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 R U T H. 
 
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 BY THE AUTHOR OF "MARY BARTON." 
 
 Drop, drop slow tears ! 
 
 And bathe those beauteous feet, 
 Which brought from heaveu 
 
 The news and Prince of peace. 
 Cease not, wet eyes, 
 
 For mercy to entreat : 
 To cry for vengeance 
 
 Sin doth never cease. 
 In your deep floods 
 
 Drown all my faults and fears ; 
 Nor let His eye 
 
 See sin, but through my tears. 
 
 Fhineas Fletcher. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. II. 
 
 LONDON. 
 CHAPMAN AND HALL, 193, PICCADILLY. 
 
 1853. 
 
 NOTICE.— Tlie Author of this work reserves the right of publishing a 
 Translation in France.
 
 . • 4
 
 y/.Z 
 
 RUTH. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 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 child-like than ever, 
 when contrasted with the head-gear usually asso- 
 ciated 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 
 
 VOL. II. B
 
 2 RUTH. 
 
 this speech, of Sally's acquaintance with Ruth's real 
 situation. She noticed Sally's looks particularly this 
 morning. The manner in which the 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. 
 
 She followed her brother into his study. 
 
 " Do you know, Thurstan, I am almost certain 
 
 Sally suspects." 
 
 Mr. Benson sighed. The deception grieved him, 
 j 
 and yet he thought he saw its necessity. 
 
 " What makes you think so?" asked he. 
 
 " Oh ! many little things. It was her odd way 
 of ducking 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 thought I 
 had made 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."
 
 RUTH. 3 
 
 " 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 together, 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 
 
 B 2
 
 RUTH. 
 
 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 Avas 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 
 any ill of you," said Miss Benson, who was pleased 
 to find the difficulty so easily got over; for, in truth,
 
 RUTH. 
 
 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 pair 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 w r onder what is the fate of that poor 
 little thins;, 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 enough for me." 
 
 Saying this she left the room, and Miss Benson 
 followed. She found Ruth busy washing the
 
 6 RUTH. 
 
 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 instinctive 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. 
 
 That afternoon, 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 ques- 
 tions 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 opportunity of retreating 
 into the haunts of memory ; and soon the work fell 
 from her hands, and her eyes were fixed on the 
 little garden beyond, but she did not see its flowers
 
 EUTH. 7 
 
 or its walls; she saw the mountains which girdled 
 Llan-dhu, and saw the sun rise from behind their 
 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 bright-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 long explanation 
 of Ruth's (fictitious) history. Mrs. Bradshaw looked 
 so much interested and pleased, that Miss Benson 
 enlarged a little more than was necessary, and 
 rounded off her invention with one or two imagi- 
 nary details, which, she was quite unconscious,
 
 8 KUTH. 
 
 were overheard by her brother through the halt- 
 open study door. 
 
 She was rather dismayed when he called her into 
 his room after Mrs. Bradshaw's departure, and asked 
 her what she had been saying about Ruth? 
 
 "Oh! I thought it was better to explain it 
 thoroughly — I mean, to tell the story we wished to 
 have believed once for all — you know we agreed 
 about that, Thurstan?" deprecatingly. 
 
 " Yes ; but I heard you saying you believed her 
 husband had been a young surgeon, did I not ?" 
 
 " Well, Thurstan, 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 in 
 cidents dovetail together ; and after all, if we are 
 to tell a lie, we may as well do it thoroughlv, 
 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
 
 RUTH. 9 
 
 being fettered by truth. 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 again. But Mrs. Bradshaw will 
 tell every one who need to know. You don't wish 
 me to contradict 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 un- 
 necessary word that is not true." 
 
 Another day elapsed, and then it was Sunday; 
 and the house seemed filled with a deep peace.
 
 10 RUTH. 
 
 Even 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 occupation Avas 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. 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 going on. Miss Benson, too, had her little, 
 neat-tippetcd maidens sitting with her in the parlour; 
 and 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 in- 
 struction from the kitchen, helping, as she fancied, 
 though her assistance was often rather mal- apropos ; 
 for instance, she called out, to a little fat, stupid.
 
 RUTH. 11 
 
 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. Ruth sat on a 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 
 she knew that she had gone astray. By-and-by the 
 children trooped away, and Miss Benson summoned 
 her to put on her things for chapel. 
 
 The chapel was up a narrow street, or rather 
 cul-de-sac, close by. It stood on the outskirts of the 
 town, almost in fields. It was built about the time
 
 12 RUTH. 
 
 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 sur- 
 rounding, as well as the chapels themselves, looked 
 as if they carried you back to a period a hundred 
 and fifty years ago. The chapel had a picturesque 
 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 staircases 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 upright head- stone, were 
 shaded by a grand old wych-elm. A lilac-bush 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
 
 RUTH. 13 
 
 covered with ivy, producing 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 miofht 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 without ; 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
 
 14 EUTH. 
 
 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 of one or two families 
 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 
 hair, and treading with earnest attempts at noise- 
 less 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 primi-
 
 KUTH. 15 
 
 tive inversion of the simple perfect Bible words ; and 
 a kind of precentor stood up, and, having sounded 
 the note on a pitch-pipe, sang a couple of lines by 
 way of indicating the tune ; then all the congre- 
 gation 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 pre-
 
 16 RUTH. 
 
 sent in his thoughts all the time he had been pre- 
 paring for his Sunday duty; and he had tried care- 
 fully 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 them- 
 selves by going astray, and 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 down, 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
 
 RUTH. 17 
 
 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, till all was ended. 
 
 Miss Benson loitered in her seat, divided between 
 the consciousness that she, as locum tenens for the 
 minister's wife, was expected to be at the door to 
 receive the kind greetings of many after her absence 
 from home, and her unwillingness to disturb 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 
 waiting for her ; and she summoned courage, and 
 taking Ruth's arm in hers, and holding her hand 
 affectionately, they went out into the broad daylight. 
 As they issued forth, Miss Benson heard Mr. Brad- 
 shaw's strong bass voice speaking to her brother, 
 
 VOL. II. C
 
 18 RUTH. 
 
 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 yesterday about 
 her — her husband was a surgeon ; my lather was a 
 surgeon too, as I think you have heard. Very much 
 to your credit, I must say, Mr. Benson, with your 
 limited means, to burden yourself -with a poor rela- 
 tion. 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 un- 
 moved, lie was in a bland and condescending hu- 
 mour 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 He 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
 
 RUTH. 19 
 
 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 dine with us ; and to-day they all seem 
 to have come, because it is his first Sabbath at 
 home." 
 
 In this way Ruth's first Sunday passed over. 
 
 c 2
 
 20 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 " 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 been from 
 " him," the new-born resolutions would have had a 
 hard stru^sde for existence. 
 
 " It is directed ' Mrs. Denbigh,' " said Miss Ben- 
 son, before giving it up. " It is in Mrs. Bradshaw's 
 handwriting ;" and, far more curious than Ruth, 
 she awaited the untying of the close-knotted string. 
 When the paper was opened, it displayed a whole 
 piece of delicate cambric-muslin ; and there was a 
 short note from Mrs. Bradshaw to Ruth, saying her 
 husband had wished her to send this muslin in aid
 
 RUTH. 21 
 
 of any preparations Mrs. Denbigh might have to 
 make. 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 me ?" asked 
 Ruth, still in her quiet voice. 
 
 " What right ? Mr. Bradshaw thinks 1 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 I cannot see
 
 22 RUTn. 
 
 why a person whom I do not know should lay me 
 under an obligation. Oh ! don't say I must take 
 this muslin, please, Miss Benson !" 
 
 What Miss Benson might have said if her bro- 
 ther 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, lie 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 Miss 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." 
 
 Mr. Benson was silent. 
 
 " It's beautifully fine," said Miss Benson, still 
 examining the piece.
 
 EUTH. 23 
 
 a You think that it is a right which must be 
 earned ?" 
 
 " Yes," said she, after a minute's pause. " Don't 
 you ?" 
 
 " 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 incon- 
 siderable 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 as 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.
 
 24 RUTH. 
 
 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 de- 
 sired his wife to send you this ; he may have been 
 self-seeking, and only anxious to gratify his 
 love of patronising — 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 
 situated 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 a little fit of penitence 
 afterwards, or perhaps he thinks he can pay for un- 
 gracious speeches by a present ; so, formerly, he in- 
 variably sent me something after these occasions.
 
 RUTH. 25 
 
 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 I 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 unjus- 
 tifiable speeches have decreased in still greater pro- 
 portion, and I am sure we respect each other more. 
 Take this muslin, Ruth, for the reason I named ; 
 and thank him as your feelings prompt you. Over- 
 strained expressions of gratitude always seem like 
 an endeavour to place the receiver of these expres- 
 sions 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 sufficiently 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. 
 
 " I will do what you wish me," she said, after a
 
 26 RUTH. 
 
 little pause of thoughtfulness. "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 busi- 
 ness 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, interesting 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 
 ideas. Her heart was as yet too sore to speak, 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, and similar materials ; on which 
 she set busily to work to make clothes for herself ; 
 and as they were made, she put them on ; and as 
 she put them on, she gave a grace to each, which
 
 RUTH. 27 
 
 such homely material and simple shaping had never 
 had before. Then the fine linen and delicate soft 
 white muslin, which she had chosen in preference 
 to more expensive articles of dress when Mr. Belling- 
 ham had given her carte blanche in London, 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 be too precious. 
 
 The love which dictated this extreme 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 merit in his eyes. Indeed, Ruth altogether 
 found favour with him. 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 becoming awe of him . He looked 
 off from his own prayers to observe how well she 
 attended to hers at chapel ; when he came to any 
 verse in the hymn relating to immortality or a future
 
 28 RUTH. 
 
 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 thought her so respectable a young person 
 that he should not object to her being asked 
 to tea the next time Mr. and Miss Benson came. 
 He added, that he thought, indeed, Benson had 
 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 provi- 
 sion for a family. Though Ruth pleaded delicacy 
 of health, and declined accompanying Mr. and Miss 
 Benson on their visit to Mr. Bradshaw, she still 
 preserved her place in his esteem ; and Miss 1 Benson 
 had to call a little upon her " talent for fiction" to 
 spare Ruth from the infliction of further presents, 
 in making which his love of patronising delighted.
 
 RUTH. 29 
 
 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 lan- 
 guor and sadness, Miss Benson trotted up-stairs, 
 and rummaged up every article of spare or worn- 
 out clothing, and bringing 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 Ben- 
 son 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
 
 30 RUTH. 
 
 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 Ruth 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 want- 
 ing — 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 the want of a father — as being what 
 a mother, worse than widowed, could most effec- 
 tually shelter. But now she did not think or
 
 RUTH. 31 
 
 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 filling up its measure with love and 
 peace, and even hope. For here was a new, 
 pure, beautiful, innocent life, which she fondly ima- 
 gined, 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 fit guardians for their little children. Oh, how 
 Ruth prayed, even while she was yet too weak to 
 speak ; and how she felt the beauty and significance 
 of the words, " Our Father !" 
 
 She was 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
 
 32 RUTH. 
 
 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 at him?" said Ruth; "he is 
 so pretty !" 
 
 Miss Benson had a strange reluctance to sec him. 
 To Ruth, in spite of all that had come and gone, 
 she was reconciled — nay, more, she was deeply 
 attached ; but over the baby there hung a cloud of 
 shame and disgrace. Poor little creature, her heart 
 was closed against it — firmly, as she thought. But 
 she could not resist Ruth's low faint voice, nor her 
 pleading eyes, and she went round to peep 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. " His little hand is quite a man's, 
 already. Just feel how firmly he closes it;" and 
 with her own weak fingers she opened his little red 
 fist, and taking Miss Benson's reluctant hand, placed 
 one of her fingers in his grasp. That baby-touch
 
 RUTH. 33 
 
 called out her love; the doors of her heart were 
 thrown open wide for the little infant to go in and 
 take possession. 
 
 " Ah, my darling!" said Ruth, falling back weak 
 and weary. "If God will but spare you to me, 
 never mother did more than I will. I have done 
 you a grievous wrong — but, if I may but live, I 
 will spend my life in serving you !" 
 
 " And in serving- God!" said Miss Benson, with 
 tears in her eyes. " You must not make him into 
 an idol, or God will, perhaps, punish you through 
 him." 
 
 A pang pf affright shot through Ruth's' heart at 
 these words ; had she already sinned and made her 
 child into an idol, and was there punishment already 
 in store for her through him ? But then the 
 internal voice whispered that God was " Our 
 Father," and that He knew our frame, and knew 
 how natural was the first outburst of a mother's 
 love; so, although she treasured up the warning, 
 
 vol. ii. r>
 
 34 RUTH. 
 
 she ceased to affright herself for what had already 
 gushed forth. 
 
 " Now go to sleep, Ruth," said Miss Benson, 
 kissing her, and darkening the room. But Ruth 
 could not sleep ; if her heavy eyes closed, she 
 opened them again with a start, for sleep seemed to 
 be an enemy stealing from her the consciousness 
 of being a mother. That one thought excluded 
 all remembrance and all anticipation, in those first 
 hours of delight. 
 
 But soon remembrance and anticipation came. 
 Then was the natural want of the person, who alone 
 * could take an interest similar in kind, though not in 
 amount, to the mother's. And sadness grew like a 
 giant in the still watches of the night, when she re- 
 membered that there would be no father to guide and 
 strengthen the child, and place him in a favourable 
 position for fighting the hard " Battle of Life." She 
 hoped and believed that no one would know the 
 sin of his parents ; and that that struggle might be
 
 RUTH. 35 
 
 spared to him. But a father's powerful care and 
 mighty guidance -would never be his; and then, in 
 those hours of spiritual purification, came the wonder 
 and the doubt of how far the real father would be 
 the one to whom, with her desire of heaven for her 
 child, whatever might become of herself, she would 
 wish to entrust him. Slight speeches, telling of a 
 selfish, worldly nature, unnoticed at the time, came 
 back upon her ear, having a new significance. They 
 told of alow standard, of impatient self-indulgence, of 
 no acknowledgment of things spiritual and heavenly. 
 Even while this examination was forced upon her, 
 by the new spirit of maternity that had entered into 
 her, and made her child's welfare supreme, she 
 hated and reproached herself for the necessity there 
 seemed upon her of examining and judging the 
 absent father of her child. And so the compelling 
 presence that had taken possession of her, wearied 
 her into a kind of feverish slumber; in which she 
 dreamt that the innocent babe that lay by her side 
 
 d2
 
 36 RUTH. 
 
 in soft ruddy slumber, had started up into man's 
 growth, and, instead of the pure and noble being 
 whom she had prayed to present as her child to " Our 
 Father in heaven," he was a repetition of his father; 
 and, like him, lured some maiden (who in her 
 dream seemed strangely like herself, only more 
 utterly sad and desolate even than she) into sin, 
 and left her there to even a worse fate than that of 
 suicide. For Ruth believed there was a worse. She 
 dreamt she saw the girl, wandering, lost ; and that 
 she saw her son in high places, prosperous — but 
 with more than blood on his soul. She saw her 
 son dragged down by the clinging girl into some 
 pit of horrors into which she dared not look, but 
 from whence his father's voice was heard, crying 
 aloud, that in his day and generation he had not 
 remembered the words of God, and that now he 
 was " tormented in this flame." Then she started 
 in sick terror, and saw, by the dim rushlight, Sally, 
 nodding in an arm-chair by the fire; and felt her
 
 RUTH. 37 
 
 little soft warm babe, nestled up against her breast, 
 rocked by her heart, which yet beat hard from the 
 effects of the evil dream. She dared not go to sleep 
 again, but prayed. And every time she prayed, 
 she asked with a more complete wisdom, and a more 
 utter and self-forgetting faith. Little child ! thy 
 angel was with God, and drew her nearer and 
 nearer to Him, whose face is continually beheld by 
 the angels of little children. 
 
 191
 
 38 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Sally and Miss Benson took it in turns to sit 
 up, or rather, they took it in turns to nod by the 
 fire ; for if Ruth was awake she lay very still in 
 the moonlight calm of her sick bed. That time 
 resembled a beautiful August evening, such as I 
 have seen. The white snowy rolling mist covers 
 up under its great sheet all trees and meadows, and 
 tokens of earth ; but it cannot rise high enough to 
 shut out the heavens, which on such nights seem 
 bending very near, and to be the only real and 
 present objects ; and so near, so real and present, 
 did heaven, and eternity, and God seem to Ruth, 
 as she lay encircling her mysterious holy child. 
 
 One night Sally found out she was not asleep. 
 
 " I'm a rare hand at talking folks to sleep," said
 
 RUTH. 39 
 
 she. "I'll try on thee, for thou must get strength 
 by sleeping and eating. What must I talk to thee 
 about, I wonder. Shall I tell thee a love story 
 or a fairy story, such as I've telled Master Thurstan 
 many a time and many a time, for all his father set 
 his face again 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 
 unlooked for, and we'd nought in the house 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, ' No, she 
 would never leave Master Thurstan, as could never 
 marry ;' but she pined a deal at after he went away. 
 She kept up afore Master Thurstan, but I seed 
 her fretting, though I never let on that I did, for 
 I thought she'd soonest get over it and be thankful
 
 40 KUTH. 
 
 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 
 thought a Lunnoner should never think country 
 folks knew nothing ; and, my word ! I puzzled him 
 with his dinner. I'm doubting whether to this 
 day he knows whether what he was eating was 
 fish, flesh, or fowl. Shall I tell you how 1 
 managed?" 
 
 But Ruth said she would rather hear about 
 Sally's sweethearts, much to the disappointment of 
 the latter, who considered the dinner by far the 
 greatest achievement. 
 
 " Well, you see, I don't know as I should calt 
 them sweethearts ; for excepting John Rawson, 
 who was shut up in a mad-house the next week, I 
 never had what you may call a downright offer of 
 mariiage but once. But I had once ; and so I may 
 say I had a sweetheart. I was beginning to be
 
 RUTH. 41 
 
 afeared though, for one likes to be axed ; that's 
 but civility; and I remember, after I had turned 
 forty, and afore Jeremiah Dixon 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 him, but 
 I 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 thought 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, while it's the busiest of all for servants 
 Well ! it was a Saturday night, and I'd my baize 
 apron on, and the tails of my bed-gown pinned 
 together behind, down on my knees, pipeclaying
 
 42 KUTH. 
 
 the kitchen, when a knock comes to the back door. 
 ' Come in!' says I; but it knocked again, as if it 
 were too stately 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 head-clerk then. So I stood, stopping 
 up the door, fancying he 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 his- 
 self, not his place, which I knew must be pretty 
 hot. Well ! it seemed no use standing waiting for 
 
 O CO 
 
 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 I, I 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 thinking ; and them Xlethodees are
 
 KUTH. 43 
 
 terrible hands at unexpected prayers when one least 
 looks for 'em. I can't say I like their way of taking 
 one by surprise, as it were; but then I'm a parish- 
 clerk's daughter, and could never demean myself to 
 dissenting fashions, always save and except Master 
 Thurstan's, bless him. However, I'd 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 I 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 they 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 mysel', 
 and must find it as out o' the way as I do to be 
 among dissenting folk. God forbid I should speak 
 disrespectful of Master Thurstan and Miss Faith, 
 though : I never think on them as Church or Dis- 
 senters, but just as Christians. But to come back
 
 44 RUTH. 
 
 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, I ax your pardon, but I 
 must pipeclay under your chair. Will you please 
 to move ?' Well, he moved; and by-and-by I was 
 at him again with 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 cross, he 
 were so in my way; so I made two big crosses on 
 the tails of his brown coat; for you see, wherever 
 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 him ; and a pretty 
 brushing he'd have, I reckon, to get it off again. 
 Well ! at length he clears his throat uncommon 
 loud; so I spreads my duster, and shuts my eyes all
 
 RUTH. 45 
 
 ready ; but when nought corned of it, I opened my 
 eyes a little bit to see what he were about. My 
 word ! if there he wasn't down on his knees right 
 facing; me, staring- as hard as he could. Well ! I 
 thought it would be hard, work to stand that, if he 
 made a long ado; so I shut my eyes again, and 
 tried to think serious, as became what I fancied 
 were coming; but, forgive me! but I thought why 
 couldn't the fellow go in and pray wi' Master 
 Thurstan, as had always a calm spirit ready for 
 prayer, instead o' me, who had 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 fashion 
 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 so clean as I could wish, so says I, 
 'Master Dixon, you shall have it, and welcome, 
 if I may just go and wash 'em first.' But, says
 
 46 RUTH. 
 
 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 bended knees is, 
 that you'd please to be so kind as to be my wedded 
 wife ; week after next will suit me, if it's agreeable 
 to you !' My word ! 1 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, feeling 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 same, but I think I'd prefer a single life.' 
 He looked mighty taken 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 take himself up; 
 but, I reckon, he thought it would give force to his
 
 RUTH. 47 
 
 ■words ; says he, ' Think again, my dear Sally. I've 
 a four-roomed house, and furniture conformable ; 
 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 
 maybe you'll not be the last. Anyhow, I've no 
 wish to change my condition just now.' ' I'll 
 wait till Christmas/ says he. 'I've a pig as will 
 be ready for killing then, so I must get married be- 
 fore that.' Well now ! would you believe it ? the pig 
 were a temptation. I'd a receipt for curing hams, 
 as Miss Faith would never let me try, saying the 
 old way were good enough. However, I resisted.
 
 48 RUTH. 
 
 Says I, very stem, because I felt I'd been wavering, 
 ' Master Dixon, once for all, pig or no pig, I'll 
 not marry you. And if you'll take my advice, 
 you'll get up off your knees. The flags is but 
 damp yet, and it would be an awkward thing to have 
 rheumatiz just before winter/ With that he got 
 up, stiff 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,' says he, very red. ■' But I'll not be too 
 hard upon ye, I'll give 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-mor- 
 row.' Well now ! did ever you hear the like? But 
 that is the way with all of them men, thinking so 
 much of theirselves, and that it's but ask and have. 
 They'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
 
 RUTH. 49 
 
 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 pig. But of yoursel' you're nothing 
 to boast on, and so I'll bid you good night, and 
 I'll keep my manners, or else, if I told the truth, 
 I should say it had been a great loss of time listen- 
 ing to you. But 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 Barbary Allen would keep running in my 
 head, and I thought I were Barbary, and he were 
 
 VOL. II. E
 
 50 RUTH. 
 
 young Jemmy Gray, and that maybe he'd die for 
 love of me ; and I pictured him to mysel', lying on 
 his death-bed, with his face turned to the wall, ' wi' 
 deadly sorrow sighing,' and I could ha' pinched 
 mysel' for having been so like cruel Barbary Allen. 
 And when I got up next day, I found it Lard 
 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 sleep- 
 ing and waking. And for many a day I turned 
 sick, when I heard the passing bell, for I thought 
 it were the bell loud-knelling which were to break 
 my heart wi' a sense of what I'd missed in saying 
 ' No' to Jerry, and so killing him with cruelty. But 
 in less than a three week, I heard parish bells a-ring- 
 ing merrily for a wedding ; and in the course of the 
 morning, some one says to me, ' Hark ! how the bells 
 is ringing for Jerry Dixon's wedding !' And, all on a 
 sudden, he changed back again from a heart-broken 
 young fellow, like Jemmy Gray, into a stout, middle-
 
 ROTH. 51 
 
 aged man, ruddy complexioned, with a wart on his 
 left cheek like life !" 
 
