until she is sufficiently recovered to be restored to her friends, if, indeed, they could not come to take charge of her themselves.–I remain, madam, your obedient servant THURSTAN BENSON.”
The note was very unsatisfactory after all his consideration, but it was the best he could do. He made inquiry of a passing servant as to the lady’s name, directed the note, and placed it on the indicated shelf. He then returned to his lodgings, to await the doctor’s coming and the postboy’s return. There was no alteration in Ruth; she was as one stunned into unconsciousness; she did not move her posture, she hardly breathed. From time to time Mrs. Hughes wetted her mouth with some liquid, and there was a little mechanical motion of the lips; that was the only sign of life she gave. The doctor came and shook his head,–“a thorough prostration of strength, occasioned by some great shock on the nerves,”–and prescribed care and quiet, and mysterious medicines, but acknowledged that the result was doubtful, very doubtful. After his departure, Mr. Benson took his Welsh grammar and tried again to master the ever-puzzling rules for the mutations of letters; but it was of no use, for his thoughts were absorbed by the life-in-death condition of the young creature, who was lately bounding and joyous.
The maid and the luggage, the car and the driver; bad arrived before noon at their journey’s end, and the note had been delivered. It annoyed Mrs. Bellingham exceedingly. It was the worst of these kind of connections,–there was no calculating the consequences; they were never-ending. All sorts of claims seemed to be established, and all sorts of people to step in to their settlement. The idea of sending her maid! Why, Simpson would not go if she asked her. She soliloquised thus while reading the letter; and then, suddenly turning round to the favourite attendant, who had been listening to her mistress’s remarks with no inattentive ear, she asked–
“Simpson, would you go and nurse this creature, as this—-” she looked at the signature–“Mr. Benson, who ever he is, proposes?”
“Me! no, indeed, ma’am,” said the maid, drawing herself up, stiff in her virtue.
“I’m sure, ma’am, you: would not expect it of me; I could never have the face to dress a lady of character again.”
“Well, well! don’t be alarmed; I cannot spare you: by the way, just attend to the strings on my dress; the chambermaid here pulled them into knots, and broke them terribly, last night. It is awkward, though, very,” said she, relapsing into a musing fit over the condition of Ruth.
“If you’ll allow me, ma’am, I think I might say some thing that would alter the case. I believe, ma’am, you put a bank-note into the letter to the young woman yesterday?”
Mrs. Bellingham bowed acquiescence, and the maid went on–
“Because, ma’am, when the little deformed man wrote that note (he’s Mr. Benson, ma’am), I have reason to believe neither he nor Mrs. Morgan knew of any provision being made for the young woman. Me and the chambermaid found your letter and the bank-note lying quite promiscuous, like waste paper, on the floor of her room; for I believe she rushed out like mad after you left.”
“That, as you say, alters the case. This letter, then, is principally a sort of delicate hint that some provision ought to have been made; which is true enough, only it has been attended to already. What became of the money?”
“Law, ma’am! do you ask? Of course, as soon as I saw it, I picked it up and took it to Mrs. Morgan, in trust for the young person.”
“Oh, that’s right. What friends has she? Did you ever hear from Mason?–perhaps they ought to know where she is.”
“Mrs. Mason did tell me, ma’am, she was an orphan; with a guardian who was noways akin, and who washed his hands of her when she ran off. But Mrs. Mason was sadly put out, and went into hysterics, for fear you would think she had not seen after her enough, and that she might lose your custom; she said it was no fault of hers, for the girl was always a forward creature, boasting of her beauty, and saying how pretty she was, and striving to get where her good looks could be seen and admired,–one night in particular, ma’am, at a county ball; and how Mrs. Mason had found out she used to meet Mr. Bellingham at an old woman’s house, who was a regular old witch, ma’am, and lives in the lowest part of the town, where all the bad characters haunt.”
“There! that’s enough,” said Mrs. Bellingham sharply, for the maid’s chattering had outrun her tact; and in her anxiety to vindicate the character of her friend Mrs. Mason by blackening that of Ruth, she had forgotten that she a little implicated her mistress’s son, whom his proud mother did not like to imagine as ever passing through a low and degraded part of the town.
“If she has no friends, and is the creature you describe (which is confirmed by my own observation), the best place for her is, as I said before, the Penitentiary. Her fifty pounds will keep her a week or so, if she is really unable to travel, and pay for her journey; and if on her return to Fordham she will let me know, I will undertake to obtain her admission immediately.”
“I’m sure it’s well for her she has to do with a lady who will take any interest in her, after what has happened.”
Mrs. Bellingham called for her writing-desk, and wrote a few hasty lines to be sent by the post-boy, who was on the point of starting–
“Mrs. Bellingham presents her compliments to her unknown correspondent, Mr. Benson, and begs to inform him of a circumstance of which she believes he was ignorant when he wrote the letter with which she has been favoured; namely, that provision to the amount of L 50 was left for the unfortunate young person who is the subject of Mr. Benson’s letter. This sum is in the hands of Mrs. Morgan, as well as a note from Mrs. Bellingham to the miserable girl, in which she proposes to procure her admission into the Fordham Penitentiary, the best place for such a character, as by this profligate action she has forfeited the only friend remaining to her in the world. This proposition Mrs. Bellingham repeats; and they are the young woman’s best friends who most urge her to comply with the course now pointed out.”
“Take care Mr. Bellingham hears nothing of this Mr. Benson’s note,” said Mrs. Bellingham, as she delivered the answer to her maid; “he is so sensitive just now that it would annoy him sadly, I am sure.”
CHAPTER XI
THURSTAN AND FAITH BENSON
You have now seen the note which was delivered into Mr. Benson’s hands, as the cool shades of evening stole over the glowing summer sky. When he had read it, he again prepared to write a few hasty lines before the post went out. The post-boy was even now sounding his horn through the village as a signal for letters to be ready; and it was well that Mr. Benson, in his long morning’s meditation, had decided upon the course to be pursued, in case of such an answer as that which he had received from Mrs. Bellingham. His present note was as follows;–
“DEAR FAITH,–You must come to this place directly, where I earnestly desire you and your advice. I am well myself, so do not be alarmed. I have no time for explanation, but I am sure you will not refuse me; let me trust that I shall see you on Saturday at the latest. You know the mode by which I came; it is the best both for expedition and cheapness. Dear Faith, do not fail me.–
“Your affectionate brother. THURSTAN BENSON.
“P.S.–I am afraid the money I left may be running short. Do not let this stop you. Take my Facciolati to Johnson’s, he will advance upon it; it is the third row, bottom shelf. Only come.”
When this letter was despatched he had done all he could; and the next two days passed like a long monotonous dream of watching, thought, and care, undisturbed by any event, hardly by the change from day to night, which, now the harvest moon was at her full, was scarcely perceptible. On Saturday morning the answer came–
“DEAREST THURSTAN,–Your incomprehensible summons has just reached me, and I obey, thereby proving my right to my name of Faith. I shall be with you almost as soon as this letter. I cannot help feeling anxious, as well as curious. I have money enough, and it is well I have; for Sally, who guards your room like a dragon, would rather see me walk the whole way, than have any of your things disturbed.–Your affectionate sister,”
It was a great relief to Mr. Benson to think that his sister would so soon be with him. He had been accustomed from childhood to rely on her prompt judgment and excellent sense; and to her care he felt that Ruth ought to be consigned, as it was too much to go on taxing good Mrs. Hughes with night watching and sick nursing, with all her other claims on her time. He asked her once more to sit by Ruth, while he went to meet his sister.
The coach passed by the foot of the steep ascent which led up to Llan-dhu. He took a boy to carry his sister’s luggage when they arrived; they were too soon at the bottom of the hill; and the boy began to make ducks and drakes in the shallowest part of the stream, which there flowed glassy and smooth, while Mr. Benson sat down on a great stone, under the shadow of an alderbush which grew where the green flat meadow skirted the water. It was delightful to be once more in the open air, and away from the scenes and thoughts which had been pressing on him for the last three days. There was a new beauty in everything from the blue mountains which glimmered in the distant sunlight, down to the flat, rich, peaceful vale, with its calm round shadows, where he sat. The very margin of white pebbles which lay on the banks of the stream had a sort of cleanly beauty about it. He felt calmer and more at ease than he had done for some days; and yet, when he began to think, it was rather a strange story which he had to tell his sister, in order to account for his urgent summons. Here was he, sole friend and guardian of a poor sick girl, whose very name he did not know; about whom all that he did know was, that she had been the mistress of a man who had deserted her, and that he feared–he believed–she had contemplated suicide. The offence, too, was one for which his sister, good and kind as she was, had little compassion. Well, he must appeal to her love for him, which was a very unsatisfactory mode of proceeding, as he would far rather have had her interest in the girl founded on reason, or some less personal basis, than showing it merely because her brother wished it.
The coach came slowly rumbling over the stony road. His sister was outside, but got down in a brisk active way, and greeted her brother heartily and affectionately. She was considerably taller than he was, and must have been very handsome; her black hair was parted plainly over her forehead, and her dark expressive eyes and straight nose still retained the beauty of her youth. I do not know whether she was older than her brother; but, probably owing to his infirmity requiring her care, she had something of a mother’s manner towards him.
“Thurstan, you are looking pale! I do not believe you are well, whatever you may say. Have you had the old pain in your back?”
“No–a little–never mind that, dearest Faith. Sit down here, while I send the boy up with your box.” And then, with some little desire to show his sister how well he was acquainted with the language, he blundered out his directions in very grammatical Welsh; so grammatical, in fact, and so badly pronounced, that the boy, scratching his head, made answer–
“Dim Saesoneg.”
So he had to repeat it in English.
“Well, now, Thurstan, here I sit as you bid me. But don’t try me too long; tell me why you sent for me.”
Now came the difficulty, and oh! for a seraph’s tongue, and a seraph’s powers of representation! But there was no seraph at hand, only the soft running waters singing a quiet tune, and predisposing Miss Benson to listen with a soothed spirit to any tale, not immediately involving her brother’s welfare, which had been the cause of her seeing that lovely vale.
