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Gaston Leroux - "The Phantom of the Opera"

Johann Wolfgang Goethe - "West östlicher Divan"

Wilkie Collins - "A Fair Penitent"

Richard Harding Davis - "The Red Cross Girl"

Other Things Being Equal

E >> Emma Wolf >> Other Things Being Equal




She could not fail to notice the easy motion of his figure as he rowed
lightly down the river. His flannel shirt, low at the throat, showed his
strong white neck rising like a column from his broad shoulders, and his
dark face with the steady gray eyes looked across at her with grave
sweetness. She would have been glad enough to be able to turn from the
short range of vision between them; but the stars and river afforded her
good vantage-ground, and on them she fixed her gaze.

Mrs. Levice was in bright spirits, and seemed striving to outdo the night
in brilliancy. For a while Kemp maintained a sort of Roland-for-an-Oliver
conversation with her; but with his eyes continually straying to the girl
before him, it became rather difficult. Some merry rowers down the river
were singing college songs harmoniously; and Mrs. Levice soon began to hum
with them, her voice gradually subsiding into a faint murmur. The balmy,
summer-freighted air made her feel drowsy. She listened absently to Ruth's
occasional warnings to Kemp, and to the swift dip of the oars.

"Now we have clear sailing for a stretch," said Ruth, as they came to a
broad curve. "Did you think you were going to be capsized when we shot
over that snag, Mamma?"

She leaned a little farther forward, looking past Kemp.

"Mamma!"

Then she straightened herself back in her seat. Kemp, noting the sudden
flush that had rushed to and from her cheek, turned halfway to look at Mrs.
Levice. Her head was leaning against the flag-staff; her eyes were closed,
in the manner of more wary chaperones, --Mrs. Levice slept.

Dr. Kemp moved quietly back to his former position.

Far across the river a woman's silvery voice was singing the sweet old
love-song, "Juanita;" overhead, the golden crescent moon hung low from the
floor of heaven pulsating with stars; it was a passionate, tender night,
and Ruth, with her face raised to the holy beauty, was a dreamy part of it.
Against the black lace about her head her face shone like a cameo, her eyes
were brown wells of starlight; she scarcely seemed to breathe, so still she
sat, her slender hands loosely clasped in her lap.

Dr. Kemp sat opposite her--and Mrs. Levice slept.

Slowly and more slowly sped the tiny boat; long gentle strokes touched the
water; and presently the oars lay idle in their locks, --they were
unconsciously drifting. The water dipped and lapped about the sides; the
tender woman's voice across the water stole to them, singing of love; their
eyes met--and Mrs. Levice slept.

Ever, in the after time, when Ruth heard that song, she was again rocking
in the frail row-boat upon the lovely river, and a man's deep, grave eyes
held hers as if they would never let them go, till under his worshipping
eyes her own filled with slow ecstatic tears.

"Doctor," called a startled voice, "row out; I am right under the trees."

They both started. Mrs. Levice was, without doubt, awake. They had
drifted into a cove, and she was cowering from the over-hanging boughs.

"I do not care to be Absalomed; where were your eyes, Ruth?" she
complained, as Kemp pushed out with a happy, apologetic laugh. "Did not
you see where we were going?"

"No," she answered a little breathlessly; "I believe I am growing
far-sighted."

"It must be time to sight home now," said her mother; "I am quite chilly."

In five minutes Kemp had grounded the boat and helped Mrs. Levice out.
When he turned for Ruth, she had already sprung ashore and had started up
the slope; for the first time the oars lay forgotten in the bottom of the
boat.

"Wait for us, Ruth," called Mrs. Levice, and the slight white figure stood
still till they came up.

"You are so slow," she said with a reckless little laugh; "I feel as if I
could fly home."

"Are you light-headed, Ruth?" asked her mother, but the girl had fallen
behind them. She could not yet meet his eyes again.

"Come, Ruth, either stay with us or just ahead of us." Mrs. Levice, awake,
was an exemplary duenna.

"There is nothing abroad here but the stars," she answered, flitting before
them.

"And they are stanch, silent friends on such a night," remarked Kemp,
softly.

She kept before them till they reached the gate, and stood inside of it as
they drew near.

"Then you will not be home till Monday," he said, taking Mrs. Levice's hand
and raising his hat; "and I am off on the early morning train. Good-by."

As she turned in at the gate, he held out his hand to Ruth. His fingers
closed softly, tightly over hers; she heard him say almost inaudibly, --

"Till Monday."

