Ruth (20 page)

"Is yon young woman going to stay any length o' time with us?" asked
she of Miss Benson.

Mr Benson put his hand gently on his sister's arm, to check her from
making any reply, while he said,

"We cannot exactly tell, Sally. She will remain until after her
confinement."

"Lord bless us and save us!—a baby in the house! Nay, then my time's
come, and I'll pack up and begone. I never could abide them things.
I'd sooner have rats in the house."

Sally really did look alarmed.

"Why, Sally!" said Mr Benson, smiling, "I was not much more than a
baby when you came to take care of me."

"Yes, you were, Master Thurstan; you were a fine bouncing lad of
three year old and better."

Then she remembered the change she had wrought in the "fine bouncing
lad," and her eyes filled with tears, which she was too proud to wipe
away with her apron; for, as she sometimes said to herself, "she
could not abide crying before folk."

"Well, it's no use talking, Sally," said Miss Benson, too anxious to
speak to be any longer repressed. "We've promised to keep her, and
we must do it; you'll have none of the trouble, Sally, so don't be
afraid."

"Well, I never! as if I minded trouble! You might ha' known me better
nor that. I've scoured master's room twice over, just to make the
boards look white, though the carpet is to cover them, and now you
go and cast up about me minding my trouble. If them's the fashions
you've learnt in Wales, I'm thankful I've never been there."

Sally looked red, indignant, and really hurt. Mr Benson came in with
his musical voice and soft words of healing.

"Faith knows you don't care for trouble, Sally; she is only anxious
about this poor young woman, who has no friends but ourselves. We
know there will be more trouble in consequence of her coming to stay
with us; and I think, though we never spoke about it, that in making
our plans we reckoned on your kind help, Sally, which has never
failed us yet when we needed it."

"You've twice the sense of your sister, Master Thurstan, that you
have. Boys always has. It's truth there will be more trouble, and
I shall have my share on't, I reckon. I can face it if I'm told out
and out, but I cannot abide the way some folk has of denying there's
trouble or pain to be met; just as if their saying there was none,
would do away with it. Some folk treats one like a babby, and I don't
like it. I'm not meaning
you
, Master Thurstan."

"No, Sally, you need not say that. I know well enough who you mean
when you say 'some folk.' However, I admit I was wrong in speaking as
if you minded trouble, for there never was a creature minded it less.
But I want you to like Mrs Denbigh," said Miss Benson.

"I dare say I should, if you'd let me alone. I did na like her
sitting down in master's chair. Set her up, indeed, in an arm-chair
wi' cushions! Wenches in my day were glad enough of stools."

"She was tired to-night," said Mr Benson. "We are all tired; so if
you have done your work, Sally, come in to reading."

The three quiet people knelt down side by side, and two of them
prayed earnestly for "them that had gone astray." Before ten o'clock,
the household were in bed.

Ruth, sleepless, weary, restless with the oppression of a sorrow
which she dared not face and contemplate bravely, kept awake all the
early part of the night. Many a time did she rise, and go to the long
casement window, and look abroad over the still and quiet town—over
the grey stone walls, and chimneys, and old high-pointed roofs—on
to the far-away hilly line of the horizon, lying calm under the
bright moonshine. It was late in the morning when she woke from her
long-deferred slumbers; and when she went downstairs, she found Mr
and Miss Benson awaiting her in the parlour. That homely, pretty,
old-fashioned little room! How bright and still and clean it looked!
The window (all the windows at the back of the house were casements)
was open, to let in the sweet morning air, and streaming eastern
sunshine. The long jessamine sprays, with their white-scented stars,
forced themselves almost into the room. The little square garden
beyond, with grey stone walls all round, was rich and mellow in its
autumnal colouring, running from deep crimson hollyhocks up to amber
and gold nasturtiums, and all toned down by the clear and delicate
air. It was so still, that the gossamer-webs, laden with dew, did not
tremble or quiver in the least; but the sun was drawing to himself
the sweet incense of many flowers, and the parlour was scented with
the odours of mignonette and stocks. Miss Benson was arranging a
bunch of China and damask roses in an old-fashioned jar; they lay,
all dewy and fresh, on the white breakfast-cloth when Ruth entered.
Mr Benson was reading in some large folio. With gentle morning speech
they greeted her; but the quiet repose of the scene was instantly
broken by Sally popping in from the kitchen, and glancing at Ruth
with sharp reproach. She said:

"I reckon I may bring in breakfast, now?" with a strong emphasis on
the last word.

