CHAPTER LXVIII.FORSAKING HER HOME.RUTHstood perfectly motionless, until the light tread of Lady Rose died out on the turf. Then she sat down and fell into thought, so deep and dreary, that it seemed like waking from a trance, when she looked up, and saw that the west was all aflame with scarlet, and drenched in great seas of gold. Then she arose, and went into her little chamber. Up to this time her eyes had been dry; but some tender recollection seemed to strike her, as she looked around, and instantly they were flooded with tears. She busied herself about the old-fashioned bureau a while, apparently selecting such little objects as her husband had, from time to time, given her. Then she took the prayer-book from her toilet, in order to secure the marriage certificate, which had been placed between its leaves."They must not find this here," she thought. "Nothing shall be left to show that he ever loved me."Then she took the ring from her bosom, and, folding it up in a bit of silk paper with pathetic care, laid that, too, within the leaves of the book, and made a package of the whole.It was dark now, and, for a little time, she lay down upon her white bed, and there, with folded hands, strove to reason with herself. "When the man who hates him so hears all, and knows that the poor girl he is hunting to death is far, far beyond the reach of love or hate, he will content himself with the lady's land and gold," she thought. "She, too, will go away, and find happiness; for he will seek her out, not too soon, I know that, but after a while, and never knowing how it came to be so, will give his heart to her."Then I shall be forgotten—forgotten! Ah, me, why was I born to bring such trouble on every one that loved me? He will mourn. Oh, yes, he will mourn! He never can help that, for he loved me—he loved me!"She thought this all over and over, with mournful persistency. The spirit of self-sacrifice was strong upon her; but not the less did all the sweet tenderness of her woman's nature dwell upon the objects of love she was giving up.The night darkened. She heard the old clock down-stairs tolling out the hours that were numbered to her now. Then she got up, struck a light, and opened her desk. There was something to be written—a painful thing to be done.The paper was before her, the pen in her hand. What could she say? how begin a letter which was to rend the heart that loved her? How could she make that young husband comprehend the anguish with which she cast herself on the earth to save him, when he was consciousof no danger! She began to write swiftly, paused, and fell into thought; began again, and went on, sobbing piteously, and forming her words almost at random.When her letter was finished, she folded it, cast her arms across the desk, and broke the solemn silence of the room with low, faint moans, that are the most painful expression of hopeless anguish.Again the clock struck, and every brazen time-call fell on her heart like a bullet. She got up, as if in obedience to some cruel command. Instead of her scarlet jacket, and the hat, whose cluster of red roses gleamed in the candle-light, she put on the soft gray dress worn on that fatal wedding morning. Then she placed the letter she had written on the prayer-book. After this, Ruth went slowly down-stairs, carrying the candle and package in one hand.A gust of wind from the door, as she opened it, put out the light. Thus she left nothing but darkness in her old home.Ruth looked around warily, for even in that fearful hour she remembered the threat of her tormentor, and dreaded some harm to the beloved being she was determined to save.The moon was buried in clouds, storm-clouds, that made the whole landscape funereal, like the heart of that poor girl. She went through shrubberies and flower-beds, straight toward the window of Walton Hurst's room. Pulling aside the ivy, she mounted the half-concealed step, not cautiously, as she had done on another occasion, but with a concentration of feeling which left fear behind.It was a warm, close night, and a leaf of the casement was partly open. She thrust it back, with a swiftnessthat gave no sound, and stepped into the room. Hurst was lying on the bed asleep. Illness had left its traces upon his features, and his hands lay clasped, loosely, on the counterpane. Something more sombre than the shadows thrown by the dim lamp lay upon his fine face. Anxiety had done its work, as well as sickness.Ruth stood by the bed, motionless, almost calm. The supreme misery of her life had come. She had no sobs to keep back, no tears to hide—despair had locked up all the tenderness of grief with an iron hand. She was about to part with that sleeping man forever and ever. He was her bridegroom: she must give him up, that his honor, nay, his very life might be saved.The prayer-book that she carried in her hand contained, she believed, all the proofs of a marriage that had been more unfortunate than death. No one must ever see them. They were a fatal secret, which she gave up to her husband's keeping alone. She laid the book upon the counterpane, close to his folded hands, not daring to touch them, lest the misery within her might break out in cries of anguish. Then she stood mute and still, gazing down upon him, minute after minute, while the light shone dimly on the dumb agony of her face. At last, she bent down, touched his forehead with her lips, and fled.CHAPTER LXIX.THE SOUL'S DANGER.HOW, and by what way, that poor young creature came out on the verge of the Black Lake she could not have told. When she came down those balcony steps she had left the world behind her. Filled with an insane idea of self-martyrdom, she went onward and onward as rudderless boats reel through a storm.Now she stood among the rushes—clouds over her head, a great sea of inky waters weltering away from her feet—gloom and blackness everywhere. The old lake house flung down uncouth shadows on one hand, a gnarled oak pushed its gaunt limbs far over the waters on the other. The rushes around her swayed and moaned in the wind like living things in pain.Was it this weird picture that brought Ruth to a sense of her own condition? Did it seem to her as if she had already accomplished her purpose, and was entering upon its punishment? Who can answer for the impulses of a soul in its passions of distress? No two events are alike in all the tumultuous actions of life. When the destinies of a human being can be turned by a chance thought, a careless word, even a sunbeam, more or less, what intellect can fathom the exact thing that sways it for good or evil? One might have thought that the gloom of this picture would intensify the dark resolve that had urged that young creature on to death. Instead of that, it came upon her with a great shock, and she stood there among the rushes appalled.Was it by that dark way she could hope to find her father?As she asked this question an awful fear came upon her. She walked slowly backward, with her eyes fixed upon the water, breathing heavier and heavier, as the rushes swayed to their place between her and them. Thus she drew away from the awful danger to the threshold of the lake house. There she sat down.What was this thing she had promised to do? A great crime which would shut her out from her father's presence forever and ever, which would make it impossible to meet her young husband through all eternity. She was willing to die for him—the agony was nothing. Had she not suffered more than that over and over again? But to give him up here and beyond those black waters was more than she could force upon her soul.Beyond all this, the delicate organism of her being shrunk from that which might come to her body after death. She saw, as if it were a real presence, herself sinking, sinking down into the blackness of those waters, her limbs, so full of life now, limp and dead, tangled in the coarse grasses, or seized upon by some undercurrent, and dragged down into the depths of the earth. Worse still, coarse men might, with mistaken kindness, search the waters, and lift her from them in the very presence of her husband; who would see the face he had kissed swollen, the sodden lengths of her hair trailing the—the—She could not bear these thoughts; they made existence itself unreal. She pushed the hair back from her face, as if expecting to find it dripping; she lifted both hands to her lips and laughed aloud when she found them dry. She folded both arms over her bosom and clasped herself in, sobbing out her relief that he had been saved from the anguish of seeing her dead. Butnot the less was she doomed. It was not the sacrifice that she shrunk from, but the crime. This moral force kept the girl back from her fate, but in no way lessened the spirit of self-abnegation that had brought her to the lake. Only how would she carry that into effect without crime? How could she take herself out of the way and be dead to every one that she loved? The fearful necessities of her case gave vigor to each thought, as it passed through her mind, and these thoughts were taking vague form, when the sounds of footsteps and of voices, speaking low and at intervals, startled her. Looking through the darkness she saw two forms coming down the brief descent along which a path led to the lake house. She had risen, and was looking for some place of refuge when a voice reached her, and darting around the old building she stole up the bank and away through the wildness.It was the voice of Richard Storms.Ruth went back to the cottage and searched the darkened rooms for the desk in which her father had kept his money. She placed what was found there in her pocket, with the key which had let her through the park-gate on that other eventful day of her life, and went out into the night again. She reached the gate, turned the lock, and taking the highway, walked rapidly toward the nearest railroad station.A train was in sight. She had scarcely time to secure a ticket when it swept up to the platform. The guard half pushed her into a second-class car, and she was borne away toward London.There in the solitude which seems most forlorn, she fell into a trance, in which all the faculties of her mind were self-centred—all the information she had ever receivedfrom her father or any other source presented itself for her use.She would not save even her own husband by a crime. That idea she put utterly aside, knowing that to live was a choice of deeper suffering and more cruel martyrdom. But she must be dead to him—dead to the whole world. Her name, humble as it was, should not betray her. She would go, no matter where, but so far as the money in her pocket would allow. Her father had sometimes talked of places beyond the great ocean, where people of small means, or made desperate from misfortune, sought a new life. All that she had read of such places came vividly to her remembrance—how people went on shipboard, and were months and months out to sea, where they were happy enough to die sometimes. Perhaps God would be so merciful to her.With these thoughts taking form in her mind Ruth found herself in London.CHAPTER LXX.ON THE TRAIN.ATthe station, which Richard Storms had designated, Judith Hart had been waiting while three or four trains went by. She did not travel much by railroads, and this was almost like a new experience to her. She had brought no luggage, for the pretty dress of black and scarlet, that Storms had given her, was the only portion of her wardrobe worth taking away, and she had put that on with a womanly desire to please his parents with herappearance, which certainly was that of a beautiful, if not highly-bred, girl.It was getting dark when a train came up, and Storms, recognizing her on the platform, made the signal agreed upon, though his face clouded over, and he stifled an oath between his teeth when he saw how conspicuous the dress made her."I might have known it," he thought; "from the highest to the lowest, all female creatures are alike. Most of them would go in full dress to the gallows, if the hangman were fool enough to permit it."Judith had not seen the first signal, but stood on the verge of the platform, looking with evident disappointment up and down the train, when her eyes fell on the department he was in. The next instant she sprang up the steps and took a seat by his side, but the smile left her face when he looked up vaguely and turned to the opposite window, as if her presence was an intrusion.The train gave a lurch and moved on. Then she ventured to speak."You look sullen. You do not seem glad. What is the matter, Richard?"Storms turned in his seat and scrutinized her dress from head to foot."You don't like it?" she said, in some confusion; "but I had nothing else fit to wear at your mother's house, and I thought you would like me to look like a lady, as you are to make me one so soon. Forgive me, if I have taken too much on myself.""Forgive you for making yourself so handsome? I should be a brute of a fellow not to do that."The girl's heart leaped. She had expected harsh language, reproach, perhaps bitterness, if the dress did notplease him; but there was nothing of this; on the contrary, there was hilarity in his voice, a sort of careless abandonment, as if some pleasant surprise had been given him, which he was prepared to accept with acquiescence at least.This ready, almost hilarious, approval of her dress overwhelmed Judith with delight."Oh, how tired I was of waiting! How happy I am!" she sighed, leaning toward him.Storms drew her close to him with a fierce grip of the arm, in a passion of love or hate which took away her breath; then his arm released its hold, and he made a gesture as if to push her from him."What is the matter?" she questioned, turning her eyes wildly upon him."Nothing," he said; "your curls brushed my face; that is all.""It seemed almost as if you hated me," said the girl, rubbing her arm with one hand."Hated you! What should make me do that?""Perhaps because I come between you and that Jessup girl, with all her money.""What is her money to me? It was the old people that wanted it, not I. Now, all she has got would be nothing compared to what I can give a wife.""To think that all this has been brought about by a bit of paper! That chance lifted me out of myself. Loving you as I did, it was like opening the gates of heaven to me.""Yes, the gate of heaven," repeated the young man, in a voice full of