CHAPTER XVIII.AN ENCOUNTER.WHENRichard Storms left the gardener's cottage, he dashed like a wild beast into the densest thickets of the forest, and tore his way through toward his own home. It gave him a sort of tigerish pleasure to tear at the thickets with his fierce hands, and trample the forest turf beneath his iron-shod heels, for the rage within him was brutal in its thirst for destruction. All at once he stopped short, seemed to remember something and turned back, plunging along at a heavy but swift pace, now through the shadows, now in the moonlight, unconscious of the quiet beauty of either.It took him but a brief time to reach the cottage, around which he pondered a while, stealing in and out of the tangled vines which hung in thick draperies around the building. At last Ruth saw his face at the kitchen window, and gave a sharp cry that drove him away, more fiercely wrathful than ever, for he had seen the creature he worshipped after a rude fashion giving caresses to another, that he would have gone on his grovelling knees to have secured to himself."Jessup promised my father that I should wed her, and it has come to this," he grumbled fiercely, as if tearing the words between his teeth. "On the night I had set aside to win an answer for myself, the young master hustles me out of the door like a dog, and takes the kennel himself. He thinks I am not man enough to bark back when he kicks me, does he? He shall see! He shall see! Bark! Nay, my fine fellow, it shall bebiting this time. A growl and a snap isn't enough for kicks and blows."The wrath of this man was less fiery now, but it had taken a stern, solid strength, more dangerous than the first outburst of passion. He sought no particular path as he left the house, but stamped forward with heavy feet, as if he were trampling down something that he hated viciously, now and then gesticulating in the moonlight, till his very shadow seemed to be fighting its way along the turf.All at once he came upon another man, who had left the great chestnut avenue, and turned into a side path, which led to the gardener's passage. The two men stopped, and one spoke cheerfully."Why, good-night, Dick. This is late to be out. Anything going wrong?""Wrong!" said the other, hoarsely. "Yes, wrong enough to cost a man his life some day. Go up yonder, and ask your daughter Ruth what it is. She'll tell, no doubt—ask her!"Richard Storms, after flinging these words at his father's friend, attempted to push by him on the path; but Jessup stood resolutely in his way."What is all this, my lad? Nay, now, you haven't been to the cottage while I was away, and frightened the girl about what we were talking of. I should take that unfriendly, Dick. Our Ruth is a bit dainty, and should have had time to think over such matters.""Dainty! I should think so. She looks high in her sweethearting; I must say that for her.""What is it you are saying of my daughter?" cried Jessup, doubling his great brown fist, unconsciously."I say that a man like me has a chance of gettingmore kicks than kisses when he seeks her," answered Dick, with a sneer."And serves him right, if he dared to ask such things of her mother's child," said Jessup, growing angry."But what if he only asked, honest fashion, for an honest wife, as I did, and got kicks in return?""Kicks! Why, man, who was there to give them, and I away?" questioned the gardener, astonished."One who shall pay for it!" was the answer that came hissing through the young man's lips."Of course, one don't give kicks and expect farthings back; but who has got up pluck to try this with you, Dick? He must be mad to dare it.""He is mad!" answered Storms, grinding his teeth. "Mad or not, no man but the master's son would have dared it.""The master's son! Are you drunk or crazy, Dick Storms?""I almost think both. Who can tell?" muttered Dick. "But it's not with drink.""The master's son! but where—when?""At your own house, where he has been more than once, when he thought sure to find Ruth alone.""Dick Storms, this is a lie."Dick burst into a hoarse laugh."A lie, is it? Go up yonder, now. Walk quick, and you'll see whether it is the truth or not."Jessup rushed forward a step or two, then came back, as if ashamed of the action."Nay, there is no need. I'll not help you belie my own child.""Belie her, is it? I say, Bill Jessup, not half an hour ago, I saw Ruth, your daughter, with her head onthe young master's bosom, and her mouth red with his kisses. If you don't believe this, go and see for yourself."The florid face of William Jessup turned to marble in the moonlight, and a fierce, hot flame leaped to his eyes."I will not walk a pace quicker, or be made to spy on my girl, by anything you can say, Dick; not if it were to save my own life; but I like you, lad—your father and I are fast friends. We meant that, by-and-by, you and Ruth should come together."Storms flung up his head with an insulting sneer."Together! Not if every hair on her head was weighed down with sovereigns. I am an honest man, William Jessup, and will take an honest woman home to my mother, or take none."Before the words left his lips, Richard Storms received a blow that sent him with his face upward across the forest path; and William Jessup was walking with great strides toward his own cottage.It was seldom that Jessup gave way to such passion as had overcome him now, and he had not walked a dozen paces before he regretted it with considerable self-upbraiding."The lad is jealous of every one that looks at my lass, and speaks out of range because she is a bit offish with him. Poor darling, she has no mother; and the thought of marrying frightens her. It troubles me, too. Sometimes I feel a spite toward the lad, for wanting to take her from me. It makes me restless to think of it. I wonder if any living man ever gave up his daughter to a sweetheart without a grip of pain at the heart? I think it wasn't so much the mad things he said that made my fist so unmanageable, for that come of too much drink, of course; but since he has begun to press this matter, I'm getting heartsore about losing the girl."With these thoughts in his mind, Jessup came within sight of his own home, and paused in front of it.How cool and pleasant it looked in the moonlight, with the shadowy vines flickering over it, and a golden light from the kitchen window brightening the dew upon them into crystal drops! The very tranquillity soothed the disturbed man before he entered the porch."I wonder if it'll ever be the same again when she is gone," he said, speaking his thoughts aloud, and drawing the hand that had struck down young Storms across his eyes. "No, no; I must not expect that."CHAPTER XIX.FATHER AND DAUGHTER.RUTHdid not come forth to receive her father. This was strange, for a trip to London, with these simple people, was a great event, and it seemed to Jessup as if he had been gone a year.When he entered the kitchen, Ruth was busy at the table moving the dishes with unsteady hands; but when he spoke, she came forward with breathless eagerness, and made herself very busy taking off his dusty things, which she shook, and folded with wonderful care.Spite of his utter disbelief in the coarse accusations made by Storms in the park, Jessup watched his daughter anxiously. It seemed to him that she looked paler than usual, and that all her movements were suspiciously restless. Besides this, he observed, with a sinking heart, that her eyes never once met his with their own frank smile.Could it be that there was some shadow of truth in what Storms had said? He would not believe it."Come, father, the posset is ready. I have been keeping it warm."Ruth stood on the hearth then, with the antique silver posset-cup, which had been his grandmother's, in her hand. The firelight was full upon her, concealing the pallor of her face with its golden flicker. Surely there could be nothing wrong under that sweet look.The gardener gave a great sigh of relief as he accepted this thought, and his anger toward Dick Storms grew deep and bitter."Come, lass," he said, with more than usual affection, "sit down here by my side. The posset is rare and good; while I eat it, you shall tell me of all that has been done since I went away."All that had been done since he went away! Would Ruth ever dare to tell her father that? The very thought sent up a rush of blood to her face."Oh, father! there is little to be done when you are away. I did not even care to cook my own supper.""Ah! well, take it now, child," said the good man, pouring half his warm posset into an old china bowl, and pushing it toward her."No, no, father, I am not hungry. I think the cooking of food takes away one's appetite.""Nay, eat. It is lonesome work, with no one to help me," said the father, who certainly had no cause to complain of his own appetite. Ruth stirred the posset languidly with her spoon, and strove to swallow a little; but the effort almost choked her. It might be fancy; but she could not help thinking that her father was furtively regarding her all the time, and the idea filled her with dismay.Something of the same feeling possessed her father. Inherent kindness made him peculiarly sensitive, and he did not know how to question his daughter of the things that disturbed him, without wounding her and himself too.In this perplexity, he ate with that ravenous haste which sometimes springs from an unconsciousness of what we are doing when under the pressure of great mental excitement. He was astonished when his spoon scraped on the bottom of that silver posset-cup. He sat for a moment embarrassed and uncertain how to begin. Where the feelings of his daughter were concerned, Jessup was a coward; to him she had been, from her very babyhood, a creature to worship and care for with a sort of tender reverence. So, with cowardice born of too much love, he thought to cheat himself, and bade her bring the little carpet-bag that had been his companion to London, and which he had dropped near the door.Ruth, glad of anything that promised to distract her mind from its anxieties, brought the bag, and stood over her father while he unlocked it."See, child," he said, taking out a parcel done up in filmy paper, "I have brought some fill-falls from London, thinking my lass would be glad of them. Look, now!"Here Jessup unrolled a ribbon, which streamed half across the room, as he shook out its scarlet waves."Isn't that something like, now?""Oh, it is beautiful!" cried the girl, with true feminine delight. "My dear, dear father!""I remembered—but no matter about that. My little Ruth is like a rose, and must have color like one. See what I have brought to go with the ribbon.""White muslin," cried Ruth, in an ecstasy of delight. "Fine enough for the Lady Rose. How beautifully thescarlet sash will loop it up! Oh, father, who told you how well these things would go together?""I guessed it one day when the Lady Rose came here with a lot of stuff like that, puffed and looped with a ribbon bright as the field-poppies about her. You didn't know then, my lass, that your father felt like crying too, when he saw tears in his child's eyes, because she craved a fine dress and bonny colors for herself, and never thought to get it. There, now, you must get the best seamstress in the village to make it.""No, no! I will make it with my own hands. Oh, father! father! how good, how kind you are!"Dropping the sash and the muslin from her hold, Ruth threw her arms around Jessup's neck, and, bursting into tears, laid her head upon his shoulder."So, so! That will never do," cried the kind-hearted man, smoothing the girl's hair with his great hand, tenderly, as if he were afraid his very fondness might hurt her. "If you cry so, I shall turn the key, and lock all the other things up."Ruth lifted her sweet face, all bedewed with penitent tears, and laid it close to the weather-beaten cheek of the man."Oh, father! don't be so good to me! It breaks my heart!"Jessup took her face between his hands, and kissed it on the forehead, then pushed her pleasantly on one side, and thrust his hand into the bag again. This time it was drawn forth with a pretty pair of high-heeled boots, all stitched with silk, and circled about the ankles with a wreath of exquisite embroidery."There, now, we will leave the rest till to-morrow," he said, closing the box with a mysterious look. "Only say that you are pleased with these.""Pleased! Oh, father, it is the dress of a lady!""Well, even so. One day my Ruth may be next door to that," said Jessup, putting forth all his affectionate craft. "Farmer Storms is a warm man, and Dick is his only son. It is the lad's own right if he sometimes brings his gun and shoots our game—his father has an interest in it, you know. The master has no right over his farm, and birds swarm there."Jessup stopped suddenly, for Ruth stood before him white and still as marble, the ribbon which she had taken from the floor streaming from her hand in vivid contrast with the swift pallor that had settled upon her."Lass! Ruth, I say! What has come over you?" cried out the gardener, in alarm. "What have I done to make you turn so white all in a minute?""Done! Nothing, father—nothing!" gasped the girl."But you are ill!""Yes, a little; but nothing to—to trouble you so."Ruth stood a moment after this, with one hand on her temple, then she turned, with a show of strength, to her father."What were you saying just now about farmer Storms, and—and his son? I don't think I quite understood, did I?"Jessup was now almost as white as his