Ruth, Elizabeth Gaskell [read this if TXT] 📗

day, perhaps,” said Miss Benson “and who would take care of baby, I should like to know? Prettily he’d be neglected, would not he? Why, he’d have the croup and the typhus fever in no time, and be burnt to ashes after.”

“I have thought of all. Look how he sleeps! Hush, darling;” for just at this point he began to cry, and to show his determination to be awake, as if in contradiction to his mother’s words. Ruth took him up, and carried him about the room while she went on speaking.

“Yes, just now I know he will not sleep; but very often he will, and in the night he always does.”

“And so you’d work in the night and kill yourself, and leave your poor baby an orphan. Ruth! I’m ashamed of you. Now, brother” (Mr. Benson had just come in), “is not this too bad of Ruth? here she is planning to go away and leave us, just as we—as I, at least—have grown so fond of baby, and he’s beginning to know me.”

“Where were you thinking of going to, Ruth?” interrupted Mr. Benson, with mild surprise.

“Anywhere to be near you and Miss Benson; in any poor cottage where I might lodge very cheaply, and earn my livelihood by taking in plain sewing, and perhaps a little dressmaking; and where I could come and see you and dear Miss Benson sometimes and bring baby.”

“If he was not dead before then of some fever, or burn, or scald, poor neglected child, or you had not worked yourself to death with never sleeping” said Miss Benson.

Mr. Benson thought a minute or two, and then he spoke to Ruth—

“Whatever you may do when this little fellow is a year old, and able to dispense with some of a mother’s care, let me beg you, Ruth, as a favour to me—as a still greater favour to my sister, is it not, Faith?”

“Yes; you may put it so if you like.”

“To stay with us,” continued he, “till then. When baby is twelve months old, we’ll talk about it again, and very likely before then some opening may be shown us. Never fear leading an idle life, Ruth. We’ll treat you as a daughter, and set you all the household tasks; and it is not for your sake that we ask you to stay, but for this little dumb helpless child’s: and it is not for our sake that you must stay, but for his.”

Ruth was sobbing.

“I do not deserve your kindness,” said she, in a broken voice; “I do not deserve it.”

Her tears fell fast and soft like summer rain, but no further word was spoken. Mr. Benson quietly passed on to make the inquiry for which he had entered the room.

But when there was nothing to decide upon, and no necessity for entering upon any new course of action, Ruth’s mind relaxed from its strung-up state. She fell into trains of reverie, and mournful regretful recollections which rendered her languid and tearful. This was noticed both by Miss Benson and Sally, and as each had kind sympathies, and felt depressed when they saw any one near them depressed, and as each, without much reasoning on the cause or reason for such depression, felt irritated at the uncomfortable state into which they themselves were thrown, they both resolved to speak to Ruth on the next fitting occasion. Accordingly, one afternoon—the morning of that day had been spent by Ruth in house-work, for she had insisted on Mr. Benson’s words, and had taken Miss Benson’s share of the more active and fatiguing household duties, but she went through them heavily, and as if her heart was far away—in the afternoon when she was nursing her child, Sally, on coming into the back parlour, found her there alone, and easily detected the fact that she was crying.

“Where’s Miss Benson?” asked Sally gruffly.

“Gone out with Mr. Benson,” answered Ruth, with an absent sadness in her voice and manner. Her tears, scarce checked while she spoke, began to fall afresh; and as Sally stood and gazed she saw the babe look hack in his mother’s face, and his little lip begin to quiver, and his open blue eye to grow overclouded, as with some mysterious sympathy with the sorrowful face bent over him. Sally took him briskly from his mother’s arms; Ruth looked up in grave surprise, for in truth she had forgotten Sally’s presence, and the suddenness of the motion startled her.

“My bonny boy! are they letting the salt tears drop on thy sweet face before thou’rt weaned! Little somebody knows how to be a mother—I could make a better myself. ‘Dance, thumbkin, dance—dance, ye merry men every one.’ Ay, that’s it! smile, my pretty. Any one but a child like thee,” continued she, turning to Ruth, “would have known better than to bring ill-luck on thy babby by letting tears fall on its face before it was weaned. But thou’rt not fit to have a babby, and so I’ve said many a time. I’ve a great mind to buy thee a doll, and take thy babby mysel’.”

Sally did not look at Ruth, for she was too much engaged in amusing the baby with the tassel of the string to the window-blind, or else she would have seen the dignity which the mother’s soul put into Ruth at that moment. Sally was quelled into silence by the gentle composure, the self-command over her passionate sorrow, which gave to Ruth an unconscious grandeur of demeanour as she came up to the old servant.

“Give him back to me, please. I did not know it brought ill-luck, or if my heart broke I would not have let a tear drop on his face—I never will again. Thank you, Sally,” as the servant relinquished him to her who came in the name of a mother. Sally watched Ruth’s grave, sweet smile, as she followed up Sally’s play with the tassel, and imitated, with all the docility inspired by love, every movement and sound which had amused her babe.

“Thou’lt be a mother, after all,” said Sally, with a kind of admiration of the control which Ruth was exercising over herself. “But why talk of thy heart breaking? I don’t question thee about what’s past and gone; but now thou’rt wanting for nothing, nor thy child either; the time to come is the Lord’s and in His hands; and yet thou goest about a-sighing and a-moaning in a way that I can’t stand or thole.”

“What do I do wrong?” said Ruth; “I try to do all I can.”

“Yes, in a way,” said Sally, puzzled to know how to describe her meaning. “Thou dost it—but there’s a right and a wrong way of setting about everything—and to my thinking, the right way is to take a thing up heartily, if it is only making a bed. Why! dear ah me, making a bed may be done after a Christian fashion, I take it, or else what’s to come of such as me in heaven, who’ve had little enough time on earth for clapping ourselves down on our knees for set prayers? When I was a girl, and wretched enough about Master Thurstan, and the crook on his back which came of the fall I gave him, I took to praying and sighing, and giving up the world; and I thought it were wicked to care for the flesh, so I made heavy puddings, and was careless about dinner and the rooms, and thought I was doing my duty, though I did call myself a miserable sinner. But one night, the old missus (Master Thurstan’s mother) came in, and sat down by me, as I was a-scolding myself, without thinking of what I was saying; and, says she, ‘Sally! what are you blaming yourself about, and groaning over? We hear you in the parlour every night, and it makes my heart ache.’ ‘Oh, ma’am,’ says I, ‘I’m a miserable sinner, and I’m travailing in the new birth.’ ‘Was that the reason,’ says she, ‘why the pudding was so heavy to-day?’ ‘Oh, ma’am, ma’am,’ said I, ‘if you would not think of the things of the flesh, but trouble yourself about your immortal soul.’ And I sat a-shaking my head to think about her soul. ‘But,’ says she, in her sweet dropping voice, ‘I do try to think of my soul every hour of the day, if by that you mean trying to do the will of God, but we’ll talk now about the pudding; Master Thurstan could not eat it, and I know you’ll be sorry for that.’ Well! I was sorry, but I didn’t choose to say so, as she seemed to expect me; so says I, ‘It’s a pity to see children brought up to care for things of the flesh;’ and then I could have bitten my tongue out, for the missus looked so grave, and I thought of my darling little lad pining for want of his food. At last, says she, ‘Sally, do you think God has put us into the world just to be selfish, and do nothing but see after our own souls? or to help one another with heart and hand, as Christ did to all who wanted help?’ I was silent, for, you see, she puzzled me. So she went on, ‘What is that beautiful answer in your Church catechism, Sally?’ I were pleased to hear a Dissenter, as I did not think would have done it, speak so knowledgeably about the catechism, and she went on: ‘“to do my duty in that station of life unto which it shall please God to call me;” well, your station is a servant and it is as honourable as a king’s, if you look at it right; you are to help and serve others in one way, just as a king is to help others in another. Now what way are you to help and serve, or to do your duty, in that station of life unto which it has pleased God to call you? Did it answer God’s purpose, and serve Him, when the food was unfit for a child to eat, and unwholesome for any one?’ Well! I would not give it up, I was so pig-headed about my soul; so says I, ‘I wish folks would be content with locusts and wild honey, and leave other folks in peace to work out their salvation;’ and I groaned out pretty loud to think of missus’s soul. I often think since she smiled a bit at me; but she said, ‘Well, Sally, to-morrow, you shall have time to work out your salvation; but as we have no locusts in England, and I don’t think they’d agree with Master Thurstan if we had, I will come and make the pudding; but I shall try and do it well, not only for him to like it, but because everything may be done in a right way or a wrong; the right way is to do it as well as we can, as in God’s sight; the wrong is to do it in a self-seeking spirit, which either leads us to neglect it to follow out some device of our own for our own ends, or to give up too much time and thought to it both before and after the doing.’ Well! I thought of old missus’s words this morning, when I saw you making the beds. You sighed so, you could not half shake the pillows; your heart was not in your work; and yet it was the duty God had set you, I reckon; I know it’s not the work parsons preach about; though I don’t think they go so far off the mark when they read, ‘whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, that do with all thy might.’ Just try for a day to