CHAPTER XXIII.

"DID YOU NOT KNOW?" SHE SAID.

Slowly the gatehouse clock tolled out the hours succeeding Lawrence's departure. Terrible and solemn ones they were for Ruth, maintaining her solitary watch beside the secret panel where the wounded man lay, with eyes closed, and now breathing heavily, now catching feeble gasping breaths, so feeble that more than once Ruth thought life had left him.

She had done her best, poor Ruth, and like any Lady Bountiful of treble her years, had got out her little stock of salves and simples and old linen rag, and gently and tenderly dressed the gaping wound; but it was all of just as much and no more use than the endeavours of the skilfullest doctors would have been.

"I am past thy surgery, child," he said in feeble but distinct tones, when towards two o'clock he stirred a little and opened his eyes. "The knife did its work. But give me a drink--ay, a cordial if you have it in your store. So," and he eagerly drank the contents of the little cup which Ruth filled from a flask upon the table, and shouldering himself feebly on his right side, his eyes wandered wistfully round the shadowy chamber as if in search of something, and rested at last on a little table of carved oak, bearing materials for writing. "Bring it here," he said. "Yes, that is well," he went on, as Ruth, marking his wish, even before he had given it utterance, brought the table beside the panel and set it close within his reach. "For I have a message to leave behind me, and my hours are numbered. My minutes belike," and his eyes closed; but in a few seconds he opened them again, and stretched out a trembling hand. "Quick!" he went on. "Pen and paper, dear child, as thou'rt a God-fearing maiden, and hop'st for heaven at last."

[Sidenote: The dying man.]

"As you do," gently murmured Ruth, spreading the paper as well as she could out upon the narrow bed, and placing the pen in his hand. "As you do, dear Master Goodenough."

"Nay," moaned the dying man. "Sin lies heavy on my soul."

"But God is love, dear Master Goodenough," said Ruth, dashing aside the tears that blurred her sight.

"Who taught thee thy creed?" said the sheriff, wonderingly fixing his hollow eyes on her pitying face. "'Tis none of the master's of this house, for his is a gospel of wrath, and of vengeance for our ill deeds."

"'I will have mercy and not sacrifice.' Does not the Bible say that, Master Goodenough? and the Lord Christ, did not He say 'There is joy in heaven over one sinner that repenteth.'"

[Sidenote: A last message.]

"I doubt," murmured the wounded man, "had I been thy pupil, I had not been in this plight now." Then he gazed down at the blank paper, and thoughtfully setting the pen to it, while Ruth knelt upon the floor beside him and held the lamp close, began to write. "'_I Thomas Goodenough, being now at the point of death_'--Thy lamp burns very dim, there is a mist about it," he went on, labouring at his self-imposed task, while Ruth trimmed the flame, and made it shine brightly enough, but it remained only a poor dim thing enough for the eyes that never on this world's sea or shore, would see the light again--"'_by the hand of the man, Richard Rumsey, who has thus now destroyed my body, as first he did my soul--_'

"As first he strove to do that," amended Ruth, watching the words, as one by one the labouring tremulous fingers produced them.

"Take you the pen, and alter it then if you can write, for my hand will not reach to't," said Goodenough, "and may it be as you say, little one," he went on, a gleam of something like content breaking upon his pallid lips as Ruth took the pen, and neatly wrote in her little amendment between the crooked-back up-hill-and-down-dale lines. "'_As first he strove to ruin my soul, by--_' Nay, but write on, and I will sign--quick--'_by fair and reasonable seeming words; persuading me to enrol myself into the foul plot which hath been hatched for the making away of the persons of His Majesty, and of His Majesty's Brother, James, Duke of York; thereby_.' Hast thou it all down? '_thereby_,'" continued Goodenough, as Ruth nodded, "'_to rid the country of the race of Stuarts; and to set up rulers of their own choosing_.'"

"Choosing," said Ruth as she wrote the last word.

[Sidenote: A tale of murder.]

"'_It now appeareth_,' went on Goodenough after a brief silence, '_by this night's work, that there has further been intended the compassing of the murder of the king, and of his brother, by these bloody-minded men_'--write on, child, quick, quick!" Ruth's hand trembled cruelly, and a huge drop of ink fell from her pen; but she wrote on: "'_by their waylaying of the coach in which the king shall return from Newmarket;_' where's the cup, child? give me another drink. Now, thy pen again--stay, my brain grows confused--ay, from Newmarket, '_upon the by-road which runs by the Rye House, over against Hoddesdon, and there stopping the coach by the overturning of a cart across the narrow way, to shoot the guards from the hedges, and so in cold blood to kill the king and his brother_.' Hast thou that all down in black and white?"

"Yes," answered Ruth, though in sober truth the characters glared fiery red from the fair white paper in her fevered eyes.

"'_And hereby_,' faltered on the dying man, '_I, with these my last perishing breaths do declare, that of the forty conspirers in this plot, I take not upon myself to single out the more guilty, and murderously disposed ones; save only that my own soul is innocent of all desire and intent to shed blood; and furthermore I do desire to state, that of those plotters who gathered this night to discuss the ways and means for His Majesty's death, the young man Lawrence--_'"

"Lee; yes, yes, Lawrence Lee," rapidly wrote on Ruth. "I know, Master Goodenough."

"Thou dost? so much the better, the brave lad who would--who would--"

"Ay, who would have saved you from that fearful man if he could."

Goodenough nodded. "_Lawrence Lee was not one_,' and--and--" Goodenough's voice sank to a whisper, and his dim eyes closed. "I can say no more. I would have--liked to--tell--the noble turn he did me--and--how--thou, whoever thou art--"

[Sidenote: The light grows dim.]

Slower and slower, fainter and fainter, rose and fell the dying man's voice upon the silence; until suddenly his eyes opened, and fixing wistfully for a little while upon Ruth's face, wandered from it to the paper under her hand. "Set thy name to it," he said, "for--a living witness."

"'Tis well," he went on, when she had obeyed. "And now, give it me here again under my hand, and thy pen--and hold the light close, for it grows so dark--dark--nay, but I cannot see the place;" and his fast glazing eyes strayed helplessly over the paper.

"Here, dear Master Goodenough," said Ruth, taking the cold hand and gently placing it aright, "here is where I have written my name."

[Sidenote: The signatures.]

He made a desperate but ineffectual effort to steady the pen on the spot she indicated. "I cannot do it," he said, as the quill dropped loosely in his numbed fingers; "and my mark must suffice. But 'twill serve--'twill serve. Set the paper close--closer;" and then with infinite labour he made the cross mark. "Ruth Rumbold!" he cried, as he moved his hand, and the full light of the lamp fell upon the clear, boldly-marked characters of her signature beneath. "This man--Richard Rumbold's--daughter!" and his eyes fixed upon her in a stare of mingled horror and pity.

She nodded her head slowly up and down. "Did you not know?" she said, meeting his gaze with sad, appealing looks--"did you not know he was my father?"

"Then Heaven help thee, poor child, and comfort thee, for thou hast need of it indeed, poor innocent!"

Then his voice fell away into uneasy inaudible murmurings. His eyes closed again, and presently he seemed to sleep. And so till dawn slowly began to silver the fresh young leaves about the ivy panes, and creep on into the room towards the dark recess, spreading itself gently on the white, still face of the dying man, and the hardly more life-like one of the watcher, there was silence. But just as the song of the birds trilled cheerily forth, he stirred slightly. "Art thou there?" he murmured, feebly stretching out his hand.

"I am here, dear Master Goodenough!" she said, kneeling beside him and covering the pale fingers in her gentle clasp.

"God bless thee, child!" and he drew her hand close towards his lips: "for thy sweet charity God bless--"

[Sidenote: Death of Goodenough.]

And in a smile of content the lips parted slightly, a low sigh broke from them, and Master Goodenough was dead.