It could hardly be called singing. Louis had often said that her voice needed merely to be set to rhythmic time to be music; in pursuance of which idea he would put into her hand some poem that touched his fancy, tell her to read it, and as she read, he would adapt to it an accompaniment according to the meaning and measure of the lines, --grandly solemn, daintily tripping, or wildly inspiriting. It was more like a chant than a song. To-night he chose Tennyson's Bugle-song. Her voice was subservient to the accompaniment, that shook its faint, sweet bugle-notes at first as in a rosy splendor; it rose and swelled and echoed and reverberated and died away slowly as if loath to depart. Arnold's playing was the poem, Ruth's voice the music the poet might have heard as he wrote, sweet as a violin, deep as the feeling evolved, --for when she came to the line beginning, "oh, love, they die in yon rich sky," she might have stood alone with one, in some high, clear place, so mellow was the thrill of her voice, so rapt the expression of her face. Kemp looked as if he would not tire if the sound should "grow forever and forever."
Mrs. Levice was wakeful after she had gone to bed. Her husband also seemed inclined to prolong the night, for he made no move to undress.
"Jules," said she in a low, confidential tone, "do you realize that our daughter is twenty-two?"
He looked at her with a half-smile.
"Is not this her birthday?"
"Her twenty-second, and she is still unmarried."
"Well?"
"Well, it is time she were. I should like to see it."
"So should I," he acquiesced with marked decision.
Mrs. Levice straightened herself up in bed and looked at her husband eagerly.
"Is it possible," she exclaimed, "that we have both thought of the same parti?"
It was now Mr. Levice's turn to start into an interested position.
"Of whom," he asked with some restraint, "are you speaking?"
"Hush! Come here; I have longed for it for some time, but have never breathed it to a soul, --Louis."
"Levice had become quite pale, but as she pronounced the familiar name, the color returned to his cheek, and a surprised look sprang into his eyes.
"Louis? Why do you think of such a thing?"
"Because I think them particularly well suited. Ruth, pardon me, dear, has imbibed some very peculiar and high-flown notions. No merely commonplace young man would make her happy. A man must have some ideas outside of what his daily life brings him, if she is to spend a moment's interested thought on him. She has repelled some of the most eligible advances for no obvious reasons whatever. Now, she does not care a rap for society, and goes only because I exact it. That is no condition for a young girl to allow herself to sink into; she owes a duty to her future. I am telling you this because, of course, you see nothing peculiar in such a course. But it is time you were roused; you know one look from you is worth a whole sermon from me. As to my thinking of Louis, well, in running over my list of eligibles, I found he fulfilled every condition, --good-looking, clever, cultivated, well-to-do, and--of good family. Why should it not be? They like each other, and see enough of each other to learn to love. We, however, must bring it to a head."
"First provide the hearts, little woman. What can I do, ask Louis or Ruth?"
"Jules," she returned with vexation, "how childish! Don't you feel well?
Your cheeks are rather flushed."
"They are somewhat warm. I am going in to kiss the child good-night; she ran off while I saw Dr. Kemp out."
Ruth sat in her white dressing-gown, her heavy dark hair about her, her brush idle in her hand. Her father stood silently in the doorway, regarding her, a great dread tugging at his heart. Jules Levice was a keen student of the human face, and he had caught a faint glimpse of something in the doctor's eyes while Ruth sang. He knew it had been harmless, for her back had been turned, but he wished to reassure himself.
"Not in bed yet, my child?"
She started up in confusion as he came in.
"Of what were you thinking, darling?" he continued, putting his hand under her soft white chin and looking deeply into her eyes.
"Well," she answered slowly, "I was not thinking of anything important; I was thinking of you. We are going to Beacham's next week--and have you any fine silk shirts?"
He laughed a hearty, relieved laugh.
"Well, no," he answered; "I leave all such fancies to your care. So we go next week. I am glad; and you?"
"I? Oh, I love the country in its summer dress, you know."
"Yes. Well, good-night, love." He took her face between his hands, and drawing it down to his, kissed it. Still holding her, he said with sweet solemnity,-- "'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.'"
