CHAPTER XXIV.A FATHER'S MISGIVING.A FIGUREcrouched low in the darkness of that narrow passage, listening at the door, and shrinking with shudders when a groan broke through the ill-fitted panels. There was some confusion in the room beyond, voices, and guarded footsteps, quick orders given, then dull, dead silence, and a sharp scream of agony."That was his cry! They are killing him! they are killing him!" cried that poor girl, springing to her feet.Ruth opened the door in rash haste, and her pale face looked in."Back! Go back, child!"It was the impatient voice and white hand of the surgeon that warned Ruth Jessup back; and she shrunk into the darkness again, appalled by what she had seen—her father's gray hair, scattered on the pillow, his face writhing, and his eyes hot and wild with anguish.It was a terrible picture, but while it wrung her heart, there was hope in the agony it brought. Anything was better than the deathly stillness that had terrified her under the cedars. It was something that her father could feel pain."Now," said the kind surgeon, looking through the door, "you can come in. The bullet is extracted."In his white palm lay a bit of bent lead, which he looked upon lovingly, for it was a proof of his own professional skill; but Ruth turned from it with a shiver, and creeping up to her father's bed, knelt down by it, holding back her tears, and burying her face in the bed-clothes, afraid to meet the wild eyes turned upon her.The wounded man moved his hand a little toward her. She took it in her own timid clasp, and laid her wet cheek upon it in penitent humility."Oh, father!"The hard fingers stirred in her grasp."Did it hurt you so? Has it almost killed you?"The old man turned a little and bent his eyes upon her."It isn'tthathurt," he struggled to say. "Not that."Ruth began to tremble. She understood him."Oh, father!" she faltered, "who did it? How could you have been hurt?"A stern glance shot from the sick man's eye."You! oh, you!""Oh, father! I did not know. How could I?"The old man drew away his hand, and shook off the tears she had left upon it, with more strength than he seemed to possess."Hush!" he said. "You trouble me."Ruth shrunk away, and once more rested her head on the quilt, that was soon wet with her tears. After a little she crept close to him again, and timidly touched his hand."Father!""Poor child! Poor, foolish child!""Father, forgive me!"The sick man's face quivered all over, and, spite of an effort to restrain it, his poor hand rose tremblingly, and fell on that bowed head."Oh, my child! if we had both died before this thing happened.""I wish we had. Oh, how I wish we had!""It was my fault," murmured the sick man."No, no! It was mine. I am to blame, I alone.""I might have known it; poor, lost lamb, I might have known it."Ruth lifted her head suddenly."Lost lamb! Oh, father! what do these words mean?"The gardener shook his head faintly, closed his eyes, and two great tears rolled from under the lids."Oh! tell me—tell me! I—I cannot bear it, father!"That moment the surgeons, who had gone out for consultation, came back and rather sternly reprimanded Ruth for talking with their patient.The girl rose obediently, and turned away from the bed. The surgeons saw that a scarlet heat had driven away the pallor of her countenance, but took no heed of that. She had evidently agitated their patient, and this was sufficient excuse for some degree of severity, so she went forth, relieved of her former awful dread, but wounded with new anxieties.Two days followed of intense suffering to that wounded man and the broken-hearted girl. Fever and delirium set in with him, terror and dread with her. The power of reason had come out of that great shock. In trembling and awe she had asked herself questions.Who had fired that murderous shot? How had the gun disappeared from behind the passage door, where Richard Storms had surely left it? Had there been a quarrel between the father she loved and the husband she adored? If so, which was the aggressor?The poor girl remembered with dread the questions with which her father had startled her so that night, the sharp gleam of his usually kind eyes, and the set firmness of his mouth, while he waited for her answer. Did he guess at the deception she had practised, or were his suspicions such as made the blood burn in her veins?With these thoughts harassing her mind, the young creature watched over that sick man until her own strength began to droop. In his delirium, he had talked wildly, and uttered at random many a broken fancy that cut her to the soul; but even in his helpless state there had seemed to be an undercurrent of caution curbing his tongue. He raved of the man who had shot him, but mentioned no names; spoke of his daughter with hushed tenderness, but still with a sort of reserve, as if he were keeping some painful secret back in his heart. Sometimes he recognized her, and then his eyes, lurid with fever, would fill with hot tears.After a while this fever of the brain passed off, and left the strong man weak as a child. It seemed as if he had lost all force, even for suffering; but Ruth felt that some painful thing, that he never spoke of or hinted at, haunted him. He was strangely wakeful, and at timesshe felt his great eyes looking out at her from their deepening caverns, with an expression that made her heart sink.One day he spoke to her with a suddenness that made her breath stand still."Ruth!""Father, did you speak to me?""Where is he?""Who, father?""You know. Is he safe out of the way?""Do you mean—"The girl broke off. She could not utter Walton Hurst's name. The sick man also seemed to shrink from it."Is he safe?""Oh, father! he was hurt like yourself.""Hurt!—he? I am speaking of Walton Hurst, girl."The man spoke out plainly now, and a wild questioning look came into his eyes."Oh, father! he was found, like yourself, lying on the ground, senseless. We thought that he was dead.""Lying on the ground! Who hurt him? Not I—not I!"Ruth flung herself on her knees by the bed; a flush of coming tears rushed over her face."Oh, father! oh, thank God! father, dear father!""Did you think that?" whispered the sick man, overwhelmed by this swift outburst of feeling."I did not know—I could not tell. It was all so strange, so terrible! Oh, father, I have been so troubled!"The sick man looked at her earnestly."Ruth!""Yes, father!""Was he shot like me?""I do not know. They say not. Some terrible blow on the head, but no blood.""A blow on the head! But how? As God is my witness, I struck no one."Ruth fell to kissing that large, helpless hand, as if some awful stain had just been removed from it. In all her father's sickness she had never touched him with her sweet lips till now. Then all at once she drew back as if an arrow had struck her. It was something keener than that—one of the thoughts that kill as they strike. After a struggle for breath, she spoke."But who? Oh, father, you were shot. Was it—was it—""Hush, child! Not a word! I—I will not hear a word. Never let that question pass your lips again so long as you live. I charge you—I charge you!"The sick man fell back exhausted, and gasping for breath. The question put so naturally by his daughter seemed to have given him a dangerous shock."But how is he now?"The question was asked in a hoarse whisper, and more by the bright eyes than those trembling lips."I—I have not dared to ask. I—I could not leave you here alone," answered Ruth, with a fitful quiver of the lips."How long is it?""Two days, father.""Two days, and no news of him.""They would not keep it from us if he had been worse," said Ruth, who had listened with sickening dread to every footstep that approached the cottage during all that time, fearing the news she expected, and gathering hope because it did not come."Has Sir Noel been here?""He was here that night," answered Ruth, shuddering, as she thought of the awful scene, when her father was brought home so death-like."Not since? He knew that I was hurt, too.""He has sent the doctors here.""What news did they bring?""I—I did not dare to ask."A look of deep compassion broke into those sunken eyes, and, turning on his pillow, the old man murmured in a painful whisper:"Poor child! Poor child!"Then Ruth fell to kissing his great hand again, murmuring:"Oh, father! you are so good to me—so good!""I am weak—so weak," he answered, as if excusing something to himself. "But how could he—Well, well, when I am stronger—when I am stronger."The cottage was small, and the jar of an opening door could be felt through the whole little building. Some one was trying at the latch then, and a step was heard in the passage.CHAPTER XXV.THE BIRD AND THE SERPENT.GO. It may be news," said the sick man.Before Ruth could reach the door she met Richard Storms coming toward her father's room. His manner was less audacious than usual, and his face clouded."I have come to ask after your father," he said, with an anxious look, as if he expected some rebuff. "They say that he has been shot in the back by some lurking thief. Perhaps I could help ferret out who it is if the old man'll tell me all about it.""Father is too ill for talking," answered Ruth, shrinking out of her visitor's path. "He must be kept quiet.""Of course; but not from neighbors like us. The old man at the farm sent me over to hear all about it.""There is nothing to hear. Everybody knows how my poor father was found bleeding in the park. He has been very ill since, and is only now coming to himself.""Oh! ah! Then he has come to his senses. That was what we most wanted to know; for, of course, he can tell who shot him. I'll be sworn it is guessed at rightly enough. Still knowing is knowing."As he spoke, Storms moved forward, as if determined to enter the sick man's chamber.Ruth had no means of stopping him. She retreated backward, step by step, shrinking from his approach, but without the least power of resistance. When she reached the door, Storms put forth his hand and attempted to put her aside, not rudely; but she so loathed his touch, that a faint cry broke from hers.A look of bitter malice broke over the young man's face as he bent it close to her."You didn't scream so when the young master took my place the night all this trouble came up. I could tell something of what chanced between your sweetheart and the old man, after he went out with my gun in his hand.""You know—you can tell? You saw?" whispered the poor girl, rendered hoarse by fear."Ah, that makes you whimper, does it? That starts the blood from your white face. Yes, I saw—I saw; and when the courts want to know what I saw they will hear about it. Kicked dogs bite now and then. So don't gather your comely little self into a heap, when I come by again, or my tongue may be loosened. I have kept it between my teeth till now, for the sake of old times, when you were ready to smile when I came and were sorry when I went.""But we were children then.""Yes; but when he came with his dainty wooing, some one forgot that she had ever been a child.""No, no! As a playmate, I liked you. It was when—when—""When, having the feelings of a man, I spoke them out, and was treated like a dog. Do not think I will ever forget that. No, never—never, to my dying day.""Why are you so harsh with me, Richard?" cried the poor girl, now thoroughly terrified. "I never in my whole life have done you harm."The young man laughed a low, disagreeable laugh."Harm! Oh, no! Such milk-white doves as you never harm anything. They only fire a man's heart with love, then torment him with it, like witches—soft-spoken, smiling witches—that make us devils with their jibes, and idiots with their tears. Oh, I hardly know which is most enticing, love or hate, for such creatures.""Don't! don't! You frighten me!" pleaded the girl."Aye, there it is. Faint at a plain word; but work out murder and bloodshed with the witchcraft of your false smiles and lying tears. That is what you have done, Ruth Jessup.""No! no!" cried the girl, putting up her hands."Who was it that set her own father and sweetheart at each other?""Hush! I will not hear this. It is false—it is cruel. There was no quarrel between them—no evil blood.""No quarrel—no evil blood! She says that, looking meek as a spring-lamb, chewing the lie in her mouth as that does clover. But what if I tell you that the old man in yonder knew just all that happened after I was turned out of the kitchen that night?""It was you who told him that which might have brought great trouble on him and me; only good men are slow to believe evil of those they love. I knew from his own lips that you had waylaid him in the park with a wicked falsehood.""It was the truth, every word of it," exclaimed Storms, stamping his foot on the floor. "I saw it with my own eyes.""Saw what?" faltered the girl, sick with apprehension."Saw! But I need not tell you. Only the next time Sir Noel's heir comes here, with his orders for flowers, and his wanting to know all about growing roses, have a curtain to the kitchen window, or train the ivy thicker over it. Now do you understand?""It is you who cannot understand," said Ruth, feeling a glow of courage, which the young man mistook for shame. "The thing you did was a mean act, and if I had never hated you before, that would be cause enough.""This is brass. After all, I did think to see some sign of shame."Ruth turned away, faint with terror and disgust."You may thank me that I told no one but the old man in yonder. Had I gone to Sir Noel—""No, no—you could not; you dare not!""Dare not! Well, now, I like that. Some day you will know how much I dare.""But why—why do you wish to injure me?""Why does a hound snap when you mock him with a dainty bit of beef, and while his mouth waters, and his eyes gloat, toss it beyond his reach? You have learned something of the kennels, Ruth Jessup, and should know that men and hounds are alike in this."Ruth could hardly suppress the scorn that crept through her into silence. But she felt that this man held an awful power over everything she loved, and gave no expression to her bitter loathing."Do you mean to let me in?" said Storms, almost coaxingly. "I want to have a word with the old man."Ruth stood aside. She dared not oppose him; but when free to pass, he hesitated, and a look of nervous anxiety came over his features."The old man doesn't speak much; hasn't said how it all happened, ha?""He has said nothing about it," answered Ruth, struck with new terror.The look of cool audacity came back to her enemy's face, and, without more ceremony, he pushed his way into the wounded man's room.CHAPTER XXVI.TRUE AS STEEL.JESSUPwas lying with his eyes closed, and his mouth firmly compressed, as if in pain. But the tread of heavy feet on the floor aroused him, and he opened his eyes in languid wonder. The sight of Storms brought slow fire to his eyes."Is it you—you?" he