CHAPTER XXXVII.A STORM AT THE TWO RAVENS.JUDITH HART, will ye just carry the ale-cans a little more on the balance? Can't ye mind that the foam is dripping like suds over yer hands, and wetting the sand on the floor till it's all in puddles?"This sharp remonstrance came from the mistress of the house in which Judith was barmaid, and chief attraction. The public-room was crowded that night, not only with its old guests, but by strangers on their way from a neighboring town, where a monthly fair was held. The girl gave her head a toss, as this reprimand pointed out her delinquency, and sat the two ale-cups she carried down upon the nearest table, with a dash that sent both foam and beer running over it in ruddy rivulets."If you're not pleased with the way I serve customers, there's plenty more that would be glad of doing it better. I'm not to be clamored at, anyway, so long as there's other places ready for me.""An' a pretty prize they'd get!" rejoined the landlady, putting her hands a-kimbo, and nodding her head with such angry vehemence, that the borders of her cap rose and fluttered like the feathers of a rageful bantam. "It's all well enough while there's none of the better-to-dosort wanting to be served; but when they come! Hoity-toity! My lady tosses her head at commoners, and scorns to heed the knock of a workman's can on the table, as if she were a born princess, and he a beggar. I can tell ye what, lass, this wasn't the way I got to be mistress, after serving from a girl at the tap.""And what if I didn't care that forever being mistress of a place like this!" cried Judith, snapping her fingers over the dripping cups, and shaking her own handsome head in defiance of the fluttering cap, with all it surmounted. "As if I didn't look forward to something better than that, though I have demeaned myself to serve out your stale beer till I'm sick of it.""Ah! ha! I understand. One can do that with half an eye," answered the irate dame, casting a glance over at young Storms, who sat at one of the tables, sipping his wine and laughing quietly over the contest. "But have a care of yourself. It may come about that chickens counted in the shell never live to pip."Judith turned her great eyes full of wrathful appeal on Storms, and burst into a scornful laugh, which the young man answered by a look of blank unconcern."You hear her! You hear her, with her insults and her tyrannies; sneering at me as if I was the dirt under her feet!" the girl cried out, stamping upon the sanded floor, "and not one of you to say a word.""How should we?" said Storms, with a laugh. "It's a tidy little fight as it stands. We are only waiting to see which will get the best of it. Who here wants to bet? I'll lay down half a sovereign on the lass."As he tossed a bit of gold on the table, Storms gave the barmaid a look over his shoulder, that fell like ice upon her wrath. She shrunk back with a nervous laugh,and said, with a degree of meekness that astonished all in the room, "Now, I will have no betting on me or the mistress here. We are both a bit fiery; but it doesn't last while a candle is being snuffed. I always come round first; don't I now, mistress?"The good-hearted landlady looked at the girl with open-mouthed astonishment. Her color lost much of its blazing red, her cap-borders settled down with placid slowness. Both hands dropped from her plump waist, and were gently uplifted."Did any one here ever see anything like it?" she said. "One minute flaring up, like a house on fire, the next, dead ashes, with any amount of water on 'em. I do think no one but me could get on with the lass. But I must say, if she does get onto her high horse at times, with whip and spur, when I speak out, she comes down beautifully.""Don't I?" said Judith, with a forced laugh, gathering up her pewter cups. "But that's because I know the value of a kind-hearted mistress—one that's good as gold at the bottom, though I do worry her a bit now and then, just to keep my hand in. If any of the customers should take it on 'em to interfere, he'd soon find out that we two would be sure to fight in couples."With this pacific conclusion, the girl gathered up a half dozen empty cups by the handles, and carried them into the kitchen. The moment she was out of sight, all her rage came back, but with great suppression. She dashed the cups down upon a dresser with a violence that made them ring again; then she plunged both hands into the water, as if that could cool the hot fever of her blood, and rubbed the cups furiously with her palm, thusstriving to work off the fierce energy of her passion, which the studied indifference of Storms had called forth, though its fiercest expression had fallen on the landlady."I woke him up, anyway," she thought, while a short, nervous laugh broke from her. "He got frightened into taking notice, and that is something, though he kills me for it. Ah!"The girl lifted her eyes suddenly, and saw a face looking in upon her through the window. His face! She dropped the cup, dashed the water from her hands, and, opening the kitchen-door, stole out, flinging the white apron she wore over her head.CHAPTER XXXVIII.A PRESENT FROM THE FAIR.STORMSwas waiting for her near the door, where he stood in shadow."Well, now, have you come round to take a fling at me?" said the girl, with more of terror than anger in her voice. "If you have, I won't bear it, for you're the one most to blame, coming here again and again, without so much as speaking a word, though ye know well enough how hungry I am for the least bit of notice.""This way. We are too near the house," said Storms, seizing the girl's arm, and drawing her toward the kitchen-garden, that lay in the rear of the building. "Let us get under the cherry-trees; they cannot see us there.""I musn't be away long," answered the girl, subdued, in spite of herself. "The mistress will be looking for me.""I know that; so we must look sharp. Come."Judith hurried forward, and directly the two stood under the shadow of the cherry-trees sheltered by the closely-growing branches."What an impatient scold you are, Judith!" said the young man. "There is no being near you without a fear of trouble. What tempted you, now, to get into a storm with the mistress?""You did, and you know it. Coming in, without a look for one, and saying, as if we were a thousand miles apart, 'I say, lass, a pint, half-and-half mild, now.'"Judith mimicked the young man's manner so viciously that he broke into a laugh, which relieved the apprehensions which had troubled her so much."And if I did, what then? Haven't I told you, more than once, that you and I must act as strangers toward each other?""But it's hard. What is the good of a sweetheart above the common, if one's friends are never to know it?""They are to know when the time comes; I have told you so, often and often. But what is a man to do when his father is hot for him marrying another, and she so jealous that she would bring both the two old men and Sir Noel down on me at the least hint that I was fond in another quarter?""But when is it to end? When will they know?""Soon, very soon, now. Have patience; a few weeks longer, say, perhaps months, and some day you and I will slip off and be wed safe enough. Only nothing must be said beforehand. A single word would upset everything. They are all so eager about Jessup's lass.""I can keep a close lip; you know that. No matter if I do get into a tantrum now and again; no one everheard me whisper a word about that. You understand?""Yes, yes, of course. No girl was ever safer, but we must be cautious, very cautious. I mustn't come here often. It is too trying for your temper.""It is. I agree to that. The sight of you sitting in the public, so calm and cold, drives me mad.""Then I must not come.""Oh, Richard! I can't live without seeing you.""You shall see me, of course. I couldn't endure my life without seeing you. But it must be over yonder. You understand? You might be seen coming or going. Some one did see you in the wilderness the other night, and thought it was Jessup's daughter.""Did he? Yes, every one says I look like her. Now, I like that.""So do I. It just takes suspicion off you, and puts it on her. Won't the whole neighborhood be astonished when she is left in the lurch, knowing how she follows me up?""Oh, Richard, what a wonderful man you are!" said Judith, wild with delight. "Yes, I will be so sly that they never can find me out.""They never shall. I mean to make that sure. See what I have brought you from the fair."Here Storms unrolled a parcel that he had left under the cherry-trees before entering the house that evening, and cautiously stepping into the light of a window, unfolded a scarlet sacque and some dark cloth, such as composed the usually picturesque dress of Ruth Jessup."Oh, are these for me?" cried the girl, in an ecstasy of delight. "How soft and silk-like it is! Oh, Richard!""For you! Of course; but only to be worn when you come up yonder!""Oh!""That is, till after we are wed. Then you shall wear such things every day of the week, with silk dresses for Sunday. But, till then, don't let a living soul see one of these things. Keep 'em locked up like gold, and only put them on when you come to the lake at night, remember. I wouldn't for the world that any man or woman should see how like a queen they will make you look till they will have to say, at the same time, she is Richard Storms' wife.""Oh, how sorry I am for having that bout with the mistress!" said Judith, hugging the bundle which he surrendered to her as if it had been a child she loved."But you must promise me, on your life, on your soul, to keep my fairing a close secret.""I will! I will!""Without that to lay the whole thing on Jessup's daughter with, it wouldn't be safe for you to come to the park. The mistress would turn you away, if she heard of it. Then where should we land?""I will be careful. Believe me, I will.""Especially about the dress.""I know. I will be careful.""Judith! Judith Hart!""Hush! The mistress is calling!" whispered Judith. "It is time to shut up the house. I will run up to my room and hide these; then help her side up, and come out again.""No, no! That would be dangerous; but I would like to see how the dress looks. What if you put it on after the house is still, and come to the window with alight. I will walk about till then, and shall go home thinking that my sweetheart is the daintiest lass in this village or the next.""Would you be pleased? I shall be sure to put the dress on. Oh, how I have longed for one like it! Yes, yes! I will come to the window."Judith uttered this assurance, and darted into the house, in time to escape the landlady, who came to the back door just as she passed up the stairs.Storms did linger about the house until the company had withdrawn from it, and the lights were put out, all but one, which burned in the chamber of Judith Hart. A curtain hung before this window, behind which he could see shadows moving for some minutes. Then the curtain was suddenly withdrawn, and the girl stood fully revealed. The light behind her fell with brilliant distinctness on the scarlet jacket, and was lost in the darker shadows of her skirt. She had twisted back the curls from her face with graceful carelessness; but, either by art or accident, had given them the rippling waves that made Ruth Jessup's head so classical."By Jove, but she's the very image of her!" exclaimed Storms, striking his leg with one hand. "No two sparrows were ever more alike."This flash of excitement died out while Judith changed her position, and flung a kiss to him through the window.For minutes after he stood staring that way, while a dull shudder passed through him."She's too pretty, oh, too pretty for that!" he muttered. "I wish it hadn't come into my mind!"CHAPTER XXXIX.A WILD-FLOWER OFFERING.WHENWebb entered his master's room, after the young wife had fled from it, he found the patient in a high state of excitement. The flash of his eye, and the vivid color in his cheeks, fairly frightened the good man, who dreaded, above all things, a second attack of the fever, which had already so nearly proved fatal."Help me to the couch; wheel it to the window. I want to look out; I want air!" said the young man, flinging himself half off the bed, and reeling toward the couch, on which he dropped, panting and so helpless that he could only enforce his first order by a gesture. Webb folded the dressing-gown over his master, and wheeled the couch close to the window."Open it! Open it!" gasped the young man, impatiently.Webb threw open a leaf of the French window. Struggling to his elbow, young Hurst leaned out, scanning the flower-garden with bright and eager eyes. But the arm on which he leaned trembled with weakness, and soon gave way. His head fell upon the cushions, and his eyes closed wearily."I cannot see her," he murmured, under his breath. "I cannot see her. She could not have escaped if it had been real. Ah, me! Why should dreams mock one so?""Let me close the window," said Webb, anxiously. "The air is too much for you.""Yes, close it," answered Hurst, with a sigh; "butfirst look out, and tell me if you see any one moving among the flowers."Webb stepped into the balcony and examined the grounds beneath it. As he did this, a gust of wind swept through the opposite door and carried with it a folded paper, which had fallen from the invalid's hand when he staggered up from the bed."No," said Webb, closing the window. "I see no one but a young woman going round to the servant's entrance.""A young woman! Who is it? Who is it?""No one that I have seen before. Nay, now that I look again, it is the young woman from the public over in the village.""What is she doing here?" questioned Hurst, impatiently."Come on some errand from her mistress to the housekeeper, most likely," answered Webb."At first I almost thought it was old Jessup's daughter; but for the lift of her head, and the swing in her walk, one might take her for that.""Old Jessup's daughter! Don't talk like a fool, Webb," said the young man, rising to his elbow again, flushed and angry. "As if there could be a comparison."Webb very sensibly made no reply to this; but thinking that his master might be vexed because Lady Rose had not brought her usual offering of flowers that morning, changed the subject with crafty adroitness."Lady Rose has gone out to drive in the pony carriage. Sir Hugh would have it so," he explained."Yes, I dare say," muttered Hurst, indifferently. "She stays about the house too much. It is very tiresome for her."The young man never closed his eyes after this, and, with both hands under his head, lay thinking."It was so real. I felt her kiss on my lips when I awoke. Her hand was in mine. She looked frightened. She left something. Webb! Webb!""Yes, Mr. Walton!""Look on the bed. I have lost something—a paper. Find it for me. Find it."Webb went to the bed, flung back the delicate coverlet, and the down quilt of crimson silk: but found nothing either there or among the pillows."There is nothing here, sir!""Look again. There must be a paper. I felt it in my hand. There must be a paper.""Really, Mr. Walton, there is nothing of the