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Other Things Being Equal

<h2> Chapter XVI </h2> 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. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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