whispered, sharply."Yes, neighbor Jessup, it is I," answered Storms. "Father is sadly put about, and wants to know how it all happened. He means to have justice done, if no one else stirs in the matter—and I think with him."A look of keen, almost ferocious anxiety, darkened the young man's face as he said this."That is kind and neighborly," answered the gardener, moving restlessly in his bed. "But there is nothing to tell."Storms looked at the sick man in dumb amazement. Up to this time his manner had been anxious, and his voice hurried. Now a dark red glow rose to his face, and blazed from his eyes with a glare of relief."Nothing to tell, and you shot through the shoulder, in a way that has set the whole country side in commotion? This is a pretty tale to go home with."The young man spoke cheerfully, and with a sort of chuckle in his voice."It is the truth," said Jessup, closing his eyes."But some one shot you.""It was an accident," whispered the sick man."An accident! Oh! was it an accident?""Nothing worse.""Are you in earnest, Jessup?""Do I look like a man who jokes?" said the gardener, with a slow smile."And you are willing to swear to this?""No one will want me to swear. No harm worth speaking of has been done.""Don't you be sure of that," answered Storms. "The peace has been broken, and two men have been badly hurt. This is work for a magistrate."Jessup shook his pale head on the pillow, and spoke with some energy."I tell you it was an accident; my gun went off.""And I tell you it was no accident. I saw it all with my own eyes.""You—you saw it all?" exclaimed Jessup, rising on his elbow. "You!""Just as plain as a bright moon and stars could show it to me.""How? How—"Jessup had struggled up from his pillow, but fell back almost fainting, with his wild eyes fixed steadily on the young man's face."I had just passed under the cedar-trees, when you came in sight, walking fast, as if you were in a hurry to find some one.""It was you I was looking for. I was on my way to find you," whispered Jessup, so hoarsely that Storms had to bend low to catch his words."Me! What for, I should like to know?""Because I thought you had lied to me," answered the old man, turning his face from the light. "Oh, that it had been so—if it only had been so!"A sob shook that strong frame, and from under the wrinkled eyelids two great tears forced their way.A flash of intelligence gleamed across Storms' face. He was gaining more information than he had dared to hope for. But craft is the refuge of knaves, and the wisdom of fools. He had self-command enough for deception, and pretended not to observe the anguish of that proud man, for proud he was, in the best sense of the word."I was hanging about the grounds, too savage for home or anything else," he went on to say. "I had seen enough to drive a man mad, and was almost that, when you came up. There was another man under the cedar-trees. I had been watching for him all the evening. You know who that was."Jessup gave a faint groan."I knew that he was skulking there in hope of seeing her again.""It is a mistake!" exclaimed Jessup, with more force in his voice than he had as yet shown.Storms laughed mockingly."So you mean to shield him? You—you tell me that young master wasn't in your house that night: that your daughter did not see him; that he did not shoot you for being in the way? Perhaps you will expect me to believe all that; but I saw it!"As these cruel words were rained over him, the sick man settled down in his bed, and seemed hardened into iron. The fire of combat glowed in his deep-set eyes, and his hand clenched a fold of the bed-clothes, as if both had been chiselled out of marble."No one shot me. It was my own careless handling of the gun," he said. "No one shot me."Storms laughed again."Oh, no, Jessup, that'll never do! What a man sees he sees.""No one shot me—it was myself.""But how did he come to harm, if it was not a kick on the head from the gun he did not know how to manage? I could have told him how to handle it better. My gun, too—""Your gun!""Yes, my gun. I left it behind the door, in the passage, when he sent me out. He took it when it was dangerous to stay longer. I saw it in his hand before you came out. He was armed—you were not.""I took the gun," said Jessup."You will swear to that!" said Storms, really amazed. "You believe it?""I took the gun. It went off by chance. That is all I have to say. Now leave me, young man, for so much talk is more than I can bear."Storms obeyed. He had not only gained all the information he wanted, but the material for new mischief had been supplied to a brain that was strong to work out evil. He found Ruth in the passage, walking up and down, wild and pale with distress. She gave him a look that might have softened a heart of marble, but only increased his self-gratulation."Just let me ask this," he said, coming close to her, with a sneer on his face. "Which of those two men took out the gun I left standing behind the door that night—father or sweetheart? One or the other will have to answer for it. Which would you prefer to have hanged?"The deadly whiteness which swept over that youngface only deepened the cruel sneer that had brought it forth. Bending lower down, the wretch added, "I saw it all. I know which it was that fired the shot. Now what will you give me to hold my tongue?"Ruth could not speak; but her eyes, full of shrinking fear, were fixed upon him."You might marry me now rather than see him hung."Ruth shuddered, and looked wildly around, as a bird seeks to flee from a serpent that threatens its life."Say, isn't my tongue worth bridling at a fair price?""I—I do not understand you," faltered the poor young creature, drawing back with unconquerable aversion, till the wall supported her."But you will understand what it all means, when he is dragged to the assizes, for all the rabble of the country side to look upon."Ruth covered her face with both hands."Oh, you seem to see it now. That handsome face, looking out of a criminal's box; those white hands held up pleading for mercy. Mind you, his high birth and all his father's gold will only be the worse for him. The laws of old England reach gentlemen as well as us poor working folks. Ha! what is this?"The cruel wretch might well cry out, for Ruth had fainted at his feet.CHAPTER XXVII.A CRUEL DESERTION.A WEEKor two before these painful events happened at "Norston's Rest," Judith Hart had been expecting to see Storms day after day till disappointment kindled into fiery impatience, and the stillness of her home became intolerable. Had he, in fact, taken offence at her first words of reproach, and left her to the dreary old life? Had her rude passion of jealousy driven him from her forever, or was there some truth in the engagement that woman spoke of?Again and again Judith pondered over these questions, sometimes angry with herself, and again filled with a burning desire to know the worst, and hurl her rage and humiliation on some one else.She was a shrewd girl, endowed with a sharp intellect and a will, that stopped at nothing in its reckless assumption. To this was added a vivid imagination, influenced by coarse reading, uncurbed affections, and, in this case, an intense passion of love, that lay ready to join all these qualities into actions as steam conquers the inertia of iron. One day, when her desire for the presence of that man had become a desperate longing, her father came home earlier than usual, and in his kindly way told her that he had seen young Storms in the village where he had loitered half the morning around the public house.Judith was getting supper for the old man when he told her this; but she dropped the loaf from her hands and turned upon him, as if the news so gently spoken had offended her."You saw Mr. Storms in the village, father? He stayed there hour after hour, and, at last, rode away up the hill-road, too, without stopping here? I don't believe it; if you told me so a thousand times, I wouldn't believe it!"The old man shook his head, and replied apologetically, as if he wished himself in the wrong, "You needn't believe it, daughter, if you'd rather not. I shall not mind.""But is it true? Was it Mr. Storms, the young gentleman, who took tea with us, that you saw?""Of course, I don't want to contradict you, daughter Judith, but the young man I saw was Richard Storms. He stayed a long time at the public house talking with the landlord; then rode away on his blood horse like a prince.""Hours in the village, within a stone's throw from the house, and never once turned this way," muttered the girl, between her teeth; and seizing upon the loaf, she pressed it to her bosom, cutting through it with a dangerous sweep of the knife."Did he speak to you?" she asked, turning upon her father."Nay, he nodded his head when I passed him.""And the landlord, you said, they were speaking together?""Oh, yes, quite friendly.""What did they talk about—could you hear?""Yes, a little, now and then.""Well!""Oh, it was a word lifted above the rest, when Storms got into the saddle.""A word—well, what was it?""Something about a lass near 'Norston's Rest,' that folks say the young man is to wed."When Judith spoke again, her voice was so husky that the old man looked at her inquiringly, and wondered if it was the shadows that made her so pale.She felt his eyes upon her, and turned away."Did you chance to hear the name—I meanhername—the girl he is going to wed?""If I did, it has slipped from my mind, but it was some one about 'Norston's Rest.' She is to have a mint of money when some people die who are in the way.""Did he say this?""Yes, daughter."When Hart looked around, he saw that Judith had laid the loaf of bread on the table, with the knife thrust in it, and was gone. The old man was used to such reckless abandonment whenever Judith was displeased with a subject, or disliked a task; so, after waiting patiently a while for her to come back, he broke off the half-severed slice of bread, and began to make his supper from that.After a while Judith came into the room. Her color was all gone, and a look of fiery resolve broke through the trouble in her eyes."Where has he gone, father—can you tell me that?""How can I say? He wasn't likely to give much of an account of himself to an old man like me.""Don't you think it strange that he should go off like that?""Well, no," answered the old man, with some deliberation. "Young fellows like him take sudden ideas into their heads. They're not to be depended on.""And this is all you know, father?""Yes; how should I know more?""Good-night, father."The girl went into the hall, came back again, and kissed her father on the forehead three or four times. While she did this, tears leaped into her eyes, and the arms around his neck trembled violently."Why, what has come over the girl?" said the old man. "I'm not angry about the supper, child. One can't always expect things to be hot and comfortable. There, now, go to bed, and think no more about it.""Go to bed!" No, no! the girl had no thought of sleep that night. Far into the morning the light of her meagre candle gleamed through the window of her room, revealing her movements as she raved to and fro, like a wild animal in its cage—sometimes crouching down by the window as if impatient for the dawn—sometimes flinging herself desperately on the bed, but always in action.Hart went to his work very early the next morning, and did not see his daughter, who sometimes slept far beyond the breakfast hour. He was very tired and hungry that night, when he came home from work, but found the house empty, and saw no preparation for supper, except that the leaf of a table which stood against the wall was drawn out, and an empty plate and spoon stood upon it.Finding that Judith did not appear, he arose wearily, went into the pantry, and brought out a dish of cold porridge in one hand, with a pitcher of milk in the other. With this miserable apology for a meal, he drew his chair to the table and began to eat, as he had done many a time before, when, from caprice or idleness, the girl had left him to provide for himself. Then the poor old man sat by the hearth, from habit only; for nothing but dead ashes was before him, and spent a dreary hour waiting. Still Judith did not come, so he went,with a heavy heart, into a small untidy room where he usually slept, carrying a candle in his hand.As he sat on the bed wondering, with vague uneasiness, what could have kept his daughter out so late, the old man saw a crumpled paper, folded somewhat in the form of a letter, lying on the floor at his feet, where some reckless hand had tossed it. When this paper met the poor father's eye, he arose from the bed, with painful weariness, and took it to the light. Here he smoothed the heartless missive with his hands, and wandered about a while in search of his iron-bound spectacles, that shook in his hand as he put them on:Father—Don't fret about me; but I am going away for a while. This old place has tired me out, and there is no use in starving oneself in it any longer. The wages you get is not enough for one, to say nothing of a girl that has wants like other folks, and is likely to keep on wanting if she stays with you against her will. I might feel worse about leaving you so if I had ever been of much use or comfort to you; but I know just as well as you do, that I haven't done my share, and nothing like it. I know, too, that if I stayed, it would be worse instead of better; for I couldn't stand trying to be good just now—no, not to save my life!"You won't miss me, anyhow; for when I'm gone, the people you work for will ask you to take a meal now and then; besides, you were always handy about the house, and know how to cook for yourself."I would have come in to say good-by, but was afraid you might wake up and try to keep me from going. Now don't put yourself out, or let the neighbors fill your head with stories about me. There's nothing to tell,only that I have taken an idea to get a place and better myself, which I will before you see me again. If I do, never fear that I will not send you some money.Your daughter,Judith.The old man read this rude scrawl twice over—the first time shaking like a leaf, the last time with tears—every one a drop of pain—trembling in his eyes and blinding them."Gone!" he said, wiping his eyes with the soiled linen of his sleeve. "My lass gone away, no one knows where, and nothing but this left behind to remember her by! Poor thing!