Chapter XXIII: A Parting

"WELL, my dear!" said Dr. Brown that evening. "Now tell me all about everything."

"I do not think there is much to tell more than I have said in my letters. Have I not been very good in writing, father?"

"Very good! I shall be glad when you are at home again. But the child looks worlds better!"

"Oh, he is, and so is Judith. She is getting much more sociable, too."

"And Mala?"

"Mala is—better," answered Ruth, hesitating a little as to what word to choose. "Morris is so good to her, and every day I read them all a little piece out of the Gospels, and do you know, father, Mala begins to listen!"

"That is good news! Ruth, you and I must go to church together to-morrow. I have no patients here; and, indeed, I sometimes think I might have managed it even at home."

Ruth's sparkling eyes were an answer. "Oh, I am so glad!" she exclaimed.

So Sunday dawned, and Vincent came early to have as much time with them as possible. He could only stay till the middle of Monday, and every moment he could spend with Ruth was precious in his eyes.

The day was one of cloudless beauty, and they all felt it to be one of cloudless happiness too.

Dr. Brown said he had not been so happy for years, and Ruth looked round on the bright faces of those she called "her family," and could not be but thankful for what she saw there.

The hours seemed to pass very quickly to them all, and Vincent counted each one with a sort of pang. Could it be possible that he would have to say good-bye to-morrow?

And then Monday came. As early as they could, they all went out on the beach together, and wandered among the rocks till it was time for Vincent to go to his train. He had sent his bag by the omnibus which conveyed Dr. Brown to the station for his train the other way, while Vincent proposed to walk over the cliffs to the Junction to take an express train northwards.

Heston offered to accompany him, but to his surprise Vincent answered in a low tone, meant for his ear only, "I would rather go alone—unless—I thought I would ask your cousin if she would walk a little way with me. She has not seen the cliffs—and it is my last time."

Of course, Heston said "All right." And when he saw Vincent asking Ruth to go, he drew the others off to see a new boat, in the building of which they were much interested.

When at length they all looked up, the other two were but specks along the cliffs.

"Is Ruth gone?" asked Judith, looking rather forlorn.

"Then you would rather she were here?" asked Heston, with a slight smile.

"Ye-es," hesitated Judith.

"I'm glad you have got as far as that!" said Heston, bluntly. "You have been slow in doing her justice after all her kindness!"

"I'm not!" said Judith. "I 'never' am nasty to her now! Surely you have seen that, Heston? I always try to do what she says, and I get Mala to, as well."

Heston considered. "I believe you do," he said, heartily, taking his little sister's hand in his, and turning homewards.

"But why has she gone?" persisted Judith. "It will be quite dull without her."

"Vincent wanted a walk with her, I think."

But the figures were now obscured by the jutting cliff, and Judith looked after them in vain.

The two walked on quickly at first. Ruth thought that there was not much time, and Vincent thought that each rapid step brought him nearer to what he seemed unable to bear.

"There is no hurry," he said at last. "I have plenty of time for my train."

They were talking on indifferent subjects, chiefly about Norman's progress in strength and vitality, and Ruth said how she wished his father could see him before he died. To all of which Vincent listened with downcast face and heavy heart.

When they reached the summit of the cliff, Vincent paused as if to look for the last time at the wonderful view of sea and sky, and Ruth began to gather some of the grasses and poppies which grew in profusion at their feet.

"I shall never forget this walk," said Vincent, as they walked on.

"It is beautiful," said Ruth; "only I am sure you are sad because you have to leave England. I am sorry, but that does not make it any better, does it?"

Vincent's answer was smothered.

She thought he said something about "it did make a difference," but she could hardly catch his meaning, so she remained silent, wishing she could do something to make his evident pain less.

And then Vincent saw the roof of the Junction peeping out from between some trees, and he knew that he must say "good-bye."

He held out his hand. "You must not come any further," he said hoarsely. "I do not know how to say good-bye! It is not only leaving England and home—that is bad enough—but to leave you—"

"Me?" questioned Ruth, surprised, and almost dismayed by his agitated words.

"Will you—will you remember me when I am far away?" he asked, looking in her face.

"I—of course I shall remember you," she said hastily; "how could I do anything else? Besides, you are Mary's brother!"

"Only Mary's brother?" he asked, dropping her hand suddenly.

"I meant that I have always heard so much of you from Mary that I seemed to know you before you came."

There was a distant whistle of the train, loud and shrill.

"I must go now!" he exclaimed. "Oh, Ruth, say one kind word to me before I go."

"I do not know how," said Ruth, with her eyes full of tears.

He caught her hand again without looking at her, and thus they parted.

Vincent strode on to the station.

And Ruth stood looking after him till she saw the steam of the train coming over the trees, when with slow and faltering steps she made her way home, wondering vaguely what had happened to make her heart so very heavy.