“I cannot,” said she at last, putting down the piece of toast. There was a return to something of her usual tone in the words. She spoke gently and softly; no longer in the shrill, hoarse voice she had used at first. Mr Benson sat down by her.
“Now, Ruth, we must talk a little together. I want to understand what your plan was. Where is Helmsby? Why did you fix to go there?”
“It is where my mother lived,” she answered. “Before she was married she lived there; and wherever she lived, the people all loved her dearly; and I thought — I think, that for her sake some one would give me work. I meant to tell them the truth,” said she, dropping her eyes; “but still they would, perhaps, give me some employment — I don’t care what — for her sake. I could do many things,” said she, suddenly looking up. “I am sure I could weed — I could in gardens — if they did not like to have me in their houses. But perhaps some one, for my mother’s sake — oh! my dear, dear mother! — do you know where and what I am?” she cried out, sobbing afresh.
Mr Benson’s heart was very sore, though he spoke authoritatively, and almost sternly.
“Ruth! you must be still and quiet. I cannot have this. I want you to listen to me. Your thought of Helmsby would be a good one, if it was right for you to leave Eccleston; but I do not think it is. I am certain of this, that it would be a great sin in you to separate yourself from Leonard. You have no right to sever the tie by which God has bound you together.”
“But if I am here they will all know and remember the shame of his birth; and if I go away they may forget — ”
“And they may not. And if you go away, he may be unhappy or ill; and you, who above all others have — and have from God — remember that, Ruth! — the power to comfort him, the tender patience to nurse him, have left him to the care of strangers. Yes; I know! But we ourselves are as strangers, dearly as we love him, compared to a mother. He may turn to sin, and want the long forbearance, the serene authority of a parent; and where are you? No dread of shame, either for yourself, or even for him, can ever make it right for you to shake off your responsibility.” All this time he was watching her narrowly, and saw her slowly yield herself up to the force of what he was saying.
“Besides, Ruth,” he continued, “we have gone on falsely hitherto. It has been my doing, my mistake, my sin. I ought to have known better. Now, let us stand firm on the truth. You have no new fault to repent of. Be brave and faithful. It is to God you answer, not to men. The shame of having your sin known to the world, should be as nothing to the shame you felt at having sinned. We have dreaded men too much, and God too little, in the course we have taken. But now be of good cheer. Perhaps you will have to find your work in the world very low — not quite working in the fields,” said he, with a gentle smile, to which she, downcast and miserable, could give no response. “Nay, perhaps, Ruth,” he went on, “you may have to stand and wait for some time; no one may be willing to use the services you would gladly render; all may turn aside from you, and may speak very harshly of you. Can you accept all this treatment meekly, as but the reasonable and just penance God has laid upon you — feeling no anger against those who slight you, no impatience for the time to come (and come it surely will — I speak as having the word of God for what I say) when He, having purified you, even as by fire, will make a straight path for your feet? My child, it is Christ the Lord who has told us of this infinite mercy of God. Have you faith enough in it to be brave, and bear on, and do rightly in patience and in tribulation?”
Ruth had been hushed and very still until now, when the pleading earnestness of his question urged her to answer:
“Yes!” said she. “I hope — I believe I can be faithful for myself, for I have sinned and done wrong. But Leonard — ” She looked up at him.
“But Leonard,” he echoed. “Ah! there it is hard, Ruth. I own the world is hard and persecuting to such as he.” He paused to think of the true comfort for this sting. He went on. “The world is not everything, Ruth; nor is the want of men’s good opinion and esteem the highest need which man has. Teach Leonard this. You would not wish his life to be one summer’s day. You dared not make it so, if you had the power. Teach him to bid a noble, Christian welcome to the trials which God sends — and this is one of them. Teach him not to look on a life of struggle, and perhaps of disappointment and incompleteness, as a sad and mournful end, but as the means permitted to the heroes and warriors in the army of Christ, by which to show their faithful following. Tell him of the hard and thorny path which was trodden once by the bleeding feet of One. Ruth! think of the Saviour’s life and cruel death, and of His divine faithfulness. Oh, Ruth!” exclaimed he, “when I look and see what you may be — what you must be to that boy, I cannot think how you could be coward enough, for a moment, to shrink from your work! But we have all been cowards hitherto,” he added, in bitter self-accusation. “God help us to be so no longer!”
