MR. HICHENS.
She turned and walked slowly back to the house. Once within the frontdoor and out of his sight, she was tempted to rush across the hall andup the stairs to her own room. She was indeed gathering up her skirtsfor the run, when in the hall she almost collided with the ReverendMalachi Hichens, who stood there with his nose buried in a vase ofroses, while behind his back his hands interwove themselves and pulledeach at the other's bony knuckles.
"Ah!" He faced about with a stiff bow, and a glance up at the tallclock. "You are late this morning, Miss Josselin. But I dare say mygood brother Silk has been detaining you in talk?"
"On the contrary," answered Ruth, "his talk has rather hastened me thannot."
They entered the library. "Miss Quiney tells me," he said, "that ourstudies are to suffer a brief interruption; that you are about to take acountry holiday. You anticipate it with delight, I doubt not?"
"Have I been, then, so listless a scholar?" she asked, smiling.
"No," he answered. "I have never looked on you as eager for praise, orI should have told you that your progress--in Greek particularly--hasbeen exceptional; for a young lady, I might almost say, abnormal."
"I am grateful to you at any rate for saying it now. It happens thatjust now I wanted something to give me back a little self-respect."
"But I do not suppose you so abnormal as, at your age, to undervalue aholiday," he continued. "It is only we elders who live haunted by thewords 'Work while ye have the light.' If youth extract any moral fromthe brevity of life it is rather the pagan warning, _Collige rosas_."
Her eyes rested on him, still smiling, but behind her smile she waswondering. Did he--this dry, sallow old man, with the knock-knees andungainly frame, the soiled bands, the black suit, threadbare, hideous incut, hideous in itself (Ruth had a child's horror of black)--did hespeak thus out of knowledge, or was he but using phrases of convention?Ruth feared and distrusted all religious folk--clergymen above all; yetinstinct had told her at the first that Mr. Hichens was honest, evengood in an unlovely fashion; and by many small daily tests she hadproved this. Was it possible that Mr. Hichens had ever gathered rosesin his youth? Was it possible that, expecting Heaven and professing aspiritual joy in redemption, a man could symbolise his soul's state bywearing these dingy weeds? Had he no sense of congruity, or was allreligion so false in grain that it perverted not only the believer'sjudgment but his very senses, turning white into black for him, andmaking beauty and ugliness change places?
"For my part," said Mr. Hichens wistfully, "I regret the interruption;for I had even played with the thought of teaching you some Hebrew."He paused and sighed. "But doubtless the Almighty denies us these smallpleasures for our good. . . . Shall we begin with our repetition?I forget the number of the Psalm?"
"The forty-fifth," said Ruth, finding the place and handing him thebook. "_My heart is inditing of a good matter: I speak of the thingswhich I have made unto the king_." . . . She recited the opening linesvery quietly, but her voice lifted at the third verse. Beautiful wordsalways affected her poignantly, but the language of the Bible morepoignantly than any other, because her own unforgettable injury had beenderived from it and sanctioned by it, and because at the base of thingsour enemies in this world are dearer to us than friends. They clingcloser.
Yet,--and paradox though it be--the Bible was the more alive to herbecause, on Mr. Langton's hint, she had taken it like any other book,ignoring the Genevan division of verses and the sophisticated chapterheadings. Thus studied, it had revenged itself by taking possession ofher. It held all the fascination of the East, and little by littleunlocked it--Abraham at his tent door, Rebekah by the fountain, her ownnamesake Ruth in the dim threshing-floor of Boaz, King Saul wrestlingwith his dark hour, the last loathly years of David, Jezebel at thewindow, Job on his dung-heap, Athaliah murdering the seed royal, andagain Athaliah dragged forth by the stable-way and calling _Treason!Treason!_ . . . Bedouins with strings of camels, scent of camels by thecity gate, clashing of distant cymbals, hush of fear--plot andcounterplot in the apartments of the women--outcries, lusts, hates--blood on the temple steps--blood oozing, welling across the gold--bloodcaking in spots upon illimitable desert sands--watchmen by the wall--inthe dark streets a woman with bleeding back and feet seeking andcalling, "_I charge you, O daughters of Jerusalem, if ye find mybeloved_--"
"_Hearken, O daughter, and consider, incline thine ear_"--Ruth's voiceswelled up on a full note: "_forget also thine own people and thyfather's house._"
"_So shall the King have pleasure in thy beauty: for he is thy lord, andworship thou him_."
"Excuse me--'for he is thy Lord God,'" corrected Mr. Hichens. . . ."We are taking the Prayer Book's version."
"I changed to the Bible version on purpose," Ruth confessed;"and 'lord' ought to have a small 'l'. The Prayer Book makes nonsenseof it. They are bringing in the bride, the princess, to her lord._She is all glorious within, her clothing is of wrought gold. She shallbe brought unto the King in raiment of needlework: the virgins that beher fellows shall bear her company_--"
"The Hebrew," said Mr. Hichens, blinking over his own text which he hadhastily consulted, "would seem to bear you out, or at least to leave thequestion open. But, after all, it matters little, since, as the chapterheading explains in the Authorized Version, the supposed bride is theChurch, and the bridegroom, therefore, necessarily Our Lord."
"Do you think that, or anything like that, was in the mind of the manwho wrote it?" asked Ruth, rebellious. "The title says, 'To the ChiefMusician upon Shoshannim'--whatever that may mean."
"It means that it was to be sung to a tune called Shoshannim or Lilies--doubtless a well-known one."
"It has a beautiful name, then; and he calls it too 'Maschil, A song ofLoves.'"
"Historically no doubt you are right," agreed Mr. Hichens. "The song isundoubtedly later than David, and was written as a Prothalamion for aroyal bride. It is, as you say, exceedingly beautiful; but perhaps wehad best confine our attention to its allegorical side. You probably donot guess who the bride was?"
"No," Ruth admitted. "Who was she?"
"It is generally admitted, I believe, to have been written as a bridalhymn for Queen Jezebel."
"O--oh!" Ruth bit her lip, but had to laugh in spite of herself.