University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.
TRIALS OF TEMPER.

Misfortune now seemed to dog the heels of
Ruth and her little family, turn which way they
would. Before Frank could recover from his
lameness so far as to be able to walk out, Arthur
became ill and enfeebled in consequence
of a strain produced by lifting heavy burdens
in his new capacity of a passengers' porter.
Ruth, with feelings of profound grief, had seen
him come home, evening after evening, pale
and exhausted, and she had apprehended that
his constitution could not endure such severe
tasks. Apprehension was now changed into
sad conviction.

With all his exertions during the last ten
days, Arthur had been hardly able to earn
enough to supply their table with necessary
food. The debt to Bangs remained, of course,
unliquidated. That individual again became
importunate, and baited poor Ruth with incessant
applications for money. On the day at
which our narrative has arrived, she informed
him, with a cheerful face, that she had at length
finished her engraving, and, as Frank and Arthur
were unwell, she would go herself and receive
the ten dollars that had been promised on
its delivery.

“It is a long walk. You had better let William

go for you. He has an errand to do in
Fulton-street,” said Bangs, in an unusually gracious
tone.

“Oh, if William will be so obliging, I shall
like it,” replied Ruth; “for I ought to stay and
prepare some gruel for Arthur.”

“Give it me, and I will send him with it,”
continued Bangs.

Ruth tied it up neatly and carefully in several
folds of paper, and writing upon the envelope
the address of the person who was to buy it,
she gave it into the hands of the crafty landlord,
accompanied with a receipted bill, which the
messenger was to exchange for the money.

Bangs left the room apparently in very good
humour at the prospect of being paid his rent,
and Ruth congratulated herself in the same anticipation.

Going into Arthur's chamber, she inquired
tenderly how he felt.

“The pains in my breast are very bad indeed,
sister,” said he, with a languid smile.

“Shall I send for Doctor Remington?” she
asked.

“Not yet,” replied Arthur. “I may be better
soon. The Doctor did not seem well pleased
at my leaving him, and I thought it would
seem like begging if I told him all my reasons.”

“Is there nothing besides this gruel that you
would like?”

“I feel as if a little chicken broth would do
me good; but if it can't be got, it is no matter.”

Ruth looked into the state of her finances.

Not a solitary sixpence was left! She recollected,
however, that there would be two dollars
over from the amount to be received for
the woodcut, and she told Arthur that in an
hour or two he should have his broth.

It was twilight before William Bangs returned.
Rushing into Ruth's room, he exclaimed,
“Oh, Ruth Loveday! the man sends back your
engraving, and says it isn't worth any more than
a broken brick. It is scratched all over, and
spoiled!”

“Let me look at it!” said Ruth, after a
minute's silence, during which she became
quite pale.

William handed her the cut. With trembling
fingers she removed the envelope, and exposed
the engraving, on which she had expended so
many laborious hours, defaced and rendered
utterly worthless.

“I am afraid you let it rub against some
hard substance in your pocket, William,” said
she, with a slight tremulousness in her tones,
while her eyelids quivered, and a tear or two
stole forth.

“No, I couldn't have done that,” he replied,
“for I carried it wrapped up in my handkerchief
in my hat.”

“And didn't you remove it from the time it
was put into your hands until you delivered it?”

“Not once.”

“It is very strange!”

“I am sorry for you, Ruth, indeed I am; but
pray believe that it was not my fault; I carried
it very carefully.”

“I believe you readily, William, for you
have always been obliging and good.”

“I wish I could help you,” said William,
with tears in his eyes; “but father makes
me—”

“William!” exclaimed the stern voice of Mr.
Bangs upon the stairs; and William started off
without finishing what he had to say.

“Now, my dear, if you will oblige me,” said
Bangs, entering, and accosting Ruth.

How slow are the truly pure and upright to
suspect evil in others! It did not once flash
across Ruth's mind that Bangs himself had perpetrated
the mischief she was deploring; and
to his artful address she replied, “It distresses
me to be obliged to disappoint you once more.
But this cut has been injured—how, I cannot
imagine—and it is now valueless. I will again
go to work, and, if you will give me a week
more, I think I can pay you.”

“This is enough to try the patience of Job!”
cried Mr. Bangs. “Haven't you any property
upon which you could raise enough to meet my
demand? I hope you do not mean to cheat
me!”

“Oh, no!” said Ruth, while a faint smile, in
which there was the least dash of scorn, played
athwart her lips.

