"DID YOU NOT KNOW?" SHE SAID.
Slowly the gatehouse clock tolled out the hours succeeding Lawrence's
departure. Terrible and solemn ones they were for Ruth, maintaining
her solitary watch beside the secret panel where the wounded man lay,
with eyes closed, and now breathing heavily, now catching feeble
gasping breaths, so feeble that more than once Ruth thought life had
left him.
She had done her best, poor Ruth, and like any Lady Bountiful of
treble her years, had got out her little stock of salves and simples
and old linen rag, and gently and tenderly dressed the gaping wound;
but it was all of just as much and no more use than the endeavours of
the skilfullest doctors would have been.
"I am past thy surgery, child," he said in feeble but distinct tones,
when towards two o'clock he stirred a little and opened his eyes.
"The knife did its work. But give me a drink--ay, a cordial if you
have it in your store. So," and he eagerly drank the contents of the
little cup which Ruth filled from a flask upon the table, and
shouldering himself feebly on his right side, his eyes wandered
wistfully round the shadowy chamber as if in search of something, and
rested at last on a little table of carved oak, bearing materials for
writing. "Bring it here," he said. "Yes, that is well," he went on,
as Ruth, marking his wish, even before he had given it utterance,
brought the table beside the panel and set it close within his reach.
"For I have a message to leave behind me, and my hours are numbered.
My minutes belike," and his eyes closed; but in a few seconds he
opened them again, and stretched out a trembling hand. "Quick!" he
went on. "Pen and paper, dear child, as thou'rt a God-fearing
maiden, and hop'st for heaven at last."
[Sidenote: The dying man.]
"As you do," gently murmured Ruth, spreading the paper as well as she
could out upon the narrow bed, and placing the pen in his hand. "As
you do, dear Master Goodenough."
"Nay," moaned the dying man. "Sin lies heavy on my soul."
"But God is love, dear Master Goodenough," said Ruth, dashing aside
the tears that blurred her sight.
"Who taught thee thy creed?" said the sheriff, wonderingly fixing his
hollow eyes on her pitying face. "'Tis none of the master's of this
house, for his is a gospel of wrath, and of vengeance for our ill
deeds."
"'I will have mercy and not sacrifice.' Does not the Bible say that,
Master Goodenough? and the Lord Christ, did not He say 'There is joy
in heaven over one sinner that repenteth.'"
[Sidenote: A last message.]
"I doubt," murmured the wounded man, "had I been thy pupil, I had not
been in this plight now." Then he gazed down at the blank paper, and
thoughtfully setting the pen to it, while Ruth knelt upon the floor
beside him and held the lamp close, began to write. "'_I Thomas
Goodenough, being now at the point of death_'--Thy lamp burns very
dim, there is a mist about it," he went on, labouring at his
self-imposed task, while Ruth trimmed the flame, and made it shine
brightly enough, but it remained only a poor dim thing enough for the
eyes that never on this world's sea or shore, would see the light
again--"'_by the hand of the man, Richard Rumsey, who has thus now
destroyed my body, as first he did my soul--_'
"As first he strove to do that," amended Ruth, watching the words, as
one by one the labouring tremulous fingers produced them.
"Take you the pen, and alter it then if you can write, for my hand
will not reach to't," said Goodenough, "and may it be as you say,
little one," he went on, a gleam of something like content breaking
upon his pallid lips as Ruth took the pen, and neatly wrote in her
little amendment between the crooked-back up-hill-and-down-dale
lines. "'_As first he strove to ruin my soul, by--_' Nay, but write
on, and I will sign--quick--'_by fair and reasonable seeming words;
persuading me to enrol myself into the foul plot which hath been
hatched for the making away of the persons of His Majesty, and of His
Majesty's Brother, James, Duke of York; thereby_.' Hast thou it all
down? '_thereby_,'" continued Goodenough, as Ruth nodded, "'_to rid
the country of the race of Stuarts; and to set up rulers of their own
choosing_.'"
"Choosing," said Ruth as she wrote the last word.
[Sidenote: A tale of murder.]
