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Lorsque le document est trop grand pour Atre reproduit en un seul clichA, 11 est filmA A partir de I'angle supArieur gauche, de gauche A droite, et de haut en bas, en prenant le nombre d'images nAcessaire. Les diagrammes suivants illustrent la mAthode. 1 2 3 1 2 3 4 5 6 1.0 I.I 1.25 156 Hi 2.8 3.2 M3.6 1.4 2.5 llllitt [1 2^ 1.8 1.6 MICROCOPY RESOLUTION TEST CHART NATIONAL BUREAU OF STANDARDS STANDARD REFERENCE MATERIAL 1010a (ANSI and ISO TEST CHART No. 2) \ 1 XLbc mot\t>'s Classics f%^^ LXXXVIII THE NOVELS AND TALES OF MRS GASKELL— IT RUTH W: \ I LON zas "i V RUTH 1/ BY ELizAi.^.rH c. Igaskell ' tr WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY CLEMENT SHORTRR HENRY FROWDE OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS LONDON, NEW YORK AND TORONTO ,v^..?. Elizabkth C'LKc.iioRir Oabkbll Born, Chelsea, Died, Alton, Hants, September 29, 1810 November 12, 1865 "JitUh" was firsi publiahul in the year 1868. In World's Classics" it loas first jruhlished in 1906. tJii / TORNBOLI- AND SPBAKS, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH INTRODUCTION in Mrs (tahkkllV "Mary Barton" had secured to her a quite exceptional measure of fame, and what was of niorf portance than fame to the always affectionate and Si ere woman, many interesting friendships. Of these the friendship with Charles Dicicens was of the most practical value, at the moment, for Dickens, who founded Household Words in March 1860, asked Mrs Gaskell to become a contributor, and she con- tributed to the very first number the first chapter of " Lizzie Leigh." Writing to her in January 18.50 the great editor said : — "1 do hon-^stly know that Jhere is no living Knglish wri_^*J. INTRODUCTION vii id the attainment c^ a writer both good aud strong. \rhat an inevitabi< note of contrast, however, is afforded so far as **Jane Kvre" aud "Villette" are concerned. Take the hateful aspects of the life of a ifoveruess, for example, as Miss Bionte experienced it, and Its possibilities as Mrs Gaskell's more serene nature contemplated it : — "She sat in the room with Mary and Elizabeth during the Latin, tiie writing, and arithmetic lessons, which they received from masters ; then she read aud walked with *' «m, they c^ ifi^gto her as to an elder sister; sue dined ih her pupils at the family lunch, and reuhed .,.me by four. That happy home— thos<: quiet days ! " The book was well rece'% d. AL contemporary criticism IS interesting if onj .ccause of the futility of the greater part of it, and the "Athenaeum " cannot be blamed much for its declaration that " there is a f^f,. ' „'n.-. ®^"*^ *® anything in Mrs Inchbald's tales. fills reviewer was more happy in his state- ment that Sally's account of her sweetheart i& " a bit of honest, unpainted nature, as good, after its kind . . . as tne inimitable Meg Dods in " St Ronan's Well. Perhaps one of the most interesting riticisms of the book of a personal nature, was that contained in a letter written by Miss Mary Ann Evans, better known as George Eliot," which runs as follows :— "Of course you have read 'Ruth' by this time. Its style was a great rerreshment to me, from Its finish and fulness. How women have the courage to write, aud publishers the spirit to buy, at a high price, the false and feeble representations of life and charac* if tf tf ff if ft 1810 1810 1825 1827 1829 1832 1832-42 1842-60 1860^5 1837 1838 1848 1850 1853 1853 1855 1855 1855 1857 1857 1859 1859 1860 i ■ iV .t !l ]^ ft t: i* ■' ; h , ■ '• 1 ■ : ■ - . f 11 "li A' J, ■I ,: 4 RUTH Published " Garibaldi at Caprera," by Colonel Vecchj. Translated from the Italian^ with Preface by Mrs Craskell " Sylvia's Lovers " 3 vols. " A Dark Night's Work" "Cousin Phyllis, and Other Tales" " The Grey Womau" -. ■■ r-iM:. \ CONTENTS Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter j Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter I II III . IV . V . VI . VII . VIII IX . X . XI . XII . XIII . XIV . XV . XVI . XVII. XVIII XIX . PAOI 1 11 31 45 61 70 79 87 99 103 108 123 134 146 155 1(>4 178 190 2il «^ f ■I '^i M .£i^K-' xi IS xii CONTENTS PAGg i Chapter XX ..... 214 Chapter XXI . 236 Chapter XXII . 2.52 Chapter XXIII 206 Chapter XXIV 290 Chapter XXV . 307 Chapter XXVI 328 Chapter XXVII 841 Chapter XXVIII 303 Chapter XXIX 376 Chapter XXX . 390 Chapter XXXI 406 Chapter XXXII 416 Chapter XXXIII 422 Chapter XXXIV 431 Chapter XXXV 444 Chapter XXXVI • 449 BUTH 'IW^' I CHAPTER I There is an apsize-town in one of the eastern counties which was much distinguished by the Tudor sovereiras. and, in consequence of their favour and protection attained a degree of importance that surprises the modern traveller. A hundred years ago, its appearance was that of picturesque grandeur. The old houses, which were the temporary residences of such of the county-families as contented themselves with the gaieties of a pro- vincial town, crowded the streets and gave them the irregular but noble appearance yet to be seen in the cities of Belgium. The sides of the streets had a quaint nchne.)s, from the effect of the gables, and the sucks of chimneys which cut against the blue sky above ; while, if tfce eye fell lower down, the attentioi was arrested by all kinds of projections in the shape of balcony and onel; and it was amusing to see the infinif vanaty of windows that had been crammed into the walls lon,T before Mr Pitt's days of taxation. The streets below suffered from all these projections --d Mlyaneed stories above ; they were dark, and iU-paved vih large, round, jolting pebbles, and with no side- »th protected by kerVstones ; there were no lamp- K)ste for long winter nights ; and no regard was paid the wants of the middle class, who neither drove Dout in coaches of their own, nor were carried by their jm men in ther own sedans into the very halls of neir tnends. ne professional men and their wives, tie shopkeepers and their spouses, and all such people) V 2 RUTH walked about at considerable peril both night and day. The broad unwieldly carriages hemmed them up against the houses in the narrow streets. The inhospitable houses projected their flights of steps almost into the carriageway, forcing pedestrians again into the danger | they had avoided for twenty or thirty paces. 'Dieu, at night, the only light was derived from the glaring, flaring oil-lamps hung above the doors of the more aristocratic mansions ; just allowing space for the passers-by to become visible, before they again dis* appeared into the darkness, where it was no uncommon thing for robbers to be in waiting for their prey. The traditions of those bygone times, even to the smallest social particular, enable one to understand more clearly the circumstances which contributed to! the formation of character. The daily life into which people are born, and into which they are absorbed before they are wel* aware, forms chains which only one in a hundred has moral strength enough to despise, and to break when the right times comes — when an inward necessity for independent individual action arises, which is superior to all outward conventionalities. Therefore it is well to know what were the chains of daily domestic habit which were the natural leading- , strings of our forefathers before they learnt to go alone. The picturesqueness of thoso ancient streets hasi departed now. The Astleys, the Dunstans, the Waverhams — names of power in that district — go up duly to London in the season, and have sold their residences in the county-town fifty years ago, or *•' more. And when the county-town lost its attr^'ction for the Astleys, the Dunstans, the Waverhams, how could it be supposed that the Domvilles, the Bextons, and the Wildes would continue to go and winter there in their second-rate houses, and with their increased expenditure.^ So the grand old houses stood empty awhile ; and then speculators ventured to purchase, and to turn the deserted mansions into many smaller dwellings, fitted for professional men, or even (bend RUTH 3 your ear lownr^ lest the shade of Marmaduke, first Baron Waverham, hear) into shop-s ! Even that was not so very bad^ compared with the next innovation on the old glories. Tlie shopkeepers found out that the once fashionable street was dark, and that the dingy light did not show off their goods to advantage ; the surgeon could not see to draw his patient's teeth ; the lawyer had to ring for candles an hour earlier than he was accustomed to do when living in a more plebeian street. In short, by mutu^ consent, the whole front of one side of the street was pulled down, and rebuilt in the flat, mean, unrelieved style of George the Third. The body of the houses was too solidly grand to submit to alteration; so people were occasionally surprised^ after passing through a commonplace-looking shop, to find them- selves at the foot of a grand carved oaken staircase, lighted by a window of stained ^lass, storied all over with armorial bearings. Up such a stair — past such a window (through which the moonlight fell on her with a glory of many colours) — Ruth Hilton passed wearily one January night, now many years ago. I call it night ; but, strictly speaking, it was morning. Two o'clock in the morning chimed forth the old bells of St Saviour's. And yet more than a dozen girls still sat in the room into which Ruth entered, stitching away as if for very life, not daring to gape, or show any outward manifestation of sleepiness. They only sighed a little when Ruth told Mrs Mason the hour of the night, as the result of her errand ; for they knew that, stay up as late as they 'night, the work-hours of the next day must begin at eight, and their young limbs were very weary. Mrs Mason worked away as hard as any ot them ; but she was older and tougher ; and, besides, the gains were hers. But even she perceived that some rest was needed. " Young ladies 1 there will be an interval allowed of half an hour. Ring the bell. Miss Sutton. Martha shall bring you up some bread and cheese and beer. You will be so good as to eat it standing — ^ PP 4 •I \ 4 RUTH away from the dresses— and to have your hands washed | rfttdy for work when I return. In half an hour," said she once more, ver/ distinctly ; and then she left j the room. It was curious to watch the young girls as they in- stantaneously availed themselves of Mrs Mason's! absence. One fat, particularly heavy-looking damsel, laid her head on her folded arms and was asleep in 3 moment ; refusing to be wakened for her share in the frugal supper, but springing up with a frightened look ' at the sound of Mrs Mason's returning footstep, even while it was still far o£f on the echoing stairs. Two or three others huddled over the scanty fireplace, which, with every possible economy of space, and no attempt whatever at anything of grace or ornament, w&d iu- [ sorted in the slight, flat-looking wall, that had been! run up by the present owner of the property to portion 3 off this division of the grand old drawing-room of the mansion. Some employed the time in eating their bread and cheese, with as measured and incessant a motion of the jaws (and almost as stupidly placid an expression of countenance), as you may see in cowg' ruminating in the first meadow you happen to pass. Some held up admiringly the beautiful ball -dress' in progress, while others examined the effect, backing from the object to be criticized in the true artistic y manner. Others stretched thjmselves into 11 sorts' of postures to relieve the weary muscles ; one or two | gave vent to all the yawns, coughs^ and sneezes that had been pent up so long in the presence of Mrs Mason. But Rutn Hilton sprang to the large old window, and pressed against it as a bird presses^ against the bars of its cage. She put back the blind, < and gazed into the quiet moonlight night. It was» doubly light — almost as much so as day — for every- thing was covered with the deep snow which had been J filing silently ever since the evening before. The window was in a square recess ; the old strange little panes of glass had been replaced by those which gave more light. A little distance off, the feathery branches I'fl!^- RUTH 5 of a larch waved aoftly to and fro in tLe scarcely per- ceptible night-breeze. Poor old larch ! the time had been when it had stood in a pleasant lawn, with the tender grass creeping caressingly up to its very trunk ; but now the lawn was divided into yards and squalid back premises, and the larch was pent up and girded about with flagnstones. The snow lay thick on itf> boughs, and now and then fell noiselessly down. The old stables had been added to, and altered into a dismal street of mean-looking houses, back to back with the ancient mansions. And over all these changes from grandeur to squalor, bent down the purple heavens with their unchanging splendour ! Ruth pressed her hot forehead against the cold glass, and strained her aching eyes in gazing out on the lovely sky of a winter's night. The impulse was strong upon her to snatch up a shawl, and wrapping it round her head, to sally forth and enjoy the glory ; and time was when that impulse would have been instantly followed ; but now, Ruth's eyes filled with tears, and she stood quite still, dreaming of the days that were gone. Some one touched her shoulder while her thoughts were far away, remembering past January nights, which had resembled this, and were yet so different. "Ruth, love," whispered a girl who had unwillingly distinguished herself by a long hard fit of coughing, "come and have some supper. You don't know yet how it helps one through the night." " One run — one blow of the fresh air would do me more good," said Ruth. "Not such a night as this," replied the other, shivering at the very thought. "And why not such a night as this, Jenny.?" answered Ruth. "Oh ! at home I have many a time run up the lane all the way to the mill, just to see the icicles hang on the great wheel, and when I was once out, I could hardly find in my heart to come in, even to mother, sitting by the fire ; — even to mother," she added, in a low, melancholy tone, which had some- 1: I RUTH f: thing of inexpressible sadness in it. " Why, Jenny ! * said she, rousing herself, but not before her eyes were swimming with tears, " own, now, that you never saw those dismal, hateful, tumble-down old houses there look half so^what shall I call them ? almost beautiful — as they do now, with that soft, pure, exquisite covering ; anJ if they are so improved, think of what trees, and grass, and ivy, must be on such a night as this." Jenny could not be persuaded into admiring the winter's night, which to her came only as a cold and dismal time, when her cough was more troublesome, and the pain in her side worse than usual. But she put her arm round Ruth's neck, and stood by her; glad that the orphan apprentice, who was not yet in- ured to the hardship of a dressmaker's workroom, should find so much to five her pleasure in such ^ common occurrence as a frosty night. They remained deep in separate trains of thought till Mrs Mason's step was heard, when each returned, supperless but refreshed, to her seat. Ruth's place was the coldest and the darkest in the room, although she liked it the best ; she had instinc- tively chosen it for the sake of tbe wall opposite to her, on which was a remnant of the beauty of the old drawing-room, which must once have been magnificent, to judge from the faded specimen left. It was divided into panels of pale sea-green, picked out with white and gold ; and on these panels were painted — were thrown with the careless, triumphant hand of a master —the most lovely wreaths of flowers, profuse and luxu- riant beyond description, and so real-looking, that you *^ could almost fancy you smelt their fragrance, and heard " the south wind go softly rustling in and out among the crimson roses — the branches of purple and white lilac — -tT'e floating golden-tressed laburnum boughs. Be- sides these, there were statelv white lilies, sacred to the Virgin— hollyhocks, ftrxinella, monk's-hood, pansies, primroses; every flower which blooms profusely in charming old-foshioned country-gardens was there, RUTH 7 depicted among its rnceful foliage, bat not in the wild disorder in whicn I have enumerated them. At the bottom of the panel lay a holly-branch, whMe stiff straightness was ornamented by a twining drapery of English ivy and mistletoe and winter aconite ; while down either side hung pendant garlands of spring and autumn flowers ; and, crowning all, came gorgeous summer with the sweet musk-roses, and the rich-coloured flowers of June and July. Surely Monnoyer, or whoever the dead and gone artist might be, would have been gratified to know the pleasure his handiwork, even in its wane, had power to give to the heavy heart of a young girl ; for they conjured up vibions of other sister-flowers that grew, and blossomed, and withered away in her early home. Mrs Mason was particularly desirous that her work- women should exert themselves to-night, for, on the next, the nnual hunt-ball was to take place. It was the one gaiety of the town since the assize-balls had been discontinued. Many were the dresses she had promised should be sent home ''without fail'' the next morning ; she had not let one slip through her fingers, for fear, if it did, it might fall into the hands uf the rival dressmaker, who had just established herself in the very same street. She determined to administer a gentle stimulant to the flagging spirits, and with a little preliminary cough to attract attention, she began : "I may as well inform you, y<^- '-\dies, that I have been requested this year, as a rovious occa- sions, to allow some of my youn^ ^^eople to attend in the ante-chamber of the assembly-room with sandal ribbon, pins, and such little matters, and to be ready to repair any accidental injury to the ladies' dresses. 1 shall send four — of the most diligent." She laid a marked emphasis on the last words, but without much effect ; they were too sleepy to care for any of the pomps and vanities, or, indeed, for any of the comforts of this world, excepting one sole thing — their beds. \i .$ ,* / 8 RUTH I I Mrs Maion wu a very worthy woman, but, like many other worthy women, ihe had her foibles ; and one (very natural to her calling) was to pay an extreme regard to appearances. Accordingly, she had already selected in her own mind the foor girls wl.o were moet likely to do credit to the "establishment" ; and these were secretly determined upon, although it was very well to promise the reward to the most diligent She was really not aware of the &lseness of this conduct ; being an adept in that species of sophistry with which people persuade themselves that what they wish to do is right. At last there was no resisting the evidence of weari- ness. They were told to go to bed ; but even that welcome command was languidly obeyed. Slowly they folded up their work, heavily they moved about until at length all was put away, and they trooped up the wide, dark staircase. "Oh ! how shall I get through five years of these terrible nights! in that close room! and in that oppressive stillness ! which lets every sound of the thread be heard as it goes eternally backwards and forwards, sobbed out Ruth, as she threw herself on her bed, without even undressing herself. "Nay, Ruth, you know it won't be always as it has been to-night. We often get to bed by ten o'clock : and by and by you won't mind the closeness of the room. You re worn out to-night, or you would not have minded the sound of the needle ; I never hear it. Come, let me unfasten you," said Jennv * What is the use of undressing .> We must be up again and at work in three hours." ." A°^i° those three hours you may get a great deal of rest, if yo.1 will but undress yourself and fairly co to bed. Come, love." * Jenny's advice was not resisted ; but before Ruth went to sleep, she said : J "'?}J \ ^^^ \ ^*^ '^®* 8® c'oss and impatient I don't think I used to be." ^ " No, I am sure not. Most new girls get impatient it I 'm Tying Such Jenny RUTH 9 at fint ; but it goes off, and they don't care much for anything after awhile. Poor child! she's asleep already/*' said Jenny to herself. She could not sleep or rest The tightness at her side was worse than usual. She almost thought she ought to mention it in her letters home ; but then she remembered the premium her father had straggled hard to pay, and the large family , younger than herself, that had to be cared for, and she determined to bear on, and trust that when the warm weather came both the pain and the cough would go away. She would be prudent about herself. What was the matter with Ruth ? She was in her sleep as if her heart would break, agitated slumber could be no rest; so wakened her. "Ruth! Ruth!" " Oh, Jenny ! " said Ruth, sitting pp in bed, and pushing back the masses of hair that were heating her forehead, " I thought I saw mamma by the side of the bed, coming, as she used to do, to see if I were asleep and coiiifortabie ; and when I tried to take hold of her, she went away and left me alone — I don't know where ; 60 strange ! " " It was only a dream ; you knov. you'd been talking about her to me, and you're feverish with sitting up late. Go to sleep again, and I'll watch, and waken you if you seem uneasy." " But you'll be so tired. Oh, dear ! dear ! " Ruth was asleep again, even while she sighed. Morning came, and though their rest had been short, the girls arose refreshed. " Miss Sutton, Miss Jennings, Miss Booth, and Miss Hilton, you will see that you are ready to accompany me to the shire-hall by eight o'clock.'* One or two of the girls looked astonished, but the majority having, anticipated the selection, and knowing from experience the unexpressed rule by which it was made, received it with the sullen indifference which had become their feeling with regard to most events — 10 RUTH a deadened sense of lite, consequent upon their uq. natural mode of existence, their sedentary days, and their frequent nights of late watching. But to Ruth it was inexplicable. She had yawned, and loitered, and looked off at the beautiful panel, and lost herself in thoughts of home, until she fully ex- pected the reprimand which at any other time she would have been sure to receive, ana now, to her sur- prise, she was singled out as one of the most diligent ! Much as she longed for the delight of seeing the noble shire-hall — the boast of the county — and of catching glimpses of the dancers, and hearing the band ; much as she longed for some variety to the dull monotonous life she was leading, she could not feel happy to accept a privilege, granted, as she believed, in ignorance of the real state of the case ; so she startled her companions by rising abruptly and going up to Mrs Mason, who was finishing a dress which ought to have been sent home t.iro hours before : ** If you please, Mrs Mason, I was not one of the most diligent ; I am afraid — I believe — I was not dili- gent at all. I was very tired ; and 1 could not help thinking, and when I think, I can't attend to my work." She stopped, believing she had sufficiently explained her meaning ; but Mrs Mason would not understand, and did not wish for any further elucidation. " Well, my dear, you must learn to think and work too ; or, if you can't do both, you must leave off think- ing. Your guardian, you know, expects you to make g^eat progress in your business, and I am sure you won*t disappoint him.** But that was not to the point. Ruth stood still an instant, although Mrs Mason resumed her employment in a manner which any one but a '* new girl " would have known to be intelligible enough, that she did not wish for any more conversation just then. " But as I was not diligent I ought not to go, ma*am. Miss Wood was far more industrious than I, and many of the others.'* was RUTH 11 " Tiresome girl ! " muttered Mrs Mason ; " I've half a mind to keep her at home for plaguing me so." But, looking up, she was struck afresh with the remarkable beauty which Ruth possessed ; such a credit to the house, with her waving outline of figure, her striking face, with dark eyebrows and dark lashes, combined with au%>*rn hair and a fair complexion. No ! diligent or idle, Ruth Hilton must appear to-night. " Miss Hilton," said Mrs Mason, with stiff dignity, " I am not accustomed (as these young ladies can tell you) to have my decisions questioned. What I say, I mean ; and I have my reasons. So sit down, if you please, and take care and be ready by eight. Not a word more," as she fancied she saw Ruth again about to speak. " Jenny ! Ruth, in no by her. '^'Hush ! Ruth. I could not go if I might, because of my cough. 1 would rather give it up to you than any one, if it were mine to give. And suppose it is, and take the pleasure as my present, and tell me every bit about it when you come home to-night." " Well ! I shall take it in that way, and not as if I'd earned it, which I haven't. So thank you. You can't think how I shall enjoy it now. I did work diligently for five minutes last night, after I heard of it, I wanted to go so much. But I could not keep it up. Oh, dear ! and I shall really hear a band ! and see the inside of that beautiful shire-hall ! " Jrou ought to have gone, not me,*' said ow voice to Miss Wood, as she sat down 'am. •1 ^i At- . I r ■ CHAPTER II Ix due time that evening, Mrs Mason collected " her young ladies" for an inspection of their appearance before proceeding to the shire-hall. Her eager, impor- tant, hurried manner of summoning them was not un- like that of a hen clucking her chickens together ; and /! 12 RUTH n \i to judge from the close investigation they had to ut. dergo, it mi|^ht have been thought that their part in the evening'ii performance was to oe far more important than that of temporary ladies'-maids. " Is that your oest frock ^ Miss Hilton ? " asked Mrs Mason^ in a half-dissatisfied tone^ turning Ruth about ; for it was only her Sunday black silk^ and was some- what worn and "^abby. " Yes, ma'am^ ' answered Ruth^ quietly. "Oh! indeed. Then it will do" (still the half- satisfied tone). " Dress^ young ladies, you know is a very secondary consideration. Conduct is everything, StiU, Miss Hilton, I think you should write and ask your guardian to send you money for another gown. I am sorry I did not think of it before." "I do not think he would send any if I wrote," answered Ruth, in a low voice. " He was angry when I wanted a shawl, when the cold weather set in." Mrs Mason gave her a little push of dismissal, and Ruth fell into the ranks by her friend. Miss Wood. " Never mind, Ruthie ; you're prettier than any of them," said a merry, good-natured girl, whose plain- ness excluded her from any of the envy of rivalry. " Yes ! I know I am pretty," said Ruth, sadly, " but I am sorry I have no better gown, for this is very shabby. I am ashamed of it myself, and I can see Mrs Mason is twice as much ashamed. I wish I need not go. I did not know we should have to think about our own dress at all, or I should not have wished to go." "Never mind, Ruth," said Jenny, "you've been looked at now, and Mrs Mason will soon be too busy to think about you and your gown." "Did you hear Ruth Hilton say she knew she was pretty?" whispered one girl to another, so loudly that Ruth caught the words. " I could not help knowing," answered she, simply, " for many people have told me so." At length these preliminaries were over, and they were walking briskly through the frosty air ; the free motion was so inspiriting that Ruth almost danced RUTH 13 along, and quite forgot all about shabby gowns and grambling guardians. The shire-hall was even more strik og than she had expected. The sides of the stair- case were painted with figures that showed ghostly in the dim light, for only their faces looked out of the dark dingy canvas, with strange fixed stare of expression. The young milliners had to arrange their wares on tables in the ante-room, and make till ready before they could venture to peep into the bidl-room, where the musicians were already tuning their instruments, and where one or two char-women (strange contrast ! with their dirty, loose attire, and their incessant chatter, to the grand echoes of the vaulted room) were completing the dusting of benches and chairs. They quitted the place as Ruth and her crmpanions entered. They had talked lightly and merrily^ in the ante-room, but now their voices were hushed, awed by the old magnificence of the vast apartment It was so large, that objects showed dim at the further- end, as through mist. Full-length figures of county worthies hung around, in all varieties of costume, from the days of Holbein to the present time. Tlie lofty roof was indistinct for the lamps were not fully lighted ; yet while through the richly-painted Gothic window at one end the moonbeams fell, many-tinted, on the floor, and mocked with their vividness the struggles of the artificial light to illuminate its little sphere. High above sounded the musicians, fitfully trying some strain of which they were not certain. Then they stopped playing and talked, and their voices sounded goblin-like in their dark recess, where candles were carried about in an uncertain wavering manner, reminding Ruth of the flickering zigzag motion of the will-o'-the-wisp. Suddenly the room sprang into the full blaze of light, and Ruth felt less impressed with its appear- ance, and more willing to obey Mrs Mason's sharp summons to her wandering flock, than she had been when it was dim and mysterious. They had pre- sently enough to do in rendering offices of assistance •V ii .■it M ,! il if I il ■ 4 14 RUTH to the ladies who thronged in, and whose voices drowned all the muffled sound of the band Ruthi had longed e;*) much to hear. Still, if one pleasure was less, another was greater than she had anticipated. ''On condition" of such a number of litlxi) ob- servances that Ruth thought Mrs Mason would never have ended enumerating them, they were allowed during the dances to stand at a side-door and watch, And what a beautiful sight it was ! Floating away to that bounding music, now far away, like garlands of fairies, now near, and showing as lovely women, with every ornament of graceful dress, the elite of the county danced on, little caring whose eyes gazed and were dazzled. Outside all was cold, and colourless, and uniform, one coating of snow over all. But inside it was warm, and glowing, and vivid ; flowers scented the air, and wreathed the head, and rested on the I bosom, as if it were midsummer. Bright colours flashed on the eye and were gone, and succeeded by others as lovely in the rapid movement of the dance. Smiles dimpled everv face, and low tones of happiness murmured indistinctly through the room in every pause of the music. Ruth did not care to separate the figures that formed a joyous and brilliant whole ; it was enough to gaze, and dream of the happy smoothness of the lives in which such music, and such profusion of flowers, of| jewels, elegance of every description, and beauty of i all shapes and hues, were everyday things. She did not want to know who the people were ; although to hear a catalogue of names seemed to be the great delight of most of her companions. ^,^ In fact, the enumeration rather disturbed her ; and t to avoid the shock of too rapid a descent into the(f commonplace world of Miss Smiths and Mr Thomsons, she returned to her post in the ante-room. There she stood thinking, or dreaming. She was startled^! back to actual Life by a voice close to her. One of the dancing young ladies had met with a misfortune. Her dress of some gossamer material, had been looped as a ((I RUTH 16 up by nosegays of flowers^ and one of these had fallen off in the dance, leaving her gown to trail. To repair thib, she had begged her partner to bring her to the room where the assistants should have been. None were there but Ruth. " Shall I leave you ? " asked the gentleman. " Is my absence necessary?" "Oh, no!" replied the lady. "A few stitches will set all to rights. Besides, I dare not enter that room by myself." So far she spoke sweetly and prettily. But now she addressed Ruth. ''Make haste. Don't keep me an hour." And her voice became cold and authoritative. She was very pretty, with long dark ringlets and sparkling black eyes. These had struck Ruth in the hasty glance she had taken, before she knelt down to her task. She also saw that t e gentleman was young and elegant. " Oh, that lovely galop ! How ong to dance to it! Will it never l^ done? Wha a frightful time you are taking ; and I'm dyinj^ to return in time for this galop ! " By way o2 showing a pretty childlike impatience, she began to beat time with her feet to the spirited air the band was playing. Ruth could not darn the rent in her dress with this continual motion, and she looked up to remonstrate. As ahe threw her head back for this purpose, she caught the eye of the gentleman who was stan'^'ng by ; it was so expressive of amusement at the ai' d graces of his pretty partner, that Ruth was it ,d by the ' "ling, and had to bend her face down tc conceal the smile that mantled there. But not before he had seen it, and not before his attention had been thereby drawn to consider the kneeling figure, that, habited in black up to the throat, with the noble head bent down to the occupation in which she was engaged, formed such a contrast to the flippant, bright, artificial girl who sat to be served with an air as haughty as a queen on her throne. "Oh, Mr Bellingham ! I'm ashamed to detain you ifc: ■ h 1 '. '* ii H 10 RUTH 80 long. I had no idea any one could have spent so much time over a little tear. No wonder Mrs Mason charges so much for dress-making, if her work-women are so slow." It was meant to be witty, but Mr Bellingham looked grave. He saw the scarlet colour of annoyance flush to that beautiful cheek which was partially presented to him. He took a candle from tne table, and held it so that Ruth had more light. She did not look up to thank him, for she felt ashamed that he should have seen the smile which she had caught from him. " I am sorry I have been so long, ma'am," said she, gently, as she finished her work. *^ I was afraid it might tear out again if I did not do it carefully." She rose. '' I would rather have had it torn than have missed that charming galop,'' said the young lady shaking out her dress as a bird shakes its plumage. ''Shall we go, Mr Bellingham ? " looking up at him. He was surprised that she gave no word or sign of thanks to the assistant. He took up a camellia that some one had left on the table. "Allow me. Miss Duncombe, to give this in your name to this young lady, as thanks for her dexterous help." " 0\i—oi course," said sii_. Ruth received the flower silently, but with a grave, modest motion of her head. They had gone, and she was once more alone. Presently, her companions returned. " What was the matter with Miss Duncombe ? Did she come here .'* " asked they. " Only her lace dress was torn, and I mended it/' answered Ruth, quietly. "Did Mr Bellingham come with her? They say he's going to be married to her ; did he come Ruth?" ** Yes,'' said Ruth, and relapsed into silence. Mr Bellingham danced on gaily and merrily through the night, and flirted with Miss Duncombe, as he m RUTH IT thought good. But he looked often to the side-door where the milliner's apprentices stood ; and once he recognised the tall, slight figure, and the rich auburn hair of the girl in black ; and then his eye sought for the camellia. It was there, snowy white in her bosom. And he danced on more gaily than ever. The cold grey dawn was drearily lighting up the streets when Mrs Mason and her company returned home. The lamps were extinguished, yet the shutters of the shops and dwelling-houses were not opened. All sounds had an echo unheard by day. One or two houseless beggars sat on doorsteps, and, shivering, slept, with heads bowed on their knees, or j-esting against the cold hard support afforded by the wall. Ruth felt as if a dream had melted away, and she were once more in the actual world. How long it would be, even in the most favourab 3 chance, before she should again enter the shire-hall • or hear a band of music ! or even see again those bright happy people —as much without any semblance of care or woe as if they belonged to another race of beings. Had they ever to deny themselves a wish, much less a want .'' Literally and figuratively, there lives seemed to wander through flowery pleasure-paths. Here was cold, biting mid-winter for her, and such as her — for those poor beggars almost a season of death ; but to Miss Duncombe and her companions, a happy, merry time, when flowers still bloomed, and fires crackled, and comforts and luxuries were piled around them like fairy gifts. What did they know of the meaning of the word, so terrific to the poor? What was winter to them.!> But Ruth fancied that Mr Bellingham looked as if he could understand the feelings of those removed from him by circumstance and station. He had drawn up the windows of his carriage, it is true, with a shudder. Ruth, then, had been watching him. Yet she had no idea that any association made her camellia precious to her. She believed it was solely on account of its exquisite beauty that she tended it so B I /I 18 RUTH 1 a carefully. She told Jenny every particular of its presentation, with open, straight-looking eye, and without the deepening of a shade of colour. "Was it not kind of him? Yon can't think how nicely he did it, just when I was a little bit mortified by her ungracious ways." '* It was very nice, indeed," replied Jenny. " Suck a beautiful flower ! I wish it had some scent.'' '' I wish it to be exactly as it is ; it is perfect. So pure ! " said Ruth, almost clasping her treasure as she placed it in water. " Who is Mr Bellingham } " " He is son to that Mrs Bellingham of the Priory, for whom we made the grey satin pelisse," answered Jenny, sleepilv. " That was oefore my time," said Ruth. But there was no answer. Jenny was asleep. It was long before Ruth followed her example. Even on a winter day, it was clear morning light tnat fell upon her face as she smiled in her slumber. Jenny would not waken her, but watched her face with admiration ; it was so lovely in its happiness. ** She is dreaming of last night," thought Jenny. It was true she was ; but one figure flitted more than all the rest through her visions. He presented flower after flower to her in that baseless morning dream, which was all too quickly ended. The night before, she had seen her dead mother in her sleep, and she wakened, weeping. And now she dreamed of Mr Bellingham, and smiled. And yet, was this a more evil dream than the other ? The realities of life seemed to cut more sharply against h ing arm — a little life redeemed, and a child saved to those who loved it ! Ruth stood dizzy and sick with emotion while all this took place ; and when the rider turned his swimming horse, and slowly breasted up the river to the landing-place, she recognised him as the Mr Bellingham of the night before. He carried the unconscious child across his horse ; the body hung in so lifeless a manner that Ruth believed it was dead, and her eyes were suddenly blinded with tears. She waded back to the beach, to the point towards which Mr Bellingham was directing his horse. " Is he dead } " asked she, stretching out her arms to receive the little fellow ; for she instinctively felt that the position in which he hung was not the most conducive to returning consciousness, if, indeed, it would ever return. " I think not," answered Mr Bellingham, as he gave the child to her, before springing off his horse, "h he your brother.'' Do you know who he is."*** " Look ! " said Ruth, who had sat down upon the ground, the better to prop the poor lad, "his hand twitches ! he lives I oh, sir, he lives ! Whose boy is he .'' " (to the people, who came hurrying and gathering to the spot at the rumot'r of an accident). "He's old Nelly Brownson's," said they. "Her grandson/' I rN ((.' RUTH 28 "We mugt take him into a house directly," said •he. "I8 his home far off?" " No, no ; it's just close bv." ^^ "One of you go for a doctor at once, said Mr Bellingham, authoritatively, "and bring him to the old woman's without » ;lay. You must not hold him any longer," he continued, speaking to Ruth, and remembering her face now for the first time ; " your dress is dripping wet already. Here ! you fellow, take him up, dVe see ! " , , „ ^, . But the child's hand had nervously clenched Ruth s dress, and she would not l.ave him disturbed. She carried her heavy burden very tenderly towards a mean little cottage indicated by the neighbours; an old crippled woman was coming out of the door, shaking all over with agitation. . , , , , ,, "Dear heart .>" said she, "hes the last of em all, and he's gone afore me." „ , , . ,. " Nonsense," said Mr Bellingham, " the boy is alive, and likely to live." . , i a But the old woman was helpless and hopeless, and insisted on believing that her grandson was dead ; and dead he would have been if it had not been for Ruth, and one or two of the more sensible neighbours, who, under Mr Bellingham's directions, bustled about, and did all that was necessary until animation was restored. "What a confounded time these people are m fetching the doctor," said Mr Bellingham to Ruth, between whom and himself a sort of silent understand- ing had sprung up from the circumstance of their having been the only two (besides mere children) who had witnessed the accident, and also the only two to whom a certain u-'gree of cultivation had given the power of understanding each other's thoughts and even each other's wo ds. ., . i. "It takes so much to knock an idea into such stupid people's heads. They stood gaping and asking which doctor they were to go for, aa if it signified whether it was Brown or Smith, so long as he had his i I / 24 RUTH wits about him. I have no more time to waste here either ; I was on the gallop when I caught sight of the lad ; and now he has fairly sobbed and opened his eyes^ I see no use in my staying in this stifling atmo- sphere. May I trouble you with one thing .^ Will you be so good as to see that the little fellow has all that he wants ? If you'll allow me. 1*11 leave you my purse/' continued he, giving it to Ruth, who was only too glad to have this power entrusted to her of procur- ing one or two requisites which she had perceived to be wanted. But she saw some gold between the net-work ; she did not like the charge of such riches. "I shall not want so much, really, sir. One sovereign will be plenty — more than enough. May I take that out, and I will give you back what is left of it when I see you again ? or, perhaps I had better send it to you, sir } " "I think you had better keep it all at present. Oh ! what a horrid dirty place this is ; insufferable two minutes longer. You must not stay here ; you'll be poisoned with this abominable air. Come towards the door, I beg. Well, if you think one sovereign will be enough, I will take my purse ; only, remember you apply to me if you think they want more.'* They were standing at the door, where some one was holding Mr Bellingham's horse. Ruth was looking at him with her earnest eyes (Mrs Mason and her errands quite forgotten in the interest of the afternoon's event), her whole thoughts bent upon rightly understanding and following out his wishes for the little boy's welfare ; and until now this had been the first object in his own mind. Bijt at this moment the strong perception of Ruth's exceeding beauty came again upon him. He afmost lost the sense of what he was saying, he was so startled into admiration. The night before, he had not seen her eyes ; and now they looked straight and innocently full at him, grave, earnest, and deep. But when she instinctively read the change in the expres- sion of his countenance, she dropped her large white T' fit 11^ RUTH 25 veiling lids ; and he thought her face was lovelier still. The irresistible impulse seized him to arrange matters so that he might see her again before long. " No ! *' said he. " I see it would be better that you should keep the purse. Many things may be wanted for the lad which we cannot calculate upon now. If I remember rightly, there are three sovereigns and some loose change ; I shall, perhaps, see you again in a few days, when, if there be any money left in the purse, you can restore it to me." " Oh, yes, sir," said Ruth, alive to the magnitude of the wants to which she might have to administer, and yet rather afraid of the responsibility implied in the possession of so much money. " Is there any chance of my meeting you again in this house } " asked he. " I hope to come whenever I can, sir ; but I must run in errand-times, and I don't know when my turn may be." " Oh " — he did not fully understand this answer — " I should like to know how you think the boy is going on, if it is not giving you too much trouble ; do you ever take walks ? " " Not for walking's sake, sir." " Well ! " said he, " you go to church, I suppose ? Mrs Mason does not keep you at work on Sundays, I trust?" *' Oh, no, sir. I go to church regularly." " Then, perhaps, you will be so good as to tell me what church you go to, and I will meet you there next Sunday afternoon ? " "I go to St Nicholas', sir. I will take care and bring you word how the boy is, and what doctor they get ; and I will keep an account of the money I spend." " Very well ; thank you. Remember, I trust to you." He meant that he relied on her promise to meet him ; but Ruth thought that he was referring to the m f 26 RUTH responsibility of doing the best she could for the child. He was going away^ when a fresh thought struck him, and he turned back into the cottage once more^ and addressed Ruth^ with a half smile on his counten* ance: " It seems rather strange, but we have no one to introduce us ; my name is Bellingham — yours is ?'' " Ruth Hilton, sir/' she answered, in a low voice, for ^ow that the conversation no longer related to the boy, she felt sliy and restrained. U( held out his hand to shake hers, and just as she gavi t to him, the old grandmother came tottering up to ask some question. The interruption jarred upon him, and made him once more keenly alive to the closeness of the air, and the squalor and dirt by which he was surrounded. " My good woman," said he to Nelly Brownson, " could you not keep your place a little neater and cleaner.^ It is more fit for pigs than human beings. The air in this room is quite offensive, and the dirt aud filth is really disgraceful.*' By this time he was mounted, and, bowing to Ruth, he rode away. Then the old woman's wrath broke out. " Who may you be, that knows no better manners than to come into a poor woman's house to abuse it .'' — fit for pigs, indeed ! What d'ye call yon fellow } " " He is Mr Bellingham,'' said Ruth, shocked at the old woman's apparent ingratitude. " It was he that rode into the water to save your grandson. He would have been drowned but for Mr Bellingham. I thought once they would both have been swept away by the current, it was so strong." ** The river is none so deep, either," the old woman said, anxious to diminish as much as possible the obligation she was under to one who had offended her. " Some one else would have saved him, if this fine young spark had never been near. He's ^n orphan, and God watches over orphans, they say. I'd rather it had been any one else as had picked him out, than RUTH 27 one who comes into a poor body's house only to abuse it." " He did not come in only to abuse it," said Ruth, gently. " He came with little Tom ; he only said it was not quite so clean as it might be." " What ! you're taking up the cry, are you ? Wait till you are an old woman like me, crippled with rheu- matiz, and a lad to see after like Tom, who is always in mud when he isn't in water ; and his food and mine to scrape together (God knows we're often short, and do the best I can), and water to fetch up that steep brow." She stopped gh ; and Ruth judiciously changed the subject, ant (,an to consult the old woman as to the wants of her grandson, in which consultation they were soon assisted by the medical man. When Ruth had made one or two arrangements with a neighbour, whom she asked to procure the most necessary things, and had heard from the doctor that all would be right in a day or two, she began to quake at the recollection of the length of time she had spent at Nelly Brownson's, and to remember, with some affright, the strict watch kept by Mrs Mason over her apprentices* out-goings and in-comings on working days. She hurried off to the shops, and tried to recal her wandering thoughts to the respective merits of Eink and blue as a match to lilac, found she had lost er patterns, and went home with ill-chosen things, and in a fit of despair at her own stupidity. The truth was, that the afternoon^s adventure filled her mind ; only, the figure of Tom (who was now safe, and likely to do well) was receding into the back- ground, and that o. Mr Bellingham becoming more prominent than it had been. His spirited and natural action of galloping into the water to save the child, was magnified by Ruth into the most heroic deed of daring ; his interest about the boy was tender, tl oughtful benevolence in her eyes, and his careless liberality of money was fine generosity ; for she forgot that generosity implies some degree of Wf -i ' /! i^ 28 RUTH ^ m self-denial. She was gratified, too, by the power of dispensing comfort he had entrusted to her, and was busy with Alnaschar visions of wise expenditure, when the necessity of opening Mrs Mason's house-door sum. moned her back into actual present life, and the dread of an immediate scolding. For this time, however, she was spared ; but spared for such a reason that she would have been thaSful for some blame m preference to her impunity. Darirur her absence, Jenn/s difficulty of breathing had sudU denly become worse, and the girls had, on their own responsibility, put her to bed, and were standing round her m dismav, when Mrs Mason's return home (only a Sr.ThTwTrkVor ''"*' ^"^^^^> «"«--^ *^- ^-k And now, all was confusion and hurry : a doctor to be sent for; a mind to be unburdenS of dlrectfons for a dress to a forewoman, who was too S to understand ; scoldings to be scattered with no illiberal hand amongst a group of frightened irirls. hardlv fC? *^? ^T '""'S ^'"^^^ f«r herCppJrtZ iDness. In the middle of all this turmoilVRuth Shrwn^,u {"i^sition of the gentle forewoman. She would gladly have nursed Jenny herself, and often longed to do it, but she could not l^ spkrTd Hands, unskilful in fine and delicate work, woffd be well enough qualified to tend the sick, until the mother arrived from home. Meanwhile extra d^! gence was reqmred in the workroom ; and Ruth found no opportunity of going to see little rim, or to fulfil the plans for making him and his grandmother more r^rSS'hV'JJb^'^'^.'^ propos!?toh:«elf. ""Z r^retted her rash promise to Mr Bellineham of ^hoTlT^ir^'"' ^.^" Mason's servant, thrTugS whom she made inquiries, and sent the necessary l^e subject of Jenny's iUness was the prominent one in the house. Ruth told of her own adventure, to ?e i-if.H.i RUTH 2» SUM, but when she was at the very crisis of Ihe h(f» fail into the river, the more fresh and vivid interest of abme tidings of Jenny was brought into the room, and Lth ceasid, almost blaming herself for caring for Anything besides the question of life or death to be decided in that very house. Then a pale, gentle-looking woman was seen moving softly about; and it was whispered that this 'iras ^he mother come to nurse her child. Everybody iked her, she was so sweet-looking, and gave so little trouble, and seemed so patient, and so thankful for any inquiries about her daughter, whose illness, it was understood, although its severity was ?;^t.pted, wm likely to be long and tedious. While all the feelings and t^'oughts relating to Jenny were predominant, Sunday arrived. Mrs Mason went the accustomed visit to her father's, making some little show of apolofify to Mrs Wood for leaving her and her d^ghter ; the apprentices disperse! to the various friends with whom they were in the habit of spend- ing the day ; and Ruth went to St Nicholas , with a sorrowful heart, depressed on account of Jenny, and self-reproachful at having rashly undertaken what she had been unable to perform. • • j k„ m,. As she came out of church, she was jomed by Mr Bellingham. She had half hoped that he mi?ljt have forgotten the arrangement, and yet she wished to reHeve herself of her responsibility. ,She knew his step behind her, and the contending feelings made her heart beat hard, and she longed to run away. " Miss Hilton, I believe," said he, overtaking her, and bowing forward, so as to catch a sight of her rose- red face. " How is our little sailor going on? Well, 1 trust, from the symptoms the other day. "I believe, sir, he is quite well now I am very sorry, but I have not been able to go and see him 1 Z li sorry-1 could not help it. But I have got one or two things through another person. I have put them down on this slip of paper; and here is your purse, sir, for I am afraid I can do nothing more for i. ■i . 1 *■ / I 1 Ir P 'I a 90 RUTH :e^ua him. We have illaess in the house, and it make^ very busy." \ Ruth nad been so much accustomed to blame ^f late, that she almost anticipated some remonstraDc)^ I or reproach now, for not having fulfilled her promise better. She little guessed that Mr Bellingham was far more busy trying to devise some excuse for meeting her again, during the silence that succeeded her speech, than displeased with her for not bringing a more particular account of the little boy, in whom be had ceased to feel any interest. She repeated, after a minute's pause : ** I am very sorry I have done so little, sir." " Oh, yes, I am sure you have done all you could. It was thoughtless in me to add to your engage- ments," "He is displeased with me," thought Ruth, "for what he believes to have been neglect of the boy, whose life he risked his own to save. If I told all, he would see that I could not do more ; but I cannot tell him all the sorrows and worries that have taken up my time." " And yet I am tempted to give you another little commission, if it is not taking up too much of your time, and presuming too much on your good-nature," said he, a bright idea having just struck him. " Airs Mason lives in Heneage Pkce, does not she.^ My mother's ancestors lived there; and once, when the house was being repaired, she took me in to show me the old place. There was an old hunting-piece painted on a panel over one of the chimney-pieces ; the figures were portraits of my ancestors. I have often thought I should like to purchase it, if it still remained there. Can you ascertain this for me, and brinar me word next Sunday.?" ® " Oh, yes, sir," said Ruth, glad that this commis- sion was completely within her power to execute, and anxious to make up for her previous seeming neglect. " I'll look directly I get home, and ask Mrs Mason to write and let you know." ! { RUTH 31 " ^\A he only half satisfied ; " I think « Thank you, «?J^^fv®,''^ as well not to trouble ^rhapa, however,! might be as^ ^^^^ comprom«e grt iSlagon about it » y°5 ?: ' ^^ed to purchase the Se,and I am not V^^^^^'Xetherthe painting picture; if y?'*,^, TJS take a little time to fcnd"wa^d; \ruld apply to Mrs Mason '^V^try well, sir, I will see about it." So they parted. Qnnrlav Mrs Wood had taken her ^ Before the next f-^f JJ' ^' "o recruit in that quiet daughter to her distent home^ to r ^^^ Jlace. Ruth watched her down t ^^^^^ ^^,^ tert^jfwt^^^^^^^ voice and the gentre wisdom had departed. CHAPTER III St Ma BK.UKOHAM f tended afternoon X^^^^^ NichoW church the next Sun^^^ ^ hers V hi""' been far more <»«^Xfunon the scene of her life was although his appearance upon tne^ ^.^ ^ more an event to l»er than « w ^ ^ ^^^ him, nuzzled by the impression f ® ^f^^the nature of his ?hough hJdid not in g;^^«;^fa '^^^^^^^ delight ^:^irvol;?h S^inT/ptencing new and strong ^"•St^w^as old compared to Ruth, but young as^a man ; hardly three-and-twenty. ^^.^^^e^ to «^^«y' ^^^^ ^^ only Md had given him, as rtu ^^^^^^^ ^^.^^ ^^^ ^^tevenne.ofdis.^to^^^ are subjected ; the t^warwng, ^^^^ ^ l^^e m ii h i V 32 RUTH M '■ cduoition, probably from the circumstance that v estate on which his mother lived w^ her own • It her income gave her the means of indulriro; con trolhng him, after he had grown to man^ fstetp her way ward disposition and h^r love of ^wer ll^^^,^ he? W 1,^^° doubleniealing in his conduct towards her, had he condescended to humour her in the^ W her passionate love for him would have induced he?f^ strip herself of all her possessions ti add to 1^ dignity or happiness. rfut although he fpl? tv. sTeXtt:urhrSi iv^'' *^«, -g^^di^^^ih K DrweS^ of til f ^^^*^^"JP^\P«'^^PS> more than Eeing, resented as mortal Xonte He would m 2 the clergyman she specially esteemed, even to hi^iS-v face ; he would refuse to visit her schools for J^nlVJ and months, aad when wearfed Lto going S £' revenge himself by puzzlinr the rbJlHrarT^?!^' d.«ds she hardly e,,^X^»^ he B-aller m^ dence of her control. asserting his mdepen- fN]<. RUTH 33 She was anxious for him to marry Mws Duncombe. He cared little or nothing about »t-it was time enough to be married ten years hence ; and so he was Oinff through some months of his hfe-sometimes flfrtinTwith thS nothing-loath Miss Duncombe, some- Ss&ing, and sometimes delighting his mother, atall S taking care to please himself-when he first saw Ruth Hilton, and a new, passionate, hearty filing shot through his whole being. He did not Sow why he was so fascinated by her. She was verv beautiful, but he had seen others equally beautiful, and with many more agaceries calculated to set ott tue effect of their charms. ^ .. ,. • *t,« There was, perhaps, something bewitching in the union of the grace and loveliness of womanhood with the naivete, simplicity, and innocence of an intelligent chUd. There was a spell in the shyness, which made her avoid and shun all admiring approaches to acquaintance. It would be an exquisite df light to attract and tame her wildness, just as he had often allured and tamed the timid fawns m his mothers ^By no over-bold admiration, or rash, passionate word, would he startie her ; and, surely, in time she might be induced to look upon him as a friend, it not something nearer and dearer still. In accordance with this determination, he resisted the strong temptation of walking by her side the whole distance home after church. He only received the intelligence she brought respecting the panel with thanks, spoke a few words about the weather, bowed, and was gone. Ruth believed she should never see him again ; and, in spite of sundry self-upbraidings for her folly, she could not help feeling as if a shadow were drawn over her existence for several days to come. Mrs Mason was a widow, and had to struggle for the sake of the six or seven children left dependent on her exertions; thus there was some reason, and great excuse, for the pinching economy which regulated her household affairs. 1: I 34 RUTH On Sundafs she chose to conclude that all her apprentices had friends who would be glad to see them to dinner, and give them a welcome reception for th« remainder of the day ; while she, and those of her children who were not at school, went to spend the iay at her father's house, several miles out of the town jscordingly, no dinner was cooked on Sundays for the young workwomen ; no fires were lighted in any rooms to which they had access. On this momini they breakfasted in Mrs Mason's own parlour, after which the room was closed againsfc them through the day by some understood, though unspoken prohibition What became of such as Ruth, who had no home and no friends in that large populous desolate town? She had hitherto commissioned the servant, who went to market on Saturdays for the family, to buy her a bun or biscuit, whereon she made her fasting dinner in the deserted workroom ; sitting in her walking-dress to keep off the cold, which clung to her in spite of shawl and bonnet. Then she would sit at the window, looking out on the dreary prospect ciU her eyes were often blind^ by tears; and partly to shake off thoughts and recollections, the indulgence in which she felt to be productive of no good, and partly to have some ideas to dwell upon during the coming week beyond those suggested by the constant view of the same room, she would carry her Bible, and place her- self m the window-seat on the wide landing, which commanded the street in front of the house. From thence she could see the irregular grandeur of the plaee ; she caught a view of the grey church-tower, rising hoary and massive into mid-air ; she saw one or two figures loiter along on the sunny side of the street, in all the enjoyment of their fine clothes and Sunday leisure; and she imagined histories for them, and tned to picture to herself their homes and their daily doings. And before long, the bells swung heavily in the church-tower, and struck out with musical clang the farst summons to afternoon church. RUTH 36 After church was over, she used to return home to the same windownseat, and watch till the winter twilight was over and gone, and the stars came out over the black masses of houses. And then she would steal down to ask for a candle, as a companion to her ia the deserted workroom. Occasionally the servant would bring her up some tea ; but of late Ruth had declined taking any, as she had discovered she was robbing the kind-hearted creature of part of the small provision left out for her by Mrs Mason. She sat on, hungry and cold, trying to read her Bible, and to think the old holy thoughts which had been her childish meditations at her mother's knee, until one af^er another the apprentices returned, weary with their day's enjoyment, and their week's late watching ; too weary to make her in any way a partaker of their pleasure by entering into details of the manner in which they had spent their day. And last of all, Mrs Mason returned ; and, summon- ing her " young people " once more into the parlour, she read a prayer before dismissing them to bed. She always expected to find thsm all in the house when she came home, but asked no questions as to their proceedings through the day ; perhaps, because she dreaded to hear that o^e or two had occasionally nowhere to go, and that it would be sometimes neces- sary to order a Sunday's dinner, and leave a lighted fire on that day. For five mouths Ruth had been an inmate at Mrs Mason's, and such had been the regular order of the Sundays. While the forewoman stayed there, it is ' true, she was ever ready to give Ruth the little variety of hearing of recreations in which she was no partaker ; atid however tired Jenny might be at night, she had ever some sympathy to bestow on Ruth for the dull length of day she had passed. After her departure, the monotonous idleness of the Sunday seemed worse I to bear than the incessant labour of the work -days ; 1 until the t!!T>e came when it seemed to be a recognized Ihope in her mind, that on Sunday afternoons she I 1 I ■/ 36 RUTH \ should see Mr Bellingham, and hear a few words from him, as from a friend who took an interest in her thoughts and proceedings during the past week. Ruth's mother had been the daughter of a poor curate in Norfolk, and, early left without parents or home, she was thankful to marry a respectable farmer, a good deal older than herself. After their marriage, however, everjrthing seemed to go wrong. Mrs Hilton fell into a delicate state of health, and was unable to bestow the ever-watchfnl attention to domestic affairs, so requisite in a farmer's wife. Her husband had a series of misfortunes — of a more important kind than the death of a whole brood of turkeys from getting among the nettles, or the year of bad cheeses spoilt by a careless dairymaid — which were the consequences (so the neighbours said) of Mr Hilton's mistake in marrying a delicate, fine lady. His crops failed ; his horses died ; his barn took fire ; in short, if he had been in any way a remarkable character, one might have supposed him to be the object of an avenging fate, 80 successive were the evils which pursued him ; but as he was only a somewhat commonplace farmer, I believe we must attribute his calamities to some want in his character of the one quality required to act as keystone to many excellences. While his wife lived, all worldly misfortunes seemed as nothing to him ; her strong sense and lively faculty of hope upheld him from despair ; her sympathy was always ready, and the invalid's room had an atmosphere of peace and encour- agement, which affected all who entered it. But when Ruth was about twelve, one morning in the busy hay- time, Mrs Hilton was left alone for some hours. This had often happened before, nor had she seemed weaker than usual when they had gone forth to the field ; but on their return, with merry voices, to fetch the dinner prepared for the haymakers, they found an unusual silence brooding over the house ; no low voice called out gently to welcome them, and ask after the day's progress ; and, on entering the little parlour, which was called Mrs Hilton's, and was sacred to her, they RUTH 37 found her lying dead o accustomed sofa. Quite calm aud peacefr'. 2 la, ; there had been no struffgle at last ; tne struj^fjle was for the survivors, and one gank under it. Her husband did not make much ado at first, at least, not in outward show ; her memory teemed to keep in check all external violence of grief ; but, day by day, dating from his wife's death, his mental powers decreased. He was still a hale-looking elderly man, and his bodily health appeared as good as ever ; but he sat for hours in his easy chair, looking into the fire, not moving, nor speaking unless when it was ab- Bolutely necessary to answer repeated questions. If Ruth, with coaxings and draggings, induced him to come out with her, he went with measured steps around his fields, his head bent to the ground with the same abstracted, unseeing look ; never smiling— never chang- ing the expression of his face, not even to one of deeper sadness, when anything occurred which might be sup- posed to remind him of his dead wife. But in this ab- Btraction from all outward things, his worldly affairs went ever lower down. He paid money away, or received it, as if it had been so much water ; the gold mines of Potosi could not have touched the deep grief of his soul ; but God in His mercy knew the sure balm, and sent the Beautiful Messenger to take the weary one home. After his death, the creditors were the chief people who appeared to take any interest in the affairs ; and it seemed strange to Ruth to see people, whom she scarcely knew, examining and touching all that she had been accustomed to consider as precious and sacred. Her father had made his will at her birth. With the pride of newly and late-acquired paternity, he had con- sidered the office of guardian to his little darling as one which would have been an additional honour to the lord-lieutenant of the county ; but as he had not the pleasure of his lordship's acquaintance, he selected the Jerson of most consequence amongst those whom he id know ; not any very ambitious appointment, in those days of comparative prosperity ; but certainly : '!. II » RUTH the flourishing maltster of Skelton was a little sur- pnsed, when, fifteen years later, he learnt that he was executor to a wiU beaueathing many vanished hundreds of pounds, and guardian to a young girl whom he conld not remember ever to have seen. He was a sensible, hard-headed man of the world • having a very fair proportion of conscience as con- sciences go ; indeed, perhaps more than many people • for he had some ideas of duty extending to the circle beyond his own family ; and did not, as some would have done, decline acting altogether, but speedily sum- moned the creditors, examined into the accounts, sold up the forming-stock, and discharged all the debts- paid about £80 into the Skelton bank for a week, while he inquired for a situation or apprenticeship of some kmd for poor heart-broken Ruth ; heard of Mrs Mason's, arranged all with her in two short conversations ; drove over for Ruth in his gig ; waited while she and the old servant packed up her clothes, and grew very im- patient while she ran, with her eyes streaming with tears, round the garden, tearing off in a passion of love whole boughs of favourite China and damask roses, late flowering against the casement-window of what had been her mother's room. When she took her seat in the gig, she was little able, even if she had been inclined, to profit by her guardian's lectures on economy and self-reliance ; but she was quiet and silent, looking fomard with longing to the night-time, when, in her bedroom, she might give way to all her passionate son-ow at being wrenched from the home where she liad lived with her parents, in that utter absence of any anticipation of change, which is either the blessing or the curse of childhood. But at night there were tour other girls in her room, and she could not cry before them. She watched and waited till one by one dropped off to sleep, and then she buried her face in the pillow, and shook with sobbing grief; and then she paused to conjure up, with fond luxuriance, every recollection of the happy days, so little valued in their uneventful peace while they lasted, so passionately « t RUTH 39 resetted when once gone for ever ; to remember every look and word of the dear mother, and to moan afresh over the change caused by her death ;— the first doud- inff in of Ruth's day of life. It was Jenny's sympathy on this first night, when awakened by Ruth's irrepres- sible agony, that had made the bond between them. But Ruth s loving disposition, continually sending forth fibres in search of nutriment, found no other object for regard among those of her daily life to com- pensate for the want of natural ties. But, almost insensibly, Jenny's place in Ruth's heart was filled up ; there was some one who listened with tender interest to all her little revelations ; who questioned her about her early days of happiness, and, in return, spoke of his own childhood— not so golden in reality as Ruth's, but more dazzling, when re- counted with stories of the beautiful cream-coloured Arabian pony, and the old picture gallery in the house, and avenues, and terraces, and fountains in the garden, for Ruth to paint, with all the vividness of imagination, as scenery and l»ckground for the figure which was growing by slow degrees most prominent in her thoughts. It must not be supposed that this was effected all at once, though the intermediate stages have been passed over. On Sunday, Mr Bellingham only spoke to her to receive the information about the panel ; nor did he come to St Nicholas' the next, nor yet the following Sunday. But the third he walked by her side a little way, and, seeing her annoyance, he left her ; and then she wished for him back again, and found the daij very dreary, an*' wondered why a strange undefiiied feeling had made her imagine she was doing wrong in walking alongside of one so kind and good as Mr Bellingham ; it had been very foolish of her to be self-conscious all the time, and if ever he spoke to her again she would not think of what people might say, but enjoy the Pleasure which his kind words and evident interest in er might give. Then she thought it was very likely he never would notice her again, for she knew she had ■ I it III ij 1 1 «■- 1 ' : t 40 RUTH !i / been very rude with her short answers ; it was verv provoking that she had behaved so rudely. She shoS be sixteen m another month, and she was still childish and awkward "nius she lectured herself, after partinj with Mr Bellmgham ; and the consequence wiZ that on the following Sunday she was ten times as blushiJ and conscious, and (Mr Bellingham thought) ten tiniM mof « beautiful than ever. He suggested, that inste^S of g'> ag straight home through High-street, she should take the round by the Leasowes ; at first she declined but then, suddenly wondering and questioning herself 1/ ?* 'f^^^/f *^^°^ "^"^^ '^^^ « far M reason l^i i?T^^^ ^^- ^^o'^ledge) went, so innocent, l^J^'? was certainly so tempting and pleasant, sh agreed to go the round ; and when she was once in the meadows that skirted the town, she forgot all fnl «?°lJr*'?Tv"*^*^-"*y' ^""^s* forgot t^'e pres- S <»f Mr Bell.ngham-in her delight at the ne- tender beauty of an early spring day in Febru- - Among the last year's brown ruins, heaped toget - by the wind m the hedgerows, she fouid the frt ^ green crinkled leaves and pale star-like flowers of the Drimroses Here and there a golden celandine made brilliant the sides of the littfe brook that (full of US/nf'li, ^"iu"*"*?: fill-dyke-) bubbled along by the nnoo 1^*"* Jf *^ ' *^* '"° ^^ l^'^ »° the hori^n,^and once, when tley came to a higher part of tht Leasiwes, Kuth burst into an exclamation of delight at the «S • !i.P"rP^® distance, whUe the brown leaflet wi fr *^!k'^''*^^**"°^ .d«"^«l a'* ain'ost metallic r? i!o w *i® ^^^^"^ °*'^t and haze of the sunset. m«»T u three-quarters of a mile round by the n^i7^' ^^f""!*'*'^ ? took them an hour to walk it. n^?in fT^ *t '^?°^ *i' Bellingham for his kind- Innt i? ^*^»?? her home bv this beautiful way, but his W «nL*^°?'™V**° ** her blowing, animated fkce, made -ifl ^""^.^f^^y «'*«°t J and,lardly wishing him good-bye, RUTH 41 "How strange it is/* she thougbt that evening, "that I should feel as if this charming afternoon's walk were, somehow, not exactly wrong, but yet as if it were not right. Why can it be ? I am not defraud- ing Mrs Mason of any of her time ; that I know would be wrong ; I am left to go where I like ou Sundays ; I have been to church, so it can't be because I have missed doing my duty. If I had gone this walk with Jenny, I wonder whether I should have felt as I do now. There must be something wrong in me, myself, to feel so guilty when I have done nothing which is not right; and yet I can thank G^>d for the happiness I have had in this charming spring walk, which de?" mamma used to say was a sign when pleasures were innocent and good for us.*' She was not conscious, as yet, that Mr Bellingham's presence had added any charm to the ramble ; and when she might have become aware of this, as, week ifter week, Sunday after Sunday, loitering ramble after loitering ramble succeeded each other, she was too much absorbed with one set of thoughts to have mach inclination for self-questioning. "Tell me everything, Ruth, as you would to a brother ; let me help you, if I can, in your difficul- ties," he said to her one afternoon. And he really did try to understand, and to realise, how an insignificant and paltry person like Mason the dressmaker could be an object of dread, and regarded as a person having authority, by Ruth. He flamed up with indignation when, by way of impressing him with Mrs Mason's power and consequence, Ruth spoke of some instance of the effects of her employer's displeasure. He declared his mother should never have a gown made again by such a tyrant— such a Mrs Brownrigg ; that he would prevent all his acquaintances from going to such a cruel dressmaker ; till Ruth was alarmed at the threatened consequences of her one-sided account, and pleaded for Mrs Mason as earnestly as if a young man's menace of this description were likely to be literally fulfilled. P^'y \^ r I r t ^1 42 RUTH I /) " Indeed; sir , I have been ^'ery wrong ; if yon please sir^ don't be so angry. She is often rery good to us ; it is only sometimes she goes into a passion ; and we are very provoking^ I dare say. I know I am for one. sorry I said anything about it. Don't speak to your mother about it ^ pray^ sir. Mrs Mason thmks so much of Mrs Bellingham's custom." "Well, I won't this time "—recollecting that there might be some awkwardness in accounting to his mother for the means by which he had obtained his very correct information as to what passed in Mrs Mason's workroom — "but if ever she does so again, I'll not answer for myself." " I will take care and not tell again, sir," said Ruth, in a low voice. " Nay, Ruth, you are not going to have secrets from me, are you i Don't vou remember your promise to consider me as a brother } (Jo on, telling me every- thing that happens to you, pray; you cannot think how much interest I take in all your interests. I can quite fancy that charming home at Milham you told me about last Sunday. I can almost fancy Mrs Mason's workroom ; and that, surely, is a proof either of the strength of my imagination, or of your powers of description." Ruth smiled. *' It is, indeed, sir. Our workroom must be so different to anything you i -/er saw. I think you must have passed through Milham often on your way to Lowford." "Then you don't think it is any stretch of fancy to have so clear an idea as I have of Milham Grange? On the left hand of the road, is it, Ruth ? " "Yes, sir, just over the bridge, and up the hill where the elm-trees meet overhead and make a green shade ; and then comes the dear old Grange, that 1 shall never see again." "Never! Nonsense, Ruthie ; it is only six miles w - RUTH 43 m' off; yon may see it any day. It is not an hour's ride.'^ '' Perhaps I may see it again when I am grown old ; I did not think exactly what ' never ' meant ; it is so very long since I was there^ and I don't see any chance of my going for years and years, at any rate." " Why, Ruth, you — we may go next Sunday after- noon, if you like. ' She looked up at him with a lovely light of pleasure in her face at the idea. ** How, sir ? Can I walk it between afternoon service and the time Mrs Mason comes home ? I would go for only one glimpse ; but if I could get into the house — oh, sir ! if I could just see mamma's room again ! " He was revolving plans in his head for giving her this pleasure, and he had also his own in view. If they went in any of his carnages, the loitering charm of the walk would be lost ; and they must, to a certain degree, be encumbered by, and exposed to, the notice of servants. " Are you a good walker. Rath ? Do you think you can manage six miles ? If we set off at two o'clock, we shall be there by four, without hurrying ; or say half- past four. Then we miglit stay two hours, and you eoold show me all the old walks and old places you love, and we could still come leisurely home. Oh, it's all arranged directly ! " *' But do you think it would be right, sir ? It seems as if it would be such a great pleasure, that it must be in some way wrong." " Why, you little goose, what can be wrong in it } " " In the first place, I miss going to church by setting out at two," said Ruth, a litue gravely. " Only for once. Surely you don't see any harm in missing church for once ? You will go in the morning, you know." " I wonder if Mrs Mason would think it right — if she would allow it ? " ''No, I dare say not. But ^ou don't mean to be governed by Mrs Mason's notions of right and wrong. M 44 RUTH I n She thought It right to treat that poor girl Palmer in the way you told me about. You would think that wrong, you know, and so would every one of sense and feeling Come, Ruth, don'tpin your faith on any one but judge for yourself, the pleasure is perfectly mnocent ; it is not a selfish pleasure either, fw 1 shaU enjoy it to the full as much as you will. I shall like to see the places where you spent your childhood • I shaU almost love them as much as you do." He had » *K^ his voice ; and spoke in low, persuasive tones Ruth hung down her head, and blushed with exceedin? happiness ; but she could not speak, even to urge her doubts afresh. Thus it was in a manner settled. How delightfully happy the plan made her through the coming week ! She was too young when her mother died to have received any cautions or words of advice respecting the subject of a woman's life-if indeed, wise parents ever directly speak of what, in it^ depth and power, cannot be put into words— which is a brooding spirit with no definite form or shape that men should know it, but which is there, and present before we have recognized and realized its existence. Ruth was innocent and snow-pure. She had heard of faUing m love, but did not know the signs and symptoms thereof ; nor, indeed, had she troubled her head much about them Sorrow had filled up her days, to the exclusion of all lighter thoughts than the con' sideration of present duties, and the remembrance of the happy time which had been. But the interval of blank after the loss of her mother and during her father's life-in-death, had made her all the more feadv to value and cling to sympathy-first from Jenny, and now from Mr Bellingham. To see her home akin, ?nf V?!. ^V''^*^ *•'" ' ^ «^o^ ^^^ (secure of hi little tale of the past-of dead and gone events !-No coming shadow threw its gloom over this week's dream olu P^T®^".* ^""^^ ^^^"""^ ^as too bright to be spoken about, to common and indifferent ears /. I iV^^i RUTH 46 il CHAPTER IV Sunday came, as brilliant as if there were no sorrow, or death, or guilt in the world ; a day or two of rain had made the earth fresh and brave as the blue heavens above. Ruth thought it was too strong a realization of her iiopes, and looked for an over- clouding at noon ; i^ut the glory endured, and at two o'clock she was in the Leasowes, with a beating heart full of joy, longing to stop the hours, which would pass too quickly through the afternoon. They sauntered through the fragrant lanes, as if their loitering would prolong the time, and check the fiery-footed steeds galloping apace towards the close of the happy day. It was past five o'clock before they came to the great mill-wheel, which stood in Sabbath idleness, motionless in a brown mass of shade, and still wet with yesterday's immersion in the deep transparent water beneath. They clambered the little hill, not yet fully shaded by the overarching elms ; and then Ruth checked Mr Bellingham, by a slight motion of the hand which lay within his arm, and glanced up into his face to see what that face should express as it looked on Milham Grange, now lying still and peaceful in its afternoon shadows. It was a house of afterthoughts ; building materials were plen- tiful in the neighbourhood, and every successive owner had found a necessity for some addition or projection, till it was a picturesque mass of irregularity — of broken light and snadow — which, as a whole, gave a full and complete idea of a " Home." All its gables and nooks were blended and held together by the tender green of the climbing roses and young creepers. An old couple were living in the house until it should be let, but they dwelt in the back part, and never used the front door ; so the little birds had grown tame ani familiar, and perched upon the window-sills and porch, and on the old stone cistern which caught the water from the roof. '.