daughter. Her emotion kindled up a gleam of suspicion, which had hung about him in spite of himself, though he had left Richard Storms prostrate across the forest path for having inspired it."Ruth, has not Dick Storms told you to-night that both he and his father are getting impatient to have you at the farm?" he questioned, in a low voice."Dick—Dick Storms, father!""I ask you, Ruth. Has he been here, and did he tell you?""He was here, father," faltered the girl."And he asked you?""He asked me to be his wife," answered the girl, with a shudder."Well!""His wife at once; and you promised that he should not come until I was better prepared. Oh, father, it was cruel. He seemed to take it for granted that I must be whatever he wished.""That was ill-timed; but Dick has been kept back, and he is so fond of you, Ruth.""Fond of me? Of me? No, no! The thought is awful.""It was his loving impatience that broke forth at the wrong time. Nothing could be worse; but you were not very harsh with him, Ruth?""I could not help it, father, he was so rude.""Hang the fellow! I hope he won't get over the buffet I gave him in one while. The fool should have known better than treat my daughter with so little ceremony. She is of a daintier sort than he often mates with. He deserves all he has gotten from her and from me."While these thoughts were troubling Jessup's mind, Ruth stood before him with tears swelling under her eyelids, till the long, black lashes were heavy with them. They touched the father's heart."Don't fret, child. A few hasty words in answer to over rough wooing can easily be made up for. The young man was sorely put about; but I rated him soundly for coming here when I was away. He will think twice before he does it again.""He must never do it again. Never—never!" cried Ruth, desperately. "See to that, father. He never must.""Ruth!""Oh, father, do not ask me ever to see this man again. I cannot—I cannot!""Hush, child—hush! It is only a quarrel, which must not break the compact of a lifetime. Till now, you and Dick have always been good friends.""Have we? I don't know. Not lately, I'm sure; and we never, never can be anything like friends again.""Ruth!"The girl lifted her great wild eyes to her father, and dropped them again. She was too much terrified for tears now."Ruth, was any person here to-night beyond Dick?"The girl did not answer. She seemed turning to stone. Her silence irritated the poor man, who stood watching like a criminal for her reply. He spoke more sharply."Did you hear me, Ruth?""Yes, I hear.""I asked if any one was here besides Dick?""Yes."Jessup could hardly hear this little word as it dropped painfully from those white lips; but he understood it; and spoke again."Who was it, Ruth?""Young Mr. Hurst.""He was here, then. What brought him?""He came—he came—""Well!""He did not tell me why he came, father. It was all too sudden; and he was very angry.""Too sudden? Angry? How?""Dick Storms frightened me so, and Mr. Hurst saw it, just as he came in. I could have struck him myself, father!" cried the girl, and her pale face flamed up with a remembrance of the indignity offered her.Jessup clenched his fist."Why, what did the young man do?""He would not believe that his offer was hateful to me, and—and acted as if I had said yes.""I understand. The idiot! But he must have been drinking, Ruth.""I don't know, and I only hope you will never let him come here again.""But he will be sorry, Ruth. You must not be too hard on the young fellow.""Hard upon him? Oh, father!""He has had a tough lesson. But young Hurst—what did he do?""I can hardly tell you, it was so sudden and violent. All in a minute Dick was hurled against the wall, and through the door. Then there was a struggle, deep, hoarse words, and Dick was gone.""Was that all?""Yes, all that passed between Mr. Hurst and Dick. There was no time for talking.""And after that?""I don't know what Dick did.""But Mr. Hurst?""He—he stayed a while. I was so frightened, so—""Ah, he stayed a while. That was kind.""Very kind, father!""Ruth," said the gardener, struggling with himself to speak firmly, and yet with kindness, "there was somethingmore. After Dick left, or before that, did Mr. Hurst—that is, were you more forgiving to him than you were to Storms?""I—I do not understand, father."She does understand, thought Jessup, turning his eyes away from her burning face, heart-sick with apprehension. Then he nerved himself, and spoke again."Ruth, I met Dick in the park, and he made a strange charge against you.""Against me!""He says that insults greater than he would have dared to offer, but for which he was kicked from my door, were forgiven to young Mr. Hurst. Nay, that you encouraged them.""And you believed this, father?" questioned the girl, turning her eyes full upon those that were searching her face with such questioning anxiety."No, Ruth, I did not want to believe him; but how happened it that the young master came here so late at night?""Oh, father! Why do you question me so sharply?"The panic that whitened Ruth's face, the terror that shook her voice, gave force to the suspicion that poor man had been trying so hard to quench. It stung him like a serpent now, and he started up, exclaiming:"With one or the other, there is an account to be settled before I sleep."William Jessup seized his cap and went out into the park, leaving Ruth breathless with astonishment. She stole to the window, and looked after him, seized with uncontrollable dread. How long she sat there Ruth could never tell; but after a while, the stillness of the night was broken by the sharp report of a gun.CHAPTER XX.THE TWO THAT LOVED HIM.ACROSSone of the moonlit paths of the park lay the form of a man, with his face turned upward, white and still as the moonbeams that fell upon it. A little way farther on, where the great boughs of a cedar of Lebanon flung mighty shadows on the forest sward, another figure lay, scarcely perceptible in the darkness, of which it seemed only a denser part. Between the two, some rays of light struck obliquely on the lock of a gun, which was half buried in dewy fern-leaves.One sharp crack of that rifle had rung through the stillness of the night. Two men had fallen, and then the same sweet, calm repose settled on the park. But it was only for a minute.Scarcely had the sound reached the gardener's cottage, when the door flew open, and dashing out through the porch came a young girl, white with fear, and wild with a terrible desire to know the worst. She had given one look behind the entrance-door as she fled through it, and saw that the gun which Richard Storms had left there was gone. She had seen it since he went, and its absence turned her fears to a panic.Through a window of the drawing-room, up at "Norston's Rest," another figure rushed in wild haste. She ran blindly against one of the great marble vases on the terrace, and shook the sweet masses of dew-laden foliage till they rained a storm of drops upon her bare arms and soft floating garments.For a moment Lady Rose, for it was she, leaned againstthe marble, stunned and bewildered. The shot she had heard in the depths of the park had pierced her heart with a terrible fear.Then she knew that, for a time, the music within had ceased, and that the company would be swarming that way, to irritate her by questions that would be a cruel annoyance while the sound of that shot was ringing in her ears.Swift as lightning, wild as a night-hawk, the girl darted away from the vase, leaving a handful of gossamer lace among the thorns of the roses, and fled down the steps. She took no path, but, guided by that one sound, dashed through the flower-beds, heedless that her satin boots sunk into the moist mould, wetting her feet at every step; heedless that her cloud-like dress trailed over grass and ferns, gathering up dew like rain; heedless of everything but that one fearful thought—some one was killed! Was it Walton Hurst?Lady Rose was in the woods, rushing forward blindly, but jealous distrust had taught her the way to the cottage, and she went in that direction straight as an arrow from the bow, and wild as the bird it strikes. Coming out from the shadow of some great spreading cedar trees, she saw lying there in the path a man—a white, still face—his face.It seemed to her that the shriek which tore her heart rang fearfully through the woods, but it had died on her lips, and gave forth no sound, only freezing them to ice as she crept toward the prostrate man, and laid her face to his."Oh, Walton! Oh, my beloved, speak to me! Only breathe once, that I may hear. Move only a little. Stir your hand. Don't—don't let the moonlight look into your eyes so! Walton, Walton!"She laid her cold, white hand over the wide-open eyes of the man as he lay there, so stiff and ghastly, in the moonlight. She turned his head aside, and hid those eyes in her bosom, in which the ice seemed to melt and cast off tears. She looked around for help, yet was afraid that some one might come and rob her. She had found him; he was there in her arms. If one life could save another, she would save him. Was she not armed with the mightiest of all earthly power—great human love?Wild, half-frightened by the impulse that was upon her, the girl looked to the right and left as if she feared the very moonlight would scoff at her. Then, with timid hesitation, her lips sought the white mouth of the prostrate man, but her breath was checked with a shrinking sob. The cold touch terrified her.Was he dead?No, no! She would not believe that. There was no sign of violence upon his face; a still whiteness, like death, a fixed look in the open eyes; but the moisture that lay around him was only dew. She bathed her hand in it and held the trembling fingers up to the light, to make sure of that; and with the conviction came a great sob of relief, which broke into a wild, glad cry, for a flicker of shade seemed to tremble over that face, and the eyes slowly closed."Oh, my God be thanked! he is alive! My darling! Oh, my darling!""Hush!" cried another voice, at her side.A shadow had fallen athwart the kneeling girl, and another face, more wildly pale, more keenly disturbed with anguish, looked down upon the prostrate man, and the young creature who crouched and trembled by his side."Look up, woman, and let me see your face," said Ruth Jessup, in a voice that scarcely rose above a whisper, though it was strong in command.Lady Rose drew herself up, and lifted her piteous face as if appealing for compassion."You!" exclaimed Ruth."Yes, Ruth Jessup, it is I, Lady Rose. We will not be angry with each other, now that he is dead.""Dead!" repeated Ruth, "and you the first by his side? Dead? Oh, my God! my God! Has our sin blasted us both?"Down upon the earth this poor girl sunk, wringing her hands in an agony of distress. Still Lady Rose looked at her with touching appeal. She had not comprehended the full force of Ruth's speech, though the words rested in her brain long after."Lay your hand on his heart," she said. "I—I dare not."Ruth smiled a wan smile, colder than tears; still there was a faint gleam of triumph in it."No!" she said. "You should not dare."Then the girl thrust her trembling hand down to the bosom her head had so lately rested upon, and leaning forward, held her breath, while Lady Rose eagerly searched her features in the moonlight."Is—is there nothing?" she whispered.Ruth could not answer. Her hand shook so fearfully, that its sense of touch was overwhelmed."Oh, speak to me!""Hush! I shake so! I shake so!"Lady Rose bent her head and waited. At last a deep, long breath broke from Ruth, and a flash of fire shot from her eyes."Give me your hand; I dare not trust myself," she whispered.Seizing the hand which lay helplessly in Lady Rose's lap, she pressed it over the heart her own had been searching, and fixed her eager eyes on the lady's face for an answer.As a faint fire kindles slowly, that fair face brightened till it shone like a lily in the moonlight. As Ruth looked, she saw a scarcely perceptible smile stealing over it. Then the lips parted, and a heavy sigh broke through."Is it life?" whispered Ruth. "Tell me, is it life?"Lady Rose withdrew her hand."Yes, faint. Oh! so faint, but life."Then both these girls broke into a swift passion of tears, and clung together, uttering soft, broken words of thanksgiving. Ruth was the first to start from this sweet trance of gratitude."What can we do? He must be carried to the house. Ho, father! father!"She ran up and down the path, crying out wildly, but no answer came. The stillness struck her with new dread. Where was her father, that he could not hear her cries? Who had done this thing! Could it be he?"No, no!—a thousand times, no! But then—"She went back to Lady Rose, whose hand had nestled back to that poor, struggling heart."Couldn't we carry him, you and I? We must have help," Ruth said, a little sharply, for the position of the lady stung her.The question surprised Lady Rose; for never in her life had she been called upon to make an exertion. Butshe started to her feet and flung back the draperies from her arms."Yes, he might die here. Let us save him. 