Mrs. V. B. Dr. Athelney, a clergyman and a magistrate.
Ruth. Beak, is he? Well, let him make out the committal. Where’s it to be? Sessions?
Mrs. V. B. We have no wish to prosecute you. We wish to help you to arrive at a sense of right and wrong.
Ruth. Can’t it be done without a parson? I dunno much good o’ parsons. I’d rather it was done without a parson.
Dr. A. (kindly). Don’t think of me as a clergyman, if that calling is distasteful to you. Perhaps some day we may succeed in overcoming your prejudice. In the mean time, think of me only as a harmless old gentleman, who is willing and able to help you to earn your living respectably, if you desire to do so.
Ruth. Ah, I’ve come across the likes o’ you afore now. Three weeks agone comes a parson, as it might be you. “I’ve come to help you, poor fallen creetur,” says he; “I’ve come to tell you blessed truths, poor miserable outcast,” says he. “Read that, wretched lost sheep,” says he. “I’ll call again in a month and see how you feel,” says he. A month! Heugh! When I was bad with fever the doctor come every day. He never come no more. There’s ladies come odd times. I call to mind one—come in a carriage she did. Same story—poor, miserable, lost one—wretched abandoned fellow-creetur, and that. She called me a brand from the burnin’, and wanted to stretch out a hand to save me, she did. Well, she stretched it out, and I thought she meant it (for I was green then), and, fool-like, I took it, and kissed it. She screeched as though I’d bit her!
Mrs. V. B. Will you take my hand?
Ruth. (astonished). Do you know what I am?
Mrs. V. B. Yes; I know well what you are. You are a woman who wants help, and I a woman who will help you. (Taking her hand).
Ruth. (much moved). Thankee, missis! you’ve spoke fair to me. I’ve had no one speak like that to me for many a long year. Thankee, missis. (Struggling with tears.) Don’t mind me. (Throws her apron over her face and sobs.) They will come odd times!