SHOWING THE WAY.
Where could Ruth go? She had never been from home more than once or
twice in her life. Her world was there lying about "The Rest"--her
home in that cottage, where she was born, and her mother had died. She
must leave it; of course, she must leave it, but how? To what place
would Sir Noel Hurst send her? With that awful secret lying between
her and Richard Storms, would she dare to go? He would avenge her
absence on Hurst. She, no doubt, stood between him and the thing she
shuddered to think of. What could she do?
All night long the poor child lay asking herself these questions. She
had locked herself in with the darkness as the dusk came on, fearing
that her husband might come--dreading to hear another step that filled
her, soul and body, with loathing. She did hear a light tread on the
turf, a gentle knock on the door, and fell to weeping on her pillow,
with sobs that filled the whole desolate house. After these exhausting
tears she slept a little, and when the daylight stole through the
crevices of the shutters she turned from it, and lay with her face to
the wall, wondering if she would live the day out.
There was no fire in the cottage that day--no food cooked or eaten.
Ruth crept out from her room and lay down on the little sofa, faint
and miserably helpless. The apathy of great suffering was upon her.
She was hemmed in by darkness, and saw no way out.
Some time in the morning she heard a voice at the casement. A white
hand was thrust through the ivy, and beat lightly on the glass.
"Let me in, Ruth! Oh, let me in. I must speak to you!"
It was Lady Rose, who had known little rest since her interview with
Storms in the Wilderness. A ring of excitement was in her voice. The
face which looked in through the ivy was wildly white.
Ruth arose and unlocked the door. She would rather have been alone in
her misery; but what did it matter? If she had any hope, it was that
Lady Rose would not speak of him. She could bear anything but that.
"Poor Ruth! How ill--how miserably ill you look," said the lady,
taking the hot hands that seemed to avoid her with a sudden clasp.
"Death, even a father's death, cannot have done all this."
Ruth shook her head sorrowfully.
"My father--I have almost forgotten him."
Lady Rose scarcely heeded this mournful confession; but drew the girl
down upon the sofa, unconsciously grasping her hands till they would
have made her cry out with pain at another time.
"Ruth, I have seen Storms, a man you know of. I met him in the
wilderness. He told me--"
"He told you _that_!" exclaimed Ruth, aroused to new pangs of
distress. "And you believed him?"
"Oh, Ruth, he has your father's letter. We could laugh his proof to
scorn, but for that."
"Still, I do not believe it," said Ruth, kindling into vitality again.
"It was my father's letter. I carried it, not knowing what was
written. My poor father believed it, no doubt; but I do not."
"Nor do I," said Lady Rose. "Nothing can make me believe it!"
Ruth threw herself at the young lady's feet, and clung to her in
passionate gratitude.
"Get up, Ruth!" said Lady Rose. "Be strong, be magnanimous, for you
alone can save Walton Hurst's life."
The girl got up obediently, but seemed turning to marble as she did
so; for she guessed at the impossibility that would be demanded of
her.
"I? How?" she questioned, in a hoarse whisper. "How?"
"You and I. It rests with us."
Ruth breathed heavily.
"You and I!"
"This wretch--forgive me--this man, Storms, wants two things--land and
gold. These I can give him, and will."
"Yes, yes."
"But he wants something else which I cannot give, and on that all the
rest depends."
Ruth did not speak. She grew cold again.
"He wants you, Ruth."
No word, not even a movement of the lip answered this.
"He says," continued Lady Rose, "that you love him; that you are, of
your own free will, pledged to him."
"It is false!"
The words startled Lady Rose.
"Oh, Ruth, do not say that. We have no other hope."
"But he, Walton Hurst I mean, is innocent. You know it--I know it."
"But this man holds the proof that would cost his life, false or true.
It is in his hands, and we cannot wrest it from them."
"Is this true, Lady Rose?"
"Fatally, fearfully true; God help us! Oh, Ruth, why do you hesitate
to save him?"
"I do not hesitate!"
"You will rescue him from this terrible accusation? You will complete
the engagement, and get that awful letter? To think that he is in this
great danger, and does not know it! To think that his salvation lies
in our hands. What I can do is nothing. It will be you that saves
him."
"I cannot! I cannot!"
"Ruth Jessup! You refuse? You have the power to save him, and will
not?"
"God help me! God 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 noble 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 passionately
on her shoulder, murmuring thanks, endearments, and tender compassion
in wild and broken snatches.
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.