She was so near now to the gilded patch of light upon the black road before the inn parlour window, that had the pane been open, she must beyond all question have caught the voices of those within. But though just for one instant she paused, pressing her hand upon her beating heart to listen, not so much as an echo reached her; and she hurried on, towards the parapet of the bridge, where it wound down lower and lower to the little landing-stage—and leaned over.
Still tied to the stake lay the "Queen Ruth." The swift stream from the bridge gently swaying her bows, and her gay cowslip posies and ribbon knots fluttering in the breeze now fast springing up.
Ruth's heart sank. Past all doubt then, here was Lawrence hanging about, when he should have been back at Nether Hall an age ago. This, surely, was no night to be loitering with—with a parcel of coal-heavers; and Ruth shuddered. Pray Heaven their calling was such an honest one.
There she stood gazing with puzzled bent brows upon the barge, lying motionless and black as a funeral bier on the sluggish water, gleaming leaden gray in the sickly starlight.
footsteps on the bridge.
Slowly and sadly Ruth prepared to retrace her steps. Doubts and uncertainty would, after all, she thought, have been preferable to this sight, which did but strengthen her suspicions of she knew not what. Supposing—Hark! A shuffling of footsteps, and the sound of voices. It must be the inn party dispersing, and exchanging their good-nights. And Ruth turns to fly back to the wicket.
Too late. The tramp of feet was close upon her, heavy and measured, but it was approaching from the other side of the bridge; and Ruth dropped upon her knees, cowering down under cover of her cloak beneath the sheltering wall of the parapet, till she looked all one with a heap of dry rubbish of leaves and old straw swept up close beside her. In another instant these tramps will have passed on. For tramps doubtless they are, bound for Newmarket. Respectable travellers would of course, at this late hour, have put up for the night at Hoddesdon. What even if they should be footpads! and poor Ruth thinks longingly now of her comfortable little bedchamber. What guineas, if she owned them, would she give to find herself safe back in it! Hush! Hush! Already the span of the near bridge is resounding hollowly with their tread! Suddenly the sound ceases. The party has clearly come to a halt, and close upon her hiding-place; for though they speak in subdued and almost stealthy tones, every syllable is audible to her.
The conspirators.
"There it is," said one voice.
"Ay," muttered another. "Roight enough. Let's be gettin' for'ard."