Ruth (3 page)

The young milliners had to arrange their wares on tables in the
ante-room, and make all ready before they could venture to peep
into the ball-room, where the musicians were already tuning their
instruments, and where one or two char-women (strange contrast! with
their dirty, loose attire, and their incessant chatter, to the grand
echoes of the vaulted room) were completing the dusting of benches
and chairs.

They quitted the place as Ruth and her companions entered. They had
talked lightly and merrily in the ante-room, but now their voices
were hushed, awed by the old magnificence of the vast apartment. It
was so large, that objects showed dim at the further end, as through
a mist. Full-length figures of county worthies hung around, in all
varieties of costume, from the days of Holbein to the present time.
The lofty roof was indistinct, for the lamps were not fully lighted
yet; while through the richly-painted Gothic window at one end the
moonbeams fell, many-tinted, on the floor, and mocked with their
vividness the struggles of the artificial light to illuminate its
little sphere.

High above sounded the musicians, fitfully trying some strain of
which they were not certain. Then they stopped playing and talked,
and their voices sounded goblin-like in their dark recess, where
candles were carried about in an uncertain wavering manner, reminding
Ruth of the flickering zigzag motion of the will-o'-the-wisp.

Suddenly the room sprang into the full blaze of light, and Ruth felt
less impressed with its appearance, and more willing to obey Mrs
Mason's sharp summons to her wandering flock, than she had been
when it was dim and mysterious. They had presently enough to do in
rendering offices of assistance to the ladies who thronged in, and
whose voices drowned all the muffled sound of the band Ruth had
longed so much to hear. Still, if one pleasure was less, another was
greater than she had anticipated.

"On condition" of such a number of little observances that Ruth
thought Mrs Mason would never have ended enumerating them, they were
allowed during the dances to stand at a side-door and watch. And what
a beautiful sight it was! Floating away to that bounding music—now
far away, like garlands of fairies, now near, and showing as lovely
women, with every ornament of graceful dress—the elite of the county
danced on, little caring whose eyes gazed and were dazzled. Outside
all was cold, and colourless, and uniform, one coating of snow over
all. But inside it was warm, and glowing, and vivid; flowers scented
the air, and wreathed the head, and rested on the bosom, as if it
were midsummer. Bright colours flashed on the eye and were gone, and
succeeded by others as lovely in the rapid movement of the dance.
Smiles dimpled every face, and low tones of happiness murmured
indistinctly through the room in every pause of the music.

Ruth did not care to separate the figures that formed a joyous and
brilliant whole; it was enough to gaze, and dream of the happy
smoothness of the lives in which such music, and such profusion of
flowers, of jewels, elegance of every description, and beauty of all
shapes and hues, were everyday things. She did not want to know who
the people were; although to hear a catalogue of names seemed to be
the great delight of most of her companions.

In fact, the enumeration rather disturbed her; and to avoid the shock
of too rapid a descent into the commonplace world of Miss Smiths and
Mr Thomsons, she returned to her post in the ante-room. There she
stood thinking, or dreaming. She was startled back to actual life by
a voice close to her. One of the dancing young ladies had met with a
misfortune. Her dress, of some gossamer material, had been looped up
by nosegays of flowers, and one of these had fallen off in the dance,
leaving her gown to trail. To repair this, she had begged her partner
to bring her to the room where the assistants should have been. None
were there but Ruth.

"Shall I leave you?" asked the gentleman. "Is my absence necessary?"

"Oh, no!" replied the lady. "A few stitches will set all to rights.
Besides, I dare not enter that room by myself." So far she spoke
sweetly and prettily. But now she addressed Ruth. "Make haste. Don't
keep me an hour." And her voice became cold and authoritative.

She was very pretty, with long dark ringlets and sparkling black
eyes. These had struck Ruth in the hasty glance she had taken, before
she knelt down to her task. She also saw that the gentleman was young
and elegant.

"Oh, that lovely galop! How I long to dance to it! Will it never be
done? What a frightful time you are taking; and I'm dying to return
in time for this galop!"

