It will defray her expenses. I am very sorry, but I think we must take it." "It would never do to apply to him under the present circumstances," said Miss Benson, in a hesitating manner. "No, that we won't," said her brother decisively. "If she consents to let us take care of her, we will never let her stoop to request anything from him, even for his child. She can live on bread and water--we can all live on bread and water--rather than that." "Then I will speak to her and propose the plan. Oh, Thurstan! from a child you could persuade me to anything! I hope I am doing right. However much I oppose you at first, I am sure to yield soon; almost in proportion to my violence at first. I think I am very weak." "No, not in this instance. We are both right: I, in the way in which the child ought to be viewed; you, dear good Faith, for thinking of taking her home with us. God bless you, dear, for it!" When Ruth began to sit up (and the strange, new, delicious prospect of becoming a mother seemed to give her some mysterious source of strength, so that her recovery was rapid and swift from that time), Miss Benson brought her the letters and the bank-note. "Do you recollect receiving this letter, Ruth?" asked she, with grave gentleness.
Ruth changed colour, and took it and read it again without making any reply to Miss Benson. Then she sighed, and thought a while; and then took up and read the second note--the note which Mrs. Bellingham had sent to Mr.
Benson in answer to his. After that she took up the bank-note and turned it round and round, but not as if she saw it. Miss Benson noticed that her fingers trembled sadly, and that her lips were quivering for some time before she spoke. "If you please, Miss Benson, I should like to return this money." "Why, my dear?" "I have a strong feeling against taking it. While he," said she, deeply blushing, and letting her large white lids drop down and veil her eyes, "loved me, he gave me many things--my watch--oh, many things; and I took them from him gladly and thankfully, because he loved me--for I would have given him anything--and I thought of them as signs of love. But this money pains my heart. He has left off loving me, and has gone away. This money seems--oh, Miss Benson--it seems as if he could comfort me, for being forsaken, by money." And at that word the tears, so long kept back and repressed, forced their way like rain. She checked herself, however, in the violence of her emotion, for she thought of her child. "So, will you take the trouble of sending it back to Mrs. Bellingham?" "That I will, my dear. I am glad of it, that I am! They don't deserve to have the power of giving: they don't deserve that you should take it." Miss Benson went and enclosed it up there and then; simply writing these words in the envelope, "From Ruth Hilton." "And now we wash our hands of these Bellinghams," said she triumphantly.
But Ruth looked tearful and sad; not about returning the note, but from the conviction that the reason she had given for the ground of her determination was true--he no longer loved her. To cheer her, Miss Benson began to speak of the future. Miss Benson was one of those people who, the more she spoke of a plan in its details, and the more she realised it in her own mind, the more firmly she became a partisan of the project. Thus she grew warm and happy in the idea of taking Ruth home; but Ruth remained depressed and languid under the conviction that he no longer loved her. No home, no future, but the thought of her child, could wean her from this sorrow. Miss Benson was a little piqued;and this pique showed itself afterwards in talking to her brother of the morning's proceedings in the sick chamber. "I admired her at the time for sending away her fifty pounds so proudly;but I think she has a cold heart: she hardly thanked me at all for my proposal of taking her home with us." "Her thoughts are full of other things just now; and people have such different ways of showing feeling: some by silence, some by words. At any rate, it is unwise to expect gratitude." "What do you expect--not indifference or ingratitude?" "It is better not to expect or calculate consequences. The longer I live, the more fully I see that. Let us try simply to do right actions, without thinking of the feelings they are to call out in others. We know that no holy or self-denying effort can fall to the ground vain and useless; but the sweep of eternity is large, and God alone knows when the effect is to be produced. We are trying to do right now, and to feel right; don't let us perplex ourselves with endeavouring to map out how she should feel, or how she should show her feelings." "That's all very fine, and I dare say very true," said Miss Benson, a little chagrined. "But 'a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush;' and I would rather have had one good, hearty, 'Thank you,' now, for all I have been planning to do for her, than the grand effects you promise me in the 'sweep of eternity.' Don't be grave and sorrowful, Thurstan, or I'll go out of the room. I can stand Sally's scoldings, but I can't bear your look of quiet depression whenever I am a little hasty or impatient. I had rather you would give me a good box on the ear." "And I would often rather you would speak, if ever so hastily, instead of whistling. So, if I box your ears when I am vexed with you, will you promise to scold me when you are put out of the way, instead of whistling?" "Very well! that's a bargain. You box, and I scold. But, seriously, I began to calculate our money when she so cavalierly sent off the fifty-pound note (I can't help admiring her for it!), and I am very much afraid we shall not have enough to pay the doctor's bill, and take her home with us." "She must go inside the coach, whatever we do," said Mr. Benson decidedly.