kind.""Look on the floor—everywhere. I tell you it was too real. Somewhere you will find it."Webb searched the bed again, and examined the carpet, with a feeling of uneasiness."The fever has come back," he thought. "He is getting wild, again. What can have done it? He seemed so quiet when I went out—was sleeping like a baby."Troubled with these thoughts, the faithful fellow went on, searching the room, without the least shadow of expectation that he would find anything. At last he rose from his knees, and repeated, "There is nothing here, sir."Hurst uttered a deep sigh, and turned his head away, weak and despondent."Dreams, dreams," he thought. "She is always coming, but never comes—never. Ah, this is too cruel. Can it be so clear, and yet a dream?"Webb came up to the couch, hesitating and anxious. The flush was still on his master's face. His eyelids were closed, but they were quivering, and the long, dark lashes were damp with tears the young man was unable to suppress in the extremity of his weakness."Something has happened. Who has dared to disturb you?" said Webb, touched and anxious."Dreams, Webb, dreams—nothing else. Help me back to bed."Webb obeyed this request with great tenderness, and, in a few moments, Hurst lay upon the pillows he had left with such a burst of wild hope, completely prostrated."Don't let me sleep again," he murmured, wearily. "Not in the day-time. Such rest is a cheat.""Ah, you will not care to sleep now," said the servant, "for here comes Lady Rose, with her carriage full of ferns and flowers, from the woods. She said, this morning, that the splendor of our roses only wearied you, and she would find something so fresh and sweet that no one could help admiring them. Ah, Mr. Walton, the young lady never tires of thinking what will please you best.""I know—I know," answered Hurst, impatiently. "She is good to every one."Just then a sweet, cheerful voice was heard in the hall. Directly the door opened softly, and Lady Rose came in, carrying an armful of ferns and delicate wild flowers close to her bosom."See, what I have brought you," she said, looking down upon her fragrant burden with child-like delight. "I saw how tired you were of those great standard roses, and the ragged snow of our Japan lilies. Arrange them as I would, they never made your eyes brighten.But these are so lovely; great, blue violets, such as only grow around the old summer-house on the black lake. And such ferns! You never saw anything so dewy and delicate. Sir Noel and I brought them away in quantities; one goes to the lake so seldom, you know. Really, Walton, I think such things thrive best in the shadows. See!"Lady Rose had seated herself on the couch which the sick man had just left, and while her soft, blonde hair was relieved by the purple velvet of the cushions, dropped the flowers into her lap. Then she began to arrange them into bouquets, and crowd them into vases which Sir Noel brought to her, with an attention that was both gallant and paternal.As she was filling the vases, Lady Rose selected the brightest blossoms and the most delicate tufts of fern from the mass, and laid them upon the purple of the cushion, with a little triumphant glance at Sir Noel, which brought to his lips one of those rare smiles that came seldom to them in these days.When all was done, the girl gathered these choice bits into a cluster, tied them with a twist of grass; and, gathering up the refuse stalks and flowers in her over-skirt, stole softly to the bed, and laid her pretty offering on Hurst's pillow.The young man turned his head, as if the perfume oppressed him, and a slight frown contorted his forehead. Lady Rose observed this, and a flood of scarlet swept up to her face. Sir Noel observed it, also, and frowned more darkly than his son.Without a word, though her blue eyes filled with shadows, and her white throat was convulsed with suppressed sobs, Lady Rose left the room. Once in her ownapartment, she tore back the lace curtains from the open window, dashed all the remnants of her flowers through, and flinging herself, face downward, on a couch, shook all its azure cushions with a passionate storm of weeping."He does not love me! He never will! All my poor little efforts to please him are thrown away. Ah, why must I love him so? Spite of it all, why must I love him so?"Poor girl! Fair young creature! The first agony of her woman's life was upon her, an agony of love, that she would not have torn from her soul for the universe, though every throb of it was a pain."Why is it? Am I so disagreeable? Am I plain, awkward, incapable of pleasing, that he turns even from the poor flowers I bring?"Wondering where her want of attractions lay, humble in self-estimation, yet feverishly wounded in her pride, the girl started up, pushed back the rich blonde hair from a face fresh as a blush rose with dew upon it, for it was wet with tears, and looked into the opposite mirror, where she made as lovely a picture as Sir Joshua ever painted. The tumultuous, loving, passionate picture of a young woman, angry with herself for being so beautiful and so fond, without the power to win one heart which was all the world to her."I suppose he thinks me a child," she said; and her lips began to tremble, as if she were indeed incapable of feeling only as children feel. "Oh, if I were—if I only could go back to that! How happy we were then. How gladly he met me, when he came home from college! I was his darling Rose of roses then—his little wife. But now; but now—Is that girl prettier than I am? Does he love her? I don't believe it. I willnot believe it. She may love him. How could any woman help it? Poor girl! poor girl, I pity her! But then, who knows, she may be pitying me all the time! She almost seemed to claim him that awful night. Oh, I wish that look of her eyes would go out of my mind. But it seems burned in."Lady Rose had ceased to weep, though her superb blue eyes were still misty, and full of trouble, as these thoughts swayed through her brain. Something in the mutinous beauty of that face in the glass half fascinated her. She smoothed back the cloud of fluffy hair from her temples, and unconsciously half smiled on herself. Surely, the dark, gipsy-like face of the gardener's daughter could not compare with that. Then Walton Hurst was so proud; the only son of a family rooted in the soil before the Plantagenets took their title, was not likely to mate with the daughter of a servant. Looking at herself there in the mirror, and knowing that the blue blood in her veins was pure as his, she began to marvel at herself for the thought.CHAPTER XL.SEEKING A PLACE.MRS. HIPPLEcame into the room and found Lady Rose among her azure cushions, on which she had sunk with a deep sigh, and a blush of shame, at being so caught in the midst of her wild thoughts."Dear, dear, I wonder how your ladyship got in withoutmy knowing it," she said, picking up the jaunty little hat which the girl had flung on the carpet. "We thought Sir Noel had taken you for a long drive.""No matter, you need have been in no haste to come," said the young lady, turning her face from the light."But this poor hat. See how the lace and flowers are crushed together. Such a beauty as it was, and worn for the first time. But I do think it is past mending.""Let them throw it aside, then," answered Rose, without looking at the pretty fabric of chip, lace, and flowers, over which Mrs. Hipple was mourning. "What is a hat, more or less, to any one?""Nothing to your ladyship, I know; but I haven't seen the young master admire anything so much this many a day.""What! What were you saying, Mrs. Hipple?""Nothing; only what a pity it was that you would fling things about in this fashion.""But something you said about—about—""No, nothing particular, only when your ladyship stopped at the door, and said 'good-morning' to the young gentleman, he observed that he had seldom seen you look so bright and pleasant; when I answered, that it was, perhaps, owing to the hat which had just come down, and was, to my taste, a beauty, he said, 'yes, it might be, for something made you look uncommonly lovely.'"Lady Rose started up. She was no longer ashamed of her flushed face, but reached out her hand for the hat, which had, indeed, been rather severely crushed by its fall on the floor."It is a shame!" she said, eying the pretty fabric lovingly. "But I did not think it so very pretty. No,no, Mrs. Hipple, I will do it myself. Such a useless creature as I am. There, now, the flowers are as good as ever; it only wanted a touch or two of the fingers to bring them all right; and I rather like to do it."She really did seem to like handling those sprays, among which her fingers quivered softly, as butterflies search for honey-dew, until they subsided into a loving caress of the ribbons, which she smoothed, rolled over her hand, and fluttered out with infinite satisfaction."There, you fractious old Hipple, are you satisfied now?" she questioned, holding up the renovated hat on one hand; then, putting it on her head, she looked in the glass with new-born admiration of its gracefulness. "You see that it is none the worse for a little knocking about.""It is just a beauty. No wonder Mr. Walton's eyes brightened up when he saw it."Rose took the dainty fabric from her head, and put it carefully away with her own hands; at which Mrs. Hipple smiled slyly to her own shadow in the glass. Directly after this the kind old lady went down to the housekeeper's parlor, for she was not above a little family gossip with Mrs. Mason, and rather liked the cosy restfulness of the place. She found the good dame in an unusual state of excitement."A young woman had been there," she said, "after a place as lady's-maid. She had heard in the village that one would be wanted at 'The Rest,' and came at once, hoping to secure the situation.""A lady's-maid!" cried Mrs. Hipple. "Why, the girl is distraught—as if we took servants who come offering themselves in that way at 'The Rest.'"That was just what I told her," said Mrs. Mason,laughing as scornfully as her unconquerable good nature permitted. "I gave the young person a round scolding for thinking the thing possible. She answered that she thought no harm of seeking the place, as it was only in hopes of bettering herself; for she was disgusted with serving wine and beer at the 'Two Ravens.'""Serving wine and beer? Why, Mason, you astonish me," said Mrs. Hipple, lifting her hands in horror of the idea."Then I broke out," said the housekeeper, "and rated her for thinking that any one fresh from the bar of a public house could fill the place of a lady's gentlewoman, who should be bred to the duties; at which the girl gave her head a toss fit for a queen, and said that some day she might have a higher place than that, and no thanks to anybody but herself.""This must have been a forward girl, Mason. I wonder you had patience with her.""Oh, as to that, it takes something, and always did, to make me demean myself below myself," said the housekeeper, folding her arms firmly over her bosom; "besides, she came down wonderfully in the end, and pleaded for a housemaid's place, as if that was the thing she had set her heart on from the first; and it was more than I could do to make her understand that no such person was wanted at 'The Rest.' Then she wanted me to promise that she might have the first opening, if any of the maids should not suit, or might leave."When Mrs. Hipple returned to the room where she had left Lady Rose, this singular event was in her mind, and she spoke of it with the freedom always awarded to the beloved governess who had now become the companion and friend of her pupil. Lady Rose gave butlittle attention to the subject. Her mind was too thoroughly occupied with other thoughts for any great interest in matters so entirely foreign to them; but she seemed to listen. That was enough for the kind old lady, who continued:"The girl went off at last, quite disappointed, because she wasn't taken on at once. She was going over to Jessup's, she said, to have a chat with his daughter. I wonder that Ruth should not choose better company. She is a modest thing enough, and might look to be a lady's maid in time, without stepping very much out of her sphere, being, as it were, bred in the shadow of 'The Rest,' and gifted with more learning than is needful to the place."Here Lady Rose was aroused to more vivid interest. She looked up, and listened to every word her companion uttered."You are speaking of Jessup's pretty daughter," she said."Yes, of that slender young thing, Mason's goddaughter. Some people think her almost beautiful, with her great black eyes, and cheeks like ripe peaches. Then her hair is quite wonderful, and she walks like a fawn.""You make her out very beautiful," said Lady Rose, with a quick increase of color. "Perhaps she is—having seen her always since we were both little girls, I have not observed the change as others might.""Of course, how should your ladyship be expected to think of her now that you are the first lady in the county, and the girl only what she has always been?"Lady Rose shook her head in kindly reproof of this speech."We must not say that, Mrs. Hipple," she said. "Ruth was my playmate as a little girl, a sweet-tempered, pretty friend, whom you kindly allowed to study with me as an equal.""No, no. Never as an equal. That was impossible. She was bright and diligent.""More so than I ever was," said Lady Rose, smiling on the old woman."Ah, but you learned so quickly, there was no necessity for application with you. One might as well compare her dark prettiness with—"Lady Rose held up her hands, with a childlike show of resistance."There, there. If you draw pleasant comparisons, dear Hipple, it is because you love me, but that takes nothing from Ruth, who must be remarkably good-looking, or people would not admire her so much.""Admired, is she? Well, I know little of that. Of course, the servants rave about her beauty in the housekeeper's room; I rebuked one of them only yesterday, for saying that the gentlemen who visit at 'The Rest' go by the gardener's cottage so often only to get a look at the daughter, pretending all the time that it is the great show of roses that takes them that way.""Were you not a little hard with the man, Hipple? Sir Noel's guests—those who joined in the hunt—certainly did seem greatly struck by her appearance as we rode by the cottage.""No, no, the man deserved a reprimand for saying that his young master was made angry by their praises, when they saw her standing like a picture in the porch, for them to look at.""You were right—excuse me, you were quite justifiedin rebuking him," said the lady, in breathless haste. "It was an impertinence.""And, of all places, to say it in the housekeeper's room," added the old lady, "and Mason to permit it; but she thinks her goddaughter a paragon, and means to make her the heiress of all her savings. Indeed, she intends to give her something handsome when she is married to young Storms.""Her marriage with young Storms!" faltered Lady Rose, going to a window in hopes of concealing her agitation; for the blood was burning in her face, and she dared