Ruth (23 page)

She was roused from this holy abstraction by the sound of Miss
Benson's voice. It was very much as if she had been crying.

"Look, Ruth!" it said, softly, "my brother sends you these. They are
the first snowdrops in the garden." And she put them on the pillow by
Ruth; the baby lay on the opposite side.

"Won't you look at him?" said Ruth; "he is so pretty!"

Miss Benson had a strange reluctance to see him. To Ruth, in spite
of all that had come and gone, she was reconciled—nay, more, she
was deeply attached; but over the baby there hung a cloud of shame
and disgrace. Poor little creature! her heart was closed against
it—firmly, as she thought. But she could not resist Ruth's low faint
voice, nor her pleading eyes, and she went round to peep at him as he
lay in his mother's arm, as yet his shield and guard.

"Sally says he will have black hair, she thinks," said Ruth. "His
little hand is quite a man's, already. Just feel how firmly he closes
it;" and with her own weak fingers she opened his little red fist,
and taking Miss Benson's reluctant hand, placed one of her fingers
in his grasp. That baby-touch called out her love; the doors of her
heart were thrown open wide for the little infant to go in and take
possession.

"Ah, my darling!" said Ruth, falling back weak and weary. "If God
will but spare you to me, never mother did more than I will. I have
done you a grievous wrong—but, if I may but live, I will spend my
life in serving you!"

"And in serving God!" said Miss Benson, with tears in her eyes. "You
must not make him into an idol, or God will, perhaps, punish you
through him."

A pang of affright shot through Ruth's heart at these words; had
she already sinned and made her child into an idol, and was there
punishment already in store for her through him? But then the
internal voice whispered that God was "Our Father," and that He knew
our frame, and knew how natural was the first outburst of a mother's
love; so, although she treasured up the warning, she ceased to
affright herself for what had already gushed forth.

"Now go to sleep, Ruth," said Miss Benson, kissing her, and darkening
the room. But Ruth could not sleep; if her heavy eyes closed, she
opened them again with a start, for sleep seemed to be an enemy
stealing from her the consciousness of being a mother. That one
thought excluded all remembrance and all anticipation, in those first
hours of delight.

But soon remembrance and anticipation came. There was the natural
want of the person, who alone could take an interest similar in kind,
though not in amount, to the mother's. And sadness grew like a giant
in the still watches of the night, when she remembered that there
would be no father to guide and strengthen the child, and place him
in a favourable position for fighting the hard "Battle of Life." She
hoped and believed that no one would know the sin of his parents, and
that that struggle might be spared to him. But a father's powerful
care and mighty guidance would never be his; and then, in those hours
of spiritual purification, came the wonder and the doubt of how far
the real father would be the one to whom, with her desire of heaven
for her child, whatever might become of herself, she would wish
to entrust him. Slight speeches, telling of a selfish, worldly
nature, unnoticed at the time, came back upon her ear, having
a new significance. They told of a low standard, of impatient
self-indulgence, of no acknowledgment of things spiritual and
heavenly. Even while this examination was forced upon her, by the new
spirit of maternity that had entered into her, and made her child's
welfare supreme, she hated and reproached herself for the necessity
there seemed upon her of examining and judging the absent father of
her child. And so the compelling presence that had taken possession
of her wearied her into a kind of feverish slumber; in which she
dreamt that the innocent babe that lay by her side in soft ruddy
slumber had started up into man's growth, and, instead of the pure
and noble being whom she had prayed to present as her child to "Our
Father in heaven," he was a repetition of his father; and, like him,
lured some maiden (who in her dream seemed strangely like herself,
only more utterly sad and desolate even than she) into sin, and
left her there to even a worse fate than that of suicide. For Ruth
believed there was a worse. She dreamt she saw the girl, wandering,
lost; and that she saw her son in high places, prosperous—but with
more than blood on his soul. She saw her son dragged down by the
clinging girl into some pit of horrors into which she dared not look,
but from whence his father's voice was heard, crying aloud, that in
his day and generation he had not remembered the words of God, and
that now he was "tormented in this flame." Then she started in sick
terror, and saw, by the dim rushlight, Sally, nodding in an arm-chair
by the fire; and felt her little soft warm babe, nestled up against
her breast, rocked by her heart, which yet beat hard from the effects
of the evil dream. She dared not go to sleep again, but prayed. And
every time she prayed, she asked with a more complete wisdom, and
a more utter and self-forgetting faith. Little child! thy angel
was with God, and drew her nearer and nearer to Him, whose face is
continually beheld by the angels of little children.

