as if her whole soul went out to the little infant. But if she hears a strange footstep on the stair, what Jemima calls the ‘wild-animal look’ comes back into her eyes, and she steals away like some frightened creature. With all that she has done to redeem her character, she should not be so timid of observation.
“You may well say ‘with all that she has done!’ We of her own household hear little or nothing of what she does. If she wants help, she simply tells us how and why; but if not–perhaps because it is some relief to her to forget for a time the scenes of suffering in which she has been acting the part of comforter, and perhaps because there always was a shy, sweet reticence about her–we never should know what she is and what she does, except from the poor people themselves, who would bless her in words if the very thought of her did not choke them with tears. Yet, I do assure you, she passes out of all this gloom, and makes sunlight in our house. We are never so cheerful as when she is at home. She always had the art of diffusing peace, but now it is positive cheerfulness. And about Leonard; I doubt if the wisest and most thoughtful schoolmaster could teach half as much directly, as his mother does unconsciously and indirectly every hour that he is with her. Her noble, humble, pious endurance of the consequences of what was wrong in her early life seems expressly fitted to act upon him, whose position is (unjustly, for he has done no harm) so similar to hers.”
“Well! I suppose we must leave it alone for the present. You will think me a hard practical man when I own to you, that all I expect from Leonard’s remaining a home-bird is that, with such a mother, it will do him no harm. At any rate, remember my offer is the same for a year–two years hence, as now. What does she look forward to making him into, finally?”
“I don’t know. The wonder comes into my mind sometimes; but never into hers, I think. It is part of her character–part perhaps of that which made her what she was–that she never looks forward, and seldom back. The present is enough for her.”
And so the conversation ended. When Mr. Benson repeated the substance of it to his sister, she mused awhile, breaking out into an occasional whistle (although she had cured herself of this habit in a great measure), and at last she said–
“Now, do you know, I never liked poor Dick; and yet I’m angry with Mr. Farquhar for getting him out of the partnership in such a summary way. I can’t get over it, even though he has offered to send Leonard to school. And here he’s reigning lord-paramount at the office! As if you, Thurstan, weren’t as well able to teach him as any schoolmaster in England! But I should not mind that affront, if I were not sorry to think of Dick (though I never could abide him) labouring away in Glasgow for a petty salary of nobody knows how little, while Mr. Farquhar is taking halves, instead of thirds, of the profits here!”
But her brother could not tell her–and even Jemima did not know till long afterwards–that the portion of income which would have been Dick’s as a junior partner, if he had remained in the business, was carefully laid aside for him by Mr. Farquhar; to be delivered up, with all its accumulative interest, when the prodigal should have proved his penitence by his conduct.
When Ruth had no call upon her time, it was indeed a holiday at Chapel-house. She threw off as much as she could of the care and sadness in which she had been sharing; and returned fresh and helpful, ready to go about in her soft, quiet way, and fill up every measure of service, and heap it with the fragrance of her own sweet nature. The delicate mending, that the elder women could no longer see to do, was put by for Ruth’s swift and nimble fingers. The occasional copying, or patient writing to dictation, that gave rest to Mr. Benson’s weary spine, was done by her with sunny alacrity. But, most of all, Leonard’s heart rejoiced when his mother came home. Then came the quiet confidences, the tender exchange of love, the happy walks from which he returned stronger and stronger–going from strength to strength as his mother led the way. It was well, as they saw now, that the great shock of the disclosure had taken place when it did. She, for her part, wondered at her own cowardliness in having even striven to keep back the truth from her child–the truth that was so certain to be made clear, sooner or later, and which it was only owing to God’s mercy that she was alive to encounter with him, and, by so encountering, shield and give him good courage. Moreover, in her secret heart, she was thankful that all occurred while he was yet too young to have much curiosity as to his father. If an unsatisfied feeling of this kind occasionally stole into his mind, at any rate she never heard any expression of it; for the past was a sealed book between them. And so, in the bright strength of good endeavour, the days went on, and grew again to months and years. Perhaps one little circumstance which occurred during this time had scarcely external importance enough to be called an event; but in Mr. Benson’s mind it took rank as such. One day, about a year after Richard Bradshaw had ceased to be a partner in his father’s house, Mr. Benson encountered Mr. Farquhar in the street, and heard from him of the creditable and respectable manner in which Richard was conducting himself in Glasgow, where Mr. Farquhar had lately been on business.
“I am determined to tell his father of this,” said he; “I think his family are far too obedient to his tacit prohibition of all mention of Richard’s name.”
“Tacit prohibition?” inquired Mr. Benson.
“Oh! I dare say I use the words in a wrong sense for the correctness of a scholar; but what I mean is, that he made a point of immediately leaving the room if Richard’s name was mentioned; and did it in so marked a manner, that by degrees they understood that it was their father’s desire that he should never be alluded to; which was all very well as long as there was nothing pleasant to be said about him; but to-night I am going there, and shall take good care he does not escape me before I have told him all I have heard and observed about Richard. He will never be a hero of virtue, for his education has drained him of all moral courage; but with care, and the absence of all strong temptation for a time, he will do very well; nothing to gratify paternal pride, but certainly nothing to be ashamed of.”
It was on the Sunday after this that the little circumstance to which I have alluded took place.
During the afternoon service, Mr. Benson became aware that the large Bradshaw pew was no longer unoccupied. In a dark corner Mr. Bradshaw’s white head was to be seen, bowed down low in prayer. When last he had worshipped there, the hair on that head was iron-grey, and even in prayer he had stood erect, with an air of conscious righteousness sufficient for all his wants, and even some to spare with which to judge others. Now, that white and hoary head was never uplifted; part of his unobtrusiveness might, it is true, be attributed to the uncomfortable feeling which was sure to attend any open withdrawal of the declaration he had once made, never to enter the chapel in which Mr. Benson was minister again; and as such a feeling was natural to all men, and especially to such a one as Mr. Bradshaw, Mr. Benson instinctively respected it, and passed out of the chapel with his household, without ever directing his regards to the obscure place where Mr. Bradshaw still remained immovable.
From this day Mr. Benson felt sure that the old friendly feeling existed once more between them, although some time might elapse before any circumstance gave the signal for a renewal of their intercourse.
CHAPTER XXXIII
A MOTHER TO BE PROUD OF
Old people tell of certain years when typhus fever swept over the country like a pestilence; years that bring back the remembrance of deep sorrow–refusing to be comforted–to many a household; and which those whose beloved passed through the fiery time unscathed, shrink from recalling for great and tremulous was the anxiety–miserable the constant watching for evil symptoms; and beyond the threshold of home a dense cloud of depression hung over society at large. It seemed as if the alarm was proportionate to the previous light-heartedness of fancied security–and indeed it was so; for, since the days of King Belshazzar, the solemn decrees of Doom have ever seemed most terrible when they awe into silence the merry revellers of life. So it was this year to which I come in the progress of my story.
The summer had been unusually gorgeous. Some had complained of the steaming heat, but others had pointed to the lush vegetation, which was profuse and luxuriant. The early autumn was wet and cold, but people did not regard it, in contemplation of some proud rejoicing of the nation, which filled every newspaper and gave food to every tongue. In Eccleston these rejoicings were greater than in most places; for, by the national triumph of arms, it was supposed that a new market for the staple manufacture of the place would be opened; and so the trade, which had for a year or two been languishing, would now revive with redoubled vigour. Besides these legitimate causes of good spirits, there was the rank excitement of a coming election, in consequence of Mr. Donne having accepted a Government office, procured for him by one of his influential relations. This time, the Cranworths roused themselves from their magnificent torpor of security in good season, and were going through a series of pompous and ponderous hospitalities, in order to bring back the Eccleston voters to their allegiance.
