Ruth (18 page)

"Did she express any sorrow for her error?"

"No, not in words, but her voice was broken with sobs, though she
tried to make it steady. After a while she began to talk about her
baby, but shyly, and with much hesitation. She asked me how much I
thought she could earn as a dressmaker, by working very, very hard;
and that brought us round to her child. I thought of what you had
said, Thurstan, and I tried to speak to her as you wished me. I am
not sure if it was right; I am doubtful in my own mind still."

"Don't be doubtful, Faith! Dear Faith, I thank you for your
kindness."

"There is really nothing to thank me for. It is almost impossible to
help being kind to her; there is something so meek and gentle about
her, so patient, and so grateful!"

"What does she think of doing?"

"Poor child! she thinks of taking lodgings—very cheap ones, she
says; there she means to work night and day to earn enough for her
child. For, she said to me, with such pretty earnestness, 'It must
never know want, whatever I do. I have deserved suffering, but it
will be such a little innocent darling!' Her utmost earnings would
not be more than seven or eight shillings a week, I'm afraid; and
then she is so young and so pretty!"

"There is that fifty pounds Mrs Morgan brought me, and those two
letters. Does she know about them yet?"

"No; I did not like to tell her till she is a little stronger. Oh,
Thurstan! I wish there was not this prospect of a child. I cannot
help it. I do—I could see a way in which we might help her, if it
were not for that."

"How do you mean?"

"Oh, it's no use thinking of it, as it is! Or else we might have
taken her home with us, and kept her till she had got a little
dress-making in the congregation, but for this meddlesome child;
that spoils everything. You must let me grumble to you, Thurstan.
I was very good to her, and spoke as tenderly and respectfully of
the little thing as if it were the Queen's, and born in lawful
matrimony."

"That's right, my dear Faith! Grumble away to me, if you like. I'll
forgive you, for the kind thought of taking her home with us. But do
you think her situation is an insuperable objection?"

"Why, Thurstan!—it's so insuperable, it puts it quite out of the
question."

"How?—that's only repeating your objection. Why is it out of the
question?"

"If there had been no child coming, we might have called her by her
right name—Miss Hilton; that's one thing. Then, another is, the baby
in our house. Why, Sally would go distraught!"

"Never mind Sally. If she were an orphan relation of our own, left
widowed," said he, pausing, as if in doubt. "You yourself suggested
she should be considered as a widow, for the child's sake. I'm only
taking up your ideas, dear Faith. I respect you for thinking of
taking her home; it is just what we ought to do. Thank you for
reminding me of my duty."

"Nay, it was only a passing thought. Think of Mr Bradshaw. Oh! I
tremble at the thought of his grim displeasure."

"We must think of a higher than Mr Bradshaw. I own I should be a very
coward, if he knew. He is so severe, so inflexible. But after all he
sees so little of us; he never comes to tea, you know, but is always
engaged when Mrs Bradshaw comes. I don't think he knows of what our
household consists."

"Not know Sally? Oh yes, but he does. He asked Mrs Bradshaw one day,
if she knew what wages we gave her, and said we might get a far more
efficient and younger servant for the money. And, speaking about
money, think what our expenses would be if we took her home for the
next six months."

That consideration was a puzzling one; and both sat silent and
perplexed for a time. Miss Benson was as sorrowful as her brother,
for she was becoming as anxious as he was to find it possible that
her plan could be carried out.

"There's the fifty pounds," said he, with a sigh of reluctance at the
idea.

"Yes, there's the fifty pounds," echoed his sister, with the same
sadness in her tone. "I suppose it is hers."

"I suppose it is; and being so, we must not think who gave it to her.
It will defray her expenses. I am very sorry, but I think we must
take it."

"It would never do to apply to him under the present circumstances,"
said Miss Benson, in a hesitating manner.

"No, that we won't," said her brother, decisively. "If she consents
to let us take care of her, we will never let her stoop to request
anything from him, even for his child. She can live on bread and
water. We can all live on bread and water rather than that."

