Ruth (29 page)

"You'll be taking to painting your cheeks next, now you've once
thought of dyeing your hair." So Miss Benson plaited her grey hair in
silence and quietness, Leonard holding one end of it while she wove
it, and admiring the colour and texture all the time, with a sort of
implied dissatisfaction at the auburn colour of his own curls, which
was only half-comforted away by Miss Benson's information, that, if
he lived long enough, his hair would be like hers.

Mr Benson, who had looked old and frail while he was yet but young,
was now stationary as to the date of his appearance. But there was
something more of nervous restlessness in his voice and ways than
formerly; that was the only change six years had brought to him.
And as for Sally, she chose to forget age and the passage of years
altogether, and had as much work in her, to use her own expression,
as she had at sixteen; nor was her appearance very explicit as to the
flight of time. Fifty, sixty, or seventy, she might be—not more than
the last, not less than the first—though her usual answer to any
circuitous inquiry as to her age was now (what it had been for many
years past), "I'm feared I shall never see thirty again."

Then as to the house. It was not one where the sitting-rooms are
refurnished every two or three years; not now, even (since Ruth came
to share their living) a place where, as an article grew shabby or
worn, a new one was purchased. The furniture looked poor, and the
carpets almost threadbare; but there was such a dainty spirit of
cleanliness abroad, such exquisite neatness of repair, and altogether
so bright and cheerful a look about the rooms—everything so
above-board—no shifts to conceal poverty under flimsy ornament—that
many a splendid drawing-room would give less pleasure to those who
could see evidences of character in inanimate things. But whatever
poverty there might be in the house, there was full luxuriance in
the little square wall-encircled garden, on two sides of which the
parlour and kitchen looked. The laburnum-tree, which when Ruth came
was like a twig stuck into the ground, was now a golden glory in
spring, and a pleasant shade in summer. The wild hop, that Mr Benson
had brought home from one of his country rambles, and planted by the
parlour-window, while Leonard was yet a baby in his mother's arms,
was now a garland over the casement, hanging down long tendrils,
that waved in the breezes, and threw pleasant shadows and traceries,
like some Bacchanalian carving, on the parlour-walls, at "morn or
dusky eve." The yellow rose had clambered up to the window of Mr
Benson's bedroom, and its blossom-laden branches were supported by a
jargonelle pear-tree rich in autumnal fruit.

But, perhaps, in Ruth herself there was the greatest external change;
for of the change which had gone on in her heart, and mind, and soul,
or if there had been any, neither she nor any one around her was
conscious; but sometimes Miss Benson did say to Sally, "How very
handsome Ruth is grown!" To which Sally made ungracious answer, "Yes!
she's well enough. Beauty is deceitful, and favour a snare, and I'm
thankful the Lord has spared me from such man-traps and spring-guns."
But even Sally could not help secretly admiring Ruth. If her early
brilliancy of colour was gone, a clear ivory skin, as smooth as
satin, told of complete and perfect health, and was as lovely, if not
so striking in effect, as the banished lilies and roses. Her hair had
grown darker and deeper, in the shadow that lingered in its masses;
her eyes, even if you could have guessed that they had shed bitter
tears in their day, had a thoughtful, spiritual look about them,
that made you wonder at their depth, and look—and look again. The
increase of dignity in her face had been imparted to her form. I do
not know if she had grown taller since the birth of her child, but
she looked as if she had. And although she had lived in a very humble
home, yet there was something about either it or her, or the people
amongst whom she had been thrown during the last few years, which had
so changed her, that whereas, six or seven years ago, you would have
perceived that she was not altogether a lady by birth and education,
yet now she might have been placed among the highest in the land, and
would have been taken by the most critical judge for their equal,
although ignorant of their conventional etiquette—an ignorance
which she would have acknowledged in a simple child-like way, being
unconscious of any false shame.