*'■ ^ 46 RUTH f / Thej went silently through the untrimmed irarden full of the pale-coloured flowers of spring. A spider had spread her web over the front door. The siirht of this conveyed a sense of desoktion to Ruth's heart she thought it was possible the state entrance had never been used since her father's dead body had Un borne forth, and, without speaking a word, she turned abruptly away, and went round the house to another door. Mr Bellingham foUowed without questioninir httle understanding her feelings, but full of admiratiS tortile varying expression called out upon her fiice ^e old woman had not yet returned from church or from the weekly gossip or neighbourly tea which succeeded. The husband sat in the kitchen, speUiM the psalms for the day in his Prayer Book, and ^adinj the words out aloud— a habit he had acquired from the double solitude of his life, for he was deaf. He did not hear the quiet entrance of the pair, and they were struck with the sort of ghosUy ecbo which seems to haunt half-fumished and uninhabited houses. The ^®yf1!ru ^'^ reading were the following : *k *^*'y art thou so vexed, O my soul: and why art thou so disquieted within me.? »i." ? ^IVV \^i ^° ^^ • ^*»^ ^ '^ yet thank him, which 18 the help of my countenance, and my God." And when he had finished he shut the book, and sighed with the satisfaction of having done his duty. 1 he words of holy trust, though perhaps they were fntl fft """J*"^' *»"ied a falthfurpeace down mto the depths of his soul. As he lookedljl he saw the young couple standing on the middle of the floor. He pushed his iron rimmed spectacles on to his fore- head, and rose to greet the daughter of his old master and ever-honoured mistress. "God bless thee, lass; God bless thee! My old eyes are glad to see thee again." «tJ?f"?/Pr°^ ^'^^'l ^ «^»^e the horny hand stretched forward m the action of blessing. She pressed it between both of hers, as she rapidly poured out questions. Mr Bellingham was not altogether RUTH 47 comfortable at seeing one whom he had already begun to appropriate as his own, so tenderly familiar with a hard-featured, meanly-dressed day-labourer. He saun- tered to the window, and looked out into the grass- grown farm-yard ; but he could not help overhearing gome of the conversation, which seemed to him carried oQ too much in the tone of equality. '^ And who's yon?" asked the old labourer at last. ''Is he your sweetheart? Your missis's son, I reckon. He's a spmce young chap, anvhow." Mr Bellingham^s " blood of all the Howards " rose and tingled about his ears, so that he could not hear Ruth's answer. It began by " Hush, Thomas ; pray hash ! " but how it went on he did not catch. The idea of his being Mrs Mason's son ! It was really too ridiculous ; but, like most things which are " too ridiculous," it made him very angry. He was hardly himself again when Ruth shyly came to the window- recess and asked him if he would like to see the house- place, into which the front door entered ; many people thought it very pretty, she said, half timidly, for nis face had unconsciously assumed a hard and haughty expression, which he could not instantly soften down. He followed her, however ; but before he left the kitchen he saw the old man standing, looking at Ruth's companion with a strange, grave air of dissatis&ction. They went along one or two zigzag, damp-smelling stone passages, and then entered the house-place, or common sitting-room for a farmer's family in that part of the country. The front door opened into it, and several other apartments issued out of it, such as the dairy, the state bedroom (which was half-parlour as well), and a small room which had been appropriated to the late Mrs Hilton, where she sat, or more fre- quently lay, commanding through the open door the comings and goings of her household. In those days the house-place had been a cheerful room, full of life, with the passing to and fro of husband, child, and servants ; with a great merry wood fire crackling and 48 RUTH w\ blazing away every evening, and hardly let out in the very heat of lummer ; for with the thick stone waUi and the deep window-seats, and the drapery of vine! leaves and ivy, that room, with its flag-floor, seemed always to want the sparkle and cheery warmth of i fire. But now the creen shadows from wiliiout seemed to have become black in the uninhabited desolation The oaken shovel-board, the heavy dresser, and the carved cupboards, were now dull and damp, which were formerly polished up to the brightness of a looking-glass, where the fire-blaze was for ever glinting; they only added to the oppressive gloom the flag-floor was wet with hea \ moisture. Ruth stood gazing into the room, se" g nothing of what was present She saw a visic of former days— an evening in the days of her cuildhood ; her father sitting in the " master's comer " near thb fire, sedately smokinff his pipe, while he dreamily watched his wife and child ; her mother reading to her, as she sat on a little stool at her feet It was gone— all gone into the land of shadows ; but for the moment it seemed so present in the old room, that Ruth believed her actual Me to be the dream. Then, still silent, she went on uto her mother's parlour. But there, the bleak look of what had once been full of peace and mother's love, struck cold on her heart She uttered a cry, and ttirew herself down by the sofa, hiding her face in her hands, while her frame quivered with her repressed sobs. "Dearest Ruth, don't give way so. It can do no good ; it cannot bring back the dead," said Mr Bell- ingham, distressed at witnessing her distress. "I know it cannot,'" murmured Ruth ; "and that 18 why I cry. I cry because nothing will ever bring them back again." She sobbed afresh, but more gently, for his kind words soothed her, sunt softeued, if they could not take away, her sense of desolation. Come away ; I cannot have you stay here, full of painful associations as these rooms must be. Come" —raising her with gentle violence— " show me your i ' RUTH 49 'I little garden rou have often told me about. Near the window of tins very room, is it not ? See how well I remember everything you tell me." He led her round through the back part of the house into the pretty old-tashioned garden. There WIS a sunny border just under the windows, and clipped box and yew-trees by the grass-plat, further sway from the house ; and she prattled again of her childish adventures and solitary plasrs. When they turned round they saw the old man, who had hobbled out with the help of his stick, and was looking at them with the same grave, sad look of anxiety. Mr Bellingham spoke rather sharply. "Why does that old man follow us about in that way.' It is excessively impertinent of him, I think.'' '' Oh, don't call old Thomas impertinent. He is so good and kind, he is like a father to me. I remember sitting on his knee many and many a time when I was a child, whilst he told me stories out of the ' Pilgrim's Progress.' He taught me to suck up milk through a straw. Mamma was very fond of him too. He used to sit with us always in the evenings when papa was away at market, for mamma was rather afraid of having no man in the house, and used to beg old Thomas to stay ; and he would take me on his knee, and listen just as attentively as I did while mamma read aloud." " You don't mean to say you have sat upon that old fellow's knee ? " " Oh, yes ! many and many a time." Mr Bellingham looked graver than he had done while witnessing Ruth's passionate emotion in her mother's room. But he lost his sense of indignity in admiration of his companion as she wandered among the flowers, seeking for favourite bushes or plants, to v?bicb some history or remembrance was attached. She wound in and out in natural, graceful, wavy lines between the luxuriant and overgrown shrubs, which were fragrant with a leafy smell of spring growth ; she went on, careless of watching eyes, indeed uncon- D ■ it '*'' 7f^\ 60 RUTH ■ * frcioue, i(.r the time, of their existence. Once shtl fttoppeci t., take hold of a gpray of jessamine, and eofUy kiss it; it had been her mother's favourite flower. Old Thomas was standing by the horsemount, and was also an observer of all her goings on. But, while Mr Bellingham's feeling was that of passionate ad- miration mingled with a selfish kind of love, the old man gazed with tender anxiety, and his lips moved words of blessing : " She's a pretty creature, with a glint of her mother about her ; and she's the same kind lass as ever. Not a bit set up with yon fine manty-maker's shop she- m. I misdoubt that young fellow though, for all she called him a real gentleman, and checked m. wheu ' asked if he was her sweetheart. If his are not sweet- heart s looks, I've forgotten all my young iav* Here ! they're going, I suppose. Look ! he wai ts her to go without a word to the old man ; but she i^ none so changed as that, I reckon." Not Ruth, indeed ! She never perceived the di- satisfied expression of Mr Bellingham's countenance visible to the old man's keen eye ; but came rutminj i up to Thomas to send her love to his wife, and to shake him many times by the hand. " Tell Mary I'll make her such a fine gown, a^ soon as ever I set up for myself; it shall be all in the fashion, big gigot sleeves, that she shall not know herself in them! Mmd you teU her t) at, T naas, will you ?" J I iye, that I will, lass; and I recKon she'll be pleased to hear thou hast not forgotten t iy o^^ mem ways. The Lord bless thee— the Lord lift up he light of H;^ countenance upon thee." Ruth was half-way toward >! the ingh-am when her oJd frienii ci. lea' her b« k. He longed to give her a warning of the danger that he thought she was in, and yet he ' W"hen she came up, all he could text; indeed, the language of impatient Mr Bell- lid not know how. ink of to say was a uie Bible was the| I AUTH 61 Ungaage in which he though . whenever his ideas weot beyond practical e rydrs life i lo expressions of emotion or feeling. " M) dear, remember tli*? devil goeth about is a roaring lion, •^eking whom e may dev >ur ; rememlK r that, Ruth. The word^ fell on her ear, but gave no definite idea. The utmost thev suggested was the remembrance of the dreaci she fek as a child when this verse came into her mind, and how she used to imagine a lion's he ad always avoided, and even now could ardly think f without a shudder. She never imagined :hat the p-im warning related to the handsome yo mg mar who awaited her with a coi ntenance beatti.jif witi Ime, and tenderly dr^w her aand within his > n. 'Hie old man sight J a je watched thp*^ awiy. "The Lord may help her to guide . er st - ari^ :t. He may. But I'm afeard she's treat. ng . perilous iaces. I'll put my missis up to ^oir g the +own and getting sj eech o her, aiid telling he^ a hi , af her danger. An old motherly woman likt our Mary will set about it b#4ter nor a stupid fel lik** me." The poor li'id labourer prayed long nid ar estly that night for Ruth. He called it " *restlinp f r her soul" ; and I think his prayers ^^eTe hea-d, for "God judgeth not a^ man Judgeth.^' Ruth -'-t^it on her ^' ay, all uncon iO» ^ trt che dark phantonis of the fut: re that were '^ng around lier; her mel; ncholy turned, with pliancy of childish years, at t xte»n not et lost, in i a softened manner which was inhnitely charming. By and by she cleared up into sunny happiness. The evening was still and full of mellow light, and the new-horn summer was so delicious that, in common with all young crea ure- she shared its ir.ti'' ice and was glad. They stood t< :ether at the top of a steep ascent, '"the h:ll" oft] ■ hundred. At the summit there was a level space, si.^ty or seventy yards square, of unen- closed and broken ground, over which the golden 52 RFJTH •'J bloom of the gorse cast a rich hue, whUe its deliciou scent perfumed the fresh and nimble air. On one side of this common, the ground sloped down toi clear bright pond, in which were mirrored the rouri sand-cliffs that rose abrupt on the opposite bank hundreds of martens found a home there, and were now wheeling over the transparent water, and dip. ping in their wings in tneir evening sport. Indeed all sorts of birds seemed to haunt the lonely pool; the water wagtails were scattered around its marpn! the linnets perched on the topmost sprays of the gorse- bushes, and other hidden warblers sang their vespers on the uneven ground beyond. On the far side ofthe green waste, close by the road, and well placed for the requirements of horses or their riders who might be weary with the ascent of the hill, there was a public house, which was more of a farm than an inn. It was s long, low building, rich in dormer windows on the weather side, which were necessary in suoh an exposed situation, and with odd projections and unlooked-for gables on every side ; there was a deep porch in front, on whose hospitable benches a dozen persons might sit and enjoy the balmy air. A noble sycamore grew right before the house, with seats all round it ("such tents the patriarchs loved"); and a nonde- script sign hung from a branch on the side next to the road, which, being wisely furnished with an interpre- tation, was found to mean King Charles in the oak. Near this comfortable, quiet, unfrequented inn, there was another pond, for household and farm- vard purposes, from which the cattle were drink ne, before returning to the fields aaer they had been nailked. Their very motions were so lazy and slow, that they served to fill up the mind with the sensation of dreamy rest Ruth and Mr Bellingham plunged through the broken ground to regain the road near the wayside inn. Hand-in-hand, now pricked by the far-spreading gorse, now ankle-deep in sand; now preying the soft, thick heath, which should make so brave an autumn show ; and now over wild RUTH 63 «ni^A|i 1 thvme and other fragrant herbs, they made their way, with many a merry laugh. Once on the road, at the summit, Ruth stood silent, in breathless delight at the view before her. The hill fell suddenly down into the plain, extending for a dozen miles or more. There was a clump of dar^- Scotch firs close to them, wh>.h cut clear against the western sky, and threw hack the nearest levels into distance. The plain below them was richly wooded, and was tinted bv the young tender hues of the earliest summer, for aU the trees of the wood had donned their leaves except the cautious ash, which here and there gave a soft, pleasant greyness to the landscape. Far away in the champaien were spires, and towers, and stacks of chimneys belonging to some distant hidden £Etrm- honse, which were traced downwards throucrh the golden air by the thin columns of blue smoke sent up from the evening fires. The view was bounded by some rising ground in deep purple shadow against the sunset sky. When first they stopped, silent with sighing pleasure, the air seemed full of pleasant noises ; distant church- bells made harmonious music with the little singing- birds near at hand ; nor were the lowings of the cattle, nor the calls of the farm-servants discordant, for the voices seemed to be hushed by the brooding con- sciousness of the Sabbath. They stood loitering before the house, quietly enjoying the view. The clock in the little inn struck eight, and it sounded clear and sharp in the stillness. " Can it be so late ? " asked Ruth. " I should not have thought it possible," answered Mr Bellingham. " But, never mind, you will be at home long before nine. Stay, there is a shorter road, 1 know, through the fields ; just wait a moment, while I go in and ask the exact way." He dropped Ruth's arm, and went into the public-house. A gig had been slowly toiling up the sandy hill behind, unperceived by the young couple, and now it reached the table-land, and was close upon them as M RUTH i f they separated. Ruth turned round, when the sound of the horse's footsteps came distinctly as he reached the level. She faced Mrs Mason ! They were not ten — no, not five yards apart. At the same moment they recognized each other, and what was worse, Mrs Mason had clearly seen, with her sharp, needle-like eyes, the attitude in which Ruth had stood with the vounff man who had just quitted her. Ruth's hand had been lying in his ai-m, and fondly held there by his other hand. Mre Mason was careless about the circumstances of temptation into which the girls entrusted to her as apprentices were thrown, but severely intolerant if their conduct was in any degree influenced by the force of these temptations. She called this intoler- ance " keeping up the character of her establishment." It would have been a better and more Christian thing, if she had kept up the character of her girls by tender vigilance and maternal care. This evening, too, she was in an irritated state of temper. Her brother had undertaken to drive her round by Henbury, in order to give her the unpleasant information of the misbehaviour of her eldest son, who was an assistant in a draper's shop in a neighbouring town. She was full of indignation against want of steadiness, though not willing to direct her indignation against the right object— her ne'er-do-well darling. Vvhile she was thus charged with anger (for her brother justly defended her son's master and com- panions from her attacks), she saw Ruth standing with a lover, far away from home, at such a time in the evening, and she boiled over with intemperate displeasure. ''Come here directly, Miss Hilton," she exclaimed, sharply. Then, dropping her voice to low, bitter tones of concentrated wrath, she said to the trembling, guilty Ruth : * *' Dou't attempt to show your face at my house again after this conduct. 1 saw you, and your spark too. I'll have no slurs on the character of ray RUTH 65 apprentices. Don't say a word. I saw enough. I Til write and tell your guardian to-morrow, ^'^'^e ii^ starte/awaf, for he was impatient to be y and Ruth was left standing there, stony, sick, and !!l« as if the lightning had torn up the ground Gn4th her feet. She could not go on standmg, she ,M so sick and faint; she staggered back to Uie broken sand-bank, and sank down, and covered her ^5f d^^t'^Ruth ! are you iU? Speak, darling ! \,v love, my love, do speak to me ! What tender words after such harsh ones! They lo<»ened the fountain of RutVs tears, and she cried ^'^ol'\ did you see her-did you hear what she ^«She' Who, my darling? Don't sob so, Ruth ; tell me what it is. Who has been near you ?-who has been speaking to you to make you cry so ? "Oh, Mre^Mason." And there was a fresh burst of ""'mTou don't say so ; are you sure } I was not away ' too " ''oir,V; sir, I'm quite sure. She was so angry ; she said 1 must never show my face there agam. Uh, dear! what shall 1 do?'* „ ., . j» It seemed to the poor chUd as if Mrs Mason s words were irrevocable, and that, beiog so, she was shut out from every house. She saw how much she had done that was deserving of blame, now when it was too lat® to undo it. She knew with what seventy and taunts Mrs Mason had often treated her for involuntary failings, of which she had been quite unconscious , and now she had really done wrong, and shrank with terror from the consequences. Her eyes were so blinded by the fast-falling tears, she did not see (nor had she seen would she have been able to interpret) the change in Mr Bellingham's countenance, as he stood silenUy watching her. He was silent so long, that even in her sorrow she began to wonder that he II' *;? 1| tr~| ^iMs M RUTH W 4 t i n did not speak, and to wish to hear his soothing words once more. ''It is very unfortunate/' he hegan, at last; and then he stopped ; then he began again : '' It is very unfortunate ; for, yon see, I did not like to name it to you before, but, 1 believe — I have business, in fact, which obliges me to go to town to-morrow — to Loudon, I mean ; and I don t know when I shall be able to return." '* To London ! " cried Ruth ; " are you going away? Oh, Mr Bellingham ! " She wept afresh, giving herself up to the desolate feeling of sorrow, wliich absorbed all the terror she had been experiencing at the idea of Mrs Mason's anger. It seemed to her at this moment as though she could have borne every- thing but his departure ; but she did not speak again ; and after two or three minutes had elapsed, he spoke — not in his natural careless voice, but in a sort of constrained agitated tone. " I can hardly bear the idea of leaving you, my own Ruth. In such distress, too ; for where you can go 1 do not know at all. From all yiu have told me of Mrs Mason, I donH think she is likely to mitigate her severity in your case." No answer, but tears quietly, incessantly flowing. Mrs Mason's displeasure seemed a distant thing ; his going away was tne present distress. He went on : ''Ruth, would you go with me to London.^ My darling, I cannot leave you here without a home ; the thought of leaving you at all is pain enough, but in these circumstances — so friendless, so homeless — it is impossible. You must come with me, love, and trust to me." Still, slie did not speak. Remember how young, and innocent, and motherless she was ! It seemed to her as if it would be happiness enough to be with him ; and as for the future, he would arrange and decide for that. The future lay wrapped in a golden mist, which she did not care to penetrate ; but if he, her sun, was out of sight, and gone, the golden mist became dark RUTH 67 mi heavy gloom, through which no hope could come. H« took her hand. _ ^ , « Will you not come with me ? Do you not love me enough to trust me .J Oh, Ruth " (reproachfully), can vou not trust me ? " , She had stopped crymg, but was sobbing sadlv. « I cannot bear this, love. Your sorrow is absolute nain to me ; but it ia worse to feel how indifferent you Jre-how little you care about our separation. He dropped her hand. She burst into a fresh fit of "'^'Tmay have to join my mother m Paris ; I don't know when I shall see you again. Oh, Ruth ! said he, vehemently, " do you love me at aU ? She said something in a very lo'*; T<>'5« 5 ^^.''JT not hear it, though he bent down his head— but he took her hand afrain. « What was it you said, love ? Was it not that you did love me? My darling, you do ! I can tell it by the trembling of this little hand ; then, you will not suffer me to go away alone and unhappy, most anxious about you? There is no other course open to you ; mv poor girl has no friends to receive her. I will go home directly, and return in an hour with a carnage. You make me too happy by your silence, Kuth. "Oh, what can I do!** exclaimed Ruth. "Mr Bellingham, you should help me, and instead of that you only bewilder me." " How, my dearest Ruu: ? BewUder you ! It seems so clear to me. Look at the case fairly ! Here you are, an orphan, with only one person to love you, poor child r-thrown off, for no fault of yours, by the only creature on whom you have a claim, that creature a tyrannical, inflexible woman ; what is more natural (and, being natural, more right) than that you should throw yourself upon the care of the one who loves you dearly— who would go through fire and water for you— who would shelter you from all harm r Unless, indeed, as I suspect, you do not care for him. If so. Kuth ! it you do not care for me, we had better part-I will tm RUTH ^1 leave yoa at once ; it will be better for me to go, if you do not care for me." He said this very sadly (it seemed so to Ruth, at least), and made as though he would have drawn his hand from hers, but now she held it with soft force. " Don't leave me, please, sir. It is very true I have no friend but you. Don't leave me, please. But, oh ! do tell me what I must do ! " " Will you do it if I tell you ? If you will trust me, I will do my very best for you. I will give you my best advice. You see your position ; Mrs Mason writes and gives her own exaggerated account to your guardian ; he is bound by no great love to you, ^om what I have heard you say, and throws you off ; I, who might be able to befriend you — through my mother, perhaps — I, who could at least comfort you a little (could not I, Ruth ?) am away, far away, for an in- definite time ; that is your position at present. Now, what I advise is this. Come with me into this little inn ,' I will order tea for you — (I am sure you require it sadly) — and I will leave you there, and go home for the carriage. I will return in an hour at the latest. Then we are together, come what may ; that is enough for me, is it not for you, Ruth } Say, yes — say it ever so low, but give me the delight of hearing it. Ruth, say yes." Low and soft, with much hesitation, came the " Yes " ; the fatal word of which she so little imagined the infinite consequences. The thought of being with him was all and everything. ** How you tremble, my darling ! You are cold, love ! Come into the house, and I'll order tea directly and be off." She rose, and, leaning on his arm, went into the house. She was shaking and dizzy with the agitation of the last hour. He spoko to the civil farmer-laud- lord, who conducted them into a neat parlour, with windows opening into the garden at the back of the house. They had admitted much of the evening's e. RUTH 59 faurrance through their open casements, before they were hastily closed by the attentive host. , ,, , *^tX directly, fox this lady!" The landlord ^*« Dearest Ruth, I must go ; there is not an instant ♦n hA lost : promise me to take some tea, for you are rhi^ering 'alfover, and deadly pale with the fright that Einahle woman has given you. 1 must go ; I shall be back in half an hour-and then no more partmgs, "^^He kissed her pale cold face, and went away. The room whirled round before Ruth ; it was a dream-a stranire, varying, shifting dream-with the old home ofhefchUdW for onelcene, with the terror of Mrs Mason's unexpected appearance for another ; and then, Sgest, diz^t, haSt of all^^ there was the con- scioufness of his love, who was all the world to her. and the remembrance of the tender words, which still keot up their low soft echo in her heart. herliead ached so much that she could hardly see ; even the dusky twilight was a dazzhng glare to her Zr eyes ; and when the daughter of the house Uught in the sharp light of the candles, preparatory for tea, Ruth hid her face in the sofa pillows with a low exclamation of pain. , , ^, • i :„ « « Does your head ache, miss?" asked the girl, in a gentle, sympathizing voice. " Let me make you some Sa miss; it will do you good Many's the time ^or mother's headaches were cured by good strong tea. Ruth murmured acqaiescence ; the young girl (about Ruth's own age, but who was the mistress of the little establishment, owing to her mother's death) made tea, and brought Ruth a cup to the sofa where she lay. Ruth was feverish and thirsty, and eagerly drank it off, although she could not touch the bread and butter which the girl offered her. She felt better and fresher, thoueh she was still faint and weak. " Thank you," said Ruth. " Don't let me keep you ; perhaps yod are busy. You have been very kind, and the tea has done me a great deal of good. m p nSi— eo RUTH The girl left the room. Ruth became as hot as she had previoasly been cold, and went and opened the window, and leant out into the still, sweet, evening air. The bush of sweetbrier, underneath the window, scented the place, and the delicious fragrance reminded her of her old home. I think scents affect and quicken the memory more than either sights or sounds; for Ruth had instantly before her eyes the little garden beneath the window of her mother's room, with the old man leaning on his stick, watching her, just as he had done, not three hours before, on that very afternoon. *' Dear old Thomas ! He and Mary would take me in, I think ; they would love me all the more if I were cast off. And Mr Bellingham would, perhaps, not be so very long away ; and he would know where to lind me if I stayed at Milham Grange. Oh, would it not be better to go to them? I wonder if he would be very sorry ! I could not bear to make him sorry, so kind as he has been to me ; but I do believe it would be better to go to them, and ask their advice, at any rate. He would follow me there ; and I could talk over what I had better do, with the thr . best friends I have in the world — the only friends 1 1 u^ve." She put on her bonnet, and opened the parlour door ; but then she saw the square figure of the landlord standing at the open house-door, smoking his evening pipe, and looming large and distinct against the dark air and landscape beyond. Ruth remembered the cup of tea that she had drank ; it must be paid for, and she had no money with her. She feared that he would not let her quit the house without paying. She thought that she would leave a note for Mr Bellingham, saying where she was gone, and how she had left the house in debt, for (like a child) all dilemmas appeared of equal magnitude to her ; and the difficulty of passing the landlord while he stood there, and of giving him an explanation of the circumstances (as far as such expla- nation was due to him), appeared insuperable, and as awkward, and fraught with inconvenience, as far more serious situations. She kept peeping out of her room, if RUTH 61 »fker she had written her litUe pencil note, to see if Stouter door was still obstructed. There he stood, motionless, enjoying his pipe, and looking out into the Sn^hich JatEered tfick with the coming night. The fumes of the tobacco were earned by the air into the house, and brought back Ruth's sick headache. Herenergy left her; she became stupid and languid, and incapable of spirited exertion; she modified her olan of action, to the determination of asking Mr Bel- linirham to take her to Milham Grange, to the care of her humble friends, instead of to London. And she thought, in her simplicity, that he would instantly consent when he had heard her reasons. She started up. A carriage dashed up to the door. She hushed her beating heart, and tried to stop her throbbing head to listen. She heard him speaking to the landlord, though she could not distinguish what he said ; heard the jingling of money, and, in another moment, he was in the room, and had taken her arm to lead her to the carriage. "Oh sir! I want you to take me to Milham Orange, said she, holding back. " Old Thomas would give me ^ "Well, dearest, we'll talk of all that in the carriage ; I am sure you will listen to reason. Nay, if you will eo to Milham you must go in the carriage, said he, hurriedly. She was little accustomed to oppose the wishes of any one— obedient and docile by nature, and unsuspicious and innocent of any harmful consequences. She entered the carriage, and drove towards London. 1 4^' r CHAPTER V The June of 18— had been glorious and sunny, and full of flowers ; but July came in with pouring ram, and it was a gloomy time for travellers and for weather- bouTid tourists, who lounged away the days in touching up sketches, dressing flies, and reading over again for ^ 62 I RUTH the twentieth time the few volumes they had brought with them. A number of the Timet, five days old, had been in constant demand, in all the sitting-rooms of a certain inn in a little mountain village of North Wales, through a long July morning. The valleys around were filled with thick cold mist, which had crept up the hillsides till the hamlet itself was folded in its white dense curtain, and from the inn windows nothing was seen of the beautiful scenery around. The tourists who thronged the rooms might as well have been " wi' their dear little bairnies at hame " ; and so some of them seemed to think, as they stood, with their faces flattened against the window-{>anes, looking abroad in search of an event to fill up the dreary time. How many dinners were hastened that day, by way of getting through the morning, let the poor Welsh kitchen-maid say ! The very village children kept indoors ; or if one or two more adventurous stole out into the land of temptation and puddles, they were soon clutched bacl< by angry and busy mothers. It was only four o'clock, but most of the inmates of the inn thought it must be between six and seven, the morning had seemed so long — so many hours had passed since dinner — when a Welsh car, drawn by two horses, rattled briskly up to the door. Every window of the ark was crowded with faces at the sound ; the leathern curtains were undrawn to their curious eyes, and out sprang a gentleman, who carefully assisted a well-cloaked -up lady into the little inn, despite the landlady's assurances of not having a room to spare. The gentleman (it was Mr Bellingham) paid no attention to the speeches of the hostess, but quietly superintended the unpacking of the carriage, and paid the postilion ; then, turning round with his face to the light, he spoke to the landlady, whose voice had been rising during the last five minutes : " Nay, Jenny, you're strangely altered, if you can turn out an old friend on such an evening as this. If I remember right. Pen tre Voelas is twenty miles across the bleakest mountain road I ever saw," P ( >mr RUTH 69 " Indeed, sir, and I did not know you ; Mr Belling- buD I believ««. Indeed, sir. Pre tre Voelas is not above eightee miles— we only charge for eighteen ; it may not he much above seventeen ; and we re quite full, indeed, raore's the pity." ^A ^ ■ a "Well, but Jenny, to oblige me, an old friend, you can find lodgings out for some of your people— the house across, for instance." "Indeed, sir, and it's at liberty; perhaps you would not mind lodging there yourself; I could itet you the best rooms, and send over a trifle or so of furniture, if they wern't as you'd wish them " No, Jenuy ! here I stay. You'll not induce me to venture over into those "rooms, whose dirt I know of old. Can't you persuade some one who is not an old friend to move across } Say, if you like, that I had written beforehand to bespeak the rooms. Oh . I know you can manage it— 1 know your good-natured " Indeed, sir— well ! I'll see, if you and the lady will just step into the back narlour, sir— there's no one there just now— the lady is keeping her bed to-day for a cold, and the gentleman is having a rubber at whist in number three. I'll see what I can ^°'" , , £ a -r * " Thank you, thank you. Is there a fire f if not, one must be lighted. Come, Ruthie, come." He led the way into a large, bow-windowed room, which looked gloomy enough that afternoon, but which I have seen bright and buoyant with youth and hope within, and sunny lights creeping down the purple mountain slope, and stealing over the green, soft meadows, till they reached the little garden, full of roses and lavender bushes, lying close under the window. I have seen — but I shall see no more. "I did not know you had been here before," said Ruth, as Mr Bellingham helped her oflF with her " Oh, yes ; three years ago I was here on a reading 1: k p m i M RUTH 5 arty. We were here above two monthi, attracted by enny's kind heart and oddities ; but driren awat finally by the insufferable dirt However, for a week or two it won't much signify.'' " But can she take us in, sir ? I thought I heard her saying her house was full." ''Oh, yes — I dare say it is; but I shall pay her well ; she can easily make excuses to some poor devil, and send him over to the other side ; and, for a day or two, so that we have shelter, it does not much signify." " Gould not we go to the house on the other side. sir?" " And have our meals carr ed across to us in a half- warm state, to say nothing of having no one to scold for bad cooking: You don't know these out-of-the« way Welsh inns yet, Ruthie." "No! I only thought it seemed rather unfair—" said Ruth, gently ; but she did not end her sentence, for Mr Bellingham formed his lips into a whistle, and walked to the window to survey the rain. The remembrance of his former good payment prompted many little lies of which Mrs Morgan was guilty tiiat afternoon, before she succeeded in turning out a gentleman and lady, who were only planning to remain till the ensuing Saturday at the outside, so, if they did fulfil their threat, and leave on the next day, she would be no very great loser. These household arrangements complete, she solaced herself with tea in her own little parlour, and shrewdly reviewed the circumstances of Mr Belling- ham's arrival. " Indeed ! and she's not his wife," thought Jenny, "that's clear as day. His wife would have brought her maid, and given herself twice as many airs about the sitting-rooms ; while this poor miss never spoke, but kept as still as a mouse. Indeed, and young men will be young men ; and, as long as the.'r fathers and mothers shut their eyes, it's none of my business to go about asking questions." RUTH 65 ! »■ la this manner they settled down to - week's .enjoy- ment of that Alpine couuf-y. U was most true enjoyment to Ruth. It i^-as opiMiiu^^ -■ new Mense ; va,-t ideas of beauty and grandeu Hllel hftr nmid at the sight of the mountains now li'st behel«' in mil majesty. Slu- was almost overpov\ered bv tiie vatrue aijti solemn delight ; but by and by iier love for them equaled her awe, and in the night-time she would M)ftly rise, and steal to the window to >. *s RUTH 67 rain had ceased, though every leaf and blade was loaded with trembling glittering droi». Ruth went down to the circular dale, into which the Urown* foaming mountain river fell and made a deep pool, aud, after resting there for a while, ran on between broken rocks down to the valley below. The water- fall was magnificent, as she had anticipated ; she longed to extend her walk to the other side of the stream, so she sought the stepping-stones, the usual crossing-place, which were over-shadowed by trees, a few yards from the pool. The waters ran high and rapidly, as busy as fife, between the pieces of grey rock ; but Ruth had no fear, and went lightly and steadily on. About the middle, however, there was a great gap ; either one of the stones was so covered with water as to be invisible, or it had been washed lower down ; at any rate, the spring from stone to stone was long, and Ruth hesitated for a moment before taking it. The sound of rushing waters was in her ears to the exclusion of every other noise ; her eyes were on the current running swiftly below her feet ; and thus she was startled to see a figure close before her on one of the stones, and to hear a voice offering help. She looked up and saw a man, who was apparently long past middle life, and of the stature of a dwarf ; a second glance accounted for the low height of the speaker, for then she saw he was deformed. As the consciousness of this infirmity came into her mind, it must have told itself in her softened eyes, fur a faint flush of colour came into the pale face of the deformed gentleman, as he repeated his words : "The water is very rapid ; will you take my hand } Perhaps I can help you." Kutn accepted tne offer, and with this assistance she was across in a moment. He made way for her to precede him in the narrow wood path, and then silently followed her up the glen. When they had passed out of the wood into the pasture-land beyond, Ruth once more turned to mark tllli !!' ;. r ! ^i* I' 68 RUTH him. She was struck afresh with ^he mild beauty of the face, though there was something in the counte- nance which told of the body's deformity, some- thing more and beyond the pallor of habitual ill- health, something of a ouick spiritual light in the deep set eyes, a sensibility about the mouth ; but altogether, though a peculiar, it was a most attractive face. ** Will you allow me to accompany you if you are going the round by Cwm Dhu, as I imagine you are r V\\e hand-rail is blown away from the little wooden bridge by the storm last night, and the rush of waters below may make you dizzy ; and it is really dangerous to fall there, the stream is so deep." They walked on without much speech. She won- dered who her companion might ue. She should have known him, if she had seen him among the strangers at the inn ; and yet he spoke Euju'lish too well to be a Welshman ; he knew the country and the paths so perfectly, he must be a resident ; and so she tossed him from England to >Vales and back again in her imagination. " I only came here yesterday," said he, as a widen- ing in the path permitted them to walk abreast. ** Last night I went to the higher waterfalls ; they are most splendid." '* Did you go out in all that rain f " asked Kuth. timidly. " Oh, yes. Il?in never hinders me from walkiujr. Indeed, it gives a new beauty to sucli a country as this. IJesides, my time for my excursion is so short, I cannot afford to waste a day." '* Then, you do not live here.'*" asked lluth. " No ! my home is in a very different place. I live in a busy town, where at times it is difficult to feel thi- truth that There are in this loud tttunnin^ tide Of human caro and crime, Witli whom the nioloV'hen she heard peoj»ie stirring, she went in search of iVIrs Morgan, whose &hrev/d sharp manners, unsoftened by inward res^iuct for the poor girl, had awed Ruth even when Mr Beilingham was by '^o protect her. " Mrs Morgan," said she, sitting down in the little parlour appropriated to the laiJf'li ^y, for she felt her strength suddenly desert her- 'Mrs Morgan, I'm afraid xMr Beilingham is very ill ; "—here she bnr^t into tears, but instantly checking herself, ''Oh, what must I do?" continued she; ** I don't think he has known anything all through the night, and he looks so strange and wild this morning." She gazed up into Mrs Morgan's face, as if reading an oracle. " Indeed, miss, ma'am, and it's a very awkwanl thing. But don't cry, that can do no good, 'deed it can't. I'll go and see the poor young man myself, and then I can judge if a doctor is wanting." Ruth followed Mrs Morgan upstairs. When tlicy ._ !lli' RUTH 77 entered the sick-room Mr Bellingham was sitting up in bed, looking wildly about him, and as he saw them, he exclaimed : • i » <• Ruth ! Ruth ! come here ; I won't be left alone ! and then he fell down exhausted on the pillow. Mr» Morgan went up and spoke to him, but he did not answer or take any notice. « I'll send for Mr Jones, my dear, 'deed and I will ; we'll have him here in a couple of hours, please '*bh, can't he come sooner ? " asked Ruth, wild with *' 'Deed no ; he lives at Llanglus when he's at home, and that's seven mile away, and he may be gone a round eight or nine mile on the other side Uanglas ; Ijut I'll send a boy on the pony directly." Saying this, Mrs Morgan left Ruth alone 'ITiere was nothing to be done, for Mr Bellingham had again fallen into a heavy sleep. Sounds of daily life began, bells rang, breakfast-services clattered up and down the passages, and Ruth sat on shivering by the bedside in that darkened room. Mrs Morgan sent her breakfast upstairs by a chambermaid, but Ruth motioned it away in her sick agony, and the girl had no right to urge her to partake of it. That alone broke the mon- otony of the long morning. She heard the sound «»f merr ' parties setting out on excursions, on horseback or i:: carriages ; and once, stiff and wearied, she stole to the window, and looked out on one side of the blind ;. but the day looked bright and discordant to her aching, anxious heart. Tho gloom of the darkened room wa* better and more befitting. It was some hours after he was summoned bef<»re the doctor made his appearance. He questioned his patient, and, receiving no coherent answers, he asked Ruth concerning the symptoms, but when she ques- tioned him in turn he only shook his head and looked grave. He made a sign to Mrs Morgan to follow him out of the room, and they went down to her narlour, leaving Ruth in a depth of despair, lower than she 1.0 I.I 1.25 1^ ||2.8 IIIM III 2.2 £ bs 1 i& 1 U u ttiUU. 2.0 1.8 1.4 1.6 MICROCOPY RESOLUTION TEST CHART NATIONAL BUREAU OF STANDARDS STANDARD REFERENCE MATERIAL 1010a (ANSI and ISO TEST CHART No. 2) 78 RUTH Hi Sir i could have thought it possible there remained for h.r to experience, an hour before. '*" I am afraid this is a bad casp " aaiA m- t to Mrs Morgan in Wels^ ^A brSnXer T evidently set in." orain-iever has i^ll^A^i ^**""^ genUeman ! poor young man ' H« looked the very picture of health I" ^ "' T.,«»> i?w ^"^ appearance of robustness will in all too young to be his wife?" ^ ^^^ ^^"''^ offensive youu/c^turr fal^ th^iTS T jny own ,„„ra]„ to put a little scX into my ^J^i °' when such as her come to stay here • but inLSi .V " coS'^t'..'-™ ^-"^ " ""/"orrtAi-ttl;^;:; if Sf ri'*' "IT S™' "" to her inattentive listeuer i''trto^h^^/„ir.it7anVSfrt;' ?^' ana '.5X"/ ^hit'-^m- 1"!^ r^B^ra^ them on, and see alimit +i,a^ r,, „ " ^ ^^^^ P"' sir that ;ou tisl?.„"havld„r."^'" '"' '"''^''"'«' ^polce w.th a deference which he had n all powerful, and that he, whom she loved so much, needed the aid of the Mighty One. Day and night, the summer night, seemed merged into one. She lost count of time in the hushed and darkened room. One morning Mrs Morgan beckoned her out ; and she stole on tiptoe into the dazzlin^r gallery, on one side of which the bedrooms opened. " She's come,'' whispered Mrs Morgan, looking very much excited, and forgetting that Ruth had never heard that Mrs Bellingham had been summoned. ** Who is come.'*" asked Ruth. The idea of Mrs Mason flashed through her mind — but with a more terrible, because a more vague dread, she heard that it was his mother ; the mother of whom he had always spoken as a person whose opinion was to be regarded more than that of any other individual. " What must I do.^* Will she be angry with me?" said she, relapsing into her childlike dependence on others ; and feeling that even Mrs Morgan was some one to stand between her and Mrs Bellingham. Mrs Morgan herself was a little perplexed. Her morality was rather shocked at the idea of a proper real lady like Mrs Bellingham discoverii'i? that she had winked at the connexion between her son and Ruth. She was quite inclined to encourage Ruth in her in- clination to shrink out of Mrs Bellingham's observation, an inclination which arose from no definite consciousness of having done wrong, but principally from the repre- sentations she had always heard of the lady's awful- ness. Mrs Bellingham swept into her son's room as if she were unconscious what poor young creature had lately haunted it ; while Ruth hurried into some unoccupied bedroom, and, alone there, she felt her self-restraint suddenly give way, and burst into the saddest, most utterly wretched weeping she had ever known. She was worn out with watching, and ex- hausted by passionate crying, and she lay down on the bed and fell asleep. The day passed on ; she slumbered RUTH 81 'f^HV' ;. unnoticed and unregarded ; she awoke late in the evening with a sense of having done wrong in sleeping so long ; the strain upon her responsibility had not yet left her. Twilight was closing fast around ; she waited until it had become night, and then she stole down to Mrs Morgan's parlour. " If you please may I come in ? " asked she. Jeuny Morgan was doing up the hieroglyphics which she calld her accounts ; she answered sharply enough, but it was a permission to enter, and Ruth was thankful for it. " Will you tell me how he is } Do you think I may go back to him ? " "No, indeed, that you may not. Nest, who has made his room tidy these many days, is not fit to go in now. Mrs Bellingham has brought her own maid, and the family nurse, and Mr Bellingham's man ; such a tribe of servants and no end to packages ; water-beds coming by the carrier, and a doctor from London coming down to-morrow, as if feather beds and Mr Jones was not good enough. Why, she won't let a soul of us into the room ; there's no chance for you I " Ruth sighed. '' How is he.''" she inquired, after a pause. " How can I tell indeed, when I'm not allowed to go near him. Mr Jones said to-night was a turning point ; but I doubt it, for it is four days since he was taken ill, and who e/er heard of a sick person taking a turn on an even number of days ; it's always on the third, or the fifth, or seventh, or so on. He'll not turn till to- morrow night, take my word for it, and their fine London doctor will get all the credit, and honest Mr Jones will be thrown aside. I drn't think he will get better myself, though — Gelert does not howl for nothing. My patience ! what's the malter with the girl— lord, child, you're never going tu faint, and be ill on my hands." Her sharp voice recalled Ruth from the sick unconsciousness that had been creeping over her as she listened to the latter part of this speech. She sat down and could not speak — the room whirled P 82 RUTH round and round — her white teehleness touched Mrs Morgan's heart. "You've had no tea, I guess. Indeed, and the girls are very careless." She rang the bell with energy, and seconded her pull by going to the door and shoutii.g out sharp directions, in Welsh, to Nest and Gwen, and three or four other rough, kind, slatternly servants. They brought her tea, which was comfortable, according to the idea of comfort prevalent in that rude, hospitable place ; there was plenty to eat, too much, indeed, for it revolted the appetite it was in- tended to provoke. But the heartiness with which the kind, rosy waiter pressed her to eat, and the scoldins: Mrs Morgan gave her, when she found the buttered toast untouched (toast on which she had herself desired that the butter might not be spared), did Ruth more ^ood than the tea. She began to hope, and to long for the morning when hope might have become certainty. It was all in vain that she was told that the room she had been in all day was at her service ; she did not say a word, but she was not going to bed that night, of all nights in the year, when life or death hung tremblinji; in the balance. She went into the sick room till ti.e bustling house was still, and heard busy feet passing to and fro in the room she might not enter ; and voices, imperious, though hushed down to a whisper, ask for innumerable things. Then there was silence ; and when she thought that all were dead asleep, except the watchers, she stole out into the gallery. On the other side were two windows, cut into the thick stone wall, and flower pots were placed on the shelves tlius formed, where great, untrimmed, straggling geraniums grew, and strove to reach the light. The window near Mr Bellingham's door was open ; the soft, warm-scented night air came sighing in in faint gusts, and then was still. It was summer ; there was no black darkness in the twenty-four hours ; only the light grew dusky, and colour disappeared from objects, of which the shape and form remained distinct. A soft grey oblong of w RUTH 83 barred light fell on the flat wall opposite to the win- dows, and deeper grey shadows marked out the tracery of the plants, more j^raceful thus than in reality. Ruth crouched where lo light fell. She sat on the ground close by the door; her whole existence was absorbed in listening ; all was still ; it was only her heart beating with the strong, heavy, regular sound of a hammer. She wished she could stop its rusiiing, incessant clang. She heard a rustle of a silken gown, and knew it ought not to have been worn in a sick room ; for her senses seemed to have passec* into the keeping of the invalid, and to feel only as he felt. The noise was probably occasioned by some change of posture in the watcher inside, for it was once more dead still. The soft wind outside sank with a low, long, distant moan among the windings of tlie hills, and lost itself there, and came no more again. But Ruth's heart beat loud. She rose with as little noise as if she were a vision, and crept to the open window to try and lose the nervous listening for the ever- recurring sound. Out beyond, under the calm sky, veiled with a mist rather than with a cioud, rose the hi^h, dark outlines of the mountains, shutting in that village as if it lay in a nest. They stood, like giants, cclemnly watching for the end of Earth and Time. Here and there a black round shadow reminded Ruth of some "Cwm," or hollow, where she and her lover had rambled in sun and in gladness. She then thought the land enchanted into everlasting brightness and happiness ; she fancied, then, that into a region so lovely no bale or woe could enter, but would be charmed away and disappear before the sight of the glorious guardian mountains. Now she knew the truth, that earth has no barrier which avails against agony. It comes lightning-like down from heaven, into tb -, mountain house and th^ town garret ; into the palace i.nd into the cottage. The garden lay close under the house ; a bright spot enough by day ;* for in *hat soil, whatever was planted grew and blossomed in spite of neglect. The white roses glimmered out ^: 84 RUTH in the dusk all the night through ; the red were i i^t in shadow. Between the low boundary of tlie panleii and the hills swept one or tw( green meadows ; lluth looked into the grey darkn'iss till she traced each separate wave of outline. Then she heard a little rest- less bird chirp out its wakefulness from a nest in tlie ivy round the walls of the house. But the mother- bird spread her soft feathers, and hushed it into silence. Presently, however, many little birds began to scent the coming dawn, and rustled among the leaver., and chirruped loud and clear. Just above the horizon, too, the mist became a silvery grey cloud hanging on the edge of the world ; presently it turned shimmering white ; and then, in an instant, it flushed into rose, and the mountain tops sprang into heaven, and bathed in the presence of the shadow of God. >V''ith a bound, the sun of a molten fiery red came above the horizon, and immediately thousands of little birds sang out for joy, and a soft chorus of mysterious, glad murmurs came forth from the earth ; the low whispering wind left its hiding-place among the clefts and hollows of the hills, and wandered among the rustling herbs and trees, waking the flower-buds to the life of another day. Ruth gave a sigh of relief that the night was over and gone ; for she knew that soon suspense would be ended, and the verdict known, whether for life or for death. She grew faint and siclf with anxiety ; it almost seemed as if she must go into the room and learn the truth. Then she heard move- ments, but they were not sharp or rapid, as if prompted by any emergency ; then, again, it was still. She sat curled up upon the floor, with her head thrown back against the wall, and her hands clasped round her knees. She had yet to wait. Meanwhile, the invalid was slowly rousing himself from a long, deep, sound, health-giving sleep. His Tiother had sat by him the night through, and was no daring to change her posi- tion for the first time ; she was even venturing to give directions in a low voice to the old nurse, who had dozed away in an arm-chair, ready to obey any sum- »tMt RUTH 85 mons of her mistress. Mrs Bellingham went on tiptoe towards the door, and chidinjf herself because her stiff, weary limbs made some slight noise. Slie had an irrepressible longing for a few minutes' change of scene after her night of watching. .Slie felt that the crisis was over ; and the relief to her miml made lier conscious of every bodily feeling and irritation, whicii Iiad passed unheeded as long as she had been in suspense. bhe slowly opened the door. Ruth sprang upright at the first sound of the creaking handle. Mer very ■^ stiff and unpliable with the force of the blood shed to her head. It seemed as if she could • vvnrds. She stood right before Mrs lielling- ■' H^'.v is he, madam.''" Mrs Bel',agham was for a moment surprised at the white apparition which seemed to rise out of the ;;round. But her quick, proud mind understood it all in an instant. This was the girl, then, whose profligacy had led her son astray ; had raised up barriers in the way of her favourite scheme of his marriage with Miss Duncombe ; nay, this was the real cause of his illness, liis mortal danger at this present time, and of her hitter, keen anxiety. If, under any circumstances, Mrs Bellingham could have been guilty of the ill- breeding of not answering a question, it was now ; and for a moment she was tempted to pass on in silence. Ruth could not wait ; she spoke again : "For the love of God, madam, speak ! How is he.'' Will he live .>" If she did not answer her, she thought the creature was desperate enough to force her way into his room. So she spoke. " He has slept well : he is better." '• Oh ! my God, I thank Thee," murmured Ruth, sinking back >gainst the wall. It was too much to hear this wretched girl thanking God for- her son's life ; as if, in fact, she had any lot or part in him, and to dare to speak to the Almighty on her son's behalf! Mrs ",^iingham looked at her He RUTH r « 11 1 1 \ m with rold, contemptuous eyes, whose glances were like ice-boits, and made Ruth shiver up away from them. ** Younjr woman, if you have any propriety or decency left, I trust that you will not tfare to force yourself into his room." She stood for a moment as if awaiting an answer, and half expecting it to be a defiance. But she did not understand Ruth. Slie did not imagine the faitliful trustfulness of her heart. Ruth believed that if Mr Bellingliam was alive and likely to live, all was nell. When he \vanted her, he would send for her, ask for her, yearn for her, till every one would , Id before his steadfast will. At present she imagined that lie was probably too weak to care or know who was about him ; and though it would have been an infinite delight to her to hover and brood around him, yet it was of him she thought and not of herself. She gently drew herself on one side to make way for Mrs Bellingliam to pass. By and by Mrs Morgan came up. Ruth was still near the door, from which it seemed as if she could not tear herself away. " Indeed, miss, and you must not hang about the door in this way; it is not pretty manners. Mrs Bt'Uingham has been speaking very sharp and cro:i about it, and I shall lose the character of my iun if people take to talking as she does. Did not I give you a room last night to keep in, and never be seen or heard of ; and did I not tell you what a particular lady Mrs Bellinghim was, but you must come out here right in her way? Indeed, it was not pretty, nor grateful to me, Jenny Morgan, and that I must say." Ruth turned away like a chidden child. Mrs Morgan followed her to her room, scolding as she went ; and then, having cleared her heart after her Avont by uttering hasty words, her real kindness made her add, in a softened tone : " You stop up here like a good girl. I'll send you your breakfast by and by, and let you know from time to time how he is ; and you can go out for a walk, 'C- ♦•M RUTH 87 you know ; but if you do, I'll take it as a favour if you'll go out by the side door. It will, maybe, save scandal." All that day long, Ruth kept herself close prisoner in the room to which Mrs Morgan accorded her ; all that day, and many succeeding days. But at nights, when the house was still, and even the little brown mice had gathered up the crumbs, and darted again to their holes, Ruth stole out, and crept to his door to catch if she could, the sound of his beloved voice. Sht M toll by its tones how he felt, and how he was gettin^^ on, as well as any of tlie watchers in the room. She year.ed and pined to see him once more ; but she had reasoned herself down into something like patience. ^\'hen he was well enough to leave his room, when he had not always one of the nurses with him, then he would send for her, and she would tell him how very patient she had been for his dear sake. But it was long to wait ever with this thought of the manner in which the waiting would end. Pc^r Ruth ! her faith was only build" .^ up vain castles in the air ; they towered up into a iven, it is true, but, after all, they were but visions. CHAPTER VIII If Mr Bellingham did not get rapidly well, it was more owiug to the morbid querulous fancy attendant on great weakness than from any unfavourable medical symptom. But he turned away with peevish loathing from the very sight of food, prepared in the slovenly manner which had almost dis^^usted him when he was well. It was of no use telling him that Simpson, his mother's maid, had superintended the preparation at every point. He offended her by detecting sometiiing offensive and to be avoided in l»er daintiest messe«, and made Mrs Morgan mutter many a hasty speech, which, however, Mrs Bellingham thoug^^t it bettev not to hear until her son should be strong .aough to travel. RUTH m V ? 1 i (( I think you are better to-day," said she, as his man wheeled his sofa to the bedroom window. '* We sliall get you downstairs to-morrow." *' If it were to get away from this abominable place, I could go down to-day ; but I believe I'm to be kept frisoner here for ever. I shall never get well here, ni sure. He sank back on his sofa in impatient despair. The surgeon was announced, ajid eagerly questioned by Mrs Hellingham as to th3 possibility of lier sons removal ; and he, hi ing heard the same anxiety for the same end expressed by Mrs Morgan in the rei:i(tii« below, threw no great obstacles in the way. After the doctor had taken his departure, Mrs Hellingham cleared her throat several times. Mr Bellinghara knew the prelude of old, and winced with nervous annoyanc. " Henry, there is something I must speak to you about ; an unpleasant subject, certainly, but one which has been *"' -ced upon me by the very girl herself ; you mus* be ^...are to what I refer without giving me tiie pain of explaining myself." Mr Bellingham turned himselt sharply round to the wall, and prepared himself for a lecture by concealing: his face from her notice ; but she herself was in too nervous a state to be capable of observation. *' Of course,*' she continued, " it was my wish to be as blind to the whole affair as possible, though you can't imagine how Mrs Mason has blazoned it abroad ; all Ford ham rings with it ; but of course ic could not be pleasant, or, indeed, I may say correct, for me to be aware that a person of such improper ciiaracter was under the same — I beg your pardon, dear Henry, what do you say .'* " " Ruth is no improper character, mother ; you do her injustice ! " " My dear boy, you don't mean to uphold her as a naragon of virtue ! " " No, mother, but I led her wrong ; I " " We vdll let all discussions into the cause or duration of her present character drop, if you please," said Mrs % b^l RUTH 89 Bellingham, with the sort of dignified authority which retained a certain power over her son— a ju»wcr wliich ori^iiat'^d in childhood, and which he only lietiod wlien be was roused into passion. He was loo weak in body to oppose himself to her, and Hglit the ^^round inch liy iucli. " As I have implied, I do not wish to ascertain your share of blame ; from what I saw of lier one morn- ing, I am convinced of her forward, intrusive manners, utterly without shame, or even common uudesty." "What are you referring to?" asked Mr Melling- ham, sharply. " W'hy, when you were at the worst, atid I i l been watching you all night, and had just gi iie out in the morning for a breath of fresh air, this j. !:1 pushed her- self before me, and insisted vym spea: vl'- to me. I really had to send Mrs Morg < to her r^fore I could return to your room. A more impudjnt, hardened manner, I never saw." " Ruth was neitiier impudent nor hardened ; she was ignorant enough, and might offend from knowing no better." He was getting weary of the discussion, and wished it had never been begun. From the time he had become coiiscious of his mother's presence, he had felt the dilemma he was in in regard to Rutli, and various plans had directly crossed his braip ; but it had been so troubltsome to weigh and consider them all properly, that they had been put aside to be settled when lie grew stronger. But this difficulty in which he was placed by his connexion with Ruth, associated the idea of her in his mind with annoyance and angry regret at the whole affair. He wished, in tlio languid w..y in which he wished and felt everything not immediately relating to his daily comfort, that he had never seen her. It was a most awkward, a most unfortunate affair. Notwithstanding this annoyar-e connected with and arising out of Ruth, he would not submit to hear her abused ; and something in his manner im- pressed this cu his mother, for she immediately changed her mode of attack. 1 • 1 81 ■>. HV: ] K - iv ■'. u 90 RUTH " He thought of every softening influence of religion which over his own disciplined heart had power^ but put them aside as useless. Then the still small voice whispered, and he spake : " In your mother's name, whether she be dead or alive, I command you to stay here until I am able to «peak to you." She knelt down at the foot of the sof?., and shook it with her sobs. Her heart was touched, and he hardly dared to speak again. A I length he said : i^HM^ »i< II RUTH 101 « 1 know you will not go— you could not— for her ttke. You will not, will you ? " " No," whispered Ruth ; and then tliere was a gnai blank in her heart. She had given up her chance. She was calm, in th« utter absence of all hope. "And now you will do what I tell you," said he, wntiy, but, unconsciously to himself, in the tone of one who has found the hidden spell by which to rule "^She slowly said, " Yes." But she was subdued. He called Mrs Hughes. She came from her adjoin- inir shop. <*You have a bedroom within yours, where your daughter used to sleep, I think ? 1 am sure you will oUige me, and I shall consider it as a great favour, if rou will allow this young lady to sleep there to-night. Will you take ^er there now ? Go, my dear. I have full trust in year promise not to leave until I can speak to you. His voice died away to silence ; but as Ruth rose from her kuees at his bidding, she looked at his face through her tears. His lip were moving in earnest, unspoken prayer, and she knew it was for her. ,. J 1 That night, although his pam was relieved by rest, he could not sleep ; and, as in fever, the coming events kept unrolling themselves before him in every chang- ing and fantastic form. He met Ruth in all possible places and wavs, and addressed her in ever" -nanner he could imagine most calculated to move xect her to penitence and virtue. Towards m« jff he fell asleep, but the same thoughts haunted his dreams ; he spoke, but his voice refused to utter aloud ; and she fled, relentless, to the deep, black pool. But God works in His own way. The visions melted into deep, unconscious sleep. He was awakened by a knock at the door, which seemed a repetition of what he had heard in his last sleeping moments. It was Mrs Hughes. She stood at the first word of permission within the room. 1 ■* r 102 RUTH ''Please, sir, I think the younr lady is very iU indeed, sir; perhaps yon would please to come to her." " How is she ill ? " said he, much alarmed. " ijuite quiet-like, sir ; but I think she is dying, that's all, indeed, sir ! " " Go away, I will be with you directly ! " he replied, his heart sinking within him. In a very short time he was standing with .Mrs Hughes by Ruth's bedside. She lay as still as if she were dead, her eyes shut, her wan face numbed into a iixed anguish of expression. She did not speak when they spoke, though after a while they thought she strove to do so. But all power of motion and utter- ance had left her. She was dressed in evervthing, except her bonnet, as she had been the day before; although sweet, thoughtful Mrs Hughes, had provided her with nightgear, which lay on the little chest of drawers that served as a dressing-table. Mr Benson lifted up her arm to feel her feeble, fluttering pulse ; and when he let go her hand, it fell upon the bed in a dull heavy way, as if she were already dead. " You gave her some food," said he, anxiously, to Mrs Hughes. " Indeed, and I offered her the best in the house, but she shook her poor pretty head, and only asked if 1 would olease to get her a cup of water. I brought her some milk though, and 'deed, I think sheM rathe? have had the water ; but not to seem sour and cross, «he took some milk.'' By this time Mrs Hughes was fairly crying. " When does the doctor come up here .'' " " Indeed, sir, and he's up nearly every day now. the mn IS so full. " I'll go for him. And can you manage to undress her and lay her in bed ? Open the window too, and let in the air ; if her feet are cold, put bottles of hot water to them." It was a proof of the true love, which was the nature of both, that it never crossed their minds to regret b^^lto ni RUTH 108 that thif poor young creature had been thus thrown apon their hands. On the contrary, Mrs Hughes cSled it a " a blessing." <* It bleaseth him that gives, and him that taken." CHAPTER X At the inn everything was life and bustle. Mr Benson had to wait long in Mrs Morgan's little i>arlour before she could come to him, and he kept growing more and more impatient. At lost she made her appearance hrd heard his story. People may talk as they will about the little respect that is paid to virtue, unaccompanied by the outward accidents of wealth or station ; but I rather think it mil be found that, in the long run, true and simple virtue always has its proportionate reward in the respect and reverence of every one whose esteem is worth having. To be sure, it is not rewarded after the way of the world as mere worldly possessions are, with low obeisance and lip-service ; but all the better and more noble qualities in the hearts of others make ready and go forui to meet it on its approach, provided only it be pure, simple, and unconscious of its own existence. Mr Benson had little thought for outward tokens of respect just then, nor had Mrs Morgan much time to spare ; but she smoothed her ruffled brow, and calmed her bustlinj^ manner, as soon as ever she saw who it was that awaited her ; for Mr Benson was well known in the village where he had taken up his summer holi- day among the mountains year after yeir, always a resident at the shop, and seldom spending a shilling at the inn. Mrs Morgan liste -"■ 112 RUTH i l| He thought he saw a shadow on his sister's face, and detected a slight change in her voice as she spoke. " Nothing very romantic, I hope, Thurstan. Re- member, I cannot stand much romance ; I always 4listrust it." " I don't know what you mean by romance. The «tory is real enough, and not out of the common way, I'm afraid." He paused ; he did "^t get over the difficulty. " well, tell it me at once, Thurstan. I am afraid you have let some one, or perhaps only your own imagination, impose upon you ; but don't try my patience too mucn ; you know I've no great stock." "Then 1*11 tell you. The youug girl was brought to the inn here by a gentleman, who has left her; «he is very ill, and has no one to see after her." Miss Benson had some masculine tricks, and one was whistling a long low whistle, when surprised or displeased. She had often found it a useful vent for feelings, and she whistled now. Her brother would rather she had spoken. "Have you sent for her friends.''" she asked at last. "She has none." Another pause and another whistle, but rather softer and more wavering than the last. "How is she ill?'' " Pretty nearly as quiet as if she were dead. She does not speak, or move, or even sigh." " It would be better for her to die at once, I think." " Faith : " That one word put them right. It was spoken the tone which had authority over her ; it was full of grieved surprise and mournful upbraiding. She was accustomed to exercise a sway over him, owing to her greater decision of character ; and, probably, if everything were traced to its cause, to her superior ■vigour of constitution ; but at times she was humbled in so fP J w RUTH 113 before his pure, childlike nature, and felt where she was inferior. She was too good and true to conceal this feeling, or to resent its being forced upon her. After a time she said, ''Thurstan, dear, let us go to her." She helped him with tender care, and gave him her arm up the long and tedious hill ; but when they approached ^he village, without speaking a word on the subject, they changed their position, and she leant (apparently) on him. He stretched himself up into as vigorous a gait as he could, when they drew near to the abodes of men. On the way they had spoken but little. He had asked after various members of his congregation, for he was a Dissenting minister in a country-town, and she had answered ; but they neither of them spoke of Ruth, though their minds were full of her. Mrs Hughes had tea ready for the traveller on her arrival. Mr Benson chafed a little internally, at the leisurely way in which his sister sipped and sipped, and paused to tell him some trifling particular respecting home affairs, which she had forgotten before. "Mr Bradshaw has refused to let the children associate with the Dixons any longer, because one evening they played at acting charades." •'Indeed ; — a little more bread and butter. Faith .>" "Thank you. This AVelsh air does make one liungry. Mrs Bradshaw is paying poor old Maggie's rent, to save her from being sent into the workhouse." "That's right. Won't you have another cup of tea?" "I have had two. However, 1 think I'll take another." Mr Benson could not refrain from a little sigh as he poured it out. He thought he had never seen his sister so deliberately hungry and thirsty before. He did not guess that she was feeling the meal rather a respite from a distasteful interview, which she was aware was awaiting her at its conclusion. But all things come to an end, and so did Miss Benson's tea. H 114 RUTH :'f " Now, will you go and see her?" " Yes." And so they went. Mrs Hughes had pinned up a piece of green calico, by way of a Venetian blind, to shut out the afternoon sun ; and in the light tliu> shaded lay Ruth, still, and wan, and white. Even with her brother's account of Ruth's state, such death- like quietness startled Miss Benson — startled her into pity for the poor lovely creature who lay thus stricken and felled. When she saw her, she could no loi.jrer imagine her to be an impostor, or a hardened sinner ; such prostration of woe belonged to neither. Mr Benson looked more at his sister's face than at Ruth's ; he read her countenance as a book. Mrs Hughes stood by, crying. Mr Benson touched his sister, and they left tlie room together. " Do you think she will live ? " asked he. "I cannot tell," said Miss Benson, in a softened voice. "But how young she looks! Quite a child, poor creature ! Wlien will the doctor come, Thurstan ? Tell me all about her ; you have never told me tbe particulars." Mr Benson might have said, she had never cared to hear them before, and had rather avoided tl.j subject; but he was too happy to see this awakening of interest in his sister's warm heart to say anything in the least reproachful. He told her the story as well as he could ; and, as he felt it deeply, he told it with heart's eloquence ; and, as he ended and looked at her, there were tears in the eyes of both. " And what does the doctor say ? " asked she, after a pause. " He insists upon quiet ; he orders medicines and strong broth. I cannot tell you all ; Mrs Hughes can. She has been so truly good. ' Doini? good, hoping for nothing again.' " ** She looks very sweet and gentle. I shall sit up to-night and watch her myself ; and I shall send you and Mrs Hughes early to bed, for you have both a RUTH 115 t _ worn look a'lout you 1 don't like. Are you sure the effect of that fail nas gone off? Do you feel anything of it in your back still ? After all, I owe her some- thing for turning back to your help. Are you sure !?ho was j^oing to drown herself.^ " " 1 cannot be sure, for I have not questioned her. She has not been in a state to be questioned ; but 1 have no doubt whatever about it. But you must not think of sitting up after your journey, Faith." " Answer me, Thurstan. Do you feel any bad effect from that fall?" " No, hardly any. Don't sit up, Faith, to-night 1 " "Thurstan, it's no use talking, for I shall ; and, if vou go on opposing me, I dare say I shall attack your baclv, and put a blister on it. Do tell me what that 'hardly any ' means. Besides, to set you quite at ease, you know I have never seen mountains before, and they "ill me and oppress me so much that I could not sleep ; I must keep awake this first night, and see tliat they don'*, fall on the earth and overwhelm it. And now answe- my questions about yourself." Miss Benson had the power, which some people have, of carrying her wishes through to their fulfil- ment ; her will was strong, her sense was excellent, and people vielded to her— they did not know why. Before ten o clock she reigned sole power and potentate in Ruth's little chamber. Nothing could have been ktter devised for giving her an interest in the invalid. The very dependence of one so helpless upon her care inclined her jart towards her. Slie thought she perceived a slight improvement in the symptoms during the night, and she was a little pleased that this progress should have been made while she reigned monarch of the sick-room. Yes, certainly there was an improvement. There was more consciousness in the look of the eyes, although the whole countenance still retained its painful traces of acute suffering, manifested in an anxious, startled, uneasy aspect. It nas broad morning light, though barely five o'clock, »vhen Miss Benson caught the sight of Ruth's lips y 116 RUTH * ' \: I moving, aa if in speech. Miw Benson stooped down to "Who are you?" asked Ruth, in the faintest of " llliss Benson— Mr Benson's sister," she replied. The words conveyed no knowledge to Ruth ; on the contrary, weak as a hahe in mind and hody as she was, her lip began to quiver, and her eyes to show a terror similar to that of any little child who wakens in the pres'^nce of a stranger, and sees ro 6 -^r, fami!;.-!- face of mother or nurse to reassure its trembling heart. Miss Benson took her hand in hers, and began to stroke it caressingly. " Don't be afraid, dear ; I'm a friend come to take care of you. Would you like some tea now, my The very utterance of these gentle words was un- \ing Miss Benson's heart. Her brother was sur- ed to see her so full of interest, when he came to inquire later on in the morning. It required Mrs Hughes's persuasions, as well as his own, to mduce her to go to bed for an hour or two after breakfast ; and, before she went, she made them promise that she should be called when the doctor came. He did not come until late in the afternoon. The invalid was rallying fast, though rallying to a consciousness of sorrow, as was evinced by the tears which came slowly rolling down her pale sad cheeks— tears which she had uot the power to wipe away. „ , , Mr Benson had remained in the house all Uay to hear the doctor's opinion; and now that he was relieved from the charge of Ruth by his sisters presence, he had the more time to dwell upon the circumstances of her case— so far as they were knowu to him. He remembered his first sight of her ; her little iigure swaying to and fro as she balanced herself on the slippery stones, half smiling at her own dilemma, with a bright, nappy light in the eyes that seemed like a reflection from the glancing waters sparkling below. Then he recalled the changed, I* RUTH 117 affrighted look of those eyes as they met his, after the child's rebuff of her advances ; — how that little iucident filled up the tale at which Mrs Hughes had hinted, iu a kind of sorrowful way, as if loath (as a Christian should be) to Ih 'ave evil. Then that fearful evening, when he had only just saved her from committing suicide, and that night-mare sleep ! And now, lost, forsaken, and but just delivered from the jaws of death, she lay dependent for everything on his sister and hrni, — utter strangers a few weeks ago. Where was her lover ? Could lie be easy and happy ? Could he grow into perfect health, with these great sins pressing on his conscience with a strong and hard pain : Or had he a conscience } Into whole labyrinths of social ethics Mr Benson's thoujrhts wandered, when his sister entered suddenly and abruptly. " What does the doctor say ? Is she better ? " " Oh, yes ! she's better," answered Miss Benson, sharp and short. Her brother looked at her in dismay. She bumped down into a chair in a cross, disconcerted manner. They were both silent for a few minutes ; only Miss Benson whistled and clucked alternately. "What is the matter. Faith? You say she i& better." "Why, Thurstan, there is something so shocking the matter, that I cannot tell you." Mr Benson changed colour with affright. All things possible and impossible crossed his mind, but the right one. I said " all things possible ; " I made a mistake. He never believed Ruth to be more guilty than she seemed. " Faith, I wish you -"/ould tell me, and not bewilder me with those noises of yours," said he, nervously. " I beg your pa don ; but something so shocking lias just been discovered — I don't know how to word it —She will have a child. The doctor says so." She was allowed to make noises unnoticed for a few minutes. Her brother did not speak. At last she wanted his sympathy. JW il8 RUTH '•if '^H "Isn't it shocking, Thurstan? You miffht have knocked me down with a straw when he told me " " Does she know ? " " Yes ; and I am not sure that that isn't the uoNt I)artofall/' •" ** How ?— what do you mean ? " /i^^l { tT^® just beginning to have a good opinion «t her, but 1 m afraid she is very depraved. After the doctor was gone, she pulled the bed-curtain aside and looked as if she wanted to speak to me. (I can't tliink how she heard, for we were close to the window and spoke very low.) Well, I went to her, though I really Jiad taken quite a turn against her. And she whispered quite eagerly, ' Did he say I should have a baby ^ ()| •course, 1 could not keep it from her ; but I thought it my duty to look as cold and severe as I could.*" She did not seem to understand how it ought to be viewed but took it just as if she had a right to have a baby' J?he said, ' Oh, my God, I thank Thee ! Oh ! I will be so good ! ' I had no patience with her then, so I left the room." "Who is with her?" " 'VP ,^"&^«^s. She is not seeing the thing in a moral light, as I should have expected." Mr Benson was silent again. After some time he began ; " Faith, ] don't see this affair quite as you do I believe I am right." "You surprise me, brother! I don't understand you." " Wait awhile ! I want to make my feelings very clear to you, but I don't know where to begin, or how to express myself." "It is, indeed, an extraordinary subject for us to have to talk about ; but if once I get clear of this girl, 1 11 wash my hands of all such cases again." Her brother was not attending to her ; he was reduc- ing his own ideas to form. II {J^*^V?o yo" know I rejoice in this child's advent." May God forgive you, Thurstan !— if you know RUTH 119 what you are saying. But, surely, it is a temptation, Jear Thurstan." '' I do not think it is a delusion. The sin appears to me to be quite distinct from its consequences." " Sopliistry — and a temptation/' said Miss Benson, decidedly. " No, it is not," said her brother, with equal decision. "In the eye of God, slie is exactly the same as if the life she has led ha 1 left no trace behind. We knew hererntrs before, Faith." "V'e.