"I cannot! I cannot!"

"Ruth Jessup! You refuse? You have the power to save him, and will not?"

"G.o.d help me! G.o.d help me, I cannot do it."

Lady Rose turned away from the girl haughtily, angrily.

"And I could think that she loved Walton Hurst," she said, in bitterness of heart.

"Oh, do not, do not condemn me. If you only knew--if you only knew,"

cried Ruth, wringing her hands in wild desperation.

"I know that you could save him from death, and his whole family from dishonor, and will not. That is enough. I will importune you no longer. Had it been me, I, the daughter of an earl, would have wedded that man, yes--though he were twice the fiend he is--rather than let this thunderbolt fall on a n.o.ble house, on as brave and true a man as ever lived."

"He is brave, he is true, and you are his peer. You are worthy of him, heart and soul, and I am not. But you might pity me a little, because I cannot do what would save him."

"Because you are incapable of a great sacrifice. Well, I do pity you.

As for me, I would die rather than he should even know of the peril that threatens him."

"Die? Die?"

A sudden illumination swept the white face of Ruth Jessup. Her eyes took fire, her breath rose in quick gasps, out of which came those two words. Then another question--would a death save him?

"If my death could do it, I need not have come to you," answered Lady Rose, proudly.

"True, true, I can see that. Do not think so hardly of me. I am not born to bravery, as you are. My father was only a poor gardener. When great sacrifices are asked of me, I may want a little time. You should not be angry with me for that."

Lady Rose turned eagerly.

"You relent. You have a heart, then?"

"Yes, yes, I will save him. In another week his path and yours shall be clear and bright.

"Mine? Mine? No, no! Can you think I do not understand all that you meditate, all that you may suffer in a marriage with this man? I spoke of dying. The self-abnegation you promise is a thousand times worse than death. Ruth Jessup, I envy you the power of so grand a sacrifice: I could make it as you will; and you could give up everything, taking no share in the future as I will. When this cloud is swept from 'Norston's Rest,' I leave it forever."

Excitement had kept Lady Rose proud and strong till now; but in place of this a great swell of pity, and self-pity, filled her heart.

Reaching out her arms, she drew Ruth into them, and wept pa.s.sionately on her shoulder, murmuring thanks, endearments, and tender compa.s.sion in wild and broken s.n.a.t.c.hes.

As for Ruth, she had become the strongest of the two, and, in her gentle way, strove to comfort the lady, who stood upright after a while, and, pushing the young orphan from her, searched her face, as if to make sure of her firmness.

"How calm, how still you look, girl! Tell me again that you will not fail."

"I will not fail."

"But you will let me do something. We shall both go away from here, you to a new home, far from this; a pretty home, Ruth, and I to an estate very near, where we will be such friends as the world never saw. This hour has made us so. That which you are doing for him I will help you to endure."

Ruth smiled very sadly. Lady Rose kissed her, preparing to go.

"How cold your lips are! how I have made you suffer!" she said, drawing back, chilled.

"It will not last," answered Ruth, quietly. "Take no further trouble about me. I have not felt so much at rest since my father died."

"If I only knew how to thank you."

"I should thank you for pointing out the way; but for that I might never have known," answered Ruth, gently.

"You will have saved him, and he will never know. That seems hard; still, there may come a time--But, you are growing pale again; I only pain you. Good-by, for a while."

"Good-by," said Ruth, faintly.

CHAPTER LXVIII.

FORSAKING HER HOME.

Ruth stood 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 conscious of 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 cl.u.s.ter 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.