Ruth was beautiful, gentle, good, and
conscientious. The hot colour flushed up into Jemima's sallow
face as she became aware that, even while she acknowledged these
excellences on Mrs. Denbigh's part, she hated her. The
recollection of her marble face wearied her even to sickness; the
tones of her low voice were irritating from their very softness.
Her goodness, undoubted as it was, was more distasteful than many
faults which had more savour of human struggle in them.
"What was this terrible demon in her heart?" asked Jemima's
better angel. "Was she, indeed, given up to possession? Was not
this the old stinging hatred which had prompted so many crimes?
The hatred of all sweet virtues which might win the love denied
to us? The old anger that wrought in the elder brother's heart,
till it ended in the murder of the gentle Abel, while yet the
world was young?"
"O God! help me! I did not know I was so wicked," cried Jemima
aloud in her agony. It had been a terrible glimpse into the dark,
lurid gulf--the capability for evil, in her heart. She wrestled
with the demon, but he would not depart: it was to be a struggle
whether or not she was to be given up to him, in this her time of
sore temptation.
All the next day long she sat and pictured the happy
strawberry-gathering going on, even then, in pleasant Scaurside
Wood. Every touch of fancy which could heighten her idea of their
enjoyment, and of Mr.
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