CHAPTER XXXVI.

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.