University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.
A GOOD SAMARITAN.

Ruth had fortunately escaped observation. At the moment of
the attack she was in the rear of the vehicle, assisting with all her
strength in its propulsion, and during the brief struggle which had
ensued, she had sunk, stupefied with terror, to the earth, where
she remained motionless.

When she found herself alone, she arose, still trembling with
alarm, and overwhelmed with grief for the friend who had been
so suddenly wrested from her side and hurried away probably to
prison and to death.

She had no thought for herself. She knew not that she was
suffering from cold and hunger, nor did she reflect on the dangers
which surrounded her, but collecting her thoughts, she recalled
as minutely as possible all the instructions which she had received
from Vrail, and then, without a moment's hesitation, she set out
on her adventurous journey.

She took the river for her guide, keeping upon its shore, and
travelling in an opposite direction to the course of the stream, for
this route she knew must bring her to Prescott, which was not
many miles distant, and which even in the darkness she hoped to
reach in a few hours. But faint and weary, chilled with the damp
breezes from the river, and dejected by the dreadful scene she had
witnessed, and which she could not cease to contemplate, she soon
faltered, and with difficulty dragged herself forward, even at the
slowest pace.

She tried to pray, but her words seemed to fall to the earth.
No hope accompanied them. She believed, indeed, that there
was a God, who was all goodness, for well she remembered and
cherished the instructions which, in infantile days, her beloved
mother had inculcated in her mind, but so many and so severe
had been her early trials, that she had learned to consider herself
in some way an exception to the universality of His providence.
With childish simplicity, she believed herself overlooked or forgotten,
or in some way too insignificant for Divine protection.

She did not murmur; there was no rebellion against Heaven
in her heart; it was only an utter want of belief that she could be
remembered or thought of by that great Power which created and
guides the world.

Alas! how many far wiser than this neglected girl are equally
at fault in discerning the bow of promise which forever spans the
clouds of affliction, faintly indeed for the faint-hearted, but bright
and gorgeous to those who gaze with the telescopic vision of
Faith.

Fearful of falling by the wayside, perhaps to perish, Ruth resolved
to seek for a dwelling-house and ask for admission and assistance,
notwithstanding her great fear that she might be recognized
and detained, or sent home.

A little refreshment and an hour or two of repose she believed
would enable her to proceed upon her journey, and she could still
reach Prescott long before day, and be able to cross at the ferry
in the first morning boat. Thus resolving, she left the river side
and wandered across the fields until she discovered a light in the
distance, towards which she at once directed her steps. It proved
to proceed from the upper window of a farm-house, and, at so late
an hour, indicated, as she supposed, sickness in the family. She
drew near and knocked at the door tremblingly, but without
hesitation.

After considerable delay, an elderly woman came to the door,

and, without opening it, inquired who was there, but when she
heard a response in a female voice, she quickly drew the bolt and
bade the stranger enter.

Ruth heard the permission uttered in kind accents; she tottered
across the sill, and, overcome by exhaustion and by her
emotions, she sank upon the floor in a state of complete insensibility.
A desolate object indeed, and well calculated to move the
hardest heart, was the poor child, pale, thin, and miserably clad,
and almost without signs of life; but it was not a hard heart
whose sympathies were now appealed to. With many expressions
of commiseration, the good dame, who was a stout and florid
Englishwoman of the lower class, hastened to bring restoratives
to the sufferer, assisted her to rise, and conducted her to a vacant
bed in an adjoining room.

“Now tell me, child,” she said, as she bent over the shivering
girl, “what has happened to you, and how is it that you are out
alone so late, and on such a night as this?”

“I am going to Prescott,” replied Ruth, faintly, “and I got
very cold and tired—and—and I saw a light here and stopped in
to rest.”

“To Prescott—in the night—and all alone, and without any
shawl or cloak? Where do you live?”

“Please don't ask me now; I must go on soon. Will you be
good enough to give me a piece of bread?”

“Oh! mercy, yes,” exclaimed the good woman, at once forgetting
her curiosity, and flying to the cupboard.

“Here, eat this,” she said, returning with a plate of bread and
cold meat, “and I will make you a cup of tea, poor child; I suppose
you have had no supper.”

“I have eaten nothing since morning,” answered Ruth, eagerly
devouring the food before her.

“You have run away from somebody, I know; but do not be
frightened; I shall not stop you nor ask you any questions, but I

hope you know where you are going. You have friends somewhere,
I suppose?”

Ruth hesitated and looked puzzled, but finally replied that she
supposed she had.

“Can I stay here a couple of hours?” she asked, after a pause.

“You cannot go from here until to-morrow,” replied the
woman, “and you may stay longer, if you choose.”

“I must go to-night; I must be in Prescott early in the morning—I
must, indeed.”

The woman gazed in astonishment at the child, who spoke
with such a surprising energy of manner, as to leave no doubt of
the invincibility of her resolution.

“Very well,” she said, “but lie still now, and get some rest.
Three or four o'clock will be plenty soon enough to start, and
perhaps I can send our boy Jem with you, if I can get the lazy
fellow up so early; and then I can lend you an old shawl or cloak
to wear, and he can bring it back.”

“Thank you,” said Ruth, gladly, laying her head upon the pillow;
“but I must not be late.”

“Never fear; I will call you in time. I have to get up every
hour, to give medicine to my daughter, who is sick. It will take
you but a few hours to walk to Prescott after you are rested.”

So saying, the good Samaritan withdrew to her own room, and
left the little traveller to her repose—a repose so sound, and rendering
her so oblivious of all things, that it seemed to her scarcely
ten minutes had elapsed, when she was shaken by the shoulder
and called to arise.

