A DOWNWARD STEP.
"I can't think what has happened to Ruth, she is not at all like her
usual self," remarked Ernest that evening.
He had been playfully teasing his cousin about her studies, when she
suddenly answered him sharply, burst into a violent flood of tears, and
ran away to her own room.
"She is crosser than ever," said Julia.
"Poor child!" sighed Mrs. Woburn; "I am afraid she has been working too
hard. I am glad for her sake that the holidays are so near. She is so
anxious to do well, and to-day's examination has tried her sadly."
Meanwhile Ruth, upstairs in her own room, was sobbing bitterly, and
thinking hard thoughts of herself. The examination _had_ tried her, but
not half as much as the loss of self-respect she had felt since she gave
up her papers that morning with the translation which was certainly not
the result of her own work.
"I wish I had never left home," she thought; "everything is going wrong,
it is so difficult to do right here. If only I had not seen Julia's
translation. If I had never promised Gerald that I would not mention
about his coming in so late. Oh, I wish I were back at Cressleigh!"
With the thought of home, which to her troubled mind seemed so calm and
peaceful, came the remembrance of her mother's words, "I should have no
fear for you if I were sure that you were not going alone, if I knew
that you had an almighty Friend with you to lead you in the right way."
She knew that she had strayed out of the right way, and she had not far
to seek for the reason. Ever since she came to Busyborough she had been
growing careless about the things of eternity, and had ceased to take
delight in reading God's Word and in prayer.
The Bible upon her dressing-table was read daily, it is true, and both
morning and evening Ruth knelt for a few moments in prayer. But the
sweet meaning was gone from the texts, and the prayer was little better
than a form; there was no life in either.
When the young girl went to live at her uncle's house, she found that
the lives of those with whom she came into daily contact were not ruled
by the same principles and motives as her own. At first she grieved and
prayed for her cousins, then she became self-sufficient and wise in her
own conceit; and having once allowed the unchristian spirit of pride and
dislike for Julia to creep into her heart and take possession, other
evils had quickly followed, and had gradually drawn her farther and
farther away from her Saviour. She began to see it all that night, and
to realize how far off she was; but the knowledge only increased her
wretchedness, and made her more miserable. Suddenly a thought struck
her. Would it not be wise and right to go to Miss Elgin before school
the next morning, to confess that she had yielded to temptation, and to
ask that the obnoxious translation might at once be burnt?
But Ruth angrily resisted the notion. Confess that _she_, who bore the
character of the most conscientious and trustworthy girl in the school,
had stooped to do the very thing which she had so often censured in
others? No, never. It would be too degrading and humiliating. Perhaps,
after all, Julia's translation was not correct. There might be many
faults in her own, and it was very unlikely that she would get a high
number of marks for her French paper.
Thus she tried to quiet her conscience, and to banish uncomfortable
suggestions. It was the 22nd of December, and the prizes were to be
given away on the 23rd. It was not yet known who were to receive them,
and, as school work was virtually over, there was a good deal of talk
and speculation concerning them. Finishing touches were being given to
drawings and maps, desks were being put in order, and books arranged,
all in preparation for the festive morrow.
"Miss Arnold, will you go at once to Miss Elgin, in the library?" said
one of the teachers in charge of the restless chattering crowd of girls.
Ruth obeyed, and left the room with a heightened colour, and the girls
began to wonder why she had been summoned.
"It is about the prize for general improvement, I believe," said Ethel
Thompson. "I heard Miss Elgin telling Miss Lee that she thought Ruth
deserved it for 'her steady and conscientious work.'"
"Well, there is no doubt that she has worked hard," said one of her
companions.
"Come in," said Miss Elgin, in response to Ruth's tap at the library
door. "Sit down, dear; I want to ask you a question."
The governess was seated in her study chair, looking over the piles of
examination papers heaped upon the table, and entering the numbers of
marks in a small red book.
"I want to ask you a question," she repeated. "Did any one help you with
your French paper?"
Ruth was taken aback. She did not wish to tell a falsehood, and yet she
felt that she could not, _could_ not confess now. Her face grew crimson,
and a crowd of thoughts surged through her brain. The form in which the
question was put tempted her, and she argued with herself, "No one
helped me. How could Julia help me without knowing? I helped myself."
And after a moment's pause, in which she seemed to be listening for her
own reply, her lips moved and repeated the expression of her thoughts,
"No--no one helped me."
"Excuse my asking you, but your paper was so remarkably good that I
could hardly understand your having so few faults, especially in the
translation, which was really difficult. I suppose," she added with a
smile, "that you have already concluded that your steady application and
diligent work will meet with their deserved reward. That will do. You
may go now."
She returned to the schoolroom in silence, her mind full of two ideas:
the first, that she had obtained the prize; the second, that she had
deceived Miss Elgin.
"But I have not told an untruth," she argued with her conscience. "I was
asked if any one helped me. Julia did not help me. I only saw and read
her paper accidentally."
It was very trying work, arguing with conscience when a number of
chattering girls were buzzing about, laughing and asking questions, and
Ruth gave several sharp and pettish replies to their inquiries, and was
rallied upon her silence and her grave face.
How often it happens that our hardest battles have to be fought in the
midst of a crowd, that our moments of sharpest agony and keenest remorse
come at a time when we long for solitude, but cannot obtain it, but must
go on speaking and acting as if our minds were quite at ease, and full
of nothing but the trifling affairs of the moment.
Ruth's conscience was very active, and would keep reminding her that it
was not yet too late to go and confess to Miss Elgin. But she put it
off. Alas! every moment that had elapsed since she gave up the paper
rendered such a task more difficult; the longer she concealed her fault
the more serious it became. Looking quite pale and wretched, she
returned home that afternoon with a splitting headache. Her aunt was
quite troubled about her, though she tried to make light of it, and Mr.
Woburn said cheerily, "You must make haste and get well for to-morrow,
Ruth. I suppose you will have a grand prize to bring home after all this
term's work."
"Indeed, I would rather not go to-morrow morning," she replied
sincerely, as she wished them good-night.