Ruth Hall Part 10

"Dust to dust!"

The s.e.xton smooths the moist earth carefully with his reversed spade; Ruth's eyes follow his movements with a strange fascination. Now the carriages roll away one after another, and the wooden man turns to Ruth and says, "Come." She looks into his stony face, then at the new-made mound, utters a low, stifled cry, and staggers forth with her crus.h.i.+ng sorrow.

Oh, Earth! Earth! with thy mocking skies of blue, thy placid silver streams, thy myriad, memory-haunting odorous flowers, thy wheels of triumph rolling--rolling on, over breaking hearts and prostrate forms--maimed, tortured, crushed, yet not destroyed. Oh, mocking Earth!

s.n.a.t.c.hing from our frenzied grasp the life-long coveted treasure! Most treacherous Earth! are these thy unkept promises?

Oh, hadst thou no Gethsemane--no Calvary--no guarded tomb--no risen Lord!

CHAPTER x.x.xII.

"And is it because Biddy M'Pherson don't suit yer, that ye'd be afther sending her away?" said Ruth's nursery maid.

"No, Biddy," replied Ruth; "you have been respectful to me, and kind and faithful to the children, but I cannot afford to keep you now since--"

and Ruth's voice faltered.

"If that is all, my leddy," said Biddy, brightening up, "then I'll not be afther laving, sure."

"Thank you," said Ruth, quite moved by her devotion; "but you must not work for me without wages. Besides, Biddy, I could not even pay your board."

"And the tears not dry on your cheek; and the father of him and you with plenty of the siller. May the divil fly away wid 'em! Why, Nettie is but a babby yet, and Masther used to say you must walk every day, to keep off the bad headaches; and it's coming could weather, and you can't take Nettie out, and you can't lave her with Katy; and anyhow it isn't Biddy M'Pherson that'll be going away intirely."

The allusion to Harry's tender care of Ruth's health opened the wound afresh, and she wept convulsively.

"I say it's a shame," said Biddy, becoming more excited at the sight of her tears; "and you can't do it, my leddy; you are as white as a sheet of paper."

"I _must_," said Ruth, controlling herself with a violent effort; "say no more, Biddy. I don't know where I am going; but wherever it may be I shall always be glad to see you. Katy and Nettie shall not forget their kind nurse; now, go and pack your trunk," said Ruth, a.s.suming a composure she was far from feeling. "I thank you for your kind offer, though I cannot accept it."

"May the sowls of 'em niver get out of purgatory; that's Biddy's last word to 'em," said the impetuous Irish girl; "and if the priest himself should say that St. Peter wouldn't open the gate for your leddys.h.i.+p, I wouldn't believe him." And unclasping little Nettie's clinging arms from her neck, and giving a hurried kiss to little Katy, Biddy went sobbing through the door, with her check ap.r.o.n over her broad Irish face.

CHAPTER x.x.xIII.

"Who's that coming up the garden-walk, doctor?" said the old lady; "Ruth's father, as true as the world. Ah! I understand, we shall see what we shall see; mind you keep a stiff upper lip, doctor."

"Good morning, doctor," said Mr. Ellet.

"Good morning, sir," said the doctor, stiffly.

"Fine place you have here, doctor."

"Very," replied the doctor.

"I have just come from a visit to Ruth," said Mr. Ellet.

The imperturbable doctor slightly nodded to his visitor, as he took a pinch of snuff.

"She seems to take her husband's death very hard."

"Does she?" replied the doctor.

"I'm sorry to hear," remarked Mr. Ellet, fidgeting in his chair, "that there is nothing left for the support of the family."

"So am I," said the doctor.

"I suppose the world will talk about us, if nothing is done for her,"

said the non-committal Mr. Ellet.

"Very likely," replied the doctor.

"Harry was _your_ child," said Mr. Ellet, suggestively.

"Ruth is yours," said the doctor.

"Yes, I know," said Mr. Ellet; "but you are better off than I am, doctor."

"I deny it--I deny it," retorted the doctor, fairly roused; "you own the house you live in, and have a handsome income, or _ought_ to have,"

said he, sneeringly, "at the rate you live. If you have brought up your daughter in extravagance, so much the worse for _her_; you and Ruth must settle that between you. I wash _my_ hands of her. I have no objection to take Harry's _children_, and try to bring them up in a sensible manner; but, in that case, I'll have none of the mother's interference.

Then her hands will be free to earn her own living, and she's none too good for it, either. I don't believe in your doll-baby women; she's proud, you are all proud, all your family--that tells the whole story."

This was rather plain Saxon, as the increased redness of Mr. Ellet's ears testified; but pecuniary considerations helped him to swallow the bitter pill without making a wry face.

"I don't suppose Ruth could be induced to part with her children," said Mr. Ellet, meditatively.

"Let her try to support them then, till she gets starved out," replied the doctor. "I suppose you know, if the mother's inability to maintain them is proved, the law obliges each of the grand-parents to take one."

This was a new view of the case, and one which immediately put to flight any reluctance Mr. Ellet might have had to force Ruth to part with her children; and remarking that he thought upon reflection, that the children _would_ be better off with the doctor, Mr. Ellet took his leave.

"I thought that stroke would tell," said the doctor, laughing, as Mr.

Ellet closed the door.

"Yes, you hit the right nail on the head that time," remarked the old lady; "but those children will be a sight of trouble. They never sat still five minutes at a time, since they were born; but I'll soon cure them of that. I'm determined Ruth shan't have them, if they fret me to fiddling-strings; but what an avaricious old man Mr. Ellet is. We ought to be thankful we have more of the gospel spirit. But the clock has struck nine, doctor. It is time to have prayers, and go to bed."

CHAPTER x.x.xIV.

The day was dark and gloomy. Incessant weeping and fasting had brought on one of Ruth's most violent attacks of nervous headache. Ah! where was the hand which had so lately charmed that pain away? where was the form that, with uplifted finger and tiptoe tread, hushed the slightest sound, excluded the torturing light, changed the heated pillow, and bathed the aching temples? Poor Ruth! nature had been tasked its utmost with sad memories and weary vigils, and she sank fainting to the floor.

Well might the frightened children huddle breathless in the farther corner. The coffin, the shroud, and the grave, were all too fresh in their childish memory. Well might the tearful prayer go up to the only Friend they knew,--"Please G.o.d, don't take away our mamma, too."