Ruth Hall Part 2

CHAPTER IX.

"How do you do this morning, Ruth?" said the old lady, lowering herself gradually into a softly-cushioned arm chair. "How your sickness _has_ altered you! You look like a ghost? I shouldn't wonder if you lost all your hair; it is no uncommon thing in sickness; or your teeth either.

How's the baby? She don't favor our side of the house at all. She is quite a plain child, in fact. Has she any symptoms, yet, of a sore mouth? I hope not, because she will communicate it to your breast, and then you'll have a time of it. I knew a poor, feeble thing once, who died of it. Of course, you intend, when Mrs. Jiff leaves, to take care of the baby yourself; a nursery girl would be very expensive."

"I believe Harry has already engaged one," said Ruth.

"I don't think he has," said the old lady, sitting up very straight, "because it was only this morning that the doctor and I figured up the expense it would be to you, and we unanimously came to the conclusion to tell Harry that you'd better take care of the child yourself. I always took care of my babies. You oughtn't to have mentioned a nursery girl, at all, to Harry."

"He proposed it himself," replied Ruth; "he said I was too feeble to have the care of the child."

"Pooh! pshaw! stuff! no such thing. You are well enough, or will be, before long. Now, there's a girl's board to begin with. Servant girls eat like boa-constrictors. Then, there's the soap and oil she'll waste;--oh, the thing isn't to be thought of; it is perfectly ruinous.

If you hadn't made a fool of Harry, he never could have dreamed of it.

You ought to have sense enough to check him, when he would go into such extravagances for you, but some people _haven't_ any sense. Where would all the sugar, and starch, and soap, go to, I'd like to know, if we were to have a second girl in the house? How long would the wood-pile, or pitch-kindlings, or our new copper-boiler last? And who is to keep the back gate bolted, with such a chit flying in and out?"

"Will you please hand me that camphor bottle?" said Ruth, laying her hand upon her throbbing forehead.

"How's my little snow-drop to-day?" said Harry, entering Ruth's room as his mother swept out; "what ails your eyes, Ruth?" said her husband, removing the little hands which hid them.

"A sudden pain," said Ruth, laughing gaily; "it has gone now; the camphor was too strong."

Good Ruth! brave Ruth! Was Harry deceived? Something ails _his_ eyes, now; but Ruth has too much tact to notice it.

Oh Love! thou skilful teacher! learned beyond all the wisdom of the schools.

CHAPTER X

"You will be happy here, dear Ruth," said Harry; "you will be your own mistress."

Ruth danced about, from room to room, with the careless glee of a happy child, quite forgetful that she was a wife and a mother; quite unable to repress the flow of spirits consequent upon her new-found freedom.

Ruth's new house was about five miles from the city. The approach to it was through a lovely winding lane, a little off the main road, skirted on either side by a thick grove of linden and elms, where the wild grape-vine leaped, clinging from branch to branch, festooning its ample cl.u.s.ters in prodigal profusion of fruitage, and forming a dense shade, impervious to the most garish noon-day heat; while beneath, the wild brier-rose unfolded its perfumed leaves in the hedges, till the bees and humming-birds went reeling away, with their honeyed treasures.

You can scarce see the house, for the drooping elms, half a century old, whose long branches, at every wind-gust, swept across the velvet lawn.

The house is very old, but Ruth says, "All the better for that." Little patches of moss tuft the sloping roof, and swallows and martens twitter round the old chimney. It has nice old-fashioned beams, running across the ceiling, which threaten to b.u.mp Harry's curly head. The doorways, too, are low, with honeysuckle, red and white, wreathed around the porches; and back of the house there is a high hill (which Ruth says must be terraced off for a garden), surmounted by a gray rock, crowned by a tumble-down old summer-house, where you have as fine a prospect of hill and valley, rock and river, as ever a sunset flooded with rainbow tints.

It was blessed to see the love-light in Ruth's gentle eyes; to see the rose chase the lily from her cheek; to see the old spring come back to her step; to follow her from room to room, while she draped the pretty white curtains, and beautified, unconsciously, everything her fingers touched.

She could give an order without having it countermanded; she could kiss little Daisy, without being called "silly;" she could pull out her comb, and let her curls flow about her face, without being considered "frivolous;" and, better than all, she could fly into her husband's arms, when he came home, and kiss him, without feeling that she had broken any penal statute. Yes; she was free as the golden orioles, whose hanging nests swayed to and fro amid the glossy green leaves beneath her window.

But not as thoughtless.

Ruth had a strong, earnest nature; she could not look upon this wealth of sea, sky, leaf, bud, and blossom; she could not listen to the little birds, nor inhale the perfumed breath of morning, without a filling eye and br.i.m.m.i.n.g heart, to the bounteous Giver. Should she revel in all this loveliness,--should her heart be filled to its fullest capacity for earthly happiness, and no grateful incense go up from its altar to Heaven?

