CHAPTER VI.
THE NEW HOUSEMAID.
OULD you believe it, Ruth, that girl's a regular Methodist; read her Bible, and said her prayers like any parson last night and again this morning. If she don't work as well as pray, I'll be down on her, sharp."
Ruth looked up with a wondering glance at Alice, who entered the kitchen at that moment with brushes and brooms. A Bible-reading, praying housemaid was a curiosity she had never witnessed. But Alice looked bright and business-like enough to allay any fears respecting her capability to perform her allotted tasks, and after a pleasant "good morning," she proceeded to go about her work in a manner that showed she knew all about it. After a few weeks had passed, both cook and Ruth agreed that the new girl was quite a treasure, with the reservation from cook, who saw no connection between Alice's religion and her daily life—"if it wasn't for her precious chapel-going and religious humbug."
"Come with me for a walk, Alice, instead of going to your class; it's a shame to stay indoors such an afternoon," said Ruth, one Sunday.
"Oh, I couldn't miss my class for anything; but do you come with me, and we can have a little walk after."
Ruth hesitated. She knew that cook would laugh at her for going, but she was feeling low and depressed, and the thought of a solitary walk was irksome to her.
"Well, I don't mind, just for once. It's miserable to walk by one's self," she said.
So she went to the Bible-class which Alice so regularly attended. The lesson was interesting and impressive, and as, from the lips of the minister's wife who gave it, there fell words of invitation to the sin-burdened and weary, Ruth felt strangely moved. Unconsciously her tears fell, for her heart ached with loneliness and longing as she heard of the Saviour and Friend, who was willing to come into her life and crown it with His forgiving love and mercy. She walked on in silence by the side of her companion.
"How did you like Mrs. Evans?" Alice presently asked.
"She made me feel wretched; I don't want to go again."
"That was just how I felt when I first heard her talk; but do go again, for she will do you so much good."
"You never had such reason as I have to be wretched and miserable," exclaimed Ruth.
"Oh, you don't know; I've had more trouble than I've known how to bear; and then there was the burden of my sins that made me more unhappy than I can tell you," added Alice, timidly.
"I don't know anything about that; but I do know that my life is a burden. I had a wretched home, and when I went to service, and something that seemed too good to be true came, it was just taken from me, and now, I'd like to die and be out of my misery."
"Do tell me what your trouble is, dear, then I will try to help you," affectionately pleaded Alice.
Ruth needed no persuasion. The sweet consistency of Alice's life, her invariable good temper and readiness to help, and a certain wistful look in her eyes when Ruth was more than usually depressed, had won her confidence and affection, and the story of her life was readily poured into the ear of her sympathising fellow-servant.
"And now," concluded Ruth, "if you think there's any hope or help for me, I shall be surprised."
"Ruth, I know what it is to have a home like you have had, and I know what it is to lose one more dear than any, and I can not only sympathise, but I can assure you there is both hope and help for you," replied Alice, with full eyes.
"Poor girl! then you have suffered, too!"
"Yes, my father drank himself to death, and my mother died of a broken heart soon after, and then I went to service. I was engaged to a young man I had known a long while, and we were to have been married this spring, but he died quite suddenly, and I thought my heart would break; but Mrs. Evans came to see me, and helped me so much. She told me of the One who can heal every wound, and now, if I feel lonely and sad sometimes, I know I have a friend in Jesus, and I just go to Him and tell Him about my heart-ache, and He comforts me."
"Would He give me back my John, if I asked Him, do you think, Alice?" suddenly asked Ruth.
"Perhaps He would, but He will certainly help you to bear your sorrow if you go to Him."
"I'm afraid to go to Him, Alice. I'm only a servant, and I've done a great many wrong things, and He might be angry."
"No, dear, for He says: 'Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden,' and He means it. Take your sins to Him first, and ask His forgiveness, and then tell Him all about your trouble. Shall we hurry home and pray together?"
"Oh, yes, for it's all new to me, and I would like you to show me how to pray."
The two girls hurried home, and knelt together, while in simple, heartfelt words, Alice laid the need of her companion at the feet of Him who hears and answers prayer.
"That has done me good; thank you so much, Alice," whispered Ruth, with a grateful kiss.
"You will pray by yourself, won't you, dear?" asked Alice.
"Yes, and for John too," answered Ruth, a bright hope already dawning in her heart.
That evening, at Alice's suggestion, she looked through the Bible for promises to meet her special need. When she went downstairs to lay supper, it was with a glad heart at the abundant encouragement she had received. From that time she commenced a new life, and though her feet often faltered in the upward path, and her heart sometimes grew heavy with foreboding fears, a light had arisen for her which grew brighter as the months passed. Many times she sorely regretted that she had let John go from her in pride and anger. If she had but the opportunity now—and her heart ached for it—how tenderly she would plead with him to be true to himself and her.
"John says he supposes you've forgotten all about him," said Mrs. Greenwood one evening, when she had called.
Ruth's face grew scarlet.
"Why doesn't he write to me, then, and let me know what he means?" she cried with bitterness.
"I'm sorry you should have quarrelled, my dear, for I believe you're the very woman for him; and I know he's desperately fond of you, and here's Dick saying Jack would do better with a woman to keep him out of mischief."
"What's his address?" asked Ruth. It was written down for her, and she soon made an excuse to leave. There were many conflicting thoughts and emotions at work in her mind and heart. How could John suppose she could ever forget him? Had he said anything to his mother about his being desperately fond of her, or was it only Mrs. Greenwood's surmisings? And what did Dick mean by saying that John would do better with a woman to keep him out of mischief? Was he going downhill so rapidly that his degraded elder brother had lost control over him? Might John himself be longing for an assurance that he was forgiven, and if the assurance were given, would it be a help and stay to him? Oh, if she dare think so! Well, she would risk it, and write that very night, and as she made the decision a great burden fell from her, and she knew her decision was right.
Far on into the night Ruth sat writing sheet after sheet by the light of her candle. She wrote of the new joy that had come to her since John left, and told him it had only increased her love and yearning for him; how night and day she prayed that he might be kept from harm and evil, and that some day they might yet meet and be happy. She concluded by asking him to forgive her, if she had seemed hard and unkind, and reminded him again of her own painful past, and how she felt it was wrong to face a future that might hold a like experience for her; but if he could only assure her that he was living a sober, respectable life, and intended doing so, she would come out to him just as soon as he had a home ready. Then with many tears and prayers Ruth directed her letter and went to bed.
Ah, poor Ruth! could she have foretold the fate of her letter, how would the bright hopes she was entertaining have been quenched in darkness!
