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Henry Walter Bates - "The Naturalist on the River Amazons"

Anna Howard Shaw - "The Story of a Pioneer"

Samuel Smiles - "The Life of Thomas Telford by Smiles"

George W. Sands - "Mazelli, and Other Poems"

Other Things Being Equal

E >> Emma Wolf >> Other Things Being Equal




He was about to broach a subject that required delicate handling; but an
intuitive knowledge of the womanly character of the young girl aided him
much. It was not so much what he had seen her do as what he knew she was,
that led him to begin his recital.

"We have a good many blocks before us yet," he said, "and I am going to
tell you a little story. Why don't you take the full benefit of my arm?
There," he proceeded, drawing her hand farther through his arm, "now you
feel more like a big girl than like a bit of thistledown. If I get
tiresome, just call 'time,' will you?"

"All right," she laughed. She was beginning to meet halfway this
matter-of-fact, unadorned, friendly manner of his; and when she did meet
it, she felt a comfortable security in it. From the beginning to the end
of his short narrative he looked straight ahead.

"How shall I begin? Do you like fairy tales? Well, this is the soul of
one without the fictional wings. Once upon a time, --I think that is the
very best introduction extant, --a woman was left a widow with one little
girl. She lived in New Orleans, where the blow of her husband's death and
the loss of her good fortune came almost simultaneously. She must have had
little moral courage, for as soon as she could, she left her home, not
being able to bear the inevitable falling off of friends that follows loss
of fortune. She wandered over the intermediate States between here and
Louisiana, stopping nowhere long, but endeavoring to keep together the
bodies and souls of herself and child by teaching. They kept this up for
years until the mother succumbed. They were on the way from Nevada to Los
Angeles when she died. The daughter, then not eighteen, went on to Los
Angeles, where she buried her mother, and endeavored to continue teaching
as she had been doing. She was young, unsophisticated, sad, and in want in
a strange town. She applied for advice to a man highly honored and
recommended by his fellow-citizens. The man played the brute. The girl
fled--anywhere. Had she been less brave, she would have fled from herself.
She came to San Francisco and took a position as nurse-girl; children, she
thought, could not play her false, and she might outlive it. The hope was
cruel. She was living near my home, had seen my sign probably, and in the
extremity of her distress came to me. There is a good woman who keeps a
lodging-house, and who delights in doing me favors. I left the poor child
in her hands, and she is now fully recovered. As a physician I can do no
more for her, and yet melancholy has almost made a wreck of her. Nothing I
say has any effect; all she answers is, 'It isn't worth while.' I
understand her perfectly, but I wished to infuse into her some of her old
spirit of independence. This morning I asked her if she intended to let
herself drift on in this way. I may have spoken a little more harshly than
necessary, for my words broke down completely the wall of dogged silence
she had built around herself. 'Oh, sir,' she cried, weeping like the child
she is, 'what can I do? Can I dare to take little children by the hand,
stained as I am? Can I go as an impostor where, if people knew, they would
snatch their loved ones from me? Oh, it would be too wretched!' I tried
to remonstrate with her, told her that the lily in the dust is no less a
lily than is her spotless sister held high above contamination. She looked
at me miserably from her tear-stained face, and then said, 'Men may think
so, but women don't; a stain with them is ignoble whether made by one's
self or another. No woman knowing my story would think me free from
dishonor, and hold out her clean hands to me.' 'Plenty,' I contradicted.
'Maybe,' she said humbly; 'but what would it mean? The hand would be held
out at arm's length by women safe in their position, who would not fail to
show me how debased they think me. I am young yet; can you show me a girl,
like myself in years, but white as snow, kept safe from contamination, as
you say, who, knowing my story, would hold out her hand to me and not feel
herself besmirched by the contact? Do not say you can, for I know you
cannot.' She was crying so violently that she would not listen to me.
When I left her, I myself could think of none of my young friends to whom I
could propound the question. I know many sweet, kind girls, but I could
count not one among them all who in such a case would be brave as she was
womanly--until I thought of you."

Complete silence followed his words. He did not turn his glance from the
street ahead of him. He had made no appeal, would make none, in fact. He
had told the story with scarcely a reflection on its impropriety, that
would have arrested another man from introducing such an element into his
gentle fellowship with a girl like Ruth. His lack of hesitancy was born of
his manly view of the outcast's blamelessness, of her dire necessity for
help, and of a premonition that Ruth Levice would be as free from the
artificiality of conventional surface modesty as was he, through the
earnestness of the undertaking.

