Ruth's sense of hearing was quickened to miserable intensity as she stood before the chimney-piece, grasping it tight with both hands--gazing into the dying fire, but seeing--not the dead grey embers, or the little sparks of vivid light that ran hither and thither among the wood-ashes--but an old farmhouse, and climbing, winding road, and a little golden breezy common, with a rural inn on the hill-top, far, far away. And through the thoughts of the past came the sharp sounds of the present--of three voices, one of which was almost silence, it was so hushed. Indifferent people would only have guessed that Mr. Donne was speaking by the quietness in which the others listened; but Ruth heard the voice and many of the words, though they conveyed no idea to her mind. She was too much stunned even to feel curious to know to what they related. He spoke. That was her one fact. Presently up came Mary, bounding, exultant. Papa had let her stay up one quarter of an hour longer, because Mr. Hickson had asked. Mr. Hickson was so clever! She did not know what to make of Mr. Donne, he seemed such a dawdle. But he was very handsome. Had Ruth seen him? Oh, no! She could not, it was so dark on those stupid sands. Well, never mind, she would see him to-morrow. She must be well to-morrow. Papa seemed a good deal put out that neither she nor Elizabeth were in the drawing-room to-night;and his last words were, "Tell Mrs. Denbigh I hope" (and papa's "hopes"always meant "expect") "she will be able to make breakfast at nine o'clock;"and then she would see Mr. Donne. That was all Ruth heard about him. She went with Mary into her bedroom, helped her to undress, and put the candle out. At length she was alone in her own room! At length! But the tension did not give way immediately. She fastened her door, and threw open the window, cold and threatening as was the night. She tore off her gown; she put her hair back from her heated face. It seemed now as if she could not think--as if thought and emotion had been repressed so sternly that they would not come to relieve her stupefied brain. Till all at once, like a flash of lightning, her life, past and present, was revealed to her to its minutest detail. And when she saw her very present "Now," the strange confusion of agony was too great to be borne, and she cried aloud. Then she was quite dead, and listened as to the sound of galloping armies. "If I might see him! If I might see him! If I might just ask him why he left me; if I had vexed him in any way; it was so strange--so cruel! It was not him; it was his mother," said she, almost fiercely, as if answering herself. "O God! but he might have found me out before this," she continued sadly. "He did not care for me, as I did for him. He did not care for me at all," she went on wildly and sharply. "He did me cruel harm. I can never again lift up my face in innocence. They think I have forgotten all, because I do not speak. Oh, darling love! am I talking against you?" asked she tenderly. "I am so torn and perplexed! You, who are the father of my child!" But that very circumstance, full of such tender meaning in many cases;threw a new light into her mind. It changed her from the woman into the mother--the stern guardian of her child. She was still for a time, thinking.
Then she began again, but in a low, deep voice. "He left me. He might have been hurried off, but he might have inquired--he might have learned and explained. He left me to bear the burden and the shame; and never oared to learn, as he might have done, of Leonard's birth.
He has no love for his child, and I will have no love for him." She raised her voice while uttering this determination, and then, feeling her own weakness, she moaned out, "Alas! alas!" And then she started up, for all this time she had been rocking herself backwards and forwards as she sat on the ground, and began to pace the room with hurried steps. "What am I thinking of? Where am I? I who have been praying these years and years to be worthy to be Leonard's mother. My God! What a depth of sin is in my heart! Why, the old time would be as white as snow to what it would be now, if I sought him out, and prayed for the explanation, which would re-establish him in my heart. I who have striven (or made a mock of trying) to learn God's holy will, in order to bring up Leonard into the full strength of a Christian--I who have taught his sweet innocent lips to pray, 'Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil;'
and yet, somehow, I've been longing to give him to his father, who is--who is"--she almost choked, till at last she cried sharp out, "Oh, my God!
I do believe Leonard's father is a bad man, and yet, oh! pitiful God, Ilove him; I cannot forget--I cannot!" She threw her body half out of the window into the cold night air. The wind was rising, and came in great gusts. The rain beat down on her. It did her good. A still, calm night would not have soothed her as this did.
The wild tattered clouds, hurrying past the moon, gave her a foolish kind of pleasure that almost made her smile a vacant smile. The blast-driven rain came on her again, and drenched her hair through and through. The words "stormy wind fulfilling His word" came into her mind. She sat down on the floor. This time her hands were clasped round her knees.
The uneasy rocking motion was stilled. "I wonder if my darling is frightened with this blustering, noisy wind.