The opportunity was too good to be resisted. Ruth flew indoors for her camera, and stood a few yards off focusing the table and its occupants, and waiting for a picturesque moment in which to snap. It came at last, just as Jack was forgetfully indulging in an enormous bite, a bachelor habit which had become a standing joke among his companions. Mollie had stolen a half-eaten piece of toast from his plate one morning, and measured the gap with an inch tape, to his everlasting embarrassment, so that the pictured memorial was hailed with delight.

Needless to say, Jack wished to have his revenge, and immortalise Mollie scraping the sugar out of the bottom of the cup in school-girl fashion, and finally Bates was pressed into the service and instructed how to snap, so that a complete group might be taken.

By this time it was ten o'clock, and Mollie announced her intention of going down to the vicarage to help in the final preparations for the afternoon's entertainment. She took for granted that Ruth would accompany her; but Miss Ruth had her own ideas as to the employment of the next few hours, and they had nothing to do with Mrs Thornton's garden-party.

On her way downstairs to breakfast she had overheard Victor telling a servant that he had no orders for the stables this morning. The inference was, therefore, that he intended to stop at home, and the thought had instantly darted into her mind that if Mollie went off to the vicarage there would be an hour or two before lunch, when—when—

Ruth blushed guiltily to herself when she got so far in her calculations; but it was such a delight to enjoy a quiet tete-a-tete talk sometimes, instead of the general impersonal conversation. So it came to pass that when Mollie announced her intention of going down to the vicarage to help in the final preparations, Ruth absolutely refused to accompany her.

"I've done my share," she said. "To-day I am going to be a visitor pure and simple, and drive down when everything is ready for my reception."

Mollie shrugged her shoulders resignedly.

"Well, somebody has got to do it, and, thank goodness, I'm not poor- spirited enough to leave a friend in the lurch at the last moment! I shan't be satisfied until I see the last chair in order; but I don't see any reason why I should walk. There is a pony-carriage in the stables, and if anyone had any nice feeling they would drive me there and back!"

Jack laughed, and limped across the terrace.

"Anyone, singular; they, plural! Your grammar is deficient, Miss Mollie; but I suppose your modesty forbade you to be more explicit. I have lots of good-feeling, and nothing to do, so I shall be charmed to escort you, if you will give the order. It would take me too long to get down to the stables."

It was evident that Jack's offer was pleasing to Mollie, for she thanked him with a smile as bright as her words, and a quarter of an hour later on they were driving together across the park behind the sleek little pony, Mollie chatting gaily as usual, Jack listening with an air half amused, half bored. Despite his accident, he was looking strong and well, his skin bronzed by the outdoor life of the last few weeks; but the old haughty, intolerant expression, which had seemed his chief characteristic at first meeting, was still noticeable in curving lip and nostril. Not an easy man to convince against his will, nor one to be easily affected by the presence of a pretty girl.

"How cross Uncle Bernard was when I told him about the mysterious hamper! One would think he grudged poor Mrs Thornton having anything nice!" said Mollie severely. "He nearly snapped my head off when I asked if he had sent it. I should not have thought much of that, if he had not denied it in so many words, for he might have been trying to put me off; but after what he said there can be no more doubt on the subject. I wonder who could have sent it? Mrs Thornton says she will never rest till she finds out."

Jack flicked the pony impatiently.

"Why can't she be content to take it quietly, and not worry any more? That's the worst of women—they must make a fuss! If the man who sent it wanted to be thanked, he would have put in a card. If he didn't, it shows that he prefers to be anonymous, and it's bad taste to go ferreting round trying to find out what she is not intended to know. I should tell her so straight, if I were you."

"No, you wouldn't, because, being a woman, you would be consumed with curiosity, as I am. Now, I wonder why you said the 'man'?" queried Mollie, tilting her head on one side, and staring at him with mischievous eyes. "What makes you think it was a man? Couldn't it as easily have been a woman?"

"Oh, quite; but I prefer to use one pronoun and stick to it, instead of muddling them up as you do. Why are you always in such a hurry to snap a fellow up?" cried Jack irritably.

Mollie made a naughty little moue.

"I thought it was the other way about! I was most mild and lamb-like, when you snubbed me for my grammar, abused my sex, and accused me of bad temper. It shows how little you know of my beautiful disposition!"

Jack flicked the pony again, his face darkened by a frown.

"No, I don't know you—how should I? You never give me a chance. You show me only the frivolous side of your character. You are always laughing, joking, frivolling. In all these weeks I have only once had a glimpse of your real self. You evidently do not wish me to know you in any real or intimate sense; but that is your own fault, not mine."

"If you have seen it only once, it cannot be my real self," said Mollie quietly. She had grown, not red but white, as she listened to Jack's words, and her heart had begun to beat in an agitating fashion hitherto unknown. She felt as if somebody had suddenly dealt her an unexpected blow, for until this moment she had fondly imagined herself to be good friends with Jack Melland. "You do not know me, because, perhaps, there is nothing to know, beyond the frivolous, silly creature you dislike so much!"

"There you go again, exaggerating and catching up my words! Who said I disliked you? We were not talking of likes or dislikes. We were talking of knowing each other properly. I wouldn't trouble my head if you were an ordinary, empty-headed girl, but I know you are not. There is another side to your character, and I want to see and know you in it, but you evade me, and refuse to show yourself. I suppose I am not worth the trouble of talking to seriously?"

Mollie shook her head dejectedly.

"I am not evading, I am not hiding anything. I'm nineteen, and out for a holiday. It's the first taste of luxury I've ever known. I enjoyed it so much,"—unconsciously to herself she used the past, not the present, tense—"that surely it was natural for me to be light-hearted. I am not highly educated, and I've lived a very quiet life. It's only natural that I seem stupid in comparison with other girls you have met. I suppose they are very clever and well read?"

Jack kept his eyes on the road, mentally classifying the girls with whom he had been most closely brought in contact in his town life. Yes! they were for the most part accomplished and clever; but were they not also apt to be discontented with their lot, given to grumbling at the restrictions of home life, and to imagine themselves ill-used and unappreciated? Mollie's radiant good-humour and unconsciousness of self were qualities unknown among them. What poor, anaemic images they appeared beside her! Yet he was continually provoked by the very cheerfulness which he mentally approved. Jack frowned, puzzled and disquieted. As a rule, he was at no loss to account for his prejudices, but for once he found himself completely mystified. What exactly was it that he wanted of Mollie Farrell, the lack of which rankled in his veins? He could not tell, and annoyance with self gave an added touch of irritation to his tone.

"Oh, if you cannot distinguish between becoming a bookworm and talking seriously once in a way, there is no more to be said! I'm sorry I spoke. Now I suppose you will be offended with me, and the day will be spoiled?"

It was not a gracious speech, but Jack did not feel gracious, and he had not much control over his temper. An inner voice informed him that he was behaving like a cad, and he acknowledged the truth of the indictment, while in the same moment he was prepared to reply more irritably than before.

He had not the chance, however, for Mollie's eyes met his without the faintest shadow of reproach. There was a subtle change in her expression, but it spoke neither of offence nor anger.

"No, I am not vexed; that would be stupid, for it would only make things worse. It is my nature to look on the bright side of things. I know I am thoughtless, but it won't last. I shall be serious enough some day— perhaps sooner than we think. Don't grudge me my little hour!"

The face raised to his looked so young and wistful that Jack felt a pang of the same remorse which one feels who has wounded a little child. He averted his eyes and drove on in silence, thinking, thinking.—The clever town girl would have been mortally insulted if he had dared to criticise her manners or attainments, and would have justified herself by a dozen plausible arguments. Mollie was ready to admit everything against herself, and only anxious to save him from any feeling of embarrassment.

She talked on impersonal topics all the rest of the way to the vicarage, and her smile when she bade him good-bye was resolutely cheerful, but he hated himself as he realised that for the first time there was an effort involved. As he turned the pony round the corner of the little lane which bordered the lawn he heard Mrs Thornton's surprised exclamation, "Why, Mollie!" and the half-laughing exclamation, "It's nothing! The sun is so strong, it made my eyes—smart!"

Jack Melland set his teeth and drove on in a tumult of feeling such as he had never known before in the course of his self-satisfied existence. Blundering, presumptuous wretch that he was! If any trouble came to Mollie Farrell, he would feel as guilty as if he himself had deliberately brought it to pass!



CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

CONFIDENCES.

While Mollie was busy at the vicarage, Ruth took her book to her favourite seat, and prepared to spend a quiet morning; but to her delight, Victor joined her, and took his place by her side, before she had been seated more than a few minutes.

"He will see Lady Margot this afternoon. He need not ride ahead in the hope of meeting her," came the involuntary bitter thought; but it was impossible to harbour jealousy for more than a minute when alone in Victor's company. Every word, every look, every tone, was filled with a subtle flattery which was not only soothing but inspiring into the bargain, for we are always at our best in the society of those who appreciate us.

Ruth gazed, with the old delightful sense of well-being, across the beautiful grounds, in which the long slopes of green and wide-spreading trees had already grown dear and familiar as old friends. Surely every day it became more certain that this would be her home of the future, since Jack was still determined to return to town the moment he was sufficiently recovered from his accident, and Mollie's extravagance was plainly distasteful to Uncle Bernard. As for Victor, if he really— really meant... Ruth did not finish the sentence even to herself, but at the bottom of her mind lurked the inevitable reflection that she stood a double chance.

Evidently Victor's thoughts had, to a certain extent, followed her own, for he broke the silence by saying suddenly—

"That was an extraordinary statement of Mr Farrell's the other day,— that he had already made a will. I suppose it is a wise precaution under the circumstances, but it gave one rather a shock to know that things were already settled."

