Ruth (49 page)

Ruth had been hushed and very still until now, when the pleading
earnestness of his question urged her to answer:

"Yes!" said she. "I hope—I believe I can be faithful for myself, for
I have sinned and done wrong. But Leonard—" She looked up at him.

"But Leonard," he echoed. "Ah! there it is hard, Ruth. I own the
world is hard and persecuting to such as he." He paused to think
of the true comfort for this sting. He went on. "The world is not
everything, Ruth; nor is the want of men's good opinion and esteem
the highest need which man has. Teach Leonard this. You would not
wish his life to be one summer's day. You dared not make it so, if
you had the power. Teach him to bid a noble, Christian welcome to
the trials which God sends—and this is one of them. Teach him not
to look on a life of struggle, and perhaps of disappointment and
incompleteness, as a sad and mournful end, but as the means permitted
to the heroes and warriors in the army of Christ, by which to show
their faithful following. Tell him of the hard and thorny path which
was trodden once by the bleeding feet of One. Ruth! think of the
Saviour's life and cruel death, and of His divine faithfulness. Oh,
Ruth!" exclaimed he, "when I look and see what you may be—what you
must
be to that boy, I cannot think how you could be coward enough,
for a moment, to shrink from your work! But we have all been cowards
hitherto," he added, in bitter self-accusation. "God help us to be so
no longer!"

Ruth sat very quiet. Her eyes were fixed on the ground, and she
seemed lost in thought. At length she rose up.

"Mr Benson!" said she, standing before him, and propping herself by
the table, as she was trembling sadly from weakness, "I mean to try
very, very hard, to do my duty to Leonard—and to God," she added,
reverently. "I am only afraid my faith may sometimes fail about
Leonard—"

"Ask, and it shall be given unto you. That is no vain or untried
promise, Ruth!"

She sat down again, unable longer to stand. There was another long
silence.

"I must never go to Mr Bradshaw's again," she said at last, as if
thinking aloud.

"No, Ruth, you shall not," he answered.

"But I shall earn no money!" added she, quickly, for she thought that
he did not perceive the difficulty that was troubling her.

"You surely know, Ruth, that while Faith and I have a roof to shelter
us, or bread to eat, you and Leonard share it with us."

"I know—I know your most tender goodness," said she, "but it ought
not to be."

"It must be at present," he said, in a decided manner. "Perhaps
before long you may have some employment; perhaps it may be some time
before an opportunity occurs."

"Hush," said Ruth; "Leonard is moving about in the parlour. I must go
to him."

But when she stood up, she turned so dizzy, and tottered so much,
that she was glad to sit down again immediately.

"You must rest here. I will go to him," said Mr Benson. He left her;
and when he was gone, she leaned her head on the back of the chair,
and cried quietly and incessantly; but there was a more patient,
hopeful, resolved feeling in her heart, which all along, through all
the tears she shed, bore her onwards to higher thoughts, until at
last she rose to prayers.

Mr Benson caught the new look of shrinking shame in Leonard's eye, as
it first sought, then shunned, meeting his. He was pained, too, by
the sight of the little sorrowful, anxious face, on which, until now,
hope and joy had been predominant. The constrained voice, the few
words the boy spoke, when formerly there would have been a glad and
free utterance—all this grieved Mr Benson inexpressibly, as but the
beginning of an unwonted mortification, which must last for years.
He himself made no allusion to any unusual occurrence; he spoke of
Ruth as sitting, overcome by headache, in the study for quietness:
he hurried on the preparations for tea, while Leonard sat by in the
great arm-chair, and looked on with sad, dreamy eyes. He strove
to lessen the shock which he knew Leonard had received, by every
mixture of tenderness and cheerfulness that Mr Benson's gentle heart
prompted; and now and then a languid smile stole over the boy's face.
When his bedtime came, Mr Benson told him of the hour, although
he feared that Leonard would have but another sorrowful crying of
himself to sleep; but he was anxious to accustom the boy to cheerful
movement within the limits of domestic law, and by no disobedience to
it to weaken the power of glad submission to the Supreme; to begin
the new life that lay before him, where strength to look up to God
as the Law-giver and Ruler of events would be pre-eminently required.
When Leonard had gone upstairs, Mr Benson went immediately to Ruth,
and said,

"Ruth! Leonard is just gone up to bed," secure in the instinct which
made her silently rise, and go up to the boy—certain, too, that
they would each be the other's best comforter, and that God would
strengthen each through the other.

