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William Makepeace Thackeray - "Notes on a Journey from Cornhill to Grand Cairo"

Elizabeth Gaskell - "Round the Sofa"

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle - "The Adventure of the Bruce Partington Plans"

Bret Harte - "In a Hollow of the Hills"

Other Things Being Equal

E >> Emma Wolf >> Other Things Being Equal




Ruth's reading was interrupted by the entrance of the maid, carrying a
dainty basket of Duchesse roses.

"For Madame," she said, handing it to Ruth, who came forward to take it.

"Read the card yourself," she said, placing it in her mother's hand as the
girl retired. A pleased smile broke over Mrs. Levice's face; she buried
her face in the roses, and then opened the envelope.

"From Louis!" she exclaimed delightedly. "Poor fellow! he was dreadfully
upset when he came in. He did not say much, but his look and hand-shake
were enough as he bent to kiss me. Do you know, Ruth, I think our Louis
has a very loving disposition?"

"Yes, dear?"

"Yes. One would not think so, judging from his manner; but I know him to
be unusually sympathetic for a man. I would sooner have him for a friend
than many a woman; he has not many equals among the young men I know.
Don't you agree with me, girlie?"

"Oh, yes; I always liked Louis."

"How coldly you say that! And, by the way, it struck me as very queer last
night that you did not kiss him after his absence of a week. Since when
has this formal hand-shake come into use?"

A slight flush crimsoned Ruth's cheek.

"It is not my fault," she said, smiling; "I always kissed Louis even after
a day's absence. But some few months ago he inaugurated the new regime,
and holds me at arm's length. I can't ask him why, when he looks at me so
matter-of-factly through his eyeglass, can I?"

"No; certainly not." A slight frown marred the complacency of Mrs.
Levice's brow. Such actions were not at all in accordance with her darling
plan. Arnold was much to her; but she wished him to be more. This was a
side-track upon which she had not wished her train to move.

Her cogitations took a turn when she heard a quick, firm footfall in the
hall.

Ruth anticipated the knock, and opened the door to the doctor.

Bowing slightly to her, he advanced rather hurriedly to the bedside. He
had not taken off his gloves, and a certain air of purposeful gravity
replaced his usual leisurely manner.

"Good-morning, Mrs. Levice," he said, taking her hand in his, and looking
searchingly down at her. "How are you feeling this morning? Any starts or
shakes of any sort?"

"No; I am beginning to feel as impassive and stupid as a well-fed animal.
Won't you sit down, Doctor?"

"No; I have a consultation in a very short time. Keep right on as you have
been doing. I do not think it will be necessary for me to call for several
days now; probably not before Friday."

"And to-day is Tuesday! Am I to see no one till then?"

"No one but those you have seen. Pray do not complain, Mrs. Levice," he
continued rather sternly. "You are a very fortunate invalid; illness with
you is cushioned in every conceivable corner. I wish I could make you
divide some of your blessings. As I cannot, I wish you to appreciate them
as they deserve. Do not come down, Miss Levice," as she moved to follow
him; "I am in a great hurry. Good-morning."

"How harassed he looked! I wonder who is his patient!" observed Mrs.
Levice, as Ruth quietly returned to her seat. A sunbeam fell aslant the
girl's preoccupied face. The doctor's few words had given her food for
thought.

When later on she remembered how she was going to disprove for herself
Louis's allegations, she wondered if he could have found anything to mock
at, had he been present, in Kemp's abrupt visit of the morning.


Chapter V

Ruth always dressed well. Indeed, any little jealousy her lovely presence
might occasion was usually summed up in the terse innuendo, "Fine feathers
make fine birds."

To dress well is to dress appropriately to time, place, and season. Having
a full purse, she could humor every occasion with a change of gown; being
possessed of good taste, her toilets never offended; desiring to look
pleasing, as every woman should, she studied what was becoming; having a
mother to whom a good toilet was one of the most pressing convenances, and
who delighted in planning beautiful gowns for her beautiful daughter, there
was nothing lacking to prevent Ruth from being well-dressed.

On this summer's afternoon she was clad from head to foot in soft, pale
gray. Every movement of her young body, as she walked toward town,
betokened health and elastic strength. Her long, easy gait precluded any
idea of hurry; she noticed everything she passed, from a handsome house to
a dirty child.

She was approaching that portion of Geary Street which the doctors have
appropriated, and she carefully scanned each silvery sign-plate in search
of Dr. Kemp's name. It was the first time she had had occasion to go; and
with a little feeling of novel curiosity she ran up the stairs leading to
his office.