weird irony. "It would be a pity to draw you back.""It would kill me," answered Judith. "It seems asif a world of happiness had been crowded into these days, when I am made sure of being your wife! Can it be? Am I certain of that? Ah, what changes a day may bring!""Yes, many things may be done in less than a day," said Storms, in a light if not mocking tone. "It only takes a minute or two sometimes for a man to yoke himself up for life. If one could only wrench himself free as easily, now!""You speak as if I were not quite forgiven for keeping back that paper," she said with a look of swift apprehension."Do I? Well, you will soon learn how I can forgive."What do you mean, Richard?""Nothing. But this is the station nearest to 'Norston's Rest.' We get out here."The whistle of a train coming from the east was just then sounding sharp and clear in the distance.Storms left his train just as it began to move, and Judith followed him. When she reached the platform he turned his face upon her in the starlight, and she saw that he was smiling."Come," he said, drawing her toward the track."Step back! Step back! Here comes another train," cried Judith. "How awfully human that red light blazes in front of the engine! It frightens me! Oh, be careful."Storms had flung one arm around the girl's waist and forced her to the very edge of the platform, as if about to help her leap across the rails, but she pressed back in terror and clung to him till the train passed by."Why, what makes you tremble so? What did you shriek for?""I was so near the edge the hot steam swept over me.""Over me, too. The engine lurched up so suddenly that I nearly lost my balance; but that was nothing to get frightened about. Come, now, the coast is clear, and the old people will be expecting us. You are not so tired that we cannot walk from the station?"Judith laughed."Tired? Oh, no. I could walk twenty miles if they only ended at your home. You don't know how I have longed for a sight of it!""Come, then. We will go across the park. It is the nearest way, and you know it best."Judith did not answer; her usual high spirits were dampened. She only folded the scarlet sacque over her bosom, and prepared to follow Storms, breathing heavily, she could not have told why.No other passengers left the train at that station, and, without entering the building, these two passed into the village in mutual stillness. Once beyond that, Storms kept the highway until they reached the side-gate in the park wall."This is our nearest way to the old house. It saves a good bit of road," he said, opening the gate with his key.Judith followed him. She knew the path well and took it willingly. This really was the nearest way to the farm-house.They were in the wilderness now, threading it by a path that made a sudden descent to the Black Lake."Richard! Richard!" Judith cried out, in nervous haste. "How fast you walk! It quite takes away my breath."Storms slackened the rapid pace with which he was walking and threw his arms around her; then kissed herfiercely upon the lips, so fiercely that she was not aware that his hand pressed the paper hidden in her bosom, and she struggled away from him, for the kiss brought shuddering with it, as if an asp had stung her."Why, girl, I thought you loved me.""I do—I do! Oh, how dearly!""But you do not know yet how I can love."They were descending the path that led to the lake. Now the young man girded her waist with one arm and hurried her forward almost beyond her power of walking. When they reached the lake she was panting for breath."One minute—let me rest a minute," she pleaded, holding back from the bank, which they were walking dangerously near."A minute? Oh, yes. I will give you that," he said. "Indeed, I feel tired myself. Come in here. It will seem like old times."CHAPTER LXXI.THE SPIDER'S WEB.STORMSturned at once and led the way to the dilapidated old summer-house where so many of his interviews with the girl had taken place.There was something secretly sinister in the man's voice that might have warned Judith of danger; but for his previous expressions of tenderness, she would have been on her guard. As it was, she hurried past him, and went into the little building first; then flinging off herscarlet jacket, she tossed her pretty hat, with its cluster of red poppies, upon the bench, and pushed the black masses of hair away from her temples, with the dash of a prize-fighter going into action."It is so warm," she said, "and we have walked so fast. Ah! how natural the old place looks!"Storms paused at the door, and looked back along the path he had trod, and around the lake cautiously."You needn't trouble yourself. If a gamekeeper should see us they'll take me for that Jessup girl," she said, laughing."While we are here," he said, with soft insinuation, "let me read that letter you spoke of—Jessup's last. There is moonlight enough, and I haven't seen it yet."There was something in the man's face, or in his voice, that warned Judith, who pressed both hands to her bosom in quick alarm."No, no, not here—the light is not strong enough. I have promised to give it up on our wedding-day, and I will.""And not before?""No, I will not give it up before."Judith Hart drew toward the dilapidated window that opened upon that balcony which overhung the deepest portion of the lake. She made a singularly wild figure, standing there, with her bloodless face, and all the thick masses of her hair thrust back, while the rays of a fitful moon streamed over her.Storms came close to her, speaking low, and with unusual gentleness."Judith, I thought that you loved me.""So I do; better than myself; better than my own soul!""Yet you keep a paper from me that might destroy me.""It never shall. You could not keep it safer than I will.""What if I never marry you?""But you will.""Never while you hold that paper.""Ah, I see it was for that you brought me here. I have been a fool!""Exactly."The man was looking out on the lake as he spoke, and did not see the flash of those black eyes, or the rage that curved those lips till the teeth gleamed menacingly through."A miserable fool," he went on, "or you would have known that a man who had the chance of a girl like Ruth Jessup would never think of you.""Ah, it is Ruth Jessup, then?""Yes, it is Ruth Jessup—the only girl I ever cared a straw for. The letter you gave me gets her with the rest. That is the grandest part of my bargain. She cannot help herself.""But I can help her and punish you. The letter you want, but shall never have—William Jessup's last letter, written when his head was clear and his memory good, taking back the lines written in his fever—a letter chargingyouwith the murder I saw done with my own eyes—this letter, and all that I know, shall be in Sir Noel's hands before he goes to bed to-night."Judith had drawn the pocket-book that held this letter from her bosom, unseen by her assailant, and made a movement as if to depart; but Storms leaped upon her like a wild beast, and when she struggled fiercely with him, hurled her against the window.A loud crash, a storm of shattered glass and splintered wood, and, through the great ragged opening, Judith Hart reeled into the balcony, hurling the pocket-book over her murderer's shoulder. He did not see the act, of which the girl herself was almost unconscious. His arm was coiled around her, and though holding backward with all her might, she was forced to the edge of the rickety structure, that began to reel under them. Here the man held her a moment, looking down into her white face with his keen, cruel eyes."This is how I forgive—this is how I love you—this is the way you will keep me from a fortune!"The girl was mute with terror. She could not even cry out, but clung to him in a dumb agony of entreaty."You meant to force me into marrying you, poor fool! Give me that letter!"The wretched girl had flung the letter from her and she could not tell where. It might be in the water or among the rushes."I have not got it—I have not; but I loved you! Oh, I did love you!""Lying with your last breath. The accursed thing is in your bosom.""No! no! no!"She held on to him now, though he had lifted her from her feet, and covering his cruel face with desperate kisses, clung to him with a grasp that even his wiry strength could not tear away."You did love me. I know that. It was her money. You did loveme—youdo. It is only to frighten me. Let me down, let me down. Do you know I am on the very edge? It is dangerous fun—cruel fun!""Fun!" sneered the fiend, wrenching her arms awayand drawing back to give more deadly force to the action. "Fun, is it?"He was pushing backward, his white face was close to hers, his hoarse curse hissed in her ear. With a terrible effort to save herself, she wound her arms around his neck, dragging him down to the rickety railing, over which he was straining all his powers to hurl her."Oh, Dick! Dick! Don't kill me! Do—"Another crash. The railing gave way. He strove madly to free his neck from her clinging arms, but they clasped him like iron. The struggle was terrible. Under it the whole balcony began to quiver and break. Their two faces were close together, their eyes burning with hate and fear, met. One desperate effort the man put forth to free himself; but the grip on his neck grew closer, and choked him. With the might of despair he dragged her half-way up from the reeling timbers; but her weight baffled his strength, and brought him down with an awful thud. Down, down, they plunged, through the rotten timbers, into the black depths of the lake.After this the stillness was appalling. Over the place where those two had gone down, linked together in that death-clasp, bits of broken wood floated, drearily, like reptiles driven from their holes; and from their midst a human head appeared, lifted itself from the water, and went down again. Twice after this the head rose, each time nearer the shore. Then two gleaming hands seized upon the strong rushes, forsook them for a rooted vine, and Judith Hart lifted herself to the bank; where she fell helpless, with the ends of her long hair streaming into the water, and mingling with the grasses that swayed to and fro on their dark disturbance.In this position the girl lay exhausted for some minutes, then she struggled to her feet, swept the dank hair back from her face, and, stooping forward, searched the waters with her clouded eyes.She saw nothing. If any object, living or dead, was on that inky surface the darkness concealed it. Then her hands were flung out and her voice struggled into cries:"Richard! Richard! Here! here! The water is shallow here. Oh, my God! Light a little light that I may see where he is!"There was no answer—only a faint lapse of water against the bank."Richard! Richard!"Again and again that sharp, wild voice rang out on the night, only answered by more awful stillness and the silence of hopeless listening.Thus, for one dark hour, that poor creature, shivering, pallid, and wet, paced up and down the shore, dragging her sodden garments through the dense herbage, and calling out whenever she paused in her moaning, "Richard! Richard! Richard!"At length this cry sounded for the last time, long and low, like the plaint of a wounded night-bird; but there was no reply, and if anything, living or dead, arose to the surface of those inky waters after that, God alone saw it.Judith Hart had wandered there, it might have been a minute, or an eternity, for anything she knew of time; but the black silence drove her away at last. She went into the denser portion of the wilderness, and came out by the farm-house in which the parents of Richard Storms lay sleeping peacefully, for their son had leftthem for the fair held in a neighboring town that morning, and they did not expect him home before another day.Judith turned from her route, for she took no path, and went up to the door of this house, beating against it with her hands. After a while a bolt was drawn, and an old woman, wearing a shawl over her night dress, looked out, but half closed the door again when she saw a strange female, with a face like death, and long wet hair streaming down her back, staring at her. Twice this figure attempted to speak, but that which she tried to say choked her until the words broke out in spasms:"You are his mother. He tried to save me. I was in the Black Lake, sinking; he plunged after me, but went down, down. I tried to drag him up. Three times, three times I went headforemost into the darkness. All night long I have been calling for him, but he would not answer. Do not think he was angry with me. No one must think that. It was to save me. Only to save me, he was trying."The old woman held a candle in her hand. It began to shake as she said:"Who are you speaking of? Who are you?""Of him—he loved me—I was to be his wife, and he was bringing me here, only we stopped at the lake and I fell in. After that, I could not find him; dive down as I would, he went deeper still. I called out till my breath failed; but he would not answer. My husband—you know."The old woman shaded her light with one hand while she scrutinized that wild face."A face I have never seen," she thought; "some poor crazed thing.""Come in from the cold. You are shivering," she said, in great kindliness, "your teeth knock together.""No, I'm not cold, but he is. Go seek for him. He will not answer me; but you are his mother. He is not angry with you. I will get out of the way. He will not show himself while I am there; but when you call, it will be different. What are you standing there for? Call up your men; get lanterns. He is hiding away from me; but you are his mother."Before old Mrs. Storms could answer these words, crowded each upon the other, the girl stepped from the door-stone and was gone."Poor thing, poor thing, her face is strange, and she talks of a husband as if I were his mother. I was frightened in spite of that, as if it were Richard she spoke of. So like my own dear lad, to risk his life for another. It was that which set me trembling, nothing else; for I knew well enough that he was safe at the fair.""What is it?" questioned the farmer, when his wife came back to her bed-room."Only a woman that has lost her mind, I think," answered the wife, blowing out her candle. "I would fain have had her come in, but she is gone.""Then what makes ye tremble and shake so, woman? Have ye found another corpse-light in the candle?" The