*, but not this disgrace — this badge of her shame ! " " Faith, Faith ! let me beg of you not to speak so of the Httle innocent babe, who may be God's messenger to lead her back to Him. Think again of her first words— the burst of nature from her heart ! Did she not turn to God, and enter into a covenant with Him — ' I will be so good ? ' VV'liy, it draws her out of herself ! If her life has hitherto been self-seeking, and wickedly thou^'htless, here is tlie very instrument to make her forget herself, and be thoughtful for anotlier. Teach her (and God will teacli her, if man does not come between) to reverence her child ; and this reverence will shut out sin, — will be purification." He was very much excited ; he was even surprised at his own excitement ; but his thoughts and medita- tions through the long afternoon had prepared his mind for this manner of viewing the subject. " These are quite new ideas to me,'* said Miss Benson, coldly. " I think, you, Thurstan, are the first person I ever heard rejoicing over the birth of an illegitimate child. It appears to me, I must own, rather question- able morality." "I do net rejoice. I have been all this afternoon mourning over the sin which has blighted this young creature ; I have been dreading lest, as she recovered consciousness, there should be a return of her despair. I have been thinking of every holy word, every promise to the penitent — of the tenderness which led the Mag- dalen aright. I have been feeling, severely and re- IP 120 RUTH I i; I J •i ^1 I i proachfuUy, the timidity which has hitherto made mp ?Ji.° /• u®?^^"^*®'' "^'^^ ®^^^^ o^ t^'S particular kind (>h, l her brother of the morning's proceedings in the sick- chamber. 128 RUTH r r i i« : I i anv III- " I admired her at the time for sending away her fifty pounds so proudly ; but I think she has a cold heart : she hardly thanked me at all for my uronoMl of taking her home with us." ^ ^ ^ "' " Her thoughts are full of other things just now • and -people have such different ways of showin- f^f^li : some by silence, some bv words. At rate, it is unwise to expect gratitude." "What do you expect— not indifference or gratitude .'' " '* It is better not to expect or calculate consequences The longer I live, the more fully I see that. Let u« try simply to do right actions, without tliinkinjr of the feelings they are to call out in others. We know that no holy or self-denying effort can fall to the ground vain and useless ; but the sweep of eternitv is large, and God alone knows when the effect is to be produced. We are trying to do right now, and to feel right ; don't let us perplex ourselves with en- deavouring to map out how she should feel, or how she should show her feelings." " That's all very fine, and I dare say very true ' «aid Miss Benson, a little chagrined. "But"' a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush ' ; and I would .rather have had one good, hearty 'Thank you.' now, for all 1 have been planning to do for her, than the grand effects you promise me in the ' sweep of eternity ' Don't be grave and sorrowful, Thurstan, or I'll ^^o out of the room. I can stand Sally's scoldings, but I can't bear your look of quiet depression whenever 1 am a little hasty or impatient. I liad rather you would give me a good box on the ear." " And I would often rather vou would speak, if -ever so hastily, instead of whistling. So, if 1 box your ears when I am vexed with you, will you pro- mise to scold me when you are put out of the way, instead of whistling }" " Very well ! that's a bargain. You box, aud I ficold. But, seriously, I began to calculate our money when she so cavalierly sent off the fifty-pound RUTH 129 note (I can't help admiring her for it), and I am very much afraid we shall not have euou|(h to pay the doctor's bill, and take her home with us.'' " She must go inside the coach whatever we do," said Mr Benson, decidedly. ** Who's there .* Come in ! Oh ! Mrs Hughes ! Sit down." " Indeed, sir, and I cannot stay ; hut the young lady has just made me find up her watch for her, and asked me to get it sold to pay the doctor, and the little things she has had since she came ; and please, sir, indee looked upon herself as so inferior to lier brother in real goodness ; had seen such heights above her, that she was distressed by Ruth's humility. After a short time she resumed the subject. *•' Then I may get you a black gown ? — and we may call vou Mrs Hilton }" " No ; not Mrs Hilton ! " said Ruth, hastily. Miss Benson, who had hitherto kept her eyes averted from Ruth's face from a motive of kiuilly delicacy, now looked at her with surprise. " Why not } " asked she. " It was my mother's name," said Ruth, in a low voice. ** I had better not be called by it." '^Tlien, let us call you by my mother's name." said Miss Benson, tenderly. " She would have But I'll talk to you about my mother some other time. Let me call you Mrs Denbigh. It will do RUTH 131 very well, too. People wi nk you are a distant relation." When she told Mt llace in the sky, nor the bright hot day to show the east sign of waning. Every now and then. Miss Benson scrambled down, and made kind inquiries of the pale, weary Ruth ; and once they changed coaches, and the fat old lady left her with a hearty shake of the hand. " It is not much further now,*' said Miss IJeiisou. apologetically, to Ruth. " See ! we are losing sight of the Welsh mountains. We have about eighteen miles of plain, and then we come to the moors and the risinir ground, amidst which £ccleston lies. I wish we were there, for my brother is sadly tired." RUTH 133 The first wonder in Ruth's mind was^ why then^ if Mr Benson were so tired, did they not stop where they were for the night ; for she knew little of the expenses of a night at an inn. The next thought was, to beg that Mr Benson would take her place inside the coach, and allow her to mount up by Miss Benson. She proposed this, and M...S Benson was evidently pleased. " Well, if you're not tired, it would make a rest and a change for him, to be sure ; and if you were by me 1 could show you the first sight of Eccleston, if we reach there before it is quite dark." So Mr Benson got down, and changed places with Ruth. She hardly yet understood the numerous small economies which he and his sister had to practise — the little daily self-denials, — all endured so cheerfully, and simply, that they had almost ceased to require an effort, and it had become natural to them to think of others before themselves. Rut'.i had not understood tiiat it was for economy that their places had been taken on the outside of the coach, while hers, as an invalid requiring rest, was to be the inside ; and that the biscuits which supplied the place of a dinner were, in fact, chosen because the difference in price between the two would go a little way towards fulfilling their plan for receiving her as an inmate. Her thought about money had been hitherto a child's thought ; the subject had never touched her ; but afterwards, when she had lived a little with the Bensons, her eyes were opened, and she remembered their simple kindness on the journey, and treasured the remembrance of it in ^'er heart. A low grey cloud was the first sign of Eccleston ; it was the smoke of the town hanging over the plain. Beyond the place where she was expected to believe it existed, arose round, waving uplands; nothing to the fine outlines of the Welsh mountains, but still going up nearer to heaven than the rest of the fiat world into which she had now entered. Rumbling stones, lamp- posts, a sudden stop, and they were in the town of tl n 1 I il n ]: » J ':> : i r ' it I 5 i -•; : i ■ ] f H 134 RUTH Eccleston ; and a strange^ uncouth voice, on the dark side of the coach, was heard to say, " Be ye there, measter ? " **Yes, yes!^* said Miss Benson, quickly. "Did Sally send you, Ben? Get the ostler's lantern, and look out the luggage," CHAPTER Xni Miss Bknson had resumed every morsel of tlie brisk- ness which she had rather lost in the middle of the day ; her foot was on her native stones, and a very rough set they were, and she was near her home anS among known people. Even Mr Benson spoke very cheerfully to Ben, and made many inquiries of him respecting people whose names were strange to Ruth. She was cold, and utterly weary. She took Miss Ben- son's offered arm, and could hardly drag herself as far as the little quiet street in which Mr Benson's house was situated. The street was so quiet that their foot- steps sounded like a loud disturbance, and announced their approach as effectually as the " trumpet's lordly blare " did the coming of Abdallah. A door flew open, and a lighted passage stood before them. As soon as they had entered, a stout, elderly servant emerged from behind the door, her face radiant with welcome, *'Eh, bless ye! are ye back again? I thought I should ha' been lost without ye." She gave Mr Benson a hearty shake of the hand, and kissed Miss Benson warmly ; then, turninji^ to Ruth, she said, in a loud whisper, "Who's yon?" Mr Benson was silent, and walked a step onwards. Miss Benson said boldly out, "The lady I named in my note, Sally — Mrs Den- bigh, a distant relation." " Aye, but you said boo was a widow. Is this chit a widow?" " Yes, this is Mrs Denbigh," answered Miss Beii)?on. RUTH 135 " If I'd been her mother, I'd ha' given her a loUypop instead of a husband. Hoo looks fitter for it." " Hush ! Sally, Sally ! Look, there's your master trying to move that heavy box." Miss Benson cal- culated well when she called Sally's attention vo her master ; for it was well believed by every one, and by Sally herself, that his deformity was owing to a fall he had bad, when he was scarcely more than a baby, and entrusted to her care — a little nurse-girl, as she then was, not many years older than himself. For years, the poor girl had cried herself to slet;p on her pallet- bed, moaning over the blight her carelessness had brought upon her darling ; nor was this self-reproach diminished by the forgiveness of tl>'> gentle mother, from, whom Thurstan Benson derived so much of his cha''".cter. The way in which comfort stole into Sally's h . ""as in the gradually-formed resolution that she • j'h ..ever leave him nor forsake him, but serve him 138 RUTH I ■Mi •I the eternal rapid click of the knitting-needles broke the silence of the room, with a sound as monotonous and incessant as the noise of a hand-loom. She expected him to speak, but he did not. She enjoyed an examination into, and discussion of, her feelines • it was an interest and amusement to her, while he dreaded and avoided all such conversation. There were times when his feelings, which were alwavs earnest, and sometimes morbid, burst forch, and defied control, and overwhelmed him ; when a force was upon him compelling him to speak. But he, in general, strove to preserve his composure, from a fear of the compelling pain of such times, and the consequent exhaustion. His heart had been very full of Ruth all day long, and he was afraid of his sister beginning the subject ; so he read on, or seemed to do so, though he hardly saw the letter he held before him. It was a great relief to him when Sally threw open the middle door with a bang, which did not indicate either calm ness of mind or sweetness of temper. " Is yon young woman going to stay any lengtli o' time with us.?" asked she of Miss Benson. Mr Benson put his hand gently on his sister's arm, to check her from making any reply, while he said, " We cannot exactly tell, Sally. She will remain until after her confinement." '' Lord bless us and save us !— a baby in the house ! Nay, then my time's come, and I'll pack up and begone. I never could abide them things. I'd sooner have rats in the house." Sally really did look alarmed. " Why, Sally ! " said Mr Benson, smiling, " I was not much more than a baby when you came to take care of me." " Yes, you were, Master Thurstan ; you were a fine bouncing lad of three year old and better." Then she remembered the change she had wrought in the " fine bounding lad," and her eyes filled with tears, which she was too proud to wipe away with her RUTH 3!) ;^ (t she apron ; for, as she sometimes said to herself, could not abide crying before folk." " Well, it's no use talking, Sally," said Miss Benson^ too anxious to speak to be any longer repressed. "We've promised to keep her, and we must do it; you'll have none of the trouble, Sally, so don't be afraid." " >Vell, I never ! as 't I minded trouble ! You might ha' known me better nor that. I've scoured master's room twice over, just to make the boards look white, though the carpet is to cover them, and now you go and cast up about me minding my trouble. If them's the fashions you've learnt in Wales, I'm thank- ful I've never been there." Sally looked red, indignant, and really hurt. Mr Benson came in with his musical voice and soft words of healing. " Faith knows you don't care for trouble, Sally ; she is only anxious about this poor young woman, who has no friends but ourselves. We know there will be more trouble in consequence of her coming to stay with us ; and I think, though we never spoke about it, that in making our plans we reckoned on your kind help, Sally, which has never failed us yet when we needed it." "You've twice the sense of your sister. Master Thurstan, that you have. Boys always has. It's truth there will be more trouble, and I shall have my share on't, I reckon. I can face it if I'm told out and out; but I cannot abide the way some folk has of denying there's trouble or pain to be met ; just as if their saying there was none, would do away with it. Some folk treats one like a babby, and I don't like it. I'm not meaning 2/ou, Master Thurstati." "No, Sally, you need not say that. I know well enough who you mean when you say ' some folk.* However, I admit I was wrong in speaking as if you minded trouble, for there never was a creature minded it less. But I want you to like Mrs Denbigh," said Miss Bens'^n. ■!l X iH 1 V. Urf ,;M 140 RUTH " I dare say I should^ if youM let me aione. 1 did na like her sitting down in master^s chair. Set her up, indeed, in an arm-chair wi' cushions ! Wenches in my day were glad enough of stools." *' She was tired to-night," said Mr Benson. " We are all tired ; so if you have done your work, Sally. come in to reading." The three quiet people knelt down side by side, and two of them prayed earnestly for " them that had gone astray." Before ten o'clock, the household were in bed. Ruth, sleepless, weary, restless with the oppression of a sorrow which she dared not face and contemplate bravely, kept awake all the early part of the ni^'ht. Many a time did she rise, and go to the long casement window, and look abroad over the still and quiet town — over the grey stone walls, and chimneys, and old high-pointed roofs — on to the far-away hilly line of the horizon, lying calm under the bright moonshine. It was late in the morning when she woke from her long- deferred slumbers ; and when she went downstairs, she found Mr and Miss Benson awaiting her in the parlour. That homely, pretty, old-fashioned little room ! How bright and still and clean it looked ! The window (all the windows at the back of the house were casements) was open, to let in the sweet morning air, and streaming eastern sunshine. The long jessa- mine sprays, with their white-scented stars, forced themselves almost into the room. The little square garden beyond, with grey stone walls all round, was rich and mellow in its autumnal colouring, running from deep crimson hollyhocks up to amber and gold nasturtiums, and all toned down by the clear and delicate air. It was so still, that the gossamer-webs, laden with dew, did not tremble or quiver in the least ; but the sun was drawing to himself the sweet incense of many flowers, and the parlour was scented with the odours of mignonette and stocks. Miss Benson was arranging a bunch of China and damask roses in an old-fashioned jar ; they lay, all dewy and fresh, on the RUTH 141 I t white breakfast-cloth when Ruth entered. Mr Benson was reading in some large folio. With gentle morning speech they greeted her ; but the quiet repose of the scene was instantly broken by Sally popping in from 'ie kitchen, and glancing at Ruth with sharp reproach. She said : " I reckon I may bring in breakfast, now ? " with a strong emphasis on the last word. " I am afraid I am very late," said Ruth. "Oh, never mind," said Mr Benson, gently. "It was our fault for not telling you our breakfast hour. We always have prayers at half-past seven ; and, for Sally's sake, we never vary from that time ; for she can so arrange her work, if she knows the hour of prayers, as to have her mind calm and untroubled." " Ahem ! " said Miss Benson, rather inclined to "testify" against the invariable calmness of Sally's mind at any hour of the day ; but her brother went on as if he did not hear her. " But the breakfast does not signify being delayed a little ; and I am sure you were sadly tired with your long day yesterday." Sally came slapping in, and put down some withered, tough, dry toast, with — " It's not my doing if it is like leather ; " but as no one appeared to hear her, she withdrew to her kitchen, leaving Ruth's cheeks like crimson at the annoyance she had caused. All day long, she had that feeling common to those who go to stay at a fresh house among comparative strangers : a feeling of the necessity that she should become accustomed to the new atmosphere in which she was placed, before she could move and act freely ; it was, indeed, a purer ether, a diviner air, which she was breathing in now, than what she had been accus- tomed to for long months. The gentle, blessed mother, who had made her childhood's home holy ground, was in her very nature so far removed from any of earth's staius and temptations, that she seemed truly one of those 142 RUTH ■' 4,^ Who ask not if Thine eye Be on them ; who, in love and truth, Where no misgiving is, rely Upon the genial sense of youth. In the Bensons' house there was the same uncon- sciousness of individual merits the same absence of in- trospection and analysis of motive^ as there liad been in her mother ; but it seemed that their lives were pure and good^ not merely from a lovely and beautiful nature, but from some law, the obedience to which was, of itself, harmonious peace, and which governed them almost implicitly, and with as little questi'' ^ing on their part, as the glorious stars which haste n( ■ rest not, in their eternal obedience. This househ d had many failings: they were but human, and, A'ith all their loving desire to bring their lives into harmony with the will of God, they often erred and fell short ; but. somehow, the very errors and faults of one individual served to call out higher excellences in another, and so they re-acted upon each other, and the result of short discords was exceeding harmony and peace. But they had themselves no idea of the real state of thiiifjs ; they d not trouble themselves with marking their progress by self-examination ; if Mr Benson did some- times, in hours of sick incapacity for exertion, turn inwards, it was to cry aloud with almost morbid despair, ** God be merciful to me a sinner ! " But he strove to leave his life in the hands of God, and to forget himself. Ruth sat still and quiet through the long first day. She was languid and weary from her journey ; she was uncertain what help she might oflFer to give in the household duties, and what she might not. And, in her languor and in her uncertainty, it was pleasant to watch the new ways of the people among whom she was placed. After breakfast, Mr Benson withdrew to his study. Miss Benson took away the cups and saucers, and, leaving the kitchen door open, talked sometimes to Ruth, sometimes to Sally, while she washed them up. Sally had upstairs duties to perform, for which RUTH 143 Ruth was thankful; as she kept receivings rather angry glances for her unpunctuality as long as Sally remained downstairs. Miss Benson assisted in the preparation for the early dinner, and brought some kidney-beans to shred into a basin of bright, pure spring-water, which caught and danced in the sunbeams as she sat near the open casement of the parlour, talking to Kutli of things and people which as yet the latter did not noderstand, and could not arrange and comprehend. She was like a child who gets a few pieces of a dissected map, and is confused until a glimpse of the whole unity is shown him. Mr and Mrs Bradshaw were the centre pieces in Ruth's map ; their children, their servants, were the accessories ; and one or two other names were occasionally mentioned. Ruth wondered and almost wearied at Miss Benson's perseverance in talking to her about people whom she did not know ; but, in truth. Miss Benson heard the long-drawn, quivering sighs which came from the poor heavy heart, when it was left to silence, and had leisure to review the past ; and her quick accustomed ear caught also the low mut- teriugs of the thunder in the distance, in the shape of Sally's soliloquies, which, like the asides at a theatre, were intended to be heard. Suddenly, Miss Benson called Ruth out of the room, upstairs into her own bed-chamber, and then began rummaging in little old- fashioned boxes, drawn out of an equally old-fashioned bureau, half desk, half table, and wholly drawers. " My dear, I've been very stupid and thoughtless. Oh ! I'm so glad I thought of it before Mrs Bradshaw came to call. Here it is ! " and she pulled out an old wedding-ring, and hurried it on Ruth's finger. Ruth hung down her head, and reddened deep with shame ; her eyes smarted with the hot tears that filled tliem. Miss Benson talked on, in a nervous hurried way : •'It was my grandmother's; it's very broad; they made tliem so then, to hold a posy inside : there's one in that ; Thine own sweetheart Till death doth part, 0' 144 RUTH I i I think t is. Hi ere, there ! Run away, and look as if you'd always v\i»rii it." Ruth went up to her room, and threw herself down ou her knees by the bedside, and cried as if her heart A<,uld break ; and then, as if a light had come down -» .) her soul, she calmed herself and prayed — no words can tell how humbly, and with what earnest feeling. When she came down^ she was tear-stained and wretchedly pale ; but even Sally looked at her with new eyes, because of the dignity with which she was invested by an earnestness of purpose which had her child for its object. She sat and thought, but she m longer heaved those bitter sighs which had wrung Mis$ Benson's heart in the morning. In this way the day wore on ; early dinner, early tea, seemed to make it preternaturally long to Ruth ; the only event was some unexplained absence of Sally's, who had disajipeared out of the house in the evening, much to Miss Henson'> surprise, and somewhat to her indignation. At night, after Ruth had gone up to her mom, this absence was explained to her at least. She had let down her long waving glossy hair, and was standing absorbed in thought in the middle of the room , when she heard a round clumping knock at her door, different firom that given by tne small knuckles of delicate fingers, and in walked Sally, '▼ith a judge-like severity of demeanour, holding in her hand two widow's caps of commonest make and coarsest texture. (,>ueen Eleanor Iierself, when she presented the bowl Fai' Rosamonu, lad not a more relentless purpose suuipt^i on her demeanour than had Sally at this moraen ■ ^^h' walked up to the beautiful, astonished Ruth, where ?i^ stood in her long, soft, white dressinir-gown, will al; her luxuriant brown hair hanging dishevelled ld servant, >vho ''ad hitherto only turned her vixen lining to observat on, and partly because she was broken -spirited enougi to he indifferent to the measure pr< iiosed, quietly »t down. Sally profiuced the formi'luble pair of scissf*-. that always hung at her side, aud )>egan o cut a merciless manner. She expected some rei/onsir aire or some opposition, and had a torrent of wo'-ds eady to flow forth at th»» least sign of rebellion ; ni tluth wa. still and silen, with meekly-bowed he i under the strange hand- that were shearing '^ er i>eautiful hair into the clippeu shortness of a boy a. Lon iiefore she had finished. 6aily had some slight nisg viu^> as to the fancied necessity of her task : bui it was tou laie, for half the curls were gone, and trie r ^ must now come oft When she had done, f up Ruth's face ■ y placing hf hand unde "ound A-hite chin. She gazed into the counteii^.. xpect- ing to read some auger tbere, thouff^ it ha< u come out in words ; but she only met th(> large, quie eyes, that looked at her with sad gentleness out of their finely-hollowed orbits. Ruth's soft, yet dignified sub- miiision, touched Sally with compunction, though she did not choose ^^o show the change hi her feelings. She tried to hide it, udeed, by stoopia^ to pick up the long bright tresse- ; and, holding them up admir- ingly, and letting tht n drop down and float on the air (like the pendant branches of the weeping birch), she said : " I thought we should ha' had some crying K ^1 ■11 |» 146 RUTH —I did. They're pretty curls enough ; you've not been sc bad to let them be cut off neither. You see, Master Thurstan is no wiser than a babby in some things ; and Miss Faith just lets him have his own way ; so it's all left to me to keep him out of scrapes. ni wish you a very good night. I've heard many a one say as long hair was net wholesome. Good night." But in a minute she popped her head into Rutli's room once more : " You'll put on them caps to-morrow morning. Ill make you a present on them. " Sally had carried away the beautiful curls, and she could not find it in her heart to throw such lovely chestnut tresses away, so she folded them up care- fully in paper, and placed them in a safe corner of her drawer. CHAPTER XIV I p Ruth felt very shy when she came down (at half-past seven) the next morning, in her widow's cap. Her smooth, pale face, with its oval untouched by time, looked more young and cliildlike than ever, when contrasted with the head-gear usually associated with ideas of age. She blushed very deeply as Mr and Miss Benson showed the astonishment, which they could not conceal, in their looks. She said in a low voice to Miss Benson, " Sally thought I had better wear it." Miss Benson made no reply ; but was startled at the intelligence, which she thought was conveyed in this speech, of Sally's acquaintance with Ruth's real situ.ation. Slie noticed Sally's looks particularly this morning. The manner in which tne old servant treated Ruth, had in it far more of respect than there had been the day before ; but there was a kind of satisfied way of braving out Miss Benson's glances which made the latter uncertain and uncomfortable. RUTH 147 She followed her brother into his study. " Do you know, Thurstan, I am almost certain Sally suspects." Mr Benson sighed. The deception grieved him, and yet he thought he saw its necessity. "What makes you think so? " asked he. " Oh ! many lixxle things. It was her odd way of docking her head about, as if to catch a good view of Ruth's left hand, that made me think of the wedding- ring; and once, yesterday, when I thouf,'ht I had nade up quite a natural speech, and was saying how sad it was for so young a creature to be left a widow, she broke in with * widow be farred ! ' in a very strange, contemptuous kind of manner." "If she suspects, we had far better tell her the truth, at once. She will never rest till she finds it out, so we must make a virtue of necessity." " Well, brother, you shall tell her then, for I am sure I daren't. I don't mind doing the thing, since you talked to me that day, and since I've got to know Ruth ; but I do mind all the clatter people will make about it.'^ " But Sally is not ' people.' " " Oh, I see it must be done ; she'll talk as much as all the other persons put tojjether, so that's the reason I call her 'people.' Shall I call her?" (For the house was too homely and primitive to have bells.) Sally came, fully aware of what was now going to be told her, and determined not to help them out in telling their awkward secret, by understanding the nature of it before it was put into the plainest language. In every pause, when they hoped she had caught the meaning they were hinting at, she persisted in looking stupid and perplexed, and in saying "Well," as if quite unenlightened as to the end of the story. When it was all complete and plain before her, she said, honestly enough, "It's just as I thought it was ; and I think you may thank me for having had the sense to put her into widow's caps, and clip off that bonny brown hair that "nt, .■ i i i f- 1 148 RUTH I f H l< I' I M was fitter for a bride in lawful matrimony than for such as her. She took it very well^ though. She was as quiet as a lamb, and I clipped her pretty roughly at first. I must say, though, if I'd ha' known who your visitor was, I'd ha' packed up my things and cleared myself out of the house before such as her came into it. As it's done, I suppose I must stand by you, and help you through with it ; I only hope I shan't lose my character, — and me a parish clerk's daughter.'' '^Oh, Sally ! people know you too well to think anj ill of you," said Miss Benson, who was pleased to iifid the difficulty so easily got over ; for, in truth, Sally had been much softened by the unresisting gentleness with which Ruth had submitted to the '^ clipping" of the night before. " If I'd been with you, Master Thurstan, I'd ha' seen sharp after you, for you're always picking up some one or another as nobody else would touch with a pir of tongs. Why, there was that Nelly Brandon's child as was left at our door, if I hadn't gone to th' overseer we should have had that Irish tramp's babby saddled on us for life ; but I went off and told th' overseer, and th' mother was caught." " Yes !" said Mr Benson, sadly, *'and I often lie awake and wonder what is the fate of that poor little thing, forced back on the mother who tried to get quit of it. I often doubt whether I did right ; but it's no use thinking about it now." "I'm thankful it isn't," said Sally; "and now, if we've talked doctrine long enough, I'll go make th' beds. Yon girl's secret is safe enr jgh for me." Saying this she left the room, and Miss Benson followed. She found Ruth busy washing the breakfast things ; and they were done in so quiet and orderly a manner, that neither Miss Benson nor Sally, both particular enough, had any of their little fancies or prejudices annoyed. She seemed to have an instiuctive Knowledge of the exact period when her help was likely to become a hindrance, and withdrew from the busy kitchen just at the right time. .lA RUTH 149 r 1 1 That afternoon j as Miss Benson and Ruth sat at their work, Mrs and Miss Bradshaw called. Miss Benson was so nervous as to surprise Ruth , who did not understand the probable and possible questions which might be asked respecting any visitor at the minister's house. Ruth went on sewing, absorbed in her own thoughts, and glad that the conversation between the two elder ladies and the silence of the younger one, who sat at some distance from her, gave her an oppor- tunity cf retreating into the haunts of memory ; and goon the work fell from her hands, and her eyes were fixed on the little garden beyond, but she did not see its flowers or its walls ; she saw the mountains which girdled Llan-dhu, and saw the sun rise from behind Uieir iron outline, just as it had done — how long ago .' was it months or was it years ? — since she had watched the night through, crouched up at his door. Which was the dream and which the reality ? that distant life, or this ? His moans rang more clearly in her ears than the buzzing of the conversation between Mrs Bradshaw and Miss Benson. At length the subdued, scared-looking little lady and her briglit-eyed silent daughter rose to take leave ; Ruth started into the present, and stood up and curtseyed, and turned sick at heart with sudden recollection. Miss Benson accompanied Mrs Bradshaw to the door ; and in the passage gave her a lonnr explanation of li^uth's (fictitious) history. Mrs Bradshaw looked so mtich interested and pleased, that Miss Benson en- lai^ed a little more than was necessary, and rounded off her invention with one or two imaginary details, whilch, she was quite unconscious, were overheard by her brother through the half-open study door. SbjB was rather dismayed when he called her into his room, after Mrs Bradshaw's departure, and asked her what fche had been saying about Ruth .'' "Oh ! I thought it was better to explain it thoroujghly — I mean, to tell the story we wished to have believed once for all — you know we agreed about that, Tliurstan ? " deprecatingly. \ \ J r i I 'J f .1 •i r 150 RUTH *' Yes • but I heard you sayiug you believed her husband had been a young surgeon^ did I not?" " Well, Thiirstan, you know he must have been something ; and young surgeons are so in the way of dying, it seemed very natural. Besides/' said she, with sudden boldness, '•' I do think I've a talent for fiction, it is so pleasant to invent, and make the incidents dovetail together ; and after all, if we are to tell a lie, we may as well do it thoroughly, or else it's of no use. A bungling lie would be worse than useless. And, Thurstan — it may be very wrong — but I believe— I am afraid I enjoy not being fettered by trutli. Don't look so grave. You know it is necessary, if ever it was, to tell falsehoods now ; and don't be angry with me because I do it well." He was shading his eyes with his hand, and did not speak for some time. At last he said : " If it were not for the child, I would tell all ; but the world is so cruel. You don't know how this apparent necessity for falsehood pains me, Faith, or you would not invent all these details, which are so many additional lies." " Well, well ! I will restrain myself if I have to talk about Ruth a^ain. But Mrs Bradshaw will tell every one who need to know. You don't wish me to con- tradict it, Thurstan, surely — it was such a pretty, probable story." " Faith ! I hope God will forgive us if we are doing wrong ; and pray? dear, don't add one unnece'-«iary word that is not true." Another day elapsed, and then it was Sunday ; and the house seemed filled with a deep peace. Kven Sally's movements were less hasty and abrupt. Mr Benson seemed invested with a new dignity, which made his bodily deformity be forgotten in his calm, grave composure of spirit. Every trace of week-day occupa- tion was put away ; the night before, a bright new handsome tablecloth had been smoothed down over the table, and the jars had been freshly filled with flowers. Sunday was a festival and a holyday in the house. RUTH 151 After the very early breakfast, little feet pattered into Mr Benson's study, for he had a class for boys — a sort of domestic Sunday school, only that there was more talking between teacher and pupils, than dry, absolute lessons goings on. Miss Benson, too, had her little, neat-tippeted maidens sitting with her in the parlour ; aad she was far more particular in keeping them to their reading and spelling, than her brother was with his boys. Sally, too, put in her word of instruction from the kitchen, helping, as she fancied, thouffh her assistance was often rather malapropos; for instance, she called out, to a little fat, stupid, roly-poly girl, to whom Miss Benson was busy explaining the meaning of the word quadruped, " Quadruped, a thing wi' four legs, Jenny ; a chair is a quadruped, child ! " But Miss Benson had a deaf manner sometimes when her patience was not too severely tried, and she put it on now. lluth sat on n low hassock, and coaxed the least of the little creatures to her, and showed it pictures till it fell asleep in her arms, and sent a thrill through her, at the thought of the tiny darling who would lie on her breast before long, and whom she would have to cherish and to shelter from the storms of the world. And then she remembered, that she was once white and sinless as the wee lassie who lay in her arms ; and f-he knew that she had gone astray. By and by the children trooped away, and Mi^^s Benson summoned her to put on her things for chapel. The chapel was up a narrow street, or rather cul- de-mc, close by. It stood on the outskirts of the town, almost in fields. It was built about the time of Matthew and Philip Henry, when the Dissenters were afraid of attracting attention or observation, and hid their places of worship in obscure and out-of-the- way parts of the towns in which they were built. Accordingly, it often happened, as in the present case, that the buildings immediately surrounding, as well as the chapels themselves, looked as if they carried you 4 i 11 w # i n 4 II ,\ t t- f 1 iji !■ 1* ^i M :•'■ I 162 RUTH back to a period a hundred and fifty vears ago. The chapel had a picturesaue and old-world look, for luckily the congregation had been too poor to rebuild it, or new face it in George the Third's time. The stair- cases which led to the galleries were outside, at each end of the building, and the irregular roof and worn stone steps looked grey and stained by time and weather. The grassy hillocks, each with a little up- right headstone, were shaded by a grand old wych- elm. A lilac-bnsh or two, a white rose-tree, and a few laburnums, all old and gnarled enough, were planted round the chapel yard ; and the casement windows of the chapel were made of heavy-leaded, diamond -shaped panes, almost covered with ivy, pro- ducing a green gloom, not without its solemnity, within. This ivy was the home of an infinite number of little birds, which twittered and warbled, till it might have been thought that they were emulous of the power of praise possessed by the human creatures within, with such earnest, long-drawn strains did this crowd of winged songsters rejoice and be glad in their beautiful gift of life. The interior of the building was plain and simple as plain and simple could be. When it was fitted up, oak-timber was much cheaper than it is now, so the wood-work was all of that description ; but roughly hewed, for the early builders had not much wealth to spare. The walls were whitewashed, and were recipients of the shadows of the beauty with- out; on their "white plains" the tracery of the ivy might be seen, now still, now stirred by the sudden flight of some little bird. The congregation consisted of here and there a farmer with his labourers, who came down from the uplands beyond the town to worship where their fathers worshipped, and who loved the place because they knew how much those fathers had suffered for it, although they never troubled themselves with the reason why they left the parish church ; of a few shopkeepers, far more thoughtful and reasoning, who were Dissenters from conviction, unmixed with old ancestral association ; and RUTH 16.3 of one or two fiunilies of still higher worldly station. With many poor^ who were drawn there by love for Mr Benson's character, and by a feeling that the faith which made him what he was could not be far wrong, for the base of the pyramid, and with Mr Bradshaw for its apex, the congregation stood complete. The country people came in sleeking down their bair, and treading with earnest attempts at noiseless lightness of step over the floor of the aisle ; and by and by, when all were assembled, Mr Benson followed, unmarshalled and unattended. When he had closed the pulpit-door, and knelt in prayer for an instant or two, he gave out a psalm from the dear old Scottish paraphrase, with its primitive inversion of the simple perfect Bible words ; and a kind of precentor stood up, and, h&i^ing sounded the note on a pitch-pipe, sang a couple of lines by way of indicating the tune ; then all the congregation stood up, and sang aloud, Mr Bradshaw's great bass voice being half a note in advance of the others, in accordance with his place of precedence as principal member of the congregation. His powerful voice was like an organ very badly played, and very much out of tune ; but as he had no ear, and no diffidence, it pleased him very much to hear the fine loud sound. He was a tall, large- boned, iron man ; stern, powerful, and authoritative in appearance ; dressed in clothes of the finest broad- cloth, and scrupulously ill-made, as if to show that he was indifferent to all outward things. His wife was sweet and gentle-looking, but as if she was thoroughly broken into submission. Ruth did not see this, or hear aught but the words which were reverently — oh, how reverently ! — spoken by Mr Benson. He had had Ruth present in his thoughts all the time he had been preparing for his Sunday duty ; and he had tried carefully to eschew everything which she might feel as an allusion to her own case. He remembered how the Good Shepherd, in Poussin's beautiful picture, tenderly carried the lambs which had wearied themselves by going astray, ' t it t '■ ii il '"^^ 154 RUTH aad felt how like tenderness was required towards poor Ruth. But where is the chapter which does not contain something which a broken and contrite spirit may not apply to itself? And so it fell out that, as he read, Ruth s heart was smitten, and she sank dowD and down, till she was kneeling on the floor of the pew, and speaking to God in the spirit,, if not in the words of the Prodigal Son : " Father ! I have sinned against Heaven and before Thee, and am no more worthy to be called Thy child ! " Miss Benson was thankful (although she loved Ruth the better for this self-abandonment) that the minister's seat was far in the shade of the gallery. She tried to look most attentive to her brother, in order that Mr Bradshaw might not suspect anything unusual, while she stealthily took hold of Ruth's passive hand, as it lay helpless on the cushion, and pressed it softly and tenderly. But Ruth sat on the ground, bowed down and crushed in her sorrow, tUl all was ended. Miss Benson loitered iu her seat, divided between the consciousness that she, as locum tenens for the minister's wife, was expected to be at th' loor to receive the kind greetings of many after her absence from home, and her unwillingness to disturi Ruth, who was evidently praying, and, by her quiet breath- ing, receiving grave and solemn influences into her soul. At length she rose up, calm and composed even to dignity. The chapel was still and empty ; but Miss Benson heard the buzz of voices in the chapel-yard without. They were probably those of people wait- ing for her ; and she summoned courage, and taking Ruth's arm in hers, and holding her hand affection- ately, they went out into the broad daylight. As they issued forth. Miss Benson heard Mr Bradsbaw's strong bass voice speaking to her brother, and winced, as she knew he would be wincing, under the broad praise, which is impertinence, however little it may be intended or esteemed as such. " Oh, yes ! — my wife told me yest .rday about her- her husband was a surgeon ; my father was a surgeon ^l: RUTH 155 too, as I think you have beard. Very much to your credit, I must say, Mr Benson, with your limited means, to burden yourself with a poor relation. Very creditable indeed.' Miss Benson glanced at Ruth ; she either did not hear or did not understand, but passed on into the awful sphere of Mr Bradshaw's observation unmoved. He was in a bland and condescending humour of universal approval, and when he saw Ruth, he nodded his head in token of satisfaction. That ordeal was over. Miss Benson thought, and in the thought rejoiced. "After dinner, you must go and lie down, my dear," said she, untying Ruth's bonnet-strings, and kissing her. •* Sally goes to church again, but you won't mind staying alone in the house. I am sorry we have so many people to dinner, but my brother will always have enough on Sundays for any old or weak people, who may have come from a distance, to stay and Sine with us ; and to-day they all scrm to have come, because it is his first Sabbath at home." In this way Ruth's first Sabbath passed over. CHAFI'ER XV "Here is a parcel for you, Ruth ! " said Miss Benson on the Tuesday morning. "For me ! " said Ruth, all sorts of rushing thoughts and hopes filling her mind, and turning her dizzy with expectation. If it had boon from "him," the new- born resolutions would have had a hard struggle for eristence. • It is directed ' Mrs Denbigh,' " said Miss Benson, before giving it up. " It is in Mrs Bradshaw's hand- writing " ; and, far more curious than Ruth, she awaited the untying of the close-knotted string. When the paper was openei], it displayed a whole piece of delicate cambric-muslin ; and there was a short note from Mrs Bradshaw to Ruth, saying her t? n r h' t i 1 IM RUTH husband had wished her to send this muslin in aid of any preparations Mrs Denbigh might have to malce Ruth said nothing, but coloured up, and sat down again to her employment. "Very fine muslin indeed," said Miss Benson feeling it, and holding it up against the light, with the air of a connoisseur ; yet all the time she was glancing at Ruth's grave face. The latter kept silence and showed no wish to inspect her present further! At last she said, in a low voice, " I suppose I may send it back again ? " "My dear child! send it back to Mr Bradshaw! You'd offend him for life. You may depend upon it he means it as a mark of high favour ! " ' " What right had he to send it to me ?'* asked Ruth, still in her quiet voice. "What right .> Mr Bradshaw thinks I don't know exactly what you mean by * right.' " Ruth was silent for a moment, and then said : "There are people to whom I love to feel that I owe gratitude— gratitude which I cannot express, and had better not talk about— but 1 cannot see why a person whom I do not know should lay me under an obliga- tion. Oh ! don't say I must take this muslin, please. Miss Benson .'" > f ^> What Miss Benson might have said if her brother had not just then entered the room, neither he nor any other person could tell ; but she felt his presence was most opportune, and called him in as umpire. He had come hastily, for he had much to do ; but he no sooner heard the case than he sat down, and tried to draw some more explicit declaration of her feeling from Ruth, who had remained silent during Mm Benson's explanation. "You would rather send this present back?" said he. '* Yes," she answered, softly. " Is it wrong ? " " Why do you want to return it ?" " Because I feel as if Mr Bradshaw had no right to offer it me." * RUTH 167 Mr Benson was silent. "It's beautifully fine," said Miss Benson still examining the pi :e. "You think tnat it is a ri^ht which must be earned ? '* - Yes/' said she, after a minute's pause. "Don't four " I understand what you mean. It is a delight to have gifts made to you by those whom you esteem and love, because then such gifts are merely to be considered as fringes to the garment — as inconsider- able additions to the mighty treasure of their affection, adding a grace, but no additional value, to what before was precious, and proceeding as naturally out of that as leaves burgeon out upon the trees ; but you feel it to be different when there is no regard for the giver to idealise the gift — when it simply takes its stand among your property »s so much money's value. Is this it, Ruth.?" " I think it is. I never reasoned why I felt as I did ; I only knew that Mr Bradshaw's giving me a present hurt me, instead of making me glad." "Well, but there is another side of the case we have not looked at yet — we must think of that, too. You know who said ' Do unto others as ye would that they should do unto you ? ' Mr Bradshaw may not have had that in his mind when he desired his wife to send you this ; he may have been self-seeking, and only anxious to gratify his love of patronizing — that is the worst motive we can give him ; and that would be no excuse for your thinking only of yourself, and returning his present." " But you would not have me pretend to be obliged?" asked Ruth. " No, I would not I have often been similarly situ- ated to you, Ruth ; Mr Bradshaw has frequently opposed me on the points on which I feel the warmest— am the most earnestly convinced. He, no doubt, thinks me Quixotic, and often speaks of me, and to me, with great contempt when he is angry. I suppose he has m 1 I a? -!? 168 RUTH a little fit of penitence afterwards, or perliaps he thinks he can pay for angracious speeches by a ur^. sent ; so, formerly, he invariably sent me something after these occasions. It was a time, of all others, to feel as you are doing now ; but I became convinced it would be right to accept them, giving only the very cool thanks which J felt. This omission of all show of much gratitude had the best effect— the presents have much diminished ; but if the gifts have lessened, the unjustifiable speeches have decreased in still gr«>ater Proportion, and I am sure we respect each other more. ake this muslin, Ruth, for the reason I named ; :mi thank him as your feelings prom:;i ; yu. Overstrained expressions of gratitude always sr-em like an endeavour to place the receiver of these expressions in the position of debtor for future favours. But you won't fall into this error." Ruth listened to Mr Benson ; but she had not yet fallen suflSiciently into the tone of his mind to under- stand him fully. She only felt that he comprehended her better than Miss Benson, who once more tried to reconcile her to her present, by calling her attention to the length and breadth thereof. " 1 will do what you wish me," she said, after a little pause of thoughtfuluess. " May we talk of something else .'' " Mr Benson saw that his sister's frame of mind was not particularly congenial with Ruth's, any more than Ruth's was with Miss Benson's ; and, putting aside all thought of returning to the business which had appeared to him so important when he came into the room (but which principally related to himself), he remained above an hour in the parlour, iuterestiiij; them on subjects far removed from the present, and left them at the end of that time soothed and calm. But the present gave a new current to Ruth's idea?. Her heart was as yet too sore to speaft, but her mind was crowded with plans. She asked Sally to buy her (with the money produced by the sale of a ring or two) the coarsest linen, the homeliest dark blue print, ind RUTH 160 similar materials ; on which phe set busilv to worK in make clothes for hrrself ; ami tli< v were mad' , >ihp pat them on; and .is she put [horn on. ■• n» gave a grace to each, which such homely mat i rial and -impli shapinir had never had before.' Tli«>n tln' fine linen and delicate soft white muslin, which -ht» had chosen in preference to more expensive articles of dress when Mr Bel'ifijfham had given her carte blanche in I^ndon, were cut into small garments, most daintily stitched and made ready for the little creature, for whom in its white purity of soul nothing could he too precious. The love which dictated this extrPTue simplicity and coarseness of attire, was taken for stiff, hard economy by Mr Bradshaw, when he deigned to observe it. And economy by itself, without any soul or spirit in it to make it living and holy, was a great nerit in hi.« eyes. Indeed, Ruth altogether found favour with liim. Her quiet manner, subdued by an internal consciousness of a deeper cause for sorrow than he was aware of, he interpreted into a very proper and beconung awe of him. He looked off from his own prayers to observe how well slie attended to hers at chapel ; when he came to any ver: e in the hymn relating to immortality or a future life, he sang it unusually loud, thinking he should thus comfort her in her sorrow for her deceased husband. He desired Mrs Bradshaw to pay her every attention she could ; and even once remarked, that he thouo:ht her so respectable a young person that he should not object to her being asked to tea the next time Mr and Miss Benson ri,me. He added, that he thought, indeed, Benson \v.,d looked last Sunday as if he rather hoped to get an invitation ; and it was right to encourage the ministers, and to show them respect, even though their salaries were small. The only thing against this Mrs Denbigh was the circumstance of her having married too early, and without any provibion for a family. Though Ruth pleaded delicacy of healtli , and declined accompanying Mr and Miss Benson on their visit to Mr Bradshaw, she still preserved her place in his esteem ; and Miss Benson had to call a '^. "I !■' I J I ^' IflO RUTH little upon her *' talent for fiction ** to spare Ruth from the infliction of further presents, in maKing which his love of patronizing delighted. The yellow and crimson leaves came floating down on the still October air ; November followed, bleak and dreary ; it was more cheerful when the earth put on her beautiful robe of white, which covered up all the grey naked stems, and loaded the leaves of the hollies and evergreens each with its burden of feathery snow. When Ruth sank down to languor and sadness, Miss Benson trotted upstairs, and rummaged up every article of spare or worn-out clothing, and britijsring down a variety of strange materials, she tried to interest Ruth in making them up into garments for the poor. But though Ruth's fingers flew through the work, she still sighed with thought and remembrance. Miss Benson was at first disappointed, and then she was angry. When she heard the low. long sigh, and saw the dreamy eyes filling with glittering tears, she would say, " What is the matter, Ruth .'* " in a half- reproachful tone, for the sight of suffering was painful to her ; she had done all in her power to remedy it ; and, though she acknowledged a cause beyond her reach for Ruth's deep sorrow, and, in fact, loved and respected her all the more for these manifestations of grief, yet at the time they irritated her. Then Kuth would snatch up the dropped work, and stitch away with drooping eyes, from which the hot tears fell fast ; and Miss Benson was then angry with herself, yet not at all inclined to agree with Sally when she asked her mistress '*why she kept 'mithering' the poor lass with asking her for ever what was the matter, as if she did not know well enough." Some element of harmony was wanting — some little angel of peace, in loving whom all hearts and natures should be drawn together, and their discords hushed. The earth was still ** hiding her guilty front with innocent snow," when a little baby was laid by the side of the pale white mother. It was a boy ; beforehand she had wished for a girl, as being less likely to feel RUTH ICl the want of a father — as being; what a mother, worse than widowed, could most effectually shelter. But now she did not think or remember this. What it was, she would not have exchanged for a wilderness of girls. It was her own, her darling, her individual baby, already, though not an hour old, separate and sole in her heart, strangely tilling up its measure with love and peace, and even hope. For here was a new, pure, beautiful, innocent life, which she fondly imagined, in that early passion of maternal love, she could guard from every touch of corrupting sin by ever watchful and most tender care. And her mother had thought the same, most probably ; and thousands of others think the same, and pray'to God to purify and cleanse their souls, that they may be lit guardians for their little children. Oh, how Ruth prayed, even while she wag yet too weak to speak ; and how she felt the beauty and significance of the words, ''Our Father!'^ She Has roused from this holy abstraction by the sound of Miss Benson\s voice. It was very much as if she had been crying. "Look, Ruth !" it said softly, "my brother sends you these. They are the first snowdrops in the garden.'' And she put them on the pillow by Ruth ; the baby lay on the opposite side. " Won't you look ;«t him } " said Ruth ; " he is so pretty ! " Miss Benson liad a strange reluctance to see him. To Ruth, in spite of all that had come and gone, she was reconciled— nay, more, she was deeply attached ; but over tlie baby there hung a cloud of shame and (lisfrrace. I*oor little creature, her heart was closed against it— firmly, as she thought. But she could nnt resist Ruth's low faint voice, nor her pleading eyes, and slie went round to peon at him as he lay in his mother's arm, as yet his shield and guard. "Sally says he will have black hair, she thinks," said Ruth. " Iiis little hand is quite a man's, already. Just feel how firmly he closes it"; and with her I f -^ fm i ( 162 RUTH owa weak fingers she opened his little red fist, and taking Miss Benson's reluctant hand ^ placed one of her fingers in his grasp. That babjr-touch called out her love ; the doors of her heart were thrown open wide for the lictle infant to go in and take praid she. " I'll try on thee, for thou must get streu^^th by sleeping and eating. What must I talk to thee ahoiit, I wonder. Shall I tell thee a love story or a fairy story, such as I've telled Master Thurstim many a time and many a time, for all his father set his face atrain fairies, and called it vain talking ; or shall I tell you the dinner I once cooked, when Mr Harding, as was Miss Faith's sweetheart, came uiilooked for, and we'd nought in the liouse but a neck of mutton, out of which I made seven dishes, all with a different name.'" " Who was Mr Harding.?" asked Ruth. " Oh, he was a grand gentleman from Lunnon, as had seen Miss Faith, and been struck by her pretty looks when she was out on a visit, and came here to ask her to marry him. She said, * Xo, she would never leave Master Thurstau, as could never marry'; RUTH 166 but she pined a deal at after he went away. She kept up afore Master Thurstan, but I seed her fretting, thoagh I never let on that I did, for I thoiifrht she'd soonest get over it and be thankful at after she'd the strength to do right. However, I've no business to be talking of Miss Benson's concerns. I'll tell you of my own sweethearts and welcome, or I'll tell you of the dinner, which was the grandest thing I ever did in my life, but I thoug-ht a Lunnoner should never think country folks knew nothing ; and, my word ! I puzzled him with his dinner. I'm doubtinjf whether to this day he knows whether what he was eating was fish, flesh, or fowl. Shall I tell you how I managed ? " But Ruth said slie would rather hear about Sally's sweethearts, much to the disappointment of the latter, who considered the dinner bv far the greatest achieve- ment. "Well, you see, I don't know as I should call them sweethearts ; for excepting John Rawson, wlio was shut up in the mad-house the next week, I never had what you may call a downright offer of marriage but once. But I had once; and so I may say I had a sweetheart. I was beginning to be afeared though, for one likes to be axed ; that's but civility; and I remember, after I had turned forty, and afore Jeremiah Dickson had spoken, I began to think John Rawson had perhaps not been so very mad, and that I'd done ill to lightly his offer, as a madman's, if it was to be the only one I was ever to have ; I don't mean as I'd have had liim, but 1 thought, if it was to come o'er again, I'd speak respectful of him to folk, and say it were only his way to go about on all fours, but that he was a sensible man in most things. However, I'd had my laugh, and so had others, at my crazy lover, and it was late now to set him up as a Solomon. However, I thouglit it would be no bad thing to be tried again ; but I little thought the trial would come when it did. You see, Saturday night is a leisure night in counting-houses and such-like places. # 'f (f ' II ni 166 RUTH it was on, aiul while it's the busiest of all for servants. Well ! a Saturday night, and I'd my baize apron the tails of my bed-gown pinned together behind, down on my knees, pipeclaying the kitchen, when a knock comes to the back door. ' Come in ! ' says I ; but it knocked again, as if it were too stalely to open the door for itself; so I got up, rather cross, and opened the door ; and there stood Jerry Dixon, Mr Holt's head clerk ; only he was not iiead clerk- then. So I stood, stopping up the door, fancyinfj h"? wanted to speak to master ; but he kind of pushed past me, and telling me summut about the weather (as if I could not see it for myself), he took a chair, and sat down by the oven. * Cool and easy ! ' thought I ; meaning hisself, not his place, which 1 knew must be pretty hot. Well ! it seemed no use standing waiting for my gentleman to go ; not that he had much to say either ; but he kept twirling his hat round and round, and smoothing the nap on't with the back of his hand. So at last I squatted down to my work, and thinks 1, 1 shall be on my knees all ready if he puts up a prayer, for I knew he was a Methodee by bringing-up, and had only lately turned to master's way of tiiinking ; and them Methodees are terrible hands at unexpected f»rayers when one least looks for 'em. I can't say I ike their way of taking one by surprise, as it 'vere ; but then I'm a parish clerk's daughter, and rouhl never demean myself to dissenting fashions, always save and except Master 'lliurstan's, bless him. How- ever, Pd been caught once or twice unawares, so this time I thought I'd be up to it, and I moved a dry duster wherever I went, to kneel upon in case he began when I were in a wet place. By and by 1 thought, if the man would pray it would be a blessing, for it would prevent his sending his eyes after me wherever I went ; for when thev takes to praying they shuts their eyes, and quivers th^ lids in a queer kind o' way—them Dissenters does. I can speak pretty plain to you, for you're bred in the Church like mvsel', and must find it as out o' the way as I do to be among RUTH 167 dissenting folk. God forbid I should speak disrespect- ful of IVmster Thurstan and Miss Faith, though ; I never think on them as Church or Dissenters, but just as Christians. But to come back to Jerry. First, I tried always to be cleaning at his back ; but when he wheeled round, so as always to face me, I thought I'd try a different game. So, says I, * Master Dixon, 1 ax Toor pardon, but I must pipeclay under your chair, will you please to move r ' Well, he moved ; and by and by I was at him again '^ith the same words ; and at after that, again and again, till he were always moving about wi' his chair behind him, like a snail as carries its house on its back. And the great gaupus never seed that I were pipeclaying the same places twice over. At last I got desperate croi^s, he were so in my way ; so I made two big crosses on the tails of his brown coat ; for you see, whenever he went^ up or down, he drew out the tails of his coat from under him, and stuck them through the bars of the chair ; and flesh and blood could not resist pipeclaying them for hin ; and a pretty brushing he'd have, I reckon, to get it off again. Well ! s^l length he clears his throat uncommon loud ; so I spreads my dus.er, and shuts my eyes all ready ; but when nought corned of it, 1 opened my eyes a little bit to see what he were about. My word! if there he wasn't down on his knees right fac- ing me, staring as hard as he could. Well ! I thouglit it would be hard work to sta ri that, if he made a long ado ; so 1 shut my eyes again, and tried to think serious, as became what I fancied were coming ; hut, forgive me ! but I thought why couldn't the fel'ow go in and pray wi' Master Thurstan, as had always a calm spirit ready for prayer, instead o' me, who liad my dresser to scour, let alone an apron to iron. At last he says, says he, ' Sally ! will you oblige me with your hand ? * So I thought it were, maybe, Methodee &shion to pray hand in hand ; and I'll not deny but I wished I'd washed it better after black-leading the kitchen fire. I thought I'd better tell him it were not 80 clean as I could wish, so says I, ' Master Dixon, you 188 RUTH : i' i in ss shall have it, and welcome, if I may juat |fo and wash 'em first." But, says he, ' My dear Sally, dirty or clean it's all the same to me, seeing I'm only speaking in a figuring way. What I'm asking on my bendetl knees is, that you'd please to be so kind as to he my wedded wife ; week after next will suit me, if it's agreeable to vou ! * My word ! I were up on my feet in an instant .' It were odd now, weren't it ? I never thought of taking the fellow, and getting married ; for all, I'll not deny, I had been thinking it would be agreeable to be axed. But all at once, I couldn't abide the chap. ' Sir,' says I, trying to look shame- faced as became the occasion, but for all that, feelinp a twittering round my mouth that I were afeard might end in a laugh—* Master Dixon, I'm obleeged to you for the compliment, and thank ye all the sani**. but I think I'd prefer a single life. ' He looked migJity t-ikeo aback ; but in a minute he cleared up, and was as sweet as ever. He still kept on his knees, and I wished he'd and eighty pound a year. You may never have such a chance again.' There were truth enough in that, but it was not pretty in the man to say it ; and it put me up a bit. * As for that, neither you nor I can tell, Master Dixon. You're not the first chap as I've had down on his knees afore me, axing me to marry him (you see I were thinking of John Rawson, only I thought there were no need to say he were on all fours— ^it were truth he were on his knees, you know), and may- be you'll not be the last. Anyhow, i've no wish to change my condition just, now.' M'U wait till Cliristmas,' says ho. ' I've a pig as will be readv tor killing then, so I must get married before tbat' Well now ! would you believe it ? the pig were a temptation. Id a receipt for curing hams, as Miss Faith wov.l'^. never let me try, saying the old way were good enoiii . However, I resisted. Says I, very stern, because I telt I'd been wavering, ' Master Dixon, once fc.v all, pijr or fc 5 RUTH 109 uo pig, I'll not marry you. And if you'll take my advice, you'll pet up off your knees. The fla^ is but damp yet, and it would be an awkward tiling' to have rheumatiz just before winter.' With that he ^ot up, stiif enough. He looked as sulky a chap as ever I clapped eyes on. And as he were so black and cross, I thought I'd done well (whatever came of the pig) to say ' No ' to him. * You may live to repent this.' sayy he, very red. *But I'll not be too hard upon ye, I'll pve you another chance. I'll let you have the night to think about it, and I'll just call in to hear your second thoughts, after chapel to-morrow.' Well now I did ever you hear the like .'' Hut that is the way with all of them men, thinking so much of theirselvcs, and that it's but ask and have, 'i'hey've never had me, though ; and I shall be sixty-one next Martinmas, so there's not much time left for them to try me, I reckon. Well ! when Jeremiah said that, he put me up more than ever, and I says, ' My first thoughts, second thoughts, and third thoughts is all one and the same ; you've but tempted me once, and that was when you spoke of your pip. But of yoursel' you're nothing to boast on, and M) I'll bid you good night, and I'll keep my manners, or else, if 1 told the truth, I should say it had been a groat loss of time listening to you. Hut I'll be civil — so good-night.' He never said a word, but went off as black as thunder, slamming the door after him. The master called me in to prayers, but I can't say I could put my mind to them, for my heart was beating so. However, it was a comfort to have had an offer of holy matrimony ; and though it flustered me, it made me think more of myself. In the night, I began to wonder if I'd not been cruel and hard to him. You see, I were feverish-like ; and the old song of Harbary Allen would keep running in my head, and I thought I were Barbary. and he were young Jemmy Grr.y, ;uid that maybe he'd die for love of me ; and I pictured him to mysel', lying on his death-bed, witli hi- face turned to the wall, * wi' deadly sorrow sighing/,' and I could ha' pinched mysel' for having been ^^o l\^e cruel Harbarv ,:.*' 170 RUTH Allen. And when I got up next dav, I found it hard to think on the real Jerry Dixon I had seen the night before, apart from the sad and sorrowful Jerry I thought on a-dying, when I were between sleeping and waking. And for many a day I turned sick, when 1 heard the passing bell, for I thought it were the lieil loud-knelling which were to break my heart wi' a son of Ruth, and answers more suggestive than ex^ ^ tory from Mr Benson ; while Miss Benson kept _^ . kind of running commentary, always simple and often quaint, but with that intuition into the very heart of all things truly religious which is often the gift of those who seem, at first sight, to be only affectionate and sensible. When Mr Benson had explained his own views of wljat a christening ought to be considered, and, by calling out Ruth's latent feelings into pious earnestness, brought her into a right frame of mind, he felt that he had done what he could to make the ceremony more than a mere form, and to invest it, quiet, humble, and obscure as it must necessarily be in outward shape — mournful and anxious as much of its antecedents had rendered it — with the severe grandeur of an act done in faith and truth. It was not far to carry the little one, for, as I said, the chapel almost adjoined the minister's house. The whole procession was to have consisted of Mr and Miss Benson, Ruth carrying her baby, and Sally, who felt herself, as a Church-of-England woman, to be conde- scending and kind in requesting leave to attend a baptism among *' hem Dissenters"; but unless she had asked permis&on, she would not have been desired to attend, so careful was the habit of her master and mistress that she should be allowed that RUTH 179 freedom which they claimed for themselves. But they were glad she wished to go ; they liked the feeling that all were of one household, and that the interest of one were the interests of all. It produced a conse- quence, however, which they did not anticipate. Sally was full of the event which her presence was to sanction, and, as it were, to redeem from the character of being utterly schismatic ; she spoke ahout it with an air of patronage to thret* or four, and among then* to gome of the servants at Mr Bradshaw's. Miss Benson was rather surprised to receive a c 11 from Jemima Bradshaw, on the very morning of the day on which little Leonard was to be baptized ; Miss Bradshaw was rosy and breathless with eagerness. Altuough the second in the family, she had been at S' ool when her younger sisters had been christened, and she was now come, in the full warmth of a girl's fancy to ask if she might be p/esent at the afternoon's service. She had been struck with Mrs Denbigh's grace and beauty at the very first sight, when she had accompanied her mother to call upon the Bensons on their return from Wales ; and had kept up an enthusi- astic interest in the widow only a little older than herself, whose very reserve and retirement but added to her unconscious power of enchantment. " Oh, Miss Benson ! I never saw a christening ; papa gays I may go, if you think Mr Benson and Mrs Denbigh would not dislike it ; and I will be quite Siiet, and sit up behind the door, or anjrwhere ; and at sweet little baby ! I should so like to see him christened ; is he to be called Leonard, did you say ? After Mr Denbigh, is it?" " No — not exactly,'* said Miss Benson, rather dis- comiited. " Was not Mr Denbigh's name Leouard, then ? Manama thought it would be sure to be called after him, and so did I. But I may come to the christen- ing, may I not, dear Miss Benson ? " Miss Benson gave her consent with a little inward reluctance. Both ^o*^ jrother and Ruth shared in this -i 180 RUTH feeling, although no one expressed it ; and it was presently forgotten. Jemima sti>od gra^'e and quiet in the old-fashioned vestry adjoining the chapel, as they entered with steps subdued to slowness. She thought Ruth looked so Eale and awed because sue was left a solitary parent ; ut Ruth came to the presence of God, as one who had gone astray, and doubted her own worthiness to be called His child ; she came as a mother who had incurred a heavy responsibility, and who entreated His almighty aid to enable her to discharge it; fiill of passionate, yearning lovf which craved for more faith in God, to still her di&.rust and fear of the future that might hang over her darling. When she thought of her boy, she sickened and trembled ; but when she heard of God's loving kindness, far beyond all tender mother's love, she was hushed into peace and prayer. There she stood, her fair pale cheek resting on her baby^s head, as he slumbered on her bosom ; her eyes went slanting down under their half-closed white lids ; but their gaze was not on the primitive cottage-like room, it was earnestly fixed on a dim mist, through which she fain would have seen the life that lay before her child ; but the mist was still and dense, too thick a veil for anxious human love to penetrate. The future was hid with God. Mr Benson stood right under the casement window that was placed high up in the room ; he was almost in shade, except for one or two marked lights which fell on hair already silvery white ; his voice was always low and musical when he spoke to few ; it was too weak to speak so as to be heard by many without becoming harsh and strange ; but now it filled the little room with a loving sound, like the stock-dove's brooding murmur ove. her young. He and Ruth forgot all in their earnestness of thought ; and when he said " Let us pray,^' and the little congregation knelt down, you might have heard the baby^s faint breathing, scarcely sighing out upon the stillness, so absorbed were all in the solemnity. But the prayer was long; thought RUTH 181 followed thought^ and fear crowded upon fear, and all were to be laid bare before God, and His aid and counsel asked. Before the end Sally had shuffled quietly out of the vestry into the green chapel-yard, upon which the door opened. Miss Benson was alive to this movement, and so full of curiosity as to what it might mean that she could no longer attend to her brother, and felt inclined to rush off and question Sally tliO moment all was ended. Miss Bradshaw hun^ about the babe and Ruth, and begged to be dlovi'ed to carry the child home, but Ruth pressed him to her, as if there was no safe harbour for him but in l^ mother's breast. Mr Benson saw her feeling, and caught Miss Bradshaw's look of disappointment. "Come home with us," said he, "and stay to tea. Vou have never drank tea with us since you went tj school." "I wish I might," said Miss Bradshavi^ colouring with pleasure. "But I must ask papa. May I run home, and ask.^" "To I . cure, my dear ! " Jemima "ewoff; and fortunately her father was at home; for her mother's permission would have been deemed insufficie t. She received many directions about her behaviour. "Take no sugar in your tea, Jemima. 1 am sure the Bensons ought not to be able to afford sugar, with their means. And do not eat much ; you can have Eknty at home on your return ; remember Mrs Den- ig^h's keep must cost them a great deal." So Jemima returned considerably sobered, and very much afraid of her hunger leading her to fo-get Mr Benson's poverty. Meanwhile Miss Benson and Sally, acquainted with Mr Benson's invitation to Jemima, set about making some capital tea-cakes on which they piqued themselves. They both enjoyed the offices of hospitality ; and were glad to place some home-made tempting dainty before their guests. " What made ye leave the chapel-vestry before my brother had ended .