Ruth went to school alone the next morning, for Julia was so unwell from the excitement of the day that she seemed quite ill and feverish, and was scarcely able to lift her head from the pillow. Her eyes had dark rims round them, her head ached terribly, and she was certainly quite unfit to attend to her studies and to meet her school-fellows.

None of the girls liked to ask Ruth what had happened after her return home, and they scarcely ventured to inquire for her cousin. They evidently felt that they had gone too far, and began to speak kindly to Mabel and to treat her in their usual manner.

But the poor girl could not easily forget the slights she had received, and amid their new-born kindness she turned naturally to the one who had befriended her while the others behaved rudely. She soon grew quite intimate with Ruth, and even ventured to speak of the trouble which had befallen her father that summer, and of her future prospects.

"Of course," she said, "papa would not have thought of allowing me to remain at such an expensive school as Miss Elgin's, but grandmamma has kindly promised to pay the expenses of my education for two years, and if I study hard for that time I hope that I shall be able to teach, and to help papa and mamma."

Ruth could thoroughly sympathise with her friend, and entered into her feelings, her hopes and aspirations, for was she not working with the same object in view? Did she not desire to help _her_ father and mother by teaching the younger children?

Thus their friendship grew and strengthened during Julia's absence, which lasted quite a week.

She, poor child, was quite unstrung, and for two or three days the very mention of school brought on a fit of hysterical crying, and she begged that she might be allowed to go to some boarding-school at a distance, anywhere--away from Busyborough. Mrs. Woburn was inclined to yield to her wish; but her father would not hear of such a thing, and declared that she had brought all the trouble upon herself by her own folly, and she must bear the consequences of it. He was, in fact, excessively angry with his spoilt child, and believed that her return to school would be a severe punishment which she richly deserved.

When Mr. Woburn spoke in that decided way there was nothing to be done but to obey. His wife, however, called upon Miss Elgin, and explained the reason of Julia's absence, begging that she would ask the girls to receive her kindly, without referring to the cause of the quarrel, as she had already suffered a good deal.

Miss Elgin was astonished to hear of the affair, which had perplexed and puzzled her not a little; for, as her pupils had all felt themselves more or less to blame in the matter, they had all kept it from her knowledge, and she had only guessed from their reticence, and the air of mystery with which they received every allusion to their absent school-fellow, that something was wrong. Before morning school she called the girls together, told them how pained and grieved she had been, and gave them a little lecture upon the duty of ruling the tongue, and the folly of valuing people only for their wealth or position instead of their goodness and virtue. The girls listened in silence, and when Julia returned, looking very much ashamed and humbled after her vain boasting, they made no allusion to her fiery outburst, and in a few days she had regained her old place in the school and everything went on as usual.

Lessons, cla.s.ses, exercises, and lectures were crowded into each day.

Ruth had plenty to do, and found that she must work very hard if she wished to succeed, and to take a good place in the school. She was astonished to see how indolent some of the girls were; to find that many of them did not care for knowledge for its own sake, but regarded their lessons as a trouble, and were continually begging to be allowed to leave off this or that study. And she was still more surprised and shocked to find how many of the exercises were merely copied from old books, with perhaps a few slight mistakes inserted to prevent suspicion.

On more than one occasion, Ruth gave offence by refusing to lend her books for this purpose, or to avail herself of proffered a.s.sistance; but she persevered steadily, and declared that she would rather make a few mistakes than evade a difficulty which she could not surmount, as she would be sure to meet it again.

Miss Elgin was not long in perceiving that Ruth was a conscientious girl, anxious to learn, and in many little ways she contrived to help and encourage her.

As the weather grew colder and winter advanced, the old home-life at the farm seemed very far away, and somehow the home letters were not so full of interest as they had once been. How trivial and childish it seemed to read about the new kittens, the chickens, the nuts in the woods, and the apples in the orchard, and the many little details with which the children's letters were filled, when one was studying chemistry and reading Milton and Shakespeare. Her mother's letters were always welcome, but they were very rare.

