A	>>	B	>>	C	>>	D	>>	E
F	>>	G	>>	H	>>	I	>>	J
K	>>	L	>>	M	>>	N	>>	O
P	>>	R	>>	S	>>	T	>>	U
V	>>	W	>>			X	>>	Z

Henry Ossian Flipper - "Henry Ossian Flipper, The Colored Cadet at West Point"

Unknown - "POEMS"

Zane Grey - "To The Last Man"

Emile Gaboriau - "Other People's Money"

Other Things Being Equal

E >> Emma Wolf >> Other Things Being Equal




Ruth, with her face against the window, watched in sickening anxiety. She
knew they were not to be expected for some time, but it was better to stand
here than in the fear-haunted background.

Suddenly and almost miraculously, it seemed to her, a carriage stood before
the gate. She flew to the door, and as she opened it leaned for one second
blindly against the wall.

"Tell my mother they have come," she gasped to the maid, who had entered
the hall.

Then she looked out. Two men were carrying one between them up the walk.
As they came nearer, she saw how it was. That bundled-up figure was her
father's; that emaciated, dark, furrowed face was her father's; but as they
carefully helped him up the steps, and the loud, painful, panting breaths
came to her, were they her father's too? No need, Ruth, to rush forward
and vainly implore some power to tear from yourself the respiration
withheld from him. Air, air! So, man, so; one step more and then relief.
Ah!

She paused in agony at the foot of the stairs as the closing door shut out
the dreadful sound. We never value our blessings till we have lost them;
who thinks it a boon to be able to breathe without thinking of the action?

He had not seen her; his eyes had been closed as if in exhaustion as they
gently helped him along, and she had understood at once that the only
thing to be thought of was, by some manner of means, to remove the choaking
obstacle from his lungs. Oh, to be able in her young strength to hold the
weak, loved form in her arms and breathe into him her overflowing
life-breath! She walked upstairs presently; he would be expecting her. As
she reached the upper landing, Kemp came from the room, closing the door
behind him. His bearing revealed a gravity she had never witnessed before.
In his tightly buttoned morning-suit, with the small white tie at his
throat, he might have been officiating at some solemn ceremonial. He stood
still as Ruth confronted him at the head of the stairs, and met her lovely,
miserable eyes with a look of sympathy. She essayed to speak, but
succeeded only in gazing at him in speechless entreaty.

"Yes, I know," he responded to her silent appeal; "you were shocked at what
you heard: it was the asthma that has completely overpowered him. His
illness has made him extremely weak."

"And you think--"

"We must wait till he has rested; the trip was severe for one in his
condition."

"Tell me the truth, please, with no reservations; is there danger?"

Her eager, abrupt questions told clearly what she suffered.

"He has never had any serious illness; if the asthma has not overleaped
itself, we have much to hope for."

The intended consolation conveyed a contrary admission which she
immediately grasped.

"That means--the worst," she said, her clasped fingers speaking the
language of despair. "Oh, Doctor, you who know so much, can't you help
him? Think, think of everything; there must be something! Only do your
best, do your utmost; you will, won't you?"

His deep, grave eyes answered her silently as he took both her little
clasped hands in his one strong one, saying simply, --

"Trust me, but only so far as lies within my human power. He is somewhat
eased, and asks for you. Look at your mother: she is surpassing herself;
if your love for him can achieve one half such a conquest, you will but be
making good your inheritance. I shall be in again at one, and will send
some medicines up at once." He ended in his usual businesslike tone, and
walked hastily downstairs.

There was perfect quiet in the room as Ruth entered. Propped high by many
pillows, Jules Levice lay in his bed; his wife's arm was about him; his
head rested on her bosom; with her one disengaged hand she smoothed his
white hair. Never was the difference between them more marked than now,
when her beautiful face shone above his, which had the touch of the
destroyer already upon it; never was the love between them more marked than
now, when he leaned in his weakness upon her who had never failed him in
all their wedded years.

His eyes were half closed as if in rest; but he heard her enter, and Mrs.
Levice felt the tremor that thrilled him as Ruth approached.

"My child."

The softly whispered love-name of old made her tremble; she smiled through
her tears, but when his feeble arms strove to draw her to him, she stooped,
and laying them about her neck, placed her cheek upon his. For some
minutes these three remained knit in a close embrace; love, strong and
tender, spoke and answered in that silence.

"It is good to be at home," he said, speaking with difficulty.

