The Project Gutenberg Etext of Ruth
by Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell
(#13 in our series by Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell)

Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the
copyright laws for your country before distributing this or any other
Project Gutenberg file.

We encourage you to keep this file, exactly as it is, on your
own disk, thereby keeping an electronic path open for future
readers.  Please do not remove this.

This header should be the first thing seen when anyone starts to
view the etext. Do not change or edit it without written permission.
The words are carefully chosen to provide users with the
information they need to understand what they may and may not
do with the etext.


**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts**

**Etexts Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971**

*****These Etexts Are Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!*****

Information on contacting Project Gutenberg to get etexts, and
further information, is included below.  We need your donations.

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a 501(c)(3)
organization with EIN [Employee Identification Number] 64-6221541



Title: Ruth

Author: Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell

Release Date: July, 2003  [Etext #4275]
[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
[This file was first posted on December 26, 2001]

Edition: 10

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

The Project Gutenberg Etext of Ruth
by Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell
******This file should be named gruth10.txt or gruth10.zip******

Corrected EDITIONS of our etexts get a new NUMBER, gruth11.txt
VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, gruth10a.txt

This etext was produced by Charles Aldarondo.

Project Gutenberg Etexts are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US
unless a copyright notice is included.  Thus, we usually do not
keep etexts in compliance with any particular paper edition.

We are now trying to release all our etexts one year in advance
of the official release dates, leaving time for better editing.
Please be encouraged to tell us about any error or corrections,
even years after the official publication date.

Please note neither this listing nor its contents are final til
midnight of the last day of the month of any such announcement.
The official release date of all Project Gutenberg Etexts is at
Midnight, Central Time, of the last day of the stated month.  A
preliminary version may often be posted for suggestion, comment
and editing by those who wish to do so.

Most people start at our sites at:
http://gutenberg.net or
http://promo.net/pg

These Web sites include award-winning information about Project
Gutenberg, including how to donate, how to help produce our new
etexts, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter (free!).


Those of you who want to download any Etext before announcement
can get to them as follows, and just download by date.  This is
also a good way to get them instantly upon announcement, as the
indexes our cataloguers produce obviously take a while after an
announcement goes out in the Project Gutenberg Newsletter.

http://www.ibiblio.org/gutenberg/etext03 or
ftp://ftp.ibiblio.org/pub/docs/books/gutenberg/etext03

Or /etext02, 01, 00, 99, 98, 97, 96, 95, 94, 93, 92, 92, 91 or 90

Just search by the first five letters of the filename you want,
as it appears in our Newsletters.


Information about Project Gutenberg (one page)

We produce about two million dollars for each hour we work.  The
time it takes us, a rather conservative estimate, is fifty hours
to get any etext selected, entered, proofread, edited, copyright
searched and analyzed, the copyright letters written, etc.   Our
projected audience is one hundred million readers.  If the value
per text is nominally estimated at one dollar then we produce $2
million dollars per hour in 2001 as we release over 50 new Etext
files per month, or 500 more Etexts in 2000 for a total of 4000+
If they reach just 1-2% of the world's population then the total
should reach over 300 billion Etexts given away by year's end.

The Goal of Project Gutenberg is to Give Away One Trillion Etext
Files by December 31, 2001.  [10,000 x 100,000,000 = 1 Trillion]
This is ten thousand titles each to one hundred million readers,
which is only about 4% of the present number of computer users.

At our revised rates of production, we will reach only one-third
of that goal by the end of 2001, or about 4,000 Etexts.  We need
funding, as well as continued efforts by volunteers, to maintain
or increase our production and reach our goals.

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation has been created
to secure a future for Project Gutenberg into the next millennium.

We need your donations more than ever!

As of November, 2001, contributions are being solicited from people
and organizations in: Alabama, Arkansas, Connecticut, Delaware,
Florida, Georgia, Idaho, Illinois, Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Kentucky,
Louisiana, Maine, Michigan, Missouri, Montana, Nebraska, Nevada, New
Jersey, New Mexico, New York, North Carolina, Oklahoma, Oregon,
Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, South Carolina, South Dakota, Tennessee,
Texas, Utah, Vermont, Virginia, Washington, West Virginia, Wisconsin,
and Wyoming.

*In Progress

We have filed in about 45 states now, but these are the only ones
that have responded.

As the requirements for other states are met, additions to this list
will be made and fund raising will begin in the additional states.
Please feel free to ask to check the status of your state.

In answer to various questions we have received on this:

We are constantly working on finishing the paperwork to legally
request donations in all 50 states.  If your state is not listed and
you would like to know if we have added it since the list you have,
just ask.

While we cannot solicit donations from people in states where we are
not yet registered, we know of no prohibition against accepting
donations from donors in these states who approach us with an offer to
donate.

International donations are accepted, but we don't know ANYTHING about
how to make them tax-deductible, or even if they CAN be made
deductible, and don't have the staff to handle it even if there are
ways.

All donations should be made to:

Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
PMB 113
1739 University Ave.
Oxford, MS 38655-4109

Contact us if you want to arrange for a wire transfer or payment
method other than by check or money order.


The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation has been approved by
the US Internal Revenue Service as a 501(c)(3) organization with EIN
[Employee Identification Number] 64-622154.  Donations are
tax-deductible to the maximum extent permitted by law.  As fundraising
requirements for other states are met, additions to this list will be
made and fundraising will begin in the additional states.

We need your donations more than ever!

You can get up to date donation information at:

http://www.gutenberg.net/donation.html


***

If you can't reach Project Gutenberg,
you can always email directly to:

Michael S. Hart <hart@pobox.com>

Prof. Hart will answer or forward your message.

We would prefer to send you information by email.


**The Legal Small Print**


(Three Pages)

***START**THE SMALL PRINT!**FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS**START***
Why is this "Small Print!" statement here? You know: lawyers.
They tell us you might sue us if there is something wrong with
your copy of this etext, even if you got it for free from
someone other than us, and even if what's wrong is not our
fault. So, among other things, this "Small Print!" statement
disclaims most of our liability to you. It also tells you how
you may distribute copies of this etext if you want to.

*BEFORE!* YOU USE OR READ THIS ETEXT
By using or reading any part of this PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm
etext, you indicate that you understand, agree to and accept
this "Small Print!" statement. If you do not, you can receive
a refund of the money (if any) you paid for this etext by
sending a request within 30 days of receiving it to the person
you got it from. If you received this etext on a physical
medium (such as a disk), you must return it with your request.

ABOUT PROJECT GUTENBERG-TM ETEXTS
This PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm etext, like most PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm etexts,
is a "public domain" work distributed by Professor Michael S. Hart
through the Project Gutenberg Association (the "Project").
Among other things, this means that no one owns a United States copyright
on or for this work, so the Project (and you!) can copy and
distribute it in the United States without permission and
without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth
below, apply if you wish to copy and distribute this etext
under the "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark.

Please do not use the "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark to market
any commercial products without permission.

To create these etexts, the Project expends considerable
efforts to identify, transcribe and proofread public domain
works. Despite these efforts, the Project's etexts and any
medium they may be on may contain "Defects". Among other
things, Defects may take the form of incomplete, inaccurate or
corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged
disk or other etext medium, a computer virus, or computer
codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.

LIMITED WARRANTY; DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES
But for the "Right of Replacement or Refund" described below,
[1] Michael Hart and the Foundation (and any other party you may
receive this etext from as a PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm etext) disclaims
all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including
legal fees, and [2] YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE OR
UNDER STRICT LIABILITY, OR FOR BREACH OF WARRANTY OR CONTRACT,
INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE
OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES, EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE
POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGES.

If you discover a Defect in this etext within 90 days of
receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any)
you paid for it by sending an explanatory note within that
time to the person you received it from. If you received it
on a physical medium, you must return it with your note, and
such person may choose to alternatively give you a replacement
copy. If you received it electronically, such person may
choose to alternatively give you a second opportunity to
receive it electronically.

THIS ETEXT IS OTHERWISE PROVIDED TO YOU "AS-IS". NO OTHER
WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, ARE MADE TO YOU AS
TO THE ETEXT OR ANY MEDIUM IT MAY BE ON, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR A
PARTICULAR PURPOSE.

Some states do not allow disclaimers of implied warranties or
the exclusion or limitation of consequential damages, so the
above disclaimers and exclusions may not apply to you, and you
may have other legal rights.

INDEMNITY
You will indemnify and hold Michael Hart, the Foundation,
and its trustees and agents, and any volunteers associated
with the production and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm
texts harmless, from all liability, cost and expense, including
legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the
following that you do or cause:  [1] distribution of this etext,
[2] alteration, modification, or addition to the etext,
or [3] any Defect.

DISTRIBUTION UNDER "PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm"
You may distribute copies of this etext electronically, or by
disk, book or any other medium if you either delete this
"Small Print!" and all other references to Project Gutenberg,
or:

[1]  Only give exact copies of it.  Among other things, this
     requires that you do not remove, alter or modify the
     etext or this "small print!" statement.  You may however,
     if you wish, distribute this etext in machine readable
     binary, compressed, mark-up, or proprietary form,
     including any form resulting from conversion by word
     processing or hypertext software, but only so long as
     *EITHER*:

     [*]  The etext, when displayed, is clearly readable, and
          does *not* contain characters other than those
          intended by the author of the work, although tilde
          (~), asterisk (*) and underline (_) characters may
          be used to convey punctuation intended by the
          author, and additional characters may be used to
          indicate hypertext links; OR

     [*]  The etext may be readily converted by the reader at
          no expense into plain ASCII, EBCDIC or equivalent
          form by the program that displays the etext (as is
          the case, for instance, with most word processors);
          OR

     [*]  You provide, or agree to also provide on request at
          no additional cost, fee or expense, a copy of the
          etext in its original plain ASCII form (or in EBCDIC
          or other equivalent proprietary form).

[2]  Honor the etext refund and replacement provisions of this
     "Small Print!" statement.

[3]  Pay a trademark license fee to the Foundation of 20% of the
     gross profits you derive calculated using the method you
     already use to calculate your applicable taxes.  If you
     don't derive profits, no royalty is due.  Royalties are
     payable to "Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation"
     the 60 days following each date you prepare (or were
     legally required to prepare) your annual (or equivalent
     periodic) tax return.  Please contact us beforehand to
     let us know your plans and to work out the details.

WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO?
Project Gutenberg is dedicated to increasing the number of
public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed
in machine readable form.

The Project gratefully accepts contributions of money, time,
public domain materials, or royalty free copyright licenses.
Money should be paid to the:
"Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation."

If you are interested in contributing scanning equipment or
software or other items, please contact Michael Hart at:
hart@pobox.com

[Portions of this header are copyright (C) 2001 by Michael S. Hart
and may be reprinted only when these Etexts are free of all fees.]
[Project Gutenberg is a TradeMark and may not be used in any sales
of Project Gutenberg Etexts or other materials be they hardware or
software or any other related product without express permission.]

*END THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.10/04/01*END*




This etext was produced by Charles Aldarondo.




ELIZABETH GASKELL
RUTH


CHAPTER I


THE DRESSMAKER'S APPRENTICE AT WORK

There is an assize-town in one of the eastern counties which was
much distinguished by the Tudor Sovereigns, and, in consequence
of their favour and protection, attained a degree of importance
that surprises the modern traveller.

A hundred years ago its appearance was that of picturesque
grandeur. The old houses, which were the temporary residences of
such of the county families as contented themselves with the
gaieties of a provincial town, crowded the streets, and gave them
the irregular but noble appearance yet to be seen in the cities
of Belgium. The sides of the streets had a quaint richness, from
the effect of the gables, and the stacks of chimneys which cut
against the blue sky above; while, if the eye fell lower down,
the attention was arrested by all kinds of projections in the
shape of balcony and oriel; and it was amusing to see the
infinite variety of windows that had been crammed into the walls
long before Mr. Pitt's days of taxation. The streets below
suffered from all these projections and advanced stories above;
they were dark, and ill-paved with large, round, jolting pebbles,
and with no side-path protected by kerb-stones; there were no
lamp-posts for long winter nights; and no regard was paid to the
wants of the middle class, who neither drove about in coaches of
their own, nor were carried by their own men in their own sedans
into the very halls of their friends. The professional men and
their wives, the shopkeepers and their spouses, and all such
people, walked about at considerable peril both night and day.
The broad, unwieldy carriages hemmed them up against the houses
in the narrow streets. The inhospitable houses projected their
flights of steps almost into the carriage-way, forcing
pedestrians again into the danger they had avoided for twenty or
thirty paces. Then, at night, the only light was derived from the
glaring, flaring oil-lamps, hung above the doors of the more
aristocratic mansions; just allowing space for the passers-by to
become visible, before they again disappeared into the darkness,
where it was no uncommon thing for robbers to be in waiting for
their prey.

The traditions of those bygone times, even to the smallest social
particular, enable one to understand more clearly the
circumstances which contributed to the formation of character.
The daily life into which people are born, and into which they
are absorbed before they are well aware, forms chains which only
one in a hundred has moral strength enough to despise, and to
break when the right time comes--when an inward necessity for
independent individual action arises, which is superior to all
outward conventionalities. Therefore, it is well to know what
were the chains of dally domestic habit, which were the natural
leading strings of our forefathers before they learnt to go
alone.

The picturesqueness of those ancient streets has departed now.
The Astleys, the Dunstans, the Waverhams--names of power in that
district--go up duly to London in the season, and have Sold their
residences in the county town fifty years ago, or more. And when
the county town lost its attraction for the Astleys, the
Dunstans, the Waverhams, how could it be supposed that the
Domvilles, the Bextons, and the Wildes would continue to go and
winter there in their second-rate houses, and with their
increased expenditure? So the grand old houses stood empty
awhile; and then speculators ventured to purchase, and to turn
the deserted mansions into many smaller dwellings, fitted for
professional men, or even (bend your ear lower, lest the shade of
Marmaduke, first Baron Waverham, hear) into shops!

Even that was not so very bad, compared with the next innovation
on the old glories. The shopkeepers found out that the once
fashionable street was dark, and that the dingy light did not
show off their goods to advantage; the surgeon could not see to
draw his patients' teeth; the lawyer had to ring for candles an
hour earlier than he was accustomed to do when living in a more
plebeian street. In short, by mutual consent, the whole front of
one side of the street was pulled down, and rebuilt in the flat,
mean, unrelieved style of George the Third. The body of the
houses was too solidly grand to submit to alteration; so people
were occasionally surprised, after passing through a
commonplace-looking shop, to find themselves at the foot of a
grand carved oaken staircase, lighted by a window of stained
glass, storied all over with armorial bearings. Up such a
stair--past such a window (through which the moonlight fell on
her with a glory of many colours)--Ruth Hilton passed wearily one
January night, now many years ago. I call it night; but, strictly
speaking, it was morning. Two o'clock in the morning chimed forth
the old bells of St. Saviour's. And yet, more than a dozen girls
still sat in the room into which Ruth entered, stitching away as
if for very life, not daring to gape, or show any outward
manifestation of sleepiness. They only sighed a little when Ruth
told Mrs. Mason the hour of the night, as the result of her
errand; for they knew that, stay up as late as they might, the
work-hours of the next day must begin at eight, and their young
limbs were very weary.

Mrs. Mason worked away as hard as any of them; but she was older
and tougher; and, besides, the gains were hers. But even she
perceived that some rest was needed. "Young ladies! there will be
an interval allowed of half-an-hour. Ring the bell, Miss Sutton.
Martha shall bring you up some bread, and cheese, and beer. You
will be so good as to eat it standing--away from the dresses--and
to have your hands washed ready for work when I return. In
half-an-hour," said she once more, very distinctly; and then she
left the room.

It was curious to watch the young girls as they instantaneously
availed themselves of Mrs. Mason's absence. One fat, particularly
heavy-looking damsel laid her head on her folded arms and was
asleep in a moment; refusing to be wakened for her share in the
frugal supper, but springing up with a frightened look at the
sound of Mrs. Mason's returning footstep, even while it was still
far off on the echoing stairs. Two or three others huddled over
the scanty fireplace, which, with every possible economy of
space, and no attempt whatever at anything of grace or ornament,
was inserted in the slight, flat-looking wall, that had been run
up by the present owner of the property to portion off this
division of the grand old drawing-room of the mansion. Some
employed the time in eating their bread and cheese, with as
measured and incessant a motion of the jaws (and almost as
stupidly placid an expression of countenance), as you may see in
cows ruminating in the first meadow you happen to pass.

Some held up admiringly the beautiful ball-dress in progress,
while others examined the effect, backing from the object to be
criticised in the true artistic manner. Others stretched
themselves into all sorts of postures to relieve the weary
muscles; one or two gave vent to all the yawns, coughs, and
sneezes that bad been pent up so long in the presence of Mrs.
Mason. But Ruth Hilton sprang to the large old window, and
pressed against it as a bird presses against the bars of its
cage. She put back the blind, and gazed into the quiet moonlight
night. It was doubly light--almost as much so as day--for
everything was covered with the deep snow which had been falling
silently ever since the evening before. The window was in a
square recess; the old strange little panes of glass had been
replaced by those which gave more light. A little distance off,
the feathery branches of a larch waved softly to and fro in the
scarcely perceptible night-breeze. Poor old larch! the time had
been when it had stood in a pleasant lawn, with the tender grass
creeping caressingly up its very trunk; but now the lawn was
divided into yards and squalid back premises, and the larch was
pent up and girded about with flagstones. The snow lay thick on
its boughs, and now and then fell noiselessly down. The old
stables had been added to, and altered into a dismal street of
mean-looking houses, back to back with the ancient mansions. And
over all these changes from grandeur to squalor, bent down the
purple heavens with their unchanging splendour!

Ruth pressed her hot forehead against the cold glass, and
strained her aching eyes in gazing out on the lovely sky of a
winter's night. The impulse was strong upon her to snatch up a
shawl, and, wrapping it round her head, to sally forth and enjoy
the glory; and time was when that impulse would have been
instantly followed; but now, Ruth's eyes filled with tears, and
she stood quite still dreaming of the days that were gone. Some
one touched her shoulder while her thoughts were far away,
remembering past January nights, which had resembled this, and
were yet so different.

"Ruth, love," whispered a girl, who had unwillingly distinguished
herself by a long hard fit of coughing, "come and have some
supper. You don't know yet how it helps one through the night."

"One run--one blow of the fresh air would do me more good," said
Ruth.

"Not such a night as this," replied the other, shivering at the
very thought.

"And why not such a night as this, Jenny?" answered Ruth. "Oh! at
home I have many a time run up the lane all the way to the mill,
just to see the icicles hang on the great wheel; and, when I was
once out, I could hardly find in my heart to come m, even to
mother, sitting by the fire;--even to mother," she added, in a
low, melancholy tone, which had something of inexpressible
sadness in it. "Why, Jenny!" said she, rousing herself, but not
before her eyes were swimming in tears, "own, now, that you never
saw those dismal, hateful, tumble-down old houses there look half
so--what shall I call them? almost beautiful--as they do now,
with that soft, pure, exquisite covering; and if they are so
improved, think of what trees, and grass, and ivy must be on such
a night as this."

Jenny could not be persuaded into admiring the winter's night,
which to her came only as a cold and dismal time, when her cough
was more troublesome, and the pain in her side worse than usual.
But she put her arm round Ruth's neck, and stood by her, glad
that the orphan apprentice, who was not yet inured to the
hardship of a dressmaker's workroom, should find so much to give
her pleasure in such a common occurrence as a frosty night.

They remained deep in separate trains of thought till Mrs.
Mason's step was heard, when each returned supperless, but
refreshed, to her seat.

Ruth's place was the coldest and the darkest in the room,
although she liked it the best; she had instinctively chosen it
for the sake of the wall opposite to her, on which was a remnant
of the beauty of the old drawing-room, which must once have been
magnificent, to judge from the faded specimen left. It was
divided into panels of pale sea-green, picked out with white and
gold; and on these panels were painted--were thrown with the
careless, triumphant hand of a master--the most lovely wreaths of
flowers, profuse and luxuriant beyond description, and so
real-looking, that you could almost fancy you smelt their
fragrance, and heard the south wind go softly rustling in and out
among the crimson roses--the branches of purple and white
lilac--the floating golden-tressed laburnum boughs. Besides
these, there were stately white lilies, sacred to the
Virgin--hollyhocks, fraxinella, monk's-hood, pansies, primroses;
every flower which blooms profusely in charming old-fashioned
country gardens was there, depicted among its graceful foliage,
but not in the wild disorder in which I have enumerated them. At
the bottom of the panel lay a holly branch, whose stiff
straightness was ornamented by a twining drapery of English ivy,
and mistletoe, and winter aconite; while down either side hung
pendent garlands of spring and autumn flowers; and, crowning all,
carne gorgeous summer with the sweet musk-roses, and the
rich-coloured flowers of June and July.

Surely Monnoyer, or whoever the dead-and-gone artist might be,
would have been gratified to know the pleasure his handiwork,
even in its wane, had power to give to the heavy heart of a young
girl; for they conjured up visions of other sister-flowers that
grew, and blossomed, and withered away in her early home. Mrs.
Mason was particularly desirous that her workwomen should exert
themselves to-night, for, on the next, the annual hunt-ball was
to take place. It was the one gaiety of the town since the
assize-balls had been discontinued. Many were the dresses she had
promised should be sent home "without fail" the next morning; she
had not let one slip through her fingers, for fear, if it did, it
might fall into the hands of the rival dressmaker, who had just
established herself in the very same street.

She determined to administer a gentle stimulant to the flagging
spirits, and with a little preliminary cough to attract
attention, she began--

"I may as well inform you, young ladies, that I have been
requested this year, as on previous occasions, to allow some of
my young people to attend in the antechamber of the assembly-room
with sandal ribbon, pins, and such little matters, and to be
ready to repair any accidental injury to the ladies' dresses. I
shall send four--of the most diligent." She laid a marked
emphasis on the last words, but without much effect; they were
too sleepy to care for any of the pomps and vanities, or, indeed,
for any of the comforts of this world, excepting one sole
thing--their beds.

Mrs. Mason was a very worthy woman, but, like many other worthy
women, she had her foibles; and one (very natural to her calling)
was to pay an extreme regard to appearances. Accordingly, she had
already selected in her own mind the four girls who were most
likely to do credit to the "establishment;" and these were
secretly determined upon, although it was very well to promise
the reward to the most diligent. She was really not aware of the
falseness of this conduct; being an adept in that species of
sophistry with which people persuade themselves that what they
wish to do is right.

At last there was no resisting the evidence of weariness. They
were told to go to bed; but even that welcome command was
languidly obeyed. Slowly they folded up their work, heavily they
moved about, until at length all was put away, and they trooped
up the wide, dark staircase.

"Oh! how shall I get through five years of these terrible nights!
in that close room! and in that oppressive stillness! which lets
every sound of the thread be heard as it goes eternally backwards
and forwards," sobbed out Ruth, as she threw herself on her bed,
without even undressing herself.

"Nay, Ruth, you know it won't be always as it has been to-night.
We often get to bed by ten o'clock, and by-and-by you won't mind
the closeness of the room. You're worn-out to-night, or you would
not have minded the sound of the needle; I never hear it. Come,
let me unfasten you," said Jenny.

"What is the use of undressing? We must be up again and at work
in three hours."

"And in those three hours you may get a great deal of rest, if
you will but undress yourself and fairly go to bed. Come, love."

Jenny's advice was not resisted; but before Ruth went to sleep
she said--

"Oh! I wish I was not so cross and impatient. I don't think I
used to be."

"No, I am sure not. Most new girls get impatient at first; but it
goes off, and they don't care much for anything after a while.
Poor child! she's asleep already," said Jenny to herself.

She could not sleep or rest. The tightness at her side was worse
than usual. She almost thought she ought to mention it in her
letters home; but then she remembered the premium her father had
struggled hard to pay, and the large family, younger than
herself, that had to be cared for, and she determined to bear on,
and trust that, when the warm weather came, both the pain and the
cough would go away. She would be prudent about herself.

What was the matter with Ruth? She was crying in her sleep as if
her heart would break. Such agitated slumber could be no rest; so
Jenny wakened her.

"Ruth! Ruth!"

"Oh, Jenny!" said Ruth, sitting up in bed, and pushing back the
masses of hair that were heating her forehead, "I thought I saw
mamma by the side of the bed, coming as she used to do, to see if
I were asleep and comfortable; and when I tried to take hold of
her, she went away and left me alone--I don't know where; so
strange!"

"It was only a dream; you know you'd been talking about her to
me, and you're feverish with sitting up late. Go to sleep again,
and I'll watch, and waken you if you seem uneasy."

"But you'll be so tired. Oh, dear! dear!" Ruth was asleep again,
even while she sighed.

Morning came, and though their rest had been short, the girls
arose refreshed.

"Miss Sutton, Miss Jennings, Miss Booth, and Miss Hilton, you
will see that you are ready to accompany me to the shire-hall by
eight o'clock."

One or two of the girls looked astonished, but the majority,
having anticipated the selection, and knowing from experience the
unexpressed rule by which it was made, received it with the
sullen indifference which had become their feeling with regard to
most events--a deadened sense of life, consequent upon their
unnatural mode of existence, their sedentary days, and their
frequent nights of late watching.

But to Ruth it was inexplicable. She had yawned, and loitered,
and looked off at the beautiful panel, and lost herself in
thoughts of home, until she fully expected the reprimand which at
any other time she would have been sure to receive, and now, to
her surprise, she was singled out as one of the most diligent!

Much as she longed for the delight of seeing the noble
shire-hall--the boast of the county--and of catching glimpses of
the dancers, and hearing the band; much as she longed for some
variety to the dull, monotonous life she was leading, she could
not feel happy to accept a privilege, granted, as she believed,
in ignorance of the real state of the case; so she startled her
companions by rising abruptly and going up to Mrs. Mason, who was
finishing a dress which ought to have been sent home two hours
before--

"If you please, Mrs. Mason, I was not one of the most diligent; I
am afraid--I believe--I was not diligent at all. I was very
tired; and I could not help thinking, and, when I think, I can't
attend to my work." She stopped, believing she had sufficiently
explained her meaning; but Mrs. Mason would not understand, and
did not wish for any further elucidation.

"Well, my dear, you must learn to think and work, too; or, if you
can't do both, you must leave off thinking. Your guardian, you
know, expects you to make great progress in your business, and I
am sure you won't disappoint him."

But that was not to the point. Ruth stood still an instant,
although Mrs. Mason resumed her employment in a manner which any
one but a "new girl" would have known to be intelligible enough,
that she did not wish for any more conversation just then.

"But as I was not diligent I ought not to go, ma'am. Miss Wood
was far more industrious than I, and many of the others."

"Tiresome girl!" muttered Mrs. Mason; "I've half a mind to keep
her at home for plaguing me so." But, looking up, she was struck
afresh with the remarkable beauty which Ruth possessed; such a
credit to the house, with her waving outline of figure, her
striking face, with dark eyebrows and dark lashes, combined with
auburn hair and a fair complexion. No I diligent or idle, Ruth
Hilton must appear to-night.

"Miss Hilton," said Mrs. Mason, with stiff dignity "I am not
accustomed (as these young ladies can tell you) to have my
decisions questioned. What I say, I mean; and I have my reasons.
So sit down, if you please, and take care and be ready by eight.
Not a word more," as she fancied she saw Ruth again about to
speak.

"Jenny, you ought to have gone, not me," said Ruth, in no low
voice to Miss Wood, as she sat down by her.

"Hush! Ruth. I could not go if I might, because of my cough. I
would rather give it up to you than any one if it were mine to
give. And suppose it is, then take the pleasure as my present,
and tell me every bit about it when you come home to-night."

"Well! I shall take it in that way, and not as if I'd earned it,
which I haven't. So thank you. You can't think how I shall enjoy
it now. I did work diligently for five minutes last night, after
I heard of it; I wanted to go so much. But I could not keep it
up. Oh, dear! and I shall really hear a band! and see the inside
of that beautiful shire-hall!"


CHAPTER II


BUTH GOES TO THE SHIRE-HALL

In due time that evening, Mrs. Mason collected her "young ladies"
for an inspection of their appearance before proceeding to the
shire-hall. Her eager, important, hurried manner of summoning
them was not unlike that of a hen clucking her chickens together;
and, to judge from the close investigation they had to undergo,
it might have been thought that their part in the evening's
performance was to be far more important than that of temporary
ladies'-maids.

"Is that your best frock, Miss Hilton?" asked Mrs. Mason, in a
half-dissatisfied tone, turning Ruth about; for it was only her
Sunday black silk, and was somewhat worn and shabby.

"Yes, ma'am," answered Ruth quietly.

"Oh! indeed. Then it will do" (still the half-satisfied tone).
"Dress, young ladies, you know, is a very secondary
consideration. Conduct is everything. Still, Miss Hilton, I think
you should write and ask your guardian to send you some money for
another gown. I am sorry I did not think of it before.

"I do not think he would send any if I wrote," answered Ruth, in
a low voice.

"He was angry when I wanted a shawl, when the cold weather set
in."

Mrs. Mason gave her a little push of dismissal, and Ruth fell
into the ranks by her friend, Miss Wood.

"Never mind, Ruthie; you're prettier than any of them," said a
merry, good-natured girl, whose plainness excluded her from any
of the envy of rivalry.

"Yes; I know I am pretty," said Ruth sadly; "but I am sorry I
have no better gown, for this is very shabby. I am ashamed of it
myself, and I can see Mrs. Mason is twice as much ashamed. I wish
I need not go. I did not know we should have to think about our
own dress at all, or I should not have wished to go."

"Never mind, Ruth," said Jenny, "you've been looked at now, and
Mrs. Mason will soon be too busy to think about you and your
gown."

"Did you hear Ruth Hilton say she knew she was pretty?" whispered
one girl to another, so loudly that Ruth caught the words.

"I could not help knowing," answered she simply, "for many people
have told me so."

At length these preliminaries were over, and they were walking
briskly through the frosty air; the free motion was so
inspiriting that Ruth almost danced along, and quite forgot all
about shabby gowns and grumbling guardians. The shire-hall was
even more striking than she had expected. The sides of the
staircase were painted with figures that showed ghostly in the
dim light, for only their faces looked out of the dark, dingy
canvas, with a strange fixed stare of expression.

The young milliners had to arrange their wares on tables in the
ante-room, and make all ready before they could venture to peep
into the hall-room, where the musicians were already tuning their
instruments, and where one or two charwomen (strange contrast,
with their dirty, loose attire, and their incessant chatter, to
the grand echoes of the vaulted room!) were completing the
dusting of benches and chairs.

They quitted the place as Ruth and her companions entered. They
had talked lightly and merrily in the ante-room, but now their
voices were hushed, awed by the old magnificence of the vast
apartment. It was so large that objects showed dim at the further
end, as through a mist. Full-length figures of county worthies
hung around, in all varieties of costume, from the days of
Holbein to the present time. The lofty roof was indistinct, for
the lamps were not fully lighted yet; while through the
richly-painted Gothic window at one end the moonbeams fell,
many-tinted, on the floor, and mocked with their vividness the
struggles of the artificial light to illuminate its little
sphere.

High above sounded the musicians, fitfully trying some strain of
which they were not certain. Then they stopped playing, and
talked, and their voices sounded goblin-like in their dark
recess, where candles were carried about in an uncertain wavering
manner, reminding Ruth of the flickering zig-zag motion of the
will-o'-the-wisp.

Suddenly the room sprang into the full blaze of light, and Ruth
felt less impressed with its appearance, and more willing to obey
Mrs. Mason's sharp summons to her wandering flock, than she had
been when it was dim and mysterious. They had presently enough to
do in rendering offices of assistance to the ladies who thronged
in, and whose voices drowned all the muffled sound of the band
Ruth had longed so much to hear. Still, if one pleasure was less,
another was greater than she had anticipated.

"On condition" of such a number of little observances that Ruth
thought Mrs. Mason would never have ended enumerating them, they
were allowed during the dances to stand at a side-door and watch.
And what a beautiful sight it was! Floating away to that bounding
music--now far away, like garlands of fairies, now near, and
showing as lovely women, with every ornament of graceful
dress--the elite of the county danced on, little caring whose
eyes gazed and were dazzled. Outside all was cold, and
colourless, and uniform,--one coating of snow over all. But
inside it was warm, and glowing, and vivid; flowers scented the
air, and wreathed the head, and rested on the bosom, as if it
were midsummer. Bright colours flashed on the eye and were gone,
and succeeded by others as lovely in the rapid movement of the
dance. Smiles dimpled every face, and low tones of happiness
murmured indistinctly through the room in every pause of the
music.

Ruth did not care to separate figures that formed a joyous and
brilliant whole; it was enough to gaze, and dream of the happy
smoothness of the lives in which such music, and such profusion
of flowers, of jewels, elegance of every description, and beauty
of all shapes and hues, were everyday things. She did not want to
know who the people were; although to hear a catalogue of names
seemed to be the great delight of most of her companions.

In fact, the enumeration rather disturbed her; and, to avoid the
shock of too rapid a descent into the commonplace world of Miss
Smiths and Mr. Thomsons, she returned to her post in the
ante-room. There she stood, thinking or dreaming. She was
startled back to actual life by a voice close to her. One of the
dancing young ladies had met with a misfortune. Her dress, of
some gossamer material, had been looped up by nosegays of
flowers, and one of these had fallen off in the dance, leaving
her gown to trail. To repair this, she had begged her partner to
bring her to the room where the assistants should have been. None
were there but Ruth.

"Shall I leave you?" asked the gentleman. "Is my absence
necessary?"

"Oh, no!" replied the lady; "a few stitches will set all to
rights. Besides, I dare not enter that room by myself." So far
she spoke sweetly and prettily. But now she addressed Ruth. "Make
haste--don't keep me an hour!" And her voice became cold and
authoritative.

She was very pretty, with long dark ringlets and sparkling black
eyes. These had struck Ruth in the hasty glance she had taken,
before she knelt down to her task. She also saw that the
gentleman was young and elegant.

"Oh, that lovely galop! how I long to dance to it! Will it never
be done? What a frightful time you are taking; and I'm dying to
return in time for this galop!" By way of showing a pretty,
childlike impatience, she began to beat time with her feet to the
spirited air the band was playing. Ruth could not darn the rent
in her dress with this continual motion, and she looked up to
remonstrate. As she threw her head back for this purpose, she
caught the eye of the gentleman who was standing by; it was so
expressive of amusement at the airs and graces of his pretty
partner, that Ruth was infected by the feeling, and had to bend
her face down to conceal the smile that mantled there. But not
before he had seen it; and not before his attention had been
thereby drawn to consider the kneeling figure, that, habited in
black up to the throat, with the noble head bent down to the
occupation in which she was engaged, formed such a contrast to
the flippant, bright, artificial girl, who sat to be served with
an air as haughty as a queen on her throne.

"Oh, Mr. Bellingham! I'm ashamed to detain you so long. I had no
idea any one could have spent So much time over a little tear No
wonder Mrs. Mason charges so much for dressmaking, if her
workwomen are so slow."

It was meant to be witty, but Mr. Bellingham looked grave. He saw
the scarlet colour of annoyance flush to that beautiful cheek,
which was partially presented to him. He took a candle from the
table, and held it so that Ruth had more light. She did not look
up to thank him, for she felt ashamed that he should have seen
the smile which she had caught from him.

"I am sorry I have been so long, ma'am," said she gently, as she
finished her work; "I was afraid it might tear out again if I did
not do it carefully." She rose.

"I would rather have had it torn than have missed that charming
galop," said the young lady, shaking out her dress as a bird
shakes its plumage. "Shall we go, Mr. Bellingham?" looking up at
him.

He was surprised that she gave no word or sign of thanks to the
assistant. He took up a camellia that some one had left on the
table.

"Allow me, Miss Duncombe, to give this, in your name, to this
young lady, as thanks for her dexterous help."

"Oh, of course," said she.

Ruth received the flower silently, but with a grave, modest
motion of her head. They had gone, and she was once more alone.
Presently her companions returned.

"What was the matter with Miss Duncombe? Did she come here?"
asked they.

"Only her lace dress was torn, and I mended it," answered Ruth
quickly.

"Did Mr. Bellingham come with her?--they say he's going to be
married to her. Did he come, Ruth?"

"Yes," said Ruth, and relapsed into silence.

Mr. Bellingham danced on gaily and merrily through the night, and
fitted with Miss Duncombe as he thought good. But he looked often
to the side-door where the milliner's apprentices stood; and once
he recognised the tall, slight figure, and the rich auburn hair
of the girl in black; and then his eye sought for the camellia.
It was there, snowy white in her bosom. And he danced on more
gaily than ever.

The cold grey dawn was drearily lighting up the streets when Mrs.
Mason and her company returned home. The lamps were extinguished,
yet the shutters of the shops and dwelling-houses were not
opened. All sounds had an echo unheard by day. One or two
houseless beggars sat on doorsteps, and shivering, slept with
heads bowed on their knees, or resting against the cold hard
support afforded by the wall.

Ruth felt as if a dream had melted away, and she were once more
in the actual world. How long it would be, even in the most
favourable chance, before she should again enter the shire-hall,
or hear a band of music, or even see again those bright, happy
people--as much without any semblance of care or woe as if they
belonged to another race of beings! Had they ever to deny
themselves a wish, much less a want? Literally and figuratively
their lives seemed to wander through flowery pleasure-paths. Here
was cold, biting, mid-winter for her, and such as her--for those
poor beggars almost a season of death; but to Miss Duncombe and
her companions, a happy, merry time--when flowers still bloomed,
and fires crackled, and comforts and luxuries were piled around
them like fairy gifts. What did they know of the meaning of the
word, so terrific to the poor? What was winter to them? But Ruth
fancied that Mr. Bellingham looked as if he could understand the
feelings of those removed from him by circumstance and station.
He had drawn up the windows of his carriage, it is true, with a
shudder.

Ruth, then, had been watching him.

Yet she had no idea that any association made her camellia
precious to her. She believed it was solely on account of its
exquisite beauty that she tended it so carefully. She told Jenny
every particular of its presentation, with open, straight-looking
eye, and without the deepening of a shade of colour.

"Was it not kind of him? You can't think how nicely he did it,
just when I was a little bit mortified by her ungracious ways."

"It was very nice, indeed," replied Jenny. "Such a beautiful
flower! I wish it had some scent."

"I wish it to be exactly as it is--it is perfect. So pure!" said
Ruth, almost clasping her treasure as she placed it in water.
"Who is Mr. Bellingham?"

"He is son to that Mrs. Bellingham of the Priory, for whom we
made the grey satin pelisse," answered Jenny sleepily.

"That was before my time," said Ruth. But there was no answer.
Jenny was asleep.

It was long before Ruth followed her example. Even on a winter
day, it was clear morning light that fell upon her face as she
smiled in her slumber. Jenny would not waken her, but watched her
face with admiration; it was So lovely in its happiness.

"She is dreaming of last night," thought Jenny.

It was true she was; but one figure flitted more than all the
rest through her visions. He presented flower after flower to her
in that baseless morning dream, which was all too quickly ended.
The night before she had seen her dead mother in her sleep, and
she wakened weeping. And now she dreamed of Mr. Bellingham, and
smiled.

And yet, was this a more evil dream than the other?

The realities of life seemed to cut more sharply against her
heart than usual that morning. The late hours of the preceding
nights, and perhaps the excitement of the evening before, had
indisposed her to bear calmly the rubs and crosses which beset
all Mrs. Mason's young ladies at times.

For Mrs. Mason, though the first dressmaker in the county, was
human after all; and suffered, like her apprentices, from the
same causes that affected them. This morning she was disposed to
find fault with everything, and everybody. She seemed to have
risen with the determination of putting the world and all that it
contained (her world, at least) to rights before night; and
abuses and negligences, which had long passed unreproved, or
winked at, were to-day to be dragged to light, and sharply
reprimanded. Nothing less than perfection would satisfy Mrs.
Mason at such times.

She had her ideas of justice, too; but they were not divinely
beautiful and true ideas; they were something more resembling a
grocer's or tea-dealer's ideas of equal right. A little
over-indulgence last night was to be balanced by a good deal of
over-severity to-day; and this manner of rectifying previous
errors fully satisfied her conscience.

Ruth was not inclined for, or capable of, much extra exertion;
and it would have tasked all her powers to have pleased her
superior. The work-room seemed filled with sharp calls. "Miss
Hilton! where have you put the blue Persian? Whenever things are
mislaid, I know it has been Miss Hilton's evening for siding
away!"

"Miss Hilton was going out last night, so I offered to ear the
work-room for her. I will find it directly, ma'am," answered one
of the girls.

"Oh, I am well aware of Miss Hilton's custom of shuffling off her
duties upon any one who can be induced to relieve her," replied
Mrs. Mason.

Ruth reddened, and tears sprang to her eyes; but she was so
conscious of the falsity of the accusation, that she rebuked
herself for being moved by it, and, raising her head, gave a
proud look round, as if in appeal to her companions.

"Where is the skirt of Lady Farnham's dress? The flounces not put
on! I am surprised! May I ask to whom this work was entrusted
yesterday?" inquired Mrs. Mason, fixing her eyes on Ruth.

"I was to have done it, but I made a mistake, and had to undo it.
I am very sorry."

"I might have guessed, certainly. There is little difficulty, to
be sure, in discovering, when work has been neglected or spoilt,
into whose hands it has fallen."

Such were the speeches which fell to Ruth's share on this day of
all days, when she was least fitted to bear them with equanimity.

In the afternoon it was necessary for Mrs Mason to go a few miles
into the country. She left injunctions, and orders, and
directions, and prohibitions without end; but at last she was
gone, and, in the relief of her absence, Ruth laid her arms on
the table, and, burying her head, began to cry aloud, with weak,
unchecked sobs.

"Don't cry, Miss Hilton,"--"Ruthie, never mind the old
dragon,"--"How will you bear on for five years, if you don't
spirit yourself up not to care a straw for what she says?"--were
some of the modes of comfort and sympathy administered by the
young workwomen.

Jenny, with a wiser insight into the grievance and its remedy,
said--

"Suppose Ruth goes. out instead of you, Fanny Barton, to do the
errands. The fresh air will do her good; and you know you dislike
the cold east winds, while Ruth says she enjoys frost and snow,
and all kinds of shivery weather."

Fanny Barton was a great sleepy-looking girl, huddling over the
fire. No one so willing as she to relinquish the walk on this
bleak afternoon, when the east wind blew keenly down the street,
drying up the very snow itself. There was no temptation to come
abroad, for those who were not absolutely obliged to leave their
warm rooms; indeed, the dusk hour showed that it was the usual
tea-time for the humble inhabitants of that part of the town
through which Ruth had to pass on her shopping expedition. As she
came to the high ground just above the river, where the street
sloped rapidly down to the bridge, she saw the fiat country
beyond all covered with snow, making the black dome of the
cloud-laden sky appear yet blacker; as if the winter's night had
never fairly gone away, but had hovered on the edge of the world
all through the short bleak day. Down by the bridge (where there
was a little shelving bank, used as a landing-place for any
pleasure-boats that could float on that shallow stream) some
children were playing, and defying the cold; one of them had got
a large washing-tub, and with the use of a broken oar kept
steering and pushing himself hither and thither in the little
creek, much to the admiration of his companions, who stood
gravely looking on, immovable in their attentive observation of
the hero, although their faces were blue with cold, and their
hands crammed deep into their pockets with some faint hope of
finding warmth there. Perhaps they feared that, if they unpacked
themselves from their lumpy attitudes and began to move about,
the cruel wind would find its way into every cranny of their
tattered dress. They were all huddled up, and still; with eyes
intent on the embryo sailor. At last, one little man, envious of
the reputation that his playfellow was acquiring by his daring,
called out--

"I'll set thee a craddy, Tom! Thou dar'n't go over yon black line
in the water, out into the real river."

Of course the challenge was not to be refused; and Tom paddled
away towards the dark line, beyond which the river swept with
smooth, steady current. Ruth (a child in years herself) stood at
the top of the declivity watching the adventurer, but as
unconscious of any danger as the group of children below. At
their playfellow's success, they broke through the calm gravity
of observation into boisterous marks of applause, clapping their
hands, and stamping their impatient little feet, and shouting,
"Well done, Tom; thou hast done it rarely!"

Tom stood in childish dignity for a moment, facing his admirers;
then, in an instant, his washing-tub boat was whirled round, and
he lost his balance, and fell out; and both he and his beat were
carried away slowly, but surely, by the strong full river which
eternally moved onwards to the sea.

The children shrieked aloud with terror; and Ruth flew down to
the little bay, and far into its shallow waters, before she felt
how useless such an action was, and that the sensible plan would
have been to seek for efficient help. Hardly had this thought
struck her, when, louder and sharper than the sullen roar of the
stream that was ceaselessly and unrelentingly flowing on, came
the splash of a horse galloping through the water in which she
was standing. Past her like lightning--down in the stream,
swimming along with the current--a stooping rider--an
outstretched grasping arm--a little life redeemed, and a child
saved to those who loved it! Ruth stood dizzy and sick with
emotion while all this took place; and when the rider turned the
swimming horse, and slowly breasted up the river to the
landing-place, she recognised him as the Mr. Bellingham of the
night before. He carried the unconscious child across his horse,
the body hung in so lifeless a manner that Ruth believed it was
dead; and her eyes were suddenly blinded with tears. She waded
back to the beach, to the point towards which Mr. Bellingham was
directing his horse.

"Is he dead?" asked she, stretching out her arms to receive the
little fellow; for she instinctively felt that the position in
which he hung was not the most conducive to returning
consciousness, if indeed it would ever return.

"I think not," answered Mr. Bellingham, as he gave the child to
her, before springing off his horse. "Is he your brother? Do you
know who he is?"

"Look!" said Ruth, who had sat down upon the ground, the better
to prop the poor lad, "his hand twitches! he lives; oh, sir, he
lives! Whose boy is he?" (to the people, who came hurrying and
gathering to the spot at the rumour of an accident).

"He's old Nelly Brownson's," said they. "Her grandson."

"We must take him into a house directly," said she. "Is his home
far off?"

"No, no; it's just close by."

"One of you go for a doctor at once," said Mr. Bellingham
authoritatively, "and bring him to the old woman's without delay.
You must not hold him any longer," he continued, speaking to
Ruth, and remembering her face now for the first time; "your
dress is dripping wet already. Here! you fellow, take him up,
d'ye see!" But the child's hand had nervously clenched Ruth's
dress, and she would not have him disturbed. She carried her
heavy burden very tenderly towards a mean little cottage
indicated by the neighhours; an old crippled woman was coming out
of the door, shaking all over with agitation.

"Dear heart!" said she, "he's the last of 'em all, and he's gone
afore me."

"Nonsense," said Mr. Bellingham, "the boy is alive, and likely to
live."

But the old woman was helpless and hopeless, and insisted on
believing that her grandson was dead; and dead he would have been
if it had not been for Ruth, and one or two of the more sensible
neighbours, who, under Mr. Bellingham's directions, bustled
about, and did all that was necessary until animation was
restored.

"What a confounded time those people are in fetching the doctor!"
said Mr. Bellingham to Ruth, between whom and himself a sort of
silent understanding had sprung up from the circumstance of their
having been the only two (besides mere children) who had
witnessed the accident, and also the only two to whom a certain
degree of cultivation had given the power of understanding each
other's thoughts and even each other's words.

"It takes so much to knock an idea into such stupid people's
heads. They stood gaping and asking which doctor they were to go
for, as if it signified whether it was Brown or Smith, so long as
he had his wits about him. I have no more time to waste here,
either; I was on the gallop when I caught sight of the lad; and,
now he has fairly sobbed and opened his eyes, I see no use in my
staying in this stifling atmosphere. May I trouble you with one
thing? Will you be so good as to see that the little fellow has
all that he wants? If you'll allow me, I'll leave you my purse,"
continued he, giving it to Ruth, who was only too glad to have
this power entrusted to her of procuring one or two requisites
which she had perceived to be wanted. But she saw some gold
between the network; she did not like the charge of such riches.

"I shall not want so much, really, sir. One sovereign will be
plenty--more than enough. May I take that out, and I will give
you back what is left of it when I see you again? or, perhaps, I
had better send it to you, sir.

"I think you had better keep it all at present. Oh, what a horrid
dirty place this is insufferable two minutes longer. You must not
stay here; you'll be poisoned with this abominable air. Come
towards the door, I beg. Well, if you think one sovereign will he
enough, I will take my purse; only, remember you apply to me if
you think they want more."

They were standing at the door, where some one was holding Mr.
Bellingham's horse. Ruth was looking at him with her earnest eyes
(Mrs. Mason and her errands quite forgotten in the interest of
the afternoon's event), her whole thoughts bent upon rightly
understanding and following out his wishes for the little boy's
welfare; and until now this had been the first object in his own
mind. But at this moment the strong perception of Ruth's
exceeding beauty came again upon him. He almost lost the sense of
what he was saying, he was so startled with admiration. The night
before, he had not seen her eyes; and now they looked straight
and innocently full at him, grave, earnest, and deep. But when
she instinctively read the change in the expression of his
countenance, she dropped her large white veiling lids; and he
thought her face was lovelier still. The irresistible impulse
seized him to arrange matters, so that he might see her again
before long.

"No!" said he. "I see it would he better that you should keep the
purse. Many things may be wanted for the lad which we cannot
calculate upon now. If I remember rightly, there are three
sovereigns and some loose change; I shall, perhaps, see you again
in a few days, when, if there he any money left in the purse, you
can restore it to me."

"Oh, yes, sir," said Ruth, alive to the magnitude of the wants to
which she might have to administer, and yet rather afraid of the
responsibility implied in the possession of so much money.

"Is there any chance of my meeting you again in this house?"
asked he.

"I hope to come whenever I can, sir; but I must run in
errand-times, and I don't know when my turn may be."

"Oh"--he did not fully understand this answer--"I should like to
know how you think the boy is going on, if it is not giving you
too much trouble; do you ever take walks?"

"Not for walking's sake, sir."

"Well," said he, "you go to church, I suppose? Mrs. Mason does
not keep you at work on Sundays; I trust?"

"Oh, no, sir. I go to church regularly."

"Then, perhaps, you will be so good as to tell me what church you
go to, and I will meet you there next Sunday afternoon?"

"I go to St. Nicholas', sir. I will take care and bring you word
how the boy is, and what doctor they get; and I will keep an
account of the money I spend."

"Very well, thank you. Remember, I trust to you."

He meant that he relied on her promise to meet him; but Ruth
thought that he was referring to the responsibility of doing the
best she could for the child. He was going away, when a fresh
thought struck him, and he turned back into the cottage once
more, and addressed Ruth, with a half smile on his
countenance----

"It seems rather strange, but we have no one to introduce us; my
name is Bellingham--yours is"--

"Ruth Hilton, sir," she answered, in a low voice, for, now that
the conversation no longer related to the boy, she felt shy and
restrained.

He held out his hand to shake hers; and, just as she gave it to
him, the old grandmother came tottering up to ask some question.
The interruption jarred upon him, and made him once more keenly
alive to the closeness of the air, and the squalor and dirt by
which he was surrounded.

"My good woman," said he to Nelly Brownson, "could you not keep
your place a little neater and cleaner? It is more fit for pigs
than human beings. The air in this room is quite offensive, and
the dirt and filth is really disgraceful." By this time he was
mounted, and, bowing to Ruth, he rode away.

Then the old woman's wrath broke out.

"Who may you be, that knows no better manners than to come into a
poor woman's house to abuse it?--fit for pigs, indeed! What d'ye
call yon fellow?"

"He is Mr. Bellingham," said Ruth, shocked at the old woman's
apparent ingratitude. "It was he that rode into the water to save
your grandson. He would have been drowned but for Mr. Bellingham.
I thought once they would both have been swept away by the
current, it was so strong."

"The river is none so deep, either," the old woman said, anxious
to diminish as much as possible the obligation she was under to
one who had offended her. "Some one else would have saved him, if
this fine young spark had never been here. He's an orphan, and
God watches over orphans, they say. I'd rather it had been any
one else as had picked him out, than one who comes into a poor
body's house only to abuse it."

"He did not come in only to abuse it," said Ruth gently. "He came
with little Tom; he only said it was not quite so clean as it
might be."

"What! you're taking up the cry, are you? Wait till you are an
old woman like me, crippled with rheumatiz, and a lad to see
after like Tom, who is always in mud when he isn't in water; and
his food and mine to scrape together (God knows we're often
short, and do the best I can), and water to fetch up that steep
brow."

She stopped to cough; and Ruth judiciously changed the subject,
and began to consult the old woman as to the wants of her
grandson, in which consultation they were soon assisted by the
medical man.

When Ruth had made one or two arrangements with a neighbour whom
she asked to procure the most necessary things, and had heard
from the doctor that all would be right in a day or two, she
began to quake at the recollection of the length of time she had
spent at Nelly Brownson's, and to remember, with some affright,
the strict watch kept by Mrs. Mason over her apprentices'
out-goings and in-comings on working-days. She hurried off to the
shops, and tried to recall her wandering thoughts to the
respective merits of pink and blue as a match to lilac, found she
had lost her patterns, and went home with ill-chosen things, and
in a fit of despair at her own stupidity.

The truth was, that the afternoon's adventure filled her mind;
only the figure of Tom (who was now safe and likely to do well)
was receding into the background, and that of Mr. Bellingham
becoming more prominent than it had been. His spirited and
natural action of galloping into the water to save the child, was
magnified by Ruth into the most heroic deed of daring; his
interest about the boy was tender, thoughtful benevolence in her
eyes, and his careless liberality of money was fine generosity;
for she forgot that generosity implies some degree of
self-denial. She was gratified, too, by the power of dispensing
comfort he had entrusted to her, and was busy with Alnaschar
visions of wise expenditure, when the necessity of opening Mrs.
Mason's house-door summoned her back into actual present life,
and the dread of an immediate scolding.

For this time, however, she was spared; but spared for such a
reason that she would have been thankful for some blame in
preference to her impunity. During her absence, Jenny's
difficulty of breathing had suddenly become worse, and the girls
had, on their own responsibility, put her to bed, and were
standing round her in dismay, when Mrs. Mason's return home (only
a few minutes before Ruth arrived) fluttered them back into the
workroom.

And now all was confusion and hurry; a doctor to be sent for; a
mind to be unburdened of directions for a dress to a forewoman,
who was too ill to understand; scoldings to be scattered with no
illiberal hand amongst a group of frightened girls, hardly
sparing the poor invalid herself for her inopportune illness. In
the middle of all this turmoil Ruth crept quietly to her place,
with a heavy saddened heart at the indisposition of the gentle
forewoman. She would gladly have nursed Jenny herself, and often
longed to do it, but she could not be spared. Hands, unskilful in
fine and delicate work, would be well enough qualified to tend
the sick, until the mother arrived from home. Meanwhile, extra
diligence was required in the workroom; and Ruth found no
opportunity of going to see little Tom, or to fulfil the plans
for making him and his grandmother more comfortable, which she
had proposed to herself. She regretted her rash promise to Mr.
Bellingham, of attending to the little boy's welfare; all that
she could do was done by means of Mrs. Mason's servant, through
whom she made inquiries, and sent the necessary help.

The subject of Jenny's illness was the prominent one in the
house. Ruth told of her own adventure, to be sure; but, when she
was at the very crisis of the boy's fall into the river, the more
fresh and vivid interest of some tidings of Jenny was brought
into the room, and Ruth ceased, almost blaming herself for caring
for anything besides the question of life or death to be decided
in that very house.

Then a pale, gentle-looking woman was seen moving softly about;
and it was whispered that this was the mother come to nurse her
child. Everybody liked her, she was so sweet-looking, and gave so
little trouble, and seemed so patient, and so thankful, for any
inquiries about her daughter, whose illness it was understood,
although its severity was mitigated, was likely to be long and
tedious. While all the feelings and thoughts relating to Jenny
were predominant, Sunday arrived. Mrs. Mason went the accustomed
visit to her father's, making some little show of apology to Mrs.
Wood for leaving her and her daughter; the apprentices dispersed
to the various friends with whom they were in the habit of
spending the day; and Ruth went to St. Nicholas', with a
sorrowful heart, depressed on account of Jenny, and
self-reproachful at having rashly undertaken what she had been
unable to perform.

As she came out of church she was joined by Mr. Bellingham. She
had half hoped that he might have forgotten the arrangement, and
yet she wished to relieve herself of her responsibility. She knew
his step behind her, and the contending feelings made her heart
beat hard, and she longed to run away.

"Miss Hilton, I believe," said he, overtaking her, and bowing
forward, so as to catch a sight of her rose-red face. "How is our
little sailor going on? Well, I trust, from the symptoms the
other day."

"I believe, sir, he is quite well now. I am very sorry, but I
have not been able to go and see him. I am so sorry--I could not
help it. But I have got one or two things through another person.
I have put them down on this slip of paper; and here is your
purse, sir, for I am afraid I can do nothing more for him. We
have illness in the house, and it makes us very busy."

Ruth had been so much accustomed to blame of late, that she
almost anticipated some remonstrance or reproach now, for not
having fulfilled her promise better. She little guessed that Mr.
Bellingham was far more busy trying to devise some excuse for
meeting her again, during the silence that succeeded her speech,
than displeased with her for not bringing a more particular
account of the little boy, in whom he had ceased to feel any
interest.

She repeated, after a minute's pause--

"I am very sorry I have done so little, sir."

"Oh, yes, I am sure you have done all you could. It was
thoughtless in me to add to your engagements."

"He is displeased with me," thought Ruth, "for what he believes
to have been neglect of the boy, whose life he risked his own to
save. If I told all, he would see that I could not do more; but I
cannot tell him all the sorrows and worries that have taken up my
time."

"And yet I am tempted to give you another little commission, if
it is not taking up too much of your time, and presuming too much
on your good nature," said he, a bright idea having just struck
him. "Mrs. Mason lives in Heneage Place, does not she? My
mother's ancestors lived there; and once, when the house was
being repaired, she took me in to show me the old place. There
was an old hunting-piece painted on a panel over one of the
chimney-pieces; the figures were portraits of my ancestors. I
have often thought I should like to purchase it, if it still
remained there. Can you ascertain this for me, and bring me word
next Sunday?"

"Oh, yes, sir," said Ruth, glad that this commission was
completely within her power to execute, and anxious to make up
for her previous seeming neglect. "I'll look directly I get home,
and ask Mrs. Mason to write and let you know."

"Thank you," said he, only half satisfied; "I think, perhaps,
however, it might be as well not to trouble Mrs. Mason about it
you see it would compromise me, and I am not quite determined to
purchase the picture; if you would ascertain whether the painting
is there, and tell me, I would take a little time to reflect, and
afterwards I could apply to Mrs. Mason myself."

"Very well, sir; I will see about it." So they parted.

Before the next Sunday Mrs. Wood had taken her daughter to her
distant home, to recruit in that quiet place. Ruth watched her
down the street from an upper window, and, sighing deep and long,
returned to the workroom, whence the warning voice and gentle
wisdom had departed.


CHAPTER III


SUNDAY AT MRS. MASON'S

Mr. Bellingham attended afternoon service at St. Nicholas' church
the next Sunday. His thoughts had been far more occupied by Ruth
than hers by him, although his appearance upon the scene of her
life was more an event to her than it was to him. He was puzzled
by the impression she had produced on him, though he did not in
general analyse the nature of his feelings, but simply enjoyed
them with the delight which youth takes in experiencing new and
strong emotion. He was old compared to Ruth, but young as a man;
hardly three-and-twenty. The fact of his being an only child had
given him, as it does to many, a sort of inequality in those
parts of the character which are usually formed by the number of
years that a person has lived.

The unevenness of discipline to which only children are
subjected; the thwarting, resulting from over-anxiety; the
indiscreet indulgence, arising from a love centred all in one
object--had been exaggerated in his education, probably from the
circumstance that his mother (his only surviving parent) had been
similarly situated to himself.

He was already in possession of the comparatively small property
he inherited from his father. The estate on which his mother
lived was her own; and her income gave her the means of indulging
or controlling him, after he had grown to man's estate, as her
wayward disposition and her love of power prompted her. Had he
been double-dealing in his conduct towards her, had he
condescended to humour her in the least, her passionate love for
him would have induced her to strip herself of all her
possessions to add to his dignity or happiness. But although he
felt the warmest affection for her, the regardlessness which she
had taught him (by example, perhaps, more than by precept) of the
feelings of others, was continually prompting him to do things
that she, for the time being, resented as mortal affronts. He
would mimic the clergyman she specially esteemed, even to his
very face; he would refuse to visit her schools for months and
months; and, when wearied into going at last, revenge himself by
puzzling the children with the most ridiculous questions (gravely
put) that he could imagine.

All these boyish tricks annoyed and irritated her far more than
the accounts which reached her of more serious misdoings at
college and in town. Of these grave offences she never spoke; of
the smaller misdeeds she hardly ever ceased speaking.

Still, at times, she had great influence over him, and nothing
delighted her more than to exercise it. The submission of his
will to hers was sure to be liberally rewarded; for it gave her
great happiness to extort, from his indifference or his
affection, the concessions which she never sought by force of
reason, or by appeals to principle--concessions which he
frequently withheld, solely for the sake of asserting his
independence of her control.

She was anxious for him to marry Miss Duncombe. He cared little
or nothing about it--it was time enough to be married ten years
hence; and so he was dawdling through some months of his
life--sometimes flirting with the nothing-loth Miss Duncombe,
sometimes plaguing, and sometimes delighting his mother, at all
times taking care to please himself--when he first saw Ruth
Hilton, and a new, passionate, hearty feeling shot through his
whole being. He did not know why he was so fascinated by her. She
was very beautiful, but he had seen many more ~agaceries~
calculated to set off the effect of their charms.

There was, perhaps, something bewitching in the union of the
grace and loveliness of womanhood with the naivete, simplicity,
and innocence of an intelligent child. There was a spell in the
shyness, which made her avoid and shun all admiring approaches to
acquaintance. It would be an exquisite delight to attract and
tame her wildness, just as he had often allured and tamed the
timid fawns in his mother's park.

By no over-bold admiration, or rash, passionate word, would he
startle her; and, surely, in time she might be induced to look
upon him as a friend, if not something nearer and dearer still.

In accordance with this determination, he resisted the strong
temptation of walking by her side the whole distance home after
church. He only received the intelligence she brought
respecting the panel with thanks, spoke a few words about the
weather, bowed, and was gone. Ruth believed she should never see
him again; and, in spite of sundry self-upbraidings for her
folly, she could not help feeling as if a shadow were drawn over
her existence for several days to come.

Mrs. Mason was a widow, and had to struggle for th. sake of the
six or seven children left dependent on her exertions; thus there
was some reason, and great excuse, for the pinching economy which
regulated her household affairs. On Sundays she chose to conclude
that all her apprentices had friends who would be glad to see
them to dinner, and give them a welcome reception for the
remainder of the day; while she, and those of her children who
were not at school, went to spend the day at her father's house,
several miles out of the town. Accordingly, no dinner was cooked
on Sundays for the young workwomen; no fires were lighted in any
rooms to which they had access. On this morning they breakfasted
in Mrs. Mason's own parlour, after which the room was closed
against them through the day by some understood, though unspoken
prohibition.

What became of such as Ruth, who had no home and no friends in
that large, populous, desolate town? She had hitherto
commissioned the servant, who went to market on Saturdays for the
family, to buy her a bun or biscuit, whereon she made her fasting
dinner in the deserted workroom, sitting in her walking-dress to
keep off the cold, which clung to her in spite of shawl and
bonnet. Then she would sit at the window, looking out on the
dreary prospect till her eyes were often blinded by tears; and,
partly to shake off thoughts and recollections, the indulgence in
which she felt to be productive of no good, and partly to have
some ideas to dwell upon during the coming week beyond those
suggested by the constant view of the same room she would carry
her Bible, and place herself upon the window-seat on the wide
landing, which commanded the street in front of the house. From
thence she could see the irregular grandeur of the place; she
caught a view of the grey church-tower, rising hoary and massive
into mid-air; she saw one or two figures loiter along on the
sunny side of the street, in all the enjoyment of their fine
clothes and Sunday leisure; and she imagined histories for them,
and tried to picture to herself their homes and their daily
doings.

And, before long, the bells swung heavily in the church-tower,
and struck out with musical clang the first summons to afternoon
church.

After church was over, she used to return home to the same
window-seat, and watch till the winter twilight was over and
gone, and the stars came out over the black masses of houses. And
then she would steal down to ask for a candle, as a companion to
her in the deserted workroom. Occasionally the servant would
bring her up some tea; but of late Ruth had declined taking any,
as she had discovered she was robbing the kind-hearted creature
of part of the small provision left out for her by Mrs. Mason.
She sat on, hungry and cold, trying to read her Bible, and to
think the old holy thoughts which had been her childish
meditations at her mother's knee, until one after another the
apprentices returned, weary with their day's enjoyment and their
week's late watching; too weary to make her in any way a partaker
of their pleasure by entering into details of the manner in which
they had spent their day.

And, last of all, Mrs. Mason returned; and, summoning her "young
people" once more into the parlour, she read a prayer before
dismissing them to bed. She always expected to find them all in
the house when she came home, but asked no questions as to their
proceedings through the day; perhaps because she dreaded to hear
that one or two had occasionally nowhere to go to, and that it
would be sometimes necessary to order a Sunday's dinner, and
leave a lighted fire on that day.

For five months Ruth had been an inmate at Mrs. Mason's; and such
had been the regular order of the Sundays. While the forewoman
stayed there, it is true, she was ever ready to give Ruth the
little variety of hearing of recreations in which she was no
partaker; and, however tired Jenny might be at night, she had
ever some sympathy to bestow on Ruth for the dull length of day
she had passed. After her departure, the monotonous idleness of
the Sunday seemed worse to bear than the incessant labour of the
work-days; until the time came when it seemed to be a recognised
hope in her mind, that on Sunday afternoons she should see Mr.
Bellingham, and hear a few words from him as from a friend who
took an interest in her thoughts and proceedings during the past
week.

Ruth's mother had been the daughter of a poor curate in Norfolk,
and, early left without parents or home, she was thankful to
marry a respectable farmer a good deal older than herself. After
their marriage, however, everything seemed to go wrong. Mrs.
Hilton fell into a delicate state of health, and was unable to
bestow the ever-watchful attention to domestic affairs so
requisite in a farmer's wife. Her husband had a series of
misfortunes--of a more important kind than the death of a whole
brood of turkeys from getting among the nettles, or the year of
bad cheeses spoilt by a careless dairymaid--which were the
consequences (so the neighbours said) of Mr. Hilton's mistake in
marrying a delicate fine lady. His crops failed; his horses died;
his barn took fire: in short, if he had been in any way a
remarkable character, one might have supposed him to be the
object of an avenging fate, so successive were the evils which
pursued him; but, as he was only a somewhat commonplace farmer, I
believe we must attribute his calamities to some want in his
character of the one quality required to act as keystone to many
excellences. While his wife lived, all worldly misfortunes seemed
as nothing to him; her strong sense and lively faculty of hope
upheld him from despair; her sympathy was always ready, and the
invalid's room had an atmosphere of peace and encouragement which
affected all who entered it. But when Ruth was about twelve, one
morning in the busy hay-time, Mrs. Hilton was left alone for some
hours. This had often happened before, nor had she seemed weaker
than usual when they had gone forth to the field; but on their
return, with merry voices, to fetch the dinner prepared for the
haymakers, they found an unusual silence brooding over the house;
no low voice called out gently to welcome them, and ask after the
day's progress; and, on entering the little parlour, which was
called Mrs. Hilton's, and was sacred to her, they found her lying
dead on her accustomed sofa. Quite calm and peaceful she lay;
there had been no struggle at last; the struggle was for the
survivors, and one sank under it. Her husband did not make much
ado at first--at least, not in outward show; her memory seemed to
keep in check all external violence of grief; but, day by day,
dating from his wife's death, his mental powers decreased. He was
still a hale-looking elderly man, and his bodily health appeared
as good as ever; but he sat for hours in his easy-chair, looking
into the fire, not moving, nor speaking, unless when it was
absolutely necessary to answer repeated questions. If Ruth, with
coaxings and draggings, induced him to come out with her, he went
with measured steps around his fields, his head bent to the
ground with the same abstracted, unseeing look; never
smiling--never changing the expression of his face, not even to
one of deeper sadness, when anything occurred which might be
supposed to remind him of his dead wife. But, in this abstraction
from all outward things, his worldly affairs went ever lower
down. He paid money away, or received it, as if it had been so'
much water; the gold mines of Potosi could not have touched the
deep grief of his soul; but God in in His mercy knew the sure
balm, and sent the Beautiful Messenger to take the weary one
home.

After his death, the creditors were the chief people who appeared
to take any interest in the affairs; and it seemed strange to
Ruth to see people, whom she scarcely knew, examining and
touching all that she had been accustomed to consider as precious
and sacred. Her father had made his will at her birth. With the
pride of newly and late-acquired paternity, he had considered the
office of guardian to his little darling as one which would have
been an additional honour to the lord-lieutenant of the county;
but as he had not the pleasure of his lordship's acquaintance, he
selected the person of most consequence amongst those whom he did
know; not any very ambitious appointment in those days of
comparative prosperity; but certainly the flourishing maltster of
Skelton was a little surprised, when, fifteen years later, he
learnt that he was executor to a will bequeathing many vanished
hundreds of pounds, and guardian to a young girl whom he could
not remember ever to have seen.