“It is an awkward story to tell, Faith, but there is a young woman lying ill at my lodgings whom I wanted you to nurse.”
He thought he saw a shadow on his sister’s face, and detected a slight change in her voice as she spoke.
“Nothing very romantic, I hope, Thurstan. Remember, I cannot stand much romance; I always distrust it.”
“I don’t know what you mean by romance. The story is real enough, and not out of the common way, I’m afraid.”
He paused; he did not get over the difficulty.
“Well, tell it me at once, Thurstan. I am afraid you have let some one, or perhaps only your own imagination, impose upon you; but don’t try my patience too much; you know I’ve no great stock.”
“Then I’ll tell you. The young girl was brought to the inn here by a gentleman, who has left her; she is very ill, and has no one to see after her.”
Miss Benson had some masculine tricks, and one was whistling a long, low whistle when surprised or displeased. She had often found it a useful vent for feelings, and she whistled now. Her brother would rather she had spoken.
“Have you sent for her friends?” she asked, at last.
“She has none.”
Another pause and another whistle, but rather softer and more wavering than the last.
“How is she ill?”
“Pretty nearly as quiet as if she were dead. She does not speak, or move, or even sigh.”
“It would be better for her to die at once, I think.”
“Faith!”
That one word put them right. It was spoken in the tone which had authority over her; it was so full of grieved surprise and mournful upbraiding. She was accustomed to exercise a sway over him, owing to her greater decision of character, and, probably, if everything were traced to its cause, to her superior vigour of constitution; but at times she was humbled before his pure, childlike nature, and felt where she was inferior. She was too good and true to conceal this feeling, or to resent its being forced upon her. After a time she said–
“Thurstan dear, let us go to her.”
She helped him with tender care, and gave him her arm up the long and tedious hill; but when they approached the village, without speaking a word on the subject, they changed their position, and she leant (apparently) on him. He stretched himself up into as vigorous a gait as he could, when they drew near to the abodes of men.
On the way they had spoken but little. He had asked after various members of his congregation, for he was a Dissenting minister in a country town, and she had answered; but they neither of them spoke of Ruth, though their minds were full of her.
Mrs. Hughes had tea ready for the traveller on her arrival. Mr. Benson chafed a little internally at the leisurely way in which his sister sipped and sipped, and paused to tell him some trifling particular respecting home affairs, which she had forgotten before.
“Mr. Bradshaw has refused to let the children associate with the Dixons any longer, because one evening they played at acting charades.”
“Indeed! A little more bread and butter, Faith?”
“Thank you; this Welsh air does make one hungry. Mrs. Bradshaw is paying poor old Maggie’s rent, to save her from being sent into the workhouse.
“That’s right. Won’t you have another cup of tea?”
“I have had two. However, I think I’ll take another.”
Mr. Benson could not refrain from a little sigh as he poured it out. He thought he had never seen his sister so deliberately hungry and thirsty before. He did not guess that she was feeling the meal rather a respite from a distasteful interview, which she was aware was awaiting her at its conclusion. But all things come to an end, and so did Miss Benson’s tea.
“Now, will you go and see her?”
“Yes.”
And so they went. Mrs. Hughes had pinned up a piece of green calico, by way of a Venetian blind, to shut out the afternoon sun; and in the light thus shaded lay Ruth–still, and wan, and white. Even with her brother’s account of Ruth’s state, such death-like quietness startled Miss Benson–startled her into pity for the poor lovely creature who lay thus stricken and felled. When she saw her, she could no longer imagine her to be an impostor, or a hardened sinner; such prostration of woe belonged to neither. Mr. Benson looked more at his sister’s face than at Ruth’s; he read her countenance as a book.
Mrs. Hughes stood by, crying.
Mr. Benson touched his sister, and they left the room together.
“Do you think she will live?” asked he.
“I cannot tell,” said Miss Benson, in a softened voice. “But how young she looks! quite a child, poor creature! When will the doctor come, Thurstan? Tell me all about her; you have never told me the particulars.”
Mr. Benson might have said she had never cared to hear them before, and had rather avoided the subject; but he was too happy to see this awakening of interest in his sister’s warm heart to say anything in the least reproachful. He told her the story as well as he could, and, as he felt it deeply, he told it with heart’s eloquence; and as he ended, and looked at her, there were tears in the eyes of both.
“And what does the doctor say?” asked she, after a pause.
“He insists upon quiet; he orders medicines and strong broth. I cannot tell you all; Mrs. Hughes can. She has been so truly good. ‘Doing good, hoping for nothing again.'”
“She looks very sweet and gentle. I shall sit up to night, and watch her myself; and I shall send you and Mrs. Hughes early to bed, for you have both a worn look about you I don’t like. Are you sure the effect of that fall has gone off? Do you feel anything of it in your back still? After all, I owe her something for turning back to your help. Are you sure she was going to drown herself?”
“I cannot be sure, for I have not questioned her. She has not been in a state to be questioned; but I have no doubt whatever about it. But you must not think of sitting up after your journey, Faith.”
“Answer me, Thurstan. Do you feel any bad effect from that fall?”
“No, hardly any. Don’t sit up, Faith, to-night!”
“Thurstan, it’s no use talking, for I shall; and, if you go on opposing me, I dare say I shall attack your back, and, put a blister on it. Do tell me what that ‘hardly any’ means. Besides, to set you quite at ease, you know I have never seen mountains before, and they fill me and oppress me so much that I could not sleep; I must keep awake this first night, and see that they don’t fall on the earth and overwhelm it. And now answer my questions about yourself.”
Miss Benson had the power, which some people have, of carrying her wishes through to their fulfilment; her will was strong, her sense was excellent, and people yielded to her–they did not know why. Before ten o’clock she reigned sole power and potentate in Ruth’s little chamber. Nothing could have been better devised for giving her an interest in the invalid. The very dependence of one so helpless upon her care inclined her heart towards her. She thought she perceived a slight improvement in the symptoms during the night, and she was a little pleased that this progress should have been made while she reigned monarch of the sick-room. Yes, certainly there was an improvement. There was more consciousness in the look of the eyes, although the whole countenance still retained its painful traces of acute suffering, manifested in an anxious, startled uneasy aspect. It was broad morning light, though barely five o’clock, when Miss Benson caught the sight of Ruth’s lips moving, as if in speech. Miss Benson stooped down to listen.
“Who are you?” asked Ruth, in the faintest of whispers.
“Miss Benson–Mr. Benson’s sister,” she replied.
The words conveyed no knowledge to Ruth; on the contrary, weak as a babe in mind and body as she was, her lips began to quiver, and her eyes to show a terror similar to that of any little child who wakens in the presence of a stranger, and sees no dear, familiar face of mother or nurse to reassure its trembling heart.
Miss Benson took her hand in hers, and began to stroke it caressingly.
“Don’t be afraid, dear; I’m a friend come to take care of you. Would you like some tea now, my love ?”
The very utterance of these gentle words was unlocking Miss Benson’s heart. Her brother was surprised to see her so full of interest when he came to inquire later on in the morning. It required Mrs. Hughes’s persuasions, as well as his own, to induce her to go to bed for an hour or two after breakfast; and, before she went, she made them promise that she should be called when the doctor came. He did not come until late in the afternoon. The invalid was rallying fast, though rallying to a consciousness of sorrow, as was evinced by the tears which came slowly rolling down her pale sad cheeks–tears which she had not the power to wipe away.
Mr. Benson had remained in the house all day to hear the doctor’s opinion; and, now that he was relieved from the charge of Ruth by his sister’s presence, he had the more time to dwell upon the circumstances of her case–so far as they were known to him. He remembered his first sight of her; her lithe figure swaying to and fro as she balanced herself on the slippery stones, half smiling at her own dilemma, with a bright, happy light in the eyes, that seemed like a reflection from the glancing waters sparkling below. Then he recalled the changed, affrighted look of those eyes as they met his, after the child’s rebuff of her advances; how that little incident filled up the tale at which Mrs. Hughes had hinted, in a kind of sorrowful way, as if loath (as a Christian should be) to believe evil. Then that fearful evening, when he had only just saved her from committing suicide, and that nightmare sleep! And now–lost, forsaken, and but just delivered from the jaws of death, she lay dependent for everything on his sister and him–utter strangers a few weeks ago. Where was her lover? Could he be easy and happy? Could he grow into perfect health, with these great sins pressing on his conscience with a strong and hard pain? Or had he a conscience?
Into whole labyrinths of social ethics Mr. Benson’s thoughts wandered, when his sister entered suddenly and abruptly.
“What does the doctor say? Is she better?”
“Oh, yes! she’s better,” answered Miss Benson, sharp and short. Her brother looked at her in dismay. She bumped down into a chair in a cross, disconcerted manner. They were both silent for a few minutes, only Miss Benson whistled and clucked alternately.
“What is the matter, Faith? You say she is better.”
“Why, Thurstan, there is something so shocking the matter, that I cannot tell you.”
Mr. Benson changed colour with affright. All things possible and impossible crossed his mind but the right one. I said, “all things possible”; I made a mistake. He never believed Ruth to be more guilty than she seemed.
“Faith, I wish you would tell me, and not bewilder me with those noises of yours,” said he nervously.
“I beg your pardon; but something so shocking has just been discovered–I don’t know how to word it–she will have a child. The doctor says so.” She was allowed to make noises unnoticed for a few minutes. Her brother did not speak. At last she wanted his sympathy.
“Isn’t it shocking, Thurstan? You might have knocked me down with a straw when he told me.”
“Does she know?”
“Yes; and I am not sure that that isn’t the worst part of all.”
“How?–what do you mean?”
“Oh, I was just beginning to have a good opinion of her; but I’m afraid she is very depraved. After the doctor was gone, she pulled the bed-curtain aside, and looked as if she wanted to speak to me. (I can’t think how she heard, for we were close to the window, and spoke very low.) Well, I went to her, though I really had taken quite a turn against her. And she whispered, quite eagerly, ‘Did he say I should have a baby?’ Of course I could not keep it from her; but I thought it my duty to look as cold and severe as I could. She did not seem to understand how it ought to be viewed, but took it just as if she had a right to have a baby. She said, ‘Oh, my God, I thank Thee! Oh, I will be so good!’ I had no patience with her then, so I left the room.”
