Ruth went to the window, rather bewildered by the suddenness with which the good housekeeper had shifted the point of her resentment to the invalid on the bed. But Mrs. Mason seemed to have entirely forgotten that she had been sharply dealt with. Seating herself on the bed, which creaked complainingly under her weight, and settling her black dress with a great rustle of silk, she dropped into the most cordial relations with the invalid at once."Better and getting up bravely. I can see that. Sir Noel will be more than glad to hear it. As for the young master, I know the thought of you is never out of his mind. 'When shall I be well enough to walk out?' he says, each day, to the surgeon. 'There was another hurt at the same time with me, and I want to know how he is getting on.'""Did he say that, did he?" questioned Jessup, with tears in his eyes; for sickness had made him weak as a child, and at such times tear-drops come to the strongest eyes tenderly as dew falls. "Did he mention me in that way?""He did, indeed. Often and often.""God bless the lad. How could I ever think—"Jessup broke off, and looked keenly at the housekeeper, as if fearful of having said too much. But she had heard the blessing, without regard to the half-uttered conclusion, and echoed it heartily."So say I. God bless the young gentleman! For a braver or a brighter never reigned at 'The Rest,' since its first wall was laid. Well, well! what is it now?"she added, addressing Ruth, who had left the window, and was stealing an arm around her neck."Nothing, godmother, only I love to hear you talk.""Well, we were speaking, I think, of the young master. It was he that persuaded me to come here, and observe for myself how you were getting on.""Did he indeed?" murmured Ruth, laying her burning cheek lovingly against the old lady's."Yes, indeed. The weather is over warm for much walking; but how could I say no when he would trust only me? 'Women,' he said, 'took so much more notice, being used to sick-rooms,' and he could not rest without news of your father—something more than 'he is better, or he is worse,' which could only be got from a person constantly in the sick-room.""How anxious! I—I—How kind he is!" said Ruth."That he is. Had Jessup been akin to him, instead of a faithful old servant, he couldn't have shown more feeling."Ruth sighed, and her sweet face brightened. The housekeeper went on."We were by ourselves when he said this, and spoke of the old times when I could refuse him nothing, in a way that went to my heart, for it was the truth. So I just kissed his hand—once it would have been his face—and promised to come and have a chat with you, and see for myself how it was with Jessup.""You will say how much better he is.""Yes, yes! He seems to be getting on famously. No reason for anxiety, as I shall tell him. Now, Ruth, as your father seems quiet, let us go down into the garden. I was to bring some fruit from the strawberry-beds, which he craves, thinking it better than ours.""Go with her, and pick the finest," said Jessup. "I feel like sleeping.""Yes, father, if you can spare me."The housekeeper moved toward the door, having shaken hands with Jessup, cautioned him against taking cold, and recommending a free use of port wine and other strengthening drinks, which, she assured him, would set him up sooner than all the medicines in the world.CHAPTER XLV.EXCELLENT ADVICE.WHENonce in the garden, Mrs. Mason grew very serious, and stood some time in silence watching Ruth, who, bending low, was sweeping the green leaves from a host of plump berries, clustering red ripe in the sunshine. At last she spoke, with an effort, and her voice was abrupt if not severe."Ruth," she said, "I have a thing to say which troubles me."Ruth looked up wistfully."Why is it that you try to keep secrets from your sick father?""Secrets!" faltered the girl."If you mean to wed this young man, why not say so at any rate to your own father? It is the best way out of this difficulty.""Difficulty!""There, there! I can see no use in all this blushing,as red as the strawberries one minute, and denying it the next. Ruth, Ruth! deception and craft should not belong to your mother's child. I don't pretend to like this young man over much, but, under the circumstances, I have nothing to say. If your father is against it, a little persuasion from Sir Noel will set all that right.""What—what do you mean, grandmother?" questioned Ruth, hoarse with dread."I mean to stop people's mouths by an honest marriage with a man, who, after all, is a good match enough. If you have ever been uplifted to thoughts of a better, it has come from too much notice from gentle people at 'The Rest,' and from too much reading of poetry books. But for that, there would never have been these meetings in the park, and moonlight flittings about the lake, to scandalize people. Think better of it, Ruth, or worse mischief than the scandal that is in everybody's mouth may come out of it. Nothing but an honest marriage can put an end to it.""Scandal!" whispered the girl, rising slowly, and turning her white face on the housekeeper. "What scandal?""Such as any girl may expect, Ruthy, who meets young men in the park, and, worst of all, by the lake.""The lake! The park!" repeated the poor girl, aghast with apprehension; for every walk or chance meeting she had shared with young Hurst rushed back upon her, with accusing vividness. "Who has said—who has dared?"Here the frightened young creature burst into a passion of tears. The walks, the chance meetings, each a romance and an adventure, to dream of and hoard up inher thoughts, like a poem got by heart. Who could have torn them from their privacy, and bruited them abroad to her discredit? In what way would she deny or explain them? More and more pale her face grew, and her slender figure drooped with humiliation."There, there, little one, do not look so miserable. I did not mean to hurt your feelings. Of course, I remember you have no mother to say what is right or wrong. Only this, never meet the young man again. It breeds scandal."Ruth looked up in amazement."I know, I know your father is ill, but that should keep you in-doors.""Godmother, I do not understand. How is it possible?""It is not possible for you to meet him in out-of-the-way places without casting your good name in the teeth of every gossip in the village. Nay, I have my doubts if the young man has not helped it on, else, how did that brazen-faced maid at the inn know about it, and taunt him with it before a half-score of drinkers?"The eyes of Ruth Jessup grew large with wonder."Among drinkers! He at the public inn! Godmother, of whom are you speaking?""Who should I speak of, but the young man himself, Richard Storms?"As a cloud sometimes sweeps suddenly from the blue sky, the shame and the fear left that young girl's face."Oh, godmother, were you only speaking of him?""Who else should I be speaking of, Ruth? As if his name and yours were not in every one's mouth, from the highest to the lowest."A faint, hysterical laugh broke through the sobs that had almost choked the girl, and alarmed the good woman."There, there," she said, "only be careful for the time to come; an honest marriage will set everything right. I only wish the young man were of a better sort, and went less to the public; but he will mend, I dare say. That is right, you have had a good cry, and feel better."Ruth had wiped the tears from her face, and, after drawing a deep breath, was stooping down to the strawberry-bed again, and dashing the thick leaves aside with her hands, was gathering the fruit in eager haste. So great was her sense of relief, that she could feel neither resentment nor annoyance regarding the scandal that had so troubled the good housekeeper. Though she still trembled with the shock which had passed, this lesser annoyance was nothing to her. In and out, through the clustering leaves, her little hand flew, until the great china-bowl, into which the gathered fruit was dropped, brimmed over with its mellow redness. Meantime the housekeeper pattered on, bestowing a world of advice and matronly cautions of which Ruth never heard a syllable until the name of her lover-husband was mentioned. Then her hand moved cautiously, that it might not rustle the leaves as she listened."He took Mr. Webb up, scornfully, as you did me, when he mentioned the gossip, and would not hear of it, calling young Storms a hind and a braggart, of whom the neighborhood should be rid, if he were master. So Webb said nothing more, though his news had come from some of the gamekeepers who had seen you once and again in company with the young man."The blood began to burn hotly in Ruth's cheeks."I wonder only that you should have believed such things of me, godmother, and almost scorn myself for caring to contradict them," she said, placing the bowl ofstrawberries in a shady place, while she began to cut flowers for a bouquet.By this time, Mrs. Mason had unburdened her mind of so many wise sayings, and such hoards of good advice, that her goddaughter's indiscretions seemed to be quite carried away. She was weary of standing, too, and seating herself in a rustic garden-chair, over which an old cherry-tree loomed, waited complacently, while Ruth flitted to and fro among the rose-bushes, singing softly as a dove coos, while she plundered the flower-beds, and grouped buds and leaves into a sweet love-language, which her own heart supplied, and which he had studied with her, when their passion was like a poem, and flowers were its natural expression."He will read these," she thought, clustering some forget-me-nots around a white rose-bud, which became the heart of her sweet epistle. "Let him only know that they come from me, and every bud will tell him how my very soul craves to see him. Ah, me, it seems so long—so long, since that day."As she twined each flower in its place, a light kiss, of which she was half-ashamed, was breathed into it as foolishly fond women will let their hearts go out, and still be wise, and good. Indeed, the fact of doing it, proves such women far superior to the common herds, who have no rare fancies, and scorn them, because of profound ignorance, that such gentle follies can spring out of the deepest feeling.When all was ready, and that bouquet, redolent of kisses, innocent as the perfume with which they were blended, was laid, a glowing web of colors, on the strawberries, Mrs. Mason prepared to depart. With the china bowl held between her rotund waist and the curve of herarm, she entered into the shaded path, promising Ruth to deliver both fruit and flowers to the young master with her own hands, and tell him how well things were going on at the cottage."You will do everything that is kind, godmother, that I know well enough; only never mention that dreadful man's name to me, let people think what they will. I can bear anything but that.""First promise me never to see him again till he comes like an honest man and asks you of your father.""That I promise; nor then, if I can help it. Oh, godmother, how can you think it of me?"The good lady shook her head, kissed the sweet mouth uplifted to hers, and went away muttering, "I suppose all girls are alike, and think it no harm to keep back their love-secrets. I haven't forgot how it was with me and Mason. How many times I met him on the sly, and hot tongues wouldn't have forced me to own it. So, thinking of that, I needn't be overhard on our Ruthy, who has no mother to set her right, poor thing."CHAPTER XLVI.THE SERPENT IN HER PATH.WHENRuth left her father, he was overtaxed by the excitement of seeing his old friend, the housekeeper, and more than usually disturbed by the drift of her conversation. Kind of heart, and generous in his nature, he could not witness the repugnance that his daughter exhibited to the marriage he had arrangedfor her without tender relenting. Still, no nobleman of the realm was ever more tenacious of his honor, or shrunk more sensitively from a broken promise. Languid and weary, he was thinking over these matters, when some one, stirring in the hall below, disturbed him."Ruth, Ruth, is it you?" he called, in a voice tremulous with weakness.Some one opened and shut the parlor door, then steps sounded from the passage and along the stairs. A man's step, light and quick, as if the person coming feared interruption."Ruth, Ruth," repeated the gardener."It is only I, Jessup," answered Richard Storms, stealing into the room. "There was no one below. I heard voices up here, and took the liberty of an old friend.""You are welcome," answered the sick man, reaching out his hand, which had lost its ruddy brown since his confinement. "I think Ruth has gone out with Mrs. Mason.""So much the better that she can leave you, I suppose," answered Storms, still holding the sick man's hand, with a finger on the pulse, while a slow cloud stole over his face. "The fever all gone? Why, man, we shall have you about in another week."Jessup shook his head, and laid the hand he released from the young man's grasp on his breast."I fear not. There is a weakness here," he said."And pain?" questioned Storms, eagerly."Yes, great pain, at times; but you must not say as much to Ruth: it would fret her."A glitter, like that of disturbed water, flashed into the young man's eyes."Then, as to the fever," continued the sick man, "it comes, on and off, with a chill, now and then; not much to complain of, so I say nothing about it, because of the lass.""Oh, that is nothing, I dare say; but the people in the village hear that you are quite strong again."Jessup smiled, a little sadly."So, being more than anxious, I dropped in to have a little chat with you. It's hard waiting so long, when a man is o'er fond of a lass, as I am of your daughter. One never gets a look of her in the regular way.""Ruth has been with me so much," said Jessup, with a feeble effort at apology. "It has been hard on her, poor child.""Yes, but you are so much better now, and father is getting vexed. He thinks Sir Noel is putting off the new lease because nothing is settled about the marriage. Things are going crosswise with us, I can tell you. It will never do for us to put matters off in this way."Jessup was greatly disturbed. He moved restlessly, clasping and unclasping his hand on the coverlet with nervous irritation. At last he spoke more resolutely than he had yet done."Storms, your father and I have been neighbors and friends ever since we were boys together, and we had set our minds on being closer still; but Ruth's heart goes against it, and I cannot force her."Storms drew close to the bed and bent his frowning face over the sick man."I have been expecting