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Laura Lee Hope - "***The Project Gutenberg Etext of The Bobbsey Twins at School***"

Plato, translated by B. Jowett. - "Symposium"

Stendhal - "Le Rouge et le Noir "

Marian Keith - "The Black Bearded Barbarian"

Other Things Being Equal

E >> Emma Wolf >> Other Things Being Equal




They were not disappointed. Ruth's anticipation was fulfilled when she saw
the river. Russian River is about as pretty a stream as one can view upon
a summer's day. Here at Beacham's it is very narrow and shallow, with low,
shelving beaches on either bank; but in the tiny row-boat which she
immediately secured, Ruth pushed her way into enchantment. The river winds
in and out through exquisite coves entangled in a wilderness of brambles
and lace-like ferns that are almost transparent as they bend and dip toward
the silvery waters; while, climbing over the rocky cliffs, run bracken and
the fragrant yerba-buena, till, on high, they creep as if in awe about the
great redwoods and pines of the forest.

Morning and night Ruth, in her little boat, wooed the lisping waters.
Often of a morning her mother was her companion; later on, her father or
little Ethel Tyrrell; in the evening one of the Tyrrell boys, generally
Will, was her gallant chevalier. But it was always Ruth who rowed, --Ruth
in her pretty sailor blouses, with her strong round arms and steadily
browning hands; Ruth, whose creamy face and neck remained provokingly
unreddened, and took on only a little deeper tint, as if a dash of bistre
had been softly applied. It was pleasant enough rowing down-stream with
Ruth; she always knew when to sing "Nancy Lee," and when "White Wings"
sounded prettiest. There were numerous coves too, where she loved to beach
her boat, --here to fill a flask with honey-sweet water from a rollicking
little spring that came merrily dashing over the rocks, here to gather some
delicate ferns or maiden-hair with which to decorate the table, or the
trailing yerba-buena for festooning the boat. But Ethel Tyrrell, aged
three, thought they had the "dolliest" time when she and Ruth, having rowed
a space out of sight, jumped out, and taking off their shoes and stockings
and making other necessary preliminaries to wading, pattered along over the
pebbly bottom, screaming when a sharp stone came against their tender feet,
and laughing gleefully when the water rose a little higher than they had
bargained for; then, when quite tired, they would retire to the beach or
the boat and dry themselves with the soft damask of the sun.

Ruth was happy. There were moments when the remembrance of her last
meeting with Louis came like a summer cloud over the ineffable brightness
of her sky, and she felt a sharp pang at her heart; still, she thought, it
was different with Louis. His feeling for her could not be so strong as to
make him suffer poignantly over her refusal. She was almost convinced that
he had asked her more from a whim of good-fellowship, a sudden desire,
perhaps a preference for her close companionship when he did marry, than
from any deeper emotion. In consequence of these reflections her musings
were not so sad as they might otherwise have been.

Her parents laughed to see how she revelled in the freedom of the
old-fashioned little spot, which, though on the river, was decidedly "out
of the swim." It was late in the season, and there were few guests at the
hotel. The Levices occupied one of the cottages, the other being used by a
pair of belated turtle-doves, --the wife a blushing dot of a woman, the
husband an overgrown youth who bent over her in their walks like a devoted
weeping-willow; there was a young man with a consumptive cough, a natty
little stenographer off on a solitary vacation, and the golden-haired
Tyrrell family, little and big, for Papa Tyrrell could not enjoy his
hard-earned rest without one and all. They were such a refined, happy,
sweet family, for all their pinched circumstances, that the Levices were
attracted to them at once. To be with Mrs. Tyrrell one whole day, Mrs.
Levice said was a liberal education, --so bright, so uncomplaining, so
ambitious for her children was she, and such a help and inspiration to her
hard-worked husband. Mr. Levice tramped about the woods with Tyrrell and
brier-wood pipes, and appreciated the moral bravery of a man who struggled
on with a happy face and small hope for any earthly rest. But the
children!--Floy with her dreamy face and busy sketch-book, Will with his
halo of golden hair, his manly figure and broad, open ambitions, Boss with
his busy step and fishing-tackle, and baby Ethel, the wee darling, who ran
after Ruth the first time she saw her and begged her to come and play with
her; ever since, she formed a part of the drapery of Ruth's skirt or a
rather cumbersome necklace about her neck. Every girl who has been
debarred the blessing of babies in the house loves them promiscuously and
passionately. Ruth was no exception; it amused the ladies to watch her
cuddle the child and wonder aloud at all her baby-talk.