And the babe? Its wondering eyes had already begun to seek its mother's; its little lip to quiver at a harsh or discordant sound. An unpracticed hand must sweep that harp of a thousand strings; trembling fingers must inscribe, indelibly, on that blank page, characters to be read by the light of eternity: the maternal eye must never sleep at its post, lest the enemy rifle the casket of its gems. And so, by her child's cradle, Ruth first learned to pray. The weight her slender shoulders could not bear, she rolled at the foot of the cross; and, with the baptism of holy tears, mother and child were consecrated.

CHAPTER XI.

Time flew on; seasons came and went; and still peace brooded, like a dove, under the roof of Harry and Ruth. Each bright summer morning, Ruth and the little Daisy,(who already partook of her mother's love for nature,) rambled, hand in hand, through the woods and fields, with a wholesome disregard of those city bug-bears, sun, dew, bogs, fences, briers, and cattle. Wherever a flower opened its blue eye in the rock cleft; wherever the little stream ran, babbling and sparkling, through the emerald meadow; where the golden moss piled up its velvet cushion in the cool woods; where the pretty clematis threw the graceful arms of youth 'round the gnarled trunk of decay; where the bearded grain, swaying to and fro, tempted to its death the reaper; where the red and white clover dotted the meadow gra.s.s; or where, in the damp marsh, the whip-poor-will moaned, and the crimson lobelia nodded its regal crown; or where the valley smiled in its beauty 'neath the lofty hills, nestling 'mid its foliage the snow-white cottages; or where the cattle dozed under the broad, green branches, or bent to the gla.s.sy lake to drink; or where, on the breezy hill-tops, the voices of childhood came up, sweet and clear, as the far-off hymning of angels,--there, Ruth and her soul's child loved to linger.

It was beautiful, yet fearful, to mark the kindling eye of the child; to see the delicate flush come and go on her marble cheek, and to feel the silent pressure of her little hand, when this alone could tell the rapture she had no words to express.

Ah, Ruth! gaze not so dotingly on those earnest eyes. Know'st thou not,

The rose that sweetest doth awake, Will soonest go to rest?

CHAPTER XII.

"Well," said the doctor, taking his spectacles from his nose, and folding them up carefully in their leathern case; "I hope you'll be easy, Mis. Hall, now that we've toted out here, bag and baggage, to please you, when I supposed I was settled for the rest of my life."

"_Fathers_ can't be expected to have as much natural affection, or to be as self-sacrificing as _mothers_," said the old lady. "Of course, it was some trouble to move out here; but, for Harry's sake, I was willing to do it. What does Ruth know about house-keeping, I'd like to know? A pretty muss she'll make of it, if _I'm_ not around to oversee things."

"It strikes me," retorted the doctor, "that you won't get any thanks for it--from _one_ side of the house, at least. Ruth never _says_ anything when you vex her, but there's a look in her eye which--well, Mis. Hall, it tells the whole story."

"I've seen it," said the old lady, while her very cap-strings fluttered with indignation, "and it has provoked me a thousand times more than if she had thrown a brick-bat at my head. That girl is no fool, doctor. She knows very well what she is about: but diamond cut diamond, _I_ say.

Doctor, doctor, there are the hens in the garden. I want that garden kept nice. I suppose Ruth thinks that n.o.body can have flowers but herself. Wait till my china-asters and sweet peas come up. I'm going over to-day to take a peep round her house; I wonder what it looks like?

Stuck full of gimcracks, of all sorts, I'll warrant. Well, I shan't furnish my best parlor till I see what she has got. I've laid by a little money, and--"

"Better give it to the missionaries, Mis. Hall," growled the doctor; "I tell you Ruth don't care a pin what you have in your parlor."

"Don't you believe it," said the old lady.

"Well, anyhow," muttered the doctor, "you can't get the upper hand of _her_ in that line; i. e., if she has a mind that you shall not. Harry is doing a very good business; and you know very well, it is no use to try to blind your eyes to it, that if she wanted Queen Victoria's sceptre, he'd manage to get it for her."

"That's more than I can say of _you_," exclaimed the old lady, fanning herself violently; "for all that I used to mend your old saddle-bags, and once made, with my own hands, a pair of leather small-clothes to ride horseback in. Forty years, doctor, I've spent in your service. I don't look much as I did when you married me. I was said then to have 'woman's seven beauties,' including the 'dimple in the chin,' which I see still remains;" and the old lady pointed to a slight indentation in her wrinkled face. "I might have had him that was Squire Smith, or Pete Packer, or Jim Jessup. There wasn't one of 'em who had not rather do the ch.o.r.es on _our_ farm, than on any other in the village."

"Pooh, pooh," said the doctor, "don't be an old fool; that was because your father kept good cider."

Mrs. Hall's cap-strings were seen flying the next minute through the sitting-room door; and the doctor was heard to mutter, as she banged the door behind her, "_that_ tells the whole story!"