Ruth (16 page)

"Take care Mr Bellingham hears nothing of this Mr Benson's note,"
said Mrs Bellingham, as she delivered the answer to her maid; "he is
so sensitive just now that it would annoy him sadly, I am sure."

You have now seen the note which was delivered into Mr Benson's
hands, as the cool shades of evening stole over the glowing summer
sky. When he had read it, he again prepared to write a few hasty
lines before the post went out. The post-boy was even now sounding
his horn through the village as a signal for letters to be ready; and
it was well that Mr Benson, in his long morning's meditation, had
decided upon the course to be pursued, in case of such an answer as
that which he had received from Mrs Bellingham. His present note was
as follows:

DEAR FAITH,—You must come to this place directly, where I
earnestly desire you and your advice. I am well myself, so
do not be alarmed. I have no time for explanation, but I
am sure you will not refuse me; let me trust that I shall
see you on Saturday at the latest. You know the mode by
which I came; it is the best for expedition and cheapness.
Dear Faith, do not fail me.

Your affectionate brother,

THURSTAN BENSON.

P.S.—I am afraid the money I left may be running short.
Do not let this stop you. Take my Facciolati to Johnson's,
he will advance upon it; it is the third row, bottom
shelf. Only come.

When this letter was despatched he had done all he could; and the
next two days passed like a long monotonous dream of watching,
thought, and care, undisturbed by any event, hardly by the change
from day to night, which, now the harvest moon was at her full, was
scarcely perceptible. On Saturday morning the answer came.

DEAREST THURSTAN,—Your incomprehensible summons has just
reached me, and I obey, thereby proving my right to my
name of Faith. I shall be with you almost as soon as this
letter. I cannot help feeling anxious, as well as curious.
I have money enough, and it is well I have; for Sally, who
guards your room like a dragon, would rather see me walk
the whole way, than have any of your things disturbed.

Your affectionate sister,

FAITH BENSON.

It was a great relief to Mr Benson to think that his sister would so
soon be with him. He had been accustomed from childhood to rely on
her prompt judgment and excellent sense; and to her care he felt that
Ruth ought to be consigned, as it was too much to go on taxing good
Mrs Hughes with night watching and sick nursing, with all her other
claims on her time. He asked her once more to sit by Ruth, while he
went to meet his sister.

The coach passed by the foot of the steep ascent which led up to
Llan-dhu. He took a boy to carry his sister's luggage when she
arrived; they were too soon at the bottom of the hill, and the boy
began to make ducks and drakes in the shallowest part of the stream,
which there flowed glassy and smooth, while Mr Benson sat down on a
great stone, under the shadow of an alder bush which grew where the
green, flat meadow skirted the water. It was delightful to be once
more in the open air, and away from the scenes and thoughts which had
been pressing on him for the last three days. There was new beauty in
everything: from the blue mountains which glimmered in the distant
sunlight, down to the flat, rich, peaceful vale, with its calm round
shadows, where he sat. The very margin of white pebbles which lay on
the banks of the stream had a sort of cleanly beauty about it. He
felt calmer and more at ease than he had done for some days; and yet,
when he began to think, it was rather a strange story which he had to
tell his sister, in order to account for his urgent summons. Here was
he, sole friend and guardian of a poor sick girl, whose very name he
did not know; about whom all that he did know was, that she had been
the mistress of a man who had deserted her, and that he feared—he
believed—she had contemplated suicide. The offence, too, was one for
which his sister, good and kind as she was, had little compassion.
Well, he must appeal to her love for him, which was a very
unsatisfactory mode of proceeding, as he would far rather have had
her interest in the girl founded on reason, or some less personal
basis than showing it merely because her brother wished it.

The coach came slowly rumbling over the stony road. His sister was
outside, but got down in a brisk active way, and greeted her brother
heartily and affectionately. She was considerably taller than he was,
and must have been very handsome; her black hair was parted plainly
over her forehead, and her dark, expressive eyes and straight nose
still retained the beauty of her youth. I do not know whether she
was older than her brother, but, probably owing to his infirmity
requiring her care, she had something of a mother's manner towards
him.