 Sally waited for some exclamation at the conclu- 
 sion of her tale ; but receiving none, she stepped 
 softly to the bedside, and there lay Ruth, peaceful 
 as death, with her baby on her breast. 
 
 " I thought I'd lost some of my gifts if I could 
 not talk a body to sleep," said Sally, in a satisfied 
 and self-complacent tone. 
 
 Youth is strong and powerful, and makes a 
 hard battle against sorrow. So Ruth strove and 
 strengthened, and her baby flourished accordingly; 
 and before the little celandines were out on the 
 hedge-banks, or the white violets had sent forth 
 their fragrance from the border under the south wall 
 of Miss Benson's small garden, Ruth was able to 
 carry her baby into that sheltered place on sunny 
 days. 
 
 She often wished to thank Mr. Benson and his 
 sister, but she did not know how to tell the deep 
 
 E 2
 
 52 RUTH. 
 
 gratitude she felt, and therefore she was silent. But 
 they understood her silence well. One day, as she 
 watched her sleeping child, she spoke to Miss 
 Benson, with whom she happened to be alone. 
 
 " Do you know of any cottage where the people 
 are clean, and where they would not mind taking 
 me in ?" asked she. 
 
 " Taking you in ! What do you mean ?" said Miss 
 Benson, dropping her knitting, in order to observe 
 Ruth more closely. 
 
 " I mean," said Ruth, " where I might lodge with 
 my baby — any very poor place would do, only it 
 must be clean, or he might be ill." 
 
 " And what in the world do you want to go 
 and lodije in a cottage for?" said Miss Benson, 
 indignantly. 
 
 Ruth did not lift up her eyes, but she spoke with 
 a firmness which showed that she had considered the 
 subject. 
 
 " I think I could make dresses. I know I did 
 not learn as much as I might, but perhaps I might
 
 KUTH. 53 
 
 do for servants, and people who are not parti- 
 cular." 
 
 " Servants are as particular as any one," said 
 Miss Benson, glad to lay hold of the first objection 
 that she could. 
 
 "Well! somebody who would be patient with 
 me," said Ruth. 
 
 " Nobody is patient over an ill-fitting gown," 
 put in Miss Benson. " There's the stuff spoilt, and 
 what not?" 
 
 " Perhaps I could find plain work to do," said 
 Ruth, very meekly. " That I can do very well ; 
 mamma taught me, and I liked to learn from her. 
 If you would be so good, Miss Benson, you might 
 tell people I could do plain work very neatly, and 
 punctually, and cheaply." 
 
 " You'd get sixpence a day, perhaps," said Miss 
 Benson, " and who would take care of baby, I 
 should like to know? Prettily he'd be neglected, 
 would not he? Why, he'd have the croup and the 
 typhus fever in no time, and be burnt to ashes after."
 
 54 RUTH. 
 
 " I have thought of all. Look how he sleeps ! 
 Hush, darling," for just at this point he began to 
 cry, and to show his determination to be awake, 
 as if in contradiction to his mother's words. Ruth 
 took him up, and carried him about the room 
 while she went on speaking. 
 
 " Yes, just now I know he will not sleep ; but 
 very often he will, and in the night he always 
 does." 
 
 " And so you'd work in the night and kill 
 yourself, and leave your poor baby an orphan. 
 Ruth ! I'm ashamed of you. Now brother" (Mr. 
 Benson had just come in), " is not this too bad of 
 Ruth ; here she is planning to go away and leave 
 us, just as we — as I, at least — have grown so fond 
 of baby, and he's beginning to know me." 
 
 " Where were you thinking of going to, Ruth?" 
 interrupted Mr. Benson, with mild surprise. 
 
 " Anywhere to be near you and Miss Benson; 
 in any poor cottage where I might lodge very 
 cheaply, and earn my livelihood by taking in plain
 
 EUTH. 55 
 
 sewing, and perhaps a little dress-making ; and 
 where I could come and see you and dear Miss 
 Benson sometimes and bring baby." 
 
 "If he was not dead before then of some fever, 
 or burn, or scald, poor neglected child ; or you had 
 not worked yourself to death with never sleeping," 
 said Miss Benson. 
 
 Mr. Benson thought a minute or two, and then 
 he spoke to Ruth. 
 
 " Whatever you may do when this little fellow 
 is a year old, and able to dispense with some of a 
 mother's care, let me beg you, Ruth, as a favour 
 to me — as a still greater favour to my sister, is it 
 not, Faith?" 
 
 " Yes ; you may put it so if you like." 
 
 " To stay with us," continued he, " till then. 
 When baby is twelve months old, we'll talk about 
 it again, and very likely before then some opening 
 may be shown us. Never fear leading an idle life, 
 Ruth. We'll treat you as a daughter, and set you 
 all the household tasks ; and it is not for your sake
 
 56 RUTH. 
 
 that we ask you to stay, but for this little dumb 
 helpless child's ; and it is not for our sake that you 
 must stay, but for his." 
 
 Ruth was sobbing. 
 
 " I do not deserve your kindness," said she, in a 
 broken voice; " I do not deserve it." 
 
 Her tears fell fast and soft like summer rain, but 
 no further word was spoken. Mr. Benson quietly 
 passed on to make the inquiry for which he had 
 entered the room. 
 
 But when there was nothing to decide upon, and 
 no necessity for entering upon any new course of 
 action, Ruth's mind relaxed from its strung-up 
 state. She fell into trains of reverie, and mournful 
 regretful recollections which rendered her languid 
 and tearful. This was noticed both by Miss Benson 
 and Sally, and as each had keen sympathies, and 
 felt depressed, when they saw any one near them 
 depressed, and as each, without much reasoning on 
 the cause or reason for such depression, felt irritated 
 at the uncomfortable state into which they them-
 
 KUTH. 57 
 
 selves were thrown, they both resolved to speak to 
 Ruth on the next fitting occasion. 
 
 Accordingly, one afternoon — the morning of that 
 day had been spent by Ruth in house-work, for she 
 had insisted on Mr. Benson's words, and had taken 
 Miss Benson's share of the more active and fa- 
 tiguing household duties, but she went through 
 them heavily, and as if her heart was far away — 
 in the afternoon when she was nursing her child, 
 Sally, on coming into the back parlour, found her 
 there alone, and easily detected the fact that she 
 was crying. 
 
 " Where's Miss Benson ?" asked Sally, gruffly. 
 
 " Gone out with Mr. Benson," answered Ruth, 
 with an absent sadness in her voice and manner. 
 Her tears, scarce checked while she spoke, began to 
 fall afresh ; and as Sally stood and gazed she saw 
 the babe look back in his mother's face, and his 
 little lip begin to quiver, and his open blue eye to 
 grow over-clouded, as with some mysterious sym- 
 pathy with the sorrowful face bent over him. Sally
 
 58 RUTH. 
 
 took him briskly from his mother's arms ; Ruth 
 looked up in grave surprise, for in truth she had 
 forgotten Sally's presence, and the suddenness of the 
 motion startled her. 
 
 " My bonny boy! are they letting the salt tears 
 drop on thy sweet face before thou'rt weanod ! 
 Little somebody knows how to be a mother — I 
 could make a better myself. ' Dance, thumbkin, 
 dance — dance, ye merry men every one.' Ay, 
 that's it ! smile, my pretty. Any one but a child 
 like thee," continued she, turning to Ruth, " would 
 have known better than to bring ill-luck on thy 
 babby by letting tears fall on its face before it 
 was weaned. But thou'rt not fit to have a 
 babby, and so I've said many a time. I've a 
 great mind to buy thee a doll, and take thy babby 
 mysel'." 
 
 Sally did not look at Ruth, for she was too much 
 engaged in amusing the baby with the tassel of the 
 string to the window-blind, or else she would have 
 seen the dignity which the mother's soul put into
 
 
 RUTH. 59 
 
 Ruth at that moment. Sally was quelled into 
 silence by the gentle composure, the self-command 
 over her passionate sorrow, which gave to Ruth an 
 unconscious grandeur of demeanour as she came up 
 to the old servant. 
 
 " Give him back to me, please. I did not know 
 it brought ill-luck, or if my heart broke I would not 
 have let a tear drop on his face — I never will again. 
 Thank you, Sally," as the servant relinquished him 
 to her who came in the name of a mother. Sally 
 watched Ruth's grave, sweet smile, as she followed 
 up Sally's play with the tassel, and imitated, with 
 all the docility inspired by love, every movement 
 and sound which had amused her babe. 
 
 " Thou'lt be a mother, after all, 3 ' said Sally, with 
 a kind of admiration of the control which Ruth was 
 exercising over herself. " But why talk of thy 
 heart breaking ? I don't question thee about 
 what's past and gone ; but now thou'rt wanting for 
 nothing, nor thy child either ; the time to come is 
 the Lord's, and in His hands ; and yet thou goest
 
 60 RUTH. 
 
 about a-sighing and a-moaning in a way that I 
 can't stand or thole:" 
 
 u What do I do wrong?" said Ruth ; " I try to 
 do all I can." 
 
 " Yes, in a way," said Sally, puzzled to know 
 how to describe her meaning. " Thou dost it — but 
 there's a right and a wrong way of setting about 
 everything — and to my thinking, the right way is 
 to take a thing up heartily, if it is only making a 
 bed. Why ! dear ah me, making a bed may be 
 done after a Christian fashion, I take it, or else 
 what's to come of such as me in heaven, who've 
 had little enough time on earth for clapping our- 
 selves down on our knees for set prayers? When I 
 was a girl, and wretched enough about Master 
 Thurstan, and the crook on his back which came of 
 the fall I gave him, I took to praying and sighing, 
 and giving up the world ; and I thought it were 
 wicked to care for the flesh, so I made heavy pud- 
 dings, and was careless about dinner and the rooms, 
 and thought I was doing my duty, though I did
 
 RUTH. 61 
 
 call myself a miserable sinner. But one night, the 
 old missus (Master Thurstan's mother) came in, 
 and sat down by me, as I was a-scolding myself, 
 without thinking of what I was saying ; and, says 
 she, ' Sally ! what are you blaming yourself about, 
 and groaning over? We hear you in the parlour 
 every night, and it makes my heart ache.' ' Oh, 
 ma'am,' says I, ' I'm a miserable sinner, and I'm 
 travailing in the new birth.' . ' Was that the 
 reason,' says she, ' why the pudding was so heavy 
 to-day?' 'Oh, ma'am, ma'am,' said I, ' if you 
 would not think of the things of the flesh, but 
 trouble yourself about your immortal soul.' And 
 I sat a-shaking my head to think about her soul. 
 ' But,' says she, in her sweet-dropping voice, ' I 
 do try to think of my soul every hour of the day, 
 if by that you mean trying to do the will of God, 
 but we'll talk now about the pudding ; Master 
 Thurstan could not eat it, and I know you'll be 
 sorry for that.' Well ! I was sorry, but I didn't 
 choose to say so, as she seemed to expect me ; so
 
 62 RUTH. 
 
 says I, ' It's a pity to see children brought up to 
 care for things of the flesh ;' and then I could have 
 bitten my tongue out, for the missus looked so 
 grave, and I thought of my darling little lad pining 
 for want of his food. At last, says she, ' Sally, do 
 you think God has put us into the world just to be 
 selfish, and do nothing but see after our own souls? 
 or to help one another with heart and hand, as 
 Christ did to all who wanted help?' I was silent, 
 for, you see, she puzzled me. So she went on, 
 ' What is that beautiful answer in your Church 
 catechism, Sally?' I were pleased to hear a 
 Dissenter, as I did not think would have done it, 
 speak so knowledgably about the catechism, and 
 she went on : " ' to do my duty in that station of life 
 unto which it shall please God to call me ;" well, 
 your station is a servant, and it is as honourable as 
 a king's, if you look at it right ; you are to help and 
 serve others in one way, just as a king is to help 
 others in another. Now what way are you to help 
 and serve, or to do your duty, in that station of life
 
 RUTH. 63 
 
 unto which it has pleased God to call you? Did 
 it answer God's purpose, and serve Him, when 
 the food was unfit for a child to eat, and unwhole- 
 some for any one ?' Well ! I would not give it up, 
 I was so pig-headed about my soul ; so says I, ' I 
 wish folks would be content with locusts and wild 
 honey, and leave other folks in peace to work out 
 their salvation;' and I groaned out pretty loud to 
 think of missus's soul. I often think since she 
 smiled a bit at me ; but she said, ' Well, Sally, 
 to-morrow, you shall have time to work out your 
 salvation ; but as we have no locusts in England, 
 and I don't think they'd agree with Master Thurs- 
 tan if we had, I will come and make the pudding ; 
 but I shall try and do it well, not only for him to 
 like it, but because everything may be done in a 
 right way or a wrong; the right way is to do it as 
 well as we can, as in God's sight; the wrong is to 
 do it in a self-seeking spirit, which either leads us 
 to neglect it to follow out some device of our own 
 for our own ends, or to give up too much time and
 
 64 RUTH. 
 
 thought to it both before and after the doing.' 
 Well ! I thought of all old missus's words this morn- 
 ing, when I saw you making the beds. You sighed 
 so, you could not half shake the pillows; your heart 
 was not in your work; and yet it was the duty God 
 had set you, I reckon ; I know it's not the work 
 parsons preach about ; though I don't think they go 
 so far off the mark when they read, ' whatsoever 
 thy hand findeth to do, that do with all thy might.' 
 Just try for a day to think of all the odd jobs as to 
 be done well and truly as in God's sight, not just 
 slurred over anyhow, and you'll go through them 
 twice as cheerfully, and have no thought to spare 
 for sighing or crying." 
 
 o o jo 
 
 Sally bustled off to set on the kettle for tea, and 
 felt half ashamed, in the quiet of the kitchen, to think 
 of the oration she had made in the parlour. But 
 she saw with much satisfaction, that henceforward 
 Ruth nursed her boy with a vigour and cheerfulness 
 that were reflected back from him; and the house- 
 hold work was no longer performed with a languid
 
 RUTH. 65 
 
 indifference, as if life and duty were distasteful. 
 Miss Benson had her share in this improvement, 
 though Sally placidly took all the credit to herself. 
 One day as she and Ruth sat together, Miss Benson 
 spoke of the child, and thence went on to talk 
 about her own childhood. By degrees they spoke 
 of education, and the book-learning that forms one 
 part of it; and the result was that Ruth determined 
 to get up early all through the bright summer 
 mornings, to acquire the knowledge hereafter to be 
 given to her child. Her mind was uncultivated, 
 her reading scant; beyond the mere mechanical arts 
 of education she knew nothing; but she had a 
 refined taste, and excellent sense and judgment to 
 separate the true from the false. With these quali- 
 ties, she set to work under Mr. Benson's directions. 
 She read in the early morning the books that he 
 marked out; she trained herself with strict perse- 
 verance to do all thoroughly; she did not attempt 
 to acquire any foreign language, although her 
 ambition was to learn Latin, in order to teach it to 
 VOL. II. F
 
 66 RUTH. 
 
 her boy. Those summer mornings were happy, for 
 she was learning neither to look backwards nor 
 forwards, but to live faithfully and earnestly in the 
 present. She rose while the hedge-sparrow was yet 
 singing his reveille to his mate; she dressed and 
 opened her window, shading the soft-blowing air 
 and the sunny eastern light from her baby. If she 
 grew tired, she went and looked at him, and all her 
 thoughts were holy prayers for him. Then she 
 would gaze a while out of the high upper win- 
 dow on to the moorlands, that swelled in waves 
 one behind the other, in the grey, cool morning 
 light. These were her occasional relaxations, and 
 after them she returned with strength to her work.
 
 67 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 In that body of Dissenters to which Mr. Benson 
 belonged, it is not considered necessary to baptise 
 infants as early as the ceremony can be performed ; 
 and many circumstances concurred to cause the 
 solemn thanksgiving and dedication of the child (for 
 so these Dissenters look upon christenings) to be 
 deferred until it was probably somewhere about six 
 months old. There had been many conversations 
 in the little sitting-room between the brother and 
 sister and their protegee, which had consisted more 
 of questions betraying a thoughtful wondering kind 
 of ignorance on the part of Ruth, and answers more 
 suggestive than explanatory from Mr. Benson ; while 
 Miss Benson kept up a kind of running commen- 
 tary, always simple and often quaint, but with that 
 
 f2
 
 68 KUTH. 
 
 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 
 what a christening ought to be considered, and, by 
 calling out Ruth's latent feelings into pious earnest- 
 ness, brought her into a right frame of mind, he felt 
 that he had done what he could to make the cere- 
 mony 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 babe, and 
 Sally, who felt herself, as a Church-of-England 
 woman, to be condescending and kind in requesting 
 leave to attend a baptism among " them Dissenters;" 
 but unless she had asked permission, she would not
 
 RUTH. 69 
 
 have been desired to attend, so careful was the 
 habit of her master and mistress that she should be 
 allowed that freedom which they claimed for them- 
 selves. But they were glad she wished to go ; they 
 liked the feeling that all were of one household, 
 and that the interests of one were the interests of 
 all. It produced a consequence, 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 schis- 
 matic ; she spoke about it with an air of patronage 
 to three or four, and among them to some of the 
 servants at Mr. Bradshaw's. 
 
 Miss Benson was rather surprised to receive a call 
 from Jemima Bradshaw, on the very morning of the 
 day on which little Leonard was to be baptised ; 
 Miss Bradshaw was rosy and breathless with eager- 
 ness. Although the second in the family, she had 
 been at school 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
 
 70 RUTH. 
 
 present 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 mo- 
 ther to call upon the Bensons on their return from 
 Wales ; and had kept up an enthusiastic interest in 
 the widow only a little older than herself, whose 
 very reserve and retirement but added to her un- 
 conscious power of enchantment. 
 
 " Oh, Miss Benson! I never saw a christening; 
 papa says I may go, if you think Mr. Benson and 
 Mrs. Denbigh would not dislike it ; and I will be 
 quite quiet, and sit up behind the door, or any- 
 where ; and that 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- 
 comfited. 
 
 " Was not Mr. Denbigh's name Leonard, then! 
 Mamma 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?"
 
 RUTH. 7 1 
 
 Miss Benson gave her consent with a little inward 
 reluctance. Both her brother and Ruth shared in 
 this feeling, although no one expressed it; and it 
 was presently forgotten. 
 
 Jemima stood grave and quiet in the old-fashioned 
 vestry adjoining the chapel, as they entered with 
 steps subdued to slowness. She thought Ruth 
 looked so pale and awed because she was left a 
 solitary parent; but 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; full of passionate, yearning love 
 which craved for more faith in God, to still her 
 distrust 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 mo- 
 ther's love, she was hushed into peace and prayer. 
 There she stood, her fair pale cheek resting on her
 
 72 RUTH. 
 
 baby's head, as lie 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 win- 
 dow 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 over 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
 
 RUTH. 73 
 
 out upon the stillness, so absorbed were all in trie 
 solemnity. But the prayer was long ; thought 
 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 mio;ht mean that she could no longer 
 attend to her brother, and felt inclined to rush off 
 and question Sally, the moment all was ended. Miss 
 Bradshaw hung about the babe and Ruth, and 
 begged to be allowed to carry the child home, but 
 Ruth pressed him to her, as if there was no safe 
 harbour for him but in his mother's breast. Mr. 
 Benson saw her feeling, and caught Miss Brad- 
 shaw's look of disappointment. 
 
 " Come home with us," said he, " and stay to tea. 
 You have never drank tea with us since you went 
 to school." 
 
 " I wish I might," said Miss Bradshaw, colouring
 
 74 RUTH. 
 
 with pleasure. " But I must ask papa. May I run 
 home, and ask ?" 
 
 " To be sure my dear !" 
 
 Jemima flew off; and fortunately her father was 
 at home ; for her mother's permission would have 
 been deemed insufficient. She received many di- 
 rections about her behaviour. 
 
 " Take no sugar in your tea, Jemima. I am sure 
 the Bensons ought not to be able to afford sugar, 
 with their means. And do not eat much ; you can 
 have plenty at home on your return ; remember 
 Mrs. Denbigh's keep must cost them a great deal." 
 
 So Jemima returned considerably sobered, and 
 very much afraid of her hunger leading her to 
 forget 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.
 
 RUTH. 75 
 
 " What made ye leave the chapel- vestry before 
 my brother had ended ?" inquired Miss Benson. 
 
 " Indeed, ma'am, I thought master had prayed so 
 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 was 
 silent. 
 
 It was a disappointment to Miss Benson's kind 
 and hospitable expectation 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 his eyebrows at every viand named 
 beyond plain bread-and-butter, and winding up 
 with some such sentence as this : " Well, I marvel
 
 / RUTH. 
 
 how, with Benson's salary, he can afford 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 virtue, 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 cxtrava trances were not waste, but a good 
 work ; and were not to be guaged by the standard 
 of money spending. This evening her spirits were 
 damped by Jemima's refusal to eat. Poor Jemima ! 
 the cakes 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 up- 
 stairs, when she went to put little Leonard to bed.
 
 RUTH. 77 
 
 " A christening is a very solemn service," said 
 Miss Bradshaw; " I had no idea it was so solemn. 
 Mr. Benson seemed to speak as if he had a weight 
 of care on his heart that God alone could relieve 
 or lighten." 
 
 " My brother feels these things very much," said 
 Miss Benson, rather wishing to cut short the con- 
 versation, for she had been aware of several parts 
 in the prayer which she knew were suggested by 
 the peculiarity and sadness of the case before him. 
 
 " I could not quite follow him all through," con- 
 tinued Jemima; "what did he mean by saying, 
 ' This child, rebuked by the world and bidden to 
 stand apart, thou wilt not rebuke, but wilt suffer 
 it to come to thee and be blessed with thine 
 almighty blessing?' Why is this little darling to 
 be rebuked ? I do not think I remember the 
 exact words, but he said something like that." 
 