—poor young thing! It was lonesome here, and maybe I was hard on her in the way of work—wanted too much cooking done! But I didn't mean to be extravagant—didn't mean to drive her away from home, poor motherless thing! It's all my fault! it's all my fault! Oh! if she would only come back, and give me a chance to tell her so!"The poor old man went to his work that day, looking worn out, and so downcast that the neighbors turned pitying glances at him as he passed down the hill, for he never had stooped so much or appeared so forlorn to them before. One or two stopped to speak with him. He said nothing of his daughter, but answered their greetings with downcast eyes and humble thanks, not once mentioning his trouble, or giving a sign of the gnawing anguish that racked his bosom and sapped his strength. She had left him, and in that lay desolation too dreary for complaint.CHAPTER XXVIII.THE WIFE'S VISIT.I MUSTsee him. I will see him! Oh, Mrs. Mason, if you only knew how important it is!"The good housekeeper, who sat in her comfortable parlor at "The Rest," was surprised and troubled by the sudden appearance of her pretty favorite from the gardener's cottage. She was hard to move, but could not altogether steel herself against the pathetic pleading of that pale young creature, who had come up from her home through the lonely dusk, to ask a single word with the young heir.Sick or well, she said, that word must be spoken. All she wanted of Mrs. Mason was to let her into his room a single minute—one minute—she would not ask for more. Only if Mrs. Mason did not want to see her die, she would help her to speak that one word.There is something in passionate earnestness which will awake the most lethargic heart to energy, if that heart is kindly disposed. The stout housekeeper of the Hall had known and petted Ruth Jessup from the time she was old enough to carry her little apron full of fruit or flowers from the gardener's cottage to her room in the great mansion. It went to her heart to refuse anything to the fair young creature, who still seemed to her nothing more than a child; but the wild request, and the tearful energy with which it was urged, startled the good woman into sharp opposition."Mr. Walton! You wish to see him, Ruthy? Who ever heard of such a thing? It quite makes me tremble to think of it. What can a child like you want withthe young master, and he sick in bed, with everybody shut out but the doctor, and wet ice-cloths on his head, night and day. I couldn't think of mentioning it. I wonder you could bring yourself to ask me. If it had been anything in my line now!""It is! It is! Kindness is always in your line, dear godmother!" pleaded the poor girl, putting one arm over the housekeeper's broad shoulders, and laying her pale cheek against the rosy freshness which bloomed in that of her friend. "I wouldn't ask you, only it is so important.""But what can it be that you want to say, Ruthy? I cannot begin to understand it," questioned the old woman, faltering a little in her hastily expressed denial; for the soft-pleading kisses lavished on her face had their effect. "If you were not such a child now.""But I am not a child, godmother.""Hoity-toity! Is she setting herself up as a woman? Well, that does make me laugh. Why, it is but yesterday like since your mother came into this very room, such a pale, young thing, with you in her arms. She was weak then, with the consumption, that carried her off, burning like fire in her poor, thin cheeks, while you lay in her arms, plump as a pheasant, with those gipsy black eyes full of fire, and a crow of joy on your baby mouth. Ah, me! I remember it so well!""My poor young mother asked something of you then, didn't she?" said Ruth."Well, yes, she did. I mind it well. She had something on her heart, and came to me about it.""And that was—""About you, child. She knew that she was going to die, and—and I had always liked her, and been friendly, you know.""Yes, I know that. Father has told me.""Being so, it was but natural that she should come to me in her last trouble.""She could not have come to a dearer or kinder soul," murmured Ruth."Nonsense, child! She might; but then the truth was she didn't. It was me the poor thing chose to trust. I shall never forget her look that day when she sat down on a stool at my feet, just there by the window, and told me that she knew it was coming death that made her so feeble. She was looking at you then as well as she could, through the great tears that seemed to cool the heat in her eyes; and you lay still as a mouse, looking at her as if there was cause of baby wonderment in her tears. Then all at once your little mouth began to tremble, and lifting up your arms, you cried out, as if her tender grief had hurt you. That brought the tears into my eyes. So we all sat there crying together, though hardly a word had been spoken up to then. Still I knew what it all meant, and reaching out my arms, took you to my own bosom.""Bless you for it," murmured Ruth."Another baby had slept in that bosom once, and somewhere in God's great universe I knew that she might find it among the angels, and care for it as I meant to care for you, Ruthy.""She did! She does! Only that child is so much happier than I am," sobbed Ruth, tenderly. "She has all the angels; I only you!"Mrs. Mason lifted her plump hand, with which she patted the young creature's cheek, and said that she was a good child, and always had been; only a little headstrong, now and then, which was not to be wonderedat, seeing it was out of the question that she, though she meant to be a kind godmother, could altogether fill the place of that sweet, dead mother; she must be at her duties there in "The Rest," while Jessup was obstinate, and would keep the child with him."And you are all the mother I have now," said Ruth, who had listened with forced patience. "To whom else can I go?""Why, to no one. I should like to see man or woman attempt to cheat me out of my trust! I will say this for Jessup, headstrong as he is about having you with him, he has not interfered. When it was my pleasure to have you taught things that only ladies think of learning, he never thought of having a word to say against it; so I had my own way with my own money, and you will know the good of all the learning when you are old enough to go among people, and think of a husband, which must not be for years yet."Ruth sighed heavily."Meantime, my dear," continued the housekeeper, "we must be looking about for the proper person. With the learning we have given you, and certain prospects, we shall have a right to look high. Not among the gentry, though you will be pretty enough and bright enough for most of them, according to my thinking; but there are genteel tradespeople in the village, and they sometimes creep up among the gentry in these times. So who knows that you will not be made a lady in that way?""Oh, no! Do not speak of it—do not think of it!" said Ruth, with nervous energy. "I cannot bear that!""What a child it is! but I like to see it. Forward young things are my abomination; but you may as well know it first as last, Ruthy. When I promised yourdying mother to be a mother to you, it was not in words; but deep down in my heart, I gave you that other child's place. I am an old woman, and have saved money, which would have been hers, and shall be yours some of these days."Ruth let her head fall on the kind housekeeper's shoulder, and burst into a passion of tears. Again the old woman patted her upon the cheek."Why, child, what is the matter? I thought this news would make you happy. Take this for your comfort, my savings are heavier than people think.""Don't! oh, don't! I cannot bear it," sobbed the girl. "Everybody—that is almost everybody—is far too kind: you above all. Only—only it is not money I want just now.""But my dear—""All the money in the world, if you could give it me, could not be so much as the thing I asked just now," Ruth broke in, made desperate as the subject of her wish seemed drifting out of sight. "I want it so much—so much.""My child, it is impossible. What would Sir Noel say? What would the Lady Rose say?""She has no right. What is it to her?" cried the girl, stung by a sharp pang of jealousy, which overmastered every other feeling."Ruth!""Forgive me. I am so unhappy.""Ruth, I do not understand. You do not cry like a child, but as women cry when their hearts are breaking.""My heart is breaking.""Poor child! Is it about your father?""Yes, oh, yes! My father!""But the doctors say he is better.""He is better; but we fear trouble, great trouble.""Where? How?""Oh, Mrs. Mason, I must tell you, or you will not let me see him. They will try to make out that the young master shot my father.""They? Who? I should like to meet the man who dares say it, face to face with me."Ruth shuddered. She had met the man, and his evil smile haunted her."It may be that it is only a threat," she said; "but it frightened us, and made my father worse.""But he knows—surely he knows? What does your father say?""The man's rude talk threw him into a fever. He was quite wild, and tried to get up and dress himself, that he might come and see Wa—, the young master, at once.""Why, the man was crazy," exclaimed Mrs. Mason."He seemed like it. I could not keep him in bed, and only pacified him, by promising to come myself. You see now why it is that I must speak with Mr. Walton.""Yes, I see," observed the housekeeper, now quite bewildered. "But had you not better go to Sir Noel?""No! no! My father bade me speak to no one but the young master.""Well, well! if he knows about your coming, I don't so much mind. Wait a bit, and I will send for Webb, Sir Noel's own man, who is in the young master's chamber night and day. I will have a nice bit of supper served up here, and that will keep him while you can steal into the room without trouble."Ruth flung her arms around the good woman's neck, and covered her face with grateful kisses."Oh, how good you are—how good you are!""Well! well! Remember, dear, if I give you your own way now, it is because of your father.""I know—I know; but how soon? It is now after dark!"The housekeeper rung her bell. Then, as if struck with a new thought, told Ruth to go into her bedroom, and not attempt to enter any other part of the house, till she knew that Webb was safe down at the supper-table. Ruth promised, and stealing into the bedroom, sat down on a couch and waited.Scarcely had she left the room, when Mrs. Hipple, the companion of Lady Rose, came in, and heard the orders Mrs. Mason gave regarding Webb. A certain gleam of intelligence shot across that shrewd old face, and after making some trifling errand, she went out, with a smile on her lips.For half an hour Ruth sat in the darkness with her head bowed and her hands locked. It seemed an age to her before she heard the clink of cups, and the soft ring of silver. Then, listening keenly, she heard a man's voice speaking with the housekeeper. This might be Webb. She was resolved to make sure of that, and, walking on tip-toe across the carpet, noiselessly opened the door far enough to see that personage seated by the housekeeper, eating a dainty little supper.Quick as a bird, Ruth stole through the opposite door, up the servants' stair-case, and along the upper hall, on which the family bed-chambers opened.Trembling with excitement, which oppressed her to faintness, she turned the latch, and stole into the chamber,but only to pause a step from the door, dumb and cold, as if, then and there, turned into stone.Another person was in the room, standing close by the bed, with the glow of its silken curtains falling over the soft whiteness of her dress, and the rich masses of her golden hair. It was Lady Rose.A moment this fair vision stood gazing upon the inmate of the bed, then her face drooped downward, and seemed to rest upon the pillow, where another head lay. The night-lamp was dim, but Ruth could see this, and also that the lady sunk slowly to her knees, and rested her cheek against a hand, around which her fingers were enwoven.Not a word did that young wife utter. Not a breath did she draw, but, turning swiftly, fled.CHAPTER XXIX.BY MY MOTHER IN HEAVEN.RUTH JESSUPstood by her father's bed, white as a ghost, and cold as a stone. Her step, usually so light, had fallen heavily on the floor as she entered the room—so heavily that the sick man started in his bed, afraid of some unwelcome intrusion. The room was darkened, and he did not see how pale his child was, even when she stood close to him."Did you see him? Did you tell him to keep a close lip? Does he know that I would be hacked to pieces rather than harm him? Why don't you speak, Ruth?""I saw him, father; but that was all," answered the girl, in a voice that sounded unnatural to him."That was all? Did you not give him my own words?""No, father! Another person was with him. I had no power to speak."The old man groaned, and gave an impatient grip at the bed-clothes."I will get up. I will go myself!"With the words on his lips, the old man half-rose, and fell back upon his pillow with a gasp of pain."Oh, father! do not try to move. It hurts you so!" said Ruth, bending over him."But he must be told. That young man threatens us. He must be told! So rash—so young. He might—Oh!""Father! father! You are killing yourself!""No, no, child! I must not do that. Never was a poor wounded man's life of so much consequence as mine is now."Ruth bent over him, and he saw that she was silently crying."Oh, father! what would I do—what would I do?" she sobbed.The gardener's eyes filled with pity."Aye. What would you? But I am not dead yet. There, there! wipe your eyes. We shall live to go away from this dreary place, and take the trouble with us—the trouble and the shame."A flash of fire shot through the pallor of Ruth Jessup's face. She drew her slender figure upright."Shame! No, father. Sick or well, I will not let you say that. No shame has fallen upon us.""Ruth! Ruth! You say this?""Father, I swear it! I, who tremble at the sound of an oath, knowing how sacred a thing it is. I swear it by my mother, who is in heaven!"The old man reached up his arms, and drew the girl down to his bosom, which was heaving with great wave-like sobs."My child! my child! my own—own—"He murmured these broken words over her. He patted her shoulder; he smoothed her hair with his great, trembling hand. His sobs shook the bed, and a rain of tears moistened his pillow."You believe me, father?""Would I believe your mother, could she speak from her place by the great white throne? The mother you have sworn by!""The mother I have sworn by," repeated Ruth, lifting her eyes to heaven."Thank God! Thank God! Ah, Ruth! my child! my child!"The locked agony, which was not all physical pain, went out of the old man's face then. His eyes softened, his lips relaxed; a deep, long breath heaved his chest. After this he lay upon his pillow, weak as a child, and smiling like one.Thus Ruth watched by him for an hour; but her face was contracted with anxiety, that came back upon her after the calm of her father's rest. She had told him the truth, yet how much was kept back? There was no shame to confess; but oh, how much of sorrow to