Sally and Miss Benson took it in turns to sit up, or rather, they
took it in turns to nod by the fire; for if Ruth was awake she lay
very still in the moonlight calm of her sick bed. That time resembled
a beautiful August evening, such as I have seen. The white, snowy
rolling mist covers up under its great sheet all trees and meadows,
and tokens of earth; but it cannot rise high enough to shut out the
heavens, which on such nights seem bending very near, and to be the
only real and present objects; and so near, so real and present, did
heaven, and eternity, and God seem to Ruth, as she lay encircling her
mysterious holy child.

One night Sally found out she was not asleep.

"I'm a rare hand at talking folks to sleep," said she. "I'll try on
thee, for thou must get strength by sleeping and eating. What must
I talk to thee about, I wonder. Shall I tell thee a love story or a
fairy story, such as I've telled Master Thurstan many a time and many
a time, for all his father set his face again fairies, and called it
vain talking; or shall I tell you the dinner I once cooked, when Mr
Harding, as was Miss Faith's sweetheart, came unlooked for, and we'd
nought in the house but a neck of mutton, out of which I made seven
dishes, all with a different name?"

"Who was Mr Harding?" asked Ruth.

"Oh, he was a grand gentleman from Lunnon, as had seen Miss Faith,
and been struck by her pretty looks when she was out on a visit, and
came here to ask her to marry him. She said, 'No, she would never
leave Master Thurstan, as could never marry;' but she pined a deal
at after he went away. She kept up afore Master Thurstan, but I seed
her fretting, though I never let on that I did, for I thought she'd
soonest get over it and be thankful at after she'd the strength to
do right. However, I've no business to be talking of Miss Benson's
concerns. I'll tell you of my own sweethearts and welcome, or I'll
tell you of the dinner, which was the grandest thing I ever did in my
life, but I thought a Lunnoner should never think country folks knew
nothing; and, my word! I puzzled him with his dinner. I'm doubting
whether to this day he knows whether what he was eating was fish,
flesh, or fowl. Shall I tell you how I managed?"

But Ruth said she would rather hear about Sally's sweethearts, much
to the disappointment of the latter, who considered the dinner by far
the greatest achievement.