 " My dear ! your gown is dripping wet ! it must 
 have dipped into the tub ; let me wring it out." 
 " Oh, thank you ! Never mind my gown !" said
 
 78 RUTH. 
 
 Jemima, hastily, and wanting to return to her 
 question ; but just then she caught the sight of tears 
 falling fast down the cheeks of the silent Ruth as 
 she bent over her child, crowing and splashing away 
 in his tub. With a sudden consciousness that un- 
 wittingly she had touched on some painful chord, 
 Jemima rushed into another subject, and was eagerly 
 seconded by Miss Benson. The circumstance 
 seemed to die away, and leave no trace ; but in 
 after-years it rose, vivid and significant, before 
 Jemima's memory. At present 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 in 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 uncon- 
 scious wearing of it that made it seem like the 
 drapery of an old Greek statue — subordinate to the 
 figure it covered, yet imbued by it with an un- 
 speakable grace. Then the pretended circumstances
 
 EUTH. 79 
 
 of her life were such as to catch the imagination of 
 a young romantic girl. Altogether, Jemima could 
 have kissed 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 her 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 knock- 
 ing at our door, with a single knock, just like a 
 beggar's, and I went to see who it was, and was
 
 80 RUTH. 
 
 quite startled to see her round, brown, honest face 
 looking up at me, half- frightened, and telling me 
 •what she had done, and offering me the money in 
 her savings bank to pay for it. We never should 
 have heard of Master Richard's share 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 I'm 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 gentleman 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.
 
 RUTH. 81 
 
 " No ! I don't mind them in themselves ; but 
 when he could change back so easily to being 
 regular and mim when his father came home, I 
 don't like that." 
 
 " Leonard shall never be afraid of me," said 
 Ruth, following her own train of thought. " I will 
 be his friend 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 ?" asked 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 wanting her to be called Hepzibah, but in- 
 sisting 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 
 
 VOL. II. G
 
 82 RUTH. 
 
 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, although 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
 
 KUTH. 83 
 
 from some old Sir Thurstan, who figured away in 
 the French wars." 
 
 " The difference between theory and practice, 
 thinking and being," put in Mr. Benson, who was 
 in a mood for allowing himself a little social enjoy- 
 ment. 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 arranging her child's clothes against the 
 morrow. It was but their usual way of spending 
 an evening ; the variety was given by the different 
 tone which the conversation assumed on the diffe- 
 rent 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. 
 
 g2
 
 84 RUTH. 
 
 " 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 rilled with tears. 
 
 " God bless thee, darling ! I 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 re- 
 quested by them. But then his pupils were only 
 children, and by their progress he was little prepared 
 for Ruth's. She had had early teaching, of that 
 kind which need never be unlearnt, from her
 
 euth. 85 
 
 mother ; enough to unfold 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 surprised at the 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 beautiful called out 
 her master's sympathy; but, most of all, he admired 
 the complete unconsciousness of uncommon power, 
 or unusual progress. It was less of a wonder than 
 he considered it to be, it is true, for she never 
 thought of comparing what she was now with her 
 former self, much less with another. Indeed, 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 
 any one'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;
 
 86 RUTH. 
 
 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 expres- 
 sions Jemima used of admiration. 
 
 " Please, I really would rather not be told if 
 people do think me pretty." 
 
 " But it was not merelv 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 
 kiss.
 
 RUTH. 87 
 
 Jemima would not have been allowed to come so 
 frequently if Mr. Bradshaw had not been possessed 
 with the idea of patronising 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 approba- 
 tion 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 lack-a-daisical, 
 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
 
 88 RUTH. 
 
 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 a romance ; for castle-.building, 
 after the manner of the Minerva press, was the outlet 
 by which she escaped from the pressure of her pro- 
 saic 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 challenging 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 
 before the fire, and gave the assembled party the 
 benefit of his opinions on many subjects. The 
 opinions were as good and excellent as the opinions
 
 RUTH. 89 
 
 of any man can be who sees one side of a case very 
 strongly, and almost ignores the other. They co- 
 incided in many points with those held by Mr. 
 Benson, but 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 in- 
 dulgent pity, such as one feels for a child who un- 
 wittingly talks nonsense. By-and-by, Mrs. Brad- 
 shaw 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 an alteration in the tariff. 
 Just before the supper-tray was brought in, a gentle- 
 man was announced whom Ruth had never pre- 
 viously seen, but who appeared well known to the 
 rest of the party. It was Mr. Farquhar, Mr. Brad- 
 shaw's partner ; he had been on the Continent for 
 the last year, and had only recently returned. lie 
 seemed perfectly at home, but spoke little. lie
 
 90 RUTH. 
 
 leaned back in his chair, screwed up his eyes, and 
 •watched everybody ; yet there was nothing unplea- 
 sant or impertinent in his keenness of observation. 
 Ruth wondered to hear him contradict Mr. Brad- 
 shaw, 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 
 something mi^ht 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 respected, and 
 perhaps liked. 
 
 Sally would have thought herself mightily 
 aggrieved if, on their return, she 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 you for supper?" 
 
 " Only Mr. Farquhar besides ourselves; and -sand-
 
 RUTH. 91 
 
 wiches, sponge-cake, and wine ; there was no occa- 
 sion for anything more," replied Miss Benson, who 
 was tired and preparing to go up-stairs. 
 
 " Mr. Farquhar ! Why they do say he's think- 
 ing 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.
 
 92 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 One afternoon, not long after this, Mr. and Miss 
 Benson 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 Bensons'; it seemed like 
 yesterday, and yet as if a life time had gone be- 
 tween. The flowers were budding 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
 
 RUTH. 93 
 
 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 
 inhabitants of the house. She heard Sally singing 
 her accustomed son^ in the kitchen, a somr she 
 never varied over her afternoon's work. It began, 
 
 As I was going to Derby, sir, 
 Upon a market-day. 
 
 And if music is a necessary element in a song, 
 perhaps I had better call it by some other name, 
 
 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 signi- 
 ficant 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 igno- 
 rant ; 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
 
 94 RUTH. 
 
 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 
 begone as sinful, it was so pure and natural, even 
 when thinking of it, as in the sight of God. Little 
 Leonard cooed to the flowers, and stretched after 
 their bright colours; and Ruth 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 sun- 
 light, and by 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, now snatching kisses, now matching his cheek 
 with rose leaves. All at once, the bells of the old 
 church struck the hour ; and far away, 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
 
 RUTH. 95 
 
 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. 
 
 Just then Sally came out, dressed for the evening, 
 with a leisurely look about her. She had done her 
 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 irf the 
 country. Here ! I'll get you a black currant-leaf 
 to put in the teapot. It gives it a flavour. We 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,
 
 96 EUTH. 
 
 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. See, 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 to 
 their sewing by the bright kitchen fire. Sally 
 was, as usual, the talker ; and, as usual, the subject 
 was the family of whom for so many years she had 
 formed a part. 
 
 " Ay ! things was different when I was a girl," 
 quoth she. " Eggs 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 after-
 
 EUTH. 97 
 
 noon drink, and pudding was eaten afore meat in 
 them days, and the upshot was, people paid their 
 debts better ; ay, ay ! we'n gone backwards, and 
 we thinken we'n gone forrards." 
 
 After shaking her head a little over the de- 
 generacy 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. I've a deal above 
 that now. First of all, old missus gave me four 
 pound, for she said I were worth it, and I 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 fit of spending, and says they to me, 
 one day as I carried tea in, ' Sally, we think your 
 wages ought to be raised.' ' What matter what you 
 think !' 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 
 
 VOL. II. H
 
 98 RUTH. 
 
 it stands now, already that very day. So I speaks 
 
 up sharp, and, says I, ' As long as I'm content, I 
 
 think it's no business of yours to be meddling \vi' 
 
 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 mfeddle 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 anything; and besides, a notion had 
 
 come into my head — now you'll not tell," said she, 
 
 glancing round the room, and hitching her chair 
 
 nearer to Ruth in a confidential manner; Ruth 
 
 promised, and Sally went on:
 
 RUTH. 99 
 
 "I thought I should like to be an heiress wi' 
 money, and leave it all to Master and Miss Faith; 
 and I thought if I'd six pound a year I could, may- 
 be, 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 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, 
 " I've saved thirty pound! but that's not it. I've 
 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. 
 " Ay, that was it," said Sally; " I thowt about 
 it many a night before. I hit on the right way. I 
 was afeared the money 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 
 
 H2
 
 100 RUTH. 
 
 length, John Jackson, the grocer, had a nephew 
 come to stay a week with him, as was 'prentice to 
 a lawyer in Liverpool; so now 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 scorn (ish 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 dis- 
 played a small piece of parchment. 
 
 "Now, do you know what this is?" said she, 
 holding 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
 
 KUTH. 101 
 
 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. So 
 I sits and I listens. And would you belie' me, he 
 read it out as if it were as clear a business as your 
 giving me that thimble — no more ado, 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 
 up as I wrap up my best gown. So says I, 
 4 Tom ! it's not on parchment. I mun have it 
 on parchment.' ' This 'ill do as well,' says he. 
 ' We'll get it witnessed, 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, 
 4 Tom ! I mun have it on parchment.' ' Parch-
 
 102 RUTH. 
 
 ment 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 welcome. 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 caught 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 Ruth came to the word 
 " testatrix," Sally stopped her. 
 
 "That was the first sixpence," said she. "I 
 thowt he was going to fob me off again wi' plain
 
 KUTH. 103 
 
 language ; but when that word came, I out wi' my 
 sixpence, 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-and-eightpence as we 
 bargained at first, and three-and-fourpence parch- 
 ment. 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 him. But it will teach him 
 it's not so easy as he thinks for, to make a woman 
 give up her way." 
 
 The time was now drawing near when little 
 Leonard might be weaned — the time appointed by 
 all three for Ruth to endeavour to support herself 
 in some way more or less independent of Mr. and 
 Miss Benson. This prospect dwelt much in all of 
 their minus, and was in each shaded with some 
 degree of perplexity ; but they none of them spoke
 
 104 RUTH. 
 
 of it for fear of accelerating the event. If they had 
 felt clear and determined as to the best course to be 
 pursued, they were none of them deficient in courage 
 to commence upon that course at once. Miss Ben- 
 son would, perhaps, have objected the most to any 
 alteration in their present daily mode of life ; but 
 that was because she had 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 find vent 
 in a mother's duties ; her heart had yearned after 
 children, and made her restless in her childless state, 
 without her well knowing 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 difficult to sacrifice her whims than her com-
 
 RUTH. 105 
 
 forts; 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 mi- 
 nisters for one Sunday was to be effected with a 
 neighbourino; 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 your- 
 self — baby is quite well, bless him ! It's only good 
 news. Come into your 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 off his coat, and put 
 his carpet-bag in a corner, and wheeled a chair to the 
 fire, before she would begin. 
 
 " Well, now ! to think how often things fall out 
 just as we want them, Thurstan ! Have not you often
 
 106 RUTH. 
 
 wondered what was to be done with Ruth when 
 the time came at which we promised her she should 
 earn her living ? I am sure you have, because 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 chapel; 
 and then he turned to me and asked me if I would 
 come to tea — straight from afternoon chapel, be- 
 cause 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 
 would see about their learning their lessons, and
 
 RUTH. 107 
 
 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 
 thoughts and words constantly peeping out, though 
 he had told her to speak to me) believed that our 
 Ruth would be the very person. Now, Thurstan, 
 don't look so surprised, as if she had never come 
 into your head ! I am sure I saw what Mrs. Brad- 
 shaw 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." 
 
 " Oh, I wonder what we ought to do I" said Mr. 
 Benson. " Or rather, I believe I see what we ought 
 to do, if I durst but do it." 
 
 "Why, what ought we to do?" asked his sister, 
 in surprise. 
 
 " I ought to go an J tell Mr. Bradshaw the whole 
 
 story " 
 
 " And get Ruth turned out of our house," said 
 Miss Benson, indignantly.
 
 108 RUTH. 
 
 "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 you? 
 You've lived a twelvemonth in the house with Ruth, 
 and the end of it is, you think she will do his chil- 
 dren 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 any- 
 thing wrong, or forward, or deceitful, or immodest, 
 I would say at once, don't allow Mr. Bradshaw to
 
 EUTH. 109 
 
 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 occa- 
 sion 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 tell- 
 ing 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 the 
 despair which would arise from 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 chil- 
 dren?" She paused, out of breath, her eyes glit- 
 tering 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-
 
 110 RUTH. 
 
 vinced. " I have watched Ruth, and I believe she 
 is pure aud truthful; and the very sorrow and peni- 
 tence she has felt — the very suffering she has gone 
 through — has given her a thoughtful conscientious- 
 ness beyond her age." 
 
 " That and the care of her baby," said Miss Ben- 
 son, 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 ! any one might be thankful, and better 
 too, for Leonard ; but how could I tell that it would 
 be like hini?" 
 
 " 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. 
 Bradshaw, when he asked me if his wife had men- 
 tioned their plans. They would understand that I
 
 RUTH. Ill 
 
 must consult you and Ruth, before it could be con- 
 sidered 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 Sally and I should take care of the baby ths 
 hours that she was away at Mr. Bradshaw's ; but 
 by-and-by she became silent and thoughtful, and 
 knelt down by me and hid 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, in- 
 deed, so that I could not see her face, so I stooped 
 to listen, and I heard her say, ' Do you think I 
 should be good enough to teach little girls. Miss 
 Benson?' She said it so humbly and fearfully that 
 all I thought of was how to cheer her, and I
 
 112 RUTH. 
 
 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.' And I said then, ' Ruth, 
 as you strive and as you pray for your own child, so 
 you must strive and pray to make Mary and Eliza- 
 beth good, if you are trusted with them.' And 
 she said out quite clear, though her face was hid- 
 den from me once more, 4 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
 
 RUTH. 113 
 
 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 seen 
 it, though they might have shrank fearfully at first, 
 they would have smiled and thanked God when all 
 was done and said. 
 
 vol. ir.
 
 114 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 The quiet days grew into weeks and months, 
 and even years, without any event to startle the 
 little circle into the consciousness of the lapse of 
 time. One who had known them at the date of 
 Ruth's becoming a governess in Mr. Bradshaw's 
 family, and had been absent until the time of which 
 I am now going to tell you, would have noted some 
 changes which had imperceptibly come over all; 
 but he, too, would have thought, that the life which 
 had brought so little of turmoil and vicissitude must 
 have been calm and tranquil, and in accordance 
 with the bygone activity of the town in which their 
 existence passed away. 
 
 The alterations that he would have perceived were 
 those caused by the natural progress of time. The
 
 RUTH. 115 
 
 Benson home was brightened into vividness by the 
 presence of the little Leonard, now a noble boy of 
 six, large and grand in limb and stature, and with 
 a face of marked beauty and intelligence. Indeed, 
 he might have been considered by many as too in- 
 telligent for his years ; and often the living with 
 old and thoughtful people gave him, beyond most 
 children, the appearance of pondering over the 
 mysteries which meet the young on the threshold 
 of life, but which fade away as advancing years 
 bring us more into contact with the practical and 
 tangible — fade away and vanish, until it seems to 
 require the agitation of some great storm of the 
 soul before we can again realise spiritual things. 
 
 But, at times, Leonard seemed oppressed and be- 
 wildered, after listening intent, with grave and won- 
 dering eyes, to the conversation around him ; at 
 others, the bright animal life shone forth radiant, 
 and no three-months' kitten — no foal, suddenly 
 tossing up its heels by the side of its sedate dam, 
 and careering around the pasture in pure mad en- 
 
 I 2
 
 116 KUTIT. 
 
 joyment — no young creature of any kind, could 
 show more merriment and gladness of heart. 
 
 " For ever in mischief," was Sally's account of 
 him at such times; but it was not intentional mis- 
 chief ; and Sally herself would have been the first 
 to scold any one else who had used the same words 
 in reference to her darling. Indeed, she was once 
 nearly giving warning, because she thought the boy 
 was beino- ill-used. The occasion was this: Leo- 
 nard had for some time shown a strange odd dis- 
 regard of truth ; he invented stories, and told them 
 with so grave a face, that unless there was some 
 internal evidence of their incorrectness (such as 
 describing a cow with a bonnet on), he was gene- 
 rally believed, and his statements, which were given 
 with the full appearance of relating a real occur- 
 rence, had once or twice led to awkward results. 
 All the three, whose hearts were pained by this 
 apparent unconsciousness of the difference between 
 truth and falsehood, were unaccustomed to children, 
 or they would have recognised this as a stage
 
 RUTH. 1 17 
 
 through which most infants, who have lively imagi- 
 nations, pass; and, accordingly, there was a consul- 
 tation in Mr. Benson's study one morning. Ruth 
 was there, quiet, very pale, and with compressed 
 lips, sick at heart as she heard Miss Benson's argu- 
 ments for 'the necessity of whipping, in order to cure 
 Leonard of his story-telling. Mr. Benson looked 
 unhappy and uncomfortable. Education was but a 
 series of experiments to them all, and they all had a 
 secret dread of spoiling the noble boy, who was the 
 darling of their hearts. And, perhaps, this very 
 intensity of love begot an impatient, unnecessary 
 anxiety, and made them resolve on sterner measures 
 than the parent of a large family (where love was 
 more spread abroad) would have dared to use. At 
 any rate, the vote for whipping carried the day; 
 and even Ruth, trembling and cold, agreed that it 
 must be done; only she asked, in a meek, sad voice, 
 if she need be present (Mr. Benson was to be the 
 executioner — the scene, the study); and being in- 
 stantly told that she had better not, she went slowly
 
 118 RUTH. 
 
 and languidly up to her room, and kneeling down, 
 she closed her ears, and prayed. 
 
 Miss Benson, having carried her point, was very 
 sorry for the child, and would have begged him off; 
 but Mr. Benson had listened more to her arguments 
 than now to her pleadings, and only answered, " If 
 it is right, it shall be done !" He went into the 
 garden, and deliberately, almost as if he wished to 
 gain time, chose and cut off a little switch from 
 the laburnum-tree. Then he returned through 
 the kitchen, and gravely taking the awed and 
 wondering little fellow by the hand, he led him 
 silently into the study, and placing him before 
 him, began an admonition on the importance of 
 truthfulness, meaning to conclude with what he 
 believed to be the moral of all punishment: " As 
 you cannot remember this of yourself, I must give 
 you a little pain to make you remember it. I am 
 very sorry it is necessary, and that you cannot re- 
 collect without my doing so." 
 
 But before he had reached this very proper and
 
 RUTH. 119 
 
 desirable conclusion, and while he was yet working 
 his way, his heart aching with the terrified look 
 of the child at the solemnly sad face and words 
 of upbraiding, Sally burst in : 
 
 " And what may ye be going to do with that 
 fine switch I saw ye gathering, Master Thurstan ?" 
 asked she, her eyes gleaming with anger at the 
 answer she knew must come, if answer she had 
 at all. 
 
 " Go away, Sally," said Mr. Benson, annoyed at 
 the fresh difficulty in his path. 
 
 " I'll not stir never a step till you give me that 
 switch, as you've got for some mischief, I'll be 
 bound." 
 
 " Sally ! remember where it is said, ' He that 
 spareth the rod, spoileth the child,' " said Mr. 
 Benson, austerely. 
 
 " Ay, I remember; and I remember a bit more 
 than you want me to remember, I reckon. It were 
 King Solomon as spoke them words, and it were 
 King Solomon's son that were King Rehoboam,
 
 120 RUTH. 
 
 and no great shakes either. I can remember what 
 is said (,n him, II. Chronicles, xii. chapter, 14th v.: 
 ' And he,' that's King Rehoboam, the lad that 
 tasted the rod, c did evil, because he prepared not 
 his heart to seek the Lord.' I've not been read- 
 ing my chapters every night for fifty year to be 
 caught napping by a Dissenter, neither !" said she, 
 triumphantly. " Come along, Leonard." She 
 stretched out her hand to the child, thinking that 
 she had conquered. 
 
 But Leonard did not stir. He looked wistfully 
 at Mr. Benson. " Come !" said she, impatiently. 
 The boy's mouth quivered. 
 
 " If you want to whip me, uncle, you may do it. 
 I don't much mind." 
 
 Put in this form, it was impossible to carry out 
 his intentions ; and so Mr. Benson told the lad he 
 might go — that he would speak to him another 
 time. Leonard went away, more subdued in spirit 
 than if he had been whipped. Sally lingered a 
 moment. She stopped to add: "I think it's for
 
 RUTH. 121 
 
 them vithout sin to throw stones at a poor child, 
 and cut up good laburnum branches to whip him. 
 I only do as my betters do, when I call Leonard's 
 
 mother Mrs. ." The moment she had said 
 
 this she was sorry; it was an ungenerous advantage 
 after the enemy had acknowledged himself defeated. 
 Mr. Benson dropped his head upon his hands, and 
 hid his face, and sighed deeply. 
 
 Leonard flew in search of his mother, as in search 
 of a refuge. If he had found her calm, he would 
 have burst into a passion of crying after his agita- 
 tion; as it was, he came upon her kneeling and 
 sobbing, and he stood quite still. Then he threw 
 his arms round her neck, and said : " Mamma ! 
 mamma! I will be good — I make a promise; I will 
 speak true — I make a promise." And he kept his 
 word. 
 
 Miss Benson piqued herself upon being less 
 carried away by her love for this child than any 
 one else in the house ; she talked severely, and had 
 capital theories; but her severity ended in talk, and
 
 122 RUTH. 
 
 her theories would not work. However, she read 
 several books on education, knitting socks for Leo- 
 nard all the while; and, upon the whole, I think, 
 the hands were more usefully employed than the 
 head, and the 2;ood honest heart better than either. 
 She looked older than when we first knew her, but 
 it was a ripe, kindly age that was coming over her. 
 Her excellent practical sense, perhaps, made her a 
 more masculine character than her brother. He 
 was often so much perplexed by the problems of 
 life, that he let the time for action go by; but she 
 kept him in check by her clear, pithy talk, which 
 brought back his wandering thoughts to the duty 
 that lay straight before him, waiting for action; and 
 then he remembered that it was the faithful part 
 to " wait patiently upon God," and leave the ends 
 in His hands, who alone knows why Evil exists 
 in this world, and why it ever hovers on either side 
 of Good. In this respect, Miss Benson had more 
 faith than her brother — or so it seemed; for quick, 
 resolute action in the next step of Life was all she
 
 RUTH. 123 
 
 required, while lie deliberated and trembled, and 
 often did wrong from his very deliberation, when 
 his first instinct would have led him right. 
 
 But although decided and prompt as ever, Miss 
 Benson was grown older since the summer after- 
 noon when she dismounted from the coach at the 
 foot of the long Welsh hill that led to Llan-dhu, 
 where her brother awaited her to consult her about 
 Ruth. Though her eye was as bright and straight- 
 looking as ever, quick and brave in its glances, her 
 hair had become almost snowy white; and it was 
 on this point she consulted Sally, soon after the 
 date of Leonard's last untruth. The two were 
 arranging Miss Benson's room one morning, when, 
 after dusting the looking-glass, she suddenly stopped 
 in her operation, and after a close inspection of her- 
 self, startled Sally by this speech: 
 
 " Sally ! I'm looking a great deal older than I 
 used to do !" 
 