“Who is with her?”
“Mrs. Hughes. She is not seeing the thing in a moral light, as I should have expected.”
Mr. Benson was silent again. After some time he began–
“Faith, I don’t see this affair quite as you do. I believe I am right.”
“You surprise me, brother! I don’t understand you.”
“Wait awhile! I want to make my feelings very clear to you, but I don’t know where to begin, or how to express myself.”
“It is, indeed, an extraordinary subject for us to have to talk about; but, if once I get clear of this girl, I’ll wash my hands of all such cases again.” Her brother was not attending to her; he was reducing his own ideas to form. “Faith, do you know I rejoice in this child’s advent?”
“May God forgive you, Thurstan!–if you know what you are saying. But, surely, it is a temptation, dear Thurstan.”
“I do not think it is a delusion. The sin appears to me to be quite distinct from its consequences.”
“Sophistry–and a temptation,” said Miss Benson decidedly.
“No, it is not,” said her brother, with equal decision. “In the eye of God, she is exactly the same as if the life she has led had left no trace behind. We knew her errors before, Faith.”
“Yes, but not this disgrace–this badge of her shame!”
“Faith, Faith! let me beg of you not to speak so of the little innocent babe, who may be God’s messenger to lead her back to Him. Think again of her first words–the burst of nature from her heart! Did she not turn to God, and enter into a covenant with Him–‘I will be so good’? Why, it draws her out of herself! If her life has hitherto been self-seeking and wickedly thoughtless, here is the very instrument to make her forget herself, and be thoughtful for another. Teach her (and God will teach her, if man does not come between) to reverence her child; and this reverence will shut out sin,–will be purification.”
He was very much excited; he was even surprised at his own excitement; but his thoughts and meditations through the long afternoon had prepared his mind for this manner of viewing the subject.
“These are quite new ideas to me,” said Miss Benson coldly. “I think you, Thurstan, are the first person I ever heard rejoicing over the birth of an illegitimate child. It appears to me, I must own, rather questionable morality.”
“I do not rejoice. I have been all this afternoon mourning over the sin which has blighted this young creature; I have been dreading lest, as she recovered consciousness, there should be a return of her despair. I have been thinking of every holy word, every promise to the penitent–of the tenderness which led the Magdalen aright. I have been feeling, severely and reproachfully, the timidity which has hitherto made me blink all encounter with evils of this particular kind. O Faith! once for all, do not accuse me of questionable morality, when I am trying more than ever I did in my life to act as my blessed Lord would have done.”
He was very much agitated. His sister hesitated, and then she spoke more softly than before–
“But, Thurstan, everything might have been done to ‘lead her right’ (as you call it), without this child, this miserable offspring of sin.”
“The world has, indeed, made such children miserable, innocent as they are; but I doubt if this be according to the will of God, unless it be His punishment for the parents’ guilt; and even then the world’s way of treatment is too apt to harden the mother’s natural love into something like hatred. Shame, and the terror of friends’ displeasure, turn her mad–defile her holiest instincts; and, as for the fathers–God forgive them! I cannot–at least, not just now.” Miss Benson thought on what her brother said. At length she asked, “Thurstan (remember I’m not convinced), how would you have this girl treated according to your theory?”
“It will require some time, and much Christian love, to find out the best way. I know I’m not very wise; but the way I think it would be right to act in, would be this—-” He thought for some time before he spoke, and then said–
“She has incurred a responsibility–that we both acknowledge. She is about to become a mother, and have the direction and guidance of a little tender life. I fancy such a responsibility must be serious and solemn enough, without making it into a heavy and oppressive burden, so that human nature recoils from bearing it. While we do all we can to strengthen her sense of responsibility, I would likewise do all we can to make her feel that it is responsibility for what may become a blessing.”
“Whether the children are legitimate or illegitimate?” asked Miss Benson dryly.
“Yes!” said her brother firmly. “The more I think, the more I believe I am right. No one,” said he, blushing faintly as he spoke, “can have a greater recoil from profligacy than I have. You yourself have not greater sorrow over this young creature’s sin than I have; the difference is this, you confuse the consequences with the sin.”
“I don’t understand metaphysics.”
“I am not aware that I am talking metaphysics. I can imagine that if the present occasion be taken rightly, and used well, all that is good in her may be raised to a height unmeasured but by God; while all that is evil and dark may, by His blessing, fade and disappear in the pure light of her child’s presence.–Oh, Father! listen to my prayer, that her redemption may date from this time. Help us to speak to her in the loving spirit of thy Holy Son!”
The tears were full in his eyes; he almost trembled in his earnestness. He was faint with the strong power of his own conviction, and with his inability to move his sister. But she was shaken. She sat very still for a quarter of an hour or more while he leaned back, exhausted by his own feelings.
“The poor child!” said she at length–“the poor, poor child! what it will have to struggle through and endure! Do you remember Thomas Wilkins, and the way he threw the registry of his birth and baptism back in your face? Why, he would not have the situation; he went to sea, and was drowned, rather than present the record of his shame.”
“I do remember it all. It has often haunted me. She must strengthen her child to look to God, rather than to man’s opinion. It will be the discipline, the penance, she has incurred. She must teach it to be (humanly speaking) self-dependent.”
“But after all,” said Miss Benson (for she had known and esteemed poor Thomas Wilkins, and had mourned over his untimely death, and the recollection thereof softened her)–“after all, it might be concealed. The very child need never know its illegitimacy.”
“How?” asked her brother.
“Why–we know so little about her yet; but in that letter, it said she had no friends;–now, could she not go into quite a fresh place, and be passed off as a widow?”
Ah, tempter! unconscious tempter! Here was a way of evading the trials for the poor little unborn child, of which Mr. Benson had never thought. It was the decision–the pivot, on which the fate of years moved; and he turned it the wrong way. But it was not for his own sake. For himself, he was brave enough to tell the truth; for the little helpless baby, about to enter a cruel, biting world, he was tempted to evade the difficulty. He forgot what he had just said, of the discipline and the penance to the mother consisting in strengthening her child to meet, trustfully and bravely, the consequences of her own weakness. He remembered more clearly the wild fierceness, the Cain-like look, of Thomas Wilkins, as the obnoxious word in the baptismal registry told him that he must go forth branded into the world, with his hand against every man’s, and every man’s against him.
“How could it be managed, Faith?”
“Nay, I must know much more, which she alone can tell us, before I can see how it is to be managed. It is certainly the best plan.”
“Perhaps it is,” said her brother thoughtfully, but no longer clearly or decidedly; and so the conversation dropped.
Ruth moved the bed-curtain aside, in her soft manner, when Miss Benson re-entered the room; she did not speak, but she looked at her as if she wished her to come near. Miss Benson went and stood by her. Ruth took her hand in hers and kissed it; as if fatigued even by this slight movement, she fell asleep. Miss Benson took up her work, and thought over her brother’s speeches. She was not convinced, but she was softened and bewildered.
CHAPTER XII
LOSING SIGHT OF THE WELSH MOUNTAINS
Miss Benson continued in an undecided state of mind for the two next days; but on the third, as they sat at breakfast, she began to speak to her brother.
“That young creature’s name is Ruth Hilton.”
“Indeed! how did you find it out?”
“From herself, of course. She is much stronger. I slept with her last night, and I was aware she was awake long before I liked to speak, but at last I began. I don’t know what I said, or how it went on, but I think it was a little relief to her to tell me something about herself. She sobbed and cried herself to sleep; I think she is asleep now.
“Tell me what she said about herself.”
“Oh, it was really very little; it was evidently a most painful subject. She is an orphan, without brother or sister, and with a guardian, whom, I think she said, she never saw but once. He apprenticed her (after her father’s death) to a dressmaker. This Mr. Bellingham got acquainted with her, and they used to meet on Sunday afternoons. One day they were late, lingering on the road, when the dressmaker came up by accident. She seems to have been very angry, and not unnaturally so. The girl took fright at her threats, and the lover persuaded her to go off with him to London, there and then. Last May, I think it was. That’s all.”
“Did she express any sorrow for her error?”
“No, not in words; but her voice was broken with sobs, though she tried to make it steady. After a while she began to talk about her baby, but shyly, and with much hesitation. She asked me how much I thought she could earn as a dressmaker, by working very, very hard; and that brought us round to her child. I thought of what you had said, Thurstan, and I tried to speak to her as you wished me. I am not sure if it was right; I am doubtful in my own mind still.”
“Don’t be doubtful, Faith! Dear Faith, I thank you for your kindness.”
“There is really nothing to thank me for. It is almost impossible to help being kind to her; there is something so meek and gentle about her, so patient, and so grateful!”
“What does she think of doing?”
“Poor child! she thinks of taking lodgings–very cheap ones, she says; there she means to work night and day to earn enough for her child. For she said to me; with such pretty earnestness, ‘It must never know want, whatever I do. I have deserved suffering, but it will be such a little innocent darling!’ Her utmost earnings would not be more than seven or eight shillings a week, I’m afraid; and then she is so young and so pretty!”
“There is that fifty pounds Mrs. Morgan brought me, and those two letters. Does she know about them yet?”
“No; I did not like to tell her till she is a little stronger. Oh, Thurstan! I wish there was not this prospect of a child. I cannot help it. I do–I could see a way in which we might help her, if it were not for that.”
“How do you mean?”
“Oh, it’s no use thinking of it, as it is! Or else we might have taken her home with us, and kept her till she had got a little dressmaking in the congregation, but for this meddlesome child; that spoils everything. You must let me grumble to you, Thurstan. I was very good to her, and spoke as tenderly and respectfully of the little thing as if it were the Queen’s, and born in lawful matrimony.”
“That’s right, my dear Faith! Grumble away to me, if you like. I’ll forgive you, for the kind thought of taking her home with us. But do you think her situation is an insuperable objection?”
“Why, Thurstan!–it’s so insuperable, it puts it quite out of the question.”
“How?–that’s only repeating your objection. Why is it out of the question?”
“If there had been no child coming, we might have called her by her right name–Miss Hilton; that’s one thing. Then, another is, the baby in our house. Why, Sally would go distraught!”
