CHAPTER XI.PROTEST AND APPEAL.FATHER, father, do not ask me to meet him; from the first it was an evil engagement, broken, or should have been. Why do you wish to take it up again?"Ruth Jessup, who made this appeal, stood in front of her father, who had just told her that it had been arranged that a speedy marriage should terminate the engagement with Richard Storms—an engagement entered into when she was scarcely more than a child. "It was high time the thing was settled," he said, "while neighbor Storms was pleased with his son and ready to settle a handsome property on him. That, with the money that would be hers in time, might enable them to move among the best in the neighborhood."The girl listened to all this with a wild look in her face, half-rebellion, half-terror. "No," she said, straining her hands together in a passionate clasp, "you must not ask me to take him. I could not love him—the very idea is dreadful.""But, girl, you are engaged to him. My word is given—my word is given.""But only on condition, father—only on the condition of his amendment.""Well, the young man has come through his probation like a gentleman, as he has a right to be. He just rode by here on his bay horse, as fine a looking young fellow as one need want for a son-in-law, lifting his hat like a lord as he passed me. We may expect him here to-night.""But, father, I will not see him. I—I cannot."The girl was pale and anxious; her eyes were eloquent with pleading, her mouth tremulous."And why not?""Only I cannot—I never can like him again."The kind-hearted gardener sat down in the nearest chair, and took those two clasped hands in his, looking gravely but very kindly into the girl's troubled face."Daughter," he said, "workingmen don't pretend to fine sentiments, but we have our own ideas of honor, and a man's word once given in good faith must be kept, let the cost be what it may. I have given my word to neighbor Storms. It must be honestly redeemed. You made no objection then.""But, oh, father, I was so young! How could I know what an awful thing I was doing?""If it was a mistake, who but ourselves should suffer for it, Ruth?""But he went astray—his company was of the worst.""That is all changed and atoned for."The girl shook her head."Oh, father, he was never a good son.""That, too, is changed; no man was ever more proud of a son than neighbor Storms is now of this young man."The girl turned away and began to cry."I thought you had given this up—that I should never again be tormented with it! He seemed willing to leave me alone; but now only three weeks after my godmother has promised to give me her money he comes back again! Oh, I wish she had promised it to some one else!""That is the very reason why we should fulfil our obligations to the letter, Ruth. It must not be said that a child of mine drew back from her father's plighted word because her dower promised to be more than double anything he had counted on when it was given."The girl's eyes flashed and her lips curved."If it has made him more eager, I may well consider it," she said; "and I think it has.""Shame on you, daughter! Such suspicions are unbecoming!""I cannot help them, father; the very thought of this man is hateful to me.""Well, well," said the father, soothingly, but not the less firm in his purpose; "the young man must plead his own cause. I have no fear that he will find my child unreasonable."The harassed young creature grew desperate; she followed her father to the door of an inner room."Father, come back, come back! It is cruel to put me off so!"Ruth drew her father into the room again, and renewed her protest with the passionate entreaties that had been so ineffectual. In her desperation she spoke with unusual energy, while now and then her sentences were broken up with sobs."Oh, father, do not insist—do not force this marriage upon me! It will be my death, my destruction! I detest the man!"Jessup turned away from her. That sweet appealing face made his heart ache.Ruth saw this look of relenting, and would not give up her cause. She approached close to her father, and, clinging to his arm, implored him, with bitter sobs, to believe her when she said that this marriage would be worse than death to her."Hush, girl!" said the old man. "Hush, now, or I may believe some hints that the young man has thrown out of another person. No girl in these parts would refuse a young fellow so well-to-do and so good-looking, if she hadn't got some one else in her mind."This speech was rendered more significant by a look of suspicion, which brought a rush of scarlet into the daughter's face."Oh, father, you are cruel!" cried the tortured young creature, struggling, as it were, for her life.The old man turned away from this pathetic pleading; nothing but a stern sense of honor, which is so strong in some men of his class, could have nerved him against the anguish of this appeal."We have given our word, child; we have given our word," he said. "Neither you nor your father can go beyond that."The gardener's voice faltered and he broke away from the trembling hands with which Ruth in her desperation sought to hold him. For the first time in his life he had found strength to resist her entreaties.CHAPTER XII.THE HEART STRUGGLE.HUMBLEas Jessup's little dwelling was, there hovered about it a spirit of beauty which would have made even an uncouth object beautiful to an imaginative person. The very wild things about the park seemed to understand this: for the sweetest-toned birds haunted its eaves, and the most timid hares would creep through the tangled flower-beds and commit petty depredations in the little vegetable-garden with a sense of perfect security.As the dawn brightened into sunrise one fair June morning a slight noise was heard in the house. The door opened, and the gardener, in the strength of his middle age, stout, fair-faced, and genial, came through, carrying a carpet-bag in his hand. Directly behind him, in the jasmine porch, stood his daughter, who seemed to shrink and tremble when her father turned back, and, taking her in his arms, kissed her twice upon the forehead with great tenderness."Take good care of yourself, child," he said, with a look of kindly admonition, "and do not go too freely into the park while I am away, if you would not wish to meet any guest from the house."The girl grew pale rather than crimson, and tried to cover her agitation by throwing both arms about her father's neck, and kissing him with a passion of tenderness."There! there!" said the man, patting her head, and drawing his hand down the shining braids of her hair, with a farewell caress. "I will be home again before bedtime;or, if not, leave a lamp burning, and a bit of bread-and-cheese on the table, with a sup of ale; for I shall be sore and hungry! One does not eat London fare with a home relish.""But you will surely come?" said the girl, with strange anxiety."Surely, child. I never sleep well under any roof but this.""But, perhaps—It—it may be that you will come in an earlier train.""No, no! There will be none coming this way. So do not expect me before ten of the night."A strange, half-frightened light came into the girl's eyes, and she stood upon the porch watching the traveller's receding figure as long as she could see him through her blinding tears. Then she went into the house, cast herself on a chair, and, throwing both arms across a table, burst into a wild passion of distress.After a time she started up, and flung back the heavy masses of hair that had fallen over her arms."I cannot—I dare not!" she said, flinging her hands apart, with desperate action. "He will never, never forgive me!"For a time she sat drearily in her chair, with tears still on her cheek, and hanging heavily on the curling blackness of her eye-lashes. Very sad, and almost penitent she looked as she sat thus, with her eyes bent on the floor, and her hands loosely clasped. The rustic dress, in which a peculiar red color predominated, had all the picturesque effect of an antique painting; but the face was young, fresh, and deeply tinted with a bright gipsy-like richness of beauty, altogether at variance with her father's form or features. Still she was not really unlike him.Her voice had the same sweet, mellow tones, and her smile was even more softly winning.But she was not smiling now; far from it! A quiver of absolute distress stirred her red lips, and the shadow of many a painful thought swept her face as she sat there battling with her own heart.All at once the old brass clock struck with the clangor of a bell. This aroused the girl; she started up, in a panic, and began to clear the table, from which her father had eaten his early breakfast, in quick haste. One by one, she put away the pieces of old blue china into an oaken cupboard, and set the furniture in order about the room, trembling all the time, and pausing now and then to listen, as if she expected to be disturbed.When all was in order, and the little room swept clean, the girl looked around in breathless bewilderment. She searched the face of the clock, yet never gathered from it how the minutes passed. She saw the sunshine coming into the window, bathing the white jasmine-bells with a golden light, and shrunk from it like a guilty thing."I—I have time yet. He must not come here. I dare not wait."The girl snatched up a little straw-hat, garlanded with scarlet poppies, and hastily tied it on her head. In the midst of her distress she cast a look into the small mirror which hung upon the wall, and dashed one hand across her eyes, angry with the tears that flushed them."If he sees that I can weep, he will understand how weak I am, and all will go for nothing," she said. "Oh, God help me, here he is!"Sure enough, through the overhanging trees Ruth saw young Hurst walking down along a path which ran along the high banks of the ravine. He saw the gleam of hergarments through the leaves, and came toward her with both hands extended."Ready so soon, my darling?" he exclaimed, with animation. "I saw your father safe on the highway, and came at once; but—but what does this mean? Surely, Ruth, you cannot go in that dress?""No, I cannot. Oh, Mr. Walton, I dare not so disobey my father! He would never, never forgive me!"The young man drew back, and a flash of angry surprise darkened his face."Is it that you will disappoint me, Ruth? Have I deserved this?""No, no; but he trusts me!""Have I not trusted you?""But my father—my father?""It is your father who drives us to this. He is unrelenting, or that presumptuous wretch would not be permitted to enter his dwelling. Has he dared to present himself again?""Yes, last night; but for that I might have lost all courage, all power of resistance.""And you saw him? You spoke with him?""Only in my father's presence. I would not see him alone.""And after seeing him, you repent?""No—no—a thousand times no. It is only of my father I think. I am all that he has in the world!" cried the girl, in a passion of distress."Have I not considered this? Do I ask you to leave him at once? One would think that I intended some great wrong; that, instead of taking—""Hush, hush, Mr. Walton! Do not remind me how far I am beneath you. This is the great barrier whichI tremble to pass. My father never will forgive me if I dare to—""Become the wife of an honorable man, who loves you well enough to force him into saving his child from a hateful marriage, at the price of deceiving his own father.""Oh, no! no! It is because you are so generous, so ready to stake everything for me, that I hesitate.""No, it is because you fear the displeasure of a man who has almost separated us in his stubborn idea of honor. It is to his pride that my own must be sacrificed.""Pride, Walton?""Yes, for he is proud enough to break up my life and yours.""Oh, Walton, this is cruel!""Cruel! Can you say this, Ruth? You who trifle with me so recklessly?""I do not trifle; but I dare not—I dare not—"The young man turned aside with a frown upon his face, darker and sterner than the girl had ever seen there before."You certainly never will trifle with me again," he said, in a deep, stern voice, which made the heart in the poor girl's bosom quiver as if an arrow had gone through it."Oh, do not leave me in anger," she pleaded.He walked on, taking stern, resolute strides along the path. She saw that his face was stormy, his gestures determined, and sprang forward, panting for breath."Oh, Walton, Walton, forgive me!"He looked down into her wild, eager face, gloomily."Ruth, you have never loved me. You will be prevailed upon to marry that hound."She reached up her arms, and flung herself on his bosom."Oh, Walton, I do—I do love you!""Then be ready, as you promised. I have but a moment to spare.""But my father!""Is it easier to abandon the man who loves you, or to offend him?""Oh, Walton, I will go; but alone—I tremble to think of it.""It is only for a few miles. In less than half an hour I will join you. Be careful to dress very quietly, and seem unconscious when we meet.""I will—I will! Only do not frown so darkly on me again."The young man turned his fine blue eyes full upon her."Did my black looks terrify you, darling?" he said, with a smile that warmed her heart like a burst of sunshine. "But you deserved it. Remember that."Ruth looked in the handsome face of her lover with wistful yearning. While alone, with her father's kind farewell appealing to her conscience, she had felt capable of a great sacrifice; but with those eyes meeting hers, with that voice pleading