Herbert Kemp and Dr. Stephens stood quietly talking to Mr. Levice. The latter seemed weaker since his exertion of the morning, and his head lay back among the pillows as if the support were grateful. Still his eager eyes were keenly fastened upon the close-lipped mouth and broad, speaking brow of the minister who spoke so quietly and pleasantly. Kemp, looking pale and handsome, answered fitfully when appealed to, and kept an expectant eye upon the door. When Ruth entered, he went forward to meet her, drawing her arm through his. They had had no word together, no meeting of any kind but right here in the morning; and now, as she walked toward the bed, the gentle smile that came as far as her eyes was all for her father. Thought could hold no rival for him that day.
“This is Miss Levice, Dr. Stephens,” said Kemp, presenting them. A swift look of wonderment passed under the reverend gentleman’s beetle-brows as he bent over her hand. Could this tall, beautiful girl be the daughter of little Jules Levice? Where did she get that pure Madonna face, that regal bearing, that mobile and expressive mouth? The explanation was sufficient when Mrs. Levice entered. They stood talking, not much, but in that wandering, obligatory way that precedes any undertaking. They were waiting for Arnold; he came in presently with a bunch of pale heliotropes. He always looked well and in character when dressed for some social event; it was as if he were made for this style of dress, not the style for him. The delicate pink of his cheeks looked more like the damask skin of a young girl than ever; his eyes, however, behind their glasses, were veiled. As he handed Ruth the flowers, he said,—
“I asked the doctor to allow me to give you these. Will you hold them with my love?”
“They are both very dear to me,” she replied, raising the flowers to her lips.
Their fragrance filled the room while the simple ceremony was being performed. It was a striking picture, and one not likely to be forgotten. Levice’s eyes filled with proud, pardonable tears as he looked at his daughter,—for never had she looked as to-day in her simple white gown, her face like a magnolia bud, a fragrant dream; standing next to Kemp, the well-mated forms were noticeable. Even Arnold, with his heart like a crushed ball of lead, acknowledged it in bitter resignation. For him the scene was one of those silent, purgatorial moments that are approached with senses steeled and thought held in a vice. To the others it passed, as if it had happened in a dream. Even when Kemp stooped and pressed his lips for the first time upon his wife’s, the real meaning of what had taken place seemed far away to Ruth; the present held but one thing in prominence,—the pale face upon the pillow. She felt her mother’s arms around her; she knew that Louis had raised her hand to his lips, that she had drawn his head down and kissed him, that Dr. Kemp was standing silently beside her, that the minister had spoken some gravely pleasant words; but all the while she wanted to tear herself away from it all and fold that eager, loving, dying face close to hers. She was allowed to do so finally; and when she was drawn into the outstretched arms, there was only the long silence of love.
Kemp had left the room with Dr. Stephens, having a further favor to intrust to him. The short announcement of this marriage, which Dr. Stephens gave for insertion in the evening papers, created a world of talk.
When Kemp re-entered, Levice called him to him, holding out his hand. The doctor grasped it in that firm clasp which was always a tonic.
“Will you kneel?” asked Levice; Kemp knelt beside his wife, and the old father blessed them in the words that held a double solemnity now:—
“‘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.’”
“I think if you don’t mind, dear, I shall close my eyes now,” he said as they arose.
Ruth moved about, closing the blinds.
“Don’t close out all the sun,” said her father; “I like it,—it is an old friend. After all, I don’t think I’ll sleep; let me lie here and look at you all awhile. Louis, my boy, must you go?”
“Oh, no,” he replied, turning back from the door and gliding into a chair.
“Thank you; and now don’t think of me. Go on talking; it will be a foretaste of something better to lie here and listen. Esther, are you cold? I felt a shudder go through your hand, love. Ruth, give your mother a shawl; don’t forget that sometimes some one should see that your mother is not cold. Just talk, will you?”
So they talked,—that is, the men did. Their grave, deep voices and the heavily breathing of the invalid were the only sounds in the room. Finally, as the twilight stole in, it was quite still. Levice had dropped into a sort of stupor. Kemp arose then.
“I shall be back presently,” he said, addressing Mrs. Levice, who started perceptibly as he spoke. “I have some few directions to give to my man that I entirely forgot.”
