Ruth (4 page)

Jenny, with a wiser insight into the grievance and its remedy, said:

"Suppose Ruth goes out instead of you, Fanny Barton, to do the
errands. The fresh air will do her good; and you know you dislike the
cold east winds, while Ruth says she enjoys frost and snow, and all
kinds of shivery weather."

Fanny Barton was a great sleepy-looking girl, huddling over the
fire. No one so willing as she to relinquish the walk on this bleak
afternoon, when the east wind blew keenly down the street, drying up
the very snow itself. There was no temptation to come abroad, for
those who were not absolutely obliged to leave their warm rooms;
indeed, the dusk hour showed that it was the usual tea-time for the
humble inhabitants of that part of the town through which Ruth had to
pass on her shopping expedition. As she came to the high ground just
above the river, where the street sloped rapidly down to the bridge,
she saw the flat country beyond all covered with snow, making the
black dome of the cloud-laden sky appear yet blacker; as if the
winter's night had never fairly gone away, but had hovered on the
edge of the world all through the short bleak day. Down by the bridge
(where there was a little shelving bank, used as a landing-place for
any pleasure-boats that could float on that shallow stream) some
children were playing, and defying the cold; one of them had got a
large washing-tub, and with the use of a broken oar kept steering and
pushing himself hither and thither in the little creek, much to the
admiration of his companions, who stood gravely looking on, immovable
in their attentive observation of the hero, although their faces were
blue with cold, and their hands crammed deep into their pockets with
some faint hope of finding warmth there. Perhaps they feared that, if
they unpacked themselves from their lumpy attitudes and began to move
about, the cruel wind would find its way into every cranny of their
tattered dress. They were all huddled up, and still; with eyes
intent on the embryo sailor. At last, one little man, envious of the
reputation that his playfellow was acquiring by his daring, called
out:

"I'll set thee a craddy, Tom! Thou dar'n't go over yon black line in
the water, out into the real river."

Of course the challenge was not to be refused, and Tom paddled away
towards the dark line, beyond which the river swept with smooth,
steady current. Ruth (a child in years herself) stood at the top of
the declivity watching the adventurer, but as unconscious of any
danger as the group of children below. At their playfellow's success,
they broke through the calm gravity of observation into boisterous
marks of applause, clapping their hands, and stamping their impatient
little feet, and shouting, "Well done, Tom; thou hast done it
rarely!"

Tom stood in childish dignity for a moment, facing his admirers;
then, in an instant, his washing-tub boat was whirled round, and he
lost his balance, and fell out; and both he and his boat were carried
away slowly, but surely, by the strong full river which eternally
moved onwards to the sea.

The children shrieked aloud with terror; and Ruth flew down to the
little bay, and far into its shallow waters, before she felt how
useless such an action was, and that the sensible plan would have
been to seek for efficient help. Hardly had this thought struck her,
when, louder and sharper than the sullen roar of the stream that was
ceaselessly and unrelentingly flowing on, came the splash of a horse
galloping through the water in which she was standing. Past her like
lightning—down in the stream, swimming along with the current—a
stooping rider—an outstretched, grasping arm—a little life
redeemed, and a child saved to those who loved it! Ruth stood dizzy
and sick with emotion while all this took place; and when the rider
turned his swimming horse, and slowly breasted up the river to the
landing-place, she recognised him as the Mr Bellingham of the night
before. He carried the unconscious child across his horse; the body
hung in so lifeless a manner that Ruth believed it was dead, and her
eyes were suddenly blinded with tears. She waded back to the beach,
to the point towards which Mr Bellingham was directing his horse.

"Is he dead?" asked she, stretching out her arms to receive the
little fellow; for she instinctively felt that the position in which
he hung was not the most conducive to returning consciousness, if,
indeed, it would ever return.

"I think not," answered Mr Bellingham, as he gave the child to her,
before springing off his horse. "Is he your brother? Do you know who
he is?"

"Look!" said Ruth, who had sat down upon the ground, the better to
prop the poor lad, "his hand twitches! he lives! oh, sir, he lives!
Whose boy is he?" (to the people, who came hurrying and gathering to
the spot at the rumour of an accident).