"Then I will speak to her and propose the plan. Oh, Thurstan! from
a child you could persuade me to anything! I hope I am doing right.
However much I oppose you at first, I am sure to yield soon; almost
in proportion to my violence at first. I think I am very weak."

"No, not in this instance. We are both right: I, in the way in which
the child ought to be viewed; you, dear good Faith, for thinking of
taking her home with us. God bless you, dear, for it!"

When Ruth began to sit up (and the strange, new, delicious prospect
of becoming a mother seemed to give her some mysterious source of
strength, so that her recovery was rapid and swift from that time),
Miss Benson brought her the letters and the bank-note.

"Do you recollect receiving this letter, Ruth?" asked she, with
grave gentleness. Ruth changed colour, and took it and read it again
without making any reply to Miss Benson. Then she sighed, and thought
a while; and then took up and read the second note—the note which
Mrs Bellingham had sent to Mr Benson in answer to his. After that she
took up the bank-note and turned it round and round, but not as if
she saw it. Miss Benson noticed that her fingers trembled sadly, and
that her lips were quivering for some time before she spoke.

"If you please, Miss Benson, I should like to return this money."

"Why, my dear?"

"I have a strong feeling against taking it. While he," said she,
deeply blushing, and letting her large white lids drop down and veil
her eyes, "loved me, he gave me many things—my watch—oh, many
things; and I took them from him gladly and thankfully because he
loved me—for I would have given him anything—and I thought of them
as signs of love. But this money pains my heart. He has left off
loving me, and has gone away. This money seems—oh, Miss Benson—it
seems as if he could comfort me, for being forsaken, by money." And
at that word the tears, so long kept back and repressed, forced their
way like rain.

She checked herself, however, in the violence of her emotion, for she
thought of her child.

"So, will you take the trouble of sending it back to Mrs Bellingham?"

"That I will, my dear. I am glad of it, that I am! They don't deserve
to have the power of giving: they don't deserve that you should take
it."

Miss Benson went and enclosed it up, there and then; simply writing
these words in the envelope, "From Ruth Hilton."

"And now we wash our hands of these Bellinghams," said she,
triumphantly. But Ruth looked tearful and sad; not about returning
the note, but from the conviction that the reason she had given for
the ground of her determination was true—he no longer loved her.

To cheer her, Miss Benson began to speak of the future. Miss Benson
was one of those people who, the more she spoke of a plan in its
details, and the more she realised it in her own mind, the more
firmly she became a partisan of the project. Thus she grew warm and
happy in the idea of taking Ruth home; but Ruth remained depressed
and languid under the conviction that he no longer loved her. No
home, no future, but the thought of her child, could wean her
from this sorrow. Miss Benson was a little piqued; and this pique
showed itself afterwards in talking to her brother of the morning's
proceedings in the sick-chamber.

"I admired her at the time for sending away her fifty pounds so
proudly; but I think she has a cold heart: she hardly thanked me at
all for my proposal of taking her home with us."

"Her thoughts are full of other things just now; and people have such
different ways of showing feeling: some by silence, some by words. At
any rate, it is unwise to expect gratitude."

"What do you expect—not indifference or ingratitude?"

"It is better not to expect or calculate consequences. The longer
I live, the more fully I see that. Let us try simply to do right
actions, without thinking of the feelings they are to call out in
others. We know that no holy or self-denying effort can fall to the
ground vain and useless; but the sweep of eternity is large, and God
alone knows when the effect is to be produced. We are trying to do
right now, and to feel right; don't let us perplex ourselves with
endeavouring to map out how she should feel, or how she should show
her feelings."

"That's all very fine, and I dare say very true," said Miss Benson, a
little chagrined. "But 'a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush;'
and I would rather have had one good, hearty 'Thank you,' now, for
all I have been planning to do for her, than the grand effects you
promise me in the 'sweep of eternity.' Don't be grave and sorrowful,
Thurstan, or I'll go out of the room. I can stand Sally's scoldings,
but I can't bear your look of quiet depression whenever I am a little
hasty or impatient. I had rather you would give me a good box on the
ear."

