Ruth, Elizabeth Gaskell [read this if TXT] 📗

Mr. Grey, the rector of Eccleston. He was an elderly man, short, and stoutly built, with something very formal in his manner; but any one might feel sure of his steady benevolence who noticed the expression of his face, and especially of the kindly black eyes that gleamed beneath his grey and shaggy eyebrows. Ruth had seen him at the hospital once or twice, and Mrs. Farquhar had met him pretty frequently in general society.

“Go and tell your uncle,” said Miss Benson to Leonard.

“Stop, my boy! I have just met Mr. Benson in the street, and my errand now is to your mother. I should like you to remain and hear what it is; and I am sure that my business will give these ladies,”—bowing to Miss Benson and Jemima—“so much pleasure, that I need not apologise for entering upon it in their presence.” He pulled out his double eye-glass, saying, with a grave smile—

“You ran away from us yesterday so quietly and cunningly, Mrs. Denbigh, that you were, perhaps, not aware that the Board was sitting at that very time, and trying to form a vote sufficiently expressive of our gratitude to you. As chairman, they requested me to present you with this letter, which I shall have the pleasure of reading.”

With all due emphasis he read aloud a formal letter from the Secretary to the Infirmary, conveying a vote of thanks to Ruth.

The good rector did not spare her one word, from date to signature; and then, folding the letter up, he gave it to Leonard, saying—

“There, sir! when you are an old man, you may read that testimony to your mother’s noble conduct with pride and pleasure. For, indeed,” continued he, turning to Jemima, “no words can express the relief it was to us. I speak of the gentlemen composing the Board of the Infirmary. When Mrs. Denbigh came forward, the panic was at its height, and the alarm of course aggravated the disorder. The poor creatures died rapidly; there was hardly time to remove the dead bodies before others were brought in to occupy the beds, so little help was to be procured on account of the universal terror; and the morning when Mrs. Denbigh offered us her services we seemed at the very worst. I shall never forget the sensation of relief in my mind when she told us what she proposed to do; but we thought it right to warn her to the full extent—

“Nay, madam,” said he, catching a glimpse of Ruth’s changing colour, “I will spare you any more praises. I will only say, if I can be a friend to you, or a friend to your child, you may command my poor powers to the utmost.”

He got up, and, bowing formally, he took his leave. Jemima came and kissed Ruth. Leonard went upstairs to put the precious letter away. Miss Benson sat crying heartily in a corner of the room. Ruth went to her, and threw her arms round her neck, and said—

“I could not tell him just then. I durst not speak for fear of breaking down; but if I have done right, it was all owing to you and Mr. Benson. Oh! I wish I had said how the thought first came into my head from seeing the things Mr. Benson has done so quietly ever since the fever first came amongst us. I could not speak; and it seemed as if I was taking those praises to myself, when all the time I was feeling how little I deserved them—how it was all owing to you.”

“Under God, Ruth,” said Miss Benson, speaking through her tears.

“Oh! think there is nothing humbles one so much as undue praise. While he was reading that letter, I could not help feeling how many things I have done wrong! Could he know of—of what I have been?” asked she, dropping her voice very low.

“Yes!” said Jemima, “he knew—everybody in Eccleston did know—but the remembrance of those days is swept away. Miss Benson,” she continued, for she was anxious to turn the subject, “you must be on my side, and persuade Ruth to come to Abermouth for a few weeks. I want her and Leonard both to come.”

“I’m afraid my brother will think that Leonard is missing his lessons sadly. Just of late we could not wonder that the poor child’s heart was so full; but he must make haste, and get on all the more for his idleness.” Miss Benson piqued herself on being a disciplinarian.

“Oh, as for lessons, Walter is so very anxious that you should give way to his superior wisdom, Ruth, and let Leonard go to school. He will send him to any school you fix upon, according to the mode of life you plan for him.”

“I have no plan,” said Ruth. “I have no means of planning. All I can do is to try and make him ready for anything.”

“Well,” said Jemima, “we must talk it over at Abermouth; for I am sure you won’t refuse to come, dearest, dear Ruth! Think of the quiet, sunny days, and the still evenings, that we shall have together, with little Rosa to tumble about among the fallen leaves; and there’s Leonard to have his first sight of the sea.”

“I do think of it,” said Ruth, smiling at the happy picture Jemima drew. And both smiling at the hopeful prospect before them, they parted—never to meet again in life.

No sooner had Mrs. Farquhar gone than Sally burst in.

“Oh! dear, dear!” said she, looking around her. “If I had but known that the rector was coming to call I’d ha’ put on the best covers, and the Sunday tablecloth! You’re well enough,” continued she, surveying Ruth from head to foot; “you’re always trim and dainty in your gowns, though I reckon they cost but tuppence a yard, and you’ve a face to set ‘em off; but as for you” (as she turned to Miss Benson), “I think you might ha’ had something better on than that old stuff, if it had only been to do credit to a parishioner like me, whom he has known ever sin’ my father was his clerk.”