in her heart, she forgot everything but the promise she had made, and the overwhelming love that prompted it.The young man read all this in those eloquent features, and would gladly have kissed the lips that still trembled between smiles and tears; but even in that solitude he was cautious."Now, farewell for an hour or two, and then—"Ruth caught her breath with a quick gasp, and the color flashed back to her face, vivid as flame.A noise among the trees startled them both. Young Hurst turned swiftly, and walked away, saying, as he went:"Be punctual, for Heaven only knows when another opportunity will offer."CHAPTER XIII.ONE RASH STEP.RUTH JESSUPhurried into the house, ran breathlessly to her chamber in the loft, and changed the coquettish dress, which gave such picturesque brightness to her beauty, for one of mingled gray and black. Not a tinge of warm color was there to betray her identity. Her small bonnet was covered by a veil so thick that no one could clearly distinguish the features underneath. In truth, her very air seemed changed, for graceful ease had given place to a timid, hesitating movement, that was entirely at variance with her character.She came down-stairs hurriedly, and rushed through the little parlor, as if afraid that the very walls might cry out against the act she meditated.Ruth avoided the great avenues and the lodge-gate, but hurried by the most remote paths, through the deepest shades of the park, until one brought her to a side-gate in the wall, which she opened with a key, and let herself out into the highway. There she stood, for some minutes, with her hand on the latch, hesitating, in this supreme moment of her life, as if she stood upon a precipice, and, looking into its depths, recoiled with shuddering.It is possible that the girl might have returned even then, for a pang of dread had seized upon her; but, while she stood hesitating, a noise in the highway made her leap back from the gate with a force that closed it against her, and she stood outside, trembling from head to foot; for, coming down the highway in a cloud of dust, she saw a dog-cart, in which was Walton Hurst and a groom, driving rapidly, as if in haste to meet some train. The young man gave her one encouraging glance as he swept by; the next moment the dog-cart had turned a curve of the road, and was out of sight.Ruth felt now that her last chance of retreat was cut off. With a feeling of something like desperation she left the gate, and walked swiftly up the road. There was no sense of fatigue in this young girl. In her wild excitement, she could have walked miles on miles without being conscious of the distance. She did, in fact, walk on and on, keeping well out of sight, till she came to a little depot, some three miles from "Norston's Rest." There she diverged from her path, and, entering the building, sat down in a remote corner, and waited, with a feeling of nervous dread, that made her start and quiver as each person entered the room.At last the train came up, creating some bustle and confusion, though only a few passengers were in waiting. Under cover of this excitement, Ruth took her seat in a carriage, and was shut in with a click of the latch which struck upon the poor girl's heart, as if some fatal turn of a key had locked her in with an irretrievable fate.The train rushed on with a swiftness and force that almost took away the girl's breath. It seemed to her as if she had been caught up and hurled forward to her destiny with a force no human will could resist.Then she grew desperate. The rush of the engine seemed too slow for the wild desire that succeeded to her irresolution. Yet it was not twenty minutes before the train stopped again, and, looking through the window, Ruth saw her lover leap from the platform and enter the next carriage to her own.Had he seen her? Did the lightning glance cast that way give him a glimpse of her face looking so eagerly through the glass? At any rate, he was in the same train with her, and once more they were hurled forward at lightning speed, until sixty miles lay between them and the mansion they had left.Once more the train stopped. This time a hand whiter than that of the guard, was reached through the door, and a face that made her heart leap with a panic of joy and fear, looked into hers. She scarcely touched this proffered hand, but flitted out to the platform, like a bird let loose in a strange place. This was a way-side station, and it happened that no person except those two left the train at this particular point. Still they parted like chance passengers, and there was no one to observe the few rapid words that passed between them in the small reception-room.When the train was out of sight, and all the bustle attendant on its arrival had sunk into silence, these two young persons entered a carriage that stood waiting, and drove swiftly toward a small town, clouded with the smoke of factories, that lay in the distance. Through the streets of this town, and into another, still more remote, they drove, and at last drew up in a small village, to which the spire of a single church gave something of picturesque dignity.To the door of this church the carriage went, afteravoiding the inhabitable portion of the village by taking a cross-road, which led through a neighboring moor. Into the low-browed entrance Walton Hurst led the girl. The church was dim, and so damp that it struck a chill through the young creature as she approached the altar, where a man, in sacred vestments, stood with an open book in his hand, prepared for a solemn ceremony.Two or three persons sauntered up to the church-door, attracted by the unusual presence of a carriage in that remote place, and some, more curious than the rest, came inside, and drew, open-mouthed, toward the altar, while the marriage ceremony was being performed.When the bride turned from the altar, shivering and pale with intense excitement, two or three of these persons secured a full view of her face, and never forgot it afterward; for anything more darkly, richly beautiful than her features had never met their eyes.Ruth was indeed lovely in this supreme moment of her life. The pallor of concentrated emotion gave depth and almost startling brilliancy to those great eyes, bright as stars, and soft as velvet, which were for one moment turned upon them. All else might have been forgotten in after years; but that one glance was burnt like enamel on more than one memory when Walton Hurst's marriage was made known to the world.The vestry was dark and damp when they entered it, followed by a grim old clerk, and at a more respectful distance after them came three or four of the villagers, who only saw the shadowy picture of a man and woman bending over a huge book—the one writing his name with a bold dash of the hand, the other trembling so violently that for a moment she was compelled to lay the pendown, while she looked into her husband's face with a pathetic plea for patience with her weakness.But the names were written at last, and the young couple left the church in haste, as they had entered it—the bride with a bit of paper held tightly in her hand, the bridegroom looking happy and elated, as if he had conquered some enemy.As they drove away, two or three of the villagers, who had been drawn into the church, turned back from the porch, and stole into the vestry where the clerk stood by his open register, examining a piece of gold that had been thrust into his hand, with a look of greedy unbelief.The clerk was saying,"See, neighbor Knox, it is gold—pure gold. Did any one ever see the like? There is the face of Her Majesty, plain as the sun in yon sky. Oh, if a few more such rare windfalls would but come this way, my place would be worth having."The sight of this gold only whetted the villagers' curiosity to fresh vigor. They became eager to know what great man it was who had come among them, with such shadow-like stillness, leaving only golden traces of his presence in the church; for the clerk hinted, with glee, that the pastor had been rewarded fourfold for his share in the ceremony. Then one after another of these persons looked at the register. It chanced that the record was made on the top of a blank page; thus the two names were rendered more than usually conspicuous. This was the record:Walton Hurst—Ruth Jessup.CHAPTER XIV.ON THE WAY HOME.MYdarling—my wife! Look up and tell me that your joy is equal to mine," said Hurst, when he and his bride were seated in the carriage. "No! that is impossible; but say that you are happy, my Ruth!""Happy!" said the girl. "Oh, Walton, it is cruel that I can be so; but I am—I am!"The young man took her hands in his, and kissed them with passionate warmth."You will never repent, Ruth?""Repent that I am your wife! That you—" Here the girl's great earnest eyes fell and were shaded at once by lashes black as themselves."Well, darling, what more?""That you are my husband."The word seemed to flood her heart with sunshine, and her face with burning blushes. Its very sound was full of exquisite shame. Hurst drew that face to his bosom and kissed it with tender reverence."Now, my beloved, we are all the world to each other.""All, all," she murmured; "but, oh, what will my father do?""He can do nothing, Ruth. But that his word was so rashly given, and his love for the old family so near a religion, that his consent could never have been attained, even though Sir Noel had himself commanded it—there should have been no secrecy in this.""Oh, if that had been possible! But Sir Noel never would have seen his heir stoop as he has done for a wife.""Sir Noel is not like other men of his class, my Ruth. His pride is too noble for small prejudices. Besides, I think he has suspected from the first how dear you are to me; for in a conversation the other day he seemed to hint at a vague approval. But for this I should not have acted without his positive consent.""But my father never would have givenhisconsent, even if Sir Noel himself had commanded it," said Ruth. "He would rather die than drag down the dignity of the Hursts.""It was this stiff-necked integrity that forced me to a step that will be more likely to anger Sir Noel than the marriage itself would have done. One glimpse of the truth would have aroused your father to drive me from his house, dearly as he has always loved me. Then would have come this question of young Storms—don't tremble so—are you not my wife?""I—I should have been compelled to marry him. He loves me. My father would die for me any minute; but were I fifty times as dear he would sacrifice me to the dignity of the Hursts—to a promise once given," said Ruth, lifting her face from the bosom where it had rested."But you?""I could not have resisted. My father is so loving—so kind. He would have told me of your grandeur, your long descent, of the noble—nay, royal ladies—that had been mated with the Hursts. He would have crushed me under the weight of my own miserable presumption. He would have told me, in plain speech,what my heart reproaches me with every minute now most of all, when I am daring to be so happy.""But you are happy?""Oh, Walton, it seems like wickedness, but I am; so weak, however, so fearful of what must come. Oh, give me a little time! Permit me to dream a while until some chance or great necessity makes concealment impossible. I have no courage left.""But this Storms?""I have got a little respite from my father; he will not break his word, though I pleaded with him almost upon my knees—but I am not to be hurried. They are to give me time, and now, that I know in my heart that it can never, never be, the terror of him is gone. So let me have just one little season of rest before you break this to my poor father, and make me afraid to look Sir Noel in the face."Perhaps this sweet pleading found some answer in the young man's wishes, for in speaking of Sir Noel's conversation in the library, he had discovered how little there was in it to warrant the step he had taken. At the best there was much in his rash precipitancy to displease the proud old baronet, though he should be found willing to forgive the mésalliance he had made.If these thoughts had great influence with Hurst, the terror and troubled eloquence of his bride completed his conviction. Drawing Ruth gently toward him, he kissed her upon the forehead; for this conversation, coming into the midst of their happiness, had subdued them both."Be it as you wish, sweet wife. With perfect love and trust in each other, we need be in no haste to let any one share our secret.""Oh, how kind you are!" exclaimed the girl, brightening into fresh happiness. "This will give me time to study, to add something to the education that will be precious to me now; perhaps I can make myself less unworthy of your father's forgiveness.""Unworthy?" answered Hurst, wounded, yet half charmed by her sweet humility. "Sir Noel has always looked upon you as a pretty favorite, whom it was a pleasure to protect; and my cousin, the Lady Rose—""Ah, how ungrateful, how forward she will think me! My heart grows heavy when her name is mentioned.""She has always been your friend, Ruth.""I know—I know; and in return I have had the presumption to think of making myself her equal.""There can be no presumption in the wife of a Hurst accepting all that he has to give; but let us talk of something else. If our happiness is to be a secret, we must not mar its first dawning with apprehensions and regrets. Some perplexities will arise, for our position