"Yes, poor old man! one hates to realise how ill he must be. He does not seem to have grown any worse since we came, so far as an outsider can judge, but he must feel his weakness increasing."

Ruth puckered her brows in a distressed fashion, too much occupied with her own thoughts to notice Victor's quick glance of inquiry.

His concern had not been for Mr Farrell or his sufferings, but he was quick to change his tone in response to hers.

"I expect he does," said Victor, "though he is too well-plucked to complain. The doctor told me the other day that these fluctuations are part of the disease, and mean no real improvement. He does not give him long, though he thinks it will probably be six months or more. It must be more or less of an effort to him having us here, and if his mind is already made up, I wonder he does not prefer to go back to his solitude."

"He said he might still change, you remember. The will is only made in case of accidents. It does seem strange to think of it lying there all the time, and that one peep at it would end all our wonderings. I should like to see it!" cried Ruth with an outspoken honesty which apparently shocked her companion.

"Be careful what you say, Miss Ruth! Farrell is just the sort of cross- grained old fellow to take all sorts of ideas into his head if he heard you. And, besides, you can surely guess for yourself what name you would find!"

Ruth lifted her face to his in quick inquiry. The brown eyes were for once fully open and looking down at her with an expression half smiling, half melancholy. "You know it would be your own!" he said softly, and she flushed in quick denial.

"No, no; it's impossible to be certain. I hope, of course, but— At first I thought Uncle Bernard liked me best, but lately Mollie seems to have cut me out."

"But we are told that liking has nothing to do with the great decision."

"I know, and that does away at once with so many qualities with one fell swoop, that one can hardly tell what is left. It puts amiability out of the question, and unselfishness and cheerfulness, and—and tact, and everything which makes us care for a person or not. When they are gone, what is left?"

"A great many things, just as Mr Farrell's knowledge of our characters and actions is far more extensive than you suspect. We meet at meals, and in the evening, and for the rest of the day one would imagine that we are beyond his ken, but I have discovered that to be a mistake. In some mysterious fashion he knows all that we do, and guesses fairly accurately what we think! ... Would you imagine, for instance, that he knew that this seat was our favourite resort, and that we have enjoyed some very pleasant tete-a-tetes here during the last few weeks? Would you imagine that he knew who gave me that white rosebud which I wore as a button-hole last night?"

Ruth's face was a rose itself at that moment, a red, red rose, as the colour flew from her cheeks up to the roots of her hair. Her eyes wavered, and fell.

"How can he know? How do you know he knows?" she queried confusedly; and Victor shrugged his shoulders.

"How, I can't tell you, but I suspect his man James is a useful source of information. I know that he knows, because of several caustic remarks which he has let fall from time to time, to which my legal experience easily gives me the clue. I have come to the conclusion that he knows pretty well what we are about every hour of the day!"

"Even when you go out riding by yourself, and meet Lady Margot in the lanes?" questioned Ruth, stung by a sudden rising of jealousy, which she was unable to control. The words were no sooner spoken than regretted, and regret deepened into shame as Victor turned his calmly surprised eyes upon her.

"Certainly! as I told him myself in the first instance. Since then I have been fortunate enough to meet her again once or twice. The good vicar saw us together on one occasion; I presume he hurried home forthwith to spread the news over the parish. In these dead-alive places the most casual acquaintance is magnified into a scandal, but fortunately Lady Margot is a woman of the world who is unaffected by silly chatter. She has a dull time at the Moat, and is glad to meet a fellow-creature with whom she can have a few minutes' conversation. Personally, I don't care what the whole parish pleases to say. There is only one person whose opinion matters. ... Ruth! what are you trying to imply?" He moved nearer to her as he spoke, until the arm which rested on the back of the seat almost touched her shoulder. "Lady Margot is pleased to be friendly and gracious, but she does not belong to my world. She is a star far above the head of a poor struggling barrister, even if he were fool enough to aspire to her, which he certainly would not do so long as there are inhabitants of his own sphere a hundred times more beautiful and more attractive."

Ruth shook her head, her eyes fixed shyly on the ground.

"If the barrister were the heir to the Court, it would make all the difference in the world. Uncle Bernard spoke very warmly of the Blount family. It might increase your chance," she urged, compelled by some impulse which she could not understand to argue against her own wishes. "Perhaps the condition has something to do with ambition, and pride of race."

"In that case, again you score the advantage, for you are his direct descendant. I think myself, however, that it refers entirely to money. He has warned us that he has peculiar ideas on the subject. Probably he is on the look-out for a similar peculiarity. He has consulted me, and Melland also, I believe, on several matters in connection with the estate; but my ideas are purely businesslike, and Melland is hopelessly happy-go-lucky, so there was nothing original in either his advice or mine. No! from whichever point of view I consider the question, I always come to the same conclusion. You are the nearest heir; you are a Farrell in name as well as appearance. You are not extravagant nor thoughtless like your sister. To Melland, as well as to myself, the result is a foregone conclusion. I would congratulate you on the spot if I could do so honestly.—I wonder if you will in the least understand what I mean, when I say that I wish it had been any one of the four rather than yourself?"

The face that was raised to his was for a moment simply shocked and surprised, but under his steady gaze comprehension dawned, and Ruth turned hastily aside, saying, in a tremulous voice which vainly struggled to be defiant—

"I shall remind you of that unkind speech when you are living in state, and I am toiling for my daily bread. I could not have believed you would be so unkind."

"I am not afraid, for that day will never dawn. Remember it, rather, when you are reigning here, and a poor fellow stifling up in town refuses the invitations because he longs to accept, and dare not, remembering the difference between us!"

It was pretty plain speaking, and Ruth did not pretend to misunderstand its meaning. At that moment all doubts died away. She believed herself to be loved, and as her lover considered himself in an inferior position to her own, she was generous enough to show him her own feelings in return. The dark lashes rested upon her cheeks, her lips quivered like a child's, as she said softly—

"If I did own the Court, if Uncle Bernard left me everything he possessed, it would be worthless to me if—if I were separated from the friends I cared for most."



CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

A SHATTERED IDEAL.

By four o'clock that afternoon the vicarage grounds presented a festive appearance, as the hundred guests strolled to and fro, arrayed in light, summer-like garments. The tennis-lawn was occupied by a succession of players, a ping-pong table stood in a quiet corner and attracted a certain number of devotees, and the grass-plot in front of the study window had been marked out for golf croquet. For those less actively disposed there were seats in the prettiest corners, and an endless supply of refreshments served on little tables under the trees.

Ruth was looking lovely and radiant, blissfully conscious of Victor's presence, even if he were at the further end of the garden; of a dress and hat which suited her to perfection, and of her own importance in the eyes of the assembly—Miss Farrell, the squire's nearest living relation, his image in appearance, and reputed to be his favourite. Surely this must be the future mistress of the Court! The intoxicating whisper followed her wherever she went, and heightened the flush in her cheek.

"Berengaria!" cried a laughing voice; and she turned to see Lady Margot Blount standing by her side, holding out a slim, gloved hand. While most of the girls present were arrayed in chiffons and laces, she wore a perfectly simple lawn dress, with a coarse straw hat shading her face; but the accessories of shoes, gloves, belt, parasol, and dainty jewelled fastenings were all of an immaculate perfection, and with her tall, graceful carriage she was by far the most striking figure present.

The two girls had met several times at different houses in the neighbourhood since the formal exchange of calls, and it was not Margot's fault that the friendship had not progressed still further. She was always cordial, almost demonstrative in manner, eager to plan fresh meetings and mutual occupations. It was Ruth who persistently put obstacles in the way. In spite of Victor's protestations, she instinctively recognised in Lady Margot a formidable rival, and the knowledge gave her courage to disregard her uncle's expressed wishes, and neither give nor accept informal invitations.

To-day, however, in the flush of her success she was full of good-will to the whole world, and the former jealousy was replaced by commiseration. Poor Lady Margot, poor everybody whom Victor did not love as he loved herself!

"Oh, Lady Margot, I am so glad to see you," she cried frankly. "Do come for a stroll with me! I am so tired of being asked how I like Raby, and talking commonplaces to curious strangers. Doesn't it all look bright and pretty? If only it will keep fine to the end."

"Oh, we may have a shower, but I don't think it will be anything more serious Yes; Mrs Thornton has done wonders. Shall we take this path? It is the narrowest and quietest, so there is the less fear of interruption."

Ruth turned in the direction indicated with a somewhat doubtful look. A narrow path, bordered on one side by prickly gooseberry-bushes, was hardly the promenade for her perishable fineries; but while she hesitated Margot led the way forward, and she followed, drawing her skirts tightly together. Even so, disaster awaited her, for in the interest of an animated discussion some of the filmy folds slipped from the hand which held the parasol, dragged along the ground, and finally caught with a rip and a jerk, leaving a long jagged tear at the hem.

Of the two exclamations, Margot's was far the most distressed.

"Oh, my poor Berengaria! How thoughtless of me to bring you here! It's all my fault. I am such a plain-hemmed creature myself that I forgot your frills. You must fasten it up at once or you may trip. I can give you some pins, and there is a little summer-house at the end of the path, where you can sit down and fasten it properly. I'll stand before the door and screen you from the public gaze."

"Oh, thanks, it will be all right; I am thankful it was not further up. The hem can always be shortened," said Ruth practically. She sat down in a corner of the summer-house, the windows of which were screened by thickly growing tendrils of hop, and, spreading out the tear, began to pin it daintily together, while Lady Margot mounted guard outside.

