CONFESSIONS OF LOVE.
The baronet might, however, have been surprised had he seen Walton
Hurst pass the Lady Rose on the terrace, only lifting his hat in
recognition of her presence as he hurried into the park.
"He guesses at my madness, or, at the worst, he will forgive it," ran
through his thoughts as he took a near route toward the wilderness,
"and she--ah, I have been cruel in this strife to conquer myself. My
love, my beautiful wild-bird! It will be sweet to see her eyes
brighten and her mouth tremble under a struggle to keep back her
smiles."
Thoughts like these occupied the young man until he stood before the
gardener's cottage, and looked eagerly into the porch, hoping to see
something besides the birds fluttering under the vines. He was
disappointed: no one was there; but glancing through the oriel window
he saw a gleam of warm color and the dejected droop of a head, that
might have grown weary with looking out of the window; for it fell
lower and lower, as if two unsteady hands were supporting the face.
Hurst trod lightly over the turf, holding his breath, lifted the latch
and stole into the little parlor in which the girl, we have once seen
in the porch, was sitting disconsolately, as she had done hours each
day through a lonely week.
"Ruth!"
The girl sprang to her feet, uttering a little cry of delight. Then an
impulse of pride seized upon the heart that was beating so wildly, and
she drew back, repudiating her own gladness.
"I hoped to find you here and alone," he said, holding out both hands
with a warmth that astonished her; for she shrunk back and looked at
him wonderingly.
"I have been away so long, and all the time longing to come; nay, nay,
I will not have that proud lift of the head; for, indeed, I deserve a
brighter welcome."
The girl had done her best to be reserved and cold, but how could she
succeed with those pleading eyes upon her--those two hands searching
for hers?
"It is so long, so long," she said, with sweet upbraiding in her eyes;
"father has wondered why you did not come. It is very cruel neglecting
him so."
Hurst smiled at her pretty attempt at subterfuge; for he really had
not spent much of his time in visiting Jessup, though the gardener had
been a devoted friend during his boyhood, and truly believed that it
was old remembrances that brought the young man so often to his
cottage.
"I fancy your father will not have missed me very much," he said.
"But he does; indeed, indeed he does."
"And you cared nothing?"
Ruth dropped her eyelids, and he saw that tears were swelling under
them. Selfishly watching her emotion until the long black lashes were
wet, he lifted her hands suddenly to his lips and kissed them, with
passionate warmth.
She struggled, and wrenched her hands away from him.
"You must not--you must not: father would be _so_ angry."
"Not if he knew how much I love you."
She stood before him transfigured; her black eyes opened wide and
bright, her frame trembled, her hands were clasped.
"You love me--you?"
"Truly, Ruth, and dearly as ever man loved woman," was the earnest,
almost solemn, answer.
The girl turned pale, even her lips grew white.
"I dare not let you," she said, in a voice that was almost a whisper.
"I dare not."
"But how can you help it?" said Hurst, smiling at her terror.
"How can I help it?"
The girl lifted her hands as if to ward him away. This announcement of
his love frightened her. A sweet unconscious dream that had neither
end nor beginning in her young experience had been rudely broken up by
it.
"You tremble--you turn pale. Is it because you cannot love me, Ruth?"
"Love you--love you?" repeated the girl, in wild bewilderment. "Oh,
God! forgive me--forgive me! I do, I do!"
Her face was one flame of scarlet now, and she covered it with her
hands--shame, terror, and a great ecstasy of joy seized upon her.
"Let me go, let me go, I cannot bear it," she pleaded, at length. "I
dare not meet my father after this."
"But I dare take your hand in mine and say to him, as one honorable
man should say to another: 'I love this girl, and some day she shall
become my wife.'"
"Your wife!"
"I did not know till now the sweetness that lies in a single word.
Yes, Ruth, when a Hurst speaks of love he speaks also of marriage."
"No, no, that can never be--Sir Noel, Lady Rose, my father--you forget
them all!"
"No, I forget nothing. Sir Noel is generous, and he loves me. You have
always been a favorite with Lady Rose. As for your father--"
"He would die rather than drag down the old family like that. My
father, in his way, is proud as Sir Noel. Besides--besides--"
"Well, what besides?"
"He has promised. He and John Storms arranged it long ago."
"Arranged what, Ruth?"
"That--that I should some day be mistress of the farm."
"Mistress of the farm--and you?"
"Oh, Mr. Hurst! it breaks my heart to think of it, but father's
promise was given when I did not care so much, and I let it go on
without rebelling."
Ruth held out her hands, imploringly, as she said this, but Hurst
turned away from her, and began to pace up and down the little parlor,
while she shrunk into the recess of the window, and watched him
timidly through her tears. At last he came up to her, blaming his own
anger.
"This must never be, Ruth!"
"You do not know what a promise is to my father," said the girl, with
piteous helplessness.
"Yes, I do know; but this is one he shall not keep."
Once more the young man took the hands she dared not offer him again,
and pressed them to his lips. Then he went away full of anger and
perplexity.
Ruth watched him through the window till his tall figure was lost in
the windings of the path; then she ran up to her own little room, and
throwing herself on the bed, wept until tears melted away her trouble,
and became an exquisite pleasure. The ivy about the window shed a
lovely twilight around her, and the shadows of its trembling leaves
tinted the snowy whiteness of the pillow on which her cheek rested,
with fairy-like embroidery. The place was like heaven to her. Here
this young girl lay, thrilled heart and soul by the first passion of
her womanhood. This feeling that burned on her cheek, and swelled in
her bosom, was a delicious insanity. There was no hope in it--no
chance for reason, but Hurst loved her, and that one thought filled
the moment with joy.
With her hands clasped over her bosom, and her eyes closed in the
languor of subsiding emotion, she lay as in a dream, save that her
lips moved, as red rose-leaves stir when the rain falls on them, but
all that they uttered was, "He loves me--he loves me."
If a thought of her father or of Richard Storms came to mar her
happiness, she thrust it away, still murmuring, "He loves me. He loves
me."
After a time she began to reason, to wonder that this one man, to whom
the giving of her childish admiration had seemed an unpardonable
liberty, could have thought of her at all, except as he might give a
moment's attention to the birds and butterflies that helped to make
the old place pleasant. How could he--so handsome, so much above all
other gentlemen of his own class--think of her while Lady Rose was
near in all the splendor of her beauty and the grace of a high
position!
"Was it that she was also beautiful?"
When this question arose in her mind, Ruth turned upon her pillow,
and, half ashamed of the movement, looked into a small mirror that
hung on the opposite wall. What she saw there brought a smile to her
mouth and the flash of diamonds to the blackness of her eyes.
"Not like the Lady Rose," she thought, "not fair and white like her;
but he loves me! He loves me!"