"He's old Nelly Brownson's," said they. "Her grandson."

"We must take him into a house directly," said she. "Is his home far
off?"

"No, no; it's just close by."

"One of you go for a doctor at once," said Mr Bellingham,
authoritatively, "and bring him to the old woman's without delay. You
must not hold him any longer," he continued, speaking to Ruth, and
remembering her face now for the first time; "your dress is dripping
wet already. Here! you fellow, take him up, d'ye see!"

But the child's hand had nervously clenched Ruth's dress, and she
would not have him disturbed. She carried her heavy burden very
tenderly towards a mean little cottage indicated by the neighbours;
an old crippled woman was coming out of the door, shaking all over
with agitation.

"Dear heart!" said she, "he's the last of 'em all, and he's gone
afore me."

"Nonsense," said Mr Bellingham, "the boy is alive, and likely to
live."

But the old woman was helpless and hopeless, and insisted on
believing that her grandson was dead; and dead he would have been
if it had not been for Ruth, and one or two of the more sensible
neighbours, who, under Mr Bellingham's directions, bustled about, and
did all that was necessary until animation was restored.

"What a confounded time these people are in fetching the doctor,"
said Mr Bellingham to Ruth, between whom and himself a sort of
silent understanding had sprung up from the circumstance of their
having been the only two (besides mere children) who had witnessed
the accident, and also the only two to whom a certain degree of
cultivation had given the power of understanding each other's
thoughts and even each other's words.

"It takes so much to knock an idea into such stupid people's heads.
They stood gaping and asking which doctor they were to go for, as if
it signified whether it was Brown or Smith, so long as he had his
wits about him. I have no more time to waste here, either; I was on
the gallop when I caught sight of the lad; and, now he has fairly
sobbed and opened his eyes, I see no use in my staying in this
stifling atmosphere. May I trouble you with one thing? Will you be
so good as to see that the little fellow has all that he wants? If
you'll allow me, I'll leave you my purse," continued he, giving it to
Ruth, who was only too glad to have this power entrusted to her of
procuring one or two requisites which she had perceived to be wanted.
But she saw some gold between the net-work; she did not like the
charge of such riches.

"I shall not want so much, really, sir. One sovereign will be
plenty—more than enough. May I take that out, and I will give you
back what is left of it when I see you again? or, perhaps I had
better send it to you, sir?"

"I think you had better keep it all at present. Oh! what a horrid
dirty place this is; insufferable two minutes longer. You must not
stay here; you'll be poisoned with this abominable air. Come towards
the door, I beg. Well, if you think one sovereign will be enough, I
will take my purse; only, remember you apply to me if you think they
want more."

They were standing at the door, where some one was holding Mr
Bellingham's horse. Ruth was looking at him with her earnest eyes
(Mrs Mason and her errands quite forgotten in the interest of
the afternoon's event), her whole thoughts bent upon rightly
understanding and following out his wishes for the little boy's
welfare; and until now this had been the first object in his own
mind. But at this moment the strong perception of Ruth's exceeding
beauty came again upon him. He almost lost the sense of what he was
saying, he was so startled into admiration. The night before, he had
not seen her eyes; and now they looked straight and innocently full
at him, grave, earnest, and deep. But when she instinctively read the
change in the expression of his countenance, she dropped her large
white veiling lids; and he thought her face was lovelier still.

The irresistible impulse seized him to arrange matters so that he
might see her again before long.

"No!" said he. "I see it would be better that you should keep
the purse. Many things may be wanted for the lad which we cannot
calculate upon now. If I remember rightly, there are three sovereigns
and some loose change; I shall, perhaps, see you again in a few days,
when, if there be any money left in the purse, you can restore it to
me."

"Oh, yes, sir," said Ruth, alive to the magnitude of the wants to
which she might have to administer, and yet rather afraid of the
responsibility implied in the possession of so much money.

"Is there any chance of my meeting you again in this house?" asked
he.

"I hope to come whenever I can, sir; but I must run in errand-times,
and I don't know when my turn may be."

"Oh"—he did not fully understand this answer—"I should like to know
how you think the boy is going on, if it is not giving you too much
trouble; do you ever take walks?"

"Not for walking's sake, sir."

"Well!" said he, "you go to church, I suppose? Mrs Mason does not
keep you at work on Sundays, I trust?"

"Oh, no, sir. I go to church regularly."

"Then, perhaps, you will be so good as to tell me what church you go
to, and I will meet you there next Sunday afternoon?"

"I go to St Nicholas', sir. I will take care and bring you word how
the boy is, and what doctor they get; and I will keep an account of
the money I spend."

"Very well; thank you. Remember, I trust to you."

He meant that he relied on her promise to meet him; but Ruth thought
that he was referring to the responsibility of doing the best she
could for the child. He was going away, when a fresh thought struck
him, and he turned back into the cottage once more, and addressed
Ruth, with a half smile on his countenance:

"It seems rather strange, but we have no one to introduce us; my name
is Bellingham—yours is—?"

"Ruth Hilton, sir," she answered, in a low voice, for, now that
the conversation no longer related to the boy, she felt shy and
restrained.

He held out his hand to shake hers, and just as she gave it to him,
the old grandmother came tottering up to ask some question. The
interruption jarred upon him, and made him once more keenly alive to
the closeness of the air, and the squalor and dirt by which he was
surrounded.

"My good woman," said he to Nelly Brownson, "could you not keep your
place a little neater and cleaner? It is more fit for pigs than human
beings. The air in this room is quite offensive, and the dirt and
filth is really disgraceful."

By this time he was mounted, and, bowing to Ruth, he rode away.

Then the old woman's wrath broke out.

"Who may you be, that knows no better manners than to come into a
poor woman's house to abuse it?—fit for pigs, indeed! What d'ye call
yon fellow?"

"He is Mr Bellingham," said Ruth, shocked at the old woman's apparent
ingratitude. "It was he that rode into the water to save your
grandson. He would have been drowned but for Mr Bellingham. I thought
once they would both have been swept away by the current, it was so
strong."

"The river is none so deep, either," the old woman said, anxious to
diminish as much as possible the obligation she was under to one who
had offended her. "Some one else would have saved him, if this fine
young spark had never been near. He's an orphan, and God watches over
orphans, they say. I'd rather it had been any one else as had picked
him out, than one who comes into a poor body's house only to abuse
it."

"He did not come in only to abuse it," said Ruth, gently. "He came
with little Tom; he only said it was not quite so clean as it might
be."

"What! you're taking up the cry, are you? Wait till you are an old
woman like me, crippled with rheumatiz, and a lad to see after like
Tom, who is always in mud when he isn't in water; and his food and
mine to scrape together (God knows we're often short, and do the best
I can), and water to fetch up that steep brow."

She stopped to cough; and Ruth judiciously changed the subject, and
began to consult the old woman as to the wants of her grandson, in
which consultation they were soon assisted by the medical man.

When Ruth had made one or two arrangements with a neighbour, whom she
asked to procure the most necessary things, and had heard from the
doctor that all would be right in a day or two, she began to quake
at the recollection of the length of time she had spent at Nelly
Brownson's, and to remember, with some affright, the strict watch
kept by Mrs Mason over her apprentices' out-goings and in-comings on
working days. She hurried off to the shops, and tried to recall her
wandering thoughts to the respective merits of pink and blue as a
match to lilac, found she had lost her patterns, and went home with
ill-chosen things, and in a fit of despair at her own stupidity.

The truth was, that the afternoon's adventure filled her mind; only,
the figure of Tom (who was now safe, and likely to do well) was
receding into the background, and that of Mr Bellingham becoming
more prominent than it had been. His spirited and natural action of
galloping into the water to save the child, was magnified by Ruth
into the most heroic deed of daring; his interest about the boy
was tender, thoughtful benevolence in her eyes, and his careless
liberality of money was fine generosity; for she forgot that
generosity implies some degree of self-denial. She was gratified,
too, by the power of dispensing comfort he had entrusted to her,
and was busy with Alnaschar visions of wise expenditure, when the
necessity of opening Mrs Mason's house-door summoned her back into
actual present life, and the dread of an immediate scolding.