Will was her next favorite satellite. A young girl with a winsome,
sympathetic face, and hearty manner, can easily become the confidante of a
fine fellow of fourteen. Will, with his arm tucked through hers, would
saunter around after dusk and tell her all his ambitions.

The soft, starry evenings up in the mountains, where heaven seems so near,
are just the time for such talk.

They were walking thus one evening toward the river, Ruth in a creamy gown
and with a white burnous thrown over her head, Will holding his hat in his
hand and letting the sweet air play through his hair, as he loved to do.

"What do you think are the greatest professions, Miss Ruth?" asked the boy
suddenly.

"Well, law is one--" she began.

"That's the way Papa begins," he interrupted impatiently; "but I'll tell
you what I think is the greatest. Guess, now."

"The ministry?" she ventured.

"Oh, of course; but I'm not good enough for that, --that takes exceptions.
Guess again."

"Well, there are the fine arts, or soldiery, --that is it. You would be a
brave soldier, Willikins, my man."

"No, sir," he replied, flinging back his head; "I don't want to take lives;
I want to save them."

"You mean a physician, Will?"

"That's it--but not exactly--I mean a surgeon. Don't you think that takes
bravery? And it's a long sight better than being a solider; he draws blood
to kill, we do it to save. What do you think, Miss Ruth?"

"Indeed, you are right," she answered dreamily, her thoughts wandering
beyond the river. So they walked along; and as they were about to descent
the slope, a man in overalls and carrying a leather bag came suddenly upon
them in the gloaming. He stood stock-still, his mouth gaping wide.

When Ruth saw it was Ben, the steward, she laughed.

"Why, Ben!" she exclaimed.

The man's mouth slowly closed, and his hand went up to his cap.

"Begging your pardon, Miss, --I mean Her pardon, --the Lord forgive me, I
took you for the Lady Madonna and the blessed Boy with the shining hair.
Now, don't be telling of me, will you?"

"Indeed, we won't; we'll keep the pretty compliment to ourselves. Have you
the mail? I wonder if there is a letter for me."

Ben immediately drew out his little pack, and handed her two. It was still
light enough to read; and as Ben moved on, she stood and opened them.

"This," she announced in a matter-of-course way, "is from Miss Dorothy
Gwynne, who requests the pleasure of my company at a high-tea next
Saturday. That, or the hay-ride, Will? And this--this--"

It was a simple envelope addressed to

Miss RUTH LEVICE--
Beacham's--
. . . County--
Cal.

It was the sight of the dashes that caused the hiatus in her sentence, and
made her heart give one great rushing bound. The enclosure was to the
point.

SAN FRANCISCO, Aug. 18, 188--.

MISS RUTH LEVICE:

MY DEAR FRIEND, --That you may not denounce me as too presumptuous, I shall
at once explain that I am writing this at Bob's urgent desire. He has at
length got the position at the florist's, and tells me to tell you that he
is now happy. I dropped in there last night; and when he gave me this
message, I told him that I feared you would take it as an advertisement.
He merely smiled, picked up a Marechal Niel that lay on the counter, and
said, "Drop this in. It's my mark; she'll understand." So here are Bob's
rose and my apology.

HERBERT KEMP.

She was pale when she turned round to the courteously waiting boy. It was
a very cold note, and she put it in her pocket to keep it warm. The rose
she showed to Will, and told him the story of the sender.

"Didn't I tell you," he cried, when she had finished, "a doctor has the
greatest opportunity in the world to be great--and a surgeon comes near it?
I say, Miss Ruth, your Dr. Kemp must be a brick. Isn't he?"

"Boys would call him so," she answered, shivering slightly.

It was so like him, she thought, to fulfil Bob's request in his hearty,
friendly way; she supposed he wanted her to understand that he wrote to her
only as Bob's amanuensis, --it was plain enough. And yet, and yet, she
thought passionately, it would have been no more than common etiquette to
send a friendly word from himself to her mother. Still the note was not
thrown away. Girls are so irrational; if they cannot have the hand-shake,
they will content themselves with a sight of the glove.

And Ruth in the warm, throbbing, summer days was happy. She was not always
active; there were long afternoons when mere existence was intensely
beautiful. To lie at full length upon the soft turf in the depths of the
small enchanted woods, and hear and feel the countless spells of Nature,
was unspeakable rapture.