not meet the eyes of that shrewd old lady. "Is that anything but a childish romance?""It is a settled thing, my lady. We shall have a wedding at the cottage soon after Jessup gets well."As Mrs. Hipple said this, she glided out of the room, clasping her hands softly together as she went down the corridor, and smiling as such women will, when conscious of happiness adroitly conferred.Then Lady Rose looked shyly around, saw that she was quite alone, and, coming out of her covert, began to walk the room up and down, up and down, like some fawn let loose in a pasture of wild flowers. Then came a knock at the door. Lady Rose stole back to the window, determined that no one should see her radiant face before the intruder came in. It was a servant bearing a message from the sick-chamber."The young master was wholly awake now. Would Lady Rose come and read to him a while?"Would Lady Rose come and read to the man she loved? Would she accept the brightest corner in Paradise, if offered to her? Ah, how her face brightened! How soft and glad was the smile that dimpled about themouth, so sorrowful only a little time before! With a quick glance she looked into the mirror, and made an effort to improve the amber cloud of hair that was most effective in beautiful disorder. Struck with the loveliness of her own face, she gave up the effort and went away."He has sent for me," was her happy thought. "He did not mean to reject my violets. It was only because he was not quite awake. He has sent for me! He has sent for me!"Poor girl! She did not know that Sir Noel had been pointing out the unkindness of his action to the invalid, and that this message was one of almost forced atonement.CHAPTER XLI.THE FATHER'S SICK-ROOM.BREATHLESSand wildly happy, Ruth Jessup almost flew along the shaded path which led from "The Rest" to her own humble dwelling. Now and then she would look up to a bird singing in the branches above her, and answer his music with a sweet, unconscious laugh. Again, her mouth would dimple at the sight of a tuft of blue violets, the flower she loved most of any. The very air she breathed was a delight to her, and the sunshine warmed her heart, as it penetrates the cup of a flower.Up she came into her father's sick-room like a beam of morning light."I have seen him, father. I gave the letter into his own hands. He is not looking so very ill."Jessup started to his elbow, eager and glad as the girl herself."Then he got it? He surely got it?""Oh, yes! I am very, very sure!""But how? How didst manage it, since he is not well enough to leave his room?""I went there!""You?""Yes, father; there was no other way, if I wished to put the paper into his own hand, as you bade me. So I went to his room.""But, Sir Noel! Mrs. Mason! I marvel they let any one into his room so easily.""Oh, they did not. I never dared to ask either of them," said Ruth, with a sweet, triumphant laugh, that sounded strangely in the lone sadness of the house. "I evaded them, and all the rest.""But how?"Ruth hesitated. The secret of the balcony stairs was too precious—she would keep it even from her father, as the angels guarded Jacob's ladder."Oh, I slipped in while Mr. Webb was away.""Well! well! And he was not looking so very ill. He read my letter, and that brightened him up a bit, I'll be bound?" questioned the gardener."Not while I was there. I only had a minute. They were on the stairs, and there was no chance for a word.""But he is getting better; you are sure of that?""Oh, yes. I feel quite sure, father.""Well, I'm thankful for that. Mayhap he'll be able to come and see a poor fellow before long. Then we shall know more about it.""About what, father?""Oh, nothing much! Only I'd give all the money I have been so long hoarding for the wedding-day only to be sure—""Then he is not to blame about anything?" broke in Ruth, throwing her arms around the sick man, and kissing him wildly, as if she did not quite know what she was about. "Oh, father! father! How could you ever think ill of him?""Child, child! What is all this ado about? Who said that I did think ill of the lad? Him as I have always loved next to my own child! Come, come, now! What have I said to make you so shaky and so fond?"Ruth gave him another kiss for answer, and, seating herself on the bed, looked down upon him with a glow in her great velvety eyes that brought a smile to his lips."Anyway, the walk has brightened this face up wonderfully. Why, here is color once again, and the dimples are coming back like bees around a rose. Yes! yes! Kiss me, lass! It does me good—it does me good!"Ruth began to smooth the iron-gray hair on that rugged head, while the old man looked fondly upon her glowing face."Never mind. We shall be happy enough yet, little one," he said, smoothing her shapely hand with his broad palm. "Everything is sure to come out right, now that we understand one another."Ruth drooped her head as the old man said this, and the bloom faded a little from her cheeks."Yes; oh, yes, father!" she faltered, drawing her hand away from his.A look of the old trouble came into the deep, gray eyes, dwelling so fondly upon the girl; but before another word could be spoken, Ruth had left the bed, and liftinga vase full of withered flowers from the mantelpiece, flung them through the open window."See what a careless girl I have been, never to think how you love the roses, and they in full blossom, all this time. I never forgot you so long before. Now did I, father?""I never thought of them," answered the old man, shaking his head on the pillow. "My mind was too full of other things.""But we must think of them now, or the house won't seem like home when you are strong enough to sit up," answered Ruth, with a reckless sort of cheerfulness. "Everything must be bright and blooming then. I will go now, and come back with the roses. They will seem like old friends; won't they, father dear?"Ruth had reached the door with the vase in her hand when a knock sounded up from the porch.The color left her face at the sound, and she nearly dropped the vase, so violent was the start she gave."I wonder who it is?" she said, casting a look of alarm back at her father, but speaking under her breath. "Hashecome to frighten away all my happiness?"She went down-stairs reluctantly, and, with dread at her heart, opened the entrance door. A girl stood in the porch, carrying a basket on her arm, who entered the passage without ceremony, and walked into the little parlor."The mistress sent me to inquire after your father, Miss Jessup," she said, taking a survey of the room, which was furnished better than most of its class. "Besides that, I bring a jar of her best apricot jelly, with a bottle of port from the inn cellar, and her best compliments; things she don't send promiscuously by me, who only take them once in a while when it suits me, as it does now.""You are very kind," said Ruth, with gentle reserve. "Pray thank Mrs. Curtis for us.""Of course, I'll thank her, but not till I've rested a bit in this pretty room. Why, it's like a grand picture, with a carpet and chairs fit for a gentleman's house; enough to make any girl lift her head above common people, as Mr. Storms says, when he goes about praising you.""Mr. Storms!" faltered Ruth, shrinking from the name."Yes, Mr. Storms. It's only here and there one who thinks of calling him Dick; and they are uncommonly careful not to let him hear them; for he has a strong hand, slender and thin as he looks, has Storms. But I needn't tell you anything about him.""No. It's not necessary," replied Ruth, scarcely knowing what she said."Of course not. He comes here often enough to speak for himself, I dare say," persisted the girl, in whose great dark eyes a sinister light was gleaming."Not often."Judith Hart's eyes sparkled."Scarcely at all," continued Ruth, "since my father was hurt.""Is it his keeping away or the watching that makes you look so white in the face?" said Judith, taking off her bonnet, and revealing a mass of rich hair, which she pushed back from her temples.Ruth looked at the girl with a strangely bright, almost amused, expression."I think—I fear that my father will want me," was her sole reply."That's more than some other people do." This insolentretort almost broke from the girl's lips, but she checked it, only saying: "Here is your wine and the jelly.""Mrs. Curtis is very kind. Wait a little, and I will cut her some flowers," answered Ruth.Judith's great eyes flashed as she gave up the parcel."Oh, yes, I can wait, since you are polite enough to give me leave.""Pray rest yourself, while I go into the garden."Judith folded her arms, leaned back in her chair, and said that she could wait; the mistress did not expect her to come back yet a while.CHAPTER XLII.PROFFERED SERVICES.RUTHwent into the garden, which was lying in shadow just then; so she required no covering for her head, but rather enjoyed the bland south wind which drifted softly through her loose hair, as she stooped to pluck the roses.Meantime Judith Hart lifted herself from the lounging attitude into which she had sunk, and in an instant became sharply alert. Upon a little chintz couch that occupied one side of the room she found the scarlet sacque and a dainty little hat, which Ruth had flung there before going up to her father, after her return from "The Rest." Quick as thought, Judith slipped on the sacque, and placed the hat with its side cluster of red roseson her head. After giving a sharp glance through the window, to make sure that Ruth was still occupied in the garden, she went up to a little mirror, and took a hasty survey of herself."The jacket is as like as two peas," she thought, "and the hat is easy got. There'll be no trouble in twisting up one side like this. As to the roses, he must get them before the fair is over. If I could only wear them in broad daylight, before all their faces, it would be splendid; but he won't give in to that. Farther on, I'll show him and them, too, what a dash Richard Storms has in a wife. Oh, goodness, here she comes!"Quick as lightning the girl flung off the sacque; tossed the hat down upon it, and ran to the seat she had left. When Ruth came in, she was sitting there, casting vague looks around her, as if she had been quietly resting all the time."Take these and this," said Ruth, giving her unwelcome visitor a great bouquet of flowers, and a little basket brimming over with strawberries; "and please take our thanks to your mistress.""But, about the old man up-stairs. How is he getting on? She will be sure to ask.""Better.""He is mending, then?""Yes, slowly."Judith arose, but seemed reluctant to go."You look pale yet.""No, no; I may have done, but not now," answered Ruth, blushing as she thought why her strength and color had come back so suddenly. "I am not as anxious as I was.""But the nursing, and the work, too, must come hard," persisted the girl."Not now; I scarcely feel it now.""But if you should, remember, I'm both ready and willing to give a helping hand.""Thank you.""And the mistress will be glad to spare me now and then, when she knows that it is for this place I'm wanted. So there would be no fear of asking.""Your mistress is very good.""Good as gold; especially where you are the person that wants help. 'Judith,' says she, calling me into the bar, 'take these things over to Jessup's and mind you ask particular about the old man. He should 'a' been about by this time; perhaps it's nursing he wants most, so, if you can be of use, don't mind coming back in a hurry, but give the lass a helping hand. Poor thing, she's been brought up o'er dainty, and this sickness in the house is sure to pull her down.' That's what the mistress said, and I'm ready to abide by it, and help you at any time."Ruth was touched by this persistent kindness, that was so earnest and seemed so real, and her rejection of it was full of gratitude."All the worst trouble is over now," she said, and a gleam of moisture came into her eyes. "Say this to your mistress. As for yourself, a thousand thanks; but I need no help now, though I shall never forget how kindly you offered it.""Oh, as for the kindness, that's nothing," answered the girl, with a slight toss of the head, on which she was tying her bonnet, for she was far too bold for adroit hypocrisy. "One always stands ready to help in a case of sickness; but never mind, you will be sure to want me yet; when you come to that, you'll find me ready; and you are sure to come to it.""I hope not. Indeed, I am sure of it. Father is doing so well.""Would you mind my going up to see for myself?" said Judith, sharply, as if the wish were flung off her mind with an effort. "The mistress will not be content with less, I warrant.""If you wish. Only he must not be disturbed," answered Ruth, after a moment's hesitation."Oh, I'll flit up the stairs like a bird, and hold my breath when I get there," said Judith, eagerly.She did follow Ruth with a light tread, and moved softly across the sick man's chamber when she reached it. Jessup turned on his pillow as she approached, and held out his hand, with a smile. The sight of a familiar face was pleasant to him."The mistress sent me to ask after you," said Judith, quite subdued by the stillness and the pallor of the sick man's face, "and I just stepped up to see for myself. She's so anxious to make sure that you are mending.""Tell her I am better. A'most well," said Jessup, grateful for this attention from his old neighbor."That's something worth while," answered the girl, speaking with an effort. "The mistress 'll be glad to hear it, and so will be many a one who comes to the house. As for me, if I can do anything to help the young lady, she has only to say so, and I'll come, night or day, for she doesn't look over strong."Unconsciously to herself, the girl had been so impressed with the gentle bearing of Ruth Jessup, that she spoke of her as superior to her class, even against her own will. Jessup noticed this, and turned a fond look on Ruth."She's not o'er strong," he said, "but I think Ruthywouldn't like any one but herself to tend on her father.""No, no, indeed, I wouldn't," said Ruth, eagerly."But I might help about the work below," urged Judith, with singular persistency.Jessup looked at his daughter questioningly."There is so little to do," she said, "but I am obliged all the same.""Yes, yes. We are both obliged. Don't forget to say as much to the mistress," said Jessup.Judith seized his hand, and shook it with a vigor that made him cry out with a spasm of pain. Then her face flushed, and a strange, unholy light shot into her eyes."Not so well as you think, or a grip of the hand like that wouldn't have made you wince so. You may have need of me, yet," she said, turning upon Ruth; "to my thinking, it's more than likely.""I hope not," answered Ruth; "and I am sure that all who love my father hope so too.""Of which I am one," was the quick reply. "You may make sure of that. No one wants to see Jessup about more than I do. Though he does come so seldom to the public, it will be a holiday when he orders the next can of beer at the 'Two Ravens.' So, hoping for the best, good-day to both of you."CHAPTER XLIII.THE LOST LETTER.JUDITH HARTtook her