Ruth (14 page)

She threw herself down on the ling by the side of the road in
despair. Her only hope was to die, and she believed she was dying.
She could not think; she could believe anything. Surely life was a
horrible dream, and God would mercifully awaken her from it. She had
no penitence, no consciousness of error or offence; no knowledge
of any one circumstance but that he was gone. Yet afterwards, long
afterwards, she remembered the exact motion of a bright green beetle
busily meandering among the wild thyme near her, and she recalled the
musical, balanced, wavering drop of a skylark into her nest near the
heather-bed where she lay. The sun was sinking low, the hot air had
ceased to quiver near the hotter earth, when she bethought her once
more of the note which she had impatiently thrown down before half
mastering its contents. "Oh, perhaps," she thought, "I have been too
hasty. There may be some words of explanation from him on the other
side of the page, to which, in my blind anguish, I never turned. I
will go and find it."

She lifted herself heavily and stiffly from the crushed heather.
She stood dizzy and confused with her change of posture; and was so
unable to move at first, that her walk was but slow and tottering;
but, by-and-by, she was tasked and goaded by thoughts which forced
her into rapid motion, as if, by it, she could escape from her agony.
She came down on the level ground, just as many gay or peaceful
groups were sauntering leisurely home with hearts at ease; with low
laughs and quiet smiles, and many an exclamation at the beauty of the
summer evening.

Ever since her adventure with the little boy and his sister, Ruth had
habitually avoided encountering these happy—innocents, may I call
them?—these happy fellow-mortals! And even now, the habit grounded
on sorrowful humiliation had power over her; she paused, and then,
on looking back, she saw more people who had come into the main road
from a side path. She opened a gate into a pasture-field, and crept
up to the hedge-bank until all should have passed by, and she could
steal into the inn unseen. She sat down on the sloping turf by the
roots of an old hawthorn-tree which grew in the hedge; she was still
tearless with hot burning eyes; she heard the merry walkers pass by;
she heard the footsteps of the village children as they ran along to
their evening play; she saw the small black cows come into the fields
after being milked; and life seemed yet abroad. When would the world
be still and dark, and fit for such a deserted, desolate creature
as she was? Even in her hiding-place she was not long at peace. The
little children, with their curious eyes peering here and there, had
peeped through the hedge, and through the gate, and now they gathered
from all the four corners of the hamlet, and crowded round the gate;
and one more adventurous than the rest had run into the field to
cry, "Gi' me a halfpenny," which set the example to every little one,
emulous of his boldness; and there, where she sat, low on the ground,
and longing for the sure hiding-place earth gives to the weary, the
children kept running in, and pushing one another forwards, and
laughing. Poor things; their time had not come for understanding what
sorrow is. Ruth would have begged them to leave her alone, and not
madden her utterly; but they knew no English save the one eternal
"Gi' me a halfpenny." She felt in her heart that there was no pity
anywhere. Suddenly, while she thus doubted God, a shadow fell across
her garments, on which her miserable eyes were bent. She looked up.
The deformed gentleman she had twice before seen, stood there. He had
been attracted by the noisy little crowd, and had questioned them in
Welsh, but not understanding enough of the language to comprehend
their answers, he had obeyed their signs, and entered the gate to
which they pointed. There he saw the young girl whom he had noticed
at first for her innocent beauty, and the second time for the idea he
had gained respecting her situation; there he saw her, crouched up
like some hunted creature, with a wild, scared look of despair, which
almost made her lovely face seem fierce; he saw her dress soiled and
dim, her bonnet crushed and battered with her tossings to and fro on
the moorland bed; he saw the poor, lost wanderer, and when he saw
her, he had compassion on her.

There was some look of heavenly pity in his eyes, as gravely and
sadly they met her upturned gaze, which touched her stony heart.
Still looking at him, as if drawing some good influence from him,
she said low and mournfully, "He has left me, sir!—sir, he has
indeed—he has gone and left me!"

