It was tacitly understood in the household that after Easter Ruth was
going to do "something" to retrieve the family fortunes, but what that
"something" should be remained vague and undefined. Ruth herself
debated the question morning, noon, and night, and, like many another
poor girl in the same position, bitterly regretted an education which
had given her no one marketable qualification. She could play a little,
draw a little, speak French a little, speak German a little less, make
her own clothes in amateur fashion, and--what else? Nothing at all that
any able-bodied woman could not accomplish equally well. If she had
concentrated her energies on one definite thing, and learnt to do it,
not pretty well, nor very well, but just as well as it could possibly be
done, what a different prospect would have stretched before her now!
If she decided to teach, she must be content to accept juvenile pupils
and a poor salary; if she became a companion, she must sacrifice all
spirit of independence, and become a dutiful drudge, while she knew in
her inmost heart that it would be wrong to take up nursing, since she
felt no real vocation for the task.
It was useless to ask advice of anyone at home, so, one afternoon, Ruth
betook herself to almost the only intimate friend she possessed,--a
middle-aged spinster who kept house for an adored doctor brother. The
brother was a friend into the bargain--a tall, thin, clever--looking man
of thirty-eight, engrossed in his practice, which was one of the most
prosperous in the neighbourhood. Brother and sister were seated at tea
together when Ruth was announced, and she looked round the pretty room
with admiring eyes. Pink silk lamp-shades, luxurious cushions, bowls of
spring flowers, a tea equipage, bright and dainty and complete,--oh, how
delightful it all looked after the bare shabbiness of the room at home;
and what fascinating clothes Eleanor was wearing!
Despite her affection, one-and-twenty was inclined to think pretty
things thrown away upon an antediluvian creature of forty, but if Ruth
could have had a glimpse of herself as "others saw her" at that moment,
she might have been more content. The subdued lamp-light dealt kindly
with the old blue serge coat and skirt, the pink scarf at her neck
matched the colour on her cheeks, and the eyes underneath the black
brows were unusually bright and animated. She was always a welcome
guest at this hospitable house, and it was a pleasant variety to be
petted and fussed over, provided with cushions and footstools, and
tempted to eat by a fresh supply of hot buttered scones and a delectable
chocolate cake studded over with walnuts. Ruth laughed, and dimpled
into ever brighter beauty.
"It makes me feel so nice and young," she cried, "as if I were a spoilt
only child, instead of the staid eldest daughter of a family! But I
ought to be staid; I can't afford to frivol any longer, for I am going
to take a most important step, and start life on my own account."
Brother and sister alike looked up with sharp inquiry, and Ruth,
understanding, broke into a merry laugh.
"Oh, not that! Nothing half so interesting! Merely going to earn my
living, and I came to ask your advice as to how I had best set about it.
Nothing is decided so far, except that I am to earn enough money to
keep myself, and contribute largely to home expenses. That's the end,
but the puzzle is to find out the means."
"Poor lassie!" said Miss Maclure gently. She had a soft, Scotch burr in
her voice, and her plain face was full of an almost motherly kindness as
she looked at the pretty girl across the hearth. She had private means
of her own, and her brother was a prosperous man; but she knew enough of
the world to understand the nature of the struggle of which Ruth spoke
so lightly.
"It's easier saying than doing, I'm afraid, dearie. There are so many
women searching for work nowadays, and for many positions it is
necessary to prepare by long and expensive training. We wanted a lady
secretary for one of the societies in which I am interested, and we had
hundreds of applicants who were expert typists and stenographers, and
had all sorts of diplomas to show, but you have nothing of the kind."
"No, nor a penny to spend on training. I must be taken as I am, or not
at all. Don't discourage me, Eleanor, please. Mollie runs the cold tap
persistently at home, and I really need appreciation. There must be
_something_ that I can do, if I set my wits to work. I am not going to
be a nurse, Dr Maclure, so don't think that I am leading up to a
request that you should get me into a hospital. I don't like sick
people unless they are my very own, and it would be almost as dull to be
shut up in a hospital as to remain at home."
