Delphi Complete Works of Elizabeth Gaskell

by Elizabeth Gaskell

  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, although 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 confidentially 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 then 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 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 soft and low. She went from one childish ditty to another without let or pause, keeping a strange sort of time with her pretty fingers, as they closed and unc
losed themselves upon the counterpane. She never looked at any one with the slightest glimpse of memory or intelligence in her face; no, not even at 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 come 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 connexion 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 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 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.”