Other Things Being Equal, Page 9

  Chapter IX

  Everybody remembers the sad old comedy, as differently interpreted inits graver sentiment as there are different interpreters. Ruth hadseen one who made of Shylock merely a fawning, mercenary, loveless,blood-thirsty wretch. She had seen another who presented a man of quickwit, ready tongue, great dignity, greater vengeance, silent of love,wordy of hate. Booth, without throwing any romantic glamour on the Jew,showed him as God and man, but mostly man, had made him: an old Jew,grown bitter in the world's disfavor through fault of race; grown old instrife for the only worldly power vouchsafed him,--gold; grown old withbut one human love to lighten his hard existence; a man who, at length,shorn of his two loves through the same medium that robbed him of hismanly birthright, now turned fiend, endeavors with tooth and nailto wreak the smouldering vengeance of a lifetime upon the chancerepresentative of an inexorable persecution.

  All through the performance Ruth sat a silent, attentive listener. Kemp,with his ready laugh at Gratiano's sallies, would turn a quick look ather for sympathy; he was rather surprised at the grave, unsmilingface beside him. When, however, the old Jew staggered alone and almostblindly from the triumphantly smiling court-room, a little pinch on hisarm decidedly startled him.

  He lowered his glass and turned round on her so suddenly that Ruthstarted.

  "Oh," she faltered, "I--I beg your pardon; I had forgotten you were notLouis."

  "I do not mind in the least," he assured her easily.

  The last act passes merrily and quickly; only the severe, great thingsof life move slowly.

  As the doctor and Ruth made their way through the crowded lobby, thelatter thought she had never seen so many acquaintances, each of whomturned an interested look at her stalwart escort. Of this she wasperfectly aware, but the same human interest with which Kemp'sacquaintances regarded her passed by her unnoticed.

  A moment later they were in the fresh, open air.

  "How beautiful it is!" said Ruth, looking up at the stars. "The wind hasentirely died away."

  "'On such a night,'" quoth Kemp, as they approached the curb, "a closedcarriage seems out of season."

  "And reason," supplemented Ruth, while the doctor opened the door ratherslowly. She glanced at him hesitatingly.

  "Would you--" she began.

  "Right! I would!" The door was banged to.

  "John," he said, looking up at his man in the box, "take this trap roundto the stable; I shall not need the horses again to-night."

  John touched his hat, and Kemp drew his companion's little hand throughhis arm.

  "Well," he said, as they turned the corner, "Were you satisfied with thegreat man to-night?"

  "Yes," she replied meditatively, "fully; there was no exaggeration,--itwas all quite natural."

  "Except Jessica in boy's clothes."

  "Don't mention her, please; I detest her."

  "And yet she spoke quite prettily on the night."

  "I did not hear her."

  "Why, where were you while all the world was making merry on the stage?"

  "Not with them; I was with the weary, heart-broken old man who passedout when joy began."

  "Ah! I fancied you did not half appreciate Gratiano's jesting. MissLevice, I am afraid you allow the sorry things of life to take toostrong a hold on you. It is not right. I assure you for every tear thereis a laugh, and you must learn to forget the former in the latter."

  "I am sorry," replied Ruth, quite sadly; "but I fear I cannot learnthat,--tears are always stronger than laughter. How could I listen tothe others' nonsense when my heart was sobbing with that lonely old man?Forgive me, but I cannot forget him."

  They walked along silently for some time. Instinctively, each felt theperfect accord with which they kept step. Ruth's little ear was justabout on a level with the doctor's chin. He hardly felt the soft touchof her hand upon his sleeve; but as he looked at the white profile ofher cheek against the dark fur of her collar, the knowledge that she wasthere was a pleasing one.

  "Did you consider the length of our walk when you fell in with mydesire?" he asked presently.

  "I like a long walk in pleasant weather; I never tire of walking."

  "You have found the essentials of a good pedestrian,--health andstrength."

  "Yes; if everybody were like me, all your skill would be thrown away,--Iam never ill."

  "Apparently there is no reason why you should be, with common-sense toback your blessings. If common-sense could be bought at the drug-store,I should be rid of a great many patients."

  "That reminds me of a snatch of conversation I once overheard betweenmy mother and a doctor's wife. I am reminded of it because the spiritof your meaning is diametrically opposed to her own. After some talk mymother asked, 'And how is the doctor?' 'Oh,' replied the visitor, witha long sigh, 'he's well enough in body, but he's blue, terribly blue;everybody is so well, you know.'"

