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You may be charged a minimum fee of $75.00 for each non-returned or lost item. Theft, mutilation, or defacement of library materials can be causes for student disciplinary action. All materials owned by the University of Illinois Library are the property of the State of Illinois and are protected by Article 1 6B of Illinois Criminal Law and Procedure. TO RENEW, CALL (217) 333-8400. University of Illinois Library at Urbana-Champaign M 1 ? '^^^^ When renewing by phone, write new due date below previous due date. LI 62 APPLEDOEE FAEM. APPLEDORE FARM BY KATHAEINE S. MACQUOID AUTHOR OF ''AT THE RED GLOVE," "AT AN OLD CHATEAU IN THREE VOLUMES VOL. I. LONDON WARD AND DOWNEY (iLimited) 12, yORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN, W.C. 1894 [All rights reserved'} 8Z3 1 To < Eichard Doddridge Blackmore, o ^ a token of admiration of his ivorh, from Katharine S. Macquoid, ^^ I- '■0 4 yes, I hope, or fancy that, perhaps, Human forgiveness touches Heaven, and thence — For you forgive me, you are sure of that — Reflected sends a light on the forgiven. Tennyson. BOOK THE FIRST. VOL. I. APPLEDOEE FAEM. 33oofe tin jTirjst CHAPTER I. Some little way above Churcli Marshfield the high road to the market town of Parley begins to climb a ridge, the lower one of two steep sides to a green and fer- tile valley ; at the bottom of this valley, a little way before the high road turns leftward from the ridge to seek a lower level, lies Appledore Farm. The gables of the old half-timbered house can be seen across the sloping meadow below the road, but a thick yew hedge, set stiffly round the place, screens the lower windows and the garden from any curious eyes. The vegetable garden slopes up the higher ridge behind the farm ; part of the home mead, too, stretches up the steep B 2 4 Appledore Farm, side of this farther ridge, and there are timber-sheds near the top. The farm- house looks snug and sheltered in its green hollow ; a belt of tall elms on the left, and the large and ancient orchard on the right, protect it from violent winds and sweeping hail and rain storms. A lane leads steeply down from the road to the entrance gate, above which the yew hedge rises to make a formal, carefully-clipped arch, through which is seen the honeysuckle porch and a square lattice window above it, both set under a gable that flattens this corner of the old building. There had been all day in the air the breath of true Midsummer, that soft, de- licious warmth which in England, nowa- days, we hardly dare look for till August. Mr. Reginald Bevington had been saying it was a pity to have so many good things at once — the fresh foliage of the trees and hedges ; the wealth of wild flowers every- where, for haymaking had not yet begun ; and, above all, the luxuriant beauty of the Appledore Farm, 5 flowering shrubs, the garden at Appledore being singularly rich in these — it was really too jolly, the young fellow said, to have all this natural beauty together with an atmosphere enough of itself to make life delightful. *' It would be far jollier, you know, to have it spread over the year ; whereas, just as the leaves have lost their fresh- ness and all beauty of form, the weather will turn beastly cold ; I know its little game, it always does it in July." Mr. Bevington looked at his companion as he spoke, but Philip Bryant, who sat, pipe in mouth, on the bench beneath the porch, was so enveloped in smoke that it seemed useless to expect him to answer. The younger man continued his walk up and down the gravelled path that ran along the front of the house. It was a pleasant walk, and Reginald Bevington looked regretfully around him ; he knew some time must pass before he saw it again. The many-gabled, half-timbered dwell- 6 Appledore Farm, ing had once been a manor house ; thick stems of climbing plants, that in leafy June hid the red brick-work and the grey timber with foliage and blossom, testified to the years they must have been growing, while their exquisite blending of colour was a living memory of the taste that had placed such varied plants together. A broad flower-bed stretched itself between the path and the blossom and leaf-girdled house ; a Banksia rose clustered its pale yellow flowers against the tender green leaves of the Dutchman's pipe, while the exquisite scent of vine-blossom asserted itself even above the sweetness of the honeysuckle on the porch. Mr. Bevington was nearer to the vine than he was to the honeysuckle, as he stood still eujoying the fragrance. On his left, another flower-border reached to the tall yew hedge. The borders were filled chiefly with white pinks and wallflowers and many-coloured columbines, while an army of laced and golden-eyed polyanthus told that these Appledore Farm. 7 were the spring borders of the farm-house garden. The fair-faced young pupil sighed as he walked up and down, his hands clasped behind him — for he had finished his cigar- ette — his head drooped forward on his somewhat sunken chest. He was very pleasant-looking ; not, perhaps, decidedly handsome, but with a singular fascination of expression far more attractive than mere animal beauty; his sparkling grey-green eyes matched well with a rather wide, thin-lipped mouth ; his fair skin was slightly freckled, except under the waves of his warm auburn hair, almost as soft and fine as a woman's ; he lifted his straw hat and pushed his hair aside, and the white skin it had sheltered looked as feminine as his hair did; his slender moustaches and his clean-shaved face added to the singular refinement of his appearance ; he spoke, too, as if he had spent his life with well-bred people. He turned the corner of the house, and came in view of a gay show of flowering 8 Apple dor e Farm, shrubs, many-tinted lilacs, tasselled labur- nums tbat seemed to stream witb molten gold, red bawtborn, and snowy balls of G-uelder-rose ; bare and tbere among tbe otber sbrubs came a double-blossomed peach or cberry tree : tbese gay blossoms bordered tbe bowling-green, which took up most of tbe garden on this side. Mr. Bryant bad more than once said be would root np tbe shrubs, plant espalier apples and pears in their room, and fill the bowl- ing-green with potatoes ; but then tbe flowering trees of Appledore had a reputa- tion, and Ruth Bryant loved both them and tbe bowbng-green. Large groups of rhododendron in full beauty filled up tbe corners of the grass-plot. Mr. Bevington sighed again as he looked at these things. " They might as well haye left me in peace till the end of summer," be mur- mured ; " it is so very pleasant here." It was certainly very pleasant at Apple- dore. Mr. Bevington bad been studying farming there for six months ; he smiled Appledore Farm, g now, as lie remembered that he had ex- pected to find summer-time dull in the country ; he had few resources of his own besides hunting and shooting, but three months ago Euth Bryant had come home, and life had put on a very rose-coloured aspect for the pupil. A few days after her arrival he had asked to be allowed to join the family breakfast, and to dine with Ruth and her father at two o'clock, in- stead of waiting for his solitary seven o'clock meal. After dinner he smoked with Mr. Bryant in the porch, and then they had a game of bowls, which Euth watched from her window; when it rained the farmer en- joyed his pipe in the house-place, and Mr. Bevington retreated to a room called the study, on the right of the hall, set apart for the use of the pupils. " Confound it ! " the young fellow said ; *' I was getting on so well, too." He went on to the bowling-green, and looked up at a certain window of the upper storey ; one of the lattices was open, but lo Appledore Farm, the space witliia was so completely shaded by a muslin curtain that he could not see into the room. He stood wondering whether Ruth Bryant was behind her curtain. " She usually comes into the garden at this time,'* he thought ; '^ perhaps she is afraid of the heat." He stepped back to the path, and then on to the flower-border till he stood close under the window. " Are you never coming? " he said in a low voice ; " I have been ever so long in the garden." A shapely, well-formed hand, though not an especially small one, drew back the curtain, and a merry voice said, — '^ Remember, I had to wait last Sunday ; it is your turn now ; it is not so very long, is it, since you came into the garden ? but I'm coming." " Look here,'* he answered, '' don't come now ; I must go in and write a letter, and then I'm going to the village to post it, and I'll get tea at the hotel ; please do Apple dor e Farm, i r not wait for me. You will find me wait- ing for you in the orchard at eight ; you'll come out, then, won't you? It will be ever so much pleasanter than it is now." The answer did not come at once. <« Very well," the voice said presently, '' I'll come." *' All right.'* He went slowly back to the porch ; Mr. Bryant had gone indoors. The young fellow frowned ; he could not find an excuse for delay in writing the very unpleasant letter that had to be written ; there was no help for it, and he went unwillingly to the study. In about an hour he came out again, smoking a cigar, with the letter in his hand. The slam of the front door echoed all over the old oak-panelled house. As the sound died away a door opened in the long bedroom gallery, and a tall girl came out ; she walked with a firm step, which seemed out of harmony with her pensive expres- sion, and passed swiftly down the broad I 2 Apple dor e Farm. staircase, dark at the landing where it turned, from the absence of a window. A small, slit-like opening, beside the entrance door, showed that the walls of the hall were oak-panelled, like those of the bedroom gallery ; it also showed four doors, one on either side of the hall and one on each side of the staircase, which projected forward, thereby taking a con- siderable portion off the hall itself. Ruth Bryant cautiously opened a door on her right, and went into a long, low room, with windows at either end. The sun- shine came streaminof in throuo*h a half- opened lattice, but for all that a cheerful fire was burning on the hearth at the farther side of the large room ; indeed, a fire was never unwelcome at Appledore. The walls were thick and well-built, still, even when closed, the old lattices let in plenty of air, and the ancient doors, which hung crookedly on their hinges, were not screened by any curtains from draughts ; the windows were curtained, but the heavy green cloth folds were so old Appledore Farm, 1 3 that tliey suggested damp rather than comfort. Mr. Bryant was seated in a high-backed arm-chair near the hearth, and, as his daughter expected, was sound asleep. The girl took a chair and placed herself oppo- site to him, so that the light from the back window fell full on her face, while the glow from the burning logs made vivid contrasts of colour on her dark blue gown, and brought out sunny lights in her rich brown hair. Ruth's hair waved over her clear white forehead in a broad sculp- turesque fashion of its own, and from the thickness of the loose coils in which it was gathered it seemed to be very abun- dant ; her head was square and well- shaped, and her features were regular ; she had a singularly beautiful mouth, full of character, with curves that indicated a sense of humour ; her eyes looked some- times hazel and sometimes grey, according to the light that fell on them; but it is impossible to paint in words the charm of her face, of its constantly varying expres- 14 Appledore Farm, sion, or the dignity of her graceful figure. She looked like a young Juno as she sat still, her dark eyes bent tenderly on the logs, as if she saw among them the face she loved. She started ; her father groaned in his sleep, then he muttered, — " It means ruin — nothing else," and then came another groan. Ruth's face grew sad; she was only twenty, and at twenty girls sometimes have little thought to spare from them- selves ; till lately she had only had her father to care for, and her warm, loving nature had spent itself in devotion to this only parent. Her mother had died years ago, and till she was seventeen Ruth had passed most of her daytime with her grandfather and tutor, Mr. Stokesay. The girl had looked up to her grandfather as a great scholar, and also as a sound ad- viser in any practical or mental difficulty ; but Mr. Stokesay had been a cold, repres- sive teacher, rather than an affectionate grandfather, and the ardent-natured child would not have dared to fling her arms Appledore Farm, 15 round his neck and kiss him as she used to kiss and pet her father. ]S"ow, as she sat looking at PhiHp Bryant, she sighed; his face was like hers, it usually bore the same bright and sanguine expression, but now his cheeks were drawn as if with pain, and his benevolent forehead was furrowed with lines which the painfully upraised eyebrows seemed to press more closely together. E-uth fancied that some hidden sorrow was suddenly revealed to her in this un- usual expression, and she instinctively looked away. The wrung, grief-stricken face reminded her how uneasy she had felt last year, when, for nearly a week, her father had been silent and depressed ; she had questioned him then, and he had laughed, and had told her she fancied things ; he asked her to ride with him by way of raising her spirits. He was brighter afterwards; but Ruth had not been satisfied, and one day, when an old friend, Mr. Clifford, came over from Parley, she questioned him on the subject. 1 6 Apple dore Farm, Mr. Clifford was a land surveyor, and Ruth had gathered that he came to see her father on business. She was always so merry and full of spirits, that Mr. Clifford was taken by surprise ; then he laughed at her serious question. '' Do not you bother your head about business," he said ; " your father is out of sorts just now, perhaps, and the best thing you can do is to keep him amused ; I dare say you'll not find that difficult.'* Ruth was pleased, for she was a little proud of her power over her father ; she knew that he was always ready to laugh at her sunshiny way of dealing with small vexations. She had noticed that after this talk Mr. Cliiford came much oftener to Appledore ; she enjoyed the change which his visits brought into her uneventful life ; he had lent her books since her grandfather's death, and he now brought them more frequently, as he discovered her fondness for books of more modern date and of lighter tone than those which her grand- Apple do re Farm, ly father liad left her when he died. She liked the old ones too, but slie enjoyed talking over Mr. Clifford's books with him, and often liad a warm discussion in de- fence of some favourite cliaracter in a story. But last December a check had come to this new pleasure ; her father's sister, Mrs. Whishaw, Ruth's only aunt, was taken suddenly ill, and her young daughter, Polly, wrote an imploring letter asking Ruth to come and help her nurse her mother, Mr. Bryant was anxious that Ruth should go ; he told her to stay as long as she was needed. She was greatly surprised soon after her arrival at Mrs. Whishaw' s to learn that her father had taken a pupil. Mr. Bryant wrote that he was glad for her to be away, as the youDg fellow took up so much of his time. Ruth had felt curious, and she wished to be at home again ; it seemed to her that this Mr. Bevington must make life far more amusing at Appledore. Mr. Bryant told her that the pupil gave a good deal of trouble in the house, as he dined VOL. I. 1 8 Apple dor e Farm. late and took all his meals separately. But Eutb had to stifle her curiosity ; her cousin's dehcate health was suffering from the anxiety and the strain caused by her mother's illness and slow recovery. Ruth could not help being aware of her own robust health and strength, and a certain natural aptitude for nursing, which she had developed during her grandfather's last illness, made her help necessary to Mrs. Whishaw; indeed, when at last the time for parting came, her cousin Polly said, tearfully, tiiat she did not know how she should get on without her. As Ruth travelled homewards, she told herself that if she had helped Polly, she had also learned many new lessons in her aunt's home ; she wondered why she had never been taught the careful, thrifty ways which seemed to come naturally to her cousin Polly, and yet she had noticed that with all this care there was not any pinching or meanness ; she had even thought that the housekeeping was more refined and the fare more varied than it was at Appledore ; she promised herself to Appledore Farm, 19 teach the cook, and also the self-contented housemaid, Bridget, some of the ways she had noticed during this long stay at her aunt's. Ruth reached home and made acquaint- ance with the pupil. Very soon a new and overpowering feeling took the place of all her thoughts and resolutions ; it drove away her sleep and robbed her of her usual hearty appetite. Her father teased her about her fits of silence, and asked whether she had found a sweetheart at Mrs. Whishaw's. Euth felt dreamy and quiet, and yet at times she was so wildly happy that she was afraid of her own feelings. Mr. Clifford had called to welcome her home again, but Euth received her old friend coldly, without her former sparkling gladness ; she was impatient to join Mr. Bevington in the garden, and she felt glad when Clifford went away. He had come very seldom since that visit, but the girl knew that he now and then saw her father. 2 20 Appledore Farin, She had gone on for weeks in a state of dreamy excitement, tlie hours seemed valueless that were not spent with Mr. Bevineton : sometimes she wondered what this change in her meant, bat she so rarely thought about herself, that she was happy to- drift on in this exquisite hope and re- membrance. One day her mother's nurse, Mrs. Voce, who had also been her grandfather's housekeeper, came to Appledore to see Ruth. When the old woman rose to go away, she looked hard at the girl and held her hand in hers. '' I beg pardon, Miss Bryant," she said, *'but there's no one but me to watch your goings on, and I say, take care of yourself, my lamb." Ruth flushed deeply; she pulled her hand away and left Sally Voce to go alone to the gate. She was desperately angry, not so much at the old woman's presump- tion, as because the warning had suddenly opened her own eyes. She ran up to her room and hid her face in her hands ; her Appledore Farm. 2 1 innate modesty was revolted by the dis- covery suddenly forced on her that she loved — loved, too, before a word of love had been spoken to win hers in return. At first she felt that she could not see Mr. Bevington again, for surely he must have been as quick- sighted as Sally Voce had been, and then she began to wonder what the old woman had meant by her hint. She was angry with herself for her abrupt- ness. If she had been sensible and patient with Sally, she might have questioned her. It was possible, she thought, that Mr. Bevington had only talked to her as he would have talked to any other girl. There was no one living near Appledore with whom he could talk so freely, or probably she would not have had so much of his company. The poor girl upbraided herself for her weakness, and then, when she re- called the young fellow's looks and words, it seemed to her that he must care very much for her. She determined to be more on her guard, to seem colder, and to avoid the chance of being alone with him. 2 2 Appledo7'e Farm. She had persevered for a week in this resolution, and she feared he had observed the change. She looked across at her father ; she was sure he had not noticed anything between her and his pupil, and then she wondered whether this unusually late meeting in the orchard had been planned by Mr. Bevington in order to call her to account. CHAPTER II. A SMALL wicket gate on tlie right of the porch led into a little alley or passage, and at the end of this, another gate led into the pleasant green orchard. The orchard was very large, and stretched away to the high road on the right of the farm-house, screened by a continuation of the high yew hedge till it approached the farm buildings, then the hedge became more rural in character, and just now looked like a tangle of wild roses. The fruit trees were old and grey, and many of their lichen-covered boughs were twisted into quaint shapes, but already the immature fruit, apples, pears, and plums, promised a plentiful harvest. It was growing dusk when Ruth opened 24 Appledore Farm, the inner gate and came into tliis green pleasance ; the apple trees stretched out long crooked branches that intercepted the dechning light, and the girl started as a man came out of the deep shadow with a straw between his lips. ** Good evening to you, miss." The man pulled his forelock as he spoke. *' Is it you, George ? " Euth said, laugh- ing ; '' you gave me a fright ; I took you for a tramp." George Bird, a tall, strongly-built fellow, lifted his hat and began to scratch his head. " Frighted at T ! Lord, was you, miss ? " he chuckled. " Tramp wunnot find it a joke to climb that there hedge, an' a' must climb 'un onless him corned across the farm- yard. Good-night t'ye. Miss Ruth." He began to shamble towards the gate by which the girl had come in, and then he stopped again. " Miss 'ull find it plaguey moist i' the orchard ; there hev been a doo as 'eavy as a two hours' rain-shower." ** All right, Bird." Ruth gave him a Appledore Farm, 25 pleasant smile. '' Good-niglit. Tell Susan that if she can manage to come round on Saturday, there will be something for her." ** Good-night, and thankye, miss." Bird closed the gate behind him and went up the little alley. " She be a trump, that she be," he said to himself. " More'n one as I've know'd would ha' said, ' What may you be doin' of, Bird, in the orchard at this time o' day ? ' but not Miss Ruth, not she, she bean't one as says, * He's al'ays i' th' lane when he sh'ld be i' th' meadow ;' even if she had a' guessed at it, she'd none ha' grudged a poor man a few happles or a tatur ; my belief she'd ha' been pleased of his chance o' gettin' a few. Bless her, she's always cheerful, is Miss Euth ; tlie sight on she be enough to warm a chap — a salve for sore eyes, the missus says." It is possible that at another time Ruth might have been puzzled by Bird's presence in the orchard, but now she walked on the soft deep grass under the trees without 26 Appledore Farm, giving Mm a second thouglit. The yew liedge was too thick to see througli, but on the right the orchard was parted from the angle of the high road by an up- sloping meadow, and the hedge between this meadow and the orchard was a dwarf hawthorn one, over which, as she stood on the bank, Ruth could easily see passers- by before they reached the protecting screen of yew, which made the middle of the orchard such a secluded meeting-place. Euth smiled and quickly stepped down from the hedge bank, Mr. Bevington was coming along the road, but he could not have seen her ; he was looking at a field of oats on the other side of the way. The overgrowing briars, covered now with pale blushing golden-hearted blossoms, hid an old disused gate near the farm end of the orchard ; Euth fancied the gate had been nailed up, and she wished she could open it ; it seemed so hard on Mr. Bevington, after his long tiring walk, to have to go round to the entrance at the back of the farm-yard ; she wondered why he had not Appledore Farm, 2 J come in by the lane that led down to the house from the road, before it turned the angle of the meadow. In a few minutes the briars began to shake violently, and then briars and the half -hidden gate were pushed inward with a sudden jerk that scattered the faintly tinted blossoms and sent their petals flying over the grass. Ruth stood under the trees silent, and