"I will go now, Ruth," he said, with great kindness; "but, remember, you will never want a comfort or a friend while I live. In a few days I will settle on some safe and pleasant home for you."

Ruth did not seem to hear him, though she was looking steadily in his face; but when he dropped her hand, she said, piteously, "You will tell him--you will let him know that it was for his sake?"

"After you are gone, he shall know everything, except where to find you."

Ruth sunk back on her seat, bowed her face drearily, and thus Sir Noel left her.

CHAPTER LXVII.

SHOWING THE WAY.

Where could Ruth go? She had never been from home more than once or twice in her life. Her world was there lying about "The Rest"--her home in that cottage, where she was born, and her mother had died. She must leave it; of course, she must leave it, but how? To what place would Sir Noel Hurst send her? With that awful secret lying between her and Richard Storms, would she dare to go? He would avenge her absence on Hurst. She, no doubt, stood between him and the thing she shuddered to think of. What could she do?

All night long the poor child lay asking herself these questions. She had locked herself in with the darkness as the dusk came on, fearing that her husband might come--dreading to hear another step that filled her, soul and body, with loathing. She did hear a light tread on the turf, a gentle knock on the door, and fell to weeping on her pillow, with sobs that filled the whole desolate house. After these exhausting tears she slept a little, and when the daylight stole through the crevices of the shutters she turned from it, and lay with her face to the wall, wondering if she would live the day out.

There was no fire in the cottage that day--no food cooked or eaten.

Ruth crept out from her room and lay down on the little sofa, faint and miserably helpless. The apathy of great suffering was upon her.

She was hemmed in by darkness, and saw no way out.

Some time in the morning she heard a voice at the cas.e.m.e.nt. A white hand was thrust through the ivy, and beat lightly on the gla.s.s.

"Let me in, Ruth! Oh, let me in. I must speak to you!"

It was Lady Rose, who had known little rest since her interview with Storms in the Wilderness. A ring of excitement was in her voice. The face which looked in through the ivy was wildly white.

Ruth arose and unlocked the door. She would rather have been alone in her misery; but what did it matter? If she had any hope, it was that Lady Rose would not speak of him. She could bear anything but that.

"Poor Ruth! How ill--how miserably ill you look," said the lady, taking the hot hands that seemed to avoid her with a sudden clasp.

"Death, even a father's death, cannot have done all this."

Ruth shook her head sorrowfully.

"My father--I have almost forgotten him."

Lady Rose scarcely heeded this mournful confession; but drew the girl down upon the sofa, unconsciously grasping her hands till they would have made her cry out with pain at another time.

"Ruth, I have seen Storms, a man you know of. I met him in the wilderness. He told me--"

"He told you _that_!" exclaimed Ruth, aroused to new pangs of distress. "And you believed him?"

"Oh, Ruth, he has your father's letter. We could laugh his proof to scorn, but for that."

"Still, I do not believe it," said Ruth, kindling into vitality again.

"It was my father's letter. I carried it, not knowing what was written. My poor father believed it, no doubt; but I do not."

"Nor do I," said Lady Rose. "Nothing can make me believe it!"

Ruth threw herself at the young lady's feet, and clung to her in pa.s.sionate grat.i.tude.

"Get up, Ruth!" said Lady Rose. "Be strong, be magnanimous, for you alone can save Walton Hurst's life."

The girl got up obediently, but seemed turning to marble as she did so; for she guessed at the impossibility that would be demanded of her.

"I? How?" she questioned, in a hoa.r.s.e whisper. "How?"

"You and I. It rests with us."

Ruth breathed heavily.

"You and I!"

"This wretch--forgive me--this man, Storms, wants two things--land and gold. These I can give him, and will."

"Yes, yes."

"But he wants something else which I cannot give, and on that all the rest depends."

Ruth did not speak. She grew cold again.

"He wants you, Ruth."

No word, not even a movement of the lip answered this.

"He says," continued Lady Rose, "that you love him; that you are, of your own free will, pledged to him."

"It is false!"

The words startled Lady Rose.

"Oh, Ruth, do not say that. We have no other hope."

"But he, Walton Hurst I mean, is innocent. You know it--I know it."

"But this man holds the proof that would cost his life, false or true.

It is in his hands, and we cannot wrest it from them."

"Is this true, Lady Rose?"

"Fatally, fearfully true; G.o.d help us! Oh, Ruth, why do you hesitate to save him?"

"I do not hesitate!"

"You will rescue him from this terrible accusation? You will complete the engagement, and get that awful letter? To think that he is in this great danger, and does not know it! To think that his salvation lies in our hands. What I can do is nothing. It will be you that saves him."