But the morrow brings its own tidings.
It is almost noon, and Sartoris, sitting in his library, writing some business letters,—preparatory to catching the up train to town,—is disturbed by a light knock at the door.
"Come in," he calls out, impatiently; and Simon Gale, opening the door, comes slowly in.
He is a very old man, and has been butler in the family for more years than he himself can count. His head is quite white, his form a little bent; there is, at this moment, a touch of deep distress upon his face that makes him look even older than he is.
"Are you busy, my lord?" asks he, in a somewhat nervous tone.
"Yes; I am very much engaged. I can see no one, Gale. Say I am starting for town immediately."
"It isn't that, my lord. It is something I myself have to say to you. If you could spare me a few minutes——." He comes a little nearer, and speaks even more earnestly. "It is about Ruth Annersley."
Lord Sartoris, laying down his pen, looks at him intently.
"Close the door, Simon," he says, hurriedly, something in the old servant's manner impressing him. "I will hear you. Speak, man: what is it?"
"A story I heard this morning, my lord, which I feel it my duty to repeat to you. Not that I believe one word of it. You will remember that, my lord,—not one word." The grief in his tone belies the truth of his avowal. His head is bent. His old withered hands clasp and unclasp each other nervously.