He was a sensible, hard-headed man of the world; having a very
fair proportion of conscience as consciences go; indeed, perhaps
more than many people; for he had some ideas of duty extending to
the circle beyond his own family, and did not, as some would have
done, decline acting altogether, but speedily summoned the
creditors, examined into the accounts, sold up the farming-stock,
and discharged all the debts; paid about L 80 into the Skelton
bank for a week, while he inquired for a situation or
apprenticeship of some kind for poor heart-broken Ruth; heard of
Mrs. Mason's; arranged all with her in two short conversations;
drove over for Ruth in his gig; waited while she and the old
servant packed up her clothes; and grew very impatient while she
ran, with her eyes streaming with tears, round the garden,
tearing off in a passion of love whole boughs of favourite China
and damask roses, late flowering against the casement-window of
what had been her mother's room. When she took her seat in the
gig, she was little able, even if she had been inclined, to
profit by her guardian's lectures on economy and self-reliance;
but she was quiet and silent, looking forward with longing to the
night-time, when, in her bedroom, she might give way to all her
passionate sorrow at being wrenched from the home where she had
lived with her parents, in that utter absence of any anticipation
of change, which is either the blessing or the curse of
childhood. But at night there were four other girls in her room,
and she could not cry before them. She watched and waited till,
one by one, they dropped off to sleep, and then she buried her
face in the pillow, and shook with sobbing grief; and then she
paused to conjure up, with fond luxuriance, every recollection of
the happy days, so little valued in their uneventful peace while
they lasted, so passionately regretted when once gone for ever;
to remember every look and word of the dear mother, and to moan
afresh over the change caused by her death--the first clouding in
of Ruth's day of life. It was Jenny's sympathy on this first
night, when awakened by Ruth's irrepressible agony, that had made
the bond between them. But Ruth's loving disposition, continually
sending forth fibres in search of nutriment, found no other
object for regard among those of her daily life to compensate for
the want of natural ties.

But, almost insensibly, Jenny's place in Ruth's heart was filled
up; there was some one who listened with tender interest to all
her little revelations; who questioned her about her early days
of happiness, and, in return, spoke of his own childhood--not so
golden in reality as Ruth's, but more dazzling, when recounted
with stories of the beautiful cream-coloured Arabian pony, and
the old picture-gallery in the house, and avenues, and terraces,
and fountains in the garden, for Ruth to paint, with all the
vividness of imagination, as scenery and background for the
figure which was growing by slow degrees most prominent in her
thoughts.

It must not be supposed that this was affected all at once,
though the intermediate stages have been passed over. On Sunday,
Mr. Bellingham only spoke to her to receive the information about
the panel; nor did he come to St. Nicholas' the next, nor yet the
following Sunday. But the third he walked by her side a little
way, and, seeing her annoyance, he left her; and then she wished
for him back again, and found the day very dreary, and wondered
why a strange, undefined feeling, had made her imagine she was
doing wrong in walking alongside of one so kind and good as Mr.
Bellingham; it had been very foolish of her to be self-conscious
all the time, and if ever he spoke to her again she would not
think of what people might say, but enjoy the pleasure which his
kind words and evident interest in her might give. Then she
thought it was very likely he never would notice her again, for
she knew she had been very rude with her short answers; it was
very provoking that she had behaved so rudely. She sould be
sixteen in another month, and she was still childish and awkward.
Thus she lectured herself, after parting with Mr. Bellingham; and
the consequence was, that on the following Sunday she was ten
times as blushing and conscious, and (Mr. Bellingham thought) ten
times more beautiful than ever. He suggested that, instead of
going straight home through High Street, she should take the
round by the Leasowes; at first she declined, but then, suddenly
wondering and questioning herself why she refused a thing which
was, as far as reason and knowledge (her knowledge) went, so
innocent, and which was certainly so tempting and pleasant, she
agreed to go the round; and, when she was once in the meadows
that skirted the town, she forgot all doubt and awkwardness--nay,
almost forgot the presence of Mr. Bellingham--in her delight at
the new, tender beauty of an early spring day in February. Among
the last year's brown ruins, heaped together by the wind in the
hedgerows, she found the fresh, green, crinkled leaves and pale
star-like flowers of the primroses. Here and there a golden
celandine made brilliant the sides of the little brook that (full
of water in "February fill-dyke") bubbled along by the side of
the path; the sun was low in the horizon, and once, when they
came to a higher part of the Leasowes, Ruth burst into an
exclamation of delight at the evening glory of mellow light which
was in the sky behind the purple distance, while the brown
leafless woods in the foreground derived an almost metallic
lustre from the golden mist and haze of sunset. It was but
three-quarters of a mile round by the meadows, but somehow it
took them an hour to walk it. Ruth turned to thank Mr. Bellingham
for his kindness in taking her home by this beautiful way, but
his look of admiration at her glowing, animated face, made her
suddenly silent; and, hardly wishing him good-bye, she quickly
entered the house with a beating, happy, agitated heart.

"How strange it is," she thought that evening, "that I should
feel as if this charming afternoon's walk were, somehow, not
exactly wrong, but yet as if it were not right. Why can it be? I
am not defrauding Mrs. Mason of any of her time; that I know
would be wrong; I am left to go where I like on Sundays. I have
been to church, so it can't be because I have missed doing my
duty. If I had gone this walk with Jenny, I wonder whether I
should have felt as I do now. There must be something wrong in
me, myself, to feel so guilty when I have done nothing which is
not right; and yet I can thank God for the happiness I have had
in this charming spring walk, which dear mamma used to say was a
sign when pleasures were innocent and good for us."

She was not conscious, as yet, that Mr. Bellingham's presence had
added any charm to the ramble; and when she might have become
aware of this, as, week after week, Sunday after Sunday,
loitering ramble after loitering ramble succeeded each other, she
was too much absorbed with one set of thoughts to have much
inclination for self-questioning.

"Tell me everything, Ruth, as you would to a brother; let me help
you, if I can, in your difficulties," he said to her one
afternoon. And he really did try to understand, and to realise,
how an insignificant and paltry person like Mason the dressmaker
could be an object of dread, and regarded as a person having
authority, by Ruth. He flamed up with indignation when, by way of
impressing him with Mrs. Mason's power and consequence, Ruth
spoke of some instance of the effects of her employer's
displeasure. He declared his mother should never have a gown made
again by such a tyrant--such a Mrs. Brownrigg; that he would
prevent all his acquaintances from going to such a cruel
dressmaker; till Ruth was alarmed at the threatened consequences
of her one-sided account, and pleaded for Mrs. Mason as earnestly
as if a young man's menace of this description were likely to be
literally fulfilled.

"Indeed, sir, I have been very wrong; if you please, sir, don't
be so angry. She is often very good to us; it is only sometimes
she goes into a passion: and we are very provoking, I dare say. I
know I am for one. I have often to undo my work, and you can't
think how it spoils anything (particularly silk) to be unpicked;
and Mrs. Mason has to bear all the blame. Oh! I am sorry I said
anything about it. Don't speak to your mother about it, pray,
sir. Mrs. Mason thinks so much of Mrs. Bellingham's custom."

"Well, I won't this time"--recollecting that there might be some
awkwardness in accounting to his mother for the means by which he
had obtained his very correct information as to what passed in
Mrs. Mason's workroom--"but, if ever she does so again, I'll not
answer for myself."

"I will take care and not tell again, sir," said Ruth, in a low
voice.

"Nay, Ruth, you are not going to have secrets from me, are you?
Don't you remember your promise to consider me as a brother? Go
on telling me everything that happens to you, pray; you cannot
think how much interest I take in all your interests. I can quite
fancy that charming home at Milham you told me about last Sunday.
I can almost fancy Mrs. Mason's workroom; and that, surely, is a
proof either of the strength of my imagination, or of your powers
of description."

Ruth smiled. "It is, indeed, sir. Our workroom must be so
different to anything you ever saw. I think you must have passed
through Milham often on your way to Lowford."

"Then you don't think it is any stretch of fancy to have so clear
an idea as I have of Milham Grange? On the left hand of the road,
is it, Ruth?"

"Yes, sir, just over the bridge, and up the hill where the
elm-trees meet overhead and make a green shade; and then comes
the dear old Grange, that I shall never see again."

"Never! Nonsense, Ruthie; it is only six miles off; you may see
it any day. It is not an hour's ride."

"Perhaps I may see it again when I am grown old; I did not think
exactly what 'never' meant; it is so very long since I was there,
and I don't see any chance of my going for years and years at any
rate."

"Why, Ruth, you--we may go next Sunday afternoon, if you like."

She looked up at him with a lovely light of pleasure in her face
at the idea.

"How, sir? Can I walk it between afternoon-service and the time
Mrs. Mason comes home? I would go for only one glimpse; but if I
could get into the house--oh, sir! if I could just see mamma's
room again!"

He was revolving plans in his head for giving her this pleasure,
and he had also his own in view. If they went in any of his
carriages, the loitering charm of the walk would be lost; and
they must, to a certain degree, be encumbered by, and exposed to
the notice of servants.

"Are you a good walker, Ruth? Do you think you can manage six
miles? If we set off at two o'clock, we shall be there by four,
without hurrying; or say half-past four. Then we might stay two
hours, and you could show me all the old walks and old places you
love, and we could still come leisurely home. Oh, it's all
arranged directly!"

"But do you think it would be right, sir? It seems as if it would
be such a great pleasure, that it must be in some way wrong."

"Why, you little goose, what can be wrong in it?"

"In the first place, I miss going to church by setting out at
two," said Ruth, a little gravely.

"Only for once. Surely you don't see any harm in missing church
for once? You will go in the morning, you know."

"I wonder if Mrs. Mason would think it right--if she would allow
it?"

"No, I dare say not. But you don't mean to be governed by Mrs.
Mason's notions of right and wrong. She thought it right to treat
that poor girl Palmer in the way you told me about. You would
think that wrong, you know, and so would every one of sense and
feeling. Come, Ruth, don't pin your faith on any one, but judge
for yourself. The pleasure is perfectly innocent: it is not a
selfish pleasure either, for I shall enjoy it to the full as much
as you will. I shall like to see the places where you spent your
childhood; I shall almost love them as much as you do." He had
dropped his voice; and spoke in low, persuasive tones. Ruth hung
down her head, and blushed with exceeding happiness; but she
could not speak, even to urge her doubts afresh. Thus it was in a
manner settled. How delightfully happy the plan made her through
the coming week! She was too young when her mother died to have
received any cautions or words of advice respecting the subject
of a woman's life--if, indeed, wise parents ever directly speak
of what, in its depth and power, cannot be put into words--which
is a brooding spirit with no definite form or shape that men
should know it, but which is there, and present before we have
recognised and realised its existence. Ruth was innocent and
snow-pure. She had heard of falling in love, but did not know the
signs and symptoms thereof; nor, indeed, had she troubled her
head much about them. Sorrow had filled up her days, to the
exclusion of all lighter thoughts than the consideration of
present duties, and the remembrance of the happy time which had
been. But the interval of blank, after the loss of her mother and
during her father's life-in-death, had made her all the more
ready to value and cling to sympathy--first from Jenny, and now
from Mr. Bellingham. To see her home again, and to see it with
him; to show him (secure of his interest) the haunts of former
times, each with its little tale of the past--of dead-and-gone
events!--No coming shadow threw its gloom over this week's dream
of happiness--a dream which was too bright to be spoken about to
common and indifferent ears.


CHAPTER IV


TREADING IN PERILOUS PLACES

Sunday came, as brilliant as if there were no sorrow, or death,
or guilt in the world; a day or two of rain had made the earth
fresh and brave as the blue heavens above. Ruth thought it was
too strong a realisation of her hopes, and looked for an
over-clouding at noon; but the glory endured, and at two o'clock
she was in the Leasowes, with a beating heart full of joy,
longing to stop the hours, which would pass too quickly through
the afternoon.

They sauntered through the fragrant lanes, as if their loitering
would prolong the time and check the fiery-footed steeds
galloping apace towards the close of the happy day. It was past
five o'clock before they came to the great mill-wheel, which
stood in Sabbath idleness, motionless in a brown mass of shade,
and still wet with yesterday's immersion in the deep transparent
water beneath. They clambered the little hill, not yet fully
shaded by the overarching elms; and then Ruth checked Mr.
Bellingham, by a slight motion of the hand which lay within his
arm, and glanced up into his face to see what that face should
express as it looked on Milham Grange, now lying still and
peaceful in its afternoon shadows. It was a house of
after-thoughts; building materials were plentiful in the
neighbourhood, and every successive owner had found a necessity
for some addition or projection, till it was a picturesque mass
of irregularity--of broken light and shadow--which, as a whole,
gave a full and complete idea of a "Home." All its gables and
nooks were blended and held together by the tender green of the
climbing roses and young creepers. An old couple were living in
the house until it should be let, but they dwelt in the back
part, and never used the front door; so the little birds had
grown tame and familiar, and perched upon the window-sills and
porch, and on the old stone cistern which caught the water from
the roof.

They went silently through the untrimmed garden, full of the
pale-coloured flowers of spring. A spider had spread her web over
the front door. The sight of this conveyed a sense of desolation
to Ruth's heart; she thought it was possible the state-entrance
had never been used since her father's dead body had been borne
forth, and without speaking a word, she turned abruptly away, and
went round the house to another door. Mr. Bellingham followed
without questioning, little understanding her feelings, but full
of admiration for the varying expression called out upon her
face.

The old woman had not yet returned from church, or from the
weekly gossip or neighbourly tea which succeeded. The husband sat
in the kitchen, spelling the psalms for the day in his
Prayer-book, and reading the words out aloud--a habit he had
acquired from the double solitude of his life, for he was deaf.
He did not hear the quiet entrance of the pair, and they were
struck with the sort of ghostly echo which seems to haunt
half-furnished and uninhabited houses. The verses he was reading
were the following:--

"Why art thou so vexed, O my soul: and why art thou so disquieted
within me? "O put thy trust in God: for I will yet thank him,
which is the help of my countenance, and my God."

And when he had finished he shut the book, and sighed with the
satisfaction of having done his duty. The words of holy trust,
though, perhaps, they were not fully understood, carried a
faithful peace down into the depths of his soul. As he looked up,
he saw the young couple standing in the middle of the floor. He
pushed his iron-rimmed spectacles. on to his forehead, and rose
to greet the daughter of his old master and ever-honoured
mistress.

"God bless thee, lass! God bless thee! My old eyes are glad to
see thee again."

Ruth sprang forward to shake the horny hand stretched forward in
the action of blessing. She pressed it between both of hers, as
she rapidly poured out questions. Mr. Bellingham was not
altogether comfortable at seeing one whom he had already begun to
appropriate as his own, so tenderly familiar with a
hard-featured, meanly-dressed day-labourer. He sauntered to the
window, and looked out into the grass-grown farmyard; but he
could not help overhearing some of the conversation, which seemed
to him carried on too much in the tone of equality. "And who's
yon?" asked the old labourer at last. "Is he your sweetheart?
Your missis's son, I reckon. He's a spruce young chap, anyhow."
Mr. Bellingham's "blood of all the Howards" rose and tingled
about his ears, so that he could not hear Ruth's answer. It began
by "Hush, Thomas; pray hush!" but how it went on he did not
catch. The idea of his being Mrs. Mason's son! It was really too
ridiculous; but, like most things which are "too ridiculous," it
made him very angry. He was hardly himself again when Ruth shyly
came to the window-recess and asked him if he would like to see
the house-place, into which the front-door entered; many people
thought it very pretty, she said, half-timidly, for his face had
unconsciously assumed a hard and haughty expression, which he
could not instantly soften down. He followed her, however; but
before he left the kitchen he saw the old man standing, looking
at Ruth's companion with a strange, grave air of dissatisfaction.

They went along one or two zig-zag damp-smelling stone passages,
and then entered the house-place, or common sitting-room for a
farmer's family in that part of the country. The front door
opened into it, and several other apartments issued out of it,
such as the dairy, the state bedroom (which was half-parlour as
well), and a small room which had been appropriated to the late
Mrs. Hilton, where she sat, or more frequently lay, commanding
through the open door the comings and goings of her household. In
those days the house-place had been a cheerful room, full of
life, with the passing to and fro of husband, child, and
servants; with a great merry wood-fire crackling and blazing away
every evening, and hardly let out in the very heat of summer; for
with the thick stone walls, and the deep window-seats, and the
drapery of vine-leaves and ivy, that room, with its flag-floor,
seemed always to want the sparkle and cheery warmth of a fire.
But now the green shadows from without seemed to have become
black in the uninhabited desolation. The oaken shovel-board, the
heavy dresser, and the carved cupboards, were now dull and damp,
which were formerly polished up to the brightness of a
looking-glass where the fire-blaze was for ever glinting; they
only added to. the oppressive gloom; the flag-floor was wet with
heavy moisture. Ruth stood gazing into the room, seeing nothing
of what was present. She saw a vision of former days--an evening
in the days of her childhood; her father sitting in the "master's
corner" near the fire, sedately smoking his pipe, while he
dreamily watched his wife and child; her mother reading to her,
as she sat on a little stool at her feet. It was gone--all gone
into the land of shadows; but for the moment it seemed so present
in the old room, that Ruth believed her actual life to be the
dream. Then, 'still silent, she went on into her mother's
parlour. But there, the bleak look of what had once been full of
peace and mother's love, struck cold on her heart. She uttered a
cry, and threw herself down by the sofa, hiding her face in her
hands, while her frame quivered with her repressed sobs.

"Dearest Ruth, don't give way so. It can do no good; it cannot
bring back the dead," said Mr. Bellingham, distressed at
witnessing her distress.

"I know it cannot," murmured Ruth; "and that is why I cry. I cry
because nothing will ever bring them hack again." She sobbed
afresh, but more gently, for his kind words soothed her, and
softened, if they could not take away, her sense of desolation.

"Come away; I cannot have you stay here, full of painful
associations as these rooms must be. Come"--raising her with
gentle violence--"show me your little garden you have often told
me about. Near the window of this very room, is it not? See how
well I remember everything you tell me."

He led her round through the back part of the house into the
pretty old-fashioned garden. There was a sunny border just under
the windows, and clipped box and yew-trees by the grass-plat,
further away from the house; and she prattled again of her
childish adventures and solitary plays. When they turned round
they saw the old man, who had hobbled out with the help of his
stick, and was looking at them with the same grave, sad look of
anxiety. Mr. Bellingham spoke rather sharply--

"Why does that old man follow us about in that way? It is
excessively impertinent of him, I think."

"Oh, don't call old Thomas impertinent. He is so good and kind,
he is like a father to me. I remember sitting on his knee many
and many a time when I was a child, whilst he told me stories out
of the 'Pilgrim's Progress.' He taught me to suck up milk through
a straw. Mamma was very fond of him, too. He used to sit with us
always in the evenings when papa was away at market, for mamma
was rather afraid of having no man in the house, and used to beg
old Thomas to stay; and he would take me on his knee, and listen
just as attentively as I did while mamma read aloud."

"You don't mean to say you have sat upon that old fellow's knee?"

"Oh, yes! many and many a time."

Mr. Bellingham looked graver than he had done while witnessing
Ruth's passionate emotion in her mother's room. But he lost his
sense of indignity in admiration of his companion as she wandered
among the flowers, seeking for favourite bushes or plants, to
which some history or remembrance was attached. She wound in and
out in natural, graceful, wavy lines between the luxuriant and
overgrown shrubs, which were fragrant with a leafy smell of
spring growth; she went on, careless of watching eyes, indeed
unconscious, for the time, of their existence. Once she stopped
to take hold of a spray of jessamine, and softly kiss it; it had
been her mother's favourite flower.

Old Thomas was standing by the horse-mount, and was also an
observer of all her goings-on. But, while Mr. Bellingham's
feeling was that of passionate admiration mingled with a selfish
kind of love, the old man gazed with tender anxiety, and his lips
moved in words of blessing--

"She's a pretty creature, with a glint of her mother about her;
and she's the same kind lass as ever. Not a bit set up with yon
fine manty-maker's shop she's in. I misdoubt that young fellow
though, for all she called him a real gentleman, and checked me
when I asked if he was her sweetheart. If his are not
sweetheart's looks, I've forgotten all my young days. Here!
they're going, I suppose. Look! he wants her to go without a word
to the old man; but she is none so changed as that, I reckon."

Not Ruth, indeed! She never perceived the dissatisfied expression
of Mr. Bellingham's countenance, visible to the old man's keen
eye; but came running up to Thomas to send her love to his wife,
and to shake him many times by the hand.

"Tell Mary I'll make her such a fine gown, as soon as ever I set
up for myself; it shall be all in the fashion, big gigot sleeves,
that she shall not know herself in them! Mind you tell her that,
Thomas, will you?"

"Ay, that I will, lass; and I reckon she'll be pleased to hear
thou hast not forgotten thy old merry ways. The Lord bless
thee--the Lord lift up the light of His countenance upon thee."

Ruth was half-way towards the impatient Mr. Bellingham when her
old friend called her back. He longed to give her a warning of
the danger that he thought she was in, and yet he did not know
how. When she came up, all he could think of to say was a text;
indeed, the language of the Bible was the language in which he
thought, whenever his ideas went beyond practical everyday life
into expressions of emotion or feeling. "My dear, remember the
devil goeth about as a roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour;
remember that, Ruth."

The words fell on her ear, but gave no definite idea. The utmost
they suggested was the remembrance of the dread she felt as a
child when this verse came into her mind, and how she used to
imagine a lion's head with glaring eyes peering out of the bushes
in a dark shady part of the wood, which, for this reason, she had
always avoided, and even now could hardly think of without a
shudder. She never imagined that the grim warning related to the
handsome young man who awaited her with a countenance beaming
with love, and tenderly drew her hand within his arm.

The old man sighed as he watched them away. "The Lord may help
her to guide her steps aright. He may. But I'm afeard she's
treading in perilous places. I'll put my missis up to going to
the town and getting speech of her, and telling her a bit of her
danger. An old motherly woman like our Mary will set about it
better nor a stupid fellow like me."

The poor old labourer prayed long and earnestly that night for
Ruth. He called it "wrestling for her soul;" and I think that his
prayers were heard, for "God judgeth not as man judgeth."

Ruth went on her way, all unconscious of the dark phantoms of the
future that were gathering around her; her melancholy turned,
with the pliancy of childish years, at sixteen not yet lost, into
a softened manner which was infinitely charming. By-and-by she
cleared up into sunny happiness. The evening was still and full
of mellow light, and the new-born summer was so delicious that,
in common with all young creatures, she shared its influence and
was glad. They stood together at the top of a steep ascent, "the
hill" of the hundred. At the summit there was a level space,
sixty or seventy yards square, of unenclosed and broken ground,
over which the golden bloom of the gorse cast a rich hue, while
its delicious scent perfumed the fresh and nimble air. On one
side of this common, the ground sloped down to a clear bright
pond, in which were mirrored the rough sand-cliffs that rose
abrupt on the opposite bank; hundreds of martens found a home
there, and were now wheeling over the transparent water, and
dipping in their wings in their evening sport. Indeed, all sorts
of birds seemed to haunt the lonely pool; the water-wagtails were
scattered around its margin, the linnets perched on the topmost
sprays of the gorse-bushes, and other hidden warblers sang their
vespers on the uneven ground beyond. On the far side of the green
waste, close by the road, and well placed for the requirements of
horses or their riders who might be weary with the ascent of the
hill, there was a public-house, which was more of a farm than an
inn. It was a long, low building, rich in dormer-windows on the
weather side, which were necessary in such an exposed situation,
and with odd projections and unlooked-for gables on every side;
there was a deep porch in front, on whose hospitable benches a
dozen persons might sit and enjoy the balmy air. A noble sycamore
grew right before the house, with seats all round it ("such tents
the patriarchs loved"); and a nondescript sign hung from a branch
on the side next to the road, which, being wisely furnished with
an interpretation, was found to mean King Charles in the oak.

Near this comfortable, quiet, unfrequented inn, there was another
pond, for household and farmyard purposes, from which the cattle
were drinking, before returning to the fields after they had been
milked. Their very motions were so lazy and slow, that they
served to fill up the mind with the sensation of dreamy rest.
Ruth and Mr. Bellingham plunged through the broken ground to
regain the road near the wayside inn. Hand-in-hand, now pricked
by the far-spreading gorse, now ankle-deep in sand; now pressing
the soft, thick heath, which should make so brave an autumn show;
and now over wild thyme and other fragrant herbs, they made their
way, with many a merry laugh. Once on the road, at the summit,
Ruth stood silent, in breathless delight at the view before her.
The hill fell suddenly down into the plain, extending for a dozen
miles or more. There was a clump of dark Scotch firs close to
them, which cut clear against the western sky, and threw back the
nearest levels into distance. The plain below them was richly
wooded, and was tinted by the young tender hues of the earliest
summer, for all the trees of the wood had donned their leaves
except the cautious ash, which here and there gave a soft,
pleasant greyness to the landscape. Far away in the champaign
were spires, and towers, and stacks of chimneys belonging to some
distant hidden farmhouse, which were traced downwards through the
golden air by the thin columns of blue smoke sent up from the
evening fires. The view was bounded by some rising ground in deep
purple shadow against the sunset sky. When first they stopped,
silent with sighing pleasure, the air seemed full of pleasant
noises; distant church-bells made harmonious music with the
little singing-birds near at hand; nor were the lowings of the
cattle nor the calls of the farm-servants discordant, for the
voices seemed to be hushed by the brooding consciousness of the
Sabbath. They stood loitering before the house, quietly enjoying
the view. The clock in the little inn struck eight, and it
sounded clear and sharp in the stillness.

"Can it be so late?" asked Ruth.

"I should not have thought it possible," answered Mr. Bellingham.
"But, never mind, you will be at home long before nine. Stay,
there is a shorter road, I know, through the fields; just wait a
moment, while I go in and ask the exact way." He dropped Ruth's
arm, and went into the public-house.

A gig had been slowly toiling up the sandy hill behind,
unperceived by the young couple, and now it reached the
tableland, and was close upon them as they separated. Ruth turned
round, when the sound of the horse's footsteps came distinctly as
he reached the level. She faced Mrs. Mason!

They were not ten--no, not five yards apart. At the same moment
they recognised each other, and, what was worse, Mrs. Mason had
clearly seen, with her sharp, needle-like eyes, the attitude in
which Ruth had stood with the young man who had just quitted her.
Ruth's hand had been lying in his arm, and fondly held there by
his other hand.

Mrs. Mason was careless about the circumstances of temptation
into which the girls entrusted to her as apprentices were thrown,
but severely intolerant if their conduct was in any degree
influenced by the force of these temptations. She called this
intolerance "keeping up the character of her establishment." It
would have been a better and more Christian thing if she had kept
up the character of her girls by tender vigilance and maternal
care.

This evening, too, she was in an irritated state of temper. Her
brother had undertaken to drive her round by Henbury, in order to
give her the unpleasant information of the misbehaviour of her
eldest son, who was an assistant in a draper's shop in a
neighbouring town. She was full of indignation against want of
steadiness, though not willing to direct her indignation against
the right object--her ne'er-do-well darling. While she was thus
charged with anger (for her brother justly defended her son's
master and companions from her attacks), she saw Ruth standing
with a lover, far away from home, at such a time in the evening,
and she boiled over with intemperate displeasure.

"Come here directly, Miss Hilton," she exclaimed sharply. Then,
dropping her voice to low, bitter tones of concentrated wrath;
she said to the trembling, guilty Ruth--

"Don't attempt to show your face at my house again after this
conduct. I saw you, and your spark too. I'll have no slurs on the
character of my apprentices. Don't say a word. I saw enough. I
shall write and tell your guardian to-morrow. The horse started
away, for he was impatient to be off; and Ruth was left standing
there, stony, sick, and pale, as if the lightning had tom up the
ground beneath her feet. She could not go on standing, she was so
sick and faint; she staggered back to the broken sand-bank, and
sank down, and covered her face with her hands.

"My dearest Ruth! are you ill? Speak, darling! My love, my love,
do speak to me!"

What tender words after such harsh ones! They loosened the
fountain of Ruth's tears, and she cried bitterly.

"Oh! did you see her--did you hear what she said?"

"She! Who, my darling? Don't sob so, Ruth; tell me what it is.
Who has been near you?--who has been speaking to you to make you
cry so?"

"Oh, Mrs. Mason." And there was a fresh burst of sorrow.

"You don't say so! are you sure? I was not away five minutes."

"Oh, yes, sir, I'm quite sure. She was so angry; she said I must
never show my face there again. Oh, dear! what shall I do?"

It seemed to the poor child as if Mrs. Mason's words were
irrevocable, and, that being so, she was shut out from every
house. She saw how much she had done that was deserving of blame,
now when it was too late to undo it. She knew with what severity
and taunts Mrs. Mason had often treated her for involuntary
fallings, of which she had been quite unconscious; and now she
had really done wrong, and shrank with terror from the
consequences. Her eyes were so blinded by the fast-falling tears,
she did not see (nor, had she seen, would she have been able to
interpret) the change in Mr. Bellingham's countenance, as he
stood silently watching her. He was silent so long, that even in
her sorrow she began to wonder that he did not speak, and to wish
to hear his soothing words once more.

"It is very unfortunate," he began, at last; and then he stopped;
then he began again: "It is very unfortunate; for, you see, I did
not like to name it to you before, but, I believe--I have
business, in fact, which obliges me to go to town to-morrow--to
London, I mean; and I don't know when I shall be able to return."
"To London!" cried Ruth; "are you going away? Oh, Mr.
Bellingham!" She wept afresh, giving herself up to the desolate
feeling of sorrow, which absorbed all the terror she had been
experiencing at the idea of Mrs. Mason's anger. It seemed to her
at this moment as though she could have borne everything but his
departure; but she did not speak again; and, after two or three
minutes had elapsed, he spoke--not in his natural careless voice,
but in a sort of constrained, agitated tone.

"I can hardly bear the idea of leaving you, my own Ruth. In such
distress, too; for where you can go I do not know at all. From
all you have told me of Mrs. Mason, I don't think she is likely
to mitigate her severity in your case."

No answer, but tears quietly, incessantly flowing. Mrs. Mason's 
displeasure seemed a distant thing; his going away was the present 
distress. He went on--

"Ruth, would you go with me to London? My darling, I cannot
leave you here without a home; the thought of leaving you at all
is pain enough, but in these circumstances--so friendless, so
homeless--it is impossible. You must come with me, love, and
trust to me."

Still she did not speak. Remember how young, and innocent, and
motherless she was! It seemed to her as if it would be happiness
enough to be with him; and as for the future, he would arrange
and decide for that. The future lay wrapped in a golden mist,
which she did not care to penetrate; but if he, her sun, was out
of sight and gone, the golden mist became dark heavy gloom,
through which no hope could come. He took her hand.

"Will you not come with me? Do you not love me enough to trust
me? Oh, Ruth (reproachfully), can you not trust me?"

She had stopped crying, but was sobbing sadly.

"I cannot bear this, love. Your sorrow is absolute pain to me;
but it is worse to feel how indifferent you are--how little you
care about our separation."

He dropped her hand. She burst into a fresh fit of crying.

"I may have to join my mother in Paris; I don't know when I shall
see you again. Oh, Ruth!" said he vehemently, "do you love me at
all?"

She said something in a very low voice; he could not hear it,
though he bent down his head--but he took her hand again.

"What was it you said, love? Was it not that you did love me? My
darling, you do! I can tell it by the trembling of this little
hand; then you will not suffer me to go away alone and unhappy,
most anxious about you? There is no other course open to you; my
poor girl has no friends to receive her. I will go home directly,
and return in an hour with a carriage. You make me too happy by
your silence, Ruth."

"Oh, what can I do?" exclaimed Ruth. "Mr. Bellingham, you should
help me, and instead of that you only bewilder me."

"How, my dearest Ruth? Bewilder you! It seems so clear to me.
Look at the case fairly! Here you are, an orphan, with only one
person to love you, poor child!--thrown off, for no fault of
yours, by the only creature on whom you have a claim, that
creature a tyrannical, inflexible woman; what is more natural
(and, being natural, more right) than that you should throw
yourself upon the care of the one who loves you dearly--who would
go through fire and water for you--who would shelter you from all
harm? Unless, indeed, as I suspect, you do not care for him. If
so, Ruth, if you do not care for me, we had better part--I will
leave you at once; it will be better for me to go, if you do not
care for me."

He said this very sadly (it seemed so to Ruth, at least), and
made as though he would have drawn his hand from hers; but now
she held it with soft force.

"Don't leave me, please, sir. It is very true I have no friend
but you. Don't leave me, please. But, oh! do tell me what I must
do!"

"Will you do it if I tell you? If you will trust me, I will do my
very best for you. I will give you my best advice. You see your
position Mrs. Mason writes and gives her own exaggerated account
to your guardian; he is bound by no great love to you, from what
I have heard you say, and throws you off; I, who might be able to
befriend you--through my mother, perhaps--I, who could at least
comfort you a little (could not I, Ruth?), am away, far away, for
an indefinite time; that is your position at present. Now, what I
advise is this. Come with me into this little inn; I will order
tea for you--(I am sure you require it sadly)--and I will leave
you there, and go home for the carriage. I will return in an hour
at the latest. Then we are together, come what may; that is
enough for me; is it not for you, Ruth? Say yes--say it ever so
low, but give me the delight of hearing it. Ruth, say yes."

Low and soft, with much hesitation, came the "Yes;" the fatal
word of which she so little imagined the infinite consequences.
The thought of being with him was all and everything.

"How you tremble, my darling! You are cold, love! Come into the
house, and I'll order tea, directly, and be off."

She rose, and, leaning on his arm, went into the house. She was
shaking and dizzy with the agitation of the last hour. He spoke
to the civil farmer-landlord, who conducted them into a neat
parlour, with windows opening into the garden at the back of the
house. They had admitted much of the evening's fragrance through
their open casements before they were hastily closed by the
attentive host.

"Tea, directly, for this lady!" The landlord vanished.

"Dearest Ruth, I must go; there is not an instant to be lost.
Promise me to take some tea, for you are shivering all over, and
deadly pale with the fright that abominable woman has given you.
I must go; I shall be back in half an hour--and then no more
partings, darling."

He kissed her pale cold face, and went away. The room whirled
round before Ruth; it was a dream--a strange, varying, shifting
dream--with the old home of her childhood for one scene, with the
terror of Mrs. Mason's unexpected appearance for another; and
then, strangest, dizziest, happiest of all, there was the
consciousness of his love, who was all the world to her, and the
remembrance of the tender words, which still kept up their low
soft echo in her heart. Her head ached so much that she could
hardly see; even the dusky twilight was a dazzling glare to her
poor eyes; and when the daughter of the house brought in the
sharp light of the candles, preparatory for tea, Ruth hid her
face in the sofa pillows with a low exclamation of pain.

"Does your head ache, miss?" asked the girl, in a gentle,
sympathising voice.

"Let me make you some tea, miss, it will do you good. Many's the
time poor mother's headaches were cured by good strong tea."

Ruth murmured acquiescence; the young girl (about Ruth's own age,
but who was the mistress of the little establishment owing to her
mother's death) made tea, and brought Ruth a cup to the sofa
where she lay. Ruth was feverish and thirsty, and eagerly drank
it off, although she could not touch the bread and butter which
the girl offered her. She felt better and fresher, though she was
still faint and weak.

"Thank you," said Ruth. "Don't let me keep you, perhaps you are
busy. You have been very kind, and the tea has done me a great
deal of good."

The girl left the room. Ruth became as hot as she had previously
been cold, and went and opened the window, and leant out into the
still, sweet, evening air, The bush of sweet-brier underneath the
window scented the place, and the delicious fragrance reminded
her of her old home. I think scents affect and quicken the memory
more than either sights or sound; for Ruth had instantly before
her eyes the little garden beneath the window of her mother's
room with the old man leaning on his stick watching her, just as
he had done not three hours before on that very afternoon.

"Dear old Thomas! he and Mary would take me in, I think; they
would love me all the more if I were cast off. And Mr. Bellingham
would, perhaps, not be so very long away; and he would know where
to find me if I stayed at Milham Grange. Oh, would it not be
better to go to them? I wonder if he would be very sorry! I could
not bear to make him sorry, so kind as he has been to me; but I
do believe it would be better to go to them, and ask their
advice, at any rate. He would follow me there; and I could talk
over what I had better do, with the three best friends I have in
the world--the only friends I have."

She put on her bonnet, and opened the parlour-door; but then she
saw the square figure of the landlord standing at the open
house-door, smoking his evening pipe, and looming large and
distinct against the dark air and landscape beyond. Ruth
remembered the cup of tea she had drunk; it must be paid for, and
she had no money with her. She feared that he would not let her
quit the house without paying. She thought that she would leave a
note for Mr. Bellingham, saying where she was gone, and how she
had left the house in debt, for (like a child) all dilemmas
appeared of equal magnitude to her; and the difficulty of passing
the landlord while he stood there, and of giving him an
explanation of the circumstances (as far as such explanation was
due to him), appeared insuperable, and as awkward and fraught
with inconvenience as far more serious situations. She kept
peeping out of her room, after she had written her little
pencil-note, to see if the outer door was still obstructed. There
he stood, motionless, enjoying his pipe, and looking out into the
darkness which gathered thick with the coming night. The fumes of
the tobacco were carried by the air into the house, and brought
back Ruth's sick headache. Her energy left her; she became stupid
and languid, and incapable of spirited exertion; she modified her
plan of action, to the determination of asking Mr. Bellingham to
take her to Milham Grange, to the care of her humble friends,
instead of to London. And she thought, in her simplicity, that he
would instantly consent when he had heard her reasons.

She started up. A carriage dashed up to the door. She hushed her
beating heart, and tried to stop her throbbing head, to listen.
She heard him speaking to the landlord, though she could not
distinguish what he said heard the jingling of money, and in
another moment he was in the room, and had taken her arm to lead
her to the carriage.

"Oh, sir, I want you to take me to Milham Grange," said she,
holding back; "old Thomas would give me a home."

"Well, dearest, we'll talk of all that in the carriage; I am sure
you will listen to reason. Nay, if you will go to Milham, you
must go in the carriage," said he hurriedly. She was little
accustomed to oppose the wishes of any one; obedient and docile
by nature, and unsuspicious and innocent of any harmful
consequences. She entered the carriage, and drove towards London.


CHAPTER V


IN NORTH WALES

The June of 18-- had been glorious and sunny, and full of
flowers; but July came in with pouring rain, and it was a gloomy
time for travellers and for weather-bound tourists, who lounged
away the days in touching up sketches, dressing flies, and
reading over again, for the twentieth time, the few volumes they
had brought with them. A number of the Times, five days old, had
been in constant demand in all the sitting-rooms of a certain inn
in a little mountain village of North Wales, through a long July
morning. The valleys around were filled with thick, cold mist,
which had crept up the hillsides till the hamlet itself was
folded in its white, dense curtain, and from the inn-windows
nothing was seen of the beautiful scenery around. The tourists
who thronged the rooms might as well have been "wi' their dear
little bairnies at hame;" and so some of them seemed to think, as
they stood, with their faces flattened against the windowpanes,
looking abroad in search of an event to fill up the dreary time.
How many dinners were hastened that day, by way of getting
through the morning, let the poor Welsh kitchen-maid say! The
very village children kept indoors; or, if one or two more
adventurous stole out into the land of temptation and puddles,
they were soon clutched back by angry and busy mothers.

It was only four o'clock, but most of the inmates of the inn
thought it must be between six and seven, the morning had seemed
so long--so many hours had passed since dinner--when a Welsh car,
drawn by two horses, rattled briskly up to the door. Every window
of the ark was crowded with faces at the sound; the leathern
curtains were undrawn to their curious eyes, and out sprang a
gentleman, who carefully assisted a well-cloaked-up lady into the
little inn, despite the landlady's assurances of not having a
room to spare.

The gentleman (it was Mr. Bellingham) paid no attention to the
speeches of the hostess, but quietly superintended the unpacking
of the carriage, and paid the postillion; then, turning round,
with his face to the light, he spoke to the landlady, whose voice
had been rising during the last five minutes--

"Nay, Jenny, you're strangely altered, if you can turn out an old
friend on such an evening as this. If I remember right, Pen tre
Voelas is twenty miles across the bleakest mountain-road I ever
saw."

"Indeed, sir, and I did not know you; Mr. Bellingham, I believe.
Indeed, sir, Pen tre Voelas is not above eighteen miles--we only
charge for eighteen; it may not be much above seventeen,--and
we're quite full, indeed, more's the pity."

"Well, but, Jenny, to oblige me, an old friend, you can find
lodgings out for some of your people--that house across, for
instance."

"Indeed, sir, and it's at liberty; perhaps you would not mind
lodging there yourself. I could get you the best rooms, and send
over a trifle or so of furniture, if they weren't as you'd wish
them to be."

"No, Jenny, here I stay. You'll not induce me to venture over
into those rooms, whose dirt I know of old. Can't you persuade
some one who is not an old friend to move across? Say, if you
like, that I had written beforehand to bespeak the rooms. Oh, I
know you can manage it--I know your good-natured ways."

"Indeed, sir! Well, I'll see, if you and the lady will just step
into the back-parlour, sir--there's no one there just now; the
lady is keeping her bed to-day for a cold, and the gentleman is
having a rubber at whist in number three. I'll see what I can
do."

"Thank you--thank you! Is there a fire? if not, one must be
lighted. Come, Ruthie, come!"

He led the way into a large bow-windowed room, which looked
gloomy enough that afternoon, but which I have seen bright and
buoyant with youth and hope within, and sunny lights creeping
down the purple mountain slope, and stealing over the green, soft
meadows, till they reached the little garden, full of roses and
lavender-bushes, lying close under the window. I have seen--but I
shall see no more.

"I did not know you had been here before," said Ruth, as Mr.
Bellingham helped her off with her cloak.

"Oh, yes; three years ago I was here on a reading party. We were
here above two months, attracted by Jenny's kind heart and
oddities, but driven away finally by the insufferable dirt.
However, for a week or two it won't much signify."

"But can she take us in? I thought I heard her saying her house
was full."

"Oh, yes, I dare say it is; but I shall pay her well. She can
easily make excuses to some poor devil, and send him over to the
other side; and for a day or two, so that we have shelter, it
does not much signify."

"Could not we go to the house on the other side?"

"And have our meals carried across to us in a half-warm state, to
say nothing of having no one to scold for bad cooking! You don't
know these out-of-the-way Welsh inns yet, Ruthie."

"No, I only thought it seemed rather unfair," said Ruth gently;
but she did not end her sentence, for Mr. Bellingham formed his
lips into a whistle, and walked to the window to survey the rain.

The remembrance of his former good payment prompted many little
lies of which Mrs. Morgan was guilty that afternoon, before she
succeeded in turning out a gentleman and lady, who were only
planning to remain till the ensuing Saturday at the outside; so,
if they did fulfil their threat, and leave on the next day, she
would be no very great loser.

These household arrangements complete, she solaced herself with
tea in her own little parlour, and shrewdly reviewed the
circumstances of Mr. Bellingham's arrival.

"Indeed! and she's not his wife," thought Jenny, that's clear as
day. His wife would have brought her maid, and given herself
twice as many airs about the sitting-rooms; while this poor miss
never spoke, but kept as still as a mouse. Indeed, and young men
will be young men; and as long as their fathers and mothers shut
their eyes, it's none of my business to go about asking
questions."

In this manner they settled down to a week's enjoyment of that
Alpine country. It was most true enjoyment to Ruth. It was
opening a new sense; vast ideas of beauty and grandeur filled her
mind at the sight of the mountains, now first beheld in full
majesty. She was almost overpowered by the vague and solemn
delight; but by-and-by her love for them equalled her awe, and in
the night-time she would softly rise, and steal to the window to
see the white moon-light, which gave a new aspect to the
everlasting hills that girdle the mountain village.

Their breakfast-hour was late, in accordance with Mr.
Bellingham's tastes and habits; but Ruth was up betimes, and out
and away, brushing the dewdrops from the short crisp grass; the
lark sung high above her head, and she knew not if she moved or
stood still, for the grandeur of this beautiful earth absorbed
all idea of separate and individual existence. Even rain was a
pleasure to her. She sat in the window-seat of their parlour (she
would have gone out gladly, but that such a proceeding annoyed
Mr. Bellingham, who usually at such times lounged away the
listless hours on a sofa, and relieved himself by abusing the
weather); she saw the swift-fleeting showers come athwart the
sunlight like a rush of silver arrows; she watched the purple
darkness on the heathery mountain-side, and then the pale golden
gleam which succeeded. There was no change or alteration of
nature that had not its own peculiar beauty in the eyes of Ruth;
but if she had complained of the changeable climate, she would
have pleased Mr. Bellingham more: her admiration and her content
made him angry, until her pretty motions and loving eyes soothed
down his impatience.

"Really, Ruth," he exclaimed one day, when they had been
imprisoned by rain a whole morning, "one would think you had
never seen a shower of rain before; it quite wearies me to see
you sitting there watching this detestable weather with such a
placid countenance; and for the last two hours you have said
nothing more amusing or interesting than--'Oh, how beautiful!'
or, 'There's another cloud coming across Moel Wynn.'"

Ruth left her seat very gently, and took up her work. She wished
she had the gift of being amusing; it must be dull for a man
accustomed to all kinds of active employments to be shut up in
the house. She was recalled from her absolute self-forgetfulness.
What could she say to interest Mr. Bellingham? While she thought,
he spoke again--

"I remember when we were reading here three years ago, we had a
week of just such weather as this; but Howard and Johnson were
capital whist-players, and Wilbraham not bad, so we got through
the days famously. Can you play ecarte, Ruth, or picquet?"

"No, sir; I have sometimes played at beggar-my-neighbour,"
answered Ruth humbly, regretting her own deficiencies.

He murmured impatiently, and there was silence for another
half-hour. Then he sprang up, and rang the bell violently. "Ask
Mrs. Morgan for a pack of cards. Ruthie, I'll teach you ecarte,"
said he.

But Ruth was stupid, not so good as a dummy, he said; and it was
no fun betting against himself. So the cards were flung across
the table--on the floor--anywhere. Ruth picked them up. As she
rose, she sighed a little with the depression of spirits
consequent upon her own want of power to amuse and occupy him she
loved.

"You're pale, love!" said he, half repenting of his anger at her
blunders over the cards. "Go out before dinner; you know you
don't mind this cursed weather; and see that you come home full
of adventures to relate. Come, little blockhead! give me a kiss,
and begone."

She left the room with a feeling of relief; for if he were dull
without her, she should not feel responsible, and unhappy at her
own stupidity. The open air, that kind of soothing balm which
gentle mother Nature offers to us all in our seasons of
depression, relieved her. The rain had ceased, though every leaf
and blade was loaded with trembling glittering drops. Ruth went
down to the circular dale, into which the brown foaming mountain
river fell and made a deep pool, and, after resting there for a
while, ran on between broken rocks down to the valley below. The
water-fall was magnificent, as she had anticipated; she longed to
extend her walk to the other side of the stream, so she sought
the stepping-stones, the usual crossing-place, which were
overshadowed by trees, a few yards from the pool. The waters ran
high and rapidly, as busy as life, between the pieces of grey
rock; but Ruth had no fear, and went lightly and steadily on.
About the middle, however, there was a great gap; either one of
the stones was so covered with water as to be invisible, or it
had been washed lower down; at any rate, the spring from stone to
stone was long, and Ruth hesitated for a moment before taking it.
The sound of rushing waters was in her ears to the exclusion of
every other noise; her eyes were on the current running swiftly
below her feet; and thus she was startled to see a figure close
before her on one of the stones, and to hear a voice offering
help.

She looked up and saw a man, who was apparently long past middle
life, and of the stature of a dwarf; a second glance accounted
for the low height of the speaker, for then she saw he was
deformed. As the consciousness of this infirmity came into her
mind, it must have told itself in her softened eyes; for a faint
flush of colour came into the pale face of the deformed
gentleman, as he repeated his words--

"The water is very rapid; will you take my hand? perhaps I can
help you." Ruth accepted the offer, and with this assistance she
was across in a moment. He made way for her to precede him in the
narrow wood path, and then silently followed her up the glen.

When they had passed out of the wood into the pasture-land
beyond, Ruth once more turned to mark him. She was struck afresh
with the mild beauty of the face, though there was something in
the countenance which told of the body's deformity, something
more and beyond the pallor of habitual ill-health, something of a
quick spiritual light in the deep-set eyes, a sensibility about
the mouth; but altogether, though a peculiar, it was a most
attractive face. "Will you allow me to accompany you if you are
going the round by Cwm Dhu, as I imagine you are? The handrail is
blown away from the little wooden bridge by the storm last night,
and the rush of waters below may make you dizzy; and it is really
dangerous to fall there, the stream is so deep."

They walked on without much speech. She wondered who her
companion might be. She should have known him, if she had seen
him among the strangers at the inn; and yet he spoke English too
well to be a Welshman; he knew the country and the paths so
perfectly, he must be a resident; and so she tossed him from
England to Wales, and back again, in her imagination.

"I only came here yesterday," said he, as a widening in the path
permitted them to walk abreast. "Last night I went to the higher
waterfalls; they are most splendid."

"Did you go out in all that rain?" asked Ruth timidly.

"Oh, yes. Rain never hinders me from walking. Indeed, it gives a
new beauty to such a country as this. Besides, my time for my
excursion is so short, I cannot afford to waste a day."

"Then you do not live here?" asked Ruth.

"No! my home is in a very different place. I live in a busy town,
where at times it is difficult to feel the truth that

'There are in this loud stunning tide Of human care and crime,
With whom the melodies abide Of th' everlasting chime; Who carry
music in their heart Through dusky lane and crowded mart, Plying
their task with busier feet, Because their secret souls a holy
strain repeat.'

I have an annual holiday, which I generally spend in Wales; and
often in this immediate neighbourhood."

"I do not wonder at your choice," replied Ruth. "It is a
beautiful country."

"It is, indeed; and I have been inoculated by an old inn-keeper
at Conway with a love for its people, and history, and
traditions. I have picked up enough of the language to understand
many of their legends; and some are very fine and awe-inspiring,
others very poetic and fanciful."

Ruth was too shy to keep up the conversation by any remark of her
own, although his gentle, pensive manner was very winning.

"For instance," said he, touching a long bud-laden stem of
foxglove in the hedge-aide, at the bottom of which one or two
crimson-speckled flowers were bursting from their green sheaths,
"I dare say, you don't know what makes this fox-glove bend and
sway so gracefully. You think it is blown by the wind, don't
you?" He looked at her with a grave smile, which did not enliven
his thoughtful eyes, but gave an inexpressible sweetness to his
face.

"I always thought it was the wind. What is it?" asked Ruth
innocently.

"Oh, the Welsh tell you that this flower is sacred to the
fairies, and that it has the power of recognising them, and all
spiritual beings who pass by, and that it bows in deference to
them as they waft along. Its Welsh name is Maneg Ellyllyn--the
good people's glove; and hence, I imagine, our folk's-glove or
fox-glove."

"It's a very pretty fancy," said Ruth, much interested, and
wishing that he would go on, without expecting her to reply. But
they were already at the wooden bridge; he led her across, and
then, bowing his adieu, he had taken a different path even before
Ruth had thanked him for his attention.

It was an adventure to tell Mr. Bellingham, however; and it
aroused and amused him till dinner-time came, after which he
sauntered forth with a cigar.

"Ruth," said he, when he returned, "I've seen your little
hunchback. He looks like Riquet-with-the-Tuft. He's not a
gentleman, though. If it had not been for his deformity, I should
not have made him out from your description; you called him a
gentleman."

"And don't you?" asked Ruth, surprised.

"Oh, no! he's regularly shabby and seedy in his appearance;
lodging, too, the ostler told me, over that horrible
candle-and-cheese shop, the smell of which is insufferable twenty
yards off--no gentleman could endure it; he must be a traveller
or artist, or something of that kind."

"Did you see his face?" asked Ruth.

"No; but a man's back--his tout ensemble has character enough in
it to decide his rank."

"His face was very singular; quite beautiful!" said she softly;
but the subject did not interest Mr. Bellingham, and he let it
drop.


CHAPTER VI


TROUBLES GATHER ABOUT RUTH

The next day the weather was brave and glorious; a perfect
"bridal of the earth and sky;" and every one turned out of the
inn to enjoy the fresh beauty of nature. Ruth was quite
unconscious of being the object of remark; and, in her light,
rapid passings to and fro, had never looked at the doors and
windows, where many watchers stood observing her, and commenting
upon her situation or her appearance.

"She's a very lovely creature," said one gentleman, rising from
the breakfast-table to catch a glimpse of her as she entered from
her morning's ramble. "Not above sixteen I should think. Very
modest and innocent-looking in her white gown!"

His wife, busy administering to the wants of a fine little boy,
could only say (without seeing the young girl's modest ways, and
gentle, downcast countenance)--

"Well! I do think it's a shame such people should be allowed to
come here. To think of such wickedness under the same roof! Do
come away, my dear, and don't flatter her by such notice."

The husband returned to the breakfast-table; he smelt the broiled
ham and eggs, and he heard his wife's commands. Whether smelling
or hearing had most to do in causing his obedience, I cannot
tell; perhaps you can.

"Now, Harry, go and see if nurse and baby are ready to go out
with you. You must lose no time this beautiful morning."

Ruth found Mr. Bellingham was not yet come down; so she sallied
out for an additional half-hour's ramble. Flitting about through
the village, trying to catch all the beautiful sunny peeps at the
scenery between the cold stone houses, which threw the radiant
distance into aerial perspective far away, she passed by the
little shop; and, just issuing from it, came the nurse and baby,
and little boy. The baby sat in placid dignity in her nurse's
arms, with a face of queenly calm. Her fresh, soft, peachy
complexion was really tempting; and Ruth, who was always fond of
children, went up to coo and to smile at the little thing, and
after some "peep-boing," she was about to snatch a kiss, when
Harry, whose face had been reddening ever since the play began,
lifted up his sturdy little right arm and hit Ruth a great blow
on the face.

"Oh, for shame, sir!" said the nurse, snatching back his hand;
"how dare you do that to the lady who is so kind as to speak to
Sissy!"

"She's not a lady!" said he indignantly. "She's a bad, naughty
girl--mamma; said so, she did; and she shan't kiss our baby."

The nurse reddened in her turn. She knew what he must have heard;
but it was awkward to bring it out, standing face to face with
the elegant young lady.

"Children pick up such notions, ma'am," said she at last,
apologetically, to Ruth, who stood, white and still, with a new
idea running through her mind.

"It's no notion; it's true, nurse; and I heard you say it
yourself. Go away, naughty woman!" said the boy, in infantile
vehemence of passion to Ruth. To the nurse's infinite relief,
Ruth turned away, humbly and meekly, with bent head, and slow,
uncertain steps. But as she turned, she saw the mild sad face of
the deformed gentleman, who was sitting at the open window above
the shop; he looked sadder and graver than ever; and his eyes met
her glance with an expression of deep sorrow. And so, condemned
alike by youth and age, she stole with timid step into the house.
Mr. Bellingham was awaiting her in the sitting-room. The glorious
day restored all his buoyancy of spirits. He talked gaily away,
without pausing for a reply; while Ruth made tea, and tried to
calm her heart, which was yet beating with the agitation of the
new ideas she had received from the occurrence of the morning.
Luckily for her, the only answers required for some time were
mono-syllables; but those few words were uttered in so depressed
and mournful a tone, that at last they struck Mr. Bellingham with
surprise and displeasure, as the condition of mind they
unconsciously implied did not harmonise with his own.

"Ruth, what is the matter this morning? You really are very
provoking. Yesterday, when everything was gloomy, and you might
have been aware that I was out of spirits, I heard nothing but
expressions of delight; to-day, when every creature under heaven
is rejoicing, you look most deplorable and woe-begone. You really
should learn to have a little sympathy."

The tears fell quickly down Ruth's cheeks, but she did not speak.
She could not put into words the sense she was just beginning to
entertain of the estimation in which she was henceforward to be
held. She thought he would be as much grieved as she was at what
had taken place that morning; she fancied she should sink in his
opinion if she told him how others regarded her; besides, it
seemed ungenerous to dilate upon the suffering of which he was
the cause.

"I will not," thought she, "embitter his life; I will try and be
cheerful. I must not think of myself so much. If I can but make
him happy, what need I care for chance speeches?"

Accordingly, she made every effort possible to be as
light-hearted as he was; but, somehow, the moment she relaxed,
thoughts would intrude, and wonders would force themselves upon
her mind: so that altogether she was not the gay and bewitching
companion Mr. Bellingham had previously found her.

They sauntered out for a walk. The path they chose led to a wood
on the side of a hill, and they entered, glad of the shade of the
trees. At first it appeared like any common grove, but they soon
came to a deep descent, on the summit of which they stood,
looking down on the tree-tops, which were softly waving far
beneath their feet. There was a path leading sharp down, and they
followed it; the ledge of rock made it almost like going down
steps, and their walk grew into a bounding, and their bounding
into a run, before they reached the lowest plane. A green gloom
reigned there; it was the still hour of noon; the little birds
were quiet in some leafy shade. They went on a few yards, and
then they came to a circular pool overshadowed by the trees,
whose highest boughs had been beneath their feet a few minutes
before. The pond was hardly below the surface of the ground, and
there was nothing like a bank on any side. A heron was standing
there motionless, but when he saw them he flapped his wings and
slowly rose; and soared above the green heights of the wood up
into the very sky itself, for at that depth the trees appeared to
touch the round white clouds which brooded over the earth. The
speedwell grew in the shallowest water of the pool, and all
around its margin, but the flowers were hardly seen at first, so
deep was the green shadow cast by the trees. In the very middle
of the pond the sky was mirrored clear and dark, a blue which
looked as if a black void lay behind.

"Oh, there are water-lilies!" said Ruth, her eye catching on the
farther side. "I must go and get some."

"No; I will get them for you. The ground is spongy all round
there. Sit still, Ruth; this heap of grass will make a capital
seat."

He went round, and she waited quietly for his return. When he
came back he took off her bonnet, without speaking, and began to
place his flowers in her hair. She was quite still while he
arranged her coronet, looking up in his face with loving eyes,
with a peaceful composure. She knew that he was pleased from his
manner, which had the joyousness of a child playing with a new
toy, and she did not think twice of his occupation. It was
pleasant to forget everything except his pleasure. When he had
decked her out, he said--

"There, Ruth! now you'll do. Come and look at yourself in the
pond. Here, where there are no weeds. Come."

She obeyed, and could not help seeing her own loveliness; it gave
her a sense of satisfaction for an instant, as the sight of any
other beautiful object would have done, but she never thought of
associating it with herself. She knew that she was beautiful; but
that seemed abstract, and removed from herself. Her existence was
in feeling and thinking, and loving.

Down in that green hollow they were quite in harmony. Her beauty
was all that Mr. Bellingham cared for, and it was supreme. It was
all he recognised of her, and he was proud of it. She stood in
her white dress against the trees which grew around; her face was
flushed into a brilliancy of colour which resembled that of a
rose in June; the great, heavy, white flowers drooped on either
side of her beautiful head, and if her brown hair was a little
disordered, the very disorder only seemed to add a grace. She
pleased him more by looking so lovely than by all her tender
endeavours to fall in with his varying humour.

But when they left the wood, and Ruth had taken out her flowers,
and resumed her bonnet, as they came near the inn, the simple
thought of giving him pleasure was not enough to secure Ruth's
peace. She became pensive and sad, and could not rally into
gaiety.

"Really, Ruth," said he, that evening, "you must not encourage
yourself in this habit of falling into melancholy reveries
without any cause. You have been sighing twenty times during the
last half-hour. Do be a little cheerful. Remember, I have no
companion but you in this out-of-the-way place."

"I am very sorry," said Ruth, her eyes filling with tears; and
then she remembered that it was very dull for him to be alone
with her, heavy-hearted as she had been all day. She said in a
sweet, penitent tone--

"Would you be so kind as to teach me one of those games at cards
you were speaking about yesterday? I would do my best to learn."

Her soft, murmuring voice won its way. They rang for the cards,
and he soon forgot that there was such a thing as depression or
gloom in the world, in the pleasure of teaching such a beautiful
ignoramus the mysteries of card-playing.

"There!" said he, at last, "that's enough for one lesson. Do you
know, little goose, your blunders have made me laugh myself into
one of the worst headaches I have had for years.

He threw himself on the sofa, and in an instant she was by his
side.

"Let me put my cool hands on your forehead," she begged; "that
used to do mamma good."

He lay still, his face away from the light, and not speaking.
Presently he fell asleep. Ruth put out the candles, and sat
patiently by him for a long time, fancying he would awaken
refreshed. The room grew cold in the night air; but Ruth dared
not rouse him from what appeared to be sound, restoring slumber.
She covered him with her shawl, which she had thrown over a chair
on coming in from their twilight ramble. She had ample time to
think; but she tried to banish thought. At last, his breathing
became: quick and oppressed, and, after listening to it for some
minutes with increasing affright, Ruth ventured to awaken him. He
seemed stupefied and shivery. Ruth became more and more
terrified; all the household were asleep except one servant-girl,
who was wearied out of what little English she had knowledge of
in more waking hours, and could only answer, "Iss, indeed,
ma'am," to any question put to her by Ruth.

She sat by the bedside all night long. He moaned and tossed, but
never spoke sensibly. It was a new form of illness to the
miserable Ruth. Her yesterday's suffering went into the black
distance of long-past years. The present was all in all. When she
heard people stirring, she went in search of Mrs. Morgan, whose
shrewd, sharp manners, unsoftened by inward respect for the poor
girl, had awed Ruth even when Mr. Bellingham was by to protect
her.

"Mrs. Morgan," she said, sitting down in the little parlour
appropriated to the landlady, for she felt her strength suddenly
desert her--"Mrs. Morgan, I'm afraid Mr. Bellingham is very
ill;"--here she burst into tears, but instantly checking herself,
"Oh, what must I do?" continued she; "I don't think he has known
anything all through the night, and he looks so strange and wild
this morning."

She gazed up into Mrs. Morgan's face, as if reading an oracle.

"Indeed, miss, ma'am, and it's a very awkward thing. But don't
cry, that can do no good; 'deed it can't. I'll go and see the
poor young man myself, and then I can judge if a doctor is
wanting."

Ruth followed Mrs. Morgan upstairs. When they entered the
sick-room Mr. Bellingham was sitting up in bed, looking wildly
about him, and as he saw them, he exclaimed--

"Ruth! Ruth! come here; I won't be left alone!" and then he fell
down exhausted on the pillow. Mrs. Morgan went up and spoke to
him, but he did not answer or take any notice.

"I'll send for Mr. Jones, my dear, 'deed and I will; we'll have
him here in a couple of hours, please God."

"Oh, can't he come sooner?" asked Ruth, wild with terror.

"'Deed no! he lives at Llanglas when he's at home, and that's
seven mile away, and he may be gone a round eight or nine mile on
the other side Llanglas; but I'll send a boy on the pony
directly."

Saying this, Mrs. Morgan left Ruth alone. There was nothing to be
done, for Mr. Bellingham had again fallen into heavy sleep.
Sounds of daily life began, bells rang, break-fast-services
clattered up and down the passages, and Ruth sat on shivering by
the bedside in that darkened room. Mrs. Morgan sent her breakfast
upstairs by a chambermaid; but Ruth motioned it away in her sick
agony, and the girl had no right to urge her to partake of it.
That alone broke the monotony of the long morning. She heard the
sound of merry parties setting out on excursions, on horseback or
in carriages; and once, stiff and wearied, she stole to the
window, and looked out on one side of the blind; but the day
looked bright and discordant to her aching, anxious heart. The
gloom of the darkened room was better and more befitting.

It was some hours after he was summoned before the doctor made
his appearance. He questioned his patient, and, receiving no
coherent answer, he asked Ruth concerning the symptoms; but when
she questioned him in turn he only shook his head and looked
grave. He made a sign to Mrs. Morgan to follow him out of the
room, and they went down to her parlour, leaving Ruth in a depth
of despair, lower than she could have thought it possible there
remained for her to experience, an hour before.

"I am afraid this is a bad case," said Mr. Jones to Mrs. Morgan
in Welsh. "A brain-fever has evidently set in."

"Poor young gentleman! poor young man! He looked the very picture
of health!"

"That very appearance of robustness will, in all probability,
make his disorder more violent. However, we must hope for the
best, Mrs. Morgan. Who is to attend upon him? He will require
careful nursing. Is that young lady his sister? She looks too
young to be his wife?"

"No, indeed! Gentlemen like you must know, Mr. Jones, that we
can't always look too closely into the ways of young men who come
to our houses. Not but what I am sorry for her, for she's an
innocent, inoffensive young creature. I always think it right,
for my own morals, to put a little scorn into my manners when
such as her come to stay here; but indeed, she's so gentle, I've
found it hard work to show the proper contempt."

She would have gone on to her inattentive listener if she had not
heard a low tap at the door, which recalled her from her
morality, and Mr. Jones from his consideration of the necessary
prescriptions.

"Come in!" said Mrs. Morgan sharply. And Ruth came in. She was
white and trembling; but she stood in that dignity which strong
feeling, kept down by self-command, always imparts.

"I wish you, sir, to be so kind as to tell me, clearly and
distinctly, what I must do for Mr. Bellingham. Every direction
you give me shall be most carefully attended to. You spoke about
leeches--I can put them on, and see about them. Tell me
everything, sir, that you wish to have done!"

Her manner was calm and serious, and her countenance and
deportment showed that the occasion was calling out strength
sufficient to meet it. Mr. Jones spoke with a deference which he
had not thought of using upstairs, even while he supposed her to
be the sister of the invalid. Ruth listened gravely; she repeated
some of the injunctions, in order that she might be sure that she
fully comprehended them, and then, bowing, left the room.

"She is no common person," said Mr. Jones. "Still she is too
young to have the responsibility of such a serious case. Have you
any idea where his friends live, Mrs. Morgan?"

"Indeed and I have. His mother, as haughty a lady as you would
wish to see, came travelling through Wales last year; she stopped
here, and, I warrant you, nothing was good enough for her; she
was real quality. She left some clothes and hooks behind her (for
the maid was almost as fine as the mistress, and little thought
of seeing after her lady's clothes, having a taste for going to
see scenery along with the man-servant), and we had several
letters from her. I have them locked in the drawers in the bar,
where I keep such things."

"Well, I should recommend your writing to the lady, and telling
her her son's state."

"It would be a favour, Mr. Jones, if you would just write it
yourself. English writing comes so strange to my pen."

The letter was written, and, in order to save time, Mr. Jones
took it to the Llanglas post-office.


CHAPTER VII


THE CRISIS---WATCHING AND WAITING

Ruth put away every thought of the past or future; everything
that could unfit her for the duties of the present. Exceeding
love supplied the place of experience. She never left the room
after the first day; she forced herself to eat, because his
service needed her strength. She did not indulge in any tears,
because the weeping she longed for would make her less able to
attend upon him. She watched, and waited, and prayed; prayed with
an utter forgetfulness of self, only with a consciousness that
God was all-powerful, and that he, whom she loved so much, needed
the aid of the Mighty One.

Day and night, the summer night, seemed merged into one. She lost
count of time in the hushed and darkened room. One morning Mrs.
Morgan beckoned her out; and she stole on tiptoe into the
dazzling gallery, on one side of which the bedrooms opened.

"She's come," whispered Mrs. Morgan, looking very much excited,
and forgetting that Ruth had never heard that Mrs. Bellingham had
been summoned.

"Who is come?" asked Ruth. The idea of Mrs. Mason flashed through
her mind--but with a more terrible, because a more vague, dread
she heard that it was his mother; the mother of whom he had
always spoken as a person whose opinion was to be regarded more
than that of any other individual.

"What must I do? Will she be angry with me?" said she, relapsing
into her child-like dependence on others; and feeling that even
Mrs. Morgan was some one to stand between her and Mrs.
Bellingham.

Mrs. Morgan herself was a little perplexed. Her morality was
rather shocked at the idea of a proper real lady like Mrs.
Bellingham discovering that she had winked at the connection
between her son and Ruth. She was quite inclined to encourage
Ruth in her inclination to shrink out of Mrs. Bellingham's
observation, an inclination which arose from no definite
consciousness of having done wrong, but principally from the
representations she had always heard of the lady's awfulness.
Mrs. Bellingham swept into her son's room as if she were
unconscious what poor young creature had lately haunted it; while
Ruth hurried into some unoccupied bedroom, and, alone there, she
felt her self-restraint suddenly give way, and burst into the
saddest, most utterly wretched weeping she had ever known. She
was worn out with watching, and exhausted by passionate crying,
and she lay down on the bed and fell asleep. The day passed on;
she slumbered unnoticed and unregarded; she awoke late in the
evening with a sense of having done wrong in sleeping so long;
the strain upon her responsibility had not yet left her. Twilight
was closing fast around; she waited until it had become night,
and then she stole down to Mrs. Morgan's parlour.

"If you please, may I come in?" asked she.

Jenny Morgan was doing up the hieroglyphics which she called her
accounts; she answered sharp enough, but it was a permission to
enter, and Ruth was thankful for it.

"Will you tell me how he is? Do you think I may go back to him?"

"No, indeed, that you may not. Nest, who has made his room tidy
these many days, is not fit to go in now. Mrs. Bellingham has
brought her own maid, and the family nurse and Mr. Bellingham's
man; such a tribe of servants, and no end to packages; water-beds
coming by the carrier, and a doctor from London coming down
to-morrow, as if feather-beds and Mr. Jones was not good enough.
Why, she won't let a soul of us into the room; there's no chance
for you!"

Ruth sighed. "How is he?" she inquired, after a pause.

"How can I tell, indeed, when I am not allowed to go near him?
Mr. Jones said to-night was a turning-point; but I doubt it, for
it is four days since he was taken ill, and who ever heard of a
sick person taking a turn on an even number of days? It's alway
on the third, or the fifth, or seventh, or so on. He'll not turn
till to-morrow night, take my word for it, and their fine London
doctor will get all the credit, and honest Mr. Jones will be
thrown aside. I don't think he will get better myself,
though--Gelert does not howl for nothing. My patience what's the
matter with the girl?--Lord, child, you're never going to faint,
and be ill on my hands?" Her sharp voice recalled Ruth from the
sick unconsciousness that had been creeping over her as she
listened to the latter part of this speech. She sat down and
could not speak--the room whirled round and round--her white
feebleness touched Mrs. Morgan's heart.

"You've had no tea, I guess. Indeed, and the girls are very
careless." She rang the bell with energy, and seconded her pull
by going to the door and shouting out sharp directions, in Welsh,
to Nest and Gwen, and three or four other rough, kind, slatternly
servants.

