Ruth was surprised at her own happiness of late. Her work was dull and monotonous, and she had few pleasures to relieve it; yet, for some mysterious reason, she was more truly content at heart than in those days of ease and luxury, which seemed like a dream of the past. Six months had passed since that memorable day when she and Mollie had bidden adieu to the Court; and Uncle Bernard still lived, and was apparently in the same condition.
Mrs Thornton kept her friends well informed of the news of the neighbourhood, so that they knew that, though Victor Druce had ostensibly returned to town at the expiration of his three months’ visit, he was constantly running down and bringing friends with him for a few days’ shooting, with the privilege of a son of the house. For the rest, Margot Blount had returned to town, and Jack Melland’s communications were limited to an occasional picture-postcard bearing half a dozen words of greeting. Mollie made no comment on the briefness of these missives, and was always cheery and busy, but sometimes on her return from her day’s work Ruth would look at her anxiously, and wonder if it were only imagination that Mollie looked different, thinner and older—a woman rather than a girl. Perhaps after all she had the harder path—shut up in the house, without the daily variety of seeing fresh rooms and fresh faces. The regular constitutional, too, was in itself health-giving, and though Ruth received much pity at home on the score of her long, wet walks, it was astonishing what pleasant surprises loomed out of the fog at times. She smiled to herself, and a dimple dipped in her cheek.
The good old fairy days were not yet over, when a tired Cinderella, trudging through the mire, was suddenly provided with a comfortable carriage, springing as it were out of the earth to carry her to her destination. It was extraordinary how often Dr Maclure’s brougham “happened” to be travelling in the same direction as herself on wet evenings; and although the doctor himself was conspicuous by his absence, the coachman was wonderfully quick to recognise one figure out of many, and to draw up with a “Just driving past your house, miss. Can I give you a lift?”
Ruth had no doubt that it was the master, not the man, who was responsible for these meetings, and the conviction brought with it a glow of content, of which as yet she failed to realise the meaning. Nevertheless, her heart beat with a pleasurable excitement as she threaded her way through the crowded streets, wondering if once again the fairy equipage would be sent to the rescue, if it would appear at this corner or the next. At last, through the driving sleet, she recognised the familiar outline of the brougham drawn up beside the pavement, but for once the coachman sat stiffly on his box, while the master stepped forward to meet her.
“Miss Ruth, it is a shocking evening! I have a call to pay in this neighbourhood. Do let George drive you home before you are wet through.”
Ruth stood still and looked at him. The drops of moisture were thick upon hat and coat, her soft cheeks were damp with rain, but her eyes danced with a spice of mischief which was more like Mollie than the grave, elder sister of the family.
“I’ll drive with pleasure on one condition—that you will first allow yourself to be taken to your patient’s house,” she replied demurely, adding when the doctor hesitated in embarrassment: “It is such a very odd neighbourhood for a patient to live in, in the midst of these great blocks of offices! I think we may perhaps have to drive you a long, long way.”
For a moment Dr Maclure did not reply; he merely held open the door of the carriage, waiting until Ruth should have taken her seat; then he leant towards her, the light from the lamps showing the nervous tremor of his lips.
“I will come in too, on one condition—that you are willing to drive beside me all the way, Ruth!”
What did he mean? Ruth started and flushed, for the tone of voice was even more eloquent than the words themselves. The moment which she had vaguely expected, dreaded, and hoped for, had come suddenly upon her, provoked by her own jesting words. She did not know what to say, or how to say it, only one definite thought stood out distinctly in the confusion of her mind, namely, that Dr Maclure was standing unprotected in the damp and cold. She held out her hand towards him, and cried tremulously—