Ruth (41 page)

"Ruth! you acknowledge we were happy once;—there were circumstances
which, if I could tell you them all in detail, would show you how
in my weak, convalescent state I was almost passive in the hands of
others. Ah, Ruth! I have not forgotten the tender nurse who soothed
me in my delirium. When I am feverish, I dream that I am again at
Llan-dhu, in the little old bed-chamber, and you, in white—which you
always wore then, you know—flitting about me."

The tears dropped, large and round, from Ruth's eyes—she could not
help it—how could she?

"We were happy then," continued he, gaining confidence from the sight
of her melted mood, and recurring once more to the admission which he
considered so much in his favour. "Can such happiness never return?"
Thus he went on, quickly, anxious to lay before her all he had to
offer, before she should fully understand his meaning.

"If you would consent, Leonard should be always with you—educated
where and how you liked—money to any amount you might choose to name
should be secured to you and him—if only, Ruth—if only those happy
days might return."

Ruth spoke.

"I said that I was happy, because I had asked God to protect and help
me—and I dared not tell a lie. I was happy. Oh! what is happiness or
misery that we should talk about them now?"

Mr Donne looked at her, as she uttered these words, to see if she
was wandering in her mind, they seemed to him so utterly strange and
incoherent.

"I dare not think of happiness—I must not look forward to sorrow.
God did not put me here to consider either of these things."

"My dear Ruth, compose yourself! There is no hurry in answering the
question I asked."

"What was it?" said Ruth.

"I love you so, I cannot live without you. I offer you my heart, my
life—I offer to place Leonard wherever you would have him placed. I
have the power and the means to advance him in any path of life you
choose. All who have shown kindness to you shall be rewarded by me,
with a gratitude even surpassing your own. If there is anything else
I can do that you can suggest, I will do it."

"Listen to me!" said Ruth, now that the idea of what he proposed had
entered her mind. "When I said that I was happy with you long ago, I
was choked with shame as I said it. And yet it may be a vain, false
excuse that I make for myself. I was very young; I did not know how
such a life was against God's pure and holy will—at least, not as I
know it now; and I tell you truth—all the days of my years since I
have gone about with a stain on my hidden soul—a stain which made me
loathe myself, and envy those who stood spotless and undefiled; which
made me shrink from my child—from Mr Benson, from his sister, from
the innocent girls whom I teach—nay, even I have cowered away from
God Himself; and what I did wrong then, I did blindly to what I
should do now if I listened to you."

She was so strongly agitated that she put her hands over her face,
and sobbed without restraint. Then, taking them away, she looked at
him with a glowing face, and beautiful, honest, wet eyes, and tried
to speak calmly, as she asked if she needed to stay longer (she would
have gone away at once but that she thought of Leonard, and wished to
hear all that his father might have to say). He was so struck anew by
her beauty, and understood her so little, that he believed that she
only required a little more urging to consent to what he wished; for
in all she had said there was no trace of the anger and resentment
for his desertion of her, which he had expected would be a prominent
feature—the greatest obstacle he had to encounter. The deep sense
of penitence she expressed, he mistook for earthly shame; which he
imagined he could soon soothe away.

"Yes, I have much more to say. I have not said half. I cannot tell
you how fondly I will—how fondly I do love you—how my life shall
be spent in ministering to your wishes. Money, I see—I know, you
despise—"

"Mr Bellingham! I will not stay to hear you speak to me so again.
I have been sinful, but it is not you who should—" She could not
speak, she was so choking with passionate sorrow.

He wanted to calm her, as he saw her shaken with repressed sobs. He
put his hand on her arm. She shook it off impatiently, and moved away
in an instant.

"Ruth!" said he, nettled by her action of repugnance, "I begin to
think you never loved me."

"I!—I never loved you! Do you dare to say so?"

Her eyes flamed on him as she spoke. Her red, round lip curled into
beautiful contempt.

"Why do you shrink so from me?" said he, in his turn getting
impatient.

"I did not come here to be spoken to in this way," said she. "I came,
if by any chance I could do Leonard good. I would submit to many
humiliations for his sake—but to no more from you."

"Are not you afraid to brave me so?" said he. "Don't you know how
much you are in my power?"

She was silent. She longed to go away, but dreaded lest he should
follow her, where she might be less subject to interruption than she
was here—near the fisherman's nets, which the receding tide was
leaving every moment barer and more bare, and the posts they were
fastened to more blackly uprising above the waters.

Mr Donne put his hands on her arms as they hung down before her—her
hands tightly clasped together.

"Ask me to let you go," said he. "I will, if you will ask me." He
looked very fierce and passionate and determined. The vehemence of
his action took Ruth by surprise, and the painful tightness of the
grasp almost made her exclaim. But she was quite still and mute.

"Ask me," said he, giving her a little shake. She did not speak. Her
eyes, fixed on the distant shore, were slowly filling with tears.
Suddenly a light came through the mist that obscured them, and the
shut lips parted. She saw some distant object that gave her hope.

"It is Stephen Bromley," said she. "He is coming to his nets. They
say he is a very desperate, violent man, but he will protect me."

"You obstinate, wilful creature!" said Mr Donne, releasing his grasp.
"You forget that one word of mine could undeceive all these good
people at Eccleston; and that if I spoke out ever so little, they
would throw you off in an instant. Now!" he continued, "do you
understand how much you are in my power?"

"Mr and Miss Benson know all—they have not thrown me off," Ruth
gasped out. "Oh! for Leonard's sake! you would not be so cruel."

"Then do not you be cruel to him—to me. Think once more!"

"I think once more;" she spoke solemnly. "To save Leonard from the
shame and agony of knowing my disgrace, I would lie down and die. Oh!
perhaps it would be best for him—for me, if I might; my death would
be a stingless grief—but to go back into sin would be the real
cruelty to him. The errors of my youth may be washed away by my
tears—it was so once when the gentle, blessed Christ was upon earth;
but now, if I went into wilful guilt, as you would have me, how could
I teach Leonard God's holy will? I should not mind his knowing my
past sin, compared to the awful corruption it would be if he knew
me living now, as you would have me, lost to all fear of God—" Her
speech was broken by sobs. "Whatever may be my doom—God is just—I
leave myself in His hands. I will save Leonard from evil. Evil
would it be for him if I lived with you. I will let him die first!"
She lifted her eyes to heaven, and clasped and wreathed her hands
together tight. Then she said: "You have humbled me enough, sir. I
shall leave you now."

She turned away resolutely. The dark, grey fisherman was at hand. Mr
Donne folded his arms, and set his teeth, and looked after her.

"What a stately step she has! How majestic and graceful all her
attitudes were! She thinks she has baffled me now. We will try
something more, and bid a higher price." He unfolded his arms, and
began to follow her. He gained upon her, for her beautiful walk was
now wavering and unsteady. The works which had kept her in motion
were running down fast.

"Ruth!" said he, overtaking her. "You shall hear me once more.
Aye, look round! Your fisherman is near. He may hear me, if he
chooses—hear your triumph. I am come to offer to marry you, Ruth;
come what may, I will have you. Nay—I will make you hear me. I will
hold this hand till you have heard me. To-morrow I will speak to
any one in Eccleston you like—to Mr Bradshaw; Mr —, the little
minister, I mean. We can make it worth while for him to keep our
secret, and no one else need know but what you are really Mrs
Denbigh. Leonard shall still bear this name, but in all things else
he shall be treated as my son. He and you would grace any situation.
I will take care the highest paths are open to him!"

He looked to see the lovely face brighten into sudden joy; on the
contrary, the head was still hung down with a heavy droop.

"I cannot," said she; her voice was very faint and low.

"It is sudden for you, my dearest. But be calm. It will all be easily
managed. Leave it to me."

"I cannot," repeated she, more distinct and clear, though still very
low.

"Why! what on earth makes you say that?" asked he, in a mood to be
irritated by any repetition of such words.