"Ah, Floy," she cried one afternoon, as she lay with her face turned up to
the great green boughs that seemed pencilled against the azure sky, "if one
could paint what one feels! Look at these silent, living trees that stand
in all their grandeur under some mighty spell; see how the wonderful heaven
steals through the leaves and throws its blue softness upon the twilight
gloom; here at our feet nestle the soft, green ferns, and over all is the
indescribable fragrance of the redwoods. Turn there, to your right, little
artist, high up on that mountain; can you see through the shimmering haze a
great team moving as if through the air? It is like the vision of the
Bethshemites in Dore's mystic work, when in the valley they lifted up their
eyes and beheld the ark returning. Oh, Floy, it is not Nature; it is God.
And who can paint God?"

"No one. If one could paint Him, He would no longer be great," answered
the girl, resting her sober eyes upon Ruth's enraptured countenance.

One afternoon Ruth took a book and Ethel over the tramway to this fairy
spot. It was very warm and still. Mrs. Levice had swung herself to sleep
in the hammock, and Mr. Levice was dozing and talking in snatches to the
Tyrrells, who were likewise resting on the Levices' veranda. All Nature
was drowsy, as Ruth wandered off with the little one, who chattered on as
was her wont.

"Me and you's yunnin' away," she chatted; "we's goin' to a fowest, and by
and by two 'ittle birdies will cover us up wid leaves. My! Won't my mamma
be sorry? No darlin' 'ittle Ethel to pank and tiss no more. Poor Mamma!"

"Does Ethel think Mamma likes to spank her?"

"Yes; Mamma does des what she likes."

"But it is only when Ethel is naughty that Mamma spanks her. Here,
sweetheart, let me tie your sunbonnet tighter. Now Ruth is going to lie
here and read, and you can play hide-and-seek all about these trees."

"Can I go wound and sit on dat log by a bwook?"

"Yes."

"Oh, I's afwaid. I's dweffully afwaid."

"Why, you can turn round and talk to me all the time."

"But nobody'll be sitting by me at all."

"I am here just where you can see me; besides, God will be right next to
you."

"Will He? Ven all yight."

Ruth took off her hat and prepared to enjoy herself. As her head touched
the green earth, she saw the little maiden seat herself on the log, and
turning her face sideways, say in her pleasant, piping voice, --

"How-de-do, Dod?" And having made her acknowledgments, all her fears
vanished.

Ruth laughed softly to herself, and straightway began to read. The
afternoon burned itself away. Ethel played and sang and danced about her,
quite oblivious of the heat, till, tired out, she threw herself into Ruth's
arms.

"Sing by-low now," she demanded sleepily; "pay it's night, and you and me's
in a yockin'-chair goin' to by-low land."

Ruth realized that the child was weary, and drawing her little head to her
bosom, threw off the huge sunbonnet and ruffled up the damp, golden locks.

"What shall I sing, darling?" she mused: she was unused to singing babies
to sleep. Suddenly a little kindergarten melody she had heard came to her,
and she sang softly in her rich, tender contralto the swinging cradle-song:
--

"In a cradle, on the treetop,
Sleeps a tiny bird;
Sweeter sound than mother's chirping
Never yet was heard.
See, the green leaves spread like curtains
Round the tiny bed,
While the mother's wings, outstretching,
Shield--the--tiny--head?"

As her voice died slowly into silence, she found Ethel looking over her
shoulder and nodding her head.

"No; I won't tell," she said loudly.

"Tell what?" asked Ruth, amused.

"Hush! He put his finger on his mouf -- sh!"

"Who?" asked Ruth, turning her head hurriedly. Not being able to see
through the tree, she started to her feet, still holding the child.
Between two trees stood the stalwart figure of Dr. Kemp, --Dr. Kemp in
loose, light gray tweeds and white flannel shirt; on the back of his head
was a small, soft felt hat, which he lifted as she turned, --a wave of
color springing to his cheek with the action. As for Ruth, --a woman's
face dare not speak sometimes.

"Did I startle you?" he asked, coming slowly forward, hat in hand, the
golden shafts of the sun falling upon his head and figure.

"Yes," she answered, trying to speak calmly, and failing, dropped into
silence.

She made no movement toward him, but let the child glide softly down till
she stood at her side.

"I interrupted you," he continued; "will you shake hands with me,
nevertheless?"

She put her hand in his proffered one, which lingered in the touch; and
then, without looking at her, he stooped and spoke to the child. In that
moment she had time to compose herself.

"Do you often come up this way?" she questioned.

He turned from the child, straightened himself, and leaning one arm against
the tree, answered, --

"Once or twice every summer I run away from humanity for a few days, and
generally find myself in this part of the country. This is one of my
select spots. I knew you would ferret it out."

"It is very lovely here. But we are going home now; the afternoon is
growing old. Come, Ethel."

