CHAPTER L.

YOUNG HURST AND LADY ROSE.

It was a bright day at "Norston's Rest," when the young heir came from his sick-chamber, for the first time, and, leaning on Webb, entered the pretty little parlor in which Lady Rose had made his bouquet the evening he was hurt. She sat waiting for him now, demurely busy with some trifle of richly-tinted embroidery, which, having a dainty taste, she had selected, I dare say, because it gave a touch of rich color to her simple white dress, looped here and there into soft clouds by a broad blue sash, which might have lacked effect but for this artistic device. Perhaps the invalid understood this, for he smiled when the fair patrician just lifted her eyes, as if his coming had been quite unimportant to her, and settled down into one of the loveliest pictures imaginable, working away at her tinted silks with fingers that quivered among them, and eyes that no whiteness of lid or thickness of lash could keep from beaming out their happiness.

There had been a time when this fair girl would have sprung from her seat and met him at the threshold; but now, she bent lower over her work, fearing that he might see how warmly-red her cheek was getting, and wonder at it. Indeed he well might wonder, for what word of love had he ever spoken that should have set her heart to beating so, when she first heard his uncertain step on the stairs?

All at once the young lady remembered that she was acting strangely. Starting up, she gave him her place among the blue cushions of her own favorite couch; then sat down on a low ottoman, and fell to work again.

"How natural everything looks!" said the young man, gazing languidly around. "I could be sworn, Rose, that you were working on that same bit of embroidery the day I was hurt."

Lady Rose blushed vividly. She had snatched the embroidery from her work-table, as she heard him coming, and was in fact working on the same leaf in which her needle had been left that day.

"We have all been so anxious," she said, gently.

"And all about me--troublesome fellow that I am. It may be fancy, Lady Rose, but my father seems to have suffered more than I have."

"He has, indeed, suffered. One month seems to have aged him more than years should have done," said the young lady.

"Have I been in such terrible danger then?"

"For a time we thought you in great danger, and were in sad suspense." She spoke with hesitation, and Hurst noticed it with some surprise.

"Why, Rose," he said, "it seems to me as if you had changed, also. What has come over you all?"

"Nothing, but great thankfulness that you are better, Walton."

"And do you care so much for me? I hardly thought it," said the young man, a little sadly.

"Oh, Walton, can you ask?"

The great blue eyes, lifted to his, were swimming in tears, yet the quivering lips made a brave effort to smile.

A painful thought struck him then, and his heart sunk like lead under it.

"It would be a strange thing if you had not felt anxious, Rose; for no brother ever loved an only sister better than I have loved you."

As he uttered these words, Hurst was watching that fair young face with keen interest. He saw the color fade from it, until the rich red of the beautiful mouth had all died away. Then he gathered the silken cushion roughly together, so as to shade his own face, and a faint groan came from him.

"Are you in pain?" questioned the young lady, bending over him. "Can I do anything?"

Her breath floated across his mouth, her loose curls swept downward, and almost touched him.

The young man turned his face to the wall, and made no answer. He was heart-sick.

And so was she even to faintness.

He lay minute after minute, buried in thought. The young lady had no other refuge for her wounded pride, so she fell to work again; but not on the same object. Now she sat down to a drawing of the Black Lake. The old summer-house was a principal object in the foreground, and the banks, heavy with rushes, and broken with ravines, completed a gloomy but picturesque scene, which had a wonderfully artistic effect.

"What are you doing there?" questioned Hurst, after a long silence.

"It is a sketch of the lake which I am trying to finish up at once, in case pretty Ruth Jessup takes us by surprise."

There was something in the girl's voice, as she said this, that made Hurst rise slowly to his elbow.

"Takes us by surprise! What do you mean, Rose?"

"Oh, haven't you heard? I forget. Webb was told not to disturb you with gossip; but Ruth's little flirtation with young Storms has been progressing famously since you were hurt, and I am thinking of this for a wedding gift."

"For a wedding gift! Ruth Jessup--young Storms. What romance is this?"

The young man spoke sharply, sitting upright, his face whiter than illness had left it, and his eyes shining with more than feverish lustre.

"I do not know that it is a romance," answered Lady Rose. "At any rate, I hope not. Ruth is a good, sweet girl, and would never encourage a man to the extent she does, if a marriage were not understood; besides, old Storms was here only a day or two ago wanting more land included in his new lease, because his son thought of setting up for himself."

"Setting up for himself! The hound!" exclaimed Hurst, between his teeth. "And Sir Noel. I dare say he gave the land. He has always been exceptionally eager to portion off pretty Ruth. Of course, old Storms got the lease."

"I do not know," answered Lady Rose.

"But I mean that this farce shall go no farther. This man Storms is a knave, and should be dealt with as such."

"I am inclined to think Ruth Jessup does not believe this, for scarcely a night passes that she is not seen with him in the park."

"Seen with him! What! My--With him!"

"So it is understood in the servants' hall."

"The servants' hall!"

Hurst fairly ground his teeth with rage. Had Ruth's good name fallen so low that it was a matter of criticism in the servants' hall?

"You know Mrs. Mason is her godmother?"

"Well!"

"And, of course, takes a deep interest in the matter. She talks all her troubles over with Mrs. Hipple, and even came to me about the wedding gifts. Of course, I took an interest. Ruth has so long been the pet of the house, and I love her; that is, there was a time when I loved her dearly."

"Loved her dearly? And now you speak with tears in your voice, as if that pleasant time had passed. Why is that, Lady Rose?"

The young lady's voice sunk low as she answered,

"I--I think we have both changed."

"But there must be some reason for this. What has Ruth done that you should shrink away from her?"

"Perhaps she feels the difference of position," faltered Rose.

"But that has changed in nothing, at least in her disfavor," answered Hurst, flushing red with a remembrance of that day in the little church.

"She was so dainty, so sweetly retiring. It seemed to me impossible that she could ever have been brought to care for a man like young Storms. Now, that it is so, can I help feeling separated?"

"By Heavens! Lady Rose--" The young man checked himself suddenly, adding, with haughty decision, "We have dropped into a strange discussion, and are handling the name of a young girl with less delicacy than becomes me, at least. Shall we speak of something else?"

A flood of haughty crimson, and a struggle against the tears that rose in spite of herself, was all the reply this curt speech received from Lady Rose. The poor girl was not quite sure of her own disinterested judgment. For the world, she would not have said a word against Ruth, believing that word false; but she was conscious of such infinite relief when the news came to her of the engagement between Ruth Jessup and Storms, that the joy of it made her self-distrustful. How could she be glad that a creature so bright, so delicate, and thoroughly well-bred, should be mated with this keen, sinister man, whom no one loved, and who was held, she knew well, in little respect by his own class? Was she willing to see this sacrifice, that her own jealous fears might be appeased, and did Walton Hurst suspect the feelings which were a wound to her own delicacy? Were his last brief words a reproach to her?

Tears of wounded pride, and bitter self-distrust, rose to her eyes, so thick and fast, that the lady almost fled from the room, that Hurst might not hear the sobs that she had no power to suppress.