old man said this with a low, chuckling laugh; for he delighted in ridiculing his wife's superstitions."No; I had not thought of that," answered the dame. But all that night, while Judith Hart was travelling the road to her father's house, unconscious of fatigue and fleeing, as it were, from herself, this loving mother lay restlessly awake by the side of her husband; for he, in his good-natured jeering, had frightened sleep from her.Twenty miles away, another weary soul had been kept awake with loving anxiety. The old man whom Judith had deserted a second time lay in that humble home bemoaning his loneliness, wondering what had drawn the only creature left to him on earth from the shelter of his roof, where she had for some days seemed so cheerfully content. Would she ever return?The old man was asking himself this question almost in hopelessness, when the first gray of morning broke into his room. Leaving his bed, weary as when he sought it, the old man dressed himself and went to the front door. There, sitting in the porch, with her limbs huddled together, and her hair all afloat, was the young creature whose absence he had bewailed—his daughter Judith.When she saw her father, the poor girl stood up unsteadily. She was shivering all over; but on her cheeks was a flame of coming fever, and her hot hands shook as she held them toward him."Father, I have come back to you. Take me home. I have come back to you. Take me home."The old man reached forth his arms, drew her within them, and with her head falling helplessly on his shoulder, led her into the house.CHAPTER LXXII.THE MARRIAGE CERTIFICATE.TWOpersons, both anxious and unhappy, sat in the breakfast-room at "Norston's Rest," Sir Noel and Lady Rose. Sir Noel was thinking with secret uneasiness of the charge, that had been made with such coarse audacity, against his son, by Richard Storms; he was thinking also, with some self-upbraiding, of the young orphan who had submitted herself so gently to the demands of his pride. With all his aristocratic habits of thought and feeling, Sir Noel was essentially a good man—rich in kindliness, and incapable of doing a cruel thing, knowing it as such, and spite of his worldly reasoning, his heart was not without self-reproach when he thought of Jessup's daughter.Lady Rose had even deeper causes of anxiety. She had performed her promise to Richard Storms; the papers, which would convey to him a really fine estate, were prepared, and she was ready to deliver them on Ruth's wedding day, when all this shameful attempt to cast disgrace on an honorable name would have been defeated by the sacrifice of two girls, herself giving the smaller part.This thought troubled the young lady. Like Sir Noel, she felt heart-sore when thinking of the fate to which she had urged this poor girl, who had been her playmate and friend.With all these anxieties, the guardian and ward met with their usual quiet courteousness, for habits of decorous self-control checked all expression of deep feeling.Still, Sir Noel might have noticed that the cheeks of his ward were pale, and her blue eyes darkened with shadows, but for his own preoccupation, for she had neither his self-control nor habit of suppression. Besides, he had observed these signs of unrest frequently of late, and it was in some degree because of this that he had dealt so positively with Ruth Jessup.A third party looking in upon that pleasant scene would never have dreamed that disturbing thoughts could enter there. It was a beautiful room, and a beautiful morning. The fragrance of many flowers came floating through the windows, where it met flowers again of still more exquisite odors. The breakfast service of gold and silver, the Sèvres china and crystal were delicate, almost as the flowers.They had not expected young Hurst to breakfast with them. Since his illness he had taken this meal in his own room; but now he came in hurriedly, so hurriedly that Sir Noel absolutely started with dismay when he saw the white agony of his face. The young man went up to the table and laid a book upon it."Sir Noel—father," he said, in a voice that thrilled both listeners with compassion,—"in that book is my marriage certificate. This letter is from my wife. I have deceived you, and she has dealt out my punishment, for she has chosen to abandon me, and die rather than brave your displeasure."Sir Noel was always pale, but his delicate features turned to marble now. Still the shock he endured gave no other expression of its intensity. He reached forth his hand, and pushed the book aside."It is Jessup's daughter you are speaking of," he said, pausing to ask no questions."Yes, father, yes; Jessup's daughter. She was my wife, and for that reason has destroyed herself.""Let me read the letter. It may not be so bad as you apprehend."Walton gave him the letter; then falling on a seat by the table, flung out his arms and buried his face upon them."It may be as you fear," said Sir Noel, after reading poor Ruth's letter, "but I think there is room for a doubt.""A doubt! Oh, father, can you see that?"Lady Rose had arisen, and stood near the window, white as the lace that draped it, cold as the marble console on which she leaned. She came forward now, speaking almost in a whisper:"If this thing is true—if Ruth Jessup has killed herself—it is I who am guilty of her death. It was I, miserable wretch that I am, who urged her to it, not knowingly, but out of my ignorant zeal. Poor girl! Oh, Walton! Walton! I did not know that she was your wife—I urged her to marry—I am the person most to blame in this.""No! no!" said Walton, starting up. "By one wild, rash step, I brought this great trouble on us all. Father, father, can you ever forgive me? Is not this awful punishment enough?"Sir Noel did not answer at once, but his face grew rigid. Lady Rose saw this, and went up to him, her eyes full of eloquent pleading, her very attitude one of entreaty.No word was spoken; but the old baronet understood all the generous heroism of that look. Bending his head, as if to the behest of a queen, he reached out hishand to Walton, gravely, sadly, as a man forgives with his heart, while the pride of his nature is still resistant."We must search the cottage. Ruth was young, timid. She never can have carried out this design. There must be no noise, no outcry among the servants. Living or dead, my son's wife must not be a subject for public clamor. If she is to be found, it is for us to discover her."Walton, in his weakness and distress, supported himself by the table, which shook under his hand."Oh, how weak I am! How weak I have been!" he said, wiping the moisture from his pale forehead.Sir Noel poured out a glass of wine and gave it to him."Take this—sit down—sit down and rest.""No, no; I must seek for her!""You cannot. Trust to your father, Walton. If your wife is living, I will find her."Walton seized his father's hand, and wrung it with all his weakened force."Oh, father! I have not deserved this! I cannot—I can hardly stand; but we will go—we will go."He did, indeed, reel across the room, searching blindly for his hat.Sir Noel led him into the little sitting-room, and placed him with gentle force on a couch."Rest there, my son, till I come back. Lady Rose will stay with you.""Oh, father! father!"The young man turned his face upon the cushions, and shook the couch with his sobs. The baronet's kindness seemed to have broken up his heart. The best comforter for such grief was a woman. Sir Noel looked around for his ward, but she had gone.CHAPTER LXXIII.SEARCHING THE LAKE HOUSE.LADY ROSEhad, indeed, left the house. She knew best where to search for the missing girl. In the hall she met Mrs. Hipple. Snatching a garden-hat, she held it toward the old governess, who stood gazing upon her in astonishment."Take this, and come with me. I want help—come!"Never had the lady spoken so imperiously; never had Mrs. Hipple seen her so terribly agitated. Before she had tied on the hat, Lady Rose was half-way down the terrace-steps."To the gardener's cottage," she directed, turning her head impatiently. "We must go there first."Startled, and utterly bewildered, the old woman followed. She was a good walker, but failed to overtake Lady Rose until she stood before the cottage. The door was closed, the shutters tightly fastened, as she had never seen them before."Ruth may be lying dead there." Hesitating under the horror of this thought, she held on to the gate unable to go in or move away."Are you afraid?" she said to Mrs. Hipple."Afraid? No. Why should I be?""Ah, you have not been told, and I have no time; come."Lady Rose swung the gate inward, went into the porch, and tried the door. It was not fastened. She pushed it open and entered the little parlor. The light was dim, but her quick glance searched the room—the tablewhere Ruth worked, the chintz couch, the one great easy-chair."Not here! not here!" she cried. "Wait till I come."She ran up-stairs into each chamber, calling out:"Ruth! Ruth! Do not hide, Ruth. It is I, Lady Rose."No answer; nothing but twilight darkness and the shadowy furniture. Down the stairs she went, through the kitchen, and out into the open air.Mrs. Hipple followed her."Lady Rose! Lady Rose! what is this? you terrify me!" pleaded the old woman at last."How can I help it, being fearfully terrified myself? Oh, Hipple, Walton was privately married to Ruth Jessup, and she is missing!""Married—missing!""She may be dead; and oh, Hipple, my dear old friend, I drove her to it.""You! no, no, my child; but come—where shall we search?"Lady Rose led the way down to the Black Lake. The door of the old summer house was open. Through it she saw gleams of scarlet, outside the broken timbers."She is here—we are in time!" she cried out, rushing forward, but recoiled from the threshold with a faint moan. It was only a scarlet garment, with the morning sunshine pouring over it."It is hers. She has gone. Oh, God, forgive me, she has gone!" cried the poor lady, dragging her reluctant limbs through the opening. "Her own jacket and the pretty hat. God help me! I have killed her. I, who meant only to redeem him. Oh, Hipple, haveI the curse of a great crime—the mark of Cain on me?""Hush," said the old lady, with gentle authority, placing the unhappy girl on the bench. "I have more calmness; let me search. This sacque—""It is hers! it is hers! I have seen her wear it, oh, so often," cried Lady Rose, covering her eyes, which the flame tints of the garment seemed to burn."No," answered the governess, examining the garment in her hand with keen criticism; "this is not Ruth Jessup's sacque. The one she wore had a delicate vine of embroidery about the edge; this is braided."Lady Rose dropped her hands."It is true; it is true; and the hat—hers was turned up at the side with red roses; these are poppies. You are right, Hipple. She may be living yet."While they were examining the garment Sir Noel came into the lake house. He looked around, taking in the scene at a glance—the scarlet jacket, the broken window, and the jagged timbers left of the balcony, and upon the floor an old pocket-book or portemonnaie. Lady Rose watched him as he opened it. Surely there was something there which might tell them of the girl's fate. Yes, a letter, folded twice, and thus made small enough to thrust into a pocket of the book; a letter, directed to Walton Hurst, which had been opened.Lady Rose knew the writing, came close to Sir Noel, and read the letter over his shoulder."Oh, thank God! Thank God, I have not murdered them both," she cried, snatching the letter between her shaking hands, and kissing it wildly. "If her life has been sacrificed, his honor is saved."Sir Noel took the letter from her and read it a second time. It ran thus:My Young Master:—I was wrong to write you that letter; but the fever was on me, and it came out of my love and out of my dreams—wild dreams such as could not have reached me in my senses.I am getting well now, and have thought over all that happened that night till everything is clear in my mind. This is the way I remember it; but there must no harm to any one come from what I write. I would never say a word only to take back the foolish letter I sent to you. Richard Storms met me as I was crossing the park on my way back from London that night. He was in a rage, and said something about you and my daughter Ruth that angered me in turn. In my wrath I knocked him down, and went home, sorry that I had done it, for his father was an old friend, and we had thoughts of being closer related through the young people.When I got home Ruth seemed shy, and complained that the lad had forced his company on her, for which you had chastised him, as he richly deserved. I got angry again, and went out in haste, meaning to call him to a sharper account for the slander he had hinted against her and you. It may be that in my heart I was blaming you. It seems as if I never could have believed ill of you as I feel now; but the young man's words rang in my ears when I went out, and I might have been rough even with you if we had met first.Well, I hurried on by the great cedars, thinking to meet Richard on his way home. When I got into the deep shadows a man came suddenly under the branches between me and the light. I saw the face; it was only a second that the moonlight struck it, but I saw the face. It was Richard Storms. I was turning to meet himwhen he lifted a gun and fired. I felt a flash of fire go through me. I leaped toward him, but he pushed me aside, and reeling till my face turned the other way, I fell. Then it was that I saw you in the edges of the moonlight. The other face came and went like lightning. It was yours that rested in my mind and went with me through the fever, but it was Storms that shot the gun; it was his face I saw, his voice I heard mingling curses with blows as I lay bleeding on the ground. The man who shot me and beat you down with the butt of his gun was Richard Storms, the son of my old friend. I am sure of this now, having questioned Ruth about the gun. He brought it to the house that night, and she saw it behind the door after you thrust him from the house and left it yourself, but when I went out no such thing was there. I had no weapon in my hand that night.Storms must have come back and got the gun when Ruth saw him peering through the window. Do you know, I think it was not me he meant to shoot. More likely he was