Ruth (24 page)

Sally waited for some exclamation at the conclusion of her tale; but
receiving none, she stepped softly to the bedside, and there lay
Ruth, peaceful as death, with her baby on her breast.

"I thought I'd lost some of my gifts if I could not talk a body to
sleep," said Sally, in a satisfied and self-complacent tone.

Youth is strong and powerful, and makes a hard battle against sorrow.
So Ruth strove and strengthened, and her baby flourished accordingly;
and before the little celandines were out on the hedge-banks, or the
white violets had sent forth their fragrance from the border under
the south wall of Miss Benson's small garden, Ruth was able to carry
her baby into that sheltered place on sunny days.

She often wished to thank Mr Benson and his sister, but she did not
know how to tell the deep gratitude she felt, and therefore she was
silent. But they understood her silence well. One day, as she watched
her sleeping child, she spoke to Miss Benson, with whom she happened
to be alone.

"Do you know of any cottage where the people are clean, and where
they would not mind taking me in?" asked she.

"Taking you in! What do you mean?" said Miss Benson, dropping her
knitting, in order to observe Ruth more closely.

"I mean," said Ruth, "where I might lodge with my baby—any very poor
place would do, only it must be clean, or he might be ill."

"And what in the world do you want to go and lodge in a cottage for?"
said Miss Benson, indignantly.

Ruth did not lift up her eyes, but she spoke with a firmness which
showed that she had considered the subject.

"I think I could make dresses. I know I did not learn as much as I
might, but perhaps I might do for servants, and people who are not
particular."

"Servants are as particular as any one," said Miss Benson, glad to
lay hold of the first objection that she could.

"Well! somebody who would be patient with me," said Ruth.

"Nobody is patient over an ill-fitting gown," put in Miss Benson.
"There's the stuff spoilt, and what not!"

"Perhaps I could find plain work to do," said Ruth, very meekly.
"That I can do very well; mamma taught me, and I liked to learn from
her. If you would be so good, Miss Benson, you might tell people I
could do plain work very neatly, and punctually, and cheaply."

"You'd get sixpence a day, perhaps," said Miss Benson, "and who would
take care of baby, I should like to know? Prettily he'd be neglected,
would not he? Why, he'd have the croup and the typhus fever in no
time, and be burnt to ashes after."

"I have thought of all. Look how he sleeps! Hush, darling;" for just
at this point he began to cry, and to show his determination to be
awake, as if in contradiction to his mother's words. Ruth took him
up, and carried him about the room while she went on speaking.

"Yes, just now I know he will not sleep; but very often he will, and
in the night he always does."

"And so you'd work in the night and kill yourself, and leave your
poor baby an orphan. Ruth! I'm ashamed of you. Now, brother" (Mr
Benson had just come in), "is not this too bad of Ruth; here she is
planning to go away and leave us, just as we—as I, at least, have
grown so fond of baby, and he's beginning to know me."

"Where were you thinking of going to, Ruth?" interrupted Mr Benson,
with mild surprise.

"Anywhere to be near you and Miss Benson; in any poor cottage where I
might lodge very cheaply, and earn my livelihood by taking in plain
sewing, and perhaps a little dressmaking; and where I could come and
see you and dear Miss Benson sometimes and bring baby."

"If he was not dead before then of some fever, or burn, or scald,
poor neglected child; or you had not worked yourself to death with
never sleeping," said Miss Benson.

Mr Benson thought a minute or two, and then he spoke to Ruth.

"Whatever you may do when this little fellow is a year old, and able
to dispense with some of a mother's care, let me beg you, Ruth, as
a favour to me—as a still greater favour to my sister, is it not,
Faith?"

"Yes; you may put it so if you like."

"To stay with us," continued he, "till then. When baby is twelve
months old, we'll talk about it again, and very likely before then
some opening may be shown us. Never fear leading an idle life, Ruth.
We'll treat you as a daughter, and set you all the household tasks;
and it is not for your sake that we ask you to stay, but for this
little dumb helpless child's; and it is not for our sake that you
must stay, but for his."

Ruth was sobbing.

"I do not deserve your kindness," said she, in a broken voice; "I do
not deserve it."

Her tears fell fast and soft like summer rain, but no further word
was spoken. Mr Benson quietly passed on to make the inquiry for which
he had entered the room.