While the town was full of these subjects by turns–now thinking and speaking of the great revival of trade–now of the chances of the election, as yet some weeks distant–now of the balls at Cranworth Court, in which Mr. Cranworth had danced with all the belles of the shopocracy of Eccleston–there came creeping, creeping, in hidden, slimy courses, the terrible fever–that fever which is never utterly banished from the sad haunts of vice and misery, but lives in such darkness, like a wild beast in the recesses of his den. It had begun in the low Irish lodging-houses; but there it was so common it excited little attention. The poor creatures died almost without the attendance of the unwarned medical men, who received their first notice of the spreading plague from the Roman Catholic priests.
Before the medical men of Eccleston had had time to meet together and consult, and compare the knowledge of the fever which they had severally gained, it had, like the blaze of a fire which had long smouldered, burst forth in many places at once–not merely among the loose-living and vicious, but among the decently poor–nay, even among the well-to-do and respectable. And, to add to the horror, like all similar pestilences, its course was most rapid at first, and was fatal in the great majority of cases–hopeless from the beginning. There was a cry, and then a deep silence, and then rose the long wail of the survivors.
A portion of the Infirmary of the town was added to that already set apart for a fever-ward; the smitten were carried thither at once, whenever it was possible, in order to prevent the spread of infection; and on that lazar-house was concentrated all the medical skill and force of the place.
But when one of the physicians had died, in consequence of his attendance–when the customary staff of matrons and nurses had been swept off in two days–and the nurses belonging to the Infirmary had shrunk from being drafted into the pestilential fever-ward–when high wages had failed to tempt any to what, in their panic, they considered as certain death–when the doctors stood aghast at the swift mortality among the untended sufferers, who were dependent only on the care of the most ignorant hirelings, too brutal to recognize the solemnity of Death (all this had happened within a week from the first acknowledgment of the presence of the plague)–Ruth came one day, with a quieter step than usual, into Mr. Benson’s study, and told him she wanted to speak to him for a few minutes.
“To be sure, my dear! Sit down:” said he; for she was standing and leaning her head against the chimney-piece, idly gazing into the fire. She went on standing there, as if she had not heard his words; and it was a few moments before she began to speak. Then she said–
“I want to tell you, that I have been this morning and offered myself as matron to the fever-ward while it is so full. They have accepted me; and I am going this evening.”
“Oh, Ruth! I feared this; I saw your look this morning as we spoke of this terrible illness.”
“Why do you say ‘fear’, Mr. Benson? You yourself have been with John Harrison, and old Betty, and many others, I dare say, of whom we have not heard.”
“But this is so different! in such poisoned air! among such malignant cases! Have you thought and weighed it enough, Ruth?”
She was quite still for a moment, but her eyes grew full of tears. At last she said, very softly, with a kind of still solemnity–
“Yes! I have thought, and I have weighed. But through the very midst of all my fears and thoughts I have felt that I must go.”
The remembrance of Leonard was present in both their minds; but for a few moments longer they neither of them spoke. Then Ruth said–
“I believe I have no fear. That is a great preservative, they say. At any rate, if I have a little natural shrinking, it is quite gone when I remember that I am in God’s hands! Oh, Mr. Benson,” continued she, breaking out into the irrepressible tears–“Leonard, Leonard!”
And now it was his turn to speak out the brave words of faith.
“Poor, poor mother!” said he. “But be of good heart. He, too, is in God’s hands. Think what a flash of time only will separate you from him, if you should die in this work!”
“But he–but he–it will belong to him, Mr. Benson! He will be alone!”
“No, Ruth, he will not. God and all good men will watch over him. But if you cannot still this agony of fear as to what will become of him, you ought not to go. Such tremulous passion will predispose you to take the fever.”
“I will not be afraid,” she replied, lifting up her face, over which a bright light shone, as of God’s radiance. “I am not afraid for myself. I will not be so for my darling.”
After a little pause, they began to arrange the manner of her going, and to speak about the length of time that she might be absent on her temporary duties. In talking of her return, they assumed it to be certain, although the exact time when was to them unknown, and would be dependent entirely on the duration of the fever; but not the less, in their secret hearts, did they feel where alone the issue lay. Ruth was to communicate with Leonard and Miss Faith through Mr. Benson alone, who insisted on his determination to go every evening to the hospital to learn the proceedings of the day, and the state of Ruth’s health.
“It is not alone on your account, my dear! There may be many sick people of whom, if I can give no other comfort, I can take intelligence to their friends.”
All was settled with grave composure; yet still Ruth lingered, as if nerving herself up for some effort. At length she said, with a faint smile upon her pale face–
“I believe I am a great coward. I stand here talking because I dread to tell Leonard.”
“You must not think of it,” exclaimed he. “Leave it to me. It is sure to unnerve you.”
“I must think of it. I shall have self-control enough in a minute to do it calmly–to speak hopefully. For only think,” continued she, smiling through the tears that would gather in her eyes, “what a comfort the remembrance of the last few words may be to the poor fellow, if—-” The words were choked, but she smiled bravely on. “No!” said she, “that must be done; but perhaps you will spare me one thing–will you tell Aunt Faith? I suppose I am very weak, but, knowing that I must go, and not knowing what may be the end, I feel as if I could not bear to resist her entreaties just at last. Will you tell her, sir, while I go to Leonard?”
Silently he consented, and the two rose up and came forth, calm and serene. And calmly and gently did Ruth tell her boy of her purpose; not daring even to use any unaccustomed tenderness of voice or gesture, lest, by so doing, she should alarm him unnecessarily as to the result. She spoke hopefully, and bade him be of good courage; and he caught her bravery, though his, poor boy, had root rather in his ignorance of the actual imminent danger than in her deep faith. When he had gone down, Ruth began to arrange her dress. When she came downstairs she went into the old familiar garden and gathered a nosegay of the last lingering autumn flowers–a few roses and the like.
Mr. Benson had tutored his sister well; and, although Miss Faith’s face was swollen with crying, she spoke with almost exaggerated cheerfulness to Ruth. Indeed, as they all stood at the front door, making-believe to have careless nothings to say, just as at an ordinary leave-taking, you would not have guessed the strained chords of feeling there were in each heart. They lingered on, the last rays of the setting sun falling on the group. Ruth once or twice had roused herself to the pitch of saying “Good-bye,” but when her eye fell on Leonard she was forced to hide the quivering of her lips, and conceal her trembling mouth amid the bunch of roses.
“They won’t let you have your flowers, I’m afraid,” said Miss Benson. “Doctors so often object to the smell.”
“No; perhaps not,” said Ruth hurriedly. “I did not think of it. I will only keep this one rose. Here, Leonard darling!” She gave the rest to him. It was her farewell; for having now no veil to hide her emotion, she summoned all her bravery for one parting smile, and, smiling, turned away. But she gave one look back from the street, just from the last point at which the door could be seen, and, catching a glimpse of Leonard standing foremost on the step, she ran back, and he met her half-way, and mother and child spoke never a word in that close embrace.
“Now, Leonard,” said Miss Faith, “be a brave boy. I feel sure she will come back to us before very long.”
But she was very near crying herself; and she would have given way, I believe, if she had not found the wholesome outlet of scolding Sally, for expressing just the same opinion respecting Ruth’s proceedings as she herself had done not two hours before. Taking what her brother had said to her as a text, she delivered such a lecture to Sally on want of faith that she was astonished at herself, and so much affected by what she had said that she had to shut the door of communication between the kitchen and the parlour pretty hastily, in order to prevent Sally’s threatened reply from weakening her belief in the righteousness of what Ruth had done. Her words had gone beyond her conviction.
Evening after evening Mr. Benson went forth to gain news of Ruth; and night after night he returned with good tidings. The fever, it is true, raged; but no plague came nigh her. He said her face was ever calm and bright, except when clouded by sorrow as she gave the accounts of the deaths which occurred in spite of every care. He said that he had never seen her face so fair and gentle as it was now, when she was living in the midst of disease and woe.