 Sally, who was busy dilating on the increased 
 price of flour, considered this remark of Miss Ben-
 
 124 RUTH. 
 
 son's as strangely irrelevant to the matter in hand, 
 and only noticed it by a 
 
 " To be sure ! I suppose we all on v,s do. But 
 two-and-fourpence a dozen is too much to make us 
 pay for it." 
 
 Miss Benson went on with her inspection of her- 
 self, and Sally with her economical projects. 
 
 " Sally!" said Miss Benson, "my hair is nearly 
 white. The last time I looked it was only pepper- 
 and-salt. What must I do?" 
 
 " Do — why, what would the wench do ?" asked 
 Sally, contemptuously. " Ye're never going to be 
 taken in, at your time of life, by hair-dyes and such 
 gimcracks, as 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
 
 RUTH. 125 
 
 mind to sing when I'm happy — to sing in my old 
 way, Sally, you know." 
 
 " Ay, 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 yoursel' 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 I'm more than five-and-twenty, Sally — 
 I'm fifty-seven next May !" 
 
 " More shame for ye, then, not to know better 
 than to talk of dyeing your hair. I cannot abide 
 such vanities !" 
 
 "Oh, dear! Sally, when will you understand
 
 126 RUTH. 
 
 what I mean ? I want to know how I'm to keep 
 remembering how old I am, so as to prevent myself 
 from feeling so young ? I was quite startled just 
 now to see my hair in the glass, for I can gene- 
 rally tell if my 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 this 
 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 it, 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, 
 that, 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
 
 KUTH. 127 
 
 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 ex- 
 pression, as she had at sixteen ; nor was her appear- 
 ance 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 exquisite neatness of repair,
 
 128 RUTH. 
 
 and altogether so bright and cheerful a look about 
 the rooms — everything so above-board — no shifts 
 to conceal poverty under flimsy ornament — that 
 many a splendid drawing-room would give less 
 pleasure to those who could see evidences of cha- 
 racter in inanimate things. But whatever poverty 
 there might be in the house, there was full luxu- 
 riance in the little square wall-encircled garden, on 
 two sides of which the parlour and kitchen looked. 
 The laburnum-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 case- 
 ment, hanging down long tendrils, that waved in 
 the breezes, and threw pleasant shadows and 
 traceries, like some old Bacchanalian carving, on the 
 parlour- walls, at " morn or dusky eve." The yellow 
 rose had clambered up to the window of Mr. Ben-
 
 EUTH. 129 
 
 son's bedroom, and its blossom-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 any one 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 thankful the Lord has spared me 
 from such man-traps and spring-guns." But even 
 Sally could not help secretly admiring Ruth. If her 
 early brilliancy of colouring was gone, a clear ivory 
 skin, as smooth as satin, told of complete and per- 
 fect health, and was as lovely, if not so striking, in 
 effect, as the banished lilies and roses. Her hair 
 had grown darker and deeper, in the shadow that 
 lingered in its masses ; her eyes, even if you could 
 have guessed that they had shed bitter tears in their 
 
 VOL. II. K
 
 130 RUTH. 
 
 day, had a thoughtful spiritual look about them, that 
 made you wonder at their depth, and look — and look 
 aoain. The increase of dignity in her face had 
 been imparted to her form. I do no.t 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 humble 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 taken 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
 
 RUTH. 131 
 
 love for her child lessened. But she would kneel 
 down by his little bed at night — at the deep, still 
 midnight — 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, uncon- 
 sciously, her love for her child led her up to love to 
 God, to the All-knowing, who*read her heart. 
 
 It might be superstition — I dare say it was — but, 
 somehow, 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 shrunk 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 realising the night before. 
 
 K2
 
 132 EUTH. 
 
 Her daily absence at her duties to the Bradshaw 
 children only ministered to her love for Leonard. 
 Everything does minister to love when its founda- 
 tion lies deep in a true heart, and it was with an 
 exquisite pang of delight that, after a moment of 
 va<me fear 
 
 o 
 
 (Oh, mercy! to myself I said, 
 If 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 silently-appointed work to 
 listen for her knock, and rush breathless to let her 
 in. If he were in the garden, or up-stairs 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 so 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
 
 RUTH. ] 33 
 
 pompous approbation. But his favourite recreation 
 was patronising; 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 recognise 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 con- 
 tempt 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 himself that he 
 visited with severity of judgment; every moral error 
 or delinquency came under his unsparing comment. 
 Stained by no vice himself, either in 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 ind act with a severity which was almost
 
 134 RUTH. 
 
 sanctimonious in its ostentation of thankfulness as 
 to himself- Not a misfortune or a sin was brought 
 to light but Mr. Bradshaw could trace it to its 
 cause in some former mode of action, which he had 
 long ago foretold would lead to shame. If another's 
 son turned out wild or bad, Mr. Bradshaw had little 
 sympathy; it might have been prevented by a 
 stricter rule, or more religious life at home; young 
 Richard Bradshaw was quiet and steady, and other 
 fathers 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 ven- 
 ture to say, he had never had his own way in his 
 life. Mrs. Bradshaw was, he confessed (Mr. Brad- 
 shaw 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 autho-
 
 RUTH. 135 
 
 ritative; and every one would turn out well, if 
 properly managed. If tliey 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 her 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 ac- 
 cording to her own sense of right — or, rather, I 
 should say, according to her own warm, passionate 
 impulses. Before him, the wilfulness which made 
 her dark eyes blaze out at times was hushed 
 and still; he had no idea of her self-tormenting, 
 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
 
 136 RUTH. 
 
 looked twice at her expressive countenance, at the 
 eyes -which flamed or melted at every trifle, at the 
 rich colour 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. Bradshaw'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 sprang up-
 
 RUTH. 137 
 
 wards 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 might be 
 revenge in them. Still, Jemima felt that all was 
 not right; her heart sympathised in the rebellion 
 against his father's commands, which her brother 
 had confessed to her in an unusual moment of con- 
 fidence, 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 
 newspaper in her hand to shield her face from the
 
 138 RUTH. 
 
 hot light. T hey 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 
 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 !" 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
 
 RUTH. 139 
 
 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 whieh 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.
 
 140 RUTH. 
 
 " Oh, name my going once or twice to the 
 theatre !" 
 
 "No, I sha'n't name it!" said she. "No one 
 here would care to hear it." 
 
 But it was with some little surprise, and almost 
 with 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 play-goer. 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 elder, was nearly eight years 
 younger than Jemima, and three intermediate 
 children had died. They 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;
 
 RUTH. 141 
 
 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 thevpeaceful 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 house- 
 hold.
 
 142 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 It was no wonder that the lookers-on were per- 
 plexed as to the state of affairs between Jemima and 
 Mr. Farquhar, for they two were sorely puzzled 
 themselves at 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 com- 
 panion in experience of her husband. He had 
 spoken with admiration of reticent characters, full 
 of self-control and dignity ; and he hoped — he
 
 KUTH. 143 
 
 trusted, that all this time he had not been allowing 
 himself unconsciously 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 
 these opinions; but in him they were modified, and 
 took a milder form. Still he approved of much 
 that Mr. Bradshaw 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. Bradshaw's, when Jemima had 
 gone to the very verge of questioning or disputing 
 some of her father's severe judgments, Mr. Far- 
 quhar Avent home in a dissatislied, restless state of 
 mind, which he was almost afraid to analyse. He
 
 144 RUTH. 
 
 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 
 rebelled against every law, and was only guided by 
 impulse. Mr. Farquhar had been taught to dread 
 impulses as promptings of the devil. Sometimes, if 
 he tried to present her father's opinions before her 
 in another form, so as to bring himself 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 opposi- 
 tion made her angry and irritable, and the arguments 
 which he was constantly provoking (whenever he 
 was with her in her father's absence) frequently
 
 RUTH. 145 
 
 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 determine 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 Jemima had excited in his partner's mind, 
 to determine him in considering their future mar- 
 riage as a settled affair. The fitness of the thing 
 had long ago struck him ; her father's partner — so 
 the fortune he meant to <nve her mis-ht 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 unite the pater- 
 nal with the conjugal affection, and consequently 
 the very man for Jemima, who had something un- 
 
 VOL. II. L
 
 146 RUTH. 
 
 ruly 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. Bradshaw respected 
 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
 
 RUTH. 147 
 
 sure I 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 disap- 
 prove. She went so far that he was seriously 
 grieved, and didnot even remonstrate and " lecture," 
 and then she was disappointed and irritated; for, 
 somehow, with all her indignation at interference, 
 she liked to be lectured by him ; not that she was 
 aware of this liking of hers, but still it would have 
 been more pleasant to be scolded than so quietly 
 passed over. Her two little sisters, with their wide- 
 
 l2
 
 148 RUTH. 
 
 awake eyes, had long ago put things together, and 
 conjectured. Every day they had some fresh mys- 
 tery together, to be imparted in garden-walks and 
 whispered talks. 
 
 " Lizzie, did you see how the tears came into 
 Mimie's eyes when Mr. Farquhar looked so dis- 
 pleased when she said good people were always 
 dull ? I think she's in love." Mary said the last 
 words with grave emphasis, and felt like an oracle 
 of twelve years of age. 
 
 "I don't," said Lizzie. "I know I cry often 
 enough when papa is cross, and I'm not in love 
 with him." 
 
 " Yes ! but you don't look as Mimie did." 
 
 " Don't call her Mimie — you know papa does 
 not like it." 
 
 " Yes; but there are so many things papa does 
 not like I can never remember them all. Never 
 mind about that; but listen to something I've got 
 to tell you, if you'll never, never tell." 
 
 " No, indeed I won't, Mary. What is it ?"
 
 KUTH. 149 
 
 ".Not to Mrs. Denbigh?" 
 
 " 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 Far- 
 quhar, pro Bradshaw, Farquhar, and Co., in full. 
 
 " Why, a piece of paper, with dull-looking lines 
 upon it, just like the scientific dialogues; and I re- 
 membered all about it. It was once when Mr. Far- 
 quhar 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,
 
 150 RUTH. 
 
 that's rather like love, is not it? For Jemima hates 
 useful information 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 Dick 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, and he may not like her. It seems 
 such a little while since her hair was turned up, 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 maybe in 
 love, for all that. Just think how often papa lec- 
 tures 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 sharp 
 eyes that watched her daily course while she sat 
 alone, as she fancied^ with her secret in her own
 
 RUTH. 151 
 
 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 remonstrance, 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 upbraid- 
 ing; 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
 
 152 RUTH. 
 
 a wife to match. Besides, there was something de- 
 grading, 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 
 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 dining-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.
 
 KUTH. 153 
 
 ' Oh, Jemima! is that you? Has your mother 
 told you what I want to speak to you about?" 
 
 " No !" said Jemima. " Not exactly." 
 
 " She has been telling me, what proves to me 
 how very seriously you must have displeased and 
 offended Mr. Farquhar, before he could have ex- 
 pressed himself to her as he did, when he left the 
 house ; you know what he said ?" 
 
 "No !" said 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. 
 
 " No right! — what do you mean, Jemima?" said 
 Mr. Bradshaw, 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 cannot suppose Mr. Farquhar would take any un- 
 disciplined girl as a wife." 
 
 Jemima held tight by a chair near which she was 
 standing. She did not speak ; her father was pleased
 
 154 RUTH. 
 
 by her silence— it was the way in which he liked 
 his projects to te received. 
 
 " But you cannot suppose," he continued, " that 
 Mr. Farquhar will consent to marry you — " 
 
 " Consent to marry me!" repeated Jemima, in a 
 low 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 accept- 
 ance, 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 manifesting it. At one time, Richard pro- 
 mised to be the more headstrong of the two; now, 
 I 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 formation of
 
 EUTH. 155 
 
 your character, and I should be at hand to strengthen 
 and confirm your principles. Mr. Farquhar's con- 
 nexion with the firm would be convenient and 
 agreeable to me in a pecuniary point of view. He 
 " Mr. Bradshaw was going on in his enumera- 
 tion of the advantages which he in particular, and 
 Jemima in the second place, would derive from this 
 marriage, when his daughter 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 aware 
 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
 
 156 KUTH. 
 
 must have seen that I perceived his design, and 
 approved of it," said Mr. Bradshaw, rather doubt- 
 fully; 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 pre- 
 pared to receive it. Perhaps Mr. Farquhar had not 
 really thought of it; but then again, that would 
 imply that his own penetration had been mis- 
 taken, a thing not impossible certainly, but quite 
 beyond the range of probability. So he reassured 
 himself, and (as he thought) his daughter, by 
 saying, 
 
 " The whole thing is so suitable — the advantages 
 arising from the connexion are so obvious ; besides 
 which, I am quite aware, from many little speeches 
 of Mr. Farquhar's, that he contemplates marriage 
 at no very distant time ; and he seldom leaves 
 Eccleston, and visits few families besides our own 
 — certainly, none that can compare with ours in 
 the advantages you have all received in moral and 
 religious training." But then Mr. Bradshaw was
 
 RUTH. 157 
 
 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, husky tone of suppressed anger. 
 
 " Your mother says he remarked to her, ' 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 to herself.
 
 158 RUTH. 
 
 " I have no doubt he did," 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. I have trained her to habits of accuracy 
 very unusual in a woman." 
 
 At another time, Jemima might have been inclined 
 to rebel against this system of carrying constant in- 
 telligence to head-quarters, which she had long ago 
 felt as an insurmountable obstacle to any free com- 
 munication with her mother ; but now, her father's 
 means of acquiring knowledge faded into insignifi- 
 cance before the nature of the information he im- 
 parted. She stood quite still, grasping the chair- 
 back, longing to be dismissed. 
 
 " 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."
 
 RUTH. 159 
 
 " 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 
 how 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. 
 
 " Nothing can be more gentle and docile than she 
 is when spoken to in the proper manner. I must 
 give Farquhar a hint," said Mr. Bradshaw to himself. 
 
 Jemima rushed up-stairs, 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, sud- 
 denly changing to a sort of upbraiding tone of
 
 160 RUTH. 
 
 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 by rule 
 and line ; but you think to have me, do you ? be- 
 cause it is fitting and suitable, and you want to be 
 married, and can't spare time for wooing" (she was 
 lashing herself up by an exaggeration of all her 
 father had said). " And how often I have thought 
 you were too grand for me ! but now I know better. 
 Now I 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 looking out for a wife, just as you would do 
 for a carpet, to add to your comforts, and settle you 
 respectably. But I won't be that wife. You shall 
 see something of me which shall make you not 
 acquiesce so quietly in the arrangements of the 
 firm." She cried too vehemently to go on thinking 
 or speaking. Then she stopped, and said:
 
 EUTH. 161 
 
 " Only an hour ago I was hoping — I don't know 
 what I was hoping — but I thought — oh ! how I 
 was deceived ! — 1 thought he had a true, deep, 
 loving, manly heart, which God might let me win; 
 but now I 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 off the 
 pain he experienced. 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 pre- 
 viously-expressed 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 
 
 VOL. II. M
 
 162 RUTH. 
 
 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 further conversation with her. Her actions 
 were so submissive that they were spiritless; she 
 did all her father desired ; she did it with a nervous 
 quickness and haste, if she thought that otherwise 
 Mr. Farquhar would interfere in any way. She 
 wished evidently to owe nothing to him. She had 
 begun by leaving the room when he came in, 
 after the conversation she had had with her father ; 
 but at Mr. Bradshaw's first expression of his wish that 
 she should remain, she remained — silent, indifferent, 
 inattentive to all that was going on; at least there 
 was this appearance of inattention. She would work 
 away at her sewing as if she were to earn her liveli-
 
 RUTH. 163 
 
 hood by it ; the light was gone out of her eyes as 
 she lifted them up heavily before replying to any 
 question, and the eyelids were often swollen with 
 crying. 
 
 But in all this there was no positive fault. Mr. 
 Bradshaw could not have told her not to do this, or 
 to do that, without her doing it; for she had become 
 much more docile of late. 
 
 It was a -wonderful proof of the influence Ruth 
 had gained in the family, that Mr. Bradshaw, after 
 much deliberation, congratulated himself on the 
 wise determination he had made of requesting her 
 to speak to Jemima, and find out what feeling was 
 at the bottom of all this change in her ways of 
 going on. 
 
 He rang the bell. 
 
 " Is Mrs. Denbigh here?" he inquired of the ser- 
 vant who answered it. 
 
 " Yes, sir ; she is just come." 
 
 " Beo- her to come to me in this room as soon as 
 she can leave the young ladies." 
 
 M 2
 
 164 KUTH. 
 
 Ruth came. 
 
 " Sit down, INIrs. Denbigh, sit down. I want to 
 have a little conversation with you ; not about your 
 pupils, they are going on well under your care, I 
 am sure ; and I often congratulate myself on the 
 choice I made — I assure you I do. But now I want 
 to speak to you about Jemima. She is very fond 
 of you, and perhaps you could take some oppor- 
 tunity of observing to her — in short, of saying to 
 her, that she is behaving very foolishly — in fact, 
 disgusting Mr. Farquhar (who was, I know, inclined 
 to like her) by the sullen, sulky way she behaves 
 in, when he is by." 
 
 He paused for the ready acquiescence he expected. 
 But Ruth did not quite comprehend what was 
 required of her, and disliked the glimpse she had 
 gained of the task very much. 
 
 " I hardly understand, sir. You are displeased 
 with Miss Bradshaw's manners to Mr. Farquhar." 
 
 "Well, well! not quite that; I am displeased 
 with her manners — they are sulky and abrupt,
 
 RUTH. 165 
 
 particularly when lie is by — and I want you (of 
 whom she is so fond) to speak to her about it." 
 
 " But I have never had the opportunity of 
 noticing them. Whenever I have seen her, she has 
 been most gentle and affectionate." 
 
 " But I think you do not hesitate to believe me, 
 when I say that I have noticed the reverse," said 
 Mr. Bradshaw, drawing himself up. 
 
 " No, sir. I beg your pardon if I have expressed 
 myself so badly as to seem to doubt. But am I to, 
 tell Miss Bradshaw that you have spoken of her 
 faults to me? 1 ' asked Ruth, a little astonished, and 
 shrinking more than ever from the proposed task. 
 
 " If you would allow me to finish what I have 
 got to say, without interruption, I could then tell 
 you what I do wish." 
 
 " I beg your pardon, sir," said Ruth, gently. 
 
 " I wish you to join our circle occasionally in an 
 evening ; Mrs. Bradshaw shall send you an in- 
 vitation when Mr. Farquhar is likely to be here. 
 Warned by me, and, consequently, with your obser-
 
 166 RUTH. 
 
 vation quickened, you can hardly fail to notice 
 instances of what I have pointed out ; and then I 
 will trust to your own good sense" (Mr. Bradshaw 
 bowed to her at this part of his sentence) " to find 
 an opportunity to remonstrate with her." 
 
 Ruth was beginning to speak, but he waved his 
 hand for another minute of silence. 
 
 " Only a minute, Mrs. Denbigh ; I am quite 
 aware that, in requesting your presence occasionally 
 in the evening, I shall be trespassing upon the 
 time which is, in fact, your money; you may be 
 assured that I shall not forget this little circumstance, 
 and you can explain what I have said on this head, 
 to Benson and his sister." 
 
 " I am afraid I cannot do it," Ruth began : but 
 
 while she was choosing words delicate enough to 
 express her reluctance to act as he wished, he had 
 almost bowed her out of the room; and thinking 
 that she wasvmodest in her estimate of her qualifi- 
 cations for remonstrating with his daughter, he 
 added, blandly,
 
 RUTH. 167 
 
 " No one so able, Mrs. Denbigh. I have ob- 
 served many qualities in you — observed when, 
 perhaps, you have little thought it." 
 
 If he had observed Ruth that morning, he would 
 have seen an absence of mind, and depression of 
 spirits, not much to her credit as a teacher ; for she 
 could not bring herself to feel, that she had any 
 right to go into the family purposely to watch over 
 and find fault with any one member of it. If she 
 had seen anything wrong in Jemima, Ruth loved 
 her so much that she would have told her of it in 
 private ; and with many doubts, how far she was the 
 one to pull out the mote from any one's eye, even 
 in the most tender manner; — she would have had to 
 conquer reluctance before she could have done even 
 this ; but there was something undefinably repug- 
 nant to her in the manner of acting which Mr. Brad- 
 shaw had proposed, and she determined not to accept 
 the invitations which were to place her in so false a 
 position. 
 
 But as she was leaving the house, after the end
 
 168 RUTH. 
 
 of the lessons, while she stood in the hall tying on her 
 bonnet, and listening to the last small confidences 
 of her two pupils, she saw Jemima coming in 
 through the garden-door, and was struck by the 
 change in her looks . The large eyes, so brilliant 
 once, were dim and clouded ; the complexion sallow 
 and colourless ; a lowering expression was on the 
 dark brow, and the corners of her mouth drooped 
 as with sorrowful thoughts. She looked up, and 
 her eyes met Ruth's. 
 
 " Oh ! you beautiful creature !" thought Jemima, 
 " with your still, calm, heavenly face, what are you 
 to know of earth's trials? You have lost your be- 
 loved by death — but that is a blessed sorrow ; the 
 
 sorrow I have pulls me down and down, and makes 
 
 me despise and hate every one— not you, though." 
 And her face changing to a soft, tender look, she 
 
 went up to Ruth, and kissed her fondly; as if it were 
 
 a relief to be near some one on whose true pure heart 
 
 she relied. Ruth returned the caress; and even while 
 
 she did so, she suddenly rescinded her resolution to
 
 RUTH. 169 
 
 keep clear of what Mr. Bradsliaw had desired her 
 to do. On her way home she resolved, if she 
 could, to find out what were Jemima's secret feel- 
 ings; and if (as from some previous knowledge she 
 suspected) they were morbid and exaggerated in 
 any way, to try and help her right with all the 
 wisdom which true love gives. It was time that 
 some one should come to still the storm in Jemima's 
 turbulent heart, which was daily and hourly know- 
 ing less and less of peace. The irritating difficulty 
 was to separate the two characters, which at two 
 different times she had attributed to Mr. Farquhar — 
 the old one, which she had formerly believed to be 
 true, that he was a man acting up to a high 
 standard of lofty principle, and acting up without 
 a struggle (and this last had been the circumstance 
 which had made her rebellious and irritable once); 
 the new one, which her father had excited in her 
 suspicious mind, that Mr. Farquhar was cold and 
 calculating in all he did, and that she was to be 
 transferred by the former, and accepted by the latter,
 
 170 RUTH. 
 
 as a sort of stock in trade — these were the two 
 Mr. Farquhars who clashed together in her mind. 
 And in this state of irritation and prejudice, she 
 could not bear the way in which he gave up his 
 opinions to please her ; that was not the way to 
 win her; she liked him far better when he inflexibly 
 and rigidly adhered to his idea of right and wrong, 
 not even allowing any force to temptation, and 
 hardly any grace to repentance, compared with that 
 beauty of holiness which had never yielded to sin. 
 He had been her idol in those days, as she found 
 out now, however much at the time she had opposed 
 him with violence. 
 
