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

David Grayson - "The Friendly Road; New Adventures in Contentment"

Giambattista Basile - "Stories from Pentamerone"

Max Beerbohm - "James Pethel"

Rudyard Kipling - "Captains Courageous"

Other Things Being Equal

E >> Emma Wolf >> Other Things Being Equal




It was like listening to music to hear the slow, drawling words of the
invalid. Ruth's hand closed softly over his.

"I have some pretty stories at home about flowers," she said; "would you
like to read them?"

"I can't read very well," answered Bob, in unabashed simplicity.

Yet his spoken words were flawless.

"Then I shall read them to you," she answered pleasantly, "to-morrow, Bob,
say at about three."

"You will come again?" The heavy mouth quivered in eager surprise.

"Why, yes; now that I know you, I must know you better. May I come?"

"Oh, lady!"

Ruth went out enveloped in that look of gratitude. It was the first
directly personal expression of honest gratitude she had ever received; and
as she walked down the hill, she longed to do something that would be
really helpful to some one. She had led, on the whole, so far, an
egotistic life. Being their only child, her parents expected much of her.
During her school-life she had been a sort of human reservoir for all her
father's ideas, whims, and hobbies. True, he had made her take a wide
interest in everything within the line of vision; hanging on his arm, as
they wandered off daily in their peripatetic school, he had imbued her with
all his manly nobility of soul. But theorizing does not give much hold on
a subject, the mind being taken up with its own clever elucidations. For
the past six months, after a year's travel in Europe, her mother had led
her on in a whirl of what she called happiness. Ruth had soon gauged the
worth of this surface-life, and now that a lull had come, she realized that
what she needed was some interest outside of herself, --an interest which
the duties of a mere society girl do not allow to develop to a real good.

A plan slowly formed itself in her mind, in which she became so engrossed
that she unconsciously crossed the cable of the Jackson Street cars. She
did not turn till a hand was suddenly laid upon her arm.

"What are you doing in this part of town?" broke in Louis Arnold's voice in
evident anger.

"Oh, Louis, how you startled me! What is the matter with this part of
town?"

"You are on a very disreputable street. Where are you going?"

"Home."

"Then be so kind as to turn back with me and take the cars."

She glanced at him quickly, unused to his tone of command, and turned with
him.

"How do you happen to be here?" he asked shortly.

"Dr. Kemp took me to see a poor patient of his."

"Dr. Kemp?" surprise raised his eyebrows half an inch.

"Yes."

"Indeed! Then," he continued in cool, biting words, "why didn't he carry
his charity a little farther and take you home again?"

"Because I did not choose to go with him," she returned, rearing her head
and looking calmly at him as they walked along.

"Bah! What had your wishing or not wishing to do with it? The man knew
where he had taken you even if you did not know. This quarter is occupied
by nothing but negroes and foreign loafers. It was decidedly ungentlemanly
to leave you to return alone at this time of the evening."

"Probably he gave me credit for being able to take care of myself in broad
daylight."

"Probably he never gave it a second's thought one way or the other.
Hereafter you had better consult your natural protectors before starting
out on Quixotic excursions with indifferent strangers."

"Louis!"

She actually stamped her little foot while walking.

"Well?"

"Stop that, please. You are not my keeper."

Her cousin smiled quizzically. They took their seats on the dummy, just as
the sun, a golden ball, was about to glide behind Lone Mountain. Late
afternoon is a quiet time, and Ruth and Louis did not speak for a while.

The girl was experiencing a whirl of conflicting emotions, --anger at
Louis's interference, pleasure at his protecting care, annoyance at what he
considered gross negligence on the doctor's part, and a sneaking pride, in
defiance of his insinuations, over the thought that Kemp had trusted to her
womanliness as a safeguard against any chance annoyance. She also felt
ashamed at having showed temper.

"Louis," she ventured finally, rubbing her shoulder against his, as gentle
animals conciliate their mates, "I am sorry I spoke so harshly; but it
exasperates me to hear you cast slurs, as you have done before, upon Dr.
Kemp in his absence."

"Why should it, my dear, since it give you a chance to uphold him?"

There is a way of saying "my dear" that is as mortifying as a slap in the
face.

The dark blood surged over the girl's cheeks. She drew a long, hard
breath, and then said in a low voice, --

"I think we will not quarrel, Louis. Will you get off at the next corner
with me? I have a prescription to be made up at the drug-store."

"Certainly."