She raised her shy eyes for one brief second to his glowing ones; and he
passed, a tall, dark figure, down the shadowy road.

When Mr. Levice returned from his game of whist, he quietly opened the door
of his daughter's bedroom and looked in. All was well; the wolf had
departed, and his lamb slept safe in the fold.

But in the dark his lamb's eyes were mysteriously bright. Sleep! With
this new crown upon her! Humble as the beautiful beggar-maid must have
felt when the king raised her, she wondered why she had been thus chosen by
one whom she had deemed so immeasurably above her. And this is another
phase of woman's love, --that it exalts the beloved beyond all reasoning.


Chapter XVI

At six o'clock the hills in their soft carpet of dull browns and greens
were gently warming under the sun's first rays. At seven the early train
that Dr. Kemp purposed taking would leave. Ruth, with this knowledge at
heart, had softly risen and left the cottage. Close behind the depot rose
a wooded hill. She had often climbed it with the Tyrrell boys; and what
was to prevent her doing so now? It afforded an excellent view of the
station.

It was very little past six, and she began leisurely to ascend the hill.
The sweet morning air was in her nostrils, and she pushed the broad hat
form her happy eyes. She paused a moment, looking up at the wooded
hill-top, which the sun was jewelling in silver.

"Do you see something beautiful up there?"

With an inarticulate cry she wheeled around and faced Dr. Kemp within a
hand's breadth of her.

"Oh," she cried, stepping back with burning cheeks, "I did not mean--I did
not expect--"

"Nor did I," he said in a low voice; "chance is kinder to us than
ourselves--beloved."

She turned quite white at the low, intense word.

"You understood me last night--and I was not--deceived?"

Her head drooped lower till the broad brim of her hat hid her face.

With one quick step he reached her side.

"Ruth, look at me."

She never had been able to resist his compelling voice; and now with a
swift-drawn breath she threw back her head and looked up at him fairly,
with all her soul in her eyes.

"Are you satisfied?" she asked tremulously.

"Not yet," he answered as with one movement he drew her to him.

"My Santa Filomena," he murmured with his lips against her hair, "this is
worth a lifetime of waiting; and I have waited long."

In his close, passionate clasp her face was hidden; she hardly dared meet
his eyes when he finally held her from him.

"Why, you are not afraid to look at me? No one knows you better than I,
dear; you can trust me, I think."

"I know," she said, her hand fluttering in his; "but isn't--the train
coming?"

"Are you so anxious to have me go?"

Her hand closed tightly around his.

"Because," laying his bearded cheek against her fair one, "I have something
to ask you."

"To ask me?"

"Yes; are you surprised, can't you guess? Ruth, will you bless me still
further? Will you be my wife, love?"

A strange thrill stole over her; his voice had assumed a bewildering
tenderness. "If you really want me," she replied, with a sobbing laugh.

"Soon?" he persisted.

"Why?"

"Because you must. You will find me a tyrant in love, my Ruth."

"I am not afraid of you, sir."

"Then you should be. Think, child, I am an old man, already thirty-five;
did you remember that when you made me king among men?"

"Then I am quite an old lady; I am twenty-two."

"As ancient as that? Then you should be able to answer me. Make it soon,
sweetheart."

"Why, how you beg--for a king. Besides, there is Father, you know; he
decides everything for me."

"I know; and I have already asked him on paper. There is a note awaiting
him at the hotel; you will see I took a great deal for granted last night,
and_ Ah, the whistle! What day is this, Ruth?"

"Friday."

"Good Friday, sweet, I think."

"Oh, I am not at all superstitious."

"And Monday is four days off; well, it must make up for all we lose.
Monday will be four days rolled into one."

"Remember," he continued hurriedly, "you are doubly precious now, darling,
and take good care of yourself till our 'Auf Wiedersehn.'"

"And--and--you will remember that for me too, D-doctor?"

"Who? There is no doctor here that I know of."

"But I know one--Herbert."

"God bless you for that, dear!" he answered gravely.

Mr. Levice, sleepily turning on his pillow, heard the whistle of the
out-going train with benignant satisfaction. It was taking Dr. Kemp where
he belonged, --to his busy practice, --and leaving his child's peace
undisturbed. Confound the man, anyway! he mused; what had possessed him to
drop down upon them in that manner and rob Ruth of her appetite and happy
talk? No doubt she had been flattered by the interest he had shown in her;
but he was too old and too dignified a gentleman to resort to flirtation,
and anything deeper was out of the question. He must certainly have a
little plain talk with the child this morning, and, well, he could cry
"Ebenezer!" on his departure. With this conclusion, he softly rose, taking
care not to disturb his placidly sleeping wife, who never dreamed of waking
till nine.

