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Judith Boss, Omaha, Nebraska. - "The Innocence of Father Brown, by G. K. Chesterton"

Oliver Goldsmith - "She Stoops to Conquer"

Sir Francis Bacon - "The New Atlantis"

Izaak Walton - "The Complete Angler"

Other Things Being Equal

E >> Emma Wolf >> Other Things Being Equal




"Many women, but no wife, I am glad to say. But you need one."

"So! Pray explain wherein the lack is apparent."

"Oh, not to me, but--"

"You mean you consider a wife an adjunct to a doctor's certificate."

"It is a great guarantee with women," put in Louis, "as a voucher against
impatience with their own foibles. They think only home practice can
secure the adequate tolerance. Eh, Aunt Esther?"

"Nonsense, Louis!" interrupted Mr. Levice; "what has that to do with
skill?"

"Skill is one thing; the manner of man is another--with women."

"That is worth considering--or adding to the curriculum," observed Kemp,
turning his steady, quiet gaze upon Arnold.

Ruth noticed that the two men had taken the same position, --vis- -vis to
each other in their respective easy-chairs, their heads thrown back upon
the cushions, their arms resting on the chair-arms. Something in Louis's
veiled eyes caused her to interpose.

"Will you play, Louis?" she asked.

"Not to-night, ma cousine," he replied, glancing at her from lowered lids.

"It is not optional with you to-night, Louis," she insisted playfully,
rising; "we--desire you to play."

"Or be punished for treason? Has your Majesty any other behest?"

"No; I shall even turn the leaves for you."

"The leaves of what, --memory? I'll play by rote."

He strolled over to the piano and sat down. He struck a few random chords,
some soft, some florid, some harsh, some melting; he strung them together
and then glided into a dreamy, melodious rhythm, that faded into a
bird-like hallelujah, --swelling now into grandeur, then fainting into
sobs, then rushing into an allegro so brilliantly bewildering that when the
closing chords came like the pealing tones of an organ, Ruth drew a long
sigh with the last lingering vibrations.

"What is that?" asked Levice, looking curiously at his nephew, who, turning
on his music-chair, took up his cigar again.

"That," he replied, flecking an ash from his coat lappel, "has no name that
I know of; some people call it 'The Soul.'"

A pained sensation shot through Ruth at his words, for he had plainly been
improvising, and he must have felt what he had played.

"Here, Ruth, sing this," he continued, turning round and picking up a sheet
of music.

"What?" she asked without moving.

"'The bugle;' I like it."

Kemp looked at her expectantly. He said he had not known she sang; but
since she did, he was sure her voice was contralto.

"Why?" she asked.

"Because your face is contralto."

She turned from his eyes as if they hurt her, and walked over to Louis's
side.

It could hardly be called singing. Louis had often said that her voice
needed merely to be set to rhythmic time to be music; in pursuance of which
idea he would put into her hand some poem that touched his fancy, tell her
to read it, and as she read, he would adapt to it an accompaniment
according to the meaning and measure of the lines, --grandly solemn,
daintily tripping, or wildly inspiriting. It was more like a chant than a
song. To-night he chose Tennyson's Bugle-song. Her voice was subservient
to the accompaniment, that shook its faint, sweet bugle-notes at first as
in a rosy splendor; it rose and swelled and echoed and reverberated and
died away slowly as if loath to depart. Arnold's playing was the poem,
Ruth's voice the music the poet might have heard as he wrote, sweet as a
violin, deep as the feeling evolved, --for when she came to the line
beginning, "oh, love, they die in yon rich sky," she might have stood alone
with one, in some high, clear place, so mellow was the thrill of her voice,
so rapt the expression of her face. Kemp looked as if he would not tire if
the sound should "grow forever and forever."

Mrs. Levice was wakeful after she had gone to bed. Her husband also seemed
inclined to prolong the night, for he made no move to undress.

"Jules," said she in a low, confidential tone, "do you realize that our
daughter is twenty-two?"

He looked at her with a half-smile.

"Is not this her birthday?"

"Her twenty-second, and she is still unmarried."

"Well?"

"Well, it is time she were. I should like to see it."

"So should I," he acquiesced with marked decision.

Mrs. Levice straightened herself up in bed and looked at her husband
eagerly.

"Is it possible," she exclaimed, "that we have both thought of the same
parti?"

It was now Mr. Levice's turn to start into an interested position.

"Of whom," he asked with some restraint, "are you speaking?"

"Hush! Come here; I have longed for it for some time, but have never
breathed it to a soul, --Louis."

