Ruth (26 page)

"What made you wish to call him Leonard, Ruth?" asked Miss Benson.

"It was my mother's father's name; and she used to tell me about him
and his goodness, and I thought if Leonard could be like him—"

"Do you remember the discussion there was about Miss Bradshaw's name,
Thurstan? Her father wanting her to be called Hepzibah, but insisting
that she was to have a Scripture name at any rate; and Mrs Bradshaw
wanting her to be Juliana, after some novel she had read not long
before; and at last Jemima was fixed upon, because it would do either
for a Scripture name or a name for a heroine out of a book."

"I did not know Jemima was a Scripture name," said Ruth.

"Oh yes, it is. One of Job's daughters; Jemima, Kezia, and
Keren-Happuch. There are a good many Jemimas in the world, and some
Kezias, but I never heard of a Keren-Happuch; and yet we know just as
much of one as of another. People really like a pretty name, whether
in Scripture or out of it."

"When there is no particular association with the name," said Mr
Benson.

"Now, I was called Faith after the cardinal virtue; and I like my
name, though many people would think it too Puritan; that was
according to our gentle mother's pious desire. And Thurstan was
called by his name because my father wished it; for, although he was
what people called a radical and a democrat in his ways of talking
and thinking, he was very proud in his heart of being descended from
some old Sir Thurstan, who figured away in the French wars."

"The difference between theory and practice, thinking and being," put
in Mr Benson, who was in a mood for allowing himself a little social
enjoyment. He leant back in his chair, with his eyes looking at,
but not seeing the ceiling. Miss Benson was clicking away with her
eternal knitting-needles, looking at her brother, and seeing him,
too. Ruth was arranging her child's clothes against the morrow. It
was but their usual way of spending an evening; the variety was given
by the different tone which the conversation assumed on the different
nights. Yet, somehow, the peacefulness of the time, the window open
into the little garden, the scents that came stealing in, and the
clear summer heaven above, made the time be remembered as a happy
festival by Ruth. Even Sally seemed more placid than usual when she
came in to prayers; and she and Miss Benson followed Ruth to her
bedroom, to look at the beautiful sleeping Leonard.

"God bless him!" said Miss Benson, stooping down to kiss his little
dimpled hand, which lay outside the coverlet, tossed abroad in the
heat of the evening.

"Now, don't get up too early, Ruth! Injuring your health will be
short-sighted wisdom and poor economy. Good night!"

"Good night, dear Miss Benson. Good night, Sally." When Ruth had shut
her door, she went again to the bed, and looked at her boy till her
eyes filled with tears.

"God bless thee, darling! I only ask to be one of His instruments,
and not thrown aside as useless—or worse than useless."

So ended the day of Leonard's christening.

Mr Benson had sometimes taught the children of different people as
an especial favour, when requested by them. But then his pupils were
only children, and by their progress he was little prepared for
Ruth's. She had had early teaching, of that kind which need never be
unlearnt, from her mother; enough to unfold many of her powers; they
had remained inactive now for several years, but had grown strong
in the dark and quiet time. Her tutor was surprised at the bounds
by which she surmounted obstacles, the quick perception and ready
adaptation of truths and first principles, and her immediate sense of
the fitness of things. Her delight in what was strong and beautiful
called out her master's sympathy; but, most of all, he admired the
complete unconsciousness of uncommon power, or unusual progress. It
was less of a wonder than he considered it to be, it is true, for
she never thought of comparing what she was now with her former self,
much less with another. Indeed, she did not think of herself at all,
but of her boy, and what she must learn in order to teach him to be
and to do as suited her hope and her prayer. If any one's devotion
could have flattered her into self-consciousness, it was Jemima's. Mr
Bradshaw never dreamed that his daughter could feel herself inferior
to the minister's
protegée
, but so it was; and no knight-errant of
old could consider himself more honoured by his ladye's commands than
did Jemima, if Ruth allowed her to do anything for her or for her
boy. Ruth loved her heartily, even while she was rather annoyed at
the open expressions Jemima used of admiration.

"Please, I really would rather not be told if people do think me
pretty."