They brought her tea, which was comfortable, according to the
idea of comfort prevalent in that rude hospitable place; there
was plenty to eat; too much indeed, for it revolted the appetite
it was intended to provoke. But the heartiness with which the
kind rosy waiter pressed her to eat, and the scolding Mrs. Morgan
gave her when she found the buttered toast untouched (toast on
which she had herself desired that the butter might not be
spared), did Ruth more good than the tea. She began to hope, and
to long for the morning when hope might have become certainty. It
was all in vain that she was told that the room she had been in
all day was at her service; she did not say a word, but she was
not going to bed that night of all nights in the year, when life
or death hung trembling in the balance. She went into the bedroom
till the bustling house was still, and heard busy feet passing to
and fro into the room she might not enter; and voices, imperious,
though hushed down to a whisper, ask for innumerable things. Then
there was silence: and when she thought that all were dead
asleep, except the watchers, she stole out into the gallery. On
the other side were two windows, cut into the thick stone wall,
and flower-pots were placed on the shelves thus formed, where
great untrimmed, straggling geraniums grew, and strove to reach
the light. The window near Mr. Bellingham's door was open; the
soft, warm-scented night-air came sighing in in faint gusts, and
then was still. It was summer; there was no black darkness in the
twenty-four hours; only the light grew dusky, and colour
disappeared from objects, of which the shape and form remained
distinct. A soft grey oblong of barred light fell on the flat
wall opposite to the windows, and deeper grey shadows marked out
the tracery of the plants, more graceful thus than in reality.
Ruth crouched where no light fell. She sat on the ground close by
the door; her whole existence was absorbed in listening: all was
still; it was only her heart beating with the strong, heavy,
regular sound of a hammer. She wished she could stop its rushing,
incessant clang. She heard a rustle of a silken gown, and knew it
ought not to have been worn in a sick-room; for her senses seemed
to have passed into the keeping of the invalid, and to feel only
as he felt. The noise was probably occasioned by some change of
posture in the watcher inside, for it was once more dead-still.
The soft wind outside sank with a low, long, distant moan among
the windings of the hills, and lost itself there, and came no
more again. But Ruth's heart beat loud. She rose with as little
noise as if she were a vision, and crept to the open window to
try and lose the nervous listening for the ever-recurring sound.
Out beyond, under the calm sky, veiled with a mist rather than
with a cloud, rose the high, dark outlines of the mountains,
shutting in that village as if it lay in a nest. They stood, like
giants, solemnly watching for the end of Earth and Time. Here and
there a black round shadow reminded Ruth of some "Cwm," or
hollow, where she and her lover had rambled in sun and in
gladness. She then thought the land enchanted into everlasting
brightness and happiness; she fancied, then, that into a region
so lovely no bale or woe could enter, but would be charmed away
and disappear before the sight of the glorious guardian
mountains. Now she knew the truth, that earth has no barrier
which avails against agony. It comes lightning-like down from
heaven, into the mountain house and the town garret; into the
palace and into the cottage. The garden lay close under the
house; a bright spot enough by day; for in that soil, whatever
was planted grew and blossomed in spite of neglect. The white
roses glimmered out in the dusk all the night through; the red
were lost in shadow. Between the low boundary of the garden and
the hills swept one or two green meadows; Ruth looked into the
grey darkness till she traced each separate wave of outline. Then
she heard a little restless bird chirp out its wakefulness from a
nest in the ivy round the walls of the house. But the mother-bird
spread her soft feathers, and hushed it into silence. Presently,
however, many little birds began to scent the coming dawn, and
rustled among the leaves, and chirruped loud and clear. Just
above the horizon, too, the mist became a silvery grey cloud
hanging on the edge of the world; presently it turned shimmering
white; and then, in an instant, it flushed into rose, and the
mountain-tops sprang into heaven, and bathed in the presence of
the shadow of God. With a bound, the sun of a molten fiery red
came above the horizon, and immediately thousands of little birds
sang out for joy, and a soft chorus of mysterious, glad murmurs
came forth from the earth; the low whispering wind left its
hiding-place among the clefts and hollows of the hills, and
wandered among the rustling herbs and trees, waking the
flower-buds to the life of another day. Ruth gave a sigh of
relief that the night was over and gone; for she knew that soon
suspense would be ended, and the verdict known, whether for life
or for death. She grew faint and sick with anxiety; it almost
seemed as if she must go into the room and learn the truth. Then
she heard movements, but they were not sharp nor rapid, as if
prompted by any emergency; then, again, it was still. She sat
curled up upon the floor, with her head thrown back against the
wall, and her hands clasped round her knees. She had yet to wait.
Meanwhile, the invalid was slowly rousing himself from a long,
deep, sound, health-giving sleep. His mother had sat by him the
night through, and was now daring to change her position for the
first time; she was even venturing to give directions in a low
voice to the old nurse, who had dozed away in an arm-chair, ready
to obey any summons of her mistress. Mrs. Bellingham went on
tiptoe towards the door, and chiding herself because her stiff,
weary limbs made some slight noise. She had an irrepressible
longing for a few minutes' change of scene after her night of
watching. She felt that the crisis was over; and the relief to
her mind made her conscious of every bodily feeling and
irritation, which had passed unheeded as long as she had been in
suspense.

She slowly opened the door. Ruth sprang upright at the first
sound of the creaking handle. Her very lips were stiff and
unpliable with the force of the blood which rushed to her head.
It seemed as if she could not form words. She stood right before
Mrs. Bellingham. "How is he, madam?"

Mrs. Bellingham was for a moment surprised at the white
apparition which seemed to rise out of the ground. But her quick,
proud mind understood it all in an instant. This was the girl,
then, whose profligacy had led her son astray; had raised up
barriers in the way of her favourite scheme of his marriage with
Miss Duncombe; nay, this was the real cause of his illness, his
mortal danger at this present time, and of her bitter, keen
anxiety. If, under any circumstances, Mrs. Bellingham could have
been guilty of the ill-breeding of not answering a question, it
was now; and for a moment she was tempted to pass on in silence.
Ruth could not wait; she spoke again--

"For the love of God, madam, speak! How is he? Will he live?" If
she did not answer her, she thought the creature was desperate
enough to force her way into his room. So she spoke--

"He has slept well: he is better."

"Oh! my God, I thank thee," murmured Ruth, sinking back against
the wall. It was too much to hear this wretched girl thanking God
for her son's life; as if, in fact, she had any lot or part in
him. And to dare to speak to the Almighty on her son's behalf!
Mrs. Bellingham looked at her with cold, contemptuous eyes, whose
glances were like ice-bolts, and made Ruth shiver up away from
them.

"Young woman, if you have any propriety or decency left, I trust
that you will not dare to force yourself into his room."

She stood for a moment as if awaiting an answer, and half
expecting it to be a defiance. But she did not understand Ruth.
She did not imagine the faithful trustfulness of her heart. Ruth
believed that, if Mr. Bellingham was alive and likely to live,
all was well. When he wanted her, he would send for her, ask for
her, yearn for her, till every one would yield before his
steadfast will. At present she imagined that he was probably too
weak to care or know who was about him; and though it would have
been an infinite delight to her to hover and brood around him,
yet it was of him she thought and not of herself. She gently drew
herself on one side to make way for Mrs. Bellingham to pass.

By and by Mrs. Morgan came up. Ruth was still near the door, from
which it seemed as if she could not tear herself away.

"Indeed, miss, and you must not hang about the door in this way;
it is not pretty manners. Mrs. Bellingham has been speaking very
sharp and cross about it, and I shall lose the character of my
inn if people take to talking as she does. Did I not give you a
room last night to keep in, and never be seen or heard of; and
did I not tell you what a particular lady Mrs. Bellingham was,
but you must come out here right in her way? Indeed, it was not
pretty, nor grateful to me, Jenny Morgan, and that I must say."

Ruth turned away like a chidden child. Mrs. Morgan followed her
to her room, scolding as she went; and then, having cleared her
heart after her wont by uttering hasty words, her real kindness
made her add, in a softened tone--

"You stop up here like a good girl. I'll send you your breakfast
by-and-by, and let you know from time to time how he is; and you
can go out for a walk, you know: but if you do, I'll take it as a
favour if you'll go out by the side-door. It will, maybe, save
scandal."

All that day long, Ruth kept herself close prisoner in the room
to which Mrs. Morgan accorded her; all that day, and many
succeeding days. But at nights, when the house was still, and
even the little brown mice had gathered up the crumbs, and darted
again to their holes, Ruth stole out, and crept to his door to
catch, if she could, the sound of his beloved voice. She could
tell by its tones how he felt, and how he was getting on, as well
as any of the watchers in the room. She yearned and pined to see
him once more; but she had reasoned herself down into something
like patience. When he was well enough to leave his room, when he
had not always one of the nurses with him, then he would send for
her, and she would tell him how very patient she had been for his
dear sake. But it was long to wait, even with this thought of the
manner in which the waiting would end. Poor Ruth! her faith was
only building up vain castles in the air; they towered up into
heaven, it is true; but, after all, they were but visions.


CHAPTER VIII


MRS. BELLINGHAM "DOES THE THING HANDSOMELY"

If Mr. Bellingham did not get rapidly well, it was more owing to
the morbid querulous fancy attendant on great weakness than from
any unfavourable medical symptom. But he turned away with peevish
loathing from the very sight of food, prepared in the slovenly
manner which had almost disgusted him when he was well. It was of
no use telling him that Simpson, his mother's maid, had
superintended the preparation at every point. He offended her by
detecting something offensive and to be avoided in her daintiest
messes, and made Mrs. Morgan mutter many a hasty speech, which,
however, Mrs. Bellingham thought it better not to hear until her
son should be strong enough to travel.

"I think you are better to-day," said she, as his man wheeled his
sofa to the bedroom window. "We shall get you downstairs
to-morrow."

"If you were to get away from this abominable place, I could go
down to-day; but I believe I'm to be kept prisoner here for ever.
I shall never get well here, I'm sure."

He sank back on his sofa in impatient despair. The surgeon was
announced, and eagerly questioned by Mrs. Bellingham as to the
possibility of her son's removal; and he, having heard the same
anxiety for the same end expressed by Mrs. Morgan in the regions
below, threw no great obstacles in the way. After the doctor had
taken his departure, Mrs. Bellingham cleared her throat several
times. Mr. Bellingham knew the prelude of old, and winced with
nervous annoyance.

"Henry, there is something I must speak to you about; an
unpleasant subject, certainly, but one which has been forced upon
me by the very girl herself; you must be aware to what I refer
without giving me the pain of explaining myself." Mr. Bellingham
turned himself sharply round to the wall, and prepared himself
for a lecture by concealing his face from her notice; but she
herself was in too nervous a state to be capable of observation.

"Of course," she continued, "it was my wish to be as blind to the
whole affair as possible, though you can't imagine how Mrs. Mason
has blazoned it abroad; all Fordham rings with it but of course
it could not be pleasant, or, indeed, I may say correct, for me
to be aware that a person of such improper character was under
the same--I beg your pardon, dear Henry, what do you say?"

"Ruth is no improper character, mother; you do her injustice!"

"My dear boy, you don't mean to uphold her as a paragon of
virtue!"

"No, mother, but I led her wrong; I----"

"We will let all discussions into the cause or duration of her
present character drop, if you please," said Mrs. Bellingham,
with the sort of dignified authority which retained a certain
power over her son--a power which originated in childhood, and
which he only defied when he was roused into passion. He was too
weak in body to oppose himself to her, and fight the ground inch
by inch. "As I have implied, I do not wish to ascertain your
share of blame; from what I saw of her one morning, I am
convinced of her forward, intrusive manners, utterly without
shame, or even common modesty."

"What are you referring to?" asked Mr. Bellingham sharply.

"Why, when you were at the worst, and I had been watching you all
night, and had just gone out in the morning for a breath of fresh
air, this girl pushed herself before me, and insisted upon
speaking to me. I really had to send Mrs. Morgan to her before I
could return to your room. A more impudent, hardened manner, I
never saw."

"Ruth was neither impudent nor hardened; she was ignorant enough,
and might offend from knowing no better."

He was getting weary of the discussion, and wished it had never
been begun. From the time he had become conscious of his mother's
presence he had felt the dilemma he was in, in regard to Ruth,
and various plans had directly crossed his brain; but it had been
so troublesome to weigh and consider them all properly, that they
had been put aside to be settled when he grew stronger. But this
difficulty in which he was placed by his connection with Ruth,
associated the idea of her in his mind with annoyance and angry
regret at the whole affair. He wished, in the languid way in
which he wished and felt everything not immediately relating to
his daily comfort, that he had never seen her. It was a most
awkward, a most unfortunate affair. Notwithstanding this
annoyance connected with and arising out of Ruth, he would not
submit to hear her abused; and something in his manner impressed
this on his mother, for she immediately changed her mode of
attack.

"We may as well drop all dispute as to the young woman's manners;
but I suppose you do not mean to defend your connection with her;
I suppose you are not so lost to all sense of propriety as to
imagine it fit or desirable that your mother and this degraded
girl should remain under the same roof, liable to meet at any
hour of the day?" She waited for an answer, but no answer came.

"I ask you a simple question; is it, or is it not, desirable?"

"I suppose it is not," he replied gloomily.

"And I suppose, from your manner, that you think the difficulty
would be best solved by my taking my departure, and leaving you
with your vicious companion?" Again no answer, but inward and
increasing annoyance, of which Mr. Bellingham considered Ruth the
cause. At length he spoke--

"Mother, you are not helping me in my difficulty. I have no
desire to banish you, nor to hurt you, after all your care for
me. Ruth has not been so much to blame as you imagine, that I
must say; but I do not wish to see her again, if you can tell me
how to arrange it otherwise, without behaving unhandsomely. Only
spare me all this worry a while, I am so weak. I put myself in
your hands. Dismiss her, as you wish it; but let it be done
handsomely, and let me hear no more about it; I cannot bear it;
let me have a quiet life, without being lectured, while I am pent
up here, and unable to shake off unpleasant thoughts."

"My dear Henry, rely upon me."

"No more, mother; it's a bad business, and I can hardly avoid
blaming myself in the matter. I don't want to dwell upon it."

"Don't be too severe in your self-reproaches while you are so
feeble, dear Henry; it is right to repent, but I have no doubt
in. my own mind she led you wrong with her artifices. But, as you
say, everything should be done handsomely. I confess I was deeply
grieved when I first heard of the affair, but since I have seen
the girl----Well! I'll say no more about her, since I see it
displeases you; but I am thankful to God that you see the error
of your ways. She sat silent, thinking for a little while, and
then sent for her writing-case and began to write. Her son became
restless, and nervously irritated.

"Mother," he said, "this affair worries me to death. I cannot
shake off the thoughts of it."

"Leave it to me, I'll arrange it satisfactorily."

"Could we not leave to-night? I should not be so haunted by this
annoyance in another place. I dread seeing her again, because I
fear a scene; and yet I believe I ought to see her in order to
explain."

"You must not think of such a thing, Henry," said she, alarmed at
the very idea.

"Sooner than that, we will leave in half-an-hour, and try to get
to Pen tre Voelas to-night. It is not yet three, and the evenings
are very long. Simpson should stay and finish the packing; she
could go straight to London and meet us there. Macdonald and
nurse could go with us. Could you bear twenty miles, do you
think?"

Anything to get rid of his uneasiness. He felt that he was not
behaving as he should do to Ruth, though the really right never
entered his head. But it would extricate him from his present
dilemma, and save him many lectures; he knew that his mother,
always liberal where money was concerned, would "do the thing
handsomely"; and it would always be easy to write and give Ruth
what explanation he felt inclined, in a day or two; so he
consented, and soon lost some of his uneasiness in watching the
bustle of the preparation for their departure. All this time Ruth
was quietly spending in her room, beguiling the waiting, weary
hours, with pictures of the meeting at the end. Her room looked
to the back, and was in a side-wing away from the principal state
apartments, consequently she was not roused to suspicion by any
of the commotion; but, indeed, if she had heard the banging of
doors, the sharp directions, the carriage-wheels, she would still
not have suspected the truth; her own love was too faithful.

It was four o'clock and past, when some one knocked at her door,
and, on entering, gave her a note, which Mrs. Bellingham had
left. That lady had found some difficulty in wording it so as to
satisfy herself, but it was as follows:--

"My son, on recovering from his illness, is, I thank God, happily
conscious of the sinful way in which he has been living with you.
By his earnest desire, and in order to avoid seeing you again, we
are on the point of leaving this place; but, before I go, I wish
to exhort you to repentance, and to remind you that you will not
have your own guilt alone upon your head, but that of any young
man whom you may succeed in entrapping into vice. I shall pray
that you may turn to an honest life, and I strongly recommend
you, if indeed you are not 'dead in trespasses and sins,' to
enter some penitentiary. In accordance with my son's wishes, I
forward you in this envelope a bank-note of fifty pounds.

"MARGARET BELLINGHAM."

Was this the end of all? Had he, indeed, gone? She started up,
and asked this last question of the servant, who, half guessing
at the purport of the note, had lingered about the room, curious
to see the effect produced.

"Iss, indeed, miss; the carriage drove from the door as I came
upstairs. You'll see it now on the Yspytty road, if you'll please
to come to the window of No. 24."

Ruth started up and followed the chambermaid. Ay, there it was,
slowly winding up the steep, white road, on which it seemed to
move at a snail's pace.

She might overtake him--she might--she might speak one farewell
word to him, print his face on her heart with a last look--nay,
when he saw her he might retract, and not utterly, for ever,
leave her. Thus she thought; and she flew back to her room, and
snatching up her bonnet, ran, tying the strings with her
trembling hands as she went down the stairs, out at the nearest
door, little heeding the angry words of Mrs. Morgan; for the
hostess, more irritated at Mrs. Bellingham's severe upbraiding at
parting, than mollified by her ample payment, was offended by the
circumstance of Ruth, in her wild haste, passing through the
prohibited front door.

But Ruth was away before Mrs. Morgan had finished her speech, out
and away, scudding along the road, thought-lost in the breathless
rapidity of her motion. Though her heart and head beat almost to
bursting, what did it signify if she could but overtake the
carriage? It was a nightmare, constantly evading the most
passionate wishes and endeavours, and constantly gaining ground.
Every time it was visible it was in fact more distant, but Ruth
would not believe it. If she could but gain the summit of that
weary everlasting hill, she believed that she could run again,
and would soon be nigh upon the carriage. As she ran she prayed
with wild eagerness; she prayed that she might see his face once
more, even if she died on the spot before him. It was one of
those prayers which God is too merciful to grant; but, despairing
and wild as it was, Ruth put her soul into it, and prayed it
again, and yet again.

Wave above wave of the ever-rising hills were gained, were
crossed, and at last Ruth struggled up to the very top and stood
on the bare table of moor, brown and purple, stretching far away
till it was lost in the haze of the summer afternoon; the white
road was all flat before her, but the carriage she sought, and
the figure she sought, had disappeared. There was no human being
there; a few wild, black-faced mountain sheep, quietly grazing
near the road as if it were long since they had been disturbed,
by the passing of any vehicle, was all the life she saw on the
bleak moorland.

She threw herself down on the ling by the side of the road, in
despair. Her only hope was to die, and she believed she was
dying. She could not think; she could believe anything. Surely
life was a horrible dream, and God would mercifully awaken her
from it? She had no penitence, no consciousness of error or
offence no knowledge of any one circumstance but that he was
gone. Yet afterwards--long afterwards--she remembered the exact
motion of a bright green beetle busily meandering among the wild
thyme near her, and she recalled the musical, balanced, wavering
drop of a skylark into her nest, near the heather-bed where she
lay. The sun was sinking low, the hot air had ceased to quiver
near the hotter earth, when she bethought her once more of the
note which she had impatiently thrown down before half mastering
its contents. "Oh, perhaps," she thought, "I have been too hasty.
There may be some words of explanation from him on the other side
of the page, to which, in my blind anguish, I never turned. I
will go and find it."

She lifted herself heavily and stiffly from the crushed heather.
She stood dizzy and confused with her change of posture; and was
so unable to move at first, that her walk was but slow and
tottering; but, by-and-by, she was tasked and goaded by thoughts
which forced her into rapid motion, as if, by it, she could
escape from her agony. She came down on the level ground, just as
many gay or peaceful groups were sauntering leisurely home with
hearts at ease; with low laughs and quiet smiles, and many an
exclamation at the beauty of the summer evening.

Ever since her adventure with the little boy and his sister, Ruth
had habitually avoided encountering these happy--innocents, may I
call them?--these happy fellow-mortals! And even now, the habit
grounded on sorrowful humiliation had power over her; she paused,
and then, on looking back, she saw more people who had come into
the main road from a side-path. She opened a gate into a
pasture-field, and crept up to the hedge-bank until all should
have passed by, and she could steal into the inn unseen. She sat
down on the sloping turf by the roots of an old hawthorn tree
which grew in the hedge; she was still tearless, with hot burning
eyes; she heard the merry walkers pass by; she heard the
footsteps of the village children as they ran along to their
evening play; she saw the small black cows come into the fields
after being milked; and life seemed yet abroad. When would the
world be still and dark, and fit for such a deserted, desolate
creature as she was? Even in her hiding-place she was not long at
peace. The little children, with their curious eyes peering here
and there, had peeped through the hedge, and through the gate,
and now they gathered from all the four corners of the hamlet,
and crowded round the gate; and one more adventurous than the
rest had run into the field to cry, "Gi' me a halfpenny," which
set the example to every little one, emulous of his boldness; and
there, where she sat, low on the ground, and longing for the sure
hiding-place earth gives to the weary, the children kept running
in, and pushing one another forwards and laughing. Poor things!
their time had not come for understanding what sorrow is. Ruth
would have begged them to leave her alone, and not madden her
utterly; but they knew no English save the one eternal "Gi' me a
halfpenny." She felt in her heart that there was no pity
anywhere. Suddenly, while she thus doubted God, a shadow fell
across her garments, on which her miserable eyes were bent. She
looked up. The deformed gentleman she had twice before seen stood
there. He had been attracted by the noisy little crowd, and had
questioned them in Welsh; but, not understanding enough of the
language to comprehend their answers, he had obeyed their signs,
and entered the gate to which they pointed. There he saw the
young girl whom he had noticed at first for her innocent beauty,
and the second time for the idea he had gained respecting her
situation; there he saw her, crouched up like some hunted
creature, with a wild, scared look of despair, which almost made
her lovely face seem fierce; he saw her dress soiled and dim, her
bonnet crushed and battered with her tossings to and fro on the
moorland bed; he saw the poor, lost wanderer, and when he saw her
he had compassion on her.

There was some look of heavenly pity In his eyes, as gravely and
sadly they met her upturned gaze, which touched her stony heart.
Still looking at him, as if drawing some good influence from him,
she said low and mournfully, "He has left me, sir!--sir, he has
indeed!--he has gone and left me!"

Before he could speak a word to comfort her, she had burst into
the wildest, dreariest crying ever mortal cried. The settled form
of the event, when put into words, went sharp to her heart; her
moans and sobs wrung his soul; but, as no speech of his could be
heard, if he had been able to decide what best to say, he stood
by her in apparent calmness, while she, wretched, wailed and
uttered her woe. But when she lay worn out, and stupefied into
silence, she heard him say to himself in a low voice--

"Oh, my God! for Christ's sake, pity her I"

Ruth lifted up her eyes, and looked at him with a dim perception
of the meaning of his words. She regarded him fixedly in a dreamy
way, as if they struck some chord in her heart, and she were
listening to its echo; and so it was. His pitiful look, or his
words, reminded her of the childish days when she knelt at her
mother's knee; and she was only conscious of a straining, longing
desire to recall it all.

He let her take her time, partly because he was powerfully
affected himself by all the circumstances, and by the sad pale
face upturned to his; and partly by an instinctive consciousness
that the softest patience was required. But suddenly she startled
him, as she herself was startled into a keen sense of the
suffering agony of the present; she sprang up and pushed him
aside, and went rapidly towards the gate of the field. He could
not move as quickly as most men, but he put forth his utmost
speed. He followed across the road, on to the rocky common; but,
as he went along, with his uncertain gait, in the dusk gloaming,
he stumbled, and fell over some sharp projecting stone. The acute
pain which shot up his back forced a short cry from him; and,
when bird and beast are hushed into rest and the stillness of
night is over all, a high-pitched sound, like the voice of pain,
is carried far in the quiet air. Ruth, speeding on in her
despair, heard the sharp utterance, and stopped suddenly short.
It did what no remonstrance could have done; it called her out of
herself. The tender nature was in her still, in that hour when
all good angels seemed to have abandoned her. In the old days she
could never bear to hear or see bodily suffering in any of God's
meanest creatures, without trying to succour them; and now, in
her rush to the awful death of the suicide, she stayed her wild
steps, and turned to find from whom that sharp sound of anguish
had issued.

He lay among the white stones, too faint with pain to move, but
with an agony in his mind far keener than any bodily pain, as he
thought that by his unfortunate fall he had lost all chance of
saving her. He was almost over-powered by his intense
thankfulness when he saw her white figure pause, and stand
listening, and turn again with slow footsteps, as if searching
for some lost thing. He could hardly speak, but he made a sound
which, though his heart was inexpressibly glad, was like a groan.
She came quickly towards him.

"I am hurt," said he; "do not leave me;" his disabled and tender
frame was overcome by the accident and the previous emotions, and
he fainted away. Ruth flew to the little mountain stream, the
dashing sound of whose waters had been tempting her, but a moment
before, to seek forgetfulness in the deep pool into which they
fell. She made a basin of her joined hands, and carried enough of
the cold fresh water back to dash into his face and restore him
to consciousness. While he still kept silence, uncertain what to
say best fitted to induce her to listen to him, she said softly--

"Are you better, sir?--are you very much hurt?"

"Not very much; I am better. Any quick movement is apt to cause
me a sudden loss of power in my back, and I believe I stumbled
over some of these projecting stones. It will soon go off; and
you will help me to go home, I am sure."

"Oh, yes! Can you go now? I am afraid of your lying too long on
this heather; there is a heavy dew."

He was so anxious to comply with her wish, and not weary out her
thought for him, and so turn her back upon herself, that he tried
to rise. The pain was acute, and this she saw.

"Don't hurry yourself, sir; I can wait."

Then came across her mind the recollection of the business that
was thus deferred; but the few homely words which had been
exchanged between them seemed to have awakened her from her
madness. She sat down by him, and covering her face with her
hands, cried mournfully and unceasingly. She forgot his presence,
and yet she had a consciousness that some one looked for her kind
offices, that she was wanted in the world, and must not rush
hastily out of it. The consciousness did not 'take this definite
form, it did not become a thought, but it kept her still, and it
was gradually soothing her.

"Can you help me to rise now?" said he, after a while. She did
not speak, but she helped him up, and then he took her arm, and
she led him tenderly through all the little velvet paths, where
the turf grew short and soft between the rugged stones. Once more
on the highway, they slowly passed along in the moonlight. He
guided her by a slight motion of the arm, through the more
unfrequented lanes, to his lodgings at the shop; for he thought
for her, and conceived the pain she would have in seeing the
lighted windows of the inn. He leant more heavily on her arm, as
they awaited the opening of the door.

"Come in," said he, not relaxing his hold, and yet dreading to
tighten it, lest she should defy restraint, and once more rush
away.

They went slowly into the little parlour behind the shop. The
bonny-looking hostess, Mrs. Hughes by name, made haste to light
the candle, and then they saw each other, face to face. The
deformed gentleman looked very pale, but Ruth looked as if the
shadow of death was upon her.


CHAPTER IX


THE STORM-SPIRIT SUBDUED

Mrs. Hughes bustled about with many a sympathetic exclamation,
now in pretty broken English, now in more fluent Welsh, which
sounded as soft as Russian or Italian, in her musical voice. Mr.
Benson, for that was the name of the hunchback, lay on the sofa
thinking; while the tender Mrs. Hughes made every arrangement for
his relief from pain. He had lodged with her for three successive
years, and she knew and loved him.

Ruth stood in the little bow-window, looking out. Across the
moon, and over the deep blue heavens, large, torn,
irregular-shaped clouds went hurrying, as if summoned by some
storm-spirit. The work they were commanded to do was not here;
the mighty gathering-place lay eastward, immeasurable leagues;
and on they went, chasing each other over the silent earth, now
black, now silver-white at one transparent edge, now with the
moon shining like Hope through their darkest centre, now again
with a silver lining; and now, utterly black, they sailed lower
in the lift, and disappeared behind the immovable mountains; they
were rushing in the very direction in which Ruth had striven and
struggled to go that afternoon; they, in their wild career, would
soon pass over the very spot where he (her world's he) was lying
sleeping, or perhaps not sleeping, perhaps thinking of her. The
storm was in her mind, and rent and tore her purposes into forms
as wild and irregular as the heavenly shapes she was looking at.
If, like them, she could pass the barrier horizon in the night,
she might overtake him. Mr. Benson saw her look, and read it
partially. He saw her longing gaze outwards upon the free, broad
world, and thought that the siren waters, whose deadly music yet
rang in his ears, were again tempting her. He called her to him
praying that his feeble voice might have power.

"My dear young lady, I have much to say to you; and God has taken
my strength from me now when I most need--Oh, I sin to speak
so--but, for His sake, I implore you to be patient here, if only
till to-morrow morning." He looked at her, but her face was
immovable, and she did not speak. She could not give up her hope,
her chance, her liberty, till to-morrow.

"God help me," said he mournfully, "my words do not touch her;"
and, still holding her hand, he sank back on the pillows. Indeed,
it was true that his words did not vibrate in her atmosphere. The
storm-spirit raged there, and filled her heart with the thought
that she was an outcast; and the holy words, "for His sake," were
answered by the demon, who held possession, with a blasphemous
defiance of the merciful God--

"What have I to do with Thee?"

He thought of every softening influence of religion which over
his own disciplined heart had power, but put them aside as
useless. Then the still small voice whispered, and he spake--

"In your mother's name, whether she be dead or alive, I command
you to stay here until I am able to speak to you."

She knelt down at the foot of the sofa, and shook it with her
sobs. Her heart was touched, and he hardly dared to speak again.
At length he said--

"I know you will not go--you could not--for her sake. You will
not, will you?"

"No," whispered Ruth; and then there was a great blank in her
heart. She had given up her chance. She was calm, in the utter
absence of all hope.

"And now you will do what I tell you?" said he gently, but
unconsciously to himself, in the tone of one who has found the
hidden spell by which to rule spirits.

She slowly said, "Yes." But she was subdued.

He called Mrs. Hughes. She came from her adjoining shop.

"You have a bedroom within yours, where your daughter used to
sleep, I think? I am sure you will oblige me, and I shall
consider it as a great favour, if you will allow this young lady
to sleep there to-night. Will you take her there now? Go, my
dear. I have full trust in your promise not to leave until I can
speak to you." His voice died away to silence; but as Ruth rose
from her knees at his bidding, she looked at his face through her
tears. His lips were moving in earnest, unspoken prayer, and she
knew it was for her.

That night, although his pain was relieved by rest, he could not
sleep; and, as in fever, the coming events kept unrolling
themselves before him in every changing and fantastic form. He
met Ruth in all possible places and ways, and addressed her in
every manner he could imagine most calculated to move and affect
her to penitence and virtue. Towards morning he fell asleep, but
the same thoughts haunted his dreams; he spoke, but his voice
refused to utter aloud; and she fled, relentless, to the deep,
black pool.

But God works in His own way.

The visions melted into deep, unconscious sleep. He was awakened
by a knock at the door, which seemed a repetition of what he had
heard in his last sleeping moments.

It was Mrs. Hughes. She stood at the first word of permission
within the room.

"Please, sir, I think the young lady is very ill indeed, sir;
perhaps you would please to come to her."

"How is she ill?" said he, much alarmed.

"Quite quiet-like, sir; but I think she is dying, that's all,
indeed, sir."

"Go away, I will be with you directly," he replied, his heart
sinking within him.

In a very short time he was standing with Mrs. Hughes by Ruth's
bedside. She lay as still as if she were dead, her eyes shut, her
wan face numbed into a fixed anguish of expression. She did not
speak when they spoke, though after a while they thought she
strove to do so. But all power of motion and utterance had left
her. She was dressed in everything, except her bonnet, as she had
been the day before; although sweet, thoughtful Mrs. Hughes had
provided her with nightgear, which lay on the little chest of
drawers that served as a dressing-table. Mr. Benson lifted up her
arm to feel her feeble, fluttering pulse; and when he let go her
hand, it fell upon the bed in a dull, heavy way, as if she were
already dead.

"You gave her some food?" said he anxiously, to Mrs. Hughes.

"Indeed, and I offered her the best in the house, but she shook
her poor pretty head, and only asked if I would please to get her
a cup of water. I brought her some milk though; and, 'deed, I
think she'd rather have had the water; but, not to seem sour and
cross, she took some milk." By this time Mrs. Hughes was fairly
crying.

"When does the doctor come up here?"

"Indeed, sir, and he's up nearly every day now, the inn is so
full."

"I'll go for him. And can you manage to undress her and lay her
in bed? Open the window too, and let in the air; if her feet are
cold, put bottles of hot water to them."

It was a proof of the true love, which was the nature of both,
that it never crossed their minds to regret that this poor young
creature had been thus thrown upon their hands. On the contrary,
Mrs. Hughes called it "a blessing."

"It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes."


CHAPTER X


A NOTE AND THE ANSWER

At the inn everything was life and bustle. Mr. Benson had to wait
long in Mrs. Morgan's little parlour before she could come to
him, and he kept growing more and more impatient. At last she
made her appearance and heard his story. People may talk as they
will about the little respect that is paid to virtue,
unaccompanied by the outward accidents of wealth or station; but
I rather think it will be found that, in the long run, true and
simple virtue always has its proportionate reward in the respect
and reverence of every one whose esteem is worth having. To be
sure, it is not rewarded after the way of the world, as mere
worldly possessions are, with low obeisance and lip-service; but
all the better and more noble qualities in the hearts of others
make ready and go forth to meet it on its approach, provided only
it be pure, simple, and unconscious of its own existence.

Mr. Benson had little thought for outward tokens of respect just
then, nor had Mrs. Morgan much time to spare; but she smoothed
her ruffled brow, and calmed her bustling manner, as soon as ever
she saw who it was that awaited her; for Mr. Benson was well
known in the village, where he had taken up his summer holiday
among the mountains year after year, always a resident at the
shop, and seldom spending a shilling at the inn.

Mrs. Morgan listened patiently--for her.

"Mr. Jones will come this afternoon. But it is a shame you should
be troubled with such as her. I had but little time yesterday,
but I guessed there was something wrong, and Gwen has just been
telling me her bed has not been slept in. They were in a pretty
hurry to be gone yesterday, for all that the gentleman was not
fit to travel, to my way of thinking; indeed, William Wynn, the
post-boy, said he was weary enough before he got to the end of
that Yspytty road; and he thought they would have to rest there a
day or two before they could go further than Pen tre Voelas.
Indeed, and anyhow, the servant is to follow them with the
baggage this very morning; and now I remember, William Wynn said
they would wait for her. You'd better write a note, Mr. Benson,
and tell them her state."

It was sound, though unpalatable advice. It came from one
accustomed to bring excellent, if unrefined sense, to bear
quickly upon any emergency, and to decide rapidly. She was, in
truth, so little accustomed to have her authority questioned,
that, before Mr. Benson had made up his mind, she had produced
paper, pens, and ink from the drawer in her bureau, placed them
before him, and was going to leave the room.

"Leave the note on this shelf, and trust me that it goes by the
maid. The boy that drives her there in the car shall bring you an
answer back." She was gone before he could rally his scattered
senses enough to remember that he had not the least idea of the
name of the person to whom he was to write. The quiet leisure and
peace of his little study at home favoured his habit of reverie
and long deliberation, just as her position as mistress of an inn
obliged her to quick, decisive ways.

Her advice, though good in some points, was unpalatable in
others. It was true that Ruth's condition ought to be known by
those who were her friends; but were these people to whom he was
now going to write friends? He knew there was a rich mother, and
a handsome, elegant son; and he had also some idea of the
circumstances which might a little extenuate their mode of
quitting Ruth. He had wide-enough sympathy to understand that it
must have been a most painful position in which the mother had
been placed, on finding herself under the same roof with a girl
who was living with her son, as Ruth was. And yet he did not like
to apply to her; to write to the son was still more out of the
question, as it seemed like asking him to return. But through one
or the other lay the only clue to her friends, who certainly
ought to be made acquainted with her position. At length he
wrote--

"MADAM,--I write to tell you of the condition of the poor young
woman"--(here came a long pause of deliberation)--"who
accompanied your son on his arrival here, and who was left behind
on your departure yesterday. She is lying (as it appears to me)
in a very dangerous state at my lodgings; and, if I may suggest,
it would be kind to allow your maid to return and attend upon her
until she is sufficiently recovered to be restored to her
friends, if, indeed, they could not come to take charge of her
themselves.--I remain, madam, your obedient servant
THURSTAN BENSON."

The note was very unsatisfactory after all his consideration, but
it was the best he could do. He made inquiry of a passing servant
as to the lady's name, directed the note, and placed it on the
indicated shelf. He then returned to his lodgings, to await the
doctor's coming and the postboy's return. There was no alteration
in Ruth; she was as one stunned into unconsciousness; she did not
move her posture, she hardly breathed. From time to time Mrs.
Hughes wetted her mouth with some liquid, and there was a little
mechanical motion of the lips; that was the only sign of life she
gave. The doctor came and shook his head,--"a thorough
prostration of strength, occasioned by some great shock on the
nerves,"--and prescribed care and quiet, and mysterious
medicines, but acknowledged that the result was doubtful, very
doubtful. After his departure, Mr. Benson took his Welsh grammar
and tried again to master the ever-puzzling rules for the
mutations of letters; but it was of no use, for his thoughts were
absorbed by the life-in-death condition of the young creature,
who was lately bounding and joyous.

The maid and the luggage, the car and the driver; bad arrived
before noon at their journey's end, and the note had been
delivered. It annoyed Mrs. Bellingham exceedingly. It was the
worst of these kind of connections,--there was no calculating the
consequences; they were never-ending. All sorts of claims seemed
to be established, and all sorts of people to step in to their
settlement. The idea of sending her maid! Why, Simpson would not
go if she asked her. She soliloquised thus while reading the
letter; and then, suddenly turning round to the favourite
attendant, who had been listening to her mistress's remarks with
no inattentive ear, she asked--

"Simpson, would you go and nurse this creature, as this----" she
looked at the signature--"Mr. Benson, who ever he is, proposes?"

"Me! no, indeed, ma'am," said the maid, drawing herself up, stiff
in her virtue.

"I'm sure, ma'am, you: would not expect it of me; I could never
have the face to dress a lady of character again."

"Well, well! don't be alarmed; I cannot spare you: by the way,
just attend to the strings on my dress; the chambermaid here
pulled them into knots, and broke them terribly, last night. It
is awkward, though, very," said she, relapsing into a musing fit
over the condition of Ruth.

"If you'll allow me, ma'am, I think I might say some thing that
would alter the case. I believe, ma'am, you put a bank-note into
the letter to the young woman yesterday?"

Mrs. Bellingham bowed acquiescence, and the maid went on--

"Because, ma'am, when the little deformed man wrote that note
(he's Mr. Benson, ma'am), I have reason to believe neither he nor
Mrs. Morgan knew of any provision being made for the young woman.
Me and the chambermaid found your letter and the bank-note lying
quite promiscuous, like waste paper, on the floor of her room;
for I believe she rushed out like mad after you left."

"That, as you say, alters the case. This letter, then, is
principally a sort of delicate hint that some provision ought to
have been made; which is true enough, only it has been attended
to already. What became of the money?"

"Law, ma'am! do you ask? Of course, as soon as I saw it, I picked
it up and took it to Mrs. Morgan, in trust for the young person."

"Oh, that's right. What friends has she? Did you ever hear from
Mason?--perhaps they ought to know where she is."

"Mrs. Mason did tell me, ma'am, she was an orphan; with a
guardian who was noways akin, and who washed his hands of her
when she ran off. But Mrs. Mason was sadly put out, and went into
hysterics, for fear you would think she had not seen after her
enough, and that she might lose your custom; she said it was no
fault of hers, for the girl was always a forward creature,
boasting of her beauty, and saying how pretty she was, and
striving to get where her good looks could be seen and
admired,--one night in particular, ma'am, at a county ball; and
how Mrs. Mason had found out she used to meet Mr. Bellingham at
an old woman's house, who was a regular old witch, ma'am, and
lives in the lowest part of the town, where all the bad
characters haunt."

"There! that's enough," said Mrs. Bellingham sharply, for the
maid's chattering had outrun her tact; and in her anxiety to
vindicate the character of her friend Mrs. Mason by blackening
that of Ruth, she had forgotten that she a little implicated her
mistress's son, whom his proud mother did not like to imagine as
ever passing through a low and degraded part of the town.

"If she has no friends, and is the creature you describe (which
is confirmed by my own observation), the best place for her is,
as I said before, the Penitentiary. Her fifty pounds will keep
her a week or so, if she is really unable to travel, and pay for
her journey; and if on her return to Fordham she will let me
know, I will undertake to obtain her admission immediately."

"I'm sure it's well for her she has to do with a lady who will
take any interest in her, after what has happened."

Mrs. Bellingham called for her writing-desk, and wrote a few
hasty lines to be sent by the post-boy, who was on the point of
starting--

"Mrs. Bellingham presents her compliments to her unknown
correspondent, Mr. Benson, and begs to inform him of a
circumstance of which she believes he was ignorant when he wrote
the letter with which she has been favoured; namely, that
provision to the amount of L 50 was left for the unfortunate young
person who is the subject of Mr. Benson's letter. This sum is in
the hands of Mrs. Morgan, as well as a note from Mrs. Bellingham
to the miserable girl, in which she proposes to procure her
admission into the Fordham Penitentiary, the best place for such
a character, as by this profligate action she has forfeited the
only friend remaining to her in the world. This proposition Mrs.
Bellingham repeats; and they are the young woman's best friends
who most urge her to comply with the course now pointed out."

"Take care Mr. Bellingham hears nothing of this Mr. Benson's
note," said Mrs. Bellingham, as she delivered the answer to her
maid; "he is so sensitive just now that it would annoy him sadly,
I am sure."


CHAPTER XI


THURSTAN AND FAITH BENSON

You have now seen the note which was delivered into Mr. Benson's
hands, as the cool shades of evening stole over the glowing
summer sky. When he had read it, he again prepared to write a few
hasty lines before the post went out. The post-boy was even now
sounding his horn through the village as a signal for letters to
be ready; and it was well that Mr. Benson, in his long morning's
meditation, had decided upon the course to be pursued, in case of
such an answer as that which he had received from Mrs.
Bellingham. His present note was as follows;--

"DEAR FAITH,--You must come to this place directly, where I
earnestly desire you and your advice. I am well myself, so do not
be alarmed. I have no time for explanation, but I am sure you
will not refuse me; let me trust that I shall see you on Saturday
at the latest. You know the mode by which I came; it is the best
both for expedition and cheapness. Dear Faith, do not fail me.--

"Your affectionate brother. THURSTAN BENSON.

"P.S.--I am afraid the money I left may be running short. Do not
let this stop you. Take my Facciolati to Johnson's, he will
advance upon it; it is the third row, bottom shelf. Only come."

When this letter was despatched he had done all he could; and the
next two days passed like a long monotonous dream of watching,
thought, and care, undisturbed by any event, hardly by the change
from day to night, which, now the harvest moon was at her full,
was scarcely perceptible. On Saturday morning the answer came--

"DEAREST THURSTAN,--Your incomprehensible summons has just
reached me, and I obey, thereby proving my right to my name of
Faith. I shall be with you almost as soon as this letter. I
cannot help feeling anxious, as well as curious. I have money
enough, and it is well I have; for Sally, who guards your room
like a dragon, would rather see me walk the whole way, than have
any of your things disturbed.--Your affectionate sister,"

It was a great relief to Mr. Benson to think that his sister
would so soon be with him. He had been accustomed from childhood
to rely on her prompt judgment and excellent sense; and to her
care he felt that Ruth ought to be consigned, as it was too much
to go on taxing good Mrs. Hughes with night watching and sick
nursing, with all her other claims on her time. He asked her once
more to sit by Ruth, while he went to meet his sister.

The coach passed by the foot of the steep ascent which led up to
Llan-dhu. He took a boy to carry his sister's luggage when they
arrived; they were too soon at the bottom of the hill; and the
boy began to make ducks and drakes in the shallowest part of the
stream, which there flowed glassy and smooth, while Mr. Benson
sat down on a great stone, under the shadow of an alderbush which
grew where the green flat meadow skirted the water. It was
delightful to be once more in the open air, and away from the
scenes and thoughts which had been pressing on him for the last
three days. There was a new beauty in everything from the blue
mountains which glimmered in the distant sunlight, down to the
flat, rich, peaceful vale, with its calm round shadows, where he
sat. The very margin of white pebbles which lay on the banks of
the stream had a sort of cleanly beauty about it. He felt calmer
and more at ease than he had done for some days; and yet, when he
began to think, it was rather a strange story which he had to
tell his sister, in order to account for his urgent summons. Here
was he, sole friend and guardian of a poor sick girl, whose very
name he did not know; about whom all that he did know was, that
she had been the mistress of a man who had deserted her, and that
he feared--he believed--she had contemplated suicide. The
offence, too, was one for which his sister, good and kind as she
was, had little compassion. Well, he must appeal to her love for
him, which was a very unsatisfactory mode of proceeding, as he
would far rather have had her interest in the girl founded on
reason, or some less personal basis, than showing it merely
because her brother wished it.

The coach came slowly rumbling over the stony road. His sister
was outside, but got down in a brisk active way, and greeted her
brother heartily and affectionately. She was considerably taller
than he was, and must have been very handsome; her black hair was
parted plainly over her forehead, and her dark expressive eyes
and straight nose still retained the beauty of her youth. I do
not know whether she was older than her brother; but, probably
owing to his infirmity requiring her care, she had something of a
mother's manner towards him.

"Thurstan, you are looking pale! I do not believe you are well,
whatever you may say. Have you had the old pain in your back?"

"No--a little--never mind that, dearest Faith. Sit down here,
while I send the boy up with your box." And then, with some
little desire to show his sister how well he was acquainted with
the language, he blundered out his directions in very grammatical
Welsh; so grammatical, in fact, and so badly pronounced, that the
boy, scratching his head, made answer--

"Dim Saesoneg."

So he had to repeat it in English.

"Well, now, Thurstan, here I sit as you bid me. But don't try me
too long; tell me why you sent for me."

Now came the difficulty, and oh! for a seraph's tongue, and a
seraph's powers of representation! But there was no seraph at
hand, only the soft running waters singing a quiet tune, and
predisposing Miss Benson to listen with a soothed spirit to any
tale, not immediately involving her brother's welfare, which had
been the cause of her seeing that lovely vale.

"It is an awkward story to tell, Faith, but there is a young
woman lying ill at my lodgings whom I wanted you to nurse."

He thought he saw a shadow on his sister's face, and detected a
slight change in her voice as she spoke.

"Nothing very romantic, I hope, Thurstan. Remember, I cannot
stand much romance; I always distrust it."

"I don't know what you mean by romance. The story is real enough,
and not out of the common way, I'm afraid."

He paused; he did not get over the difficulty.

"Well, tell it me at once, Thurstan. I am afraid you have let
some one, or perhaps only your own imagination, impose upon you;
but don't try my patience too much; you know I've no great
stock."

"Then I'll tell you. The young girl was brought to the inn here
by a gentleman, who has left her; she is very ill, and has no one
to see after her."

Miss Benson had some masculine tricks, and one was whistling a
long, low whistle when surprised or displeased. She had often
found it a useful vent for feelings, and she whistled now. Her
brother would rather she had spoken.

"Have you sent for her friends?" she asked, at last.

"She has none."

Another pause and another whistle, but rather softer and more
wavering than the last.

"How is she ill?"

"Pretty nearly as quiet as if she were dead. She does not speak,
or move, or even sigh."

"It would be better for her to die at once, I think."

"Faith!"

That one word put them right. It was spoken in the tone which had
authority over her; it was so full of grieved surprise and
mournful upbraiding. She was accustomed to exercise a sway over
him, owing to her greater decision of character, and, probably,
if everything were traced to its cause, to her superior vigour of
constitution; but at times she was humbled before his pure,
childlike nature, and felt where she was inferior. She was too
good and; true to conceal this feeling, or to resent its being
forced upon her. After a time she said--

"Thurstan dear, let us go to her."

She helped him with tender care, and gave him her arm up the long
and tedious hill; but when they approached the village, without
speaking a word on the subject, they changed their position, and
she leant (apparently) on him. He stretched himself up into as
vigorous a gait as he could, when they drew near to the abodes of
men.

On the way they had spoken but little. He had asked after various
members of his congregation, for he was a Dissenting minister in
a country town, and she had answered; but they neither of them
spoke of Ruth, though their minds were full of her.

Mrs. Hughes had tea ready for the traveller on her arrival. Mr.
Benson chafed a little internally at the leisurely way in which
his sister sipped and sipped, and paused to tell him some
trifling particular respecting home affairs, which she had
forgotten before.

"Mr. Bradshaw has refused to let the children associate with the
Dixons any longer, because one evening they played at acting
charades."

"Indeed! A little more bread and butter, Faith?"

"Thank you this Welsh air does make one hungry. Mrs. Bradshaw is
paying poor old Maggie's rent, to save her from being sent into
the workhouse.

"That's right. Won't you have another cup of tea?"

"I have had two. However, I think I'll take another."

Mr. Benson could not refrain from a little sigh as he poured it
out. He thought he had never seen his sister so deliberately
hungry and thirsty before. He did not guess that she was feeling
the meal rather a respite from a distasteful interview, which she
was aware was awaiting her at its conclusion. But all things come
to an end, and so did Miss Benson's tea.

"Now, will you go and see her?"

"Yes."

And so they went. Mrs. Hughes had pinned up a piece of green
calico, by way of a Venetian blind, to shut out the afternoon
sun; and in the light thus shaded lay Ruth--still, and wan, and
white. Even with her brother's account of Ruth's state, such
death-like quietness startled Miss Benson--startled her into pity
for the poor lovely creature who lay thus stricken and felled.
When she saw her, she could no longer imagine her to be an
impostor, or a hardened sinner; such prostration of woe belonged
to neither. Mr. Benson looked more at his sister's face than at
Ruth's; he read her countenance as a book.

Mrs. Hughes stood by, crying.

Mr. Benson touched his sister, and they left the room together.

"Do you think she will live?" asked he.

"I cannot tell," said Miss Benson, in a softened voice. "But how
young she looks! quite a child, poor creature! When will the
doctor come, Thurstan? Tell me all about her; you have never told
me the particulars."

Mr. Benson might have said she had never cared to hear them
before, and had rather avoided the subject; but he was too happy
to see this awakening of interest in his sister's warm heart to
say anything in the least reproachful. He told her the story as
well as he could, and, as he felt it deeply, he told it with
heart's eloquence; and as he ended, and looked at her, there were
tears in the eyes of both.

"And what does the doctor say?" asked she, after a pause.

"He insists upon quiet; he orders medicines and strong broth. I
cannot tell you all; Mrs. Hughes can. She has been so truly good.
'Doing good, hoping for nothing again.'"

"She looks very sweet and gentle. I shall sit up to night, and
watch her myself; and I shall send you and Mrs. Hughes early to
bed, for you have both a worn look about you I don't like. Are
you sure the effect of that fall has gone off? Do you feel
anything of it in your back still? After all, I owe her something
for turning back to your help. Are you sure she was going to
drown herself?"

"I cannot be sure, for I have not questioned her. She has not
been in a state to be questioned; but I have no doubt whatever
about it. But you must not think of sitting up after your
journey, Faith."

"Answer me, Thurstan. Do you feel any bad effect from that fall?"

"No, hardly any. Don't sit up, Faith, to-night!"

"Thurstan, it's no use talking, for I shall; and, if you go on
opposing me, I dare say I shall attack your back, and, put a
blister on it. Do tell me what that 'hardly any' means. Besides,
to set you quite at ease, you know I have never seen mountains
before, and they fill me and oppress me so much that I could not
sleep; I must keep awake this first night, and see that they
don't fall on the earth and overwhelm it. And now answer my
questions about yourself."

Miss Benson had the power, which some people have, of carrying
her wishes through to their fulfilment; her will was strong, her
sense was excellent, and people yielded to her--they did not know
why. Before ten o'clock she reigned sole power and potentate in
Ruth's little chamber. Nothing could have been better devised for
giving her an interest in the invalid. The very dependence of one
so helpless upon her care inclined her heart towards her. She
thought she perceived a slight improvement in the symptoms during
the night, and she was a little pleased that this progress should
have been made while she reigned monarch of the sick-room. Yes,
certainly there was an improvement. There was more consciousness
in the look of the eyes, although the whole countenance still
retained its painful traces of acute suffering, manifested in an
anxious, startled uneasy aspect. It was broad morning light,
though barely five o'clock, when Miss Benson caught the sight of
Ruth's lips moving, as if in speech. Miss Benson stooped down to
listen.

"Who are you?" asked Ruth, in the faintest of whispers.

"Miss Benson--Mr. Benson's sister," she replied.

The words conveyed no knowledge to Ruth; on the contrary, weak as
a babe in mind and body as she was, her lips began to quiver, and
her eyes to show a terror similar to that of any little child who
wakens in the presence of a stranger, and sees no dear, familiar
face of mother or nurse to reassure its trembling heart.

Miss Benson took her hand in hers, and began to stroke it
caressingly.

"Don't be afraid, dear; I'm a friend come to take care of you.
Would you like some tea now, my love ?"

The very utterance of these gentle words was unlocking Miss
Benson's heart. Her brother was surprised to see her so full of
interest when he came to inquire later on in the morning. It
required Mrs. Hughes's persuasions, as well as his own, to induce
her to go to bed for an hour or two after breakfast; and, before
she went, she made them promise that she should be called when
the doctor came. He did not come until late in the afternoon. The
invalid was rallying fast, though rallying to a consciousness of
sorrow, as was evinced by the tears which came slowly rolling
down her pale sad cheeks--tears which she had not the power to
wipe away.

Mr. Benson had remained in the house all day to hear the doctor's
opinion; and, now that he was relieved from the charge of Ruth by
his sister's presence, he had the more time to dwell upon the
circumstances of her case--so far as they were known to him. He
remembered his first sight of her; her lithe figure swaying to
and fro as she balanced herself on the slippery stones, half
smiling at her own dilemma, with a bright, happy light in the
eyes, that seemed like a reflection from the glancing waters
sparkling below. Then he recalled the changed, affrighted look of
those eyes as they met his, after the child's rebuff of her
advances; how that little incident filled up the tale at which
Mrs. Hughes had hinted, in a kind of sorrowful way, as if loath
(as a Christian should be) to believe evil. Then that fearful
evening, when he had only just saved her from committing suicide,
and that nightmare sleep! And now--lost, forsaken, and but just
delivered from the jaws of death, she lay dependent for
everything on his sister and him--utter strangers a few weeks
ago. Where was her lover? Could he be easy and happy? Could he
grow into perfect health, with these great sins pressing on his
conscience with a strong and hard pain? Or had he a conscience?

Into whole labyrinths of social ethics Mr. Benson's thoughts
wandered, when his sister entered suddenly and abruptly.

"What does the doctor say? Is she better?"

"Oh, yes! she's better," answered Miss Benson, sharp and short.
Her brother looked at her in dismay. She bumped down into a chair
in a cross, disconcerted manner. They were both silent for a few
minutes, only Miss Benson whistled and clucked alternately.

"What is the matter, Faith? You say she is better."

"Why, Thurstan, there is something so shocking the matter, that I
cannot tell you."

Mr. Benson changed colour with affright. All things possible and
impossible crossed his mind but the right one. I said, "all
things possible"; I made a mistake. He never believed Ruth to be
more guilty than she seemed.

"Faith, I wish you would tell me, and not bewilder me with those
noises of yours," said he nervously.

"I beg your pardon; but something so shocking has just been
discovered--I don't know how to word it--she will have a child.
The doctor says so." She was allowed to make noises unnoticed for
a few minutes. Her brother did not speak. At last she wanted his
sympathy.

"Isn't it shocking, Thurstan? You might have knocked me down with
a straw when he told me."

"Does she know?"

"Yes; and I am not sure that that isn't the worst part of all."

"How?--what do you mean?"

"Oh, I was just beginning to have a good opinion of her; but I'm
afraid she is very depraved. After the doctor was gone, she
pulled the bed-curtain aside, and looked as if she wanted to
speak to me. (I can't think how she heard, for we were close to
the window, and spoke very low.) Well, I went to her, though I
really had taken quite a turn against her. And she whispered,
quite eagerly, 'Did he say I should have a baby?' Of course I
could not keep it from her; but I thought it my duty to look as
cold and severe as I could. She did not seem to understand how it
ought to be viewed, but took it just as if she had a right to
have a baby. She said, 'Oh, my God, I thank Thee! Oh, I will be
so good!' I had no patience with her then, so I left the room."

"Who is with her?"

"Mrs. Hughes. She is not seeing the thing in a moral light, as I
should have expected."

Mr. Benson was silent again. After some time he began--

"Faith, I don't see this affair quite as you do. I believe I am
right."

"You surprise me, brother! I don't understand you."

"Wait awhile! I want to make my feelings very clear to you, but I
don't know where to begin, or how to express myself."

"It is, indeed, an extraordinary subject for us to have to talk
about; but, if once I get clear of this girl, I'll wash my hands
of all such cases again." Her brother was not attending to her;
he was reducing his own ideas to form. "Faith, do you know I
rejoice in this child's advent?"

"May God forgive you, Thurstan!--if you know what you are saying.
But, surely, it is a temptation, dear Thurstan."

"I do not think it is a delusion. The sin appears to me to be
quite distinct from its consequences."

"Sophistry--and a temptation," said Miss Benson decidedly.

"No, it is not," said her brother, with equal decision. "In the
eye of God, she is exactly the same as if the life she has led
had left no trace behind. We knew her errors before, Faith."

"Yes, but not this disgrace--this badge of her shame!"

"Faith, Faith! let me beg of you not to speak so of the little
innocent babe, who may be God's messenger to lead her back to
Him. Think again of her first words--the burst of nature from her
heart! Did she not turn to God, and enter into a covenant with
Him--'I will be so good'? Why, it draws her out of herself! If
her life has hitherto been self-seeking and wickedly thoughtless,
here is the very instrument to make her forget herself, and be
thoughtful for another. Teach her (and God will teach her, if man
does not come between) to reverence her child; and this reverence
will shut out sin,--will be purification."

He was very much excited; he was even surprised at his own
excitement; but his thoughts and meditations through the long
afternoon had prepared his mind for this manner of viewing the
subject.

"These are quite new ideas to me," said Miss Benson coldly. "I
think you, Thurstan, are the first person I ever heard rejoicing
over the birth of an illegitimate child. It appears to me, I must
own, rather questionable morality."

"I do not rejoice. I have been all this afternoon mourning over
the sin which has blighted this young creature; I have been
dreading lest, as she recovered consciousness, there should be a
return of her despair. I have been thinking of every holy word,
every promise to the penitent--of the tenderness which led the
Magdalen aright. I have been feeling, severely and reproachfully,
the timidity which has hitherto made me blink all encounter with
evils of this particular kind. O Faith! once for all, do not
accuse me of questionable morality, when I am trying more than
ever I did in my life to act as my blessed Lord would have done."

He was very much agitated. His sister hesitated, and then she
spoke more softly than before--

"But, Thurstan, everything might have been done to 'lead her
right' (as you call it), without this child, this miserable
offspring of sin."

"The world has, indeed, made such children miserable, innocent as
they are; but I doubt if this be according to the will of God,
unless it be His punishment for the parents' guilt; and even then
the world's way of treatment is too apt to harden the mother's
natural love into something like hatred. Shame, and the terror of
friends' displeasure, turn her mad--defile her holiest instincts;
and, as for the fathers--God forgive them! I cannot--at least,
not just now." Miss Benson thought on what her brother said. At
length she asked, "Thurstan (remember I'm not convinced), how
would you have this girl treated according to your theory?"

"It will require some time, and much Christian love, to find out
the best way. I know I'm not very wise; but the way I think it
would be right to act in, would be this----" He thought for some
time before he spoke, and then said--

"She has incurred a responsibility--that we both acknowledge. She
is about to become a mother, and have the direction and guidance
of a little tender life. I fancy such a responsibility must be
serious and solemn enough, without making it into a heavy and
oppressive burden, so that human nature recoils from bearing it.
While we do all we can to strengthen her sense of responsibility,
I would likewise do all we can to make her feel that it is
responsibility for what may become a blessing."

"Whether the children are legitimate or illegitimate?" asked Miss
Benson dryly.

"Yes!" said her brother firmly. "The more I think, the more I
believe I am right. No one," said he, blushing faintly as he
spoke, "can have a greater recoil from proffigacy than I have.
You yourself have not greater sorrow over this young creature's
sin than I have the difference is this, you confuse the
consequences with the sin."

"I don't understand metaphysics."

"I am not aware that I am talking metaphysics. I can imagine that
if the present occasion be taken rightly, and used well, all that
is good in her may be raised to a height unmeasured but by God;
while all that is evil and dark may, by His blessing, fade and
disappear in the pure light of her child's presence.--Oh, Father!
listen to my prayer, that her redemption may date from this time.
Help us to speak to her in the loving spirit of thy Holy Son!"

The tears were full in his eyes; he almost trembled in his
earnestness. He was faint with the strong power of his own
conviction, and with his inability to move his sister. But she
was shaken. She sat very still for a quarter of an hour or more
while he leaned back, exhausted by his own feelings.

"The poor child!" said she at length--"the poor, poor child! what
it will have to struggle through and endure! Do you remember
Thomas Wilkins, and the way he threw the registry of his birth
and baptism back in your face? Why, he would not have the
situation; he went to sea, and was drowned, rather than present
the record of his shame."

"I do remember it all. It has often haunted me. She must
strengthen her child to look to God, rather than to man's
opinion. It will be the discipline, the penance, she has
incurred. She must teach it to be (humanly speaking)
self-dependent."

"But after all," said Miss Benson (for she had known and esteemed
poor Thomas Wilkins, and had mourned over his untimely death, and
the recollection thereof softened her)--"after all, it might be
concealed. The very child need never know its illegitimacy."

"How?" asked her brother.

"Why--we know so little about her yet; but in that letter, it
said she had no friends;--now, could she not go into quite a
fresh place, and be passed off as a widow?"

Ah, tempter! unconscious tempter! Here was a way of evading the
trials for the poor little unborn child, of which Mr. Benson had
never thought. It was the decision--the pivot, on which the fate
of years moved; and he turned it the wrong way. But it was not
for his own sake. For himself, he was brave enough to tell the
truth; for the little helpless baby, about to enter a cruel,
biting world, he was tempted to evade the difficulty. He forgot
what he had just said, of the discipline and the penance to the
mother consisting in strengthening her child to meet, trustfully
and bravely, the consequences of her own weakness. He remembered
more clearly the wild fierceness, the Cain-like look, of Thomas
Wilkins, as the obnoxious word in the baptismal registry told him
that he must go forth branded into the world, with his hand
against every man's, and every man's against him.

"How could it be managed, Faith?"

"Nay, I must know much more, which she alone can tell us, before
I can see how it is to be managed. It is certainly the best
plan."

"Perhaps it is," said her brother thoughtfully, but no longer
clearly or decidedly; and so the conversation dropped.

Ruth moved the bed-curtain aside, in her soft manner, when Miss
Benson re-entered the room; she did not speak, but she looked at
her as if she wished her to come near. Miss Benson went and stood
by her. Ruth took her hand in hers and kissed it; as if fatigued
even by this slight movement, she fell asleep. Miss Benson took
up her work, and thought over her brother's speeches. She was not
convinced, but she was softened and bewildered.


CHAPTER XII


LOSING SIGHT OF THE WELSH MOUNTAINS

Miss Benson continued in an undecided state of mind for the two
next days; but on the third, as they sat at breakfast, she began
to speak to her brother.

"That young creature's name is Ruth Hilton."

"Indeed! how did you find it out?"

"From herself, of course. She is much stronger. I slept with her
last night, and I was aware she was awake long before I liked to
speak, but at last I began. I don't know what I said, or how it
went on, but I think it was a little relief to her to tell me
something about herself. She sobbed and cried herself to sleep; I
think she is asleep now.

"Tell me what she said about herself."

"Oh, it was really very little; it was evidently a most painful
subject. She is an orphan, without brother or sister, and with a
guardian, whom, I think she said, she never saw but once. He
apprenticed her (after her father's death) to a dressmaker. This
Mr. Bellingham got acquainted with her, and they used to meet on
Sunday afternoons. One day they were late, lingering on the road,
when the dressmaker came up by accident. She seems to have been
very angry, and not unnaturally so. The girl took fright at her
threats, and the lover persuaded her to go off with him to
London, there and then. Last May, I think it was. That's all."

"Did she express any sorrow for her error?"

"No, not in words; but her voice was broken with sobs, though she
tried to make it steady. After a while she began to talk about
her baby, but shyly, and with much hesitation. She asked me, how
much I thought she could earn as a dressmaker, by working very,
very hard; and that brought us round to her child. I thought of
what you had said, Thurstan, and I tried to speak to her as you
wished me. I am not sure if it was right; I am doubtful in my own
mind still."

"Don't be doubtful, Faith! Dear Faith, I thank you for your
kindness."

"There is really nothing to thank me for. It is almost impossible
to help being kind to her; there is something so meek and gentle
about her, so patient, and so grateful!"

"What does she think of doing?"

"Poor child! she thinks of taking lodgings--very cheap ones, she
says; there she means to work night and day to earn enough for
her child. For she said to me; with such pretty earnestness, 'It
must never know want, whatever I do. I have deserved suffering,
but it will be such a little innocent darling!' Her utmost
earnings would not be more than seven or eight shillings a week,
I'm afraid; and then she is so young and so pretty!"

"There is that fifty pounds Mrs. Morgan brought me, and those two
letters. Does she know about them yet?"

"No; I did not like to tell her till she is a little stronger.
Oh, Thurstan! I wish there was not this prospect of a child. I
cannot help it. I do--I could see a way in which we might help
her, if it were not for that."

"How do you mean?"

"Oh, it's no use thinking of it, as it is! Or else we might have
taken her home with us, and kept her till she had got a little
dressmaking in the congregation, but for this meddlesome child;
that spoils everything. You must let me grumble to you, Thurstan.
I was very good to her, and spoke as tenderly and respectfully of
the little thing as if it were the Queen's, and born in lawful
matrimony."

"That's right, my dear Faith! Grumble away to me, if you like.
I'll forgive you, for the kind thought of taking her home with
us. But do you think her situation is an insuperable objection?"

"Why, Thurstan!--it's so insuperable, it puts it quite out of the
question."

"How?--that's only repeating your objection. Why is it out of the
question?"

"If there had been no child coming, we might have called her by
her right name--Miss Hilton; that's one thing. Then, another is,
the baby in our house. Why, Sally would go distraught!"

"Never mind Sally. If she were an orphan relation of our own,
left widowed," said he, pausing as if in doubt. "You yourself
suggested she should be considered as a widow, for the child's
sake. I'm only taking up your ideas, dear Faith. I respect you
for thinking of taking her home; it is just what we ought to do.
Thank you for reminding me of my duty."

"Nay, it was only a passing thought. Think of Mr. Bradshaw. Oh! I
tremble at the thought of his grim displeasure."

"We must think of a higher than Mr. Bradshaw. I own I should be a
very coward if he knew. He is so severe, so inflexible. But after
all he sees so little of us; he never comes to tea, you know, but
is always engaged when Mrs. Bradshaw comes. I don't think he
knows of what our household consists."

"Not know Sally? Oh yes, but he does. He asked Mrs. Bradshaw one
day if she knew what wages we gave her, and said we might get a
far more efficient and younger servant for the money. And,
speaking about money, think what our expenses would be if we took
her home for the next six months."

That consideration was a puzzling one; and both sat silent and
perplexed for a time. Miss Benson was as sorrowful as her
brother, for she was becoming as anxious as he was to find it
possible that her plan could be carried out

"There's the fifty pounds," said he, with a sigh of reluctance at
the idea.

"Yes, there's the fifty pounds," echoed his sister, with the same
sadness in her tone. "I suppose it is hers."

"I suppose it is; and, being so, we must not think who gave it to
her. It will defray her expenses. I am very sorry, but I think we
must take it."

"It would never do to apply to him under the present
circumstances," said Miss Benson, in a hesitating manner.

"No, that we won't," said her brother decisively. "If she
consents to let us take care of her, we will never let her stoop
to request anything from him, even for his child. She can live on
bread and water--we can all live on bread and water--rather than
that."

"Then I will speak to her and propose the plan. Oh, Thurstan!
from a child you could persuade me to anything! I hope I am doing
right. However much I oppose you at first, I am sure to yield
soon; almost in proportion to my violence at first. I think I am
very weak."

"No, not in this instance. We are both right: I, in the way in
which the child ought to be viewed; you, dear good Faith, for
thinking of taking her home with us. God bless you, dear, for
it!"

When Ruth began to sit up (and the strange, new, delicious
prospect of becoming a mother seemed to give her some mysterious
source of strength, so that her recovery was rapid and swift from
that time), Miss Benson brought her the letters and the
bank-note.

"Do you recollect receiving this letter, Ruth?" asked she, with
grave gentleness. Ruth changed colour, and took it and read it
again without making any reply to Miss Benson. Then she sighed,
and thought a while; and then took up and read the second
note--the note which Mrs. Bellingham had sent to Mr. Benson in
answer to his. After that she took up the bank-note and turned it
round and round, but not as if she saw it. Miss Benson noticed
that her fingers trembled sadly, and that her lips were quivering
for some time before she spoke.

"If you please, Miss Benson, I should like to return this money."

"Why, my dear?"

"I have a strong feeling against taking it. While he," said she,
deeply blushing, and letting her large white lids drop down and
veil her eyes, "loved me, he gave me many things--my watch--oh,
many things; and I took them from him gladly and thankfully,
because he loved me--for I would have given him anything--and I
thought of them as signs of love. But this money pains my heart.
He has left off loving me, and has gone away. This money
seems--oh, Miss Benson--it seems as if he could comfort me, for
being forsaken, by money." And at that word the tears, so long
kept back and repressed, forced their way like rain.