this. Like father like child. But a man's pledged word isn't to be broken through with by a girl's whim; or, if so, I am not the one to put up with it.""You were always a hard one," answered Jessup, and a little strength flamed up into his gray eyes. "From a child you were that, and I have, more than once, had misgivings; but I did not think you would be bent on marrying with a lass against her will.""Yes, I would, and like it all the better, when her will was broken."Jessup shrunk down in his bed. There was something savage in that stern young face that terrified him. Storms saw the feeble movement, and went on:"Never fear, man, I will find a way to bend her will, and make her love me afterward.""I would rather have her placed by my side in the same coffin," answered the old man."You take back your word?" repeated Storms, savagely."Yes, I take back my word."Storms turned on his heel, and without a syllable of farewell left the house. He paused a moment under the porch, and a glint of Ruth's garments caught his eye, as she was coming down the shaded wood-path, after parting with Mrs. Mason.Ruth saw him coming, and stopped, looking around for some chance of escape, like a bird, threatened in its cage.There was no way of escape, however. On one hand lay a deep ravine, with a brooklet at the bottom, and clothed with ferns up the sides; on the other, wild thickets, such as made that portion of a park called the wilderness picturesque."So, sweetheart, you were waiting for me. I thought it would come to that," said Storms.Ruth moved on one side without answering. Stormscould see that a shudder passed through her as he came near, and the evil light that had almost died out of his eyes when they fell upon her came back with fresh venom."So you think to escape, ha! You shy on one side, as if a wild beast blocked the path. Be careful that you don't make one of me.""Let me pass. I wish nothing but that," faltered the girl, moving as far from her tormentor as the path would permit."Not till we have come to an understanding. Look you, Ruth Jessup, if you think to pull me on and off like an old glove, I am not the man for your money.""I—I have no such thought. I have no wish to see you at all.""Indeed!" sneered the young man."After what has passed it is better that we should be strangers!""Nay, sweetheart. I think it is better that we should be man and wife."A disgustful shudder shook the girl where she stood.Storms saw it, and a cold smile crept over his face."That is what I have been telling your father.""My father! Surely, surely you have not been torturing him!""Torturing him! No. But we have come to an understanding at last."Ruth grew pallid to the lips."An understanding! How?"The terror that shook her voice was triumph to him. At least he had the power to torment her, and would use it to the utmost."You ask? I thought you might know what manner of man old Jessup is, without asking.""I know that he is just but never cruel.""Cruel! Oh, far from it. Go ask him, if you doubt.""Let me pass, and I will," answered the girl, desperately. "At any rate, he would not sanction your rudeness in keeping me here.""Rudeness! Of course you have never been here before. Oh, no! I haven't seen you, over and over again, watching the path. Only it wasn't rudeness when he came. There was no trembling then—nothing but blushes.""Let me pass, I say," cried the girl, tortured into courage, "if you would not force me to tell the whole world what I know of you. Let me pass, and never dare to look upon me again."Storms started, and a grayish pallor spread over his face. What did she know? What did she mean?Ruth shrank from the cowardly glitter of his eyes, and wondered at the sudden pallor. What had she said to daunt him so? Directly, the coward recovered himself."And what would you tell?" he said, with forced audacity. "Is it a terrible sin for a man to stop the lass he is to wed, for a word wherever he chances to find her? What worse can you say of me than that?"Ruth saw the dastardly anxiety in his face; but did not comprehend it. He seemed almost afraid of her."Is it nothing that you force your company upon me, when it has become hateful to me? Is it nothing that you harass a sick man with complaints, and thrust him back with unwelcome visits, when he might otherwise get well? Is it manly to come here at all, when I have told you, again and again, that your presence is the most repulsive torment on earth to me?"The man absolutely laughed again. He was once more at ease. Her words had meant nothing more than the old complaint. Still he stood in the girl's path."Why will you torment me so?" she pleaded, with sudden tears. "What have I ever done that you should haunt me in my trouble?""I only give you trouble for hate, harsh acts for bitter words, insult for insult. You can stop them all with a word.""A word I will never speak!" answered the girl, firmly. "Hear me once for all, Richard Storms. There was a time when you were dear to me as a playfellow, and might have been my life-long friend—""Friend!" repeated Storms, with a disdainful fling of the hand. "You might say that much of a hound.""But now," continued Ruth, desperately, "there is not a thing which creeps the earth that I loath as I do the sight of you."This was a rash speech, and the most bitter that had ever burned on those young lips. She felt that on the moment, for the man's face turned gray, as if invisible ashes had swept over it. For a while he stood motionless, then his lips parted, and he said, in a deep, hoarse voice, that made her shrink in every nerve, "There is one other sight that shall be yet more loathsome to you!"Ruth attempted to speak, but her lips clove together. He saw a paleness like his own creeping over her face, and added, with ferocious cruelty, "Shall I tell you what it is? That of your lover—of the man who has stolen you from me—in a criminal's box, with half the county looking on."If the fiend had intended to say more, he was prevented,for the poor girl sank to the earth, turning a wild look on his face, like a deer that he had shot.There might have been some relenting in the man's heart, hard as it was, for he partly stooped, as if to lift his victim from the earth; but she shrunk from his touch, and fell into utter insensibility.CHAPTER XLVII.NIGHT ON THE BALCONY.I MUSTsee him. I will see him. No one will tell me the truth but himself. I must know it or die!"Ruth stood alone under the shadow of the trees, white as a ghost, and rendered desperate by words that had smitten her into insensibility. How long she had lain in that forest path the girl scarcely knew. When she came to herself, it was with a shudder of dread, lest that evil face should be looking down upon her; but all was silent. The birds were singing close by her, and there was a soft rustle of leaves, nothing more. She lifted her head, and with her hands searched for marks of the blow that seemed to have levelled her to the earth. A blow! She remembered now it was a word that she had sunk under—a coarse, cruel word, that brought a horrid picture with it, from which every nerve in her body recoiled.She was very feeble, now, and could scarcely walk. It seemed as if she never would get to the house; the distance appeared interminable. She could not keep in the narrowpaths that coiled along the flower-beds, but wavered in her steps from weakness, as her enemy had done from wrath, until her feet were tangled in the creeping flowers and strawberry-vines.Her father was lying with his eyes closed when she went in, and a smile was upon his mouth. Even in his feeble state, he had found strength to free his child from a hateful alliance, and the thought made him happy. Ruth stooped down, and kissed him with her cold lips. The touch startled him. He opened his eyes, and saw how wan and tremulous she was."Do not fret!" he said, tenderly. "Why should you, darling? I have sent him away. I have told him that the child God gave to me shall never be his!"At another time this news would have thrilled the girl with unutterable joy; but she scarcely felt it now. The fear that a marriage with Storms might be urged upon her seemed a small trouble, while the awful possibility he had fastened on her fears was so vivid and so strong."I thought it would please you," said the sick man, disappointed. "I did.""And so it does, father; but we will not talk of it now. His coming has tired you, and I—I, too, am wanting a little rest. If you do not care, I will go away, while you sleep, and stay in my own room.""There is wine on the table. Drink a little. I suppose it may be shadows from the ivy, but you look pale, Ruth.""Yes, it is the shadows, but I will drink some wine."She poured some wine into a glass, and drank it thirstily; but it brought no color into her cheeks, and none came there until she stood in the porch, after night-fall, and repeated to herself,"I must see him! I will see him! I must know the truth, or die!"This resolve had made her stronger; perhaps the wine had helped, for she was not used to it, and so the effect was all the more powerful. At any rate, she drew the hood over her face, wrapped a dark mantle about her, and went out across the garden, into the path of the wilderness, and on to the home of which she might some day, God willing, become the mistress. When she thought of this, the shadow of that other picture, which had taken away so much of her life in the path she had trod only a few hours before, came with it, and that which had been to her a proud hope was blotted out."I will believe it from no lips but his," she thought, looking out from the shadows at the vast gray building that held her heart in its chambers. "Oh, that I knew what was in my father's letter!"She left the shelter of the park, and walked cautiously across the lawn, concealing her progress as best she could among flowering thickets, or a great tree that spread its branches here and there in forest grandeur.She entered the flower-thickets under that window, the only one she cared for in all that vast building. A faint light came through it, softened by falls of lace, tinted red by the glow of silken curtains, and broken into gleams by the ivy leaves outside. Her heart gave a wild leap as she saw that the shutters were unclosed; then a great fear seized upon her; some person might be within the chamber, or lingering in the grounds. Cautiously, and holding her breath, she crept toward the masses of ivy that wound its thick foliage up to the balcony. If it stirred in the wind she shrunk back terrified. Where it cast deep shadows downward, she fancied that some man was crouching.Still the girl crept forward, her anxiety half lost in womanly dread of being misunderstood, even by the beloved being she sought. But, for the great agony of doubt at her heart, she would have turned even then, so strong was the delicacy of her pride.She was under the balcony now, behind the ivy, which covered her like a mantle. Up the narrow steps she crept, and crouching by the window, looked in. No one was moving. A night-lamp shed its soft moonlight on a marble console, on which some wine and fruit cast shadows. In the middle of the room stood the couch she had seen but once, shaded with rich silk and clouds of lace, snow-white and filmy, seeming to cool the air, it was so frost-like. These curtains were flung back at the pillows, and there she saw her husband in a sound sleep. She held her breath, she laid her face close to the window. Then, with impotent fingers, tried the sash. It was fastened on the inside.What could she do? How arouse the sleeper? Impatiently she beat her hand on the glass. Still more recklessly she called her husband's name."Walton! Walton!"CHAPTER XLVIII.WATCHING HER RIVAL.ONthe same night that Ruth had taken a desperate resolve to see her husband, Richard Storms was waiting in the lake house for the coming of Judith Hart, who had promised to meet him there. The presence ofthis girl in the neighborhood had at first been a great annoyance to him; but now he both feared and hated her, so, coward-like, cajoled and deceived her by forced professions of love, while, with the same false tongue, he could not refrain from such hints of another as drove the poor creature half mad with jealous rage.Though her presence was hateful to him, he dared not offend her beyond a certain point, and had no power to drive her back into her former isolated life; or in revenge she might, as she had often threatened, find out Ruth Jessup, and give both her and the father a good reason for forbidding him the house forever. He knew well enough, that in her reckless daring, she would not hesitate to accuse herself of any offence so long as the odium reached him also.Thus shackled in his desire to free himself from the girl altogether, it mattered not to him how roughly, Storms waited for her at the lake house that night, lying at full length on the bench which ran along one end of the crazy old building.Judith came in, at length, full of turbulent excitement. She had been walking rapidly, and swept through the long grass like a rush of wind."Ah, you are here!" she said, seating herself on one end of the bench as Storms swung his feet to the floor; "I thought you would be waiting, but it isn't you that oftenest gets here first, but I have seen some one you'll like to hear about.""Seen some one? Of course, one of the gamekeepers.""No. I have seen that girl, Ruth Jessup.""Ruth Jessup in the park at this time of night? You cannot make me believe that.""In the park and at 'Norston's Rest,' down uponher knees by a window, with ivy all around it, looking in upon the sick heir like a hungry cat watching a canary.""You saw this, Judith—saw it with your own eyes?" cried Storms, sitting upright on the bench."Saw it! I should think so. She was so busy trying to open the window, that I went close under the balcony and could see her face plain enough by the light that came through the glass.""Trying to open the window—did you say that?""Yes, again and again. She grew desperate at last, and shook it, calling out, 'Walton! Walton!'""She called that name?""Yes, more than once. It didn't wake the young man inside though, but some one else must have heard, for the door opened and a man came into the chamber.""What did she do then?""Do! Why she shrunk back and came down some stone steps that are hid away in the ivy, and was half across the flower garden before I dared to move.""But you overtook her?""Of course I did; though my feet got tangled in with the ivy, and I almost fell down; but, once safe on the ground, I tracked her swift enough, for she seemed to scorn moving beyond a walk.""But she did not see