_DISMAY._
"MALA," said Ruth, when the ayah came down from putting Norman to bed,
"I want to speak to you."
Mala glided into the room, surprise and a little fear in her glance.
"Mala," said Ruth, putting her hand on the servant's shoulder, "I want
to know if you can be trusted to keep to yourself what I am going to
tell you?"
"I think I can, missie—now," Mala answered, in a heartier tone than she
had ever spoken in before.
"Will you promise me that you will not speak to Norman about what I am
going to tell you, till you have my father's permission?"
"Yes, missie, I promise. Mrs. Morris has been telling me about Christ
loving me, and I feel different from when I came. And, missie, you've
been so good to my child—"
"It is about him I want to speak to you," said Ruth, with glistening
eyes, as her heart rose in thanksgiving for this added joy of Mala's
change.
"Yes, missie?"
"We want you to know, and your great devotion to him makes us tell you,
that we have great hopes that he has recovered his speech."
Mala's intent look was her only answer.
"But," pursued Ruth earnestly, "it is most important that, as it has
been a nervous affection, nothing should now be said to him by anyone.
If he were to be overpowered by congratulations and questions, I fear
it might bring back his dumbness. Can you understand this?"
Mala nodded eagerly, and then said, "But 'has' he spoken, missie?"
So Ruth explained, and told her she could learn all particulars from
Morris. And then, telling her how very glad she was about what she had
said, Ruth heartily shook her hand and dismissed her, desiring her to
send Judith to her at once.
A happy, grateful party went to bed that night under the roof of "The
Furnished House!"
The next morning at breakfast, a telegram was brought in for Ruth.
It was from her father, asking her to come home at once for a few
hours, as Dr. Arundel and he wished to hear all particulars.
All was bustle to find the next train, and to get Ruth off, and Heston
and Judith flew about till it was time for her and Heston to start for
the train.
Just as she was ready, Norman came down the stairs, holding Mala's hand.
Ruth looked in his face, and saw all was right there.
He nodded to her, and then whispered in her ear, "Mala hasn't kissed me
and fussed, but I think she knows it."
"She promised she would not," whispered Ruth back, "but she is very
glad."
So she sped after Heston, who was waiting outside.
"Heston!" she exclaimed. "He has spoken quite naturally to me again,
but in a whisper. Oh, I am so thankful!"
It was only an hour's journey, and soon Ruth found herself in her own
familiar High Street, and opposite Riverside.
She could not pass Mary's door without getting her sympathy in the joy
which she had to tell.
For a moment she thought of Vincent, but, after all, the remembrance of
that unsatisfactory parting, so sorrowful on both sides for different
reasons, would have to be lived through. Ruth determined never to
mention it, and she doubted if Mary would, even if she heard of it,
which did not seem likely.
So she rang the door-bell, and the maid told her Mrs. Arundel was in
the drawing-room.
She hung her hat in the hall, and after her usual little knock, Ruth
peeped in with a smiling, "I have come, Mary, but it is to bring you
good news of Norman—"
To her dismay, Mary was sitting on the sofa, with her head buried in
the cushions, in what looked like an abandonment of grief.
"Mary!" said Ruth fearfully, coming over to her side. "Mary, darling,
what is it?"
The corner of a letter peeped out from her lap, and Ruth guessed the
post must have brought bad news.
But Mary's shoulder was withdrawn from the light touch of Ruth's gentle
little hand.
"Can you not tell me?" she asked at length.
"You would not understand," said Mary.
"Understand what?" asked Ruth.
But something in Mary's tone, different from anything she had ever
heard from her before, made her heart sink, and stilled her inquiries.
Was it, after all, to do with Vincent?
"Tell me, dear Mary," she implored, after what seemed a dreadful pause,
in which Mary's sobs were the only sound. "It will be far better to
tell me, then I can at least try to comfort you."
"There is no comfort," said Mary, with stiff lips, sitting up and
brushing away her tears. "If you do not care for him, that is the end
of it. But oh, my poor Vincent!"
"But I—didn't know—did not expect—it was all so sudden. Mary, why did
he not let me know before; I never guessed he had set his heart on it
till the last moment, and even now I hardly know what he meant."
"He is gone now," said Mary, weeping again. "I never thought, as I
parted from him on Saturday, when he was coming to you, that you would
treat him so."
"How 'so'?" said Ruth, turning pale. "Did I do anything that was unkind
or untruthful?"
"I daresay not," answered Mary wearily; "but, all the same, Vincent is
gone to America with a sore heart, and nothing that anyone can do can
make it otherwise."
Ruth's lips took that little proud look which Mary had not seen since
the time of her estrangement with her father.
"Now I have hurt you!" she exclaimed, throwing her arms round Ruth's
neck. "Oh, forgive me for being so grieved. You cannot help it that you
do not love him. But there is no one like Vincent in my eyes, and I
thought—I hoped that you would find it out."
"I was so taken by surprise," whispered Ruth, caressing her friend. "Do
not be so sorry, dear Mary. Perhaps he will be comforted soon; and,
indeed, I did not mean to be unkind."
"I am sure of that," said Mary, rousing herself, and looking in the
tearful, burning face of her little friend.
And then the two girls were startled by hearing Dr. Brown's voice in
the hall, and Arthur's answering eagerly, "She is here; how glad I am,
for we can both see her and hear the good news together."