Other Things Being Equal [26]
the question. I know many sweet, kind girls, but I could count not one among them all who in such a case would be brave as she was womanly--until I thought of you."
Complete silence followed his words. He did not turn his glance from the street ahead of him. He had made no appeal, would make none, in fact. He had told the story with scarcely a reflection on its impropriety, that would have arrested another man from introducing such an element into his gentle fellowship with a girl like Ruth. His lack of hesitancy was born of his manly view of the outcast's blamelessness, of her dire necessity for help, and of a premonition that Ruth Levice would be as free 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 man for some ennobling virtue. Ruth felt this so strongly that she could almost hear her heart beat with the intoxicating knowledge. No question had been asked, but she felt an answer was expected. Yet had her life depended on it, the words could not have come at that moment. Was she indeed what he esteemed her? Unconsciously Dr. Kemp had, in thought, placed her on a pedestal. Did she deserve the high place he had given her, 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, her quick sympathy had been instantly touched by the girl's miserable story. Perhaps the doctor's own feelings had influenced her, but had the girl stood before her at the moment, she would have seized her hand with all her own gentle nobility of soul.
As they turned the corner of the block where Ruth's house stood, Kemp said deliberately, --
"Well?"
"I thank you. Where does she live?"
Her quiet, natural tone told nothing of the tumult of sweet thoughts within. They had reached the house, and the doctor opened the gate before he answered. When he did, after they had passed through, he took both 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 to walk in alone, as of my own accord."
"Ah, yes!" he said, and told her the address. She ran lightly up the steps, and as he turned her key in the door for her, she raised a pair of starry eyes to his.
"Dr. Kemp," she said, "I have had an exceptionally lovely evening. I shall not soon forget it."
"Nor I," he returned, raising his hat; holding it in his hand, he gently raised her gloved hand to his lips. Herbert Kemp was a gentleman of the old school in his manner of showing reverence to women.
"My brave young friend!" he said; and the next minute his firm footfall was crunching the gravel of the walk. Neither of them had remembered that he was to have come in with her. She waited till the gate clicked behind him, and then softly closed the heavy door.
"My brave young friend!" The words mounted like wine to her head. She forgot her surroundings and stood in a sweet dream in the hall, slowly unbuttoning her glove. She must have remained in this attitude for five minutes, when, raising her eyes, still shadowy with thought, she saw her cousin before her down the hall, his arm resting on the newel-post.
"Louis!" she cried in surprise; and without considering, she hurried to him, 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 her cheeks 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, and you 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 suffused her face. The epilogue had wholly obliterated the play from her recollection.
Complete silence followed his words. He did not turn his glance from the street ahead of him. He had made no appeal, would make none, in fact. He had told the story with scarcely a reflection on its impropriety, that would have arrested another man from introducing such an element into his gentle fellowship with a girl like Ruth. His lack of hesitancy was born of his manly view of the outcast's blamelessness, of her dire necessity for help, and of a premonition that Ruth Levice would be as free 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 man for some ennobling virtue. Ruth felt this so strongly that she could almost hear her heart beat with the intoxicating knowledge. No question had been asked, but she felt an answer was expected. Yet had her life depended on it, the words could not have come at that moment. Was she indeed what he esteemed her? Unconsciously Dr. Kemp had, in thought, placed her on a pedestal. Did she deserve the high place he had given her, 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, her quick sympathy had been instantly touched by the girl's miserable story. Perhaps the doctor's own feelings had influenced her, but had the girl stood before her at the moment, she would have seized her hand with all her own gentle nobility of soul.
As they turned the corner of the block where Ruth's house stood, Kemp said deliberately, --
"Well?"
"I thank you. Where does she live?"
Her quiet, natural tone told nothing of the tumult of sweet thoughts within. They had reached the house, and the doctor opened the gate before he answered. When he did, after they had passed through, he took both 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 to walk in alone, as of my own accord."
"Ah, yes!" he said, and told her the address. She ran lightly up the steps, and as he turned her key in the door for her, she raised a pair of starry eyes to his.
"Dr. Kemp," she said, "I have had an exceptionally lovely evening. I shall not soon forget it."
"Nor I," he returned, raising his hat; holding it in his hand, he gently raised her gloved hand to his lips. Herbert Kemp was a gentleman of the old school in his manner of showing reverence to women.
"My brave young friend!" he said; and the next minute his firm footfall was crunching the gravel of the walk. Neither of them had remembered that he was to have come in with her. She waited till the gate clicked behind him, and then softly closed the heavy door.
"My brave young friend!" The words mounted like wine to her head. She forgot her surroundings and stood in a sweet dream in the hall, slowly unbuttoning her glove. She must have remained in this attitude for five minutes, when, raising her eyes, still shadowy with thought, she saw her cousin before her down the hall, his arm resting on the newel-post.
"Louis!" she cried in surprise; and without considering, she hurried to him, 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 her cheeks 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, and you 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 suffused her face. The epilogue had wholly obliterated the play from her recollection.