Her whole heart was in her boy. She often feared that she loved him
too much—more than God Himself—yet she could not bear to pray to
have her love for her child lessened. But she would kneel down by his
little bed at night—at the deep, still midnight—with the stars that
kept watch over Rizpah shining down upon her, and tell God what I
have now told you, that she feared she loved her child too much,
yet could not, would not, love him less; and speak to Him of her
one treasure as she could speak to no earthly friend. And so,
unconsciously, her love for her child led her up to love to God, to
the All-knowing, who read her heart.

It might be superstition—I dare say it was—but, somehow, she never
lay down to rest without saying, as she looked her last on her boy,
"Thy will, not mine, be done;" and even while she trembled and shrank
with infinite dread from sounding the depths of what that will might
be, she felt as if her treasure were more secure to waken up rosy and
bright in the morning, as one over whose slumbers God's holy angels
had watched, for the very words which she had turned away in sick
terror from realising the night before.

Her daily absence at her duties to the Bradshaw children only
ministered to her love for Leonard. Everything does minister to love
when its foundation lies deep in a true heart, and it was with an
exquisite pang of delight that, after a moment of vague fear,

(Oh, mercy! to myself I said,
If Lucy should be dead!),

she saw her child's bright face of welcome as he threw open the door
every afternoon on her return home. For it was his silently-appointed
work to listen for her knock, and rush breathless to let her in.
If he were in the garden, or upstairs among the treasures of the
lumber-room, either Miss Benson, or her brother, or Sally, would
fetch him to his happy little task; no one so sacred as he to the
allotted duty. And the joyous meeting was not deadened by custom, to
either mother or child.

Ruth gave the Bradshaws the highest satisfaction, as Mr Bradshaw
often said both to her and to the Bensons; indeed, she rather winced
under his pompous approbation. But his favourite recreation was
patronising; and when Ruth saw how quietly and meekly Mr Benson
submitted to gifts and praise, when an honest word of affection, or
a tacit, implied acknowledgment of equality, would have been worth
everything said and done, she tried to be more meek in spirit, and
to recognise the good that undoubtedly existed in Mr Bradshaw. He
was richer and more prosperous than ever;—a keen, far-seeing man
of business, with an undisguised contempt for all who failed in the
success which he had achieved. But it was not alone those who were
less fortunate in obtaining wealth than himself that he visited with
severity of judgment; every moral error or delinquency came under his
unsparing comment. Stained by no vice himself, either in his own eyes
or in that of any human being who cared to judge him, having nicely
and wisely proportioned and adapted his means to his ends, he
could afford to speak and act with a severity which was almost
sanctimonious in its ostentation of thankfulness as to himself. Not a
misfortune or a sin was brought to light but Mr Bradshaw could trace
it to its cause in some former mode of action, which he had long ago
foretold would lead to shame. If another's son turned out wild or
bad, Mr Bradshaw had little sympathy; it might have been prevented
by a stricter rule, or more religious life at home; young Richard
Bradshaw was quiet and steady, and other fathers might have had
sons like him if they had taken the same pains to enforce obedience.
Richard was an only son, and yet Mr Bradshaw might venture to say, he
had never had his own way in his life. Mrs Bradshaw was, he confessed
(Mr Bradshaw did not dislike confessing his wife's errors), rather
less firm than he should have liked with the girls; and with some
people, he believed, Jemima was rather headstrong; but to his wishes
she had always shown herself obedient. All children were obedient,
if their parents were decided and authoritative; and every one would
turn out well, if properly managed. If they did not prove good, they
must take the consequences of their errors.

Mrs Bradshaw murmured faintly at her husband when his back was
turned; but if his voice was heard, or his footsteps sounded in the
distance, she was mute, and hurried her children into the attitude or
action most pleasing to their father. Jemima, it is true, rebelled
against this manner of proceeding, which savoured to her a little of
deceit; but even she had not, as yet, overcome her awe of her father
sufficiently to act independently of him, and according to her own
sense of right—or rather, I should say, according to her own warm,
passionate impulses. Before him the wilfulness which made her dark
eyes blaze out at times was hushed and still; he had no idea of her
self-tormenting, no notion of the almost southern jealousy which
seemed to belong to her brunette complexion. Jemima was not pretty;
the flatness and shortness of her face made her almost plain; yet
most people looked twice at her expressive countenance, at the eyes
which flamed or melted at every trifle, at the rich colour which
came at every expressed emotion into her usually sallow face, at
the faultless teeth which made her smile like a sunbeam. But then,
again, when she thought she was not kindly treated, when a suspicion
crossed her mind, or when she was angry with herself, her lips were
tight-pressed together, her colour was wan and almost livid, and a
stormy gloom clouded her eyes as with a film. But before her father
her words were few, and he did not notice looks or tones.