waiting for you, and only found out his mistake when I was down and you came in sight; for I can remember a great oath breaking over me, after I fell—and you were near us then.I am not strong, and this writing tires me; but some how I feel that it must be done, or mischief may come from what I wrote in my fever; which I pray you to forgive.I know you will burn this letter with the other when you have got it by heart. It must not be brought against the young man, for he was used roughly that night; and both blows and kicks are apt to turn some brave men into wild beasts.He was to have wedded my daughter Ruth, but shecould not bear to hear of it; and when my fever left all these things clear, I broke the old pledge. He loved my Ruth, and this was a blow to him. I wish no greater harm than this to the young man; and beg you to keep all that is against him a secret, for his father's sake.Always your faithful servant,William Jessup.A great change came over Sir Noel's countenance as he read this letter. He did not thoroughly understand it; but Lady Rose was better informed. How Storms came in possession of the first letter, she could not tell; but that he had used it for his own interest, and the ruin of an innocent man, she saw clear enough. In a few brief sentences she explained this to Sir Noel. Then he understood the persecution that had driven Ruth to the fatal step she had taken.There was nothing more to learn at the lake house, and with heavy hearts those three persons left it, turning their steps toward "The Rest." Mrs. Hipple, made thoughtful by experience, folded the garments they had found there, and carried them away under her shawl.As Sir Noel was about to mount the terrace steps, a lad in uniform came up the chestnut avenue, and gave him a telegram, which he tore open with more agitation than such papers had ever produced in him before.A young relative of ours, the daughter of William Jessup, a gardener at 'Norston's Rest,' is with us, in a state of health that requires immediate attention. I found her, by accident, in the office of the Australian line of packets. She had taken a passage, but not in her own name, and I could only persuade her to go home with me by a promise that I must break, or permit herto depart as she evidently wishes, unknown to her friends. I send this in urgent haste, and confiding in your discretion.The signature was that of a young artist, whose name was attached to a picture of some promise that Sir Noel had bought because he remembered that the person was a connection of Jessup's.With his pencil Sir Noel wrote a brief reply, which the boy carried away with him.Two events of unusual importance happened at "Norston's Rest," the next day. It was given out in the village that Sir Noel and his family had gone up to the London house that the young man might be nearer his physicians, and that Lady Rose had taken Ruth Jessup with her, thinking that change of scene might soften the melancholy into which she had fallen. This sudden movement hardly found general discussion, when something more terrible filled the public mind. The body of Richard Storms had been found floating in the Black Lake, three days after Sir Noel's departure. It had evidently risen from the depths, and become entangled in the broken timbers still swaying from the balcony. When he failed to return from the fair, as he had promised, his mother, remembering the weird visitor who had called her up in the dead of the night, betook herself to the lake, and was at last joined by the old farmer, whose distress was even greater than her own, for he had a deeper knowledge of the young man's character, and this gave ground for fears of which she, kind woman, was made ignorant by her deep motherly love.Thus fear-haunted, these two old people wandered about the lake day after day, until, one morning, they found a group of men upon the bank, talking solemnlytogether, and looking down upon the broken timbers still weltering in the water, as if some painful interest had all at once been attached to them.When these people saw the old man and woman coming toward them, they shrunk back and left a passage by which they could pass into the old building, but no one spoke a word.No noise, no outcry came from those two people when they saw their only son lying upon the bench where the neighbors had laid him down; but when one of them went in, troubled by the stillness, he found the old man standing against the wall, mournful and dumb, looking upon the dead face, as if the whole world had for him been cast down there. He did not even seek to comfort the poor mother, who was kneeling by the bench, with her arms clasped about all that was left of her son, unconscious that his dripping garments were chilling her bosom through to the heart, or that the face to which she laid hers with such pathetic mournfulness had been frozen to marble in the depths of the lake.As the kind neighbor drew near and would gladly have offered consolation, the poor old woman looked up with a piteous smile on her lips and said:"My brave, brave lad lost his life in saving a poor creature, who would have been drowned but for him."Then she dropped her face again, and was still as the dead she embraced; but as she spoke of her son's bravery, those scant, hot tears that agony forces on old age came to her eyes and burned there.CHAPTER LXXIV.COMING HOME.UNCLE, I have brought you a daughter."Sir Noel looked up from the volume he was reading, and saw Lady Rose standing before him, flushed, agitated, but with a glow of exaltation in her eyes that he had never seen there before. With one arm she encircled the waist of Walton's bride, the other hand she extended in the grace of unconscious pleading; for the young creature she more than half supported was trembling like a leaf. Touched with exquisite pity, Sir Noel arose, drew Ruth gently toward him, and kissed her on the forehead."We shall have Walton better now," he said, leading her to a seat. "With two such nurses he can have no excuse for keeping ill.""Is he so ill?" questioned Ruth, blushing crimson at the sound of her own voice. "I thought, I hoped—""We all hoped that the short journey up from 'Norston's Rest' would do him good rather than harm; but he has been more than usually restless," said Sir Noel. "If Lady Rose will excuse me, I will have the pleasure of taking you to his room myself."Ruth stood up, blushing because of her own eager wishes; ready to cry because of the quiet gentleness with which her intrusion into that family had been received. Never, in all her short life, had she so keenly felt the great social barriers that she had overleaped. If reproaches and coldness had met her on the threshold of that house, she could have borne them better than thekindness with which Lady Rose had introduced her, and the gracious reception awarded her by Sir Noel; for she could not help feeling how much had been suppressed and forgiven by that proud man, before he could thus offer to present her with his own hand to his son.When Sir Noel offered his arm, she took it for the first time in her life, with such trembling that the old man patted the hand that scarcely dared to touch him, and smiled as he looked down upon her.They went up a flight of steps and through several rooms. The house in Grosvenor Square was by no means so spacious as "Norston's Rest," but the splendor of its more modern adornment would have won her admiration at another time. Now she only thought of the husband she had fled from, to whom his own father was conducting her.Sir Noel opened a door, paused on the threshold a moment, and then went into the room where Walton Hurst was sitting."My son," he said, in his usual quiet voice, "you must thank Lady Rose for the surprise I bring you. It is she who has persuaded your wife to come home to us with a less ceremonious welcome than I was prepared to give."Walton Hurst stood up like a healthy man, for astonishment had given him fictitious strength; he came forward at once, reaching out both hands. Sir Noel quietly withdrew his arm from the hand that had hardly dared to rest on it, and left the room.The marriage of Walton Hurst, only son of Sir Noel Hurst, of "Norston's Rest," to Miss Ruth Jessup, daughter of the late William Jessup, was announced in theCourt Journalthat week. Some few persons noticedthat the usual details were omitted; but the fact itself was enough to surprise and interest society, for young Hurst was considered the best match of the season, and no one could learn more of the bride than that Sir Noel was well pleased with the match, and the young lady herself was the most intimate friend of his lovely ward, the Lady Rose.The joy bells were ringing merrily at "Norston's Rest." Sir Noel and Lady Rose had been down at the old mansion more than a month, and guests chosen from the brightest and highest of the land were invited to receive the young heir and his bride on their return from a brief wedding tour on the continent. Having once accepted this fair girl as his daughter, Sir Noel was a man to stand right nobly by the position he had taken. Born a gardener's daughter, she was now a Hurst, and must receive in all things the homage due a lady of "Norston's Rest."For this reason those joy bells were filling the valley with their sweetest music; for this the streets of the village were arched with evergreens, and school-children were busy scattering flowers along the street to be trodden down by the wheels of the carriage or the hoofs of four black horses, sent to meet the young couple at the station.It was a holiday in the village. The tenants on the estate turned out in a body, and were to be entertained now as they had been when the young heir became of age.The landlady of the "Two Ravens" stood at the inn door, with her arms full of yellow lilies, hollyhocks and sweetwilliams, which she lavished in gorgeous masseson the carriage as it passed. Hurst took up one of the flowers and gave it to the bride, who held it to her lips, and smiled pleasantly upon the good friends of her father as she passed through them.When the carriage drew up at "Norston's Rest," Sir Noel came down the steps, took Ruth upon his arm, and led her across the great terrace into the hall, where Lady Rose stood ready to welcome her. In the background all the servants of the household were assembled, headed by the steward and Mrs. Mason, both quiet and reverential in their reception of the bride, as if they had never seen her before.Still, in the good housekeeper's face there was a proud lighting up of the countenance, that might have been traced to an inward consciousness that it was her protégée and goddaughter who was receiving all this welcoming homage; but from that day no person ever heard Mrs. Mason allude to the fact, except once, when Ruth addressed her by the old endearing title, she said, with simple gravity:"Do not tempt a fond old woman to forgot that she is only housekeeper to the mistress of 'Norston's Rest.'"After all the festivities were over, and Ruth was established in her new position, Lady Rose, who had been the leading spirit in every social arrangement, came to Sir Noel in his library one day. There she announced her resolve to leave "The Rest," and retire to one of her own estates in another part of England—that which she had once been willing to bestow on Richard Storms in ransom of Walton Hurst's honor. The old baronet received this proposal with even less composure than he had exhibited when the announcement of his son's marriage was made to him. With grave and pathetic sadnesshe drew the girl toward him and kissed her on the forehead."I will not ask you to stay, my child," he said, holding her hands in his until both began to tremble. "I had hoped I—oh, Rose! your own father could not have parted with you more unwillingly. It will not seem like the old place without you to any of us.""Yes, oh, yes. They are both so happy—very happy! Don't you think so? One is not missed much. There, there, Sir Noel, this parting with you almost makes me cry!"It did bring tears into Sir Noel's eyes—the first that Lady Rose had ever seen there in her life.THE END.
FORSAKING HER HOME.
RUTHstood perfectly motionless, until the light tread of Lady Rose died out on the turf. Then she sat down and fell into thought, so deep and dreary, that it seemed like waking from a trance, when she looked up, and saw that the west was all aflame with scarlet, and drenched in great seas of gold. Then she arose, and went into her little chamber. Up to this time her eyes had been dry; but some tender recollection seemed to strike her, as she looked around, and instantly they were flooded with tears. She busied herself about the old-fashioned bureau a while, apparently selecting such little objects as her husband had, from time to time, given her. Then she took the prayer-book from her toilet, in order to secure the marriage certificate, which had been placed between its leaves.
"They must not find this here," she thought. "Nothing shall be left to show that he ever loved me."
Then she took the ring from her bosom, and, folding it up in a bit of silk paper with pathetic care, laid that, too, within the leaves of the book, and made a package of the whole.
It was dark now, and, for a little time, she lay down upon her white bed, and there, with folded hands, strove to reason with herself. "When the man who hates him so hears all, and knows that the poor girl he is hunting to death is far, far beyond the reach of love or hate, he will content himself with the lady's land and gold," she thought. "She, too, will go away, and find happiness; for he will seek her out, not too soon, I know that, but after a while, and never knowing how it came to be so, will give his heart to her.
"Then I shall be forgotten—forgotten! Ah, me, why was I born to bring such trouble on every one that loved me? He will mourn. Oh, yes, he will mourn! He never can help that, for he loved me—he loved me!"
She thought this all over and over, with mournful persistency. The spirit of self-sacrifice was strong upon her; but not the less did all the sweet tenderness of her woman's nature dwell upon the objects of love she was giving up.
The night darkened. She heard the old clock down-stairs tolling out the hours that were numbered to her now. Then she got up, struck a light, and opened her desk. There was something to be written—a painful thing to be done.
