“I have not been here many minutes,” Lady Margot replied quietly. “I knew we should meet sooner or later; but you are a public character to-day, and I must not monopolise your attention.”
“Monopolise!” cried the voice again, the familiar voice with the strange, unfamiliar thrill. Ruth’s head dropped forward and her hands clasped the seat on either side. “You talk of monopolising, while I starve all week with just a chance five minutes now and then to keep me alive! I rode for about three hours yesterday morning without even a glimpse of you in the distance. I have been counting the hours until this afternoon.”
“Count them just a little bit longer, then; I have not spoken to half my friends, and we would certainly be interrupted. Do me a favour and go back to the lawn now, and later on—say in half an hour—come to me again, and you shall have your reward.”
“I’d wait a hundred years if I could have what I wanted at the end!” said the voice passionately.
Footsteps crunched down the path, then came silence, and the falling of a shadow across the doorway. Ruth lifted an ashen face, and saw Lady Margot looking down upon her with tender, liquid eyes.
“Dear,” she said gently, “you heard! I meant you to hear. Don’t think me cruel; it was the truest kindness. You and I have something to say to each other. I know a quiet nook where we can be alone. Come, Ruth—come with me!”
Ruth rose mechanically and followed her guide through a door in the wall, which led to a square piece of ground, bare and ugly,—a cabbage-patch in name and in deed. There against the unromantic background the two girls stood looking at each other, face to face with the great question of their lives.
“Ruth,” said Margot gently, “let us be honest with each other. It is the only way. This man—Victor Druce—has come into both our lives; let us find out where we stand! Shall I tell you my story first? I met him last summer, when we were thrown constantly together for six weeks, and he attracted me. I came nearer loving him than any man whom I had met. Why, I don’t know. I saw he admired me; but others had done that, and when I was alone and could think about him quietly there were many things about him I did not like. Still, he fascinated me. I thought of him a great deal during the winter. I looked forward to seeing him again. He was not of my world, and it seemed impossible that anything serious could come of it; but I dreamt dreams... Then I came here, and found, to my amazement, that he was staying at the Court. He met me one morning going out for my ride, and since then it has often happened. From the first his manner was different; more assured. He told me of Mr Farrell’s proposition, and insisted that the chances were in his favour. He wished me to look upon him as the future owner of the Court; a man who would be in my own position. He has been making love to me all these weeks, Ruth, but he has not definitely asked me to marry him. That’s my story! Will you tell me yours in exchange?”
Ruth looked drearily round the bare, ugly patch. A moment before she had been living mentally and physically in a land of roses; now, in an instant, the scene had changed and the beauty had disappeared.
“I think,” she said slowly, “that he has been making love to me too... He has insisted from the first that I am Uncle Bernard’s favourite, the others think so too, and he has made me believe—only this morning he made me believe—that he was afraid to speak plainly because of the difference in our position. He said I should be a great lady, and he would be working for his bread far away, and thinking of me.” Ruth’s voice broke pitifully, but the red flamed in Margot’s cheek, and she reared her proud head with a disdainful gesture.