"And after that?"

"I don't know what d.i.c.k did."

"But Mr. Hurst?"

"He--he stayed a while. I was so frightened, so--"

"Ah, he stayed a while. That was kind."

"Very kind, father!"

"Ruth," said the gardener, struggling with himself to speak firmly, and yet with kindness, "there was something more. After d.i.c.k left, or before that, did Mr. Hurst--that is, were you more forgiving to him than you were to Storms?"

"I--I do not understand, father."

She does understand, thought Jessup, turning his eyes away from her burning face, heart-sick with apprehension. Then he nerved himself, and spoke again.

"Ruth, I met d.i.c.k in the park, and he made a strange charge against you."

"Against me!"

"He says that insults greater than he would have dared to offer, but for which he was kicked from my door, were forgiven to young Mr.

Hurst. Nay, that you encouraged them."

"And you believed this, father?" questioned the girl, turning her eyes full upon those that were searching her face with such questioning anxiety.

"No, Ruth, I did not want to believe him; but how happened it that the young master came here so late at night?"

"Oh, father! Why do you question me so sharply?"

The panic that whitened Ruth's face, the terror that shook her voice, gave force to the suspicion that poor man had been trying so hard to quench. It stung him like a serpent now, and he started up, exclaiming:

"With one or the other, there is an account to be settled before I sleep."

William Jessup seized his cap and went out into the park, leaving Ruth breathless with astonishment. She stole to the window, and looked after him, seized with uncontrollable dread. How long she sat there Ruth could never tell; but after a while, the stillness of the night was broken by the sharp report of a gun.

CHAPTER XX.

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 ma.s.ses 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 gra.s.s 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 G.o.d 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 compa.s.sion.

"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 G.o.d! my G.o.d! 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.