_PROUD._
DR. ARTHUR ARUNDEL did take the house in the town, and Ruth found that
her life was no longer without interest.
Mary, as she begged Ruth to call her, was delighted to have her
society, and claimed her help in arranging the dear old rooms, so that
in a few weeks everything was done, and they had "settled in," as Ruth
called it.
She and Mary had, of course, often had a good deal of talk, but after
that first day there had been no great confidences between them. Ruth
held back, as she had held back with Morris, all that sad year since
her mother's death, and Mary saw that her heart was not yet ready
to open out. She was affectionate, saucy, matter-of-fact, and even
brilliant by turns, but Mary knew she had only seen the real Ruth once,
and that once was nearly two months ago now.
One morning, she saw Ruth pass with her violin-case, and ran to the
window to wave her hand to her. She was surprised to see a very pale,
set little face turn round, and then a pair of dark, almost glittering
eyes met hers.
Mary opened the casement, and said: "Shall you be in afterwards?"
And Ruth nodded without a word, and hurried on.
"Mary!" exclaimed Arthur, coming in presently, "What are you looking
at, my dear?"
"I was watching for Ruth! Somehow, she looks as if she had had some
blow—"
"Oh! I thought Dr. Brown seemed rather disturbed this morning, and I
asked him if he felt well. He replied a little testily that he had
received a letter from India which had—had—worried him. But he did not
explain."
Mary turned from the window, where she had been eagerly watching the
door of the High School, which could be seen across the road.
"New friends?" he smiled, as he put his hand on her shoulder. "Poor
little Mary!"
"But they were not of my seeking," she answered quickly, "and I can
only do with my life what God sends into it."
"Yes, indeed, dearest! I am glad He sent 'me' into it," he added gently
and reverently.
"So am I," she answered.
"I must be off—I hope the news little Miss Brown may bring will not
really be serious. Good-bye, my dearest!"
Mary put the room straight, and did not look anxiously from the window
any more. Those few words with her husband had made her recall what
was her life motto: "Bless me, and make me a blessing." So with rested
heart, she put herself afresh into God's Hands to be used as He wished,
and then her path seemed clear before her.
She took her work into the cosy drawing-room, and placing the chair
Ruth liked by the window, she sat down to wait. It was not long before
the light, quick steps were heard in the hall, and after a slight tap,
Ruth entered.
She put her violin-case in its accustomed corner, and came to Mary's
side without speaking. Once or twice she tried, but the voice did not
come.
"I am afraid something is the matter, dear?" said Mary, kissing her.
"Sit down here on your own little chair, and tell me if you can."
Ruth stood looking out of the window, and after some moments' silence,
she said, with husky voice, "I have quarrelled with my father—"
"'Quarrelled?'" echoed Mary. It seemed such an impossible word.
"Yes," assented Ruth. "I never in my life had a wry word with him
before. We both got angry and lost our tempers, and he shut himself up
in his study till he went to his patients, and never came to wish me
good-bye; and I—"
"And you?" asked Mary, too dismayed to waste words.
"I sat for two hours as if I were turned to stone—and then came out to
my lesson."
"But what could be the cause," said Mary, "if I may ask the question?"
"You may ask," answered Ruth, in a hard tone. "He has written to India
without consulting me, inviting my uncle's three children to come over
to live with us, and they will be here in a week!"
"And that causes your grief? I see it does, poor Ruth—"
"Grief?" echoed Ruth in her turn. "It has spoilt my life!"
Mary did not attempt consolation in words yet. Swiftly her heart
rose in prayer to Him who was her "Strong habitation, whereunto" she
"continually resorted." And then, putting her hand softly on the rigid
little ones, she said tenderly, "Come and sit down. How came it about,
dear?"
Ruth shook her head. Then, after a moment, she said, as if her tongue
were parched: "Uncle wrote, two months ago—he asked for them to come.
My father said yes—and that is all."
"I suppose your uncle needed to send them very much, or he would not
have parted—?" Mary hesitated.
Ruth gave a short gasp. "I suppose he did—he is dying."
"Dying!"