a little startled by the young fellow's vehemence. He stopped to replace the gate, which he had almost forced from its rusted hinges, and then he came on to where she stood. '' You are a good girl," he said gaily ; ** have you been waiting long ? '' She glanced saucily at him. *' I should not have waited long, but I have only just come." He looked at her gravely, and as she smiled at him, he took her hand in his and held it firmly. " I want to know what has come to you ? Why have you changed to me ? I 28 Apple dor e Farm, do not tlnnk I Lave offended you ; you are not touchy or small-minded ; you would not take offence at nothing, would you ? What is it ? Won't you tell me, Ruth ? " The tone of his words thrilled through her; she could not hide the sudden joy that filled her, her eyes fell under the glow she saw in his. She tried to look up, but it seemed as if she could not. *' You will tell me, you sweetest girl." His voice had a yet more tender tone ; he was thinking how beautiful Ruth looked as she stood, with flushed cheeks and down- cast eyes, listening to him. '' Ah," he went on softly, '' if you knew what I have to tell you, you would have been kinder to me, instead of colder these last days." '' I am not vexed with you," she said shyly, ''you have not offended me." *' You darling ! " He took both her hands in one of his, and put his free arm round her waist. Ruth shivered at his touch, it frightened her, and yet she loved him more than ever. She was so intensely grateful to him for Appledore Farm, 29 this assurance of bis love, that she could not vex him by drawing away. He drew her still closer, and passion- ately kissed her glowing cheek ; at this Ruth broke away from him in alarm. "You must not," she said, in a frightened, hurried voice. " N'o, please loose my hand, and let me go ; I see now it was wrong to meet you here, Mr. Bevington, but I — I thought I might trust you." He let go her hand. '* You are right, forgive me, dearest girl ; I ought to have been less abrupt, it has all been too sudden for you ; you see, darling Ruth, I have been tryiug for days to find you alone, to tell you how I love you, and you have not given me one chance. J only thought of my own feelings just now. Darling ! if you knew how I love you, you would take some pity on a fellow. Can't you give me a crumb of comfort ? Won't you say you love me before we say Good-bye ? " " Good-bye ? " The girl stared at him with frightened 30 Appledore Farm, ejes, and lie saw her love shining in their liquid depths. " Dearest," he whispered, as he bent over her, " you will own that you do not want to lose me ? You care for me enough, don't you, to wish me to stay at the farm ? " " You are not going away ? " she said, in a sad, trembling voice ; " surely you are not in earnest in saying Good-bye ? " She looked at him, and her eyes, which just now had been so full of love, were swimming with tears, which she could hardly keep from falling. " You are sorry to lose me then ? You understand how my grief got the better of me just now ? I may, perhaps, not see you again for months, darling Ruth ; you will not be hard-hearted? Say you love me, my own girl ? " While he spoke, his arm had again twined itself round her waist, but in a less masterful fashion, and as he pressed her to his heart and mur- mured his sorrow at this parting, Ruth's answering sorrow broke down her pride Appledore Farm. 3 1 and her maidenly reserve ; she burst into tears and sobbed out her grief, while she hid her hot face on his shoulder. He soothed her and kissed her till her tears flowed more gently; presently she asked him why he was so suddenly leaving Appledore ? He pub his hand softly under her chin and raised the lovely, shame-stricken face. " Why, indeed ? How can I leave such a darling?" he said petulantly. " I want to take you with me, and never lose sight of you again. Why am I going, you ask ? Because, dear girl, I have prejudiced and tyrannical parents. Some busy fool has been telling them about your beauty, and they have taken it into their heads that you will fascinate me. You see, my pre- cious Ruth, they have spoken too late ; I have loved you from the first minute I saw you." She quivered with delight at this avowal. '' Have you ? Have you really ? " she said timidly. He looked fondly at her. 32 Appledore Farm. "Iliave a mind to punish you for the doubt in that question ; " then, as she drew herself away from him, " I will let you off, if you confess how long you have — you have cared for me." Euth looked up with her saucy smile, but as she met his eyes, her head drooped shyly, and her lover had to coax her to own, in a tender whisper, that she could not tell. " I did not think or know about it," she said softly, "till I knew it was there." She felt that she had owned too much ; she drew herself out of his arms and put her hand forward as if to keep him away. She looked at him anxiously as she said, "Why did your father and mother place you here? If they had inquired, they would have learned that I lived with my father." " Poor dears, they do not realize any condition of life except their own," he said, smihng. "It could not occur to them, I am not sure that it would have occurred to me in their place, that — that your Appledore Farm. 33 society would have been likely to prove dan- gerously attractive." Ruth turned away her head and reddened, without knowing why she felt vexed. He saw the movement, but he went on as if he were unconscious, *' You must be merciful, dear girl ; remem- ber, they have never seen you. How could they dream that such a treasure of beauty was buried alive at Appledore ? " '* Do not flatter, please, I cannot bear it." He looked surprised at her abrupt tone. '* My darling ! surely it is not flattery to say what I think." He tried to take her hand, but she drew farther away; she looked, he thought, unusually serious. "Why did you try to make me care for you ? If you think their feelings are natural, surely you ought to have avoided me. Mr. Bevington was completely puzzled. It was dijQficult to believe that this beau- tiful girl, who now held her head so proudly erect and looked at him so gravely, was the merry, sunshiny creature he had VOL. I. D 34 Apple dor e Farfu, been living and jesting with, or the tender, love-stricken Euth who had so lately been sobbing on his breast. '* I am not a stone or an icicle, dearest," he said gently. '' How could I help loving yon and longing for your love ? I would not give up the happiness of these three months for anything that could be offered me. I have had that, at any rate." Something in his words jarred her, and yet she loved him far more tenderly than she did when she came into the orchard. " Have you told my father you — you — care for me ? " she said, timidly. He looked away from her. '' Well, no ; I could not do that till I had spoken to you. Now that I am to leave so soon, there seems no use in talking about it. He is already upset, I fancy, by my father's sudden change of plans, be- cause you know it was arranged that if I liked Appledore, I was to stay a couple of years. I have to leave to-morrow, dear girl, and it is kinder to say nothing about it to Mr. Bryant till I come again. Then Appledore Farm, • 35 who knows what may happen — eh, darling ? " He took her hand, but she turned so white that he put his arm round her. He thought she was faint. '' To-morrow ! Oh ! it surely cannot be to-morrow," The agony in her voice reassured him. " There is, I fear, no help for it. My mother writes she is not well, and she is anxious to have me at home. The fact is, I believe, my father expected me to leave to-day ; his letter is peremptory, absurdly so." He put his hand under her chin, and raised her sweet pale face. " Come, dearest, we have not many minutes left ; why should we waste them ? Promise me that you will write to me, my own Euth." He kissed her very tenderly. '•The joy of my life will be in looking forward to your letters." The girl's pride had broken down: in the near prospect of parting, she once more clung to him ; she felt that all her D 2 36 Appledore Farm, happiness was centred in his love; but still conscience would not be silenced. " I have never kept a secret from father," she said, '• and — and he is very much out of spirits; I cannot bear to deceive him. Mayn't I " He interrupted. " If you were married, darling, you would have to keep your husband's secrets from your father ? " She laughed at this and shook her head at him : she looked her own bright self again. " That would be quite different ; I should not be left to live alone with my father. As it is, I should not be able to forget that I was keeping something hidden from him." " I see you do not love me ; you are selfish. Ah ! Ruth, if you loved me as you say you do, you would be glad to do something for my sake ; the success of our love depends on its secrecy." She was silent; she looked still doubtful. " Well ? " he said. ''You will think me very ignorant and old-fashioned," she answered quietly, Appledore Farm, 2)7 '' but I have never kept anything from my father. It will not be for long, will it, that I must keep this secret ? " Then her eyes filled with tears. Moved out of all reserve, she said, *' Is it not wiser to say Good-bye, and end it ? If your people have these prejudices, they will never consent to receive me ; and I could not marry you against their will." He bent down and kissed her, but he did not speak at once ; he felt angry. " Think how young we are," he said, after a little. " Why need we frighten our- selves about things which may never happen ? I shall have more power when I am older ; besides, I do not depend on my parents. One of these days I must come in for my godfather's large property ; and then, dearest, darling Euth, I shall be my own master. Everything may have changed even by the end of this year. Tell me that you will keep our secret. To me it is an exquisite pleasure to share anything with you that is only known to us two." 38 Appledore Farm, He did not wait for lier answer ; he, clasped her in his arms, and whispered that this was their last Grood-bye ; he had to leave the farm next morning, early enough to catch the first train from Purley. '' Your father has arranged everything most kindly; dearest, come." He drew her arm through his, and they paced up and down till the increasing gloom warned Ruth how late it was. Bevington remonstrated when she said she must leave him, but he was obliged to let her go. He stood among the trees, looking after her ; he was charmed, but she had puzzled him. '' She is a sweet darling," he thought, "but she is only half won. Well, we shall see ; absence sometimes makes the heart grow fonder." CHAPTER III. Ruth found her father smoking by the light of a single candle. He did not often smoke in that room, but to-night he had wished to be alone, and there was always a chance that one of the servants might pass through the great stone-floored house- place, which, though it was called a kitchen, was never used for cooking. Mr. Bryant raised his head and looked at his daughter when she came in, but Ruth kept in shadow, where she knew her face could not be clearly seen ; she felt thank- ful that meals were over for the day. After high-tea at seven o'clock, her father smoked a pipe or two, and sometimes drank a glass of ale; he usually chatted with his daughter before she went to bed, but to-night Ruth was impatient to be 40 Appledore Farm, alone. Her head ached strangely ; she hoped her father would not expect her to talk. He rose presently and said he was going to bed. ** I have to be up extra early," he added. ** I had not told you, child ; Mr. Bevington is leaving us all of a sudden ; he goes by the first train. Good-night, my lass." He bent over Ruth and kissed her. Their faces were alike in point of features and complexion, yet the expression was very different; the frank sweetness of the girl's mouth was the dominant expression in Philip Bryant's, but his lips lacked the chiselled firmness of Euth's, and his chin had not the decision which made hers so remarkable ; her forehead was broad and square also; her father's forehead expressed benevolence rather than much power of judgment. The eyes, alike in form and colour, were unlike in their revelation of character, and while Ruth carried her head erect and looked frank and fearless, her father's head was often bent forward and his glance was shifting and unsteady. Appledore Farm, 41 Euth felt sure she should not sleep, and she wanted to be up early in the hope of getting a last glimpse of her lover. She was, however, so healthy that her nerves were strong ; the excitement of the evening had th^ed her, without creating that sort of feverish disturbance which makes rest im- possible, and she fell asleep almost at once. She roused early and dressed, but when she reached the top of the stairs, she heard her father's voice below, and she went back again to her room ; she felt that it would vex Mr. Bevington if she exposed herself to remark. She had hoped to steal quietly down to the study and wait there till he came. She opened the window and leaned out. The trap came up to the front door, and there was a murmur of voices ; ten minutes or so passed, and then the wheels crunched over the road. Ruth did not hear any leave-taking, and she guessed that her father was driving into Purley with Mr. Bevington. The girl suddenly broke down, and she cried bitterly ; then she indignantly wiped her eyes and tried 42 Apple dor e Farm. to laugli at herself, but lier heart felt twice its size and slie was utterly de- jected. '^ It won't do to go on like this." She checked a heavy sob. " I'll go and get some breakfast. I'm no better thaa the dairymaid was, and how I did scold her for crying after Peter." She found Bridget dusting the sitting- room. " It bean't seven yet, Miss Bryant," the woman said in an aggrieved voice. " Never mind," Ruth answered cheer- fully ; " tell cook to set my breakfast in the house-place, some milk and bread and butter will do." Huth knew that her lover would have breakfasted in the old-fashioned room, and she longed to be where he had been so lately. She was paler than usual, but she looked very lovely as she took her place at the end of the huge table. The sun, streaming in through the lattice opposite, seemed concentrated on her, as the only bit of colour in the room ; in its full light, Appledore Farm, 43 her hair looked a warm auburn flecked with gold. The window was three-sided ; the lower part of the bay was filled by a deep ledge, on which, later in the year, Ruth dried roses and carnations and jasmine flowers for sweet-pot; later yet it was strewn with lavender and basil, and many another herb, set to dry slowly in the sunshine. And this process which had, doubtless, been continued by generations of Bryants, seemed to have created a permanent fra- grance in the old house-place, a fragrance that triumphed over tobacco scent from the occasional pipes Mr. Bryant smoked there. In this early morning hour the faint fragrance was helped by sweet, fresh air coming in through the open lattice, laden with flower-scents from outside : the yellow blossoms of a Persian briar showed themselves in full beauty against the window. Ruth wore the blue gown she had worn yesterday. It was associated now with Mr. Bevington ; he had touched it, and the girl 44 Apple dor e Farm. flushed as the memory of that close pres- sure came back; last night she had shrunk from the thought of it with a kind of fear, but now it made her happy to close her eyes and call back the sweet memory of it all. Only one fact troubled Ruth, the secret she had to keep from her father's know- ledge. It must certainly be wrong to break a promise, she thought, and she knew that her lover counted on her silence. She was restless and discontented after breakfast, and for the first time it occurred to her that she had not enough to do ; the time had gone by swiftly enough in these last weeks, while she sat at her window, hidden by the curtains, and watched for Mr. Bevington. Ruth asked herself what she had done with her time before he came to Appledore ; she had read a good deal, and the thought of books brought the memory of Mr. Clifford. She turned from the thought of him ; she hoped he would not resume his visits at Appledore ; it would not be possible to talk to him as she used Appledore Farm, 45 to talk : she should always be wishing that he was Mr. Bevington. It would not have occurred to Ruth to seek her father's advice. She had been accustomed to see him consult her grand- father on all subjects, and, until Mr. Stoke- say died, she had also looked up to the unerring wisdom of the old scholar. It came to her that she had neglected for weeks her visits to the grave where her grandfather lay beside her mother. She rose and opened a door beside the fire- place, leading to the kitchen. When she had given her orders to the cook, she put on her hat and went out along the road to the village church. About a mile distant, half-way between the farm and the church, she passed by a gabled cottage, with its front so covered by a close-growing cotoneaster that its quaint half-timbering was hardly apparent. Ruth sighed as she looked up at the cob- webbed lattices, and then at a forlorn, weed-grown strip of garden behind the broken fence. The cottage had been 46 Appledore Farm, empty ever since her grandfather died there three years ago. Mr. Stokesay had built himself a study, and had added to the house in so many ways, that when he died the owners raised the rent, and hitherto they had been unable to find a tenant. Mr. Stokesay had been strict and silent, but Euth felt a very reverent love for him. Little by little she had gleaned fragments of the story of the tall, thoughtful scholar ; now she involuntarily pictured him as she had last seen him, pacing up and down the garden behind the cottage, dressed in a long garment more like a dressing-gown than a coat, his broad, thoughtful forehead partly hidden by the brim of his brown felt hat. Euth smiled sadly as she fancied she could still see him grasp the sides of this brim with both hands and roll them up when he was puzzling out a difficulty. He had once been tutor of his college at Oxford ; he was poor, but well-connected, and it was expected he would rise in tlie world, and then he all at once fell in love with a penniless girl, the pretty, ignorant daughter of a small farmer. Euth knew Appledore Farm, 47 that her grandmother had died when her mother Kitty Stokesay was a baby, and Sally Voce, her grandfather's housekeeper, had told her over and over again how the sorrowing man had shut himself up with his child and his books. Philip Bryant often said to his daughter that her mother had been much too good for him, but Ruth did not know that the marriage of this idolized child, Kitty, whom Mr. Stokesay had educated up to his own level, had embittered her grand- father's nature far more than the dis- pleasure of his family and his friends on account of the improvidence of his own marriage. Kitty's choice, Philip Bryant, had been sent to a good school, but he had not cared to study, and his father's improvidence and ruin shortened the son's chance of educa- tion. The elder Bryant had been a small landholder ; he was a favourite with every one, and when his trouble came, his creditors had purchased the property — that is to say, Appledore and its belongings — and had allowed Bryant to free himself 48 Apple dove Farm, little by little from debt and to farm part of his own land as tbeir tenant. When Philip Bryant married Kitty Stokesay, she was only eighteen, and she was as clever as she was bright and beautiful. Mr. Stokesay could not help liking his handsome happy- tempered young son-in-law, but his pride was mortified, he had fondly hoped his Kitty would have married into what he considered to be her rightful position. Philip Bryant came of a good old family, but he had had few advantages, and Mr. Stokesay feared that he might have inherited his father's ex- travagant habits. The old man refused to live at Appledore, and settled himself in the cottage ; a legacy from a relative had enabled him to make it into a pleasant and suitable home. From the time her mother died little Ruth went regularly to school with her grandfather ; even when his last illness came upon him, he still took pleasure in teaching the intelligent girl, and although she had occasionally demurred when her Appledore Farm, 49 studies interfered with the long walks and rides she loved to take with her father, she had been too sweet-natured to per- severe in refusal. Ruth to-day walked along to the church- yard thinking how different life had been while he lived. She had learned little since bis death; she had read Mr. Clifford's books and she had nursed her aunt ; and then, as the girl thought over the last three months, she knew she had only begun to enjoy life since she had known Mr. Beving- ton. She passed the post-office, opposite to the little inn, and, instead of follow- ing the straggling line of houses which called itself the village of Church Marsh- field, she turned into an up-hill road on the right which led direct to the church. At this leafy time of year only a part of the old grey tower could be seen between the elm trees that rose above the low stone wall of the churchyard. A little farther a flight of steps with a turnstile at the top led into the grassed space with its irregular and lichen-spotted head-stones. VOL. I, E 50 Appledore Farm, Euth went on till she reached the east end ; there, just underneath the three- sided ancient window behind the altar, was a small, neat grave with a stone, on which were the names of her mother and her grandfather. Euth had been twelve years old when her -mother died, but she had never ceased to mourn her. To-daj she longed sorely for her loving sympathy, and as she knelt beside the grave, she unconsciously leaned against the head- stone. Yes, she was sure that her mother would have told her whether she was doing right in keeping this secret from her father. But her thoughts soon turned from her- self ; her orderly eyes were distressed by the sight of weeds on the grave, and she soon cleared the little plot from its foes. Then she cut the dead and faded blossoms from a yellow rose-tree which she had planted there, and twined the clematis and honeysuckle more securely round the head- stone. A faint sound made her start. What Appledore Farm, 5 1 was it ? It seemed to come from the grave next her mother's. Ruth held her breath in a sort of terror, and then, as she rose to her feet, she smiled. Close behind the turnstile, his rosy, chubby face pressed against it, as if trying to squeeze between the bars, was a small boy of about four years old ; a pinafore so entirely covered him from head to foot, that he looked like a short brown holland bolster, and he had been pulling so vigorously at the brim of his straw hat, that he had wrenched the two outside rows apart from the rest, and had almost hidden his tearful blue eyes. Ruth, however, recognized him at a glance. " Why, Georgy," she said, " is it you ? What are you doing here — eh, dear ? '' She reached the turnstile as she ended, and, bending down, she put her arm round the little boy and k'ssed him. At this, be first screwed one rosy fist into his eyes and then the other ; then, as Ruth passed by him down the steps, meaning to lift him E 2 i 52 Apple dove Farm, after her, he caught at her gown in terror and hid his face in its folds. " Dwoant'ee go, dwoant'ee; Georgy can't bide alone ; I wonnut," he said stur- dily, assuming the first person and looking steadily up at the tall lady. Ruth kissed him again and then lifted him down the steps. " But how do you come to be here all by yourself, Georgy — eh, darling?'' " 'Cos I wants to climb the big hill, an' grannie says