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!