Miss Maclure looked a trifle shocked at this candid confession, but her
brother laughed, and said approvingly--
"That's right! I admire your honesty. We have far too many nurses who
take up the work without any real fitness, and I should be sorry to see
you added to the number. Well, let me see! ... After hospital nursing,
the next most popular resort is to turn author and write a novel. Have
you any leaning in that direction?"
He looked across at Ruth with a humorous twitching of his clean-shaven
lips. Once again she felt conscious that the Maclures looked upon her
as a pretty child, to be petted and humoured rather than a serious woman
of the world, and once again the knowledge brought with it a feeling of
rest and comfort.
She crinkled her brows and smiled back at the doctor, answering
frankly--
"Oh yes, plenty of leanings! I should love to write, and Mollie and I
are always `imagining' to make life more lively and exciting; but, when
it comes to sitting down with a pen in my hand, my thoughts seem to take
wing and fly away, and the words won't come. They are all stiff and
formal, and won't express what I want. Mollie gets on better, for she
writes as she talks, so it's natural at least. She wrote quite a long
story once, and read it aloud to me as she went on, but it was never
finished, and I don't think for a moment that any paper would have
looked at it. The people were all lords and dukes and millionaires, and
we don't know even a knight. I expect it was full of mistakes."
Dr Maclure smiled and rose from his seat.
"Well, I have some letters to write, so I will leave you to have your
talk with Eleanor; but I am starting off again on my rounds in half an
hour, and shall be driving past your house. It is a disagreeable
evening. Will you let me give you a lift?"
Ruth consented eagerly. The blue serge coat felt none too warm in the
bleak east wind, and it would be a relief to be spared the chilly walk,
and be bowled along instead in the doctor's luxurious brougham. She
drew her chair nearer to the fire, and proceeded to confide various whys
and wherefores to the sympathetic Eleanor--sympathetic, but hardly
responsive this afternoon for some mysterious reason. The while Ruth
set forward one idea after another, Miss Maclure sat gazing at her with
an intent, questioning gaze, as though too much occupied with her own
thoughts to grasp the meaning of the conversation. Ruth felt chilled
and disappointed, for during the last few days the constant thought in
the background of her mind had been, "Eleanor will advise me! Eleanor
will know what to do!"
Miss Maclure was a busy woman, whose name figured in a dozen committees.
She knew everyone, went everywhere, and her word had weight in guilds,
societies, and associations. What could be more easy than for her to
find a pleasant and lucrative berth for a pet girl friend, and settle
her in it without delay? Ruth had already imagined a touching scene
wherein she had been introduced to her future sphere of work, while
those in authority overpowered Miss Maclure with thanks for helping them
to find the ideal person to fill the vacant post. But Eleanor said
nothing, suggested nothing, only sat staring with those grave,
questioning eyes!
It was almost a relief when the half-hour was over, and the doctor gave
the summons for departure. Then Eleanor came back to the present once
more, and was all that was kind and loving.
"Have you no wraps with you, dear? Is that all you have on?" she asked,
as the girl buttoned her thin coat and pulled the scarf higher round her
throat; and Ruth answered "Yes," in an irresponsive tone, which
effectually put a stop to further remarks. She might speak of her own
poverty, but not even Eleanor Maclure herself could be allowed to pity,
or offer to supply a want. That was Miss Ruth's idea of proper pride,
and she straightened her back, and held her head higher than ever as she
crossed the hall and took her seat in the carriage.
Such a luxurious brougham it was, with its well-cushioned seats, its
electric reading-lamp attached to the wall, its rack for books and
papers, and cosy fur rug! Ruth tucked the rug securely in position,
and, looking up, caught the reflection of her face in the strip of
mirror opposite. The blue serge toque sat so jauntily on her head that
it looked quite smart; the pink tie was undoubtedly becoming. Well, it
was a comfort to be pretty, at least! To have been poor and plain would
have been quite too depressing. She smiled back in approving fashion,
to feel somewhat disconcerted a moment later as the mirror reflected
Donald Maclure's face beside her own. He was staring at her with the
same intent questioning which she had noticed in Eleanor's eyes, and
surely he looked paler, older, more haggard than usual! She turned
towards him, warmed into increased friendship by the presentiment that
he was in trouble like herself.
