The Squire's Daughter Part 53

"Won't you come in and wait for him?" Ruth questioned, looking beyond him into the gathering twilight.

William hesitated for a moment, and then decided that he would.

"I am sure he will not be long," Ruth said, as she busied herself getting the lamp ready. "Mr. Telfer wanted to settle with him, as--as he can, of course, deliver no more concrete."

"It's an awful shame," William said abruptly, and he dropped into Ralph's easy-chair.

"It seems very hard," Ruth said reflectively; "but I tell Ralph it may be all for the best. Perhaps he was getting on too fast and too suddenly."

"He is not the sort to have his head turned by a bit of prosperity,"

William said, watching his fair hostess out of the corner of his eye.

"At any rate, the danger has been removed--if it was a danger." And Ruth sighed gently.

For several moments there was silence in the room. Ruth had the lamp to light and the blind to pull down and a fresh cover to lay on the table.

William watched her with averted face and half-closed eyes. How womanly she was in all her movements; how dainty in her appearance; how gentle in her manner and speech!

William felt as if he would almost risk his hope of heaven for the chance of calling her his, and yet he had not the courage even to hint at what he felt. Her very daintiness and winsomeness seemed to widen the gulf between them. Who was he that he should dare make love to one who was fit for the best in the land? It seemed to him--so unworthy did he seem in his own eyes--utterly impossible that Ruth should ever care for a man of his type.

William was almost morbidly self-depreciatory when in the presence of Ruth. His love so glorified her that by contrast he was commoner than commonest clay.

"I was so sorry to hear you are to be turned out of your shop," Ruth said at length, taking a seat on the other side of the table.

"Ralph told you?" he questioned.

"We stayed up till quite late last night, talking about it," she replied. "Ralph is very indignant."

"I am very indignant myself," he answered; "but what's the good? Those who have the power use it as they like."

"I am sorry it has happened," she said gently; "sorry for all our sakes.

Ralph's reverence for the ruling cla.s.ses was not great before. It is less now."

"You cannot wonder at that," he said quickly.

"No, one cannot wonder. And yet there is a danger in judging the whole by a few. Besides, if we had real power, we might not use it any more wisely or justly. The best of people, after all, are only human."

"That being so," he answered, with a smile, "it does not seem right that any individual, or any cla.s.s of individuals, should have so much power.

Who made these people rulers and dividers over us?"

"Ah, now you are getting beyond me," she said; "but since things are as they are, should we not make the best of them?"

"And try to mend them at the same time?"

"Oh yes, by all means--that is, if we can."

"But you have not much hope of mending things?" he questioned.

"Not very much. Besides, if you levelled things up to-morrow, they would be levelled down again the day after."

"Isn't that a rather fatalistic way of looking at things?" he questioned, raising his eyes timidly to her face.

"Is it?" she questioned, and a soft blush swept over her face as she caught his glance. Then silence fell again for several moments.

"The chances of life are very bewildering," he said at length, reopening the conversation. "Some people seem to get all the luck, and others all the misfortune. Look at my Cousin Sam."

"Is he very unfortunate?"

William laughed.

"On the contrary, he has all the luck. He has never known what poverty means, or sickness, or hardship. He was born to affluence, and now, at twenty-six, he's his own master, with a house of his own and plenty of money."

"But he may not be a whit happier than those who have less."

"I don't see how he can help it," William answered. "He's never worried about ways and means. He has troops of friends, absolutely wants nothing except a wife to help him to spend his money."

"Then you should advise him to keep single," Ruth said, with a laugh, "for if he gets married, his troubles may begin."

"There's risk in everything, no doubt," William said meditatively.

"Still, if I were in his place, I should take the risk."

"You would?" Ruth questioned, arching her eyebrows, "and you a bachelor?"

"Ah, that is my misfortune," William answered, looking hard at a picture on the wall. "But Sam's way is quite clear."

"Is it?"

"He's a good fellow, too, is Sam. Never a word of slander has been breathed against his name since he was born. He'll make a good husband, whoever gets him."

"I did not know you had such a cousin till last evening," Ruth said meaningly.

"Oh, well, no. We've never seen very much of each other. You see, the Tremails have always been rather big people, and then we have lived a long way apart, and I have never cared to presume on my relationship."

"So he has hunted you up?"

"Well, yes. He came to see me just a fortnight ago or so, and he has ridden over once or twice since. Don't you think he's a fine, handsome fellow?"

"Yes; he is not bad-looking."

"Oh, I call him handsome. It must be nice to be young and have so much strength and energy."

"Well, are you not young?"

"I'm ten years older than Sam," he said, a little sadly, "and ten years is a big slice out of one's life."

"Are you growing pessimistic?" she questioned. "You are usually so hopeful."

"There are some things too good to hope for," he replied, "too beautiful, too far away. I almost envy a man like my Cousin Sam. He has everything within his reach."

"You seem to be quite enthusiastic about your cousin," she said, with a smile.