By way of showing a pretty, childlike impatience, she began to beat
time with her feet to the spirited air the band was playing. Ruth
could not darn the rent in her dress with this continual motion, and
she looked up to remonstrate. As she threw her head back for this
purpose, she caught the eye of the gentleman who was standing by; it
was so expressive of amusement at the airs and graces of his pretty
partner, that Ruth was infected by the feeling, and had to bend her
face down to conceal the smile that mantled there. But not before
he had seen it, and not before his attention had been thereby drawn
to consider the kneeling figure, that, habited in black up to the
throat, with the noble head bent down to the occupation in which
she was engaged, formed such a contrast to the flippant, bright,
artificial girl who sat to be served with an air as haughty as a
queen on her throne.

"Oh, Mr Bellingham! I'm ashamed to detain you so long. I had no idea
any one could have spent so much time over a little tear. No wonder
Mrs Mason charges so much for dress-making, if her work-women are so
slow."

It was meant to be witty, but Mr Bellingham looked grave. He saw the
scarlet colour of annoyance flush to that beautiful cheek which was
partially presented to him. He took a candle from the table, and held
it so that Ruth had more light. She did not look up to thank him, for
she felt ashamed that he should have seen the smile which she had
caught from him.

"I am sorry I have been so long, ma'am," said she, gently, as she
finished her work. "I was afraid it might tear out again if I did not
do it carefully." She rose.

"I would rather have had it torn than have missed that charming
galop," said the young lady, shaking out her dress as a bird shakes
its plumage. "Shall we go, Mr Bellingham?" looking up at him.

He was surprised that she gave no word or sign of thanks to the
assistant. He took up a camellia that some one had left on the table.

"Allow me, Miss Duncombe, to give this in your name to this young
lady, as thanks for her dexterous help."

"Oh—of course," said she.

Ruth received the flower silently, but with a grave, modest motion of
her head. They had gone, and she was once more alone. Presently, her
companions returned.

"What was the matter with Miss Duncombe? Did she come here?" asked
they.

"Only her lace dress was torn, and I mended it," answered Ruth,
quietly.

"Did Mr Bellingham come with her? They say he's going to be married
to her; did he come, Ruth?"

"Yes," said Ruth, and relapsed into silence.

Mr Bellingham danced on gaily and merrily through the night, and
flirted with Miss Duncombe, as he thought good. But he looked often
to the side-door where the milliner's apprentices stood; and once he
recognised the tall, slight figure, and the rich auburn hair of the
girl in black; and then his eye sought for the camellia. It was
there, snowy white in her bosom. And he danced on more gaily than
ever.

The cold grey dawn was drearily lighting up the streets when Mrs
Mason and her company returned home. The lamps were extinguished, yet
the shutters of the shops and dwelling-houses were not opened. All
sounds had an echo unheard by day. One or two houseless beggars sat
on doorsteps, and, shivering, slept, with heads bowed on their knees,
or resting against the cold hard support afforded by the wall.

Ruth felt as if a dream had melted away, and she were once more in
the actual world. How long it would be, even in the most favourable
chance, before she should again enter the shire-hall! or hear a band
of music! or even see again those bright, happy people—as much
without any semblance of care or woe as if they belonged to another
race of beings. Had they ever to deny themselves a wish, much less
a want? Literally and figuratively, their lives seemed to wander
through flowery pleasure-paths. Here was cold, biting mid-winter
for her, and such as her—for those poor beggars almost a season of
death; but to Miss Duncombe and her companions, a happy, merry time,
when flowers still bloomed, and fires crackled, and comforts and
luxuries were piled around them like fairy gifts. What did they know
of the meaning of the word, so terrific to the poor? What was winter
to them? But Ruth fancied that Mr Bellingham looked as if he could
understand the feelings of those removed from him by circumstance
and station. He had drawn up the windows of his carriage, it is true,
with a shudder.

Ruth, then, had been watching him.

Yet she had no idea that any association made her camellia precious
to her. She believed it was solely on account of its exquisite beauty
that she tended it so carefully. She told Jenny every particular of
its presentation, with open, straight-looking eye, and without the
deepening of a shade of colour.