she's other fish to fry," he said sturdily, with a rebellious look on his red chubby face. Euth stifled a laugh. " Little boys can't climb hills, Georgy ; it wouldn't be safe, dear, for you to climb up the hill." " I isn't a little boy now, I'se got nails in my boots," the child said, and he held up his stumpy foot so that she might see a row of thickly-set nails all round the sole. " That is grand," she said smiling, *' but, Georgy, had not you better go home ? It will soon be dinner-time." Appledore Farm, 53 He pressed his rosy, pouting lips to- gether, and eyed her scornfully. He was not at all afraid of Miss Bryant ; she talked to him as if she were his own age, and the small mite had a supreme consciousness of the inferiority of girls. He had been born and bred in one of the southern suburbs of London, and though he had picked up some country ways, he was quite free from any trace of the reverence sometimes still to be found in country village children. " I'se going up hill afore dinner," he said stoutly. Euth felt puzzled ; the child's home was some way off, and she doubted her power of enforcing obedience. "I'se got to find the way fust," the child said, "I lost it a' comin' along; do ycM know?" he gave her a sly, half -wondering look, " do you think you could find a way to grannie's house ? " " If I tried and you helped me, couldn't we find it between us ? " she said. He gave her a broad smile of approval. " I'll help you," he said, " when we 54 Appledore Farm, comes down the hill; you'se got to go up there along of me fust." He looked at her defiantly, as if to see how far he might presume on her patience. Euth laughed at him. " Look here, Georgy," she said, " we'll make a bargain ; I want you to take care of me as far as granny's house now, and then some day I'll take care of you up the hill." .He sniggered, as if the proposal amused him. '' You take care o' me ?" he said ; " how can a gal take care of a man ? " He let her, however, take a firm hold of his wrist and lead him in the direction of Little Marshfield. '' What a drasp you's got," he said, looking up in Euth's face ; " I didn't know you was sich a drasper." At a turn of the road she spied Mrs. Voce hurrying along, evidently in search of the truant, and kissing his red, firm cheek Euth set him free. '' Eun along to granny," she said, and she turned back towards Appledore. CHAPTER ly. Me. Bryant's habit was to go round his fields before breakfast, and to return borne at half -past eight, so that the postman had always delivered the Appledore letters before the farmer came in. Ruth started and blushed as she went forward to kiss her father; she was so conscious of the letter lying hid in her pocket, a letter from Mr. Bevington. In the week that had gone by she had begun to get used to the burden of her secret, but it now weighed more heavily than it did at first. Mr. Bevington asked her in this letter to meet him in the Mill Valley, a secluded place not far from her home, but still not the sort of place she would have chosen for a meeting, for the part of the valley he specified, The Gutter, 56 Appledore Farm, as it was called, between two loftj hills, was singularly lonely. If by chance anyone saw her there, alone with Mr. Bevington, she knew there would probably be gossip about her, and she felt she should deserve it. Her father was so silent and preoccu- pied that he scarcely looked at her this morning, and her own silence at breakfast was unnoticed. When she was alone again she re-read her letter, her colour deepened, and her heart swelled as she went over the ardent words. She did not think for a moment of refusing Mr, Bevington's sum- mons, indeed, after this second reading, she told herself she was a coward and untrusting: he who loved her so verv dearly would not expose her to the slightest risk of gossip ; he must know the valley better than she did, for he had spent hours there fishing, and he had probably made himself sure that the farther end between the hills was never visited by wayfarers ; but she could not shake off a certain shrinking fear, when at length Appledore Farm, 57 the time lie had fixed on, five o'clock, drew near. The way to the Mill Valley opened on the right, some way nearer home than her grandfather's cottage; a short road bor- dered by hedges led to a gate ; when she had crossed the meadow beyond the gate the hills began to rise on either side, and a little babbling brook came merrily dashing along its yellow, stony bed, as if it were in haste to greet her. At first the valley was wide and the brook ran broadly about half-way between the hills ; these were covered with closely- cropped turf, and dotted with dwarf bushes of golden gorse ; to-day the sun was on them, and they seemed to glow with brightness, varied by the occasional cloud shadows that fell on the crossing hill- flanks and added interest to the lovely scene. Here and there, high up on the hill- side, were busy, nibbling sheep, pale yellow blots among the tufts of brake that shared the sides of the hills with the gorse ; every now and then on the right a rift showed 58 Appledore Farm, between the hills, leading upwards by a narrow ever-mounting path, and from each of these rifts, or " gutters " as the country folk called them, came brisk little streams, hurrying and foaming over the stones in their course to swell the brook that ran down the valley from the mill. The mill was on the level, nestled among trees on the left side of the narrowing valley. The huge mill-wheel stood idle, as if it were taking rest, and some children were playing among the rubbish in the mill-yard ; a little way beyond, a single plank bridge crossed the narrow stream, and Euth went over it. Usually she jumped the stream, or, when recent rains had greatly increased its breadth, she would spring across from one stone in its bed to another, but to- day she felt timid and preoccupied ; she was joyful at the thought of seeing her lover, but she shrank from the news which he might have to tell her. If, after he had described her to his parents, and they had seen how much he loved her, they still persisted in their refusal to Apple dore Farm, 59 sanction the engagement, the girl thought that, terrible as it would be for both, Mr. Bevington ought to give her up; she should not think it right to go on with anything of which her father disapproved, and she ought not to encourage her lover in disobedience ; and then she felt that it was too hard, too bitter, she could not give up her lover ; she could set him free, but, until he cared for someone else, she must always love him. " I could not leave off loving him even then," she said mournfully ; " there is no one like him, no one." The valley made a sudden turn, and as Euth looked back, the mill was hidden from her sight by the long flank of the hill which stretched across the path, showing over its shoulder the varied peaks of three other hills, while from the right, as she stood looking towards it, another lofty sunlit hill sloped down to the valley, its base crossed by the projecting flank from the side on which she stood. The wind had risen, and as it swept over the brake 6o Apple do re Farm, on tlie hill- side, the backs of the fronds showed a blue-gray against their bronzed surfaces ; but to-day Ruth did not linger. Usually she loved to sit and gaze at the scenery of the lovely valley, but she knew she had still some way to go before she could reach the trysting-place named in the letter. She had to cross more than one plank bridge, as the brook wandered at its own sweet will, now on this side the path, now on that, so close to the rocky upland that there was no passage between. On the right the rocks became even steeper, but on the left the up-and- down pathway was bordered by shelves of rock, behind which the hills receded far- ther and farther away. Ruth felt that she had grown old since she was last here : then she had searched the rocky ledge for fairy nooks, and had found circles of fairy cups and fairy rings of seats. The girl blushed with shame at her own childishness ; it seemed to her that Mr. Bevington would think such fancies silly. She was now close to the end of Appledore Farm. 6i the valley, her path was mounting rapidly, and the brook lay some way below it ; the water sparkled like diamonds in the sun- shine as it fell over a succession of stones, which barred and at the same time hur- ried its course. A dark ridge, purple with ling, rose steeply in front, and. seemed to end the valley and bar farther passage. A few steps on showed a steep opening on the right leading up to the source of the brook, which came plunging and foaming down the purple ravine ; here the brook parted into two streams, one rushed on down the valley to the Mill, the other fol- lowed a path that turned abruptly to the left, and wound round the base of the dark purple hills. Ruth took this path, and was quickly out of sight of the valley. Before her, at some distance, was a stretch of open country, but she soon took a path that led her once more inbetween the hills; a rushing sound guided her onward : it was the noise of the water- fall, behind which she was to meet her lover. She saw Mr. Bevington lying on the 62 Appledore Farm. grass, waiting for her ; tlie noise drowned the sound of her footsteps. She went for- ward shyly, though her heart was full of joy ; all at once he started up, as if some instinct warned him of her presence. "My own darling, my precious girl," he said, as he clasped her in his arms, '' how sweet and good of you to come." She looked so beautiful, her eyes were so full of love as she smiled at him, that his passion every moment grew stronger. In his stately conventional home he had been asking himself the meaning of the glamour which had surrounded Ruth, and had made her seem so different from other women ; he had told himself that the at- traction he had felt had been only a fancy, a fancy created by her fresh innocence and loveliness and heightened by daily associa- tion. He knew better now ; he thought her more beautiful, more loveable than ever, as he pushed her blushing face gently from him and then kissed it again and again. At first E/Uth was passive, she was so happy in being thus assured of his love ; Appledore Farm, ^'^ but presently she drew herself away and looked at him. "Have you seen your father and mother ? " she said, timidly. He took her hand in his as he answered, " Yes, I have been at home with them, my darling ; but I cannot think now of any one but you." He was fondling her hand between his own, " Did you — did they — " She hesitated, and he looked at her inquiringly. " What does the darling want to know ? " he said, in a petting, tender tone that thrilled through Ruth and made her feel weak with happiness. " I mean what did they say about us ? Do they know you are here to-day ? " He looked at her sharply; it seemed impossible that such unsophisticated ignorance of life could be real, and then the clear truth he met in her eyes shamed him out of his momentary doubt. " No, they do not know," he said. ^' The fact is, I found the house full of visitors, down for Whitsuntide, you kuow. I have 64 Apple dor e Farm, not as yet had the chance of a quiet talk with my father and mother. I shall join them in town to-morrow, but I fancy I shall wait a bit before I speak ; do not let us waste our precious happiness, darling, by talking of them; let us speak of ourselves." He again tried to put his arm round her, but Ruth moved farther away. " Is it right for us to meet till my father at least knows of our engagement ? I should be easier and happier too if your people knew. I should feel more honest ; but, please, you must let me tell my father." He drew her close to him and kissed her. " My darling, that would ruin every- thing. Your father is proud, and he would consider it his duty to tell my father of our attachment. He does not know my people. I do not wish to speak against them, but they have worldly notions ; any appeal to them would be useless. Let us be patient, dearest girl; I must soon be my own master as far as money is concerned, and then we shall be free." Appledore Farm, 65 Ruth sighed. She loved him more dearly than ever, but she shrank from the burden of her secret. " You could trust my father ; indeed you could," she said. ** If I told it him as our secret, he would not speak of it to any one. You will trust him, will you not ? " She looked pleadingly at him, but he turned away ; he began to walk restlessly up and down the grassy nook behind the waterfall. Presently he came quickly up to her ; taking her hands in his, he looked sadly in her eyes. " You must blame yourself if I give you pain," he said, — his pathetic tone made the girl shiver with fear that she had offended him, — " but it seems to me very hard that you should ask me to trust your father, when you will not put any trust in me. No, Ruth, hear me out," for the girl put her hand on his arm and looked at him with eyes full of love ; " I know you think you love me, but you do not love, as I love you. I ask you to trust yourself to me in simple faith;, you believe that I love you: — that is a cold VOL. I. E 66 Appledore Farm, way of putting it : I love you so, my girl, that I would trust all I have to your keeping, — that is how I love you, — and in return, you will not consent to keep the knowledge of our love to yourself for perhaps a few months. Ah ! Ruth, I fear you do not really care for me ; it would not make you very sorry if you never saw me again." The pain in her face touched him. " If I had not cared for you very much, do you think I should be here now ? " she said in a quiet voice. He took her in his arms again and held her there, passionately kissing her. " Forgive me," he whispered, " I am ungrateful. The truth is, I am distracted to feel that we must part again. I hate going back to things and people which are not you, my sweet one ; I long to take you with me now at once." She smiled at this. '' I must preach patience now," she said. *' If you think it will only be for a few months, I will try not to mind the Appledore Fainn, 67 secret, but we must not meet again in this way ; there is every chance that even this meeting may come to my father's knowledge, and " — she paused, a sob rose in her throat at the thought of her trusting father — " it would almost break his heart to think I could deceive him." There were tears in her sweet, tender eyes, and her lover kissed them away. '' I have a cure for that," he said joy- fully, as if a sudden thought had come to him, "we will get married, quite quietly you know, and then, if any gossip should reach your father about our meetings, you must confess — that's all; I am sure he will admit that a wife is bound to keep her husband's secrets." He looked so delighted with this solu- tion of the difiBcalty, he kissed her so tenderly before he would let her answer him, that for a moment Ruth yielded her- self to the happy dream ; she was going to be his wife, and of course she must trust him : but the feeling passed swiftly away, F 2 68 Apple dor e Farm. and she again freed herself from his close embrace. " No, no ! that would be still worse," she said, " I could not marry unless my father knew, and you would offend your parents past forgiveness. Do not let us begin by being undutiful ; we could not expect a blessing on such a marriage." ** You dear little Puritan ! If you knew more of the world, you would see that a love-marriage nowadays is sure to dis- please worldly parents, unless, indeed, the girl has money, and that is just the thing I have no need to seek in a wife. If my godfather had only died when he was so ill in the spring, I should have been free now to do as I like. Do not be prudish, darling ; try to think only of the happiness you can give me. I know, sweet one, you would rather please me than yourself ; leave it to me to arrange it all, and then I will write." He spoke quickly, while he flushed with excitement, and he caught at her hand as if he meant to hold it till she consented. Apple dove Farm. 69 But though she loved him so dearly, Ruth felt that he did not understand her. " I cannot do it," she said ; " forgive me ; please do not ask me. I know it would be wrong. I — I shall not change towards you ; but I am sure we had best not meet like this till you are, as you say, free." '* That is absurd, monstrous even. Do you suppose I can exist without seeing you, you beautiful, cold-hearted girl ? You do not know your own feelings ; if you love me, you will be unhappy without me ; the best way would be to take you away and marry you: you would be made happy in spite of yourself." He looked as if he were in earnest. Ruth smiled; she felt full trust in I^erself, and she trusted her lover. She would have thought it a sin to doubt his respect for the woman he wished to make his wife ; but such a thought did not come to her, her trust in him was equal to her love, and her ignorance of evil kept her free from fear. *' We must say Good-bye,'' she said, in 70 Appledore Farm, an unwilling voice, for she could not bear to give up the dear delight of his presence. " I shall be missed, and then there will be questions, and — and I can't tell a story, you know." " Not even for me, hard-hearted child ! " He put his hand under her chin while he looked into her eyes. "You trusting darling ! well, I give in to you now ; you do not ask even a promise from me, and yet you promise to be true. I yield now, but not for long; you will hear from me soon, and I know I shall find you more reasonable; you will write to me, my precious love." " I will answer your letters," she said, shyly. Ruth was love-blind ; she looked on Mr. Bevington as her superior in every way, and she felt very timid at the idea of writing to him ; then her natural hopefulness suggested that there would be something to answer in his letters. He kissed her passionately; she drew her hand lingeringly from his warm clasp ; Apple dor e Farm, 71 she turned and began to walk away. Slie suddenly came back ; lie thought she had repented, and he went joyfully to meet her. "I do trust you fully," she said, before he reached her ; '* I will be true to you, but remember you are as free as if you had never seen me ; if love will not hold you true, a promise would not ; it is different with me, I cannot help my love." She retreated as she spoke, alarmed at her own confession ; and she had fled away up the glen before he could reach her. •BOOK THE SECOND, CHAPTER V. Ruth was strong and healthy both in mind and body, and her love was also strong : for days after that meeting in the glen she had felt that she must recall her lover, she could not bear the separa- tion from him ; her heart ached with the pain of loss. Who could say, she asked herself, how long it might be before she saw his dear face again, or felt his kisses on her lips ? She could not sleep, she could not eat ; she was so dreamy and unrecollected, that her father often had to speak twice before she took in his meaning. If she had been less self-absorbed, she might have wondered that her father did not • remark on her abstraction ; but besides the constant thought of her lover, she had to keep up "j^ Appledore Farm, a fierce struggle with her inclinations. Mr. Bevington had kept his word, and had written to urge a private marriage ; he had planned that Ruth should say she was going to see her aunt, and that she should meet him half-way at a place he named ; he had arranged everything, and then he proposed that when the term of her visit was ended, she should return to Appledore; he said that Euth had told him her father rarely wrote to her ; there would, therefore, be little risk of discovery. Ruth did not hesitate in her refusal ; she said it was impossible she could deceive her father. But when her lover wrote again imploring her to meet him at the waterfall, she found it much harder to resist ; but she at last took courage ; she wrote that she could not meet him till she might do so openly. He persevered; he wrote reproachful letters, telling her she was selfish and cold, that she did not love him ; but Ruth remained firm, both in her love and in her refusal to see him : if it was so hard to refuse his written Appledore Farm, 77 request, what would it be to say " no " face to face? She dared not risk sucli a trial ; his love was so masterful, it had so strange a power over her, that she shrank from it while she longed for its presence. On Christmas Day she and her father dined together alone, and suddenly Ruth awaked from her long preoccupation. She was looking across the table at her father, and she felt shocked at the change she saw in him ; he had grown thin and haggard, and he seemed restless. She asked herself whether he had felt a change in her, and was unhappy at her want of confidence, and then she smiled at her own vanity ; it was not likely that he had noticed any change. She could not expect to be as much to her father as he was to her. Was he so much to her ? Ruth reddened with self-reproach; slie had, perhaps, done her duty as usual, but she had not been living only for her father, as she had said she would when her grand- father died : she had put Reginald Bev- ington first. She sat looking at the worn yZ Appledore Farm, face till all the warmtli of lier nature rose in protest against lier selfishness ; it had blinded her to his increased anxiety, for she was sure there had not been that drawn look in his cheeks in the summer. " Are you well, father dear ? " she said, anxiously. He smiled at her wistful face ; he told her not to worry about him, and he set himself to remove the impression she had taken. But Ruth's eyes had opened, and she wrote that night to Mr. Bevington. She wrote that although she loved him as dearly as ever, she felt that she must leave off writing to him till she could tell her father of her en- gagement. This correspondence was deceitful and might come to her father's knowledge and terribly distress him. Mr. Bevington wrote again twice, but Euth had not answered him, and two months had passed since she had heard from her lover. It was May now, and the weather was Appledore Farm. 79 chilly. Nine months ago Euth parted from her lover at the waterfall in the glen, but the time had passed so slowly at the farm that it seemed a far longer period. Euth was saying this to herself as she sat beside the fire watching her sleeping father ; Mr. Bryant had smoked his pipe in the porch and had come into the sitting-room half an hour ago. He settled himself in his chair, and closed his eyes without a word or a look for his daughter. All at once he started in his sleep, he muttered something, and Ruth thought he said *' CHfFord.'* She had wondered more than once why Mr. Clifford came now so often to Appledore. He was a land surveyor, and possibly he gave her father advice, but she could hardly fancy that he was needed so often at the farm. However, his visits seemed to cheer her father; he looked less worried when his friend went away. Ruth told herself this was another instance of her self-conceit ; she used to fancy that Mr. Clifford came to see her, and she had enjoyed his visits 8o Appledore Farm. before slie knew Mr. Bevingfcon ; now he scarcely spoke to lier, and he did not offer to lend lier any books. A moan broke from the sleeper's lips, and then a loud cry,— "Help, help, Ruth!'