"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.
