Ruth (13 page)

By-and-by Mrs Morgan came up. Ruth was still near the door, from
which it seemed as if she could not tear herself away.

"Indeed, miss, and you must not hang about the door in this way; it
is not pretty manners. Mrs Bellingham has been speaking very sharp
and cross about it, and I shall lose the character of my inn if
people take to talking as she does. Did not I give you a room last
night to keep in, and never be seen or heard of; and did I not tell
you what a particular lady Mrs Bellingham was, but you must come out
here right in her way? Indeed, it was not pretty, nor grateful to me,
Jenny Morgan, and that I must say."

Ruth turned away like a chidden child. Mrs Morgan followed her to her
room, scolding as she went; and then, having cleared her heart after
her wont by uttering hasty words, her real kindness made her add, in
a softened tone:

"You stop up here like a good girl. I'll send you your breakfast
by-and-by, and let you know from time to time how he is; and you can
go out for a walk, you know; but if you do, I'll take it as a favour
if you'll go out by the side door. It will, maybe, save scandal."

All that day long, Ruth kept herself close prisoner in the room to
which Mrs Morgan accorded her; all that day, and many succeeding
days. But at nights, when the house was still, and even the little
brown mice had gathered up the crumbs, and darted again to their
holes, Ruth stole out, and crept to his door to catch, if she could,
the sound of his beloved voice. She could tell by its tones how he
felt, and how he was getting on, as well as any of the watchers in
the room. She yearned and pined to see him once more; but she had
reasoned herself down into something like patience. When he was well
enough to leave his room, when he had not always one of the nurses
with him, then he would send for her, and she would tell him how very
patient she had been for his dear sake. But it was long to wait even
with this thought of the manner in which the waiting would end. Poor
Ruth! her faith was only building up vain castles in the air; they
towered up into heaven, it is true, but, after all, they were but
visions.

If Mr Bellingham did not get rapidly well, it was more owing to
the morbid querulous fancy attendant on great weakness than from
any unfavourable medical symptom. But he turned away with peevish
loathing from the very sight of food, prepared in the slovenly manner
which had almost disgusted him when he was well. It was of no use
telling him that Simpson, his mother's maid, had superintended the
preparation at every point. He offended her by detecting something
offensive and to be avoided in her daintiest messes, and made Mrs
Morgan mutter many a hasty speech, which, however, Mrs Bellingham
thought it better not to hear until her son should be strong enough
to travel.

"I think you are better to-day," said she, as his man wheeled his
sofa to the bedroom window. "We shall get you downstairs to-morrow."

"If it were to get away from this abominable place, I could go down
to-day; but I believe I'm to be kept prisoner here for ever. I shall
never get well here, I'm sure."

He sank back on his sofa in impatient despair. The surgeon was
announced, and eagerly questioned by Mrs Bellingham as to the
possibility of her son's removal; and he, having heard the same
anxiety for the same end expressed by Mrs Morgan in the regions
below, threw no great obstacles in the way. After the doctor had
taken his departure, Mrs Bellingham cleared her throat several times.
Mr Bellingham knew the prelude of old, and winced with nervous
annoyance.

"Henry, there is something I must speak to you about; an unpleasant
subject, certainly, but one which has been forced upon me by the very
girl herself; you must be aware to what I refer without giving me the
pain of explaining myself."

Mr Bellingham turned himself sharply round to the wall, and prepared
himself for a lecture by concealing his face from her notice; but she
herself was in too nervous a state to be capable of observation.

"Of course," she continued, "it was my wish to be as blind to the
whole affair as possible, though you can't imagine how Mrs Mason has
blazoned it abroad; all Fordham rings with it; but of course it could
not be pleasant, or, indeed, I may say correct, for me to be aware
that a person of such improper character was under the same—I beg
your pardon, dear Henry, what do you say?"

"Ruth is no improper character, mother; you do her injustice!"

"My dear boy, you don't mean to uphold her as a paragon of virtue!"