One evening Leonard (for they had grown bolder as to the infection) accompanied him to the street on which the hospital abutted. Mr. Benson left him there, and told him to return home; but the boy lingered, attracted by the crowd that had gathered, and were gazing up intently towards the lighted windows of the hospital. There was nothing beyond that to be seen; but the greater part of these poor people had friends or relations in that palace of Death. Leonard stood and listened. At first their talk consisted of vague and exaggerated accounts (if such could be exaggerated) of the horrors of the fever. Then they spoke of Ruth–of his mother; and Leonard held his breath to hear.
“They say she has been a great sinner, and that this is her penance, quoth one. And as Leonard gasped, before rushing forward to give the speaker straight the lie, an old man spoke–
“Such a one as her has never been a great sinner; nor does she do her work as a penance, but for the love of God, and of the blessed Jesus. She will be in the light of God’s countenance when you and I will be standing afar off. I tell you, man, when my poor wench died, as no one would come near, her head lay at that hour on this woman’s sweet breast. I could fell you,” the old man went on, lifting his shaking arm, “for calling that woman a great sinner. The blessing of them who were ready to perish is upon her.”
Immediately there arose a clamour of tongues, each with some tale of his mother’s gentle doings, till Leonard grew dizzy with the beatings of his glad, proud heart. Few were aware how much Ruth had done; she never spoke of it, shrinking with sweet shyness from over-much allusion to her own work at all times. Her left hand truly knew not what her right hand did; and Leonard was overwhelmed now to hear of the love and the reverence with which the poor and outcast had surrounded her. It was irrepressible. He stepped forward with a proud bearing, and, touching the old man’s arm who had first spoken, Leonard tried to speak; but for an instant he could not, his heart was too full: tears came before words, but at length he managed to say–
“Sir, I am her son!”
“Thou! thou her bairn! God bless you, lad,” said an old woman, pushing through the crowd. “It was but last night she kept my child quiet with singing psalms the night through. Low and sweet, low and sweet, they tell me–till many poor things were hushed, though they were out of their minds, and had not heard psalms this many a year. God in heaven bless you, lad!”
Many other wild, woe-begone creatures pressed forward with blessings on Ruth’s son, while he could only repeat–
“She is my mother.”
From that day forward Leonard walked erect in the streets of Eccleston, where “many arose and called her blessed.”
After some weeks the virulence of the fever abated; and the general panic subsided–indeed, a kind of fool-hardiness succeeded. To be sure, in some instances the panic still held possession of individuals to an exaggerated extent. But the number of patients in the hospital was rapidly diminishing, and, for money, those were to be found who could supply Ruth’s place. But to her it was owing that the overwrought fear of the town was subdued; it was she who had gone voluntarily, and, with no thought of greed or gain, right into the very jaws of the fierce disease. She bade the inmates of the hospital farewell, and after carefully submitting herself to the purification recommended by Mr. Davis, the principal surgeon of the place, who had always attended Leonard, she returned to Mr. Benson’s just at gloaming time.
They each vied with the other in the tenderest cares. They hastened tea; they wheeled the sofa to the fire; they made her lie down; and to all she submitted with the docility of a child; and, when the candles came, even Mr. Benson’s anxious eye could see no change in her looks, but that she seemed a little paler. The eyes were as full of spiritual light, the gently parted lips as rosy, and the smile, if more rare, yet as sweet as ever.
CHAPTER XXXIV
“I MUST GO AND NURSE MR. BELLINGHAM”
The next morning Miss Benson would insist upon making Ruth lie down on the sofa. Ruth longed to do many things; to be much more active; but she submitted, when she found that it would gratify Miss Faith if she remained as quiet as if she were really an invalid.
Leonard sat by her holding her hand. Every now and then he looked up from his book, as if to make sure that she indeed was restored to him. He had brought her down the flowers which she had given him the day of her departure, and which he had kept in water as long as they had any greenness or fragrance, and then had carefully dried and put by. She too, smiling, had produced the one rose which she had carried away to the hospital. Never had the bond between her and her boy been drawn so firm and strong.
Many visitors came this day to the quiet Chapel-house. First of all Mrs. Farquhar appeared. She looked very different from the Jemima Bradshaw of three years ago. Happiness had called out beauty; the colouring of her face was lovely, and vivid as that of an autumn day; her berry red lips scarce closed over the short white teeth for her smiles; and her large dark eyes glowed and sparkled with daily happiness. They were softened by a mist of tears as she looked upon Ruth.
“Lie still! Don’t move! You must be content to-day to be waited upon, and nursed! I have just seen Miss Benson in the lobby, and had charge upon charge not to fatigue you. Oh, Ruth! how we all love you, now we have you back again! Do you know, I taught Rosa to say her prayers as soon as ever you were gone to that horrid place, just on purpose that her little innocent lips might pray for you–I wish you could hear her say it–‘Please, dear God, keep Ruth safe.’ Oh, Leonard! are not you proud of your mother?”
Leonard said “Yes,” rather shortly, as if he were annoyed that any one else should know, or even have a right to imagine, how proud he was. Jemima went on–
“Now, Ruth! I have got a plan for you. Walter and I have partly made it; and partly it’s papa’s doing. Yes, dear! papa has been quite anxious to show his respect for you. We all want you to go to the dear Eagle’s Crag for this next month, and get strong, and have some change in that fine air at Abermouth. I am going to take little Rosa there. Papa has lent it to us. And the weather is often very beautiful in November.”
“Thank you very much. It is very tempting; for I have been almost longing for some such change. I cannot tell all at once whether I can go; but I will see about it, if you will let me leave it open a little.”
“Oh! as long as you like, so that you will but go at last. And, Master Leonard! you are to come too. Now, I know I have you on my side.” Ruth thought of the place. Her only reluctance arose from the remembrance of that one interview on the sands. That walk she could never go again; but how much remained! How much that would be a charming balm and refreshment to her!
“What happy evenings we shall have together! Do you know, I think Mary and Elizabeth may perhaps come.”
A bright gleam of sunshine came into the room. “Look! how bright and propitious for our plans. Dear Ruth, it seems like an omen for the future!”
Almost while she spoke, Miss Benson entered, bringing with her Mr. Grey, the rector of Eccleston. He was an elderly man, short, and stoutly built, with something very formal in his manner; but any one might feel sure of his steady benevolence who noticed the expression of his face, and especially of the kindly black eyes that gleamed beneath his grey and shaggy eyebrows. Ruth had seen him at the hospital once or twice, and Mrs. Farquhar had met him pretty frequently in general society.
“Go and tell your uncle,” said Miss Benson to Leonard.
“Stop, my boy! I have just met Mr. Benson in the street, and my errand now is to your mother. I should like you to remain and hear what it is; and I am sure that my business will give these ladies,”–bowing to Miss Benson and Jemima–“so much pleasure, that I need not apologise for entering upon it in their presence.” He pulled out his double eye-glass, saying, with a grave smile–
“You ran away from us yesterday so quietly and cunningly, Mrs. Denbigh, that you were, perhaps, not aware that the Board was sitting at that very time, and trying to form a vote sufficiently expressive of our gratitude to you. As chairman, they requested me to present you with this letter, which I shall have the pleasure of reading.”
With all due emphasis he read aloud a formal letter from the Secretary to the Infirmary, conveying a vote of thanks to Ruth.
The good rector did not spare her one word, from date to signature; and then, folding the letter up, he gave it to Leonard, saying–
“There, sir! when you are an old man, you may read that testimony to your mother’s noble conduct with pride and pleasure. For, indeed,” continued he, turning to Jemima, “no words can express the relief it was to us. I speak of the gentlemen composing the Board of the Infirmary. When Mrs. Denbigh came forward, the panic was at its height, and the alarm of course aggravated the disorder. The poor creatures died rapidly; there was hardly time to remove the dead bodies before others were brought in to occupy the beds, so little help was to be procured on account of the universal terror; and the morning when Mrs. Denbigh offered us her services we seemed at the very worst. I shall never forget the sensation of relief in my mind when she told us what she proposed to do; but we thought it right to warn her to the full extent–
“Nay, madam,” said he, catching a glimpse of Ruth’s changing colour, “I will spare you any more praises. I will only say, if I can be a friend to you, or a friend to your child, you may command my poor powers to the utmost.”
