Other Things Being Equal

by Emma Wolf

  Chapter XVIII

  She was perfectly still. Her eyes seemed gazing into vacancy.

  "Ruth," he said softly; but she did not move. His own face showed signsof the emotions through which he had passed, but was peaceful as ifafter a long, triumphant struggle. He came nearer and laid his handgently upon her shoulder.

  "Love," he whispered, "have you forgotten me entirely?"

  His hand shook slightly; but Ruth gave no sign that she saw or heard.

  "This has been too much for you," he said, drawing her head to hisbreast. She lay there as if in a trance, with eyes closed, her facelily-white against him. They remained in this position for some minutestill he became alarmed at her passivity.

  "You are tired, darling," he said, stroking her cheek; "shall I leaveyou?"

  She started up as if alive to his presence for the first time, andsprang to her feet. She turned giddy and swayed toward him. He caughther in his arms.

  "I am so dizzy," she laughed in a broken voice, looking with dry,shining eyes at him; "hold me for a minute."

  He experienced a feeling of surprise as she clasped her arms around hisneck; Ruth had been very shy with her caresses.

  His eyes met hers in a long, strange look.

  "Of what are you thinking?" he asked in a low voice.

  "There is an old German song I used to sing," she replied musingly;"will you think me very foolish if I say it is repeating itself to menow, over and over again?"

  "What is it, dear?' he asked, humoring her.

  "Do you understand German? Oh, of course, my student; but this is a sadold song; students don't sing such things. These are some of the words:'Beh te Gott! es war zu schoen gewesen.' I wish--"

  "It is a miserable song," he said lightly; "forget it."

  She disengaged herself from his arms and sat down. Some late roistererspassing by in the street were heard singing to the twang of a mandolin.It was a full, deep song, and the casual voices blended in perfectaccord. As the harmony floated out of hearing, she looked up at him witha haunting smile.

  "People are always singing to us; I wish they wouldn't. Music is so sad;it is like a heart-break."

  He knelt beside her; he was a tall man, and the action seemed natural.

  "You are pale and tired," he said; "and I am going to take a doctor'sprivilege and send you to bed. To-morrow you can answer better what Iso long to hear. You heard what your father said; your answer restsentirely with you. Will you write, or shall I come?"

  "Do you know," she answered, her eyes burning in her pale face, "youhave very pretty, soft dark hair? Does it feel as soft as it looks?"She raised her hand, and ran her fingers lingeringly through his short,thick hair.

  "Why," she said brightly, "here are some silvery threads on yourtemples. Troubles, darling?"

  "You shall pull them out," he answered, drawing her little hand to hislips.

  "There, go away," she said quickly, snatching it from him and movingfrom her chair as he rose. She rested her elbow on the mantel-shelf,and the candles from the silver candelabra shone on her face; it lookedstrained and weary. Kemp's brows gathered in a frown as he saw it.

  "I am going this minute," he said; "and I wish you to go to bed at once.Don't think of anything but sleep. Promise me you will go to bed as soonas I leave."

  "Very well."

  "Good-night, sweetheart," he said, kissing her softly, "and dream happydreams." He stooped again to kiss her hands, and moved toward the door.

  "Herbert!" His hand was on the portiere, and he turned in alarm at herstrange call.

  "What is it?" he asked, taking a step toward her.

  "Nothing. Don't--don't come back, I say. I just wished to see your face.I shall write to you. Good-night."

  And the curtain fell behind him.

  As he passed down the gravel walk, a hack drew up and stopped in frontof the house. Louis Arnold sprang out. The two men came face to face.

  Arnold recognized the doctor immediately and drew back. When Kemp sawwho it was, he bowed and passed on. Arnold did likewise, but he went inwhere the other went out.

  It was late, after midnight. He had just arrived on a delayed southerntrain. He knew the family had come home that morning. Dr. Kemp wasrather early in making a visit; it had also taken him long to make it.

