She rose, and went slowly towards home.  Her limbs were very stiff, and every now and then she had to choke down an unbidden sob.  Her pupils had been long returned from church, and had busied themselves in preparing tea—­an occupation which had probably made them feel the time less long.

If they had ever seen a sleep-walker, they might have likened Ruth to one for the next few days, so slow and measured did her movements seem—­so far away was her intelligence from all that was passing around her—­so hushed and strange were the tones of her voice.  They had letters from home, announcing the triumphant return of Mr. Donne as M.P. for Eccleston.  Mrs. Denbigh heard the news without a word, and was too languid to join in the search after purple and yellow flowers with which to deck the sitting-room at Eagle’s Crag.

A letter from Jemima came the next day, summoning them home.  Mr. Donne and his friends had left the place, and quiet was restored in the Bradshaw household; so it was time that Mary and Elizabeth’s holiday should cease.  Mrs. Denbigh had also a letter—­a letter from Miss Benson, saying that Leonard was not quite well.  There was so much pains taken to disguise anxiety, that it was very evident much anxiety was felt; and the girls were almost alarmed by Ruth’s sudden change from taciturn languor to eager, vehement energy.  Body and mind seemed strained to exertion.  Every plan that could facilitate packing and winding up affairs at Abermouth, every errand and arrangement that could expedite their departure by one minute, was done by Ruth with stern promptitude.  She spared herself in nothing.  She made them rest, made them lie down, while she herself lifted weights and transacted business with feverish power, never resting, and trying never to have time to think.

For in remembrance of the Past there was Remorse—­how had she forgotten Leonard these last few days!—­how had she repined and been dull of heart to her blessing!  And in anticipation of the future there was one sharp point of red light in the darkness which pierced her brain with agony, and which she would not see or recognise—­and saw and recognised all the more for such mad determination—­which is not the true shield against the bitterness of the arrows of death.

When the seaside party arrived in Eccleston, they were met by Mrs. and Miss Bradshaw and Mr. Benson.  By a firm resolution, Ruth kept from shaping the question, “Is he alive?” as if by giving shape to her fears she made their realisation more imminent.  She said merely, “How is he?” but she said it with drawn, tight, bloodless lips, and in her eyes Mr. Benson read her anguish of anxiety.

“He is very ill, but we hope he will soon be better.  It is what every child has to go through.”

CHAPTER XXV

JEMIMA MAKES A DISCOVERY

Mr. Bradshaw had been successful in carrying his point.  His member had been returned; his proud opponents mortified.  So the public thought he ought to be well pleased; but the public were disappointed to see that he did not show any of the gratification they supposed him to feel.