“Never mind Sally. If she were an orphan relation of our own, left widowed,” said he, pausing as if in doubt. “You yourself suggested she should be considered as a widow, for the child’s sake. I’m only taking up your ideas, dear Faith. I respect you for thinking of taking her home; it is just what we ought to do. Thank you for reminding me of my duty.”
“Nay, it was only a passing thought. Think of Mr. Bradshaw. Oh! I tremble at the thought of his grim displeasure.”
“We must think of a higher than Mr. Bradshaw. I own I should be a very coward if he knew. He is so severe, so inflexible. But after all he sees so little of us; he never comes to tea, you know, but is always engaged when Mrs. Bradshaw comes. I don’t think he knows of what our household consists.”
“Not know Sally? Oh yes, but he does. He asked Mrs. Bradshaw one day if she knew what wages we gave her, and said we might get a far more efficient and younger servant for the money. And, speaking about money, think what our expenses would be if we took her home for the next six months.”
That consideration was a puzzling one; and both sat silent and perplexed for a time. Miss Benson was as sorrowful as her brother, for she was becoming as anxious as he was to find it possible that her plan could be carried out.
“There’s the fifty pounds,” said he, with a sigh of reluctance at the idea.
“Yes, there’s the fifty pounds,” echoed his sister, with the same sadness in her tone. “I suppose it is hers.”
“I suppose it is; and, being so, we must not think who gave it to her. It will defray her expenses. I am very sorry, but I think we must take it.”
“It would never do to apply to him under the present circumstances,” said Miss Benson, in a hesitating manner.
“No, that we won’t,” said her brother decisively. “If she consents to let us take care of her, we will never let her stoop to request anything from him, even for his child. She can live on bread and water–we can all live on bread and water–rather than that.”
“Then I will speak to her and propose the plan. Oh, Thurstan! from a child you could persuade me to anything! I hope I am doing right. However much I oppose you at first, I am sure to yield soon; almost in proportion to my violence at first. I think I am very weak.”
“No, not in this instance. We are both right: I, in the way in which the child ought to be viewed; you, dear good Faith, for thinking of taking her home with us. God bless you, dear, for it!”
When Ruth began to sit up (and the strange, new, delicious prospect of becoming a mother seemed to give her some mysterious source of strength, so that her recovery was rapid and swift from that time), Miss Benson brought her the letters and the bank-note.
“Do you recollect receiving this letter, Ruth?” asked she, with grave gentleness. Ruth changed colour, and took it and read it again without making any reply to Miss Benson. Then she sighed, and thought a while; and then took up and read the second note–the note which Mrs. Bellingham had sent to Mr. Benson in answer to his. After that she took up the bank-note and turned it round and round, but not as if she saw it. Miss Benson noticed that her fingers trembled sadly, and that her lips were quivering for some time before she spoke.
“If you please, Miss Benson, I should like to return this money.”
“Why, my dear?”
“I have a strong feeling against taking it. While he,” said she, deeply blushing, and letting her large white lids drop down and veil her eyes, “loved me, he gave me many things–my watch–oh, many things; and I took them from him gladly and thankfully, because he loved me–for I would have given him anything–and I thought of them as signs of love. But this money pains my heart. He has left off loving me, and has gone away. This money seems–oh, Miss Benson–it seems as if he could comfort me, for being forsaken, by money.” And at that word the tears, so long kept back and repressed, forced their way like rain.
She checked herself, however, in the violence of her emotion, for she thought of her child.
“So, will you take the trouble of sending it back to Mrs. Bellingham?”
“That I will, my dear. I am glad of it, that I am! They don’t deserve to have the power of giving: they don’t deserve that you should take it.” Miss Benson went and enclosed it up there and then; simply writing these words in the envelope, “From Ruth Hilton.”
“And now we wash our hands of these Bellinghams,” said she triumphantly. But Ruth looked tearful and sad; not about returning the note, but from the conviction that the reason she had given for the ground of her determination was true–he no longer loved her.
To cheer her, Miss Benson began to speak of the future. Miss Benson was one of those people who, the more she spoke of a plan in its details, and the more she realised it in her own mind, the more firmly she became a partisan of the project. Thus she grew warm and happy in the idea of taking Ruth home; but Ruth remained depressed and languid under the conviction that he no longer loved her. No home, no future, but the thought of her child, could wean her from this sorrow. Miss Benson was a little piqued; and this pique showed itself afterwards in talking to her brother of the morning’s proceedings in the sick chamber.
“I admired her at the time for sending away her fifty pounds so proudly; but I think she has a cold heart: she hardly thanked me at all for my proposal of taking her home with us.”
“Her thoughts are full of other things just now; and people have such different ways of showing feeling: some by silence, some by words. At any rate, it is unwise to expect gratitude.”
“What do you expect–not indifference or ingratitude?”
“It is better not to expect or calculate consequences. The longer I live, the more fully I see that. Let us try simply to do right actions, without thinking of the feelings they are to call out in others. We know that no holy or self-denying effort can fall to the ground vain and useless; but the sweep of eternity is large, and God alone knows when the effect is to be produced. We are trying to do right now, and to feel right; don’t let us perplex ourselves with endeavouring to map out how she should feel, or how she should show her feelings.”
“That’s all very fine, and I dare say very true,” said Miss Benson, a little chagrined. “But ‘a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush;’ and I would rather have had one good, hearty, ‘Thank you,’ now, for all I have been planning to do for her, than the grand effects you promise me in the ‘sweep of eternity.’ Don’t be grave and sorrowful, Thurstan, or I’ll go out of the room. I can stand Sally’s scoldings, but I can’t bear your look of quiet depression whenever I am a little hasty or impatient. I had rather you would give me a good box on the ear.”
“And I would often rather you would speak, if ever so hastily, instead of whistling. So, if I box your ears when I am vexed with you, will you promise to scold me when you are put out of the way, instead of whistling?”
“Very well! that’s a bargain. You box, and I scold. But, seriously, I began to calculate our money when she so cavalierly sent off the fifty-pound note (I can’t help admiring her for it!), and I am very much afraid we shall not have enough to pay the doctor’s bill, and take her home with us.”
“She must go inside the coach, whatever we do,” said Mr. Benson decidedly.
“Who’s there? Come in! Oh! Mrs. Hughes! Sit down.”
“Indeed, sir, and I cannot stay; but the young lady has just made me find up her watch for her, and asked me to get it sold to pay the doctor, and the little things she has had since she came; and please, sir, indeed I don’t know where to sell it nearer than Caernarvon.”
“That is good of her,” said Miss Benson, her sense of justice satisfied; and, remembering the way in which Ruth had spoken of the watch, she felt what a sacrifice it must have been to resolve to part with it.
“And her goodness just helps us out of our dilemma,” said her brother; who was unaware of the feelings with which Ruth regarded her watch, or, perhaps, he might have parted with his Facciolati.
Mrs. Hughes patiently awaited their leisure for answering her practical question. Where could the watch be sold? Suddenly her face brightened.
“Mr. Jones, the doctor, is just going to be married, perhaps he would like nothing better than to give this pretty watch to his bride; indeed, and I think it’s very likely; and he’ll pay money for it as well as letting alone his bill. I’ll ask him, sir, at any rate.”
Mr. Jones was only too glad to obtain possession of so elegant a present at so cheap a rate. He even, as Mrs. Hughes had foretold, “paid money for it;” more than was required to defray the expenses of Ruth’s accommodation, as most of the articles of food she had were paid for at the time by Mr. or Miss Benson, but they strictly forbade Mrs. Hughes to tell Ruth of this.
“Would you object to my buying you a black gown?” said Miss Benson to her, the day after the sale of the watch. She hesitated a little, and then went on–
“My brother and I think it would be better to call you–as if in fact you were–a widow. It will save much awkwardness, and it will spare your child much”—-mortification, she was going to have added; but that word did not exactly do. But, at the mention of her child, Ruth started, and turned ruby-red; as she always did when allusion was made to it.
“Oh, yes! certainly. Thank you much for thinking of it. Indeed,” said she, very low, as if to herself, “I don’t know how to thank you for all you are doing; but I do love you, and will pray for you, if I may.”
“If you may, Ruth” repeated Miss Benson, in a tone of surprise.
“Yes, if I may. If you will let me pray for you.”
“Certainly, my dear. My dear Ruth, you don’t know how often I sin; I do so wrong, with my few temptations. We are both of us great sinners in the eyes of the Most Holy; let us pray for each other. Don’t speak so again, my dear; at least, not to me.”
Miss Benson was actually crying. She had always looked upon herself as so inferior to her brother in real goodness, had seen such heights above her, that she was distressed by Ruth’s humility. After a short time she resumed the subject.
“Then I may get you a black gown?–and we may call you Mrs. Hilton?”
“No; not Mrs. Hilton!” said Ruth hastily.
Miss Benson, who had hitherto kept her eyes averted from Ruth’s face from a motive of kindly delicacy, now looked at her with surprise.
“Why not?” asked she.
“It was my mother’s name,” said Ruth, in a low voice. “I had better not be called by it.”
“Then let us call you by my mother’s name,” said Miss Benson tenderly. “She would have—-But I’ll talk to you about my mother some other time. Let me call you Mrs. Denbigh. It will do very well, too. People will think you are a distant relation.”
When she told Mr. Benson of this choice of name, he was rather sorry; it was like his sister’s impulsive kindness–impulsive in everything–and he could imagine how Ruth’s humility had touched her. He was sorry, but he said nothing. And now the letter was written home, announcing the probable arrival of the brother and sister on a certain day, “with a distant relation, early left a widow,” as Miss Benson expressed it. She desired the spare room might be prepared, and made every provision she could think of for Ruth’s comfort; for Ruth still remained feeble and weak.
When the black gown, at which she had stitched away incessantly, was finished–when nothing remained, but to rest for the next day’s journey–Ruth could not sit still. She wandered from window to window, learning off each rock and tree by heart. Each had its tale, which it was agony to remember; but which it would have been worse agony to forget. The sound of running waters she heard that quiet evening was in her ears as she lay on her death-bed; so well had she learnt their tune.