Ruth generally waited for him for breakfast, but not seeing her around, he
went in and took a solitary meal. Sauntering out afterward toward the
hotel porch, his hat on, his stick under his are, and busily lighting a
cigar, he was met at the door of the billiard-room by one of the clerks.

"Dr. Kemp left this for you this morning," said he, holding out a small
envelope. A flush rose to the old gentleman's sallow cheek as he took it.

"Thank you," he said; "I believe I shall come in here for a few minutes."

He passed by the clerk and seated himself in a deep, cane-bottomed chair
near the window. He fumbled for the cord of his glasses in a slightly
nervous manner, and adjusted them hastily. The missive was addressed to
him, certainly; and with no little wonder he tore it open and read:--

BEACHAM'S Friday morning.

MR. LEVICE:

MY DEAR SIR,--Pardon the hurried nature of this communication, but I must
leave shortly on the in-coming train, having an important operation to
undertake this morning; otherwise I should have liked to prepare you more
fully, but time presses. Simply, then, I love your daughter. I told her
so last night upon the river, and she has made me the proudest and happiest
of men by returning my love. I am well aware what I am asking of you when
I ask her of you to be my wife. You know me personally; you know my
financial standing; I trust to you to remember my failings with mercy in
the knowledge of our great love. Till Monday night, then, I leave her and
my happiness to your consideration and love.

With the greatest respect,
Yours Sincerely,
HERBERT KEMP.

"My God!"

The clerk standing near him in the doorway turned hurriedly.

"Any trouble?" he asked, moving toward him and noticing the ashy pallor of
his face.

The old man's hand closed spasmodically over the paper.

"Nothing," he managed to answer, waving the man away; "don't notice me."

The clerk, seeing his presence was undesirable, took up his position in the
doorway again.

Levice sat on. No further sound broke from him; he had clinched his teeth
hard. It had come to this, then. She loved him; it was too late. If the
man's heart alone were concerned, it would have been an easy matter; but
hers, Ruth's. God! If she really loved, her father knew only too well how
she would love. Was the man crazy? Had he entirely forgotten the gulf
that lay between them? Great drops of perspiration rose to his forehead.
Two ideas held him in a desperate struggle, --his child's happiness; the
prejudice of a lifetime. Something conquered finally, and he arose quietly
and walked slowly off.

Through the trees he heard laughter. He walked round and saw her swinging
Will Tyrrell.

"There's your father," cried Boss, from the limb of a tree.

She looked up, startled. With a newborn shyness she had endeavored to put
off this meeting with her father. She gave the swing another push and
waited his approach with beating heart.

"The boys will excuse you, Ruth, I think; I wish you to come for a short
walk with me."

At his voice, the gentle seriousness of which penetrated even to the
Tyrrell boys' understanding, she felt that her secret was known.

She laid her arm about his neck and gave him his usual morning kiss,
reddening slowly under his long searching look as he held her to him. She
followed him almost blindly as he turned from the grounds and struck into
the lane leading to the woods. Mr. Levice walked along, aimlessly knocking
off with his stick the dandelions and camomile in the hedges. It was with
a wrench he spoke.

"My child," he said, and now the stick acted as a support, "I was just
handed a note from Dr. Kemp. He has asked me for your hand."

In the pause that followed Ruth's lovely face was hidden in her hat.

"He also told me that he loves you," he continued slowly, "and that you
return his love. Will you turn your face to me, Ruth?"

She did so with dignity.

"You love this man?"

"I do." As reverently as if at the altar, she faced and answered her
father. All her love was in the eyes she raised to his. Beneath their
happy glow Levice's sank and his steady lips grew pale.

They were away from mankind in the shelter of the woods, the birds gayly
carolling their matins above them.

"And you desire to become his wife?"

Neck, face, and ears were suffused with color as she faltered unsteadily,
--

"Oh, Father, he loves me." Then at the wonder of it, she exclaimed,
throwing her arms about his neck impulsively and hiding her face in his
shoulder, "I am so happy, so happy! It seems almost too beautiful to be
true."

The old man's trembling hand smoothed the soft little tendrils of hair that
had escaped from their pins. He stifled a groan as he was thus disarmed.

"And what," she asked, her sweet eyes holding his as she stepped back,
"what do you think of Herbert Kemp, M. D.? Will you be proud of your
son-in-law, Father darling?"