“This bedstead and this desk would bring,
perhaps, at auction, five or six dollars,” remarked
Bangs. “I do not see much else worth taking,
unless it is those pails and tubs.”

“Oh! we cannot do without those. We
must have water to wash in!” exclaimed Ruth.

“You must, eh?” quoth the brutal landlord.
“Hadn't you better pay your debts first?”

“Forbear a while, sir, and I shall surely have
the ability to satisfy your demand. While I
have my hands and my eyes, I can earn enough
to support me and mine.”

“The old story! Call to-morrow, or some
day next week. I have had enough of that,
Miss Ruth. I can't stand it any longer.”

“Then do your worst!” replied Ruth, with a
sudden energy, which amazed her tormentor.
“Seize upon every article of furniture, of raiment,
and of food that we have. Drive us forth
houseless. Still we shall have a Protector, who,
if he heeds the ravens when they cry, surely
will listen to the prayer of his human children
for succour and defence.”

As she spoke, she crossed her hands upon
her breast and looked up, while a celestial
smile irradiated her face. Her eyes kindled as
with light reflected from a seraph's plumes.

With a repelling gesture, as if the fiend in
his heart had been dazzled and affrighted by
the vision, Bangs stammered out something
about “granting her a day or two longer,” and
hurried out of the room.

When he had gone, Ruth sank upon her
knees, and implored that omnipresent Being,
in whom is the source of all light, and life, and
happiness, and beauty, to guide and strengthen
her in her worldly struggles, that she might do
nothing but what was acceptable in his sight,
and leave undone nothing that duty and conscience
might dictate.

A knock at the door disturbed her meditations,
and, opening it, she encountered her
friend, Mr. Bibb.

“Why, Ruth, where are you all?” said he.
“I knocked three times before I heard your
voice.”

“May is in the other room reading to the
boys, and I—I was lost in thought.”

“I am glad to find you alone. I have some
private matters to talk about. Come and seat
yourself by my side.”

Ruth obeyed.

“You believe me your friend—your sincere
friend—do you not, Ruth?”

“I do, most unhesitatingly.”

“Then I may speak my mind freely—may I
not?—upon any subject which affects your welfare,
no matter how delicate and tender it may
be.”

“Yes, upon any subject.”

“Then I must say, my dear, that I think your
persistance in the resolution to reject the very
handsome proposal that has been made to you
by Mr. Dangleton, is irrational, if not—excuse
me—unamiable.”

“What are your reasons for thinking so?”

“Rather let me ask, what are your reasons for
refusing his offer?”

“One reason alone is all sufficient: I do not
feel any particular affection for him; not so
much, for instance, as I do for you or for Monsieur
Mallet.”

“In that conclusion, Ruth, you are hasty and

unreasonable. You will admit that his love for
you is remarkably disinterested?”

“It would seem so.”

“Then there is one good reason for a return
of the feeling on your part.”

“Granted.”

“So vehement is his regard for you, and so
deep his chagrin at his failure in winning your
favour, that he has been dangerously ill for
some days in consequence.”

“Indeed!”

“Such is the fact. I have it from a distinguished
clergyman, his friend, who called on
me this morning, and who thinks you do not
show altogether a Christian temper in causelessly
inflicting pain by discouraging an attachment
so sincere, and so advantageous to yourself
if admitted.”

“Did a clergyman say that?”

“To be sure he did. He told me, furthermore,
that Mr. Edward was a model for the young
men of the age, and that he could vouch for his
good habits and disposition. When I add that
he is rich, I do not mean to present mere wealth
as an inducement to you to marry contrary to
your inclination; but when, in connexion with
that, there are so many things in his favour, I
do not understand why you should suffer a mere
whim to stand in the way of your own interests
and those of your little family.”

“You touch me there. What would I not
give to send Arthur to college—to prepare
Frank properly for a counting-room—and to
educate May as she should be!”

“All these things you could undoubtedly do
if you would consent to this unexceptionable
union. Pray, what do you dislike in Mr. Edward?”

“Nothing of which I am conscious.”

“Is it not, then, a little selfish in you, Ruth, to
see your brothers toiling till they are sick, and
suffering bitterly for the want of proper food
and care, when you have the power to relieve
them by a word? Even supposing that in uttering
that word you had to make a slight sacrifice
of inclination, would it not be ungenerous
to refrain on that account?”

Ruth seemed puzzled for an instant, and then
exclaimed, “My heart assures me that you are
wrong, though my tongue cannot tell you why!”