She checked herself, however, in the violence of her emotion, for
she thought of her child.

"So, will you take the trouble of sending it back to Mrs.
Bellingham?"

"That I will, my dear. I am glad of it, that I am! They don't
deserve to have the power of giving: they don't deserve that you
should take it." Miss Benson went and enclosed it up there and
then; simply writing these words in the envelope, "From Ruth
Hilton."

"And now we wash our hands of these Bellinghams," said she
triumphantly. But Ruth looked tearful and sad; not about
returning the note, but from the conviction that the reason she
had given for the ground of her determination was true--he no
longer loved her.

To cheer her, Miss Benson began to speak of the future. Miss
Benson was one of those people who, the more she spoke of a plan
in its details, and the more she realised it in her own mind, the
more firmly she became a partisan of the project. Thus she grew
warm and happy in the idea of taking Ruth home; but Ruth remained
depressed and languid under the conviction that he no longer
loved her. No home, no future, but the thought of her child,
could wean her from this sorrow. Miss Benson was a little piqued;
and this pique showed itself afterwards in talking to her brother
of the morning's proceedings in the sick chamber.

"I admired her at the time for sending away her fifty pounds so
proudly; but I think she has a cold heart: she hardly thanked me
at all for my proposal of taking her home with us."

"Her thoughts are full of other things just now; and people have
such different ways of showing feeling: some by silence, some by
words. At any rate, it is unwise to expect gratitude."

"What do you expect--not indifference or ingratitude?"

"It is better not to expect or calculate consequences. The longer
I live, the more fully I see that. Let us try simply to do right
actions, without thinking of the feelings they are to call out in
others. We know that no holy or self-denying effort can fall to
the ground vain and useless; but the sweep of eternity is large,
and God alone knows when the effect is to be produced. We are
trying to do right now, and to feel right; don't let us perplex
ourselves with endeavouring to map out how she should feel, or
how she should show her feelings."

"That's all very fine, and I dare say very true," said Miss
Benson, a little chagrined. "But 'a bird in the hand is worth two
in the bush;' and I would rather have had one good, hearty,
'Thank you,' now, for all I have been planning to do for her,
than the grand effects you promise me in the 'sweep of eternity.'
Don't be grave and sorrowful, Thurstan, or I'll go out of the
room. I can stand Sally's scoldings, but I can't bear your look
of quiet depression whenever I am a little hasty or impatient. I
had rather you would give me a good box on the ear."

"And I would often rather you would speak, if ever so hastily,
instead of whistling. So, if I box your ears when I am vexed with
you, will you promise to scold me when you are put out of the
way, instead of whistling?"

"Very well! that's a bargain. You box, and I scold. But,
seriously, I began to calculate our money when she so cavalierly
sent off the fifty-pound note (I can't help admiring her for
it!), and I am very much afraid we shall not have enough to pay
the doctor's bill, and take her home with us."

"She must go inside the coach, whatever we do," said Mr. Benson
decidedly.

"Who's there? Come in! Oh! Mrs. Hughes! Sit down."

"Indeed, sir, and I cannot stay; but the young lady has just made
me find up her watch for her, and asked me to get it sold to pay
the doctor, and the little things she has had since she came; and
please, sir, indeed I don't know where to sell it nearer than
Caernarvon."

"That is good of her," said Miss Benson, her sense of justice
satisfied; and, remembering the way in which Ruth had spoken of
the watch, she felt what a sacrifice it must have been to resolve
to part with it.

"And her goodness just helps us out of our dilemma," said her
brother; who was unaware of the feelings with which Ruth regarded
her watch, or, perhaps, he might have parted with his Facciolati.

Mrs. Hughes patiently awaited their leisure for answering her
practical question. Where could the watch be sold? Suddenly her
face brightened.

"Mr. Jones, the doctor, is just going to be married, perhaps he
would like nothing better than to give this pretty watch to his
bride; indeed, and I think it's very likely; and he'll pay money
for it as well as letting alone his bill. I'll ask him, sir, at
any rate."

Mr. Jones was only too glad to obtain possession of so elegant a
present at so cheap a rate. He even, as Mrs. Hughes had foretold,
"paid money for it;" more than was required to defray the
expenses of Ruth's accommodation, as most of the articles of food
she had were paid for at the time by Mr. or Miss Benson, but they
strictly forbade Mrs. Hughes to tell Ruth of this.

"Would you object to my buying you a black gown?" said Miss
Benson to her, the day after the sale of the watch. She hesitated
a little, and then went on--

"My brother and I think it would be better to call you--as if in
fact you were--a widow. It will save much awkwardness, and it
will spare your child much"----mortification, she was going to
have added; but that word did not exactly do. But, at the mention
of her child, Ruth started, and turned ruby-red; as she always
did when allusion was made to it.

"Oh, yes! certainly. Thank you much for thinking of it. Indeed,"
said she, very low, as if to herself, "I don't know how to thank
you for all you are doing; but I do love you, and will pray for
you, if I may."

"If you may, Ruth" repeated Miss Benson, in a tone of surprise.

"Yes, if I may. If you will let me pray for you."

"Certainly, my dear. My dear Ruth, you don't know how often I
sin; I do so wrong, with my few temptations. We are both of us
great sinners in the eyes of the Most Holy; let us pray for each
other. Don't speak so again, my dear; at least, not to me."

Miss Benson was actually crying. She had always looked upon
herself as so inferior to her brother in real goodness, had seen
such heights above her, that she was distressed by Ruth's
humility. After a short time she resumed the subject.

"Then I may get you a black gown?--and we may call you Mrs.
Hilton?"

"No; not Mrs. Hilton!" said Ruth hastily.

Miss Benson, who had hitherto kept her eyes averted from Ruth's
face from a motive of kindly delicacy, now looked at her with
surprise.

"Why not?" asked she.

"It was my mother's name," said Ruth, in a low voice. "I had
better not be called by it."

"Then let us call you by my mother's name," said Miss Benson
tenderly. "She would have----But I'll talk to you about my
mother some other time. Let me call you Mrs. Denbigh. It will do
very well, too. People will think you are a distant relation."

When she told Mr. Benson of this choice of name, he was rather
sorry; it was like his sister's impulsive kindness--impulsive in
everything--and he could imagine how Ruth's humility had touched
her. He was sorry, but he said nothing. And now the letter was
written home, announcing the probable arrival of the brother and
sister on a certain day, "with a distant relation, early left a
widow," as Miss Benson expressed it. She desired the spare room
might be prepared, and made every provision she could think of
for Ruth's comfort; for Ruth still remained feeble and weak.

When the black gown, at which she had stitched away incessantly,
was finished--when nothing remained, but to rest for the next
day's journey--Ruth could not sit still. She wandered from window
to window, learning off each rock and tree by heart. Each had its
tale, which it was agony to remember; but which it would have
been worse agony to forget. The sound of running waters she heard
that quiet evening was in her ears as she lay on her death-bed;
so well had she learnt their tune.

And now all was over. She had driven in to Llan-dhu, sitting by
her lover's side, living in the bright present, and strangely
forgetful of the past or the future; she had dreamed out her
dream, and she had awakened from the vision of love. She walked
slowly and sadly down the long hill, her tears fast falling, but
as quickly wiped away; while she strove to make steady the low
quivering voice which was often called. upon to answer some
remark of Miss Benson's. They had to wait for the coach. Ruth
buried her face in some flowers which Mrs. Hughes had given her
on parting; and was startled when the mail drew up with a sudden
pull, which almost threw the horses on their haunches. She was
placed inside, and the coach had set off again, before she was
fully aware that Mr. and Miss Benson were travelling on the
outside; but it was a relief to feel she might now cry without
exciting their notice. The shadow of a heavy thunder-cloud was on
the valley, but the little upland village-church (that showed the
spot in which so much of her life was passed) stood out clear in
the sunshine. She grudged the tears that blinded her as she
gazed. There was one passenger, who tried after a while to
comfort her.

"Don't cry, miss," said the kind-hearted woman. "You're parting
from friends, maybe? Well, that's bad enough; but, when you come
to my age, you'll think none of it. Why, I've three sons, and
they're soldiers and sailors, all of them--here, there, and
everywhere. One is in America, beyond the seas; another is in
China, making tea; and another is at Gibraltar, three miles from
Spain; and yet, you see, I can laugh and eat and enjoy myself. I
sometimes think I'll try and fret a bit, just to make myself a
better figure: but, Lord! it's no use, it's against my nature; so
I laugh and grow fat again. I'd be quite thankful for a fit of
anxiety as would make me feel easy in my clothes, which them
manty-makers will make so tight I'm fairly throttled."

Ruth durst cry no more; it was no relief, now she was watched and
noticed, and plied with a sandwich or a ginger-bread each time
she looked sad. She lay back with her eyes shut, as if asleep,
and went on, and on, the sun never seeming to move from his high
place in the sky, nor the bright hot day to show the least sign
of waning. Every now and then Miss Benson scrambled down, and
made kind inquiries of the pale, weary Ruth; and once they
changed coaches, and the fat old lady left her with a hearty
shake of the hand.

"It is not much further now," said Miss Benson, apologetically,
to Ruth. "See! we are losing sight of the Welsh mountains. We
have about eighteen miles of plain, and then we come to the moors
and the rising ground, amidst which Eccleston lies. I wish we
were there, for my brother is sadly tired." The first wonder in
Ruth's mind was, why then, if Mr. Benson was so tired, did they
not stop where they were for the night; for she knew little of
the expenses of a night at an inn. The next thought was, to beg
that Mr. Benson would take her place inside the coach, and allow
her to mount up by Miss Benson. She proposed this, and Miss
Benson was evidently pleased.

"Well, if you're not tired, it would be a rest and a change for
him, to be sure; and if you were by me I could show you the first
sight of Eccleston, if we reach there before it is quite dark."

So Mr. Benson got down, and changed places with Ruth.

She hardly yet understood the numerous small economies which he
and his sister had to practise--the little daily
self-denials--all endured so cheerfully and simply, that they had
almost ceased to require an effort, and it had become natural to
them to think of others before themselves. Ruth had not
understood that it was for economy that their places had been
taken on the outside of the coach, while hers, as an invalid
requiring rest, was to be the inside; and that the biscuits which
supplied the place of a dinner were, in fact, chosen because the
difference in price between the two would go a little way towards
fulfilling their plan for receiving her as an inmate. Her thought
about money had been hitherto a child's thought; the subject had
never touched her; but afterwards, when she had lived a little
while with the Bensons, her eyes were opened, and she remembered
their simple kindness on the journey, and treasured the
remembrance of it in her heart.

A low grey cloud was the first sign of Eccleston; it was the
smoke of the town hanging over the plain. Beyond the place where
she was expected to believe it existed, arose round, waving
uplands; nothing to the fine outlines of the Welsh mountains, but
still going up nearer to heaven than the rest of the flat world
into which she had now entered. Rumbling stones, lamp-posts, a
sudden stop, and they were in the town of Eccleston; and a
strange, uncouth voice, on the dark side of the coach, was heard
to say--

"Be ye there, measter?"

"Yes, yes!" said Miss Benson quickly. "Did Sally send you, Ben?
Get the ostler's lantern, and look out the luggage."


CHAPTER XIII


THE DISSENTING MINISTER'S HOUSEHOLD

Miss Benson had resumed every morsel of the briskness which she
had rather lost in the middle of the day; her foot was on her
native stones, and a very rough set they were, and she was near
her home and among known people. Even Mr. Benson spoke very
cheerfully to Ben, and made many inquiries of him respecting
people whose names were strange to Ruth. She was cold, and
utterly weary. She took Miss Benson's offered arm, and could
hardly drag herself as far as the little quiet street in which
Mr. Benson's house was situated. The street was so quiet that
their footsteps sounded like a loud disturbance, and announced
their approach as effectually as the "trumpet's lordly blare" did
the coming of Abdallah. A door flew open, and a lighted passage
stood before them. As soon as they had entered, a stout elderly
servant emerged from behind the door, her face radiant with
welcome.

"Eh, bless ye! are ye hack again? I thought I should ha' been
lost without ye." She gave Mr. Benson a hearty shake of the hand,
and kissed Miss Benson warmly; then, turning to Ruth, she said,
in a loud whisper--

"Who's yon?"

Mr. Benson was silent, and walked a step onwards. Miss Benson
said boldly out--

"The lady I named in my note, Sally--Mrs. Denbigh, a distant
relation."

"Ay, but you said hoo was a widow. Is this chit a widow?"

"Yes, this is Mrs. Denbigh," answered Miss Benson.

"If I'd been her mother, I'd ha' given her a lollypop instead on
a husband. Hoo looks fitter for it."

"Hush! Sally, Sally! Look, there's your master trying to move
that heavy box." Miss Benson calculated well when she called
Sally's attention to her master; for it was believed by every
one, and by Sally herself, that his deformity was owing to a fall
he had had when he was scarcely more than a baby, and intrusted
to her care--a little nurse-girl, as she then was, not many years
older than himself. For years the poor girl had cried herself to
sleep on her pallet bed, moaning over the blight her carelessness
had brought upon her darling; nor was this self-reproach
diminished by the forgiveness of the gentle mother, from whom
Thurstan Benson derived so much of his character. The way in
which comfort stole into Sally's heart was in the
gradually-formed resolution that she would never leave him nor
forsake him, but serve him faithfully all her life long; and she
had kept to her word. She loved Miss Benson, but she almost
worshipped the brother. The reverence for him was in her heart,
however, and did not always show itself in her manners. But if
she scolded him herself, she allowed no one else that privilege.
If Miss Benson differed from her brother, and ventured to think
his sayings or doings might have been improved, Sally came down
upon her like a thunder-clap.

"My goodness gracious, Master Thurstan, when will you learn to
leave off meddling with other folks' business? Here, Ben! help me
up with these trunks." The little narrow passage was cleared, and
Miss Benson took Ruth into the sitting-room. There were only two
sitting-rooms on the ground-floor, one behind the other. Out of
the back room the kitchen opened, and for this reason the back
parlour was used as the family sitting-room; or else, being, with
its garden aspect, so much the pleasanter of the two, both Sally
and Miss Benson would have appropriated it for Mr. Benson's
study. As it was, the front room, which looked to the street, was
his room; and many a person coming for help--help of which giving
money was the lowest kind--was admitted, and let forth by Mr.
Benson, unknown to any one else in the house. To make amends for
his having the least cheerful room on the ground-floor, he had
the garden bedroom, while his sister slept over his study. There
were two more rooms again over these, with sloping ceilings,
though otherwise large and airy. The attic looking into the
garden was the spare bedroom; while the front belonged to Sally.
There was no room over the kitchen, which was, in fact, a
supplement to the house. The sitting-room was called by the
pretty, old-fashioned name of the parlour, while Mr. Benson's
room was styled the study.

The curtains were drawn in the parlour; there was a bright fire
and a clean hearth; indeed, exquisite cleanliness seemed the very
spirit of the household, for the door which was open to the
kitchen showed a delicately-white and spotless floor, and bright
glittering tins, on which the ruddy firelight danced.

From the place in which Ruth sat she could see all Sally's
movements; and though she was not conscious of close or minute
observation at the time (her body being weary, and her mind full
of other thoughts), yet it was curious how faithfully that scene
remained depicted on her memory in after years. The warm light
filled every corner of the kitchen, in strong distinction to the
faint illumination of the one candle in the parlour, whose
radiance was confined, and was lost in the dead folds of
window-curtains, carpet, and furniture. The square, stout,
bustling figure, neat and clean in every respect, but dressed in
the peculiar, old-fashioned costume of the county, namely, a
dark-striped linsey-woolsey petticoat, made very short,
displaying sturdy legs in woollen stockings beneath; a loose kind
of jacket, called there a "bedgown," made of pink print, a
snow-white apron and cap, both of linen, and the latter made in
the shape of a "mutch";--these articles completed Sally's
costume, and were painted on Ruth's memory. Whilst Sally was
busied in preparing tea, Miss Benson took off Ruth's things; and
the latter instinctively felt that Sally, in the midst of her
movements, was watching their proceedings. Occasionally she also
put in a word in the conversation, and these little sentences
were uttered quite in the tone of an equal, if not of a superior.
She had dropped the more formal "you," with which at first she
had addressed Miss Benson, and thou'd her quietly and habitually.

All these particulars sank unconsciously into Ruth's mind, but
they did not rise to the surface, and become perceptible, for a
length of time. She was weary and much depressed. Even the very
kindness that ministered to her was overpowering. But over the
dark, misty moor a little light shone--a beacon; and on that she
fixed her eyes, and struggled out of her present deep
dejection--the little child that was coming to her!

Mr. Benson was as languid and weary as Ruth, and was silent
during all this bustle and preparation. His silence was more
grateful to Ruth than Miss Benson's many words, although she felt
their kindness. After tea, Miss Benson took her upstairs to her
room. The white dimity bed, and the walls, stained green, had
something of the colouring and purity of effect of a snowdrop;
while the floor, rubbed with a mixture that turned it into a rich
dark-brown, suggested the idea of the garden-mould out of which
the snowdrop grows. As Miss Benson helped the pale Ruth to
undress, her voice became less full-toned and hurried; the hush
of approaching night subdued her into a softened, solemn kind of
tenderness, and the murmured blessing sounded like granted
prayer.

When Miss Benson came downstairs, she found her brother reading
some letters which had been received during his absence. She went
and softly shut the door of communication between the parlour and
the kitchen; and then, fetching a grey worsted stocking which she
was knitting, sat down near him, her eyes not looking at her work
but flied on the fire; while the eternal rapid click of the
knitting-needles broke the silence of the room, with a sound as
monotonous and incessant as the noise of a hand-loom. She
expected him to speak, but he did not. She enjoyed an examination
into, and discussion of, her feelings; it was an interest and
amusement to her, while he dreaded and avoided all such
conversation. There were times when his feelings, which were
always earnest, and sometimes morbid, burst forth, and defied
control, and overwhelmed him; when a force was upon him
compelling him to speak. But he, in general, strove to preserve
his composure, from a fear of the compelling pain of such times,
and the consequent exhaustion. His heart had been very full of
Ruth all day long, and he was afraid of his sister beginning the
subject; so he read on, or seemed to do so, though he hardly saw
the letter he held before him. It was a great relief to him when
Sally threw open the middle door with a bang, which did not
indicate either calmness of mind or sweetness of temper.

"Is yon young woman going to stay any length o' time with us?"
asked she of Miss Benson.

Mr. Benson put his hand gently on his sister's arm, to check her
from making any reply, while he said--

"We cannot exactly tell, Sally. She will remain until after her
confinement."

"Lord bless us and save us!--a baby in the house! Nay, then my
time's come, and I'll pack up and begone. I never could abide
them things. I'd sooner have rats in the house."

Sally really did look alarmed.

"Why, Sally!" said Mr. Benson, smiling, "I was not much more than
a baby when you came to take care of me."

"Yes, you were, Master Thurstan; you were a fine bouncing lad of
three year old and better."

Then she remembered the change she had wrought in the "fine
bouncing lad," and her eyes filled with tears, which she was too
proud to wipe away with her apron; for, as she sometimes said to
herself, "she could not abide crying before folk."

"Well, it's no use talking, Sally," said Miss Benson, too anxious
to speak to be any longer repressed. "We've promised to keep her,
and we must do it; you'll have none of the trouble, Sally, so
don't be afraid."

"Well, I never! as if I minded trouble! You might ha' known me
better nor that. I've scoured master's room twice over, just to
make the boards look white, though the carpet is to cover them,
and now you go and cast up about me minding my trouble. If them's
the fashions you've learnt in Wales, I'm thankful I've never been
there."

Sally looked red, indignant, and really hurt. Mr. Benson came in
with his musical voice and soft words of healing.

"Faith knows you don't care for trouble, Sally; she is only
anxious about this poor young woman, who has no friends but
ourselves. We know there will be more trouble in consequence of
her coming to stay with us; and I think, though we never spoke
about it, that in making our plans we reckoned on your kind help,
Sally, which has never failed us yet when we needed it."

"You've twice the sense of your sister, Master Thurstan, that you
have. Boys always has. It's truth there will be more trouble, and
I shall have my share on't, I reckon. I can face it if I'm told
out and out, but I cannot abide the way some folk. has of denying
there's trouble or pain to be met; just as if their saying there
was none, would do away with it. Some folk treats one like a
babby, and I don't like it. I'm not meaning you, Master
Thurstan."

"No, Sally, you need not say that. I know well enough who you
moan when you say 'some folk.' However, I admit I was wrong in
speaking as if you minded trouble, for there never was a creature
minded it less. But I want you to like Mrs. Denbigh," said Miss
Benson.

"I dare say I should, if you'd let me alone. I did na like her
sitting down in master's chair. Set her up, indeed, in an
arm-chair wi' cushions! Wenches in my day were glad enough of
stools."

"She was tired to-night," said Mr. Benson. "We are all tired; so
if you have done your work, Sally, come in to reading."

The three quiet people knelt down side by side, and two of them
prayed earnestly for "them that had gone astray." Before ten
o'clock, the household were in bed. Ruth, sleepless, weary,
restless with the oppression of a sorrow which she dared not face
and contemplate bravely, kept awake all the early part of the
night. Many a time did she rise, and go to the long casement
window, and looked abroad over the still and quiet town--over the
grey stone walls, and chimneys, and old high-pointed roofs--on to
the far-away hilly line of the horizon, lying calm under the
bright moonshine. It was late in the morning when she woke from
her long-deferred slumbers; and when she went downstairs, she
found Mr. and Miss Benson awaiting her in the parlour. That
homely, pretty, old-fashioned little room! How bright and still
and clean it looked! The window (all the windows at the hack of
the house were casements) was open, to let in the sweet morning
air, and streaming eastern sunshine. The long jessamine sprays,
with their white-scented stars, forced themselves almost into the
room. The little square garden beyond, with grey stone walls all
round, was rich and mellow in its autumnal colouring, running
from deep crimson hollyhocks up to amber and gold nasturtiums,
and all toned down by the clear and delicate air. It was so
still, that the gossamer-webs, laden with dew, did not tremble or
quiver in the least; but the sun was drawing to himself the sweet
incense of many flowers, and the parlour was scented with the
odours of mignonette and stocks. Miss Benson was arranging a
bunch of China and damask roses in an old-fashioned jar; they
lay, all dewy and fresh, on the white breakfast-cloth when Ruth
entered. Mr. Benson was reading in some large folio. With gentle
morning speech they greeted her; but the quiet repose of the
scene was instantly broken by Sally popping in from the kitchen,
and glancing at Ruth with sharp reproach. She said--

"I reckon I may bring in breakfast, now?" with a strong emphasis
on the last word.

"I am afraid I am very late," said Ruth.

"Oh, never mind," said Mr. Benson gently. "It was our fault for
not telling you our breakfast hour. We always have prayers at
half-past seven; and for Sally's sake, we never vary from that
time; for she can so arrange her work, if she knows the hour of
prayers, as to have her mind calm and untroubled."

"Ahem!" said Miss Benson, rather inclined to "testify" against
the invariable calmness of Sally's mind at any hour of the day;
but her brother went on as if he did not hear her.

"But the breakfast does not signify being delayed a little; and I
am sure you were sadly tired with your long day yesterday."

Sally came slapping in, and put down some withered, tough, dry
toast, with--

"It's not my doing if it is like leather"; but as no one appeared
to hear her, she withdrew to her kitchen, leaving Ruth's cheeks
like crimson at the annoyance she had caused.

All day long, she had that feeling common to those who go to stay
at a fresh house among comparative strangers: a feeling of the
necessity that she should become accustomed to the new atmosphere
in which she was placed, before she could move and act freely; it
was, indeed, a purer ether, a diviner air, which she was
breathing in now, than what she had been accustomed to for long
months. The gentle, blessed mother, who had made her childhood's
home holy ground, was in her very nature so far removed from any
of earth's stains and temptation, that she seemed truly one of
those

"Who ask not if Thine eye Be on them; who, in love and truth,
Where no misgiving is, rely Upon the genial sense of youth."

In the Bensons' house there was the same unconsciousness of
individual merit, the same absence of introspection and analysis
of motive, as there had been in her mother; but it seemed that
their lives were pure and good, not merely from a lovely and
beautiful nature, but from some law, the obedience to which was,
of itself, harmonious peace, and which governed them almost
implicitly, and with as little questioning on their part, as the
glorious stars which haste not, rest not, in their eternal
obedience. This household had many failings: they were but human,
and, with all their loving desire to bring their lives into
harmony with the will of God, they often erred and fell short;
but, somehow, the very errors and faults of one individual served
to call out higher excellences in another, and so they reacted
upon each other, and the result of short discords was exceeding
harmony and peace. But they had themselves no idea of the real
state of things; they did not trouble themselves with marking
their progress by self-examination; if Mr. Benson did sometimes,
in hours of sick incapacity for exertion, turn inwards, it was to
cry aloud with almost morbid despair, "God be merciful to me a
sinner!" But he strove to leave his life in the hands of God, and
to forget himself.

Ruth sat still and quiet through the long first day. She was
languid and weary from her journey; she was uncertain what help
she might offer to give in the household duties, and what she
might not. And, in her languor and in her uncertainty, it was
pleasant to watch the new ways of the people among whom she was
placed. After breakfast, Mr. Benson withdrew to his study, Miss
Benson took away the cups and saucers, and leaving the
kitchen-door open, talked sometimes to Ruth, sometimes to Sally,
while she washed them up. Sally had upstairs duties to perform,
for which Ruth was thankful, as she kept receiving rather angry
glances for her unpunctuality as long as Sally remained
downstairs. Miss Benson assisted in the preparation for the early
dinner, and brought some kidney-beans to shred into a basin of
bright, pure spring-water, which caught and danced in the
sunbeams as she sat near the open casement of the parlour,
talking to Ruth of things and people which as yet the latter did
not understand, and could not arrange and comprehend. She was
like a child who gets a few pieces of a dissected map, and is
confused until a glimpse of the whole unity is shown him. Mr. and
Mrs. Bradshaw were the centre pieces in Ruth's map; their
children, their servants, were the accessories; and one or two
other names were occasionally mentioned. Ruth wondered and almost
wearied at Miss Benson's perseverance in talking to her about
people whom she did not know; but, in truth, Miss Benson heard
the long-drawn, quivering sighs which came from the poor heavy
heart, when it was left to silence, and had leisure to review the
past; and her quick accustomed ear caught also the low mutterings
of the thunder in the distance, in the shape of Sally's
soliloquies, which, like the asides at a theatre, were intended
to be heard. Suddenly, Miss Benson called Ruth out of the room
upstairs into her own bed-chamber, and then began rummaging in
little old-fashioned boxes, drawn out of an equally old-fashioned
bureau, half-desk, half-table, and wholly drawers.

"My dear, I've been very stupid and thoughtless. Oh! I'm so glad
I thought of it before Mrs. Bradshaw came to call. Here it is!"
and she pulled out an old wedding-ring, and hurried it on Ruth's
finger. Ruth hung down her head, and reddened deep with shame;
her eyes smarted with the hot tears that filled them. Miss Benson
talked on, in a nervous hurried way--

"It was my grandmother's; it's very broad; they made them so
then, to hold a posy inside: there's one in that--

'Thine own sweetheart Till death doth part,'

I think it is. There, there! Run away, and look as if you'd
always worn it." Ruth went up to her room, and threw herself down
on her knees by the bedside, and cried as if her heart would
break; and then, as if a light had come down into her soul, she
calmed herself and prayed--no words can tell how humbly, and with
what earnest feeling. When she came down, she was tearstained and
wretchedly pale; but even Sally looked at her with new eyes,
because of the dignity with which she was invested by an
earnestness of purpose which had her child for its object. She
sat and thought, but she no longer heaved those bitter sighs
which had wrung Miss Benson's heart in the morning. In this way
the day wore on; early dinner, early tea seemed to make it
preternaturally long to Ruth; the only event was some unexplained
absence of Sally's, who had disappeared out of the house in the
evening, much to Miss Benson's surprise, and somewhat to her
indignation.

At night, after Ruth had gone up to her room, this absence was343
explained to her at least. She had let down her long waving
glossy hair, and was standing absorbed in thought in the middle
of the room, when she heard a round clumping knock at her door,
different from that given by the small knuckles of delicate
fingers, and in walked Sally, with a judge-like severity of
demeanour, holding in her hand two widow's caps of commonest make
and coarsest texture. Queen Eleanor herself, when she presented
the bowl to Fair Rosamond, had not a more relentless purpose
stamped on her demeanour than had Sally at this moment. She
walked up to the beautiful, astonished Ruth, where she stood in
her long, soft, white dressing-gown, with all her luxuriant brown
hair hanging dishevelled down her figure, and thus Sally spoke--

"Missus--or miss, as the case may be--I've my doubts as to you.
I'm not going to have my master and Miss Faith put upon, or shame
come near them. Widows wears these sort o' caps, and has their
hair cut off; and whether widows wears wedding-rings or not, they
shall have their hair cut off--they shall. I'll have no half work
in this house. I've lived with the family forty-nine year come
Michaelmas, and I'll not see it disgraced by any one's fine long
curls. Sit down and let me snip off your hair; and let me see you
sham decently in a widow's cap to-morrow, or I'll leave the
house. Whatten's come over Miss Faith, as used to be as mim a
lady as ever was, to be taken by such as you, I dunnot know. Here
I sit down with ye, and let me crop you."

She laid no light hand on Ruth's shoulder; and the latter, partly
intimidated by the old servant, who had hitherto only turned her
vixen lining to observation, and partly because she was
broken-spirited enough to be indifferent to the measure proposed,
quietly sat down. Sally produced the formidable pair of scissors
that always hung at her side, and began to cut in a merciless
manner. She expected some remonstrance or some opposition, and
had a torrent of words ready to flow forth at the least sign of
rebellion; but Ruth was still and silent, with meekly-bowed head,
under the strange hands that were shearing her beautiful hair
into the clipped shortness of a boy's. Long before she had
finished, Sally had some slight misgivings as to the fancied
necessity of her task; but it was too late, for half the curls
were gone, and the rest must now come off. When she had done, she
lifted up Ruth's face by placing her hand under the round white
chin. She gazed into the countenance, expecting to read some
anger there, though it had not come out in words; but' she only
met the large, quiet eyes, that looked at her with sad gentleness
out of their finely-hollowed orbits. Ruth's soft, yet dignified
submission, touched Sally with compunction, though she did not
choose to show the change in her feelings. She tried to hide it
indeed, by stooping to pick up the long bright tresses; and,
holding them up admiringly, and letting them drop down and float
on the air (like the pendent branches of the weeping birch) she
said: "I thought we should ha' had some crying--I did. They're
pretty curls enough; you've not been so bad to let them be cut
off neither. You see, Master Thurstan is no wiser than a babby in
some things; and Miss Faith just lets him have his own way; so
it's all left to me to keep him out of scrapes. I'll wish you a
very good night. I've heard many a one say as long hair was not
wholesome. Good night."

But in a minute she popped her head into Ruth's room once more--

"You'll put on them caps to-morrow morning. I'll make you a
present on them."

Sally had carried away the beautiful curls, and she could not
find it in her heart to throw such lovely chestnut tresses away,
so she folded them up carefully in paper, and placed them in a
safe corner of her drawer.


CHAPTER XIV


RUTH'S FIRST SUNDAY AT ECCLESTON

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 childlike than
ever, when contrasted with the head-gear usually associated with
ideas of age. She blushed very deeply as Mr. and Miss Benson
showed the astonishment, which they could not conceal, in their
looks. She said in a low voice to Miss Benson--

"Sally thought I had better wear it."

Miss Benson made no reply; but was startled at the intelligence,
which she thought was conveyed in this speech, of Sally's
acquaintance with Ruth's real 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. That deception grieved him, 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."

"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 have 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 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 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 was fitter for a bride in lawful
matrimony than for such as her. She took it very well, though.
She was as quiet as a lamb, and I clipped her pretty roughly at
first. I must say, though, if I'd ha' known who your visitor was,
I'd ha' packed up my things and cleared myself out of the house
before such as her came into it. As it's done, I suppose I must
stand by you, and help you through with it; I only hope I sha'n't
lose my character--and me a parish-clerk's daughter!"

"O 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, 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 the mother
was caught."

"Yes," said Mr. Benson sadly, "and I often lie awake and wonder
what is the fate of that poor little thing, forced back on the
mother who tried to get quit of it. I often doubt whether I did
right; but it's no use thinking about it now."

"I'm thankful it isn't," said Sally; "and now, if we've talked
doctrine long enough, I'll 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 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
questions which might be asked respecting any visitor at the
minister's house. Ruth went on sewing, absorbed in her own
thoughts, and glad that the conversation between the two elder
ladies and the silence of the younger one, who sat at some
distance from her, gave her an 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 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 imaginary details,
which, she was quite unconscious, were overheard by her brother
through the half-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
incidents dovetail together; and after all, if we are to tell a
lie, we may as well do it thoroughly, or else it's of no use. A
bungling lie would be worse than useless. And, Thurstan--it may
be very wrong--but I believe--I am afraid I enjoy not being
fettered by 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 unnecessary word that is not true."

Another day elapsed, and then it was Sunday: and the house seemed
filled with a deep peace. 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 was put
away; the night before, a bright new handsome tablecloth had been
smoothed down over the table, and the jars had been freshly
filled with flowers. Sunday was a festival and a holyday in the
house. 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
teachers and pupils, than dry, absolute lessons going on. Miss
Benson, too, had her little, neat-tippeted 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 instruction from the
kitchen, helping, as she fancied, though her assistance was often
rather malapropos; for instance, she called out, to a little fat,
stupid, roly-poly girl, to whom Miss Benson was busy explaining
the meaning of the word quadruped--

"Quadruped, a thing wi' four legs, Jenny; a chair is a quadruped,
child!"

But Miss Benson had a deaf manner sometimes when her patience was
not too severely tried, and she put it on now. 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 he? 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 of Matthew and Philip Henry, when the
Dissenters were afraid of attracting attention or observation,
and hid their places of worship in obscure and out-of-the-way
parts of the towns in which they were built. Accordingly, it
often happened, as in the present case, that the buildings
immediately surrounding, as well as the chapels themselves,
looked as if they carried you 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 headstone, 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 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 might have been thought that they were emulous
of the power of praise possessed by the human creatures within,
with such earnest, long-drawn strains did this crowd of winged
songsters rejoice and be glad in their beautiful gift of life.
The interior of the building was plain and simple as plain and
simple could be. When it was fitted up, oak-timber was much
cheaper than it is now, so the wood-work was all of that
description; but roughly hewed, for the early builders had not
much wealth to spare. The walls were whitewashed, and were
recipients of the shadows of the beauty 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 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; and 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 noiseless lightness of step over the
floor of the aisle; and, by-and-by, when all were assembled, Mr.
Benson followed, unmarshalled and unattended. When he had closed
the pulpit-door, and knelt in prayer for an instant or two, he
gave out a psalm from the dear old Scottish paraphrase, with its
primitive inversion of the simple perfect Bible words; and a kind
of precentor stood up, and, having sounded the note on a
pitch-pipe, sang a couple of lines by way of indicating the tune;
then all the congregation stood up, and sang aloud, Mr.
Bradshaw's great bass voice being half a note in advance of the
others, in accordance with his place of precedence as principal
member of the congregation. His powerful voice was like an organ
very badly played, and very much out of tune; but as he had no
ear, and no diffidence, it pleased him very much to hear the fine
loud sound. He was a tall, large-boned, iron man; stern,
powerful, and authoritative in appearance; dressed in clothes of
the finest broadcloth, and scrupulously ill-made, as if to show
that he was indifferent to all outward things. His wife was sweet
and gentle-looking, but as if she was thoroughly broken into
submission.

Ruth did not see this, or hear aught but the words which were
reverently--oh, how reverently!--spoken by Mr. Benson. He had had
Ruth present in his thoughts all the time he had been preparing
for his Sunday duty; and he had tried carefully to eschew
everything which she might feel as an allusion to her own case.
He remembered how the Good Shepherd, in Poussin's beautiful
picture, tenderly carried the lambs which had wearied themselves
by going astray, 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 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
breathing, 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. Bradshaw's strong bass voice speaking to her
brother, and winced, as she knew he would be wincing, under the
broad praise, which is impertinence, however little it may be
intended or esteemed as such.

"Oh, yes!--my wife told me yesterday about her--her husband was a
surgeon; my father 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 relation. Very
creditable indeed."

Miss Benson glanced at Ruth; she either did not hear or did not
understand, but passed on into the awful sphere of Mr. Bradshaw's
observation unmoved. He was in a bland and condescending humour
of universal approval, and when he saw Ruth he nodded his head in
token of satisfaction. That ordeal was over, Miss Benson thought,
and in the thought rejoiced.

"After dinner, you must go and lie down, my dear," said she,
untying Ruth's bonnet-strings, and kissing her. "Sally goes to
church again, but you won't mind staying alone in the house. I am
sorry we have so many people to dinner; but my brother will
always have enough on Sundays for any old or weak people, who may
have come from a distance, to stay and 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.


CHAPTER XV


MOTHER AND CHILD

"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
bard struggle for existence.

"It is directed 'Mrs. Denbigh,'" said Miss Benson, 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 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----I don't know exactly what
you mean by 'right.'"

Ruth was silent for a moment, and then said--

"There are people to whom I love to feel that I owe
gratitude--gratitude which I cannot express, and had better not
talk about--but I cannot see 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 brother had not just then
entered the room, neither he nor any other person could tell; but
she felt his presence was most opportune, and called him in as
umpire. He had come hastily, for he had much to do; but he no
sooner heard the case than he sat down, and tried to draw some
more explicit declaration of her feeling from Ruth, who had
remained silent during 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.

"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
inconsiderable 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. You know who said, 'Do unto
others as ye would that they should do unto you'? Mr. Bradshaw
may not have had that in his mind when he desired his wife to
send you this; he may have been self-seeking, and only anxious to
gratify his love of 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
ungracious speeches by a present; so, formerly, he invariably
sent me something after these occasions. It was a time, of all
others, to feel as you are doing now; but I became convinced it
would be right to accept them, giving only the very cool thanks
which 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 unjustifiable speeches have decreased in still
greater proportion, 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. Overstrained expressions of gratitude
always seem like an endeavour to place the receiver of these
expressions in the position of debtor for future favours. But you
won't fall into this error."

Ruth listened to Mr. Benson; but she had not yet fallen
sufficiently into the tone of his mind to understand 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 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
business which had appeared to him so important when he came into
the room (but which principally related to himself), he remained
above an hour in the parlour, 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 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.
Bellingham 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 life, he sung 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 provision 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 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.

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 sat down to languor and sadness, Miss Benson trotted
upstairs, 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 Benson was at first
disappointed, and then she was angry. When she heard the low,
long sigh, and saw the dreamy eyes filling with glittering tears,
she would say, "What is the matter, Ruth?" in a half-reproachful
tone, for the sight of suffering was painful to her; she had done
all in her power to remedy it; and, though she acknowledged a
cause beyond her reach for Ruth's deep sorrow, and, in fact,
loved and respected her all the more for these manifestations of
grief, yet at the time they irritated her. Then 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 wanting--some
little angel of peace, in loving whom all hearts and natures
should be drawn together, and their discords hushed. The earth
was still "hiding her guilty front with innocent snow," when a
little baby was laid by the side of the pale, white mother. It
was a boy; beforehand she had wished for a girl, as being less
likely to feel the want of a father--as being what a mother,
worse than widowed, could most effectually shelter. But now she
did not think or remember this. What it was, she would not have
exchanged for a wilderness of girls. It was her own, her darling,
her individual baby, already, though not an hour old, separate
and sole in her heart, strangely filling up its measure with love
and peace, and even hope. For here was a new, pure, beautiful,
innocent life, which she fondly imagined, in that early passion
of maternal love, she could guard from every touch of corrupting
sin by ever watchful and most tender care. And her mother had
thought the same, most probably; and thousands of others think
the same, and pray to God to purify and cleanse their souls, that
they may be 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 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 see 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 on 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 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, failing 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 of 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, 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. There 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
remembered 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 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 intrust 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 a low 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 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
armchair by the fire; and felt her 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.


CHAPTER XVI


SALLY TELLS OF HER SWEETHEARTS, AND DISCOURSES ON THE DUTIES OF
LIFE

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 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 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 I 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 call 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
marriage but once. But I had once; and so I may say I had a
sweetheart. I was beginning to be afeard 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 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 hisself, not his place, which I knew must be pretty hot.
Well! it seemed no use standing waiting for my gentleman to go;
not that he had much to say either; but he kept twirling his hat
round and round, and smoothing the nap on't with the back of his
hand. So at last I squatted down to my work, and thinks 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 Methodees are 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 Dissenters, but just as Christians.
But to come back to Jerry. First, I tried always to be cleaning
at his back; but when he wheeled round, so as always to face me,
I thought I'd try a different game. So, says I, 'Master Dixon, 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 ready; but when nought comed 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 bard 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 blackleading 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 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! I were up on my feet in an
instant! It were odd now, weren't it? I never thought of taking
the fellow, and getting married; for all, I'll not deny, I had
been thinking it would be agreeable to be axed. But all at once,
I couldn't abide the chap. 'Sir,' says I, trying to look
shamefaced 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 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
before that.' Well now! would you believe it? the pig was 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. Says I, very stern, 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 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-morrow.' 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 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 listening 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
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 hard to think on the real
Jerry Dixon I had seen the night before, apart from the sad and
sorrowful Jerry I thought on a-dying, when I were between
sleeping and waking. And for many a day I turned sick, when 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 Idling him with
cruelty. But in less than a three week, I heard parish bells
a-ringing 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-aged man, ruddy-complexioned, with a wart on his
left cheek like life!"

Sally waited for some exclamation at the conclusion 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 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 lodge 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 do for servants and people who are
not particular."

"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."

"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 sewing, and perhaps a little dressmaking; 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 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 kind 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 themselves 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
fatiguing 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 hack in his mother's face, and his little lip begin
to quiver, and his open blue eye to grow overclouded, as with
some mysterious sympathy with the sorrowful face bent over him.
Sally 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 weaned! 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 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," 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 about a-sighing and a-moaning in a way
that I can't stand or thole."

"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 ourselves 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 puddings, and was careless about dinner and the
rooms, and thought I was doing my duty, though I did 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 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 knowledgeably 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 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
unwholesome 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 Thurstan 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 thought to it both before and after the doing.'
Well! I thought of old missus's words this morning, 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."

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 household work was no
longer performed with a languid 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 qualities, 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 perseverance 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 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 reveil 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 awhile
out of the high upper window 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.


CHAPTER XVII


LEONARD'S CHRISTENING

In that body of Dissenters to which Mr. Benson belonged, it is
not considered necessary to baptize 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 looked 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 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 commentary,
always simple and often quaint, but with that intuition into the
very heart of all things truly religious which is often the gift
of those who seem, at first sight, to be only affectionate and
sensible. When Mr. Benson had explained his own views of what a
christening ought to be considered, and, by calling out Ruth's
latent feelings into pious earnestness, brought her into a right
frame of mind, he felt that he had done what he could to make the
ceremony more than a mere form, and to invest it, quiet, humble,
and obscure as it must necessarily be in outward shape--mournful
and anxious as many 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 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 themselves. 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 schismatic; 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 baptized; Miss Bradshaw was rosy and breathless with
eagerness. 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 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 mother 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 unconscious 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
anywhere; 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 discomfited.

"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 christening, may I not, dear Miss Benson?"

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 mother's love, she was
hushed into peace and prayer. There she stood, her fair pale
cheek resting on her baby's head, as he slumbered on her bosom;
her eyes went slanting down under their half-closed white lids;
but their gaze was not on the primitive cottage-like room, it was
earnestly fixed on a dim mist, through which she fain would have
seen the life that lay before her child; but the mist was still
and dense, too thick a veil for anxious human love to penetrate.
The future was hid with God.

Mr. Benson stood right under the casement window that was placed
high up in the room; he was almost in shade, except for one or
two marked lights which fell on hair already silvery white; his
voice was always low and musical when he spoke to few; it was too
weak to speak so as to be heard by many without becoming harsh
and strange; but now it filled the little room with a loving
sound, like the stock-dove's brooding murmur 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 out
upon the stillness, so absorbed were all in the 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 might 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 Bradshaw's look of disappointment.

"Come home with us," said he, "and stay to tea. You have never
drunk tea with us since you went to school."

"I wish I might," said Miss Bradshaw, colouring 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 directions 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.

"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 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 extravagances were not waste,
but a good work; and were not to be gauged 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 upstairs, when she went to put little
Leonard to bed.

"A christening is a very solemn service," said Miss Bradshaw; "I
had no idea it was so solemn. Mr. 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 conversation, 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," continued 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 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 unwittingly 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 herself only the more open to
admiration, for she gave it a charm by her unconscious wearing of
it that made it seem like the drapery of an old Greek
statue--subordinate to the figure it covered, yet imbued by it
with an unspeakable grace. Then the pretended circumstances 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 knocking at our door with a
single knock, just like a beggar's, and I went to see who it was,
and was quite startled to see her round, brown honest face
looking up at me, hall-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 hall
as regularly to chapel, and I always believe that story of his
being seen out with the hounds at Smithiles."

"Those are neither of them great offences in a young man of
twenty," said Mr. Benson, smiling.

"No! I don't mind them in themselves; but when he could change
back so easily to being regular 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 Hephzibah,
but insisting that she was to have a Scripture name at any rate;
and Mrs. Bradshaw wanting her to be Juliana, after some novel she
had read not long before; and at last Jemima was fixed upon,
because it would do either for a Scripture name or a name for a
heroine out of a book."

"I did not know Jemima was a Scripture name," said Ruth.

"Oh yes, it is. One of Job's daughters; Jemima, Kezia, and
Keren-Happuch. There are a good many Jemimas in the world, and
some Kezias, but I never heard of a Keren-Happuch; and yet we
know just as much of one as of another. People really like a
pretty name, whether in Scripture or out of it."

"When there is no particular association with the name," said Mr.
Benson.

"Now, I was called Faith after the cardinal virtue; and I like my
name, though many people would think it too Puritan; that was
according to our gentle mother's pious desire. And Thurstan was
called by his name because my father wished it; for, 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 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 enjoyment. He leaned 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 different nights. Yet,
somehow, the peacefulness of the time, the window open into the
little garden, the scents that came stealing in, and the clear
summer heaven above, made the time be remembered as a happy
festival by Ruth. Even Sally seemed more placid than usual when
she came in to prayers; and she and Miss Benson followed Ruth to
her bedroom, to look at the beautiful sleeping Leonard.

"God bless him!" said Miss Benson, stooping down to kiss his
little dimpled hand, which lay outside the coverlet, tossed
abroad in the heat of the evening.

"Now, don't get up too early, Ruth! Injuring your health will be
short-sighted wisdom and poor economy. Good night!"

"Good night, dear Miss Benson. Good night, Sally." When Ruth had
shut her door, she went again to the bed, and looked at her boy
till her eyes filled with tears.

"God bless thee, darling! 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 requested 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 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; 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
expression Jemima used of admiration.

"Please, I really would rather not be told if people do think me
pretty."

"But it was not merely beautiful; it was sweet-looking and good,
Mrs. Postlethwaite called you," replied Jemima.

"All the more I would rather not hear it. I may be pretty, but I
know I am not good. Besides, I don't think we ought to hear what
is said of us behind our backs."

Ruth spoke so gravely, that Jemima feared lest she was
displeased.

"Dear Mrs. Denbigh, I never will admire or praise you again. Only
let me love you."

"And let me love you!" said Ruth, with a tender kiss.

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 approbation by asking her to his house; and after some
deliberation, she consented to accompany Mr. and Miss Benson
there. The house was square and massy-looking, with a great deal
of drab-colour about the furniture. Mrs. Bradshaw, in her
lackadaisical, sweet-tempered way, seconded her husband in his
desire of being kind to Ruth; and as she cherished privately a
great taste for what was beautiful or interesting, as opposed to
her husband's love of the purely useful, this taste of hers had
rarely had so healthy and true a mode of gratification as when
she watched Ruth's movements about the room, which seemed in its
unobtrusiveness and poverty of colour to receive the requisite
ornament of light and splendour from Ruth's presence. Mrs.
Bradshaw sighed, and wished she had a daughter as lovely, about
whom to weave a romance; for castle-building, after the manner of
the Minerva Press, was the outlet by which she escaped from the
pressure of her prosaic life, as Mr. Bradshaw's wife. Her
perception was only of external beauty, and she was not always
alive to that, or she might have seen how a warm, affectionate,
ardent nature, free from all envy or carking care of self, gave
an unspeakable charm to her plain, bright-faced daughter Jemima,
whose dark eyes kept 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
of any man can be who sees one side of a case very strongly, and
almost ignores the other. They coincided 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 indulgent pity, such as one
feels for a child who unwittingly talks nonsense. By-and-by Mrs.
Bradshaw and Miss Benson fell into one tete-a-tete, and Ruth and
Jemima into another. Two well-behaved but unnaturally quiet
children were sent to bed early in the evening, in an
authoritative voice, by their father, because one of them had
spoken too loud while he was enlarging on an alteration in the
tariff. Just before the supper-tray was brought in, a gentleman
was announced whom Ruth had never previously seen, but who
appeared well known to the rest of the party. It was Mr.
Farquhar, Mr. Bradshaw's partner; he had been on the Continent
for the last year, and had only recently returned. He seemed
perfectly at home, but spoke little. He leaned back in his chair,
screwed up his eyes, and watched everybody; yet there was nothing
unpleasant or impertinent in his keenness of observation. Ruth
wondered to hear him contradict Mr. Bradshaw, and almost expected
some rebuff; but Mr. Bradshaw, if he did not yield the point,
admitted, for the first time that evening, that it was possible
something might be said on the other side. Mr. Farquhar differed
also from Mr. Benson, but it was in a more respectful manner than
Mr. Bradshaw had done. For these reasons, although Mr. Farquhar
had never spoken to Ruth, she came away with the impression that
he was a man to be 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 sandwiches,
sponge-cake, and wine there was no occasion for anything more,"
replied Miss Benson, who was tired and preparing to go upstairs.

"Mr. Farquhar! Why, they do say he's thinking of Miss Jemima!"

"Nonsense, Sally! why, he's old enough to be her father!" said
Miss Benson, halfway up the first flight.

"There's no need for it to be called nonsense, though he may be
ten year older," muttered Sally, retreating towards the kitchen.
"Bradshaw's Betsy knows what she's about, and wouldn't have said
it for nothing."

Ruth wondered a little about it. She loved Jemima well enough to
be interested in what related to her; but, after thinking for a
few minutes, she decided that such a marriage was, and would ever
be, very unlikely.


CHAPTER XVIII


RUTH BECOMES A GOVERNESS IN MR. BRADSHAW'S FAMILY

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 lifetime had gone between. 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 strong shoots; the wall-flowers,
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 song in the kitchen, a song 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 significant and full of duty to her. She
delighted in the exercise of her intellectual powers, and liked
the idea of the infinite amount of which she was ignorant; for it
was a grand pleasure to learn,--to crave, and be satisfied. She
strove to forget what had gone before this last twelve months.
She shuddered up from contemplating it; it was like a bad, unholy
dream. And yet, there was a strange yearning kind of love for the
father of the child whom she pressed to her heart, which came,
and she could not bid it 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 more childlike. 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 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
reminds me of going to church in 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, 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 seven and eight pound a year; and tea was kept for
an afternoon drink, and pudding was eaten afore meat in them
days, and the upshot was, people paid their debts better; ay, ay!
we'n gone backwards, and we thinken we'n gone forrards."

After shaking her head a little over the degeneracy 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 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 wi' me
and my money matters.' 'But,' says Miss Faith (she's always the
one to speak first if you'll notice, though it's master that
comes in and clinches the matter with some reason she'd never ha'
thought of--he were always a sensible lad), 'Sally, all the
servants in the town have six pound and better, and you have as
hard a place as any of 'em.' 'Did you ever hear me grumble about
my work that you talk about it in that way? wait till I grumble,'
says I, 'but don't meddle wi' me till then.' So I flung off in a
huff; but in the course of the evening, Master Thurstan came in
and sat down in the kitchen, and he's such winning ways he wiles
one over to 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--

"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 Sally, 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 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 scomfish you if ever
you go for to tell." She held up her hand, and threatened Ruth as
she left the kitchen to fetch the will.

When she came back, she brought a parcel tied up, in a blue
pocket-handkerchief; she sat down, squared her knees, untied the
handkerchief, and displayed a small piece of parchment.

"Now, do you know what this is?" said she, 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 aloud off a piece of
paper no better than what one writes letters upon. I were up to
him; and, thinks I, Come, come, my lad, I'm not a fool, though
you may think so; I know a paper will won't stand, but I'll let
you run your rig. So I sits and I listens. And would you believe
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, 'Tom! it's not on parchment.
I mun have it on parchment.' 'This 'll 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, 'Tom! I mun have it on
parchment.' 'Parchment costs money,' says he, very grave. 'Oh,
oh, my lad! are ye there?' thinks I. 'That's the reason I'm
clipped of law. So says I, 'Tom! I mun have it on parchment. I'll
pay the money and 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 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 parchment. There! that's what I call a will;
witnessed, according to law, and all. Master Thurstan will be
prettily taken in when I die, and he finds all his extra wage
left back to 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 minds, and
was in each shaded with some degree of perplexity; but they none
of them spoke 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 Benson 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 comforts; but all had been given up
when and where required by the sweet lordly baby, who reigned
paramount in his very helplessness.

From some cause or other, an exchange of ministers for one Sunday
was to be effected with a neighbouring congregation, and Mr.
Benson went on a short absence from home. When he returned on
Monday, he was met at the house-door by his sister, who had
evidently been looking out for him for some time. She stepped out
to greet him.

"Don't hurry yourself, Thurstan! all's well; only I wanted to
tell you something. Don't fidget yourself--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 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, because Mrs. Bradshaw wanted to speak to me. He
made it very clear I was not to bring Ruth; and, indeed, she was
only too happy to stay at home with baby. And so I went; and Mrs.
Bradshaw took me into her bedroom, and shut the doors, and said
Mr. Bradshaw had told her, that he did not like Jemima being so
much confined with the younger ones while they were at their
lessons, and that he wanted some one above a nurse-maid to sit
with them while their masters were there--some one who would see
about their learning their lessons, and who would walk out with
them; a sort of nursery governess, I think she meant, though she
did not say so; and Mr. Bradshaw (for, of course, I saw his
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. Bradshaw was driving
at, long before she came to the point; and I could scarcely keep
from smiling, and saying, 'We'd jump at the proposal'--long
before I ought to have known anything about it."

"Oh, I wonder what we ought to do!" 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 and tell Mr. Bradshaw the whole story----"

"And get Ruth turned out of our house," said Miss Benson
indignantly.

"They can't make us do that," said her brother. "I do not think
they would try."

"Yes, Mr. Bradshaw would try; and he would blazon out poor Ruth's
sin, and there would not be a chance for her left. I know him
well, Thurstan; and why should he be told now, more than a year
ago?"

"A year ago he did not want to put her in a situation of trust
about his children."

"And you think she'll abuse that trust, do you? You've lived a
twelvemonth in the house with Ruth, and the end of it is, you
think she will do his children harm! Besides, who encouraged
Jemima to come to the house so much to see Ruth? Did you not say
it would do them both good to see something of each other?" Mr.
Benson sat thinking.

"If you had not known Ruth as well as you do--if, during her stay
with us, you had marked anything wrong, or forward, or deceitful,
or immodest, I would say at once, Don't allow Mr. Bradshaw to
take her into his house; but still I would say, Don't tell of her
sin and sorrow to so severe a man--so unpitiful a judge. But here
I ask you, Thurstan, can you or I, or Sally (quick-eyed as she
is), say, that in any one thing we have had true, just occasion
to find fault with Ruth? I don't mean that she is perfect--she
acts without thinking, her temper is sometimes warm and hasty;
but have we any right to go and injure her prospects for life, by
telling Mr. Bradshaw all we know of her errors--only sixteen when
she did so wrong, and never to escape from it all her many years
to come--to have 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 children?" She paused, out of breath, her eyes
glittering with tears of indignation, and impatient for an answer
that she might knock it to pieces.

"I do not see any danger that can arise," said he at length, and
with slow difficulty, as if not fully convinced. "I have watched
Ruth, and I believe she is pure and truthful; and the very sorrow
and penitence she has felt--the very suffering she has gone
through--has given her a thoughtful conscientiousness beyond her
age."

"That and the care of her baby," said Miss Benson, secretly
delighted at the tone of her brother's thoughts.

"Ah, Faith! that baby you so much dreaded once, is turning out a
blessing, you see," said Thurstan, with a faint, quiet smile.

"Yes! any one might be thankful, and better too, for Leonard; but
how could I tell that it would be like him?"

"But to return to Ruth and Mr. Bradshaw. What did you say?"

"Oh! with my feelings, of course, I was only too glad to accept
the proposal, and so I told Mrs. Bradshaw, then; and I afterwards
repeated it to Mr. Bradshaw, when he asked me if his wife had
mentioned their plans. They would understand that I must consult
you and Ruth, before it could be considered as finally settled."

"And have you named it to her?"

"Yes," answered Miss Benson, half afraid lest he should think she
had been too precipitate.

"And what did she say?" asked he, after a little pause of grave
silence.

"At first she seemed very glad, and fell into my mood of planning
how it should all be managed; how Sally and I should take care of
the baby the 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, indeed, 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 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 Elizabeth
good, if you are trusted with them.' And she said out quite
clear, though her face was hidden from me once more, 'I will
strive and I will pray.' You would not have had any fears,
Thurstan, if you could have heard and seen her last night."

"I have no fear," said he decidedly. "Let the plan go on." After
a minute, he added, "But I am glad it was so far arranged before
I heard of it. My indecision about right and wrong--my perplexity
as to how far we are to calculate consequences--grows upon me, I
fear."

"You look tired and weary, dear. You should blame your body
rather than your conscience at these times."

"A very dangerous doctrine."

The scroll of Fate was closed, and they could not foresee the
Future; and yet, if they could have seen it, though they might
have shrunk fearfully at first, they would have smiled and
thanked God when all was done and said.


CHAPTER XIX


AFTER FIVE YEARS

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 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 intelligent 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 bewildered, after
listening intent, with grave and wondering 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 enjoyment--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 mischief; 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 being ill-used. The
occasion was this: Leonard had for some time shown a strange, odd
disregard 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 generally believed, and his statements, which were given
with the full appearance of relating a real occurrence, 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 through which most infants, who
would have lively imaginations, pass; and, accordingly, there was
a consultation 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 arguments 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 instantly told
that she had better not, she went slowly 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 sorry it is necessary, and that you cannot
recollect without my doing so."

But before he had reached this very proper and 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, and no great
shakes either. I can remember what is said on him, 2 Chronicles,
xii. chapter, 14th v.: 'And he'--that's King Rehoboam, the lad
that tasted the rod--'did evil, because he prepared not his heart
to seek the Lord.' I've not been reading 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 them without 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. Denbigh."
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 bid 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 agitation; 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 her theories would not work.

However, she read several books on education, knitting socks for
Leonard all the while; and, upon the whole, I think, the hands
were more usefully employed than the head, and the good 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
required, while he 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 afternoon 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
herself, 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 Benson's as strangely irrelevant
to the matter in hand, and only noticed it by a--

"To be sure! I suppose we all on us do. But two-and-fourpence a
dozen is too much to make us pay for it."

Miss Benson went on with her inspection of herself, 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 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 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 generally 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 date of his appearance. But
there was something more of nervous restlessness in his voice and
ways than formerly; that was the only change five years had
brought to him. And as for Sally, she chose to forget age and the
passage of years altogether, and had as much work in her, to use
her own expression, as she had at sixteen; nor was her appearance
very explicit as to the flight of time. Fifty, sixty, or seventy,
she might be--not more than the last, not less than the
first--though her usual answer to any circuitous inquiry as to
her age was now (what it had been for many years past), "I'm
feared I shall never see thirty again."

Then as to the house. It was not one where the sitting-rooms are
refurnished every two or three years; not now, even (since Ruth
came to share their living) a place where, as an article grew
shabby or worn, a new one was purchased. The furniture looked
poor, and the carpets almost threadbare; but there was such a
dainty spirit of cleanliness abroad, such exquisite neatness of
repair, and altogether so bright and cheerful a look about the
rooms--everything so above-board--no shifts to conceal poverty
under flimsy ornament--that many a splendid drawing-room would
give less pleasure to those who could see evidences of character
in inanimate things. But whatever poverty there might be in the
house, there was full luxuriance in the little square
wall-encircled garden, on two sides of which the parlour and
kitchen looked. The 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 casement, 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. Benson'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 perfect 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 day, had a thoughtful, spiritual look about them,
that made you wonder at their depth, and look--and look again.
The increase of dignity in her face had been imparted to her
form. I do not know if she had grown taller since the birth of
her child, but she looked as if she had. And although she had
lived in a very 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, child-like 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 Himself--yet she could not bear to
pray to have her love for her child lessened. But she would kneel
down by his little bed at night--at the deep, still
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, unconsciously, 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, some-how, she
never lay down to rest without saying, as she looked her last on
her boy, "Thy will, not mine, be done"; and even while she
trembled and shrank with infinite dread from sounding the depths
of what that will might be, she felt as if her treasure were more
secure to waken up rosy and bright in the morning, as one over
whose slumbers God's holy angels had watched, for the very words
which she had turned away in sick terror from realising the night
before.

Her daily absence at her duties to the Bradshaw children only
ministered to her love for Leonard. Everything does minister to
love when its foundation lies deep in a true heart, and it was
with an exquisite pang of delight that, after a moment of vague
fear,

("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 upstairs
among the treasures of the lumber-room, either Miss Benson, or
her brother, or Sally would fetch him to his happy little task;
no one 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 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 contempt for all who failed in the success which
he had achieved. But it was not alone those who were less
fortunate in obtaining wealth than 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 and act with a severity which
was almost sanctimonious in its ostentation of thankfulness as to
himself. Not a misfortune or a sin was brought to light but Mr.
Bradshaw could trace 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 venture to say he had never had his own way in
his life. Mrs. Bradshaw was, he confessed (Mr. Bradshaw did not
dislike confessing his wife's errors), rather less firm than he
should have liked with the girls; and with some people, he
believed, Jemima was rather headstrong; but to his wishes she had
always shown herself obedient. All children were obedient if
their parents were decided and authoritative; and every one would
turn out well, if properly managed. If they did not prove good,
they might 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 foot-steps 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 according 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
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 a 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
sprung upwards from roots--deep down in the hidden life and
experience of the heart. He was as severe a judge as his father
of other people's conduct, but you felt that Mr. Bradshaw was
sincere in his condemnation of all outward error and vice, and
that he would try himself by the same laws as he tried others;
somehow, Richard's words were frequently heard with a lurking
distrust, and many shook their heads over the pattern son; but
then it was those whose sons had gone astray, and been condemned,
in no private or tender manner, by Mr. Bradshaw, so it 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
confidence, but her uneasy conscience condemned the deceit which
he had practised.

The brother and sister were sitting alone over a blazing
Christmas fire, and Jemima held an old newspaper in her hand to
shield her face from the hot light. They were talking of family
events, when, during a pause, Jemima's eye caught the name of a
great actor, who had lately given prominence and life to a
character in one of Shakespeare'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 cares no more for the theatre
than one does for mince-pies."

"Oh, I wish I might go to London!" said Jemima impatiently. "I've
a great mind to ask papa to let me go to the George Smiths', and
then I could see----. I would not think him like mince-pies."

"You must not do any such thing!" said Richard, now neither
yawning nor contemptuous. "My father would never allow you to go
to the theatre; and the George Smiths are such old fogeys--they
would be sure to tell."

"How do you go, then? Does my father give you leave?"

"Oh! many things are right for men which are not for girls."

Jemima sat and pondered. Richard wished he had not been so
confidential.

"You need not name it," said he, rather anxiously.

"Name what?" said she, startled, for her thoughts had gone far
afield.

"Oh, name my going once or twice to the theatre!"

"No, I shan't name it!" said she. "No one here would care to hear
it."

But it was with some little surprise, and almost with a feeling
of disgust, that she heard Richard join with her father in
condemning some one, and add to Mr. Bradshaw's list of offences,
by alleging that the young man was a playgoer. He did not think
his sister heard his words. Mary and Elizabeth were the two girls
whom Ruth had in charge; they resembled Jemima more than their
brother in character. The household rules were occasionally a
little relaxed in their favour, for Mary, the 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; 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, clinging to her as to an elder
sister; she dined with her pupils at the family lunch, and
reached home by four. That happy home--those quiet days! And so
the peaceful days passed on into weeks, and months, and years,
and Ruth and Leonard grew and strengthened into the riper beauty
of their respective ages; while as yet no touch of decay had come
on the quaint, primitive elders of the household.


CHAPTER XX


JEMIMA REFUSES TO BE MANAGED

It was no wonder that the lookers-on were perplexed 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 companion in
experience of her husband. He had spoken with admiration of
reticent characters, full of self-control and dignity; and he
hoped--he 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. Farquhar went home in a dissatisfied,
restless state of mind, which he was almost afraid to analyse. He
admired the inflexible integrity--and almost the pomp of
principle--evinced by Mr. Bradshaw on every occasion; he wondered
how it was that Jemima could not see how grand a life might be,
whose every action was shaped in obedience to some eternal law;
instead of which, he was afraid she 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 opinion 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 opposition
made her angry and irritable, and the arguments which he was
constantly provoking (whenever he was with her in her father's
absence) frequently ended in some vehemence of expression on her
part that offended Mr. Farquhar, who did not see how she expiated
her anger in tears and self-reproaches when alone in her chamber.
Then he would lecture himself severely on the interest he could
not help feeling in a wilful girl; he would 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 marriage as a settled affair. The fitness of the
thing had long ago struck him; her father's partner--so the
fortune he meant to give her might continue in the business; a
man of such steadiness of character, and such a capital eye for a
desirable speculation, as Mr. Farquhar--just the right age to
unite the paternal with the conjugal affection, and consequently
the very man for Jemima, who had something unruly in her, which
might break out under a regime less wisely adjusted to the
circumstances than was Mr. Bradshaw's (in his own opinion)--a
house ready furnished, at a convenient distance from her home--no
near relations on Mr. Farquhar's side, who might be inclined to
consider his residence as their own for an indefinite time, and
so add to the household expenses--in short, what could be more
suitable in every way? Mr. 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 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 disapprove. She went so far that he
was seriously grieved, and did not even remonstrate and
"lecture," and then she was disappointed and irritated; for,
somehow, with all her indignation at interference, she liked to
be 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-awake eyes, had long ago put things together, and
conjectured. Every day they had some fresh mystery 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 displeased 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?"

"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 else than a red-hot
Valentine, signed Walter Farquhar, pro Bradshaw, Farquhar, & Co.,
in full.

"Why, a piece of paper, with dull-looking lines upon it, just
like the scientific dialogues; and I remember all about it. It
was once when Mr. Farquhar had been telling us that a bullet does
not go in a straight line, but in a something curve, and he drew
some lines on a piece of paper; and Mimie----"

"Jemima!" put in Elizabeth.

"Well, well! She had treasured it up, and written in corner, 'W.
F., April 3rd.' Now, 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 may be in love, for all that.
Just think how often papa lectures mamma; and yet, of course,
they're in love with each other."

"Well! we shall see," said Elizabeth.

Poor Jemima little thought of the four sharp eyes that watched
her daily course while she sat alone, as she fancied, with her
secret in her own room. For, in a passionate fit of grieving, at
the impatient, hasty temper which had made her so seriously
displease Mr. Farquhar that he had gone away without
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 upbraiding; and the
thoughts that followed this confession to herself stunned and
bewildered her; and for once that they made her dizzy with hope,
ten times they made her sick with fear. For an instant she
planned to become and to be all he could wish her; to change her
very nature for him. And then a great gush of pride came over
her, and she set her teeth tight together, and determined that he
should either love her as she was or not at all. Unless he could
take her with all her faults, she would not care for his regard;
"love" was too noble a word to call such cold, calculating
feeling as his must be, who went about with a pattern idea in his
mind, trying to find a wife to match. Besides, there was
something degrading, Jemima thought, in trying to alter herself
to gain the love of any human creature. And yet, if he did not
care for her, if this late indifference were to last, what a
great shroud was drawn over life! Could she bear it?

From the agony she dared not look at, but which 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.

"O 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 expressed 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 undisciplined girl as a wife." Jemima
held tight by a chair near which she was standing. She did not
speak; her father was pleased by her silence--it was the way in
which he liked his projects to be received.

"But you cannot suppose," he continued, "that Mr. 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
acceptance, but a little above resignation on the part of the
receiver?--

"If you give way to a temper which, although you have never dared
to show it to me, I am well aware exists, although I hoped the
habits of self-examination I had instilled had done much to cure
you of manifesting it. At one time, Richard promised 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 connection for you in
every way. I should have you under my own eye, and could still
assist you in the formation of your character, and I should be at
hand to strengthen and confirm your principles. Mr. Farquhar's
connection with the firm would be convenient and agreeable to me
in a pecuniary point of view. He----" Mr. Bradshaw was going on
in his enumeration of the advantages which he in particular, and
Jemima in the second place, would derive from this marriage, when
his 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 must
have seen that I perceived his design, and approved of it," said
Mr. Bradshaw, rather doubtfully; as he remembered how very
little, in fact, passed between him and his partner which could
have reference to the subject, to any but a mind prepared to
receive it. Perhaps Mr. Farquhar had not really thought of it;
but then again, that would imply that his own penetration had
been mistaken, 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
connection 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 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.

"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 intelligence to headquarters,
which she had long ago felt as an insurmountable obstacle to any
free communication with her mother; but now, her father's means
of acquiring knowledge faded into insignificance before the
nature of the information he imparted. She stood quite still,
grasping the chair-back, longing to be dismissed.

"I have said enough now, I hope, to make you behave in a becoming
manner to Mr. Farquhar; if your temper is too unruly to be always
under your own control, at least have respect to my injunctions,
and take some pains to curb it before him."

"May I go?" asked Jemima, chafing more and more.