"Thurstan, you are looking pale! I do not believe you are well,
whatever you may say. Have you had the old pain in your back?"

"No—a little—never mind that, dearest Faith. Sit down here, while
I send the boy up with your box." And then, with some little desire
to show his sister how well he was acquainted with the language,
he blundered out his directions in very grammatical Welsh; so
grammatical, in fact, and so badly pronounced, that the boy,
scratching his head, made answer,

"Dim Saesoneg."

So he had to repeat it in English.

"Well now, Thurstan, here I sit as you bid me. But don't try me too
long; tell me why you sent for me."

Now came the difficulty, and oh! for a seraph's tongue, and a
seraph's powers of representation! but there was no seraph at hand,
only the soft running waters singing a quiet tune, and predisposing
Miss Benson to listen with a soothed spirit to any tale, not
immediately involving her brother's welfare, which had been the cause
of her seeing that lovely vale.

"It is an awkward story to tell, Faith, but there is a young woman
lying ill at my lodgings whom I wanted you to nurse."

He thought he saw a shadow on his sister's face, and detected a
slight change in her voice as she spoke.

"Nothing very romantic, I hope, Thurstan. Remember, I cannot stand
much romance; I always distrust it."

"I don't know what you mean by romance. The story is real enough, and
not out of the common way, I'm afraid."

He paused; he did not get over the difficulty.

"Well, tell it me at once, Thurstan. I am afraid you have let some
one, or perhaps only your own imagination, impose upon you; but don't
try my patience too much; you know I've no great stock."

"Then I'll tell you. The young girl was brought to the inn here by a
gentleman, who has left her; she is very ill, and has no one to see
after her."

Miss Benson had some masculine tricks, and one was whistling a long,
low whistle when surprised or displeased. She had often found it a
useful vent for feelings, and she whistled now. Her brother would
rather she had spoken.

"Have you sent for her friends?" she asked at last.

"She has none."

Another pause and another whistle, but rather softer and more
wavering than the last.

"How is she ill?"

"Pretty nearly as quiet as if she were dead. She does not speak, or
move, or even sigh."

"It would be better for her to die at once, I think."

"Faith!"

That one word put them right. It was spoken in the tone which had
authority over her; it was so full of grieved surprise and mournful
upbraiding. She was accustomed to exercise a sway over him, owing to
her greater decision of character, and, probably, if everything were
traced to its cause, to her superior vigour of constitution; but at
times she was humbled before his pure, childlike nature, and felt
where she was inferior. She was too good and true to conceal this
feeling, or to resent its being forced upon her. After a time she
said,

"Thurstan, dear, let us go to her."

She helped him with tender care, and gave him her arm up the long and
tedious hill; but when they approached the village, without speaking
a word on the subject, they changed their position, and she leant
(apparently) on him. He stretched himself up into as vigorous a gait
as he could, when they drew near to the abodes of men.

On the way they had spoken but little. He had asked after various
members of his congregation, for he was a Dissenting minister in a
country town, and she had answered; but they neither of them spoke of
Ruth, though their minds were full of her.

Mrs Hughes had tea ready for the traveller on her arrival. Mr Benson
chafed a little internally at the leisurely way in which his sister
sipped and sipped, and paused to tell him some trifling particular
respecting home affairs, which she had forgotten before.

"Mr Bradshaw has refused to let the children associate with the
Dixons any longer, because one evening they played at acting
charades."

"Indeed;—a little more bread and butter, Faith?"

"Thank you. This Welsh air does make one hungry. Mrs Bradshaw is
paying poor old Maggie's rent, to save her from being sent into the
workhouse."

"That's right. Won't you have another cup of tea?"

"I have had two. However, I think I'll take another."