The paper was before her, the pen in her hand. What could she say? how begin a letter which was to rend the heart that loved her? How could she make that young husband comprehend the anguish with which she cast herself on the earth to save him, when he was consciousof no danger! She began to write swiftly, paused, and fell into thought; began again, and went on, sobbing piteously, and forming her words almost at random.
When her letter was finished, she folded it, cast her arms across the desk, and broke the solemn silence of the room with low, faint moans, that are the most painful expression of hopeless anguish.
Again the clock struck, and every brazen time-call fell on her heart like a bullet. She got up, as if in obedience to some cruel command. Instead of her scarlet jacket, and the hat, whose cluster of red roses gleamed in the candle-light, she put on the soft gray dress worn on that fatal wedding morning. Then she placed the letter she had written on the prayer-book. After this, Ruth went slowly down-stairs, carrying the candle and package in one hand.
A gust of wind from the door, as she opened it, put out the light. Thus she left nothing but darkness in her old home.
Ruth looked around warily, for even in that fearful hour she remembered the threat of her tormentor, and dreaded some harm to the beloved being she was determined to save.
The moon was buried in clouds, storm-clouds, that made the whole landscape funereal, like the heart of that poor girl. She went through shrubberies and flower-beds, straight toward the window of Walton Hurst's room. Pulling aside the ivy, she mounted the half-concealed step, not cautiously, as she had done on another occasion, but with a concentration of feeling which left fear behind.
It was a warm, close night, and a leaf of the casement was partly open. She thrust it back, with a swiftnessthat gave no sound, and stepped into the room. Hurst was lying on the bed asleep. Illness had left its traces upon his features, and his hands lay clasped, loosely, on the counterpane. Something more sombre than the shadows thrown by the dim lamp lay upon his fine face. Anxiety had done its work, as well as sickness.
Ruth stood by the bed, motionless, almost calm. The supreme misery of her life had come. She had no sobs to keep back, no tears to hide—despair had locked up all the tenderness of grief with an iron hand. She was about to part with that sleeping man forever and ever. He was her bridegroom: she must give him up, that his honor, nay, his very life might be saved.
The prayer-book that she carried in her hand contained, she believed, all the proofs of a marriage that had been more unfortunate than death. No one must ever see them. They were a fatal secret, which she gave up to her husband's keeping alone. She laid the book upon the counterpane, close to his folded hands, not daring to touch them, lest the misery within her might break out in cries of anguish. Then she stood mute and still, gazing down upon him, minute after minute, while the light shone dimly on the dumb agony of her face. At last, she bent down, touched his forehead with her lips, and fled.
THE SOUL'S DANGER.
HOW, and by what way, that poor young creature came out on the verge of the Black Lake she could not have told. When she came down those balcony steps she had left the world behind her. Filled with an insane idea of self-martyrdom, she went onward and onward as rudderless boats reel through a storm.
Now she stood among the rushes—clouds over her head, a great sea of inky waters weltering away from her feet—gloom and blackness everywhere. The old lake house flung down uncouth shadows on one hand, a gnarled oak pushed its gaunt limbs far over the waters on the other. The rushes around her swayed and moaned in the wind like living things in pain.
Was it this weird picture that brought Ruth to a sense of her own condition? Did it seem to her as if she had already accomplished her purpose, and was entering upon its punishment? Who can answer for the impulses of a soul in its passions of distress? No two events are alike in all the tumultuous actions of life. When the destinies of a human being can be turned by a chance thought, a careless word, even a sunbeam, more or less, what intellect can fathom the exact thing that sways it for good or evil? One might have thought that the gloom of this picture would intensify the dark resolve that had urged that young creature on to death. Instead of that, it came upon her with a great shock, and she stood there among the rushes appalled.
Was it by that dark way she could hope to find her father?
As she asked this question an awful fear came upon her. She walked slowly backward, with her eyes fixed upon the water, breathing heavier and heavier, as the rushes swayed to their place between her and them. Thus she drew away from the awful danger to the threshold of the lake house. There she sat down.
What was this thing she had promised to do? A great crime which would shut her out from her father's presence forever and ever, which would make it impossible to meet her young husband through all eternity. She was willing to die for him—the agony was nothing. Had she not suffered more than that over and over again? But to give him up here and beyond those black waters was more than she could force upon her soul.
Beyond all this, the delicate organism of her being shrunk from that which might come to her body after death. She saw, as if it were a real presence, herself sinking, sinking down into the blackness of those waters, her limbs, so full of life now, limp and dead, tangled in the coarse grasses, or seized upon by some undercurrent, and dragged down into the depths of the earth. Worse still, coarse men might, with mistaken kindness, search the waters, and lift her from them in the very presence of her husband; who would see the face he had kissed swollen, the sodden lengths of her hair trailing the—the—
She could not bear these thoughts; they made existence itself unreal. She pushed the hair back from her face, as if expecting to find it dripping; she lifted both hands to her lips and laughed aloud when she found them dry. She folded both arms over her bosom and clasped herself in, sobbing out her relief that he had been saved from the anguish of seeing her dead. Butnot the less was she doomed. It was not the sacrifice that she shrunk from, but the crime. This moral force kept the girl back from her fate, but in no way lessened the spirit of self-abnegation that had brought her to the lake. Only how would she carry that into effect without crime? How could she take herself out of the way and be dead to every one that she loved? The fearful necessities of her case gave vigor to each thought, as it passed through her mind, and these thoughts were taking vague form, when the sounds of footsteps and of voices, speaking low and at intervals, startled her. Looking through the darkness she saw two forms coming down the brief descent along which a path led to the lake house. She had risen, and was looking for some place of refuge when a voice reached her, and darting around the old building she stole up the bank and away through the wildness.
It was the voice of Richard Storms.
Ruth went back to the cottage and searched the darkened rooms for the desk in which her father had kept his money. She placed what was found there in her pocket, with the key which had let her through the park-gate on that other eventful day of her life, and went out into the night again. She reached the gate, turned the lock, and taking the highway, walked rapidly toward the nearest railroad station.
A train was in sight. She had scarcely time to secure a ticket when it swept up to the platform. The guard half pushed her into a second-class car, and she was borne away toward London.
There in the solitude which seems most forlorn, she fell into a trance, in which all the faculties of her mind were self-centred—all the information she had ever receivedfrom her father or any other source presented itself for her use.
She would not save even her own husband by a crime. That idea she put utterly aside, knowing that to live was a choice of deeper suffering and more cruel martyrdom. But she must be dead to him—dead to the whole world. Her name, humble as it was, should not betray her. She would go, no matter where, but so far as the money in her pocket would allow. Her father had sometimes talked of places beyond the great ocean, where people of small means, or made desperate from misfortune, sought a new life. All that she had read of such places came vividly to her remembrance—how people went on shipboard, and were months and months out to sea, where they were happy enough to die sometimes. Perhaps God would be so merciful to her.
With these thoughts taking form in her mind Ruth found herself in London.
ON THE TRAIN.
ATthe station, which Richard Storms had designated, Judith Hart had been waiting while three or four trains went by. She did not travel much by railroads, and this was almost like a new experience to her. She had brought no luggage, for the pretty dress of black and scarlet, that Storms had given her, was the only portion of her wardrobe worth taking away, and she had put that on with a womanly desire to please his parents with herappearance, which certainly was that of a beautiful, if not highly-bred, girl.
It was getting dark when a train came up, and Storms, recognizing her on the platform, made the signal agreed upon, though his face clouded over, and he stifled an oath between his teeth when he saw how conspicuous the dress made her.
"I might have known it," he thought; "from the highest to the lowest, all female creatures are alike. Most of them would go in full dress to the gallows, if the hangman were fool enough to permit it."
Judith had not seen the first signal, but stood on the verge of the platform, looking with evident disappointment up and down the train, when her eyes fell on the department he was in. The next instant she sprang up the steps and took a seat by his side, but the smile left her face when he looked up vaguely and turned to the opposite window, as if her presence was an intrusion.
The train gave a lurch and moved on. Then she ventured to speak.
"You look sullen. You do not seem glad. What is the matter, Richard?"
Storms turned in his seat and scrutinized her dress from head to foot.
"You don't like it?" she said, in some confusion; "but I had nothing else fit to wear at your mother's house, and I thought you would like me to look like a lady, as you are to make me one so soon. Forgive me, if I have taken too much on myself."
"Forgive you for making yourself so handsome? I should be a brute of a fellow not to do that."
The girl's heart leaped. She had expected harsh language, reproach, perhaps bitterness, if the dress did notplease him; but there was nothing of this; on the contrary, there was hilarity in his voice, a sort of careless abandonment, as if some pleasant surprise had been given him, which he was prepared to accept with acquiescence at least.
This ready, almost hilarious, approval of her dress overwhelmed Judith with delight.
"Oh, how tired I was of waiting! How happy I am!" she sighed, leaning toward him.
Storms drew her close to him with a fierce grip of the arm, in a passion of love or hate which took away her breath; then his arm released its hold, and he made a gesture as if to push her from him.
"What is the matter?" she questioned, turning her eyes wildly upon him.
"Nothing," he said; "your curls brushed my face; that is all."
"It seemed almost as if you hated me," said the girl, rubbing her arm with one hand.
"Hated you! What should make me do that?"
"Perhaps because I come between you and that Jessup girl, with all her money."
"What is her money to me? It was the old people that wanted it, not I. Now, all she has got would be nothing compared to what I can give a wife."
"To think that all this has been brought about by a bit of paper! That chance lifted me out of myself. Loving you as I did, it was like opening the gates of heaven to me."
"Yes, the gate of heaven," repeated the young man, in a voice full of weird irony. "It would be a pity to draw you back."
"It would kill me," answered Judith. "It seems asif a world of happiness had been crowded into these days, when I am made sure of being your wife! Can it be? Am I certain of that? Ah, what changes a day may bring!"
"Yes, many things may be done in less than a day," said Storms, in a light if not mocking tone. "It only takes a minute or two sometimes for a man to yoke himself up for life. If one could only wrench himself free as easily, now!"
"You speak as if I were not quite forgiven for keeping back that paper," she said with a look of swift apprehension.
"Do I? Well, you will soon learn how I can forgive.
"What do you mean, Richard?"
"Nothing. But this is the station nearest to 'Norston's Rest.' We get out here."
The whistle of a train coming from the east was just then sounding sharp and clear in the distance.
Storms left his train just as it began to move, and Judith followed him. When she reached the platform he turned his face upon her in the starlight, and she saw that he was smiling.
"Come," he said, drawing her toward the track.
"Step back! Step back! Here comes another train," cried Judith. "How awfully human that red light blazes in front of the engine! It frightens me! Oh, be careful."
Storms had flung one arm around the girl's waist and forced her to the very edge of the platform, as if about to help her leap across the rails, but she pressed back in terror and clung to him till the train passed by.
"Why, what makes you tremble so? What did you shriek for?"
"I was so near the edge the hot steam swept over me."
"Over me, too. The engine lurched up so suddenly that I nearly lost my balance; but that was nothing to get frightened about. Come, now, the coast is clear, and the old people will be expecting us. You are not so tired that we cannot walk from the station?"
Judith laughed.
"Tired? Oh, no. I could walk twenty miles if they only ended at your home. You don't know how I have longed for a sight of it!"
"Come, then. We will go across the park. It is the nearest way, and you know it best."
Judith did not answer; her usual high spirits were dampened. She only folded the scarlet sacque over her bosom, and prepared to follow Storms, breathing heavily, she could not have told why.
No other passengers left the train at that station, and, without entering the building, these two passed into the village in mutual stillness. Once beyond that, Storms kept the highway until they reached the side-gate in the park wall.
"This is our nearest way to the old house. It saves a good bit of road," he said, opening the gate with his key.