"Was it not kind of him? You can't think how nicely he did it, just
when I was a little bit mortified by her ungracious ways."

"It was very nice, indeed," replied Jenny. "Such a beautiful flower!
I wish it had some scent."

"I wish it to be exactly as it is; it is perfect. So pure!" said
Ruth, almost clasping her treasure as she placed it in water. "Who is
Mr Bellingham?"

"He is son to that Mrs Bellingham of the Priory, for whom we made the
grey satin pelisse," answered Jenny, sleepily.

"That was before my time," said Ruth. But there was no answer. Jenny
was asleep.

It was long before Ruth followed her example. Even on a winter day,
it was clear morning light that fell upon her face as she smiled in
her slumber. Jenny would not waken her, but watched her face with
admiration; it was so lovely in its happiness.

"She is dreaming of last night," thought Jenny.

It was true she was; but one figure flitted more than all the rest
through her visions. He presented flower after flower to her in that
baseless morning dream, which was all too quickly ended. The night
before, she had seen her dead mother in her sleep, and she wakened,
weeping. And now she dreamed of Mr Bellingham, and smiled.

And yet, was this a more evil dream than the other?

The realities of life seemed to cut more sharply against her heart
than usual that morning. The late hours of the preceding nights, and
perhaps the excitement of the evening before, had indisposed her to
bear calmly the rubs and crosses which beset all Mrs Mason's young
ladies at times.

For Mrs Mason, though the first dressmaker in the county, was human
after all; and suffered, like her apprentices, from the same causes
that affected them. This morning she was disposed to find fault
with everything, and everybody. She seemed to have risen with the
determination of putting the world and all that it contained (her
world, at least) to rights before night; and abuses and negligences,
which had long passed unreproved, or winked at, were to-day to
be dragged to light, and sharply reprimanded. Nothing less than
perfection would satisfy Mrs Mason at such times.

She had her ideas of justice, too; but they were not divinely
beautiful and true ideas; they were something more resembling
a grocer's, or tea-dealer's ideas of equal right. A little
over-indulgence last night was to be balanced by a good deal of
over-severity to-day; and this manner of rectifying previous errors
fully satisfied her conscience.

Ruth was not inclined for, or capable of, much extra exertion; and it
would have tasked all her powers to have pleased her superior. The
work-room seemed filled with sharp calls. "Miss Hilton! where have
you put the blue Persian? Whenever things are mislaid, I know it has
been Miss Hilton's evening for siding away!"

"Miss Hilton was going out last night, so I offered to clear the
workroom for her. I will find it directly, ma'am," answered one of
the girls.

"Oh, I am well aware of Miss Hilton's custom of shuffling off her
duties upon any one who can be induced to relieve her," replied Mrs
Mason.

Ruth reddened, and tears sprang to her eyes; but she was so conscious
of the falsity of the accusation, that she rebuked herself for being
moved by it, and, raising her head, gave a proud look round, as if in
appeal to her companions.

"Where is the skirt of Lady Farnham's dress? The flounces not put on!
I am surprised. May I ask to whom this work was entrusted yesterday?"
inquired Mrs Mason, fixing her eyes on Ruth.

"I was to have done it, but I made a mistake, and had to undo it. I
am very sorry."

"I might have guessed, certainly. There is little difficulty, to be
sure, in discovering, when work has been neglected or spoilt, into
whose hands it has fallen."

Such were the speeches which fell to Ruth's share on this day of all
days, when she was least fitted to bear them with equanimity.

In the afternoon it was necessary for Mrs Mason to go a few miles
into the country. She left injunctions, and orders, and directions,
and prohibitions without end; but at last she was gone, and in the
relief of her absence, Ruth laid her arms on the table, and, burying
her head, began to cry aloud, with weak, unchecked sobs.

"Don't cry, Miss Hilton,"—"Ruthie, never mind the old dragon,"—"How
will you bear on for five years, if you don't spirit yourself up
not to care a straw for what she says?"—were some of the modes of
comfort and sympathy administered by the young workwomen.