THE HOUSEKEEPER'S VISIT.
Ruth Jessup was 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 that letter. 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 promulgated this
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 and sit by the window while I bring your exasperating father
to something like reason. No one shall make you cry again, if I know
it."
Ruth went to the window, rather bewildered by the suddenness with
which the good housekeeper had shifted the point of her resentment to
the invalid on the bed. But Mrs. Mason seemed to have entirely
forgotten that she had been sharply dealt with. Seating herself on the
bed, which creaked complainingly under her weight, and settling her
black dress with a great rustle of silk, she dropped into the most
cordial relations with the invalid at once.
"Better and getting up bravely. I can see that. Sir Noel will be more
than glad to hear it. As for the young master, I know the thought of
you is never out of his mind. 'When shall I be well enough to walk
out?' he says, each day, to the surgeon. 'There was another hurt at
the same time with me, and I want to know how he is getting on.'"
"Did he say that, did he?" questioned Jessup, with tears in his eyes;
for sickness had made him weak as a child, and at such times
tear-drops come to the strongest eyes tenderly as dew falls. "Did he
mention me in that way?"
"He did, indeed. Often and often."
"God bless the lad. How could I ever think--"
Jessup broke off, and looked keenly at the housekeeper, as if fearful
of having said too much. But she had heard the blessing, without
regard to the half-uttered conclusion, and echoed it heartily.
"So say I. God bless the young gentleman! For a braver or a brighter
never reigned at 'The Rest,' since its first wall was laid. Well,
well! what is it now?" she added, addressing Ruth, who had left the
window, and was stealing an arm around her neck.
"Nothing, godmother, only I love to hear you talk."
"Well, we were speaking, I think, of the young master. It was he that
persuaded me to come here, and observe for myself how you were getting
on."
"Did he indeed?" murmured Ruth, laying her burning cheek lovingly
against the old lady's.
"Yes, indeed. The weather is over warm for much walking; but how could
I say no when he would trust only me? 'Women,' he said, 'took so much
more notice, being used to sick-rooms,' and he could not rest without
news of your father--something more than 'he is better, or he is
worse,' which could only be got from a person constantly in the
sick-room."
"How anxious! I--I--How kind he is!" said Ruth.
"That he is. Had Jessup been akin to him, instead of a faithful old
servant, he couldn't have shown more feeling."
Ruth sighed, and her sweet face brightened. The housekeeper went on.
"We were by ourselves when he said this, and spoke of the old times
when I could refuse him nothing, in a way that went to my heart, for
it was the truth. So I just kissed his hand--once it would have been
his face--and promised to come and have a chat with you, and see for
myself how it was with Jessup."
"You will say how much better he is."
"Yes, yes! He seems to be getting on famously. No reason for anxiety,
as I shall tell him. Now, Ruth, as your father seems quiet, let us go
down into the garden. I was to bring some fruit from the
strawberry-beds, which he craves, thinking it better than ours."
"Go with her, and pick the finest," said Jessup. "I feel like
sleeping."
"Yes, father, if you can spare me."
The housekeeper moved toward the door, having shaken hands with
Jessup, cautioned him against taking cold, and recommending a free use
of port wine and other strengthening drinks, which, she assured him,
would set him up sooner than all the medicines in the world.