And now all was over. She had driven in to Llan-dhu, sitting by her lover’s side, living in the bright present, and strangely forgetful of the past or the future; she had dreamed out her dream, and she had awakened from the vision of love. She walked slowly and sadly down the long hill, her tears fast falling, but as quickly wiped away; while she strove to make steady the low quivering voice which was often called upon to answer some remark of Miss Benson’s. They had to wait for the coach. Ruth buried her face in some flowers which Mrs. Hughes had given her on parting; and was startled when the mail drew up with a sudden pull, which almost threw the horses on their haunches. She was placed inside, and the coach had set off again, before she was fully aware that Mr. and Miss Benson were travelling on the outside; but it was a relief to feel she might now cry without exciting their notice. The shadow of a heavy thunder-cloud was on the valley, but the little upland village-church (that showed the spot in which so much of her life was passed) stood out clear in the sunshine. She grudged the tears that blinded her as she gazed. There was one passenger, who tried after a while to comfort her.
“Don’t cry, miss,” said the kind-hearted woman. “You’re parting from friends, maybe? Well, that’s bad enough; but, when you come to my age, you’ll think none of it. Why, I’ve three sons, and they’re soldiers and sailors, all of them–here, there, and everywhere. One is in America, beyond the seas; another is in China, making tea; and another is at Gibraltar, three miles from Spain; and yet, you see, I can laugh and eat and enjoy myself. I sometimes think I’ll try and fret a bit, just to make myself a better figure: but, Lord! it’s no use, it’s against my nature; so I laugh and grow fat again. I’d be quite thankful for a fit of anxiety as would make me feel easy in my clothes, which them manty-makers will make so tight I’m fairly throttled.”
Ruth durst cry no more; it was no relief, now she was watched and noticed, and plied with a sandwich or a ginger-bread each time she looked sad. She lay back with her eyes shut, as if asleep, and went on, and on, the sun never seeming to move from his high place in the sky, nor the bright hot day to show the least sign of waning. Every now and then Miss Benson scrambled down, and made kind inquiries of the pale, weary Ruth; and once they changed coaches, and the fat old lady left her with a hearty shake of the hand.
“It is not much further now,” said Miss Benson, apologetically, to Ruth. “See! we are losing sight of the Welsh mountains. We have about eighteen miles of plain, and then we come to the moors and the rising ground, amidst which Eccleston lies. I wish we were there, for my brother is sadly tired.” The first wonder in Ruth’s mind was, why then, if Mr. Benson was so tired, did they not stop where they were for the night; for she knew little of the expenses of a night at an inn. The next thought was, to beg that Mr. Benson would take her place inside the coach, and allow her to mount up by Miss Benson. She proposed this, and Miss Benson was evidently pleased.
“Well, if you’re not tired, it would be a rest and a change for him, to be sure; and if you were by me I could show you the first sight of Eccleston, if we reach there before it is quite dark.”
So Mr. Benson got down, and changed places with Ruth.
She hardly yet understood the numerous small economies which he and his sister had to practise–the little daily self-denials–all endured so cheerfully and simply, that they had almost ceased to require an effort, and it had become natural to them to think of others before themselves. Ruth had not understood that it was for economy that their places had been taken on the outside of the coach, while hers, as an invalid requiring rest, was to be the inside; and that the biscuits which supplied the place of a dinner were, in fact, chosen because the difference in price between the two would go a little way towards fulfilling their plan for receiving her as an inmate. Her thought about money had been hitherto a child’s thought; the subject had never touched her; but afterwards, when she had lived a little while with the Bensons, her eyes were opened, and she remembered their simple kindness on the journey, and treasured the remembrance of it in her heart.
A low grey cloud was the first sign of Eccleston; it was the smoke of the town hanging over the plain. Beyond the place where she was expected to believe it existed, arose round, waving uplands; nothing to the fine outlines of the Welsh mountains, but still going up nearer to heaven than the rest of the flat world into which she had now entered. Rumbling stones, lamp-posts, a sudden stop, and they were in the town of Eccleston; and a strange, uncouth voice, on the dark side of the coach, was heard to say–
“Be ye there, measter?”
“Yes, yes!” said Miss Benson quickly. “Did Sally send you, Ben? Get the ostler’s lantern, and look out the luggage.”
CHAPTER XIII
THE DISSENTING MINISTER’S HOUSEHOLD
Miss Benson had resumed every morsel of the briskness which she had rather lost in the middle of the day; her foot was on her native stones, and a very rough set they were, and she was near her home and among known people. Even Mr. Benson spoke very cheerfully to Ben, and made many inquiries of him respecting people whose names were strange to Ruth. She was cold, and utterly weary. She took Miss Benson’s offered arm, and could hardly drag herself as far as the little quiet street in which Mr. Benson’s house was situated. The street was so quiet that their footsteps sounded like a loud disturbance, and announced their approach as effectually as the “trumpet’s lordly blare” did the coming of Abdallah. A door flew open, and a lighted passage stood before them. As soon as they had entered, a stout elderly servant emerged from behind the door, her face radiant with welcome.
“Eh, bless ye! are ye hack again? I thought I should ha’ been lost without ye.” She gave Mr. Benson a hearty shake of the hand, and kissed Miss Benson warmly; then, turning to Ruth, she said, in a loud whisper–
“Who’s yon?”
Mr. Benson was silent, and walked a step onwards. Miss Benson said boldly out–
“The lady I named in my note, Sally–Mrs. Denbigh, a distant relation.”
“Ay, but you said hoo was a widow. Is this chit a widow?”
“Yes, this is Mrs. Denbigh,” answered Miss Benson.
“If I’d been her mother, I’d ha’ given her a lollypop instead on a husband. Hoo looks fitter for it.”
“Hush! Sally, Sally! Look, there’s your master trying to move that heavy box.” Miss Benson calculated well when she called Sally’s attention to her master; for it was believed by every one, and by Sally herself, that his deformity was owing to a fall he had had when he was scarcely more than a baby, and intrusted to her care–a little nurse-girl, as she then was, not many years older than himself. For years the poor girl had cried herself to sleep on her pallet bed, moaning over the blight her carelessness had brought upon her darling; nor was this self-reproach diminished by the forgiveness of the gentle mother, from whom Thurstan Benson derived so much of his character. The way in which comfort stole into Sally’s heart was in the gradually-formed resolution that she would never leave him nor forsake him, but serve him faithfully all her life long; and she had kept to her word. She loved Miss Benson, but she almost worshipped the brother. The reverence for him was in her heart, however, and did not always show itself in her manners. But if she scolded him herself, she allowed no one else that privilege. If Miss Benson differed from her brother, and ventured to think his sayings or doings might have been improved, Sally came down upon her like a thunder-clap.
“My goodness gracious, Master Thurstan, when will you learn to leave off meddling with other folks’ business? Here, Ben! help me up with these trunks.” The little narrow passage was cleared, and Miss Benson took Ruth into the sitting-room. There were only two sitting-rooms on the ground-floor, one behind the other. Out of the back room the kitchen opened, and for this reason the back parlour was used as the family sitting-room; or else, being, with its garden aspect, so much the pleasanter of the two, both Sally and Miss Benson would have appropriated it for Mr. Benson’s study. As it was, the front room, which looked to the street, was his room; and many a person coming for help–help of which giving money was the lowest kind–was admitted, and let forth by Mr. Benson, unknown to any one else in the house. To make amends for his having the least cheerful room on the ground-floor, he had the garden bedroom, while his sister slept over his study. There were two more rooms again over these, with sloping ceilings, though otherwise large and airy. The attic looking into the garden was the spare bedroom; while the front belonged to Sally. There was no room over the kitchen, which was, in fact, a supplement to the house. The sitting-room was called by the pretty, old-fashioned name of the parlour, while Mr. Benson’s room was styled the study.
The curtains were drawn in the parlour; there was a bright fire and a clean hearth; indeed, exquisite cleanliness seemed the very spirit of the household, for the door which was open to the kitchen showed a delicately-white and spotless floor, and bright glittering tins, on which the ruddy firelight danced.
From the place in which Ruth sat she could see all Sally’s movements; and though she was not conscious of close or minute observation at the time (her body being weary, and her mind full of other thoughts), yet it was curious how faithfully that scene remained depicted on her memory in after years. The warm light filled every corner of the kitchen, in strong distinction to the faint illumination of the one candle in the parlour, whose radiance was confined, and was lost in the dead folds of window-curtains, carpet, and furniture. The square, stout, bustling figure, neat and clean in every respect, but dressed in the peculiar, old-fashioned costume of the county, namely, a dark-striped linsey-woolsey petticoat, made very short, displaying sturdy legs in woollen stockings beneath; a loose kind of jacket, called there a “bedgown,” made of pink print, a snow-white apron and cap, both of linen, and the latter made in the shape of a “mutch”;–these articles completed Sally’s costume, and were painted on Ruth’s memory. Whilst Sally was busied in preparing tea, Miss Benson took off Ruth’s things; and the latter instinctively felt that Sally, in the midst of her movements, was watching their proceedings. Occasionally she also put in a word in the conversation, and these little sentences were uttered quite in the tone of an equal, if not of a superior. She had dropped the more formal “you,” with which at first she had addressed Miss Benson, and thou’d her quietly and habitually.
All these particulars sank unconsciously into Ruth’s mind, but they did not rise to the surface, and become perceptible, for a length of time. She was weary and much depressed. Even the very kindness that ministered to her was overpowering. But over the dark, misty moor a little light shone–a beacon; and on that she fixed her eyes, and struggled out of her present deep dejection–the little child that was coming to her!
Mr. Benson was as languid and weary as Ruth, and was silent during all this bustle and preparation. His silence was more grateful to Ruth than Miss Benson’s many words, although she felt their kindness. After tea, Miss Benson took her upstairs to her room. The white dimity bed, and the walls, stained green, had something of the colouring and purity of effect of a snowdrop; while the floor, rubbed with a mixture that turned it into a rich dark-brown, suggested the idea of the garden-mould out of which the snowdrop grows. As Miss Benson helped the pale Ruth to undress, her voice became less full-toned and hurried; the hush of approaching night subdued her into a softened, solemn kind of tenderness, and the murmured blessing sounded like granted prayer.
