Ruth (15 page)

He called Mrs Hughes. She came from her adjoining shop.

"You have a bedroom within yours, where your daughter used to sleep,
I think? I am sure you will oblige me, and I shall consider it as
a great favour, if you will allow this young lady to sleep there
to-night. Will you take her there now? Go, my dear. I have full trust
in your promise not to leave until I can speak to you." His voice
died away to silence; but as Ruth rose from her knees at his bidding,
she looked at his face through her tears. His lips were moving in
earnest, unspoken prayer, and she knew it was for her.

That night, although his pain was relieved by rest, he could not
sleep; and, as in fever, the coming events kept unrolling themselves
before him in every changing and fantastic form. He met Ruth in all
possible places and ways, and addressed her in every manner he could
imagine most calculated to move and affect her to penitence and
virtue. Towards morning he fell asleep, but the same thoughts haunted
his dreams; he spoke, but his voice refused to utter aloud; and she
fled, relentless, to the deep, black pool.

But God works in His own way.

The visions melted into deep, unconscious sleep. He was awakened by a
knock at the door, which seemed a repetition of what he had heard in
his last sleeping moments.

It was Mrs Hughes. She stood at the first word of permission within
the room.

"Please, sir, I think the young lady is very ill indeed, sir; perhaps
you would please to come to her."

"How is she ill?" said he, much alarmed.

"Quite quiet-like, sir; but I think she is dying, that's all, indeed,
sir!"

"Go away, I will be with you directly!" he replied, his heart sinking
within him.

In a very short time he was standing with Mrs Hughes by Ruth's
bedside. She lay as still as if she were dead, her eyes shut, her wan
face numbed into a fixed anguish of expression. She did not speak
when they spoke, though after a while they thought she strove to
do so. But all power of motion and utterance had left her. She was
dressed in everything, except her bonnet, as she had been the day
before; although sweet, thoughtful Mrs Hughes had provided her with
nightgear, which lay on the little chest of drawers that served as
a dressing-table. Mr Benson lifted up her arm to feel her feeble,
fluttering pulse; and when he let go her hand, it fell upon the bed
in a dull, heavy way, as if she were already dead.

"You gave her some food?" said he, anxiously, to Mrs Hughes.

"Indeed, and I offered her the best in the house, but she shook her
poor pretty head, and only asked if I would please to get her a cup
of water. I brought her some milk though, and 'deed, I think she'd
rather have had the water; but not to seem sour and cross, she took
some milk." By this time Mrs Hughes was fairly crying.

"When does the doctor come up here?"

"Indeed, sir, and he's up nearly every day now, the inn is so full."

"I'll go for him. And can you manage to undress her and lay her in
bed? Open the window too, and let in the air; if her feet are cold,
put bottles of hot water to them."

It was a proof of the true love, which was the nature of both, that
it never crossed their minds to regret that this poor young creature
had been thus thrown upon their hands. On the contrary, Mrs Hughes
called it "a blessing."

"It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes."

At the inn everything was life and bustle. Mr Benson had to wait long
in Mrs Morgan's little parlour before she could come to him, and he
kept growing more and more impatient. At last she made her appearance
and heard his story.

People may talk as they will about the little respect that is paid to
virtue, unaccompanied by the outward accidents of wealth or station;
but I rather think it will be found that, in the long run, true and
simple virtue always has its proportionate reward in the respect
and reverence of every one whose esteem is worth having. To be
sure, it is not rewarded after the way of the world as mere worldly
possessions are, with low obeisance and lip-service; but all the
better and more noble qualities in the hearts of others make ready
and go forth to meet it on its approach, provided only it be pure,
simple, and unconscious of its own existence.

Mr Benson had little thought for outward tokens of respect just then,
nor had Mrs Morgan much time to spare; but she smoothed her ruffled
brow, and calmed her bustling manner, as soon as ever she saw who it
was that awaited her; for Mr Benson was well known in the village
where he had taken up his summer holiday among the mountains year
after year, always a resident at the shop, and seldom spending a
shilling at the inn.

