"Not as a fact; but amusing myself with the absurd things that are said about one; things that one repeats and laughs about with the first man he meets."Judith bent her eyes downward; their proud defiance was extinguished; the heaviness of repentant shame fellupon her. Before she could speak, a call outside startled them both. Storms broke off the interview with some hurried snatches of direction."Take the highway; here is a key to the little park-gate; turn to the left, the wilderness lies that way. In its darkest place you will come upon a lake. There is an old summer-house on the bank: I will be there; if not, wait for me. You will not mind the walk?""No, no!""Good-night, then."Storms said this and was gone. Judith went back to the public room. There the company had fallen into more confidential conversation."No wonder the young man is put about so," said one. "Old Jessup was as good as his father-in-law, and of course he feels it. Then there is a story going that the heir was over sweet on pretty Ruth, the daughter, and that, no doubt, has made more bitterness. For my part, I think the young man bears it uncommonly well.""Uncommonly well," answered another. "This poaching in our cottages, whenever a young face happens to grow comely there, is a shame that no man should put up with. I shouldn't wonder if Jessup had made a stand against it, and got a bullet through him for interfering. Our young lords make nothing of putting an old man aside when he dares to stand between a pretty daughter and harm. But see how the law waits for them. Had it been Storms, now, he would have been in jail, waiting for the assizes. Yet who could have blamed him? The girl was his sweetheart, and a winsome lass she is. But Storms will never wed her now.""Wed her—as if the young gentleman ever thought of it!" said Judith, breaking into the conversation."There is your beer, man; let it stop your mouth till more sense comes into it."The man laughed and cast a knowing glance at his companions. "Hoity-toity! Lies the wind in that quarter?" he said. "Well, I had begun to suspicion it."This outburst was received with shouts of laughter, and a loud rattling of pewter. This was an ovation that the landlady liked to witness; for half the value of her new barmaid to the public house lay in her quick wit and saucy expression. Even the fierce passions into which she was sometimes thrown amused the men who frequented that room, and enticed them there quite as much as the beer they drank."One thing is sure," said Judith's tormentor, renewing the conversation with keener zest: "Storms has lost a pretty wife and a good bit of money by this affray."Judith turned deadly white, and specks of foam flew to her lips."Do you mean that?""Of course I mean it.""That Richard Storms and Ruth Jessup would have been wed now, if this affray at the park had not happened? Is that what you mean?""Mean? Why, lass, there is not a man here who does not know it. Ask him, if you can't believe us.""I will!" answered the girl, between her white teeth. "That is the very question I mean to put to him before the sun rises."These words were uttered in a voice so low and broken that no one heard it. She was silent after that, and went about her work sullenly.CHAPTER XXXI.THE OLD LAKE HOUSE.THEpark at "Norston's Rest" was divided by a swift stream that flowed into it from the distant uplands, separating the highly cultivated portions from the wilderness. Jessup's cottage was within the pleasure grounds, but its upper windows overlooked a small but deep lake, formed by a ravine, and the hollows of a rocky ledge, which made an almost bottomless gulf, into which the mountain stream emptied itself, and after losing half its volume in some underground outlet glided off down the valley.Nothing could be more wild and picturesque than this little lake, embosomed, as it was, with thrifty evergreens, fine old trees, and rocks, to which the ivy clung in luxuriant draperies. At its outlet, where the sun shone most of the day, wild hyacinths and mats of blue violets empurpled the banks before they appeared in any other place, and a host of summer flowers kept up the blossom season sometimes long after leaf-fall. Near this spot, the brightest of all the wilderness, stood an old summer-house, built by some former lord of "The Rest." Jessup had trained wild roses among the ivy that completely matted the old building together, and around its base had allowed the lush grasses to grow uncut, casting their seed, year by year, until the most thrifty reached to the balustrades of a wooden balcony that partly overhung the lake in its deepest part.Nothing could be more picturesque than this old building, when the moon shone down upon and kindled upthe waters beneath it, with a brightness more luminous than silver. The shivering ivy, the flickering shadows of a great tree, that drooped long, protecting branches over it, formed a picture that any artist would have got up at midnight to look upon. Still a more practical man might have pronounced its old timbers unsafe, and its position, half perched on a bank, with its balcony over the water, dangerous as it was picturesque.Be this as it may, two persons stood within this building, after eleven o'clock at night, revealed by the same moon that looked down on those two wounded men, now struggling for life in the proud old mansion and the humble cottage. It was curved like the blade of a sickle then. Now, its rounded fulness flooded the whole wilderness, breaking up its darkness into massive shadows, all the blacker from contrast with the struggling illumination.The waterfall at the head of the lake was so far off that its noise gave no interruption to the voices of these two persons when they met, for Storms had arrived earlier than the girl, and lay apparently asleep on one of the fixed seats, when Judith Hart came in, breathless with fast walking, and gave forth sharp expletives of disappointment when she supposed the summer-house empty."Not here. The wretch—the coward! I knew it—I knew it! He never meant to come. Does he think I will trapse all this way, and wait for him? If I do, may I—Ha!"The girl stopped at the door, through which she was angrily repassing, with the invective cut short on her lips."Hallo! Is it you, Judith? I began to think you wasn't coming, and dropped asleep. But, upon my soul, I was dreaming about you all the time.""Here you are!" said the girl, coming slowly back. "How was one to know—lying there like a log? That isn't the way one expects to be met after a walk like this!""Why, what's the matter? The walk is just nothing for an active girl like you, but I hope you had no trouble in getting out.""I've had trouble in everything; nothing but trouble, since I first knew you, and I've just come to tell you, that, according to my idea, you are a treasonable, traitorous—""Judith Hart!""Cut that off short. I come here to have my say, and nothing more. From this night out you and I are two. Remember that. I'm not to be taken in a second time."Storms arose from the bench, and shook himself, as if he had really been asleep."What on earth are you grumbling about, Judith Hart? What has a fellow been doing since nightfall that you come down upon him with a crash like this, after keeping him on the wait in this damp hole till his limbs are stiff as ramrods!""They'll be stiffer before I'm fool enough to believe you again, you may be sure of that.""Hoity-toity! What's the row? Who has forgotten to fee the barmaid, I wonder? Or is it that the mistress begins to suspect that there has been more stealing out than she knows of, or I either?"The young man said this in a half-jeering tone, that drove the girl wild."You say that! You dare to say that!" drawing her wrathful face close to his, till both their evil countenanceswere defined by the moonlight. "I tell you now that such words are as much as your life is worth."Storms laughed, sunk both hands into the pockets of his velveteen jacket, and laughed again, leaning against the wall of the old summer-house."There, there, Judith! Enough of that! I don't want to be tempted into doing you a harm; far from it. But neither man nor woman must threaten Dick Storms. No one but a lass he is sweet upon would dare do it.""Dare! I like that!""But I don't like it. Once for all, tell me what this is all about.""You know, as well as I do, that it is everywhere about that you were plighted to the girl up yonder when her father was hurt.""But you know that there isn't a word of truth in it.""Not true! Not true! Oh, Richard, I have seen with my own eyes."Judith lifted her finger threateningly, and shook it close to the young man's face."Well, what have you seen?" questioned Dick, a little hoarsely; and even in the moonlight the girl could detect a slow pallor stealing over his face."I have been at the inn yonder longer than you know of," she said. "This isn't the first time I've been in the park at night."He started back a pace, then turned upon her. The cunning of his nature rose uppermost; he spoke to her low and earnestly."Then you must know that I don't want the lass, and wouldn't take her at any price, though I don't care to say that.""Perhaps you deny going to the gardener's cottage at all?""No, I don't. Why should I? If you were watching me, so much the better. I wish you had listened to every word I said to her; hating her as you do, it would have done you good, and set all this nonsense at rest.""But you went?""Yes, I went.""And—and—""And told her, then and there, that nothing should force me to wed her. She had set the old man and the young master to nagging me about it. Neither they nor she gave me an hour's peace.""Oh, Richard! Richard! Is this true?""But for my love of you, I might have given in—""I don't care that for such love," cried the girl, tearing a leaf of ivy from a spray that had crept through the broken window, and dashing it to the floor. "I want you to love me better than all the world beside. No halving. I want that, and nothing else.""And haven't you got it? When did you see me walking out with her, or meeting her here like this?""She wouldn't come.""Wouldn't she?"Storms laughed as he repeated the audacious insinuation, "Wouldn't she?"Judith threw off her defiant attitude, and the sharp edge left her speech, which became almost appealing."Richard Storms! Was it for my sake?""I won't answer you; you don't deserve it, suspicioning a fellow like that.""I am sorry.""Yes, after pushing me on to—to anything rather than be nagged, at home and up yonder, about wedding the girl, you come here, when I expected a pleasantmeeting, with your scolding and threats. It's enough to drive a man into marrying out of hand.""No, no, Dick! You wouldn't do that.""I don't know.""You don't know?""If you ever try this on again, I may. One doesn't stand threats, even from the sweetheart he loves better than everything else—that is, if he is a man worth having." "But I didn't threaten you! I only—""Said what you must never say again, if you don't want to see me wedded down in yon church, with a farm of my own, and a fortune waiting, which they are willing to pay down, and ask no questions. A pretty lass pining for me too.""Pretty! Oh, Richard, this is too bad! You have told me a hundred times that of the two, I was—"The girl broke off and turned away her face."And I have told you the truth, else they would have had me fast before this. Both the young master and the old man were threatening me with the law. You might have heard them.""No. I was never near enough.""Well, they did, though; and but for you, I might have given in.""But you never—never will!""So long as you keep quiet, I'll stand out.""Oh, Richard, no mouse was ever so quiet as I will be. Now, say, was it all for my sake?""What else could it be?""I don't know. Only it is so strange. And Richard! Richard! I will die before—You understand—I would die rather than harm you.""That is my own brave lass. Now you are like yourself, and we can part friends—better friends than ever.""Part! It is not so late.""But the moon is up, and you will be seen by the village people. They must have no jibes to cast on my wife when you and I are wed."The girl's eyes flashed in the moonlight, which came broadly through a glass door that led upon the old wooden balcony.A smile crept over Storms' subtle lips. He was rather proud of his victory over this beautiful Amazon. The brilliant loveliness of her face in the softening light was so like that of Ruth Jessup, that he astonished the handsome virago by taking her head between his hands, and kissing her with something like tenderness.His heart recoiled from this caress the next moment, as the prodigal son may have loathed the husks he eat, when he was famishing for corn; but Judith sat down upon the hard wooden seat, and covering her face with both hands, broke into a passion of delicious tears.This outbreak of tenderness annoyed the young man, who was hating himself for this apostacy from the only pure feeling that had ever ennobled his heart, and he said, almost rudely, "Come, come, there is nothing to cry about; I am sorry, that's all.""Sorry!" repeated the girl, lifting her happy, tearful face into the moonlight. "Ah, well, I will go home, now. Good-night, if you will not go with me a little way.""We must not be seen together," answered Richard, opening the door for her to pass out; "only remember, I have trusted you."The girl went to the door, hesitated a moment, and stepped back."Will you kiss me again, Richard? It shall be the seal of what I promised.""Don't be foolish, girl," said Dick, stooping his head that she might kiss him. "You women are all alike; give them an inch and they will take an ell. There, there; good-night."Storms stood behind the half-open door, and watched the barmaid as she took the little path which led to the postern gate which Ruth had used on the morning of her wedding-day. A key to this gate had been intrusted to the young man, and he had duplicated it for the girl who had just left him.When Judith was quite beyond his vision, Storms retired back into the summer-house, and examined it with strange scrutiny. There was but one window, a single sash that opened into the balcony, answering for a second door, which was quite sufficient to light the little apartment. Through this window the moonlight fell like a square block of marble, barred with