THE TWO THAT LOVED HIM.
Across one of the moonlit paths of the park lay the form of a man,
with his face turned upward, white and still as the moonbeams that
fell upon it. A little way farther on, where the great boughs of a
cedar of Lebanon flung mighty shadows on the forest sward, another
figure lay, scarcely perceptible in the darkness, of which it seemed
only a denser part. Between the two, some rays of light struck
obliquely on the lock of a gun, which was half buried in dewy
fern-leaves.
One sharp crack of that rifle had rung through the stillness of the
night. Two men had fallen, and then the same sweet, calm repose
settled on the park. But it was only for a minute.
Scarcely had the sound reached the gardener's cottage, when the door
flew open, and dashing out through the porch came a young girl, white
with fear, and wild with a terrible desire to know the worst. She had
given one look behind the entrance-door as she fled through it, and
saw that the gun which Richard Storms had left there was gone. She had
seen it since he went, and its absence turned her fears to a panic.
Through a window of the drawing-room, up at "Norston's Rest," another
figure rushed in wild haste. She ran blindly against one of the great
marble vases on the terrace, and shook the sweet masses of dew-laden
foliage till they rained a storm of drops upon her bare arms and soft
floating garments.
For a moment Lady Rose, for it was she, leaned against the marble,
stunned and bewildered. The shot she had heard in the depths of the
park had pierced her heart with a terrible fear.
Then she knew that, for a time, the music within had ceased, and that
the company would be swarming that way, to irritate her by questions
that would be a cruel annoyance while the sound of that shot was
ringing in her ears.
Swift as lightning, wild as a night-hawk, the girl darted away from
the vase, leaving a handful of gossamer lace among the thorns of the
roses, and fled down the steps. She took no path, but, guided by that
one sound, dashed through the flower-beds, heedless that her satin
boots sunk into the moist mould, wetting her feet at every step;
heedless that her cloud-like dress trailed over grass and ferns,
gathering up dew like rain; heedless of everything but that one
fearful thought--some one was killed! Was it Walton Hurst?
Lady Rose was in the woods, rushing forward blindly, but jealous
distrust had taught her the way to the cottage, and she went in that
direction straight as an arrow from the bow, and wild as the bird it
strikes. Coming out from the shadow of some great spreading cedar
trees, she saw lying there in the path a man--a white, still face--his
face.
It seemed to her that the shriek which tore her heart rang fearfully
through the woods, but it had died on her lips, and gave forth no
sound, only freezing them to ice as she crept toward the prostrate
man, and laid her face to his.
"Oh, Walton! Oh, my beloved, speak to me! Only breathe once, that I
may hear. Move only a little. Stir your hand. Don't--don't let the
moonlight look into your eyes so! Walton, Walton!"
She laid her cold, white hand over the wide-open eyes of the man as he
lay there, so stiff and ghastly, in the moonlight. She turned his head
aside, and hid those eyes in her bosom, in which the ice seemed to
melt and cast off tears. She looked around for help, yet was afraid
that some one might come and rob her. She had found him; he was there
in her arms. If one life could save another, she would save him. Was
she not armed with the mightiest of all earthly power--great human
love?
Wild, half-frightened by the impulse that was upon her, the girl
looked to the right and left as if she feared the very moonlight would
scoff at her. Then, with timid hesitation, her lips sought the white
mouth of the prostrate man, but her breath was checked with a
shrinking sob. The cold touch terrified her.
Was he dead?
No, no! She would not believe that. There was no sign of violence upon
his face; a still whiteness, like death, a fixed look in the open
eyes; but the moisture that lay around him was only dew. She bathed
her hand in it and held the trembling fingers up to the light, to make
sure of that; and with the conviction came a great sob of relief,
which broke into a wild, glad cry, for a flicker of shade seemed to
tremble over that face, and the eyes slowly closed.
"Oh, my God be thanked! he is alive! My darling! Oh, my darling!"
"Hush!" cried another voice, at her side.
A shadow had fallen athwart the kneeling girl, and another face, more
wildly pale, more keenly disturbed with anguish, looked down upon the
prostrate man, and the young creature who crouched and trembled by his
side.
"Look up, woman, and let me see your face," said Ruth Jessup, in a
voice that scarcely rose above a whisper, though it was strong in
command.
Lady Rose drew herself up, and lifted her piteous face as if appealing
for compassion.
"You!" exclaimed Ruth.
"Yes, Ruth Jessup, it is I, Lady Rose. We will not be angry with each
other, now that he is dead."
"Dead!" repeated Ruth, "and you the first by his side? Dead? Oh, my
God! my God! Has our sin blasted us both?"
Down upon the earth this poor girl sunk, wringing her hands in an
agony of distress. Still Lady Rose looked at her with touching appeal.
She had not comprehended the full force of Ruth's speech, though the
words rested in her brain long after.
"Lay your hand on his heart," she said. "I--I dare not."
Ruth smiled a wan smile, colder than tears; still there was a faint
gleam of triumph in it.
"No!" she said. "You should not dare."
Then the girl thrust her trembling hand down to the bosom her head had
so lately rested upon, and leaning forward, held her breath, while
Lady Rose eagerly searched her features in the moonlight.
"Is--is there nothing?" she whispered.
Ruth could not answer. Her hand shook so fearfully, that its sense of
touch was overwhelmed.
"Oh, speak to me!"
"Hush! I shake so! I shake so!"
Lady Rose bent her head and waited. At last a deep, long breath broke
from Ruth, and a flash of fire shot from her eyes.
"Give me your hand; I dare not trust myself," she whispered.
Seizing the hand which lay helplessly in Lady Rose's lap, she pressed
it over the heart her own had been searching, and fixed her eager eyes
on the lady's face for an answer.
As a faint fire kindles slowly, that fair face brightened till it
shone like a lily in the moonlight. As Ruth looked, she saw a scarcely
perceptible smile stealing over it. Then the lips parted, and a heavy
sigh broke through.
"Is it life?" whispered Ruth. "Tell me, is it life?"
Lady Rose withdrew her hand.
"Yes, faint. Oh! so faint, but life."
Then both these girls broke into a swift passion of tears, and clung
together, uttering soft, broken words of thanksgiving. Ruth was the
first to start from this sweet trance of gratitude.
"What can we do? He must be carried to the house. Ho, father! father!"
She ran up and down the path, crying out wildly, but no answer came.
The stillness struck her with new dread. Where was her father, that he
could not hear her cries? Who had done this thing! Could it be he?
"No, no!--a thousand times, no! But then--"
She went back to Lady Rose, whose hand had nestled back to that poor,
struggling heart.
"Couldn't we carry him, you and I? We must have help," Ruth said, a
little sharply, for the position of the lady stung her.
The question surprised Lady Rose; for never in her life had she been
called upon to make an exertion. But she started to her feet and
flung back the draperies from her arms.
"Yes, he might die here. Let us save him. 'The Rest' is not so far
off."
"'The Rest?' No, no; our cottage is nearest. He might die before we
could get him to 'The Rest.' My father will be there. Oh, I am sure my
father will be there!"
Ruth spoke eagerly, as if some one had disputed her.
"He will be coming this way," she added, "and so help us. Come, come,
let us try!"
Before the two girls could test their strength, footsteps were heard
coming along the path.
"It is my father. Oh, now he can be carried to the cottage in safety."