Other Things Being Equal [87]
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
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