A minute passed—two minutes—then came the sound of a man's quick tread, and a voice spoke, a voice broken by a quiver of emotion which could tell only one tale.

"Lady Margot! You here? I have been looking for you all afternoon. Why did you hide yourself in this out-of-the-way place? You knew I should be waiting."

The pin fell from Ruth's hand, she sat motionless as a statue behind the leafy screen. It could not, could not be Victor's voice!

"I have not been here many minutes," Lady Margot replied quietly. "I knew we should meet sooner or later; but you are a public character to- day, and I must not monopolise your attention."

"Monopolise!" cried the voice again, the familiar voice with the strange, unfamiliar thrill. Ruth's head dropped forward and her hands clasped the seat on either side. "You talk of monopolising, while I starve all week with just a chance five minutes now and then to keep me alive! I rode for about three hours yesterday morning without even a glimpse of you in the distance. I have been counting the hours until this afternoon."

"Count them just a little bit longer, then; I have not spoken to half my friends, and we would certainly be interrupted. Do me a favour and go back to the lawn now, and later on—say in half an hour—come to me again, and you shall have your reward."

"I'd wait a hundred years if I could have what I wanted at the end!" said the voice passionately.

Footsteps crunched down the path, then came silence, and the falling of a shadow across the doorway. Ruth lifted an ashen face, and saw Lady Margot looking down upon her with tender, liquid eyes.

"Dear," she said gently, "you heard! I meant you to hear. Don't think me cruel; it was the truest kindness. You and I have something to say to each other. I know a quiet nook where we can be alone. Come, Ruth—come with me!"

Ruth rose mechanically and followed her guide through a door in the wall, which led to a square piece of ground, bare and ugly,—a cabbage- patch in name and in deed. There against the unromantic background the two girls stood looking at each other, face to face with the great question of their lives.

"Ruth," said Margot gently, "let us be honest with each other. It is the only way. This man—Victor Druce—has come into both our lives; let us find out where we stand! Shall I tell you my story first? I met him last summer, when we were thrown constantly together for six weeks, and he attracted me. I came nearer loving him than any man whom I had met. Why, I don't know. I saw he admired me; but others had done that, and when I was alone and could think about him quietly there were many things about him I did not like. Still, he fascinated me. I thought of him a great deal during the winter. I looked forward to seeing him again. He was not of my world, and it seemed impossible that anything serious could come of it; but I dreamt dreams... Then I came here, and found, to my amazement, that he was staying at the Court. He met me one morning going out for my ride, and since then it has often happened. From the first his manner was different; more assured. He told me of Mr Farrell's proposition, and insisted that the chances were in his favour. He wished me to look upon him as the future owner of the Court; a man who would be in my own position. He has been making love to me all these weeks, Ruth, but he has not definitely asked me to marry him. That's my story! Will you tell me yours in exchange?"

Ruth looked drearily round the bare, ugly patch. A moment before she had been living mentally and physically in a land of roses; now, in an instant, the scene had changed and the beauty had disappeared.

"I think," she said slowly, "that he has been making love to me too... He has insisted from the first that I am Uncle Bernard's favourite, the others think so too, and he has made me believe—only this morning he made me believe—that he was afraid to speak plainly because of the difference in our position. He said I should be a great lady, and he would be working for his bread far away, and thinking of me." Ruth's voice broke pitifully, but the red flamed in Margot's cheek, and she reared her proud head with a disdainful gesture.

"So! It is as I thought; he has been playing a waiting game, making love to us both, but keeping himself free until he saw how the land lay. If he inherited, Lady Margot Blount would be useful in society; if he were cut off, he would reserve the chance of marrying the heiress. And we have both been deceived, and have imagined that he was in earnest! I have seen him on the stage, and congratulated him on his success, but I was not prepared for such finished acting in real life."

"No!" said Ruth drearily, "you have not been deceived; he was not acting with you. I heard him speak just now, and I felt the difference. Oh, Margot, he is playing with me, but he is in earnest with you; he does really love you!"

Margot's lip curled scornfully.

"It is hardly my idea of love. If I am ever married, it shall be to a man who will risk something for my sake, not to a mercenary who thinks first of himself. I suspected something of this from the first afternoon I called at the Court. You were sitting together on the terrace, and something in his attitude... Oh, well, why dwell on it any more?—it is none too pleasant. Ruth dear, you have avoided me, and I have seemed to force myself upon you, but I was determined to find out the truth, for both our sakes. It is better so, is it not?"

Ruth's dull glance of misery was pathetic to behold.

"I suppose it is," she said slowly, "but just now I cannot feel glad. Everything seems over. I was so happy, and it will be so difficult to go on living in the same house, meeting at every hour of the day. It is easier for you, for you need not see him unless you wish, and you do not care as I did."

"Don't I?" queried Margot gently. "He has been first in my thoughts for nearly a year, Ruth, and you have known him for a few weeks. It is not easy for me, either; but we must both realise that the Victor Druce of our imagination never existed, but was a creation of our own brains. This man—this adventurer—who has used us as his tool, must never suspect that he has caused us pain; we must play our parts without flinching, and let him see more and more clearly that we desire nothing from him. It will be difficult, but there is nothing else for it, if we are to keep our dignity. Ruth, you have plenty of will-power;—one can see it in your face; you will not let this man deceive you again with his plausible words?"

Ruth shook her head. The grey eyes shone hard and bright, then suddenly brimmed with tears.

"Perhaps, after all, he is not worse than I am myself. Perhaps I deserve this lesson. Another man asked me to marry him before we left home. I did not love him, but he was well-off and had a nice house, and for a few minutes I was tempted. I told him so, and he said he did not want me if I could not care for himself alone... Perhaps if he had begged very hard I might have said 'yes.'"

Margot smiled—a very kindly smile.

"The cases are not precisely similar, are they? Instead of playing a double game you were absolutely honest; much more honest than is usual on such occasions. And he was a wise man. I think I should have liked that man! Compare him with Victor Druce sometimes, Ruth; it may help you to be brave... Now I am going back to the garden to act my part. We will meet and talk again, but we can't stay away any longer just now without attracting attention... Just tell me one thing before I go—Can you forgive me for shattering your dream?" She held out her hand, and Ruth took it in both hers.

"I have nothing to forgive. It is only wakening a little sooner; that's all!" she said tremulously.

Margot bent down lightly, and touched her forehead with her lips, then turned swiftly away, and Ruth was left alone. Poor, disenchanted Ruth, wideawake at last, in the midst of the deserted cabbage-patch!



CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

JACK MELLAND'S SECRET.

When Mr Farrell's guests assembled for dinner, on their return from the garden-party, it was at once evident that the old gentleman was in one of his difficult moods. From the beginning he had affected to disapprove of Mrs Thornton's extravagance in attempting to entertain on so large a scale, while sedulously keeping himself informed as to every detail of the preparations. The anonymous present of fruit had furnished him with a subject for much satirical comment, as had also the girls' endeavours to beautify the house and grounds.

Now he found a fresh grievance in the fact that dinner was delayed a few minutes past its usual hour, and that the young people appeared depressed, rather than elated by their experiences. Ruth's plea of a headache was justified by her wan looks; Jack was moody, and even Victor was for once silent and distrait. It was left to Mollie to stem the tide, and she raised herself nobly to the effort, albeit her own heart was none too light.

"It went off beautifully, Uncle Bernard! Shall I tell you all about it from the beginning?" she cried, smiling at his grim visage across the dinner-table; and when he declared his lack of interest in the whole concern, she smiled again, and refused to be convinced. "Oh, but you must hear, because in a kind of way it was your party, as you are the patron, and give them all that they have... There were such crowds of people, and they looked so gay. Old Lady Everett wore a magenta satin, quite the most awful garment I ever beheld, and she got hot, poor dear, and it matched her face. And such an awkward thing happened; she brought a little basket with a few under-sized grapes, about a pound, perhaps, and presented them to Mrs Thornton with such an air of munificence, and then turned round and saw the table spread with all that exquisite fruit! She was quite angry even when Mrs Thornton explained that it also was a gift."

"Why need she have explained at all? No other woman would have thought of doing so. Why should a clergyman's wife be expected to explain her private affairs to any inquisitive stranger? Surely it is her own business what she puts on her own table?" This from Jack, in a burst of querulous impatience which brought his host's eyes upon him with an answering flash.

"If a woman in a public position provides what is obviously unsuited to her means, the least she can do is to offer an explanation. A clergyman's means do not run to expensive entertainments."

"Exactly; yet he is expected to entertain, and to humble his pride to do it in an inferior style to his neighbours. And his wife is expected to accept paltry gifts from her neighbours which another woman in her position would look upon as an insult, and to be thankful for the chance. I suppose she often is thankful, poor creature, as she has not the means of providing properly for herself."

Mr Farrell put down his knife and fork, and, leaning back in his seat, stared fixedly in Jack's face. His thin lips worked, and his eyes gleamed ominously.

"May I ask if you are speaking in general terms, or individually of the clergyman's wife in my own parish?"

Jack shrugged his shoulders.

"Oh, I suppose she would be included, since her husband's income is insufficient for her needs."

"You are aware, of course, that I am responsible for that income?"

"I suppose so—in a way, since the living is in your gift."

"And what grounds may you have for considering it insufficient?"

Jack burst into a short laugh, undeterred by the appealing glances cast upon him by three frightened feminine listeners.

"What grounds? Why, the house is an advertisement of shabbiness; the vicar's coat is green with age, and the poor little kiddies look as if they had come out of the ark! Mrs Thornton has pluck enough for a dozen, or she would never keep things going as she does; but she looks an old woman before her time."