He got up, and, bowing formally, he took his leave. Jemima came and kissed Ruth. Leonard went upstairs to put the precious letter away. Miss Benson sat crying heartily in a corner of the room. Ruth went to her, and threw her arms round her neck, and said–
“I could not tell him just then. I durst not speak for fear of breaking down; but if I have done right, it was all owing to you and Mr. Benson. Oh! I wish I had said how the thought first came into my head from seeing the things Mr. Benson has done so quietly ever since the fever first came amongst us. I could not speak; and it seemed as if I was taking those praises to myself, when all the time I was feeling how little I deserved them–how it was all owing to you.”
“Under God, Ruth,” said Miss Benson, speaking through her tears.
“Oh! think there is nothing humbles one so much as undue praise. While he was reading that letter, I could not help feeling how many things I have done wrong! Could he know of–of what I have been?” asked she, dropping her voice very low.
“Yes!” said Jemima, “he knew–everybody in Eccleston did know–but the remembrance of those days is swept away. Miss Benson,” she continued, for she was anxious to turn the subject, “you must be on my side, and persuade Ruth to come to Abermouth for a few weeks. I want her and Leonard both to come.”
“I’m afraid my brother will think that Leonard is missing his lessons sadly. Just of late we could not wonder that the poor child’s heart was so full; but he must make haste, and get on all the more for his idleness.” Miss Benson piqued herself on being a disciplinarian.
“Oh, as for lessons, Walter is so very anxious that you should give way to his superior wisdom, Ruth, and let Leonard go to school. He will send him to any school you fix upon, according to the mode of life you plan for him.”
“I have no plan,” said Ruth. “I have no means of planning. All I can do is to try and make him ready for anything.”
“Well,” said Jemima, “we must talk it over at Abermouth; for I am sure you won’t refuse to come, dearest, dear Ruth! Think of the quiet, sunny days, and the still evenings, that we shall have together, with little Rosa to tumble about among the fallen leaves; and there’s Leonard to have his first sight of the sea.”
“I do think of it,” said Ruth, smiling at the happy picture Jemima drew. And both smiling at the hopeful prospect before them, they parted–never to meet again in life.
No sooner had Mrs. Farquhar gone than Sally burst in.
“Oh! dear, dear!” said she, looking around her. “If I had but known that the rector was coming to call I’d ha’ put on the best covers, and the Sunday tablecloth! You’re well enough,” continued she, surveying Ruth from head to foot; “you’re always trim and dainty in your gowns, though I reckon they cost but tuppence a yard, and you’ve a face to set ’em off; but as for you” (as she turned to Miss Benson), “I think you might ha’ had something better on than that old stuff, if it had only been to do credit to a parishioner like me, whom he has known ever sin’ my father was his clerk.”
“You forget, Sally, I had been making jelly all the morning. How could I tell it was Mr. Grey when there was a knock at the door?” Miss Benson replied.
“You might ha’ letten me do the jelly; I’se warrant I could ha’ pleased Ruth as well as you. If I had but known he was coming, I’d ha’ slipped round the corner and bought ye a neck-ribbon, or summut to lighten ye up. I’se loth he should think I’m living with Dissenters, that don’t know how to keep themselves trig and smart.”
“Never mind, Sally; he never thought of me. What he came for, was to see Ruth; and, as you say, she’s always neat and dainty.”
“Well! I reckon it cannot be helped now; but, if I buy ye a ribbon, will you promise to wear it when Church folks come? for I cannot abide the way they have of scoffing at the Dissenters about their dress.”
“Very well! we’ll make that bargain,” said Miss Benson; “and now, Ruth, I’ll go and fetch you a cup of warm jelly.”
“Oh! indeed, Aunt Faith,” said Ruth, “I am very sorry to balk you; but if you’re going to treat me as an invalid, I am afraid I shall rebel.”
But when she found that Aunt Faith’s heart was set upon it, she submitted very graciously: only dimpling up a little, as she found that she must consent to lie on the sofa, and be fed, when, in truth, she felt full of health, with a luxurious sensation of languor stealing over her now and then, just enough to make it very pleasant to think of the salt breezes, and the sea beauty which awaited her at Abermouth.
Mr. Davis called in the afternoon, and his visit was also to Ruth. Mr. and Miss Benson were sitting with her in the parlour, and watching her with contented love, as she employed herself in household sewing, and hopefully spoke about the Abermouth plan.
“Well! so you had our worthy rector here to-day; I am come on something of the same kind of errand; only I shall spare you the reading of my letter, which, I’ll answer for it, he did not. Please to take notice,” said he, putting down a sealed letter, “that I have delivered you a vote of thanks from my medical brothers; and open and read it at your leisure; only not just now, for I want to have a little talk with you on my own behoof. I want to ask you a favour, Mrs. Denbigh.”
“A favour!” exclaimed Ruth; “what can I do for you? I think I may say I will do it, without hearing what it is.”
“Then you’re a very imprudent woman,” replied he; “however, I’ll take you at your word. I want you to give me your boy.”
“Leonard?”
“Ay! there it is, you see, Mr. Benson. One minute she is as ready as can be, and the next she looks at me as if I was an ogre!”
“Perhaps we don’t understand what you mean,” said Mr. Benson.
“The thing is this. You know I’ve no children; and I can’t say I’ve ever fretted over it much; but my wife has; and whether it is that she has infected me, or that I grieve over my good practice going to a stranger, when I ought to have had a son to take it after me, I don’t know; but, of late, I’ve got to look with covetous eyes on all healthy boys, and at last I’ve settled down my wishes on this Leonard of yours, Mrs. Denbigh.”
Ruth could not speak; for, even yet, she did not understand what he meant. He went on–
“Now, how old is the lad?” He asked Ruth, but Miss Benson replied–
“He’ll be twelve next February.”
“Umph! only twelve! He’s tall and old-looking for his age. You look young enough, it is true.” He said this last sentence as if to himself, but seeing Ruth crimson up, ho abruptly changed his tone.
“Twelve, is he? Well, I take him from now. I don’t mean that I really take him away from you,” said he, softening all at once, and becoming grave and considerate. “His being your son–the son of one whom I have seen–as I have seen you, Mrs. Denbigh (out and out the best nurse I ever met with, Miss Benson; and good nurses are things we doctors know how to value)–his being your son is his great recommendation to me; not but what the lad himself is a noble boy. I shall be glad to leave him with you as long and as much as we can; he could not be tied to your apron-strings all his life, you know. Only I provide for his education, subject to your consent and good pleasure, and he is bound apprentice to me. I, his guardian, bind him to myself, the first surgeon in Eccleston, be the other who he may; and in process of time he becomes partner, and some day or other succeeds me. Now, Mrs. Denbigh, what have you got to say against this plan? My wife is just as full of it as me. Come; begin with your objections. You’re not a woman if you have not a whole bag-full of them ready to turn out against any reasonable proposal.”
“I don’t know,” faltered Ruth. “It is so sudden—-“
“It is very, very kind of you, Mr. Davis,” said Miss Benson, a little scandalised at Ruth’s non-expression of gratitude.
“Pooh! pooh! I’ll answer for it, in the long-run, I am taking good care of my own interests. Come, Mrs. Denbigh, is it a bargain?”
Now Mr. Benson spoke.
“Mr. Davis, it is rather sudden, as she says. As far as I can see, it is the best as well as the kindest proposal that could have been made; but I think we must give her a little time to think about it.”
“Well, twenty-four hours! Will that do?”
