"Lady Rose! Lady Rose! what is this? you terrify me!" pleaded the old woman at last.
"How can I help it, being fearfully terrified myself? Oh, Hipple, Walton was privately married to Ruth Jessup, and she is missing!"
"Married—missing!"
"She may be dead; and oh, Hipple, my dear old friend, I drove her to it."
"You! no, no, my child; but come—where shall we search?"
Lady Rose led the way down to the Black Lake. The door of the old summer house was open. Through it she saw gleams of scarlet, outside the broken timbers.
"She is here—we are in time!" she cried out, rushing forward, but recoiled from the threshold with a faint moan. It was only a scarlet garment, with the morning sunshine pouring over it.
"It is hers. She has gone. Oh, God, forgive me, she has gone!" cried the poor lady, dragging her reluctant limbs through the opening. "Her own jacket and the pretty hat. God help me! I have killed her. I, who meant only to redeem him. Oh, Hipple, have I the curse of a great crime—the mark of Cain on me?"
"Hush," said the old lady, with gentle authority, placing the unhappy girl on the bench. "I have more calmness; let me search. This sacque—"
"It is hers! it is hers! I have seen her wear it, oh, so often," cried Lady Rose, covering her eyes, which the flame tints of the garment seemed to burn.