Ruth (39 page)

The second lesson for the morning of the 25th of September is the
26th chapter of St Matthew's Gospel.

And when they prayed again, Ruth's tongue was unloosed, and she also
could pray, in His name, who underwent the agony in the garden.

As they came out of church, there was a little pause and gathering at
the door. It had begun to rain; those who had umbrellas were putting
them up; those who had not were regretting, and wondering how long
it would last. Standing for a moment, impeded by the people who were
thus collected under the porch, Ruth heard a voice close to her say,
very low, but very distinctly,

"I have much to say to you—much to explain. I entreat you to give me
the opportunity."

Ruth did not reply. She would not acknowledge that she heard; but
she trembled nevertheless, for the well-remembered voice was low and
soft, and had yet its power to thrill. She earnestly desired to know
why and how he had left her. It appeared to her as if that knowledge
could alone give her a relief from the restless wondering that
distracted her mind, and that one explanation could do no harm.

"
No!
" the higher spirit made answer; "
it must not be.
"

Ruth and the girls had each an umbrella. She turned to Mary, and
said,

"Mary, give your umbrella to Mr Donne, and come under mine." Her way
of speaking was short and decided; she was compressing her meaning
into as few words as possible. The little girl obeyed in silence. As
they went first through the churchyard stile, Mr Donne spoke again.

"You are unforgiving," said he. "I only ask you to hear me. I have a
right to be heard, Ruth! I won't believe you are so much changed, as
not to listen to me when I entreat."

He spoke in a tone of soft complaint. But he himself had done much
to destroy the illusion which had hung about his memory for years,
whenever Ruth had allowed herself to think of it. Besides which,
during the time of her residence in the Benson family, her feeling of
what people ought to be had been unconsciously raised and refined;
and Mr Donne, even while she had to struggle against the force of
past recollections, repelled her so much by what he was at present,
that every speech of his, every minute they were together, served
to make her path more and more easy to follow. His voice retained
something of its former influence. When he spoke, without her seeing
him, she could not help remembering former days.

She did not answer this last speech any more than the first. She
saw clearly, that, putting aside all thought as to the character of
their former relationship, it had been dissolved by his will—his
act and deed; and that, therefore, the power to refuse any further
intercourse whatsoever remained with her.

It sometimes seems a little strange how, after having earnestly
prayed to be delivered from temptation, and having given ourselves
with shut eyes into God's hand, from that time every thought, every
outward influence, every acknowledged law of life, seems to lead us
on from strength to strength. It seems strange sometimes, because
we notice the coincidence; but it is the natural, unavoidable
consequence of all truth and goodness being one and the same, and
therefore carried out in every circumstance, external and internal,
of God's creation.

When Mr Donne saw that Ruth would not answer him, he became only the
more determined that she should hear what he had to say. What that
was he did not exactly know. The whole affair was most mysterious and
piquant.

The umbrella protected Ruth from more than the rain on that walk
homewards, for under its shelter she could not be spoken to unheard.
She had not rightly understood at what time she and the girls were to
dine. From the gathering at meal-times she must not shrink. She must
show no sign of weakness. But, oh! the relief, after that walk, to
sit in her own room, locked up, so that neither Mary nor Elizabeth
could come by surprise, and to let her weary frame (weary with being
so long braced up to rigidity and stiff quiet) fall into a chair
anyhow—all helpless, nerveless, motionless, as if the very bones had
melted out of her!