There is something very sweet to a woman in being singled out by a man for
some ennobling virtue. Ruth felt this so strongly that she could almost
hear her heart beat with the intoxicating knowledge. No question had been
asked, but she felt an answer was expected. Yet had her life depended on
it, the words could not have come at that moment. Was she indeed what he
esteemed her? Unconsciously Dr. Kemp had, in thought, placed her on a
pedestal. Did she deserve the high place he had given her, or would she?

With many women the question would have been, did she care for Dr. Kemp's
good opinion? Now, though Ruth was indeed put on her mettle, her quick
sympathy had been instantly touched by the girl's miserable story. Perhaps
the doctor's own feelings had influenced her, but had the girl stood before
her at the moment, she would have seized her hand with all her own gentle
nobility of soul.

As they turned the corner of the block where Ruth's house stood, Kemp said
deliberately, --

"Well?"

"I thank you. Where does she live?"

Her quiet, natural tone told nothing of the tumult of sweet thoughts
within. They had reached the house, and the doctor opened the gate before
he answered. When he did, after they had passed through, he took both her
hands in his.

"I shall take you there," he said, looking down at her with grave, smiling
eyes; "I knew you would not fail me. When shall I call for you?"

"Do not call for me at all; I think--I know it will be better for me to
walk in alone, as of my own accord."

"Ah, yes!" he said, and told her the address. She ran lightly up the
steps, and as he turned her key in the door for her, she raised a pair of
starry eyes to his.

"Dr. Kemp," she said, "I have had an exceptionally lovely evening. I shall
not soon forget it."

"Nor I," he returned, raising his hat; holding it in his hand, he gently
raised her gloved hand to his lips. Herbert Kemp was a gentleman of the
old school in his manner of showing reverence to women.

"My brave young friend!" he said; and the next minute his firm footfall was
crunching the gravel of the walk. Neither of them had remembered that he
was to have come in with her. She waited till the gate clicked behind him,
and then softly closed the heavy door.

"My brave young friend!" The words mounted like wine to her head. She
forgot her surroundings and stood in a sweet dream in the hall, slowly
unbuttoning her glove. She must have remained in this attitude for five
minutes, when, raising her eyes, still shadowy with thought, she saw her
cousin before her down the hall, his arm resting on the newel-post.

"Louis!" she cried in surprise; and without considering, she hurried to
him, threw her arm around his neck, and kissed him on the cheek. Arnold,
taken by storm, stepped slightly back.

"When did you get home?" she asked, the pale rose-flush that mantled her
cheeks making her face exquisite.

"A half an hour ago."

She looked at him quickly.

"Are you tired, Louis?" she inquired gently. "You are somewhat pale, and
you speak in that way."

"Did you enjoy the play?" he asked quietly, passing by her remarks.

"The play!" she echoed, and then a quick burning blush suffused her face.
The epilogue had wholly obliterated the play from her recollection.

"Oh, of course," she responded, turning from the rather sardonic smile of
his lips and seating herself on the stairs; "do you want to hear about it
now?"

"Why not?"

"Well," she began, laying her gloves in her lap and snuggling her chin in
the palms of her hands, "shall I tell you how I felt about it? In the
first place, I was not ashamed of Shylock; if his vengeance was distorted,
the cause distorted it. But, oh, Louis, the misery of that poor old man!
After all, his punishment was as fiendish as his guilt. Booth was great.
I wish you could have seen the play of his wonderful eyebrow and the
eloquence of his fine hand. Poor old, lonely Shylock! With all his
intellect, how could he regret that wretched little Jessica?"

"He was a Jewish father."

"How singularly you say that! Of course he was a Jew; but Jewish hardly
describes him, --at least, according to the modern idea. Are you coming
up?"

"Yes. Go on; I will lower the gas."

"Wouldn't you like something to eat or drink? You look so worn out; let me
get you something."

"Thanks; I have dined. Good-night." The girl passed on to her pretty
white and gold room. Shylock had again fled from her memory, but there was
singing in her heart a deep, grave voice saying, --

"My brave young friend!"


Chapter X

"A humble bard presents his respects to my Lady Marechal Niel, and begs her
to step down to the gate for about two minutes."

The note was handed to Ruth early the next morning as she stood in the
kitchen beating up eggs for an omelette for her mother's breakfast. A
smile of mingled surprise and amusement overspread her face as she read;
instinctively turning the card, she saw, "Herbert Kemp, M. D.," in simple
lithograph.

