CHAPTER LXVI.

SIR NOEL AND RUTH.

Sir Noel Hurst had been left standing in his library, white and stately, like a man turned into marble. That one hideous word had struck him with the force of a blow. In the suppressed rage of the moment he had sent Storms from his presence, scarcely comprehending the charge he had made or the price for secrecy that he demanded.

Still, audacious and unbelievable as the man's charge was, it aroused reflections in the father's mind that had hardly taken form before.

For months and months he had been vaguely uneasy about his son. With the keen perceptions of a man of the world, he had, without spying upon Walton, observed him anxiously. He knew that more of his time was spent about the gardener's cottage than seemed consistent with any interest he could have felt in William Jessup. He saw that the young daughter, whom he could with difficulty look upon as more than a child, was, in fact, a wonderfully beautiful girl. Beyond all this he perceived that, day by day, the young man drifted from his home, that the society of Lady Rose was almost abandoned, and that this fair young patrician drooped under the change.

On the night when the young man was found lying so deathly and still across the forest-path, these observations had deepened into grave anxiety. He became certain that some more dangerous feeling than he had been willing to believe must have drawn his son into the peril of his life. The anguish in Ruth's face; the piteous humility with which she shrunk from observation, alarmed him; for the girl had been, from her very infancy, a pet at the great house, and underneath all other anxiety was a feeling of paternal interest in her.

That some dispute had arisen, of which Ruth was the object, he had never doubted, and that both men had been injured in a rash contest seemed natural. All this was hard enough for a proud, sensitive man to bear in patience; but these apprehensions had been held in abeyance during his son's illness by deeper anxiety for his life, and now from sorrow over the death of a faithful old servant, to whom every member of the family was attached.

All these perplexities and suspicions had been fearfully aroused by the charge and proposal of young Storms. Not that the baronet gave anything but a scornful dismissal of either from his mind, but his old anxieties were kindled anew, and he resolved to break at once the tie that had drawn his son so often to the cottage, or, at least, make himself master of its nature. Had young Hurst been out of danger from excitement, perhaps Sir Noel would have broken the subject to him; but he had carefully avoided it, fearing some evil effect during his illness, and now was cautious to give no sign of the uneasiness that possessed him. So, with the sting of a rude insult urging him on, he went to Jessup's cottage.

Ruth was lying in the little parlor, weak and helpless as a crushed flower, all her rich color gone, all the velvety softness of her eyes clouded. A man's step on the porch made her start, and listen. She had cause to dread such steps, and they terrified her. A knock, measured and gentle--what if it was her husband's? What if Storms was on the watch? He must not come in. That was to endanger more than his life.

It was her hard task to say this. Ruth started up, crept to the door, and opened it, with trembling hands.

"Sir Noel!"

The name scarcely formed itself on her lips, when she shrunk back from the baronet's stern countenance, wondering what new sorrow was coming upon her.

Sir Noel had always liked the girl, and her sad bereavement awoke his compa.s.sion. Almost before she had spoken he felt the cruelty of his errand. It was impossible to look into those eyes, and think ill of a creature so helpless and so beautiful. But the very loveliness that disarmed him had brought death to her own father, and threatened disgrace to his son. The plans he had formed for that son--the future advancement of his house--all were in peril, unless she could be removed from the young man's path. This must be done. Still he would deal gently with her.

Sir Noel had sought the cottage with a quickly-formed resolution to urge on the marriage of its inmate with the man who had exhibited some right to claim her; but as he stood on the threshold, with that young girl trembling before him, this thought took a form so hideous, that he almost hated himself for having formed it.

Ruth went into the little parlor, trembling with apprehension. Sir Noel followed her. Here his heart nearly failed him. He felt the cruelty of hara.s.sing her with new troubles, when sorrow lay so heavily upon her; but anxiety urged him on against his better nature.

"Poor child!" he said, gently. "I see that you have suffered; so young, too. It is hard!"

Ruth lifted her eyes to his face, as if wondering that any one--he, most of all--could pity her. Then she said, with touching sadness, "It is hard, and I am so tired."

"I too have had trouble," said the baronet. "For many days we feared that Walton--"

"I know! I know! He came near dying, like my father--the best father that ever lived."

Ruth spoke low and nervously. The presence of Walton's father filled her with apprehension. Yet she longed to fall at his feet, and implore him to forgive her.

"Ruth," said Sir Noel, seating the poor girl on the sofa, and taking both her hands in his, "Ruth, try and think that it is your father who asks you: and answer me from your soul. Does my son love you?"

A flash of hot scarlet swept that desolate face. The eyelids drooped over those startled eyes. Ruth tried to draw her hands away.

"Answer me, child."

He spoke very gently, so gently that she could not help answering.

"Yes," she said, in a soft whisper. "He loves me."

"And you?"

Ruth lifted her pleading eyes to his--those great, innocent eyes, and answered, humbly, "How could I help it?"

"How long is this since, Ruth?"

"I don't know. It seems to me always; but he knows best."

"But, my poor child, how do you expect this to end?"

"It is ended! oh, it is ended! I wish you would tell him so, Sir Noel.

I must never, never see him again."

Ruth threw both arms over the end of the sofa, and, burying her face upon them, broke into a wild pa.s.sion of sobs.

Sir Noel was touched by this helpless acquiescence. He bent over her sadly enough.

"No, Ruth, you never must see him again."

"I know it--I know it!"

"There is another who loves you," he said, shrinking from the idea of giving that girl to the crafty ruffian who had dared to threaten him.

It seemed like an insult to his son thus to dispose of the creature that son had loved, and evidently respected; but he was not prepared for the wild outburst of anguish that followed his words. Ruth sprang to her feet, her eyes widening, her wet face contracted.

"You will not--you must not ask that of me. I will die first."

"Be it so. I will not urge you," answered the baronet, soothingly.

"Only promise me never to see Walton again!"

"I must! I do! Oh, believe me! I never, never must see him again!"

"You must go away!"

"Oh, if I could--if I only could!"

"It must be, my poor child. Some place of refuge shall be found."

Ruth lifted her face with sudden interest.

"I will see that you are cared for. Only this my son must never know."

"He must never know," repeated the poor girl. "Only, if I should be dying, would there be danger then? Only when I am dying?"

"We will not think of that, Ruth."

"No. I dare not. It tempts one so; but the good G.o.d will not be so cruel as to let me live."

Sir Noel was surprised at this broken-hearted submission. He had come to the cottage prepared for resistance, perhaps rebellion, but not for this. No doubt of the girl's innocence, or of his son's honor, disturbed him now. But this only made his task the more difficult. She must be removed from the neighborhood. The honor of his house--the future of his son demanded it.