endure! Danger, too, of which Hurst should be warned. But how, with that fair woman by his side—how could any one approach him with counsel or help?Jessup stirred on his pillow. An hour of refreshing sleep had given him wonderful strength. That surgeon, when he took the bullet from his chest, had not given him half the relief found in the words which Ruth had uttered. But out of those words came subjects for reflection when his brain awoke from its slumbers. If Ruth spoke truly, what object could have led to his own wounds? Why had young Hurst assaulted him if there was nothing to conceal—no vengeance to anticipate? Then arose a vague consciousness that all was not clear in his own mind regarding the events that had brought him so near death. The darkness of midnight lay under those old cedars of Lebanon. He had seen the figure of a man under their branches that night, but remembered it vaguely. A little after, when the bullet had struck him, and he was struggling up from the ground, he did see a face on the verge of the moonlight, looking that way. That face was Walton Hurst. Then all was black. He must have fainted.But how had the young man been wounded? There had been a struggle—Jessup remembered that. Perhaps he had wrested the gun from his assailant, and struck back in the first agony of his wound; but of that he had no certainty—a sharp turn, and one leap upon the dark figure, was all he could remember.What motive was there for all this? Better than his own life had he loved the family of Sir Noel Hurst—the young heir most of all. What cause of enmity had arisen up against him, a most faithful and always favored retainer? Ah, if he could but see the young man!But that was impossible. Both were stricken down, and Ruth had failed to carry the message of conciliation and caution that had been intrusted to her. Even whenwrithing under a sense of double wrong, his love for the young man had come uppermost; and in the desperate apprehension inspired by Richard Storms, he had urged Ruth to go and warn the heir.In health he might not have done this; for, though anything but a vindictive man, Jessup was proud in his manly way, and would have shrunk from that means of reassuring the man who had hurt him; but there was still continued riots of fever in his brain, and in the terror brought on him by Storms he had forgotten all the rest. Indeed, he had been incapable of cool reasoning from the first; but his affectionate nature acted for itself.Now, when the pressure of doubt regarding his own child was removed, a struggle to remember events clearly came on, which threatened to excite his nerves into continued restlessness. He was constantly pondering over the subject of that attack, and the morning found him dangerously wakeful."My child."Ruth, who had been resting in an easy-chair, was by his side in an instant."I am here, father, but you have not slept. How bright your eyes are!""Ruth, have I been out of my head again, or did you say something in the night that lifted the stone from my heart? Is it all or half a dream?""I told you only the truth, father.""Ah, but that truth was everything. It may change everything.""Do not talk so eagerly, father; the doctor will scold me when he comes.""Let him scold. You have done me more good, child, than he ever can; but you look worn out, your eyes have dark stains under them.""I shall be better now," answered the poor girl, turning her face away."Ah, yes, everything will turn out right as soon as I can see him. Anyway, my lips shall never tell a word of it. All the courts in the world could not draw that out of me. He thought I was doubting him—that I meant to harm him, may be. Youth is so quick to act—so quick!""Oh, father, did he—did he do it?" cried Ruth, with a quick, passionate outburst."Have I not said that nothing should make me answer that, lass? No one shall hurt the young master with my help."Ruth questioned her father no more. His words had confirmed her worst fears. It seemed to her as if all the world had arrayed itself against her feeble strength. But one ray of light broke through her troubles. Her father was better. He evidently believed in her. The bitter pain had all gone out from his heart. He smiled upon her when she left the room, and tasted of the breakfast she prepared for him with something like a return of appetite.CHAPTER XXX.THE BARMAID OF THE TWO RAVENS.NORSTON'S REST" had its village lying within a mile of the park gate, mostly inhabited by the better sort of small tradespeople, with laborers' cottages scattered here and there on the outskirts, with more or less picturesqueness. From the inhabitants of this villageand a large class of thrifty farmers, tenants on the estate, the public house drew its principal support.One evening, just after the heir of "Norston's Rest" and its gardener were taken up wounded and insensible in the park, a party of these persons was assembled in the public room, talking over the exciting news. Among them was young Storms, who was referred to and called upon for information more frequently than seemed pleasant to him."How should I know?" he said; "the whole affair happened in the night. There wasn't likely to be any witnesses but the young heir and the old man himself. Who knows that it wasn't a chance slip of the trigger?"A hoarse laugh followed this speech, and the drinking-cups were set down with a dash of derision as one after another took it up."A chance slip of the trigger! Ha, ha, ha! Who ever heard tell of a gun going off of itself and killing two men—one at the muzzle and t'other with the stock?" exclaimed one. "Most of us here have handled a gun long enough to know better than that. Come, come, Storms, tell us summat about it, for, if any man knows, it's yoursel'.""I," said Dick, lifting both hands in much astonishment, while his face gave sinister confirmation of the charge. "How should I know? What should bring me into that part of the park?""In that part of the park—as if a more likely place could be found for you. Besides, some one said that you were out that very night, and you never gave the lie to it.""Well, and if I was, what should bring me to thecedars, lying straight in the way between 'The Rest' and Jessup's cottage? My road home lay on the other side."This was said with a covert smile, well calculated to excite suspicion of some secret knowledge which the young man was keeping back."Did you order more wine, sir?"Storms half leaped from his chair, but sat down again instantly; casting a swift glance at the barmaid, who was apparently occupied in changing some of the empty bottles for others that were full."Judith Hart!"The name had almost broken from his lips, but he checked it promptly, and pushing his empty glass toward her, looked smilingly in her face, and said, "I was afraid you had forgotten me."There was a subtle thrill of persuasion in his voice, some meaning far deeper than his words, that turned the girl's averted look to his own."No," she answered, almost in a whisper, "it is not me that forgets."Dick breathed again; a tone of reproach had broken through the hard composure of her first speech. In reaching forth his cup he managed to touch the girl's hand. She drew it back with a jerk, and flashing a wrathful glance at him left the room.Meantime the conversation had been going on among the other occupants of the room."The doctor says that it may go hard with Jessup. One was saying, 'the ball went clear through him.' As for the young master—"."Ah, he will be all right in a day or two. There was no great hurt; nothing but a blow on the head, whichlaid him out stark a while, and left him crazy as a loon; but that is nothing like a hole through the body.""If Jessup should die, now," said another."Why, then, there would be a sharp lookout for the murderer. Now Sir Noel will have nothing done.""There may be a reason for that," said Storms, coming forward, and speaking in a sinister whisper.The man, thus addressed, lifted the pewter cup, newly-filled with beer, to his mouth and drank deeply, giving Dick a long, significant look over the rim."Least said soonest mended," he answered, in a low voice, wiping the foam from his lips. "At any rate, where the family up there is concerned. Sir Noel is not likely to make a stir in the matter; and as for Jessup—""Jessup is a stubborn fool," said Storms, viciously."Not if Sir Noel makes it worth his while. I would rather have a hundred gold sovereigns in my pocket any day than see a dashing, handsome youngster like one we know of at the assizes; though it would be a rare sight in old England.""Yes, a rare sight. A rare sight!" said Storms, rubbing his thin hands with horrid glee. "I would go half over England to see it. Only as you say, old Jessup loves gold better than vengeance. If he had died now—""Why, then, there would be no evidence, you see.""Don't you be so sure of that," said Storms, "he may die. Men don't get up so readily with bullet-holes through them. He may, and then—"Here the young man took his wine from the barmaid, and began to sip its contents, drop by drop, as if it had a taste of vengeance he was prolonging to the utmost.The girl watched him, and a strange smile crept over her mouth."Here, drink with me, lass," he said, holding the glass toward her. "Drink with me, and fill again; there is enough for us both.""No," said the girl, pushing the glass away; "not here or now."Storms saw that the men around his portion of the table were occupied, and spoke to her in a swift, low voice:"When and where?"The girl gave her head a toss, and moved down the table, casting a look over her shoulder, which made the young man restless in his seat. Directly she came back, and leaning close to him, while her hand was busy with the glasses, whispered sharply:"To-night, after the house is closed, I want to see you, face to face, just once more.""That will do," whispered Storms; "and a nice time I shall have of it," he thought, with some apprehension."A fine lass that," said the man who sat nearest him, as the barmaid moved across the room, with the force and rude grace of a leopardess. "Kin to the mistress here, isn't she—a cousin?"The man spoke loud enough for others to hear, and followed the girl with bold, admiring eyes.Storms answered him with sneering sarcasm. He felt this to be imprudent, but could not suppress the venom of his nature, even when his heart was quaking with terror."I have not inquired into her pedigree. You may be more interested. She is a little out of my level."He was about to say more, but checked himself, and ended his speech more cautiously: "If she has kinsfolk here, none of us ever heard of them.""But where did she come from?" questioned the man, who was greatly interested in the singular girl. "Such black hair and eyes should be of a strange land. There is nothing English about her but her speech. Look at her face; the color burns through it like wine.""Now that she looks fierce," said another, "one sees how handsome a fiery woman can be. Some one has stirred up her temper. He may find himself the worse for it. The fellows are shy of angering her, take my word on that. She has a quick hand, and a sharp tongue; but her bright, comely face brings customers to the house. A tidy girl is the new one. Only keep the right side of her, that's all."Just then the barmaid came back into the room. There was something in her appearance that might have reminded one of Ruth Jessup, could the soul of a wild animal have harbored in the form of that beautiful girl. The same raven hair, and large eyes; the same rich complexion, joined to features coarser, sensuous, and capable of expressing many passions that Ruth could not have imagined. As she stood, with a sort of easy grace, the purely physical resemblance was remarkable; but when she moved or spoke, it was gone. Then the coarse nature came out, and overwhelmed the imagination."Where did she come from?" asked Judith's new admirer."Better ask her yourself," answered Storms, absolutely jealous that any one should admire the beauty he had begun to loathe."I will," said the man, and, leaving the table, he approached Judith with a jaunty exhibition of gallantry, which she received with a cold stare, and, turning from him, walked back into the bar.Storms broke into a laugh, and followed the girl into her retreat. Even in that brief interval he had arranged his plan of action, and carried it out adroitly. The girl knew that he was coming, and stood there, like a leopard in its den, ready to fight or be persuaded, as her heart swayed to love or resentment."This is madness; it is cruel to your old father—hard on me. Twice have I been to the house, and found it empty."The fire went out of Judith's face. Bewildered, baffled and ready to cry, she turned away with a gesture that Storms took for unbelief of what was indeed a glib falsehood."No one could tell me where to look for you. Of all places in the world, how could I expect to find you here?""You have been to the old house?" said Judith. "Is this true? Tell me, is it the truth?""The truth!" repeated Storms, with a look of amazement. "What should prevent me going as usual?""Nothing but your own will. Nothing but—""But what, Judith?""But her—the girl that lives in the park at 'Norston's Rest.'""That story again! How often shall I be called upon to tell you it is sheer gossip?""But you told it yourself to the landlord at our village."
A FATHER'S MISGIVING.
A FIGUREcrouched low in the darkness of that narrow passage, listening at the door, and shrinking with shudders when a groan broke through the ill-fitted panels. There was some confusion in the room beyond, voices, and guarded footsteps, quick orders given, then dull, dead silence, and a sharp scream of agony.
"That was his cry! They are killing him! they are killing him!" cried that poor girl, springing to her feet.
Ruth opened the door in rash haste, and her pale face looked in.
"Back! Go back, child!"
It was the impatient voice and white hand of the surgeon that warned Ruth Jessup back; and she shrunk into the darkness again, appalled by what she had seen—her father's gray hair, scattered on the pillow, his face writhing, and his eyes hot and wild with anguish.
It was a terrible picture, but while it wrung her heart, there was hope in the agony it brought. Anything was better than the deathly stillness that had terrified her under the cedars. It was something that her father could feel pain.
"Now," said the kind surgeon, looking through the door, "you can come in. The bullet is extracted."
In his white palm lay a bit of bent lead, which he looked upon lovingly, for it was a proof of his own professional skill; but Ruth turned from it with a shiver, and creeping up to her father's bed, knelt down by it, holding back her tears, and burying her face in the bed-clothes, afraid to meet the wild eyes turned upon her.
