SIR NOEL AND RUTH.
Sir Noel Hurst had been left standing in his library, white and
stately, like a man turned into marble. That one hideous word had
struck him with the force of a blow. In the suppressed rage of the
moment he had sent Storms from his presence, scarcely comprehending
the charge he had made or the price for secrecy that he demanded.
Still, audacious and unbelievable as the man's charge was, it aroused
reflections in the father's mind that had hardly taken form before.
For months and months he had been vaguely uneasy about his son. With
the keen perceptions of a man of the world, he had, without spying
upon Walton, observed him anxiously. He knew that more of his time was
spent about the gardener's cottage than seemed consistent with any
interest he could have felt in William Jessup. He saw that the young
daughter, whom he could with difficulty look upon as more than a
child, was, in fact, a wonderfully beautiful girl. Beyond all this he
perceived that, day by day, the young man drifted from his home, that
the society of Lady Rose was almost abandoned, and that this fair
young patrician drooped under the change.
On the night when the young man was found lying so deathly and still
across the forest-path, these observations had deepened into grave
anxiety. He became certain that some more dangerous feeling than he
had been willing to believe must have drawn his son into the peril of
his life. The anguish in Ruth's face; the piteous humility with which
she shrunk from observation, alarmed him; for the girl had been, from
her very infancy, a pet at the great house, and underneath all other
anxiety was a feeling of paternal interest in her.
That some dispute had arisen, of which Ruth was the object, he had
never doubted, and that both men had been injured in a rash contest
seemed natural. All this was hard enough for a proud, sensitive man to
bear in patience; but these apprehensions had been held in abeyance
during his son's illness by deeper anxiety for his life, and now from
sorrow over the death of a faithful old servant, to whom every member
of the family was attached.
All these perplexities and suspicions had been fearfully aroused by
the charge and proposal of young Storms. Not that the baronet gave
anything but a scornful dismissal of either from his mind, but his old
anxieties were kindled anew, and he resolved to break at once the tie
that had drawn his son so often to the cottage, or, at least, make
himself master of its nature. Had young Hurst been out of danger from
excitement, perhaps Sir Noel would have broken the subject to him; but
he had carefully avoided it, fearing some evil effect during his
illness, and now was cautious to give no sign of the uneasiness that
possessed him. So, with the sting of a rude insult urging him on, he
went to Jessup's cottage.
Ruth was lying in the little parlor, weak and helpless as a crushed
flower, all her rich color gone, all the velvety softness of her eyes
clouded. A man's step on the porch made her start, and listen. She had
cause to dread such steps, and they terrified her. A knock, measured
and gentle--what if it was her husband's? What if Storms was on the
watch? He must not come in. That was to endanger more than his life.
It was her hard task to say this. Ruth started up, crept to the door,
and opened it, with trembling hands.
"Sir Noel!"
The name scarcely formed itself on her lips, when she shrunk back from
the baronet's stern countenance, wondering what new sorrow was coming
upon her.
Sir Noel had always liked the girl, and her sad bereavement awoke his
compassion. Almost before she had spoken he felt the cruelty of his
errand. It was impossible to look into those eyes, and think ill of a
creature so helpless and so beautiful. But the very loveliness that
disarmed him had brought death to her own father, and threatened
disgrace to his son. The plans he had formed for that son--the future
advancement of his house--all were in peril, unless she could be
removed from the young man's path. This must be done. Still he would
deal gently with her.
Sir Noel had sought the cottage with a quickly-formed resolution to
urge on the marriage of its inmate with the man who had exhibited some
right to claim her; but as he stood on the threshold, with that young
girl trembling before him, this thought took a form so hideous, that
he almost hated himself for having formed it.
Ruth went into the little parlor, trembling with apprehension. Sir
Noel followed her. Here his heart nearly failed him. He felt the
cruelty of harassing her with new troubles, when sorrow lay so heavily
upon her; but anxiety urged him on against his better nature.
"Poor child!" he said, gently. "I see that you have suffered; so
young, too. It is hard!"
Ruth lifted her eyes to his face, as if wondering that any one--he,
most of all--could pity her. Then she said, with touching sadness, "It
is hard, and I am so tired."
"I too have had trouble," said the baronet. "For many days we feared
that Walton--"
"I know! I know! He came near dying, like my father--the best father
that ever lived."
Ruth spoke low and nervously. The presence of Walton's father filled
her with apprehension. Yet she longed to fall at his feet, and implore
him to forgive her.
"Ruth," said Sir Noel, seating the poor girl on the sofa, and taking
both her hands in his, "Ruth, try and think that it is your father who
asks you: and answer me from your soul. Does my son love you?"
A flash of hot scarlet swept that desolate face. The eyelids drooped
over those startled eyes. Ruth tried to draw her hands away.
"Answer me, child."
He spoke very gently, so gently that she could not help answering.
"Yes," she said, in a soft whisper. "He loves me."
"And you?"
Ruth lifted her pleading eyes to his--those great, innocent eyes, and
answered, humbly, "How could I help it?"
"How long is this since, Ruth?"
"I don't know. It seems to me always; but he knows best."
"But, my poor child, how do you expect this to end?"
"It is ended! oh, it is ended! I wish you would tell him so, Sir Noel.
I must never, never see him again."
Ruth threw both arms over the end of the sofa, and, burying her face
upon them, broke into a wild passion of sobs.
Sir Noel was touched by this helpless acquiescence. He bent over her
sadly enough.
"No, Ruth, you never must see him again."
"I know it--I know it!"
"There is another who loves you," he said, shrinking from the idea of
giving that girl to the crafty ruffian who had dared to threaten him.
It seemed like an insult to his son thus to dispose of the creature
that son had loved, and evidently respected; but he was not prepared
for the wild outburst of anguish that followed his words. Ruth sprang
to her feet, her eyes widening, her wet face contracted.
"You will not--you must not ask that of me. I will die first."
"Be it so. I will not urge you," answered the baronet, soothingly.
"Only promise me never to see Walton again!"
"I must! I do! Oh, believe me! I never, never must see him again!"
"You must go away!"
"Oh, if I could--if I only could!"
"It must be, my poor child. Some place of refuge shall be found."
Ruth lifted her face with sudden interest.
"I will see that you are cared for. Only this my son must never know."
"He must never know," repeated the poor girl. "Only, if I should be
dying, would there be danger then? Only when I am dying?"
"We will not think of that, Ruth."
"No. I dare not. It tempts one so; but the good God will not be so
cruel as to let me live."
Sir Noel was surprised at this broken-hearted submission. He had come
to the cottage prepared for resistance, perhaps rebellion, but not for
this. No doubt of the girl's innocence, or of his son's honor,
disturbed him now. But this only made his task the more difficult. She
must be removed from the neighborhood. The honor of his house--the
future of his son demanded it.
"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.