But when there was nothing to decide upon, and no necessity for
entering upon any new course of action, Ruth's mind relaxed from
its strung-up state. She fell into trains of reverie, and mournful
regretful recollections which rendered her languid and tearful. This
was noticed both by Miss Benson and Sally, and as each had keen
sympathies, and felt depressed when they saw any one near them
depressed, and as each, without much reasoning on the cause or reason
for such depression, felt irritated at the uncomfortable state into
which they themselves were thrown, they both resolved to speak to
Ruth on the next fitting occasion.

Accordingly, one afternoon—the morning of that day had been spent by
Ruth in housework, for she had insisted on Mr Benson's words, and had
taken Miss Benson's share of the more active and fatiguing household
duties, but she went through them heavily, and as if her heart was
far away—in the afternoon when she was nursing her child, Sally,
on coming into the back parlour, found her there alone, and easily
detected the fact that she had been crying.

"Where's Miss Benson?" said Sally, gruffly.

"Gone out with Mr Benson," answered Ruth, with an absent sadness
in her voice and manner. Her tears, scarce checked while she spoke,
began to fall afresh; and as Sally stood and gazed she saw the babe
look back in his mother's face, and his little lip begin to quiver,
and his open blue eye to grow over-clouded, as with some mysterious
sympathy with the sorrowful face bent over him. Sally took him
briskly from his mother's arms; Ruth looked up in grave surprise, for
in truth she had forgotten Sally's presence, and the suddenness of
the motion startled her.

"My bonny boy! are they letting the salt tears drop on thy sweet face
before thou'rt weaned! Little somebody knows how to be a mother—I
could make a better myself. 'Dance, thumbkin, dance—dance, ye merry
men every one.' Aye, that's it! smile, my pretty. Any one but a child
like thee," continued she, turning to Ruth, "would have known better
than to bring ill-luck on thy babby by letting tears fall on its face
before it was weaned. But thou'rt not fit to have a babby, and so
I've said many a time. I've a great mind to buy thee a doll, and take
thy babby mysel'."

Sally did not look at Ruth, for she was too much engaged in amusing
the baby with the tassel of the string to the window-blind, or else
she would have seen the dignity which the mother's soul put into
Ruth at that moment. Sally was quelled into silence by the gentle
composure, the self-command over her passionate sorrow, which gave to
Ruth an unconscious grandeur of demeanour as she came up to the old
servant.

"Give him back to me, please. I did not know it brought ill-luck, or
if my heart broke I would not have let a tear drop on his face—I
never will again. Thank you, Sally," as the servant relinquished him
to her who came in the name of a mother. Sally watched Ruth's grave,
sweet smile, as she followed up Sally's play with the tassel, and
imitated, with all the docility inspired by love, every movement and
sound which had amused her babe.

"Thou'lt be a mother, after all," said Sally, with a kind of
admiration of the control which Ruth was exercising over herself.
"But why talk of thy heart breaking? I don't question thee about
what's past and gone; but now thou'rt wanting for nothing, nor thy
child either; the time to come is the Lord's, and in His hands; and
yet thou goest about a-sighing and a-moaning in a way that I can't
stand or thole."

"What do I do wrong?" said Ruth; "I try to do all I can."