"Then it is your deliberate conclusion that I ought to increase the Vicar's stipend?"

Under cover of the tablecloth a little hand stole along and laid a gentle pressure on Jack's arm. He turned and met Mollie's eyes, grave and appealing, with no trace of the frivolity of which he had complained earlier in the day, and, at the sight, his irritation died a sudden death. Mollie must indeed have forgiven him when she condescended to so sweet an intimacy. The rush of joy which accompanied the thought put him at once at peace with all men.

"The labourer is worthy of his hire, sir," he answered quietly. "I call Thornton a rattling good fellow, and I should like to see him relieved of monetary troubles. It's hard lines to expect a man to be an example of all the virtues when he is constantly wondering how to make both ends meet. I don't set much store on money, as you know, but I should enjoy being in the position to do a good turn to a man like that."

Mr Farrell's sunken eyes gave forth a malicious gleam.

"You speak with feeling. Perhaps you have been enjoying a foretaste of the experience. Surely you must be the generous Unknown who contributed the hamper of fruit of which we have heard so much during the last few days!"

There was a simultaneous gasp of surprise round the table, and everyone turned to stare with curious eyes at Jack's scarlet face. Scarlet, with an embarrassment which plainly proved the truth of the accusation; with anger, too, and thwarted self-will. His nostrils inflated in the old haughty manner, as he replied coldly—

"I thought we were discussing Mr Thornton's income! I fail to see what the hamper has to do with the case."

Mr Farrell gave the short, staccato sound which did service for a laugh.

"Your pardon! It is to me a very interesting sidelight. I am indebted to you for stepping in to make up for my deficiencies."

"It was very kind of you, Mr Melland—very, very kind! You don't know how much pleasure it gave. I envy you for having had such a nice thought," said Ruth earnestly. For a wonder Mollie was silent, while Victor shrugged his shoulders, and cried, between a sneer and a laugh—

"You are a sly dog, Melland. I had no idea that you were such a devoted admirer of the redoubtable Mrs Thornton."

The sneer brought Jack to his bearings in a moment. Every trace of embarrassment disappeared as he faced Victor across the table, wide-eyed and defiant.

"It is the truth, none the less. I admire Mrs Thornton immensely. She is a capital little woman, and fights the odds like a Spartan. This garden-party business was a great event in her life, and she prepared for it by a series of make-shifts. I got sick of hearing about them. Poor little soul, why shouldn't she be able to do the thing decently once in a while? She's been very kind to us; it was little enough to do in return."

"Oh, well, everything is comparative. You must be pretty flush to send about hampers of that description. I have never tasted finer fruit. I am sorry that such generosity is beyond my means," said Victor, whereat Jack scowled all the more.

"You would have spent as much on your lunches and teas if you had been in town these last weeks. What is the use of money if you can't be reckless once in a way? I am sorry that this subject has come up; but, as it has, I must ask you all to be good enough not to speak of it to Mrs Thornton. She would gush, and I loathe gush. The secret is my own, not yours, so you must please respect my wishes."

Once more Ruth came to the rescue.

"Of course, we will keep your secret. We have no right to tell without your consent," she said decisively.

Her grey eyes smiled at him across the table with a wistful sweetness. This man, at least, was true and honest. Quick-tempered he might be, self-willed and impatient, but one could never imagine Jack Melland playing a double part, nor selling his soul for greed. And yet—and yet, one glance from Victor's eyes had power to affect her as Jack Melland's most earnest effort could never do; and Uncle Bernard, sharp- sighted as he was, treated Jack with far less confidence and favour.

"But I was never sure of him all the time, except for those few hours yesterday," she thought. "I felt there was something behind. When Dr Maclure spoke to me that afternoon I knew that he meant all, and more than all, that he said; but it is not easy to make the imitation like the real thing. The moment I heard him speak to Margot I knew the difference—oh, such a difference! I shall never be deceived again."

She sat trifling with her fruit, unheeding the conversation around her, yet dimly conscious that a passage-at-arms was still being carried on between Mr Farrell and Jack; the former indulging in caustic remarks at the young man's expense, Jack replying with more or less irritation.

A sudden gleam of excitement on Victor's face recalled her wandering thoughts, in time to hear Jack reply quickly—

"You are quite right, I am an invalid no longer. I walked about most of the afternoon and feel none the worse. I can manage even the stairs with a little help. In another few days I shall be ready for work. There will then be no need for me any longer to trespass—"

Suddenly he stopped; and though Mr Farrell sat waiting in silence for several moments, he did not attempt to finish the sentence; for another gentle pressure on the elbow had reminded him of the wisdom of self- control. He sat with downcast eyes and firmly shut lips until Mr Farrell's mocking voice broke the silence.

"Since Mr Melland has nothing more to say, it would perhaps be as well if we made a move. I will ask you to excuse me for the rest of the evening, as I am feeling fatigued."

He rose as he spoke and turned towards the door, but even as he did so he staggered, and uttered an exclamation of pain. Mrs Wolff echoed the cry and sank back in her chair helpless and unnerved; but in an instant Victor was at his side, supporting him with a strong, steady arm.

"Send for James," he said, addressing the butler in the quiet tones of one who knows how to keep his head in an emergency. "Let me help you into the hall, sir; you will have more air there. Lean upon me!"

They moved slowly forward together, the bowed figure seeming momentarily to shrink in stature, while the glimpse of cheek, as he turned towards the door, was so ashen in colour that the girls clasped each other's hands in dismay. Then James appeared, alert, composed, capable, a carrying-chair was brought forward from some secret hiding-place, and the invalid was borne upstairs to his room.

"It's one of his 'turns,' miss," the butler explained to Ruth. "He used to have them constantly, but it's the first since you came. We'll send down for the doctor, and he'll probably stay all night. You can never tell how things may go!"

Jack Melland limped off towards the deserted smoking-room. Five minutes before, as he sat resolutely silent, he had determined to go to Mr Farrell as he sat in the library that evening, and, in the quiet of a tete-a-tete, announce his determination to leave the Court before the week was out; but now, once again, circumstances conspired against him. There was a greater question at stake than his own miserable comings or goings, for the shadow of death hovered over the Court, and none could tell what the morning might bring forth.



CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

MRS. WOLFF.

The next morning Mr Farrell was reported better, though unable to leave his bed. His old friend, the doctor, had stayed with him for the greater part of the night, and had now taken his departure, pronouncing all immediate danger to be over. A few days' rest would no doubt make the patient much as he had been before, to outward seeming, though to the professional eye, a little weaker, a little nearer the end.

At breakfast Mrs Wolff fussed in a feeble, self-injured manner because she was not admitted to the sick-room.

"It is so dreadful for him to be left without a woman! I can't think how he will be nursed without a woman!" she repeated monotonously, while her hearers breathed an earnest wish that, when their turn came to be nursed, it might not be by a woman of her calibre. Mr Farrell was a hundred times better off with his quiet, capable James.

A shadow of depression rested upon all the young people, though Ruth could not help feeling thankful for a reasonable excuse for a sadness which had nothing to do with Uncle Bernard or his health. Now, no one would wonder if she were sad or silent, and she would escape the questioning she had so much dreaded. Immediately breakfast was over she announced her intention of devoting the morning to photography, and disappeared indoors, while Victor took his accustomed path to the stables.

Mollie would have followed her sister, but Jack detained her with an appeal which could not be denied.

"Stay and talk to me a little while; do! or I shall think you are offended by my stupidity yesterday. I have to thank you for your reminder last night. If you had not stopped me I should have spoken even more strongly than I did, and have been filled with remorse. As it is, I don't think anything I said could have been responsible for this attack. Considering all things I kept pretty cool, didn't I now?"

"I think you did," conceded Mollie, smiling. "No; I expect it has been coming on for some days, and that was why he was so cross. You generally find people are ill if they are more than usually snappy. Poor Uncle Bernard! I wish one could help; but I am glad he has not Mrs Wolff to fidget him. Do you know," said Mollie, fixing her candid eyes upon Jack's face, and inwardly rejoicing at having hit on an impersonal topic of conversation,—"do you know Mrs Wolff is an unending problem to one! I think about her for hours at a time, and try to puzzle her out, but I never get one step further."

"Really!" Jack searched in his pockets for materials, and began rolling up one of the everlasting cigarettes. "I'm surprised to hear that. I should not have thought she could have occupied more than two minutes. For my own part I find it impossible to think of her at all. She was born; she exists; she will probably die! Having said so much, you have exhausted the subject."

"Not at all," contradicted Mollie frankly. "There's lots more to consider. What is she really, and what is the real life that she lives inside that funny little shell? And was she ever a child who laughed and danced, and raced about, and was good and naughty, and played with toys, and lived among giants and fairies? We lived fairy tales, Ruth and I, and had giants to tea in a nursery four yards square. And we hunted ferocious lions and tigers, who either turned out kind and harmless, or were slain by imaginary swords. Did Mrs Wolff always know exactly that two and two make four, and never by any chance made a delicious pretence that it was five? And when she went to school had she a chum whom she adored, and wrote letters to every other day filled with 'dears' and 'darlings,' and did she ever shirk 'prep,' or play tricks on the teachers, or sit up to a dormitory supper?"

"Certainly not! She was a good little girl who never soiled her pinafore, nor dreamt of anything she could not see, and she worked hard at school and remained persistently in the middle of the class, and gained high marks for neatness and decorum. She never had a chum because she is incapable of caring for one person more than another."

"But what about 'poor Mr Wolff'? Surely she must have had, at least, a preference for him! That's another problem—how did anyone come to fall in love with her, and what did he fall in love with, and why, and when, and where? I long to know all about it, for it seems so incomprehensible."