^" )• ,uired Miss Benson. It If i I n 182 RUTH "Indeed, ma'am, I thought master had prayed »o long he'd be drouthy. So I just slipped out to put on the kettle for tea." Miss Benson was on the point of reprimanding her for thinking of anything besides the object of the prayer, when she remembered how she herself had been unable to attend after Sally's departure for wondering what had become of her ; so she wai silent. It was a disappointment to Miss Benson's kind and hospitable e:^^ctation when Jemima, as hungry as a hound, confined herself to one piece of the cake which her hostess had had such pleasure in making. And Jemima wished she had not a prophetic feeling all tea- time of the manner in which her father would inquire into the particulars of the meal, elevating hia eyebrows at every viand named beyond plain bread-and-butter, and winding up with some such sentence as this: " 7e\\, I marvel how, with Benson's salary, he can a-iord to keep such a table." Sally could have told of self-denial when no one was by, when the left hand did not know what the right hand did, on the part of both her master and mistress, practised without thinking even to themselves that it was either a sacrifice or a Tirtue, in order to enable them to help those who were in need, or even to gratify Miss Benson's kind, old- fashioned feelings on such occasions as the present, when a stranger came to the house. Her homely, affectionate pleasure in making others comfortable, might have shown that such little occasional extrava- gances were not waste, but a good work ; and were not to be gauged by the standard of money spending. This evening her spirits were damL.,.u by Jemima's refusal to eat. Poor Jemima ! the calces were so good, and she was so hungry ; but still she refused. While Sally was clearing away the tea-things. Miss Benson and Jemima accompanied Ruth upstairs, when she went to put little Leonard to bed. " A christening is a very solemn service," said Miss Bradshaw ; " I had no idea it was so solemn. Mr RUTH 183 Benson seemed to speak as if he had a weight of care OQ his heart that God alone could relieve or lighten." "My brother feels these things voiry much," said Miss Benson, rather wishing to cut short the conver- lation, for she had been aware of several parts in the prayer which she knew were suggested by the pecu- ]iuitj and sadness of the case l^fore him. "I could not quite follow him all through/' con- tinued Jemima ; ** what did he mean by saying, * This child, rebuked by the wo'-M and bidde > to stand apart, thou wilt not rebuke, but Vf.lt suffer : o come to thee and be blessed with thine almighty * ssing?' Why is this little darling to be rnbuked P 1 do not think 1 remember the exact words, but ae said something like that." " My dear ! your -• vn is diipping wet ! it must have dipped into the tub ; let me wring it out." " Oh, thank you ! Never mind my gown ! *' said Jemima, hastily, and wanting to return to her ques- tion ; but just then she caught the sight of tears fall- ing fast down the cheeks of the sileat Ruth as she bent over her child, crowing and splashing away in his tub. With a sudden consciousness that unwittingly she had touched on some painful chord, Jemima rushed into another subject, and was eagerly seconded by Miss Benson. The circumstance s'^emed to die away, and leave no trace ; but in after-years it rose, vivid and significant, before Jemima's memory. At preseuL it was enough for her, if Mrs Denbigh would let her serve her in every possible way. Her admiration for beauty was keen, and little indulged at home ; and Ruth was very beautiful iu her quiet mournfulness ; her mean and homely dress left her herself only the more open to admiration, for she gave it a charm by her unconscious wearing of it that made it seem like the drapery of an old Greek sta^ le — subordinate to the figure it covered, yet imbued by it with an unspeakable grace- llien the pretended circumstances of her life were such as to catch the ima< 'nation of a young romantic girl. Altogether, Jemima could have kissed 0^wrf If 1 1 1.1 (. i 3i r ! i 184 RUTH her hand and professed herself Ruth's slave. She moved away all the articles used at this little coucher > she folded up Leonard's day-clothes ; she felt only too much honoured when Ruth trusted him to her for a few minutes — only too amply rewarded when Ruth thanked her with a grave, sweet smile, and a grateful look of hez loving eyes. When Jemima had gone away with the servant who was sent to fetch her, there was a little chorus of praise. "She's a warm-hearted girl," said Miss Benson. " She remembers all the old days before she went to school. She is worth two of Mr Richard. They're each of them just the same as they were when they were children, when they broke that window in the chapel, and he ran away home, and she came knocking at our door, with a single knock, just like a beggar's, and I went to see who it was, and was quite startled to see her round, brown, honest face looking up at me. half-frightened, and telling me what she had done, aud o£Fering me the money in her savings bank to pay for it. We never should have heard of Master Richard's sliare in the business if it had not been for Sally." " But remember," said Mr Benson, " how strict Mr Bradshaw has always been with his children. It is no wonder if poor Richard was a coward in those days." " He is now, or Pm much mistaken," answered Miss Benson. '* And Mr Bradshaw was just as strict with Jemima, and she's no coward. But I've no faith in Richard. He has a look about him that I don't like. And when Mr Bradshaw was away on business in Holland last year, for those months my young gentle- man did not come half as regularly to chapel, and I always believe that story of his being seen out with the hounds at Smithiles." ** Those are neither of them great offences in a young man of twenty," said Mr Benson, smiling. " No ! I don't mind them in themselves ; but when he could change back so easily to being regular aud mim when his father came home, 1 don't like that." " TiConard shall never be afraid of me," said Ruth, , RUTH 186 following her own train of thought. " I will be his Ariend from the very first; and I will try and learn how to be a wise friend, and you will teach me, won't you, sir?" " What made you wish to call him Leonard, Ruth?" aiiked Miss Benson. " It was my mother's father's name ; and she used to tell me about him and his goodness, and I thought if Leonard could be like him " "Do you remember the discussion there was about Miss Bradshaw's name, Thurstan? Her father want- ing her to be called Hepzibah, but insisting that she was to have a Scripture name at any rate ; and Mrs Bradshaw wanting her to be Juliana, after some novel she had read not long before ; and at last Jemima was fixed upon, because it would do either for a Scripture name or a name for a heroine out of a book." "I did not know Jemima was a Scripture name," said Ruth. " Oh yes, it is. One of Job's daughters ; Jemima, Kezia, and Keren-Happuch. There are a good many Jemimas in the world, and some Kezias, but I never heard of a Keren-Happuch ; and yet we know just as much of one as of another. People really like a pretty name, whether in Scripture or out of it." "When there is no particular association with the name," said Mr Benson. " Now, I was called Faith after the cardinal virtue ; and I like my name, though many people would think it too Puritan ; that was according to our gentle mother's pious desire. And Thurstan was called by his name because my father wished it ; for, althougn he was what people called a radical and a democrat in his ways of talking and thinking, he was very proud in his heart of being descended from some old Sir Thurstan, who figured away in the French wars." "The difference between theory and practice, think- ing and being," put in Mr Benson, who was in a 1 lill ■% 186 RUTH Hi^ 1"? h ; i :' i * i f I I r^ mood for allowing himself a little social enjoyment He leant back in his chair, with his eyes looking at but not seeing the ceiling. Miss Benson was clicking away with her eternal knitting-needles, looking at her brother, and seeing him, too. Ruth was arrang- ing her child's clothes against the morrow. It was but their usual way of spending an evening; the Tariety was given by the different tone which the conversation assumed on the different nights. Yet, somehow, the peacefulness of the time, the window open into the little garden, the scents that came stealing in, and the clear summer heaven above, made the time be remembered as a happy festival by Ruth. Even Sally seemed more placid than usual when she came in to prayers ; and she and Miss Benson followed Ruth to her bedroom, to look at the beautiful sleeping Leonard. " God bless him ! " said Miss Benson, stooping down to kiss his little dimpled hand, which lay outside the coverlet, tossed abroad in the heat of the evening, "Now, don't get up too early, Ruth! Injuring your health will be short-sighted wisdom, and poor economy. Good night ! " "Good night, dear Miss Benson. Good night, Sally." When Ruth had shut her door, she went again to the bed, and looked at her boy till her eyes filled with tears. "God bless thee, darling! J only ask to be one of His instruments, and not thrown aside as useless— or worse than useless." So ended the day of Leonard's christening. Mr Benson had sometimes taught the children of different people as an especial favour, when requested by them. But then his pupils were only children, and by cheir progress he was little prepared for Ruth's. She had had early teaching, of that l.lnd which need never be unlearnt, from her mother ; enough to un- fold many of her powers ; they had remained inactive now for several years, but had grown strong in the dark and quiet time. Her tutor was sui prised at the RUTH 187 bounds by which she surmounted obstacles^ the quick perception and ready adaptation of truths and first principles, and her immediate sense of the fitness of things. Her delight in what was strong and beauti- ful called out her master's sympathy ; but, most of all, he admired the complete unconsciousness of un- common power, or unusual progress. It was less of ft wonder than he considered it to be, it is true, for she never thought of comparing what she was now with her former self, mucn less with another. In- deed, she did not think of herself at all, but of her boy, and what she must learn in order to teach him to be and to do as suited her hope and her prayer. If anyone's devotion could have flattered her into self-consciousness, it was Jemima's. Mr Bradshaw never dreamed that his daughter could feel herself inferior to the minister's protegee, but so it was ; and no knight-errant of old could consider himself more honoured by his ladye's commands than did Jemima, if Ruth allowed her to do anything for her or for her boy. Ruth loved her heartily, even while she was rather annoyed at the open expressions Jemima used of admiration. " Please, I really would rather not be told if people do think me pretty." ** But it was not merely beautiful ; it was sweet- looking and good, Mrs Postlethwaite called you," replied Jemima. " All the more I would rather not hear it. I may be pretty, but I know I am not good. Besides, I don't think we ought to hear what is said of us behind our backs." Ruth spoke so gravely, that Jemima feared lest she was displeased. " Dear Mrs Denbigh, I never will admire or praise you again. Only let me love you." " And let me love you ! " said Ruth, with a tender ki^. Jemima would not have been allowe( to come so frequently if Mr Bradshaw had not been possessed with J 188 RUTH I ,. the idea of patronizing Ruth. If the latter had chosen, she might have gone dressed from head to foot in the presents which he wished to make her, but she refused them constantly; occasionally to Miss Benson's great annoyance. But if he could not load her with gifts, he could show his approbation by asking her to his house; and after some deliberation, she consented to accompany Mr and Miss Benson there. The house was square and massy-looking, with a great deal of drab-colour about the furniture. Mrs Bradshaw in her lackadaisical, sweet-tempered way, seconded her husband in his desire of being kind to Ruth ; and as she cherished privately a great taste for what was beautiful or interesting, as opposed to her husband's love of the purely useful, this taste of hers had rarely had so healthy and true a mode of gratification as when she watched Ruth's movements about the room, which seemed in its unobtrusiveness and poverty of colour to receive the requisite ornament of light and splendour from Ruth's presence. Mrs Bradshaw sighed, and wished she had a daughter as lovely, about whom to weave p romance ; for castle-building, after the manner of the Minerva press, was the outlet by which she escaped from the pressure of her prosaic life, as Mr Bradshaw's wife. Her perception was only of external beauty, and she was not always alive to that, or she might have seen how a warm, affectionate, ardent nature, free from all envy or carking care of self, gave an unspeakable charm to her plain, bright- faced daughter Jemima, whose dark eyes kept chal- lenging admiration for her friend. The first evening spent at Mr Bradshaw's passed like many succeeding visits there. There was tea, the equipage for which was as handsome and as ugly as money could purchase. Then the ladies produced their sewing, while Mr Bradshaw stood b' are the fire, anr' ^ave the assembled ?arty the benefit of his opinions on many subjects, 'he opinions were as good and excellent as the opinions of any man can be who sees one side of a case very strongly, and almost ignores the other. They RUTH 189 coincided many points wi those held by Mr Benson j huv he once or twice interposed with a plea for those who might differ ; and then he was heard by Mr Bradshaw with a kind of evident and indulgent pitv, such as one feels for a child who unwittingly talks nonsense. By and by, Mrs Bradshaw and Miss Benson fell into one tete a tete, and Ruth and Jemima into another. Two well-behaved but unnaturally quiet children were sent to bed early in the evening, in an authoritative voice, by their father, because one of them had spoken too loud while he was enlarging on au alteration in the tariff. Just before the supper- tray was brought in, a gentleman was announced whom Ruth had never previously seen, but who appeared well known to the rest of the party. It was Mr Farquhar, Mr Bradshaw's partner ; he had been on the Continent for the last year, and had only recently returned. He "seemed perfectly at home, but spoke little. He leaned back in his chair, screwed up his eyes, and watched everybody ; yet there was nothing unpleasant or impertinent in his keenness of observa- tion. Ruth wondered to hear him contradict Mr Bradshaw, and almost expected some rebuff, but Mr Bradshaw, if he did not yield the point, admitted, for the first time that evening, that it was possible some- thing might be said on the other side. Mr Farquhar differed also from Mr Benson, but it was in a more respectful manner than Mr Bradshaw had done. For these reasons, although Mr Farquhar had never spoken to Ruth, she came away with the impression that he was a man to be respecter and perhaps liked. Sally would have thought herself mightily aggrieved if, on their return, rha had not heard some account of the evening. As soon as Miss Benson came in, the old servant began : " Well, and who was there } and what did they give yo> for supper ? " '•Only Mr Farquhar besides ourselves; and sand- wiches, sponge-cake, and \vine ; there was no occasion I I 190 RUTH for anything more," replied Miss Benson, who was tired and preparing to go upstairs. " Mr Farquhar ! Why they do say he's thinking of Miss Jemima ! " " Nonsense, Sally ! why he's old enough to be her father ! " said Miss Benson, half way up the first flight. ''There's no need for it to be called nonsense, though he may be ten year older," muttered Sally, retreating towards the kitchen. ''Bradshaw's Betsy knows what she's about, and wouldn't have said it for nothing." Ruth wondered a little about it. She loved Jemima well enough to be interested in what related to her ; but, after thinking for a few minutes, she decided that such a marriage was, and would ever be, very unlikely. CHAPTER KVni One afternoon, not long after this, Mr and Miss Ben- son set off to call upon a farmer, who attended the chapel, but lived at some distance from the town. They intended to stay to tea if they were invited, and Ruth and Sally were left to spend a long afternoon together. At first, Sally was busy in her kitchen, and Ruth employed herself in carrying her baby out into the garden. It was now nearly a year since she came to the Benson's ; it seemed like yesterday, and yet as if a lifetime had gone between. The flowTS were bud- ding now, that were all in bloom when she came down, on the first autumnal morning, into the sunny parlour. The yellow jessamine, that was then a tender plant, had now taken firm root in the soil, and was sending out strong shoots ; the wallflowers, which Miss Benson had sown on the wall a day or two after her arrival, were scenting the air with their fragrant flowers. Ruth knew every plant now ; it seemed as though she had always lived here, and always known the inhabi- RUTH 191 tanta of the house. She heard Sally sinffing her accustomed song in the kitchen, a song she never varied over her afternoon's work. It began, As I was goin,^ to Derby, sir, Upon a market-day. And if music is a necessary element in a song, perhaps I had better call it bv some other nan^e. But the strange change was in Ruth herself. She was conscious of it though she could not define it, and did not dwell upon it. Life had become significant and full of duty to her. She delighted in the exercise of her intellectual powers, and liked the idea of the infinite amount of which she was ignorant ; for it was a grand pleasure to learn — to crave, and be satisfied. She strove to forget what had gone before this last twelve months. She shuddered up from contemplating it; it was like a bad, unholy dream. And yet, there was a strange yearning kind of love for the father of the child whom she pressed to her heart, which came, and she could not bid it Hegone as sinful, it was so pure and natural, even when thinking of it, as in the sight of God. Little Leonard cooed to the fiowers, and stretched after their bright colours ; and B uth laid him on the dry turf, and pelted him with the gay petals. He chinked and crowed with laughing delight, and clutched at her cap, and pulled it off. Her short rich curls were golden-brown in the slanting sunlight, and bv their very shortness made her look more child like. She hardly seemed as if she could be the mother of the noble babe over whom she knelt, uow snatching kisses, now matching his cheek with rose leaves. All at once, the bells of the old church struck the hour ; and far avvay, high up in the air, began slowly to play the old tune of " Life let us cherish " ; they had played it for years — for the life of man — and it always sounded fresh and strange and aerial. Ruth was still in a moment, she knew not why ; and the tears came into her eyes as she listened. When it was ended, she kissed her baby, and bade God bless him. r -i i ■: iiii i ^^ 102 RUTH Just then Sally came out, dressed for the evening, with a leisurely look about her. She had done ler work, and she and Ruth were to drink tea together in the exquisitely clean kitchen ; but while the kettle was boiling, she came out to enjoy the flowers. She gathered a piece of southern- wood, and stuffed it up her nose, by way of smelling it. *' Whatten you call this in your country.''" asked she. "Old-man," replied Ruth. "We call it here lad's-love. It and peppermint- drops always remind me of going to church in the country. JHere ! I'll get you a black curraut-leaf to put in the teapot. It gives it a flavour. W 3 had bees once against this wall ; but when missus died, we forgot to tell 'em, and put 'em in mourning, and, in course, they swarmed away without our knowing, and the next winter came a hard frost, and they died. Now, I dare say, the water will be boiling ; and it's time for little master there to come in, for the dew is falling. Sec, all the daisies is shutting themselves up." Sally was most gracious as a hostess. She quite put on her company manners to receive Ruth in the kitchen. They laid Leonard to sleep on the sofa in the parlour, that they might hear him the more easily, and then they sat quietly down t" their sewing ^y the bright kitchen fire. Sally was, ^s usual, the ta.ker ; and, as usual, the subject was the family of whom for so many years she had formed a part. *' Aye ! things was different when I was a girl," quoth she. " £ggs was thirty for a shilling, and butter only sixpence a pound. My wage when I came here was but three pound, and I did on it, and was always clean and tidy, which is more than many a lass can say now who gets her seven and eight pound a year ; and tea was kept for an afternoon drink, and pudding was eaten afore meat in them days, and the upshot was, people paid their debts better ; aye, aye ! we'n gone backwards, and we thinken we'n gone forrards." After shaking her head a little over the degeneracy RUTH 103 of the times, Sally returned to a part of the subject on which she thought she had given Ruth a wrong idea. " You'll not go for to think now that I've not more than three pound a year. Pve a deal above that now. First of all, old missus gave me four pound, for she said I were worth it, and 1 thought in my heart that I were ; so I took it without more ado ; but after her death. Master Thurstan and Miss Faith took a At of spending, and says they to me, one day as I carried tea in, 'Sally, we think your wages ought to bb raised.' 'What matter what you think 1' said I, pretty sharp, for I thought they'd ha' shown more respect to missus if they'd let things stand as they were in her time ; and they'd gone and moved the sofa away from the wall to where i<; stands now, already that very day. So I speaks up^ sharo, and, says I, ' As long as I'm content, I think it's no business of yours to be meddling wi' me and my money matters.' * But,' says Miss Faith (she's always the one to speak first if you'll notice, though it's master that comes in and clinches the matter with some reason she'd never ha' thought of— he were always a sensible lad), * Sally, all the servants in the town have six pound and better, and you have as hard a place as any of 'em.' 'Did you ever hear me grumble about my work that you talk about it in that way ? wait till I grumble,' says I, ' but don't meddle wi' me till then.' So I flung off in a huff ; but in the course of the evening. Master Thurstan came in and sat down in the kitchen, and he's such winning ways he wiles one over to any- thing ; and besides, a notion had come into my head — now, you'll not tell," said she, glancing round the room, and hitchiug her chair nearer to Ruth in a confidential manner; Ruth promised, and Sally went on ; " I thought I should like to be an heiress wi' money, Md leave it all to Master and Miss Faith; and I thought if I'd six pound a year I could, mavbe, get to be an heiress ; all I was feared on was that" some chap or other might marry me for my money, but I've managed to keep the fellows off ; so I looks mim and N * ■ I IM RUTH i i grateful, and I thanks Master Thurstan for his offer, and I takes the wages; and what do you think I've done ? " asked Sail, with an exultant air. " What have you done ? " asked Ruth. " Why," replied Sally, slowly and emphatically, " Pve saved tnirty pound ! but that's not it Tve getten a lawyer to make me a will ; that's it, wench ! " said she, slapping Ruth on the back. " How did you manage it.'* " asked Ruth. '* Aye, that was it,'' said Sally ; "1 thowt about it many a night before I hit on the right way. I was afeard the monev might be thrown into Chancery, if I didn't make it all safe, and yet I could na' ask Master Thurstan. At last and at length, John Jackson, the grocer, had a nephew come to stay a week with him, as was 'prentice to a lawyer in Liverpool ; so t^ow was my time, and here was my lawyer. Wait a minute ! I could tell you my story better if I had my will in my hand ; and I'll scomfish you if ever you go for to tell." She held up her hand, and threatened Ruth as she left the kitchen to fetch the will. When she came back, she brought a parcel tied up in a blue pocket-handkerchief ; she sat down, squared her knees, untied the handkerchief, and displayed a small piece of parchment. " Now, do you know what this is ? " said she, hold- ing it up. " It's parchment, and it's the right stuff to make wills on. People gets into Chancery if they don't make them o' this stuff, and I reckon Tom Jackson thowt he'd have a fresh job on it if he could get it into Chancery ; for the rascal went and wrote it on a piece of paper at first, and came and read it me out loud off a piece of paper no better than what one writes letters upon. I were up to him ; and, thinks I, come, come, my lad, I'm not a fool, though you may think so ; I know a paper will won't stand, but I'll let you run your rig. ^o I sits and I listens. And would you belie' me, he read it out as if it were as clear a busi- ness as your giving me that thimble — no more ado, RUTH 196 though it were thirty pound ! I could understand it mysel'— that were no law for me. I wanted summat to consider about, and for th' meaning to be wrapped UD as 1 wrap up my best gown. So says I, ' i om ! it's not on parchment. I mun have it on parchment.' 'This 'ill do as well/ says he. 'We'll get it wit- nessed^ and it will stand good.' Well ! I liked the notion of having it witnessed, and for a while that soothed me ; but after a bit, I felt I should like it done according to law, and not plain out as anybody might ha' done it ; I mysel', if I could have written. So says I, *Tom! I mun have it on parchment.' * Parchment costs money,* says he, very grave. ' Oh. oh, my lad ! are ye there .>' thinks I. 'That's the reason I'm clipped of law.' So says I, *Tom ! I mun have it on parchment. I'll pay the money and wel- come. It's thirty pound, and what I can lay to it. I'll make it safe. It shall be on parchment, and I'll tell thee what, lad ! I'll gie ye sixpence for every good law-word you put in it, sounding like, and not to be canght up as a person runs. Your master had need to be ashamed of you as a 'prentice if you can't do a thing more tradesman-like than this ! ' Well ! he laughed above a bit, but I were firm, and stood to it. So he made it out on parchment. Now, woman, try and read it ! " said she, giving it to Ruth. Ruth smiled, and began to read ; Sally listening with rapt attention. When iii '' . i to the word, " testa- trix," Sally stopped her. "That was the first sixptwce," said she. " I tho\vt he was going to fob me oiF again wi' plain language ; but when that word came, I out wi' my sixpi u^e, and gave it to him on the spot. Now go on." Presently Ruth read, " accruing." " That was the second sixpence. Four sixpences it were in all, besides six-aud-eightpence as we bargained at first, and three-and-fourpence parchment. There ! that's what I call a will ; witnessed according to law, and all. Master Thurstan will be prettily taken in when I die, and he finds all his extra wage left back to 1 * i 198 RUTH 1} M ' 4 ; i him. But it will teach him it's not m easy as he thinks for, to make a woman give up her wajr." The time was now drawing near Then little Leonard might be weaned — the time appointed by all three for Ruth to endeavour to support herself iu dome way more or leu independent of Mr and Miss Benson. This prospect dwelt much in all of their minds, and was in each shaded with some degree of perplexity ; but thev none of them spoke of it for fear of acceler- ating tne event. If they had felt clear and deter- mined as to the best course to be pursued, they were none of them deficient in courage to commence upon that course at once. Miss Benson would, perhaps, have objected the most to any alteration m their E resent daily mode of life ; but that was because she ad the habit of speaking out her thoughts as they arose, and she particularly disliked and dreaded change. Besides this, she had felt her heart open out, and warm towards the little helpless child, in a strong and powerful manner. Nature had intended her warm instincts to hnd vent in a mother's duties ; her heart had yearned after children, and made her restless in her childless state, without her well know- ing why; but now, the delight she experienced in tending, nursing, and contriving for the little boy- even contriving to the point of sacrificing many of her cherished whims — made her happy and satisfied and peaceful. It was more difiScult to sacrifice her whims than her comforts ; but all had been given up when and where required by the sweet lordly baby, who reigned paramount in his very helplessness. From some cause or other, an exchange of ministers for one Sunday was to be effected with a neighbouring congregation, and Mr Benson went on a short absence from home. When he returned on Monday, he was met at the house-door by his sister, who had evidently been looking out for him some time. She stepped out to greet him. " Don't hurry yourself, Thurstan ! all's well ; only I wanted to tell you something. Don't fidget yourself RUTH 197 ^hhhj if quite well| bless him ! It's only good news. Come into yoar room, and let me talk a little quietly with you." She drew him into his study, which was near the outer door, and then she took otf his coat, and put his carpet-bag in a corner, and wheeled a chair to the Are, before she would begin. " Well, now ! to think how often things foil out just as we want them, Thurstan ! Have not you often wondered what was to be doue wi;h Ruth when the time came at which we promised her she should earn her living? I am sure you have, t ause I have so often thought about it myself. And yet I never dared to speak out my fear, because that seemed giving it a shape. And now Mr Bradshaw has put all to rights. He invited Mr Jackson to dinner yesterday, just as we were going into chrrel ; and chen he turned to me and asked me if I would come to tea — straight from after- noon chapel, because Mrs Bradshaw wanted to speak to me. He made it very clear I was not to bring Ruth ; and, indeed, she was only too happy to stay at home with baby. And so I went ; and Mrs Bradshaw took me into her bedroom, and shut the doors, and said Mr Bradshaw had told her, that he did not like Jemima being so much confined with the younger ones while they were at their lessons, and that he wanted some one above a nursemaid to sit with them while their masters were there — some one who .Tould see about their learning their lessons, and who would walk out with them ; a sort of nursery governess, I think she meant, though she did not say so ; and Mr Bradshaw (for, of course, I saw his th 3ughts and words constantly peeping out, though he had told her to speak to me) believed that our Ruth would be the very person. Novr, Thurstaii, don't look so surprised, as if she had never come into your head ! I am sure I saw what Mrs Bradshaw was driving at, long before she came to the point ; and I could scarcely keep from smiling, and saying, 'We'd jump at the proposal' — long before I ought to have known anything about it." ii m f. ^Ti I ! H i! nil 14 i Jl Li U 198 RUTH "Oh J I wonder what we ought to do!" said Mr Benson. " Or rather^ I believe I see what we ought to dOj if I durst but do it." " Why, what ought we to do ? " asked his sister, in surprise. "I ought to go and tell Mr Bradsh&w the whole story '* " And get Ruth turned out of our h ou ^e/^ said Miss Benson, indignantly. ''They can't make us do that," said her brother. "I do not think they would try." *' Yes, Mr Bradshaw would try ; and he would blazon out poor Ruth's sin, and there would not be a chance for her left. I know him well, Thurstan ; and why should he be told now, more than a year ago ? " " A year ago, he did not want to put her in a situation of trust about his children." "And you think she'll abuse that trust, do youi' You've lived a twelvemonth in the house with Ruth, and the end of it is, you think she will do his children harm ! Besides, who encouraged Jemima to come to the house so much to see Ruth ? Did you not say it would do them both good to see something of each other?" Mr Benson sat thinking. " If you had not known Ruth as well as you do— if during her stay with us you had marked anything wrong, or forward, or deceitful, or immodest, I would say at once, don't allow Mr Bradshaw to take her into his house ; but still I would say, don't tell of her sin and her sorrow to so severe a man— so unpitiful a judge But here I ask you, Thurstan, can you, or I, or Sally (quick-eyed as she is), say, that in any one thing we have had true, just occasion to find fault with Ruth? I don't mean that she is perfect— she acts without thinking, her temper is sometimes warm and hasty; but have we any right to go and injure her prospects for life, by telling Mr Bradshaw all we know of her errors — only sixteen when she did so wrong, and never to escape from it all her many years to come — to have RUTH 199 ! ' the despair which would arise irom its being known, clutching her back into worse sin? What harm do you think she can do ? What is the risk to which you think you are exposing Mr Bradshaw's children?" She paused, out of breath, her eyes glittering with tears of indignation, and impatient for an answer, that she might knock it to pieces. " I do not see any danger that can arise,'' said he at length, and with slow difficulty, as if not fully con- vinced. *' I have watched Ruth, and I believe she is pure and truthful ; and the very sorrow and penitence she has felt — the very suffering she has gone through — has given her a thoughtful conscientiousness beyond her age." "That and the care of her baby," said Miss Benson, secretly delighted at the tone of her brother's thoughts. " Ah, Faith ! that baby you so much dreaded once, is turning out a blessing, you see,'' said Thurstan, with a faint, quiet smile. " Yes ! anyone might be thankful, and better too, for Leonard ; but how could I tell that it would be like him?" " But to return to Ruth and Mr Bradshaw. What did you say ? " " Oh ! with my feelings, of course, I was only too glad to accept the proposal, and so I told Mrs Brad- shaw then ; and I afterwards repeated it to Mr Brad- shaw, when he asked me if his wife had mentioned their plans. They would understand that I must consult you and Ruth, before it could be considered as finally settled." " And have you named it to her ? " ''Yes," answered Miss Benson, half afraid lest he should think she had been too precipitate. " And what did she say ? " asked he, after a little pause of grave silence. ''At first she seemed very glad, and fell into my mood of planning how it should all be managed ; how i^ally and I should take care of the baby the hours that she was away at Mr Bradshaw's ; but by and by she I i it k #*^r 200 RUTH i became silent and thoughtful^ and knelt down by me and iiid her face in my lap, and shook a little as if she was crying ; and then I heard her speak in a very low smothered voice, for her head was still bent down- quite hanging down, indeed, so that I could not see her face, so 1 stooped to listen, and I heard her say, ' Do you thi ': I should be good enough to teach little girls Miss Benson?' She said it so humbly and fearfully that all 1 thought of was how to cheer her, and I answered and asked her if she did not hope to be good enough to bring up her own darling to be a brave Christian man ? And she lifted up her head, and I saw her eyes looking wild and wet and earnest, and she said, * With God's help, that will I try to make my child/ At 1 1 said then, * Ruth, as you strive and as you pray for your own child, so you must strive and pray to make Mary and Elizabeth good, if you are trusted with them.' And she said out quite clear, though her face was hiding from me once more, ' I will strive, and I will pray/ You would not have had any fears, Thurstan, if you could have heard and seen her last night." " I have no fear," said he, decidedly. " Let the plan go on." After a minute, he added, "But I am glad It was so far arranged before I heard of it. My indecision about right and wrong— my perplexity as to how far we are to calculate consequences— grows upon me, I fear." ^ "You look tired and weary, dear. You should blame your body rather than your conscience at these times." "A very dangerous doctrine." The scroll of Fate was closed, and they could not foresee the Future ; and yet, if they could have se^ it though they might have shrunk fearfully at first they would have smiled and thanked God when all wa" ^^^ *'Do— why, what would the wench do .J"' asked Sally, contemptuously. " Ye*re never going to be taken in, at your time of life, by hair dyes and such gimcracks, aa can only take in young girls whose wisdom teeth are not cut." ** And who are not very likely to want them," said Miss Benson, quietly. " No ! but you see, Sally, it's very awkward having such grey hair, and feeling so young. Do you know, Sally, I've as great a mind for dancing, when I hear a lively tune on the street organs, as ever ; and as great a mind to sing wheu I'm happy— to sing in my old way, Sally, you know." " Aye, you had it from a girl," said Sally ; " and many a time, when the door's been shut, I did not know if it was you in the parlour, or a big bumble-bee in the kitchen, as was making that drumbling noise. I heard you at it yesterday.'* " But an old woman with grey hair ought not to have a fancy for dancing or singing," continued Miss Benson. "Whatten nonsense are ye talking.?^ said Sally, roused to indignation. "Calling yourseP an old woman when you're better than ten years younger than me ! and many a girl has grey hair at five-and- twenty.'* "But Tm more than five-and-twenty, Sally. I'm fif'y-seven next May ! " " More shame for ye, then, not io know better than to talk of dyeing your hair. I cannot abide such vanities ! " " Oh, dear ! Saiiy, when will you understand what I mean .> I want to know how 1 am to keep remem- bering how old I am, so as to prevent myself from feeling so young ? 1 was quite startled just now to see my hair in the glass, for I can generally tell if my RUTH 207 cap is straight by feeling. I'll tell you what I'll do — I'll cut off a piece of my grey hair, and plait it together for a marker in my Bible ! " Miss Benson expected applause for tb s bright idea, but Sally only made answer : "You'll be taking to painting your cheeks next, now you've once thought of dyeing your hair." So Miss Benson plaited her grey hair in silence and quietness, Leonard holding one end of it while she wove i**^ and admiring the colour and texture all the time, with a sort of implied dissatisfaction at the auburn colour of his own curls, which was only half-comforted away by Miss Benson's information, Ihat, if he lived long enough, his hair would be like hers. Mr Benson, who had looked old and frail while he was yet but young, was now stationary as to the date of his appearance. But there was something more of nervous restlessness in his voice and ways than formerly ; that was the only change six years had brought to him. And as for Sally, she chose to forget age and the passage of years altogether, and had as much work in her, to use her own expression, as she had at sixteen ; nor was her appearance very explicit as to the flight of time. Fifty, sixty, or seventy, she might be — not more than the last, not less than the first — though her usual answer to any circuitous inquiry as to her age was now (what it had been for many years past), " I'm feared I shall never see thirty again." Then as to the house. It was not one where the sitting-rooms are refurnished every two or three years ; not now, even (since Ruth came to share their living) a place where, as an article grew shabby or worn, a new one was purchased. The furniture looked poor, and the carpets almost threadbare ; but there was Such a dainty spirit of cleanliness abroad, such ex- quisite neatness of repair, and altogether so bright and cheerful a look about the rooms — everything so above- board — no shifts to conceal poverty under flimsy i! it li Xi • « 206 RUTH ornament—that many a splendid drawing-room would give less pleasure to those who could see evidences of character in inanimate things. But whatever poverty there might be in the house, there was full luxuriance in the little square wall-encircled garden, on two sides of which the parlour and kitchen looked. The labur- num-tree, which when Ruth came was like a twig stuck into the ground, was now a golden glory in spring* and a pleasant shade in summer. The wild hop, that Mr Benson had brought home from one of his country rambles, and planted by the parlour- window, while Leonard was yet a baby in his mother's arms, was now a garland over the casement, hanging down long tendrils, that waved in the breezes, and threw pleasant shadows and traceries, like some Bacchanalian carving, on the parlour walls, at " morn or dusky eve." The yellow rose had clambered up to the window of Mr Benson's bedroom, and its blossoi.i- laden branches were supported by a jargonelle pear tree rich in autumnal fruit. But, perhaps, in Ruth herself there was the greatest external change ; for of the change which had gone on in her heart, and mind, and soul, or if there had been any, neither she nor anyone around her was conscious ; but sometimes Miss Benson did say to Sally, " How very handsome Ruth is grown !" To ,which Sally made ungracious answer, " Yes ! she's well enough. Beauty is deceitful, and favour a snare, and I'm thank- ful the Lord has spared me from such man-traps and s^rmg-guns.'* But even Sally could not help secretly a minng Ruth. If her early brilliancy of colour was gone, a clear ivory skin, as smooth as satin, told of complete and perfect health, and was as lovely, if not so striking in eflFect, as the banished lilies and roses. Her hair had grown darker and deeper, in the shadow that lingered in its masse.s ; her eyes, even if you could have guessed that they had shed bitter tears in their day, had a thoughtful spiritual look about then', that made you wonder at their depth, and look— and look again. Ihe increase of dignity in her face had been imparted RUTH aoo to b<»r form. I do not know if she had grown taller since the birth of her child, but she looked as if she had. And although she had lived in a very humbie home, yet there was something about either it or her, or the people amongst whom she had been thrown during the last few years, which had so changed her, that whereas, six or seven years ago, you would have perceived that she was not altogether a lady by birth and education, yet now she might have been placed among the highest in the land, and would have been ♦aken by the most critical judge for their equal, although ignorant of their conventional etiquette — an ignorance which she would have acknowledged in a simple childlike way, being unconscious of any false shame. Her whole heart was in her boy. She often feared that she loved him too much— more than God Him- self—yet she could not bear to pray to have her love for her child lessened. But she would kneel down by his little bed at night— at the deep, still mid- night—with the stars that kept watch over Rizpah shining down upon her, and tell God what I have now told you, that she feared she loved her child too much, yet could not, would not, love him less ; and speak to Him of her one treasure as she could speak to no earthly friend. And so, unconsciously, her love for her child led her up to love to God, to the All- knowing, who read her ^eart. It might be superstition — I dare say it was— but, /mehow, she never lay down to rest without saying, as she looked her last on her boy, "Thy will, not mine, be done;^^ and even while she trembled and shrank with infinite dread from sounding the depths of what that will might be, she felt as if her treasure were more secure to waken up rosy and bright in the morning, as one over whose slumbers God's holy angels had watched, for the very words which she had turned away in sick terror from realizing the night before. Her daily absence at her duties to the Bradshaw I I ,' I .: 210 RUTH ii children only ministered to her love for Leonard. Everything does minister to love when its foundatioa lies deep in a true heart, and it was with an exquisite pang of delight that, after a moment of vague fear, tOb, mercy ! to myself I said, f Lucy should be dead !). she saw her child's bright face of welcome as he threw open the door every afternoon on her return home. For it was his 8ilentiy-«ppo nted work to listen for her knock, and rush breathless to let her in. If he were in the garden, or upstairs among the treasures of the lumber room, either Miss Benson, or her brother, or Sally, would fetch him to his happy little task ; no one 80 sacred as he to the allotted duty. And the joyous meeting was not deadened by custom, to either mother or child. Ruth gave the Bradshaws the highest satisfaction, as Mr Bradshaw often said both to her and to the Bensons ; indeed, she rather winced under his pompous appro- bation. But his favourite recreation was patronizing ; and when Ruth saw how quietly and meekly Mr Benson submitted to gifts and praise, when an honest word of affection, or a tacit, implied acknowledgment of equality, would have been worth everything said and done, she tried to be more meek in spirit, and to recognize the good that undoubtedly existed in Mr Bradshaw. He was richer and more prosperous than ever; — a keen, far-seeing man of business, with an undisguised contempt for all who failed in the success which he had achieved. But it was not alone those who were less fortunate in obtaining wealth than him- self that he visited with severity of judgement ; every moral error or delinquency came under his unsparing comment. Stained by no vice himself, either iu his own eyes or in that of any human being who cared to judge him, having nicely and wisely proportioned and adapted his means to his ends, he could afford to speak and act with a severity which was almost sanctimonious in its ostentation of thankfulness as to himself. Not a RUTH 211 miflfortaiie or a sin was brought to light but Mr Brad- ihaw could trace it to its cause in some former mode of action, which he had long ago foretold would lead to gbame. If ""^other's son turned out wild or bad, Mr Bradshaw h^ little sympathy ; it might have beer Erevented by a stricter rule, or more religious life at ome ; young Richard Bradshaw was quiet and steady, and other fatoers might have had sons like him if they had taken the same pains to enforce obedience. Richard was an only son, and yet Mr Bradshaw might venture to say, he had never had his own way in his life. Mrs Bradshaw was, he confessed (Mr Bradshaw did not dislike confessing his wife's errors), rather less firm than he should have liked with the girls ; and with some people, he believed, Jemima was rather headstrong ; but to his wishes she had always shown herself obedient. All children were obedient, if their parents were decided and authoritative ; and everyone would turn out well, if properly managed. If they did not prove good, they must take the consequences of their errors. Mrs Bradshaw murmured faintly at her husband when his back was turned ; but if his voice was heard, or his footsteps sounded in the distance, she was mute, and hurried ner children into the attitude or action most pleasing to their father. Jemima, it is true, rebelled against this manner of proceeding, which savoured to her a little of deceit ; but even she had not, as yet, overcome her awe of her father sufficiently to act independently of him, and according to her own sense of right — or rather, I should say, according to her OWL warm, passionate impulses. Before him, tbe wilfulness whicn made her dark eyes blaze out at times v^as hushed and still ; he had no idea of her self- tormeiicing, no notion of the almost southern jealousy which seemed to belong to her brunette complexion. Jemima was not pretty, the flatness and shortness of her face made her almost plain ; yet most people looked twice at her expressive countenance, at the eyes which ilanied or melted at every trifle, at the rich colour !.' H, --% II fi ;« V j i t I kl 212 RUTH which came at every expressed emotion into her usually sallow face^ at the faultless teeth which made her smile like a sunbeam. But then, again, when she thought she was not kindly treated^ when a suspicion crossed her mind, or when she was angry with herself, her lips were tight-pressed together, her colour was wan and almost livid, and a stormy gloom clouded her eyes as with a film. But before her father her words were few, and he did not notice looks or tones. Her brother Richard had been equally silent before his father, in boyhood and early youth ; but since he had gone to be clerk in a London house, preparatory to assuming his place as junior partner in Mr Brad- shaw's business, he spoke more on his occasional visits at home. And very proper and highly moral was his conversation ; set sentences of goodness, which were like the flowers that children stick in the ground, and that have not sprung upwards from roots— deep down in the hidden life and experience of the heart. He was as severe a judge as his father of other people's conduct, but you felt that Mr Bradshaw was sincere in his condemnation of all outward error and vice, and that he would try himself by the same laws as he tried others ; somehow, Richard^s words were frequently heard with a lurking distrust, and many shook their heads over the pattern son ; but then it was those whose sons had gone astray, and been condemned, in no private or tender manner, by Mr Bradshaw, so it mignt be revenge in them. Still, Jemima felt that all was not right ; her heart sympathized in the rebellion against his father's commands, which her brother had confessed to her in an unusual moment of confidence, but her uneasy conscience condemned the deceit which he had practised. The brother and sister were sitting alone over a blazing Christmas fire, and Jemima held an old new<:- I»aper in her hand to shield her face from the hot ight. They were talking of family events, when, during a pause, Jemima's eye caught the name of a great actor, who had lately given prominence and RUTH 213 life to a character in one of Shakspeare's plays. The criticism in the paper was fine, and warmed Jemima's heart. " How I should like to see a play ! " exclaimed she. " Should you ? " said her brother, listlessly. " Yes, to be sure ! Just hear this I " and she began to read a fine passage of criticism. " Those newspaper people can make an article out of anything," said he, yawning. "I've seen the man myself, and it was all very well, but nothing to make such a fuss about.*' " You ! you seen ! Have you seen a play, Richard ? Oh, why did you never* tell me before ? Tell me all about it ! Why did you never name seeing in your letters .'' " He half smiled, contemptuously enough. " Oh ! at first it strikes one rather, but after a while one cares no more for the theatre than one does for mince-pies." "Oh, I wish I might go to London ! " said Jemima, impatiently. " I've a great mind to ask papa to let me go to the George Smiths', and then I could see . I would not think him like mince-pies." '' You must not do any such thing ! " said Richard, now neither yawning nor contemptuous. " My father would never allow you to go to the theatre ; and the George Smiths are such old fogeys — they would be sure to tell." " How do you go, then ? Does my father give you leave.''" " Oh ! many things are right for men which are not for girls." Jemima sat and pondered. Richard wished he had not been so confidential. " You need not name it," said he, rather anxiously. "Name what?" said she, startled, for her thoughts had gone far a-field. " Oh, name my going once or twice to the theatre I " " No, I shan't name it ! " said she. " No one here would care to hear it." But it was with some little surprise, and almost with f il If ti M ' i 1 ll n 1 m 1 "A I- 1 214 RUTH a feeling of disgust, that she heard Richard join with her father in condemning some one, and add to Mr Bradshaw's list of offences, by alleging that the young man was a playgoer. He did not think his sister heard his words. Mary and Elizabeth were the two girls whom Ruth had in charge; they resembled Jemima more than their brother in character. The household rules were occasionally a little relaxed in their favour, for Mary, the el ler, was nearly eight years younger than Jemima^ and three intermediate children had died. Tliey loved Ruth dearly, made a great pet of Leonard, and had many profound secrets together, most of which related to their wonders if Jemima and Mr Farquhar would ever be married. They watched their sister closely ; and every day had some fresh confidence to make to each other, confirming or discouraging to their hopes. Ruth rose early, and shared the household work with Sally and Miss Benson, till seven ; and then she helped Leonard to dress, and had a quiet time alone with him till prayers and breakfast At nine she was to be at Mr Bradshaw's house. She sat in the room with Mary and Elizabeth during the Latin, the writing, and arithmetic lessons, which they received from masters ; then she read, and walked with them, they clinging to her as to an elder sister ; she dined with her pupils at the family lunch, and reached home by four. That happy home — those quiet days ! And so the peaceful days passed on into weeks, and months, and years, and Ruth and Leonard grew and strengthened into the riper beauty of their respective ages ; while as yet no touch of decay had come on the quaint, primitive elders of the household. CHAPTER XX It was no wonder that the lookers-on were perplexed as to the state of affairs between Jemima and IVh- Far- quhar, for they too were sorely puzzled themselves at RUTH 216 the sort of relationship between them. Was it love, or was it not? that was the question in Mr Farquhar's mind. He hoped it was not ; he believed it was not ; and yet he felt as if it were. There was something preposterous, he thought, in a man, nearly forty years of age, being in love with a girl of twenty. He had gone on reasoning through all the days of his manhood on the idea of a staid, noble-minded wife, grave and sedate, the fit companion in experience of her husband. He had spoken with admiration of reticent characters, fu)i ' self-control and dignity ; and he hoped — he tn "^hat all this time he had not been allowing hiiii jnconsciously to fall in love with a wild- hearted, impetuous girl, who knew nothing of life beyond her father's house, and who chafed under the strict discipline enforced there. For it was rather a suspicious symptom of the state of Mr Farquhar's affections, that he had discovered the silent rebellion which continued in Jemima's heart, unperceived by any of her own family, against the severe laws and opinions of her father. Mr Farquhar shared in the?e opinions ; but in him they were modified, and took a milder form. Still he approved of much that Mr Brad- shaw did and said ; and this made it all the more strange that he should wince so for Jemima, whenever anything took place which he instinctively knew that she would dislike. After an evening at Mr Brad- shaw's, when Jemima had gone to the very verge of questioning or disputing some of her father's severe judgements, Mr Farquhar went home in a dissatisfied, restless state of mind, which he was almost afraid to analyse. He admired the inflexible integrity — and almost the pomp of principle — evinced by Mr Bradshaw on every occasion ; he wondered how it was that Jemima could not see how grand a life might be, whose every action was shaped in obedience to some eternal law ; instead of which, he was afraid she rebfclled against every law, and was only guided by impulse. Mr Farquhar had been taught to dread impulses as promptings of the devil. Sometimes, if < ; ■i .! • »-' 216 RUTH p ', ^; I i he tried to present her father's opinions before her in another form, so as to bring h-mself and her rather more into that state of agreement he longed for, she flashed out upon him with the indignation of difference that she dared not show to, or before, her father, as if she had some diviner instinct which taught her more truly than they knew, with all their experience; at least, in her first expressions there seemed something good and fine ; but opposition made her angry and irritable, and the arguments which he was constantly provoking (whenever he was with her in her father's absence) frequently ended in some vehemence of expression on her part that offended Mr Farquhar, who did not see how she expiated her anger in tears and self-reproaches when alone in her chamber. Then he would lecture himself severely on the interest he could not help feeling in a wilful girl ; he would deter- mine not to interfere with her opinions in future, and yet, the very next time they differed, he strove to argue her into harmony with himself, in spite of all resolutions to the contrary. Mr Bradshaw saw just enough of this interest which Jrmima had excited in his partner's mind, to deter- mine him in considering their future marriage as a settled affair. The fitness of the thing had long ago struck him ; her father's partner— so the fortune he meant to give her might continue in the business ; a man of such steadiness of character, and such a capital eye for a desirable speculation as Mr Farquhar —just the right age to I'.nite the paternal with the conjugal affection, and cc isequently the very man for Jemima, who had something unruly in her, which might break out under a regime less wisely adjusted to the circumstances than was Mr Bradshaw's (in his own opinion) — a house ready-furnished, at a convenient distance from her home— no near relations on Mr Farquhar's side, who might be inclined to consider his residence as their own for an indefinite time, and so add to the household expenses— in short, what could be more suitable in every way,!* Mr Br:;dshaw re- RUTH ?A7 spected the very self-restraint he thought he saw in Mr Farquhar's demeanour, attributing it to a wise desire to wait until trade should be rather more slack, and the man of business more at leisure to become the lover. As for Jemima, at times she thought she almost hated Mr Farquhar. "What business has he," she would think, "to lecture me? Often I can hardly bear it from papa, and I will not bear it from him. He treats me just like a child, and as if I should lose all my present opinions when I know more of the world. I am sure 1 should like never to know the world, if it was to make me think as he does, hard man that he is ! I wonder what made him take Jem Brown on as gardener again, if he does not believe that above one criminal in a thousand is restored to goodness. I'll ask him, some day, if that was not acting on impulse rather than principle. Poor impulse ! how you do get abused. But I will tell Mr Farquhar, I will not let him interfere with me. If I do what papa bids me, no one has a right to notice whether I do it willingly or not." So then she tried to defy Mr Farquhar, by doing and saying things that she knew he would disapprove. She went so far that he was seriously grieved, and did not even remonstrate and "lecture," and then she was disappointed and irritated ; for, somehow, with all her indignation at interference, she liked to be lec- tured by him ; not that she was aware of this liking of hers, but still it would have been more pleasant to be scold o" " No, not even to Mrs Denbigh." "Well, then, the other day— last Friday, Mimie " Jemima ! " interrupted the more conscientious Elizabeth. '* Jemima, if it must be so," jerked out Mary, " sent me to her desk for an envelope, and what do you think I saw .'' " " What .''" asked Elizabeth, expecting nothing less than a red-hot Valentine, signed Walter Farquhar, pro Bradshaw, Farquhar, and Co., in full. "Why a piece of paper, with dull-looking lines upon it, just like the scientific dialogues ; and ! re- membered all about it. It was once when Mr Farquhar had been telling us that a bullet does not go in a straight line, but in a something curve, and he drew some lines on a piece of paper ; and Mimie " " Jemima," put in Elizabeth. " Well, well ! she had treasured it up, and written in a corner, * W. F., April 3rd.' Now, that's rather like love, is not it ? For Jemima hates useful informa- tion just as much as I do, and that's saying a great deal ; and yet she had kept this paper, and dated it." " If that's all, I know Diet keeps a paper with Miss Benson's name written on it, and yet he's not in love with her ; and perhaps Jemima may like Mr Farquhar, rtik RUTH 219 and he may not like her. It seems such a little while since her hair was turned np^ and he has always been a grave middle-aged man ever since I can recollect ; and then, have you never noticed how often he finds fault with her — almost lectures her ? " " To be sure/' said Mary ; " but he may be in love, for all that. Jui^t think how often papa lectures mamma ; and yet, of course, they're in love with each other." " Well ! we shall see,** said Elizabeth. Poor Jemima little thought of the four sh? p eyes that watched her daily course while she sat a^ ae, as she fancied, with her secret in her own room. For, in a passionate fit of grieving, at the impatient hasty temper which had made her so seriously displease Mr Farquhar that he had gone away without remon-^ strance, without more leave-taking than a distant bow, she had begun to suspect that rather than not be noticed at all by him, rather than be an object of indifference to him — oh ! far rather would she be an object of anger and upbraiding ; and the thoughts that followed this confession to herself, stunned and bewildered her ; and for once that they made her dizzy with hope, ten times they made her sick with fear. For an instant she planned to become and to be all he could wish her ; to change her very nature for him. And then a great gush of pride came over her, and she set her teeth tight together, and determined that he should either love her as she was, or not at all. Unless he could take her with all her faults, she would not care for his regard ; ** love*' was too noble a word to call such cold calculating feeling as his must be, who went about with a pattern idea in his mind, trying to find a wife to match. Besides, there was something degrading, Jemima thought, in trying to alter herself to gain the love of any human creature. And yet, if he did not care for her, if this late indifference were to last, what a great shroud was drawn over life ! Could she bear it.'* From the agony she dared not look at, but which iW 220 RUTH w she was going to risk encountering, she was aroused by the presence of her mother. " Jemima ! your father wants to speak to you in the dmmg-room." " What for ? " asked the girl. " Oh ! he is fidgeted by something Mr Farquhar said to me, and which I repeated. I am sure I thought there was no harm in it, and your father always likes me to tell him what everybody says in his absence. '' Jemima went with a heavy heart into her father's presence. He was walking up and down the room, and did not see her at first. " Oh, Jemima ! is that you ? Has your mother told you what 1 want to speak to you about .^ " *' No ! " said Jemima. " Not exactly. " " She has been telling me, what proves to me how very seriously vou must have displeased and offended Mr I'arquhar, before he could have expressed himself to her as he did, when he left the house : vou know what he said ? " ' tc u^^ ■ ^^^ Jemima, her heart swelling within her. He has no right to say anything about me.'' She was desperate, or she durst not have said this before her father. »/r"^® j^i^^* •~'^^^* **<* y°^ ™®*°* Jemima?" said MrBradshaw, turning sharp round. "Surely you must know that I hope he may one day be your husband ; that is to say, if you prove yourself worthy of the excellent training I have given you. I cauuot suppose xMr Farquhar would take any undisciplined girl as a wife." Jemima held tight by a chair near which she was standing. She did not speak ; her father was pleased by her silence— it was the way in which he liked his projects to be received. " But you cannot suppose," he continued, " that Mr I'arquhar will consent to marry you—" " Consent to marry me ! " repeated Jemima, in a low RUTH 221 tone of brooding indignation ; were those the terms upon which her rich, woman's heart was to be given, with a calm consent of acquiescent acceptance, but a little above resignation on the part of the receiver ? — " if you give way to a temper which, although you have never dared to show it to me, I am well aware exists, although I hoped the habits of self-examination I had instilled had done much to cure you of manifest- ing it. At one time, Richard promised to be the more headstrong of the two ; now, 1 must desire you to take pattern by him. Yes,'' he continued, falling into his old train of thought, " it would be a most fortunate connexion for you in every way. I should have you under my own eye, and could still assist you in the formatiou of your character, and I should be at hand to strengthen and confirm your principles. Mr Farquhar's connexion with the firm would be convenient and agreeable to me in a pecuniary point of view. He " Mr Bradshaw was going on in his enumeration of the advantages which he in particular, and Jemima in the second place, would derive from this marriage, when his daugnter spoke, at first so low that he could not hear her, as he walked up and down the room with his creaking boots, and he had to stop to listen. " Has Mr Farquhar ever spoken to you about it ? " Jemima's cheek was flushed as she asked the question ; she wished that she might have been the person to whom he had first addressed himself. Mr Bradshaw answered, " No ! not spoken. It has been implied between us for some time. At least, I have been so avare of his intentions that I have made several allusions, in the course of business, to it, as a thing that might take place. He can hardly have misunderstood ; he must have seen that I perceived his design, and approved of it," "aid Mr Bradshaw, rather doubtfully ; as he remembered how very little, in fact, passed between him and his partner which could have reference to the subject, to any but a mind prepared to receive it. Perhaps Mr Farquhar had not really thought of it ; -* 222 RUTH ! « I , I 1. I I ) » ? but then again, that would imply that his own penetra tion had been mistaken, a thing not impossible cer- tamly, but quite beyond the range of probability So he reassured himself, and (as he thought) his daughter by saying, o > "The whole thing is so suitable— the advantages *"8ing from the connexion are so obvious ; besides cIm'J *"l ^?**® *'^"®' ^^°™ ™*°y l»*tle speeches ot Mr farquhar s, that he contemplates marriage at no very distant time ; and he seldom leaves Eccleston and visits few families besides our own— certainlv, none that can compare with ours in the advantages you have all received in moral and religious training." But then Mr Bradshaw was checked in his implied praises of himself (and only himself could be his martingale when he once set out on such a career), by a recollection that Jemima must not feel too secure, as she might become If he dwelt too much on the advantages of her being her father's daughter. Accordingly, he said: "But you must be aware, Jemima, that you do very little credit to the education I have given you, when you make such an impression as you must have done to-day, before Mr Farquhar could have said what he did of you ' ' What did he say ? " asked Jemima, still in the low, nusky tone of suppressed anger. " Your mother says he remarked to Jier, ' What a pity it is, that Jemima cannot maintain her opinions without going into a passion ; and what a pity it is, that her opinions are such as to sanction, rather than curb, these fits of rudeness and anger ! ' " "Did he say that.>« said Jemima, in a still lower tone, not questioning her father, but speaking rather xo ucrscix* « V ^ ^*^® °** ^°"^* ^® ^^^" replied her father, gravely. Your mother is in the habit of repeating accurately to me what takes place in my absence ; besides which. the whole speech is not one of hers ; she has not altered a word in the repetition, I am convinced. J have trained her to habits of accuracy very unusual in a woman." ilUTH 223 i ' ^t another time, Jemima might have beea inclined to rebel against this system of carrying constant in-> telligence to headquarters, which she had long ago felt as an insurmountable obstacle to any free communica- tion with her mother ; but now, her father's means of acquiring knowledge faded into insignificance before the niiture of the information he imparted. She stood Suite still, grasping the chair-back, longing to be ismissed. " I have said enough now, I hope, to make you be- have in a becoming manner to Mr Farquhar ; if your temper is too unruly to be always under your own control, at least have respect to my injunctions, and take some pains to curb it before him," '' May I go ? " asked Jemima, chafing more and more. "You may," said her father. When she left the room he gently rubbed his hands together, satisfied with the effect he had produced, and wondering b->w it was, that one so well brought up as his daughter, could ever say or do anything to provoke such a remark from Mr Farquhar as that which he had heard repeated. " Noth r^' can be more gentle and decile than she is when spoken to m the proper manner. I must give Farquhar a hint," said Mr Bradshaw to himself. Jemima rushet^ upstairs, and locked herself into her room. She began pacing up and down at first, without shedding a tear ; but then she suddenly stopped, and burst out crying with passionate in- dignation. " So ! I am to behave well, not because it is right — not because it is right — but to show off before Mr Farquhar. Oh, Mr Farquhar ! " said she, suddenly changing to a sort of u;ibraiding tone of voice, " I did not think so of you an hour ago. I did not think you could choose a wife in that cold-hearted way, though you did profess to act ' / rule and line ; but you think to have me, do you.'' because it is fitting and suitable, and you want to be married, and can't spare time for wooi ag " (she was lashing herself up by an exaggeration of all hei father had said). " And how often I have thought i I ft = ! I f 224 RUTH vou were too grand for me ! but now I know betttr Now 1 can believe that all you do is done from cal- culation ; you are good because it adds to your business credit— you talk in that high strain about principle because it sounds well, and is respectable— and even these things are better than your cold way of lookinjr out for a wife, just as you would do for a carpet, to add to your con)forts, and settle you respectably. But 1 won't be that wife. You shall see something of me which shall make you not acauiesce so quietly in the arrangements of the firm." She cried too vehemently to go on thinking or speaking. Then she stopped, aud said: •' Only an hour ago 1 was hoping— I don't know what I was hoping— but 1 thought— oh ! how 1 was deceived!— I thought he had a true, deep, lovintf, manly heart, which God might let me win ; but now 1 know he has only a calm, calculating head " If Jemima had been vehement and passionate before this conversation with her father, it was better than the sullen reserve she assumed now whenever Mr Farquhar came to the house. He felt it deeply ; no reasoning with himself took oflF the pain he experi- enced. He tried to speak on the subjects she liked, in the manner she liked, until he despised himself for the unsuccessful efforts. He stood between her and her father once or twice, in obvious inconsistency with his own previously ex- pressed opinions; and Mr Bradshaw piqued himself upon his admirable management, in making Jemima feel that she owed his indulgence or forbearance to Mr Farquhar's interference ; but Jemima— perverse, miserable Jemima— thought that she hated Mr Farquhar all the more. She respected her father inflexible, much more than her father pompously giving up to Mr Farquhar's subdued remonstrances on her behalf. Even Mr Bradshaw was perplexed, and shut himself up to consider how Jemima was to be made more fully to understand his wishes and her own interests. But there was nothing to take hold of as a ground for any RUTH further ronv -.1 1 m I . II is- 230 RUTH kind to Jemima, to tell them why she was goinff, and she feared now lest they should feel a little hurt that they werenot asked too. But she need not have been atraid. They were glad and proud of the attention to lier, and never thought of themselves. " Ruthie, what gown shall you wear to-night } vour dark grey one, I suppose?" asked Miss Benson. Yes, I suppose so. I never thought of it: but that IS my best.'*' " WeU, then, I shall quill up a ruff for you. You know I am a famous quiller of net." Ruth iid wVr^"^- ^'"^ *^^ «ft^ ''^^) thlt he would go and watch Jemima once more, and if her . RUTH 233 temper got the better of her^ and she showed the old gollenness again, and gave the old proofs of indiffer- ence to his good opinion, he would give her up altogether, and seek a wife elsewhere. He sat watch- ing her with folded arms, and in silence. Altogether they were a pleasant family party ! Jemima wanted to wind a skein of wool. Mr Far- quhar sav t, and came to her, anxious to do her this little service. She turned away pettishly, and asked Ruth to hold it for her. Ruth was hurt for Mr Farquhar, and looked sorrow- fully at Jemima ; but Jemima would not see her glance of upbraiding, as Ruth, hoping that she would relent, delayed a little to comply with her request. Mr Farquhar did ; and went back to his seat to watch them both. He saw Jemima turbulent and stormy in look; he saw Ruth, to all appearance, heavenly calm as the angels, or with only that little tinge of sorrow which her friend's behaviour had called forth. He saw the unusual beauty of her face and form, which he had never noticed before ; and he saw Jemima, with all the brilliancy she once possessed in eyes and com- plexion, dimmed and faded. He watched Ruth, speaking low and soft to the little girls, who seemed to come to her in every difficulty ; and he remarked her gentle firmness when their bedtime came, and they pleaded to stay up longer (their father was absent in his counting-house, or they would not have dared to do so). He liked Ruth's soft, distinct, unwavering " No ! you must go. You must keep to what is right," far better than the good-natured yielding to entreaty he had formerly admired in Jemima. He was wandering off into this comparison, while Ruth, with delicate and unconscious tact, was trying to lead Jemima into some subject which should take her away from the thoughts, whatever they were, that made her so ungracious and rude. Jemima was ashamed of herself before Ruth, in a way which she had never been before anyone else. 3he valued Ruth's good opinion so highly, that she t •< j i J ! I i ^r* ^i^ , -* .;,-^ •f ft* 'i ■ m 234 RUTH dreaded lest her friend should perceive her faults. She put a check upon herself— a check at first ; but ■after a little time she had forgotten something of her trouble, and listened to Ruth, and questioned her about Leonard, and smiled at his little witticisms ; and onlv the sighs, that would come up from the very force of habit, brought back the consciousness of her un- happiness. Before the end of the evening, Jemima had allowed herself to speak to Mr Farquhar in the old way— questioning, differing, disputing. She was recalled to the remembrance of that miserable conver- sation by the entrance of her father. After that she was silent. But he had seen her face more animated, and bright with a smile, as she spoke to Mr Farquhar ; and although he regretted the loss of her complexion I am glad you were pleased/' said she, very cold Tljen, after a nause, she added, "But you have not told me what Mrs Denbigh had to do with my cood behaviour. j e> "^ "Did not she speak to you about it?" asked Mrs isradshaw, lookmg up. " No ; why should she. She has no right to criti cise what I do. She would not be so impertinent " said Jemima, feeling very uncomfortable and sus- picious. I, A y®*' ^j^f • *^® ^^^^^ ^''^^ *>ad a n^ht, for papa had desired her to do it." ^^ u ^^P*f esired her ! What do you mean . mamma ^ " Uh, dear! I dare say I should not have told you, said Mrs Bradshaw, perceivmg, from Jemima's tone of voice, that something had gone wrong. '' Only you spoke as if it would be impertinent in Mrs JJenbigh, and I am sure she would not do anvthine that was impertinent. You know, it would be but right for her to do what papa told L-r ; and he said a great deal to her, the other day, about finding out why you were so cross, and bringing you right And you are right now dear ! " said Mrs Bradshaw, sooth- ingly, thinking tnat Jemima was annoved (like a good child) at the recollection of hov naug! iv she had ''Then papa is going to give Mr Denbigh a gown because I was civil to Mr Farquhar I ^t n ^ht?" "v ' f ®*^ ■ " ^'^ ^^ Bradshaw, njofe and more i Tightened at Jemima's angry manner t speakiiiff- low-toned, but very inriiruant. Jemima remen bered , with nouldered nger, Ruth's pleading way of .riling uer rom her sullenuess tiie night before. Management erywhere ! but in this case It was peculiarly revolti : so much so, that she could hardly bear to believe tiiut the seemingly-trans- parent Ruth had lent he self to it. RUTH 23» tt sp )ke to her remember it last Friday Frida;', was Are you ire, imma chat papa asked Mrs Denbigh to maKe me ehave ifferently? . aeems no -trange." ''I am quite sure. He morning in the itudy. I br cause Mrs Dean was working here." Jemima remembered now that she had gone int< i\ school-room on the Friday, and found her 8i> «;r3 loutiiring about, and wondering what pana could pu^ sibly want with Mrs Denbigh. After this conversation. Jet nma repais» ^ all Ruth's: timid efforts to a."- certain the cause =f her disturbance, md to help her if she could. Ru h's tend sympa- thizing manner, as ^he saw Jemima iai wretched, was dista teful to the lattf degree. Si- coul 1 not say that M ., duct was positively wrong —it miifbt right; but it was inexpress^ibly think of her father conso tir^ w Iv loo a t :g more highest Denb.^t's con- e^ en u*^ quite •pugniiut t h a stranger her to (a week ag she almost considered tut . a? i sister) how ta mauage his daughter, so as t > >cain the end he wished £or ; yes, even if that ej ' was tor her own good. 7>he was thankful aud slad to see a brown paper parcel lying on the hall lablo, with a note in Ruth's nandwriting, addressee to her father. She knew what it vvas, the grey silk dres:^. ' ^ she was sure Ruth, would neve*- accept. No one 1 :nceforward c uduce Jemima to enter into conversation with M ubar. She suspected Uianoeuvring in the simples; ac >ns, and was miserable in this constant state of suspi ion. She would not aUow herself to like Mr Farqiuiar, even when he said things the most after her own heart. She heard him one evening, talking with her father about the prin- ciples of trade. Her Tath'^r stood out for the keenest, aharp st work, consisteut »ith honesty ; if he had not been er father she would, perhaps, have thought some of hi.' sayings inconsistent with true Christian honesty. He was for driving hard bargains, exacting interest and payment of just bills to a day. That was (he said) 240 RUTH the only way in which trade could he conducted. Once allow a margin of uncertainty, or where feelings, instead of maxims, were to be the guide, and all hope of there ever being any good men of business was ended. " Suppose a delay of a month in requiring payment might save a man's credit — prevent his becomiog a bankrupt?" put in Mr Farquhar. "I would not give it him. I would let him have money to set up again as soon as he had passed the Bankruptcy Court ; if he never passed, I might, in some cases, make him an allowance, but I would always keep my justice and my charity separate." "And yet charity (in your sense of the word) degrades ; justice, tempered with mercy and considera- tion, elevates." "That is not justice — ^justice is certain and in- flexible. No ! Mr Farquhar, you must not allow any Quixotic notions to mingle with your conduct as a tradesman." And so they went on ; Jemima's face glowing with sympathy in all Mr Farquhar said ; till once, on look- ing up suddenly with sparkling eyes, she saw a glance of her father's which told her, as plain as words could say, that he was watching the effect of Mr Farquhar's speeches upon his daughter. She was chilled thence- forward ; she thought her father prolonged the argu- ment, in order to call out those sentiments which he knew would most recommend his partner to his daughter. She would so fain have let herself love Mr Farquhar ; but this constant manoeuvring, in which she did not feel clear that he did not take a passive part, made her sick at heart. She even wished that they might not go through the form of pretending to try to gain her consent to the marriage, if it involved all this premeditated action and speech-making — such moving about of every one into their right places, like pieces at chess. She felt as if she would rather be bought openly, like an Oriental daughter, where no one is degraded in their own eyes by being parties to RUTH 241 each a contract The consequences of all this "admir- able management " of Mr Bradshaw's would have been very unfortunate to Mr Farquhar (who was innocent of all connivance in any of the plots — indeed, would have been as much annoyed at them as Jemima, had he been aware of them), but that the impression made upi '1 him by Ruth on the evening I have so lately destiribed, was deepened by the contrast which her behaviour made to Miss Bradshaw's on one or two more recent occasions. There was no use, he thought, in continuing atten- tions so evidently distasteful to Jemima. To her, a yoang girl hardly out of the schoolroom, he probably ai)peared like an old man ; and he might even lose the friendship with which she used to regard him, and which was, and ever would be, very dear to him, if he persevered in trying to be considered as a lover. He should always feel a£Fectionately towards her ; her very &alts gave her an interest in his eyes, for which he had blamed himself most conscientiously and most uselessly when he was looking upon her as his future wife, but which the said conscience would l($arn to approve of when she sank down to the place of a young mend, over whom he might exercise a good and salutary interest. Mrs Denbigh, if not many months older in years, had known sorrow and cares so early that she was much older in character. Besides, her shy reserve, and her quiet daily walk within the lines of duty, were much in accordance with Mr Farquhar's notion of what a wife should be. Still, it was a wrench to take his affections away from Jemima. If she had not helped him to do so by every means in her power, he could never have accomplished it. Yes ! by every means in her power had Jemima alienated her lover, her beloved — for so he was in &et. And now her quick-sighted eyes saw he was gone for ever— past recall ; for did not her jealous, sore heart feel, even before he himself was conscious of the fiict^ that he was drawn towards sweet, lovely, compoe^d, and dignified Ruth— one who always thought before Q J J : I m 242 RUTH she spoke (as Mr Farquhar used to bid Jemima do)— who never was tempted by sudden impulse, but walked the world calm and self-governed. What now availed Jemima's reproaches, as she remembered the days when he had watched her with earnest, attentive eyes, as he now watched Ruth ; and the times since, when, led astray by her morbid fancy, she had turned away from all his advances ! ** It was only in March— last March, he called me * dear Jemima.' Ah, don't I remem>>er it well ? The pretty nosegay of green-house flowers that he gave me in exchange for the wild daffodils — and how he seemed to care for the flowers I gave him— and how he looked at me, and thanked me — that is all gone and over now.'* Her sisters came ^'n bright and glowing. " Oh, Jemima, how nice and cool you are, sitting in this shady room ! " (She had felt it even chilly.) " We have been such a long walk ! We are so tired. It is so hot." " Why did you go, then } " said she. " Oh ! we wanted to go. We would not have stayed at home on any account. It has been so pleasant/' said Mary. ** We've been to Scaurside Wood, to gather wild strawberries," said Elizabeth. "Such a quantity! We've left a whole basketful in the dairy. Mr Far- quhar says hell teach us how to dress them in the way he learnt in Germany, if we can get him some hock. Do you think papa will let us have some .'* ". "Was Mr Farquhar with you?" asked Jemima, a dull light coming into aer eyes. "Yes, we tcud him this morning that mamma wanted us to take some old linen to the lame man at Scaurside Farm, and that we meant to coax Mrs Den- bigh to let us go into the wood and gather straw- berries,'' said Elizabeth. " I thought he would make some excuse and come," said the quick-witted Mary, as eager and thoughtless an observer of one love affair as of another, and quite RUTH 243 forgetting that, not many weeks ago, she had fancied an attachment between him and Jemima. "Did you? I did not," replied Elizabeth. "At least I never thought about it. I was quite startled when I heard his horse's feet behind us on the road." " He said he was going to the farm, and could take our basket. Was not it kind of him .'' " Jemima did not answer, so Mary continued : " You know it's a great pull up to the farm, and we were so hot already. The road was quite white and baked ; it hurt my eyes terribly. I was so glad when Mrs Denbigh said we might turn into the wood. The light was quite green there, the branches are so thick overhead. *' " And there are whole beds of wild strawberries," said Elizabeth, taking up the tale now Mary was out of breath. Mary fanned herself with her bonnet, while Elizabeth went on : "You know where the grey rock crops out, don't you, Jemima ? Well, there was a complete carpet of strawberry runners. So pretty ! And we could hardly step without treading the little bright scarlet berries under foot." " We did so wish for Leonard," put in Mary. " Yes ! but Mrs Denbigh gathered a great many for him. And Mr Farquhar gave her all his." "I thought you saia he had gone on to Dawson's farm," said Jemima. "Oh, yes ! he just went up there ; and then he left his horse there, like a wise man, and came to us in the pretty, eool, green wood. Oh, Jemima, it was so pretty— little flecks of light coming down here and there through the leaves, and quivering on the ground. You must go with us to-morrow." " Yes," said Mary, " we're going again to-morrow, We could not gather nearly all the strawberries." " And Leonard is to go too, to-morrow." " Yes ! we thought of such a capital plan. That's to say, Mr Farquhar thought of it— we wanted to carry *'*l ',- I n 24* RUTH Leonard up the hill in a king's cushion, but Mrs Den- bigh would not hear of it/' " She said it would tire us so ; and yet she wanted him to gather strawberries ! " " And so," interrupted Mary, for bv this time the two girls were almost speaking together, " Mr Far- quhar is to bring him up before him on his horse." "You'll go with us, won*t you, dear Jemima?" asked Elizabeth ; " it will be at " " No ! 1 can't go ! " said Jemima, abruptly. " Don't ask me — I can't.' The little girls were hushed into silence by her manner; for whatever she might be to those above her in age and position, to those below her Jemima was almost invariably gentle. She felt that they were wondering at her. " Go upstairs and take off your things. You know papa does not like you to come into this room in the shoes in which you have been out." She was glad to cut her sisters short in the details which they were so mer<^ilessly inflicting — details which she must harden he^'self to, before she could hear them quietly and unmoved. She saw that she had lost her place as the first object in Mr Farquhar's eyes — a position she had hardly cared for while she was secure in the enjoyment of it ; but the charm of it now was redoubled, in her acute sense of how she had forfeited it bv her own doing, and her own fault. For if he were tiie cold, calculating man her father bad believed him to be, and had represented him as being to her, would he care for a portionless widow in humble circumstances like Mrs Denbigh ; no money, no con- nexion, encumbered with her boy } The very action which proved Mr Farquhar to be lost to Jemima, re- instated him on his throne in her fancy. And she must go on in hushed quietness, quivering with ever) fresh token of his preference for another ! That other. too, one so infinitely more worthy of him than herself; so that she could not have even the poor comfort of thinking, that he had no discrimination, and was RUTH 245 throwing himself away on a common or worthiest person. Ruth wm heautiful, gentle, good, and con- scientious. The hot colour flushed up into Jemima's s^ow face as she became aware that, even while she acknowledged these ezceHences on Mrs Denbigh's part, she hated her. The recollection of her marble face wearied her e^n to sickness ; the tones of her low voice were irritating from their very softness. Her goodness, undoubted as it was, was more distaste- ful than many faults which had more savour of human Btrugffle in them. ''What was this terrible demon in her heart .^'' asked Jemima's better angel. ''Was she, indeed, given up to possession ? Was not this the old sting- ing hatred which had prompted so many crimes } The hatred of all sweet virtues which might win the love denied to us.