CHAPTER LXVI.
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.