Ruth (47 page)

"My poor, poor boy! my poor, poor darling! Oh! would that I had
died—I had died, in my innocent girlhood!"

"Mother! mother!" sobbed Leonard. "What is the matter? Why do you
look so wild and ill? Why do you call me your 'poor boy'? Are we not
going to Scaurside-hill? I don't much mind it, mother; only please
don't gasp and quiver so. Dearest mother, are you ill? Let me call
Aunt Faith!"

Ruth lifted herself up, and put away the hair that had fallen
over and was blinding her eyes. She looked at him with intense
wistfulness.

"Kiss me, Leonard!" said she—"kiss me, my darling, once more in the
old way!" Leonard threw himself into her arms and hugged her with all
his force, and their lips clung together as in the kiss given to the
dying.

"Leonard!" said she at length, holding him away from her, and nerving
herself up to tell him all by one spasmodic effort—"listen to me."
The boy stood breathless and still, gazing at her. On her impetuous
transit from Mr Bradshaw's to the Chapel-house, her wild, desperate
thought had been that she would call herself by every violent,
coarse name which the world might give her—that Leonard should hear
those words applied to his mother first from her own lips; but the
influence of his presence—for he was a holy and sacred creature in
her eyes, and this point remained steadfast, though all the rest were
upheaved—subdued her; and now it seemed as if she could not find
words fine enough, and pure enough, to convey the truth that he must
learn, and should learn from no tongue but hers.

"Leonard—when I was very young I did very wrong. I think God, who
knows all, will judge me more tenderly than men—but I did wrong in a
way which you cannot understand yet" (she saw the red flush come into
his cheek, and it stung her as the first token of that shame which
was to be his portion through life)—"in a way people never forget,
never forgive. You will hear me called the hardest names that ever
can be thrown at women—I have been, to-day; and, my child, you
must bear it patiently, because they will be partly true. Never get
confused, by your love for me, into thinking that what I did was
right.—Where was I?" said she, suddenly faltering, and forgetting
all she had said and all she had got to say; and then, seeing
Leonard's face of wonder, and burning shame and indignation, she went
on more rapidly, as fearing lest her strength should fail before she
had ended.

"And, Leonard," continued she, in a trembling, sad voice, "this is
not all. The punishment of punishments lies awaiting me still. It is
to see you suffer for my wrongdoing. Yes, darling! they will speak
shameful things of you, poor innocent child! as well as of me, who
am guilty. They will throw it in your teeth through life, that your
mother was never married—was not married when you were born—"

"Were not you married? Are not you a widow?" asked he abruptly, for
the first time getting anything like a clear idea of the real state
of the case.

"No! May God forgive me, and help me!" exclaimed she, as she saw a
strange look of repugnance cloud over the boy's face, and felt a
slight motion on his part to extricate himself from her hold. It
was as slight, as transient as it could be—over in an instant. But
she had taken her hands away, and covered up her face with them as
quickly—covered up her face in shame before her child; and in the
bitterness of her heart she was wailing out, "Oh, would to God I had
died—that I had died as a baby—that I had died as a little baby
hanging at my mother's breast!"

"Mother," said Leonard, timidly putting his hand on her arm; but she
shrunk from him, and continued her low, passionate wailing. "Mother,"
said he, after a pause, coming nearer, though she saw it not—"mammy
darling," said he, using the caressing name, which he had been trying
to drop as not sufficiently manly, "mammy, my own, own dear, dear,
darling mother, I don't believe them—I don't, I don't, I don't, I
don't!" He broke out into a wild burst of crying as he said this. In
a moment her arms were round the poor boy, and she was hushing him
up like a baby on her bosom. "Hush, Leonard! Leonard, be still, my
child! I have been too sudden with you!—I have done you harm—oh!
I have done you nothing but harm," cried she, in a tone of bitter
self-reproach.

"No, mother," said he, stopping his tears, and his eyes blazing out
with earnestness; "there never was such a mother as you have been to
me, and I won't believe any one who says it. I won't; and I'll knock
them down if they say it again, I will!" He clenched his fist, with a
fierce, defiant look on his face.