"Well, you see, I don't know as I should call them sweethearts; for
excepting John Rawson, who was shut up in the mad-house the next
week, I never had what you may call a downright offer of marriage
but once. But I had once; and so I may say I had a sweetheart. I
was beginning to be afeard though, for one likes to be axed; that's
but civility; and I remember, after I had turned forty, and afore
Jeremiah Dixon had spoken, I began to think John Rawson had perhaps
not been so very mad, and that I'd done ill to lightly his offer, as
a madman's, if it was to be the only one I was ever to have; I don't
mean as I'd have had him, but I thought, if it was to come o'er
again, I'd speak respectful of him to folk, and say it were only his
way to go about on all fours, but that he was a sensible man in most
things. However, I'd had my laugh, and so had others, at my crazy
lover, and it was late now to set him up as a Solomon. However, I
thought it would be no bad thing to be tried again; but I little
thought the trial would come when it did. You see, Saturday night is
a leisure night in counting-houses and such-like places, while it's
the busiest of all for servants. Well! it was a Saturday night, and
I'd my baize apron on, and the tails of my bed-gown pinned together
behind, down on my knees, pipeclaying the kitchen, when a knock comes
to the back door. 'Come in!' says I; but it knocked again, as if it
were too stately to open the door for itself; so I got up, rather
cross, and opened the door; and there stood Jerry Dixon, Mr Holt's
head clerk; only he was not head clerk then. So I stood, stopping
up the door, fancying he wanted to speak to master; but he kind of
pushed past me, and telling me summut about the weather (as if I
could not see it for myself), he took a chair, and sat down by the
oven. 'Cool and easy!' thought I; meaning hisself, not his place,
which I knew must be pretty hot. Well! it seemed no use standing
waiting for my gentleman to go; not that he had much to say either;
but he kept twirling his hat round and round, and smoothing the nap
on't with the back of his hand. So at last I squatted down to my
work, and thinks I, I shall be on my knees all ready if he puts up
a prayer, for I knew he was a Methodee by bringing-up, and had only
lately turned to master's way of thinking; and them Methodees are
terrible hands at unexpected prayers when one least looks for 'em. I
can't say I like their way of taking one by surprise, as it were; but
then I'm a parish clerk's daughter, and could never demean myself to
dissenting fashions, always save and except Master Thurstan's, bless
him. However, I'd been caught once or twice unawares, so this time I
thought I'd be up to it, and I moved a dry duster wherever I went, to
kneel upon in case he began when I were in a wet place. By-and-by I
thought, if the man would pray it would be a blessing, for it would
prevent his sending his eyes after me wherever I went; for when they
takes to praying they shuts their eyes, and quivers th' lids in a
queer kind o' way—them Dissenters does. I can speak pretty plain
to you, for you're bred in the Church like mysel', and must find it
as out o' the way as I do to be among dissenting folk. God forbid
I should speak disrespectful of Master Thurstan and Miss Faith,
though; I never think on them as Church or Dissenters, but just as
Christians. But to come back to Jerry. First, I tried always to be
cleaning at his back; but when he wheeled round, so as always to face
me, I thought I'd try a different game. So, says I, 'Master Dixon, I
ax your pardon, but I must pipeclay under your chair. Will you please
to move?' Well, he moved; and by-and-by I was at him again with the
same words; and at after that, again and again, till he were always
moving about wi' his chair behind him, like a snail as carries its
house on its back. And the great gaupus never seed that I were
pipeclaying the same places twice over. At last I got desperate
cross, he were so in my way; so I made two big crosses on the tails
of his brown coat; for you see, whenever he went, up or down, he drew
out the tails of his coat from under him, and stuck them through the
bars of the chair; and flesh and blood could not resist pipeclaying
them for him; and a pretty brushing he'd have, I reckon, to get it
off again. Well! at length he clears his throat uncommon loud; so I
spreads my duster, and shuts my eyes all ready; but when nought comed
of it, I opened my eyes a little bit to see what he were about. My
word! if there he wasn't down on his knees right facing me, staring
as hard as he could. Well! I thought it would be hard work to stand
that, if he made a long ado; so I shut my eyes again, and tried to
think serious, as became what I fancied were coming; but, forgive
me! but I thought why couldn't the fellow go in and pray wi' Master
Thurstan, as had always a calm spirit ready for prayer, instead o'
me, who had my dresser to scour, let alone an apron to iron. At last
he says, says he, 'Sally! will you oblige me with your hand?' So I
thought it were, maybe, Methodee fashion to pray hand in hand; and
I'll not deny but I wished I'd washed it better after black-leading