A shadow fell upon his dark eyes as she spoke, scarcely looking at him.
Why should she hurry off at his coming?

"I am sorry my presence disturbs you," he said quietly; "But I can easily
go away again."

"Was I so rude?" she asked, looking up with a sudden smile. "I did not
mean it so; but Ethel's mother will want her now."

"Ethel wants to be carried," begged the child.

"All right; Ruth will carry you," and she stooped to raise her; but as she
did so, Kemp's strong hand was laid upon her arm and held her back.

"Ethel will ride home on my shoulder," he said in the gay, winning voice he
knew how so well to use with children. The baby's blue eyes smiled in
response to his as he swing her lightly to his broad shoulder. There is
nothing prettier to a woman than to see the confidence that a little child
reposes in a strong man.

So through the mellow, golden sunlight they strolled slowly homeward.


Chapter XV

Mr. Levice, sauntering down the garden-path, saw the trio approaching. For
a moment he did not recognize the gentleman in his summer attire. When he
did, surprise, then pleasure, then a spirit of inquietude, took possession
of him. He had been unexpectedly startled on Ruth's birthnight by a vague
something in Kemp's eyes. The feeling, however, had vanished gradually in
the knowledge that the doctor always had a peculiarly intent gaze, and,
moreover, no one could have helped appreciating her loveliness that night.
This, of itself, will bring a softness into a man's manner; and without
doubt his fears had been groundless, --fears that he had not dared to put
into words. For old man as he was, he realized that Dr. Kemp's strong
personality was such as would prove dangerously seductive to any woman whom
he cared to honor with his favor; but with a "Get thee behind me, Satan"
desire, he had put the question from him. He could have taken his oath on
Ruth's heart-wholeness, yet now, as he recognized her companion, his
misgivings returned threefold. The courteous gentleman, however, was at
his ease as they came up.

"This is a surprise, Doctor," he exclaimed cordially, opening the gate and
extending his hand. "Who would have thought of meeting you here?"

Kemp grasped his hand heartily.

"I am a sort of surprise-party," he answered, swinging Ethel to the ground
and watching her scamper off to the hotel; "and what is more," he
continued, turning to him, "I have not brought a hamper, which makes one of
me."

"You calculate without your host," responded Levice; "this is a veritable
land of milk and honey. Come up and listen to my wife rhapsodize."

"How is she?" he asked, turning with him and catching a glimpse of Ruth's
vanishing figure.

"Feeling quite well," replied Levice; "she is all impatience now for a
delirious winter season."

"I thought so," laughed the doctor; "but if you take my advice, you will
draw the bit slightly."

Mrs. Levice was delighted to see him; she said it was like the sight of a
cable-car in a desert. He protested at such a stupendous comparison, and
insisted that she make clear that the dummy was not included. The short
afternoon glided into evening, and Dr. Kemp went over to the hotel and
dined at the Levices' table.

Ruth, in a white wool gown, sat opposite him. It was the first time he had
dined with them; and he enjoyed a singular feeling over the situation. He
noticed that although Mrs. Levice kept up an almost incessant flow of talk,
she ate a hearty meal, and that Ruth, who was unusually quiet, tasted
scarcely anything. Her father also observed it, and resolved upon a course
of strict surveillance. He was glad to hear that the doctor had to leave
on the early morning's train, though, of course, he did not say so. As
they strolled about afterward, he managed to keep his daughter with him and
allowed Kemp to appropriate his wife.

They finally drifted to the cottage-steps, and were enjoying the beauty of
the night when Will Tyrrell presented himself before them.

"Good-evening," he said, taking off his hat as he stood at the foot of the
steps. "Mr. Levice, Father says he has at last scared up two other
gentlemen; and will you please come over and play a rubber of whist?"

Mr. Levice felt himself a victim of circumstances. He and Mr. Tyrrell had
been looking for a couple of opponents, and had almost given up the search.
Now, when he decidedly objected to moving, it would have been heartless not
to go.

"Don't consider me," said the doctor, observing his hesitancy. "If it ill
relieve you, I assure you I shall not miss you in the least."

"Go right ahead, Jules" urged his wife; "Ruth and I will take care of the
doctor."

If she had promised to take care of Ruth, it would have been more to his
mind; but since his wife was there, what harm could accrue that his
presence would prevent? So with a sincere apology he went over to the
hotel.

He hardly appreciated what an admirable aide he had left behind him in his
wife.

