" he calls out, impatiently; and Simon Gale, opening the
door, comes slowly in.

He is a very old man, and has been butler in the family for more years
than he himself can count. His head is quite white, his form a little
bent; there is, at this moment, a touch of deep distress upon his face
that makes him look even older than he is.

"Are you busy, my lord?" asks he, in a somewhat nervous tone.

"Yes; I am very much engaged. I can see no one, Gale. Say I am
starting for town immediately."

"It isn't that, my lord. It is something I myself have to say to you.
If you could spare me a few minutes----." He comes a little nearer,
and speaks even more earnestly. "It is about Ruth Annersley."

Lord Sartoris, laying down his pen, looks at him intently.

"Close the door, Simon," he says, hurriedly, something in the old
servant's manner impressing him. "I will hear you. Speak, man: what is
it?"

"A story I heard this morning, my lord, which I feel it my duty to
repeat to you. Not that I believe one word of it. You will remember
that, my lord,--_not one word_." The grief in his tone belies the
truth of his avowal. His head is bent. His old withered hands clasp
and unclasp each other nervously.

"You are trembling," says Lord Sartoris. "Sit down. This news,
whatever it is, has unstrung you."

"It has," cries Simon, with vehemence. "I _am_ trembling; I _am_
unstrung. How can I be otherwise when I hear such a slander put upon
the boy I have watched from his cradle?"

"You are speaking of----?" demands Sartoris, with an effort.

"Mr. Dorian." He says this in a very low tone; and tears, that always
come so painfully and so slowly to the old, shine in his eyes. "His
sad complexion wears grief's mourning livery." He covers his face with
his hands.

Sartoris, rising from his seat, goes over to the window, and so stands
that his face cannot be seen.

"What have you got to say about Mr. Branscombe?" he asks, in a harsh,
discordant tone.

"My lord, it is an impertinence my speaking at all," says Gale.

"Go on. Let me know the worst. I can hardly be more miserable than I
am," returns Sartoris.

"It was Andrews, the under-gardener, was telling me," begins Simon,
without any further attempt at hesitation. "This morning, early, I met
him near the Ash Grove. 'Simon,' he says, 'I want to speak wi'ye. I
have a secret on my mind.'

"'If you have, my man, keep it,' says I. 'I want none o' your
secrets.' For in truth he is ofte