CHAPTER LXVIII.

FORSAKING HER HOME.

Ruth stood perfectly motionless, until the light tread of Lady Rose died out on the turf. Then she sat down and fell into thought, so deep and dreary, that it seemed like waking from a trance, when she looked up, and saw that the west was all aflame with scarlet, and drenched in great seas of gold. Then she arose, and went into her little chamber. Up to this time her eyes had been dry; but some tender recollection seemed to strike her, as she looked around, and instantly they were flooded with tears. She busied herself about the old-fashioned bureau a while, apparently selecting such little objects as her husband had, from time to time, given her. Then she took the prayer-book from her toilet, in order to secure the marriage certificate, which had been placed between its leaves.

"They must not find this here," she thought. "Nothing shall be left to show that he ever loved me."

Then she took the ring from her bosom, and, folding it up in a bit of silk paper with pathetic care, laid that, too, within the leaves of the book, and made a package of the whole.

It was dark now, and, for a little time, she lay down upon her white bed, and there, with folded hands, strove to reason with herself. "When the man who hates him so hears all, and knows that the poor girl he is hunting to death is far, far beyond the reach of love or hate, he will content himself with the lady's land and gold," she thought. "She, too, will go away, and find happiness; for he will seek her out, not too soon, I know that, but after a while, and never knowing how it came to be so, will give his heart to her.

"Then I shall be forgotten--forgotten! Ah, me, why was I born to bring such trouble on every one that loved me? He will mourn. Oh, yes, he will mourn! He never can help that, for he loved me--he loved me!"

She thought this all over and over, with mournful persistency. The spirit of self-sacrifice was strong upon her; but not the less did all the sweet tenderness of her woman's nature dwell upon the objects of love she was giving up.

The night darkened. She heard the old clock down-stairs tolling out the hours that were numbered to her now. Then she got up, struck a light, and opened her desk. There was something to be written--a painful thing to be done.

The paper was before her, the pen in her hand. What could she say? how begin a letter which was to rend the heart that loved her? How could she make that young husband comprehend the anguish with which she cast herself on the earth to save him, when he was conscious of no danger! She began to write swiftly, paused, and fell into thought; began again, and went on, sobbing piteously, and forming her words almost at random.

When her letter was finished, she folded it, cast her arms across the desk, and broke the solemn silence of the room with low, faint moans, that are the most painful expression of hopeless anguish.

Again the clock struck, and every brazen time-call fell on her heart like a bullet. She got up, as if in obedience to some cruel command. Instead of her scarlet jacket, and the hat, whose cluster of red roses gleamed in the candle-light, she put on the soft gray dress worn on that fatal wedding morning. Then she placed the letter she had written on the prayer-book. After this, Ruth went slowly down-stairs, carrying the candle and package in one hand.

A gust of wind from the door, as she opened it, put out the light. Thus she left nothing but darkness in her old home.

Ruth looked around warily, for even in that fearful hour she remembered the threat of her tormentor, and dreaded some harm to the beloved being she was determined to save.

The moon was buried in clouds, storm-clouds, that made the whole landscape funereal, like the heart of that poor girl. She went through shrubberies and flower-beds, straight toward the window of Walton Hurst's room. Pulling aside the ivy, she mounted the half-concealed step, not cautiously, as she had done on another occasion, but with a concentration of feeling which left fear behind.

It was a warm, close night, and a leaf of the casement was partly open. She thrust it back, with a swiftness that gave no sound, and stepped into the room. Hurst was lying on the bed asleep. Illness had left its traces upon his features, and his hands lay clasped, loosely, on the counterpane. Something more sombre than the shadows thrown by the dim lamp lay upon his fine face. Anxiety had done its work, as well as sickness.

Ruth stood by the bed, motionless, almost calm. The supreme misery of her life had come. She had no sobs to keep back, no tears to hide--despair had locked up all the tenderness of grief with an iron hand. She was about to part with that sleeping man forever and ever. He was her bridegroom: she must give him up, that his honor, nay, his very life might be saved.

The prayer-book that she carried in her hand contained, she believed, all the proofs of a marriage that had been more unfortunate than death. No one must ever see them. They were a fatal secret, which she gave up to her husband's keeping alone. She laid the book upon the counterpane, close to his folded hands, not daring to touch them, lest the misery within her might break out in cries of anguish. Then she stood mute and still, gazing down upon him, minute after minute, while the light shone dimly on the dumb agony of her face. At last, she bent down, touched his forehead with her lips, and fled.