For Gertie she had always cherished a motherly affection.
Gertie was associated with all her later life, and was for ever bound up with the short history of her wedded happiness.
Gertie and she and Marston had been a happy little family group before the trouble came, and with Gertie she could talk of the past without restraint.
But Gertie brought back with her a strange story—a story which when Ruth heard she resolved at once to test to its foundation.
From Gertie Mrs. Heritage gleaned not only the fact that her little protegee was in some mysterious way heiress to a fortune, but she heard all that happened to the late squire’s son and his faithful wife.
Ruth sent a loving message to Bess at once, and bade her come to the Hall without delay. She remembered what this woman had done for her, and if, as she more than suspected, the romantic history of which Gertie only knew a few detached scraps was true, she was bound by every consideration of justice and humanity at least to make such reparation for the bitter wrong as was within her power.
It was with a strange feeling that Bess came to the Hall once more, for the events of the last few days had made a deep impression on her.
The law was already at work to prove George’s innocence, and she had no fear for that. But she had hesitated to break in upon Ruth’s sacred sorrow with the tiding that she had lost not only husband and peace of mind, but fortune and home.
Ruth and Bess sat together all the spring afternoon, and the light died down in the west, and the grey shadows crept up the long walk and fell softly on the tearful faces of the two women.
Gently had Bess broken to the widow the secret of her dead husband’s treachery, and Ruth listened, never doubting a word, for truth was written on every line of Bess’s sweet, thin face.