"Levice had become quite pale, but as she pronounced the familiar name, the
color returned to his cheek, and a surprised look sprang into his eyes.

"Louis? Why do you think of such a thing?"

"Because I think them particularly well suited. Ruth, pardon me, dear, has
imbibed some very peculiar and high-flown notions. No merely commonplace
young man would make her happy. A man must have some ideas outside of what
his daily life brings him, if she is to spend a moment's interested thought
on him. She has repelled some of the most eligible advances for no obvious
reasons whatever. Now, she does not care a rap for society, and goes only
because I exact it. That is no condition for a young girl to allow herself
to sink into; she owes a duty to her future. I am telling you this
because, of course, you see nothing peculiar in such a course. But it is
time you were roused; you know one look from you is worth a whole sermon
from me. As to my thinking of Louis, well, in running over my list of
eligibles, I found he fulfilled every condition, --good-looking, clever,
cultivated, well-to-do, and--of good family. Why should it not be? They
like each other, and see enough of each other to learn to love. We,
however, must bring it to a head."

"First provide the hearts, little woman. What can I do, ask Louis or
Ruth?"

"Jules," she returned with vexation, "how childish! Don't you feel well?
Your cheeks are rather flushed."

"They are somewhat warm. I am going in to kiss the child good-night; she
ran off while I saw Dr. Kemp out."

Ruth sat in her white dressing-gown, her heavy dark hair about her, her
brush idle in her hand. Her father stood silently in the doorway,
regarding her, a great dread tugging at his heart. Jules Levice was a keen
student of the human face, and he had caught a faint glimpse of something
in the doctor's eyes while Ruth sang. He knew it had been harmless, for
her back had been turned, but he wished to reassure himself.

"Not in bed yet, my child?"

She started up in confusion as he came in.

"Of what were you thinking, darling?" he continued, putting his hand under
her soft white chin and looking deeply into her eyes.

"Well," she answered slowly, "I was not thinking of anything important; I
was thinking of you. We are going to Beacham's next week--and have you any
fine silk shirts?"

He laughed a hearty, relieved laugh.

"Well, no," he answered; "I leave all such fancies to your care. So we go
next week. I am glad; and you?"

"I? Oh, I love the country in its summer dress, you know."

"Yes. Well, good-night, love." He took her face between his hands, and
drawing it down to his, kissed it. Still holding her, he said with sweet
solemnity, --

"'The Lord bless thee and keep thee.

"'The Lord make his face to shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee.

"'The Lord lift up his countenance upon thee, and give thee peace.'"


Chapter XIII

It was August. The Levices had purposely postponed leaving town until the
gay, merry-making crowds had disappeared, when Mrs. Levice, in the quiet
autumn, could put a crown to her recovery.

Ruth had quite a busy time getting all three ready, as she was to continue
the management of the household affairs until their return, a month later.
Besides which, numerous little private incidentals had to be put in running
order for a month, and she realized with a pang at parting with some of her
simple, sincere proteges that were this part of her life withdrawn, the
rest would pall insufferably.

The evening before their departure she stood bareheaded upon the steps of
the veranda with Louis, who was enjoying a post-prandial smoke. Mr. and
Mrs. Levice, in the soft golden gloaming of late summer, were strolling
arm-in-arm among the flower-beds. Mrs. Levice, without obviously looking
toward them, felt with satisfaction that Ruth was looking well in a plain
black gown which she had had no time to change after her late shopping.
She did not know that, close and isolated as the young man and woman stood,
not only were they silent, but each appeared oblivious of the other's
presence.

Ruth, with her hands clasped behind her, and Arnold, blowing wreaths of
blue smoke into the heliotrope-scented air, looked as if under a
dream-spell.

As Mrs. Levice passed within ear-shot, Ruth heard snatches of the broken
sentence, --

"Jennie--good-by--to-day."

This roused her from her revery, and she called to her mother, --

"Why, I forgot to drop in at Jennie's this afternoon, as I promised."

"How annoying! When you know how sensitive she is and how angry she gets at
any neglect."

"I can run out there now. It is light enough."

"But it will be dark in less than an hour. Louis, will you go out to
Jennie's with Ruth?"

"Eh? Oh, certainly, if she wishes me."

"I wish you to come if you yourself wish it. I'll run in and get my hat
and jacket while you decide."

Ruth came back in a few minutes with a jaunty little sailor hat on and a
light gray jacket, which she handed to Louis to hold for her.

"New?" he asked, pulling it into place in the back.

"Yes," she answered; "do you like it for travelling?"

"Under a duster. Otherwise its delicate complexion will be rather freckled
when you arrive at Beacham's."