"Do I look all right, Mary?" she asked hurriedly, placing the bowl on the
table and half turning to the cook as she walked to the door. Mary
deliberately placed both hands on her hips and eyed her sharply.

"And striped flannel dresses and hairs in braids," she began, as she always
did, as if continuing a thought, "being nice, pretty flannel and nice,
pretty braids, Miss Ruth do look sweet-like, which is nothing out of the
common, for she always do!"

The last was almost shouted after Ruth, who had run from the cook's
prolixity.

As she hurried down the walk, she recognized the doctor's carriage,
containing the doctor himself with Bob in state beside him. Two hands went
up to two respective hats as the gate swung behind her, and she advanced
with hand extended to Bob.

"You are looking much better," she exclaimed heartily, shaking the rather
bashfully outstretched hand; "your first outing, is it not?"

"Yes, lady." It had been impossible for her to make him call her by name.

"He elected to pay his first devoirs to the Queen of Roses, as he expressed
it," spoke up Kemp, with his disengaged hand on the boy's shoulder, and
looking with a puzzled expression at Ruth. Last night she had been a young
woman; this morning she was a young girl; it was only after he had driven
off that he discovered the cause lay in the arrangement of her hair.

"Thank you, Bob; presently I expect to have you paying me a visit on foot,
when we can come to a clearer understanding about my flower-beds."

"He says," returned the boy, turning an almost humbly devoted look on Kemp,
"that I must not think of gardening for some weeks. And so--and so--"

"Yes?"

"And so," explained the doctor, briskly, "he is going to hold my reins on
our rounds, and imbibe a world of sunshine to expend on some flowers--yours
or mine, perhaps--by and by."

Bob's eyes were luminous with feeling as they rested on the dark, bearded
face of his benefactor.

"Now say all you have to say, and we'll be off," said Kemp, tucking in the
robe at Bob's side.

"I didn't have anything to say, sir; I came only to let her know."

"And I am so glad, Bob," said Ruth, smiling up into the boy's shy, speaking
eyes. People always will try to add to the comfort of a convalescent, and
Ruth, in turn, drew down the robe over the lad's hands. As she did so, her
cousin, Jennie Lewis, passed hurriedly by. Her quick blue eyes took in to
a detail the attitudes of the trio.

"Good-morning, Jennie," said Ruth, turning; "are you coming in?"

"Not now," bowing stiffly and hurrying on.

"Cabbage-rose."

Bob delivered himself of this sentiment as gently as if he had let fall a
pearl.

The doctor gave a quick look at Ruth, which she met, smiling.

"He cannot help his inspiration," she remarked easily, and stepped back as
the doctor pulled the reins.

"Come again, Bob," she called, and with a smile to Kemp she ran in.

"And I was going to say," continued Mary, as she re-entered the kitchen,
"that a speck of aig splashed on your cheek, Miss Ruth."

"Oh, Mary, where?"

"But not knowin' that you would see anybody, I didn't think to run after
you; so it's just this side your mouth, like if you hadn't wiped it good
after breakfast."

Ruth rubbed it off, wondering with vexation if the doctor had noticed it.
Truth to say, the doctor had noticed it, and naturally placed the same
passing construction on it that Mary had suggested. Not that the little
yellow splash occupied much of his attention. When he drove off, all he
thought of Ruth's appearance was that her braided hair hung gracefully and
heavily down her back; that she looked young, --decidedly young and
missish; and that he had probably spoken indiscreetly and impulsively to
the wrong person on a wrong subject the night before.

Dress has a subtile influence upon our actions: one gown can make a romp,
another a princess, another a boor, another a sparkling coquette, out of
the same woman. The female mood is susceptibly sympathetic to the fitness
or unfitness of dress. Now, Ruth was without doubt the same girl who had
so earnestly and sympathetically heard the doctor's unconventional story;
but the fashion of her gown had changed the impression she had made a few
hours back.

An hour later, and Dr. Kemp could not have failed to recognize Ruth, the
woman of his confidence. Something, perhaps a dormant spirit of
worldliness, kept her from disclosing to her mother the reason of her going
out. She herself felt no shame or doubt as to the advisability of her
action; but the certain knowledge of her mother's disapproval of such a
proceeding restrained the disclosure which, of a surety, would have cost
her the non-fulfilment of a kindly act. A bit of subterfuge which hurts no
one is often not only excusable, but commendable. Besides, it saved her
mother an annoying controversy; and so, fully satisfied as to her part,
Ruth took her way down the street. The question as to whether the doctor
had gone beyond the bounds of their brief acquaintance had of course been
presented to her mind; but if a slight flush came into her face when she
remembered the nature of the narrative and the personality of the narrator,
it was quickly banished by the sweet assurance that in this way he had
honored her beyond the reach of current flattery.