Ruth sat very quiet. Her eyes were fixed on the ground, and she seemed lost in thought. At length she rose up.
“Mr Benson!” said she, standing before him, and propping herself by the table, as she was trembling sadly from weakness, “I mean to try very, very hard, to do my duty to Leonard — and to God,” she added, reverently. “I am only afraid my faith may sometimes fail about Leonard — ”
“Ask, and it shall be given unto you. That is no vain or untried promise, Ruth!”
She sat down again, unable longer to stand. There was another long silence.
“I must never go to Mr Bradshaw’s again,” she said at last, as if thinking aloud.
“No, Ruth, you shall not,” he answered.
“But I shall earn no money!” added she, quickly, for she thought that he did not perceive the difficulty that was troubling her.
“You surely know, Ruth, that while Faith and I have a roof to shelter us, or bread to eat, you and Leonard share it with us.”
“I know — I know your most tender goodness,” said she, “but it ought not to be.”
“It must be at present,” he said, in a decided manner. “Perhaps before long you may have some employment; perhaps it may be some time before an opportunity occurs.”
“Hush,” said Ruth; “Leonard is moving about in the parlour. I must go to him.”
But when she stood up, she turned so dizzy, and tottered so much, that she was glad to sit down again immediately.
“You must rest here. I will go to him,” said Mr Benson. He left her; and when he was gone, she leaned her head on the back of the chair, and cried quietly and incessantly; but there was a more patient, hopeful, resolved feeling in her heart, which all along, through all the tears she shed, bore her onwards to higher thoughts, until at last she rose to prayers.
Mr Benson caught the new look of shrinking shame in Leonard’s eye, as it first sought, then shunned, meeting his. He was pained, too, by the sight of the little sorrowful, anxious face, on which, until now, hope and joy had been predominant. The constrained voice, the few words the boy spoke, when formerly there would have been a glad and free utterance — all this grieved Mr Benson inexpressibly, as but the beginning of an unwonted mortification, which must last for years. He himself made no allusion to any unusual occurrence; he spoke of Ruth as sitting, overcome by headache, in the study for quietness: he hurried on the preparations for tea, while Leonard sat by in the great arm-chair, and looked on with sad, dreamy eyes. He strove to lessen the shock which he knew Leonard had received, by every mixture of tenderness and cheerfulness that Mr Benson’s gentle heart prompted; and now and then a languid smile stole over the boy’s face. When his bedtime came, Mr Benson told him of the hour, although he feared that Leonard would have but another sorrowful crying of himself to sleep; but he was anxious to accustom the boy to cheerful movement within the limits of domestic law, and by no disobedience to it to weaken the power of glad submission to the Supreme; to begin the new life that lay before him, where strength to look up to God as the Law-giver and Ruler of events would be pre-eminently requir
ed. When Leonard had gone upstairs, Mr Benson went immediately to Ruth, and said,
“Ruth! Leonard is just gone up to bed,” secure in the instinct which made her silently rise, and go up to the boy — certain, too, that they would each be the other’s best comforter, and that God would strengthen each through the other.
Now, for the first time, he had leisure to think of himself; and to go over all the events of the day. The half-hour of solitude in his study, that he had before his sister’s return, was of inestimable value; he had leisure to put events in their true places, as to importance and eternal significance.
Miss Faith came in laden with farm produce. Her kind entertainers had brought her in their shandry to the opening of the court in which the Chapel-house stood; but she was so heavily burdened with eggs, mushrooms, and plums, that when her brother opened the door she was almost breathless.
