Ruth (17 page)

Miss Benson took her hand in hers, and began to stroke it
caressingly.

"Don't be afraid, dear; I'm a friend come to take care of you. Would
you like some tea now, my love?"

The very utterance of these gentle words was unlocking Miss Benson's
heart. Her brother was surprised to see her so full of interest, when
he came to inquire later on in the morning. It required Mrs Hughes's
persuasions, as well as his own, to induce her to go to bed for an
hour or two after breakfast; and, before she went, she made them
promise that she should be called when the doctor came. He did not
come until late in the afternoon. The invalid was rallying fast,
though rallying to a consciousness of sorrow, as was evinced by the
tears which came slowly rolling down her pale sad cheeks—tears which
she had not the power to wipe away.

Mr Benson had remained in the house all day to hear the doctor's
opinion; and now that he was relieved from the charge of Ruth by
his sister's presence, he had the more time to dwell upon the
circumstances of her case—so far as they were known to him. He
remembered his first sight of her; her little figure swaying to and
fro as she balanced herself on the slippery stones, half smiling at
her own dilemma, with a bright, happy light in the eyes that seemed
like a reflection from the glancing waters sparkling below. Then he
recalled the changed, affrighted look of those eyes as they met his,
after the child's rebuff of her advances;—how that little incident
filled up the tale at which Mrs Hughes had hinted, in a kind of
sorrowful way, as if loath (as a Christian should be) to believe
evil. Then that fearful evening, when he had only just saved her
from committing suicide, and that nightmare sleep! And now, lost,
forsaken, and but just delivered from the jaws of death, she lay
dependent for everything on his sister and him,—utter strangers a
few weeks ago. Where was her lover? Could he be easy and happy? Could
he grow into perfect health, with these great sins pressing on his
conscience with a strong and hard pain? Or had he a conscience?

Into whole labyrinths of social ethics Mr Benson's thoughts wandered,
when his sister entered suddenly and abruptly.

"What does the doctor say? Is she better?"

"Oh, yes! she's better," answered Miss Benson, sharp and short. Her
brother looked at her in dismay. She bumped down into a chair in a
cross, disconcerted manner. They were both silent for a few minutes;
only Miss Benson whistled and clucked alternately.

"What is the matter, Faith? You say she is better."

"Why, Thurstan, there is something so shocking the matter, that I
cannot tell you."

Mr Benson changed colour with affright. All things possible and
impossible crossed his mind but the right one. I said, "all things
possible;" I made a mistake. He never believed Ruth to be more guilty
than she seemed.

"Faith, I wish you would tell me, and not bewilder me with those
noises of yours," said he, nervously.

"I beg your pardon; but something so shocking has just been
discovered—I don't know how to word it—She will have a child. The
doctor says so."

She was allowed to make noises unnoticed for a few minutes. Her
brother did not speak. At last she wanted his sympathy.

"Isn't it shocking, Thurstan? You might have knocked me down with a
straw when he told me."

"Does she know?"

"Yes; and I am not sure that that isn't the worst part of all."

"How?—what do you mean?"

"Oh! I was just beginning to have a good opinion of her, but I'm
afraid she is very depraved. After the doctor was gone, she pulled
the bed-curtain aside, and looked as if she wanted to speak to me. (I
can't think how she heard, for we were close to the window, and spoke
very low.) Well, I went to her, though I really had taken quite a
turn against her. And she whispered, quite eagerly, 'Did he say I
should have a baby?' Of course, I could not keep it from her; but I
thought it my duty to look as cold and severe as I could. She did not
seem to understand how it ought to be viewed, but took it just as if
she had a right to have a baby. She said, 'Oh, my God, I thank Thee!
Oh! I will be so good!' I had no patience with her then, so I left
the room."

"Who is with her?"

"Mrs Hughes. She is not seeing the thing in a moral light, as I
should have expected."

Mr Benson was silent again. After some time he began:

"Faith, I don't see this affair quite as you do. I believe I am
right."

"You surprise me, brother! I don't understand you."

