The door closed behind Victor, and Mr Farrell turned immediately towards his eldest grand-niece, as if anxious to get through an ordeal.

"Well, Ruth, I must bid you good-bye. I trust you will have a pleasant journey, and find matters at home less serious than you anticipate."

"Thank you, Uncle Bernard." Ruth extended a cold little hand, and stood hesitating by his side, while his sunken eyes dwelt upon the face which in feature was so like his own. "I've enjoyed the time—part of the time—more than anything else in my life! I'm sorry if I have done wrong in any way; I wanted only to please you!"

"For my own sake, or for what I could give?"

The question came sharp and abrupt, and Ruth's cheeks flamed beneath it. She hesitated painfully, gathering courage to speak the truth.

"Oh, I know I have been mercenary! I'm sick of being poor, and I love the Court and the easy, luxurious life. I wanted the money more than anything in the world; but it's all over now, and it's partly your own fault, for you did tempt me! Please forgive me before I go!"

"I forgive you, Ruth. It is quite true that I tempted you, and you are not fitted to bear temptation. But there is no need to bear enmity. Good-bye!"

He held out his hand again—held it at a distance, and with a formality which forbade a warmer farewell; and Ruth turned away, downcast and miserable. Those words, "You are not fitted to bear temptation," seemed to denote that in his mind there still dwelt a lingering suspicion lest she might have yielded to her anxiety to look at the will, and had then lacked the courage for confession. Well, it was all over, and it was useless to protest. So perish earthly hopes!

Mr Farrell turned towards his remaining niece.

"Well, Mollie, and so you also are resolved to leave me?"

"There was only one alternative, Uncle Bernard, and you refused it. If you won't help mother, we must lose no time in getting to work. We are breaking no promise, remember. We said we would stay if she could spare us, and now the time has come when she needs to have us back."

"You believe you can find work—work which will pay—a child like you, with the plainest of educations?"

"I am sure of it. I am not going to teach, but I shall be able to do something. I should be ashamed of myself if I couldn't—a big, strong creature like me! I am sorry to go—much more sorry than you will believe! I've been very happy these few weeks."

"I know you have. I have known more than you are aware of, perhaps. But you will not regret your departure so much, as Jack Melland is leaving at the same time. He has been your special companion, I think."

The blood flew to Mollie's cheeks under the scrutiny of the sunken eyes, and, to her consternation, spread even higher and higher, until she was crimson to the roots of her hair. She tried in vain to answer with composure, but could only stammer confusedly—

"He has been very nice. I like him the best—better than Mr Druce. But he decided—we decided,—our reasons for leaving are absolutely independent of each other, Uncle Bernard."

"I know—I know!"

He turned aside, and remained silent for a few minutes, as if to allow her time to recover composure, then once more held out his hand in farewell.

"Well, good-bye, Mollie. We also must agree to forgive and forget!"

Mollie bent over his chair, one hand resting on each arm, the embarrassment of a moment before dying a sudden death in the face of a parting which, in the nature of things, must be for ever.

"Uncle Bernard," she said softly, "if your Ned were alive, and you were in trouble, you would like him to hurry home to you, whatever it might cost! And if She were alive, and poor and distraught, you would rather he worked for her, than left her that he might fill the greatest post on earth. Judge us by that thought when you feel inclined to be hard! I know you don't like kissing people, so I am going to kiss you instead. There! Good-bye; and God bless you!"

She turned away with tears in her eyes, but half-way to the door the sound of her own name made her pause.

"Mollie!" he cried, in a sharp, resolute voice, which sent her heart beating with sudden hope.

But, even as her eyes met his, his expression changed once more.

"No, no; it is better as it is! I have nothing to say!"

Mollie turned away sadly and walked out of the room.



CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.

LEAVING THE COURT.

The news of the girls' sudden flight spread to the vicarage, and brought Mrs Thornton rushing up to the Court, hot and panting, and almost incoherent with curiosity and dismay. When she heard of the trouble which was the cause of their departure, her best side came out, and she helped the girls in both word and deed through the last difficult hours. It was a comfort to find someone who agreed with their decision, and was convinced that they were acting aright in returning home, even in defiance of Uncle Bernard's wishes.

"The maid cries, and Bates looks as if he would like to murder us, Mr Druce keeps out of the way and says nothing, and Jack Melland, who is so keen on taking his own way, has half a dozen compromises to suggest. Actually he offered to go to Liverpool himself and find out if we could be of any use if we returned! It was sweet of him, but we must be of use. There is no option in the matter, and it is not reasonable to expect mother to discuss private affairs with a stranger."

"Of course not; but I love him for having suggested it. Of course, no one wants you to go, dear Ruth. It is a terrible collapse to all our bright schemes, but with such trouble at home you have no choice, and there is nothing gained by staying on for a few odd days. Better hurry back and bend all your energies to see what can be done to retrieve matters, and look forward to the day when you will return for good."

Ruth shook her head hopelessly, and for once Mollie followed her example.

"Ah, that will never be! There is no more hope. We are leaving against Uncle Bernard's wishes, and at the very worst possible time, for he is angry and upset because there is no way of finding out who opened the desk and read the draft of the will. We are all indignant at being suspected; yet it seems strange that an outsider should be so interested. It is terribly unfortunate, especially for Uncle Bernard, for he can't help feeling his confidence shaken; and yet, so far as we can see, nothing will ever be found out."

"Yes, it will all be explained some day," said Mrs Thornton solemnly. "Don't ask me how, for I can't tell. I only know that evil deeds are the most difficult things in the world to hide, and that in the most wonderful and unexpected ways they are discovered long after hope of detection has been abandoned. It will be so in this case also. Whoever is mean and wicked enough to allow you, dear children, to bear an unjust suspicion in addition to your own trouble, will be put to the shame he deserves. As for your coming back again, I will not give up hope if you do. I can't afford to lose all my castles in the air. It is decided that one of you is to be Lady of the Manor, and put our societies out of debt, and pay for a parish nurse, and take my dear girls about when they come home, and make life a fairy tale for us all. You have raised my expectations, and I intend to go on expecting! Seriously, dears, whatever Mr Farrell may say to you just now, in the first heat of disappointment, I cannot believe he will really think less of you for giving up your own pleasure to hurry back to your mother. Mr Melland has only himself to thank if his name is struck off the list; but you were willing and anxious to stay, and are the victims of circumstances. If I were in the squire's place I should think all the more highly of you for your unselfish devotion, and I believe he will, though he will never confess as much in words. But time will show! Meantime, my poor dears, we will think of you every day, and pray for you that you may be shown what to do, and have strength to do it. I have had my own share of money troubles, and would never try to belittle them in my own case or in the case of others. They are very hard and sordid, and far- reaching. There was a time in my life when money seemed in the background of every thought, and I could not get away from it; but I have learnt to trust instead of worrying, and that's the great lesson of life. It isn't mastered in a day; it took me years to learn, and many bitter experiences, which I hope you may be spared; but try, dears, to do your best, and leave the rest with God! Then comes the 'quiet mind' which will keep you calm and restful through all outward troubles."

The two young, wistful faces gazed into hers, and her eyes filled with tears of pity.

"Now tell me honestly—shall I help you best by staying, or by going away at once? I have arranged to do whichever suits you best. If you need any help."

"Oh, thank you! The best help of all would be to stay and drive down to the station with us. The packing is all done—in a way! But I expect that in our haste we have left lots of things behind, for we worked together, and in such a hurry and confusion that we hardly knew what we were about. Poor Elsie has packed our new garments in the new trunks, and watered them with tears. I expect it will be months before they are opened. We shall have no use for such fineries now."

"You can never tell what may happen, but if you don't, there is no cause to grieve. They have served their day, and have given you pleasure. Never mind if you have left some oddments behind; Elsie can send them on. I never have a visitor at the vicarage that I have not to expend my substance posting toothbrushes or sponge-bags or stray garments after their departure."

Truth to tell, Mrs Thornton was much relieved at being allowed to accompany the girls to the station.

The Vicar's wife possessed even more than her share of feminine curiosity, and was longing to discover in what fashion Victor Druce said good-bye to Ruth.

He was already waiting in the dining-room when she went down with the girls a few minutes later to partake of some light refreshment before starting on their long journey, and nothing could have been more unobtrusively sympathetic or attentive than the manner in which he waited upon them, anticipating every want, and ministering to it with eager hands. The room itself was so spacious that unconsciously the little party split into groups; and Mrs Thornton found herself tete-a- tete with Jack Melland, obviously in the worst of humours.