The comfort and luxury of her new home were beginning to make a visible alteration in her. Already she looked and felt quite a different person from the little Ruth Arnold who sometimes milked the cows, or helped with the house-work when the servants were busy. Her brown curls had long since given place to a long plait like Julia's, her clothes were of richer materials and made in a more fashionable style, and she had what seemed at first an abundant supply of pocket-money. The only day on which she really longed to be back at Cressleigh was Sunday. It had always been such a happy day at the farm, the only rest day of the busy father and mother, and always spent with the children. There were of course certain duties which could not be neglected, but these were quickly done, and then the whole family went together to the house of G.o.d. In the afternoon the children all went to Sunday-school, where Will was promoted to the post of teacher, and Mr. and Mrs. Arnold had a quiet hour together with no one but the baby to disturb them. There was rarely any service in the evening, but it was a pleasant time for the children, who in fine summer weather sat on the lawn and sang their favourite hymns, or on winter evenings gathered round the old piano in the well-worn parlour while their mother or Ruth played, or listened while their father talked or read some good and interesting book. All went to bed early, and rose in the morning refreshed and strengthened by the joy and repose of the day of rest.

But Sunday at Busyborough was quite a different matter. Every one was expected to attend public worship once during the day, but Gerald was often missing, and the others did not appear to take much pleasure in going. Mr. Woburn had a pew in a handsome church close by, and also at a large Nonconformist chapel in the neighbourhood. His wife usually attended the latter, but Julia preferred the church, where the service was very elaborate. She hated long sermons, she said, and liked to have something to look at. Ruth accompanied her once or twice, but found the morning service, to which she had been accustomed all her life, so differently rendered that at first she could hardly follow it. The dear old Psalms, which had always been read at Cressleigh by the clergyman and the people led by the parish clerk, sounded so strange and unfamiliar when chanted by a surpliced choir. The intoning, the processions, and everything else, were so strange, that Ruth was afraid to join in the service.

After going a few times she decided to accompany her aunt, for although the service of the chapel was unfamiliar she was able to enter into the spirit of it, and could appreciate and enjoy the sermon delivered by a clever and eloquent preacher.

The family dined early on Sundays, and then the miserable part of the day began for Ruth. There was "nothing to do on Sundays," Julia said, and indeed there seemed to be no occupation provided. No one thought of going to Sunday-school, as Ruth had once timidly suggested, although Julia sometimes went to church when there was a special musical service.

At other times she would begin to read; then she would fidget or strum on the piano, greatly to the annoyance of her father, who always took a Sunday afternoon nap, and of Ernest, who buried himself in a book.

Gerald went out, Rupert got into all sorts of mischief, and Ruth was left to her own devices.

In the evening the girls wrote their Scripture exercises, under cover of which Julia often did other lessons, though this was quite contrary to the express orders of her father, who was very anxious that his children should have a "proper regard for the day." There was continual bickering, many disputes and petty quarrels, and when bed-time came every one was weary and cross, and seemed glad the day was over. No wonder that Ruth often longed and sighed for one of the happy old Sundays at home.

CHAPTER XIV.

AN ADVENTURE.

Gerald was less known to his cousin than any other member of the family, for he spent very little time in her society. He usually rose late, and after a hasty breakfast hurried away to the office whither his father had already gone. The girls did not see him again until six o'clock when he returned to dinner, frequently going out directly it was over to spend the evening with his friends.

Yet, although Ruth saw but little of him, that little astonished her.

She could never forget that he was only a year or two older than Will. A year or two made a great difference, she knew, but could Will ever become such a well-dressed fashionable young man, who grumbled at his mother if the dinner was not to his mind, scolded the servants, and argued and talked to his father just as if he were a man of his own age?

Ruth thought not, and hoped not.

The short November days were cold and dreary, school duties seemed to increase, and the girls were beginning to talk of the coming examinations, and to look forward to the Christmas holidays and festivities.