Ruth lifted up her head. “Mr. Davis, I am not ungrateful because I can’t thank you” (she was crying while she spoke); “let me have a fortnight to consider about it. In a fortnight I will make up my mind. Oh, how good you all are!”
“Very well. Then this day fortnight–Thursday the 28th–you will let me know your decision. Mind! if it’s against me, I sha’n’t consider it a decision, for I’m determined to carry my point. I’m not going to make Mrs. Denbigh blush, Mr. Benson, by telling you, in her presence, of all I have observed about her this last three weeks, that has made me sure of the good qualities I shall find in this boy of hers. I was watching her when she little thought of it. Do you remember that night when Hector O’Brien was so furiously delirious, Mrs. Denbigh?”
Ruth went very white at the remembrance.
“Why now, look there! how pale she is at the very thought of it! And yet, I assure you, she was the one to go up and take the piece of glass from him which he had broken out of the window for the sole purpose of cutting his throat, or the throat of any one else, for that matter. I wish we had some others as brave as she is.”
“I thought the great panic was passed away!” said Mr. Benson.
“Ay! the general feeling of alarm is much weaker; but, here and there, there are as great fools as ever. Why, when I leave here, I am going to see our precious member, Mr. Donne—-“
“Mr. Donne?” said Ruth.
“Mr. Donne, who lies ill at the Queen’s–came last week, with the intention of canvassing, but was too much alarmed by what he heard of the fever to set to work; and, in spite of all his precautions, he has taken it; and you should see the terror they are in at the hotel; landlord, landlady, waiters, servants–all; there’s not a creature will go near him, if they can help it; and there’s only his groom–a lad he saved from drowning, I’m told–to do anything for him. I must get him a proper nurse, somehow or somewhere, for all my being a Cranworth man. Ah, Mr. Benson! you don’t know the temptations we medical men have. Think, if I allowed your member to die now as he might very well, if he had no nurse–how famously Mr. Cranworth would walk over the course!–Where’s Mrs. Denbigh gone to? I hope I’ve not frightened her away by reminding her of Hector O’Brien, and that awful night, when I do assure you she behaved like a heroine!”
As Mr. Benson was showing Mr. Davis out, Ruth opened the study-door, and said, in a very calm, low voice–
“Mr. Benson! will you allow me to speak to Mr. Davis alone?”
Mr. Benson immediately consented, thinking that, in all probability, she wished to ask some further questions about Leonard; but as Mr. Davis came into the room, and shut the door, he was struck by her pale, stern face of determination, and awaited her speaking first.
“Mr. Davis! I must go and nurse Mr. Bellingham,” said she at last, clenching her hands tight together; but no other part of her body moving from its intense stillness.
“Mr. Bellingham?” asked he, astonished at the name.
“Mr. Donne, I mean,” said she hurriedly. “His name was Bellingham.”
“Oh! I remember hearing he had changed his name for some property. But you must not think of any more such work just now. You are not fit for it. You are looking as white as ashes.”
“I must go,” she repeated.
“Nonsense! Here’s a man who can pay for the care of the first hospital nurses in London–and I doubt if his life is worth the risk of one of theirs even, much more of yours.”
“We have no right to weigh human lives against each other.”
“No! I know we have not. But it’s a way we doctors are apt to get into; and, at any rate, it’s ridiculous of you to think of such a thing. Just listen to reason.”
“I can’t! I can’t!” cried she, with a sharp pain in her voice. “You must let me go, dear Mr. Davis!” said she, now speaking with soft entreaty. “No!” said he, shaking his head authoritatively. “I’ll do no such thing.” “Listen!” said she, dropping her voice, and going all over the deepest scarlet; “he is Leonard’s father! Now! you will let me go!” Mr. Davis was indeed staggered by what she said, and for a moment he did not speak. So she went on– “You will not tell! You must not tell! No one knows, not even Mr. Benson, who it was. And now–it might do him so much harm to have it known. You will not tell!”
“No! I will not tell,” replied he. “But, Mrs. Denbigh, you must answer me this one question, which I ask you in all true respect, but which I must ask, in order to guide both myself and you aright–of course I knew Leonard was illegitimate–in fact, I will give you secret for secret; it was being so myself that first made me sympathise with him, and desire to adopt him. I knew that much of your history; but tell me, do you now care for this man? Answer me truly–do you love him?”
For a moment or two she did not speak; her head was bent down; then she raised it up, and looked with clear and honest eyes into his face.
“I have been thinking–but I do not know–I cannot tell–I don’t think I should love him, if he were well and happy–but you said he was ill–and alone–how can I help caring for him? How can I help caring for him?” repeated she, covering her face with her hands, and the quick hot tears stealing through her fingers.
“He is Leonard’s father,” continued she, looking up at Mr. Davis suddenly. “He need not know–he shall not–that I have ever been near him. If he is like the others, he must be delirious–I will leave him before he comes to himself–but now let me go–I must go.”
“I wish my tongue had been bitten out before I had named him to you. He would do well enough without you; and, I dare say, if he recognises you, he will only be annoyed.”
“It is very likely,” said Ruth heavily.
“Annoyed–why! he may curse you for your unasked-for care of him. I have heard my poor mother–and she was as pretty and delicate a creature as you are–cursed for showing tenderness when it was not wanted. Now, be persuaded by an old man like me, who has seen enough of life to make his heart ache–leave this fine gentleman to his fate. I’ll promise you to get him as good a nurse as can be had for money.”
“No!” said Ruth, with dull persistency–as if she had not attended to his dissuasions; “I must go. I will leave him before he recognises me.”
“Why, then,” said the old surgeon, “if you’re so bent upon it, I suppose I must let you. It is but what my mother would have done–poor, heart-broken thing! However, come along, and let us make the best of it. It saves me a deal of trouble, I know; for, if I have you for a right hand, I need not worry myself continually with wondering how he is taken care of. Go get your bonnet, you tender-hearted fool of a woman! Let us get you out of the house without any more scenes or explanations; I’ll make all straight with the Bensons.”
“You will not tell my secret, Mr. Davis,” she said abruptly.
“No! not I! Does the woman think I had never to keep a secret of the kind before? I only hope he’ll lose his election, and never come near the place again. After all,” continued he, sighing, “I suppose it is but human nature!” He began recalling the circumstances of his own early life, and dreamily picturing scenes in the grey dying embers of the fire; and he was almost startled when she stood before him, ready equipped, grave, pale, and quiet.
“Come along!” said he. “If you’re to do any good at all, it must be in these next three days. After that, I’ll ensure his life for this bout; and mind! I shall send you home then; for he might know you, and I’ll have no excitement to throw him back again, and no sobbing and crying from you. But now every moment your care is precious to him. I shall tell my own story to the Bensons, as soon as I have installed you.”
Mr. Donne lay in the best room of the Queen’s Hotel–no one with him but his faithful, ignorant servant, who was as much afraid of the fever as any one else could be, but who, nevertheless, would not leave his master–his master who had saved his life as a child, and afterwards put him in the stables at Bellingham Hall, where he learnt all that he knew. He stood in a farther corner of the room, watching his delirious master with affrighted eyes, not daring to come near him, nor yet willing to leave him.
“Oh! if that doctor would but come! He’ll kill himself or me–and them stupid servants won’t stir a step over the threshold; how shall I get over the night? Blessings on him–here’s the old doctor back again! I hear him creaking and scolding up the stairs!”
The door opened, and Mr. Davis entered, followed by Ruth.
“Here’s the nurse, my good man–such a nurse as there is not in the three counties. Now, all you’ll have to do is to mind what she says.”
“Oh, sir! he’s mortal bad! won’t you stay with us through the night, sir?”
“Look here!” whispered Mr. Davis to the man, “see how she knows how to manage him! Why, I could not do it better myself!”
She had gone up to the wild, raging figure, and with soft authority had made him lie down: and then, placing a basin of cold water by the bedside, she had dipped in it her pretty hands, and was laying their cool dampness on his hot brow, speaking in a low soothing voice all the time, in a way that acted like a charm in hushing his mad talk.
