his back. And Ruby
also knew this of him,--that he worshipped the very ground on which she
trod.
But, alas, she thought there might be something better than such
worship; and, therefore, when Felix Carbury came in her way, with his
beautiful oval face, and his rich brown colour, and his bright hair
and lovely moustache, she was lost in a feeling which she mistook for
love; and when he sneaked over to her a second and a third time, she
thought more of his listless praise than ever she had thought of John
Crumb's honest promises. But, though she was an utter fool, she was
not a fool without a principle. She was miserably ignorant; but she
did understand that there was a degradation which it behoved her to
avoid. She thought, as the moths seem to think, that she might fly
into the flame and not burn her wings. After her fashion she was
pretty, with long glossy ringlets, which those about the farm on week
days would see confined in curl-papers, and large round dark eyes, and
a clear dark complexion, in which the blood showed itself plainly
beneath the soft brown skin. She was strong, and healthy, and tall,--
and had a will of her own which gave infinite trouble to old Daniel
Ruggles, her grandfather.
Felix Carbury took himself two miles out of his way in order that he
might return by Sheepstone Birches, which was a little copse distant
not above half a mile from Sheep's Acre farmhouse. A narrow angle of
the little wood came up to the road, by which there was a gate leading
into a grass meadow, which Sir Felix had remembered when he made his
appointment. The road was no more than a country lane, unfrequented at
all times, and almost sure to be deserted on Sundays. He approached
the gate in a walk, and then stood awhile looking into the wood. He
had not stood long before he saw the girl's bonnet beneath a tree
standing just outside the wood, in the meadow, but on the bank of the
ditch. Thinking for a moment what he would do about his horse, he rode
him into the field, and then, dismounting, fastened him to a rail
which ran down the side of the copse. Then he sauntered on till he
stood looking down upon Ruby Ruggles as she sat beneath the tree. 'I
like your impudence,' she said, 'in calling yourself a friend.'
'Ain't I a friend, Ruby?'
'A pretty sort of friend, you! When you was going away, you was to be
back at Carbury in a fortnight; and that is,--oh, ever so long ago now.'
'But I wrote to you, Ruby.'
'What's l
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