you?""No, I can move quietly enough when it suits me. So she knew nothing of me, though I longed to give her a sharp bit of my tongue.""I'll be bound you did," said Storms, with a disagreeable laugh.The girl took this as a compliment, and gave the hand, which was dropped listlessly into hers, a grateful pressure."'It was awful ungrateful of the young gentleman, though, to be so sound asleep,' I was longing to say. If it had been my Richard, now.""Did you think to say that?" cried Storms, starting up in sudden wrath. "Would you have dared to say that to her?"Judith started to her feet also. He had jerked his hand from hers, and stood frowning on her in the moonlight, while defiance kindled in her eyes."That's just what I would 'a' been glad to say; not that she would have cared a brass farthing, for my opinion is, that girl hates your very name, for all your talk that she's dying for you. But such words from her would have been red-hot coals to me.""Do you think she would stoop to bandy words with such as you?" said Storms, softening his wrath into a malicious enjoyment of her jealous passion."Such as me, indeed! What is the difference, I should like to know? Only this. I come here because you ask me and urge me to it, while she hasn't the courage, but sits worshipping her sweetheart like a rabbit peeping into a garden it has not the spirit to enter.""Worshipping! As if she cared for the man!" said Storms, with supreme disdain. "There is nothing in it. She only wants to make me jealous, thinking to bring me back again in that way.""It seems to me as if you were jealous.""Jealous!" repeated the young man, growing cautious on reflection. "As if I cared enough for Ruth Jessup for that!""I am not so sure," answered Judith, as if talking to herself; "but when I am, it will be a dark day for one of us."Storms laughed."Always threatening some terrible thing," he said, "as if there were any need of that; but how came you, my own sweetheart, Judith Hart, to be wandering about 'The Rest?'""I saw her as I was coming this way. She was standing in the cottage porch, giving frightened looks around. The moon was not up yet, though it is climbing into the sky now, but a light streamed through the passage, and I saw her plain enough. Then she stole out, as if in search of some one. I thought she was going into the wilderness.""Ah, ha! Who was jealous then?""Who denies it? That minute I could have killed her. She turned toward 'The Rest.' I followed, thinking—""Thinking that I might come that way.""Well, yes. I did think just that; and followed her softly as one of your own hounds would have crept. When I saw where she was going, the fire all went out of my heart. I could have cried for joy that—that it was no worse.""Still you hated her!""Because she dared to love where I did.""Do you indeed love me so, Judith?""Do I love myself, so common and worthless, compared to you? Do I love the air I breathe? Do I love sleep, after a hard day's work? Oh, oh, Richard, why ask such silly questions?""Why? Oh, because one is never certain. Girls are so fickle now-a-days.""As if any girl who ever loved you could be fickle."Storms looked into the girl's face as she nestled closeto him, and a strange, fond glow came into his eyes. He was thinking how much she looked like Ruth Jessup, with that warm love-light in her face—how beautiful she really was in the lustre of that rising moon. Tenderness with him at the moment was not all a pretence. But Storms was a man to bring the worst as well as the best passions of a heart down to his own interests, and never, for a moment, since he had seen old Jessup's letter in Judith's hand, had he ceased to devise some means of gaining possession of it."Words are so easily spoken," he said; "but I like deeds. I want the girl I love to trust me.""And don't I trust you? What other girl would be here at this time of the night, risking her character, when she has nothing else in the world, just because you want things to be kept secret, while I can't for the life of me see the reason of it?""That is what I complain of. True love asks no questions.""How can you say that when you have done nothing but ask questions ever since I came here? All about her too," retorted the quick-witted girl."That is because I am interested in everything you do," was the prompt answer. "How could I watch here half an hour, and at last see you rush in so wildly, half out of breath and panting, to tell all that you had seen, without feeling some curiosity?""Yes, indeed, I can understand that.""Then there is another thing.""Well," said Judith, more quietly; for she guessed what was coming. "What is it?""That paper. It is of no use to you, and might help me a good deal.""How?"The girl spoke seriously, and he could tell by her voice that her lips closed with a firm pressure when she ceased."It might help me about the lease."Judith seemed to reflect a moment, then she looked up quietly, and said:"When we are married, Richard.""Why, child, it is only a scrap of paper that no one but Sir Noel will ever care for.""I know that, and sometimes wonder you are so sharp after it. My arm is all sorts of colors yet where you grasped it after that race down the banks of the lake. If the game-keeper had not come in sight, I don't know what might have chanced. Oh, Richard, your face was awful that day. It frightened me!""Too much, I fear, and that makes you so obstinate. I dare say that you never keep the bit of paper about you?" questioned Storms, with a dull, sinister look, which was so perceptible in the moonlight that the girl shrunk from him unconsciously."No," she answered. "I never keep it about me, and never shall till we are wed.""And then?""I will give it to you, as you crave it so much, and in its stead take the marriage lines. If it were worth a thousand pounds, I would rather have the lines.""A thousand pounds! Why, lass, what are you thinking of? Who ever heard of giving money for a scrap of writing like that?""I don't know, I'm sure. Only you wanted it so much, and if you were to play me false, as people say you have done with many a sweetheart before me, it might be put to a bad use.""But they slander me. I never yet betrayed a sweetheart," said Storms, eagerly."Then it is true that Ruth Jessup was the first to give you up. No, no, do not say it. No woman on earth could do that. I would rather think you false to her than not. The other I never could believe—never.""Well, believe what you like; but do not come here again without that bit of paper. I did not fairly read it."The suppressed eagerness in his voice aroused all the innate craft in the girl's nature. He had outdone his part, and thus enhanced the advantage that she held over him to a degree that made her determined to keep the paper. In her soul she had no trust in the man; but was willing to win him by any means that promised to be most effectual. Still she was capable of meeting craft with deception, and did it now."Well, if I think of it."Storms read the insincerity of her evasion, and seemed to cast the subject from his mind. But he felt the thraldom of this girl's power with a keenness that might have terrified her, had she comprehended it. Besides, the news she had brought to him that evening was of a kind to make him hate the bearer and intensify his thirst for vengeance on young Hurst.CHAPTER XLIX.BROODING THOUGHTS.WHATare you thinking of, Richard, with your eyes wandering out on the water and your mouth so set?" asked the girl, after some moments of silence that began to trouble her.Storms started as if a shot had passed him."Thinking of—Why nothing that should trouble you.""But you don't care to talk, and me sitting by!""What is the difference, so long as you were in my mind? I was thinking that there might as well be an end of this. We could have the matter over, and no noise about it, you know."Judith's heart made a great leap."Were you thinking of that, Richard? Oh, tell me!"She was sitting on the floor, leaning her elbow on the bench, where Storms had flung himself with an utter disregard to her comfort. Now she leaned forward till her head rested on his bosom, and she clasped him fondly with her firm, white arms."Were you thinking of that now, really, darling?"Storms did not actually push her away; but he turned over with his face to the wall, muttering:"Don't bother. What else should it be?""Then I must be getting ready, you know. The mistress must have warning," said the girl, too happy for resentment."The mistress! There it is. You cannot expect meto take a wife from the bar-room. No, no! We must manage it in some other way."Judith drew a deep breath."I will do anything you tell me—anything at all," she said. "Only let me make sure that you are as happy as I am.""Happy! Of course I'm happy. Why not?" answered the young man. "Now, you'd better be going home. It is getting late."Judith arose, drew her scarlet sacque closer around her, pulled the jaunty little hat over her eyes, and stood in the moonlight waiting for her lover. He arose heavily, and dropping both clasped hands between his knees, sat in the shadow, regarding her with sullen interest. She could not see his face, but there was a glitter of his eyes that pierced the shadows with sinister brightness. The picture of the girl was so vivid, framed in the old doorway, with that deep background of water over which the moonlight seemed to leap, leaving that in darkness, and herself flooded in light, so fearfully vivid, that the man whom she hoped to marry could never afterward sweep it from his brain."Come," she said, "I'm ready.""And so am I," he answered, starting up and dashing his hands apart, as if a serpent had entangled them against his will. "What are you waiting for?""What have I been long and long waiting for?" said the girl; "but it has come at last. Oh, Richard, say that it has come at last.""Yes, it has come at last," broke forth the man, almost savagely. "You would have it so. Remember, you would—""Why, how cross you are. Was it I that first made love?""You? Yes. It always is the woman.""Oh, Richard, dear—how you love to torment me!"The girl took his arm, as she said this, and held to it caressingly, with both hands, while her eyes, half-beaming, half-tearful, sought in his face some contradiction of his savage mood."Is the torment all on one side?" he muttered, enduring her caressing touch with surly impatience."There, Dick, only say for once that you are happy.""Oh, wonderfully happy. There, now, let us walk faster."They did walk on; now in the moonlight, now in deep shadow, she leaning upon him with fond dependence, which he appeared to recognize, though few words were spoken between them.Once, as they passed a sheltered copse half-way between the lake and Jessup's cottage, both saw the figure of a man retreating from the path, and knew that he was regarding them from under covert. Then Storms did meet the girl's bright glance, and they both laughed with subdued merriment."He is following us. I hear his step in the undergrowth," whispered Judith, and Storms answered back:"Give him plenty of time."When they reached Jessup's cottage, the little building was quite dark, except the faint gleam of a night-lamp in the sick man's room. At the gate they both paused. Judith turned with her face to the moonlight, and offered her lips for the kiss Storms bent lovingly to give her. Then they stood together, hand-in-hand, as if reluctant to part for a minute, and he went away, looking back now and then, as if anxious for her safety, while she stood by the gate watching him.When the young man was quite gone, Judith opened the gate, without even a click of the latch, and stole like a thief toward the porch, which was so laden with ivy and jasmines that no one could see her when once in its shelter. Still she shrunk back, and dragged the foliage over her, when the gamekeeper came out from his concealment, and walked back and forth before the cottage. At last his steps receded, and, peering through the ivy, Judith saw him move away toward the lake. Then she stole out of the porch, crept with bent form to the gate, and darted in a contrary direction with the speed of a lapwing. Somewhat later, the girl stole through the back yard of the inn, tried her key in the kitchen door, and crept up to her room in the garret, where she carefully put away her outer garments, and went to bed so passionately happy that she lay awake all night with both hands folded over her bosom, and the name of Richard Storms trembling now and then up from her heart.CHAPTER L.YOUNG HURST AND LADY ROSE.ITwas a bright day at "Norston's Rest," when the young heir came from his sick-chamber, for the first time, and, leaning on Webb, entered the pretty little parlor in which Lady Rose had made his bouquet the evening he was hurt. She sat waiting for him now, demurely busy with some trifle of richly-tinted embroidery, which, having a dainty taste, she had selected, I dare say, because it gave a touch of rich color to her simplewhite dress, looped here and there into soft clouds by a broad blue sash, which might have lacked effect but for this artistic device. Perhaps the invalid understood this, for he smiled when the fair patrician just lifted her eyes, as if his coming had been quite unimportant to her, and settled down into one of the loveliest pictures imaginable, working away at her tinted silks with fingers that quivered among them, and eyes that no whiteness of lid or thickness of lash could keep from beaming out their happiness.There had been a time when this fair girl would have sprung from her seat and met him at the threshold; but now, she bent lower over her work, fearing that he might see how warmly-red her cheek was getting, and wonder at it. Indeed he well might wonder, for what word of love had he ever spoken that should have set her heart to beating so, when she first heard his uncertain step on the stairs?All at once the young lady remembered that she was acting strangely. Starting up, she gave him her place among the blue cushions of her own favorite couch; then sat down on a low ottoman, and fell to work again."How natural everything looks!" said the young man, gazing languidly around. "I could be sworn, Rose, that you were working on that same bit of embroidery the day I was hurt."Lady Rose blushed vividly. She had snatched the embroidery from her work-table, as she heard him coming, and was in fact working on the same leaf in which her needle had been left that day."We have all been so anxious," she said, gently."And all about me—troublesome fellow that I am. It may be fancy, Lady Rose, but my father seems to have suffered more than I have.""He