Jack laughed with masculine amusement at her curiosity.

"Not incomprehensible at all. I can give a very good guess how it happened. She was a timid, shrinking, little thing, rather pretty—her features are not at all bad—and 'poor Mr Wolff' was a big burly fellow who took a fancy to her because she was a contrast to himself. She didn't say much, so he credited her with thinking the more. She agreed with everything he said, so he considered her the cleverest woman he knew. He discovered his error, no doubt, in sackcloth and ashes, poor fellow; but mercifully he had not to endure many years of disenchantment. I can't imagine a worse fate than being tied for life to an automaton!"

"Humph!" Mollie pondered, pinching her soft chin between thumb and finger. "He might not be so particular as you... Did you ever... Have you ever,—I mean, did you ever meet..."

Jack blew a cloud of smoke from between his lips with a half-embarrassed smile.

"Did I ever meet a girl whom I imagined might be my Mrs Wolff! Is that what you want to ask? Yes—once!—for a passing moment. We met, and I caught a glimpse of her face, and recognised it as the fulfilment of a dream. Then she disappeared. Romantic, isn't it, and disappointing into the bargain? I am not a sentimental fellow, I suppose, for I have never even imagined myself in love, though I have known scores of charming girls; but at that moment I realised possibilities!"

"But, oh, how disappointing! Did she really disappear? Couldn't you find her? Is there no chance that you may meet again?"

"Sometimes I think there is; at other times it seems impossible. In any case, I am powerless to help, or to hinder."

"I should not say that if I were a man! I would search the world over till I found her!" Mollie sat silently, with bent head and thoughtful air, then suddenly lifted her eyes to his with a sweet, grave glance. "I hope you will meet! I hope you will be very happy together some day,—you, and your Lady of Dreams!"

Jack looked at her, and his face changed strangely. He said nothing, not even a word of thanks for her good wishes, and presently got up from his seat, and limped into the house, leaving Mollie depressed and self- reproachful.

"I suppose I should not have said it. He thinks it 'gush,' and won't condescend to answer. I wonder what she was like? Dark, I suppose, and stately, and serious; the very opposite from me. She will appear again some day, and they will be married and look so handsome together. I'm awfully, awfully glad; at least, I should be if Uncle Bernard were not ill. That makes one feel so dull and wretched that one can't be glad about anything," said poor Mollie to herself.

Jack did not appear again; and she was not in the mood to take any interest in Ruth's photographic efforts, so she strolled through the grounds and gathered an armful of flowers to send home to the little mother. This was always a pleasant undertaking, and just now there was a special reason for choosing the freshest and most fragrant blossoms, for the last few letters had hinted at a recurrence of the old money troubles.

"Something is up!" wrote Trix, in school-girl parlance. "Father and mother are talking in his den all the evening, and she comes down to breakfast with her eyes swollen with crying, and he looks like a sheet, and doesn't eat a bite. Horrid old business again, of course. How I hate it! We shall have to scrape a little more, I suppose; and where we are to scrape from, I'm blest if I know! My blue serge is green, and the boys' Etons shine like the rising sun. It was a fine day on Sunday, and they fairly glittered going to church. I don't want to give you the blues, but thought I'd better tell you, so that you could write to cheer them up, and also be more assiduous in your attentions to the old man. You must and shall get that fortune between you, or we shall be bivouacking in the workhouse before you can say Jack Robinson! My heart too truly knows the signs full well!"

Mollie recalled these expressive sentences, and sighed in sympathy.

"Poor old Trix! too bad that she should be left at home to bear the brunt, while we are living in the lap of luxury. I expect it is just one of the old crises, and we shall worry through as usual, but it is depressing while it lasts. I can't endure to see mother with red eyes. She will smile when she sees these roses, bless her! I defy anyone not to enjoy opening a box of flowers; and when we go home we will cheer them up again,—fortune or no fortune. Dear old Trix shall have some of my fineries made down, as a change from the green serge."

Mollie's spirits lightened perceptibly as she loitered about the garden, for to a town-bred girl it was luxury indeed, not only to look upon a wealth of roses, but to be able to gather them lavishly as she pleased. When the basket was full of half-opened beauties, ranging in every shade, from white to the bloomy crimson of "Prince Camille," she turned to more shady corners for the sprays of ferns and foliage, which are even more prized than flowers themselves by the unhappy dwellers in cities, then returned to the house to find a box and pack it for the post. The terrace was empty, but Mrs Wolff was sitting knitting just inside the drawing-room window.

"Your uncle is better," she announced, as Mollie approached. "He has had a quiet sleep since breakfast, and James thinks he will be able to sit up for an hour or two to-morrow. I haven't seen anything of Ruth or Mr Melland. Mr Druce came back from the stables to say that he was not going to ride to-day, but take a long walk, and he would be sure to be home in time for lunch. He is always so kind and considerate!"

The poor little woman looked wan and dispirited, and Mollie reflected with a pang of remorse that she herself had shown little consideration for her feelings. Even a nonentity, it appeared, could feel dull when left by herself in a big, empty house, and also could appreciate a little act of thoughtfulness. Victor disappeared so regularly for the morning hours, that it seemed strange that he should have especially explained his intentions this morning of all others; but perhaps he had done so, just because to-day was distinguished by a special load of anxiety which he was anxious not to increase. Mrs Wolff lived in a constant state of fidget, and even so little a thing as the uncertainty whether the household would assemble punctually to partake of the luncheon which she had ordered, might easily add to her distress.

"He is awfully considerate at times; much more than the rest of us," Mollie admitted to herself. "He never forgets the least little thing that Uncle Bernard says or does, or likes or dislikes, while I—silly, blundering thing!—always try to help him out of his chair at the wrong side, or stumble over his sticks."

She stood looking down at Mrs Wolff with a new impulse of sympathy. Hitherto, they had seemed divided by an impassable gulf, but this morning the girl's usual radiant sense of well-being had died away, and left a little rankling ache in its place. "Uncle Bernard's illness, and this new bother at home," was Mollie's explanation even to her own heart, but the result thereof was to fill her with pity for the life of a woman whom nobody loved, and who was homeless in a land of homes.

She sat down beside Mrs Wolff, determined to make the hour before luncheon pass more cheerfully than its predecessor, and a few judicious questions soon set the good lady's tongue prattling over past and future. She said that as a girl she had always had a partiality for blue merino, and had owned a Dunstable bonnet, trimmed with roses, which was said to be particularly becoming. It was a pity that roses faded so in the sun; ribbons were more economical wear. Did Mrs Connor buy her fish wholesale from Whitby, or retail from a fishmonger? They did say there was a great saving in the former way, only you got tired of cod, if it were a very big fish...

The worst of a large house was having to keep so many servants! A friend of hers, who was "reduced," said she had never known what comfort meant till she came down to two. That James really took too much upon himself! Talking of black-currant jelly—how beautiful the peaches were on the south wall! Her cousin's little boy—Eddie, not Tom—fell over a garden barrow the other day, and it might have been most serious, for the shears were only a few yards away. Children were more trouble than pleasure. Poor Mr Wolff always regretted having none, and she used to remind him of the school bills, and the breakages, and the dirt in the house...

Had Mollie ever knitted comforters for deep-sea fishermen? They said their ears did get so cold. There was nothing like an onion boiled really soft, and made into a poultice for ear-ache. Her cousin's little boy—Tom, not Eddie—had it very badly. Dear, dear, to hear his shrieks! They found onion much better than camphorated oil. When Mr Farrell died, she supposed whoever came into possession would re-cover the drawing-room furniture. It needed it, and you got lovely patterns from London...

On and on the stream flowed, until Mollie felt dazed and bewildered. Mrs Wolff evidently felt it such a treat to have a listener that she was capable of continuing for hours at a time, and it was only the sounding of the gong for lunch which brought an end to the monologue.

In its passing it had seemed a quiet, uneventful morning; no one guessed what importance its coming and going would assume in the near future.



CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.

AN UNPLEASANT INTERVIEW.

Mr Farrell kept to his determination to see none of his visitors until he was able to come downstairs, but he sent a message by James, to the effect that he would be annoyed if his indisposition were allowed to interfere in any way with social engagements. Therefore, dinner-parties being the order of the day, the four young people feasted abroad every evening, and spent the afternoons at various tennis and croquet parties instituted in their honour.

The rush of gaiety was in full swing, and the list of invitations which ought to be accepted stretched so far ahead that it seemed as if there would be little time left in which to entertain in return. In earlier days the girls had delighted to discuss gorgeous and bizarre ideas, smacking more of the Arabian Nights than of an English country house, by the execution of which they hoped to electrify the county and prove their own skill as hostesses; but of late these schemes had been unmentioned. Ruth was too much crushed by her disappointment to have spirit for frivolities, and the shadow of the universal depression at home, as well as at the Court, cast its shadow over Mollie also.

In a half-hearted way both girls were glad of the engagements which prevented tete-a-tetes, which had grown difficult and embarrassing, yet with the unreasonableness of her sex Ruth felt doubly hurt to realise that Victor shared in her relief. She had expected to have difficulty in avoiding him, and to hear reproaches for her coldness, but neither expectation was fulfilled.

"I suppose he thinks that he has made things safe with me by that last conversation, and can afford to take a little holiday and enjoy himself. He does not want to compromise himself too far!" Ruth told herself, with a touch of bitterness which had developed during the last few days.

She knew that Victor's long absences in the morning were spent in trying to waylay Lady Margot in her walks and drives, and had the best authority for knowing him to have been successful more than once, for Margot had been present at one of the dinner-parties and had seized an opportunity to have a quiet word.

