on.

Thus he determined, and thus no doubt he would have acted but for an
unforeseen contingency. A miserable, paltry creditor had smoked him out
in his Somerset retreat, and got a letter to him full of dark hints of
a debtor's gaol. The fellow's name was Swiney, and Sir Rowland knew him
for fierce and pertinacious where a defaulting creditor was concerned.
One only course remained him: to force matters with Wilding's widow. For
days he refrained, fearing that precipitancy might lose him all; it was
his wish to do the thing without too much coercion; some, he was not
coxcomb enough to think--coxcomb though he was--might be dispensed with.

At last one Sunday evening he decided to be done with dallying, and to
bring Ruth between the hammer and the anvil of his will. It was the
last Sunday in July, exactly three weeks after Sedgemoor, and the
odd coincidence of his having chosen such a day and hour you shall
appreciate anon.

They were on the lawn taking the cool of the evening after an
oppressively hot day. By the stone seat, now occupied by Lady Horton
and Diana, Richard lay on the sward at their feet in talk with them,
and their talk was of Sir Rowland. Diana--gall in her soul to see the
baronet by way of gaining yet his ends--chid Richard in strong terms for
his weakness in submitting to Blake's constant presence at Lupton House.
And Richard meekly took her chiding and promised that, if Ruth would but
sanction it, things should be changed upon the morrow.

Sir Rowland, all unconscious--reckless, indeed--of this, sauntered with
Ruth some little distance from them, having contrived adroitly to draw
her aside. He broke a spell of silence with a dolorous sigh.

"Ruth," said he pensively, "I mind me of the last evening on which you
and I walked here alone."

She flashed him a glance of fear and aversion, and stood still. Under
his brow he watched the quick heave of her bosom, the sudden flow and
abiding ebb of blood in her face--grown now so thin and wistful--and he
realized that before him lay no easy task. He set his teeth for battle.

"Will you never have a kindness for me, Ruth?" he sighed.

She turned about, her intent to join the others, a dull anger in her
soul. He sat a hand upon her arm. "Wait!" said he, and the tone in
which he uttered that one word kept her beside him. His manner changed a
little. "I am tired of this," said he.

"Why, so am I," she answered bitterly.

"Since we are agreed so far, let