Before he could speak a word to comfort her, she had burst into the
wildest, dreariest crying ever mortal cried. The settled form of the
event, when put into words, went sharp to her heart; her moans and
sobs wrung his soul; but as no speech of his could be heard, if he
had been able to decide what best to say, he stood by her in apparent
calmness, while she, wretched, wailed and uttered her woe. But when
she lay worn out, and stupefied into silence, she heard him say to
himself, in a low voice:

"Oh, my God! for Christ's sake, pity her!"

Ruth lifted up her eyes, and looked at him with a dim perception of
the meaning of his words. She regarded him fixedly in a dreamy way,
as if they struck some chord in her heart, and she were listening to
its echo; and so it was. His pitiful look, or his words, reminded her
of the childish days when she knelt at her mother's knee, and she was
only conscious of a straining, longing desire to recall it all.

He let her take her time, partly because he was powerfully affected
himself by all the circumstances, and by the sad pale face upturned
to his; and partly by an instinctive consciousness that the softest
patience was required. But suddenly she startled him, as she herself
was startled into a keen sense of the suffering agony of the present;
she sprang up and pushed him aside, and went rapidly towards the gate
of the field. He could not move as quickly as most men, but he put
forth his utmost speed. He followed across the road, on to the rocky
common; but as he went along, with his uncertain gait, in the dusk
gloaming, he stumbled, and fell over some sharp projecting stone. The
acute pain which shot up his back forced a short cry from him; and,
when bird and beast are hushed into rest and the stillness of the
night is over all, a high-pitched sound, like the voice of pain,
is carried far in the quiet air. Ruth, speeding on in her despair,
heard the sharp utterance, and stopped suddenly short. It did what
no remonstrance could have done; it called her out of herself. The
tender nature was in her still, in that hour when all good angels
seemed to have abandoned her. In the old days she could never bear
to hear or see bodily suffering in any of God's meanest creatures,
without trying to succour them; and now, in her rush to the awful
death of the suicide, she stayed her wild steps, and turned to find
from whom that sharp sound of anguish had issued.

He lay among the white stones, too faint with pain to move, but with
an agony in his mind far keener than any bodily pain, as he thought
that by his unfortunate fall he had lost all chance of saving her.
He was almost overpowered by his intense thankfulness when he saw
her white figure pause, and stand listening, and turn again with
slow footsteps, as if searching for some lost thing. He could hardly
speak, but he made a sound which, though his heart was inexpressibly
glad, was like a groan. She came quickly towards him.

"I am hurt," said he; "do not leave me;" his disabled and tender
frame was overcome by the accident and the previous emotions, and he
fainted away. Ruth flew to the little mountain stream, the dashing
sound of whose waters had been tempting her, but a moment before, to
seek forgetfulness in the deep pool into which they fell. She made a
basin of her joined hands, and carried enough of the cold fresh water
back to dash into his face and restore him to consciousness. While he
still kept silence, uncertain what to say best fitted to induce her
to listen to him, she said softly:

"Are you better, sir?—are you very much hurt?"

"Not very much; I am better. Any quick movement is apt to cause me a
sudden loss of power in my back, and I believe I stumbled over some
of these projecting stones. It will soon go off, and you will help me
to go home, I am sure."

"Oh, yes! Can you go now? I am afraid of your lying too long on this
heather; there is a heavy dew."

He was so anxious to comply with her wish, and not weary out her
thought for him, and so turn her back upon herself, that he tried to
rise. The pain was acute, and this she saw.

"Don't hurry yourself, sir; I can wait."

Then came across her mind the recollection of the business that was
thus deferred; but the few homely words which had been exchanged
between them seemed to have awakened her from her madness. She sat
down by him, and, covering her face with her hands, cried mournfully
and unceasingly. She forgot his presence, and yet she had a
consciousness that some one looked for her kind offices, that she
was wanted in the world, and must not rush hastily out of it. The
consciousness did not take this definite form, it did not become a
thought, but it kept her still, and it was gradually soothing her.

