"Oh, indeed!" cried Ruth, as her spirit made one spurt more. It was the last. The next moment she was weeping.
It annoys most men to make a woman cry. Those who do not become annoyed make impetuous atonement, partly, no doubt, to drown the hooting in their own heart. But Erskine could not feel himself to blame, and though he spoke very kindly, his kindness was too nearly paternal, and he spoke with his elbow on the chimney-piece. He told Ruth not to do that. He pointed out to her that there was no crime in her want of candor concerning her sister's affairs, which were certainly no business of his. Only, if there really had been something between Christina and Lord Manister in Melbourne—if, for instance, Mrs. Willoughby had gossiped unwittingly to Christina about none other than Christina herself—Erskine put it to his wife that she might have done more wisely to place him in a position silently to appreciate such capital jokes. He would have said nothing; but as it was he might easily have said much to imperil the situation; in fact, he had been in a false position all along, more especially at the hall. But that was all. There was really nothing to cry about. Perhaps to give her the fairest opportunity to compose herself, Erskine crossed the room and drew back the curtains to let in the gray morning; for the birds had long been twittering.
But Ruth had been waiting for the touch of his hand, and he had only given her kind words. She looked up, and saw through her tears his form against the gray window, as he shut down the sash. The lamp burnt faintly, and in the two wan lights it was a chamber of misery, in which one could not sit alone. Ruth rose and ran to Erskine, and laid her hands upon his arm.
"It is raining," he said, without looking at her tears. "I knew we were in for a break up of the fine weather."
"Never mind the rain!" Ruth cried piteously, with her face upon his coat. "Will you forgive me now if I tell you everything that I know—everything? It isn't much, because Tiny has been almost as close with me as I have been with you."
"My dear," he said, patting her head at last, and with his arms around her lightly, "you both had a perfect right to be close."
"But suppose I've been at the bottom of the whole thing? Suppose I turn out a horrid little intriguer—what then?"
She waited eagerly, and the pause seemed long.
"Well, you won't have been intriguing for yourself," sighed Erskine—so that her face rose on his breast, as on a wave.
And then, playing nervously with a button of his coat, Ruth confessed all. As she spoke she gathered confidence, but not enough to watch his face. That was turned to the gray morning, and looked as gray as it. The fine weather had indeed broken up, and Essingham had lost its savor for Erskine Holland.