Ruth (58 page)

A portion of the Infirmary of the town was added to that already
set apart for a fever-ward; the smitten were carried thither at
once, whenever it was possible, in order to prevent the spread of
infection; and on that lazar-house was concentrated all the medical
skill and force of the place.

But when one of the physicians had died, in consequence of his
attendance—when the customary staff of matrons and nurses had been
swept off in two days—and the nurses belonging to the Infirmary had
shrunk from being drafted into the pestilential fever-ward—when
high wages had failed to tempt any to what, in their panic, they
considered as certain death—when the doctors stood aghast at the
swift mortality among the untended sufferers, who were dependent only
on the care of the most ignorant hirelings, too brutal to recognise
the solemnity of Death (all this had happened within a week from the
first acknowledgment of the presence of the plague)—Ruth came one
day, with a quieter step than usual, into Mr Benson's study, and told
him she wanted to speak to him for a few minutes.

"To be sure, my dear! Sit down," said he; for she was standing and
leaning her head against the chimney-piece, idly gazing into the
fire. She went on standing there, as if she had not heard his words;
and it was a few moments before she began to speak. Then she said:

"I want to tell you, that I have been this morning and offered myself
as matron to the fever-ward while it is so full. They have accepted
me; and I am going this evening."

"Oh, Ruth! I feared this; I saw your look this morning as we spoke of
this terrible illness."

"Why do you say 'fear,' Mr Benson? You yourself have been with John
Harrison, and old Betty, and many others, I dare say, of whom we have
not heard."

"But this is so different! in such poisoned air! among such malignant
cases! Have you thought and weighed it enough, Ruth?"

She was quite still for a moment, but her eyes grew full of tears. At
last she said, very softly, with a kind of still solemnity:

"Yes! I have thought, and I have weighed. But through the very midst
of all my fears and thoughts I have felt that I must go."

The remembrance of Leonard was present in both their minds; but for a
few moments longer they neither of them spoke. Then Ruth said:

"I believe I have no fear. That is a great preservative, they say. At
any rate, if I have a little natural shrinking, it is quite gone when
I remember that I am in God's hands! Oh, Mr Benson," continued she,
breaking out into the irrepressible tears—"Leonard, Leonard!"

And now it was his turn to speak out the brave words of faith.

"Poor, poor mother!" said he. "Be of good heart. He, too, is in God's
hands. Think what a flash of time only will separate you from him, if
you should die in this work!"

"But he—but he—it will be long to him, Mr Benson! He will be
alone!"

"No, Ruth, he will not. God and all good men will watch over him. But
if you cannot still this agony of fear as to what will become of him,
you ought not to go. Such tremulous passion will predispose you to
take the fever."

"I will not be afraid," she replied, lifting up her face, over which
a bright light shone, as of God's radiance. "I am not afraid for
myself. I will not be so for my darling."

After a little pause, they began to arrange the manner of her going,
and to speak of the length of time that she might be absent on her
temporary duties. In talking of her return, they assumed it to be
certain, although the exact time when was to them unknown, and would
be dependent entirely on the duration of the fever; but not the less,
in their secret hearts, did they feel where alone the issue lay. Ruth
was to communicate with Leonard and Miss Faith through Mr Benson
alone, who insisted on his determination to go every evening to the
Hospital to learn the proceedings of the day, and the state of Ruth's
health.

"It is not alone on your account, my dear! There may be many sick
people of whom, if I can give no other comfort, I can take
intelligence to their friends."

All was settled with grave composure; yet still Ruth lingered, as if
nerving herself up for some effort. At length she said, with a faint
smile upon her pale face:

"I believe I am a great coward. I stand here talking because I dread
to tell Leonard."

"You must not think of it," exclaimed he. "Leave it to me. It is sure
to unnerve you."

"I must think of it. I shall have self-control enough in a minute
to do it calmly—to speak hopefully. For only think," continued she,
smiling through the tears that would gather in her eyes, "what a
comfort the remembrance of the last few words may be to the poor
fellow, if—" The words were choked, but she smiled bravely on.
"No!" said she, "that must be done; but perhaps you will spare me
one thing—will you tell Aunt Faith? I suppose I am very weak, but,
knowing that I must go, and not knowing what may be the end, I feel
as if I could not bear to resist her entreaties just at last. Will
you tell her, sir, while I go to Leonard?"