If Arnold had showed anger, he was man enough not to be ashamed of it; this
is one of man's many lordly rights.


Chapter VII

Mrs. Jules Levice was slowly gaining the high-road to recovery, and many of
the restrictions for her cure had been removed. As a consequence, and with
an eye ever to Ruth's social duties, she urged her to leave her more and
more to herself.

As a matter of course, Ruth had laid the case of Bob and his neighborhood
before her father's consideration. A Jewish girl's life is an open page to
her family. Matters of small as well as of larger moment are freely
discussed. The result is that while it robs her of much of her Christian
sister's spontaneity, which often is the latter's greatest charm, it also,
through the sagacity of more experienced heads, guards her against many
indiscretions. This may be a relic of European training, but it enables
parents to instil into the minds of their daughters principles which
compare favorable with the American girl's native self-reliance. It was as
natural for Ruth to consult her father in this trivial matter, in view of
Louis's disapproval, as it would be for her friend, Dorothy Gwynne, to
sally anywhere so long as she herself felt justified in so doing.

Ruth really wished to go; and as her father, after considering the matter,
could find no objection, she went. After that it was enough to tell her
mother that she was going to see Bob. Mrs. Levice had heard the doctor
speak of him to Ruth; and any little charity that came in her way she was
only too happy to forward.

Bob's plain, ungarnished room soon began to show signs of beauty under
Ruth's deft fingers. A pot of mignonette in the window, a small painting
of exquisite chrysanthemums on the wall, a daily bunch of fresh roses, were
the food she brought for his poet soul. But there were other substantial
things.

The day after she had replaced the coarse horse-blanket with a soft down
quilt, the doctor made one of his bi-weekly visits to her mother.

As he stood taking leave of Ruth on the veranda, he turned, with his foot
on the last step, and looked up at her as if arrested by a sudden thought.

"Miss Levice," said he, "I should like to give you a friendly scolding.
May I?"

"How can I prevent you?"

"Well, if I were you I should not indulge Bob's love of luxury as you do.
He positively refused to get up yesterday on account of the 'soft feel,' as
he termed it, of that quilt. Now, you know, he must get up; he is able to,
and in a week I wish to start him in to work again. Then he won't be able
to afford such 'soft feels,' and he will rebel. He has had enough coddling
for his own good. I really think it is mistaken kindness on your part,
Miss Levice."

The girl was leaning lightly against one of the supporting columns. A
playful smile parted her lips as she listened."

Dr. Kemp," she replied, "may I give you a little friendly scolding?"

"You have every right." His tone was somewhat earnest, despite his smiling
eyes. A man of thirty-five does not resent a friendly scolding from a
winsome young girl.

"Well, don't you think it is rather hard of you to deprive poor Bob of any
pleasure to-day may bring, on the ground that to-morrow he may wish it too,
and will not be able to have it?"

"As you put it, it does seem so; but I am pugnacious enough to wish you to
see it as practically as I do. Put sentiment aside, and the only sensible
thing to be done now is to prepare him for the hard, uncushioned facts of
an active life."

"But why must it be so hard for him?"

"Why? In the face of the inevitable, that is a time-wasting, useless
question. Life is so; even if we find its underlying cause, the discovery
will not alter the fact."

"Yes, it will."

"How?"

"By its enabling us to turn our backs on the hard way and seek a softer."

"You forget that strait-jacket to all inclination, --circumstance."

"And are you not forgetting that friendly hands may help to remove the
strait-jacket?"

Her lovely face looked very winning, filled with its kindly meaning.

"Thank you," said he, raising his hat and forgetting to replace it as he
spoke; "that is a gentle truth; some day we shall discuss this further.
For the present, use your power in getting Bob upon his feet."

"Yes." She gave a hurried glance at the door behind her, and ran quickly
down to the lowest step. "Dr. Kemp," said she, a little breathlessly, "I
have wished for some time to ask you to let me know when you have any cases
that require assistance outside of a physician's, --such as my father or I
might lend. You must have a broad field for such opportunities. Will you
think of me then, please?"

"I will," he replied, looking with amused pleasure at her flushed face.
"Going in for philanthropy, Miss Levice?"

"No; going out for it, thank you;" and she put her hand into his
outstretched one. She watched him step into his carriage; he turned and
raised his hat again, --a trifling circumstance that Ruth dwelt upon with
pleasure; a second glance always presupposes an interested first.

He did not fail to keep his promise; and once on the lookout for "cases"
herself, Ruth soon found enough irons in the fire to occupy her spare
moments.

