SO AS BY FIRE.
"Hark! what was that?" exclaimed Ruth one night, starting up in bed.
She had been half-dozing, half-dreaming, when she was startled by a
slight noise downstairs, as if something had fallen.
"I believe it is Gerald. I will go down at once, and tell him that as he
has not kept his word I am no longer bound by my promise."
She sprang out of bed, slipped on her dressing-gown and shoes, and
hurried downstairs, anxious to meet her cousin before he went up to his
room, and to get rid of the embargo which rested so heavily upon her.
Down the stairs and into the hall she went without meeting him. The
front-door was fastened and bolted securely. Had she been mistaken, or
had he already gone to his room?
One moment she stood in perplexity and doubt. Then hearing a slight
noise, and seeing a bright light shining under the door of the little
study, she turned the handle and opened the door to enter, but stepped
back, half-blinded by the cloud of smoke which immediately enveloped
her. The next moment she discovered the form of Gerald, who was
evidently asleep in his chair, bending over the table, upon which were
some blazing papers. The table itself was on fire, and the cloth that
covered it was smouldering and giving forth volumes of smoke.
[Illustration: ruth-26.jpg]
Ruth gave a piercing scream, which alarmed the household, rushed into
the room, caught up the heavy rug and threw it over the table, seized
her cousin by the arm, and tried with all her might to drag him from the
room.
Before she succeeded in arousing him her aunt and uncle came to her
relief, drawn thither by her cry of alarm. They were soon followed by
the terrified servants, who, under Mr. Woburn's direction, quickly
extinguished the fire and removed Gerald.
The young man was soon restored to consciousness, and started up with a
bewildered look, but his face assumed an expression of fear and horror
as he gradually realized how narrowly he had escaped from a dreadful
death.
"Oh, Gerald! How did it occur?" asked his mother, giving utterance to
the question which had been uppermost in the minds of all.
"Don't ask," he almost groaned; "and yet you must know it, sooner or
later."
"Do tell everything, Gerald," implored Ruth, who, now that the terror
and excitement were over, stood pale and shivering. "It was partly my
fault, you know; I ought not to have made that promise."
Thus entreated, Gerald told them the story of his faults and follies; of
his midnight carousals and their discovery by Ruth, of his overwhelming
love of pleasure, of half-hours stolen from the office during his
father's absence and of work neglected. He went on to say that the chief
clerk had told him, a few days before, that he really must inform Mr.
Woburn how shamefully neglected were the books under his son's care;
that he dreaded his father's anger, and promised to write up the books
and finish his work before the end of January. For this purpose he had
brought home the books and worked at them stealthily by night until
drowsiness overtook him, and he probably knocked over the candle which
had done the mischief.
Mr. Woburn felt more anger than he dared to show at such a time, just
after his son's deliverance from a horrible fate, and he turned the
subject by applauding Ruth's presence of mind and bravery.
"Don't praise me, I can't bear it! I am as bad as Gerald!" she sobbed,
and rushed away to her own room.
Before daylight the next morning Mrs. Woburn was at her door with a
steaming cup of coffee.
"Drink this, my dear," she said. "How your hand trembles! I was afraid
that you would feel ill after your dreadful fright. Indeed, dear," she
said, her eyes full of tears, "I can never thank you, never feel half
grateful enough for your brave rescue of my poor Gerald."
"Don't say that, auntie. If--if anything had happened, it would have
been my fault. I ought to have told you of his wrong-doing long ago."
"It was only your goodness of heart, darling," said her aunt kindly.
"But it wasn't _right_, auntie. I deceived you. Oh dear! I feel such a
bundle of deceit. I've deceived every one," she said under a sudden
impulse. "No, don't stop me; I must tell you all about it."
Then she poured into her ear the whole story of the prize as well as her
promise to Gerald, and finished by saying that she had been perfectly
miserable all through the holidays.
Mrs. Woburn was surprised and somewhat shocked at this recital; but she
was good-natured, and her sense of wrong had been growing dull so many
years that she failed to understand Ruth's emotion.
"Poor child!" she said gently, "it has been very bad for you, but it is
all over now, and you will do better in future."
"Oh, auntie, how can I?" she exclaimed, as she thought what a different
reply her mother would have made.
"I must tell Miss Elgin," she said resolutely; "and I suppose all the
girls must know, and Julia, and--and father and mother."
"Do you think that necessary, dear? You are very sorry, I am sure. Is
not that enough?"
"Nothing can make it right, I know, auntie; but I cannot, and will not,
deceive them any longer."
Ruth burst into a fit of hysterical crying, and was only quieted by her
aunt's promise to go with her that very day to call upon Miss Elgin.