Levice's hand fell suddenly on her shoulder. He schooled himself to smile
quietly upon her.

"Dr. Kemp is a great friend of mine. He is a gentleman whom all the world
honors, not only for his professional worth, but for his manly qualities.
I am not surprised that you love him, nor yet that he loves you--except for
one thing."

"And that?" she asked, smiling confidently at him.

"Child, you are a Jewess; Dr. Kemp is a Christian."

And still his daughter smiled trustingly.

"What difference can that make, since we love each other?" she asked.

"Will you believe me, Ruth, when I say that all I desire is your
happiness?"

"Father, I know it."

"Then I tell you I can never bring myself to approve of a marriage between
you and a Christian. There can be no true happiness in such a union."

"Why not? Inasmuch as all my life you have taught me to look upon my
Christian friends as upon my Jewish, and since you admit him irreproachable
from every standpoint, why can he not be my husband?"

"Have you ever thought of what such a marriage entails?"

"Never."

"Then do so now: think of every sacrifice, social and religious, it
enforces; think of the great difference between the Jewish race and the
Christians; and if, after you have measured with the deadliest earnestness
every duty that married life brings, you can still believe that you will be
happy, then marry him."

"With your blessing?" Her lovely, pleading eyes still held his.

"Always with my blessing, child. One thing more: did Dr. Kemp mention
anything of this to you?"

"No; he must have forgotten it as I did, or rather, if I ever thought of
it, it was a mere passing shadow. I put it aside with the thought that
though you and I had never discussed such a circumstance, judging by all
your other actions in our relations with Christians, you would be above
considering such a thing a serious obstacle to two people's happiness."

"You see, when it comes to action, my broad views dwindle down to detail,
and I am only an old man with old-fashioned ideas. However, I shall remind
Dr. Kemp of this grave consideration, and then--you will not object to
this?"

"Oh, no; but I know--I know--" What did she know except of the greatness of
his love that would annihilate all her father's forebodings?

"Yes," her father answered the half-spoken thought; "I know too. But
ponder this well, as I shall insist on his doing; then, on Monday night,
when you have both satisfactorily answered to each other every phase of
this terrible difference, I shall have nothing more to say."

Love is so selfish. Ruth, hugging her happiness, failed, as she had never
failed before, to mark the wearied voice, the pale face, and the sad eyes
of her father.

"Your mother will soon be awake," he said; "had you not better go back?"

Something that she had expected was wanting in this meeting; she looked at
him reproachfully, her mouth visibly trembling.

"What is it?" he asked gently.

"Why, Father, you are so cold and hard, and you have not even--"

"Wait till Monday night, Ruth. Then I will do anything you ask me. Now go
back to your mother, but understand, not a word of this to her yet. I
shall not recur to this again; meanwhile we shall both have something to
think of."

That afternoon Dr. Kemp received the following brief note: --

BEACHAM'S, August 25, 188--..

DR. KEMP:

DEAR SIR,-

Have you forgotten that my daughter is a Jewess; that you are a Christian?
Till Monday night I shall expect you to consider this question from every
possible point of view. If then both you and my daughter can
satisfactorily override the many objections I undoubtedly have, I shall
raise no obstacle to your desires.
Sincerely your friend,
JULES LEVICE.

In the mean time Ruth was thinking it all out. Love was blinding her,
dazzling her; and the giants that rose before her were dwarfed into
pygmies, at which she tried to look gravely, but succeeded only in smiling
at their feebleness. Love was an Armada, and bore down upon the little
armament that thought called up, and rode it all to atoms.

Small wonder, then, that on their return on Monday morning, as little Rose
Delano stood in Ruth's room looking up into her friend's face, the dreamy,
starry eyes, the smiles that crept in thoughtful dimples about the corners
of her mouth, the whole air of a mysterious something, baffled and
bewildered her.

Upon Ruth's writing-table rested a basket of delicate Marechal Niel buds,
almost veiled in tender maiden-hair; the anonymous sender was not unknown.

"It has agreed well with you, Miss Levice," said Rose, in her gentle,
patient voice, that seemed so out of keeping with her young face. "You
look as if you had been dipped in a love-elixir."

"So I have," laughed Ruth, her hand straying to the velvety buds; "it has
made a 'nut-brown mayde' of me, I think, Rosebud. But tell me the city
news. Everything in running order? Tell me."

"Everything is as your kind help has willed it. I have a pleasant little
room with a middle-aged couple on Post Street. Altogether I earn ten
dollars over my actual monthly expenses. Oh, Miss Levice, when shall I be
able to make you understand how deeply grateful I am?"

