Only this morning she had deemed herself miserable beyond her fellows; now, who can compete with her in utter content? In a few short hours she will be his wife! Oh that her father could but——
Her father! Now, all at once, it rushes back upon her; she is a little dazed, a good deal unsettled, but surely some one had said that her—her father—was—dead!
The lamps in the street die out. The sickly winter dawn comes over the great city. The hush and calm still linger; only now and then a dark phantom form issues from a silent gateway, and hurries along the pavement, as though fearful of the growing light.
Ruth has sunk upon her knees, and is doing fierce battle with the remorse that has come to kill her new-born happiness. There is a terrible pain at her heart, even apart from the mental anguish that is tearing it. Her slight frame trembles beneath the double shock; a long shivering sob breaks from her; she throws her arms a little wildly across the couch before which she is kneeling, and gradually her form sinks upon her arms. No other sob comes to disturb the stillness. An awful silence follows. Slowly the cold gray morning fills the chamber, and the sun,—
"Eternal painter, now begins to rise,
And limn the heavens in vermilion dyes."
But within deathly silence reigns. Has peace fallen upon that quiet form? Has gentle sleep come to her at last?
Horace, ascending the stairs cautiously, before the household is astir, opens the room where last he had seen Ruth, and comes gently in. He would have passed on to the inner chamber, thinking to rouse her to prepare in haste for their early wedding, when the half-kneeling half-crouching figure before the lounge attracts his notice.
"Ruth," he says, very gently, fearful lest he shall frighten her by too sudden a summons back to wakefulness; but there is no reply. How can she have fallen asleep in such an uncomfortable position? "Ruth," he calls again, rather louder, some vague fear sending the blood back to his heart; but again only silence greets his voice. And again he says, "Ruth!" this time with passionate terror in his tone; but, alas! there is still no response. For the first time she is deaf to his entreaty.
Catching her in his arms, he raises her from her kneeling posture, and, carrying her to the window, stares wildly into her calm face,—the poor, sad, pretty face of her who had endured so much, and borne so long, and loved so faithfully.