“What is a little drop like this to a man of your size and strength, Cousin Ridd?” she said, with her cheeks just brushed with rose, which made her look very beautiful; “I have heard you say that your head is so thick—or rather so clear, you ought to say—that no liquor ever moves it.”
“That is right enough,” I answered; “what a witch you must be, dear Ruth, to have remembered that now!”
“Oh, I remember every word I have ever heard you say, Cousin Ridd; because your voice is so deep, you know, and you talk so little. Now it is useless to say ‘no.’ These bottles hold almost nothing. Dear grandfather will not come home, I fear, until long after you are gone. What will Aunt Ridd think of me, I am sure? You are all so dreadfully hospitable. Now not another ‘no,’ Cousin Ridd. We must have another bottle.”
“Well, must is must,” I answered, with a certain resignation. “I cannot bear bad manners, dear; and how old are you next birthday?”
“Eighteen, dear John;” said Ruth, coming over with the empty bottle; and I was pleased at her calling me “John,” and had a great mind to kiss her. However, I thought of my Lorna suddenly, and of the anger I should feel if a man went on with her so; therefore I lay back in my chair, to wait for the other bottle.
“Do you remember how we danced that night?” I asked, while she was opening it; “and how you were afraid of me first, because I looked so tall, dear?”
“Yes, and so very broad, Cousin Ridd. I thought that you would eat me. But I have come to know, since then, how very kind and good you are.”
“And will you come and dance again, at my wedding, Cousin Ruth?”
She nearly let the bottle fall, the last of which she was sloping carefully into a vessel of bright glass; and then she raised her hand again, and finished it judiciously. And after that, she took the window, to see that all her work was clear; and then she poured me out a glass and said, with very pale cheeks, but else no sign of meaning about her, “What did you ask me, Cousin Ridd?”
“Nothing of any importance, Ruth; only we are so fond of you. I mean to be married as soon as I can. Will you come and help us?”
“To be sure I will, Cousin Ridd—unless, unless, dear grandfather cannot spare me from the business.” She went away; and her breast was heaving, like a rick of under-carried hay. And she stood at the window long, trying to make yawns of sighs.
For my part, I knew not what to do. And yet I could think about it, as I never could with Lorna; with whom I was always in a whirl, from the power of my love. So I thought some time about it; and perceived that it was the manliest way, just to tell her everything; except that I feared she liked me. But it seemed to me unaccountable that she did not even ask the name of my intended wife. Perhaps she thought that it must be Sally; or perhaps she feared to trust her voice.
“Come and sit by me, dear Ruth; and listen to a long, long story, how things have come about with me.”
“No, thank you, Cousin Ridd,” she answered; “at least I mean that I shall be happy—that I shall be ready to hear you—to listen to you, I mean of course. But I would rather stay where I am, and have the air—or rather be able to watch for dear grandfather coming home. He is so kind and good to me. What should I do without him?”
Then I told her how, for years and years, I had been attached to Lorna, and all the dangers and difficulties which had so long beset us, and how I hoped that these were passing, and no other might come between us, except on the score of religion; upon which point I trusted soon to overcome my mother’s objections. And then I told her how poor, and helpless, and alone in the world, my Lorna was; and how sad all her youth had been, until I brought her away at last. And many other little things I mentioned, which there is no need for me again to dwell upon. Ruth heard it all without a word, and without once looking at me; and only by her attitude could I guess that she was weeping. Then when all my tale was told, she asked in a low and gentle voice, but still without showing her face to me—
“And does she love you, Cousin Ridd? Does she say that she loves you with—with all her heart?”
“Certainly, she does,” I answered. “Do you think it impossible for one like her to do so?”
She said no more; but crossed the room before I had time to look at her, and came behind my chair, and kissed me gently on the forehead.
“I hope you may be very happy, with—I mean in your new life,” she whispered very softly; “as happy as you deserve to be, and as happy as you can make others be. Now how I have been neglecting you! I am quite ashamed of myself for thinking only of grandfather: and it makes me so low-spirited. You have told me a very nice