The peaceful rest which her mind took was in thinking of Leonard.
She dared not look before or behind, but she could see him well
at present. She brooded over the thought of him, till she dreaded
his father more and more. By the light of her child's purity and
innocence, she saw evil clearly, and yet more clearly. She thought
that, if Leonard ever came to know the nature of his birth, she
had nothing for it but to die out of his sight. He could never
know—human heart could never know, her ignorant innocence, and all
the small circumstances which had impelled her onwards. But God knew.
And if Leonard heard of his mother's error, why, nothing remained
but death; for she felt, then, as if she had it in her power to die
innocently out of such future agony; but that escape is not so easy.
Suddenly a fresh thought came, and she prayed that, through whatever
suffering, she might be purified. Whatever trials, woes, measureless
pangs, God might see fit to chastise her with, she would not shrink,
if only at last she might come into His presence in Heaven. Alas!
the shrinking from suffering we cannot help. That part of her prayer
was vain. And as for the rest, was not the sure justice of His law
finding her out even now? His laws once broken, His justice and the
very nature of those laws bring the immutable retribution; but if we
turn penitently to Him, He enables us to bear our punishment with a
meek and docile heart, "for His mercy endureth for ever."

Mr Bradshaw had felt himself rather wanting in proper attention
to his guest, inasmuch as he had been unable, all in a minute, to
comprehend Mr Donne's rapid change of purpose; and, before it had
entered into his mind that, notwithstanding the distance of the
church, Mr Donne was going thither, that gentleman was out of the
sight, and far out of the reach, of his burly host. But though the
latter had so far neglected the duties of hospitality as to allow
his visitor to sit in the Eagle's Crag pew with no other guard of
honour than the children and the governess, Mr Bradshaw determined
to make up for it by extra attention during the remainder of the day.
Accordingly he never left Mr Donne. Whatever wish that gentleman
expressed, it was the study of his host to gratify. Did he hint at
the pleasure which a walk in such beautiful scenery would give him,
Mr Bradshaw was willing to accompany him, although at Eccleston it
was a principle with him not to take any walks for pleasure on a
Sunday. When Mr Donne turned round, and recollected letters which
must be written, and which would compel him to stay at home, Mr
Bradshaw instantly gave up the walk, and remained at hand, ready to
furnish him with any writing-materials which could be wanted, and
which were not laid out in the half-furnished house. Nobody knew
where Mr Hickson was all this time. He had sauntered out after Mr
Donne, when the latter set off for church, and he had never returned.
Mr Donne kept wondering if he could have met Ruth—if, in fact, she
had gone out with her pupils, now that the afternoon had cleared
up. This uneasy wonder, and a few mental imprecations on his host's
polite attention, together with the letter-writing pretence, passed
away the afternoon—the longest afternoon he had ever spent; and
of weariness he had had his share. Lunch was lingering in the
dining-room, left there for the truant Mr Hickson; but of the
children or Ruth there was no sign. He ventured on a distant inquiry
as to their whereabouts.

"They dine early; they are gone to church again. Mrs Denbigh was a
member of the Establishment once; and, though she attends chapel at
home, she seems glad to have an opportunity of going to church."

Mr Donne was on the point of asking some further questions about "Mrs
Denbigh," when Mr Hickson came in, loud-spoken, cheerful, hungry, and
as ready to talk about his ramble, and the way in which he had lost
and found himself, as he was about everything else. He knew how to
dress up the commonest occurrence with a little exaggeration, a few
puns, and a happy quotation or two, so as to make it sound very
agreeable. He could read faces, and saw that he had been missed;
both host and visitor looked moped to death. He determined to devote
himself to their amusement during the remainder of the day, for he
had really lost himself, and felt that he had been away too long on a
dull Sunday, when people were apt to get hypped if not well amused.

"It is really a shame to be indoors in such a place. Rain? yes, it
rained some hours ago, but now it is splendid weather. I feel myself
quite qualified for guide, I assure you. I can show you all the
beauties of the neighbourhood, and throw in a bog and a nest of
vipers to boot."

Mr Donne languidly assented to this proposal of going out; and then
he became restless until Mr Hickson had eaten a hasty lunch, for he
hoped to meet Ruth on the way from church, to be near her, and watch
her, though he might not be able to speak to her. To have the slow
hours roll away—to know he must leave the next day—and yet, so
close to her, not to be seeing her—was more than he could bear. In
an impetuous kind of way, he disregarded all Mr Hickson's offers of
guidance to lovely views, and turned a deaf ear to Mr Bradshaw's
expressed wish of showing him the land belonging to the house ("very
little for fourteen thousand pounds"), and set off wilfully on the
road leading to the church, from which, he averred, he had seen a
view which nothing else about the place could equal.