"It's so good of you to take me home, Dr Maclure! It may seem curious
to you, but it's quite a treat to me to drive about in this comfy
carriage. I so seldom travel in anything but shaky omnibuses. I should
not object to being a lady doctor, if I could have a brougham like this
of my very own. There! We never thought of that when we were
discussing my possible fields of labour!"
Dr Maclure bent forward, and glanced out of the window. His horse was
travelling quickly to-night; in another ten minutes Mr Connor's house
would be reached, and his opportunity over. He turned to face his
companion, and said quietly--
"There is another possibility open to you, Ruth, which you have perhaps
not considered. Have you ever thought of it, I wonder? Can you guess
what I mean?"
The grey eyes stared into his in frankest bewilderment.
"No," cried Ruth--"no! What is it? Something nice? Tell me what it
is."
"You have never guessed that I love you; that I have loved you for
years, since you were a girl at school? You have never once guessed it
all this time?"
He read his answer in the blank face and startled eyes, for Ruth was too
utterly taken aback to feel the usual embarrassment. She sat perfectly
still, gazing not at him but at the reflection of his face in the mirror
opposite. Dr Maclure! Was she dreaming, or was it really his voice
which she heard uttering these extraordinary words? Dr Maclure loved
her--had loved her for years! It was too inconceivable to be grasped!
He asked if she had not guessed his secret, but Ruth had not thought of
him at all; he had not entered into her calculations except as
"Eleanor's brother"--a nonentity who might be agreeable or the reverse,
according as he drove her home on wet evenings, or interrupted a cosy
_tete-a-tete_.
She did not reply to the question in words; but he was answered all the
same, for she heard him sigh, and saw a quiver pass across the thin
face.
"I am too old, Ruth--is that it? You never thought of me as a possible
lover?"
"Oh no, never once! You always seemed so busy and occupied, and you
have Eleanor to look after you. You have always been very kind to me,
but you were kind to Mollie and Trix and Betty as well. I did not feel
that you treated me differently from them. You are so clever; and you
saw yourself, when we talked this afternoon, I can do nothing.--I don't
see how you can possibly like me."
"Don't you?" he asked quietly. "But I do, Ruth; I care more than I can
express. I have not spoken before, for you seemed too young. I should
not have spoken to-day if you had not told us of this new move. You
don't know how hard it is for a girl to go out into the world and earn
her living; but I do, and I should like to save you from it, if it can
be done. I could give you a comfortable home, and enough money to make
life easy and pleasant. It would be my best happiness to see you happy.
We could travel; you would be able to help Mollie and the rest. If you
married me, your people would be my people, and I should be as anxious
as yourself to let them share our good fortune; and I would love you
very dearly, Ruth! I seem old to you, perhaps, but my love would be
more proved and certain than if I were a boy of your own age. I am a
prosperous man, but I want something more from life than I have had so
far--something that you alone can give roe. You hold my key to
happiness, Ruth!"
Ruth drew back into the corner of the carriage and turned her face into
the shadow. She wanted to think. What an extraordinary change in the
outlook at life to have happened in a few brief moments! Dr Maclure's
wife! Here was an answer indeed to the question which had been
occupying her thoughts for the last few weeks!
Suppose--suppose, just for one moment, that she said yes? Suppose that
on getting home she walked into the dining-room and announced her
engagement to a prosperous and charming man, who was already a family
friend and favourite? What fun! What excitement! What pride on the
part of the little mother; what transparent relief to the overtaxed
pater! Mollie and Trix would begin at once to discuss bridesmaids'
dresses, and there would be a trousseau to buy, and all the bustle and
excitement of a first marriage in a family. And afterwards? A big,
handsomely appointed house, pretty clothes, lots of money, the power to
help those whom she loved...
It sounded good--very good indeed! Much more attractive than those
nursery governess and companion schemes which she dreaded, despite all
her resolutions. It would be delightful to be her own mistress, and do
just as she liked...
And then a thought occurred. What of Eleanor? Ruth recalled the intent
gaze which had mystified her so much during the afternoon, and felt
convinced that Miss Maclure had guessed her brother's secret. What was
her feeling in the matter? Was she jealous of a rival in her brother's
affections, or loyally anxious for his happiness, regardless of how her
own future might be affected? A spasm of curiosity found voice in a
sudden question--
"But there is Eleanor. If you married, what would become of her?"