“But I will stay,” said the doctor, after he had examined his patient; “as much on her account as his, and partly to quieten the fears of this poor, faithful fellow.”
CHAPTER XXXV
OUT OF DARKNESS INTO LIGHT
The third night after this was to be the crisis–the turning-point between Life and Death. Mr. Davis came again to pass it by the bedside of the sufferer. Ruth was there, constant and still, intent upon watching the symptoms, and acting according to them, in obedience to Mr. Davis’s directions. She had never left the room. Every sense had been strained in watching–every power of thought or judgment had been kept on the full stretch. Now that Mr. Davis came and took her place, and that the room was quiet for the night, she became oppressed with heaviness, which yet did not tend to sleep. She could not remember the present time, or where she was. All times of her earliest youth–the days of her childhood–were in her memory with a minuteness and fulness of detail which was miserable; for all along she felt that she had no real grasp on the scenes that were passing through her mind–that, somehow, they were long gone by, and gone by for ever–and yet she could not remember who she was now, nor where she was, and whether she had now any interests in life to take the place of those which she was conscious had passed away, although their remembrance filled her mind with painful acuteness. Her head lay on her arms, and they rested on the table. Every now and then she opened her eyes, and saw the large room, handsomely furnished with articles that were each one incongruous with the other, as if bought at sales. She saw the flickering night-light–she heard the ticking of the watch, and the two breathings, each going on at a separate rate–one hurried, abruptly stopping, and then panting violently, as if to make up for lost time; and the other slow, steady, and regular, as if the breather was asleep; but this supposition was contradicted by an occasional repressed sound of yawning. The sky through the uncurtained window looked dark and black–would this night never have an end? Had the sun gone down for ever, and would the world at last awaken to a general sense of everlasting night?
Then she felt as if she ought to get up, and go and see how the troubled sleeper in yonder bed was struggling through his illness; but she could not remember who the sleeper was, and she shrunk from seeing some phantom-face on the pillow, such as now began to haunt the dark corners of the room, and look at her, jibbering and mowing as they looked. So she covered her face again, and sank into a whirling stupor of sense and feeling. By-and-by she heard her fellow-watcher stirring, and a dull wonder stole over her as to what he was doing; but the heavy languor pressed her down, and kept her still. At last she heard the words, “Come here,” and listlessly obeyed the command. She had to steady herself in the rocking chamber before she could walk to the bed by which Mr. Davis stood; but the effort to do so roused her, and, though conscious of an oppressive headache, she viewed with sudden and clear vision all the circumstances of her present position. Mr. Davis was near the head of the bed, holding the night-lamp high, and shading it with his hand, that it might not disturb the sick person, who lay with his face towards them, in feeble exhaustion, but with every sign that the violence of the fever had left him. It so happened that the rays of the lamp fell bright and full upon Ruth’s countenance, as she stood with her crimson lips parted with the hurrying breath, and the fever-flush brilliant on her cheeks. Her eyes were wide open, and their pupils distended. She looked on the invalid in silence, and hardly understood why Mr. Davis had summoned her there.
“Don’t you see the change? He is better!–the crisis is past!”
But she did not speak her looks were riveted on his softly-unclosing eyes, which met hers as they opened languidly. She could not stir or speak. She was held fast by that gaze of his, in which a faint recognition dawned, and grew to strength.
He murmured some words. They strained their sense to hear. He repeated them even lower than before; but this time they caught what he was saying.
“Where are the water-lilies? Where are the lilies in her hair?”
Mr. Davis drew Ruth away.
“He is still rambling,” said he. “But the fever has left him.”
The grey dawn was now filling the room with its cold light; was it that made Ruth’s cheek so deadly pale? Could that call out the wild entreaty of her look, as if imploring help against some cruel foe that held her fast, and was wrestling with her Spirit of Life? She held Mr. Davis’s arm. If she had let it go, she would have fallen.
“Take me home,” she said, and fainted dead away.
Mr. Davis carried her out of the chamber, and sent the groom to keep watch by his master. He ordered a fly to convey her to Mr. Benson’s, and lifted her in when it came, for she was still half unconscious. It was he who carried her upstairs to her room, where Miss Benson and Sally undressed and laid her in her bed.
He awaited their proceedings in Mr. Benson’s study. When Mr. Benson came in, Mr. Davis said–
“Don’t blame me. Don’t add to my self-reproach. I have killed her. I was a cruel fool to let her go. Don’t speak to me.”
“It may not be so bad,” said Mr. Benson, himself needing comfort in that shock.
“She may recover. She surely will recover. I believe she will.”
“No, no! she won’t. But by—-she shall, if I can save her.” Mr. Davis looked defiantly at Mr. Benson, as if he were Fate. “I tell you she shall recover, or else I am a murderer. What business had I to take her to nurse him—-“
He was cut short by Sally’s entrance and announcement, that Ruth was now prepared to see him.
From that time forward Mr. Davis devoted all his leisure, his skill, his energy, to save her. He called on the rival surgeon, to beg him to undertake the management of Mr. Donne’s recovery, saying, with his usual self-mockery, “I could not answer it to Mr. Cranworth if I had brought his opponent round, you know, when I had had such a fine opportunity in my power. Now, with your patients, and general Radical interest, it will be rather a feather in your cap; for he may want a good deal of care yet, though he is getting on famously–so rapidly, in fact, that it’s a strong temptation to me to throw him back–a relapse, you know.”
The other surgeon bowed gravely, apparently taking Mr. Davis in earnest, but certainly very glad of the job thus opportunely thrown in his way. In spite of Mr. Davis’s real and deep anxiety about Ruth, he could not help chuckling over his rival’s literal interpretation of all he had said.
“To be sure, what fools men are! I don’t know why one should watch and strive to keep them in the world. I have given this fellow something to talk about confidently to all his patients; I wonder how much stronger a dose the man would have swallowed! I must begin to take care of my practice for that lad yonder. Well-a-day! well-a-day! What was this sick fine gentleman sent here for, that she should run a chance of her life for him? or why was he sent into the world at all, for that matter?”
Indeed, however much Mr. Davis might labour with all his professional skill–however much they might all watch–and pray–and weep–it was but too evident that Ruth “home must go, and take her wages.” Poor, poor Ruth! It might be that, utterly exhausted by watching and nursing, first in the hospital, and than by the bedside of her former lover, the power of her constitution was worn out; or, it might be, her gentle, pliant sweetness, but she displayed no outrage or discord even in her delirium. There she lay in the attic-room in which her baby had been born, her watch over him kept, her confession to him made; and now she was stretched on the bed in utter helplessness, softly gazing at vacancy with her open, unconscious eyes, from which all the depth of their meaning had fled, and all they told of was of a sweet, child-like insanity within. The watchers could not touch her with their sympathy, or come near her in her dim world;–so, mutely, but looking at each other from time to time with tearful eyes, they took a poor comfort from the one evident fact that, though lost and gone astray, she was happy and at peace. They had never heard her sing; indeed, the simple art which her mother had taught her, had died, with her early joyousness, at that dear mother’s death. But now she sang continually, very slow, and low. She went from one old childish ditty to another without let or pause, keeping a strange sort of time with her pretty fingers, as they closed and unclosed themselves upon the counterpane. She never looked at any one with the slightest glimpse of memory or intelligence in her face; no, not even Leonard.
Her strength faded day by day; but she knew it not. Her sweet lips were parted to sing, even after the breath and the power to do so had left her, and her fingers fell idly on the bed. Two days she lingered thus–all but gone from them, and yet still there.
They stood around her bedside, not speaking, or sighing, or moaning; they were too much awed by the exquisite peacefulness of her look for that. Suddenly she opened wide her eyes, and gazed intently forwards, as if she saw some happy vision, which called out a lovely, rapturous, breathless smile. They held their very breaths.
