The shadows deepened, deepened, and the room became
quite dark. Still Tom’s fingers wandered
over the keys of the piano, and still the window had
its pair of tenants. At length, her hand upon
his shoulder, and her breath upon his forehead, roused
Tom from his reverie.
‘Dear me!’ he cried, desisting with a
start. ’I am afraid I have been very inconsiderate
and unpolite.’
Tom little thought how much consideration and politeness
he had shown!
‘Sing something to us, my dear,’ said
Tom, ’let us hear your voice. Come!’
John Westlock added his entreaties with such earnestness
that a flinty heart alone could have resisted them.
Hers was not a flinty heart. Oh, dear no!
Quite another thing.
So down she sat, and in a pleasant voice began to
sing the ballads Tom loved well. Old rhyming
stories, with here and there a pause for a few simple
chords, such as a harper might have sounded in the
ancient time while looking upward for the current
of some half-remembered legend; words of old poets,
wedded to such measures that the strain of music might
have been the poet’s breath, giving utterance
and expression to his thoughts; and now a melody so
joyous and light-hearted, that the singer seemed incapable
of sadness, until in her inconstancy (oh wicked little
singer!) she relapsed, and broke the listeners’
hearts again; these were the simple means she used
to please them. And that these simple means prevailed,
and she did please them, let the still darkened
chamber, and its long-deferred illumination witness.
The candles came at last, and it was time for moving
homeward. Cutting paper carefully, and rolling
it about the stalks of those same flowers, occasioned
some delay; but even this was done in time, and Ruth
was ready.
‘Good night!’ said Tom. ’A
memorable and delightful visit, John! Good night!’
John thought he would walk with them.
‘No, no. Don’t!’ said Tom.
’What nonsense! We can get home very well
alone. I couldn’t think of taking you out.’
But John said he would rather.
‘Are you sure you would rather?’ said
Tom. ’I am afraid you only say so out of
politeness.’
John being quite sure, gave his arm to Ruth, and led
her out. Fiery-face, who was again in attendance,
acknowledged her departure with so cold a curtsey
that it was hardly visible; and cut Tom, dead.
Their host was bent on walking the whole distance,
and would not listen to Tom’s dissuasions.
Happy time, happy walk, happy parting, happy dreams!
But there are some sweet day-dreams, so there are that
put the visions of the night to shame.
Busily the Temple fountain murmured in the moonlight,
while Ruth lay sleeping, with her flowers beside her;
and John Westlock sketched a portrait—whose?—from
memory.
In which miss pecksniff makes
love, Mr Jonas makes wrath,
Mrs gamp makes tea, and Mr
Chuffey makes business