"You may," said her father. When she left the room be 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 upstairs and locked herself
into her room. She began pacing up and down at first, without
shedding a tear; but then she suddenly stopped, and burst out
crying with passionate indignation.

"So! I am to behave well, not because it is right--not because it
is right--but to show off before Mr. Farquhar. Oh, Mr. Farquhar!"
said she, suddenly changing to a sort of upbraiding tone of
voice, "I did not think so of you an hour ago. I did not think
you could choose a wife in that cold-hearted way, though you did
profess to act by rule and line; but you think to have me, do
you? because it is fitting and suitable, and you want to be
married, and can't spare time for wooing" (she was lashing
herself up by an exaggeration of all her father had said). "And
bow 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
calculation; 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--

"Only an hour ago I was hoping--I don't know what I was
hoping--but I thought--oh! how I was deceived!--I 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 previously 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 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 livelihood 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 servant who answered
it.

"Yes, sir; she has just come."

"Beg her to come to me in this room as soon as she can leave the
young ladies." Ruth came.

"Sit down, Mrs. 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 an opportunity 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, particularly when he 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?" 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 invitation when Mr. Farquhar is likely
to be here. Warned by me, and, consequently, with your
observation 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 was modest in her estimate of her
qualifications for remonstrating with his daughter, he added,
blandly--

"No one so able, Mrs. Denbigh. I have observed 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
indefinably repugnant to her in the manner of acting which Mr.
Bradshaw 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 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 beloved 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 keep clear of what Mr.
Bradshaw had desired her to do. On her way home she resolved, if
she could, to find out what were Jemima's secret feelings; 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 knowing 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, 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
Ills 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 despise
the rules of life he held most sacred, and indifferent to, if not
positively disliking, him; and yet he loved her dearly. But he
resolved to make 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 interest 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. However, now he had lectured
himself into the resolution 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 perceive some change in her for the better. 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 downstairs 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.

"Is not mamma pretty?" asked Leonard, with a child's pride.

"She looks very nice and tidy," said Miss Benson, 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
upstairs, 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 chickens'-skins," said Sally,
examining them curiously. "I wonder how they set about skinning
'em."

"Here, Ruth," said Mr. Benson, coming in from 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 sight.

She had hardly touched the bell at Mr. Bradshaw'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 its cold, drab furniture) more striking than usual. It looked
very gloomy. There was the great dining-table, heavy and square;
the range of chairs, straight and square; the work-boxes, useful
and square; the colouring of walls, and carpets, 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 leaned 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 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 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 into conflict with any desire of her heart. She
loved her children dearly, though they all perplexed her very
frequently. 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 difficulty 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 wrong in the household,
and especially among his children, Mrs. Bradshaw, somehow,
contrived to be honestly blind to a good deal that was not
praiseworthy 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 became 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 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 seat to watch
them both. He saw Jemima turbulent and stormy in look; he saw
Ruth, to all appearance heavenly calm as the angels, or with only
that little tinge of sorrow which her friend's behaviour had
called forth. He saw the unusual beauty of her face and form,
which he had never noticed before; and he saw Jemima, with all
the brilliancy she once possessed in eyes and 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 bed-time came, and they
pleaded to stay up longer (their father was absent in his
counting-house, or they would not have dared to do so). He liked
Ruth's soft, distinct, unwavering "No! you must go. You must keep
to what is right," far better than the good-natured yielding to
entreaty he had formerly admired in Jemima. He was wandering off
into this comparison, while Ruth with delicate and unconscious
tact, was trying to lead Jemima into some subject which should
take her away from the thoughts, whatever they were, that made
her so ungracious and rude.

Jemima was ashamed of herself before Ruth, in a way which she had
never been before 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
remembrance 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 (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 gown. 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 of pleasure to Ruth. She, in the meantime, was
getting up to go home. While Jemima was lighting 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 forward to help Jemima in her little office.

Mr. Farquhar offered to accompany Ruth home; but the streets that
intervened between Mr. Bradshaw'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, Farquhar. I have servants
at liberty at any moment to attend on her, if she wishes it."

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 upstairs with Ruth to help her to put on her things.

"Dear Jemima!" said Ruth, "I am so glad to see you looking better
to-night! You quite frightened me this morning, you looked so
ill."

"Did I?" replied Jemima. "O 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 me what it is?" asked
Ruth tenderly.

"Oh, not now--not now," replied Jemima. "I 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 downstairs."

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 was going to give Ruth, sixpence a yard during the time.
Mr. Farquhar went home through the garden-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.


CHAPTER XXI


MR. FARQUHAR'S ATTENTIONS TRANSFERRED

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 certain 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.

"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 confidence,
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 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. Farquhar 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 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 impertinent," 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, mamma?"

"Oh dear! I dare say I should not have told you," said Mrs.
Bradshaw, perceiving, from Jemima'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,
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 sullenness the night before. Management
everywhere! 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 herself to it.

"Are you sure, mamma, that papa asked Mrs. Denbigh to make me
behave differently? It seems so strange."

"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 schoolroom 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.

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. once allow a margin of uncertainty, or where
feelings, instead of maxims, were to be the guide, and all hope
of there ever being any good men of business was ended.

"Suppose a delay of a month in requiring payment might save a
man's credit--prevent his becoming 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 consideration, elevates."

"That is not justice--justice is certain and inflexible. No! Mr.
Farquhar, you must not allow any Quixotic notions to mingle with
your conduct as a tradesman."

And so they went on; Jemima's face glowing with sympathy in all
Mr. Farquhar said; till once, on looking up suddenly with
sparkling eyes, she saw a glance of her father's, which told her,
as plain as words can 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 premeditated action and
speech-making--such moving about of every one into their right
places, like pieces at chess. She felt as if she would rather be
bought openly, like an Oriental daughter, where no one is
degraded in their own eyes by being parties to such a contract.
The consequences of all this "admirable management" of Mr.
Bradshaw's would have been very unfortunate to Mr. Farquhar (who
was innocent of all connivance in any of the plots--indeed would
have been as much annoyed at them as Jemima, had he been aware of
them), but that the impression made upon him by Ruth on the
evening I have so lately described was deepened by the contrast
which her behaviour made to Miss Bradshaw's on one or two more
recent occasions.

There was no use, he thought, in continuing attentions so
evidently distasteful to Jemima. To her, a young girl hardly out
of the schoolroom; he probably 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 affectionately 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
approve 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 recall: 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
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 greenhouse
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.

"O Jemima, how nice and cool you are, sitting in this shady
room!" (she had felt it even chilly). "We have been such a long
walk! We are so tired. It is so hot."

"Why did you go, then?" said she.

"Oh! we wanted to go. We would not have stayed at home on any
account. It has been so pleasant," said Mary.

"We've been to Scaurside Wood, to gather wild strawberries," said
Elizabeth.

"Such a quantity! We've left a whole basketful in the dairy. Mr.
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 some
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 another, and quite forgetting that, not many
weeks ago, she had fancied an attachment between him and Jemima.

"Did you? I did not," replied Elizabeth. "At least I never
thought about it. I was quite startled when I heard his horse's
feet behind us on the road."

"He said he was going to the farm, and could take our basket. Was
it not kind of him?" Jemima did not answer, so Mary continued--

"You know it's a great pull up to the farm, and we were so hot
already. The road was quite white and baked; it hurt my eyes
terribly. I was so glad when Mrs. Denbigh said we might turn into
the wood. The light was quite green there, the branches are so
thick overhead."

"And there are whole beds of wild strawberries," said Elizabeth,
taking up the tale now Mary was out of breath. Mary fanned
herself with her bonnet, while Elizabeth went on--

"You know where the grey rock crops out, don't you, Jemima? Well,
there was a complete carpet of strawberry-runners. So pretty! And
we could hardly step without treading the little bright scarlet
berries under foot."

"We did so wish for Leonard," put in Mary.

"Yes! but Mrs. Denbigh gathered a great many for him. And Mr.
Farquhar gave her all his."

"I thought you said he bad gone on to Dawson's farm," said
Jemima.

"Oh yes! he just went up there; and then he left his horse there,
like a wise man, and came to us in the pretty, cool, green wood.
O Jemima! it was so pretty-little flecks of light coming down
here and there through the leaves, and quivering on the ground.
You must go with us to-morrow."

"Yes," said Mary, "we're going again to-morrow. We could not
gather nearly all the strawberries."

"And Leonard is to go too, to-morrow."

"Yes! we thought of such a capital plan. That's to say, Mr.
Farquhar thought of it--we wanted to carry 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 upstairs and take off your things. You know papa does not
like you to come into this room in the shoes in which you have
been out."

She was glad to out her sisters short in the details 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 how she 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
connection, 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 on a common or
worthless person. Ruth was beautiful, gentle, good, and
conscientious. The hot colour flushed up into Jemima's sallow
face as she became aware that, even while she acknowledged these
excellences 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 distasteful 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?"

"O God! help me! I did not know I was so wicked," cried Jemima
aloud in her agony. It had been a terrible glimpse into the dark,
lurid gulf--the capability for evil, in her heart. She wrestled
with the demon, but he would not depart: it was to be a struggle
whether or not she was to be given up to him, in this her time of
sore temptation.

All the next day long she sat and pictured the happy
strawberry-gathering going on, even then, in pleasant 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 glowing August sun. Yet her sisters found her there 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. Somebody had been since
yesterday, and gathered nearly all the strawberries off the grey
rock. Jemima! Jemima!" said Elizabeth faintly, "I am so dizzy--I
think I am ill."

The next minute the tired girl lay swooning on the grass. It was
an outlet for Jemima's fierce energy. With a strength she had
never again, and never had known before, she lifted up her
fainting sister, and, bidding Mary run and clear the way, she
carried her in through the open garden-door, up the wide
old-fashioned stairs, and laid her on the bed in her 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 fainting-fit she lay listless and weary, without appetite or
interest, through the long sunny autumn weather, on the bed or on
the couch in Jemima's room, whither she had been carried at
first. It was a comfort to Mrs. Bradshaw to be able at once to
discover what it was that had knocked up Elizabeth; she did not
rest easily until she had settled upon a cause for 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 light
censure for the careless way in which, to please her own child,
she had allowed her two pupils to fatigue themselves with such
long walks. She begged hard to take her share of nursing. Every
spare moment she went to Mr. Bradshaw's, and asked, with earnest
humility, 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 upstairs,
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, 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 manner, because she could not be
hypocritical; 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. 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. Jemima went rather paler than usual, and then made
answer--

"Changed! How do you mean? How am I 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 recall 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, and could not relinquish
the love of any one without a pang.

The doctor who was called in to Elizabeth prescribed sea-air as
the best means of recruiting her strength. Mr. Bradshaw (who
liked to spend money ostentatiously) went down straight to
Abermouth, 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 children'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 engage 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 undeciding, and redeciding, before it was possible
for 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 engaged this seaside 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.

Kings 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 land-owner and tenant did
not quake prophetically at the introduction 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,
increased, 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 Granworth interest even in
their hereditary stronghold, and, by so doing, avenge the slights
of many years--slights which rankled in Mr. Bradshaw'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 bad 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 a Tory, but for a Whig the latitude of his conscience had
never yet been discovered. It was possible 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 representation of Eccleston
on the Dissenting interest.

"There are in round numbers about six hundred voters," said he;
"two hundred are decidedly in the Cranworth interest--dare not
offend Mr. Cranworth, 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 parliamentary agent. "Of
course, we must make them care."

Mr. Bradshaw rather shrank from the knowing 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 Parliament."

"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 forward, 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
canvass in person, and was to take up his abode at Mr.
Bradshaw's; and therefore it was that the seaside house, within
twenty miles' distance of Eccleston, 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
encumbrances, during the forthcoming election.


CHAPTER XXII


THE LIBERAL CANDIDATE AND HIS PRECURSOR

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 Abermouth, 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 faithfully 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 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 disappointment. 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
Eccleston. 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 hospitality. The partition-wall
between the unused drawing-room and the schoolroom was broken
down, in order to admit of folding-doors; the "ingenious"
upholsterer of the town (and what town does not boast of the
upholsterer full of contrivances and resources, in opposition to
the upholsterer of steady capital and no imagination, who looks
down with uneasy contempt on ingenuity?) had come in to give his
opinion, that "nothing could be easier than to convert a bathroom
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 unconscious 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. Cranworth, 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. Donne, when everybody knew
that the "George" was good enough for the Cranworths, 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 presentable 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 encumbered 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 ho 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 confidentially, "If you had
to destroy a hydra-headed monster, would you measure swords with
the demon as if he were a gentleman? 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 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 conversation took place at Mr.
Bradshaw's dinner-table, where a few friends were gathered
together to meet Mr. Hickson; and among them was Mr. Benson.

"We neither would nor could," said the ardent barrister,
disregarding in his vehemence the point of the question, and
floating on over the bar of argument into the wide ocean of his
own eloquence: "As it is--as the world stands, they who would
succeed even in good deeds must come down to the level of
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 considered the
introduction of the word "holy" a most happy hit), "then, I say,
we must put all the squeamish scruples which might befit Utopia,
or some such place, on one side and treat men as they are. If
they are avaricious, it is not we who have made them so; but as
we have to do with them, we must consider their failings in
dealing with them; if they have been careless or extravagant, or
have had their little peccadilloes, 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 my come," said Mr. Benson. He
was startled at the deep sound of his own voice as he uttered
these words; but he had not been speaking for some time, and his
voice came forth strong and unmodulated.

"True, sir; most true," said Mr. Hickson, bowing. "I honour you
for the observation." And he profited by it, insomuch that he
confined his further remarks on elections to the end of the
table, where he sat near Mr. 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 flirtation with the
daughter of his wealthy host, which she resented with all the
loathing of a preoccupied 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, short
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.

"Nay, Jemima!" said Mr. Farquhar, touched, and secretly flattered
by the visible pain his speech bad given. "Don't be indignant
with me till I have explained myself a little more. I don't
understand myself yet; and it is a very intricate question, or so
it appears to me, which I was going to put, really, earnestly,
and humbly, for Mr. Benson's opinion. Now, 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 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 condescending
indulgence, just as one listens to a child who can have had no
opportunities of knowing better.

At the end of a conversation that Mr. Hickson held with Mr.
Benson, on a subject in which the latter was really interested,
and on which he had expressed himself at some length, the young
barrister turned to Mr. Bradshaw and said very audibly--

"I wish Donne had been here. This conversation during the last
half-hour would have interested him almost as much as it has done
me."

Mr. Bradshaw little guessed the truth, that Mr. Donne was, at
that very moment, coaching up the various subjects of public
interest at 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 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. Not
even the look of Leonard, as the early dawn fell on him, and Mr.
Benson's sleepless eyes saw the rosy glow on his firm, round
cheeks; his open mouth, through which the soft, long-drawn breath
came gently quivering; and his eyes not fully shut, but closed to
outward sight--not even the aspect of the quiet, innocent child
could soothe the troubled spirit.

Leonard and his mother dreamt of each other that night. Her dream
of him was one of undefined terror--terror so great that it
wakened her up, and she strove not to sleep again, for fear that
ominous, ghastly dream should return. He, on the contrary, dreamt
of her sitting watching and smiling 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 seaside 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, 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 was, to be sure, a series of
zig-zag tacking paths down the face of this rock, but from the
house they could not he seen. Old or delicate people would have
considered the situation bleak and exposed; indeed, the present
proprietor wanted to dispose of it on this very account; but by
its present inhabitants this exposure and bleakness were called
by other names, and considered as charms. From every part of the
rooms they saw the grey storms gather on the sea-horizon, and put
themselves in marching array; and soon the march became a sweep,
and the great dome of the heavens was covered with the lurid
clouds, between which and the vivid green earth below there
seemed to come a purple atmosphere, making the very threatening
beautiful; and 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!" exclaimed Elizabeth,
after one such storm, which she had watched silently from the
very beginning of the "little cloud no bigger than a man's hand."

"Mamma would never like it, 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 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 informed 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 preparations. 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.

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
fulness 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 political 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
understanding that "packets" would be required, for what purpose
both he and Mr. Donne were to be supposed to remain ignorant. But
it would be very awkward, so near to the time, if he were to be
clearly convinced that bribery, however disguised by names and
words, was in plain terms a sin. And yet he 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 Cranworths would win the
day, and he should be the laughing-stock of Eccleston. No! in
this one case bribery must be allowed--was allowable; but it was
a great pity human nature was so corrupt, and if his member
succeeded, he would double his subscription to the schools, in
order that the next generation might 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 Sunday--Mr. Bradshaw had piqued himself on
this strictness--and yet he had an instinctive feeling that Mr.
Donne was not quite the man to partake of cold meat for
conscience 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 incontestable 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 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 confessed were slang, but fashionable
slang, and that makes all the difference--a measured, graceful
way of utterance, with a style of pronunciation quite different
to that of Eccleston. All these put together make but a part of
the indescribable whole which unconsciously affected Mr.
Bradshaw, and established Mr. Donne in his 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 Mr. Donne's arrival, now became
vulgar and coarse in 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 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
eagerness that was almost fierce, though his tones were as
musical, and nearly as slow, as ever; and, when Mr. Bradshaw
alluded distantly to "probable expenses" and "packets," Mr. Donne
replied--

"Oh, of course! disagreeable 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 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?"

"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 racehorse, 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 there 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 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."

"Leonard! O 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
overhearing 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
himself from 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 generations, 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.

Now, Mr. Bradshaw knew that the house and grounds of Eagle's Crag
wore exorbitantly dear, and yet he really thought of purchasing
them. And as one means of exhibiting his wealth, and so raising
himself up to the level of Mr. Donne, he thought that if he could
take the latter down to Abermouth, and 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 determination which made Ruth sit in the little inn
parlour of Abermouth during the wild storm's passage.

She wondered if she had fulfilled all Mr. Bradshaw'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 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."


CHAPTER XXIII


RECOGNITION

Saturday came. Torn, ragged clouds were driven across the sky. It
was not a becoming day for the scenery, and the little girls
regretted it much. First they hoped for a change at twelve
o'clock, and then at the afternoon tide-turning. But at neither
time did the sun show his face.

"Papa will never buy this dear place," said 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.

"I wonder what time they will come at?" inquired Mary.

"Your papa said they would be at the station at five, o'clock.
And the landlady at the 'Swan' said it would take them
half-an-hour to get here."

"And they are to dine at six?" asked Elizabeth.

"Yes," answered Ruth. "And I think, if we had our tea
half-an-hour earlier, at half-past four, and then went out for a
walk, we should be nicely out of the way just during the bustle
of the arrival and dinner; and we could be in the drawing-room
ready against your papa came in after dinner."

"Oh! 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 incoming tide, and made canals to them from the
water, and blew the light sea-foam against each other; and then
stole on tiptoe near to the groups of grey and white sea-gulls,
which despised their caution, flying softly and slowly away to a
little distance as soon as they drew near. And in all this Ruth
was as great a child as any. Only she longed for Leonard with a
mother's longing, as indeed she did every day, and all hours of
the day. By-and-by the clouds thickened yet more, and one or two
drops of rain were felt. It was very little, but Ruth feared a
shower for her delicate Elizabeth, and besides, the September
evening was fast closing in the dark and sunless day. As they
turned homewards in the rapidly increasing dusk, they saw three
figures on the sand near the rocks, coming in their direction.

"Papa and Mr. Donne!" exclaimed Mary. "Now we shall see him!"

"Which do you make out is him?" asked Elizabeth.

"Oh! the tall one, to be sure. Don't you see how papa always
turns to him, as if he was speaking to him, and not to the
other?"

"Who is the other?" asked Elizabeth.

"Mr. Bradshaw said that Mr. Farquhar and Mr. Hickson would come
with him. But that is not Mr. Farquhar, I am sure," said Ruth.

The girls looked at each other, as they always did, when Ruth
mentioned Mr. Farquhar's name; but she was perfectly unconscious
both of the look and of the conjectures which gave rise to it.

As soon as the two parties drew near, Mr. Bradshaw called out in
his strong voice--

"Well, my dears! we found there was an hour before dinner, so we
came down upon the sands, and here you 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."

It was growing darker every moment, and it was time they should
hasten back to the rocks, which were even now indistinct in the
grey haze. Mr. Bradshaw held a hand of each of his daughters, and
Ruth walked alongside, the two strange gentlemen being on the
outskirts of the party.

Mr. Bradshaw began to give his little girls some home news. He
told them that Mr. Farquhar was ill, and could not accompany
them; but Jemima and their mamma were quite well.

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 seaside? I should rather ask."

The reply was "Yes," rather breathed out in a deep inspiration
than spoken in a sound. The sands heaved and trembled beneath
Ruth. The figures near her vanished into strange nothingness; the
sounds of their voices were as distant sounds in a dream, while
the echo of one voice thrilled through and through. She could
have caught at his arm for support, in the awful 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 and easier path, which wound up-wards 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 td the field surmounted, Ruth
sat down suddenly and covered her face with her hands. This was
so unusual--their wishes, their good, 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.

"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 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
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 shrank 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 farmyard right into the bright, ruddy
kitchen, where the servants were dashing about with the
dinner-things. It was a contrast in more than colour to the
lonely, dusky field, which even the little girls perceived; and
the noise, the warmth, the very bustle of the servants, were a
positive relief to Ruth, and for the time lifted 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. Bradshaw's displeasure;
for it was an understood thing that no one was to be ill or tired
in his household without leave asked, and cause given and
assigned. But she never thought of that now. Her great desire was
to hold quiet till she was alone. Quietness it was not--it was
rigidity; but she succeeded in being rigid in look and movement,
and went through her duties to Elizabeth (who preferred remaining
with her upstairs) with wooden precision. But her heart felt at
times like ice, at times like burning fire; always a heavy, heavy
weight within her. At last Elizabeth went to bed. Still Ruth
dared not think. Mary would come upstairs 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 wood-ashes--but an old farmhouse, 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 listened; 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 curious to know to what
they related. He spoke. That was her one fact.

Presently up came Mary, bounding, exultant. Papa had let her stay
up one quarter of an hour longer, because Mr. Hickson had asked.
Mr. Hickson was so clever! She did not know what to make of Mr.
Donne, he seemed such a dawdle. But he was very handsome. Had
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. 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 stupefied 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
"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. "O 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 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 learned and explained. He left me to bear
the burden and the shame; and never oared 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 determination, 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
a depth of sin is in my heart! Why, the old time would be as
white as snow to what it would be now, if I sought him out, and
prayed for the explanation, which would 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, 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 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, er, indeed, remember anything but that she
was weak, and God was strong, and "a very present help in time of
trouble;" and the wind rose yet higher, and the house shook and
vibrated as, in measured time, the great and terrible gusts came
from the four quarters of the heavens and blew around it, dying
away in the distance with loud and unearthly wails, which were
not utterly still before the sound of the coming blast was heard
like the trumpets of the vanguard of the Prince of Air.

There was a knock at the bedroom door--a little, gentle knock,
and a soft child's voice.

"Mrs. Denbigh, may 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 I 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. Elizabeth 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 passionate emotion, and obliged to be still for
fear of awaking her bedfellow, went off into a short slumber,
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 bout, and the
early farmyard sounds. After she had recovered from the shock of
consciousness and recollection, she collected her thoughts with a
stern 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 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 breakfast-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. 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 composed 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 burned 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 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 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 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 expression, which had been only occasional formerly,
when his worse self predominated, had become permanent. He looked
restless and dissatisfied. But he was very handsome still; and
her 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 ought this Mrs. Denbigh was certainly like
poor Ruth; but this woman was far handsomer. Her face was
positively Greek; and then such a proud, superb turn of her head;
quite queenly! A governess in Mr. Bradshaw's family! Why, she
might be a Percy or a Howard for the grandeur of her grace! Poor
Ruth! This woman's hair was darker, though; and she had less
colour; although 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 without
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.

"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 ladles 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 disliked going to church,
partly from principle, partly because he never could find the
places in the Prayer-book. Mr. Donne was in the drawing-room as
Mary came down ready equipped; he was turning over the leaves of
the large and handsome Bible. Seeing Mary, he was struck with a
new idea.

"How singular it is," said he, "that the name of Ruth is so
seldom chosen by those good people who go to the Bible before
they christen their children! It is 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 daughters' governess, I know
three other Ruths."

"Oh! I have no doubt I was wrong. It was just a speech of which
one perceives the folly the moment it is made."

But, secretly, he rejoiced with a fierce joy over the success of
his device. Elizabeth came to summon Mary.

Ruth was glad when she got into the open air, and away from the
house. Two hours were gone and over. Two out of a day, a day and
a half--for it might be late on Monday morning before the
Eccleston party returned.

She felt weak and trembling in body, but strong in power over
herself. They had left the house 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
peculiar clank of rather high-heeled boots, which gave a springy
sound to the walk, that she had known well long ago. It was like
a nightmare, where the evil dreaded is never avoided, never
completely shunned, but is by 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 architecture of the church; some of these
old country churches have singular bits about them. Mr. Bradshaw
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 cultivation; and yet it has great charms.
It reminds me of some part 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. 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
high 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 followed them in, entered himself, and
shut the door. Ruth's heart sank as she saw him there; just
opposite to her; coming between her and the clergyman who was to
read out the word of God. It was merciless--it was cruel to haunt
her there. She durst not lift her eyes to the bright eastern
light--she could not see how peacefully the marble images of the
dead lay on their tombs, for he was between her and all Light and
Peace. She knew that his look was on her; that he never turned
his glance away. She could not join in the prayer for the
remission of sins while he was there, for his very presence
seemed as a sign that their stain would never be washed out of
her life. But, although goaded and chafed by her thoughts and
recollections, she kept very still. No sign of emotion, no flush
of colour was on her face as he looked at her. Elizabeth could
not find her place, and then Ruth breathed once, long and deeply,
as she moved up the pew, and out of the straight, burning glance
of those eyes of evil meaning. When they sat down for the reading
of the first lesson, Ruth turned the corner of the seat so as no
longer to be opposite to him. She could not listen. The words
seemed to be uttered in some world 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 at all) a face--a gargoyle I think they call it--at the
end of the arch next to the narrowing of the nave into the
chancel, and in the shadow of that contraction. The face was
beautiful in feature (the next to it was a grinning monkey), but
it was not the features that were the most striking part. There
was a half-open mouth, not in any way distorted out of its
exquisite beauty by the intense expression of suffering it
conveyed. Any distortion of the face by mental agony implies that
a struggle with circumstance is going on. But in this face, if
such struggle had been, it was over now. Circumstance had
conquered; and there was no hope from mortal endeavour, or help
from mortal creature, to be had. But the eyes looked onward and
upward to the "hills from whence cometh our help." And though the
parted lips seemed ready to quiver with agony, yet the expression
of the whole face, owing to these strange, stony, and yet
spiritual eyes, was high and consoling. If mortal gaze had never
sought its meaning before, in the deep shadow where it had been
placed long centuries ago, yet Ruth's did now. 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, 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 had ever heard of.

The second lesson for the morning of the 25th of September is the
26th 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 wondering how long it would last. Standing for a
moment, impeded by the people who were thus collected under the
porch, Ruth heard a voice close to her say, very low, but very
distinctly--

"I have much to say to you--much to explain. I entreat you to
give me 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 girl obeyed in
silence. As they went first through the churchyard stile Mr.
Donne spoke again.

"You are unforgiving," said he. "I only ask you to hear me. I
have a right to be heard, Ruth! I won't believe you are so much
changed as not to listen to me when I entreat."

He spoke in a tone of soft complaint. But he himself had done
much to destroy the illusion which had hung about his memory for
years, whenever Ruth had allowed herself to think of it. Besides
which, during the time of her residence in the Benson family, her
feeling of what people ought to he 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 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 temptation, 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 coincidence; but it is the
natural, unavoidable consequence of all, truth and goodness being
one and the same, and therefore carried out in every
circumstance, external and internal, of God's creation. When Mr.
Donne saw that Ruth would not answer him, he became only the more
determined that she should hear what he had to say. What that was
he did not exactly know. The whole affair was most mysterious and
piquant.

The umbrella protected Ruth from more than the rain on that walk
homewards, for under its shelter she could not be spoken to
unheard. She had not rightly understood at what time she and the
girls were to dine. From the gathering at meal-times she must not
shrink. She must show no sign of weakness. But, oh! the relief,
after that walk, to sit in her own room, locked up, so that
neither Mary nor Elizabeth could come by surprise, and to let her
weary frame (weary with being so long braced up to rigidity and
stiff quiet) fall into a chair anyhow--all helpless, nerveless,
motionless, as if the very bones had melted out of her!

The peaceful rest which her mind took was in 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 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. Whatever 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 out even now? His laws once broken, His justice and
the very nature of those laws bring the immutable retribution;
but, if we turn penitently to Him, He enables us to bear our
punishment with a meek and docile heart, "for His mercy 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 hospitality
as to allow his visitor to sit in the Eagle's Crag pew with no
other guard of honour than the children and the governess, Mr.
Bradshaw determined to make up for it by extra attention during
the remainder of the day. Accordingly he never left Mr. Donne.
Whatever wish that gentleman expressed, it was the study of his
host to gratify. Did he hint at the pleasure which a walk in such
beautiful scenery would give him, Mr. Bradshaw was willing to
accompany him, although at Eccleston it was a principle with him
not to take any walks for pleasure 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; but of the children or Ruth there was no sign. He
ventured on a distant inquiry as to their whereabouts.

"They dine early; they are gone to church again. Mrs. Denbigh was
a member of the Establishment once; and, though she attends
chapel at home, she seems glad to have an opportunity of going to
church."

Mr. Donne was on the point of asking some further questions about
"Mrs. Denbigh," when Mr. Hickson came m, 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 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 hipped if not well amused.

"It is really a shame to be indoors in such a place. Rain? Yes,
it rained some hours ago, but now it is splendid weather. I feel
myself quite qualified for guide, I assure you. I can show you
all the beauties of the neighbourhood, and throw in a bog and a
nest of vipers to boot."

Mr. Donne languidly assented to this proposal of going out; and
then he became restless until Mr. Hickson had eaten a hasty
lunch, for he hoped to meet Ruth on the way from church, to be
near her, and watch her, though he might not be able to speak to
her. To have the slow hours roll away--to know 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 wish of showing
him 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 homewards. No Ruth was
there. She and her pupils had returned by the field-way, as Mr.
Bradshaw informed his guests at dinner-time. Mr. Donne was very
captious all through dinner. He thought it never would be over,
and cursed Hickson's interminable 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 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 henceforward her world
and his belonged to separate systems, wide as the heavens apart.

By degrees she felt that he was drawing near to where she stood.
He was by the table examining the books that lay upon it. Mary
and Elizabeth drew off a little space, awe-stricken by the future
member for Eccleston. As 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 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. Bradshaw
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 knowing her error
and her shame, and making a cruel use of such knowledge, she had
quite separated him from the idol of her youth. And yet, for the
sake of that first and only love, she would gladly have known
what 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 egotistical, 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 possible for him to be, but who now wished
Eccleston and the Dissenting interest therein very fervently at
the devil.

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 jealousy 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.


CHAPTER XXIV


THE MEETING ON THE SANDS

"HE will take him away from me! He will take the child from me!"

These words rang like a tolling bell through Ruth's head. It
seemed to her that her doom was certain. Leonard would be taken
from her. She had a 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 mind 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 information from which to draw correct
conclusions. The 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 promised 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
circumstances all mention of which had ceased years ago; the very
recollection of which seemed buried deep for ever. Besides, she
feared occasioning discord 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 expression now. He would cease to
do anything to forward his election he would oppose him as much
as he could; and Mr. Bradshaw would be angry, and a storm would
arise, from the bare thought of which Ruth shrank with the
cowardliness of a person thoroughly worn out with late contest.
She was bodily wearied with her spiritual buffeting.

One morning, three or four days after their departure, she
received a letter from Miss Benson. She could not open it at
first, and put it on one side, clenching her hands over it all
the time. At last she tore it open. Leopard 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 pages. Yes, here it was! Sick,
fluttering heart, be still!

"In the middle of the damsons, when they were 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 canvassing; and when they found my brother was out, they
asked Leonard if they could see me. The child said, 'Yes! if I
could leave the damsons;' and straightway came to call me,
leaving them standing in the passage. I whipped off my apron, and
took Leonard by the hand, for I fancied I should feel less
awkward if he was with me; and then I went and asked them all
into the study, for I thought I should like them to see how many
books Thurstan had got. Then they began talking politics at me in
a very polite manner, only I could not make head or tail of what
they meant; and Mr. Donne took a deal of notice of Leonard, and
called him to him; and I am sure he noticed what a noble,
handsome boy he was, though his face was very brown and red, and
hot with digging, and his curls all tangled. Leonard talked back
as if he had known him all his life, till, I think Mr. Bradshaw
thought he was making too much noise, and bid him remember he
ought to be seen, not heard. So he stood as still and stiff as a
soldier, close to Mr. Donne; and as I could not help looking at
the two, and thinking how handsome they both 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 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 gentleman 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 election altogether; and,
indeed, it does make sad work up and down the town. However, he
sent back the watch, with a letter to Mr. Bradshaw; and Leonard
was very good about it, so I gave him a taste of the new
damson-preserve on his bread for supper."

Although a stranger might have considered this letter wearisome,
from the multiplicity of the details, Ruth craved greedily after
more. What had Mr. Donne said to Leonard? Had Leonard liked his
new acquaintance? Were 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
recognised 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 you can listen, undisturbed. The
time must be on Sunday; the limit of distance may be the
circumference of your power of walking. My words may be commands,
but my fond heart entreats. More I shall not say now, but,
remember! your boy's welfare depends on your acceding to this
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 trust you to go steadily by yourselves."

When they came to kiss her before leaving her, according to their
fond wont, they were struck by the coldness of her face and lips.

"Are you not well, dear Mrs. Denbigh? How cold you are!"

"Yes, darling! I am well;" and tears sprang into her eyes as she
looked at their anxious little faces. "Go now, dears. Five
o'clock will soon be here, and then we will have tea."

"And that will warm you!" said they, leaving the room.

"And 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 to the right hand or
to the left, where comers might 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 towards 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 moorland, 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 worshipping in peace.

"Pray for me!" she sighed out as this object caught her eye.

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!" said she to herself. And she turned round and looked
seaward. The tide had turned; the waves were slowly receding, as
if 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 sunlight 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.

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 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, full 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,
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 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 every 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 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
happiness 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 always with
you--educated where and how you liked--money to any amount you
might choose to name should be secured to you and him--if only,
Ruth--if only those happy days might return." Ruth spoke--

"I said that I was happy, because I had asked God to protect and
help me--and I dared not tell a lie. I was happy. Oh! what is
happiness or 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 incoherent.

"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 kindness to you shall be
rewarded by me, with a gratitude even surpassing your own. If
there is anything 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 the
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. 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----"

"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 repugnance, "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 humiliations 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?"

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. "I 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.

"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 Eccleston; and that if I spoke out ever so
little, they would throw you off in an instant. Now!" he
continued, "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 be cruel to him--to me. Think once more!"

"I think once more." She spoke solemnly. "To save Leonard from
the shame and agony of knowing my disgrace I would lay 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 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 fear 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 arms,
and began to follow her. He 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. Bradshaw; 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.

"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 repetition of such words.

"I do not love you. I did once. Don't say I 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 brightness of your face; it has left no
sense of sin on your conscience, while me it haunts and haunts;
and yet I might plead that I was an ignorant child--only I will
not plead anything, for God knows all----But this is only one
piece of our great difference----"

"You mean that I am no saint," he said, impatient 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 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, much
less by my agency. I would rather see him working on the roadside
than leading such a life--being such a one as you are. You have
heard my mind now, Mr. Bellingham. You have humbled me--you have
baited me; and if at last I have spoken out too harshly, and too
much in a spirit of 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 within 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 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 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 a general view and scope of their
conversation--the event was too near her for that; but her heart
felt sore at the echo of her last words, just and true as their
severity was. Her struggle, her constant flowing tears, which
fell from very weakness, made her experience a sensation of
intense bodily fatigue; and her soul had lost the power of
throwing itself forward, or contemplating 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.

"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 bad parted away, and the sun was going
down in the crimson glory behind the distant purple hills. The
whole western sky was one flame of fire. Ruth forgot herself in
looking at the gorgeous sight. She sat up gazing; and, as she
gazed, the tears dried on her cheeks, and, somehow, all human
care and sorrow were swallowed up in the unconscious sense of
God's infinity. The sunset calmed her more than any words,
however wise and tender, could have done. It even seemed to give
her strength and courage; she did not know how or why, but so it
was.

She rose, and went slowly towards home. Her limbs were very
stiff, and every now and then she had to choke down an unbidden
sob. Her pupils had been long returned from church, and had
busied themselves in preparing tea--an occupation which had
probably made them feel the time less long.

If they had ever seen a sleep-walker, they might have likened
Ruth to one for the next few days, so slow and measured did her
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, announcing the triumphant
return of Mr. Donne as M.P. for Eccleston. Mrs. Denbigh heard the
news without a word, and was too languid to join in the search
after purple and yellow flowers with which to deck the
sitting-room at Eagle's Crag.

A letter from Jemima came the next day, summoning 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 and
Elizabeth's holiday should cease. Mrs. Denbigh had also a
letter--a letter from Miss Benson, saying that Leonard was not
quite well. There was so much pains taken to disguise anxiety,
that it was very evident much anxiety was felt; and the girls
were almost alarmed by Ruth's sudden change from taciturn 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 arrangement that could
expedite their departure by one minute, was done by Ruth with
stern promptitude. She spared herself in nothing. She made them
rest, made them lie down, while she herself lifted weights and
transacted business with feverish power, never resting, and
trying never to have time to think.

For in remembrance of the Past there was Remorse--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--which is not the true shield against the
bitterness of the arrows of death.

When the seaside party arrived in Eccleston, they were met by
Mrs. and Miss Bradshaw and Mr. Benson. By a firm resolution, Ruth
kept from shaping the question, "Is he alive?" as if by giving
shape to her fears she made their 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."


CHAPTER XXV


JEMIMA MAKES A DISCOVERY

Mr. Bradshaw had been successful in carrying his point. His
member had been returned; his proud opponents mortified. So the
public thought he ought to be well pleased; but the public were
disappointed to see that he did not show any of the gratification
they supposed him to feel.

The truth was, that he met with so many small mortifications
during the progress of the election, that the pleasure which he
would otherwise have felt in the final success of his scheme was
much diminished.

He had more than tacitly sanctioned bribery; and now that the
excitement was over, he regretted it: not entirely from
conscientious motives, though he was uneasy from the slight sense
of wrong-doing; but he was more pained, after all, to think that,
in the eyes of some of his townsmen, his hitherto spotless
character had received a blemish. He, who had been so stern and
severe a censor on the undue influence exercised by the opposite
party in all preceding elections, could not expect to be spared
by their adherents now, when there were rumours that the hands of
the scrupulous Dissenters were not clean. Before, it had been his
beast that neither friend nor enemy could say one word against
him; now, he was constantly afraid of an indictment for bribery,
and of being compelled to appear before a committee to swear to
his own share in the business.

His uneasy, fearful consciousness made him stricter and sterner
than ever; as if he would quench all wondering, slanderous talk
about him in the town by a renewed austerity of uprightness: that
the slack-principled Mr. Bradshaw of one month of ferment and
excitement might not be confounded with the highly conscientious
and deeply religious Mr. Bradshaw, who went to chapel twice a
day, and gave a hundred pounds apiece to every charity in the
town, as a sort of thank-offering that his end was gained.

But he was secretly dissatisfied with Mr. Donne. In general, that
gentleman had been rather too willing to act in accordance with
any one's advice, no matter whose; as, if he had thought it too
much trouble to weigh the wisdom of his friends, in which case
Mr. Bradshaw's would have, doubtless, proved the most valuable.
But now and then he unexpectedly, and utterly without reason,
took the conduct of affairs into his own hands, as when he had
been absent without leave only just before the day of nomination.
No one guessed whither he had gone; but the fact of his being
gone was enough to chagrin Mr. Bradshaw, who was quite ready to
have picked a quarrel on this very head if the election had not
terminated favourably. As it was, he had a feeling of
proprietorship in Mr. Donne which was not disagreeable. He had
given the new M.P. his seat; his resolution; his promptitude, his
energy, had made Mr. Donne "our member;" and Mr. Bradshaw began
to feel proud of him accordingly. But there had been no one
circumstance during this period to bind Jemima and Mr. Farquhar
together. They were still misunderstanding each other with all
their power. The difference in the result was this Jemima loved
him all the more, in spite of quarrels and coolness. He was
growing utterly weary of the petulant temper of which he was
never certain; of the reception which varied day after day,
according to the mood she was in and the thoughts that were
uppermost; and he was almost startled to find how very glad he
was that the little girls and Mrs. Denbigh were coming home. His
was a character to bask in peace; and lovely, quiet Ruth, with
her low tones and soft replies, her delicate waving movements,
appeared to him the very type of what a woman should be--a calm,
serene soul, fashioning the body to angelic grace.

It was, therefore, with no slight interest that Mr. Farquhar
inquired daily after the health of little Leonard. He asked at
the Bensons' house; and Sally answered him, with swollen and
tearful eyes, that the child was very bad--very bad indeed. He
asked at the doctor's; and the doctor told him, in a few short
words, that "it was only a bad kind of measles and that the lad
might have a struggle for it, but he thought he would get
through. Vigorous children carried their force into everything;
never did things by halves; if they were ill, they were sure to
be in a high fever directly; if they were well, there was no
peace in the house for their rioting. For his part," continued
the doctor, "he thought he was glad he had had no children; as
far as he could judge, they were pretty much all plague and no
profit." But as he ended his speech he sighed; and Mr. Farquhar
was none the less convinced that common report was true, which
represented the clever, prosperous surgeon of Eccleston as
bitterly disappointed at his failure of offspring.

While these various interests and feelings had their course
outside the Chapel-house, within there was but one thought which
possessed all the inmates. When Sally was not cooking for the
little invalid, she was crying; for she had had a dream about
green rushes, not three months ago, which, by some queer process
of oneiromancy, she interpreted to mean the death of a child; and
all Miss Benson's endeavours were directed to making her keep
silence to Ruth about this dream. Sally thought that the mother
ought to be told. What were dreams sent for but for warnings? But
it was just like a pack of Dissenters, who would not believe
anything like other folks. Miss Benson was too much accustomed to
Sally's contempt for Dissenters, as viewed from the pinnacle of
the Establishment, to pay much attention to all this grumbling;
especially as Sally was willing to take as much trouble about
Leonard as if she believed he was going to live, and that his
recovery depended upon her care. Miss Benson's great object was
to keep her from having any confidential talks with Ruth; as if
any repetition of the dream could have deepened the conviction in
Ruth's mind that the child would die.

It seemed to her that his death would only be the fitting
punishment for the state of indifference towards him--towards
life and death--towards all things earthly or divine, into which
she had suffered herself to fall since her last interview with
Mr. Donne. She did not understand that such exhaustion is but the
natural consequence of violent agitation and severe tension of
feeling. The only relief she experienced was in constantly
serving Leonard; she had almost an animal's jealousy lest any one
should come between her and her young. Mr. Benson saw this
jealous suspicion, although he could hardly understand it; but he
calmed his sister's wonder and officious kindness, so that the
two patiently and quietly provided all that Ruth might want, but
did not interfere with her right to nurse Leonard. But when he
was recovering, Mr. Benson, with the slight tone of authority he
knew how to assume when need was, bade Ruth lie down and take
some rest, while his sister watched. Ruth did not answer, but
obeyed in a dull, weary kind of surprise at being so commanded.
She lay down by her child, gazing her fill at his calm slumber;
and, as she gazed, her large white eye lids were softly pressed
down as with a gentle, irresistible weight, and she fell asleep.
She dreamed that she was once more on the lonely shore, striving
to carry away Leonard from some pursuer--some human pursuer--she
knew he was human, and she knew who he was, although she dared
not say his name even to herself, he seemed so close and present,
gaining on her flying footsteps, rushing after her as with the
sound of the roaring tide. Her feet seemed heavy weights fixed to
the ground; they would not move. All at once, just near the
shore, a great black whirlwind of waves clutched her back to her
pursuer; she threw Leonard on to land, which was safety; but
whether he reached it or no, or was swept back like her into a
mysterious something too dreadful to be borne, she did not know,
for the terror awakened her. At first the dream seemed yet a
reality, and she thought that the pursuer was couched even there,
in that very room, and the great boom of the sea was still in her
ears. But as full consciousness returned, she saw herself safe in
the dear old room--the haven of rest--the shelter from storms. A
bright fire was glowing in the little old-fashioned, cup-shaped
grate, niched into a corner of the wall, and guarded on either
side by whitewashed bricks, which served for bobs. On one of
these the kettle hummed and buzzed, within two points of boiling
whenever she or Leonard required tea. In her dream that home-like
sound had been the roar of the relentless sea, creeping swiftly
on to seize its prey. Miss Benson sat by the fire, motionless and
still; it was too dark to read any longer without a candle; but
yet on the ceiling and upper part of the walls the golden light
of the setting sun was slowly moving--so slow, and yet a motion
gives the feeling of rest to the weary yet more than perfect
stillness. The old clock on the staircase told its monotonous
click-clack, in that soothing way which more marked the quiet of
the house than disturbed with any sense of sound. Leonard still
slept that renovating slumber, almost in her arms, far from that
fatal pursuing sea, with its human form of cruelty. The dream was
a vision; the reality which prompted the dream was over and
past--Leonard was safe--she was safe; all this loosened the
frozen springs, and they gushed forth in her heart, and her lips
moved in accordance with her thoughts.

"What were you saying, my darling?" said Miss Benson, who caught
sight of the motion, and fancied she was asking for something.
Miss Benson bent over the side of the bed on which Ruth lay, to
catch the low tones of her voice.

"I only said," replied Ruth timidly, "thank God! I have so much
to thank Him for you don't know."

"My dear, I am sure we have all of us cause to be thankful that
our boy is spared. See! he is wakening up; and we will have a cup
of tea together. Leonard strode on to perfect health; but he was
made older in character and looks by his severe illness. He grew
tall and thin, and the lovely child was lost in the handsome boy.
He began to wonder and to question. Ruth mourned a little over
the vanished babyhood, when she was all in all, and over the
childhood, whose petals had fallen away; it seemed as though two
of her children were gone--the one an infant, the other a bright,
thoughtless darling; and she wished that they could have remained
quick in her memory for ever, instead of being absorbed in loving
pride for the present boy. But these were only fanciful regrets,
flitting like shadows across a mirror. Peace and thankfulness
were once more the atmosphere of her mind; nor was her
unconsciousness disturbed by any suspicion of Mr. Farquhar's
increasing approbation and admiration, which he was diligently
nursing up into love for her. She knew that he had sent--she did
not know how often he had brought--fruit for the convalescent
Leonard. She heard, on her return from her daily employment, that
Mr. Farquhar had bought a little gentle pony on which Leonard,
weak as he was, might ride. To confess the truth, her maternal
pride was such that she thought that all kindness shown to such a
boy as Leonard was but natural; she believed him to be

"A child whom all that locked on, loved."

As in truth he was; and the proof of this was daily shown in many
kind inquiries, and many thoughtful little offerings, besides Mr.
Farquhar's. The poor (warm and kind of heart to all sorrow common
to humanity) were touched with pity for the young widow, whose
only child lay ill, and nigh unto death. They brought what they
could--a fresh egg, when eggs were scarce--a few ripe pears that
grew on the sunniest side of the humblest cottage, where the
fruit was regarded as a source of income--a call of inquiry, and
a prayer that God would spare the child, from an old crippled
woman, who could scarcely drag herself so far as the
Chapel-house, yet felt her worn and weary heart stirred with a
sharp pang of sympathy, and a very present remembrance of the
time when she too was young, and saw the life-breath quiver out
of her child, now an angel in that heaven which felt more like
home to the desolate old creature than this empty earth. To all
such, when Leonard was better, Ruth went, and thanked them from
her heart. She and the old cripple sat hand in hand over the
scanty fire on the hearth of the latter, while she told in
solemn, broken, homely words, how her child sickened and died.
Tears fell like rain down Ruth's cheeks; but those of the old
woman were dry. All tears had been wept out of her long ago, and
now she sat patient and quiet, waiting for death. But after this
Ruth "clave unto her," and the two were henceforward a pair of
friends. Mr. Farquhar was only included in the general gratitude
which she felt towards all who had been kind to her boy.

The winter passed away in deep peace after the storms of the
autumn, yet every now and then a feeling of insecurity made Ruth
shake for an instant. Those wild autumnal storms had torn aside
the quiet flowers and herbage that had gathered over the wreck of
her early life, and shown her that all deeds, however hidden and
long passed by, have their eternal consequences. She turned sick
and faint whenever Mr. Donne's name was casually mentioned. No
one saw it; but she felt the miserable stop in her heart's
beating, and wished that she could prevent it by any exercise of
self-command. She had never named his identity with Mr.
Bellingham, nor had she spoken about the seaside interview. Deep
shame made her silent and reserved on all her life before
Leonard's birth; from that time she rose again in her
self-respect, and spoke as openly as a child (when need was) of
all occurrences which had taken place since then; except that she
could not, and would not, tell of this mocking echo, this
haunting phantom, this past, that would not rest in its grave.
The very circumstance that it was stalking abroad in the world,
and might reappear at any moment, made her a coward: she trembled
away from contemplating what the reality had been; only, she
clung more faithfully than before to the thought of the great
God, who was a rock in the dreary land, where no shadow was.

Autumn and winter, with their lowering skies, were less dreary
than the woeful, desolate feelings that shed a gloom on Jemima.
She found too late that she had considered Mr. Farquhar so
securely her own for so long a time, that her heart refused to
recognize him as lost to her, unless her reason went through the
same weary, convincing, miserable evidence day after day, and
hour after hour. He never spoke to her now, except from common
civility. He never cared for her contradictions; he never tried,
with patient perseverance, to bring her over to his opinions; he
never used the wonted wiles (so tenderly remembered now they had
no existence but in memory) to bring her round out of some wilful
mood--and such moods were common enough now! Frequently she was
sullenly indifferent to the feelings of others--not from any
unkindness, but because her heart seemed numb and stony, and
incapable of sympathy. Then afterwards her self-reproach was
terrible--in the dead of night when no one saw it. With a strange
perversity, the only intelligence she cared to hear, the only
sights she cared to see, were the circumstances which gave
confirmation to the idea that Mr. Farquhar was thinking of Ruth
for a wife. She craved with stinging curiosity to hear something
of their affairs every day; partly because the torture which such
intelligence gave was almost a relief from the deadness of her
heart to all other interests.

And so spring (gioventu dell'anno) came back to her, bringing all
the contrasts which spring alone can bring to add to the
heaviness of the soul. The little winged creatures filled the air
with bursts of joy; the vegetation came bright and hopefully
onwards, without any check of nipping frost. The ash-trees in the
Bradshaws' garden were out in leaf by the middle of May, which
that year wore more the aspect of summer than most Junes do. The
sunny weather mocked Jemima, and the unusual warmth oppressed her
physical powers. She felt very weak and languid; she was acutely
sensible that no one else noticed her want of strength; father,
mother, all seemed too full of other things to care, if, as she
believed, her life was waning. She herself felt glad that it was
so. But her delicacy was not unnoticed by all. Her mother often
anxiously asked her husband if he did not think Jemima was
looking ill; nor did his affirmation to the contrary satisfy her,
as most of his affirmations did. She thought every morning,
before she got up, how she could tempt Jemima to eat, by ordering
some favourite dainty for dinner; in many other little ways she
tried to minister to her child; but the poor girl's own abrupt
irritability of temper had made her mother afraid of openly
speaking to her about her health.

Ruth, too, saw that Jemima was not looking well. How she had
become an object of dislike to her former friend she did not
know; but she was sensible that Miss Bradshaw disliked her now.
She was not aware that this feeling was growing and strengthening
almost into repugnance, for she seldom saw Jemima out of
school-hours, and then only for a minute or two. But the evil
element of a fellow-creature's dislike oppressed the atmosphere
of her life. That fellow-creature was one who had once loved her
so fondly, and whom she still loved, although she had learnt to
fear her, as we fear those whose faces cloud over when we come in
sight--who cast unloving glances at us, of which we, though not
seeing, are conscious, as of some occult influence; and the cause
of whose dislike is unknown to us, though every word and action
seems to increase it. I believe that this sort of dislike is only
shown by the jealous, and that it renders the disliker even more
miserable, because more continually conscious than the object;
but the growing evidences of Jemima's feeling made Ruth very
unhappy at times. This very May, too, an idea had come into her
mind, which she had tried to repress--namely, that Mr. Farquhar
was in love with her. It annoyed her extremely; it made her
reproach herself that she ever should think such a thing
possible. She tried to strangle the notion, to drown it, to
starve it out by neglect--its existence caused her such pain and
distress.

The worst was, he had won Leonard's heart, who was constantly
seeking him out; or, when absent, talking about him. The best was
some journey connected with business, which would take him to the
Continent for several weeks; and, during that time, surely this
disagreeable fancy of his would die away, if untrue; and if true,
some way would be opened by which she might put a stop to all
increase of predilection on his part, and yet retain him as a
friend for Leonard--that darling for whom she was far-seeing and
covetous, and miserly of every scrap of love and kindly regard.

Mr. Farquhar would not have been flattered, if he had known how
much his departure contributed to Ruth's rest of mind on the
Saturday afternoon on which he set out on his journey. It was a
beautiful day; the sky of that intense quivering blue, which
seemed as though you could look through it for ever, yet not
reach the black, infinite space which is suggested as lying
beyond. Now and then, a thin, torn, vaporous cloud floated slowly
within the vaulted depth; but the soft air that gently wafted it
was not perceptible among the leaves on the trees, which did not
even tremble. Ruth sat at her work in the shadow formed by the
old grey garden wall; Miss Benson and Sally--the one in the
parlour window-seat mending stockings, the other hard at work in
her kitchen--were both within talking distance, for it was
weather for open doors and windows; but none of the three kept up
any continued conversation; and in the intervals Ruth sang low a
brooding song, such as she remembered her mother singing long
ago. Now and then she stopped to look at Leonard, who was
labouring away with vehement energy at digging over a small plot
of ground, where he meant to prick out some celery plants that
had been given to him. Ruth's heart warmed at the earnest,
spirited way in which he thrust his large spade deep down into
the brown soil his ruddy face glowing, his curly hair wet with
the exertion; and yet she sighed to think that the days were over
when her deeds of skill could give him pleasure. Now, his delight
was in acting himself; last year, not fourteen months ago, he had
watched her making a daisy-chain for him, as if he could not
admire her cleverness enough; this year, this week, when she had
been devoting every spare hour to the simple tailoring which she
performed for her boy (she had always made every article he wore,
and felt almost jealous of the employment), he had come to her
with a wistful look, and asked when he might begin to have
clothes made by a man?

Ever since the Wednesday when she had accompanied Mary and
Elizabeth, at Mrs. Bradshaw's desire, to be measured for spring
clothes by the new Eccleston dress-maker, she had been looking
forward to this Saturday afternoon's pleasure of making summer
trousers for Leonard; but the satisfaction of the employment was
a little taken away by Leonard's speech. It was a sign, however,
that her life was very quiet and peaceful, that she had leisure
to think upon the thing at. all; and often she forgot it entirely
in her low, chanting song, or in listening to the thrush warbling
out his afternoon ditty to his patient mate in the holly-bush
below.

The distant rumble of carts through the busy streets (it was
market-day) not only formed a low rolling bass to the nearer and
pleasanter sounds, but enhanced the sense of peace by the
suggestion of the contrast afforded to the repose of the garden
by the bustle not far off.

But, besides physical din and bustle, there is mental strife and
turmoil. That afternoon, as Jemima was restlessly wandering about
the house, her mother desired her to go on an errand to Mrs.
Pearson's, the new dressmaker, in order to give some directions
about her sisters' new frocks. Jemima went, rather than have the
trouble of resisting; or else she would have preferred staying at
home, moving or being outwardly quiet according to her own fitful
will. Mrs. Bradshaw, who, as I have said, had been aware for some
time that something was wrong with her daughter, and was very
anxious to set it to rights if she only knew how, had rather
planned this errand with a view to dispel Jemima's melancholy.

"And, Mimie dear," said her mother, "when you are there, look out
for a new bonnet for yourself; she has got some very pretty ones,
and your old one is so shabby."

"It does for me, mother," said Jemima heavily. "I don't want a
new bonnet."

"But I want you to have one, my lassie. I want my girl to look
well and nice." There was something of homely tenderness in Mrs.
Bradshaw's tone that touched Jemima's heart. She went to her
mother, and kissed her with more of affection than she had shown
to any one for weeks before; and the kiss was returned with warm
fondness.

"I think you love me, mother," said Jemima.

"We all love you, dear, if you would but think so. And if you
want anything, or wish for anything, only tell me, and with a
little patience, I can get your father to give it you, I know.
Only be happy, there's a good girl."

"Be happy! as if one could by an effort of will!" thought Jemima
as she went along the street, too absorbed in herself to notice
the bows of acquaintances and friends, but instinctively guiding
herself right among the throng and press of carts, and gigs, and
market people in High Street.

But her mother's tones and looks, with their comforting power,
remained longer in her recollection than the inconsistency of any
words spoken. When she had completed her errand about the frocks,
she asked to look at some bonnets, in order to show her
recognition of her mother's kind thought.

Mrs. Pearson was a smart, clever-looking woman of five or six and
thirty. She had all the variety of small-talk at her finger-ends,
that was formerly needed by barbers to amuse the people who came
to be shaved. She had admired the town till Jemima was weary of
its praises, sick and oppressed by its sameness, as she had been
these many weeks.

"Here are some bonnets, ma'am, that will be just the thing for
you--elegant and tasty, yet quite of the simple style, suitable
to young ladies. Oblige me by trying on this white silk!"

Jemima looked at herself in the glass; she was obliged to own it
was very becoming, and perhaps not the less so for the flush of
modest shame which came into her cheeks, as she heard Mrs.
Pearson's open praises of the "rich, beautiful hair," and the
"Oriental eyes" of the wearer.

"I induced the young lady who accompanied your sisters the other
day--the governess, is she, ma'am?"

"Yes--Mrs. Denbigh is her name," said Jemima, clouding over.

"Thank you, ma'am. Well, I persuaded Mrs. Denbigh to try on that
bonnet, and you can't think how charming she looked in it; and
yet I don't think it became her as much as it does you."

"Mrs. Denbigh is very beautiful," said Jemima, taking off the
bonnet, and not much inclined to try on any other.

"Very, ma'am. Quite a peculiar style of beauty. If I might be
allowed, I should say that hers was a Grecian style of
loveliness, while yours was Oriental. She reminded me of a young
person I once knew in Fordham." Mrs. Pearson sighed an audible
sigh.

"In Fordham!" said Jemima, remembering that Ruth had once spoken
of the place as one in which she had spent some time, while the
county in which it was situated was the same in which Ruth was
born. "In Fordham! Why, I think Mrs. Denbigh comes from that
neighbourhood."

"Oh, ma'am! she cannot be the young person I mean--I am sure,
ma'am--holding the position she does in your establishment. I
should hardly say I knew her myself; for I only saw her two or
three times at my sister's house; but she was so remarked for her
beauty, that I remember her face quite well--the more so, on
account of her vicious conduct afterwards."

"Her vicious conduct!" repeated Jemima, convinced by these words
that there could be no identity between Ruth and "young person"
alluded to. "Then it could not have been our Mrs. Denbigh."

"Oh no, ma'am! I am sure I should be sorry to be understood to
have suggested anything of the kind. I beg your pardon if I did
so. All I meant to say--and perhaps that was a liberty I ought
not to have taken, considering what Ruth Hilton was----"

"Ruth Hilton!" said Jemima, turning suddenly round, and facing
Mrs. Pearson.

"Yes, ma'am, that was the name of the young person I allude to."

"Tell me about her--what did she do?" asked Jemima, subduing her
eagerness of tone and look as best she might, but trembling as on
the verge of some strange discovery.

"I don't know whether I ought to tell you, ma'am--it is hardly a
fit story for a young lady; but this Ruth Hilton was an
apprentice to my sister-in-law, who had a first-rate business in
Fordham, which brought her a good deal of patronage from the
county families; and this young creature was very artful and
bold, and thought sadly too much of her beauty; and, somehow, she
beguiled a young gentleman, who took her into keeping (I am sure,
ma'am, I ought to apologise for polluting your ears)----"

"Go on," said Jemima breathlessly.

"I don't know much more. His mother followed him into Wales. She
was a lady of a great deal of religion, and a very old family,
and was much shocked at her son's misfortune in being captivated
by such a person; but she led him to repentance, and took him to
Paris, where, I think, she died; but I am not sure, for, owing to
family differences, I have not been on terms for some years with
my sister-in-law, who was my informant."

"Who died?" interrupted Jemima--"the young man's mother, or--or
Ruth Hilton?"

"Oh dear, ma'am! pray don't confuse the two. It was the mother,
Mrs. ---- I forget the name--something like Billington. It was
the lady who died."

"And what became of the other?" asked Jemima, unable, as her dark
suspicion seemed thickening, to speak the name.

"The girl? Why, ma'am, what could become of her? Not that I know
exactly--only one knows they can but go from bad to worse, poor
creatures! God forgive me, if I am speaking too transiently of
such degraded women, who, after all, are a disgrace to our sex."

"Then you know nothing more about her?" asked Jemima.

"I did hear that she had gone off with another gentleman that she
met with in Wales, but I'm sure I can't tell who told me."

There was a little pause. Jemima was pondering on all she had
heard. Suddenly she felt that Mrs. Pearson's eyes were upon her,
watching her; not with curiosity, but with a newly-awakened
intelligence;--and yet she must ask one more question; but she
tried to ask it in an Indifferent, careless tone, handling the
bonnet while she spoke.

"How long is it since all this--all you have been telling me
about--happened!" (Leonard was eight years old.)

"Why--let me see. It was before I was married, and I was married
three years, and poor dear Pearson has been deceased five--I
should say going on for nine years this summer. Blush roses would
become your complexion, perhaps, better than these lilacs," said
she, as with superficial observation she watched Jemima turning
the bonnet round and round on her hand--the bonnet that her dizzy
eyes did not see.

"Thank you. It is very pretty. But I don't want a bonnet. I beg
your pardon for taking up your time." And with an abrupt bow to
the discomfited Mrs. Pearson, she was out and away in the open
air, threading her way with instinctive energy along the crowded
street. Suddenly she turned round, and went back to Mrs.
Pearson's with even more rapidity than she had been walking away
from the house.

"I have changed my mind," said she, as she came, breathless, up
into the show-room. "I will take the bonnet. How much is it?"

"Allow me to change the flowers; it can be done in an instant,
and then you can see if you would not prefer the roses; but with
either foliage it is a lovely little bonnet," said Mrs. Pearson,
holding it up admiringly on her hand.

"Oh! never mind the flowers--yes! change them to the roses." And
she stood by, agitated (Mrs. Pearson thought with impatience),
all the time the milliner was making the alteration with skilful,
busy haste.

"By the way," said Jemima, when she saw the last touches were
being given, and that she must not delay executing the purpose
which was the real cause of her return--"Papa, I am sure, would
not like your connecting Mrs. Denbigh's name with such a--story
as you have been telling me."

"Oh dear! ma'am, I have too much respect for you all to think of
doing such a thing! Of course I know, ma'am, that it is not to be
cast up to any lady that she is like any-body disreputable."

"But I would rather you did not name the likeness to any one,"
said Jemima; "not to any one. Don't tell any one the story you
have told me this morning."

"Indeed, ma'am, I should never think of such a thing! My poor
husband could have borne witness that I am as close as the grave
where there is anything to conceal."

"Oh dear!" said Jemima, "Mrs. Pearson, there is nothing to
conceal; only you must not speak about it."

"I certainly shall not do it, ma'am; you may rest assured of me."

This time Jemima did not go towards home, but in the direction of
the outskirts of the town, on the hilly side. She had some dim
recollection of hearing her sisters ask if they might not go and
invite Leonard and his mother to tea; and how could she face
Ruth, after the conviction had taken possession of her heart that
she, and the sinful creature she bad just heard of, were one and
the same? It was yet only the middle of the afternoon; the hours
were early in the old-fashioned town of Eccleston. Soft white
clouds had come slowly sailing up out of the west; the plain was
flecked with thin floating shadows, gently borne along by the
westerly wind that was waving the long grass in the hay-fields
into alternate light and shade. Jemima went into one of these
fields, lying by the side of the upland road. She was stunned by
the shock she had received. The diver leaving the green sward,
smooth and known, where his friends stand with their familiar
smiling faces, admiring his glad bravery--the diver, down in an
instant in the horrid depths of the sea, close to some strange,
ghastly, lidless-eyed monster, can hardly more feel his blood
curdle at the near terror than did Jemima now. Two hours ago--but
a point of time on her mind's dial--she had never Imagined that
she should ever come in contact with any one who had committed
open sin; she had never shaped her conviction into words and
sentences, but still it was there, that all the respectable, all
the family and religious circumstances of her life, would hedge
her in, and guard her from ever encountering the great shock of
coming face to face with Vice. Without being pharisaical in her
estimation of herself, she had all a Pharisee's dread of
publicans and sinners, and all a child's cowardliness--that
cowardliness which prompts it to shut its eyes against the object
of terror, rather than acknowledge its existence with brave
faith. Her father's often reiterated speeches had not been
without their effect. He drew a clear line of partition, which
separated mankind into two great groups, to one of which, by the
grace of God, he and his belonged; while the other was composed
of those whom it was his duty to try and reform, and bring the
whole force of his morality to bear upon, with lectures,
admonitions, and exhortations--a duty to be performed, because it
was a duty--but with very little of that Hope and Faith which is
the Spirit that maketh alive. Jemima had rebelled against these
hard doctrines of her father's, but their frequent repetition had
had its effect, and led her to look upon those who had gone
astray with shrinking, shuddering recoil, instead of with a pity
so Christ-like as to have both wisdom and tenderness in it.

And now she saw among her own familiar associates one, almost her
house-fellow, who had been stained with that evil most repugnant
to her womanly modesty, that would fain have ignored its
existence altogether. She loathed the thought of meeting Ruth
again. She wished that she could take her up, and put her down at
a distance somewhere--anywhere--where she might never see or hear
of her more; never be reminded, as she must be whenever she saw
her, that such things were in this sunny, bright, lark-singing
earth, over which the blue dome of heaven bent softly down as
Jemima sat in the hay-field that June afternoon; her cheeks
flushed and red, but her lips pale and compressed, and her eyes
full of a heavy, angry sorrow. It was Saturday, and the people in
that part of the country left their work an hour earlier on that
day. By this, Jemima knew it must be growing time for her to be
at home. She had had so much of conflict in her own mind of late,
that she had grown to dislike struggle, or speech, or
explanation; and so strove to conform to times and hours much
more than she had done in happier days. But oh! how full of hate
her heart was growing against the world! And oh! how she sickened
at the thought of seeing Ruth! Who was to be trusted more, if
Ruth--calm, modest, delicate, dignified Ruth--had a memory
blackened by sin? As she went heavily along, the thought of Mr.
Farquhar came into her mind. It showed how terrible had been the
stun, that he had been forgotten until now. With the thought of
him came in her first merciful feeling towards Ruth. This would
never have been, had there been the least latent suspicion in
Jemima's jealous mind that Ruth had purposely done aught--looked
a look--uttered a word--modulated a tone--for the sake of
attracting. As Jemima recalled all the passages of their
intercourse, she slowly confessed to herself how pure and simple
had been all Ruth's ways in relation to Mr. Farquhar. It was not
merely that there had been no coquetting, but there had been
simple unconsciousness on Ruth's part, for so long a time after
Jemima bad discovered Mr. Farquhar's inclination for her; and,
when at length she had slowly awakened to some perception of the
state of his feelings, there had been a modest, shrinking dignity
of manner, not startled, or emotional, or even timid, but pure,
grave, and quiet; and this conduct of Ruth's Jemima instinctively
acknowledged to be of necessity transparent and sincere. Now, and
here, there was no hypocrisy; but some time, somewhere, on the
part of somebody, what hypocrisy, what lies must have been acted,
if not absolutely spoken, before Ruth could have been received by
them all as the sweet, gentle, girlish widow, which she
remembered they had all believed Mrs. Denbigh to be when first
she came among them! Could Mr. and Miss Benson know? Could they
be a party to the deceit? Not sufficiently acquainted with the
world to understand how strong had been the temptation to play
the part they did, if they wished to give Ruth a chance, Jemima
could not believe them guilty of such deceit as the knowledge of
Mrs. Denbigh's previous conduct would imply; and yet how it
darkened the latter into a treacherous hypocrite, with a black
secret shut up in her soul for years--living in apparent
confidence, and daily household familiarity with the Bensons for
years, yet never telling the remorse that ought to be corroding
her heart! Who was true? Who was not? Who was good and pure? Who
was not? The very foundations of Jemima's belief in her mind were
shaken.

Could it be false? Could there be two Ruth Hiltons? She went over
every morsel of evidence. It could not be. She knew that Mrs.
Denbigh's former name had been Hilton. She had heard her speak
casually, but charily, of having lived in Fordham. She knew she
had been in Wales but a short time before she made her appearance
in Eccleston. There was no doubt of the identity. Into the middle
of Jemima's pain and horror at the afternoon's discovery, there
came a sense of the power which the knowledge of this secret gave
her over Ruth; but this was no relief, only an aggravation of the
regret with which Jemima looked back on her state of ignorance.
It was no wonder that when she arrived at home, she was so
oppressed with headache that she had to go to bed directly.

"Quiet, mother! quiet, dear, dear mother" (for she clung to the
known and tried goodness of her mother more than ever now), "that
is all I want." And she was left to the stillness of her darkened
room, the blinds idly flapping to and fro in the soft evening
breeze, and letting in the rustling sound of the branches which
waved close to her window, and the thrush's gurgling warble, and
the distant hum of the busy town.