Mrs Morgan listened patiently—for her.

"Mr Jones will come this afternoon. But it is a shame you should be
troubled with such as her. I had but little time yesterday, but I
guessed there was something wrong, and Gwen has just been telling me
her bed has not been slept in. They were in a pretty hurry to be gone
yesterday, for all that the gentleman was not fit to travel, to my
way of thinking; indeed, William Wynn, the post-boy, said he was
weary enough before he got to the end of that Yspytty road; and he
thought they would have to rest there a day or two before they could
go further than Pen trê Voelas. Indeed, and anyhow, the servant is to
follow them with the baggage this very morning; and now I remember,
William Wynn said they would wait for her. You'd better write a note,
Mr Benson, and tell them her state."

It was good, though unpalatable advice. It came from one accustomed
to bring excellent, if unrefined sense, to bear quickly upon any
emergency, and to decide rapidly. She was, in truth, so little
accustomed to have her authority questioned, that before Mr Benson
had made up his mind, she had produced paper, pens, and ink from the
drawer in her bureau, placed them before him, and was going to leave
the room.

"Leave the note on this shelf, and trust me that it goes by the maid.
The boy that drives her there in the car shall bring you an answer
back."

She was gone before he could rally his scattered senses enough to
remember that he had not the least idea of the name of the party to
whom he was to write. The quiet leisure and peace of his little study
at home favoured his habit of reverie and long deliberation, just as
her position as mistress of an inn obliged her to quick, decisive
ways.

Her advice, though good in some points, was unpalatable in others. It
was true that Ruth's condition ought to be known by those who were
her friends; but were these people to whom he was now going to write,
friends? He knew there was a rich mother, and a handsome, elegant
son; and he had also some idea of the circumstances which might a
little extenuate their mode of quitting Ruth. He had wide enough
sympathy to understand that it must have been a most painful position
in which the mother had been placed, on finding herself under the
same roof with a girl who was living with her son, as Ruth was. And
yet he did not like to apply to her; to write to the son was still
more out of the question, as it seemed like asking him to return.
But through one or the other lay the only clue to her friends, who
certainly ought to be made acquainted with her position. At length he
wrote:

MADAM,—I write to tell you of the condition of
the poor young woman—
(here came a long pause of
deliberation)
—who accompanied your son on his arrival
here, and who was left behind on your departure yesterday.
She is lying (as it appears to me) in a very dangerous
state at my lodgings; and, if I may suggest, it would be
kind to allow your maid to return and attend upon her
until she is sufficiently recovered to be restored to her
friends, if, indeed, they could not come to take charge of
her themselves.

I remain, madam,
Your obedient servant,

THURSTAN BENSON.

The note was very unsatisfactory after all his consideration, but it
was the best he could do. He made inquiry of a passing servant as to
the lady's name, directed the note, and placed it on the indicated
shelf. He then returned to his lodgings, to await the doctor's coming
and the post-boy's return. There was no alteration in Ruth; she was
as one stunned into unconsciousness; she did not move her posture,
she hardly breathed. From time to time Mrs Hughes wetted her mouth
with some liquid, and there was a little mechanical motion of the
lips; that was the only sign of life she gave. The doctor came and
shook his head,—"a thorough prostration of strength, occasioned by
some great shock on the nerves,"—and prescribed care and quiet, and
mysterious medicines, but acknowledged that the result was doubtful,
very doubtful. After his departure, Mr Benson took his Welsh grammar
and tried again to master the ever-puzzling rules for the mutations
of letters; but it was of no use, for his thoughts were absorbed by
the life-in-death condition of the young creature, who was lately
bounding and joyous.

