A YEAR passed very quietly and happily in Ralph Trulock's house. Ollie was going to school now, and Ruth was a busy and a happy little woman, and had grown much stronger and less nervous than she had been when she first came to Lady Mabel's Rest. Ralph gave her lessons every evening, when the day's work was over, and was making a good scholar of her in a plain, old-fashioned way. Mrs. Cloudesley taught her various kinds of fancy-work, and Miss Jones made her a first-rate cook and a capital housekeeper in every way. So Ruth bade fair to be an accomplished woman, according to my notions. If a woman can do with her own hands, and do well, everything that is needed for the comfort of her household; can read and enjoy books on a variety of subjects in two languages; can keep accounts well, and write a good hand, and has, moreover, an employment for her leisure hours which she likes and excels in,—I call her an accomplished woman, though she may never have learned to torture my ears with "a tune" on the piano, or to paint roses which look like miniature red cabbages. If a woman in Ruth's rank of life is a genius, let her learn music or drawing by all means. But oh, fathers and mothers of Great Britain and Ireland, do give up the idea that "a little music" and "just half a dozen lessons in flower-painting" are necessary for all your daughters.
Well, one lovely day in April, Ralph was alone in the garden in front of his house. Ruth had gone to meet Ollie on his way home from school. Ralph was sitting on a chair close to his door, enjoying the warmth of the sun and the scent of a little patch of violets which were just coming into bloom. Ruth and Ollie had contrived to make the front garden quite pretty, and to grow some common vegetables in the one at the back of the house. Looking up, because he heard the little gate squeak, as it always did when opened, Ralph beheld a gentleman in deep mourning coming up the walk. A slight, well-made young man, with a moustache and small imperial—not an Englishman, evidently, Ralph concluded.
"Excuse me, sir," said the stranger, "is your name Ralph Trulock?"
"It is, sir," said Ralph, standing up.
"I shall be glad to have a little private conversation with you. Shall we be interrupted or overheard here?" With a glance of his quick black eyes towards Mrs. Short's window, where truly the worthy creature was flattening her nose against the glass with great ardour.
"We can go to the parlour," said Ralph, inwardly wondering who the man might be.
They went in accordingly, and sat down.
"Mr. Trulock, my name is Mordan,—Oliver Mordan, of Bordeaux."
"Indeed!" cried Ralph with a start. "Then I suppose I know why you are here, sir. I wrote to Mr. Mordan about a year ago,—but not, I should think, to you."
"You wrote! You know why I am here!" exclaimed Mr. Mordan, flourishing his hands about rather more than Ralph thought becoming. "Doubtless it was to my dear father that you wrote; but I never heard of it, nor did I find your letter among his papers. My father, Mr. Trulock, died some months ago."