"Can you do nothing? Is there nothing you can say to knock a little common-sense into those girls' heads? It's the maddest trick, rushing off like this in defiance of the old man's wishes. What can they do at home—a couple of children like that? They are better out of the way. At any rate, one of them might have stayed—Mollie, for instance—and kept things going here till she saw how things worked out. They have no right to rush off together at a moment's notice!" he cried irritably; whereat Mrs Thornton smiled involuntarily.

"Isn't it rather a case of people in glass houses, Mr Melland? You have set a bad example without half the excuse of these dear girls. It seems to me their plain duty to return to their parents when they are in trouble, so I have not attempted to dissuade them in any way."

"But—" Jack made a slight but eloquent gesture of the head in Victor's direction. "It's such a walk over for somebody else! I can't bear the thought of it. This place ought to belong to one of those girls—it is theirs by rights. It maddens me to see them throwing away their chance, for I'm afraid Mr Farrell will never forgive them for going against his wishes."

"Don't be too sure!" returned Mrs Thornton, nodding her head sagely. "Mr Farrell is not half so obstinate as he pretends, and however annoyed he may be to-day he can't help softening when he remembers that they have put all their own pleasures and self-interests on one side to return to work and worry for their mother's sake. If he wanted a test of character, surely nothing could be better than this! I don't think it will be by any means a 'walk over' for Mr Druce. My firm belief is, that Ruth and Mollie have as good or even a better chance than they had before."

"I say," cried Jack cordially, "you are a brick!" He turned towards her with a bright, boyish smile, which took years off his age. "You don't know how you have cheered me by saying that! I hated to think of them as being out of the running; but you will rub it in, won't you? Don't let Druce have it all his own way! Impress upon the old fellow what you said just now—unselfishness and hard work, and all that sort of thing. You will know how to do it, so as to make him see that he ought to admire the girls more for going than staying."

Mrs Thornton smiled indulgently.

"I can try, at least. I'm only sorry that I can't do the same for you. You have not the excuse of home troubles, and I'm afraid Mr Farrell—"

"Oh, never mind me; I don't count! I have been out of the running from the first, and it is only through an accident that I have stayed so long. I don't want anything from Mr Farrell but good-feeling and a fair judgment. It cut me up to say good-bye when I saw how feeble he looked. I don't want you to plead my cause, because I relinquished my claim long ago; but if you get a chance, you might just let him know that I was genuinely sorry to leave him for his own sake."

Jack's manly, straightforward speech was just what Mrs Thornton expected from him, and she gladly consented to convey his message to Mr Farrell.

"I will, with pleasure," she said, "and I shall have the chance before many days are over. Wonders will never cease! When I said just now that the squire was not so hard as he pretended, I spoke out of a full heart. What do you think of his suggesting—actually suggesting to my husband that the vicarage might need renovations, and asking him to send me up to give him my ideas! I nearly fainted when my husband told me. Now, do you think he thought of it himself, or did one of you kind creatures suggest it to him?"

"I didn't, I know. It would have been as much as my life was worth; but I suspect Miss Mollie may have had something to do with it. She spoke pretty strongly on the subject to me, and she has the courage of her convictions."

"Oh, that Mollie!" murmured Mrs Thornton under her breath. "I have never met her equal. The dearest, the simplest, the most affectionate of girls!" Her eyes moistened suddenly, and Jack's face softened in sympathy as he looked across the room to where Mollie stood by her sister's side. She met the two glances bent upon her, and walked forward in response, leaving Ruth and Victor by themselves.

Poor Ruth! Her heart beat fast with agitation and a last desperate hope born of Victor's soft tones and regretful eyes. For the moment it seemed that the last few days must have been a nightmare, and that he really did "care"; in which case she was prepared to forgive everything—nay, more, to believe that there was nothing to forgive.

If, in this moment of trouble and humiliation, he would place himself by her side, nothing that she could do in the future would be enough to prove her gratitude and devotion. But, alas! even as Mollie turned away, Victor's manner altered, and he became nervous and ill at ease. The long, eloquent glances which had been safe enough in the presence of a third person could not be risked in a tete-a-tete, and Ruth's hopes died a final death. She sat trying to eat her sandwiches, and feeling as if every bite would choke her, while Victor feebly struggled with commonplaces.

The sound of carriage-wheels could be heard drawing near to the door; the last, the very last moment had arrived! Ruth raised her beautiful, sad face and gazed steadily at Victor, and he stopped short in the middle of a sentence, and turned guiltily aside. He could not meet her eyes.

After that all was bustle and confusion—servants crowding to say good- bye, villagers bobbing farewell curtseys at their doors, elaborate regrets and hopes for a speedy return from acquaintances at the little station, tears from Mrs Thornton, and a last glimpse of Victor's tall figure standing motionless on the platform; then they were off, and Jack tactfully busied himself behind his newspaper until the first painful moments were past.

When he ventured to lower the screen, both girls were perfectly composed and dry-eyed, gazing out of their respective windows. His eyes turned from Ruth to dwell upon Mollie at the further end of the carriage. The fashionable young woman had disappeared, and he saw again the simple girl in shabby serge coat and close-fitting hat with whom he had travelled weeks before, yet there was a difference which his fastidious eyes were quick to note, a dainty precision in the way the clothes were worn, a perfection of detail, a neatness of coiffure.

Mollie was too clever and adaptive to have missed the lessons of the last few weeks, and the change of expression was even more marked. The audacious school-girl had disappeared, and in her place sat a woman, with a grave, set face, and eyes that stared into space, seeing things that were far away.

Jack's heart contracted with a stab of pain. He dropped his paper, and with one long step crossed the carriage and seated himself by her side. Ruth turned in her seat to stare more persistently out of her window, and the clattering of the train made it impossible to overhear a conversation.

"Mollie!" said Jack softly.

She turned her head and looked at him, neither startled nor smiling, but with a patient sadness, the sight of which brought with it yet another stab.

"For Heaven's sake, Mollie, don't look like that! Things will right themselves again, or you may find that they are not so bad as you expect. In any case, there's a pleasure in helping to pull them straight. It may be a tug just at first, but that only means more satisfaction in the end. Don't look so sad! I can't bear to leave you looking like that."

Mollie gave a flickering smile. She had not been thinking of business troubles, but naturally Jack could not guess that.

"Once on a time—do you remember?—you wished that I could be serious. You should not complain because your wish is fulfilled," she said slowly; and Jack put up a protesting hand.

"Don't! don't! I was a fool! I didn't know what I was saying. You were made to be happy; you should always be happy if I could arrange it for you."

Mollie smiled again, but with the same obvious effort.

"I hope you will be happy," she said; "I hope some day we may hear good news from you. I don't mean about money; you can guess what I mean."

"Yes," said Jack gravely; and there was silence for another five minutes, while the train approached nearer and nearer to the junction at which he was to alight, to catch the express for town.

"I hope I shall hear good news of you, too," he said at last. "You will be busy at first, and there may not be much to tell, but later on—in a few weeks' time, when you see how things are going—will you let me know? I shall be so interested to hear; and at any time if I can do anything, if you need anything done in town, or if I could help by coming North, you would be doing me a good turn by letting me know. I mean it, Mollie; it is not a polite form of speech."

"I know; thank you; I will promise," said Mollie, with, for the first time, a little break in her composure. Her lip trembled in a pathetic, childlike fashion, and, as if afraid of herself, she bent forward and addressed a pointed question to Ruth.

Ten minutes later the junction was reached, and Jack stood outside the carriage saying his last farewells. Ruth talked persistently in a high, cheerful voice, and Jack bit his moustache and cast furtive glances at Mollie's white face. She smiled at him bravely as the train steamed away, and waved her hand, calling out, "Good luck! good luck!" Then they turned, the two poor girls, and clasped each other tightly.

"Oh, Lucille, my poor Lucille!"

"Berengaria, Berengaria, how horribly it hurts!"



CHAPTER THIRTY THREE.

BACK TO POVERTY.

Trix was at the station to meet them—a greatly developed Trix, as became a young woman who not only provided for her own education but also that of her sister. The door-knocker had disappeared, and her lanky locks were screwed into a knot about as big as a good-sized walnut; she wore a discarded black skirt of Ruth's, which reached down to her ankles, a blue blouse, white sailor-hat, and brown shoes. Ruth's heart contracted with pain when she saw her, and even Mollie felt a pang of dismay. So shabby, so unkempt, so obviously poverty-stricken! Was it really possible that Trix had looked like this six weeks before, and that the sight had caused no consternation?