"I have met Mr Druce twice this week. I could have avoided him by staying in the grounds, but I do not wish to rouse his suspicions. He won't risk anything definite until matters are decided between you and Mr Farrell, and then he shall learn his lesson. From which of us he learns it, it does not matter. In the meantime, I shall make no change, and he can come and go as he sees fit."

"You must be very—very sure of yourself!" said Ruth wistfully; at which Margot reared her little head with a haughty gesture.

"Absolutely sure! If he had dared to ask me six months ago, I might have given up everything to be the wife of the imaginary Victor, but now I will not alter the slightest plan out of consideration for the real Mr Druce. I can trust myself; but,"—she turned a grave, direct gaze on the other's face—"can you trust me, Ruth? I don't concern myself about appearances, so it is possible you may hear rumours which may not seem in keeping with our agreement. Can you trust me enough to believe that, however strange things may seem, I am really considering your interests even more than my own?"

"I think I can—oh yes, I am sure I can!" replied Ruth hesitatingly.

But even as she spoke a doubt crept up in her mind. If Victor did, indeed, become the owner of the Court, and remained persistent in his wooing, could Margot withstand him? She had loved him once. Would not the old feeling revive, and prove too strong for argument? It was Ruth's nature to distract herself with doubts and fears, and the little conversation did not help to raise her spirits.

On the fifth morning after Mr Farrell's seizure he came downstairs to his study, and was reported by the doctor to be in fairly good health. He did not appear at luncheon, however, and there was something darkly mysterious about James's manner when he came into the dining-room when the meal was nearly over to announce that his master wished to see the young ladies, with Mr Druce and Mr Melland, in the library at five o'clock.

"And me—surely he wishes to see me also!" Mrs Wolff cried, in an injured tone.

But James only bowed, and repeated inflexibly—

"Only the young ladies and gentlemen, ma'am. I understand that he wishes to see them on business."

Business! That word was enough to keep five minds working busily during the hours between luncheon and the time appointed for the interview. Had Uncle Bernard come to some definite conclusion during those quiet days upstairs? Was the period of probation over, or did the summons simply imply some new and eccentric phase of the old routine?

Conjecture ran riot; but at the first sight of the old man's face all pleasant expectations died a sudden death, for it was fixed in a stern, unbending anger, such as his guests had never seen before. Hardly replying to their congratulations and inquiries, he motioned them impatiently to the seats ranged in readiness facing his chair, exactly as they had been on that first important interview five weeks before. Only five weeks, thirty-five short days, yet each of the squire's guests felt as if a lifetime of experience yawned between that day and this!

"I have sent for you, as it is necessary to speak on an unpleasant topic, which, however, cannot be avoided," Mr Farrell began. "It is painful for me to open it, especially as I am urged to avoid excitement; but I have no alternative. You may remember that shortly before I was taken ill, I referred to the draft of my will which was lying in this desk." He stretched out his hand, and laid it on the polished surface. "It was kept here with other important papers, arranged in a special manner, which I have adopted for years, partly for the sake of neatness, partly to ensure them against interference, for it is impossible that they should be touched without my knowledge. This morning, on coming downstairs, my first task was to add some memoranda to one of these papers. I opened the desk, and discovered at once that my will had been opened and read—"

He stared grimly across the room, and four flushed, bewildered faces stared back at him. The silence lasted for several moments; then Jack spoke in his haughtiest and most intolerant tone—

"You do not, of course, wish to imply, sir, that you suspect us of having any hand in the matter? I presume you want our help in unravelling the mystery? My own detective powers are not of a high order; but if you will explain your system—"

Mr Farrell interrupted him with a raised hand.

"Thank you, I prefer to make my own inquiries. As I said before, it is a disagreeable duty; but when a duty is forced upon one, the best course is to perform it in the most strict and business—like manner possible. You are the people most concerned in my will, the people who would naturally feel most interest and curiosity in seeing it; therefore, apart from sentimental considerations, on you the first suspicion must fall, and it is right that I should question you before outsiders."

Jack's eyes flashed. He rose from his chair and limped across the floor, as if unable to keep still.

"I am afraid it will be of little use. If a fellow is sweep enough to pry into another man's secrets, he is equal to lying about it into the bargain, and in that case you have no chance in finding out the truth. You have been upstairs for five days. It is impossible to account for all that may have happened during that time."

"I have been upstairs five days, as you say, but it happens that I can reduce the time to a much narrower limit. On the evening after I was taken ill, it occurred to me that I had not locked my desk the night before, as I expected to return to the library as usual after dinner. I sent James downstairs to make sure. He found it open, locked it, and brought me back the key. The lock is a patent one, and has not been tampered with, therefore whoever examined the will must have done so on Wednesday morning or afternoon."

Victor looked up quickly.

"You allowed your man to lock it, you trusted him with the key?"

"Certainly. He has been twenty years in my service, and knows exactly what provision I have made for his future. He will not need to work after my death, and has no personal interest in my will. Moreover, I trust him as I would myself."

Mr Farrell spoke sharply, evidently annoyed that any doubt should be cast upon his favourite. As he finished his eyes met Mollie's fixed upon him with an angry challenge, to which he was not slow to respond—

"Well, what have you to say, young lady? Can you throw any light on this mystery?"

"I have not opened your desk and pried among your papers, if you really mean to ask me such a question. I have lots of faults, but I've never been suspected of anything so mean as that, and I don't care to stay in a house where anyone can believe it possible! I don't want to see the horrid old will! We should all have been content and happy if it had not been for the thought of it; and I never want to hear it mentioned again. I don't know how you dare insult us so, Uncle Bernard!"

"That will do, Mollie; you have given me your answer. There is no need to get excited. You had better go back to the drawing-room while I speak to your companions."

The squire leant back in his chair, waiting for her to go; and, willing or unwilling, there was no defying that grim silence. Mollie marched across the floor with defiant tread, opened the door, and closed it behind her with a bang, so expressive of temper that Jack could not resist a smile. It vanished quickly enough, however, as he listened to Mr Farrell's next words—

"I must ask you to tell me in so many words whether you know anything of this matter. If a sudden access of curiosity should have proved too strong for resistance, a candid confession would be the best means of obtaining forgiveness. I could overlook anything better than deceit." He looked at the three young faces before him with a scrutiny that had something pathetic in its earnestness; but, as it met with no response, his expression hardened. "Perhaps you would be good enough to tell me, in the first place, whether any of you were in the library on Wednesday?"

He looked at Victor as he spoke, and the dark eyes met his without a moment's hesitation.

"I went out for a long walk immediately after breakfast, and returned when luncheon was on the table. Afterwards Melland and I smoked on the terrace until it was time to drive over to a tennis-tea. I forget which house it was held at, but I remember we heard that the carriage was at the door, and had to rush for it. That was so, wasn't it, Melland? I think I should have little difficulty in proving an alibi for the whole day."

Mr Farrell hesitated for a minute, then turned towards Jack.

"And you, Melland?"

"Oh, I was about the house! I don't remember going into the library, but I might have done so half a dozen times, and forgotten all about it. You gave me permission to borrow books as I chose, and I have been constantly in and out. I could not undertake to say positively what I did on any particular day."

"Ruth?"

Ruth lifted a miserable face, and shot a glance across the room. There was none of Mollie's righteous indignation in that glance, only a nervous shrinking which amounted almost to fear.

"I—I was in the library, Uncle Bernard! I photographed it several times that morning. It seemed a good opportunity, as you were upstairs, and I wanted the room for my collection."

"You were photographing. That means that you would be some little time alone in the room?"

"Yes—no; I came and went. Not so very long," stammered Ruth hesitatingly. It was terrible to be cross-examined like this, with the eyes of the three men fixed upon her, grave and questioning. She looked wistfully at the door, and half rose from her seat. "I know nothing—I did nothing! I can tell you nothing more! May I go now? There is no use staying any longer."

"One moment, please! You all deny having touched the will, and I shall, of course, accept your word; but you must help to find the real culprit by giving me every clue in your power. Was any reference made to the will in your presence? Has anyone, for instance, expressed curiosity respecting it and its contents?"

Victor's eyes turned to Ruth with a glance which brought the colour rushing into her cheek. He did not speak, but his expression was too eloquent to be misread. The old man looked keenly from one to the other, and his voice took an added sharpness as he spoke—

"Well, Druce, out with it—out with it! What is it that you have to say?"

"Nothing, sir—nothing worth repeating. Your question reminded me of a chance remark; but I would rather say no more about it."

"You have said too much already. Pray go on, since you have begun!" cried Ruth, with a sudden blaze of anger. Her small head was thrown back with a defiant gesture, and the Farrell eyebrows met in a straight black line across her brow. "I spoke of your will, Uncle Bernard—I said I wished that I could see it. I did want to see it! It was impossible to know that it was lying there, and not feel curious."

"Of course it was. We were all curious, but some of us had not the honesty to confess it," Jack cried quickly. "Surely it is not necessary to keep Miss Ruth any longer, sir? She has told you that she can give you no more information. It is cruel to the girl—" He broke off as if afraid of speaking too strongly; and Mr Farrell lay back in his chair with a sudden weary slackening of muscle.

"Yes, yes, she may go; you may all go! We can prove nothing at present; but time will show—time will show!" And he raised his hand with a gesture of dismissal.

Ruth and Victor rose and hurriedly left the room only Jack stood his ground, nervously tugging at his moustache. He had something to say, and was determined to say it, but the sight of the old man's figure in its physical and mental depression turned his anger into commiseration. It was in almost an apologetic voice that he broke the silence.