Judith followed him. She knew the path well and took it willingly. This really was the nearest way to the farm-house.
They were in the wilderness now, threading it by a path that made a sudden descent to the Black Lake.
"Richard! Richard!" Judith cried out, in nervous haste. "How fast you walk! It quite takes away my breath."
Storms slackened the rapid pace with which he was walking and threw his arms around her; then kissed herfiercely upon the lips, so fiercely that she was not aware that his hand pressed the paper hidden in her bosom, and she struggled away from him, for the kiss brought shuddering with it, as if an asp had stung her.
"Why, girl, I thought you loved me."
"I do—I do! Oh, how dearly!"
"But you do not know yet how I can love."
They were descending the path that led to the lake. Now the young man girded her waist with one arm and hurried her forward almost beyond her power of walking. When they reached the lake she was panting for breath.
"One minute—let me rest a minute," she pleaded, holding back from the bank, which they were walking dangerously near.
"A minute? Oh, yes. I will give you that," he said. "Indeed, I feel tired myself. Come in here. It will seem like old times."
THE SPIDER'S WEB.
STORMSturned at once and led the way to the dilapidated old summer-house where so many of his interviews with the girl had taken place.
There was something secretly sinister in the man's voice that might have warned Judith of danger; but for his previous expressions of tenderness, she would have been on her guard. As it was, she hurried past him, and went into the little building first; then flinging off herscarlet jacket, she tossed her pretty hat, with its cluster of red poppies, upon the bench, and pushed the black masses of hair away from her temples, with the dash of a prize-fighter going into action.
"It is so warm," she said, "and we have walked so fast. Ah! how natural the old place looks!"
Storms paused at the door, and looked back along the path he had trod, and around the lake cautiously.
"You needn't trouble yourself. If a gamekeeper should see us they'll take me for that Jessup girl," she said, laughing.
"While we are here," he said, with soft insinuation, "let me read that letter you spoke of—Jessup's last. There is moonlight enough, and I haven't seen it yet."
There was something in the man's face, or in his voice, that warned Judith, who pressed both hands to her bosom in quick alarm.
"No, no, not here—the light is not strong enough. I have promised to give it up on our wedding-day, and I will."
"And not before?"
"No, I will not give it up before."
Judith Hart drew toward the dilapidated window that opened upon that balcony which overhung the deepest portion of the lake. She made a singularly wild figure, standing there, with her bloodless face, and all the thick masses of her hair thrust back, while the rays of a fitful moon streamed over her.
Storms came close to her, speaking low, and with unusual gentleness.
"Judith, I thought that you loved me."
"So I do; better than myself; better than my own soul!"
"Yet you keep a paper from me that might destroy me."
"It never shall. You could not keep it safer than I will."
"What if I never marry you?"
"But you will."
"Never while you hold that paper."
"Ah, I see it was for that you brought me here. I have been a fool!"
"Exactly."
The man was looking out on the lake as he spoke, and did not see the flash of those black eyes, or the rage that curved those lips till the teeth gleamed menacingly through.
"A miserable fool," he went on, "or you would have known that a man who had the chance of a girl like Ruth Jessup would never think of you."
"Ah, it is Ruth Jessup, then?"
"Yes, it is Ruth Jessup—the only girl I ever cared a straw for. The letter you gave me gets her with the rest. That is the grandest part of my bargain. She cannot help herself."
"But I can help her and punish you. The letter you want, but shall never have—William Jessup's last letter, written when his head was clear and his memory good, taking back the lines written in his fever—a letter chargingyouwith the murder I saw done with my own eyes—this letter, and all that I know, shall be in Sir Noel's hands before he goes to bed to-night."
Judith had drawn the pocket-book that held this letter from her bosom, unseen by her assailant, and made a movement as if to depart; but Storms leaped upon her like a wild beast, and when she struggled fiercely with him, hurled her against the window.
A loud crash, a storm of shattered glass and splintered wood, and, through the great ragged opening, Judith Hart reeled into the balcony, hurling the pocket-book over her murderer's shoulder. He did not see the act, of which the girl herself was almost unconscious. His arm was coiled around her, and though holding backward with all her might, she was forced to the edge of the rickety structure, that began to reel under them. Here the man held her a moment, looking down into her white face with his keen, cruel eyes.
"This is how I forgive—this is how I love you—this is the way you will keep me from a fortune!"
The girl was mute with terror. She could not even cry out, but clung to him in a dumb agony of entreaty.
"You meant to force me into marrying you, poor fool! Give me that letter!"
The wretched girl had flung the letter from her and she could not tell where. It might be in the water or among the rushes.
"I have not got it—I have not; but I loved you! Oh, I did love you!"
"Lying with your last breath. The accursed thing is in your bosom."
"No! no! no!"
She held on to him now, though he had lifted her from her feet, and covering his cruel face with desperate kisses, clung to him with a grasp that even his wiry strength could not tear away.
"You did love me. I know that. It was her money. You did loveme—youdo. It is only to frighten me. Let me down, let me down. Do you know I am on the very edge? It is dangerous fun—cruel fun!"
"Fun!" sneered the fiend, wrenching her arms awayand drawing back to give more deadly force to the action. "Fun, is it?"
He was pushing backward, his white face was close to hers, his hoarse curse hissed in her ear. With a terrible effort to save herself, she wound her arms around his neck, dragging him down to the rickety railing, over which he was straining all his powers to hurl her.
"Oh, Dick! Dick! Don't kill me! Do—"
Another crash. The railing gave way. He strove madly to free his neck from her clinging arms, but they clasped him like iron. The struggle was terrible. Under it the whole balcony began to quiver and break. Their two faces were close together, their eyes burning with hate and fear, met. One desperate effort the man put forth to free himself; but the grip on his neck grew closer, and choked him. With the might of despair he dragged her half-way up from the reeling timbers; but her weight baffled his strength, and brought him down with an awful thud. Down, down, they plunged, through the rotten timbers, into the black depths of the lake.
After this the stillness was appalling. Over the place where those two had gone down, linked together in that death-clasp, bits of broken wood floated, drearily, like reptiles driven from their holes; and from their midst a human head appeared, lifted itself from the water, and went down again. Twice after this the head rose, each time nearer the shore. Then two gleaming hands seized upon the strong rushes, forsook them for a rooted vine, and Judith Hart lifted herself to the bank; where she fell helpless, with the ends of her long hair streaming into the water, and mingling with the grasses that swayed to and fro on their dark disturbance.
In this position the girl lay exhausted for some minutes, then she struggled to her feet, swept the dank hair back from her face, and, stooping forward, searched the waters with her clouded eyes.
She saw nothing. If any object, living or dead, was on that inky surface the darkness concealed it. Then her hands were flung out and her voice struggled into cries:
"Richard! Richard! Here! here! The water is shallow here. Oh, my God! Light a little light that I may see where he is!"
There was no answer—only a faint lapse of water against the bank.
"Richard! Richard!"
Again and again that sharp, wild voice rang out on the night, only answered by more awful stillness and the silence of hopeless listening.
Thus, for one dark hour, that poor creature, shivering, pallid, and wet, paced up and down the shore, dragging her sodden garments through the dense herbage, and calling out whenever she paused in her moaning, "Richard! Richard! Richard!"
At length this cry sounded for the last time, long and low, like the plaint of a wounded night-bird; but there was no reply, and if anything, living or dead, arose to the surface of those inky waters after that, God alone saw it.
Judith Hart had wandered there, it might have been a minute, or an eternity, for anything she knew of time; but the black silence drove her away at last. She went into the denser portion of the wilderness, and came out by the farm-house in which the parents of Richard Storms lay sleeping peacefully, for their son had leftthem for the fair held in a neighboring town that morning, and they did not expect him home before another day.
Judith turned from her route, for she took no path, and went up to the door of this house, beating against it with her hands. After a while a bolt was drawn, and an old woman, wearing a shawl over her night dress, looked out, but half closed the door again when she saw a strange female, with a face like death, and long wet hair streaming down her back, staring at her. Twice this figure attempted to speak, but that which she tried to say choked her until the words broke out in spasms:
"You are his mother. He tried to save me. I was in the Black Lake, sinking; he plunged after me, but went down, down. I tried to drag him up. Three times, three times I went headforemost into the darkness. All night long I have been calling for him, but he would not answer. Do not think he was angry with me. No one must think that. It was to save me. Only to save me, he was trying."
The old woman held a candle in her hand. It began to shake as she said:
"Who are you speaking of? Who are you?"
"Of him—he loved me—I was to be his wife, and he was bringing me here, only we stopped at the lake and I fell in. After that, I could not find him; dive down as I would, he went deeper still. I called out till my breath failed; but he would not answer. My husband—you know."
The old woman shaded her light with one hand while she scrutinized that wild face.
"A face I have never seen," she thought; "some poor crazed thing."
"Come in from the cold. You are shivering," she said, in great kindliness, "your teeth knock together."
"No, I'm not cold, but he is. Go seek for him. He will not answer me; but you are his mother. He is not angry with you. I will get out of the way. He will not show himself while I am there; but when you call, it will be different. What are you standing there for? Call up your men; get lanterns. He is hiding away from me; but you are his mother."
Before old Mrs. Storms could answer these words, crowded each upon the other, the girl stepped from the door-stone and was gone.
"Poor thing, poor thing, her face is strange, and she talks of a husband as if I were his mother. I was frightened in spite of that, as if it were Richard she spoke of. So like my own dear lad, to risk his life for another. It was that which set me trembling, nothing else; for I knew well enough that he was safe at the fair."
"What is it?" questioned the farmer, when his wife came back to her bed-room.
"Only a woman that has lost her mind, I think," answered the wife, blowing out her candle. "I would fain have had her come in, but she is gone."
"Then what makes ye tremble and shake so, woman? Have ye found another corpse-light in the candle?" The old man said this with a low, chuckling laugh; for he delighted in ridiculing his wife's superstitions.
"No; I had not thought of that," answered the dame. But all that night, while Judith Hart was travelling the road to her father's house, unconscious of fatigue and fleeing, as it were, from herself, this loving mother lay restlessly awake by the side of her husband; for he, in his good-natured jeering, had frightened sleep from her.
Twenty miles away, another weary soul had been kept awake with loving anxiety. The old man whom Judith had deserted a second time lay in that humble home bemoaning his loneliness, wondering what had drawn the only creature left to him on earth from the shelter of his roof, where she had for some days seemed so cheerfully content. Would she ever return?
The old man was asking himself this question almost in hopelessness, when the first gray of morning broke into his room. Leaving his bed, weary as when he sought it, the old man dressed himself and went to the front door. There, sitting in the porch, with her limbs huddled together, and her hair all afloat, was the young creature whose absence he had bewailed—his daughter Judith.
When she saw her father, the poor girl stood up unsteadily. She was shivering all over; but on her cheeks was a flame of coming fever, and her hot hands shook as she held them toward him.
"Father, I have come back to you. Take me home. I have come back to you. Take me home."
The old man reached forth his arms, drew her within them, and with her head falling helplessly on his shoulder, led her into the house.
THE MARRIAGE CERTIFICATE.
TWOpersons, both anxious and unhappy, sat in the breakfast-room at "Norston's Rest," Sir Noel and Lady Rose. Sir Noel was thinking with secret uneasiness of the charge, that had been made with such coarse audacity, against his son, by Richard Storms; he was thinking also, with some self-upbraiding, of the young orphan who had submitted herself so gently to the demands of his pride. With all his aristocratic habits of thought and feeling, Sir Noel was essentially a good man—rich in kindliness, and incapable of doing a cruel thing, knowing it as such, and spite of his worldly reasoning, his heart was not without self-reproach when he thought of Jessup's daughter.