"It was not home without you, dear," murmured his wife, laying her lips
softly upon his forehead. Ruth, kneeling beside the bed, noticed how
loosely the dark signet-ring he wore hung upon his slender finger.

"You look ill, my Ruth," he said, after a pause. "Lay my head down, Esther
love; you must be tired. Sit before me, dear, I want to see your two faces
together."

His gaunt eyes flitted from one to the other.

"It is a fair picture to take with one," he whispered.

"To keep with one," softly trembled his wife's voice; his eyes met hers in
a commiserating smile.

Suddenly he started up.

"Ruth," he gasped, "will you go to Louis? He must be worn out."

She left the room hurriedly. Her faint knock was not immediately answered,
and she called softly; receiving no reply, she turned the knob, which
yielded to her hand. Sunbeams danced merrily about the room of the young
man, who sat in their light in a dejected attitude. He evidently had made
no change in his toilet; and as Ruth stood unnoticed beside him, her eyes
wandered over his gray, unshaven face, travel-stained and weary to a
degree. She laid her hand upon his shoulder.

"Louis," she called gently.

He shook under her touch, but made no further sign that he knew of her
presence.

"You must be so tired, Louis," she continued sympathetically.

It may have been the words, it may have been the tone, it may have been
that she touched some hidden thought, for suddenly, without premonition,
his breast heaved, and he sobbed heavily as only a man can sob.

She started back in pain. That such emotion could so unstring Louis Arnold
was a marvel. It did not last long; and as he rose from his chair he spoke
in his accustomed, quiet tone.

"Forgive my unmanliness," he said; "it was kind of you to come to me."

"You look very ill, Louis; can't I bring you something to refresh you, or
will you lie down?"

"We shall see; is there anything you wish to ask me?

"Nothing."

After a pause he said, --

"You must not be hopeless; he is in good hands, and everything that can be
done will be done. Is he resting now?"

"Yes; if to breathe like that is to rest. Oh, Louis, when I think how for
months he has suffered alone, it almost drives me crazy."

"Why think of it, then? Or, if you must, remember that in his surpassing
unselfishness he saved you much anxiety; for you could not have helped
him."

"Not with our sympathy?"

"Not him, Ruth; to know that you suffered for him was--would have been his
crowning sorrow. Is there anything I can do now?"

"No, only think of yourself for a moment; perhaps you can rest a little,
for you need it, dear."

A flame of color burned in his cheek at the unusual endearment.

"I shall bring you a cup of tea presently," she said as she left him.

The morning passed into afternoon. Silence hung upon the house. A card
had been pinned under the door-bell; and the many friends, who in the short
time since the sick man's arrival had heard of his illness, dropped in
quietly and left as they came.

Dr. Kemp came in after luncheon. Mr. Levice was sleeping, --in all truth,
one could say easily, but the doctor counted much from the rest. He
expected Dr. H----- for a consultation. This he had done as a voucher and
a sort of comforting assurance that nothing would be left undone. Dr.
H----- came in blandly; he went out gravely. There was little to be said.

Kemp walked thoughtfully upstairs after his colleague had left, and went
straight to Arnold's room. the freedom of the house was his; he seemed to
have established himself here simply through his earnestness and devotion.

"Mr. Arnold," he said to the Frenchman, who quickly rose from his desk, "I
want you to prepare your aunt and your cousin for the worst. You know
this; but if he should have a spell of coughing, the end might be sudden."

A cold pallor overspread Louis's face at the confirmation of his secret
fears.

He bowed slightly and cleared his throat before answering.

"There will be no necessity," he said; "my uncle intends doing so himself."

"He must not hasten it by excitement," said Kemp, moving toward the door.

"That is unavoidable," returned Arnold. "You must know he had an object in
hurrying home."

"I did not know; but I shall prevent any unnecessary effort to speak. If
you can do this for him, will you not?"

"I cannot."

"And you know what it is in detail?"

"I do."

"Then for his sake --"

"And for the others, he must be allowed to speak."

Kemp regarded him steadily, wondering wherein lay the impression of
concealed power which emanated from him. He left the room without another
word.

"Dr. H----- must have gone to school with you," panted Levice, as Dr. Kemp
entered; "even his eyes have been educated to express the same feeling;
except for a little --"

"There, there," quieted Kemp; "don't exhaust yourself. Miss Levice, that
fan, please. A little higher? How's that?"

"Do not go, Doctor," he said feebly; "I have something to say, to do, and
you--I want you--give me something--I must say it now. Esther, where are
you?"

"Here, love."