Her jealousy was gone--she knew not how or where. She might shun
and recoil from Ruth, but she now thought that she could never
more be jealous of her. In her pride of innocence, she felt
almost ashamed that such a feeling could have had existence.
Could Mr. Farquhar hesitate between her own self and one who----
No! she could not name what Ruth had been, even in thought. And
yet he might never know, so fair a seeming did her rival wear.
Oh! for one ray of God's holy light to know what was seeming, and
what was truth, in this traitorous hollow earth! It might be--she
used to think such things possible, before sorrow had embittered
her--that Ruth had worked her way through the deep purgatory of
repentance up to something like purity again; God only knew! If
her present goodness was real--if, after having striven back thus
far on the heights, a fellow-woman was to throw her down into
some terrible depth with her unkind, incontinent tongue, that
would be too cruel! And yet, if--there was such woeful
uncertainty and deceit somewhere--if Ruth----No! that, Jemima
with noble candour admitted, was impossible. Whatever Ruth had
been, she was good, and to be respected as such, now. It did not
follow that Jemima was to preserve the secret always; she doubted
her own power to do so, if Mr. Farquhar came home again, and were
still constant in his admiration of Mrs. Denbigh, and if Mrs.
Denbigh gave him any--the least encouragement. But this last she
thought, from what she knew of Ruth's character, was impossible.
Only, what was impossible after this afternoon's discovery? At
any rate, she would watch and wait. Come what might, Ruth was in
her power. And, strange to say, this last certainty gave Jemima a
kind of protecting, almost pitying, feeling for Ruth. Her horror
at the wrong was not diminished; but, the more she thought of the
struggles that the wrong-doer must have made to extricate
herself, the more she felt how cruel it would be to baffle all by
revealing what had been. But for her sisters' sake she had a duty
to perform; she must watch Ruth. For her lover's sake she could
not have helped watching; but she was too much stunned to
recognise the force of her love, while duty seemed the only
stable thing to cling to. For the present she would neither
meddle nor mar in Ruth's course of life.


CHAPTER XXVI


MR. BRADSHAW'S VIRTUOUS INDIGNATION

So it was that Jemima no longer avoided Ruth, nor manifested by
word or look the dislike which for a long time she had been
scarce concealing. Ruth could not help noticing that Jemima
always sought to be in her presence while she was at Mr.
Bradshaw's house; either when daily teaching Mary and Elizabeth,
or when she came as an occasional visitor with Mr. and Miss
Benson, or by herself. Up to this time Jemima had used no gentle
skill to conceal the abruptness with which she would leave the
room rather than that Ruth and she should be brought into
contact--rather than that it should fall to her lot to entertain
Ruth during any part of the evening. It was months since Jemima
had left off sitting in the schoolroom, as had been her wont
during the first few years of Ruth's governess-ship. Now, each
morning Miss Bradshaw seated herself at a little round table in
the window, at her work, or at her writing; but, whether she
sewed, or wrote, or read, Ruth felt that she was always
watching--watching. At first Ruth had welcomed all these changes
in habit and behaviour, as giving her a chance, she thought, by
some patient waiting or some opportune show of enduring, constant
love, to regain her lost friend's regard; but by-and-by the icy
chillness, immovable and grey, struck more to her heart than many
sudden words of unkindness could have done. They might be
attributed to the hot impulses of a hasty temper--to the vehement
anger of an accuser; but this measured manner was the conscious
result of some deep-seated feeling; this cold sternness befitted
the calm implacability of some severe judge. The watching, which
Ruth felt was ever upon her, made her unconsciously shiver, as
you would if you saw that the passionless eyes of the dead were
visibly gazing upon you. Her very being shrivelled and parched up
in Jemima's presence, as if blown upon by a bitter, keen east
wind.

Jemima bent every power she possessed upon the one object of
ascertaining what Ruth really was. Sometimes the strain was very
painful; the constant tension made her soul weary; and she moaned
aloud, and upbraided circumstance (she dared not go higher--to
the Maker of circumstance) for having deprived her of her
unsuspicious, happy ignorance.

Things were in this state when Mr. Richard Bradshaw came on his
annual home visit. He was to remain another year in London, and
then to return and be admitted into the firm. After he had been a
week at home he grew tired of the monotonous regularity of his
father's household, and began to complain of it to Jemima.

"I wish Farquhar were at home. Though he is such a stiff, quiet
old fellow, his coming in in the evenings makes a change. What
has become of the Millses? They used to drink tea with us
sometimes, formerly."

"Oh! papa and Mr. Mills took opposite sides at the election, and
we have never visited since. I don't think they are any great
loss." Anybody is a loss--the stupidest bore that ever was would
be a blessing, if he only would come in sometimes."

"Mr. and Miss Benson have drunk tea here twice since you came."

"Come, that's capital! Apropos of stupid bores, you talk of the
Bensons. I did not think you had so much discrimination, my
little sister."

Jemima looked up in surprise; and then reddened angrily.

"I never meant to say a word against Mr. or Miss Benson, and that
you know quite well, Dick."

"Never mind! I won't tell tales. They are stupid old fogeys, but
they are better than nobody, especially as that handsome
governess of the girls always comes with them to be looked at."

There was a little pause; Richard broke it by saying--

"Do you know, Mimie, I've a notion, if she plays her cards well,
she may hook Farquhar!"

"Who?" asked Jemima shortly, though she knew quite well.

"Mrs. Denbigh, to be sure. We were talking of her, you know.
Farquhar asked me to dine with him at his hotel as he passed
through town, and--I'd my own reasons for going and trying to
creep up his sleeve--I wanted him to tip me, as he used to do."

"For shame! Dick," burst in Jemima.

"Well, well! not tip me exactly, but lend me some money. The
governor keeps me deucedly short."

"Why! it was only yesterday, when my father was speaking about
your expenses, and your allowance, I heard you say that you'd
more than you knew how to spend."

"Don't you see that was the perfection of art? If my father had
thought me extravagant, he would have kept me in with a tight
rein; as it is, I'm in great hopes of a handsome addition, and I
can tell you it's needed. If my father had given me what I ought
to have had at first, I should not have been driven to the
speculations and messes I've got into."

"What speculations? What messes?" asked Jemima, with anxious
eagerness.

"Oh! messes was not the right word. Speculations hardly was; for
they are sure to turn out well, and then I shall surprise my
father with my riches." He saw that he had gone a little too far
in his confidence, and was trying to draw in. "But what do you
mean? Do explain it to me."

"Never you trouble your head about my business, my dear. Women
can't understand the share-market, and such things. Don't think
I've forgotten the awful blunders you made when you tried to read
the state of the money-market aloud to my father that night when
he had lost his spectacles. What were we talking of? Oh! of
Farquhar and pretty Mrs. Denbigh. Yes! I soon found out that was
the subject my gentleman liked me to dwell on. He did not talk
about her much himself, but his eyes sparkled when I told him
what enthusiastic letters Polly and Elizabeth wrote about her.
How old do you think she is?"

"I know!" said Jemima. "At least I heard her age spoken about,
amongst other things, when first she came. She will be
five-and-twenty this autumn."

"And Farquhar is forty, if he is a day. She's young, too, to have
such a boy as Leonard; younger-looking, or full as young-looking
as she is! I tell you what, Mimie, she looks younger than you.
How old are you? Three-and-twenty, ain't it?"

"Last March," replied Jemima.

"You'll have to make haste and pick up somebody, if you're losing
your good looks at this rate. Why, Jemima, I thought you had a
good chance of Farquhar a year or two ago. How come you to have
lost him? I'd far rather you'd had him than that proud, haughty
Mrs. Denbigh, who flashes her great grey eyes upon me if ever I
dare to pay her a compliment. She ought to think it an honour
that I take that much notice of her. Besides, Farquhar is rich,
and it's keeping the business of the firm in one's own family;
and if he marries Mrs. Denbigh she will be sure to be wanting
Leonard in when he's of age, and I won't have that. Have a try
for Farquhar, Mimie! Ten to one it's not too late. I wish I'd
brought you a pink bonnet down. You go about 'so dowdy--so
careless of how you look."

"If Mr. Farquhar has not liked me as I am," said Jemima, choking,
"I don't want to owe him to a pink bonnet."

"Nonsense! I don't like to have my sisters' governess stealing a
march on my sister. I tell you Farquhar is worth trying for. If
you'll wear the pink bonnet I'll give it to you, and I'll back
you against Mrs. Denbigh. I think you might have done something
with 'our member,' as my father calls him, when you had him so
long in the house. But, altogether, I should like Farquhar best
for a brother-in-law. By the way, have you heard down here that
Donne is going to be married? I heard of it in town, just before
I left, from a man that was good authority. Some Sir Thomas
Campbell's seventh daughter: a girl without a penny; father
ruined himself by gambling, and obliged to live abroad. But Donne
is not a man to care for any obstacle, from all accounts, when
once he has taken a fancy. It was love at first sight, they say.
I believe he did not know of her existence a month ago."

"No! we have not heard of it," replied Jemima. "My father will
like to know; tell it him;" continued she, as she was leaving the
room, to be alone, in order to still her habitual agitation
whenever she heard Mr. Farquhar and Ruth coupled together.

Mr. Farquhar came home the day before Richard Bradshaw left for
town. He dropped in after tea at the Bradshaws'; he was evidently
disappointed to see none but the family there, and looked round
whenever the door opened.

"Look! look!" said Dick to his sister. "I wanted to make sure of
his coming in to-night, to save me my father's parting
exhortations against the temptations of the world (as if I did
not know much more of the world than he does!), so I used a spell
I thought would prove efficacious; I told him that we should be
by ourselves, with the exception of Mrs. Denbigh, and look how he
is expecting her to come in!"

Jemima did see; did understand. She understood, too, why certain
packets were put carefully on one side, apart from the rest of
the purchases of Swiss toys and jewellery, by which Mr. Farquhar
proved that none of Mr. Bradshaw's family had been forgotten by
him during his absence. Before the end of the evening, she was
very conscious that her sore heart had not forgotten how to be
jealous. Her brother did not allow a word, a look, or an
incident, which. might be supposed on Mr. Farquhar's side to
refer to Ruth to pass unnoticed; he pointed out all to his
sister, never dreaming of the torture he was inflicting, only
anxious to prove his own extreme penetration. At length Jemima
could stand it no longer, and left the room. She went into the
schoolroom, where the shutters were not closed, as it only looked
into the garden. She opened the window, to let the cool night air
blow in on her hot cheeks. The clouds were hurrying over the
moon's face in a tempestuous and unstable manner, making all
things seem unreal; now clear out in its bright light, now
trembling and quivering in shadow. The pain at her heart seemed
to make Jemima's brain grow dull; she laid her head on her arms,
which rested on the window-sill, and grew dizzy with the sick
weary notion that the earth was wandering lawless and aimless
through the heavens, where all seemed one tossed and whirling
wrack of clouds. It was a waking nightmare, from the uneasy
heaviness of which she was thankful to be roused by Dick's
entrance.

"What, you are here, are you? I have been looking everywhere for
you. I wanted to ask you if you have any spare money you could
lend me for a few weeks?"

"How much do you want?" asked Jemima, in a dull, hopeless voice.

"Oh! the more the better. But I should be glad of any trifle, I
am kept so confoundedly short."

When Jemima returned with her little store, even her careless,
selfish brother was struck by the wanness of her face, lighted by
the bed-candle she carried.

"Come, Mimie, don't give it up. If I were you, I would have a
good try against Mrs. Denbigh. I'll send you the bonnet as soon
as ever I get back to town, and you pluck up a spirit, and I'll
back you against her even yet."

It seemed to Jemima strange--and yet only a fitting part of this
strange, chaotic world--to find that her brother, who was the
last person to whom she could have given her confidence in her
own family, and almost the last person of her acquaintance to
whom she could look for real help and sympathy, should have been
the only one to hit upon the secret of her love. And the idea
passed away from his mind as quickly as all ideas not bearing
upon his own self-interests did.

The night, the sleepless night, was so crowded and haunted by
miserable images, that she longed for day; and when day came,
with its stinging realities, she wearied and grew sick for the
solitude of night. For the next week, she seemed to see and hear
nothing but what confirmed the idea of Mr. Farquhar's decided
attachment to Ruth. Even her mother spoke of it as a thing which
was impending, and which she wondered how Mr. Bradshaw would
like; for his approval or disapproval was the standard by which
she measured all things.

"Oh! merciful God," prayed Jemima, in the dead silence of the
night, "the strain is too great--I cannot bear it longer--my
life--my love--the very essence of me, which is myself through
time and eternity; and on the other side there is all-pitying
Charity. If she had not been what she is--if she had shown any
sign of triumph--any knowledge of her prize--if she had made any
effort to gain his dear heart, I must have given way long ago,
and taunted her, even if I did not tell others--taunted her, even
though I sank down to the pit the next moment.

"The temptation is too strong for me. O Lord! where is Thy peace
that I believed in, in my childhood?--that I hear people speaking
of now as if it hushed up the troubles of life, and had not to be
sought for--sought for, as with tears of blood!"

There was no sound nor answer to this wild imploring cry, which
Jemima half thought must force out a sign from Heaven. But there
was a dawn stealing on through the darkness of her night.

It was glorious weather for the end of August. The nights were as
full of light as the days--everywhere, save in the low dusky
meadows by the river-side, where the mists rose and blended the
pale sky with the lands below. Unknowing of the care and trouble
around them, Mary and Elizabeth exulted in the weather, and saw
some new glory in every touch of the year's decay. They were
clamorous for an expedition to the hills, before the calm
stillness of the autumn should be disturbed by storms. They
gained permission to go on the next Wednesday--the next
half-holiday. They had won their mother over to consent to a full
holiday, but their father would not hear of it. Mrs. Bradshaw had
proposed an early dinner, but the idea was scouted at by the
girls. What would the expedition be worth if they did not carry
their dinners with them in baskets? Anything out of a basket, and
eaten in the open air, was worth twenty times as much as the most
sumptuous meal in the house. So the baskets were packed up, while
Mrs. Bradshaw wailed over probable colds to be caught from
sitting on the damp ground. Ruth and Leonard were to go they
four. Jemima had refused all invitations to make one of the
party; and yet she had a half-sympathy with her sisters' joy--a
sort of longing, lingering look back to the time when she too
would have revelled in the prospect that lay before them. They,
too, would grow up, and suffer; though now they played,
regardless of their doom.

The morning was bright and glorious; just cloud enough, as some
one said, to make the distant plain look beautiful from the
hills, with its floating shadows passing over the golden
corn-fields. Leonard was to join them at twelve, when his lessons
with Mr. Benson, and the girls' with their masters, should be
over. Ruth took off her bonnet, and folded her shawl with her
usual dainty, careful neatness, and laid them aside in a corner
of the room to be in readiness. She tried to forget the pleasure
she always anticipated from a long walk towards the hills while
the morning's work went on; but she showed enough of sympathy to
make the girls cling round her with many a caress of joyous love.
Everything was beautiful in their eyes; from the shadows of the
quivering leaves on the wall to the glittering beads of dew, not
yet absorbed by the sun, which decked the gossamer web in the
vine outside the window. Eleven o'clock struck. The Latin master
went away, wondering much at the radiant faces of his pupils, and
thinking that it was only very young people who could take such
pleasure in the "Delectus." Ruth said, "Now do let us try to be
very steady this next hour," and Mary pulled back Ruth's head,
and gave the pretty budding mouth a kiss. They sat down to work,
while Mrs. Denbigh read aloud. A fresh sun-gleam burst into the
room, and they looked at each other with glad, anticipating eyes.

Jemima came in, ostensibly to seek for a book, but really from
that sort of restless weariness of any one place or employment
which had taken possession of her since Mr. Farquhar's return.
She stood before the bookcase in the recess, languidly passing
over the titles in search of the one she wanted. Ruth's voice
lost a tone or two of its peacefulness, and her eyes looked more
dim and anxious at Jemima's presence. She wondered in her heart
if she dared to ask Miss Bradshaw to accompanying them in their
expedition. Eighteen months ago she would have urged it on her
friend with soft, loving entreaty; now she was afraid even to
propose it as a hard possibility; everything she did or said was
taken so wrongly--seemed to add to the old dislike, or the later
stony contempt with which Miss Bradshaw had regarded her. While
they were in this way Mr. Bradshaw came into the room. His
entrance--his being at home at all at this time--was so unusual a
thing, that the reading was instantly stopped; and all four
involuntarily looked at him, as if expecting some explanation of
his unusual proceeding.

His face was almost purple with suppressed agitation.

"Mary and Elizabeth, leave the room. Don't stay to pack up your
books. Leave the room, I say!" He spoke with trembling anger, and
the frightened girls obeyed without a won A cloud passing over
the sun cast a cold gloom into the room which was late so bright
and beaming; but, by equalising the light, it took away the dark
shadow from the place where Jemima had been standing, and her
figure caught her father's eye.

"Leave the room, Jemima," said he.

"Why, father?" replied she, in an opposition that was strange
even to herself, but which was prompted by the sullen passion
which seethed below the stagnant surface of her life, and which
sought a vent in defiance. She maintained her ground, facing
round upon her father, and Ruth--Ruth, who had risen, and stood
trembling, shaking, a lightning-fear having shown her the
precipice on which she stood. It was of no use; no quiet,
innocent life--no profound silence, even to her own heart, as to
the Past; the old offence could never be drowned in the Deep; but
thus, when all was calm on the great, broad, sunny sea, it rose
to the surface, and faced her with its unclosed eyes and its
ghastly countenance. The blood bubbled up to her brain, and made
such a sound there, as of boiling waters, that she did not hear
the words which Mr. Bradshaw first spoke; indeed, his speech was
broken and disjointed by intense passion. But she needed not to
hear; she knew. As she rose up at first, so she stood now--numb
and helpless. When her ears heard again (as if the sounds were
drawing nearer, and becoming more distinct, from some faint,
vague distance of space), Mr. Bradshaw was saying, "If there be
one sin I hate--I utterly loathe--more than all others, it is
wantonness. It includes all other sins. It is but of a piece that
you should have come with your sickly, hypocritical face imposing
upon us all. I trust Benson did not know of it--for his own sake,
I trust not. Before God, if he got you into my house on false
pretences, he shall find his charity at other men's expense shall
cost him dear--you--the common talk of Eccleston for your
profligacy----" He was absolutely choked by his boiling
indignation. Ruth stood speechless, motionless. Her head drooped
a little forward; her eyes were more than half veiled by the
large quivering lids; her arms hung down straight and heavy. At
last she heaved the weight off her heart enough to say, in a
faint, moaning voice, speaking with infinite difficulty--

"I was so young."

"The more depraved, the more disgusting you," Mr. Bradshaw
exclaimed, almost glad that the woman, unresisting so long,
should now begin to resist. But, to his surprise (for in his
anger he had forgotten her presence), Jemima moved forwards and
said, "Father!"

"You hold your tongue, Jemima. You have grown more and more
insolent--more and more disobedient every day. I now know who to
thank for it. When such a woman came into my family there is no
wonder at any corruption--any evil--any defilement----"

"Father!"

"Not a word! If, in your disobedience, you choose to stay and
hear what no modest young woman would put herself in the way of
hearing, you shall be silent when I bid you. The only good you
can gain is in the way of warning. Look at that woman"
(indicating Ruth, who moved her drooping head a little on one
side, as if by such motion she could avert the pitiless
pointing--her face growing whiter and whiter still every
instant)--"Look at that woman, I say--corrupt long before she was
your age--hypocrite for years! If ever you, or any child of mine,
cared for her, shake her off from you, as St. Paul shook off the
viper--even into the fire." He stopped for very want of breath.
Jemima, all flushed and panting, went up and stood side by side
with wan Ruth. She took the cold, dead hand which hung next to
her in her warm convulsive grasp, and, holding it so tight that
it was blue and discoloured for days, she spoke out beyond all
power of restraint from her father.

"Father! I will speak. I will not keep silence. I will bear
witness to Ruth. I have hated her--so keenly, may God forgive me
I but you may know, from that, that my witness is true. I have
hated her, and my hatred was only quenched into contempt--not
contempt now, dear Ruth--dear Ruth"--(this was spoken with
infinite softness and tenderness, and in spite of her father's
fierce eyes and passionate gesture)--"I heard what you have
learnt now, father, weeks and weeks ago--a year it may be, all
time of late has been so long; and I shuddered up from her and
from her sin; and I might have spoken of it, and told it there
and then, if I had not been afraid that it was from no good
motive I should act in so doing, but to gain a way to the desire
of my own jealous heart. Yes, father, to show you what a witness
I am for Ruth, I will own that I was stabbed to the heart with
jealousy; some one--some one cared for Ruth that--oh father!
spare me saying all." Her face was double-dyed with crimson
blushes, and she paused for one moment--no more.

"I watched her, and I watched her with my wild-beast eyes. If I
had seen one paltering with duty--if I had witnessed one
flickering shadow of untruth in word or action--if, more than all
things, my woman's instinct had ever been conscious of the
faintest speck of impurity in thought, or word, or look, my old
hate would have flamed out with the flame of hell! my contempt
would have turned to loathing disgust, instead of my being full
of pity, and the stirrings of new-awakened love, and most true
respect. Father, I have borne my witness!"

"And I will tell you how much your witness is worth," said her
father, beginning low, that his pent-up wrath might have room to
swell out. "It only convinces me more and more how deep is the
corruption this wanton has spread in my family. She has come
amongst us with her innocent seeming, and spread her nets well
and skilfully. She has turned right into wrong, and wrong into
right, and taught you all to be uncertain whether there be any
such thing as Vice in the world, or whether it ought not to be
looked upon as Virtue. She has led you to the brink of the deep
pit, ready for the first chance circumstance to push you in. And
I trusted--I trusted her--I welcomed her."

"I have done very wrong," murmured Ruth, but so low, that perhaps
he did not hear her, for he went on lashing himself up.

"I welcomed her. I was duped into allowing her bastard--(I sicken
at the thought of it)----"

At the mention of Leonard, Ruth lifted up her eyes for the first
time since the conversation began, the pupils dilating, as if she
were just becoming aware of some new agony in store for her. I
have seen such a look of terror on a poor dumb animal's
countenance, and once or twice on human faces; I pray I may never
see it again on either! Jemima felt the hand she held in her
strong grasp writhe itself free. Ruth spread her arms before her,
clasping and lacing her fingers together, her head thrown a
little back as if in intensest suffering.

Mr. Bradshaw went on--

"That very child and heir of shame to associate with my own
innocent children! I trust they are not contaminated."

"I cannot bear it--I cannot bear it!" were the words wrung out of
Ruth.

"Cannot bear it! cannot bear it!" he repeated. "You must bear it,
madam. Do you suppose your child is to be exempt from the
penalties of his birth? Do you suppose that he alone is to be
saved from the upbraiding scoff? Do you suppose that he is ever
to rank with other boys, who are not stained and marked with sin
from their birth? Every creature in Eccleston may know what he
is; do you think they will spare him their scorn? 'Cannot bear
it,' indeed! Before you went into your sin, you should have
thought whether you could bear the consequences or not--have had
some idea how far your offspring would be degraded and scouted,
till the best thing that could happen to him would be for him to
be lost to all sense of shame, dead to all knowledge of guilt,
for his mother's sake."

Ruth spoke out. She stood like a wild creature at bay, past fear
now. "I appeal to God against such a doom for my child. I appeal
to God to help me. I am a mother, and as such I cry to God for
help--for help to keep my boy in His pitying sight, and to bring
him up in His holy fear. Let the shame fall on me! I have
deserved it, but he--he is so innocent and good."

Ruth had caught up her shawl, and was tying on her bonnet with
her trembling hands. What if Leonard was hearing of her shame
from common report? What would be the mysterious shock of the
intelligence? She must face him, and see the look in his eyes,
before she knew whether he recoiled from her; he might have his
heart turned to hate her, by their cruel jeers.

Jemima stood by, dumb and pitying. Her sorrow was past her power.
She helped in arranging the dress, with one or two gentle
touches, which were hardly felt by Ruth, but which called out all
Mr. Bradshaw's ire afresh; he absolutely took her by the
shoulders and turned her by force out of the room. In the hall,
and along the stairs, her passionate woeful crying was heard. The
sound only concentrated Mr. Bradshaw's anger on Ruth. He held the
street-door open wide, and said, between his teeth, "If ever you,
or your bastard, darken this door again, I will have you both
turned out by the police!"

He needed not have added this if he had seen Ruth's face.


CHAPTER XXVII


PREPARING TO STAND ON THE TRUTH

As Ruth went along the accustomed streets, every sight and every
sound seemed to hear a new meaning, and each and all to have some
reference to her boy's disgrace. She held her head down, and
scudded along dizzy with fear, lest some word should have told
him what she had been, and what he was, before she could reach
him. It was a wild, unreasoning fear, but it took hold of her as
strongly as if it had been well founded. And, indeed, the secret
whispered by Mrs. Pearson, whose curiosity and suspicion had been
excited by Jemima's manner, and confirmed since by many a little
corroborating circumstance, had spread abroad, and was known to
most of the gossips in Eccleston before it reached Mr. Bradshaw's
ears.

As Ruth came up to the door of the Chapel-house, it was opened,
and Leonard came out, bright and hopeful as the morning, his face
radiant at the prospect of the happy day before him. He was
dressed in the clothes it had been such a pleasant pride to her
to make for him. He had the dark-blue ribbon tied round his neck
that she had left out for him that very morning, with a smiling
thought of how it would set off his brown, handsome face. She
caught him by the hand as they met, and turned him, with his face
homewards, without a word. Her looks, her rushing movement, her
silence, awed him; and although he wondered, he did not stay to
ask why she did so. The door was on the latch; she opened it, and
only said, "Upstairs," in a hoarse whisper. Up they went into her
own room. She drew him in, and bolted the door; and then, sitting
down, she placed him (she had never let go of him) before her,
holding him with her hands on each of his shoulders, and gazing
into his face with a woeful lock of the agony that could not find
vent in words. At last she tried to speak: she tried with strong
bodily effort, almost amounting to convulsion. But the words
would not come; it was not till she saw the absolute terror
depicted on his face that she found utterance; and then the sight
of that terror changed the words from what she meant them to have
been. She drew him to her, and laid her head upon his shoulder;
hiding her face even there.

"My poor, poor boy! my poor, poor darling! Oh! would that I had
died--I had died, in my innocent girlhood!"

"Mother! mother!" sobbed Leonard. "What is the matter? Why do you
look so wild and ill? Why do you call me your 'poor boy'? Are we
not going to Scaurside Hill? I don't much mind it, mother; only
please don't gasp and quiver so. Dearest mother, are you ill? Let
me call Aunt Faith!"

Ruth lifted herself up, and put away the hair that had fallen
over and was blinding her eyes. She looked at him with intense
wistfulness.

"Kiss me, Leonard!" said she--"kiss me, my darling, once more in
the old way!" Leonard threw himself into her arms and hugged her
with all his force, and their lips clung together as in the kiss
given to the dying.

"Leonard!" said she at length, holding him away from her, and
nerving herself up to tell him all by one spasmodic
effort--"listen to me." The boy stood breathless and still,
gazing at her. On her impetuous transit from Mr. Bradshaw's to
the Chapel-house her wild, desperate thought had been that she
would call herself by every violent, coarse name which the world
might give her--that Leonard should hear those words applied to
his mother first from her own lips; but the influence of his
presence--for he was a holy and sacred creature in her eyes, and
this point remained steadfast, though all the rest were
upheaved--subdued her; and now it seemed as if she could not find
words fine enough, and pure enough, to convey the truth that he
must learn, and should learn from no tongue but hers.

"Leonard! when I was very young I did very wrong. I think God,
who knows all, will judge me more tenderly than men--but I did
wrong in a way which you cannot understand yet" (she saw the red
flush come into his cheek, and it stung her as the first token of
that shame which was to be his portion through life)--"in a way
people never forget, never forgive. You will hear me called the
hardest names that ever can be thrown at women--I have been
to-day; and, my child, you must bear it patiently, because they
will be partly true. Never get confused, by your love for me,
into thinking that what I did was right.--Where was I?" said she,
suddenly faltering, and forgetting all she had said and all she
had got to say; and then, seeing Leonard's face of wonder, and
burning shame and indignation, she went on more rapidly, as
fearing lest her strength should fail before she had ended.

"And, Leonard," continued she, in a trembling, sad voice, "this
is not all. The punishment of punishments lies awaiting me still.
It is to see you suffer from my wrongdoing. Yes, darling! they
will speak shameful things of you, poor innocent child! as well
as of me, who am guilty. They will throw it in your teeth through
life, that your mother was never married--was not married when
you were born----"

"Were not you married? Are not you a widow?" asked he abruptly,
for the first time getting anything like a clear idea of the real
state of the case.

"No! May God forgive me, and help me!" exclaimed she, as she saw
a strange look of repugnance cloud over the boy's face, and felt
a slight motion on his part to extricate himself from her hold.
It was as slight, as transient as it could be--over in an
instant. But she had taken her hands away, and covered up her
face with them as quickly--covered up her face in shame before
her child; and in the bitterness of her heart she was wailing
out, "Oh! would to God I had died--that I had died as a
baby--that I had died as a little baby hanging at my mother's
breast!"

"Mother," said Leonard, timidly putting his hand on her arm; but
she shrank from him, and continued her low, passionate wailing.
"Mother," said he, after a pause coming nearer, though she saw it
not--"mammy darling," said he, using the caressing name, which he
had been trying to drop as not sufficiently manly, "mammy, my
own, own dear, dear darling mother, I don't believe them; I
don't, I don't, I don't, I don't!" He broke out into a wild burst
of crying as he said this. In a moment her arms were round the
boy, and she was hushing him up like a baby on her bosom. "Hush,
Leonard! Leonard, be still, my child! I have been too sudden with
you!--I have done you harm--oh! I have done you nothing but
harm," cried she, in a tone of bitter self-reproach.

"No, mother," said he, stopping his tears, and his eyes blazing
out with earnestness; "there never was such a mother as you have
been to me, and I won't believe any one who says it. I won't; and
I'll knock them down if they say it again, I will!" He clenched
his fist, with a fierce, defiant look on his face.

"You forget, my child," said Ruth, in the sweetest, saddest tone
that ever was heard, "I said it of myself; I said it because it
was true." Leonard threw his arms tight round her and hid his
face against her bosom. She felt him pant there like some hunted
creature. She had no soothing comfort to give him. "Oh, that she
and he lay dead!"

At last, exhausted, he lay so still and motionless, that she
feared to look. She wanted him to speak, yet dreaded his first
words. She kissed his hair, his head, his very clothes; murmuring
low, inarticulate, and moaning sounds.

"Leonard," said she, "Leonard, look up at me! Leonard, look up!"
But he only clung the closer, and hid his face the more.

"My boy!" said she, "what can I do or say? If I tell you never to
mind it--that it is nothing--I tell you false. It is a bitter
shame and a sorrow that I have drawn down upon you. A shame,
Leonard, because of me, your mother; but, Leonard, it is no
disgrace or lowering of you in the eyes of God." She spoke now as
if she had found the clue which might lead him to rest and
strength at last.

"Remember that, always. Remember that, when the time of trial
comes--and it seems a hard and cruel thing that you should be
called reproachful names by men, and all for what was no fault of
yours--remember God's pity and God's justice; and, though my sin
shall have made you an outcast in the world--oh, my child, my
child"--(she felt him kiss her, as if mutually trying to comfort
her--it gave her strength to go on)--"remember, darling of my
heart, it is only your own sin that can make you an outcast from
God."

She grew so faint that her hold of him relaxed. He looked up
affrighted. He brought her water--he threw it over her; in his
terror at the notion that she was going to die and leave him, he
called her by every fond name, imploring her to open her eyes.

When she partially recovered he helped her to the bed, on which
she lay still, wan, and death-like. She almost hoped the swoon
that hung around her might be Death, and in that imagination she
opened her eyes to take a last look at her boy. She saw him pale
and terror-stricken; and pity for his affright roused her, and
made her forget herself in the wish that he should not see her
death, if she were indeed dying.

"Go to Aunt Faith!" whispered she; "I am weary, and want sleep."

Leonard arose slowly and reluctantly. She tried to smile upon
him, that what she thought would be her last look might dwell in
his remembrance as tender and strong; she watched him to the
door; she saw him hesitate, and return to her. He came back to
her, and said in a timid, apprehensive tone,

"Mother--will they speak to me about----it?"

Ruth closed her eyes, that they might not express the agony she
felt, like a sharp knife, at this question. Leonard had asked it
with a child's desire of avoiding painful and mysterious
topics,--for no personal sense of shame as she understood it,
shame beginning thus early, thus instantaneously.

"No," she replied. "You may be sure they will not."

So he went. But now she would have been thankful for the
unconsciousness of fainting; that one little speech bore so much
meaning to her hot, irritable brain. Mr. and Miss Benson, all in
their house, would never speak to the boy--but in his home alone
would he be safe from what he had already learned to dread. Every
form in which shame and opprobrium could overwhelm her darling
haunted her. She had been exercising strong self-control for his
sake ever since she had met him at the house-door; there was now
a reaction. His presence had kept her mind on its perfect
balance. When that was withdrawn the effect of the strain of
power was felt. And athwart the fever-mists that arose to obscure
her judgment, all sorts of will-o'-the-wisp plans flittered
before her; tempting her to this and that course of action--to
anything rather than patient endurance--to relieve her present
state of misery by some sudden spasmodic effort, that took the
semblance of being wise and right. Gradually all her desires, all
her longing, settled themselves on one point. What had she
done--what could she do, to Leonard but evil? If she were away,
and gone no one knew where--lost in mystery, as if she were
dead--perhaps the cruel hearts might relent, and show pity on
Leonard; while her perpetual presence would but call up the
remembrance of his birth. Thus she reasoned in her hot, dull
brain; and shaped her plans in accordance.

Leonard stole downstairs noiselessly. He listened to find some
quiet place where he could hide himself. The house was very
still. Miss Benson thought the purposed expedition had taken
place, and never dreamed but that Ruth and Leonard were on
distant, sunny Scaurside Hill; and, after a very early dinner,
she had set out to drink tea with a farmer's wife, who lived in
the country two or three miles off. Mr. Benson meant to have gone
with her; but, while they were at dinner, he had received an
unusually authoritative note from Mr. Bradshaw desiring to speak
with him, so he went to that gentleman's house instead. Sally was
busy in her kitchen, making a great noise (not unlike a groom
rubbing down a horse) over her cleaning. Leonard stole into the
sitting-room, and crouched behind the large old-fashioned sofa to
ease his sore, aching heart, by crying with all the prodigal
waste and abandonment of childhood.

Mr. Benson was shown into Mr. Bradshaw's own particular room. The
latter gentleman was walking up and down, and it was easy to
perceive that something had occurred to chafe him to great anger.

"Sit down, sir!" said he to Mr. Benson, nodding to a chair.

Mr. Benson sat down. But Mr. Bradshaw continued his walk for a
few minutes longer without speaking. Then he stopped abruptly,
right in front of Mr. Benson; and in a voice which he tried to
render calm, but which trembled with passion--with a face glowing
purple as he thought of his wrongs (and real wrongs they were),
he began--

"Mr. Benson, I have sent for you to ask--I am almost too
indignant at the bare suspicion to speak as becomes me--but did
you----I really shall be obliged to beg your pardon, if you are
as much in the dark as I was yesterday as to the character of the
woman who lives under your roof?"

There was no answer from Mr. Benson. Mr. Bradshaw looked at him
very earnestly. His eyes were fixed on the ground--he made no
inquiry--he uttered no expression of wonder or dismay. Mr.
Bradshaw ground his foot on the floor with gathering rage; but
just as he was about to speak Mr. Benson rose up--a poor deformed
old man--before the stern and portly figure that was swelling and
panting with passion.

"Hear me, sir!" (stretching out his hand as if to avert the words
which were impending). "Nothing you can say can upbraid me like
my own conscience; no degradation you can inflict, by word or
deed, can come up to the degradation I have suffered for years,
at being a party to a deceit, even for a good end----"

"For a good end!--Nay! what next?"

The taunting contempt with which Mr. Bradshaw spoke these words
almost surprised himself by what he imagined must be its
successful power of withering; but in spite of it Mr. Benson
lifted his grave eyes to Mr. Bradshaw's countenance, and
repeated--

"For a good end. The end was not, as perhaps you consider it to
have been, to obtain her admission into your family--nor yet to
put her in the way of gaining her livelihood; my sister and I
would willingly have shared what we have with her; it was our
intention to do so at first, if not for any length of time, at
least as long as her health might require it. Why I advised
(perhaps I only yielded to advice) a change of name--an
assumption of a false state of widowhood--was because I earnestly
desired to place her in circumstances in which she might work out
her self-redemption; and you, sir, know how terribly the world
goes against all such as have sinned as Ruth did. She was so
young, too."

"You mistake, sir; my acquaintance has not lain so much among
that class of sinners as to give me much experience of the way in
which they are treated. But, judging from what I have seen, I
should say they meet with full as much leniency as they deserve;
and supposing they do not--I know there are plenty of sickly
sentimentalists just now who reserve all their interest and
regard for criminals--why not pick out one of these to help you
in your task of washing the blackamoor white? Why choose me to be
imposed upon--my household into which to intrude your protegee?
Why were my innocent children to be exposed to corruption? I
say," said Mr. Bradshaw, stamping his foot, "how dared you come
into this house, where you were looked upon as a minister of
religion, with a lie in your mouth? How dared you single me out,
of all people, to be gulled, and deceived, and pointed at through
the town as the person who had taken an abandoned woman into his
house to teach his daughters?"

"I own my deceit was wrong and faithless."

"Yes! you can own it, now it is found out! There is small merit
in that, I think!"

"Sir! I claim no merit. I take shame to myself. I did not single
you out. You applied to me with your proposal that Ruth should be
your children's governess."

"Pah!"

"And the temptation was too great--no! I will not say that--but
the temptation was greater than I could stand--it seemed to open
out a path of usefulness."

"Now, don't let me hear you speak so," said Mr. Bradshaw, blazing
up. "I can't stand it. It is too much to talk in that way when
the usefulness was to consist in contaminating my innocent
girls."

"God knows that if I had believed there had been any danger of
such contamination--God knows how I would have died sooner than
have allowed her to enter your family. Mr. Bradshaw, you believe
me, don't you?" asked Mr. Benson earnestly.

"I really must be allowed the privilege of doubting what you say
in future," said Mr. Bradshaw, in a cold, contemptuous manner.

"I have deserved this," Mr. Benson replied. "But," continued he,
after a moment's pause, "I will not speak of myself, but of Ruth.
Surely, sir, the end I aimed at (the means I took to obtain it
were wrong; you cannot feel that more than I do) was a right one;
and you will not--you cannot say that your children have suffered
from associating with her. I had her in my family, under the
watchful eyes of three anxious persons for a year or more we saw
faults--no human being is without them--and poor Ruth's were but
slight venial errors; but we saw no sign of a corrupt mind--no
glimpse of boldness or forwardness--no token of want of
conscientiousness; she seemed, and was, a young and gentle girl,
who had been led astray before she fairly knew what life was."

"I suppose most depraved women have been innocent in their time,"
said Mr. Bradshaw, with bitter contempt.

"Oh, Mr. Bradshaw! Ruth was not depraved, and you know it. You
cannot have seen her--have known her daily, all these years,
without acknowledging that!" Mr. Benson was almost breathless,
awaiting Mr. Bradshaw's answer. The quiet self-control which he
had maintained so long was gone now.

"I saw her daily--I did not know her. If I had known her, I
should have known she was fallen and depraved, and consequently
not fit to come into my house, nor to associate with my pure
children."

"Now I wish God would give me power to speak out convincingly
what I believe to be His truth, that not every woman who has
fallen is depraved; that many--how many the Great Judgment Day
will reveal to those who have shaken off the poor, sore, penitent
hearts on earth--many, many crave and hunger after a chance of
virtue--the help which no man gives to them--help--that gentle,
tender help which Jesus gave once to Mary Magdalen." Mr. Benson
was almost choked by his own feelings.

"Come, come, Mr. Benson, let us have no more of this morbid way
of talking. The world has decided how such women are to be
treated; and, you may depend upon it, there is so much practical
wisdom in the world, that its way of acting is right in the
long-run, and that no one can fly in its face with impunity,
unless, indeed, they stoop to deceit and imposition."

"I take my stand with Christ against the world," said Mr. Benson
solemnly, disregarding the covert allusion to himself. "What have
the world's ways ended in? Can we be much worse than we are?"

"Speak for yourself, if you please."

"Is it not time to change some of our ways of thinking and
acting? I declare before God, that if I believe in any one human
truth, it is this--that to every woman who, like Ruth, has sinned
should be given a chance of self-redemption--and that such a
chance should be given in no supercilious or contemptuous manner,
but in the spirit of the holy Christ."

"Such as getting her into a friend's house under false colours."

"I do not argue on Ruth's case. In that I have acknowledged my
error. I do not argue on any case. I state my firm belief, that
it is God's will that we should not dare to trample any of His
creatures down to the hopeless dust; that it is God's will that
the women who have fallen should be numbered among those who have
broken hearts to be bound up, not cast aside as lost beyond
recall. If this be God's will, as a thing of God it will stand;
and He will open a way."

"I should have attached much more importance to all your
exhortation on this point if I could have respected your conduct
in other matters. As it is, when I see a man who has deluded
himself into considering falsehood right, I am disinclined to
take his opinion on subjects connected with morality; and I can
no longer regard him as a fitting exponent of the will of God.
You perhaps understand what I mean, Mr. Benson. I can no longer
attend your chapel."

If Mr. Benson had felt any hope of making Mr. Bradshaw's
obstinate mind receive the truth, that he acknowledged and
repented of his connivance at the falsehood by means of which
Ruth had been received into the Bradshaw family, this last
sentence prevented his making the attempt. He simply bowed and
took his leave--Mr. Bradshaw attending him to the door with
formal ceremony.

He felt acutely the severance of the tie which Mr. Bradshaw had
just announced to him. He had experienced many mortifications in
his intercourse with that gentleman, but they had fallen off from
his meek spirit like drops of water from a bird's plumage; and
now he only remembered the acts of substantial kindness rendered
(the ostentation all forgotten)--many happy hours and pleasant
evenings--the children whom he had loved dearer than he thought
till now--the young people about whom he had cared, and whom he
had striven to lead aright. He was but a young man when Mr.
Bradshaw first came to his chapel; they had grown old together;
he had never recognised Mr. Bradshaw as an old familiar friend so
completely as now when they were severed.

It was with a heavy heart that he opened his own door. He went to
his study immediately; he sat down to steady himself into his
position.

How long he was there--silent and alone--reviewing his
life--confessing his sins--he did not know; but he heard some
unusual sound in the house that disturbed him--roused him to
present life. A slow, languid step came along the passage to the
front door--the breathing was broken by many sighs.

Ruth's hand was on the latch when Mr. Benson came out. Her face
was very white, except two red spots on each cheek--her eyes were
deep-sunk and hollow, but glittered with feverish lustre. "Ruth!"
exclaimed he. She moved her lips, but her throat and mouth were
too dry for her to speak.

"Where are you going?" asked he; for she had all her walking
things on, yet trembled so even as she stood, that it was evident
she could not walk far without falling.

She hesitated--she looked up at him, still with the same dry
glittering eyes. At last she whispered (for she could only speak
in a whisper), "To Helmsby--I am going to Helmsby."

"Helmsby! my poor girl--may God have mercy upon you!" for he saw
she hardly knew what she was saying. "Where is Helmsby?"

"I don't know. In Lincolnshire, I think."

"But why are you going there?"

"Hush! he's asleep," said she, as Mr. Benson had unconsciously
raised his voice.

"Who is asleep?" asked Mr. Benson.

"That poor little boy," said she, beginning to quiver and cry.

"Come here!" said he authoritatively, drawing her into the study.

"Sit down in that chair. I will come back directly."

He went in search of his sister, but she had not returned. Then
he had recourse to Sally, who was as busy as ever about her
cleaning.

"How long has Ruth been at home?" asked he.

"Ruth! She has never been at home sin' morning. She and Leonard
were to be off for the day somewhere or other with them Bradshaw
girls."

"Then she has had no dinner?"

"Not here, any rate. I can't answer for what she may have done at
other places."

"And Leonard--where is he?"

"How should I know? With his mother, I suppose. Leastways, that
was what was fixed on. I've enough to do of my own, without
routing after other folks."

She went on scouring in no very good temper. Mr. Benson stood
silent for a moment.

"Sally," he said, "I want a cup of tea. Will you make it as soon
as you can; and some dry toast too? I'll come for it in ten
minutes."

Struck by something in his voice, she looked up at him for the
first time.

"What ha' ye been doing to yourself, to look so grim and grey?
Tiring yourself all to tatters, looking after some naught, I'll
be bound! Well! well! I mun make ye your tea, I reckon; but I did
hope as you grew older you'd ha' grown wiser."

Mr. Benson made no reply, but went to look for Leonard, hoping
that the child's presence might bring back to his mother the
power of self-control. He opened the parlour-door, and looked in,
but saw no one. Just as he was shutting it, however, he heard a
deep, broken, sobbing sigh; and, guided by the sound, he found
the boy lying on the floor, fast asleep, but with his features
all swollen and disfigured by passionate crying.

"Poor child! This was what she meant, then," thought Mr. Benson.
"He has begun his share of the sorrows too" he continued
pitifully. "No! I will not waken him back to consciousness." So
he returned alone into the study. Ruth sat where he had placed
her, her head bent back, and her eyes shut. But when he came in
she started up.

"I must be going," she said in a hurried way.

"Nay, Ruth, you must not go. You must not leave us. We cannot do
without you. We love you too much."

"Love me!" said she, looking at him wistfully. As she looked, her
eyes filled slowly with tears. It was a good sign, and Mr. Benson
took heart to go on.

"Yes! Ruth. You know we do. You may have other things to fill up
your mind just now, but you know we love you; and nothing can
alter our love for you. You ought not to have thought of leaving
us. You would not, if you had been quite well."

"Do you know what has happened?" she asked, in a low, hoarse
voice.

"Yes. I know all," he answered. "It makes no difference to us.
Why should it?"

"Oh! Mr. Benson, don't you know that my shame is discovered?" she
replied, bursting into tears--"and I must leave you, and leave
Leonard, that you may not share in my disgrace."

"You must do no such thing. Leave Leonard! You have no right to
leave Leonard. Where could you go to?"

"To Helmsby," she said humbly. "It would break my heart to go,
but I think I ought, for Leonard's sake. I know I ought." She was
crying sadly by this time, but Mr. Benson knew the flow of tears
would ease her brain. "It will break my heart to go, but I know I
must."

"Sit still here at present," said he, in a decided tone of
command. He went for the cup of tea. He brought it to her without
Sally's being aware for whom it was intended.

"Drink this!" He spoke as you would do to a child, if desiring it
to take medicine. "Eat some toast." She took the tea, and drank
it feverishly; but when she tried to eat, the food seemed to
choke her. Still she was docile, and she tried.

"I cannot," said she at last, putting down the piece of toast.
There was a return of something of her usual tone in the words.
She spoke gently and softly; no longer in the shrill, hoarse
voice she had used at first. Mr. Benson sat down by her.

"Now, Ruth, we must talk a little together. I want to understand
what your plan was. Where is Helmsby? Why did you fix to go
there?"

"It is where my mother lived," she answered. "Before she was
married she lived there; and wherever she lived, the people all
loved her dearly; and I thought--I think, that for her sake, some
one would give me work. I meant to tell them the truth," said
she, dropping her eyes; "but still they would, perhaps, give me
some employment--I don't care what--for her sake. I could do many
things," said she, suddenly looking up. "I am sure I could
weed--I could in gardens--if they did not like to have me in
their houses. But perhaps some one, for my mother's sake--oh! my
dear, dear mother!--do you know where and what I am?" she cried
out, sobbing afresh.

Mr. Benson's heart was very sore, though he spoke
authoritatively, and almost sternly--

"Ruth! you must be still and quiet. I cannot have this. I want
you to listen to me. Your thought of Helmsby would be a good one,
if it was right for you to leave Eccleston; but I do not think it
is. I am certain of this, that it would be a great sin in you to
separate yourself from Leonard. You have no right to sever the
tie by which God has bound you together."

"But if I am here they will all know and remember the shame of
his birth; and if I go away they may forget----"

"And they may not. And if you go away, he may be unhappy or ill;
and you, who above all others have--and have from God--remember
that, Ruth!--the power to comfort him, the tender patience to
nurse him, have left him to the care of strangers. Yes; I know!
But we ourselves are as strangers, dearly as we love him,
compared to a mother. He may turn to sin, and want the long
forbearance, the serene authority of a parent and where are you?
No dread of shame, either for yourself, or even for him, can ever
make it right for you to shake off your responsibility." All this
time he was watching her narrowly, and saw her slowly yield
herself up to the force of what he was saying.

"Besides, Ruth," he continued, "we have gone on falsely,
hitherto. It has been my doing, my mistake, my sin. I ought to
have known better. Now, let us stand firm on the truth. You have
no new fault to repent of. Be brave and faithful. It is to God
you answer, not to men. The shame of having your sin known to the
world, should be as nothing to the shame you felt at having
sinned. We have dreaded men too much, and God too little, in the
course we have taken. But now be of good cheer. Perhaps you will
have to find your work in the world very low--not quite working
in the fields," said he, with a gentle smile, to which she,
downcast and miserable, could give no response. "Nay, perhaps,
Ruth," he went on, "you may have to stand and wait for some time;
no one may be willing to use the services you would gladly
render; all may turn aside from you, and may speak very harshly
of you. Can you accept all this treatment meekly, as but the
reasonable and just penance God has laid upon you--feeling no
anger against those who slight you, no impatience for the time to
come (and come it surely will--I speak as having the word of God
for what I say), when He, having purified you, even as by fire,
will make a straight path for your feet? My child, it is Christ
the Lord who has told us of this infinite mercy of God. Have you
faith enough in it to be brave, and bear on, and do rightly in
patience and in tribulation?"

Ruth had been hushed and very still until now, when the pleading
earnestness of his question urged her to answer.

"Yes!" said she. "I hope--I believe I can be faithful for myself,
for I have sinned and done wrong. But Leonard----" She looked up
at him.

"But Leonard," he echoed. "Ah! there it is hard, Ruth. I own the
world is hard and persecuting to such as he." He paused to think
of the true comfort for this sting. He went on. "The world is not
everything, Ruth; nor is the want of men's good opinion and
esteem the highest need which man has. Teach Leonard this. You
would not wish his life to be one summer's day. You dared not
make it so, if you had the power. Teach him to bid a noble,
Christian welcome to the trials which God sends--and this is one
of them. Teach him not to look on a life of struggle, and perhaps
of disappointment and incompleteness, as a sad and mournful end,
but as the means permitted to the heroes and warriors in the army
of Christ, by which to show their faithful following. Tell him of
the hard and thorny path which was trodden once by the bleeding
feet of One--Ruth! think of the Saviour's life and cruel death,
and of His divine faithfulness. Oh, Ruth!" exclaimed he, "when I
look and see what you may be--what you must be to that boy, I
cannot think how you could be coward enough, for a moment, to
shrink from your work! But we have all been cowards hitherto," he
added, in bitter self-accusation.

"God help us to be so no longer!"

Ruth sat very quiet. Her eyes were fixed on the ground, and she
seemed lost in thought. At length she rose up.

"Mr. Benson!" said she, standing before him, and propping herself
by the table, as she was trembling sadly from weakness, "I mean
to try very, very hard, to do my duty to Leonard--and to God,"
she added reverently. "I am only afraid my faith may sometimes
fail about Leonard----"

"Ask, and it shall be given unto you. That is no vain or untried
promise, Ruth!"

She sat down again, unable longer to stand. There was another
long silence.

"I must never go to Mr. Bradshaw's again," she said at last, as
if thinking aloud.

"No, Ruth, you shall not," he answered.

"But I shall earn no money!" added she quickly, for she thought
that he did not perceive the difficulty that was troubling her.

"You surely know, Ruth, that, while Faith and I have a roof to
shelter us, or bread to eat, you and Leonard share it with us."

"I know--I know your most tender goodness," said she, "but it
ought not to be."

"It must be at present," he said, in a decided manner. "Perhaps,
before long you may have some employment; perhaps it may be some
time before an opportunity occurs."

"Hush," said Ruth; "Leonard is moving about in the parlour. I
must go to him." But when she stood up, she turned so dizzy, and
tottered so much, that she was glad to sit down again
immediately.

"You must rest here. I will go to him," said Mr. Benson. He left
her; and when he was gone, she leaned her head on the back of the
chair, and cried quietly and incessantly; but there was a more
patient, hopeful, resolved feeling in the heart, which all along,
through all the tears she shed, bore her onwards to higher
thoughts, until at last she rose to prayers.

Mr. Benson caught the new look of shrinking shame in Leonard's
eye, as it first sought, then shunned, meeting his. He was
pained, too, by the sight of the little sorrowful, anxious face,
on which, until now, hope and joy had been predominant. The
constrained voice, the few words the boy spoke, when formerly
there would have been a glad and free utterance--all this grieved
Mr. Benson inexpressibly, as but the beginning of an unwonted
mortification, which must last for years. He himself made no
allusion to any unusual occurrence; he spoke of Ruth as sitting,
overcome by headache, in the study for quietness: he hurried on
the preparations for tea, while Leonard sat by in the great
arm-chair, and looked on with sad, dreamy eyes. He strove to
lessen the shock which he knew Leonard had received, by every
mixture of tenderness and cheerfulness that Mr. Benson's gentle
heart prompted; and now and then a languid smile stole over the
boy's face. When his bedtime came, Mr. Benson told him of the
hour, although he feared that Leonard would have but another
sorrowful crying of himself to sleep; but he was anxious to
accustom the boy to cheerful movement within the limits of
domestic law, and by no disobedience to it to weaken the power of
glad submission to the Supreme; to begin the new life that lay
before him, where strength to look up to God as the Law-giver and
Ruler of events would be pre-eminently required. When Leonard had
gone upstairs, Mr. Benson went immediately to Ruth, and said--

"Ruth! Leonard is just gone up to bed," secure in the instinct
which made her silently rise, and go up to the boy--certain, too,
that they would each be the other's best comforter, and that God
would strengthen each through the other. Now, for the first time,
he had leisure to think of himself; and to go over all the events
of the day. The half-hour of solitude in his study, that he had
before his sister's return, was of inestimable value; he had
leisure to put events in their true places, as to importance and
eternal significance. Miss Faith came in laden with farm produce.
Her kind entertainers had brought her in their shandry to the
opening of the court in which the Chapel-house stood; but she was
so heavily burdened with eggs, mushrooms, and plums, that, when
her brother opened the door, she was almost breathless.

"Oh, Thurstan! take this basket--it is such a weight? Oh, Sally,
is that you? Here are some magnum-bonums which we must preserve
to-morrow. There are guinea-fowl eggs in that basket."

Mr. Benson let her unburden her body, and her mind too, by giving
charges to Sally respecting her housekeeping treasures, before he
said a word; but when she returned into the study, to tell him
the small pieces of intelligence respecting her day at the farm,
she stood aghast.

"Why, Thurstan, dear! What's the matter? Is your back hurting
you?"

He smiled to reassure her; but it was a sickly and forced smile.

"No, Faith! I am quite well, only rather out of spirits, and
wanting to talk to you to cheer me."

Miss Faith sat down, straight, sitting bolt-upright to listen the
better.

"I don't know how, but the real story about Ruth is found out."

"Oh, Thurstan!" exclaimed Miss Benson, turning quite white.

For a moment, neither of them said another word. Then she went
on--

"Does Mr. Bradshaw know?"

"Yes! He sent for me, and told me."

"Does Ruth know that it has all come out?"

"Yes. And Leonard knows."

"How? Who told him?"

"I do not know. I have asked no questions. But of course it was
his mother."

"She was very foolish and cruel, then," said Miss Benson, her
eyes blazing, and her lips trembling, at the thought of the
suffering her darling boy must have gone through.

"I think she was wise. I am sure it was not cruel. He must have
soon known that there was some mystery, and it was better that it
should be told him openly and quietly by his mother than by a
stranger."

"How could she tell him quietly?" asked Miss Benson still
indignant.

"Well! perhaps I used the wrong word--of course no one was
by--and I don't suppose even they themselves could now tell how
it was told, or in what spirit it was borne."

Miss Benson was silent again.

"Was Mr. Bradshaw very angry?"

"Yes, very; and justly so. I did very wrong in making that false
statement at first."

"No! I am sure you did not," said Miss Faith. "Ruth has had some
years of peace, in which to grow stronger and wiser, so that she
can bear her shame now in a way she never could have done at
first."

"All the same it was wrong in me to do what I did."

"I did it too, as much or more than you. And I don't think it
wrong. I'm certain it was quite right, and I would do just the
same again."

"Perhaps it has not done you the harm it has done me."

"Nonsense! Thurstan. Don't be morbid. I'm sure you are as
good--and better than ever you were."

"No, I am not. I have got what you call morbid, just in
consequence of the sophistry by which I persuaded myself that
wrong could be right. I torment myself. I have lost my clear
instincts of conscience. Formerly, if I believed that such or
such an action was according to the will of God, I went and did
it, or at least I tried to do it, without thinking of
consequences. Now, I reason and weigh what will happen if I do so
and so--I grope where formerly I saw. Oh, Faith! it is such a
relief to me to have the truth known, that I am afraid I have not
been sufficiently sympathising with Ruth."

"Poor Ruth!" said Miss Benson. "But at any rate our telling a lie
has been the saving of her. There is no fear of her going wrong
now."

"God's omnipotence did not need our sin."

They did not speak for some time.

"You have not told me what Mr. Bradshaw said."

"One can't remember the exact words that are spoken on either
side in moments of such strong excitement. He was very angry, and
said some things about me that were very just, and some about
Ruth that were very hard. His last words were that he should give
up coming to chapel."

"Oh, Thurstan! did it come to that?"

"Yes."

"Does Ruth know all he said?"

"No! Why should she? I don't know if she knows he has spoken to
me at all. Poor creature! she had enough to craze her almost
without that! She was for going away and leaving us, that we
might not share in her disgrace. I was afraid of her being quite
delirious. I did so want you, Faith! However, I did the best I
could; I spoke to her very coldly, and almost sternly, all the
while my heart was bleeding for her. I dared not give her
sympathy; I tried to give her strength. But I did so want you,
Faith."

"And I was so full of enjoyment, I am ashamed to think of it. But
the Dawsons are so kind--and the day was so fine----Where is
Ruth now?"

"With Leonard. He is her great earthly motive--I thought that
being with him would be best. But he must be in bed and asleep
now."

"I will go up to her," said Miss Faith.

She found Ruth keeping watch by Leonard's troubled sleep; but
when she saw Miss Faith she rose up, and threw herself on her
neck and clung to her, without speaking. After a while Miss
Benson said--

"You must go to bed, Ruth!" So, after she had kissed the sleeping
boy, Miss Benson led her away, and helped to undress her, and
brought her up a cup of soothing violet-tea--not so soothing as
tender actions and soft, loving tones.


CHAPTER XXVIII


AN UNDERSTANDING BETWEEN LOVERS

It was well they had so early and so truly strengthened the
spirit to bear, for the events which had to be endured soon came
thick and threefold.

Every evening Mr. and Miss Benson thought the worst must be over;
and every day brought some fresh occurrence to touch upon the raw
place. They could not be certain, until they had seen all their
acquaintances, what difference it would make in the cordiality of
their reception: in some cases it made much; and Miss Benson was
proportionably indignant. She felt this change in behaviour more
than her brother. His great pain arose from the coolness of the
Bradshaws. With all the faults which had at times grated on his
sensitive nature (but which he now forgot, and remembered only their
kindness), they were his old familiar friends--his kind, if
ostentatious, patrons--his great personal interest, out of his own
family; and he could not get over the suffering he experienced from
seeing their large square pew empty on Sundays--from perceiving how
Mr. Bradshaw, though he bowed in a distant manner when he and Mr.
Benson met face to face, shunned him as often as he possibly could.
All that happened in the household, which once was as patent to him
as his own, was now a sealed book; he heard of its doings by chance,
if he heard at all. Just at the time when he was feeling the most
depressed from this cause, he met Jemima at a sudden turn of the
street. He was uncertain for a moment how to accost her, but she
saved him all doubt; in an instant she had his hand in both of hers,
her face flushed with honest delight.

"Oh, Mr. Benson, I am so glad to see you! I have so wanted to
know all about you. How is poor Ruth? dear Ruth! I wonder if she
has forgiven me my cruelty to her? And I may not go to her now,
when I should be so glad and thankful to make up for it."

"I never heard you had been cruel to her. I am sure she does not
think so."

"She ought; she must. What is she doing? Oh! I have so much to
ask, I can never hear enough; and papa says"--she hesitated a
moment, afraid of giving pain, and then, believing that they
would understand the state of affairs, and the reason for her
behaviour better if she told the truth, she went on--"Papa says I
must not go to your house--I suppose it's right to obey him?"

"Certainly, my dear. It is your clear duty. We know how you feel
towards us."

"Oh! but if I could do any good--if I could be of any use or
comfort to any of you--especially to Ruth, I should come, duty or
not. I believe it would be my duty," said she, hurrying on to try
and stop any decided prohibition from Mr. Benson. "No! don't be
afraid; I won't come till I know I can do some good. I hear bits
about you through Sally every now and then, or I could not have
waited so long. Mr. Benson," continued she, reddening very much,
"I think you did quite right about poor Ruth."

"Not in the falsehood, my dear."

"No! not perhaps in that. I was not thinking of that. But I have
been thinking a great deal about poor Ruth's----you know I could
not help it when everybody was talking about it--and it made me
think of myself, and what I am. With a father and mother, and
home and careful friends, I am not likely to be tempted like
Ruth; but oh! Mr. Benson, said she, lifting her eyes, which were
full of tears, to his face, for the first time since she began to
speak, "if you knew all I have been thinking and feeling this
last year, you would see how I have yielded to every temptation
that was able to come to me; and, seeing how I have no goodness
or strength in me, and how I might just have been like Ruth, or
rather worse than she ever was, because I am more headstrong and
passionate by nature, I do so thank you and love you for what you
did for her! And will you tell me really and truly now if I can
ever do anything for Ruth? If you'll promise me that, I won't
rebel unnecessarily against papa; but if you don't, I will, and
come and see you all this very afternoon. Remember! I trust you!"
said she, breaking away. Then turning back, she came to ask after
Leonard.

"He must know something of it," said she. "Does he feel it much?"

"Very much," said Mr. Benson. Jemima shook her head sadly.

"It is hard upon him," said she.

"It is," Mr. Benson replied.

For in truth, Leonard was their greatest anxiety indoors. His
health seemed shaken, he spoke half sentences in his sleep, which
showed that in his dreams he was battling on his mother's behalf
against an unkind and angry world. And then he would wail to
himself, and utter sad words of shame, which they never thought
had reached his ears. By day, he was in general grave and quiet;
but his appetite varied, and he was evidently afraid of going
into the streets, dreading to be pointed at as an object of
remark. Each separately in their hearts longed to give him change
of scene; but they were all silent, for where was the requisite
money to come from?

His temper became fitful and variable. At times he would be most
sullen against his mother; and then give way to a passionate
remorse. When Mr. Benson caught Ruth's look of agony at her
child's rebuffs, his patience failed; or rather, I should say, he
believed that a stronger, severer hand than hers was required for
the management of the lad. But, when she heard Mr. Benson say so,
she pleaded with him.

"Have patience with Leonard," she said. "I have deserved the
anger that is fretting in his heart. It is only I who can
reinstate myself in his love and respect. I have no fear. When he
sees me really striving hard and long to do what is right, he
must love me. I am not afraid."

Even while she spoke, her lips quivered, and her colour went and
came with eager anxiety. So Mr. Benson held his peace, and let
her take her course. It was beautiful to see the intuition by
which she divined what was passing in every fold of her child's
heart, so as to be always ready with the right words to soothe or
to strengthen him. Her watchfulness was unwearied, and with no
thought of self-tainting in it, or else she might have often
paused to turn aside and weep at the clouds of shame which came
over Leonard's love for her, and hid it from all but her faithful
heart; she believed and knew that he was yet her own affectionate
boy, although he might be gloomily silent, or apparently hard and
cold. And in all this, Mr. Benson could not choose but admire the
way in which she was insensibly teaching Leonard to conform to
the law of right, to recognise duty in the mode in which every
action was performed. When Mr. Benson saw this, he knew that all
goodness would follow, and that the claims which his mother's
infinite love had on the boy's heart would be acknowledged at
last, and all the more fully because she herself never urged
them, but silently admitted the force of the reason that caused
them to be for a time forgotten. By and-by Leonard's remorse at
his ungracious and sullen ways to his mother--ways that
alternated with passionate, fitful bursts of clinging
love--assumed more the character of repentance, he tried to do so
no more. But still his health was delicate; he was averse to
going out-of-doors; he was much graver and sadder than became his
age. It was what must be an inevitable consequence of what had
been; and Ruth had to be patient, and pray in secret, and with
many tears, for the strength she needed.

She knew what it was to dread the going out into the streets
after her story had become known. For days and days she had
silently shrunk from this effort. But, one evening towards dusk,
Miss Benson was busy, and asked her to go an errand for her; and
Ruth, got up and silently obeyed her. That silence as to inward
suffering was only one part of her peculiar and exquisite
sweetness of nature; part of the patience with which she
"accepted her penance." Her true instincts told her that it was
not right to disturb others with many expressions of her remorse;
that the holiest repentance consisted in a quiet and daily
sacrifice. Still there were times when she wearied pitifully of
her inaction. She was so willing to serve and work, and every one
despised her services. Her mind, as I have said before, had been
well cultivated during these last few years; so now she used all
the knowledge she had gained in teaching Leonard, which was an
employment that Mr. Benson relinquished willingly, because he
felt that it would give her some of the occupation that she
needed. She endeavoured to make herself useful in the house in
every way she could; but the waters of house-keeping had closed
over her place during the time of her absence at Mr.
Bradshaw's--and, besides, now that they were trying to restrict
every unnecessary expense, it was sometimes difficult to find
work for three women. Many and many a time Ruth turned over in
her mind every possible chance of obtaining employment for her
leisure hours, and nowhere could she find it. Now and then Sally,
who was her confidante in this wish, procured her some
needlework, but it was of a coarse and common kind, soon done,
lightly paid for. But, whatever it was, Ruth took it, and was
thankful, although it added but a few pence to the household
purse. I do not mean that there was any great need of money; but
a new adjustment of expenditure was required--a reduction of
wants which had never been very extravagant.

Ruth's salary of forty pounds was gone, while more of her "keep,"
as Sally called it, was thrown upon the Bensons. Mr. Benson
received about eighty pounds a year for his salary as minister.
Of this, he knew that twenty pounds came from Mr. Bradshaw; and,
when the old man appointed to collect the pew-rents brought him
the quarterly amount, and he found no diminution in them, he
inquired how it was, and learnt that, although Mr. Bradshaw had
expressed to the collector his determination never to come to
chapel again, he had added, that of course his pew-rent should be
paid all the same. But this Mr. Benson could not suffer; and the
old man was commissioned to return the money to Mr. Bradshaw, as
being what his deserted minister could not receive.

Mr. and Miss Benson had about thirty or forty pounds coming in
annually from a sum which, in happier days, Mr. Bradshaw had
invested in Canal shares for them. Altogether their income did
not fall much short of a hundred a year, and they lived in the
Chapel-house free of rent. So Ruth's small earnings were but very
little in actual hard commercial account, though in another sense
they were much; and Miss Benson always received them with quiet
simplicity. By degrees, Mr. Benson absorbed some of Ruth's time
in a gracious and natural way. He employed her mind in all the
kind offices he was accustomed to render to the poor around him.
And as much of the peace and ornament of life as they gained now
was gained on a firm basis of truth. If Ruth began low down to
find her place in the world, at any rate there was no flaw in the
foundation.

Leonard was still their great anxiety. At times the question
seemed to be, could he live through all this trial of the
elasticity of childhood? And then they knew how precious a
blessing--how true a pillar of fire, he was to his mother; and
how black the night, and how dreary the wilderness would be, when
he was not. The child and the mother were each messengers of
God--angels to each other.

They had long gaps between the pieces of intelligence respecting
the Bradshaws. Mr. Bradshaw had at length purchased the house at
Abermouth, and they were much there. The way in which the Bensons
heard most frequently of the family of their former friends, was
through Mr. Farquhar. He called on Mr. Benson about a month after
the latter had met Jemima in the street. Mr. Farquhar was not in
the habit of paying calls on any one; and, though he had always
entertained and evinced the most kind and friendly feeling
towards Mr. Benson, he had rarely been in the Chapel-house. Mr.
Benson received him courteously, but he rather expected that
there would be some especial reason alleged, before the
conclusion of the visit, for its occurrence; more particularly as
Mr. Farquhar sat talking on the topics of the day in a somewhat
absent manner, as if they were not the subjects most present to
his mind. The truth was, he could not help recurring to the last
time when he was in that room, waiting to take Leonard a ride,
and his heart beating rather more quickly than usual at the idea
that Ruth might bring the boy in when he was equipped. He was
very full now of the remembrance of Ruth; and yet he was also
most thankful, most self-gratulatory, that he had gone no further
in his admiration of her--that he had never expressed his regard
in words--that no one, as he believed, was cognisant of the
incipient love which had grown partly out of his admiration, and
partly out of his reason. He was thankful to be spared any
implication in the nine-days' wonder which her story had made in
Eccleston. And yet his feeling for her had been of so strong a
character, that he winced, as with extreme pain, at every
application of censure to her name. These censures were often
exaggerated, it is true; but, when they were just in their
judgment of the outward circumstances of the case, they were not
the less painful and distressing to him. His first rebound to
Jemima was occasioned by Mrs. Bradshaw's account of how severely
her husband was displeased at her daughter's having taken part
with Ruth; and he could have thanked and almost blessed Jemima
when she dropped in (she dared do no more) her pleading excuses
and charitable explanations on Ruth's behalf. Jemima had learnt
some humility from the discovery which had been to her so great a
shock; standing, she had learnt to take heed lest she fell; and,
when she had once been aroused to a perception of the violence of
the hatred which she had indulged against Ruth, she was more
reticent and measured in the expression of all her opinions. It
showed how much her character had been purified from pride, that
now she felt aware that what in her was again attracting Mr.
Farquhar was her faithful advocacy of her rival, wherever such
advocacy was wise or practicable. He was quite unaware that
Jemima had been conscious of his great admiration for Ruth; he
did not know that she had ever cared enough for him to be
jealous. But the unacknowledged bond between them now was their
grief, and sympathy, and pity for Ruth; only in Jemima these
feelings were ardent, and would fain have become active; while in
Mr. Farquhar they were strongly mingled with thankfulness that he
had escaped a disagreeable position, and a painful notoriety. His
natural caution induced him to make a resolution never to think
of any woman as a wife until he had ascertained all her
antecedents, from her birth upwards; and the same spirit of
caution, directed inwardly, made him afraid of giving too much
pity to Ruth, for fear of the conclusions to which such a feeling
might lead him. But still his old regard for her, for Leonard,
and his esteem and respect for the Bensons, induced him to lend a
willing ear to Jemima's earnest entreaty that he would go and
call on Mr. Benson, in order that she might learn something about
the family in general, and Ruth in particular. It was thus that
he came to sit by Mr. Benson's study fire, and to talk, in an
absent way, to that gentleman. How they got on the subject he did
not know, more than one-half of his attention being distracted;
but they were speaking about politics, when Mr. Farquhar learned
that Mr. Benson took in no newspaper.