shadows. To Storms it took the form of a tombstone lying at his feet, and he stepped back with a sort of horror, as if some evil thought of his had hardened into stone which he dared not tread upon; going cautiously around it, and gliding along the wall, but with his eyes turned that way, he escaped from the building.CHAPTER XXXII.THE NEW LEASE.SIR NOEL, farmer Storms is here, wanting to see you about something important, he says."Sir Noel Hurst was sitting in his library, looking and feeling more like his old self than he had done for days."I will see him presently," he said, almost smiling, "but not quite yet. Tell him to wait."The servant retired, and Sir Noel began to walk up and down the room, rubbing his white hands in a gentle, caressing way, as if some joyous feeling found expression in the movement. The physician had just left him, with an assurance that the son and heir for whose life he had trembled was now out of danger. He had heard, too, that William Jessup was slowly improving, and the burden of a fearful anxiety was so nearly lifted from his heart that he saw the fair form of Lady Rose coming through the flower-garden, beneath his window, with a smile of absolute pleasure. A flight of stone steps led to the balcony beneath the window, and the young lady lingered near them, looking up occasionally, as if she longed to ascend, but hesitated."Sweet girl! Fair, noble girl," thought Sir Noel, as he looked down upon the lovely picture she made, standing there, timid as a child, with a glow of freshly-gathered flowers breaking through the muslin of her over-skirt, which she used as an apron. "God grant that everything may become right between them, now."Sir Noel stepped to the window with these thoughts in his mind, and beckoned the young lady to come up.She caught a glance of his face, and her own brightened, as if a cloud had been swept from it. She came up the steps swiftly, and paused before the window, which Sir Noel flung open."I saw the doctor, but dared not question him. You will tell me, Sir Noel; but I feel what the news is. You would not have called me had it been more than I—than we could bear.""I would not, indeed, dear child. God knows if I could endure all this trouble alone, it would not be so hard.""I have been down yonder every day, Sir Noel; so early in the morning, sometimes, that it seemed as if the poor flowers were weeping with me. Oh, how often I have looked up here after the doctors went away, hoping that you would have good news, and notice me!""I saw you, child, but had no heart to make you more sorrowful.""Did you think him so fearfully dangerous, then?" questioned the lady, with terror in her blue eyes. "I tried to persuade myself that it was only my fears. Every morning I came out and gathered such quantities of flowers for his room, but he never once noticed them, or me—""You! Have you seen him, then?"A flood of crimson swept that fair face, and the white lids drooped over the eyes that sunk beneath his."No—no one else could arrange the flowers as he liked them. Once or twice—but only when his eyes were closed. I never once disturbed him.""Dear child, how he ought to love you!"Sir Noel kissed the crimson forehead, which drooped down to the girl's uplifted hands, and he knew that theflush, which had first been one of maiden shame, was deepened by coming tears."There, there, my child, we must not grieve when the doctors give us hope for the first time. He is sleeping, they tell me, a calm, natural sleep. Go, and arrange these flowers after your own dainty fashion. He will notice them when he awakes. Already he has called the doctor by name.""Oh, uncle! dear, dear guardian, is it so?"The girl fell upon her knees by a great easy-chair that stood by, and the blossoms, no longer supported by her hand, fell in glowing masses around her as she gave way to such happy sobs as had never shaken her frame before. At last she looked up, smiling through her tears."Is it really, really true?" she questioned, shaking the drops from her face."Go, and see for yourself, Rose.""But he might awake, he might know.""That an angel is in his room? Well, it will do him no harm, nor you either."Lady Rose looked down at the flowers that lay scattered around her, and gathered them into the muslin of her dress again. She was smiling, now, yet trembling from head to foot. Would he know her? Would the perfume of her flowers awaken some memory in his mind of the days when they had made play-houses in the thickets, and pelted each other with roses, in childish warfare? How cold and distant he had been to her of late! Would he awake to his old self? Would she ever be able to approach him again without that miserable shrinking sensation?"Sir Noel," she said, "I think my own father would never have been so kind to me as you are.""I am glad you think so, child, for that was what I promised him on his death-bed. That and more, which God grant I may be able to carry out.""I cannot remember him," said Lady Rose, shaking her head, as if weary with some mental effort."No; he left us when you were a little child. But we must not talk of this now.""I know! I know! Just a moment since I was in such haste. Now I feel like putting it off. Isn't it strange?"Sir Noel understood better than that fair creature herself the significance of all these tremors and hesitations. Now that his first fears were at rest, they both touched and amused him, and a smile rose to his lips as she glided from the room, leaving a cloud of sweet odors behind her.Into this delicate perfume old farmer Storms came a few minutes after, looking stolid, grim, and clumsily awkward. The nails of his heavy shoes sunk into the carpet at every step, and his fustian garments contrasted coarsely with the rich cushions and sumptuous draperies of the room."Well, Sir Noel, I've come about the new lease, if you've no objection. I want your word upon it; being o'er anxious on the young man's account.""Why, Storms, has there been any disagreement between you and the bailiff? It has always been my orders that the old tenants should have preference when a lease dropped in.""Well, as to that, Sir Noel, it isn't so much the lease itself that troubles one; but Dick and I want it at a lighter rent, and we would like a new house on the grounds agin the time when the lad will get wed, andwant a roof of his own. That is what we've been thinking of, Sir Noel.""A new house?" said Sir Noel, astonished. "Why, Storms, yours is the best on the place. It was built for a dower house.""Aye, aye! I know that; but as our Dick says, no house is big enough or good enough for two families. The lad is looking up in the world a bit of late. He means to take more land; that is why I come about the lease; and we shall give up our home to him and his wife.""Indeed!" said Sir Noel. "What has he been doing to warrant this extraordinary start in the world?""Something that he means to keep to himself yet a while, he says, but it is sure, if things turn out rightly. So I want a promise of the lease, and all the other things, while the iron is hot. He told me to say nothing about it, only to ask, in a civil way, if the young master had come to his senses yet, or was likely to. He is awful fond of the young master, is my son, and sends me o'er, or comes himself to the lodge every day to hear about him. He would be put about sorely if he knew that I had let on about the house just yet; but I can see no good in waiting. You will kindly bear it in mind that we shall want a deal more than the lease. Dick says he's sure to have it, one way or another; and a rare lad for getting his own will is our Dick."There was something strange in the extravagance of this request, that made the baronet thoughtful. He felt the stolid assumption of the old man, but did not resent it. Some undercurrent of apprehension kept him prudent. He only replied quietly, "Well, Storms, the lease is not out yet. There isplenty of time," and, with a wave of the hand, dismissed the old man.In the hall Storms was astonished to find his son waiting, apparently careless, though his eyes gleamed with suppressed wrath. He followed the old man out, and once under the shelter of the park, turned upon him."What were you doing in there?""Nothing, Dick! Only asking after the young master, and talking a bit with the baronet."CHAPTER XXXIII.SHARPER THAN A SERPENT'S TOOTH.YOUNG STORMSwas very restless after his midnight interview with Judith Hart, and became feverishly so when he discovered that the elder Storms had begun to move in his affairs more promptly than he desired. He walked on by the old farmer with a frown on his face, and only spoke when his own footsteps bore him ahead of the stronger and more deliberate stride, which goaded his impatience into anger. There was, indeed, a striking contrast between the two men, which even a difference in age could not well account for. Old Storms was a stoutish man, round in the shoulders, slouching in his walk, and of a downcast countenance, in which a good deal of inert ability lay dormant. There was something of the son's cunning in his eye, and animal craving about the mouth, but if the keen venom which repulsed you in the younger man ever existed inthe father, it had become too sluggish for active wickedness, except, perhaps, as the subordinate of some more powerful nature.That nature the old man had fostered in his own family, of which Richard was the absolute head, before he became of legal age. If the old man had been a tyrant over the boy, as many fathers of his class are supposed to be in the mother land, Richard avenged his youth fully when it merged into manhood. As the two walked together across the park, toward their own farm, it was pitiful to see such gleams of anxiety in that old man's eyes, whenever they were furtively lifted to the stern face of the son.Once, when Dick got ahead of his father, walking swiftly in his wiry activity, he paused, and cut a sapling up by the roots with his heavy pruning-knife, and stood, with a grim smile on his face, trimming off the small branches, and measuring it into a slender walking-stick."Art doing that for me, lad?" said the old man, in a voice that did not sound quite natural. "Nay, nay, I am not old enough for a stick yet a while. My old bones aren't so limber as thine, maybe; but they'll do for me many a year yet, never fear."The young man made no answer, but smiled coldly, as he shook the sapling with a vigor that made the air whistle around him. Then he walked on, polishing up the knots daintily with his knife as he moved."More'n that," continued the old man, eying his son wistfully; "there isn't toughness enough there for a walking-stick, which should be something to lean on.""It'll do," answered Dick, closing his knife, and thrusting it deep into his pocket. "It'll do, for want of a better.""Ha, ha," laughed the old man, so hoarsely that his voice seemed to break into a timid bark. "That was what I used ter say when you were a lad, and I made you cut sticks to be lathered with. Many a time the twig that you brought wouldn't hurt a dormouse. Ah, lad, lad, you were always a cunning one.""Was I?" said Dick. "Well, beating begets cunning, I dare say."By this time they were getting into the thick of the wilderness, a portion of the park little frequented, and in which the lonely lake we have spoken of lay like a pool of ink, the shadows fell so blackly upon it.Here Richard verged out of the usual path, and struck through the most gloomy portion of the woods. After a moment's hesitation, the old man followed him, muttering that the other path was nearest, but that did not matter.When the two had left the lake behind them, Richard stopped, and wheeling suddenly around, faced his father."Now, once for all, tell me what took you to 'The Rest' this morning; for, mark me, I'm bound to know.""I—I have told ye once, Dick. I have—""A lie. You have told me that, and nought else.""Dick, Dick, mind, it's your father you are putting the lie on," said the old man, kindling up so fiercely that his stooping figure rose erect, and his eyes shone beneath their heavy brows like water under a bank thick with rushes."What took you up yonder, I say?" was the curt answer. "I want the truth, and mean to have it out of you before we go a stride farther. Do you understand, now?""I went to ask after the young maister," was the sullen reply."The truth! I will have the truth—so out with it, before I do you a harm!""Before ye do your old father a harm! Nay, nay, lad, it has no come to that."Dick bent the sapling almost double, and let it recoil with a vicious snap, a significant answer that kindled the old man's wrath so fiercely that he seized upon the offending stick, placed one end under his foot, and twisted it apart with a degree of fury that startled the son out of his sneering insolence."Now what hast got to say to your father, Dick? Speak out; but remember that I am that, and shall be till you get to be the strongest man."The thin features of Richard Storms turned white, and his eyes shone. He had depended too much, it seemed, on the withering influence his insolent overbearance had produced on the old man, whose will and strength had at last been aroused by the audacious threat wielded in that sapling. Whether he really would have degraded the old farmer with a blow or not, is uncertain; but, once aroused, the stout old man was more than a match for his son, and the force of habit came back upon him so powerfully, that he began to roll up the cuffs of his fustian jacket, as if preparing for an onset."Say out what there is in you, and do it gingerly, or you'll soon find out who is maister here," the old man said, with all the rough authority of former times.The young man looked into his father's face with a glance made keen by surprise. Then his features relaxed, and he burst into a hoarse laugh."Why, father, did you think I was about doing you a harm with that bit of ash? It was for a goad to the cattle I was smoothing it off.""Ah!" ejaculated the old man."But you have twisted it to a wisp now.""That I have, and rare glad I am of it.""It don't matter," said the son. "I can find plenty more about here. But the thing we were talking of. Did Sir Noel kick in the traces when ye came down upon him about the lease?"A gleam of the young man's own cunning crept into the father's eyes."The lease, Dick? Haven't I said