"Mr. Levice, you must not talk now," put in Kemp, authoritatively;
"whatever you have to say will last till morning."

"And I?"

"And you. Now go to sleep."

Mrs. Levice followed him to the door.

"You spoke just now of a nurse," she said through her pale lips; "I shall
not want one: I alone can nurse him."

"There is much required; I doubt if you are strong enough."

"I am strong."

He clasped her hand in assent; he could not deny her.

"I shall come in and stay with you to-night," he said simply.

"You. Why should you?"

"Because I too love him."

Her mouth trembled and the lines of her face quivered, but she drew her
hand quickly over it.

Kemp gave one sharp glance over to the bed; Ruth had laid her head beside
her father's and held his hand. In such a house, in every Jewish house,
one finds the best nurses in the family.


Chapter XXV

Shafts of pale sunlight darted into the room and rested on Mr. Levice's
hair, covering it with a silver glory, --they trailed along the silken
coverlet, but stopped there; one little beam strayed slowly, and almost as
if with intention, toward Arnold, seated near the foot of the bed. Ruth,
lovely in her pallor, sat near him; Mrs. Levice, on the other side of the
bed, leaned back in her chair placed close to her husband's pillow; more
remote, though inadvertently so, sat Dr. Kemp. It was by Mr. Levice's
desire that these four had assembled here.

He was sitting up, supported by many pillows; his face was hollow and
colorless; his hands lay listlessly upon the counterpane. No one touches
him; bathed in sunlight, as he was, the others seemed in shadow. When he
spoke, his voice was almost a whisper, but it was distinctly audible to the
four intent listeners; only the clock seemed to accompany his staccato
speech, running a race, as it were, with his failing strength.

"It is a beautiful world," he said dreamily, "a very beautiful world;" the
sunbeams kissed his pale hands as if thanking him; no one stirred, letting
the old man take his time. Finally he realized that all were waiting for
him, and thought sprang, strong and powerful, to his face.

"Dr. Kemp," he began, "I have something to say to you, --to you in
particular, and to my daughter Ruth. My wife and nephew know in brief what
I have to say; therefore I need not dwell on the painful event that
happened here last September; you will pardon me, when you see the
necessity, for my reverting to it at all."

Every one's eyes rested upon him, --that is, all but Arnold's, which seemed
holding some secret communion with the cupids on the ceiling, --and the
look of convulsive agony that swept across Ruth's face was unnoticed.

"In all my long, diversified life," he went on, "I had never suffered as I
did after she told me her decision, --for in all those years no one had
ever been made to suffer through me; that is, so far as I knew.
Unconsciously, or in anger, I may have hurt many, but never, as in this
case, with knowledge aforethought, --when the blow fell upon my own child.
You will understand, and perhaps forgive, when I say I gave no thought to
you. She came to me with her sweet, renunciating hands held out, and with
a smile of self-forgetfulness, said, 'Father, you are right; I could not be
happy with this man.' At the moment I believed her, thinking she had
adopted my views; but with all her bravery, her real feelings conquered
her, and I saw. Not that she had spoken untruly, but she had implied the
truth only in part, I knew my child loved me, and she meant honestly that
my pain would rob her of perfect happiness with you, --my pain would form
an eclipse strong enough to darken everything. Do you think this knowledge
made me glad or proud? Do you know how love, that in the withholding
justifies itself, suffers from the pain inflicted? But I said, 'After all,
it is as I think; she will thank me for it some day.' I was not altogether
selfish, please remember. Then, as I saw her silent wrestling, came
distrust of myself; I remembered I was pitted against two, younger and no
more fallible than myself. As soon as doubt of myself attacked me, I
strove to look on the other side; I strove to rid myself of the old
prejudices, the old superstitions, the old narrowness of faith; it was
useless, --I was too old, and my prejudices had become part of me. It was
in this state of perturbation that I had gone one day up to the top floor
of the Palace Hotel. Thank you, Doctor."