"But it was not merely beautiful; it was sweet-looking and good, Mrs
Postlethwaite called you," replied Jemima.

"All the more I would rather not hear it. I may be pretty, but I know
I am not good. Besides, I don't think we ought to hear what is said
of us behind our backs."

Ruth spoke so gravely, that Jemima feared lest she was displeased.

"Dear Mrs Denbigh, I never will admire or praise you again. Only let
me love you."

"And let me love you!" said Ruth, with a tender kiss.

Jemima would not have been allowed to come so frequently if Mr
Bradshaw had not been possessed with the idea of patronising Ruth. If
the latter had chosen, she might have gone dressed from head to foot
in the presents which he wished to make her, but she refused them
constantly; occasionally to Miss Benson's great annoyance. But if
he could not load her with gifts, he could show his approbation by
asking her to his house; and after some deliberation, she consented
to accompany Mr and Miss Benson there. The house was square and
massy-looking, with a great deal of drab-colour about the furniture.
Mrs Bradshaw, in her lackadaisical, sweet-tempered way, seconded her
husband in his desire of being kind to Ruth; and as she cherished
privately a great taste for what was beautiful or interesting, as
opposed to her husband's love of the purely useful, this taste of
hers had rarely had so healthy and true a mode of gratification as
when she watched Ruth's movements about the room, which seemed in
its unobtrusiveness and poverty of colour to receive the requisite
ornament of light and splendour from Ruth's presence. Mrs Bradshaw
sighed, and wished she had a daughter as lovely, about whom to weave
a romance; for castle-building, after the manner of the Minerva
press, was the outlet by which she escaped from the pressure of her
prosaic life, as Mr Bradshaw's wife. Her perception was only of
external beauty, and she was not always alive to that, or she might
have seen how a warm, affectionate, ardent nature, free from all
envy or carking care of self, gave an unspeakable charm to her plain,
bright-faced daughter Jemima, whose dark eyes kept challenging
admiration for her friend. The first evening spent at Mr Bradshaw's
passed like many succeeding visits there. There was tea, the equipage
for which was as handsome and as ugly as money could purchase. Then
the ladies produced their sewing, while Mr Bradshaw stood before
the fire, and gave the assembled party the benefit of his opinions
on many subjects. The opinions were as good and excellent as the
opinions of any man can be who sees one side of a case very strongly,
and almost ignores the other. They coincided in many points with
those held by Mr Benson, but he once or twice interposed with a plea
for those who might differ; and then he was heard by Mr Bradshaw with
a kind of evident and indulgent pity, such as one feels for a child
who unwittingly talks nonsense. By-and-by, Mrs Bradshaw and Miss
Benson fell into one
tête à tête
, and Ruth and Jemima into another.
Two well-behaved but unnaturally quiet children were sent to bed
early in the evening, in an authoritative voice, by their father,
because one of them had spoken too loud while he was enlarging on an
alteration in the tariff. Just before the supper-tray was brought in,
a gentleman was announced whom Ruth had never previously seen, but
who appeared well known to the rest of the party. It was Mr Farquhar,
Mr Bradshaw's partner; he had been on the Continent for the last
year, and had only recently returned. He seemed perfectly at home,
but spoke little. He leaned back in his chair, screwed up his
eyes, and watched everybody; yet there was nothing unpleasant or
impertinent in his keenness of observation. Ruth wondered to hear
him contradict Mr Bradshaw, and almost expected some rebuff; but Mr
Bradshaw, if he did not yield the point, admitted, for the first time
that evening, that it was possible something might be said on the
other side. Mr Farquhar differed also from Mr Benson, but it was in a
more respectful manner than Mr Bradshaw had done. For these reasons,
although Mr Farquhar had never spoken to Ruth, she came away with the
impression that he was a man to be respected, and perhaps liked.

Sally would have thought herself mightily aggrieved if, on their
return, she had not heard some account of the evening. As soon as
Miss Benson came in, the old servant began:

"Well, and who was there? and what did they give you for supper?"