Mrs. Levice, however, insisted upon her resuming her place in society.

"A young girl must not withdraw herself from her sphere, or people will
either consider her eccentric or will forget her entirely. Don't be
unreasonable, Ruth; there is no reason why you should not enjoy every
function in our circle, and Louis is always happy to take you. When he
asked you if you would go with him to the Art Exhibition on Friday night, I
heard you say you did not know. Now why?"

"Oh, that?" I never gave it a second's thought. I promised Father to go
with him in the afternoon; I did not consider it worth an explanation."

"But, you see, I did. It looks very queer for Louis to be travelling
around by himself; couldn't you go again in the evening with him?"

"Of course, you over-thoughtful aunt. If the pictures are good, a second
visit will not be thrown away, --that is, if Louis is really anxious for my
companionship. But, 'I doubt it, I doubt it, I do.'"

"What nonsense!" returned her mother, somewhat testily. "Why shouldn't he
be? You are always amiable together, are you not?"

"Well," she said, knitting her brows and pursing her lips drolly, "that,
methinks, depends on the limits and requirements of amiability. If
disputation showeth a friendly spirit, then is my lord overfriendly; for it
oft hath seemed of late to pleasure his mood to wax disputations, though,
in sooth, lady fair, I have always maintained a wary and decorous
demeanor."

"I can imagine," laughed her mother, a little anxiously; "then you will
go?"

"Why not?"

If Arnold really cared for the outcome of such manoeuvres, Mrs. Levice's
exertions bore some fruit.


Chapter VIII

There are few communities, comparatively speaking, with more enthusiastic
theatre-lovers than are to be found in San Francisco. The play was one of
the few worldly pleasures that Mr. Levice thoroughly enjoyed. When a great
star was heralded, he was in a feverish delight until it had come and gone.
When Bernhardt appeared, the quiet little man fully earned the often
indiscriminately applied title of "crazy Frenchman." A Frenchman is never
so much one as when confronted in a foreign land with a great French
creation; every fibre in his body answers each charm with an appreciation
worked to fever-heat by patriotic love; at such times the play of his
emotions precludes any idea of reason to an onlooker. Bernhardt was one of
Levice's passions. Booth was another, though he took him more composedly.
The first time the latter appeared at the Baldwin (his opening play was
"Hamlet") the Levices--that is, Ruth and her father--went three times in
succession to witness his matchless performance, and every succeeding
characterization but strengthened their enthusiasm.

Booth was coming again. The announcement had been rapturously hailed by
the Levices.

"It will be impossible for us to go together, Father," Ruth remarked at the
breakfast-table. "Louis will have to take me on alternate nights, while
you stay at home with Mamma; did you hear, Louis?"

"You will hardly need to do that," answered Arnold, lowering his cup; "if
you and your father prefer going together, I shall enjoy staying with your
mother on those nights."

"Thanks for the offer--and your evident delight in my company," laughed
Ruth; "but there is one play at which you must submit to the infliction of
my presence. Don't you remember we always wished to see the 'Merchant of
Venice' and judge for ourselves his interpretation of the character? Well,
I am determined that we shall see it together."

"When does he play it?"

"A week from Saturday night."

"Sorry to disappoint you, but I shall be out of town at the end of next
week."

"Oh, dear? Honestly? Can't you put it off? I want so much to go."

"Impossible. Go with your father."

"You know very well neither of us would go off and leave Mamma alone at
night. It is horrid of you to go. I am sure you could manage differently
if--"

"Why, my child!"

She was actually pouting; and her father's quiet tone of surprised
reprimand just headed off two great tears that threatened to fall.

"I know," she said, trying to smile, and showing an April face instead;
"but I had just set my heart on going, and with Louis too."

"That comes of being a spoilt only child," put in Arnold, suavely. "You
ought to know by this time that of the many plans we make with ourselves,
nine out of ten come to nought. Before you set your heart on a thing, be
sure you will not have to give it up."

Ruth, still sore with disappointment, acknowledged this philosophic remark
with a curled lip.

"There, save your tears for something more worthy," cut in Levice, briskly;
"if you care so much about it, we or chance must arrange it as you wish."

But chance in this instance was not propitious. Wednesday came, and Arnold
saw no way of accommodating her. He left town after taking her to see the
"Fool's Revenge" as a sort of substitution.

"You seemed to be enjoying the poor Fool's troubles last night," observed
Dr. Kemp, in the morning; they were still standing in Mrs. Levice's room.