When Miss Benson came downstairs, she found her brother reading some letters which had been received during his absence. She went and softly shut the door of communication between the parlour and the kitchen; and then, fetching a grey worsted stocking which she was knitting, sat down near him, her eyes not looking at her work but fixed on the fire; while the eternal rapid click of the knitting-needles broke the silence of the room, with a sound as monotonous and incessant as the noise of a hand-loom. She expected him to speak, but he did not. She enjoyed an examination into, and discussion of, her feelings; it was an interest and amusement to her, while he dreaded and avoided all such conversation. There were times when his feelings, which were always earnest, and sometimes morbid, burst forth, and defied control, and overwhelmed him; when a force was upon him compelling him to speak. But he, in general, strove to preserve his composure, from a fear of the compelling pain of such times, and the consequent exhaustion. His heart had been very full of Ruth all day long, and he was afraid of his sister beginning the subject; so he read on, or seemed to do so, though he hardly saw the letter he held before him. It was a great relief to him when Sally threw open the middle door with a bang, which did not indicate either calmness of mind or sweetness of temper.
“Is yon young woman going to stay any length o’ time with us?” asked she of Miss Benson.
Mr. Benson put his hand gently on his sister’s arm, to check her from making any reply, while he said–
“We cannot exactly tell, Sally. She will remain until after her confinement.”
“Lord bless us and save us!–a baby in the house! Nay, then my time’s come, and I’ll pack up and begone. I never could abide them things. I’d sooner have rats in the house.”
Sally really did look alarmed.
“Why, Sally!” said Mr. Benson, smiling, “I was not much more than a baby when you came to take care of me.”
“Yes, you were, Master Thurstan; you were a fine bouncing lad of three year old and better.”
Then she remembered the change she had wrought in the “fine bouncing lad,” and her eyes filled with tears, which she was too proud to wipe away with her apron; for, as she sometimes said to herself, “she could not abide crying before folk.”
“Well, it’s no use talking, Sally,” said Miss Benson, too anxious to speak to be any longer repressed. “We’ve promised to keep her, and we must do it; you’ll have none of the trouble, Sally, so don’t be afraid.”
“Well, I never! as if I minded trouble! You might ha’ known me better nor that. I’ve scoured master’s room twice over, just to make the boards look white, though the carpet is to cover them, and now you go and cast up about me minding my trouble. If them’s the fashions you’ve learnt in Wales, I’m thankful I’ve never been there.”
Sally looked red, indignant, and really hurt. Mr. Benson came in with his musical voice and soft words of healing.
“Faith knows you don’t care for trouble, Sally; she is only anxious about this poor young woman, who has no friends but ourselves. We know there will be more trouble in consequence of her coming to stay with us; and I think, though we never spoke about it, that in making our plans we reckoned on your kind help, Sally, which has never failed us yet when we needed it.”
“You’ve twice the sense of your sister, Master Thurstan, that you have. Boys always has. It’s truth there will be more trouble, and I shall have my share on’t, I reckon. I can face it if I’m told out and out, but I cannot abide the way some folk has of denying there’s trouble or pain to be met; just as if their saying there was none, would do away with it. Some folk treats one like a babby, and I don’t like it. I’m not meaning you, Master Thurstan.”
“No, Sally, you need not say that. I know well enough who you mean when you say ‘some folk.’ However, I admit I was wrong in speaking as if you minded trouble, for there never was a creature minded it less. But I want you to like Mrs. Denbigh,” said Miss Benson.
“I dare say I should, if you’d let me alone. I did na like her sitting down in master’s chair. Set her up, indeed, in an arm-chair wi’ cushions! Wenches in my day were glad enough of stools.”
“She was tired to-night,” said Mr. Benson. “We are all tired; so if you have done your work, Sally, come in to reading.”
The three quiet people knelt down side by side, and two of them prayed earnestly for “them that had gone astray.” Before ten o’clock, the household were in bed. Ruth, sleepless, weary, restless with the oppression of a sorrow which she dared not face and contemplate bravely, kept awake all the early part of the night. Many a time did she rise, and go to the long casement window, and looked abroad over the still and quiet town–over the grey stone walls, and chimneys, and old high-pointed roofs–on to the far-away hilly line of the horizon, lying calm under the bright moonshine. It was late in the morning when she woke from her long-deferred slumbers; and when she went downstairs, she found Mr. and Miss Benson awaiting her in the parlour. That homely, pretty, old-fashioned little room! How bright and still and clean it looked! The window (all the windows at the hack of the house were casements) was open, to let in the sweet morning air, and streaming eastern sunshine. The long jessamine sprays, with their white-scented stars, forced themselves almost into the room. The little square garden beyond, with grey stone walls all round, was rich and mellow in its autumnal colouring, running from deep crimson hollyhocks up to amber and gold nasturtiums, and all toned down by the clear and delicate air. It was so still, that the gossamer-webs, laden with dew, did not tremble or quiver in the least; but the sun was drawing to himself the sweet incense of many flowers, and the parlour was scented with the odours of mignonette and stocks. Miss Benson was arranging a bunch of China and damask roses in an old-fashioned jar; they lay, all dewy and fresh, on the white breakfast-cloth when Ruth entered. Mr. Benson was reading in some large folio. With gentle morning speech they greeted her; but the quiet repose of the scene was instantly broken by Sally popping in from the kitchen, and glancing at Ruth with sharp reproach. She said–
“I reckon I may bring in breakfast, now?” with a strong emphasis on the last word.
“I am afraid I am very late,” said Ruth.
“Oh, never mind,” said Mr. Benson gently. “It was our fault for not telling you our breakfast hour. We always have prayers at half-past seven; and for Sally’s sake, we never vary from that time; for she can so arrange her work, if she knows the hour of prayers, as to have her mind calm and untroubled.”
“Ahem!” said Miss Benson, rather inclined to “testify” against the invariable calmness of Sally’s mind at any hour of the day; but her brother went on as if he did not hear her.
“But the breakfast does not signify being delayed a little; and I am sure you were sadly tired with your long day yesterday.”
Sally came slapping in, and put down some withered, tough, dry toast, with–
“It’s not my doing if it is like leather”; but as no one appeared to hear her, she withdrew to her kitchen, leaving Ruth’s cheeks like crimson at the annoyance she had caused.
All day long, she had that feeling common to those who go to stay at a fresh house among comparative strangers: a feeling of the necessity that she should become accustomed to the new atmosphere in which she was placed, before she could move and act freely; it was, indeed, a purer ether, a diviner air, which she was breathing in now, than what she had been accustomed to for long months. The gentle, blessed mother, who had made her childhood’s home holy ground, was in her very nature so far removed from any of earth’s stains and temptation, that she seemed truly one of those
“Who ask not if Thine eye Be on them; who, in love and truth, Where no misgiving is, rely Upon the genial sense of youth.”
In the Bensons’ house there was the same unconsciousness of individual merit, the same absence of introspection and analysis of motive, as there had been in her mother; but it seemed that their lives were pure and good, not merely from a lovely and beautiful nature, but from some law, the obedience to which was, of itself, harmonious peace, and which governed them almost implicitly, and with as little questioning on their part, as the glorious stars which haste not, rest not, in their eternal obedience. This household had many failings: they were but human, and, with all their loving desire to bring their lives into harmony with the will of God, they often erred and fell short; but, somehow, the very errors and faults of one individual served to call out higher excellences in another, and so they reacted upon each other, and the result of short discords was exceeding harmony and peace. But they had themselves no idea of the real state of things; they did not trouble themselves with marking their progress by self-examination; if Mr. Benson did sometimes, in hours of sick incapacity for exertion, turn inwards, it was to cry aloud with almost morbid despair, “God be merciful to me a sinner!” But he strove to leave his life in the hands of God, and to forget himself.
Ruth sat still and quiet through the long first day. She was languid and weary from her journey; she was uncertain what help she might offer to give in the household duties, and what she might not. And, in her languor and in her uncertainty, it was pleasant to watch the new ways of the people among whom she was placed. After breakfast, Mr. Benson withdrew to his study, Miss Benson took away the cups and saucers, and leaving the kitchen-door open, talked sometimes to Ruth, sometimes to Sally, while she washed them up. Sally had upstairs duties to perform, for which Ruth was thankful, as she kept receiving rather angry glances for her unpunctuality as long as Sally remained downstairs. Miss Benson assisted in the preparation for the early dinner, and brought some kidney-beans to shred into a basin of bright, pure spring-water, which caught and danced in the sunbeams as she sat near the open casement of the parlour, talking to Ruth of things and people which as yet the latter did not understand, and could not arrange and comprehend. She was like a child who gets a few pieces of a dissected map, and is confused until a glimpse of the whole unity is shown him. Mr. and Mrs. Bradshaw were the centre pieces in Ruth’s map; their children, their servants, were the accessories; and one or two other names were occasionally mentioned. Ruth wondered and almost wearied at Miss Benson’s perseverance in talking to her about people whom she did not know; but, in truth, Miss Benson heard the long-drawn, quivering sighs which came from the poor heavy heart, when it was left to silence, and had leisure to review the past; and her quick accustomed ear caught also the low mutterings of the thunder in the distance, in the shape of Sally’s soliloquies, which, like the asides at a theatre, were intended to be heard. Suddenly, Miss Benson called Ruth out of the room upstairs into her own bed-chamber, and then began rummaging in little old-fashioned boxes, drawn out of an equally old-fashioned bureau, half-desk, half-table, and wholly drawers.