He pulled his hat on from ease to respectability and followed her down to
the gate. They turned the corner, walking southward toward the valley.
Mrs. Levice and her husband stood at the gate and watched them saunter off.
When they were quite out of sight, Mrs. Levice turned around and sang gayly
to Mr. Levice, "'Ca va bien!'"

The other two walked on silently. The evening was perfect. To the west
and sweeping toward Golden Gate a hazy glory flushed the sky rose-color and
molten gold, purple and silver; and then seas of glinting pale green to the
northward held the eye with their beauty. The air was soft and languorous
after a very warm day; now and then a piano, violin, or mandolin sounded
through open windows; the peace and beauty of rest was over all.

They continued down Van Ness Avenue a few blocks, and unconsciously turned
into one of the dividing streets toward Franklin. Suddenly Arnold felt his
companion start, and saw she had taken her far-off gaze from the landscape.
Following the direction of her eyes, he also straightened up. The
disturbing object was a slight black column attached to a garden fence and
bearing in small gold letters the simple name, Dr. Herbert Kemp.

As they approached nearer, Arnold knew of a certainty that there would be
more speaking signs of the doctor's propinquity. His forecasting was not
at fault.

Dr. Kemp's quaint, dark-red cottage, with its flower-edged lawn, was
reached by a flight of low granite steps, at the top of which lounged the
medical gentleman in person. He was not heaven-gazing, but seemed plunged
in tobacco-inspired meditation of the flowers beneath him. Arnold's quick
eye detected the pink flush that rose to the little ear of his cousin. The
sound of their footsteps on the stone sidewalk came faintly to Kemp; he
raised his eyes slowly and indifferently. The indifference vanished when
he recognized them.

With a hasty movement he threw the cigar from him and ran down the steps.

"Good-evening," he called, raising his old slouch hat and arresting their
evident intention of proceeding on their way. They came up, perforce, and
met him at the foot of the steps.

"A beautiful evening," he said originally, holding out a cordial hand to
Arnold and looking with happy eyes at Ruth. She noticed that there was a
marked difference in his appearance from anything she had been used to.
His figure looked particularly tall and easy in a loose dark velvet jacket,
thrown open from his broad chest; the large sombrero-like hat which had
settled on the back of his head left to view his dark hair brushed
carelessly backward; an unusual color was on his cheek, and a warm glow in
his gray eyes.

"I hope," he went on, frankly transferring his attention to Ruth, "this
weather will continue. We shall have a magnificent autumn; the woods must
be beginning to look gorgeous."

"I shall know better to-morrow."

"To-morrow?"

"Yes; we leave for Beacham's to-morrow, you know."

"No, I did not know;" an indefinable shadow over-clouded his face, but he
said quickly, --

"That is an old hunting-ground of mine. The river teems with speckled
treasures. Are you a disciple of old Walton, Mr. Arnold?" he added,
turning with courtesy to the silent Frenchman.

"You mean fishing? No; life is too short to hang my humor of a whole day
on the end of a line. I have never been at Beacham's."

"It is a fine spot. You will probably go down there this year."

"My business keeps me tied to the city just at present. A professional man
has no such bond; his will is his master."

"Hardly, or I should have slipped cables long ago. A restful night is an
unknown indulgence sometimes for weeks."

His gaze moved from Arnold's peachy cheek, and falling upon Ruth, surprised
her dark eyes resting upon him in anxious questioning. He smiled.

"We shall have to be moving on," she said, holding out a gloved hand.

"Will you be gone long?" he asked, pressing it cordially.

"About a month."

"You will be missed--by the Flynns. Good-by." He raised his hat as he
looked at her.

Arnold drew her arm within his, and they walked off.

They say that the first thing a Frenchman learns in studying the English
language is the use of that highly expressive outlet of emotion, "Damn."
Arnold was an old-timer, but he had not outgrown the charm of his first
linguistic victory; and now as he replaced his hat in reply to Kemp, he
distinctly though coolly said, "Damn him."

Ruth looked at him, startled; but the composed, non-committal expression of
his face led her to believe that her ears had deceived her.

A few more blocks were passed, and they stopped at a pretentious,
many-windowed, Queen Anne house. Ruth ran lightly up the steps, her cousin
following her leisurely.

She had scarcely rung the bell when the door was opened by Mrs. Lewis
herself.

"Good-evening, Ruth; why, Mr. Arnold doesn't mean to say that he does us
the honor?"

Mr. Arnold had said nothing of the kind; but he offered no disclaimer, and
giving her rather a loose hand-shake, walked in.

