“Oh, we may have a shower, but I don’t think it will be anything more serious Yes; Mrs Thornton has done wonders. Shall we take this path? It is the narrowest and quietest, so there is the less fear of interruption.”
Ruth turned in the direction indicated with a somewhat doubtful look. A narrow path, bordered on one side by prickly gooseberry-bushes, was hardly the promenade for her perishable fineries; but while she hesitated Margot led the way forward, and she followed, drawing her skirts tightly together. Even so, disaster awaited her, for in the interest of an animated discussion some of the filmy folds slipped from the hand which held the parasol, dragged along the ground, and finally caught with a rip and a jerk, leaving a long jagged tear at the hem.
Of the two exclamations, Margot’s was far the most distressed.
“Oh, my poor Berengaria! How thoughtless of me to bring you here! It’s all my fault. I am such a plain-hemmed creature myself that I forgot your frills. You must fasten it up at once or you may trip. I can give you some pins, and there is a little summer-house at the end of the path, where you can sit down and fasten it properly. I’ll stand before the door and screen you from the public gaze.”
“Oh, thanks, it will be all right; I am thankful
it was not further up. The hem can always be shortened,” said Ruth practically. She sat down in a corner of the summer-house, the windows of which were screened by thickly growing tendrils of hop, and, spreading out the tear, began to pin it daintily together, while Lady Margot mounted guard outside.
A minute passed—two minutes—then came the sound of a man’s quick tread, and a voice spoke, a voice broken by a quiver of emotion which could tell only one tale.
“Lady Margot! You here? I have been looking for you all afternoon. Why did you hide yourself in this out-of-the-way place? You knew I should be waiting.”
The pin fell from Ruth’s hand, she sat motionless as a statue behind the leafy screen. It could not, could not be Victor’s voice!