has, indeed, suffered. One month seems to have aged him more than years should have done," said the young lady."Have I been in such terrible danger then?""For a time we thought you in great danger, and were in sad suspense." She spoke with hesitation, and Hurst noticed it with some surprise."Why, Rose," he said, "it seems to me as if you had changed, also. What has come over you all?""Nothing, but great thankfulness that you are better, Walton.""And do you care so much for me? I hardly thought it," said the young man, a little sadly."Oh, Walton, can you ask?"The great blue eyes, lifted to his, were swimming in tears, yet the quivering lips made a brave effort to smile.A painful thought struck him then, and his heart sunk like lead under it."It would be a strange thing if you had not felt anxious, Rose; for no brother ever loved an only sister better than I have loved you."As he uttered these words, Hurst was watching that fair young face with keen interest. He saw the color fade from it, until the rich red of the beautiful mouth had all died away. Then he gathered the silken cushion roughly together, so as to shade his own face, and a faint groan came from him."Are you in pain?" questioned the young lady, bending over him. "Can I do anything?"Her breath floated across his mouth, her loose curls swept downward, and almost touched him.The young man turned his face to the wall, and made no answer. He was heart-sick.And so was she even to faintness.He lay minute after minute, buried in thought. The young lady had no other refuge for her wounded pride, so she fell to work again; but not on the same object. Now she sat down to a drawing of the Black Lake. The old summer-house was a principal object in the foreground, and the banks, heavy with rushes, and broken with ravines, completed a gloomy but picturesque scene, which had a wonderfully artistic effect."What are you doing there?" questioned Hurst, after a long silence."It is a sketch of the lake which I am trying to finish up at once, in case pretty Ruth Jessup takes us by surprise."There was something in the girl's voice, as she said this, that made Hurst rise slowly to his elbow."Takes us by surprise! What do you mean, Rose?""Oh, haven't you heard? I forget. Webb was told not to disturb you with gossip; but Ruth's little flirtation with young Storms has been progressing famously since you were hurt, and I am thinking of this for a wedding gift.""For a wedding gift! Ruth Jessup—young Storms. What romance is this?"The young man spoke sharply, sitting upright, his face whiter than illness had left it, and his eyes shining with more than feverish lustre."I do not know that it is a romance," answered Lady Rose. "At any rate, I hope not. Ruth is a good, sweet girl, and would never encourage a man to the extent she does, if a marriage were not understood; besides, old Storms was here only a day or two ago wanting more land included in his new lease, because his son thought of setting up for himself.""Setting up for himself! The hound!" exclaimed Hurst, between his teeth. "And Sir Noel. I dare say he gave the land. He has always been exceptionally eager to portion off pretty Ruth. Of course, old Storms got the lease.""I do not know," answered Lady Rose."But I mean that this farce shall go no farther. This man Storms is a knave, and should be dealt with as such.""I am inclined to think Ruth Jessup does not believe this, for scarcely a night passes that she is not seen with him in the park.""Seen with him! What! My—With him!""So it is understood in the servants' hall.""The servants' hall!"Hurst fairly ground his teeth with rage. Had Ruth's good name fallen so low that it was a matter of criticism in the servants' hall?"You know Mrs. Mason is her godmother?""Well!""And, of course, takes a deep interest in the matter. She talks all her troubles over with Mrs. Hipple, and even came to me about the wedding gifts. Of course, I took an interest. Ruth has so long been the pet of the house, and I love her; that is, there was a time when I loved her dearly.""Loved her dearly? And now you speak with tears in your voice, as if that pleasant time had passed. Why is that, Lady Rose?"The young lady's voice sunk low as she answered,"I—I think we have both changed.""But there must be some reason for this. What has Ruth done that you should shrink away from her?""Perhaps she feels the difference of position," faltered Rose."But that has changed in nothing, at least in her disfavor," answered Hurst, flushing red with a remembrance of that day in the little church."She was so dainty, so sweetly retiring. It seemed to me impossible that she could ever have been brought to care for a man like young Storms. Now, that it is so, can I help feeling separated?""By Heavens! Lady Rose—" The young man checked himself suddenly, adding, with haughty decision, "We have dropped into a strange discussion, and are handling the name of a young girl with less delicacy than becomes me, at least. Shall we speak of something else?"A flood of haughty crimson, and a struggle against the tears that rose in spite of herself, was all the reply this curt speech received from Lady Rose. The poor girl was not quite sure of her own disinterested judgment. For the world, she would not have said a word against Ruth, believing that word false; but she was conscious of such infinite relief when the news came to her of the engagement between Ruth Jessup and Storms, that the joy of it made her self-distrustful. How could she be glad that a creature so bright, so delicate, and thoroughly well-bred, should be mated with this keen, sinister man, whom no one loved, and who was held, she knew well, in little respect by his own class? Was she willing to see this sacrifice, that her own jealous fears might be appeased, and did Walton Hurst suspect the feelings which were a wound to her own delicacy? Were his last brief words a reproach to her?Tears of wounded pride, and bitter self-distrust, roseto her eyes, so thick and fast, that the lady almost fled from the room, that Hurst might not hear the sobs that she had no power to suppress.CHAPTER LI.THE GODMOTHER'S MISTAKE.YOUNG HURSTwas scarcely conscious that he was left alone. His feeble strength was taxed to the utmost. That one burst of indignant feeling had left his breath in thrall, and his limbs quivering. At length he became conscious that Lady Rose was gone, and starting up, with a sudden effort of strength, flung open the glass door, which led out upon a flower-terrace, and would have passed through on his way to the cottage, for his brain was all on fire, but that Mrs. Mason stood there chatting to one of the under-gardeners, who was trimming the rose-bushes, while he talked with her."Mercy on me!" cried the dame, breaking off her stream of gossip, with a cry of amazement, "if there isn't the young master, looking like the beautiful tall ghost of his own dear self. Never mind cutting the flowers now. I'll be back for them presently."Young Hurst had forced his strength too far; a swift dizziness seized upon him, and, but for a garden-chair, that stood near, he must have fallen before the good housekeeper reached him. As it was, he half lay upon the iron seat, grasping it with his hands, or he would have entirely dropped to the ground."My master! My dear young master!" cried the goodwoman, half-lifting him to a sitting posture. "What could have tempted you out in this state? No wonder you were taken faint, and this the first time down-stairs. There, now, the fresh wind is doing you good. Dear me, it gives one a pleasure to see you smile again.""The air is sweet, and you are very kind, Mason. I felt so strong a minute ago; but see where it has ended.""Oh, that is nothing. The first step always counts for the most. To-day across the terrace—to-morrow in the park!""Do you think so, Mason? Do you really think so?""Think so? Of course! Young people get up so quickly. If it were me now, or that old man at the garden cottage, there would be no telling.""You have seen him, then? Is he better? Is he—""Seen him? Of course I have. It is a heavy walk, but Webb told me how eagerly you took to the strawberries; so I bade Ruthy save the ripest for you every morning; not that she needed telling, for she has picked every one of them, with her own fingers, and the flowers, too.""Indeed!" murmured the young man, and he smiled as if the strawberries were melting in his mouth."Yes, indeed, this morning, when she got here with her little basket full, her fingers were red with them; for she came directly from the beds, that you might have them in their morning-dew, as if they would be the better for that, foolish child.""Is she well? Is she looking well, Mason?""What, Ruthy? No; I can't just say that. With so much sickness in the house, how should she? But a rose is a rose, whether it be white or red.""Does she ever inquire about me, Mason? We used to be play-fellows, you know.""Inquire? As if those great eyes of hers had done anything but ask questions; but then years divide people of her rank and yours. Children who play together as equals are master and servant as they become men and women, and my goddaughter is not one to forget her place."A faint smile quivered over Hurst's lips."No, she is not one to forget her place," he murmured, tenderly. Then, remembering himself, he said, with an attempt at carelessness, "But is there not some foolish story afloat about young Storms? That might trouble her, I should think.""Trouble her? Why, the child only laughs, as if it was the most maidenly thing on earth to be roaming about with the young man by moonlight and starlight, for that matter, and protesting to her best friends that there is nothing in it; that she has no thoughts of marrying him, and never leaves the cottage on any pretence after night-fall. Of course young women think such things no lies, and never expect to be believed; but Ruthy has been brought up better, and need not attempt to throw sand into her godmother's eyes, whatever she does with the rest of the world.""You speak as if you believed all this nonsense," said Hurst, with quick fire in his eyes."Believe it? Why, there isn't a man on the estate who has not seen them, over and over again. Not that there is harm in it, because old Storms and Jessup have agreed upon it while they were children, and Ruth was ever obedient. Only I don't like her way of denying what everybody knows, especially to me, who have been a mother to her. It isn't just what I had a right to expect, now, is it, Master Walton?""I cannot tell; your statement seems so strange.""Oh, it is only the old story. Girls never will tell the truth about such matters; besides, I do not wonder that my goddaughter is just a little shamefaced about her sweetheart. He isn't one to boast of overmuch; though, they tell me, no needle was ever so sharp on money. There he beats old Storms, out and out. Jessup has laid by a pretty penny for his child, to say nothing of what I may do. So Ruthy will not go away from home empty-handed, and one may be sure he knows it."Walton Hurst broke into a light laugh, but he became serious at once, and, looking kindly on the genial old woman, said, "You always were good to her, God bless you!""Thank you, for saying so; but who could help it, the pretty little orphan? It was like taking a bird into one's heart.""It was, indeed," answered Hurst, thinking of himself, rather than the old woman."And then to think that she must fly off into another nest. Well, well, girls will be girls. Speaking of that, here comes my Lady Rose, looking more like a lily to my thinking, so I will go my way."Mrs. Mason did go her way, leaving the young man for a while perfectly alone, for, though Lady Rose was hovering about her own pretty boudoir, she did not come fairly out of its shelter, waiting, in her maidenly reserve, for some sign that her presence out of doors would be welcome.No such sign was given her, for Hurst was greatly disturbed by what he had heard, and almost frantic with desire to see Ruth, and hear a contradiction of these base reports from her own lips. Not that he doubted her, orgave one moment's credence to rumors so improbable, but, with returning health, came a feverish desire to see the young creature for whom he had been willing to sacrifice everything, and redeem her, so far as he could, from the snare into which he had guided her. In his hot impetuosity, he had involved himself and her in a labyrinth of difficulties that led, as he could not help seeing, in his calmer moments, to deception, if not dishonor."I will atone for it all," he said to himself. "The moment I am strong enough to face his just resentment, my father shall know everything. God grant that the disappointment will only rest with him," he added, as his disturbed mind turned on Lady Rose with a thrill of compunction. "In my mad haste I may have; but no, no! she is too proud, too thoroughbred for a grand passion. It is only such reckless fools as I am that risk all at a single throw. But Ruth, my sweet young wife, how could I force this miserable deception on her? Had I but possessed the courage to assert my own independent manhood, my dear father would have had less to forgive, and I—But no matter, I have made my bed, and must lie in it, which would be nothing if she did not suffer also."Thus the young man sat thinking, while Lady Rose flitted in and out of the little boudoir, striving to trill soft snatches of song and hide under music the anguish that made her so restless.Hurst heard these soft gushes of melody, and mocked his previous anxiety with a smile."What a presumptuous cad I am, to think that she will know a regret," he muttered, with a sense of relief.Lady Rose opened the glass door, and looked out smiling, as if care had never touched her heart."Shall I come and read to you?" she said."No," he answered, rising. "I will come to you."
Ruth went to the window, rather bewildered by the suddenness with which the good housekeeper had shifted the point of her resentment to the invalid on the bed. But Mrs. Mason seemed to have entirely forgotten that she had been sharply dealt with. Seating herself on the bed, which creaked complainingly under her weight, and settling her black dress with a great rustle of silk, she dropped into the most cordial relations with the invalid at once.
"Better and getting up bravely. I can see that. Sir Noel will be more than glad to hear it. As for the young master, I know the thought of you is never out of his mind. 'When shall I be well enough to walk out?' he says, each day, to the surgeon. 'There was another hurt at the same time with me, and I want to know how he is getting on.'"