"No, mother, but I led her wrong; I—"

"We will let all discussions into the cause or duration of her
present character drop, if you please," said Mrs Bellingham, with
the sort of dignified authority which retained a certain power over
her son—a power which originated in childhood, and which he only
defied when he was roused into passion. He was too weak in body to
oppose himself to her, and fight the ground inch by inch. "As I have
implied, I do not wish to ascertain your share of blame; from what
I saw of her one morning, I am convinced of her forward, intrusive
manners, utterly without shame, or even common modesty."

"What are you referring to?" asked Mr Bellingham, sharply.

"Why, when you were at the worst, and I had been watching you all
night, and had just gone out in the morning for a breath of fresh
air, this girl pushed herself before me, and insisted upon speaking
to me. I really had to send Mrs Morgan to her before I could return
to your room. A more impudent, hardened manner, I never saw."

"Ruth was neither impudent nor hardened; she was ignorant enough, and
might offend from knowing no better."

He was getting weary of the discussion, and wished it had never
been begun. From the time he had become conscious of his mother's
presence, he had felt the dilemma he was in in regard to Ruth, and
various plans had directly crossed his brain; but it had been so
troublesome to weigh and consider them all properly, that they
had been put aside to be settled when he grew stronger. But this
difficulty in which he was placed by his connexion with Ruth,
associated the idea of her in his mind with annoyance and angry
regret at the whole affair. He wished, in the languid way in which
he wished and felt everything not immediately relating to his daily
comfort, that he had never seen her. It was a most awkward, a most
unfortunate affair. Notwithstanding this annoyance connected with
and arising out of Ruth, he would not submit to hear her abused;
and something in his manner impressed this on his mother, for she
immediately changed her mode of attack.

"We may as well drop all dispute as to the young woman's manners;
but I suppose you do not mean to defend your connexion with her; I
suppose you are not so lost to all sense of propriety as to imagine
it fit or desirable that your mother and this degraded girl should
remain under the same roof, liable to meet at any hour of the day?"
She waited for an answer, but no answer came.

"I ask you a simple question; is it, or is it not desirable?"

"I suppose it is not," he replied, gloomily.

"And
I
suppose, from your manner, that you think the difficulty
would be best solved by my taking my departure, and leaving you with
your vicious companion?"

Again no answer, but inward and increasing annoyance, of which Mr
Bellingham considered Ruth the cause. At length he spoke.

"Mother, you are not helping me in my difficulty. I have no desire
to banish you, nor to hurt you, after all your care for me. Ruth has
not been so much to blame as you imagine, that I must say; but I
do not wish to see her again, if you can tell me how to arrange it
otherwise, without behaving unhandsomely. Only spare me all this
worry while I am so weak. I put myself in your hands. Dismiss her, as
you wish it; but let it be done handsomely, and let me hear no more
about it; I cannot bear it; let me have a quiet life, without being
lectured while I am pent up here, and unable to shake off unpleasant
thoughts."

"My dear Henry, rely upon me."

"No more, mother; it's a bad business, and I can hardly avoid blaming
myself in the matter; I don't want to dwell upon it."

"Don't be too severe in your self-reproaches while you are so feeble,
dear Henry; it is right to repent, but I have no doubt in my own mind
she led you wrong with her artifices. But, as you say, everything
should be done handsomely. I confess I was deeply grieved when I
first heard of the affair, but since I have seen the girl— Well!
I'll say no more about her, since I see it displeases you; but I am
thankful to God that you see the error of your ways."

She sat silent, thinking for a little while, and then sent for her
writing-case, and began to write. Her son became restless, and
nervously irritated.

"Mother," he said, "this affair worries me to death. I cannot shake
off the thoughts of it."

"Leave it to me, I'll arrange it satisfactorily."

"Could we not leave to-night? I should not be so haunted by this
annoyance in another place. I dread seeing her again, because I fear
a scene; and yet I believe I ought to see her, in order to explain."

"You must not think of such a thing, Henry," said she, alarmed at
the very idea. "Sooner than that, we will leave in half an hour, and
try to get to Pen trê Voelas to-night. It is not yet three, and the
evenings are very long. Simpson should stay and finish the packing;
she could go straight to London and meet us there. Macdonald and
nurse could go with us. Could you bear twenty miles, do you think?"