 As for Mr. Farquhar, he was almost weary of 
 himself; no reasoning, even no principle, seemed to 
 have influence over him, for he saw that Jemima 
 was not at all what he approved of in woman. He 
 saw her uncurbed and passionate, affecting to de- 
 spise the rules of life he held most sacred, and in- 
 different to, if not positively disliking him ; and 
 yet he loved her dearly. But he resolved to make
 
 RUTH. 171 
 
 a great effort of will, and break loose from these 
 trammels of sense. And while he resolved, some old 
 recollection would bring her up, hanging on his arm, 
 in all the confidence of early girlhood, looking up in 
 his face with her soft dark eyes, and questioning him 
 upon the mysterious subjects which had so much in- 
 terest for both of them at that time, although they had 
 become only matter for dissension in these later days. 
 It was also true, as Mr. Bradshaw had said, Mr. 
 Farquhar wished to marry, and had not much 
 choice in the small town of Eccleston. He never 
 put this so plainly before himself, as a reason for 
 choosing Jemima, as her father had done to her; but 
 it was an unconscious motive all the same . How- 
 ever, now he had lectured himself into the resolu- 
 tion to make a pretty long absence from Eccleston, 
 and see if, amongst his distant friends, there was 
 no woman more in accordance with his ideal, who 
 could put the naughty, wilful, plaguing Jemima 
 Bradshaw out of his head, if he did not soon per- 
 ceive some change in her for the better.
 
 172 KTJT&. 
 
 A few days after Ruth's conversation with Mr. 
 Bradshaw, the invitation she had been expecting, 
 yet dreading, came. It was to her alone. Mr. and 
 Miss Benson were pleased at the compliment to her, 
 and urged her acceptance of it. She wished that 
 they had been included ; she had not thought it right, 
 or kind to Jemima, to tell them why she was going, 
 and she feared now lest they should feel a little hurt 
 that they were not asked too. But she need not 
 have been afraid. They were glad and proud of the 
 attention to her, and never thought of themselves. 
 
 " Ruthie, what gown shall you wear to-night ? 
 your dark grey one, I suppose?" asked Miss Benson. 
 
 " Yes, I suppose so. I never thought of it; but 
 that is my best." 
 
 " "Well, then, I shall quill up a ruff for you. You 
 know I am a famous quiller of net." 
 
 Ruth came down-stairs with a little flush on her 
 cheeks when she was ready to go. She held her 
 bonnet and shawl in her hand, for she knew Miss 
 Benson and Sally would want to see her dressed.
 
 RUTH. 173 
 
 " Is not mamma pretty ?" asked Leonard, with 
 a child's pride. 
 
 " She looks very nice and tidy," said Miss Ben- 
 son, who had an idea that children should not talk 
 or think about beauty. 
 
 " I think my ruff looks so nice," said Ruth, with 
 gentle pleasure. And indeed it did look nice, and 
 set off the pretty round throat most becomingly. 
 Her hair, now grown long and thick, was smoothed 
 as close to her head as its waving nature would 
 allow, and plaited up in a great rich knot low down 
 behind. The grey gown was as plain as plain 
 could be. 
 
 " You should have light gloves, Ruth," said 
 Miss Benson. She went up-stairs, and brought 
 down a delicate pair of Limerick ones, which had 
 been long treasured up in a walnut-shell. 
 
 " They say them gloves is made of chicken's- 
 skins," said Sally, examining them curiously. " I 
 wonder how they set about skinning 'em." 
 
 " Here, Ruth," said Mr. Benson, coming in from
 
 174 RUTH. 
 
 the garden, " here's a rose or two for you. I am 
 sorry there are no more ; I hoped I should have had 
 my yellow rose out by this time, but the damask 
 and the white are in a warmer corner, and have 
 got the start." 
 
 Miss Benson and Leonard stood at the door, and 
 watched her down the little passage-street till she 
 was out of sio-ht. 
 
 She had hardly touched the bell at Mr. Brad- 
 shaw's door, when Mary and Elizabeth opened it 
 with boisterous glee. 
 
 " We saw you coming — we've been watching 
 for you — we want you to come round the garden 
 before tea; papa is not come in yet. Do come." 
 
 She went round the garden with a little girl 
 clinging to each arm. It was full of sunshine and 
 flowers, and this made the contrast between it and 
 the usual large family room (which fronted the 
 north-east, and therefore had no evening sun to 
 light up it's cold drab furniture) more striking than 
 usual. It looked very gloomy. There was the great
 
 RUTH. 175 
 
 dining-table, heavy and square ; the range of chairs, 
 straight and square; the work-boxes, useful and 
 square; the colouring of walls, and carpet, and 
 curtains, all of the coldest description ; everything 
 was handsome, and everything was ugly. Mrs. 
 Bradshaw was asleep in her easy-chair when they 
 came in. Jemima had just put down her work, 
 and, lost in thought, she leant her cheek on her 
 hand. When she saw Ruth she brightened a little, 
 and went to her and kissed her. Mrs. Bradshaw 
 jumped up at the sound of their entrance, and was 
 wide awake in a moment. 
 
 " Oh I I thought your father was here," said she, 
 evidently relieved to find that he had not come in 
 and caught her sleeping. 
 
 " Thank you, Mrs. Denbigh, for coming to us 
 to-night," said she, in the quiet tone in which she 
 generally spoke in her husband's absence. When 
 he was there, a sort of constant terror of displeasing 
 him made her voice sharp and nervous ; the children 
 knew that many a thing passed over by their mother
 
 176 RUTH. 
 
 when their father was away, was sure to be noticed 
 by her when he was present ; and noticed, too, in a 
 cross and querulous manner, for she was so much 
 afraid of the blame which on any occasion of their 
 misbehaviour fell upon her. And yet she looked 
 up to her husband with a reverence, and regard, and 
 a faithfulness of love, which his decision of character 
 was likely to produce on a weak and anxious mind. 
 He was a rest and a support to her, on whom she 
 cast all her responsibilities ; she was an obedient, 
 unremonstrating wife to him ; no stronger affection 
 had ever brought her duty to him into conflict with 
 any desire of her heart. She loved her children 
 dearly, though they all perplexed her very fre- 
 quently. Her son was her especial darling, because 
 he very seldom brought her into any scrapes with his 
 father ; he was so cautious and prudent, and had 
 the art of " keeping a calm sough" about any diffi- 
 culty he might be in. With all her dutiful sense 
 of the obligation, which her husband enforced upon 
 her, to notice and tell him everything that was going
 
 RUTH. 177 
 
 wrong in the household, and especially among his 
 children, Mrs. Bradshaw, somehow, contrived to be 
 honestly blind to a good deal that was not praise- 
 worthy in Master Richard. 
 
 Mr. Bradshaw came in before long, bringing 
 with him Mr. Farquhar. Jemima had been talking 
 to Ruth with some interest before then ; but, on 
 seeing Mr. Farquhar, she bent her head down over 
 her work, went a little paler, and turned obstinately 
 silent. Mr. Bradshaw longed to command her to 
 speak ; but even he had a suspicion that what she 
 might say, when so commanded, might be rather 
 worse in its effect than her gloomy silence ; so he 
 held his peace, and a discontented, angry kind of 
 peace it was. Mrs. Bradshaw saw that something 
 was wrong, but could not tell what; only she be- 
 came every moment more trembling, and nervous, 
 and irritable, and sent Mary and Elizabeth off on 
 all sorts of contradictory errands to the servants, 
 and made the tea twice as strong;-, and sweetened it 
 
 VOL. II. N
 
 178 RUTH. 
 
 twice as much as usual, in hopes of pacifying her 
 husband with good things. 
 
 Mr. Farquhar had gone for the last time, or so 
 he thought. He had resolved (for the fifth time) 
 that he would go and watch Jemima once more, and 
 if her temper got the better of her, and she showed 
 the old sullenness again, and gave the old proofs 
 of indifference to his good opinion, he would give 
 her up altogether, and seek a wife elsewhere. He 
 sat watching her with folded arms, and in silence. 
 Altogether they were a pleasant family party ! 
 
 Jemima wanted to wind a skein of wool. Mr. 
 Farquhar saw it, 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 
 sorrowfully 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
 
 RUTH. 179 
 
 seat to watch tliem both. He saw Jemima turbu- 
 lent 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 complexion, 
 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 try- 
 ing to lead Jemima into some subject which should 
 
 n2
 
 180 RUTH. 
 
 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 any one 
 else. She valued Ruth's good opinion so highly, 
 that she 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 only the sighs, that would 
 come up from the very force of habit, brought back 
 the consciousness of her unhappiness. 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 re- 
 membrance of that miserable conversation 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
 
 KUTH. 181 
 
 (for she was still very pale), he was .highly pleased 
 with the success of his project. He never doubted 
 but that Ruth had given her some sort of private 
 exhortation to behave better. He could not have 
 understood the pretty art with which, by simply 
 banishing unpleasant subjects, and throwing a 
 wholesome natural sunlit tone over others, Ruth had 
 insensibly drawn Jemima out of her gloom. He 
 resolved to buy Mrs. Denbigh a handsome silk gown 
 the very next day. He did not believe she had a 
 silk gown, poor creature ! He had noticed that 
 dark grey stuff, this long long time, as her Sunday 
 dress. He liked the colour; the silk one should be 
 just the same tinge. Then he thought that it 
 would, perhaps, be better to choose a lighter shade, 
 one which might be noticed as different to the old 
 sown. For he had no doubt she would like to 
 have it remarked, and, perhaps, would not object to 
 tell people that it was a present from Mr. Bradshaw 
 — a token of his approbation. He smiled a little 
 to himself as he thought of this additional source
 
 182 RUTH. 
 
 of pleasure to. Ruth. She, in the mean time, was 
 getting up to go home. While Jemima was light- 
 ing the bed-candle at the lamp, Ruth came round 
 to bid good night. Mr. Bradshaw could not allow 
 her to remain till the morrow, uncertain whether 
 he was satisfied or not. 
 
 " Good night, Mrs. Denbigh," said he. " Good 
 night. Thank you. I am obliged to you — I am 
 exceedingly obliged to you." 
 
 He laid emphasis on these words, for he was 
 pleased to see Mr. Farquhar step forwards to help 
 Jemima in her little office. 
 
 Mr. Farquhar offered to accompany Ruth home; 
 but the streets that intervened between Mr. Brad- 
 shaw's and the Chapel-house were so quiet that he 
 desisted, when he learnt from Ruth's manner how 
 much she disliked his proposal. Mr. Bradshaw, 
 too, instantly observed : 
 
 " Oh ! Mrs. Denbigh need not trouble you, Far- 
 quhar. I have servants at liberty at any moment 
 to attend on her, if she wishes it."
 
 RUTH. 183 
 
 In fact, he wanted to make hay while the sun 
 shone, and to detain Mr. Farquhar a little longer, 
 now that Jemima was so gracious, She went up- 
 stairs with Ruth to help her to put on her things. 
 
 "Dear Jemima!" said Ruth, " I am so srlad to 
 see you looking better to-night ! You quite fright- 
 ened me this morning, you looked so ill." 
 
 "Did I?" replied Jemima. "Oh, Ruth! I 
 have been so unhappy lately. I want you to come 
 and put me to-rights," she continued, half smiling. 
 " You know I'm a sort of out-pupil of yours, though 
 we are so nearly of an age. You ought to lecture 
 me, and make me good." 
 
 " Should I, dear?" said Ruth. " I don't think 
 I'm the one to do it." 
 
 "Oh, yes! you are — you've done me good to- 
 night." 
 
 " Well, if I can do anything for you, tell mc 
 what it is?" asked Ruth, tenderly. 
 
 " Oh, not now — not now," replied Jemima. " I
 
 184 RUTH. 
 
 could not tell you here. It's a long story, and I 
 don't know that I can tell you at all. Mamma 
 might come up at any moment, and papa would be 
 sure to ask what we had been talking about so 
 long." 
 
 " Take your own time, love," said Ruth; "only 
 remember, as far as I can, how glad I am to help 
 you." 
 
 " You're too good, my darling !" said Jemima, 
 fondly. 
 
 " Don't say so," replied Ruth, earnestly, almost 
 as if she were afraid. " God knows I am not." 
 
 "Well! we're none of us too good," answered 
 Jemima; "I know that. But you are very good. 
 Nay, I won't call you so, if it makes you look so 
 miserable. But come away down-stairs." 
 
 With the fragrance of Ruth's sweetness lingering 
 about her, Jemima was her best self during the next 
 half hour. Mr. Bradshaw was more and more 
 pleased, and raised the price of the silk, which he
 
 RUTH. 185 
 
 was going to give Ruth, sixpence a yard during the 
 time. Mr. Farquhar went home through the gar- 
 den-way, happier than he had been this long time. 
 He even caught himself humming the old refrain: 
 
 On revient, on revient toujours, 
 A ses premiers amours. 
 
 But as soon as he was aware of what he was doing, 
 he cleared away the remnants of the song into a 
 cough, which was sonorous, if not perfectly real. 

 
 186 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 The next morning, as Jemima and her mother 
 sat at their work, it came into the head of the 
 former to remember her father's very marked way 
 of thanking Ruth the evening before. 
 
 " What a favourite Mrs. Denbigh is with papa," 
 said she. " I am sure I don't wonder at it. Did 
 you notice, mamma, how he thanked her for 
 coming here last night ?" 
 
 " Yes, dear ; but I don't think it was all " 
 
 Mrs. Bradshaw stopped short. She was never cer- 
 tain if it was right or wrong to say anything. 
 
 "Not all what?" asked Jemima, when she saw 
 her mother was not going to finish the sentence. 
 
 " Not all because Mrs. Denbigh came to tea 
 here," replied Mrs. Bradshaw.
 
 RUTH. 187 
 
 (( 
 
 Why, what else could he be thanking her for? 
 What has she done ?" asked Jemima, stimulated 
 to curiosity by her mother's hesitating manner. 
 
 " I don't know if I ought to tell you," said Mrs. 
 Bradshaw. 
 
 " Oh, very well !" said Jemima, rather annoyed. 
 
 " Nay, dear ! your papa never said I was not to 
 tell ; perhaps I may." 
 
 " Never mind ! I don't want to hear," in a piqued 
 tone. 
 
 There was silence for a little while. Jemima was 
 trying to think of something else, but her thoughts 
 would revert to the wonder what Mrs. Denbigh 
 could have done for her father. 
 
 " I think I may tell you, though," said Mrs. 
 Bradshaw, half questioning. 
 
 Jemima had the honour not to urge any confi- 
 sence, but she was too curious to take any active 
 step towards repressing it. 
 
 Mrs. Bradshaw went on. "I think you deserve 
 to know. It is partly your doing that papa is so
 
 188 RUTH. 
 
 pleased with Mrs. Denbigh. He is going to buy 
 her a silk gown this morning, and I think you 
 ought to know why." 
 
 "Why?" asked Jemima. 
 
 " Because papa is so pleased to find that you mind 
 what she says." 
 
 " I mind what she says ! to be sure I do, and 
 always did. But why should papa give her a gown 
 for that? I think he ought to give it me rather," 
 said Jemima, half laughing. 
 
 "I am sure he would, dear; he will give you 
 one, I am certain, if you want one. He was so 
 pleased to see you like your old self to Mr. Far- 
 quhar last night. We neither of us could think 
 what had come over you this last month ; but now 
 all seems right." 
 
 A dark cloud came over Jemima's face. She 
 did not like this close observation and constant 
 comment upon her manners; and what had Ruth 
 to do with it? 
 
 '* I am glad you were pleased," said she, very
 
 RUTH. 189 
 
 coldly. Then, after a pause, she added, " But 
 you have not told me what Mrs. Denbigh had to 
 do with my good behaviour." 
 
 "Did not she speak to you about it?" asked 
 Mrs. Bradshaw, looking up. 
 
 " No ; why should she. She has no right to 
 criticise what I do. She would not be so im- 
 pertinent," said Jemima, feeling very uncomfortable 
 and suspicious. 
 
 " Yes, love ! she would have had a right, for 
 papa had desired her to do it." 
 
 Papa desired her ! What do you mean, 
 
 a 
 
 mamma ?" 
 
 " Oh, dear! I dare say I should not have told 
 you," said Mrs. Bradshaw, perceiving, from Jemi- 
 ma's tone of voice, that something had gone wrong. 
 " Only you spoke as if it would be impertinent 
 in Mrs. Denbigh, and I am sure she would not 
 do anything that was impertinent. You know, it 
 would be but right for her to do what papa told 
 her ; and he said a great deal to her, the other day,
 
 190 RUTH. 
 
 about finding out why you were so cross, and 
 bringing you right. And you are right now, 
 dear!" said Mrs. Bradshaw, soothingly, thinking 
 that Jemima was annoyed (like a good child) at 
 the recollection of how naughty she had been. 
 
 " Then papa is going to give Mrs. Denbigh a 
 gown because I was civil to Mr. Farquhar last 
 night," 
 
 "Yes, dear!" said Mrs. Bradshaw, more and 
 more frightened at Jemima's angry manner of 
 speaking — low-toned, but very indignant. 
 
 Jemima remembered, with smouldered anger, 
 Ruth's pleading way of wiling her from her sul- 
 lenness the night before. Management every- 
 where ! but in this case it was peculiarly revolting ; 
 so much so, that she could hardly bear to believe 
 that the seemingly-transparent Ruth had lent her- 
 self to it. 
 
 " Are you sure, mamma, that papa asked Mrs. 
 Denbigh to make me behave differently ? It seems 
 so strange."
 
 RUTH. 191 
 
 " I am quite sure. He spoke to her last Friday 
 morning in the study. I remember it was Friday, 
 because Mrs. Dean was working here." 
 
 Jemima remembered now that she had gone into 
 the school-room on the Friday, and found her 
 sisters lounging about, and wondering what papa 
 could possibly want with Mrs. Denbigh. 
 
 After this conversation, Jemima repulsed all 
 Ruth's timid efforts to ascertain the cause of her 
 disturbance, and to help her if she could. Ruth's 
 tender, sympathising manner, as she saw Jemima 
 daily looking more wretched, was distasteful to the 
 latter in the highest degree. She could not 
 say that Mrs. Denbigh's conduct was positively 
 wrong — it might even be quite right; but it was 
 inexpressibly repugnant to her to think of her father 
 consulting with a stranger (a week ago she almost 
 considered Ruth as a sister) how to manage his 
 daughter, so as to obtain the end he wished for ; 
 yes, even if that end was for her own good.
 
 192 RUTH. 
 
 She was thankful and glad to see a brown-paper 
 parcel lying on the hall-table, with a note in Ruth's 
 handwriting, addressed to her father. She knew 
 what it was, the grey silk dress. That she was sure 
 Ruth would never accept. 
 
 No one henceforward could induce Jemima to 
 enter into conversation with Mr. Farquhar. She 
 suspected manoeuvring in the simplest actions, and 
 was miserable in this constant state of suspicion. 
 She would not allow herself to like Mr. Farquhar, 
 even when he said things the most after her own 
 heart. She heard him, one evening, talking with 
 her father about the principles of trade. Her father 
 stood out for the keenest, sharpest work, consistent 
 with honesty; if he had not been her father she 
 would, perhaps, have thought some of his 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) 
 the only way in which trade could be conducted.
 
 EUTH. 193 
 
 Once allow a margin of uncertainty, or where feel- 
 ings, instead of maxims, were to be the guide, and 
 all hope of there ever being any good men of busi- 
 ness was ended. 
 
 " Suppose a delay of a month in requiring pay- 
 ment, might save a man's credit — prevent his be- 
 coming 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 con- 
 sideration, 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, 
 
 VOL. IT. O
 
 194 RUTH. 
 
 on looking 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 thenceforward ; she thought her father 
 prolonged the argument, 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 pre- 
 meditated 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 such a contract. The consequences of all this 
 " admirable management" of Mr. Bradshaw's would
 
 EUTH. 195 
 
 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 upon him by Ruth on the even- 
 ing I have so lately described, was deepened by the 
 contrast which her behaviour made to Miss Brad- 
 shaw's on one or two more recent occasions. 
 
 There was no use, he thought, in continuing at- 
 tentions so evidently distasteful to Jemima. To her, 
 a young girl hardly out of the school-room, he pro- 
 bably appeared 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 affec- 
 tionately towards her ; her very faults 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 learn to ap- 
 
 o2-
 
 196 RUTH. 
 
 prove of when she sank down to the place of a 
 young friend, 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 
 fact. And now her quick-sighted eyes saw he was 
 gone for ever — past recal; for did not her jealous, 
 sore heart feel, even before he himself was conscious 
 of the fact, that he was drawn towards sweet, lovely, 
 composed, and dignified Ruth — one who always 
 thought before she spoke (as Mr. Farquhar used to 
 bid Jemima do) — who never was tempted by sudden
 
 RUTH. 197 
 
 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 remember 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 in 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.
 
 198 RUTH. 
 
 " Oh ! we wanted to go. We would not have 
 stayed at home on any account. It has been so plea- 
 sant," said Mary. 
 
 " We've been to Scaurside Wood, to gather wild- 
 strawberries," said Elizabeth. " Such a quantity ! 
 We've left a whole basket-full in the dairy. Mr. 
 Farquhar says he'll 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 her eyes. 
 
 " Yes, we told him this morning that mamma 
 wanted us to take same old linen to the lame man 
 at Scaurside Farm, and that we meant to coax Mrs. 
 Denbigh to let us go into the wood and gather 
 strawberries," 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 an-
 
 RUTH. 199 
 
 other, and quite forgetting that, not many weeks 
 ago, she had i'ancied 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 ?" Je- 
 mima 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,
 
 200 RUTH. 
 
 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 said he had gone on to Dawson's 
 farm," said Jemima. 
 