"Never, Rose; believe me, I never could understand deep things; that is why
I am so happy."

"You are teasing now, with that mischievous light in your eyes. Yet the
first time I saw your face I thought that either you had or would have a
history."

"Sad?" The sudden poignancy of the question startled Rose.

She looked quickly at her to note if she were as earnest as her voice
sounded. The dark eyes smiled daringly, defiantly at her.

"I am no sorceress," she answered evasively but lightly; "look in the glass
and see."

"You remind me of Floy Tyrrell. Pooh! Let us talk of something else.
Then it can't be Wednesdays?"

"It can be any day. The Page children can have Friday."

"Do you know how Mr. Page is?"

"Did you not hear of the great operations he--Dr. Kemp--performed Friday?"

"No." She could have shaken herself for the telltale, inevitable rush of
blood that overspread her face. If Rose saw, she made no sign; she had had
one lesson.

"I did not know such a thing was in his line. I had been giving Miss Dora
a lesson in the nursery. The old nurse had brought the two little ones in
there, and kept us all on tenter-hooks running in and out. One of the
doctors, Wells, I think she said, had fainted; it was a very delicate and
dangerous operation. When my lesson was over, I slipped quietly out; I was
passing through the corridor when Dr. Kemp came out of one of the rooms.
He was quite pale. He recognized me immediately; and though I wished to
pass straight on, he stopped me and shook my hand so very friendly. And
now I hear it was a great success. Oh, Miss Levice, he has no parallel but
himself!"

It did not sound exaggerated to Ruth to hear him thus made much of. It was
only very sweet and true.

"I knew just what he must be when I saw him," the girl babbled on; "that
was why I went to him. I knew he was a doctor by his carriage, and his
strong, kind face was my only stimulus. But there, you must forgive me if
I tire you; you see he sent you to me."

"You do not tire me, Rose," she said gravely. And the same expression
rested upon her face till evening.


Chapter XVII

Monday night had come. As Ruth half hid a pale yellow bud in her heavy,
low-coiled hair, the gravity of her mien seemed to deepen. This was
partially the result of her father's expressive countenance and voice. If
he had smiled, it had been such a faint flicker that it was forgotten in
the look of repression that had followed. In the afternoon he had spoken a
few disturbing words to her:

"I have told your mother that Dr. Kemp is coming to discuss a certain
project and desires your presence. She intends to retire rather early, and
there is nothing to prevent your receiving him."

At the distantly courteous tone she raised a pair of startled eyes. He was
regarding her patiently, as if awaiting some remark.

"Surely you do not wish me to be present at this interview?" she
questioned, her voice slightly trembling.

"Not only that, but I desire your most earnest attention and calm reasoning
powers to be brought with you. You have not forgotten what I told you to
consider, Ruth?"

"No, Father."

She felt, though in a greater degree, as she had often felt in childhood,
when, in taking her to task for some naughtiness, he had worn this same sad
and distant look. He had never punished her nominally; the pain he himself
showed had always affected her as the severest reprimand never could have
done.

She looked like a peaceful, sweet-faced nun in her simple white gown, that
fell in long straight folds to her feet; not another sign of color was upon
her.

A calmness pervaded her whole person as she paced the softly lighted
drawing-room and waited for Kemp.

When he was shown into the room, this tranquillity struck him immediately.

She stood quite still as he came toward her. He certainly had some
old-time manners, for the reverence he felt for her caused him first of all
to raise her hand to his lips. The curious, well-known flush rose slowly
to her sensitive face at the action; when he had caught her swiftly to him,
a sobbing sigh escaped her.

"What is it?" he asked, drawing her down to a seat beside him. "Are you
tired of me already, love?"

"Not of you; of waiting," she answered, half shyly meeting his look.

"I hardly expected this," he said after a pause; "has your father flown
bodily from the enemy and left you to face him alone?"

"Not exactly. But really it was kind of him to keep away for a while, was
it not?" she asked simply.

"It was unusually kind. I suppose, however, you will have to make your
exit on his entrance."

"No," she laughed quietly; "I am going to play the r"le of the audience
to-night. He expressly desires my presence; but if you differ--"

He looked at her curiously. The earnestness with which she had greeted him
settled like a mask upon his face. The hand that held hers drew it quickly
to his breast.

"I think it is well that you remain," he said, "because we agree at any
rate on the main point, --that we love each other. Always that, darling?"

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