"You forget, my child," said Ruth, in the sweetest, saddest tone that
ever was heard, "I said it of myself; I said it because it was true."
Leonard threw his arms tight round her, and hid his face against her
bosom. She felt him pant there like some hunted creature. She had no
soothing comfort to give him. "Oh, that she and he lay dead!"

At last, exhausted, he lay so still and motionless, that she feared
to look. She wanted him to speak, yet dreaded his first words.
She kissed his hair, his head, his very clothes, murmuring low,
inarticulate, moaning sounds.

"Leonard," said she, "Leonard, look up at me! Leonard, look up!" But
he only clung the closer, and hid his face the more.

"My boy!" said she, "what can I do or say? If I tell you never to
mind it—that it is nothing—I tell you false. It is a bitter shame
and a sorrow that I have drawn down upon you. A shame, Leonard,
because of me, your mother; but, Leonard, it is no disgrace or
lowering of you in the eyes of God." She spoke now as if she had
found the clue which might lead him to rest and strength at last.
"Remember that, always. Remember that, when the time of trial
comes—and it seems a hard and cruel thing that you should be
called reproachful names by men, and all for what was no fault of
yours—remember God's pity and God's justice; and though my sin shall
have made you an outcast in the world—oh, my child, my child!"—(she
felt him kiss her, as if mutely trying to comfort her—it gave her
strength to go on)—"remember, darling of my heart, it is only your
own sin that can make you an outcast from God."

She grew so faint that her hold of him relaxed. He looked up
affrighted. He brought her water—he threw it over her; in his terror
at the notion that she was going to die and leave him, he called her
by every fond name, imploring her to open her eyes.

When she partially recovered, he helped her to the bed, on which
she lay still, wan and death-like. She almost hoped the swoon that
hung around her might be Death, and in that imagination she opened
her eyes to take a last look at her boy. She saw him pale and
terror-stricken; and pity for his affright roused her, and made her
forget herself in the wish that he should not see her death, if she
were indeed dying.

"Go to Aunt Faith!" whispered she; "I am weary, and want sleep."

Leonard arose slowly and reluctantly. She tried to smile upon him,
that what she thought would be her last look might dwell in his
remembrance as tender and strong; she watched him to the door; she
saw him hesitate, and return to her. He came back to her, and said in
a timid, apprehensive tone:

"Mother—will
they
speak to me about—it?"

Ruth closed her eyes, that they might not express the agony she felt,
like a sharp knife, at this question. Leonard had asked it with a
child's desire of avoiding painful and mysterious topics,—from no
personal sense of shame as she understood it, shame beginning thus
early, thus instantaneously.

"No," she replied. "You may be sure they will not."

So he went. But now she would have been thankful for the
unconsciousness of fainting; that one little speech bore so much
meaning to her hot, irritable brain. Mr and Miss Benson, all in their
house, would never speak to the boy—but in his home alone would he
be safe from what he had already learnt to dread. Every form in which
shame and opprobrium could overwhelm her darling, haunted her. She
had been exercising strong self-control for his sake ever since she
had met him at the house-door; there was now a reaction. His presence
had kept her mind on its perfect balance. When that was withdrawn,
the effect of the strain of power was felt. And athwart the
fever-mists that arose to obscure her judgment, all sorts of
will-o'-the-wisp plans flittered before her; tempting her to this and
that course of action—to anything rather than patient endurance—to
relieve her present state of misery by some sudden spasmodic effort,
that took the semblance of being wise and right. Gradually all
her desires, all her longing, settled themselves on one point.
What had she done—what could she do, to Leonard, but evil? If she
were away, and gone no one knew where—lost in mystery, as if she
were dead—perhaps the cruel hearts might relent, and show pity
on Leonard; while her perpetual presence would but call up the
remembrance of his birth. Thus she reasoned in her hot, dull brain;
and shaped her plans in accordance.