^ The old anger that wrought in the elder brother's heart, till it ended in the murder of the gentle Abel, while yet the world was young ? " " Oh, God ! help me ! I did not know I was so wicked,'' cried Jemima aloud in her agony. It had been a terrible glimpse into the dark lurid gulf — the capability for evil, in her heart. She wrestled with the demon, but he would not depart ; it was to be a struggle whether or not she was to be given up to him, in this her time of sore temptation. All the next day long, she sat and pictured the happy strawberry gathering going on, even then, in pleasant Scaursius Wood. Every touch of fancy which could heighten her idea of their enjoyment, and of Mr Farquhar's attention to the blushing, con- scious Ruth — every such touch which would add a pang to her self-reproach and keen jealousy, was added by her imagination. She got up and walked about, to try and stop her over-busy fancy by bodily exercise. But she had eaten little all day, and was weak and faint in the intense heat of the sunny garden. Even the long grass walk under the filbert hedge, was parched and dry in the glowing August suu. Yet her sisters found her there when they re- 246 RUTH turned, walking quickly up and domi, as if to warm herself on some winter's day. They were very weary ; and not half so communicative as on the day before, now that Jemima was craving for every detail to add to her agony. " Yes ! Leonard came up before Mr Farquhar. Ob ! how hot it is, Jemima ; do sit down, and I'll tell you about it, but I can't if you keep walking so ! " ** I can't sit still to-day," said Jemima, springing up from the turf as soon as she had sat down. " Tell me ! I can hear you while I walk about." " Oh ! but I can't shout ; I can hardly speak I am so tired. Mr Farquhar brought Leonard " " You've told me that before," said Jemima, sharply. *' Well ! I don't know what else to tell. Somebody had been since yesterday, and gathered nearly all the strawberries off the grey rock. Jemima ! Jemima ! " said Elizabeth, faintly, " I am so dizzy — I think I am ill." The next minute the tired girl lay swooning on the grass. It was an outlet for Jemima's fierce energy. With a strength she had never again, and never had known before, she lifted up her fainting sister, and bidding Mary run and clear the way, she carried her in through the open garden-door, up the wide old- fashioned stairs, and laid her on the bed in her u>vn room, where the breeze from the window came softly and pleasantly through the green shade of the vine- leaves and jessamine. **Give me the water. Run for mamma, Mary," said Jemima, as she saw that the fietinting-fit did not yield to the usual remedy of a horizontal position, and the water sprinkling. " Dear ! dear Lizzie I " said Jemima, kissing the pale, unconscious face. '' I think you loved me, darling." The long walk on the hot day had been too much for the delicate Elizabeth, who was fast outgrowing her strength. It was many days before she regained any portion of her spirit and vigour. After that faint- RITTH 247 ing-fit, she lay listless and weary, without appetite or interest, through the long sunny autumn weather, on the bed or on the couch in Jemima's room, whither she had been carried at first. It was a comfort to Mrs Bradshaw to be able at once to discover what it was that had knocked up Elizabeth ; she did not rest easily until she had settled upon a cause for everv ailment or illness in the family. It was a stern consolation to Mr Bradshaw, during his time of anxiety respecting his daughter, to be able to blame somebody. He could not, like his wife, have taken comfort from an inani- mate &ct ; he wanted the satisfaction of feeling that some one had been in fault, or else this never could have happened. Poor Ruth did not need his implie And so do 1. My great object iu life, sir, is to reform the law of England, sir. Once set a majority of Liberal members into the House, and the thing is done. And I consider myself justi^^ed, for so liigh— for, I may say, so holy— an end, in using men's weaknesses to work out ray purpose. Of course, if men were angels, or e\eu RUTH 255 \Y immaculate— men invulnerable to bribes, we would not bribe." " Could you ? " asked Jemima, for the conversation took place at Mr Bradshaw's dinner-table, where a few friends were gathered together to meet Mr Hickson ; and among them was Mr Benson. "We neither would nor could," said the ardent barrister, disregarding in his vehemence the point of the question, and floating on over the bar of argument into the wide ocean of his own eloquence : " As it is — as the world stands, they who would succeed even in good deeds, must come down to the level of exped- iency ; and therefore, I say once more, if Mr Donne is die man for your purpose, and your purpose is a good one, a lofty one, a holy one " (for Mr Hickson remem- bered the Dissenting character of his little audience, and privately considered the introduction of the word 'holy' a most happy hit), "then, i say, we must put all the squeamish scruples which might befit Utopia, or some such place, on one side, and treat men as they are. If they are avaricious, it is not we who have made them so ; but as we have to do with them, we mast consider their failings in dealing with them ; if they have been careless or extravagant, or have had their little peccadillos, we muat administer the screw. The glorious reform of the law will justify, in my idea, all means to obtain the end — that law, from the profession of which I have withdrawn myself from perhaps a too scrupulous conscience ! " He concluded softly to himself. " We are not to do evil that good may come," said Mr Benson. He was startled at the deep sound of his own voice as he uttered these words ; but he had not been speaking for some time, and his voice came forth strong and unmodulated. "True, sir ; most true," said Mr Hickson, bowing. " I honour you for the observation." And he profited by it, insomuch that he confined his further remarks on elections to the end of the table, where he sat near Mr Bradehaw, and one or two equally eager, though y i i 266 RUTH not equally influential partisans of Mr Donne's. Meanwhile, Mr Farquhar took up Mr Benson's quota- tion, at the end where he and Jemima sat near to Mn Bradshaw and him. ''But in the present state of the world, as Mr Hickson says, it is rather difficult to act upon that precept." " Oh, Mr Farquhar ! " said Jemima, indignantly, the tears springing to her eyes with a feeling of dis- appointment. For she had been chafing under all that Mr Hickson had been saying, perhaps the more for one or two attempts on his part at a flirtation with the daughter of his wealthy host, which she resented with all the loathing of a pre-occupied heart ; and she bad longed to be a man, to speak out her wrath at this paltering with right and wrong. She had felt grateful to Mr Benson for his one, clear, short precept, coming down with a divine force against whicn there was no appeal ; and now to have Mr Farquhar taking the side of expediency ! It was too bad. '* Nay, Jemima ! " said Mr Farquhar, touched, and secretly flattered by the visible pain his speech had given. "Don't be indignant with me till 1 have explained myself a little more. I don't understand myself yet ; and it is a very intricate question, or so it appears to me, which I was going to put, really, earnestly, and humbly, for Mr Benson s opinion. Now, IVlr Benson, may I ask, if you always find it practicable to act strictly in accordance with that principle ? For if you do not, I am sure no man living can ! Are there not occasions when it is absolutely necessary to wade through evil to good.^ I am not speaking in the careless, presumptuous way of that man yonder," said he, lowering his voice, and address- ing himself to Jemima more exclusively, **1 am really anxious to hear what Mr Benson will say on the subject, for 1 know no one to whose candid opinion I should attach more weight." B.'t Mr Benson was silent. He did not see Mrs Bradshaw and Jemima leave the room. He was reaiiv, RUTH 267 - ■ t t as Mr Farquhar supposed him, completely absent, questioning himself as to how far his practice tallied with his principle. By degrees he came to himself ; he found the conversation still turned ou the election ; and Mr Hickson, who felt that he had jarred against the little minister's principles, and yet knew, from the carte du pays which the scouts of the parHamentary a^^ent had given him, that Mr Benson was a person to be conciliated, on account of his influence over many of the working people, began to ask him questions with an air of deferring to superior knowledge, that almost surprised Mr Bradshaw, who had been accus- tomed to treat " Benson " in a very different fashion, of civil condescending indulgence, just as one listens to a child who can have had no opportunities of knowing better. At the end of a conversation that Mr Hickson held with Mr Benson,, on a subject in which the latter was really interested, and on which he had expressed him- self at some length, the young barrister turned to Mr Uradshaw, and said very audibly, "I wish Donne had been here. This conversation during the last half hour would have interested him almost as much as it has done me." Mr Bradshaw little guessed the truth, that Mr Donne was, at that very moment, coaching up the various subjects of public interest in Eccleston, and privately cursing the particular subject on which Mr Benson had been holding forth, as being an unintelligible piece of >^uixotism ; or the leading Dissenter of the town need not have experienced a pang of jealousy, at the possible future admiration his minister might excite in the possible future member for Eccleston. And if Mr Benson had lieen clairvoyant, he need not have made an especial subject of gratitude out of the likelihood that he might have an opportunity of so far interesting Mr Donne in the condition of the people of Eccleston as to induce him to set his face against any attempts at bribery. Mr Benson thought of this, half the night through ; 268 RUTH b ■ and ended by determining to write a sermon on the Christian view of political duties^ which might be good for all, both electors and member, to hear on the eve of an election. For Mr Donne was expecter at Mr Bradshaw's before the next Sunday ; and, of course, as Mr and Miss Benson had settled it, he would appear at the chapel with them on that day. But the stinging conscience refused to be quieted. No present plau ot usefulness allayed the aching remembrance of the evil he had done that good might come. Not even the look of Leonard, as the early dawn fell on him, and Mr Benson's sleepless eyes saw the rosy glow on his firm round cheeks ; his open mouth, through which the soft, long-drawn breath came gently quivering; and his eyes not fully shut, but closed to outward sight — not even the aspect of the quiet innocent child could soothe the troubled spirit. Leonard and his mother dreamt of each other that night. Her dream of him was one of undefined terror — terror so great that it wakened her up, and she strove not to sleep again, for fear that ominous ghastly dream should return. He, on tlie contrary, dreamt of her sitting watc^'.ing and smiling by his Ijedside, as her gentle self had been many a morning ; and when she saw him awake (so it fell out in the dream), she smiled still more sweetly, and bending down she kissed him, and then spread out large, soft, white-feathered wings (which in no way surprised her child — he seemed to have known they were there all along), and i^ailed uway through the open window far into the blue sky of a summer's day. Leonard wakened up then, and re- membered how far away she really was — far more distant and inaccessible than the beautiful blue sky to which she had betaken herself in his dream— and cried himself to sleep again. In spite of her absence from her child, which made one great and abiding sorrow, Ruth enjoyed her sea- side visit exceedingly. In the first place, there was the delight of seeing Elizabeth's daily and almost hourly improvement. Then, at the doctor's express orders, ^Xkuailli RUTH 259 there were so few lessons to be done, that there was time for the long-exploring rambles, which all three delighted in. And when the rain came and the storms blew, the house with its wild sea views was equally delightful. It was a large house, built on the summit of a rock, which nearly overhung the shore below ; there were, to be sure, a series of zigzag tacking paths down Uie face of this rock, but from the house they could not be seen. Old or delicate people would have considered the situation bleak and exposed ; indeed, the present proprietor wanted to dispose of it on this very account ; but by its present inhabitants, this exposure and bleakness were called by other names, and considered as charms. From every part of the rooms, they saw the grey storms gather on the sea horizon, and put themselves in marching array ; and soon the march became a sweep, and the great dome of the heavens was covered with the lurid clouds, between which and the vivid green earth below there seemed to come a purple atmosphere, making the very threatening beautiful ; and bv and by the house was wrapped in sheets of rains shutting out sky and sea, and inland view ; till, of a sudden, the storm was gone by, and the heavy rain-drops glistened in the sun as they hung on leaf and grass, and the " little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west," and there was a pleasant sound of running waters all abroad. ** Oh ! if papa would but buy this house ! " exclaimed Elizabeth, after one such storm, which she had watched silently from the very beginning of the " little cloud no bigger than a man s hand." " Mamma would never like it, 1 am afraid," said Mary. •* She would call our delicious gushes of air, draughts, atid think we should catch cold." '• Jemima would be on our side. But how long Mrs Denbigh is ! I hope she was near enough the puht office when the rain come on ! " Ruth had gone to " the sliop" in the little village, about half a mile distant, where all letters were left 2G0 RUTH till fetched. She only expected one, but that one was to tell her of Leonard. She, however, received two ; the unexpected one was from Mr Bradshaw, and the news it contained was, if possible, a greater surprise than the letter itself. Mr Hradshaw informed oer, that he planned arriving by dinner-time the following iJaturday, at Eagle's Crag ; and more, that he intended bringing Mr Donne and one or two other gentlemen with him, to spend the Sunday there ! The letter went on to give every possible direction regarding the household pre- farations. The dinner-hour was fixed to be at six; ut, of course, Ruth and the girls would have dined long before. The (professional) cook would arrive the day before, laden with all the provisions that could not be obtained on the spot. Ruth was to engage a waiter from the inn, and this it was that detained her so long. While she sat in the little parlour, awaiting the coming of the landlady, she could not help wondering why Mr Bradshaw was bringing this strange gentleman to spend two days at Abermouth, and ithus giving himself so much trouble and fuss of preparation. There were so many small reasons that went to niuiiie up the large one which had convinced Mr Bradshaw of the desirableness of this step, that it was not "kely that Ruth should guess at one half of them. In the first fdace. Miss Benson, in the piide and fulness of Iter leart, had told Mrs Bradshaw what her brother lia'l told her ; how he meant to preach upon the Christian view of the duties involved in political rights ; and as, of course, Mrs Bradshaw had told Mr Bradshaw, he began to dislike the idea uf attending chapel on that Sunday at all ; for he had an uncomfortable idea that by the Christian standard— that divine test of the true and pure — bribery would not be altogether approved of; and yet he was tacitly coming round to ^he under- standing that '* packets ' would be required, for what purpose both he and Mr Donne were to be supposed to remain ignorant. But it would be very awkward. »o near to the time, if he were to be clearly corvimed that bribery, however disguised by names and words. RUTH 261 i I WM in plain terms a sin. And yet he knew Mr Benson had once or twice convinced him a^i^ainst his will of certain things, which he had thenceforward found it impossible to do, without such great uneasiness of mind, that ho had left off doing them, which was sadly against his interest. And if Mr Deinne (who he hail intended to take with him to chapel, as fair Dissenting prey) should also become convinced, why the Cran- worths would win the day, and he should be the laughing-stock of Eccleston. No ! in this one case bribery must be allowed — was allowable ; but it was a great pity human nature was so corrupt, and if his member succeeded, he would double his subscription to the schools, in order that the next generation might lie taught better. 'lliere were various other reasons, which strengthened Mr Bradshaw in the bright idea of going down to Abermouth for the Sunday ; s«ime connected with the out-of-door politics, and some with the domestic. For instance, it had been the plan of the house to have a cold dinner on the Sundays — Mr Bradshaw had piqued himself on this strictness— and yet he had an instinctive feeling that Mr Donne was QOt quite the man to nartake of cold meat for conscience' sak^* with cheerful indifference to his fare. Mr Donne had, in fact, taken tlie Bradshaw house- hold a little by surprise. Before he came, Mr Bradshaw had pleased himself with thinking, that more unlikely things had hap ened than the espousal of his daughter with the member of a small borough. But this pretty airy bubble burst as soon as he saw Mr Donne ; and '♦s very existence was forgotten in less than half an hour, when he felt the quiet, but incontestible difference of rank and standard that there was, in every respect, between his guest and his own family. It was not through any circumstance so palpable, and possibly accidental, as the bringing down a servant, whom Mr Donne seemed to consitler as much a matter of course as a carpet-bag (though the smart gentleman's arrival "fluttered theVolscians inCorioli" considerably more 4f I yi > ! !' i' 262 RUTH than his gentle-spoken master's). It was nothing like this ; it was something indescribahle — a quiet being at ease, and expecting every one else to be so— an atten- tion to women, which was so habitual as to be uncon- sciously exercised to those subordinate persons in Mr Bradshaw's family — a happy choice of simple and ex- pressive words, some of which it must be confessed were slang, but fashionable slang, and that makes all the difference— a measured, graceful way of utterance, with a style of pronunciation quite different to that of Eccleston. All these put together make but a part of the indescribable whole which unconsciously affected Mr Bradshaw, and established Mr Donne in his estima- tion as a creature quite different to any he had seen before, and as most unfit to mate with Jemima. Mr Hickson, who had appeared as a model of gentlemanly ease before Mr Donne's arrival, new became vulgar and coarse in Mr Bradshaw's eyes. And yet, such was the charm of that languid, high-bred manner, that Mr Bradshaw *' cottoned " (as he expressed it to Mr Far- quhar) to his new candidate at once. He was only afraid lest Mr Donne was too indifferent to all things under the sun, to care whether he gained or lost the election ; but he was reassured, after the first con- versation they had together on the subject. Mr Donne's eye lightened with an eagerness that was almost fierce, though his tones were as musical, and nearly as slow as ever ; and when Mr Bradshaw alluded distantly to ** probable expenses " and ** packets," Mr Donne replied, ** Oh, of course ! disagreeable uece.ssity I Better speak as little about such tluugs as possible ; other people can be found to arrange all the dirty work. Neither you nor I would like to soil our fingers by it, I am sure. Four thousand pounds are in Mr Pihon's hands, and I shall never inquire what becomes of them ; they may, very probaltly, be absorbed in the law expenses, you know. I shall let ,'• be clearly understood from the hustings, that I most decidedly disapprove of bribery, and leave the rest to Hicksou's RUTH 263 manaiifenient. He is accustomed to these sort of things. I am not." Mr Bradshaw was rather perplexed by this want of bostlinff energy on the part of tne new candidate ; and if it had not been for the four thousand pouudi; afore- said, would have doubted whether Mr Donne cares, and, as we were coming in from our ramble through the town, this man, or boy, asked us to look at one of the racers he had the charge of." " Well, my dear ! " " Well, mamma ! Mr Donne is like that horse ! " '• Nonsense, Jemima ; you must not say so. I don't know what your father would say, if he heard you likening Mr Donne to a brute.*' " Brutes are sometimbs very beautiful, mamma. I am sure I should think it a compliment to be likened to a race-horse, such as the one we «aw. But the thing in which thev are alike, is the sort of repressed eagerness in both. 264 RUTH •* Eairer ! Why, I should say there never was any one cooler than Mr Donne. Think of the trouble your papa has had this month past, and then reineml)cr the slow way in which Mr Donne moves when he is going out to canvass, and the low drawling voice in which he questionp the people who bring him intclh- gence. I can see your papa standing by, ready to shake them to get out their news.'' " But Mr Donne's questions are always to the point, and force out the grain without the chaff. And look at him, if anyone tells him ill news about the electiou! Have you never seen a dull red light come into his eves? That is like my race-horse. Her flesh quivered all over, at certain sounds and noises which had some meaning to her; but she stood quite still, prettv creature ! Now, Mr Donne is just as eager as she wa- . though he may be too proud to show it. Tliouj^li he seems so gentle, I almost think he is very head8tron<; in following out his own will." " Well ! don't call him like a horse again, for I am sure papa would not like it. Do you know, I thouglit you were going to say he was like little Leonard, when you asked me who he was like." " Leonard ! Oh, mamma, he is not in the least like Leonard. He is twenty times more like my race- horse." '* Now, my dear Jemima r.o be quiet. Your father thinks racing so wrong, liia: I am sure he would rie very seriously displeased it he were to hsar you." To return to Mr Bradshaw, and to give one more m his various reasons for wishing to take Mr Donne to Abermouth. The wealthy Eccleston manufacturer was uncomfortably impressed with an indefinable sense of inferiority t<> his visitor. It was not in education, for Mr Bradshaw was a well-educated man ; it was not in fiower, for, if he chose, the pre.««ent object of Mr )onne'8 life might be utterly defeated ; it did not ari»e from anything overbearing in manner, for Mr Donne was habitually polite and courteous, and was just now anxious to propitiate his host, whom he looked upon RUTH 266 gs a very useful man. Whatever this senfie of in- feriority arose from, Mr Brail shaw was anxious to relieve himself of it, and ima^ine. The first day at dessert, some remark (some opportune remark, as Mr Bradshaw in his innocence had tnought) was made regarding the price of pine-apples, which was rather exorbitant that year, and Mr Donne asked Mrs Bradshaw, with quiet surprise, if they had no pinery, as if to be without a pinery were indeed a depth of pitiable destitution. In fact, Mr Donne had been born and cradled in all that wealth could purchase, and so had his ancestors before him for so many generations, that refinement and luxury seemed the natural condition of man, and t'ney that dwelt without were in the position of monsters. The absence was noticed ; but not the presence. Now Mr Bradshaw knew that the house and grounds of Fkkgle's Crag were exorbitantly dear, and yet he really thought of purchasing them. And as one means of exhibiting his wealth, and so raising himself up to the level of Mr Donne, he thought that if he could take the latter down to Abermouth, and Khow him the place for which, '* because his little girls had taken a fancy to it," he was willing to give the fancy- price of fourteen thousand pounds, he should at last make those half-shut dreamy eyes open wide, and their owner confess that, in wealth at least, the Kcclcston manufacturer stood on a par with him. All these mingled motives caused the determination which made Ruth sit in the little inn-parlour at Aber- mouth during the wild storm's passage. She wondered if &he had fulfilled all Mr Bradshaw'i directions. She looked at the letter. Yes ! every- thing was done. And now home with her news, I P i , f^ .# %& 1.0 I.I 1.25 UillM 150 163 ISi Uuu 1.4 lAO 2.5 1 2.2 1 20 1.8 1.6 MICROCOPY RESOLUTION TEST CHART NATIONAL BUREAU OF STANDARDS STANDARD REFERENCE MATERIAL 1010a (ANSI and ISO TEST CHART No. 2) 266 ■I RUTH through the wet lane, where the little pools by the roadside reflected the deep blue sky and the round white clouds with even deeper blue and clearer white ; and the rain-drops hung so thick on the trees, that even a little bird's flight was enough to shake them down in a bright shower as of rain. When she told the news, Mary exclaimed, " Oh, how charming ! Then we shall see this new member after all ! " while Elizabeth added, " Yes ! I shall like to do that. But where must we be ? Papa wiU want the dining-room and this room, and where must we sit ? " " Oh ! " said Ruth, " in the dressing-room next to my room. All that your papa wants always, is that you are quiet and out of the way." ^ IK-' u.-^i ! ". CHAPTER XXni Saturday came. Torn, ragged clouds were driven across the sky. It was not a becoming day for the scenery, and the little girls regretted it much. First they hoped for a change at twelve o'clock, and then at the afternoon tide-turning. But at neither time did the sun show his face. ** Papa will never buy this dear place,'' said Eliza- beth, sadly, as she watched the weather. '^The sun is everything to it. The sea looks quite leaden to-day, and there is no sparkle on it. And the sands, that were so yellow and sun-speckled on Thursday, are all one dull brown now." " Never mind ! to-morrow may be better," said Ruth, cheerily. *' 1 wonder what time they will come at } " inquired Mary. *' Your papa said they would be at the station at five o'clock. And the landlady at the Swan said it would take them half an hour to get here." " And they are to dine at six.^ " asked Elizabeth. ** Yes," answered Ruth. " And I think if we had ■P RUTH 267 our tea half an hour earlier, at half-past four, and then went out for a walk, we should be nicely out of the way just during the bustle of the arrival and dinner ; and we could be in the drawing-room ready against your papa came in after dinner." " Oh 1 that would be nice,** said they ; and tea was ordered accordingly. The south-westerly wind had dropned, and the clouds were stationary, when they went out on the sands. They dug little holes near the in-coming tide, and made canals to them from the water, and blew the light sea-foam against each other ; and then stole on tiptoe near to the groups of grey and white sea-gulls, which despised their caution, flying softly and slowly away to a little distance as soon as they drew near. And in all this Ruth was as great a child as any. Only she longed for Leonard with a mother's longing, as indeed she did every day, and all hours of the day. By and by the clouds thickened yet more, and one or two drops of rain were felt. It was very little, but Ruth feared a shower for her delicate Elizabeth, and besides, the September evening was fast closing in the dark and sunless day. As they turned homewards in the rapidly increasing dusk, they saw three figures on the sand near the rocks, coming in their direction. " Papa and Mr Donne ! " exclaimed Mary. " Now we shall see him ! " "Which do you make out is him?" asked Eliza- beth. '^ Oh ! the tall one, to be sure. Don't you see how papa always turns to him, as if he was speaking to him and not to the other.'' " "Who is the other .>" asked Elizabeth. " Mr Bradshaw said that Mr Farquhar and Mr Hickson would come with him. But that is not Mr Farquhar, I am sure," said Ruth. The girls looked at each other, as they always did, when Ruth mentioned Mr Farquhar's name ; but she was perfectly unconscious both of the look and of the conjectures which gave rise to it. 268 RUTH r • /I t \ ■■ As soon as the two parties drew near^ Mr Bradshaw called out in his strong voice, " Well, my dears ! we found there was an hour before dinner, so we came down upon the sands, and here you sltb." The tone of his voice assured them that he was in a bland and indulgent mood, and the two little girls ran towards him. He kissed them, and shook hands with Ruth ; told his companions that these were the little girls who were tempting him to this extravagance of purchasing Eagle's Crag ; and then, rather doubtfully, and because he saw that Mr Donne expected it, he introduced " My daughters' governess, Mrs Denbigh." It was growing darker every moment, and it was time they should hasten back to the rocks, which were even now indistinct in the grey haze. Mr Bradshaw held a hand of each of his daughters, and Ruth walked alongside, the two strange gentlemen being on ths outskirts of the party. Mr Bradshaw began to give his little girls some home news. He told them that Mr Farquhar was ill, and could not accompany them ; but Jemima and their mamma were quite well. 'ITie gentleman nearest to Ruth spoke to her. ''Are you fond of the sea?" asked he. 'lliere was no answer, so he repeated his question in a different form. " Do you enjoy staying by the seaside I should rather ask?" The reply was " Yes," rather breathed out in a deep inspiration than spoken in a sound. The sands heaved and trembled beneath Ruth. The figures near her vanished into strange nothingness ; the sounds of their voices were as distant sounds in a dream, while the echo of one voice thrilled through and through. She could have caught at his arm for support, in the awful dizzi- ness which wrapped her up, body and soul. Tliat voice ! No ! if name, and face, and figure, were all changed, that voice was the same which had touched RUTH 269 I ! W her girlish heart, which had spoken most tender words of love, which had won, and wrecked her, and which she had last heard in the low mutterings of fever. She dared not look round to see the figure of him who spoke, dark as it was. She knew he was there— she heard him speak in the manner in which he used to address strangers years ago; perhaps she answered him, perhaps she did not —God knew. It seemed as if weights were tied to her feet— as if the steadfast rocks receded— as if time stood still ;— it was so long, so terrible, that path across the reeling sand. At the foot of the rocks they separated. Mr Brad- shaw, afraid lest dinner should cool, preferred the shorter way for himself and his friends. On Elizabeth's account, the girls were to take the longer and easier path, which wound upwards through a rocky field, where larks' nests abounded, and where wild thyme and heather were now throwing out their sweets to the soft night air. . The little girls spoke in eager discussion of the strangers. They appealed to Ruth, but Ruth did not answer, and they were too impatient to convince each other to repeat the question. The first little ascent from the sands to the field surmounted, Ruth sat down suddenly, and covered her face with her hands. This was so unusual— their wishes, their good, was so in- variably the rule of motion or of rest in their walks— that the girls, suddenly checked, stood silent and affrighted in surprise. They were still more startled when Ruth wailed aloud some inarticulate words. "Are you not well, dear Mrs Denbigh .?*" asked Elizabeth, gently, kneeling down on the grass by Ruth. She sat facing the west. The low watery twilight was on her face as she took her hands awuy. So pale, so haggard, so wild and wandering a look, the girls had never seen on human countenance before. " Well ! what are you doing here with me ? You should not be with me," said she, shaking her head slowly. Thev looked at each othex »'^| 270 RUTH ff -I ■ ^1 ■*:ii 4'U ■'' ■ it \A i You are sadly tired^^' said Elizabeth^ soothingly. " Come home^ and let me help you to bed. I will tell papa yon are ill, and ask him to send for a doctor.^' Ruth looked at her, as if she did not understand the meaning of her words. No more she did at first. But by and by the dulled brain beg^an to think most vividly and rapidly , and she spoke in a sharp way which deceived the girls into a belief that nothing had been the matter. " Yes ! I was tired. I am tired. Those sands — oh ! those sands, those weary, dreadful sands ! But that is all over now. Only my heart aches still. Feel how it flutters and beats," said she, taking Elizabeth's hand, and holding it to her side. ** I am quite well, though," she continued, reading pity in the child's looks, as she felt the trembling, quivering beat. " We will go straight to the dressing-room, and read a chapter, that will still my heart ; and then Pll go to bed, and Mr Bradshaw will excuse me, I know, this one night. I only ask for one night. Put on your right frocks, dears, and do all you ought to do. But I know you will," said she, bending down to kiss Elizabeth, and then, before she had done so, raising her head abruptly. ** You are good and dear girls — God keep you so ! " By a strong eflFort at self-command, she went onwards "t an even pace, neither rushing nor pausing to sob and think. The very regularity of motion calmed her. The front and back doors of the house were on two sides, at right angles with each other. They all shrunk a little from the idea of going in at the front door, now that the strange gentlemen were about, and, accordingly, they went through the quiet farm-yard right into the bright, ruddy kitchen, where the servants were dashing about with the dinner things. It was a contrast in more than colour to the lonely dusky field, which even the little girls perceived ; and the noise, the warmth, the very bustle of the servants, were a positive relief to Ruth, and for the time lifted olF the heavy press of pent-up passion. A silent house, witli moonlit rooms, or with a faint gloom brooding over the RUTH 271 apartments, would have been more to be dreaded. Toen, she must have given way, and cried out. As it was, she went up the old awkward back stairs, and into the room they were to sit in. There was no candle. Mary volunteered to go down for one ; and when she returned she was full of the wonders of preparation in the drawing-room, and ready and eager to dress, so as to take her place there before the gentlemen had finished dinner. But she was struck by the strange paleness of Ruth's face, now that the light fell upon it. " Stay up here, dear Mrs Denbigh ! We'll tell papa you are tired, and are gone to bed." Another time Ruth would have dreaded Mr Brad- shaw's displeasure ; for it was an understood thing that no one was to be ill or tired in his household without leave asked, and cause given and assigned. But she never thought of that now. Her great desire was to hold quiet till she was alone. Quietness it was not — it was rigidity ; but she succeeded in being rigid in look and movement, and went through her duties to Elizabeth (who preferred remaining with her upstairs) with wooden precision. But her heart felt at times like ice, at times like burning fire ; always a heavy, heavy weight within her. At last £lizabeth went to bed. Still Huth dared nob think. Mary would come upstairs soon ; and with a strange, sick, shrinking yearning, Ruth awaited her — and the crumbs of intelli- gence she might drop out about him. Ruth's sense of hearing was quickened to miserable intensity as she stood before the chimney-piece, graspins" it tight with both hands — gazing into the dying fire, but seeing — not the dead grey embers, or the little sparks of vivid light that ran hither and thither among tne wood-ashes —but an old farm-house, and climbing winding road, and a little golden breezy common, with a rural inn on the hill-top, fa^*, far away. And through the thoughts of the past came the sharp sounds ot the present — of three voices, one of which was almost silence, it was so hushed. Indifferent people would only have guessed that Mr Donne was speaking by the quietness in which i 272 RUTH < I ■Hi i. 'n:\ n m the others listened ; but Ruth heard the roice and many of the words, though they conveyed no idea to her mind. She was too much stunned even to feel curious to know to what they related. He spoke. That was her one fact. Presently up came Mary, bounding, exultant. Papa had let her stay up one quarter of an hour longer, because Mr Hickson had asked. Mr Hickson was so clever ! She did not know what to make of Mr Donne, he seemed such a dawdle. But he was very handsome. Had Ru^ seen him .'* Oh, no ! She could not, it was so dark on those stupid sands. Well, never mind, she would see him to-morrow. She miut be well to-morrow. Papa seemed a good deal put out that neither she nor Elizabeth were in the drawing-room to-night ; and his last words were, ''Tell Mrs Denbigh 1 hope" (and papa's " hopes " always meant ** expect'*) ** she will be able to make breakfast at nine o'clock ; " and then she would see Mr Donne. That was all Ruth heard about him. She went with Mary into her bedroom, helped her to undress, and put the candle out. At length she was alone in her own r«om ! At length ! But the tension did not give way immediately. She fastened her door, and threw open the window, cold and threatening as was the night. She tore off her gown ; she put her hair back from her heated face. It seemed now as if she could not think— as if thought and emotion had been repressed so sternly that they would not come to relieve her stupified brain. Till all at once, like a flash of lightning, her life, past and present, was revealed to her in its minutest detail. And when she saw her very present '* Now," the strange confusion of agony was too great to be borne, and she cried aloud. Then she was quite dead, and listened to the &ound of galloping armies. " If I might see him ! If I might see h n I If I might just ask him why he left me ; if I had Vcxed him in any way ; it was so strange — so cruel ! It was not him, it was his mother," said she, almost fiercely, as if RUTH 273 answeriiif,- herself. *'Oh, God! but he might have found me out before this," she continued, sadly. " He did not care for me, as I did for him. He did not care for me at all," she went on wildly and sharply. " He did me cruel harm. I can never again lift up my face in innocence. They think I have forgotten all, because I do not speak. Oh, darling love ! am I talking against youi^" asked she, tenderly. ''I am so torn and ; perplexed ! You, who are the father of my chilu ! " But that very circumstance, full of such tender meaning in ma*- ''^ ^g threw a new light into her mind. It cha • ' from the woman into the mother — the . - irdian of her child. She was still for a time *< .g. Then she began again, but in a low, deep Vui..o, " He left me. He might have been hurried off, but he might have inquired — he might have learnt, anl explained. He left me to bear the burden and the shame ; and never cared to learn, as he might have done, of Leonard's birth. He has no love for his child, and I will have no love for him." She raised her voice wliile uttering this determina- tion, and then, feeling her own weakness, she moaned out, " Alas ! alas ! " And then she started up, for all this time she had been rocking herself backwards and forwards as she sat on the ground, and began to pace the room with hurried steps. " What am I thinking of .> Where am I .f* I who have been praying these years and years to be worthy to be Leonard's mother. My God ! what a depth of sin is in my heart ! Why, the old time would be as white as snow to what it would be now, if I sought him out, and prayed for the explanation, which should re- establish him in my heart. I who have striven (or made a mock of tryin^r) tt learn God's holy will, in order to bring up Leonard into the full strength of a Christian— I who have taught his sweet innocent lips to pray ' Lead us not into temptation, bu* '' liver us ■ 41 274 RUTH i -^ I ! from evil ' ; and yet, somehow, I've been lon^in^ to give him to his father, \. lo is — who is " she almost choked, till at last she cried sharp out, '' Oh, rwy God ! I do believe Leonard's father is a bad man, and yet, oh ! pitiful God, I love him ; I cannot forget — I cannot ' " She threw her body half out of the window into the cold night air. The wind was rising, and came in great gusts. The rain beat down on her. It did her good. A still, calm night would not have soothed her as this did. The wild tattered clouds, hurrying past the moon, gave her a foolish kind of pleasure that almost made her smile a vacant smile. The blast- driven rain came on her agaiin, and drenched her hair through and through. The words "stormy wind fulfilling his word " came into her mind. She sat down on the floor. This time her hands were clasped round her knees. The uneasy rocking motion was stilled. "I wonder if my darling is frightened with this blustering, noisy wind. 1 wonder if he is awake." And then her thoughts went back to the various times of old, when, affrighted by the weather— sounds so mysterious in the night — he had crept into her bed and clung to her, and she had soothed him, and sweetly awed him into stillness and childlike faith, by telling him of the goodness and power of God. Of a sudden, she crept to a chair, and there knelt as in the very presence of God, hiding her face, at first not speaking a word (for did He not know her heart), but by and by moaniug out, am'd her sobs and tears (and now for the first time she wept), ** Oh, my God, help me, for 1 am very weak. My God ! I pray thee be my rock and ray strong fortress, for I of myself am nothing. If I ask in His name, thou wilt give it me. In the name o* Jesus Christ I pray for strength to do Thy will ! " She could not think, or, indeed, remember anything but that she was weak, and God was strong, and " a very present help in time of trouble" ; and the wind rose yet higher, and the house shook and vibrated as. M RUTH 275 in measured time^ the great and terrible gusts came from the four quarters of the heavens and blew around it, dying away in the distance with loud and unearthly wails, which were not utterly still before the sound of the coming blast was heard like the trumpets of the vanguard of the Prince of Air. There was a knock at the bedroom door— a little gentle knock, and a soft, child's voice. "Mrs Denbigh, may J coma in, please? I am -«o frightened ! " It was £lizabet^ P.uth calmed lier passionate -athing by one has« . draught of water, and opened tb j door to the timid gir' **0h, Mrs Denbigh! did you ever hear such a night ? I am so frightened ! and Mary sleeps so 80UUd." Ruth was too much shaken to be able to speak all at once ; but she took Elizabeth in her arms to reassure her. Elizabeth stood back. " Why, how wet you are, Mrs ]>enbigh ! and there's the window open, I do believe ! * ih, how cold it is ! " said she, shivering. " Get into my bed, dear 1 " saia Ruth. " But do come too ! The candle gives -luch c strange light with that long wick, and, somehow, your face does not look like you. Please, put the candle out, and come to bed. I am so frightened, and it seems as if I should be safer if yoa were by me.'' Ruth shut the window, and went to bed. Elizabeth was all shivering and quaking. To soothe her, Ruth made a great eifort; and spoke of Leonard and his fears, and, in a low hesitating voice, she spoke of God's tender mercy, but very humbly, for she feared lest Elizabeth should think her better and holier than she was. The little girl was soon asleep, her fears for- gotten ; and Ruth, worn out by passionate emotion, and obliged to be still for fear of awaking her bed- fellow, went off into a short slumber, through the depths of which the echoes of her wakine- sobs quivered up. ' m 276 RUTH Wlv I she awoke, the ^rey liifht of autumnal duwtj was in »... j room. Elizabeth slept on ; but Ruth lieard the servants about, and the early farmyard sounds. After she had recovered from the shock of couscious- nesa and recollection, she collected her thoughts with a stern calmness. He was here, lu a few hours she must meet him. There was no escape, except through subterfuges and contrivances that were both false aud cowardly. How it would all turn out she could not say, or even guess. But of one thing she was clear, aud to one thing she would hold fast , that was, that, come what might, she would obey God's law, ana, be the end of all what it might, she would say *' Thy will be done ! " She only asked for strength enough to do this when the time came. How the time would come — what speech or action would be requisite on her part, she did not know— she did not even try to conjecture. She left that in His hands. She was icy cold, but "' . calm when the breakfast- bell rang. She wenL down immediately ; because she felt that there was less chance of a recognition, if she were already at her place beside the tea-urn, aud busied with the cups, than if she came in after all were settled. Her heart seemed to stand still, but she felt almost a strange exultant sense of power over herself. She felt, rather than saw, that he was not there. Mr Bradshaw and Mr Hiekson were, and so busy talking,' election-politics that they did not interrupt their cou- versation even when they bowed to her. Her pupils sat one on each side of her. Before they were quite settled, and while the other two gentlemen yet hung over the fire, Mr Donne came in. Ruth felt as if that moment was like death. She had a kind of desire to make some sharp sound, to relieve a choking sensation, but it was over in an instant, and she sat on very com- posed and silent — to all outward appearance, the very model of a go- ness who knew her place. And by and by she felt angely at ease in her sense of power. She could even listen to what was being said. She had never dared as yet to look at Mr Donne, though RUTH 277 her heart burnt to see him once aj^a! i. He sounded changed. The voice had lost its fresh and youthful eagerness of tone, though in peculiarity of modulation it was the same. It could never be mistaken for the voice of another person. There was a good deal said at that breakfast, for none seemed inclined to hurry, although it was Sunday morning. Kuth was compelled to sit there, and it was good for her that she did. ITiat half-hour seemed to separate the present Mr t>onne very effectively, from her imagination of what Mr Bellingham had been. She was no analyser; he hardly even had learnt to notice character ; but she felt there was some strange difference between the people she had lived with lately and the man who now leant back in his chair, listening in a careless manner to the conversation, but never johiing in, or ex: -cssiiig any interest in it, unless it somewhere, or so.wchow, touched him himself. Now, Mr Bradshaw always threw himself into a subject ; it might be in a pompous, dogmatic sort of way, but he did do it, whether it related to himself or not ; and it was part of iMr Hickson's trade to assume an interest if he felt it not. But Mr Donne did neither the one nor the other. When the other two were talking ofmanyof the topics of the day, he put his glass in his eye, the better to examine into the exact nature of a cold game-pie at the other side of the table. Suddenly Ruth felt that hif attention was caught by her. Until now, seeing his short-sightedness, she had believed herself safe ; now her face flushed with a painful, miserable blush. But, iu an instant, she was strong and quiet. She looked up straight at his fare ; and, as if this action took n; n aiia*-!'^ he droi)ped his glass, and began eating away with great diliirence. She had seen him. He was changed, she knew not how. In fact, the expression, which had been only occasional formerly, when his worse self predominated, had become permanent. He looked restless and dissatisfied. But he was very handsome still ; and her qu'-k eye had recognized, with a sort of strange pride, that the eyes and mouth 278 RtJlH I , were like Leonard's. Although perplexed by the straightforward brave look she had sent right at him, he was not entirely baffled. He thought this Mrs Denbigh was certainly like poor Ruth ; but this woman was far handsomer. Her face was positively Greek ; and then such a proud^ superb turn of her head ; quite queenly ! A governess in Mr Bradshaw's family ! Why, she might be a Percy or a Howard for the grandeur of her grace ! Poor Ruth ! This woman's hair was darker, though ; and she had less colour ; altogether a more refined-looking person. Poor Ruth ! and, for the first time for several years, he wondered what had become of her ; though, of course, there was but one thing that could have happened, and perhaps it was as well he did not know her end, for most likely it would have made him very uncomfortable. He leant back in his chair, and, unobserved (for he would not have thought it gentlemanly to look so fixedly at her, if she or any one noticed him), he put up his glass again. She was speaking to one of her pupils, and did not see him. By Jove ! it must be she, though ! There were little dimples came out about the mouth as she spoke, just like those he used to admire so much in Ruth, and which he had never seen in anyone else — the sunshine without the positive movement of a smile. Tlie longer he looked the more he was convinced ; and it was with a jerk that he recovered himself enough to answer Mr Bradshaw's question, whether he wished to go to church or not. "Church.^ how far — a mile.'' No, I think I shall perform my devotions at home to-day." He absolutely felt jealous when Mr Hickson sprang up to open the door, as Ruth and her pupils left the room. He was pleased to feel jealous again. He had been really afraid he was too much "used- up" for such sensations. But Hickson must keep his place, \i1iat he was paid for, was doing the talking to the electors, not paying attention to the ladies in their families. Mr Donne had noticed RUTH 279 that Mr Hickson had tried to be gallant to Miss Bradshaw ; let him, if he liked ; but let him beware how he behaved to this fair creature, Ruth or no Ruth. It certainly was Ruth ; only how the devil had she played her cards so well as to be the eoverness —the respected governess, in such a family as Mr bradshaw s? .j .1 ,. v *i. Mr Donne's movements were evidently to be tne jruide of Mr Hickson's. Mr Bradshaw always disliked Icing to church, partly from principle, partly because he never could find the places in the Prayer-book. Mr Donne was in the drawing-room as Mary came down ready equipped ; he was turning over the leaves of the large and handsome Bible. Seeing Mary, he was struck with a new idea. « How singular it is," said he, " that the name of Ruth is so seldom chosen by those good people who go to the Bible before they christen their children. "^ " It is said he. a pretty name, 1 think." Mr Bradshaw looked up. " Why, Mary ! « Is not that Mrs Denbigh's name ? " "Yes, papa," replied Mary, eagerly ; "and I know two other Ruths ; there's Ruth Brown here, and Ruth Macartney at Eccleston." , ,, t^ , r " And I have an aunt called Ruth, Mr Donne I 1 don't think your observation holds good. Besides my daughter's governess, I know three other Ruths. " Oh ! I have no doubt I was wrong. It was just a speech of which one perceives the folly the moment it is made." But, secretly, he rejoiced with a fierce joy over the success of his device. Elizabeth came to summon Mary. Ruth was glad when she got into the open air, and away from the house. Two hours were gone and over. Two out of a day, a day and a half— for it might be late on Monday morning before the Eccleston party returned. She felt weak and trembling in body, but strong in power over herself. They had left the house m good 1 -il n ■^1 ^^%lf 280 RUTH f i ■». time for church, so they needed not to hurry ; and they went leisurely along the road, now and then passing some country person whom they knew, and with whom they exchanged a kindly placid greeting. But presently, to Ruth's dismay, she heard a step hehind, coming at a rapid pace, a peculiar clank of rather high-heeled boots, wliich gave a springy sound to the walk, that she had known well long ago. It was like a nightmare, where the Evil dreaded is never avoided, never completely shunned, but is by ones side at the very moment of triumph in escape. There he was by her side ; and there was a quarter of a mile intervening between her and the church ; but even yet she trusted that he had not recognized her. "I have changed my mind, you see,'* said he, quietly. "I have some curiosity to see the archi- tecture of the church ; some of these old country churches have singular bits about them. Mr Brad- shaw kindly directed me part of the way, but I was so much puzzled by * turns to the right,^ and * turns to the left,' that I was quite glad to espy your party." That speech required no positive answer of any kind ; and no answer did it receive. He had not expected a reply. He knew, if she were Ruth, she could not answer any indiiFerent words of his ; and her silence made him more certain of her identity with the lady by his side. "The scenery here is of a kind new to me ; neither grand, wild, nor yet marked by high cultivation ; and yet it has great charms. It reminds me of some parts of Wales." He breathed deeply, and then added, " You have been in Wales, I bel'eve.^" He spoke low ; almost in a whisper. The little church-bell began to call the lagging people with its quick sharp summons. Ruth writhed in body and spirit, but struggled on. 'ITie church-door would be gained at last ; and in that holy place she would find peace. RUTH 281 He repeated in a louder tone, so as to compel an answer in order to conceal her agitation from the girls. "Have you never heen in Wales?" He used " never," instead of " ever," and laid the emphasis on that word, in order to mark his meaning to Ruth, and Ruth only. But he drove her to bay. "I have been in Wales, sir," she replied, in a calm, grave tone. " I was there many years ago. Events took place there, which contribute to make the re- collection of that time most miserable to me. 1 shall be obliged to you, sir, if you will make no further reference to it." The little girls wondered how Mrs Denbigh could speak in such a tone of quiet authority to Mr Donne, who was almost a member of Parliament. But they settled that her husband must have died in Wales, and, of course, that would make the recollection of tl)e country *' most miserable," as she said. Mr Donne did not dislike the answer, and he po«;i- sively admired the dignity with which she spoke. His leaving her as he did, must have made her very miser- able ; and he liked the pride that made her retain her indignation, until he could speak to her in private, and explain away a good deal of what she might com- plain of with some justice. The church was reached. They all went up the middle aisle into the {'Ragle's Crag pew. He followed them in, entered himself, and shut the door. Ruth's heart sank as she saw him there ; just opposite to her ; coming between her and the clergyman who was to read out the Word of God. It was merciless — it was cruel to haunt her there. She durst not lift her eyes to the bright eastern light— she could not see how peacefully the marble images of the dead lay on their tomb, for he was between her and all Light and Peace. She knew that his look was on her ; that he never turned his glance away. She could not join in the prayer for the remission of sins while he was there, for his very presence seemed as a sign that their stain would ii' 282 RUTH ii'^ ,r-' i :ill never be washed out of her life. But^ although goaded aad chafed by her thoughts and recollections^ she kept very still. No sign of emotion^ no flush of colour was on her face^ as he looked at her. Elizabeth could not find her place^ and then Ruth breathed once^ long and deeply^ as she moved up the pew^ and out of the straight burning glance of those eyes of evil meaning. When they sat down for the reading of the first lesson, Ruth turned the corner of the seat so as no longer to be opposite to him. She could not listen. The words seemed to be uttered in some world fiir away, from which she was exiled and cast out ; their sound, and yet more their meaning, was dim and distant. But in this extreme tension of mind to hold in her bewildered agony, it so happened that one of her senses was pre- ternaturally acute. While all the church and the people swam in misty haze, one point in a dark corner grew clearer and clearer till she saw (what, at another time she could not have discerned at all) a face— a gargoyle I think they call it — at the end of the arch next to the narrowing of the nave into the chancel, and in the shadow of that contraction. The face was beautiful in feature (the next to it was a grinning monkey), but it was not the features that were the most striking part. There was a half-open mouth, not in any way distorted out of its exquisite beauty by the intense expression of suffering it conveyed. Any distortion of the face by mental agony, implies that a struggle with circumstance is going on. But in this face, if such struggle had been, it was over now. Circumstance had conquered ; and there was no hope from mortal endeavour, or help from mortal creature to be had. But the eyes looked onward and upward to the " Hills from whence cometh our help." And though the parted lips seemed ready to quiver with agony, yet the expression of the who^ face, owing to these strange, stony, and vet spiritual eyes, was high and consoling. If mortal gaze had never sought its meaning before, in the deep shadow where it had been placed long centuries ago, yet Ruth's did now. RUTH 283 W^ho could have imagined such a loo' Who could have witnessed — perhaps felt — such infiniie sorrow, and yet dared to lift it up by Faith into a peace 30 pure ? Or was it a mere conception? If so, what a soul the unknown carver must have had ! for creator and handicraftsman must have been one ; no two minds coiUd have been in such perfect harmony. Whatever it was— however it came there — ima^riner, carver, sufferer, all were long passed away. Human art was ended — human life done — human suflFering over; but this remained ; it stilled Ruth's beating heart to look on it. She grew still enough to hear words, which have come to many in their time of need, and awed them in the presence of the extiemest suffering that the hushed worM has ever heard of. The second lesson for the morning of the 2.5th of September, is the 26th chapter of St Matthew's Gospel. And when they prayed again, Ruth'" tongue was unloosed, and she also could pr^y, in His name, who underwent the agony in the garden. As they came out of church, there was a little pause and gathering at the door. It had begun to rain ; those who had umbrellas were putting them up ; those who had not were regretting, and wondering how long it would last. Standing for a moment, impeded by the people who were thus collected under the porch, Ruth heard a voice close to her say, very low but very distinctly, "I have much to say to you — much to explain. I entreat you to give me thvi opportunity." Ruth did not reply. She would not acknowledge that she heard ; but she trembled nevertheless, for the well-remembered voice was low an'i soft, and had yet its power to thrill. She earnestly desired to know why and how he 'jad left her. It appeared to h«r as if that knowledge could alone give her a relief from the rest- less wondering that distracted her mind, and that one explanation could do no ha' 1. "No!" the higher spirit made answer; "it must not be." . S' I ' il a*. '^^. 284 RUTH Ruth and the girls had each an umfr,lla. She turned to Mary, and said, "Mary, give your umbrella to Mr Donne, and come under mine." Her way of speaking was short and decided ; she was compressing her meaning into as few words as possible. The little girls obeyed in silence. As they went first through the churchyard stile, Mr Donne spoke again. " You are unforgiving," said he. " I only ask you to hear me. 1 have a right to be heard, Ruth f I won't believe you are so much changed, as not to listen to me when I entreat." He spoke in a tone of soft complaint. But he him- self had done much to destroy the illusion which had hung about his memory for years, whenever Ruth had allowed herself to think of it. Besides which, during the time of her residence in the Benson family, her feeling of what people ought to be had been uncon- sciously raised and refined ; and Mr Donne, even while she had to struggle against the force of past recollec- tions, repelled her so much by what he was at present, that every speech of his, every minute they were to- gether, served to make her path more and more easy to follow. His voice retained something of its former influence. When he spoke, without her seeing liim, she could not help remembering former days. She did not answer this last speech any more than the first. She saw clearly, that, putting aside all thought as to the character of their former relation- ship, it had been dissolved by his will— his act and deed ; and that, therefore, the power to refuse any further intercourse whatsoever remained with her. It sometimes seems a little strange how, after having earnestly prayed to be delivered from tempta- tion, and having given ourselves with shut eyes into God's hand, from that time every thought, every out- ward influence, every acknowledged law of life, seems to lead us on from strength to strength. It seems strange sometimes, because we notice the coincidence ; but it is the natural, unavoidable consequence of all, RUTH 285 truth and goodness being one and the same, and there- fore carried out in every circumstance, external and internal, of God's creation. When Mr Donne saw that Ruth would not answer him, he became only the more determined that she should hear what he had to say What that was he did not exactly know. The whole affair was most mysterious and piquant. The umbrella protected Ruth from more than the rain on that walk homewards, for under its shelter she could not be spoken to unheard. She had not rightly understood at what time she and the girls were to dine. From the gathering at meal-times she must not shrink. She mast show no sign of weakness. But, oh ! the relief, after that walk, to sit in her own room, locked up, so that neither Mary nor Elizabeth could come by surprise, and to let her weary frame (weary with being 80 long braced up to rigidity and stiff quiet) fall into a chair anyhow — all helpless, nerveless, motionless, as if the very bones had melted out of her ! The peaceful rest which her mind took was in Lluik- ing of Leonard. She dared not look before or behind, but she could see him well at present. She brooded over the thought of him, till she dreaded his father more and more. By the light of her child's purity and innocence, she saw evil clearly, and yet more clearly. She thought that, if Leonard ever came to know the nature of his birth, she had nothing for it but to die out of his sight. He could never know- human heart could never know, her ignorant i-ano- cencv, and all the small circumstances which had im- pelled her onwards. But God knew. And if Leonard heard of his mother's error, why nothing remained but death ; for she felt, then, as if she had it in her power to die innocently out of such future agony ; but that escape is not so easy. Suddenly a fresh thought came, and she prayed that, through whatever suffer- ing, she might be purified. Whatever trials, woes, measureless pangs, God might see fit to chastise her with, she would not shrink, if only at last she might -I i fi ^1 '^^^flNP 286 RUTH , I ..: ,..;1|r come into His pr«!sence in Heaven. Alas ! the shrink- ing from suffering we cannot help. That part of her prayer was vain. And as for the rest, was not the sure justice of His law finding her out even now ? His laws once broken. His justice and the very nature of those laws bring the immutable retribution ; but if we turn penitently to Him, He enables us to bear our punishment with a meek and docile heart, " for His mercy endnreth for ever." Mr Bradshaw had felt himself rather wanting in proper attention to his g'sst, inasmuch as he had been unajble, all in a minute, to comprehend Mr Donne's rapid change of purpose ; and, before it had entered into his mind that, notwithstanding the distance of the church, Mr Donne was going thither, that gentleman was out of the sight, and far out of the reach, of his burly host. But though the latter had so far neglected the duties of hospitality as to allow his visitor to sit in the Eagle's Crag pew with no other guard of honour than the children and the governess, Mr Bradshaw determined to make up for it by extra attention during the remainder of the day. Accordingly he never left Mr Donne. Whatever wish that gentleman expressed, it was the study of his host to gratify. Did he hint at the pleasure which a walk in such beautiful scenery would give him, Mr Bradshaw was willing to t .com- pany him, although at Eccleston it was a principle with him not to take any walks for pleasure on a Sun- day. When Mr Donne turned round, and recollected letters which must be written, and which would compel him to stay at home, Mr Bradshaw instantly gave up the walk, and remained at hand, ready to furnish him with any writing materials which could be wanted, and which were not laid out in the half-furnished house. Nobody knew where Mr Hickson was all this time. He had sauntered out after Mr Donne, when the latter set off for church, and he had never re- turned. Mr Donne kept wondering if he could have met Ruth — if, in fact, she had gone out with her pupils, now that the afternoon had cleared up. This , RUTH 287 uneasy wonder^ and a few mental imprecations on his host's polite attention, together with the letter-writing pret<^nce, passed away the afternoon — the longest afternoon he had ever spent ; and of weariness he had had his share. Lunch was lingering in the dining- room, left there for the truant Mr Hickson ; but of the children or Ruth there was no sign. He ventured on a distant inquiry as to their whereabouts. " They dine early ; they are gone to church again. Mrs Denbigh was a member of the Establishment once ; and, though she attends chapel at home, she seems glad to have an opportunity of going to church." Mr Djnne was on the point of asking some further questions about " Mrs Denbigh," when Mr Hickson came in, loud-sjpoken, cheerful, hungry, and as ready to talk about his ramble, and the way in which he had lost and found himself, as he was about everything else. He knew how to dress up the commonest occurrence with a little exaggeration, a few puns, and a happy quotation or two, so as to make it sound very agreeable. He could read faces, and saw that he had been missed ; both host and visitor looked moped to death. He determined to devote himself to their amusement during the remainder of the day, for he had eally lost himself, and felt that he had been away too long on a dull Sunday, when people were apt to get hypped if not well amused. " It is really a shame to be indoors in such a place. Rain? yes, it rained some hours ago, but now it is splendid weather. I feel myself quite qualified for guide, I assure you. I can show you all the beauties of the neighbourhood, and throw in a bog and a nest of vipers to boot." Mr Donne languidly assented to this proposal of going out, and then he became restless until Mr Hickson had eaten a hasty lunch, for he hoped to meet Ruth on the way from church, to be near her, and watch her, though he might not be able to speak to her. To have the slow hours roll away— to know ii'C ii i : ft I J ' f 288 RUTH he must leave the next day — aud yet, so close to Iier, not to be seeing her — was more than he could bear In an impetuous kind of way, he disregarded all Mr Hickson's offers of guidance to lovely views, and turned a deaf ear to Mr Bradshaw's expressed wish of showing him the land beloni^ing to the house {" very little for fourteen thousand pounds "), and set off wil- fully on the road leading to the church, from which, he averred, he had seen a view which nothing else about the place could equal. They met the country people dropping homewards. No Ruth was there. She and her pupils had returned by the field- way, as Mr Bradshaw informed his guests at dinner-time. Mr Donne was v;;ry captious all through dinner. He thought it would never be over, and cursed Hickson's interminable stories, which were told on purpose to amuse him. His heart gave u fierce bound when he saw her in the drawing-room with the little girls. She was reading to them — with how sick and tremblii.g a heart, no words can tell. But she could master aud keep down outward signs of her emotion. An hour more to-night (part of which was to be j^pent in family prayer, and all in the safety of company), another hour in the morning (when all would be en- gaged in the bustle of departure) — if, during this short space of time, she could not avoid speaking to him, she could at least keep him at such a distance as to make him feel that henceforward her world and his belonged to separate systems, wide as the heavens apart. By degrees she felt that he was drawing near to where she stood. He was by the table examining the books that lay upon it. Mary and Elizabeth drew off a little space, awe-stricken by the future member for Eccleston. As hu bent his head over a book, he said, *' I implore you ; live minutes alone." The little girls could not hear ; buv Ruth, hemmed in so that no escape was possible, did hear. She took sudden courage, and said, in a clear voice, RUTH 280 " Will yon read the whole passage aloud ? I do not remember it.' Mr Hickson, hovering at no great distance, heard these words, and drew near to second Mrs Denbigh's request. Mr Bradshaw, who was very sleepy after his unustwdly late dinner, and longing for bedtime, joined in the request, for it would save the necessity for making talk, and he might, perhaps, get in a nap, un- disturbed and unnoticed, before the servants came in to prayers. Mr Donne was caught; he was obliged to read aloud, although he did not know what he was reading. In the middle of some sentence, the door opened, a rush of servants came in, and Mr Bradshaw became particularly wide awake in an instant, and read them a long semen with great emphasis and unction, wind- ing up with a prayer ah ost as long. Ruth sat with her head drooping, more from ex- haustion after a season of effort than because she shunned Mr Donne's looks. He had so lost his power over her — his power, which had stirred her so deeply the night before— that, except as one knowing her error and her shame, and making a cruel use of such knowledge, she had quite separated him from the idol of her youth. And yet, for the sake of that first and only love, she would gladly have known what explana- tion he could offer to account for leaving her. It would have been something gained to her oirn p" respect, if she had learnt that he was not then, -. felt him to be now, cold and egotistical, caring fc « one and nothing but what related to himself. Home, and Leonard— how strangely peaceful the two seemed ! Oh, for the rest that a dream about Leonard would bring ! Mary and Elizabeth went to bed immediately after pravers, and Ruth accompanied them. It was planned that the gentlemen should leave early the next morning. They were to breakfast half an hour sooner, to catch the railway train ; and this by Mr Donne's own ar- rangement, who had been as eager about his canvass- S 1 290 RfJTH ing , the week before, u it was pouible for him to be, but who now wished Eccleston and the Dissenting interest therein very fervently at the devil. Just as tho carriage came round, Mr Bradshaw turned to Ruth : " Any message for Leonard beyond love, which is a matter of course ? " Ruth gasped — for she saw Mr Donne catch at the np ne ; she did not guess the sudden sharp jealousy Chiled out by the idea that Leonard was a grown-up man. " Who is Leonard } " said he, to the little girl stand- ing by him ; he did not know which she was. " Mrs Denbigh's little boy," answered Mary. Under some pretence or other, he drew near to Ruth ; and in that low voice, which she had learut to loathe, he said, "Our child."' By the white misery that turned her face to stone- by the wild terror in her imploring eyes — by the gasp- ing breath, which came out as the carriage drove away — ^he knew that he had seized the spell to make her listen at lost. h CHAPTER XXIV " He will take him away from me. He will take the child from me.'' These words . .ag like a tolling bell through Ruth's head. It seemed to her that her doom was certain. Leonard would be taken from her ! She had a Ann conviction — not the less firm because she knew not on what it was based — that a child, whether legitimate or not, belonged of legal right to tlie father. And Leonard, of all children was the prince and monarch. Every man's heart would long to call Leonard " Child ! " She had been too strongly taxed to have much power ieft her to reason coolly and dispassion- ately, just then, even if she had been with anyone who could furnish her with information from which to 'J-i I RUTH 291 draw correct conclusions. The one thought haunted her night and dajr. " He will take my child away from me ! " In her dreams she saw Leonard borne away into po.ne dim land, to which she could not folio. Sometimes he sat in a swiftly-moving carriage, at his father'n side, and smiled on her as he passed by, as if going to promised pleasure. At another time, he was struggling to return to her ; stretching out his litUe arms, and crying to her for the help she could not give. How she got through the days, she did not know ; her body moved about and habitually acted, but her spirit was with her child. She thought often of writing and warning Mr Benson of Leonard's danger : but then she shrank from recurring to circumstances, all mention of wliich had ceased years ago ; the very recollection of which seemed buried deep for ever. Besides, she feared occasioning discord or <*ommotioa ia the quiet circle in which siie lived. Mr Benson's deep anger against her betrayer had been shown too clearly in the old time to allow her to think that he would keep it down without expression now. He would cease to do anything to forward his election ; he would oppose him as much as he could ; and Mr Bradshaw would be angry, and a storm would arise, from the bare thought of which Ruth shrank with the cowardliness of a person thoroughly worn out with late contest. She was bodily wearied with her spiritual buffeting. Oue morning, three or four days after their depar- ture, she received a letter from Miss Benson. She could not open it at first, and put it on one side, clenching her hand over it all the time. At last she tore it open. Leonard was safe as yet. There were a few lines in his great round hand, speaking of events no larger than the loss of a beautiful " alley. '* There Was a sheet from Miss Benson. She always wrote letters in the manner of a diary. " Monday we did so-and-so; Tuesday, so-and-so, etc." Ruth glanced rapidly down the page. Yes, here it was ! Sick, fluttering heart be still ! 292 RUTH !■; '* In the middle of the damsons, when they were jast «n the fire, there was a knock at the door. My hrother was out, and Sally was washing up, and I was stirring the preserve with my great apron and bib on ; so I bade Leonard come in from the garden, and open the door. But I would have washed his face first, if I had known who it was ! It was Mr Bradshaw, and the Mr Donne that they hope to send up to the House of Com- mons, as member of Parliament for Eccleston, and another gentleman, whose name I never heard. They had come canvassing ; and when they found my brother was out, they asked Leonard if they could see me. The child said ' Yes ! if I could leave the damsons ; ' and straightway came to call me, leaving them standing in the passage. I whipped off my apron, and took Leonard by the hand, for I fancied I should feel less awkward if he was with me, and then I went and asked them all into the study, for I thought I should like them to see how many books Thurstan had got. Then they began talking politics at me in a very polite manner, only I could not make head or tail of what they meant ; and Mr Donne took a deal of notice of Leonard, and called him to him ; and I am sure he noticed what a noble, handsome boy he was, though his face was very brown and red, and hot with digging, and his curls all tangled. Leonard talked back as if he had known him all his life, till, I think, Mr Bradshaw thought he was making too much noise, and bid him remember he ought to be seen, not heard. So he stood as still and stiff as a soldier, close to Mr Donne ; and as I could not help looking at the two, and thinking how handsome they both wp"e in their different ways, I could not tell Thursti- half the messages the gentlemen left for him. But there was one thing more 1 must tell you, though I said I would not. When Mr Donne was talking to Leonard, he took off his watch and chain and put it round the boy's neck, who was pleased enough, you may be sure. I bade him give it back to the gentle- man, when they were all going away ; and I was quite surprised, and very uncomfortable, when Mr Donne RUTH 293 } 11 said he had given it to Leonard, and that he was to keep it for his own. I could see Mr Bradshaw was annoyed, and he and the other gentleman spoke to Mr Donne, and I heard them say, * too barefaced ' ; and I shall never forgt^ Mr Donne's proud, stubborn look back at them, nor hia way of saying, * I allow no one to iuterfere with what I choose to do with my own. And he looked so haughty and displeased, I durst say nothing at the time. But when 1 told Thurstan, he was very grieved and angry ; and said he had heard that our party were bribing, but that he never could have thought they would have tried to do it at his house. Thurstan is very much out of spirits about this election altogether; and, indeed, it does make sad work up and down the town. However, he sent back the watch with a letter to Mr Bradshaw ; and Leonard was very good about it, so I gave him a taste of the new damson preserve on his bread for supper." Although a stranger might have considered this letter wearisome from the multiplicity of the details, Ruth craved greedily after more. What had Mr Donne said to Leonard? Had Leonard liked his new ac- quaintance ? Were they likely to meet again ? After wondering and wondering over these points, Ruth com- posed herself by the hope that in a dav or two she should hear again; and to secure this end, she answered the letters by return of post. That was on Thursday. On Friday she had another letter, in a strauge hand. It was' from Mr Donne. No name, no initials were given. If it had fallen into another per- son's hands, they could not have recognized the writer, nor guessed to whom it was sent. It contained simply " For our child's sake, and in his name, I summon you to appoint a place where I can speak, and you can listen, undisturbed. The time must be on Sunday; the limit of distance may be the circumference of your power of walking. My words may be commands, but my fond heart entreats. More I shall not say now, but, remember ! your boy's welfare depends on your :',il d . 294 RUTH h! i M: H' acceding to this request. A.ldress B. D., Post Office Eccleston." ' Ruth did not attempt to answer this letter till the last five minutes before the post went out. She could not decide until forced to it. Either way she dreaded She was very nearly leaving the ^tter altogether unl answered. But suddenly she resolved she would know all, the best, the worst. No cowardly dread of her- self, or of others, should make her neglect aught that came to her in her child's name. She took up a pen and wrote : *^ " The sands below the rocks, where we met you the other night. Time, afternoon church." Sunday came. " I shall not go to church this afternoon. You know the way, of course ; and I can trust you to go steadily by yourselves." When they came to kiss her before leaving her according to their fond wont, they were struck by the coldness of her face and lips. " Are you not well, dear Mrs Denbigh > How cold you are ! " " Yes, darling ! I am well " ; and tears sprang into her eyes as she looked at their anxious little faces. " Go now, dears. Five o'clock will soon be here, and then we will have tea." " And that will warm you ! " said they, leaving the room. ^ "And "over." It never came into her head to watch the girls, as they disappeared down the lane on their way to church. She knew them too well to distrust their doing what they were told. She sat still, her head bowed on her arms for a few minutes, and then rose up and went to put on her walking things. Some thoughts impelled her to sudden haste. She crossed the field by the side of the house, ran down the steep and rocky path, and was carried by the impetus of her descent far out on the level sands— but not far enough then it will be over," she murmured- RUTH 206 i 1 ! heavmg waters, marked^«here^;^ ^.^ ^^^ Sttering with the receding waves. Once there, sne brown moorland, interspersea w»"» , ] there of golden, waving corn. Behind J^ere purp Sic with sharD. clear outlines, touching the fky. A •"f-'pray .or me ! " she sighed out, as this object caught ■"Anr now close under the heathery fields, where th^ytlCmydownan^^uj^^^^^^^^^ '«r r ftf iUs-goingtowaVds thf very point ^hte Se *^hTom e'^iA Crag cam. down to the Zd'^yc^re ;orld began filled the -- "^^^ »t \*:ur /lhe^te'o7\hTw'a;llrt«^ ^STt^^Z S^al'f'd.Vlancing n.o«on and^the s^ of human life to be seen , uu . .1^^^ _,^,p oil that near shrimper. The black P^^^^^^^^^^fLetch of spoke of men's work or labour. Beyond a stietcn f>« i ¥ ' t T '} ii'^ 1 'l RUTH the waters, a few pale grey hUIs showed like films- tapJuTm'st ''"'^ *''"^^ '*'"*' ''^'^ ^^^^ ^°^' ^ ^' On the hard, echoing sands, and distinct from the ceaseless murmur of the salt sea waves, came fooTsteps -nearer-nearer. Very near they w^re when Ruth unwilling to show the fear that rioted in her heart turned round, and faced Mr Donne. ' ;/?,i:?™? forward, with both hands extended. Ihis IS kmd! my own Ruth," said he. Ruth's arms hung down motionless at her sides. What . Ruth, have you no word for me ? " u wif^* nothing to say," said Ruth. «m ♦« 7' 7°" ^'f*t /^vengeful creature ! And so I dTcent c^^lfty."'" '^'^^^ ^°" ""* -- *-^* ™« -th frllXv° *°* want 3xplanations," said Ruth, in a tremblir?? tone. « We must not speak of the past You asked me to come in Leonar(fs-in my child's name, and to hear what you had to say about Jim." pvpn mLl A Jl""® *° ^y ^^°"' ^™ relates to you even more. And how can we talk about him without ilTrf t*** *^" P^*- Tfa^t V^st, which you try to ignore-I know you cannot do it in your heart-is full n u "® ^^''^^ »n ^is tenderest tone. *!. V*^®^®. ^^^ "'^ answer; not even one faint siffh though he listened intently. ^ * VonJhl 'l"^r\^Pif ^ ' y°" *^"® °ot answer me. Your heart will not allow you to prevaricate, and you know you were happy." i«:, c»uu jou f„n1?