way straight for the wilderness. She passed along the margin of the black lake, made at once for the summer-house, and looked in, then turned away with an exclamation of disappointment."I thought he would 'a' been here, so sharp as he was for news," she muttered, tearing off a handful of rushes, and biting them with her teeth, until they rasped her lips. "There's no depending on him; but wait till we're wed. Then he'll have to walk a different road. Ha!"The report of a gun on a rise of ground beyond the lake brought this exclamation from her, and she hastened on, muttering to herself, "It's his gun. I know the sound of it, and I thought he had forgotten."Directly she came in sight of a figure walking through the thick undergrowth."Richard! Richard Storms!"The man came toward her, moving cautiously, and holding up one hand."Hush! Can't you speak without screaming?" he said, hissing the words through his teeth. "It's broad daylight, remember, and by that, there's no passing you off for the other one, if a gamekeeper should cross us.""Why not? I've just seen Ruth Jessup and myself in the glass at the same time, and we're like as two peas. Only for her finikin airs, I defy any one to say which was which.""But she would never have called out so lustily.""Oh, that was because I was o'erjoyed to see you, after finding the little lake-house empty!" answered the girl, laying her hand on his shoulder.Storms shook the hand off."Don't do that, if you want to pass for a lady," he said, rudely."A lady, now! As if I was not as good as Ruth Jessup, any day, and more of a lady, too," retorted the girl, with passionate tears in her eyes."Ruth Jessup isn't the girl to lay her hands on a man's shoulder without his asking," said Storms, setting down his gun, and dusting his coat, as if her touch had soiled it. "Who knows that some one may not be looking on?""And if it chanced, what harm, so long as we are to be man and wife so soon?" pleaded the girl, now fairly crying."What harm! Do you think I want every gamekeeper on the place to be jibing about the lass I mean to make a lady of, if she's only careful of herself?""If!" repeated the girl, dashing away her tears. "What 'ifs' are there between you and me? Before we go another step, I want to hear about that."Storms laughed, and said, carelessly,"Never mind. What news do you bring me?""None—not a word, while there are 'ifs' in the way, let me tell you that; though I have found something that you would give a hundred guineas down to get hold of, and the young master a thousand to keep back.""You have! What is it?""Nothing that has an 'if' in it.""There, there! Don't be silly. I mean no 'ifs.'Have I not said, as plain as a man can speak, what shall be between us?""Well, when we are settled in the farm up yonder, I will give you something that Sir Noel would sell his whole estate to get from me.""As if I believed that.""But you may believe it. The more time I have for thinking, the more worth it seems.""But what is it?""Only a penny's worth of paper.""Bah!""With writing on it that proves who shot old Jessup!"Storms turned fiercely upon her."Proves what?""That Walton Hurst shot old Jessup.""A paper! Who wrote it?""Jessup himself.""You have such a letter signed by Jessup?""I just have that!""Give it to me, lass! Give it to me!""Not yet. I'm thinking it just as well to keep the bit of paper in my own hands," was the sharp answer. "'Ifs' might come up again, you know!'"A look of shrewd cunning stole over the features Judith's suspicious eyes were searching. Storms turned from her with a contemptuous gesture."There, there! I'm not to be taken in with such chaff. Try something better. If you had such a paper it wouldn't be kept back from a true sweetheart one minute. You've got a man of sense to deal with.""I haven't got it, have I? Look here!" cried Judith, drawing back, and unfolding a paper she took from her bosom. "The letters are large enough. You can read from here. Is that Jessup's name or not?"Storms did read enough to see how important the paper might become. He glanced from it to the firmly set and triumphant features of the girl."You brought it for me. You will give it to me!""No!" answered Judith, folding the paper. "Not till we come from the church."With the leap of a tiger Storms sprang upon the girl, and snatched at the paper; but she, wary and agile as himself, leaped aside, and fled like a deer down the declivity, sending a ringing laugh, full of mockery, back to the baffled man.In an instant, he was flying after her, his teeth set hard, his eyes gleaming, and every leap bringing him nearer to her, and her nearer to the lake.CHAPTER XLIV.THE HOUSEKEEPER'S VISIT.RUTH JESSUPwas almost happy, now. From a place of care and dread her father's sick-room had become a pleasant little haven of rest to her. Perfect confidence had returned between the father and child, broken only by a consciousness of one secret. Sooner or later, he should know the secret of her marriage, and rejoice over the son it had given him. Of course, the girl thought all things must be well, now that her father had communicated with the young master; otherwise, that look of calm tranquillity would never have settled so gently on the face that seemed to have given up its pain; from the moment she had gone forth with thatletter. All was right between those two, and, knowing this, the girl felt her secret only as a sweet love-burden, which, sooner or later, should make that dear father proud and happy, as she hoped to be herself.Thus, all the day long, the girl flitted about the cottage, doing her humble household work with dainty grace. One particular morning she was sitting on her father's bed, dropping strawberries into his mouth, giving a little start, when he made a playful snap at her stained fingers, which was pleasant, though the effort brought a twinge of pain to him, and a pretty affected cry, often broke into a laugh, from her."There, now, you shall not have another," she said, taking the hull of a luscious berry between her thumb and finger, and holding it out of reach, tempting his thirsty mouth with its red ripeness. "Bite the hand that feeds you—oh, for shame!""Nothing but a false hound does that," said the sick man, far more seriously than the occasion demanded."A hound! oh, father, that is too bad. I meant nothing like that. See, now, here is the plumpest and ripest of all. Wait till I dip it in the sugar. It seems like rolling it in snow, don't it?"The invalid opened his mouth and smiled, as the rich fruit melted on his feverish tongue."What is it, father?" questioned the girl, as a shadow chased away the smile. "What is the matter, now?""Nothing; really nothing, child; only I thought there was a step under the window."Ruth listened, and the color left her face. She bent down to her father, and stole an arm around his neck. Then he felt that the arm was trembling like a reed in the wind."Oh, father, you will not let him come here again? It will kill me, if you do.""Hush, hush, lass! Remember, he has my promise.""But not mine. Oh, father, do not be so cruel."A step sounded in the lower passage. Ruth grew pale as she listened. The footsteps paused near the stairs, and a voice called out, "Ruthy! I say, Ruthy!"Ruth sprang from the bed with a little cry of joy, and flinging open the door, looked over the banister."Is it you? Is it only you, godmother? Come up, come up!"Mrs. Mason accepted the invitation, planting her feet so firmly on the narrow stairs that they shook under her."Of course, I know he is better by the look of your face," said the dame, pausing to draw a deep breath before she entered the sick man's room. "You need not trouble yourself to ask; all is going on well at 'The Rest.' The young master walks across the room now, and lies on the couch near the window, looking out as if he pined for the free air again, as who wouldn't, after such a bout of illness?"Ruth did not speak, but her face flushed, and her eyes sparkled through the droop of their long lashes. She knew that the window her godmother spoke of looked across the flower-garden to their own cottage, and her fond heart beat all the faster for the knowledge."So, at last, an old friend can win a sight of you," said dame Mason, crossing over to the bed where Jessup lay, and patting the great hand which rested on the coverlet with her soft palm; "and right glad I am to find you are looking so well."Jessup looked at Ruth, and smiled."She takes such care of me, how can I help it?" he said."Aye, truly. It will be hard when you have to part with her, I must say that; but such is human nature. We rear them up, get to loving them like our own hearts, and away they go, building nests for themselves. Her mother did it for you, remember; and so it will be while human nature is human nature."Jessup heaved a deep sigh, and looked at his daughter with wistful earnestness. She answered him with a glance of tender appeal, from which he turned to the dame with a little gleam of triumph."There is the rub, Mrs. Mason. My lass will not listen to leaving her old father, but fights against it like a bird that loves its cage, all the more fiercely now that I am down."Mrs. Mason wheeled round, and looked at Ruth from under her heavy eyebrows, as if she doubted what the father had been saying."Aye, little one, we know better than that," she said. "But I don't quite like this. Cheating a sick man may be for his good; but I don't like it, I don't like it.""Cheating," faltered Ruth, conscience-stricken. "Oh, godmother.""Well, well, the old saying, that all things is fair in love or war, may be true; but I don't believe it. According to my idea, truth is truth, and nothing can be safer or better, in the long run. Mark this, goddaughter, the first minute you get out of the line of truth, casts you, headforemost, into all sorts of trouble. One must wind and turn, like a fox, to get out of a deceit, if one ever does get out, which I'm not sure of."Ruth stood before the good housekeeper, as she promulgatedthis homely opinion, like a detected culprit. Her color came and went, her eyelids drooped, and a weight seemed to settle, like lead, upon her shoulders. This evident distress touched the housekeeper with compassion."There, there," she said, "I did not mean to be hard. Young folks will be young folks—ha, Jessup? You and I can remember when more sweethearting was done on the sly than we should like to own up to; and young Storms is likely to be heir to the best farm on Sir Noel's estate, though, I must say, he was never much to my liking. These sharp-faced young men never were. Mason was of full weight and tallness, or he never would have fastened a name on me."Ruth was no longer blushing one instant and paling the next, for a vivid flush of crimson swept her whole face."What are you talking about, godmother?" she questioned, with a little, scornful laugh, which irritated the good dame."What am I talking of? Nay, nay, I have made you blush more than is kind already. Never heed my nonsense. It is natural that I should think no one good enough, and feel a little uppish that things have gone so far without one word to the old woman that loved you as if you were her own.""What do you mean? What can you mean, godmother?" cried Ruth, with unusual courage."Oh, nothing. The news was over the whole neighborhood before I heard of it; but that's nothing.""What news? Do tell me?""Why, that young Storms and my goddaughter would be married as soon as friend Jessup, here, is well enough to be at the wedding.""Father, father, do you hear that? Who has dared to slander me so cruelly?" cried the girl, bursting into a passion of tears.Jessup was greatly troubled by his daughter's grief."Nay, nay, it has not come to that as yet," he said, "and, mayhap, never will.""Oh, father, how good you are!"In her passionate gratitude the girl might have shaken the wounded man too sorely, for her arms were around him, and her face was pressed close to his; but even then she was thoughtful, and, lifting her face, said, with a sort of triumph:"You see, godmother, how impossible it is that this story can be anything but scandal?""Scandal? But Sir Noel believes it," answered the puzzled dame."No! no!""But he does, and Lady Rose was consulting with me this very day about the present she would give. I never saw her so interested in anything.""She is very good," said Ruth, with bitter dryness."Indeed she is. A sweeter or more kindly young lady never lived. 'The Rest' would be gloomy enough without her.""I suppose you all think so?" questioned Ruth, with feverish anxiety."It would be strange if we did not. I'm sure Sir Noel loves her as if she was his own child, which, please God, she will be some of these days.""Godmother! godmother! don't make me hate you!""Hoity-toity! What is the meaning of this? I didn't think there was so much temper in the child. Why, she is all afire! Oh, friend Jessup! friend Jessup!this comes of rearing her all by yourself! If you had sent her to me at 'The Rest,' a little wholesome discipline would have made such rough words to her mother's friend impossible!"Ruth dashed the tears from her eyes, and held out both her hands."Godmother, forgive me! I am so sorry!"Mrs. Mason turned half away from that imploring face."I was wrong—so wrong.""To talk about hating me. The child she laid in my bosom almost in her dying hour.""The wicked, cruel child! Oh, if you only knew how sorry she is! Godmother, oh, godmother, forgive me for her sake!"Mrs. Mason wheeled round, and gathered the penitent young creature to her bosom; then turning her head, she saw that Jessup was greatly excited and had struggled up from his pillow."There, there! Lie down again. This is no affair of yours," she said, hastily waving her hand, which ended in a shake for the pretty offender. "Can't I have a word with my own goddaughter without bringing you up from your bed, as if something terrible was going on? Looking like a pale-faced ghost, too! No wonder the poor child gets nervous. I dare say you just worry her to death.""No, no! godmother! He is patient as a lamb," cried Ruth. "Don't blame him for my fault.""Fault! What fault is there? Just as if a poor child can't speak once in a while, without being blamed for it. I never knew anything so unreasonable as men are—magnifying mole-hills into mountains. There now, go andsit by the window while I bring your exasperating father to something like reason. No one shall make you cry again, if I know it."
A STORM AT THE TWO RAVENS.
JUDITH HART, will ye just carry the ale-cans a little more on the balance? Can't ye mind that the foam is dripping like suds over yer hands, and wetting the sand on the floor till it's all in puddles?"
This sharp remonstrance came from the mistress of the house in which Judith was barmaid, and chief attraction. The public-room was crowded that night, not only with its old guests, but by strangers on their way from a neighboring town, where a monthly fair was held. The girl gave her head a toss, as this reprimand pointed out her delinquency, and sat the two ale-cups she carried down upon the nearest table, with a dash that sent both foam and beer running over it in ruddy rivulets.