"Did he say that, did he?" questioned Jessup, with tears in his eyes; for sickness had made him weak as a child, and at such times tear-drops come to the strongest eyes tenderly as dew falls. "Did he mention me in that way?"
"He did, indeed. Often and often."
"God bless the lad. How could I ever think—"
Jessup broke off, and looked keenly at the housekeeper, as if fearful of having said too much. But she had heard the blessing, without regard to the half-uttered conclusion, and echoed it heartily.
"So say I. God bless the young gentleman! For a braver or a brighter never reigned at 'The Rest,' since its first wall was laid. Well, well! what is it now?"she added, addressing Ruth, who had left the window, and was stealing an arm around her neck.
"Nothing, godmother, only I love to hear you talk."
"Well, we were speaking, I think, of the young master. It was he that persuaded me to come here, and observe for myself how you were getting on."
"Did he indeed?" murmured Ruth, laying her burning cheek lovingly against the old lady's.
"Yes, indeed. The weather is over warm for much walking; but how could I say no when he would trust only me? 'Women,' he said, 'took so much more notice, being used to sick-rooms,' and he could not rest without news of your father—something more than 'he is better, or he is worse,' which could only be got from a person constantly in the sick-room."
"How anxious! I—I—How kind he is!" said Ruth.
"That he is. Had Jessup been akin to him, instead of a faithful old servant, he couldn't have shown more feeling."
Ruth sighed, and her sweet face brightened. The housekeeper went on.
"We were by ourselves when he said this, and spoke of the old times when I could refuse him nothing, in a way that went to my heart, for it was the truth. So I just kissed his hand—once it would have been his face—and promised to come and have a chat with you, and see for myself how it was with Jessup."
"You will say how much better he is."
"Yes, yes! He seems to be getting on famously. No reason for anxiety, as I shall tell him. Now, Ruth, as your father seems quiet, let us go down into the garden. I was to bring some fruit from the strawberry-beds, which he craves, thinking it better than ours."
"Go with her, and pick the finest," said Jessup. "I feel like sleeping."
"Yes, father, if you can spare me."
The housekeeper moved toward the door, having shaken hands with Jessup, cautioned him against taking cold, and recommending a free use of port wine and other strengthening drinks, which, she assured him, would set him up sooner than all the medicines in the world.
EXCELLENT ADVICE.
WHENonce in the garden, Mrs. Mason grew very serious, and stood some time in silence watching Ruth, who, bending low, was sweeping the green leaves from a host of plump berries, clustering red ripe in the sunshine. At last she spoke, with an effort, and her voice was abrupt if not severe.
"Ruth," she said, "I have a thing to say which troubles me."
Ruth looked up wistfully.
"Why is it that you try to keep secrets from your sick father?"
"Secrets!" faltered the girl.
"If you mean to wed this young man, why not say so at any rate to your own father? It is the best way out of this difficulty."
"Difficulty!"
"There, there! I can see no use in all this blushing,as red as the strawberries one minute, and denying it the next. Ruth, Ruth! deception and craft should not belong to your mother's child. I don't pretend to like this young man over much, but, under the circumstances, I have nothing to say. If your father is against it, a little persuasion from Sir Noel will set all that right."
"What—what do you mean, grandmother?" questioned Ruth, hoarse with dread.
"I mean to stop people's mouths by an honest marriage with a man, who, after all, is a good match enough. If you have ever been uplifted to thoughts of a better, it has come from too much notice from gentle people at 'The Rest,' and from too much reading of poetry books. But for that, there would never have been these meetings in the park, and moonlight flittings about the lake, to scandalize people. Think better of it, Ruth, or worse mischief than the scandal that is in everybody's mouth may come out of it. Nothing but an honest marriage can put an end to it."
"Scandal!" whispered the girl, rising slowly, and turning her white face on the housekeeper. "What scandal?"
"Such as any girl may expect, Ruthy, who meets young men in the park, and, worst of all, by the lake."
"The lake! The park!" repeated the poor girl, aghast with apprehension; for every walk or chance meeting she had shared with young Hurst rushed back upon her, with accusing vividness. "Who has said—who has dared?"
Here the frightened young creature burst into a passion of tears. The walks, the chance meetings, each a romance and an adventure, to dream of and hoard up inher thoughts, like a poem got by heart. Who could have torn them from their privacy, and bruited them abroad to her discredit? In what way would she deny or explain them? More and more pale her face grew, and her slender figure drooped with humiliation.
"There, there, little one, do not look so miserable. I did not mean to hurt your feelings. Of course, I remember you have no mother to say what is right or wrong. Only this, never meet the young man again. It breeds scandal."
Ruth looked up in amazement.
"I know, I know your father is ill, but that should keep you in-doors."
"Godmother, I do not understand. How is it possible?"
"It is not possible for you to meet him in out-of-the-way places without casting your good name in the teeth of every gossip in the village. Nay, I have my doubts if the young man has not helped it on, else, how did that brazen-faced maid at the inn know about it, and taunt him with it before a half-score of drinkers?"
The eyes of Ruth Jessup grew large with wonder.
"Among drinkers! He at the public inn! Godmother, of whom are you speaking?"
"Who should I speak of, but the young man himself, Richard Storms?"
As a cloud sometimes sweeps suddenly from the blue sky, the shame and the fear left that young girl's face.
"Oh, godmother, were you only speaking of him?"
"Who else should I be speaking of, Ruth? As if his name and yours were not in every one's mouth, from the highest to the lowest."
A faint, hysterical laugh broke through the sobs that had almost choked the girl, and alarmed the good woman.
"There, there," she said, "only be careful for the time to come; an honest marriage will set everything right. I only wish the young man were of a better sort, and went less to the public; but he will mend, I dare say. That is right, you have had a good cry, and feel better."
Ruth had wiped the tears from her face, and, after drawing a deep breath, was stooping down to the strawberry-bed again, and dashing the thick leaves aside with her hands, was gathering the fruit in eager haste. So great was her sense of relief, that she could feel neither resentment nor annoyance regarding the scandal that had so troubled the good housekeeper. Though she still trembled with the shock which had passed, this lesser annoyance was nothing to her. In and out, through the clustering leaves, her little hand flew, until the great china-bowl, into which the gathered fruit was dropped, brimmed over with its mellow redness. Meantime the housekeeper pattered on, bestowing a world of advice and matronly cautions of which Ruth never heard a syllable until the name of her lover-husband was mentioned. Then her hand moved cautiously, that it might not rustle the leaves as she listened.
"He took Mr. Webb up, scornfully, as you did me, when he mentioned the gossip, and would not hear of it, calling young Storms a hind and a braggart, of whom the neighborhood should be rid, if he were master. So Webb said nothing more, though his news had come from some of the gamekeepers who had seen you once and again in company with the young man."
The blood began to burn hotly in Ruth's cheeks.
"I wonder only that you should have believed such things of me, godmother, and almost scorn myself for caring to contradict them," she said, placing the bowl ofstrawberries in a shady place, while she began to cut flowers for a bouquet.
By this time, Mrs. Mason had unburdened her mind of so many wise sayings, and such hoards of good advice, that her goddaughter's indiscretions seemed to be quite carried away. She was weary of standing, too, and seating herself in a rustic garden-chair, over which an old cherry-tree loomed, waited complacently, while Ruth flitted to and fro among the rose-bushes, singing softly as a dove coos, while she plundered the flower-beds, and grouped buds and leaves into a sweet love-language, which her own heart supplied, and which he had studied with her, when their passion was like a poem, and flowers were its natural expression.
"He will read these," she thought, clustering some forget-me-nots around a white rose-bud, which became the heart of her sweet epistle. "Let him only know that they come from me, and every bud will tell him how my very soul craves to see him. Ah, me, it seems so long—so long, since that day."
As she twined each flower in its place, a light kiss, of which she was half-ashamed, was breathed into it as foolishly fond women will let their hearts go out, and still be wise, and good. Indeed, the fact of doing it, proves such women far superior to the common herds, who have no rare fancies, and scorn them, because of profound ignorance, that such gentle follies can spring out of the deepest feeling.
When all was ready, and that bouquet, redolent of kisses, innocent as the perfume with which they were blended, was laid, a glowing web of colors, on the strawberries, Mrs. Mason prepared to depart. With the china bowl held between her rotund waist and the curve of herarm, she entered into the shaded path, promising Ruth to deliver both fruit and flowers to the young master with her own hands, and tell him how well things were going on at the cottage.
"You will do everything that is kind, godmother, that I know well enough; only never mention that dreadful man's name to me, let people think what they will. I can bear anything but that."
"First promise me never to see him again till he comes like an honest man and asks you of your father."
"That I promise; nor then, if I can help it. Oh, godmother, how can you think it of me?"
The good lady shook her head, kissed the sweet mouth uplifted to hers, and went away muttering, "I suppose all girls are alike, and think it no harm to keep back their love-secrets. I haven't forgot how it was with me and Mason. How many times I met him on the sly, and hot tongues wouldn't have forced me to own it. So, thinking of that, I needn't be overhard on our Ruthy, who has no mother to set her right, poor thing."
THE SERPENT IN HER PATH.
WHENRuth left her father, he was overtaxed by the excitement of seeing his old friend, the housekeeper, and more than usually disturbed by the drift of her conversation. Kind of heart, and generous in his nature, he could not witness the repugnance that his daughter exhibited to the marriage he had arrangedfor her without tender relenting. Still, no nobleman of the realm was ever more tenacious of his honor, or shrunk more sensitively from a broken promise. Languid and weary, he was thinking over these matters, when some one, stirring in the hall below, disturbed him.
"Ruth, Ruth, is it you?" he called, in a voice tremulous with weakness.
Some one opened and shut the parlor door, then steps sounded from the passage and along the stairs. A man's step, light and quick, as if the person coming feared interruption.
"Ruth, Ruth," repeated the gardener.
"It is only I, Jessup," answered Richard Storms, stealing into the room. "There was no one below. I heard voices up here, and took the liberty of an old friend."
"You are welcome," answered the sick man, reaching out his hand, which had lost its ruddy brown since his confinement. "I think Ruth has gone out with Mrs. Mason."
"So much the better that she can leave you, I suppose," answered Storms, still holding the sick man's hand, with a finger on the pulse, while a slow cloud stole over his face. "The fever all gone? Why, man, we shall have you about in another week."
Jessup shook his head, and laid the hand he released from the young man's grasp on his breast.
"I fear not. There is a weakness here," he said.
"And pain?" questioned Storms, eagerly.
"Yes, great pain, at times; but you must not say as much to Ruth: it would fret her."
A glitter, like that of disturbed water, flashed into the young man's eyes.
"Then, as to the fever," continued the sick man, "it comes, on and off, with a chill, now and then; not much to complain of, so I say nothing about it, because of the lass."
"Oh, that is nothing, I dare say; but the people in the village hear that you are quite strong again."
Jessup smiled, a little sadly.
"So, being more than anxious, I dropped in to have a little chat with you. It's hard waiting so long, when a man is o'er fond of a lass, as I am of your daughter. One never gets a look of her in the regular way."
"Ruth has been with me so much," said Jessup, with a feeble effort at apology. "It has been hard on her, poor child."
"Yes, but you are so much better now, and father is getting vexed. He thinks Sir Noel is putting off the new lease because nothing is settled about the marriage. Things are going crosswise with us, I can tell you. It will never do for us to put matters off in this way."
Jessup was greatly disturbed. He moved restlessly, clasping and unclasping his hand on the coverlet with nervous irritation. At last he spoke more resolutely than he had yet done.
"Storms, your father and I have been neighbors and friends ever since we were boys together, and we had set our minds on being closer still; but Ruth's heart goes against it, and I cannot force her."
Storms drew close to the bed and bent his frowning face over the sick man.
"I have been expecting this. Like father like child. But a man's pledged word isn't to be broken through with by a girl's whim; or, if so, I am not the one to put up with it."