it was the young maister's health that took me to 'The Rest?'"Richard made a gesture that convulsed his whole frame, and, jerking one hand forward, exclaimed, "It was for your own good, father, that I asked; so I don't see why you keep things so close.""An' I don't know why a child of mine should ask questions of his own father like a schoolmaster, or as if he were ready for a bout at fisticuffs," answered the old man."It's a way one gets among the grooms and gamekeepers; but it means nothing," was the pacific answer. "I was only afraid you might have dropped a word about what I told you of, and that would have done mischief.""Ah!""Just now, father, half a word might spoil everything.""Half a word! Well, well, there was nought said that could do harm. Just a hint about the lease, nothing more. There, now, ye have it all. A fair question at the first would ha' saved all this bother.""Are you sure this was all?" asked the young man, eying his father closely."Aye. Sure.""Hush! One of the gamekeepers is coming.""Aye, aye."Old Storms moved forward, as the intruder came up with a pair of birds in his hands, which he was carrying to "The Rest."Richard remained behind, for the man met him with a broad grin, as if some good joke were on his mind."Good-morrow to ye," he said, dropping the birds upon a bed of grass, as if preparing for a long gossip."Dost know I came a nigh peppering thee a bit yon night, thinking it war some poachers after the birds; but I soon found out it was a bit of sweethearting on the sly? Oh, Dick, Dick! thou'lt get shot some night.""Sweethearting! I don't know what you mean, Jacob.""Ye don't know that there was a pretty doe roving about the wilderness one night this week, just at the time ye passed through it?""Me, me?""Aye. No mistake. I saw ye with my own eyes in the moonlight.""In the moonlight? Where?""Oh, in the upper path, nearest thy own home."Richard drew a deep breath."Ah, that! I thought you said by the lake.""Nay, it was the lass I saw, taking covert there.""What lass? I saw none!""Ha, ha!" laughed the gamekeeper, placing a hand on each knee, and stooping down to look into his companion's eyes. "What war she there for, then? Tell me that.""How should I know?""And what wert thou doing in the wilderness?""What, I? Passing through it like an honest Christian, on my way home from the village.""Well, now, that is strange! Dost know, I got half a look at the doe's face, and dang me! if I didn't think it was Jessup's lass."A quick thought shot through that subtle brain. Why not accept the mistake, throw the reputation of the girl who had scorned him into the power of this man, and thus claim the triumph of having cast her off when the certainty of her final rejection came? After a moment's silence, and appearing to falter, he said:"You—you saw her, then? You know that it was Ruth Jessup?""Ha! ha! Have I run ye to covert? Yes, I a'most saw her face; an' as to the figure, any man, with half an eye, would know that. There isn't another loike it within fifty miles o' 'The Rest.'""Well, well, Jacob, as you saw her and me so close, I'll not deny it. A lass will get fractious, you know, when a fellow is expected, and don't come up to time, and follow one up, you understand. We have been sweethearting so long, and the old ones being agreeable, perhaps she is a trifle over restless about my hanging back.""Aye, aye. This story about the young maister being o'er fond of her. I wouldn't put up with that."Storms nodded his head mysteriously."You'll say nothing about her coming to seek me that night.""In course not. Only I wouldn't a thought it of Jessup's lass, she looks so modest like.""But when a lass is—is—""O'er fond, and afraid of losing her sweetheart. Still, I wouldn't a thought it of her anyhow.""You're not to think hard of her for anything, friend Jacob, because we may be wed after all, and no one must have a fling at my wife, mind that. When I give her up will be time enough."The gamekeeper laughed, and nodded his head, perhaps amused at the idea that a bit of gossip, like that, could escape circulation, in a place already excited on the subject of Jessup and his daughter. Storms having given the impression he desired, took a watch from his pocket, and glanced at the dial."It's wonderful how time flits," he said, putting the watch back. "It's near dinner-time, and the old man will be waiting. Mind that you keep a close mouth. Good-day!""Good-day ter ye," responded the gamekeeper, picking up his birds, and smoothing their mottled feathers as he went along. "I wouldn't a thought it of yon lass, though, not if the parson himself had told me. That I wouldn't."Meantime young Storms walked toward home, smiling, nay, at times, laughing, as he went. The cruel treachery of his conversation with the keeper filled him with vicious delight. He knew well enough that the whole subject would be made the gossip of every house in the village within twenty-four hours, and revelled in the thought. If it were possible for him to marry Ruth in the end, this scandal would be of little importance to him; if not, it should be made to sting her, and poison the returning life of young Hurst. Under any circumstances, it was an evil inspiration, over which he gloated triumphantly.So full was the young plotter's brain of this idea, that he was unconscious of the rapidity with which he approached home, until the farm-house hove in view, along, stone building sheltered by orchards, flanked by outhouses, and clothed to the roof with rare old ivy. It was, in truth, something better than a common farm-dwelling, for an oriel window jutted out here, a stone balcony there, and the sunken entrance-door was of solid oak; such as might have given access to "The Rest" itself.There had been plenty of shrubbery, with a bright flower-garden in front, and on one side of the house; but of the first, there was only a scattering and ragged bush left to struggle for life, here and there, while every sweet blossom of the past had given way to coarse garden vegetables, which were crowded into less and less space each year, by fields of barley or corn, that covered what had once been a pretty lawn and park."Ah, if I could but get this in fee simple. If he had died I might!" thought the young man, as he walked round to the back door. "If he had only died!"CHAPTER XXXIV.THE SICK MAN WRITES A LETTER.WILLIAMJessup seemed to be getting better rapidly after those few words with Ruth, that had lifted a mountain of pain from his heart, pain deeper and keener than the biting anguish of his wound, or the fever which preyed upon him continually, though he scarcely felt it, now that the anguish of mind was gone."I shall be better, I shall be quite well, only let me get one word to him. He is so rash. Ah, when that isdone, I can rest a little," he kept thinking to himself, for the subject seemed so distasteful to Ruth that he shrunk from naming it to her. "If the old man Storms would but come, I might trust him; but he always sends that lad, who frightens Ruth. Poor child, poor child!"Ruth was sitting by her father's bed when these thoughts possessed him, and broke out in a tremulous exclamation, his eyes fastened tenderly on her."What is it, father? What are you thinking of? Nothing ails me. I must not be pitied at all while you are ill, or only because of that. What are you thinking about?""Only this, Ruthy. Don't let it bother you, though. Only, if I could get a word to the young master—"Ruth shrunk visibly from the anxious eyes bent upon her, but forced herself to answer, calmly, "If I could see him one minute, alone. Oh, if I could," she said, clasping the hands in her lap till the blood fled from them, "but it would be of no use trying."All at once Jessup rose from his pillow, but leaned back again, gasping for breath."Put another pillow under my head, and prop me up a bit. I will write a line with my own hand. I wonder we never thought of it before. Bring me a pen, and the ink-bottle. The big Bible, too, from yon table. It will be all the better for that."Ruth obeyed him at once. Why had she never thought of this? Surely a letter could be got to that sick-chamber without danger. That, at least, would relieve her father's anxiety, and remind Hurst of her.Why had she never thought of it before? That was not strange; Jessup was no letter writer, and, save a few figures, now and then, Ruth had not seen him use a penhalf a dozen times in her life. It seemed a marvel to her even then that he should undertake so unusual a task.The girl had a pretty desk of her own, otherwise a supply of ink and paper might have been wanting. As it was, she brought both to her father's bed, and arranged the great Bible before him, that he might use them at once.At any time it would have been a severe task that the gardener had undertaken; but now his weak fingers shook so fearfully that he was compelled to lay the pen down at every word, almost in despair. But the great heart gave his hand both strength and skill. After many pauses for rest, and struggles for breath, a few lines were written, and this was what they said:My Dear Young Master:—Have no fear about me. I have sworn, in soul, before Almighty God, to keep all that is within me a secret forever. No law and no blame shall ever reach you through me. Oh, that my eyes had been struck blind before they saw your face that night, when you shot me down! I would have groped in darkness to my grave, rather than have seen what I did. Sometimes I think it must have been all a dream. But it haunts me so—it haunts me so. Your father saved my life once. Maybe I am saving his now. I hope so. Do not fear about me. I shall not be more silent in death than I am in life.William Jessup."Many a misspelt word did this short epistle contain. Many an uncouth letter that linked sentences running riot with each other; but the spirit of a high resolve was there, and the good man exhausted the little strength left to him in writing it."You will seal this," he whispered, hoarsely, giving her the paper to fold and direct. "Some one will take it to him.""Yes, I will go. He shall get it. How, I do not know; but if he is well enough to read it, the paper shall reach him.""And no one else. Remember that.""I will remember. Oh, father, what is this terrible thing?""Be silent, Ruth. I will not have you question me.""Forgive me, father.""Yes, yes."The poor man spoke in painful gasps. The old Bible seemed to bear him down; he struggled under the weight, but could not remove it.Ruth lifted the book in her arms, settled the pillows under her father's head, and would have stayed by him, but he motioned her away.Oh, how precious, yet how perilous that paper seemed to the poor girl! He would touch it. His eyes would follow the jagged lines. They would bring assurance of safety to him. He might even guess that she had been the messenger through whom it had reached him. She did not understand the meaning of this important scrawl. With regard to that, her mind was swayed by vague uncertainties, but she knew that it was pacific, and intended for good.Ruth tied on her bonnet, and set forth for "The Rest" at once, with the precious letter in her bosom, over which she folded her scarlet sacque with additional caution."Perhaps—perhaps I shall see him. It might have meant nothing, after all. He could not be so false. Lady Rose is like a sister to him, that is all! I am sofoolish to care; so very, very foolish. But, then, how can I help it?"The day was so beautiful, that such hopeful thoughts came to Ruth with the very atmosphere she breathed. The birds were singing all around her, and a thousand summer insects filled the air with music. Coming, as she did, from the close seclusion of a sick-room, all these things thrilled her with fresh vigor. Her step was light as she walked. The breath melted like wine on her red lips. Once or twice she paused to snatch a handful of violets from the grass, and drank up their perfume thirstily.At last she came out into the luxurious beauty of the pleasure-grounds close to "The Rest," and from thence, looked up to the window where her young husband lay, all unconscious of her coming. Perhaps she had hoped that he might be well enough to sit up. Certainly, when she saw no one at the window, her heart sunk, and a deep sigh escaped her. It would not do to be found there by any of the household. She felt that, and bent her steps towards the servants' entrance, heavy-hearted and irresolute.CHAPTER XXXV.WITH THE HOUSEKEEPER.THEhousekeeper was more than usually busy that day, but she greeted her favorite with affectionate warmth. "You there, my poppet," she said, seating herself for a talk. "I have been wondering why you kept away so long, now that the doctors tell me that your father is coming round.""I wished to come, godmother. Indeed, I never stopped thinking about you here; but there is no one to stay by father when I leave him, and he needs care.""Of course he does, and something else as well. I was just putting up a bottle or two of our choice old Madeira, with some jellies, and the cook is roasting a bird, which he must eat with the black currant-jelly, remember. We must build your father up, now, with nice, strengthening things. They would do you no harm, either, child. Why, how thin and worried you look, Ruth! This constant nursing will break you down. We must send over one of the maids, to help.""No, no; I can do very well. Father is used to me, you know. Only, if you wish to be kind—""Wish to be kind? Did I ever fail in that, goddaughter?""Did you ever? Indeed, no. Only I am always asking such out-of-the-way things.""Well, well. What is it, now?""I have a letter from my father to—to the young master.""From your father? When did he ever write a letter before, I wonder? And he sick in bed? A letter—""That I want to deliver into Wal—into Mr. Hurst's own hands, if you will only help me, godmother.""Into his own hands? As if any other trusty person wouldn't do as well," said the housekeeper, discontentedly."But I should not be so certain, godmother.""Ah, true. Is the letter so important, then?""I—I don't know, exactly. Only father was very particular about it.""Well, give me the letter. I will see that he gets it safe."Ruth still pressed her hand against her bosom, and a look of piteous disappointment broke into her eyes."Is he so very ill, then? Might I not just see him for a minute, and take the answer back?""The young master is better, but not half so well as he strives to be. I never saw any one so crazy to get out.""Is he—is he, though?""And about your father. He is always questioning me if I have heard from the cottage.""Indeed!""Why, child, how chirpish you speak, all at once! I hardly knew your voice. But what was I saying? Ah, I remember. Yes, yes! The young master scarcely got back his speech before he began to question us about Jessup, whose hurt seems to wound him more than his own. To pacify him Lady Rose sent round every morning.""Lady Rose! Did the messengers come from her?" questioned Ruth, and her voice sunk again."Of course. Sir Noel, in his trouble, might have forgotten; but she never did. Ah, goddaughter, that young lady is one in a thousand, so gentle, so lovely, so—""Yes, yes! I know—I know!""Such a match as they will make."Ruth turned very pale; still a singular smile crept over her lips. She said nothing, however, but walked to a window, and looked out, as if fascinated by the rich masses of ivy that swept an angle of the building like black drapery."How the ivy thrives on that south wall!" she said, at last. "I can remember when it was only a stem.""Of course you can; for I planted it on the day you were born, with my own hands. There has been timeenough for it to spread. Why, it has crept round to the young master's window. He would have it trained that way.""Godmother, how good you are!""Not a bit of it, child. Only I was always careful of that ivy. Ruth's ivy, we always call it, because of the day it was planted.""Did—did any one else call it so?""Of course, or the young master would never have known of it. 