‘There, John,’ said Mrs. Adrian, as the door closed behind her; ‘you see—I’m sure I’m right. There goes her head, turned by that fellow again. I was afraid what it would be when you let him come dangling about here again.’
‘How could I refuse him, my dear? He is an old friend of the family. He and Ruth knew each other as children. He has lived down the first rashness of his neglected youth, and is now a gentleman of means, honoured and respected. Surely I could not close my doors against a man who, heavily handicapped as young Marston has been, has yet won his way to a respectable position.’
‘Ah, well,’ exclaimed Mrs. Adrian, ‘I never did believe in him, and I never shall; and if I thought Ruth was going to fling herself away on him after all, I’d have swept him off the front door-step with a besom before ever he should have darkened these doors again.’
‘You are prejudiced, Mary. I like Mr. Egerton, and he would give Ruth a splendid establishment; but if she still loves Edward Marston, I should be the last person in the world to attempt to turn her against him.’
While Mr. and Mrs. Adrian were arranging Ruth’s future, the heroine of their conversation sat upstairs in her own little room reading a letter which she had taken from her pocket.
It had come some time ago, and she had read it again and again, but had hesitated to answer it.
It was dated from Dover, and was in the bold, dashing hand of Edward Marston:
‘Dear Ruth,
‘Do you know that to-day is the anniversary of the fatal day on which we parted long years ago? I cannot resist the temptation of writing to you; of asking you to think of the past and of all I have gone through. To-day I can offer you once more the heart you rejected then. You cannot deceive me. Your love for me has survived, as mine for you. Why should you condemn yourself and me to a lifelong mistake? Bid me hope. Only say that I may strive with some chance of winning you, and I care not to what ordeal you put my love. Send me one little line, to tell me I am not, now that fortune has smiled upon me and a brilliant future lies before me, to lose the one hope which has nerved me to the struggle, which has been the bright star at the end of the dark, rough road I have trodden for years. Ruth, my future is in your hands. Say “Hope” or “Despair.” With a fervent prayer that Heaven will guide your heart aright in a choice with which our future lives are bound up, believe me, my dear Ruth, your old, unchanged, and unchangeable sweetheart,
‘Edward Marston.’