SITTING AT THE WINDOW.
Ruth Jessup had no courage to attempt another interview with her
bridegroom. Every morning she made an excuse to visit "The Rest" with
fruit from her own garden, always accompanied by the choicest flowers
arranged with a touch of loving art, which he began to read eagerly,
now that he knew from whom they came. Once or twice she met Sir Noel,
who, for the first time in his life, seemed to avoid her. The pleasant
greeting which her rare beauty and brightness had been sure to win
from him, no longer welcomed her; but was enchanged for a grave bow,
and sometimes--so her tender conscience read the change--by a look of
reproach. Lady Rose she purposely shunned; partly because a sense of
deception hung heavily upon her, and partly because of the restless
jealousy, which sprang out of her own intense love, that admitted no
other worshipper near her idol.
Mrs. Mason, too, had taken to lecturing her, making her discourse
offensive by constant allusions to young Storms, and the household
arrangements which must soon be made at the farm. No denial or protest
left the least impression on the good dame, who had made up her mind
that such things were to be expected from over-sensitive girls like
Ruth, and must not be set down against them as falsehoods, being, at
the worst, only a forgivable exaggeration of natural modesty. Besides,
she had taken an opportunity to speak to the young man himself, who
had laughed knowingly when she told him of Ruth's denial of all
engagement between them, and replied that a woman of her age ought to
be old enough to understand that a girl's "no" always meant "yes" when
the time came. For his part, he was only waiting for the lease to be
signed. Anyway, Ruth would set no day till that was done, and no blame
either. So if Mrs. Mason wanted to do her goddaughter a good turn and
stop people from talking, she had better help that on. Everybody knew
that she had great influence with Sir Noel, and the lease was all that
was wanted to make things go smoothly between him and her goddaughter.
Against all this evidence it is not wonderful that the housekeeper
went quietly on with her preparations, and gave no heed to Ruth's
denials, tearful and even angry as they often were.
All this was very hard on Ruth, who found herself miserably baffled at
every point. All her friends seemed to have dropped away from her.
Their very affection was turned into mockery by persistent disbelief
of all she said. She still hovered about the great house each morning
as a frightened bird flutters around its nest, but with little chance
of satisfaction, for, except the housekeeper's room, all the
establishment seemed closed to her.
One day the poor girl saw her husband on the flower-terrace, moving
slowly up and down among the roses, and a cry of such exquisite
delight broke from her, that Mrs. Mason rose from her easy-chair and
came to the window, curious to know what had called it forth.
What was going on? What had she seen to brighten her face so? Had the
sullen old peacock at last spread himself, or was she wondering at the
great bloom of roses? Something out of the common had happened to set
that pale face into such a glow. Would Ruth tell her what it was?
No, Ruth could not tell her, for the color had all died out of her
face while the old woman was talking, and the glorious show of flowers
had turned to a misty cloud, in which a beautiful young woman was
floating, angel-like, toward her husband, and he went to meet her.
Lifting both hands to her face, Ruth shut out the sight, and when Mrs.
Mason insisted on questioning her, turned upon the good woman like a
hunted doe, and, stamping her foot, declared, with great tears
flashing in her eyes, that nothing was the matter. Only--only so much
watching made her nervous, hysterical, some people might call it; but
that did not matter. Laughing and crying amounted to the same thing.
She would go home. There nobody would trouble themselves about her.
With this reckless burst of feeling, Ruth flung herself away from the
outstretched arms of her half-frightened godmother, and ran home,
sobbing as she went. Would this miserable state of anxiety never end?
Must she go on forever with this awful feeling gnawing at her heart?
Would this longing for protection, this baffled tenderness, ever meet
with a response? Ah, she understood now the depths of God's punishment
to poor Eve, when the angel was placed at the gates of Paradise to
keep her out. Was Lady Rose chosen to guard her Paradise, because of
the sin through which she had entered it? How like a glorious angel
she looked in the soft whiteness and tender blue of garments that
floated around her like a cloud. How bright and rich were the waves
and curls of her hair! Surely no angel ever could be more beautiful!
