Ruth Arnold Part 11

One moment she stood in perplexity and doubt. Then hearing a slight noise, and seeing a bright light s.h.i.+ning under the door of the little study, she turned the handle and opened the door to enter, but stepped back, half-blinded by the cloud of smoke which immediately enveloped her. The next moment she discovered the form of Gerald, who was evidently asleep in his chair, bending over the table, upon which were some blazing papers. The table itself was on fire, and the cloth that covered it was smouldering and giving forth volumes of smoke.

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Ruth gave a piercing scream, which alarmed the household, rushed into the room, caught up the heavy rug and threw it over the table, seized her cousin by the arm, and tried with all her might to drag him from the room.

Before she succeeded in arousing him her aunt and uncle came to her relief, drawn thither by her cry of alarm. They were soon followed by the terrified servants, who, under Mr. Woburn's direction, quickly extinguished the fire and removed Gerald.

The young man was soon restored to consciousness, and started up with a bewildered look, but his face a.s.sumed an expression of fear and horror as he gradually realized how narrowly he had escaped from a dreadful death.

"Oh, Gerald! How did it occur?" asked his mother, giving utterance to the question which had been uppermost in the minds of all.

"Don't ask," he almost groaned; "and yet you must know it, sooner or later."

"Do tell everything, Gerald," implored Ruth, who, now that the terror and excitement were over, stood pale and s.h.i.+vering. "It was partly my fault, you know; I ought not to have made that promise."

Thus entreated, Gerald told them the story of his faults and follies; of his midnight carousals and their discovery by Ruth, of his overwhelming love of pleasure, of half-hours stolen from the office during his father's absence and of work neglected. He went on to say that the chief clerk had told him, a few days before, that he really must inform Mr.

Woburn how shamefully neglected were the books under his son's care; that he dreaded his father's anger, and promised to write up the books and finish his work before the end of January. For this purpose he had brought home the books and worked at them stealthily by night until drowsiness overtook him, and he probably knocked over the candle which had done the mischief.

Mr. Woburn felt more anger than he dared to show at such a time, just after his son's deliverance from a horrible fate, and he turned the subject by applauding Ruth's presence of mind and bravery.

"Don't praise me, I can't bear it! I am as bad as Gerald!" she sobbed, and rushed away to her own room.

Before daylight the next morning Mrs. Woburn was at her door with a steaming cup of coffee.

"Drink this, my dear," she said. "How your hand trembles! I was afraid that you would feel ill after your dreadful fright. Indeed, dear," she said, her eyes full of tears, "I can never thank you, never feel half grateful enough for your brave rescue of my poor Gerald."

"Don't say that, auntie. If--if anything had happened, it would have been my fault. I ought to have told you of his wrong-doing long ago."

"It was only your goodness of heart, darling," said her aunt kindly.

"But it wasn't _right_, auntie. I deceived you. Oh dear! I feel such a bundle of deceit. I've deceived every one," she said under a sudden impulse. "No, don't stop me; I must tell you all about it."

Then she poured into her ear the whole story of the prize as well as her promise to Gerald, and finished by saying that she had been perfectly miserable all through the holidays.

Mrs. Woburn was surprised and somewhat shocked at this recital; but she was good-natured, and her sense of wrong had been growing dull so many years that she failed to understand Ruth's emotion.

"Poor child!" she said gently, "it has been very bad for you, but it is all over now, and you will do better in future."

"Oh, auntie, how can I?" she exclaimed, as she thought what a different reply her mother would have made.

"I must tell Miss Elgin," she said resolutely; "and I suppose all the girls must know, and Julia, and--and father and mother."

"Do you think that necessary, dear? You are very sorry, I am sure. Is not that enough?"

"Nothing can make it right, I know, auntie; but I cannot, and will not, deceive them any longer."

Ruth burst into a fit of hysterical crying, and was only quieted by her aunt's promise to go with her that very day to call upon Miss Elgin.

"Poor Ruth seems quite ill," said Mrs. Woburn at breakfast-time. "I persuaded her to stay in bed a little while, and I think she will be better soon. She has made quite a confession to me."

"What was it about?" inquired Julia.

Then, according to her niece's wish, she repeated the whole story, concluding with the remark that, after all, it was not quite such a serious matter as the poor child seemed to think. She remembered that girls used to copy when she went to school, and they worked so hard now that it really was somewhat excusable.

"You would think it was serious if you heard Ruth denounce it," was Julia's reply. "She could never say enough against it, and pretended to be so much better than any of us. To think of her having looked over me!

I couldn't have believed it!"

Ernest made no remark, though he listened attentively to the conversation.

The visit to Miss Elgin, which Mrs. Woburn did not consider necessary, was a very trying ordeal. _She_ certainly did not make light of the matter, although she did not think it would be advisable to tell the girls; it would be sufficient for them to know that Ruth was under her displeasure.

"I feared at first that there was something wrong," she said, "but I could not doubt your word, Ruth; I have always trusted to your high principle and honour. Henceforth I must act differently, and you must not expect to be trusted."

There was no palliation of the offence, which she surveyed from her high stand-point of justice alone.

"Now, Ruth, your troubles are over," said her aunt gaily as they returned home.

"Over! Are they?" she sighed wearily to herself, "when I have to write home, and to live next term under Miss Elgin's displeasure, and all my life with the remembrance of this behind me!"

It was a great trial to have to write home to dispel her mother's fond hopes and her father's pride in her; to tell them that their Ruth was not the frank, open, truth-loving girl they had always believed her; to prove to them that one of their children could stoop to equivocation and deceit. Yes, it was a hard and bitter task, and she shed a good many tears over it as she wrote, almost oblivious of everything else in the little study, where the traces of the fire still remained.

Presently she raised her head, and saw Ernest looking at her--not curiously, but with a kind, compa.s.sionate gaze.

"Ruth," he said, in a low tone, "I am awfully sorry for you, but I can't understand why you should be so unhappy _now_."

"I shall always be wretched," said Ruth bitterly; "all my life, I expect."

"I--I thought when first you came here that you were a Christian," said the boy timidly.

"I thought so too," sobbed Ruth, "but I suppose I was wrong. Everything goes wrong here, and that happy time is so far away."

"But if you have confessed to G.o.d, and have His forgiveness, the happiness will come again."

"Confess to _Him_? How could I? He is such a long way off now, and there is such a gulf between that I cannot pray to Him."

"Oh, Ruth; you are making a great mistake. You know that Jesus died on purpose to put away sin, to break down the wall, to bridge over the gulf. He is the same yesterday, to-day, and for ever. It is you that have changed, not Christ. Go to Him at once; it is of no use humbling yourself and confessing to others if you stop away from Him. He only can forgive and send peace."

"'Your sins have separated between you and your G.o.d,'" said Ruth solemnly.

"'The blood of Jesus Christ His Son cleanseth us from all sin,'" replied her cousin.

"Ernest, you are a Christian!" said Ruth suddenly.

"Yes, I hope so," replied the boy, reddening as his shyness and self-consciousness returned.

"Why did you never talk to me before?" asked Ruth; "you might have helped me so much. I thought I was all alone and better than the rest."

"It was wrong, I know," he replied, "but I am so foolish I cannot talk about these things; yet I felt so sorry for you just now, for I thought you had forgotten."