"Come right into the dining-room," she continued. "I suppose you were
surprised to find me in the hall; I had just come from putting the children
to bed. They were in mischievous spirits and annoyed their father, who
wished to be very quiet this evening."

By this time they had reached the room at the end of the hall, the door of
which she threw open.

Jewish people, as a rule, use their dining-rooms to sit in, keeping the
drawing-rooms for company only. This is always presupposing that they have
no extra sitting-room. After all, a dining-room is not a bad place for the
family gathering, having a large table as an objective plane for a round
game, which also serves as a support for reading matter; while from an
economical point of view it preserves the drawing-rooms in reception
stiffness and ceremonious newness.

The apartment they entered was large and square, and contained the
regulation chairs, table, and silver and crystal loaded sideboard.

Upon the mantel-piece, the unflickering light from a waxen taper burning in
a glass of oil lent an unusual air of Sabbath quiet to the room.

"I have 'Yahrzeit' for my mother," explained Jo Lewis, glancing toward the
taper after greeting his visitors. He sat down quietly again.

"Do you always burn the light?" asked Arnold.

"Always. A light once a year to a mother's memory is not much to ask of a
son."

"How long is it since you lost your mother?" questioned Ruth, gently.

Jo Lewis was a man with whom she had little in common. To her he seemed to
have but one idea, --the amassing of wealth. With her more intellectual
cravings, the continual striving for this, to the exclusion of all higher
aspirations, put him on a plane too narrow for her footing. Unpolished he
certainly was, but the rough, exposed grain of his unhewn nature showed
many strata of strength and virility. In this gentle mood a tenderness had
come into view that drew her to him with a touch of kinship.

"Thirty years," he answered musingly, -- "thirty years. It is a long time,
Ruth; but every year when I light the taper it seems as if but yesterday I
was a boy crying because my mother had gone away forever." The strong man
wiped his eyes.

"The little light casts a long ray," observed Ruth. "Love builds its own
lighthouse, and by its gleaming we travel back as at a leap to that which
seemed eternally lost."

Jo Lewis sighed. Presently the thoughts that so strongly possessed him
found an outlet.

"There was a woman for you!" he cried with glowing eyes. "Why, Arnold, you
talk of men being great financiers; I wonder what you would have said to
the powers my mother showed. We were poor, but poor to a degree of which
you can know nothing. Well, with a large family of small children she
struggled on alone and managed to keep us not only alive, but clean and
respectable. In our village Sara Lewis was a name that every man and woman
honored as if it belonged to a princess. Jennie is a good woman, but life
is made easy for her. I often think how grand my mother would feel if she
were here, and I were able to give her every comfort. God knows how proud
and happy I would have been to say, 'You have struggled enough, Mother;
life is going to be a heaven on earth to you now.' Well, well, what is the
good of thinking of it? To-morrow I shall go down town and deal with men,
not memories; it is more profitable."

"Not always," said Arnold, dryly. The two men drifted into a business
discussion that neither Mrs. Lewis nor Ruth cared to follow.

"Are you quite ready?" asked Mrs. Lewis, drawing her chair closer to
Ruth's.

"Entirely," she replied; "we start on the 8.30 train in the morning."

"You will be gone a month, will you not?"

"Yes; we wish to get back for the holidays. New Year's falls on the 12th
of September, and we must give the house its usual holiday cleaning."

"I have begun already. Somehow I never thought you would mind being away."

"Why, we always go to the Temple, you know; and I would not miss the
Atonement services for a great deal."

"Why don't you say 'Yom Kippur,' as everybody else does?"

"Because 'Atonement' is English and means something to me. Is there
anything odd about that?"

"I suppose not. By the way, if there is anything you would like to have
done while you are away, let me know."

"I think I have seen to everything. You might run in and see Louis now and
then."

"Louis," Mrs. Lewis called instantly, "be sure to come in often for dinner
while the folks are gone."

"Thank you; I shall. The last dinner I ate with you was delicious enough
to do away with any verbal invitation to another."

He arose, seeing Ruth had risen and was kissing her cousins good-by.

Mrs. Lewis beamed with pleasure at his words.

"Now, won't you take something before you go?" she asked. "Ruth, I have
the loveliest cakes."

"Oh, Jennie," remonstrated Ruth, as her cousin bustled off, "we have just
dined."

"Let her enjoy herself," observed Louis; "she is never so happy as when she
is feeding somebody."

The clink of glasses was soon heard, and Mrs. Lewis's rosy face appeared
behind a tray with tiny glasses and a plate of rich, brown-looking little
cakes.

"Jo, get the Kirsch. You must try one, Ruth; I made them myself."