"I stayed because I wanted to have five minutes' quiet talk with you, sir. My ankle is now practically well, and I am anxious to return to town. Please don't think I am unappreciative of your kindness in wishing me to stay, but as I said before I have no wish to be considered as a candidate for your fortune. It is owing to my accident that I have remained so long, and not to any change of mind. I hear from my partner that the business is suffering from my absence, and we have had such a struggle to work it up to its present condition, that you can understand I am in a fever to get back."

Contrary to his expectation Mr Farrell showed no sign either of surprise or anger. Perhaps he had been expecting the announcement as a result of convalescence, perhaps he was simply too weary to feel any strong interest in passing events. In any case, his face scarcely changed in expression, as he replied—

"After five weeks' visit to the Court you still keep to your original opinion, that the chance of possessing it is not worth a little inconvenience, or even monetary loss?"

Jack pursed his lips with an impatient dissent.

"Oh, the Court is beautiful—an ideal place in every respect. I would go through a good deal to earn it—in a straightforward fashion. What I object to is the mystery, and the idleness, and the feeling of competition. You have every right to manage your own affairs in your own way, sir, but you must allow me the same privilege. You must have found out by this time that I have a large amount of obstinacy in my composition. I have made up my mind that for every reason it is my duty to return to town."

"You have calculated, of course, that even if your business succeeds to an extraordinary extent, you are never likely to make anything like as much money as will come to my heir?"

"I have always heard that you are enormously wealthy. You are probably quite right; but,"—Jack paused in front of the lounge-chair and looked down at the shrunken figure from the height of six-foot-one,—"looking back on your own life, sir, has your greatest happiness come from the amount of your possessions? Has it increased as they increased? Can you honestly advise me as a young man to sacrifice everything for money?"

There was silence for several minutes, while Mr Farrell winced and shrank within himself, as if the words had touched a hidden sore. He never referred to his own domestic life; but it was well-known that for years it had been one of ideal happiness, and that with the loss of wife and son, his real life had closed for ever. He avoided a direct reply to Jack's question by asking another in return.

"There are other things which many men consider more important. I have sometimes imagined that you would agree with them. Have you reflected that in returning to town you may be leaving behind even more than land or fortune, and thereby losing a dearer chance of happiness!"

The blood rushed into Jack's face. He could not affect to misunderstand the drift of the old man's words, but to acknowledge their truth was impossible, and the orthodox protests seemed to come of their own accord.

"What do you mean? What am I leaving? I hardly understand..."

Mr Farrell laughed shortly.

"Young people seem to imagine that their elders cannot see what is happening under their eyes. I have watched you and Mollie, and thought that there might possibly be an interesting denouement to your friendship. She has faults, but she has a kind heart and would make a good wife."

Jack's face stiffened.

"Hadn't we better keep her name out of the discussion, sir? I have the greatest respect and admiration for both your nieces, but, as far as anything further is concerned, I am not in a position to think of marriage. It may be years before I can keep a house, and I would never tie down a girl indefinitely."

"In this instance it might happen that the girl had a house of her own! Did it never strike you that you would be doubling your chances if you linked them together?"

"I am not a fool, sir! Of course I realised as much from the first, and have wondered if it was part of your scheme. My idea of marriage, however, is to be able to keep my wife, not to accept support. It may be a weakness in my nature, which makes me wish to be head of my own household; but weakness or not, there it is, and I can't get rid of it. It would be detestable to me to marry an heiress, and if I were a girl I should despise a man who was content to live on his wife's money."

"Just so—just so! Very praiseworthy sentiments, no doubt; but I should have been glad to know that the child had a protector. The stepfather is a broken reed, and the mother is a child herself; however, you place your pride and your prejudice first, and that's the end of the business. You will go back to town, she to the North—a very effectual separation!"

He shrugged his shoulders expressively; but Jack's eyes gave out a sudden flash, he straightened himself, and cried eagerly—

"There are trains, there are boats—if it comes to that, it is only two hundred miles. If she were in trouble, one could walk! It would make no difference if the woman one wanted were at the end of the world—one would get to her somehow when the hour arrived! Difficulty is an inspiration, sir, when one is young!"

"Yes, yes; when one is young—when one is young!" The smile which had lightened the old man's face died away at the sound of those last words. He raised his hand and pushed the thin locks from his brow. "Well, it is your own life—you must live it in your own way! I cannot benefit you against your will. If your mind is made up I have no strength to argue the point. You had better arrange to leave to-morrow afternoon, and give instructions to that effect to the servants."

Jack's start of surprise was entirely disagreeable. He had not expected to be dismissed in this summary fashion, and the thought of so speedy a break with the new life came upon him with a positive shock. To-morrow! To-morrow, then, at this very hour he would be back in the dingy lodgings which did duty for home, preparing to sit down to a solitary meal, to spend a solitary evening, to sleep and wake up to a day's work in the stifling City, where the thought of green fields and rose- gardens, and wide, stretching lawns would seem as unreal as a dream. A weight of depression settled on him, as he exclaimed—

"To-morrow! But—unless you wish it, there is no hurry—I could wait until the end of the week. If I left on Saturday, I could still begin work on Monday."

"For what object? Since you have decided not to remain, it is better for all reasons that you should return at once. You have put your work before everything else—then why delay in getting back to it? For my own part, since you refuse to consent to my conditions, it would simplify matters if you returned at once. The position is difficult, and my strength is rapidly failing. I should have been glad if you had consented to grant me these few weeks out of your life, but, since it is not to be, I prefer to finish the matter once for all." He held out his hand as he spoke. "Good-bye, Melland—my best wishes! I shall not see you in the morning!"

Jack took the proffered hand, and held it in silence, his face a study of perplexity and remorse. An Englishman hates to express his emotions, but to a generous nature the sting of ungratefulness is even more abhorrent. At that moment it seemed a little thing to spare a few months of strong, young life to gratify the whim of a dying man. Jack's heart reproached him, and he spoke in eager accents.

"If I could be a help to you, sir—if I felt that my presence gave you pleasure or comfort, I would stay willingly as long as you wished; but you have kept so much apart, that there has been no opportunity—"

Mr Farrell disengaged his hand, and turned aside with a wearied air.

"Good-bye, Melland!" he repeated. "I wish you a pleasant journey!"

So far as any change of voice or manner was concerned, he might not have heard the young man's protest. Jack turned away, miserable and abashed. It was the last time he ever saw Bernard Farrell alive.



CHAPTER THIRTY.

FRESH TRIALS FOR RUTH AND MOLLIE.

Meanwhile, Ruth and Mollie were crying in each other's arms in the privacy of their bedroom—that is to say, Ruth was crying and Mollie was storming and shedding an occasional tear more of anger than distress.

"I've never been so insulted in my life, and I won't stand it from fifty thousand Uncle Bernards! I'll tell him so, and make him beg my pardon and yours too, darling! Don't cry! It makes your nose so red, and you hate to look a fright!"

"Oh, Mollie, we were far happier at home when we thought we were so badly off! What was the use of coming here to have our hearts broken? I loved that man, I thought he loved me, and now I can only despise him. He deliberately tried to fasten suspicion upon me this afternoon, and I can never prove my innocence, for I was in the library, and alone for quite a long time, on and off. What can I do, or say, if they won't take my word?"

"Everybody will, whose opinion is worth having Victor Druce thinks of nothing but his own advantage; and I won't allow you to say you cared for him."

"It's easier said than done! Can you practise what you preach? You don't say anything, but I know,—I can see! When Jack goes away, will you find it easy to forget all about him?"

Mollie's face changed. Excitement disappeared, to be replaced by a sweet and serious dignity.

"I shall never forget him," she said quietly; "but he is in love with another girl—he told me about her the other day—so our lives must be spent apart. I shall never be as happy as I might have been, but I'm going to be as happy as I can. I won't mope! We were happy enough just to be together a few weeks ago; let's go back to where we were, and forget all about the tiresome men!"

"It's easier said than done," sighed Ruth once more. She sank down in a chair by the window, and, leaning her head on her hand, gazed drearily across the park, beautiful in the changing light of late afternoon. With what joy and confidence had she regarded the same scene a few weeks ago, her heart expanding in the happy certainty that some day it would be her own, and with it unlimited powers of helping those she loved. Now, between Victor's faithlessness and her own fall from favour, hope had gradually died away, and the future seemed to hold nothing but bitterness and regret.

Ruth's heart turned homewards with yearning affection. The love of the little mother was a certainty which could be depended upon through good report and ill; nothing that could be said against her child would shake her trust and faith, she would be even more tender in failure than success.

The dear old pater, too—how good he had been all these years, making no distinction between his step-daughters and his own children, except perhaps to show a more anxious care for their needs! He worked so hard, and was so absolutely self-denying and uncomplaining; it was not his fault if he did not possess the power of money-making. When she was at home again she would be more thoughtful of his comfort, more affectionate and sympathetic. She recalled all the step-brothers and sisters whose very existence she had grudged at times, each name bringing with it some kindly, humorous recollection. How truly lovable they were, despite their faults!

Then Ruth's thoughts roamed a little further afield to the few intimate friends of the family, foremost among whom came Eleanor Maclure and her brother. What would Eleanor say if the grand expedition ended in ignominious failure? A good many words of sympathy, of cheer, and a few simple heart-to-heart truths, pointing out the spiritual side of the puzzle, spoken in that soft Scotch voice which was so good to hear. Ah yes, it would be a help to meet Eleanor again. And the—the doctor!