Now, for the first time, he had leisure to think of himself; and to
go over all the events of the day. The half-hour of solitude in his
study, that he had before his sister's return, was of inestimable
value; he had leisure to put events in their true places, as to
importance and eternal significance.

Miss Faith came in laden with farm produce. Her kind entertainers had
brought her in their shandry to the opening of the court in which
the Chapel-house stood; but she was so heavily burdened with eggs,
mushrooms, and plums, that when her brother opened the door she was
almost breathless.

"Oh, Thurstan! take this basket—it is such a weight! Oh, Sally,
is that you? Here are some magnum-bonums which we must preserve
to-morrow. There are guinea-fowl eggs in that basket."

Mr Benson let her unburden her body, and her mind too, by giving
charges to Sally respecting her housekeeping treasures, before he
said a word; but when she returned into the study, to tell him the
small pieces of intelligence respecting her day at the farm, she
stood aghast.

"Why, Thurstan, dear! What's the matter? Is your back hurting you?"

He smiled to reassure her; but it was a sickly and forced smile.

"No, Faith! I am quite well, only rather out of spirits, and wanting
to talk to you to cheer me."

Miss Faith sat down, straight, sitting bolt-upright to listen the
better.

"I don't know how, but the real story about Ruth is found out."

"Oh, Thurstan!" exclaimed Miss Benson, turning quite white.

For a moment, neither of them said another word. Then she went on.

"Does Mr Bradshaw know?"

"Yes! He sent for me, and told me."

"Does Ruth know that it has all come out?"

"Yes. And Leonard knows."

"How? Who told him?"

"I do not know. I have asked no questions. But of course it was his
mother."

"She was very foolish and cruel, then," said Miss Benson, her eyes
blazing, and her lips trembling, at the thought of the suffering her
darling boy must have gone through.

"I think she was wise. I am sure it was not cruel. He must have soon
known that there was some mystery, and it was better that it should
be told him openly and quietly by his mother than by a stranger."

"How could she tell him quietly?" asked Miss Benson, still indignant.

"Well! perhaps I used the wrong word—of course no one was by—and I
don't suppose even they themselves could now tell how it was told, or
in what spirit it was borne."

Miss Benson was silent again.

"Was Mr Bradshaw very angry?"

"Yes, very; and justly so. I did very wrong in making that false
statement at first."

"No! I am sure you did not," said Miss Faith. "Ruth has had some
years of peace, in which to grow stronger and wiser, so that she can
bear her shame now in a way she never could have done at first."

"All the same it was wrong in me to do what I did."

"I did it too, as much or more than you. And I don't think it wrong.
I'm certain it was quite right, and I would do just the same again."

"Perhaps it has not done you the harm it has done me."

"Nonsense! Thurstan. Don't be morbid. I'm sure you are as good—and
better than ever you were."

"No, I am not. I have got what you call morbid just in consequence of
the sophistry by which I persuaded myself that wrong could be right.
I torment myself. I have lost my clear instincts of conscience.
Formerly, if I believed that such or such an action was according
to the will of God, I went and did it, or at least I tried to do it,
without thinking of consequences. Now, I reason and weigh what will
happen if I do so and so—I grope where formerly I saw. Oh, Faith! it
is such a relief to me to have the truth known, that I am afraid I
have not been sufficiently sympathising with Ruth."

"Poor Ruth!" said Miss Benson. "But at any rate our telling a lie has
been the saving of her. There is no fear of her going wrong now."

"God's omnipotence did not need our sin."

They did not speak for some time.

"You have not told me what Mr Bradshaw said."

"One can't remember the exact words that are spoken on either side in
moments of such strong excitement. He was very angry, and said some
things about me that were very just, and some about Ruth that were
very hard. His last words were that he should give up coming to
chapel."

"Oh, Thurstan! did it come to that?"

"Yes."

"Does Ruth know all he said?"

"No! Why should she? I don't know if she knows he has spoken to me at
all. Poor creature! she had enough to craze her almost without that!
She was for going away and leaving us, that we might not share in her
disgrace. I was afraid of her being quite delirious. I did so want
you, Faith! However, I did the best I could; I spoke to her very
coldly, and almost sternly, all the while my heart was bleeding for
her. I dared not give her sympathy; I tried to give her strength. But
I did so want you, Faith."

