CHAPTER LXVII.
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.