"If you're not pleased with the way I serve customers, there's plenty more that would be glad of doing it better. I'm not to be clamored at, anyway, so long as there's other places ready for me."
"An' a pretty prize they'd get!" rejoined the landlady, putting her hands a-kimbo, and nodding her head with such angry vehemence, that the borders of her cap rose and fluttered like the feathers of a rageful bantam. "It's all well enough while there's none of the better-to-dosort wanting to be served; but when they come! Hoity-toity! My lady tosses her head at commoners, and scorns to heed the knock of a workman's can on the table, as if she were a born princess, and he a beggar. I can tell ye what, lass, this wasn't the way I got to be mistress, after serving from a girl at the tap."
"And what if I didn't care that forever being mistress of a place like this!" cried Judith, snapping her fingers over the dripping cups, and shaking her own handsome head in defiance of the fluttering cap, with all it surmounted. "As if I didn't look forward to something better than that, though I have demeaned myself to serve out your stale beer till I'm sick of it."
"Ah! ha! I understand. One can do that with half an eye," answered the irate dame, casting a glance over at young Storms, who sat at one of the tables, sipping his wine and laughing quietly over the contest. "But have a care of yourself. It may come about that chickens counted in the shell never live to pip."
Judith turned her great eyes full of wrathful appeal on Storms, and burst into a scornful laugh, which the young man answered by a look of blank unconcern.
"You hear her! You hear her, with her insults and her tyrannies; sneering at me as if I was the dirt under her feet!" the girl cried out, stamping upon the sanded floor, "and not one of you to say a word."
"How should we?" said Storms, with a laugh. "It's a tidy little fight as it stands. We are only waiting to see which will get the best of it. Who here wants to bet? I'll lay down half a sovereign on the lass."
As he tossed a bit of gold on the table, Storms gave the barmaid a look over his shoulder, that fell like ice upon her wrath. She shrunk back with a nervous laugh,and said, with a degree of meekness that astonished all in the room, "Now, I will have no betting on me or the mistress here. We are both a bit fiery; but it doesn't last while a candle is being snuffed. I always come round first; don't I now, mistress?"
The good-hearted landlady looked at the girl with open-mouthed astonishment. Her color lost much of its blazing red, her cap-borders settled down with placid slowness. Both hands dropped from her plump waist, and were gently uplifted.
"Did any one here ever see anything like it?" she said. "One minute flaring up, like a house on fire, the next, dead ashes, with any amount of water on 'em. I do think no one but me could get on with the lass. But I must say, if she does get onto her high horse at times, with whip and spur, when I speak out, she comes down beautifully."
"Don't I?" said Judith, with a forced laugh, gathering up her pewter cups. "But that's because I know the value of a kind-hearted mistress—one that's good as gold at the bottom, though I do worry her a bit now and then, just to keep my hand in. If any of the customers should take it on 'em to interfere, he'd soon find out that we two would be sure to fight in couples."
With this pacific conclusion, the girl gathered up a half dozen empty cups by the handles, and carried them into the kitchen. The moment she was out of sight, all her rage came back, but with great suppression. She dashed the cups down upon a dresser with a violence that made them ring again; then she plunged both hands into the water, as if that could cool the hot fever of her blood, and rubbed the cups furiously with her palm, thusstriving to work off the fierce energy of her passion, which the studied indifference of Storms had called forth, though its fiercest expression had fallen on the landlady.
"I woke him up, anyway," she thought, while a short, nervous laugh broke from her. "He got frightened into taking notice, and that is something, though he kills me for it. Ah!"
The girl lifted her eyes suddenly, and saw a face looking in upon her through the window. His face! She dropped the cup, dashed the water from her hands, and, opening the kitchen-door, stole out, flinging the white apron she wore over her head.
A PRESENT FROM THE FAIR.
STORMSwas waiting for her near the door, where he stood in shadow.
"Well, now, have you come round to take a fling at me?" said the girl, with more of terror than anger in her voice. "If you have, I won't bear it, for you're the one most to blame, coming here again and again, without so much as speaking a word, though ye know well enough how hungry I am for the least bit of notice."
"This way. We are too near the house," said Storms, seizing the girl's arm, and drawing her toward the kitchen-garden, that lay in the rear of the building. "Let us get under the cherry-trees; they cannot see us there."
"I musn't be away long," answered the girl, subdued, in spite of herself. "The mistress will be looking for me."
"I know that; so we must look sharp. Come."
Judith hurried forward, and directly the two stood under the shadow of the cherry-trees sheltered by the closely-growing branches.
"What an impatient scold you are, Judith!" said the young man. "There is no being near you without a fear of trouble. What tempted you, now, to get into a storm with the mistress?"
"You did, and you know it. Coming in, without a look for one, and saying, as if we were a thousand miles apart, 'I say, lass, a pint, half-and-half mild, now.'"
Judith mimicked the young man's manner so viciously that he broke into a laugh, which relieved the apprehensions which had troubled her so much.
"And if I did, what then? Haven't I told you, more than once, that you and I must act as strangers toward each other?"
"But it's hard. What is the good of a sweetheart above the common, if one's friends are never to know it?"
"They are to know when the time comes; I have told you so, often and often. But what is a man to do when his father is hot for him marrying another, and she so jealous that she would bring both the two old men and Sir Noel down on me at the least hint that I was fond in another quarter?"
"But when is it to end? When will they know?"
"Soon, very soon, now. Have patience; a few weeks longer, say, perhaps months, and some day you and I will slip off and be wed safe enough. Only nothing must be said beforehand. A single word would upset everything. They are all so eager about Jessup's lass."
"I can keep a close lip; you know that. No matter if I do get into a tantrum now and again; no one everheard me whisper a word about that. You understand?"
"Yes, yes, of course. No girl was ever safer, but we must be cautious, very cautious. I mustn't come here often. It is too trying for your temper."
"It is. I agree to that. The sight of you sitting in the public, so calm and cold, drives me mad."
"Then I must not come."
"Oh, Richard! I can't live without seeing you."
"You shall see me, of course. I couldn't endure my life without seeing you. But it must be over yonder. You understand? You might be seen coming or going. Some one did see you in the wilderness the other night, and thought it was Jessup's daughter."
"Did he? Yes, every one says I look like her. Now, I like that."
"So do I. It just takes suspicion off you, and puts it on her. Won't the whole neighborhood be astonished when she is left in the lurch, knowing how she follows me up?"
"Oh, Richard, what a wonderful man you are!" said Judith, wild with delight. "Yes, I will be so sly that they never can find me out."
"They never shall. I mean to make that sure. See what I have brought you from the fair."
Here Storms unrolled a parcel that he had left under the cherry-trees before entering the house that evening, and cautiously stepping into the light of a window, unfolded a scarlet sacque and some dark cloth, such as composed the usually picturesque dress of Ruth Jessup.
"Oh, are these for me?" cried the girl, in an ecstasy of delight. "How soft and silk-like it is! Oh, Richard!"
"For you! Of course; but only to be worn when you come up yonder!"
"Oh!"
"That is, till after we are wed. Then you shall wear such things every day of the week, with silk dresses for Sunday. But, till then, don't let a living soul see one of these things. Keep 'em locked up like gold, and only put them on when you come to the lake at night, remember. I wouldn't for the world that any man or woman should see how like a queen they will make you look till they will have to say, at the same time, she is Richard Storms' wife."
"Oh, how sorry I am for having that bout with the mistress!" said Judith, hugging the bundle which he surrendered to her as if it had been a child she loved.
"But you must promise me, on your life, on your soul, to keep my fairing a close secret."
"I will! I will!"
"Without that to lay the whole thing on Jessup's daughter with, it wouldn't be safe for you to come to the park. The mistress would turn you away, if she heard of it. Then where should we land?"
"I will be careful. Believe me, I will."
"Especially about the dress."
"I know. I will be careful."
"Judith! Judith Hart!"
"Hush! The mistress is calling!" whispered Judith. "It is time to shut up the house. I will run up to my room and hide these; then help her side up, and come out again."
"No, no! That would be dangerous; but I would like to see how the dress looks. What if you put it on after the house is still, and come to the window with alight. I will walk about till then, and shall go home thinking that my sweetheart is the daintiest lass in this village or the next."
"Would you be pleased? I shall be sure to put the dress on. Oh, how I have longed for one like it! Yes, yes! I will come to the window."
Judith uttered this assurance, and darted into the house, in time to escape the landlady, who came to the back door just as she passed up the stairs.
Storms did linger about the house until the company had withdrawn from it, and the lights were put out, all but one, which burned in the chamber of Judith Hart. A curtain hung before this window, behind which he could see shadows moving for some minutes. Then the curtain was suddenly withdrawn, and the girl stood fully revealed. The light behind her fell with brilliant distinctness on the scarlet jacket, and was lost in the darker shadows of her skirt. She had twisted back the curls from her face with graceful carelessness; but, either by art or accident, had given them the rippling waves that made Ruth Jessup's head so classical.
"By Jove, but she's the very image of her!" exclaimed Storms, striking his leg with one hand. "No two sparrows were ever more alike."
This flash of excitement died out while Judith changed her position, and flung a kiss to him through the window.
For minutes after he stood staring that way, while a dull shudder passed through him.
"She's too pretty, oh, too pretty for that!" he muttered. "I wish it hadn't come into my mind!"
A WILD-FLOWER OFFERING.
WHENWebb entered his master's room, after the young wife had fled from it, he found the patient in a high state of excitement. The flash of his eye, and the vivid color in his cheeks, fairly frightened the good man, who dreaded, above all things, a second attack of the fever, which had already so nearly proved fatal.
"Help me to the couch; wheel it to the window. I want to look out; I want air!" said the young man, flinging himself half off the bed, and reeling toward the couch, on which he dropped, panting and so helpless that he could only enforce his first order by a gesture. Webb folded the dressing-gown over his master, and wheeled the couch close to the window.
"Open it! Open it!" gasped the young man, impatiently.
Webb threw open a leaf of the French window. Struggling to his elbow, young Hurst leaned out, scanning the flower-garden with bright and eager eyes. But the arm on which he leaned trembled with weakness, and soon gave way. His head fell upon the cushions, and his eyes closed wearily.
"I cannot see her," he murmured, under his breath. "I cannot see her. She could not have escaped if it had been real. Ah, me! Why should dreams mock one so?"
"Let me close the window," said Webb, anxiously. "The air is too much for you."
"Yes, close it," answered Hurst, with a sigh; "butfirst look out, and tell me if you see any one moving among the flowers."
Webb stepped into the balcony and examined the grounds beneath it. As he did this, a gust of wind swept through the opposite door and carried with it a folded paper, which had fallen from the invalid's hand when he staggered up from the bed.
"No," said Webb, closing the window. "I see no one but a young woman going round to the servant's entrance."
"A young woman! Who is it? Who is it?"
"No one that I have seen before. Nay, now that I look again, it is the young woman from the public over in the village."
"What is she doing here?" questioned Hurst, impatiently.
"Come on some errand from her mistress to the housekeeper, most likely," answered Webb.
"At first I almost thought it was old Jessup's daughter; but for the lift of her head, and the swing in her walk, one might take her for that."
"Old Jessup's daughter! Don't talk like a fool, Webb," said the young man, rising to his elbow again, flushed and angry. "As if there could be a comparison."
Webb very sensibly made no reply to this; but thinking that his master might be vexed because Lady Rose had not brought her usual offering of flowers that morning, changed the subject with crafty adroitness.
"Lady Rose has gone out to drive in the pony carriage. Sir Hugh would have it so," he explained.
"Yes, I dare say," muttered Hurst, indifferently. "She stays about the house too much. It is very tiresome for her."
The young man never closed his eyes after this, and, with both hands under his head, lay thinking.
"It was so real. I felt her kiss on my lips when I awoke. Her hand was in mine. She looked frightened. She left something. Webb! Webb!"
"Yes, Mr. Walton!"
"Look on the bed. I have lost something—a paper. Find it for me. Find it."
Webb went to the bed, flung back the delicate coverlet, and the down quilt of crimson silk: but found nothing either there or among the pillows.
"There is nothing here, sir!"
"Look again. There must be a paper. I felt it in my hand. There must be a paper."
"Really, Mr. Walton, there is nothing of the kind."
"Look on the floor—everywhere. I tell you it was too real. Somewhere you will find it."
Webb searched the bed again, and examined the carpet, with a feeling of uneasiness.
"The fever has come back," he thought. "He is getting wild, again. What can have done it? He seemed so quiet when I went out—was sleeping like a baby."
Troubled with these thoughts, the faithful fellow went on, searching the room, without the least shadow of expectation that he would find anything. At last he rose from his knees, and repeated, "There is nothing here, sir."