It was just three, --the time stated as the limit of his office-hours; but
when Ruth entered the handsome waiting-room, two or three patients were
still awaiting their turns. Seated in one of the easy-chairs, near the
window, was an aristocratic-looking woman, whom Ruth recognized as a friend
of one of her Christian friends, and with whom she had a speaking
acquaintance. Nodding pleasantly in response to the rather frigid bow, she
walked to the centre of the room, and laying upon the table a bunch of
roses that she carried, proceeded to select one of the magazines scattered
about. As she sat down, she found herself opposite a stout Irishwoman,
coarsely but cleanly dressed, who with undisguised admiration took in every
detail of Ruth's appearance. She overlooked the evident simplicity of the
woman's stare; but the wistful, yearning look of a little girl who reclined
upon the lounge caused her to sit with her magazine unopened. As soon as
she perceived that it was her flowers that the child regarded so longingly,
she bent forward, and holding out a few roses, said invitingly, --

"Would you like these?"

There is generally something startling in the sudden sound of a voice after
a long silence between strangers; but the pretty cadence of Ruth's gentle
voice bore no suggestion of abruptness.

"Indeed, and she just do dote on 'em," answered the mother, in a loud tone,
for the blushing child.

"So do I," responded Ruth; and leaning farther forward, she put them in the
little hand.

But the child's hand did not close over them, and the large eyes turned
piteously to her mother.

"It's paralyzed she is," hurriedly explained the mother. "Shall Mamma hold
the beautiful roses for ye, darlint?"

"Please," answered the childish treble.

Ruth hesitated a second, and then rising and bending over her said, --

"No; I know of a better way. Wouldn't you like to have me fasten them in
your belt? There, now you can smell them all the time."

"Roses is what she likes mostly," proceeded the mother, garrulously, "and
she's for giving the doctor one every time she can when he comes. Faith!
it's about all he do get for his goodness, for what with--"

The sudden opening of the folding-door interrupted her flow of talk.
Seeing the doctor standing on the threshold as a signal for the next in
waiting to come forward, the poor woman arose preparatory to helping her
child into the consulting-room.

"Let me help Mamie, Mrs. O'Brien," said he, coming toward her. At the same
moment the elegant-looking woman rose from her chair and swept toward him.

"I believe it is my turn," she said, in response to his questioning
salutation.

"Certainly, if you came before Mrs. O'Brien. If so, walk in," he answered,
moving the portiere aside for the other to enter.

"Sure, Doctor," broke in Mrs. O'Brien, anxiously, "we came in together."

"Indeed!" He looked from the florid, flustered face to the haughtily
impassive woman beside her.

"Well, then," said he, courteously, "I know Mrs. O'Brien is wanted at home
by her little ones. Mrs. Baker, you will not object, I am sure."

It was now the elegant woman's turn to flush as Kemp took up the child.

Ruth felt a leap of delight at the action. It was a quiet lesson to be
laid to heart; and she knew she could never see him in a better light than
when he left the room holding the little charity patient in his arms.

She also noticed with a tinge of amusement the look of added hauteur on the
face of Mrs. Baker, as she returned to her seat at the window.

"Haughtiness," mused Ruth, "is merely a cloak to selfishness, or the want
of a proper spirit of humanity."

The magazine article remained unread; she drifted into a sort of day-dream,
and scarcely noticed when Mrs. Baker left the room.

"Well, Miss Levice."

She started up, slightly embarrassed, as the doctor's voice thus aroused
her.

"I beg your pardon," she said, coming forward and flushing slightly under
his amused smile. "It was so quiet here that I forgot where I was."

He stood aside as she passed into the room, bringing with her an exquisite
fragrance of roses.

"Will you be seated?" he asked, as he turned from closing the door.

"No; it is not worth while."

"What is the trouble, --you or your mother?"

There had been nothing disconcerting in the Irish-woman's stare; but she
felt suddenly hot and uncomfortable under the doctor's broad gaze.

"Neither of us," she answered; "I broke the tonic bottle this morning, and
as the number was destroyed, I should like to have you give me another
prescription."

"Directly. Take this chair for a moment."

She seated herself perforce, and he took the chair beside the desk.

"How is she since yesterday?" he asked, as he wrote, without looking up.

"Quite as comfortable."

He handed her the prescription presently, and she arose at once. He
stepped forward to open the outer door for her.

"I hope you no longer feel alarmed over her health," he remarked, with a
hand on the knob.

"No; you have made us feel there was no cause for it. But for your method
I am afraid there might have been."