"Will you allow me to send you over my Times? I have generally
done with it before twelve o'clock, and after that it is really
waste-paper in my house. You will oblige me by making use of it."

"I am sure I am very much obliged to you for thinking of it. But
do not trouble yourself to send it; Leonard can fetch it."

"How is Leonard now?" asked Mr. Farquhar, and he tried to speak
indifferently; but a grave look of intelligence clouded his eyes
as he looked for Mr. Benson's answer. "I have not met him
lately."

"No!" said Mr. Benson, with an expression of pain in his
countenance, though he, too, strove to speak in his usual tone.

"Leonard is not strong, and we find it difficult to induce him to
go much out-of-doors."

There was a little silence for a minute or two, during which Mr.
Farquhar had to check an unbidden sigh. But, suddenly rousing
himself into a determination to change the subject, he said--

"You will find rather a lengthened account of the exposure of Sir
Thomas Campbell's conduct at Baden. He seems to be a complete
blackleg, in spite of his baronetcy. I fancy the papers are glad
to get hold of anything just now."

"Who is Sir Thomas Campbell?" asked Mr. Benson.

"Oh, I thought you might have heard the report--a true one, I
believe--of Mr. Donne's engagement to his daughter. He must be
glad she jilted him now, I fancy, after this public exposure of
her father's conduct." (That was an awkward speech, as Mr.
Farquhar felt; and he hastened to cover it, by going on without
much connection.)

"Dick Bradshaw is my informant about all these projected
marriages in high life--they are not much in my way; but, since
he has come down from London to take his share in the business, I
think I have heard more of the news and the scandal of what, I
suppose, would be considered high life, than ever I did before;
and Mr. Donne's proceedings seem to be an especial object of
interest to him."

"And Mr. Donne is engaged to a Miss Campbell, is he?"

"Was engaged; if I understood right, she broke off the engagement
to marry some Russian prince or other--a better match, Dick
Bradshaw told me. I assure you, continued Mr. Farquhar, smiling,
"I am a very passive recipient of all such intelligence, and
might very probably have forgotten all about it, if the Times of
this morning had not been so full of the disgrace of the young
lady's father."

"Richard Bradshaw has quite left London, has he?" asked Mr.
Benson, who felt far more interest in his old patron's family
than in all the Campbells that ever were or ever would be.

"Yes. He has come to settle down here. I hope he may do well, and
not disappoint his father, who has formed very high expectations
from him; I am not sure if they are not too high for any young
man to realise." Mr. Farquhar could have said more; but Dick
Bradshaw was Jemima's brother, and an object of anxiety to her.

"I am sure, I trust such a mortification--such a grief as any
disappointment in Richard, may not befall his father," replied
Mr. Benson.

"Jemima--Miss Bradshaw," said Mr. Farquhar, hesitating, "was most
anxious to hear of you all. I hope I may tell her you are all
well" (with an emphasis on all); "that----"

"Thank you. Thank her for us. We are all well; all except
Leonard, who is not strong, as I said before. But we must be
patient. Time, and such devoted, tender love as he has from his
mother, must do much."

Mr. Farquhar was silent.

"Send him to my house for the papers. It will be a little
necessity for him to have some regular exercise, and to face the
world. He must do it, sooner or later."

The two gentlemen shook hands with each other warmly on parting;
but no further allusion was made to either Ruth or Leonard.

So Leonard went for the papers. Stealing along by back
streets--running with his head bent down--his little heart
panting with dread of being pointed out as his mother's child--so
he used to come back, and run trembling to Sally, who would hush
him up to her breast with many a rough-spoken word of pity and
sympathy. Mr. Farquhar tried to catch him to speak to him, and
tame him, as it were; and, by-and-by, he contrived to interest
him sufficiently to induce the boy to stay a little while in the
house or stables, or garden. But the race through the streets was
always to be dreaded as the end of ever so pleasant a visit. Mr.
Farquhar kept up the intercourse with the Bensons which he had
thus begun. He persevered in paying calls--quiet visits, where
not much was said, political or local news talked about, and the
same inquiries always made and answered as to the welfare of the
two families, who were estranged from each other. Mr. Farquhar's
reports were so little varied that Jemima grew anxious to know
more particulars.

"Oh, Mr. Farquhar!" said she; "do you think they tell you the
truth? I wonder what Ruth can be doing to support herself and
Leonard? Nothing that you can hear of, you say; and, of course,
one must not ask the downright question. And yet I am sure they
must be pinched in some way. Do you think Leonard is stronger?"

"I am not sure. He is growing fast; and such a blow as he has had
will be certain to make him more thoughtful and full of care than
most boys of his age; both these circumstances may make him thin
and pale, which he certainly is."

"Oh! how I wish I might go and see them all! I could tell in a
twinkling the real state of things." She spoke with a tinge of
her old impatience.

"I will go again, and pay particular attention to anything you
wish me to observe. You see, of course, I feel a delicacy about
asking any direct questions, or even alluding in any way to these
late occurrences."

"And you never see Ruth by any chance?"

"Never!"

They did not look at each other while this last question was
asked and answered.

"I will take the paper to-morrow myself; it will be an excuse for
calling again, and I will try to be very penetrating; but I have
not much hope of success.

"Oh, thank you. It is giving you a great deal of trouble; but you
are very kind."

"Kind, Jemima!" he repeated, in a tone which made her go very red
and hot; "must I tell you how you can reward me?--Will you call
me Walter?--say, thank you, Walter--just for once."

Jemima felt herself yielding to the voice and tone in which this
was spoken; but her very consciousness of the depth of her love
made her afraid of giving way, and anxious to be wooed, that she
might be reinstated in her self-esteem.

"No!" said she, "I don't think I can call you so. You are too
old. It would not be respectful." She meant it half in joke, and
had no idea he would take the allusion to his age so seriously as
he did. He rose up, and coldly, as a matter of form, in a changed
voice, wished her "Good-bye." Her heart sank; yet the old pride
was there. But as he was at the very door, some sudden impulse
made her speak--

"I have not vexed you, have I, Walter?"

He turned round, glowing with a thrill of delight. She was as red
as any rose; her looks dropped down to the ground.

They were not raised, when, half-an-hour afterwards, she said,
"You won't forbid my going to see Ruth, will you? because if you
do, I give you notice I shall disobey you." The arm around her
waist clasped her yet more fondly at the idea, suggested by this
speech, of the control which he should have a right to exercise
over her actions at some future day.

"Tell me," said he, "how much of your goodness to me, this last
happy hour, has been owing to the desire of having more, freedom
as a wife than as a daughter?" She was almost glad that he should
think she needed any additional motive to her love for him before
she could have accepted him. She was afraid that she had betrayed
the deep, passionate regard with which she had long looked upon
him. She was lost in delight at her own happiness. She was silent
for a time. At length she said--

"I don't think you know how faithful I have been to you ever
since the days when you first brought me pistachio-candy from
London--when I was quite a little girl."

"Not more faithful than I have been to you," for in truth, the
recollection of his love for Ruth had utterly faded away, and he
thought himself a model of constancy; "and you have tried me
pretty well. What a vixen you have been!" Jemima sighed; smitten
with the consciousness of how little she had deserved her present
happiness; humble with the recollection of the evil thoughts that
had raged in her heart during the time (which she remembered
well, though he may have forgotten it) when Ruth had had the
affection which her jealous rival coveted.

"I may speak to your father; may not I, Jemima?"

No! for some reason or fancy which she could not define, and
could not be persuaded out of, she wished to keep their mutual
understanding a secret. She had a natural desire to avoid the
congratulations she expected from her family. She dreaded her
father's consideration of the whole affair as a satisfactory
disposal of his daughter to a worthy man, who, being his partner,
would not require any abstraction of capital from the concern,
and Richard's more noisy delight at his sister's having "hooked"
so good a match. It was only her simple-hearted mother that she
longed to tell. She knew that her mother's congratulations would
not jar upon her, though they might not sound the full organ-peal
of her love. But all that her mother knew passed onwards to her
father; so for the present, at any rate, she determined to
realise her secret position alone. Somehow, the sympathy of all
others that she most longed for was Ruth's; but the first
communication of such an event was due to her parents. She
imposed very strict regulations on Mr. Farquhar's behaviour; and
quarrelled and differed from him more than ever, but with a
secret joyful understanding with him in her heart, even while
they disagreed with each other--for similarity of opinion is not
always--I think not often--needed for fulness and perfection of
love.

After Ruth's "detection," as Mr. Bradshaw used to call it, he
said he could never trust another governess again; so Mary and
Elizabeth had been sent to school the following Christmas, and
their place in the family was but poorly supplied by the return
of Mr. Richard Bradshaw, who had left London, and been received
as a partner.


CHAPTER XXIX


SALLY TAKES HER MONEY OUT OF THE BANK

The conversation narrated in the last chapter as taking place
between Mr. Farquhar and Jemima, occurred about a year after
Ruth's dismissal from her situation. That year, full of small
events, and change of place to the Bradshaws, had been monotonous
and long in its course to the other household. There had been no
want of peace and tranquillity; there had, perhaps, been more of
them than in the preceding years, when, though unacknowledged by
any, all must have occasionally felt the oppression of the
falsehood--and a slight glancing dread must have flashed across
their most prosperous state, lest, somehow or another, the
mystery should be disclosed. But now, as the shepherd-boy in John
Bunyan sweetly sang, "He that is low need fear no fall." Still,
their peace was as the stillness of a grey autumnal day, when no
sun is to be seen above, and when a quiet film seems drawn before
both sky and earth, as if to rest the wearied eyes after the
summer's glare. Few events broke the monotony of their lives, and
those events were of a depressing kind. They consisted in Ruth's
futile endeavours to obtain some employment, however humble; in
Leonard's fluctuations of spirits and health; in Sally's
increasing deafness; in the final and unmendable wearing-out of
the parlour carpet, which there was no spare money to replace,
and so they cheerfully supplied its want by a large hearth-rug
that Ruth made out of ends of list; and, what was more a subject
of unceasing regret to Mr. Benson than all, the defection of some
of the members of his congregation, who followed Mr. Bradshaw's
lead. Their places, to be sure, were more than filled up by the
poor, who thronged to his chapel; but still it was a
disappointment to find that people about whom he had been
earnestly thinking--to whom he had laboured to do good--should
dissolve the connection without a word of farewell or
explanation. Mr. Benson did not wonder that they should go; nay,
he even felt it right that they should seek that spiritual help
from another, which he, by his error, had forfeited his power to
offer; he only wished they had spoken of their intention to him
in an open and manly way. But not the less did he labour on among
those to whom God permitted him to be of use. He felt age
stealing upon him apace, although he said nothing about it, and
no one seemed to be aware of it; and he worked the more
diligently while "it was yet day." It was not the number of his
years that made him feel old, for he was only sixty, and many men
are hale and strong at that time of life; in all probability, it
was that early injury to his spine which affected the
constitution of his mind as well as his body, and predisposed
him, in the opinion of some at least, to a feminine morbidness of
conscience. He had shaken off somewhat of this since the affair
with Mr. Bradshaw; he was simpler and more dignified than he had
been for several years before, during which time he had been
anxious and uncertain in his manner, and more given to thought
than to action.

The one happy bright spot in this grey year was owing to Sally.
As she said of herself, she believed she grew more "nattered" as
she grew older; but that she was conscious of her "natteredness"
was a new thing, and a great gain to the comfort of the house,
for it made her very grateful for forbearance, and more aware of
kindness than she had ever been before. She had become very deaf;
yet she was uneasy and jealous if she were not informed of all
the family thoughts, plans, and proceedings, which often had
(however private in their details) to be shouted to her at the
full pitch of the voice. But she always heard Leonard perfectly.
His clear and bell-like voice, which was similar to his mother's
till sorrow had taken the ring out of it, was sure to be heard by
the old servant, though every one else had failed. Sometimes,
however, she "got her hearing sudden," as she phrased it, and was
alive to every word and noise, more particularly when they did
not want her to hear; and at such times she resented their
continuance of the habit of speaking loud as a mortal offence.
One day, her indignation at being thought deaf called out one of
the rare smiles on Leonard's face; she saw it, and said, "Bless
thee, lad; if it but amuses thee, they may shout through a ram's
horn to me, and I'll never let on I'm not deaf. It's as good a
use as I can be of," she continued to herself, "if I can make
that poor lad smile a bit."

If she expected to be everybody's confidant, she made Leonard
hers. "There!" said she, when she came home from her marketing
one Saturday night, "look here, lad! Here's forty-two pound,
seven shillings and twopence! It's a mint of money, isn't it? I
took it all in sovereigns for fear of fire."

"What is it all for, Sally?" said he.

"Ay, lad! that's asking. It's Mr. Benson's money," said she
mysteriously, "that I've been keeping for him. Is he in the
study, think ye?"

"Yes! I think so. Where have you been keeping it?"

"Never you mind!" She went towards the study, but, thinking she
might have been hard on her darling in refusing to gratify his
curiosity, she turned back and said--

"I say--if thou wilt thou mayest do me a job of work some day.
I'm wanting a frame made for a piece of writing."

And then she returned to go into the study, carrying her
sovereigns in her apron.

"Here, Master Thurstan," said she, pouring them out on the table
before her astonished master. "Take it, it's all yours."

"All mine! What can you mean?" asked he, bewildered.

She did not hear him and went on--

"Lock it up safe out o' the way. Dunnot go and leave it about to
tempt folks. I'll not answer for myself if money's left about. I
may be cribbing a sovereign."

"But where does it come from?" said he.

"Come from!" she replied. "Where does all money come from but the
bank, to be sure. I thought any one could tell that."

"I have no money in the bank!" said he, more and more perplexed.

"No, I knowed that; but I had. Dunnot ye remember how ye would
raise my wage last Martinmas eighteen year? You and Faith were
very headstrong, but I was too deep for you. See thee! I went and
put it i' th' bank. I was never going to touch it; and if I had
died it would have been all right, for I'd a will made, all
regular and tight--made by a lawyer (leastwise he would have been
a lawyer if he hadn't got transported first). And now, thinks I,
I think I'll just go and get it out and give it 'em. Banks is not
always safe."

"I'll take care of it for you with the greatest pleasure. Still,
you know, banks allow interest."

"D'ye suppose I don't know all about interest and compound
interest too by this time? I tell ye I want ye to spend it. It's
your own. It's not mine. It always was yours. Now you're not
going to fret me by saying you think it mine." Mr. Benson held
out his hand to her, for he could not speak. She bent forward to
him as he sat there and kissed him.

"Eh, bless ye, lad! It's the first kiss I've had of ye sin' ye
were a little lad, and it's a great refreshment. Now don't you
and Faith go and bother me with talking about it. It's just
yours, and make no more ado."

She went back into the kitchen, and brought out her will, and
gave Leonard directions how to make a frame for it; for the boy
was a very tolerable joiner, and had a box of tools which Mr.
Bradshaw had given him some years ago.

"It's a pity to lose such fine writing," said she; "though I
can't say as I can read it. Perhaps you'd just read it for me,
Leonard." She sat open-mouthed with admiration at all the long
words.

The frame was made, and the will hung up opposite to her bed,
unknown to any one but Leonard; and, by dint of his repeated
reading it over to her, she learnt all the words, except
"testatrix" which she would always call "testy tricks." Mr.
Benson had been too much gratified and touched, by her
unconditional gift of all she had in the world, to reject it; but
he only held it in his hands as a deposit until he could find a
safe investment befitting so small a sum. The little
rearrangements of the household expenditure had not touched him
as they had done the women. He was aware that meat-dinners were
not now everyday occurrences; but he preferred puddings and
vegetables, and was glad of the exchange. He observed, too, that
they all sat together in the kitchen in the evenings; but the
kitchen, with the well-scoured dresser, the shining saucepans,
the well-blacked grate, and whitened hearth, and the warmth which
seemed to rise up from the very flags, and ruddily cheer the most
distant corners, appeared a very cosy and charming sitting-room;
and, besides, it appeared but right that Sally, in her old age,
should have the companionship of those with whom she had lived in
love and faithfulness so many years. He only wished he could more
frequently leave the solitary comfort of his study, and join the
kitchen party; where Sally sat as mistress in the chimney corner,
knitting by firelight, and Miss Benson and Ruth, with the candle
between them, stitched away at their work; while Leonard strewed
the ample dresser with his slate and books. He did not mope and
pine over his lessons; they were the one thing that took him out
of himself. As yet his mother could teach him, though in some
respects it was becoming a strain upon her acquirements and
powers. Mr. Benson saw this, but reserved his offers of help as
long as he could, hoping that before his assistance became
absolutely necessary, some mode of employment beyond that of
occasional plain-work might be laid open to Ruth.

In spite of the communication they occasionally had with Mr.
Farquhar, when he gave them the intelligence of his engagement to
Jemima, it seemed like a glimpse into a world from which they
were shut out. They wondered--Miss Benson and Ruth did at
least--much about the details. Ruth sat over her sewing, fancying
how all had taken place; and, as soon as she had arranged the
events which were going on among people and places once so
familiar to her, she found some discrepancy, and set-to afresh to
picture the declaration of love, and the yielding, blushing
acceptance; for Mr. Farquhar had told little beyond the mere fact
that there was an engagement between himself and Jemima which had
existed for some time, but which had been kept secret until now,
when it was acknowledged, sanctioned, and to be fulfilled as soon
as he returned from an arrangement of family affairs in Scotland.
This intelligence had been enough for Mr. Benson, who was the
only person Mr. Farquhar saw; as Ruth always shrank from the post
of opening the door, and Mr. Benson was apt at recognising
individual knocks, and always prompt to welcome Mr. Farquhar.

Miss Benson occasionally thought--and what she thought she was in
the habit of saying--that Jemima might have come herself to
announce such an event to old friends; but Mr. Benson decidedly
vindicated her from any charge of neglect, by expressing his
strong conviction that to her they owed Mr. Farquhar's calls--his
all but out-spoken offers of service--his quiet, steady interest
in Leonard; and, moreover (repeating the conversation he had had
with her in the street, the first time they met after the
disclosure), Mr. Benson told his sister how glad he was to find
that, with all the warmth of her impetuous disposition hurrying
her on to rebellion against her father, she was now attaining to
that just self-control which can distinguish between mere wishes
and true reasons--that she could abstain from coming to see Ruth
while she would do but little good, reserving herself for some
great occasion or strong emergency.

Ruth said nothing, but she yearned all the more in silence to see
Jemima. In her recollection of that fearful interview with Mr.
Bradshaw, which haunted her yet, sleeping or waking, she was
painfully conscious that she had not thanked Jemima for her
generous, loving advocacy; it had passed unregarded at the time
in intensity of agony--but now she recollected that by no word,
or tone, or touch, had she given any sign of gratitude. Mr.
Benson had never told her of his meeting with Jemima; so it
seemed as if there were no hope of any future opportunity for it
is strange how two households, rent apart by some dissension, can
go through life, their parallel existences running side by side,
yet never touching each other, near neighbours as they are,
habitual and familiar guests as they may have been.

Ruth's only point of hope was Leonard. She was weary of looking
for work and employment, which everywhere seemed held above her
reach. She was not impatient of this but she was very, very
sorry. She felt within her such capability, and all ignored her,
and passed her by on the other side. But she saw some progress in
Leonard. Not that he could continue to have the happy
development, and genial ripening, which other boys have; leaping
from childhood to boyhood, and thence to youth, with glad bounds,
and unconsciously enjoying every age. At present there was no
harmony in Leonard's character; he was as full of thought and
self-consciousness as many men, planning his actions long
beforehand, so as to avoid what he dreaded, and what she could
not yet give him strength to face, coward as she was herself, and
shrinking from hard remarks. Yet Leonard was regaining some of
his lost tenderness towards his mother; when they were alone he
would throw himself on her neck and smother her with kisses,
without any apparent cause for such a passionate impulse. If any
one was by, his manner was cold and reserved. The hopeful parts
of his character were the determination evident in him to be a
"law unto himself," and the serious thought which he gave to the
formation of this law. There was an inclination in him to reason,
especially and principally with Mr. Benson, on the great
questions of ethics which the majority of the world have settled
long ago. But I do not think he ever so argued with his mother.
Her lovely patience, and her humility, was earning its reward;
and from her quiet piety, bearing sweetly the denial of her
wishes--the refusal of her begging--the disgrace in which she
lay, while others, less worthy were employed--this, which
perplexed him, and almost angered him at first, called out his
reverence at last, and what she said he took for his law with
proud humility; and thus softly she was leading him up to God.
His health was not strong; it was not likely to be. He moaned and
talked in his sleep, and his appetite was still variable, part of
which might be owing to his preference of the hardest lessons to
any outdoor exercise. But this last unnatural symptom was
vanishing before the assiduous kindness of Mr. Farquhar, and the
quiet but firm desire of his mother. Next to Ruth, Sally had
perhaps the most influence over him; but he dearly loved both Mr.
and Miss Benson; although he was reserved on this, as on every
point not purely intellectual. His was a hard childhood, and his
mother felt that it was so. Children bear any moderate degree of
poverty and privation cheerfully; but, in addition to a good deal
of this, Leonard had to bear a sense of disgrace attaching to him
and to the creature he loved best; this it was that took out of
him the buoyancy and natural gladness of youth, in a way which no
scantiness of food or clothing or want of any outward comfort,
could ever have done.

Two years had passed away--two long, eventless years. Something
was now going to happen, which touched their hearts very nearly,
though out of their sight and hearing. Jemima was going to be
married this August, and by-and-by the very day was fixed. It was
to be on the 14th. On the evening of the 13th, Ruth was sitting
alone in the parlour, idly gazing out on the darkening shadows in
the little garden; her eyes kept filling with quiet tears, that
rose, not for her own isolation from all that was going on of
bustle and preparation for the morrow's event, but because she
had seen how Miss Benson had felt that she and her brother were
left out from the gathering of old friends in the Bradshaw
family. As Ruth sat, suddenly she was aware of a figure by her;
she started up, and in the gloom of the apartment she recognised
Jemima. In an instant they were in each other's arms--a long,
fast embrace.

"Can you forgive me?" whispered Jemima in Ruth's ear.

"Forgive you! What do you mean? What have I to forgive? The
question is, can I ever thank you as I long to do, if I could
find words?"

"Oh, Ruth, how I hated you once!"

"It was all the more noble in you to stand by me as you did. You
must have hated me when you knew how I was deceiving you all!"

"No, that was not it that made me hate you. It was before that.
Oh, Ruth, I did hate you!"

They were silent for some time, still holding each other's hands.
Ruth spoke first--

"And you are going to be married to-morrow!"

"Yes," said Jemima. "To-morrow at nine o'clock. But I don't think
I could have been married without coming to wish Mr. Benson and
Miss Faith good-bye."

"I will go for them," said Ruth.

"No, not just yet. I want to ask you one or two questions first.
Nothing very particular; only it seems as if there had been such
a strange, long separation between us. Ruth," said she, dropping
her voice, "is Leonard stronger than he was? I was so sorry to
hear about him from Walter. But he is better?" asked she
anxiously.

"Yes, he is better. Not what a boy of his age should be," replied
his mother, in a tone of quiet but deep mournfulness. "Oh,
Jemima!" continued she, "my sharpest punishment comes through
him. To think of what he might have been, and what he is."

"But Walter says he is both stronger in health, and not
so--nervous and shy;" Jemima added the last words in a hesitating
and doubtful manner, as if she did not know how to express her
full meaning without hurting Ruth.

"He does not show that he feels his disgrace so much. I cannot
talk about it, Jemima, my heart aches so about him. But he is
better," she continued, feeling that Jemima's kind anxiety
required an answer at any cost of pain to herself.

"He is only studying too closely now; he takes to his lessons
evidently as a relief from thought. He is very clever, and I hope
and trust, yet I tremble to say it, I believe he is very good."

"You must let him come and see us very often when we come back.
We shall be two months away. We are going to Germany, partly on
Walter's business. Ruth, I have been talking to papa to-night,
very seriously and quietly; and it has made me love him so much
more, and understand him so much better."

"Does he know of your coming here? I hope he does," said Ruth.

"Yes. Not that he liked my doing it at all. But, somehow, I can
always do things against a person's wishes more easily when I am
on good terms with them--that's not exactly what I meant; but now
to-night, after papa had had been showing me that he really loved
me more than I ever thought he had done (for I always fancied he
was so absorbed in Dick, he did not care much for us girls), I
felt brave enough to say that I intended to come here and bid you
all good-bye. He was silent for a minute, and then said I might
do it, but I must remember he did not approve of it, and was not
to be compromised by my coming; still I can tell that, at the
bottom of his heart, there is some of the old kindly feeling to
Mr. and Miss Benson, and I don't despair of its all being made
up, though, perhaps, I ought to say that mamma does."

"Mr. and Miss Benson won't hear of my going away," said Ruth
sadly.

"They are quite right."

"But I am earning nothing. I cannot get any employment. I am only
a burden and an expense."

"Are you not also a pleasure? And Leonard, is he not a dear
object of love? It is easy for me to talk, I know, who am so
impatient. Oh, I never deserved to be so happy as I am! You don't
know how good Walter is. I used to think him so cold and
cautious. But now, Ruth, will you tell Mr. and Miss Benson that I
am here? There is signing of papers, and I don't know what to be
done at home. And when I come back, I hope to see you often, if
you'll let me."

Mr. and Miss Benson gave her a warm greeting. Sally was called
in, and would bring a candle with her, to have a close inspection
of her, in order to see if she was changed--she had not seen her
for so long a time, she said; and Jemima stood laughing and
blushing in the middle of the room, while Sally studied her all
over, and would not be convinced that the old gown which she was
wearing for the last time was not one of the new wedding ones.
The consequence of which misunderstanding was, that Sally, in her
short petticoats and bedgown, turned up her nose at the
old-fashioned way in which Miss Bradshaw's gown was made. But
Jemima knew the old woman, and rather enjoyed the contempt for
her dress. At last she kissed them all, and ran away to her
impatient Mr. Farquhar, who was awaiting her.

Not many weeks after this, the poor old woman whom I have named
as having become a friend of Ruth's during Leonard's illness
three years ago, fell down and broke her hip-bone. It was a
serious, probably a fatal, injury, for one so old; and as soon as
Ruth heard of it she devoted all her leisure time to old Ann
Fleming. Leonard had now outstripped his mother's powers of
teaching, and Mr. Benson gave him his lessons; so Ruth was a
great deal at the cottage both night and day. There Jemima found
her one November evening, the second after their return from
their prolonged stay on the Continent. She and Mr. Farquhar had
been to the Bensons, and had sat there some time; and now Jemima
had come on just to see Ruth for five minutes, before the evening
was too dark for her to return alone. She found Ruth sitting on a
stool before the fire, which was composed of a few sticks on the
hearth. The blaze they gave was, however, enough to enable her to
read; and she was deep in study of the Bible in which she had
read aloud to the poor old woman, until the latter had fallen
asleep. Jemima beckoned her out, and they stood on the green just
before the open door, so that Ruth could see if Ann awoke.

"I have not many minutes to stay, only I felt as if I must see
you. And we want Leonard to come to us to see all our German
purchases, and hear all our German adventures. May he come
to-morrow?"

"Yes; thank you. Oh! Jemima, I have heard something--I have got a
plan that makes me so happy! I have not told any one yet. But Mr.
Wynne (the parish doctor, you know) has asked me if I would go
out as a sick nurse--he thinks he could find me employment."

"You, a sick nurse!" said Jemima, involuntarily glancing over the
beautiful lithe figure, and the lovely refinement of Ruth's face
as the light of the rising moon fell upon it. "My dear Ruth, I
don't think you are fitted for it!"

"Don't you?" said Ruth, a little disappointed. "I think I am; at
least, that I should be very soon. I like being about sick and
helpless people; I always feel so sorry for them; and then I
think I have the gift of a very delicate touch, which is such a
comfort in many cases. And I should try to be very watchful and
patient. Mr. Wynne proposed it himself."

"It was not in that way I meant you were not fitted for it. I
meant that you were fitted for something better. Why, Ruth, you
are better educated than I am!"

"But if nobody will allow me to teach?--for that is what I
suppose you mean. Besides, I feel as if all my education would be
needed to make me a good sick nurse."

"Your knowledge of Latin, for instance," said Jemima, hitting, in
her vexation at the plan, on the first acquirement of Ruth she
could think of.

"Well!" said Ruth, "that won't come amiss; I can read the
prescriptions."

"Which the doctors would rather you did not do."

"Still, you can't say that any knowledge of any kind will be in
my way, or will unfit me for my work."

"Perhaps not. But all your taste and refinement will be in your
way, and will unfit you."

"You have not thought about this so much as I have, or you would
not say so. Any fastidiousness I shall have to get rid of, and I
shall be better without; but any true refinement I am sure I
shall find of use; for don't you think that every power we have
may be made to help us in any right work, whatever that is? Would
you not rather be nursed by a person who spoke gently and moved
quietly about, than by a loud bustling woman?"

"Yes, to be sure; but a person unfit for anything else may move
quietly, and speak gently, and give medicine when the doctor
orders it, and keep awake at night; and those are the best
qualities I ever heard of in a sick nurse." Ruth was quite silent
for some time. At last she said, "At any rate it is work, and as
such I am thankful for it. You cannot discourage me--and perhaps
you know too little of what my life has been--how set apart in
idleness I have been--to sympathise with me fully."

"And I wanted you to come to see us--me in my new home. Walter
and I had planned that we would persuade you to come to us very
often" (she had planned, and Mr. Farquhar had consented); "and
now you will have to be fastened up in a sick-room."

"I could not have come," said Ruth quickly. "Dear Jemima! it is
like you to have thought of it--but I could not come to your
house. It is not a thing to reason about. It is just feeling. But
I do feel as if I could not go. Dear Jemima! if you are ill or
sorrowful, and want me, I will come----"

"So you would and must to any one, if you take up that calling."

"But I should come to you, love, in quite a different way; I
should go to you with my heart full of love--so full that I am
afraid I should be too anxious."

"I almost wish I were ill, that I might make you come at once."

"And I am almost ashamed to think how I should like you to be in
some position in which I could show you how well I remember that
day--that terrible day in the school-room. God bless you for it,
Jemima!"


CHAPTER XXX


THE FORGED DEED

Mr. Wynne, the parish surgeon, was right. He could and did obtain
employment for Ruth as a sick nurse. Her home was with the
Bensons; every spare moment was given to Leonard and to them; but
she was at the call of all the invalids in the town. At first her
work lay exclusively among the paupers. At first, too, there was
a recoil from many circumstances, which impressed upon her the
most fully the physical sufferings of those whom she tended. But
she tried to lose the sense of these--or rather to lessen them,
and make them take their appointed places--in thinking of the
individuals themselves, as separate from their decaying frames;
and all along she had enough self-command to control herself from
expressing any sign of repugnance. She allowed herself no nervous
haste of movement or touch that should hurt the feelings of the
poorest, most friendless creature, who ever lay a victim to
disease. There was no rough getting over of all the disagreeable
and painful work of her employment. When it was a lessening of
pain to have the touch careful and delicate, and the ministration
performed with gradual skill, Ruth thought of her charge, and not
of herself. As she had foretold, she found a use for all her
powers. The poor patients themselves were unconsciously gratified
and soothed by her harmony and refinement of manner, voice, and
gesture. If this harmony and refinement had been merely
superficial, it would not have had this balmy effect. That arose
from its being the true expression of a kind, modest, and humble
spirit. By degrees her reputation as a nurse spread upwards, and
many sought her good offices who could well afford to pay for
them. Whatever remuneration was offered to her, she took it
simply and without comment; for she felt that it was not hers to
refuse; that it was, in fact, owing to the Bensons for her and
her child's subsistence. She went wherever her services were
first called for. If the poor bricklayer, who broke both his legs
in a fall from the scaffolding, sent for her when she was
disengaged, she went and remained with him until he could spare
her, let who would be the next claimant. From the happy and
prosperous in all but health she would occasionally beg off; when
some one less happy and more friendless wished for her; and
sometimes she would ask for a little money from Mr. Benson to
give to such in their time of need. But it was astonishing how
much she was able to do without money.

Her ways were very quiet; she never spoke much. Any one who has
been oppressed with the weight of a vital secret for years, and
much more any one the character of whose life has been stamped by
one event, and that producing sorrow and shame, is naturally
reserved. And yet Ruth's silence was not like reserve; it was too
gentle and tender for that. It had more the effect of a hush of
all loud or disturbing emotions, and out of the deep calm the
words that came forth had a beautiful power. She did not talk
much about religion; but those who noticed her knew that it was
the unseen banner which she was following. The low-breathed
sentences which she spoke into the ear of the sufferer and the
dying carried them upwards to God.

She gradually became known and respected among the roughest boys
of the rough populace of the town. They would make way for her
when she passed along the streets with more deference than they
used to most; for all knew something of the tender care with
which she had attended this or that sick person, and, besides,
she was so often in connection with Death that something of the
superstitious awe with which the dead were regarded by those
rough boys in the midst of their strong life, surrounded her.

She herself did not feel changed. She felt just as faulty--as far
from being what she wanted to be, as ever. She best knew how many
of her good actions were incomplete, and marred with evil. She
did not feel much changed from the earliest Ruth she could
remember. Everything seemed to change but herself. Mr. and Miss
Benson grew old, and Sally grew deaf, and Leonard was shooting
up, and Jemima was a mother. She and the distant hills that she
saw from her chamber window, seemed the only things which were
the same as when she first came to Eccleston. As she sat looking
out, and taking her fill of solitude, which sometimes was her
most thorough rest--as she sat at the attic window looking
abroad--she saw their next-door neighbour carried out to sun
himself in his garden. When she first came to Eccleston, this
neighbour and his daughter were often seen taking long and
regular walks; by-and-by his walks became shorter, and the
attentive daughter would convoy him home, and set out afresh to
finish her own. Of late years he had only gone out in the garden
behind his house; but at first he had walked pretty briskly there
by his daughter's help--now he was carried, and placed in a
large, cushioned easy-chair, his head remaining where it was
placed against the pillow, and hardly moving when his kind
daughter, who was now middle-aged, brought him the first roses of
the summer. This told Ruth of the lapse of life and time.

Mr. and Mrs. Farquhar were constant in their attentions; but
there was no sign of Mr. Bradshaw ever forgiving the imposition
which had been practised upon him, and Mr. Benson ceased to hope
for any renewal of their intercourse. Still, he thought that he
must know of all the kind attentions which Jemima paid to them,
and of the fond regard which both she and her husband bestowed on
Leonard. This latter feeling even went so far that Mr. Farquhar
called one day, and with much diffidence begged Mr. Benson to
urge Ruth to let him be sent to school at his (Mr. Farquhar's)
expense.

Mr. Benson was taken by surprise, and hesitated. "I do not know.
It would be a great advantage in some respects; and yet I doubt
whether it would in others. His mother's influence over him is
thoroughly good, and I should fear that any thoughtless allusions
to his peculiar position might touch the raw spot in his mind."

"But he is so unusually clever, it seems a shame not to give him
all the advantages he can have. Besides, does he see much of his
mother now?"

"Hardly a day passes without her coming home to be an hour or so
with him, even at her busiest times; she says it is her best
refreshment. And often, you know, she is disengaged for a week or
two, except the occasional services which she is always rendering
to those who need her. Your offer is very tempting, but there is
so decidedly another view of the question to be considered, that
I believe we must refer it to her."

"With all my heart. Don't hurry her to a decision. Let her weigh
it well. I think she will find the advantages preponderate."

"I wonder if I might trouble you with a little business, Mr.
Farquhar, as you are here?"

"Certainly; I am only too glad to be of any use to you."

"Why, I see from the report of the Star Life Assurance Company in
the Times, which you are so good as to send me, that they have
declared a bonus on the shares; now it seems strange that I have
received no notification of it, and I thought that perhaps it
might be lying at your office, as Mr. Bradshaw was the purchaser
of the shares, and I have always received the dividends through
your firm."

Mr. Farquhar took the newspaper, and ran his eye over the report.

"I have no doubt that's the way of it," said he. "Some of our
clerks have been careless about it; or it may be Richard himself.
He is not always the most punctual and exact of mortals; but I'll
see about it. Perhaps after all it mayn't come for a day or two;
they have always such numbers of these circulars to send out."

"Oh! I'm in no hurry about it. I only want to receive it some
time before I incur any expenses, which the promise of this bonus
may tempt me to indulge in."

Mr. Farquhar took his leave. That evening there was a long
conference, for, as it happened, Ruth was at home. She was
strenuously against the school plan. She could see no advantages
that would counterbalance the evil which she dreaded from any
school for Leonard; namely, that the good opinion and regard of
the world would assume too high an importance in his eyes. The
very idea seemed to produce in her so much shrinking affright,
that by mutual consent the subject was dropped; to be taken up
again, or not, according to circumstances.

Mr. Farquhar wrote the next morning, on Mr. Benson's behalf, to
the Insurance Company, to inquire about the bonus. Although he
wrote in the usual formal way, he did not think it necessary to
tell Mr. Bradshaw what he had done; for Mr. Benson's name was
rarely mentioned between the partners; each had been made fully
aware of the views which the other entertained on the subject
that had caused the estrangement; and Mr. Farquhar felt that no
external argument could affect Mr. Bradshaw's resolved
disapproval and avoidance of his former minister.

As it happened, the answer from the Insurance Company (directed
to the firm) was given to Mr. Bradshaw along with the other
business letters. It was to the effect that Mr. Benson's shares
had been sold and transferred above a twelvemonth ago, which
sufficiently accounted for the circumstance that no notification
of the bonus had been sent to him.

Mr. Bradshaw tossed the letter on one side, not displeased to
have a good reason for feeling a little contempt at the
unbusiness-like forgetfulness of Mr. Benson, at. whose instance
some one had evidently been writing to the Insurance Company. On
Mr. Farquhar's entrance, he expressed this feeling to him.

"Really," he said, "these Dissenting ministers have no more
notion of exactitude in their affairs than a child! The idea of
forgetting that he has sold his shares, and applying for the
bonus, when it seems he has transferred them only a year ago!"

Mr. Farquhar was reading the letter while Mr. Bradshaw spoke.

"I don't quite understand it," said he. "Mr. Benson was quite
clear about it. He could not have received his half-yearly
dividends unless he had been possessed of these shares; and I
don't suppose Dissenting ministers, with all their ignorance of
business, are unlike other men in knowing whether or not they
receive the money that they believe to be owing to them."

"I should not wonder if they were--if Benson was, at any rate.
Why, I never knew his watch to be right in all my life--it was
always too fast or too slow; it must have been a daily discomfort
to him. It ought to have been. Depend upon it, his money matters
are just in the same irregular state; no accounts kept, I'll be
bound."

"I don't see that that follows," said Mr. Farquhar, half amused.
"That watch of his is a very curious one--belonged to his father
and grandfather, I don't know how far back."

"And the sentimental feelings which he is guided by prompt him to
keep it, to the inconvenience of himself and every one else."

Mr. Farquhar gave up the subject of the watch as hopeless.

"But about this letter. I wrote, at Mr. Benson's desire, to the
Insurance Office, and I am not satisfied with this answer. All
the transaction has passed through our hands. I do not think it
is likely Mr. Benson would write and sell the shares without, at
any rate, informing us at the time, even though he forgot all
about it afterwards."

"Probably he told Richard, or Mr. Watson."

"We can ask Mr. Watson at once. I am afraid we must wait till
Richard comes home, for I don't know where a letter would catch
him." Mr. Bradshaw pulled the bell that rang into the
head-clerk's room, saying as he did so--

"You may depend upon it, Farquhar, the blunder lies with Benson
himself. He is just the man to muddle away his money in
indiscriminate charity, and then to wonder what has become of
it."

Mr. Farquhar was discreet enough to hold his tongue.

"Mr. Watson," said Mr. Bradshaw, as the old clerk made his
appearance, "here is some mistake about those Insurance shares we
purchased for Benson ten or a dozen years ago. He spoke to Mr.
Farquhar about some bonus they are paying to the shareholders, it
seems; and, in reply to Mr. Farquhar's letter, the Insurance
Company say the shares were sold twelve months since. Have you
any knowledge of the transaction? Has the transfer passed through
your hands? By the way" (turning to Mr. Farquhar), "who kept the
certificates? Did Benson or we?"

"I really don't know," said Mr. Farquhar. "Perhaps Mr. Watson can
tell us."

Mr. Watson meanwhile was studying the letter. When he had ended
it, he took off his spectacles, wiped them, and replacing them,
he read it again.

"It seems very strange, sir," he said at length, with his
trembling, aged voice, "for I paid Mr. Benson the account of the
dividends myself last June, and got a receipt in form, and that
is since the date of the alleged transfer."

"Pretty nearly twelve months after it took place," said Mr.
Farquhar.

"How did you receive the dividends? An order on the Bank, along
with old Mrs. Cranmer's?" asked Mr. Bradshaw sharply.

"I don't know how they came. Mr. Richard gave me the money, and
desired me to get the receipt."

"It's unlucky Richard is from home," said Mr. Bradshaw; "he could
have cleared up this mystery for us."

Mr. Farquhar was silent.

"Do you know where the certificates were kept, Mr. Watson?" said
he.

"I'll not be sure, but I think they were with Mrs. Cranmer's
papers and deeds in box A, 24."

"I wish old Cranmer would have made any other man his executor.
She, too, is always coming with some unreasonable request or
other."

"Mr. Benson's inquiry about his bonus is perfectly reasonable, at
any rate." Mr. Watson, who was dwelling in the slow fashion of
age on what had been said before, now spoke--

"I'll not be sure, but I am almost certain, Mr. Benson said, when
I paid him last June, that he thought he ought to give the
receipt on a stamp, and had spoken about it to Mr. Richard the
time before, but that Mr. Richard said it was of no consequence.
Yes," continued he, gathering up his memory as he went on, "he
did--I remember now--and I thought to myself that Mr. Richard was
but a young man. Mr. Richard will know all about it."

"Yes," said Mr. Farquhar gravely.

"I shan't wait till Richard's return," said Mr. Bradshaw. "We can
soon see if the certificates are in the box Watson points out; if
they are there, the Insurance people are no more fit to manage
their concern than that cat, and I shall tell them so. If they
are not there (as I suspect will prove to be the case), it is
just forgetfulness on Benson's part, as I have said from the
first."

"You forget the payment of the dividends," said Mr. Farquhar, in
a low voice.

"Well, sir! what then?" said Mr. Bradshaw abruptly. While he
spoke--while his eye met Mr. Farquhar's--the hinted meaning of
the latter flashed through his mind; but he was only made angry
to find that such a suspicion could pass through any one's
imagination.

"I suppose I may go, sir," said Watson respectfully, an uneasy
consciousness of what was in Mr. Farquhar's thoughts troubling
the faithful old clerk.

"Yes. Go. What do you mean about the dividends?" asked Mr.
Bradshaw impetuously of Mr. Farquhar.

"Simply, that I think there can have been no forgetfulness--no
mistake on Mr. Benson's part," said Mr. Farquhar, unwilling to
put his dim suspicion into words.

"Then, of course, it is some blunder of that confounded Insurance
Company. I will write to them to-day, and make them a little
brisker and more correct in their statements."

"Don't you think it would be better to wait till Richard's
return? He may be able to explain it."

"No, sir!" said Mr. Bradshaw sharply. "I do not think it would be
better. It has not been my way of doing business to spare any
one, or any company, the consequences of their own carelessness;
nor to obtain information second-hand, when I could have it
direct from the source. I shall write to the Insurance Office by
the next post."

Mr. Farquhar saw that any further remonstrance on his part would
only aggravate his partner's obstinacy: and, besides, it was but
a suspicion,--an uncomfortable suspicion. It was possible that
some of the clerks at the Insurance Office might have made a
mistake. Watson was not sure, after all, that the certificates
had been deposited in box A, 24; and when he and Mr. Farquhar
could not find them there, the old man drew more and yet more
back from his first assertion of belief, that they had been
placed there.

Mr. Bradshaw wrote an angry and indignant reproach of
carelessness to the Insurance Company. By the next mail one of
their clerks came down to Eccleston; and, having leisurely
refreshed himself at the inn, and ordered his dinner with care,
he walked up to the great warehouse of Bradshaw & Co., and sent
in his card, with a pencil notification, "On the part of the Star
Insurance Company," to Mr. Bradshaw himself.

Mr. Bradshaw held the card in his hand for a minute or two
without raising his eyes. Then he spoke out loud and firm--

"Desire the gentleman to walk up. Stay! I will ring my bell in a
minute or two, and then show him upstairs."

When the errand-boy had closed the door, Mr. Bradshaw went to a
cupboard where he usually kept a glass and a bottle of wine (of
which he very seldom partook, for he was an abstemious man). He
intended now to take a glass, but the bottle was empty; and,
though there was plenty more to be had for ringing, or even
simply going into another room, he would not allow himself to do
this. He stood and lectured himself in thought.

"After all, I am a fool for once in my life. If the certificates
are in no box which I have yet examined, that does not imply they
may not be in some one which I have not had time to search.
Farquhar would stay so late last night! And, even if they are in
none of the boxes here, that does not prove----" He gave the bell
a jerking ring, and it was yet sounding when Mr. Smith, the
insurance clerk, entered.

The manager of the Insurance Company had been considerably
nettled at the tone of Mr. Bradshaw's letter; and had instructed
the clerk to assume some dignity at first in vindicating (as it
was well in his power to do) the character of the proceedings of
the Company, but at the same time he was not to go too far, for
the firm of Bradshaw & Co. was daily looming larger in the
commercial world, and if any reasonable explanation could be
given it was to be received, and bygones be bygones.

"Sit down, sir!" said Mr. Bradshaw.

"You are aware, sir, I presume, that I come on the part of Mr.
Dennison, the manager of the Star Insurance Company, to reply in
person to a letter of yours, of the 29th, addressed to him?"

Mr. Bradshaw bowed. "Avery careless piece of business," he said
stiffly. "Mr. Dennison does not think you will consider it as
such when you have seen the deed of transfer, which I am
commissioned to show you."

Mr. Bradshaw took the deed with a steady hand. He wiped his
spectacles quietly, without delay, and without hurry, and
adjusted them on his nose. It is possible that he was rather long
in looking over the document--at least, the clerk had just begun
to wonder if he was reading through the whole of it, instead of
merely looking at the signature, when Mr. Bradshaw said: "It is
possible that it may be----of course, you will allow me to take
this paper to Mr. Benson, to--to inquire if this be his
signature?"

"There can be no doubt of it, I think, sir," said the clerk,
calmly smiling, for he knew Mr. Benson's signature well.

"I don't know, sir--I don't know." (He was speaking as if the
pronunciation of every word required a separate effort of will,
like a man who has received a slight paralytic stroke.)

"You have heard, sir, of such a thing as forgery--forgery, sir?"
said he, repeating the last word very distinctly; for he feared
that the first time he had said it, it was rather slurred over.

"Oh, sir! there is no room for imagining such a thing, I assure
you. In our affairs we become aware of curious forgetfulness on
the part of those who are not of business habits."

"Still I should like to show it Mr. Benson, to prove to him his
forgetfulness, you know. I believe, on my soul, it is some of his
careless forgetfulness--I do, sir," said he. Now he spoke very
quickly. "It must have been. Allow me to convince myself. You
shall have it back to-night, or the first thing in the morning."

The clerk did not quite like to relinquish the deed, nor yet did
he like to refuse Mr. Bradshaw. If that very uncomfortable idea
of forgery should have any foundation in truth--and he had given
up the writing! There were a thousand chances to one against its
being anything but a stupid blunder; the risk was more imminent
of offending one of the directors.

As he hesitated, Mr. Bradshaw spoke very calmly, and almost with
a smile on his face. He had regained his self-command. "You are
afraid, I see. I assure you, you may trust me. If there has been
any fraud--if I have the slightest suspicion of the truth of the
surmise I threw out just now,"--he could not quite speak the bare
naked word that was chilling his heart--"I will not fail to aid
the ends of justice, even though the culprit should be my own
son."

He ended, as he began, with a smile--such a smile!--the stiff
lips refused to relax and cover the teeth. But all the time he
kept saying to himself--

"I don't believe it--I don't believe it. I'm convinced it's a
blunder of that old fool Benson."

But when he had dismissed the clerk, and secured the piece of
paper, he went and locked the door, and laid his head on his
desk, and moaned aloud. He had lingered in the office for the two
previous nights; at first, occupying himself in searching for the
certificates of the Insurance shares; but, when all the boxes and
other repositories for papers had been ransacked, the thought
took hold of him that they might be in Richard's private desk;
and, with the determination which overlooks the means to get at
the end, he had first tried all his own keys on the complicated
lock, and then broken it open with two decided blows of a poker,
the instrument nearest at hand. He did not find the certificates.
Richard had always considered himself careful in destroying any
dangerous or tell-tale papers; but the stern father found enough,
in what remained, to convince him that his pattern son--more even
than his pattern son, his beloved pride--was far other than what
he seemed.

Mr. Bradshaw did not skip or miss a word. He did not shrink while
he read. He folded up letter by letter; he snuffed the candle
when its light began to wane, and no sooner; but he did not miss
or omit one paper--he read every word. Then, leaving the letters
in a heap upon the table, and the broken desk to tell its own
tale, he locked the door of the room which was appropriated to
his son as junior partner, and carried the key away with him.

There was a faint hope, even after this discovery of many
circumstances of Richard's life, which shocked and dismayed his
father--there was still a faint hope that he might not be guilty
of forgery--that it might not be no forgery after all--only a
blunder--an omission--a stupendous piece of forgetfulness. That
hope was the one straw that Mr. Bradshaw clung to.

Late that night Mr. Benson sat in his study Every one else in the
house had gone to bed; but he was expecting a summons to some one
who was dangerously ill. He was not startled, therefore, at the
knock which came to the front door about twelve; but he was
rather surprised at the character of the knock, so slow and loud,
with a pause between each rap. His study-door was but a step from
that which led into the street. He opened it, and there
stood--Mr. Bradshaw; his large, portly figure not to be mistaken
even in the dusky night.

He said, "That is right. It was you I wanted to see." And he
walked straight into the study. Mr. Benson followed, and shut the
door. Mr. Bradshaw was standing by the table, fumbling in his
pocket. He pulled out the deed; and, opening it, after a pause,
in which you might have counted five, he held it out to Mr.
Benson.

"Read it!" said he. He spoke not another word until time had
been allowed for its perusal. Then he added--

"That is your signature?" The words were an assertion, but the
tone was that of question.

"No, it is not," said Mr. Benson decidedly. "It is very like my
writing. I could almost say it was mine, but I know it is not."

"Recollect yourself a little. The date is August the third of
last year, fourteen months ago. You may have forgotten it." The
tone of the voice had a kind of eager entreaty in it, which Mr.
Benson did not notice--he was so startled at the fetch of his own
writing.

"It is most singularly like mine; but I could not have signed
away these shares--all the property I have--without the slightest
remembrance of it."

"Stranger things have happened. For the love of Heaven, think if
you did not sign it. It's a deed to transfer for those Insurance
shares, you see. You don't remember it? You did not write this
name--these words?" He looked at Mr. Benson with craving
wistfulness for one particular answer. Mr. Benson was struck at
last by the whole proceeding, and glanced anxiously at Mr.
Bradshaw, whose manner, gait, and voice, were so different from
usual that he might well excite attention. But as soon as the
latter was aware of this momentary inspection, he changed his
tone all at once.

"Don't imagine, sir, I wish to force any invention upon you as a
remembrance. If you did not write this name, I know who did. Once
more I ask you--does no glimmering recollection of--having needed
money, we'll say--I never wanted you to refuse my subscription to
the chapel, God knows!--of having sold these accursed
shares?--Oh! I see by your face you did not write it; you need
not to speak to me--I know."

He sank down into a chair near him. His whole figure drooped. In
a moment he was up, and standing straight as an arrow,
confronting Mr. Benson, who could find n6 clue to this stern
man's agitation.

"You say you did not write these words?" pointing to the
signature, with an untrembling finger. "I believe you; Richard
Bradshaw did write them."

"My dear sir--my dear old friend!" exclaimed Mr. Benson, "you are
rushing to a conclusion for which, I am convinced, there is no
foundation; there is no reason to suppose that because----"

"There is reason, sir. Do not distress yourself--I am perfectly
calm." His stony eyes and immovable face did indeed look rigid.
"What we have now to do is to punish the offence. I have not one
standard for myself and those I love--(and, Mr. Benson, I did
love him)--and another for the rest of the world. If a stranger
had forged my name, I should have known it was my duty to
prosecute him. You must prosecute Richard."

"I will not," said Mr. Benson.

"You think, perhaps, that I shall feel it acutely. You are
mistaken. He is no longer as my son to me. I have always resolved
to disown any child of mine who was guilty of sin. I disown
Richard. He is as a stranger to me. I shall feel no more at his
exposure--his punishment----" He could not go on for his voice
was choking. "Of course, you understand that I must feel shame at
our connection; it is that that is troubling me; that is but
consistent with a man who has always prided himself on the
integrity of his name; but as for that boy, who has been brought
up all his life as I have brought up my children, it must be some
innate wickedness! Sir, I can cut him off, though he has been as
my right hand--beloved. Let me be no hindrance to the course of
justice, I beg. He has forged your name--he has defrauded you of
money--of your all, I think you said."

"Some one has forged my name. I am not convinced that it was your
son. Until I know all the circumstances, I decline to prosecute."

"What circumstances?" asked Mr. Bradshaw, in an authoritative
manner, which would have shown irritation but for his
self-command.

"The force of the temptation--the previous habits of the
person----"

"Of Richard. He is the person," Mr. Bradshaw put in.

Mr. Benson went on, without taking any notice. "I should think it
right to prosecute, if I found out that this offence against me
was only one of a series committed, with premeditation, against
society. I should then feel, as a protector of others more
helpless than myself----"

"It was your all," said Mr. Bradshaw.

"It was all my money; it was not my all," replied Mr. Benson; and
then he went on as if the interruption had never been--"Against
an habitual offender. I shall not prosecute Richard. Not because
he is your son--do not imagine that! I should decline taking such
a step against any young man without first ascertaining the
particulars about him, which I know already about Richard, and
which determine me against doing what would blast his character
for life--would destroy every good quality he has."

"What good quality remains to him?" asked Mr. Bradshaw. "He has
deceived me--he has offended God."

"Have we not all offended Him?" Mr. Benson said in a low tone.

"Not consciously. I never do wrong consciously. But
Richard--Richard." The remembrance of the undeceiving letters--the 
forgery--filled up his heart so completely that he could not speak 
for a minute or two. Yet when he saw Mr. Benson on the point of 
saying something, he broke in--

"It is no use talking, sir. You and I cannot agree on these
subjects. Once more, I desire you to prosecute that boy, who is
no longer a child of mine."

"Mr. Bradshaw, I shall not prosecute him. I have said it once for
all. To-morrow you will be glad that I do not listen to you. I
should only do harm by saying more at present."

There is always something aggravating in being told, that the
mood in which we are now viewing things strongly will not be our
mood at some other time. It implies that our present feelings are
blinding us, and that some more clear-sighted spectator is able
to distinguish our future better than we do ourselves. The most
shallow person dislikes to be told that any one can gauge his
depth. Mr. Bradshaw was not soothed by this last remark of Mr.
Benson's. He stooped down to take up his hat and be gone. Mr.
Benson saw his dizzy way of groping, and gave him what he sought
for; but he received no word of thanks. Mr. Bradshaw went
silently towards the door, but, just as he got there, he turned
round, and said--

"If there were more people like me, and fewer like you, there
would be less evil in the world, sir. It's your sentimentalists
that nurse up sin." Although Mr. Benson had been very calm during
this interview, he had been much shocked by what had been let out
respecting Richard's forgery; not by the fact itself so much as
by what it was a sign of. Still, he had known the young man from
childhood, and had seen, and often regretted, that his want of
moral courage had rendered him peculiarly liable to all the bad
effects arising from his father's severe and arbitrary mode of
treatment. Dick would never have had "pluck" enough to be a
hardened villain, under any circumstances: but, unless some good
influence some strength, was brought to bear upon him, he might
easily sink into the sneaking scoundrel. Mr. Benson determined to
go to Mr. Farquhar's the first thing in the morning, and consult
him as a calm, clear-headed family friend--partner in the
business, as well as son- and brother-in-law to the people
concerned.


CHAPTER XXXI


AN ACCIDENT TO THE DOVER COACH

While Mr. Benson lay awake for fear of oversleeping himself, and
so being late at Mr. Farquhar's (it was somewhere about six
o'clock--dark as an October morning is at that time), Sally came
to his door and knocked. She was always an early riser; and if
she had not been gone to bed long before Mr. Bradshaw's visit
last night, Mr. Benson might safely have trusted to her calling
him.

"Here's a woman down below as must see you directly. She'll be
upstairs after me if you're not down quick."

"Is it any one from Clarke's?"

"No, no! not it, master," said she through the keyhole; "I reckon
it's Mrs. Bradshaw, for all she's muffled up."

He needed no other word. When he went down, Mrs. Bradshaw sat in
his easy-chair, swaying her body to and fro, and crying without
restraint. Mr. Benson came up to her, before she was aware that
he was there.

"Oh! sir," said she, getting up and taking hold of both his
hands, "you won't be so cruel, will you? I have got some money
somewhere--some money my father settled on me, sir; I don't know
how much, but I think it's more than two thousand pounds, and you
shall have it all. If I can't give it you now, I'll make a will,
sir. Only be merciful to poor Dick--don't go and prosecute him,
sir."

"My dear Mrs. Bradshaw, don't you agitate yourself in this way. I
never meant to prosecute him."

"But Mr. Bradshaw says that you must."

"I shall not, indeed. I have told Mr. Bradshaw so."

"Has he been here? Oh! is not he cruel? I don't care. I have been
a good wife till now. I know I have. I have done all he bid me,
ever since we were married. But now I will speak my mind, and say
to everybody how cruel he is--how hard to his own flesh and
blood! If he puts poor Dick in prison, I will go too. If I'm to
choose between my husband and my son, I choose my son; for he
will have no friends, unless I am with him."

"Mr. Bradshaw will think better of it. You will see that, when
his first anger and disappointment are over, he will not be hard
or cruel."

"You don't know Mr. Bradshaw," said she mournfully, "if you think
he'll change. I might beg and beg--I have done many a time, when
we had little children, and I wanted to save them a whipping--but
no begging ever did any good. At last I left it off. He'll not
change."

"Perhaps not for human entreaty. Mrs. Bradshaw, is there nothing
more powerful?"

The tone of his voice suggested what he did not say.

"If you mean that God may soften his heart," replied she humbly,
"I'm not going to deny God's power--I have need to think of Him,"
she continued, bursting into fresh tears, "for I am a very
miserable woman. Only think! he cast it up against me last night,
and said, if I had not spoilt Dick this never would have
happened."

"He hardly knew what he was saying last night. I will go to Mr.
Farquhar's directly, and see him; and you had better go home, my
dear Mrs. Bradshaw; you may rely upon our doing all that we can."

With some difficulty he persuaded her not to accompany him to Mr.
Farquhar's; but he had, indeed, to take her to her own door,
before he could convince her that, at present, she could do
nothing but wait the result of the consultations of others.

It was before breakfast, and Mr. Farquhar was alone; so Mr.
Benson had a quiet opportunity of telling the whole story to the
husband before the wife came down. Mr. Farquhar was not much
surprised, though greatly distressed. The general opinion he had
always entertained of Richard's character had predisposed him to
fear, even before the inquiry respecting the Insurance shares.
But it was still a shock when it came, however much it might have
been anticipated.

"What can we do?" said Mr. Benson, as Mr. Farquhar sat gloomily
silent.

"That is just what I was asking myself. I think I must see Mr.
Bradshaw, and try and bring him a little out of this unmerciful
frame of mind. That must be the first thing. Will you object to
accompany me at once? It seems of particular consequence that we
should subdue its obduracy before the affair gets wind."

"I will go with you willingly. But I believe I rather serve to
irritate Mr. Bradshaw; he is reminded of things he has said to me
formerly, and which he thinks he is bound to act up to. However,
I can walk with you to the door, and wait for you (if you'll
allow me) in the street. I want to know how he is to-day, both
bodily and mentally; for indeed, Mr. Farquhar, I should not have
been surprised last night if he had dropped down dead, so
terrible was his strain upon himself."

Mr. Benson was left at the door as he had desired, while Mr.
Farquhar went in.

"Oh, Mr. Farquhar, what is the matter?" exclaimed the girls,
running to him.

"Mamma sits crying in the old nursery. We believe she has been
there all night. She will not tell us what it is, nor let us be
with her; and papa is locked up in his room, and won't even
answer us when we speak, though we know he is up and awake, for
we heard him tramping about all night."

"Let me go up to him," said Mr. Farquhar.

"He won't let you in. It will be of no use." But in spite of what
they said, he went up; and to their surprise, after hearing who
it was, their father opened the door, and admitted their
brother-in-law. He remained with Mr. Bradshaw about hall-an-hour,
and then came into the dining-room, where the two girls stood
huddled over the fire, regardless of the untasted breakfast
behind them; and, writing a few lines, he desired them to take
his note up to their mother, saying that it would comfort her a
little, and that he should send Jemima, in two or three hours,
with the baby--perhaps to remain some days with him. He had no
time to tell them more; Jemima would.

He left them, and rejoined Mr. Benson. "Come home and breakfast
with me. I am off to London in an hour or two, and must speak
with you first."

On reaching his house, he ran upstairs to ask Jemima to breakfast
alone in her dressing-room, and returned in five minutes or less.

"Now I can tell you about it," said he. "I see my way clearly to
a certain point. We must prevent Dick and his father meeting just
now, or all hope of Dick's reformation is gone for ever. His
father is as hard as the nether millstone. He has forbidden me
his house."

"Forbidden you!"

"Yes; because I would not give up Dick as utterly lost and bad;
and because I said I should return to London with the clerk, and
fairly tell Dennison (he's a Scotchman, and a man of sense and
feeling) the real state of the case. By the way, we must not say
a word to the clerk; otherwise he will expect an answer, and make
out all sorts of inferences for himself, from the unsatisfactory
reply he must have. Dennison will be upon honour--will see every
side of the case--will know you refuse to prosecute; the Company
of which he is manager are no losers. Well! when I said what I
thought wise, of all this--when I spoke as if my course were a
settled and decided thing, the grim old man asked me if he was to
be an automaton in his own house. He assured me he had no feeling
for Dick--all the time he was shaking like an aspen; in short,
repeating much the same things he must have said to you last
night. However, I defied him, and the consequence is, I'm
forbidden the house, and, what is more, he says he will not come
to the office while I remain a partner."

"What shall you do?"

"Send Jemima and the baby. There's nothing like a young child for
bringing people round to a healthy state of feeling; and you
don't know what Jemima is, Mr. Benson! No! though you've known
her from her birth. If she can't comfort her mother, and if the
baby can't steal into her grandfather's heart, why--I don't know
what you may do to me. I shall tell Jemima all, and trust to her
wit and wisdom to work at this end, while I do my best at the
other."

"Richard is abroad, is not he?"

"He will be in England to-morrow. I must catch him somewhere; but
that I can easily do. The difficult point will be, what to do
with him--what to say to him, when I find him. He must give up
his partnership, that's clear. I did not tell his father so, but
I am resolved upon it. There shall be no tampering with the
honour of the firm to which I belong."

"But what will become of him?" asked Mr. Benson anxiously.

"I do not yet know. But, for Jemima's sake--for his dour old
father's sake--I will not leave him adrift. I will find him some
occupation as clear from temptation as I can. I will do all in my
power. And he will do much better, if he has any good in him, as
a freer agent, not cowed by his father into a want of
individuality and self-respect. I believe I must dismiss you, Mr.
Benson," said he, looking at his watch; "I have to explain all to
my wife, and to go to that clerk. You shall hear from me in a day
or two."

Mr. Benson half envied the younger man's elasticity of mind, and
power of acting promptly. He himself felt as if he wanted to sit
down in his quiet study, and think over the revelations and
events of the last twenty-four hours. It made him dizzy even to
follow Mr. Farquhar's plans, as he had briefly detailed them; and
some solitude and consideration would be required before Mr.
Benson could decide upon their justice and wisdom. He had been
much shocked by the discovery of the overt act of guilt which
Richard had perpetrated, low as his opinion of that young man had
been for some time; and the consequence was, that he felt
depressed, and unable to rally for the next few days. He had not
even the comfort of his sister's sympathy, as he felt bound in
honour not to tell her anything; and she was luckily so much
absorbed in some household contest with Sally that she did not
notice her brother's quiet languor.

Mr. Benson felt that he had no right at this time to intrude into
the house which he had been once tacitly forbidden. If he went
now to Mr. Bradshaw's without being asked, or sent for, he
thought it would seem like presuming on his knowledge of the
hidden disgrace of one of the family. Yet he longed to go: he
knew that Mr. Farquhar must be writing almost daily to Jemima,
and he wanted to hear what he was doing. The fourth day after her
husband's departure she came, within half-an-hour after the post
delivery, and asked to speak to Mr. Benson alone.

She was in a state of great agitation, and had evidently been
crying very much.

"Oh, Mr. Benson!" said she, "will you come with me, and tell papa
this sad news about Dick? Walter has written me a letter at last,
to say he has found him--he could not at first; but now it seems
that, the day before yesterday, he heard of an accident which had
happened to the Dover coach; it was overturned--two passengers
killed, and several badly hurt. Walter says we ought to be
thankful, as he is, that Dick was not killed. He says it was such
a relief to him on going to the place--the little inn nearest to
where the coach was overturned--to find that Dick was only
severely injured; not one of those who was killed. But it is a
terrible shock to us all. We had had no more dreadful fear to
lessen the shock; mamma is quite unfit for anything, and we none
of us dare to tell papa." Jemima had hard work to keep down her
sobs thus far, and now they overmastered her.

"How is your father? I have wanted to hear every day," asked Mr.
Benson tenderly.

"It was careless of me not to come and tell you; but, indeed, I
have had so much to do. Mamma would not go near him. He has said
something which she seems as if she could not forgive. Because he
came to meals, she would not. She has almost lived in the
nursery; taking out all Dick's old playthings, and what clothes
of his were left, and turning them over, and crying over them."

"Then Mr. Bradshaw has joined you again; I was afraid, from what
Mr. Farquhar said, he was going to isolate himself from you all?"

"I wish he had," said Jemima, crying afresh. "It would have been
more natural than the way he has gone on; the only difference
from his usual habit is, that he has never gone near the office,
or else he has come to meals just as usual, and talked just as
usual; and even done what I never knew him do before, tried to
make jokes--all in order to show us how little he cares."

"Does he not go out at all?"

"Only in the garden. I am sure he does care after all; he must
care; he cannot shake off a child in this way, though he thinks
he can; and that makes me so afraid of telling him of this
accident. Will you come, Mr. Benson?"

He needed no other word. He went with her, as she rapidly
threaded her way through the by-streets. When they reached the
house, she went in without knocking, and, putting her husband's
letter into Mr. Benson's hand, she opened the door of her
father's room, and saying--"Papa, here is Mr. Benson," left them
alone.

Mr. Benson felt nervously incapable of knowing what to do, or to
say. He had surprised Mr. Bradshaw sitting idly over the
fire--gazing dreamily into the embers. But he had started up, and
drawn his chair to the table, on seeing his visitor; and, after
the first necessary words of politeness were over, ho seemed to
expect him to open the conversation.

"Mrs. Farquhar has asked me," said Mr. Benson, plunging into the
subject with a trembling heart, "to tell you about a letter she
has received from her husband;" he stopped for an instant, for he
felt that he did not get nearer the real difficulty, and yet
could not tell the best way of approaching it.

"She need not have given you that trouble. I am aware of the
reason of Mr. Farquhar's absence. I entirely disapprove of his
conduct. He is regardless of my wishes; and disobedient to the
commands which, as my son-in-law, I thought he would have felt
bound to respect. If there is any more agreeable subject that you
can introduce, I shall be glad to hear you, sir."

"Neither you, nor I, must think of what we like to hear or to
say. You must hear what concerns your son."

"I have disowned the young man who was my son," replied he
coldly.

"The Dover coach has been overturned," said Mr. Benson,
stimulated into abruptness by the icy sternness of the father.
But, in a flash, he saw what lay below that terrible assumption
of indifference. Mr. Bradshaw glanced up in his face one look of
agony--and then went grey-pale; so livid that Mr. Benson got up
to ring the bell in affright, but Mr. Bradshaw motioned to him to
sit still.

"Oh! I have been too sudden, sir--he is alive, he is alive!" he
exclaimed, as he saw the ashy face working in a vain attempt to
speak; but the poor lips (so wooden, not a minute ago) went
working on and on, as if Mr. Benson's words did not sink down
into the mind, or reach the understanding. Mr. Benson went
hastily for Mrs. Farquhar.

"Oh, Jemima!" said he, "I have done it so badly--I have been so
cruel--he is very ill, I fear--bring water, brandy----" and he
returned with all speed into the room. Mr. Bradshaw--the great,
strong, iron man--lay back in his chair in a swoon, a fit.