Leonard stole downstairs noiselessly. He listened to find some
quiet place where he could hide himself. The house was very still.
Miss Benson thought the purposed expedition had taken place, and
never dreamed but that Ruth and Leonard were on distant, sunny
Scaurside-hill; and after a very early dinner, she had set out to
drink tea with a farmer's wife who lived in the country two or three
miles off. Mr Benson meant to have gone with her; but while they were
at dinner, he had received an unusually authoritative note from Mr
Bradshaw desiring to speak with him, so he went to that gentleman's
house instead. Sally was busy in her kitchen, making a great noise
(not unlike a groom rubbing down a horse) over her cleaning.
Leonard stole into the sitting-room, and crouched behind the large
old-fashioned sofa to ease his sore, aching heart, by crying with all
the prodigal waste and abandonment of childhood.

Mr Benson was shown into Mr Bradshaw's own particular room. The
latter gentleman was walking up and down, and it was easy to perceive
that something had occurred to chafe him to great anger.

"Sit down, sir!" said he to Mr Benson, nodding to a chair.

Mr Benson sat down. But Mr Bradshaw continued his walk for a few
minutes longer without speaking. Then he stopped abruptly, right in
front of Mr Benson; and in a voice which he tried to render calm, but
which trembled with passion—with a face glowing purple as he thought
of his wrongs (and real wrongs they were), he began:

"Mr Benson, I have sent for you to ask—I am almost too indignant
at the bare suspicion to speak as becomes me—but did you—I really
shall be obliged to beg your pardon, if you are as much in the dark
as I was yesterday as to the character of that woman who lives under
your roof?"

There was no answer from Mr Benson. Mr Bradshaw looked at him very
earnestly. His eyes were fixed on the ground—he made no inquiry—he
uttered no expression of wonder or dismay. Mr Bradshaw ground his
foot on the floor with gathering rage; but just as he was about to
speak, Mr Benson rose up—a poor deformed old man—before the stern
and portly figure that was swelling and panting with passion.

"Hear me, sir!" (stretching out his hand as if to avert the words
which were impending). "Nothing you can say, can upbraid me like my
own conscience; no degradation you can inflict, by word or deed, can
come up to the degradation I have suffered for years, at being a
party to a deceit, even for a good end—"

"For a good end!—Nay! what next?"

The taunting contempt with which Mr Bradshaw spoke these words almost
surprised himself by what he imagined must be its successful power of
withering; but in spite of it, Mr Benson lifted his grave eyes to Mr
Bradshaw's countenance, and repeated:

"For a good end. The end was not, as perhaps you consider it to have
been, to obtain her admission into your family—nor yet to put her in
the way of gaining her livelihood; my sister and I would willingly
have shared what we have with her; it was our intention to do so at
first, if not for any length of time, at least as long as her health
might require it. Why I advised (perhaps I only yielded to advice)
a change of name—an assumption of a false state of widowhood—was
because I earnestly desired to place her in circumstances in which
she might work out her self-redemption; and you, sir, know how
terribly the world goes against all such as have sinned as Ruth did.
She was so young, too."

"You mistake, sir; my acquaintance has not lain so much among that
class of sinners as to give me much experience of the way in which
they are treated. But, judging from what I have seen, I should say
they meet with full as much leniency as they deserve; and supposing
they do not—I know there are plenty of sickly sentimentalists just
now who reserve all their interest and regard for criminals—why
not pick out one of these to help you in your task of washing the
blackamoor white? Why choose me to be imposed upon—my household into
which to intrude your protégée? Why were my innocent children to be
exposed to corruption? I say," said Mr Bradshaw, stamping his foot,
"how dared you come into this house, where you were looked upon as a
minister of religion, with a lie in your mouth? How dared you single
me out, of all people, to be gulled and deceived, and pointed at
through the town as the person who had taken an abandoned woman into
his house to teach his daughters?"

"I own my deceit was wrong and faithless."

"Yes! you can own it, now it is found out! There is small merit in
that, I think!"

"Sir! I claim no merit. I take shame to myself. I did not single you
out. You applied to me with your proposal that Ruth should be your
children's governess."

"Pah!"

"And the temptation was too great— No! I will not say that—but the
temptation was greater than I could stand—it seemed to open out a
path of usefulness."