They met the country people dropping homewards. No Ruth was there.
She and her pupils had returned by the field-way, as Mr Bradshaw
informed his guests at dinner-time. Mr Donne was very captious
all through dinner. He thought it would never be over, and cursed
Hickson's interminable stories, which were told on purpose to
amuse him. His heart gave a fierce bound when he saw her in the
drawing-room with the little girls.

She was reading to them—with how sick and trembling a heart, no
words can tell. But she could master and keep down outward signs of
her emotion. An hour more to-night (part of which was to be spent in
family prayer, and all in the safety of company), another hour in the
morning (when all would be engaged in the bustle of departure)—if,
during this short space of time, she could not avoid speaking to him,
she could at least keep him at such a distance as to make him feel
that henceforward her world and his belonged to separate systems,
wide as the heavens apart.

By degrees she felt that he was drawing near to where she stood.
He was by the table examining the books that lay upon it. Mary and
Elizabeth drew off a little space, awe-stricken by the future member
for Eccleston. As he bent his head over a book, he said, "I implore
you; five minutes alone."

The little girls could not hear; but Ruth, hemmed in so that no
escape was possible, did hear.

She took sudden courage, and said, in a clear voice,

"Will you read the whole passage aloud? I do not remember it."

Mr Hickson, hovering at no great distance, heard these words, and
drew near to second Mrs Denbigh's request. Mr Bradshaw, who was very
sleepy after his unusually late dinner, and longing for bedtime,
joined in the request, for it would save the necessity for making
talk, and he might, perhaps, get in a nap, undisturbed and unnoticed,
before the servants came in to prayers.

Mr Donne was caught; he was obliged to read aloud, although he did
not know what he was reading. In the middle of some sentence the
door opened, a rush of servants came in, and Mr Bradshaw became
particularly wide awake in an instant, and read them a long sermon
with great emphasis and unction, winding up with a prayer almost as
long.

Ruth sat with her head drooping, more from exhaustion after a season
of effort than because she shunned Mr Donne's looks. He had so lost
his power over her—his power, which had stirred her so deeply the
night before—that, except as one knowing her error and her shame,
and making a cruel use of such knowledge, she had quite separated him
from the idol of her youth. And yet, for the sake of that first and
only love, she would gladly have known what explanation he could
offer to account for leaving her. It would have been something gained
to her own self-respect, if she had learnt that he was not then, as
she felt him to be now, cold and egotistical, caring for no one and
nothing but what related to himself.

Home, and Leonard—how strangely peaceful the two seemed! Oh, for the
rest that a dream about Leonard would bring!

Mary and Elizabeth went to bed immediately after prayers, and Ruth
accompanied them. It was planned that the gentlemen should leave
early the next morning. They were to breakfast half an hour sooner,
to catch the railway train; and this by Mr Donne's own arrangement,
who had been as eager about his canvassing, the week before, as it
was possible for him to be, but who now wished Eccleston and the
Dissenting interest therein very fervently at the devil.

Just as the carriage came round, Mr Bradshaw turned to Ruth: "Any
message for Leonard beyond love, which is a matter of course?"

Ruth gasped—for she saw Mr Donne catch at the name; she did not
guess the sudden sharp jealousy called out by the idea that Leonard
was a grown-up man.

"Who is Leonard?" said he to the little girl standing by him; he did
not know which she was.

"Mrs Denbigh's little boy," answered Mary.

Under some pretence or other, he drew near to Ruth; and in that low
voice, which she had learnt to loathe, he said,

"Our child!"

By the white misery that turned her face to stone—by the wild terror
in her imploring eyes—by the gasping breath which came out as the
carriage drove away—he knew that he had seized the spell to make her
listen at last.