UNDER THE IVY.
Ruth needed no recommendation to watch the beautiful little vehicle
that flashed down the avenue, a perfect nest of bright colors, over
which the sunlight shone with peculiar resplendence, while the
spirited black horse whirled it out of sight.
"Isn't she fit for a queen?" said Mrs. Mason, triumphantly, as she
wheeled round, and sought her chair again.
Ruth heard, but did not answer. A man was passing across the lawn, who
occupied her full attention.
"Isn't that Mr. Webb?" she questioned.
Mrs. Mason half lifted herself out of the chair she was always
reluctant to leave, and having obtained a view of the man, settled
back again.
"Yes, that is Webb; and I say, Ruth, you had better follow, and give
him that letter. He will be going back to the young master's room, in
less than half an hour. He only leaves it to get a mouthful of air at
any time. Your letter is sure of a safe delivery with Webb."
"Thank you--thank you! It will be best. Good-morning, godmother!
good-morning!"
A swift clasp of two arms about her neck, a fluttering kiss on her
lips, and the good woman was left alone, resting back in her
easy-chair, with half-closed eyes, while a bland smile hovered over
her plump mouth.
"What a loving little soul it is!" she muttered. "Peaches, ripe for
preserving, are not sweeter; and as for inward goodness, she has not
her match in the three kingdoms."
Mrs. Mason might not have been quite so tranquil had she seen Ruth
just then, for, with the speed of a lapwing, she had turned an angle
of the house, where her own namesake, the ivy, had already clambered,
wreathing a carved stone balcony with its greenness. Scarcely pausing
to breathe, she pushed the vines aside, and treading some of the
tender twigs under her feet, flew up the narrow steps which were but
just made visible under the wreathing masses of foliage.
"If she can mount them, I will find the way," was her swift and
half-triumphant thought. "Oh, Heaven grant that the window is
unfastened!"
Her foot was on the carved work of the balcony; her scarlet jacket
gleamed through the plate-glass, and flashed its vivid red through the
clustering ivy leaves. Breathless with excitement, she tried the
window-sash with her hand. It gave way, and swung inward with a faint
jar. She was in the room with her husband, yet afraid to approach him.
There he was, lying upon a low couch, wrapped in the folds of an
oriental dressing-gown, and pillowed on a cushion of silk, embroidered
in so many rich colors, that the contrast made his white face ghastly.
What if, after all, he did not love her? What if he should wake up
alarmed, and made angry by her intrusion?
There is no feeling known to a woman's heart so timid, so unreasoning,
so exacting, as love: pride, devotion, humility--a dozen contending
elements--come into action when that one passion is disturbed, and it
would be rashness to say which of these emotions may predominate at
any given time. Perfect confidence either in herself or the creature
of her love is unusual in most characters--impossible in some.
Ruth had entered that room full of enthusiasm, ready to dare anything;
but the sight of a sleeping man, one that she loved, too, with
overpowering devotion, was enough to make a coward of her in a single
moment. Still, like a bird fascinated by the glittering vibrations of
a serpent, she drew toward the couch, and bent over the sleeper,
holding her own breath, and smiling softly as his passed over her
parted lips.
Ah, how pale he was! How the shadows came and went across his white
forehead! Was he angry with her even in his sleep? Did he know how
near she was, and resent it?
No, no! If he knew anything in that profound slumber, the knowledge
was pleasant, for a smile stole over his face, and some
softly-whispered words trembled from his lips.
"My darling! oh, my darling!"
Ruth dropped on her knees by the bed, and pressed both hands to her
mouth, thus smothering the cry of joy that rose to it. Her movements
had been noiseless as the flutter of a bird--so noiseless that the
sleeper was not disturbed. After a while she lifted her head, stole
her arms timidly over that sleeping form, and dropped a kiss, light as
the fall of a rose-leaf, on those parted lips.
"Oh, my love, my love," she murmured, in sounds scarcely louder than a
thought. "Look at me, look at me, if it is only for one moment."
Hurst opened his eyes, and smiling vaguely, as sick men smile in
dreams. That instant a noise was heard at the door, footsteps and
voices. Ruth snatched the letter from her bosom, crushed it into the
invalid's hand, left a passionate kiss with it, and fled out of the
window, and down the ivy-choked steps. There, trembling and
frightened, she shrunk into an angle of the stone window-case, and
dragging the ivy over her, strove to hide herself until some chance of
escaping across the garden offered. She had left the sash open in her
haste, and could hear sounds from the room above with tolerable
distinctness. The first was the sharp exclamation of a man's voice. He
seemed to be walking hurriedly across the room, and spoke in strong
remonstrance.
"What, up, Mr. Walton, trying to walk, and the window wide open upon
you? What will the doctor say? What shall I answer to Lady Rose, who
bade me watch by you every minute, till she came back?"
Some faint words, in a voice that thrilled poor Ruth to the soul,
seemed to be given in reply to this expostulation. But, listen as she
would, the meaning escaped her.
Then a louder voice spoke again.
"Ah, but how am I to answer to her ladyship, or Sir Noel, either?
"'Webb,' says she, 'they will all have it so. I must take the air, or
be shut out from here when I am really most needed. But you will not
leave him? There must be some one to answer when he speaks.'
"Well, I promised her. If any one could gainsay a wish of my Lady
Rose, that one isn't old Webb. But you were sleeping so sweetly, sir,
and I knew that the first word would be about Jessup: so I ran over to
get the news about him."
Here a hurried question was asked, in which Ruth distinguished her own
name.
"Nay, nay. The girl was away somewhere, no doubt, for I found the
doors locked, and could get no sight of any one. But let me shut this
window, the air will be too cold."
There seemed to be some protest, and a good-natured dispute, in which
the sick man prevailed, for directly the couch on which he lay was
wheeled up to the window, and Ruth caught one glimpse of an eager face
looking out.
The girl would have given her life to run up those steps again, and
whisper one word to the man whom she felt was watching for her. She
did creep out from her covert, and had mounted a step, when Webb
spoke again.
"Nay, nay, sir. This will never do. The window must be closed. An east
wind is blowing."
A noise of the closing window followed, and with a sigh Ruth shrunk
back to her shelter against the wall, disappointed, but trembling all
over with the happiness of having seen him.
What cared she for Lady Rose then? Had he not looked into her eyes
with the old, fond glance? Had he not reached out his arms in a quick
passion of delight as she fled from him? Was he not her husband, her
own, own husband?
There, in the very midst of her fright, and her newly-fledged joy, the
young wife drew the wedding-ring from her bosom, and kissed it,
rapturously murmuring:
"He loves me! He loves me! and what else do I care for? Nothing,
nothing, in the wide wide, world!"
But in the midst of this unreasoning outburst, poor Ruth remembered
the father she had left a wounded prisoner in the cottage, and a spasm
of pain shot through her. Ah, if she were sure, if she were only sure
that no secret was kept from her there. But it must be right. Some
great misunderstanding had arisen to distress her father beyond the
pain of his wounds. But when the two beings she most loved on earth
were well enough to meet and explain, all would be clear and bright
again. Her husband had the letter safe in his hands. She would go home
at once, and tell her father that, and afterward steal off alone, and
feast on the happiness that made her very breath a joy.
Out, through the rose-thickets, the clustering honeysuckles, and the
beds of blooming flowers, Ruth stole, like a bee, overladen with
honey, and carried her happiness back to the cottage.