“My dear, I’ve been very stupid and thoughtless. Oh! I’m so glad I thought of it before Mrs. Bradshaw came to call. Here it is!” and she pulled out an old wedding-ring, and hurried it on Ruth’s finger. Ruth hung down her head, and reddened deep with shame; her eyes smarted with the hot tears that filled them. Miss Benson talked on, in a nervous hurried way–
“It was my grandmother’s; it’s very broad; they made them so then, to hold a posy inside: there’s one in that–
‘Thine own sweetheart Till death doth part,’
I think it is. There, there! Run away, and look as if you’d always worn it.” Ruth went up to her room, and threw herself down on her knees by the bedside, and cried as if her heart would break; and then, as if a light had come down into her soul, she calmed herself and prayed–no words can tell how humbly, and with what earnest feeling. When she came down, she was tearstained and wretchedly pale; but even Sally looked at her with new eyes, because of the dignity with which she was invested by an earnestness of purpose which had her child for its object. She sat and thought, but she no longer heaved those bitter sighs which had wrung Miss Benson’s heart in the morning. In this way the day wore on; early dinner, early tea seemed to make it preternaturally long to Ruth; the only event was some unexplained absence of Sally’s, who had disappeared out of the house in the evening, much to Miss Benson’s surprise, and somewhat to her indignation.
At night, after Ruth had gone up to her room, this absence was explained to her at least. She had let down her long waving glossy hair, and was standing absorbed in thought in the middle of the room, when she heard a round clumping knock at her door, different from that given by the small knuckles of delicate fingers, and in walked Sally, with a judge-like severity of demeanour, holding in her hand two widow’s caps of commonest make and coarsest texture. Queen Eleanor herself, when she presented the bowl to Fair Rosamond, had not a more relentless purpose stamped on her demeanour than had Sally at this moment. She walked up to the beautiful, astonished Ruth, where she stood in her long, soft, white dressing-gown, with all her luxuriant brown hair hanging dishevelled down her figure, and thus Sally spoke–
“Missus–or miss, as the case may be–I’ve my doubts as to you. I’m not going to have my master and Miss Faith put upon, or shame come near them. Widows wears these sort o’ caps, and has their hair cut off; and whether widows wears wedding-rings or not, they shall have their hair cut off–they shall. I’ll have no half work in this house. I’ve lived with the family forty-nine year come Michaelmas, and I’ll not see it disgraced by any one’s fine long curls. Sit down and let me snip off your hair; and let me see you sham decently in a widow’s cap to-morrow, or I’ll leave the house. Whatten’s come over Miss Faith, as used to be as mim a lady as ever was, to be taken by such as you, I dunnot know. Here I sit down with ye, and let me crop you.”
She laid no light hand on Ruth’s shoulder; and the latter, partly intimidated by the old servant, who had hitherto only turned her vixen lining to observation, and partly because she was broken-spirited enough to be indifferent to the measure proposed, quietly sat down. Sally produced the formidable pair of scissors that always hung at her side, and began to cut in a merciless manner. She expected some remonstrance or some opposition, and had a torrent of words ready to flow forth at the least sign of rebellion; but Ruth was still and silent, with meekly-bowed head, under the strange hands that were shearing her beautiful hair into the clipped shortness of a boy’s. Long before she had finished, Sally had some slight misgivings as to the fancied necessity of her task; but it was too late, for half the curls were gone, and the rest must now come off. When she had done, she lifted up Ruth’s face by placing her hand under the round white chin. She gazed into the countenance, expecting to read some anger there, though it had not come out in words; but she only met the large, quiet eyes, that looked at her with sad gentleness out of their finely-hollowed orbits. Ruth’s soft, yet dignified submission, touched Sally with compunction, though she did not choose to show the change in her feelings. She tried to hide it indeed, by stooping to pick up the long bright tresses; and, holding them up admiringly, and letting them drop down and float on the air (like the pendent branches of the weeping birch) she said: “I thought we should ha’ had some crying–I did. They’re pretty curls enough; you’ve not been so bad to let them be cut off neither. You see, Master Thurstan is no wiser than a babby in some things; and Miss Faith just lets him have his own way; so it’s all left to me to keep him out of scrapes. I’ll wish you a very good night. I’ve heard many a one say as long hair was not wholesome. Good night.”
But in a minute she popped her head into Ruth’s room once more–
“You’ll put on them caps to-morrow morning. I’ll make you a present on them.”
Sally had carried away the beautiful curls, and she could not find it in her heart to throw such lovely chestnut tresses away, so she folded them up carefully in paper, and placed them in a safe corner of her drawer.
CHAPTER XIV
RUTH’S FIRST SUNDAY AT ECCLESTON
Ruth felt very shy when she came down (at half-past seven) the next morning, in her widow’s cap. Her smooth, pale face, with its oval untouched by time, looked more young and childlike than ever, when contrasted with the head-gear usually associated with ideas of age. She blushed very deeply as Mr. and Miss Benson showed the astonishment, which they could not conceal, in their looks. She said in a low voice to Miss Benson–
“Sally thought I had better wear it.”
Miss Benson made no reply; but was startled at the intelligence, which she thought was conveyed in this speech, of Sally’s acquaintance with Ruth’s real situation. She noticed Sally’s looks particularly this morning. The manner in which the old servant treated Ruth had in it far more of respect than there had been the day before; but there was a kind of satisfied way of braving out Miss Benson’s glances which made the latter uncertain and uncomfortable. She followed her brother into his study.
“Do you know, Thurstan, I am almost certain Sally suspects.”
Mr. Benson sighed. That deception grieved him, and yet he thought he saw its necessity.
“What makes you think so?” asked he.
“Oh! many little things. It was her odd way of ducking her head about, as if to catch a good view of Ruth’s left hand, that made me think of the wedding-ring; and once, yesterday, when I thought I had made up quite a natural speech, and was saying how sad it was for so young a creature to be left a widow she broke in with ‘widow be farred!’ in a very strange, contemptuous kind of manner.”
“If she suspects, we had far better tell her the truth at once. She will never rest till she finds it out, so we must make a virtue of necessity.”
“Well, brother, you shall tell her then, for I am sure I daren’t. I don’t mind doing the thing, since you talked to me that day, and since I have got to know Ruth; but I do mind all the clatter people will make about it.”
“But Sally is not ‘people.'”
“Oh, I see it must be done; she’ll talk as much as all the other persons put together, so that’s the reason I call her ‘people.’ Shall I call her?” (For the house was too homely and primitive to have bells.)
Sally came, fully aware of what was now going to be told her, and determined not to help them out in telling their awkward secret, by understanding the nature of it before it was put into the plainest language. In every pause, when they hoped she had caught the meaning they were hinting at, she persisted in looking stupid and perplexed, and in saying, “Well,” as if quite unenlightened as to the end of the story. When it was all complete and before her, she said, honestly enough–
“It’s just as I thought it was; and I think you may thank me for having had the sense to put her into widow’s caps, and clip off that bonny brown hair that was fitter for a bride in lawful matrimony than for such as her. She took it very well, though. She was as quiet as a lamb, and I clipped her pretty roughly at first. I must say, though, if I’d ha’ known who your visitor was, I’d ha’ packed up my things and cleared myself out of the house before such as her came into it. As it’s done, I suppose I must stand by you, and help you through with it; I only hope I sha’n’t lose my character–and me a parish-clerk’s daughter!”
“O Sally! people know you too well to think any ill of you,” said Miss Benson, who was pleased to find the difficulty so easily got over; for, in truth, Sally had been much softened by the unresisting gentleness with which Ruth had submitted to the “clipping” of the night before.
“If I’d been with you, Master Thurstan, I’d ha’ seen sharp after you, for you’re always picking up some one or another as nobody else would touch with a pair of tongs. Why, there was that Nelly Brandon’s child as was left at our door, if I hadn’t gone to th’ overseer we should have had that Irish tramp’s babby saddled on us for life; but I went off and told th’ overseer, and the mother was caught.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Benson sadly, “and I often lie awake and wonder what is the fate of that poor little thing, forced back on the mother who tried to get quit of it. I often doubt whether I did right; but it’s no use thinking about it now.”
“I’m thankful it isn’t,” said Sally; “and now, if we’ve talked doctrine long enough, I’ll make th’ beds. Yon girl’s secret is safe enough for me.”
Saying this she left the room, and Miss Benson followed. She found Ruth busy washing the breakfast things; and they were done in so quiet and orderly a manner, that neither Miss Benson nor Sally, both particular enough, had any of their little fancies or prejudices annoyed. She seemed to have an instinctive knowledge of the exact period when her help was likely to become a hindrance, and withdrew from the busy kitchen just at the right time.
That afternoon, as Miss Benson and Ruth sat at their work, Mrs. and Miss Bradshaw called. Miss Benson was so nervous as to surprise Ruth, who did not understand the probable and possible questions which might be asked respecting any visitor at the minister’s house. Ruth went on sewing, absorbed in her own thoughts, and glad that the conversation between the two elder ladies and the silence of the younger one, who sat at some distance from her, gave her an opportunity of retreating into the haunts of memory; and soon the work fell from her hands, and her eyes were fixed on the little garden beyond, but she did not see its flowers or its walls; she saw the mountains which girdled Llan-dhu, and saw the sun rise from behind their iron outline, just as it had done–how long ago? was it months or was it years?–since she had watched the night through, crouched up at his door. Which was the dream and which the reality? that distant life or this? His moans rang more clearly in her ears than the buzzing of the conversation between Mrs. Bradshaw and Miss Benson.
At length the subdued, scared-looking little lady and her bright-eyed silent daughter rose to take leave; Ruth started into the present, and stood up and curtseyed, and turned sick at heart with sudden recollection.
Miss Benson accompanied Mrs. Bradshaw to the door; and in the passage gave her a long explanation of Ruth’s (fictitious) history. Mrs. Bradshaw looked so much interested and pleased, that Miss Benson enlarged a little more than was necessary, and rounded off her invention with one or two imaginary details, which, she was quite unconscious, were overheard by her brother through the half-open study door.
She was rather dismayed when he called her into his room after Mrs. Bradshaw’s departure, and asked her what she had been saying about Ruth?
“Oh! I thought it was better to explain it thoroughly–I mean, to tell the story we wished to have believed once for all–you know we agreed about that, Thurstan?” deprecatingly.
“Yes; but I heard you saying you believed her husband had been a young surgeon, did I not?”
