Chapter X: The Hardest Thing

WHEN Ruth stepped into the carriage which called for her at four o'clock, to her surprise her father was not seated in it. Concluding that he had been detained somewhere, she sat buried in thought till they drew up at The Firs.

Directly she got in, instead of going upstairs which was her usual custom, she rang for Mrs. Morris, who came at once.

"Oh, Morris," she exclaimed, "I suppose father has been detained. Will you come and have a cup of tea with me?"

"Master came home at one o'clock, Miss Ruth," she answered; "he is gone to lie down."

Ruth's heart stood still. "Was he not well?" she asked hurriedly.

"So he said, dear. He would not have anything, but just wanted to be quiet, he said."

Ruth was already half-way to the hall, and then she disappeared up the stairs, and Morris heard her tap softly at her father's door.

A voice said, "Come in."

And Ruth advanced to the sofa, where her father was lying with a rug over him.

She knelt down by his side, and put her arms round his neck. "Oh, father, father!" she whispered. "I never meant to grieve you! Is it what I said that has made you feel ill? What is it?"

He did not respond very heartily to her beseeching tone; she felt his head withdrawn slightly from her kisses, and he turned his face away.

"Can't you tell me?" she urged piteously.

"You would not understand," he answered slowly.

Ruth clasped him the closer, sorrow and dismay in her voice, as she exclaimed, "I never meant it! I was only thinking of my own disappointment. It was very cruel of me—I never thought! Can you not forgive me, father?"

"I will try," he said huskily, sitting up and shivering a little. "Go down now, and I will come presently."

Thus dismissed, she found herself once more in the drawing-room, looking with blank face into Morris's anxious one.

"Morris! You know about it?" she said, almost inarticulately.

"Yes; Master told me. He was very grieved, dearie, and very sorry to have hurt you."

"But he is angry, too, is he not, Morris?" she asked, with burning cheeks.

"I think so, Miss. Oh, my childie! What did you say to him to vex him so?"

Ruth hung her head. "I was in a passion, and I said he had spoiled my life—"

"Oh, my dear!"

"It was very wicked of me! He did not mean it, he did not know. Mrs. Arundel has shown me that; and I came back to ask him to forgive me—but, Morris, he hasn't."

She sat down utterly crushed, while Morris poured out some tea for her.

"Drink this, dearie, then you will be more fit to be cheerful when he comes down! You must remember that men are not always just like women. They do not take so much notice of little things, but if a thing does hurt them, they are much harder to come round than we are. At least, that is what I have noticed."

Ruth looked hopeless. Her passion and her unforgiveness seemed to look worse than ever.

"Morris, what can I do?" she asked, imploringly.

"Only ask God, dearie, to make a way out of it for you."

"But it was so wrong of me! So thoughtless of his sorrow; so selfish!"

She broke off suddenly, for there was a step on the stairs, and the Doctor came in, looking as if ten years had been added to his life since that morning.

"Oh, father, father!" again said Ruth. "I will try to make it up to you! But oh, do forgive me when you can—"

She looked pitifully in his face, and he allowed her to nestle in his arms. But after a momentary pressure, he turned to the fire, and said: "I should like a cup of tea, if you do not mind; and then you can read the paper to me."

Thus ended Ruth's hopes of a downright reconciliation. She had said she would never forgive him, but little did she think, when those hasty words crossed her lips, that it would be he who would find it so hard to forgive her!

From that time, quiet preparations were made to welcome the new inmates. Morris only remarked to Ruth and to the servants that they must all remember it was Master's house; and he could do what he thought best with his own: and she set about all matters connected with their visitors with cheerful alacrity.

Ruth was too sorrowful to care now for anything except to see to the necessary work of getting the rooms ready, and to arrange with her father, and then with Morris, where her cousins were to sleep and what they would do.

Dr. Brown gradually resumed almost his ordinary manner, but Ruth knew the difference, and it cut her to the heart.

Mary gave her the same advice as Morris did. "You can pray, now, dear Ruth," she said, "so pray every time it crosses your mind, and somehow or other God will bring light out of darkness!"

"If I could only think so!" she would mourn.

"Have you not seen 'the impossible' done once?" asked Mary, in that little blunt tone that Ruth had got to love.

So Ruth began to pray. And though she knew but little of God, her faith, by the very exercise she gave it, began to grow.

One morning, she called to see Mary, and directly she had greeted her, she exclaimed, "I cannot stay a minute. We have had a telegram to say they will be here with their Ayah by the four o'clock train.

"You will find, I hope, that it is not as bad as you expected—it is very bad for you to-day, dear."

Ruth shook her head. "I feel as if their coming is positively nothing to the fear I have that my father is angry with me still—"

Mary looked in her face with loving solicitude. "That will be better by and by if you go on praying about it."

"Yes," answered Ruth, sorrowfully, "but it is so bad to live through. He does not say anything, but he is never cheery now. He is quiet and grave, and sits in his study instead of the drawing-room. I feel more lonely than ever. Why, it was only yesterday that I asked him if he were coming for some music, and he just gathered up his papers, and said he should be busy. Do you think it would be of any use to try to make it up—I thought I had said all I could—"

Mary paused before answering, and after a moment or so, she said slowly, "I 'think' I should just be as dutiful as ever you can, show him by every action that you love him dearly and want to be the same as ever. I cannot help hoping that it will be better in time, if you can be patient."

"I know it was mostly my own fault, for being so angry and saying those hard things."

"Yes—"

"I did ask him to forgive me, and yet he has not!"

"Forgiveness is sometimes the hardest thing! Only God can soften his heart. When it comes, there will be no doubt about it."

Ruth threw her arms round Mary's neck.

"Ah! You do comfort!" she exclaimed. "How is it?"

"Because I've been 'comforted of God' myself," she answered simply.