The wounded man moved his hand a little toward her. She took it in her own timid clasp, and laid her wet cheek upon it in penitent humility.
"Oh, father!"
The hard fingers stirred in her grasp.
"Did it hurt you so? Has it almost killed you?"
The old man turned a little and bent his eyes upon her.
"It isn'tthathurt," he struggled to say. "Not that."
Ruth began to tremble. She understood him.
"Oh, father!" she faltered, "who did it? How could you have been hurt?"
A stern glance shot from the sick man's eye.
"You! oh, you!"
"Oh, father! I did not know. How could I?"
The old man drew away his hand, and shook off the tears she had left upon it, with more strength than he seemed to possess.
"Hush!" he said. "You trouble me."
Ruth shrunk away, and once more rested her head on the quilt, that was soon wet with her tears. After a little she crept close to him again, and timidly touched his hand.
"Father!"
"Poor child! Poor, foolish child!"
"Father, forgive me!"
The sick man's face quivered all over, and, spite of an effort to restrain it, his poor hand rose tremblingly, and fell on that bowed head.
"Oh, my child! if we had both died before this thing happened."
"I wish we had. Oh, how I wish we had!"
"It was my fault," murmured the sick man.
"No, no! It was mine. I am to blame, I alone."
"I might have known it; poor, lost lamb, I might have known it."
Ruth lifted her head suddenly.
"Lost lamb! Oh, father! what do these words mean?"
The gardener shook his head faintly, closed his eyes, and two great tears rolled from under the lids.
"Oh! tell me—tell me! I—I cannot bear it, father!"
That moment the surgeons, who had gone out for consultation, came back and rather sternly reprimanded Ruth for talking with their patient.
The girl rose obediently, and turned away from the bed. The surgeons saw that a scarlet heat had driven away the pallor of her countenance, but took no heed of that. She had evidently agitated their patient, and this was sufficient excuse for some degree of severity, so she went forth, relieved of her former awful dread, but wounded with new anxieties.
Two days followed of intense suffering to that wounded man and the broken-hearted girl. Fever and delirium set in with him, terror and dread with her. The power of reason had come out of that great shock. In trembling and awe she had asked herself questions.
Who had fired that murderous shot? How had the gun disappeared from behind the passage door, where Richard Storms had surely left it? Had there been a quarrel between the father she loved and the husband she adored? If so, which was the aggressor?
The poor girl remembered with dread the questions with which her father had startled her so that night, the sharp gleam of his usually kind eyes, and the set firmness of his mouth, while he waited for her answer. Did he guess at the deception she had practised, or were his suspicions such as made the blood burn in her veins?
With these thoughts harassing her mind, the young creature watched over that sick man until her own strength began to droop. In his delirium, he had talked wildly, and uttered at random many a broken fancy that cut her to the soul; but even in his helpless state there had seemed to be an undercurrent of caution curbing his tongue. He raved of the man who had shot him, but mentioned no names; spoke of his daughter with hushed tenderness, but still with a sort of reserve, as if he were keeping some painful secret back in his heart. Sometimes he recognized her, and then his eyes, lurid with fever, would fill with hot tears.
After a while this fever of the brain passed off, and left the strong man weak as a child. It seemed as if he had lost all force, even for suffering; but Ruth felt that some painful thing, that he never spoke of or hinted at, haunted him. He was strangely wakeful, and at timesshe felt his great eyes looking out at her from their deepening caverns, with an expression that made her heart sink.
One day he spoke to her with a suddenness that made her breath stand still.
"Ruth!"
"Father, did you speak to me?"
"Where is he?"
"Who, father?"
"You know. Is he safe out of the way?"
"Do you mean—"
The girl broke off. She could not utter Walton Hurst's name. The sick man also seemed to shrink from it.
"Is he safe?"
"Oh, father! he was hurt like yourself."
"Hurt!—he? I am speaking of Walton Hurst, girl."
The man spoke out plainly now, and a wild questioning look came into his eyes.
"Oh, father! he was found, like yourself, lying on the ground, senseless. We thought that he was dead."
"Lying on the ground! Who hurt him? Not I—not I!"
Ruth flung herself on her knees by the bed; a flush of coming tears rushed over her face.
"Oh, father! oh, thank God! father, dear father!"
"Did you think that?" whispered the sick man, overwhelmed by this swift outburst of feeling.
"I did not know—I could not tell. It was all so strange, so terrible! Oh, father, I have been so troubled!"
The sick man looked at her earnestly.
"Ruth!"
"Yes, father!"
"Was he shot like me?"
"I do not know. They say not. Some terrible blow on the head, but no blood."
"A blow on the head! But how? As God is my witness, I struck no one."
Ruth fell to kissing that large, helpless hand, as if some awful stain had just been removed from it. In all her father's sickness she had never touched him with her sweet lips till now. Then all at once she drew back as if an arrow had struck her. It was something keener than that—one of the thoughts that kill as they strike. After a struggle for breath, she spoke.
"But who? Oh, father, you were shot. Was it—was it—"
"Hush, child! Not a word! I—I will not hear a word. Never let that question pass your lips again so long as you live. I charge you—I charge you!"
The sick man fell back exhausted, and gasping for breath. The question put so naturally by his daughter seemed to have given him a dangerous shock.
"But how is he now?"
The question was asked in a hoarse whisper, and more by the bright eyes than those trembling lips.
"I—I have not dared to ask. I—I could not leave you here alone," answered Ruth, with a fitful quiver of the lips.
"How long is it?"
"Two days, father."
"Two days, and no news of him."
"They would not keep it from us if he had been worse," said Ruth, who had listened with sickening dread to every footstep that approached the cottage during all that time, fearing the news she expected, and gathering hope because it did not come.
"Has Sir Noel been here?"
"He was here that night," answered Ruth, shuddering, as she thought of the awful scene, when her father was brought home so death-like.
"Not since? He knew that I was hurt, too."
"He has sent the doctors here."
"What news did they bring?"
"I—I did not dare to ask."
A look of deep compassion broke into those sunken eyes, and, turning on his pillow, the old man murmured in a painful whisper:
"Poor child! Poor child!"
Then Ruth fell to kissing his great hand again, murmuring:
"Oh, father! you are so good to me—so good!"
"I am weak—so weak," he answered, as if excusing something to himself. "But how could he—Well, well, when I am stronger—when I am stronger."
The cottage was small, and the jar of an opening door could be felt through the whole little building. Some one was trying at the latch then, and a step was heard in the passage.
THE BIRD AND THE SERPENT.
GO. It may be news," said the sick man.
Before Ruth could reach the door she met Richard Storms coming toward her father's room. His manner was less audacious than usual, and his face clouded.
"I have come to ask after your father," he said, with an anxious look, as if he expected some rebuff. "They say that he has been shot in the back by some lurking thief. Perhaps I could help ferret out who it is if the old man'll tell me all about it."
"Father is too ill for talking," answered Ruth, shrinking out of her visitor's path. "He must be kept quiet."
"Of course; but not from neighbors like us. The old man at the farm sent me over to hear all about it."
"There is nothing to hear. Everybody knows how my poor father was found bleeding in the park. He has been very ill since, and is only now coming to himself."
"Oh! ah! Then he has come to his senses. That was what we most wanted to know; for, of course, he can tell who shot him. I'll be sworn it is guessed at rightly enough. Still knowing is knowing."
As he spoke, Storms moved forward, as if determined to enter the sick man's chamber.
Ruth had no means of stopping him. She retreated backward, step by step, shrinking from his approach, but without the least power of resistance. When she reached the door, Storms put forth his hand and attempted to put her aside, not rudely; but she so loathed his touch, that a faint cry broke from hers.
A look of bitter malice broke over the young man's face as he bent it close to her.
"You didn't scream so when the young master took my place the night all this trouble came up. I could tell something of what chanced between your sweetheart and the old man, after he went out with my gun in his hand."
"You know—you can tell? You saw?" whispered the poor girl, rendered hoarse by fear.
"Ah, that makes you whimper, does it? That starts the blood from your white face. Yes, I saw—I saw; and when the courts want to know what I saw they will hear about it. Kicked dogs bite now and then. So don't gather your comely little self into a heap, when I come by again, or my tongue may be loosened. I have kept it between my teeth till now, for the sake of old times, when you were ready to smile when I came and were sorry when I went."
"But we were children then."
"Yes; but when he came with his dainty wooing, some one forgot that she had ever been a child."
"No, no! As a playmate, I liked you. It was when—when—"
"When, having the feelings of a man, I spoke them out, and was treated like a dog. Do not think I will ever forget that. No, never—never, to my dying day."
"Why are you so harsh with me, Richard?" cried the poor girl, now thoroughly terrified. "I never in my whole life have done you harm."
The young man laughed a low, disagreeable laugh.
"Harm! Oh, no! Such milk-white doves as you never harm anything. They only fire a man's heart with love, then torment him with it, like witches—soft-spoken, smiling witches—that make us devils with their jibes, and idiots with their tears. Oh, I hardly know which is most enticing, love or hate, for such creatures."
"Don't! don't! You frighten me!" pleaded the girl.
"Aye, there it is. Faint at a plain word; but work out murder and bloodshed with the witchcraft of your false smiles and lying tears. That is what you have done, Ruth Jessup."
"No! no!" cried the girl, putting up her hands.
"Who was it that set her own father and sweetheart at each other?"
"Hush! I will not hear this. It is false—it is cruel. There was no quarrel between them—no evil blood."
"No quarrel—no evil blood! She says that, looking meek as a spring-lamb, chewing the lie in her mouth as that does clover. But what if I tell you that the old man in yonder knew just all that happened after I was turned out of the kitchen that night?"
"It was you who told him that which might have brought great trouble on him and me; only good men are slow to believe evil of those they love. I knew from his own lips that you had waylaid him in the park with a wicked falsehood."
"It was the truth, every word of it," exclaimed Storms, stamping his foot on the floor. "I saw it with my own eyes."
"Saw what?" faltered the girl, sick with apprehension.
"Saw! But I need not tell you. Only the next time Sir Noel's heir comes here, with his orders for flowers, and his wanting to know all about growing roses, have a curtain to the kitchen window, or train the ivy thicker over it. Now do you understand?"
"It is you who cannot understand," said Ruth, feeling a glow of courage, which the young man mistook for shame. "The thing you did was a mean act, and if I had never hated you before, that would be cause enough."
"This is brass. After all, I did think to see some sign of shame."
Ruth turned away, faint with terror and disgust.
"You may thank me that I told no one but the old man in yonder. Had I gone to Sir Noel—"
"No, no—you could not; you dare not!"
"Dare not! Well, now, I like that. Some day you will know how much I dare."
"But why—why do you wish to injure me?"
"Why does a hound snap when you mock him with a dainty bit of beef, and while his mouth waters, and his eyes gloat, toss it beyond his reach? You have learned something of the kennels, Ruth Jessup, and should know that men and hounds are alike in this."
Ruth could hardly suppress the scorn that crept through her into silence. But she felt that this man held an awful power over everything she loved, and gave no expression to her bitter loathing.
"Do you mean to let me in?" said Storms, almost coaxingly. "I want to have a word with the old man."
Ruth stood aside. She dared not oppose him; but when free to pass, he hesitated, and a look of nervous anxiety came over his features.
"The old man doesn't speak much; hasn't said how it all happened, ha?"
"He has said nothing about it," answered Ruth, struck with new terror.
The look of cool audacity came back to her enemy's face, and, without more ceremony, he pushed his way into the wounded man's room.
TRUE AS STEEL.
JESSUPwas lying with his eyes closed, and his mouth firmly compressed, as if in pain. But the tread of heavy feet on the floor aroused him, and he opened his eyes in languid wonder. The sight of Storms brought slow fire to his eyes.
"Is it you—you?" he whispered, sharply.
"Yes, neighbor Jessup, it is I," answered Storms. "Father is sadly put about, and wants to know how it all happened. He means to have justice done, if no one else stirs in the matter—and I think with him."
A look of keen, almost ferocious anxiety, darkened the young man's face as he said this.
"That is kind and neighborly," answered the gardener, moving restlessly in his bed. "But there is nothing to tell."