* The girl was greatly startled ; she went forward and put her hand on his shoulder. Her father opened his eyes and looked at her in a dazed, half-conscious way. " You had better wake up, dear," she said, cheerfully ; " you have slept longer than usual." He did not give his usual cheerful smile as he answered her. " I wonder at that. I was having such unpleasant dreams, that I should have been better awake." Then he sat silent, staring into the burning logs as if he saw something special in them. Ruth was summoning her courage. Whether it made her father angry or not, she was determined to share his trouble ; she might be able to help him, or if that Appledore Farm, 8i was beyond her power, she could at least give him her sympathy, and it must ease his heart, she thought, to share his burden with her. She believed that it was a money difficulty, and in that she could help him when her next birthday came round. Sally Voce had said that Mr. Stokesay had left his money to Ruth when she came of age. Ruth knew that her grandfather had died suddenly before his will was signed, but Sally Voce had told her that would make no difference. Ruth had long ago determined that when this money came to her, she should buy her father a horse and a reaping machine. His old horse was past work, and it made the girl nervous when her father rode Jack home from Purley on a dark night. But if this trouble was debt, and she sorely feared it was, then the money must go to pay her father's creditors. She was so shy at beginning that her voice startled her ; it sounded hard and forced. " I want you to tell me what is troubling VOL. T. G S2 Appledore Farm, you, father ; it makes me unhappy ; I know that you are very much worried." The firm tone made him feel weaker, and yet he was angry at having to yield. He threw up his arms in despair. '' Can't you leave me alone?" he said. " I told you you were fanciful when you asked before." Euth went and knelt down beside him ; she took possession of both his hands. '* Father dear," — her shyness had gone, she spoke very tenderly, — " I know there is trouble, dear ; just now in your sleep you asked me to help you ; suppose you let me be of use to you now you are awake, won't you ? " He freed one of his hands and put it up to hide his eyes from her loving scrutiny. Presently Ruth saw tears fall through his fingers. She kept silence; it was so terrible to her to see her father cry. '' You had better leave me alone, my girl," he said, when he could steady his voice ; " there's no use in meeting trouble Apple dor e Farm, 83- half-Tvay; you'll know about it soom enongli." She waited, but as he was silent, she^ said, — "But, father dear, I want to know now : are we in debt ?" He sat upright and looked at her in surprise. " Who can have told you that ? Did Sally ? I did not think sKe would have chattered." '' No one told me, dear; you see, I'm a witch," she laughed brightly, " I guessed it, I know you have had losses both with sheep and cows." He smiled at this and stroked her hair. " No, no, my lass, I don't deceive myself like that ; such losses as mine have been don't pull a man down all at once if he's been thrifty. It's not my fault, Ruth, that I wasn't taught to be careful ; as long as I had your mother, I kept straight ; I lost my balance when she left me, and I've never got right again^ She was too good for me, that's G 2 84 Appledore Farm, the truth, and God saw it, and he took her to a better place." Ruth rose ; she put her arm round her father's neck and kissed him. " Do you owe very much ? " she whispered. " More than I can pay for years to come," he said, sullenly. It did not seem a wise moment in which to make her offer, and she sat thinking what could be done to save expense. "I think we can do without Faith," she said cheerfully ; " or suppose we send Bridget away, I can manage with Faith ; she is a willing little creature." "No; I can't have you spoiling your hands and tiring yourself with house- work. How can cook do without Faith ? She helps in the kitchen work." He spoke irritably, as if he thought the proposal unnecessary, but Ruth was determined. *! I think better of cook than that," she said, smiling, ''and if she does not Appledore Farm, 85 like tlie plan, will it not be as well to send her away with Bridget and get a cheaper sort of servant ? " " Save five pounds a year and be miserable," he said ; " that sort of saving does more harm than good. There, child, say no more about it ; I'm not going to let you suffer, I've injured you enough already." " How can you have injured me ? " she said, laughing ; *' you are the best father a girl ever had." He pushed her away as she tried to put her arm round him, and he rose from his chair. ''After all, I had better tell you," he said in a hoarse, strange voice, that filled her with fear; "you'll not caU me the best father in the world, I take it, when you know that I am no better than a thief. Yes, a thief," — for she had forced herself to smile at what she considered exagger- ation, — " I have robbed you of your grand- father's savings, Ruth ; every penny of it is made away with." '86 Appledore Farm. He turned from her and leaned against the wall; he shrank from meeting her eyes. " Is that all ? " she said, brightly. " I was just going to ask you to use the money as soon as it was mine to give you, so you see it makes no real difference." " Child, you do not understand. Your grandfather was a learned man, but he thought he knew more than he did; he had left this money to your mother to do what she pleased with, and he did not alter his will till just before he died ; then he put off signing it till he could get the doctor and the parson to witness it. He never signed it, and the money came to me." He paused, and Ruth stood silent ; she hardly knew what to say. " I knew he meant it for you, and never meant to touch it, but I had a run of bad luck in a way you little think of. I had to draw some money out to meet my losses, and then I thought that if I won I might replace all, and yet not be a loser. I Appledore Farm, 87 was a fool, and fate has always gone against me since I lost your mother. You have not a penny, my girl; your father has spent every farthing that was yours.*' " But father—" He put out his hand to keep her away ; then he crossed the room, opened the door and closed it behind him. CHAPTER VL The morning was full of misfc, tlie sky was hidden by grey cloud masses, and these hung so low that rain seemed to be in- evitable. Ruth was accustomed to dis- regard weather ; she had gone daily to her grandfather's cottage through many a storm of hail and rain and snow, and she started this morning without hesitation, though she took an umbrella by way of protection. Her father's confession had troubled her, not on account of the loss of her little fortune, but because she was so perfectly exact in her own dealings that she could not realize how her father, her own dearly-loved father, could have done this wrong. " He meant to replace it," she argued. But she could not at once reconcile her- Appledore Farm, 89 self to the fact, and tliat niglit she had slept very little. Her father had finished breakfast before she appeared, he gave her a hasty kiss and went out. Ruth could not settle to anything ; it seemed to her that the mere sending away of one servant would not be a very large economy, and yet she shrank from turning herself into a servant, more, perhaps, than she would have done before she loved Mr. Bevington ; he had kissed her hands, and had told her they were *' white and lovely;" she did not want to spoil their softness, but she must do something to help her father. She might try teaching ; she had been so well taught that she could, perhaps, teach others. This last idea came while she sat at breakfast, and it helped her to be definite. She rose from table bent on a visit to Sally Voce. In youth, Mrs. Voce had been nursemaid in a good family, and she was supposed to be learned about the manners and customs of her superiors ; in earlier days she had given E/Uth many a lecture on the impro- 90 Appledore Farm, priety of climbing gates and fences, but the child had loved her in spite of what Philip Bryant called "Sally's frumpish- ness." Euth often paid the old woman a visit, though she lived at some distance from Appledore. Their relations had not, however, been so cordial since Mrs. Voce took upon herself to give that lecture respecting Mr. Bevington. Ruth remem- bered it as she walked along the high road that led to Little Marsh field. On either side the hedges were powdered with green ; among the trees behind the hedge on the right the larches were covered with ex- quisite pink-tipped tassels of greenery. The birds chirped in an uneasy excitement, they evidently expected storm ; the hedge bank was gemmed with blue and white and yellow, with here and there a tuft of rosy ragged robin peeping out among the quieter flowers; at one point the road became fragrant, and Ruth stooped down to gather a bunch of violets for her old nurse. At last the dulness of the straight Appiedore Farm, 91 highway ended, a few straggling cottages appeared on both sides, and then came a couple of alehouses, nearly facing one another, the " Pig and Whistle " on one creaking sign-board and " Saint George and the Dragon " on the other. Ruth turned into a gap by a pond be- tween the cottages, and soon reached a narrow path beside a dashing little stream. The brook came hurrying from a mill farther on, and divided about a score of picturesque cottages, each isolated in its own garden and shaded in summer-time by fruit-trees, which already gave a fair promise of blossom. Some of these cottages faced the httle stream, others were set at right angles to it, and for the benefit of the in- habitants on the left of the brook, who could not otherwise have reached the vil- lage, a small foot-bridge was placed across the shining pebble-bottomed water. Ruth crossed this bridge just after she had passed the little chapel. Mr. Bryant sometimes said that this chapel was Mrs. Voce's chief attraction in the village, and 92 Apple dor e Farm. that the minister of the said chapel had a comfortable time in. winter by Sally's fire- side. An opening in the hedge, already leafy in this sheltered spot, showed Sally herself sitting out in front of her cottage, knitting as diligently as a German hausfrau. She looked rosy and healthy ; her clean muslin cap was tied under her double chin by green cap-strings ; her lilac cotton gown and apron were of one pattern, though plainly the apron was the younger, it was so much fuller of colour than the gown was ; as she sat leaning back in her high- backed rush-bottomed chair, her neatly- shod feet showed blue woollen stockings of her own knitting, they were good-sized, sensible-looking feet and ankles suited to her tall, stout figure. Sally rose up at the sound of footsteps, and peered curiously forward ; she was buxom to look at. *'Eh, Miss Ruth," she smiled at the sight of her visitor, " I didn't think to see you this misty, moisty morning, as you Appledore Farm. 93 used to call it when you was little. How are you, Miss, and liow's Mr. Bryant ? " " How are you, Sally ? fairly well ? You look as well as possible, in spite of the mist. I did not fancy you would sit outside on such a morning, though." '' I must have the air, miss, it's meat and drink to me ; if your poor grand- father would have took advice from me, and had taken the air outside, instead of sitting in that sfcuffy library he thought so much of from morning till night, it's my belief he'd still be here." She had pushed her chair towards Miss Bryant, and then, seeing that Euth did not accept it, she went on, "Will you walk inside, miss ? " It was an ordinary one-storied cottage, with a neat parlour in front and a kitchen behind, but Mrs. Yoce had persuaded her landlord to add a shed at the back of the kitchen, which greatly increased her com- fort. The walls of her parlour were papered ; there was an old bureau in one corner, on which stood bits of old china ; 94- Appledore Farm, a few chairs, quaint enougli to bo coveted by a collector, gave a certain distinction to the room. Mrs. Voce drew forward an easy chair which had once belonged to Mr. StokeSaj, and which the farmer had given her. Ruth seated herself, but she did not find it easy to say what she wanted ; it was very diffi- cult to announce her intention of leaving Appledore, without speaking of her father's trouble or seeming to blame him. Mrs. Voce waited a few minutes, then she said, — ^'Have you seen Mr. Clifford lately, Miss Ruth ? " Ruth raised her eye-brows in wonder. Mr. Clifford was so very far from her thoughts. " No, I have not seen him ; I believe he has been at the farm." " He's a good man, miss, and he would be a good friend to you if you would let him." "Never mind Mr. Clifford, Sally; I want to ask you something. I want you Appledore Farm, 95 to tell me if you know how people get engagements, — I mean engagements as governesses or companions." Mrs. Voce looked sharply at Miss Bryant, and folded lier fat hands in her lap. /* There's different ways. Miss, and some takes one and some takes another." She blinked her small blue eyes at her com- panion, while her pink, plump cheeks quivered with curiosity. At first sight Mrs. Voce looked unin- telligent, a smooth-faced, easy-going woman, but a closer reading showed a parsimonious and persevering mouth, and a determined chin that matched better with Sally's sharp tongue than her placid, comfortable, general aspect did. She was, like many other women, full of contradic- tions ; she grudged the payment of an extra sixpence to any one she employed, and to a begging tramp of whom she knew nothing she would be generous in the way of food and clothing. Her husband had died years ago, so had her only child ; g6 Appledore Farm, but lie had left a young wife witli an in- fant and very little to live on, and when any one taxed Mrs. Voce with stinginess, she excused it by saying that she was " saving for little George.'' " I want to know the best way," Ruth said. *' You'll excuse me, Miss Ruth, but what can any one like you want to know for, if I may ask ? " Ruth had hoped to escape this question. Now it was put, she looked hard at the old woman. "We are not so well off at the Farm as we used to be, Sally. If I were to leave home and earn my own living, I fancy one maid would be enough at Appledore." Mrs. Voce sat with blinking eyes and pushed-up lower lip a minute or two, with- out answering ; then she said slowly, — 'Tm sorry to hear such news. Miss Ruth, but I'm not a mossel surprised. Who could be surprised as knew the goings on there's been since poor Miss Kitty and your grandpa was looked to a better place?" Apple dor e Farm. 97 Riitli held up her head and her eyes brightened with anger. " What do you mean, Sally ? what has been going on ? " She thought the old woman had found out her engagement to Mr. Bevington, and she was determined to silence her. Sally gave her a glance of compassion, " You poor lamb ! there is no one left to tell you but me, an' I must take the chance of making you angry. You think, maybe, 'tis failure of crops an' losses of stock an' what not that have brought this trouble ; 'tisn't neither ; 'tis something worse, Miss Ruth, 'tis betting on 'orses and neglect of business, that's what 'tis, but Lor', how should you know ? There's those as knows your father well, an' 'as seen him at all the races round ; you've only got to ask," Bhe said, in answer to the girl's look of scornful unbelief. " Hold your tongue," Ruth said sternly, ** you have no right to talk in this way, or even to listen to tales against my father;" she paused and tried to quiet VOL. T. H 98 Apple dor e Farm, herself, she felt so vehemently angry. Presently she said, as if the talk had not taken this new departure, " Well, Sally, I shall be glad if you can tell me the best way to get the employment I spoke of ; I am shy of answering an advertisement, for I have so little opportunity of making inquiries about people." Mrs. Voce had reddened at the girl's rebuke, and she felt sore and sulky ; she did not know how to answer, but she was unwilling to confess her ignorance, for a good deal of her influence over others depended on her assumption of universal knowledge. '^ 'Taint, to my thinkin', a good plan at all for you to go far away from home an' leave your poor father to go to worse rack an' ruin ; no, miss, you might be quite near to him if you pleased, near to everyone who cares for you ; yes, miss, there's one as loves the very ground you walks on, one as would be glad to care for you altogether if so be as you'd let him, miss." A sudden rush of consciousness dyed Appledore Farm. 99 the girl's face and throat and ears, to a deeper hue even than Sally's ; it was plain to her that the old woman alluded to Mr. Bevington. " I do not understand," she said gently. The change in her tone puzzled Mrs. Voce ; she had not yet forgiven Ruth for what she considered her daring, but this seeming meekness mollified her. " Ah, you know who I mean," she said, blinking at the girl, who had turned a little away to avoid her companion's scrutiny ; '* you've guessed right, who could I mean bat Mr. Clifford ? " Ruth rose hastily from her chair. ''You are dreaming, Sally," she said, and she laughed. '' Mr. Clifford and I are good friends, but we never wish to be anything more to one another." " Speak for yourself, miss," the old voice said with extra sharpness ; " I know better nor that ; why Mr. Clifford's cared for you ever since you was a child of twelve or so, and he would have said so, I fancy, if that young gentleman hadn't H 2 lOO Appledore Farm, come spoilin' sport." She gave a keen look at Ruth, but the girl appeared to be unmoved. '^ Bless you, miss, I knows the signs, sometimes when I've been looking out of winder at your gran'pa's, I've seen you go out of the gate and meet Mr. Clifford ; maybe you'd give him a little nocl, and you pass on ; but not he, he'd turn his 'orse, an' he'd stay there fixed like a monument, a-starin' after you till the last bit o' your skirts was hid by the turn of the road. See here. Miss Euth, Mr. Clifford can help your papa much better than you can help him, an' he knows the way, I bet ; do listen, miss," the girl had turned away and was moving to the door. ''Mr. Clifford has a beautiful house in Purley, an' I'm told by them as have seen her, for the poor lady's a Invalid, that his sister dresses in silks and the best of everything. Then he's so good, 'twas all along of he that my landlord built the wood- shed back of this ; ah, he's a regular good sort, that he is, an' he's got a-plenty to be good with." Appledore Farm, loi Sally paused, completely out of breath, for she could gabble when need hurried her words, and she had sadly feared that Rath would leave the cottage without listening to her eulogy ; but Euth waited because she had something more to say. " I hope, Sally, that you have not told anyone else what you said just now about my father, if you did such a thing I would never speak to you again. Now good-bye, and forget that you ever repeated such a falsehood." She went out of the cottage, and hurried on, not by the way she had come, for she knew several of the cottagers, and she was not in a mood to chat with them to-day ; she went further up the brook- bordered lane, and then took a turning that opened on the right, with an ancient wall on one side and a barn on the other ; a barn which exhibited an elaborate amount of patchwork on its side, the one part con- sisting of horizontal planks interrupted by a block of half-timbered brickwork, while on to this were patched short planks going 102 Apple dove Farm, all ways ; there was a good deal of varied colour in the way of greens and lovely greys on this woodwork, but none to bear comparison with the rich warm glow on the moss-grown thatch above. Two small figures, with quickly dropped curtseys, barred Ruth's way as she passed the barn ; they wore straw hats and black stockings, one had a pink frock with a grey sash, the other's frock was brown and her sash yellow ; both had their mottled arms full of loaves. Ruth nodded, and then she wondered whether the father of these children had money to pay for the bread they were carrying home, or, whether like herself, they would go on eating and drinking in ignorance, till the day of reckoning came, and they found that every crust they ate was at the expense of strangers. She had by this time come out again into the high road beyond the village, and she hurried homewards full of anxious thought ; it certainly seemed cowardly to leave her father when he was in trouble, Appledore Farm* 103 but if she stayed what could she do to help him ? By going away she could earn her own living, and perhaps more than she needed for herself, and she thought it would be very sweet to be able to help her father ever so little. A sudden thought of her lover disturbed her, he would not like her to work for money, she was sure he would not ; and then, though Ruth was not a day-dreamer, she had a sudden vision of walking out in London, if she went there, and meeting Reginald ; a rush of sweetness chased all the trouble from her mind, as she walked on picturing this meeting with her lover. A horse's tread sounded on the road, and its rider came up a narrow turning ; the horse was reined up at her side, while the rider's " Good-day, Miss Bryant," made her look round and shake hands with Mr. CHf- ford, as he bent down to her from his saddle. She had once greatly liked this thoughtful- looking man, and although for some time past he had become uninteresting to her, she had never felt a shadow of dislike to 104 Appledore Farm. kim ; to-day, as she turned and faced him, she almost shivered with disgust. '' I was on my way to Appledore," he said, in an indifferent tone, though his eyes for an instant glowed as he looked at her ; " shall I find your father in, do you think ? " Euth glanced at him as she answered, and his set face and the calm of his dark grey eyes reassured her ; it was evident that Sally Voce had spoken as she wished, just because the old woman disliked Mr. Bevington. " My father is sure to be in at dinner- time ; won't you stay and dine ? then you are sure to see him." His straight-featured sensible face brightened, a grave smile spread over it, till he looked singularly genial. " You are very kind," he said ; " but I am pressed for time ; if T do not find Mr. Bryant in, I must try again later in the day, as I shall be in the neighbourhood ; I have a special reason for wishing to see him." He looked grave as he ended, and Apple do re Farm, 105 Euth felt that his visit was connected with her father's trouble. Formerly she had looked on Mr. Clifford as a helpful friend, and now the old feeling of reliance came back ; she wondered why she had consulted Sally Voce, when she could trust to such a much wiser counsellor. '' Mr. Clifford," she said, ** I want you to tell me something." She thought he looked vexed, as he answered in a repressive voice, — *' Yes, certainly, if I can do so." She hurried out her words, wondering at her own impulsive confidence. " Will you tell me how I can help my father ? I am sure you know about his troubles. I — I think of leaving home as a governess, or something; I feel I ought somehow to help my father. Can you help me to find a situation ? " She fixed her eyes on him while she spoke, thinking how well-kept and trim he looked, from his closely-cut hair and whiskers, to his well-brushed grey suit ; but, as she ended, his sun-browned io6 Appledore Farm, face flushed with sudden anger, and he drew his straight eyebrows together. *' I fancy you have thought of the very worst possible way to help your father. I know it is his greatest comfort to have you with him, whether he is in trouble or not. If I were you I would give up the thought of leaving him. Now, if you will allow me, I will ride on, and try to see him." He bowed to her and rode on to Apple- dore. Ruth drew a deep breath of relief as she looked after him. *' How absurd of me," she said; '* I wonder which was the greatest goose, Sally for inventing her love-story, or 1 who believed it." CHAPTER YII. Mr. Clifpoed's pace slackened as be drew near Cliurcli Marslifield. Ruth's idea of leaving home had greatly disturbed him ; he