Other Things Being Equal

by Emma Wolf

  Chapter XII

  If Ruth, in the privacy of her heart, realized that she was sailingtoward dangerous rapids, the premonition gave her no unpleasant fears.Possibly she used no lens, being content to glide forever on her smoothstream of delight. When the sun blinds us, we cannot see the warningblack lurking in the far horizon. Without doubt the girl's soul andsympathies were receiving their proper food. Life was full for her, notbecause she was occupied,--for a busy life does not always prove afull one,--but because she entered thoroughly into the lives of others,struggled with their struggles, triumphed in their triumphs, and wasbeginning to see in everything, good or bad, its necessity of existence.Under ordinary circumstances one cannot see much misery withoutexperiencing a world of disillusion and futile rebellion of spirit; butRuth was not living just at that time under ordinary circumstances.

  Something of the nature of electricity seemed to envelop her, that madeher pulses bound, her lips quick to smile, and her eyes shine like twindreamstars. She seemed to be moving to some rapturous music unheard saveonly by herself. At night, alone with her heart, she dared hardly nameto herself the meaning of it all, a puritanic modesty withheld her.Yet all the sweet humility of which she was possessed could not banishfrom her memory the lingering clasp of a hand, the warm light thatfell from eyes that glanced at her. For the present, these were gracesufficient for her daily need. Given the perfume, what need to name theflower?

  Her family, without understanding it, noted the difference in theirdifferent ways. Mrs. Levice saw with a thrill of delight that she wasgrowing more softly beautiful. Her father, holding his hands a fewinches from her shoulders, said, one morning, with a drolly puzzledlook, "I am afraid to touch you; sparks might fly."

  Arnold surprised her standing in the gloaming by a window, her handsclasped over her head, a smile parting her lips, her eyes haunting inthe witchery of their expression. By some occult power her glancefell unconsciously on him; and he beheld, with mingled amazement andspeculation, a rosy hue overspread her face and throat; her hands wentswiftly to her face as if she would hide something it might reveal, andshe passed quickly from the room. Arnold sat down to solve this problemof an unknown quantity.

  Ruth's birthday came in its course, a few days after her meeting withRose Delano.

  The family celebrated it in their usual simple way, which consistedonly in making the day pass pleasantly for the one whose day of days itwas,--a graceful way of showing that the birth has been a happy one forall concerned.

  On this evening of her twenty-second birthday, Ruth seemed to be in herelement. She had donned, in a spirit of mischief, a gown she had wornfive years before on the occasion of some festivity. The girlish fashionof the white frock, with its straight, full skirt to her ankles, theround baby waist, and short puffs on her shoulders made a very child ofher.

  "Who can imagine me seventeen?" she asked gayly as she entered thelibrary, softly lighted by many wax candles. Her mother, who was againenjoying the freedom of the house, and who was now snugly ensconced inher own particular chair, looked up at her.

  "That little frock makes me long to take you in my lap," said she,brightly.

  "And it makes me long to be there," answered Ruth, throwing herself intoher mother's arms and twining her arms about her neck.

  "How now, Mr. Arnold, you can't scare me tonight with your sarcasticdisapproval!" she laughed, glancing provokingly over at her cousinseated in a deep blue-cushioned chair.

  "I have no desire to scare you, little one," he answered pleasantly. "Ionly do that to children or grown-up people."

  "And what am I, pray, good sir?"

  "You are neither; you are neither child or woman; you are neither fleshnor spirit; you are uncanny."

  "Dear me! In other words, I am a conundrum. Who will guess me?"

  "You are the Sphinx," replied her cousin.

  "I won't be that ugly-faced thing," she retorted; "guess again."

  "Impossible. Once acquire a sphinx's elusiveness and you are a mysteryperpetual. You alone can unriddle the riddle."

  "I can't. I give myself up."

  "Not so fast, young woman," broke in her father, shutting his magazineand settling his glasses more firmly upon his nose; "that is an office Ialone can perform. Who has been hunting on my preserves?"

  "Alas! They are not tempting, so be quite calm on that score." She satup with a forlorn sigh, adding, "Think of it, Father, twenty-two, andnot a heart to hang on my chatelaine."

  "Hands are supposed to mean hearts nowadays," said Louis, reassuringly;"I am sure you have mittened one or two."

  "Oh, yes," she answered, laughing evasively, "both of little ToddieFlynn's. Mamma, don't you think I am too big a baby for you to holdlong?" She sprang up, and drawing a stool before her father's chair,exclaimed,--

  "Now, Father, a grown-up Mother-Goose story for my birthday; make itshort and sweet and with a moral like you."

  Mr. Levice patted her head and rumpled the loosely gathered hair.

  "Once upon a time," he began, "a little boy went into his father'swarehouse and ate up all the sugar in the land. He did not die, but hewas so sweet that everybody wanted to bite him. That is short and sweet;and what is the moral?"

  "Selfishness brings misery," answered Ruth, promptly; "clever of both ofus, but what is the analogy? Louis, you look lonesome over there. I feelas if I were masquerading; come nearer the footlights."

