Ruth was out riding one afternoon just after this when she met old Waverley. She stopped to inquire after Miss Thomasia who she had heard was ill. The old man was actually short to her. “I don’ think she’ll last long now,” he said, so significantly that it pierced the girl’s breast like a knife. Ruth had always felt that Miss Thomasia and she had one thing in common, and Miss Thomasia had always been sweet and gracious to her. Now the picture of the old lady at home, lonely and ill from anxiety and distress, pursued her. She could not get away from it. At length she turned her horse, and rode slowly back to the little cottage amid the vines. An air of stillness that was oppressive surrounded the place. For a few moments Ruth thought of drawing back and going home. Then her courage returned. She sprang from her horse, and, tying him, walked up to the door and knocked. The knock was answered by old Peggy. The old woman’s eyes darted fire at Ruth, as she answered her. She did not know whether Ruth could see Miss Thomasia or not—she thought not. Miss Thomasia was asleep. Ruth, however, persisted; she would wait until Miss Thomasia waked up. She took her seat quietly on the little veranda. The old woman looked puzzled and disappeared. Presently she returned, and said Miss Thomasia would see Ruth. Ruth went in. Miss Thomasia was sitting up in a little rocking-chair. Ruth was astounded to see the difference in her since she saw her last. She looked years older. She received Ruth civilly, but distantly, and let her do the talking. Ruth kept well away from the one subject that was uppermost in both their minds. Presently, however, in face of her impenetrable coldness, Ruth could stand it no longer. She rose to go, and bade the old lady good-by.
“Good-by, my dear,” said Miss Thomasia. They were the words with which she always said her adieus. Her voice was feeble, and she spoke very low. There was something in her tone, something of resignation and forgiveness, that went to Ruth’s heart, and as she turned away—a deep sigh caught her ear. She turned back. Miss Thomasia’s thin hands were tightly clasped, her eyes were shut, and her lips were trembling. The next moment Ruth was down on her knees beside her, her head buried in her lap, pouring out her story.
“I must tell you,” she sobbed. “I came to tell you, and I cannot go away and not tell you. I know you love him, and I know you hate me. You have a right to hate me; they all hate me, and think I am hard and cruel. But I am not, and neither is my father.”
She went on, and, as she told her story, the other lady’s hands came and rested on her head and lifted her up, and the two women wept together.
A little later Blair came in, and stopped, surprised, on the threshold. The next moment she and Ruth were in each other’s arms, weeping together; while Miss Thomasia, with her face brighter than it had been since the news reached her of Steve’s surrender, smiled on them. Presently old Peggy opened the door, thinking perhaps Ruth had been there long enough. She gazed on the scene in wonder for a moment, and then closed the door. “Well, dee beats me,” she muttered. When Ruth left, Miss Thomasia looked better than she had done in days, and Ruth’s own heart was lighter. That night Blair asked old Mr. Bagby if there was no way in which a woman could avoid giving evidence against a man, if she were summoned and did not wish to testify.
“One,” said the old lawyer “—two: she can die.”
CHAPTER XLIV
MIDDLETON REVISITS RED ROCK, AND AN OLD SOLDIER LAYS DOWN HIS ARMS