The latter had quietly risen and administered a stimulant. As he resumed
his seat, Levice continued:

"I was seated at a window overlooking Market Street. Below me surged a
black mass of crowding, jostling, hurrying beings, so far removed they
seemed like little dots, each as large and no larger than his fellows.
Above them stretched the same blue arch of heaven, they breathed the same
air, trod in each other's footsteps; and yet I knew they were all so
different, --ignorance walked with enlightenment, vice with virtue, rich
with poor, low with high, --but I felt, poised thus above them, that they
were creatures of the same God. Go once thus, and you will understand the
feeling. And so I judged these aliens. Which was greater; which was less?
This one, who from birth and inheritance is able to stand the equal of any
one, or this one, who through birth and inheritance blinks blindly at the
good and beautiful? Character and circumstance are not altogether of our
own making; they are, to a great degree, results of inherited tendencies
over which we have no control, --accidents of birthplace, in the choosing
of which we had no voice. The high in the world do not shine altogether by
their own light, not do the lowly grovel altogether in their own
debasement, --I felt the excuse for humanity. I was overwhelmed with one
feeling, --only God can weigh such circumstantial evidence; we, in our
little knowledge of results, pronounce sentence, but final judgment is
reserved for a higher court, that sees the cross-purposes in which we are
blindly caught. So with everything. Below me prayed Christian and Jew,
Mohammedan and Brahmin, idolater and agnostic. Why was one man different
in this way from his fellows? Because he was born so, because his parents
were so, because he was bred so, because it seemed natural and convenient
to remain so, --custom and environment had made his religion. Because
Jesus Christ dared to attack their existing customs and beliefs, the Jews,
then powerful, first reviled, then feared, then slew him; because the Jews
could not honestly say, 'I believe this man to be a God,' they were hurled
from their eminence and dragged, living, for centuries in the dust. And
yet why? Because God withheld and still withholds from this little band
the power of believing in Christ as his son. Christians call this a wilful
weakness; Jews call it strength. After all, who is to be praised or blamed
for it? God. Then instead of beating the Jew, and instead of sneering at
the Christian, let each pity the other; because one, I know not which, is
weak, and because the other, I know not which, is strong. I left the
building; I came upon the street. I felt like saluting every one as my
brother. A little ragged child touched me, and as I laid my hand upon her
curly head, the thrill of humanity shot through me.

"It was not until I went to New York that the feelings I then experienced
took on a definite shape. There, removed from my old haunts, I wandered
alone when I could. Then I thought of you, my friend, of you, my child,
and beside you I was pitiful, --pitiful, because in my narrowness I had
thought myself strong enough to uphold a vanishing restriction. I resolved
to be practical; I have been accused of being a dreamer. I grasped your
two images before me and drew parallels. Socially each was as high as the
other. Mentally the woman was as strong in her sphere as the man was in
his. Physically both were perfect types of pure, healthy blood. Morally
both were irreproachable. Religiously each held a broad love for God and
man. I stood convicted; I was in the position of a blind fool who, with a
beautiful picture before him, fastens his critical, condemning gaze upon a
rusting nail in the rusting wall behind, --a nail even now loosened, and
which in another generation will be displaced. Yet what was I to do? Come
back and tell you that I had been needlessly cruel? What would that avail?
True, I might make you believe that I no longer thought marriage between
you wrong; but that would not remove the fact that the world, which so
easily makes us happy or otherwise, did not see as I saw. In this vortex I
was stricken ill. All the while I wanted to hasten to you, to tell you how
it was with me, and it seemed as if I never could get to you. 'Is this
Nemesis,' I thought, 'or divine interposition?' So I struggled till Louis
came. Then all was easier. I told him everything and said, 'Louis, what
shall I do?' "only this,' he answered simply: 'tell them that their happy
marriage will be your happiness, and the rest of the world will be as
nothing to these two who love each other.'"

The old man paused; the little sunbeam had reached the end of the coverlet
and gave a leap upon Louis's shoulder like an angle's finger, but his gaze
remained fixed upon the cupids on the ceiling. Ruth had covered her face
with her hands. Mrs. Levice was softly weeping, with her eyes on Louis.
Dr. Kemp had risen and stood, tall and pale, meeting Levice's eyes.

"I believe--and my wife believes," said Levice, heavily, as if the words
were so many burdens, "that our child will be happy only as your wife, and
that nothing should stand in the way of the consummation of this happiness.
Dr. Kemp, you have assured me you still love my daughter. Ruth!"

She sprang to her feet, looking only at her father.

"Little one," he faltered, "I have been very cruel in my ignorance."

"Do not think of this, Father," she whispered.

"I must," he said, taking her hand in his. "Kemp, your hand, please."

He grasped the strong white hand and drew the two together; and as Kemp's
large hand closed firmly over her little one, Levice stooped his head,
kissed them thus clasped, and laid his hand upon them.