'Let me have,' says he, 'just a branch or two of your ivy—what is its name, now?—for my corner of the house.' Well, of course, I told him its name, and how it came by it, which he said was a pretty name for ivy, or any other beautiful thing, and from that day a thrifty branch was trained over to the balcony where he sits most, and sometimes smokes of an evening.""Yes, I remember," said Ruth, breaking into smiles. "Some climbing roses are tangled with it.""True enough; they throve so fast, that between them, the little stone-steps that run up to the balcony were hid out of sight; but Lady Rose found them out, and carries her flowers that way from the garden when she fills the vases in his room.""She always did that, I suppose," said Ruth, in a low voice."Most likely," answered the housekeeper, carelessly, as if that young creature did not hang on every word she uttered with unutterable anxiety. "Most likely. There is little else that she can do for him just now.""Does he need so very much help now, godmother?""None that a dainty young lady can give; but when he begins to sit up, her time will come. Then she will sit and read to him from morning till night, and enjoy it too.""And tire him dreadfully," muttered Ruth, with a dash of natural bitterness in her voice."I don't know. Anyway I shouldn't care about it; but people vary—people vary, Ruth! You will find that out as you get along in life. People vary!""Yes, I dare say," answered Ruth, quite unconscious of speaking at all. "You are very wise in saying so.""Ah, wisdom comes with age; generally too late for much good. If one could have it now in the wild-oat season; but that isn't to be expected. Speaking of Lady Rose, here comes her pony-carriage, and here comes herself, with Sir Noel, to put her in. Do you know, Ruth, I don't think the master has been quite himself since that night. There is an anxious look in his eyes that I never saw there before. It should go away now that Mr. Walton is better, but somehow it don't."Ruth did not answer. She was looking through the window at the group of persons that stood near a pony-carriage, perfect in all its equipments, which was in front of the house. Lady Rose, who had come down the steps leisurely, side by side with Sir Noel, was loitering a little, as if she waited for something. She examined the buttons of her gloves, and arranged her draperies, all the while casting furtive glances up to a window, at which no one seemed to appear, as she had hoped. Sir Noel, too, glanced up once or twice, rather wistfully, and then Ruth saw that his face did indeed wear a look that was almost haggard."Tell me—tell me! Is he so very ill yet, that his father looks like that?" cried Ruth, struck by a sudden pang of distrust. "I thought he was getting better.""And so he is, child. Who said to the contrary? But that doesn't take the black cloud out of his father's face.""Then he really is better?""Better? Why, he sat up an hour yesterday.""Did he—did he, indeed?" cried Ruth, joyfully. "Did he really?""He did, really, and our lady reading to him all the time.""Ah!""What did you say, child?""Nothing, nothing! But see, they are both going, I think!"The housekeeper swayed her heavy person toward the window, and looked out."Yes. Lady Rose is persuading Sir Noel, who can refuse nothing she wants. It almost seems as if he were in love with her himself.""Perhaps he is!" cried Ruth, eagerly."One might suspect as much, if one did not know," answered the housekeeper, shaking her head. "Anyway, he is going with her now, and I'm glad of it. The ride will do him good. Look, she drives off at a dashing pace."CHAPTER XXXVI.UNDER THE IVY.RUTHneeded no recommendation to watch the beautiful little vehicle that flashed down the avenue, a perfect nest of bright colors, over which the sunlight shone with peculiar resplendence, while the spirited black horse whirled it out of sight."Isn't she fit for a queen?" said Mrs. Mason, triumphantly, as she wheeled round, and sought her chair again.Ruth heard, but did not answer. A man was passing across the lawn, who occupied her full attention."Isn't that Mr. Webb?" she questioned.Mrs. Mason half lifted herself out of the chair she was always reluctant to leave, and having obtained a view of the man, settled back again."Yes, that is Webb; and I say, Ruth, you had better follow, and give him that letter. He will be going back to the young master's room, in less than half an hour. He only leaves it to get a mouthful of air at any time. Your letter is sure of a safe delivery with Webb.""Thank you—thank you! It will be best. Good-morning, godmother! good-morning!"A swift clasp of two arms about her neck, a fluttering kiss on her lips, and the good woman was left alone, resting back in her easy-chair, with half-closed eyes, while a bland smile hovered over her plump mouth."What a loving little soul it is!" she muttered. "Peaches, ripe for preserving, are not sweeter; and as for inward goodness, she has not her match in the three kingdoms."Mrs. Mason might not have been quite so tranquil had she seen Ruth just then, for, with the speed of a lapwing, she had turned an angle of the house, where her own namesake, the ivy, had already clambered, wreathing a carved stone balcony with its greenness. Scarcely pausing to breathe, she pushed the vines aside, and treading some of the tender twigs under her feet, flew up the narrow steps which were but just made visible under the wreathing masses of foliage."If she can mount them, I will find the way," was her swift and half-triumphant thought. "Oh, Heaven grant that the window is unfastened!"Her foot was on the carved work of the balcony; her scarlet jacket gleamed through the plate-glass, and flashed its vivid red through the clustering ivy leaves. Breathless with excitement, she tried the window-sash with her hand. It gave way, and swung inward with a faint jar. She was in the room with her husband, yet afraid to approach him. There he was, lying upon a low couch, wrapped in the folds of an oriental dressing-gown, and pillowed on a cushion of silk, embroidered in so many rich colors, that the contrast made his white face ghastly.What if, after all, he did not love her? What if he should wake up alarmed, and made angry by her intrusion?There is no feeling known to a woman's heart so timid, so unreasoning, so exacting, as love: pride, devotion, humility—a dozen contending elements—come into action when that one passion is disturbed, and it would be rashness to say which of these emotions may predominate at any given time. Perfect confidence either in herself or the creature of her love is unusual in most characters—impossible in some.Ruth had entered that room full of enthusiasm, ready to dare anything; but the sight of a sleeping man, one that she loved, too, with overpowering devotion, was enough to make a coward of her in a single moment. Still, like a bird fascinated by the glittering vibrations of a serpent, she drew toward the couch, and bent over the sleeper, holding her own breath, and smiling softly as his passed over her parted lips.Ah, how pale he was! How the shadows came and went across his white forehead! Was he angry with her even in his sleep? Did he know how near she was, and resent it?No, no! If he knew anything in that profound slumber, the knowledge was pleasant, for a smile stole over his face, and some softly-whispered words trembled from his lips."My darling! oh, my darling!"Ruth dropped on her knees by the bed, and pressed both hands to her mouth, thus smothering the cry of joy that rose to it. Her movements had been noiseless as the flutter of a bird—so noiseless that the sleeper was not disturbed. After a while she lifted her head, stole her arms timidly over that sleeping form, and dropped a kiss, light as the fall of a rose-leaf, on those parted lips."Oh, my love, my love," she murmured, in sounds scarcely louder than a thought. "Look at me, look at me, if it is only for one moment."Hurst opened his eyes, and smiling vaguely, as sick men smile in dreams. That instant a noise was heard at the door, footsteps and voices. Ruth snatched the letter from her bosom, crushed it into the invalid's hand, left a passionate kiss with it, and fled out of the window, and down the ivy-choked steps. There, trembling and frightened, she shrunk into an angle of the stone window-case, and dragging the ivy over her, strove to hide herself until some chance of escaping across the garden offered. She had left the sash open in her haste, and could hear sounds from the room above with tolerable distinctness. The first was the sharp exclamation of a man's voice. He seemed to be walking hurriedly across the room, and spoke in strong remonstrance."What, up, Mr. Walton, trying to walk, and the window wide open upon you? What will the doctor say? What shall I answer to Lady Rose, who bade me watch by you every minute, till she came back?"Some faint words, in a voice that thrilled poor Ruth to the soul, seemed to be given in reply to this expostulation. But, listen as she would, the meaning escaped her.Then a louder voice spoke again."Ah, but how am I to answer to her ladyship, or Sir Noel, either?"'Webb,' says she, 'they will all have it so. I must take the air, or be shut out from here when I am really most needed. But you will not leave him? There must be some one to answer when he speaks.'"Well, I promised her. If any one could gainsay a wish of my Lady Rose, that one isn't old Webb. But you were sleeping so sweetly, sir, and I knew that the first word would be about Jessup: so I ran over to get the news about him."Here a hurried question was asked, in which Ruth distinguished her own name."Nay, nay. The girl was away somewhere, no doubt, for I found the doors locked, and could get no sight of any one. But let me shut this window, the air will be too cold."There seemed to be some protest, and a good-natured dispute, in which the sick man prevailed, for directly the couch on which he lay was wheeled up to the window, and Ruth caught one glimpse of an eager face looking out.The girl would have given her life to run up those steps again, and whisper one word to the man whom she felt was watching for her. She did creep out from hercovert, and had mounted a step, when Webb spoke again."Nay, nay, sir. This will never do. The window must be closed. An east wind is blowing."A noise of the closing window followed, and with a sigh Ruth shrunk back to her shelter against the wall, disappointed, but trembling all over with the happiness of having seen him.What cared she for Lady Rose then? Had he not looked into her eyes with the old, fond glance? Had he not reached out his arms in a quick passion of delight as she fled from him? Was he not her husband, her own, own husband?There, in the very midst of her fright, and her newly-fledged joy, the young wife drew the wedding-ring from her bosom, and kissed it, rapturously murmuring:"He loves me! He loves me! and what else do I care for? Nothing, nothing, in the wide wide, world!"But in the midst of this unreasoning outburst, poor Ruth remembered the father she had left a wounded prisoner in the cottage, and a spasm of pain shot through her. Ah, if she were sure, if she were only sure that no secret was kept from her there. But it must be right. Some great misunderstanding had arisen to distress her father beyond the pain of his wounds. But when the two beings she most loved on earth were well enough to meet and explain, all would be clear and bright again. Her husband had the letter safe in his hands. She would go home at once, and tell her father that, and afterward steal off alone, and feast on the happiness that made her very breath a joy.Out, through the rose-thickets, the clustering honeysuckles,and the beds of blooming flowers, Ruth stole, like a bee, overladen with honey, and carried her happiness back to the cottage.
"Not as a fact; but amusing myself with the absurd things that are said about one; things that one repeats and laughs about with the first man he meets."
Judith bent her eyes downward; their proud defiance was extinguished; the heaviness of repentant shame fellupon her. Before she could speak, a call outside startled them both. Storms broke off the interview with some hurried snatches of direction.
"Take the highway; here is a key to the little park-gate; turn to the left, the wilderness lies that way. In its darkest place you will come upon a lake. There is an old summer-house on the bank: I will be there; if not, wait for me. You will not mind the walk?"
"No, no!"
"Good-night, then."
Storms said this and was gone. Judith went back to the public room. There the company had fallen into more confidential conversation.
