Ruth (40 page)

"He will take him away from me! He will take the child from me!"

These words rang like a tolling bell through Ruth's head. It seemed
to her that her doom was certain. Leonard would be taken from her!
She had a firm conviction—not the less firm because she knew not on
what it was based—that a child, whether legitimate or not, belonged
of legal right to the father. And Leonard, of all children, was the
prince and monarch. Every man's heart would long to call Leonard
"Child!" She had been too strongly taxed to have much power left
her to reason coolly and dispassionately, just then, even if she had
been with any one who could furnish her with information from which
to draw correct conclusions. The one thought haunted her night and
day—"He will take my child away from me!" In her dreams she saw
Leonard borne away into some dim land, to which she could not follow.
Sometimes he sat in a swiftly-moving carriage, at his father's side,
and smiled on her as he passed by, as if going to promised pleasure.
At another time he was struggling to return to her; stretching out
his little arms, and crying to her for the help she could not give.
How she got through the days, she did not know; her body moved about
and habitually acted, but her spirit was with her child. She thought
often of writing and warning Mr Benson of Leonard's danger; but then
she shrank from recurring to circumstances, all mention of which had
ceased years ago; the very recollection of which seemed buried deep
for ever. Besides, she feared occasioning discord or commotion in the
quiet circle in which she lived. Mr Benson's deep anger against her
betrayer had been shown too clearly in the old time to allow her to
think that he would keep it down without expression now. He would
cease to do anything to forward his election; he would oppose him
as much as he could; and Mr Bradshaw would be angry, and a storm
would arise, from the bare thought of which Ruth shrank with the
cowardliness of a person thoroughly worn out with late contest. She
was bodily wearied with her spiritual buffeting.

One morning, three or four days after their departure, she received a
letter from Miss Benson. She could not open it at first, and put it
on one side, clenching her hand over it all the time. At last she
tore it open. Leonard was safe as yet. There were a few lines in his
great round hand, speaking of events no larger than the loss of a
beautiful "alley." There was a sheet from Miss Benson. She always
wrote letters in the manner of a diary. "Monday we did so-and-so;
Tuesday, so-and-so, &c." Ruth glanced rapidly down the page. Yes,
here it was! Sick, fluttering heart, be still!

"In the middle of the damsons, when they were just on the fire, there
was a knock at the door. My brother was out, and Sally was washing
up, and I was stirring the preserve with my great apron and bib on;
so I bade Leonard come in from the garden and open the door. But I
would have washed his face first, if I had known who it was! It was
Mr Bradshaw and the Mr Donne that they hope to send up to the House
of Commons, as member of Parliament for Eccleston, and another
gentleman, whose name I never heard. They had come canvassing; and
when they found my brother was out, they asked Leonard if they could
see me. The child said, 'Yes! if I could leave the damsons;' and
straightway came to call me, leaving them standing in the passage. I
whipped off my apron, and took Leonard by the hand, for I fancied I
should feel less awkward if he was with me; and then I went and asked
them all into the study, for I thought I should like them to see how
many books Thurstan had got. Then they began talking politics at me
in a very polite manner, only I could not make head or tail of what
they meant; and Mr Donne took a deal of notice of Leonard, and called
him to him; and I am sure he noticed what a noble, handsome boy he
was, though his face was very brown and red, and hot with digging,
and his curls all tangled. Leonard talked back as if he had known him
all his life, till, I think, Mr Bradshaw thought he was making too
much noise, and bid him remember he ought to be seen, not heard. So
he stood as still and stiff as a soldier, close to Mr Donne; and as
I could not help looking at the two, and thinking how handsome they
both were in their different ways, I could not tell Thurstan half the
messages the gentlemen left for him. But there was one thing more I
must tell you, though I said I would not. When Mr Donne was talking
to Leonard, he took off his watch and chain and put it round the
boy's neck, who was pleased enough, you may be sure. I bade him give
it back to the gentleman, when they were all going away; and I was
quite surprised, and very uncomfortable, when Mr Donne said he had
given it to Leonard, and that he was to keep it for his own. I could
see Mr Bradshaw was annoyed, and he and the other gentleman spoke to
Mr Donne, and I heard them say, 'too barefaced;' and I shall never
forget Mr Donne's proud, stubborn look back at them, nor his way of
saying, 'I allow no one to interfere with what I choose to do with my
own.' And he looked so haughty and displeased, I durst say nothing
at the time. But when I told Thurstan, he was very grieved and angry;
and said he had heard that our party were bribing, but that he never
could have thought they would have tried to do it at his house.
Thurstan is very much out of spirits about this election altogether;
and, indeed, it does make sad work up and down the town. However, he
sent back the watch with a letter to Mr Bradshaw; and Leonard was
very good about it, so I gave him a taste of the new damson-preserve
on his bread for supper."

Although a stranger might have considered this letter wearisome
from the multiplicity of the details, Ruth craved greedily after
more. What had Mr Donne said to Leonard? Had Leonard liked his new
acquaintance? Were they likely to meet again? After wondering and
wondering over these points, Ruth composed herself by the hope that
in a day or two she should hear again; and to secure this end, she
answered the letters by return of post. That was on Thursday. On
Friday she had another letter, in a strange hand. It was from Mr
Donne. No name, no initials were given. If it had fallen into another
person's hands, they could not have recognised the writer, nor
guessed to whom it was sent. It contained simply these words:

"For our child's sake, and in his name, I summon you to appoint a
place where I can speak, and you can listen, undisturbed. The time
must be on Sunday; the limit of distance may be the circumference of
your power of walking. My words may be commands, but my fond heart
entreats. More I shall not say now, but, remember! your boy's welfare
depends on your acceding to this request. Address B. D., Post-Office,
Eccleston."

Ruth did not attempt to answer this letter till the last five minutes
before the post went out. She could not decide until forced to it.
Either way she dreaded. She was very nearly leaving the letter
altogether unanswered. But suddenly she resolved she would know all,
the best, the worst. No cowardly dread of herself, or of others,
should make her neglect aught that came to her in her child's name.
She took up a pen and wrote:

"The sands below the rocks, where we met you the other night. Time,
afternoon church."

Sunday came.

"I shall not go to church this afternoon. You know the way, of
course; and I can trust you to go steadily by yourselves."

When they came to kiss her before leaving her, according to their
fond wont, they were struck by the coldness of her face and lips.

"Are you not well, dear Mrs Denbigh? How cold you are!"

"Yes, darling! I am well;" and tears sprang into her eyes as she
looked at their anxious little faces. "Go now, dears. Five o'clock
will soon be here, and then we will have tea."

"And that will warm you!" said they, leaving the room.

"And then it will be over," she murmured—"over."

It never came into her head to watch the girls as they disappeared
down the lane on their way to church. She knew them too well to
distrust their doing what they were told. She sat still, her head
bowed on her arms for a few minutes, and then rose up and went to put
on her walking things. Some thoughts impelled her to sudden haste.
She crossed the field by the side of the house, ran down the steep
and rocky path, and was carried by the impetus of her descent far
out on the level sands—but not far enough for her intent. Without
looking to the right hand or to the left, where comers might be
seen, she went forwards to the black posts, which, rising above the
heaving waters, marked where the fishermen's nets were laid. She went
straight towards this place, and hardly stinted her pace even where
the wet sands were glittering with the receding waves. Once there,
she turned round, and in a darting glance, saw that as yet no one
was near. She was perhaps half-a-mile or more from the grey, silvery
rocks, which sloped away into brown moorland, interspersed with a
field here and there of golden, waving corn. Behind were purple
hills, with sharp, clear outlines, touching the sky. A little on one
side from where she stood, she saw the white cottages and houses
which formed the village of Abermouth, scattered up and down, and, on
a windy hill, about a mile inland, she saw the little grey church,
where even now many were worshipping in peace.

