To all
such, when Leonard was better, Ruth went, and thanked them from
her heart. She and the old cripple sat hand in hand over the
scanty fire on the hearth of the latter, while she told in
solemn, broken, homely words, how her child sickened and died.
Tears fell like rain down Ruth's cheeks; but those of the old
woman were dry. All tears had been wept out of her long ago, and
now she sat patient and quiet, waiting for death. But after this
Ruth "clave unto her," and the two were henceforward a pair of
friends. Mr. Farquhar was only included in the general gratitude
which she felt towards all who had been kind to her boy.
The winter passed away in deep peace after the storms of the
autumn, yet every now and then a feeling of insecurity made Ruth
shake for an instant. Those wild autumnal storms had torn aside
the quiet flowers and herbage that had gathered over the wreck of
her early life, and shown her that all deeds, however hidden and
long passed by, have their eternal consequences. She turned sick
and faint whenever Mr. Donne's name was casually mentioned. No
one saw it; but she felt the miserable stop in her heart's
beating, and wished that she could prevent it by any exercise of
self-command. She had never named his identity with Mr.
Bellingham, nor had she spoken about the seaside interview. Deep
shame made her silent and reserved on all her life before
Leonard's birth; from that time she rose again in her
self-respect, and spoke as openly as a child (when need was) of
all occurrences which had taken place since then; except that she
could not, and would not, tell of this mocking echo, this
haunting phantom, this past, that would not rest in its grave.
Pages:
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421