"No wonder the young man is put about so," said one. "Old Jessup was as good as his father-in-law, and of course he feels it. Then there is a story going that the heir was over sweet on pretty Ruth, the daughter, and that, no doubt, has made more bitterness. For my part, I think the young man bears it uncommonly well."
"Uncommonly well," answered another. "This poaching in our cottages, whenever a young face happens to grow comely there, is a shame that no man should put up with. I shouldn't wonder if Jessup had made a stand against it, and got a bullet through him for interfering. Our young lords make nothing of putting an old man aside when he dares to stand between a pretty daughter and harm. But see how the law waits for them. Had it been Storms, now, he would have been in jail, waiting for the assizes. Yet who could have blamed him? The girl was his sweetheart, and a winsome lass she is. But Storms will never wed her now."
"Wed her—as if the young gentleman ever thought of it!" said Judith, breaking into the conversation."There is your beer, man; let it stop your mouth till more sense comes into it."
The man laughed and cast a knowing glance at his companions. "Hoity-toity! Lies the wind in that quarter?" he said. "Well, I had begun to suspicion it."
This outburst was received with shouts of laughter, and a loud rattling of pewter. This was an ovation that the landlady liked to witness; for half the value of her new barmaid to the public house lay in her quick wit and saucy expression. Even the fierce passions into which she was sometimes thrown amused the men who frequented that room, and enticed them there quite as much as the beer they drank.
"One thing is sure," said Judith's tormentor, renewing the conversation with keener zest: "Storms has lost a pretty wife and a good bit of money by this affray."
Judith turned deadly white, and specks of foam flew to her lips.
"Do you mean that?"
"Of course I mean it."
"That Richard Storms and Ruth Jessup would have been wed now, if this affray at the park had not happened? Is that what you mean?"
"Mean? Why, lass, there is not a man here who does not know it. Ask him, if you can't believe us."
"I will!" answered the girl, between her white teeth. "That is the very question I mean to put to him before the sun rises."
These words were uttered in a voice so low and broken that no one heard it. She was silent after that, and went about her work sullenly.
THE OLD LAKE HOUSE.
THEpark at "Norston's Rest" was divided by a swift stream that flowed into it from the distant uplands, separating the highly cultivated portions from the wilderness. Jessup's cottage was within the pleasure grounds, but its upper windows overlooked a small but deep lake, formed by a ravine, and the hollows of a rocky ledge, which made an almost bottomless gulf, into which the mountain stream emptied itself, and after losing half its volume in some underground outlet glided off down the valley.
Nothing could be more wild and picturesque than this little lake, embosomed, as it was, with thrifty evergreens, fine old trees, and rocks, to which the ivy clung in luxuriant draperies. At its outlet, where the sun shone most of the day, wild hyacinths and mats of blue violets empurpled the banks before they appeared in any other place, and a host of summer flowers kept up the blossom season sometimes long after leaf-fall. Near this spot, the brightest of all the wilderness, stood an old summer-house, built by some former lord of "The Rest." Jessup had trained wild roses among the ivy that completely matted the old building together, and around its base had allowed the lush grasses to grow uncut, casting their seed, year by year, until the most thrifty reached to the balustrades of a wooden balcony that partly overhung the lake in its deepest part.
Nothing could be more picturesque than this old building, when the moon shone down upon and kindled upthe waters beneath it, with a brightness more luminous than silver. The shivering ivy, the flickering shadows of a great tree, that drooped long, protecting branches over it, formed a picture that any artist would have got up at midnight to look upon. Still a more practical man might have pronounced its old timbers unsafe, and its position, half perched on a bank, with its balcony over the water, dangerous as it was picturesque.
Be this as it may, two persons stood within this building, after eleven o'clock at night, revealed by the same moon that looked down on those two wounded men, now struggling for life in the proud old mansion and the humble cottage. It was curved like the blade of a sickle then. Now, its rounded fulness flooded the whole wilderness, breaking up its darkness into massive shadows, all the blacker from contrast with the struggling illumination.
The waterfall at the head of the lake was so far off that its noise gave no interruption to the voices of these two persons when they met, for Storms had arrived earlier than the girl, and lay apparently asleep on one of the fixed seats, when Judith Hart came in, breathless with fast walking, and gave forth sharp expletives of disappointment when she supposed the summer-house empty.
"Not here. The wretch—the coward! I knew it—I knew it! He never meant to come. Does he think I will trapse all this way, and wait for him? If I do, may I—Ha!"
The girl stopped at the door, through which she was angrily repassing, with the invective cut short on her lips.
"Hallo! Is it you, Judith? I began to think you wasn't coming, and dropped asleep. But, upon my soul, I was dreaming about you all the time."
"Here you are!" said the girl, coming slowly back. "How was one to know—lying there like a log? That isn't the way one expects to be met after a walk like this!"
"Why, what's the matter? The walk is just nothing for an active girl like you, but I hope you had no trouble in getting out."
"I've had trouble in everything; nothing but trouble, since I first knew you, and I've just come to tell you, that, according to my idea, you are a treasonable, traitorous—"
"Judith Hart!"
"Cut that off short. I come here to have my say, and nothing more. From this night out you and I are two. Remember that. I'm not to be taken in a second time."
Storms arose from the bench, and shook himself, as if he had really been asleep.
"What on earth are you grumbling about, Judith Hart? What has a fellow been doing since nightfall that you come down upon him with a crash like this, after keeping him on the wait in this damp hole till his limbs are stiff as ramrods!"
"They'll be stiffer before I'm fool enough to believe you again, you may be sure of that."
"Hoity-toity! What's the row? Who has forgotten to fee the barmaid, I wonder? Or is it that the mistress begins to suspect that there has been more stealing out than she knows of, or I either?"
The young man said this in a half-jeering tone, that drove the girl wild.
"You say that! You dare to say that!" drawing her wrathful face close to his, till both their evil countenanceswere defined by the moonlight. "I tell you now that such words are as much as your life is worth."
Storms laughed, sunk both hands into the pockets of his velveteen jacket, and laughed again, leaning against the wall of the old summer-house.
"There, there, Judith! Enough of that! I don't want to be tempted into doing you a harm; far from it. But neither man nor woman must threaten Dick Storms. No one but a lass he is sweet upon would dare do it."
"Dare! I like that!"
"But I don't like it. Once for all, tell me what this is all about."
"You know, as well as I do, that it is everywhere about that you were plighted to the girl up yonder when her father was hurt."
"But you know that there isn't a word of truth in it."
"Not true! Not true! Oh, Richard, I have seen with my own eyes."
Judith lifted her finger threateningly, and shook it close to the young man's face.
"Well, what have you seen?" questioned Dick, a little hoarsely; and even in the moonlight the girl could detect a slow pallor stealing over his face.
"I have been at the inn yonder longer than you know of," she said. "This isn't the first time I've been in the park at night."
He started back a pace, then turned upon her. The cunning of his nature rose uppermost; he spoke to her low and earnestly.
"Then you must know that I don't want the lass, and wouldn't take her at any price, though I don't care to say that."
"Perhaps you deny going to the gardener's cottage at all?"
"No, I don't. Why should I? If you were watching me, so much the better. I wish you had listened to every word I said to her; hating her as you do, it would have done you good, and set all this nonsense at rest."
"But you went?"
"Yes, I went."
"And—and—"
"And told her, then and there, that nothing should force me to wed her. She had set the old man and the young master to nagging me about it. Neither they nor she gave me an hour's peace."
"Oh, Richard! Richard! Is this true?"
"But for my love of you, I might have given in—"
"I don't care that for such love," cried the girl, tearing a leaf of ivy from a spray that had crept through the broken window, and dashing it to the floor. "I want you to love me better than all the world beside. No halving. I want that, and nothing else."
"And haven't you got it? When did you see me walking out with her, or meeting her here like this?"
"She wouldn't come."
"Wouldn't she?"
Storms laughed as he repeated the audacious insinuation, "Wouldn't she?"
Judith threw off her defiant attitude, and the sharp edge left her speech, which became almost appealing.
"Richard Storms! Was it for my sake?"
"I won't answer you; you don't deserve it, suspicioning a fellow like that."
"I am sorry."
"Yes, after pushing me on to—to anything rather than be nagged, at home and up yonder, about wedding the girl, you come here, when I expected a pleasantmeeting, with your scolding and threats. It's enough to drive a man into marrying out of hand."
"No, no, Dick! You wouldn't do that."
"I don't know."
"You don't know?"
"If you ever try this on again, I may. One doesn't stand threats, even from the sweetheart he loves better than everything else—that is, if he is a man worth having." "But I didn't threaten you! I only—"
"Said what you must never say again, if you don't want to see me wedded down in yon church, with a farm of my own, and a fortune waiting, which they are willing to pay down, and ask no questions. A pretty lass pining for me too."
"Pretty! Oh, Richard, this is too bad! You have told me a hundred times that of the two, I was—"
The girl broke off and turned away her face.
"And I have told you the truth, else they would have had me fast before this. Both the young master and the old man were threatening me with the law. You might have heard them."
"No. I was never near enough."
"Well, they did, though; and but for you, I might have given in."
"But you never—never will!"
"So long as you keep quiet, I'll stand out."
"Oh, Richard, no mouse was ever so quiet as I will be. Now, say, was it all for my sake?"
"What else could it be?"
"I don't know. Only it is so strange. And Richard! Richard! I will die before—You understand—I would die rather than harm you."
"That is my own brave lass. Now you are like yourself, and we can part friends—better friends than ever."
"Part! It is not so late."
"But the moon is up, and you will be seen by the village people. They must have no jibes to cast on my wife when you and I are wed."
The girl's eyes flashed in the moonlight, which came broadly through a glass door that led upon the old wooden balcony.
A smile crept over Storms' subtle lips. He was rather proud of his victory over this beautiful Amazon. The brilliant loveliness of her face in the softening light was so like that of Ruth Jessup, that he astonished the handsome virago by taking her head between his hands, and kissing her with something like tenderness.
His heart recoiled from this caress the next moment, as the prodigal son may have loathed the husks he eat, when he was famishing for corn; but Judith sat down upon the hard wooden seat, and covering her face with both hands, broke into a passion of delicious tears.
This outbreak of tenderness annoyed the young man, who was hating himself for this apostacy from the only pure feeling that had ever ennobled his heart, and he said, almost rudely, "Come, come, there is nothing to cry about; I am sorry, that's all."
"Sorry!" repeated the girl, lifting her happy, tearful face into the moonlight. "Ah, well, I will go home, now. Good-night, if you will not go with me a little way."
"We must not be seen together," answered Richard, opening the door for her to pass out; "only remember, I have trusted you."
The girl went to the door, hesitated a moment, and stepped back.
"Will you kiss me again, Richard? It shall be the seal of what I promised."
"Don't be foolish, girl," said Dick, stooping his head that she might kiss him. "You women are all alike; give them an inch and they will take an ell. There, there; good-night."
Storms stood behind the half-open door, and watched the barmaid as she took the little path which led to the postern gate which Ruth had used on the morning of her wedding-day. A key to this gate had been intrusted to the young man, and he had duplicated it for the girl who had just left him.
When Judith was quite beyond his vision, Storms retired back into the summer-house, and examined it with strange scrutiny. There was but one window, a single sash that opened into the balcony, answering for a second door, which was quite sufficient to light the little apartment. Through this window the moonlight fell like a square block of marble, barred with shadows. To Storms it took the form of a tombstone lying at his feet, and he stepped back with a sort of horror, as if some evil thought of his had hardened into stone which he dared not tread upon; going cautiously around it, and gliding along the wall, but with his eyes turned that way, he escaped from the building.
THE NEW LEASE.
SIR NOEL, farmer Storms is here, wanting to see you about something important, he says."
Sir Noel Hurst was sitting in his library, looking and feeling more like his old self than he had done for days.
"I will see him presently," he said, almost smiling, "but not quite yet. Tell him to wait."
