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 ****** 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 ****** 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.
