Read Online Ruth by Elizabeth Gaskell - Free Book Online Page B

set up
for myself; it shall be all in the fashion, big gigot sleeves, that
she shall not know herself in them! Mind you tell her that, Thomas,
will you?"
    "Aye, that I will, lass; and I reckon she'll be pleased to hear thou
hast not forgotten thy old merry ways. The Lord bless thee—the Lord
lift up the light of His countenance upon thee."
    Ruth was half-way towards the impatient Mr Bellingham when her old
friend called her back. He longed to give her a warning of the
danger that he thought she was in, and yet he did not know how. When
she came up, all he could think of to say was a text; indeed, the
language of the Bible was the language in which he thought, whenever
his ideas went beyond practical everyday life into expressions of
emotion or feeling. "My dear, remember the devil goeth about as a
roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour; remember that, Ruth."
    The words fell on her ear, but gave no definite idea. The utmost they
suggested was the remembrance of the dread she felt as a child when
this verse came into her mind, and how she used to imagine a lion's
head with glaring eyes peering out of the bushes in a dark shady part
of the wood, which, for this reason, she had always avoided, and even
now could hardly think of without a shudder. She never imagined that
the grim warning related to the handsome young man who awaited her
with a countenance beaming with love, and tenderly drew her hand
within his arm.
    The old man sighed as he watched them away. "The Lord may help her
to guide her steps aright. He may. But I'm afeard she's treading
in perilous places. I'll put my missis up to going to the town and
getting speech of her, and telling her a bit of her danger. An old
motherly woman like our Mary will set about it better nor a stupid
fellow like me."
    The poor old labourer prayed long and earnestly that night for Ruth.
He called it "wrestling for her soul;" and I think his prayers were
heard, for "God judgeth not as man judgeth."
    Ruth went on her way, all unconscious of the dark phantoms of the
future that were gathering around her; her melancholy turned, with
the pliancy of childish years, at sixteen not yet lost, into a
softened manner which was infinitely charming. By-and-by she cleared
up into sunny happiness. The evening was still and full of mellow
light, and the new-born summer was so delicious that, in common with
all young creatures, she shared its influence and was glad.
    They stood together at the top of a steep ascent, "the hill" of the
hundred. At the summit there was a level space, sixty or seventy
yards square, of unenclosed and broken ground, over which the golden
bloom of the gorse cast a rich hue, while its delicious scent
perfumed the fresh and nimble air. On one side of this common, the
ground sloped down to a clear bright pond, in which were mirrored the
rough sand-cliffs that rose abrupt on the opposite bank; hundreds
of martens found a home there, and were now wheeling over the
transparent water, and dipping in their wings in their evening sport.
Indeed, all sorts of birds seemed to haunt the lonely pool; the
water-wagtails were scattered around its margin, the linnets perched
on the topmost sprays of the gorse-bushes, and other hidden warblers
sang their vespers on the uneven ground beyond. On the far side
of the green waste, close by the road, and well placed for the
requirements of horses or their riders who might be weary with the
ascent of the hill, there was a public-house, which was more of a
farm than an inn. It was a long, low building, rich in dormer-windows
on the weather side, which were necessary in such an exposed
situation, and with odd projections and unlooked-for gables on every
side; there was a deep porch in front, on whose hospitable benches
a dozen persons might sit and enjoy the balmy air. A noble sycamore
grew right before the house, with seats all round it ("such tents
the patriarchs loved"); and a nondescript sign hung from a branch
on the side next to the road, which,