“Well, Thurstan, you know he must have been something; and young surgeons are so in the way of dying, it seemed very natural. Besides,” said she with sudden boldness, “I do think I’ve a talent for fiction, it is so pleasant to invent, and make the incidents dovetail together; and after all, if we are to tell a lie, we may as well do it thoroughly, or else it’s of no use. A bungling lie would be worse than useless. And, Thurstan–it may be very wrong–but I believe–I am afraid I enjoy not being fettered by truth. Don’t look so grave. You know it is necessary, if ever it was, to tell falsehoods now; and don’t be angry with me because I do it well.”
He was shading his eyes with his hand, and did not speak for some time. At last he said–
“If it were not for the child, I would tell all; but the world is so cruel. You don’t know how this apparent necessity for falsehood pains me, Faith, or you would not invent all these details, which are so many additional lies.”
“Well, well! I will restrain myself if I have to talk about Ruth again. But Mrs. Bradshaw will tell every one who need to know. You don’t wish me to contradict it, Thurstan, surely–it was such a pretty, probable story.”
“Faith! I hope God will forgive us if we are doing wrong; and pray, dear, don’t add one unnecessary word that is not true.”
Another day elapsed, and then it was Sunday: and the house seemed filled with a deep peace. Even Sally’s movements were less hasty and abrupt. Mr. Benson seemed invested with a new dignity, which made his bodily deformity be forgotten in his calm, grave composure of spirit. Every trace of week-day occupation was put away; the night before, a bright new handsome tablecloth had been smoothed down over the table, and the jars had been freshly filled with flowers. Sunday was a festival and a holyday in the house. After the very early breakfast, little feet pattered into Mr. Benson’s study, for he had a class for boys–a sort of domestic Sunday-school, only that there was more talking between teachers and pupils, than dry, absolute lessons going on. Miss Benson, too, had her little, neat-tippeted maidens sitting with her in the parlour; and she was far more particular in keeping them to their reading and spelling than her brother was with his boys. Sally, too, put in her word of instruction from the kitchen, helping, as she fancied, though her assistance was often rather malapropos; for instance, she called out, to a little fat, stupid, roly-poly girl, to whom Miss Benson was busy explaining the meaning of the word quadruped–
“Quadruped, a thing wi’ four legs, Jenny; a chair is a quadruped, child!”
But Miss Benson had a deaf manner sometimes when her patience was not too severely tried, and she put it on now. Ruth sat on a low hassock, and coaxed the least of the little creatures to her, and showed it pictures till it fell asleep in her arms, and sent a thrill through her, at the thought of the tiny darling who would lie on her breast before long, and whom she would have to cherish and to shelter from the storms of the world.
And then she remembered, that she was once white and sinless as the wee lassie who lay in her arms; and she knew that she had gone astray. By-and-by the children trooped away, and Miss Benson summoned her to put on her things for chapel.
The chapel was up a narrow street, or rather cul-de-sac, close by. It stood on the outskirts of the town, almost in fields. It was built about the time of Matthew and Philip Henry, when the Dissenters were afraid of attracting attention or observation, and hid their places of worship in obscure and out-of-the-way parts of the towns in which they were built. Accordingly, it often happened, as in the present case, that the buildings immediately surrounding, as well as the chapels themselves, looked as if they carried you back to a period a hundred and fifty years ago. The chapel had a picturesque and old-world look, for luckily the congregation had been too poor to rebuild it, or new-face it, in George the Third’s time. The staircases which led to the galleries were outside, at each end of the building, and the irregular roof and worn stone steps looked grey and stained by time and weather. The grassy hillocks, each with a little upright headstone, were shaded by a grand old wych-elm. A lilac-bush or two, a white rose-tree, and a few laburnums, all old and gnarled enough, were planted round the chapel yard; and the casement windows of the chapel were made of heavy-leaded, diamond-shaped panes, almost covered with ivy, producing a green gloom, not without its solemnity, within. This ivy was the home of an infinite number of little birds, which twittered and warbled, till it might have been thought that they were emulous of the power of praise possessed by the human creatures within, with such earnest, long-drawn strains did this crowd of winged songsters rejoice and be glad in their beautiful gift of life. The interior of the building was plain and simple as plain and simple could be. When it was fitted up, oak-timber was much cheaper than it is now, so the wood-work was all of that description; but roughly hewed, for the early builders had not much wealth to spare. The walls were whitewashed, and were recipients of the shadows of the beauty without; on their “white plains” the tracery of the ivy might be seen, now still, now stirred by the sudden flight of some little bird. The congregation consisted of here and there a farmer with his labourers, who came down from the uplands beyond the town to worship where their fathers worshipped, and who loved the place because they knew how much those fathers had suffered for it, although they never troubled themselves with the reason why they left the parish church; and of a few shopkeepers, far more thoughtful and reasoning, who were Dissenters from conviction, unmixed with old ancestral association; and of one or two families of still higher worldly station. With many poor, who were drawn there by love for Mr. Benson’s character, and by a feeling that the faith which made him what he was could not be far wrong, for the base of the pyramid, and with Mr. Bradshaw for its apex, the congregation stood complete.
The country people came in sleeking down their hair, and treading with earnest attempts at noiseless lightness of step over the floor of the aisle; and, by-and-by, when all were assembled, Mr. Benson followed, unmarshalled and unattended. When he had closed the pulpit-door, and knelt in prayer for an instant or two, he gave out a psalm from the dear old Scottish paraphrase, with its primitive inversion of the simple perfect Bible words; and a kind of precentor stood up, and, having sounded the note on a pitch-pipe, sang a couple of lines by way of indicating the tune; then all the congregation stood up, and sang aloud, Mr. Bradshaw’s great bass voice being half a note in advance of the others, in accordance with his place of precedence as principal member of the congregation. His powerful voice was like an organ very badly played, and very much out of tune; but as he had no ear, and no diffidence, it pleased him very much to hear the fine loud sound. He was a tall, large-boned, iron man; stern, powerful, and authoritative in appearance; dressed in clothes of the finest broadcloth, and scrupulously ill-made, as if to show that he was indifferent to all outward things. His wife was sweet and gentle-looking, but as if she was thoroughly broken into submission.
Ruth did not see this, or hear aught but the words which were reverently–oh, how reverently!–spoken by Mr. Benson. He had had Ruth present in his thoughts all the time he had been preparing for his Sunday duty; and he had tried carefully to eschew everything which she might feel as an allusion to her own case. He remembered how the Good Shepherd, in Poussin’s beautiful picture, tenderly carried the lambs which had wearied themselves by going astray, and felt how like tenderness was required towards poor Ruth. But where is the chapter which does not contain something which a broken and contrite spirit may not apply to itself? And so it fell out that, as he read, Ruth’s heart was smitten, and she sank down, and down, till she was kneeling on the floor of the pew, and speaking to God in the spirit, if not in the words, of the Prodigal Son: “Father! I have sinned against Heaven and before Thee, and am no more worthy to be called Thy child!” Miss Benson was thankful (although she loved Ruth the better for this self-abandonment) that the minister’s seat was far in the shade of the gallery. She tried to look most attentive to her brother, in order that Mr. Bradshaw might not suspect anything unusual, while she stealthily took hold of Ruth’s passive hand, as it lay helpless on the cushion, and pressed it softly and tenderly. But Ruth sat on the ground, bowed down and crushed in her sorrow, till all was ended.
Miss Benson loitered in her seat, divided between the consciousness that she, as locum tenens for the minister’s wife, was expected to be at the door to receive the kind greetings of many after her absence from home, and her unwillingness to disturb Ruth, who was evidently praying, and, by her quiet breathing, receiving grave and solemn influences into her soul. At length she rose up, calm and composed even to dignity. The chapel was still and empty; but Miss Benson heard the buzz of voices in the chapel-yard without. They were probably those of people waiting for her; and she summoned courage, and taking Ruth’s arm in hers, and holding her hand affectionately, they went out into the broad daylight. As they issued forth, Miss Benson heard Mr. Bradshaw’s strong bass voice speaking to her brother, and winced, as she knew he would be wincing, under the broad praise, which is impertinence, however little it may be intended or esteemed as such.
“Oh, yes!–my wife told me yesterday about her–her husband was a surgeon; my father was a surgeon too, as I think you have heard. Very much to your credit, I must say, Mr. Benson, with your limited means, to burden yourself with a poor relation. Very creditable indeed.”
Miss Benson glanced at Ruth; she either did not hear or did not understand, but passed on into the awful sphere of Mr. Bradshaw’s observation unmoved. He was in a bland and condescending humour of universal approval, and when he saw Ruth he nodded his head in token of satisfaction. That ordeal was over, Miss Benson thought, and in the thought rejoiced.
“After dinner, you must go and lie down, my dear,” said she, untying Ruth’s bonnet-strings, and kissing her. “Sally goes to church again, but you won’t mind staying alone in the house. I am sorry we have so many people to dinner; but my brother will always have enough on Sundays for any old or weak people, who may have come from a distance, to stay and dine with us; and to-day they all seem to have come, because it is his first Sabbath at home.”
In this way Ruth’s first Sunday passed over.
CHAPTER XV
MOTHER AND CHILD
“Here is a parcel for you, Ruth!” said Miss Benson on the Tuesday morning.
“For me!” said Ruth, all sorts of rushing thoughts and hopes filling her mind, and turning her dizzy with expectation. If it had been from “him,” the new-born resolutions would have had a bard struggle for existence.
“It is directed ‘Mrs. Denbigh,'” said Miss Benson, before giving it up. “It is in Mrs. Bradshaw’s handwriting;” and, far more curious than Ruth, she awaited the untying of the close-knotted string. When the paper was opened, it displayed a whole piece of delicate cambric muslin; and there was a short note from Mrs. Bradshaw to Ruth, saying her husband had wished her to send this muslin in aid of any preparations Mrs. Denbigh might have to make. Ruth said nothing, but coloured up, and sat down again to her employment.
“Very fine muslin, indeed,” said Miss Benson, feeling it, and holding it up against the light, with the air of a connoisseur; yet all the time she was glancing at Ruth’s grave face. The latter kept silence, and showed no wish to inspect her present further. At last she said, in a low voice–
“I suppose I may send it back again?”
“My dear child! send it back to Mr. Bradshaw! You’d offend him for life. You may depend upon it, he means it as a mark of high favour!”
“What right had he to send it me?” asked Ruth, still in her quiet