Plainly Miss Trix was rather pleased than otherwise with her appearance, and was decidedly patronising to her half-sisters, ordering them about, and treating them with the lenient forbearance which a busy worker might be expected to show to two elderly, incapable drones. She interviewed the porter as to sending home the luggage, and only consented to the hire of a cab when it was proved to her own satisfaction that the cost would be about equal. She took Ruth's purse from her hand to tip the porter, looking at him the while with such a severe and determined air that his grumbles died upon his lips; finally, she gave the cabman instructions to stop at a certain shop, where—as she informed her sisters triumphantly—potatoes could be bought three-halfpence a peck cheaper than in more fashionable neighbourhoods.

"Good gracious, Trix, you don't mean to take home potatoes in the cab!" gasped Ruth, fresh from the delightful luxury of the Court, where no one thought what anything cost, and every luxury of the season appeared of its own accord upon the table; but Trix smiled at her benignly, and replied—

"Certainly; two pecks! And any other vegetables I can pick up cheap. It will help to pay for the cab-fare. Not that you will get any of them to-night, for we have knocked off late dinner and afternoon-tea, and have one late tea instead. Cold tongue for you to-night, as you have had a journey. Mother wanted to have a chicken. The idea! 'No, indeed,' I said; 'let them begin as they must go on. Our chicken days are over!'"

"I think yours are, any way. You seem to have grown into a very old hen," cried Mollie disconsolately. She looked across the cab at the businesslike young woman, and wondered if a few weeks of home under the new conditions would work a similar transformation in herself and Ruth. It was a comfort to remember that Trix's vocation kept her out of the house for the greater part of the day, for it would be distinctly trying to be "bossed" as a permanent thing.

Perhaps Trix's thoughts had wandered to the same subject, for her welcome was the reverse of encouraging.

"Can't think what you've come back for!" she declared candidly. "Mother thought of sending for you last week, but I told her it was absurd. It will make more work, and both the servants are going. We gave Mary notice, and Kate said she couldn't abase herself to be a 'general' after her bringings up. Goodness knows who we shall get! I sat for two hours in a registry-office yesterday afternoon, when we had a half-holiday, and didn't see a single creature who could be bribed to come. 'Nine in family; one servant, cellar kitchens; washing done at home.' Sounds so attractive, doesn't it? And yet I suppose we ought not to afford even one. If we lived in the country we could do the work alone, but cockroaches! No really refined mind can cope with cockroaches, and they simply swarm in the back kitchen... Mother's terribly cut up that you have left the Court. If I had been in your place I'd have stayed on, and persuaded the old man to help father out of his difficulties."

"Oh, Trix, as if we hadn't tried! You talk as if no one had any sense but yourself! You are very clever and important, no doubt, but even your earnings will not keep the family. There is a little work left for Mollie and myself!" cried Ruth hotly.

Whereupon Trix elevated the red marks which should have been her eyebrows, and exclaimed coolly—

"Hallo, still snapping! I thought you would be quite good-tempered after such a holiday!"

It was indeed like being at home again to hear a squabble between Ruth and Trix within the first ten minutes.

When the house was reached, there was the little mother standing in the doorway, smiling and waving her hands in welcome; but at the first sight of her both girls felt a sudden choking sensation in the throat, so wan did she appear, so bleached in colour, such a tiny, frail little creature to be burdened with the care of an impecunious household! She clung to her girls, and her girls clung to her, and presently they were seated together round the dining-room table, on which, in spite of Trix's dismal prophecy, appeared a tray of the ever-welcome afternoon- tea.

"After their journey, Trix dear! I thought just this once," murmured Mrs Connor apologetically. "Dear Ruth, how sweet you look! Is that a new coat? No, I see it is not; but it looks new, with that charming collar and vest. And your hair, dear; and Mollie's, too! So beautifully done! I suppose the maid taught you? Oh, darlings, I'm thankful to have you back, but I should never have sent for you! You were on the spot, and could judge best what to do. Did you—did you let Uncle Bernard know of our trouble?"

The strained eagerness of the small face, the involuntary tremor in the voice, smote the girls to the heart. Ruth turned her head aside, herself on the verge of tears, while Mollie said brokenly—

"We sent him your letter to read, and when he said nothing I asked him point-blank if he would lend father enough money to put things right just now, and promised that we would all work to pay him back."

"Yes, dear—yes! And then?"

"He wouldn't. He jeered at me, and said he made it a rule never to throw good money after bad. He would keep us for the remaining six weeks, if we agreed to stay, but more than that he must refuse to do. So there seemed no alternative, mother dear, but to come straight away and try to help you ourselves."

"Yes, dear—yes. Bless you! You were quite right!"

Mrs Connor tried to speak bravely; but it was as if the last gleam of hope had died out of her tired eyes, and her hands trembled as she clasped them in her lap. She herself had not realised until this moment how much she had counted upon Uncle Bernard's intervention, and now the last hope seemed gone. She shivered, and put her hand to her head; then forced herself to smile, as she met the girls' anxious gaze.

"It's always the darkest the hour before the dawn. You must talk things over with pater, dears; my head is so confused. I shall be thankful for your help in the house, and no doubt something will turn up for you, as it has done for Trix."

"Mother," cried Ruth, with an outburst of irritation, which was the result of tired-out nerves and body, "Trix is insupportable! She behaves as if she were the head of the house! How can you let her give herself such airs and domineer over you so? I shan't stand it for one, and the sooner she understands it the better. I am not going to be ordered about by a bit of a chit of seventeen, and apologise to her if I dare to have as much as a cup of tea!"

"Hu-ush, dear!" Mrs Connor cast an apprehensive glance towards the half-opened door, through which Trix's voice could be heard superintending the carrying of the luggage. "She is such a child! Young things are always inclined to go to extremes; and she has been so good! I don't know what I should have done without her! We must not let her feel slighted because you have returned!"

That was true enough; Trix had borne the heat and burden of the day, while her stepsisters were amusing themselves, in blissful ignorance of the gathering troubles. Ruth's irritation was silenced by the reminder, and she listened quietly while Mollie pressed her mother for details of the present situation. Alas, it was even worse than had been expected! It was so bad that it could not well be worse, and it seemed ridiculous to talk of what they could afford, since, as a matter of fact, they could afford nothing at all. It was a matter of speculation whence the next twenty pounds was to come.

"'Man's extremity is God's opportunity!' Some friend will be raised up to help us through this strait. It is not often that we are brought to a point when we realise our own helplessness so plainly. Let us look upon it as an opportunity, and watch to see what He will do. 'Be not dismayed, neither be afraid, for the Lord thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest.'"

Mrs Connor's voice sank to a rapt whisper, her face shone with that wonderful grace and exaltation which the Christian knows in the midst of his trial; but her daughters looked at her pinched cheeks and haggard eyes, and felt their hearts sink within them.

It was a dreary evening—how different from the triumphant home-coming which fancy had painted so often during the weeks of absence! The house felt unbearably cramped and airless. It was dreadful to have no garden, after having practically lived out of doors; and oh, what a contrast the evening meal presented from the repast served nightly in the old oak dining-hall!

When people are in the extremity of anxiety and poverty, they have no heart to attend to the little superfluities which add so much to the beauty of daily life; there was not a single flower on the table, nor in the half-lit drawing-room, where Trix sternly forbade the lighting of a second lamp. Mr Connor sat silent and haggard, and his wife poured out tea and smiled a pathetic, patient little smile, as the children catechised the travellers.

Was the Court a jolly big house? Were there strawberries in the garden? Did the footmen wear white stockings, like the Lord Mayor's Show? What was the name of the horse that bolted? What did they have for dinner every night? On and on went the endless catechism, which the sisters tolerated only as an improvement on silence. They had no wish to visit Attica, but retired upstairs to their bedroom at the earliest possible moment to mingle tears of misery.

"I—I feel as if I should burst!" cried Ruth expressively. "My heart is so full that I can't bear another thing! Everything seems to have happened at once, and I feel crushed!"

"It's so bad that it must get better! it can't possibly get worse!" said Mollie, persistently hopeful in the midst of her misery.