will be an embarrassing one; but there is no reason why we should anticipate them. It will be difficult enough to guard our secret so well that no one shall guess it."Ruth was smiling. She could not think it difficult to keep a secret that seemed to her far too sweet and precious for the coarser sympathy of the world. The sacredness of her marriage was rendered more profound by the silence that sanctified it to her mind.But now the carriage stopped, and the driver was heard getting down from the box. Hurst looked out.They were in a village through which the railroad passed—not the one they had stopped at. They had been taken above that by a short route from the church, which the driver had chosen without consultation."So soon! Surely we are in the wrong place," said Hurst, impatient that his happiness should be broken in upon."You seemed particular about meeting the down train, sir, and I came the nearest way. It is due in five minutes," answered the man, touching his hat.There was no time for expostulation or regret. In fact, the man had acted wisely, if "Norston's Rest" was to be reached in time to save suspicion. So the newly-married pair separated with a hurried hand-clasp, each took a separate carriage, and glided safely into dreamland, as the train flew across the country at the rate of fifty miles an hour.CHAPTER XV.THE LADY ROSE.NORSTON'S REST" was brilliantly lighted, for a dinner-party had assembled, when its heir drove up in his dog-cart that night, and leaping out, threw his reins to the groom, with some hasty directions about to-morrow. It was near the dinner hour, and several fair guests were lingering on the broad, stone terrace, or shaded by the silken and lace curtains of the drawing-room, watching for his return with that pretence of graceful indifference with which habits of society veil the deepest feeling.One fair creature retreated from the terrace, with a handful of flowers which she had gathered hastily from a stone vase, and carried away when the first soundof wheels reached her; but she lingered in a little room that opened from the great hall, and seemed to be arranging her flowers with diligence in a vase that stood on a small malachite table, when young Hurst came in.Unconsciously, and against her own proud will, she lifted her face from the flowers, and cast an eager glance into the hall, wondering in her heart if he would care to seek her for a moment before he went up to dress.The young man saw her standing there quite alone, sweet and bright as the flowers she was arranging, and paused a moment, after drawing off his gloves; but he turned away and went up the broad, oaken staircase, with the thoughts of another face, dark, piquant, and more wildly beautiful, all bathed in blushes, too vividly in his mind for any other human features to throw even a shadow there.The Lady Rose dropped a branch of heliotrope and a moss-rosebud, which had for one instant trembled in her hand, as Hurst passed the door, and trod upon them with a sharp feeling of disappointment."He knew that I was alone," she muttered, "and passed on without a word. He saw the flowers that he loves best in my hand, but would not claim them."Tears, hot, passionate tears, stood in the lady's eyes, and her white teeth met sharply for a moment, as if grinding some bitter thing between them; but when Hurst came down-stairs, fully dressed, he found her in the drawing-room, with a richer bloom than usual on her cheeks, and the frost-like lace, which fell in a little cloud over the soft blue of her dress, just quivering with the agitation she had made so brave an effort to suppress.As young Hurst came into the drawing-room, Sir Noel, who had been talking to a guest, came forward inthe calm way habitual to his class, and addressed his son with something very like to a reproof."We have almost waited," he said, glancing at the young lady as the person most aggrieved. "In fact, the dinner has been put back."The old man's voice was gentle and his manners suave; but there was a reserved undertone in his speech that warned the young heir of a deeper meaning than either was intended to suggest.Hurst only bowed for answer."Now that he has come," the baronet added, smiling graciously on the young lady, but turning away from his son, "perhaps we shall not be entirely unforgiving."Walton Hurst made no apology, however, but offered his arm to Lady Rose, and followed his father's lead into the dining-room.It was a spacious apartment, brilliantly illuminated with gas and wax lights, which found a rich reflection from buffets loaded with plate, and a table on which gold, silver, and rare old glass gleamed and flashed through masses of hot-house flowers. A slow rustle of silken trains sweeping the floor, a slight confusion, and the party was seated.During the first course Lady Rose was restless and piqued. She found the person at her side so thoughtful that a feeling of wounded pride seized upon her, and gave to her manner an air of graceful defiance that at last drew his attention.So Hurst broke from the dreaminess of his love reverie and plunged into the gay conversation about him. Spite of himself the triumphant gladness of his heart burst forth, and in the glow of his own joy he met the half-shy, half-playful attentions of the high-bred creature byhis side with a degree of brilliant animation which brought new bloom to her cheeks, and a smile of contentment to the lips of the proud old man at the head of the table. This smile deepened into a glow of entire satisfaction when the gentlemen were left to their wine; for then young Hurst made an excuse to his father, and, as the latter thought, followed the ladies into the drawing-room.Deep drinking at dinner-parties is no longer a practice in England, as it may have been years ago. Thus it was not many minutes before the baronet and his guests came up-stairs to find the ladies gathered in knots about the room, and one, at least, sitting in dissatisfied solitude near a table filled with books of engravings, which she did not care to open; for all her discontent had come back when she thought herself less attractive than the wines of some old vintage, stored before she was born."But where is Walton?" questioned the old gentleman, approaching the girl, with a faint show of resentment. "Surely, Lady Rose, I expected to find him at your feet.""It is a place he seldom seeks," answered the lady, opening one of the books with assumed carelessness. "If he has left the table, I fancy it must have been him I saw crossing the terrace ten minutes ago."Sir Noel replied, incredulously:"Saw him crossing the terrace! There must have been some mistake. I am sure he spoke of going to the drawing-room."She hesitated."He changed his mind, I suppose," she said at last, with a slight but haughty wave of her hand toward a great bay-window that looked out on the park. "Isaw his face as he crossed that block of moonlight on the terrace, I am quite sure. Perhaps—""Perhaps what, Lady Rose?""He has some business at the gardener's cottage. Old Jessup is a favorite, you know," answered the lady, with a light laugh, in which the old man discovered the bitterness of latent jealousy.A hot, angry flush suffused the old man's face; but this was the only sign of anger that he gave. The next instant he was composed as ever, and answered her with seeming indifference."Oh, yes, I remember; I had some orders for Jessup, which he was thoughtful enough to take."The lady smiled again, now with a curve of distrustful scorn on her red lips."Perhaps he failed in giving your message earlier, and in his desire to please you has forsaken us.""Perhaps," was the indifferent reply. Then the old man moved quietly away, and speaking a gracious word here and there, glided out of the room.Later in the evening, Lady Rose had left her book of engravings, and stood shrouded in the sweeping draperies of the great window, looking out upon the park. Directly she saw the figure of her host gliding across the terrace, which, in that place, seemed flagged with silver, the moonlight lay so full upon it. The next moment he was lost in the blackest shadows of the park."He has gone to seek him! Now I shall know the worst," she thought, while quick thrills of hope and dread shot like lances through her frame. "I could not stoop to spy upon him, but a father is different, and, once on the alert, will be implacable."While these thoughts were in her mind, the girl gavea sudden start, and grasped at the silken curtains, while a faint shivering came over her, that seemed like coming death.For deep in the woods of the park, where the gardener's cottage stood, she heard the sharp report of a gun."Great Heaven! What can it mean?" she cried; clasping her hands. "What can it mean?"CHAPTER XVI.ALONE IN THE COTTAGE.BREATHLESSwith apprehension, which was made half joy by an undeniable sense of happiness, all the more intense because it was gained by so much hazard, Ruth Jessup—for she dared not breathe that new name even to herself as yet—reached that remote gate in the park-wall, and darted like a frightened hare into the thick covert of the trees. There she lingered a while, holding her breath with dread. It was scarcely dark, but to her it seemed impossible that so few hours could have passed since she had stolen from her home. Surely, surely, her father must have returned. She would find him standing in the park, ready to arraign and judge her for the thing she had done; or he might come out to find her wandering among the ferns, so happy, yet so terrified, that she would like to stay there forever, like a bird in sight of its nest, trembling while it watched over its trust of love.The purple twilight was just veiling the soft, greengloom of the trees with its tender darkness. Now and then a pale flash of gold shot through the leaves, giving signs that the evening had but just closed in. Still the girl hesitated. Almost, for the first time in her life, she feared to meet her father face to face. The taste of forbidden fruit was on her lips, tainted with the faint bitterness of coming ashes."I will go home—I must!" she said, rising from a fragment of rock that had given her a seat among the ferns. "There is yet a quiver of crimson in the air. It cannot be ten yet!"The girl walked slowly and cautiously on until a curve in the path brought her in sight of the cottage. Then her pent-up breath came forth in a glad exclamation."It is dark yet! No one has been there in all this time!"Poor child! It seemed an age since she had left the house, and a miracle that she should have found it so still and solitary. When she entered the porch, the light of a rising moon was trembling down to the honeysuckles that clung to it, and a cloud of dewy fragrance seemed to welcome her home again tenderly, as if she had no deception in her heart, and was not trembling from head to foot with vague apprehensions.Taking a heavy key from under one of the seats which ran along each side of the porch, she opened the door and went into her home again. The moonlight came flickering through the oriel window, as if a bunch of silver arrows had been shivered against it, half illuminating the room with a soft, beautiful light. Ruth would gladly have sat down in this tranquil gloom, and given herself up to such dreams as follow a full certaintyof being beloved, but the hoarse old clock twanged out the hour with a force that absolutely frightened her. She had not self-possession enough to count its strokes, but shuddered to think the night had possibly reached ten o'clock.She lighted a lamp, looked around to make sure that nothing had been left that could betray her, then ran up-stairs, flung off her sad-colored dress, set all her rich hair free, and came down in the jaunty red over-dress and black skirt that had given her beauty such picturesque effect in the morning. All day she had been pale and feverishly flushed by turns. Now a sense of safety gave her countenance a permanent richness of color that would have been dazzling in a broader light than that lamp could give. She was under shelter in her own familiar garment; could it be that all the rest was a dream? Had she, in fact, been married?A quick, frightened gasp answered the question. The lamp-light fell on a heavy circlet of new gold, that glittered on her finger.Yes, it was there! His hand had pressed it upon hers; his lips had kissed it reverently. Must she take it off? Was there no way of concealing the precious golden shackle, that seemed to hold her life in?That was impossible. That small, shapely hand had never felt the touch of ornament or ring before. The blaze of it seemed to light the whole room. Her father would see it and question her. No, no! it must be hid away before he came. She ran up-stairs, opened her bureau-drawer, and began to search eagerly for a ribbon narrow enough to escape attention. Knots of pink, and streamers of scarlet were there neatly arranged, but nothing that might answer her purpose, except a thread ofblack ribbon which had come out of her mourning two years before, when her mother died.Ruth snatched this up and swung her wedding-ring upon it, too much excited for superstition at the moment, and glad to feel the perilous gift safe in her bosom.Now all was hidden, no trace of her fault had been left. She might dare to look at the old clock.It lacked an hour and more of the time at which she might expect her father. Well, fortunately, she had something to do. His supper must be prepared. She would take good care