“To save your brothers and sister from penury
and disease—death perchance—will you not
accede to this proposal?” asked the grocer.

“No! As Heaven is my witness, I will not!”

“And why?”

“Because, in so doing, I would be no better
than those fallen creatures of my sex, whom I
cannot even name without a blush. Think you
not that they too have the plea of expediency
for their mercenary violation of the holy sympathies
which God has implanted in their natures?
May not they have their sick and pining
brothers, their dying parents, or their own desperate
necessities to goad them to acts at which
the angels weep?”

“Yes, Ruth; but—but the comparison is not
a fair one. The sanction of marriage—”

“Ay, the sanction of marriage! I know what

you would say. But the religion which my
mother taught me, by example and by precept,
has made me feel that the sanction of marriage
can only render the prostitution the baser and
the more enduring; not, I well know, in the
eyes of that packed jury of the world, society,
but none the less so, on that account, in the eyes
of eternal justice, purity, and truth!”

“I hardly know what to make of you, Ruth,
you talk so strangely.”

“I feel as if it were my mother who had been
talking through my lips.”

“You have strange fancies, child; but let me
ask you whether your immediate necessities
have not been supplied through the sale of your
engraving?”

Ruth narrated the accident by which the expected
supplies from this source had been cut
off.

“And so you are left utterly destitute!” cried
Mr. Bibb. “What do you mean to do?”

“I have not yet formed any plan for providing
for my present wants,” replied Ruth.

“It distresses me, Ruth, that I cannot aid
you.”

“Do not be troubled concerning us, my dear
friend. We shall not be forsaken. Be sure of
that.”

“But, Ruth, consider how completely you can
relieve yourself, and your sister and brothers,
from all perplexities, by adopting the course so
strongly recommended, not only by myself, but
by a man of sanctity like the Reverend Mr.
M—.”

“I have answered you fully and decidedly on
that point.”

“But how know you that your feelings may
not change towards this young man; that, as
you become better acquainted with him, you
may esteem him the more?”

“It cannot be.”

“But why?”

“I know not.”

“Surely your affections are disengaged?”

“I believe so; and yet—”

Ruth's fingers unconsciously crept towards
her bosom. What is it that they draw forth in
their tight but delicate clasp? She starts on
seeing it, while the warm blood flushes her
breast and face. It has answered the question,
which she herself was unable to solve even in
reply to the interrogation of her own mind!
It is the little silver pencil-case accidentally
left with her by Stanford at his last interview.

“What has disquieted you, Ruth?” asked
her visiter.

Smiling, she turned away her head, kissed
the cherished token, restored it to its pure resting
place, and replied, “It was but a momentary
recollection—a thought which came to confirm
my purpose, and make me iron to your
entreaties.”

“Then you persist in rejecting the means of
rescuing your family and yourself from indigence
and suffering?”

“Ay, to save them and me from death itself,
I repeat my declaration, that I would reject
such means.”

“I am afraid that some silly novel has turned
your head, my dear. But good-by! Though
you will not take my advice, hold me still your
friend; and, though I have nothing else to give,
let me give at least my sympathy.”

“You are not offended?”

“Not offended—a little disappointed, that
is all; but let us hope for the best. Good-by!
I cannot stop to kiss May now. I will try to
see you again to-morrow. Good-by!”

And Ruth was once more alone.

“Have I acted rightly?” said she to herself.
“Ay! Though the whole world should cry
no, my heart would serenely answer yes!”

Yes! You have acted rightly, my dear Ruth.
You have shown that there is one shrine in a
pure woman's heart which the unhallowed hand
of expediency cannot reach, to lay upon it its
sordid offerings; one altar which neither the
hard gripe of penury, nor the fierce stings of
ambushed oppression, nor the famishing cries
of kindred, wasted by disease and want, nor
the specious sophistries of pretended sanctity,
nor the allurements of wealth and fashion, can
induce her to profane. You have been assayed
in the white heat of temptation, and the “most
fine gold” has come forth undimmed and without
alloy.

Other trials may be close at hand. You may
be doomed to dreary years of drudgery, sickness,
and privation; the frail remaining ties
that bind you to earth may be severed one by
one; and you may toil on in single misery, uncheered
by a ray of the hope that the full, fresh

fount of tenderness and love in your heart may
be one day unsealed, and its channel found;
but I fear not that you will ever prove false
to the sacred sympathies of your soul, or that
all the power of Sin can tempt you to barter or
to quench one spark of their vestal fires.