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Ralph, when he left Henry by the mill-race, repaired
to the stable, obtained his horse, and rode to
town. At Mr. Lorman's, which lay in the route to
his uncle's, Ralph stopped; and if Mr. Lorman's
house had not been in his route, there is very little
doubt that he still would have stopped; though he
reflected, as he fastened his horse in a vacant lot
opposite, that he had visited them every day that
week; and it occurred to him, there was no want of
frequency in his visits. “But,” thought he, “I'll see
little Billy, and tell him when I will take him a fishing,
as I promised him; I wonder what Henry means
by visiting here so often;” and Ralph with compressed
lips crossed the street, rapped at the door,
and was admitted by Mrs. Lorman.

Ralph observed that Mrs. Lorman's manner was
constrained, and that she seemed disposed to answer
only in monosyllables; but knowing what a wayward,
and at times at least, unamiable lady she was,
he did not feel disposed to regard much her inclination
to silence. She was too, he thought, from the
way she spoke to the children, in no ill humour
with any but himself; and he wondered how
to interpret her manner, and why she had received
him on this occasion, for he did not reflect that Ruth

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might be out, as he hardly remembered when, in
calling, he had not found her at home, engaged in
some domestic duty; to relieve his embarrassment
he asked:

“Where is Billy, Mrs. Lorman?”

“Mr. Lorman had some business in the country,
he took Billy with him.”

“And Miss Ruth?” asked Ralph.

“She went with her father. The poor child has
had no exercise whatever lately, and I insisted that
she should ride out with him.”

As our readers have observed, Mrs. Lorman was
kinder to her stepdaughter, after the frequent visits
of Henry Beckford, than we had represented her
previously. Her unkindness to Ruth, arose in a
great measure from Ruth's indifference to fashion
and expense; and from her general appearance,
which Mrs. Lorman was in the habit of pronouncing
“excessively plain and old maidish;” qualities which
the unprejudiced would have been the last to discover
in Ruth Lorman. But when Ruth drew so
strongly the attentions of Henry Beckford, Mrs.
Lorman changed her opinion materially of Ruth's
person and address, and her conduct to her step-daughter
changed with it for the better. Mrs. Lorman
hoped by marrying Ruth to Henry, “to lift her
own head up in the world again”—we use the language
in which she thought—“and through Ruth, to
get her own children well settled in fashionable
life.”

[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]

“When does she return?” inquired Ralph, whose
questions our comments have prevented us from recording
sooner.

“I do not expect her till late this evening, Mr.
Beckford,” replied Mrs. Lorman, making a solemn
inclination of the head.

Here there was a silence of some moments, which
Mrs. Lorman, after sundry uneasy movements, playing
with her handkerchief, adjusting her head dress,
removing and replacing the foot-stool; and after
much hesitancy, interrupted by asking in a way, to
make the impression on the hearer, that there was a
doubt in her own mind of the fact:

“I believe you are a friend to our family, Mr. Beckford—
Mr. Ralph Beckford?”

Ralph started and said, “I have always felt that
I was, and I had always hoped that I should be so
considered.”

“Well, Mr. Beckford,” replied the lady, priming
herself up, and plunging in medios res, “then I will
speak plainly to you—I consider it my duty to my
family—to my children—to Mr. Lorman, whom,
God knows, I do all I can to comfort and support
and advise in his misfortunes; to my stepdaughter,
to Ruth, to speak plainly to you. And as you say
you are a friend of my family—I know you will be
guided in your conduct towards that family by what
they feel to be their interests—interests which cannot
interfere with yours.” With an air of acute sagacity,
Mrs. Lorman continued—“you cannot have

[figure description] Page 079.[end figure description]

failed to observe Ralph, that your cousin Henry,
Mr. Henry Beckford, is seriously pleased with our
Ruth.” Here Ralph sought to interrupt Mrs. Lorman;
but that lady in her most dignified manner
continued—“I beg that I shall not be interrupted,
Mr. Ralph Beckford. As I was saying you cannot
have failed to observe, sir, that your cousin Henry—
the very finest young gentleman I ever knew—handsome,
accomplished, a decided favourite of mine—is
seriously pleased with our Ruth, my daughter Ruth.”
With a nod of the head to one side as if she were
conscious of making a side-bar remark, Mrs. Lorman
continued—“His mother, Henry's mother—Mrs.
Beckford, was here to-day—she called with that
beautiful creature, Miss Helen Murray—they have
a decided liking for Ruth—I regretted very much
that I was so unwell I could not come down, but I
shall certainly call on Mrs. Beckford very soon. But
as I was saying—you certainly, sir, have not failed
to discover that Mr. Henry Beckford is very much
attached to my Ruth—it has been observed, the
neighbours have hinted it to me, and in fact, I have the
best reasons for knowing it. With such a match Ruth
would, of course, be pleased, and you know as we—
myself could have no objection to it, I have do doubt
ere this—excuse me, Mr. Beckford, my daughter's
happiness is involved—her advantageous settlement
in the world—there would have been a complete understanding
between them, but for the great sensibility
of your cousin Henry, who shrinks from the

[figure description] Page 080.[end figure description]

many—excuse me, sir—the many interruptions he
receives from your visits.”