had loved her, as Sally had said, for years past, though for the last year or so his love had seemed to him hopeless. When "Ruth returned from nursing her aunt, he found the girl completely changed ; he could not at first decide whether this change had been caused by Mr. Bevington or by some new friend she had met at Mrs. ^Yhishaw's. Clifford liked Mr. Bevington ; they had ridden and hunted together, and, on reflection, he could not bring himself to be jealous of the pupil ; the young fellow seemed so full of out-door pursuits, and he was too easy-going, Clifford fancied, to take the trouble to seek Euth. Before Mr. io8 Appledore Farm, Bevington c:ime to Appledore Farm Philip Bryant had consulted Clifford about the plan for separate meals, and they had jointly decided that the pupil should also spend his evenings in the study. When Ruth came home, Clifford had sometimes envied Bevington his opportunities, but, as a sensible practical man, he felt obliged to own that the young people were not likely to see much of one another. Ruth was not a flirt, and she had plenty of self- respect ; it was not likely that she would seek or encourage the attentions of a man in such a different position from her own. It had all at once occurred to him that though Ruth might remain indifferent to Mr. Bevington, the young fellow could hardly help being fascinated by the girl's increasing beauty ; she seemed to grow more and more lovely, and full of charm. Clifford made up his mind to caution Philip Bryant against this danger, and he learned the pupil's sudden departure. In the months that followed Mr. Clifford Appledore Farm, 109 bad been greatly absorbed by his sister's serious illness, and he had rarely come to Appledore. As soon as she was able to travel he had taken his sister to the South of France, and when on her arrival at Cannes she fell seriously ill, he stayed with her till she recovered, although his busi- ness at home required his presence, and he was compelled to engage a substitute. He had paid frequent visits to Appledore since his return, but he had only once or twice seen E-uth, she seemed to avoid her old friend. But though he so seldom saw her, the idea of Appledore without Euth had thoroughly upset Clifford. That so beauti- ful and innocent a creature should venture alone and unprotected into the outside world irritated him beyond his power of self-control ; he felt that his only resource was to leave her till he was calmer. He was self-reliant by nature, and he had also been thrown early on the world. He had had a good education at one of the cheaper public schools till he was sixteen ; he was to stay there still another no Appledore Farm, year, and was then to come homo and help his father, who was a skilful and seemingly prosperous farmer ; bat his father died suddenly, and when all ex- penses were paid, there was found to be scarcely anything left for his children ; his wife had quickly followed him to the grave. Michael's eldest brother David was studying law in Edinburgh, but his sister Dorothy had inhez4ted a small income from the aunt, with whom she had chiefly lived, and she at once took Michael to live with her in Pur ley. But Michael was not long dependent on his sister ; he was ambitious as well as clever, and he soon induced an old friend, a land surveyor, to take him on trial as a clerk. He not only kept his post, but he made rapid progress in learning his business. His talent and his ready industry greatly helped him, but after a while his employer grew to depend on another and much rarer gift, which he discovered in his young clerk — the gift of clear-sighted and ready judgment. Michael's self-reliance inspired Appledore Farm, 1 1 1 his employer with so much confidence that as soon as the young fellow came of age he took him into partnership. Ten years later the senior partner died, and, as he died a bachelor, Michael Clifford found himself sole master of a rapidly increasing business, and of the comfortable house in which it had been carried on. The townspeople had a way of saying that if Michael Clifford willed anything, it would " more than likely " happen. There was, however, one subject on which his wishes and his self-reliance were not in uni- son, and that was the winning RuthBryant's love. He told himself she was young, he must trust to time and to perseverance, but all the while his hope was tinged with fear. It would help him, he thought, if he were able to ask her to visit his sister, who was unable to walk or drive any distance ; but he had spoken of this to Dorothy, and she answered that she did not wish to make new acquaintances. Dorothy Clifford was much devoted to her brother, and she knew more about his client, Philip Bryant, than 112 Appledore Farm. lie would have thought possible. She thought Michael had done enough in the way of helping others ; he had made him- self a fine business ; his reputation had spread beyond his own county ; why, she asked herself, should he drag himself down with the burden of a father-in-law who was said to be careless and extravagant ? She felt sure that the pretty daughter was doing her best to draw Michael on to a proposal. Mr. Clifford had nearly reached Apple- dore, he could already see the gables peering above the yew hedge as. he looked across the meadow ; he believed that if he were to make a formal proposal for Ruth, he might feel sure of his old friend's hearty consent. But Clifford was by nature proud and delicate-minded, he shrank from asking Euth to marry him while her father was so largely in his debt; he had insisted that his constant loans to Bryant should be kept secret from her, but he feared she might suspect the cause of his frequent visits. He could not bear to owe her con- Appledore Farm, 1 1 3 sent to her gratitude, patience and perseverance lie hoped might win him a more spontaneous affection. It suddenly flashed on him that Philip Bryant was ignorant of his attachment to his daughter, and that he could not blame his old friend if he gave encouragement to any other likely husband for Ruth, should one present himself. He had reached the angle of the lane that made the approach, and he walked his horse gently down the steep incline. He knew that he was expected, and was not surprised to see his old friend stand- ing at the gate. Michael was fond of Philip Bryant, and probably his affection had deepened since he had been able to render him valuable service. There seem to be men beloved by every one, not so much for the high qualities they possess, as for the unfailing sweetness and bright- ness that characterize them ; possibly Philip Bryant owed a good deal of the almost universal liking bestowed on him to his winning smile, and to his sunny light- VOL. I. I 114 Apple dor e Farm, lieartedness ; he had unlimited faith in the future ; it never occurred to him that past experience might be a safer gauge of the future than the sanguine faith of his expectations. They walked side by side into the house, and Bryant put his hand on the younger man's shoulder, — " What should I do without you, Clifford ? Well, you will not lose, my dear fellow, one of these days I hope to repay you in full." Bryant had given up betting since Michael had taken the management of his affairs, but the last bad harvest had thrown him back, and as Mr. Bevington had arranged to pay a handsome sum for his two years' residence, the farmer had gone to a good deal of expense in furniture. When they reached the sitting-room he pointed to a large brown book on the table, and Michael sat down and opened it. " I'm afraid I shall never keep my accounts to satisfy you ; I had forgotten Appledore Farm. 115 all those bills till yesterday ; I found them all together. I wish you would let me hand the accounts to Ruth, she has a capital head for figures ; she keeps her own accounts regularly, not by fits and starts as I do.'' " Does she ? But don't you think we had better get this book a little clearer before we hand it over to Miss Bryant ? " " Very well." Bryant was always ac- commodating, always ready to give up his own will, except on one or two points. " I fancy Ruth is out." '' I met Miss Bryant near Little Marsh- field." '' Ah, no doubt she had been to see Sally Voce." There was a pause. Mr. Clifford pored over the columns of figures^ tlien he pulled out a pocket-book, and taking a couple of notes from it he placed them in the account book ; he was so anxious to save appear- ances that he had never given a cheque to the farmer, *' I have entered the bills," he said. I 2 Ii6 Appledore Farm. " Thank you, very much," Bryant said. '' I will settle those bills to-morrow."- '' Yes." Michael's perplexity was gaining ground; he looked distressed. " I want to say something to you, old friend. Till I saw those ugly bills I had not meant to speak of it ; in fact, I had meant to talk of something quite different. Do you know I think this struggle is too much for you ? " Bryant's lips parted, and his chin drooped. '' I do not understand," he said, feebly. '' I ought to have said it six months ago," Clifford went on, as if the farmer had not spoken, '^ but I was a coward ; besides, something might have happened to improve matters ; well, it's this : I think you will be happier and wiser if you give up Appledore." ** Give up Appledore ! " Clifford's lips had lost colour while he spoke, he so intensely felt for his com- panion; if he had been an older man, he Appkdore Fm^m. 1 1 7 might have shrunk from giving him this shock, but he knew that he had already tried to open Bryant's eyes in a gentler fashion, and that his friend's cheerful optimism had made this impossible. ** Don't let there be any misunderstand- ing between us," Michael said. *' I am willing, so far as feeling goes, that things should be as they are at present, but suppose my life drops, then what is to happen, not only to you, but to — to Miss Bryant ? " The farmer had changed colour ; he was very pale, as he stood nervously rubbing his hands together. "I — I can't leave Appledore," he said in a confused, faltering voice, "it — it would kill me." Clifford walked away, and stood by the window that overlooked the farmyard ; he saw Euth come in by the side gate from the fields ; in his hopelessness of getting the farmer to take a real view of his position he felt tempted to appeal to his daughter. 1 1 8 Appledore Fainn, " Miss Bryant has come back," he said ; *' she knows, I think, that you are in trouble?" '' Yes, she knows, poor girl ; but what good can she do ? " her father said irritably. " She proposed to send away a servant, but I said I could not let her do housework; what do you say ? " There was a strange longing in Bryant's eyes ; he seemed to wish to say something he dared not speak. Michael Clifford turned from the window, he felt sure that Ruth had seen him, and yet she had gone on to the back door without noticing him. *' Look here, Bryant, if I had the slightest hope that she would listen to me," he said abruptly, " I should ask Miss Bryant to be my wife ; I should have asked her months ago." Bryant's face beamed with his genial winning smile, — '' That's the best news I ever heard ; T have always wished for it, my dear fellow; " he shook Clifford's hand heartily. '' But Appledore Farm, 119 why need you be hopeless, Michael ? Faint heart — you know the rest of the saying. I did not feel at all sure when I asked her mother, but I asked her for all that." " You are still a more attractive man than I am," Clifford said, gloomily; •" besides, you have the happy tempera- ment that would not be daunted by one refusal. I had better be frank, Bryant ; I love Ruth so dearly, that I dare not risk my chance of happiness till I have some ground for hope. Now," with a sudden change of tone, '' good-bye ; think over my suggestion about Appledore ; I could easily find a tenant, so that the usual term of notice could be got over. Do not trouble to come out with me ; good-bye." CHAPTER VIIT. EuTH had seen Micliael Clifford standing at the window, but she was vexed with him for what she considered his want of sympathy with her plan for helping her father ; she was not in a mood to be civil to him, and therefore she came in by the house-place, and went straight to her own room. She did not think Mr. Clifford would speak of her proposal, because ho had said that her presence was necessary to her father. The girl had thought over her plan till it had excited her ; she re- solved to follow it out. The idea of holding back from such a sacrifice because it might displease Mr. Bevington was, she considered, purely selfish, and she knew she had already much selfishness to atone for. Appledcre Farm, 1 2 1 Presently Bridget came to say her father wanted lier downstairs. Ruth was puzzled by the summons. She learned that Mr. Clifford had gone away ; it was unusual for her father to send for her, and a dread of coming evil made her nervous as she went downstairs. " Yes, father," she said as she came in, " what is it ? Has anything hap- pened ? " He looked at her with a vague sus- picion ; he wondered if she had any liking for Clifford. " It's possible enough," he thought ; ** he is foolish to be faint-hearted ; no high- spirited girl would show preference for a man who never made up to her." He decided to find out the state of Ruth's feelings towards Michael Clifford. '* Well, yes, I have something particular to say ; trouble does not lessen," he went on sadly ; but he did not meet her loving glance; he felt a little guilty towards his daughter. He was standing, and Ruth pushed him 122 Appledore Farm, gently into his higli-backed cTiaLr, and seated herself beside him. '' I never can talk standing up/' she smiled at him. He cleared his throat with an effort, but, before any words could follow, Ruth broke in abruptly, — " Father, I have thought of a way of saving money, and of getting some perhaps for you ; quite an easy way. I did not mean to speak of it till I had found a suitable engagement ; perhaps it's better to tell you what I'm planning." He stared at her bewildered, and then he looked annoyed. '* An engagement ! Do you mean, child, that you contemplate leaving home to take service with other people, with strangers ? I told you I would not let you do servant's work even at home." Ruth laughed, ** I do not mean ser- vice, father, dear, or hard work." She put her hand pleadingly on his shoulder. '' Do not think me conceited, but I fancy I could App le dor e Farm. 123 teach, and you could not call a teacher a servant, could you ? " " I don't know ; there is not much differ- ence if you take other people's money," he answered gloomily ; " no, my girl, I cannot listen to such a plan. To begin with, do you suppose I could get along without you ? It would be better to give up the farm than to lose you in that way, child." '' Give up the farm ! " Ruth echoed dreamily ; that idea would not have occurred to her; it would be the death of her father, she thought, to take him away from Appledore. '' There seems to be no question about it unless something unforeseen happens. Do you know, Ruth, that I am a mere cypher here ? I cannot call a sheep on the place my own ; even the house furniture no longer belongs to me." Ruth's face was full of alarm. "Oh, father," she said, ''you ought to have told me, indeed you ought ; if things are as bad as this, I do not really think you can oppose my going away." 1 24 Appledore Farm, He was frowning at her. '' You are so wilful," he spoke fret- fully. *' What purpose would it serve except to expose you to annoyance and to make me more anxious and unhappy than I am at present ? If you think that your being here causes the slightest extra ex- pense, you are greatly mistaken ; you think a good deal more about economy than I do, and I tell you plainly, the place will quickly go to rack and ruin if you leave it." Ruth sat squeezing her fingers together. She saw that they must leave Appledore, and she longed to propose that her father should at once give up what evidently was no longer his ; but her urgency kept her silent, she was so afraid of seeming un- dutiful at such a time of trial. If she were only free to tell him her secret, she thought it must comfort him to know that her future was secured. Mr. Bevington's last letter had assured her that he was as devoted as ever, and that he only waited for her summons to meet her in the valley. Appledore Farm, 125 Her father rose from liis chair ; he went up to the high mantelshelf and aimlessly fingered some china cups that stood there. He began to speak without turn- ing round, — "If you were to do that sort of thing, Ruth, you would cut yourself off from any chance of a suitable marriage." A sudden flush spread over Ruth's face ; she was thankful that her father still stood facing the mantelshelf. '' I do not wish to marry." He looked round quickly — her tone sounded forced — he noticed her flushed face, and he thought it promised well for Michael Clifford. '' Another thing," he said, gravely — but Ruth saw he had left off frowning — "if anything were to happen to me — I am not long-lived — think how I should feel if I died in debt and left you behind unpro- vided for." " Please do not trouble about me," she said, affectionately. " I have had a good sound education, I am strong and healthy ; 126 Apple do re Farm. no one need trouble about me. And besides, father, I do not see why you need talk in this desponding way. I believe that Mr. Clifford bas somehow upset you ; you must come into the garden with me after dinner, and see how full of promise the fruit trees are ; I never saw them so forward, the Louise Bonne will be a sight of fruit." He shook his head. '' You are wrong about Clifford ; he does me good, not harm, child, he's so kind ; I do not know what I should do without him. Why do you not come down when he is here, eh, Euth ? " " I had seen him to-day as I came back from Little Marshfield," she said, simply. " Ah ! I remember, so he said. He will call in again before he goes back to Purley, and leave word whether he has found a purchaser for the little bull; you'll see him then, Euth, do ; it will please him so much." Euth felt startled; her father seemed Appledore Farm, 127 to be asking her to see Mr. Clifford as a personal favour to himself. " Yes, of course, if you wish it ; but I really do not think it gives Mr. Clifford any special pleasure to see me." He fancied this was pique. " I thought as much," he said, smiling in his old genial. way, "the foolish fellow has been so afraid of vexing you that he has over-shot the mark. Why, child, he. loves you dearly. I know it." Ruth did not blush now, she looked very pale indeed. " How do you know it ? " she said, abruptly ; " or do you know it ? Perhaps you have only fancied it." Her eagerness for his answer puzzled him : instead of teazing her, as he wished, he answered her directly, — " I had my news from headquarters. I guessed it long ago ; but he told me so himself just now." Ruth hung her head ; she felt that her answer would pain her father perhaps as much as it would pain Mr. Clifford, for she 128 Apple dove Farm, did not believe be loved her so very much ; besides, she thought he must have guessed at her intimacy with Mr. Bevington. The silence continued, and she felt that she must speak. ** I am sorry," she said, " but I do not love Mr. Clifford, though I have a very high opinion of him," Philip Bryant laughed. ' *' It would be rather strange, my girl, if you owned to loving a man who has never said a word of love to you. Bless you, child, if you like him as you say, the rest will come easy. I fancy Michael will soon get you to see things in a different light. 1 thought it was all right; you shall see him when he comes back. He only meant to leave a message, but that is easily settled." A panic seized on Ruth; it seemed to her that this had all been planned between her father and his friend, and that unless she protested at once, she might find that her consent was taken for granted. A sense of friendlessness oppressed her : she had been accustomed to reckon on her Apple do re Fa rm . 129 father as so sure an ally that lie would, she thought, have stood by her even had she been in the wrong instead of in the right. Surely she was in the right now? Her under lip trembled with a vague doubt. It had been wrong to keep this secret, but surely not wrong to engage herself to her lover ; and at the thought Ruth's tender eyes filled with sudden tears. Ah ! if he would come and own his love to her father, that would set everything, straight, and the secret might be kept ; there was no need to trust it to any one else. A resentful feeling was fast growing in Ruth towards Mr. Clifford ; she believed that he had set her father on to urge her to listen to his suit. '*It is not as you think, father ; '' she tried to speak in her bright way. " I should have said 'No' to Mr. Clifford, even if he had spoken to me himself. I could never marry him; and really, just now I don't want to marry any one." Her expression puzzled her father; he VOL. I. K 130 Appledore Farm, fancied it lacked the frank earnestness to wliicli lie was accustomed. "I do not want to press you, Ruth," he said, *' hut I think you ought to know how I stand. I told you that I did not own a head of stock on the farm ; I might have said I hardly own the clothes I wear ; for nearly a year, longer than that, per- haps, I have lived on borrowed money. I have been ob]i2:ed to borrow for the re- pairs, also for the rent ; and the security I have given is very unequal to the sums I have received." Ruth was trembling from head to foot ; a terrible sense of degradation had sud- denly obscured the moral atmosphere in which she fancied she had lived. She seemed to hear Sally Voce's accusing voice, and her heart sank yet lower ; was it possible that her father had flung away his money as Sally had said, and now wanted to use her as a means of restitu- tion ? But the idea was too shocking to her sense of duty, to be harboured ; she turned from it, and rejected it as a direct Appledore Farm, 1 3 1 temptation. A quick remorse followed for having so misjudged her father. " We must pay this money," she said ; '* we cannot go on living in debt, can we, dear father ? " Philip Bryant shrugged his shoulders. "It is easy to talk of paying," he said ; *' perhaps you will tell me how we are to do it ? " Ruth flushed up to her eyes. " There is a way, I think," she said, gently ; but she did not look at him, she shrank from seeing the pain she knew he would feel. " Suppose you give up the farm and the house and everything. I dare say Mr. Clifford would persuade the new tenant to purchase the furniture. A farm like Appledore must be easy to let, you know." Re was staring at her ; she thought he looked frightened. " And I should like to know," he said, hoarsely, " what is to become of you and me?" " That will all come right,'* she said, K 2 132 Appledore Farm. clieerfally, carried out of herself by the sacrifice she had proposed. " We shall not be allowed to want. I can work ; and you are so clever, father, you might, per- haps, get an agency, or something of that sort." Before she ended, her father began to walk up and down the room with rapid, uncertain steps. Bridget opened the door, put in her head, and announced that dinner was ready; but neither father nor daughter heeded the summons. At last Bryant came close to Ruth, his eyes and cheeks flaming with anger. " You would like to turn me into a ser- vant, would you ? I who have been my own master ever since I can remember. How selfish you are, Ruth, and cruel to both of us ; for you have been too much indulged to find it easy to take your orders from another person." He turned away from her, and again walked to the farther end of the room, clasping his hands behind him. Appledore Farvt, 133 If she had been less over-wrought, she must have been deeply pained