Ruth (FULL Audiobook) - part 3

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 has come?' asked Ruth. The idea of Mrs. Mason flashed through her mind, but with a more terrible, because a more vague, dread she heard it was his mother, the mother of whom he had always spoken as a person whose opinion was to be regarded more than that of any other individual. "'What must I do? Will she be angry with me?' said she, relapsing into her childlike dependence on others, and feeling that even Mrs. Morgan was someone 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 parlor. "'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, waterbeds coming but by the carrier, and a doctor from London coming down tomorrow, as if featherbeds 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 tonight 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 is all the way on the third, or the fifth, or the seventh, and so on. He'll not turn till tomorrow 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, Guelert 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 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 the 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 hardiness 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 herself had 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, asked 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 color disappeared from objects, of which the shape and form remained distinct. A soft, gray oblong of barred light fell on the flat wall opposite to the windows, and deeper gray 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 come 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 as 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 and into the mountain house and into the town garret and 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 gray 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 ivory 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 gray cloud hanging on the edge of the world. Presently it turned shimmering white, and then in an instant it flushed into rose and the mountaintop 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 armchair, ready to obey any summons of her mistress. Mrs. Bellingham went on tiptoe toward 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 favorite scheme of his marriage with Miss Duncombe. Nay, this was the real cause of his illness, his mortal danger at the 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 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 were alive and likely to live, all was well. When he wanted her, he would send for her, ask for her, yearn for her, till everyone 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 to 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 to 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 want by uttering hasty words, her real kindness made her add in a softened tone. You step 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 favor 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 back 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 unfavorable 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 am to be kept prisoner here for ever. I shall never get well here, I am 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. 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 had 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 he wished for, 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 an 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 awhile. 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 Pentre Volis 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. Can 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's 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 someone 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 banknote of fifty pounds. Margaret Bellingham. Was this the end of all? Had he, indeed, gone? Then 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. Yes, indeed, Miss, the carriage drove from the door as I came upstairs. You'll see it now on the Ispity 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 circumstances 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, scutting 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 endeavors, 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 not 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 offense, no knowledge of any one circumstance but that he was gone. Yet 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 in exclamation at the beauty of the summer evening. Ever since her adventure with a 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, Give me a hay-penny! which set the example to every little one, amulets 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, Give me a hay-penny! She felt in her heart that there was no pity anywhere. Suddenly, while she 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, 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. 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 dust gloaming, he stumbled and fell over some sharp projecting stone. The acute pain which shot up his back forced a sharp 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 succor 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 overpowered 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 if you are lying too long on this heather, there is a heavy due. 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 someone looked for her in the 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 leaned 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 parlor 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 SUBDUES. 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 center, 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 tomorrow 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 tomorrow. 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 favor if you will allow this young lady to sleep there tonight. 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. Her 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. Toward 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 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 night-gear, 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 get her a cup of water. I brought her some milk, though, indeed, 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. End of chapter 9