“Could not we send some one? You must not stay away now.”
“I shall return immediately. Mr. Levice does not need me while he sleeps, and these instructions are important. Don’t stir, Arnold; I know my way out.”
Nevertheless Arnold accompanied him to the door. Ruth gave little heed to their movements. Her agitated heart had grasped the fact that the lines upon her father’s face had grown weaker and paler, his breathing shorter and more rasping; when she passed him and touched his hand, it seemed cold and lifeless.
At nine the doctor came in again; the only appreciable difference in his going or coming was that no one rose or made any formal remarks. He went up to the bed and placed his hand on the sleeping head. Mrs. Levice moved her chair slightly as he seated himself on the edge of the bed and took Levice’s hand. Ruth, watching him with wide, distended eyes, thought he would never drop it. Her senses, sharpened by suffering, read every change on his face. As he withdrew his hand, she gave one long, involuntary moan. He turned quickly to her.
“What is it?” he asked, his grave eyes scanning her anxiously.
“Nothing,” she responded. It was the first word she had spoken to him since the afternoon ceremony. He turned back to Levice, lowering his ear to his chest. After a faint, almost imperceptible pause he arose.
“I think you had all better lie down,” he said softly. “I shall sit with him, and you all need rest.”
“I could not rest,” said Mrs. Levice; “this chair is all I require.”
“If you would lie on the couch here,” he urged, “you would find the position easier.”
“No, no! I could not.”
He looked at Ruth.
“I shall go by and by,” she answered.
Arnold had long since gone out.
Ruth’s by and by stretched on interminably. Kemp took up the “Argonaut” that lay folded on the table. He did not read much, his eyes straying from the printed page before him to the “finis” writing itself slowly on Jules Levice’s face, and thence to Ruth’s pale profile; she was crying,—so quietly, though, that but for the visible tears an onlooker might not have known it; she herself did not,—her heart was silently overflowing.
Toward morning Levice suddenly sprang up in bed and made as if to leap upon the floor. Kemp’s quick, strong hand held him back.
“Where are you going?” he asked. Mrs. Levice stood instantly beside him.
“Oh,” gasped Levice, his eyes falling upon her, “I wanted to get home; but it is all right now. Is the child in bed, Esther?”
“Here she is; lie still, Jules; you know you are ill.”
“But not now. Ah, Kemp, I can get up now; I am quite well, you know.”
“Wait till morning,” he resisted, humoring this inevitable idiosyncrasy.
“But it is morning now; and I feel so light and well. Open the shutters, Ruth; see, Esther; a beautiful day.”
It was quite dark with the darkness that immediately precedes dawn; the windows were bespangled with the distillations of the night, which gleamed as the light fell on them.
Mrs. Levice seated herself beside him.
“It is very early, Jules,” she said, smiling with hope, not knowing that this deceptive feeling was but the rose-flush of the sinking sun; “but if you feel well when day breaks you can get up, can’t he Doctor?”
“Yes.”
Levice lay back with closed eyes for some minutes. A quivering smile crossed his face and his eyes opened.
“Were you singing that song just now, Ruth, my angel?”
“What son, Father dear?”
“That—‘Adieu,—adieu—pays—amours’—we sang it—you know—when we left home together—my mother said—I was too small—too small—and—too—”
Ruth looked around wildly for Kemp. He had left the room; she must go for him. As she came into the hall, she saw him and Louis hurriedly advancing up the corridor. Seeing her, they reached her side in a breath.
“Go,” she whispered through pale lips; “he is breathing with that—”
Kemp laid his hand upon her shoulder.
“Stay here a second; it will be quite peaceful.”
She looked at him in agony and walked blindly in after Louis.
He was lying as they had left him, with Mrs. Levice’s hand in his.
“Keep tight hold, darling,” the rattling voice was saying. “Don’t take it off till—another takes it—it will not be hard then.” Suddenly he saw Louis standing pale and straight at the foot of the bed.
“My good boy,” he faltered, “my good boy, God will bless—” His eyes closed again; paler and paler grew his face.
“Father!” cried Ruth in agony.
He looked toward her smiling.