/r -5 ^",*^'^ beautiful eyes were raised to him, full of lucid splendour, but grave and serious in thS expression ; and her cheeks, heretofore so faintly tinged with the tenderest blush, flashed into a riddy "J.^asbappy I do not deny it. '.Whatever comes I Jill not bfench from the truth. I have answered ''And yet," replied he, secretly exulting in her RUTH 297 admission, and not perceiving the inner strength of whi'-H she must have heen conscious before she would havr) iared to make it—" and yet, Ruth, we are not to recur to the past ! Why not ? If it was happy at the time, is the recollection of it so miserable to you ? He tried once more to take her hand, but she quietly stepped back. "I came to hear what you had to say about my child," said she, beginning to feel very weary. « Our child, Ruth." . She drew herself up, and her face went very pale. "What have you to say about him? asked she, ^" Much," exclaimed he—" much that may affect his whole life. But it all depends upon whether you will hear me or not." « I listen.** "Good Heavens! Ruth, you will drive me id. Oh ' what a changed person you are from the sweet, loving creature you were 1 1 wish you wei-e not so beautiful." She did not rsply, but he caught a deep, involuntary sigh. , , , t * " Will you hear me if I speak, though I may not begin all at once to talk of this boy— a boy of whom any mother-any parent, might be p-oud? I could see that, Ruth. 1 have seen him ; he looked like a prince in that cramped, miserable house, and wi*h no earthly advantages. 3 a shame he should not have every kind of oppor / laid open before him. There was no sife . ^( maternai ambition on the motionless face, though there might be some litUe spring in her heart, as it beat quick and strong at the idea of the proposal she imagined he was going to make of taking her boy away to give him the careful education she had often craved for him. She should refuse it, as she would everything else which seemed to imply that she acknowledged a claim over Leonard ; but yet sometimes, for her boy s sake, she had longed for a larger opening— a more extended sphere. V^ 2d8 RUTH Ruth ! you acknowledge we were happy once •— there were circumstances which, if I could tell you them all in detail, would show you how in my weak convalescent state I was almost passive in the hands of others. Ah, Ruth ! I have not forgotten the tender nurse who soothed me in my delirium. When I am feverish, I dream that I am again at Llan-dhu, in the little old bedchamber, and you, in white— which you always wore then, you know— flitting about me." The tears dropped, large and round, from Ruth's eyes— she could not help it— how couM she.^ " We were happy then," continued he, gaining con- iideuce from the sight of her melted mood, and recur- rmg once more to the admission which he considered so much^ in his favour. " Can such happiness never return!' Thus he went on, quickly, anxious to lav before her all he had to offer, before she should fuUv understand his meaning. "If you would consent, Leonard should be alwavs with you— educated where and how you liked— money to any amount you might choose to name should be secured to you and him— if only, Ruth— if only those happy days might return.'' Ruth spoke. " I said that I was happy, because I had asked God to protect and help me— and I dared not tell a lie. I was happy Oh ! what is happiness or miserv that we should talk about them now ? " Mr Donne looked at her, as she uttered these words, to see if she was wandering in her mind, they seemed to him so utterly strange and incoherent. " I dare not think of happiness— I must not look forward to sorrow. God did not put me here to con- sider either of these things.'' "My dear Ruth, compose yourself! There is no hurry in answering the question I asked." " What was it.? " said Ruth. " I love you so, I cannot live without you. 1 offer yon my heart, my life— I offer to place Leonard wherever you would have Iiim placed. I have the power and the u RUTH 299 ! I: means to advance him in any path of life you chooee. All who have shown kindness to you shall be rewarded bv me, with a gratitude even surpassing your own. If there is anything else I can do that you can suggest, 1 '""Listen to me!" said Ruth, now that the idea of what he proposed had entered her mind. When 1 said that I was happy with you long ago, I was choked with shame as I said it. And yet it may be a vam, felse excuse that I make for myself. I was very young ; I did not know how such a life was agamst God s pure and holy will— at least, not as I know it now ; and i tell vou truth— all the days of my years smce 1 have eone about with a stain on my hidden soul— a stain which made me loathe myself, and envy those who stood spotless and undefiled ; which made me shi ak from my child— from Mr Benson, from his sister, from the innocent girls whom I teach-nay, even 1 have cowered away fromlGod Himself ; and what f/id wrong then, I did blindly to what I should do now if I listened *° She "was so strongly agitated that she put her hands over her face, and sobbed without restraint. Ihen, taking them awav, she looked at him with a glowing fare, and beautiful, honest, wet eyes, and tried to speak calmly, as she asked if she needed to stay longer (she would have gone away at once but that she thought of Leonard, and wished to hear all that his father might have to sav). He was so struck anew by lie'- beauty, and understood her so little, that he believed that she onlv required a little more urging to consent to what he wished ; for in all she had said there was no trace of the anger and resentment for his desertion ot her, which he had expected would be a prominent Mature- the greatest obstacle he had to encounter. The deep sense of penitence she expressed, he mistook for earthly shaine ; which he imagined he could soon soothe away. " Yes, I have much more to say. I have not said half. 1 cannot tell you how fondly I will— how fondly 1 do love you— how my life shall be spent in minister- ^^ ml i I rv 300 ing to despise- RUTH your It wishes. Money, I see— I know, you " Mr Bellingham ! I will not stay to hear you snpak ^LTsl" rnu^his-ha^ToV^^^^^^^ ^ nance JVbeSifnti.-T^*'* ^^ ^^\ *''*'^" o^ '«?"?' nance, 1 begin to think you never loved me." HoJl °®^®'' ^°T®^ y®" •' ^o 70" dare to say so ?« Her eyes flamed on him as she spoke. Her red " wX^"^'^ i°*° ^^"*»f"l contl^mpt. ' turn IJ- •^**" ?""^ '« ^'°" '"e?" said he, in his turn getting impatient. ' sZlhl^ «H°"^ ^T *** K'Poke^ to in this way," ffoSl i wiw \'^^/f °y ^^^°^^ ^ °«"^d ♦io Leonard £S?' i,'^,**"^** s"*>"»t to many humiliations for his sake— but to no more from you." '^ W? °o* yo« afraid to brave me so?" said he Don t you know how much you are in my power ?'■ lest heTho^ulT^hll^'' ^^^\*° ^« ^^^y' »>"*^r-ded lest ne should follow her, where she miffht be less subject to interruption than she was here-near the wer7 SsS r^' *°^ ^f"^, ^'^' ^"'^ *^« posts they waters "*•'* ^^^^'^^ "P"^^°& ^«ve the Mr Donno put his hands on her arms as thev hunir " As^ 1' ^'^T^'"* ^"'^^^ ''^^'^y «l-«P^d together will tk m. '^ H* ^?" Pi '^'^ ^^- "^ '^i"! i^ 70U i ask me. He looked very fierce and Dassionate and determined. The vehemence of his acCn took S-asD aW^"'".^ l^^ the painful tightness of the fSranlTute™''" '" "^^^^"- «"* «»^« ^^ <1»'^ did'ntf «.S\" ' m"^ ^^' ^'"''"^ ^^'^ ^ ^»ttle shake. She i\ RUTH 301 ♦hrouirh the mist that obscured them, and the shut lips Sr She saw some distant object that gave her Tit is Stephen Bromley," said she. " He is coming to his nets. They say he is a very desperate, violent r^^^^^^r:^er^^ Mr Donne relejtfing his grasp. " You forget that one word of Srcould uSeceive all these good people at Lccle- Tn ; and that if I spoke out e . er so little, they would To^ you off in an instant Now ! " he continued, "do you understand how much you are in my power ? « Sr and Miss Bens-^n know all-they have not thrown me off," Ruth gasped out ^, " Oh ! for Leonard s sake ! vou would not be so cruel. r™ • i « Then do not you be cruel to him-to me. Think '°"TtSnk once more;" she spoke solemnly. "To save Leonard from the shame and agony of knowmg mv di^ace, I would lie down and die. Oh ! perhaps Twffibe best for him-for me, if I might ; my death would be a stingless grief-but to go back into sm would be the rell cruelty to him. The errors of my youth may be washed away by my tears-it was so once When the gentle, blessed Christ was upon earth ; but now if I went into wilful guilt, as you would have me, Srcould I teach Uonard God's holy will ? I should not mind his knowing ray past sm, compared to the awful corruption it would be if he knew me living now, as you would have me, lost to a 1 fear of God - Her speech was broken by sobs. " Whatever may be my doom-God is just-1 leave myself m His hands. I will save Leonard from evil- Evil would it be for him if I lived with you. I will let him die first ! She lifted her eyes to heaven^nd clasped and wreathed her hands together tight. Then she said: "You have humbled me enough, sir. I shall leave vou now She turned away resolutely. TJe dark, grey fisher- man was at hand. Mr Donne folded his arms, and set his teeth, and looked after her. . t i ,i 902 RUTH Kuth." said he, overtaking her. "Voushrnkl me once more. Aye, look round ' Vm., «.l . near. He may hear m. if kl k ™"™M a triumph I J cZZ'-oL^totl^^rVT come what may, 1 will have you N^LfwiU „ '' Eccleston you like-to Mr Briisfr!^ Mr°°''°"',r fo."Sirr„TeVor^eret"'*nS'Sore^ f-^»''5' but what you are reallv Mr« n ^ T H'^ °*^^ ^'"^^ .tua^^r Tl^SZ.. c^re^e C^ilithfro- £S3:^^--^-h- *'I cannot," said she ; hervoicewas veryfaint and low It mU all be easily managed/ Leave it to me " th^n-tSnerrC^ ^^'^^ -- ^^«*-tTnd clear, ^^I'Ja^u^'-"^^^^ **" ®*''*^ 'nakes you sav that-" noUoveM' S Tut 1 dn^'"^ T""" "?"'' ^J' ' "« you. We are very far apart Th« ,• °1t '°::°^ pressed down my Sfe^krhrand'^S hoTirt,' alS ^i RUTH 303 •carred me for ever, has beea nothing to you. You have talked of it with no sound of moaning in vour voice— no shadow over the brightness of your face ; it has left no sense of sin on your conscience, while me it haunts and haunts ; and yet I might plead that I was an ignorant child— only 1 will not plead anythmg, for God knows aU But this is only one piece of our great difference " . „ , . , . ^. ^ "You mean that I am no samt," he said, impatient at her speech. "Granted. But people who are no saiDts have made very good husbands before now. Come, don't let any morbid, overstrained conscien- tiousness interfere with substantial happiness— happi- ness both to you and to me— for I am sure I can make you happy— aye ! and make you love me, too, in spite of your prettv defiance. I love you so dearly I must win love back.' And here are advantages for Leonard, to be gained by you quite in a holy and legitimate way. She stood very erect. " If there was o\e thing needed to conhrm me, you have named it. You shall have nothing to do with my boy, by my consent, much less by my agency. I would rather see him working on the roadside than leading such a life— being such a one as you are. You have heard my mind now, Mr Bellingham. You have humbled me— you have baited me ; and if at last I have spoken out too harshly, and too much in a spirit of judgement, the fault is yours. If there were no other n ason to nreveut our marriage but the one fact that it would nig Leonard into contact with you, that would be enough." " It is enough ! " said he, making her a low bow. ''Neither you nor your child shall ever more be annoyed by me. I wish you a good evening." They walked apart— he back to the inn, to set off instantly, while the blood was hot in him, from the place where he had been so mortified— she to steady lerself along tUl she reached the little path, more ike a rude staircase than anything else, by which she lad to climb to the house. ao4 RUTH lU I : She did not turn round for some time after ghe wag fairly lost to the flight of anyone on the shore ; she clambered on, almost stunned by the rapid beat- ing of her heart. Her eyes were hot and dry ; and at last became as if she were suddenly blind. Un- able to ^o on, she tottered into the tangled under- wood which grew among the stones, filling every niche and crevice, and little shelving space, with green and delicate tracery. She sank down behind a grp^t over- hanging rock, which hid her from anyone co.iiing up the path. An ash tree was rooted m this rock, slanting away from the sea-breezes that were prevalent in most weathers ; but this was a still autumnal Sabbath evening. As Ruth's limbs fell, so they lay. She V»«ui no strength, no power of volition to move a fin' '>'. could not think or remember. She was litei ned. The first sharp sensation which roused n her torpor was a quick desire to see him once l.w..^; up she sprang, and climbed to an out-jutting dizzy point of rock, but a little above her sheltered nook, yet commanding a wide view over the bare naked sands ; — far away below, touching the rippling water-line, was Stephen Bromley, busily gathering in his nets ; besides him there was no living creature visible. Ruth shaded her eyes, as if she thought they might have deceived her ; but no, there was no one there. She went slowly down to her old place, 'trying sadly as she went. " Oh ! if I had not spoken so angrily to him— the last things I said were so bitter — so reproachful !— and I shall never, never see him again ! " She could not take in the general view and scope of their conversation — the event was too near her for that ; but her heart felt sore at the echo of her last words, just and true as their severity was. Her struggle, her constant flowing tears, which fell from very weakness, made her experience a sensation of in- tense bodily fatigue ; and h<3r soul had lost the power of throwing irself forward, or contemplating anything beyond the dreary present, when the expanse of grey, RUTH ao5 wild, bleak moors, itretching wide away below a sun- less sky, seemed only an outward sign of the waste world within her heart, for which she could claim no sympathy ; — for she could not even d ; "ine what its woes were ; and if she could, no one would understand how the present time was haunted by the terrible ghost of the former love. "I am so weary ! I am so weary : she moaned rloud at last. "I wonder if I might stop here, and just die away." She shut her eyes, until through the closed lids came a ruddy blaze of light. The clouds had parted away, and the sun was going down in a crimson glory be- hind the distant purple hills. The whole western sky was one flame of fire. Ruth forgot herself in looking at the gorgeous sight. She sat up gazing, and, as she nzed, the tears dried on her cheeks ; and, somehow, all human care and sorrow were swallowed up in the unconscious sense of God's infinity. The sunset calmed her more than any words, however wise and tender, could have done. It even seemed to give her strength and courage ; she did not know how or why, but so it was. She rose, and went slowly towards home. Her limbs were very stiff, and every now and then she had to choke down an unbidden sob. Her pupils had been long returned from church, and had busied themselves in preparing tea — an occupation which had probably made them feel the time less long. If they had ever seen a sleep-walker, they might have likened Ruth to one for the next few days, so slow and measured did her mo 'ements seem — so far away was her intelligence from all that was passing around her — so hushed and st ange were the tones of her voice ! They had letters from home announcing the triumphant return of Mr Donne as M.P. for Eccleston. Mrs Denbigh heard the news without a word, and was too languid to join in the search after purple and yellow flowers with which to deck the sitting-room at Eagle's Crag. iMHfc 906 RUTH i: ■•» m ^ IV :■ H fif !1 I* A letter from Jemima came the next day, sum moning them home. Mr Donne and his friends had left the place, and quiet was restored in the Brad shaw household ; so it was time that Mary's and Elizabeth's holiday should cease. Mrs Denbigh had also a letter— a letter from Miss Benson, saying that Leonard was not quite well. There was so much pains taken to disguise anxiety, that it was very evident much anxiety was felt; and the girls were almost alarmed by Ruth's sudden change from taciturn lan- gour to eager, vehement energy. Body and mind seemed strained to exertion. Every plan that could facilitate packing and winding-up a£Fairs at Abermouth, every errand and arrangement that could expedite their departure by one minute, was done by Ruth with stern promptitude. She spared herself in nothing. She made them rest, made them lie down, while she herself lifted weights and transacted business with feverish power, never resting, and trying never to have time to think. For in remembrance of the Past there was Re- morse, — how had she forgotten Leonard these last few days !— how had she repined and been dull of heart to her blessing! And in anticipation of the Future there was one sharp point of red light in the darkness which pierced her brain with agony, and which she would not see or recognize — and saw and recognized all the more for such mad determination — which is not the true shield against the bitterness of the arrows of Death. When the seaside party arrived in Eccleston, they were met by Mrs and Miss Bradshaw and Mr Benson. By a firm resolution, Ruth kept from shaping the question, "Is he alive.?" as if by giving shape to her fears she made their realization more imminent. She said merely, "How is he?" but she said it with drawn, tight, bloodless lips, and in her eyes Mr Benson read her anguish of anxiety. " He is very ill, but we hope he will soon be better. It is what every child has to go through." RUTH 307 CHAPTER XXV Mr Bradshaw had been successful in carrying his point. His member had been returned ; his proud opponents mortified. So the public thought he ought to be well pleased ; but the public were disappointed to see that he did not show any of the gratification they supposed him to feel. The truth was, that he had met with so many small mortifications during the progress of the election, that the pleasure which he would otherwise have felt in the final success of his scheme was much diminished. He had more than tacitly sanctioned bribery ; and now that the excitement was over, he regretted it ; not entirely from conscientious motives, though he was uneasy from a slight sense of wrong-doing ; but he was more pained, after all, to think that, in the eyes of some of his townsmen, his hitherto spotless character had received a blemish. He, who had been so stern and severe a censor on the undue influence exercised by the opposite party in all preceding elections, could not expect to be spared by their adherents now, when there were rumours that the hands of the scrupulous Dissenters were not clean. Before, it had been his boast that neither friend nor enemy could say one word against him ; now, he was constantly afraid of an indictment for bribery, and of being compelled to appear before a Committee to swear to his own share in the business. His uneasy, fearful consciousness made him stricter and sterner than ever ; as if he would quench all won- dering, slanderous talk about him in the town by a renewed austerity of uprightness ; that the slack- principled Mr Bradshaw of one month of ferment and excitement, might not be confounded with the highly-conscientious and deeply-religious Mr Brad- shaw, who went to chapel twice a day, and gave a hundred pounds a-piece to every charity in the town, as a sort of thank-offering that his end was gained. . 908 RUTH li But he was secretly dissatisfied with Mr Donne. In general^ that gentleman had been rather too willing to act in accordance with anyone's advice, no matter whose ; as if he had thought it too much trouble to weigh the wisdom of his friends, in which case Mr Bradshaw's woiild have, doubtless, proved the most valuable. But now and then Lt unexpectedly, and utterly without reason, took the c>>nduct of affairs into his own hands as when he had u en absent without leave only just before the day ot nomination. No one guessed whither he had gone ; but the fact of his being gone was enough to chagrin Mr Bradshaw, who was quite ready to pick a quarrel on this very head, if the election had not terminated favourably. As it was, he had a feeling of proprietorship in Mr Donne which was not dis- agreeable. He had given the new M.P. his seat; his resolution, his promptitude, his energy, had made Mr Donne " our member " ; and Mr Bradshaw beiran to feel proud of him accordingly. But there had been no one circumstance during this period to bind Jemima and Mr Farquhar together. They were still misunderstanding each other with all their power. TTie difference in the result was this. Jemima loved him all the more, in spite of quarrels and coolness. He was growing utterly weary of the petulant temper of which he was never certain ; of the reception which varied day after day, according to the mood she was in and the thoughts that were uppermost ; and he was almost startled to find how very glad he was that the little girls and Mrs Denbigh were coming home. His was a character to bask in peace ; and lovely, quiet Ruth, with her low tones and quiet replies, her delicate graving movements, appeared to him the very type of what a woman should be — a calm, serene soul, fashioning the body to angelic grace. It was, therefore, with no slight interest that Mr Farquhar inquired daily after the health of little Leonard. He asked at the Bensons' house; and Sally answered him, with swollen and tearful eyes, that the child was very bad — very bad indeed. He RUTH 309 asked at the doctor's; and the doctor told him, m a few short words, that "it was only a bad kind of measles, and that the lad might have a struggle for it, but he thought he would get through. Vigor- ous children carried their force into everything; never did things by halves ; if they were ill, they were sure to be in a high fever directly ; if they were well, there was no peace in the house for their rioting. For his part," continued the doctor, "he thought he was glad he had ^ ' no children ; as far aa he could judge, they were much all plague and no profit." But as he euQv . J speech he sighed ; and Mr Farquhar was none the less convinced that common report was true, which represented the clever, prosperous surgeon of Eccleston as bitterly disappointed at his failure of oflFspring. , . ,. , j xt. • While these various interests and feelings had their course outside the Chapel-house, within there was but one thought which possessed all the inmates. When Sally was not cooking for the little invalid, she was crying ; for she had a dream about green rushes, not three months ago, which, by some queer process of oneiromancy, she interpreted to mean the death of a child ; and all Miss Benson's endeavours were directed to making her keep silence to Ruth about this dream. Sally thought that the mother ought to be told ; what were dreams sent for but for warnings ; but it was just like a pack of Dissenters, who would not believe anything like other folks. Miss Benson was too much accustomed to Sally's contempt for Dissenters, as viewed from the pinnacle of v. ^ Establishment, to pay much attention to all this grumbling ; especially as Sally was willing to take as much trouble about Leonard as if she believed he was going to live, and that his recovery depended upon her care. Miss Benson's great object was to keep her from having any confidential talks with Ruth ; as if any repeti- tion of the dream could have deepened the conviction in Ruth's mind that the child would die. It seemed to her that his death would only be the ii i 310 RUTH fitting punishment for the state of indifference towards him— towards life and death— towards all things earthly or divine, into which she had suffered herself to fall since h .- last Interview with Mr Donne. She did not unu^ .ijtand that such exhaustion is hut the natural con- sequence of violent agitation and severe tension of feeling. The only relief she experienced was in con- stantly serving Leonard ; she had almost an animal's jealousy le^t anyone should come between her and her young. Mr Benson saw this jealous suspicion, al- though he could hardly understand it ; but he calmed his sister's wonder and oflScious kindness, so that the two patiently and quietly provided all that Ruth mitrht want, but did not interfere with her right to nurse Leonard. But when he was recovering, Mr Benson, with the slight tone of authority he knew how to as- sume when need was, bade Ruth lie down and take some rest, while his sister watched. Ruth did not answer, but obeyed in a dull, weary kind of surprise at being so commanded. She lay down by her child, gazing her fill at his calm slumber, and as she gazed, her larjje white eyelids were softly pressed down as with a gentle irresistible weiglit, and she fell asleep. She dreamed that she was once more on the lonely shore, striving to carry Leonard away from some {mrsuer — some human pursuer — she knew he was luman, and she knew who he was, although she dared not say his name even to herself, he seemed so close and present, gaining on her flying fcjtsteps, rushing after her as with the sound of the roarinj^ tide. Her feet seemed heavy weights fixed to the ground ; they would not move. All at once, just near the shore, a great black whirlwind of waves clutched her back to her pursuer ; she threw Leonard on to land, which was safety ; but whether he reached it or no, or was swept back like her into a mysterious something too dreadful to be borne, ahe did not know, for the terror awakened her. At first the dream seemed yet a reality, and she thought that the pursuer was couched even there, in that very room, and the iZ^ RUTH 311 great boom of the sea was still in her ears. But as I^U consciousness returned, she saw herself safe in the d«^r old room-the haven of rest -the shelter from .terms A bright fire was glowing in the little old- ?Ened, cup-shape.1 grate, niched into * corner of he wall, and guarded on either side by whitewashed bricks which fested on hobs. On one of these the kettle hummed and buzzed, within two points of boil- inir whenever she or Leonard required tea. In her dream that home-like sound had been the roaring of the relentless sea, creeping swiftly on to seize its pre^ Miss Benson sat by the fire, motionless and still , it was loo dark to read any longer without a candle , but yet on the ceiling and upper part of the walls the ffolde-i light of the setting sun was s owly moving~so low, and yet a motion gives the feehng of rest to the we^y yet more than perfect stillness. The old clock on the staircase told its monotonous click-clack, in that soothing way which more marked the quiet ot the house than disturbed with any sense of sound Leonard still slept that renovating slumber, almost in her arms, far from that fatal pursuing sea, with its human form of cruelty. The dream was a vision ; the reality which prompted the dream was over and past-Leonard was safe-she was safe ; all this loosened the frozen springs, and they gushed forth m her heart, and her lips moved in accordance with her * °°VVhat were you saying, my darling?" said Miss Benson, who caught sight of the motion, and fancied she was asking for somethiuf,'. Miss Benson bent over the side of the bed on which Ruth lay, to catch the low tones of her voice. ^. . « I only said,** replied Ruth, timidly, « thank God ! I have so much to thank Him for, you don t know. "My dear, I am sure we have all of us cause to be thankful that our boy is spared. See ! he is wakening up : and we will have a cup of tea together. Leonard strode on to perfect health ; but he was made older in character and looks by his severe illness. i W^\ 312 RUTH H:H He pew tall and thin, and the lovely child was lost in the handsome boy. He hegsnx to wonder, and to ques- tion. Ruth mourned a little over the vanished baby- hood, when she was all in all, and over the childhood, whose petals had fallen away ; it seemed as though two of her children were gone — the one an infant, the other a bright thoughtless darling; and she wished that they could have remained quick in her memory for ever, instead of being absorbed in loving pride for the present boy. But these were only fanciful regrets, flitting like shadows across a mirror. Peace and thank- fulness were once more the atmosphere of her mind ; nor was her unconsciousness disturbed by any suspicion of Mr Farquhar's increasing approbation and admira- tion, which he was diligently nursing up into love for her. She knew that he had sent— she did not know how often he had brought— fruit for the convalescent Leonard. She heard, on her return from her daily employment, that Mr Farquhar had brought a little gentle pony, on which Leonard, weak as he was, might ride. To confess the truth, her maternal pride was such that she thought that all kindness shown to such a boy as I^eonard was but natural ; she believed him to be A child whom all that looked on, loved. As in truth he was ; and the proof of this was daily shown in many kind inquiries, and many thoughtful little oflPerings, besides Mr Farquhar's. The poor (warm and kind of heart to all sorrow common to humanity) were touched with pity for the young widow, whose only child lay ill, and nigh unto death. They brought what they could— a fresh egg, when eggs were scarce— a few ripe pears that grew on the sunniest side of the humble cottage, where the fruit was regarded as a source of income — a call of inquiry, and a prayer that God would spare the child, from an old crippled woman, who could scarcely drag herself BO far as the Chapel-house, yet felt her worn and weary heart stirred with a sharp pang of sympathy. RUTH 313 and a very present remembrance of the time when she too was young, and saw the life-breath quiver out of her child, now an angel in that heaven, which felt more like home to the desolate old creature than this empty earth. To all such, when Leonard was better, Ruth went, and thanked them from her heart. She and the old cripple sat hand in hand over the scanty fire on the hearth of the latter, while she told in solemn, broken, homely words, how her child sickened and died. Tears fell like rain down Ruth's cheeks ; but those of the old woman were dry. All tears had been wept out of her long ago, and now she sat patient and quiet, waiting for death. But after this, Ruth "clave unto her,'^ and the two were henceforward a pair of friends. Mr Farquhar was only included in the general gratitude which she felt towards all who had been kind to her boy. The winter passed away in deep peace after tHe storms of the autumn, yet every now and then a feel- ing of insecurity made Ruth shake for an instant. Those wild autumnal storms had torn aside the quiet flowers and herbage that had gathered over the wreck of her early life, and shown her that all deeds, how- ever hidden, and long passed by, have their eternal consequences. She turned sick and faint whenever Mr Donne'? name was casually mentioned. No one saw it ; but she felt the miserable stop in her heart s beating, and wished that she could prevent it by any exercise of self-command. She had never named his identity with Mr Bellingham, nor had she spoken about the seaside interview. Deep shame made her sileat and reserved on all her life before Leonard s birth ; from that time she rose again in her selN respect, and spoke as openly as a child (when need was) of all occurrences which had taken nlace since then ; except that she could not, and would not, tell of this mocking echo, this haunting phantom, this past, that would not rest in its grave. The very cir- cumstance that it was stalking abroad in the world, and might reappear at any moment, made her a I < a 314 RUTH If 4 t m-i {-f coward : she trembled away from contemplatinff what the reality had been ; only she clung more faithfully than before to the thought of the great God, who was a rock in the dreary land, where no shadow was. Autumn and winter, with their lowering skies, were less dreary than the woeful, desolate feelings that shed a gloom on Jemima. She found too late that she had considered Mr Farquhar so securely her own for so long a time, that her heart refused to recognize him as lost to her, unless her reason went through tlie same weary, convincing, miserable evidence day after day and liour after hour. He never spoke to her now except from common civility. He never cared for her contradictions ; he never tried, with patient per- severance, to bring her over to his opinions ; he never used the wonted wiles (so tenderly remembered now they had no existence but in memory) to bring her round out of some wilful mood— and such moods were common enough now! Frequently she was sullenly indifferent to the feelings of others— not from any un- kindness. but because her heart seemed numb and stony, and incapble of sympathy. Then afterwards her self-reproach was terrible— iii the dead of night, when no one saw it. With a strange perversity, the only intelligence she cared to hear, the only sights she cared to see, were the circumstances which gave con- firmation to the idea that Mr Farquhar was thinking of Ruth for a wife. She craved with stinging curiosity to hear something of their affairs every day ; partly be- cause the torture which such intelligence gave was almost a relief from the deadness of her heart to all other interests. And so spring {gioventu dell'anno) came back to her, bringing all the contrasts which spring alone can bring to add to the heaviness of the soul. The little winged creatures filled the air with bursts of joy ; the vegeta- tion came bright and hopefully onwards, without' any checK of nipping frost. The ash trees in the Bradsliaws' garden were out in leaf by the middle of May, which that year wore more the aspect of summer than most RUTH 315 Junes do. The sunny weather mocked Jemima, and the unusual warmth oppressed her physical powers. She felt very weak and languid : she was acutely sensihle that no one else noticed her want of strength ; father, mother, all seemed too full of other things to care if, as she believed, her life was waning, hhe herselt felt glad that it was so. But her delicacy was not unnoticed by all. Her mother often anxiously asked her husband if he did not think Jemima was looking ill ; nor did his affirmation to the contrary satisfy her, as most of his affirmations did. ^lle thought every morning, before she got up, how she could tempt Jemima to eat, by ordering some favourite dainty for dinner ; in many other little ways she tried to minister to her child ; but tue poor girl s own abrupt irritability of temper had made her mother afraitl ot openly speaking to her about her health, ^uth, too, saw that Jemima was not looking well. How she had become an object of dislike to her former friend she did not know ; but she was sensible that Miss Bradshaw disliked her now. She was not aware that this feeling was growing and strengthening alnaost into repugnance, for she seldom saw Jemima out ot school-hours, and then only for a minute or two. But the evil element of a fellow-creature s dislike oppressed the atmosphere of her life. That fellow-creature was one who had once loved her so fondly, and whom she still ioved, although she had learnt to fear her, as we fear those whose faces cloud over when we come m sight— who cast unloving glances at us, of which we, though not seeing, are conscious, as of some occult influence ; and the cause of whose dislike is unknown to us, though every word and action seems to increase it I believe that this sort of dislike is only shown by the jealous, and that it renders the disliker even more miserable, because more continually conscious than the object ; but the growing evidence of Jemima s feeling made Ruth very unhappy at times. A ^is very May, too, an idea had come into her mmd, which she had tried to repress-namely, that Mr Farquhar was m 316 RUTH 1' 1^ love with her. It annoyed her extremely ; it made her reproach herself that she ever should think such a thing possible. She tried to strangle the notion, to drown it, to starve it out by neglect— its existence caused her such pain and distress. The worst Wc he had won Leonard's heart, who was const ntly siek y him out ; or, when absent, talking about him. The best was some journey connected with business, which would take him to the continent for several weeks; and, during that tiuie, surely this disagreeable fancy of his would die away, if untrue- and if true, some way would be opened by which she might put a stop to all increase of predilection on his part, and yet retain him as a friend for Leonard— that darling for whom she was far-seeing and covetous, and miserly of every scrap of love and kindly regard. iMr Farquhar would not have been flattered if he had known how much his departure contributed to Ruth's rest of mind on the Saturday afternoon on which he set out on his journey. It was a beautiful day ; th-* sky of that intense quivering blue which seemed as though you could look through it for ever, yet not reach the black, infinite space which is suggested as Ivmg beyond. Now and then a thin, torn, vaporous cloud floated slowly within the vaulted depth ; but the soft air that gently wafted it was not perceptible among the leaves on the trees, which did not even tremble. Ruth sat at her work in the shadow formed by the old grey garden wall ; Miss Benson and Sally— the one in the parlour window-seat mending stockings, the other hard at work in her kitchen— were both within talking distance, for it was weather for open doors and windows ; but none of the three kept up any continued conversation ; and in the intervals Ruth sang low a brooding song, such as she remembered her mother singing xong ago. Now and then she stopped to look at Leonard, who was labouring away with vehement energy at digging over a small plot of ground, where he meant to prick out some celery plants that had been given to him. Ruth's heart warmed at the earnest, RUTH 317 roirited way in which he thrust his large spade deep £wn into the hrown soil, his ruddy face glowing, his curly hair wet with the exertion ; and yet she sighed to think that the days were over when her deeds of skill could give him pleasure. Now, his delight was in acting himself; last year, not fourteen mouths ago, he had watched her makinj; a daisy-chain for him, as if he could not admire her cleverness enough ; this year— this week, when she had heen devoting every spare hour to the simple Uiloring which she performed for her hoy (she had always made every article he wore, and felt almost jealous of the employment), he had come to her with a wistful look, and asked when he might hegin to have clothes made by a man ? Ever since the Wednesday when she had accom- panied Mary and Elizabeth, at Mrs Bradshaw's desire, to be measured for spring clothes by the new Eccleston dressmaker, she had been looking forward to this Saturday afternoon's pleasure of making summer trousers for Leonard ; but the satisfaction of the em- ployment was a little taken away by Leonard's speech. It was a sign, however, that h - afe was very quiet and peaceful that she had leisure to think uoon the thing at all; and often she forgot it entirely in her low, chanting song, or in listening to the thrush warbling out his afternoon ditty to his patient mate in the holly-bush below. The distant rumble of carts through the busy streets (it was market-day) not only formed a low rolling bass to the nearei' and pleasanter sounds, but enhanced the sense of peace by the suggestion of the contrast afforded to the repose of the garden by the bustle not far off. But besides physical din and bustle there is mental strife and turmoil. . That afternoon, as Jemima was restlessly wandering about the house, her mother desired her *- go on an errand to Mrs Pearson's, the new dressmaker, m order to give some directions about her sisters' new frocks. Jemima went, rather than have the trouble of resisting ; or else she would havj preferred staying at home, \ I 318 RUTH I il ri' ', 1^ l»:4. 1 f. I i 1 1 :1 Jlif -'I ml moving or being outvirardiy quiet according to her own fitful will. Mrs Bradshaw, who, as I have said, had been aware for some time that something was wroiij? with her daughter, and was very anxious to set it to rights if she only knew how, had rather planned this errand with a view to dispel Jeminui's melancholy. " And Mimie, dear," said her mother, " when you are there, look out for a new bonnet for yourself; slie has got some very pretty ones, and your olu one is 30 shabby." (( It does for me, mother," said Jemima, heavily, " I don't want a new bonnet." " But I want you to liave one, my lassie. I want my girl to look well and nice." There was something of homely tenderness in Mrs Bradshaw's tone that touched Jemima's heart. She went to her mother, and kissed her with more of affec- tion than she had shown to anyone for weeks before ; and the kiss was returned with warm fondness. " I think you love me, mother," said Jemima. "We all love you, dear, if you would but think so. And if you want anything, or wish for anything, only tell me, and with a little patience I can get your fatlier to give it you, I know. Only be happy, there's a good girl." " Be happy I as if one could by an effort of will ! " thought Jemima, as she went along the street, too absorbed in herself to notice the bows of acquaintances and friends, but instinctively guiding herself riji^ht among the throng and press of carts, and gigs, and market people in High Street. But her mother's tones and looks, with their com- forting power, remained longer in her recollection than the inconsistency of any words spoken. When she had completed her errand about the frocks, she asked to look at some bonnets, in order to show her recognition of her mother's kind thought. Mrs Pearson was a smart, clever-looking woman of five or six and thirty. She had all the variety of small- talk at her finger ends that was formerly needed by >AI«,*V RUTH 819 barl)er8 to amuse the people who to be shaved. She had admired the town t'V -mii.ia was wearv of its praises, sick and oppressed by its sameness, as she had been these many weeks. .„ . ■ " Here are some bonnets, ma am, that will be just the thinj? for you— elegant and tasty, yet quite of the simple style, suitable to young ladies. Oblige me by trying on this white silk I " Jemima looked at herself in the glass; she was obliged to own it was very becoming, and perhaps not the less so for the flush of modest shame which came into her cheeks as she heard Mrs Pearson's open praises of the "rich, beautiful hair," and the " Oriental eyes" of the wearer. " I induced the young lady who accompanied your Bisters the other day— the governess, is she, ma'am?" « Yes — Mrs Denbigh is her name," said Jemima, clouding over. "Thank you, ma'am. Well, I persuaded Mrs Den- bigh to try on that bonnet, and you can't think how charming she looked in it ; and yet I don't think it became her as much as it does you." " Mrs Denbigh is very beautiful," said Jemima, taking off the bonnet, and not much inclined to try on any other. " Very, ma'am. Quite a peculiar style of beauty. If 1 might be allowed, I should say that hers was a Grecian style of loveliness, while yours was Oriental. She reminded me of a young person I once knew in Fordham." Mrs Pearson sighed an audible sigh. " In Fordham ! " said Jemima, remembering tha* Ruth had once spoken of the place as one in which she had spent some time, while the county in which it was situated was the same in which Ruth was born. " In Fordham ! Why, I think Mrs Denbigh comes from that neighbourhood." " Oh, ma'am ! she cannot be the young person 1 mean — I am sure, ma'am — holding the position she does in your establishment. I should hardly say I knew her myself ; for I only saw her two or three times 320 RUTH tt' 1; J^P' Hp 1-r f ^ t' ^■8 ^' i' 1 JmWI! ' at my sister's house ; but she was so remarked for her beauty, that I remember her face quite well— the more so, on account of her vicious conduct afterwards." " Her vicious conduct ! " repeated Jemima, con- vinced by these words that there could be no identity between Ruth and the ''young person" alluded to. '* Then it could not have been our Mrs Denbigh." " Oh, no, ma'am ! I am sure I should be sorry to be understood to have suggested anything of the kind. 1 beg your pardon if I did so. AH I meant to say— and perhaps that was a liberty I ought not to have taken, considering what Ruth Hilton was " " Ruth Hilton ! " said Jemima, turning suddenly round, and facing Mrs Pearson. ** Yes, ma'am, that was the name of the young person I allude to." "Tell me about her— what did she do.''" asked Jemima, subduing her eagerness of tone and look as best she might, but trembling as on the verge of some strange discovery. ** I don't know whether I ought to tell you, ma'am- it is hardly a fit story for a young lady ; but this Ruth Hilton was an apprentice to my sister-in-law, who had a first-rate business in Fordham, which brought her a good deal of patronage from the county families ; and thia young creature was very artful and bold, and thought sadly too much of her beauty ; and, somehow, ■he beguiled a young gentleman, who took her into keeping (I am sure, ma'am, I ought to apologize for polluting your ears ) " '* Go on," said Jemima, breathlessly. "1 don't know much more. His mother followed him into Wales. She was a lady of a great deal of religion, and of a very old family, and was much shocked at her son's misfortune in being captivated by such a person ; but she led him to repentance, and took him to Paris, where, I think, she died ; but I am not sure, for, owing to family differences, I have not been on terms for some years with my sister- iu-law, who was my informant." Site RUTH 821 "UTio died?" interrupted Jemima — ''the young man's mother, or — or Ruth Hilton ? " " Oh dear, ma'am ! pray don't confuse the two. It was the mother, Mrs I forget the name — some- thing like Billington. It was the lady who died." " And what became of the other .'* " asked Jemima, unable, as her dark suspi^^.on seemed thickening, to speak the name. "The girl.'' Why, ma'am, what could become of her."^ Not that I know exactly — only one knows they can but go from bad to worse, poor creatures ! God forgive me, if I am speaking too transiently of such degraded women, who, after all, are a disgrace to our sex." " Then you know nothing more about her ? " asked Jemima. "I did hear that she had gone off with another gentleman that she met with in Wales, but I'm sure I cau't tell who told me. " There was a little pause. Jemima was pondering on all she had heard. Suddenly she felt that Mrs Pear- son's eyes were upon her, watching her ; not with curiosity, but with a newly-awakened intelligence ; — and yet she must ask one more question ; but she tried to ask it in an indifferent, careless tone, handling the bonnet while she spoke. " How long is it since all this — all you have been telling me about— happened .> " (Leonard was eight years old.) "Why — let me see. It was before I was married, and I was married three years, and poor dear Pearson has been deceased five — I should say, going on for nine years this summer. Blush roses would become your complexion, perhaps, better than these lilacs," said she, as with superficial observation she watched Jemima, turning the bonnet round and round on her hand — the bonnet that her dizzy eyes did not see. " Thank you. It is very pretty. But I don't want a bonnet. I beg your pardon for taking up your time." X 1' m 822 RUTH w And with an abrupt bow to the discomfited Mrs Pearson, she was out and away in the open air, thread- ing her way with instinctive energy along the crowded street. Suddenly she turned round, and went back to Mrs Pearson's, with even more rapidity than she iiad been walking away from the house. " I have changed my mind,*' said she, as she came, breathless, up int«> the show-room. " 1 will take the bonnet. How much la it ? *' " Allow me to change the flowers ; it can be done in an instant, and then you can see if you would not prefer the roses ; but with either foliage it is a lovely little bonnet," said Mrs Pearson, holding it up admir- ingly on her hand. "Oh ! never mind the flowers— yes ! change them to roses.'* And she stood by, agitated (Mrs Pearson thought with impatience) all the time the milliner was making the alteration with skilful, busy haste. " By the way," said Jemima, when she saw the last touches were being given, and that she must not delay executing the purpose which was the real cause of her return—'* Papa, I am sure, would not like your cou- necting Mrs Denbigh's name with such a— story as you have been telling me." " Oh dear ! ma'am, I have too much respect for you all to think of doing such a thing ! Of course I know, ma'am, that it is not to be cast^ up to any lady that she is like anybody disreputable." " But 1 would rather you did not name the likeness to anyone," said Jemima ; " not to anyone. Don t tell anyone the story you have told me this morning. " Indeed, ma'am, I should never think of such a thing! My poor husband could have borne witness that I am as close as the grave where there is anything to conceal." „ ^, *•' Oh dear ! " said Jemima, " Mrs Pearson, there is nothing to conceal ; only you must not speak about * '" I certainly shall not do it, ma'am ; you may rest assured of me." RUTH >23 This time Jemima did not go towards home, but la the direction of the outskirts of the town, on the hilly side. She had some dim recollection of hearing her sisters ask if they might not go and invite Leonard and his mother to tea ; and how could she face Ruth, after the conviction had taken possession of her heart that she, and the sinful creature she had just heard of, were one and the same ? It was yet only the middle of the afternoon ; the hours were early in the old-fashioned town of Eccleston. Soft white clouds had come slowly sailing up out of the west ; the plain was flecked with thin floating shadows, gently borne along by the westerly wind that was waving the long grass in the hay fields in^o alternate light and shade. Jemima went into one of tnese fields, lying by tbo side of the upland road. She was stunned by the <=^ . «ihe had received. The diver, leaving the green - " smooth and known, where his friends stand ■■.'■ "^heir familiar smiling faces, admiring his glad bi - / — the diver, down in an instant in the horrid depths of the sea, close to some strange, ghastly, lidless-eyed monster, can hardly more feel his blood curdle at the near terror than did Jemima now. Two hours ago— but a point of time on her mind's dial — she had never imagined that she should ever come in contact with anyone who had committed open sin ; she had never shaped her conviction into words and sentences, but still it was there, that all the respectable, all the family and religious circumstances of her life, would hedge her in, and guard her from ever encountering the great shock of coming face to face with vice. Without being pharisaical in her estimation of herself, she had all a Pharisee's dread of publicans and sinners, and all a child's cowardli- ness—that cowardliness which prompts it to shut its eyes against the object of terror, rather than acknow- ledge its existence with brave faith. Her father's often reiterated speeches had not been without their effect. He drew a clear line of partition, which separated mankind into two great groups, to one of '. j M; W^ir 824 RUTH iti if i ■ « I, mi which, by the grace of God, he and his belonged; while the other was composed of those whom it was his duty to try and reform, and bring the whole forte of his morality to bear upon, with lectures, admoui- tions, and exhortations— a duty to be performed, because it was a duty — but with very little of that Hope and Faith which is the Spirit that maketh alive. Jemima had rebelled against these hard doctrines of her father's, but their frequent repetition had had its effect, and led her to look upon those who had gone astray with shrinking, shuddering recoil, instead of with a pity, so Chrjct-like as to have both wisdom and tenderness in it. And now she saw among her own familiar associates one, almost her housefellow, who had been stained with that evil most repugnant to her womanly modesty, that would fain have ignored its existence altogether. She loathed the thought of meeting Ruth again. She wished that she could take her up, and put her down at a distance somewhere — anywhere — where she might never see or hear of her more ; never be reminded, as she must be whenever she saw her, that such things were, in this sunny, bright, lark-singing earth, over which the blue dome of heaven bent softly down as Jemima sat down in the hayfield that June afternoon ; her cheeks flushed and red, but her lips pale and com- pressed, and her eyes full of a heavy, angry sorrow. It was Saturday, and the people in that pare of the country left their work an hour earlier on that oay. By this, Jemima knew it must be growing time for her to be at home. She had had so much of conflict in her own mind of late, that she had grown to dislike struggle, or speech, or explanation ; and so strove to conform to times and hours much more than she had done in happier days. But oh ! how full of hate her heart was growing against the world ! And oh I how she sickened at the thought of seeing Ruth . VV^ho was to be trusted more, if Ruth— calm, modest, delicate, dignified Ruth— had a memory blackened by 8in? rfit.- RUTH 325 As she went heavily along^ the thought of Mr Farquhar came into her mind. It showed how terrible had been the stun, that he had been forgotten until now. With the thought of him came in her first merciful feeling towards Ruth. This would never have been, had there been the least latent suspicion in Jemima's jealous mind that Ruth had purposely done au"-ht— looked a look — uttered a word — modulated a tone — for the sake of attracting. As Jemima re- called all the passages of their intercourse, she slowly confessed to herself how pure and simple had been all Ruth's ways in relation to Mr Farquhar. It was not merely that there had been no coquetting, but there had been simple unconsciousness on Ruth's part, for so long a time after Jemima had discovered Mr Farquhar's inclination for her ; and when at length she had slowly awakened to some perception of the state of his feelings, there had been a modest, shrink- ing dignity of manner, not startled, or emotional, or even timid, but pure, grave, and quiet ; and this con- duct of Ruth's, Jemima instinctively acknowledged to be of necessity transparent and sincere. Now, and here, there was no hypocrisy ; but some time, some- where, on the part of somebody, what hypocrisy, what lies must have been acted, if not absolutely spoken, before Ruth could have been received by them all as the sweet, gentle, girlish widow, which she remem- bered they had all believed Mrs Denbigh to be when first she came among them. Could Mr and Miss Benson know } Could they be a party to the deceit ? Not sufficiently acquainted with the world to under- stand how strong had been the temptation to play the part they did, if they wished to give Ruth a chance, Jemima could not believe them guilty of such deceit as the knowledge of Mrs Denbigh's previous conduct would imply ; and yet how it darkened the latter into a treacherous hypocrite, with a black secret shut up in her soul for years — living in apparent confid-ace, and daily household familiarity with the Bensons for years, yet never telling the remorse that ought to be corrod- M 326 RUTH ing her heart! Who was true ? Who was not? Who was good and pure ? Who was not ? The very foundations of Jemima's belief in her mind were shaken. Could it be false? Could there be two Ruth Hil- tons. She went over every morsel of evidence. It could not be. She knew that Mrs Denbigh's former name had been Hilton. She had heard he" speak casually, but charily, of having lived in Fordham. She knew she had been in Wales but a short time before she made her appearance in Eccleston. There was no doubt of the identity. Into the middle of Jemima's pain and horror at the afternoon's discovery, there came a sense of the power which the knowledge of this secret gave her over Ruth ; but this was no relief, only an aggravation of the regret with which Jemima looked back on her state of ignorance. It was no wonder that when she arrived at home, she was so oppressed with headache that she had to go to bed directlv. " Quiet, mother ! quiet, dear, dear mother " (for she clung to the known and tried goodness of her mother more than ever now), "that is all I want." And she was left to the stillness of her darkened room, the blinds idly flapping to and fro in the soft evening breeze, and letting in the rustling sound of the branches which waved close to her window, and the thrush's gurgling warble, and the distant hum of the busy town. Her jealousy was gone — she knew not how or where. She might shun and recoil from Ruth, but she now thought that she could never more be jealous of her. In her pride of innocence, she felt almost ashamed that sucn a feeling could have had existence. Could Mr Farquhar hesitate between her own self and one who No ! she could not name what Ruth had been, even in thought. And yet he might never know, 80 fair a seeming did her rival wear. Oh ! for one ray of God's holy light to know what was seeming, and what was truth in this traitorous hollow earth. RUTH 327 It might be— she used to think such things possible, before sorrow had embittered her— that Ruth had worked her way through the deep purgatory of repent- ance up to something like purity again ; God only knew ' If her present goodness was real— if, after having striven back thus far on the heights, a fellow- woman was to throw her down irto some terrible depth with her unkind, incontinent ' jngue, that would be too cruel! And yet, if— there was such woeful un- certainty and deceit somewhere— if Ruth No . that Jemima, with noble candour, admitted was im- possible. Whatever Ruth had been, she was good, and to be respected as such, now. It did not follow that Jemima was to preserve the secret always ; she doubted her own power to do so, if Mr Farquhar came home again, and were still constant in his admiration of Mrs Denbigh, and if Mrs Denbigh gave him any— the least encouragement. But this last she thought, from what she knew of Ruth's character, was impos- sible. Only, what was impossible after this afternoon's discovery ? At any rate, she would watch, and wait. Come what might, Ruth was in her power. And, strange to say, this last certainty gave Jemima a kind of protecting, almost pitying, feeling for Ruth. Her horror at the wrong was not diminished ; but the more she thought of the struggles that the wrong-doer must have made to extricate herself, the more she felt how cruel it would be to baffle all by revealing what had been. But for her sisters' sake she had a duty to perform ; she must watch Ruth. For her love's sake she could not have helped watching ; but she was too much stunned to recognize the force of her love, while duty seemed the only stable thing to cling to. For the present she would neither meddle nor mar in Ruth's course of life. .11 if l| ■ ii 328 RUTH ill W^ CHAPTER XXVI So it was that Jemima no longer avoided Ruth^ nor manifested by word or look the dislike which for a long time she had been scarce concealing. Ruth could not help noticing that Jemima always sought to be iu her presence while she was at Mr Bradshaw's house ; either when daily teaching Mary and Elizabeth, or when she came as an occasional visitor with Mr and Miss Benson^ or by herself. Up to this time, Jemima bad used no gentle skill to conceal the abruptness with which she would leave the room rather than that Ruth and she should be brought into contact — rather than that it should fall to her lot to entertain Ruth during any part of the evening. It was months since Jemima had left off sitting in the schoolroom, as had been her wont during the first few years of Ruth's governess-ship. Now, each morning. Miss Bradshaw seated herself at a little round table in the window, at her work, or at her writing ; but whether she sewed, or wrote, or read, Ruth felt that she was always watch- ing — watching. At first, Ruth had welcomed all these changes in habit and behaviour, as giving her a chance, she thought, by some patient waiting or some oppor- tune show of enduring constant love, to regain her lost friend^s regard ; but, by and by, the icy chillness, immovable and grey, struck more to her heart than many sudden words of unkindness could have done. They might be attributed to the hot impulses of a hasty temper — to the vehement anger of an accuser ; but this measured manner was the conscious result of some deep-seated feeling ; this cold sternness befitted the calm implacability of some severe judge, llie watching, which Ruth felt was ever upon her, made her unconsciously shiver, as you would if you saw that the passionless eyes of the dead were visibly gazing upon you. Her very being shrivelled and parched up in Jemima's presence, as if blown upon by a bitter, keen, east wind. -r^ I ' RUTH 320 Jemima bent every power she possessed upon the one object of ascertaining what Ruth really was. Sometimes the strain was very painful ; the constant tension made her soul weary ; and she moaned aloud, and upbraided circumstance (she dared not go higher —to the maker of circumstance) for having deprived her of her unsuspicious happy ignorance. Things were in this state when Mr Richard Brad- shaw came on his annual home visit. He was to remain another year in London, and then to return and be admitted into the firm. After he had been a week at home, he grew tired of the monotonous regu- larity of his father's household, and began to complain of it to Jemima. . "I wish Farquhar were at home. Though he is such a stiff, quiet old fellow, his coming in in the evenings makes a change. What has become of the Millses.^ They used to drink tea with us sometimes, formerly." " Oh ! papa and Mr Mills took opposite sides at the election, and we have never visited since. I don't think they are any great loss." "Anybody is a loss— the stupidest bore that ever was would be a blessing, if he only would come in sometimes.*' "Mr and Miss Benson have drank tea here twice since you came." " Come, that's capital ! Apropos of stupid bores, you talk of the Beusons. I did not think you had so much discrimination, my little sister." Jemima looked up in surprise ; and then reddened angrily. " I never meant to say a word against Mr or Miss Benson, and that you know quite well, Dick." " Never mind ! I won't tell tales. They are stupid old fogeys, but they are better than nobody, especially as that handsome governess of the girls always comes with them to be looked at/' There was a little pause; Richard broke it by Baying : ^i ^i m i :ii. '■t M'Z fe: •1 '^l r ' .1 '■m i 1 i Iff' 330 RUTH " Do vou know, Minnie, I've a notion, ii she plays her cards well, she may hook Farquhar ! " ''Who?" asked Jemima, shortly, though she knew quite well. "Mrs Denbigh, to be sure. We were talking ot her, you know. Farquhar asked me to dine with him at his hotel as he passed through town, and — I'd my own reasons for going and trying to creep up his sleeve — I wanted him to tip me, as he used to do. ' *' For shame ! Dick,** burst in Jemima. " Well ! well ! not tip me exactly, but lend me some money. The governor keeps me so de > odlv short." " W^hy ! it was only yesterday, when my fat r was speaking about your expenses, and your allowance, 1 heard you say that you'd more than you knew how to spend. * "Don't you see that ./as the perfection of art. If my father had thought me extravagant, he would have kept me in with a tight rein ; as it is, I'm in great hopes of a handsome addition, and I can tell you it's needed. If r ' father had given me what I ought to have had at fii^L, I should not have been driven to the speculations and messes I've got into." ** What speculations.^ What messes.'" asked Jemima, with anxious eagerness. " Oh ! messes was not the right word. Speculations hardly was ; for they are sure to turn out well, and then I shall surprise my father with my riches." He saw that he had gone a little too far in his contidence, and was trying to draw in. " But, what do you mean ? Do explain it to me." " Never you trouble your head about my business, my dear. Women can't understand the share-market, and such things. Don't think I've forgotten the awful blunders you made when you tried to read the state of the money-market aloud to my father, that night when he had lost his spectacles. What were we talking of? Oh ! of Farquhar and pretty Mrs Denbigh. Yes ! I soon found out that was the subject my gentleman RUTH 331 liked me to dwell on. He did not talk about her much himself, but his eyes sparkled when I told him what enthusiastic letters Polly and Elizabeth wrote about her. How old d*ye think she is ? " " I know ! " said Jemima. " At least, I heard her aire spoken about, amongst other things, when first she came. She will be five-and-twenty this autumn." "And Farquhar is forty, if he is a day. She's young, too, to have such a boy as Leonard ; younger- looking, or full as young-looking as she is ! I tell you what, Minnie, she looks younger than you. How old are you } Three-and-twenty, ain't it ? " "Last March," replied Jemima. " You'll have to make haste and pick up somebody, if you're losing your good looks at this rate. VVhy, Jemima, I thought you had a good chance of Farmihar a year or two ago. How come you to have lost him ? I'd far rather you'd had him than that proud, haughty Mrs Denbigh, who flashes her great grey eyes upon me if ever I dare to pay her a compliment. She ought to Idiink it an honour that I take that much notice of her. Besides, Farquhar is rich, and it's keeping the business of the firm in one's own family ; and if he marries Mrs Denbigh she will be sure to be wanting Leonard in when he's of age, and I won't have that. Have a try for Farquhar, Minnie ! Ten to one it's not too late. I wish I'd brought you a pink bonnet down. You go about so dowdy— so careless of how you look." " If Mr Farquhar has not liked me as I am," said Jemima, choking, " I don't want to owe him to a pink bonnet." " Nonsense ! I don't like to have my sisters' gover- ness stealing a march on my sister. I tell you Farquhar is worth trying for. If you'll wear the pink bonnet I'll give it you, and I'll back you against Mrs Denbigh. I think you might have done something with 'our member,' as my father calls him, when you had him so long in the house. But, altogether, 1 should like Farquhar best for a brother-in-law. By the way, have you heard down here that Donne is (332 ^?UTH h ^oing to be married r f heard of it in town, just V»efore I left, from a man that was good authority, isome Sir Thomas Campbell's seventh daughter : a piri withou* pemi}-; father ruined himself by gamhlinp, and ol i t.-^ 1 to live abroad. But Donne is not a man to care tor any obstacle, from all accounts, when once he has taken a fancy. It was love at first sight, thev say. I believe he did not know of her existence a month ago." " No ! we have not heard of it," replied Jemima. 'I My father will like to know; tell it him;" con- tinued she, as she was leaving the room, to he alone in order to still her habitual agitation whenever she heard Mr Farquhar and Ruth coupled together. Mr Farquhar came home the day before Richard Bradshaw left for town. He dropped in after tea at the Bradshaws' ; he was evidently disappointed to see none but the family there, and looked round whenever the door opened. *' Look I look ! " said Dick to his sister. '' I wanteti to make sure of his coming in to-night, to save me my father's parting exhortations against the temptations of the world (as if I did not know much more of the world than he does !), so I used a spell I thought would prove efficacious ; I told him tliat we should he by ourselves, with the exception of Mrs Denbigh, and look how he is expecting her to come in ! " Jemima did see ; did understand. She understc^l, too, why certain rackets were put carefully on one side, apart from the rest of the purchases of Swiss tms and jewellery, by which Mr Farquhar proved that nom; of Mr Bradshaw 's family had been forgotten by him during his absence. Before the end of the evenint', «he was very conscious that her sore he rt hnd not forgotten how to be jealous. Her brother d 1 not allow a word, a look, or an incidem , whicti m.irht he supposed on Mr Farquhar's side to refer to Rut- , to pass unnoticed ; he pointed out all to hi? sister, ver dreaming of the torture he was inflicting, only auxious to prove his own extreme penetration. At length RUTH 333 Jemima could stand t no longer, md let the rooni. She went into the sthoolrooni, w ^Te ^ shut er& were not closed, aa it only li>oked into tiiC gat' "n. She opened the wiiulov , to let the co"l ni^'ht air h. w iu on her hot cheeks. The clouds were hurrying o^ e'r the moon's t';ice in a icv pestuous and uu.st;ible manner, making all things seem uh!-eal; now clear out in it* briirht li^lit, now trembling: and quivering in shadow. The pain at her heart seemed to make Jemima's brain grow dull ; she laid her head on her arms, which rested on the window-ill, and grew dizzy with the sick w^■ary notion that the earth wris wandering I iwless and a m- less through the heavens, where all seemed one tossed a ad whirling wrack ot clouds. It was a waking night aiare, from the uneasy heaviness of v uch she wa» thankful to be roused by Dick entra ice. • What, you are here , are you ? I have been 1 >ack to tu ^d ou pluck up a spirit, and I'll back von agans . r ven yet." It seemed to Jemima strange— and yet only a fitting part of this strange, chaotic world — to find that her brother, who was the last person to whom she could have given her con*idence in her own -imily, and almost the last person o. rier acquaiutanc; whom she could look for real hel and sympathy, should have been the only one to hit ipou the secret of her love. And the idea passed away from his mind as quickly a» all ideas not bearing upon his own self-interests did. n '>»e jTiad nm 334 RUTH The nightj the sleepless night, was so crowded and haunted by miserable images, that she longed for day ; and when day came, with its stinging realities, she wearied and grew sick for the solitude of nipht. For the next week, she seemed to see and hear nothinj? but what confirmed the idea of Mr Farquhar's decided attachment to Ruth. Even her mother spoke of it as a thing which was impending, and which sne wondered how Mr Bradshaw would like ; for his approval or dis- approval was the standard by which she measured all things. " Oh ! merciful God," prayed Jemima, in the dead «ilence of the night, ** the strain is too great — I cannot bear it longer— my life — my love— the very essence of me, which is myself through time and eternity ; ami on the other side there is all-pitying Charity. If she had not been what she is — if sne had shown any sijjn ■of triumph — any knowledge of her prize — if she had made any effort to gain his dear heart, 1 must have ^iven way long ago, and taunted her, even if I did not tell others — taunted her, even though I sank down to the pit the next moment." " rhe temptation is too strong for me. Oh Lord I where is Thy jieace that I believed in, in my child- hood? — that I hear people speaking of now, as if it hushed up the troubles of life, and had not to be sought for — sought for, as with tears of blood ! " There was no sound nor sight in answer to this wild imploring cry, which Jemima half thought must force ■out a sign from Heaven. But there was a dawn steal- ing on through the darkness of her night. It was glorious weather for the end of August. The nights were as full of light as the days — everywhere, save in the low duskv meadows by the river-«ide, where the mists rose and blended the pale sky with the lands below. Unknowing of the care and trouble around them, Mary and Elizabeth exulted in the weather, and «aw some new glory in every touch of the year's decay. Tliey were clamcrotis for an expedition to the hills, before the calm stillness of the autumn should be dis- ii':^ RUTH 335 turbed by storms. They gained permission to go on the next Wednesday— the next half-holiday. They had won their mother over to consent to a full holiday, but their father would not hear of it. Mrs Bradshaw had proposed an early dinner, but the idea was smuted at bv the >?irls. What wiuld the expedition be worth if they did not carry their rtinners with them in baskets } Anything out of a basket, and eaten in the open air, was worth twenty times as much astlie most sumptuous meal in the house. So the baskets were packed up, while Mrs Bradshaw wailed over probable colds to be caught from sitting on the damp ground. Ruth and Leonard were to go ; they four. Jemima had refused all invitations to make one of the party ; and yet she had a half sympathy with her sisters' joy— a sort of longing, lingering look back to the time when she too would have revelled in the prospect that lay before them. They too would grow up, and suffer ; though now they played, regardless of their doom. The morning was bright and glorious ; just cloud enough, as some one said, to make the distant plain look beautiful from the hills, with its floating shadows passing over the golden cornfields. Leonard was to Join them at twelve, when his lessons with Mr Benson, and the girls' with their masters, should be over. Ruth took off her bonnet, and folded her shawl with her usual dainty, careful neatness, and laid them aside in a corner of the room to be in readiness. She tried to forget the pleasure she always anticipated from a long walk -owards the hills, while the morning's work went on ; but she showed enough of sympathy to make the mrls cling round her with many a caress of joyous love. Everything was beautiful in their eyes; from the shadows of the quivering leaves on the wall to the glittering beads of dew, not yet absorbed by the sun, which decked the gossamer web in the vine outside the window. Eleven o'clock struck. The Utin master went away, wondering much at the radiant faces of his pupils, and thinking that it was only very young people who could take such pleasure in the "Delectus. I'i i 1 '^1 m m 836 RUTH Ruth said, " Now, do let us try to be very steady this next hour," and Mary pulled back Ruth's head, and gave the pretty budding mouth a kiss. They sat down to work, while Mrs Denbigh read aloud. A fresh sun- gleam burst into the room, and they looked at each other with glad, anticipating eyes. Jemima came in, ostensibly to seek for a book, but really from that sort of restless weariness of any one )lace or employment, which had taken posscs^iion of ler since Mr Farquhar's return. She stood before the )ookcase in the recess, languidly passing over the titles in search of the one she wanted. Ruth's voice lost a tone or two of its peacefulness, and her eyes looked more dim and anxious at Jemima's presence. She wondered in her heart if she dared to ask Miss Brad- shaw to accompany them in their expedition. Eighteen months ago she would have urged it on her friend with soft, loving entreaty ; now she was afraid even to pro- pose it as a hard possibility, everything she did or said was taken so wrongly — seemed to add to the old di;;- like, or the later stony contempt with which Miss Bradshaw had regarded her. ^Vhile they were in thi* way Mr Bradshaw came into the room. His entrance — his being at home at all at this time — was so unusual a thing, that the reading was instantly stopped ; and all four involuntarily looked at him, as if expecting some explanation of his unusual proceeding. His face was almost purple with suppressed agitation. " Mary and Elizabetn, leave the room. Don't stay to pack up your books. Leave the room, I say ! " He spoke with trembling anger, and the frghtened pirU obeyed without a word. A cloud passing over the sun, cast a cold gloom into the room which was late so bright and beaming ; but, by equalizing the light, it took away the dark shadow from the place where Jemima had been standing, and her figure caught her father's eye. ** Leave the room, Jemima," said he. '* Why, father } " replied she, in an opposition that was strange even to herself, but which was prompted iZ^ RUTH 337 by the sullen passion which seethed below the stagnant sur&ce of her life, and which sought a vent in defiance. She maintained her ground, facing round upon her &ther, and Ruth — Ruth, who had risen, and stood trembling, shaking, a lightning-fear having shown her the precipice on which she stood. It was of no use ; no quiet, innocent life — no profound silence, even to her own heart as to the Past ; the old offence could never be drowned in the Deep ; but thus, when all was calm on the great, broad, sunny sea, it rose to the sur- face, and faced her with its unclosed eyes, and its ghastly countenance. The blood bubbled up to her brain, and made such a sound there, as of boiling waters, that she did not hear the words which Mr Brad- shaw first spoke ; indeed, his speech was broken and disjointed by intense passion. But she needed not to bear ; she knew. As she rose up at first, so she stood now — numb and helpless. When her ears heard again (as if the sounds were drawing nearer, and becoming more distinct, from some faint, vague distance of space), Mr Bradshaw was saying, '* If there be one sin I hate — I utterly loathe — more than all others, it is wantonness. It includes all other sins. It is but of a Eiece that you should have come with your sickly, ypocritical face, imposing upon us all. I trust Benson did not know of it — for his own sake, I trust no*. Before God, if he got you into my house on false pre- tences, he shall find his charity at other mta's expense shall cost him dear — you — the common talk of Eccle- ston for your profligacy " He was absolutely choked by his boiling indignation. Ruth stood speech- less, motionless. Her head drooped a little forward, her eyes were more than half veiled by the large quivering lids, her arms hung down straight and heavy. At last she heaved the weight off her heart enough to say, in a faint, moaning voice, speaking with infinite difficulty : " I was so young." "The more depraved, the more disgusting you," Mr Bradshaw exclaimed, almost glad that the woman, un- 5 i '\m % 338 RUTH ^ !■ fii 1^ HU r iflH ^!V ! ^B '11^ I' I' resisting so long, should now begin to resist. But to his surprise (for in his anger he had forgotten her presence) Jemima moved forwards, and said, " Father '" " You hold your tongue, Jomima. You have grown more and more insolent— more and more disobedient everyday. I now know who to thank for it. When such a woman came into my family there is no wonder at any corruption— any evil— any delilement " " Father ! " "Not a word ! If, in your disobedience, you choose to stay and hear what no modest young woman would put herself in the way of hearing, you shall be silent when I bid you. The only good you can gain is in the way of warning. Look at that woman " (indicating Kuth, who moved her drooping head a little on one side, as if by such motion she could avert the pitiless pointing— her face growing whiter and whiter still every instant)— " look at that woman, 1 sav— corrupt long before she was your age— hypocrite for years ! I f ®^ ^""^ °^ ^"y ^^'^^^ o^ "»">e, cared for her, shake her off from you, as St Paul shook off the ^i-Pu''~®J®° '"*° *^® ^^®-" "® stopped for very want ot breath. Jemima, all flushed and panting, went up and stood side by side with wan Ruth. She took the cold, dead hand which hung next to her in her warm convulsive grasp, and holding it so tight, that it was blue and discoloured for days, she spoke out beyond all power of restraint from her father. ** Father, I will speak. I will not keep silence. I will bear witness to Ruth. I have hated her— so keenly may God forgive me ! but you may know, trom that, that my witness is true. I have hated her, and my hatred was only quenched into contempt —not contempt now, dear Ruth— dear Ruth "—(this was spoken with infinite softness and tenderness, and in spite of her father's fierce eyes and passionate gesture)— "I heard what you have learnt now, father, weeks and weeks ago— a year it may be, all time of late has been so long ; and I shuddered up trom her and from her sin; and I might have a^ RUTH 339 ^ m spoken of it, and told it there and then, if 1 had not been afraid that it was from no good motive I shouhl act in so doing, hut to gain a way to the desire of my own jealous heart. Yes, father, to show you what a witness I am for Ruth, J will own that I was stabbed to the heart with jealousy ; some one — some one cared for Ruth that — oh, father I spare me saying all." Her face was double-dyed with crimson blushes, and she paused for one moment — no more. " I watched her, and I watched her with my wild-beast eyes. If I had seen one paltering with duty — if I had witnessed one flickering shadow of untruth in word or action — if, more than all things, my woman's instinct had ever been conscious of the faintest speck of impurity in thought, or word, or look, my old hate would have flamed out with the flame of" hell! my contempt would have turned to loathing disgust, instead of my being full of pity, and the stirrings of new-awakened love, and most true respect. Father, I have borne my witness ! " " And I will tell you how much your witness is worth," said her father, beginning low, that his pent- up wrath might have room to swell out. " It only convinces me more and more how deep is the corrup- tion this wanton has spread in my family. She has come amongst us with her innocent seeming, and spread her nets well and skilfully. She has turned right into wrong, and wrong into right, i. d taught you all to be uncertain whether there be any such thing as Vice in the world, or whether it ought not to be looked upon as virtue. She has led you to the brink of tlie deep pit, ready for the first chance circum- stance to push you in. And 1 trusted he*- — I trusted her — I welcomed her." " I have done very wrong," murmured Ruth, but so low, that perhaps he did not hear her, for he went ou, lashing himself up. •'* I welcomed her. I was duped into allowing her bastard— (I sicken at the thought of it) " At the mention of Leonard, Ruth lifted up her eyes 340 RUTH for the first time since the conversation began, the pupils dilating, as if she were just becoming aware of some new agony in store for her. I have seen such a look of terror on a poor dumb animal's countenance, and once or twice on human faces. I pray I may never see it again on either ! Jemima felt the hand she held in her strong grasp writhe itself free. Ruth spread her arms before her, clasping aud lacing her fingers together, her head thrown a little back, as if in intensest suffering. Mr Bradshaw went on : '* That very child and heir of shame to associate with my own innocent children ! I trust they are not contaminated." " I cannot bear it — I cannot bear it,"" were the words wrung out of Ruth. " Cannot bear it ! cannot bear it ! " he repeated. *' You must bear it, madam. Do you suppose your child is to be exempt from the penalties of his birth ? Do you suppose that he alone is to be saved from the upbraiding scoff.'' Do you suppose that he is ever to rank with other boys, who are not stained and marked with sin from their birth } Every creature in Eccles- ton may know what he is, do you think they will spare him their scorn .'' * Cannot bear it,* indeed ! Before you went into your sin, you should have thought whether you could bear the consequences or not — have had some idea how far your offspring would be degraded and scouted, till tlie best thing that could happen to him would be for him to be lost to all sense of shame, dead to all knowledge of guilt, for his mother's sake." Ruth spoke out. She stood like a wild creature at bay, past fear now. *' I appeal to God against such a doom for my child. I appeal to God to help me. I am a mother, and as such I cry to God for help — for help to keep my boy in His pitying sight, and to bring him up in His holy fear. Let the shame fall on me ' I have good.'