  "Her sentiment was more human than humane," laughed Kemp. He was glad tosee that she had roused herself from her sad musings; but a certain setpurpose he had formed robbed him now of his former lightness of manner.

  He was about to broach a subject that required delicate handling; but anintuitive knowledge of the womanly character of the young girl aidedhim much. It was not so much what he had seen her do as what he knew shewas, that led him to begin his recital.

  "We have a good many blocks before us yet," he said, "and I am going totell you a little story. Why don't you take the full benefit of my arm?There," he proceeded, drawing her hand farther through his arm, "nowyou feel more like a big girl than like a bit of thistledown. If I gettiresome, just call 'time,' will you?"

  "All right," she laughed. She was beginning to meet halfway thismatter-of-fact, unadorned, friendly manner of his; and when she did meetit, she felt a comfortable security in it. From the beginning to the endof his short narrative he looked straight ahead.

  "How shall I begin? Do you like fairy tales? Well, this is the soul ofone without the fictional wings. Once upon a time,--I think that is thevery best introduction extant,--a woman was left a widow with one littlegirl. She lived in New Orleans, where the blow of her husband's deathand the loss of her good fortune came almost simultaneously. She musthave had little moral courage, for as soon as she could, she left herhome, not being able to bear the inevitable falling off of friendsthat follows loss of fortune. She wandered over the intermediate Statesbetween here and Louisiana, stopping nowhere long, but endeavoring tokeep together the bodies and souls of herself and child by teaching.They kept this up for years until the mother succumbed. They were onthe way from Nevada to Los Angeles when she died. The daughter, thennot eighteen, went on to Los Angeles, where she buried her mother, andendeavored to continue teaching as she had been doing. She was young,unsophisticated, sad, and in want in a strange town. She applied foradvice to a man highly honored and recommended by his fellow-citizens.The man played the brute. The girl fled--anywhere. Had she been lessbrave, she would have fled from herself. She came to San Francisco andtook a position as nurse-girl; children, she thought, could not play herfalse, and she might outlive it. The hope was cruel. She was living nearmy home, had seen my sign probably, and in the extremity of her distresscame to me. There is a good woman who keeps a lodging-house, and whodelights in doing me favors. I left the poor child in her hands, and sheis now fully recovered. As a physician I can do no more for her, and yetmelancholy has almost made a wreck of her. Nothing I say has any effect;all she answers is, 'It isn't worth while.' I understand her perfectly,but I wished to infuse into her some of her old spirit of independence.This morning I asked her if she intended to let herself drift on inthis way. I may have spoken a little more harshly than necessary, formy words broke down completely the wall of dogged silence she had builtaround herself. 'Oh, sir,' she cried, weeping like the child she is,'what can I do? Can I dare to take little children by the hand, stainedas I am? Can I go as an impostor where, if people knew, they wouldsnatch their loved ones from me? Oh, it would be too wretched!' I triedto remo
nstrate with her, told her that the lily in the dust is no lessa lily than is her spotless sister held high above contamination. Shelooked at me miserably from her tear-stained face, and then said, 'Menmay think so, but women don't; a stain with them is ignoble whether madeby one's self or another. No woman knowing my story would think mefree from dishonor, and hold out her clean hands to me.' 'Plenty,' Icontradicted. 'Maybe,' she said humbly; 'but what would it mean? Thehand would be held out at arm's length by women safe in their position,who would not fail to show me how debased they think me. I am young yet;can you show me a girl, like myself in years, but white as snow, keptsafe from contamination, as you say, who, knowing my story, would holdout her hand to me and not feel herself besmirched by the contact? Donot say you can, for I know you cannot.' She was crying so violentlythat she would not listen to me. When I left her, I myself could thinkof none of my young friends to whom I could propound the question. Iknow many sweet, kind girls, but I could count not one among them allwho in such a case would be brave as she was womanly--until I thought ofyou."

  Complete silence followed his words. He did not turn his glance from thestreet ahead of him. He had made no appeal, would make none, in fact. Hehad told the story with scarcely a reflection on its impropriety, thatwould have arrested another man from introducing such an element intohis gentle fellowship with a girl like Ruth. His lack of hesitancywas born of his manly view of the outcast's blamelessness, of her direnecessity for help, and of a premonition that Ruth Levice would be asfree from the artificiality of conventional surface modesty as was he,through the earnestness of the undertaking.