"Fetch my mother, Mary. Send for the doctor, Elizabeth," said
Jemima, rushing to her father. She and Mr. Benson did. all in
their power to restore him. Mrs. Bradshaw forgot all her vows of
estrangement from the dead-like husband, who might never speak to
her, or hear her again, and bitterly accused herself for every
angry word she had spoken against him during these last few
miserable days.

Before the doctor came, Mr. Bradshaw had opened his eyes and
partially rallied, although he either did not, or could not
speak. He looked struck down into old age. His eyes were
senseless in their expression, but had the dim glaze of many
years of life upon them. His lower jaw fell from his upper one,
giving a look of melancholy depression to the face, although the
lips hid the unclosed teeth. But he answered correctly (in
monosyllables, it is true) all the questions which the doctor
chose to ask. And the medical man was not so much impressed with
the serious character of the seizure as the family, who knew all
the hidden mystery behind, and had seen their father lie for the
first time with the precursor aspect of death upon his face.
Rest, watching, and a little medicine, were what the doctor
prescribed it was so slight a prescription, for what had appeared
to Mr. Benson so serious an attack, that he wished to follow the
medical man out of the room to make further inquiries, and learn
the real opinion which he thought must lurk behind. But, as he
was following the doctor, he--they all--were aware of the effort
Mr. Bradshaw was making to rise, in order to arrest Mr. Benson's
departure. He did stand up, supporting himself with one hand on
the table, for his legs shook under him. Mr. Benson came back
instantly to the spot where he was. For a moment it seemed as if
he had not the right command of his voice: but at last he said,
with a tone of humble, wistful entreaty, which was very
touching--

"He is alive, sir; is he not?"

"Yes, sir--indeed he is; he is only hurt. He is sure to do well.
Mr. Farquhar is with him," said Mr. Benson, almost unable to
speak for tears.

Mr. Bradshaw did not remove his eyes from Mr. Benson's face for
more than a minute after his question had been answered. He
seemed as though he would read his very soul, and there see if he
spoke the truth. Satisfied at last, he sank slowly into his
chair; and they were silent for a little space, waiting to
perceive if he would wish for any further information just then.
At length he put his hands slowly together in the clasped
attitude of prayer, and said--"Thank God!"


CHAPTER XXXII


THE BRADSHAW PEW AGAIN OCCUPIED

If Jemima allowed herself now and then to imagine that one good
would result from the discovery of Richard's delinquency, in the
return of her father and Mr. Benson to something of their old
understanding and their old intercourse--if this hope fluttered
through her mind, it was doomed to disappointment. Mr. Benson
would have been most happy to go, if Mr. Bradshaw had sent for
him he was on the watch for what might be even the shadow of such
an invitation--but none came. Mr. Bradshaw, on his part, would
have been thoroughly glad if the wilful seclusion of his present
life could have been broken by the occasional visits of the old
friend whom he had once forbidden the house; but, this
prohibition having passed his lips, he stubbornly refused to do
anything which might be construed into unsaying it. Jemima was
for some time in despair of his ever returning to the office, or
resuming his old habits of business. He had evidently threatened
as much to her husband. All that Jemima could do was to turn a
deaf ear to every allusion to this menace, which he threw out
from time to time, evidently with a view to see if it had struck
deep enough into her husband's mind for him to have repeated it
to his wife. If Mr. Farquhar had named it--if it was known only
to two or three to have been, but for one half-hour even, his
resolution--Mr. Bradshaw could have adhered to it, without any
other reason than the maintenance of what he called consistency,
but which was in fact doggedness. Jemima was often thankful that
her mother was absent, and gone to nurse her son. If she had been
at home, she would have entreated and implored her husband to
fall back into his usual habits, and would have shown such a
dread of his being as good as his word, that he would have been
compelled to adhere to it by the very consequence affixed to it.
Mr. Farquhar had hard work, as it was, in passing rapidly enough
between the two places--attending to his business at Eccleston;
and deciding, comforting, and earnestly talking, in Richard's
sick-room. During an absence of his, it was necessary to apply to
one of the partners on some matter of importance; and
accordingly, to Jemima's secret joy, Mr. Watson came up and asked
if her father was well enough to see him on business? Jemima
carried in this inquiry literally; and the hesitating answer
which her father gave was in the affirmative. It was not long
before she saw him leave the house, accompanied by the faithful
old clerk; and when he met her at dinner he made no allusion to
his morning visitor, or to his subsequent going out. But from
that time forwards he went regularly to the office. He received
all the information about Dick's accident, and his progress
towards recovery, in perfect silence, and in as indifferent a
manner as he could assume; but yet he lingered about the family
sitting-room every morning until the post had come in which
brought all letters from the south.

When Mr. Farquhar at last returned to bring the news of Dick's
perfect convalescence, he resolved to tell Mr. Bradshaw all that
he had done and arranged for his son's future career; but, as Mr.
Farquhar told Mr. Benson afterwards, he could not really say if
Mr. Bradshaw had attended to one word that he said.

"Rely upon it," said Mr. Benson, "he has not only attended to it,
but treasured up every expression you have used."

"Well, I tried to get some opinion, or sign of emotion, out of
him. I had not much hope of the latter, I must own; but I thought
he would have said whether I had done wisely or not in procuring
that Glasgow situation for Dick--that he would, perhaps, have
been indignant at my ousting him from the partnership so entirely
on my own responsibility."

"How did Richard take it?"

"Oh, nothing could exceed his penitence. If one had never heard
of the proverb, 'When the devil was sick, the devil a monk would
be,' I should have had greater faith in him; or if he had had
more strength of character to begin with, or more reality and
less outward appearance of good principle instilled into him.
However, this Glasgow situation is the very thing; clear, defined
duties, no great trust reposed in him, a kind and watchful head,
and introductions to a better class of associates than I fancy he
has ever been thrown amongst before. For, you know, Mr. Bradshaw
dreaded all intimacies for his son, and wanted him to eschew all
society beyond his own family--would never allow him to ask a
friend home. Really, when I think of the unnatural life Mr.
Bradshaw expected him to lead, I get into charity with him, and
have hopes. By the way, have you ever succeeded in persuading his
mother to send Leonard to school? He may run the same risk from
isolation as Dick: not be able to choose his companions wisely
when he grows up, but be too much overcome by the excitement of
society to be very discreet as to who are his associates. Have
you spoken to her about my plan?"

"Yes! but to no purpose. I cannot say that she would even admit
an argument on the subject. She seemed to have an invincible
repugnance to the idea of exposing him to the remarks of other
boys on his peculiar position."

"They need never know of it. Besides, sooner or later, he must
step out of his narrow circle, and encounter remark and scorn."

"True," said Mr. Benson mournfully. "And you may depend upon it,
if it really is the best for Leonard, she will come round to it
by-and-by. It is almost extraordinary to see the way in which her
earnest and most unselfish devotion to this boy's real welfare
leads her to right and wise conclusions."

"I wish I could tame her so as to let me meet her as a friend.
Since the baby was born, she comes to see Jemima. My wife tells
me, that she sits and holds it soft in her arms, and talks to it
as if her whole soul went out to the little infant. But if she
hears a strange footstep on the stair, what Jemima calls the
'wild-animal look' comes back into her eyes, and she steals away
like some frightened creature. With all that she has done to
redeem her character, she should not be so timid of observation.

"You may well say 'with all that she has done!' We of her own
household hear little or nothing of what she does. If she wants
help, she simply tells us how and why; but if not--perhaps
because it is some relief to her to forget for a time the scenes
of suffering in which she has been acting the part of comforter,
and perhaps because there always was a shy, sweet reticence about
her--we never should know what she is and what she does, except
from the poor people themselves, who would bless her in words if
the very thought of her did not choke them with tears. Yet, I do
assure you, she passes out of all this gloom, and makes sunlight
in our house. We are never so cheerful as when she is at home.
She always had the art of diffusing peace, but now it is positive
cheerfulness. And about Leonard; I doubt if the wisest and most
thoughtful schoolmaster could teach half as much directly, as his
mother does unconsciously and indirectly every hour that he is
with her. Her noble, humble, pious endurance of the consequences
of what was wrong in her early life seems expressly fitted to act
upon him, whose position is (unjustly, for he has done no harm)
so similar to hers."

"Well! I suppose we must leave it alone for the present. You will
think me a hard practical man when I own to you, that all I
expect from Leonard's remaining a home-bird is that, with such a
mother, it will do him no harm. At any rate, remember my offer is
the same for a year--two years hence, as now. What does she look
forward to making him into, finally?"

"I don't know. The wonder comes into my mind sometimes; but never
into hers, I think. It is part of her character--part perhaps of
that which made her what she was--that she never looks forward,
and seldom back. The present is enough for her."

And so the conversation ended. When Mr. Benson repeated the
substance of it to his sister, she mused awhile, breaking out
into an occasional whistle (although she had cured herself of
this habit in a great measure), and at last she said--

"Now, do you know, I never liked poor Dick; and yet I'm angry
with Mr. Farquhar for getting him out of the partnership in such
a summary way. I can't get over it, even though he has offered to
send Leonard to school. And here he's reigning lord-paramount at
the office! As if you, Thurstan, weren't as well able to teach
him as any schoolmaster in England! But I should not mind that
affront, if I were not sorry to think of Dick (though I never
could abide him) labouring away in Glasgow for a petty salary of
nobody knows how little, while Mr. Farquhar is taking halves,
instead of thirds, of the profits here!"

But her brother could not tell her--and even Jemima did not know
till long afterwards--that the portion of income which would have
been Dick's as a junior partner, if he had remained in the
business, was carefully laid aside for him by Mr. Farquhar; to be
delivered up, with all its accumulative interest, when the
prodigal should have proved his penitence by his conduct.

When Ruth had no call upon her time, it was indeed a holiday at
Chapel-house. She threw off as much as she could of the care and
sadness in which she had been sharing; and returned fresh and
helpful, ready to go about in her soft, quiet way, and fill up
every measure of service, and heap it with the fragrance of her
own sweet nature. The delicate mending, that the elder women
could no longer see to do, was put by for Ruth's swift and nimble
fingers. The occasional copying, or patient writing to dictation,
that gave rest to Mr. Benson's weary spine, was done by her with
sunny alacrity. But, most of all, Leonard's heart rejoiced when
his mother came home. Then came the quiet confidences, the tender
exchange of love, the happy walks from which he returned stronger
and stronger--going from strength to strength as his mother led
the way. It was well, as they saw now, that the great shock of
the disclosure had taken place when it did. She, for her part,
wondered at her own cowardliness in having even striven to keep
back the truth from her child--the truth that was so certain to
be made clear, sooner or later, and which it was only owing to
God's mercy that she was alive to encounter with him, and, by so
encountering, shield and give him good courage. Moreover, in her
secret heart, she was thankful that all occurred while he was yet
too young to have much curiosity as to his father. If an
unsatisfied feeling of this kind occasionally stole into his
mind, at any rate she never heard any expression of it; for the
past was a sealed book between them. And so, in the bright
strength of good endeavour, the days went on, and grew again to
months and years. Perhaps one little circumstance which occurred
during this time had scarcely external importance enough to be
called an event; but in Mr. Benson's mind it took rank as such.
One day, about a year after Richard Bradshaw had ceased to be a
partner in his father's house, Mr. Benson encountered Mr.
Farquhar in the street, and heard from him of the creditable and
respectable manner in which Richard was conducting himself in
Glasgow, where Mr. Farquhar had lately been on business.

"I am determined to tell his father of this," said he; "I think
his family are far too obedient to his tacit prohibition of all
mention of Richard's name."

"Tacit prohibition?" inquired Mr. Benson.

"Oh! I dare say I use the words in a wrong sense for the
correctness of a scholar; but what I mean is, that he made a
point of immediately leaving the room if Richard's name was
mentioned; and did it in so marked a manner, that by degrees they
understood that it was their father's desire that he should never
be alluded to; which was all very well as long as there was
nothing pleasant to be said about him; but to-night I am going
there, and shall take good care he does not escape me before I
have told him all I have heard and observed about Richard. He
will never be a hero of virtue, for his education has drained him
of all moral courage; but with care, and the absence of all
strong temptation for a time, he will do very well; nothing to
gratify paternal pride, but certainly nothing to be ashamed of."

It was on the Sunday after this that the little circumstance to
which I have alluded took place.

During the afternoon service, Mr. Benson became aware that the
large Bradshaw pew was no longer unoccupied. In a dark corner Mr.
Bradshaw's white head was to be seen, bowed down low in prayer.
When last he had worshipped there, the hair on that head was
iron-grey, and even in prayer he had stood erect, with an air of
conscious righteousness sufficient for all his wants, and even
some to spare with which to judge others. Now, that white and
hoary head was never uplifted; part of his unobtrusiveness might,
it is true, be attributed to the uncomfortable feeling which was
sure to attend any open withdrawal of the declaration he had once
made, never to enter the chapel in which Mr. Benson was minister
again; and as such a feeling was natural to all men, and
especially to such a one as Mr. Bradshaw, Mr. Benson
instinctively respected it, and passed out of the chapel with his
household, without ever directing his regards to the obscure
place where Mr. Bradshaw still remained immovable.

From this day Mr. Benson felt sure that the old friendly feeling
existed once more between them, although some time might elapse
before any circumstance gave the signal for a renewal of their
intercourse.


CHAPTER XXXIII


A MOTHER TO BE PROUD OF

Old people tell of certain years when typhus fever swept over the
country like a pestilence; years that bring back the remembrance
of deep sorrow--refusing to be comforted--to many a household;
and which those whose beloved passed through the fiery time
unscathed, shrink from recalling for great and tremulous was the
anxiety--miserable the constant watching for evil symptoms; and
beyond the threshold of home a dense cloud of depression hung
over society at large. It seemed as if the alarm was
proportionate to the previous light-heartedness of fancied
security--and indeed it was so; for, since the days of King
Belshazzar, the solemn decrees of Doom have ever seemed most
terrible when they awe into silence the merry revellers of life.
So it was this year to which I come in the progress of my story.

The summer had been unusually gorgeous. Some had complained of
the steaming heat, but others had pointed to the lush vegetation,
which was profuse and luxuriant. The early autumn was wet and
cold, but people did not regard it, n contemplation of some proud
rejoicing of the nation, which filled every newspaper and gave
food to every tongue. In Eccleston these rejoicings were greater
than in most places; for, by the national triumph of arms, it was
supposed that a new market for the staple manufacture of the
place would be opened; and so the trade, which had for a year or
two been languishing, would now revive with redoubled vigour.
Besides these legitimate causes of good spirits, there was the
rank excitement of a coming election, in consequence of Mr. Donne
having accepted a Government office, procured for him by one of
his influential relations. This time, the Cranworths roused
themselves from their magnificent torpor of security in good
season, and were going through a series of pompous and ponderous
hospitalities, in order to bring back the Eccleston voters to
their allegiance.

While the town was full of these subjects by turns--now thinking
and speaking of the great revival of trade--now of the chances of
the election, as yet some weeks distant--now of the balls at
Cranworth Court, in which Mr. Cranworth had danced with all the
belles of the shopocracy of Eccleston--there came creeping,
creeping, in hidden, slimy courses, the terrible fever--that
fever which is never utterly banished from the sad haunts of vice
and misery, but lives in such darkness, like a wild beast in the
recesses of his den. It had begun in the low Irish
lodging-houses; but there it was so common it excited little
attention. The poor creatures died almost without the attendance
of the unwarned medical men, who received their first notice of
the spreading plague from the Roman Catholic priests.

Before the medical men of Eccleston had had time to meet together
and consult, and compare the knowledge of the fever which they
had severally gained, it had, like the blaze of a fire which had
long smouldered, burst forth in many places at once--not merely
among the loose-living and vicious, but among the decently
poor--nay, even among the well-to-do and respectable. And, to add
to the horror, like all similar pestilences, its course was most
rapid at first, and was fatal in the great majority of
cases--hopeless from the beginning. There was a cry, and then a
deep silence, and then rose the long wail of the survivors.

A portion of the Infirmary of the town was added to that already
set apart for a fever-ward; the smitten were carried thither at
once, whenever it was possible, in order to prevent the spread of
infection; and on that lazar-house was concentrated all the
medical skill and force of the place.

But when one of the physicians had died, in consequence of his
attendance--when the customary staff of matrons and nurses had
been swept off in two days--and the nurses belonging to the
Infirmary had shrunk from being drafted into the pestilential
fever-ward--when high wages had failed to tempt any to what, in
their panic, they considered as certain death--when the doctors
stood aghast at the swift mortality among the untended sufferers,
who were dependent only on the care of the most ignorant
hirelings, too brutal to recognize the solemnity of Death (all
this had happened within a week from the first acknowledgment of
the presence of the plague)--Ruth came one day, with a quieter
step than usual, into Mr. Benson's study, and told him she wanted
to speak to him for a few minutes.

"To be sure, my dear! Sit down:" said he; for she was standing
and leaning her head against the chimney-piece, idly gazing into
the fire. She went on standing there, as if she had not heard his
words; and it was a few moments before she began to speak. Then
she said--

"I want to tell you, that I have been this morning and offered
myself as matron to the fever-ward while it is so full. They have
accepted me; and I am going this evening."

"Oh, Ruth! I feared this; I saw your look this morning as we
spoke of this terrible illness."

"Why do you say 'fear', Mr. Benson? You yourself have been with
John Harrison, and old Betty, and many others, I dare say, of
whom we have not heard."

"But this is so different! in such poisoned air! among such
malignant cases! Have you thought and weighed it enough, Ruth?"

She was quite still for a moment, but her eyes grew full of
tears. At last she said, very softly, with a kind of still
solemnity--

"Yes! I have thought, and I have weighed. But through the very
midst of all my fears and thoughts I have felt that I must go."

The remembrance of Leonard was present in both their minds; but
for a few moments longer they neither of them spoke. Then Ruth
said--

"I believe I have no fear. That is a great preservative, they
say. At any rate, if I have a little natural shrinking, it is
quite gone when I remember that I am in God's hands! Oh, Mr.
Benson," continued she, breaking out into the irrepressible
tears--"Leonard, Leonard!"

And now it was his turn to speak out the brave words of faith.

"Poor, poor mother!" said he. "But be of good heart. He, too, is
in God's hands. Think what a flash of time only will separate you
from him, if you should die in this work!"

"But he--but he--it will belong to him, Mr. Benson! He will be
alone!"

"No, Ruth, he will not. God and all good men will watch over him.
But if you cannot still this agony of fear as to what will become
of him, you ought not to go. Such tremulous passion will
predispose you to take the fever."

"I will not be afraid," she replied, lifting up her face, over
which a bright light shone, as of God's radiance. "I am not
afraid for myself. I will not be so for my darling."

After a little pause, they began to arrange the manner of her
going, and to speak about the length of time that she might be
absent on her temporary duties. In talking of her return, they
assumed it to be certain, although the exact time when was to
them unknown, and would be dependent entirely on the duration of
the fever; but not the less, in their secret hearts, did they
feel where alone the issue lay. Ruth was to communicate with
Leonard and Miss Faith through Mr. Benson alone, who insisted on
his determination to go every evening to the hospital to learn
the proceedings of the day, and the state of Ruth's health.

"It is not alone on your account, my dear! There may be many sick
people of whom, if I can give no other comfort, I can take
intelligence to their friends."

All was settled with grave composure; yet still Ruth lingered, as
if nerving herself up for some effort. At length she said, with a
faint smile upon her pale face--

"I believe I am a great coward. I stand here talking because I
dread to tell Leonard."

"You must not think of it," exclaimed he. "Leave it to me. It is
sure to unnerve you."

"I must think of it. I shall have self-control enough in a minute
to do it calmly--to speak hopefully. For only think," continued
she, smiling through the tears that would gather in her eyes,
"what a comfort the remembrance of the last few words may be to
the poor fellow, if----" The words were choked, but she smiled
bravely on. "No!" said she, "that must be done; but perhaps you
will spare me one thing--will you tell Aunt Faith? I suppose I am
very weak, but, knowing that I must go, and not knowing what may
be the end, I feel as if I could not bear to resist her
entreaties just at last. Will you tell her, sir, while I go to
Leonard?"

Silently he consented, and the two rose up and came forth, calm
and serene. And calmly and gently did Ruth tell her boy of her
purpose; not daring even to use any unaccustomed tenderness of
voice or gesture, lest, by so doing, she should alarm him
unnecessarily as to the result. She spoke hopefully, and bade him
be of good courage; and he caught her bravery, though his, poor
boy I had root rather in his ignorance of the actual imminent
danger than in her deep faith. When he had gone down, Ruth began
to arrange her dress. When she came downstairs she went into the
old familiar garden and gathered a nosegay of the last lingering
autumn flowers--a few roses and the like.

Mr. Benson had tutored his sister well; and, although Miss
Faith's face was swollen with crying, she spoke with almost
exaggerated cheerfulness to Ruth. Indeed, as they all stood at
the front door, making-believe to have careless nothings to say,
just as at an ordinary leave-taking, you would not have guessed
the strained chords of feeling there were in each heart. They
lingered on, the last rays of the setting sun falling on the
group. Ruth once or twice had roused herself to the pitch of
saying "Good-bye," but when her eye fell on Leonard she was
forced to hide the quivering of her lips, and conceal her
trembling mouth amid the bunch of roses.

"They won't let you have your flowers, I'm afraid," said Miss
Benson. "Doctors so often object to the smell."

"No; perhaps not," said Ruth hurriedly. "I did not think of it. I
will only keep this one rose. Here, Leonard darling!" She gave
the rest to him. It was her farewell; for having now no veil to
hide her emotion, she summoned all her bravery for one parting
smile, and, smiling, turned away. But she gave one look back from
the street, just from the last point at which the door could be
seen, and, catching a glimpse of Leonard standing foremost on the
step, she ran back, and he met her half-way, and mother and child
spoke never a word in that close embrace.

"Now, Leonard," said Miss Faith, "be a brave boy. I feel sure she
will come back to us before very long."

But she was very near crying herself; and she would have given
way, I believe, if she had not found the wholesome outlet of
scolding Sally, for expressing just the same opinion respecting
Ruth's proceedings as she herself had done not two hours before.
Taking what her brother had said to her as a text, she delivered
such a lecture to Sally on want of faith that she was astonished
at herself, and so much affected by what she had said that she
had to shut the door of communication between the kitchen and the
parlour pretty hastily, in order to prevent Sally's threatened
reply from weakening her belief in the righteousness of what Ruth
had done. Her words had gone beyond her conviction.

Evening after evening Mr. Benson went forth to gain news of Ruth;
and night after night he returned with good tidings. The fever,
it is true, raged; but no plague came nigh her. He said her face
was ever calm and bright, except when clouded by sorrow as she
gave the accounts of the deaths which occurred in spite of every
care. He said that he had never seen her face so fair and gentle
as it was now, when she was living in the midst of disease and
woe.

One evening Leonard (for they had grown bolder as to the
infection) accompanied him to the street on which the hospital
abutted. Mr. Benson left him there, and told him to return home;
but the boy lingered, attracted by the crowd that had gathered,
and were gazing up intently towards the lighted windows of the
hospital. There was nothing beyond that to be seen; but the
greater part of these poor people had friends or relations in
that palace of Death. Leonard stood and listened. At first their
talk consisted of vague and exaggerated accounts (if such could
be exaggerated) of the horrors of the fever. Then they spoke of
Ruth--of his mother; and Leonard held his breath to hear.

"They say she has been a great sinner, and that this is her
penance, quoth one. And as Leonard gasped, before rushing forward
to give the speaker straight the lie, an old man spoke--

"Such a one as her has never been a great sinner; nor does she do
her work as a penance, but for the love of God, and of the
blessed Jesus. She will be in the light of God's countenance when
you and I will be standing afar off. I tell you, man, when my
poor wench died, as no one would come near, her head lay at that
hour on this woman's sweet breast. I could fell you," the old man
went on, lifting his shaking arm, "for calling that woman a great
sinner. The blessing of them who were ready to perish is upon
her."

Immediately there arose a clamour of tongues, each with some tale
of his mother's gentle doings, till Leonard grew dizzy with the
beatings of his glad, proud heart. Few were aware how much Ruth
had done; she never spoke of it, shrinking with sweet shyness
from over-much allusion to her own work at all times. Her left
hand truly knew not what her right hand did; and Leonard was
overwhelmed now to hear of the love and the reverence with which
the poor and outcast had surrounded her. It was irrepressible. He
stepped forward with a proud bearing, and, touching the old man's
arm who had first spoken, Leonard tried to speak; but for an
instant he could not, his heart was too full: tears came before
words, but at length he managed to say--

"Sir, I am her son!"

"Thou! thou her bairn! God bless you, lad," said an old woman,
pushing through the crowd. "It was but last night she kept my
child quiet with singing psalms the night through. Low and sweet,
low and sweet, they tell me--till many poor things were hushed,
though they were out of their minds, and had not heard psalms
this many a year. God in heaven bless you, lad!"

Many other wild, woe-begone creatures pressed forward with
blessings on Ruth's son, while he could only repeat--

"She is my mother."

From that day forward Leonard walked erect in the streets of
Eccleston, where "many arose and called her blessed."

After some weeks the virulence of the fever abated; and the
general panic subsided--indeed, a kind of fool-hardiness
succeeded. To be sure, in some instances the panic still held
possession of individuals to an exaggerated extent. But the
number of patients in the hospital was rapidly diminishing, and,
for money, those were to be found who could supply Ruth's place.
But to her it was owing that the overwrought fear of the town was
subdued; it was she who had gone voluntarily, and, with no
thought of greed or gain, right into the very jaws of the fierce
disease. She bade the inmates of the hospital farewell, and after
carefully submitting herself to the purification recommended by
Mr. Davis, the principal surgeon of the place, who had always
attended Leonard, she returned to Mr. Benson's just at gloaming
time.

They each vied with the other in the tenderest cares. They
hastened tea; they wheeled the sofa to the fire; they made her
lie down; and to all she submitted with the docility of a child;
and, when the candles came, even Mr. Benson's anxious eye could
see no change in her looks, but that she seemed a little paler.
The eyes were as full of spiritual light, the gently parted lips
as rosy, and the smile, if more rare, yet as sweet as ever.


CHAPTER XXXIV


"I MUST GO AND NURSE MR. BELLINGHAM"

The next morning Miss Benson would insist upon making Ruth lie
down on the sofa. Ruth longed to do many things; to be much more
active; but she submitted, when she found that it would gratify
Miss Faith if she remained as quiet as if she were really an
invalid.

Leonard sat by her holding her hand. Every now and then he looked
up from his book, as if to make sure that she indeed was restored
to him. He had brought her down the flowers which she had given
him the day of her departure, and which he had kept in water as
long as they had any greenness or fragrance, and then had
carefully dried and put by. She too, smiling, had produced the
one rose which she had carried away to the hospital. Never had
the bond between her and her boy been drawn so firm and strong.

Many visitors came this day to the quiet Chapel-house. First of
all Mrs. Farquhar appeared. She looked very different from the
Jemima Bradshaw of three years ago. Happiness had called out
beauty; the colouring of her face was lovely, and vivid as that
of an autumn day; her berry red lips scarce closed over the short
white teeth for her smiles; and her large dark eyes glowed and
sparkled with daily happiness. They were softened by a mist of
tears as she looked upon Ruth.

"Lie still! Don't move! You must be content to-day to be waited
upon, and nursed! I have just seen Miss Benson in the lobby, and
had charge upon charge not to fatigue you. Oh, Ruth! how we all
love you, now we have you back again! Do you know, I taught Rosa
to say her prayers as soon as ever you were gone to that horrid
place, just on purpose that her little innocent lips might pray
for you--I wish you could hear her say it--'Please, dear God,
keep Ruth safe.' Oh, Leonard! are not you proud of your mother?"

Leonard said "Yes," rather shortly, as if he were annoyed that
any one else should know, or even have a right to imagine, how
proud he was. Jemima went on--

"Now, Ruth! I have got a plan for you. Walter and I have partly
made it; and partly it's papa's doing. Yes, dear! papa has been
quite anxious to show his respect for you. We all want you to go
to the dear Eagle's Crag for this next month, and get strong, and
have some change in that fine air at Abermouth. I am going to
take little Rosa there. Papa has lent it to us. And the weather
is often very beautiful in November."

"Thank you very much. It is very tempting; for I have been almost
longing for some such change. I cannot tell all at once whether I
can go; but I will see about it, if you will let me leave it open
a little."

"Oh! as long as you like, so that you will but go at last. And,
Master Leonard! you are to come too. Now, I know I have you on my
side." Ruth thought of the place. Her only reluctance arose from
the remembrance of that one interview on the sands. That walk she
could never go again; but how much remained! How much that would
be a charming balm and refreshment to her!

"What happy evenings we shall have together! Do you know, I think
Mary and Elizabeth may perhaps come."

A bright gleam of sunshine came into the room. "Look! how bright
and propitious for our plans. Dear Ruth, it seems like an omen
for the future!"

Almost while she spoke, Miss Benson entered, bringing with her
Mr. Grey, the rector of Eccleston. He was an elderly man, short,
and stoutly built, with something very formal in his manner; but
any one might feel sure of his steady benevolence who noticed the
expression of his face, and especially of the kindly black eyes
that gleamed beneath his grey and shaggy eyebrows. Ruth had seen
him at the hospital once or twice, and Mrs. Farquhar had met him
pretty frequently in general society.

"Go and tell your uncle," said Miss Benson to Leonard.

"Stop, my boy! I have just met Mr. Benson in the street, and my
errand now is to your mother. I should like you to remain and
hear what it is; and I am sure that my business will give these
ladies,"--bowing to Miss Benson and Jemima--"so much pleasure,
that I need not apologise for entering upon it in their
presence." He pulled out his double eye-glass, saying, with a
grave smile--

"You ran away from us yesterday so quietly and cunningly, Mrs.
Denbigh, that you were, perhaps, not aware that the Board was
sitting at that very time, and trying to form a vote sufficiently
expressive of our gratitude to you. As chairman, they requested
me to present you with this letter, which I shall have the
pleasure of reading."

With all due emphasis he read aloud a formal letter from the
Secretary to the Infirmary, conveying a vote of thanks to Ruth.

The good rector did not spare her one word, from date to
signature; and then, folding the letter up, he gave it to
Leonard, saying--

"There, sir! when you are an old man, you may read that testimony
to your mother's noble conduct with pride and pleasure. For,
indeed," continued he, turning to Jemima, "no words can express
the relief it was to us. I speak of the gentlemen composing the
Board of the Infirmary. When Mrs. Denbigh came forward, the panic
was at its height, and the alarm of course aggravated the
disorder. The poor creatures died rapidly; there was hardly time
to remove the dead bodies before others were brought in to occupy
the beds, so little help was to be procured on account of the
universal terror; and the morning when Mrs. Denbigh offered us
her services we seemed at the very worst. I shall never forget
the sensation of relief in my mind when she told us what she
proposed to do; but we thought it right to warn her to the full
extent--

"Nay, madam," said he, catching a glimpse of Ruth's changing
colour, "I will spare you any more praises. I will only say, if I
can be a friend to you, or a friend to your child, you may
command my poor powers to the utmost."

He got up, and, bowing formally, he took his leave. Jemima came
and kissed Ruth. Leonard went upstairs to put the precious letter
away. Miss Benson sat crying heartily in a corner of the room.
Ruth went to her, and threw her arms round her neck, and said--

"I could not tell him just then. I durst not speak for fear of
breaking down; but if I have done right, it was all owing to you
and Mr. Benson. Oh! I wish I had said how the thought first came
into my head from seeing the things Mr. Benson has done so
quietly ever since the fever first came amongst us. I could not
speak; and it seemed as if I was taking those praises to myself,
when all the time I was feeling how little I deserved them--how
it was all owing to you."

"Under God, Ruth," said Miss Benson, speaking through her tears.

"Oh! think there is nothing humbles one so much as undue praise.
While he was reading that letter, I could not help feeling how
many things I have done wrong! Could he know of--of what I have
been?" asked she, dropping her voice very low.

"Yes!" said Jemima, "he knew--everybody in Eccleston did
know--but the remembrance of those days is swept away. Miss
Benson," she continued, for she was anxious to turn the subject,
"you must be on my side, and persuade Ruth to come to Abermouth
for a few weeks. I want her and Leonard both to come."

"I'm afraid my brother will think that Leonard is missing his
lessons sadly. Just of late we could not wonder that the poor
child's heart was so full; but he must make haste, and get on all
the more for his idleness." Miss Benson piqued herself on being a
disciplinarian.

"Oh, as for lessons, Walter is so very anxious that you should
give way to his superior wisdom, Ruth, and let Leonard go to
school. He will send him to any school you fix upon, according to
the mode of life you plan for him."

"I have no plan," said Ruth. "I have no means of planning. All I
can do is to try and make him ready for anything."

"Well," said Jemima, "we must talk it over at Abermouth; for I am
sure you won't refuse to come, dearest, dear Ruth! Think of the
quiet, sunny days, and the still evenings, that we shall have
together, with little Rosa to tumble about among the fallen
leaves; and there's Leonard to have his first sight of the sea."

"I do think of it," said Ruth, smiling at the happy picture
Jemima drew. And both smiling at the hopeful prospect before
them, they parted--never to meet again in life.

No sooner had Mrs. Farquhar gone than Sally burst in.

"Oh! dear, dear!" said she, looking around her. "If I had but
known that the rector was coming to call I'd ha' put on the best
covers, and the Sunday tablecloth! You're well enough," continued
she, surveying Ruth from head to foot; "you're always trim and
dainty in your gowns, though I reckon they cost but tuppence a
yard, and you've a face to set 'em off; but as for you" (as she
turned to Miss Benson), "I think you might ha' had something
better on than that old stuff, if it had only. been to do credit
to a parishioner like me, whom he has known ever sin' my father
was his clerk."

"You forget, Sally, I had been making jelly all the morning. How
could I tell it was Mr. Grey when there was a knock at the door?"
Miss Benson replied.

"You might ha' letten me do the jelly; I'se warrant I could ha'
pleased Ruth as well as you. If I had but known he was coming,
I'd ha' slipped round the corner and bought ye a neck-ribbon, or
summut to lighten ye up. I'se loth he should think I'm living
with Dissenters, that don't know how to keep themselves trig and
smart."

"Never mind, Sally; he never thought of me. What he came for, was
to see Ruth; and, as you say, she's always neat and dainty."

"Well! I reckon it cannot be helped now; but, if I buy ye a
ribbon, will you promise to wear it when Church folks come? for I
cannot abide the way they have of scoffing at the Dissenters
about their dress."

"Very well! we'll make that bargain," said Miss Benson; "and now,
Ruth, I'll go and fetch you a cup of warm jelly."

"Oh! indeed, Aunt Faith," said Ruth, "I am very sorry to balk
you; but if you're going to treat me as an invalid, I am afraid I
shall rebel."

But when she found that Aunt Faith's heart was set upon it, she
submitted very graciously: only dimpling up a little, as she
found that she must consent to lie on the sofa, and be fed, when,
in truth, she felt full of health, with a luxurious sensation of
languor stealing over her now and then, just enough to make it
very pleasant to think of the salt breezes, and the sea beauty
which awaited her at Abermouth.

Mr. Davis called in the afternoon, and his visit was also to
Ruth. Mr. and Miss Benson were sitting with her in the parlour,
and watching her with contented love, as she employed herself in
household sewing, and hopefully spoke about the Abermouth plan.

"Well! so you had our worthy rector here to-day; I am come on
something of the same kind of errand; only I shall spare you the
reading of my letter, which, I'll answer for it, he did not.
Please to take notice," said he, putting down a sealed letter,
"that I have delivered you a vote of thanks from my medical
brothers; and open and read it at your leisure; only not just
now, for I want to have a little talk with you on my own behoof.
I want to ask you a favour, Mrs. Denbigh."

"A favour!" exclaimed Ruth; "what can I do for you? I think I may
say I will do it, without hearing what it is."

"Then you're a very imprudent woman," replied he; "however, I'll
take you at your word. I want you to give me your boy."

"Leonard?"

"Ay! there it is, you see, Mr. Benson. One minute she is as ready
as can be, and the next she looks at me as if I was an ogre!"

"Perhaps we don't understand what you mean," said Mr. Benson.

"The thing is this. You know I've no children; and I can't say
I've ever fretted over it much; but my wife has; and whether it
is that she has infected me, or that I grieve over my good
practice going to a stranger, when I ought to have had a son to
take it after me, I don't know; but, of late, I've got to look
with covetous eyes on all healthy boys, and at last I've settled
down my wishes on this Leonard of yours, Mrs. Denbigh."

Ruth could not speak; for, even yet, she did not understand what
he meant. He went on--

"Now, how old is the lad?" He asked Ruth, but Miss Benson
replied--

"He'll be twelve next February."

"Umph! only twelve! He's tall and old-looking for his age. You
look young enough, it is true." He said this last sentence as if
to himself, but seeing Ruth crimson up, ho abruptly changed his
tone.

"Twelve, is he? Well, I take him from now. I don't mean that I
really take him away from you," said he, softening all at once,
and becoming grave and considerate. "His being your son--the son
of one whom I have seen--as I have seen you, Mrs. Denbigh (out
and out the best nurse I ever met with, Miss Benson; and good
nurses are things we doctors know how to value)--his being your
son is his great recommendation to me; not but what the lad
himself is a noble boy. I shall be glad to leave him with you as
long and as much as we can; he could not be tied to your
apron-strings all his life, you know. Only I provide for his
education, subject to your consent and good pleasure, and he is
bound apprentice to me. I, his guardian, bind him to myself, the
first surgeon in Eccleston, be the other who he may; and in
process of time he becomes partner, and some day or other
succeeds me. Now, Mrs. Denbigh, what have you got to say against
this plan? My wife is just as full of it as me. Come; begin with
your objections. You're not a woman if you have not a whole
bag-full of them ready to turn out against any reasonable
proposal."

"I don't know," faltered Ruth. "It is so sudden----"

"It is very, very kind of you, Mr. Davis," said Miss Benson, a
little scandalised at Ruth's non-expression of gratitude.

"Pooh! pooh! I'll answer for it, in the long-run, I am taking
good care of my own interests. Come, Mrs. Denbigh, is it a
bargain?"

Now Mr. Benson spoke.

"Mr. Davis, it is rather sudden, as she says. As far as I can
see, it is the best as well as the kindest proposal that could
have been made; but I think we must give her a little time to
think about it."

"Well, twenty-four hours! Will that do?"

Ruth lifted up her head. "Mr. Davis, I am not ungrateful because
I can't thank you" (she was crying while she spoke); "let me have
a fortnight to consider about it. In a fortnight I will make up
my mind. Oh, how good you all are!"

"Very well. Then this day fortnight--Thursday the 28th--you will
let me know your decision. Mind! if it's against me, I sha'n't
consider it a decision, for I'm determined to carry my point. I'm
not going to make Mrs. Denbigh blush, Mr. Benson, by telling you,
in her presence, of all I have observed about her this last three
weeks, that has made me sure of the good qualities I shall find
in this boy of hers. I was watching her when she little thought
of it. Do you remember that night when Hector O'Brien was so
furiously delirious, Mrs. Denbigh?"

Ruth went very white at the remembrance.

"Why now, look there! how pale she is at the very thought of it!
And yet, I assure you, she was the one to go up and take the
piece of glass from him which he had broken out of the window for
the sole purpose of cutting his throat, or the throat of any one
else, for that matter. I wish we had some others as brave as she
is."

"I thought the great panic was passed away!" said Mr. Benson.

"Ay! the general feeling of alarm is much weaker; but, here and
there, there are as great fools as ever. Why, when I leave here,
I am going to see our precious member, Mr. Donne----"

"Mr. Donne?" said Ruth.

"Mr. Donne, who lies ill at the Queen's--came last week, with the
intention of canvassing, but was too much alarmed by what he
heard of the fever to set to work; and, in spite of all his
precautions, he has taken it; and you should see the terror they
are in at the hotel; landlord, landlady, waiters, servants--all;
there's not a creature will go near him, if they can help it; and
there's only his groom--a lad he saved from drowning, I'm
told--to do anything for him. I must get him a proper nurse,
somehow or somewhere, for all my being a Cranworth man. Ah, Mr.
Benson! you don't know the temptations we medical men have.
Think, if I allowed your member to die now as he might very well,
if he had no nurse--how famously Mr. Cranworth would walk over
the course!--Where's Mrs. Denbigh gone to? I hope I've not
frightened her away by reminding her of Hector O'Brien, and that
awful night, when I do assure you she behaved like a heroine!"

As Mr. Benson was showing Mr. Davis out, Ruth opened the
study-door, and said, in a very calm, low voice--

"Mr. Benson! will you allow me to speak to Mr. Davis alone?"

Mr. Benson immediately consented, thinking that, in all
probability, she wished to ask some further questions about
Leonard; but as Mr. Davis came into the room, and shut the door,
he was struck by her pale, stern face of determination, and
awaited her speaking first.

"Mr. Davis! I must go and nurse Mr. Bellingham," said she at
last, clenching her hands tight together; but no other part of
her body moving from its intense stillness.

"Mr. Bellingham?" asked he, astonished at the name.

"Mr. Donne, I mean," said she hurriedly. "His name was
Bellingham."

"Oh! I remember hearing he had changed his name for some
property. But you must not think of any more such work just now.
You are not fit for it. You are looking as white as ashes."

"I must go," she repeated.

"Nonsense! Here's a man who can pay for the care of the first
hospital nurses in London--and I doubt if his life is worth the
risk of one of theirs even, much more of yours."

"We have no right to weigh human lives against each other."

"No! I know we have not. But it's a way we doctors are apt to get
into; and, at any rate, it's ridiculous of you to think of such a
thing. Just listen to reason."

"I can't! I can't!" cried she, with a sharp pain in her voice.
"You must let me go, dear Mr. Davis!" said she, now speaking with
soft entreaty. "No!" said he, shaking his head authoritatively.
"I'll do no such thing." "Listen!" said she, dropping her voice,
and going all over the deepest scarlet; "he is Leonard's father!
Now! you will let me go!" Mr. Davis was indeed staggered by what
she said, and for a moment he did not speak. So she went on--
"You will not tell! You must not tell! No one knows, not even Mr.
Benson, who it was. And now--it might do him so much harm to have
it known. You will not tell!"

"No! I will not tell," replied he. "But, Mrs. Denbigh, you must
answer me this one question, which I ask you in all true respect,
but which I must ask, in order to guide both myself and you
aright--of course I knew Leonard was illegitimate--in fact, I
will give you secret for secret; it was being so myself that
first made me sympathise with him, and desire to adopt him. I
knew that much of your history; but tell me, do you now care for
this man? Answer me truly--do you love him?"

For a moment or two she did not speak; her head was bent down;
then she raised it up, and looked with clear and honest eyes into
his face.

"I have been thinking--but I do not know--I cannot tell--I don't
think I should love him, if he were well and happy--but you said
he was ill--and alone--how can I help caring for him? How can I
help caring for him?" repeated she, covering her face with her
hands, and the quick hot tears stealing through her fingers.

"He is Leonard's father," continued she, looking up at Mr. Davis
suddenly. "He need not know--he shall not--that I have ever been
near him. If he is like the others, he must be delirious--I will
leave him before he comes to himself--but now let me go--I must
go."

"I wish my tongue had been bitten out before I had named him to
you. He would do well enough without you; and, I dare say, if he
recognises you, he will only be annoyed."

"It is very likely," said Ruth heavily.

"Annoyed--why! he may curse you for your unasked-for care of him.
I have heard my poor mother--and she was as pretty and delicate a
creature as you are--cursed for showing tenderness when it was
not wanted. Now, be persuaded by an old man like me, who has seen
enough of life to make his heart ache--leave this fine gentleman
to his fate. I'll promise you to get him as good a nurse as can
be had for money."

"No!" said Ruth, with dull persistency--as if she had not
attended to his dissuasions; "I must go. I will leave him before
he recognises me."

"Why, then," said the old surgeon, "if you're so bent upon it, I
suppose I must let you. It is but what my mother would have
done--poor, heart-broken thing! However, come along, and let us
make the best of it. It saves me a deal of trouble, I know; for,
if I have you for a right hand, I need not worry myself
continually with wondering how he is taken care of. Go get your
bonnet, you tender-hearted fool of a woman! Let us get you out of
the house without any more scenes or explanations; I'll make all
straight with the Bensons."

"You will not tell my secret, Mr. Davis," she said abruptly.

"No! not I! Does the woman think I had never to keep a secret of
the kind before? I only hope he'll lose his election, and never
come near the place again. After all," continued he, sighing, "I
suppose it is but human nature!" He began recalling the
circumstances of his own early life, and dreamily picturing
scenes in the grey dying embers of the fire; and he was almost
startled when she stood before him, ready equipped, grave, pale,
and quiet.

"Come along!" said he. "If you're to do any good at all, it must
be in these next three days. After that, I'll ensure his life for
this bout; and mind! I shall send you home then; for he might
know you, and I'll have no excitement to throw him back again,
and no sobbing and crying from you. But now every moment your
care is precious to him. I shall tell my own story to the
Bensons, as soon as I have installed you."

Mr. Donne lay in the best room of the Queen's Hotel--no one with
him but his faithful, ignorant servant, who was as much afraid of
the fever as any one else could be, but who, nevertheless, would
not leave his master--his master who had saved his life as a
child, and afterwards put him in the stables at Bellingham Hall,
where he learnt all that he knew. He stood in a farther corner of
the room, watching his delirious master with affrighted eyes, not
daring to come near him, nor yet willing to leave him.

"Oh! if that doctor would but come! He'll kill himself or me--and
them stupid servants won't stir a step over the threshold; how
shall I get over the night? Blessings on him--here's the old
doctor back again! I hear him creaking and scolding up the
stairs!"

The door opened, and Mr. Davis entered, followed by Ruth.

"Here's the nurse, my good man--such a nurse as there is not in
the three counties. Now, all you'll have to do is to mind what
she says."

"Oh, sir! he's mortal bad! won't you stay with us through the
night, sir?"

"Look here!" whispered Mr. Davis to the man, "see how she knows
how to manage him! Why, I could not do it better myself!"

She had gone up to the wild, raging figure, and with soft
authority had made him lie down: and then, placing a basin of
cold water by the bedside, she had dipped in it her pretty hands,
and was laying their cool dampness on his hot brow, speaking in a
low soothing voice all the time, in a way that acted like a charm
in hushing his mad talk.

"But I will stay," said the doctor, after he had examined his
patient; "as much on her account as his, and partly to quieten
the fears of this poor, faithful fellow."


CHAPTER XXXV


OUT OF DARKNESS INTO LIGHT

The third night after this was to be the crisis--the
turning-point between Life and Death. Mr. Davis came again to
pass it by the bedside of the sufferer. Ruth was there, constant
and still, intent upon watching the symptoms, and acting
according to them, in obedience to Mr. Davis's directions. She
had never left the room. Every sense had been strained in
watching--every power of thought or judgment had been kept on the
full stretch. Now that Mr. Davis came and took her place, and
that the room was quiet for the night, she became oppressed with
heaviness, which yet did not tend to sleep. She could not
remember the present time, or where she was. All times of her
earliest youth--the days of her childhood--were in her memory
with a minuteness and fulness of detail which was miserable; for
all along she felt that she had no real grasp on the scenes that
were passing through her mind--that, somehow, they were long gone
by, and gone by for ever--and yet she could not remember who she
was now, nor where she was, and whether she had now any interests
in life to take the place of those which she was conscious had
passed away, although their remembrance filled her mind with
painful acuteness. Her head lay on her arms, and they rested on
the table. Every now and then she opened her eyes, and saw the
large room, handsomely furnished with articles that were each one
incongruous with the other, as if bought at sales. She saw the
flickering night-light--she heard the ticking of the watch, and
the two breathings, each going on at a separate rate--one
hurried, abruptly stopping, and then panting violently, as if to
make up for lost time; and the other slow, steady, and regular,
as if the breather was asleep; but this supposition was
contradicted by an occasional repressed sound of yawning. The sky
through the uncurtained window looked dark and black--would this
night never have an end? Had the sun gone down for ever, and
would the world at last awaken to a general sense of everlasting
night?

Then she felt as if she ought to get up, and go and see how the
troubled sleeper in yonder bed was struggling through his
illness; but she could not remember who the sleeper was, and she
shrunk from seeing some phantom-face on the pillow, such as now
began to haunt the dark corners of the room, and look at her,
jibbering and mowing as they looked. So she covered her face
again, and sank into a whirling stupor of sense and feeling.
By-and-by she heard her fellow-watcher stirring, and a dull
wonder stole over her as to what he was doing; but the heavy
languor pressed her down, and kept her still. At last she heard
the words, "Come here," and listlessly obeyed the command. She
had to steady herself in the rocking chamber before she could
walk to the bed by which Mr. Davis stood; but the effort to do so
roused her, and, though conscious of an oppressive headache, she
viewed with sudden and clear vision all the circumstances of her
present position. Mr. Davis was near the head of the bed, holding
the night-lamp high, and shading it with his hand, that it might
not disturb the sick person, who lay with his face towards them,
in feeble exhaustion, but with every sign that the violence of
the fever had left him. It so happened that the rays of the lamp
fell bright and full upon Ruth's countenance, as she stood with
her crimson lips parted with the hurrying breath, and the
fever-flush brilliant on her cheeks. Her eyes were wide open, and
their pupils distended. She looked on the invalid in silence, and
hardly understood why Mr. Davis had summoned her there.

"Don't you see the change? He is better!--the crisis is past!"

But she did not speak her looks were riveted on his
softly-unclosing eyes, which met hers as they opened languidly.
She could not stir or speak. She was held fast by that gaze of
his, in which a faint recognition dawned, and grew to strength.

He murmured some words. They strained their sense to hear. He
repeated them even lower than before; but this time they caught
what he was saying.

"Where are the water-lilies? Where are the lilies in her hair?"

Mr. Davis drew Ruth away.

"He is still rambling," said he. "But the fever has left him."

The grey dawn was now filling the room with its cold light; was
it that made Ruth's cheek so deadly pale? Could that call out the
wild entreaty of her look, as if imploring help against some
cruel foe that held her fast, and was wrestling with her Spirit
of Life? She held Mr. Davis's arm. If she had let it go, she
would have fallen.

"Take me home," she said, and fainted dead away.

Mr. Davis carried her out of the chamber, and sent the groom to
keep watch by his master. He ordered a fly to convey her to Mr.
Benson's, and lifted her in when it came, for she was still half
unconscious. It was he who carried her upstairs to her room,
where Miss Benson and Sally undressed and laid her in her bed.

He awaited their proceedings in Mr. Benson's study. When Mr.
Benson came in, Mr. Davis said--

"Don't blame me. Don't add to my self-reproach. I have killed
her. I was a cruel fool to let her go. Don't speak to me."

"It may not be so bad," said Mr. Benson, himself needing comfort
in that shock.

"She may recover. She surely will recover. I believe she will."

"No, no! she won't. But by----she shall, if I can save her."
Mr. Davis looked defiantly at Mr. Benson, as if he were Fate. "I
tell you she shall recover, or else I am a murderer. What
business had I to take her to nurse him----"

He was cut short by Sally's entrance and announcement, that Ruth
was now prepared to see him.

From that time forward Mr. Davis devoted all his leisure, his
skill, his energy, to save her. He called on the rival surgeon,
to beg him to undertake the management of Mr. Donne's recovery,
saying, with his usual self-mockery, "I could not answer it to
Mr. Cranworth if I had brought his opponent round, you know, when
I had had such a fine opportunity in my power. Now, with your
patients, and general Radical interest, it will be rather a
feather in your cap; for he may want a good deal of care yet,
though he is getting on famously--so rapidly, in fact, that it's
a strong temptation to me to throw him back--a relapse, you
know."

The other surgeon bowed gravely, apparently taking Mr. Davis in
earnest, but certainly very glad of the job thus opportunely
thrown in his way. In spite of Mr. Davis's real and deep anxiety
about Ruth, he could not help chuckling over his rival's literal
interpretation of all he had said.

"To be sure, what fools men are! I don't know why one should
watch and strive to keep them in the world. I have given this
fellow something to talk about confidently to all his patients; I
wonder how much stronger a dose the man would have swallowed! I
must begin to take care of my practice for that lad yonder.
Well-a-day! well-a-day! What was this sick fine gentleman sent
here for, that she should run a chance of her life for him? or
why was he sent into the world at all, for that matter?"

Indeed, however much Mr. Davis might labour with all his
professional skill--however much they might all watch--and
pray--and weep--it was but too evident that Ruth "home must go,
and take her wages." Poor, poor Ruth! It might be that, utterly
exhausted by watching and nursing, first in the hospital, and
than by the bedside of her former lover, the power of her
constitution was worn out; or, it might be, her gentle, pliant
sweetness, but she displayed no outrage or discord even in her
delirium. There she lay in the attic-room in which her baby had
been born, her watch over him kept, her confession to him made;
and now she was stretched on the bed in utter helplessness,
softly gazing at vacancy with her open, unconscious eyes, from
which all the depth of their meaning had fled, and all they told
of was of a sweet, child-like insanity within. The watchers could
not touch her with their sympathy, or come near her in her dim
world;--so, mutely, but looking at each other from time to time
with tearful eyes, they took a poor comfort from the one evident
fact that, though lost and gone astray, she was happy and at
peace. They had never heard her sing; indeed, the simple art
which her mother had taught her, had died, with her early
joyousness, at that dear mother's death. But now she sang
continually, very slow, and low. She went from one old childish
ditty to another without let or pause, keeping a strange sort of
time with her pretty fingers, as they closed and unclosed
themselves upon the counterpane. She never looked at any one with
the slightest glimpse of memory or intelligence in her face; no,
not even Leonard.

Her strength faded day by day; but she knew it not. Her sweet
lips were parted to sing, even after the breath and the power to
do so had left her, and her fingers fell idly on the bed. Two
days she lingered thus--all but gone from them, and yet still
there.

They stood around her bedside, not speaking, or sighing, or
moaning; they were too much awed by the exquisite peacefulness of
her look for that. Suddenly she opened wide her eyes, and gazed
intently forwards, as if she saw some happy vision, which called
out a lovely, rapturous, breathless smile. They held their very
breaths.

"I see the Light coming," said she. "The Light is coming," she
said. And, raising herself slowly, she stretched out her arms,
and then fell back, very still for evermore.

They did not speak. Mr. Davis was the first to utter a word.

"It is over!" said he. "She is dead!"

Out rang through the room the cry of Leonard--

"Mother! mother! mother! You have not left me alone! You will not
leave me alone! You are not dead! Mother! Mother!"

They had pent in his agony of apprehension till then, that no
wail of her child might disturb her ineffable calm. But now there
was a cry heard through the house, of one refusing to be
comforted: "Mother! Mother!"

But Ruth lay dead.


CHAPTER XXXVI


THE END

A stupor of grief succeeded to Leonard's passionate cries. He
became so much depressed, physically as well as mentally, before
the end of the day, that Mr. Davis was seriously alarmed for the
consequences. He hailed with gladness a proposal made by the
Farquhars, that the boy should be removed to their house, and
placed under the fond care of his mother's friend, who sent her
own child to Abermouth the better to devote herself to Leonard.

When they told him of this arrangement, he at first refused to go
and leave her: but when Mr. Benson said--

"She would have wished it, Leonard! Do it for her sake!" he went
away very quietly; not speaking a word, after Mr. Benson had made
the voluntary promise that he should see her once again. He
neither spoke nor cried for many hours; and all Jemima's delicate
wiles were called forth, before his heavy heart could find the
relief of tears. And then he was so weak, and his pulse so low,
that all who loved him feared for his life.

Anxiety about him made a sad distraction from the sorrow for the
dead. The three old people, who now formed the household in the
Chapel-house, went about slowly and dreamily, each with a dull
wonder at their hearts why they, the infirm and worn-out, were
left, while she was taken in her lovely prime.

The third day after Ruth's death, a gentleman came to the door
and asked to speak to Mr. Benson. He was very much wrapped up in
furs and cloaks, and the upper, exposed part of his face was sunk
and hollow, like that of one but partially recovered from
illness. Mr. and Miss Benson were at Mr. Farquhar's, gone to see
Leonard, and poor old Sally had been having a hearty cry over the
kitchen fire before answering the door-knock. Her heart was
tenderly inclined, just then, towards any one who had the aspect
of suffering: so, although her master was out, and she was
usually chary of admitting strangers, she proposed to Mr. Donne
(for it was he), that he should come in and await Mr. Benson's
return in the study. He was glad enough to avail himself of her
offer; for he was feeble and nervous, and come on a piece of
business which he exceedingly disliked, and about which he felt
very awkward. The fire was nearly, if not quite, out; nor did
Sally's vigorous blows do much good, although she left the room
with an assurance that it would soon burn up. He leant against
the chimney-piece, thinking over events, and with a sensation of
discomfort, both external and internal, growing and gathering
upon him. He almost wondered whether the proposal he meant to
make with regard to Leonard could not be better arranged by
letter than by an interview. He became very shivery, and
impatient of the state of indecision to which his bodily weakness
had reduced him. Sally opened the door and came in. "Would you
like to walk upstairs, sir?" asked she in a trembling voice, for
she had learnt who the visitor was from the driver of the fly,
who had run up to the house to inquire what was detaining the
gentleman that he had brought from the Queen's Hotel; and,
knowing that Ruth had caught the fatal fever from her attendance
on Mr. Donne, Sally imagined that it was but a piece of sad
civility to invite him upstairs to see the poor dead body, which
she had laid out and decked for the grave, with such fond care
that she had grown strangely proud of its marble beauty.

Mr. Donne was glad enough of any proposal of a change from the
cold and comfortless room where he had thought uneasy, remorseful
thoughts. He fancied that a change of place would banish the
train of reflection that was troubling him; but the change he
anticipated was to a well-warmed, cheerful sitting-room, with
signs of life, and a bright fire therein, and he was on the last
flight of stairs--at the door of the room where Ruth lay--before
he understood whither Sally was conducting him. He shrank back
for an instant, and then a strange sting of curiosity impelled
him on. He stood in the humble low-roofed attic, the window open,
and the tops of the distant snow-covered hills filling up the
whiteness of the general aspect. He muffled himself up in his
cloak, and shuddered, while Sally reverently drew down the sheet,
and showed the beautiful, calm, still face, on which the last
rapturous smile still lingered, giving an ineffable look of
bright serenity. Her arms were crossed over her breast; the
wimple-like cap marked the perfect oval of her face, while two
braids of the waving auburn hair peeped out of the narrow border,
and lay on the delicate cheeks.

He was awed into admiration by the wonderful beauty of that dead
woman.

"How beautiful she is!" said he, beneath his breath. "Do all dead
people look so peaceful--so happy?"

"Not all," replied Sally, crying. "Few has been as good and as
gentle as she was in their lives." She quite shook with her
sobbing.

Mr. Donne was disturbed by her distress.

"Come, my good woman! we must all die----" he did not know what
to say, and was becoming infected by her sorrow. "I am sure you
loved her very much, and were very kind to her in her lifetime;
you must take this from me to buy yourself some remembrance of
her." He had pulled out a sovereign, and really had a kindly
desire to console her, and reward her, in offering it to her.

But she took her apron from her eyes, as soon as she became aware
of what he was doing, and, still holding it midway in her hands,
she looked at him indignantly, before she burst out--

"And who are you, that think to pay for my kindness to her by
money? And I was not kind to you, my darling," said she,
passionately addressing the motionless, serene body--"I was not
kind to you. I frabbed you, and plagued you from the first, my
lamb! I came and cut off your pretty locks in this very room--I
did--and you said never an angry word to me;--no! not then, nor
many a time after, when I was very sharp and cross to you.--No! I
never was kind to you, and I dunnot think the world was kind to
you, my darling,--but you are gone where the angels are very
tender to such as you--you are, my poor wench!" She bent down and
kissed the lips, from whose marble, unyielding touch Mr. Donne
recoiled, even in thought.

Just then Mr. Benson entered the room. He had returned home
before his sister, and came upstairs in search of Sally, to whom
he wanted to speak on some subject relating to the funeral. He
bowed in recognition of Mr. Donne, whom he knew as the member for
the town, and whose presence impressed him painfully, as his
illness had been the proximate cause of Ruth's death. But he
tried to check this feeling, as it was no fault of Mr. Donne's.
Sally stole out of the room, to cry at leisure in her kitchen.

"I must apologise for being here," said Mr. Donne. "I was hardly
conscious where your servant was leading me to, when she
expressed her wish that I should walk upstairs."

"It is a very common idea in this town, that it is a
gratification to be asked to take a last look at the dead,"
replied Mr. Benson.

"And in this case I am glad to have seen her once more," said Mr.
Donne. "Poor Ruth!"

Mr. Benson glanced up at him at the last word. How did he know
her name? To him she had only been Mrs. Denbigh. But Mr. Donne
had no idea that he was talking to one unaware of the connection
that had formerly existed between them; and, though he would have
preferred carrying on the conversation in a warmer room, yet, as
Mr. Benson was still gazing at her with sad, lingering love, he
went on--

"I did not recognise her when she came to nurse me; I believe I
was delirious. My servant, who had known her long ago in Fordham,
told me who she was. I cannot tell you how I regret that she
should have died in consequence of her love of me."

Mr. Benson looked up at him again, a stern light filling his eyes
as he did so. He waited impatiently to hear more, either to
quench or confirm his suspicions. If she had not been lying
there, very still and calm, he would have forced the words out of
Mr. Donne, by some abrupt question. As it was, he listened
silently, his heart quick beating.

"I know that money is but a poor compensation--is no remedy for
this event, or for my youthful folly."

Mr. Benson set his teeth hard together, to keep in words little
short of a curse.

"Indeed, I offered her money to almost any amount before:--do me
justice, sir," catching the gleam of indignation on Mr. Benson's
face; "I offered to marry her, and provide for the boy as if he
had been legitimate. It's of no use recurring to that time," said
he, his voice faltering; "what is done cannot be undone. But I
came now to say, that I should be glad to leave the boy still
under your charge, and that every expense you think it right to
incur in his education I will gladly defray;--and place a sum of
money in trust for him--say, two thousand pounds--or more: fix
what you will. Of course, if you decline retaining him, I must
find some one else; but the provision for him shall be the same,
for my poor Ruth's sake."

Mr. Benson did not speak. He could not, till he had gathered some
peace from looking at the ineffable repose of the Dead. Then,
before he answered, he covered up her face; and in his voice
there was the stillness of ice.

"Leonard is not unprovided for. Those that honoured his mother
will take care of him. He shall never touch a penny of your
money. Every offer of service you have made, I reject in his
name, and in her presence," said he, bending towards the Dead.
"Men may call such actions as yours youthful follies! There is
another name for them with God. Sir! I will follow you
downstairs."

All the way down, Mr. Benson heard Mr. Donne's voice urging and
entreating, but the words he could not recognise for the thoughts
that filled his brain--the rapid putting together of events that
was going on there. And when Mr. Donne turned at the door, to
speak again, and repeat his offers of service to Leonard, Mr.
Benson made answer, without well knowing whether the answer
fitted the question or not--

"I thank God, you have no right, legal or otherwise, over the
child. And for her sake, I will spare him the shame of ever
hearing your name as his father." He shut the door in Mr. Donne's
face.

"An ill-bred, puritanical old fellow! He may have the boy, I am
sure, for aught I care. I have done my duty, and will get out of
this abominable place as soon as I can. I wish my last
remembrance of my beautiful Ruth was not mixed up with all these
people."

Mr. Benson was bitterly oppressed with this interview; it
disturbed the peace with which he was beginning to contemplate
events. His anger ruffled him, although such anger had been just,
and such indignation well deserved; and both had been
unconsciously present in his heart for years against the unknown
seducer, whom he met face to face by the death-bed of Ruth.

It gave him a shock which he did not recover from for many days.
He was nervously afraid lest Mr. Donne should appear at the
funeral; and not all the reasons he alleged to himself against
this apprehension, put it utterly away from him. Before then,
however, he heard casually (for he would allow himself no
inquiries) that he had left the town. No! Ruth's funeral passed
over in calm and simple solemnity. Her child, her own household,
her friend and Mr. Farquhar, quietly walked after the bier, which
was borne by some of the poor to whom she had been very kind in
her lifetime And many others stood aloof in the little
burying-ground, sadly watching that last ceremony.

They slowly dispersed; Mr. Benson leading Leonard by the hand,
and secretly wondering at his self-restraint. Almost as soon as
they had let themselves into the Chapel-house, a messenger
brought a note from Mrs. Bradshaw, with a pot of quince
marmalade, which, she said to Miss Benson, she thought that
Leonard might fancy, and if he did, they were to be sure and let
her know, as she had plenty more; or, was there anything else
that he would like? She would gladly make him whatever he
fancied.

Poor Leonard! he lay stretched on the sofa, white and tearless,
beyond the power of any such comfort, however kindly offered; but
this was only one of the many homely, simple attentions, which
all came round him to offer, from Mr. Grey, the rector, down to
the nameless poor who called at the back door to inquire how it
fared with her child.

Mr. Benson was anxious, according to Dissenting custom, to preach
an appropriate funeral sermon. It was the last office he could
render to her; it should be done well and carefully. Moreover, it
was possible that the circumstances of her life, which were known
to all, might be made effective in this manner to work conviction
of many truths. Accordingly, he made great preparation of thought
and paper; he laboured hard, destroying sheet after sheet--his
eyes filling with tears between-whiles, as he remembered some
fresh proof of the humility and sweetness of her life. Oh that he
could do her justice! but words seemed hard and inflexible, and
refused to fit themselves to his ideas. He sat late on Saturday,
writing; he watched through the night till Sunday morning was far
advanced. He had never taken such pains with any sermon, and he
was only half satisfied with it after all.

Mrs. Farquhar had comforted the bitterness of Sally's grief by
giving her very handsome mourning. At any rate, she felt oddly
proud and exulting when she thought of her new black gown; but,
when she remembered why she wore it, she scolded herself pretty
sharply for her satisfaction, and took to crying afresh with
redoubled vigour. She spent the Sunday morning in alternately
smoothing down her skirts and adjusting her broad hemmed collar,
or bemoaning the occasion with tearful earnestness. But the
sorrow overcame the little quaint vanity of her heart, as she saw
troop after troop of humbly-dressed mourners pass by into the old
chapel. They were very poor--but each had mounted some rusty
piece of crape, or some faded black ribbon. The old came halting
and slow--the mothers carried their quiet, awe-struck babes.

And not only these were there--but others--equally unaccustomed
to nonconformist worship; Mr. Davis, for instance, to whom Sally
acted as chaperone; for he sat in the minister's pew, as a
stranger; and, as she afterwards said, she had a fellow-feeling
with him, being a Church-woman herself, and Dissenters had such
awkward ways; however, she had been there before, so she could
set him to rights about their fashions.

From the pulpit, Mr. Benson saw one and all--the well-filled
Bradshaw pew--all in deep mourning, Mr. Bradshaw conspicuously so
(he would have attended the funeral gladly if they would have
asked him)--the Farquhars--the many strangers--the still more
numerous poor--one or two wild-looking outcasts who stood afar
off, but wept silently and continually. Mr. Benson's heart grew
very full.

His voice trembled as he read and prayed. But he steadied it as
he opened his sermon--his great, last effort in her honour--the
labour that he had prayed God to bless to the hearts of many. For
an instant the old man looked on all the upturned faces,
listening, with wet eyes, to hear what he could say to interpret
that which was in their hearts, dumb and unshaped, of God's
doings, as shown in her life. He looked, and, as he gazed, a mist
came before him, and he could not see his sermon, nor his
hearers, but only Ruth, as she had been--stricken low, and
crouching from sight in the upland field by Llan-dhu--like a
woeful, hunted creature. And now her life was over! her struggle
ended! Sermon and all was forgotten. He sat down, and hid his
face in his hands for a minute or so. Then he arose, pale and
serene. He put the sermon away, and opened the Bible, and read
the seventh chapter of Revelations, beginning at the ninth verse.

Before it was finished, most of his hearers were in tears. It
came home to them as more appropriate than any sermon could have
been. Even Sally, though full of anxiety as to what her
fellow-Churchman would think of such proceedings, let the sobs
come freely as she heard the words--

"And he said to me, These are they which came out of great
tribulation, and have washed their robes, and made them white in
the blood of the Lamb.

"Therefore are they before the throne of God, and serve him day
and night in his temple; and he that sitteth on the throne shall
dwell among them.

"They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more; neither
shall the sun light on them, nor any heat.

"For the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed
them, and shall lead them unto living fountains of waters, and
God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes."

-----------------------------

"He preaches sermons sometimes," said Sally, nudging Mr. Davis,
as they rose from their knees at last. "I make no doubt there was
as grand a sermon in yon paper-book as ever we hear in church.
I've heard him pray uncommon fine--quite beyond any but learned
folk."

Mr. Bradshaw had been anxious to do something to testify his
respect for the woman, who, if all had entertained his opinions,
would have been driven into hopeless sin. Accordingly, he ordered
the first stonemason of the town to meet him in the chapel-yard
on Monday morning, to take measurement and receive directions for
a tombstone. They threaded their way among the grassy heaps to
where Ruth was buried, in the south corner, beneath the great
Wych-elm. When they got there, Leonard raised himself up from the
new-stirred turf. His face was swollen with weeping; but, when he
saw Mr. Bradshaw, he calmed himself, and checked his sobs, and,
as an explanation of being where he was when thus surprised, he
could find nothing to say but the simple words--

"My mother is dead, sir."

His eyes sought those of Mr. Bradshaw with a wild look of agony,
as if to find comfort for that great loss in human sympathy; and
at the first word--the first touch of Mr. Bradshaw's hand on his
shoulder--he burst out afresh.

"Come, come! my boy!--Mr. Francis, I will see you about this
to-morrow--I will call at your house.--Let me take you home, my
poor fellow. Come, my lad, come!"

The first time, for years, that he had entered Mr. Benson's
house, he came leading and comforting her son--and, for a moment,
he could not speak to his old friend, for the sympathy which
choked up his voice, and filled his eyes with tears.


End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of Ruth
by Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell