Ruth, Elizabeth Gaskell [read this if TXT] 📗

unwillingly distinguished herself by a long hard fit of coughing, “come and have some supper. You don’t know yet how it helps one through the night.”

“One run—one blow of the fresh air would do me more good,” said Ruth.

“Not such a night as this,” replied the other, shivering at the very thought.

“And why not such a night as this, Jenny?” answered Ruth. “Oh! at home I have many a time run up the lane all the way to the mill, just to see the icicles hang on the great wheel; and, when I was once out, I could hardly find in my heart to come in, even to mother, sitting by the fire;—even to mother,” she added, in a low, melancholy tone, which had something of inexpressible sadness in it. “Why, Jenny!” said she, rousing herself, but not before her eyes were swimming in tears, “own, now, that you never saw those dismal, hateful, tumble-down old houses there look half so—what shall I call them? almost beautiful—as they do now, with that soft, pure, exquisite covering; and if they are so improved, think of what trees, and grass, and ivy must be on such a night as this.”

Jenny could not be persuaded into admiring the winter’s night, which to her came only as a cold and dismal time, when her cough was more troublesome, and the pain in her side worse than usual. But she put her arm round Ruth’s neck, and stood by her, glad that the orphan apprentice, who was not yet inured to the hardship of a dressmaker’s workroom, should find so much to give her pleasure in such a common occurrence as a frosty night.

They remained deep in separate trains of thought till Mrs. Mason’s step was heard, when each returned supperless, but refreshed, to her seat.

Ruth’s place was the coldest and the darkest in the room, although she liked it the best; she had instinctively chosen it for the sake of the wall opposite to her, on which was a remnant of the beauty of the old drawing-room, which must once have been magnificent, to judge from the faded specimen left. It was divided into panels of pale sea-green, picked out with white and gold; and on these panels were painted—were thrown with the careless, triumphant hand of a master—the most lovely wreaths of flowers, profuse and luxuriant beyond description, and so real-looking, that you could almost fancy you smelt their fragrance, and heard the south wind go softly rustling in and out among the crimson roses—the branches of purple and white lilac—the floating golden-tressed laburnum boughs. Besides these, there were stately white lilies, sacred to the Virgin—hollyhocks, fraxinella, monk’s-hood, pansies, primroses; every flower which blooms profusely in charming old-fashioned country gardens was there, depicted among its graceful foliage, but not in the wild disorder in which I have enumerated them. At the bottom of the panel lay a holly branch, whose stiff straightness was ornamented by a twining drapery of English ivy, and mistletoe, and winter aconite; while down either side hung pendent garlands of spring and autumn flowers; and, crowning all, came gorgeous summer with the sweet musk-roses, and the rich-coloured flowers of June and July.

Surely Monnoyer, or whoever the dead-and-gone artist might be, would have been gratified to know the pleasure his handiwork, even in its wane, had power to give to the heavy heart of a young girl; for they conjured up visions of other sister-flowers that grew, and blossomed, and withered away in her early home. Mrs. Mason was particularly desirous that her workwomen should exert themselves to-night, for, on the next, the annual hunt-ball was to take place. It was the one gaiety of the town since the assize-balls had been discontinued. Many were the dresses she had promised should be sent home “without fail” the next morning; she had not let one slip through her fingers, for fear, if it did, it might fall into the hands of the rival dressmaker, who had just established herself in the very same street.

She determined to administer a gentle stimulant to the flagging spirits, and with a little preliminary cough to attract attention, she began—

“I may as well inform you, young ladies, that I have been requested this year, as on previous occasions, to allow some of my young people to attend in the antechamber of the assembly-room with sandal ribbon, pins, and such little matters, and to be ready to repair any accidental injury to the ladies’ dresses. I shall send four—of the most diligent.” She laid a marked emphasis on the last words, but without much effect; they were too sleepy to care for any of the pomps and vanities, or, indeed, for any of the comforts of this world, excepting one sole thing—their beds.

Mrs. Mason was a very worthy woman, but, like many other worthy women, she had her foibles; and one (very natural to her calling) was to pay an extreme regard to appearances. Accordingly, she had already selected in her own mind the four girls who were most likely to do credit to the “establishment;” and these were secretly determined upon, although it was very well to promise the reward to the most diligent. She was really not aware of the falseness of this conduct; being an adept in that species of sophistry with which people persuade themselves that what they wish to do is right.

At last there was no resisting the evidence of weariness. They were told to go to bed; but even that welcome command was languidly obeyed. Slowly they folded up their work, heavily they moved about, until at length all was put away, and they trooped up the wide, dark staircase.

“Oh! how shall I get through five years of these terrible nights! in that close room! and in that oppressive stillness! which lets every sound of the thread be heard as it goes eternally backwards and forwards,” sobbed out Ruth, as she threw herself on her bed, without even undressing herself.

“Nay, Ruth, you know it won’t be always as it has been to-night. We often get to bed by ten o’clock, and by-and-by you won’t mind the closeness of the room. You’re worn-out to-night, or you would not have minded the sound of the needle; I never hear it. Come, let me unfasten you,” said Jenny.

“What is the use of undressing? We must be up again and at work in three hours.”

“And in those three hours you may get a great deal of rest, if you will but undress yourself and fairly go to bed. Come, love.”

Jenny’s advice was not resisted; but before Ruth went to sleep she said—

“Oh! I wish I was not so cross and impatient. I don’t think I used to be.”

“No, I am sure not. Most new girls get impatient at first; but it goes off, and they don’t care much for anything after a while. Poor child! she’s asleep already,” said Jenny to herself.

She could not sleep or rest. The tightness at her side was worse than usual. She almost thought she ought to mention it in her letters home; but then she remembered the premium her father had struggled hard to pay, and the large family, younger than herself, that had to be cared for, and she determined to bear on, and trust that, when the warm weather came, both the pain and the cough would go away. She would be prudent about herself.

What was the matter with Ruth? She was crying in her sleep as if her heart would break. Such agitated slumber could be no rest; so Jenny wakened her.

“Ruth! Ruth!”

“Oh, Jenny!” said Ruth, sitting up in bed, and pushing back the masses of hair that were heating her forehead, “I thought I saw mamma by the side of the bed, coming as she used to do, to see if I were asleep and comfortable; and when I tried to take hold of her, she went away and left me alone—I don’t know where; so strange!”

“It was only a dream; you know you’d been talking about her to me, and you’re feverish with sitting up late. Go to sleep again, and I’ll watch, and waken you if you seem uneasy.”

“But you’ll be so tired. Oh, dear! dear!” Ruth was asleep again, even while she sighed.

Morning came, and though their rest had been short, the girls arose refreshed.

“Miss Sutton, Miss Jennings, Miss Booth, and Miss Hilton, you will see that you are ready to accompany me to the shire-hall by eight o’clock.”

One or two of the girls looked astonished, but the majority, having anticipated the selection, and knowing from experience the unexpressed rule by which it was made, received it with the sullen indifference which had become their feeling with regard to most events—a deadened sense of life, consequent upon their unnatural mode of existence, their sedentary days, and their frequent nights of late watching.

But to Ruth it was inexplicable. She had yawned, and loitered, and looked off at the beautiful panel, and lost herself in thoughts of home, until she fully expected the reprimand which at any other time she would have been sure to receive, and now, to her surprise, she was singled out as one of the most diligent!

Much as she longed for the delight of seeing the noble shire-hall—the boast of the county—and of catching glimpses of the dancers, and hearing the band; much as she longed for some variety to the dull, monotonous life she was leading, she could not feel happy to accept a privilege, granted, as she believed, in ignorance of the real state of the case; so she startled her companions by rising abruptly and going up to Mrs. Mason, who was finishing a dress which ought to have been sent home two hours before—

“If you please, Mrs. Mason, I was not one of the most diligent; I am afraid—I believe—I was not diligent at all. I was very tired; and I could not help thinking, and, when I think, I can’t attend to my work.” She stopped, believing she had sufficiently explained her meaning; but Mrs. Mason would not understand, and did not wish for any further elucidation.

“Well, my dear, you must learn to think and work, too; or, if you can’t do both, you must leave off thinking. Your guardian, you know, expects you to make great progress in your business, and I am sure you won’t disappoint him.”

But that was not to the point. Ruth stood still an instant, although Mrs. Mason resumed her employment in a manner which any one but a “new girl” would have known to be intelligible enough, that she did not wish for any more conversation just then.

“But as I was not diligent I ought not to go, ma’am. Miss Wood was far more industrious than I, and many of the others.”

“Tiresome girl!” muttered Mrs. Mason; “I’ve half a mind to keep her at home for plaguing me so.” But, looking up, she was struck afresh with the remarkable beauty which Ruth possessed; such a credit to the house, with her waving outline of figure, her striking face, with dark eyebrows and dark lashes, combined with auburn hair and a fair complexion. No! diligent or idle, Ruth Hilton must appear to-night.

“Miss Hilton,” said Mrs. Mason, with stiff dignity “I am not accustomed (as these young ladies can tell you) to have my decisions questioned. What I say, I mean; and I have my reasons. So sit down, if you please, and take care and be ready by eight. Not a word more,” as she fancied she saw Ruth again about to speak.

“Jenny, you ought to have gone, not me,” said Ruth, in no low voice to Miss Wood, as she sat down by her.

“Hush! Ruth. I could not go if I might,