  There is something very sweet to a woman in being singled out by a manfor some ennobling virtue. Ruth felt this so strongly that she couldalmost hear her heart beat with the intoxicating knowledge. No questionhad been asked, but she felt an answer was expected. Yet had her lifedepended on it, the words could not have come at that moment. Was sheindeed what he esteemed her? Unconsciously Dr. Kemp had, in thought,placed her on a pedestal. Did she deserve the high place he had givenher, or would she?

  With many women the question would have been, did she care for Dr.Kemp's good opinion? Now, though Ruth was indeed put on her mettle, herquick sympathy had been instantly touched by the girl's miserable story.Perhaps the doctor's own feelings had influenced her, but had the girlstood before her at the moment, she would have seized her hand with allher own gentle nobility of soul.

  As they turned the corner of the block where Ruth's house stood, Kempsaid deliberately,--

  "Well?"

  "I thank you. Where does she live?"

  Her quiet, natural tone told nothing of the tumult of sweet thoughtswithin. They had reached the house, and the doctor opened the gatebefore he answered. When he did, after they had passed through, he tookboth her hands in his.

  "I shall take you there," he said, looking down at her with grave,smiling eyes; "I knew you would not fail me. When shall I call for you?"

  "Do not call for me at all; I think--I know it will be better for me towalk in alone, as of my own accord."

  "Ah, yes!" he said, and told her the address. She ran lightly up thesteps, and as he turned her key in the door for her, she raised a pairof starry eyes to his.

  "Dr. Kemp," she said, "I have had an exceptionally lovely evening. Ishall not soon forget it."

  "Nor I," he returned, raising his hat; holding it in his hand, he gentlyraised her gloved hand to his lips. Herbert Kemp was a gentleman of theold school in his manner of showing reverence to women.

  "My brave young friend!" he said; and the next minute his firm footfallwas crunching the gravel of the walk. Neither of them had rememberedthat he was to have come in with her. She waited till the gate clickedbehind him, and then softly closed the heavy door.

  "My brave young friend!" The words mounted like wine to her head. Sheforgot her surroundings and stood in a sweet dream in the hall, slowlyunbuttoning her glove. She must have remained in this attitude for fiveminutes, when, raising her eyes, still shadowy with thought, she saw hercousin before her down the hall, his arm resting on the newel-post.

  "Louis!" she cried in surprise; and without considering, she hurried tohim, threw her arm around his neck, and kissed him on the cheek. Arnold,taken by storm, stepped slightly back.

  "When did you get home?" she asked, the pale rose-flush that mantled hercheeks making her face exquisite.

  "A half an hour ago."

  She looked at him quickly.

  "Are you tired, Louis?" she inquired gently. "You are somewhat pale, andyou speak in that way."

  "Did you enjoy the play?" he asked quietly, passing by her remarks.

  "The play!" she echoed, and then a quick burning blush suffusedher face. The epilogue had wholly obliterated the play from herrecollection.

  "Oh, of course," she responded, turning from the rather sardonic smileof his lips and seating herself on the stairs; "do you want to hearabout it now?"

  "Why not?"

  "Well," she began, laying her gloves in her lap and snuggling her chinin the palms of her hands, "shall I tell you how I felt about it? Inthe first place, I was not ashamed of Shylock; if his vengeance wasdistorted, the cause distorted it. But, oh, Louis, the misery of thatpoor old man! After all, his punishment was as fiendish as his guilt.Booth was great. I wish you could have seen the play of his wonderfuleyebrow and the eloquence of his fine hand. Poor old, lonely Shylock!With all his intellect, how could he regret that wretched littleJessica?"

  "He was a Jewish father."

  "How singularly you say that! Of course he was a Jew; but Jewish hardlydescribes him,--at least, according to the modern idea. Are you comingup?"

  "Yes. Go on; I will lower the gas."

  "Wouldn't you like something to eat or drink? You look so worn out; letme get you something."

  "Thanks; I have dined. Good-night." The girl passed on to her prettywhite and gold room. Shylock had again fled from her memory, but therewas singing in her heart a deep, grave voice saying,--

  "My brave young friend!"