“The clock has struck four,” said the hostess, “and I have got
sleepy Jem up to go with you with a lantern, and here are some
cakes to eat on the way, and you must wear this shawl, which is
thick and warm, and Jem will bring it back. It is a raw morning.”

Ruth look wildly around, and for a while was unable to comprehend
her position or the words addressed to her.

“Bless the poor child,” exclaimed the woman. “I hope you
have friends at Prescott, or somewhere near there. You will
perish if you have far to go, with nothing but that thin dress.”

“Oh! I have got money to buy clothes,” said Ruth, suddenly
remembering her treasure, and drawing several gold and silver
pieces from a pocket in her dress.

Lazy Jem, who had stood dangling the lantern in his hand and
looking sleepy and surly enough before, suddenly brightened up,
took a step forward, and became a very interested listener to the
conversation.

“I wish you would take some of them,” Ruth continued, holding
it out to her benefactress, “for you have been very good to
me, and you have saved my life.”

The woman had seemed greatly astonished when she first saw
the gold; a troubled and sorrowful expression next settled upon
her face, but at the girl's offer of the money she drew back, and
raised her hands as she replied—

“No—no—child, not even if you had come honestly by it,
which cannot be. Ah, I see how it is; and you so young and so
innocent looking, too!”

“We oughter stop her, mem, and send for a officer,” said the
boy, putting down the lantern. “I'll go immediately and fetch
one, if you please.”

Ruth did not at first comprehend the suspicion she had awakened,
but as soon as she did so, she protested her innocence with
the greatest vehemence, and at the same time with an ingenuousness
of manner which carried conviction to the mind of her
hostess.

Jem, if not convinced, pretended to be so, and remained silent.
He left the room, however, and was absent about ten minutes,
after which he returned hastily, and Ruth being now ready, after
many kind words of farewell and of admonition from the dame she
started upon her journey, accompanied by the boy, who trudged

by her side, lantern in hand. She had no fears of a companion
provided for her by so kind a friend, and she made several efforts
to converse with the lad, who replied but briefly to her remarks,
and seemed surly and unsocial. He was a stout boy, of about
seventeen years, with dark skin, very black, straight hair, and a
shelving forehead, underneath which a pair of glittering black
eyes rolled perpetually, even while the head remained motionless.

Ruth noticed, after they had gone a little way, that he had
a small bundle in his left hand, which she was certain he did not
carry when they left the house, and she wondered much what it
could be. She thought that, perhaps, he was angry with his mistress,
for the unusual service put upon him, and that he was about
to run away. The bundle, she thought, might contain his clothes,
which he had carried a little way from the house before they
started and might have picked up as they came along, unobserved
by her. These suspicions passed through her mind, but did not
make any permanent impression, for she felt refreshed and comparatively
light-hearted, and not disposed to imagine or forbode evil.

Jem walked very fast and seemed impatient to get on, at which
Ruth did not much wonder, nor did she complain, although she
was forced to almost run at times to keep up with him.

He grew more and more surly as they advanced, and frequently
urged her along with harsh language.

“Come on, you lazy baggage,” he said, to the frightened girl,
“a pretty business it is for me to stop every minute and wait for
you to come up. Come along, I say!”

Ruth quickened her steps without reply.

“I tell you what; there's a long piece of woods to be gone
through, about a mile ahead, and the sooner we get through with
it the better. It ain't allers the safest place in the world.”

The girl trembled, and asked whether there were any wild beasts
there.

“No; but there are robbers there sometimes. Last winter a
man was robbed and murdered in them very woods.”

“But nobody would think of us having any money—they
wouldn't try to rob us.”

“Don't know—they might. Pr'aps you'd better let me carry
them gold pieces of yours, 'cause they couldn't get 'em away from
me as easy as they could from you.”

Ruth said, perhaps it would be best, and she put her hand in
her pocket and drew out her money.

They had been walking very rapidly during this conversation,
but now the boy stopped so suddenly, and turned to receive the
treasure with such an eagerness of manner as to awaken something
like suspicion or fear in the mind of his companion, who
immediately replaced the coin, and said:

“Perhaps you might lose it, Jem. I will keep it now, and if
we see any robbers, then I will give it to you” —

“Then it will be too late, you fool. Give it to me now!”

“No—no—no!” exclaimed the girl, as the lad drew nearer,
seemingly bent upon enforcing his command. “Let us hurry
on!”

“I will not stir a step further until you give it to me. It isn't
safe.”

“Then I will go alone!” said Ruth, starting as she spoke; but
the boy's hand was at once upon her arm.

“No you won't,” he said. “I was sent to take care of you,
and I mean to do it; so just give me the money. Be quick!”

“Oh, no, no; no! I durstn't. I—I—am afraid.”

“Afraid of what? You don't mean to say you're afraid I'm
going to keep it?”

“I—I—don't know.”

“If I should it wouldn't be much, for you never came honestly
by it. So hand it over now, and be quick about it, too.”

The fierce and peremptory manner in which the boy now spoke

fully convinced Ruth of what she had before suspected, that he
meant to rob her, and, snatching her arm suddenly from his
grasp, she darted forward and ran from him at her utmost speed.
It was in vain. Jem followed still faster, overtook her, threw her
to the ground, and, holding her down, took forcible possession of
the gold, despite her screams and lamentations. No longer making
pretence of friendship to her, he extinguished his light, and
leaving her still prostrate, ran off across the fields, but not in the
direction of his home.