"You were always a hard one," answered Jessup, and a little strength flamed up into his gray eyes. "From a child you were that, and I have, more than once, had misgivings; but I did not think you would be bent on marrying with a lass against her will."
"Yes, I would, and like it all the better, when her will was broken."
Jessup shrunk down in his bed. There was something savage in that stern young face that terrified him. Storms saw the feeble movement, and went on:
"Never fear, man, I will find a way to bend her will, and make her love me afterward."
"I would rather have her placed by my side in the same coffin," answered the old man.
"You take back your word?" repeated Storms, savagely.
"Yes, I take back my word."
Storms turned on his heel, and without a syllable of farewell left the house. He paused a moment under the porch, and a glint of Ruth's garments caught his eye, as she was coming down the shaded wood-path, after parting with Mrs. Mason.
Ruth saw him coming, and stopped, looking around for some chance of escape, like a bird, threatened in its cage.
There was no way of escape, however. On one hand lay a deep ravine, with a brooklet at the bottom, and clothed with ferns up the sides; on the other, wild thickets, such as made that portion of a park called the wilderness picturesque.
"So, sweetheart, you were waiting for me. I thought it would come to that," said Storms.
Ruth moved on one side without answering. Stormscould see that a shudder passed through her as he came near, and the evil light that had almost died out of his eyes when they fell upon her came back with fresh venom.
"So you think to escape, ha! You shy on one side, as if a wild beast blocked the path. Be careful that you don't make one of me."
"Let me pass. I wish nothing but that," faltered the girl, moving as far from her tormentor as the path would permit.
"Not till we have come to an understanding. Look you, Ruth Jessup, if you think to pull me on and off like an old glove, I am not the man for your money."
"I—I have no such thought. I have no wish to see you at all."
"Indeed!" sneered the young man.
"After what has passed it is better that we should be strangers!"
"Nay, sweetheart. I think it is better that we should be man and wife."
A disgustful shudder shook the girl where she stood.
Storms saw it, and a cold smile crept over his face.
"That is what I have been telling your father."
"My father! Surely, surely you have not been torturing him!"
"Torturing him! No. But we have come to an understanding at last."
Ruth grew pallid to the lips.
"An understanding! How?"
The terror that shook her voice was triumph to him. At least he had the power to torment her, and would use it to the utmost.
"You ask? I thought you might know what manner of man old Jessup is, without asking."
"I know that he is just but never cruel."
"Cruel! Oh, far from it. Go ask him, if you doubt."
"Let me pass, and I will," answered the girl, desperately. "At any rate, he would not sanction your rudeness in keeping me here."
"Rudeness! Of course you have never been here before. Oh, no! I haven't seen you, over and over again, watching the path. Only it wasn't rudeness when he came. There was no trembling then—nothing but blushes."
"Let me pass, I say," cried the girl, tortured into courage, "if you would not force me to tell the whole world what I know of you. Let me pass, and never dare to look upon me again."
Storms started, and a grayish pallor spread over his face. What did she know? What did she mean?
Ruth shrank from the cowardly glitter of his eyes, and wondered at the sudden pallor. What had she said to daunt him so? Directly, the coward recovered himself.
"And what would you tell?" he said, with forced audacity. "Is it a terrible sin for a man to stop the lass he is to wed, for a word wherever he chances to find her? What worse can you say of me than that?"
Ruth saw the dastardly anxiety in his face; but did not comprehend it. He seemed almost afraid of her.
"Is it nothing that you force your company upon me, when it has become hateful to me? Is it nothing that you harass a sick man with complaints, and thrust him back with unwelcome visits, when he might otherwise get well? Is it manly to come here at all, when I have told you, again and again, that your presence is the most repulsive torment on earth to me?"
The man absolutely laughed again. He was once more at ease. Her words had meant nothing more than the old complaint. Still he stood in the girl's path.
"Why will you torment me so?" she pleaded, with sudden tears. "What have I ever done that you should haunt me in my trouble?"
"I only give you trouble for hate, harsh acts for bitter words, insult for insult. You can stop them all with a word."
"A word I will never speak!" answered the girl, firmly. "Hear me once for all, Richard Storms. There was a time when you were dear to me as a playfellow, and might have been my life-long friend—"
"Friend!" repeated Storms, with a disdainful fling of the hand. "You might say that much of a hound."
"But now," continued Ruth, desperately, "there is not a thing which creeps the earth that I loath as I do the sight of you."
This was a rash speech, and the most bitter that had ever burned on those young lips. She felt that on the moment, for the man's face turned gray, as if invisible ashes had swept over it. For a while he stood motionless, then his lips parted, and he said, in a deep, hoarse voice, that made her shrink in every nerve, "There is one other sight that shall be yet more loathsome to you!"
Ruth attempted to speak, but her lips clove together. He saw a paleness like his own creeping over her face, and added, with ferocious cruelty, "Shall I tell you what it is? That of your lover—of the man who has stolen you from me—in a criminal's box, with half the county looking on."
If the fiend had intended to say more, he was prevented,for the poor girl sank to the earth, turning a wild look on his face, like a deer that he had shot.
There might have been some relenting in the man's heart, hard as it was, for he partly stooped, as if to lift his victim from the earth; but she shrunk from his touch, and fell into utter insensibility.
NIGHT ON THE BALCONY.
I MUSTsee him. I will see him. No one will tell me the truth but himself. I must know it or die!"
Ruth stood alone under the shadow of the trees, white as a ghost, and rendered desperate by words that had smitten her into insensibility. How long she had lain in that forest path the girl scarcely knew. When she came to herself, it was with a shudder of dread, lest that evil face should be looking down upon her; but all was silent. The birds were singing close by her, and there was a soft rustle of leaves, nothing more. She lifted her head, and with her hands searched for marks of the blow that seemed to have levelled her to the earth. A blow! She remembered now it was a word that she had sunk under—a coarse, cruel word, that brought a horrid picture with it, from which every nerve in her body recoiled.
She was very feeble, now, and could scarcely walk. It seemed as if she never would get to the house; the distance appeared interminable. She could not keep in the narrowpaths that coiled along the flower-beds, but wavered in her steps from weakness, as her enemy had done from wrath, until her feet were tangled in the creeping flowers and strawberry-vines.
Her father was lying with his eyes closed when she went in, and a smile was upon his mouth. Even in his feeble state, he had found strength to free his child from a hateful alliance, and the thought made him happy. Ruth stooped down, and kissed him with her cold lips. The touch startled him. He opened his eyes, and saw how wan and tremulous she was.
"Do not fret!" he said, tenderly. "Why should you, darling? I have sent him away. I have told him that the child God gave to me shall never be his!"
At another time this news would have thrilled the girl with unutterable joy; but she scarcely felt it now. The fear that a marriage with Storms might be urged upon her seemed a small trouble, while the awful possibility he had fastened on her fears was so vivid and so strong.
"I thought it would please you," said the sick man, disappointed. "I did."
"And so it does, father; but we will not talk of it now. His coming has tired you, and I—I, too, am wanting a little rest. If you do not care, I will go away, while you sleep, and stay in my own room."
"There is wine on the table. Drink a little. I suppose it may be shadows from the ivy, but you look pale, Ruth."
"Yes, it is the shadows, but I will drink some wine."
She poured some wine into a glass, and drank it thirstily; but it brought no color into her cheeks, and none came there until she stood in the porch, after night-fall, and repeated to herself,"I must see him! I will see him! I must know the truth, or die!"
This resolve had made her stronger; perhaps the wine had helped, for she was not used to it, and so the effect was all the more powerful. At any rate, she drew the hood over her face, wrapped a dark mantle about her, and went out across the garden, into the path of the wilderness, and on to the home of which she might some day, God willing, become the mistress. When she thought of this, the shadow of that other picture, which had taken away so much of her life in the path she had trod only a few hours before, came with it, and that which had been to her a proud hope was blotted out.
"I will believe it from no lips but his," she thought, looking out from the shadows at the vast gray building that held her heart in its chambers. "Oh, that I knew what was in my father's letter!"
She left the shelter of the park, and walked cautiously across the lawn, concealing her progress as best she could among flowering thickets, or a great tree that spread its branches here and there in forest grandeur.
She entered the flower-thickets under that window, the only one she cared for in all that vast building. A faint light came through it, softened by falls of lace, tinted red by the glow of silken curtains, and broken into gleams by the ivy leaves outside. Her heart gave a wild leap as she saw that the shutters were unclosed; then a great fear seized upon her; some person might be within the chamber, or lingering in the grounds. Cautiously, and holding her breath, she crept toward the masses of ivy that wound its thick foliage up to the balcony. If it stirred in the wind she shrunk back terrified. Where it cast deep shadows downward, she fancied that some man was crouching.
Still the girl crept forward, her anxiety half lost in womanly dread of being misunderstood, even by the beloved being she sought. But, for the great agony of doubt at her heart, she would have turned even then, so strong was the delicacy of her pride.
She was under the balcony now, behind the ivy, which covered her like a mantle. Up the narrow steps she crept, and crouching by the window, looked in. No one was moving. A night-lamp shed its soft moonlight on a marble console, on which some wine and fruit cast shadows. In the middle of the room stood the couch she had seen but once, shaded with rich silk and clouds of lace, snow-white and filmy, seeming to cool the air, it was so frost-like. These curtains were flung back at the pillows, and there she saw her husband in a sound sleep. She held her breath, she laid her face close to the window. Then, with impotent fingers, tried the sash. It was fastened on the inside.
What could she do? How arouse the sleeper? Impatiently she beat her hand on the glass. Still more recklessly she called her husband's name.
"Walton! Walton!"
WATCHING HER RIVAL.
ONthe same night that Ruth had taken a desperate resolve to see her husband, Richard Storms was waiting in the lake house for the coming of Judith Hart, who had promised to meet him there. The presence ofthis girl in the neighborhood had at first been a great annoyance to him; but now he both feared and hated her, so, coward-like, cajoled and deceived her by forced professions of love, while, with the same false tongue, he could not refrain from such hints of another as drove the poor creature half mad with jealous rage.
Though her presence was hateful to him, he dared not offend her beyond a certain point, and had no power to drive her back into her former isolated life; or in revenge she might, as she had often threatened, find out Ruth Jessup, and give both her and the father a good reason for forbidding him the house forever. He knew well enough, that in her reckless daring, she would not hesitate to accuse herself of any offence so long as the odium reached him also.
Thus shackled in his desire to free himself from the girl altogether, it mattered not to him how roughly, Storms waited for her at the lake house that night, lying at full length on the bench which ran along one end of the crazy old building.
Judith came in, at length, full of turbulent excitement. She had been walking rapidly, and swept through the long grass like a rush of wind.
"Ah, you are here!" she said, seating herself on one end of the bench as Storms swung his feet to the floor; "I thought you would be waiting, but it isn't you that oftenest gets here first, but I have seen some one you'll like to hear about."
"Seen some one? Of course, one of the gamekeepers."
"No. I have seen that girl, Ruth Jessup."
"Ruth Jessup in the park at this time of night? You cannot make me believe that."
"In the park and at 'Norston's Rest,' down uponher knees by a window, with ivy all around it, looking in upon the sick heir like a hungry cat watching a canary."
"You saw this, Judith—saw it with your own eyes?" cried Storms, sitting upright on the bench.
"Saw it! I should think so. She was so busy trying to open the window, that I went close under the balcony and could see her face plain enough by the light that came through the glass."
"Trying to open the window—did you say that?"
"Yes, again and again. She grew desperate at last, and shook it, calling out, 'Walton! Walton!'"
"She called that name?"
"Yes, more than once. It didn't wake the young man inside though, but some one else must have heard, for the door opened and a man came into the chamber."
"What did she do then?"
"Do! Why she shrunk back and came down some stone steps that are hid away in the ivy, and was half across the flower garden before I dared to move."
"But you overtook her?"
"Of course I did; though my feet got tangled in with the ivy, and I almost fell down; but, once safe on the ground, I tracked her swift enough, for she seemed to scorn moving beyond a walk."