Storms looked at the sick man in dumb amazement. Up to this time his manner had been anxious, and his voice hurried. Now a dark red glow rose to his face, and blazed from his eyes with a glare of relief.
"Nothing to tell, and you shot through the shoulder, in a way that has set the whole country side in commotion? This is a pretty tale to go home with."
The young man spoke cheerfully, and with a sort of chuckle in his voice.
"It is the truth," said Jessup, closing his eyes.
"But some one shot you."
"It was an accident," whispered the sick man.
"An accident! Oh! was it an accident?"
"Nothing worse."
"Are you in earnest, Jessup?"
"Do I look like a man who jokes?" said the gardener, with a slow smile.
"And you are willing to swear to this?"
"No one will want me to swear. No harm worth speaking of has been done."
"Don't you be sure of that," answered Storms. "The peace has been broken, and two men have been badly hurt. This is work for a magistrate."
Jessup shook his pale head on the pillow, and spoke with some energy.
"I tell you it was an accident; my gun went off."
"And I tell you it was no accident. I saw it all with my own eyes."
"You—you saw it all?" exclaimed Jessup, rising on his elbow. "You!"
"Just as plain as a bright moon and stars could show it to me."
"How? How—"
Jessup had struggled up from his pillow, but fell back almost fainting, with his wild eyes fixed steadily on the young man's face.
"I had just passed under the cedar-trees, when you came in sight, walking fast, as if you were in a hurry to find some one."
"It was you I was looking for. I was on my way to find you," whispered Jessup, so hoarsely that Storms had to bend low to catch his words.
"Me! What for, I should like to know?"
"Because I thought you had lied to me," answered the old man, turning his face from the light. "Oh, that it had been so—if it only had been so!"
A sob shook that strong frame, and from under the wrinkled eyelids two great tears forced their way.
A flash of intelligence gleamed across Storms' face. He was gaining more information than he had dared to hope for. But craft is the refuge of knaves, and the wisdom of fools. He had self-command enough for deception, and pretended not to observe the anguish of that proud man, for proud he was, in the best sense of the word.
"I was hanging about the grounds, too savage for home or anything else," he went on to say. "I had seen enough to drive a man mad, and was almost that, when you came up. There was another man under the cedar-trees. I had been watching for him all the evening. You know who that was."
Jessup gave a faint groan.
"I knew that he was skulking there in hope of seeing her again."
"It is a mistake!" exclaimed Jessup, with more force in his voice than he had as yet shown.
Storms laughed mockingly.
"So you mean to shield him? You—you tell me that young master wasn't in your house that night: that your daughter did not see him; that he did not shoot you for being in the way? Perhaps you will expect me to believe all that; but I saw it!"
As these cruel words were rained over him, the sick man settled down in his bed, and seemed hardened into iron. The fire of combat glowed in his deep-set eyes, and his hand clenched a fold of the bed-clothes, as if both had been chiselled out of marble.
"No one shot me. It was my own careless handling of the gun," he said. "No one shot me."
Storms laughed again.
"Oh, no, Jessup, that'll never do! What a man sees he sees."
"No one shot me—it was myself."
"But how did he come to harm, if it was not a kick on the head from the gun he did not know how to manage? I could have told him how to handle it better. My gun, too—"
"Your gun!"
"Yes, my gun. I left it behind the door, in the passage, when he sent me out. He took it when it was dangerous to stay longer. I saw it in his hand before you came out. He was armed—you were not."
"I took the gun," said Jessup.
"You will swear to that!" said Storms, really amazed. "You believe it?"
"I took the gun. It went off by chance. That is all I have to say. Now leave me, young man, for so much talk is more than I can bear."
Storms obeyed. He had not only gained all the information he wanted, but the material for new mischief had been supplied to a brain that was strong to work out evil. He found Ruth in the passage, walking up and down, wild and pale with distress. She gave him a look that might have softened a heart of marble, but only increased his self-gratulation.
"Just let me ask this," he said, coming close to her, with a sneer on his face. "Which of those two men took out the gun I left standing behind the door that night—father or sweetheart? One or the other will have to answer for it. Which would you prefer to have hanged?"
The deadly whiteness which swept over that youngface only deepened the cruel sneer that had brought it forth. Bending lower down, the wretch added, "I saw it all. I know which it was that fired the shot. Now what will you give me to hold my tongue?"
Ruth could not speak; but her eyes, full of shrinking fear, were fixed upon him.
"You might marry me now rather than see him hung."
Ruth shuddered, and looked wildly around, as a bird seeks to flee from a serpent that threatens its life.
"Say, isn't my tongue worth bridling at a fair price?"
"I—I do not understand you," faltered the poor young creature, drawing back with unconquerable aversion, till the wall supported her.
"But you will understand what it all means, when he is dragged to the assizes, for all the rabble of the country side to look upon."
Ruth covered her face with both hands.
"Oh, you seem to see it now. That handsome face, looking out of a criminal's box; those white hands held up pleading for mercy. Mind you, his high birth and all his father's gold will only be the worse for him. The laws of old England reach gentlemen as well as us poor working folks. Ha! what is this?"
The cruel wretch might well cry out, for Ruth had fainted at his feet.
A CRUEL DESERTION.
A WEEKor two before these painful events happened at "Norston's Rest," Judith Hart had been expecting to see Storms day after day till disappointment kindled into fiery impatience, and the stillness of her home became intolerable. Had he, in fact, taken offence at her first words of reproach, and left her to the dreary old life? Had her rude passion of jealousy driven him from her forever, or was there some truth in the engagement that woman spoke of?
Again and again Judith pondered over these questions, sometimes angry with herself, and again filled with a burning desire to know the worst, and hurl her rage and humiliation on some one else.
She was a shrewd girl, endowed with a sharp intellect and a will, that stopped at nothing in its reckless assumption. To this was added a vivid imagination, influenced by coarse reading, uncurbed affections, and, in this case, an intense passion of love, that lay ready to join all these qualities into actions as steam conquers the inertia of iron. One day, when her desire for the presence of that man had become a desperate longing, her father came home earlier than usual, and in his kindly way told her that he had seen young Storms in the village where he had loitered half the morning around the public house.
Judith was getting supper for the old man when he told her this; but she dropped the loaf from her hands and turned upon him, as if the news so gently spoken had offended her.
"You saw Mr. Storms in the village, father? He stayed there hour after hour, and, at last, rode away up the hill-road, too, without stopping here? I don't believe it; if you told me so a thousand times, I wouldn't believe it!"
The old man shook his head, and replied apologetically, as if he wished himself in the wrong, "You needn't believe it, daughter, if you'd rather not. I shall not mind."
"But is it true? Was it Mr. Storms, the young gentleman, who took tea with us, that you saw?"
"Of course, I don't want to contradict you, daughter Judith, but the young man I saw was Richard Storms. He stayed a long time at the public house talking with the landlord; then rode away on his blood horse like a prince."
"Hours in the village, within a stone's throw from the house, and never once turned this way," muttered the girl, between her teeth; and seizing upon the loaf, she pressed it to her bosom, cutting through it with a dangerous sweep of the knife.
"Did he speak to you?" she asked, turning upon her father.
"Nay, he nodded his head when I passed him."
"And the landlord, you said, they were speaking together?"
"Oh, yes, quite friendly."
"What did they talk about—could you hear?"
"Yes, a little, now and then."
"Well!"
"Oh, it was a word lifted above the rest, when Storms got into the saddle."
"A word—well, what was it?"
"Something about a lass near 'Norston's Rest,' that folks say the young man is to wed."
When Judith spoke again, her voice was so husky that the old man looked at her inquiringly, and wondered if it was the shadows that made her so pale.
She felt his eyes upon her, and turned away.
"Did you chance to hear the name—I meanhername—the girl he is going to wed?"
"If I did, it has slipped from my mind, but it was some one about 'Norston's Rest.' She is to have a mint of money when some people die who are in the way."
"Did he say this?"
"Yes, daughter."
When Hart looked around, he saw that Judith had laid the loaf of bread on the table, with the knife thrust in it, and was gone. The old man was used to such reckless abandonment whenever Judith was displeased with a subject, or disliked a task; so, after waiting patiently a while for her to come back, he broke off the half-severed slice of bread, and began to make his supper from that.
After a while Judith came into the room. Her color was all gone, and a look of fiery resolve broke through the trouble in her eyes.
"Where has he gone, father—can you tell me that?"
"How can I say? He wasn't likely to give much of an account of himself to an old man like me."
"Don't you think it strange that he should go off like that?"
"Well, no," answered the old man, with some deliberation. "Young fellows like him take sudden ideas into their heads. They're not to be depended on."
"And this is all you know, father?"
"Yes; how should I know more?"
"Good-night, father."
The girl went into the hall, came back again, and kissed her father on the forehead three or four times. While she did this, tears leaped into her eyes, and the arms around his neck trembled violently.
"Why, what has come over the girl?" said the old man. "I'm not angry about the supper, child. One can't always expect things to be hot and comfortable. There, now, go to bed, and think no more about it."
"Go to bed!" No, no! the girl had no thought of sleep that night. Far into the morning the light of her meagre candle gleamed through the window of her room, revealing her movements as she raved to and fro, like a wild animal in its cage—sometimes crouching down by the window as if impatient for the dawn—sometimes flinging herself desperately on the bed, but always in action.
Hart went to his work very early the next morning, and did not see his daughter, who sometimes slept far beyond the breakfast hour. He was very tired and hungry that night, when he came home from work, but found the house empty, and saw no preparation for supper, except that the leaf of a table which stood against the wall was drawn out, and an empty plate and spoon stood upon it.
Finding that Judith did not appear, he arose wearily, went into the pantry, and brought out a dish of cold porridge in one hand, with a pitcher of milk in the other. With this miserable apology for a meal, he drew his chair to the table and began to eat, as he had done many a time before, when, from caprice or idleness, the girl had left him to provide for himself. Then the poor old man sat by the hearth, from habit only; for nothing but dead ashes was before him, and spent a dreary hour waiting. Still Judith did not come, so he went,with a heavy heart, into a small untidy room where he usually slept, carrying a candle in his hand.
As he sat on the bed wondering, with vague uneasiness, what could have kept his daughter out so late, the old man saw a crumpled paper, folded somewhat in the form of a letter, lying on the floor at his feet, where some reckless hand had tossed it. When this paper met the poor father's eye, he arose from the bed, with painful weariness, and took it to the light. Here he smoothed the heartless missive with his hands, and wandered about a while in search of his iron-bound spectacles, that shook in his hand as he put them on:
Father—Don't fret about me; but I am going away for a while. This old place has tired me out, and there is no use in starving oneself in it any longer. The wages you get is not enough for one, to say nothing of a girl that has wants like other folks, and is likely to keep on wanting if she stays with you against her will. I might feel worse about leaving you so if I had ever been of much use or comfort to you; but I know just as well as you do, that I haven't done my share, and nothing like it. I know, too, that if I stayed, it would be worse instead of better; for I couldn't stand trying to be good just now—no, not to save my life!"You won't miss me, anyhow; for when I'm gone, the people you work for will ask you to take a meal now and then; besides, you were always handy about the house, and know how to cook for yourself."I would have come in to say good-by, but was afraid you might wake up and try to keep me from going. Now don't put yourself out, or let the neighbors fill your head with stories about me. There's nothing to tell,only that I have taken an idea to get a place and better myself, which I will before you see me again. If I do, never fear that I will not send you some money.Your daughter,Judith.
Father—Don't fret about me; but I am going away for a while. This old place has tired me out, and there is no use in starving oneself in it any longer. The wages you get is not enough for one, to say nothing of a girl that has wants like other folks, and is likely to keep on wanting if she stays with you against her will. I might feel worse about leaving you so if I had ever been of much use or comfort to you; but I know just as well as you do, that I haven't done my share, and nothing like it. I know, too, that if I stayed, it would be worse instead of better; for I couldn't stand trying to be good just now—no, not to save my life!
"You won't miss me, anyhow; for when I'm gone, the people you work for will ask you to take a meal now and then; besides, you were always handy about the house, and know how to cook for yourself.
"I would have come in to say good-by, but was afraid you might wake up and try to keep me from going. Now don't put yourself out, or let the neighbors fill your head with stories about me. There's nothing to tell,only that I have taken an idea to get a place and better myself, which I will before you see me again. If I do, never fear that I will not send you some money.