Anything to get rid of his uneasiness. He felt that he was not
behaving as he should do, to Ruth, though the really right never
entered his head. But it would extricate him from his present
dilemma, and save him many lectures; he knew that his mother, always
liberal where money was concerned, would "do the thing handsomely,"
and it would always be easy to write and give Ruth what explanation
he felt inclined, in a day or two; so he consented, and soon lost
some of his uneasiness in watching the bustle of the preparation for
their departure.

All this time Ruth was quietly spending in her room, beguiling the
waiting, weary hours, with pictures of the meeting at the end.
Her room looked to the back, and was in a side-wing away from the
principal state apartments, consequently she was not roused to
suspicion by any of the commotion; but, indeed, if she had heard
the banging of doors, the sharp directions, the carriage-wheels,
she would still not have suspected the truth; her own love was too
faithful.

It was four o'clock and past, when some one knocked at her door,
and, on entering, gave her a note, which Mrs Bellingham had left.
That lady had found some difficulty in wording it, so as to satisfy
herself, but it was as follows:

My son, on recovering from his illness, is, I thank God,
happily conscious of the sinful way in which he has been
living with you. By his earnest desire, and in order to
avoid seeing you again, we are on the point of leaving
this place; but before I go, I wish to exhort you to
repentance, and to remind you that you will not have your
own guilt alone upon your head, but that of any young man
whom you may succeed in entrapping into vice. I shall
pray that you may turn to an honest life, and I strongly
recommend you, if indeed you are not 'dead in trespasses
and sins,' to enter some penitentiary. In accordance
with my son's wishes, I forward you in this envelope a
bank-note of fifty pounds.

MARGARET BELLINGHAM.

Was this the end of all? Had he, indeed, gone? She started up, and
asked this last question of the servant, who, half guessing at the
purport of the note, had lingered about the room, curious to see the
effect produced.

"Iss, indeed, miss; the carriage drove from the door as I came
upstairs. You'll see it now on the Yspytty road, if you'll please to
come to the window of No. 24."

Ruth started up, and followed the chambermaid. Aye, there it was,
slowly winding up the steep white road, on which it seemed to move at
a snail's pace.

She might overtake him—she might—she might speak one farewell word
to him, print his face on her heart with a last look—nay, when
he saw her he might retract, and not utterly, for ever, leave her.
Thus she thought; and she flew back to her room, and snatching up
her bonnet, ran, tying the strings with her trembling hands as she
went down the stairs, out at the nearest door, little heeding the
angry words of Mrs Morgan; for the hostess, more irritated at Mrs
Bellingham's severe upbraiding at parting, than mollified by her
ample payment, was offended by the circumstance of Ruth, in her wild
haste, passing through the prohibited front door.

But Ruth was away before Mrs Morgan had finished her speech, out
and away, scudding along the road, thought-lost in the breathless
rapidity of her motion. Though her heart and head beat almost to
bursting, what did it signify if she could but overtake the carriage?
It was a nightmare, constantly evading the most passionate wishes and
endeavours, and constantly gaining ground. Every time it was visible
it was in fact more distant, but Ruth would not believe it. If she
could but gain the summit of that weary, everlasting hill, she
believed that she could run again, and would soon be nigh upon the
carriage. As she ran, she prayed with wild eagerness; she prayed that
she might see his face once more, even if she died on the spot before
him. It was one of those prayers which God is too merciful to grant;
but despairing and wild as it was, Ruth put her soul into it, and
prayed it again, and yet again.

Wave above wave of the ever-rising hills were gained, were crossed,
and at last Ruth struggled up to the very top and stood on the bare
table of moor, brown and purple, stretching far away till it was lost
in the haze of the summer afternoon; and the white road was all flat
before her, but the carriage she sought and the figure she sought had
disappeared. There was no human being there; a few wild, black-faced
mountain sheep quietly grazing near the road, as if it were long
since they had been disturbed by the passing of any vehicle, was all
the life she saw on the bleak moorland.