Her brother Richard had been equally silent before his father in
boyhood and early youth; but since he had gone to be clerk in a
London house, preparatory to assuming his place as junior partner in
Mr Bradshaw's business, he spoke more on his occasional visits at
home. And very proper and highly moral was his conversation; set
sentences of goodness, which were like the flowers that children
stick in the ground, and that have not sprung upwards from
roots—deep down in the hidden life and experience of the heart. He
was as severe a judge as his father of other people's conduct, but
you felt that Mr Bradshaw was sincere in his condemnation of all
outward error and vice, and that he would try himself by the same
laws as he tried others; somehow, Richard's words were frequently
heard with a lurking distrust, and many shook their heads over the
pattern son; but then it was those whose sons had gone astray, and
been condemned, in no private or tender manner, by Mr Bradshaw, so it
might be revenge in them. Still, Jemima felt that all was not right;
her heart sympathised in the rebellion against his father's commands,
which her brother had confessed to her in an unusual moment of
confidence, but her uneasy conscience condemned the deceit which he
had practised.

The brother and sister were sitting alone over a blazing Christmas
fire, and Jemima held an old newspaper in her hand to shield her
face from the hot light. They were talking of family events, when,
during a pause, Jemima's eye caught the name of a great actor,
who had lately given prominence and life to a character in one of
Shakspeare's plays. The criticism in the paper was fine, and warmed
Jemima's heart.

"How I should like to see a play!" exclaimed she.

"Should you?" said her brother, listlessly.

"Yes, to be sure! Just hear this!" and she began to read a fine
passage of criticism.

"Those newspaper people can make an article out of anything," said
he, yawning. "I've seen the man myself, and it was all very well, but
nothing to make such a fuss about."

"You! you seen —! Have you seen a play, Richard? Oh, why did you
never tell me before? Tell me all about it! Why did you never name
seeing — in your letters?"

He half smiled, contemptuously enough. "Oh! at first it strikes one
rather, but after a while one cares no more for the theatre than one
does for mince-pies."

"Oh, I wish I might go to London!" said Jemima, impatiently. "I've a
great mind to ask papa to let me go to the George Smiths', and then I
could see —. I would not think him like mince-pies."

"You must not do any such thing!" said Richard, now neither yawning
nor contemptuous. "My father would never allow you to go to the
theatre; and the George Smiths are such old fogeys—they would be
sure to tell."

"How do you go, then? Does my father give you leave?"

"Oh! many things are right for men which are not for girls."

Jemima sat and pondered. Richard wished he had not been so
confidential.

"You need not name it," said he, rather anxiously.

"Name what?" said she, startled, for her thoughts had gone far
afield.

"Oh, name my going once or twice to the theatre!"

"No, I shan't name it!" said she. "No one here would care to hear
it."

But it was with some little surprise, and almost with a feeling of
disgust, that she heard Richard join with her father in condemning
some one, and add to Mr Bradshaw's list of offences, by alleging that
the young man was a playgoer. He did not think his sister heard his
words.

Mary and Elizabeth were the two girls whom Ruth had in charge; they
resembled Jemima more than their brother in character. The household
rules were occasionally a little relaxed in their favour, for Mary,
the elder, was nearly eight years younger than Jemima, and three
intermediate children had died. They loved Ruth dearly, made a great
pet of Leonard, and had many profound secrets together, most of which
related to their wonders if Jemima and Mr Farquhar would ever be
married. They watched their sister closely; and every day had some
fresh confidence to make to each other, confirming or discouraging to
their hopes.