Ruth (21 page)

But in a minute she popped her head into Ruth's room once more:

"You'll put on them caps to-morrow morning. I'll make you a present
on them."

Sally had carried away the beautiful curls, and she could not find
it in her heart to throw such lovely chestnut tresses away, so she
folded them up carefully in paper, and placed them in a safe corner
of her drawer.

Ruth felt very shy when she came down (at half-past seven) the
next morning, in her widow's cap. Her smooth, pale face, with its
oval untouched by time, looked more young and childlike than ever,
when contrasted with the head-gear usually associated with ideas
of age. She blushed very deeply as Mr and Miss Benson showed the
astonishment, which they could not conceal, in their looks. She said
in a low voice to Miss Benson,

"Sally thought I had better wear it."

Miss Benson made no reply; but was startled at the intelligence,
which she thought was conveyed in this speech, of Sally's
acquaintance with Ruth's real situation. She noticed Sally's looks
particularly this morning. The manner in which the old servant
treated Ruth had in it far more of respect than there had been the
day before; but there was a kind of satisfied way of braving out Miss
Benson's glances which made the latter uncertain and uncomfortable.

She followed her brother into his study.

"Do you know, Thurstan, I am almost certain Sally suspects."

Mr Benson sighed. The deception grieved him, and yet he thought he
saw its necessity.

"What makes you think so?" asked he.

"Oh! many little things. It was her odd way of ducking her head
about, as if to catch a good view of Ruth's left hand, that made me
think of the wedding-ring; and once, yesterday, when I thought I had
made up quite a natural speech, and was saying how sad it was for
so young a creature to be left a widow, she broke in with 'widow be
farred!' in a very strange, contemptuous kind of manner."

"If she suspects, we had far better tell her the truth at once. She
will never rest till she finds it out, so we must make a virtue of
necessity."

"Well, brother, you shall tell her then, for I am sure I daren't.
I don't mind doing the thing, since you talked to me that day, and
since I've got to know Ruth; but I do mind all the clatter people
will make about it."

"But Sally is not 'people.'"

"Oh, I see it must be done; she'll talk as much as all the other
persons put together, so that's the reason I call her 'people.' Shall
I call her?" (For the house was too homely and primitive to have
bells.)

Sally came, fully aware of what was now going to be told her, and
determined not to help them out in telling their awkward secret, by
understanding the nature of it before it was put into the plainest
language. In every pause, when they hoped she had caught the meaning
they were hinting at, she persisted in looking stupid and perplexed,
and in saying, "Well," as if quite unenlightened as to the end of
the story. When it was all complete and plain before her, she said,
honestly enough,

"It's just as I thought it was; and I think you may thank me for
having had the sense to put her into widow's caps, and clip off that
bonny brown hair that was fitter for a bride in lawful matrimony than
for such as her. She took it very well, though. She was as quiet as a
lamb, and I clipped her pretty roughly at first. I must say, though,
if I'd ha' known who your visitor was, I'd ha' packed up my things
and cleared myself out of the house before such as her came into it.
As it's done, I suppose I must stand by you, and help you through
with it; I only hope I shan't lose my character,—and me a parish
clerk's daughter."

"Oh, Sally! people know you too well to think any ill of you," said
Miss Benson, who was pleased to find the difficulty so easily got
over; for, in truth, Sally had been much softened by the unresisting
gentleness with which Ruth had submitted to the "clipping" of the
night before.

"If I'd been with you, Master Thurstan, I'd ha' seen sharp after you,
for you're always picking up some one or another as nobody else would
touch with a pair of tongs. Why, there was that Nelly Brandon's child
as was left at our door, if I hadn't gone to th' overseer we should
have had that Irish tramp's babby saddled on us for life; but I went
off and told th' overseer, and th' mother was caught."

"Yes," said Mr Benson, sadly, "and I often lie awake and wonder what
is the fate of that poor little thing, forced back on the mother who
tried to get quit of it. I often doubt whether I did right; but it's
no use thinking about it now."

"I'm thankful it isn't," said Sally; "and now, if we've talked
doctrine long enough, I'll go make th' beds. Yon girl's secret is
safe enough for me."