Lady Rose had even deeper causes of anxiety. She had performed her promise to Richard Storms; the papers, which would convey to him a really fine estate, were prepared, and she was ready to deliver them on Ruth's wedding day, when all this shameful attempt to cast disgrace on an honorable name would have been defeated by the sacrifice of two girls, herself giving the smaller part.
This thought troubled the young lady. Like Sir Noel, she felt heart-sore when thinking of the fate to which she had urged this poor girl, who had been her playmate and friend.
With all these anxieties, the guardian and ward met with their usual quiet courteousness, for habits of decorous self-control checked all expression of deep feeling.
Still, Sir Noel might have noticed that the cheeks of his ward were pale, and her blue eyes darkened with shadows, but for his own preoccupation, for she had neither his self-control nor habit of suppression. Besides, he had observed these signs of unrest frequently of late, and it was in some degree because of this that he had dealt so positively with Ruth Jessup.
A third party looking in upon that pleasant scene would never have dreamed that disturbing thoughts could enter there. It was a beautiful room, and a beautiful morning. The fragrance of many flowers came floating through the windows, where it met flowers again of still more exquisite odors. The breakfast service of gold and silver, the Sèvres china and crystal were delicate, almost as the flowers.
They had not expected young Hurst to breakfast with them. Since his illness he had taken this meal in his own room; but now he came in hurriedly, so hurriedly that Sir Noel absolutely started with dismay when he saw the white agony of his face. The young man went up to the table and laid a book upon it.
"Sir Noel—father," he said, in a voice that thrilled both listeners with compassion,—"in that book is my marriage certificate. This letter is from my wife. I have deceived you, and she has dealt out my punishment, for she has chosen to abandon me, and die rather than brave your displeasure."
Sir Noel was always pale, but his delicate features turned to marble now. Still the shock he endured gave no other expression of its intensity. He reached forth his hand, and pushed the book aside.
"It is Jessup's daughter you are speaking of," he said, pausing to ask no questions.
"Yes, father, yes; Jessup's daughter. She was my wife, and for that reason has destroyed herself."
"Let me read the letter. It may not be so bad as you apprehend."
Walton gave him the letter; then falling on a seat by the table, flung out his arms and buried his face upon them.
"It may be as you fear," said Sir Noel, after reading poor Ruth's letter, "but I think there is room for a doubt."
"A doubt! Oh, father, can you see that?"
Lady Rose had arisen, and stood near the window, white as the lace that draped it, cold as the marble console on which she leaned. She came forward now, speaking almost in a whisper:
"If this thing is true—if Ruth Jessup has killed herself—it is I who am guilty of her death. It was I, miserable wretch that I am, who urged her to it, not knowingly, but out of my ignorant zeal. Poor girl! Oh, Walton! Walton! I did not know that she was your wife—I urged her to marry—I am the person most to blame in this."
"No! no!" said Walton, starting up. "By one wild, rash step, I brought this great trouble on us all. Father, father, can you ever forgive me? Is not this awful punishment enough?"
Sir Noel did not answer at once, but his face grew rigid. Lady Rose saw this, and went up to him, her eyes full of eloquent pleading, her very attitude one of entreaty.
No word was spoken; but the old baronet understood all the generous heroism of that look. Bending his head, as if to the behest of a queen, he reached out hishand to Walton, gravely, sadly, as a man forgives with his heart, while the pride of his nature is still resistant.
"We must search the cottage. Ruth was young, timid. She never can have carried out this design. There must be no noise, no outcry among the servants. Living or dead, my son's wife must not be a subject for public clamor. If she is to be found, it is for us to discover her."
Walton, in his weakness and distress, supported himself by the table, which shook under his hand.
"Oh, how weak I am! How weak I have been!" he said, wiping the moisture from his pale forehead.
Sir Noel poured out a glass of wine and gave it to him.
"Take this—sit down—sit down and rest."
"No, no; I must seek for her!"
"You cannot. Trust to your father, Walton. If your wife is living, I will find her."
Walton seized his father's hand, and wrung it with all his weakened force.
"Oh, father! I have not deserved this! I cannot—I can hardly stand; but we will go—we will go."
He did, indeed, reel across the room, searching blindly for his hat.
Sir Noel led him into the little sitting-room, and placed him with gentle force on a couch.
"Rest there, my son, till I come back. Lady Rose will stay with you."
"Oh, father! father!"
The young man turned his face upon the cushions, and shook the couch with his sobs. The baronet's kindness seemed to have broken up his heart. The best comforter for such grief was a woman. Sir Noel looked around for his ward, but she had gone.
SEARCHING THE LAKE HOUSE.
LADY ROSEhad, indeed, left the house. She knew best where to search for the missing girl. In the hall she met Mrs. Hipple. Snatching a garden-hat, she held it toward the old governess, who stood gazing upon her in astonishment.
"Take this, and come with me. I want help—come!"
Never had the lady spoken so imperiously; never had Mrs. Hipple seen her so terribly agitated. Before she had tied on the hat, Lady Rose was half-way down the terrace-steps.
"To the gardener's cottage," she directed, turning her head impatiently. "We must go there first."
Startled, and utterly bewildered, the old woman followed. She was a good walker, but failed to overtake Lady Rose until she stood before the cottage. The door was closed, the shutters tightly fastened, as she had never seen them before.
"Ruth may be lying dead there." Hesitating under the horror of this thought, she held on to the gate unable to go in or move away.
"Are you afraid?" she said to Mrs. Hipple.
"Afraid? No. Why should I be?"
"Ah, you have not been told, and I have no time; come."
Lady Rose swung the gate inward, went into the porch, and tried the door. It was not fastened. She pushed it open and entered the little parlor. The light was dim, but her quick glance searched the room—the tablewhere Ruth worked, the chintz couch, the one great easy-chair.
"Not here! not here!" she cried. "Wait till I come."
She ran up-stairs into each chamber, calling out:
"Ruth! Ruth! Do not hide, Ruth. It is I, Lady Rose."
No answer; nothing but twilight darkness and the shadowy furniture. Down the stairs she went, through the kitchen, and out into the open air.
Mrs. Hipple followed her.
"Lady Rose! Lady Rose! what is this? you terrify me!" pleaded the old woman at last.
"How can I help it, being fearfully terrified myself? Oh, Hipple, Walton was privately married to Ruth Jessup, and she is missing!"
"Married—missing!"
"She may be dead; and oh, Hipple, my dear old friend, I drove her to it."
"You! no, no, my child; but come—where shall we search?"
Lady Rose led the way down to the Black Lake. The door of the old summer house was open. Through it she saw gleams of scarlet, outside the broken timbers.
"She is here—we are in time!" she cried out, rushing forward, but recoiled from the threshold with a faint moan. It was only a scarlet garment, with the morning sunshine pouring over it.
"It is hers. She has gone. Oh, God, forgive me, she has gone!" cried the poor lady, dragging her reluctant limbs through the opening. "Her own jacket and the pretty hat. God help me! I have killed her. I, who meant only to redeem him. Oh, Hipple, haveI the curse of a great crime—the mark of Cain on me?"
"Hush," said the old lady, with gentle authority, placing the unhappy girl on the bench. "I have more calmness; let me search. This sacque—"
"It is hers! it is hers! I have seen her wear it, oh, so often," cried Lady Rose, covering her eyes, which the flame tints of the garment seemed to burn.
"No," answered the governess, examining the garment in her hand with keen criticism; "this is not Ruth Jessup's sacque. The one she wore had a delicate vine of embroidery about the edge; this is braided."
Lady Rose dropped her hands.
"It is true; it is true; and the hat—hers was turned up at the side with red roses; these are poppies. You are right, Hipple. She may be living yet."
While they were examining the garment Sir Noel came into the lake house. He looked around, taking in the scene at a glance—the scarlet jacket, the broken window, and the jagged timbers left of the balcony, and upon the floor an old pocket-book or portemonnaie. Lady Rose watched him as he opened it. Surely there was something there which might tell them of the girl's fate. Yes, a letter, folded twice, and thus made small enough to thrust into a pocket of the book; a letter, directed to Walton Hurst, which had been opened.
Lady Rose knew the writing, came close to Sir Noel, and read the letter over his shoulder.
"Oh, thank God! Thank God, I have not murdered them both," she cried, snatching the letter between her shaking hands, and kissing it wildly. "If her life has been sacrificed, his honor is saved."
Sir Noel took the letter from her and read it a second time. It ran thus:
My Young Master:—I was wrong to write you that letter; but the fever was on me, and it came out of my love and out of my dreams—wild dreams such as could not have reached me in my senses.I am getting well now, and have thought over all that happened that night till everything is clear in my mind. This is the way I remember it; but there must no harm to any one come from what I write. I would never say a word only to take back the foolish letter I sent to you. Richard Storms met me as I was crossing the park on my way back from London that night. He was in a rage, and said something about you and my daughter Ruth that angered me in turn. In my wrath I knocked him down, and went home, sorry that I had done it, for his father was an old friend, and we had thoughts of being closer related through the young people.When I got home Ruth seemed shy, and complained that the lad had forced his company on her, for which you had chastised him, as he richly deserved. I got angry again, and went out in haste, meaning to call him to a sharper account for the slander he had hinted against her and you. It may be that in my heart I was blaming you. It seems as if I never could have believed ill of you as I feel now; but the young man's words rang in my ears when I went out, and I might have been rough even with you if we had met first.Well, I hurried on by the great cedars, thinking to meet Richard on his way home. When I got into the deep shadows a man came suddenly under the branches between me and the light. I saw the face; it was only a second that the moonlight struck it, but I saw the face. It was Richard Storms. I was turning to meet himwhen he lifted a gun and fired. I felt a flash of fire go through me. I leaped toward him, but he pushed me aside, and reeling till my face turned the other way, I fell. Then it was that I saw you in the edges of the moonlight. The other face came and went like lightning. It was yours that rested in my mind and went with me through the fever, but it was Storms that shot the gun; it was his face I saw, his voice I heard mingling curses with blows as I lay bleeding on the ground. The man who shot me and beat you down with the butt of his gun was Richard Storms, the son of my old friend. I am sure of this now, having questioned Ruth about the gun. He brought it to the house that night, and she saw it behind the door after you thrust him from the house and left it yourself, but when I went out no such thing was there. I had no weapon in my hand that night.Storms must have come back and got the gun when Ruth saw him peering through the window. Do you know, I think it was not me he meant to shoot. More likely he was waiting for you, and only found out his mistake when I was down and you came in sight; for I can remember a great oath breaking over me, after I fell—and you were near us then.I am not strong, and this writing tires me; but some how I feel that it must be done, or mischief may come from what I wrote in my fever; which I pray you to forgive.I know you will burn this letter with the other when you have got it by heart. It must not be brought against the young man, for he was used roughly that night; and both blows and kicks are apt to turn some brave men into wild beasts.He was to have wedded my daughter Ruth, but shecould not bear to hear of it; and when my fever left all these things clear, I broke the old pledge. He loved my Ruth, and this was a blow to him. I wish no greater harm than this to the young man; and beg you to keep all that is against him a secret, for his father's sake.Always your faithful servant,William Jessup.
My Young Master:—I was wrong to write you that letter; but the fever was on me, and it came out of my love and out of my dreams—wild dreams such as could not have reached me in my senses.
I am getting well now, and have thought over all that happened that night till everything is clear in my mind. This is the way I remember it; but there must no harm to any one come from what I write. I would never say a word only to take back the foolish letter I sent to you. Richard Storms met me as I was crossing the park on my way back from London that night. He was in a rage, and said something about you and my daughter Ruth that angered me in turn. In my wrath I knocked him down, and went home, sorry that I had done it, for his father was an old friend, and we had thoughts of being closer related through the young people.