by his words ; he had never spoken to her so angrily. She followed him, and put her hand on his shoulder. " Please do not be angry with me, father," she said ; " I did not mean to be unkind just now, only I did not find the right way to say what I wanted. Kiss me, father, dear; say you are not angry with me. Though her voice was full of sorrowful tenderness he had kept his face turned from her, and now he pushed her away. " Leave me alone,'* he said, angrily, " I do not not wish for you ; you only want your own way ; you would not yield an inch of it to help me. You want to drive me like one of the sheep." Then, as she tried to be heard : " I wish you would go ; I prefer to be alone; I don't wish to be disturbed." Even then his tone was ill-used rather than resolute. He went to the window 134 Appledore Farm, looking on to the farm-yard, and stood there till lie heard the door open and close again. He looked round, sighed with relief at finding himself alone, and walking to the fireplace, he struck one of the blackening logs fiercely with the poker till it sent out showers of bright-red sparks. Euth had gone slowly upstairs ; she had a curious feeling of guilt, but she turned from thought of self. Something must be done at once, her young impatience decided. She could not consult with Mr. Clifford ; she shrank from the idea of seeing him again. All at once she remem- bered that Reginald Bevington had studied farming a good deal during his stay at Appledore ; he would surely be able to give her some advice in regard to the farm. Yes, he must be her best ad- viser ; this was the way in which she veiled her passionate longing to see him again. The knowledge of Michael Clif- ford's love seemed to add strength to her own. Appledo7'e Farm, 135 She did not hesitate ; she sat down at her httle table and began to write. She asked her lov3r to release her from her promise of secrecy ; she said that her father was in great trouble ; that she could not feel justified in keeping a secret from him at such a time; and she knew it would cheer him to learn that her future was assured. She did not speak of Clif- ford, it seemed useless. She told her lover the joy it would give her to see him again. A sudden cry startled her ; she hurried to the door and listened. This time she heard distinctly, — " Miss Bryant ! Miss Ruth ! come, come quick ! " It was Bridget's voice, and Ruth hurried downstairs, hardly knowing what she ex- pected to find there. The sitting-room door stood open, and she paused a moment before she went in. Her father lay on the floor near the sofa ; he looked rigid and lifeless. Bridget stood beside him so overcome with terror that 136 Appledore Farm, slie had not even unfastened the tie he wore round his throat. "He's gone!" the woman cried, as Euth came in ; " the poor soul's gone — we're too late to save him ! " CHAPTER IX. Bridget stood still, aghast at her young mistress's promptitude. Euth kuelt down beside her father and loosened his tie and shirt-collar, and then bid the trembling, terrified woman fetch George Bird and Peter the cowman. She had seen them both in the yard when she came in, and she knew they must be near at hand. With all her outward calm, Ruth's head was giddy ; she could not think ; time seemed very long to her whilst she knelt beside her insensible father, listening now and then for the beating of his heart, but unable to detect a sign of life. At last there came the dull sound of heavy, lumbering feet, and the two men entered awkwardly one after another ; their sheepishness fled, however, as they saw 138 Apple dove Farm, their master lying on the floor. Rath pointed to the sofa, and they carefully raised Mr. Bryant and placed him there. '^ Peter," Ruth looked at the cowman, a small twisted creature, whose face seemed to be for ever trying to straighten itself, '* I want you to saddle Peggy at once, and fetch the doctor ; be as quick as you can. Bird, will you go and ask Mrs. Voce to come directly ? You can tell her what has happened ; it might be better to take the horse and cart for her, if it's handy." The men pulled their forelocks, said " Yes, miss," and departed, wondering in their slow, silent way at Miss Ruth's composure and at her readiness. Their '* missuses " would have been eventually helpful, but they would have spent many precious moments in pity and wonder ; per- haps, on the whole, with all their admira- tion for Miss Bryant's composure and promptitude, they considered her a trifle hard-hearted. Ruth stood beside the sofa watching the insensible figure ; she had already tried all Appledore Farm, 139 the simple remedies she knew about, but there was a new look in her father's face that frightened her, in spite of her efforts to be self-controlled ; there was a total want of expression in it, and she fancied that the mouth was drawn slightly to one side. A horror seized her, suppose her father never recovered his senses ; suppose he were taken away while she was still keeping her love- secret from him, could she ever be happy again with the consciousness that she had deceived him ? Her face con- tracted with pain till it looked small and pinched, as she stood waiting the return of her messengers. She started as Bridget came in suddenly ; she held up her hand as a warning to be careful. '' Mr. Clifford's here, miss," the woman said; "he's met George Bird, miss, and he wants to know if you'll see him, or if he can be of use ? " Ruth was silent ; then she said, *^ Ask him to come in." Her momentary impulse had been to shrink from seeing Clifford, but she went 140 Appledore Farm, forward to meet him as cordially as if she had not already seen him in the morning. She pointed to the sofa ; Clifford bent over Philip Bryant and assured himself that he still breathed. He told Ruth this. '* I hear you have sent for the doctor," he added, " but he may be out ; I shall per- haps find him more quickly than your messenger will, shall I try ? " " Thank you very much, you are sure to bring him more quickly." Clifford only nodded in answer as he left the room ; before she thought he could have mounted his horse, she heard the sound of sharp trotting up the lane. Mrs. Voce soon arrived ; she looked at Mr. Bryant, screwed up her mouth with mysterious importance, and then she turned her attention to Ruth. ''Mercy me. Miss Bryant, we don't want two sick people in the house at once, sure enough, an' we shall have them safe as the bank, if you don't mind your- self ; you look as faint, an' as white as — " Apple do re Farm. 141 Bridget bad stayed in the room, and she now interrupted, — " An' 'tis no wonder, Mrs. Voce ; Miss Bryant hasn't had nothing to eat since breakfast, no more but what the poor master hav'n't neither." Mrs. Voce bustled out of the room, fol- lowed by the approving Bridget. When the old woman came back with a glass of wine and bread and butter she persuaded Ruth to swallow a few mouthfuls before the doctor came. The doctor sent everyone out of the room but Mr. Clifford ; he made a long ex- amination of his patient before he spoke. " It is a very serious attack," he said gravely ; " I — I think he may come round, but he won't do it in a hurry ; meantime he must stay here." Clifford went to the door, and found Ruth, as he expected, close at hand. She came into the room and the doctor repeated his opinion. '^ You must leave him where he is, Miss Bryant," he said, " that old-fashioned sofa 142 Appledore Farm* does just as well as a bed for a man who cannot move ; I see you have placed Ms head comfortably. Ah, I'm glad to see Mrs. Voce," he added, lowering his voice as he gave his instructions to the old woman. Ruth walked away to the farther end of the room, and the doctor followed her ; she had that special sort of magnetism, which seemed to draw people to do as she wished even when the wish was not ex- pressed. "Doctor Buchan," she said softly, '^do you think ray father will get well ? Please tell me the truth." The doctor put his high-coloured face on one side, and looked doubtfully at her ; he so greatly admired her, that although Ruth was unconscious of his admiration, Mrs. Buchan was secretly jealous of the praise lavished by her husband on Miss Bryant. The doctor was rather pompous, but he was skilful and kind-hearted ; he considered that Ruth's question was a breach of professional etiquette, but there Appledore Farm. 143 was so keen an expression of suffering in her sweet dark eyes, that his answer came almost without his will. " I think he will recover his senses," he said, '' though, perhaps, not for some hours to come, but I — I am afraid he will never be quite the same man again ; " his voice became graver as he ended- " Indeed, I fear — I hardly think he will recover the use of his limbs ; " then more cheerfully, '' Look here, Miss Bryant, I would advise you to divide this room by means of a screen or curtains ; keep the sofa where it is, that front end of the room gets the sunshine, and is more out of the reach of sounds from the farm-yard ; yes, it will be better in every way to do this — in every way. Good-bye, I will come and see him early to-morrow." Clifford saw the doctor to the door and then he came back. " That's a good idea of Buchan's," he said ; '* at the hotel they have a very large screen ; shall I borrow it for you, it will help in dividing the room ? I wish you 144 Appledore Farm. would tell me anytliing else I can do ; I shall, of course, ride over to-morrow." Ruth did not answer at once, she stood looking at the insensible figure on the sofa. At last she said, — " You have done a great deal to help us, thank you; I think we have all we need to carry out the doctor's orders; in a few days I shall be very glad to ask your advice, if you will kindly give it me." His heart beat with a rising hope, but she looked so very grave that he felt she wished him to leave her. He went out by the house-place, so as to get a few words with Sally Voce. " I do not half like going away," he said ; " you had better let Bird sleep in the house, Mrs. Voce, you may want to send for the doctor before he comes again." " Thank you, I'm sure, sir, for being so thoughtful," said the imperturbable Sally, ''but you may be quite easy on that account, sir, we're three grown females an' a slip of a girl, to say nothing of Miss Ruth, who's Apple dove Farm, 145 worth all on us put together ; don't you take on about us, sir, us 'ull do first-rate." Euth sat thinking over the doctor's words ; it was so sad to feel helpless ; nothing could be done, except just a few trifling things, until there was some sign of returning consciousness ; her thoughts went on to the afterwards, and she shrank away with dismay from the thought of her father's future. It was plain they could not remain at Appledore, for though Ruth fancied she might be able to manage, with the help of the men who had so long been at work on the farm, she now knew that there #as no money ; she felt, indeed, that they were in debt, perhaps beyond her power to repay what was owing. "Who were her father's creditors, she wondered ? She flushed at the certainty she felt, as she recalled her talk with her father, that one of the creditors was Mr. Clifford. She shrank from consulting this true friend, lest he should attribute her confidence in him to a warmer feeling. VOL. I. L 146 Appledore Farm, She shivered as the thought returned that her decided refusal to encourage Clifford's hopes had helped in causing her father's seizure ; " I could not have said anything else," she thought. She sat like a statue thinking of what lay before her. Only yesterday she had felt like an expectant child in the gladness of her outlook on life, it seemed now as if she could not look forward, a grey, obscuring veil had fallen over her future. At last her thoughts resolved themselves into shape out of the mental chaos in which she had been groping. Her plan for an iu de- pendent livelihood was completely shattered, her place in life must be beside her father, but she knew that this could not be at Apple- dore; she must ask Mr. Clifford to give notice to the absent landowner, and she must also ask him where she could find a cheap cottage for her father. She paused and reflected that as yet she did not know whether there would be money to pay even the rent of a cottage ; she could not sub- mit to be dependent on Mr. Clifford or on Appledore Farm, 147 any one so long as she had health and strength. She had no friends near at hand to advise with ; the rector of Chnrch Marsh- field was an old bachelor, who lived shut up with his books ; he was kind and atten- tive to the very poor and to the sick, but he was essentially a village pastor, incapable of giving advice in any secular matter out of his own narrow sphere. Ruth thought she would write to her Aunt Whishaw, and ask her to advise her, but she did not fancy that she should get much help in that quarter. Of course the one reliable person to consult with was Mr. Cli:fford, but the longer she thought about him, the more distinctly did she realize the full meaning of Sally Voce's hints, and of her father's appeal with regard to this trusty friend. Ruth felt that if she did not love Mr. Bevington it would, perhaps, not be difficult to bring herself to care for Michael, but, as things were, the idea was repulsive. The shadows slowly gathered in the L 2 1 4^ Apple dor e Farm, corners of the long room, wliile slie sat there thinking. Suddenly a new thought came to help her. AYhj did she not finish the letter she had begun to write and trust herself to Reginald Bevington's guidance ? He had told her more than once that he loved farming, and that he should like to possess a small farm like Appledore, and try upon it some of his ideas, instead of feeling obliged to follow in the beaten track as her father had done. She was ignorant of his resources ex- cept that he must before long come into a large fortune, which would make him in- dependent of his parents. Ruth detested the idea of obligation, but she knew that she would rather consult with Mr. Beving- ton than with Michael Clifford ; and Mr. Bevington understood the practical work- ing of the farm far better than Mr. Clifford could. It was possible that her lover might offer to purchase Appledore, and let her father continue to rent the house — she suddenly shook herself ; how unnatural she was, how could she yield Appledore Farm, 149 herself to tliis pleasant day-dream, while her father lay there looking so much more like death than life ? She rose and rang the bell, she dared not leave the room even for an instant, but she remembered that at Bridget's sudden outcry she had left her letter to Mr. Bevington open on her writing-table. Sally Voce came in with a stealthy step ; her firmly closed mouth, and the depressed corners of her lips had a funereal aspect, which, to say the least, was not cheering at such a time. *•' Yes, miss ; is there any change ? " she said solemnly. Ruth asked her to take her place while she went to get her letter. It occurred to the girl that for this once she must trust one of the men to post it; she had feared to arouse suspicion in the inquisitive post-mistress at Church Marsh- field, and had therefore posted her previous letters to Reginald at the way-side post-box of the next village. '' If it makes gossip, I cannot help my- 150 Appledore Farm, self to-day," she tliought ; *' it must be ray duty to tell him what has happened to father, and to warn him that I shall tell father the truth as soon as he can under- stand." At the doubt, her words implied, she suddenly broke down in sobs and tears, and she hurriedly gathered up her writing things as if she feared her dearly beloved father might pass away in her absence. There was not any change when she came back into the room, and the girl asked Mrs. Voce to stay beside the sofa while she wrote at the table in the win- dow. Her letter to Mrs. Whishaw was soon written; it took longer to explain her trouble to Mr. Bevington. '* If you could only come and see me," she wrote, " it would be so much easier to talk it all out, than it is to write it. I am sure you would advise me better than any one else can. Indeed, there is no one else to advise me, except Mr. Clifford, and I have a reason against asking his advice." She went out into the farm-yard to look Appledore Farm, 151 for George Bird. The big man was just leaving work, and stood against a post, with his perpetual straw between his lips, and his broad hat drawn so closely over his eyes that his red-brown face could hardly be seen ; he touched his hat when he saw Ruth. "Be the master better, miss?" he asked. '' There is no change," she said sadly, and she gave him the letters to post. " Cannut I do summat else, miss ? " he said, " if 'ee need help in the night now 'ee mun call us oop ; I'd do a main deal for the poor master, I 'ould." And then he set off with the letters for post. BOOK THE THIED, dSoQk tin Cl)uU. CHAPTEE X. Beyington Paek was also in tlie West of England, though it was a long way from Appledore. It was a lovely place near the river Severn, its fertile farms stretched far and wide, its richly wooded park was varied by glens and uplands, and was well stocked with deer ; at intervals, between the tall forest trees, were glimpses of the Welsh hills ; on the other side was the green smooth-shaped Wrekin, at mid-day a solid protuberance without any special claim to admiration, but in the evening light, hazy and vision like, seeming as if it would fade out of ken of the gazer. The house, however, at Bevington was far more remarkable than the Park was, an old gabled dwelling in which it was said that Queen Elizabeth had once slept; on one 156 Appledore Farm, side of it an ancient walnut-tree stretched its branches to such a circumference that they had to be supported by stout fir poles, while on the other side the lawn was sha- dowed by cedars ; a terraced walk ran along this side of the quaint house, and below it a border, gay with early spring flowers, was filled at the back with rose-trees. Mr. Bevington was pacing up and down the terrace above this border and just below the beautiful old windows of the drawing-room ; he looked considerably older, and not nearly so happy as he had looked at Appledore. A figure came softly into one of the windows, and looked at him through the lozenge-shaped panes, the figure of a tall woman with a small pale face. Mrs. Bevington was paler than her son, but he was singularly like her ; there was the same covetous expression on the thin lips, the eyes, too, were alike in form and colour, though Mrs. Bevington's eyes had a furtive rather than a mischievous expression ; both nose and chin showed a determination Appledore Farm, 157 tliat was wanting in the young man's face. He passed the window again and saw liis mother standing there; he frowned, and muttered impatiently, — '* Why can she not leave me alone ? I said I must not be pressed about it." He saw the lattice open, and he paused in his walk. " Do you want me, mother?" he said. " Well, yes, if you can spare me a few minutes." The young fellow sighed with vexation, but he went indoors. He found his mother seated beside the fire in a large room with oak-pannelled walls; the handsome plaster ceiling was of the same date as the rest of the house ; the hearth was open, and above it the richly carved chimneypiece went up to the ceiling; about the room, in striking con- trast with the gloom of the dark walls, were a great many quaint, spindle-legged tables, and upon almost all of these stood groups of carefully arranged pot-flowers and delicate ferns ; there were larger tables covered with books and photographs, and 158 Appledore Farm, among these were slender vases filled with ■ cut flowers ; these last seemed to be less in harmony with the old-world place than was the tall proud figure and the pale passionless face of the lady beside the hearth. "I want to order the carriage, dear," she said, in a soft purring tone that soothed her son's impatient mood, " you will drive with me to Stretton Castle, won't you?" Reginald Bevington stood looking into the fire, softly stroking his silky moustache with the fore- finger of his left hand ; he knew very well the meaning of this question, and he also understood the importance that would be attached to his answer. He and his mother had had several discussions about Miss Stretton. He had travelled a good deal after he left Appledore ; had spent several weeks in Paris and in Vienna, and he had been very extravagant. When he came home he learned that his godfather, an elderly man whom he had supposed unlikely to live many months longer, had suddenly re- Appledore Farm. 159 covered his health; he had written to announce his marriage with a compara- tively young woman, his vicar's daughter, who had been, he wrote, '' a ministering angel to him during his long illness." This was startling news, especially as his mother assured Reginald Bevington that his godfather was not much over sixty, and if he really had regained his health might be expected to live for some years. So long as there had been no doubt of his succession to his godfather's fortune, which was a large one, his father had been very indulgent in regard to his son's whims, and also to his apparent inability to keep within his income ; but this news caused a complete revolution in the ideas of both father and mother respecting him. They were not a united couple. Mrs. Bevington had been an heiress who had been married for the sake of her money — rather than for any personal or mental charm she possessed — but on this point that Reginald must really settle and make a rich marriage they were as i6o Appledore Farm, united as they had been in removing him from Appledore and from the dan- gerous fascination of Ruth Bryant. His father and mother had not spoken to him about Ruth. When he eame home they had borne his discontent and ill- humour in silence, and when at the end of the London season he proposed to go abroad, they were extremely kind and liberal in forwarding his plans. Now everything had changed; as Reginald was an only son and Mrs. Bevington was amply provided for, they had lived showily, indeed, quite up to their income ; the past season had been unusually expensive, and although Mrs. Bevington had rejoiced in her son's prolonged stay in Vienna, and had told her husband that the surest way of blotting out his fancy for the farmer's daughter would be found in a foreign liaison which was sure not to .last, she looked sharply after money, and considered it wasted when it did not serve any practical purpose. She intended her son to stand for the county at the next election ; this Appledore Farm. 1 6 1 would require a large outlay, and she liad little hope that Eeginald would give up his extravagant habits. There was only one thing to be done : he must marry money. At Stretton Castle, only eight miles away, there was the very girl to suit him, a girl who had cared for him ever since she first saw him, and on whom Mrs. Bevington had looked as her future daughter. Miss Stretton was plain and short, had delicate health, and she was also a year or so older than Reggy was ; but she had plenty of money— and, Mrs. Bevington argued, a marriage was seldom a fit in every way ; Clara Stretton looked extremely well on horseback ; she had a large fortune and a good temper, and these were immense advantages. Reginald stood thinking over all his mother had told him, both with reference to Clara Stretton, and also about his father's inability to increase his present allowance ; he knew that the advice she had given him was sensible and well founded; he had been told years ago that he had better VOL. I. M 1 62 Appledore Farm, marry Clara Stretton, and yet lie turned from the idea of her as if he were still a child and she were a dose of physic. He decided to let himself drift ; he could not be forced