Saying this she left the room, and Miss Benson followed. She found
Ruth busy washing the breakfast things; and they were done in so
quiet and orderly a manner, that neither Miss Benson nor Sally, both
particular enough, had any of their little fancies or prejudices
annoyed. She seemed to have an instinctive knowledge of the exact
period when her help was likely to become a hindrance, and withdrew
from the busy kitchen just at the right time.

That afternoon, as Miss Benson and Ruth sat at their work, Mrs and
Miss Bradshaw called. Miss Benson was so nervous as to surprise Ruth,
who did not understand the probable and possible questions which
might be asked respecting any visitor at the minister's house.
Ruth went on sewing, absorbed in her own thoughts, and glad that
the conversation between the two elder ladies and the silence of
the younger one, who sat at some distance from her, gave her an
opportunity of retreating into the haunts of memory; and soon the
work fell from her hands, and her eyes were fixed on the little
garden beyond, but she did not see its flowers or its walls; she
saw the mountains which girdled Llan-dhu, and saw the sun rise from
behind their iron outline, just as it had done—how long ago? was
it months or was it years?—since she had watched the night through,
crouched up at
his
door. Which was the dream and which the reality?
that distant life, or this? His moans rang more clearly in her ears
than the buzzing of the conversation between Mrs Bradshaw and Miss
Benson.

At length the subdued, scared-looking little lady and her bright-eyed
silent daughter rose to take leave; Ruth started into the present,
and stood up and curtseyed, and turned sick at heart with sudden
recollection.

Miss Benson accompanied Mrs Bradshaw to the door; and in the passage
gave her a long explanation of Ruth's (fictitious) history. Mrs
Bradshaw looked so much interested and pleased, that Miss Benson
enlarged a little more than was necessary, and rounded off her
invention with one or two imaginary details, which, she was quite
unconscious, were overheard by her brother through the half-open
study door.

She was rather dismayed when he called her into his room after Mrs
Bradshaw's departure, and asked her what she had been saying about
Ruth?

"Oh! I thought it was better to explain it thoroughly—I mean, to
tell the story we wished to have believed once for all—you know we
agreed about that, Thurstan?" deprecatingly.

"Yes; but I heard you saying you believed her husband had been a
young surgeon, did I not?"

"Well, Thurstan, you know he must have been something; and young
surgeons are so in the way of dying, it seemed very natural.
Besides," said she, with sudden boldness, "I do think I've a talent
for fiction, it is so pleasant to invent, and make the incidents
dovetail together; and after all, if we are to tell a lie, we may as
well do it thoroughly, or else it's of no use. A bungling lie would
be worse than useless. And, Thurstan—it may be very wrong—but
I believe—I am afraid I enjoy not being fettered by truth. Don't
look so grave. You know it is necessary, if ever it was, to tell
falsehoods now; and don't be angry with me because I do it well."

He was shading his eyes with his hand, and did not speak for some
time. At last he said:

"If it were not for the child, I would tell all; but the world is so
cruel. You don't know how this apparent necessity for falsehood pains
me, Faith, or you would not invent all these details, which are so
many additional lies."

"Well, well! I will restrain myself if I have to talk about Ruth
again. But Mrs Bradshaw will tell every one who need to know. You
don't wish me to contradict it, Thurstan, surely—it was such a
pretty, probable story."

"Faith! I hope God will forgive us if we are doing wrong; and pray,
dear, don't add one unnecessary word that is not true."

Another day elapsed, and then it was Sunday; and the house seemed
filled with a deep peace. Even Sally's movements were less hasty and
abrupt. Mr Benson seemed invested with a new dignity, which made his
bodily deformity be forgotten in his calm, grave composure of spirit.
Every trace of week-day occupation was put away; the night before, a
bright new handsome tablecloth had been smoothed down over the table,
and the jars had been freshly filled with flowers. Sunday was a
festival and a holy day in the house. After the very early breakfast,
little feet pattered into Mr Benson's study, for he had a class for
boys—a sort of domestic Sunday-school, only that there was more
talking between teacher and pupils, than dry, absolute lessons going
on. Miss Benson, too, had her little, neat-tippeted maidens sitting
with her in the parlour; and she was far more particular in keeping
them to their reading and spelling, than her brother was with his
boys. Sally, too, put in her word of instruction from the kitchen,
helping, as she fancied, though her assistance was often rather
malapropos
; for instance, she called out, to a little fat, stupid,
roly-poly girl, to whom Miss Benson was busy explaining the meaning
of the word quadruped,

"Quadruped, a thing wi' four legs, Jenny; a chair is a quadruped,
child!"

