Ruth (28 page)

"And have you named it to her?"

"Yes," answered Miss Benson, half afraid lest he should think she had
been too precipitate.

"And what did she say?" asked he, after a little pause of grave
silence.

"At first she seemed very glad, and fell into my mood of planning how
it should all be managed; how Sally and I should take care of the
baby the hours that she was away at Mr Bradshaw's; but by-and-by she
became silent and thoughtful, and knelt down by me and hid her face
in my lap, and shook a little as if she was crying; and then I heard
her speak in a very low smothered voice, for her head was still bent
down—quite hanging down, indeed, so that I could not see her face,
so I stooped to listen, and I heard her say, 'Do you think I should
be good enough to teach little girls, Miss Benson?' She said it so
humbly and fearfully that all I thought of was how to cheer her, and
I answered and asked her if she did not hope to be good enough to
bring up her own darling to be a brave Christian man? And she lifted
up her head, and I saw her eyes looking wild and wet and earnest, and
she said, 'With God's help, that will I try to make my child.' And I
said then, 'Ruth, as you strive and as you pray for your own child,
so you must strive and pray to make Mary and Elizabeth good, if you
are trusted with them.' And she said out quite clear, though her face
was hidden from me once more, 'I will strive, and I will pray.' You
would not have had any fears, Thurstan, if you could have heard and
seen her last night."

"I have no fear," said he, decidedly. "Let the plan go on." After
a minute, he added, "But I am glad it was so far arranged before I
heard of it. My indecision about right and wrong—my perplexity as to
how far we are to calculate consequences—grows upon me, I fear."

"You look tired and weary, dear. You should blame your body rather
than your conscience at these times."

"A very dangerous doctrine."

The scroll of Fate was closed, and they could not foresee the Future;
and yet, if they could have seen it, though they might have shrunk
fearfully at first, they would have smiled and thanked God when all
was done and said.

The quiet days grew into weeks and months, and even years, without
any event to startle the little circle into the consciousness of the
lapse of time. One who had known them at the date of Ruth's becoming
a governess in Mr Bradshaw's family, and had been absent until the
time of which I am now going to tell you, would have noted some
changes which had imperceptibly come over all; but he, too, would
have thought, that the life which had brought so little of turmoil
and vicissitude must have been calm and tranquil, and in accordance
with the bygone activity of the town in which their existence passed
away.

The alterations that he would have perceived were those caused by
the natural progress of time. The Benson home was brightened into
vividness by the presence of the little Leonard, now a noble boy of
six, large and grand in limb and stature, and with a face of marked
beauty and intelligence. Indeed, he might have been considered by
many as too intelligent for his years; and often the living with old
and thoughtful people gave him, beyond most children, the appearance
of pondering over the mysteries which meet the young on the threshold
of life, but which fade away as advancing years bring us more into
contact with the practical and tangible—fade away and vanish, until
it seems to require the agitation of some great storm of the soul
before we can again realise spiritual things.

But, at times, Leonard seemed oppressed and bewildered, after
listening intent, with grave and wondering eyes, to the conversation
around him; at others, the bright animal life shone forth radiant,
and no three-months' kitten—no foal, suddenly tossing up its heels
by the side of its sedate dam, and careering around the pasture in
pure mad enjoyment—no young creature of any kind, could show more
merriment and gladness of heart.

