“Have you no wraps with you, dear? Is that all you have on?” she asked, as the girl buttoned her thin coat and pulled the scarf higher round her throat; and Ruth answered “Yes,” in an irresponsive tone, which effectually put a stop to further remarks. She might speak of her own poverty, but not even Eleanor Maclure herself could be allowed to pity, or offer to supply a want. That was Miss Ruth’s idea of proper pride, and she straightened her back, and held her head higher than ever as she crossed the hall and took her seat in the carriage.
Such a luxurious brougham it was, with its well-cushioned seats, its electric reading-lamp attached to the wall, its rack for books and papers, and cosy fur rug! Ruth tucked the rug securely in position, and, looking up, caught the reflection of her face in the strip of mirror opposite. The blue serge toque sat so jauntily on her head that it looked quite smart; the pink tie was undoubtedly becoming. Well, it was a comfort to be pretty, at least! To have been poor and plain would have been quite too depressing. She smiled back in approving fashion, to feel somewhat disconcerted a moment later as the mirror reflected Donald Maclure’s face beside her own. He was staring at her with the same intent questioning which she had noticed in Eleanor’s eyes, and surely he looked paler, older, more haggard than usual! She turned towards him, warmed into increased friendship by the presentiment that he was in trouble like herself.
“It’s so good of you to take me home, Dr Maclure! It may seem curious to you, but it’s quite a treat to me to drive about in this comfy carriage. I so seldom travel in anything but shaky omnibuses. I should not object to being a lady doctor, if I could have a brougham like this of my very own. There! We never thought of that when we were discussing my possible fields of labour!”
Dr Maclure bent forward, and glanced out of the window. His horse was travelling quickly to-night; in another ten minutes Mr Connor’s house would be reached, and his opportunity over. He turned to face his companion, and said quietly—
“There is another possibility open to you, Ruth, which you have perhaps not considered. Have you ever thought of it, I wonder? Can you guess what I mean?”
The grey eyes stared into his in frankest bewilderment.
“No,” cried Ruth—“no! What is it? Something nice? Tell me what it is.”
“You have never guessed that I love you; that I have loved you for years, since you were a girl at school? You have never once guessed it all this time?”
He read his answer in the blank face and startled eyes, for Ruth was too utterly taken aback to feel the usual embarrassment. She sat perfectly still, gazing not at him but at the reflection of his face in the mirror opposite. Dr Maclure! Was she dreaming, or was it really his voice which she heard uttering these extraordinary words? Dr Maclure loved her—had loved her for years! It was too inconceivable to be grasped! He asked if she had not guessed his secret, but Ruth had not thought of him at all; he had not entered into her calculations except as “Eleanor’s brother”—a nonentity who might be agreeable or the reverse, according as he drove her home on wet evenings, or interrupted a cosy tête-à-tête.
She did not reply to the question in words; but he was answered all the same, for she heard him sigh, and saw a quiver pass across the thin face.