of him now. He should lack nothing at her hands, since she had given him such grievous cause of offence.With these childlike ideas of atonement in her mind, Ruth took up a lamp, and going into the kitchen, kindled a fire; and spreading a white cloth on the table, set out the supper her father had desired of her. When the cold beef and mustard, the bread and cheese, were all daintily arranged, she bethought herself of his most favored dish of all, and taking a posset-dish of antique silver from the cupboard, half filled it with milk, which she set upon the coals to boil. Into this she from time to time broke bits of wheaten bread, and when the milk was all afoam, poured a cup of strong ale into it, which instantly resolved the whole mass into golden whey and snow-white curd.As Ruth stooped over the posset-cup, shading her face with one hand from the fire, and stirring its contents gently with a spoon, a noise at the window made her start and cry out with a suddenness that nearly upset the silver porringer."Who is it? What is it?" she faltered, looking at the window with strained eyes. "Oh, have mercy! That face, that face!"Before she could move away from the hearth, some one shook the window-sash so violently, that a rain of dew fell from the ivy clustering around it.Ruth stood appalled; every vestige of color fled from her face; but she gave no further sign of the terror that shook her from head to foot. Directly the keen, handsome face that had peered through the glass disappeared, and the footsteps of a man walking swiftly sounded back from the gravel path which led to the front door.CHAPTER XVII.A STORMY ENCOUNTER.RUTHheld her breath and listened. She heard the door open, and footsteps in the little passage. Then her natural courage aroused itself, and lifting the posset-cup from the coals, she left it on the warm hearth, and met the intruder at the kitchen door."Is it you?" she said, with a quiver of fear in her voice. "I am sorry father is not at home.""But I am not," answered the young man, setting down a gun he had brought in, behind the door. "It was just because he wasn't here, and I knew it, that I came in. It is high time, miss, that you and I should have a talk together, and no father to put in his word between pipes.""What do you want? Why should you wish to speak with me at this time of night?""Why, now, I like that," answered the young fellow, with a laugh that made Ruth shudder. "Well, I'll justcome in and have my say. There mayn't be another chance like this."Richard Storms turned and advanced a step, as if he meant to enter the little parlor, but Ruth called him back. It seemed to her like desecration, that this man should tread on the same floor that Hurst, her husband—oh, how the thought swelled her heart!—had walked over."Not there," she said. "I must mind my father's supper. He will be home in a few minutes.""Well, I don't much care; the kitchen seems more natural. It is here that we used to sit before the young master found out how well-favored you are, as if he couldn't find comely faces enough at the house, but must come poaching down here on my warren.""Who are you speaking of? I cannot make it out," faltered Ruth, turning cold."Who? As if you didn't know well enough; as if I didn't see you and him talking together thick as two bees this very morning.""No, no!" protested Ruth, throwing out both her hands. "You could not—you did not!""But I did, though, and the gun just trembled of itself in my hand, it so wanted to be at him. If it hadn't been that you seemed offish, and he looked black as a thunder-clap, I couldn't have kept my hand from the trigger.""That would have been murder," whispered the girl, through her white lips."Murder, would it? That's according as one thinks. What do men carry a gun at night for, let me ask you, but to keep the deer and the birds safe from poachers? If they catch them at it, haven't they a right to fire? Well, Ruth, you are my game, and my gun takes careof you as keepers protect the deer. It will be safe to warn the young master of that!""I do not know—I cannot understand—""Oh, you don't, ha!" broke in the young man, throwing himself into a chair and stretching out his legs on the hearth. "Well, then, I'll tell you a secret about him that'll take the starch out of your pride. You're not the only girl with a pretty face that brings him among my covers!""What?""Ah, ha! Oh, ho! That wakes you up, does it? I thought so. Nothing like a swoop of spite to bring a girl out of cover.""I do not understand you," said Ruth, flashing out upon her tormentor with sudden spirit. "What have I to do with anything you are talking about?""The other lass, you mean. Not much, of course. It isn't likely he put her in your way."A burst of indignation, perhaps of something more stinging than that, filled the splendid eyes with fire that Ruth fixed upon her tormentor."Do you know—can you even guess that it is my—my—!"The girl broke her imprudent speech off with a thrill of warning that left the prints of her white teeth on the burning lips which had almost betrayed her. In her terror the insult that followed was almost a relief."Sweetheart!" sneered the young man.She did not heed the word or sneer; both were a proof that her secret was safe as yet."One up at the house, one here, and another—well, no matter about her. You understand?""You slander an honorable gentleman," said Ruth, controlling herself with a great effort."Do I? Ask the Lady Rose, if she ever stoops to speak to you.""She is a sweet, gracious lady," broke in Ruth, magnanimous in her swift jealousy. "A great lady, who refuses speech or smile to no one.""Ask her, then, who was out on the terrace this evening, before he came home, robbing the great stone vases of their sweetest flowers for his button-hole!"Ruth lifted one hand to her bosom, and pressed the golden ring there close to her heart.Then turning to the young man, who was watching her keenly, she said, with composure:"Well, why should you or I ask such questions of the young lady? I would no more do that than spy upon her, as you have done!"Storms looked at her keenly from under his bent brows, and his thin lips closed with a baffled expression."Off the scent," he thought. "What is it? She was hot on the chase just now. Has she really doubled on him?""It needs no spying to see what goes on up there," he answered, after a moment, waving his head toward the great house. "Grand people like them think we have neither eyes nor ears. They pay us for being without them, and think we earn our wages like dumb cattle. Just as if sharpness went with money. But we do see and hear, when they would be glad to think us blind and dumb!"The girl made no answer. She longed to question the creature she despised, and had a fierce struggle with her heart, until more honorable feelings put down the swift cravings of jealousy that were wounding her heart, as bees sting a flower while rifling it of honey.The young man watched her cunningly, but failed to understand her. The jealousy which made him so cruel had no similitude with her finer and keener feelings. He longed to see her break out in a tirade of abuse, or to have her question him broadly, as he wished to answer.Ruth did nothing of the kind. In the tumult of feelings aroused by his words she remembered all that had been done that day, and, with sudden vividness of recollection, the promise of caution she had made to her husband.Her husband! She pressed her hand against her bosom, where the wedding-ring lay hid, and a glorified expression came to her face as she turned it toward the firelight, absolutely forgetful that a hateful intruder shared it with her.Richard Storms was baffled, and a little saddened by the strange beauty in the face his eyes were searching."Ruth!" he said at length. "Ruth!"The girl started. His voice had dragged her out of a dream of heaven. She looked around vaguely on finding herself on earth again, and with him."Well," she said, impatiently, "what would you say to me?""Just this: when is it to be? I am really tired of waiting.""Tired of waiting!" said Ruth, impatiently. "Waiting for what?""Why, for our wedding-day. What else?"The proud blood of an empress seemed to flame up into the girl's face; a smile, half rage, half scorn, curved her lips, which, finally, relaxed into a clear, ringing laugh."You—you think to marry me!" was her broken exclamation, as the untoward laugh died out.The young man turned fiery red. The scornfulness of that laugh stung him, and he returned it with interest."No wonder you ask," he said, with a sharp, venomous look, from which she shrunk instinctively. "It isn't every honest man that would hold to his bargain, after all these galivantings with the young master."Ruth turned white as snow, and caught hold of a chair for support. Her evident terror seemed to appease the tormentor, and he continued, with a relenting laugh, "Don't be put about, though. I'm too fond to be jealous, because my sweetheart takes a turn now and then in the moonlight when she thinks no one is looking.""Your sweetheart! Yours!"Storms waved his hand, and went on."Though, mind me, all this must stop when we're married."Ruth had no disposition to laugh now. The very mention of Hurst had made a coward of her. Storms saw how pale she was, and came toward her."There, now, give us a kiss, and make up. It's all settled between father and the old man, so just be conformable, and I'll say nothing about the young master."As the young man came toward her, with his arms extended, Ruth drew back, step by step, with such fright and loathing in her eyes that his temper rose again. With startling suddenness he gave a leap, and, flinging one arm around her, attempted to force her averted face to his.One sharp cry, one look, and Ruth fell to the floor, quivering like a shot bird.She had seen the door open, and caught one glimpse of her husband's face. Then a powerful blow followed, and Richard Storms went reeling across the kitchen, and struck with a crash against the opposite wall.Ruth remembered afterward, as one takes up the painful visions of a dream, the deadly venom of those eyes; the gray whiteness of that aquiline face; the specks of foam that flew from those half-open lips. She saw, too, the slow retreat during which those threatening features were turned upon her husband. Then all was blank—she had fainted away.For some moments it seemed as if the girl were dead, she lay so limp and helpless on her husband's bosom; but the burning words that rose from his lips, the kisses he rained down upon hers, brought a stir of life back to her heart. Awaking with a dim sense of danger, she clung to him, shivering and in tears."Where is he? Oh, Walton! is he gone?""Gone, the hound! Yes, darling, to his kennel.""Ah, how he frightened me!""But how dare he enter this house?""I cannot tell—only—only my father has not come home yet. Oh, I—I hate him. He frightens me. He threatens me.""Threatens you! When? How?""Oh, Walton! he has seen us together. He will bring you into trouble.""Not easily.""Your father?""Is not a man to listen to the gossip of his servants."Ruth drew a deep breath. Walton had concealed his real anxiety so well, that her own fears were calmed."Come, come," he said; "we must not let this hind embitter the few minutes I can spend with you. Look up, love, and tell me that you are better.""Oh! I am; but he frightened me so.""And now?"Hurst folded the fair girl in his arms, and smoothed her bright hair with a caressing hand."Now!" she answered, lifting her mouth, which had grown red again, and timidly returning his kisses. "Now I am safe, and I fear nothing. Oh, mercy! Look!""What? Where?""The window! That face at the window!""It is your fancy, darling. I see nothing there.""But I saw it. Surely I did. His keen, wicked face. It was close to the glass.""There, there! It was only the ivy leaves glancing in the moonlight.""No, no! I saw it. He is waiting for you.""Let him wait. I shall not stir a step the sooner or later for that."Ruth began to tremble again. Her eyes were constantly turning toward the window. She scarcely heard the words of endearment with which Hurst strove to reassure her. All at once the old clock filled the house with its brazen warning. It was ten o'clock. The girl sprang to her feet."It is time for my father to come. He must not find you here."Hurst took his hat, and glancing down at his dinner dress, remembered that he would be missed from the drawing-room. Once more he enfolded the girl in his arms, called her by the new endearing name that was so sweet to them both, and finally left her smiling through all her fears.Ruth stole to the little oriel window, and watched her husband as he turned from the moonlight and entered the shadows of the park. Then she went back to the kitchen and busied herself about the fire.
PROTEST AND APPEAL.
FATHER, father, do not ask me to meet him; from the first it was an evil engagement, broken, or should have been. Why do you wish to take it up again?"
Ruth Jessup, who made this appeal, stood in front of her father, who had just told her that it had been arranged that a speedy marriage should terminate the engagement with Richard Storms—an engagement entered into when she was scarcely more than a child. "It was high time the thing was settled," he said, "while neighbor Storms was pleased with his son and ready to settle a handsome property on him. That, with the money that would be hers in time, might enable them to move among the best in the neighborhood."