"Thank you; but do not think anything of the kind. Your nursing was as
potent a factor as my directions. It is not Congress, but the people, who
make the country, you know."

"That is condescending, coming from Congress," she laughed gayly; "but I
must disclaim the compliment, I am sorry to say; my nursing was only a
name."

"As you please. Miss Levice, may I beg a rose of you? No, not all. Well,
thank you, they will look wonderful in a certain room I am thinking of."

"Yes?" There was a note of inquiry in the little word in reply to Kemp's
pointed remark spoken as with a sudden purpose.

"Yes," he continued, leaning his back against the door and looking
earnestly down at the tall girl; "the room of a lad without even the
presence of a mother to make it pretty;" he paused as if noting the effect
of his words. "He is as lonely and uncomplaining as a tree would be in a
desert; these roses will be quite a godsend to him." He finished his
sentence pleasantly at sight of the expression of sympathy in the lovely
brown eyes.

"Do you think he would care to see any one?"

"Well," replied the doctor, slowly, "I think he would not mind seeing you."

"Then will you tell me where he lives so that I can go there some day?"

"Some day? Why not to-day? Would it be impossible to arrange it?"

"Why, no," she faltered, looking at him in surprise.

"Excuse my curiosity, please; but the boy is in such pressing need of some
pleasurable emotion that as soon as I looked at you and your roses I
thought, 'Now, that would not be a bad thing for Bob.' You see, I was
simply answering a question that has bothered me all day. Then will you
drive there with me now?"

"Would not that be impossible with your driver?" she asked, searching
unaccountably for an excuse.

"I can easily dispense with him."

"But won't my presence be annoying?" she persisted, hesitating oddly.

"Not to me," he replied, turning quickly for his hat. "Come, then, please,
I must waste no more time in Bob's good cause."

She followed him silently with a sensation of quiet excitement.

Presently she found herself comfortably seated beside the doctor, who drove
off at a rapid pace.

"I think," said he, turning his horses westward, "I shall have to make a
call out here on Jones Street before going to Bob. You will not mind the
delay, Miss Levice, I hope."

"Oh, no. This is 'my afternoon off,' you know. Father is at home, and my
mother will not miss me in the least. I was just thinking--"

She came to a sudden pause. She had just remembered that she was about to
become communicative to a comparative stranger; the intent, interested look
in Kemp's eye as he glanced at her was the disturbing element.

"You were thinking what?" he prompted with his eye now to the horses'
heads.

"I am afraid you would not be edified if I continued," she answered
hastily, biting her lip. She had been about to remark that her father
would miss her, nevertheless--but such personal platitudes are not always
in good taste. Seeing that she was disinclined to finish her sentence, he
did not urge her; and a few minutes later he drew up his horses before a
rather imposing house.

"I shall not be gone a minute, I think," he said, as he sprang out and was
about to attach the reins to the post.

"Let me hold them, please," said Ruth, eagerly stretching forth a hand.

He placed them in her hand with a smile, and turned in at the gateway.

He had been in the house about five minutes when she saw him come out
hastily. His hat was pulled down over his brows, which were gathered in an
unmistakable frown. At the moment when he slammed the gate behind him, a
stout woman hurrying along the sidewalk accosted him breathlessly.

He waited stolidly with his foot on the carriage-step till she came up.

"So sorry I had to go out!" she burst forth. "How did you find my husband?
What do you think of him?"

"Madame," he replied shortly, "since you ask, I think your husband is
little short of an idiot!"

Ruth felt herself flush as she heard.

The woman looked at him in consternation.

"What is the matter?" she asked.

"Matter? Mayonnaise is the matter. If a man with a weak stomach like his
cannot resist gorging himself with things he has been strictly prohibited
from touching, he had better proclaim himself irresponsible and be done.
It is nonsense to call me in when he persists in cutting up such antics.
Good-afternoon."

And abruptly raising his hat, he sprang in beside Ruth, taking the reins
from her without a word.

She felt very meek and small beside the evidently exasperated physician.
He seemed to forget her presence entirely, and she had too much tact to
break the silence of an angry man. In nine cases out of ten, the explosion
is bound to take place; but woe to him who lights the powder!

They were now driving northeast toward the quarter known as North Beach.
The sweet, fresh breeze in the western heights toward Golden Gate is here
charged with odors redolent of anything but the "shores of Araby the
blest."

Kemp finally gave vent to his feelings.

"Some men," he said deliberately, as if laying down an axiom, "have no more
conception of the dignity of controlled appetites than savages. Here is
one who could not withstand anything savory to eat, to save his soul;
otherwise he is a strong, sensible man. I can't account for it."