When I got home Ruth seemed shy, and complained that the lad had forced his company on her, for which you had chastised him, as he richly deserved. I got angry again, and went out in haste, meaning to call him to a sharper account for the slander he had hinted against her and you. It may be that in my heart I was blaming you. It seems as if I never could have believed ill of you as I feel now; but the young man's words rang in my ears when I went out, and I might have been rough even with you if we had met first.
Well, I hurried on by the great cedars, thinking to meet Richard on his way home. When I got into the deep shadows a man came suddenly under the branches between me and the light. I saw the face; it was only a second that the moonlight struck it, but I saw the face. It was Richard Storms. I was turning to meet himwhen he lifted a gun and fired. I felt a flash of fire go through me. I leaped toward him, but he pushed me aside, and reeling till my face turned the other way, I fell. Then it was that I saw you in the edges of the moonlight. The other face came and went like lightning. It was yours that rested in my mind and went with me through the fever, but it was Storms that shot the gun; it was his face I saw, his voice I heard mingling curses with blows as I lay bleeding on the ground. The man who shot me and beat you down with the butt of his gun was Richard Storms, the son of my old friend. I am sure of this now, having questioned Ruth about the gun. He brought it to the house that night, and she saw it behind the door after you thrust him from the house and left it yourself, but when I went out no such thing was there. I had no weapon in my hand that night.
Storms must have come back and got the gun when Ruth saw him peering through the window. Do you know, I think it was not me he meant to shoot. More likely he was waiting for you, and only found out his mistake when I was down and you came in sight; for I can remember a great oath breaking over me, after I fell—and you were near us then.
I am not strong, and this writing tires me; but some how I feel that it must be done, or mischief may come from what I wrote in my fever; which I pray you to forgive.
I know you will burn this letter with the other when you have got it by heart. It must not be brought against the young man, for he was used roughly that night; and both blows and kicks are apt to turn some brave men into wild beasts.
He was to have wedded my daughter Ruth, but shecould not bear to hear of it; and when my fever left all these things clear, I broke the old pledge. He loved my Ruth, and this was a blow to him. I wish no greater harm than this to the young man; and beg you to keep all that is against him a secret, for his father's sake.
Always your faithful servant,William Jessup.
A great change came over Sir Noel's countenance as he read this letter. He did not thoroughly understand it; but Lady Rose was better informed. How Storms came in possession of the first letter, she could not tell; but that he had used it for his own interest, and the ruin of an innocent man, she saw clear enough. In a few brief sentences she explained this to Sir Noel. Then he understood the persecution that had driven Ruth to the fatal step she had taken.
There was nothing more to learn at the lake house, and with heavy hearts those three persons left it, turning their steps toward "The Rest." Mrs. Hipple, made thoughtful by experience, folded the garments they had found there, and carried them away under her shawl.
As Sir Noel was about to mount the terrace steps, a lad in uniform came up the chestnut avenue, and gave him a telegram, which he tore open with more agitation than such papers had ever produced in him before.
A young relative of ours, the daughter of William Jessup, a gardener at 'Norston's Rest,' is with us, in a state of health that requires immediate attention. I found her, by accident, in the office of the Australian line of packets. She had taken a passage, but not in her own name, and I could only persuade her to go home with me by a promise that I must break, or permit herto depart as she evidently wishes, unknown to her friends. I send this in urgent haste, and confiding in your discretion.
A young relative of ours, the daughter of William Jessup, a gardener at 'Norston's Rest,' is with us, in a state of health that requires immediate attention. I found her, by accident, in the office of the Australian line of packets. She had taken a passage, but not in her own name, and I could only persuade her to go home with me by a promise that I must break, or permit herto depart as she evidently wishes, unknown to her friends. I send this in urgent haste, and confiding in your discretion.
The signature was that of a young artist, whose name was attached to a picture of some promise that Sir Noel had bought because he remembered that the person was a connection of Jessup's.
With his pencil Sir Noel wrote a brief reply, which the boy carried away with him.
Two events of unusual importance happened at "Norston's Rest," the next day. It was given out in the village that Sir Noel and his family had gone up to the London house that the young man might be nearer his physicians, and that Lady Rose had taken Ruth Jessup with her, thinking that change of scene might soften the melancholy into which she had fallen. This sudden movement hardly found general discussion, when something more terrible filled the public mind. The body of Richard Storms had been found floating in the Black Lake, three days after Sir Noel's departure. It had evidently risen from the depths, and become entangled in the broken timbers still swaying from the balcony. When he failed to return from the fair, as he had promised, his mother, remembering the weird visitor who had called her up in the dead of the night, betook herself to the lake, and was at last joined by the old farmer, whose distress was even greater than her own, for he had a deeper knowledge of the young man's character, and this gave ground for fears of which she, kind woman, was made ignorant by her deep motherly love.
Thus fear-haunted, these two old people wandered about the lake day after day, until, one morning, they found a group of men upon the bank, talking solemnlytogether, and looking down upon the broken timbers still weltering in the water, as if some painful interest had all at once been attached to them.
When these people saw the old man and woman coming toward them, they shrunk back and left a passage by which they could pass into the old building, but no one spoke a word.
No noise, no outcry came from those two people when they saw their only son lying upon the bench where the neighbors had laid him down; but when one of them went in, troubled by the stillness, he found the old man standing against the wall, mournful and dumb, looking upon the dead face, as if the whole world had for him been cast down there. He did not even seek to comfort the poor mother, who was kneeling by the bench, with her arms clasped about all that was left of her son, unconscious that his dripping garments were chilling her bosom through to the heart, or that the face to which she laid hers with such pathetic mournfulness had been frozen to marble in the depths of the lake.
As the kind neighbor drew near and would gladly have offered consolation, the poor old woman looked up with a piteous smile on her lips and said:
"My brave, brave lad lost his life in saving a poor creature, who would have been drowned but for him."
Then she dropped her face again, and was still as the dead she embraced; but as she spoke of her son's bravery, those scant, hot tears that agony forces on old age came to her eyes and burned there.
COMING HOME.
UNCLE, I have brought you a daughter."
Sir Noel looked up from the volume he was reading, and saw Lady Rose standing before him, flushed, agitated, but with a glow of exaltation in her eyes that he had never seen there before. With one arm she encircled the waist of Walton's bride, the other hand she extended in the grace of unconscious pleading; for the young creature she more than half supported was trembling like a leaf. Touched with exquisite pity, Sir Noel arose, drew Ruth gently toward him, and kissed her on the forehead.
"We shall have Walton better now," he said, leading her to a seat. "With two such nurses he can have no excuse for keeping ill."
"Is he so ill?" questioned Ruth, blushing crimson at the sound of her own voice. "I thought, I hoped—"
"We all hoped that the short journey up from 'Norston's Rest' would do him good rather than harm; but he has been more than usually restless," said Sir Noel. "If Lady Rose will excuse me, I will have the pleasure of taking you to his room myself."
Ruth stood up, blushing because of her own eager wishes; ready to cry because of the quiet gentleness with which her intrusion into that family had been received. Never, in all her short life, had she so keenly felt the great social barriers that she had overleaped. If reproaches and coldness had met her on the threshold of that house, she could have borne them better than thekindness with which Lady Rose had introduced her, and the gracious reception awarded her by Sir Noel; for she could not help feeling how much had been suppressed and forgiven by that proud man, before he could thus offer to present her with his own hand to his son.
When Sir Noel offered his arm, she took it for the first time in her life, with such trembling that the old man patted the hand that scarcely dared to touch him, and smiled as he looked down upon her.
They went up a flight of steps and through several rooms. The house in Grosvenor Square was by no means so spacious as "Norston's Rest," but the splendor of its more modern adornment would have won her admiration at another time. Now she only thought of the husband she had fled from, to whom his own father was conducting her.
Sir Noel opened a door, paused on the threshold a moment, and then went into the room where Walton Hurst was sitting.
"My son," he said, in his usual quiet voice, "you must thank Lady Rose for the surprise I bring you. It is she who has persuaded your wife to come home to us with a less ceremonious welcome than I was prepared to give."
Walton Hurst stood up like a healthy man, for astonishment had given him fictitious strength; he came forward at once, reaching out both hands. Sir Noel quietly withdrew his arm from the hand that had hardly dared to rest on it, and left the room.
The marriage of Walton Hurst, only son of Sir Noel Hurst, of "Norston's Rest," to Miss Ruth Jessup, daughter of the late William Jessup, was announced in theCourt Journalthat week. Some few persons noticedthat the usual details were omitted; but the fact itself was enough to surprise and interest society, for young Hurst was considered the best match of the season, and no one could learn more of the bride than that Sir Noel was well pleased with the match, and the young lady herself was the most intimate friend of his lovely ward, the Lady Rose.
The joy bells were ringing merrily at "Norston's Rest." Sir Noel and Lady Rose had been down at the old mansion more than a month, and guests chosen from the brightest and highest of the land were invited to receive the young heir and his bride on their return from a brief wedding tour on the continent. Having once accepted this fair girl as his daughter, Sir Noel was a man to stand right nobly by the position he had taken. Born a gardener's daughter, she was now a Hurst, and must receive in all things the homage due a lady of "Norston's Rest."
For this reason those joy bells were filling the valley with their sweetest music; for this the streets of the village were arched with evergreens, and school-children were busy scattering flowers along the street to be trodden down by the wheels of the carriage or the hoofs of four black horses, sent to meet the young couple at the station.
It was a holiday in the village. The tenants on the estate turned out in a body, and were to be entertained now as they had been when the young heir became of age.
The landlady of the "Two Ravens" stood at the inn door, with her arms full of yellow lilies, hollyhocks and sweetwilliams, which she lavished in gorgeous masseson the carriage as it passed. Hurst took up one of the flowers and gave it to the bride, who held it to her lips, and smiled pleasantly upon the good friends of her father as she passed through them.
When the carriage drew up at "Norston's Rest," Sir Noel came down the steps, took Ruth upon his arm, and led her across the great terrace into the hall, where Lady Rose stood ready to welcome her. In the background all the servants of the household were assembled, headed by the steward and Mrs. Mason, both quiet and reverential in their reception of the bride, as if they had never seen her before.
Still, in the good housekeeper's face there was a proud lighting up of the countenance, that might have been traced to an inward consciousness that it was her protégée and goddaughter who was receiving all this welcoming homage; but from that day no person ever heard Mrs. Mason allude to the fact, except once, when Ruth addressed her by the old endearing title, she said, with simple gravity:
"Do not tempt a fond old woman to forgot that she is only housekeeper to the mistress of 'Norston's Rest.'"
After all the festivities were over, and Ruth was established in her new position, Lady Rose, who had been the leading spirit in every social arrangement, came to Sir Noel in his library one day. There she announced her resolve to leave "The Rest," and retire to one of her own estates in another part of England—that which she had once been willing to bestow on Richard Storms in ransom of Walton Hurst's honor. The old baronet received this proposal with even less composure than he had exhibited when the announcement of his son's marriage was made to him. With grave and pathetic sadnesshe drew the girl toward him and kissed her on the forehead.
"I will not ask you to stay, my child," he said, holding her hands in his until both began to tremble. "I had hoped I—oh, Rose! your own father could not have parted with you more unwillingly. It will not seem like the old place without you to any of us."
"Yes, oh, yes. They are both so happy—very happy! Don't you think so? One is not missed much. There, there, Sir Noel, this parting with you almost makes me cry!"
It did bring tears into Sir Noel's eyes—the first that Lady Rose had ever seen there in her life.
THE END.