Hurst uttered a deep sigh, and turned his head away, weak and despondent.
"Dreams, dreams," he thought. "She is always coming, but never comes—never. Ah, this is too cruel. Can it be so clear, and yet a dream?"
Webb came up to the couch, hesitating and anxious. The flush was still on his master's face. His eyelids were closed, but they were quivering, and the long, dark lashes were damp with tears the young man was unable to suppress in the extremity of his weakness.
"Something has happened. Who has dared to disturb you?" said Webb, touched and anxious.
"Dreams, Webb, dreams—nothing else. Help me back to bed."
Webb obeyed this request with great tenderness, and, in a few moments, Hurst lay upon the pillows he had left with such a burst of wild hope, completely prostrated.
"Don't let me sleep again," he murmured, wearily. "Not in the day-time. Such rest is a cheat."
"Ah, you will not care to sleep now," said the servant, "for here comes Lady Rose, with her carriage full of ferns and flowers, from the woods. She said, this morning, that the splendor of our roses only wearied you, and she would find something so fresh and sweet that no one could help admiring them. Ah, Mr. Walton, the young lady never tires of thinking what will please you best."
"I know—I know," answered Hurst, impatiently. "She is good to every one."
Just then a sweet, cheerful voice was heard in the hall. Directly the door opened softly, and Lady Rose came in, carrying an armful of ferns and delicate wild flowers close to her bosom.
"See, what I have brought you," she said, looking down upon her fragrant burden with child-like delight. "I saw how tired you were of those great standard roses, and the ragged snow of our Japan lilies. Arrange them as I would, they never made your eyes brighten.But these are so lovely; great, blue violets, such as only grow around the old summer-house on the black lake. And such ferns! You never saw anything so dewy and delicate. Sir Noel and I brought them away in quantities; one goes to the lake so seldom, you know. Really, Walton, I think such things thrive best in the shadows. See!"
Lady Rose had seated herself on the couch which the sick man had just left, and while her soft, blonde hair was relieved by the purple velvet of the cushions, dropped the flowers into her lap. Then she began to arrange them into bouquets, and crowd them into vases which Sir Noel brought to her, with an attention that was both gallant and paternal.
As she was filling the vases, Lady Rose selected the brightest blossoms and the most delicate tufts of fern from the mass, and laid them upon the purple of the cushion, with a little triumphant glance at Sir Noel, which brought to his lips one of those rare smiles that came seldom to them in these days.
When all was done, the girl gathered these choice bits into a cluster, tied them with a twist of grass; and, gathering up the refuse stalks and flowers in her over-skirt, stole softly to the bed, and laid her pretty offering on Hurst's pillow.
The young man turned his head, as if the perfume oppressed him, and a slight frown contorted his forehead. Lady Rose observed this, and a flood of scarlet swept up to her face. Sir Noel observed it, also, and frowned more darkly than his son.
Without a word, though her blue eyes filled with shadows, and her white throat was convulsed with suppressed sobs, Lady Rose left the room. Once in her ownapartment, she tore back the lace curtains from the open window, dashed all the remnants of her flowers through, and flinging herself, face downward, on a couch, shook all its azure cushions with a passionate storm of weeping.
"He does not love me! He never will! All my poor little efforts to please him are thrown away. Ah, why must I love him so? Spite of it all, why must I love him so?"
Poor girl! Fair young creature! The first agony of her woman's life was upon her, an agony of love, that she would not have torn from her soul for the universe, though every throb of it was a pain.
"Why is it? Am I so disagreeable? Am I plain, awkward, incapable of pleasing, that he turns even from the poor flowers I bring?"
Wondering where her want of attractions lay, humble in self-estimation, yet feverishly wounded in her pride, the girl started up, pushed back the rich blonde hair from a face fresh as a blush rose with dew upon it, for it was wet with tears, and looked into the opposite mirror, where she made as lovely a picture as Sir Joshua ever painted. The tumultuous, loving, passionate picture of a young woman, angry with herself for being so beautiful and so fond, without the power to win one heart which was all the world to her.
"I suppose he thinks me a child," she said; and her lips began to tremble, as if she were indeed incapable of feeling only as children feel. "Oh, if I were—if I only could go back to that! How happy we were then. How gladly he met me, when he came home from college! I was his darling Rose of roses then—his little wife. But now; but now—Is that girl prettier than I am? Does he love her? I don't believe it. I willnot believe it. She may love him. How could any woman help it? Poor girl! poor girl, I pity her! But then, who knows, she may be pitying me all the time! She almost seemed to claim him that awful night. Oh, I wish that look of her eyes would go out of my mind. But it seems burned in."
Lady Rose had ceased to weep, though her superb blue eyes were still misty, and full of trouble, as these thoughts swayed through her brain. Something in the mutinous beauty of that face in the glass half fascinated her. She smoothed back the cloud of fluffy hair from her temples, and unconsciously half smiled on herself. Surely, the dark, gipsy-like face of the gardener's daughter could not compare with that. Then Walton Hurst was so proud; the only son of a family rooted in the soil before the Plantagenets took their title, was not likely to mate with the daughter of a servant. Looking at herself there in the mirror, and knowing that the blue blood in her veins was pure as his, she began to marvel at herself for the thought.
SEEKING A PLACE.
MRS. HIPPLEcame into the room and found Lady Rose among her azure cushions, on which she had sunk with a deep sigh, and a blush of shame, at being so caught in the midst of her wild thoughts.
"Dear, dear, I wonder how your ladyship got in withoutmy knowing it," she said, picking up the jaunty little hat which the girl had flung on the carpet. "We thought Sir Noel had taken you for a long drive."
"No matter, you need have been in no haste to come," said the young lady, turning her face from the light.
"But this poor hat. See how the lace and flowers are crushed together. Such a beauty as it was, and worn for the first time. But I do think it is past mending."
"Let them throw it aside, then," answered Rose, without looking at the pretty fabric of chip, lace, and flowers, over which Mrs. Hipple was mourning. "What is a hat, more or less, to any one?"
"Nothing to your ladyship, I know; but I haven't seen the young master admire anything so much this many a day."
"What! What were you saying, Mrs. Hipple?"
"Nothing; only what a pity it was that you would fling things about in this fashion."
"But something you said about—about—"
"No, nothing particular, only when your ladyship stopped at the door, and said 'good-morning' to the young gentleman, he observed that he had seldom seen you look so bright and pleasant; when I answered, that it was, perhaps, owing to the hat which had just come down, and was, to my taste, a beauty, he said, 'yes, it might be, for something made you look uncommonly lovely.'"
Lady Rose started up. She was no longer ashamed of her flushed face, but reached out her hand for the hat, which had, indeed, been rather severely crushed by its fall on the floor.
"It is a shame!" she said, eying the pretty fabric lovingly. "But I did not think it so very pretty. No,no, Mrs. Hipple, I will do it myself. Such a useless creature as I am. There, now, the flowers are as good as ever; it only wanted a touch or two of the fingers to bring them all right; and I rather like to do it."
She really did seem to like handling those sprays, among which her fingers quivered softly, as butterflies search for honey-dew, until they subsided into a loving caress of the ribbons, which she smoothed, rolled over her hand, and fluttered out with infinite satisfaction.
"There, you fractious old Hipple, are you satisfied now?" she questioned, holding up the renovated hat on one hand; then, putting it on her head, she looked in the glass with new-born admiration of its gracefulness. "You see that it is none the worse for a little knocking about."
"It is just a beauty. No wonder Mr. Walton's eyes brightened up when he saw it."
Rose took the dainty fabric from her head, and put it carefully away with her own hands; at which Mrs. Hipple smiled slyly to her own shadow in the glass. Directly after this the kind old lady went down to the housekeeper's parlor, for she was not above a little family gossip with Mrs. Mason, and rather liked the cosy restfulness of the place. She found the good dame in an unusual state of excitement.
"A young woman had been there," she said, "after a place as lady's-maid. She had heard in the village that one would be wanted at 'The Rest,' and came at once, hoping to secure the situation."
"A lady's-maid!" cried Mrs. Hipple. "Why, the girl is distraught—as if we took servants who come offering themselves in that way at 'The Rest.'
"That was just what I told her," said Mrs. Mason,laughing as scornfully as her unconquerable good nature permitted. "I gave the young person a round scolding for thinking the thing possible. She answered that she thought no harm of seeking the place, as it was only in hopes of bettering herself; for she was disgusted with serving wine and beer at the 'Two Ravens.'"
"Serving wine and beer? Why, Mason, you astonish me," said Mrs. Hipple, lifting her hands in horror of the idea.
"Then I broke out," said the housekeeper, "and rated her for thinking that any one fresh from the bar of a public house could fill the place of a lady's gentlewoman, who should be bred to the duties; at which the girl gave her head a toss fit for a queen, and said that some day she might have a higher place than that, and no thanks to anybody but herself."
"This must have been a forward girl, Mason. I wonder you had patience with her."
"Oh, as to that, it takes something, and always did, to make me demean myself below myself," said the housekeeper, folding her arms firmly over her bosom; "besides, she came down wonderfully in the end, and pleaded for a housemaid's place, as if that was the thing she had set her heart on from the first; and it was more than I could do to make her understand that no such person was wanted at 'The Rest.' Then she wanted me to promise that she might have the first opening, if any of the maids should not suit, or might leave."
When Mrs. Hipple returned to the room where she had left Lady Rose, this singular event was in her mind, and she spoke of it with the freedom always awarded to the beloved governess who had now become the companion and friend of her pupil. Lady Rose gave butlittle attention to the subject. Her mind was too thoroughly occupied with other thoughts for any great interest in matters so entirely foreign to them; but she seemed to listen. That was enough for the kind old lady, who continued:
"The girl went off at last, quite disappointed, because she wasn't taken on at once. She was going over to Jessup's, she said, to have a chat with his daughter. I wonder that Ruth should not choose better company. She is a modest thing enough, and might look to be a lady's maid in time, without stepping very much out of her sphere, being, as it were, bred in the shadow of 'The Rest,' and gifted with more learning than is needful to the place."
Here Lady Rose was aroused to more vivid interest. She looked up, and listened to every word her companion uttered.
"You are speaking of Jessup's pretty daughter," she said.
"Yes, of that slender young thing, Mason's goddaughter. Some people think her almost beautiful, with her great black eyes, and cheeks like ripe peaches. Then her hair is quite wonderful, and she walks like a fawn."
"You make her out very beautiful," said Lady Rose, with a quick increase of color. "Perhaps she is—having seen her always since we were both little girls, I have not observed the change as others might."
"Of course, how should your ladyship be expected to think of her now that you are the first lady in the county, and the girl only what she has always been?"
Lady Rose shook her head in kindly reproof of this speech.
"We must not say that, Mrs. Hipple," she said. "Ruth was my playmate as a little girl, a sweet-tempered, pretty friend, whom you kindly allowed to study with me as an equal."
"No, no. Never as an equal. That was impossible. She was bright and diligent."
"More so than I ever was," said Lady Rose, smiling on the old woman.
"Ah, but you learned so quickly, there was no necessity for application with you. One might as well compare her dark prettiness with—"
Lady Rose held up her hands, with a childlike show of resistance.
"There, there. If you draw pleasant comparisons, dear Hipple, it is because you love me, but that takes nothing from Ruth, who must be remarkably good-looking, or people would not admire her so much."
"Admired, is she? Well, I know little of that. Of course, the servants rave about her beauty in the housekeeper's room; I rebuked one of them only yesterday, for saying that the gentlemen who visit at 'The Rest' go by the gardener's cottage so often only to get a look at the daughter, pretending all the time that it is the great show of roses that takes them that way."
"Were you not a little hard with the man, Hipple? Sir Noel's guests—those who joined in the hunt—certainly did seem greatly struck by her appearance as we rode by the cottage."
"No, no, the man deserved a reprimand for saying that his young master was made angry by their praises, when they saw her standing like a picture in the porch, for them to look at."
"You were right—excuse me, you were quite justifiedin rebuking him," said the lady, in breathless haste. "It was an impertinence."
"And, of all places, to say it in the housekeeper's room," added the old lady, "and Mason to permit it; but she thinks her goddaughter a paragon, and means to make her the heiress of all her savings. Indeed, she intends to give her something handsome when she is married to young Storms."
"Her marriage with young Storms!" faltered Lady Rose, going to a window in hopes of concealing her agitation; for the blood was burning in her face, and she dared not meet the eyes of that shrewd old lady. "Is that anything but a childish romance?"
"It is a settled thing, my lady. We shall have a wedding at the cottage soon after Jessup gets well."
As Mrs. Hipple said this, she glided out of the room, clasping her hands softly together as she went down the corridor, and smiling as such women will, when conscious of happiness adroitly conferred.