"Can you help me to rise now?" said he, after a while. She did not
speak, but she helped him up, and then he took her arm, and she led
him tenderly through all the little velvet paths, where the turf grew
short and soft between the rugged stones. Once more on the highway,
they slowly passed along in the moonlight. He guided her by a slight
motion of the arm, through the more unfrequented lanes, to his
lodgings at the shop; for he thought for her, and conceived the pain
she would have in seeing the lighted windows of the inn. He leant
more heavily on her arm, as they awaited the opening of the door.

"Come in," said he, not relaxing his hold, and yet dreading to
tighten it, lest she should defy restraint, and once more rush away.

They went slowly into the little parlour behind the shop. The
bonny-looking hostess, Mrs Hughes by name, made haste to light the
candle, and then they saw each other, face to face. The deformed
gentleman looked very pale, but Ruth looked as if the shadow of death
was upon her.

Mrs Hughes bustled about with many a sympathetic exclamation, now in
pretty broken English, now in more fluent Welsh, which sounded as
soft as Russian or Italian, in her musical voice. Mr Benson, for that
was the name of the hunchback, lay on the sofa, thinking; while the
tender Mrs Hughes made every arrangement for his relief from pain.
He had lodged with her for three successive years, and she knew and
loved him.

Ruth stood in the little bow-window, looking out. Across the moon,
and over the deep blue heavens, large, torn, irregular-shaped clouds
went hurrying, as if summoned by some storm-spirit. The work they
were commanded to do was not here; the mighty gathering-place lay
eastward, immeasurable leagues, and on they went, chasing each other
over the silent earth, now black, now silver-white at one transparent
edge, now with the moon shining like Hope through their darkest
centre, now again with a silver lining; and now, utterly black,
they sailed lower in the lift, and disappeared behind the immovable
mountains; they were rushing in the very direction in which Ruth
had striven and struggled to go that afternoon; they, in their wild
career, would soon pass over the very spot where he (her world's he)
was lying sleeping, or perhaps not sleeping, perhaps thinking of her.
The storm was in her mind, and rent and tore her purposes into forms
as wild and irregular as the heavenly shapes she was looking at. If,
like them, she could pass the barrier horizon in the night, she might
overtake him.

Mr Benson saw her look, and read it partially. He saw her longing
gaze outwards upon the free, broad world, and thought that the syren
waters, whose deadly music yet rang in her ears, were again tempting
her. He called her to him, praying that his feeble voice might have
power.

"My dear young lady, I have much to say to you; and God has taken
my strength from me now when I most need it.—Oh, I sin to speak
so—but, for His sake, I implore you to be patient here, if only till
to-morrow morning." He looked at her, but her face was immovable, and
she did not speak. She could not give up her hope, her chance, her
liberty till to-morrow.

"God help me," said he, mournfully, "my words do not touch her;"
and, still holding her hand, he sank back on the pillows. Indeed,
it was true that his words did not vibrate in her atmosphere. The
storm-spirit raged there, and filled her heart with the thought that
she was an outcast; and the holy words, "for His sake," were answered
by the demon, who held possession, with a blasphemous defiance of the
merciful God:

"What have I to do with Thee?"

He thought of every softening influence of religion which over his
own disciplined heart had power, but put them aside as useless. Then
the still small voice whispered, and he spake:

"In your mother's name, whether she be dead or alive, I command you
to stay here until I am able to speak to you."

She knelt down at the foot of the sofa, and shook it with her sobs.
Her heart was touched, and he hardly dared to speak again. At length
he said:

"I know you will not go—you could not—for her sake. You will not,
will you?"

"No," whispered Ruth; and then there was a great blank in her heart.
She had given up her chance. She was calm, in the utter absence of
all hope.

"And now you will do what I tell you," said he, gently, but,
unconsciously to himself, in the tone of one who has found the hidden
spell by which to rule spirits.

She slowly said, "Yes." But she was subdued.