Your daughter,
Judith.
The old man read this rude scrawl twice over—the first time shaking like a leaf, the last time with tears—every one a drop of pain—trembling in his eyes and blinding them.
"Gone!" he said, wiping his eyes with the soiled linen of his sleeve. "My lass gone away, no one knows where, and nothing but this left behind to remember her by! Poor thing!—poor young thing! It was lonesome here, and maybe I was hard on her in the way of work—wanted too much cooking done! But I didn't mean to be extravagant—didn't mean to drive her away from home, poor motherless thing! It's all my fault! it's all my fault! Oh! if she would only come back, and give me a chance to tell her so!"
The poor old man went to his work that day, looking worn out, and so downcast that the neighbors turned pitying glances at him as he passed down the hill, for he never had stooped so much or appeared so forlorn to them before. One or two stopped to speak with him. He said nothing of his daughter, but answered their greetings with downcast eyes and humble thanks, not once mentioning his trouble, or giving a sign of the gnawing anguish that racked his bosom and sapped his strength. She had left him, and in that lay desolation too dreary for complaint.
THE WIFE'S VISIT.
I MUSTsee him. I will see him! Oh, Mrs. Mason, if you only knew how important it is!"
The good housekeeper, who sat in her comfortable parlor at "The Rest," was surprised and troubled by the sudden appearance of her pretty favorite from the gardener's cottage. She was hard to move, but could not altogether steel herself against the pathetic pleading of that pale young creature, who had come up from her home through the lonely dusk, to ask a single word with the young heir.
Sick or well, she said, that word must be spoken. All she wanted of Mrs. Mason was to let her into his room a single minute—one minute—she would not ask for more. Only if Mrs. Mason did not want to see her die, she would help her to speak that one word.
There is something in passionate earnestness which will awake the most lethargic heart to energy, if that heart is kindly disposed. The stout housekeeper of the Hall had known and petted Ruth Jessup from the time she was old enough to carry her little apron full of fruit or flowers from the gardener's cottage to her room in the great mansion. It went to her heart to refuse anything to the fair young creature, who still seemed to her nothing more than a child; but the wild request, and the tearful energy with which it was urged, startled the good woman into sharp opposition.
"Mr. Walton! You wish to see him, Ruthy? Who ever heard of such a thing? It quite makes me tremble to think of it. What can a child like you want withthe young master, and he sick in bed, with everybody shut out but the doctor, and wet ice-cloths on his head, night and day. I couldn't think of mentioning it. I wonder you could bring yourself to ask me. If it had been anything in my line now!"
"It is! It is! Kindness is always in your line, dear godmother!" pleaded the poor girl, putting one arm over the housekeeper's broad shoulders, and laying her pale cheek against the rosy freshness which bloomed in that of her friend. "I wouldn't ask you, only it is so important."
"But what can it be that you want to say, Ruthy? I cannot begin to understand it," questioned the old woman, faltering a little in her hastily expressed denial; for the soft-pleading kisses lavished on her face had their effect. "If you were not such a child now."
"But I am not a child, godmother."
"Hoity-toity! Is she setting herself up as a woman? Well, that does make me laugh. Why, it is but yesterday like since your mother came into this very room, such a pale, young thing, with you in her arms. She was weak then, with the consumption, that carried her off, burning like fire in her poor, thin cheeks, while you lay in her arms, plump as a pheasant, with those gipsy black eyes full of fire, and a crow of joy on your baby mouth. Ah, me! I remember it so well!"
"My poor young mother asked something of you then, didn't she?" said Ruth.
"Well, yes, she did. I mind it well. She had something on her heart, and came to me about it."
"And that was—"
"About you, child. She knew that she was going to die, and—and I had always liked her, and been friendly, you know."
"Yes, I know that. Father has told me."
"Being so, it was but natural that she should come to me in her last trouble."
"She could not have come to a dearer or kinder soul," murmured Ruth.
"Nonsense, child! She might; but then the truth was she didn't. It was me the poor thing chose to trust. I shall never forget her look that day when she sat down on a stool at my feet, just there by the window, and told me that she knew it was coming death that made her so feeble. She was looking at you then as well as she could, through the great tears that seemed to cool the heat in her eyes; and you lay still as a mouse, looking at her as if there was cause of baby wonderment in her tears. Then all at once your little mouth began to tremble, and lifting up your arms, you cried out, as if her tender grief had hurt you. That brought the tears into my eyes. So we all sat there crying together, though hardly a word had been spoken up to then. Still I knew what it all meant, and reaching out my arms, took you to my own bosom."
"Bless you for it," murmured Ruth.
"Another baby had slept in that bosom once, and somewhere in God's great universe I knew that she might find it among the angels, and care for it as I meant to care for you, Ruthy."
"She did! She does! Only that child is so much happier than I am," sobbed Ruth, tenderly. "She has all the angels; I only you!"
Mrs. Mason lifted her plump hand, with which she patted the young creature's cheek, and said that she was a good child, and always had been; only a little headstrong, now and then, which was not to be wonderedat, seeing it was out of the question that she, though she meant to be a kind godmother, could altogether fill the place of that sweet, dead mother; she must be at her duties there in "The Rest," while Jessup was obstinate, and would keep the child with him.
"And you are all the mother I have now," said Ruth, who had listened with forced patience. "To whom else can I go?"
"Why, to no one. I should like to see man or woman attempt to cheat me out of my trust! I will say this for Jessup, headstrong as he is about having you with him, he has not interfered. When it was my pleasure to have you taught things that only ladies think of learning, he never thought of having a word to say against it; so I had my own way with my own money, and you will know the good of all the learning when you are old enough to go among people, and think of a husband, which must not be for years yet."
Ruth sighed heavily.
"Meantime, my dear," continued the housekeeper, "we must be looking about for the proper person. With the learning we have given you, and certain prospects, we shall have a right to look high. Not among the gentry, though you will be pretty enough and bright enough for most of them, according to my thinking; but there are genteel tradespeople in the village, and they sometimes creep up among the gentry in these times. So who knows that you will not be made a lady in that way?"
"Oh, no! Do not speak of it—do not think of it!" said Ruth, with nervous energy. "I cannot bear that!"
"What a child it is! but I like to see it. Forward young things are my abomination; but you may as well know it first as last, Ruthy. When I promised yourdying mother to be a mother to you, it was not in words; but deep down in my heart, I gave you that other child's place. I am an old woman, and have saved money, which would have been hers, and shall be yours some of these days."
Ruth let her head fall on the kind housekeeper's shoulder, and burst into a passion of tears. Again the old woman patted her upon the cheek.
"Why, child, what is the matter? I thought this news would make you happy. Take this for your comfort, my savings are heavier than people think."
"Don't! oh, don't! I cannot bear it," sobbed the girl. "Everybody—that is almost everybody—is far too kind: you above all. Only—only it is not money I want just now."
"But my dear—"
"All the money in the world, if you could give it me, could not be so much as the thing I asked just now," Ruth broke in, made desperate as the subject of her wish seemed drifting out of sight. "I want it so much—so much."
"My child, it is impossible. What would Sir Noel say? What would the Lady Rose say?"
"She has no right. What is it to her?" cried the girl, stung by a sharp pang of jealousy, which overmastered every other feeling.
"Ruth!"
"Forgive me. I am so unhappy."
"Ruth, I do not understand. You do not cry like a child, but as women cry when their hearts are breaking."
"My heart is breaking."
"Poor child! Is it about your father?"
"Yes, oh, yes! My father!"
"But the doctors say he is better."
"He is better; but we fear trouble, great trouble."
"Where? How?"
"Oh, Mrs. Mason, I must tell you, or you will not let me see him. They will try to make out that the young master shot my father."
"They? Who? I should like to meet the man who dares say it, face to face with me."
Ruth shuddered. She had met the man, and his evil smile haunted her.
"It may be that it is only a threat," she said; "but it frightened us, and made my father worse."
"But he knows—surely he knows? What does your father say?"
"The man's rude talk threw him into a fever. He was quite wild, and tried to get up and dress himself, that he might come and see Wa—, the young master, at once."
"Why, the man was crazy," exclaimed Mrs. Mason.
"He seemed like it. I could not keep him in bed, and only pacified him, by promising to come myself. You see now why it is that I must speak with Mr. Walton."
"Yes, I see," observed the housekeeper, now quite bewildered. "But had you not better go to Sir Noel?"
"No! no! My father bade me speak to no one but the young master."
"Well, well! if he knows about your coming, I don't so much mind. Wait a bit, and I will send for Webb, Sir Noel's own man, who is in the young master's chamber night and day. I will have a nice bit of supper served up here, and that will keep him while you can steal into the room without trouble."
Ruth flung her arms around the good woman's neck, and covered her face with grateful kisses.
"Oh, how good you are—how good you are!"
"Well! well! Remember, dear, if I give you your own way now, it is because of your father."
"I know—I know; but how soon? It is now after dark!"
The housekeeper rung her bell. Then, as if struck with a new thought, told Ruth to go into her bedroom, and not attempt to enter any other part of the house, till she knew that Webb was safe down at the supper-table. Ruth promised, and stealing into the bedroom, sat down on a couch and waited.
Scarcely had she left the room, when Mrs. Hipple, the companion of Lady Rose, came in, and heard the orders Mrs. Mason gave regarding Webb. A certain gleam of intelligence shot across that shrewd old face, and after making some trifling errand, she went out, with a smile on her lips.
For half an hour Ruth sat in the darkness with her head bowed and her hands locked. It seemed an age to her before she heard the clink of cups, and the soft ring of silver. Then, listening keenly, she heard a man's voice speaking with the housekeeper. This might be Webb. She was resolved to make sure of that, and, walking on tip-toe across the carpet, noiselessly opened the door far enough to see that personage seated by the housekeeper, eating a dainty little supper.
Quick as a bird, Ruth stole through the opposite door, up the servants' stair-case, and along the upper hall, on which the family bed-chambers opened.
Trembling with excitement, which oppressed her to faintness, she turned the latch, and stole into the chamber,but only to pause a step from the door, dumb and cold, as if, then and there, turned into stone.
Another person was in the room, standing close by the bed, with the glow of its silken curtains falling over the soft whiteness of her dress, and the rich masses of her golden hair. It was Lady Rose.
A moment this fair vision stood gazing upon the inmate of the bed, then her face drooped downward, and seemed to rest upon the pillow, where another head lay. The night-lamp was dim, but Ruth could see this, and also that the lady sunk slowly to her knees, and rested her cheek against a hand, around which her fingers were enwoven.
Not a word did that young wife utter. Not a breath did she draw, but, turning swiftly, fled.
BY MY MOTHER IN HEAVEN.
RUTH JESSUPstood by her father's bed, white as a ghost, and cold as a stone. Her step, usually so light, had fallen heavily on the floor as she entered the room—so heavily that the sick man started in his bed, afraid of some unwelcome intrusion. The room was darkened, and he did not see how pale his child was, even when she stood close to him.
"Did you see him? Did you tell him to keep a close lip? Does he know that I would be hacked to pieces rather than harm him? Why don't you speak, Ruth?"
"I saw him, father; but that was all," answered the girl, in a voice that sounded unnatural to him.
"That was all? Did you not give him my own words?"
"No, father! Another person was with him. I had no power to speak."
The old man groaned, and gave an impatient grip at the bed-clothes.
"I will get up. I will go myself!"
With the words on his lips, the old man half-rose, and fell back upon his pillow with a gasp of pain.
"Oh, father! do not try to move. It hurts you so!" said Ruth, bending over him.
"But he must be told. That young man threatens us. He must be told! So rash—so young. He might—Oh!"
"Father! father! You are killing yourself!"
"No, no, child! I must not do that. Never was a poor wounded man's life of so much consequence as mine is now."
Ruth bent over him, and he saw that she was silently crying.
"Oh, father! what would I do—what would I do?" she sobbed.
The gardener's eyes filled with pity.
"Aye. What would you? But I am not dead yet. There, there! wipe your eyes. We shall live to go away from this dreary place, and take the trouble with us—the trouble and the shame."
A flash of fire shot through the pallor of Ruth Jessup's face. She drew her slender figure upright.
"Shame! No, father. Sick or well, I will not let you say that. No shame has fallen upon us."
