No one seemed to remark that the young heir of "Norston's Rest" was absent; for it was known that he had taxed his strength too far, and was now paying the penalty of over exertion by a relapse which threatened to prostrate him altogether.
In the throng of villagers that came in groups through the park was the landlady of the public house, and with her Judith Hart, who was too insignificant a person for criticism, or the eager excitement of her manner might have arrested attention. But safe in her low estate, the girl moved about in the crowd, until the house was filled, and half the little concourse of friends stood reverently on the outside waiting for the coffin to be brought forth. Then she drew close to young Storms, who stood apart from his father, and whispered, "You beckoned me—what for?"
Storms answered her in a cautious whisper. Nodding her head, the girl replied:
"But after that, will you come to the public, or shall I—"
"To the Lake House, after the funeral," was the impatient rejoinder.
"I will be there, never fear."
With these words Judith glided off through the crowd, and passing around the house, concealed herself in the thickets of blooming plants in which the garden terminated.
From this concealment she watched the funeral train file out from the porch and wind its way down the great chestnut avenue on its course to the churchyard. She saw Ruth, the last of that little household, following the coffin with bowed head, and footsteps that faltered in her short walk between the porch and the gate. Wicked as the girl was, a throb of compassion stirred her heart for the young creature whom she had so hated in her jealous wrath, but could pity in such deep affliction.
Slowly and solemnly the funeral procession swept from the house, and passed, like a black cloud, down the avenue. The park became silent. The cottage was still as death, for every living thing had passed from it when the body of its master was carried forth. Then holding her breath, and treading softly, as if her sacrilegious foot were coming too near an altar, Judith Hart stole into the house. The door was latched, not locked. She felt sure of that, for, in deep grief, who takes heed of such things? A single touch of her finger, and she would be mistress of that little home for an hour at least. Still her heart quaked and her step faltered. It seemed as if she were on the threshold of a great crime, but had no power to retreat.
She was in the porch; her hand was stretched out, feeling for the latch, when something dragged at her arm. A sharp cry broke from her; then, turning to face her enemy, she found only the branch of a climbing rose that had broken loose from the kindred vines, whose thorns clung to her sleeve.