"There is one thing more," he said. "At the utmost I have but a few days
to live. I shall not see your happiness: I shall not see you, my Ruth, as
I have often pictured you. Ah, well, darling, a father may be permitted
sweet dreams of his only child. You have always been a good girl, and now
I am going to ask you to do one thing more--you also, Doctor. Will you be
married now, this day, here, so that I may yet bless your new life? Will
you let me see this? And listen, --will you let the world know that you
were married with my sanction, and did not have to wait till the old man
was dead? Will you do this for me, my dear ones?"

"Will you, Ruth?" asked Kemp, softly, his fingers pressing hers gently.

Ruth stifled a sob as she met her father's eager eyes.

"I will," she answered so low that only the intense silence in the room
made it audible.

Levice separated their hands and held one on each of his cheeks.

"Always doing things for her ugly old father," he murmured; "this time
giving up a pretty wedding-day that all girls so love."

"Oh, hush, my darling."

"You will have no guests, unless, Doctor, there is some one you would like
to have."

"I think not," he decided, noting with a pang the pale, weary face of
Levice; "we will have it all as quiet as possible. You must rest now, and
leave everything to me. Would you prefer Dr. Stephens or a justice?"

"Either. Dr. Stephens is a good man, whom I know, however; and one good
man with the legal right is as good as another to marry you."

There was little more said then. Kemp turned to Mrs. Levice and raised her
hand to his lips. Arnold confronted him with a pale, smiling face; the two
men wrung each other's hands, passing out together immediately after.


Chapter XXVI

Herbert Kemp and Dr. Stephens stood quietly talking to Mr. Levice. The
latter seemed weaker since his exertion of the morning, and his head lay
back among the pillows as if the support were grateful. Still his eager
eyes were keenly fastened upon the close-lipped mouth and broad, speaking
brow of the minister who spoke so quietly and pleasantly. Kemp, looking
pale and handsome, answered fitfully when appealed to, and kept an
expectant eye upon the door. When Ruth entered, he went forward to meet
her, drawing her arm through his. They had had no word together, no
meeting of any kind but right here in the morning; and now, as she walked
toward the bed, the gentle smile that came as far as her eyes was all for
her father. Thought could hold no rival for him that day.

"This is Miss Levice, Dr. Stephens," said Kemp, presenting them. A swift
look of wonderment passed under the reverend gentleman's beetle-brows as he
bent over her hand. Could this tall, beautiful girl be the daughter of
little Jules Levice? Where did she get that pure Madonna face, that regal
bearing, that mobile and expressive mouth? The explanation was sufficient
when Mrs. Levice entered. They stood talking, not much, but in that
wandering, obligatory way that precedes any undertaking. they were waiting
for Arnold; he came in presently with a bunch of pale heliotropes. He
always looked well and in character when dressed for some social event; it
was as if he were made for this style of dress, not the style for him. The
delicate pink of his cheeks looked more like the damask skin of a young
girl than ever; his eyes, however, behind their glasses, were veiled. As
he handed Ruth the flowers, he said, --

"I asked the doctor to allow me to give you these. Will you hold them with
my love?"

"They are both very dear to me," she replied, raising the flowers to her
lips.

Their fragrance filled the room while the simple ceremony was being
performed. It was a striking picture, and one not likely to be forgotten.
Levice's eyes filled with proud, pardonable tears as he looked at his
daughter, --for never had she looked as to-day in her simple white gown,
her face like a magnolia bud, a fragrant dream; standing next to Kemp, the
well-mated forms were noticeable. Even Arnold, with his heart like a
crushed ball of lead, acknowledged it in bitter resignation. For him the
scene was one of those silent, purgatorial moments that are approached with
senses steeled and thought held in a vice. To the others it passed, as if
it had happened in a dream. Even when Kemp stooped and pressed his lips
for the first time upon his wife's, the real meaning of what had taken
place seemed far away to Ruth; the present held but one thing in
prominence, --the pale face upon the pillow. She felt her mother's arms
around her; she knew that Louis had raised her hand to his lips, that she
had drawn his head down and kissed him, that Dr. Kemp was standing silently
beside her, that the minister had spoken some gravely pleasant words; but
all the while she wanted to tear herself away from it all and fold that
eager, loving, dying face close to hers. She was allowed to do so finally;
and when she was drawn into the outstretched arms, there was only the long
silence of love.

Kemp had left the room with Dr. Stephens, having a further favor to intrust
to him. The short announcement of this marriage, which Dr. Stephens gave
for insertion in the evening papers, created a world of talk.

Copyright (c) 2007. fullstories.net. All rights reserved.