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.