In spite of hard work Ruth found it a difficult matter to do all her lessons thoroughly, and although she was strong and healthy and not easily fatigued, the effort was beginning to tell upon her.

One fine Wednesday her aunt persuaded her to take a holiday. The rest was very pleasant, but she had a certain amount of work to finish by the end of the week, and sat up rather late the next night over her French translation. She was obliged to give up at last, and went to bed quite dissatisfied with her evening's work. But when she laid her head upon the pillow sleep quite forsook her. She tossed and turned, but all in vain, sleep would not come; her mind was full of the paragraph she had been endeavouring to translate, and she felt sure that she could do it much better, if only it were not so late.

Might she not scribble down a few of the sentences which had puzzled her, but were now quite clear? Of course her aunt would not like it, but then she need never know. It could not be any worse to write than to lie in bed and think, she argued, and it would be such a relief to get it done.

She sprang out of bed, turned up the gas, put on her pretty flannel dressing gown and woollen shoes, drew up a comfortable easy-chair, and then remembered that she had left all her books and papers downstairs, in the little room opening out of the hall where she and Julia prepared their lessons.

"Never mind, I can get it without disturbing any one," she said, as she lighted a bedroom candle and crept downstairs very softly in her woollen shoes, shading the candle as she pa.s.sed the bedroom doors that the light might not be seen.

The house was very still and quiet: not a sound was to be heard but the ticking of the great clock in the hall. Ruth did not look at it, she did not care to know the time, for she was sure it was very late. The little study looked cold and desolate by the light of her solitary candle, and the ashes in the grate still moved and made a slight rustling which sounded very plainly. Ruth had just gathered up her books and papers when the hall clock struck close to her, one long solemn stroke.

One o'clock! It was very late she owned, and very lonely down there.

Hark! what was that? Surely the clock was striking again. No, it was a different sound and came from the front-door. Some person was evidently trying to open it. Ruth's heart stood still. All the terrible stories she had ever heard of burglars and midnight robberies came to her mind, and at the same time the unpleasant conviction that she had stepped aside from the path of duty and thus brought herself into danger.

Her presence of mind was quite gone. She feared that her candle might attract attention, but dared not extinguish it and be alone in the dark with--she knew not whom. Holding her breath she stood for a moment gazing fixedly towards the door. It was opened softly and cautiously, and the figure of a man entered the hall and carefully fastened the bolts of the door. Ruth was too terrified to scream, and as the light of her candle fell upon his face she suddenly recognised her cousin--_Gerald_.

He started when he saw the light and his little cousin's scared pale face, and exclaimed, "What is the matter, Ruth?"

"Oh, Gerald, how you have frightened me!" she said, trembling violently.

"Where have you been?"

"What are you doing here?" he asked, evading her question.

"I couldn't sleep, and came down to fetch my books, and I--I heard you at the door, and thought you were a burglar."

"Do you often stroll about at night?" he inquired curiously.

"No, indeed. And I have been so terrified that I am sure I will never do it again. I am very sorry, but I will tell auntie all about it to-morrow," she said, taking her candle and moving towards the stairs.

"Ruth," said Gerald, in an agitated whisper, "wait a minute."

She turned so that the light fell full upon his face, and saw that he looked white and anxious.

"May I ask you, as a favour, not to mention your adventure with the burglar? Perhaps it would be better for both of us to be silent about to-night's occurrence."

"Why? Where have you been, Gerald? You went to bed before ten o'clock, and"--a thought struck her--"how came the door to be unbolted?"

"Now, Ruth," he said coaxingly, "I know you are a good-natured little thing, and I don't believe you would do me a bad turn. You know the governor is always down upon me, won't let me have a latch-key, and says I must be in by half-past ten. A fellow can't live without a little pleasure, and if the governor won't let me have it I must take it. But don't say a word, there's a dear, or you will get me into an awful row."

"But it is so wrong to deceive your father and mother," urged Ruth, thinking that after all Gerald was not so "grown-up" as he seemed. "Do you often go out at night?"

"No, very seldom."