"I? Not enjoying his troubles; I enjoyed Booth, though, --if you can call
it enjoyment when your heart is ready to break for him. Were you there? I
did not see you."

"No, I don't suppose you did, or you would have been in the pitiable
condition of the princess who had her head turned. I sat directly back of
your box, in the dress-circle. Then you like Booth?"

"Take care! That is a dangerous subject with my family," broke in Mrs.
Levice. "Ruth has actually exhausted every adjective in her admiration
vocabulary. The last extravaganza I heard from her on that theme was after
she had seen him as Brutus; she wished herself Lucius, that in the tent
scene she might kiss Booth's hand."

"It sounds gushing enough for a school-girl now," laughed Ruth merrily,
looking up at the doctor; "but at the time I meant it."

"Have you seen him in all his impersonations?" he asked.

"In everything but 'Shylock.'"

"You will have a chance for that on Saturday night. It will be a great
farewell performance."

"Undoubtedly, but I shall have to forego that last glimpse of him."

"Now, Doctor," cried Mrs. Levice, "will you please impress it on her that I
am not a lunatic and can be left alone without fear? She wishes to go
Saturday night, but refuses to go with her father on the ground that I
shall be left alone, as Mr. Arnold is out of town. Is not that being
unnecessarily solicitous?"

"Without doubt. But," he added, turning deferentially to Ruth, "in lieu of
a better escort, how would I do, Miss Levice?"

"I do not understand."

"Will you come with me Saturday night to see 'Shylock'?"

To be candid, Ruth was embarrassed. The doctor had said neither "will you
honor me" nor "will you please me," but he had both pleased and honored
her. She turned a pair of radiant eyes to her mother. "Come now, Mrs.
Levice," laughed Kemp, noting the action, "will you allow your little girl
to go with me? Do not detain me with a refusal; it will be impossible to
accept one now, and I shall not be around till then, you know.
Good-morning."

Unwittingly, the doctor had caused an excitement in the hearts both of
mother and daughter. The latter was naturally surprised at his unexpected
invitation, but surprise was soon obliterated by another and quite
different feeling, which she kept rigorously to herself. Mrs. Levice was
in a dilemma about it, and consulted her husband in the evening.

"By all means, let her go," replied he; "why should you have had any
misgivings about it? I am sure I am glad she is going."

"But, Jules, you forget that none of our Jewish friends allow their girls
to go out with strangers."

"Is that part of our religion?"

"No; but custom is in itself a religion. People do talk so at every little
innovation against convention."

"What will they say? Nothing detrimental either to Ruth or the doctor.
Pshaw, Esther! You ought to feel proud that Dr. Kemp has asked the child.
If she wishes to go, don't set an impossible bogy in the way of her
enjoyment. Besides, you do not care to appear so silly as you would if you
said to the doctor, 'I can't let her go on account of people's tongues,'
and that is the only honest excuse you can offer." So in his manly,
practical way he decided it.

On Saturday night Ruth stood in the drawing-room buttoning her pale suede
glove. Kemp had not yet come in. She looked unusually well in her dull
sage-green gown. A tiny toque of the same color rested on her soft dark
hair. The creamy pallor of her face, the firm white throat revealed by the
broad rolling collar, her grave lips and dreamy eyes, hardly told that she
was feeling a little shy. Presently the bell rang, and Kemp came in, his
open topcoat revealing his evening dress beneath. He came forward hastily.

"I am a little late," he said, taking her hand, "but it was unavoidable.
Ten minutes to eight," looking at his watch; "the horses must make good
time."

"It is slightly chilly to-night, is it not?" asked Ruth, for want of
something better to say as she turned for her wrap.

"I did not feel it," he replied, intercepting her. "But this furry thing
will keep the cold off, if there is any," he continued, as he held it for
her, and quite unprofessionally bent his head to hook it at her throat. A
strange sensation shot through Ruth as his face approached so close her
own.

"How are your mother and father?" He asked, holding the door open, while
she turned for her fan, thus concealing a slight embarrassment.

"They are as usual," she answered. "Father expects to see you after the
play. You will come in for a little supper, will you not?"

"That sounds alluring," he responded lightly, his quick eye remarking, as
she came toward him, the dainty femininity of her loveliness, that seemed
to have caught a grace beyond the reach of art.

It thus happened that they took their places just as the curtain rose.