The servant retired, and Sir Noel began to walk up and down the room, rubbing his white hands in a gentle, caressing way, as if some joyous feeling found expression in the movement. The physician had just left him, with an assurance that the son and heir for whose life he had trembled was now out of danger. He had heard, too, that William Jessup was slowly improving, and the burden of a fearful anxiety was so nearly lifted from his heart that he saw the fair form of Lady Rose coming through the flower-garden, beneath his window, with a smile of absolute pleasure. A flight of stone steps led to the balcony beneath the window, and the young lady lingered near them, looking up occasionally, as if she longed to ascend, but hesitated.
"Sweet girl! Fair, noble girl," thought Sir Noel, as he looked down upon the lovely picture she made, standing there, timid as a child, with a glow of freshly-gathered flowers breaking through the muslin of her over-skirt, which she used as an apron. "God grant that everything may become right between them, now."
Sir Noel stepped to the window with these thoughts in his mind, and beckoned the young lady to come up.She caught a glance of his face, and her own brightened, as if a cloud had been swept from it. She came up the steps swiftly, and paused before the window, which Sir Noel flung open.
"I saw the doctor, but dared not question him. You will tell me, Sir Noel; but I feel what the news is. You would not have called me had it been more than I—than we could bear."
"I would not, indeed, dear child. God knows if I could endure all this trouble alone, it would not be so hard."
"I have been down yonder every day, Sir Noel; so early in the morning, sometimes, that it seemed as if the poor flowers were weeping with me. Oh, how often I have looked up here after the doctors went away, hoping that you would have good news, and notice me!"
"I saw you, child, but had no heart to make you more sorrowful."
"Did you think him so fearfully dangerous, then?" questioned the lady, with terror in her blue eyes. "I tried to persuade myself that it was only my fears. Every morning I came out and gathered such quantities of flowers for his room, but he never once noticed them, or me—"
"You! Have you seen him, then?"
A flood of crimson swept that fair face, and the white lids drooped over the eyes that sunk beneath his.
"No—no one else could arrange the flowers as he liked them. Once or twice—but only when his eyes were closed. I never once disturbed him."
"Dear child, how he ought to love you!"
Sir Noel kissed the crimson forehead, which drooped down to the girl's uplifted hands, and he knew that theflush, which had first been one of maiden shame, was deepened by coming tears.
"There, there, my child, we must not grieve when the doctors give us hope for the first time. He is sleeping, they tell me, a calm, natural sleep. Go, and arrange these flowers after your own dainty fashion. He will notice them when he awakes. Already he has called the doctor by name."
"Oh, uncle! dear, dear guardian, is it so?"
The girl fell upon her knees by a great easy-chair that stood by, and the blossoms, no longer supported by her hand, fell in glowing masses around her as she gave way to such happy sobs as had never shaken her frame before. At last she looked up, smiling through her tears.
"Is it really, really true?" she questioned, shaking the drops from her face.
"Go, and see for yourself, Rose."
"But he might awake, he might know."
"That an angel is in his room? Well, it will do him no harm, nor you either."
Lady Rose looked down at the flowers that lay scattered around her, and gathered them into the muslin of her dress again. She was smiling, now, yet trembling from head to foot. Would he know her? Would the perfume of her flowers awaken some memory in his mind of the days when they had made play-houses in the thickets, and pelted each other with roses, in childish warfare? How cold and distant he had been to her of late! Would he awake to his old self? Would she ever be able to approach him again without that miserable shrinking sensation?
"Sir Noel," she said, "I think my own father would never have been so kind to me as you are."
"I am glad you think so, child, for that was what I promised him on his death-bed. That and more, which God grant I may be able to carry out."
"I cannot remember him," said Lady Rose, shaking her head, as if weary with some mental effort.
"No; he left us when you were a little child. But we must not talk of this now."
"I know! I know! Just a moment since I was in such haste. Now I feel like putting it off. Isn't it strange?"
Sir Noel understood better than that fair creature herself the significance of all these tremors and hesitations. Now that his first fears were at rest, they both touched and amused him, and a smile rose to his lips as she glided from the room, leaving a cloud of sweet odors behind her.
Into this delicate perfume old farmer Storms came a few minutes after, looking stolid, grim, and clumsily awkward. The nails of his heavy shoes sunk into the carpet at every step, and his fustian garments contrasted coarsely with the rich cushions and sumptuous draperies of the room.
"Well, Sir Noel, I've come about the new lease, if you've no objection. I want your word upon it; being o'er anxious on the young man's account."
"Why, Storms, has there been any disagreement between you and the bailiff? It has always been my orders that the old tenants should have preference when a lease dropped in."
"Well, as to that, Sir Noel, it isn't so much the lease itself that troubles one; but Dick and I want it at a lighter rent, and we would like a new house on the grounds agin the time when the lad will get wed, andwant a roof of his own. That is what we've been thinking of, Sir Noel."
"A new house?" said Sir Noel, astonished. "Why, Storms, yours is the best on the place. It was built for a dower house."
"Aye, aye! I know that; but as our Dick says, no house is big enough or good enough for two families. The lad is looking up in the world a bit of late. He means to take more land; that is why I come about the lease; and we shall give up our home to him and his wife."
"Indeed!" said Sir Noel. "What has he been doing to warrant this extraordinary start in the world?"
"Something that he means to keep to himself yet a while, he says, but it is sure, if things turn out rightly. So I want a promise of the lease, and all the other things, while the iron is hot. He told me to say nothing about it, only to ask, in a civil way, if the young master had come to his senses yet, or was likely to. He is awful fond of the young master, is my son, and sends me o'er, or comes himself to the lodge every day to hear about him. He would be put about sorely if he knew that I had let on about the house just yet; but I can see no good in waiting. You will kindly bear it in mind that we shall want a deal more than the lease. Dick says he's sure to have it, one way or another; and a rare lad for getting his own will is our Dick."
There was something strange in the extravagance of this request, that made the baronet thoughtful. He felt the stolid assumption of the old man, but did not resent it. Some undercurrent of apprehension kept him prudent. He only replied quietly, "Well, Storms, the lease is not out yet. There isplenty of time," and, with a wave of the hand, dismissed the old man.
In the hall Storms was astonished to find his son waiting, apparently careless, though his eyes gleamed with suppressed wrath. He followed the old man out, and once under the shelter of the park, turned upon him.
"What were you doing in there?"
"Nothing, Dick! Only asking after the young master, and talking a bit with the baronet."
SHARPER THAN A SERPENT'S TOOTH.
YOUNG STORMSwas very restless after his midnight interview with Judith Hart, and became feverishly so when he discovered that the elder Storms had begun to move in his affairs more promptly than he desired. He walked on by the old farmer with a frown on his face, and only spoke when his own footsteps bore him ahead of the stronger and more deliberate stride, which goaded his impatience into anger. There was, indeed, a striking contrast between the two men, which even a difference in age could not well account for. Old Storms was a stoutish man, round in the shoulders, slouching in his walk, and of a downcast countenance, in which a good deal of inert ability lay dormant. There was something of the son's cunning in his eye, and animal craving about the mouth, but if the keen venom which repulsed you in the younger man ever existed inthe father, it had become too sluggish for active wickedness, except, perhaps, as the subordinate of some more powerful nature.
That nature the old man had fostered in his own family, of which Richard was the absolute head, before he became of legal age. If the old man had been a tyrant over the boy, as many fathers of his class are supposed to be in the mother land, Richard avenged his youth fully when it merged into manhood. As the two walked together across the park, toward their own farm, it was pitiful to see such gleams of anxiety in that old man's eyes, whenever they were furtively lifted to the stern face of the son.
Once, when Dick got ahead of his father, walking swiftly in his wiry activity, he paused, and cut a sapling up by the roots with his heavy pruning-knife, and stood, with a grim smile on his face, trimming off the small branches, and measuring it into a slender walking-stick.
"Art doing that for me, lad?" said the old man, in a voice that did not sound quite natural. "Nay, nay, I am not old enough for a stick yet a while. My old bones aren't so limber as thine, maybe; but they'll do for me many a year yet, never fear."
The young man made no answer, but smiled coldly, as he shook the sapling with a vigor that made the air whistle around him. Then he walked on, polishing up the knots daintily with his knife as he moved.
"More'n that," continued the old man, eying his son wistfully; "there isn't toughness enough there for a walking-stick, which should be something to lean on."
"It'll do," answered Dick, closing his knife, and thrusting it deep into his pocket. "It'll do, for want of a better."
"Ha, ha," laughed the old man, so hoarsely that his voice seemed to break into a timid bark. "That was what I used ter say when you were a lad, and I made you cut sticks to be lathered with. Many a time the twig that you brought wouldn't hurt a dormouse. Ah, lad, lad, you were always a cunning one."
"Was I?" said Dick. "Well, beating begets cunning, I dare say."
By this time they were getting into the thick of the wilderness, a portion of the park little frequented, and in which the lonely lake we have spoken of lay like a pool of ink, the shadows fell so blackly upon it.
Here Richard verged out of the usual path, and struck through the most gloomy portion of the woods. After a moment's hesitation, the old man followed him, muttering that the other path was nearest, but that did not matter.
When the two had left the lake behind them, Richard stopped, and wheeling suddenly around, faced his father.
"Now, once for all, tell me what took you to 'The Rest' this morning; for, mark me, I'm bound to know."
"I—I have told ye once, Dick. I have—"
"A lie. You have told me that, and nought else."
"Dick, Dick, mind, it's your father you are putting the lie on," said the old man, kindling up so fiercely that his stooping figure rose erect, and his eyes shone beneath their heavy brows like water under a bank thick with rushes.
"What took you up yonder, I say?" was the curt answer. "I want the truth, and mean to have it out of you before we go a stride farther. Do you understand, now?"
"I went to ask after the young maister," was the sullen reply.
"The truth! I will have the truth—so out with it, before I do you a harm!"
"Before ye do your old father a harm! Nay, nay, lad, it has no come to that."
Dick bent the sapling almost double, and let it recoil with a vicious snap, a significant answer that kindled the old man's wrath so fiercely that he seized upon the offending stick, placed one end under his foot, and twisted it apart with a degree of fury that startled the son out of his sneering insolence.
"Now what hast got to say to your father, Dick? Speak out; but remember that I am that, and shall be till you get to be the strongest man."
The thin features of Richard Storms turned white, and his eyes shone. He had depended too much, it seemed, on the withering influence his insolent overbearance had produced on the old man, whose will and strength had at last been aroused by the audacious threat wielded in that sapling. Whether he really would have degraded the old farmer with a blow or not, is uncertain; but, once aroused, the stout old man was more than a match for his son, and the force of habit came back upon him so powerfully, that he began to roll up the cuffs of his fustian jacket, as if preparing for an onset.
"Say out what there is in you, and do it gingerly, or you'll soon find out who is maister here," the old man said, with all the rough authority of former times.
The young man looked into his father's face with a glance made keen by surprise. Then his features relaxed, and he burst into a hoarse laugh.
"Why, father, did you think I was about doing you a harm with that bit of ash? It was for a goad to the cattle I was smoothing it off."
"Ah!" ejaculated the old man.
"But you have twisted it to a wisp now."
"That I have, and rare glad I am of it."
"It don't matter," said the son. "I can find plenty more about here. But the thing we were talking of. Did Sir Noel kick in the traces when ye came down upon him about the lease?"
A gleam of the young man's own cunning crept into the father's eyes.
"The lease, Dick? Haven't I said it was the young maister's health that took me to 'The Rest?'"
Richard made a gesture that convulsed his whole frame, and, jerking one hand forward, exclaimed, "It was for your own good, father, that I asked; so I don't see why you keep things so close."
"An' I don't know why a child of mine should ask questions of his own father like a schoolmaster, or as if he were ready for a bout at fisticuffs," answered the old man.
"It's a way one gets among the grooms and gamekeepers; but it means nothing," was the pacific answer. "I was only afraid you might have dropped a word about what I told you of, and that would have done mischief."
"Ah!"
"Just now, father, half a word might spoil everything."