A certain placid strength possessed her and showed in her grave brown eyes;
with her whole heart and soul she wished to do this thing, and she longed
to do it well. Her purpose robbed her of every trace of nervousness; and
it was a sweet-faced young woman who gently knocked at room Number 10 on
the second floor of a respectable lodging-house on Polk Street.

Receiving no answer to her knock, she repeated it somewhat more loudly. At
this a tired voice called, "Come in."

She turned the knob, which yielded to her touch, and found herself in a
small, well-lighted, and neat room. Seated in an armchair near the window,
but with her back toward it, was what on first view appeared to be a
golden-haired child in black; one elbow rested on the arm of the chair, and
a childish hand supported the flower-like head. As Ruth hesitated after
closing the door behind her, she found a pair of listless violet eyes
regarding her from a small white face.

"Well?" queried the girl, without changing her position except to allow her
gaze to travel to the floor.

"You are Miss Rose Delano?" said Ruth, as she came a step nearer.

"What of that?" Asked the girl, lifelessly, her dull eyes wandering
everywhere but to the face of her strange interlocutor.

"I am Ruth Levice, a friend of Dr. Kemp. Will that introduction be enough
to make you shake hands with me?"

She advanced toward her, holding out her hand. A burning flame shot across
Rose Delano's face, and she shrank farther back among her pillows.

"No," she said, putting up a repellent hand; "it is not enough. Do not
touch me, or you will regret it. You must not, I say." She arose quickly
from her chair and stood at bay, regarding Ruth. The latter, taller than
she by head and shoulders, looked down at her smiling.

"I know no reason why I must not," she replied gently.

"You do not know me."

"No; but I know of you."

"Then why did you come; why don't you go?" The blue eyes looked with
passionate resentment at her.

"Because I have come to see you; because I wish to shake hands with you."

"Why?"

"Why?"

"Why do you wish to do that?"

"Because I wish to be your friend. May we not be friends? I am not much
older than you, I think."

"You are centuries younger. Who sent you here? Dr. Kemp?"

"No one sent me; I came of my own free will."

"Then go as you came."

"No."

She stood gracefully and quietly before her. Rose Delano moved farther
from her, as if to escape her grave brown eyes.

"You do not know what you are doing," cried the girl, excitedly; "have you
no father or mother, no one to tell you what a girl should not do?"

"I have both; but I have also a friend, --Dr. Kemp."

"He is my friend too," affirmed Rose, tremulously.

"Then we have one good thing in common; and since he is my friend and
yours, why should we not be friends?"

"Because he is a man, and you are a woman. He has then told you my story?"

"Yes."

"And you feel yourself unharmed in coming here--to such a creature as I?"

"I feel nothing but pity for you; I do not blame you. But, oh, little one,
I do so grieve for you because you won't believe that the world is not all
merciless. Come, give me your hand."

"No," she said, clasping her hands behind her and retreating as the other
advanced; "go away, please. You are very good, but you are very foolish.
Bad as I am, however, I shall not let you harm yourself more; leave my
room, please."

"Not till I have held your hands in mine."

"Stop! I tell you I don't want you to come here; I don't want your
friendship. Can't you go now, or are you afraid that your sweetheart will
upbraid you if you fail to carry out his will?"

"My sweetheart?" she asked in questioning wonder.

"Yes; only a lover could make a girl like you so forget herself. I speak
of Dr. Kemp."

"But he is not my lover," she stated, still speaking gently, but with a
pale face turned to her companion.

"I--I--beg your pardon," faltered the girl, humbly drooping her head,
shamed by the cold pride in her tormentor's face; "but why, oh, why, then,
won't you go?" she continued, wildly sobbing. "I assure you it is best."

"This is best," said Ruth, deliberately; and before Rose knew it she had
seized her two hands, and unclasping them from behind her, drew them to her
own breast.

"Now," she said, holding them tightly, "who is the stronger, you or I?"
She looked pleasantly down at the tear-stained face so close to hers.

"O God!" breathed the girl, her storm-beaten eyes held by the power of her
captor's calmness.

"Now we are friends," said Ruth, softly, "shall we sit down and talk?"

Still holding the slender hands, she drew up a chair, and seating the frail
girl in the armchair, sat down beside her.