But alas, her prophecy was not justified by events! Mrs Connor crawled about the house for another week, looking every day smaller and more fragile; and then a morning came when she could not rise from bed, and all other anxieties seemed to dwindle in significance when the illness took a serious turn, and her precious life itself seemed in danger.



CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR.

THE SILVER LINING.

Ruth and Mollie constituted themselves nurses, Mollie, as the more robust of the two, insisting upon taking as her share the arduous night duties. Trix found time to attend to the housekeeping between school hours, the younger children were housed by sympathetic friends, and on the once noisy house settled down that painful silence which prevails when a fight is being waged between life and death.

At the beginning of the illness Ruth was dismayed to see a stranger in Dr Maclure's place, but on the third day he appeared, bringing with him an atmosphere of comfort and security. One felt now that all that was possible from human skill and care would be done for the dear invalid, and, busy man as he was, Dr Maclure found time for several visits a day, until the first acute anxiety was passed. Until then his intercourse with Ruth had been solely that of physician and nurse, but one morning, when the invalid's temperature and pulse both showed a satisfactory decline, he walked into the dining-room on the way to the door, and motioned Ruth to a seat.

"Sit down for a moment. I want to have a little talk with you. It is a doctor's duty to see that a nurse does not overtax her strength, and you are looking very ill these last few days. I am going to prescribe a tonic which I want you to take regularly, and you must contrive to have a walk each day, and, if possible, a rest in the afternoon. You might lie down on the sofa while your mother is dozing."

Ruth flushed, and shook her head in pretty disclaimer.

"Oh, I am all right! Don't trouble about me. I have not half such a hard time of it as Mollie. The nursing doesn't tire me a bit; it is other things which make one feel rather ill at times."

"Just so. And it is about those other things that I want to speak. Eleanor and I have been abroad for a month, and have heard little or no home news. I was ill—that is to say, feeling rather worn out," corrected the doctor, with a sudden flush of colour to his thin cheeks, "so we decided to treat ourselves to a holiday. I found on my return that Mrs Connor was ill, and heard rumours which strengthened my own conviction that her trouble was more mental than physical. It is not giving a doctor a fair chance to keep back anything from him in a case of this sort. I want you to tell me honestly, as a friend and physician, if anything can be done to set her mind at rest."

"We are ruined, that's the trouble! The pater has lost every penny—not by his own fault, but through some wretched man who has deliberately cheated him for months back. He can't even go on with what business is left, for want of capital, so we have arrived at the point when we don't know what to do next. We look pretty much as usual, I suppose, but we are just as much paupers as if we lived in the big workhouse over in Smithdown Lane!"

Dr Maclure paced slowly up and down the room, stopping immediately in front of Ruth's chair.

"But, excuse me—your uncle? Surely he will help at a crisis of this sort. Before I went abroad I heard great stories of your life at the Court, and of the very marked preference which he showed to yourself. It seemed a foregone conclusion that his choice had fallen upon you, and, if so—"

"Ah, that was a month ago! Many things have happened since then. Uncle Bernard doesn't like me as much as he did. He discovered my weaknesses, and accused me of being a coward. I am not a coward, as a rule, but I wanted so badly to please him that I was afraid to be natural, as Mollie was. Before we came away someone went to his desk and read the draft of a will which he had mentioned a few days before. It was not altered or tampered with in any way, but, of course, it was a mean thing to pry into his private papers, when he had put us on our honour by speaking of it. We all denied it, but just because I had been afraid before, I know he suspects that I did it, and dare not confess.—Then we came away against his wishes. Jack Melland left, too, so only one out of the four remains, and he is certain to be the heir."

"You mean Mr Victor Druce?"

Ruth started, raising a flushed, bewildered face.

"Yes; but how,—what do you know about him?"

"Trix brought some of your letters to show us. His name was mentioned very often, Ruth. I had a presentiment that you two would be more than friends. You must forgive me, but one's perceptions grow keen when one's interests are strong. I thought that very probably Mr Farrell had some such hope in inviting you and Mollie to meet these two men."

"Perhaps he had. I have thought so, too, but, in any case, it has come to nothing. Jack Melland cares for nothing but his work, and Mr Druce—"

Ruth hesitated, possessed by a sudden impulse to confide her own troubles to this man, who loved her, and would understand. Her lids dropped till the dark lashes lay on her flushed cheek; she clasped her hands nervously together. "He made love to me as long as I was in favour, but it was only pretence. He really cares for another girl, but he thought I should be a better bargain if I were Uncle Bernard's heiress. He has taken no notice of me lately, but we found him out before that,—I and the other girl. She is good and charming, and in every way better than I am, and she had cared for him, too. I expect he will try to marry her now that I am in disgrace, but she will never accept him."

"And you, Ruth? Has it gone very hardly with you, poor child?"

There was silence for several moments before Ruth lifted a thoughtful face.

"I—don't—know!" she said slowly. "It was a shock to me at first, and I felt as if I could never believe in a man again, but since I came home I have hardly thought about him, and if I had cared as much as I imagined that would have been the worst trouble of all. I think it was just part of the experience. Can you understand? Summer-time, and the lovely country, and the holiday feeling, and nothing to do but laze about, and amuse ourselves together. It seemed—don't laugh!—so natural to fall in love."

Dr Maclure did not laugh, but a smile flashed over his face, full of immeasurable relief and pleasure.

"I do understand," he said heartily. "You have had so few chances of enjoying yourself with young people of your own age. It was, as you say, quite natural, but I hope you will have no more to do with the fellow. He is a pretty contemptible specimen, by all accounts."

"Oh no!" Ruth reared her little head with a haughty gesture. "I could forgive a great deal to a man who really loved me, but nothing to an adventurer who cares only for his own gains; I am sorry the dear old Court will fall into such hands, for he cannot make a good master, and, as far as we are concerned, it will cease to exist. That dream has come to an end, Dr Maclure!"

"Well, one must hope it will be replaced by something more lasting. Don't trouble too much about Mr Connor's difficulties. I feel quite convinced that some arrangement can be made to tide him over the present crisis. You may not live at the Court, but it is equally certain that you are not going to the workhouse."

He held out his hand, and Ruth said good-bye with a little tremor of relief and thankfulness in her voice. Dr Maclure was a man of few words, but what he said he meant, and his quiet, assured manner made him seem a veritable rock of refuge in the midst of the storm.

Ruth felt happier and more hopeful than she had done for many a long day, despite the uneasiness caused by the doctor's appearance. His skin was bronzed by his tour abroad, otherwise he must have looked shockingly ill, for he was thin and worn to a marked extent. Remembering the date of his illness, it was impossible not to connect it with her own refusal, and Ruth's heart softened at the thought. "He has suffered for me, as I have suffered for Victor! He is a real man; true and strong and honest. Everywhere people run after him and admire him, but he cares only for me. How much he cares! His poor, thin face! All this time while I have been forgetting, he has been thinking of me, and grieving himself ill."

Sad though the reflection might be, there was comfort mingled with it. The sore, slighted feeling of the last few weeks could not survive while a man of Donald Maclure's calibre placed her first among women.

That very evening, after his second visit to the invalid, the doctor was closeted with Mr Connor for an hour, and after his departure the latter joined his step-daughters in the dining-room, where Mollie was eating her deferred dinner in preparation for the night's watch, and the first glance at his face proved that a light had arisen in the darkness.

"The worst is over!" he said tremblingly. "Maclure has come to the rescue. He is a good fellow—a noble fellow! God will reward him; I am to draw upon him for necessary expenses for the next few months; and I have no doubt the business will go well—so many men have come forward and offered to support me if I could keep going. This will be the best possible medicine for your mother, and for us all. It will give us heart to work, and we shall have to work hard to pay off the loan."

Ruth set her lips in a determined fashion, which gave a new expression to her face. She was thankful beyond words for help in this time of need, but the fact that it had come from Donald Maclure, of all people, made the debt difficult to bear. He had already offered much, and had been rejected. She felt oppressed by his very generosity.

That night when she went to bed, Ruth unfolded the little bundle of letters which she had received from Raby since her return home, and read them over with lingering attention. No word from Uncle Bernard, though both girls had written to him more than once, telling him of their mother's illness and progress towards recovery. Not a line from Victor, though he must have known of the added trouble. A short, manly letter of sympathy from Jack Melland, who had heard of the bad news through Mrs Thornton—a letter addressed to Ruth, with "kindest regards to her sister"; three long, underlined epistles from that lady herself, and one sheet covered with a beautiful, distinctive handwriting, and signed "Margot Blount." Ruth opened this last letter first of all, and passed hurriedly over expressions of condolence to the more practical part of the message.