Kemp sat upon the top step, and leaned his back against the railing;
although outwardly he kept up a constant low run of conversation with Mrs.
Levice, who swayed to and fro in her rocker, he was intently conscious of
Ruth's white figure perched on the window-sill.

How Mrs. Levice happened to broach the subject, Ruth never knew; but she
was rather startled when she perceived that Kemp was addressing her.

"I should like to show my prowess to you, Miss Levice."

"In what?" she asked, somewhat dazed.

"Ruth, Ruth," laughed her mother, "do you mean to say you have not heard a
word of all my glowing compliments on your rowing?"

"And I was telling your mother that in all modesty I was considered a fine
oar at my Alma Mater."

"And I hazarded the suggestion," added Mrs. Levice, "that as it is such a
beautiful night, there is nothing to prevent your taking a little row, and
then each can judge of the other's claim to superiority?"

"My claim has never been justly established," said Ruth. "I have never
allowed any one to usurp my oars."

"As yet," corrected Kemp. "Then will you wrap something about you and come
down to the river?"

"Certainly she will," answered her mother; "run in and get some wraps,
Ruth."

"You will come too, Mamma?"

"Of course; but considering Dr. Kemp's length, a third in your little boat
will be the proverbial trumpery. Still, I suppose I can rely on you two
crack oarsmen, though you know the slightest tremble in the boat in the
fairest weather is likely to create a squall on my part."

If Dr. Kemp wished to row, he should row; and since the Jewish Mrs. Grundy
was not on hand, anything harmlessly enjoyable was permissible.

Ruth went indoors. This was certainly something she had not bargained for.
How could her mother be so blind as not to know or feel her desire to evade
Dr. Kemp? She felt a positive contempt for herself that his presence
should affect her as it did; she dared not look at him lest her heart
should flutter to her eyes. Probably the display amused him. What was she
to him anyway but a girl with whom he could flirt in his idle moments?
Well (with a passionate fling of her arms), she would extinguish her
uncontrollable little beater for the nonce; she would meet and answer every
one of his long glances in kind.

She wound a black lace shawl around her head, and with some wraps for her
mother, came out.

"Hadn't you better put something over your shoulders?" he asked
deferentially as she appeared.

"And disgust the night with lack of appreciation?"

She turned to a corner of the porch and lifted a pair of oars to her
shoulder.

"Why," he said in surprise, coming toward her, "you keep your oars at
home?"

"On the principle of 'neither a borrower nor a lender be;' we find it saves
both time and spleen."

She held them lightly in place on her shoulder.

"Allow me," he said, placing his hand upon the oars.

A spirit of contradiction took possession of her.

"Indeed, no," she answered; "why should I? They are not at all heavy."

He gently lifted her resisting fingers one by one and raised the broad bone
of contention to his shoulder. Then without a look he turned and offered
his arm to Mrs. Levice."

The crickets chirped in the hedges; now and then a firefly flashed before
them; the trees seemed wrapped in silent awe at the majesty of the
bewildering heavens. As they approached the river, the faint susurra came
to them, mingled with the sound of a guitar and some one singing in the
distance.

"Others are enjoying themselves also," he remarked as their feet touched
the pebbly beach. A faint crescent moon shone over the water. Ruth went
straight to the little boat aground on the shore.

"It looks like a cockle-shell," he said, as he put one foot in after
shoving it off. "Will you sit in the stern or the bow, Mrs. Levice?"

"In the bow; I dislike to see dangers before we come to them."

He helped her carefully to her place; she thanked him laughingly for his
exceptionally strong arm, and he turned to Ruth.

"I was waiting for you to move from my place," she said in defiant
mischief, standing motionless beside the boat.

"Your place? Ah, yes; now," he said, holding out his hand to her, "will
you step in?"

She took his hand and stepped in; they were both standing, and as the
little bark swayed he made a movement to catch hold of her.

"You had better sit down," he said, motioning to the rower's seat.

"And you?" she asked.

"I shall sit beside you and use the other oar," he answered nonchalantly,
smiling down at her.

With a half-pleased feeling of discomfiture Ruth seated herself in the
stern, whereupon Kemp sat in the contested throne.

"You will have to excuse my turning my back on you, Mrs. Levice," he said
pleasantly.

"That is no hindrance to my volubility, I am glad to say; a back is not
very inspiring or expressive, but Ruth can tell me when you look bored if I
wax too discursive."

It was a tiny boat; and seated thus, Kemp's knees were not half a foot from
Ruth's white gown.

"Will you direct me?" he said, as he swept around. "I have not rowed on
this river for two or three years."

"You can keep straight ahead for some distance," she said, leaning back in
her seat.

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