AN ADVENTURE.
Gerald was less known to his cousin than any other member of the family,
for he spent very little time in her society. He usually rose late, and
after a hasty breakfast hurried away to the office whither his father
had already gone. The girls did not see him again until six o'clock when
he returned to dinner, frequently going out directly it was over to
spend the evening with his friends.
Yet, although Ruth saw but little of him, that little astonished her.
She could never forget that he was only a year or two older than Will. A
year or two made a great difference, she knew, but could Will ever
become such a well-dressed fashionable young man, who grumbled at his
mother if the dinner was not to his mind, scolded the servants, and
argued and talked to his father just as if he were a man of his own age?
Ruth thought not, and hoped not.
The short November days were cold and dreary, school duties seemed to
increase, and the girls were beginning to talk of the coming
examinations, and to look forward to the Christmas holidays and
festivities.
In spite of hard work Ruth found it a difficult matter to do all her
lessons thoroughly, and although she was strong and healthy and not
easily fatigued, the effort was beginning to tell upon her.
One fine Wednesday her aunt persuaded her to take a holiday. The rest
was very pleasant, but she had a certain amount of work to finish by the
end of the week, and sat up rather late the next night over her French
translation. She was obliged to give up at last, and went to bed quite
dissatisfied with her evening's work. But when she laid her head upon
the pillow sleep quite forsook her. She tossed and turned, but all in
vain, sleep would not come; her mind was full of the paragraph she had
been endeavouring to translate, and she felt sure that she could do it
much better, if only it were not so late.
Might she not scribble down a few of the sentences which had puzzled
her, but were now quite clear? Of course her aunt would not like it, but
then she need never know. It could not be any worse to write than to lie
in bed and think, she argued, and it would be such a relief to get it
done.
She sprang out of bed, turned up the gas, put on her pretty flannel
dressing gown and woollen shoes, drew up a comfortable easy-chair, and
then remembered that she had left all her books and papers downstairs,
in the little room opening out of the hall where she and Julia prepared
their lessons.
"Never mind, I can get it without disturbing any one," she said, as she
lighted a bedroom candle and crept downstairs very softly in her
woollen shoes, shading the candle as she passed the bedroom doors that
the light might not be seen.
The house was very still and quiet: not a sound was to be heard but the
ticking of the great clock in the hall. Ruth did not look at it, she did
not care to know the time, for she was sure it was very late. The little
study looked cold and desolate by the light of her solitary candle, and
the ashes in the grate still moved and made a slight rustling which
sounded very plainly. Ruth had just gathered up her books and papers
when the hall clock struck close to her, one long solemn stroke.
One o'clock! It was very late she owned, and very lonely down there.
Hark! what was that? Surely the clock was striking again. No, it was a
different sound and came from the front-door. Some person was evidently
trying to open it. Ruth's heart stood still. All the terrible stories
she had ever heard of burglars and midnight robberies came to her mind,
and at the same time the unpleasant conviction that she had stepped
aside from the path of duty and thus brought herself into danger.
Her presence of mind was quite gone. She feared that her candle might
attract attention, but dared not extinguish it and be alone in the dark
with--she knew not whom. Holding her breath she stood for a moment
gazing fixedly towards the door. It was opened softly and cautiously,
and the figure of a man entered the hall and carefully fastened the
bolts of the door. Ruth was too terrified to scream, and as the light of
her candle fell upon his face she suddenly recognised her
cousin--_Gerald_.
He started when he saw the light and his little cousin's scared pale
face, and exclaimed, "What is the matter, Ruth?"
"Oh, Gerald, how you have frightened me!" she said, trembling violently.
"Where have you been?"
"What are you doing here?" he asked, evading her question.
"I couldn't sleep, and came down to fetch my books, and I--I heard you
at the door, and thought you were a burglar."
"Do you often stroll about at night?" he inquired curiously.
"No, indeed. And I have been so terrified that I am sure I will never do
it again. I am very sorry, but I will tell auntie all about it
to-morrow," she said, taking her candle and moving towards the stairs.
"Ruth," said Gerald, in an agitated whisper, "wait a minute."
She turned so that the light fell full upon his face, and saw that he
looked white and anxious.
"May I ask you, as a favour, not to mention your adventure with the
burglar? Perhaps it would be better for both of us to be silent about
to-night's occurrence."
"Why? Where have you been, Gerald? You went to bed before ten o'clock,
and"--a thought struck her--"how came the door to be unbolted?"
"Now, Ruth," he said coaxingly, "I know you are a good-natured little
thing, and I don't believe you would do me a bad turn. You know the
governor is always down upon me, won't let me have a latch-key, and says
I must be in by half-past ten. A fellow can't live without a little
pleasure, and if the governor won't let me have it I must take it. But
don't say a word, there's a dear, or you will get me into an awful row."
"But it is so wrong to deceive your father and mother," urged Ruth,
thinking that after all Gerald was not so "grown-up" as he seemed. "Do
you often go out at night?"
"No, very seldom."
It was not true, but he was anxious to conciliate her.
"Well, Ruth, shall we promise each other that we won't say a word about
to-night?"
"I don't know. I don't mind telling auntie what I have done, though I
know it was wrong and foolish, but, of course, I don't want to get you
into trouble. Yet--I can't tell lies----"
"Of course not; I wouldn't wish it. But you can be silent--yes, I
believe you can--and I want you to promise me on your word as a good
little cousin, that you will not mention what has happened to any one."
"Very well," she said, turning away slowly.
"Gerald, will you promise me something?"
"Anything you like."
They were almost upstairs now, and he was anxious for her to be silent.
"Promise that you won't go out at night again without letting your
father know."
"I'll promise," was his whispered reply; and they separated.
Another moment, and Ruth was in her own room, but without the books for
which she had gone downstairs. She had forgotten them and the
translation in her astonishment about Gerald, and when she lay in bed
once more her mind was full of her strange adventure, and she began to
wonder if she had done right in giving her promise so quickly, without
any reflection.
A promise was to her a sacred thing, not to be lightly given or easily
broken, but she comforted herself with the thought that she was really
doing good to her cousin. Had he not promised her in return that he
would give up these forbidden pleasures? And was not that something to
rejoice over?
She did not know enough of the world to reflect that one who wilfully
deceived his parents was hardly likely to keep a promise so readily made
to his little country cousin.