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 coarse
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 compassion,--"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 attitude 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 glass 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.