CHAPTER VII.
THE FATE OF RUTH'S LETTER.
ICK GREENWOOD was slowly sauntering up one of the chief streets of the city of Melbourne. Turning down a side street, he entered into a store, and asked if any letters had been left there for him or his brother.
"Why, yes, I believe there's a packet knocking about. Jones, reach 'em off that shelf," answered the foreman.
A letter from his mother, and another in a strange handwriting to John, was passed across to Dick, who took them and left the store.
"That plaguey boy may fetch his own letters. Blowed if I'll waste my time calling round; but who's been writing to him now, I wonder? Some woman's hand. That means mischief, for sure!"
Dick turned the envelope over, and studied the calligraphy with an air of uncertainty. Suddenly he exclaimed, half aloud:
"It's from that soft fool of a girl, I'll bet anything. She's found out which way her bread was buttered, and means to come the doubles over Jack; but not quite so easy done, my girl. The boy's got a brother who'll look after him, so here goes;" and Dick tore open the envelope, glanced at the signature, nodded his head in triumph, and deliberately read the closely-written pages.
"The lying humbug! So that's the way she'd throw dust into Jack's eyes, and he'd be as innocent as a new-born babe, and write back begging her forgiveness, and telling her he'd be ready for her in a trice! Bah, how I hate such tomfoolery!" and Dick tore the letter, which had been written with so many tears and prayers, into a hundred fragments, and sent them flying down the street.
Some days later found him back in a bush settlement, where he had, a few months before, persuaded John to join him. Despite the latter's attempt at bravado, he had left England with a very sore heart, and a resolve to show Ruth that he could keep steady, and make his way in the new land. He quite intended to save money towards preparing a home; and thought that, in a year or two, he would write to Ruth, and ask her to overlook the past, and come out to him, for he never doubted her love and fidelity. But, though he had soon found a situation where he might have risen and achieved his purpose, he had no sooner commenced to save than his brother Dick would appear, and lead him into scenes of revelry and dissipation, where his money would be more than wasted. After one of these times John said, with bitterness:
"Pity I didn't bring my Ruth out! She'd have kept me straight instead of helping me down as you do."
In a letter that Dick had subsequently written home, he had sneeringly said that Jack wanted a woman to look after him. What effect that remark had upon Ruth we have previously seen.
Finally, Dick had persuaded John to leave his situation, and join him and his lawless companions in their wild bush life; yet, even there, his thoughts often reverted to Ruth, and he made up his mind that if she would only break the silence and tell him she cared as much as ever for him, he would leave his present surroundings and begin a new life. Often, when engaged in pursuits new and exciting, or carousing with companions as degraded as his own brother, the sweet, happy restraints of the old home life, and the pure face of the woman he loved would rise before him in vivid contrast, and with an unutterable loathing he would turn from his present life, and long to be free. Yet he lacked moral courage to break from his brother's influence; and, as John, in many ways, proved serviceable to Dick, the latter, by flattery or by threats, was continually strengthening his hold upon John's weaker nature. So Dick was rejoiced that Ruth's letter had fallen into his hands, well knowing that John could never have withstood the temptation it would have presented to him.
"Any letters from home, Dick?" inquired John of his brother, who sat before a rough, uncovered table, making heavy inroads upon the provisions with which it was loaded.
"There's one in my coat," answered Dick, nodding in the direction of his top-coat, which he had flung aside on entering. John got up and felt in the pocket, and drew out his mother's letter.
"No other, Dick?"
"No; ain't that enough for you?" was the answer.
John took the letter and went out of the room.
"She is too hard on a fellow, she is; but, oh, Ruthie, if I had you here, I'd be out of this soon enough!" he said to himself.
Yet, all through the hours of the following night, John laughed as loudly and drank as deeply as any of the rough men who had been invited to meet Dick, and listen to the news after his short absence from the settlement. In the early dawn, the company broke up, and left the log building, making, as they went to their several homes, the still, fragrant air resonant with snatches of ribald song and coarse jest.
Dick threw himself upon a settle and was soon sleeping heavily; but John staggered out of the noisome atmosphere, and leaned against the framework of the door. The cool morning breeze fanned his heated brow, and the twitter of the birds fell on his dulled ears. The stars had paled, but the moon shone clear in the blue sky, now fast taking on the gorgeous hues of the dawn. He stood, unconscious of the beauty of scene and sound around him, till the echoes of his late companions' unhallowed mirth had died away. Then there came to him, as there always did at such times, the thought of Ruth. What would she say to see him now? Yet, deeply though he had fallen, John would have given worlds, if he had possessed them, to have stood in her presence at that moment with drooping head, and confessed all his weakness and misery, and begged her to forgive him, and help him to retrieve the bitter past.
"Oh, Ruth, you took the pledge for my sake, and now, if you were only here, I'd take it for my own sake and yours too," groaned John.
It was only the fancy of a heated imagination, of course, but just then, as the first ray of the rising sun glanced through the forest clearing, and fell at his feet, he felt himself looking down into Ruth's upturned, pleading eyes; her hand lay on his arm, and her voice said: "For my sake, John, take it now!" He started, as if from a dream, and looked round. No apparition melted into morning mist, no human form was yet stirring, but, with a strange, mingled sense of awe and gladness, John said:
"Bless you, my Ruthie, I will, for your sake! You shall never have cause to be ashamed of me again!"
Then he turned indoors, and, throwing himself down beside his brother, was soon fast asleep.
