Part 16 (1/2)

Now he spoke tenderly.

”Say it, in any case,” said Ruth, who had been uncommonly calm.

”Then I am afraid she is making up to him, if you must know.”

”Which is absurd,” said Ruth lightly; but in her anxiety to remain cool she forgot to seem surprised; and that was a mistake.

”I wonder if you really think so?” said her husband very quietly. ”If you do I can't agree with you; I wish I could.”

”You must!” cried Ruth desperately. ”Do you know how many dances she gave him to-night?”

Erskine knew only of one; his eyes rested on the remains of her programme lying on the floor in many fragments.

”Well, that one was the lot!” he was informed severely. ”And pray did you count how many times she spoke to him the other evening when we dined at the hall?”

”Not often, I grant you; I noticed that.”

”Yet you think she is making up to him!”

”It's a strong way of putting it, I know,” said Erskine reluctantly; ”but really I can't think of any other. I wonder you don't realize that there are more ways of making up to a man than the dead-set method.

Can't you see that a far more effective method is a little judicious snubbing and avoiding, which is coquetry? You take my word for it, that's the touch for a man like Manister, who is probably accustomed to everything but being snubbed and avoided. Then you speak of the one dance she gave him. Now I happen to know that they didn't dance it at all; they spent the time under the stars, for it was my misfortune to see them and their misfortune not to see me.”

”Well?” whispered Ruth; and though she had never been so dark until now, that whisper would have drawn his lantern to her real hopes and fears.

”I only saw them for an instant: I bolted; so I may easily be wrong; but it struck me that our Tiny was making up for her snubbing and avoiding.

It has since occurred to me that they must have known each other rather well in Melbourne--rather better, at any rate, than you have ever led me to suppose.”

As a woman's last resource, Ruth aimed a stone at his temper.

”So that's it!” she exclaimed viciously.

”That's what?”

”The secret of your bad temper.”

”Well, to be kept in the dark doesn't sweeten a man, certainly,” Erskine answered, in a tone, however, that was far from bitter. ”Then one can't help feeling disappointed with Tiny; and in this matter--to be frank with you at last--I am just a little disappointed in you too, my dear.”

”I always knew you would be,” said Ruth dolefully. For her stone had missed, and there was no more fight in her.

”Now don't be a goose. It's only in this one matter, in which--I can't help telling you--I don't think you've been perfectly straight with me.”

”Oh, indeed!” cried Ruth, as her spirit made one spurt more. It was the last. The next moment she was weeping.

It annoys most men to make a woman cry. Those who do not become annoyed make impetuous atonement, partly, no doubt, to drown the hooting in their own heart. But Erskine could not feel himself to blame, and though he spoke very kindly, his kindness was too nearly paternal, and he spoke with his elbow on the chimney-piece. He told Ruth not to do that. He pointed out to her that there was no crime in her want of candor concerning her sister's affairs, which were certainly no business of his. Only, if there really had been something between Christina and Lord Manister in Melbourne--if, for instance, Mrs. Willoughby had gossiped unwittingly to Christina about none other than Christina herself--Erskine put it to his wife that she might have done more wisely to place him in a position silently to appreciate such capital jokes. He would have said nothing; but as it was he might easily have said much to imperil the situation; in fact, he had been in a false position all along, more especially at the hall. But that was all. There was really nothing to cry about. Perhaps to give her the fairest opportunity to compose herself, Erskine crossed the room and drew back the curtains to let in the gray morning; for the birds had long been twittering.

But Ruth had been waiting for the touch of his hand, and he had only given her kind words. She looked up, and saw through her tears his form against the gray window, as he shut down the sash. The lamp burnt faintly, and in the two wan lights it was a chamber of misery, in which one could not sit alone. Ruth rose and ran to Erskine, and laid her hands upon his arm.