But Miss Benson had a deaf manner sometimes when her patience was not
too severely tried, and she put it on now. Ruth sat on a low hassock,
and coaxed the least of the little creatures to her, and showed it
pictures till it fell asleep in her arms, and sent a thrill through
her, at the thought of the tiny darling who would lie on her breast
before long, and whom she would have to cherish and to shelter from
the storms of the world.

And then she remembered, that she was once white and sinless as
the wee lassie who lay in her arms; and she knew that she had gone
astray. By-and-by the children trooped away, and Miss Benson summoned
her to put on her things for chapel.

The chapel was up a narrow street, or rather
cul-de-sac
, close by.
It stood on the outskirts of the town, almost in fields. It was built
about the time of Matthew and Philip Henry, when the Dissenters were
afraid of attracting attention or observation, and hid their places
of worship in obscure and out-of-the-way parts of the towns in which
they were built. Accordingly, it often happened, as in the present
case, that the buildings immediately surrounding, as well as the
chapels themselves, looked as if they carried you back to a period
a hundred and fifty years ago. The chapel had a picturesque and
old-world look, for luckily the congregation had been too poor
to rebuild it, or new-face it, in George the Third's time. The
staircases which led to the galleries were outside, at each end of
the building, and the irregular roof and worn stone steps looked
grey and stained by time and weather. The grassy hillocks, each with
a little upright headstone, were shaded by a grand old wych-elm.
A lilac-bush or two, a white rose-tree, and a few laburnums, all
old and gnarled enough, were planted round the chapel yard; and
the casement windows of the chapel were made of heavy-leaded,
diamond-shaped panes, almost covered with ivy, producing a green
gloom, not without its solemnity, within. This ivy was the home of an
infinite number of little birds, which twittered and warbled, till
it might have been thought that they were emulous of the power of
praise possessed by the human creatures within, with such earnest,
long-drawn strains did this crowd of winged songsters rejoice and be
glad in their beautiful gift of life. The interior of the building
was plain and simple as plain and simple could be. When it was fitted
up, oak-timber was much cheaper than it is now, so the wood-work was
all of that description; but roughly hewed, for the early builders
had not much wealth to spare. The walls were whitewashed, and were
recipients of the shadows of the beauty without; on their "white
plains" the tracery of the ivy might be seen, now still, now stirred
by the sudden flight of some little bird. The congregation consisted
of here and there a farmer with his labourers, who came down from the
uplands beyond the town to worship where their fathers worshipped,
and who loved the place because they knew how much those fathers had
suffered for it, although they never troubled themselves with the
reason why they left the parish church; of a few shopkeepers, far
more thoughtful and reasoning, who were Dissenters from conviction,
unmixed with old ancestral association; and of one or two families of
still higher worldly station. With many poor, who were drawn there by
love for Mr Benson's character, and by a feeling that the faith which
made him what he was could not be far wrong, for the base of the
pyramid, and with Mr Bradshaw for its apex, the congregation stood
complete.

The country people came in sleeking down their hair, and treading
with earnest attempts at noiseless lightness of step over the floor
of the aisle; and by-and-by, when all were assembled, Mr Benson
followed, unmarshalled and unattended. When he had closed the
pulpit-door, and knelt in prayer for an instant or two, he gave out
a psalm from the dear old Scottish paraphrase, with its primitive
inversion of the simple perfect Bible words; and a kind of precentor
stood up, and, having sounded the note on a pitch-pipe, sang a couple
of lines by way of indicating the tune; then all the congregation
stood up, and sang aloud, Mr Bradshaw's great bass voice being half
a note in advance of the others, in accordance with his place of
precedence as principal member of the congregation. His powerful
voice was like an organ very badly played, and very much out of tune;
but as he had no ear, and no diffidence, it pleased him very much
to hear the fine loud sound. He was a tall, large-boned, iron man;
stern, powerful, and authoritative in appearance; dressed in clothes
of the finest broadcloth, and scrupulously ill-made, as if to show
that he was indifferent to all outward things. His wife was sweet and
gentle-looking, but as if she was thoroughly broken into submission.