 CHAPTER XXXI An Accident to the Dover-Coach While Mr. Benson lay awake for fear of oversleeping himself, and so being late at Mr. Falkahar'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 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 anyone from Clark'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. 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. 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 entity, 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 spoiled Dick, this would never have happened. He hardly knew what he was saying last night. I will go to Mr. Farkahar'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. Farkahar'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 consultation of others. It was before breakfast and Mr. Farkahar was alone, so Mr. Benson had a quiet opportunity of telling the whole story to the husband before the wife came down. Mr. Farkahar 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. Farkahar 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 accompanying 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 formally and which he thinks he is bound to act up to. However, I can walk with you to the door, if you'll allow me, in the street. I want to know how he is today, both bodily and mentally. For indeed, Mr. Farkahar, 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. Farkahar went in. Oh, Mr. Farkahar, what is the matter? exclaimed the girls running to him. Mama 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. Farkahar. 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 half an hour, and then came into the dining room, where the two girls stood, huddled over the fire, regardless of the untasted breakfasts 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 them. 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 forever. 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 clock, and fairly tell Denison. 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 clock, otherwise he will expect an answer and make out all sorts of inferences for himself. From the unsatisfactory reply he must have. Denison will be upon honor. We'll see every side of the case. We'll 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 declared 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 of 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 tomorrow. 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 honor 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 clock. You shall hear from me in a day or two. Mr. Benson, half-envyed 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. Falkahor'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 honor 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. Falkahar 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 no more dreadful fear to lessen the shock. Mama 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 and Mama 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. Falkohar 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 not 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, unseeing his visitor. And after the first necessary words of politeness were over, he seemed to expect him to open the conversation. Mrs. Fakaha 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. Fakaha'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 gray pale, so livid that Mr. Benson got up to ring the bell in a fright, 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. Falkoha. 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 deadlike 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 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 a 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. Falkohar was 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 hand slowly together in the clasped attitude of prayer and said, thank God. End of chapter 31. Chapter 32 of Ruth. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Cynthia Lyons. Ruth by Elizabeth Clekhorn Gaskill. Chapter 32. The Bradshaw Pugh 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 willful 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 illusion 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. Falkohar 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. Falkohar 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 toward 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. Falkohar 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. Falkohar 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 succeeded in persuading his mother to send Leonard to school? He may run the same risk from isolation as Dick, not 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 her meet me 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, you know, I never liked poor Dick, and yet I'm angry with Mr. Falkohar 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, Thurston, 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, laboring away in Glasgow for a petty salary of nobody knows how little, while Mr. Falkohar 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. Falkohar 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 endeavor 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. Falkohar in the street, and heard from him of the creditable and respectable manner in which Richard was conducting himself in Glasgow, where Mr. Falkohar 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 used 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 tonight 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 gray, 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 sometime might elapse before any circumstances gave the signal for a renewal of their intercourse. Chapter 33 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 Belchazar the solemn decrees of doom have ever seen most terrible when they awe into silence the merry revelers of life. So it was this year to which I come in 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 in 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. Before, 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 vigor. Besides these legitimate causes of good spirits there was the rank excitement of a coming election in consequence of Mr. Dunn having accepted a government office procured for him by one of his influential relations. This time the Cronworths 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 Cronworth court in which Mr. Cronworth had danced with all the bells of the Chapagracy 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 unwarrant medical men, who received their first notice of the spreading plague from the Roman Catholic priests. Before the medical men of Eccleston 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 smoldered, 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 laser 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 waited 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 on 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 had root rather in his ignorance of the actual imminent danger than in her deep face. 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 nose-gay of the last lingering autumn flowers, a few roses in 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. Oh, 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 parlor 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 common 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 toward 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, quote 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 parishes 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 had 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 about 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 gloming 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 changes 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. 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 was indeed 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. Falkahar appeared. She looked very different from the Jemima Bradshaw of three years ago. Happiness had called out beauty. The coloring 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 today 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 anyone 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 deer eagles' 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 while. 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 bomb 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. Gray, director of Eccleston. He was an elderly man, short and stoutly built, with something very formal in his manner. But anyone 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 gray and shaggy eyebrows. Ruth had seen him at the hospital once or twice, and Mrs. Falkohar 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 apologize for entering upon it in their presence. He pulled out his double eyeglass, saying with a grave smile. You ran away from us yesterday so quietly and cunningly, Mrs. Denby, 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 of 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 gentleman composing the board of the infirmary. When Mrs. Denby 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. Denby 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 color. 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 had 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 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 peaked 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 plans, said Ruth. I have no means of planning. All I can do is 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, dearest 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. Falcaja 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 have 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 tough in the yard, and you've got a face to set him off. But as for you, as she turned to Miss Benson, I think you might 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 since my father was his clerk. You forget Sally, I had been making jelly all the morning. How could I tell it was Mr. Gray when there was a knock at the door? Miss Benson replied. You might had let me do the jelly, I's a warrant I could have pleased Ruth as well as you, if I had but known he was coming, I'd have slipped round the corner and bought you a neck ribbon or something to lighten you up. I's loathe that he should think I'm living with dissenters that don't know how to keep themselves trigging 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 you 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. Ah, indeed Aunt Faith, said Ruth, I am very sorry to balk you, but if you're going to treat me as an invalid, I'm 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 langer 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 parlor, 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 today. 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. Pleased to take notice, said he, putting down his 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. Denby. 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? Aye, there it is. You see, Mr. Benson, one minute she's as ready as can be, and the next she looks at me as if I were 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. Denby. 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 Ms. Benson replied. He'll be twelve next February. Humph, 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, he 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. Denby, out and out the best nurse I ever met with, Ms. Benson, and good nurses are things we doctors know how to value. This 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. Denby, 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, Faulted Ruth. It is so sudden. It is very, very kind of you, Mr. Davis, said Ms. Benson, a little scandalized at Ruth's non-expression of gratitude. Poo-poo, I'll answer for it in the long run. I am taking good care of my own interests. Come, Mrs. Denby, 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 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 twenty-eighth, you will let me know your decision. Mind, if it's against me, I shan't consider it a decision, for I'm determined to carry my point. I'm not going to make Mrs. Denby blush, Mr. Benson, by telling you, in her presence, of all that I have observed about her these 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. Denby? 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 anyone 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. I, 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. Dunn. Mr. Dunn, said Ruth. Mr. Dunn, 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 who 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. Dunn be 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. Dunn, I mean, she said 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. Denby, 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 a right. Of course, I knew Leonard was illegitimate. In fact, I will give you the secret for secret. It was being so myself that first made me sympathize 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 recognizes you, he will only be annoyed. It is very likely, said Ruth heavily. Annoyed? Why? He may curse you for your unasked for care for 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 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 recognizes me. Why then, said the old surgeon, if you are so bent upon it, I suppose I must let you. It is but what my mother would have done. Poor heartbroken 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 gray 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. Dunn 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 anyone 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 learned all that he knew. He stood in a farther corner of the room, watching his delirious master with a frighted 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 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 it in 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. 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 fullness 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 forever. 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 nightlight, 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 forever 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, gibbering 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 langer 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 nightlamp 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 flushed 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 gray 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 and treaty 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. Benson 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 waited 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. Dunn'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 patience 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 opportunity thrown in his way. In spite of Mr. Davis' 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 labor with 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 then 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 depth of their meaning had fled, and all they told of was of a sweet childlike insanity within. The watchers could not touch her with their sympathy, or come near 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 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 anyone 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 felt 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 an ineffable calm. But now there was a cry heard through the house of one refusing to be comforted. Mother, mother, but Ruth lay dead. End of chapter 35.