"Pray for me!" she sighed out, as this object caught her eye.

And now, close under the heathery fields, where they fell softly down
and touched the sands, she saw a figure moving in the direction of
the great shadow made by the rocks—going towards the very point
where the path from Eagle's Crag came down to the shore.

"It is he!" said she to herself. And she turned round and looked
seaward. The tide had turned; the waves were slowly receding, as
if loath to lose the hold they had, so lately, and with such swift
bounds, gained on the yellow sands. The eternal moan they have made
since the world began filled the ear, broken only by the skirl of the
grey sea-birds as they alighted in groups on the edge of the waters,
or as they rose up with their measured, balancing motion, and the
sunlight caught their white breasts. There was no sign of human life
to be seen; no boat, or distant sail, or near shrimper. The black
posts there were all that spoke of men's work or labour. Beyond a
stretch of the waters, a few pale grey hills showed like films; their
summits clear, though faint, their bases lost in a vapoury mist.

On the hard, echoing sands, and distinct from the ceaseless murmur of
the salt sea waves, came footsteps—nearer—nearer. Very near they
were when Ruth, unwilling to show the fear that rioted in her heart,
turned round, and faced Mr Donne.

He came forward, with both hands extended.

"This is kind! my own Ruth," said he. Ruth's arms hung down
motionless at her sides.

"What! Ruth, have you no word for me?"

"I have nothing to say," said Ruth.

"Why, you little revengeful creature! And so I am to explain all
before you will even treat me with decent civility."

"I do not want explanations," said Ruth, in a trembling tone. "We
must not speak of the past. You asked me to come in Leonard's—in my
child's name, and to hear what you had to say about him."

"But what I have to say about him relates to you even more. And how
can we talk about him without recurring to the past? That past, which
you try to ignore—I know you cannot do it in your heart—is full of
happy recollections to me. Were you not happy in Wales?" he said, in
his tenderest tone.

But there was no answer; not even one faint sigh, though he listened
intently.

"You dare not speak; you dare not answer me. Your heart will not
allow you to prevaricate, and you know you were happy."

Suddenly Ruth's beautiful eyes were raised to him, full of lucid
splendour, but grave and serious in their expression; and her cheeks,
heretofore so faintly tinged with the tenderest blush, flashed into a
ruddy glow.

"I was happy. I do not deny it. Whatever comes, I will not blench
from the truth. I have answered you."

"And yet," replied he, secretly exulting in her admission, and not
perceiving the inner strength of which she must have been conscious
before she would have dared to make it—"and yet, Ruth, we are not
to recur to the past! Why not? If it was happy at the time, is the
recollection of it so miserable to you?"

He tried once more to take her hand, but she quietly stepped back.

"I came to hear what you had to say about my child," said she,
beginning to feel very weary.

"
Our
child, Ruth."

She drew herself up, and her face went very pale.

"What have you to say about him?" asked she, coldly.

"Much," exclaimed he—"much that may affect his whole life. But it
all depends upon whether you will hear me or not."

"I listen."

"Good Heavens! Ruth, you will drive me mad. Oh! what a changed person
you are from the sweet, loving creature you were! I wish you were not
so beautiful." She did not reply, but he caught a deep, involuntary
sigh.

"Will you hear me if I speak, though I may not begin all at once
to talk of this boy—a boy of whom any mother—any parent, might
be proud? I could see that, Ruth. I have seen him; he looked like
a prince in that cramped, miserable house, and with no earthly
advantages. It is a shame he should not have every kind of
opportunity laid open before him."

There was no sign of maternal ambition on the motionless face, though
there might be some little spring in her heart, as it beat quick and
strong at the idea of the proposal she imagined he was going to make
of taking her boy away to give him the careful education she had
often craved for him. She should refuse it, as she would everything
else which seemed to imply that she acknowledged a claim over
Leonard; but yet sometimes, for her boy's sake, she had longed for a
larger opening—a more extended sphere.