"And now, Ruth, you must not think because Fate has separated us in this hurried manner that you have seen the last of me. I want to be your friend now and always, and hope to see a great deal of you in the future. Mrs Thornton says that you wish to find some work. I am neither rich nor clever, but I know a great many people, and I have some little influence, so I can certainly help you there. Write, dear, and tell me if you have any special vocation in view, or if you are willing to take the best chance that offers. I have a rich and gouty relation whose companion is shortly to be married. I could recommend you for the post, when you would be well paid, and live in luxury; but I know you would feel prisoned, and long to throw cushions at her occasionally. I should! There are numerous societies and guilds also to which I belong, and to one of which you might be appointed as secretary or treasurer. Then you would be your own mistress, and free; but is freedom worth much in London lodgings? I can't fancy you roughing it by yourself, and I keep hoping against hope for some sudden turn of the tide which may still make it unnecessary. Don't settle to anything before telling me first. I know I can find something really good if you give me time.

"Mr Druce is very much in evidence, acting host at the Court, and visiting far and near. He tells me that Mr Farrell consults him on every point, and gives him carte blanche to do as he likes; and I hear as much from other sources, more reliable. As his position becomes more assured, his attentions increase; but he will not make the fatal mistake of burdening himself with a poor wife until there is no possibility of mistake. Therefore, it may some day be my painful duty to refuse to become mistress of the Court; but the refusing itself I shall enjoy. You would not, for you have a gentle nature; but Mr Druce shall find that he cannot play with Margot Blount for naught!"

Ruth could see in imagination the haughty tilt of Margot's graceful head, and the flash in her eyes, as she wrote those words, and did not envy Victor his hour of awakening. Evidently the whole countryside now looked upon him as the accepted heir, and even hopeful Mrs Thornton ceased to prophesy for the future.

"I have seen Mr Farrell twice this last week, but have not succeeded in making him mention your names," she wrote in her last letter. "I talk continuously of you—in what vein you can imagine!—and read extracts from your letters; and he listens intently, but makes no remarks. I can see him mentally pounce on anything which gives him fresh insight into your life here, as if he were still interested in the study of your characters; but the moment I stop speaking he turns the conversation to impersonal topics. Only one thing he has done which I thought really thoughtful. Ruth's camera was found lying about, and he gave instructions that it was to be taken down to the photographers the same day, and copies printed from all the films, so that your mother might receive them as soon as possible. I believe they were sent up yesterday, so that you may expect them soon, and perhaps a letter at the same time. Mr Druce is kind and amiable, and very much the man in possession. I don't take to him, but my husband believes he will make a good squire."

"Will," not "would"! This from Mrs Thornton was conclusive indeed! Ruth dropped a salt tear on the back of the sheet as she folded it up. It was good news to hear of the trouble Uncle Bernard had taken on her behalf. Surely, surely he would not forward the photographs without enclosing some sort of an answer to her many notes!

For the next few days Ruth's heart leapt every time the postman's knock sounded at the door; but, when the longed-for packet arrived, the words, "Photographs only," written on the back, killed her hopes at a glance. The pictures themselves were fairly successful, and gave a happy half- hour to the invalid, who bent lovingly over each familiar scene.

"It takes me back to my youth to see the dear old rooms again! How successful you are with interiors, Ruth; but you have no photograph of the library, one of my favourite haunts. How did you come to leave that out?"

"I didn't. I took it twice over. I'm sorry, dear, but I expect they were failures," said Ruth wearily.

She could not guess that on these missing pictures hung the fate of many lives.



CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE.

LOVE'S CONQUEST.

Six months had passed by, taking with them the keen edge of anxiety, but leaving behind the dull, monotonous routine which is almost as hard to bear. It is not enlivening, to be obliged to work instead of play, to look ten times at a sixpence before you dare spend it, to consider what you can do without, rather than what you can have, and to see no prospect ahead but continual cheese-paring and self-denial; and when you happen to be young and full of life, it is harder than ever.

With Dr Maclure's help, Mr Connor was able to continue his business, and his City friends rallied round him, doing their best to put work in his way; but, even so, there were pressing debts to be settled besides the loan which one and all were anxious to repay, so that housekeeping expenses had to be reduced to a minimum. It was decided that one of the elder girls must stay at home, while the other tried for work abroad, and it was at once a relief and a blow for Ruth when Mollie was chosen as mother's help. She had dreaded the irksome duties of mending, cooking, dusting, and everlasting putting to rights, which would have fallen to her share, but it would have been a comfort to have been chosen!

"Don't feel hurt, darling; it's a pure question of suitability," Mrs Connor had explained anxiously. "Mollie is stronger than you are, and has a more adaptable temperament. She won't feel the little jars as you would, and will get on better with the maid. It is the art of a good general to place his forces in the best position."

"Yes, of course, dear. It's quite—quite right! Arrange everything as you think best," replied Ruth sweetly, kissing the little, wistful face as she spoke; for Mrs Connor was still very fragile, and by Dr Maclure's orders had to be spared all possible worry.

The same orders were extended to forbid Ruth from taking advantage of Lady Margot's offer to procure work at a distance.

"Unless it proves absolutely impossible to find a suitable post here, I don't think it would be wise to subject your mother to any further anxiety. She would be constantly worrying about your welfare, and that is the very thing we wish to avoid. Would it be a great disappointment to you to give up going to London?" he inquired, with a quick, grave look at Ruth's face.

"It would be a blessed relief. I'd a million times rather be at home; but what can I find to do? I am ashamed to think how incompetent I am! Here we are back again where we were three months ago, Dr Maclure, when I worried you and Eleanor about a vocation!"

Ruth smiled, then flushed crimson at a sudden remembrance of how that conversation had ended. She was immeasurably thankful to the doctor for looking in an opposite direction and continuing to talk in the most matter-of-fact manner.

"It occurred to me last night that I knew of a post which might suit you for the next few months. The secretary of our Home for Nurses is on the point of breaking down, and needs a good rest. The work needs no special knowledge; it consists mainly in answering endless notes of inquiries, and in keeping some very simple accounts. I could soon coach you up in what is necessary. You would have to be there from ten to six—not heavy hours, as things go. I think I could secure the post for you for, say, the next three months, if you cared to accept it."

"And how much should I get?"

"Miss Edgar's salary is forty pounds; you would get a fourth of that—"

"Ten pounds!" Ruth stared at him with dilated eyes. "Ten pounds! Every day from ten to six for three whole months, and only ten pounds! Dr Maclure, do you know it is a real, true, honest fact that I paid twenty pounds for a ball-dress only a few weeks ago? I've got it now in a box upstairs!"

The doctor smiled.

"I should like to see you in it! I hope I may some day. It certainly seems a good deal of money, but I suppose it is very fine, and will last a long time."

"But it won't! It's a mere wisp of gauze, that will only be fit to burn after being worn two or three times. And I should have to work for six months to earn enough to pay for it! How shocking! What a terrible difference there is between the lives of the rich and the poor!"

"Ah, there you have touched on a great problem! After you have had some experience of being a working woman, you may not care to buy any more twenty-pound dresses, even if the opportunity offers. I know that the payment is small, but I am afraid you would find it difficult to get more without any special knowledge or training. It is hard for you, especially coming so soon after your taste of luxury; but if you can face it—"

"Oh yes, indeed! I'll take it, and be thankful; and perhaps, if I do very well and keep the books nicely, I may be worth fifty pounds next time!" said Ruth, with a charming courage, which might well have aroused any man's admiration.

Dr Maclure made no remark, and turned his head aside. He had a habit nowadays of looking at other things when he was speaking to Ruth. So it happened that while Mollie worked at home, Ruth went forth every day to her monotonous task, trudging along the same well-known path, in sun and rain, heat and cold—for the secretary's leave of absence had to be prolonged—until Christmas was close at hand, and the ten pounds' salary had doubled in value.

"I shall be able to buy myself a new mackintosh and a pair of good stout boots," Ruth said to herself, as she trudged home one dismal December evening, and felt a suspicious dampness in the soles of her tired little feet.

She had no idea what a charming figure she made in her long, dark coat, with her hair curling in wet rings about her face; for she carried no umbrella, as her cloth toque defied the weather, and she preferred to keep her hands free to hold her skirts from contact with the muddy roads. The pink-and-white face, with its delicately cut features, and straight black brows, shone out like a flower among the tired, colourless-looking throng of workers who wended their way homeward; and her expression was bright and alert, despite the dismal surroundings.