"'_It now appeareth_,' went on Goodenough after a brief silence, '_by
this night's work, that there has further been intended the
compassing of the murder of the king, and of his brother, by these
bloody-minded men_'--write on, child, quick, quick!" Ruth's hand
trembled cruelly, and a huge drop of ink fell from her pen; but she
wrote on: "'_by their waylaying of the coach in which the king shall
return from Newmarket;_' where's the cup, child? give me another
drink. Now, thy pen again--stay, my brain grows confused--ay, from
Newmarket, '_upon the by-road which runs by the Rye House, over
against Hoddesdon, and there stopping the coach by the overturning of
a cart across the narrow way, to shoot the guards from the hedges,
and so in cold blood to kill the king and his brother_.' Hast thou
that all down in black and white?"
"Yes," answered Ruth, though in sober truth the characters glared
fiery red from the fair white paper in her fevered eyes.
"'_And hereby_,' faltered on the dying man, '_I, with these my last
perishing breaths do declare, that of the forty conspirers in this
plot, I take not upon myself to single out the more guilty, and
murderously disposed ones; save only that my own soul is innocent of
all desire and intent to shed blood; and furthermore I do desire to
state, that of those plotters who gathered this night to discuss the
ways and means for His Majesty's death, the young man Lawrence--_'"
"Lee; yes, yes, Lawrence Lee," rapidly wrote on Ruth. "I know,
Master Goodenough."
"Thou dost? so much the better, the brave lad who would--who would--"
"Ay, who would have saved you from that fearful man if he could."
Goodenough nodded. "_Lawrence Lee was not one_,' and--and--"
Goodenough's voice sank to a whisper, and his dim eyes closed. "I
can say no more. I would have--liked to--tell--the noble turn he did
me--and--how--thou, whoever thou art--"
[Sidenote: The light grows dim.]
Slower and slower, fainter and fainter, rose and fell the dying man's
voice upon the silence; until suddenly his eyes opened, and fixing
wistfully for a little while upon Ruth's face, wandered from it to
the paper under her hand. "Set thy name to it," he said, "for--a
living witness."
"'Tis well," he went on, when she had obeyed. "And now, give it me
here again under my hand, and thy pen--and hold the light close, for
it grows so dark--dark--nay, but I cannot see the place;" and his
fast glazing eyes strayed helplessly over the paper.
"Here, dear Master Goodenough," said Ruth, taking the cold hand and
gently placing it aright, "here is where I have written my name."
[Sidenote: The signatures.]
He made a desperate but ineffectual effort to steady the pen on the
spot she indicated. "I cannot do it," he said, as the quill dropped
loosely in his numbed fingers; "and my mark must suffice. But 'twill
serve--'twill serve. Set the paper close--closer;" and then with
infinite labour he made the cross mark. "Ruth Rumbold!" he cried, as
he moved his hand, and the full light of the lamp fell upon the
clear, boldly-marked characters of her signature beneath. "This
man--Richard Rumbold's--daughter!" and his eyes fixed upon her in a
stare of mingled horror and pity.
She nodded her head slowly up and down. "Did you not know?" she
said, meeting his gaze with sad, appealing looks--"did you not know
he was my father?"
"Then Heaven help thee, poor child, and comfort thee, for thou hast
need of it indeed, poor innocent!"
Then his voice fell away into uneasy inaudible murmurings. His eyes
closed again, and presently he seemed to sleep. And so till dawn
slowly began to silver the fresh young leaves about the ivy panes,
and creep on into the room towards the dark recess, spreading itself
gently on the white, still face of the dying man, and the hardly more
life-like one of the watcher, there was silence. But just as the
song of the birds trilled cheerily forth, he stirred slightly. "Art
thou there?" he murmured, feebly stretching out his hand.
"I am here, dear Master Goodenough!" she said, kneeling beside him
and covering the pale fingers in her gentle clasp.
"God bless thee, child!" and he drew her hand close towards his lips:
"for thy sweet charity God bless--"
[Sidenote: Death of Goodenough.]
And in a smile of content the lips parted slightly, a low sigh broke
from them, and Master Goodenough was dead.