into an engagement against his will, and even if he did ask Miss Stretton to marry him, he could make the engagement last as long as he pleased ; at his age he was not going to tie himself up with a wife and family. '' Yes, mother," he said, '' I am willing to go with you." Mrs. Bevington rose ; she was almost as tall as her son as she stood beside him; she kissed his cheek, and said in her most caressing tone, *' Dear boy, how sensible you are ; I cannot tell you how happy you make me." He drew himself quickly away; the motto of his life had always been to shirk all that was disagreeable or troublesome, and although he longed to tell his mother that she was taking the matter far too seriously, he had a dim consciousness that this might produce a scene, or at any rate some Appledore Farm, 163 plain statement of facts, whicli he had resolved to avoid. He had lived too much with his mother to have much insight into her nature, but he had once or twice noticed that in spite of her outward fas- tidiousness, and the refinement she exacted from others, she could be unflinchingly plain-spoken, almost coarse in her way of stating facts, he would have said, if she had not been his mother. Mrs. Bevington's insight seldom erred respecting him. She now went to her writing-table, and opening a locked drawer she took out several papers tied together, and put them into her son's hand. " I have to see the housekeeper," she said. " I will say three o'clock for the carriage ; you will have time to look through these, I^^ggy* Your father is greatly puzzled as to what can be done about them ; the last audit was so bad, you see, that we have had to be very careful; I think we must stay here a month later than usual, instead of being in town all the season." Reginald Bevington knew very well M 2 1 64 Appledore Farm. wliat the papers were, and as he closed the door on his mother he could not keep back the groan in which he indulged as he placed himself in her chair beside the hearth. He mechanically opened the parcel of papers ; he saw with annoyance that only half the accounts against him were paid ; the others were fastened together, and on them was a slip in his father's hand- writing, to the effect that Reginald must settle these himself, his father having done as much as lay in his power. The young fellow felt furious, he was sure " that his mother could have helped him if she had chosen. He started up, and for some minutes he paced the room, almost beside himself with anger. He had no intention of paying his own debts ; it seemed to him that it was dis- tinctly the part of a parent to relieve a child of any trouble or embarrassment; it was the first time he had been made to feel his dependence on his parents, and the sensation was new and perplexing. Appledore Farm, 165 It was all the fault of bis godfather, confound him ; what right had he to let Reginald consider himself heir to a large property, and then to yield to the self- indulgence of marrying a young woman ? All at once he remembered Ruth Bryant. What a lucky escape he had had. If he had not been so suddenly summoned home, it seemed to him, as he recalled his own infatuation for her, that he might have found himself engaged to Ruth ; as it was, she had set him free from any engagement. He wished, however, she had continued to write to him, her letters were so bright and fresh, and it gave him an exquisite pleasure to read in them the assurance of her affection for him. " She was beautiful, if you like; it's no use, I can't give up such a charming girl," he said to himself, as he stood looking dully out on to the lawn, *' I must see her again some day, whatever happens ; she is something like a girl, with no thought of self ; that last time in the glen her eyes told me how she could love a fellow." 1 66 Appledore Farm, He smiled at himself for his own re- ticence on that occasion ; he had grown so much older since that meeting, and he told himself he knew so much more about women and their ways. He decided to write to Euth, and ask her to give him another meeting. At this point the butler came in to announce the carriage, and when a few minutes later Mrs. Bevington appeared she was agreeably surprised to find her son in so calm and pleasant a mood ; she had expected that the message conveyed by the unpaid bills would have greatly disturbed him. She made herself very agreeable during the drive ; she talked on the subjects which she knew interested her son. As they approached Stretton Castle she busied herself in pointing out to him the excellent farming on the estate, and the value of the land attached to it. '' There is plenty of room on this land," she said, *' for any one to try agricultural experiments. Old Mr. Stretton, as you know, is a mere book- worm, and he allows the bailiff to take his own way, and that Appledore Farm, 167 of course is the old humdrum style of things." Reginald looked about him ; it certainly did seem to be a fine place, not so pic- turesque, perhaps, as Bevington was, but larger and grander, and he knew that the acreage was far more considerable. " Your father tells me," his mother said, " that the Strettons have a large property in Somersetshire besides this one." Reginald looked at the Park beyond his side of the avenue up which they were driving, and he smiled at his mother's apparent unconsciousness ; she meant it very well, no doubt, but she was a trifle too transparent. ^' What do you suppose the fair Clara is likely to have altogether ? " he said, abruptly. '' I know she has five thousand a year of her own left her by that extraordinary Welsh grandfather, and of course, at Mrs. Stretton's death, Clara takes the rest of her grandfather's fortune. I am told that it has been simply left to accumulate ; you 1 68 Apple dor e Farm, see the Strettons have been rich for gene- rations, and they have always had very small families. Clara cannot come into less than half a million when her father dies, and I understand he will make very hand- some settlements if she marries to please him.'' Reginald smiled mockingly at his mother. '' He may possibly be very hard to please." " You have no reason to think so ; " she looked at him so directly that his eyes drooped ; '' he has told your father, and Mrs. Stretton has told me, how much they like you, and how fitted they consider you to manage a large property. I believe it has always been Mr. Stretton's hobby to join his property with Bevington ; the land that lies between is so small that it can be easily annexed when the present holder dies ; it is only leasehold, as you know. Your father says the owner, a Scotchman, is willing to sell it." '' By Jove 1 " Beginald exclaimed, " here Appledore Farm, 1 69 comes a good horse, and a good rider, too." As lie spoke a horse vaulted lightly over a gate, some thirty yards in front ; his rider, a lady, looked for an instant per- fectly serene and unmoved, as she bent a little forward, and patted the graceful creature's neck. She looked up, and as she recognized the occupants of the ap- proaching carriage she blushed deeply, and drew on one side, as if she hoped to escape notice. But already both mother and son were bowing to her, and in a minute the car- riage stopped. While Keginald compli- mented Miss Stretton on her horse, Mrs. Bevington said to herself, with a satisfied smile, — " If I had planned it all myself with the greatest care it could not have happened in a better or a more taking way." CHAPTER XL Several weeks had gone by since Ruth sent off her letter to Mr. Bevington, and as yet it had not been answered. Her father had slowly regained consciousness, and he was now able to sit up, but his left leg was useless, and his face was still slightly drawn. The doctor told Ruth that as the weather became warmer her father might possibly recover the use of his leg ; he also told her that the invalid must be kept free from worry or discussion of any kind. Ruth had listened in silence, it was evident that her father could not be moved in his present state. She had begun to think that Mr. Bevington did not mean to answer her letter; he might possibly be travelling, but she could no longer wait Appledore Farm, 1 7 1 for his advice. Only tliis morning she had most unwillingly determined after all to consult Mr. Clifford. She had scarcely seen him alone since her father's seizure, though he had come every day to the farm ; this morning, however, Mrs. Voce and Faith had been busy arranging the study as a bedroom for Mr. Bryant, and while the invalid sat close to the window in the warm sunshine, Ruth was trying to make her sitting-room look more like itself. To-day, after dinner, helped by tall, strong Sally Voce, and by a stout crutch- stick, Mr. Bryant had managed to cross the hall, the doctor having said that his patient would be all the better for the change. Mr. Bryant spoke very little to any one, even to Clifford ; when his friend came he seemed glad, after the first greetings, to be left in peace ; he listened to the talk be- tween Clifford and Euth, but he rarely joined in it, and his daughter fancied that he liked best to be left undisturbed. Ruth was glad to be left alone, she was almost sure that Mr. Chfford would 172 Apphdore Farm, come, as he had not come yesterday, and when she had seen that her father was comfortable and lying down, she went back to the sitting-room, and stood by the window, nerving herself to say what lay so heavily on her mind. For- merly she could have said anything to Mr. Clifford, but now she was self- conscious on two different points — he was their benefactor, and she had reason to believe that he loved her. She began to feel shy ; she crossed the room and opened her pianoforte, which had remained closed all through her father's illness. She had a passionate love of music, and a fair amount of instruction had helped her natural gift ; but while Mr. Bevington was at Appledore her music had been neglected. She had gone back to it with fresh ardour when he left, it seemed to blend with the thought of him, it took her away, too, from anxious meditation about the future. Ruth had an excellent memory, and could play without notes ; she felt herself now in a sort of happy Appledore Farm, 173 dream-land as she played old favourite melodies that she had learned yeai*s ago, bits from Mendelssohn, and from Heller ; and then unconsciously her fingers wandered into the pathetic notes of Schubert's "Adieu." She suddenly left off playing ; she wondered why on this day especially, when she might have been glad to see her beloved father so far recovered, she should have chosen this sad music. Was it a warning, she wondered, that they should soon have to take their leave of Appledore ? She left the pianoforte and went again to the window ; she was growing impatient to hear Mr. Clifford's opinion of their position. This time she had not long to wait. It was one of those mockingly bright days which seem to be a parody of summer, they have all belonging to it except its warmth; a keen east wind was searing the edges of the fresh green leaves, and nipping the fruit blossom. Mr. Clifford usually rode into the farmyard and left 1 74 Appledore Farm. his horse there, and Rath went across to the back window to see if he had arrived. He was standing there talking to George Bird and Peter ; the two men faced the window, and she could see that they looked troubled. She went back to her former place and waited, she felt sure her father would have to give up the farm, and that Mr. Clifford had come to tell her they must go. He came in looking very cheerful. " This is good news," he said ; " Mrs. Voce has been telling me of your patient's move. I believe we shall soon have him in the garden if he continues to progress at this rate." Ruth pointed to the sofa ; he sat down, and she took a chair opposite him. " Yes, he is much better," she said ; '*I am so glad to see you alone, I want to ask you something." He looked eagerly at her, but she kept her eyes fixed on his without any sign of consciousness ; her lips quivered slightly, but she did not seem nervous, he thought. Appledore Farm, 1 75 " I want to know," she went on, " what you think we had better do when we leave Appledore : we have to leave it, you know ? " '* Your father has told me so, but I see no occasion for hurry." Ruth gave him a sudden, indignant glance ; he spoke so coldly, so indifferently, she thought, when he must know the pain it gave her to talk about leaving the place in which she had been born. " Why should we delay ? " she said, sharply, he fancied ; '' if it has to be done, the sooner it is over the better." " Your father is not well enough to move yet, it would harm him." He had been longing to see her alone, and to get a few words with her ; he was determined not to let her guess at his attachment till her father's affairs were in a more settled state, but he had not reckoned on the strength of his passion for her ; the effort at self- repression gave an unintentional stiffness and coldness to his manner which deeply wounded her. 176 Appledore Farm. '* My father," she said, in a hard voice, '^ can be moved now ; we may have to wait months for him to be able to walk, even if he ever recovers the use of his leg. I am sorry to trouble you with our affairs, Mr. Clifford, but I do not know any on€ else who €an advise me. I want to know whether we must give notice to the landlord about leaving, or what we have to do." He was looking anxiously at her, but she went on in the same repressive tone, — ** I also want to know, I fancy you can tell me, if we have anything of our own to live on when we leave Appledore ; the doctor says I must not talk to my father about business." She spoke as if she were saying a lesson. There are moments when Nature is so much wiser than w^e poor mortals esteem ourselves to be. Michael Clifford's impulse was to ask Ruth to go back to the old friendly terms, and to pufc full confidence in him, but he Appledore Farm, 177 also lon^ged to declare his love, and to put everything he possessed at her disposal ; he could not offer her a mere brotherly friendship when he was filled with ardent love, and so it seemed wise to him to take a middle course ; he was unconscious how very unsympathetic he appeared. " So far as I know of Mr. Bryant's affairs," he said, and even then he tried to speak indifferently, lest her keen wits should discover how much he knew, '' I am sure that you will be able to rent a comfortable cottage ; if you will allow me I will speak to Dr. Buchan, but I am almost sure that he will say, you must not move your patient till summer really comes ; the weather has been hitherto so cold and wet, so different from last year, that we may reasonably hope for a fine August. If you like I will find you a cottage by August.'' She looked dissatisfied. " I cannot think it will hurt my father to move sooner," she said, coldly ; '' ex- cept for his lameness he seems fairly well. VOL. I. N 178 Appledore Farm. I imagine tliat the doctor objects to liis talking about business because he fears the effect on his brain ; I am sure a change of surroundings would be good for him just now." Clifford smiled, and, as if a new idea had just come to him, he said warmly, — " Will you trust your father to our care ? My sister is always an invalid, but she is not dull, and I am sure she would take good care of Mr. Bryant ; do let us have him, it would do him good ; and it would be a rest for you to have a little quiet after your anxious nursing ? " " You are very good," she said, grate- fully, for his kindness touched her, though the proposal troubled her. She was so sure that they already owed much to Mr. Clifford, that she shrank from increasing the debt ; it had, however, shown her that this old friend was not as indifferent as he seemed, and she added, " I will speak to my father." " Thank you," Clifford said. She looked up and hesitated, ** I have Appledore Farm, 1 79 no right to bother you," she said, *' but do you not think I may lessen our expenses without waiting till I can speak to father ? I want to send away all unnecessary help. Mrs. Voce has promised to stay here until we leave Appledore, so that really we need very little help in the house besides." He was greatly surprised, he had been accustomed to look on Ruth as the light and sunshine of the home, rather than in a more domestic character ; even when she had spoken of her wish to go out in the world, he had considered her unreal, and also he had fancied she wished for a change ; it was grievous, he thought, that this beautiful bright creature should be so early burdened with the sordid cares of life. '' You are too young to have such things put on you," he said impatiently. " Why not continue as you are till you move; then you can start afresh as you mean to go on ? I am afraid in this large house you cannot manage with fewer ser- vants, and — and it would grieve" — he N 2 i8o Appledore Farm. paused, and then he said, " It would worry jour father very much if he discovered that you did any household work your- self." Ruth laughed in her old bright way. " I have a better opinion of my father than that ; besides, ever since his illness began I have dusted this room dili- gently, and he has never made an objection. I am sure many women in a far better posi- tion than mine help with the housework," she said triumphantly. He looked at her hands and he sighed. The idea of seeing this beautiful girl, his own precious Ruth, hard-worked, robbed of her well-kept dainty aspect, was very unpleasant, but he could not find any better reason against her plan than those he had already given. " I fancy you will take your own way, whatever happens." He did not mean to speak coldly, but his voice sounded harsh, and full of re- buke. Tears sprang to Ruth's eyes at what Appledore Farm, i8i she considered liis persistent imkindness. Her cheeks flushed, and she closed her lips firmly. She had always done this as a child when she was vexed, and Clifford knew it. He forgot his resolution to avoid all emotional subjects. He felt it was time for him to leave her, but he could not go away and leave her angry with him. " You are not vexed, Ruth ? " She flashed yet more deeply, and he thought she looked haughty ; he had called her Ruth years ago, and it had seemed natural that he should do so. To-day she thought it a freedom, and she resented it, not so much for herself, as because she felt sure it would give offence to Mr. Bevington that any one beside him should call her by her name. '*I am not vexed, Mr. Clifford," she said, stiffly, " but I think, if you will excuse me, that I ought to go and see after my father, he has been a long time alone, and is, perhaps, awake.'* 1 82 Apple dove Farm, '* Good-bye." He held lier hand a moment, and looked wistfully at her. " Then you will think over that idea of trusting us with your father, it would be a great pleasure to us ? " " Thank you, I will tell my father of your kindness." She said this more cordially, but though she came out into the hall to see him de- part, Michael Clifford felt that somehow he was farther away from Ruth Bryant than he had been at the beginning of his visit. CHAPTER XII. Ruth was glad when bed-time came, she had never felt so troubled. She had been ^ perplexed with a dim sense of wrong- doing when Mr. Bevington had asked her to keep their love secret from her father, but there had been the delicious opium, the consciousness of her own love and her faith in her lover, to deaden the sense of this wrong-doing. To-day she felt herself to be wholly in the wrong, she had been unjust, and also most ungrateful to this kind old friend ; she had no right to judge Michael Clifford by his manner, when he had given so many proofs of his warm and true friendship. How kind, how even devoted he had been during her father's illness ! She remembered how grateful she had promised herself to be to him i84 Appledore Farm, when, on the evening of her father's seizure, he had come again late in the evening bringing the screen he had pro- cured for her ; he had ridden beside the cart himself to make sure that the driver, who was a stranger, should not disturb the household; and since then, Ruth thought, as she went over the time that had passed, each day had shown him to be an ever-mindful and generous friend. The point that touched the girl most in the consideration of all his kindnesses was the delicacy that pervaded them ; he had always parried her thanks with some ready excuse ; the doctor had suggested this, or the rector had proposed the other ; some- times the idea, he said, had come from Sally Voce ; he had never troubled Ruth by proposing this or that, he had done it for her without asking ; and to-day she had rewarded him for all this goodness by a cold, even an angry manner in receiving his advice, advice for which she had her- self asked. Before she fell asleep that night she Appledore Farm, 185 cried over her own ingratitude. She had been vexed with Mr. Clifford's unsympa- thetic manner, but, she told herself, her own manner had been icy; and when in the goodness of his heart he had called her Euth, perhaps to recall her to the memory of old times, she had actually been mean enough to be offended. She hid her hot face in her pillow, desperately ashamed of her conduct, and as she thought over it it grew worse in her eyes, for she believed that it had been caused by a secret self- consciousness. She might have known better ; indeed, she had more than once told herself during these weeks that her dear father had been self-deceived, he had spoken as he wished when he had assured her that Clifford loved her. Ruth decided that her old friend could not have so completely hidden his feelings in the many meetings she had had with him since her father's seizure; why, then, having more than once acknowledged this to herself, had she been so silly and unkind as she had been to-day ? 