“But suppose, Mrs. Lorman,” said Ralph, with a
lowering brow, “that I should be satisfied that my
cousin's intentions are not half so serious as my own.”

“Your own?” interrupted Mrs. Lorman haughtily,
“you are jesting, sir; you have no means of supporting
my daughter as she should be supported—as
she has always lived, alas! until lately. What profession
have you, Mr. Beckford?—what means of supporting
a wife?—you have nothing independent of
your father—your parental affection—excuse me,
sir—will rejoice to believe, that your father will
live for ever—I believe it—will live for ever—
such people as he never die. And, Mr. Beckford,
if you were to marry a poor girl, like my daughter—
Ruth has not one cent—and she has delicate
health and will require attentive servants. If, I say,
you were to marry a poor girl like my daughter,
your father when he did die, would cut you off
with a shilling. I have often heard him speak of
marrying poor girls; he married one himself; he is
not as romantic as your cousin Henry, who takes
after his father (sons are very apt to take after their
fathers), and he said that if a son of his ever made
such a match, he would cut him off with a shilling;
but you are aware of your father's sentiments; therefore,
it is impossible for Ruth or me, or my family,
to have any idea of you in any other light than a
friend. Ruth's feelings I know are interested by

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your cousin, as indeed, what girl's feelings would
not be. He is every way a most advantageous
match for her; his fortune is in his own right; in a
few months now he will be master of it. He will
make Ruth a good husband; and I feel convinced,
that as a friend to her and her family, you will not
let your visits be so frequent, as at all to interfere
with his.”

Ralph was about making some reply, when his
cousin entered, and he left—they bowed to each
other coldly in passing. Ralph repaired to his
uncle's.

Ruth did not return with her father until long
after nightfall, when she found her mother sitting at
the front window, in high spirits; and the children
playing around her.

“Ruth,” exclaimed her stepmother to her as Ruth
entered the room, “I have been doing my best to
entertain company. If I had been an unmarried
woman, I should certainly have pulled caps with
you—have done my best to cut you out.”

“With whom, mother?” asked Ruth.

“With whom would you think, but Henry Beckford?
we had a delightful tête-à-tête—indeed he is a
most superior young man. Did you ever see such
a difference in your life between two relations as
there is between the cousins? I can hardly believe
they are blood relatives. Ralph has the very look
of his father.”

“O! mother,” interrupted Ruth, “how can you

[figure description] Page 082.[end figure description]

say so? I think Ralph has the finest face I ever
saw, and his heart is as good.”

“Ruth! Ruth!” exclaimed her stepmother, in a
shrill tone, “do not throw me into hysterics by your
perversity—do not destroy all my exertions for you,
and ruin your father and his helpless family. You
had better poison us at once.”

“Mother, do not speak so,” said Ruth, imploringly;
“some one will hear you in the street.”

“Then, child, let me hear no such remarks from
you. Do not embitter every moment of my life. I
have no doubt of Henry Beckford's intentions. Did
not his mother call in the kindest manner her to-day—
when did she call before? Did she not press
us—I overheard her—to call and see her, in a
friendly way, to spend the evening with her? And
did she not bring Miss Murray with her, decidedly
one of the most fashionable ladies in the city—an
acquaintance that you ought to cultivate by all
means. Mrs. Beckford's object in bringing her was
plainly to keep you in society, as she suspects her
son's intentions. Let me hear no more of it, Ruth;
my mind and your father's mind are made up to it,
Ruth. Who do you suppose went to the expense of
buying the piano—after your father had to sell it, in
his necessities—but Henry Beckford! You know
how he likes to hear you play, and how often he
has regretted the absence of the piano.”

“Did he say, mother,” inquired Ruth, “that he
had sent it here?”

[figure description] Page 083.[end figure description]

“Say!” interrupted Mrs. Beckford, “no, he did
not say so, but I saw him glance towards the piano
repeatedly—and he never alluded to it. He is a
gentleman of the greatest sensibility and delicacy.
I would have spoken to him on the subject, but
when I came to reflect how things stood, I thought
it best to impose that pleasing task on you. You
must do it in your prettiest manner, Ruth. It was
a thing of great delicacy in him. The miser's son,—
you surely did not for a moment dream that the
miser's son sent it, did you? Answer me, Ruth.”

“Indeed, mother, I could not tell who sent it,” replied
Ruth.

“Ralph Beckford has not had that much money,
my dear, in the whole course of his life. Money
enough to buy that piano!—his father would have
starved him. That is the reason he quit him, and
and has to live on his uncle's charity. You have
no idea what a wretch his father is—they do say
that he stinted his poor wife of everything to such a
degree—and she was in poor health—that it hastened
her death. I have always heard so, and always
believed it. Ralph has been living upon his
uncle's charity for years. If I were a man I would
scorn such a thing—why don't he do for himself?
God knows his health's strong enough, and he's
stout enough—but he's just content to live on in this
way. I'd see a daughter of mine in her grave before
I would suffer her to throw herself away on
such a creature.”

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