"I am afraid I am very late," said Ruth.

"Oh, never mind," said Mr Benson, gently. "It was our fault for not
telling you our breakfast hour. We always have prayers at half-past
seven; and, for Sally's sake, we never vary from that time; for she
can so arrange her work, if she knows the hour of prayers, as to have
her mind calm and untroubled."

"Ahem!" said Miss Benson, rather inclined to "testify" against the
invariable calmness of Sally's mind at any hour of the day; but her
brother went on as if he did not hear her.

"But the breakfast does not signify being delayed a little; and I am
sure you were sadly tired with your long day yesterday."

Sally came slapping in, and put down some withered, tough, dry toast,
with—

"It's not my doing if it is like leather;" but as no one appeared to
hear her, she withdrew to her kitchen, leaving Ruth's cheeks like
crimson at the annoyance she had caused.

All day long, she had that feeling common to those who go to stay at
a fresh house among comparative strangers: a feeling of the necessity
that she should become accustomed to the new atmosphere in which she
was placed, before she could move and act freely; it was, indeed,
a purer ether, a diviner air, which she was breathing in now,
than what she had been accustomed to for long months. The gentle,
blessed mother, who had made her childhood's home holy ground, was
in her very nature so far removed from any of earth's stains and
temptations, that she seemed truly one of those

Who ask not if Thine eye
Be on them; who, in love and truth,
Where no misgiving is, rely
Upon the genial sense of youth.

In the Bensons' house there was the same unconsciousness of
individual merit, the same absence of introspection and analysis of
motive, as there had been in her mother; but it seemed that their
lives were pure and good, not merely from a lovely and beautiful
nature, but from some law, the obedience to which was, of itself,
harmonious peace, and which governed them almost implicitly, and with
as little questioning on their part, as the glorious stars which
haste not, rest not, in their eternal obedience. This household had
many failings: they were but human, and, with all their loving desire
to bring their lives into harmony with the will of God, they often
erred and fell short; but, somehow, the very errors and faults of one
individual served to call out higher excellences in another, and so
they reacted upon each other, and the result of short discords was
exceeding harmony and peace. But they had themselves no idea of the
real state of things; they did not trouble themselves with marking
their progress by self-examination; if Mr Benson did sometimes, in
hours of sick incapacity for exertion, turn inwards, it was to cry
aloud with almost morbid despair, "God be merciful to me a sinner!"
But he strove to leave his life in the hands of God, and to forget
himself.

Ruth sat still and quiet through the long first day. She was languid
and weary from her journey; she was uncertain what help she might
offer to give in the household duties, and what she might not. And,
in her languor and in her uncertainty, it was pleasant to watch the
new ways of the people among whom she was placed. After breakfast,
Mr Benson withdrew to his study, Miss Benson took away the cups
and saucers, and, leaving the kitchen door open, talked sometimes
to Ruth, sometimes to Sally, while she washed them up. Sally had
upstairs duties to perform, for which Ruth was thankful, as she kept
receiving rather angry glances for her unpunctuality as long as Sally
remained downstairs. Miss Benson assisted in the preparation for the
early dinner, and brought some kidney-beans to shred into a basin of
bright, pure spring-water, which caught and danced in the sunbeams
as she sat near the open casement of the parlour, talking to Ruth of
things and people which as yet the latter did not understand, and
could not arrange and comprehend. She was like a child who gets a few
pieces of a dissected map, and is confused until a glimpse of the
whole unity is shown him. Mr and Mrs Bradshaw were the centre pieces
in Ruth's map; their children, their servants, were the accessories;
and one or two other names were occasionally mentioned. Ruth wondered
and almost wearied at Miss Benson's perseverance in talking to her
about people whom she did not know; but, in truth, Miss Benson heard
the long-drawn, quivering sighs which came from the poor heavy heart,
when it was left to silence, and had leisure to review the past;
and her quick accustomed ear caught also the low mutterings of the
thunder in the distance, in the shape of Sally's soliloquies, which,
like the asides at a theatre, were intended to be heard. Suddenly,
Miss Benson called Ruth out of the room, upstairs into her own
bed-chamber, and then began rummaging in little old-fashioned boxes,
drawn out of an equally old-fashioned bureau, half desk, half table,
and wholly drawers.