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—

"Don't stand out in the rain! Oh, please come in! We will go where you like?"

Dr Maclure leapt lightly to his seat, and the coachman whipped up his horses without waiting for instructions. A coachman is only an ordinary man after all, and George had seen how the wind blew for many a long day. He took care not to drive too quickly, nor to choose the shortest routes, satisfied that for once his master was not in a hurry.

Inside the brougham Dr Maclure held Ruth's shabbily gloved little hand in his, and asked earnestly—

"Can you give me a different answer this time, Ruth? It has been a weary waiting, and I seem to have grown worse instead of better. I fear it is an incurable complaint! Can you give me a glimmer of hope, dear, or is it still quite impossible?"

Ruth shook her head and nodded and smiled, and sighed, and shed a few bright tears, in a whirl of delightful confusion.

"It's—it's not impossible at all! I think I am quite sure. I have been growing surer and surer all this time. But am I good enough? You remember that six months ago I fancied myself in love with someone else?"

"I can afford to forget that episode, and even to be thankful for it, if it has shown you your own mind, so that now you are 'quite sure'! Oh, Ruth, it is too good to be true! Can you really be happy with a dull, old fellow like me? No country seat, you know; no life of ease and luxury, just a comfortable, commonplace house, with a husband who is too hard-worked to have much time for play. I have no fortune to offer you, dear, except love—there's no end to that wealth!"

Ruth turned her beautiful eyes upon him with a smile of perfect content.

"But that's everything!" she cried. "I shall be the richest woman in the world!"



CHAPTER THIRTY SIX.

MARGOT'S ANSWER.

A week later Victor Druce was sitting tete-a-tete with Margot Blount in the drawing-room of her aunt's London house, a cramped little house in a fashionable neighbourhood. The house was generally let furnished during the season, and inhabited by the impecunious owner at those odd seasons of the year when she had no invitations which made it possible to saddle other people with the cost of food and maintenance. Just now there was a gap of a few weeks between the last shooting-party and a Christmas gathering in the country, so the house had been reopened, and friends flocked to call and leave cards, foremost among them Mr Victor Druce, a young man of importance, nowadays, as the accredited heir to one of the finest properties in the kingdom.

"I am not at home to anyone else this afternoon," Margot announced to the servant, as Victor took his seat beside her. She smiled to herself as she spoke, an odd little smile, whose meaning her visitor was puzzled to decipher. It was a great compliment to be allowed a private interview, but there was a mysterious something in Margot's manner which detracted from his satisfaction. He watched her as she poured out tea at the inlaid Turkish table, with eyes in which admiration and anxiety were equally mingled. He had known many women more beautiful, but never one with such an air of grace and distinction; every movement of the slim body and white tapering fingers was a poem in itself, and the coils of chestnut hair shone like burnished gold. Even in the poorest of surroundings Margot would look an aristocrat, and reflect credit on her husband's good taste.

While he was drinking his tea and listening to the pretty flow of conversation about everything in general and nothing in particular, which seems to come so naturally to women of the world, Victor was busy painting a mental picture of a wonderful, rose-coloured future where he would reign as master of Raby Court, with Margot acting chatelaine by his side. The exclusive county families might have hesitated to welcome a stranger, who was moreover a "City man," but, with Margot Blount as his wife, he would have the entree into any society.

Victor congratulated himself on his usual good luck, inasmuch as this desirable partner was the girl of all others whom he would have selected for her own sake. A year ago he had looked upon her as a star entirely out of his own sphere, for he had the poorest of prospects for the future, but now, as by the stroke of a magician's wand, a fine position was almost assured, and he could approach Margot if not as an equal, still as a match whom nobody need disdain. Almost, but not quite! There lay the rub.

The old squire still lingered on, dying by inches as it were, and preserving to the last his grim enigmatical silence. Victor had not heard one word from his lips to substantiate his hopes; but actions— which, as the proverb says, speak louder than words—all seemed to range themselves in his favour. His three rivals had retired in disfavour, and, receiving no replies to their first letters, had gradually ceased writing, so that there was at present no correspondence between them and the squire, while he himself was a constant visitor, and was even allowed carte blanche in inviting and entertaining his friends. The very servants about the place spoke of him as "the young master," and the local tradesfolk lost no opportunity of begging his patronage in the future. Surely, surely he might be done with doubts, and allow himself the joy of speaking out all that was in his heart!

"A penny for your thoughts, Mr Druce," cried Margot gaily. "You have not been listening to me for the last ten minutes. It must have been a very pleasant day-dream to engross you so completely."

"It was," said Victor simply. For once he was thoroughly sincere, and voice and manner both testified to the change. "I was thinking of you," he added, looking at her with the dark eyes which could be so eloquent upon occasions. "My daydreams have always been of you for the last year!"

"Always?" echoed Margot sceptically. She selected a little cake from the basket by her side, and nibbled it daintily with her small white teeth. "Really? I am surprised to hear that. I fancied that you were more catholic in your tastes. It is very flattering of you to include me in your dreams, but I am not presumptuous enough to expect to occupy the entire stage!"

"Presumptuous!" echoed Victor reproachfully. The vague uneasiness which had possessed him since the beginning of the interview was deepened by the unconcealed irony of her tone; and he realised suddenly that he must speak plainly, since it was dangerous to play fast and loose any longer. "What a word for you to use of yourself! It is I who am presumptuous to dream of you as I do; but a man is not always master of his thoughts. I think you must know what my feelings have been ever since we met. I fell hopelessly in love with you at first sight—hopelessly in every way, as it seemed at that time; but, all the same, my fate was sealed, and the world held no other woman."

"Really?" queried Margot again, in the same voice of scepticism. "But, then, how wonderfully you act, Mr Druce! I have seen you only occasionally during the year, but I cannot say that you impressed me as a man who had lost his interest in my sex! At one time I made sure—a good many people made sure—that you had a very definite preference. That was at the beginning of your stay at the Court, when Mr Farrell seemed so devoted to his charming grand-niece. Do you remember the afternoon when I came to call, and found you two sitting together upon the terrace? What a charming picture you made! The old house makes an ideal background for a tete-a-tete!"

Victor's eyes lit up with a flash of relief and triumph. Margot was jealous—that was the reason of the change of manner which had puzzled him all the afternoon. She was jealous of his attention to Ruth Farrell, which she evidently looked upon as disloyal to herself. As he could not deny the evidence of her own eyesight, the wisest plan was to throw himself upon her generosity and forgiveness.

"Ah, you must not be hard on me! You were out of reach, and the time and the opportunity were there. She was a pretty girl, and not disinclined for an innocent flirtation. You would not confound so trivial an incident with my feeling for you? Ruth Farrell is a charming girl in her own way; but—"

"But not so charming as she was! She has fallen from favour all round, poor little Ruth, since Mr Farrell transferred his favour to another!"

Victor leapt from his seat, and strode across the room to her side.

"Margot, what is the matter? Why do you speak to me in that voice? Leave Ruth Farrell alone—she is nothing to you or to me. I have been waiting to ask you a question, but I can wait no longer. If the Court is mine, if Mr Farrell makes me his heir, as we all expect, will you share my good fortune? Will you be my wife, and make me the happiest man on earth? I could give you a home which would be worthy even of you!"

He bent over her as he spoke; but Margot pushed back her chair, and rose to confront him, her head almost on a level with his own.

"Really, Mr Druce, you are too original in your methods! A conditional proposal is quite a novelty in my experience. If you inherit? And what if by chance you are disappointed? It is still possible, you know! There are some people who believe that the squire is deliberately misleading us all, and that the property will go to Ruth Farrell, despite all appearances. I should like to know exactly how I stand before I commit myself to a reply. Does your offer still hold good if Ruth inherits in your place?"

Victor's eyelids sank, and a dull red flush showed on his cheeks.

"It is impossible!" he protested. "Why will you conjure up such a position? Mr Farrell has never mentioned his niece's name since she left the Court. He treats me like a son; I come and go as I choose. It is preposterous to believe there can be any doubt on the subject!"

"But suppose there were? Suppose the impossible happened, if you like to put it in that way?"

"If I were back in my old position—worse than my old position, for these months of idleness have not helped me on—I—I should be no match for you, Margot. You would not care to marry a pauper!"