"For ever in mischief," was Sally's account of him at such times;
but it was not intentional mischief; and Sally herself would have
been the first to scold any one else who had used the same words in
reference to her darling. Indeed, she was once nearly giving warning,
because she thought the boy was being ill-used. The occasion was
this: Leonard had for some time shown a strange, odd disregard of
truth; he invented stories, and told them with so grave a face, that
unless there was some internal evidence of their incorrectness (such
as describing a cow with a bonnet on), he was generally believed, and
his statements, which were given with the full appearance of relating
a real occurrence, had once or twice led to awkward results. All the
three, whose hearts were pained by this apparent unconsciousness of
the difference between truth and falsehood, were unaccustomed to
children, or they would have recognised this as a stage through which
most infants, who have lively imaginations, pass; and, accordingly,
there was a consultation in Mr Benson's study one morning. Ruth was
there, quiet, very pale, and with compressed lips, sick at heart as
she heard Miss Benson's arguments for the necessity of whipping, in
order to cure Leonard of his story-telling. Mr Benson looked unhappy
and uncomfortable. Education was but a series of experiments to them
all, and they all had a secret dread of spoiling the noble boy, who
was the darling of their hearts. And, perhaps, this very intensity of
love begot an impatient, unnecessary anxiety, and made them resolve
on sterner measures than the parent of a large family (where love
was more spread abroad) would have dared to use. At any rate, the
vote for whipping carried the day; and even Ruth, trembling and cold,
agreed that it must be done; only she asked, in a meek, sad voice, if
she need be present (Mr Benson was to be the executioner—the scene,
the study); and being instantly told that she had better not, she
went slowly and languidly up to her room, and kneeling down, she
closed her ears, and prayed.

Miss Benson, having carried her point, was very sorry for the child,
and would have begged him off; but Mr Benson had listened more to her
arguments than now to her pleadings, and only answered, "If it is
right, it shall be done!" He went into the garden, and deliberately,
almost as if he wished to gain time, chose and cut off a little
switch from the laburnum-tree. Then he returned through the kitchen,
and gravely taking the awed and wondering little fellow by the hand,
he led him silently into the study, and placing him before him, began
an admonition on the importance of truthfulness, meaning to conclude
with what he believed to be the moral of all punishment: "As you
cannot remember this of yourself, I must give you a little pain to
make you remember it. I am very sorry it is necessary, and that you
cannot recollect without my doing so."

But before he had reached this very proper and desirable conclusion,
and while he was yet working his way, his heart aching with the
terrified look of the child at the solemnly sad face and words of
upbraiding, Sally burst in:

"And what may ye be going to do with that fine switch I saw ye
gathering, Master Thurstan?" asked she, her eyes gleaming with anger
at the answer she knew must come, if answer she had at all.

"Go away, Sally," said Mr Benson, annoyed at the fresh difficulty in
his path.

"I'll not stir never a step till you give me that switch, as you've
got for some mischief, I'll be bound."

"Sally! remember where it is said, 'He that spareth the rod, spoileth
the child,'" said Mr Benson, austerely.

"Aye, I remember; and I remember a bit more than you want me to
remember, I reckon. It were King Solomon as spoke them words, and it
were King Solomon's son that were King Rehoboam, and no great shakes
either. I can remember what is said on him, 2 Chronicles, xii.
chapter, 14th verse: 'And he,' that's King Rehoboam, the lad that
tasted the rod, 'did evil, because he prepared not his heart to seek
the Lord.' I've not been reading my chapters every night for fifty
year to be caught napping by a Dissenter, neither!" said she,
triumphantly. "Come along, Leonard." She stretched out her hand to
the child, thinking that she had conquered.

But Leonard did not stir. He looked wistfully at Mr Benson. "Come!"
said she, impatiently. The boy's mouth quivered.

"If you want to whip me, uncle, you may do it. I don't much mind."

Put in this form, it was impossible to carry out his intentions; and
so Mr Benson told the lad he might go—that he would speak to him
another time. Leonard went away, more subdued in spirit than if he
had been whipped. Sally lingered a moment. She stopped to add: "I
think it's for them without sin to throw stones at a poor child, and
cut up good laburnum-branches to whip him. I only do as my betters
do, when I call Leonard's mother Mrs Denbigh." The moment she had
said this she was sorry; it was an ungenerous advantage after the
enemy had acknowledged himself defeated. Mr Benson dropped his head
upon his hands, and hid his face, and sighed deeply.

Leonard flew in search of his mother, as in search of a refuge. If
he had found her calm, he would have burst into a passion of crying
after his agitation; as it was, he came upon her kneeling and
sobbing, and he stood quite still. Then he threw his arms round her
neck, and said: "Mamma! mamma! I will be good—I make a promise; I
will speak true—I make a promise." And he kept his word.

