“I am not at home in future to Mr Druce! Please remember!” said Lady Margot.
Then her eye fell on the envelope of a telegram which the man was carrying towards her. She tore it open, saw at a glance that it came from Mrs Thornton at Raby, and read the following message:—
“Squire died suddenly last night. Husband, Druce, Melland, summoned to funeral on Thursday. Will write details.”
It was a duplicate of a message which was even then speeding on its way to the two grand-nieces in Liverpool.
Chapter Thirty Seven.
Bernard Farrell’s Heir.
“I’m not sorry; I’m glad!” cried Mollie, while a rain of tears rolled down her cheeks. “He was old and was tired, and everyone he loved had gone before him. It will be like going home to meet them again. He was grim and cross and suspicious, but I loved him all the same, and in his queer way I am sure that he liked me too. I’m thankful he is at rest! ... ‘Will write details.’ Thursday!—that means that she will write on Thursday evening. Mrs Thornton is nothing if not businesslike. We shall hear from her by the second post on Friday. By Friday at ten o’clock we shall know our fate. To be, or not to be—that is the question. Oh, I hope—I hope he has remembered us a little! There is no chance of inheriting the Court, as we once dreamt of doing; but still, there is a hope, and it will be a shock to bury it for ever. I used to feel comparatively indifferent; but the strain of these last six months has made me greedy; while you, you dear goose, who used to be all ambition, are in such a ludicrous condition of bliss that you can hardly rouse yourself to take any interest in the question! What it is to be engaged!”
Ruth tried to look contrite, but succeeded only in smiling seraphically.