"The force of habit, perhaps," suggested Ruth.

"Probably. Jewish appetite is known to dote on the fat of the land."

That he said this with as little vituperation as if he had remarked on the
weather Ruth knew; and she felt no inclination to resent the remark,
although a vision of her cousin Jennie protesting did present itself. Some
Jewish people with diseased imaginations take every remark on the race as a
personal calumny.

"We always make the reservation that the fat be clean," she laughed.

Kemp flashed around at her.

"Miss Levice," he exclaimed contritely, "I completely forgot--I hope I was
not rude."

"Why, certainly not," she answered half merrily, half earnestly. "Why
should you be?"

"As you say, why should I be? Jewish individuals, of course, have their
faults like the rest of humanity. As a race, most of their characteristics
redound to their honor, in my estimation."

"Thank you," said the girl, quietly. "I am very proud of many Jewish
traits."

"Such as a high morality, loyalty, intelligence, filial respect, and
countless other things."

"Yes."

"Besides, it is wonderful how they hold the balance of power in the musical
and histrionic worlds. Still, to be candid, in comparison with these, they
do not seem to have made much headway in the other branches of art. Can
you explain it, Miss Levice?"

He waited deferentially for a reply.

"I was trying to think of a proper answer," she responded with earnest
simplicity; "and I think that their great musical and histrionic powers are
the results not so much of art as of passion inherited from times and
circumstances stern and sad since the race began. Painting and sculpture
require other things."

"Which the Jew cannot obtain?"

A soft glow overspread her face and mounted to her brow.

"Dr. Kemp," she answered, "we have begun. I should like to quote to you
the beautiful illustration with which one of our rabbis was inspired to
answer a clergyman asking the same question; but I should only spoil that
which in his mouth seemed eloquent."

"You would not, Miss Levice. Tell the story, please."

They were on level ground, and the doctor could disengage his attention
from the horses. He did not fail to note the emotion that lit up her
expressive face, and made her sweet voice tremble.

"It is the story of the Rose of Sharon. This is it briefly: A pilgrim was
about to start on a voyage to the Holy Land. In bidding a friend good-by,
he said: 'In that far land to which I am journeying, is there not some
relic, some sacred souvenir of the time beautiful, that I can bring to
you?' The friend mused awhile. 'Yes,' he made answer finally; 'there is a
small thing, and one not difficult to obtain. I beg of you to bring me a
single rose from the plains of Sharon.' The pilgrim promised, and
departed. On his return he presented himself before his friend. 'You have
brought it?' he cried. 'Friend,' answered the pilgrim, sadly, 'I have
brought your rose; but, alas! After all this weary travelling it is now but
a poor, withered thing.' 'Give it me!' exclaimed the friend, eagerly. The
other did so. True, it was lifeless and withered; not a vestige remained
of its once fragrant glory. But as the man held it tenderly in his hand,
memory and love untold overcame him, and he wept in ecstasy. And as his
tears fell on the faded rose, lo! The petals sprang up, flushed into life;
an exquisite perfume enveloped it, --it had revived in all its beauty.
Sir, in the words of the rabbi, 'In the light of toleration and love, we
too have revived, we too are looking up.'"

As the girl paused, Kemp slightly, almost reverentially, raised his hat.

"Miss Levice, that is exquisite," he said softly.

They had reached the old, poorer section of the city, and the doctor
stopped before a weather-beaten cottage.

"This is where Bob receives," he said, holding out a hand to Ruth; "in all
truth it cannot be called a home."

Ruth had a peculiar, inexplicable feeling of mutual understanding with the
doctor as she went in with him. She hardly realized that she had been an
impressionable witness of some of his dominant moods, and that she herself
had been led on to an unrestrained display of feeling.


Chapter VI

They walked directly into a bare, dark hallway. There was no one stirring,
and Kemp softly opened the door of one of several rooms leading into the
passage. Here a broad band of yellow sunlight fell unrestrained athwart
the waxen-like face of the sleeping boy. The rest of the simple,
poor-looking room was in shadow. The doctor noiselessly closed the door
behind them, and stepped to the bed, which was covered with a heavy
horse-blanket.

The boy on the bed even in sleep could not be accounted good-looking; there
was a heaviness of feature, a plentitude of freckles, a shock of
lack-lustre hair, that made poor Bob Bard anything but a thing of beauty.
And yet, as Ruth looked at him, and saw Kemp's strong white hand placed
gently on the low forehead, a great wave of tender pity took possession of
her. Sleep puts the strongest at the mercy of the watcher; there is a
loneliness about it, a silent, expressive plea for protection, that appeals
unconsciously. Ruth would have liked to raise the rough, lonely head to
her bosom.

