Confidences.
While Mollie was busy at the vicarage, Ruth took her book to her favourite seat, and prepared to spend a quiet morning; but to her delight, Victor joined her, and took his place by her side, before she had been seated more than a few minutes.
“He will see Lady Margot this afternoon. He need not ride ahead in the hope of meeting her,” came the involuntary bitter thought; but it was impossible to harbour jealousy for more than a minute when alone in Victor’s company. Every word, every look, every tone, was filled with a subtle flattery which was not only soothing but inspiring into the bargain, for we are always at our best in the society of those who appreciate us.
Ruth gazed, with the old delightful sense of well-being, across the beautiful grounds, in which the long slopes of green and wide-spreading trees had already grown dear and familiar as old friends. Surely every day it became more certain that this would be her home of the future, since Jack was still determined to return to town the moment he was sufficiently recovered from his accident, and Mollie’s extravagance was plainly distasteful to Uncle Bernard. As for Victor, if he really—really meant... Ruth did not finish the sentence even to herself, but at the bottom of her mind lurked the inevitable reflection that she stood a double chance.
Evidently Victor’s thoughts had, to a certain extent, followed her own, for he broke the silence by saying suddenly—
“That was an extraordinary statement of Mr Farrell’s the other day,—that he had already made a will. I suppose it is a wise precaution under the circumstances, but it gave one rather a shock to know that things were already settled.”
“Yes, poor old man! one hates to realise how ill he must be. He does not seem to have grown any worse since we came, so far as an outsider can judge, but he must feel his weakness increasing.”
Ruth puckered her brows in a distressed fashion, too much occupied with her own thoughts to notice Victor’s quick glance of inquiry.
His concern had not been for Mr Farrell or his sufferings, but he was quick to change his tone in response to hers.
“I expect he does,” said Victor, “though he is too well-plucked to complain. The doctor told me the other day that these fluctuations are part of the disease, and mean no real improvement. He does not give him long, though he thinks it will probably be six months or more. It must be more or less of an effort to him having us here, and if his mind is already made up, I wonder he does not prefer to go back to his solitude.”