There he was by her side; and there was still a quarter of a mile intervening between her and the church: but even yet she trusted that he had not recognised her. "I have changed my mind, you see, said he quietly." I have some curiosity to see the architecture of the church; some of these old country churches have singular bits about them. Mr. Bradshaw kindly directed me part of the way; but I was so much puzzled by 'turns to the right' and 'turns to the left,' that I was quite glad to espy your party." That speech required. no positive answer of any kind; and no answer did it receive. He had not expected a reply. He knew, if she were Ruth, she could not answer any indifferent words of his; and her silence made him more certain of her identity with the lady by his side. "The scenery here is of a kind new to me; neither grand, wild, nor yet marked by high cultivation; and yet it has great charms. It reminds me of some part of Wales." He breathed deeply, and then added, "You have been in Wales, I believe?" He spoke low; almost in a whisper. The little church-bell began to call the lagging people with its quick, sharp summons. Ruth writhed in body and spirit, but struggled on. The church-door would be gained at last;and in that holy place she would find peace. He repeated in a louder tone, so as to compel an answer in order to conceal her agitation from the girls-- "Have you never been in Wales?" He used "never" instead of "ever," and laid the emphasis on that word, in order to mark his meaning to Ruth, and Ruth only. But he drove her to bay. "I have been in Wales, sir," she replied, in a calm, grave tone. "I was there many years ago. Events took place there which contribute to make the recollections of that time most miserable to me. I shall be obliged to you, sir, if you will make no further reference to it." The little girls wondered how Mrs. Denbigh could speak in such a high tone of quiet authority to Mr. Donne, who was almost a member of Parliament.
But they settled that her husband must have died in Wales, and, of course, that would make the recollection of the country "most miserable," as she said. Mr. Donne did not dislike the answer, and he positively admired the dignity with which she spoke. His leaving her as he did must have made her very miserable; and he liked the pride that made her retain her indignation, until he could speak to her in private, and explain away a good deal of what she might complain of with some justice. The church was reached. They all went up the middle aisle into the Eagle's Crag pew. He followed them in, entered himself, and shut the door. Ruth's heart sank as she saw him there; just opposite to her; coming between her and the clergyman who was to read out the word of God. It was merciless--it was cruel to haunt her there. She durst not lift her eyes to the bright eastern light--she could not see how peacefully the marble images of the dead lay on their tombs, for he was between her and all Light and Peace.
She knew that his look was on her; that he never turned his glance away.
She could not join in the prayer for the remission of sins while he was there, for his very presence seemed as a sign that their stain would never be washed out of her life. But, although goaded and chafed by her thoughts and recollections, she kept very still. No sign of emotion, no flush of colour was on her face as he looked at her. Elizabeth could not find her place, and then Ruth breathed once, long and deeply, as she moved up the pew, and out of the straight, burning glance of those eyes of evil meaning.
When they sat down for the reading of the first lesson, Ruth turned the corner of the seat so as no longer to be opposite to him. She could not listen. The words seemed to be uttered in some world far away, from which she was exiled and cast out their sound, and yet more their meaning, was dim and distant. But in this extreme tension of mind to hold in her bewildered agony, it so happened that one of her senses was preternaturally acute.
While all the church and the people swam in misty haze, one point in a dark corner grew clearer and clearer till she saw (what at another time she could not have discerned at all) a face--a gargoyle I think they call it--at the end of the arch next to the narrowing of the nave into the chancel, and in the shadow of that contraction. The face was beautiful in feature (the next to it was a grinning monkey), but it was not the features that were the most striking part. There was a half-open mouth, not in any way distorted out of its exquisite beauty by the intense expression of suffering it conveyed. Any distortion of the face by mental agony implies that a struggle with circumstance is going on. But in this face, if such struggle had been, it was over now. Circumstance had conquered; and there was no hope from mortal endeavour, or help from mortal creature, to be had. But the eyes looked onward and upward to the "hills from whence cometh our help." And though the parted lips seemed ready to quiver with agony, yet the expression of the whole face, owing to these strange, stony, and yet spiritual eyes, was high and consoling. If mortal gaze had never sought its meaning before, in the deep shadow where it had been placed long centuries ago, yet Ruth's did now. Who could have imagined such a look? Who could have witnessed--perhaps felt--such infinite sorrow and yet dared to lift it up by Faith into a peace so pure? Or was it a mere conception? If so, what a soul the unknown carver must have had; for creator and handicraftsman must have been one; no two minds could have been in such perfect harmony.
Whatever it was--however it came there--imaginer, carver, sufferer, all were long passed away. Human art was ended--human life done--human suffering over; but this remained; it stilled Ruth's beating heart to look on it.