"I do not love you. I did once. Don't say I did not love you then;
but I do not now. I could never love you again. All you have said
and done since you came with Mr Bradshaw to Abermouth first, has
only made me wonder how I ever could have loved you. We are very far
apart. The time that has pressed down my life like brands of hot
iron, and scarred me for ever, has been nothing to you. You have
talked of it with no sound of moaning in your voice—no shadow over
the brightness of your face; it has left no sense of sin on your
conscience, while me it haunts and haunts; and yet I might plead that
I was an ignorant child—only I will not plead anything, for God
knows all— But this is only one piece of our great difference—"

"You mean that I am no saint," he said, impatient at her speech.
"Granted. But people who are no saints have made very good
husbands before now. Come, don't let any morbid, overstrained
conscientiousness interfere with substantial happiness—happiness
both to you and to me—for I am sure I can make you happy—aye! and
make you love me, too, in spite of your pretty defiance. I love you
so dearly I must win love back. And here are advantages for Leonard,
to be gained by you quite in a holy and legitimate way."

She stood very erect.

"If there was one thing needed to confirm me, you have named it. You
shall have nothing to do with my boy, by my consent, much less by my
agency. I would rather see him working on the roadside than leading
such a life—being such a one as you are. You have heard my mind
now, Mr Bellingham. You have humbled me—you have baited me; and
if at last I have spoken out too harshly, and too much in a spirit
of judgment, the fault is yours. If there were no other reason to
prevent our marriage but the one fact that it would bring Leonard
into contact with you, that would be enough."

"It is enough!" said he, making her a low bow. "Neither you nor your
child shall ever more be annoyed by me. I wish you a good evening."

They walked apart—he back to the inn, to set off instantly, while
the blood was hot within him, from the place where he had been so
mortified—she to steady herself along till she reached the little
path, more like a rude staircase than anything else, by which she had
to climb to the house.

She did not turn round for some time after she was fairly lost to
the sight of any one on the shore; she clambered on, almost stunned
by the rapid beating of her heart. Her eyes were hot and dry; and
at last became as if she were suddenly blind. Unable to go on, she
tottered into the tangled underwood which grew among the stones,
filling every niche and crevice, and little shelving space, with
green and delicate tracery. She sank down behind a great overhanging
rock, which hid her from any one coming up the path. An ash-tree was
rooted in this rock, slanting away from the sea-breezes that were
prevalent in most weathers; but this was a still, autumnal Sabbath
evening. As Ruth's limbs fell, so they lay. She had no strength, no
power of volition to move a finger. She could not think or remember.
She was literally stunned. The first sharp sensation which roused
her from her torpor was a quick desire to see him once more; up she
sprang, and climbed to an out-jutting dizzy point of rock, but a
little above her sheltered nook, yet commanding a wide view over the
bare, naked sands;—far away below, touching the rippling water-line,
was Stephen Bromley, busily gathering in his nets; besides him there
was no living creature visible. Ruth shaded her eyes, as if she
thought they might have deceived her; but no, there was no one there.
She went slowly down to her old place, crying sadly as she went.

"Oh! if I had not spoken so angrily to him—the last things I said
were so bitter—so reproachful!—and I shall never, never see him
again!"

She could not take in the general view and scope of their
conversation—the event was too near her for that; but her heart felt
sore at the echo of her last words, just and true as their severity
was. Her struggle, her constant flowing tears, which fell from very
weakness, made her experience a sensation of intense bodily fatigue;
and her soul had lost the power of throwing itself forward, or
contemplating anything beyond the dreary present, when the expanse of
grey, wild, bleak moors, stretching wide away below a sunless sky,
seemed only an outward sign of the waste world within her heart, for
which she could claim no sympathy;—for she could not even define
what its woes were; and if she could, no one would understand how the
present time was haunted by the terrible ghost of the former love.

"I am so weary! I am so weary!" she moaned aloud at last. "I wonder
if I might stop here, and just die away."