THE BIRD AND THE SERPENT.
"Go. It may be news," said the sick man.
Before Ruth could reach the door she met Richard Storms coming toward
her father's room. His manner was less audacious than usual, and his
face clouded.
"I have come to ask after your father," he said, with an anxious look,
as if he expected some rebuff. "They say that he has been shot in the
back by some lurking thief. Perhaps I could help ferret out who it is
if the old man'll tell me all about it."
"Father is too ill for talking," answered Ruth, shrinking out of her
visitor's path. "He must be kept quiet."
"Of course; but not from neighbors like us. The old man at the farm
sent me over to hear all about it."
"There is nothing to hear. Everybody knows how my poor father was
found bleeding in the park. He has been very ill since, and is only
now coming to himself."
"Oh! ah! Then he has come to his senses. That was what we most wanted
to know; for, of course, he can tell who shot him. I'll be sworn it is
guessed at rightly enough. Still knowing is knowing."
As he spoke, Storms moved forward, as if determined to enter the sick
man's chamber.
Ruth had no means of stopping him. She retreated backward, step by
step, shrinking from his approach, but without the least power of
resistance. When she reached the door, Storms put forth his hand and
attempted to put her aside, not rudely; but she so loathed his touch,
that a faint cry broke from hers.
A look of bitter malice broke over the young man's face as he bent it
close to her.
"You didn't scream so when the young master took my place the night
all this trouble came up. I could tell something of what chanced
between your sweetheart and the old man, after he went out with my gun
in his hand."
"You know--you can tell? You saw?" whispered the poor girl, rendered
hoarse by fear.
"Ah, that makes you whimper, does it? That starts the blood from your
white face. Yes, I saw--I saw; and when the courts want to know what I
saw they will hear about it. Kicked dogs bite now and then. So don't
gather your comely little self into a heap, when I come by again, or
my tongue may be loosened. I have kept it between my teeth till now,
for the sake of old times, when you were ready to smile when I came
and were sorry when I went."
"But we were children then."
"Yes; but when he came with his dainty wooing, some one forgot that
she had ever been a child."
"No, no! As a playmate, I liked you. It was when--when--"
"When, having the feelings of a man, I spoke them out, and was treated
like a dog. Do not think I will ever forget that. No, never--never, to
my dying day."
"Why are you so harsh with me, Richard?" cried the poor girl, now
thoroughly terrified. "I never in my whole life have done you harm."
The young man laughed a low, disagreeable laugh.
"Harm! Oh, no! Such milk-white doves as you never harm anything. They
only fire a man's heart with love, then torment him with it, like
witches--soft-spoken, smiling witches--that make us devils with their
jibes, and idiots with their tears. Oh, I hardly know which is most
enticing, love or hate, for such creatures."
"Don't! don't! You frighten me!" pleaded the girl.
"Aye, there it is. Faint at a plain word; but work out murder and
bloodshed with the witchcraft of your false smiles and lying tears.
That is what you have done, Ruth Jessup."
"No! no!" cried the girl, putting up her hands.
"Who was it that set her own father and sweetheart at each other?"
"Hush! I will not hear this. It is false--it is cruel. There was no
quarrel between them--no evil blood."
"No quarrel--no evil blood! She says that, looking meek as a
spring-lamb, chewing the lie in her mouth as that does clover. But
what if I tell you that the old man in yonder knew just all that
happened after I was turned out of the kitchen that night?"
"It was you who told him that which might have brought great trouble
on him and me; only good men are slow to believe evil of those they
love. I knew from his own lips that you had waylaid him in the park
with a wicked falsehood."
"It was the truth, every word of it," exclaimed Storms, stamping his
foot on the floor. "I saw it with my own eyes."
"Saw what?" faltered the girl, sick with apprehension.
"Saw! But I need not tell you. Only the next time Sir Noel's heir
comes here, with his orders for flowers, and his wanting to know all
about growing roses, have a curtain to the kitchen window, or train
the ivy thicker over it. Now do you understand?"
"It is you who cannot understand," said Ruth, feeling a glow of
courage, which the young man mistook for shame. "The thing you did was
a mean act, and if I had never hated you before, that would be cause
enough."
"This is brass. After all, I did think to see some sign of shame."
Ruth turned away, faint with terror and disgust.
"You may thank me that I told no one but the old man in yonder. Had I
gone to Sir Noel--"
"No, no--you could not; you dare not!"
"Dare not! Well, now, I like that. Some day you will know how much I
dare."
"But why--why do you wish to injure me?"
"Why does a hound snap when you mock him with a dainty bit of beef,
and while his mouth waters, and his eyes gloat, toss it beyond his
reach? You have learned something of the kennels, Ruth Jessup, and
should know that men and hounds are alike in this."
Ruth could hardly suppress the scorn that crept through her into
silence. But she felt that this man held an awful power over
everything she loved, and gave no expression to her bitter loathing.
"Do you mean to let me in?" said Storms, almost coaxingly. "I want to
have a word with the old man."
Ruth stood aside. She dared not oppose him; but when free to pass, he
hesitated, and a look of nervous anxiety came over his features.
"The old man doesn't speak much; hasn't said how it all happened, ha?"
"He has said nothing about it," answered Ruth, struck with new terror.
The look of cool audacity came back to her enemy's face, and, without
more ceremony, he pushed his way into the wounded man's room.