“You forget, Sally, I had been making jelly all the morning. How could I tell it was Mr. Grey when there was a knock at the door?” Miss Benson replied.

“You might ha’ letten me do the jelly; I’se warrant I could ha’ pleased Ruth as well as you. If I had but known he was coming, I’d ha’ slipped round the corner and bought ye a neck-ribbon, or summut to lighten ye up. I’se loth he should think I’m living with Dissenters, that don’t know how to keep themselves trig and smart.”

“Never mind, Sally; he never thought of me. What he came for, was to see Ruth; and, as you say, she’s always neat and dainty.”

“Well! I reckon it cannot be helped now; but, if I buy ye a ribbon, will you promise to wear it when Church folks come? for I cannot abide the way they have of scoffing at the Dissenters about their dress.”

“Very well! we’ll make that bargain,” said Miss Benson; “and now, Ruth, I’ll go and fetch you a cup of warm jelly.”

“Oh! indeed, Aunt Faith,” said Ruth, “I am very sorry to balk you; but if you’re going to treat me as an invalid, I am afraid I shall rebel.”

But when she found that Aunt Faith’s heart was set upon it, she submitted very graciously: only dimpling up a little, as she found that she must consent to lie on the sofa, and be fed, when, in truth, she felt full of health, with a luxurious sensation of languor stealing over her now and then, just enough to make it very pleasant to think of the salt breezes, and the sea beauty which awaited her at Abermouth.

Mr. Davis called in the afternoon, and his visit was also to Ruth. Mr. and Miss Benson were sitting with her in the parlour, and watching her with contented love, as she employed herself in household sewing, and hopefully spoke about the Abermouth plan.

“Well! so you had our worthy rector here to-day; I am come on something of the same kind of errand; only I shall spare you the reading of my letter, which, I’ll answer for it, he did not. Please to take notice,” said he, putting down a sealed letter, “that I have delivered you a vote of thanks from my medical brothers; and open and read it at your leisure; only not just now, for I want to have a little talk with you on my own behoof. I want to ask you a favour, Mrs. Denbigh.”

“A favour!” exclaimed Ruth; “what can I do for you? I think I may say I will do it, without hearing what it is.”

“Then you’re a very imprudent woman,” replied he; “however, I’ll take you at your word. I want you to give me your boy.”

“Leonard?”

“Ay! there it is, you see, Mr. Benson. One minute she is as ready as can be, and the next she looks at me as if I was an ogre!”

“Perhaps we don’t understand what you mean,” said Mr. Benson.

“The thing is this. You know I’ve no children; and I can’t say I’ve ever fretted over it much; but my wife has; and whether it is that she has infected me, or that I grieve over my good practice going to a stranger, when I ought to have had a son to take it after me, I don’t know; but, of late, I’ve got to look with covetous eyes on all healthy boys, and at last I’ve settled down my wishes on this Leonard of yours, Mrs. Denbigh.”

Ruth could not speak; for, even yet, she did not understand what he meant. He went on—

“Now, how old is the lad?” He asked Ruth, but Miss Benson replied—

“He’ll be twelve next February.”

“Umph! only twelve! He’s tall and old-looking for his age. You look young enough, it is true.” He said this last sentence as if to himself, but seeing Ruth crimson up, ho abruptly changed his tone.

“Twelve, is he? Well, I take him from now. I don’t mean that I really take him away from you,” said he, softening all at once, and becoming grave and considerate. “His being your son—the son of one whom I have seen—as I have seen you, Mrs. Denbigh (out and out the best nurse I ever met with, Miss Benson; and good nurses are things we doctors know how to value)—his being your son is his great recommendation to me; not but what the lad himself is a noble boy. I shall be glad to leave him with you as long and as much as we can; he could not be tied to your apron-strings all his life, you know. Only I provide for his education, subject to your consent and good pleasure, and he is bound apprentice to me. I, his guardian, bind him to myself, the first surgeon in Eccleston, be the other who he may; and in process of time he becomes partner, and some day or other succeeds me. Now, Mrs. Denbigh, what have you got to say against this plan? My wife is just as full of it as me. Come; begin with your objections. You’re not a woman if you have not a whole bag-full of them ready to turn out against any reasonable proposal.”

“I don’t know,” faltered Ruth. “It is so sudden–-”

“It is very, very kind of you, Mr. Davis,” said Miss Benson, a little scandalised at Ruth’s non-expression of gratitude.

“Pooh! pooh! I’ll answer for it, in the long-run, I am taking good care of my own interests. Come, Mrs. Denbigh, is it a bargain?”