'The Rest' is not so far off.""'The Rest?' No, no; our cottage is nearest. He might die before we could get him to 'The Rest.' My father will be there. Oh, I am sure my father will be there!"Ruth spoke eagerly, as if some one had disputed her."He will be coming this way," she added, "and so help us. Come, come, let us try!"Before the two girls could test their strength, footsteps were heard coming along the path."It is my father. Oh, now he can be carried to the cottage in safety."CHAPTER XXI.BOTH HUSBAND AND FATHER.THEtwo girls stood up and listened. The footsteps came forward swiftly, and with a light touch of the ground; too light, Ruth felt, with a sinking heart, for the heavy tread of her father. She had not the courage to cry out now. It seemed as if some one were coming to take that precious charge from her forever. This fear broke into a faint exclamation when she saw Sir Noel Hurst coming toward them more swiftly than she had ever seen him walk before. Without uttering a word, he came up to where the young man was lying, and bent over him in dead silence, as if unconscious that any other human being was near."He is not dead! Oh, Sir Noel, his heart beats. Don't—don't look so! He is not dead!""Lady Rose," said the baronet, "you heard—"The lady shrank back, and faltered out—"Yes; I heard a shot, and it frightened me."The baronet made no answer, but bent over his son. The faint signs of life that Lady Rose had discovered were imperceptible to him. But habitual self-command kept his anguish down, and in a low, grave voice, he bade Ruth, whose presence he had not otherwise noticed, run to the mansion, and call help at once.Ruth obeyed. Her nearest path led under the great cedar trees, where the blackest shadows fell, and she darted that way with a swift step that soon carried her into the darkness. But all at once came a cry out from the gloom, so sharp, so full of agony, that Sir Noel started up, and turned to learn the cause.It came in an instant, out from the blackness of the cedars; for there Ruth appeared on the edge of the moonlight, pallid, dumb, shivering, with her face half averted, waving her hand back to the shadow."What is it? What has frightened you so?" he said."Look! look! I cannot see his face; but I know—I know!" she gasped, retreating into the darkness.Sir Noel followed her, and there, lying as it seemed on a pall flung downward by the huge trees, lay the body of a man perfectly motionless."My father! Oh, my poor father!" cried the girl, falling down among the shadows, as if she sought to engulf herself in mourning."Be quiet, child. It may not be your father," said the baronet, still controlling himself into comparative calmness.Ruth arose in the darkness, and crept toward the body. Her hand touched the hard, open palm that lay upon the moss where it had fallen. She knew the touch, and clung to it, sobbing piteously."Let me go and call help," said Lady Rose, coming toward the cedars."No," answered Sir Noel. "That must not be. This is no place for Lady Rose Hubert. The poor girl yonder has lost all her strength; it is her father, I greatly fear. Stay by him until you see lights, or know that help is coming. Then retire to the gardener's cottage. We must have no careless tongues busy with your name, Lady Rose."Sir Noel strove to speak with calmness; but a shiver ran through his voice. He broke off abruptly, and, turning down the nearest path, walked toward "The Rest."Meantime, there was bitter sorrow under the great cedar trees; low, pitiful moaning, and the murmurs of a young creature, smitten to the heart with a consciousness that the awful scene, with its train of consequences, had been her own work. She crept close to the man, afraid to touch him with her guilty fingers, but, urged on by a faint hope that he was not quite dead, she felt, with horror, that there was something heavier than dew on the bed of moss where he lay, and that for every drop of her father's blood she was responsible. Still she crept close to him, and at last laid both hands upon his shoulder. There was a vague motion under her hands, as if a wince of pain made the flesh quiver."Oh, if some one would help me. What can I do! What can I do!" she moaned, striving to pierce the darkness with her eyes. "Oh, father! father!""Ruth!"The sound of that name was not louder than a breath of summer wind; but the girl heard it, and fell upon her face, prostrated by a great flood of thankfulness. She had not killed him; he was alive. He had spoken her name.Directly the sound of voices swept that way, and the great cedar trees were reddened with a glare of torches, and a streaming light from lanterns. Then Lady Rose, who had been sitting upon the ground with Walton Hurst's head resting on her lap, bent down softly, kissed the white forehead, and stole away from all traces of light. Sir Noel had been thoughtful for her. She could not have borne that the eyes of those menial helpers, or their masters either, should see her ministering to a man who, perhaps, would hold her care, as he might her love, in careless indifference.Yes, Sir Noel was right. She must not be found there.Down through the trees she went, looking wistfully back at the figure left alone in the moonlight, tempted to return and brave everything, rather than leave him alone. But the torches came up fast and redly, hushed voices broke the stillness that had seemed so deathlike, and, envying that other girl, who was permitted to remain, the lady stole toward the cottage, and sinking down upon the porch, listened to the far-off tumult with a dull pain of the heart which death itself could hardly have intensified.It was well that Lady Rose had fled from the path, along which some thirty men were coming—gentlemen in evening dress, gamekeepers and grooms, all moving under the torch-light, like a funeral procession.With the tenderness of women, and the strength of men, they lifted Walton Hurst from the ground, and bore him toward the house. Ruth rose up in the darkness of the cedars, and saw him drifting away from her, with the red light of the torches streaming over the whiteness of his face, and then fell down by her father, moaning piteously.By-and-by the torch-lights flashed and flamed under the cedars, lighting up their great, drooping branches, like a tent under which a wounded or perchance dead man was lying prone upon his back, with his strong arms flung out, and a slow ripple of blood flowing from his chest.The torch-bearers took little heed of the poor girl, who had crept so close to her father that her garments were red with his blood, but lifted the body up with less reverential care than had marked the removal of the young master, but still not unkindly, and bore it away toward the house. Ruth arose, worn out with anguish, and followed in silence, wondering that she was alive to bear all this sorrow.It seemed to Lady Rose that hours and hours had passed since she had sheltered her misery in that low porch, and this was true, if time can be measured by feeling. It was even a relief when she saw that little group of menials bearing the form of the gardener along the forest-path, which was slowly reddened by lanterns and half-extinguished torches. In the midst of this weird scene came Ruth Jessup, holding fast to her father's hand, with her pallid face bowed down, creeping, as it were, along the way, as if all life had been smitten from her.A sort of painful pity seized upon Lady Rose, as she saw this procession bearing down upon the cottage. Shecould not look upon that poor girl without a sensation of shrinking dislike. Had not Hurst been on his way to her when he met with this evil fate? Had he not almost fled from her own presence to visit this beautiful rustic, whose desolation seemed so complete? Yes, she pitied the poor young thing; what woman could help it? But, underlying the pity, was a feeling of subdued triumph, that only one wounded man was coming that way.All at once the girl started from her seat."They must not find me," she thought. "Sir Noel did not think of this when he bade me seek shelter here. I will go! I will go!"CHAPTER XXII.WAS IT LIFE OR DEATH?JUSTas the lights crept up to the front paling, and began to cast a glow on the flowers inside, Lady Rose stole out from the porch, threaded a lilac thicket, which lay near a back gate, and let herself into a portion of the park which was strange to her. For a while she stood bewildered, not knowing the direction she ought to take. Then a flash of distant lights, shooting through the trees, revealed the position in which "The Rest" lay from the cottage; and taking the very path Ruth had sought in the morning, she hurried along it, so sheltered by the overhanging trees, that she might have passed unobserved, but for the flutter of her garments, and the glint of her jewels, as the moonbeam struck them now and then, in her progress."Does he breathe yet? Will the motion put out that one spark of life, before he reaches home? Shall I never see him again?"The thought gave a wild, abnormal strength to the girl. She no longer felt fatigue. The faint dread at her heart was swept away with a more powerful force of suffering. She must know for herself.Swiftly as these thoughts swept through her brain, they scarcely matched the speed of her movements. Gathering up the long skirts that encumbered her feet, she fairly flew along the path, panting with impatience rather than fear, as each step brought her closer to those lighted windows. All at once she sprang aside with a sharp cry, and turned, like an animal at bay, for, in a dark hollow, into which the path dipped, the figure of a man stopped her.The shriek that broke from Lady Rose seemed to exasperate the black shadow, which had a man's form, that moved heavily. This was all the frightened girl could see; but, in an instant, a low, hoarse voice broke from it, and her hand was seized with a fierce grasp."So you have found it out. So much the better. Both down, and one answerable for the other. Famous end to a day's sweethearting, isn't it?""What is this? What do you mean? Take your hand from my wrist," cried the lady, in sharp alarm."Not so easy, my lady, that would be. Some things are sweeter than revenge, though that tastes rarely, when one gets a full cup. I thought you would be coming this way, and waited to meet you.""Meet me? For what?" faltered the lady, shivering."Oh, no wonder your voice shakes, till one hardly knows it again," answered the man. "If anything can drive the heart back from your throat, it might be thegrip of my hand on your arm. You never felt it so heavy before, did you, now? Can you guess what it means?""It means that you are a ruffian—a robber, perhaps, no matter which. Only let me go!""A ruffian! Oh, yes; I think you said that once before; but I warn you. Such words cut deep, and work themselves out in an ugly way. Don't attempt to use them again, especially here. It isn't a safe spot; and just now I ain't a safe man to sneer at.""Why do you threaten me? What have I done to earn your ill-will?" faltered the lady, shuddering; for the man had drawn so close to her as he spoke, that his breath swept with sickening volume across her face, and his hand clinched her wrist like a vice."What have you done? Ha! ha! How innocent she is! How daintily she speaks to the ruffian—the robber!""I was rash to call you so; but—but you frightened me.""Oh, yes, I am always frightening you. A kiss from me is worse than a bullet from some one we know of.""Hush, sir! I cannot bear this!""Don't I know that you could bear me well enough, till he came along with his silky beard and soft speech? Then I became a ruffian—a robber. Well, now, what you wouldn't give at any price, I mean to take.""There is no need. I give them to you freely. Unclasp the bracelet. It is heavy with jewels. Then free my hand, and I will take the locket from my neck. Trust me; I will keep nothing back.""Bracelets, lockets, jewels! What are you thinking of? Dash me, but I think you have gone crazy. Undoyour bracelet, indeed. When did you come by one, I should like to know?""It is on my wrist. Oh, if a ray of moonlight could only strike down here.""On your wrist? What, this heavy shackle? Stay, stay! How soft your hand is. Your dress rustles like silk. Your voice has changed. Woman, who are you?""Take the jewels. Oh, for pity's sake, unlock them, and let me go."The hand that held that delicate wrist so firmly dropped it, the dark body swerved aside, and Richard Storms plunged down the path. Swift as a lapwing Lady Rose sped up the hill through the shrubberies, nearest "The Rest," and at last stood panting within the shadows of the terrace, where a solitary man was walking up and down with mournful slowness."It is Sir Noel," she said, as the moonlight fell on his white face. "God help us! It looks as if he had been with death!"Gliding noiselessly up the steps, Lady Rose met the baronet as he turned in his walk."Tell me! oh, tell me!" she faltered, coming close to him, and breaking off in her speech."He is alive, my child.""Ah!""The doctors are with him now.""So soon—so soon!" exclaimed the lady, seizing upon a desperate hope from the doctor's presence."I came out here for breath. It was so close in the rooms," said the baronet, gently.Lady Rose glanced at the house. It was still brilliantly lighted. The windows were all open, and a soft breeze was playing with the frost-like curtains, just as ithad when she heard that shot, and fled down the terrace. The music was hushed, and the rooms were almost empty; that was all the change that appeared to her. Yet it seemed as if years had passed since she stood on that terrace."But we shall hear soon. Oh, tell me!""Yes, my child. They know that I am waiting."The baronet strove to speak calmly, for the suppression of strong feeling had been the education of his life; but his voice shook, and he turned his head aside, to avoid the