The world has decided how such women are to be treated; and, you may depend upon it, there is so much practical wisdom in the world, that its way of acting is right in the long-run, and that no one can fly in its face with impunity, unless, indeed, they stoop to deceit and imposition." "I take my stand with Christ against the world," said Mr. Benson solemnly, disregarding the covert allusion to himself. "What have the world's ways ended in? Can we be much worse than we are?" "Speak for yourself, if you please." "Is it not time to change some of our ways of thinking and acting? I declare before God, that if I believe in any one human truth, it is this--that to every woman who, like Ruth, has sinned should be given a chance of self-redemption--and that such a chance should be given in no supercilious or contemptuous manner, but in the spirit of the holy Christ." "Such as getting her into a friend's house under false colours." "I do not argue on Ruth's case. In that I have acknowledged my error. Ido not argue on any case. I state my firm belief, that it is God's will that we should not dare to trample any of His creatures down to the hopeless dust; that it is God's will that the women who have fallen should be numbered among those who have broken hearts to be bound up, not cast aside as lost beyond recall. If this be God's will, as a thing of God it will stand;and He will open a way." "I should have attached much more importance to all your exhortation on this point if I could have respected your conduct in other matters. As it is, when I see a man who has deluded himself into considering falsehood right, I am disinclined to take his opinion on subjects connected with morality; and I can no longer regard him as a fitting exponent of the will of God. You perhaps understand what I mean, Mr. Benson. I can no longer attend your chapel." If Mr. Benson had felt any hope of making Mr. Bradshaw's obstinate mind receive the truth, that he acknowledged and repented of his connivance at the falsehood by means of which Ruth had been received into the Bradshaw family, this last sentence prevented his making the attempt. He simply bowed and took his leave--Mr. Bradshaw attending him to the door with formal ceremony. He felt acutely the severance of the tie which Mr. Bradshaw had just announced to him. He had experienced many mortifications in his intercourse with that gentleman, but they had fallen off from his meek spirit like drops of water from a bird's plumage; and now he only remembered the acts of substantial kindness rendered (the ostentation all forgotten)--many happy hours and pleasant evenings--the children whom he had loved dearer than he thought till now--the young people about whom he had cared, and whom he had striven to lead aright. He was but a young man when Mr. Bradshaw first came to his chapel; they had grown old together; he had never recognised Mr. Bradshaw as an old familiar friend so completely as now when they were severed. It was with a heavy heart that he opened his own door. He went to his study immediately; he sat down to steady himself into his position. How long he was there--silent and alone--reviewing his life--confessing his sins--he did not know; but he heard some unusual sound in the house that disturbed him--roused him to present life. A slow, languid step came along the passage to the front door--the breathing was broken by many sighs. Ruth's hand was on the latch when Mr. Benson came out. Her face was very white, except two red spots on each cheek--her eyes were deep-sunk and hollow, but glittered with feverish lustre. "Ruth!" exclaimed he. She moved her lips, but her throat and mouth were too dry for her to speak. "Where are you going?" asked he; for she had all her walking things on, yet trembled so even as she stood, that it was evident she could not walk far without falling. She hesitated--she looked up at him, still with the same dry glittering eyes. At last she whispered (for she could only speak in a whisper), "To Helmsby--I am going to Helmsby." "Helmsby! my poor girl--may God have mercy upon you!" for he saw she hardly knew what she was saying. "Where is Helmsby?" "I don't know. In Lincolnshire, I think." "But why are you going there?" "Hush! he's asleep," said she, as Mr. Benson had unconsciously raised his voice. "Who is asleep?" asked Mr. Benson. "That poor little boy," said she, beginning to quiver and cry. "Come here!" said he authoritatively, drawing her into the study. "Sit down in that chair. I will come back directly." He went in search of his sister, but she had not returned. Then he had recourse to Sally, who was as busy as ever about her cleaning. "How long has Ruth been at home?" asked he. "Ruth! She has never been at home sin' morning. She and Leonard were to be off for the day somewhere or other with them Bradshaw girls." "Then she has had no dinner?" "Not here, any rate. I can't answer for what she may have done at other places." "And Leonard--where is he?" "How should I know? With his mother, I suppose. Leastways, that was what was fixed on. I've enough to do of my own, without routing after other folks." She went on scouring in no very good temper. Mr. Benson stood silent for a moment. "Sally," he said, "I want a cup of tea. Will you make it as soon as you can; and some dry toast too? I'll come for it in ten minutes." Struck by something in his voice, she looked up at him for the first time. "What ha' ye been doing to yourself, to look so grim and grey? Tiring yourself all to tatters, looking after some naught, I'll be bound! Well! well! Imun make ye your tea, I reckon; but I did hope as you grew older you'd ha' grown wiser." Mr. Benson made no reply, but went to look for Leonard, hoping that the child's presence might bring back to his mother the power of self-control.
