The black posts there were all that spoke of men's work or labour. Beyond a stretch of the waters, a few pale grey hills showed like films; their summits clear, though faint, their bases lost in a vapoury mist. On the hard, echoing sands, and distinct from the ceaseless murmur of the salt sea waves, came footsteps--nearer--nearer. Very near they were when Ruth, unwilling to show the fear that rioted in her heart, turned round, and faced Mr. Donne. He came forward, with both hands extended. "This is kind! my own Ruth," said he. Ruth's arms hung down motionless at her sides. "What! Ruth, have you no word for me?" "I have nothing to say," said Ruth. "Why, you little revengeful creature! And so I am to explain all, before you will even treat me with decent civility." "I do not want explanations," said Ruth in a trembling tone. "We must not speak of the past. You asked me to come in Leonard's--in my child's name, and to hear what you had to say about him." "But what I have to say about him relates to you even more. And how can we talk about him without recurring to the past? That past, which you try to ignore--I know you cannot do it in your heart--is full of happy recollections to me. Were you not happy in Wales?" he said in his tenderest tone. But there was no answer; not even one faint sigh, though he listened intently. "You dare not speak; you dare not answer me. Your heart will not allow you to prevaricate, and you know you were happy." Suddenly Ruth's beautiful eyes were raised to him, full of lucid splendour, but grave and serious in their expression; and her cheeks, heretofore so faintly tinged with the tenderest blush, flashed into a ruddy glow. "I was happy. I do not deny it. Whatever comes, I will not blench from the truth. I have answered you." "And yet," replied he, secretly exulting in her admission, and not perceiving the inner strength of which she must have been conscious before she would have dared to make it--"and yet, Ruth, we are not to recur to the past!
Why not? If it was happy at the time, is the recollection of it so miserable to you?" He tried once more to take her hand, but she quietly stepped back. "I came to hear what you had to say about my child," said she, beginning to feel very weary. " Our child, Ruth." She drew herself up, and her face went very pale. "What have you to say about him?" asked she coldly. "Much," exclaimed he--"much that may affect his whole life. But it all depends upon whether you will hear me or not." "I listen." "Good heavens! Ruth, you will drive me mad. Oh! what a changed person you are from the sweet, loving creature you were! I wish you were not so beautiful."She did not reply, but he caught a deep, involuntary sigh. "Will you hear me if I speak, though I may not begin all at once to talk of this boy--a boy of whom any mother--any parent, might be proud? I could see that, Ruth. I have seen him; he looked like a prince in that cramped, miserable house, and with no earthly advantages. It is a shame he should not have every kind of opportunity laid open before him." There was no sign of maternal ambition on the motionless face, though there might be some little spring in her heart, as it beat quick and strong at the idea of the proposal she imagined he was going to make of taking her boy away to give him the careful education she had often craved for him.
She should refuse it, as she would everything else which seemed to imply that she acknowledged a claim over Leonard; but yet sometimes, for her boy's sake, she had longed for a larger opening--a more extended sphere. "Ruth! you acknowledge we were happy once;--there were circumstances which, if I could tell you them all in detail, would show you how, in my weak, convalescent state, I was almost passive in the hands of others. Ah, Ruth!