 " Ob, yes! he just went up there; and then he 
 left his horse there, like a wise man, and came to 
 us in the pretty, cool, 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." 
 11 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
 
 RUTH. 201 
 
 carry Leonard up the hill in a king's cushion, but 
 Mrs- Denbigh 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 by this time 
 the two girls were almost speaking together, " Mr 
 Farquhar 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 ! I 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 up-stairs 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
 
 202 KUTH. 
 
 which they were so mercilessly inflicting — details 
 which she must harden herself 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 howshe 
 had forfeited it by her own doing, and her own 
 fault. For if he were the cold, calculating man her 
 father had 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 connexion, encumbered with her boy ? 
 The very action which proved Mr. Farquhar to be 
 lost to Jemima, reinstated him on his throne in her 
 fancy. And she must go on in hushed quietness, 
 quivering with every 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 throwing himself away
 
 RUTH. 203 
 
 on a common or worthless person. Ruth was beau- 
 tiful, gentle, good, and conscientious. The hot 
 colour flushed up into Jemima's sallow face as she 
 became aware that, even while she acknowledged 
 these excellencies on Mrs. Denbigh's part, she 
 hated her. The recollection of her marble face 
 wearied her even to sickness; the tones of her 
 low voice were irritating from their very softness. 
 Her goodness, undoubted as it was, was more dis- 
 tasteful than many faults which had more savour of 
 human struggle 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 
 stinging 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 knoAV I was so
 
 204 RUTH. 
 
 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 Avas 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 Scaurside Wood. Every touch of fancy 
 which could heighten her idea of their enjoyment, 
 and of Mr. Farquhar's attention to the blushing, 
 conscious 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 glow- 
 ing August sun. Yet her sisters found her there
 
 RUTH. 205 
 
 when they returned, walking quickly up and down, 
 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. 
 Oh ! 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. Some- 
 body 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."
 
 206 RUTH. 
 
 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 own 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 fainting-fit did not 
 yield to the usual remedy of a horizontal position, 
 and the water sprinkling. 
 
 "Dear! dear Lizzie!" 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
 
 RUTH. 207 
 
 fainting-fit/she lay listless and weary, 'without appe- 
 tite 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 every 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 inanimate fact ; 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 implied reproaches. 
 When she saw her gentle Elizabeth lying feeble and 
 languid, her heart blamed her for thoughtlessness, 
 so severely as to make her take all Mr. Bradshaw's 
 words and hints as too licrlit censure for the careless 
 way in which, to please her own child, she had
 
 208 RUTH. 
 
 allowed her two pupils to fatigue themselves with 
 such lori£ walks. She begged hard to take her 
 share of nursing. Every spare moment she went 
 to Mr. Bradshaw's, and asked, with earnest humi- 
 lity, to be allowed to pass them with Elizabeth 
 and, as it was often a relief to have her assistance, 
 Mrs. Bradshaw received these entreaties very kindly, 
 and desired her to go up-stairs, where Elizabeth's 
 pale countenance brightened when she saw her, 
 but where Jemima sat in silent annoyance that 
 her own room was now become open ground for 
 one, whom her heart rose up against, to enter in 
 and be welcomed. Whether it was that Ruth, 
 who was not an inmate of the house, brought with 
 her a fresher air, more change of thought to the 
 invalid, I do not know, but Elizabeth always 
 gave her a peculiarly tender greeting ; and if she 
 had sunk down into languid fatigue, in spite of all 
 Jemima's endeavours to interest her, she roused up 
 into animation when Ruth came in with a flower,
 
 KUTH. 209 
 
 a book, or a brown and ruddy pear, sending out 
 the warm fragrance it retained from the sunny 
 garden-wall at Chapel-house. 
 
 The jealous dislike which Jemima was allowing 
 to grow up in her heart against Ruth was, as she 
 thought, never shown in word or deed. She was 
 cold in manneiy because she could not be hypo- 
 critical; but her words were polite and kind in 
 purport; and she took pains to make her actions 
 the same as formerly. But rule and line may 
 measure out the figure of a man ; it is the soul that 
 gives it life ; and there was no soul, no inner meaning, 
 breathing out in Jemima's actions. Ruth felt the 
 change acutely. She suffered from it some time 
 before she ventured to ask what had occasioned it. 
 But, one day, she took Miss Bradshaw by surprise, 
 when they were alone together for a few minutes, 
 by asking her if she had vexed her in any way, she 
 was so changed ? It is sad when friendship has 
 cooled so far as to render such a question necessary. 
 
 VOL. II. P
 
 210 RUTH. 
 
 Jemima went rather paler than usual, and then 
 made answer: 
 
 "Changed! How do you mean? How ami 
 changed? What do I say or do different from 
 what I used to do?" 
 
 But the tone was so constrained and cold, that 
 Ruth's heart sank within her. She knew now, as 
 well as words could have told her, that not only 
 had the old feeling of love passed away from 
 Jemima, but that it had gone unregretted, and no 
 attempt had been made to recal it. Love was very 
 precious to Ruth now, as of old time. It was one 
 of the faults of her nature to be ready to make any 
 sacrifices for those who loved her, and to value 
 affection almost above its price. She had yet to 
 learn the lesson, that it is more blessed to love than 
 to be beloved ; and lonely as the impressible years 
 of her youth had been — without parents, without 
 brother or sister — it was, perhaps, no wonder that 
 she clung tenaciously to every symptom of regard,
 
 RUTH. 211 
 
 and could not relinquish the love of any one without 
 a pang. 
 
 The doctor who was called in to Elizabeth pre- 
 scribed sea-air as the best means of recruiting 
 her strength. Mr. Bradshaw, who liked to spend 
 money ostentatiously, went down straight to Aber- 
 mouth, and engaged a house for the remainder of 
 the autumn; for, as he told the medical man, money 
 was no object to him in comparison with his chil- 
 dren's health; and the doctor cared too little about 
 the mode in which his remedy was administered, to 
 tell Mr. Bradshaw that lodgings would, have done 
 as well, or better, than the complete house he had 
 seen fit to take. For it was now necessary to en- 
 gage servants, and take much trouble, which might 
 have been obviated, and Elizabeth's removal effected 
 more quietly and speedily, if she had gone into 
 lodgings. As it was, she was weary of hearing all 
 the planning and talking, and deciding and un- 
 deciding, and re-deciding, before it was possible for 
 
 p2
 
 212 RUTH. 
 
 her to go. Her only comfort was in the thought, 
 that dear Mrs. Denbigh was to go with her. 
 
 It had not been entirely by way of pompously 
 spending his money that Mr. Bradshaw had en- 
 gaged this sea-side house. He was glad to get his 
 little girls and their governess out of the way; for 
 a busy time was impending, when he should want 
 his head clear for electioneering purposes, and his 
 house clear for electioneering hospitality. He was 
 the mover of a project for bringing forward a man, 
 on the Liberal and Dissenting interest, to contest 
 the election with the old Tory member, who had 
 on several successive occasions walked over the 
 course, as he and his family owned half the town, 
 and votes and rent were paid alike to the landlord. 
 Kinsfs of Eccleston had Mr. Cranworth and his 
 ancestors been this many a long year; their right 
 was so little disputed that they never thought of 
 acknowledging the allegiance so readily paid to 
 them. The old feudal feeling between landowner
 
 KUTH. 213 
 
 and tenant did not quake prophetically at the intro- 
 duction of manufactures ; the Cranworth family 
 ignored the growing power of the manufacturers, 
 more especially as the principal person engaged in 
 the trade was a Dissenter. But notwithstanding 
 this lack of patronage from the one great family 
 in the neighbourhood, the business flourished, in- 
 creased, and spread wide ; and the Dissenting head 
 thereof looked around, about the time of which I 
 speak, and felt himself powerful enough to defy the 
 great Cranworth interest even in their hereditary 
 stronghold, and, by so doing, avenge the slights of 
 many years — slights which rankled in Mr. Brad- 
 shaw's mind as much as if he did not go to chapel 
 twice every Sunday, and pay the largest pew-rent 
 of any member of Mr. Benson's congregation. 
 
 Accordingly, Mr. Bradshaw had applied to one 
 of the Liberal parliamentary agents in London — a 
 man whose only principle was to do wrong on the 
 Liberal side ; he would not act, right or wrong, for
 
 214 RUTH. 
 
 a Tory, but for a Whig the latitude of his con- 
 science had never yet been discovered. It was pos- 
 sible Mr. Bradshaw was not aware of the character 
 of this agent ; at any rate, he knew he was the man 
 for his purpose, which was to hear of some one who 
 would come forward as a candidate for the repre- 
 sentation of Eccleston on the Dissenting interest. 
 
 " There are in round numbers about six hundred 
 voters," said he; "two hundred are decidedly in 
 the Cran worth interest — dare not offend Mr. Cran- 
 worth, poor souls ! Two hundred more we may 
 calculate upon as pretty certain — factory hands, or 
 people connected with our trade in some way or 
 another — who are indignant at the stubborn way in 
 which Cranworth has contested the right of water; 
 two hundred are doubtful." 
 
 " Don't much care either way," said the parlia- 
 mentary agent. " Of course, we must make them 
 care." 
 
 Mr. Bradshaw rather shrunk from the knowing
 
 RUTH. 215 
 
 look with which this was said. He hoped that 
 Mr. Pilson did not mean to allude to bribery ; but 
 he did not express this hope, because he thought it 
 would deter the agent from using this means, and it 
 was possible it might prove to be the only way. 
 And if he (Mr. Bradshaw) once embarked on such 
 an enterprise, there must be no failure. By some 
 expedient or another, success must be certain, or 
 he could have nothing to do with it. 
 
 The parliamentary agent was well accustomed to 
 deal with all kinds and shades of scruples. He was 
 most at home with men who had none; but still he 
 could allow for human weakness; and he perfectly 
 understood Mr. Bradshaw. 
 
 " I have a notion I know of a man who will just 
 suit your purpose. Plenty of money — does not know 
 what to do with it, in fact — tired of yachting, 
 travelling, wants something new. I heard, through 
 some of the means of intelligence I employ, that not 
 very long ago he was wishing for a seat in Par- 
 liament."
 
 216 RUTH. 
 
 " A Liberal?" said Mr. Bradshaw. 
 
 " Decidedly. Belongs to a family who were in 
 the Long Parliament in their day." 
 
 Mr. Bradshaw rubbed his hands. 
 
 " Dissenter?" asked he. 
 
 " No, no! Not so far as that. But very lax 
 Church." 
 
 "What is his name?" asked Mr. Bradshaw, 
 eagerly. 
 
 " Excuse me. Until I am certain that he would 
 like to come forward for Eccleston, I think I had 
 better not mention his name." 
 
 The anonymous gentleman did like to come for- 
 ward, and his name proved to be Donne. He and 
 Mr. Bradshaw had been in correspondence during 
 all the time of Mr. Ralph Cranworth's illness, and 
 when he died, everything was arranged ready for a 
 start, even before the Cranworths had determined 
 who should keep the seat warm till the eldest son 
 came of age, for the father was already member for 
 the county. Mr. Donne was to come down to can-
 
 RUTH. 217 
 
 vass in person, and was to take up his abode at 
 Mr. Bradshaw's; and therefore it was that the sea- 
 side house, within twenty miles' distanee of Eccle- 
 ston, was found to be so convenient as an infirmary 
 and nursery for those members of his family who 
 were likely to be useless, if not positive encum- 
 brances, during the forthcoming election.
 
 218 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Jemima, did not know whether she wished to go 
 to Abermouth or not. She longed for change. 
 She wearied of the sights and sounds of home. But 
 yet she could not bear to leave the neighbourhood 
 of Mr. Farquhar ; especially as, if she went to Aber- 
 mouth, Ruth would in all probability be left to take 
 her holiday at home. 
 
 When Mr. Bradshaw decided that she was to 
 go, Ruth tried to feel glad that he gave her the 
 means of repairing her fault towards Elizabeth ; and 
 she resolved to watch over the two girls most faith- 
 fully and carefully, and to do all in her power to 
 restore the invalid to health. But a tremor came 
 over her whenever she thought of leaving Leonard ; 
 she had never quitted him for a day, and it seemed
 
 RUTH. 219 
 
 to her as if her brooding, constant care, was his 
 natural and necessary shelter from all evils — from 
 very death itself. She would not go to sleep at 
 nights, in order to enjoy the blessed consciousness of 
 having him near her; when she was away from him 
 teaching her pupils, she kept trying to remember 
 his face, and print it deep on her heart, against the 
 time when days and days would elapse without her 
 seeing that little darling countenance. Miss Benson 
 would wonder to her brother that Mr. Bradshaw 
 did not propose that Leonard should accompany 
 his mother; he only begged her not to put such an 
 idea into Ruth's head, as he was sure Mr. Bradshaw 
 had no thoughts of doing any such thing, yet to 
 Ruth it might be a hope, and then a disppointment. 
 His sister scolded him for being so cold-hearted; 
 but he was full of sympathy, although he did not 
 express it, and made some quiet little sacrifices in 
 order to set himself at liberty to take Leonard a long- 
 walking expedition on the day when his mother left 
 Ecclcston.
 
 220 RUTH. 
 
 Ruth cried until she could cry no longer, and felt 
 very much ashamed of herself as she saw the grave 
 and wondering looks of her pupils, whose only 
 feeling on leaving home was delight at the idea of 
 Abermouth, and into whose minds the possibility of 
 death to any of their beloved ones never entered. 
 Ruth dried her eyes, and spoke cheerfully as soon 
 as she caught the perplexed expression of their faces ; 
 and by the time they arrived at Abermouth, she 
 was as much delighted with all the new scenery as 
 they were, and found it hard work to resist their 
 entreaties to go rambling out on the sea-shore at 
 once ; but Elizabeth had undergone more fatigue 
 that day, than she had had before for many weeks, 
 and Ruth was determined to be prudent. 
 
 Meanwhile, the Bradshaws' house at Eccleston 
 was being rapidly adapted for electioneering hospi- 
 tality. The partition-wall between the un-used 
 drawing-room and the school-room was broken 
 down, in order to admit of folding-doors ; the 
 "ingenious" upholsterer of the town (and what
 
 RUTH. 221 
 
 town does not boast of the upholsterer full of con- 
 trivances and resources, in opposition to the uphol- 
 sterer of steady capital and no imagination, who 
 looks down with uneasy contempt on ingenuity?) 
 had come in to give his opinion, that " nothing 
 could he easier than to convert a bath-room into a 
 bedroom, by the assistance of a little drapery to 
 conceal the shower-bath," the string of which was 
 to be carefully concealed, for fear that the uncon- 
 scious occupier of the bath-bed might innocently 
 take it for a bell-rope. The professional cook of the 
 town had been already engaged to take up her abode 
 for a month at Mr. Bradshaw's, much to the 
 indignation of Betsy, who became a vehement 
 partisan of Mr. Cran worth, as soon as ever she 
 heard of the plan of her deposition from sovereign 
 authority in the kitchen, in which she had reigned 
 supreme for fourteen years. Mrs. Bradshaw sighed 
 and bemoaned herself in all her leisure moments, 
 which were not many, and wondered why their 
 house was to be turned into an inn for this Mr.
 
 222 RUTH. 
 
 Donne, when everybody knew that the George was 
 good enough for the Cranwortks, who never thought 
 of asking the electors to the Hall; — and they had 
 lived at Cranworth ever since Julius Caesar's time, 
 and if that was not being an old family, she did 
 not know what was. The excitement soothed 
 Jemima. There was something to do. It was she 
 who planned with the upholsterer ; it was she who 
 soothed Betsy into angry silence; it was she who 
 persuaded her mother to lie down and rest, while she 
 herself went out to buy the heterogeneous things 
 required to make the family and house present- 
 able to Mr. Donne, and his precursor — the friend 
 of the parliamentary agent. This latter gentleman 
 never appeared himself on the scene of action, but 
 pulled all the strings notwithstanding. The friend 
 was a Mr. Hickson, a lawyer — a briefless barrister, 
 some people called him ; but he himself professed a 
 great disgust to the law, as a " great sham," which 
 involved an immensity of underhand action, and 
 truckling and time-serving, and was perfectly en-
 
 RUTH. 223 
 
 cumbered by useless forms and ceremonies, and dead 
 obsolete words. So, instead of putting his shoulder 
 to the wheel to reform the law, he talked eloquently 
 against it, in such a high-priest style, that it was 
 occasionally a matter of surprise how he could 
 ever have made a friend of the parliamentary agent 
 before mentioned. But, as Mr. Hickson himself 
 said, it was the very corruptness of the law which 
 he was fighting against, in doing all he could to 
 effect the return of certain members to Parliament; 
 these certain members being pledged to effect a 
 reform in the law, according to Mr. Hickson. And. 
 as he once observed confidentally, " If you had to 
 destroy a hydra-headed monster, would you mea- 
 sure swords with the demon as if he were a gentle- 
 man ? Would you not rather seize the first weapon 
 that came to hand ? And so do I. My great 
 object in life, sir, is to reform the law of England, 
 sir. Once get a majority of Liberal members into 
 the House, and the thing is done. And I consider 
 myself justified, for so high — for, I may say, so
 
 224 RUTH. 
 
 t 
 
 holy — an end, in using men's weaknesses to work 
 out my purpose. Of course, if men were angels, or 
 even immaculate — men invulnerable to bribes, we 
 would not bribe." 
 
 " Could you?" asked Jemima, for the conversa- 
 tion 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, thev who would 
 succeed even in good deeds, must come down to 
 the level of expediency ; and therefore, I say once 
 more, if Mr. Donne is the man for your purpose, 
 and your purpose is a good one, a lofty one, a holy 
 one" (for Mr. Hickson remembered the Dissenting 
 character of his little audience, and privately con- 
 sidered the introduction of the word ' holy' a most 
 happy hit), " then, I say, we must put all the
 
 RUTH. 225 
 
 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 
 must consider their failings in dealing with them; 
 if they have been careless or extravagant, or have 
 had their little peccadillos, we must 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. Ilickson, bowing. 
 " I honour you for the observation." And he pro- 
 fited by it, insomuch that he confined his further 
 remarks on elections to the end of the table, where 
 
 VOL. II. Q
 
 226 RUTH. 
 
 he sat near Mr. Bradshaw, and one or two equally 
 eager, though not equally influential partisans of 
 Mr. Donne's. Meanwhile, Mr. Farquhar took up 
 Mr. Benson's quotation, at the end where he and 
 Jemima sat near to Mrs. 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 
 disappointment. 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 flirta- 
 tion with the daughter of his wealthy host, which 
 she resented with all the loathing of a pre-occupied 
 heart ; and she had 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, 
 s hort precept, coming down with a divine force 
 against which there was no appeal; and now to have 
 Mr. Farquhar taking the side- of expediency! It 
 was too bad.
 
 EUTH. 227 
 
 "Nay, Jemima!" said Mr. Farquhar, touched, 
 and secretly flattered by the visible pain his speech 
 had given. " Don't be indignant with me till I 
 have explained myself a little more. I don't under- 
 stand 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, Mr. 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 addressing himself to Jemima more exclusively, 
 " I am really anxious to hear what Mr. Benson will 
 say on the subject, for I know no one to whose 
 candid opinion I should attach more weight." 
 
 But Mr. Benson was silent. He did not see Mrs. 
 Bradshaw and Jemima leave the room. He was 
 really, as Mr. Farquhar supposed him, completely 
 
 Q 2
 
 228 RUTH. 
 
 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 on 
 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 parliamentary agent 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 accustomed to treat 
 " Benson ; ' in a very different fashion, of civil con- 
 descending indulgence, j ust 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 himself at some length, the young barrister 
 turned to Mr. Bradshaw, and said very audibly,
 
 RUTH. 229 
 
 " I wish Donne had been here. This conversa- 
 tion 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 Quixotism; 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 
 been 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 ; 
 and ended by determining to write a sermon on the
 
 230 RUTH. 
 
 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 expected 
 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 plan of usefulness allayed the aching 
 remembrance of the evil he had done that good 
 might come- Xot 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 unde- 
 fined terror — terror so great that it wakened her 
 up, 'and she strove not to sleep again, for fear that
 
 RUTH. 231 
 
 ominous ghastly dream should return. He, on the 
 contrary, dreamt of her sitting watching and 
 smihng by his bedside, 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 sailed 
 away through the open window far into the blue 
 sky of a summer's day. Leonard wakened up then, 
 and remembered 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, there were so few lessons to be done,
 
 232 RUTH. 
 
 that there was time for the long-exploring rambles, 
 which all three delighted in. And when the rain 
 came on 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 zig-zag tacking paths 
 down the 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 inha- 
 bitants, 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 atmo- 
 sphere, making the very threatening beautiful; and
 
 RUTH. 233 
 
 by-and-by the house was wrapped in sheets of rain, 
 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!" ex- 
 claimed 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, I am afraid," said 
 Mary. " She would call our delicious gushes of air, 
 draughts, and think we should catch cold." 
 
 " Jemima would be on our side. But how long 
 Mrs. Denbigh is! I hope she was near enough to 
 the post-office when the rain came on !" 
 
 Ruth had gone to " the shop" in the little village, 
 about half a mile distant, where all letters were left 
 till fetched. She only expected one, but that one 
 was to tell her of Leonard. She, however, received
 
 234 RUTH. 
 
 two ; the unexpected one was from Mr. Bradshaw, 
 and the news it contained was, if possible, a greater 
 surprise than the letter itself. Mr. Bradshaw in- 
 formed her, that he planned arriving by dinner- 
 time the following Saturday, 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 prepara- 
 tons. The dinner-hour was fixed to be at six ; but, 
 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 thus giving himself so 
 much trouble and fuss of preparation.
 
 RUTH. 235 
 
 There were so many small reasons that went to 
 make up the large one which had convinced Mr. 
 Bradshaw of the desirableness of this step, that it was 
 not likely that Ruth should guess at one half of them. 
 In the first place, Miss Benson, in the pride and ful- 
 ness of her heart, had told Mrs. Bradshaw what her 
 brother had told her ; how he meant to preach upon 
 the Christian view of the duties involved in politi- 
 cal rights; and as, of course, Mrs. Bradshaw had 
 told Mr. Bradshaw, he began to dislike the idea of 
 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 the understand- 
 ing that " packets" would be required, for what pur- 
 pose both he and Mr. Donne were to be supposed to 
 remain ignorant. But it would be very awkward, 
 so near to the time, if he were to be clearly con- 
 vinced that bribery, however disguised by names 
 and words, was in plain terms a sin. And yet he
 
 •236 RUTH. 
 
 knew Mr. Benson had once or twice convinced him 
 against his will of certain things, which he had 
 thenceforward found it impossible to do, without 
 such great uneasiness of mind, that he had left off 
 doing them, which was sadly against his interest. 
 And if Mr. Donne (whom he had 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 mem- 
 ber succeeded, he would double his subscription to 
 the schools, in order that the next generation might 
 be taught better. There were various other reasons, 
 which strengthened Mr. Bradshaw in the bright 
 idea of going down to Abermouth for the Sunday; 
 some 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 
 Sundavs— Mr. Bradshaw had piqued himself on this
 
 KUTH. 237 
 
 strictness — and yet he had an instinctive feeling that 
 Mr. Donne was not quite the man to partake of cold 
 meat for conscience 1 sake with cheerful indifference 
 to his fare. 
 