"Half a word! Well, well, there was nought said that could do harm. Just a hint about the lease, nothing more. There, now, ye have it all. A fair question at the first would ha' saved all this bother."
"Are you sure this was all?" asked the young man, eying his father closely.
"Aye. Sure."
"Hush! One of the gamekeepers is coming."
"Aye, aye."
Old Storms moved forward, as the intruder came up with a pair of birds in his hands, which he was carrying to "The Rest."
Richard remained behind, for the man met him with a broad grin, as if some good joke were on his mind.
"Good-morrow to ye," he said, dropping the birds upon a bed of grass, as if preparing for a long gossip.
"Dost know I came a nigh peppering thee a bit yon night, thinking it war some poachers after the birds; but I soon found out it was a bit of sweethearting on the sly? Oh, Dick, Dick! thou'lt get shot some night."
"Sweethearting! I don't know what you mean, Jacob."
"Ye don't know that there was a pretty doe roving about the wilderness one night this week, just at the time ye passed through it?"
"Me, me?"
"Aye. No mistake. I saw ye with my own eyes in the moonlight."
"In the moonlight? Where?"
"Oh, in the upper path, nearest thy own home."
Richard drew a deep breath.
"Ah, that! I thought you said by the lake."
"Nay, it was the lass I saw, taking covert there."
"What lass? I saw none!"
"Ha, ha!" laughed the gamekeeper, placing a hand on each knee, and stooping down to look into his companion's eyes. "What war she there for, then? Tell me that."
"How should I know?"
"And what wert thou doing in the wilderness?"
"What, I? Passing through it like an honest Christian, on my way home from the village."
"Well, now, that is strange! Dost know, I got half a look at the doe's face, and dang me! if I didn't think it was Jessup's lass."
A quick thought shot through that subtle brain. Why not accept the mistake, throw the reputation of the girl who had scorned him into the power of this man, and thus claim the triumph of having cast her off when the certainty of her final rejection came? After a moment's silence, and appearing to falter, he said:
"You—you saw her, then? You know that it was Ruth Jessup?"
"Ha! ha! Have I run ye to covert? Yes, I a'most saw her face; an' as to the figure, any man, with half an eye, would know that. There isn't another loike it within fifty miles o' 'The Rest.'"
"Well, well, Jacob, as you saw her and me so close, I'll not deny it. A lass will get fractious, you know, when a fellow is expected, and don't come up to time, and follow one up, you understand. We have been sweethearting so long, and the old ones being agreeable, perhaps she is a trifle over restless about my hanging back."
"Aye, aye. This story about the young maister being o'er fond of her. I wouldn't put up with that."
Storms nodded his head mysteriously.
"You'll say nothing about her coming to seek me that night."
"In course not. Only I wouldn't a thought it of Jessup's lass, she looks so modest like."
"But when a lass is—is—"
"O'er fond, and afraid of losing her sweetheart. Still, I wouldn't a thought it of her anyhow."
"You're not to think hard of her for anything, friend Jacob, because we may be wed after all, and no one must have a fling at my wife, mind that. When I give her up will be time enough."
The gamekeeper laughed, and nodded his head, perhaps amused at the idea that a bit of gossip, like that, could escape circulation, in a place already excited on the subject of Jessup and his daughter. Storms having given the impression he desired, took a watch from his pocket, and glanced at the dial.
"It's wonderful how time flits," he said, putting the watch back. "It's near dinner-time, and the old man will be waiting. Mind that you keep a close mouth. Good-day!"
"Good-day ter ye," responded the gamekeeper, picking up his birds, and smoothing their mottled feathers as he went along. "I wouldn't a thought it of yon lass, though, not if the parson himself had told me. That I wouldn't."
Meantime young Storms walked toward home, smiling, nay, at times, laughing, as he went. The cruel treachery of his conversation with the keeper filled him with vicious delight. He knew well enough that the whole subject would be made the gossip of every house in the village within twenty-four hours, and revelled in the thought. If it were possible for him to marry Ruth in the end, this scandal would be of little importance to him; if not, it should be made to sting her, and poison the returning life of young Hurst. Under any circumstances, it was an evil inspiration, over which he gloated triumphantly.
So full was the young plotter's brain of this idea, that he was unconscious of the rapidity with which he approached home, until the farm-house hove in view, along, stone building sheltered by orchards, flanked by outhouses, and clothed to the roof with rare old ivy. It was, in truth, something better than a common farm-dwelling, for an oriel window jutted out here, a stone balcony there, and the sunken entrance-door was of solid oak; such as might have given access to "The Rest" itself.
There had been plenty of shrubbery, with a bright flower-garden in front, and on one side of the house; but of the first, there was only a scattering and ragged bush left to struggle for life, here and there, while every sweet blossom of the past had given way to coarse garden vegetables, which were crowded into less and less space each year, by fields of barley or corn, that covered what had once been a pretty lawn and park.
"Ah, if I could but get this in fee simple. If he had died I might!" thought the young man, as he walked round to the back door. "If he had only died!"
THE SICK MAN WRITES A LETTER.
WILLIAMJessup seemed to be getting better rapidly after those few words with Ruth, that had lifted a mountain of pain from his heart, pain deeper and keener than the biting anguish of his wound, or the fever which preyed upon him continually, though he scarcely felt it, now that the anguish of mind was gone.
"I shall be better, I shall be quite well, only let me get one word to him. He is so rash. Ah, when that isdone, I can rest a little," he kept thinking to himself, for the subject seemed so distasteful to Ruth that he shrunk from naming it to her. "If the old man Storms would but come, I might trust him; but he always sends that lad, who frightens Ruth. Poor child, poor child!"
Ruth was sitting by her father's bed when these thoughts possessed him, and broke out in a tremulous exclamation, his eyes fastened tenderly on her.
"What is it, father? What are you thinking of? Nothing ails me. I must not be pitied at all while you are ill, or only because of that. What are you thinking about?"
"Only this, Ruthy. Don't let it bother you, though. Only, if I could get a word to the young master—"
Ruth shrunk visibly from the anxious eyes bent upon her, but forced herself to answer, calmly, "If I could see him one minute, alone. Oh, if I could," she said, clasping the hands in her lap till the blood fled from them, "but it would be of no use trying."
All at once Jessup rose from his pillow, but leaned back again, gasping for breath.
"Put another pillow under my head, and prop me up a bit. I will write a line with my own hand. I wonder we never thought of it before. Bring me a pen, and the ink-bottle. The big Bible, too, from yon table. It will be all the better for that."
Ruth obeyed him at once. Why had she never thought of this? Surely a letter could be got to that sick-chamber without danger. That, at least, would relieve her father's anxiety, and remind Hurst of her.
Why had she never thought of it before? That was not strange; Jessup was no letter writer, and, save a few figures, now and then, Ruth had not seen him use a penhalf a dozen times in her life. It seemed a marvel to her even then that he should undertake so unusual a task.
The girl had a pretty desk of her own, otherwise a supply of ink and paper might have been wanting. As it was, she brought both to her father's bed, and arranged the great Bible before him, that he might use them at once.
At any time it would have been a severe task that the gardener had undertaken; but now his weak fingers shook so fearfully that he was compelled to lay the pen down at every word, almost in despair. But the great heart gave his hand both strength and skill. After many pauses for rest, and struggles for breath, a few lines were written, and this was what they said:
My Dear Young Master:—Have no fear about me. I have sworn, in soul, before Almighty God, to keep all that is within me a secret forever. No law and no blame shall ever reach you through me. Oh, that my eyes had been struck blind before they saw your face that night, when you shot me down! I would have groped in darkness to my grave, rather than have seen what I did. Sometimes I think it must have been all a dream. But it haunts me so—it haunts me so. Your father saved my life once. Maybe I am saving his now. I hope so. Do not fear about me. I shall not be more silent in death than I am in life.William Jessup."
My Dear Young Master:—Have no fear about me. I have sworn, in soul, before Almighty God, to keep all that is within me a secret forever. No law and no blame shall ever reach you through me. Oh, that my eyes had been struck blind before they saw your face that night, when you shot me down! I would have groped in darkness to my grave, rather than have seen what I did. Sometimes I think it must have been all a dream. But it haunts me so—it haunts me so. Your father saved my life once. Maybe I am saving his now. I hope so. Do not fear about me. I shall not be more silent in death than I am in life.
William Jessup."
Many a misspelt word did this short epistle contain. Many an uncouth letter that linked sentences running riot with each other; but the spirit of a high resolve was there, and the good man exhausted the little strength left to him in writing it.
"You will seal this," he whispered, hoarsely, giving her the paper to fold and direct. "Some one will take it to him."
"Yes, I will go. He shall get it. How, I do not know; but if he is well enough to read it, the paper shall reach him."
"And no one else. Remember that."
"I will remember. Oh, father, what is this terrible thing?"
"Be silent, Ruth. I will not have you question me."
"Forgive me, father."
"Yes, yes."
The poor man spoke in painful gasps. The old Bible seemed to bear him down; he struggled under the weight, but could not remove it.
Ruth lifted the book in her arms, settled the pillows under her father's head, and would have stayed by him, but he motioned her away.
Oh, how precious, yet how perilous that paper seemed to the poor girl! He would touch it. His eyes would follow the jagged lines. They would bring assurance of safety to him. He might even guess that she had been the messenger through whom it had reached him. She did not understand the meaning of this important scrawl. With regard to that, her mind was swayed by vague uncertainties, but she knew that it was pacific, and intended for good.
Ruth tied on her bonnet, and set forth for "The Rest" at once, with the precious letter in her bosom, over which she folded her scarlet sacque with additional caution.
"Perhaps—perhaps I shall see him. It might have meant nothing, after all. He could not be so false. Lady Rose is like a sister to him, that is all! I am sofoolish to care; so very, very foolish. But, then, how can I help it?"
The day was so beautiful, that such hopeful thoughts came to Ruth with the very atmosphere she breathed. The birds were singing all around her, and a thousand summer insects filled the air with music. Coming, as she did, from the close seclusion of a sick-room, all these things thrilled her with fresh vigor. Her step was light as she walked. The breath melted like wine on her red lips. Once or twice she paused to snatch a handful of violets from the grass, and drank up their perfume thirstily.
At last she came out into the luxurious beauty of the pleasure-grounds close to "The Rest," and from thence, looked up to the window where her young husband lay, all unconscious of her coming. Perhaps she had hoped that he might be well enough to sit up. Certainly, when she saw no one at the window, her heart sunk, and a deep sigh escaped her. It would not do to be found there by any of the household. She felt that, and bent her steps towards the servants' entrance, heavy-hearted and irresolute.
WITH THE HOUSEKEEPER.
THEhousekeeper was more than usually busy that day, but she greeted her favorite with affectionate warmth. "You there, my poppet," she said, seating herself for a talk. "I have been wondering why you kept away so long, now that the doctors tell me that your father is coming round."
"I wished to come, godmother. Indeed, I never stopped thinking about you here; but there is no one to stay by father when I leave him, and he needs care."
"Of course he does, and something else as well. I was just putting up a bottle or two of our choice old Madeira, with some jellies, and the cook is roasting a bird, which he must eat with the black currant-jelly, remember. We must build your father up, now, with nice, strengthening things. They would do you no harm, either, child. Why, how thin and worried you look, Ruth! This constant nursing will break you down. We must send over one of the maids, to help."
"No, no; I can do very well. Father is used to me, you know. Only, if you wish to be kind—"
"Wish to be kind? Did I ever fail in that, goddaughter?"
"Did you ever? Indeed, no. Only I am always asking such out-of-the-way things."
"Well, well. What is it, now?"
"I have a letter from my father to—to the young master."
"From your father? When did he ever write a letter before, I wonder? And he sick in bed? A letter—"
"That I want to deliver into Wal—into Mr. Hurst's own hands, if you will only help me, godmother."
"Into his own hands? As if any other trusty person wouldn't do as well," said the housekeeper, discontentedly.
"But I should not be so certain, godmother."
"Ah, true. Is the letter so important, then?"