The girl listened to all this with a wild look in her face, half-rebellion, half-terror. "No," she said, straining her hands together in a passionate clasp, "you must not ask me to take him. I could not love him—the very idea is dreadful."
"But, girl, you are engaged to him. My word is given—my word is given."
"But only on condition, father—only on the condition of his amendment."
"Well, the young man has come through his probation like a gentleman, as he has a right to be. He just rode by here on his bay horse, as fine a looking young fellow as one need want for a son-in-law, lifting his hat like a lord as he passed me. We may expect him here to-night."
"But, father, I will not see him. I—I cannot."
The girl was pale and anxious; her eyes were eloquent with pleading, her mouth tremulous.
"And why not?"
"Only I cannot—I never can like him again."
The kind-hearted gardener sat down in the nearest chair, and took those two clasped hands in his, looking gravely but very kindly into the girl's troubled face.
"Daughter," he said, "workingmen don't pretend to fine sentiments, but we have our own ideas of honor, and a man's word once given in good faith must be kept, let the cost be what it may. I have given my word to neighbor Storms. It must be honestly redeemed. You made no objection then."
"But, oh, father, I was so young! How could I know what an awful thing I was doing?"
"If it was a mistake, who but ourselves should suffer for it, Ruth?"
"But he went astray—his company was of the worst."
"That is all changed and atoned for."
The girl shook her head.
"Oh, father, he was never a good son."
"That, too, is changed; no man was ever more proud of a son than neighbor Storms is now of this young man."
The girl turned away and began to cry.
"I thought you had given this up—that I should never again be tormented with it! He seemed willing to leave me alone; but now only three weeks after my godmother has promised to give me her money he comes back again! Oh, I wish she had promised it to some one else!"
"That is the very reason why we should fulfil our obligations to the letter, Ruth. It must not be said that a child of mine drew back from her father's plighted word because her dower promised to be more than double anything he had counted on when it was given."
The girl's eyes flashed and her lips curved.
"If it has made him more eager, I may well consider it," she said; "and I think it has."
"Shame on you, daughter! Such suspicions are unbecoming!"
"I cannot help them, father; the very thought of this man is hateful to me."
"Well, well," said the father, soothingly, but not the less firm in his purpose; "the young man must plead his own cause. I have no fear that he will find my child unreasonable."
The harassed young creature grew desperate; she followed her father to the door of an inner room.
"Father, come back, come back! It is cruel to put me off so!"
Ruth drew her father into the room again, and renewed her protest with the passionate entreaties that had been so ineffectual. In her desperation she spoke with unusual energy, while now and then her sentences were broken up with sobs.
"Oh, father, do not insist—do not force this marriage upon me! It will be my death, my destruction! I detest the man!"
Jessup turned away from her. That sweet appealing face made his heart ache.
Ruth saw this look of relenting, and would not give up her cause. She approached close to her father, and, clinging to his arm, implored him, with bitter sobs, to believe her when she said that this marriage would be worse than death to her.
"Hush, girl!" said the old man. "Hush, now, or I may believe some hints that the young man has thrown out of another person. No girl in these parts would refuse a young fellow so well-to-do and so good-looking, if she hadn't got some one else in her mind."
This speech was rendered more significant by a look of suspicion, which brought a rush of scarlet into the daughter's face.
"Oh, father, you are cruel!" cried the tortured young creature, struggling, as it were, for her life.
The old man turned away from this pathetic pleading; nothing but a stern sense of honor, which is so strong in some men of his class, could have nerved him against the anguish of this appeal.
"We have given our word, child; we have given our word," he said. "Neither you nor your father can go beyond that."
The gardener's voice faltered and he broke away from the trembling hands with which Ruth in her desperation sought to hold him. For the first time in his life he had found strength to resist her entreaties.
THE HEART STRUGGLE.
HUMBLEas Jessup's little dwelling was, there hovered about it a spirit of beauty which would have made even an uncouth object beautiful to an imaginative person. The very wild things about the park seemed to understand this: for the sweetest-toned birds haunted its eaves, and the most timid hares would creep through the tangled flower-beds and commit petty depredations in the little vegetable-garden with a sense of perfect security.
As the dawn brightened into sunrise one fair June morning a slight noise was heard in the house. The door opened, and the gardener, in the strength of his middle age, stout, fair-faced, and genial, came through, carrying a carpet-bag in his hand. Directly behind him, in the jasmine porch, stood his daughter, who seemed to shrink and tremble when her father turned back, and, taking her in his arms, kissed her twice upon the forehead with great tenderness.
"Take good care of yourself, child," he said, with a look of kindly admonition, "and do not go too freely into the park while I am away, if you would not wish to meet any guest from the house."
The girl grew pale rather than crimson, and tried to cover her agitation by throwing both arms about her father's neck, and kissing him with a passion of tenderness.
"There! there!" said the man, patting her head, and drawing his hand down the shining braids of her hair, with a farewell caress. "I will be home again before bedtime;or, if not, leave a lamp burning, and a bit of bread-and-cheese on the table, with a sup of ale; for I shall be sore and hungry! One does not eat London fare with a home relish."
"But you will surely come?" said the girl, with strange anxiety.
"Surely, child. I never sleep well under any roof but this."
"But, perhaps—It—it may be that you will come in an earlier train."
"No, no! There will be none coming this way. So do not expect me before ten of the night."
A strange, half-frightened light came into the girl's eyes, and she stood upon the porch watching the traveller's receding figure as long as she could see him through her blinding tears. Then she went into the house, cast herself on a chair, and, throwing both arms across a table, burst into a wild passion of distress.
After a time she started up, and flung back the heavy masses of hair that had fallen over her arms.
"I cannot—I dare not!" she said, flinging her hands apart, with desperate action. "He will never, never forgive me!"
For a time she sat drearily in her chair, with tears still on her cheek, and hanging heavily on the curling blackness of her eye-lashes. Very sad, and almost penitent she looked as she sat thus, with her eyes bent on the floor, and her hands loosely clasped. The rustic dress, in which a peculiar red color predominated, had all the picturesque effect of an antique painting; but the face was young, fresh, and deeply tinted with a bright gipsy-like richness of beauty, altogether at variance with her father's form or features. Still she was not really unlike him.Her voice had the same sweet, mellow tones, and her smile was even more softly winning.
But she was not smiling now; far from it! A quiver of absolute distress stirred her red lips, and the shadow of many a painful thought swept her face as she sat there battling with her own heart.
All at once the old brass clock struck with the clangor of a bell. This aroused the girl; she started up, in a panic, and began to clear the table, from which her father had eaten his early breakfast, in quick haste. One by one, she put away the pieces of old blue china into an oaken cupboard, and set the furniture in order about the room, trembling all the time, and pausing now and then to listen, as if she expected to be disturbed.
When all was in order, and the little room swept clean, the girl looked around in breathless bewilderment. She searched the face of the clock, yet never gathered from it how the minutes passed. She saw the sunshine coming into the window, bathing the white jasmine-bells with a golden light, and shrunk from it like a guilty thing.
"I—I have time yet. He must not come here. I dare not wait."
The girl snatched up a little straw-hat, garlanded with scarlet poppies, and hastily tied it on her head. In the midst of her distress she cast a look into the small mirror which hung upon the wall, and dashed one hand across her eyes, angry with the tears that flushed them.
"If he sees that I can weep, he will understand how weak I am, and all will go for nothing," she said. "Oh, God help me, here he is!"
Sure enough, through the overhanging trees Ruth saw young Hurst walking down along a path which ran along the high banks of the ravine. He saw the gleam of hergarments through the leaves, and came toward her with both hands extended.
"Ready so soon, my darling?" he exclaimed, with animation. "I saw your father safe on the highway, and came at once; but—but what does this mean? Surely, Ruth, you cannot go in that dress?"
"No, I cannot. Oh, Mr. Walton, I dare not so disobey my father! He would never, never forgive me!"
The young man drew back, and a flash of angry surprise darkened his face.
"Is it that you will disappoint me, Ruth? Have I deserved this?"
"No, no; but he trusts me!"
"Have I not trusted you?"
"But my father—my father?"
"It is your father who drives us to this. He is unrelenting, or that presumptuous wretch would not be permitted to enter his dwelling. Has he dared to present himself again?"
"Yes, last night; but for that I might have lost all courage, all power of resistance."
"And you saw him? You spoke with him?"
"Only in my father's presence. I would not see him alone."
"And after seeing him, you repent?"
"No—no—a thousand times no. It is only of my father I think. I am all that he has in the world!" cried the girl, in a passion of distress.
"Have I not considered this? Do I ask you to leave him at once? One would think that I intended some great wrong; that, instead of taking—"
"Hush, hush, Mr. Walton! Do not remind me how far I am beneath you. This is the great barrier whichI tremble to pass. My father never will forgive me if I dare to—"
"Become the wife of an honorable man, who loves you well enough to force him into saving his child from a hateful marriage, at the price of deceiving his own father."
"Oh, no! no! It is because you are so generous, so ready to stake everything for me, that I hesitate."
"No, it is because you fear the displeasure of a man who has almost separated us in his stubborn idea of honor. It is to his pride that my own must be sacrificed."
"Pride, Walton?"
"Yes, for he is proud enough to break up my life and yours."
"Oh, Walton, this is cruel!"
"Cruel! Can you say this, Ruth? You who trifle with me so recklessly?"
"I do not trifle; but I dare not—I dare not—"
The young man turned aside with a frown upon his face, darker and sterner than the girl had ever seen there before.
"You certainly never will trifle with me again," he said, in a deep, stern voice, which made the heart in the poor girl's bosom quiver as if an arrow had gone through it.
"Oh, do not leave me in anger," she pleaded.
He walked on, taking stern, resolute strides along the path. She saw that his face was stormy, his gestures determined, and sprang forward, panting for breath.
"Oh, Walton, Walton, forgive me!"
He looked down into her wild, eager face, gloomily.
"Ruth, you have never loved me. You will be prevailed upon to marry that hound."
She reached up her arms, and flung herself on his bosom.
"Oh, Walton, I do—I do love you!"
"Then be ready, as you promised. I have but a moment to spare."
"But my father!"
"Is it easier to abandon the man who loves you, or to offend him?"
"Oh, Walton, I will go; but alone—I tremble to think of it."
"It is only for a few miles. In less than half an hour I will join you. Be careful to dress very quietly, and seem unconscious when we meet."
"I will—I will! Only do not frown so darkly on me again."
The young man turned his fine blue eyes full upon her.
"Did my black looks terrify you, darling?" he said, with a smile that warmed her heart like a burst of sunshine. "But you deserved it. Remember that."
Ruth looked in the handsome face of her lover with wistful yearning. While alone, with her father's kind farewell appealing to her conscience, she had felt capable of a great sacrifice; but with those eyes meeting hers, with that voice pleading in her heart, she forgot everything but the promise she had made, and the overwhelming love that prompted it.