"Wait awhile! I want to make my feelings very clear to you, but I
don't know where to begin, or how to express myself."

"It is, indeed, an extraordinary subject for us to have to talk
about; but if once I get clear of this girl, I'll wash my hands of
all such cases again."

Her brother was not attending to her; he was reducing his own ideas
to form.

"Faith, do you know I rejoice in this child's advent?"

"May God forgive you, Thurstan!—if you know what you are saying.
But, surely, it is a temptation, dear Thurstan."

"I do not think it is a delusion. The sin appears to me to be quite
distinct from its consequences."

"Sophistry—and a temptation," said Miss Benson, decidedly.

"No, it is not," said her brother, with equal decision. "In the eye
of God, she is exactly the same as if the life she has led had left
no trace behind. We knew her errors before, Faith."

"Yes, but not this disgrace—this badge of her shame!"

"Faith, Faith! let me beg of you not to speak so of the little
innocent babe, who may be God's messenger to lead her back to Him.
Think again of her first words—the burst of nature from her heart!
Did she not turn to God, and enter into a covenant with Him—'I
will be so good?' Why, it draws her out of herself! If her life has
hitherto been self-seeking, and wickedly thoughtless, here is the
very instrument to make her forget herself, and be thoughtful for
another. Teach her (and God will teach her, if man does not come
between) to reverence her child; and this reverence will shut out
sin,—will be purification."

He was very much excited; he was even surprised at his own
excitement; but his thoughts and meditations through the long
afternoon had prepared his mind for this manner of viewing the
subject.

"These are quite new ideas to me," said Miss Benson, coldly. "I think
you, Thurstan, are the first person I ever heard rejoicing over the
birth of an illegitimate child. It appears to me, I must own, rather
questionable morality."

"I do not rejoice. I have been all this afternoon mourning over the
sin which has blighted this young creature; I have been dreading
lest, as she recovered consciousness, there should be a return of her
despair. I have been thinking of every holy word, every promise to
the penitent—of the tenderness which led the Magdalen aright. I have
been feeling, severely and reproachfully, the timidity which has
hitherto made me blink all encounter with evils of this particular
kind. Oh, Faith! once for all, do not accuse me of questionable
morality, when I am trying more than ever I did in my life to act as
my blessed Lord would have done."

He was very much agitated. His sister hesitated, and then she spoke
more softly than before.

"But, Thurstan, everything might have been done to 'lead her right'
(as you call it), without this child, this miserable offspring of
sin."

"The world has, indeed, made such children miserable, innocent as
they are; but I doubt if this be according to the will of God, unless
it be His punishment for the parents' guilt; and even then the
world's way of treatment is too apt to harden the mother's natural
love into something like hatred. Shame, and the terror of friends'
displeasure, turn her mad—defile her holiest instincts; and, as for
the fathers—God forgive them! I cannot—at least, not just now."

Miss Benson thought on what her brother said. At length she asked,
"Thurstan (remember I'm not convinced), how would you have this girl
treated according to your theory?"

"It will require some time, and much Christian love, to find out the
best way. I know I'm not very wise; but the way I think it would be
right to act in, would be this—" He thought for some time before he
spoke, and then said:

"She has incurred a responsibility—that we both acknowledge. She is
about to become a mother, and have the direction and guidance of a
little tender life. I fancy such a responsibility must be serious and
solemn enough, without making it into a heavy and oppressive burden,
so that human nature recoils from bearing it. While we do all we can
to strengthen her sense of responsibility, I would likewise do all we
can to make her feel that it is responsibility for what may become a
blessing."

"Whether the children are legitimate or illegitimate?" asked Miss
Benson, drily.

"Yes!" said her brother, firmly. "The more I think, the more I
believe I am right. No one," said he, blushing faintly as he spoke,
"can have a greater recoil from profligacy than I have. You yourself
have not greater sorrow over this young creature's sin than I have:
the difference is this, you confuse the consequences with the sin."

"I don't understand metaphysics."

