THE JOURNEY.
Several letters passed between Mrs. Arnold and her sister-in-law; and as
it was arranged that Ruth was to go the following week, there was not
much time for preparation, and every spare minute was fully occupied.
Her entire wardrobe had to be inspected and replenished, as far as
slender means would permit; old garments were made to look as much like
new as possible, and little bits of ribbon and lace which had not seen
the light for years, because there were so few suitable occasions for
wearing them in a quiet country place, now reappeared in the form of
bows and tuckers for the neck.
As Mrs. Woburn, Ruth's aunt, lived a great many miles from Cressleigh,
it was decided that her niece should go direct to Stonegate, the
watering-place where they were to spend the holidays. She was therefore
to take a long railway journey, quite an event in itself, as she had
rarely been farther by rail than the county town, twelve miles distant,
and even there she had always been accompanied by her father or mother.
But just now there was so much to be done on the farm, that her father
could spare neither the time nor money for a long journey, and the young
girl was obliged to travel alone, a formidable undertaking, which seemed
almost to spoil the anticipated pleasure of the sea-side visit.
One bright morning in the early part of July, Ruth woke with the
thought, "I am really going away to-day, and perhaps I may not sleep in
this dear little room for a whole year, or for six months at least."
She had rarely called her chamber a "dear little room" before; in fact,
she had often grumbled because it was so small; but now that she was
about to go away it had suddenly become dear, for was it not part of her
home, and what place in the world could ever be so dear as home?
How strange it all seemed that morning! The coming downstairs and
finding the little trunk packed and corded in the hall; the hurried
breakfast, at which every one but mother talked very fast, because they
had so much to say and such a short time in which to say it; the
leave-takings, the good-byes, and parting injunctions.
Ruth drove off at last beside her father, feeling like one in a dream,
so dimly did she see everything through the mist of tears which hung
about her eyes.
There was another farewell to be said at the railway junction, for Mr.
Arnold could only wait a few minutes to see her into a comfortable
carriage, and then returned home to Cressleigh. When he waved his hand
and the train was fairly in motion, Ruth began to realize that she was
being separated for a long, long time from all whom she loved best in
the world; she heaved one great sob, and crouching into a corner of the
carriage gave way to a flood of tears. She wept for several minutes
undisturbed, then a kind motherly-looking lady, who was sitting opposite
to her, asked, "What is the matter, my dear? Are you going away to
school?"
"Yes, ma'am; at least, I mean no, not yet. I am going to the sea-side to
stay with my cousins for a few weeks."
"I don't think that most girls would be so distressed at the thought of
a visit to the sea-side," said the old lady, smiling.
"But I'm not coming back for ever so long," replied Ruth, drying her
tears, however. Then she informed her new friend how long she was going
to be away, and what she hoped to see and do during her absence from
home, and the old lady seemed so much interested that Ruth soon grew
bright and merry, and began to notice the pretty country through which
they were passing; and when the train stopped at a rustic station, where
a little pony trap was waiting to convey the old lady to her own home,
they felt as if they had known each other for years instead of hours,
and were really very sorry to part.
The rest of the journey seemed rather dull and tedious, and it was late
in the afternoon when the train drew up at the Stonegate station. There
were a good many people on the platform, and Ruth was wondering if any
one had come to meet her, when a lady looked in at the carriage door and
inquired in a pleasant manner, "Your name is Ruth Arnold, is it not?"
"Yes, it is," she replied rather shyly, as she bent forward to look at
her aunt. But that look told her a great deal.
She saw a fair placid face which she felt sure she should love, for the
dark blue eyes reminded her of her father's, though the fair hair and
small mouth were strangely unlike his. But there was something familiar
in the tone of her voice, and when she called a cab, gave instructions
about the luggage, and took her seat beside her niece, Ruth was quite at
ease and felt that she was going to be happy.
"You will see Julia very soon," said Mrs. Woburn, "but this is our first
day at the sea-side, and she was out when I started. I am afraid that
she will be angry with me, for I know that she intended to come herself
to meet you, and I think she will be disappointed."
"It was very kind of you to come," said Ruth; "I was getting quite
frightened, and thought that perhaps you might not know me, and that I
should be all alone in a strange place."
"There is not much fear that any one who has seen your mother would not
recognise her daughter," was Mrs. Woburn's smiling reply.
"Do you think me so much like her?" asked Ruth eagerly, looking greatly
pleased.
"Indeed I do. But this is our lodging. I see Julia looking out of the
window."
In another minute Ruth had followed her aunt into a large cheerful
sitting-room, with two bay-windows overlooking the beach and sea.
"Oh! mamma, what a shame of you to go without me!" cried a voice from
the window where a young girl was standing.
"You were so late, dear," said Mrs. Woburn gently. "Here is your cousin;
take her to her room; I am sure she must be tired after her long
journey."
Julia, a pretty fair-haired fashionably-dressed girl, came forward and
shook hands, saying, "How d'ye do, Ruth? I am glad mamma met you. Will
you come upstairs?"
She led the way to a pretty bedroom, much larger than the one in which
Ruth had slept at Cressleigh. There was a splendid view of the sea from
the windows, and the furniture of the room was all of light polished
wood; a pretty dressing-table stood between the windows, which were hung
with white muslin curtains, and the hangings and cover-lids of the two
little beds were snowy white.
"What a pretty room!" said Ruth, as she entered.
"Do you think so? I think it is awfully small and poky. And we are both
to sleep here, which I am sure will be very inconvenient; but we
couldn't get anything better, so I suppose we must put up with it.
Lodgings are always the great drawback to the sea-side, you know."
Ruth did not know what reply to make, she was so taken aback by the
grandeur of Julia's air and manner.