A cure for care.
Many a summer evening, when Mistress Sheppard's guests tarried as late as this, Ruth could remember catching the echoes of merry laughter and snatches of songs from that window; but though the night was warm as a July one, not a sound was to be heard save the low hooting of the owls and the gurgling of the water in the moat.
She stretched her head from the window, to listen for the familiar sound of her father's heavy footfall up the wicket-path.
How late he stayed!
And Lawrence? had he gone home yet in his boat? Surely. And yet—ah! well. What was it all to her? Why vex her head about it? Why not go to sleep and forget her fancies? Fancy! were those dark cloaked figures fancy forsooth? Like some evil dreams, indeed, they haunted her mind. And that flash of cruel steel blue light? No fancy that. But what concern could it be of Ruth's? Why, a turn of her wheel would dispel it all. There is no remedy like a little bit of diligent work for troublesome thoughts, or even sad ones. How provoking that the stupid thing had not a shred of flax in it! There it stood in its corner, a beautiful wheel of ebony inlaid with ivory, her father's gift last birthday, but like a fair body without a soul, destitute of the flax. How she could have worked away by the light of the stars which were so brilliant that lamp-light would be an utter superfluity—if only the flax had been to hand!
Out in the moonlight.
Unluckily it all lay locked away, a splendid store, in the big oak linen press, atop of the keeping-room staircase; and just the least bit in the world of extra courage was indispensable for traversing those silent passages at this hour. And yet after all, a very little bit, for Ruth was no coward. The chief difficulty was to avoid disturbing Maudlin. It would be such a shame to do that. The old woman lay so comfortable—leagues away in the land of dreams. Ruth could see that, as she peeped at her through the half-open door. So soundly sleeping that she gathered courage, and stepped tiptoe across the floor, out into the corridors beyond, till she could see the sacks away at its furthermost end in the storeroom, all huddled together like hunchbacks under the dim starlight, or—like those cloaked men who had got out of the barge! and then Ruth shivered. But that was little to be wondered at, for the air of the store-room struck icy cold as she stole on—on into the corridor where the linen press stood.
Close beside it a small lattice afforded a glimpse of the river just beyond the bridge. There lay the barge! Still moored up alongside the bank; a huge black blot upon the silvery water.
And the "Queen Ruth?" Nay—as if it was likely to be there now. Why, her pretty little cat Tab had as much to do with the big elephant who lumbered by in the show yesterday, as the merry, graceful, little "Queen Ruth" could have with yonder ugly boat? And yet, and yet—ah! what a consolation it is to make sure of anything! to crush out one's absurd fancies—dead, past all coming to life again! And how temptingly easy in this case! Quite as easy anyhow, as to be standing there, dreaming and talking about it. Only just to steal down by the stairs and through the keeping-room, where the still smouldering fire cast a few dull gleams, and so out by the narrow path to the wicket. Then but a step—but softly, creep low for thy life, Ruth—in the high wall's shadow, and drag the cloak, snatched in haste from a peg, close and well about thy face and shoulders. And what if Rumbold should be returning now? But there is never a sound save the flapping of the bats' wings, that beat in her face, and bring her heart into her mouth.
Ruth goes exploring.