Directly the sound of voices swept that way, and the great cedar trees were reddened with a glare of torches, and a streaming light from lanterns. Then Lady Rose, who had been sitting upon the ground with Walton Hurst's head resting on her lap, bent down softly, kissed the white forehead, and stole away from all traces of light. Sir Noel had been thoughtful for her. She could not have borne that the eyes of those menial helpers, or their masters either, should see her ministering to a man who, perhaps, would hold her care, as he might her love, in careless indifference.
Yes, Sir Noel was right. She must not be found there.
Down through the trees she went, looking wistfully back at the figure left alone in the moonlight, tempted to return and brave everything, rather than leave him alone. But the torches came up fast and redly, hushed voices broke the stillness that had seemed so deathlike, and, envying that other girl, who was permitted to remain, the lady stole toward the cottage, and sinking down upon the porch, listened to the far-off tumult with a dull pain of the heart which death itself could hardly have intensified.
It was well that Lady Rose had fled from the path, along which some thirty men were coming—gentlemen in evening dress, gamekeepers and grooms, all moving under the torch-light, like a funeral procession.
With the tenderness of women, and the strength of men, they lifted Walton Hurst from the ground, and bore him toward the house. Ruth rose up in the darkness of the cedars, and saw him drifting away from her, with the red light of the torches streaming over the whiteness of his face, and then fell down by her father, moaning piteously.
By-and-by the torch-lights flashed and flamed under the cedars, lighting up their great, drooping branches, like a tent under which a wounded or perchance dead man was lying prone upon his back, with his strong arms flung out, and a slow ripple of blood flowing from his chest.
The torch-bearers took little heed of the poor girl, who had crept so close to her father that her garments were red with his blood, but lifted the body up with less reverential care than had marked the removal of the young master, but still not unkindly, and bore it away toward the house. Ruth arose, worn out with anguish, and followed in silence, wondering that she was alive to bear all this sorrow.
It seemed to Lady Rose that hours and hours had passed since she had sheltered her misery in that low porch, and this was true, if time can be measured by feeling. It was even a relief when she saw that little group of menials bearing the form of the gardener along the forest-path, which was slowly reddened by lanterns and half-extinguished torches. In the midst of this weird scene came Ruth Jessup, holding fast to her father's hand, with her pallid face bowed down, creeping, as it were, along the way, as if all life had been smitten from her.
A sort of painful pity seized upon Lady Rose, as she saw this procession bearing down upon the cottage. She could not look upon that poor girl without a sensation of shrinking dislike. Had not Hurst been on his way to her when he met with this evil fate? Had he not almost fled from her own presence to visit this beautiful rustic, whose desolation seemed so complete? Yes, she pitied the poor young thing; what woman could help it? But, underlying the pity, was a feeling of subdued triumph, that only one wounded man was coming that way.
All at once the girl started from her seat.