“I see the Light coming,” said she. “The Light is coming,” she said. And, raising herself slowly, she stretched out her arms, and then fell back, very still for evermore.
They did not speak. Mr. Davis was the first to utter a word.
“It is over!” said he. “She is dead!”
Out rang through the room the cry of Leonard–
“Mother! mother! mother! You have not left me alone! You will not leave me alone! You are not dead! Mother! Mother!”
They had pent in his agony of apprehension till then, that no wail of her child might disturb her ineffable calm. But now there was a cry heard through the house, of one refusing to be comforted: “Mother! Mother!”
But Ruth lay dead.
CHAPTER XXXVI
THE END
A stupor of grief succeeded to Leonard’s passionate cries. He became so much depressed, physically as well as mentally, before the end of the day, that Mr. Davis was seriously alarmed for the consequences. He hailed with gladness a proposal made by the Farquhars, that the boy should be removed to their house, and placed under the fond care of his mother’s friend, who sent her own child to Abermouth the better to devote herself to Leonard.
When they told him of this arrangement, he at first refused to go and leave her: but when Mr. Benson said–
“She would have wished it, Leonard! Do it for her sake!” he went away very quietly; not speaking a word, after Mr. Benson had made the voluntary promise that he should see her once again. He neither spoke nor cried for many hours; and all Jemima’s delicate wiles were called forth, before his heavy heart could find the relief of tears. And then he was so weak, and his pulse so low, that all who loved him feared for his life.
Anxiety about him made a sad distraction from the sorrow for the dead. The three old people, who now formed the household in the Chapel-house, went about slowly and dreamily, each with a dull wonder at their hearts why they, the infirm and worn-out, were left, while she was taken in her lovely prime.
The third day after Ruth’s death, a gentleman came to the door and asked to speak to Mr. Benson. He was very much wrapped up in furs and cloaks, and the upper, exposed part of his face was sunk and hollow, like that of one but partially recovered from illness. Mr. and Miss Benson were at Mr. Farquhar’s, gone to see Leonard, and poor old Sally had been having a hearty cry over the kitchen fire before answering the door-knock. Her heart was tenderly inclined, just then, towards any one who had the aspect of suffering: so, although her master was out, and she was usually chary of admitting strangers, she proposed to Mr. Donne (for it was he), that he should come in and await Mr. Benson’s return in the study. He was glad enough to avail himself of her offer; for he was feeble and nervous, and come on a piece of business which he exceedingly disliked, and about which he felt very awkward. The fire was nearly, if not quite, out; nor did Sally’s vigorous blows do much good, although she left the room with an assurance that it would soon burn up. He leant against the chimney-piece, thinking over events, and with a sensation of discomfort, both external and internal, growing and gathering upon him. He almost wondered whether the proposal he meant to make with regard to Leonard could not be better arranged by letter than by an interview. He became very shivery, and impatient of the state of indecision to which his bodily weakness had reduced him. Sally opened the door and came in. “Would you like to walk upstairs, sir?” asked she in a trembling voice, for she had learnt who the visitor was from the driver of the fly, who had run up to the house to inquire what was detaining the gentleman that he had brought from the Queen’s Hotel; and, knowing that Ruth had caught the fatal fever from her attendance on Mr. Donne, Sally imagined that it was but a piece of sad civility to invite him upstairs to see the poor dead body, which she had laid out and decked for the grave, with such fond care that she had grown strangely proud of its marble beauty.
Mr. Donne was glad enough of any proposal of a change from the cold and comfortless room where he had thought uneasy, remorseful thoughts. He fancied that a change of place would banish the train of reflection that was troubling him; but the change he anticipated was to a well-warmed, cheerful sitting-room, with signs of life, and a bright fire therein, and he was on the last flight of stairs–at the door of the room where Ruth lay–before he understood whither Sally was conducting him. He shrank back for an instant, and then a strange sting of curiosity impelled him on. He stood in the humble low-roofed attic, the window open, and the tops of the distant snow-covered hills filling up the whiteness of the general aspect. He muffled himself up in his cloak, and shuddered, while Sally reverently drew down the sheet, and showed the beautiful, calm, still face, on which the last rapturous smile still lingered, giving an ineffable look of bright serenity. Her arms were crossed over her breast; the wimple-like cap marked the perfect oval of her face, while two braids of the waving auburn hair peeped out of the narrow border, and lay on the delicate cheeks.
He was awed into admiration by the wonderful beauty of that dead woman.
“How beautiful she is!” said he, beneath his breath. “Do all dead people look so peaceful–so happy?”
“Not all,” replied Sally, crying. “Few has been as good and as gentle as she was in their lives.” She quite shook with her sobbing.
Mr. Donne was disturbed by her distress.
“Come, my good woman! we must all die—-” he did not know what to say, and was becoming infected by her sorrow. “I am sure you loved her very much, and were very kind to her in her lifetime; you must take this from me to buy yourself some remembrance of her.” He had pulled out a sovereign, and really had a kindly desire to console her, and reward her, in offering it to her.
But she took her apron from her eyes, as soon as she became aware of what he was doing, and, still holding it midway in her hands, she looked at him indignantly, before she burst out–
“And who are you, that think to pay for my kindness to her by money? And I was not kind to you, my darling,” said she, passionately addressing the motionless, serene body–“I was not kind to you. I frabbed you, and plagued you from the first, my lamb! I came and cut off your pretty locks in this very room–I did–and you said never an angry word to me;–no! not then, nor many a time after, when I was very sharp and cross to you.–No! I never was kind to you, and I dunnot think the world was kind to you, my darling,–but you are gone where the angels are very tender to such as you–you are, my poor wench!” She bent down and kissed the lips, from whose marble, unyielding touch Mr. Donne recoiled, even in thought.
Just then Mr. Benson entered the room. He had returned home before his sister, and came upstairs in search of Sally, to whom he wanted to speak on some subject relating to the funeral. He bowed in recognition of Mr. Donne, whom he knew as the member for the town, and whose presence impressed him painfully, as his illness had been the proximate cause of Ruth’s death. But he tried to check this feeling, as it was no fault of Mr. Donne’s. Sally stole out of the room, to cry at leisure in her kitchen.
“I must apologise for being here,” said Mr. Donne. “I was hardly conscious where your servant was leading me to, when she expressed her wish that I should walk upstairs.”
“It is a very common idea in this town, that it is a gratification to be asked to take a last look at the dead,” replied Mr. Benson.
“And in this case I am glad to have seen her once more,” said Mr. Donne. “Poor Ruth!”
Mr. Benson glanced up at him at the last word. How did he know her name? To him she had only been Mrs. Denbigh. But Mr. Donne had no idea that he was talking to one unaware of the connection that had formerly existed between them; and, though he would have preferred carrying on the conversation in a warmer room, yet, as Mr. Benson was still gazing at her with sad, lingering love, he went on–
“I did not recognise her when she came to nurse me; I believe I was delirious. My servant, who had known her long ago in Fordham, told me who she was. I cannot tell you how I regret that she should have died in consequence of her love of me.”
Mr. Benson looked up at him again, a stern light filling his eyes as he did so. He waited impatiently to hear more, either to quench or confirm his suspicions. If she had not been lying there, very still and calm, he would have forced the words out of Mr. Donne, by some abrupt question. As it was, he listened silently, his heart quick beating.
“I know that money is but a poor compensation–is no remedy for this event, or for my youthful folly.”
Mr. Benson set his teeth hard together, to keep in words little short of a curse.
“Indeed, I offered her money to almost any amount before:–do me justice, sir,” catching the gleam of indignation on Mr. Benson’s face; “I offered to marry her, and provide for the boy as if he had been legitimate. It’s of no use recurring to that time,” said he, his voice faltering; “what is done cannot be undone. But I came now to say, that I should be glad to leave the boy still under your charge, and that every expense you think it right to incur in his education I will gladly defray;–and place a sum of money in trust for him–say, two thousand pounds–or more: fix what you will. Of course, if you decline retaining him, I must find some one else; but the provision for him shall be the same, for my poor Ruth’s sake.”
