"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 superst.i.tions.

"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.

Two persons, 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 coa.r.s.e 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 Sevres 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 compa.s.sion,--"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 att.i.tude 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 his hand 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 gla.s.s 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.