"Nor you an equally impecunious bride! My title would be of service to you as master of the Court, but a commoner with a substantial fortune to her back would be a better bargain for a budding barrister. Such a commoner as—shall we say Ruth Farrell, for example? Mr Druce, you ought to succeed in your profession, for you have shown wonderful forethought in the management of your own affairs. It was an admirable idea to provide for both emergencies, while leaving yourself free. The only drawback to success is that Ruth and myself happened to be friends, and were mutually anxious that the other should not be deceived. Under the circumstances, you will not be surprised that I must decline to consider the problematical offer of the Court and its master. I will live unmarried all my days, or I will marry an honest man and a gentleman!"

Victor stood gazing at her, a figure cut in stone. For a few moments stupefaction held him dumb; then his face worked convulsively in the effort of speech.

"You have known all along—you have deliberately waited, intending to deal me this blow?"

Margot bent her head gravely.

"Yes, I have waited! I am able to take care of myself, but I wished to make quite sure that Ruth was safe. To-day I was glad to feel that it was unnecessary to wait any longer. You will be interested to hear that Miss Farrell is happily engaged to an old friend of the family. It sometimes happens that the cleverest of schemers falls between two stools. The position is undignified, but you have only yourself to thank. I think we have nothing more to say to each other, Mr Druce. I have the pleasure to wish you—Good-bye!"

She had touched the electric bell a moment before, and now the door opened and a servant stood awaiting her bidding. In his presence it was impossible for Victor to reply. For one moment he stood glaring at her, a picture of impotent fury, then slowly turned and left the room. As the house door closed behind him, the electric bell pealed once more, and the servant turned back to the drawing-room.

"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.

"When you are perfectly happy it is impossible to be happier, and I honestly don't care very much. I should like Uncle Bernard to leave me a nice message, and I shouldn't at all object to a legacy, which would provide my trousseau; but the Court itself would be a white elephant to me now. Donald adores his work, and would not give it up for any consideration, so we could never live there ourselves."

"You might lend it to a poor but deserving family! Astonishing as it may appear, there are a few other people in the world beside yourself and Donald, and they are not all going to be married and live happily ever after!"

This time Ruth did, indeed, look contrite, and that without an effort.

"Oh, Mollie, I am horribly selfish! Forgive me, darling! I honestly do forget everybody but ourselves sometimes; and it is hateful of me, for when I am so happy I ought to be more sympathetic, instead of less. I am, when I remember! I am so bubbling over with happiness and good-will that I feel inclined to kiss everyone I meet. But there is so much to be thought about, and every time we meet there seems to be more, and I get lost in dreams."

"Bless your heart, don't apologise to me. I like it!" cried Mollie heartily. "I know your heart is right; and it's a poor thing if lovers can't live in a world of their own for a few weeks of their life. I'm thankful beyond words that your future is settled. But oh, what a help a few hundreds would be to the rest of us just now! I feel as if I could hardly live until Friday morning, I am so anxious to hear the news! And the mysterious condition, Ruth! Do you realise that we shall know all about it in three more days?"

"I wonder!" sighed Ruth dreamily. Then, with sudden animation, "If it is good news,—if either of us came in for something really big, Mrs Thornton would wire! She simply could not wait. She is far too impulsive!"

It was an unfortunate suggestion, as it added tenfold to the strain of waiting. The minutes seemed to drag on Thursday afternoon and evening; but no telegram appeared, and Mollie's heart sank heavily. She knew better than her sister how difficult it was to make both ends meet, and what a long and arduous task it would be to pay off the loans which had tided the family through their time of need, and she was tired—as any natural, high-spirited young thing would be—of all work and no play, and eagerly longing for a respite. Mr Farrell had expressly stated that he would not divide his property; but that did not prohibit small legacies, and when he knew that his nearest relations were in straits, surely—surely...

Mollie was up and dressed even before her usual early hour the next morning, for sleep was impossible in such a whirl of nervous anxiety. Ruth kissed her before departing to her work, and said—

"Rush down to me, dear, if there is anything good to tell. I shall look out for you about eleven."

Mollie set about her household duties with great fervour, so as to make the long hour pass by more quickly. At last ten o'clock struck, and almost at the same time came the sound of the postman's rat-tat. She flew to the door, arriving at the very moment that three letters fell into the box.

One was of that long, narrow shape, which inevitably foretells a bill; a second was unmistakably a circular; the third— Mollie stared at it, turned it over, looked at the postmark, stared at the writing again, in a whirl of bewildered dismay. It could not be an ordinary, unimportant letter from the children's aunt at Brighton! It could not! The thing was impossible! Yet why, then, the address to Trix, the well-known writing—most of all, the horrible postmark?

She put her hand to her head, wondering if it were true, or only a horrible nightmare that Mrs Thornton had not written, after all!

The little mother came creeping out of the dining-room, and, seeing her child's blanched face, was persistently optimistic. Absurd to give up hope because a letter did not come by the first possible post! A hundred things might have happened to cause a delay; and, even if it had been posted in time, the post-office was not always infallible.

Mrs Farrell recalled stories of belated letters from her own experience, and related them at length, while Mollie went numbly about her work. The disappointment was severe, and seemed like a foretaste of worse to come. Nevertheless, as time went on, her naturally buoyant nature asserted itself, and, as each delivery drew near, excitement grew to fever-pitch.

One o'clock, and a letter for the maid; three o'clock, and the postman walked past the door. Poor Mollie! The sound of his departing footsteps rang like a knell in her ears, and two hot rebellious tears rose to her eyes. It did not seem possible that anything would have prevented the kindly Mrs Thornton from keeping her promise except sheer inability to communicate bad news; and bad news meant that her own name and Ruth's were not mentioned in the will, and that everything went to Victor Druce. Oh, it was hard to give up so much to so unworthy a supplanter!

The children came home from school and settled down to their "prep." Mrs Connor retired to her room for a rest, and Mollie took her way to her stepfather's little den to set a match to the fire, and hold a newspaper before it to make it blaze cheerily in preparation for his return. It was one of the pleasures of the day to make the sanctum look cheery and home-like for the tired man, and to-day there was an additional impetus in the knowledge that he would share in her own disappointment.

Mollie knelt by the grate, holding the newspaper in place—a tired, disheartened little Cinderella, who would have liked to lay her head on the table and indulge in a good cry. But such luxuries are not for the brave-hearted; so she resolutely blinked away the rising tears, and, rising to her feet, lighted the crimson-shaded lamp on the writing- table. Its rosy light had a wonderfully beautifying effect on the little room, giving an air of luxury to the commonplace furnishings; and when the curtains were drawn, and the easy-chair drawn up to the fire, it was as bright and cheerful a little interior as one need wish to see.

Mollie looked round with a glance of satisfaction, then suddenly rushed into the hall at the sound of a loud knock at the door. So soon! She had not expected the next delivery for another half-hour at least. No letter appeared in the box; so, with wild visions of a legal missive, registered for greater safety, she threw open the door and peered out into the night.

A man's tall figure stood on the step; but it was not the figure of a postman. Mollie leant forward—the light from above shining on cheeks flushed from contact with the fire, and ruffled golden head—leant forward, and stared into his face with incredulous eyes.

"Mollie!" cried a well-remembered voice, which broke into an eloquent tremor over the name.

"You!" cried Mollie! "Mr Melland! It can't be! What does it mean? You can't really be here!"

He laughed at that, and took a step forward, like the masterful Jack of old.

"I am here; it is myself, and nobody else! I'll tell you all about it if you will let me in. It's rather cold to-night, you know."

She held the door wide open at that, and hurried him across the hall into the little, pink-lighted room, which she had just prepared for another's reception. There they stood face to face, staring at each other for a breathless moment.

"I thought you were in Raby—"

"So I was yesterday. I left this morning, and came down by the first train."

"Mrs Thornton promised to write. I thought you were the postman just now; and, of course, one cannot help being curious.—Have you come to tell us anything nice? Did Uncle Bernard remember us at all?"

"He has left your sister his wife's rubies. They are very beautiful, I am told, and of considerable value."

"Oh, I am glad! Ruth will be pleased; and she will be able to wear them when she is married. How beautiful she will look! And—and me?"

Jack shook his head.

"Nothing? Not even a word to say he forgave me for coming away?"

"There is a letter. You will see it later on. What I meant was that your name was not mentioned in the will. He left you no legacy."

