep; he kept his face turned
from her, trying to quiet his thoughts with the dull lullaby of the rain.
But he knew when she slept; his gaze wandered searchingly around the room
till it fell upon a slumber-robe thrown across a divan. He arose softly
and picked it up; his light step made no sound in the soft carpet. As he
came up to Ruth, he saw with an inward groan the change upon her sleeping
face. Great, dark shadows lay about her eyes not caused by the curling
lashes; her mouth drooped pathetically at the corners; her temples, from
which her soft hair was rolled, showed the blue veins; he would have given
much to touch her hair with his hand, but he laid the cover over her
shoulders without touching her, and tucked it lightly about her knees and
feet. Then he went back to his chair. It was five o'clock before either
mother or daughter opened her eyes; they started up almost simultaneously.
Ruth noticed the warm robe about her, and her eyes sped to the doctor. He,
however, was speaking to Mrs. Levice, who in the dim light looked pale but
calm.

"I feel perfectly well," she was saying, "and shall get up immediately."

"Where is the necessity?" he inquired. "Lie still to-day; it is not bad
weather for staying in bed."

"Did not Ruth tell you?"

"Tell me?" he repeated in surprise.

"Of the cause of this attack?"

"No."

"Then I must. Briefly, my husband has been in New York for the past five
weeks; he suffered there with acute pneumonia for a week, told us nothing,
but hurried home as soon as possible, --too soon, I suppose. Day before
yesterday my nephew received a letter stating these facts, and, later, a
telegram asking him to come to Reno, where he was delayed, feeling too ill
to go farther alone. The first I heard of this was last night, when Ruth
received this telegram from Louis." She handed it to him.

As Kemp read, an unmistakable gravity settled on his face. As he was
folding the paper thoughtfully, Mrs. Levice addressed him again in her
unfamiliar, calm voice, --

"Will you please explain what he means by your understanding?"

"Yes; I suppose it is expedient for me to tell you at once," he said
slowly, reseating himself and pausing as if trying to recall something.

"Last year," he began, "probably as early as February, your husband came to
me complaining of a cough that annoyed him nights and mornings; he further
told me that when he felt it coming, he went to another apartment so as not
to disturb you. I examined him, and found he was suffering with the first
stages of asthma, and that one of his lungs was slightly diseased already.
I treated him and gave him directions for living carefully. You knew
nothing of this?"

"Nothing," she answered hoarsely.

"Well," he went on gently, "there was no cause for worry; if checked in
time, a man may live to second childhood with asthma, and the loss of a
small portion of a lung is not necessarily fatal. He knew this, and was
mending slowly; I examined him several times and found no increase in the
loss of tissue, while he told me the cough was not so troublesome."

"But for some weeks before he left," said Mrs. Levice, "he coughed every
morning and night. When I besought him to see a doctor, he ridiculed me
out of the idea. How did you find him before he left?"

"I have not seen Mr. Levice for some months," he replied gravely.

Mrs. Levice eyed him questioningly, but he offered no explanation.

"Then do you think," she continued, "that this asthma made the pneumonia
more dangerous?"

"Undoubtedly."

Her fingers clutched at the sheet convulsively; but the strength of her
voice and aspect remained unbroken.

"Thank you," she said, "for telling me so candidly. Then will you be here
to-morrow morning?"

"I shall manage to meet him at Oakland with a closed carriage."

"May I go with you?"

"Pardon me; but it will be best for you to receive him quietly at home.
There must be nothing whatever to disturb him. Have all ready, especially
yourself."

"I understand," she said. "And now, Doctor, let me thank you for your
kindness to me;" she held out both hands. "Will you let Ruth show you to a
room, and will you breakfast with us when you have rested?"

"I thank you; it is impossible," he replied, looking at his watch. "I
shall hurry home now. Good-morning, Mrs. Levice. There may be small cause
for anxiety; and, remember, the less excited you remain, the more you can
help him."

He turned from her.

"Ruth, will you see the doctor to the door?"

She followed him down the broad staircase, as in former days, but with a
difference. Then he had waited for her to come abreast with him, and they
had descended together, talking pleasantly. Now not a word was said till
he had put on his heavy outer coat. As he laid his hand on the knob, Ruth
spoke, --

"Is there anything I can do for my father, do you think?"

She started as he turned a tired, haggard face to hers.

"I can think of nothing but to have his bed in readiness and complete quiet
about the house."

"Yes; and--and do you think there is any danger?"

"No, no! at least, I hope not. I shall be able to tell better when I see
him. Is there anything I can do for you?"

She shook her head; she dared not trust herself to speak in the light of
his tender eyes. He hastily opened the door, and bowing, closed it quickly
behind him.


Chapter XXIV

The sun shone with its usual winter favoritism upon San Francisco this
Thursday morning. After the rain the air felt as exhilarating as a day in
spring. Young girls tripped forth "in their figures," as the French have
it; and even the matrons unfastened their wraps under the genial wooing of
sunbeams.

Everything was quiet about the Levice mansion. Neither Ruth nor her mother
felt inclined to talk; so when Mrs. Levice took up her position in her
husband's room, Ruth wandered downstairs. The silence seemed vocal with
her fears.

"So I tell ye's two," remarked the cook as her young mistress passed from
the kitchen, "that darter and father is more than kin, they is soul-kin, if
ye know what that means; an' the boss's girl do love him more'n seven times
seven children which such a man-angel should 'a' had." For the "boss" was
to those who served him "little lower than the angels;" and their prayers
the night before had held an eloquent appeal for his welfare.

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