"There would be no difficulty about that. When we took up house
together we made a solemn agreement that if either wished to marry in
the future the other should not hinder in any possible way. Eleanor has
her own income, and many interests in life to keep her happy and
occupied. She would live near us, I hope, but you should be entire
mistress of your home, Ruth."
He evidently thought she had looked upon his sister's presence in the
house as a hindrance to her happiness, but, in truth, Ruth felt a chilly
sinking of heart at his reply. The thought of the big house was not
half so attractive, shorn of the figure of the sympathetic friend. The
library with no Eleanor sitting writing at her desk; the drawing-room
with no Eleanor in the deep-cushioned chair; the dining-room with no
Eleanor at the head of the table--how blank it all seemed! How
dreadfully dull to be alone all day, with only the doctor to break the
monotony! Only the doctor! The blood rushed in a flood to Ruth's
cheeks as she realised the significance of that one word. She turned
impetuously towards her companion, and gripped his arm with nervous
pressure.
"Don't tempt me!" she cried earnestly--"don't tempt me! There are so
many things that I should like, and I keep thinking of them, when I
should think only of you.--I'd love to be rich, and have a nice house,
and play Lady Bountiful at home! I'd love to travel about and see the
world, instead of jogging along in one little rut; and, really and
truly, I dread turning out to work, and am a coward at heart--but,--
that's all! I have always liked you very much as a friend, but I can't
imagine ever feeling any different. When I was thinking over things
just now, I--don't be angry! I don't want to hurt you, only to be
quite, quite honest--I thought more of Eleanor than of you! I hardly
thought of you at all."
The doctor's thin face looked very drawn and pained, but he smiled in
response to her pleading glance.
"I'm not angry, dear. Why should I be? It is not your fault that you
do not care, and it is best for us both to know the truth. I feared it
might be so. I am too old and staid to attract a bright young girl, but
I even now cannot bring myself to regret my love. It has given me the
happiest hours of my life, and I hope you will always let me help you in
any way that is possible. I think you owe me that privilege, don't you,
Ruth?"
"Oh, I do--I do! If it is any pleasure to you, I promise faithfully to
come to you whenever I need a friend, and I should like you to help me.
That means a great deal, for I am horribly proud. There are very few
people from whom I can accept a favour."
He smiled again, but with an evident effort, and Ruth, peeping at his
averted profile, felt a pang of real personal suffering at the sight of
his pain. It seemed dreadful that she should have such power to affect
this strong man; to take the light out of his face and make it old and
worn and grey!
The carriage was nearing home; in a few minutes' time the drive would be
over, and she would have no chance of continuing the conversation. With
a sudden swelling of the heart she realised that she could not part
without another expression of regret.
"I am so sorry, so dreadfully sorry to have grieved you! But you would
not like me to marry you just for what you could give me; you would not
have been satisfied with that, would you, Dr Maclure?"
His eyes met hers with a flash of determination.
"No," he cried--unhesitatingly--"never! I want a wife who loves me, or
no wife at all! One never knows what lies ahead in this world, and if
dark days come I should like to feel that she cared for me more, rather
than less. It would be hard for us both if she valued only my
possessions, and they took to themselves wings and fled. And there is
your own future to consider. Love will come to you some day, and you
must be free to welcome him. Don't distress yourself about me, Ruth; I
have my work for consolation. Before I get home to-night I shall have
seen so much suffering that I shall be ashamed to nurse my own trouble."
"Yes," said Ruth faintly.
His words seemed to place her at an immense distance, as if already he
had accepted his burden and put it resolutely out of sight. She felt
chilled and humiliated, for in the depths of her heart she knew that if
Dr Maclure had been persistent in his request, and had condescended to
"tempt" her, to use her own expressive phrase, she would very probably
have succumbed to the temptation, however much she might have regretted
her decision later on. But Donald would have none of her; he wanted a
wife who cared for himself, and not for his possessions. Ruth felt
almost as if it were she herself who had been refused. It was not an
agreeable sensation to experience after a first proposal.