Chapter IX

Everybody remembers the sad old comedy, as differently interpreted in its
graver sentiment as there are different interpreters. Ruth had seen one
who made of Shylock merely a fawning, mercenary, loveless, blood-thirsty
wretch. She had seen another who presented a man of quick wit, ready
tongue, great dignity, greater vengeance, silent of love, wordy of hate.
Booth, without throwing any romantic glamour on the Jew, showed him as God
and man, but mostly man, had made him: an old Jew, grown bitter in the
world's disfavor through fault of race; grown old in strife for the only
worldly power vouchsafed him, --gold; grown old with but one human love to
lighten his hard existence; a man who, at length, shorn of his two loves
through the same medium that robbed him of his manly birthright, now turned
fiend, endeavors with tooth and nail to wreak the smouldering vengeance of
a lifetime upon the chance representative of an inexorable persecution.

All through the performance Ruth sat a silent, attentive listener. Kemp,
with his ready laugh at Gratiano's sallies, would turn a quick look at her
for sympathy; he was rather surprised at the grave, unsmiling face beside
him. When, however, the old Jew staggered alone and almost blindly from
the triumphantly smiling court-room, a little pinch on his arm decidedly
startled him.

He lowered his glass and turned round on her so suddenly that Ruth started.

"Oh," she faltered, "I--I beg your pardon; I had forgotten you were not
Louis."

"I do not mind in the least," he assured her easily.

The last act passes merrily and quickly; only the severe, great things of
life move slowly.

As the doctor and Ruth made their way through the crowded lobby, the latter
thought she had never seen so many acquaintances, each of whom turned an
interested look at her stalwart escort. Of this she was perfectly aware,
but the same human interest with which Kemp's acquaintances regarded her
passed by her unnoticed.

A moment later they were in the fresh, open air.

"How beautiful it is!" said Ruth, looking up at the stars. "The wind has
entirely died away."

"'On such a night,'" quoth Kemp, as they approached the curb, "a closed
carriage seems out of season."

"And reason," supplemented Ruth, while the doctor opened the door rather
slowly. She glanced at him hesitatingly.

"Would you--" she began.

"Right! I would!" The door was banged to.

"John," he said, looking up at his man in the box, "take this trap round to
the stable; I shall not need the horses again to-night."

John touched his hat, and Kemp drew his companion's little hand through his
arm.

"Well," he said, as they turned the corner, "Were you satisfied with the
great man to-night?"

"Yes," she replied meditatively, "fully; there was no exaggeration, --it
was all quite natural."

"Except Jessica in boy's clothes."

"Don't mention her, please; I detest her."

"And yet she spoke quite prettily on the night."

"I did not hear her."

"Why, where were you while all the world was making merry on the stage?"

"Not with them; I was with the weary, heart-broken old man who passed out
when joy began."

"Ah! I fancied you did not half appreciate Gratiano's jesting. Miss
Levice, I am afraid you allow the sorry things of life to take too strong a
hold on you. It is not right. I assure you for every tear there is a
laugh, and you must learn to forget the former in the latter."

"I am sorry," replied Ruth, quite sadly; "but I fear I cannot learn that,
--tears are always stronger than laughter. How could I listen to the
others' nonsense when my heart was sobbing with that lonely old man?
Forgive me, but I cannot forget him."

They walked along silently for some time. Instinctively, each felt the
perfect accord with which they kept step. Ruth's little ear was just about
on a level with the doctor's chin. He hardly felt the soft touch of her
hand upon his sleeve; but as he looked at the white profile of her cheek
against the dark fur of her collar, the knowledge that she was there was a
pleasing one.

"Did you consider the length of our walk when you fell in with my desire?"
he asked presently.

"I like a long walk in pleasant weather; I never tire of walking."

"You have found the essentials of a good pedestrian, --health and
strength."

"Yes; if everybody were like me, all your skill would be thrown away, --I
am never ill."

"Apparently there is no reason why you should be, with common-sense to back
your blessings. If common-sense could be bought at the drug-store, I
should be rid of a great many patients."

"That reminds me of a snatch of conversation I once overheard between my
mother and a doctor's wife. I am reminded of it because the spirit of your
meaning is diametrically opposed to her own. After some talk my mother
asked, 'And how is the doctor?' 'Oh,' replied the visitor, with a long
sigh, 'he's well enough in body, but he's blue, terribly blue; everybody is
so well, you know.'"

"Her sentiment was more human than humane," laughed Kemp. He was glad to
see that she had roused herself from her sad musings; but a certain set
purpose he had formed robbed him now of his former lightness of manner.

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