“The sweetest word,” he murmured; “it was—my glory.”
Silence. A soul is passing; a simple, loving soul, giving no trouble in its passage; dropping the toils, expanding with infinity. Not utterly gone; immortality is assured us in the hearts that have touched ours.
Silence. A shadow falls, and Jules Levice’s work is done; and the first sunbeams crept about him, lay at his feet a moment, touched the quiet hands, fell on the head like a benediction, and rested there.
“I thought you would be quiet at this hour,” said Rose Delano, seating herself opposite her friend in the library, the Thursday evening after the funeral. They looked so different even in the waning light,—Ruth in soft black, her white face shining like a lily above her sombre gown, Rose, like a bright firefly, perched on a cricket, her cheeks rosy, her eyes sparkling from walking against the sharp, cold wind.
“We are always quiet now,” she answered softly; “friends come and go, but we are very quiet. It does me good to see you, Rosebud.”
“Does it?” her sweet eyes smiled happily. “I was longing to drop in if only to hold your hand for a minute; but I did not know exactly where to find you.”
“Why, where could I be but here?”
“I thought possibly you had removed to your husband’s home.”
For a second Ruth looked at her wonderingly; then the slow rich color mounted, inch by inch, back to her little ears till her face was one rosy cloud.
“No; I have stayed right on.”
“I saw the doctor to-day,” she chatted. “He looks pale; is he too busy?”
“I do not know,—that is, I suppose so. How are the lessons, Rose?”
“Everything is improving wonderfully; I am so happy, dear Mrs. Kemp, and what I wished to say was that all happiness and all blessings should, I pray, fall on you two who have been so much to me. Miss Gwynne told me that to do good was your birthright. She said that the funeral, with its vast gathering of friends, rich, poor, old, young, strong, and crippled of all grades of society, was a revelation of his life even to those who thought they knew him best. You should feel very proud with such sweet memories.”
“Yes,” assented Ruth, her eyes quickly suffused with tears.
They sat quietly thus for some time, till Rose, rising from her cricket, kissed her friend silently and departed.
The waning light fell softly through the lace curtains, printing quaint arabesques on the walls and furniture and bathing the room in a rich yellow light. A carriage rolled up in front of the house. Dr. Kemp handed the reins to his man and alighted. He walked slowly up to the door. It was very still about the house in the evening twilight. He pushed his hat back on his head and looked up at the clear blue sky, as if the keen breeze were pleasant to his temples. Then with a quick motion, as though recalling his thoughts, he turned and rang the bell. The latchkey of the householder was not his.
Ruth, sitting in the shadows, had scarcely heard the ring. She was absorbed in a new train of thought. Rose Delano was the first one who had clearly brought home to her the thought that she was really married. She had been very quiet with her other friends, and every one, looking at her grief-stricken face, had shrunk from mentioning what would have called for congratulation. Rose, who knew only these two, naturally dwelt on their changed relations. Her husband! Her dormant love gave an exultant bound. Wave upon wave of emotion beat upon her heart; she sprang to her feet; the door opened, and he came in. He saw her standing faintly outlined in the dark.
“Good-evening,” he said, coming slowly toward her with extended hand; “have you been quite well to-day?” He felt her fingers tremble in his close clasp, and let them fall slowly. “Bob sent you these early violets. Shall I light the gas?”
“If you will.”
He turned from her and rapidly filled the room with light.
“Where is your mother?” he asked, turning toward her again. Her face was hidden in the violets.
“Upstairs with Louis. They had something to arrange. Did you wish to see her?” To judge from Ruth’s manner, Kemp might have been a visitor.
“No,” he replied. “If you will sit down, we can talk quietly till they come in.”
As she resumed her high-backed chair and he seated himself in another before her, he was instantly struck by some new change in her face. The faraway, impersonal look with which she had met him in these sad days had been what he had expected, and he had curbed with a strong will every impulse for any closer recognition. But this new look,—what did it mean? In the effort to appear unconcerned the dark color had risen to his own cheeks.
“I had quite a pleasant little encounter to-day,” he observed; “shall I tell it to you?”
“If it will not tire you.”