"And I was so full of enjoyment, I am ashamed to think of it. But the
Dawsons are so kind—and the day was so fine— Where is Ruth now?"

"With Leonard. He is her great earthly motive—I thought that being
with him would be best. But he must be in bed and asleep now."

"I will go up to her," said Miss Faith.

She found Ruth keeping watch by Leonard's troubled sleep; but when
she saw Miss Faith she rose up, and threw herself on her neck and
clung to her, without speaking. After a while Miss Benson said:

"You must go to bed, Ruth!" So, after she had kissed the sleeping
boy, Miss Benson led her away, and helped to undress her, and brought
her up a cup of soothing violet tea—not so soothing as tender
actions and soft loving tones.

It was well they had so early and so truly strengthened the spirit
to bear, for the events which had to be endured soon came thick and
threefold.

Every evening Mr and Miss Benson thought the worst must be over;
and every day brought some fresh occurrence to touch upon the raw
place. They could not be certain, until they had seen all their
acquaintances, what difference it would make in the cordiality of
their reception: in some cases it made much; and Miss Benson was
proportionably indignant. She felt this change in behaviour more than
her brother. His great pain arose from the coolness of the Bradshaws.
With all the faults which had at times grated on his sensitive
nature (but which he now forgot, and remembered only their kindness),
they were his old familiar friends—his kind, if ostentatious,
patrons—his great personal interest, out of his own family; and he
could not get over the suffering he experienced from seeing their
large square pew empty on Sundays—from perceiving how Mr Bradshaw,
though he bowed in a distant manner when he and Mr Benson met face to
face, shunned him as often as he possibly could. All that happened in
the household, which once was as patent to him as his own, was now
a sealed book; he heard of its doings by chance, if he heard at all.
Just at the time when he was feeling the most depressed from this
cause, he met Jemima at a sudden turn of the street. He was uncertain
for a moment how to accost her, but she saved him all doubt; in an
instant she had his hand in both of hers, her face flushed with
honest delight.

"Oh, Mr Benson, I am so glad to see you! I have so wanted to know all
about you! How is poor Ruth? dear Ruth! I wonder if she has forgiven
me my cruelty to her? And I may not go to her now, when I should be
so glad and thankful to make up for it."

"I never heard you had been cruel to her. I am sure she does not
think so."

"She ought; she must. What is she doing? Oh! I have so much to ask, I
can never hear enough; and papa says"—she hesitated a moment, afraid
of giving pain, and then, believing that they would understand the
state of affairs, and the reason for her behaviour better if she told
the truth, she went on: "Papa says I must not go to your house—I
suppose it's right to obey him?"

"Certainly, my dear. It is your clear duty. We know how you feel
towards us."

"Oh! but if I could do any good—if I could be of any use or comfort
to any of you—especially to Ruth, I should come, duty or not. I
believe it would be my duty," said she, hurrying on to try and stop
any decided prohibition from Mr Benson. "No! don't be afraid; I won't
come till I know I can do some good. I hear bits about you through
Sally every now and then, or I could not have waited so long. Mr
Benson," continued she, reddening very much, "I think you did quite
right about poor Ruth."

"Not in the falsehood, my dear."

"No! not perhaps in that. I was not thinking of that. But I have been
thinking a great deal about poor Ruth's—you know I could not help it
when everybody was talking about it—and it made me think of myself,
and what I am. With a father and mother, and home and careful
friends, I am not likely to be tempted like Ruth; but oh! Mr Benson,"
said she, lifting her eyes, which were full of tears, to his face,
for the first time since she began to speak, "if you knew all I have
been thinking and feeling this last year, you would see how I have
yielded to every temptation that was able to come to me; and, seeing
how I have no goodness or strength in me, and how I might just have
been like Ruth, or rather, worse than she ever was, because I am more
headstrong and passionate by nature, I do so thank you and love you
for what you did for her! And will you tell me really and truly now
if I can ever do anything for Ruth? If you'll promise me that, I
won't rebel unnecessarily against papa; but if you don't, I will, and
come and see you all this very afternoon. Remember! I trust you!"
said she, breaking away. Then turning back, she came to ask after
Leonard.