"Oh, wait!" whispered Rose; "let me tell you everything before you make me
live again."

"I know everything; and truly, Rose, nothing you can say could make me wish
to befriend you less."

"How nobly, how kindly he must have told you!"

"Hush! He told me nothing but the truth. To me you are a victim, not a
culprit. And now, tell me, do you feel perfectly strong?"

"Oh, yes." The little hand swept in agony over her sad, childish face.

"Then you ought to go out for a nice walk. You have no idea how pleasant
it is this morning."

"I can't, indeed I can't! and, oh, why should I?"

"You can and you must, because you must go to work soon."

Two frightened eyes were raised to hers.

"Yes," she added, patting the hand she held; "you are a teacher, are you
not?"

"I was," she replied, the catch in her voice still audible.

"What are you used to teaching?"

"Spanish, and English literature."

"Spanish--with your blue eyes!" The sudden outburst of surprise sent a
faint April-like beam into Rose's face.

"Si, Senorita."

"Then you must teach me. Let me see. Wednesdays, --Wednesday afternoon,
yes?"

Again the frightened eyes appealed to her; but Ruth ignored them.

"And so many of my friends would like to speak Spanish. Will you teach
them too?"

"Oh, Miss Levice, how can I go with such a past?"

"I tell you," said Ruth, proudly rearing her head, "if I introduce you as
my friend, you are, you must be, presentable."

The pale lips strove to answer her.

"To-morrow I shall come with a number of names of girls who are 'dying,' as
they say, to speak Spanish, and then you can go and make arrangements with
them. Will you?"

Thus pushed to the wall, Rose's tear-filled eyes were her only answer.

Ruth's own filled in turn.

"Dear little Rose," she said, her usual sweet voice coming back to her,
"won't it be lovely to do this? You will feel so much better when you once
get out and are earning your independent, pleasant living again. And now
will you forgive me for having been so harsh?"

"Forgive you!" A red spot glowed on each pallid cheek; she raised her eyes
and said with simple fervor, "I would die for you."

"No, but you may live for me," laughed Ruth, rising; "will you promise me
to go out this morning, just for a block or two?"

"I promise you."

"Well, then, good-by." She held out her hand meaningly; a little
fluttering one was placed in hers, and Ruth bent and kissed the wistful
mouth. That pure kiss would have wiped out every stain from Rose's
worshipping soul.

"I shall see you to-morrow surely," she called back, turning a radiant face
to the lonely little figure in the doorway. She felt deliriously happy as
she ran down the stairs; her eyes shone like stars; a buoyant joyfulness
spoke in her step.

"It is so easy to be happy when one has everything," she mused. She forgot
to add, "And gives much." There is so much happiness derived from a kind
action that were it not for the motive, charity might be called supreme
selfishness.


Chapter XI.

She told her mother in a few words at luncheon that she had arranged to
take Spanish lessons from a young protege of Dr. Kemp, who had been ill
and was in want.

"And I was thinking," she added with naive policy, "that I might combine a
little business with pleasure this afternoon, --pay off some of those ever
urgent calls you accuse me of outlawing, and at the same time try to get up
a class of pupils for Miss Delano. What do you think?"

"That would be nice; don't forget Mrs. Bunker. I know you don't like her,
but you must pay a call for the musical which we did not attend; and she
has children who might like to learn Spanish. I wonder if I could take
lessons too; it would not be exciting, and I am not yet so old but I may
learn."

"You might ask the doctor. He has almost dismissed himself now; and after
we get back from the country perhaps Jennie would join us two in a class.
Mother and daughter can then go to school together."

"It is very fortunate," Mrs. Levice observed pensively, sipping her
necessary glass of port, "that C_ sent your hat this morning to wear with
your new gown. Isn't it?"

"Fortunate!" Ruth exclaimed, laughing banteringly; "it is destiny."

So Mrs. Levice slipped easily into Ruth's plan from a social standpoint,
and Ruth slipped out, trim and graceful, from her mother's artistic
manipulations.

Meanwhile Mrs. Levice intended writing some delayed letters till her
husband's return, which promised to be early in the afternoon.

She had just about settled herself at her desk when Jennie Lewis came
bustling in. Mrs. Lewis always brought in a sense of importance; one
looked upon her presence with that exhilarating feeling with which one
anticipates the latest number of a society journal.

"Go right on with your writing, Aunt Esther," she said after they had
exchanged greetings. "I have brought my work, so I shall not mind the
quiet in the least."

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