"My dear, I've been very stupid and thoughtless. Oh! I'm so glad I
thought of it before Mrs Bradshaw came to call. Here it is!" and she
pulled out an old wedding-ring, and hurried it on Ruth's finger. Ruth
hung down her head, and reddened deep with shame; her eyes smarted
with the hot tears that filled them. Miss Benson talked on, in a
nervous hurried way:

"It was my grandmother's; it's very broad; they made them so then, to
hold a posy inside: there's one in that;

Thine own sweetheart
Till death doth part,

I think it is. There, there! Run away, and look as if you'd always
worn it."

Ruth went up to her room, and threw herself down on her knees by the
bedside, and cried as if her heart would break; and then, as if a
light had come down into her soul, she calmed herself and prayed—no
words can tell how humbly, and with what earnest feeling. When she
came down, she was tear-stained and wretchedly pale; but even Sally
looked at her with new eyes, because of the dignity with which she
was invested by an earnestness of purpose which had her child for its
object. She sat and thought, but she no longer heaved those bitter
sighs which had wrung Miss Benson's heart in the morning. In this
way the day wore on; early dinner, early tea, seemed to make it
preternaturally long to Ruth; the only event was some unexplained
absence of Sally's, who had disappeared out of the house in the
evening, much to Miss Benson's surprise, and somewhat to her
indignation.

At night, after Ruth had gone up to her room, this absence was
explained to her at least. She had let down her long waving glossy
hair, and was standing absorbed in thought in the middle of the room,
when she heard a round clumping knock at her door, different from
that given by the small knuckles of delicate fingers, and in walked
Sally, with a judge-like severity of demeanour, holding in her hand
two widow's caps of commonest make and coarsest texture. Queen
Eleanor herself, when she presented the bowl to Fair Rosamond, had
not a more relentless purpose stamped on her demeanour than had Sally
at this moment. She walked up to the beautiful, astonished Ruth,
where she stood in her long, soft, white dressing-gown, with all her
luxuriant brown hair hanging dishevelled down her figure, and thus
Sally spoke:

"Missus—or miss, as the case may be—I've my doubts as to you. I'm
not going to have my master and Miss Faith put upon, or shame come
near them. Widows wears these sort o' caps, and has their hair cut
off; and whether widows wears wedding-rings or not, they shall have
their hair cut off—they shall. I'll have no half work in this house.
I've lived with the family forty-nine year come Michaelmas, and I'll
not see it disgraced by any one's fine long curls. Sit down and let
me snip off your hair, and let me see you sham decently in a widow's
cap to-morrow, or I'll leave the house. Whatten's come over Miss
Faith, as used to be as mim a lady as ever was, to be taken by such
as you, I dunnot know. Here! sit down with ye, and let me crop you."

She laid no light hand on Ruth's shoulder; and the latter, partly
intimidated by the old servant, who had hitherto only turned
her vixen lining to observation, and partly because she was
broken-spirited enough to be indifferent to the measure proposed,
quietly sat down. Sally produced the formidable pair of scissors that
always hung at her side, and began to cut in a merciless manner. She
expected some remonstrance or some opposition, and had a torrent of
words ready to flow forth at the least sign of rebellion; but Ruth
was still and silent, with meekly-bowed head, under the strange hands
that were shearing her beautiful hair into the clipped shortness of a
boy's. Long before she had finished, Sally had some slight misgivings
as to the fancied necessity of her task; but it was too late, for
half the curls were gone, and the rest must now come off. When she
had done, she lifted up Ruth's face by placing her hand under the
round white chin. She gazed into the countenance, expecting to read
some anger there, though it had not come out in words; but she only
met the large, quiet eyes, that looked at her with sad gentleness
out of their finely-hollowed orbits. Ruth's soft, yet dignified
submission, touched Sally with compunction, though she did not choose
to show the change in her feelings. She tried to hide it, indeed, by
stooping to pick up the long bright tresses; and, holding them up
admiringly, and letting them drop down and float on the air (like
the pendant branches of the weeping birch), she said: "I thought
we should ha' had some crying—I did. They're pretty curls enough;
you've not been so bad to let them be cut off neither. You see,
Master Thurstan is no wiser than a babby in some things; and Miss
Faith just lets him have his own way; so it's all left to me to keep
him out of scrapes. I'll wish you a very good night. I've heard many
a one say as long hair was not wholesome. Good night."