piteous glance of those great, blue eyes that were so full of tears."Go—go up to your room, Lady Rose," said the baronet, after a moment's severe struggle with himself. "In my selfish grief I had forgotten everything. Was Jessup alive when he reached the cottage?""I—I think so; but there came so many with him that I escaped through the shrubberies.""And came here alone. That was brave; that was wise. At least, we must save you from the horrors of to-night, let the result be what it may."Lady Rose uttered a faint moan, and the tears grew hot under her drooping eyelids."If it goes ill with him, I do not wish to be spared. Pain will seem natural to me then," she said, shivering.The baronet took her hand in his own; both were cold as ice; so were the lips that touched her fingers."You will let me stay until we hear something?" she pleaded.Just then she stood within the light which fell from one of the tall windows, and all the disarray of her dress was clearly betrayed: the trailing azure of her train soiled with earth and wet with dew; the gossamer lace torn inshreds, the ringlets of her thick, rich hair falling in damp masses around her. Surely that was no figure to present before his critical guests. They must not know how this fair girl suffered. There should be no wounds to her maidenly pride that he could spare her.These thoughts drew the baronet partially from himself. It was a relief to have something to care for. At this moment, when all his nerves were quivering with dread, the sweet, sad sympathy of this fair girl was a support to him. He did not wish to part with her now, that she so completely shared the misery of his suspense."You are shivering; you are cold!" he said."No, no; it is not that.""I know—I know!"He dropped her hand and went into the great, open hall, where bronze statues in armor, life-sized, held lights on the points of their spears, as if on guard. Some lady had flung her shawl across the arm of one of these noble ornaments, where it fell in waves of rich coloring to the marble floor. Sir Noel seized upon this and wrapped the Lady Rose in its loose folds from head to foot. Then he drew her to a side of the terrace, where the two stood, minute after minute, waiting in silence. Once the baronet spoke."The windows of his room are just above us," he said. "I thought perhaps we might hear something.""Ah me! How still they are!" sighed the girl, looking upward."We could not hear. No, no, we could not hear. The sashes are all closed," answered the baronet, sharply, for he felt the fear her words implied.Rose drew close to her companion."I did not mean that. I only thought—""They are coming."The baronet spoke in a whisper, but did not move. He shrunk now from hearing the news so impatiently waited for a moment before.A servant came through the hall, and rushed toward his master."Sir Noel, they are waiting for you in the small drawing-room."The baronet hesitated. His lips were striving to frame a question which the man read in the wild eyes fixed on his."He is alive, Sir Noel. I know that."The father drew a deep, deep breath. The claw of some fierce bird of prey seemed loosened from his heart; a flood of gentle pity for the fair girl, who dared not even look her anxiety, detained him another moment."Go into the library. I will bring you news," he said.CHAPTER XXIII.BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH.LADY ROSEwatched the master and servant as they went into the hall; then, gliding through one of the open windows, stole into the library, where she walked up and down, up and down, until it seemed as if she had travelled leagues on leagues, but could not stop.The baronet came at last, looking calmer and more self-possessed, but still very pale.Lady Rose came up to him, looking the question she could not ask."It is not death as yet," he said."But, tell me—oh! tell me, is there danger?""Great danger, the doctors think; all the more because they can find no wound.""No wound! But that shot! that shot!"The baronet shook his head."It is all a mystery as yet.""But if he is not wounded?""There has been a fall—a blow; something which threatens congestion of the brain.""But if the other, Jessup, is shot. I heard the report from the terrace.""And I from the woods. But let us say nothing of this—think nothing, if we can help it," said the baronet."If we can help it! Ah! me.""The surgeons have gone over to Jessup's cottage. He may be able to speak. I will go with them."Lady Rose looked up eagerly."And he?""Must be kept perfectly quiet. My man is with him.""Have you seen him? Is it certain that he breathes?""I have seen him only for a moment. He was breathing, but very feebly," answered the baronet."Ah! that poor white face! I shall never forget it," answered Rose, covering her eyes with both hands. "His eyes so wide open! Oh, how they frightened me!""They are closed now, and he lies there quiet as a child. There is some burden upon the brain.""But the doctors, how can they leave him? He might die.""It is only long enough to visit Jessup. He is wounded badly, the people say who took him home.""Yes, I know. I heard them speaking of blood on the grass as they came up. Of—of course, the doctors must go to him—and you; it is but right."A strange resolve had suddenly flashed into her thoughts."You will go to your room now, Lady Rose. It is long after midnight," said the baronet, as he opened a door leading to the hall."No, Sir Noel; I could not sleep; I could not breathe under all this uncertainty. You will find me here, with your news, good or bad. It would be like shutting myself in a prison cell if I went to my room now.""As you wish. I will not be gone long," answered the baronet.Lady Rose stood in the middle of the library, listening, until Sir Noel's footsteps died out on the terrace; then she stole into the hall and mounted the stairs, holding her breath as she went.In her dressing-room she found a woman leaning back in an easy-chair, who had fallen into a restless sleep."Hipple, Hipple!" said Lady Rose, under her breath. "Do wake up."The thin little shadow of a woman opened two black eyes, and thrust up her shoulders with a sleepy protest."Mrs. Hipple, Hipple! always Mrs. Hipple, sleeping or waking. Well, what is it now, my lady?""Get up, that is a good soul. I know that you have been kept out of your bed, cruelly, but I want you so much.""Well, well, lady-bird, what is it all about? Of course, you want me. That is what you always were doing as a child. Oh, well, one is something older now, and that makes a difference."While the sleepy woman was uttering this half-protest, Lady Rose was arranging the cap, that had been crushed on one side as she slept, and gently shaking off the sleep which threatened to renew itself in soft grumbles."There, now, everything is set to rights, and you look wide awake.""Of course, I am wide awake; I, who never sleep, though you dance away the hours till morning," answered the little lady, testily."But I have not been dancing to-night, Hipple; far from it. Something dreadful has happened.""Dreadful! Lady Rose, do speak out. My heart is rising into my mouth.""Mr. Walton Hurst has been hurt.""Hurt! My poor, dear child. Oh, now I know why you came to me gasping for breath.""He is very ill—quite insensible, in his room over yonder, with no one to take care of him but Sir Noel's man.""Who knows nothing.""Who might let him die, you know, while the doctors are away. I am so troubled about it.""Well, what shall I do? Of course Webb isn't to be trusted.""Just step in and offer to take his place, while he goes down to the gardener's cottage and inquires about Jessup, who is hurt also.""Jessup hurt! What right had he to take the same night of the young gentleman's misfortune, for his poor trouble, I should like to know," exclaimed the old lady, resentfully. "It is taking a great liberty, I can tell him.""Still, he is hurt, and I want to hear about it, if you can only get Webb to go.""Can! He shall!""He will trust Mr. Hurst with you!""Of course. Who doubts that?""And then—"Lady Rose faltered, and a faint streak of carmine shot across her forehead."Well, what then, lady-bird? something chokes in your throat. What am I to do then?""Perhaps, you would let me come in, just for a moment.""Oh-h! But don't—don't. I cannot see your pretty lip quivering so! There—there. I understand it all now!""And you will?""When did Hipple ever say no? Is she likely to begin now, when rain is getting under those eyelids? Sit down a minute, and take comfort. Things must be amiss indeed if the old woman can't set them right."Gently forcing her young mistress into the easy-chair, the faithful old companion left the room, swift as a bird, and noiseless as a mouse. Directly she came back, and beckoned with her finger through the open door."He has gone. I frightened him about his master. Come!"Lady Rose was at the door in an instant. The next she stood in the midst of a large chamber, in the centre of which was a huge high-posted bedstead of carved ebony, shrouded by a torrent of lace and damask, on which the shaded light fell like the glow of rubies. Shrinking behind these curtains, which were drawn back at the head in gorgeous masses, Lady Rose looked timidly upon the form that lay prostrate there, afraid of the death signs which might be written upon it.Walton Hurst was deadly pale yet; but the locked features had relaxed a little, the limbs were outlined less rigidly under the snow-white counterpane than they had been upon the forest path. There was a faint stir of breath about the chest also; but for this the intense stillness in which he lay would have been horrible.As she gazed, holding her own breath that she might listen for his, her hand was touched softly by lips that seemed to be whispering a prayer or blessing, and Mrs. Hipple stole from the room.Lady Rose was alone with the man she loved better than anything on earth, and the solitude made her tremble, as if she were committing a crime. She dared not move, or scarcely breathe. What if he were to open his eyes and discover her! Then she could only wish to die of the shame she had brought upon herself.Still the girl was fascinated. The way of retreat was before her, but she would not take it. Perhaps this was the only time she might hope to see him upon earth. Was she to cast this precious opportunity away? He stirred a little. It was nothing but a faint shiver of the limbs; but that was enough to startle her. Then a shadow seemed to flit across his features. His eyes opened, and were fixed upon her with a blank, unquestioning look.Lady Rose could not help the words that sprang to her lips."Are you better? Ah, tell me that you are better."A faint gleam of intelligence came into the eyes she no longer sought to evade, and the lips moved a little, as if something heavier than a breath were disturbing them."Can you speak? Do you know me?"Some unintelligible words were broken on the invalid's lips."Do you want anything?""No. I—I—"Here the man's feeble speech broke off, and his head moved restlessly on the pillow. Lady Rose leaned over him. Her soul was craving one word of recognition."Try and say if you know me," she whispered, too eager for any thought of the fear that had possessed her."Oh, yes, I know. Only the name. I never mention that—never!""But why? Is it hateful to you?""Hateful! No, no! Don't you know that?"Rose could not resist the temptation, but touched his forehead with her hand. A ghostly little smile crept over his mouth, which was half-concealed by a wave of the silken beard that had drifted across it. She longed to know if it was a smile or a tremor of light from the shaded lamp, and softly smoothed the beard away. As she did so, a faint kiss was left upon her hand. She drew it back with a sob of delight so exquisite that it made her feel faint."He knows me. With his poor, feeble breath he has kissed my hand." This thought was like rare old wine to the girl; she felt its glow in every pulse of her being. With that precious kiss on her palm, she drew back among the curtains, and gathered it into her heart, pressing her lips where his had been, as children hide away to eat their stolen fruit.Then she grew ashamed of her own happiness, and came into sight again. Hurst was apparently asleep then. His eyes were closed; but low murmurs broke from him, now and then, as if he were toiling through some dream. The girl bent her head to listen. The hunger of a loving heart made her insatiable."Here—here with me! Then all is well! Dreams haunt one: but what are dreams? Her hand was on my mouth. I felt her breath. No harm has come to her. Yet, and yet—dreams all!"Here the young man fell into deeper unconsciousness, and his murmurs ceased almost entirely.Some minutes passed, and then the door was swiftly opened, and Mrs. Hipple glided through."My lady! my lady! They are here, mounting the terrace."Lady Rose heard the loud whisper, and fled from the room.
AN ENCOUNTER.
WHENRichard Storms left the gardener's cottage, he dashed like a wild beast into the densest thickets of the forest, and tore his way through toward his own home. It gave him a sort of tigerish pleasure to tear at the thickets with his fierce hands, and trample the forest turf beneath his iron-shod heels, for the rage within him was brutal in its thirst for destruction. All at once he stopped short, seemed to remember something and turned back, plunging along at a heavy but swift pace, now through the shadows, now in the moonlight, unconscious of the quiet beauty of either.
It took him but a brief time to reach the cottage, around which he pondered a while, stealing in and out of the tangled vines which hung in thick draperies around the building. At last Ruth saw his face at the kitchen window, and gave a sharp cry that drove him away, more fiercely wrathful than ever, for he had seen the creature he worshipped after a rude fashion giving caresses to another, that he would have gone on his grovelling knees to have secured to himself.
"Jessup promised my father that I should wed her, and it has come to this," he grumbled fiercely, as if tearing the words between his teeth. "On the night I had set aside to win an answer for myself, the young master hustles me out of the door like a dog, and takes the kennel himself. He thinks I am not man enough to bark back when he kicks me, does he? He shall see! He shall see! Bark! Nay, my fine fellow, it shall bebiting this time. A growl and a snap isn't enough for kicks and blows."
The wrath of this man was less fiery now, but it had taken a stern, solid strength, more dangerous than the first outburst of passion. He sought no particular path as he left the house, but stamped forward with heavy feet, as if he were trampling down something that he hated viciously, now and then gesticulating in the moonlight, till his very shadow seemed to be fighting its way along the turf.
All at once he came upon another man, who had left the great chestnut avenue, and turned into a side path, which led to the gardener's passage. The two men stopped, and one spoke cheerfully.
"Why, good-night, Dick. This is late to be out. Anything going wrong?"
"Wrong!" said the other, hoarsely. "Yes, wrong enough to cost a man his life some day. Go up yonder, and ask your daughter Ruth what it is. She'll tell, no doubt—ask her!"
Richard Storms, after flinging these words at his father's friend, attempted to push by him on the path; but Jessup stood resolutely in his way.
"What is all this, my lad? Nay, now, you haven't been to the cottage while I was away, and frightened the girl about what we were talking of. I should take that unfriendly, Dick. Our Ruth is a bit dainty, and should have had time to think over such matters."
"Dainty! I should think so. She looks high in her sweethearting; I must say that for her."
"What is it you are saying of my daughter?" cried Jessup, doubling his great brown fist, unconsciously.
"I say that a man like me has a chance of gettingmore kicks than kisses when he seeks her," answered Dick, with a sneer.
"And serves him right, if he dared to ask such things of her mother's child," said Jessup, growing angry.
"But what if he only asked, honest fashion, for an honest wife, as I did, and got kicks in return?"
"Kicks! Why, man, who was there to give them, and I away?" questioned the gardener, astonished.
"One who shall pay for it!" was the answer that came hissing through the young man's lips.
"Of course, one don't give kicks and expect farthings back; but who has got up pluck to try this with you, Dick? He must be mad to dare it."
"He is mad!" answered Storms, grinding his teeth. "Mad or not, no man but the master's son would have dared it."
"The master's son! Are you drunk or crazy, Dick Storms?"
"I almost think both. Who can tell?" muttered Dick. "But it's not with drink."
"The master's son! but where—when?"
"At your own house, where he has been more than once, when he thought sure to find Ruth alone."
"Dick Storms, this is a lie."
Dick burst into a hoarse laugh.
"A lie, is it? Go up yonder, now. Walk quick, and you'll see whether it is the truth or not."
Jessup rushed forward a step or two, then came back, as if ashamed of the action.
"Nay, there is no need. I'll not help you belie my own child."
"Belie her, is it? I say, Bill Jessup, not half an hour ago, I saw Ruth, your daughter, with her head onthe young master's bosom, and her mouth red with his kisses. If you don't believe this, go and see for yourself."
The florid face of William Jessup turned to marble in the moonlight, and a fierce, hot flame leaped to his eyes.
"I will not walk a pace quicker, or be made to spy on my girl, by anything you can say, Dick; not if it were to save my own life; but I like you, lad—your father and I are fast friends. We meant that, by-and-by, you and Ruth should come together."
Storms flung up his head with an insulting sneer.
"Together! Not if every hair on her head was weighed down with sovereigns. I am an honest man, William Jessup, and will take an honest woman home to my mother, or take none."
Before the words left his lips, Richard Storms received a blow that sent him with his face upward across the forest path; and William Jessup was walking with great strides toward his own cottage.
It was seldom that Jessup gave way to such passion as had overcome him now, and he had not walked a dozen paces before he regretted it with considerable self-upbraiding.
"The lad is jealous of every one that looks at my lass, and speaks out of range because she is a bit offish with him. Poor darling, she has no mother; and the thought of marrying frightens her. It troubles me, too. Sometimes I feel a spite toward the lad, for wanting to take her from me. It makes me restless to think of it. I wonder if any living man ever gave up his daughter to a sweetheart without a grip of pain at the heart? I think it wasn't so much the mad things he said that made my fist so unmanageable, for that come of too much drink, of course; but since he has begun to press this matter, I'm getting heartsore about losing the girl."
With these thoughts in his mind, Jessup came within sight of his own home, and paused in front of it.
How cool and pleasant it looked in the moonlight, with the shadowy vines flickering over it, and a golden light from the kitchen window brightening the dew upon them into crystal drops! The very tranquillity soothed the disturbed man before he entered the porch.
"I wonder if it'll ever be the same again when she is gone," he said, speaking his thoughts aloud, and drawing the hand that had struck down young Storms across his eyes. "No, no; I must not expect that."
FATHER AND DAUGHTER.
RUTHdid not come forth to receive her father. This was strange, for a trip to London, with these simple people, was a great event, and it seemed to Jessup as if he had been gone a year.
When he entered the kitchen, Ruth was busy at the table moving the dishes with unsteady hands; but when he spoke, she came forward with breathless eagerness, and made herself very busy taking off his dusty things, which she shook, and folded with wonderful care.
Spite of his utter disbelief in the coarse accusations made by Storms in the park, Jessup watched his daughter anxiously. It seemed to him that she looked paler than usual, and that all her movements were suspiciously restless. Besides this, he observed, with a sinking heart, that her eyes never once met his with their own frank smile.
Could it be that there was some shadow of truth in what Storms had said? He would not believe it.
"Come, father, the posset is ready. I have been keeping it warm."
Ruth stood on the hearth then, with the antique silver posset-cup, which had been his grandmother's, in her hand. The firelight was full upon her, concealing the pallor of her face with its golden flicker. Surely there could be nothing wrong under that sweet look.
The gardener gave a great sigh of relief as he accepted this thought, and his anger toward Dick Storms grew deep and bitter.
"Come, lass," he said, with more than usual affection, "sit down here by my side. The posset is rare and good; while I eat it, you shall tell me of all that has been done since I went away."
All that had been done since he went away! Would Ruth ever dare to tell her father that? The very thought sent up a rush of blood to her face.
"Oh, father! there is little to be done when you are away. I did not even care to cook my own supper."
"Ah! well, take it now, child," said the good man, pouring half his warm posset into an old china bowl, and pushing it toward her.
"No, no, father, I am not hungry. I think the cooking of food takes away one's appetite."
"Nay, eat. It is lonesome work, with no one to help me," said the father, who certainly had no cause to complain of his own appetite. Ruth stirred the posset languidly with her spoon, and strove to swallow a little; but the effort almost choked her. It might be fancy; but she could not help thinking that her father was furtively regarding her all the time, and the idea filled her with dismay.
Something of the same feeling possessed her father. Inherent kindness made him peculiarly sensitive, and he did not know how to question his daughter of the things that disturbed him, without wounding her and himself too.
In this perplexity, he ate with that ravenous haste which sometimes springs from an unconsciousness of what we are doing when under the pressure of great mental excitement. He was astonished when his spoon scraped on the bottom of that silver posset-cup. He sat for a moment embarrassed and uncertain how to begin. Where the feelings of his daughter were concerned, Jessup was a coward; to him she had been, from her very babyhood, a creature to worship and care for with a sort of tender reverence. So, with cowardice born of too much love, he thought to cheat himself, and bade her bring the little carpet-bag that had been his companion to London, and which he had dropped near the door.
Ruth, glad of anything that promised to distract her mind from its anxieties, brought the bag, and stood over her father while he unlocked it.
"See, child," he said, taking out a parcel done up in filmy paper, "I have brought some fill-falls from London, thinking my lass would be glad of them. Look, now!"
Here Jessup unrolled a ribbon, which streamed half across the room, as he shook out its scarlet waves.
"Isn't that something like, now?"
"Oh, it is beautiful!" cried the girl, with true feminine delight. "My dear, dear father!"
"I remembered—but no matter about that. My little Ruth is like a rose, and must have color like one. See what I have brought to go with the ribbon."
"White muslin," cried Ruth, in an ecstasy of delight. "Fine enough for the Lady Rose. How beautifully thescarlet sash will loop it up! Oh, father, who told you how well these things would go together?"
"I guessed it one day when the Lady Rose came here with a lot of stuff like that, puffed and looped with a ribbon bright as the field-poppies about her. You didn't know then, my lass, that your father felt like crying too, when he saw tears in his child's eyes, because she craved a fine dress and bonny colors for herself, and never thought to get it. There, now, you must get the best seamstress in the village to make it."
"No, no! I will make it with my own hands. Oh, father! father! how good, how kind you are!"
Dropping the sash and the muslin from her hold, Ruth threw her arms around Jessup's neck, and, bursting into tears, laid her head upon his shoulder.
"So, so! That will never do," cried the kind-hearted man, smoothing the girl's hair with his great hand, tenderly, as if he were afraid his very fondness might hurt her. "If you cry so, I shall turn the key, and lock all the other things up."
Ruth lifted her sweet face, all bedewed with penitent tears, and laid it close to the weather-beaten cheek of the man.
"Oh, father! don't be so good to me! It breaks my heart!"
Jessup took her face between his hands, and kissed it on the forehead, then pushed her pleasantly on one side, and thrust his hand into the bag again. This time it was drawn forth with a pretty pair of high-heeled boots, all stitched with silk, and circled about the ankles with a wreath of exquisite embroidery.
"There, now, we will leave the rest till to-morrow," he said, closing the box with a mysterious look. "Only say that you are pleased with these."
"Pleased! Oh, father, it is the dress of a lady!"
"Well, even so. One day my Ruth may be next door to that," said Jessup, putting forth all his affectionate craft. "Farmer Storms is a warm man, and Dick is his only son. It is the lad's own right if he sometimes brings his gun and shoots our game—his father has an interest in it, you know. The master has no right over his farm, and birds swarm there."
Jessup stopped suddenly, for Ruth stood before him white and still as marble, the ribbon which she had taken from the floor streaming from her hand in vivid contrast with the swift pallor that had settled upon her.
"Lass! Ruth, I say! What has come over you?" cried out the gardener, in alarm. "What have I done to make you turn so white all in a minute?"
"Done! Nothing, father—nothing!" gasped the girl.
"But you are ill!"
"Yes, a little; but nothing to—to trouble you so."
Ruth stood a moment after this, with one hand on her temple, then she turned, with a show of strength, to her father.
"What were you saying just now about farmer Storms, and—and his son? I don't think I quite understood, did I?"
Jessup was now almost as white as his daughter. Her emotion kindled up a gleam of suspicion, which had hung about him in spite of himself, though he had left Richard Storms prostrate across the forest path for having inspired it.
"Ruth, has not Dick Storms told you to-night that both he and his father are getting impatient to have you at the farm?" he questioned, in a low voice.
"Dick—Dick Storms, father!"
"I ask you, Ruth. Has he been here, and did he tell you?"
"He was here, father," faltered the girl.
"And he asked you?"
"He asked me to be his wife," answered the girl, with a shudder.
"Well!"
"His wife at once; and you promised that he should not come until I was better prepared. Oh, father, it was cruel. He seemed to take it for granted that I must be whatever he wished."
"That was ill-timed; but Dick has been kept back, and he is so fond of you, Ruth."
"Fond of me? Of me? No, no! The thought is awful."
"It was his loving impatience that broke forth at the wrong time. Nothing could be worse; but you were not very harsh with him, Ruth?"
"I could not help it, father, he was so rude."
"Hang the fellow! I hope he won't get over the buffet I gave him in one while. The fool should have known better than treat my daughter with so little ceremony. She is of a daintier sort than he often mates with. He deserves all he has gotten from her and from me."
While these thoughts were troubling Jessup's mind, Ruth stood before him with tears swelling under her eyelids, till the long, black lashes were heavy with them. They touched the father's heart.
"Don't fret, child. A few hasty words in answer to over rough wooing can easily be made up for. The young man was sorely put about; but I rated him soundly for coming here when I was away. He will think twice before he does it again."
"He must never do it again. Never—never!" cried Ruth, desperately. "See to that, father. He never must."
"Ruth!"
"Oh, father, do not ask me ever to see this man again. I cannot—I cannot!"
"Hush, child—hush! It is only a quarrel, which must not break the compact of a lifetime. Till now, you and Dick have always been good friends."
"Have we? I don't know. Not lately, I'm sure; and we never, never can be anything like friends again."
"Ruth!"
The girl lifted her great wild eyes to her father, and dropped them again. She was too much terrified for tears now.
"Ruth, was any person here to-night beyond Dick?"
The girl did not answer. She seemed turning to stone. Her silence irritated the poor man, who stood watching like a criminal for her reply. He spoke more sharply.
"Did you hear me, Ruth?"
"Yes, I hear."
"I asked if any one was here besides Dick?"
"Yes."
Jessup could hardly hear this little word as it dropped painfully from those white lips; but he understood it; and spoke again.
"Who was it, Ruth?"
"Young Mr. Hurst."
"He was here, then. What brought him?"
"He came—he came—"
"Well!"
"He did not tell me why he came, father. It was all too sudden; and he was very angry."
"Too sudden? Angry? How?"
"Dick Storms frightened me so, and Mr. Hurst saw it, just as he came in. I could have struck him myself, father!" cried the girl, and her pale face flamed up with a remembrance of the indignity offered her.
Jessup clenched his fist.
"Why, what did the young man do?"
"He would not believe that his offer was hateful to me, and—and acted as if I had said yes."
"I understand. The idiot! But he must have been drinking, Ruth."
"I don't know, and I only hope you will never let him come here again."
"But he will be sorry, Ruth. You must not be too hard on the young fellow."
"Hard upon him? Oh, father!"
"He has had a tough lesson. But young Hurst—what did he do?"
"I can hardly tell you, it was so sudden and violent. All in a minute Dick was hurled against the wall, and through the door. Then there was a struggle, deep, hoarse words, and Dick was gone."
"Was that all?"
"Yes, all that passed between Mr. Hurst and Dick. There was no time for talking."
"And after that?"
"I don't know what Dick did."
"But Mr. Hurst?"
"He—he stayed a while. I was so frightened, so—"
"Ah, he stayed a while. That was kind."
"Very kind, father!"
"Ruth," said the gardener, struggling with himself to speak firmly, and yet with kindness, "there was somethingmore. After Dick left, or before that, did Mr. Hurst—that is, were you more forgiving to him than you were to Storms?"
"I—I do not understand, father."
She does understand, thought Jessup, turning his eyes away from her burning face, heart-sick with apprehension. Then he nerved himself, and spoke again.
"Ruth, I met Dick in the park, and he made a strange charge against you."
"Against me!"
"He says that insults greater than he would have dared to offer, but for which he was kicked from my door, were forgiven to young Mr. Hurst. Nay, that you encouraged them."
"And you believed this, father?" questioned the girl, turning her eyes full upon those that were searching her face with such questioning anxiety.
"No, Ruth, I did not want to believe him; but how happened it that the young master came here so late at night?"
"Oh, father! Why do you question me so sharply?"
The panic that whitened Ruth's face, the terror that shook her voice, gave force to the suspicion that poor man had been trying so hard to quench. It stung him like a serpent now, and he started up, exclaiming:
"With one or the other, there is an account to be settled before I sleep."
William Jessup seized his cap and went out into the park, leaving Ruth breathless with astonishment. She stole to the window, and looked after him, seized with uncontrollable dread. How long she sat there Ruth could never tell; but after a while, the stillness of the night was broken by the sharp report of a gun.
THE TWO THAT LOVED HIM.
ACROSSone of the moonlit paths of the park lay the form of a man, with his face turned upward, white and still as the moonbeams that fell upon it. A little way farther on, where the great boughs of a cedar of Lebanon flung mighty shadows on the forest sward, another figure lay, scarcely perceptible in the darkness, of which it seemed only a denser part. Between the two, some rays of light struck obliquely on the lock of a gun, which was half buried in dewy fern-leaves.
One sharp crack of that rifle had rung through the stillness of the night. Two men had fallen, and then the same sweet, calm repose settled on the park. But it was only for a minute.
Scarcely had the sound reached the gardener's cottage, when the door flew open, and dashing out through the porch came a young girl, white with fear, and wild with a terrible desire to know the worst. She had given one look behind the entrance-door as she fled through it, and saw that the gun which Richard Storms had left there was gone. She had seen it since he went, and its absence turned her fears to a panic.
Through a window of the drawing-room, up at "Norston's Rest," another figure rushed in wild haste. She ran blindly against one of the great marble vases on the terrace, and shook the sweet masses of dew-laden foliage till they rained a storm of drops upon her bare arms and soft floating garments.
For a moment Lady Rose, for it was she, leaned againstthe marble, stunned and bewildered. The shot she had heard in the depths of the park had pierced her heart with a terrible fear.
Then she knew that, for a time, the music within had ceased, and that the company would be swarming that way, to irritate her by questions that would be a cruel annoyance while the sound of that shot was ringing in her ears.
Swift as lightning, wild as a night-hawk, the girl darted away from the vase, leaving a handful of gossamer lace among the thorns of the roses, and fled down the steps. She took no path, but, guided by that one sound, dashed through the flower-beds, heedless that her satin boots sunk into the moist mould, wetting her feet at every step; heedless that her cloud-like dress trailed over grass and ferns, gathering up dew like rain; heedless of everything but that one fearful thought—some one was killed! Was it Walton Hurst?
Lady Rose was in the woods, rushing forward blindly, but jealous distrust had taught her the way to the cottage, and she went in that direction straight as an arrow from the bow, and wild as the bird it strikes. Coming out from the shadow of some great spreading cedar trees, she saw lying there in the path a man—a white, still face—his face.
It seemed to her that the shriek which tore her heart rang fearfully through the woods, but it had died on her lips, and gave forth no sound, only freezing them to ice as she crept toward the prostrate man, and laid her face to his.
"Oh, Walton! Oh, my beloved, speak to me! Only breathe once, that I may hear. Move only a little. Stir your hand. Don't—don't let the moonlight look into your eyes so! Walton, Walton!"
She laid her cold, white hand over the wide-open eyes of the man as he lay there, so stiff and ghastly, in the moonlight. She turned his head aside, and hid those eyes in her bosom, in which the ice seemed to melt and cast off tears. She looked around for help, yet was afraid that some one might come and rob her. She had found him; he was there in her arms. If one life could save another, she would save him. Was she not armed with the mightiest of all earthly power—great human love?
Wild, half-frightened by the impulse that was upon her, the girl looked to the right and left as if she feared the very moonlight would scoff at her. Then, with timid hesitation, her lips sought the white mouth of the prostrate man, but her breath was checked with a shrinking sob. The cold touch terrified her.
Was he dead?
No, no! She would not believe that. There was no sign of violence upon his face; a still whiteness, like death, a fixed look in the open eyes; but the moisture that lay around him was only dew. She bathed her hand in it and held the trembling fingers up to the light, to make sure of that; and with the conviction came a great sob of relief, which broke into a wild, glad cry, for a flicker of shade seemed to tremble over that face, and the eyes slowly closed.
"Oh, my God be thanked! he is alive! My darling! Oh, my darling!"
"Hush!" cried another voice, at her side.
A shadow had fallen athwart the kneeling girl, and another face, more wildly pale, more keenly disturbed with anguish, looked down upon the prostrate man, and the young creature who crouched and trembled by his side.
"Look up, woman, and let me see your face," said Ruth Jessup, in a voice that scarcely rose above a whisper, though it was strong in command.
Lady Rose drew herself up, and lifted her piteous face as if appealing for compassion.
"You!" exclaimed Ruth.
"Yes, Ruth Jessup, it is I, Lady Rose. We will not be angry with each other, now that he is dead."
"Dead!" repeated Ruth, "and you the first by his side? Dead? Oh, my God! my God! Has our sin blasted us both?"
Down upon the earth this poor girl sunk, wringing her hands in an agony of distress. Still Lady Rose looked at her with touching appeal. She had not comprehended the full force of Ruth's speech, though the words rested in her brain long after.
"Lay your hand on his heart," she said. "I—I dare not."
Ruth smiled a wan smile, colder than tears; still there was a faint gleam of triumph in it.
"No!" she said. "You should not dare."
Then the girl thrust her trembling hand down to the bosom her head had so lately rested upon, and leaning forward, held her breath, while Lady Rose eagerly searched her features in the moonlight.
"Is—is there nothing?" she whispered.
Ruth could not answer. Her hand shook so fearfully, that its sense of touch was overwhelmed.
"Oh, speak to me!"
"Hush! I shake so! I shake so!"
Lady Rose bent her head and waited. At last a deep, long breath broke from Ruth, and a flash of fire shot from her eyes.
"Give me your hand; I dare not trust myself," she whispered.
Seizing the hand which lay helplessly in Lady Rose's lap, she pressed it over the heart her own had been searching, and fixed her eager eyes on the lady's face for an answer.
As a faint fire kindles slowly, that fair face brightened till it shone like a lily in the moonlight. As Ruth looked, she saw a scarcely perceptible smile stealing over it. Then the lips parted, and a heavy sigh broke through.
"Is it life?" whispered Ruth. "Tell me, is it life?"
Lady Rose withdrew her hand.
"Yes, faint. Oh! so faint, but life."
Then both these girls broke into a swift passion of tears, and clung together, uttering soft, broken words of thanksgiving. Ruth was the first to start from this sweet trance of gratitude.
"What can we do? He must be carried to the house. Ho, father! father!"
She ran up and down the path, crying out wildly, but no answer came. The stillness struck her with new dread. Where was her father, that he could not hear her cries? Who had done this thing! Could it be he?
"No, no!—a thousand times, no! But then—"
She went back to Lady Rose, whose hand had nestled back to that poor, struggling heart.
"Couldn't we carry him, you and I? We must have help," Ruth said, a little sharply, for the position of the lady stung her.
The question surprised Lady Rose; for never in her life had she been called upon to make an exertion. Butshe started to her feet and flung back the draperies from her arms.
"Yes, he might die here. Let us save him. 'The Rest' is not so far off."
"'The Rest?' No, no; our cottage is nearest. He might die before we could get him to 'The Rest.' My father will be there. Oh, I am sure my father will be there!"
Ruth spoke eagerly, as if some one had disputed her.
"He will be coming this way," she added, "and so help us. Come, come, let us try!"
Before the two girls could test their strength, footsteps were heard coming along the path.
"It is my father. Oh, now he can be carried to the cottage in safety."
BOTH HUSBAND AND FATHER.
THEtwo girls stood up and listened. The footsteps came forward swiftly, and with a light touch of the ground; too light, Ruth felt, with a sinking heart, for the heavy tread of her father. She had not the courage to cry out now. It seemed as if some one were coming to take that precious charge from her forever. This fear broke into a faint exclamation when she saw Sir Noel Hurst coming toward them more swiftly than she had ever seen him walk before. Without uttering a word, he came up to where the young man was lying, and bent over him in dead silence, as if unconscious that any other human being was near.
"He is not dead! Oh, Sir Noel, his heart beats. Don't—don't look so! He is not dead!"
"Lady Rose," said the baronet, "you heard—"
The lady shrank back, and faltered out—
"Yes; I heard a shot, and it frightened me."
The baronet made no answer, but bent over his son. The faint signs of life that Lady Rose had discovered were imperceptible to him. But habitual self-command kept his anguish down, and in a low, grave voice, he bade Ruth, whose presence he had not otherwise noticed, run to the mansion, and call help at once.
Ruth obeyed. Her nearest path led under the great cedar trees, where the blackest shadows fell, and she darted that way with a swift step that soon carried her into the darkness. But all at once came a cry out from the gloom, so sharp, so full of agony, that Sir Noel started up, and turned to learn the cause.
It came in an instant, out from the blackness of the cedars; for there Ruth appeared on the edge of the moonlight, pallid, dumb, shivering, with her face half averted, waving her hand back to the shadow.
"What is it? What has frightened you so?" he said.
"Look! look! I cannot see his face; but I know—I know!" she gasped, retreating into the darkness.
Sir Noel followed her, and there, lying as it seemed on a pall flung downward by the huge trees, lay the body of a man perfectly motionless.
"My father! Oh, my poor father!" cried the girl, falling down among the shadows, as if she sought to engulf herself in mourning.
"Be quiet, child. It may not be your father," said the baronet, still controlling himself into comparative calmness.
Ruth arose in the darkness, and crept toward the body. Her hand touched the hard, open palm that lay upon the moss where it had fallen. She knew the touch, and clung to it, sobbing piteously.
"Let me go and call help," said Lady Rose, coming toward the cedars.
"No," answered Sir Noel. "That must not be. This is no place for Lady Rose Hubert. The poor girl yonder has lost all her strength; it is her father, I greatly fear. Stay by him until you see lights, or know that help is coming. Then retire to the gardener's cottage. We must have no careless tongues busy with your name, Lady Rose."
Sir Noel strove to speak with calmness; but a shiver ran through his voice. He broke off abruptly, and, turning down the nearest path, walked toward "The Rest."
Meantime, there was bitter sorrow under the great cedar trees; low, pitiful moaning, and the murmurs of a young creature, smitten to the heart with a consciousness that the awful scene, with its train of consequences, had been her own work. She crept close to the man, afraid to touch him with her guilty fingers, but, urged on by a faint hope that he was not quite dead, she felt, with horror, that there was something heavier than dew on the bed of moss where he lay, and that for every drop of her father's blood she was responsible. Still she crept close to him, and at last laid both hands upon his shoulder. There was a vague motion under her hands, as if a wince of pain made the flesh quiver.
"Oh, if some one would help me. What can I do! What can I do!" she moaned, striving to pierce the darkness with her eyes. "Oh, father! father!"
"Ruth!"
The sound of that name was not louder than a breath of summer wind; but the girl heard it, and fell upon her face, prostrated by a great flood of thankfulness. She had not killed him; he was alive. He had spoken her name.
Directly the sound of voices swept that way, and the great cedar trees were reddened with a glare of torches, and a streaming light from lanterns. Then Lady Rose, who had been sitting upon the ground with Walton Hurst's head resting on her lap, bent down softly, kissed the white forehead, and stole away from all traces of light. Sir Noel had been thoughtful for her. She could not have borne that the eyes of those menial helpers, or their masters either, should see her ministering to a man who, perhaps, would hold her care, as he might her love, in careless indifference.
Yes, Sir Noel was right. She must not be found there.
Down through the trees she went, looking wistfully back at the figure left alone in the moonlight, tempted to return and brave everything, rather than leave him alone. But the torches came up fast and redly, hushed voices broke the stillness that had seemed so deathlike, and, envying that other girl, who was permitted to remain, the lady stole toward the cottage, and sinking down upon the porch, listened to the far-off tumult with a dull pain of the heart which death itself could hardly have intensified.
It was well that Lady Rose had fled from the path, along which some thirty men were coming—gentlemen in evening dress, gamekeepers and grooms, all moving under the torch-light, like a funeral procession.
With the tenderness of women, and the strength of men, they lifted Walton Hurst from the ground, and bore him toward the house. Ruth rose up in the darkness of the cedars, and saw him drifting away from her, with the red light of the torches streaming over the whiteness of his face, and then fell down by her father, moaning piteously.
By-and-by the torch-lights flashed and flamed under the cedars, lighting up their great, drooping branches, like a tent under which a wounded or perchance dead man was lying prone upon his back, with his strong arms flung out, and a slow ripple of blood flowing from his chest.
The torch-bearers took little heed of the poor girl, who had crept so close to her father that her garments were red with his blood, but lifted the body up with less reverential care than had marked the removal of the young master, but still not unkindly, and bore it away toward the house. Ruth arose, worn out with anguish, and followed in silence, wondering that she was alive to bear all this sorrow.
It seemed to Lady Rose that hours and hours had passed since she had sheltered her misery in that low porch, and this was true, if time can be measured by feeling. It was even a relief when she saw that little group of menials bearing the form of the gardener along the forest-path, which was slowly reddened by lanterns and half-extinguished torches. In the midst of this weird scene came Ruth Jessup, holding fast to her father's hand, with her pallid face bowed down, creeping, as it were, along the way, as if all life had been smitten from her.
A sort of painful pity seized upon Lady Rose, as she saw this procession bearing down upon the cottage. Shecould not look upon that poor girl without a sensation of shrinking dislike. Had not Hurst been on his way to her when he met with this evil fate? Had he not almost fled from her own presence to visit this beautiful rustic, whose desolation seemed so complete? Yes, she pitied the poor young thing; what woman could help it? But, underlying the pity, was a feeling of subdued triumph, that only one wounded man was coming that way.
All at once the girl started from her seat.
"They must not find me," she thought. "Sir Noel did not think of this when he bade me seek shelter here. I will go! I will go!"
WAS IT LIFE OR DEATH?
JUSTas the lights crept up to the front paling, and began to cast a glow on the flowers inside, Lady Rose stole out from the porch, threaded a lilac thicket, which lay near a back gate, and let herself into a portion of the park which was strange to her. For a while she stood bewildered, not knowing the direction she ought to take. Then a flash of distant lights, shooting through the trees, revealed the position in which "The Rest" lay from the cottage; and taking the very path Ruth had sought in the morning, she hurried along it, so sheltered by the overhanging trees, that she might have passed unobserved, but for the flutter of her garments, and the glint of her jewels, as the moonbeam struck them now and then, in her progress.
"Does he breathe yet? Will the motion put out that one spark of life, before he reaches home? Shall I never see him again?"
The thought gave a wild, abnormal strength to the girl. She no longer felt fatigue. The faint dread at her heart was swept away with a more powerful force of suffering. She must know for herself.
Swiftly as these thoughts swept through her brain, they scarcely matched the speed of her movements. Gathering up the long skirts that encumbered her feet, she fairly flew along the path, panting with impatience rather than fear, as each step brought her closer to those lighted windows. All at once she sprang aside with a sharp cry, and turned, like an animal at bay, for, in a dark hollow, into which the path dipped, the figure of a man stopped her.
The shriek that broke from Lady Rose seemed to exasperate the black shadow, which had a man's form, that moved heavily. This was all the frightened girl could see; but, in an instant, a low, hoarse voice broke from it, and her hand was seized with a fierce grasp.
"So you have found it out. So much the better. Both down, and one answerable for the other. Famous end to a day's sweethearting, isn't it?"
"What is this? What do you mean? Take your hand from my wrist," cried the lady, in sharp alarm.
"Not so easy, my lady, that would be. Some things are sweeter than revenge, though that tastes rarely, when one gets a full cup. I thought you would be coming this way, and waited to meet you."
"Meet me? For what?" faltered the lady, shivering.
"Oh, no wonder your voice shakes, till one hardly knows it again," answered the man. "If anything can drive the heart back from your throat, it might be thegrip of my hand on your arm. You never felt it so heavy before, did you, now? Can you guess what it means?"
"It means that you are a ruffian—a robber, perhaps, no matter which. Only let me go!"
"A ruffian! Oh, yes; I think you said that once before; but I warn you. Such words cut deep, and work themselves out in an ugly way. Don't attempt to use them again, especially here. It isn't a safe spot; and just now I ain't a safe man to sneer at."
"Why do you threaten me? What have I done to earn your ill-will?" faltered the lady, shuddering; for the man had drawn so close to her as he spoke, that his breath swept with sickening volume across her face, and his hand clinched her wrist like a vice.
"What have you done? Ha! ha! How innocent she is! How daintily she speaks to the ruffian—the robber!"
"I was rash to call you so; but—but you frightened me."
"Oh, yes, I am always frightening you. A kiss from me is worse than a bullet from some one we know of."
"Hush, sir! I cannot bear this!"
"Don't I know that you could bear me well enough, till he came along with his silky beard and soft speech? Then I became a ruffian—a robber. Well, now, what you wouldn't give at any price, I mean to take."
"There is no need. I give them to you freely. Unclasp the bracelet. It is heavy with jewels. Then free my hand, and I will take the locket from my neck. Trust me; I will keep nothing back."
"Bracelets, lockets, jewels! What are you thinking of? Dash me, but I think you have gone crazy. Undoyour bracelet, indeed. When did you come by one, I should like to know?"
"It is on my wrist. Oh, if a ray of moonlight could only strike down here."
"On your wrist? What, this heavy shackle? Stay, stay! How soft your hand is. Your dress rustles like silk. Your voice has changed. Woman, who are you?"
"Take the jewels. Oh, for pity's sake, unlock them, and let me go."
The hand that held that delicate wrist so firmly dropped it, the dark body swerved aside, and Richard Storms plunged down the path. Swift as a lapwing Lady Rose sped up the hill through the shrubberies, nearest "The Rest," and at last stood panting within the shadows of the terrace, where a solitary man was walking up and down with mournful slowness.
"It is Sir Noel," she said, as the moonlight fell on his white face. "God help us! It looks as if he had been with death!"
Gliding noiselessly up the steps, Lady Rose met the baronet as he turned in his walk.
"Tell me! oh, tell me!" she faltered, coming close to him, and breaking off in her speech.
"He is alive, my child."
"Ah!"
"The doctors are with him now."
"So soon—so soon!" exclaimed the lady, seizing upon a desperate hope from the doctor's presence.
"I came out here for breath. It was so close in the rooms," said the baronet, gently.
Lady Rose glanced at the house. It was still brilliantly lighted. The windows were all open, and a soft breeze was playing with the frost-like curtains, just as ithad when she heard that shot, and fled down the terrace. The music was hushed, and the rooms were almost empty; that was all the change that appeared to her. Yet it seemed as if years had passed since she stood on that terrace.
"But we shall hear soon. Oh, tell me!"