"And I would often rather you would speak, if ever so hastily,
instead of whistling. So, if I box your ears when I am vexed with
you, will you promise to scold me when you are put out of the way,
instead of whistling?"

"Very well! that's a bargain. You box, and I scold. But, seriously,
I began to calculate our money when she so cavalierly sent off the
fifty-pound note (I can't help admiring her for it), and I am very
much afraid we shall not have enough to pay the doctor's bill, and
take her home with us."

"She must go inside the coach whatever we do," said Mr Benson,
decidedly. "Who's there? Come in! Oh! Mrs Hughes! Sit down."

"Indeed, sir, and I cannot stay; but the young lady has just made me
find up her watch for her, and asked me to get it sold to pay the
doctor, and the little things she has had since she came; and please,
sir, indeed, I don't know where to sell it nearer than Carnarvon."

"That is good of her," said Miss Benson, her sense of justice
satisfied; and, remembering the way in which Ruth had spoken of the
watch, she felt what a sacrifice it must have been to resolve to part
with it.

"And her goodness just helps us out of our dilemma," said her
brother, who was unaware of the feelings with which Ruth regarded her
watch, or, perhaps, he might have parted with his Facciolati.

Mrs Hughes patiently awaited their leisure for answering her
practical question. Where could the watch be sold? Suddenly her face
brightened.

"Mr Jones, the doctor, is going to be married, perhaps he would like
nothing better than to give this pretty watch to his bride; indeed,
and I think it's very likely; and he'll pay money for it as well as
letting alone his bill. I'll ask him, sir, at any rate."

Mr Jones was only too glad to obtain possession of so elegant a
present at so cheap a rate. He even, as Mrs Hughes had foretold,
"paid money for it;" more than was required to defray the expenses
of Ruth's accommodation; as the most of the articles of food she had
were paid for at the time by Mr or Miss Benson, but they strictly
forbade Mrs Hughes to tell Ruth of this.

"Would you object to my buying you a black gown?" said Miss Benson to
her the day after the sale of the watch. She hesitated a little, and
then went on:

"My brother and I think it would be better to call you—as if in fact
you were—a widow. It will save much awkwardness, and it will spare
your child much—" Mortification she was going to have added, but
that word did not exactly do. But, at the mention of her child, Ruth
started and turned ruby-red; as she always did when allusion was made
to it.

"Oh, yes! certainly. Thank you much for thinking of it. Indeed," said
she, very low, as if to herself, "I don't know how to thank you for
all you are doing; but I do love you, and will pray for you, if I
may."

"If you may, Ruth!" repeated Miss Benson, in a tone of surprise.

"Yes, if I may. If you will let me pray for you."

"Certainly, my dear. My dear Ruth, you don't know how often I sin; I
do so wrong, with my few temptations. We are both of us great sinners
in the eyes of the Most Holy; let us pray for each other. Don't speak
so again, my dear; at least, not to me!"

Miss Benson was actually crying. She had always looked upon herself
as so inferior to her brother in real goodness; had seen such heights
above her, that she was distressed by Ruth's humility. After a short
time she resumed the subject.

"Then I may get you a black gown?—and we may call you Mrs Hilton?"

"No; not Mrs Hilton!" said Ruth, hastily.

Miss Benson, who had hitherto kept her eyes averted from Ruth's face
from a motive of kindly delicacy, now looked at her with surprise.

"Why not?" asked she.

"It was my mother's name," said Ruth, in a low voice. "I had better
not be called by it."

"Then, let us call you by my mother's name," said Miss Benson,
tenderly. "She would have— But I'll talk to you about my mother some
other time. Let me call you Mrs Denbigh. It will do very well, too.
People will think you are a distant relation."

When she told Mr Benson this choice of name, he was rather
sorry; it was like his sister's impulsive kindness—impulsive in
everything—and he could imagine how Ruth's humility had touched her.
He was sorry, but he said nothing.

And now the letter was written home, announcing the probable arrival
of the brother and sister on a certain day, "with a distant relation,
early left a widow," as Miss Benson expressed it. She desired the
spare room might be prepared, and made every provision she could
think of for Ruth's comfort; for Ruth still remained feeble and weak.