Chapter XV.
THE CHOOSING.
The minutes passed, and still she leaned there. At long intervals, whena sob would not be repressed, her shoulders heaved and fell. But it wascharacteristic of Ruth Josselin throughout her life that she hated toindulge in distress, even when alone. As a child she had been stoical;but since the day of her ordeal in Port Nassau she had not once wept inself-pity. She had taught herself to regard all self-pity as shameful.
She made no sound. The morning heat had increased, and across it thesmall morning noises of the farm were borne drowsily--the repeatedstrokes of a hatchet in the backyard, where young Lemuel split logs; thevoice of Mrs. Cordery, also in the backyard, calling the poultry fortheir meal of Indian corn; the opening and shutting of windows as roomswere redded and dusted; lastly, Miss Quiney's tentative touch on thespinet. Sir Oliver in his lordly way had sent a spinet by cart fromBoston; and Tatty, long since outstripped by her pupil, had a trick ofpicking out passages from the more difficult pieces of music and"sampling" them as she innocently termed it--a few chords now and again,but melodies for the most part, note by note hesitatingly attempted withone finger.
For a while these noises fell on Ruth's ear unheeded. Then somethinglike a miracle happened.
Of a sudden either the noises ceased or she no longer heard them.It was as if a hush had descended on the farmstead; a hush ofexpectancy. Still leaning on the gate, she felt it operate withinher--an instantaneous calm at first, soothing away the spirit's anguishas though it were ointment delicately laid on a bodily wound. Not anache, even, left for reminder! but healing peace at a stroke, and in thehush of it small thrills awaking, stirring, soft ripples scarcelyperceptible, stealing, hesitating, until overtaken by reinforcements ofbliss and urged in a flood, bathing her soul.
_He_ was near! He must be here, close at hand!
She lifted her head and gazed around. For minutes her closed eyeballshad been pressed down upon her arms, and the sunlight played tricks withher vision. Strange hues of scarlet and violet danced on the sky andaround the fringes of the elms.
But he was there! Yes, beyond all doubting it was he. . . .
He had ridden in through the gateway on his favourite Bayard, and with aled horse at his side. He was calling, in that easy masterful voice ofhis, for one of the Cordery lads to take the pair to stable.Lemuel came running.
In the act of dismounting he caught sight of her and paused to lift hishat. But before dismissing the horses to stable he looked them over, asa good master should.
He was coming towards her. . . . Three paces away he halted, and hissmile changed to a frown.
"You are in trouble?"
"It has passed. I am happy now; and you are welcome, my lord."
She gave him her hand. He detained it.
"Who has annoyed you? Those women?"
She shook her head. "You might make a better guess, for you must havemet him on the way. Mr. Silk was here a while ago."
"Silk?"
"And he--he asked me to marry him."
"The hound! But I don't understand. Silk here? I see the game; hemust have played escort to those infernal women. . . . Somehow I hadn'tsuspected it, and Lady Caroline kept that cat in the bag when Isurprised her at Natchett an hour ago. I wonder why?"
Ruth had a shrewd guess; but, fearing violence, forbore to tell it.
He went on: "But what puzzles me more is, how I missed meeting him."
In truth the explanation was simple enough. Mr. Silk, turning thecorner of the lane, where it bent sharply around Farmer Cordery'swood-stacks, had chanced to spy Sir Oliver on a rise of the road to theeastward, and had edged aside and taken cover behind the stacks. He wasnow making for Natchett at his best speed.
"A while ago, you say? How long ago? The thief cannot have gone far--"Sir Oliver looked behind him. Clearly he had a mind to call for hishorse again and to pursue.
But Ruth put out a hand. "He is not worth my lord's anger."
For a moment he stood undecided, then broke into a laugh."Was he riding?"
"He was on horseback, to be more exact."
"Then he'll find it a stony long way back to Boston." He laughed again."You see, I've been worrying myself, off and on, about that trick ofMadcap's--I'll be sworn she came within an ace of crossing her legs thatday. I'd a mind to ride over and bring you Forester--he's a sobererhorse, and can be trusted at timber. I'd resolved on it, in short, evenbefore my brother Harry happened to blurt out the secret of LadyCaroline's little expedition. Soon as I heard that, I put George thegroom on Forester, and came in chase. . . . I find her ladyship atNatchett, and after some straight talking I put George in charge of theconspirators, with instructions to drive them home. They chose to saynothing of Silk, and I didn't guess; so now the rogue must either leg itback or gall himself on a waggon-horse."
"You worried yourself about me?"
"Certainly. You don't suppose I want my pupil to break her neck?"
"You do Madcap injustice. Why, yesterday she jumped--she almost flew--this very gate on which I am leaning."
"The more reason--" he began, and broke off. His tone had been light,but when he spoke again it had grown graver, sincerer. "It is a factthat I worried about you, but that is not all the reason why I am here.The whole truth is more selfish. . . . Ruth, I cannot do without you."
She put up a hand, leaning back against the gate as though giddy.
"But why?" he urged, as she made no other response. "Is it that youstill doubt me--or yourself, perhaps?"
"Both," she murmured. "It is not so easy as you pretend." Bliss hadweakened her for a while, but the weakness was passing.
"Those women have been talking to you. I can engage, whatever theysaid, I gave it back to 'em with interest. They sail by the next ship.. . . But what did they say?"
"_They say. What say they? Let them say_," Ruth quoted, her lipssmiling albeit her eyes were moist. "Does it matter what they said?"
"No; for I can guess. However the old harridan put it, you were askedto give me up; and, after all, everything turns on our answer to that.I have given you mine. What of yours?" He stepped close. "Ruth, willyou give me up?"
She put out her hands as one groping, sightless, and in pain.
"Ah, you are cruel! . . . You know I cannot."
BOOK III.
THE BRIDALS.
Chapter I.
Lady Good-for-Nothing: A Man's Portrait of a Woman Page 28