“Oh, Thurstan! take this basket — it is such a weight! Oh, Sally, is that you? Here are some magnum-bonums which we must preserve to-morrow. There are guinea-fowl eggs in that basket.”
Mr Benson let her unburden her body, and her mind too, by giving charges to Sally respecting her housekeeping treasures, before he said a word; but when she returned into the study, to tell him the small pieces of intelligence respecting her day at the farm, she stood aghast.
“Why, Thurstan, dear! What’s the matter? Is your back hurting you?”
He smiled to reassure her; but it was a sickly and forced smile.
“No, Faith! I am quite well, only rather out of spirits, and wanting to talk to you to cheer me.”
Miss Faith sat down, straight, sitting bolt-upright to listen the better.
“I don’t know how, but the real story about Ruth is found out.”
“Oh, Thurstan!” exclaimed Miss Benson, turning quite white.
For a moment, neither of them said another word. Then she went on.
“Does Mr Bradshaw know?”
“Yes! He sent for me, and told me.”
“Does Ruth know that it has all come out?”
“Yes. And Leonard knows.”
“How? Who told him?”
“I do not know. I have asked no questions. But of course it was his mother.”
“She was very foolish and cruel, then,” said Miss Benson, her eyes blazing, and her lips trembling, at the thought of the suffering her darling boy must have gone through.
“I think she was wise. I am sure it was not cruel. He must have soon known that there was some mystery, and it was better that it should be told him openly and quietly by his mother than by a stranger.”
“How could she tell him quietly?” asked Miss Benson, still indignant.
“Well! perhaps I used the wrong word — of course no one was by — and I don’t suppose even they themselves could now tell how it was told, or in what spirit it was borne.”
Miss Benson was silent again.
“Was Mr Bradshaw very angry?”
“Yes, very; and justly so. I did very wrong in making that false statement at first.”
“No! I am sure you did not,” said Miss Faith. “Ruth has had some years of peace, in which to grow stronger and wiser, so that she can bear her shame now in a way she never could have done at first.”
“All the same it was wrong in me to do what I did.”
“I did it too, as much or more than you. And I don’t think it wrong. I’m certain it was quite right, and I would do just the same again.”
“Perhaps it has not done you the harm it has done me.”
“Nonsense! Thurstan. Don’t be morbid. I’m sure you are as good — and better than ever you were.”
“No, I am not. I have got what you call morbid just in consequence of the sophistry by which I persuaded myself that wrong could be right. I torment myself. I have lost my clear instincts of conscience. Formerly, if I believed that such or such an action was according to the will of God, I went and did it, or at least I tried to do it, without thinking of consequences. Now, I reason and weigh what will happen if I do so and so — I grope where formerly I saw. Oh, Faith! it is such a relief to me to have the truth known, that I am afraid I have not been sufficiently sympathising with Ruth.”
“Poor Ruth!” said Miss Benson. “But at any rate our telling a lie has been the saving of her. There is no fear of her going wrong now.”
“God’s omnipotence did not need our sin.”
They did not speak for some time.
“You have not told me what Mr Bradshaw said.”
“One can’t remember the exact words that are spoken on either side in moments of such strong excitement. He was very angry, and said some things about me that were very just, and some about Ruth that were very hard. His last words were that he should give up coming to chapel.”
“Oh, Thurstan! did it come to that?”
“Yes.”
“Does Ruth know all he said?”
“No! Why should she? I don’t know if she knows he has spoken to me at all. Poor creature! she had enough to craze her almost without that! She was for going away and leaving us, that we might not share in her disgrace. I was afraid of her being quite delirious. I did so want you, Faith! However, I did the best I could; I spoke to her very coldly, and almost sternly, all the while my heart was bleeding for her. I dared not give her sympathy; I tried to give her strength. But I did so want you, Faith.”
“And I was so full of enjoyment, I am ashamed to think of it. But the Dawsons are so kind — and the day was so fine — Where is Ruth now?”
“With Leonard. He is her great earthly motive — I thought that being with him would be best. But he must be in bed and asleep now.”