"Yes, in a way," said Sally, puzzled to know how to describe her
meaning. "Thou dost it—but there's a right and a wrong way of
setting about everything—and to my thinking, the right way is to
take a thing up heartily, if it is only making a bed. Why! dear ah
me, making a bed may be done after a Christian fashion, I take it,
or else what's to come of such as me in heaven, who've had little
enough time on earth for clapping ourselves down on our knees for
set prayers? When I was a girl, and wretched enough about Master
Thurstan, and the crook on his back which came of the fall I gave
him, I took to praying and sighing, and giving up the world; and
I thought it were wicked to care for the flesh, so I made heavy
puddings, and was careless about dinner and the rooms, and thought I
was doing my duty, though I did call myself a miserable sinner. But
one night, the old missus (Master Thurstan's mother) came in, and
sat down by me, as I was a-scolding myself, without thinking of what
I was saying; and, says she, 'Sally! what are you blaming yourself
about, and groaning over? We hear you in the parlour every night,
and it makes my heart ache.' 'Oh, ma'am,' says I, 'I'm a miserable
sinner, and I'm travailing in the new birth.' 'Was that the reason,'
says she, 'why the pudding was so heavy to-day?' 'Oh, ma'am, ma'am,'
said I, 'if you would not think of the things of the flesh, but
trouble yourself about your immortal soul.' And I sat a-shaking my
head to think about her soul. 'But,' says she, in her sweet-dropping
voice, 'I do try to think of my soul every hour of the day, if by
that you mean trying to do the will of God, but we'll talk now about
the pudding; Master Thurstan could not eat it, and I know you'll be
sorry for that.' Well! I was sorry, but I didn't choose to say so,
as she seemed to expect me; so says I, 'It's a pity to see children
brought up to care for things of the flesh;' and then I could have
bitten my tongue out, for the missus looked so grave, and I thought
of my darling little lad pining for want of his food. At last, says
she, 'Sally, do you think God has put us into the world just to be
selfish, and do nothing but see after our own souls? or to help one
another with heart and hand, as Christ did to all who wanted help?'
I was silent, for, you see, she puzzled me. So she went on, 'What
is that beautiful answer in your Church catechism, Sally?' I were
pleased to hear a Dissenter, as I did not think would have done it,
speak so knowledgeably about the catechism, and she went on: '"to do
my duty in that station of life unto which it shall please God to
call me;" well, your station is a servant, and it is as honourable as
a king's, if you look at it right; you are to help and serve others
in one way, just as a king is to help others in another. Now what way
are you to help and serve, or to do your duty, in that station of
life unto which it has pleased God to call you? Did it answer God's
purpose, and serve Him, when the food was unfit for a child to eat,
and unwholesome for any one?' Well! I would not give it up, I was so
pig-headed about my soul; so says I, 'I wish folks would be content
with locusts and wild honey, and leave other folks in peace to work
out their salvation;' and I groaned out pretty loud to think of
missus's soul. I often think since she smiled a bit at me; but she
said, 'Well, Sally, to-morrow, you shall have time to work out your
salvation; but as we have no locusts in England, and I don't think
they'd agree with Master Thurstan if we had, I will come and make the
pudding; but I shall try and do it well, not only for him to like
it, but because everything may be done in a right way or a wrong;
the right way is to do it as well as we can, as in God's sight; the
wrong is to do it in a self-seeking spirit, which either leads us to
neglect it to follow out some device of our own for our own ends, or
to give up too much time and thought to it both before and after the
doing.' Well! I thought of all old missus's words this morning, when
I saw you making the beds. You sighed so, you could not half shake
the pillows; your heart was not in your work; and yet it was the duty
God had set you, I reckon; I know it's not the work parsons preach
about; though I don't think they go so far off the mark when they
read, 'whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, that do with all thy
might.' Just try for a day to think of all the odd jobs as has to be
done well and truly as in God's sight, not just slurred over anyhow,
and you'll go through them twice as cheerfully, and have no thought
to spare for sighing or crying."

Sally bustled off to set on the kettle for tea, and felt half
ashamed, in the quiet of the kitchen, to think of the oration she
had made in the parlour. But she saw with much satisfaction, that
henceforward Ruth nursed her boy with a vigour and cheerfulness that
were reflected back from him; and the household work was no longer
performed with a languid indifference, as if life and duty were
distasteful. Miss Benson had her share in this improvement, though
Sally placidly took all the credit to herself. One day as she and
Ruth sat together, Miss Benson spoke of the child, and thence went on
to talk about her own childhood. By degrees they spoke of education,
and the book-learning that forms one part of it; and the result was
that Ruth determined to get up early all through the bright summer
mornings, to acquire the knowledge hereafter to be given to her
child. Her mind was uncultivated, her reading scant; beyond the mere
mechanical arts of education she knew nothing; but she had a refined
taste, and excellent sense and judgment to separate the true from
the false. With these qualities, she set to work under Mr Benson's
directions. She read in the early morning the books that he marked
out; she trained herself with strict perseverance to do all
thoroughly; she did not attempt to acquire any foreign language,
although her ambition was to learn Latin, in order to teach it to her
boy. Those summer mornings were happy, for she was learning neither
to look backwards nor forwards, but to live faithfully and earnestly
in the present. She rose while the hedge-sparrow was yet singing his
réveillé
to his mate; she dressed and opened her window, shading
the soft-blowing air and the sunny eastern light from her baby. If
she grew tired, she went and looked at him, and all her thoughts were
holy prayers for him. Then she would gaze awhile out of the high
upper window on to the moorlands, that swelled in waves one behind
the other, in the grey, cool morning light. These were her occasional
relaxations, and after them she returned with strength to her work.