Ruth gave a cry of horror—a cry which died away on her lips as a loud rustling by the hedge announced the presence of some one—some one who had perhaps overheard all.
Ruth and her informant walked quickly away.
‘Go now,’ said the woman. ‘You have no time to lose. Let your husband fly at once. To-morrow it will be too late.’
‘Yes; I will! I will!’ cried Ruth, almost fainting with horror and grief. ‘But tell me how you know this.’
‘How I know it!’ said the woman, passionately flinging up her veil. ‘Look at me well—you, whose husband I have saved—and remember me. I am the wife of George Heritage. I am the rightful mistress of these broad lands. My husband is a convict—a hunted felon. He was the victim of a vile plot, which your husband concocted. I know all now; and yet I forgive him for your sake. I want no wife’s agony on my head if it can be spared. Your husband ruined mine. I have come to save yours!’
Ruth buried her face in her hands as Bess poured out her wild words—words wrung from her heart.
‘Remember,’ said the woman, ‘to-morrow it will be too late.’
As she spoke she walked rapidly away, leaving Ruth rooted to the spot.
As soon as her limbs would obey her will, terrified and heartbroken, Ruth staggered, rather than walked, back to the hall.
Coming down the walk she met her husband.