Miss Benson piqued herself upon being less carried away by her love
for this child than any one else in the house; she talked severely,
and had capital theories; but her severity ended in talk, and
her theories would not work. However, she read several books on
education, knitting socks for Leonard all the while; and, upon the
whole, I think, the hands were more usefully employed than the head,
and the good honest heart better than either. She looked older than
when we first knew her, but it was a ripe, kindly age that was coming
over her. Her excellent practical sense, perhaps, made her a more
masculine character than her brother. He was often so much perplexed
by the problems of life, that he let the time for action go by; but
she kept him in check by her clear, pithy talk, which brought back
his wandering thoughts to the duty that lay straight before him,
waiting for action; and then he remembered that it was the faithful
part to "wait patiently upon God," and leave the ends in His hands,
who alone knows why Evil exists in this world, and why it ever hovers
on either side of Good. In this respect, Miss Benson had more faith
than her brother—or so it seemed; for quick, resolute action in the
next step of Life was all she required, while he deliberated and
trembled, and often did wrong from his very deliberation, when his
first instinct would have led him right.

But although decided and prompt as ever, Miss Benson was grown older
since the summer afternoon when she dismounted from the coach at the
foot of the long Welsh hill that led to Llan-dhu, where her brother
awaited her to consult her about Ruth. Though her eye was as bright
and straight-looking as ever, quick and brave in its glances, her
hair had become almost snowy white; and it was on this point she
consulted Sally, soon after the date of Leonard's last untruth.
The two were arranging Miss Benson's room one morning, when, after
dusting the looking-glass, she suddenly stopped in her operation, and
after a close inspection of herself, startled Sally by this speech:

"Sally! I'm looking a great deal older than I used to do!"

Sally, who was busy dilating on the increased price of flour,
considered this remark of Miss Benson's as strangely irrelevant to
the matter in hand, and only noticed it by a

"To be sure! I suppose we all on us do. But two-and-fourpence a dozen
is too much to make us pay for it."

Miss Benson went on with her inspection of herself, and Sally with
her economical projects.

"Sally!" said Miss Benson, "my hair is nearly white. The last time I
looked it was only pepper-and-salt. What must I do?"

"Do—why, what would the wench do?" asked Sally, contemptuously.
"Ye're never going to be taken in, at your time of life, by hair-dyes
and such gimcracks, as can only take in young girls whose
wisdom-teeth are not cut."

"And who are not very likely to want them," said Miss Benson,
quietly. "No! but you see, Sally, it's very awkward having such grey
hair, and feeling so young. Do you know, Sally, I've as great a mind
for dancing, when I hear a lively tune on the street-organs, as ever;
and as great a mind to sing when I'm happy—to sing in my old way,
Sally, you know."

"Aye, you had it from a girl," said Sally; "and many a time, when the
door's been shut, I did not know if it was you in the parlour, or a
big bumble-bee in the kitchen, as was making that drumbling noise. I
heard you at it yesterday."

"But an old woman with grey hair ought not to have a fancy for
dancing or singing," continued Miss Benson.

"Whatten nonsense are ye talking?" said Sally, roused to indignation.
"Calling yoursel' an old woman when you're better than ten years
younger than me! and many a girl has grey hair at five-and-twenty."

"But I'm more than five-and-twenty, Sally. I'm fifty-seven next May!"

"More shame for ye, then, not to know better than to talk of dyeing
your hair. I cannot abide such vanities!"

"Oh, dear! Sally, when will you understand what I mean? I want to
know how I am to keep remembering how old I am, so as to prevent
myself from feeling so young? I was quite startled just now to see my
hair in the glass, for I can generally tell if my cap is straight by
feeling. I'll tell you what I'll do—I'll cut off a piece of my grey
hair, and plait it together for a marker in my Bible!" Miss Benson
expected applause for this bright idea, but Sally only made answer: