Nathan Wylie was as wicked as his word; and a letter, rehearsing in forcible terms my sinful, ungracious, and godless conduct, was duly despatched to my grandfather, at Netherwood Hall.
Pending a reply thereto, Ruth was confined to her own room, and kept securely under lock and key, while I was all but chained to my desk, for Nathan Wylie had an old dread of the enterprising nature of the Gauntlets, and knew not what I might do next.
In our mutual loneliness of position, our hearts naturally drew together, and our love was strengthened by the very barriers her uncle raised between us; hence I resolved to see Ruth in her own room—her prison it seemed to me; but this could only be done by the window, and under cloud of night, as her door was locked, and the key was in old Wylie's pocket.
On coming to this resolution, I proceeded at once to put it in practice. Heaven knows, I had no desire but to circumvent old Wylie, and to see my pretty Ruth—to hear her gentle voice, and to be with her, for her smile was the first ray of light that had fallen across my hitherto dark and solitary path.
It was on a gloomy night, early in February, and when the little household were supposed to be all in bed, that by slipping from the window of my attic, I reached the roof of the stable, the ridge of which I knew to be immediately under the window-sill of Ruth's apartment.
My heart beat lightly, happily, and rapidly, when I saw the shadow of Ruth's figure thrown in a somewhat colossal outline, however, upon the curtains; and, fortunately, without disturbing Abraham Clod, the groom, I reached the window, before Ruth had either retired to rest or extinguished her light.
I know that this clandestine visit was rather a wrong proceeding; but in extenuation I have only to plead the rashness of youth on one hand, and Nathan Wylie's severity on the other; besides, at eighteen one does not value the opinion of the world much, or scan such matters too closely.
On peeping in I saw Ruth pinning up her bright brown hair, and beginning to unfasten the hooks of her bodice; then her dimpled elbows and tapered arms shone white as alabaster in the light of her candle; so I hastened to tap on the window.
"Good Heaven!" she exclaimed, starting round with alarm expressed in her pretty face, and her dark eyes dilated; "what is that—who is there?"
"I, I—don't you know me?" said I, with my nose flattened against a pane of glass.
"Basil—is it Basil?"
"Yes."
"At my window, and at this time of night!" said she, blushing and hastening forward to open the sash; "wait until I get a shawl—I was just about to undress. How very odd; but what do you want?"
"To see you—to speak with you—"
"But, Basil, consider——" said she, trembling.
"I consider nothing," I exclaimed, throwing my arms round her, and kissing her at the window.
"Mercy! take care lest you fall."
"This separation renders me miserable; for two whole days I have not seen you."
Her kiss, so tender and loving, agitated me so deeply that my voice was almost inarticulate.
"And mewed up here, I have been so wretched too, dear Basil," she murmured, while placing her arms caressingly round my neck, as I crept in and closed the window; "how cruel of uncle Nathan to treat us so."
"He has written to my grandfather, and in such harsh terms that more mischief will be in store for me," said I, bitterly.
"Take courage, dear Basil," whispered Ruth, as we sat with our arms entwined and cheek pressed against flushing cheek; "those wicked people would seem to have done you already all the harm that is possible."
"I know not; for your uncle spoke of having me sent to sea; and I have heard at times of people being kidnapped by the pressgang."
"The pressgang—you!" exclaimed Ruth, her fine eyes filling with pity and indignation; "they dare not think of such a thing. Are you not the heir to a baronetcy?"
"True—one of our oldest Nova Scotian baronetcies; but so is my cousin Tony, if—if——"
"What?"
"I were sent out of the way or disposed of for ever."
"Of that title, dearest Basil; neither your grandfather's wicked hatred, nor the cunning of my uncle—alas! that I should have to say so of one so near—can deprive you."
"Between them, however, they have willed away the estates to my cousin Tony Gauntlet, who bids fair to make ducks and drakes of them, even before his succession comes to pass, for he is deeply involved with jockeys and Jew money-lenders. But I care not what happens, if I am not separated, my sweet little love, from you."
I pressed her to my breast long and passionately.
For several nights I visited Ruth's window in this clandestine manner; and became so expert in the matter, that I actually rubbed the sash of my casement with soap, that it might run smoothly and noiselessly. As yet there came no reply from Sir Basil, but Abraham Clod brought a message from Netherwood, that "he had the gout in both feet, and consequently was unable to write."
Dear to us, indeed, were those stolen interviews, and wild and vague were the plans we began to form for the future, plans chiefly drawn from our romances; but one night we were roused from our happiness by an unlooked for catastrophe.
Just as I was approaching Ruth's window, a voice exclaimed—
"A thief—a thief! I see un—dang thee, tak that!"
Then followed a shriek from Ruth, with the explosion of a gun, and a bullet shattered the panes in both sashes, just above my head.
It was the voice of Abraham Clod our Yorkshire groom, who had been out in the evening crowshooting, and had his gun undischarged, and who in a moment of evil had seen me creeping along the roof of the stable, from his attic window, where I saw him peering forth, with a candle in one hand, and his gun in the other.
Fearing that if I attempted to return to my own room he might shoot me in earnest—for I saw the fellow was quickly reloading—fearing also to stay, lest I should place Ruth in a false position, I lingered for a moment irresolutely, and preferred being taken for the housebreaker which I have no doubt honest Clod believed me to be.
At that time I felt that I would rather die than the honour of Ruth should suffer!
I dropped on the roof of the stable just as a second shot broke the tiles under my feet, and confused by this incident, I tumbled heavily to the ground—luckily not into the stable-yard but into a ploughed field.
I rose unhurt, but found that to enter the house by the door, and to regain my attic window, were both impossible now. I struck across the fields, gained the high-road, and took my way into the open country with sorrow and rage in my heart—sorrow for Ruth, and rage at her uncle, whose drudge and fool I resolved no longer to be.