Mr. Benson did not speak. He could not, till he had gathered some peace from looking at the ineffable repose of the Dead. Then, before he answered, he covered up her face; and in his voice there was the stillness of ice.
“Leonard is not unprovided for. Those that honoured his mother will take care of him. He shall never touch a penny of your money. Every offer of service you have made, I reject in his name, and in her presence,” said he, bending towards the Dead. “Men may call such actions as yours youthful follies! There is another name for them with God. Sir! I will follow you downstairs.”
All the way down, Mr. Benson heard Mr. Donne’s voice urging and entreating, but the words he could not recognise for the thoughts that filled his brain–the rapid putting together of events that was going on there. And when Mr. Donne turned at the door, to speak again, and repeat his offers of service to Leonard, Mr. Benson made answer, without well knowing whether the answer fitted the question or not–
“I thank God, you have no right, legal or otherwise, over the child. And for her sake, I will spare him the shame of ever hearing your name as his father.” He shut the door in Mr. Donne’s face.
“An ill-bred, puritanical old fellow! He may have the boy, I am sure, for aught I care. I have done my duty, and will get out of this abominable place as soon as I can. I wish my last remembrance of my beautiful Ruth was not mixed up with all these people.”
Mr. Benson was bitterly oppressed with this interview; it disturbed the peace with which he was beginning to contemplate events. His anger ruffled him, although such anger had been just, and such indignation well deserved; and both had been unconsciously present in his heart for years against the unknown seducer, whom he met face to face by the death-bed of Ruth.
It gave him a shock which he did not recover from for many days. He was nervously afraid lest Mr. Donne should appear at the funeral; and not all the reasons he alleged to himself against this apprehension, put it utterly away from him. Before then, however, he heard casually (for he would allow himself no inquiries) that he had left the town. No! Ruth’s funeral passed over in calm and simple solemnity. Her child, her own household, her friend and Mr. Farquhar, quietly walked after the bier, which was borne by some of the poor to whom she had been very kind in her lifetime And many others stood aloof in the little burying-ground, sadly watching that last ceremony.
They slowly dispersed; Mr. Benson leading Leonard by the hand, and secretly wondering at his self-restraint. Almost as soon as they had let themselves into the Chapel-house, a messenger brought a note from Mrs. Bradshaw, with a pot of quince marmalade, which, she said to Miss Benson, she thought that Leonard might fancy, and if he did, they were to be sure and let her know, as she had plenty more; or, was there anything else that he would like? She would gladly make him whatever he fancied.
Poor Leonard! he lay stretched on the sofa, white and tearless, beyond the power of any such comfort, however kindly offered; but this was only one of the many homely, simple attentions, which all came round him to offer, from Mr. Grey, the rector, down to the nameless poor who called at the back door to inquire how it fared with her child.
Mr. Benson was anxious, according to Dissenting custom, to preach an appropriate funeral sermon. It was the last office he could render to her; it should be done well and carefully. Moreover, it was possible that the circumstances of her life, which were known to all, might be made effective in this manner to work conviction of many truths. Accordingly, he made great preparation of thought and paper; he laboured hard, destroying sheet after sheet–his eyes filling with tears between-whiles, as he remembered some fresh proof of the humility and sweetness of her life. Oh that he could do her justice! but words seemed hard and inflexible, and refused to fit themselves to his ideas. He sat late on Saturday, writing; he watched through the night till Sunday morning was far advanced. He had never taken such pains with any sermon, and he was only half satisfied with it after all.
Mrs. Farquhar had comforted the bitterness of Sally’s grief by giving her very handsome mourning. At any rate, she felt oddly proud and exulting when she thought of her new black gown; but, when she remembered why she wore it, she scolded herself pretty sharply for her satisfaction, and took to crying afresh with redoubled vigour. She spent the Sunday morning in alternately smoothing down her skirts and adjusting her broad hemmed collar, or bemoaning the occasion with tearful earnestness. But the sorrow overcame the little quaint vanity of her heart, as she saw troop after troop of humbly-dressed mourners pass by into the old chapel. They were very poor–but each had mounted some rusty piece of crape, or some faded black ribbon. The old came halting and slow–the mothers carried their quiet, awe-struck babes.
And not only these were there–but others–equally unaccustomed to nonconformist worship; Mr. Davis, for instance, to whom Sally acted as chaperone; for he sat in the minister’s pew, as a stranger; and, as she afterwards said, she had a fellow-feeling with him, being a Church-woman herself, and Dissenters had such awkward ways; however, she had been there before, so she could set him to rights about their fashions.
From the pulpit, Mr. Benson saw one and all–the well-filled Bradshaw pew–all in deep mourning, Mr. Bradshaw conspicuously so (he would have attended the funeral gladly if they would have asked him)–the Farquhars–the many strangers–the still more numerous poor–one or two wild-looking outcasts who stood afar off, but wept silently and continually. Mr. Benson’s heart grew very full.
His voice trembled as he read and prayed. But he steadied it as he opened his sermon–his great, last effort in her honour–the labour that he had prayed God to bless to the hearts of many. For an instant the old man looked on all the upturned faces, listening, with wet eyes, to hear what he could say to interpret that which was in their hearts, dumb and unshaped, of God’s doings, as shown in her life. He looked, and, as he gazed, a mist came before him, and he could not see his sermon, nor his hearers, but only Ruth, as she had been–stricken low, and crouching from sight in the upland field by Llan-dhu–like a woeful, hunted creature. And now her life was over! her struggle ended! Sermon and all was forgotten. He sat down, and hid his face in his hands for a minute or so. Then he arose, pale and serene. He put the sermon away, and opened the Bible, and read the seventh chapter of Revelations, beginning at the ninth verse.
Before it was finished, most of his hearers were in tears. It came home to them as more appropriate than any sermon could have been. Even Sally, though full of anxiety as to what her fellow-Churchman would think of such proceedings, let the sobs come freely as she heard the words–
“And he said to me, These are they which came out of great tribulation, and have washed their robes, and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.
“Therefore are they before the throne of God, and serve him day and night in his temple; and he that sitteth on the throne shall dwell among them.
“They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more; neither shall the sun light on them, nor any heat.
“For the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and shall lead them unto living fountains of waters, and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes.”
“He preaches sermons sometimes,” said Sally, nudging Mr. Davis, as they rose from their knees at last. “I make no doubt there was as grand a sermon in yon paper-book as ever we hear in church. I’ve heard him pray uncommon fine–quite beyond any but learned folk.”
Mr. Bradshaw had been anxious to do something to testify his respect for the woman, who, if all had entertained his opinions, would have been driven into hopeless sin. Accordingly, he ordered the first stonemason of the town to meet him in the chapel-yard on Monday morning, to take measurement and receive directions for a tombstone. They threaded their way among the grassy heaps to where Ruth was buried, in the south corner, beneath the great Wych-elm. When they got there, Leonard raised himself up from the new-stirred turf. His face was swollen with weeping; but, when he saw Mr. Bradshaw, he calmed himself, and checked his sobs, and, as an explanation of being where he was when thus surprised, he could find nothing to say but the simple words–
“My mother is dead, sir.”
His eyes sought those of Mr. Bradshaw with a wild look of agony, as if to find comfort for that great loss in human sympathy; and at the first word–the first touch of Mr. Bradshaw’s hand on his shoulder–he burst out afresh.
“Come, come! my boy!–Mr. Francis, I will see you about this to-morrow–I will call at your house.–Let me take you home, my poor fellow. Come, my lad, come!”
The first time, for years, that he had entered Mr. Benson’s house, he came leading and comforting her son–and, for a moment, he could not speak to his old friend, for the sympathy which choked up his voice, and filled his eyes with tears.