1 86 Appledore Farm, She slept badly, and was glad to wake and rise early. Her father looked troubled when she took him his breakfast, but he said he was as well as usual. At dinner- time, however, he was so pale and anxious- looking, that Ruth felt alarmed, and questioned him. " It is nothing," he said ; " I had a bad dream, and I have been thinking about it, I think I will dine here instead of going to the house-place. I am tired, that's all, my girl, and I want to be alone. Kiss me, darling, and come to me when you have had your dinner." '' You won't have your nap, then ? " '' No, I want to talk to you first, child, let Sally bring me my dinner." Ruth wondered a little, but it seemed to her that this talk would give her an oppor- tunity of proposing her father's visit to Purley. She did not really wish him to go there, but she felt bound to use her strongest powers of persuasion, as a sort of atonement for her unkindness to Michael Clifford, for with the exaggeration Appledore Farm. 187 of a generous nature she had now put her old friend in a higher place than he had perhaps ever occupied in her regard. She had soon finished her meal, and she stood leaning out of the open window of the house-place, wishing that the heavy grey clouds would lift, or give some hope that they meant to break ; the air was still and heavy, too damp for thunder, or she might have dreaded a storm. Pre- sently Ruth walked across the big bare room to the door that led into the farm- yard ; she had not been out this morning, for she had been engaged with Sally Voce, settling that the old woman and the girl Faith should in future keep the house between them. It was a relief to have in some way carried out her plans for economy, Mrs. Voce being willing to shut up her cottage for the time that her services would be required at Appledore. Ruth was bringing up a brood of young bantams, and she wanted to see if they had been properly fed in her absence from the poultry yard ; there had always been an 1 88 Appledore Farm, excellent dairy-woman at Appledore, and Ruth had never interfered with her. She had not a turn for butter-making, but she dearly loved young stock of all kinds, and she was especially fond of rearing poultry. As she opened the door she heard her name called, and, looking over her shoulder, she saw Mrs. Voce coming into the house- place. " Your papa's a-askin' for you, Miss Ruth, he don't seem wishful for a nap this afternoon. I've helped him on to the sofa in his room, an' now I'm off home to see how things are going." Ruth nodded ; she said nothing about the bantams to Sally, being well aware that the good woman would consider it necessary to give the little creatures food, whether they required it or not. Philip Bryant was looking paler than usual, and there was a sad expression in his eyes as he fixed them on Ruth. ** Sit down, child," he said, as she stood bending over the fire, " I have a good deal Appledore Far7n, 1 89 to say to you, and it is better not to put it off; no one knows how soon the end may come." The words gave Ruth a shock, but she smiled as she placed herself with her back to the light. " The doctor says you are to have a wheel-chair when the weather is drier, and then you can sit out in the garden ; you see, dear," she went on brightly, ''you have been so accustomed to live in the open air, that the being shut up so long- has naturally depressed you." He shook his head. '' Come and sit here, darling," he said, affectionately ; " I like to see your face, and I can't when your back is to the light." He waited while she moved, and then he went on again. ''I do not think I shall be here long, Ruth, in spite of what the doctor may say ; Dr. Buchan has only known me a matter of four years or so, I must know my feelings besfc. I am not grieved to think it, child, except on your account. I wish" — his voice trembled so, that he paused 1 90 Appledore Farm, to steady it before he went on — " I wisli that I had been a better father to you, and that your sweet mother had not been taken away from me just when I wanted her most. It is too late for all that ; there's an old saying, ' It's no use to cry over spilt milk,' and that's true ; what I have got to do now is to think of your future." '' Now," Ruth smiled brightly, '* you are naughty, you are trying to do just what the doctor cautioned you against; you are trying to worry your dear self, and you had much better let me tell you about my bantams." • He looked wearily at her, and shook his head. ''It's no use, dear ; I shall not be much longer with you," he repeated, sadly, " and I want you to listen, Euth. I told you before I was taken ill that I was in debt ; you had better know that I have not paid my own rent these three years, a kind friend has lent me the cash for that, and for all my other wants. I have always hoped to pay him Appledore Fm^in. 191 back, but now I hardly know wliat to think. However, that is not what I want to talk over with you ; I want to die happy, and I cannot if I leave you without a home, or even a roof to shelter you." His persistence had made the girl's heart ache, she had tried to persuade herself that his illness had affected his judgment, and that when he had once more breathed the outer air he would be as cheerful as ever ; but when she looked at him and saw the dark circles under his eyes, and noted the change in his voice, she could not help being greatly troubled. She put her hand gently on his. " Father, dear, I do not think it can be good for you to talk in this way ; besides, even if you were much worse than you are now, I must tell you that you do not do me justice, you make me out to be a helpless baby." She laughed so gaily that he could not help smiling. *' I am quite able to make my own way in the world, indeed I am. I like employment ; in fact, I hate to be idle, so that it would never be a hard- 192 Appledore Faiin, ship to me to have to work for my own living; you see, darling father, there is uo need to be anxious about me." He again moved his head wearily. " I fancy this is the last thing I shall ask you to do for me," he said reproachfully, " and you will not let me even tell you what it is." "I have something to tell you first," she said, cheerfully, " I have a message from Mr. Clifford." He looked surprised, but she fancied he was pleased. " He came yesterday while you were asleep ; he told me to say he wants you to stay a few days at Purley with him and his sister, just for the sake of the change. When I asked Dr. Buchan this morning, he said that was just what you wanted, a change of surroundings, it will give you a fillip." «' You would go with me ? " her father said. " I was not asked, and there is a good deal to be done here ; the spring-cleaning Apple dor e Farm. 193 had to be put off, you know, and it will be much better to get it over in your absence, now that you are so much more in the house ; besides, Mr. CUfford did not even say he should be glad to see me." Bryant passed his hand across his eyes, he cleared his throat before he spoke again, — '' You are blind, my girl ; if you thought a little more about yourself, you must know that the poor chap loves you so much that he would like to keep you at Purley, and never let you go again." Ruth shook her head at this, and looked incredulous. A flush rose on her father's pale face, and made him more like his old self than he had looked since his attack. " Whether you believe it or not, you cannot alter facts," he said, in a vexed tone ; " I tell you Clifford loves you with all his heart and soul, and he wants you to be his wife." Ruth was as red as a rose, she felt im- patient of the fixed gaze her father kept VOL. I. 194 Appledore Farm, on her face ; at last she said, without look- ing up,— " It is strange that he should not speak for himself instead of teasing you about his feelings. He has never said a word to me." " Ah ! that is because he is such a noble fellow ; he knows the sort of girl you are, and he shrinks from owing your consent to anything but your inclination." " I don't understand ; " she looked be- wildered ; she thought of her ingratitude yesterday ; if Michael Clifford really loved her, she had been doubly unkind. " What do you mean by ' sort of girl I am,' father ? " *' It's plain enough," he answered im- patiently, " we are largely in his debt, and he knows that you are generous, he may fancy you would accept him just to pay off this money, and enable me to die in peace." There was silence ; the flush faded out of Ruth's cheeks, but the shame-stricken look remained there. It was terrible to App le dor e Farm, 195 her that her father should be so deeply in debt to his old friend, as to make hitn talk in this way ; it dawned upon her that Mr. Clifford was, perhaps, her father's only creditor. She sat very still and quiet thinking this over, she even put the ques- tion to herself, whether, if she had been free to choose, she could have acted as her father seemed to think she would have acted, just to free him from what she felt to be a degrading burden ; but Ruth was not romantic, and the idea seemed to her high-flown and repulsive ; unless she could love the man she married, she was sure she could not make him happy ; she longed to say they had already discussed this ques- tion, but the doctor had told her not to thwart or contradict her father. She sat silent, her eyes fixed on her hands as they lay in her lap. Bryant, who was still looking at her, saw that her forehead became puckered with perplexity, the brightness had faded from her face, and she was, he fancied, greatly troubled, 2 1 9 6 App le dore Fa r m . He was not an altogether selfish man, although, like many another optimist, he became impatient if others did not at once adopt his views ; he could not make allowance for the struggle they might have to undergo in the process ; he, in fact, took for granted that what he wished for was the only thing to be done ; in this instance, it appeared to him his daughter was purely self-willed, and that she was giving herself useless pain. " If you were less prejudiced," he said, *' you must see it as I do, I should not propose Michael Clifford to you if I were not sure that he would be an excellent husband." '' He might be that," she said, gravely, '^ but I do not think he would be a happy one with me ; I am sure a man cannot be happy unless his wife loves him." " And why should you not love him, Ruth?" He was looking at her so inquiringly, that she flushed with a sudden fear that he suspected her secret. Apple dore Farm, 197 " I know I could not love him as a wife ought to love her husband." Her father was careless enough in some things, but he seemed now to have an almost womanish quickness of per- ception ; the colour flew to his face, and a flash of sudden intelligence brightened his heavy eyes. " Then you have some reason for ob- jecting ? " he exclaimed, " you care for some one else, I am sure of it." She looked up quickly, his voice was full of vehement excitement, and she felt greatly alarmed. She took his hand in hers, and tried to speak as quietly and gently as possible. ''I may not tell you now," she said, *' I have promised not to speak, but soon, very soon, I hope to be able to tell you something, — " she hesitated, '' something that will set your mind at rest on my account." He drew his hand away, and turned angrily from her. " I would not have believed it from any 198 Appledore Farm, one else, even if they'd sworn to it, I'd not have believed ; I had that trust in you, Euth, that no one should have made me believe you would deceive me. There ! leave me in peace ; I don't want to quarrel, child, God knows you have enough against me as it is ; I'll — I'll try to sleep, if you'll be good enough to leave me quiet." Ruth was troubled, yet she felt greatly relieved, she had feared questions which she could not have answered^ followed by anger at her silence. She guessed that her father had exhausted himself in their prolonged discussion, and that he would probably soon fall asleep. She silently arranged his cushions, and placed his feet comfortably on the sofa ; then she sat watching him. Would he go back to the subject when he waked, she wondered ? She tried bravely to remember her mother's maxim, never to meet trouble half-way, and she began to plan out her father's visit to Purley, and how soon he would be able to go Appledore Farm. 199 there ; very soon his heavy breathing told her that he was asleep. A timid tap at the door made her rise and open it. The little maid, Faith, stood outside, and began eagerly to speak. Ruth raised her hand in warning, and softly closed the door behind her. " What is it ? " she said, softly ; " speak low, Mr Bryant is asleep." " It's a gentleman, miss, the gentleman as used to live here, and he wants to see you, miss, and I wasn't to say nothing to nobody else but you." CHAPTER XIII. Ruth felt as if she were dreaming, wlien she opened the door of the sitting-room and saw her lover standing just as she had often seen him stand, besidethe hearth, leaning against the high mantelshelf ; she had hardly time to look at him, for he came quickly forward and took her in his arms, as if they two had only parted yesterday. *' My beautiful darling, my own Ruth," he said, and he pressed her closely to him, and covered her sweet face with passionate kisses. The glow of delight she felt at finding herself once more with him, and at being thus assured that he loved her dearly, in spite of all her doubts and fears, made her look more than ever beautiful, and for the Apple do re Farm, 201 moment concealed tlie traces of anxiety and fatigue whicli yesterday had made Michael Clifford's heart ache as he looked at her. Suddenly she broke into passionate crying, and hid her eyes on her lover's shoulder. '' What is it, darling ? " He was half alarmed, half vexed; she was far more lovely than he had thought she was, he was no longer surprised at the love he felt for her ; certainly he had not seen any one so beautiful since they parted. '' Are you not glad to see me, my Ruth ? " he said, in the gentle, refined voice she so well remembered. Ruth wiped away her tears, and then she smiled up at him. " I cried because I was so glad, so very, very glad, I have been so lonely without you all this while ; I have wanted to ask you so many things," she said, tenderly. He slipped his hand under her chin, and looked at her sweet face with increasing admiration ; formerly her frank simplicity 202 Appledore Farm. liad seemed a part of her surroundings, It now gave him a deUcious sense of security in the possession of her love. '' Is that all the sweet pet wanted me for? Any old greybeard would have done for an adviser, would not he ? " She blushed, and quivered all over with the delight she felt in his mere presence ; all her anxieties seemed at once laid to rest ; it was so sweet only to look at him ; to listen to him was an added delight. He drew her to the sofa, and they sat down side by side, while he kept his arm round her waist. Bevington thought Ruth was much less shy with him than she had been in the glen. Perhaps there is truth in the old sa}ing, some love does strengthen in absence ; Ruth's love had been at first sought too suddenly, before it had had time to develop, its very unexpectedness had at that time alarmed her, and she had struggled to repress it. All these months it had been growing steadily, and in the light of his dear presence, and in the intense trust she felt in him, she gave Appledore Farm* 2C J herself up to her happiness, and to the thankfulness she felt for his constancy. *' You see," she said, shyly, for his warm kisses made her blush, and shrink in spite of herself, " since my father's illness began I have not been able to consult him about anything, and, as I told you, we shall have to leave Appledore, because — because, we cannot afford to stay on here." He was looking at her, but he was not listeninor with much interest. " You said something about it in your letter, dearest ; the best way out of it is — well, my precious girl, I have come to arrange that with you." The girl's heart seemed to lighten with the sudden relief she felt, all would be right now that she had this dear counsellor beside her ; she looked up in his face with the imphcit trust of a child, as she said, — '*I may now tell my father we are en- gaged, may I not ? It will make him so happy; you know how fond he was of you." " That -was very good of him, I'fli sure," 204 Apple dor e Farm. Bevington spoke absently as if lie were thinking of something else. " Then I may tell him ? " she persisted. " I am afraid he has begun to suspect already." Bevington bent down and kissed her. " No, dearest ; you must not tell him just directly, it would hamper me ; and besides, it would be useless; you have waited so long that it is better to be patient just a little longer, only a little while, you know ; my Ruth, do not look so grave, it spoils your face, I like your smiles best, my angel." He said this rather repressively, and she feared she had vexed him. " Please do not be angry," she said humbly, ''I will tell you why I can't wait to tell him, then you will understand — father wants me to marry Mr. Clifford." Bevington rose abruptly from the sofa, he began to pace the room ; he was furious that this " confounded clod-hopper," as he mentally called Clifford, should dare to love Euth. This news had put an Appledore Farm, 205 obstacle in his way which he had not counted on; it had seemed to him that her father's incapable state had taken away a hindrance from his designs, and he had not believed in the existence of any other external interference. At last he quieted himself, and he turned to look at Euth. She had expected he would be angry, and she sat with a frightened look waiting for him to speak. He came and stood in front of her. " You mean, I suppose, that this miser- able fellow had made you an offer, and you want me to tell you whether you should accept it ? " Ruth rose to her feet. Her cheeks and eyes glowed, and her figure seemed grander in her agitation. She did not reproach him, but her voice sounded very sad. '' Mr. Clifford has never said a word to me on the subject, and if he had, how could I even think of marrying him when I love you ? " He stood silent ; he was shamed, in spite 2o6 Appledore Farm. of all his worldliness, bj the simple truth of her words ; but the next minute he smiled at his own follj ; it was clear to him, he had thought it when he read her letter, and now he felt sure of it ; Ruth wanted to be relieved from debt, and to keep a comfortable home for her father ; well he could manage both those matters for her, but he meant to take his own way of doing it ; anyhow, he meant to make his darling girl happy. He took Ruth's hand. " Forgive me, sweet child, of course, I was only teasing you, though it made me mad just at first, that such a fellow as that should dare even to think of you in that way. Xow look here," he had put his arm round her again, and her head nestled con- fidingly on his shoulder, " I had meant to wait, but now I have seen you again, darling, I can't wait, that's the simple truth, sweet one ; I love you too fondly ; I miist take you away, Ruth, as soon as you can leave your father." " He is going away from me soon," she Apple dor e Farm, ' 207 said, thouglitf ully ; " please, you must let me tell him before be leaves me." "You sball tell bim in your own way, dear girl, but not till I give you leave." She smiled at tbis, and looked up brigbtly, " I cannot marry you till I bave told bim," tben looking down, sbe blushed at her own daring. " I sball never give you up," be said, but sbe felt that be was looking away from her, " but unfortuna^tely I bave been deceived, at present I am not in a position to marry you— I must wait a little ; I sball not be free tbis year in the way I told you about; I am not my godfather's heir; I am dependent on my father and mother, and they w^ould not consent to let me marry any one without money." Ruth looked at bim very sadly; then she drew herself gently away from bim. " I understand now," sbe said, '' you came to tell me tbis ; you can never marry me," he beard a sob in her voice; "but. 2o8 Appledore Farm, ob, why did you come again ? It was cruel ; it lias made parting so much worse ; why did you say just now you would soon take me away ? " He started up from the sofa as if some- thing had sharply stung him ; he walked up and down before he answered. At last he again stood in front of her. " Life is full of chances and changes, my girl, no one can see into the future ; there are women who will bear any vexation and trouble for the sake of being with the man they love, I thought you were like them ; there are other women who cannot even bear the weight of a secret. You understand now, by what I have told you, why I cannot let you tell your father that I love you. I hav^e gone already through so much vexation on this subject that — that I had almost determined not to see you again, but I could not resist your summons ; after all, it is not I who am to blame for this meeting, Ruth." He was looking gravely at her, she did not guess that he was trying her ; the Appledore Farm, 209 liglit seemed suddenly to fade from the future that liad just now sliown itself full of sunshine. Ruth, hid lier face in her hands ; she was too wretched to cry, her heart ached with a strange new pain that was almost intolerable. At last she looked up, and he thought her eyes swam with tenderness ; he longed to take her in his arms again, but something kept him back, he did not yet feel quite sure of her. "I do not blame you," she said, " I am grateful to you for coming ; even if I never see you again, I . have had this happy time with you, and I can never forget it. I shall never leave off loving you, I shall look for your name, and feel proud of you even when I know you have married some one else. It will be different with you," she went on mournfully, "you must forget me, it would make your wife unhappy if you even thought of me, and you could not do such a wrong thing as that." She rose and held out her hands. " Good-bye, dear, dear ^^gg^ ^ ^^5 ^^^ happy I was when you wrote and asked VOL. I. p 2IO App le dor e Farm. me to call you so, I shall think of you and pray for you always." He had taken possession of her hand, his other arm had slipped round her ; she did not resist ; it was the last time, she thought. '* Don't talk about my marrying anybody else — I shall never forget you or give you up," he whispered passionately between his kisses, '' all will come right ; promise otily that you will come to me when I want you ; you must ; I cannot live without you, you are the one love of my life. You do not care for position or outside show, do you, darling ? You only care for me and for my love, and I swear you shall have both, let who will come in the way. You are mine, only mine, are you not, my Ruth ? " " Yes," she whispered. Another fond embrace, another request that she would keep silence about his visit, as well as about his love, and he left her, so agitated, so carried out of herself, that she could not think with any co- herence. She did not go to the door with Apple dor e Farm. 2 1 t him — slie sat half-stupefied with over- wrought feeling. At first she could only call up the memory of the dear face that had so lately been pressed close to hers, and the tender love to which she had listened. She hardly knew how their meeting had ended ; he had said he would not give her up, and yet he had said that he was dependent on his parents, and must therefore marry to please them. Could he have meant, her heart grew lighter as the thought came, that he intended to distinguish himself, and so earn a livelihood for himself, and with it the right to marry whom he pleased ? Eath shrank into herself a little at the idea of marrying him without the consent oi those proud parents, but she believed that they would never have accepted her as a daughter, even if the question of means had not arisen. He evidently meant to live a quiet retired life with her, when they were married, or he would not have said that about position. Was it indeed possible that he, the light of her life, would p 2 2 12 Appledore Farm, one daj be liers, her own darling husband ? She started from this thought with a quick flush of shame ; she had entirely forgotten her father whom she had left sleeping, she had forgotten every one but Mr. Bevington. Before she could reach the door Mrs. Voce came into the room ; she closed the door cautiously behind her, and then she looked suspiciously at Ruth. The girl reddened under the look, but in a moment she held her head erect, she was determined to keep her promise. " You have had a visitor, I hear, miss." Ruth broke in gravely, — '' You must say nothing about it to Mr Bryant, Sally. Mr. Bevington did not see him ; I told him about the illness, it would have greatly agitated my father to see a comparative stranger ; remember, Sally, until he is quite himself again he is not to hear of this visit, it would rouse up painful recollections ; you had better tell Faith not to speak of it to any one, lest it should come round.'* Then she went on, with an App le dor e Farm. 213 abrupt change of voice, '' My father is going to stay a few days with Mr. Clifford and his sister, it is so kind of them to ask him, and we can do the spring-cleaning while he is at Purley." "Yes, miss." The suspicious look remained on Sally Voce's face. " I'd like to know," she muttered, as Euth left the room, " what call that smart young gentleman had to come like a thief in the night after Miss Ruth : I'll keep my eyes open ; I will." END OF VOL. T. WARD & DOWNEY'S N EW BOOKS. BY WILLIAM O'CONNOR MORRIS. MOLTKE : A Biographical and Critical Study. 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