Two years had passed away--two long, eventless years. Something
was now going to happen, which touched their hearts very nearly,
though out of their sight and hearing. Jemima was going to be
married this August, and by-and-by the very day was fixed. It was
to be on the 14th. On the evening of the 13th, Ruth was sitting
alone in the parlour, idly gazing out on the darkening shadows in
the little garden; her eyes kept filling with quiet tears, that
rose, not for her own isolation from all that was going on of
bustle and preparation for the morrow's event, but because she
had seen how Miss Benson had felt that she and her brother were
left out from the gathering of old friends in the Bradshaw
family. As Ruth sat, suddenly she was aware of a figure by her;
she started up, and in the gloom of the apartment she recognised
Jemima. In an instant they were in each other's arms--a long,
fast embrace.
"Can you forgive me?" whispered Jemima in Ruth's ear.
"Forgive you! What do you mean? What have I to forgive? The
question is, can I ever thank you as I long to do, if I could
find words?"
"Oh, Ruth, how I hated you once!"
"It was all the more noble in you to stand by me as you did. You
must have hated me when you knew how I was deceiving you all!"
"No, that was not it that made me hate you. It was before that.
Oh, Ruth, I did hate you!"
They were silent for some time, still holding each other's hands.
Pages:
489
490
491
492
493
494
495
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503
504
505
506
507
508
509
510
511
512
513