Lady Rose had, indeed, left the house. She knew best where to search for the missing girl. In the hall she met Mrs. Hipple. s.n.a.t.c.hing 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 table where 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, G.o.d, forgive me, she has gone!" cried the poor lady, dragging her reluctant limbs through the opening. "Her own jacket and the pretty hat. G.o.d help me! I have killed her. I, who meant only to redeem him. Oh, Hipple, have I 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 G.o.d! Thank G.o.d, I have not murdered them both," she cried, s.n.a.t.c.hing 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 him when 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 b.u.t.t 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 she could 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 pa.s.sage, 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 her to 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.