The relief was but momentary, for Sage’s conscience said that the husband had gained some inkling of the intended flight, and had come to stop it.
Just then the broad-shouldered, red-faced farmer entered the room.
“How are ye?” he cried in a bluff tone that set Sage’s heart at rest for the moment. “I scarcely thought the mare would have got me through it,” he continued. “It’s a strange rough night, master, and if you’ve any sheep out, I’d have ’em seen to. Eh? what? My darling ill?” he cried, as he heard the Churchwarden’s announcement. “Then thank the Lord I did come.”
“No, no; don’t go to her now,” panted Sage, as John Berry took off his coat and threw it out into the hall.
“Not go up to her? Nay, lass, that I will,” he cried, and Sage followed him up-stairs.
“Why, Rue, my lass,” he cried, tenderly, “what’s wrong wi’ you?”
At the sound of his voice Rue started from the bed and flung herself into his arms.
“Jack, Jack!” she cried, “take me—hold me—husband, dear. God have mercy on me! I must be mad.”
Sage stayed with them in obedience to a sign from John Berry, and stood there trembling as she saw her sister’s fair brown hair tumbled upon her husband’s breast, to which she clung in an agony of remorse.
Over and over again Rue kept raising her head, though to gaze piteously at her sister, and then hide her face again.