  Louis put his key in the latch and opened the door. It was very quiet;he supposed every one had retired. He flung his hat and overcoat on achair and walked toward the staircase. As he passed the drawing-room,a stream of light came from beneath the portiere. He hesitated insurprise, everything was so quiet. Probably the last one had forgottento put out the lights. He stepped noiselessly up and entered the room.His footfall made no sound on the soft carpet as he moved about puttingout the lights. He walked to the mantel to blow out the candles, butstopped, dumfounded, within a foot of it. The thing that disturbed himwas the motionless white figure of his cousin. It might have been amarble statue, so lifeless she seemed, though her face was hidden in herhands.

  For a moment Arnold was terrified; but the feeling was immediatelysucceeded by one of exquisite pain. He was a man not slow to conjecture;by some intuition he understood.

  He regained his presence of mind and turned quietly to quit the room;his innate delicacy demanded it. He had but turned when a low, moaningsound arrested him; he came back irresolutely.

  "Did you call, Ruth?"

  Silence.

  "Ruth, it is I, Louis, who is speaking to you. Do you know how late itis?"

  With gentle force he drew her fingers from her face. The mute miserythere depicted was pitiful.

  "Come, go to bed, Ruth," he said as to a child.

  She made a movement to rise, but sank back again.

  "I am so tired, Louis," she pleaded in a voice of tears, like a wearychild.

  "Yes, I know; but I will help you." The unfamiliar, gentle quality ofhis voice penetrated even to her numbed senses.

  She had not seen him since the night he had asked her to be his wife. Noremembrance of this came to her, but his presence held something newand restful. She allowed him to draw her to her feet; and as calmly as abrother he led her upstairs and into her room. Without a question he litthe gas for her.

  "Good-night, Ruth," he said, blowing out the match. "Go right to bed;your head will be relieved by sleep."

  "Thank you, Louis," she said, feeling dimly grateful for something hiswords implied; "good-night."

  Arnold noiselessly closed the door behind him. She quickly locked it andsat down in the nearest chair.

  Her hands were interlaced so tightly that her nails left imprints inthe flesh. She had something to consider. Oh dear, it was such a simplething; was she to break her father's heart, or her own and--his? Herfather's, or his.

  It was so stupid to sit and repeat it. Surely it was decided long ago.Such a long time ago, when her father's loving face had put on itsmisery. Would it look that way always? No, no, no! She would not haveit; she dared not; it was too utterly wretched.

  Still, there was some one else at the thought of whom her templesthrobbed wildly. It would hurt him; she knew it. The thought for amoment was a miserable ecstasy; for he loved her,--her, simple RuthLevice,--beyond all doubting she knew he loved her; and, oh, father,father, how she loved him! Why must she give it all up? she questionedfiercely; did she owe no duty to herself? Was she to drag out all therest of her weary life without his love? Life! It would be a lingeringdeath, and she was young yet in years. Other girls had married withgraver obstacles, in open rupture with their parents, and they had beenhappy. Why could not she? It was not as if he were at fault; no onedared breathe a word against his fair fame. To look at his strong,handsome face meant confidence. That was when he left the room.

  Some one else had left the room also. Some one who had loved her allher life, some one who had grown accustomed in more than twenty years tolisten gladly for her voice, to anticipate every wish, to hold her asin the palm of a loving hand, to look for and rest on her unquestionedlove. He too had left t
he room; but he was not strong and handsome,poor, poor old father with his small bent shoulders. What a wretchedthing it is to be old and have the heart-strings that have soconfidently twisted themselves all these years around another rudely cutoff,--and that by your only child!

  At the thought an icy quiet stole over her. How long she sat there,musing, debating, she did not know. When the gray dawn broke, she roseup calmly and seated herself at her writing-table. She wrote steadilyfor some time without erasing a single word. She addressed the envelopewithout a falter over the name.

  "That is over," she said audibly and deliberately.

  A cock crowed. It was the beginning of another day.