"Yes, my child. They know that I am waiting."
The baronet strove to speak calmly, for the suppression of strong feeling had been the education of his life; but his voice shook, and he turned his head aside, to avoid the piteous glance of those great, blue eyes that were so full of tears.
"Go—go up to your room, Lady Rose," said the baronet, after a moment's severe struggle with himself. "In my selfish grief I had forgotten everything. Was Jessup alive when he reached the cottage?"
"I—I think so; but there came so many with him that I escaped through the shrubberies."
"And came here alone. That was brave; that was wise. At least, we must save you from the horrors of to-night, let the result be what it may."
Lady Rose uttered a faint moan, and the tears grew hot under her drooping eyelids.
"If it goes ill with him, I do not wish to be spared. Pain will seem natural to me then," she said, shivering.
The baronet took her hand in his own; both were cold as ice; so were the lips that touched her fingers.
"You will let me stay until we hear something?" she pleaded.
Just then she stood within the light which fell from one of the tall windows, and all the disarray of her dress was clearly betrayed: the trailing azure of her train soiled with earth and wet with dew; the gossamer lace torn inshreds, the ringlets of her thick, rich hair falling in damp masses around her. Surely that was no figure to present before his critical guests. They must not know how this fair girl suffered. There should be no wounds to her maidenly pride that he could spare her.
These thoughts drew the baronet partially from himself. It was a relief to have something to care for. At this moment, when all his nerves were quivering with dread, the sweet, sad sympathy of this fair girl was a support to him. He did not wish to part with her now, that she so completely shared the misery of his suspense.
"You are shivering; you are cold!" he said.
"No, no; it is not that."
"I know—I know!"
He dropped her hand and went into the great, open hall, where bronze statues in armor, life-sized, held lights on the points of their spears, as if on guard. Some lady had flung her shawl across the arm of one of these noble ornaments, where it fell in waves of rich coloring to the marble floor. Sir Noel seized upon this and wrapped the Lady Rose in its loose folds from head to foot. Then he drew her to a side of the terrace, where the two stood, minute after minute, waiting in silence. Once the baronet spoke.
"The windows of his room are just above us," he said. "I thought perhaps we might hear something."
"Ah me! How still they are!" sighed the girl, looking upward.
"We could not hear. No, no, we could not hear. The sashes are all closed," answered the baronet, sharply, for he felt the fear her words implied.
Rose drew close to her companion.
"I did not mean that. I only thought—"
"They are coming."
The baronet spoke in a whisper, but did not move. He shrunk now from hearing the news so impatiently waited for a moment before.
A servant came through the hall, and rushed toward his master.
"Sir Noel, they are waiting for you in the small drawing-room."
The baronet hesitated. His lips were striving to frame a question which the man read in the wild eyes fixed on his.
"He is alive, Sir Noel. I know that."
The father drew a deep, deep breath. The claw of some fierce bird of prey seemed loosened from his heart; a flood of gentle pity for the fair girl, who dared not even look her anxiety, detained him another moment.
"Go into the library. I will bring you news," he said.
BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH.
LADY ROSEwatched the master and servant as they went into the hall; then, gliding through one of the open windows, stole into the library, where she walked up and down, up and down, until it seemed as if she had travelled leagues on leagues, but could not stop.
The baronet came at last, looking calmer and more self-possessed, but still very pale.
Lady Rose came up to him, looking the question she could not ask.
"It is not death as yet," he said.
"But, tell me—oh! tell me, is there danger?"
"Great danger, the doctors think; all the more because they can find no wound."
"No wound! But that shot! that shot!"
The baronet shook his head.
"It is all a mystery as yet."
"But if he is not wounded?"
"There has been a fall—a blow; something which threatens congestion of the brain."
"But if the other, Jessup, is shot. I heard the report from the terrace."
"And I from the woods. But let us say nothing of this—think nothing, if we can help it," said the baronet.
"If we can help it! Ah! me."
"The surgeons have gone over to Jessup's cottage. He may be able to speak. I will go with them."
Lady Rose looked up eagerly.
"And he?"
"Must be kept perfectly quiet. My man is with him."
"Have you seen him? Is it certain that he breathes?"
"I have seen him only for a moment. He was breathing, but very feebly," answered the baronet.
"Ah! that poor white face! I shall never forget it," answered Rose, covering her eyes with both hands. "His eyes so wide open! Oh, how they frightened me!"
"They are closed now, and he lies there quiet as a child. There is some burden upon the brain."
"But the doctors, how can they leave him? He might die."
"It is only long enough to visit Jessup. He is wounded badly, the people say who took him home."
"Yes, I know. I heard them speaking of blood on the grass as they came up. Of—of course, the doctors must go to him—and you; it is but right."
A strange resolve had suddenly flashed into her thoughts.
"You will go to your room now, Lady Rose. It is long after midnight," said the baronet, as he opened a door leading to the hall.
"No, Sir Noel; I could not sleep; I could not breathe under all this uncertainty. You will find me here, with your news, good or bad. It would be like shutting myself in a prison cell if I went to my room now."
"As you wish. I will not be gone long," answered the baronet.
Lady Rose stood in the middle of the library, listening, until Sir Noel's footsteps died out on the terrace; then she stole into the hall and mounted the stairs, holding her breath as she went.
In her dressing-room she found a woman leaning back in an easy-chair, who had fallen into a restless sleep.
"Hipple, Hipple!" said Lady Rose, under her breath. "Do wake up."
The thin little shadow of a woman opened two black eyes, and thrust up her shoulders with a sleepy protest.
"Mrs. Hipple, Hipple! always Mrs. Hipple, sleeping or waking. Well, what is it now, my lady?"
"Get up, that is a good soul. I know that you have been kept out of your bed, cruelly, but I want you so much."
"Well, well, lady-bird, what is it all about? Of course, you want me. That is what you always were doing as a child. Oh, well, one is something older now, and that makes a difference."
While the sleepy woman was uttering this half-protest, Lady Rose was arranging the cap, that had been crushed on one side as she slept, and gently shaking off the sleep which threatened to renew itself in soft grumbles.
"There, now, everything is set to rights, and you look wide awake."
"Of course, I am wide awake; I, who never sleep, though you dance away the hours till morning," answered the little lady, testily.
"But I have not been dancing to-night, Hipple; far from it. Something dreadful has happened."
"Dreadful! Lady Rose, do speak out. My heart is rising into my mouth."
"Mr. Walton Hurst has been hurt."
"Hurt! My poor, dear child. Oh, now I know why you came to me gasping for breath."
"He is very ill—quite insensible, in his room over yonder, with no one to take care of him but Sir Noel's man."
"Who knows nothing."
"Who might let him die, you know, while the doctors are away. I am so troubled about it."
"Well, what shall I do? Of course Webb isn't to be trusted."
"Just step in and offer to take his place, while he goes down to the gardener's cottage and inquires about Jessup, who is hurt also."
"Jessup hurt! What right had he to take the same night of the young gentleman's misfortune, for his poor trouble, I should like to know," exclaimed the old lady, resentfully. "It is taking a great liberty, I can tell him."
"Still, he is hurt, and I want to hear about it, if you can only get Webb to go."
"Can! He shall!"
"He will trust Mr. Hurst with you!"
"Of course. Who doubts that?"
"And then—"
Lady Rose faltered, and a faint streak of carmine shot across her forehead.
"Well, what then, lady-bird? something chokes in your throat. What am I to do then?"
"Perhaps, you would let me come in, just for a moment."
"Oh-h! But don't—don't. I cannot see your pretty lip quivering so! There—there. I understand it all now!"
"And you will?"
"When did Hipple ever say no? Is she likely to begin now, when rain is getting under those eyelids? Sit down a minute, and take comfort. Things must be amiss indeed if the old woman can't set them right."
Gently forcing her young mistress into the easy-chair, the faithful old companion left the room, swift as a bird, and noiseless as a mouse. Directly she came back, and beckoned with her finger through the open door.
"He has gone. I frightened him about his master. Come!"
Lady Rose was at the door in an instant. The next she stood in the midst of a large chamber, in the centre of which was a huge high-posted bedstead of carved ebony, shrouded by a torrent of lace and damask, on which the shaded light fell like the glow of rubies. Shrinking behind these curtains, which were drawn back at the head in gorgeous masses, Lady Rose looked timidly upon the form that lay prostrate there, afraid of the death signs which might be written upon it.
Walton Hurst was deadly pale yet; but the locked features had relaxed a little, the limbs were outlined less rigidly under the snow-white counterpane than they had been upon the forest path. There was a faint stir of breath about the chest also; but for this the intense stillness in which he lay would have been horrible.
As she gazed, holding her own breath that she might listen for his, her hand was touched softly by lips that seemed to be whispering a prayer or blessing, and Mrs. Hipple stole from the room.
Lady Rose was alone with the man she loved better than anything on earth, and the solitude made her tremble, as if she were committing a crime. She dared not move, or scarcely breathe. What if he were to open his eyes and discover her! Then she could only wish to die of the shame she had brought upon herself.
Still the girl was fascinated. The way of retreat was before her, but she would not take it. Perhaps this was the only time she might hope to see him upon earth. Was she to cast this precious opportunity away? He stirred a little. It was nothing but a faint shiver of the limbs; but that was enough to startle her. Then a shadow seemed to flit across his features. His eyes opened, and were fixed upon her with a blank, unquestioning look.
Lady Rose could not help the words that sprang to her lips.
"Are you better? Ah, tell me that you are better."
A faint gleam of intelligence came into the eyes she no longer sought to evade, and the lips moved a little, as if something heavier than a breath were disturbing them.
"Can you speak? Do you know me?"
Some unintelligible words were broken on the invalid's lips.
"Do you want anything?"
"No. I—I—"
Here the man's feeble speech broke off, and his head moved restlessly on the pillow. Lady Rose leaned over him. Her soul was craving one word of recognition.
"Try and say if you know me," she whispered, too eager for any thought of the fear that had possessed her.
"Oh, yes, I know. Only the name. I never mention that—never!"
"But why? Is it hateful to you?"
"Hateful! No, no! Don't you know that?"
Rose could not resist the temptation, but touched his forehead with her hand. A ghostly little smile crept over his mouth, which was half-concealed by a wave of the silken beard that had drifted across it. She longed to know if it was a smile or a tremor of light from the shaded lamp, and softly smoothed the beard away. As she did so, a faint kiss was left upon her hand. She drew it back with a sob of delight so exquisite that it made her feel faint.
"He knows me. With his poor, feeble breath he has kissed my hand." This thought was like rare old wine to the girl; she felt its glow in every pulse of her being. With that precious kiss on her palm, she drew back among the curtains, and gathered it into her heart, pressing her lips where his had been, as children hide away to eat their stolen fruit.
Then she grew ashamed of her own happiness, and came into sight again. Hurst was apparently asleep then. His eyes were closed; but low murmurs broke from him, now and then, as if he were toiling through some dream. The girl bent her head to listen. The hunger of a loving heart made her insatiable.
"Here—here with me! Then all is well! Dreams haunt one: but what are dreams? Her hand was on my mouth. I felt her breath. No harm has come to her. Yet, and yet—dreams all!"
Here the young man fell into deeper unconsciousness, and his murmurs ceased almost entirely.
Some minutes passed, and then the door was swiftly opened, and Mrs. Hipple glided through.
"My lady! my lady! They are here, mounting the terrace."
Lady Rose heard the loud whisper, and fled from the room.