"Poor Ruth seems quite ill," said Mrs. Woburn at breakfast-time. "I
persuaded her to stay in bed a little while, and I think she will be
better soon. She has made quite a confession to me."
"What was it about?" inquired Julia.
Then, according to her niece's wish, she repeated the whole story,
concluding with the remark that, after all, it was not quite such a
serious matter as the poor child seemed to think. She remembered that
girls used to copy when she went to school, and they worked so hard now
that it really was somewhat excusable.
"You would think it was serious if you heard Ruth denounce it," was
Julia's reply. "She could never say enough against it, and pretended to
be so much better than any of us. To think of her having looked over me!
I couldn't have believed it!"
Ernest made no remark, though he listened attentively to the
conversation.
The visit to Miss Elgin, which Mrs. Woburn did not consider necessary,
was a very trying ordeal. _She_ certainly did not make light of the
matter, although she did not think it would be advisable to tell the
girls; it would be sufficient for them to know that Ruth was under her
displeasure.
"I feared at first that there was something wrong," she said, "but I
could not doubt your word, Ruth; I have always trusted to your high
principle and honour. Henceforth I must act differently, and you must
not expect to be trusted."
There was no palliation of the offence, which she surveyed from her high
stand-point of justice alone.
"Now, Ruth, your troubles are over," said her aunt gaily as they
returned home.
"Over! Are they?" she sighed wearily to herself, "when I have to write
home, and to live next term under Miss Elgin's displeasure, and all my
life with the remembrance of this behind me!"
It was a great trial to have to write home to dispel her mother's fond
hopes and her father's pride in her; to tell them that their Ruth was
not the frank, open, truth-loving girl they had always believed her; to
prove to them that one of their children could stoop to equivocation and
deceit. Yes, it was a hard and bitter task, and she shed a good many
tears over it as she wrote, almost oblivious of everything else in the
little study, where the traces of the fire still remained.
Presently she raised her head, and saw Ernest looking at her--not
curiously, but with a kind, compassionate gaze.
"Ruth," he said, in a low tone, "I am awfully sorry for you, but I can't
understand why you should be so unhappy _now_."
"I shall always be wretched," said Ruth bitterly; "all my life, I
expect."
"I--I thought when first you came here that you were a Christian," said
the boy timidly.
"I thought so too," sobbed Ruth, "but I suppose I was wrong. Everything
goes wrong here, and that happy time is so far away."
"But if you have confessed to God, and have His forgiveness, the
happiness will come again."
"Confess to _Him_? How could I? He is such a long way off now, and there
is such a gulf between that I cannot pray to Him."
"Oh, Ruth; you are making a great mistake. You know that Jesus died on
purpose to put away sin, to break down the wall, to bridge over the
gulf. He is the same yesterday, to-day, and for ever. It is you that
have changed, not Christ. Go to Him at once; it is of no use humbling
yourself and confessing to others if you stop away from Him. He only can
forgive and send peace."
"'Your sins have separated between you and your God,'" said Ruth
solemnly.
"'The blood of Jesus Christ His Son cleanseth us from all sin,'" replied
her cousin.
"Ernest, you are a Christian!" said Ruth suddenly.
"Yes, I hope so," replied the boy, reddening as his shyness and
self-consciousness returned.
"Why did you never talk to me before?" asked Ruth; "you might have
helped me so much. I thought I was all alone and better than the rest."
"It was wrong, I know," he replied, "but I am so foolish I cannot talk
about these things; yet I felt so sorry for you just now, for I thought
you had forgotten."
"Forgotten what?"
"How much God loves you. 'Like as a father pitieth his children,' you
know, Ruth."
She made no reply, but slipped away to her own room to lay her heavy
burden at the feet of the Crucified One.
I remember hearing some years ago of a little child who, being reproved
for some naughty deed, seemed very unhappy, and was seen to steal into a
room close by, where he knelt down and lisped in his baby tones, "Dear
God, _mis'able_." How much there was in that tiny prayer, that one word!
It was indeed the essence of heartfelt prayer, the laying down of the
soul's burden.
Ruth could hardly find words in which to express the cry of her heart,
but when she went downstairs half an hour later there was a peaceful
look upon her face and a gladness in her very step which had been
wanting since she came to Busyborough. She had sought and obtained
pardon, and had rejoiced once more in the sweet texts which she read in
her Bible. She added a long postscript to her home letter, and that
night Ernest found upon his dressing-table a little twisted note
containing these words--
"Dear Ernest,--Thank you for ever and ever.
"Your forgiven and happy cousin,
"Ruth."