"But she did not see you?"
"No, I can move quietly enough when it suits me. So she knew nothing of me, though I longed to give her a sharp bit of my tongue."
"I'll be bound you did," said Storms, with a disagreeable laugh.
The girl took this as a compliment, and gave the hand, which was dropped listlessly into hers, a grateful pressure.
"'It was awful ungrateful of the young gentleman, though, to be so sound asleep,' I was longing to say. If it had been my Richard, now."
"Did you think to say that?" cried Storms, starting up in sudden wrath. "Would you have dared to say that to her?"
Judith started to her feet also. He had jerked his hand from hers, and stood frowning on her in the moonlight, while defiance kindled in her eyes.
"That's just what I would 'a' been glad to say; not that she would have cared a brass farthing, for my opinion is, that girl hates your very name, for all your talk that she's dying for you. But such words from her would have been red-hot coals to me."
"Do you think she would stoop to bandy words with such as you?" said Storms, softening his wrath into a malicious enjoyment of her jealous passion.
"Such as me, indeed! What is the difference, I should like to know? Only this. I come here because you ask me and urge me to it, while she hasn't the courage, but sits worshipping her sweetheart like a rabbit peeping into a garden it has not the spirit to enter."
"Worshipping! As if she cared for the man!" said Storms, with supreme disdain. "There is nothing in it. She only wants to make me jealous, thinking to bring me back again in that way."
"It seems to me as if you were jealous."
"Jealous!" repeated the young man, growing cautious on reflection. "As if I cared enough for Ruth Jessup for that!"
"I am not so sure," answered Judith, as if talking to herself; "but when I am, it will be a dark day for one of us."
Storms laughed.
"Always threatening some terrible thing," he said, "as if there were any need of that; but how came you, my own sweetheart, Judith Hart, to be wandering about 'The Rest?'"
"I saw her as I was coming this way. She was standing in the cottage porch, giving frightened looks around. The moon was not up yet, though it is climbing into the sky now, but a light streamed through the passage, and I saw her plain enough. Then she stole out, as if in search of some one. I thought she was going into the wilderness."
"Ah, ha! Who was jealous then?"
"Who denies it? That minute I could have killed her. She turned toward 'The Rest.' I followed, thinking—"
"Thinking that I might come that way."
"Well, yes. I did think just that; and followed her softly as one of your own hounds would have crept. When I saw where she was going, the fire all went out of my heart. I could have cried for joy that—that it was no worse."
"Still you hated her!"
"Because she dared to love where I did."
"Do you indeed love me so, Judith?"
"Do I love myself, so common and worthless, compared to you? Do I love the air I breathe? Do I love sleep, after a hard day's work? Oh, oh, Richard, why ask such silly questions?"
"Why? Oh, because one is never certain. Girls are so fickle now-a-days."
"As if any girl who ever loved you could be fickle."
Storms looked into the girl's face as she nestled closeto him, and a strange, fond glow came into his eyes. He was thinking how much she looked like Ruth Jessup, with that warm love-light in her face—how beautiful she really was in the lustre of that rising moon. Tenderness with him at the moment was not all a pretence. But Storms was a man to bring the worst as well as the best passions of a heart down to his own interests, and never, for a moment, since he had seen old Jessup's letter in Judith's hand, had he ceased to devise some means of gaining possession of it.
"Words are so easily spoken," he said; "but I like deeds. I want the girl I love to trust me."
"And don't I trust you? What other girl would be here at this time of the night, risking her character, when she has nothing else in the world, just because you want things to be kept secret, while I can't for the life of me see the reason of it?"
"That is what I complain of. True love asks no questions."
"How can you say that when you have done nothing but ask questions ever since I came here? All about her too," retorted the quick-witted girl.
"That is because I am interested in everything you do," was the prompt answer. "How could I watch here half an hour, and at last see you rush in so wildly, half out of breath and panting, to tell all that you had seen, without feeling some curiosity?"
"Yes, indeed, I can understand that."
"Then there is another thing."
"Well," said Judith, more quietly; for she guessed what was coming. "What is it?"
"That paper. It is of no use to you, and might help me a good deal."
"How?"
The girl spoke seriously, and he could tell by her voice that her lips closed with a firm pressure when she ceased.
"It might help me about the lease."
Judith seemed to reflect a moment, then she looked up quietly, and said:
"When we are married, Richard."
"Why, child, it is only a scrap of paper that no one but Sir Noel will ever care for."
"I know that, and sometimes wonder you are so sharp after it. My arm is all sorts of colors yet where you grasped it after that race down the banks of the lake. If the game-keeper had not come in sight, I don't know what might have chanced. Oh, Richard, your face was awful that day. It frightened me!"
"Too much, I fear, and that makes you so obstinate. I dare say that you never keep the bit of paper about you?" questioned Storms, with a dull, sinister look, which was so perceptible in the moonlight that the girl shrunk from him unconsciously.
"No," she answered. "I never keep it about me, and never shall till we are wed."
"And then?"
"I will give it to you, as you crave it so much, and in its stead take the marriage lines. If it were worth a thousand pounds, I would rather have the lines."
"A thousand pounds! Why, lass, what are you thinking of? Who ever heard of giving money for a scrap of writing like that?"
"I don't know, I'm sure. Only you wanted it so much, and if you were to play me false, as people say you have done with many a sweetheart before me, it might be put to a bad use."
"But they slander me. I never yet betrayed a sweetheart," said Storms, eagerly.
"Then it is true that Ruth Jessup was the first to give you up. No, no, do not say it. No woman on earth could do that. I would rather think you false to her than not. The other I never could believe—never."
"Well, believe what you like; but do not come here again without that bit of paper. I did not fairly read it."
The suppressed eagerness in his voice aroused all the innate craft in the girl's nature. He had outdone his part, and thus enhanced the advantage that she held over him to a degree that made her determined to keep the paper. In her soul she had no trust in the man; but was willing to win him by any means that promised to be most effectual. Still she was capable of meeting craft with deception, and did it now.
"Well, if I think of it."
Storms read the insincerity of her evasion, and seemed to cast the subject from his mind. But he felt the thraldom of this girl's power with a keenness that might have terrified her, had she comprehended it. Besides, the news she had brought to him that evening was of a kind to make him hate the bearer and intensify his thirst for vengeance on young Hurst.
BROODING THOUGHTS.
WHATare you thinking of, Richard, with your eyes wandering out on the water and your mouth so set?" asked the girl, after some moments of silence that began to trouble her.
Storms started as if a shot had passed him.
"Thinking of—Why nothing that should trouble you."
"But you don't care to talk, and me sitting by!"
"What is the difference, so long as you were in my mind? I was thinking that there might as well be an end of this. We could have the matter over, and no noise about it, you know."
Judith's heart made a great leap.
"Were you thinking of that, Richard? Oh, tell me!"
She was sitting on the floor, leaning her elbow on the bench, where Storms had flung himself with an utter disregard to her comfort. Now she leaned forward till her head rested on his bosom, and she clasped him fondly with her firm, white arms.
"Were you thinking of that now, really, darling?"
Storms did not actually push her away; but he turned over with his face to the wall, muttering:
"Don't bother. What else should it be?"
"Then I must be getting ready, you know. The mistress must have warning," said the girl, too happy for resentment.
"The mistress! There it is. You cannot expect meto take a wife from the bar-room. No, no! We must manage it in some other way."
Judith drew a deep breath.
"I will do anything you tell me—anything at all," she said. "Only let me make sure that you are as happy as I am."
"Happy! Of course I'm happy. Why not?" answered the young man. "Now, you'd better be going home. It is getting late."
Judith arose, drew her scarlet sacque closer around her, pulled the jaunty little hat over her eyes, and stood in the moonlight waiting for her lover. He arose heavily, and dropping both clasped hands between his knees, sat in the shadow, regarding her with sullen interest. She could not see his face, but there was a glitter of his eyes that pierced the shadows with sinister brightness. The picture of the girl was so vivid, framed in the old doorway, with that deep background of water over which the moonlight seemed to leap, leaving that in darkness, and herself flooded in light, so fearfully vivid, that the man whom she hoped to marry could never afterward sweep it from his brain.
"Come," she said, "I'm ready."
"And so am I," he answered, starting up and dashing his hands apart, as if a serpent had entangled them against his will. "What are you waiting for?"
"What have I been long and long waiting for?" said the girl; "but it has come at last. Oh, Richard, say that it has come at last."
"Yes, it has come at last," broke forth the man, almost savagely. "You would have it so. Remember, you would—"
"Why, how cross you are. Was it I that first made love?"
"You? Yes. It always is the woman."
"Oh, Richard, dear—how you love to torment me!"
The girl took his arm, as she said this, and held to it caressingly, with both hands, while her eyes, half-beaming, half-tearful, sought in his face some contradiction of his savage mood.
"Is the torment all on one side?" he muttered, enduring her caressing touch with surly impatience.
"There, Dick, only say for once that you are happy."
"Oh, wonderfully happy. There, now, let us walk faster."
They did walk on; now in the moonlight, now in deep shadow, she leaning upon him with fond dependence, which he appeared to recognize, though few words were spoken between them.
Once, as they passed a sheltered copse half-way between the lake and Jessup's cottage, both saw the figure of a man retreating from the path, and knew that he was regarding them from under covert. Then Storms did meet the girl's bright glance, and they both laughed with subdued merriment.
"He is following us. I hear his step in the undergrowth," whispered Judith, and Storms answered back:
"Give him plenty of time."
When they reached Jessup's cottage, the little building was quite dark, except the faint gleam of a night-lamp in the sick man's room. At the gate they both paused. Judith turned with her face to the moonlight, and offered her lips for the kiss Storms bent lovingly to give her. Then they stood together, hand-in-hand, as if reluctant to part for a minute, and he went away, looking back now and then, as if anxious for her safety, while she stood by the gate watching him.
When the young man was quite gone, Judith opened the gate, without even a click of the latch, and stole like a thief toward the porch, which was so laden with ivy and jasmines that no one could see her when once in its shelter. Still she shrunk back, and dragged the foliage over her, when the gamekeeper came out from his concealment, and walked back and forth before the cottage. At last his steps receded, and, peering through the ivy, Judith saw him move away toward the lake. Then she stole out of the porch, crept with bent form to the gate, and darted in a contrary direction with the speed of a lapwing. Somewhat later, the girl stole through the back yard of the inn, tried her key in the kitchen door, and crept up to her room in the garret, where she carefully put away her outer garments, and went to bed so passionately happy that she lay awake all night with both hands folded over her bosom, and the name of Richard Storms trembling now and then up from her heart.
YOUNG HURST AND LADY ROSE.
ITwas a bright day at "Norston's Rest," when the young heir came from his sick-chamber, for the first time, and, leaning on Webb, entered the pretty little parlor in which Lady Rose had made his bouquet the evening he was hurt. She sat waiting for him now, demurely busy with some trifle of richly-tinted embroidery, which, having a dainty taste, she had selected, I dare say, because it gave a touch of rich color to her simplewhite dress, looped here and there into soft clouds by a broad blue sash, which might have lacked effect but for this artistic device. Perhaps the invalid understood this, for he smiled when the fair patrician just lifted her eyes, as if his coming had been quite unimportant to her, and settled down into one of the loveliest pictures imaginable, working away at her tinted silks with fingers that quivered among them, and eyes that no whiteness of lid or thickness of lash could keep from beaming out their happiness.
There had been a time when this fair girl would have sprung from her seat and met him at the threshold; but now, she bent lower over her work, fearing that he might see how warmly-red her cheek was getting, and wonder at it. Indeed he well might wonder, for what word of love had he ever spoken that should have set her heart to beating so, when she first heard his uncertain step on the stairs?
All at once the young lady remembered that she was acting strangely. Starting up, she gave him her place among the blue cushions of her own favorite couch; then sat down on a low ottoman, and fell to work again.
"How natural everything looks!" said the young man, gazing languidly around. "I could be sworn, Rose, that you were working on that same bit of embroidery the day I was hurt."
