“You are very good. Judging from the specimen I have heard, I think I would rather decline the honour.”
“Yes; but you ought not to decline! It isn’t a question of enjoyment; it’s a question of justice to Ruth and to me. You accuse us of being disloyal and ungrateful, so it’s only fair you should hear our defence. I will bring down the letters, and you can read them at your leisure. They may bore you a little, but you will see that we are not so bad as you think, and that we have not always been uncomplimentary.”
She walked hastily towards the house, leaving Ruth and the old man alone. He stood leaning on his stick, staring fixedly at her with his sunken eyes; but her head remained persistently drooped, the dark lashes lying on the flushed cheeks.
In the tension of that silence she could hear the beating of her own heart, and her ears strained nervously for the sound of returning footsteps. She had not long to wait. With a clatter, Mollie came scrambling out of the library window, the letters in her hand.
“There’s our defence! Please read them before you scold us any more.”
Mr Farrell took the letters, thrust them into his pocket, then stood silently, as if waiting for something more.
Mollie stared at him curiously, but he paid no attention to her; his gaze was fixed on Ruth’s bent figure and downcast face. At length, surprised at the prolonged silence, she lifted her eyes with a frightened glance, and immediately Uncle Bernard broke into speech.
“Yes, I was waiting for you! Have you nothing to say on your own account?” he demanded sternly. “You seem content to sit silently and let your sister fight your battles. Is it because you are innocent of having offended in the same way yourself?”
Ruth’s cheeks flushed to an even deeper rose.
“I,” she stammered—“I—I’m sorry! I didn’t mean—”