“I will go up to her,” said Miss Faith.
She found Ruth keeping watch by Leonard’s troubled sleep; but when she saw Miss Faith she rose up, and threw herself on her neck and clung to her, without speaking. After a while Miss Benson said:
“You must go to bed, Ruth!” So, after she had kissed the sleeping boy, Miss Benson led her away, and helped to undress her, and brought her up a cup of soothing violet tea — not so soothing as tender actions and soft loving tones.
CHAPTER XXVIII
An Understanding Between Lovers
It was well they had so early and so truly strengthened the spirit to bear, for the events which had to be endured soon came thick and threefold.
Every evening Mr and Miss Benson thought the worst must be over; and every day brought some fresh occurrence to touch upon the raw place. They could not be certain, until they had seen all their acquaintances, what difference it would make in the cordiality of their reception: in some cases it made much; and Miss Benson was proportionably indignant. She felt this change in behaviour more than her brother. His great pain arose from the coolness of the Bradshaws. With all the faults which had at times grated on his sensitive nature (but which he now forgot, and remembered only their kindness), they were his old familiar friends — his kind, if ostentatious, patrons — his great personal interest, out of his own family; and he could not get over the suffering he experienced from seeing their large square pew empty on Sundays — from perceiving how Mr Bradshaw, though he bowed in a distant manner when he and Mr Benson met face to face, shunned him as often as he possibly could. All that happened in the household, which once was as patent to him as his own, was now a sealed book; he heard of its doings by chance, if he heard at all. Just at the time when he was feeling the most depressed from this cause, he met Jemima at a sudden turn of the street. He was uncertain for a moment how to accost her, but she saved him all doubt; in an instant she had his hand in both of hers, her face flushed with honest delight.
“Oh, Mr Benson, I am so glad to see you! I have so wanted to know all about you! How is poor Ruth? dear Ruth! I wonder if she has forgiven me my cruelty to her? And I may not go to her now, when I should be so glad and thankful to make up for it.”
“I never heard you had been cruel to her. I am sure she does not think so.”
“She
ought; she must. What is she doing? Oh! I have so much to ask, I can never hear enough; and papa says” — she hesitated a moment, afraid of giving pain, and then, believing that they would understand the state of affairs, and the reason for her behaviour better if she told the truth, she went on: “Papa says I must not go to your house — I suppose it’s right to obey him?”
“Certainly, my dear. It is your clear duty. We know how you feel towards us.”
“Oh! but if I could do any good — if I could be of any use or comfort to any of you — especially to Ruth, I should come, duty or not. I believe it would be my duty,” said she, hurrying on to try and stop any decided prohibition from Mr Benson. “No! don’t be afraid; I won’t come till I know I can do some good. I hear bits about you through Sally every now and then, or I could not have waited so long. Mr Benson,” continued she, reddening very much, “I think you did quite right about poor Ruth.”
“Not in the falsehood, my dear.”
“No! not perhaps in that. I was not thinking of that. But I have been thinking a great deal about poor Ruth’s — you know I could not help it when everybody was talking about it — and it made me think of myself, and what I am. With a father and mother, and home and careful friends, I am not likely to be tempted like Ruth; but oh! Mr Benson,” said she, lifting her eyes, which were full of tears, to his face, for the first time since she began to speak, “if you knew all I have been thinking and feeling this last year, you would see how I have yielded to every temptation that was able to come to me; and, seeing how I have no goodness or strength in me, and how I might just have been like Ruth, or rather, worse than she ever was, because I am more headstrong and passionate by nature, I do so thank you and love you for what you did for her! And will you tell me really and truly now if I can ever do anything for Ruth? If you’ll promise me that, I won’t rebel unnecessarily against papa; but if you don’t, I will, and come and see you all this very afternoon. Remember! I trust you!” said she, breaking away. Then turning back, she came to ask after Leonard.
Delphi Complete Works of Elizabeth Gaskell Page 105