Then Lady Rose looked shyly around, saw that she was quite alone, and, coming out of her covert, began to walk the room up and down, up and down, like some fawn let loose in a pasture of wild flowers. Then came a knock at the door. Lady Rose stole back to the window, determined that no one should see her radiant face before the intruder came in. It was a servant bearing a message from the sick-chamber.
"The young master was wholly awake now. Would Lady Rose come and read to him a while?"
Would Lady Rose come and read to the man she loved? Would she accept the brightest corner in Paradise, if offered to her? Ah, how her face brightened! How soft and glad was the smile that dimpled about themouth, so sorrowful only a little time before! With a quick glance she looked into the mirror, and made an effort to improve the amber cloud of hair that was most effective in beautiful disorder. Struck with the loveliness of her own face, she gave up the effort and went away.
"He has sent for me," was her happy thought. "He did not mean to reject my violets. It was only because he was not quite awake. He has sent for me! He has sent for me!"
Poor girl! She did not know that Sir Noel had been pointing out the unkindness of his action to the invalid, and that this message was one of almost forced atonement.
THE FATHER'S SICK-ROOM.
BREATHLESSand wildly happy, Ruth Jessup almost flew along the shaded path which led from "The Rest" to her own humble dwelling. Now and then she would look up to a bird singing in the branches above her, and answer his music with a sweet, unconscious laugh. Again, her mouth would dimple at the sight of a tuft of blue violets, the flower she loved most of any. The very air she breathed was a delight to her, and the sunshine warmed her heart, as it penetrates the cup of a flower.
Up she came into her father's sick-room like a beam of morning light.
"I have seen him, father. I gave the letter into his own hands. He is not looking so very ill."
Jessup started to his elbow, eager and glad as the girl herself.
"Then he got it? He surely got it?"
"Oh, yes! I am very, very sure!"
"But how? How didst manage it, since he is not well enough to leave his room?"
"I went there!"
"You?"
"Yes, father; there was no other way, if I wished to put the paper into his own hand, as you bade me. So I went to his room."
"But, Sir Noel! Mrs. Mason! I marvel they let any one into his room so easily."
"Oh, they did not. I never dared to ask either of them," said Ruth, with a sweet, triumphant laugh, that sounded strangely in the lone sadness of the house. "I evaded them, and all the rest."
"But how?"
Ruth hesitated. The secret of the balcony stairs was too precious—she would keep it even from her father, as the angels guarded Jacob's ladder.
"Oh, I slipped in while Mr. Webb was away."
"Well! well! And he was not looking so very ill. He read my letter, and that brightened him up a bit, I'll be bound?" questioned the gardener.
"Not while I was there. I only had a minute. They were on the stairs, and there was no chance for a word."
"But he is getting better; you are sure of that?"
"Oh, yes. I feel quite sure, father."
"Well, I'm thankful for that. Mayhap he'll be able to come and see a poor fellow before long. Then we shall know more about it."
"About what, father?"
"Oh, nothing much! Only I'd give all the money I have been so long hoarding for the wedding-day only to be sure—"
"Then he is not to blame about anything?" broke in Ruth, throwing her arms around the sick man, and kissing him wildly, as if she did not quite know what she was about. "Oh, father! father! How could you ever think ill of him?"
"Child, child! What is all this ado about? Who said that I did think ill of the lad? Him as I have always loved next to my own child! Come, come, now! What have I said to make you so shaky and so fond?"
Ruth gave him another kiss for answer, and, seating herself on the bed, looked down upon him with a glow in her great velvety eyes that brought a smile to his lips.
"Anyway, the walk has brightened this face up wonderfully. Why, here is color once again, and the dimples are coming back like bees around a rose. Yes! yes! Kiss me, lass! It does me good—it does me good!"
Ruth began to smooth the iron-gray hair on that rugged head, while the old man looked fondly upon her glowing face.
"Never mind. We shall be happy enough yet, little one," he said, smoothing her shapely hand with his broad palm. "Everything is sure to come out right, now that we understand one another."
Ruth drooped her head as the old man said this, and the bloom faded a little from her cheeks.
"Yes; oh, yes, father!" she faltered, drawing her hand away from his.
A look of the old trouble came into the deep, gray eyes, dwelling so fondly upon the girl; but before another word could be spoken, Ruth had left the bed, and liftinga vase full of withered flowers from the mantelpiece, flung them through the open window.
"See what a careless girl I have been, never to think how you love the roses, and they in full blossom, all this time. I never forgot you so long before. Now did I, father?"
"I never thought of them," answered the old man, shaking his head on the pillow. "My mind was too full of other things."
"But we must think of them now, or the house won't seem like home when you are strong enough to sit up," answered Ruth, with a reckless sort of cheerfulness. "Everything must be bright and blooming then. I will go now, and come back with the roses. They will seem like old friends; won't they, father dear?"
Ruth had reached the door with the vase in her hand when a knock sounded up from the porch.
The color left her face at the sound, and she nearly dropped the vase, so violent was the start she gave.
"I wonder who it is?" she said, casting a look of alarm back at her father, but speaking under her breath. "Hashecome to frighten away all my happiness?"
She went down-stairs reluctantly, and, with dread at her heart, opened the entrance door. A girl stood in the porch, carrying a basket on her arm, who entered the passage without ceremony, and walked into the little parlor.
"The mistress sent me to inquire after your father, Miss Jessup," she said, taking a survey of the room, which was furnished better than most of its class. "Besides that, I bring a jar of her best apricot jelly, with a bottle of port from the inn cellar, and her best compliments; things she don't send promiscuously by me, who only take them once in a while when it suits me, as it does now."
"You are very kind," said Ruth, with gentle reserve. "Pray thank Mrs. Curtis for us."
"Of course, I'll thank her, but not till I've rested a bit in this pretty room. Why, it's like a grand picture, with a carpet and chairs fit for a gentleman's house; enough to make any girl lift her head above common people, as Mr. Storms says, when he goes about praising you."
"Mr. Storms!" faltered Ruth, shrinking from the name.
"Yes, Mr. Storms. It's only here and there one who thinks of calling him Dick; and they are uncommonly careful not to let him hear them; for he has a strong hand, slender and thin as he looks, has Storms. But I needn't tell you anything about him."
"No. It's not necessary," replied Ruth, scarcely knowing what she said.
"Of course not. He comes here often enough to speak for himself, I dare say," persisted the girl, in whose great dark eyes a sinister light was gleaming.
"Not often."
Judith Hart's eyes sparkled.
"Scarcely at all," continued Ruth, "since my father was hurt."
"Is it his keeping away or the watching that makes you look so white in the face?" said Judith, taking off her bonnet, and revealing a mass of rich hair, which she pushed back from her temples.
Ruth looked at the girl with a strangely bright, almost amused, expression.
"I think—I fear that my father will want me," was her sole reply.
"That's more than some other people do." This insolentretort almost broke from the girl's lips, but she checked it, only saying: "Here is your wine and the jelly."
"Mrs. Curtis is very kind. Wait a little, and I will cut her some flowers," answered Ruth.
Judith's great eyes flashed as she gave up the parcel.
"Oh, yes, I can wait, since you are polite enough to give me leave."
"Pray rest yourself, while I go into the garden."
Judith folded her arms, leaned back in her chair, and said that she could wait; the mistress did not expect her to come back yet a while.
PROFFERED SERVICES.
RUTHwent into the garden, which was lying in shadow just then; so she required no covering for her head, but rather enjoyed the bland south wind which drifted softly through her loose hair, as she stooped to pluck the roses.
Meantime Judith Hart lifted herself from the lounging attitude into which she had sunk, and in an instant became sharply alert. Upon a little chintz couch that occupied one side of the room she found the scarlet sacque and a dainty little hat, which Ruth had flung there before going up to her father, after her return from "The Rest." Quick as thought, Judith slipped on the sacque, and placed the hat with its side cluster of red roseson her head. After giving a sharp glance through the window, to make sure that Ruth was still occupied in the garden, she went up to a little mirror, and took a hasty survey of herself.
"The jacket is as like as two peas," she thought, "and the hat is easy got. There'll be no trouble in twisting up one side like this. As to the roses, he must get them before the fair is over. If I could only wear them in broad daylight, before all their faces, it would be splendid; but he won't give in to that. Farther on, I'll show him and them, too, what a dash Richard Storms has in a wife. Oh, goodness, here she comes!"
Quick as lightning the girl flung off the sacque; tossed the hat down upon it, and ran to the seat she had left. When Ruth came in, she was sitting there, casting vague looks around her, as if she had been quietly resting all the time.
"Take these and this," said Ruth, giving her unwelcome visitor a great bouquet of flowers, and a little basket brimming over with strawberries; "and please take our thanks to your mistress."
"But, about the old man up-stairs. How is he getting on? She will be sure to ask."
"Better."
"He is mending, then?"
"Yes, slowly."
Judith arose, but seemed reluctant to go.
"You look pale yet."
"No, no; I may have done, but not now," answered Ruth, blushing as she thought why her strength and color had come back so suddenly. "I am not as anxious as I was."
"But the nursing, and the work, too, must come hard," persisted the girl.
"Not now; I scarcely feel it now."
"But if you should, remember, I'm both ready and willing to give a helping hand."
"Thank you."
"And the mistress will be glad to spare me now and then, when she knows that it is for this place I'm wanted. So there would be no fear of asking."
"Your mistress is very good."
"Good as gold; especially where you are the person that wants help. 'Judith,' says she, calling me into the bar, 'take these things over to Jessup's and mind you ask particular about the old man. He should 'a' been about by this time; perhaps it's nursing he wants most, so, if you can be of use, don't mind coming back in a hurry, but give the lass a helping hand. Poor thing, she's been brought up o'er dainty, and this sickness in the house is sure to pull her down.' That's what the mistress said, and I'm ready to abide by it, and help you at any time."
Ruth was touched by this persistent kindness, that was so earnest and seemed so real, and her rejection of it was full of gratitude.
"All the worst trouble is over now," she said, and a gleam of moisture came into her eyes. "Say this to your mistress. As for yourself, a thousand thanks; but I need no help now, though I shall never forget how kindly you offered it."
"Oh, as for the kindness, that's nothing," answered the girl, with a slight toss of the head, on which she was tying her bonnet, for she was far too bold for adroit hypocrisy. "One always stands ready to help in a case of sickness; but never mind, you will be sure to want me yet; when you come to that, you'll find me ready; and you are sure to come to it."
"I hope not. Indeed, I am sure of it. Father is doing so well."
"Would you mind my going up to see for myself?" said Judith, sharply, as if the wish were flung off her mind with an effort. "The mistress will not be content with less, I warrant."
"If you wish. Only he must not be disturbed," answered Ruth, after a moment's hesitation.
"Oh, I'll flit up the stairs like a bird, and hold my breath when I get there," said Judith, eagerly.
She did follow Ruth with a light tread, and moved softly across the sick man's chamber when she reached it. Jessup turned on his pillow as she approached, and held out his hand, with a smile. The sight of a familiar face was pleasant to him.
"The mistress sent me to ask after you," said Judith, quite subdued by the stillness and the pallor of the sick man's face, "and I just stepped up to see for myself. She's so anxious to make sure that you are mending."
"Tell her I am better. A'most well," said Jessup, grateful for this attention from his old neighbor.
"That's something worth while," answered the girl, speaking with an effort. "The mistress 'll be glad to hear it, and so will be many a one who comes to the house. As for me, if I can do anything to help the young lady, she has only to say so, and I'll come, night or day, for she doesn't look over strong."
Unconsciously to herself, the girl had been so impressed with the gentle bearing of Ruth Jessup, that she spoke of her as superior to her class, even against her own will. Jessup noticed this, and turned a fond look on Ruth.
"She's not o'er strong," he said, "but I think Ruthywouldn't like any one but herself to tend on her father."
"No, no, indeed, I wouldn't," said Ruth, eagerly.
"But I might help about the work below," urged Judith, with singular persistency.
Jessup looked at his daughter questioningly.
"There is so little to do," she said, "but I am obliged all the same."
"Yes, yes. We are both obliged. Don't forget to say as much to the mistress," said Jessup.
Judith seized his hand, and shook it with a vigor that made him cry out with a spasm of pain. Then her face flushed, and a strange, unholy light shot into her eyes.
"Not so well as you think, or a grip of the hand like that wouldn't have made you wince so. You may have need of me, yet," she said, turning upon Ruth; "to my thinking, it's more than likely."
"I hope not," answered Ruth; "and I am sure that all who love my father hope so too."
"Of which I am one," was the quick reply. "You may make sure of that. No one wants to see Jessup about more than I do. Though he does come so seldom to the public, it will be a holiday when he orders the next can of beer at the 'Two Ravens.' So, hoping for the best, good-day to both of you."