the kitchen fire. I thought I'd better tell him it were not so clean
as I could wish, so says I, 'Master Dixon, you shall have it, and
welcome, if I may just go and wash 'em first.' But, says he, 'My
dear Sally, dirty or clean it's all the same to me, seeing I'm only
speaking in a figuring way. What I'm asking on my bended knees is,
that you'd please to be so kind as to be my wedded wife; week after
next will suit me, if it's agreeable to you!' My word! I were up on
my feet in an instant! It were odd now, weren't it? I never thought
of taking the fellow, and getting married; for all, I'll not deny, I
had been thinking it would be agreeable to be axed. But all at once,
I couldn't abide the chap. 'Sir,' says I, trying to look shame-faced
as became the occasion, but for all that, feeling a twittering round
my mouth that I were afeard might end in a laugh—'Master Dixon, I'm
obleeged to you for the compliment, and thank ye all the same, but
I think I'd prefer a single life.' He looked mighty taken aback; but
in a minute he cleared up, and was as sweet as ever. He still kept
on his knees, and I wished he'd take himself up; but, I reckon, he
thought it would give force to his words; says he, 'Think again, my
dear Sally. I've a four-roomed house, and furniture conformable; and
eighty pound a year. You may never have such a chance again.' There
were truth enough in that, but it was not pretty in the man to say
it; and it put me up a bit. 'As for that, neither you nor I can tell,
Master Dixon. You're not the first chap as I've had down on his knees
afore me, axing me to marry him (you see I were thinking of John
Rawson, only I thought there were no need to say he were on all
fours—it were truth he were on his knees, you know), and maybe
you'll not be the last. Anyhow, I've no wish to change my condition
just now.' 'I'll wait till Christmas,' says he. 'I've a pig as will
be ready for killing then, so I must get married before that.' Well
now! would you believe it? the pig were a temptation. I'd a receipt
for curing hams, as Miss Faith would never let me try, saying the
old way were good enough. However, I resisted. Says I, very stern,
because I felt I'd been wavering, 'Master Dixon, once for all, pig
or no pig, I'll not marry you. And if you'll take my advice, you'll
get up off your knees. The flags is but damp yet, and it would be an
awkward thing to have rheumatiz just before winter.' With that he
got up, stiff enough. He looked as sulky a chap as ever I clapped
eyes on. And as he were so black and cross, I thought I'd done well
(whatever came of the pig) to say 'No' to him. 'You may live to
repent this,' says he, very red. 'But I'll not be too hard upon ye,
I'll give you another chance. I'll let you have the night to think
about it, and I'll just call in to hear your second thoughts, after
chapel to-morrow.' Well now! did ever you hear the like? But that is
the way with all of them men, thinking so much of theirselves, and
that it's but ask and have. They've never had me, though; and I shall
be sixty-one next Martinmas, so there's not much time left for them
to try me, I reckon. Well! when Jeremiah said that, he put me up more
than ever, and I says, 'My first thoughts, second thoughts, and third
thoughts is all one and the same; you've but tempted me once, and
that was when you spoke of your pig. But of yoursel' you're nothing
to boast on, and so I'll bid you good night, and I'll keep my
manners, or else, if I told the truth, I should say it had been a
great loss of time listening to you. But I'll be civil—so good
night.' He never said a word, but went off as black as thunder,
slamming the door after him. The master called me in to prayers, but
I can't say I could put my mind to them, for my heart was beating so.
However, it was a comfort to have had an offer of holy matrimony;
and though it flustered me, it made me think more of myself. In the
night, I began to wonder if I'd not been cruel and hard to him. You
see, I were feverish-like; and the old song of Barbary Allen would
keep running in my head, and I thought I were Barbary, and he were
young Jemmy Gray, and that maybe he'd die for love of me; and I
pictured him to mysel', lying on his death-bed, with his face turned
to the wall, 'wi' deadly sorrow sighing,' and I could ha' pinched
mysel' for having been so like cruel Barbary Allen. And when I got up
next day, I found it hard to think on the real Jerry Dixon I had seen
the night before, apart from the sad and sorrowful Jerry I thought on
a-dying, when I were between sleeping and waking. And for many a day
I turned sick, when I heard the passing bell, for I thought it were
the bell loud-knelling which were to break my heart wi' a sense
of what I'd missed in saying 'No' to Jerry, and so killing him
with cruelty. But in less than a three week, I heard parish bells
a-ringing merrily for a wedding; and in the course of a morning,
some one says to me, 'Hark! how the bells is ringing for Jerry
Dixon's wedding!' And, all on a sudden, he changed back again from a
heart-broken young fellow, like Jemmy Gray, into a stout, middle-aged
man, ruddy-complexioned, with a wart on his left cheek like life!"