When they had complimented her on her cakes and Louis had drunk to his next
undertaking, suggested by Jo Lewis, the visitors departed.

They had been walking in almost total silence for a number of blocks, when
Ruth turned suddenly to him and said with great earnestness, --

"Louis, what is the matter with you? For the last few days you have hardly
spoken to me. Have I done anything to annoy you?"

"You? Why, no, not that I remember."

"Then, please, before we go off, be friendly with me again."

"I am afraid I am not of a very hilarious temperament."

"Still, you manage to talk to others."

"Have you cared very much who talked to you lately?"

Her cheek changed color in the starlight.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"Anything or nothing."

Ruth looked at him haughtily.

"If nothing," he continued, observing her askance from lowered lids, "what
I am about to say will be harmless. If anything, I still hope you will
find it pardonable."

"What are you about to say?"

"It won't take long. Will you be my wife?"

And the stars still shone up in heaven!

Her face turned white as a Niphetos rose.

"Louis," she said finally and speaking with difficulty, "why do you ask me
this?"

"Why does any man ask a woman to be his wife?"

"Generally because he loves her."

"Well?"

If he had spoken outright, she might have answered him; but the simple
monosyllable, implying a world of restrained avowal, confronted her like a
wall, before which she stood silent.

"Answer me, Ruth."

"If you mean it, Louis, I am very, very sorry."

"Why?"

"Because I can never be your wife."

"Why not?"

"I do not love you--like that."

Silence for half a block, the man's lips pressed hard together under his
mustache, the girl's heart beating suffocatingly. When he spoke, his voice
sounded oddly clear in the hushed night air.

"What do you mean by 'like that'?"

Her little hand was clinched tight as it lay on his arm. The perfect
silence that followed the words of each made every movement significant.

"You know, --as a woman loves the man she would marry, not as she loves a
brotherly cousin."

"The difference is not clear to me--but--how did you learn the difference?"

"How dare you?" she cried, flashing a pair of dark, wet eyes upon him.

"In such a case, 'I dare do all that may become a man.' Besides, even if
there is a difference, I still ask you to be my wife. You would not regret
it, Ruth, I think."

His voice was not soft, but there was a certain strained pleading about it
that pained her inexpressibly.

"Louis," she said, with slow distinctness, her hand moving down until it
touched his, "I never thought of this as a possibility. You know how much
I have always loved you, dear; but oh, Louis, will it hurt you very much,
will you forgive me if I have to say no, I cannot be your wife?"

"Wait. I wish you to consider this well. I am offering you all that I
have in the world; it is not despicable. Your family, I know, would be
pleased. Besides, it would be well for you--God knows, not because I am
what I am, but for other reasons. Wait. I beg of you not to answer me
till you have thought it over. You know me; I am no saint, but a man who
would give his life for you. I ask of you nothing but the right to guard
yours. Do not answer me now."

They had turned the corner of their block.

"I need no time," said Ruth, with a sad sob in her voice; "I cannot marry
you, Louis. My answer would be the same to-morrow or at the end of all
time, --I can never, never be your wife."

"It is then as I feared, --anything."

The girl's bowed head was the only answer to his bitter words.

"Well," he said, with a hard laugh, "that ends it, then. Don't let it
bother you. Your answer has put it entirely from my mind. I should be
pleased if you would forget it as readily as I shall. I hardly think we
shall meet in the morning. I am going down to the club now. Good-by;
enjoy yourself."

He held out his hand carelessly; Ruth carried it in both hers to her lips.
Being at the gate, he lifted his hat with a smile and walked away. Ruth
did not smile; neither did Arnold when he had turned from her.


Chapter XIV

Beacham's lies in a dimple of the inner coast range, and is reached
nowadays through one of the finest pieces of engineering skill in the
State. The tortuous route through the mountains, over trestle-bridges that
span what seem, from the car-windows, like bottomless chasms, needs must
hold some compensation at the end to counterbalance the fears engendered on
the way. The higher one goes the more beautiful becomes the scenery among
the wild, marvellous redwoods that stand like mammoth guides pointing
heavenward; and Beacham's realizes expectation.

It is a quiet little place, with its one hotel and two attached cottages,
its old, disused saw-mill, its tiny schoolhouse beyond the fairy-like
woods, its one general merchandise store, where cheese and calico, hats and
hoes, ham and hominy, are forthcoming upon solicitation. It is by no means
a fashionable resort; the Levices had searched for something as unlike the
Del Monte and Coronado as milk is unlike champagne. They were looking for
a pretty, healthful spot, with good accommodations and few social
attractions, and Beacham's offered this.

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