The young man read all this in those eloquent features, and would gladly have kissed the lips that still trembled between smiles and tears; but even in that solitude he was cautious.
"Now, farewell for an hour or two, and then—"
Ruth caught her breath with a quick gasp, and the color flashed back to her face, vivid as flame.
A noise among the trees startled them both. Young Hurst turned swiftly, and walked away, saying, as he went:
"Be punctual, for Heaven only knows when another opportunity will offer."
ONE RASH STEP.
RUTH JESSUPhurried into the house, ran breathlessly to her chamber in the loft, and changed the coquettish dress, which gave such picturesque brightness to her beauty, for one of mingled gray and black. Not a tinge of warm color was there to betray her identity. Her small bonnet was covered by a veil so thick that no one could clearly distinguish the features underneath. In truth, her very air seemed changed, for graceful ease had given place to a timid, hesitating movement, that was entirely at variance with her character.
She came down-stairs hurriedly, and rushed through the little parlor, as if afraid that the very walls might cry out against the act she meditated.
Ruth avoided the great avenues and the lodge-gate, but hurried by the most remote paths, through the deepest shades of the park, until one brought her to a side-gate in the wall, which she opened with a key, and let herself out into the highway. There she stood, for some minutes, with her hand on the latch, hesitating, in this supreme moment of her life, as if she stood upon a precipice, and, looking into its depths, recoiled with shuddering.
It is possible that the girl might have returned even then, for a pang of dread had seized upon her; but, while she stood hesitating, a noise in the highway made her leap back from the gate with a force that closed it against her, and she stood outside, trembling from head to foot; for, coming down the highway in a cloud of dust, she saw a dog-cart, in which was Walton Hurst and a groom, driving rapidly, as if in haste to meet some train. The young man gave her one encouraging glance as he swept by; the next moment the dog-cart had turned a curve of the road, and was out of sight.
Ruth felt now that her last chance of retreat was cut off. With a feeling of something like desperation she left the gate, and walked swiftly up the road. There was no sense of fatigue in this young girl. In her wild excitement, she could have walked miles on miles without being conscious of the distance. She did, in fact, walk on and on, keeping well out of sight, till she came to a little depot, some three miles from "Norston's Rest." There she diverged from her path, and, entering the building, sat down in a remote corner, and waited, with a feeling of nervous dread, that made her start and quiver as each person entered the room.
At last the train came up, creating some bustle and confusion, though only a few passengers were in waiting. Under cover of this excitement, Ruth took her seat in a carriage, and was shut in with a click of the latch which struck upon the poor girl's heart, as if some fatal turn of a key had locked her in with an irretrievable fate.
The train rushed on with a swiftness and force that almost took away the girl's breath. It seemed to her as if she had been caught up and hurled forward to her destiny with a force no human will could resist.Then she grew desperate. The rush of the engine seemed too slow for the wild desire that succeeded to her irresolution. Yet it was not twenty minutes before the train stopped again, and, looking through the window, Ruth saw her lover leap from the platform and enter the next carriage to her own.
Had he seen her? Did the lightning glance cast that way give him a glimpse of her face looking so eagerly through the glass? At any rate, he was in the same train with her, and once more they were hurled forward at lightning speed, until sixty miles lay between them and the mansion they had left.
Once more the train stopped. This time a hand whiter than that of the guard, was reached through the door, and a face that made her heart leap with a panic of joy and fear, looked into hers. She scarcely touched this proffered hand, but flitted out to the platform, like a bird let loose in a strange place. This was a way-side station, and it happened that no person except those two left the train at this particular point. Still they parted like chance passengers, and there was no one to observe the few rapid words that passed between them in the small reception-room.
When the train was out of sight, and all the bustle attendant on its arrival had sunk into silence, these two young persons entered a carriage that stood waiting, and drove swiftly toward a small town, clouded with the smoke of factories, that lay in the distance. Through the streets of this town, and into another, still more remote, they drove, and at last drew up in a small village, to which the spire of a single church gave something of picturesque dignity.
To the door of this church the carriage went, afteravoiding the inhabitable portion of the village by taking a cross-road, which led through a neighboring moor. Into the low-browed entrance Walton Hurst led the girl. The church was dim, and so damp that it struck a chill through the young creature as she approached the altar, where a man, in sacred vestments, stood with an open book in his hand, prepared for a solemn ceremony.
Two or three persons sauntered up to the church-door, attracted by the unusual presence of a carriage in that remote place, and some, more curious than the rest, came inside, and drew, open-mouthed, toward the altar, while the marriage ceremony was being performed.
When the bride turned from the altar, shivering and pale with intense excitement, two or three of these persons secured a full view of her face, and never forgot it afterward; for anything more darkly, richly beautiful than her features had never met their eyes.
Ruth was indeed lovely in this supreme moment of her life. The pallor of concentrated emotion gave depth and almost startling brilliancy to those great eyes, bright as stars, and soft as velvet, which were for one moment turned upon them. All else might have been forgotten in after years; but that one glance was burnt like enamel on more than one memory when Walton Hurst's marriage was made known to the world.
The vestry was dark and damp when they entered it, followed by a grim old clerk, and at a more respectful distance after them came three or four of the villagers, who only saw the shadowy picture of a man and woman bending over a huge book—the one writing his name with a bold dash of the hand, the other trembling so violently that for a moment she was compelled to lay the pendown, while she looked into her husband's face with a pathetic plea for patience with her weakness.
But the names were written at last, and the young couple left the church in haste, as they had entered it—the bride with a bit of paper held tightly in her hand, the bridegroom looking happy and elated, as if he had conquered some enemy.
As they drove away, two or three of the villagers, who had been drawn into the church, turned back from the porch, and stole into the vestry where the clerk stood by his open register, examining a piece of gold that had been thrust into his hand, with a look of greedy unbelief.
The clerk was saying,
"See, neighbor Knox, it is gold—pure gold. Did any one ever see the like? There is the face of Her Majesty, plain as the sun in yon sky. Oh, if a few more such rare windfalls would but come this way, my place would be worth having."
The sight of this gold only whetted the villagers' curiosity to fresh vigor. They became eager to know what great man it was who had come among them, with such shadow-like stillness, leaving only golden traces of his presence in the church; for the clerk hinted, with glee, that the pastor had been rewarded fourfold for his share in the ceremony. Then one after another of these persons looked at the register. It chanced that the record was made on the top of a blank page; thus the two names were rendered more than usually conspicuous. This was the record:
Walton Hurst—Ruth Jessup.
ON THE WAY HOME.
MYdarling—my wife! Look up and tell me that your joy is equal to mine," said Hurst, when he and his bride were seated in the carriage. "No! that is impossible; but say that you are happy, my Ruth!"
"Happy!" said the girl. "Oh, Walton, it is cruel that I can be so; but I am—I am!"
The young man took her hands in his, and kissed them with passionate warmth.
"You will never repent, Ruth?"
"Repent that I am your wife! That you—" Here the girl's great earnest eyes fell and were shaded at once by lashes black as themselves.
"Well, darling, what more?"
"That you are my husband."
The word seemed to flood her heart with sunshine, and her face with burning blushes. Its very sound was full of exquisite shame. Hurst drew that face to his bosom and kissed it with tender reverence.
"Now, my beloved, we are all the world to each other."
"All, all," she murmured; "but, oh, what will my father do?"
"He can do nothing, Ruth. But that his word was so rashly given, and his love for the old family so near a religion, that his consent could never have been attained, even though Sir Noel had himself commanded it—there should have been no secrecy in this."
"Oh, if that had been possible! But Sir Noel never would have seen his heir stoop as he has done for a wife."
"Sir Noel is not like other men of his class, my Ruth. His pride is too noble for small prejudices. Besides, I think he has suspected from the first how dear you are to me; for in a conversation the other day he seemed to hint at a vague approval. But for this I should not have acted without his positive consent."
"But my father never would have givenhisconsent, even if Sir Noel himself had commanded it," said Ruth. "He would rather die than drag down the dignity of the Hursts."
"It was this stiff-necked integrity that forced me to a step that will be more likely to anger Sir Noel than the marriage itself would have done. One glimpse of the truth would have aroused your father to drive me from his house, dearly as he has always loved me. Then would have come this question of young Storms—don't tremble so—are you not my wife?"
"I—I should have been compelled to marry him. He loves me. My father would die for me any minute; but were I fifty times as dear he would sacrifice me to the dignity of the Hursts—to a promise once given," said Ruth, lifting her face from the bosom where it had rested.
"But you?"
"I could not have resisted. My father is so loving—so kind. He would have told me of your grandeur, your long descent, of the noble—nay, royal ladies—that had been mated with the Hursts. He would have crushed me under the weight of my own miserable presumption. He would have told me, in plain speech,what my heart reproaches me with every minute now most of all, when I am daring to be so happy."
"But you are happy?"
"Oh, Walton, it seems like wickedness, but I am; so weak, however, so fearful of what must come. Oh, give me a little time! Permit me to dream a while until some chance or great necessity makes concealment impossible. I have no courage left."
"But this Storms?"
"I have got a little respite from my father; he will not break his word, though I pleaded with him almost upon my knees—but I am not to be hurried. They are to give me time, and now, that I know in my heart that it can never, never be, the terror of him is gone. So let me have just one little season of rest before you break this to my poor father, and make me afraid to look Sir Noel in the face."
Perhaps this sweet pleading found some answer in the young man's wishes, for in speaking of Sir Noel's conversation in the library, he had discovered how little there was in it to warrant the step he had taken. At the best there was much in his rash precipitancy to displease the proud old baronet, though he should be found willing to forgive the mésalliance he had made.
If these thoughts had great influence with Hurst, the terror and troubled eloquence of his bride completed his conviction. Drawing Ruth gently toward him, he kissed her upon the forehead; for this conversation, coming into the midst of their happiness, had subdued them both.
"Be it as you wish, sweet wife. With perfect love and trust in each other, we need be in no haste to let any one share our secret."
"Oh, how kind you are!" exclaimed the girl, brightening into fresh happiness. "This will give me time to study, to add something to the education that will be precious to me now; perhaps I can make myself less unworthy of your father's forgiveness."
"Unworthy?" answered Hurst, wounded, yet half charmed by her sweet humility. "Sir Noel has always looked upon you as a pretty favorite, whom it was a pleasure to protect; and my cousin, the Lady Rose—"
"Ah, how ungrateful, how forward she will think me! My heart grows heavy when her name is mentioned."
"She has always been your friend, Ruth."
"I know—I know; and in return I have had the presumption to think of making myself her equal."
"There can be no presumption in the wife of a Hurst accepting all that he has to give; but let us talk of something else. If our happiness is to be a secret, we must not mar its first dawning with apprehensions and regrets. Some perplexities will arise, for our position will be an embarrassing one; but there is no reason why we should anticipate them. It will be difficult enough to guard our secret so well that no one shall guess it."