"Only Mr Farquhar besides ourselves; and sandwiches, sponge-cake, and
wine; there was no occasion for anything more," replied Miss Benson,
who was tired and preparing to go upstairs.

"Mr Farquhar! Why they do say he's thinking of Miss Jemima!"

"Nonsense, Sally! why he's old enough to be her father!" said Miss
Benson, half way up the first flight.

"There's no need for it to be called nonsense, though he may be
ten year older," muttered Sally, retreating towards the kitchen.
"Bradshaw's Betsy knows what she's about, and wouldn't have said it
for nothing."

Ruth wondered a little about it. She loved Jemima well enough to be
interested in what related to her; but, after thinking for a few
minutes, she decided that such a marriage was, and would ever be,
very unlikely.

One afternoon, not long after this, Mr and Miss Benson set off to
call upon a farmer, who attended the chapel, but lived at some
distance from the town. They intended to stay to tea if they were
invited, and Ruth and Sally were left to spend a long afternoon
together. At first, Sally was busy in her kitchen, and Ruth employed
herself in carrying her baby out into the garden. It was now nearly
a year since she came to the Bensons'; it seemed like yesterday, and
yet as if a lifetime had gone between. The flowers were budding now,
that were all in bloom when she came down, on the first autumnal
morning, into the sunny parlour. The yellow jessamine, that was then
a tender plant, had now taken firm root in the soil, and was sending
out strong shoots; the wall-flowers, which Miss Benson had sown on
the wall a day or two after her arrival, were scenting the air with
their fragrant flowers. Ruth knew every plant now; it seemed as
though she had always lived here, and always known the inhabitants
of the house. She heard Sally singing her accustomed song in the
kitchen, a song she never varied over her afternoon's work. It began,

As I was going to Derby, sir,
Upon a market-day.

And if music is a necessary element in a song, perhaps I had better
call it by some other name.

But the strange change was in Ruth herself. She was conscious of
it though she could not define it, and did not dwell upon it. Life
had become significant and full of duty to her. She delighted in
the exercise of her intellectual powers, and liked the idea of
the infinite amount of which she was ignorant; for it was a grand
pleasure to learn—to crave, and be satisfied. She strove to forget
what had gone before this last twelve months. She shuddered up from
contemplating it; it was like a bad, unholy dream. And yet, there was
a strange yearning kind of love for the father of the child whom she
pressed to her heart, which came, and she could not bid it begone as
sinful, it was so pure and natural, even when thinking of it, as in
the sight of God. Little Leonard cooed to the flowers, and stretched
after their bright colours; and Ruth laid him on the dry turf, and
pelted him with the gay petals. He chinked and crowed with laughing
delight, and clutched at her cap, and pulled it off. Her short rich
curls were golden-brown in the slanting sunlight, and by their very
shortness made her look more child-like. She hardly seemed as if
she could be the mother of the noble babe over whom she knelt, now
snatching kisses, now matching his cheek with rose-leaves. All at
once, the bells of the old church struck the hour; and far away, high
up in the air, began slowly to play the old tune of "Life let us
cherish;" they had played it for years—for the life of man—and it
always sounded fresh and strange and aërial. Ruth was still in a
moment, she knew not why; and the tears came into her eyes as she
listened. When it was ended, she kissed her baby, and bade God bless
him.

Just then Sally came out, dressed for the evening, with a leisurely
look about her. She had done her work, and she and Ruth were to drink
tea together in the exquisitely clean kitchen; but while the kettle
was boiling, she came out to enjoy the flowers. She gathered a piece
of southern-wood, and stuffed it up her nose, by way of smelling it.

"Whatten you call this in your country?" asked she.

"Old-man," replied Ruth.

"We call it here lad's-love. It and peppermint-drops always remind me
of going to church in the country. Here! I'll get you a black-currant
leaf to put in the teapot. It gives it a flavour. We had bees once
against this wall; but when missus died, we forgot to tell 'em, and
put 'em in mourning, and, in course, they swarmed away without our
knowing, and the next winter came a hard frost, and they died. Now, I
dare say, the water will be boiling; and it's time for little master
there to come in, for the dew is falling. See, all the daisies is
shutting themselves up."