"Ruth! Ruth! You say this?"
"Father, I swear it! I, who tremble at the sound of an oath, knowing how sacred a thing it is. I swear it by my mother, who is in heaven!"
The old man reached up his arms, and drew the girl down to his bosom, which was heaving with great wave-like sobs.
"My child! my child! my own—own—"
He murmured these broken words over her. He patted her shoulder; he smoothed her hair with his great, trembling hand. His sobs shook the bed, and a rain of tears moistened his pillow.
"You believe me, father?"
"Would I believe your mother, could she speak from her place by the great white throne? The mother you have sworn by!"
"The mother I have sworn by," repeated Ruth, lifting her eyes to heaven.
"Thank God! Thank God! Ah, Ruth! my child! my child!"
The locked agony, which was not all physical pain, went out of the old man's face then. His eyes softened, his lips relaxed; a deep, long breath heaved his chest. After this he lay upon his pillow, weak as a child, and smiling like one.
Thus Ruth watched by him for an hour; but her face was contracted with anxiety, that came back upon her after the calm of her father's rest. She had told him the truth, yet how much was kept back? There was no shame to confess; but oh, how much of sorrow to endure! Danger, too, of which Hurst should be warned. But how, with that fair woman by his side—how could any one approach him with counsel or help?
Jessup stirred on his pillow. An hour of refreshing sleep had given him wonderful strength. That surgeon, when he took the bullet from his chest, had not given him half the relief found in the words which Ruth had uttered. But out of those words came subjects for reflection when his brain awoke from its slumbers. If Ruth spoke truly, what object could have led to his own wounds? Why had young Hurst assaulted him if there was nothing to conceal—no vengeance to anticipate? Then arose a vague consciousness that all was not clear in his own mind regarding the events that had brought him so near death. The darkness of midnight lay under those old cedars of Lebanon. He had seen the figure of a man under their branches that night, but remembered it vaguely. A little after, when the bullet had struck him, and he was struggling up from the ground, he did see a face on the verge of the moonlight, looking that way. That face was Walton Hurst. Then all was black. He must have fainted.
But how had the young man been wounded? There had been a struggle—Jessup remembered that. Perhaps he had wrested the gun from his assailant, and struck back in the first agony of his wound; but of that he had no certainty—a sharp turn, and one leap upon the dark figure, was all he could remember.
What motive was there for all this? Better than his own life had he loved the family of Sir Noel Hurst—the young heir most of all. What cause of enmity had arisen up against him, a most faithful and always favored retainer? Ah, if he could but see the young man!
But that was impossible. Both were stricken down, and Ruth had failed to carry the message of conciliation and caution that had been intrusted to her. Even whenwrithing under a sense of double wrong, his love for the young man had come uppermost; and in the desperate apprehension inspired by Richard Storms, he had urged Ruth to go and warn the heir.
In health he might not have done this; for, though anything but a vindictive man, Jessup was proud in his manly way, and would have shrunk from that means of reassuring the man who had hurt him; but there was still continued riots of fever in his brain, and in the terror brought on him by Storms he had forgotten all the rest. Indeed, he had been incapable of cool reasoning from the first; but his affectionate nature acted for itself.
Now, when the pressure of doubt regarding his own child was removed, a struggle to remember events clearly came on, which threatened to excite his nerves into continued restlessness. He was constantly pondering over the subject of that attack, and the morning found him dangerously wakeful.
"My child."
Ruth, who had been resting in an easy-chair, was by his side in an instant.
"I am here, father, but you have not slept. How bright your eyes are!"
"Ruth, have I been out of my head again, or did you say something in the night that lifted the stone from my heart? Is it all or half a dream?"
"I told you only the truth, father."
"Ah, but that truth was everything. It may change everything."
"Do not talk so eagerly, father; the doctor will scold me when he comes."
"Let him scold. You have done me more good, child, than he ever can; but you look worn out, your eyes have dark stains under them."
"I shall be better now," answered the poor girl, turning her face away.
"Ah, yes, everything will turn out right as soon as I can see him. Anyway, my lips shall never tell a word of it. All the courts in the world could not draw that out of me. He thought I was doubting him—that I meant to harm him, may be. Youth is so quick to act—so quick!"
"Oh, father, did he—did he do it?" cried Ruth, with a quick, passionate outburst.
"Have I not said that nothing should make me answer that, lass? No one shall hurt the young master with my help."
Ruth questioned her father no more. His words had confirmed her worst fears. It seemed to her as if all the world had arrayed itself against her feeble strength. But one ray of light broke through her troubles. Her father was better. He evidently believed in her. The bitter pain had all gone out from his heart. He smiled upon her when she left the room, and tasted of the breakfast she prepared for him with something like a return of appetite.
THE BARMAID OF THE TWO RAVENS.
NORSTON'S REST" had its village lying within a mile of the park gate, mostly inhabited by the better sort of small tradespeople, with laborers' cottages scattered here and there on the outskirts, with more or less picturesqueness. From the inhabitants of this villageand a large class of thrifty farmers, tenants on the estate, the public house drew its principal support.
One evening, just after the heir of "Norston's Rest" and its gardener were taken up wounded and insensible in the park, a party of these persons was assembled in the public room, talking over the exciting news. Among them was young Storms, who was referred to and called upon for information more frequently than seemed pleasant to him.
"How should I know?" he said; "the whole affair happened in the night. There wasn't likely to be any witnesses but the young heir and the old man himself. Who knows that it wasn't a chance slip of the trigger?"
A hoarse laugh followed this speech, and the drinking-cups were set down with a dash of derision as one after another took it up.
"A chance slip of the trigger! Ha, ha, ha! Who ever heard tell of a gun going off of itself and killing two men—one at the muzzle and t'other with the stock?" exclaimed one. "Most of us here have handled a gun long enough to know better than that. Come, come, Storms, tell us summat about it, for, if any man knows, it's yoursel'."
"I," said Dick, lifting both hands in much astonishment, while his face gave sinister confirmation of the charge. "How should I know? What should bring me into that part of the park?"
"In that part of the park—as if a more likely place could be found for you. Besides, some one said that you were out that very night, and you never gave the lie to it."
"Well, and if I was, what should bring me to thecedars, lying straight in the way between 'The Rest' and Jessup's cottage? My road home lay on the other side."
This was said with a covert smile, well calculated to excite suspicion of some secret knowledge which the young man was keeping back.
"Did you order more wine, sir?"
Storms half leaped from his chair, but sat down again instantly; casting a swift glance at the barmaid, who was apparently occupied in changing some of the empty bottles for others that were full.
"Judith Hart!"
The name had almost broken from his lips, but he checked it promptly, and pushing his empty glass toward her, looked smilingly in her face, and said, "I was afraid you had forgotten me."
There was a subtle thrill of persuasion in his voice, some meaning far deeper than his words, that turned the girl's averted look to his own.
"No," she answered, almost in a whisper, "it is not me that forgets."
Dick breathed again; a tone of reproach had broken through the hard composure of her first speech. In reaching forth his cup he managed to touch the girl's hand. She drew it back with a jerk, and flashing a wrathful glance at him left the room.
Meantime the conversation had been going on among the other occupants of the room.
"The doctor says that it may go hard with Jessup. One was saying, 'the ball went clear through him.' As for the young master—".
"Ah, he will be all right in a day or two. There was no great hurt; nothing but a blow on the head, whichlaid him out stark a while, and left him crazy as a loon; but that is nothing like a hole through the body."
"If Jessup should die, now," said another.
"Why, then, there would be a sharp lookout for the murderer. Now Sir Noel will have nothing done."
"There may be a reason for that," said Storms, coming forward, and speaking in a sinister whisper.
The man, thus addressed, lifted the pewter cup, newly-filled with beer, to his mouth and drank deeply, giving Dick a long, significant look over the rim.
"Least said soonest mended," he answered, in a low voice, wiping the foam from his lips. "At any rate, where the family up there is concerned. Sir Noel is not likely to make a stir in the matter; and as for Jessup—"
"Jessup is a stubborn fool," said Storms, viciously.
"Not if Sir Noel makes it worth his while. I would rather have a hundred gold sovereigns in my pocket any day than see a dashing, handsome youngster like one we know of at the assizes; though it would be a rare sight in old England."
"Yes, a rare sight. A rare sight!" said Storms, rubbing his thin hands with horrid glee. "I would go half over England to see it. Only as you say, old Jessup loves gold better than vengeance. If he had died now—"
"Why, then, there would be no evidence, you see."
"Don't you be so sure of that," said Storms, "he may die. Men don't get up so readily with bullet-holes through them. He may, and then—"
Here the young man took his wine from the barmaid, and began to sip its contents, drop by drop, as if it had a taste of vengeance he was prolonging to the utmost.
The girl watched him, and a strange smile crept over her mouth.
"Here, drink with me, lass," he said, holding the glass toward her. "Drink with me, and fill again; there is enough for us both."
"No," said the girl, pushing the glass away; "not here or now."
Storms saw that the men around his portion of the table were occupied, and spoke to her in a swift, low voice:
"When and where?"
The girl gave her head a toss, and moved down the table, casting a look over her shoulder, which made the young man restless in his seat. Directly she came back, and leaning close to him, while her hand was busy with the glasses, whispered sharply:
"To-night, after the house is closed, I want to see you, face to face, just once more."
"That will do," whispered Storms; "and a nice time I shall have of it," he thought, with some apprehension.
"A fine lass that," said the man who sat nearest him, as the barmaid moved across the room, with the force and rude grace of a leopardess. "Kin to the mistress here, isn't she—a cousin?"
The man spoke loud enough for others to hear, and followed the girl with bold, admiring eyes.
Storms answered him with sneering sarcasm. He felt this to be imprudent, but could not suppress the venom of his nature, even when his heart was quaking with terror.
"I have not inquired into her pedigree. You may be more interested. She is a little out of my level."
He was about to say more, but checked himself, and ended his speech more cautiously: "If she has kinsfolk here, none of us ever heard of them."
"But where did she come from?" questioned the man, who was greatly interested in the singular girl. "Such black hair and eyes should be of a strange land. There is nothing English about her but her speech. Look at her face; the color burns through it like wine."
"Now that she looks fierce," said another, "one sees how handsome a fiery woman can be. Some one has stirred up her temper. He may find himself the worse for it. The fellows are shy of angering her, take my word on that. She has a quick hand, and a sharp tongue; but her bright, comely face brings customers to the house. A tidy girl is the new one. Only keep the right side of her, that's all."
Just then the barmaid came back into the room. There was something in her appearance that might have reminded one of Ruth Jessup, could the soul of a wild animal have harbored in the form of that beautiful girl. The same raven hair, and large eyes; the same rich complexion, joined to features coarser, sensuous, and capable of expressing many passions that Ruth could not have imagined. As she stood, with a sort of easy grace, the purely physical resemblance was remarkable; but when she moved or spoke, it was gone. Then the coarse nature came out, and overwhelmed the imagination.
"Where did she come from?" asked Judith's new admirer.
"Better ask her yourself," answered Storms, absolutely jealous that any one should admire the beauty he had begun to loathe.
"I will," said the man, and, leaving the table, he approached Judith with a jaunty exhibition of gallantry, which she received with a cold stare, and, turning from him, walked back into the bar.
Storms broke into a laugh, and followed the girl into her retreat. Even in that brief interval he had arranged his plan of action, and carried it out adroitly. The girl knew that he was coming, and stood there, like a leopard in its den, ready to fight or be persuaded, as her heart swayed to love or resentment.
"This is madness; it is cruel to your old father—hard on me. Twice have I been to the house, and found it empty."
The fire went out of Judith's face. Bewildered, baffled and ready to cry, she turned away with a gesture that Storms took for unbelief of what was indeed a glib falsehood.
"No one could tell me where to look for you. Of all places in the world, how could I expect to find you here?"
"You have been to the old house?" said Judith. "Is this true? Tell me, is it the truth?"
"The truth!" repeated Storms, with a look of amazement. "What should prevent me going as usual?"
"Nothing but your own will. Nothing but—"
"But what, Judith?"
"But her—the girl that lives in the park at 'Norston's Rest.'"
"That story again! How often shall I be called upon to tell you it is sheer gossip?"
"But you told it yourself to the landlord at our village."