Ruth was smiling. She could not think it difficult to keep a secret that seemed to her far too sweet and precious for the coarser sympathy of the world. The sacredness of her marriage was rendered more profound by the silence that sanctified it to her mind.
But now the carriage stopped, and the driver was heard getting down from the box. Hurst looked out.
They were in a village through which the railroad passed—not the one they had stopped at. They had been taken above that by a short route from the church, which the driver had chosen without consultation.
"So soon! Surely we are in the wrong place," said Hurst, impatient that his happiness should be broken in upon.
"You seemed particular about meeting the down train, sir, and I came the nearest way. It is due in five minutes," answered the man, touching his hat.
There was no time for expostulation or regret. In fact, the man had acted wisely, if "Norston's Rest" was to be reached in time to save suspicion. So the newly-married pair separated with a hurried hand-clasp, each took a separate carriage, and glided safely into dreamland, as the train flew across the country at the rate of fifty miles an hour.
THE LADY ROSE.
NORSTON'S REST" was brilliantly lighted, for a dinner-party had assembled, when its heir drove up in his dog-cart that night, and leaping out, threw his reins to the groom, with some hasty directions about to-morrow. It was near the dinner hour, and several fair guests were lingering on the broad, stone terrace, or shaded by the silken and lace curtains of the drawing-room, watching for his return with that pretence of graceful indifference with which habits of society veil the deepest feeling.
One fair creature retreated from the terrace, with a handful of flowers which she had gathered hastily from a stone vase, and carried away when the first soundof wheels reached her; but she lingered in a little room that opened from the great hall, and seemed to be arranging her flowers with diligence in a vase that stood on a small malachite table, when young Hurst came in.
Unconsciously, and against her own proud will, she lifted her face from the flowers, and cast an eager glance into the hall, wondering in her heart if he would care to seek her for a moment before he went up to dress.
The young man saw her standing there quite alone, sweet and bright as the flowers she was arranging, and paused a moment, after drawing off his gloves; but he turned away and went up the broad, oaken staircase, with the thoughts of another face, dark, piquant, and more wildly beautiful, all bathed in blushes, too vividly in his mind for any other human features to throw even a shadow there.
The Lady Rose dropped a branch of heliotrope and a moss-rosebud, which had for one instant trembled in her hand, as Hurst passed the door, and trod upon them with a sharp feeling of disappointment.
"He knew that I was alone," she muttered, "and passed on without a word. He saw the flowers that he loves best in my hand, but would not claim them."
Tears, hot, passionate tears, stood in the lady's eyes, and her white teeth met sharply for a moment, as if grinding some bitter thing between them; but when Hurst came down-stairs, fully dressed, he found her in the drawing-room, with a richer bloom than usual on her cheeks, and the frost-like lace, which fell in a little cloud over the soft blue of her dress, just quivering with the agitation she had made so brave an effort to suppress.
As young Hurst came into the drawing-room, Sir Noel, who had been talking to a guest, came forward inthe calm way habitual to his class, and addressed his son with something very like to a reproof.
"We have almost waited," he said, glancing at the young lady as the person most aggrieved. "In fact, the dinner has been put back."
The old man's voice was gentle and his manners suave; but there was a reserved undertone in his speech that warned the young heir of a deeper meaning than either was intended to suggest.
Hurst only bowed for answer.
"Now that he has come," the baronet added, smiling graciously on the young lady, but turning away from his son, "perhaps we shall not be entirely unforgiving."
Walton Hurst made no apology, however, but offered his arm to Lady Rose, and followed his father's lead into the dining-room.
It was a spacious apartment, brilliantly illuminated with gas and wax lights, which found a rich reflection from buffets loaded with plate, and a table on which gold, silver, and rare old glass gleamed and flashed through masses of hot-house flowers. A slow rustle of silken trains sweeping the floor, a slight confusion, and the party was seated.
During the first course Lady Rose was restless and piqued. She found the person at her side so thoughtful that a feeling of wounded pride seized upon her, and gave to her manner an air of graceful defiance that at last drew his attention.
So Hurst broke from the dreaminess of his love reverie and plunged into the gay conversation about him. Spite of himself the triumphant gladness of his heart burst forth, and in the glow of his own joy he met the half-shy, half-playful attentions of the high-bred creature byhis side with a degree of brilliant animation which brought new bloom to her cheeks, and a smile of contentment to the lips of the proud old man at the head of the table. This smile deepened into a glow of entire satisfaction when the gentlemen were left to their wine; for then young Hurst made an excuse to his father, and, as the latter thought, followed the ladies into the drawing-room.
Deep drinking at dinner-parties is no longer a practice in England, as it may have been years ago. Thus it was not many minutes before the baronet and his guests came up-stairs to find the ladies gathered in knots about the room, and one, at least, sitting in dissatisfied solitude near a table filled with books of engravings, which she did not care to open; for all her discontent had come back when she thought herself less attractive than the wines of some old vintage, stored before she was born.
"But where is Walton?" questioned the old gentleman, approaching the girl, with a faint show of resentment. "Surely, Lady Rose, I expected to find him at your feet."
"It is a place he seldom seeks," answered the lady, opening one of the books with assumed carelessness. "If he has left the table, I fancy it must have been him I saw crossing the terrace ten minutes ago."
Sir Noel replied, incredulously:
"Saw him crossing the terrace! There must have been some mistake. I am sure he spoke of going to the drawing-room."
She hesitated.
"He changed his mind, I suppose," she said at last, with a slight but haughty wave of her hand toward a great bay-window that looked out on the park. "Isaw his face as he crossed that block of moonlight on the terrace, I am quite sure. Perhaps—"
"Perhaps what, Lady Rose?"
"He has some business at the gardener's cottage. Old Jessup is a favorite, you know," answered the lady, with a light laugh, in which the old man discovered the bitterness of latent jealousy.
A hot, angry flush suffused the old man's face; but this was the only sign of anger that he gave. The next instant he was composed as ever, and answered her with seeming indifference.
"Oh, yes, I remember; I had some orders for Jessup, which he was thoughtful enough to take."
The lady smiled again, now with a curve of distrustful scorn on her red lips.
"Perhaps he failed in giving your message earlier, and in his desire to please you has forsaken us."
"Perhaps," was the indifferent reply. Then the old man moved quietly away, and speaking a gracious word here and there, glided out of the room.
Later in the evening, Lady Rose had left her book of engravings, and stood shrouded in the sweeping draperies of the great window, looking out upon the park. Directly she saw the figure of her host gliding across the terrace, which, in that place, seemed flagged with silver, the moonlight lay so full upon it. The next moment he was lost in the blackest shadows of the park.
"He has gone to seek him! Now I shall know the worst," she thought, while quick thrills of hope and dread shot like lances through her frame. "I could not stoop to spy upon him, but a father is different, and, once on the alert, will be implacable."
While these thoughts were in her mind, the girl gavea sudden start, and grasped at the silken curtains, while a faint shivering came over her, that seemed like coming death.
For deep in the woods of the park, where the gardener's cottage stood, she heard the sharp report of a gun.
"Great Heaven! What can it mean?" she cried; clasping her hands. "What can it mean?"
ALONE IN THE COTTAGE.
BREATHLESSwith apprehension, which was made half joy by an undeniable sense of happiness, all the more intense because it was gained by so much hazard, Ruth Jessup—for she dared not breathe that new name even to herself as yet—reached that remote gate in the park-wall, and darted like a frightened hare into the thick covert of the trees. There she lingered a while, holding her breath with dread. It was scarcely dark, but to her it seemed impossible that so few hours could have passed since she had stolen from her home. Surely, surely, her father must have returned. She would find him standing in the park, ready to arraign and judge her for the thing she had done; or he might come out to find her wandering among the ferns, so happy, yet so terrified, that she would like to stay there forever, like a bird in sight of its nest, trembling while it watched over its trust of love.
The purple twilight was just veiling the soft, greengloom of the trees with its tender darkness. Now and then a pale flash of gold shot through the leaves, giving signs that the evening had but just closed in. Still the girl hesitated. Almost, for the first time in her life, she feared to meet her father face to face. The taste of forbidden fruit was on her lips, tainted with the faint bitterness of coming ashes.
"I will go home—I must!" she said, rising from a fragment of rock that had given her a seat among the ferns. "There is yet a quiver of crimson in the air. It cannot be ten yet!"
The girl walked slowly and cautiously on until a curve in the path brought her in sight of the cottage. Then her pent-up breath came forth in a glad exclamation.
"It is dark yet! No one has been there in all this time!"
Poor child! It seemed an age since she had left the house, and a miracle that she should have found it so still and solitary. When she entered the porch, the light of a rising moon was trembling down to the honeysuckles that clung to it, and a cloud of dewy fragrance seemed to welcome her home again tenderly, as if she had no deception in her heart, and was not trembling from head to foot with vague apprehensions.
Taking a heavy key from under one of the seats which ran along each side of the porch, she opened the door and went into her home again. The moonlight came flickering through the oriel window, as if a bunch of silver arrows had been shivered against it, half illuminating the room with a soft, beautiful light. Ruth would gladly have sat down in this tranquil gloom, and given herself up to such dreams as follow a full certaintyof being beloved, but the hoarse old clock twanged out the hour with a force that absolutely frightened her. She had not self-possession enough to count its strokes, but shuddered to think the night had possibly reached ten o'clock.
She lighted a lamp, looked around to make sure that nothing had been left that could betray her, then ran up-stairs, flung off her sad-colored dress, set all her rich hair free, and came down in the jaunty red over-dress and black skirt that had given her beauty such picturesque effect in the morning. All day she had been pale and feverishly flushed by turns. Now a sense of safety gave her countenance a permanent richness of color that would have been dazzling in a broader light than that lamp could give. She was under shelter in her own familiar garment; could it be that all the rest was a dream? Had she, in fact, been married?
A quick, frightened gasp answered the question. The lamp-light fell on a heavy circlet of new gold, that glittered on her finger.
Yes, it was there! His hand had pressed it upon hers; his lips had kissed it reverently. Must she take it off? Was there no way of concealing the precious golden shackle, that seemed to hold her life in?
That was impossible. That small, shapely hand had never felt the touch of ornament or ring before. The blaze of it seemed to light the whole room. Her father would see it and question her. No, no! it must be hid away before he came. She ran up-stairs, opened her bureau-drawer, and began to search eagerly for a ribbon narrow enough to escape attention. Knots of pink, and streamers of scarlet were there neatly arranged, but nothing that might answer her purpose, except a thread ofblack ribbon which had come out of her mourning two years before, when her mother died.
Ruth snatched this up and swung her wedding-ring upon it, too much excited for superstition at the moment, and glad to feel the perilous gift safe in her bosom.
Now all was hidden, no trace of her fault had been left. She might dare to look at the old clock.
It lacked an hour and more of the time at which she might expect her father. Well, fortunately, she had something to do. His supper must be prepared. She would take good care of him now. He should lack nothing at her hands, since she had given him such grievous cause of offence.