During the first weeks of her stay at the Court, Ruth had been so much absorbed in the present that she had had no leisure to think of old friends; but during the last few days the vision of Dr Maclure's face had risen before her not once but many times—strong, earnest, resolute, with steady glance and square-built chin, such a contrast from that other face with the veiled eyes, which seemed to hide rather than reveal the soul within.

In the midst of soreness and humiliation it had been a comfort to remember that such a man had loved her enough to wish to make her his wife. She recalled the conversation in the brougham with new sympathy and understanding. Had he suffered as she was suffering now? Did his life also stretch ahead blank and grey because of that little word from her lips? Her heart yearned over him, yet felt mysteriously lightened at the thought.

"There's the postman's collie!" cried Mollie's voice, interrupting her reverie. "That means that the evening post is in. I'll run down and see what there is for us."

She disappeared for a few minutes, then reappeared carrying one letter in her hand.

"From mother, to you. Open it quickly, dear! It is an age since she has written. I only hope and pray it is good news!" But, alas! that aspiration was shattered at the sight of the first few sentences.

"My darling girls,—I have delayed writing as I could not bear to cloud your pleasure, but I can keep back the truth no longer. You must be brave, dears, and help me to be brave, for it is no half and half trouble this time. We are quite, quite ruined, and Heaven only knows what is to become of us!

"It is not the pater's fault in any one way. For the last two years he has been doing a good deal of business for a man who appeared to be in very good circumstances. At first he paid up his accounts most regularly, but lately they have sometimes been allowed to run on from month to month. I don't understand business, but it seems that this is often allowed, and as he had been such a good client, and had met his payments regularly before, the pater felt safe in trusting him, and paid out all his own little capital to finance the business of the last few months, which was unusually large.

"He expected to make such a handsome commission as would set us on our feet again; but it was all a deliberate fraud. Other poor men have been taken in in the same way, and that scoundrel has disappeared, leaving us to bear the brunt. I hope I may be able to forgive him some day; just now, when I see the pater's broken heart and think of you, and all those children, it's too difficult.

"Everything that we have or can raise in any way will not pay what we owe, and the pater cannot carry on his business without some capital. The future is very dark; but God has helped me through many dark days, and He will help us still. Trix is splendid! She went of her own accord to the headmistress and offered to teach one of the junior classes in exchange for Betty's education, and a few finishing classes for herself. Miss Bean came to see me, and it is all arranged, for she says Trix has a genius for managing children, and will be a valuable help. She is a good woman, and is glad of the opportunity of helping us, so that difficulty is overcome; but there are oh, so many others to be faced!

"What is to be done about the house—the boys—yourselves? Pater and I have talked until we are too tired and puzzled to talk any more, but, so far, no light has dawned.

"Write to the pater as well as to me, for he has been good to you, and will value your sympathy. Oh, my darlings, it is hard that this should have happened just now to spoil your happy visit! My heart aches for your trouble, for these things are so hard when one is young. I hope, I trust, I pray that the future may be so bright for you as to make up for all the anxieties you have had to bear. Tell Uncle Bernard our trouble; you and he must decide what you had better do.

"I long for your help and comfort, but leave the decision entirely in your hands. Every one is good and sympathetic, and the pater has had most kind letters from his friends in town. We have this great comfort that his good name is untarnished, and that there is no shadow of disgrace in our misfortune. God bless you, my darlings! If we are rich in nothing else, we are rich in our love for one another.—Your devoted Mother."

The girls looked at each other in a long, breathless silence. Ruth laid her hand across her heart with a little gasp of pain.

"Oh, mother! Poor little mother! And we are away, we who should be her best comforters! There is only one thing to do,—we must go home at once!"

"Yes," assented Mollie firmly, "we must go home to-morrow."



CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.

A FATEFUL DECISION.

It was all decided. The interview with Uncle Bernard was over, the last farewells spoken, and the boxes packed in readiness to go to the station. In less than an hour the Court and its inhabitants would be a thing of the past.

Out of consideration for Mr Farrell's health, the girls had decided not to tell him of their bad news until the morning.

"He has had enough excitement for one day," Mollie said; "let him be quiet to-night. To-morrow morning we will send up mother's letter for him to read, and ask to see him as soon as possible after breakfast. That will give him time to think over the situation and decide what to do. He must guess that we will want to return home, but if he wishes to keep us he can easily do so. Oh, to think that with a few strokes of the pen he could make us all happy again! I don't know how much money the pater needs, but it would probably be the tiniest sum out of Uncle Bernard's great fortune. Suppose he offered to send a cheque—suppose he gave us a cheque to send, and all was peace and joy again! He could—he might—oh, surely he will! What is the use of being rich if one can't help people in trouble?"

But Ruth sighed and shook her head.

"Rich people have not much patience with failures, and the poor old pater has not the gift of success. I am afraid Uncle Bernard will be more inclined to blame than to help." And as events proved she was right.

Mr Farrell sent word that he would be at liberty at ten o'clock in the sitting-room adjoining his bedroom, and the first few minutes of the interview proved that his attitude towards the family trouble was one of scornful impatience rather than sympathy. He was apparently quite unprepared for the girls, determination, and would not at first believe in its sincerity.

"You are surely joking," he said scathingly. "If your parents are in such straits as you describe, how do you propose to help them by giving them two more people to keep and feed? It appears to me that your room would be more valuable than your company."

Ruth flushed painfully.

"We hope to be able to help, not to hinder. When a child like Trix has already found work, we ought not to lag behind. It would be impossible to go on living in the lap of luxury, wearing fine clothes, eating fine meals, being waited upon hand and foot, while our own people are in actual need."

"Unless—" interrupted Mollie, and then stopped short, while Mr Farrell turned sharply towards her.

"Unless what? Finish your sentence, if you please."

"Unless you will help them for us!" gasped Mollie, crimson, but daring. "It would be so easy for you to lend the pater what he needs, and he would promise to pay you back—we would all promise! We would work night and day until it was made up."

Mr Farrell smiled sardonically.

"At last! I knew it must come. It would not be Mollie if she had any scruples about asking for what she wanted. No, my dear, I never lend. It is against my principles to throw good money after bad. At the risk of appearing a monster of cruelty, I must refuse to interfere in your stepfather's affairs. There are still six weeks of your visit here to run, and I shall be pleased to relieve him of your support for that time; otherwise—"

"We are much obliged, but we have decided to go home. You wished to be able to judge our characters, and you have had enough time to do so, with very unsatisfactory results, if we are to judge from yesterday's conversation!" cried Ruth, with a sudden burst of indignation. "If you can believe us capable of prying into your desk, you will surely not be sorry to get rid of us altogether!"

The old man looked at her long and thoughtfully.

"Yes," he said quietly, "it's a pity—a very great pity—that the two things should have happened together. It is as unsatisfactory to me as to you that you should leave before the culprit has been discovered. But it is useless now to argue the point if your minds are already made up. Taking everything into consideration—the peculiar circumstances with regard to my will, your original acceptance of my invitation—do I still understand that you wish to leave me to-day?"

"It is our duty to go home. Yes, we have quite decided," said Ruth.

The old man's eyes turned towards the younger girl.

"And you, Mollie?"

"Yes, uncle; I'm sorry, but we can't leave mother alone just now."

Mr Farrell sat silent, his eyebrows lowered, his head hanging forward on his chest, so that it was difficult to see the expression of his face; but the pose of the figure suggested weariness and disappointment. Suddenly he stretched out his hand and touched an electric bell. A servant appeared almost immediately, and was asked a hasty question—

"Is Mr Druce still in the house?"

"I believe so, sir. He was in the morning-room a few minutes ago."

"Go down and tell him that I should be obliged if he would come up here at once."

The girls exchanged puzzled glances as the servant departed on his errand; but they did not dare to speak, and, as Mr Farrell relapsed into his former downcast attitude, the silence was broken only by the sound of Victor's approaching footsteps. He entered the room confident and smiling, but drew up with a start of surprise at seeing the two girls. He was evidently disappointed at their presence, and vaguely uneasy; but after the first involuntary movement his features quickly resumed their mask-like calm.

"You sent for me, sir. Is there anything I can do?"

Mr Farrell raised his head and looked at him thoughtfully. It was seldom indeed that he allowed himself to show any sign of interest in his young companions, so that this steady scrutiny was the more remarkable. Even Victor's composure suffered beneath it, for a tinge of colour crept into his pale cheeks, and he moved uneasily to and fro.

"What is it, sir?" he repeated. "I hope nothing fresh has happened to distress you."

"Thank you, Druce. My plans have been still further upset this morning, as, owing to news received from home, my nieces have decided to leave the Court at once. That means that three out of the four whom I selected for my experiment have, of their own accord, refused to carry out the conditions. Under these circumstances, I think it is only right to offer to release you from your promise, if you prefer to return home at the same time. Everything will be changed, and you may not care to stay on with only myself as a companion."

Victor's eyelids dropped, and a quiver of emotion passed over his face. Ruth saw it, and, with a sinking heart, realised that it resembled exultation rather than grief. He was silent for a moment, but when he spoke nothing could well have been more dignified and natural than words and manner—

"If it will inconvenience you in any way to entertain me alone, I am, of course, perfectly ready to leave; but if you give me the choice—if it is left to me to decide, sir—I should prefer to keep my promise, and stay for the remainder of the time. I might perhaps be of some help to you when you are alone."

The strained expression on Mr Farrell's face gave place to one of unmistakable satisfaction.

"That is good!" he replied heartily. "I am glad to find that you at least have some appreciation of the nature of a bargain. It will be lonely for you, but I am the more obliged for your decision. I won't keep you any longer just now, as we shall have other opportunities of conversation, and I have my adieux to make."