  "And get scorched for my pains? Thanks; this is very comfortable.Distance adds to illusion."

  "You don't mean to admit you have any illusions, do you? Why, thoseglasses of yours could see through a rhinoceros, I verily believe. Didyou ever see anything you did not consider a delusion and a snare?"

  "Yes; there is a standing institution of whose honest value there is nodoubt."

  "And that is?"

  "My bed."

  "After all, it is a lying institution, my friend; and are you notdeposing your masculine muse,--your cigar? Oh, that reminds me of theannual peace-pipe."

  She jumped up, snatched a candle, and left the room. As she turnedtoward the staircase she was arrested by the ringing of the doorbell.She stood quite still, holding the lighted candle while the maid openedthe door.

  "Is Miss Levice in?" asked the voice that made the little candle-lightseem like myriads of swimming stars. As the maid answered in theaffirmative, she came mechanically forward and met the bright-glancingeyes of Dr. Kemp.

  "Good-evening," she said, holding out her disengaged hand, which hegrasped and shook heartily.

  "Is it Santa Filomena?" he asked, smiling into her eyes.

  "No, only Ruth Levice, who is pleased to see you. Will you step into thelibrary? We are having a little home evening together."

  "Thank you. Directly." He slipped out of his topcoat, and turningquietly to her, said, "But before we go in, and I enact the odd number,I wish to say a few words to you alone, please."

  She bent a look of inquiry upon him, and meeting the gaze of hiscompelling eyes, led him across the hall into the drawing-room. Henoticed how the soft light she held made her the only white spot in thedark room, till, touching a tall silver lamp, she threw a rosy halo overeverything. That it was an exquisite, graceful apartment he felt at aglance.

  She placed her candle upon a tiny rococo table, and seated herself ina quaint, low chair overtopped by two tiny ivory horns that spread likehands of blessing above her head. The doctor declined to sit down, butstood with one hand upon the fragile table and looked down at her.

  "I am inclined to think, after all," he said slowly, "that you are intruth the divine lady with the light. It is a pretty name and a prettyfame,--that of Santa Filomena."

  What had come over her eyelids that they refused to be raised?

  "I think," he continued with a low laugh, "that I shall always call youso, and have all rights reserved. May I?"

  "I am afraid," she answered, raising her eyes, "that your poem wouldbe without rhyme or reason; a candle is too slight a thing for such anassumption." />
  "But not a Rose Delano. I saw her to-day, and at least one suffererwould turn to kiss your shadow. Do you know what a wonderfully beautifulthing you have done? I came to-night to thank you; for any one who makesgood our ideals is a subject for thanks. Of course, the thing had nopersonal bearing upon myself; but being an officious fellow, I thoughtit proper to let you know that I know. That is my only excuse forcoming."

  "Did you need an excuse?"

  "That, or an invitation."

  "Oh, I never thought of you--as--as--"

  "As a man?"

  How to answer this? Then finally she said,--

  "As caring to waste an evening."

  "Would it be a waste? There is an old adage that one might adapt, then,'A wilful waste makes a woful want.' Want is a bad thing, so economywould not be a half-bad idea. Shall we go in to your family now, or willthey not think you have been spirited away?"

  He took the candle from her, and they retraced their steps. As sheturned the handle of the door, she said,--

  "Will you give me the candle, please, and walk in? I am going upstairs."

  "Are you coming down again?" he asked, standing abruptly still.

  "Oh, yes. Father," she called, opening wide the door, "here is Dr.Kemp."

  With this announcement she fled up the staircase.

  She had come up for some cigars; but when she got into her father'sroom, she seated herself blindly and looked aimlessly down at her hands.What a blessed reprieve this was! If she could but stay here! She couldif it were not for the peace-pipe. Such a silly performance too! Fatherkept those superfine cigars over in the cabinet there. Should she bringonly two as usual? Then she was going? Why not? It would look very rudenot to do so. Besides, she wondered what they were talking about. Shesupposed she must have looked very foolish in that gown with her hairall mussed; and then his eyes---- She arose suddenly and walked to thedressing-table with her light. After all, it was not very unbecoming.Had her face been so white all the evening? Louis liked her face to becolorless. Oh, she had better hurry down.

  "Here comes the chief!" cried her mother as she entered. "Now, Doctor,you can see the native celebrating her natal day."

  "She enacts the witch," said her father "and sends us, living, to thehappy hunting-grounds. Will you join us, Doctor?"

  "If Lachesis thinks me worthy. Is the operation painful?"

  He received no answer as Ruth came forward with a box of temptingHavanas. She selected one, and placing the box on a chair, reached tothe high-tiled mantel-shelf, whence she took a tiny pair of scissors anddeftly cut off the point of the cigar. She seemed quite unconscious thatall were watching her. Louis handed her a lighted match, and putting thecigar between her lips, she lit it into life. The doctor was amused.

  She blew up a wreath of the fragrant smoke and handing it to her father,said,--

  "With this year's love, Father."

  The doctor grew interested.