Mollie sat down in the easy-chair, and leant her head against the cushions. In spite of all that had passed, in spite of every determination to be prepared for the worst, the blow fell with crushing weight. She was conscious of a feeling of physical weakness, as if the body shared with the mind in grieving over the vanished dream; but she tried bravely to smile and look unconcerned.

"Then I suppose he—Victor Druce—inherits all?"

Jack looked at her with anxious eyes.

"You expected it, didn't you? You are not surprised? It seems to have been generally taken for granted for the last six months."

"Yes; so Mrs Thornton said. If it had been anyone else I should not grudge it so much. And you are left out too! I wish—oh, I wish it had been different!"

Jack Melland took a step forward, and bent over her chair.

"Mollie," he said softly, "shall we console each other? I have been waiting until this question was settled before coming to see you. It seemed an endless time to wait, but I couldn't come till I knew the truth. How could a poor fellow, with a few beggarly hundreds a year, approach a girl who might be one of the biggest heiresses in the kingdom? But I didn't forget you—I couldn't forget. I have been thinking of you night and day. It was all the harder to be silent when you were in trouble; but it was the straight thing to do. You can't tell what it means to me to see you again! When you opened the door just now, and the lamp-light showed me your little golden head—"

He broke off, with the same strange quiver in his voice which had marked his first utterance of her name; but Mollie shrank back still further in her chair, staring at him with troubled eyes.

"What do you mean? I don't understand!"

"It's simple enough—only that I love you, and want you to love me in return!"

"But—don't you remember?—you told me about her—the girl you met, and loved at first sight. Suppose you met her again, and felt the same; then you would be sorry if I—"

"Oh, Mollie, do you mean to say you have remembered all this time, and never guessed! It was yourself, darling; there never was anyone else! I think I must have cared for you from the first, though I did not realise it, for I was irritated that I could never get you to be serious. You were like a child out for a holiday—full of fun and mischief—and I wanted to talk of deeper things. Then one day for a moment you showed me a glimpse of your real self—the sweet, womanly heart that lay beneath the gaiety; and as I looked at your face I recognised it, Mollie. It was something I had dreamed of when I did not know I was dreaming, and wanted, without knowing what I wanted! I saw that look again five minutes after I had told you of my lost love, as you looked at me and wished me happiness. Why did you look sad, Mollie? Were you—were you sorry at all?"

Mollie put her hand to her side with a gesture as natural as it was charming.

"It hurt," she said simply. "I never, never dreamt that you meant me, and I have tried hard not to think of you ever since; but I didn't succeed very well... Why did you always write to Ruth instead of to me?"

Jack laughed happily, and with a lover's privilege seated himself on the arm of the easy-chair, and took Mollie's hands in his.

"Because, as I told you before, you darling, I was waiting. And do you really think you could make up your mind to marry me on next to nothing, and live in a tiny house, and wrestle with the household bills? Do you think I am worth the sacrifice?"

Mollie smiled at him, shyly confident.

"I'm so improvident that I'm afraid I'd marry you on nothing. I haven't a copper of my own, remember. You will have a penniless bride. Oh, I wish more than ever that Uncle Bernard had left me something, so that I might help you! It does seem hard, doesn't it, that Victor Druce should get it all?"

Jack hesitated a moment, tugging at his moustache with his unoccupied hand.

"I didn't say that, you know. I never told you that he did."

"Jack!"

The name slipped out so naturally on the surprise of the moment that there was a prolonged interval in the conversation, while Jack acknowledged the compliment. Then Mollie returned to the attack, laughing and rosy.

"You asked if I were surprised. You said everyone had taken it for granted!"

"Exactly; so I did. But for once everyone was mistaken. Druce has not come in for the property."

"Then, who—who—"

"Someone equally unworthy—an ungracious rascal of a fellow called Melland. It is all mine, Mollie—all that there is to leave!"

And then Jack did a pretty thing—a thing that he would have sneered at as high-flown and sentimental a few months before; but no man really knows himself or his capabilities till he loves and is beloved. He slipped off his seat, and knelt on the floor at Mollie's feet.

"And I have come to you," he said gravely, "to ask you to share it with me, for it's worth nothing, and worse than nothing, if I have not you by my side!"

He held out his hand as he spoke, and Mollie laid hers in it, while her face confronted him, white and tense with excitement.

"I can't—I can't believe it!" she gasped. "It is too wonderful! You and me! That lovely, lovely place; and we the masters of it, able to do as we like—just as we like, all the summer days, and the winter days, and the beautiful spring, and no more anxiety and trouble! Jack—Jack!"

Her head went down on his shoulder, and he held her fast while she shed a few natural tears of joy and thankfulness.

"My poor girl—my dear girl! Yes, it is all over, and the money is as much yours as mine. I feel sure Mr Farrell meant it to be so, and that you will find something to that effect in this letter he has left you. He discovered my secret before I left Raby, and said plainly how much he wished it success. There, darling, read your letter! I hope you may find some kind words to comfort your heart."

Mollie broke open the envelope, which he handed to her. It was a solemn business, reading a message from the dead, and her big eyes looked quite awestruck as they scanned the page. There were only a few words, written in a small, tremulous hand:—

"My dear Mollie,—I leave you nothing, hoping that you may share all. That is my strong wish, and I believe I am helping on your happiness by an apparent neglect. Try to forgive me for refusing your last request. It would have been easier to consent, but I considered that a short period of anxiety would be a blessing in disguise, if it showed you who were your true friends. If a man comes forward and offers you his love in the days of obscurity and poverty, that man's love is worth having. I hope and believe it will come to you. I thank you for your kindness to an old man. Forgive him for all his offences, foremost among them an unfounded suspicion.—Your friend and kinsman, Bernard Farrell."

"There! You see how right I was?" cried Jack in triumph. "In effect, we are joint heirs, and have equally free hands in the disposal of the money. You must settle an income on your mother which will ensure her against anxiety, and then you can come away with an easy mind, and help me to turn into a country squire and learn my duties to the tenants. You told me once that he would be hard-worked if he were conscientious, and I want to do the thing well while I am about it. This is December. I mean to be married in January, at latest!"

Mollie laughed, but with a somewhat tremulous sound. The change of scene which had taken place within the last quarter of an hour was so complete, so extraordinary, that she felt dazed by the shock. Not only had undreamed-of happiness come to herself, but with it such relief and ease for all belonging to her, that they would rejoice equally with herself. It did indeed seem more like a dream than a reality, as, with Jack's arm round her waist and her head resting contentedly upon Jack's shoulder, they drifted off into one of those delightful conversations which follow all happy betrothals.

"Do you remember?" queried Jack. "Do you remember?" echoed Mollie. "What did you mean when you said?"

"How did you feel when you heard?"

"When did you first begin?"

"And are you quite sure you will never, never—" It is all as old as the hills, and as new as to-morrow morning, though each separate pair of lovers imagine in their innocence that they own the exclusive monopoly.

"Jack!" cried Mollie at last, sitting suddenly upright and clasping her hands in amaze. "Jack, imagine it! All this time I have forgotten the most thrilling part of all. The condition—the mysterious condition! What was it? What did you do, or leave undone, which made you different from the rest of us?"



CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT.

CONCLUSION.

"Aha!" cried Jack. "I wondered when you were coming to that! It was indeed something of which we could never have thought! Mr Farrell had learnt by sad experience that real happiness cannot be purchased by money, so had determined to leave his fortune to the one who cared for it least—that is to say, to the one who put other things first—love— whole-hearted, disinterested love, such as he himself had felt for his beautiful wife; and honest work, enjoyed for its own sake more than for what it will bring! Ruth was out of the running from the start, for she showed so plainly that, to her, money meant happiness. There must have been a time when he wavered in favour of Druce, who played his part remarkably well; but on the whole, it was my obstinate, ungracious self which approached nearest to his ideal. He knew that I loved you, but that I should never venture to ask you to be my wife if you were a great heiress; so as he himself writes, he left you nothing, hoping that you would share all. I want you literally to realise that, darling—and to feel that the money belongs as much to you as to me!"

Mollie smiled at him in her sunny, candid fashion.

"Oh, I shall!" she said simply. "I mean to. There are so many things that I want to do for the dear people here, and they would like them better if they came from me. Uncle Bernard was a dear, sweet old thing to scheme for our happiness, and I adore him for it. I certainly put love before money, for I would marry you if we had to play an organ in the streets or sing sentimental ditties out of tune, but it will be like a fairy tale to live in the Court—with you!"

THE END