All these particulars sank unconsciously into Ruth's mind, but
they did not rise to the surface, and become perceptible, for a
length of time. She was weary and much depressed. Even the very
kindness that ministered to her was overpowering. But over the
dark, misty moor a little light shone--a beacon; and on that she
fixed her eyes, and struggled out of her present deep
dejection--the little child that was coming to her!
Mr. Benson was as languid and weary as Ruth, and was silent
during all this bustle and preparation. His silence was more
grateful to Ruth than Miss Benson's many words, although she felt
their kindness. After tea, Miss Benson took her upstairs to her
room. The white dimity bed, and the walls, stained green, had
something of the colouring and purity of effect of a snowdrop;
while the floor, rubbed with a mixture that turned it into a rich
dark-brown, suggested the idea of the garden-mould out of which
the snowdrop grows. As Miss Benson helped the pale Ruth to
undress, her voice became less full-toned and hurried; the hush
of approaching night subdued her into a softened, solemn kind of
tenderness, and the murmured blessing sounded like granted
prayer.
When Miss Benson came downstairs, she found her brother reading
some letters which had been received during his absence. She went
and softly shut the door of communication between the parlour and
the kitchen; and then, fetching a grey worsted stocking which she
was knitting, sat down near him, her eyes not looking at her work
but fixed on the fire; while the eternal rapid click of the
knitting-needles broke the silence of the room, with a sound as
monotonous and incessant as the noise of a hand-loom.
Pages:
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195