THE LOST LETTER.
JUDITH HARTtook her way straight for the wilderness. She passed along the margin of the black lake, made at once for the summer-house, and looked in, then turned away with an exclamation of disappointment.
"I thought he would 'a' been here, so sharp as he was for news," she muttered, tearing off a handful of rushes, and biting them with her teeth, until they rasped her lips. "There's no depending on him; but wait till we're wed. Then he'll have to walk a different road. Ha!"
The report of a gun on a rise of ground beyond the lake brought this exclamation from her, and she hastened on, muttering to herself, "It's his gun. I know the sound of it, and I thought he had forgotten."
Directly she came in sight of a figure walking through the thick undergrowth.
"Richard! Richard Storms!"
The man came toward her, moving cautiously, and holding up one hand.
"Hush! Can't you speak without screaming?" he said, hissing the words through his teeth. "It's broad daylight, remember, and by that, there's no passing you off for the other one, if a gamekeeper should cross us."
"Why not? I've just seen Ruth Jessup and myself in the glass at the same time, and we're like as two peas. Only for her finikin airs, I defy any one to say which was which."
"But she would never have called out so lustily."
"Oh, that was because I was o'erjoyed to see you, after finding the little lake-house empty!" answered the girl, laying her hand on his shoulder.
Storms shook the hand off.
"Don't do that, if you want to pass for a lady," he said, rudely.
"A lady, now! As if I was not as good as Ruth Jessup, any day, and more of a lady, too," retorted the girl, with passionate tears in her eyes.
"Ruth Jessup isn't the girl to lay her hands on a man's shoulder without his asking," said Storms, setting down his gun, and dusting his coat, as if her touch had soiled it. "Who knows that some one may not be looking on?"
"And if it chanced, what harm, so long as we are to be man and wife so soon?" pleaded the girl, now fairly crying.
"What harm! Do you think I want every gamekeeper on the place to be jibing about the lass I mean to make a lady of, if she's only careful of herself?"
"If!" repeated the girl, dashing away her tears. "What 'ifs' are there between you and me? Before we go another step, I want to hear about that."
Storms laughed, and said, carelessly,
"Never mind. What news do you bring me?"
"None—not a word, while there are 'ifs' in the way, let me tell you that; though I have found something that you would give a hundred guineas down to get hold of, and the young master a thousand to keep back."
"You have! What is it?"
"Nothing that has an 'if' in it."
"There, there! Don't be silly. I mean no 'ifs.'Have I not said, as plain as a man can speak, what shall be between us?"
"Well, when we are settled in the farm up yonder, I will give you something that Sir Noel would sell his whole estate to get from me."
"As if I believed that."
"But you may believe it. The more time I have for thinking, the more worth it seems."
"But what is it?"
"Only a penny's worth of paper."
"Bah!"
"With writing on it that proves who shot old Jessup!"
Storms turned fiercely upon her.
"Proves what?"
"That Walton Hurst shot old Jessup."
"A paper! Who wrote it?"
"Jessup himself."
"You have such a letter signed by Jessup?"
"I just have that!"
"Give it to me, lass! Give it to me!"
"Not yet. I'm thinking it just as well to keep the bit of paper in my own hands," was the sharp answer. "'Ifs' might come up again, you know!'"
A look of shrewd cunning stole over the features Judith's suspicious eyes were searching. Storms turned from her with a contemptuous gesture.
"There, there! I'm not to be taken in with such chaff. Try something better. If you had such a paper it wouldn't be kept back from a true sweetheart one minute. You've got a man of sense to deal with."
"I haven't got it, have I? Look here!" cried Judith, drawing back, and unfolding a paper she took from her bosom. "The letters are large enough. You can read from here. Is that Jessup's name or not?"
Storms did read enough to see how important the paper might become. He glanced from it to the firmly set and triumphant features of the girl.
"You brought it for me. You will give it to me!"
"No!" answered Judith, folding the paper. "Not till we come from the church."
With the leap of a tiger Storms sprang upon the girl, and snatched at the paper; but she, wary and agile as himself, leaped aside, and fled like a deer down the declivity, sending a ringing laugh, full of mockery, back to the baffled man.
In an instant, he was flying after her, his teeth set hard, his eyes gleaming, and every leap bringing him nearer to her, and her nearer to the lake.
THE HOUSEKEEPER'S VISIT.
RUTH JESSUPwas almost happy, now. From a place of care and dread her father's sick-room had become a pleasant little haven of rest to her. Perfect confidence had returned between the father and child, broken only by a consciousness of one secret. Sooner or later, he should know the secret of her marriage, and rejoice over the son it had given him. Of course, the girl thought all things must be well, now that her father had communicated with the young master; otherwise, that look of calm tranquillity would never have settled so gently on the face that seemed to have given up its pain; from the moment she had gone forth with thatletter. All was right between those two, and, knowing this, the girl felt her secret only as a sweet love-burden, which, sooner or later, should make that dear father proud and happy, as she hoped to be herself.
Thus, all the day long, the girl flitted about the cottage, doing her humble household work with dainty grace. One particular morning she was sitting on her father's bed, dropping strawberries into his mouth, giving a little start, when he made a playful snap at her stained fingers, which was pleasant, though the effort brought a twinge of pain to him, and a pretty affected cry, often broke into a laugh, from her.
"There, now, you shall not have another," she said, taking the hull of a luscious berry between her thumb and finger, and holding it out of reach, tempting his thirsty mouth with its red ripeness. "Bite the hand that feeds you—oh, for shame!"
"Nothing but a false hound does that," said the sick man, far more seriously than the occasion demanded.
"A hound! oh, father, that is too bad. I meant nothing like that. See, now, here is the plumpest and ripest of all. Wait till I dip it in the sugar. It seems like rolling it in snow, don't it?"
The invalid opened his mouth and smiled, as the rich fruit melted on his feverish tongue.
"What is it, father?" questioned the girl, as a shadow chased away the smile. "What is the matter, now?"
"Nothing; really nothing, child; only I thought there was a step under the window."
Ruth listened, and the color left her face. She bent down to her father, and stole an arm around his neck. Then he felt that the arm was trembling like a reed in the wind.
"Oh, father, you will not let him come here again? It will kill me, if you do."
"Hush, hush, lass! Remember, he has my promise."
"But not mine. Oh, father, do not be so cruel."
A step sounded in the lower passage. Ruth grew pale as she listened. The footsteps paused near the stairs, and a voice called out, "Ruthy! I say, Ruthy!"
Ruth sprang from the bed with a little cry of joy, and flinging open the door, looked over the banister.
"Is it you? Is it only you, godmother? Come up, come up!"
Mrs. Mason accepted the invitation, planting her feet so firmly on the narrow stairs that they shook under her.
"Of course, I know he is better by the look of your face," said the dame, pausing to draw a deep breath before she entered the sick man's room. "You need not trouble yourself to ask; all is going on well at 'The Rest.' The young master walks across the room now, and lies on the couch near the window, looking out as if he pined for the free air again, as who wouldn't, after such a bout of illness?"
Ruth did not speak, but her face flushed, and her eyes sparkled through the droop of their long lashes. She knew that the window her godmother spoke of looked across the flower-garden to their own cottage, and her fond heart beat all the faster for the knowledge.
"So, at last, an old friend can win a sight of you," said dame Mason, crossing over to the bed where Jessup lay, and patting the great hand which rested on the coverlet with her soft palm; "and right glad I am to find you are looking so well."
Jessup looked at Ruth, and smiled.
"She takes such care of me, how can I help it?" he said.
"Aye, truly. It will be hard when you have to part with her, I must say that; but such is human nature. We rear them up, get to loving them like our own hearts, and away they go, building nests for themselves. Her mother did it for you, remember; and so it will be while human nature is human nature."
Jessup heaved a deep sigh, and looked at his daughter with wistful earnestness. She answered him with a glance of tender appeal, from which he turned to the dame with a little gleam of triumph.
"There is the rub, Mrs. Mason. My lass will not listen to leaving her old father, but fights against it like a bird that loves its cage, all the more fiercely now that I am down."
Mrs. Mason wheeled round, and looked at Ruth from under her heavy eyebrows, as if she doubted what the father had been saying.
"Aye, little one, we know better than that," she said. "But I don't quite like this. Cheating a sick man may be for his good; but I don't like it, I don't like it."
"Cheating," faltered Ruth, conscience-stricken. "Oh, godmother."
"Well, well, the old saying, that all things is fair in love or war, may be true; but I don't believe it. According to my idea, truth is truth, and nothing can be safer or better, in the long run. Mark this, goddaughter, the first minute you get out of the line of truth, casts you, headforemost, into all sorts of trouble. One must wind and turn, like a fox, to get out of a deceit, if one ever does get out, which I'm not sure of."
Ruth stood before the good housekeeper, as she promulgatedthis homely opinion, like a detected culprit. Her color came and went, her eyelids drooped, and a weight seemed to settle, like lead, upon her shoulders. This evident distress touched the housekeeper with compassion.
"There, there," she said, "I did not mean to be hard. Young folks will be young folks—ha, Jessup? You and I can remember when more sweethearting was done on the sly than we should like to own up to; and young Storms is likely to be heir to the best farm on Sir Noel's estate, though, I must say, he was never much to my liking. These sharp-faced young men never were. Mason was of full weight and tallness, or he never would have fastened a name on me."
Ruth was no longer blushing one instant and paling the next, for a vivid flush of crimson swept her whole face.
"What are you talking about, godmother?" she questioned, with a little, scornful laugh, which irritated the good dame.
"What am I talking of? Nay, nay, I have made you blush more than is kind already. Never heed my nonsense. It is natural that I should think no one good enough, and feel a little uppish that things have gone so far without one word to the old woman that loved you as if you were her own."
"What do you mean? What can you mean, godmother?" cried Ruth, with unusual courage.
"Oh, nothing. The news was over the whole neighborhood before I heard of it; but that's nothing."
"What news? Do tell me?"
"Why, that young Storms and my goddaughter would be married as soon as friend Jessup, here, is well enough to be at the wedding."
"Father, father, do you hear that? Who has dared to slander me so cruelly?" cried the girl, bursting into a passion of tears.
Jessup was greatly troubled by his daughter's grief.
"Nay, nay, it has not come to that as yet," he said, "and, mayhap, never will."
"Oh, father, how good you are!"
In her passionate gratitude the girl might have shaken the wounded man too sorely, for her arms were around him, and her face was pressed close to his; but even then she was thoughtful, and, lifting her face, said, with a sort of triumph:
"You see, godmother, how impossible it is that this story can be anything but scandal?"
"Scandal? But Sir Noel believes it," answered the puzzled dame.
"No! no!"
"But he does, and Lady Rose was consulting with me this very day about the present she would give. I never saw her so interested in anything."
"She is very good," said Ruth, with bitter dryness.
"Indeed she is. A sweeter or more kindly young lady never lived. 'The Rest' would be gloomy enough without her."
"I suppose you all think so?" questioned Ruth, with feverish anxiety.
"It would be strange if we did not. I'm sure Sir Noel loves her as if she was his own child, which, please God, she will be some of these days."
"Godmother! godmother! don't make me hate you!"
"Hoity-toity! What is the meaning of this? I didn't think there was so much temper in the child. Why, she is all afire! Oh, friend Jessup! friend Jessup!this comes of rearing her all by yourself! If you had sent her to me at 'The Rest,' a little wholesome discipline would have made such rough words to her mother's friend impossible!"
Ruth dashed the tears from her eyes, and held out both her hands.
"Godmother, forgive me! I am so sorry!"
Mrs. Mason turned half away from that imploring face.
"I was wrong—so wrong."
"To talk about hating me. The child she laid in my bosom almost in her dying hour."
"The wicked, cruel child! Oh, if you only knew how sorry she is! Godmother, oh, godmother, forgive me for her sake!"
Mrs. Mason wheeled round, and gathered the penitent young creature to her bosom; then turning her head, she saw that Jessup was greatly excited and had struggled up from his pillow.
"There, there! Lie down again. This is no affair of yours," she said, hastily waving her hand, which ended in a shake for the pretty offender. "Can't I have a word with my own goddaughter without bringing you up from your bed, as if something terrible was going on? Looking like a pale-faced ghost, too! No wonder the poor child gets nervous. I dare say you just worry her to death."
"No, no! godmother! He is patient as a lamb," cried Ruth. "Don't blame him for my fault."
"Fault! What fault is there? Just as if a poor child can't speak once in a while, without being blamed for it. I never knew anything so unreasonable as men are—magnifying mole-hills into mountains. There now, go andsit by the window while I bring your exasperating father to something like reason. No one shall make you cry again, if I know it."