"I—I don't know, exactly. Only father was very particular about it."
"Well, give me the letter. I will see that he gets it safe."
Ruth still pressed her hand against her bosom, and a look of piteous disappointment broke into her eyes.
"Is he so very ill, then? Might I not just see him for a minute, and take the answer back?"
"The young master is better, but not half so well as he strives to be. I never saw any one so crazy to get out."
"Is he—is he, though?"
"And about your father. He is always questioning me if I have heard from the cottage."
"Indeed!"
"Why, child, how chirpish you speak, all at once! I hardly knew your voice. But what was I saying? Ah, I remember. Yes, yes! The young master scarcely got back his speech before he began to question us about Jessup, whose hurt seems to wound him more than his own. To pacify him Lady Rose sent round every morning."
"Lady Rose! Did the messengers come from her?" questioned Ruth, and her voice sunk again.
"Of course. Sir Noel, in his trouble, might have forgotten; but she never did. Ah, goddaughter, that young lady is one in a thousand, so gentle, so lovely, so—"
"Yes, yes! I know—I know!"
"Such a match as they will make."
Ruth turned very pale; still a singular smile crept over her lips. She said nothing, however, but walked to a window, and looked out, as if fascinated by the rich masses of ivy that swept an angle of the building like black drapery.
"How the ivy thrives on that south wall!" she said, at last. "I can remember when it was only a stem."
"Of course you can; for I planted it on the day you were born, with my own hands. There has been timeenough for it to spread. Why, it has crept round to the young master's window. He would have it trained that way."
"Godmother, how good you are!"
"Not a bit of it, child. Only I was always careful of that ivy. Ruth's ivy, we always call it, because of the day it was planted."
"Did—did any one else call it so?"
"Of course, or the young master would never have known of it. 'Let me have,' says he, 'just a branch or two of your ivy—what is its name, now?—for my corner of the house.' Well, of course, I told him its name, and how it came by it, which he said was a pretty name for ivy, or any other beautiful thing, and from that day a thrifty branch was trained over to the balcony where he sits most, and sometimes smokes of an evening."
"Yes, I remember," said Ruth, breaking into smiles. "Some climbing roses are tangled with it."
"True enough; they throve so fast, that between them, the little stone-steps that run up to the balcony were hid out of sight; but Lady Rose found them out, and carries her flowers that way from the garden when she fills the vases in his room."
"She always did that, I suppose," said Ruth, in a low voice.
"Most likely," answered the housekeeper, carelessly, as if that young creature did not hang on every word she uttered with unutterable anxiety. "Most likely. There is little else that she can do for him just now."
"Does he need so very much help now, godmother?"
"None that a dainty young lady can give; but when he begins to sit up, her time will come. Then she will sit and read to him from morning till night, and enjoy it too."
"And tire him dreadfully," muttered Ruth, with a dash of natural bitterness in her voice.
"I don't know. Anyway I shouldn't care about it; but people vary—people vary, Ruth! You will find that out as you get along in life. People vary!"
"Yes, I dare say," answered Ruth, quite unconscious of speaking at all. "You are very wise in saying so."
"Ah, wisdom comes with age; generally too late for much good. If one could have it now in the wild-oat season; but that isn't to be expected. Speaking of Lady Rose, here comes her pony-carriage, and here comes herself, with Sir Noel, to put her in. Do you know, Ruth, I don't think the master has been quite himself since that night. There is an anxious look in his eyes that I never saw there before. It should go away now that Mr. Walton is better, but somehow it don't."
Ruth did not answer. She was looking through the window at the group of persons that stood near a pony-carriage, perfect in all its equipments, which was in front of the house. Lady Rose, who had come down the steps leisurely, side by side with Sir Noel, was loitering a little, as if she waited for something. She examined the buttons of her gloves, and arranged her draperies, all the while casting furtive glances up to a window, at which no one seemed to appear, as she had hoped. Sir Noel, too, glanced up once or twice, rather wistfully, and then Ruth saw that his face did indeed wear a look that was almost haggard.
"Tell me—tell me! Is he so very ill yet, that his father looks like that?" cried Ruth, struck by a sudden pang of distrust. "I thought he was getting better."
"And so he is, child. Who said to the contrary? But that doesn't take the black cloud out of his father's face."
"Then he really is better?"
"Better? Why, he sat up an hour yesterday."
"Did he—did he, indeed?" cried Ruth, joyfully. "Did he really?"
"He did, really, and our lady reading to him all the time."
"Ah!"
"What did you say, child?"
"Nothing, nothing! But see, they are both going, I think!"
The housekeeper swayed her heavy person toward the window, and looked out.
"Yes. Lady Rose is persuading Sir Noel, who can refuse nothing she wants. It almost seems as if he were in love with her himself."
"Perhaps he is!" cried Ruth, eagerly.
"One might suspect as much, if one did not know," answered the housekeeper, shaking her head. "Anyway, he is going with her now, and I'm glad of it. The ride will do him good. Look, she drives off at a dashing pace."
UNDER THE IVY.
RUTHneeded no recommendation to watch the beautiful little vehicle that flashed down the avenue, a perfect nest of bright colors, over which the sunlight shone with peculiar resplendence, while the spirited black horse whirled it out of sight.
"Isn't she fit for a queen?" said Mrs. Mason, triumphantly, as she wheeled round, and sought her chair again.
Ruth heard, but did not answer. A man was passing across the lawn, who occupied her full attention.
"Isn't that Mr. Webb?" she questioned.
Mrs. Mason half lifted herself out of the chair she was always reluctant to leave, and having obtained a view of the man, settled back again.
"Yes, that is Webb; and I say, Ruth, you had better follow, and give him that letter. He will be going back to the young master's room, in less than half an hour. He only leaves it to get a mouthful of air at any time. Your letter is sure of a safe delivery with Webb."
"Thank you—thank you! It will be best. Good-morning, godmother! good-morning!"
A swift clasp of two arms about her neck, a fluttering kiss on her lips, and the good woman was left alone, resting back in her easy-chair, with half-closed eyes, while a bland smile hovered over her plump mouth.
"What a loving little soul it is!" she muttered. "Peaches, ripe for preserving, are not sweeter; and as for inward goodness, she has not her match in the three kingdoms."
Mrs. Mason might not have been quite so tranquil had she seen Ruth just then, for, with the speed of a lapwing, she had turned an angle of the house, where her own namesake, the ivy, had already clambered, wreathing a carved stone balcony with its greenness. Scarcely pausing to breathe, she pushed the vines aside, and treading some of the tender twigs under her feet, flew up the narrow steps which were but just made visible under the wreathing masses of foliage.
"If she can mount them, I will find the way," was her swift and half-triumphant thought. "Oh, Heaven grant that the window is unfastened!"
Her foot was on the carved work of the balcony; her scarlet jacket gleamed through the plate-glass, and flashed its vivid red through the clustering ivy leaves. Breathless with excitement, she tried the window-sash with her hand. It gave way, and swung inward with a faint jar. She was in the room with her husband, yet afraid to approach him. There he was, lying upon a low couch, wrapped in the folds of an oriental dressing-gown, and pillowed on a cushion of silk, embroidered in so many rich colors, that the contrast made his white face ghastly.
What if, after all, he did not love her? What if he should wake up alarmed, and made angry by her intrusion?
There is no feeling known to a woman's heart so timid, so unreasoning, so exacting, as love: pride, devotion, humility—a dozen contending elements—come into action when that one passion is disturbed, and it would be rashness to say which of these emotions may predominate at any given time. Perfect confidence either in herself or the creature of her love is unusual in most characters—impossible in some.
Ruth had entered that room full of enthusiasm, ready to dare anything; but the sight of a sleeping man, one that she loved, too, with overpowering devotion, was enough to make a coward of her in a single moment. Still, like a bird fascinated by the glittering vibrations of a serpent, she drew toward the couch, and bent over the sleeper, holding her own breath, and smiling softly as his passed over her parted lips.
Ah, how pale he was! How the shadows came and went across his white forehead! Was he angry with her even in his sleep? Did he know how near she was, and resent it?
No, no! If he knew anything in that profound slumber, the knowledge was pleasant, for a smile stole over his face, and some softly-whispered words trembled from his lips.
"My darling! oh, my darling!"
Ruth dropped on her knees by the bed, and pressed both hands to her mouth, thus smothering the cry of joy that rose to it. Her movements had been noiseless as the flutter of a bird—so noiseless that the sleeper was not disturbed. After a while she lifted her head, stole her arms timidly over that sleeping form, and dropped a kiss, light as the fall of a rose-leaf, on those parted lips.
"Oh, my love, my love," she murmured, in sounds scarcely louder than a thought. "Look at me, look at me, if it is only for one moment."
Hurst opened his eyes, and smiling vaguely, as sick men smile in dreams. That instant a noise was heard at the door, footsteps and voices. Ruth snatched the letter from her bosom, crushed it into the invalid's hand, left a passionate kiss with it, and fled out of the window, and down the ivy-choked steps. There, trembling and frightened, she shrunk into an angle of the stone window-case, and dragging the ivy over her, strove to hide herself until some chance of escaping across the garden offered. She had left the sash open in her haste, and could hear sounds from the room above with tolerable distinctness. The first was the sharp exclamation of a man's voice. He seemed to be walking hurriedly across the room, and spoke in strong remonstrance.
"What, up, Mr. Walton, trying to walk, and the window wide open upon you? What will the doctor say? What shall I answer to Lady Rose, who bade me watch by you every minute, till she came back?"
Some faint words, in a voice that thrilled poor Ruth to the soul, seemed to be given in reply to this expostulation. But, listen as she would, the meaning escaped her.
Then a louder voice spoke again.
"Ah, but how am I to answer to her ladyship, or Sir Noel, either?
"'Webb,' says she, 'they will all have it so. I must take the air, or be shut out from here when I am really most needed. But you will not leave him? There must be some one to answer when he speaks.'
"Well, I promised her. If any one could gainsay a wish of my Lady Rose, that one isn't old Webb. But you were sleeping so sweetly, sir, and I knew that the first word would be about Jessup: so I ran over to get the news about him."
Here a hurried question was asked, in which Ruth distinguished her own name.
"Nay, nay. The girl was away somewhere, no doubt, for I found the doors locked, and could get no sight of any one. But let me shut this window, the air will be too cold."
There seemed to be some protest, and a good-natured dispute, in which the sick man prevailed, for directly the couch on which he lay was wheeled up to the window, and Ruth caught one glimpse of an eager face looking out.
The girl would have given her life to run up those steps again, and whisper one word to the man whom she felt was watching for her. She did creep out from hercovert, and had mounted a step, when Webb spoke again.
"Nay, nay, sir. This will never do. The window must be closed. An east wind is blowing."
A noise of the closing window followed, and with a sigh Ruth shrunk back to her shelter against the wall, disappointed, but trembling all over with the happiness of having seen him.
What cared she for Lady Rose then? Had he not looked into her eyes with the old, fond glance? Had he not reached out his arms in a quick passion of delight as she fled from him? Was he not her husband, her own, own husband?
There, in the very midst of her fright, and her newly-fledged joy, the young wife drew the wedding-ring from her bosom, and kissed it, rapturously murmuring:
"He loves me! He loves me! and what else do I care for? Nothing, nothing, in the wide wide, world!"
But in the midst of this unreasoning outburst, poor Ruth remembered the father she had left a wounded prisoner in the cottage, and a spasm of pain shot through her. Ah, if she were sure, if she were only sure that no secret was kept from her there. But it must be right. Some great misunderstanding had arisen to distress her father beyond the pain of his wounds. But when the two beings she most loved on earth were well enough to meet and explain, all would be clear and bright again. Her husband had the letter safe in his hands. She would go home at once, and tell her father that, and afterward steal off alone, and feast on the happiness that made her very breath a joy.
Out, through the rose-thickets, the clustering honeysuckles,and the beds of blooming flowers, Ruth stole, like a bee, overladen with honey, and carried her happiness back to the cottage.