"Yes," she burst forth, "and you will think I am a cruel, cruel girl!
But if only—oh, Mary, if only my father had asked me—had taken me into
his confidence! If only we had tried to bear it together, I should not
have minded so much!"
"It is a great blow for you," said Mary, slowly. "I can understand a
little about it, because when I was younger, I had something like it.
Not so bad as yours, but very bad to me at the time. And it turned to
blessing, Ruth! Indeed it did."
"This never will," exclaimed Ruth, passionately. "If only he had not
kept it to himself all this time, I could have borne it—"
"'If onlys' lead to distraction," said Mary, very softly. "I have
learned by many ups and downs that, somehow or other, God turns things
to blessings to them that love Him."
"Ah!" said Ruth, withdrawing her hand hastily. "But then, you see, I
don't."
"Not yet," said Mary gently, "but I have hopes—"
There was a long silence. Then Ruth burst out impetuously, "I hate to
trouble you with all this! I think I will go home now, Mary, and when I
have got over the shock and am more myself again, I will come back. I
have no one to speak to—"
Then she broke down, and, laying her proud little head in Mary's lap,
she wept and wept till some of the anger began to die down in her heart.
"What must your dear father be feeling?" said Mary at length, as she
smoothed the wavy hair, and ever and anon kissed the bowed head.
Ruth started. "He should not have used me so," she said bitterly.
"I am sorry he did," said Mary. "I dare say he is sorry, too. I dare
say he never thought it would hurt you so."
Ruth shook her head.
"I have a very tender father at home," said Mary, and as she said it
she could hear his gentle 'What is it, Molly? There is nothing too hard
for God!' And her eyes filled with soft tears. "And he told me, Ruth,
that children have no idea of the love their fathers and mothers bear
them: have no idea of the pain that they feel if any alienation arises
between them and their children."
"I never thought it could," said Ruth, very low. "I thought it was as
impossible for me to be angry with my father, as for the sun to fall
from the sky. And yet—yet I am more angry—I have been more angry than I
have ever been in my life."
Her face, which had been raised for a moment in her eagerness, was
buried again, but her hand in touching Mary's gave it a little pressure.
"Dear Ruth!" said Mary lovingly, "Will you not go to him and try to
comfort him?"
"I do not think I can—yet."
"Think how sad he must be about his brother!"
"Yes," said Ruth, "I know that. But he ought to have told me."
"I think he ought," said Mary, hesitating a little, "but I cannot think
that, even if he had made an error in judgment, it could justify a
daughter in feeling as you have. Forgive me, dear; I should not be a
true friend if I did not say so."
"You are a true friend," said Ruth brokenly, "and I thank you. But all
the same for that, I can't make myself feel right, and so it is of no
use saying I do."
"Certainly not," said Mary decidedly, "but—"
Ruth was a little startled.
"What do you mean?" she asked, raising her head, and her eyes meeting
Mary's.
"I mean that what is utterly impossible to us, God can do."
"Not this," said Ruth. "As you say, it is utterly impossible, with my
present feelings."
"If we were to ask God, it would be done," said Mary firmly. "Are you
willing to 'ask?'"
Ruth could not answer. Thought after thought chased through her heart
and her brain. Could she, would she? How could that proud, stubborn
will, which since she could remember had never allowed itself to bow,
how could she voluntarily ask God to bow it for her?
But her father! Her dear, bereaved father! Could she hold out against
Mary's loving persuasions? Could she dare to estrange herself one
moment longer from that dear father whom she had vowed to cherish and
comfort?
And then God! She who had never asked a single favour of God, could
she ask now to have her will made ready to do His will? But Mary was
speaking softly, and the words that reached Ruth's astonished ears were
these—
"Oh, dear Lord Jesus Christ, Thou who knowest how hard it is to say
'Thy Will, not mine, be done,' bring us both to desire from the heart
that which Thou dost command. Amen."
And Mary heard a broken whispered echo of her Amen, just before Ruth
flung her arms round her neck, sobbing out: "Oh, I will go, I will go!
How could I stay away from him like this!"