 Mr. Donne had, in fact, taken the Bradshaw 
 household a little by surprise. Before he came, 
 Mr. Bradshaw had pleased himself with thinking, 
 that more unlikely things had happened 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 its 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 consider as much a matter of course as a 
 carpet-bag (though the smart gentleman's arrival 
 " fluttered the Volscians in Corioli" considerably 
 more than his gentle-spoken master's). It was nothing
 
 238 RUTH. 
 
 like this ; it was something indescribable — a quiet 
 being at ease, and expecting every one else to be so — 
 an attention to women, which was so habitual as to be 
 
 
 
 unconsciously exercised to those subordinate persons 
 in Mr. Bradshaw's family — a happy choice of simple 
 and expressive words, some of which it must be con- 
 fessed were slanof but fashionable slano;, and that 
 makes all the difference — a measured, graceful way 
 of utterance, with a style of pronunciation quite dif- 
 ferent 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 estimation 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 
 Mi. Donne's arrival, now 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. Farquhar) to his new candidate at once. He
 
 RUTH. 239 
 
 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 conversation they had together on the 
 subject. Mr. Donne's eye lightened with an eager- 
 ness that was almost fierce, though his' tones were 
 as musical, and nearly as slow as ever; and when 
 Mr. Bradshaw alluded distantly to " probable ex- 
 penses" and "packets," Mr. Donne replied, 
 
 " Oh, of course ! disagreeable necessity ! Better 
 speak as little about such things 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. 
 Pilson's hands, and I shall never inquire what 
 becomes of them ; they may, very probably, be 
 absorbed in the law expenses, you know. I shall 
 let it be clearly understood from the hustings, that 
 I most decidedly disapprove of bribery, and leave 
 the rest to Hickson's management. He is accustomed 
 to these sort of things. I am not." 
 
 Mr. Bradshaw was rather perplexed by this want
 
 240 RUTH. 
 
 of bustling energy on the part of the new candidate ; 
 and if it had not been for the four thousand 
 pounds aforesaid, would have doubted whether Mr. 
 Donne cared sufficiently for the result of the election. 
 Jemima thought differently. She watched her 
 father's visitor attentively, with something like the 
 curious observation which a naturalist bestows on 
 a new species of animal. 
 
 " Do you know what Mr. Donne reminds me 
 of, mamma?" said she, one day, as the two sat at 
 work, while the gentlemen were absent canvassing. 
 
 " No! he is not like anybody I ever saw. He 
 quite frightens me, by being so ready to open the 
 door for me if I am going out of the room, and by 
 giving me a chair when I come in. I never saw 
 any one like him. Who is it, Jemima?" 
 
 " Not any person — not any human being, 
 mamma," said Jemima, half smiling. " Do you 
 remember our stopping at Wakefield once, on our 
 way to Scarborough, and there were horse-races 
 going on somewhere, and some of the racers were 
 in the stables at the inn where we dined?"
 
 EUTH. 241 
 
 "Yes! I remember it; but what about that?" 
 
 " Why Richard, somehow, knew one of the 
 jockeys, 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 sometimes very beautiful, mamma. 
 I am sure I should, think it a compliment to be 
 likened to a race-horse, such as the one we saw. 
 But the thing in which they are alike, is the sort 
 of repressed eagerness in both." 
 
 "Eager! Why, I should say thore never was 
 any one cooler than Mr. Donne. Think of the 
 trouble your papa has had this month past, and 
 then remember the slow way in which Mr. Donne 
 moves when he is going out to canvass, and the 
 
 VOL. II. R
 
 242 EUTH. 
 
 low drawling voice in which he questions the people 
 who bring him intelligence. 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 any one tells him ill news about 
 the election ! Have you never seen a dull red 
 light come into his eyes ? 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, pretty creature! Now, Mr. 
 Donne is just as eager as she was, though he may 
 be too proud to show it. Though he seems so 
 gentle, I almost think he is very headstrong 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 
 thought you were going to say he was like little 
 Leonard, when you asked me who he was like."
 
 RUTH. 243 
 
 " Leonard! Oh, mamma, he is not in the least 
 like Leonard. He is twenty times more like my 
 race-horse." 
 
 " Now, my dear Jemima, do be quiet. Your 
 father thinks racing so wrong, that I am sure he 
 would be very seriously displeased if he were to 
 hear you." 
 
 To return to Mr. Bradshaw, and to give one 
 more of his various reasons for wishing to take Mr. 
 Donne to Abermouth. The wealthy Eccleston 
 manufacturer was uncomfortably impressed with an 
 indefinable sense of inferiority to his visitor. It 
 was not in education, for Mr. Bradshaw was a well- 
 educated man ; it was not in power, for, if he 
 chose, the present object of Mr. Donne's life might 
 be utterly defeated ; it did not arise 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 as a very 
 useful man. Whatever this sense of inferiority 
 arose from, Mr. Bradshaw was anxious to relieve 
 
 e2
 
 244 RUTH. 
 
 himself of it, and imagined that if he could make 
 more display of his wealth his object would be 
 obtained. Now his house in Eccleston was old- 
 fashioned, and ill-calculated to exhibit money's 
 worth. His mode of living, though strained to a 
 high pitch just at this time, he became aware was no 
 more than Mr. Donne was accustomed to every day 
 of his life. The first day at dessert, some remark 
 (some opportune remark, as Mr. Bradshaw in his 
 innocence had thought) 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 genera- 
 tions, that refinement and luxury seemed the natural 
 condition of man, and they that dwelt without were 
 in the position of monsters. The absence was 
 noticed ; but not the presence.
 
 RUTH. 245 
 
 Now Mr. Bradshaw knew that the house and 
 grounds of Eagle's Crag were exorbitantly dear, 
 and yet he really thought of purchasing them. And 
 as one means of exhibiting his wealth, and so raisins: 
 himself up to the level of Mr. Donne, he thought 
 that if he could take the latter down to Abermouth, 
 and show 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 Eccleston manufacturer stood on a par 
 with him. 
 
 All these mingled motives caused the determi- 
 nation which made Ruth sit in the little inn-parlour 
 at Abermouth during the wild storm's passage. 
 
 She wondered if she had fulfilled all Mr. Brad- 
 shaw's directions. She looked at the letter. Yes ! 
 everything was done. And now home with her 
 news, through the wet lane, where the little pools 
 by the roadside reflected the deep blue sky and the
 
 246 rutii. 
 
 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 will 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."
 
 247 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Saturday came. Tom, 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 
 Elizabeth, 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.
 
 248 RUTH. 
 
 " I wonder what time they will come at ?" in- . 
 quired 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 our teahalf 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! that would be nice," said they; and tea 
 was ordered accordingly. 
 
 The south-westerly wind had dropped, 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
 
 RUTH. 249 
 
 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 home- 
 wards - in the rapidly increasing dusk, they saw 
 three figures on the sand near the rocks, coining in 
 their direction. 
 
 " Papa and Mr. Donne !" exclaimed Mary. 
 " Now we shall see him !" 
 
 " Which do you make out is him ?" asked 
 Elizabeth. 
 
 " Oh ! the tall one, to be sure. Don't you see 
 how papa always turns to him, as if he was speak- 
 ing to him, and not to the other ?" 
 
 " Who is the other ?" asked Elizabeth.
 
 250 RUTH. 
 
 " Mr. Bradshaw said that Mr. Farquliar 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. 
 
 As soon as the two parties drew near, Mr. Brad- 
 shaw 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 are." 
 
 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."
 
 RUTH. 251 
 
 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 gentle- 
 men being on the outskirts of the party. 
 
 Mr. Bradshaw be^an to Give his little erirls some 
 home news. He told them that Mr. Farquhar was 
 ill, and could not accompany them ; but Jemima 
 and their mamma were quite well. 
 
 The gentleman nearest to Ruth spoke to her. 
 
 " Are you fond of the sea?" asked he. There 
 was no answer, so he repeated his question in a 
 different form. 
 
 " Do you enjoy staying by the sea-side, 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
 
 252 RUTH. 
 
 echo of one voice thrilled through and through. She 
 could have caught at his arm for support, in the awful 
 dizziness which wrapped her up, body and soul. That 
 voice ! No ! if name, and face, and figure, were all 
 changed, that voice was the same which had touched 
 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. 
 Bradshaw, 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
 
 RUTH. 253 
 
 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 
 srood, was so invariably 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. 
 
 4i 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 away. So
 
 254 RUTH. 
 
 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. 
 
 They looked at each other. 
 
 " You are sadly tired," said Elizabeth, soothingly. 
 " Come home, and let me help you to bed. I will 
 tell papa you 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 began 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
 
 RUTH. 255 
 
 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 I'll 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 effort at self-command, she went 
 onwards at 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
 
 256 RUTH. 
 
 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 off 
 the heavy press of pent-up passion. A silent house, 
 with moonlit rooms, or with a faint gloom brooding 
 over the apartments, would have been more to be 
 dreaded. Then, 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.
 
 EUTH. 257 
 
 Bradshaw's displeasure; for it was an understood 
 thing that no one was to be ill or tired in his house- 
 hold 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 suc- 
 ceeded in being rigid in look and movement, and 
 went through her duties to Elizabeth (who preferred 
 remaining with her up-stairs) 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 Elizabeth went to bed. Still Ruth 
 dared not think. Mary would come up-stairs soon ; 
 and with a strange, sick, shrinking yearning, Ruth 
 awaited her — and the crumbs of intelligence she 
 might drop out about him. Ruth's sense of hearing 
 was quickened to miserable intensity as she stood 
 before the chimney-piece, grasping 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 the 
 VOL. II. S
 
 258 RUTH. 
 
 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, far, far away. And 
 through the thoughts of the past came the sharp 
 sounds of 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 the others lis 
 tened ; but Ruth heard the voice and many of the 
 words, though they conveyed no idea to her mind. 
 She was too much stunned even to feel curiou9 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 Ruth seen him? Oh, no! 
 She could not, it was so dark on those stupid sands. 
 Well, never mind, she would see him to-morrow.
 
 RUTH. 259 
 
 She must 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 I 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 room ! 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 to its 
 minutest detail. And when she saw her very present 
 
 S 2
 
 260 RUTH. 
 
 " Now," the strange confusion of agony was too 
 great to be borne, and she cried aloud. Then she 
 was quite dead, and listened as to the sound of 
 galloping armies. 
 
 " If I might see him ! If I might see him ! If 
 I might just ask him why he left me: if I had 
 vexed him in any way ; it was so strange — so cruel ! 
 It was not him, it was his mother," said she, 
 almost fiercely, as if answering 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 you?" asked she, tenderly. "I 
 am so torn and perplexed ! You, who are the 
 father of my child !" 
 
 But that very circumstance, full of such tender 
 meaning in many cases, threw a new light into her
 
 RUTH. 261 
 
 mind/ It changed her from the woman into the 
 mother — the stern guardian of her child. She was 
 still for a time, thinking. Then she began again, 
 but in a low, deep voice, 
 
 " He left me. He might have been hurried off, 
 but he might have inquired — he might have learnt, 
 and 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 while uttering this deter- 
 mination, 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? I 
 who have been praying these years and years to be 
 worthy to be Leonard's mother. My God ! what
 
 262 EUTH. 
 
 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 ex- 
 planation, which should re-establish him in my 
 heart. I who have striven (or made a mock of 
 trying) to 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, but deliver us from 
 evil ;' and yet, somehow, I've been longing to give 
 
 him to his father, who is — who is " she almost 
 
 choked, till at last she cried sharp out, " Oh, my 
 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,
 
 RUTH. 263 
 
 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 again, 
 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. I 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
 
 264 KUTH. 
 
 know her heart), but by-and-by moaning out, amid 
 her sobs and tears (and now for the first time she 
 wept), 
 
 " Oh, my God, help me, for I am very weak. 
 My God ! I pray thee be my rock and my strong 
 fortress, for I of myself am nothing. If I ask in 
 His name, thou wilt give it me. In the name of 
 Jesus Christ I pray for strength to do Thy will !" 
 
 She could not think, or, indeed, remember any- 
 thing 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, 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.
 
 RUTH. 265 
 
 " Mrs. Denbigh, may I come in, please? I am so 
 frightened !" 
 
 It was Elizabeth. Ruth calmed her passionate 
 breathing by one hasty draught of water, and 
 opened the door to the timid girl. 
 
 " Oh, Mrs. Denbigh ! did you ever hear such a 
 night? I am so frightened ! and Mary sleeps so 
 sound." 
 
 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. Denbigh! and 
 there's the window open, I do believe ! Oh, how 
 cold it is !" said she, shivering. 
 
 " Get into my bed, dear !" said Ruth. 
 
 " But do come too ! The candle gives such a 
 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 you were by me." 
 
 Ruth shut the window, and went to bed. Eliza-
 
 266 RUTH. 
 
 beth was all shivering and quaking. To soothe 
 her, Ruth made a great effort; 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 forgotten; and Ruth, worn out by pas- 
 sionate emotion, and obliged to be still for fear of 
 awaking her bedfellow, went off into a short slum- 
 ber, through the depths of which the echoes of her 
 waking sobs quivered up. 
 
 "When she awoke, the grey light of autumnal 
 dawn was in the room. Elizabeth slept on; but 
 Ruth heard the servants about, and the early farm- 
 yard sounds. After she had recovered from the 
 shock of consciousness and recollection, she collected 
 her thoughts with astern calmness. He was here. 
 In a few hours she must meet him. There was no 
 escape, except through subterfuges and contrivances 
 that were both false and cowardly. How it would 
 all turn out she could not say, or even guess. But
 
 RUTH. 267 
 
 of one thing she was clear, and to one thing she 
 would hold fast : that was, that, come what might, 
 she would obey God's law, and, 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 very calm when the break- 
 fast-bell rang. She went down immediately ; because 
 she felt that there was less chance of a recognition, 
 if she were already at her place behind the tea-urn, 
 and 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. Hickson were, and 
 so busy talking election-politics that they did not 
 interrupt their conversation even when they bowed 
 to her. Her pupils sat one on each side of her.
 
 263 RUTH. 
 
 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 governess who knew her place. 
 And by-and-by she felt strangely 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 her heart burnt to see him once 
 again. 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. Ruth was compelled to sit there, 
 and it was good for her that she did. That half 
 hour seemed to separate the present Mr. Donne
 
 RUTH. 269 
 
 very effectively, from her imagination of what Mr. 
 Bellingham had been. She was no analyser; she 
 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 joining in, 
 or expressing any interest in it, unless it somewhere, 
 or somehow, 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 Mr. 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 of many of 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 his attention 
 was caught by her. Until now, seeing his short- 
 sightedness, she had believed herself safe ; now her
 
 270 RUTH. 
 
 face flushed with a painful, miserable blush. But, 
 in an instant, she was strong and quiet. She looked 
 up straight at his face ; and, as if this action took 
 him aback, he dropped his glass, and began eating 
 away with great diligence. She had seen him. He 
 was changed, she knew not how. In fact, the ex- 
 pression, wliich 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 quick eye 
 had recognised, with a sort of strange pride, that 
 the eyes and mouth 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 ; 
 
 * CD *
 
 EUTH. 271 
 
 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 any one else — the 
 sunshine Avithout the positive movement of a smile. 
 The 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.
 
 272 RUTH. 
 
 " 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. What he was paid for, was doing the 
 talking to the electors, not paying attention to 
 the ladies in their families. Mr. Donne had noticed 
 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 
 governess — the respected governess, in such a family 
 as Mr. Bradshaw's? 
 
 Mr. Donne's movements were evidently to be the 
 guide of Mr. Hickson's. Mr. Bradshaw always dis- 
 liked going to church, partly from principle, partly 
 beause he never could find the places in the Prayer-
 
 RUTH. 273 
 
 book. Mr. Donne was in the drawing-room, as 
 Mary came down ready equipped ; lie 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 a very pretty name, I think." 
 
 Mr. Bradshaw looked up. "Why, Mary!" said 
 he, " 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." 
 
 " And I have an aunt called Ruth, Mr. Donne! 
 I 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." 
 
 VOL. II. T
 
 274 RUTH. 
 
 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 in 
 good 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 behind, coming at a rapid pace, a pecu- 
 liar clank of rather high-heeled boots, which gave a 
 springy sound to the walk, that she had known well 
 loner ago. It was like a nightmare, where the Evil 
 dreaded is never avoided, never completely shunned,
 
 RUTH. 275 
 
 but is by one's side at the very moment of triumph 
 in escape. There he was by her side; and there 
 was still a quarter of a mile intervening between 
 her and the church ; but even yet she trusted that 
 he had not recognised 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 indifferent 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 cul- 
 
 T 2
 
 276 RUTH. 
 
 tivation; and yet it lias great charms. It reminds 
 me of some parts of Wales." He breathed deeply, 
 and then added, " You have been in Wales, I 
 believe?" 
 
 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. The church-door would 
 be gained at last ; and in that holy place she would 
 find peace. 
 
 He repeated in a louder tone, so as to compel 
 an answer in order to conceal her agitation from the 
 girls. 
 
 " Have you never been 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 recollections of that time most miserable to me.
 
 RUTH. 277 
 
 I 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 the country " most miserable," as 
 she said. 
 
 Mr. Donne did not dislike the answer, and he 
 positively admired the dignity with which she 
 spoke. His leaving her as he did, must have made 
 her very miserable; 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 complain of with some 
 justice. 
 
 The church was reached. They all went up the 
 middle aisle into the Eagle's Crag pew. He fol- 
 lowed them in, entered himself, and shut the door. 
 Ruth's heart sank as she saw him there ; just oppo-
 
 278 RUTH. 
 
 site 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 tombs, for he was between 
 her and all Li^ht 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 
 never be washed out of her life. But, although 
 goaded and chafed by her thoughts and recollec- 
 tions, 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
 
 KUTH. 279 
 
 opposite to him. She could not listen. The words 
 seemed to be uttered in some world far 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 preternaturally 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 g,t all) a face — a gargoyle I think they 
 call it — at the end of the arch next to the nar- 
 rowing of the nave into the chancel, and in the 
 shadow of that contraction. The face was beau- 
 tiful 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 ex- 
 quisite beauty by the intense expression of suf- 
 fering it conveyed. Any distortion of the face by 
 mental agony, implies that a struggle with circum-
 
 280 RUTH. 
 
 stance 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 whole face, owing 
 to these strange, stony, and yet spiritual eyes, was 
 high and consoling. If mortal gaze had never 
 sought it's meaning before, in the deep shadow 
 where it had been placed long centuries ago, yet 
 Ruth's did now. Who could have imagined such 
 a look ? Who could have witnessed — perhaps felt 
 — such infinite sorrow, and yet dared to lift it up 
 by Faith into a peace so 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 could have 
 been in such perfect harmony. Whatever it was — 
 however it came there — imaginer, carver, sufferer,
 
 RUTH. 281 
 
 all were long passed away. Human art was ended 
 — human life done — human suffering 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 extremest 
 suffering that the hushed world has ever heard of. 
 
 The second lesson for the morning of the 25th of 
 September, is the 26 th chapter of St. Matthew's 
 Gospel. 
 
 And when they prayed again, Ruth's tongue was 
 unloosed, and she also could pray, 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 won- 
 dering 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,
 
 282 RUTH. 
 
 " I have much to say to you — much to explain. 
 I entreat you to give me the opportunity." 
 
 Ruth did not reply. She would not acknowledge 
 that she heard ; but she trembled nevertheless, for 
 the well-remembered voice was low and soft, and 
 had yet its power to thrill. She earnestly desired 
 to know why and how he had left her. It appeared 
 to her, as if that knowledge could alone give her a 
 relief from the restless wondering that distracted 
 her mind, and that one explanation could do no 
 harm. 
 
 " No!" the higher spirit made answer; " it must 
 not be" 
 
 Ruth and the girls had each an umbrella. 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 church- 
 yard stile, Mr. Donne spoke again.
 
 RUTH. 283 
 
 " You are unforgiving," said he. " I only ask 
 you to hear me. I have a right to be heard, Ruth ! 
 I won't believe you are so much changed, as not to 
 listen to rne when I entreat." 
 
 He spoke in a tone of soft complaint. But he 
 himself had done much to destroy the illusion 
 which had hung about his memory for years, when- 
 ever Ruth had allowed herself to think of it. Be- 
 sides which, during the time of her residence in the 
 Benson family, her feeling of what people ought 
 to be had been unconsciously raised and refined; 
 and Mr. Donne, even while she had to struggle 
 against the force of past recollections, repelled her 
 so much by what he was at present, that every 
 speech of his, every minute they were together, 
 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 
 him, 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
 
 281 RUTH. 
 
 all thought as to the character of their former 
 relationship, 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 
 outward influence, every acknowledged law of life, 
 seems to lead us on from strength to strength. It 
 seems strange sometimes, because we notice the coin- 
 cidence; but it is the natural, unavoidable conse- 
 quence of all, truth and goodness being one and the 
 same, and therefore carried out in every circum- 
 stance, 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.
 
 RUTH. 285 
 
 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 must show no sign of weak- 
 ness. But, oh ! the relief, after that walk, to sit in 
 her own room, locked up, so that neither Mary or 
 Elizabeth could come by surprise, and to let her 
 weary frame (weary with being so long braced up 
 to rigidity and stiff quiet) fall into a chair anyhow 
 — all helpless, nerveless, motionless, as if the very 
 ones had melted out of her ! 
 
 The peaceful rest which her mind took was in 
 thinking 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
 
 286 RUTH. 
 
 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 
 innocence, and all the small circumstances which 
 had impelled 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 suffering, she might be purified. What- 
 ever trials, woes, measureless pangs, God might see 
 fit to chastise her with, she would not shrink, if 
 only at last she might come into His presence in 
 Heaven. Alas ! the shrinking 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
 
 RUTH. 287 
 
 turn penitently to Him, He enables us to bear our 
 punishment with a meek and docile heart, " for His 
 mercy endureth for ever." 
 
 Mr. Bradshaw had felt himself rather wanting in 
 proper attention to his guest, inasmuch as he had 
 been unable, 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 hospi- 
 tality 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. Bradsdaw deter- 
 mined to make up for it by extra attention during 
 the remainder of the day. Accordingly he never 
 left Mr. Donne. Whatever wish that gentleman ex- 
 pressed, it was the study of his host to gratify. Did 
 he hint at the pleasure which a walk in such beau- 
 tiful scenery would give him, Mr. Bradshaw was will-
 
 288 RUTH. 
 
 ing to accompany him, although at Eccleston it was 
 a principle with him not to take any walks for plea- 
 sure on a Sunday. 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 returned. 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 uneasy 
 wonder, and a few mental imprecations on his host's 
 polite attention, together with the letter-writing 
 pretence, 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;
 
 RUTH. 289 
 
 but of the children or Ruth there was no sio-n. He 
 ventured on a distant inquiry as to their where- 
 abouts. 
 