Keeping his eyes fixed on the picture over her head, he did not see the look of anxious love that dwelt in her eyes as they swept over him.
“Oh, no,” he responded, slightly smiling over the recollection. “I was coming down my office steps this afternoon, and had just reached the foot, when a bright-faced, bright-haired boy stood before me with an eager light in his eyes. ‘Aren’t you Dr. Kemp?’ he asked breathlessly, like one who had been running. I recollected him the instant he raised his hat from his nimbus of golden hair. ‘Yes; and you are Will Tyrrell,’ I answered promptly. ‘Why, how did you remember?’ he asked in surprise; ‘you saw me only once.’ ‘Never mind; I remember that night,’ I answered. ‘How is that baby sister of yours?’ ‘Oh, she’s all right,’ he replied dismissing the subject with the royalty that brotherhood confers. ‘I say, do you ever see Miss Levice nowadays?’ I looked at him with a half-smile, not knowing whether to set him right or not, when he finally blurted out, ‘She’s the finest girl I ever met. Do you know her well, Doctor?’ ‘Well,’ I answered, ‘I know her slightly,—she is my wife.’”
He had told the little incident brightly; but as he came to the end, his voice gradually lowered, and as he pronounced the last word, his eyes sought hers. Her eyelids fluttered; her breath seemed suspended.
“I said you were my wife,” he repeated softly, leaning forward, his hands grasping the chair-arms.
“And what,” asked Ruth, a little excited ring in her voice,—“what did Will say?”
“Who cared?” he asked, quickly moving closer to her; “do you?” He caught her hand in his, scarce knowing what he said, and interlaced his fingers with hers.
“Ruth,” he asked below his breath, “have you forgotten entirely what we are to each other?”
It was such a cruel lover’s act to make her face him thus, her bosom panting, her face changing from white to red and from red to white.
“Have you, sweet love?” he insisted.
“No,” she whispered, trying to turn her head from him.
“No, who?”
With an irrepressible movement she sprang up, pushing his hand from hers. He rose also, his face pale and disturbed, and indescribable fear overpowering him.
“You mean,” he said quietly, “that you no longer love me,—say it now and have it over.”
“Oh,” she cried in exquisite pain, “why do you tantalize me so—can’t you see that—”
She looked so beautiful thus confessed that with sudden ecstacy he drew her to him and pressed his lips in one long kiss to hers.
A little later Mrs. Levice and Louis came down. Mrs. Levice entered first and stood still; Louis, looking over her shoulder, saw too—nothing but Ruth standing encircled by her husband’s arm; her lovely face smiled into his, which looked down at her with an expression that drove every drop of blood from Arnold’s face. For a moment they were unseen; but when Ruth, who was the first to feel their presence, started from Kemp as if she had committed a crime, Arnold came forward entirely at his ease.
Kemp met Mrs. Levice with outstretched hands and smiling eyes.
“Good-evening, Mother,” he said; “we had just been speaking of you.” Mrs. Levice looked into his deep, tender eyes, and raising her arm, drew his head down and kissed him.
Ruth had rolled forward a comfortable chair, and stood beside it with shy, sweet look as her mother sat down and drew her down beside her. Sorrow had softened Mrs. Levice wonderfully; and looking for love, she wooed everybody by her manner.
“What were you saying of me?” she asked, keeping Ruth’s hand in hers and looking up at Kemp, who leaned against the mantel-shelf, his face radiant with gladness.
“We were saying that it will do you good to come out of this great house to our little one, till we find something better.”
Mrs. Levice looked across at Louis, who stood at the piano, his back half turned, looking over a book.
“It is very sweet to be wanted by you all now,” she said, her voice trembling slightly; “but I never could leave this house to strangers,—every room is too full of old associations, and sweet memories of him. Louis wants me to go down the coast with him soon, stopping for a month or so at Coronado. Go to your cottage meanwhile by yourselves; even I should be an intruder. There, Ruth, don’t I know? And when we come back, we shall see. It is all settled, isn’t it, Louis?”
He turned around then.
“Yes, I feel that I need a change of scene, and I should like to have her with me; you do not need her now.”
Ruth looked at his careworn face, and said with tender solicitude,—
“You are right, Louis.”
And so it was decided.