* deserved it, but he — he is so innocent and RUTH 341 Ruth had caught up her shawl, and was tying on her bonnet with her trembling hands. What if Leouanl was hearing of her shame from common report? What would be the mysterious shock of the intelligence ? She must face him, and see the look in his eyes, before she knew whether he recoiled from her ; he might Kave his heart turned to hate her, by their cruel jeers. Jemima stood by, dumb and pitying. Her sorrow was past her power. She helped in arranging the dress, with one or two gentle touches, which were hardly felt by Ruth, but which called out all Mr Bradshaw's ire afresh ; he absolutely took her by the shoulders and turned her by force out of the room. In the hall, and along the stairs, her passionate woeful crying was heard. The -^^ound only concentrated Mr Bradshaw's anger on Ruth. He held the street door open wide ; and said, between his teeth, ** If ever you, or your bastard, darken this door again, I will have you both turned out by the police." He need not have added this, if he had seen Ruth's face. iri, CHAPTER XXVII As Ruth went along the accustomed streets, every sight and every sound seemed to bear a new meaning, and each and all to have some reference to her boy's disgrace. She held her head down, and scudded along dizzy with fear, lest some word should have told him what she had been, and what he was, before she could reach him. It was a wild unreasoning fear, but it took hold of her as strongly as if it had been well founded. And, indeed, the secret whispered by Mrs Pearson, whose curiosity and suspicion had been excited by Jemima's manner, and confirmed since by many a little corroborating circumstance, had spread abroad, and was known to most of the gossips in Ecclestou before It reached Mr Bradshaw's ears. iMl?.l 342 RUTH H As Ruth came up to the door of the Chapel-house, it was opened, and Leonard came out, bright aud hopeful as the morning, his face radiant at the pros- pect of the happy day before him. He was dressed in the clothes it nad been such a pleasant pride to her to make for him. He had the dark blue ribbon tied round his neck that she had left out for him that very morning, with a smiling thought of how it would set off his brown handsome face. She caught him by the hand as they met, and turned him, with his face home- wards, without a word. Her looks, her rushing move- ment, her silence, awed him ; and although he won- dered, he did not stay to ask why she did so. The door was on the latch ; she opened it, and only said, " Upstairs," in a hoarse whisper. Up they went into her own room. She drew him in, and bolted the door ; and then, sitting down, she placed him (she had never let go of him) before her, holding him with her hands on each of his shoulders, and gazing into his face with a woeful look of the agony that could not And vent in words. At last she tried to speak ; she tried with strong bodily effort, almost amounting to convulsion. But the words would not come ; it was not till she saw the absolute terror depicted on his face that she found utterance ; and then the sight of that terror changed the words from what she meant them to have been. She drew him to her, and laid her head upon his shoulder ; hiding her face even there. " My poor, poor boy ! my poor, poor darling ! Oh ! would that 1 had died — I had died, in my innocent girlhood ! " " Mother ! mother ! " sobbed Leonard. " What is the matter f Why do you look so wild and ill ? Why do you call me your ' poor boy ' ? Are we not going to Scaurside-hill ? I don't much mind it, mother ; only please don't gasp and quiver so. Dearest mother, are you ill ? Let me call Aunt I'aith ! " Ruth lifted herself up, and put away the hair that had fallen over and was blinding her eyes. She looked at him with intense wistfuluess. RUTH 343 "Kiss me, Leonard!" said she— "kiss me, my darlin^iT) once more in the old way ! " Leonard threw himself into her arms, ;ind hugged her with all his force, and their lips clung together as in the kiss given to the dying. " Leonard ! " said she at length, holding him away from her, and nerving herself up to tell him all by one spasmodic effort — " Listen to me," The boy stood breathless and still, gazing at her. On her impetuous transit from Mr Bradshaw*s to the Chapel-house, her wild desperate thought had been that she would call herself by every violent, coarse name which the world might give her — that Leonard should hear those words applied to his mother first from her own lips ; but the iuiiuence of his presence — for he was a holy and sacred creature in her eyes, and this point remained stead- fast, though all the rest were upheaved — subdued her ; and now it seemed as if she could not find words fine enough, and pure enough, to convey the truth that he must learn, and should learn from no tongue but hers. " Leonard —when I was very young I did very wrong. think God, who knows all, will judge me more ten- !erly than men — but I did wrong iu a way which you cannot understand yet" (she saw the red flush come into his cheek, and it stung her as the first token of that shame which was to be his portion through life) — ''in a way people never forget, never forgive. You will hear me called the hardest names that ever can be throwu^at women — I have been, to-day; and, my child, you must bear it patiently, because they will be partly true. Never get confused, by your love for me, into thinking that what I did was right. — Where was I ?" said she, suddenly faltering, and forgetting all she had said and all sliO had got to say ; and then, seeing Leonard's fare of wonder, and burning shame and indignation, she went on more rapidly, as fearing lest her strength should fail before she had ended. " And Leonard," continued she, in a trembling, sad voice, " this is not all. The punishment of punish- ments lies awaiting Lae still. It is to see you suffer ■if H|: •■, il '\ <(: n ? 344 RUTH II. for my wrongdoing. Ye«, darling ! they will gpeak shameful things of you, poor innocent child, as well as of me, who am guilty. They will throw it in your teeth through life, that your mother was never married — was not married when you were bom " " Were not you married? Are not you a widow?" asked he abruptly, for the first time getting anything like a clear idea of the real state of the case. ** No I May God forgive me, and help me ! " ex- claimed she, as she saw a strange look of repugnance cloud over the bo/s face, and felt a slight motion on his part to extricate himself from her hold. It was as slight, as transient as it could be— over in an instant. But she had taken her hands away, and covered up her face with them as quickly— covered up her face in shame before her child ; and in the bitterness of her heart she was wailing out, " Oh, would to God I had died— that I had died as a baby — that I had died as a little baby hanging at my mother's breast ! " " Mother,*' said Leonard, timidly putting his hand on her arm ; but she shrunk from him, and continued her low, passionate wailing. " Mother," said he, after a pause, coming nearer, though she saw it not— " mammy darling," said he, using the caressing name, which he had been trying to drop as not sufficiently manly, '' mammy, my own, own dear, dear, darling mother, I don't believe them— I don't, 1 don't, I don't, I don't ! " He broke out into a wild burst of crying, as he said this. In a moment her arms were round the poor boy, and she was hushing him up like a baby on her bosom. " Hush, Leonard ! Leonard, be still, my child ! I have been too sudden with you ! — I have done you harm— oh ! I have done you nothing but harm," cried she, in a tone of bitter self-reproach. " No, motlier," said he, stopping his tears, and his eyes blazing out with earnestness, " there never was such a mother as you have been to me, and I won't believe anyone who says it. I won't ; and I'll knock them down if they say it again, I will ! " He clenched his fist, with a fierce defiant look on his face. RUTH 345 "Yon forget, my child," said Ruth, in the sweetest, Bsddest tone that ever was heard, " I said it of myself; I said it because it was true." Lt nard threw his arms tight round her, and hid his face against her bosom. She felt him pant there like some huuted creature. She had no soothing comfort to give him. " Oh, that she and he lav dead ! " At last, exhausted, he lay so still and motionless, that she feared to look. She wanted him to speak, yet dreaded his first words. She kissed his hair, his head, his very clothes ; murmuring low inarticulate moaning sounds. "Leonard," said she, "Leonard, look up at me! Leonard, look up ! " But he only clung the closer, aud hid his face the more. " My boy ! " said she, " what can I do or say ? If I tell you never to mind it— that it is nothing— I tell you false. It is a bitter shame and a sorrow that I have drawn down upon you. A shame, Leonard, because of me, your mother ; but, Leonard, it is no disgrace or lowering of you in the eyes of God." She spoke now as if she had found the clue which might lead him to rest and strength at last. " Remember that, always. Remember that, when tlit time of trial comes— and it seems a hard and cruel thing that you should be called reproachful names by men, and all'for what was no fault of yours— remember God's pity and God's justice ; and though my sin shall have made you an outcast in the world— oh, my child, my child ! ^'— (she felt him kiss her, as if mutely trying to comfort her— it gave her strength to go on)— " remember, darling of my heart, it is only your own sin that can make you an outcast from God.'' She grew so feint that her hold of him relaxed. He looked up affrighted. He brought her water— he threw it over her ; in his terror at the notion that she was going to die and leave him, he called her by every fond name, imploring her to open her eyes. When she partially recovered, he helped her to the bed, on which she lay still, wan aud deathlike. She u 346 RUTH almost hoped the swoon that hung around her miglit be Deaths and in that imagination she opened her eyes to take a last look at her boy. She saw him pale and terror-stricken ; and pity for his affright roused her, and made her forget herself in the wish that he should not see her death, if she were indeed dying. " Go to Aunt Faith ! " whispered she ; " I am weary, and want sleep." Leonard arose slowly and reluctantly. She tried to smile upon him, that what she thought would be her last looK might dwell in his remembrance as tender and strong ; she watched him to the door, she saw him hesitate, and return to her. He came back to he; , ad said in a timid, apprehensive tone : " Mother— will they speak to me about it?" Ruth closed her eyes, that they might not express tlie agony she felt, like a sharp knife, at this question. Leonard had asked it with a child's desire of avoiilintj painful and mysterious topics,— from no personal sense of shame as she understood it, shame beginning thus early, thus instantaneously. "No," she replied. "You may be sure they will not." So he went. But now she would have been thankful for the unconsciousness of fainting; that one little speech bore so much meaning to her hot irritable brain. Mr and Miss Benson, all in their house, would never speak to the boy— but in his home alone would he be safe from what he had already learnt to dread. Every form in which shame and opprobrium could overwhelm her darling, haunted her. She had been e.xercisiug strong self-control for his sake ever since she had met him at the house-door ; there wa^ now a reaction. His presence had kept her mind on it5 perfect balance. When that was withdrawn, the effect of the strain of power was felt. And athwart the fever-mists that arose to obscure her judgement, all sorts of will-o'-the-wisp plans flittered before her; tempting her to this and that course of action— to anything rather than patient endurance— to relieve RUTH 347 her present state of raiwry by some sudden spa-nod ic effort, that took the semblance of be ng wise a i-l i-hi Gradually all her desires, all her loiiiring, sttth.l themselves on one point. M'hat had she done— what could she do, to Leonard, but evil ? If she were away and gone no one knew where— 1- .at in mystery, as if she were dead-perhaps the cruel hearts mieht reflect, and show pity on Unjard ; while her perpetual presence would but caU up the remembrance o*" his birth. 1 bus she reasoned in her hot dull brain ; and shaped her plans in accot dance. Leonard stole downstairs noiselessly. He listei td to hnd some quiet place where he could hide himself. TLe house was very stilL Miss Benson thought the purposed expedition had taken place, and never dreamed but that Ruth and Leonard were on distant suniiy bcaurside-hill ; and after a very early dinner she had set out to drink tea with a farmer's wife who Uved m the country two or three miles off. Mr Benson meant to have gone with her ; but while they were at dinner, he had received an unusually authoritative note from Mr Bradshaw desiring to speak with him, so he went to that gentleman' ; house instead. Sally was busy m her kitchen, making a great noise (not unlike a groona rubbing down a horse) over her cleaniiiir Leonard stole into the sitting-room, and crouched behind the large old-fashioned sofa to ease his sore aching heart, by crying with all the prodigal waste and abandonment of childhood. Mr Benson was shown into Mr Brads? iw's own particular room. The latter gentleman wa:^ walking up and down, and it was easy to perceive that some- tbmg had occurred to chafe him to great anger. "Sit down, sir ! " said he to Mr Benson, noddinff to a chair. ^ Mr Benson sat down. But Mr Bradshaw continued Jis walk for a few minutes longer without speaking. Ihcn he stopped abruptly, right in front of Mr Benson ; and in a voice which he tried to render calm, but which trembled with passion— with a face glowing purple a» II u II J i I 3 f ; :i ill' S48 RUTH it-::f he ^ouglit of his wrongs (and real wrongs they were) " Mr Benson, I have sent for you to ask— 1 am almost too indignant at the bare suspicion to speai- as becomes me— but did vou 1 really shall be Sblied to beg your pardon, if you are as much in the dark as 1 was yesterday, as to the character of that woman who lives under your roof?" There was no answer from Mr Benson. Mr Brad- shaw loolced at him very earnestly. His eyes were hxed on the ground— he made no inquiry— he uttered no expression of wonder or dismay. Mr Brad«shaw ground his foot on the floor with gathering laire • but just <^ he was about to speak, Mr Benson rose iip-a poor deformed old man-before the stern and porUv *igure that was swelling and panting with passion. Hear me, sir ! " (stretching out his hand as if to avert the words which were impending). " Nothing you can say, can upbraid me like my own conscience; no degradation you can inflict, by word or deed, can come up to the degradation I have suffered for vear* at being a party to a deceit, even for a good end-—"' ' bor a good end !— Nay ! what next.^ " ihe taunting contempt with which Mr Brad^ha* spoke these words, almost surprised himself by uhat he jmagiiied must be its successful power of witherinjr • but ill spite of it, Mr Benson lifted his grave eyes to Mr Kradshaw s countenance, and repeated : " For a good end. The end was not, as Mrhaps you consider it to have been, to obtain her admission into your faiTi.l)— nor yet to put her in tlie wav of gaining her livelihood ; my sister and I would willinglv liave shared wnat we have with her ; it was our intention to ad ex- perienced many mortifications in his intercourse with that gentleman, but they had fallen off from his meek spirit like drops of water from a bird's plumage ; and now he only remembered the acts of substantial kind- ness rendered (the ostentation all forgotten)— many happy hours and pleasant eveiiiugs— the children whom lie had loved dearer than he thought till now— the voimg people about whom he had cared, and whom he li.id striven to lead aright. He was but a young man V hen Mr Bradshaw first came to his chapel ; they had grown old together; he had never recognized Mr Bradshaw as an old familiar friend so completely, as now when they were severed. It was witli a heavy heart that he opened his own door. He went to his study immediately ; he sat down to steady himself into his position. How long he was there — silent and alone — reviewing his life— confessing his sins— be did not know ; but he heard some unusual sound in the house that disturbed liim— roused him to present life. A slow, languid step came alon^' the passage to the front door— the breathing was broken bv many sighs. Ruth's hand was on the latch when Mr Benson catno out. Her face was very white, except two red spots on each cheek— lier eyes were deep sunk and hollow, but glittered with feverish lustre. " Ruth ! " exclaimed he. She moved her lips, but her throat and mouth were too dry for her to speak. RUTH 353 " Where are you going ?" asked he ; for she had all her walking things on, yet trembled so, even as she stood, that it was evident she could not walk far without falling. She hesitated— she looked up at him, still with the same dry glittering eyes. At last she whispered (for she could only speak in a whisper), "To Helmsby— 1 am going to Helmsby." " Helmsby ! my poor girl— may God have mercy upon you ! " for he saw she hardly knew what she was saying. *' Where is Helmsby ? " "I don't know. In Lincolnshire, I think." " But why are you going there } " " Hush ! he's asleep," said she, as Mr Benson had unconsciously raised his voice. " Who is asleep .!»" asked Mr Benson. "That poor little boy," said she, begiunin-; to quiver and cry. " Come here ! " said he, authoriUtively, drawing her into the study. " Sit down in that chair. I will come back directly." He went in search of his sister, but she had not returned. Then he had recourse to Sally, who was as busy as ever about her cleaning. *' How long has Ruth been at home } " asked he. " Ruth ! She has never been at home sin' morning. She and Leonard were to be off for the day somewhere or other with them Bradshaw girls." " Then she has had no dinner } " " Not here, at any rate. I can't answer for what she nay have done at other places." " And Leonard— where is lie ? " "How should I know.> With his mother, I sup- pose. Leastways, that was what was fixed on. I've enough to do of my own, without routing after other She went on scouring in no very good temper. Mr Benson stood silent for a moment. " Sally," he said, ** 1 want a cup of tea. Will you 354 RUTH make it as soon as you can ; and some dry toast tou. I'll come for it in ten minutes." Struck by something in his voice, she looked up at him for the first time. " What ha' ye been doing to yourself, to look so grim and grey. Tiring yourself all to tatters, looking' after some naught, I'll oe bound ! Weil ! well ! I mun make ye your tea, I reckon ; but I did hope as you grew older you'd ha* grown wiser ! " Mr Benson made no reply, but went to look for Leonard, hoping that the child^s presence might briuu back to his mother the power of self-control, lie opened the parlour-door, and looked in, but saw no one. Just as he was shutting it, however, he heard a deep, broken, sobbing sigh ; and, guided by the suund, he found the boy lying on the iloor, fast asleep, but with his features all swollen and disfigured by pas- sionate crying. " Poor child ! This was what she meant, then," thought Mr Benson. " He has begun his share of the sorrows too,^' he continued, pitifully. " No ! I will not waken him back to consciousness. " So he re- turned alone into the study. Ruth sat where he had E laced her, her h»ad bent back, and her eyes shut. >ut when he came in she started up. " I must be going," she said, in a hurried way. " Nay, Ruth, you must not go. You must not leave us. We cannot do without you. We love you too much." " Love me ! '* said she, looking at him wistful' <. As she looked, her eyes filled slowly with tears, h was a good sign, and Mr Benson took heart tu ^'o on. *' Yes ! Ruth. You know we do. You may have other things to fill up your mind just now, but you kuow we love you ; and nothing can alter our love for you. You ought not to have thought of leaving us. Vou would not, if you had been quite well. " Do you know what has happened } " she asked, in a low, hoarse voice. RUTH 355 " Yes. I know all/" he answered. " It makes no difference to us. Why should it .'' " " Oh ! Mr Benson, don't you know that my sliame is discovered.^" she replied, hurstia^ into tears— "and I must leave you, and leave Leonard, that you may not share in my disgrace." " You must do no such thing. Leave Leonard t You have no right to leave Leonard. Where could you go to?" " To Helmsby," she said, humbly. " It would break mv heart to go, but I think I ought, for Leonard's sake. I know I ought." She was crying sadly by this time, but Mr Benson knew the flow of tears would ease her brain. " It will break my heart to tro. but I know I must." * "Sit still here at present," said he, in a decided tone of command. He went for the cup of tea. He brought it to her without Sally's being aware for whom it was intended. " Drink this ! " He spoke as you would do to a child, if desiring it to take medicine. " Eat some toast." She took the tea, und drank it feverishly ; but when she tried to eat, the food seemed to choke her. Still she was docile, and she tried. "I cannot," said she at last, putting down the piece of toast. There was a return to something of her usual tone in the words. She spoke gently and softly ; no longer in the shrill, lioarse voice she hai used at first. Mr Benson sat down by her. " Now, Ruth, we must talk a little together. I want to understand what your plan was. Where is Helmsby ? Why did you fix to go there.' " "It is where my mother lived," she answered. "Before she was married she lived there ; and wher- ever she livrd, the people all loved her dearly ; and I thought— I chink, that for her sake some one would give me work. 1 meant to tell them the truth," said she, dropping her eyes ; "but still they would, perhaps, give m*? some employment — I don't care what— for her sake. I could do many things," said !!,i i * ^^iiJ 966 RUTH m m .5 m ■she, suddenly looking up. " I am sure I could weed — 1 could in gardens— if they did not like to have me in their houses. But perhaps some one, for my mother's sake — oh ! my dear, dear mother ! — do you know where and what I am .'' " she cried out, sobbing .afresh. Mr Benson's heart was very sore, though he spoke •authoritatively, and almost sternly. " Ruth ! you must be still and quiet. I cannot have this. I want you to listen to me. Your thought •of Helmsby would be a good one, if it was right for you to leave Eccleston ; but I do not think it is. 1 am certain of this, that it would be a great sin in you to separate yourself from Leonard. You have no Tight to sever the tie by which God has bound you together.** " But if I am here they will all know and remember the shame of his birth ; and if I go away they may forget " " And they may not. And if you go away, he may be unhappy or ill ; and you, who above all others have — and have from God — remember that, Ruth !— the power to comfort him, the tender patience to u,urse him, have left him to the care of strangers. Yes ; I know ! But we ourselves are as strangers, dearly aa we love him, compared to a mother. He may turn to sin, and want the long forbearance, the sereue authority of a parent ; and where are you ? No dread of shame, either for yourself, or even for him, can 'ever make it right for you to shake off your responsi- bility.*' All this time he was watching her narrowly, and saw her slowly yield herself up to the force of what he was saying. " Besides, Ruth," he continued, "we have gone on ■falsely hitherto. It has been my doing, my mistake, my sin. I ought to have known better. Now, let us stand firm on the truth. You have no new fault to repent of. Be brave and faithful. It is to God you answer, not to men. The sliame of having your sin &U0WU to the world; should be as nothing to the RUTH S5T shame you felt at having sinned. We have dreaded men too much, and God too little, in the course we- have taken. But now be of good cheer. Perhaps yoa will have to find your work in the world very low not quite working in the fields," said he, with a gentle smile, to which she, downcast and miserable, could give no response. "Nay, perhaps, Ruth," he went on, " you mav have to stand and wait for some time ; no one may be willing to use the services you would gladly render ; all may turn aside from you, and may speak very harshly of you. Can you accept all this- treatment meekly, as but the reasonable and just penance God has laid upon you — feeling no aiiger against those who slight you, no impatience for tiie time to come (and come it surely will — I speak a* hnving the word of iiod for what I say) when lie, having purified you, even as by fire, will make » str-iir^ht path for your feet.:* My child, it is Christ the Lord who has told us of this infinite mercy of God. Have you faith enough in it to be brave, and bear on,, and do rightly in patience and in tribulation?" lluth had been hushed and very still until now, when the pleading earnestness of his question urged her to answer : " Yes ! " said she. " I hope— I believe I can be faithful for myself, for I have dinned and done wrong. But Leonard " She looked up at him. " Hut Leonard ," he echoed. " Ah ! there it is hard, Ruth. I own the world is hard and persecuting to such as he." He paused to think of the true comfort for this stinff. He went on. *n'he world is not everything, Ruth ; aor is the want of men's good opmion and esteem the highest need which man has. leach Leonard this. You would not wish his life to- he one summer's day. You dared not make it so, if you had the power. Teach him to bid a noble. Christian uelcome, to the trials which God sends — and thv Is one of them. Teach him not to look oa a life oi struggle, and perhaps of disappouitment and incompleteness, as a sad and mournful end, but as the 358 RUTH I' '■^i ,i.ir u i_ii means permitted to the heroes and warriors in the army ot Christ, b^ which to show their faithful following. Tell him of the hard and thorny path which was trodden once by the bleeding feet of One. Ruth ! think of the Saviour's life and cruel death, and of His divine faithfulness. Oh, Ruth I ' ex- claimed he, " when I look and see what you may be — what you miut be to that boy, I cannot thiuk how you could be coward enough, for a moment, to shrink from your work ! But we have all been cowards hitherto," he added, in bitter self-accusation. ** God help us to be so no longer ! " Ruth sat very quiet. Her eyes were fixed on the ground, and she seemed lost in thought. At len^rth she rose up. '* Mr Benson ! " said she, standing before him, and propping lierself by the table, as me was trembling sadiy from weakness, ** I mean to try very, very hard, to do my duty to Leonard — and to God," she added, reverently. " I am only afraid my faith may some- times fail about Leonard " ''Ask, and it shall be given unto you. That is no vain or untried promise, Ruth ! " She sat down again, unable longer to stand. There was another long silence. " I must never go to Mr Bradshaw's again,'' she said at last, as if thinking aloud. ** No, Ruth, you shall not," he answered. '' But I shall earn no money ! " added she, quickly, for she thought that he did not perceive the difficulty that was troubling her. " You surely know, Ruth, that while Faith and I have a roof to shelter us, or bread to eat, you and Leonard i^bare it with as." " I know — I know your most tender goodness," said she, "but it ought not to be." "It must be at present," he said, in a decided manner. " Perhaps before long you may have some employment ; perhaps it may Iw some time before an opportunity occurs.' RUTH 360 " Hush/' gaid Rath ; " Leonard is moving about in the parlour. I must go to him/' But when she stood up, she turned so dizzy, and tottered so much, that she was glad to sit down again immediately. " You must rest here. I will go to him," said Mr Benson. He left her ; and when he was gone, she leaned her head on the back of the chair, and cried quietly and incessantly ; but there was a more patient, hopeful, resolved feeling in her heart, which alt along, through all the tears she shed, bore her onwards to higher thoughts, until at last she rose to prayers. Mr Benson caught the new look of shrinking shame in Leonard's eye. as it first sought, then shunned, meeting his. He w-is pained, too, by the sight of the little sorrowful, anxious face, on which, until now, hope and joy had been predominant. The constrained voice, the few words the boy spoke, when formerly there would have been a glad and free utterance — all this grieved Mr Benson inexpressibly, as but the beginning of an unwonted mortification, which must last for years. He himself made no allusion to any unusual occur- rence ; he spoke of Ruth as sitting, overcome by headache, in the study for auietness : he hurried on the preparations for tea, while Leonard sat by in the Seat arm-chair, and looked on with sad dreamy eyes, e strove to lessen the shock which he knew Leonard had received, by every mixture of tenderness and cheerfulness that Mr Benson's gentle heart prompted ; and now and then a languid smile stole over the boy's face. When his bedtime came, Mr Benson told him of the hour, although he feared that Leonard would have but another sorrowful crying of himself to sleep ; hut he was anxious to accustom the boy to cheerful movement within the limits of domestic law, and by no disobedience to it to weaken the power of glad submission to the Supreme ; to begin the new life that lay before him, where strength to look up to God as the Lawgiver and Ruler of events woula be pre-eminently required. When Leonard had gone 'rl i 'Iv m ir 1.0 I.I 1.25 ■ 56 Li II 2.8 3.2 3.6 40 1.4 II 2.5 2.2 1.8 1.6 MICROCOPY RESOLUTION TEST CHART NATIONAL BUREAU OF STANDARDS STANDARD REFERENCE MATERIAL 1010a (ANSI and ISO TEST CHART No. 2) 360 RUTH i) U i upstairs j Mr Benson went immediately to Ruth, and said, "Ruth ! Leonard is just gone up to hed/' secure in the instinct which made her silently rise, and go up to the boy — certain, too, that they would each be the other's best comforter, and that God would strengthen each through the other. Now, for the first time, he had leisure to think of himself ; and to go over all the events of the day. The half hour of solitude in his study, that he had before his sister's return, was of inestimable value ; he had leisure to put events in their true places, as to importance and eternal significance. Miss Faith came in laden with farm produce. Her kind entertainers had brought her in their shandry to the opening of the court in which the Chapel-house stood ; but she was so heavily burdened with eggs, mushrooms, and plums, thai when her brother opened the door she was almost breathless. '* Oh, Thurstan ! take this basket— it is such a weight ! Oh, Sally, is that you ? Here are some magnum-bonums which -ve must preserve to-morro.v. There are guinea-fowl eggs in that basket." Mr Benson let her unburden her body, and her mind too, by giving charges to Sally respecting her housekeeping treasures, before he said a word ; but when she returned into the study, to tell him the small pieces of intelligence respecting her day at the farm, she stood aghast. " Why, Thurstan, dear ! ^Vhat's the matter } Is your back hurting you .'' " He smiled to reassure her ; but it was a sickly and forced smile. " No, Faith ! I am quite well, only rather out of spirits, and wanting to talk to you to cheer me." Miss Faith sat down, straight, sitting bolt-upright to listen the better. " I don't know how, but the real story about Ruth is found out." RUTH 86) " Oh, Thurstan ! " exclaimed Miss Benson, turning quite white. For a moment, neither of them said another word- Then she went on. " Does Mr Bradshaw know ? " " Yes ! He sent for me, and told me." " Does Ruth know that it has all come out ? " "Yes. And Leonard knows." " How ? Who told him > " " I do not know. I have asked no questions. Bub of course it was his mother." " She was very foolish and cruel, then," said Miss Benson, her eyes blazing, and her lips trembling, at the thought of the suffering her darling boy must have gone through. " I think she was wise. I am sure it was not cruel. He must have soon known that there was some mystery, and it was better that it should be told him openly and quietly by his mother than by a stranger." "How could she tell him quietly.^" asked Miss Benson, still indignant. " Well I perhaps I used the wrong word — of course no one was by— and I don't suppose even they them- selves could now tell how it was told, or in what spirit it was borne." Miss Benson was silent again. " Was Mr Bradshaw very angry ? " "Yes, very; and justly so. I did very wrong in- making that false statement at first." "No! I am sure you did not," said Miss Faith. " Ruth has had some years of peace, in which to grow stronger and wiser, so that she can bear her shame now in a way she never could have done at first." "AH the same it was wrong in me to do what I did." " I did it too, as much or more than you. And 1 don't think it wrong. I'm certain it was quite right,, and I would do just the same again." " Perhaps it has not done you the harm it has done- me." ■I; .h I" !i i-f *p 4362 RUTH :M. "Nonsense! Thurstan. Don't be morbid. I'm sure you are as good— and better than ever you were. " " No, I am not. I have got what you call morbid just in consequence of the sophistry by which I per- suaded myself that wrong could be right. I torment myself. I have lost my clear instincts of conscience. Formerly, if I believed that such or such an action was according to the will of God, I went and did it, or at least I tried to do it, without thinking of conse- 4]uences. Now, J reason and weigh what will happen if I do so and so — I grope where formerly I saw. C)h, Faith ! it is such a relief to me to have the truth known, that I am afraid I have not been sufficiently •sympathizing with Ruth." "Poor Ruth!" said Miss Benson. "But at any rate our telling a lie has been the saving of her. There is no fear of her going wrong now." " God's omnipotence did not need our sin." Tliey did not speak for some time. " You have not told me what Air Bradshaw said." " One can^t remember the exact words that are spoken on either side in moments of such strong ex- citement. He was very angry, and said some things about me that were very just, and some about Ruth that, were very hard. His last words were that he should give up coming to chapel." " Oh, Thurstan ! did it come to that ?" "Yes.« " Does Ruth know all he said }" "No! Why should she.?* I don't know if she knows he has spoken to me at all. Poor creature ! she had enough to craze her almost without that ! She -was for going away and leaving us that we might not share in her disgrace. I was afraid of her being quite delirious. I did so want you. Faith I However, 1 did the best I could, I spoke to her very coldly, and almost sternly, all the while my heart was bleeding for her. I dared not give her sympathy ; I tried to give her strength. But I did so want you. Faith." " And I was so full of enjoyment, I am ashamed to rfU RUTH 363 think of it. But the Dawsons are so kind— and the day was so fine Where is Ruth now? " " With Leonard. He is her great earthly motive— I thought that being with him would be best. But he must be in bed and asleep now." ** I will go up to her," said Miss Faith. She found Ruth keeping watch by Leonard's troubled sleep ; but when she saw Miss Faith she rose up, and threw herself on her nock and clung to her, without speaking. After a while Miss Benson said : « You must go to bed, Ruth ! " So, after she had kissed the sleeping boy, Miss Benson led her away, and helped to undress her, and brought her up a cup of soothing violet tea— not so soothing as tender actions, and soft loving tones. CHAPTER XXVni It was well they had so early and so truly strengthened the spirit to bear, for the events which had to be endured soon came thick and threefold. Every evening Mr and Miss Benson thought the worst must be over ; and everyday brought some fresh occurrence to touch upon the raw place. They could not be certain, until they had seen all their acquaint- ances, what difference it would make in the cordiality of their reception : in some cases it made much ; and Miss Benson was proportionably indignant. She felt this change in behaviour more than her brother. His great pain arose from the coolness of the Bradshaws. With all the faults which had at times J?rated od his sensitive nature (but which he now forgot, and re- membered onlv their kindness), they were his old familiar friends— his kind, if ostentatious, patrons ^ his great personal interest, out of his own family ; and he could not get over the suffering he experienced from seeing their large square pew empty on Sundays—from perceiving how Mr Bradshaw, though he bowed in a \iii m y=- u 364 RUTH distant manner when he and Mr Benson met face to face^ shunned him as often as he possibly could. All that happened In the household^ which once was as patent to him as his own, was now a sealed book ; he heard of its doings by chance, if he heard at all. Just at the time when he was fi eling the most depressed from this cause, he met Jemima at a sudden turn of the street. He was uncertain for a moment how to accost her, but she saved him all doubt ; in an instant she had his hand in both of hers, her face flushed with honest delight. " Oh, Mr Benson, I am so glad to see you ! I have so wanted to know ali about you ! How is poor Ruth ? dear Ruth ! I wonder if she has forgiven me my cruelty to her.'' And I may not go to her now, when I should be so glad and thankful to make up for it." " I never heard you had been cruel to her. I am sure she does not think so.*' ** She ought, she must. What is she doing .'' Oh I I have so much to ask, I can never hear enough ; and papa says " —she hesitated a moment, afraid of giving pain, and then, believing that they would understand the state of affairs, and the reason for her behaviour better if she told the truth, she went on : ^' Papa says I must not go to your house — I suppose it's right to obey him .'' " " Cert inly, my dear. It is your clear duty. We know how you feel towards us." " Oh ! but if I could do any good — if I could be of any use or comfort to any of you — especially to Ruth, I should come, duty or not. I believe it would be my duty," said she, hurrying on to try and stop any decided prohibition from Mr Benson. " No ! don't be afraid ; 1 won't come till I know I can do some good. I hear bits about you through Sally every now and then, or I could not have waited so long. Mr Benson," continued she, reddening very much, *' I think you did quite right about jpoor Ruth." "Not in the falsehood, my dear." ! •a RUTH 365 " No ! not perhaps in that. I was not thinking of that. But I have been thinking a great deal about poor Ruth's you know I could not help it when everybody was talking about it — and it made me think of myself, and what 1 am. With a father and mother, and home and careful friends, I am not likely to be tempted like Ruth ; but oh ! Mr Benson," said she, lifting her eves, which were full of tears, to his face, for the first time since she began to speak, "if vou knew all I have been thinking and feeling this last year, you would see how I have yielded to every temptation that was able to come to me ; and, seeing how I have no goodness or strength in me, and how I might just have been like Ruth, or rather, worse than she ever was, because I am more headstrong and passionate by nature, I do so thank you and love you for what you did for her ! And will you tell me really and truly now if I can ever do auj'thing for Ruth? If you'll promise me that, I wont rebel unnecessarily against papa ; but if you don't, 1 will, and come and see you all this very afternoon. Remember ! I trust you ! " said she, breaking away. Then turning back,, she came to ask after Leonard. " He must know something of it," said she. " Does he feel it mu'.h ? " ''Very much," said Mr Benson. Jemima shook her head sadly. " It is hard upon him," said she. " It is," Mr Benson replied. For in truth, Leonard was their greatest anxiety indoors. His health seemed shaken, he spoke half sentences in his sleep, which showed that in his dreams he was battling on his mother's behalf against an unkind and angry world. And then he would wail to himself, and utter sad words of shame, which they never thoughi had reached his ears. By day, he was in general grave ani quiet ; but his appetite varied, and he was evidently afraid of going into the streets, dreading to *^e pointed at as an object of remark. £ach separately in their hearts longed to give him 1r •J- i % 366 RUTH pf\ t P t change of scene, but they were all silent, for where was the requisite money to coaie from ? His temper became fitful and variable. At times he would be most sullen against his mother ; and then give way to a passionate remorse. When Mr Bensou caught Ruth^s look of agony at her child's rebuffs, liis patience failed ; or rather, I should say, he believed that a stronger, severer hand than hers was required for the management of the lad. But, when she heard Mr Benson say so, she pleaded with him. " Have patience with Leonard," she said. " I have deserved the anger that is fretting in his heart. It is only I who can reinstate myself in his love and respect. I have no fear. When he sees me really striving hard and long to do what is right, he must love me. 1 am not afraid. '^ Even while she spoke, her lips quivered, and lier colour went and came with eager anxiety. So Mv Benson held his peace, and let her take her course. It was beautiful to see the intuition by which she divined what was passing in every fold of her child's heart, so as to be always ready with the right words to soothe or to strengthen him. Her watchfulness was unwearied, and with no thought of self tainting it, or else she might have often paused to turn aside and weep at the clouds of shame which came over Leonard's love for her, and hid it from all but her faithful heart ; she believed and knew that he was yet her own affec- tionate boy, although he might be gloomily silent, or apparently hard and cold. And in all this, Mr Benson could not choose but admire the way in which she was insensibly teaching Leonard to conform to the law of right, to recognize Duty in the mode in which every action was performed. When Mr Benson saw this, he knew that all goodness would follow, and that the claims which his mother's infinite love had on the boy's heart would be acknowledged at last, and al. the more fully because she herself never urged them, bu. silently admitted the force of the reason that caused them to be for a time forgotten. By and by Leonard's remorse "i; RUTH SGT at his un rracious and sullen ways to his mother — ways that alternated with passionate, fitful bursts of clinging love — assumed more the character of repentance ; he tried to do so no more. But still his Iiealth was delicate ; he was averse to going out of doors ; he was much graver and sadder than became his age. It was what must l»e ; an inevitable consequence of what had been ; and Ruth had to be patient, and pray in secret, and with many tears, for the strengtli she needed. She knew what it was to dread tlie going out into the streets after hnr story had become known. For (lays and days ilently shrunk from this effort. But one even:'' • ..Is dusk. Miss Benson was busy, aud asked her • errand for her ; and Ruth got up and silentl> _, ed h< . That silence as to inward suffering was only one pan of her peculiar and exquisite sweetness of nature ; part of the patience with whi«ih she " accepted her penance. " Her true instincts told her that it was not right to disturb others with many expressions of her remorse ; that the holiest repentance consisted in a quiet and daily sacrifice. Still there were times when she wearied pitifully of her inaction. She was so willing to serve and work, and every one' despised her services. Her mind, as I have said before, had been well cultivated during these last few years ; so now she used all the knowledge she had gained in teaching Leonard, which was an employment that Mr Benson relinquished willingly, because he felt that it would give her some of the occupation that she needed. She endeavoured to make herself useful in the house in every way she could ; but the waters of housekeeping had closed over her place during the time of her absence at Mr Bradshaw^s — and, besides, now that they were trying to restrict every unnecessary expense, it was sometimes difficult to find work for three women. Many aud :nany a time Ruth turned over in her mind every possible chance of obtaining employment for hei- leisure hours, and nowhere could she find it. Now and then Sally, who wa? her con- m ' h 4368 RUTH yiri iidante in this wish, procured her some needlework, but it was of a coare** and common kind, «oon done lightly paid for. But whatever it .as, Ruth took it' aud was thankful, although it added but a few pence to the household purse. 1 do not mean that there was any great need of money ; but a new adjustment of expenditure was required — a reduction of wants which ■had never been very extravagant. Ruth's salary of forty pounds was gone, while more of her " keep," as Sally called it, was thrown upon the Bensous. Mr Benson received about eighty pounds a year for his salary as minister. Of this, he knew that twenty pounds came from Mr Bradshaw; and when the old man appointed to collect the pew- rents brought him the quarterly amount, and he found no diminution in them, he inquired how it was, and learnt that, although Mr Bradshaw had expressed to the collector his determination never to come to •chapel again, he had added, that of course his pew- rent should be paid all the same. But this Mr Benson ■could not suffer ; and the old man was commissioned to return the money to Mr Bradshaw, as being what his deserted minister could not receive. Mr and Miss Benson had about thirty or forty .pounds coming in annually from a sum which, in happier days, Mr Bradshaw had invested in Canal shares for them. Altogether their income did not fall much short of a hundred a year, and they lived in the Chapel-house free of rent. So Ruth^s small earn- ings were but very !ittle in actual hard commercial account, though in another sense they were much; and Miss Benson always received them with quiet simplicity. By degrees, Mr Benson absorbed some of Ruth's time in a gracious and natural way. He employed her mind in all the kir-l offices he was accustomed to render to the poor around him. Aud AS much of the peace and ornament of life as they gained now, was gained on a firm basis of truth. If Ruth began low down to find her place in the world, at any rate there was no flaw in the foundation. RUTH 369 Leonard was still their great anxiety. At times tlie question seemed to be, could he live through ail this trial of the elasticity of childhood ? And then they linew how precious a blessing— how true a pillar of lire, he was to his mother : and how black tlie night, and how dreary the wilderness would be, when he was uot. The child and the mother were each messiengers of God — angels to each other. They had long gaps between the pieces of intelli- gence respecting the Bradshaws. Mr Bradshaw had at length purchase' *be house at Abermouth, and ^^ley were much then The way in which the Bensons h. .rd most frequently e'' the family of their former friends, was through Mr Farquhar. He called on Mr Benson about a month after the latter had mot Jemima in the street. Mr Farquhar was not in the habit of paying calls on anyone ; and though he had always entertained and evinced the most kind and friendly feeling towards Mr Benson, he had rarely been in the Chapel-house. Mr Benson received him courteously, but he rather expected that +' «.e would be some especial reason alleged, before the conclusion of the visit, for its occurrence ; more particularly as Mr Farquhar sat talking on the topics of the day in a somewhat absent manner, as if they .vere not the subjects most present to his mind. The truth was, he could not help recurring to the last time when he was in that room, waiting to take Leonard a ride, and his heart beating rather more quickly than usual at the idea that Ruth might bring the boy in when he was equipped. He was very full now of the remem- brance of Ruth ; and yet he was also most thankful, most self-gratulatory, that he had gone no further in his admiration of her— that he had never expressed • his regard in words— that no one, as he believed, was cognizant of the incipient love which had grown partly out of his admiration, and partly out of his reason, lie was thankful to be spared any implication in the nine-days' wonder which her story had made in Eccle- ston. And yet his feeling for her had bee- of so 2 a t 1 V.i ■I .^ 370 RUTH BtTong a character, that he winced, as with extreme pain, * every application of censure to her name. These censures were often exaggerated, it is true; but when they were just in their judgement of the out- ward circumstances of the case, they were not the less Sainful and distressing to him. His first rebouud to emima was occasioned by Mrs Bradshaw's account of how severely her husband was displeased at her daughter's having taken part with Ruth ; and he could have thanked and almost blessed Jemima when she dropped in (she dared do no mor) her pleadinjj excuses and chiritable explanations on Ruth's belialf. Jemima had learnt some humility from the discovery which had been to her so great a shock ; standing, she had learnt to take heed Test she fell ; and when she had once been aroused to a perception of the violence of the hatred which she had indulged against Ruth, she was more reticent and measured in the expression of all her opinions. It sho ad how much her character had been purified froin ^, ^s, that now she felt aware that what in her was again attracting Mr Farquhar was her faithful advocacy of her rival, wherever such advocacy was wise or practicable. He was quite un- aware that Jemima had been conscious of his jrreat admiration for Ruth ; he did not know that slie had ever cared enough for him to be jealous. But the unacknowledged bond between them now was their grief, and sympathy, and pity for Ruth ; only in Jemima these feelings were ardent, and would fain have become active ; while in Mr Farquhar they were strongly mingled with thankfulness that he had escaped a disagreeable position, and a painful notoriety. Hi* natural caution induced him to make a resolution never to think of any woman as a wife until he had ascertained all her antecedents, from her birth up- wards ; and the same spirit of caution, directed in- wardly, made > 'ii afraid of giving too much pity to Ruth, foi' ff of the conclusions to which such a feeling might lead him. But still his old regard for her, for Leonard, and his esteem and respect for the RUTH 371 Bensons, induced him to lend a willing ear to Jemima's earnest entreaty that he would go and call on Mr Benson, in order that she might learn something about the family in general, and Ruth in particular. It was thus that he came to sit by Mr Benson's study fire, and to talk, in an absent way, to that gentleman. How they got on the subject he did not know, morfr than one-half of his attention being distracted, but they were speaking about politics, when Mr Farquhar learned that Mr Benson took in no newspaper. "Will you allow me to send you over my Times? I have generally done with it before twelve o'clock, and after that it is really waste-paper in my Lous'*. Y'ou will oblige me by making use of it." "I am sure I am very much obliged » you foi thinking of it. But do not trouble yours( to send it ; Leonard can fetch it." " How is Leonard now ? " asked Mr Farquhar, and he tried to speak indifferently; but a grave look of intelligence clouded his eyes as he looked for Mr Ben- son's answer. " I have not met him lately." "No I " said Mr Benson, with an expression of pain in his countenance, though he, too, strove to speak in his usual tone. " Leonard is not strong, and we find it difficult to induce him to go much out of doors." There was a little silence for a minute or two, during which Mr Farquhar had to check an unbidden sigh. But, suddenly rousing himself into a determination to change the subject, he said : " You will find rather a lengthened account ot !;he exposure of Sir Thomas Campbell's conduct at Baden. Hv seems to be a complete blackleg, in spite of his baronetcy. I fancy the papers are glad to get hold of anything just now." " Who is Sir Thomas Campbell ? " asked Mr Benson. " Oh, I thought you might have heard the report— a true one, I believe— of Mr Donne's engagement to- his daughter. He must be glad she jilted him now, I fancy, after this public exposure of her father's con- V .'J ,11 m M T !■§ y. Hi ■ >i IHi 1 If j: ■ " RUTH 375 He turned round, glowing with a thrill of delight. She was as red as any rose ; her looks dropped down to the ground. They were not raised when, half an hour afterwards, she said, " You won't forbid my going to see Ruth, will you ? because if you do, I give you notice I shall disobey you." The arm around her waist clasped her yet more fondly at the idea suggested by this speech, of the control which he should have a right to exercise over her actions at some future day. "Tell me," said he, "how much of your good- ness to me, this last happy hour, has been owing to the desire of having more freedom as a wife than as a daughter ? " She was almost glad that he should think she needed any additional motive to her love for him before she could have accepted him. She was afraid that she had betrayed the deep, passionate regard with which she had long looked upon him. She was lost in delight at her own happiness. She was silent for a time. At length she said : " I don't think you know how faithful I have been to you ever since the days when you first brought me pistachio-candy from London — when I was quite A little fifirl* " Not more faithful than I have been to you," for in truth, the recollection of his love for Ruth had utterly faded away, and he thought himself a model of constancy ; " and you have tried me pretty well. What a vixen you have been ! " Jemima sighed ; smitten with the consciousness of how little she had deserved her present happiness ; humble with the recollection of the evil thoughts that had raged in her heart during the time (which she remembered well, though he might have forgotten it) when Ruth had had the affection which her jealous rival coveted. '^I may speak to your father, may not I, Jemima.'*" No ! for some reason or fancy which she could not defin^i, and could not be persuaded out of, she wished it: r< '!?r m m u ■4^ ;ii N 376 RUTH to keep their mutal understanding a secret. She had a natural desire to avoid the congratulations she ex- pected from her family. She dreaded her father's consideration of the whole affair as a satisfactory dis- posal of his daughter to a worthy man, who, beine his partner, would not require any abstraction of capital from the concern ; and Richard's more noi«y delight at his sister's having "hooked" so good a niatch. It was only her simple-hearted mother that she longed to tell. She knew that her mother's con- gratulations would not jar upon her, though they might not sound the full organ-peal of her love. But all that her mother knew passed onwards to her father ; so for the present, at any rate, she determined to realize her secret position alone. Somehow, the sympathy of all others that she most longed for was Ruth's ; but the first communication of such an event was due to her parents. She imposed very strict re- gulations on Mr Farquhar's behaviour ; and quarrelled and differed from him more than ever, but with a secret joyful understanding with him in her heart, even while they disagreed with each other— for simi- larity of opinion is not always— I think not often- needed for fulness and perfection of love. After Ruth's "detection," as Mr Bradshaw used to call it, he said he could never trust another gover- ness again ; so Mary and Elizabeth had been sent to school the following Christmas, and their place in the family was but poorly supplied by the return of Mr Richard Bradshaw, who had left London, and been received as a partner. CHAPTER XXIX The conversation narrated in the It chapter as taking place between Mr Farquhar and Jemima, occun-ed about a year after Ruth's dismissal from her situation. That year, full of small events, and change of place to the Bradshaws, had beea monotonous and RUTH SIT long in its course to the other houp ' Ai. There had been no want of peace and tranquillity ; there had, perhaps, been more of them than in the preceding years, when, thougli unacknowledged by any, all must have occisionally felt the oppression of the falsehood — and a slight glancing dread must have flashed across their most prosperous state, lest, somehow or another, the mystery should be disclosed. But now, as the 3hepherd-boy in John Bunyan sweetly sang, " He that is low need fear no fall." Still their peace was as the stillness of a grey autumnal day, where no sun is to be seen above, and when a quiet film seems drawn before both sky and earth, as if to rest the wearied eye? after the summer s glare. Few events broke the monotony of their lives, and those events were of a depressing kind. They consisted in Ruth's futile endeavours to obtain some employment, however humble ; in Lco^-ard's fluctua- tions of spirits and health; in Sally's increasing deafness; in the final and unmendable wearing-out of the parlour carpet, which there was no spare money to replace, and so they cheerfully supplied its want by a large hearth-rug that Ruth made out of ends of list ; and, what was more a subject of unceasing regret to Mr Benson than all, the defection of some of the members of his congregation, who followed Mr Brad- shaw's lead. Their places, to be sure, were more than filled up by the r-^or, who thronged to his chapel ; but still it was a dis'appointment to find that people about whom he had been earnestly thinking— to whom he had laboured to do good— should dissolve the connoxion without a word of farewell or explanation. Mr Benson did not wonder that they should i,o ; nay, he even felt it right that they should seek that spiritual help from another, wMch he, by his error, had forfei^ed his power to offer ; he only wished they had spoken of their intention to him in an oper and manly way. But not the less did he labour oi imong those to whom God permitted him to be of use. He felt age stealing upon him apace, although he said nothing about it, and no ill f'fti 378 RUTH ir- il ■one seemed to be aware of it ; and he worked the more diligently while "it was yet day.'' It wa not the number of his years that made him feel old, for he was only sixty, and' many men are hale and strong at that time of life ; in all probability, it was that early injury to his spine which affected the constitution of his mind as well as his body, and predisposed him, in the opinion of some at least, to a feminine morbidness of conscience. He had shaken off somewhat of this since the affair with Mr Bradshaw ; he was simpler and more dignified than he had been for several years before, during which time he had been anxious and uncertain in his manner, and more given to thought than to action. The one happy bright spot in this grey year, was owing to Sally. As she said of herself, she believed she grew more " nattered " as she grew older ; but that she was conscious of her ** natterf^dness '' was a new thing, and a grea^ gain to the comfort of the house, for it made her very grateful for forbearance, and more ^ware of kindness than she had ever been before. She liad become very deaf ; yet she was uneasy and jealous if she were not informed of all the family thoughts, plans, and proceedings, which often had (however private in their details) to be shouted to her at the full pitch of the voice. But she always heard Leonard perfectly. His clear and bell-like voice, which was similar to his mother's, till sorrow had taken the riug out of it, was sure to be heard by the old servant, though everyone else had failed. Sometimes, however, she *•' got her hearing sudden,'' as «he phrased it, and was alive to every word and noise, more particularly when they did not want her to hear, and at such times she resented their continuance of the habit of speaking loud as a mortal offence. One day, her indignation at being thought deaf called out one of the rare smiles on Leonard's face ; she saw it, and said, " Bless thee, lad I if it but amuses thee, they may shout through a ram's horn to me, and I'll never let on I'm not deaf. It's as ^ood a use as I can be of," she continued to herself, *' if I can make that poor lad smile a bit." RUTH 379 Ii she expected to be everybody's confidantd^ she made Leonard hers. " There ! ' said she, when she came home from her marketing one Saturday night, "look here, lad! Here's forty-two pound, seven shillings, and twopence ! It's a mint of money, i;:.a' c it? I took it all in sovereigns for fear of fire/* « What is it all for, Sally ? " said he. " Aye, lad ! that's asking. It's Mr Benson's money," said she, mysteriously, "that I've been keeping for him. Is he in the study, think ye ? " " Yes ! I think so. Where have vou been keeping it?" " Never you mind ! " She went towards the study, but thinking she might have been hard on her darling in refusing to gratify his curiosity, she turned back, and said : " I say — if thou wilt, thou mayst do me a job of work some day. Pm wanting a frame made for a piece of writing.*' And then she returned to go into the study, carrying her sovereigns in her apron. " Here, Master Thurstan," said she, pouring tiiem out on the table before her astonished master. " Take it, it's all yours.** " All mine ! What can you mean ? " asked he, bewildered. She did not hear him, and went on : " Lock it up safe, out o* the way. Dunnot go and leave it about to tempt folks. I'll not answer for myself if money's left about. I may be cribbing a sovereign." " But where does it come from ? ** said he. "Come from!" shj replied. "Where does all money come from, but the Bank, to be sure? I thought anyone could tell that." " I have no money in the Bank ! ** said he, more and more perplexed. " No ! I knowed that ; but I had. Dunnot ye re- member how you would raise my wage, last Martinmas eighteen year ? You and Faith were very headstrong. il n IM iih ilS 380 RUTH lliil but I was too deep for you. See thee ! I went and put it i* th* Bank. I was never going to touch it ; and if I had died it would have been all right, for IM a will made, all regular and tight — made by a lawyer (least- ways he would have been a lawyer, if he hadn't got transported first). And now, thinks I, I think I'll just go and get it out and give it *em. Banks is not always safe.** "I'll take care of it for you with the greatest pleasure. Still, you know, banks allow interest." " D'ye suppose I don't know all about interest, and compound interest too, uy this time .-' I tell ye I want ye to spend it. It's your own. It's not mine. It always was yours. Now you're not going to fret me by saying you think it mine." Mr Benson held out his hand to her, for he could not speak. She bent forward to him as he sat there, and kissed him. " Eh, bless ye, lad ! It's the first kiss I've had of ye sin' ye were a little lad, and it's a great refresh- ment. Now don't you and Faith go and bother me with talking about it. It's just yours, and make no more ado." She went back into the kitchen, and brought out her will, and gave Leonard directions how to make a frame for it ; for the boy was a very tolerable joiner, aud had a box of tools which Mr Bradshaw had given hir.i some years ago. " It's a pity to lose such fine writing,'* said she ; " though I can't say as I can read it. Perhaps you'd just read it for me, Leonard." She sat open-mouthed • with admiration at all the long words. The frame was made, and the will hung up opposite to her bed, unknown to anyone but Leonard ; and, by dint of his repeated reading it over to her, she learnt all the words, except "testatrix," which she would always call "testy tricks." Mr Benson had been too much gratified and touched, by her unconditional gift of all she had in the world, to reject it ; but he only held it in his hands as a deposit until he could find a RUTH 381 safe investment befitting so small a sum. The little re-arrangements of the household expenditure had not touched him as they had done the women. He was aware that meat dinners were not now every-day occur- rences ; but he preferred puddings and vegetables, and was glad of the exchange. He observed, too, that they all sat together in the kitchen in the evenings ; but the kitchen, with the well-scoured dresser, the shnnng saucepans, the well-blacked grate and whitened heartli, and the warmth which seemed to rise up from the very flag?, and ruddily cheer the most distant corners, appeared a very cozy and charming sitting-room ; and, besides, it appeared but right that Sally, in her old age, s'lould have the companionship of those with whom she had lived in love and faithfulness for many years. He only wished he could more frequently leave the solitary comfort of his study, and join the kitchen party ; where Sally sat as mistress in the chimney- corner, knitting by fire-light, and Miss Benson and Ruth, with the candle between them, stitched away at their work ; while Leonard strewed the ample dresser with his slate and books. He did not mope and pine over his lessons ; they were the one thing that took him out of himself. As yet his mother could teach him, though in some respects it was becoming a strain up n her acquirements and powers. Mr Benson saw thi , but reserved his offers of help as long as he could, hoping that before his assistance became absolutely necessary, some mode of emplovment beyond that of occasional plain-work might be laid open to Ruth. In spite of the communication they occasionally had with Mr Farquhar, when he gave them the intelligence of his engagement to Jemima, it seemed like a glimpse into a world from which they were shut out. They wondered— Miss Benson and Ruth did at least— much about the details. Ruth sat over her sewing, fancying how all had taken place; and as soon as she had arranged the events which were going on among people and places once so familiar to her, she found some dis- crepancy, and set-to afresh to picture the declaration A. * ■ H "■ ' in'l 382 RUTH i^l of love, and the yielding, blushing acceptance ; for Mr Farquhar had told little beyond the mere fact that there was an engagement between himself and Jemima which had existed for some time, but which had been kept secret until now, when it was acknowledged, sauc- tioned, and to be fulfilled ar soon as he returned from an arrangement of family affairs in Scotland. ITiis intelligence had been enough for Mr Benson, who was the only person Mr Farquhar saw ; as Ruth always shrank from the post of opening the door, and Air Benson was apt at recognizing individual knocks, and always prompt to welcome Mr Farquhar. Miss Benson occasionally thought — and what she thought she was in the habit of saying— that Jemima might have come herself to announce such an event to old friends ; but Mr Benson decidedly vindicated her from any charge of neglect, by expressing his strong conviction tliat to her they owe'd Mr Farquhar's calls— his all but outspoken offers of service — his quiet, steady- interest in Leonard ; and, moreover (repeatin^^ the conversation he had had with her in the street the first time they met after the disclosure), Mr Beison told his sister how glad he was to find that, w'ch all the warmth of her impetuous disposition hum .ng her on to rebellion against her father, she was now attain- ing to that just self-control which can distinguish between mere wishes and true reasons,— that sup could abstain from coming to see Ruth while she could do but little good, reserving herself for some great occa- sion or strong emergency. Ruth said nothing, but she yearned all the more in silence to see Jemima. In her recollection of that fearful interview with Mr Bradshaw, which haunted her yet, sleeping or waking, she was painfully con- scious that she had not thanked Jemima for her generous, loving advocacy ; it had passed unregarded at the time in intensity of agony — but now she recol- lected that by no word, or tone, or touch, had she given any sign of gratitude. Mr Benson had never told her of his meeting with Jemima ; so it seemed as RUTH 33» if there were no hope of any future opportunity : for it is strange how two households, rent apart by some dissension, can go through life, their parallel exist- ences running side by side, yet never touching each other, near neighbours as they are, habitual and familiar guests as they may have been. Ruth's only point of hone was Leonard. She was^ weary of looking for work and employment, which everywhere seemed held above her reach. She was not impatient of this, but she was very, very sorry. She felt within her such capability, and all ignored her, and passed her by on the other side. But she saw some progres? in Leonard. Not that he could continue to have the happy development, and genial ripening, which other boys have ; leaping from childhoo-'. to boyhood, and ther.ce to youth, with glad bounds, and . nconsciously enjoying every ajfe. At present there was no harmony in Leonard's character ; he was as full of thought and self- consciousness as many men, planning his actions long beforehand, so as to avoid what he dreaded, and what she could not yet give him strength to face, coward as she was herself, and shrinking from hard remarks. Yet Leonard was regaining some of his lost tanderness towards his mother ; when they were alone he would throw himself on her neck and smother her with kisses, without any apparent cause for such a passionate impulse. If anyone wr 3 >'• manner was cold and reserved. The hopeful p - his character were the determination evident in x. . to be a "law unto himself," and the serious thought which he gave to the formation of this law. There was an inclination in him to reason, especially and principally with Mr Benson, on the great questions of ethics which the majority of the world have settled long ago. But I do not think he ever so argued with his mother. Her lovely patience, and her humility, was earning its reward ; and from her quiet piety,, bearing sweetly the denial of her wishes— the refusal of her begging — the disgrace in which she lay, while: 4 4)84 RUTH !f r»' (• maamsr: others, less worthy, were employed— this, which per- plcxed him, and almost angered him at first, called out his reverence at last, and what she said he took for his law with proud humility ; and thus softly, she was leading him up to God. His health was uot strong ; it was not likely to he. He moaned and talked in his sleep, and his appetite was still variable, part of which might be owing to his preference of the hardest lessons to any outdoor exercise. But this last unnatural symptom w is vanishing before the assiduous kindness of Mr Farquhar, and the quiet but firm desire of his mother. Next to Ruth, Sally had perhaps the most iniluence over him ; but he dearly loved both Mr and Miss Benson ; although he was reserved on this, as on every point not purely intellectual. His was a hard childhood, and his mother felt that it was so. Children bear any moderate degree of poverty and privation cheerfully ; but, in addition to a good deal of this, Leonard had to bear a sense of disgrace attaching to him and to the creature he loved best ; this it was that took out of him the buoyancy and natural gladness of youth, in a way which no scantiness of food or clothing, or want of any outward comfort, could ever have done. Two years had passed away — two long, eventless years. Something was now going to happen, which touched their hearts very nearly, though out of their sight and hearing. Jemima was going to be married this A'lgust, pnd by and by the very day was fixed. It was to be on tne 14th. On the evening of the 13th, Ruth was sitting alone in the parlour, idly gazing out on the darkening shadows in the little garden ; her eyes kept filling with ouiet tears, that rose, not for her own isolation from all that was going on of bustle and preparation for the morrow's event, but because she had seen how Miss Benson had felt that she and lier brother were left out from the gathering of old friends in the Bradshaw family. As Ruth sat, sud- denly she was aware or a figure by her ; she started oip, and in the gloom of the apartment she recognized RUTH SM Jemima. In an instant they were in each other's arms— a long, fast embrace. "Can you forgive me?" whispered Jemima in Ruth's ear. " Forgive you ! WTiat do you mean ? What have I to torgive ? The question is, can 1 ever thank you as I long to do, if I could find words ?** " Oh, Ruth, how I hated you once ! " " It was all the more noble in you to stand by me as you did. You must have hated me when you knew how I was deceiving you all ! " " No, that was not it that made me hate you. It was before that. Oh, Ruth, I did hate you ! " They were silent for some time, still holding each other's hands. Ruth spoke first. " And you are going to be married to-morruw ! " " Yes," said Jemima. " To-morrow, at nine o'cloc'c. Bnt I don't think I could have been married without coming to wish Mr Benson and Miss Faith good-bye." " I will go for them," said Ruth. " No, not just yet. I want to ask you one or two questions first Nothing very particular ; only it seems as if there had been such a strange, long separation between us. Ruth," said she, diopping her voice, ''is Leonard stronger than he was. ^ I was so sorry to hear about him from Walter. But he is better? " asked she anxiously. •'Yes, he is better. Not what a boy of his age should be," replied his mother, in a tone of quiet bnt deep mournfulness. " Oh, Jemima ! " continued she, "my sharpest punishment comes through him. To think what he might have been, and what he is!" " But Walter says he is both stronger in health, and not so— nervous and shy." Jemima added the last words in a hesitating ; ad doubtful manner, as if she did not know how to express her full meaning without hurting Ruth. "He does not show that he feels his disgrace so much. I cannot talk about it, Jemima, my heart 2b .1 I 386 RUTH 11. aches so about him. But he is better j" she continued, feeling that Jemima's kind anxiety required an answer at any cost of pain to herself. ** He is only studying too closely now ; he takes to his lessons evidently as a relief from thought. He is very clever, and I hope and trust, yet I tremble to say it, I believe he is very good." *' You must let him come and see us very often when we come back. We shall be two months away. We are going to Germany, partly on Walter's busi ness. Ruth, I have been talking to papa to-night, very seriously and quietly, and it has made me love him so much more, and understand him so much better." "Does he know of your coming here.'* I hope he does," said Ruth. " Yes. Not that he liked my doing it at all. But, somehow, I can always do things against a person's wishes liiore easily when I am on good terms with them — that's not exactly what I meant ; but now to-night, after papa had been showing me that he really loved me more than I ever thought he had done (for I always fancied he was so absorbed in Dick, he did not care much for us girls), 1 felt brave enough to say that I intended to come here and bid you all good-bye. He was silent for a minute, and then said I might do it, but I must remember he did not approve of it, and was not to be compromised by my coming ; still I can tell that, at the bottom of his heart, there is some of the old kindly feeling to Mr and Miss Benson, and I don't despair of its all being made up, though, perhaps, I ought to say that m ma does." • Mr and Miss Benson won't hear of my going away," said Ruth, sadly. ** They are quite right." '* But I am earning nothing. I cannot get any em- ployment. I am only a burden and an expense." " Are you not also a pleasure .'' And Leonard, is he not a dear object of love .'' It is easy for me to talk, I RUTH 387 know^ who am so impatient. Oh, I never deserved to be happy as I am ! You don't know how good Walter is. I used to think him so cold and cautious. But now, Ruth, will you tell Mr and Miss Benson that I am here.'' There is signing of papers, and I don't know what to be done '»t home. And when I come back, 1 hope to see you often, if you'll let me." Mr and Miss Benson gave her a warm greeting. Sally was called in, and would bring a candle with her, to have a close inspection of her, in order to see if she was changed — she had not seen her for so long a time, she said ; and Jemima stood laughing and blushing in the middle of the room, while Sally studied her all over, and would not be convinced that the old gown which she was wearing for the last time was not one of the new wedding ones. The consequence of which misunderstanding was, that Sally, in her short petticoats and bedgown, turned up her nose at the old- fashioned way in which Miss Bradshaw's gown was made. But Jemima knew the old woman, and rather enjoyed the contempt for her dress. At last she kissed them all, and ran away to her impatient Mr Farquhar, who was awaiting her. Not many weeks after this, the poor old woman whom I have named as having become a friend of Ruth's, during Leonard's illness three years ago, fell down and broke her hip-bone. It was a serious — probably a fatal injury, for one so old ; and as soon as Ruth heard of it she devoted all her leisure time to old Ann Fleming. Leonard had now outstript his mother's powers of teaching, and Mr Benson gave him his lessons ; so Ruth was a great deal at the cottage both uight and day. There Jemima found her one November evening, the second after their return from their prolonged stay on the Continent. She and Mr Farquhar had been to the Bensons, and had sat there some time ; and now Jemima had come on just to see Ruth for five minutes, before the evening was too dark for her to return alone. She found Ruth sitting on a stool before ^1 ^ 388 RUTH 3i| It.. • h' I 8 ' ' '' ; 'f the fire, which was composed of a few sticks on the hearth. The blaze they gave was, however, enough to enable her to read ; and she was deep in study of the Bible, in which she had read aloud to the poor old woman, until the latter had fallen asleep. Jemima beckoned her out, and they stood on the green just be- fore the open door, so that i ath could see if Ann awoke. " 1 have not many minutes to stay, only I felt as if I must see you. And we want Leonard to come to us to see all our German purchases, and hear all our German adventures. May he come to-morrow ? " " Yes ; thank you. Oh ! Jemima, I have heard something — I have got a plan that makes me so happy ! I have not told anyone yet. But Mr Wynne (the parish doctor, you know) has asked me if I would go out as a sick nurse — he thinks he could find me em- ployment." " You, a sick nurse ! " said Jemima, involuntarily glancing over the beautiful lithe figure, and the lovely refinement of Ruth^s face, as the light of the rising moon fell upon it. " My dear Ruth, I don't think you are fitted for it ! " " Don't you } " said Ruth, a little disappointed. " I think I am ; at least, that I should be very soon. I like being about sick and helpless people; I always feel so sorry for them ; and then 1 think I have the gift of a very delicate touch, which is such a comfort in many cases. And I should try to be very watchful and patient. Mr Wynne proposed it himself." " It was not in that way 1 meant you were not fitted for it. I meant that you were fitted for some- thing better. Why, Ruth, you are better educated than I am ! " . " But if nobody will allow me to teach ? — for that is what I suppose you mean. Besides, I feel as if all my education would be needed to make me a good sick nurse." " Your knowledge of Latin, for instance,' said Jemima, hitting, in her vexation at the plan, on the first acquirement of Ruth she could think of. ^f*: RUTH 389 " Well ! " sai*^ Ruth, " that won't come amiss ; I can read the prescriptions. '* "Wliich the doctors would rather vou did not do." "Still, you can't say that any knowledge of any kind will he in my way, or will unfit me for my work.'