This passion of feeling, which combined so many elements of unrest,
was thrown into abeyance when Ruth got home; for, looking up, with her
hand on the gate, she saw her father sitting at the chamber-window
waiting for her. It was the first time he had crossed the floor since
his illness. The thought that he had made the dangerous attempt alone
struck her with dismay.
"Oh, father, how could you?" was her first anxious question as she
entered the room. "Have I been gone so long that you got impatient?"
"No, no! I felt better, and took a longing to look on the garden. I
never was so many days without seeing it before," said the old man. "I
think it has done me good, child."
"I hope so. I hope so, father!"
"See how well I walk. Never fear, lass. The old father will soon be
about again."
The gardener got up from his chair with some difficulty and walked
across the room, waving Ruth aside when she offered to support him.
"Nay, nay, let me try it alone," he said, with feeble triumph.
"To-morrow I shall be getting down-stairs. I only hope the young
master is as strong."
"Oh, father, he is better; I saw him on the terrace this morning."
"Ah, that is brave. But how did he look? Thin, like me?"
"No, not like you, father. He was always more slender, you know; but I
think he was pale."
"Of course, of course. He has a hard bout. Not this, though, and I'm
thankful for it."
Jessup put one hand to his wounded breast as he spoke, and Ruth
observed, with anxiety, that he breathed with difficulty.
"You must not try to walk again, father," she said, arranging his
pillows and wiping the drops from his forehead. "It exhausts you."
"Nothing of the kind, lass. I shall be all the stronger in an hour.
Why, at the end of three days, I mean to walk over to 'The Rest,' and
have a talk with the young master."
"Oh, how I wish you could!"
"Could? I will. I thought he would have answered my letter by a word,
if no more. But I have no doubt he is o'er weak for writing. Anyhow,
we shall soon know."
Again Ruth breathed freely. The father was right. In a few days she
would hear directly from her husband--perhaps see him. If he wished
it, as she did, nothing could keep him away, now that he had once gone
into the open air. Surely she was brave enough to bear her burden a
little longer.
It was growing dark, now. Jessup had been at rest most of the time;
for, in his feeble state, crossing that room had wearied him as no
journey could have done in health.
Ruth had been restless as a caged bird all day. Her load of
apprehension regarding her father had been relieved only that the
keener trouble, deep down in her woman's heart, should come uppermost
with new force. Those two persons among the roses on the terrace
haunted her like one of those pictures which the brain admires and the
heart loathes. Was not this man her husband? Had he not sworn to love
her, and her alone? What right had Lady Rose by his side? How dared
she look into those eyes whose love-light was all her own only a few
weeks ago? Alas! those weary, weary weeks! How they had dragged and
torn at her life! How old she had grown since that circlet of gold had
been hidden in her bosom!
Ruth was very sad that evening,--sad, and strangely haunted. It seemed
to her that, more than ever, she was waiting for some great
catastrophe. Black clouds seemed gathering all around her;
difficulties that she had no strength to fathom or combat seemed to
people the clouds with ruin. Yet all was vague and dreary. The poor
child was worn out with loneliness and watching.
All at once she heard a footstep. Not the one she dreaded, but the
slow, faltering walk of some person who hesitated, or paused, perhaps,
for breath.
Up to her feet the girl sprang, leaned forward, and listened, holding
down her heart with both trembling hands, and checking the breath on
her parted lips.
The door opened softly.
"Ruth!"
She sprang forward, her arms outstretched, a glorious smile
transfiguring her face.
"Oh, my beloved! My husband!"
She led him to the little couch on which so many bitter tears had told
of her misery. He was worn out with walking, and fell upon it, smiling
as she raised his head from the cushions, and pillowed it on her
bosom, folding in his weakness with her young arms.
"It may kill me, but I could not keep away. Oh, my darling, how I have
longed for a sight of you!" said the young husband.
Ruth gathered him closer in her arms, and, forgetting everything but
his presence, kissed the very words from his smiling lips.
"Ah, you have come. It is enough! It is enough!"
Something startled her; a faint noise near the door. She lifted her
head, and there stood her father, looking wildly upon her--upon him.
Before she could move or speak, the old man swayed, uttered one faint
moan, and fell across the threshold.