"It would be too bad to wake him now," said the doctor, in a low voice,
coming back to her side; "he is sleeping restfully; and that is what he
needs. I am sorry our little plan is frustrated; but it would be senseless
to wait, as there is no telling when he will waken."

A shade of disappointment passed over the girl's face, which he noticed.

"But," he continued, "you might leave your roses where he cannot fail to
see them. His conjectures on their mysterious appearance will rouse him
sufficiently for one day."

He watched her move lightly across the room, and fill a cup with water from
an earthenware pitcher. She looked about for a second as if hesitating
where to place it, and then quickly drew up a high-backed wooden chair
close to the bedside, and placed thereon a cup with roses, so that they
looked straight into the face of the slumbering lad.

"We will go now," Kemp said, and opened the door for Ruth to pass before
him. She followed him slowly, but on the threshold drew back, a thoughtful
little pucker on her brow.

"I think I shall wait anyway," she explained. "I should like to talk with
Bob a little."

The doctor looked slightly annoyed.

"You had better drive home with me," he objected.

"Thank you," she replied, drawing farther back into the room ; "but the
Jackson Street cars are very convenient."

"Nevertheless, I should prefer to have you come with me," he insisted.

"But I do not wish to," she repeated quietly; "besides, I have decided to
stay."

"That settles it, then," smiled Kemp; and shaking her hand, he went out
alone.

"When my lady will, she will; and when she won't, she won't," he mused,
gathering up his reins. But the terminal point to the thought was a smile.

Ruth, thus left alone, seated herself on the one other chair near the foot
of the bed. Strange to say, though she gazed at Bob, her thoughts had
flown out of the room. She was dimly conscious that she was pleasantly
excited. Had she cared to look the cause boldly in the face, she would
have known that Miss Ruth Levice's vanity had been highly fed by Dr. Kemp's
unmistakable desire for her assistance. He must at least have looked at
her with friendly eyes; but here her modesty drew a line even for herself,
and giving herself a mental shake, she saw that two lambent brown eyes were
looking wonderingly at her from the face of the sick lad.

"How do you feel now, Bob?" she asked, rising immediately and smiling down
at him.

The boy forgot to answer.

"The doctor brought me here," she went on brightly; "but as you were
asleep, he could not wait. Are you feeling better, Bob?"

The soft, star-like eyes did not wander in their gaze.

"Why did you come?" he breathed finally. His voice was surprisingly
musical.

"Why?" faltered Ruth. "Oh, to bring you these roses. Do you care for
flowers, Bob?" She lifted the mass of delicate buds toward him. Two pale,
transparent hands went out to meet them. Tenderly as you sometimes see a
mother press the cheek of her babe to her own, he drew them to his cheek.

"Oh, my darlings, my darlings!" he murmured passionately, with his lips
pressed to the fragrant petals.

"Do you love them, then, so much?"

"Lady," replied the boy, raising himself to a sitting posture, "there is
nothing in the world to me like flowers."

"I never thought boys cared so for flowers," remarked Ruth, in surprise.

"I am a gardener," said he, simply, and again fell to caressing the roses.
Sitting up, he looked fully seventeen or eighteen years old.

"You must have missed them during your illness," observed Ruth.

A long sigh answered her. The boy rested his dreamy eyes upon her. He was
no longer ugly, with his thoughts illumining his face.

"Marechal Niel," she heard him whisper, still with his eyes upon her, "all
in soft, radiant robes like a gracious queen. Lady, you fit well next my
Homer rose."

"What Homer rose?" asked Ruth, humoring the flower-poet's odd conceit.

"My strong, brave Homer. There is none like him for strength, with all his
gentle perfume folded close to his heart. I used to think these Duchesses
would suit him best; but now, having seen you, I know they were too frail,
--Marechal Niel." It was impossible to resent openly the boy's musings;
but with a quick insistence that stemmed the current of his thoughts, she
said, --

"Tell me where you suffer, Bob."

"I do not suffer. I am only weak; but he is nourishing me, and Mrs. Mills
brings me what he orders."

"And is there anything you would like to have of which you forgot to tell
him?"

"I never tell him anything I wish," replied the boy, proudly. "He knows
beforehand. Did you never draw up close to a delicate flower, lay your
cheek softly upon it, so, --close your eyes, so, --and listen to the tale
it's telling? Well, that is what my good friend does always."

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