* " Perhaps not But all your taste and refinement will be in your way, and will unfit you." "You have not thought about this so much as I have, or you would not say so. Any fastidiousness I shall have to get rid of, and I shall be better without ; but any true refinement I am sure I shall find of use ; for don't you think that every power we have may be made to help us in any right work, whatever that is ? Would you not rather be nursed by a person who spoke gently and moved quietly about than by a loud bustling woman } " " Yes ! to be sure ; but a person unfit for anything else may move quietly, and speak gently, and give medicine when tlxe doctor orders it, and keep awake at night ; and those are the best qualities I ever heard of in a sick nurse." Ruth was quite silent for some time. At last she said: "At any rate it is work, and as such I am thankful for it. You cannot discourage me — and perhaps you know too little of what my life has been —how set apart in idleness I have been— to sympathize with me fully." "And I wanted you to come to see us — me in my new home. Walter and I had planned that we would persuade you to come to us very often" (she had planned, and Mr Farquhar had consented) ; " and now you will > «re to be fastened up in a sick room. " " I ct jld not have come," said Ruth quickly. "Dear Jemima ! it is like you to have thought of it— but I could not come to your house. It is not a thing to reason about. It is Just feeling. But I do feel as if I could not go. Dear Jemima ! if you are ill or sor- rowful, and want me, I will come " 'I' si |4 I 390 RUTH (t So you would and must to anyone, ir you take up that calling." " But 1 should come to you, love, in quite a different way ; I should go to you with mv heart full of love- so full that I am afraid 1 should be too anxious." *' I almost wish I were ill, that I might make you come at once." " And I am almost ashamed to think how I should like you to be in some position in which I could show you how well I remember that day — that terrible day in the schoolroom. God bless you for it, Jemima ! " -m CHAPTER XXX Mr Wynne, the parish surgeon, was right. He could and did obtain employment for Ruth as a sick nurse. Her home was with the Bensons ; every spare moment was given to Leonard and to them ; but she was at the call of all the invalids in the town. At first her work lay exclusively among the paupers. At first, too, there was a recoil from many circumstances, which impressed upon her the most fully the physical sufferings of those whom she tended. But she tried to lose the sense of these— or rather to lessen them, and make them take their appointed places— in thinking of the individuals themselves, as separate from their decaying frames; and all along she had enough self-command to control herself from expressing any sign of repugnance. She allowed herself no nervous haste of movement or touch that should hurt the feelings of the poorest, most friend- less creature, who ever lay a victim to disease. There was no rough getting over of all the disagreeable and painful work of her employment. When it was a less- ening of pain to htve the touch careful and delicate, and the ministration performed with gradual skill, Ruth thought of her charge and not of herself. As she had foretold, she found a use for all her powers. The poor patients themselves were unconsciously ^li- RUTH 391 Unratified and soothed by her harmony and refinement of manner, voice, and gesture. If this harmony and ••<>finement had been merely superficial, it would not aii'.'e had this balmy effect. That arose from its being tlie true expression of a kind, modest, and humble spirit. By degrees her reputation as a nurse spread upwards, and many sought her good ofllices who could well afford to pay for them. Whatever remuneration was offered to her, she took it simply and witliout comment : for she felt that it was not hers to refuse ; that it was, in fact, owing to the Bensons for her and her child's subsistence. She went wherever her services were fir t called for. If the poor bricklayer who broke both his legs in a fall from the scaffolding sent for her when she was disengaged, she went and remained with him until he could spare her, let who would >e the next claimant. From the happy and prospen i all but health, she would occasionally beg off, wi >ome one less happy and more friendless wished fo her ; and sometimes she would ask fo.* a little money from Mr Benson to give to such in their time of need. But it was astonishing how much she was able to do with- out money. Her ways were very quiet ; she never spoke much. Anyone who has been oppressed with the weight of a vital secret for years, and much more anyone the character of whose life has been stamped by one event, and that producinr sorrow and shame, is naturally reserved. And y ch's silence was not like reserve ; it was too gentle i jnder for t^ ^ It had more the effect of a hush of c-ii loud or disturbing emotions, and out of the deep calm the words that came forth had a beautiful power. She did not talk much about religion ; but those who noticed her knew that it was the unseen banner which she was following. The low-breathed sentences which she spoke into the ear of the sufferer and the dying carried them upwards to God. ahe gradually became known and respected among the roughest boys of the rough populace of the town. They would make way for her when she passed along I: •41 ,1- JH^l i h IV. 1 tt •: *t .:; 392 RUTH .!.»iil the streets with more deference than they used to most ; for all knew something of the tender care with which she had attended this or that sick person, and, hesides, she was so often in connexion with Death that something of the superstitious awe with which the dead were regarded by tho^e rough boys in the midst of their strong life, surrounded her. She herself did not feel changed. She felt just as faulty — as far from being what she wanted to be, as ever. She best knew how many of her good actions were incomplete, and marred with evil. She did not feel much change from the earliest Ruth she could remember. Everything seemed to change but herself. Mr and Miss Benson grew old, and Sally grew deaf, and Leonard was shooting up, and Jemima was a mother. She and the distant hills that she saw from her chamber window, seemed the only things which were the same as when she first came to Eccleston. As she sat looking out, and taking her fill of solitude, which sometimes was her most thorough rest — as she sat at the attic window looking abroad — she saw their next-door neighbour carried out to sun himself in his garden. When she first came to Eccleston, this neighbour and his daughter were often seen taking long and regular walks ; by and by, L. walks became shorter, and the attentive daughter would convoy him home, and set out afresh to finish her own. Of late years he had only gone out in the garden behind his house ; but at first he had walked pretty briskly there by his daughter's help — now he was carried, and placed in a large, cushioned, easy chair, his head remaining where it was placed against the pillow, and hardly moving when his kind daughter, who was now middle- aged, brought him the first roses of the summer. This told Ruth of the lapse of life and time. Mr and Mrs Farquhar were constant in their atten- tions ; but there was no sign of Mr Bradshaw ever for- giving the imposition which had been practised upon him, and Mr Benson ceased to hope for any renewal of their intercourse. Still, he thought that he must know RUTH 393 of all the kind attentions which Jemima paid to them, and of the fond regard which both she and her husband bestowed on Leonard. This latter feeling even went 10 far that Mr Farquhar called one day, and with much diffidence beg-ged Mr Benson to urge Ruth to let him be sent to school at his (Mr Farquhar' s) expense. Mr Benson was taken by surprise, and hesitated. " 1 do not know. It would be a great advantage in some respects ; and yet I doubt whether it would in others. His mother's influence over him is thoroughly good, and I should fear that any thoughtless allusions to his peculiar position might touch the raw spot in his mind.' "But he is so unusually clever, it seems a shame not to give him all the advantages he can have. Besides, does he see much of his mother now } " "Hardly a day passes without her coming heme to be an hour or so with him, even at her busiest ames ; she says it is her best refreshment. And often, you know, she is disengaged for a week or two, except the occasional services which she is always rendering to those who need her. Your offer is very tempting, but there is so decidedly anoLier view of the question to be considered, that I believe we must refer it to her." " With all my heart. Don't hurry her to a decision. Let her weigh it well. I think she will find the advantages preponderate." "I wonder if I might trouble you with a little business, Mr Farquhar, as you are here.''" " Certainly ; I am only too glad to be of any use to you." " Why, I see from the report of the Star Life Assur- ance Company in the Times, which you are so good as to send me, that they have declared a bonus on the shares ; now it seems strange that I have received no notification of it, and I thought that perhaps it might be lying at your office, as Mr Bradshaw was the purchaser of the shares, and 1 have always received the dividends through your firm." Mr Farquhar took the newspaper, and ran his eye over the report. '- i t U 394 RUTH "I've no doubt that's the way ot it," said he. " Some of our clerks hav^ been careless about it ; or it may be Richard himself. He is not always the most punctual and exact of mortals ; but PU see about it. Perhaps after all it mayn't come for a day or two; they have always such numbers of these circulars to send out." "Oh ! Pm in no hurry about it. I only want to receive it some time before I incur any expenses, which the promise of this bonus may tempt me to iudul.'^e in.' Mr Farquhar took his leave. That evening there was a long conference, for, as it happened, Ruth was at home. She was strenuously against the school plau. She could see no advantages that would counterbalance the evil which she dreaded from any school for Leonard ; namely, that the good opinion and regard of the world would assume too high an importance in his eyes. The very idea seemed to produce in her so much shrinking affright, that by mutual consent the subject was dropped ; to be taken up again, or not, according to circumstances. Mr Farquhar wrote the next morning, on Mr Benson's behalf, to the Insurance Company, to inquire about the bonus. Although he wrote in the usual formal way, he did not think it necessary to tell Mr Bradshaw what he had done ; for Mr Benson's name was rarely mentioned between the partners ; each had bf»en made fully aware of the views which the other entertained on the subject that had caused the estrange- ment ; and Mr Farquhar felt that no external argument could affect Mr Br.ulshaw's resolved disapproval and avoidance of his former minister. As it happened, the answer from the Insurance Company (directed to the firm) was given to Mr Bradshaw along with the other business letters. It was to the effect that Mr Benson's shares had been sold and transferred above a twelvemonth ago, which sufficiently accounted for the circumstance that uo notification of the bonus had been sent to him. .iii. RUTH 395 Mr Bradshaw tossed the letter on one side, not dis- pleased to have a good reason for feeling a little contempt at the unbusiuess-like forgetfulness of Mr Benson, at whose instance some one had evidently been writing to the Insurance Company. On Mr Karquhar's entrance he expressed this feeling to him. " Really," he said. " these Dissenting ministers have no more notion of exactitude in their affairs than a child ! The idea of forgetting that he has sold his shares, and applying for the bonus, when it seems he had transferred them only a year ago ! " Mr Farquhar was reading the letter while Mr Bradshaw spoke. " I don*^ quite understand it," said he. " Mr Benson was quite clear about it. He could not have received his half-yearly dividends unless he had been possessed of these shares ; and I don't suppose Dissent- ing ministers, with all their ignorance of Dusiness, are unlike other men in knowing whether or not they receive the money that they believe to be owing to them." " I should not wonder if they were —if Benson was, at any rate. Why, I never knew his watch to be right iu all my life — it was always too fast or too slow ; it must have been a daily discomfort to him. It ought to have been. Depend upon it, his money matters are just in the same irregular state ; no accounts kept, I'll be bound." " 1 don't see that that follows," said Mr Farquhar, half amused. *'That watch of his is a very curious one — belonged to his father and grandfather, I don't know how far back." "And the sentimental feelings which he is guided bf prompt him to keep it, to the inconvenience of himself and every one else." Mr Farquhar gave up the subject of the watch as hopeless. "But about this letter. I wrote, at Mr Benson's desire, to the Insurance Office, and I am not satisfied with this answer. All the transaction has passed |i 396 RUTH M '4 ■ through our hands. 1 do not think it is likely Mr Benson would write and sell the shares without, at any rate, informing us at the time, even though he forgot all about it afterwards.** " Probably he told Richard, or Mr Watson." ** We can ask Mr Watson at once. I am afraid we must wait till Richard comes home, for I don't knuw where a letter would catch him." Mr Bradshaw pulled the bell that rang into the head clerk's room, saying as he did so, ** You may depend upon it, Farquhar, the blunder lies with Benson himself. He is just the man to muddle away his money in indiscriminate charity, and then to wonder what has become of it." Mr Farquhar was discreet enough to hold hig tongue. " Mr Watson," said Mr Bradshaw, as the old clerk made his appearance, "here is some mistake about those Insurance shares we purchased for Benson, ten or a dozen years ago. He spoke to Mr Farquhar about some bonus they are paying to the shareholders, it seems ; and, in reply to Mr Farquhar's letter, the Insurance Company say the shares were sold twelve months since. Have you any knowledge of the transaction.^ Has the transfer passed through your hands.? By the way" (turning to Mr Farquhar), " who kept the certificates .'' Did Benson or we ? " " I really don't know," said Mr Farquhar. " Per- haps Mr Watson can tell us." Mr Watson meanwhile was studying the letter. When he had ended it, he took off his spectacles, wiped them, and replacing them, he read it again. "It seems very strange, sir," he said at length, ^Tith his trembling, aged voice, " for I paid Mr Benson the account of the dividends myself last June, and pot a receipt in form, and that is since tht» date of the alleged transfer." " Pretty nearly twelve months after it took place. ' said Mr Farquhar. "How did you receive the dividends? An order on RUTH 387 the Bank, along with old Mrs Cranmer's?" asked Mr Bradshaw, sharply. " I don't know how they came. Mr Richard gave me the money, and desired me to get the receipt.'' " It's unlucky Richard is from home," said Mr Bradsha;v. *' He could have cleared up this mystery for us." Mr Farquhar was silent. ''Do you know where the certificates were kept, Mr ^Vatson?'* said he. " I'll not be sure, but I think they were with Mrs Cranmer's papers and deeds in box A, 24." ''1 wish old Cranmer would have made any other man his executor. She, too, is always coming with gome unreasonable request or other." " Mr Benson's inquiry about his bonus is perfectly reasonable, at any rate." Mr Wats>on, who was dwelling in the slow fashion of age on what had been said before, now spoke : ''I'll not b*", sure, but I am almost certain, Mr Benson said, hen I paid him last June, that he thought he ought to give the receipt on a stamp, and had spoken about it to Mr Richard the time before, but that Mr Richard said it was of no consequence. Yes," continued he, gathering up his memory as he went on, " he did — I remember now — and I thought to myself that Mr Richard was but a young man. Mr Richard will know all about it." " Yes," said Mr Farquhar, gravely. "I shan't wait til' "ichard's return," said Mr Brad- shaw. " We can suon see if the certificates are in the box Watson points out ; if they are there, the Insur- ance people are no more fit to manage their concern than that cat, and I shall tell them so. If they are not there (as I suspect will prove to be the case), it is just forgetfulness on Benson's part, as I have said from the first." "You forget the payment of the dividends," said Mr Farquhar, in a low voice. " Well, sir ! what then ? " said Mr Bradshaw, {' 396 RUTH 1:1 abruptly. While he spoke — while his eye met Mr Farquhar's — the hinted meaning of the latter flushcl through his mind ; but he was only made angry to find that such a suspicion could pass through any- one's imagination. *'l suppose I may go, sir/' said Watson, respect- fully, an uneasy consciousness of what was in Mr Farquhar's thoughts troubling the faithful old clerk. "Yes. Go. What do you mean about the divi- dends?" asked Mr Bradsl^aw, impe*.io i^^y of Mr Farquhar. ** Simply, that I think there can have been no for- getfulness — no mistake on Mr Benson's part," said Mr Farquhar, unwilling to put his dim suspicion into words. *' Then of course it is some blunder of that con- •>d Insurance Company. I will write to tliera and make them a little brisker and more CO. 1 their statements." ** Don't you think it would be better to wait till Richard's return ? He may be able to explain if " No, sir ! " said Mr Bradshaw, sharply. " I do not think it would be better. It has not oeen my way of doing business to spare anyone, or any company, the consequences of their own carelessness ; nor to obtain information second-hand when I could have it direct from the source. I shall write to the Insurance (>ffice by the next post." Mr Farquhar saw that any further remonstrance on his part would only aggravate his partner's obstinacy; and, besides, it was but a suspicion, an uncomfortable suspicion. It was possible that some of the clerks at the Insurance Office might have made a mistake. Watson was not sure, after all, that the certificates had been deposited in box A, 24 ; and when he and Mr Farquhar could not find them there, the old man drew more and yet more back from his first assertion of belief that they had been placed there. Mr Bradshaw wrote an angry and indignant re- proach of carelessness^ to the Insurance Company. RUTH 399 I i By the next mail one of their clerkg came down to Eccleston ; and having leisurely refreshed himself at the inn, and ordered his dinner with care, he walked ap to the great warehouse of Bradshaw and Co. , and gent in his card, with a pencil otiiication, " On the part of the Star Insurance Company," to Mr Bradshaw himself. Mr Bradshaw held the card in his hand for a minute or two without raibing his eyes. Then he spoke out loud and firm : "Desire the gentleman to walk up. Stay! I will ring my bell in a minute or two, and then show him upstairs." When the errand boy had closed the door, Mr Brad- shaw went to a cupboard where he usually kept a glass, and a botile of wine (of which he very seldom partook, for he was an abstemious man). He intended now to take a glass, but the bottle was empty ; and though there was plenty more to be had for ringing, or even simply going into another room, he would not allow himself to do this. He stood and lectured himself in thought. "After all, I am a fool for once in my life. If the certificates are in no box which I have yet examined, that does not imply they may not be in some one which I have not had time to search. Farquhar would stay so late last night ! And even if they are in none of the boxes here, that does not prove " He gave the bell a jerking ring, and it was yet sounding when Mr Smith, the insurance clerk, entered. The manager of the Insurance Company had been considerably nettled at the tone of Mr Bradshaw's letter ; and had instructed tl «i clerk to assume some dignity at first in vindicating (as it was well iti his power to do) the characte • of the proceedings of the company, but at the same time he was not to go too far, for the firm of Bradshaw and Co. was daily loom- ing larger in the commercial world, and if any reason- able explanation could be given it was to be received, and bygones be bygones. i! ^1 400 RUTH ^k\ " Sit down, sir ! " said Mr Bradshaw. " You are aware, sir, I presume, that J come on the part of Mr Dennison, the manager of the Star Insur- ance Company, to reply in person to a letter of yours, of the 29tn, addressed to him ? " Mr Bradshaw bowed. *' A very careless piece of business," he said, stiffly. " Mr Dennison does not think you will consider it as such when you have seen the deed of transfer, which I am commissioned to show you." Mr Bradshaw took the deed with a steady hand. He wiped his spectacles quietly, without delay, and without hurry, and adjusted them on his nose. It is possible that he was rather long in looking over the document — at least, the clerk had just begun to wonder if he was reading through the whole of it, instead of merely looking at the signature, when Mr Bradshaw said : " It is possible that it may be of course, you will allow me to take this paper to Mr Benson, to — to inquire if this be his signature .'' " " There can be no doubt of it, I think, sir," said the clerk, calmly smiling, for he knew Mr Benson's signature well. "I don't know, sir — I don*t know." (He was speaking as if the pronunciation of every word required a separate effort of will, like a man who has received a slight paralytic stroke.) " You have heard, sir, of such a thing as forgery- forgery, sir } " said he, repeating the last word very distinctly ; for he feared that the first time he had said it, it was rather slurred over. ** Oh, sir ! there is no room for imagining such a thing, I assure you. In our affairs we become aware of curious forgetfulness on the part of those who are not of business habits." ** Still I should like to show it Mr Benson, to prove to him his forgetfulness, you know. I believe on my soul it is some of his careless forgetfulness — I do, sir," said he. Now he spoke very quickly. "It must have been. Allow me to convince myself. RUTH 401 You shall have it back to-night, or the first thing in the morning." The clerk did not quite like to relinquish the deed, nor yet did he like to refuse Mr Bradshaw. If that very uncomfortable idea of forgery should have any foundation in truth — and he had given up the writing ! There were a thousand chances to one against its being anything but a stupid blunder ; the risk was more Imminent of offending one of the directors. As he hesitated, Mr Bradshaw spoke, very calmly, and almost with a smile on his face. He had regained his self-command. " You are afraid, I see, I assure you, you may trust me. If there has been any fraud— if I have the slightest suspicion of the truth of the surmise I threw out just now " — he could not quite Bpeak the bare naked word that was chilling his heart —"1 will not fail to aid the ends of justice, even though the culprit should be my own son." He ended, as he began, with a smile— such a smile ! —the stiff lips refused to relax and cover the teeth. But all the time he kept saying to himself : "I don't believe it — I don't believe it. Tm con- vinced it's a blunder of that old fool Benson." But when he had dismissed the clerk, and secured the piece of paper, he went and locked the door, and laid his head on his desk, and moaned aloud. He had lingered in the office for the two previous nights ; at first, occupying himself in searching for tlie certificates of the Insurance shares ; but, when all the boxes and other repositories for papers had been ran- sacked, the thought took hold of him that tliey might be in Richard's private desk ; and, with the determina- tion which overlooks the means to get at the end, he had first tried all his own keys on the complicated lock, and then broken it open with two decided blows of a poker, the instrument nearest at hand. He did not find the certificates. Richard had always con- sidered himself careful in destroying any dangerous or tell-tale papers ; but the stern father found enough, in what remained, to convince him that his pattern son — 2c ii 402 RUTH m :\ more even than his pattern son, his beloved pride- was far other than what he seemed. Mr Bradshaw did not skip or miss a word. He did not shrink while he read. He folded up letter by letter ; he snuffed the candle just when its light began to wane, and no sooner ; but he did not miss or omit one paper— he read every word. Then, leaving the letters in a heap upon the table, and the broken desk to tell its ow'i tale, he locked the door of the room which was apiopriated to his son as junior partner, and carried t',** f ey away with him. There was a taint hope, even after this discovery of many circumstances of Richard's life which shocked and dismayed his father — there was still a faint hope that he might not be guilty of forgery— that it might be no forgery after all— only a blunder — an omission— a stupendous piece of forgetfulness. That hope was the one straw that Mr Bradshaw clung to. Late that night Mr Benson sat iu his study. Every- one else in the house had gone to bed ; but he was expecting a summons to someone who was dangerously ill. He was not startled, therefore, at the knock which came to the front door about twelve ; but he was rather surprised at the character of the knock, so slow and loud, with a pause between each rap. His study- door was but a step from that which led into the street He opened it, and there stood— Mr Bradshaw ; his large, portly figure not to be mistaken even in the dusky night. He said, "That is right. It was you I wanted to see." And he walked straight into the study. Mr Benson followed, and shut the door. Mr Bradshaw was standing by the table, fumbling in his pocket. He pulled out the deed ; and opening it, after a pause, in which you might have counted five, he held it out to Mr Benson. *' Read it !" said he. He spoke not another word until time had been allowed for its perusal. Then he added : **That is your signature.*" The words were an assertion, but the tone was that of question. 1^ RUTH 403 "It is was mine^ «'No, it is not," said Mr Benson, decidedly very like my writing. I could almost say it v but I know it is not." "Recollect yourself a little. The date is August the third, of last year, fourteen months ago. You may have forgotten it." The tone of the voice had a kind of eager entreaty in it, which Mr Benson did not notice, —he was so startled at the fetch of his own writing. " It is most singularly like mine ; but I could not have signed away these shares— all the property I have— without the slightest rpjuembrance of it. " Stranger things have -ned. For the love of Heaven, think if you did gn it. It's a deed of transfer for those Insurant , shares, you see. You don't remember it ? You did not write this name— these words ? " He looked at Mr Benson with craving wistfulness for one particular answer. Mr Benson was struck at last by the whole proceeding, and glanced anxiously at Mr Bradshaw, whose manner, gait, and voice were so different from usual that he might well excite attention. But as soon as the latter was aware of this momentary inspection, he changed his tone all at once. " Don^t imagine, sir, I wish to force any invention upon you as a remembrance. If you did not write this name, I know who did. Once more I ask you,— does no glimmering recollection of— having needed money, we'll say— I never wanted you to refuse my subscrip- tion to the chapel, God knows !— of having sold these accursed shares)- Oh ! I see by your face you did not write it ; you need not speak to me— I know." He sank down into a chair i^^it him. His whole figure drooped. In a moment he was up, and standing straight as an arrow, confronting Mr Benson, who could find no clue to this stern man's agitation. " You say you did not write these words } " pointing to the signature, with an untrembling finger. "1 believe you ; Richard Brads'i.aw did write them.'' " My dear sir— my dear old friend ! " exclaimed Mr Benson, " you are rushing to a conclusion for which, I 1 II 404 RUTH am convinced, thore is no foundation ; there is do reason to suppose that because " " There is reason, sir. Do not distress yourself— I am perfectly calm." His stony eyes and immovable face ^id indeed look rigid. " What we have now to u<^ 18 to punish the offence. I have not one standard for myself and those I love— (and Mr Benson, I did love him) — and another for the rest of the world. Jf a stranger had forged my name, I should have known it was rry duty to prosecute him. You must prosecute Richard.*' " 1 will not," said Mr Benson. "You think, perhaps, that I shall feel it acutely. You are mistuken. He is no longer as my son to me. I have always resolved to disown any child of mine who was guilty of sin. I disown Richard. He is as a stracger to me. I shall feel no more at his exposure -his punishment " He could not go on, for his voice was choking. " Of course, you understand that I must feel shame at our connexion ; it is that that is troubling me ; that is but consistent with a man who has always prided himself on the integrity of his name; but as for that boy .. who has been brought up all his life as I have brought up my children, it must be some innate wickedness 1 Sir, I can cut him oft, though he has been as my right hand — beloved. Let me be no hindrance to the course of justice, 1 beg. He has forged your name — he has defrauded you of money— of your all, I think you said." ''Someone has forged my name. I am not con- vinced that it was your son. Until I k lOW all the circumstances, I decline to prosecute.'* ** What circumstances.''" asked Mr Bradshaw, lu an authoritative manner, which would have shown irrita- tion but for his self-command. " The force of the temptation — the previous habits of the person " " Ot Richard. He is the person," Mr Bradshaw put in. Mr Benson went on, without taking any notice. ''I RUTH 406 ahould think it right to prosecute^ if I found out that this offence against me was only one of a series com- mitted, with premeditation, against society. I should then feel, as a protector of otheis more helpless than myself- " (( It was your all," said Mr Bradshaw. " It was all my money ; it was not my all,** replied Mr Benson ; and then he went on as if the interrup- tion had never been: '* Against an habitual offender. I shall not prosecute Richard. Not because he is your son— do not imagine that! I should decline taking such a step against any young man without "rst ascer- taining the particulars about him, which I know already about Richard, and which determine me against doing what would blast his character for life — would destroy e?ery good quality he has.** "What good quality remains to him.^*" asked Mr Bradshaw. "He has deceived me — he has offeuded God.** " Have we not all offended Him ? " Mr Benson said, in a low tone. "Not consciously. I never do wrong consciously. But Richard— Richard." The remembrance of the undeceiving letters— the forgery— filled up his heart so completely that he could not speak for a minute or two. Yet when he saw Mr Benson on the point of saying something, he broke in : " It is no use talking, sir. You and I cannot agree on these subjects. Once more, I desire you to prose- cute that boy, who is no longer a child of mine." " Mr Bradshaw, I shall not prosecute him. I have said it once for all. To-mcrrow you will be glad that I do not listen to you. I should only do harm by say- ingmore at present" There is always something aggravating in being told, that the mood in which we are now viewing things strongly will not be our mood at some other time. It implies that our present feelings are blinding us, and that some more clear-sighted spectator is able to dis- tipo^uish our future better than we do ourselves. The Nil it iR- 406 RUTH most shallow person dislikes to be told that anyone can gauge his depth. Mr Bradshaw was not soothed by this last remark of Mr Benson's. He stooped down to take up his hat and be gone. Mr Benson saw his dizzy way of groping, and gave him what he sought for ; but he received no word of thanks. Mr Bradshaw went silently towards the door, but, just as he got tliere, he turned round, and said : '* If there were more people like me, and fewer like you, there would be less evil in the world, sir. It's your sentimentalists that nurse up sin." Although Mr Benson had been very calm during this interview, he had been much shocked by what liad been let out respecting Richard's forgery ; not by the fact itself so much as by what it was a sign of. Still he had known the young man from childhood, and had seen, and often regretted, that his want of moral courage had rendered him peculiarly liable to all the bad effects arising from his father's severe and arbitrary mode of treatment. Dick would never have had "pluck" enough to be a hardened villain, under any circum- stances ; but, unless some good influence, some strength, was brought upon him, he might easily sink into the sneaking scoundrel. Mr Benson determined to go to Mr Farquhar's the first thing in the morning, and consult him as a calm, clear-headed family friend- partner in the business, as well as son and brother-in- law to the people concerned. CHAFFER XXXI While Mr Benson lay awake for fear of oversleeping himself, and so being late at Mr Farquhar's (it was somewhere about six o'clock — dark as an October morning is at that time), Sally came to his door and knocked. She was always an early riser : and if she had not been gone to bed long before Mr Bradsbaw's visit last night, Mr Benson might safely have trusted to her calling him. RUTH 407 " Here's a woman down below as must see you directly. She'll be upstairs after me if you're not down quick." " is it anyone from Clarke's .-^ " " No, no ! not it, master," said she, through the keyhole ; *' I reckon it's Mrs Bradshaw, for all she's muffled up." He needed no other word. When he went down, Mrs Bradshaw sat in his easy chair, swaying her body to and fro, and crying without restraint. Mr Benson came up to her, before she was aware that he was there. '' Oh ! sir," said she, getting up and taking hold of both his hands, " you won't be so cruel, will you ? I have got some money somewhere — some money my father settled on me, sir ; I don't know how much, but I think it's more than two thousand pounds, and you shall have it all. If I can't give it you DOW, I'll make a will, sir. Only be merciful to poor Dick — don't go and prosecute him, sir." " My dear Mrs Bradshaw, don't agitate yourself in this way. I never meant to prosecute him." " But Mr Bradshaw says that you must." ^'I shall not, indeed. I have told Mr Bradshaw so )) " Has he been here } Oh ! is not he cruel .'' I don't care. I've been a good wife till now. I know T have. I have done all he bid me, ever since we were married. But now I will speak my mind, and say to everybody how cruel he is — how hard to his own flesh and blood ! If he puts poor Duk in prison, I will go too. If I'm to choose between my husband and son, I son ; for he will have no friends, unless him." "Mr Bradshaw will think better of it. see, that, when his first anger and disappointment are over, he will not be hard or cruel." " You don't know Mr Bradshaw," said she, mourn- fully, " if you think he'll change. I might beg and -I have done many a time, when we had little choose my I am with You will ; i 4i . 1.: . ! I' jn 408 RUTH children^ and 1 wanted to save them a whipping— but no begging ever did any good. At last I left it off. He'll not change." " Perhaps not for human entreaty. Mrs Bradshaw, is there nothing more powerful .'' " The tone of his voice suggested what he did not say. "If you mean that God may soften his heart," replied she^ humbly^ ''I'm not going to deny God's power — I have neec[ to think of Him/' she continued, bursting into fresh tears, " for I am a very miserable woman. Only think ! he cast it up against me last night, and said, if I had not spoilt Dick this never would have happened." " He hardly knew what he was saying, last night. I will go to Mr Farquhar's directly, and see him ; and you had better go home, my dear Mrs Bradshaw ; yon may rely upon our doing all that we can.'' With some difficulty he persuaded her not to accom- pany him to Mr Farquhar's ; but he had, indeed, to take her to her own door before he could convince her that, at present, she could do nothing but wait tbe result of the consultation of others. It was before breakfast, and Mr Farquhar was alone ; so Mr Benson had a quiet opportunity of telling the whole story to the husband before the wife came down. Mr Farquhar was not much surprised, though greatly distressed. The general opinion he had always enter- tained of Richard's character had predisposed him to fear, even before the inquiry respecting the Insurance shares. But it was still a shock when it came, however much it might have been anticipated. *' What can we do } " said Mr Benson, as Mr Farquhar sat • ' )omily silent. " That is jusi what I was asking myself. I think I must see Mr Bradshaw, and try and bring him a little out of this unmerciful frame of mind. 'That must be the first thing. Will you object to accompany me at once ? It seems of particular consequence that wb should subdue his obduracy before the affair gets wind." RUTH 409 u I will go with you willingly. But I believe 1 rather serve to irritate Mr Bradshaw ; he is reminded of things he has said to me formerly, and which he ihinks he is bound to act up to. However, I can walk with you to the door, and wait for you (if you'll allow me) in the street. I want to know how he is to-day, both bodily and mentally ; for indeed, Mr Farquhar, i should not have been surprised last night if he had dropped down dead, so terrible was his strain upon himself." Mr Benson was left at the door as he had desired, while Mr Farquhar went in. " Oh, Mr Farquhar, what is the matter ^ '* exclaimed the girls running to him. " Mamma sits crying in the old nursery. We believe she has been there all night. She will not tell ns what it is, nor let us be with her ; and papa is locked up in his room, and won't even answer us when we speak, though we know he is up and awake, for we heard him tramping about all night. '" " Let me go up to him ! " said Mr Farquhar, " He won't let you in. It will be of no use." But in spite of what they said, he went up ; and to their snrprise, after hearing who it was, their father opened the door, and admitted their brother-in-law. He remained with Mr Bradshaw about half an hour, and then came into the dining-room, where the two girls stood huddled over the fire, regardless of the uutasted breakfast behind them ; and, writing a few lines he desired them to take his note up to their mother, saying it would comfort her a little, and that he should send Jemima, in two or three hours with the baby — perhaps to remain some days with them. He had no time to tell them more ; Jemima would. He left them, and rejoined Mr Benson. " Come home and breakfast with m<;. I am off to London in an hour or two, and must speak with you first.'' On reaching his house, he ran upstairs to ask Jemima to breakfast alone in her dressing-room, and returned in five minutes or less. 410 RUTH "Nowl can tell you about it," said he. "law my way clearly to a certain point. We must prevent Dick and his father meeting just now, or all hope of Dick's reformation is gone for ever. His father is as hard as the nether mill-stone. He has forbidden me his house." "Forbidd. ''ou!" * Yes ; bfc«.«.ase I would not give up Dick as utterly lost and bad ; and because I said I should return to I^ndon with the clerk, and fairly tell Dennison (lie's a Scotchman, and a man of sense and feeling) the real state of the case. By the way, we must not say *• word to the clerk ; otherwise he will expect an answer, and make out all sorts of inferences for himself, from the unsatisfactory reply he must have. Dennison will be upon honour— will see every side of the case- will know you refuse to prosecute ; the company of which he is manager are no losers. Well ! when I said what I thought wise, of all this — when I spoke as if my course were a settled and decided thing, the grim old man asked me if he was to be an automaton in his own house. He assured me he had no feeling for Dick— all the time he was shaking like an aspen ; in short, repeated much the same things he must have said to you last night. However, I defied him ; and the consequence is, I'm forbidden the house, and, what is more, he says he will not come to the office while I remain a partner." "What shall vou do .?" " Send Jemima and the baby. There's nothing like a young child for bringing people round to a healthy state of feeling ; and you don't know what Jemima is, Mr Benson ! No ! though you've known her from her birth. If she can't comfort her mother, and if the baby can't steal into her grand fatlier's heart, wh'— I don't know what you may do to me. I shall teh Jemima all, and trust to her wit and wisdom to work at this end, while I do my best at the other." " Richard is abroad, is not he ? " ** He will be in England to-morrow. 1 must catch RUTH 411 him somewhere ; but that I can easily do. The diffi- cult point will be, what to do with him — what to gay to him, when I find him. He must fi^ve up his partner- ship, that's clear. I did not tell his father so, but I am resolved upon it. There shall be no tampering with the honour of the firm to which I belong." " But what will become of him ?" asked Mr Benson, anxiously. " I do not yet know. But, for Jemima's sake — for his dear old mher's sake — I will not leave him adrift. I will find him some occupation as clear from temptation as I can. I will do all in my power. And he will do much better, if he has any good in him, as a freer agent, not cowed by his father into a want of indi- viduality and self-respect. I believe I must dismiss you, Mr Benson," said he, looking at his watch ; '* I have to explain all to my wife, and to go to that clerk. You shall near from me in a day or two." Mr Benson half envied the younger man's elasticity of mind, and power of acting promptly. He himself felt as if be wanted to sit down in his quiet study, and think over the revelations btt^ events of the last twenty-four hours. It made ii.m dizzy even to follow Mr Farquhar's plans, as he had briefly detailed them ; and some solitude and consideration would be required before Mr Benson could decide upon cheir justice and wisdom. He had been much shocked by the discovery of the overt act of guilt which Richard had perpe- trated, low as his opinion of that young man had been for some time ; and the consequence was, that he felt depressed, and unable to rally for the next few days. He had not even the comfort of his sister's sympathy, as he felt bound in honour not to tell her anything ; and she was luckily so much absorbed in some house- hold contest with Sally that she did not notice her brother's quiet languor. Mr Benson felt that he had no right at ..ais time to intrude into the house which he had been once tacitly forbidden. If he went now to Mr Bradshaw's without being asked, or sent f';r, he thought it would seem t: :fi it llli w I if 412 RUTH like presaming on his knowledge of the hidden dis- grace of one of the family. Yet he longed to go : he knew that Mr Farquhar must be writing almost daily to Jemima, and he wanted to hear what he was doing. The fourth day after her husband's departure she came, within half an hoar of the post-delivery, and asked to speak to Mr Benson alone. She was in a state of great agitation^ and had evi- dently been crying very much. " Oh, Mr Benson ! said she, "will you come with me, and tell papa this sad news about Dick. Walter has written me a letter at last to say he has found him — he could not at first ; but now it seems that, the day before yesterday, he heard of an accident wliich had happened to the Dover coach ; it was overturned — two passengers killed, and several badly hurt Walter says we ought to be thankful, as he is, that Dick was not killed. He says it was such a relief to him on going to the place — the little inn nearest to where the coach was overturned — to find that Dick was only severely injured ; not one of those who was killed. But it is a terrible shock to us all. We had had no more dreadful fear to lessen the shock; mamma is quite unfit for anything, and we none of us dare to tell papa." Jemima had hard work to keep down her sobs thus far, and now they over- mastered her. '* How is your father.'' i have wanted to hear every day," asked Mr Benson, tenderly. ''It was careless of me not to come and tell you; but, indeed, I have had so much to do. Mamma would not go near him. He has said something which she seems as if she could rot forgive. Because he came to meals, she would not. She has almost lived in the nursery ; taking out all Dick's old playthings, and what clothes of his were left, and turning tliem over, and crying over them.*' ** Then Mr Bradshaw has joined you again ; 1 was afraid, from what Mr Farauhar said, he was going tu isolate himself from you all ? " RUTH 413 ,\ " I wish he had," said Jemima, e afresh. " It would have been more natu; il t. the way he has ffone on ; the only diiferei c- : om hist usual liabits is, that he has never gone near the office, or else he has come to meals just as usual, and talked just as usual ; and even done what I never knew him do before, tried to make jokes— all in order to show us how little he cares." '' Does he not go out at all ? " "Only in the garden. I am sure he does care after all ; he must care ; he cannot shake off a child in this way, though he thinks he can ; and that makes me so afraid of telling him of this accident. ^Vill you come, Mr Benson ? " He needed no other word. He went with her, as she rapidly threaded her way through the by- streets. When they reached the house, she went in without knocking, and putting her husband's letter into Mr Benson's hand, she opened the door of her fether's room, and saying — ** Papa, here is Mr Benson," left them alone. Mr Benson felt nervously incapable of knowing what to do, or to say. He had surprised Mr Bradshaw sitting idly over the fire — gazing dreamily into the embers. But he had started up, and drawn his chair to the table, on seeing his visitor ; and, after the first necessary words of politeness were over, he seemed to expect him to open the conversation. " Mrs Farquhar has asked me," said Mr Benson, plunging into the subject with a trembling heart, " to tell you about a letter she has received from her husband " ; he stopped for an instant, for he felt that he did not get nearer the real difficulty, and yet could not tell the best way of approaching it. " She need not have given you that trouble. I am aware of the reason of Mr Farquhar's absence. I entirely disapprove of his conduct. He is regardless of my wishes ; and disobedient to the commands which, as my son-in-law, I thought he would have felt bound to respect. If there is any more agreeable subject '- : % ^' 414 RUTH that you can introduce^ I shall be glad to hear yoti, sir. ''Neither yon^ nor 1, must think of what we like to hear or to say. You must hear what concerns your son." ''I have disowned the young man who was my son/' replied he^ coldly. ''The Dover coach has been overturned," said Mr Benson, stimulated into abruptness by the icy stern- ness of the father. But, in a flash, he saw what lay below that terrible assumption of indifference. Mr Bradshaw glanced up in his face one look of agony— and then went grey-pale ; so livid that Mr Benson got up to ring the bell in affright, but Mr Bradshaw motioned to him to sit still. " Oh ! I have been too sudden, sir — he is alive, he is alive ! " he exclaimed, as he saw the ashy face working in a vain attempt to speak ; but the poor lips (so wooden, not a minute ago) went working on and on, as if Mr Benson's words did not sink down into the mind, or reach the understanding. Mr Benson went hastily for Mrs Farquhar. " Oh, Jemima ! " said he, " I have done it so badly — I have been so cruel — he is very ill, I fear — bring water, brandy " and he returned with all speed into the room. Mr Bradshaw — the great, strong, iron man — lay back in his chair in a swoon, a fit. " Fetch my mother, Mary. Send for the doctor, Elizabeth,'' said Jemima, rushing to her father. She and Mr Benson did all in their power to restore him. Mrs Bradshaw forgot all her vows of estrangement from the dead-like husband, who might never speak to her, or hear her again, and bitterly accused herself for every angry word she had spoken against him during these last few miserable days. Before the doctor came, Mr Bradshaw had opened his eyes and partially rallied, although he either did not, or could not speak. He looked struck down into old age. His eyes were sensible in their expression, but had the dim glaze of many years of life upon them. RUTH 415 His lower jaw fell from his upper one, giving a look of melancholy depression to the face, although the lips hid the unclosed teeth. But he answered correctly (in monosyllables, it is true) all the questions which the doctor chose to ask. And the medical man was not so much impressed with the serious character of the seizure as the family, who knew all the hidden mystery behind, and had seen their father lie for the first time with the precursor aspect of death upon his face. Rest, watching, and a little medicine were what the doctor prescribed ; it was so slight a prescrip- tion, for what had appeared to Mr Benson so serious an attack, that he wished to follow the medical man out of the room to make further inquiries, and learn the real opinion which he thought must lurk behind. But as he was following the doctor, he — they all — were aware of the effort Mr Bradshaw was making to rise, in order to arrest Mr Benson's departure. He did stand up, supporting himself with one hand on the table, for his legs shook under him. Mr Benson came back instantly to the spot where he was. For a moment, it seemed as if he had not the right com- mand of his voice : but at last he said, with a tone of humble, wistful entreaty, which was very touching : " He is alive, sir, is he nut .'' " " Yes, sir— indeed he is ; he is only hurt. He is sure to do well. Mr Farquhar is with him,** said Mr Bensbn, almost unable to speak for tears. Mr Bradshaw did not remove his eyes from Mr Benson's face for more than a minute after his question had been answered. He seemed as though he would read his very soul, and there see if he spoke the truth. Satisfied at last, he sank slowly into his chair ; and they were silent for a little space, waiting to perceive if he would wish for any further information just then. At length he put his hands slowly together in the clasped attitude of prayer, and said — " Thank God I" ft '1 '^.^^^^ggg^SS^^S^ 416 RUTH CHAFFER XXXII If Jemima aUowed herself now and then to imagine that one good would result from the discovery of Richard's delinquency, in the return of her father and Mr Benson to something of their old understand- ing and their old intoicourse — if this hope fluttered through her mind, It was doomed to disappointment Mr Benson would have heen most happy to go, if Mr Bradshaw had sent for him ; he was on the watch for what might be even the shadow of such an in- vitation — but none came. Mr Bradshaw, on his part, would have been thoroughly glad if the wilful seclusion of his present life could have been broken by the occasional visits of the old friend whom he had once forbidden the house ; but this prohibition having passed his lips, he stubbornly refused to do anything which might be constructed into unsaying it. Jemima was for some time in despair of his ever returning to the office, or resuming his old habits of business. He had evidently threatened as much to her husband. All that Jemima could do was to turn a deaf ear to every allusion to this menace, which he threw out from time to time, evidently with a view to see if it had struck deep enough into her husband's mind for him to have repeated it to his wife. If Mr Farquhar had named it— if it was known only to two or three to have been, but for one half hour even, his re- solution—Mr Bradshaw could have adhered to it, with- out any other reason than the maintenance of what he called consistency, but which was in fact dogged- ness. Jemima was often thankful that her mother was absent, and gone to nurse her son. If she had been at home, she would have entreated and implored her husband to fall back into his usual habits, and would have shown such a dread of his being as good as his word, that he would have been compelled to adhere to it by the very consequence affixed to it. Mr Farquhar had hard work, as it was, in passing RUTH 417 rapidly enough between the two places — attending to his business at Eccleston ; and deciding, comfort- ing; and earnestly talking, in Richard's sick-room. Daring an absence of his, it was necessary to apply to one of the partners on some matter of importance ; and accordingly, to Jemima's secret joy, Mr >Vatson came up and asked, if her fatlier was well enough to see him on business? Jemima carried in this in- quiry literally ; and the hesitating answer which her father gave was in the affirmative. It was not long be- fore she saw him leave the house, accompanied by the faithful old clerk ; and when he met her at uinner, he made no allusion to his morning visitor, or to his subsequent going out. But from that time forwards he went regularly to the office. He received all the information about Dick's accident, and his progress towards reco^'-ry, in perfect silence, and in as in- different a •. . "er as he could assume; but yet he lingered : -n' ue family sitting-room every morning until the v> "ad come in which brought all letters from the s ^ . When Mr Farquhar at last returned to bring the news of Dick's perfect convalescence, he resolved to tell Mr Bradshaw all that he had done and arranged for his son's future career ; but, as Mr Farquhar told Mr Benson afterwards, he could not really say if Mr Bradshaw had attended to one word that he said. "Rely upon it," said Mr Benson, "he has not only attended to it, but treasured up every expres- sion you have used. ' "Well, I tried to get some opinion, or sign of emotion, out of him. I had not much hope of the latter, I must own ; but 1 thought he would have said whether I had done wisely or not in procuring that Glasgow situation for Dick — that he would, perhaps, have been indignant at my ousting him n-om the partnership so entirely on my own re- sponsibility." " How did Richard take it?" " Oh, nothing could exceed his penitence. If one 2d n' ii ' (, K 418 RUTH had never heard of the proverb, * When the devil was sick, the devil a monk would be,' I should have had greater faith in him ; or if he had had more strength of character to begin with, or more reality and less outward appearance of good principle instilled into him. Ho'vever, this Glasgow situation is the very tiling; clear, defined duties, no great trust reposed in him, a kind and watchful head, and introductions to a better class of associates than I fancy he has ever been thrown amongst before. For, you know, Mr Bradshaw dreaded all intimacies for his son, and wanted h;m to eschew all society beyond his owu family — would never allow him to ask a friend home. Really, when I think of the unnatural life Mr Brad- shaw 'expected him to lead, I get into charity with him, and have hopes. By the way, have you ever succeeded in persuading his mother to send Leonard to school ? He may run the same risk from isolation as Dick : not be able to choot.3 his companions wisely when he grows up, but be too much overcome by the excitement of society to be very discreet as to who are his associates. Have you spoken to her about my plan.''" " Yes ! but to no purpose. I cannot say that she would even admit an argument on the subject. She seemed to have an invincible repugnance to the idea of exposing him to the remarks of other boys on his peculiar position." "They need never know of it. Besides, sooner or later, he must step out of his narrow circle, and encounter remark and scorn." "True," said Mr Benson, mournfully. "And you may depend upon it, if it really is the best for Leonard, she will come round to it by and by. It is almost extraordinary to see the way in which her earnest and most unselfish devotion to this boy's real welfare leads her to right and wise conclusions.'* " I wish I could tame her so as to let me meet her as a friend. Since the baby was born, she comes to see Jemima. My wife tells me, that she sits and holds i^' Mr and RUTH 419 it soft in her arms, and talks to it as if her whole soul went out to the little infant. But if she hears a strange footstep on the stair, what Jemima calls the 'wild- animal look ' comes back into her eyes, and she steals away like some frightened creature. With all that she has done to redeem her character, she should not be so timid of observation." " You may well say * with all that she has done ! * We of our own household hear little or nothing of what she does. If she wants help, she simply tells us how and why ; but if not — perhaps because it is some relief to her to forget for a time the scenes of (suffering in which she has been acting the part of comforter, and perhaps because there always was a shy, sweet reticence about her — we never should know what she is and what she does, except from the poor people themselves, who would bless her in words if the very thought of her did not choke them with tears. Yet, 1 do assure you, she psses out of all this gloom, and makes sunlight in our house. We are nev^er so cheerful as when she is at home. She always had the art of diffusing peace, but now it is positive cheerfulness. And about Leonard ; I doubt if the wisest and most thoughtful schoolmaster could teach half as much directly, as his mother does unconsciously and indirectly every hour that he is with her. Her noble, humble, pious endurance of the con- sequences of what was wrong in her early life, seems expressly fitted to act upon him, whose position is (unjustly, for he has done no harm) so similar to hers." " Well ! I suppose we must leave it alone for the present. You will think me a hard practical man when lown to you, that all I expect from Leonard's remain- ing a home-bird is that, with such a mother, it will do him no harm. At any rate, remember my offer is the same for a year — two years hence, as now. What does she look forward to making him into finally?'* " I don't know. The wonder comes into my mind sometimes ; but never into hers, I think. It is part of her character — part perhaps of that which made her m B^i L: 11 m IP 1' If; 1 " !'i^ ^ 420 RUTH what she was— that she never looks forward, and seldom back. The present is enough for her." And so the conversation ended. When Mr Benson repeated the substance of it to his sister, she mused awhile, breaking out into an occasional wliistle (although she had cured herself of this habit in a great measure), and at last she said : ** Now, do you know, I never liked poor Dick ; and yet I'm angry with Mr Farquhar for getting him out of the partnership in such a summary way. I can't get over it, even though he has offered to send Leonard to school. And here he's reigning lord-paramount at the office ! As if you, Thurstan, weren't as well able to teach him as any schoolmaster in England ! But 1 should not mind that affront, if I were not sorry to think of Dick (though I never could abide him) labour- ing away in Glasgow for a petty salary of nobody knows how little, while Mr Farquhar is taking halves, instead of thirds, of the profits here ! " But her brother could not tell her— and even Jemima did not know, till long afterwards — that the portion of income which would have been Dick's as a junior partner, if he had remained in the business, was care- fully laid aside for him by Mr Farquhar; to be delivered up, with all its accumulated interest, when the prodigal should have proved his penitence by his conduct. When Ruth had no call upon her time, it was indeed a holiday at Chapel-house. She threw off as much as she could of the care and the sadness in which she had been sharing ; and returned fresh and helpful, ready to go about in her soft quiet way, and fill up e\ery measure of service, and heap it with the fragrance of lier own sweet nature. The delicate mending, that the elder women could no longer see to do, was put by for Ruth's swift and nimble fingers. The occasional copying, or patient writing to dictation, that gave re?t to Mr Benson's weary spine, was done by her with sunny alacrity. But, most of all, Leonard's heart rejoiced when his mother came home. Then came the RUTH 421 qotet confidences, the tender exchange of love, the happy walks from which he returned stronger and stronger — going from strength to strength as his mother led the way. It was wtU, as they saw now, that the great shock of the disclosure had taken place when it did. She, for her part, wondered at her own cowardliness in having even striven to keep hack the truth from her child— the truth th t was so certain to be made clear, sooner or later, and which it Wc- ■) only owing to God's mercy that she was alive to encounter with him, and, hy so encountering, shield and give him good courage. Moreover, in her secret heart, she was thankful that all occurred while he was yet too young to have much curiosity as to his father. If an unsatisfied feeling of this kind occasionally stole into his mind, at any rate she never heard any expression of it ; for the past was a sealed hook between them. And so, in the bright strength of good endeavour, the days went on, and grew again to months and years. Perhaps one little circumstance which occurred daring this time had scarcely external importance enough to be called an event; but in Mr Benson's mind it took rank as such. One day, about a year after Richard Bradshaw had ceased to be a partner in his father's house, Mr Benson encountered Mr Far- quhar in the street, and heard from him of the credit- able and respectable manner in which Richard was conducting himself in Glasgow, where Mr Farquhar had lately been on business. " I am determined to tell his father of this," said he; "1 think his family are far too obedient to his tacit prohibition of all mention of Richard's name." " T^cit prohibition ? " inquired Mr Benson. " Oh ! 1 dare say I use the words in a wrong sense for the correctness of a scholar ; but what I mean is, that he made a point of immediately leaving the room if Richard^s name was mentioned ; and did it in so marked a manner, that by degrees they understood that it was their father's desire that he should never be alluded to ; wh'ch was all very well as long as there * i r i i'lli 'I RUTH was nothing pleasant to be said abont him ; but to-night I am going there, and shall take good care he does not escape me before I have told him all I have heard and observed about Richard. He will never be a hero of virtue, for his education has drained him of all moral courage ; but with care, and the absence of all strong temptation for a time, he will do very well ; nothing to gratify paternal pride, but certainly nothing to h« ashamed of." It was un the Sunday after this that the little cir- cumstance to which 1 have alluded took place. During the afternoon service, Mr Benson became aware that the large Bradshaw pew was no longer un- occupied. In a dark corner Mr Bradshaw's white head was to be seen, bowed down low in prayer. When last he had worshipped there, the hair on that head lyas iron-grey, and even in prayer he had stood erect, with an air of conscious righteousness sufficient for all his wants, and even some to spare with which to judge others. Now, that white and hoary head was never uplifted ; part of his unobtrusiveness might, it is true, be attributed to the uncomfortable feeling which was sure to attend any open withdrawal of the declaration he had once made, never to enter the chapel in which Mr Benson was minister again ; and, as such a feeling was natural to all men, and especially to such a one as Mr Bradshaw, Mr Benson instinctively respected it, and passed out of the chapel with his household, with- out ever directing his regards to the obscure place where Mr Bradshaw still remained immovable. From this day Mr Benson felt sure that the old friendly feeling existed once more between them, although some time might elapse before any circum- stance gave the signal for a renewal of their intercourse. CHAFfER XXXIII Old people tell of certain years when typhus fever swept over the country like a pestilence ; years that RUTH 423 bring back the remembrance of deep sorrow— refusmff to ^ comforted— to many a household ; and which those whose beloved passed through the fiery time un- scathed, shrink from recalling : for great and tremulous was the anxiety— miserable the constant watchmg for evil symptoms ; and beyond the threshold of home a dense cloud of depression hung over society at large. It seemed as if the alarm was proportionate to the previous light-heartedness of fancied security— and indeed it was so ; for, since the davs of King Bel- shazzar, the solemn decrees of Doom have ever seemed most terrible when they awe into silence the merry revellers of life. So it was this year to which 1 come in the progress of my story. The summer had been unusually gorgeous, feome had complained of the steaming heat, but others had pointed to the lush vegetation, which was profuse and luxuriant. The early autumn was wet and cold, but people did not regard it, in contemplation of some proud rejoicing of the nation, which filled every news- paper and gave food to every tongue. In Eccleston these rejoicings were greater than in most places ; for, by the national triumph of arms, it was supposed that a new market for the staple manufacture of the place would be opened ; and so the trade, which had for a year or two been languishing, would now revive with redoubled vigour. Besides these legitimate causes of irood spirits, there was the rank excitement of a coming election, in consequence of Mr Donne having accepted a Government office, procured for him by one of his influential relations. This time, the Cranworths roused themselves from their magnificent torpor of security in good season, and were going through a series of pompous and ponderous hospitalities, in order to bring back the Eccleston voters to their allegiance. While the town was full of these subjects by t«"i— now thinking and speaking of the great revival of trade —now of the chances of the election, as yet some weeks distant— now of the balls at Cranworth Court, in which Mr Cranworth Cranworth had danced with all the belles h ' r ii I m - } :■ ft (I' 424 RUTH of the shopocracv of Eccleston — there came creeping, creeping, m hidden, slimy courses, the terrible fever- that fever which is never utterly banished from the sad haunts of vice and misery, but lives in such darkness, like a wild beast in the recesses of his den. It bid begun in the low Irish lodging-houses ; but there it was so common it excited little attention. The poor creatures died almost without the attendance of the unwarned medical men, who received their first notice of the spreading plague from the Roman Catholic priests. Before the medical men of Eccleston had had • l with such fond care that she had grown gtranicelf proud of its marble beauty. Mr Donne was glad enough of any proposal of a change from the cold and comfortless room where he had thought uneasy, remorseful thoughts. He fancied that a change of place would banish the train of reflec- tion that was troubling him ; but the change he antici- pated was to a well-warmed, cheerful sitting-room, with signs of life, and a bright fire therein ; and he was on the last flight of stairs, — at the door of the room where Ruth lay — before he understood whither Sally was conducting him. He shrank back for an instant, and then a strange sting of curiosity impelled him on. He stood in the humble low-roofed attic, the window open, and the tops of the distant snow-covered hills filling up the whiteness of the general aspect. He muffled himself up in his cloak, and shuddered, while ^ally reverently arew down the sheet, and showed the beautiful, calm, still face, on which the last rapturous smile still lingered, giving an ineffable look of^ bright serenity. Her arms were crossed over her breast ; the wimple-like cap marked the perfect oval of her face, while two braids of the waving auburn hair peeped out of the narrow border, and lay on the delicate cheeks. He was awed into admiration by the wonderful beauty of that dead woman. '* How beautiful she is ! " said he, beneath his breath. " Do all dead people look so peaceful — so happy .'* " "?s?ot all," replied Sally, cryiiifr- " Few has been as good and as gentle as she was in their lives.'' She quite shook with her sobbing. Mr Donne was disturbed by her distress. " Come, my good woman ! we must all die " he did not know what to say, and w.as becoming infected by hor sorrow. " I am sure you loved her very much, and "f're very kind to her in her lifetime ; you must taki I his from me to buy yourself some reni«':.nl>ra".ce of her," He had pulled out a sovereign, and really r- i- ' 402 RUTH had a kindly desire to console her, and reward her, in offerin(( it to her. But she took her apron from her eyes, as soon as she became aware of what he was doing, and, still holdiDg it midway in her hands, she looked at him indignantly, before she burst out : '* And who are you, that think to pny for my kind- ness to her by money? And I was not kind to you, my darling," said she, passionately addressing the motionless, serene body — " I was not kind to you. I frabbed you, and plagued you from the first, my lamb ! I came and cut off your pretty locks in this very room — I did — and you said never an angry word to me ;— no ! not then, nor many a time at after, when I was very sharp and cross to you. — No ! I never was kind to you, and I dunnot think the world was kind to you, my darling, — but you are gone where the angels are very tender to such as you — you are, my pror wench I" She bent down and kissed the lips, from whose marble, unyielding touch Mr Donne recoiled, even in thought. Just then, Mr Benson entered the ruom. He had returned home before his sister, and come upstairs in search pf Sally, to whom he wanted to speak on some subject relating to the funeral. He bowed in recog- nition of Mr Donne, whom he knew as the member for the town, and whose presence impressed him paii.i iily, as his illness had been the proximate cause oi \i ith'^ death. But he tried to check this feeling, as it was no fault of Mr Donne's. Sally stole out of the room, to cry at leisure in her kitchen. " I must apologize for being here," said Mr Donne. " I was hardly conscious where your servant was leading me to, when she expressed her wish that I should walk upstairs." ** It is a very common idea in this town, that it is a gratification to be asked to take a last look at the dead," replied Mr Benson. " And in this case, I am glad to have seen hei once more," said Mr Donne. " Poor Ruth ! " RUTH 463 Mr Benson glanced up at him at the last word. Hoiv did he know her name ? To him she had only been Mrs Denbigh. But Mr Donne had no idea that be was talking to one unaware of the connexion tha*' bad formerly existed between them ; and, though he would have preferred carrying on the conversation in a warmer room, yet, aa Mr Benson was still gazing at her with sad, lingering love, he went on : ** I did not recognize her when she came to nurse me ; I believe I was delirious. My servant, who had known her long ago, in Fordham, told me who she was. I cannot tell how I regret that she should have died in consequence of her love of me." Mr Benson looked up at him again, a stern light filling his eyes ss he did so. He waited impatiently to hear more, mther to quench or confirm his sus- picions. If she had not been lying there, very still and calm, he would have forced the words out of Mr Donne, by some abrupt question. As it was, he listened silently, his heart quick-beating. "I know that money is but a poor compensation, — is no remedy for this event, or for my youthful folly." Mr Benson set his teeth hard together, to keep in words little short of a curse. " Indeed, I offered her money to almost any amount before ; — do me justice, sir," catching the gleam of indignation on ^.!•' Benson's face : " I offered to marry heij and provide for the boy as if he had been legiti- mate. It's of no use recurring to that time," said he, his voice faltering ; " what is done cannot be undone. But I came now to say, that I should be glad to leave the boy still under your charge, and that every expense you think it right to incur in his education I will defray ; — and place a sum of money in trust for him —say, two thousand pounds — or more : iix what you will. Of course, if you decline retaining him, I must find some one else ; but the provision for him shall be the same, for mv poor Ruth's sake." Mr Benson aid not speak. He could not, till he 1.0 I.I Mm ■ so hi 1 4.0 [ 2.5 2.2 2.0 i.8 1.25 1.4 MICROCOPY RESOLUTION TEST CHART NATIONAL BUREAU OF STANDARDS STANDARD REFERENCE MATERIAL 1010a (ANSI and ISO TEST CHART No. 2) 'il t^| ■Nl 454 RUTH M ii had gathered some peace from looking at the ineffable repose of the Dead. Then, before he answered, he covered up her face ; and in his voice there was the stillness of ice. " Leonard is not unprovided for. Those that honoured his mother wiU take care of him. H( shall never touch a penny of your money. Even offer of service you have made, I reject in his name — and in her presence," said he, bending towards the Dead. "Men may call such actions as yours youthful follies ! There is another name for their with God. Sir ! I will follow you downstairs." All the way down, Mr Benson heard Mr Donne'i voice urging and entreating, but the words he couli not recognize for the thoughts that filled his brain- the rapid putting together of events that was goinj on there. And when Mr Donne turned at the door to speak again, and repeat his offers of service t( Leonard, Mr Benson made answer, without wel knowing whether the answer fitted the question o not: " I thank God, you have no right, legal or other wise, over the cffild. And for her sake, I will spar him the shame of ever hearing your name as hi father." He shut the door in Mr Donne's face. "An ill-bred, puritanical old fellow! He ma have the boy, I am sure, for aught I care. I hav done my duty, and will get out of this abomir able place as soon as I can. I wish my last remeir brance of my beautiful Ruth was not mixed up wit all these people." Mr Benson was bitterly oppressed with this intei view ; it disturbed the peace with which he ws beginning to contemplate events. His anger ruffle him, although such anger had been just, and sue indignation well deserved ; and both had been uncoi sciously present in his heart for years against tli unknown seducer, whom he met face to face by tl death-bed of Ruth. -i^i RUTH 455 It gave him a shock which he did not recover from for many days. He was nervously afraid lest Mr Donne should appear at the funeral ; and not all the reasons he alleged to himself against this apprehen- sion, put it utterly away from him. Before then, however, he heard casually (for he would allow himself no inquiries) that he had left the town. No ! Ruth*s funeral passed over in calm and simple solemnity. Her child, her own household, her friend, and Mr Farquhar, quietly walked after the bier, which was borne by some of the poor to whom she had been very kind in her lifetime. And many others stood aloof in the little burying-ground, sadly watching that last ceremony. They slowly dispersed ; Mr Benson leading Leonard by the hand, and secretly wondering at his self- restraint. Almost as soon as they had let themselves into the Chapel-house, a messenger brought a note from Mrs Bradshaw, with a pot of quince marmalade, which, she said to Miss Benson, she thought that Leonard might fancy, and if he did, they were to be sure and let her know, as she had plenty more ; or, was there anything else that he would like.'' She would gladly make him whatever he fancied. Poor Leonard ! he lay stretched on the sofa, white and tearless, beyond the power of any such comfort, however kindly offered ; but this was only one of the many homely, simple attentions, which all came round him to offer, from Mr Grey, the rector, down to the nameless poor who called at the back door to inquire how it fared with her child. Mr Benson was anxious, according to Dissenting custom, to preach an appropriate funeral sermon. It was the last office he could render to her ; it should be done well and carefully. Moreover, it was possible that the circumstances of her life, which were known to all, might be made effective in this manner to work conviction of many truths. Accordingly, he made great preparation of thought and paper ; he laboured hard, destroying sheet after sheet— his eyes filling with 456 RUTH il tears between- whiles, as he remembered some fresl proof of the humility and sweetness of her life. Oh that he could do her justice ! but words seemed han and inflexible, and refused to fit themselves to hi ideas. He sat late on Saturday, writing ; he watche through the night till Sunday morning was far ad vanced. He had never taken such pains with an sermon, and he was only half satisfied with it aftf all. Mrs Farquhar had comforted the bitterness of Sally grief by giving her very handsome mourning. At an rate, she felt oddly proud and exulting when st thought of her new black gown ; but when she remen bered why she wore it, she scolded herself pretl sharply for her satisfaction, and took to crying afres with redoubled vigour. She spent the Sunday mon ing in alternately smoothing down her skirts, ai adjusting her broad hemmed collar, or bemoaning tl occasion with tearful earnestness. But the sorro overcame the little quaint vanity of her heart, as si saw troop after troop of humbly-dressed mourners pa by into the old chapel. They were very poor— b each had mounted some rusty piece of crape, or soi faded black ribbon. The old came halting and slow the mothers carried their quiet, awe-struck babes. And not only these were there— but others— equal unaccustomed to nonconformist worship : Mr Dav for instance, to whom Sally acted as chaperone ; i he sat in the minister's pew, as a stranger ; and, she afterwards said, she had a fellow-feeling with hii being a Church-woman herself, and Dissenters h such awkward ways; however, she had been tli( before, so she could set him to rights about th fashions. From the pulpit, Mr Benson saw one and all— 1 well-filled Bradshaw pew— all in deen mourning, : Bradshaw conspicuously so (he would have attenc the funeral gladly if they would have asked him the Farquhars— the many strangers— the still mi numerous poor — one or two wild-looking outcasts, v 1 %-i RUTH 467 )me fresh life. Oh, smed hard ees to his e watched us far 3(1- with any ;h it after I of Sally's '. At any when she be remem- Blf pretty ing afresh lay morn, kirts^ and )aning the he sorrow art j as she irners pass poor — but le, or some ind slow- babes. '8 — equally Mr Davis, erone ; for r ; and, a; with him, enters had )een there ibout their id all— the lirning, Mr e attended :ed him)- still more itcasts, who rtccd afar off, but wept silently and continually. Mr Benson's heart grew very full. His voice trembled as he read and prayed. But he steadied it as he opened his sermon — his great, last effort in her honour — the labour that he had prayed God to bless to the hearts of many. For an instant the old man looked on all the upturned faces, listening, with wet eyes, to hear what ho could say to interpret that which was in their hearts, dumb and unshaped, of God's doings as shown in her life. He looked, and, as he gazed, a mist came before him, and he could not see his sermon, nor his hearers, but only Ruth, as she had been— stricken low, and crouching from sight, in the upland field by Llan-dhu — like a woeful, hunted creature. And now her life was over ! her struggle ended ! Sermon and all was forgotten. He sat down, and hid his face in his hands for a minute or so. Then he arose, pale and serene. He put the sermon away, and opened the Bible, and read the seventh chapter of Revelations, beginning at the ninth verse. Before it was finished, most of his hearers were in tears. It came home to them as more appropriate than any sermon could have been. Even Sally, though full of anxiety as to what her fellow-Churchman would think of such proceedings, let the sobs come freely as sbo heard the words : " And he said to me. These are they which came out of great tribulation, and have washed their robes, and made them white in the blood of the Lamb. " Therefore are they before the throne of God, and serve him day and night in his temple ; and he that sitteth on the throne shall dwell among them. "They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more ; neither shjdl the sun light on them, nor any heat. " For the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and shall lead them unto living fountains of waters, and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes." i il 458 RUTH "He preaches sermons sometimes," said Sally, nudging Mr Davis, as they rose from their knees at last. " I make no doubt there was as grand a sermon in yon paper-book as ever we hear in church. I've heard him pray uncommon fine -quite beyond any but learned folk." . ^i.. ^ Mr Bradshaw had been anxious to do something to testify his respect for the woman, who, if all had entertained bis opinions, would have been driven into hopeless sin. Accordingly, he ordered the first stone- mason of the town to meet him in the chapel-yard on Monday morning, to take measurement and receive directions for a tombstone. They threaded their way among the grassy heaps to where Ruth was ^uriea in the south corner, beneath the great Wych-elm. When they got there, Leonard raised himself up from the new-stirred turf. H-s face was swollen with weeping ; but when he saw Mr Bradshaw he calmed himself, and checked his sobs, and, as an explanation of being where he was when thus surprised, he could tind nothing to say but the simple words : "My mother is dead, sir." His eyes sought those of Mr Bradshaw with a wild look of agony, as if to find comfort for that great loss H huir.an sympathy ; and at the first word— the first touch of Mr Bradshaw's hand on his shoulder— he burst out s.Tesh. . " Come, come ! my boy !— Mr trancis, I will see you about this to-morrow— I will call at your house. —Let me take you home, my poor fellow. Come, my lad, come ! " , , i . j ivf The first time, for years, that he had entered Mr Benson's house, he came leading and comforting her son— and, for a moment, he could not speak to his old friend, for the sympathy which choked up his voice, and filled his eyes with tears. Ji THE END.