Lady Rose blushed vividly. She had snatched the embroidery from her work-table, as she heard him coming, and was in fact working on the same leaf in which her needle had been left that day.
"We have all been so anxious," she said, gently.
"And all about me—troublesome fellow that I am. It may be fancy, Lady Rose, but my father seems to have suffered more than I have."
"He has, indeed, suffered. One month seems to have aged him more than years should have done," said the young lady.
"Have I been in such terrible danger then?"
"For a time we thought you in great danger, and were in sad suspense." She spoke with hesitation, and Hurst noticed it with some surprise.
"Why, Rose," he said, "it seems to me as if you had changed, also. What has come over you all?"
"Nothing, but great thankfulness that you are better, Walton."
"And do you care so much for me? I hardly thought it," said the young man, a little sadly.
"Oh, Walton, can you ask?"
The great blue eyes, lifted to his, were swimming in tears, yet the quivering lips made a brave effort to smile.
A painful thought struck him then, and his heart sunk like lead under it.
"It would be a strange thing if you had not felt anxious, Rose; for no brother ever loved an only sister better than I have loved you."
As he uttered these words, Hurst was watching that fair young face with keen interest. He saw the color fade from it, until the rich red of the beautiful mouth had all died away. Then he gathered the silken cushion roughly together, so as to shade his own face, and a faint groan came from him.
"Are you in pain?" questioned the young lady, bending over him. "Can I do anything?"
Her breath floated across his mouth, her loose curls swept downward, and almost touched him.
The young man turned his face to the wall, and made no answer. He was heart-sick.
And so was she even to faintness.
He lay minute after minute, buried in thought. The young lady had no other refuge for her wounded pride, so she fell to work again; but not on the same object. Now she sat down to a drawing of the Black Lake. The old summer-house was a principal object in the foreground, and the banks, heavy with rushes, and broken with ravines, completed a gloomy but picturesque scene, which had a wonderfully artistic effect.
"What are you doing there?" questioned Hurst, after a long silence.
"It is a sketch of the lake which I am trying to finish up at once, in case pretty Ruth Jessup takes us by surprise."
There was something in the girl's voice, as she said this, that made Hurst rise slowly to his elbow.
"Takes us by surprise! What do you mean, Rose?"
"Oh, haven't you heard? I forget. Webb was told not to disturb you with gossip; but Ruth's little flirtation with young Storms has been progressing famously since you were hurt, and I am thinking of this for a wedding gift."
"For a wedding gift! Ruth Jessup—young Storms. What romance is this?"
The young man spoke sharply, sitting upright, his face whiter than illness had left it, and his eyes shining with more than feverish lustre.
"I do not know that it is a romance," answered Lady Rose. "At any rate, I hope not. Ruth is a good, sweet girl, and would never encourage a man to the extent she does, if a marriage were not understood; besides, old Storms was here only a day or two ago wanting more land included in his new lease, because his son thought of setting up for himself."
"Setting up for himself! The hound!" exclaimed Hurst, between his teeth. "And Sir Noel. I dare say he gave the land. He has always been exceptionally eager to portion off pretty Ruth. Of course, old Storms got the lease."
"I do not know," answered Lady Rose.
"But I mean that this farce shall go no farther. This man Storms is a knave, and should be dealt with as such."
"I am inclined to think Ruth Jessup does not believe this, for scarcely a night passes that she is not seen with him in the park."
"Seen with him! What! My—With him!"
"So it is understood in the servants' hall."
"The servants' hall!"
Hurst fairly ground his teeth with rage. Had Ruth's good name fallen so low that it was a matter of criticism in the servants' hall?
"You know Mrs. Mason is her godmother?"
"Well!"
"And, of course, takes a deep interest in the matter. She talks all her troubles over with Mrs. Hipple, and even came to me about the wedding gifts. Of course, I took an interest. Ruth has so long been the pet of the house, and I love her; that is, there was a time when I loved her dearly."
"Loved her dearly? And now you speak with tears in your voice, as if that pleasant time had passed. Why is that, Lady Rose?"
The young lady's voice sunk low as she answered,
"I—I think we have both changed."
"But there must be some reason for this. What has Ruth done that you should shrink away from her?"
"Perhaps she feels the difference of position," faltered Rose.
"But that has changed in nothing, at least in her disfavor," answered Hurst, flushing red with a remembrance of that day in the little church.
"She was so dainty, so sweetly retiring. It seemed to me impossible that she could ever have been brought to care for a man like young Storms. Now, that it is so, can I help feeling separated?"
"By Heavens! Lady Rose—" The young man checked himself suddenly, adding, with haughty decision, "We have dropped into a strange discussion, and are handling the name of a young girl with less delicacy than becomes me, at least. Shall we speak of something else?"
A flood of haughty crimson, and a struggle against the tears that rose in spite of herself, was all the reply this curt speech received from Lady Rose. The poor girl was not quite sure of her own disinterested judgment. For the world, she would not have said a word against Ruth, believing that word false; but she was conscious of such infinite relief when the news came to her of the engagement between Ruth Jessup and Storms, that the joy of it made her self-distrustful. How could she be glad that a creature so bright, so delicate, and thoroughly well-bred, should be mated with this keen, sinister man, whom no one loved, and who was held, she knew well, in little respect by his own class? Was she willing to see this sacrifice, that her own jealous fears might be appeased, and did Walton Hurst suspect the feelings which were a wound to her own delicacy? Were his last brief words a reproach to her?
Tears of wounded pride, and bitter self-distrust, roseto her eyes, so thick and fast, that the lady almost fled from the room, that Hurst might not hear the sobs that she had no power to suppress.
THE GODMOTHER'S MISTAKE.
YOUNG HURSTwas scarcely conscious that he was left alone. His feeble strength was taxed to the utmost. That one burst of indignant feeling had left his breath in thrall, and his limbs quivering. At length he became conscious that Lady Rose was gone, and starting up, with a sudden effort of strength, flung open the glass door, which led out upon a flower-terrace, and would have passed through on his way to the cottage, for his brain was all on fire, but that Mrs. Mason stood there chatting to one of the under-gardeners, who was trimming the rose-bushes, while he talked with her.
"Mercy on me!" cried the dame, breaking off her stream of gossip, with a cry of amazement, "if there isn't the young master, looking like the beautiful tall ghost of his own dear self. Never mind cutting the flowers now. I'll be back for them presently."
Young Hurst had forced his strength too far; a swift dizziness seized upon him, and, but for a garden-chair, that stood near, he must have fallen before the good housekeeper reached him. As it was, he half lay upon the iron seat, grasping it with his hands, or he would have entirely dropped to the ground.
"My master! My dear young master!" cried the goodwoman, half-lifting him to a sitting posture. "What could have tempted you out in this state? No wonder you were taken faint, and this the first time down-stairs. There, now, the fresh wind is doing you good. Dear me, it gives one a pleasure to see you smile again."
"The air is sweet, and you are very kind, Mason. I felt so strong a minute ago; but see where it has ended."
"Oh, that is nothing. The first step always counts for the most. To-day across the terrace—to-morrow in the park!"
"Do you think so, Mason? Do you really think so?"
"Think so? Of course! Young people get up so quickly. If it were me now, or that old man at the garden cottage, there would be no telling."
"You have seen him, then? Is he better? Is he—"
"Seen him? Of course I have. It is a heavy walk, but Webb told me how eagerly you took to the strawberries; so I bade Ruthy save the ripest for you every morning; not that she needed telling, for she has picked every one of them, with her own fingers, and the flowers, too."
"Indeed!" murmured the young man, and he smiled as if the strawberries were melting in his mouth.
"Yes, indeed, this morning, when she got here with her little basket full, her fingers were red with them; for she came directly from the beds, that you might have them in their morning-dew, as if they would be the better for that, foolish child."
"Is she well? Is she looking well, Mason?"
"What, Ruthy? No; I can't just say that. With so much sickness in the house, how should she? But a rose is a rose, whether it be white or red."
"Does she ever inquire about me, Mason? We used to be play-fellows, you know."
"Inquire? As if those great eyes of hers had done anything but ask questions; but then years divide people of her rank and yours. Children who play together as equals are master and servant as they become men and women, and my goddaughter is not one to forget her place."
A faint smile quivered over Hurst's lips.
"No, she is not one to forget her place," he murmured, tenderly. Then, remembering himself, he said, with an attempt at carelessness, "But is there not some foolish story afloat about young Storms? That might trouble her, I should think."
"Trouble her? Why, the child only laughs, as if it was the most maidenly thing on earth to be roaming about with the young man by moonlight and starlight, for that matter, and protesting to her best friends that there is nothing in it; that she has no thoughts of marrying him, and never leaves the cottage on any pretence after night-fall. Of course young women think such things no lies, and never expect to be believed; but Ruthy has been brought up better, and need not attempt to throw sand into her godmother's eyes, whatever she does with the rest of the world."
"You speak as if you believed all this nonsense," said Hurst, with quick fire in his eyes.
"Believe it? Why, there isn't a man on the estate who has not seen them, over and over again. Not that there is harm in it, because old Storms and Jessup have agreed upon it while they were children, and Ruth was ever obedient. Only I don't like her way of denying what everybody knows, especially to me, who have been a mother to her. It isn't just what I had a right to expect, now, is it, Master Walton?"
"I cannot tell; your statement seems so strange."
"Oh, it is only the old story. Girls never will tell the truth about such matters; besides, I do not wonder that my goddaughter is just a little shamefaced about her sweetheart. He isn't one to boast of overmuch; though, they tell me, no needle was ever so sharp on money. There he beats old Storms, out and out. Jessup has laid by a pretty penny for his child, to say nothing of what I may do. So Ruthy will not go away from home empty-handed, and one may be sure he knows it."
Walton Hurst broke into a light laugh, but he became serious at once, and, looking kindly on the genial old woman, said, "You always were good to her, God bless you!"
"Thank you, for saying so; but who could help it, the pretty little orphan? It was like taking a bird into one's heart."
"It was, indeed," answered Hurst, thinking of himself, rather than the old woman.
"And then to think that she must fly off into another nest. Well, well, girls will be girls. Speaking of that, here comes my Lady Rose, looking more like a lily to my thinking, so I will go my way."
Mrs. Mason did go her way, leaving the young man for a while perfectly alone, for, though Lady Rose was hovering about her own pretty boudoir, she did not come fairly out of its shelter, waiting, in her maidenly reserve, for some sign that her presence out of doors would be welcome.
No such sign was given her, for Hurst was greatly disturbed by what he had heard, and almost frantic with desire to see Ruth, and hear a contradiction of these base reports from her own lips. Not that he doubted her, orgave one moment's credence to rumors so improbable, but, with returning health, came a feverish desire to see the young creature for whom he had been willing to sacrifice everything, and redeem her, so far as he could, from the snare into which he had guided her. In his hot impetuosity, he had involved himself and her in a labyrinth of difficulties that led, as he could not help seeing, in his calmer moments, to deception, if not dishonor.
"I will atone for it all," he said to himself. "The moment I am strong enough to face his just resentment, my father shall know everything. God grant that the disappointment will only rest with him," he added, as his disturbed mind turned on Lady Rose with a thrill of compunction. "In my mad haste I may have; but no, no! she is too proud, too thoroughbred for a grand passion. It is only such reckless fools as I am that risk all at a single throw. But Ruth, my sweet young wife, how could I force this miserable deception on her? Had I but possessed the courage to assert my own independent manhood, my dear father would have had less to forgive, and I—But no matter, I have made my bed, and must lie in it, which would be nothing if she did not suffer also."
Thus the young man sat thinking, while Lady Rose flitted in and out of the little boudoir, striving to trill soft snatches of song and hide under music the anguish that made her so restless.
Hurst heard these soft gushes of melody, and mocked his previous anxiety with a smile.
"What a presumptuous cad I am, to think that she will know a regret," he muttered, with a sense of relief.
Lady Rose opened the glass door, and looked out smiling, as if care had never touched her heart.
"Shall I come and read to you?" she said.
"No," he answered, rising. "I will come to you."