Silently he consented, and the two rose up and came forth, calm and
serene. And calmly and gently did Ruth tell her boy of her purpose;
not daring even to use any unaccustomed tenderness of voice or
gesture, lest, by so doing, she should alarm him unnecessarily as to
the result. She spoke hopefully, and bade him be of good courage; and
he caught her bravery, though his, poor boy, had root rather in his
ignorance of the actual imminent danger than in her deep faith.

When he had gone down, Ruth began to arrange her dress. When she
came downstairs she went into the old familiar garden and gathered
a nosegay of the last lingering autumn flowers—a few roses and the
like.

Mr Benson had tutored his sister well; and although Miss Faith's
face was swollen with crying, she spoke with almost exaggerated
cheerfulness to Ruth. Indeed, as they all stood at the front door,
making-believe to have careless nothings to say, just as at an
ordinary leave-taking, you would not have guessed the strained chords
of feeling there were in each heart. They lingered on, the last rays
of the setting sun falling on the group. Ruth once or twice had
roused herself to the pitch of saying "Good-bye," but when her eye
fell on Leonard she was forced to hide the quivering of her lips, and
conceal her trembling mouth amid the bunch of roses.

"They won't let you have your flowers, I'm afraid," said Miss Benson.
"Doctors so often object to the smell."

"No; perhaps not," said Ruth, hurriedly. "I did not think of it. I
will only keep this one rose. Here, Leonard, darling!" She gave the
rest to him. It was her farewell; for having now no veil to hide her
emotion, she summoned all her bravery for one parting smile, and,
smiling, turned away. But she gave one look back from the street,
just from the last point at which the door could be seen, and
catching a glimpse of Leonard standing foremost on the step, she ran
back, and he met her half-way, and mother and child spoke never a
word in that close embrace.

"Now, Leonard," said Miss Faith, "be a brave boy. I feel sure she
will come back to us before very long."

But she was very near crying herself; and she would have given way, I
believe, if she had not found the wholesome outlet of scolding Sally,
for expressing just the same opinion respecting Ruth's proceedings as
she herself had done not two hours before. Taking what her brother
had said to her as a text, she delivered such a lecture to Sally
on want of faith that she was astonished at herself, and so much
affected by what she had said that she had to shut the door of
communication between the kitchen and the parlour pretty hastily, in
order to prevent Sally's threatened reply from weakening her belief
in the righteousness of what Ruth had done. Her words had gone beyond
her conviction.

Evening after evening Mr Benson went forth to gain news of Ruth;
and night after night he returned with good tidings. The fever, it
is true, raged; but no plague came nigh her. He said her face was
ever calm and bright, except when clouded by sorrow as she gave the
accounts of the deaths which occurred in spite of every care. He said
he had never seen her face so fair and gentle as it was now, when she
was living in the midst of disease and woe.

One evening Leonard (for they had grown bolder as to the infection)
accompanied him to the street on which the hospital abutted. Mr
Benson left him there, and told him to return home; but the boy
lingered, attracted by the crowd that had gathered, and were gazing
up intently towards the lighted windows of the hospital. There was
nothing beyond to be seen; but the greater part of these poor people
had friends or relations in that palace of Death.

Leonard stood and listened. At first their talk consisted of vague
and exaggerated accounts (if such could be exaggerated) of the
horrors of the fever. Then they spoke of Ruth—of his mother; and
Leonard held his breath to hear.

"They say she has been a great sinner, and that this is her penance,"
quoth one. And as Leonard gasped, before rushing forward to give the
speaker straight the lie, an old man spoke:

"Such a one as her has never been a great sinner; nor does she do her
work as a penance, but for the love of God, and of the blessed Jesus.
She will be in the light of God's countenance when you and I will be
standing afar off. I tell you, man, when my poor wench died, as no
one would come near, her head lay at that hour on this woman's sweet
breast. I could fell you," the old man went on, lifting his shaking
arm, "for calling that woman a great sinner. The blessing of them who
were ready to perish is upon her."