  She took another, and lighting it as gracefully, and without theslightest approach to Bohemianism, gave it into Louis's outstretchedhand.

  "Well?" he suggested, holding it from his lips till she had spoken.

  "I can think of nothing you care for sufficiently to wish you."

  "Nothing?"

  "Unless," with sudden mischief, "I wish you a comfortable bed all theyear round--and pleasant dreams, Louis."

  "That is much," he answered dryly as he drew a cloud of smoke.

  The doctor became anticipative.

  Ruth's embarrassment was evident as she turned and offered him a cigar.

  "Do you smoke?" she asked, holding out the box.

  "Like a chimney," he replied, looking at her, but taking none, "and inthe same manner as other common mortals."

  She stood still, but withdrew her hand a little as if repelling the hinthis words conveyed; whereupon he immediately selected a cigar, sayingas he did so, "So you were born in summer,--the time of all good things.Well, 'Thy dearest wish, wish I thee,' and may it not pass in thesmoking!"

  She swept him a deep, mock courtesy.

  After this, Ruth sat a rather silent listener to the conversation. Sheknew that they were discussing the pros and cons of the advantages fora bachelor of club life over home life. She knew that Louis was makingsome brilliantly cynical remarks,--asserting that the apparent privacyof the latter was delusive, and that the reputed publicity of the formerwas deceptive, as it was even more isolated than the latter. All ofwhich the doctor laughed down as untruly epigrammatic.

  "Then there is only one loophole for the poor bachelor," Mrs. Levicesummed up, "and that is to marry. Louis complains of the club, andthinks himself a sort of cynosure in a large household. You, Doctor,complain of the want of coseyness in a bachelor establishment. To stateit simply, you need a wife."

  "And oust my Pooh-ba! Madame, you do not know what a treasure that oldsoldier of mine is. If I call him a veritable Martha, I shall but bepaying proper tribute to the neatness with which he keeps my house andlinen; he entertains my palate as deliciously as a Corinne her salon,and--is never in my way or thoughts. Can you commend me any woman soself-abnegatory?"

  "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 voucheragainst impatience with their own foibles. They think only home practicecan secure the adequate tolerance. Eh, Aunt Esther?"

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

  "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 toeach other in their respective easy-chairs, their heads thrown back uponthe cushions, their arms resting on the chair-arms. Something in Louis'sveiled eyes caused her to interpose.

  "Will you play, Louis?" she asked.

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

  "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 randomchords, some soft, some florid, some harsh, some melting; he strung themtogether and then glided into a dreamy, melodious rhythm, that fadedinto a bird-like hallelujah,--swelling now into grandeur, then faintinginto sobs, then rushing into an allegro so brilliantly bewildering thatwhen the closing chords came like the pealing tones of an organ, Ruthdrew 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 lapel, "has no namethat I know of; some people call it 'The Soul.'"

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

  "Here, Ruth, sing this," he continued, turning round and picking up asheet 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; butsince 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'sside.

  It could hardly be called singing. Louis had often said that her voiceneeded merely to be set to rhythmic time to be music; in pursuance ofwhich idea he would put into her hand some poem that touched hisfancy, tell h
er to read it, and as she read, he would adapt to itan accompaniment according to the meaning and measure of thelines,--grandly solemn, daintily tripping, or wildly inspiriting. It wasmore 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 swelledand echoed and reverberated and died away slowly as if loath to depart.Arnold's playing was the poem, Ruth's voice the music the poetmight have heard as he wrote, sweet as a violin, deep as the feelingevolved,--for when she came to the line beginning, "oh, love, they diein 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 theexpression of her face. Kemp looked as if he would not tire if the soundshould "grow forever and forever."

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

  "Jules," said she in a low, confidential tone, "do you realize that ourdaughter 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 husbandeagerly.

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

  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 neverbreathed 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 hiseyes.

  "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 merelycommonplace young man would make her happy. A man must have some ideasoutside of what his daily life brings him, if she is to spend a moment'sinterested thought on him. She has repelled some of the most eligibleadvances for no obvious reasons whatever. Now, she does not care a rapfor society, and goes only because I exact it. That is no conditionfor a young girl to allow herself to sink into; she owes a duty toher future. I am telling you this because, of course, you see nothingpeculiar in such a course. But it is time you were roused; you knowone look from you is worth a whole sermon from me. As to my thinking ofLouis, well, in running over my list of eligibles, I found he fulfilledevery condition,--good-looking, clever, cultivated, well-to-do, and--ofgood family. Why should it not be? They like each other, and see enoughof 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 orRuth?"

  "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; sheran 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 akeen student of the human face, and he had caught a faint glimpse ofsomething in the doctor's eyes while Ruth sang. He knew it had beenharmless, for her back had been turned, but he wished to reassurehimself.

  "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 handunder 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 youany fine silk shirts?"

  He laughed a hearty, relieved laugh.

  "Well, no," he answered; "I leave all such fancies to your care. So wego 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, anddrawing it down to his, kissed it. Still holding her, he said with sweetsolemnity,--

  "'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.'"