Ruth spoke out.  She stood like a wild creature at bay, past fear now.  “I appeal to God against such a doom for my child.  I appeal to God to help me.  I am a mother, and as such I cry to God for help—­for help to keep my boy in His pitying sight, and to bring him up in His holy fear.  Let the shame fall on me!  I have deserved it, but he—­he is so innocent and good.”

Ruth had caught up her shawl, and was tying on her bonnet with her trembling hands.  What if Leonard was hearing of her shame from common report?  What would be the mysterious shock of the intelligence?  She must face him, and see the look in his eyes, before she knew whether he recoiled from her; he might have his heart turned to hate her, by their cruel jeers.

Jemima stood by, dumb and pitying.  Her sorrow was past her power.  She helped in arranging the dress, with one or two gentle touches, which were hardly felt by Ruth, but which called out all Mr. Bradshaw’s ire afresh; he absolutely took her by the shoulders and turned her by force out of the room.  In the hall, and along the stairs, her passionate woeful crying was heard.  The sound only concentrated Mr. Bradshaw’s anger on Ruth.  He held the street-door open wide, and said, between his teeth, “If ever you, or your bastard, darken this door again, I will have you both turned out by the police!”

He needed not have added this if he had seen Ruth’s face.

CHAPTER XXVII

PREPARING TO STAND ON THE TRUTH

As Ruth went along the accustomed streets, every sight and every sound seemed to hear a new meaning, and each and all to have some reference to her boy’s disgrace.  She held her head down, and scudded along dizzy with fear, lest some word should have told him what she had been, and what he was, before she could reach him.  It was a wild, unreasoning fear, but it took hold of her as strongly as if it had been well founded.  And, indeed, the secret whispered by Mrs. Pearson, whose curiosity and suspicion had been excited by Jemima’s manner, and confirmed since by many a little corroborating circumstance, had spread abroad, and was known to most of the gossips in Eccleston before it reached Mr. Bradshaw’s ears.

As Ruth came up to the door of the Chapel-house, it was opened, and Leonard came out, bright and hopeful as the morning, his face radiant at the prospect of the happy day before him.  He was dressed in the clothes it had been such a pleasant pride to her to make for him.  He had the dark-blue ribbon tied round his neck that she had left out for him that very morning, with a smiling thought of how it would set off his brown, handsome face.  She caught him by the hand as they met, and turned him, with his face homewards, without a word.  Her looks, her rushing movement, her silence, awed him; and although he wondered, he did not stay to ask why she did so.  The door was on the latch; she opened it, and only