 " They dine early ; they are gone to church 
 again. Mrs. Denbigh was a member of the Esta- 
 blishment once ; and, though she attends chapel 
 at home, she seems glad to have an opportunity of 
 going to church." 
 
 Mr. Donne was on the point of asking some 
 further questions about " Mrs. Denbigh," when 
 Mr. Hickson came in, loud-spoken, 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 
 
 VOL. II. U
 
 290 RUTH. 
 
 during the remainder of the day, for he had really 
 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 in-doors 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 
 he must leave the next day — and yet, so close to 
 her, 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
 
 RUTH. 291 
 
 wish of showing hira the land belonging to the 
 house (" very little for fourteen thousand pounds"), 
 and set off wilfully 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 home- 
 wards. 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 very captious all through dinner. He thought 
 it never would be over, and cursed Hickson's inter- 
 minable stories, which were told on purpose to 
 amuse him. His heart gave a fierce bound when 
 he saw her in the drawing-room with the little 
 girls. 
 
 She was reading to them — with how sick and 
 trembling a heart, no words can tell. But she could 
 master and keep down outward signs of her emotion. 
 An hour more to-night (part of which was to be 
 spent in family prayer, and all in the safety of 
 company), another hour in the morning (when all 
 
 u2
 
 292 RUTH. 
 
 would be engaged 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 hence- 
 forward 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 he bent his head over 
 a book, he said, " I implore you ; five minutes 
 alone." 
 
 The little girls could not hear; but Ruth, hemmed 
 in so that no escape was possible, did hear. 
 
 She took sudden courage, and said, in a clear 
 voice, 
 
 " Will you 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
 
 RUTH. 293 
 
 request. Mr. Bradshaw, who was very sleepy after 
 his unusually 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, undisturbed 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. Brad- 
 shaw became particularly wide awake in an instant, 
 and read them a long sermon with great emphasis 
 and unction, winding up with a prayer almost as 
 long. 
 
 Ruth sat with her head drooping, more from 
 exhaustion 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 know- 
 ing her error and her shame, and making a cruel 
 use of such knowledge, she had quite separated him
 
 294 RUTH. 
 
 from the idol of her youth. And yet, for the sake 
 of that first and only love, she would gladly have 
 known what explanation he could offer to account 
 for leaving her. It would have been something 
 gained to her own self-respect, if she had learnt that 
 he was not then, as she felt him to be now, cold and 
 egctistical, caring for no 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 prayers, 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 arrangement, who had been as eager 
 about his canvassing, the week before, as it was pos 
 sible for him to be, but who now wished Eccleston 
 and the Dissenting interest therein very fervently at 
 the devil.
 
 RUTH. 295 
 
 Just as the 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 name; she did not guess the sudden sharp jea- 
 lousy called out by the idea that Leonard was a 
 grown-up man. 
 
 "Who is Leonard?" said he, to the little girl 
 standing 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 learnt 
 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 
 gasping breath, which came out as the carriage drove 
 away — he knew that he had seized the spell to make 
 her listen at last.
 
 296 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 " He will take him away from me. He will 
 take the child from me." 
 
 These words rane like a tolling bell through 
 
 o o o 
 
 Ruth's head. It seemed to her that her doom was 
 certain. Leonard would be taken from her ! She 
 had a firm 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 the 
 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 left her to reason coolly 
 and dispassionately, just then, even if she had been 
 with any one who could furnish her with informa- 
 tion from which to draw correct conclusions. The
 
 RUTH. 297 
 
 one thought haunted her night and day. " He 
 will take my child away from me !" In her dreams 
 she saw Leonard borne away into some dim land, 
 to which she could not follow. Sometimes he sat 
 in a swiftly-moving carriage, at his father's side, and 
 smiled on her as he passed by, as if going to pro- 
 mised pleasure. At another time, he was struggling 
 to return to her; stretching out his little 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 cir- 
 cumstances, all mention of which had ceased years 
 ago ; the very recollection of which seemed buried 
 deep for ever. Besides, 'she feared occasioning dis- 
 cord or commotion in the quiet circle in which she 
 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
 
 298 RUTH. 
 
 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 coward- 
 liness of a person thoroughly worn out with late 
 contest. She was bodily wearied with her spiritual 
 buffeting. 
 
 One morning, three or four days after their de- 
 parture, 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, &c." Ruth 
 glanced rapidly down the page. Yes, here it was ! 
 Sick, fluttering heart, be still ! 
 
 " In the middle of the damsons, when they were
 
 RUTH. 299 
 
 just on the fire, there was a knock at the door. My 
 brother 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 Commons, as member of 
 Parliament for Eccleston, and another gentleman, 
 whose name I never heard. They had come can- 
 vassing; 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
 
 300 RUTH. 
 
 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 were in their 
 different ways, I could not tell Thurstan half the 
 messages the gentlemen left for him. But there was 
 one thing more I 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 
 gentleman, when they were all going away; and I 
 was quite surprised, and very uncomfortable, when
 
 KUTH. 301 
 
 Mr. Donne 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 gen- 
 tleman spoke to Mr. Donne, and I heard them 
 say, ' too barefaced ;' and I shall never forget Mr. 
 Donne's proud, stubborn look back at them, nor 
 his way of saying, ' I allow no one to interfere 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 I 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 elec- 
 tion 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
 
 302 KITH. 
 
 letter wearisome from the multiplicity of the detail?, 
 Ruth craved greedily after more. What had Mr. 
 Donne said to Leonard? Had Leonard liked his 
 new acquaintance Wore they likely to meet 
 again ? After wondering and wondering over these 
 points, Ruth composed herself by the hope that in 
 a day 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 strange hand. It was from Mr. Donne. 
 No name, no initials were given. If it had fallen into 
 another person's hands, they could not have recog- 
 nised the writer, nor guessed to whom it was sent. 
 It contained simply these words: 
 
 " For our child's sake, and in his name, I 
 summon you to appoint a place where I can speak, 
 and yon can listen, undisturbed. The time must be 
 on Sunday; the limit of distance may be the cir- 
 cumference of your power of walking. My words 
 may be commands, but my fond heart entreats.
 
 RUTH. 303 
 
 More I shall not say now, but, remember! your 
 boy's welfare depends on your acceding to tliis 
 request. Address 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 letter 
 altogether unanswered. But suddenly she resolved 
 she would know all, the best, the worst. No 
 cowardly dread of herself, 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.
 
 304 RUTH. 
 
 " Are you not well, clear 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 then it will be over," she murmured — • 
 " 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 for her intent. Without looking
 
 RUTH. 305 
 
 to the rifjhthand or to the left, where comers micdit 
 be seen, she went forwards to the black posts, which, 
 rising above the heaving waters, marked where the 
 fishermen's nets were laid. She went straight to- 
 wards this place, and hardly stinted her pace even 
 where the wet sands were glittering with the 
 receding waves. Once there, she turned round, and 
 in a darting glance, saw that as yet no one was near. 
 She was perhaps half a mile or more from the grey 
 silvery rocks, which sloped away into brown moor- 
 land, interspersed with a field here and there of 
 golden, waving corn. Behind were purple hills, 
 with sharp, clear outlines, touching the sky. A little 
 on one side from where she stood, she saw the white 
 cottages and houses which formed the village of 
 Abermouth, scattered up and down, and, on a 
 windy hill, about a mile inland, she saw the little 
 grey church, where even now many were worship- 
 ping in peace. 
 
 " Pray for me!" she sighed out, as this object 
 caught her eye. 
 
 VOL. II. X
 
 306 IIUTH. 
 
 And now, close under the heathery fields, where 
 they fell softly down and touched the sands, she saw 
 a figure moving in the direction of the great shadow 
 made by the rocks — going towards the very point 
 where the path from Eagle's Crag came down to 
 the shore. 
 
 " It is he I" said she to herself. And she turned 
 round and looked seaward. The tide had turned; 
 the waves were slowly receding, as it' loth to lose the 
 hold they had, so lately, and with such swift bounds, 
 gained on the yellow sands. The eternal moan 
 they have made since the world began filled the 
 ear, broken only by the skirl of the grey sea-birds as 
 they alighted in groups on the edge of the waters, 
 or as they rose up with their measured, balancing 
 motion, and the sun-liidit caught their white breasts. 
 There was no sign of human life to be seen ; no 
 boat, or distant sail, or near shrimper. The black 
 posts there were all that spoke of men's work or 
 labour. Beyond a stretch of the waters, a few pale 
 grey hills showed like films ; their summits clear, 
 though faint, their bases lost in a vapoury mist.
 
 RUTH. 307 
 
 On the hard, echoing sands, and distinct from 
 the ceaseless murmur of the salt sea waves, came 
 footsteps — nearer — nearer. Very near they were 
 when Ruth, unwilling- to show the fear that rioted 
 in her heart, turned round, and faced Mr. Donne. 
 
 He came forward, with both hands extended. 
 
 " This is kind ! my own Ruth," said he. Ruth's 
 arms hung down motionless at her sides. 
 
 " What ! Ruth, have you no word for me?" 
 
 " I have nothing to say," said Ruth. 
 
 " Why, you little revengeful creature ! And so 
 I am to explain all before you will even treat me 
 with decent civility." 
 
 "I do not want explanations," said Ruth, in a 
 trembling tone. " We must not speak of the past. 
 
 You asked me to come in Leonard's — in my child's 
 name, and to hear what you had to say about 
 him." 
 
 " But what I have to say about him relates to 
 you even more. And how can we talk about him 
 without recurring to the past? That past, which 
 
 x2
 
 308 RUTH. 
 
 you try to ignore — I know you cannot do it in 
 your heart — is full of happy recollections to me. 
 Were you not happy in Wales ?" he said, in his 
 tenderest tone. 
 
 But there was no answer ; not even one faint 
 sigh, though he listened intently. 
 
 " You dare not speak ; you dare not answer me. 
 Your heart will not allow you to prevaricate, and 
 you know you were happy." 
 
 Suddenly Ruth's beautiful eyes were raised to 
 him, lull of lucid splendour, but grave and serious 
 in their expression ; and her cheeks, heretofore so 
 faintly tinged with the tenderest blush, flashed into 
 a ruddy glow. 
 
 " I was happy. I do not deny it. Whatever 
 comes, I will not blench from the truth. I have 
 answered you." 
 
 " And yet," replied he, secretly exulting in her 
 admission, and not perceiving the inner strength of 
 which she must have been conscious before she- 
 would have dared to. make it — " and yet, Ruth,
 
 RUTH. 309 
 
 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, 
 coldly. 
 
 " 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 mad. 
 Oh ! what a changed person you are from the 
 sweet, loving creature you were ! I wish you were 
 not so beautiful." She did not reply, but he caught 
 a deep, involuntary sigh. 
 
 " Will you hear me if I speak, though I may
 
 310 RUTII. 
 
 not begin all at once to talk of this boy — a boy of 
 whom any mother — any parent, might be proud? 
 I could see that, Ruth. I have seen him ; he 
 looked like a prince in that cramped, miserable 
 house, and with no earthly advantages. It is a 
 shame he should not have (.very kind of opportunity 
 laid open before him.'' 
 
 There was no sign of maternal ambition on the 
 motionless face, though there might be some little 
 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. 
 
 " 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
 
 RUTH. 311 
 
 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 could she ? 
 
 " We were happy then," continued he, gaining 
 confidence from the sight of her melted mood, and 
 recurring once more to the admission which he 
 considered so much in his favour. " Can such hap- 
 piness never return?" Thus he went on, quickly, 
 anxious to lay before her all he had to offer, before 
 she should fully understand his meaning. 
 
 " If you would consent, Leonard should be al- 
 ways 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.
 
 312 KUTH. 
 
 " I said that I was happy, because I had asked 
 God to protect and help mc — and I dared not tell a 
 lie. I was happy. Oh! what is happiness or 
 misery 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 inco- 
 herent. 
 
 " I dare not think of happiness — I must not look 
 forward to sorrow. God did not put me here to 
 consider 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. I 
 offer you my heart, my life — I offer to place Leonard 
 wherever you would have him placed. I have the 
 power and the means to advance him in any path 
 of life you choose. All who have shown kind- 
 ness to you shall be rewarded by me, with a grati- 
 tude even surpassing your own. If there is any-
 
 RUTH. 313 
 
 thing else I can do that you can suggest, I will 
 do it." - 
 
 " Listen to me !" said Ruth, now that the idea of 
 what he proposed had entered her mind. " When 
 I said that I was happy with you long ago, I was 
 choked with shame as I said it. And yet it may 
 be a vain, false excuse that I make for myself. I 
 was very young ; I did not know how such a life 
 was against God's pure and holy will — at least, not 
 as I know it now ; and I tell you truth — all the 
 days of my years since I have gone 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 shrink from my child — 
 from Mr. Benson, from his sister, from the innocent 
 girls whom I teach — nay, even I have cowered 
 away from God himself ; and what I did wrong 
 then, I did blindly to what I should do now if I 
 listened to you." 
 
 She was so strongly agitated that she put her 
 hands over her face, and sobbed without restraint.
 
 314 RUTH. 
 
 Then, taking them away, she looked at him with a 
 glowing face, 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 say). He was so 
 struck anew by her beauty, and understood 
 her so little, that he believed that she only 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 of her, which 
 he had expected would be a prominent feature — 
 the greatest obstacle he had to encounter. The 
 deep sense of penitence she expressed, he mistook 
 for earthly shame; which he imagined he could 
 soon soothe away. 
 
 "Yes, I have much more to say. I have not 
 said half. I cannot tell you how fondly I will — 
 how fondly I do love you — how my life shall be 
 spent in ministering to your wishes. Money, I see 
 — I know, you despise "
 
 RUTH. 315 
 
 " Mr. Bellingham ! I will not stay to hear you 
 speak to me so again. I have been sinful, but it is 
 
 not you who should " She could not speak, 
 
 she was so choking with passionate sorrow. 
 
 He wanted to calm her, as he saw her shaken 
 with repressed sobs. He put his hand on her arm. 
 She shook it off impatiently, and moved away in 
 an instant. 
 
 " Ruth !" said he, nettled by her action of re- 
 pugnance, " I begin to think you never loved me." 
 
 " I ! — I never loved you ! Do you dare to say so?" 
 
 Her eyes flamed on him as she spoke. Her red, 
 round lip curled into beautiful contempt. 
 
 "Why do you shrink so from me ?" said he, in* 
 his turn getting impatient. 
 
 "I did not come here to be spoken to in this 
 way," said she. " I came, if by any chance I could 
 do Leonard good. I would submit to many humi- 
 liations for his sake — but to no more from you." 
 
 " Are not you afraid to brave me so ?" said 
 he. " Don't you know how much you are in my 
 power ?"
 
 316 RUTH. 
 
 She was silent. She longed to go away, but 
 dreaded lest he should follow her, where she might 
 be less subject to interruption than she was here — 
 near the fisherman's nets, which the receding tide 
 was leaving every moment barer and more bare, 
 and the posts they were fastened to more blackly 
 uprising above the waters. 
 
 Mr. Donne put his hands on her arms as they 
 hung down before her — her hands tightly clasped 
 together. 
 
 " Ask me to let you go," said he. " 1 will, if you 
 will ask me." He looked very fierce and passionate 
 and determined. The vehemence of his action took 
 Ruth by surprise, and the painful tightness of the 
 grasp almost made her exclaim. But she was quite 
 still and mute. 
 
 "Ask me," said he, giving her a little shake. 
 She did not speak. Her eyes, fixed on the distant 
 shore, were slowly filling with tears. Suddenly a 
 light came through the mist that obscured them, 
 and the shut lips parted. She saw some distant 
 object that gave her hope.
 
 RUTH. 317 
 
 "It is Stephen Bromley." said she. " He is 
 coming to his nets. They say he is a very desperate, 
 violent man, but he will protect me." 
 
 " You obstinate, wilful creature !" said Mr. Donne, 
 releasing his grasp. " You forget that one word of 
 mine could undeceive all these good people at Eccle- 
 ston ; and that if I spoke out ever so little, they 
 would throw you off in an instant. Now !" he con- 
 tinued, " do you understand how much you are in 
 my power ?" 
 
 " Mr. and Miss Benson know all — they have not 
 thrown me off," Ruth gasped out. " Oh ! for 
 Leonard's sake ! you would not be so cruel." 
 
 " Then do not you be cruel to him — to me. 
 Think once more I" 
 
 " I think once more ;" she spoke solemnly. " To 
 save Leonard from the shame and agony of know- 
 ing my disgrace, I would lie down and die. Oh ! 
 perhaps it would be best for him — for me, if I 
 might ; my death would be a stingless grief —but to 
 go back into sin would be the real cruelty to him. 
 The errors of my youth may be washed away by
 
 318 RUTH. 
 
 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, how could I 
 teach Leonard God's holy will ? I should not mind 
 his knowing my past sin, compared to the awful 
 corruption it would be if he knew me living now, 
 
 as you would have me, lost to all i'ear of God " 
 
 Her speech was broken by sobs. " Whatever may 
 be my doom — God is just — I leave myself in 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, and clasped 
 and wreathed her hands together tight. Then she 
 said : " You have humbled me enough, sir. I 
 shall leave you now." 
 
 She turned away resolutely. The dark, grey 
 fisherman was at hand. Mr. Donne folded his arms, 
 and set his teeth, and looked after her. 
 
 "What a stately step she has! How majestic 
 and graceful all her attitudes were! She thinks 
 she has baffled me now. We will try something 
 more, and bid a higher price." He unfolded his
 
 RUTH. 319 
 
 arms, and began to follow her. lie gained upon 
 her, for her beautiful walk was now wavering and 
 unsteady. The works which had kept her in motion 
 were running down fast. 
 
 " Ruth !" said he, overtaking her. " You shall 
 hear me once more. Ay, look round! Your 
 fisherman is near. He may hear me, if he chooses 
 — hear your triumph. I am come to offer to marry 
 you, Ruth; come what may, I will have you. Nay 
 — I will make you hear me. I will hold this hand 
 till you have heard me. To-morrow I will speak 
 to any one in Eccleston you like — to Mr. Brad- 
 
 shaw ; Mr. , the little minister, I mean. We 
 
 can make it worth while for him to keep our secret, 
 and no one else need know but what you are really 
 Mrs. Denbigh. Leonard shall still bear this name, but 
 in all things else he shall be treated as my son. He 
 and you would grace any situation. I will take 
 care the highest paths are open to him !' ? 
 
 He looked to see the lovely face brighten into 
 sudden joy; on the contrary, the head was still 
 hung down with a heavy droop.
 
 320 * KUTH. 
 
 " I cannot," said she; her voice was very faint 
 and low. 
 
 " It is sudden for you, my dearest. But be calm 
 It will all be easily managed. Leave it to me." 
 
 " I cannot," repeated she, more distinct and clear, 
 though still very low. 
 
 "Why! what on earth makes you say that?" 
 asked he, in a mood to be irritated by any repetitioi 
 of such words. 
 
 " I do not love you. I did once. Don't say ] 
 did not love you then ; but I do not now. I could 
 never love you again. All you have said and done 
 since you came with Mr. Bradshaw to Abermouth 
 first, has only made me wonder how I ever could 
 have loved you. We are very far apart. The time 
 that has pressed down my life like brands of hot 
 iron, and scarred me for ever, has been nothing to 
 you. You have talked of it with no sound of 
 moaning in your voice — no shadow over the bright- 
 ness 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 I
 
 RUTH. 321 
 
 will not plead anything, for God knows all 
 
 But this is only one piece of our great differ- 
 
 ence " 
 
 " You mean that I am no saint," he said, im- 
 patient at her speech. " Granted. But people who 
 are no saints have made very good husbands before 
 now. Come, don't let any morbid, overstrained 
 conscientiousness interfere with substantial happi- 
 ness — happiness both to you and to me — for I am 
 sure I can make you happy — ay ! and make you 
 love me, too, in spite of your pretty 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 one thing needed to confirm me, 
 you have named it. You shall have nothing to do 
 with my boy, by my consent, mucli 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. 
 
 VOL. II. Y
 
 322 RUTH. 
 
 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 judgment, 
 the fault is yours. If there were no other reason to 
 prevent our marriage but the one fact that it would 
 bring 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 herself along till she reached the little path, 
 
 more like a rude staircase than anything else, by 
 
 which she had to climb to the house. 
 
 She did not turn round for some time after she 
 was fairly lost to the sight of any one on the shore ; 
 
 she clambered on, almost stunned by the rapid 
 
 beating of her heart. Her eyes were hot and dry ; 
 
 and at last became as if she were suddenly blind. 
 
 Unable to go on, she tottered into the tangled
 
 RUTH. 323 
 
 underwood which grew among the stones, filling 
 every niche and crevice, and little shelving space, 
 with green and delicate tracery. She sank down 
 behind a great overhanging rock, which hid her 
 from any one coming up the path. An ash-tree 
 was rooted in 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 had no strength, 
 no power of volition to move a finger. She could 
 not think or remember. She was literally stunned. 
 The first sharp sensation which roused her from her 
 torpor was a quick desire to see him once more ; 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
 
 324 RUTH. 
 
 no one there. She went slowly down to her old 
 place, crying 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 sensa- 
 tion of intense bodily fatigue ; and her soul had lost 
 the power of throwing itself forward, or contemplat- 
 ing anything beyond the dreary present, when the 
 expanse of grey, wild, bleak moors, stretching wide 
 away below a sunless 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 define 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.
 
 RUTH. 325 
 
 " I am so weary! I am so weary!" she moaned 
 aloud 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 behind the distant purple hills. The 
 whole western sky was one flame of fire. Ruth for- 
 got herself in looking at the gorgeous sight. She 
 sat up gazing, and, as she gazed, the tears dried on 
 her cheeks; and, somehow, all human care and sor- 
 row 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
 
 326 RUTH. 
 
 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 movements seem — so far 
 away was her intelligence from all that was passing 
 around her — so hushed and strange were the tones 
 of her voice ! They had letters from home an- 
 nouncing 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. 
 
 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 
 Bradshaw 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
 
 KUTH. 327 
 
 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 languor to eager, vehement energy. 
 Body and mind seemed strained to exertion. Every 
 plan that could facilitate packing and winding-up 
 affairs at Abermouth, every errand and arrange- 
 ment 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 recognise — and saw and 
 recognised all the more for such mad determination
 
 328 RUTH. 
 
 — which is not the true shield against the bitterness 
 of the arrows of Death. 
 
 When the sea-side 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 realisation 
 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." 
 
 END OF VOL. II. 
 
 C. WHITING, BEAUFORT HOUSE, STRAND.
 
 
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