With these childlike ideas of atonement in her mind, Ruth took up a lamp, and going into the kitchen, kindled a fire; and spreading a white cloth on the table, set out the supper her father had desired of her. When the cold beef and mustard, the bread and cheese, were all daintily arranged, she bethought herself of his most favored dish of all, and taking a posset-dish of antique silver from the cupboard, half filled it with milk, which she set upon the coals to boil. Into this she from time to time broke bits of wheaten bread, and when the milk was all afoam, poured a cup of strong ale into it, which instantly resolved the whole mass into golden whey and snow-white curd.
As Ruth stooped over the posset-cup, shading her face with one hand from the fire, and stirring its contents gently with a spoon, a noise at the window made her start and cry out with a suddenness that nearly upset the silver porringer.
"Who is it? What is it?" she faltered, looking at the window with strained eyes. "Oh, have mercy! That face, that face!"
Before she could move away from the hearth, some one shook the window-sash so violently, that a rain of dew fell from the ivy clustering around it.
Ruth stood appalled; every vestige of color fled from her face; but she gave no further sign of the terror that shook her from head to foot. Directly the keen, handsome face that had peered through the glass disappeared, and the footsteps of a man walking swiftly sounded back from the gravel path which led to the front door.
A STORMY ENCOUNTER.
RUTHheld her breath and listened. She heard the door open, and footsteps in the little passage. Then her natural courage aroused itself, and lifting the posset-cup from the coals, she left it on the warm hearth, and met the intruder at the kitchen door.
"Is it you?" she said, with a quiver of fear in her voice. "I am sorry father is not at home."
"But I am not," answered the young man, setting down a gun he had brought in, behind the door. "It was just because he wasn't here, and I knew it, that I came in. It is high time, miss, that you and I should have a talk together, and no father to put in his word between pipes."
"What do you want? Why should you wish to speak with me at this time of night?"
"Why, now, I like that," answered the young fellow, with a laugh that made Ruth shudder. "Well, I'll justcome in and have my say. There mayn't be another chance like this."
Richard Storms turned and advanced a step, as if he meant to enter the little parlor, but Ruth called him back. It seemed to her like desecration, that this man should tread on the same floor that Hurst, her husband—oh, how the thought swelled her heart!—had walked over.
"Not there," she said. "I must mind my father's supper. He will be home in a few minutes."
"Well, I don't much care; the kitchen seems more natural. It is here that we used to sit before the young master found out how well-favored you are, as if he couldn't find comely faces enough at the house, but must come poaching down here on my warren."
"Who are you speaking of? I cannot make it out," faltered Ruth, turning cold.
"Who? As if you didn't know well enough; as if I didn't see you and him talking together thick as two bees this very morning."
"No, no!" protested Ruth, throwing out both her hands. "You could not—you did not!"
"But I did, though, and the gun just trembled of itself in my hand, it so wanted to be at him. If it hadn't been that you seemed offish, and he looked black as a thunder-clap, I couldn't have kept my hand from the trigger."
"That would have been murder," whispered the girl, through her white lips.
"Murder, would it? That's according as one thinks. What do men carry a gun at night for, let me ask you, but to keep the deer and the birds safe from poachers? If they catch them at it, haven't they a right to fire? Well, Ruth, you are my game, and my gun takes careof you as keepers protect the deer. It will be safe to warn the young master of that!"
"I do not know—I cannot understand—"
"Oh, you don't, ha!" broke in the young man, throwing himself into a chair and stretching out his legs on the hearth. "Well, then, I'll tell you a secret about him that'll take the starch out of your pride. You're not the only girl with a pretty face that brings him among my covers!"
"What?"
"Ah, ha! Oh, ho! That wakes you up, does it? I thought so. Nothing like a swoop of spite to bring a girl out of cover."
"I do not understand you," said Ruth, flashing out upon her tormentor with sudden spirit. "What have I to do with anything you are talking about?"
"The other lass, you mean. Not much, of course. It isn't likely he put her in your way."
A burst of indignation, perhaps of something more stinging than that, filled the splendid eyes with fire that Ruth fixed upon her tormentor.
"Do you know—can you even guess that it is my—my—!"
The girl broke her imprudent speech off with a thrill of warning that left the prints of her white teeth on the burning lips which had almost betrayed her. In her terror the insult that followed was almost a relief.
"Sweetheart!" sneered the young man.
She did not heed the word or sneer; both were a proof that her secret was safe as yet.
"One up at the house, one here, and another—well, no matter about her. You understand?"
"You slander an honorable gentleman," said Ruth, controlling herself with a great effort.
"Do I? Ask the Lady Rose, if she ever stoops to speak to you."
"She is a sweet, gracious lady," broke in Ruth, magnanimous in her swift jealousy. "A great lady, who refuses speech or smile to no one."
"Ask her, then, who was out on the terrace this evening, before he came home, robbing the great stone vases of their sweetest flowers for his button-hole!"
Ruth lifted one hand to her bosom, and pressed the golden ring there close to her heart.
Then turning to the young man, who was watching her keenly, she said, with composure:
"Well, why should you or I ask such questions of the young lady? I would no more do that than spy upon her, as you have done!"
Storms looked at her keenly from under his bent brows, and his thin lips closed with a baffled expression.
"Off the scent," he thought. "What is it? She was hot on the chase just now. Has she really doubled on him?"
"It needs no spying to see what goes on up there," he answered, after a moment, waving his head toward the great house. "Grand people like them think we have neither eyes nor ears. They pay us for being without them, and think we earn our wages like dumb cattle. Just as if sharpness went with money. But we do see and hear, when they would be glad to think us blind and dumb!"
The girl made no answer. She longed to question the creature she despised, and had a fierce struggle with her heart, until more honorable feelings put down the swift cravings of jealousy that were wounding her heart, as bees sting a flower while rifling it of honey.
The young man watched her cunningly, but failed to understand her. The jealousy which made him so cruel had no similitude with her finer and keener feelings. He longed to see her break out in a tirade of abuse, or to have her question him broadly, as he wished to answer.
Ruth did nothing of the kind. In the tumult of feelings aroused by his words she remembered all that had been done that day, and, with sudden vividness of recollection, the promise of caution she had made to her husband.
Her husband! She pressed her hand against her bosom, where the wedding-ring lay hid, and a glorified expression came to her face as she turned it toward the firelight, absolutely forgetful that a hateful intruder shared it with her.
Richard Storms was baffled, and a little saddened by the strange beauty in the face his eyes were searching.
"Ruth!" he said at length. "Ruth!"
The girl started. His voice had dragged her out of a dream of heaven. She looked around vaguely on finding herself on earth again, and with him.
"Well," she said, impatiently, "what would you say to me?"
"Just this: when is it to be? I am really tired of waiting."
"Tired of waiting!" said Ruth, impatiently. "Waiting for what?"
"Why, for our wedding-day. What else?"
The proud blood of an empress seemed to flame up into the girl's face; a smile, half rage, half scorn, curved her lips, which, finally, relaxed into a clear, ringing laugh.
"You—you think to marry me!" was her broken exclamation, as the untoward laugh died out.
The young man turned fiery red. The scornfulness of that laugh stung him, and he returned it with interest.
"No wonder you ask," he said, with a sharp, venomous look, from which she shrunk instinctively. "It isn't every honest man that would hold to his bargain, after all these galivantings with the young master."
Ruth turned white as snow, and caught hold of a chair for support. Her evident terror seemed to appease the tormentor, and he continued, with a relenting laugh, "Don't be put about, though. I'm too fond to be jealous, because my sweetheart takes a turn now and then in the moonlight when she thinks no one is looking."
"Your sweetheart! Yours!"
Storms waved his hand, and went on.
"Though, mind me, all this must stop when we're married."
Ruth had no disposition to laugh now. The very mention of Hurst had made a coward of her. Storms saw how pale she was, and came toward her.
"There, now, give us a kiss, and make up. It's all settled between father and the old man, so just be conformable, and I'll say nothing about the young master."
As the young man came toward her, with his arms extended, Ruth drew back, step by step, with such fright and loathing in her eyes that his temper rose again. With startling suddenness he gave a leap, and, flinging one arm around her, attempted to force her averted face to his.
One sharp cry, one look, and Ruth fell to the floor, quivering like a shot bird.
She had seen the door open, and caught one glimpse of her husband's face. Then a powerful blow followed, and Richard Storms went reeling across the kitchen, and struck with a crash against the opposite wall.
Ruth remembered afterward, as one takes up the painful visions of a dream, the deadly venom of those eyes; the gray whiteness of that aquiline face; the specks of foam that flew from those half-open lips. She saw, too, the slow retreat during which those threatening features were turned upon her husband. Then all was blank—she had fainted away.
For some moments it seemed as if the girl were dead, she lay so limp and helpless on her husband's bosom; but the burning words that rose from his lips, the kisses he rained down upon hers, brought a stir of life back to her heart. Awaking with a dim sense of danger, she clung to him, shivering and in tears.
"Where is he? Oh, Walton! is he gone?"
"Gone, the hound! Yes, darling, to his kennel."
"Ah, how he frightened me!"
"But how dare he enter this house?"
"I cannot tell—only—only my father has not come home yet. Oh, I—I hate him. He frightens me. He threatens me."
"Threatens you! When? How?"
"Oh, Walton! he has seen us together. He will bring you into trouble."
"Not easily."
"Your father?"
"Is not a man to listen to the gossip of his servants."
Ruth drew a deep breath. Walton had concealed his real anxiety so well, that her own fears were calmed.
"Come, come," he said; "we must not let this hind embitter the few minutes I can spend with you. Look up, love, and tell me that you are better."
"Oh! I am; but he frightened me so."
"And now?"
Hurst folded the fair girl in his arms, and smoothed her bright hair with a caressing hand.
"Now!" she answered, lifting her mouth, which had grown red again, and timidly returning his kisses. "Now I am safe, and I fear nothing. Oh, mercy! Look!"
"What? Where?"
"The window! That face at the window!"
"It is your fancy, darling. I see nothing there."
"But I saw it. Surely I did. His keen, wicked face. It was close to the glass."
"There, there! It was only the ivy leaves glancing in the moonlight."
"No, no! I saw it. He is waiting for you."
"Let him wait. I shall not stir a step the sooner or later for that."
Ruth began to tremble again. Her eyes were constantly turning toward the window. She scarcely heard the words of endearment with which Hurst strove to reassure her. All at once the old clock filled the house with its brazen warning. It was ten o'clock. The girl sprang to her feet.
"It is time for my father to come. He must not find you here."
Hurst took his hat, and glancing down at his dinner dress, remembered that he would be missed from the drawing-room. Once more he enfolded the girl in his arms, called her by the new endearing name that was so sweet to them both, and finally left her smiling through all her fears.
Ruth stole to the little oriel window, and watched her husband as he turned from the moonlight and entered the shadows of the park. Then she went back to the kitchen and busied herself about the fire.