Mr Benson could not refrain from a little sigh as he poured it out.
He thought he had never seen his sister so deliberately hungry and
thirsty before. He did not guess that she was feeling the meal rather
a respite from a distasteful interview, which she was aware was
awaiting her at its conclusion. But all things come to an end, and so
did Miss Benson's tea.

"Now, will you go and see her?"

"Yes."

And so they went. Mrs Hughes had pinned up a piece of green calico,
by way of a Venetian blind, to shut out the afternoon sun; and in the
light thus shaded lay Ruth, still, and wan, and white. Even with her
brother's account of Ruth's state, such death-like quietness startled
Miss Benson—startled her into pity for the poor lovely creature who
lay thus stricken and felled. When she saw her, she could no longer
imagine her to be an impostor, or a hardened sinner; such prostration
of woe belonged to neither. Mr Benson looked more at his sister's
face than at Ruth's; he read her countenance as a book.

Mrs Hughes stood by, crying.

Mr Benson touched his sister, and they left the room together.

"Do you think she will live?" asked he.

"I cannot tell," said Miss Benson, in a softened voice. "But how
young she looks! Quite a child, poor creature! When will the doctor
come, Thurstan? Tell me all about her; you have never told me the
particulars."

Mr Benson might have said, she had never cared to hear them before,
and had rather avoided the subject; but he was too happy to see this
awakening of interest in his sister's warm heart to say anything in
the least reproachful. He told her the story as well as he could;
and, as he felt it deeply, he told it with heart's eloquence; and, as
he ended and looked at her, there were tears in the eyes of both.

"And what does the doctor say?" asked she, after a pause.

"He insists upon quiet; he orders medicines and strong broth. I
cannot tell you all; Mrs Hughes can. She has been so truly good.
'Doing good, hoping for nothing again.'"

"She looks very sweet and gentle. I shall sit up to-night and watch
her myself; and I shall send you and Mrs Hughes early to bed, for you
have both a worn look about you I don't like. Are you sure the effect
of that fall has gone off? Do you feel anything of it in your back
still? After all, I owe her something for turning back to your help.
Are you sure she was going to drown herself?"

"I cannot be sure, for I have not questioned her. She has not been in
a state to be questioned; but I have no doubt whatever about it. But
you must not think of sitting up after your journey, Faith."

"Answer me, Thurstan. Do you feel any bad effect from that fall?"

"No, hardly any. Don't sit up, Faith, to-night!"

"Thurstan, it's no use talking, for I shall; and, if you go on
opposing me, I dare say I shall attack your back, and put a blister
on it. Do tell me what that 'hardly any' means. Besides, to set you
quite at ease, you know I have never seen mountains before, and they
fill me and oppress me so much that I could not sleep; I must keep
awake this first night, and see that they don't fall on the earth and
overwhelm it. And now answer my questions about yourself."

Miss Benson had the power, which some people have, of carrying her
wishes through to their fulfilment; her will was strong, her sense
was excellent, and people yielded to her—they did not know why.
Before ten o'clock she reigned sole power and potentate in Ruth's
little chamber. Nothing could have been better devised for giving her
an interest in the invalid. The very dependence of one so helpless
upon her care inclined her heart towards her. She thought she
perceived a slight improvement in the symptoms during the night, and
she was a little pleased that this progress should have been made
while she reigned monarch of the sick-room. Yes, certainly there was
an improvement. There was more consciousness in the look of the eyes,
although the whole countenance still retained its painful traces of
acute suffering, manifested in an anxious, startled, uneasy aspect.
It was broad morning light, though barely five o'clock, when Miss
Benson caught the sight of Ruth's lips moving, as if in speech. Miss
Benson stooped down to listen.

"Who are you?" asked Ruth, in the faintest of whispers.

"Miss Benson—Mr Benson's sister," she replied.

The words conveyed no knowledge to Ruth; on the contrary, weak as a
babe in mind and body as she was, her lips began to quiver, and her
eyes to show a terror similar to that of any little child who wakens
in the presence of a stranger, and sees no dear, familiar face of
mother or nurse to reassure its trembling heart.