The words were more an exclamation than a question, but they terrified Ruth, and she pressed coaxingly up to Rupert, and said with a good deal of agitation,—“Oh, I am very sorry—very; but—but of course I couldn’t tell of him—could I? And he is so impetuous and so set on his own way! But I don’t want you to be angry with him, poor boy, or—or with me, for, oh! my darling, we mustn’t quarrel again, or it would kill me!”
“Is she afraid I shall find out how much encouragement she gave him?” said Rupert in his teasing way.
“Oh! he didn’t want much encouragement,” said Ruth. “But there, never mind, he’ll soon forget all about me. Did you think no one ever liked me but you?”
Rupert’s rejoinder was cut short by the appearance of Virginia, and Ruth ran towards her, for once glad to leave Rupert. She tried to persuade herself that she had told him no direct falsehood, but the memory of her two interviews with Cheriton lay heavy on her soul.
She knew that she had sinned against her own article of faith, her love for Rupert; and her perfect pride and glory in its perfection was marred. She had fallen below her own standard; she could no longer feel that she acted out her own ideal. Ruth was a girl capable of an ideal, though she had not set up a lofty one. Perhaps every one has some standard, however poor, and the crucial test of character may be whether we pull it down to suit our failures, or no. Ruth at this time was earnestly endeavouring to do so, but it did not come easy to her, and by way of set-off she occupied herself with being exceedingly kind to Virginia, whom she was beginning to consider injured, and in whom she recognised an unexpected warmth of resentment. Not that Virginia ever uttered a complaint of Alvar, but she avoided his name in so marked a manner, and looked so unhappy, that she was self-betrayed.
They were sitting together in the drawing-room on the day of Alvar’s interview with Mr Lester. It was a dreary, un-homelike-looking room on that wet, cloudy day, but Ruth, spite of misgivings, had a bright prosperous air as she sat writing to Rupert, curls, ribbons, and ornaments all in order, the deep red bands on her summer dress giving it a cheerful air even on a wet day.
Virginia was sitting in the window doing nothing; she was pale, and her white dress with its elaborate flouncings had seen more than one wearing. She did not look expectant of a lover. Ruth watched her for a little while, and then said, slyly,—
“He cometh not, she said,
She said I am aweary, aweary;
I would that I were dead!”
“Ruth! how can you?” exclaimed Virginia, indignantly. “Who would expect anybody on such a wet day as this? Of course I don’t?”
“Queenie!” said Ruth, springing up and kneeling down beside her, “I don’t like to see you look so miserable. If Don Alvar is a lukewarm lover, he’s not good enough for my Queenie, and he shan’t have her. There!”