Every thought of resentment passed from Cheriton’s mind, he was by her side in a moment, entreating to be told of her trouble, and in his presence the telling of her story was so dreadful to her that perhaps nothing but the knowledge of Rupert’s neighbourhood could have induced her to do it. Ruth hated to be in disgrace, and genuine as were her tears, she was not without a thought of prepossessing him in her favour. But she could not run the risk of Rupert’s suddenly coming through the fir-wood.
“Please come this way,” she said, breaking from him and skirting along inside the wall till they were out of sight of the pathway. Then she began, averting her face and plucking at the fern-leaves in the wall.
“I—I don’t know how to tell you, but you are so good and kind and generous, so much—much better than I am—you won’t be hard on me.”
“It doesn’t take much goodness to make me feel for your trouble,” said Cheriton, tenderly. “Tell me, my love, and see if I am hard.”
“Every one is hard on a girl who has been as foolish as I have.”
Cheriton began to think that she was going to tell him of some undue encouragement given to some other lover in his absence or before her promise to him, and to believe that here was the explanation of all that had perplexed him.
“I shall never be offended when you tell me that I have no cause for offence,” he said, putting his hand down on hers as she fingered the fern-leaves.
“Indeed, I would not have deceived you so long, but for your illness,” said Ruth, a little more firmly.
“Deceived me! Dearest, don’t use such hard words of yourself. Tell me what all this means. What fancy is this?”
“Will you promise—promise me to be generous and to forgive me? Oh, you may ruin all my life if you will,” said Ruth, passionately.