"I am not aware that I am talking metaphysics. I can imagine that if
the present occasion be taken rightly, and used well, all that is
good in her may be raised to a height unmeasured but by God; while
all that is evil and dark may, by His blessing, fade and disappear
in the pure light of her child's presence. Oh, Father! listen to my
prayer, that her redemption may date from this time. Help us to speak
to her in the loving spirit of thy Holy Son!"

The tears were full in his eyes; he almost trembled in his
earnestness. He was faint with the strong power of his own
conviction, and with his inability to move his sister. But she was
shaken. She sat very still for a quarter of an hour or more, while he
leaned back, exhausted by his own feelings.

"The poor child!" said she, at length—"the poor, poor child! what
it will have to struggle through and endure! Do you remember Thomas
Wilkins, and the way he threw the registry of his birth and baptism
back in your face? Why, he would not have the situation; he went to
sea and was drowned, rather than present the record of his shame."

"I do remember it all. It has often haunted me. She must strengthen
her child to look to God, rather than to man's opinion. It will be
the discipline, the penance, she has incurred. She must teach it to
be (humanly speaking) self-dependent."

"But after all," said Miss Benson (for she had known and esteemed
poor Thomas Wilkins, and had mourned over his untimely death, and
the recollection thereof softened her)—"after all, it might be
concealed. The very child need never know its illegitimacy."

"How?" asked her brother.

"Why—we know so little about her yet; but in that letter, it said
she had no friends;—now, could she not go into quite a fresh place,
and be passed off as a widow?"

Ah, tempter! unconscious tempter! Here was a way of evading the
trials for the poor little unborn child, of which Mr Benson had never
thought. It was the decision—the pivot, on which the fate of years
moved; and he turned it the wrong way. But it was not for his own
sake. For himself, he was brave enough to tell the truth; for the
little helpless baby, about to enter a cruel, biting world, he was
tempted to evade the difficulty. He forgot what he had just said, of
the discipline and penance to the mother consisting in strengthening
her child to meet, trustfully and bravely, the consequences of her
own weakness. He remembered more clearly the wild fierceness, the
Cain-like look, of Thomas Wilkins, as the obnoxious word in the
baptismal registry told him that he must go forth branded into the
world, with his hand against every man's, and every man's against
him.

"How could it be managed, Faith?"

"Nay, I must know much more, which she alone can tell us, before I
can see how it is to be managed. It is certainly the best plan."

"Perhaps it is," said her brother, thoughtfully, but no longer
clearly or decidedly; and so the conversation dropped.

Ruth moved the bed-curtain aside, in her soft manner, when Miss
Benson re-entered the room; she did not speak, but she looked at her
as if she wished her to come near. Miss Benson went and stood by her.
Ruth took her hand in hers and kissed it; then, as if fatigued even
by this slight movement, she fell asleep.

Miss Benson took up her work, and thought over her brother's
speeches. She was not convinced, but she was softened and bewildered.

Miss Benson continued in an undecided state of mind for the two next
days; but on the third, as they sat at breakfast, she began to speak
to her brother.

"That young creature's name is Ruth Hilton."

"Indeed! how did you find it out?"

"From herself, of course. She is much stronger. I slept with her last
night, and I was aware she was awake long before I liked to speak,
but at last I began. I don't know what I said, or how it went on,
but I think it was a little relief to her to tell me something about
herself. She sobbed and cried herself to sleep; I think she is asleep
now."

"Tell me what she said about herself."

"Oh, it was really very little; it was evidently a most painful
subject. She is an orphan, without brother or sister, and with
a guardian, whom, I think she said, she never saw but once. He
apprenticed her (after her father's death) to a dressmaker. This Mr
Bellingham got acquainted with her, and they used to meet on Sunday
afternoons. One day they were late, lingering on the road, when the
dressmaker came up by accident. She seems to have been very angry,
and not unnaturally so. The girl took fright at her threats, and the
lover persuaded her to go off with him to London, there and then.
Last May, I think it was. That's all."