Immediately there arose a clamour of tongues, each with some tale of
his mother's gentle doings, till Leonard grew dizzy with the beatings
of his glad, proud heart. Few were aware how much Ruth had done;
she never spoke of it, shrinking with sweet shyness from over-much
allusion to her own work at all times. Her left hand truly knew not
what her right hand did; and Leonard was overwhelmed now to hear
of the love and the reverence with which the poor and outcast had
surrounded her. It was irrepressible. He stepped forward with a proud
bearing, and touching the old man's arm who had first spoken, Leonard
tried to speak; but for an instant he could not, his heart was too
full: tears came before words, but at length he managed to say:

"Sir, I am her son!"

"Thou! thou her bairn! God bless you, lad," said an old woman,
pushing through the crowd. "It was but last night she kept my child
quiet with singing psalms the night through. Low and sweet, low and
sweet, they tell me—till many poor things were hushed, though they
were out of their minds, and had not heard psalms this many a year.
God in heaven bless you, lad!"

Many other wild, woe-begone creatures pressed forward with blessings
on Ruth's son, while he could only repeat:

"She is my mother."

From that day forward Leonard walked erect in the streets of
Eccleston, where "many arose and called her blessed."

After some weeks the virulence of the fever abated; and the general
panic subsided—indeed, a kind of fool-hardiness succeeded. To
be sure, in some instances the panic still held possession of
individuals to an exaggerated extent. But the number of patients in
the hospital was rapidly diminishing, and, for money, those were to
be found who could supply Ruth's place. But to her it was owing that
the overwrought fear of the town was subdued; it was she who had gone
voluntarily, and, with no thought of greed or gain, right into the
very jaws of the fierce disease. She bade the inmates of the hospital
farewell, and after carefully submitting herself to the purification
recommended by Mr Davis, the principal surgeon of the place, who had
always attended Leonard, she returned to Mr Benson's just at gloaming
time.

They each vied with the other in the tenderest cares. They hastened
tea; they wheeled the sofa to the fire; they made her lie down; and
to all she submitted with the docility of a child; and when the
candles came, even Mr Benson's anxious eye could see no change in her
looks, but that she seemed a little paler. The eyes were as full of
spiritual light, the gently parted lips as rosy, and the smile, if
more rare, yet as sweet as ever.

The next morning, Miss Benson would insist upon making Ruth lie down
on the sofa. Ruth longed to do many things; to be much more active;
but she submitted, when she found that it would gratify Miss Faith if
she remained as quiet as if she were really an invalid.

Leonard sat by her holding her hand. Every now and then he looked up
from his book, as if to make sure that she indeed was restored to
him. He had brought her down the flowers which she had given him the
day of her departure, and which he had kept in water as long as they
had any greenness or fragrance, and then had carefully dried and put
by. She too, smiling, had produced the one rose which she had carried
away to the hospital. Never had the bond between her and her boy been
drawn so firm and strong.

Many visitors came this day to the quiet Chapel-house. First of all
Mrs Farquhar appeared. She looked very different from the Jemima
Bradshaw of three years ago. Happiness had called out beauty; the
colouring of her face was lovely, and vivid as that of an autumn
day; her berry-red lips scarce closed over the short white teeth for
her smiles; and her large dark eyes glowed and sparkled with daily
happiness. They were softened by a mist of tears as she looked upon
Ruth.

"Lie still! Don't move! You must be content to-day to be waited upon,
and nursed! I have just seen Miss Benson in the lobby, and had charge
upon charge not to fatigue you. Oh, Ruth! how we all love you, now we
have you back again! Do you know, I taught Rosa to say her prayers as
soon as ever you were gone to that horrid place, just on purpose that
her little innocent lips might pray for you—I wish you could hear
her say it—'Please, dear God, keep Ruth safe.' Oh, Leonard! are not
you proud of your mother?"