The maid and the luggage, the car and the driver, had arrived before
noon at their journey's end, and the note had been delivered. It
annoyed Mrs Bellingham exceedingly. It was the worst of these kind
of connexions, there was no calculating the consequences; they were
never-ending. All sorts of claims seemed to be established, and
all sorts of people to step in to their settlement. The idea of
sending her maid! Why, Simpson would not go if she asked her. She
soliloquised thus while reading the letter; and then, suddenly
turning round to the favourite attendant, who had been listening to
her mistress's remarks with no inattentive ear, she asked:

"Simpson, would you go and nurse this creature, as this—" she looked
at the signature—"Mr Benson, whoever he is, proposes?"

"Me! no, indeed, ma'am," said the maid, drawing herself up, stiff in
her virtue. "I'm sure, ma'am, you would not expect it of me; I could
never have the face to dress a lady of character again."

"Well, well! don't be alarmed; I cannot spare you; by the way, just
attend to the strings on my dress; the chambermaid here pulled them
into knots, and broke them terribly, last night. It is awkward
though, very," said she, relapsing into a musing fit over the
condition of Ruth.

"If you'll allow me, ma'am, I think I might say something that would
alter the case. I believe, ma'am, you put a bank-note into the letter
to the young woman yesterday?"

Mrs Bellingham bowed acquiescence, and the maid went on:

"Because, ma'am, when the little deformed man wrote that note (he's
Mr Benson, ma'am), I have reason to believe neither he nor Mrs
Morgan knew of any provision being made for the young woman. Me and
the chambermaid found your letter and the bank-note lying quite
promiscuous, like waste paper, on the floor of her room; for I
believe she rushed out like mad after you left."

"That, as you say, alters the case. This letter, then, is principally
a sort of delicate hint that some provision ought to have been made,
which is true enough, only it has been attended to already; what
became of the money?"

"Law, ma'am! do you ask? Of course, as soon as I saw it, I picked it
up and took it to Mrs Morgan, in trust for the young person."

"Oh, that's right. What friends has she? Did you ever hear from
Mason?—perhaps they ought to know where she is."

"Mrs Mason did tell me, ma'am, she was an orphan; with a guardian who
was no-ways akin, and who washed his hands of her when she ran off;
but Mrs Mason was sadly put out, and went into hysterics, for fear
you would think she had not seen after her enough, and that she might
lose your custom; she said it was no fault of hers, for the girl was
always a forward creature, boasting of her beauty, and saying how
pretty she was, and striving to get where her good looks could be
seen and admired,—one night in particular, ma'am, at a county ball;
and how Mrs Mason had found out she used to meet Mr Bellingham at an
old woman's house, who was a regular old witch, ma'am, and lives in
the lowest part of the town, where all the bad characters haunt."

"There! that's enough," said Mrs Bellingham, sharply, for the maid's
chattering had outrun her tact; and in her anxiety to vindicate the
character of her friend Mrs Mason by blackening that of Ruth, she had
forgotten that she a little implicated her mistress's son, whom his
proud mother did not like to imagine as ever passing through a low
and degraded part of the town.

"If she has no friends, and is the creature you describe (which is
confirmed by my own observation), the best place for her is, as I
said before, the Penitentiary. Her fifty pounds will keep her for
a week or so, if she is really unable to travel, and pay for her
journey; and if on her return to Fordham she will let me know, I will
undertake to obtain her admission immediately."

"I'm sure it's well for her she has to do with a lady who will take
any interest in her, after what has happened."

Mrs Bellingham called for her writing-desk, and wrote a few hasty
lines to be sent back by the post-boy, who was on the point of
starting:

Mrs Bellingham presents her compliments to her unknown
correspondent, Mr Benson, and begs to inform him of a
circumstance of which she believes he was ignorant when he
wrote the letter with which she has been favoured; namely,
that provision to the amount of £50 was left for the
unfortunate young person who is the subject of Mr Benson's
letter. This sum is in the hands of Mrs Morgan, as well as
a note from Mrs Bellingham to the miserable girl, in which
she proposes to procure her admission into the Fordham
Penitentiary, the best place for such a character, as by
this profligate action she has forfeited the only friend
remaining to her in the world. This proposition, Mrs
Bellingham repeats; and they are the young woman's best
friends who most urge her to comply with the course now
pointed out.