Ruth, Elizabeth Gaskell [read this if TXT] 📗

“Mr. Davis, it is rather sudden, as she says. As far as I can see, it is the best as well as the kindest proposal that could have been made; but I think we must give her a little time to think about it.”

“Well, twenty-four hours! Will that do?”

Ruth lifted up her head. “Mr. Davis, I am not ungrateful because I can’t thank you” (she was crying while she spoke); “let me have a fortnight to consider about it. In a fortnight I will make up my mind. Oh, how good you all are!”

“Very well. Then this day fortnight—Thursday the 28th—you will let me know your decision. Mind! if it’s against me, I sha’n’t consider it a decision, for I’m determined to carry my point. I’m not going to make Mrs. Denbigh blush, Mr. Benson, by telling you, in her presence, of all I have observed about her this last three weeks, that has made me sure of the good qualities I shall find in this boy of hers. I was watching her when she little thought of it. Do you remember that night when Hector O’Brien was so furiously delirious, Mrs. Denbigh?”

Ruth went very white at the remembrance.

“Why now, look there! how pale she is at the very thought of it! And yet, I assure you, she was the one to go up and take the piece of glass from him which he had broken out of the window for the sole purpose of cutting his throat, or the throat of any one else, for that matter. I wish we had some others as brave as she is.”

“I thought the great panic was passed away!” said Mr. Benson.

“Ay! the general feeling of alarm is much weaker; but, here and there, there are as great fools as ever. Why, when I leave here, I am going to see our precious member, Mr. Donne–-”

“Mr. Donne?” said Ruth.

“Mr. Donne, who lies ill at the Queen’s—came last week, with the intention of canvassing, but was too much alarmed by what he heard of the fever to set to work; and, in spite of all his precautions, he has taken it; and you should see the terror they are in at the hotel; landlord, landlady, waiters, servants—all; there’s not a creature will go near him, if they can help it; and there’s only his groom—a lad he saved from drowning, I’m told—to do anything for him. I must get him a proper nurse, somehow or somewhere, for all my being a Cranworth man. Ah, Mr. Benson! you don’t know the temptations we medical men have. Think, if I allowed your member to die now as he might very well, if he had no nurse—how famously Mr. Cranworth would walk over the course!—Where’s Mrs. Denbigh gone to? I hope I’ve not frightened her away by reminding her of Hector O’Brien, and that awful night, when I do assure you she behaved like a heroine!”

As Mr. Benson was showing Mr. Davis out, Ruth opened the study-door, and said, in a very calm, low voice—

“Mr. Benson! will you allow me to speak to Mr. Davis alone?”

Mr. Benson immediately consented, thinking that, in all probability, she wished to ask some further questions about Leonard; but as Mr. Davis came into the room, and shut the door, he was struck by her pale, stern face of determination, and awaited her speaking first.

“Mr. Davis! I must go and nurse Mr. Bellingham,” said she at last, clenching her hands tight together; but no other part of her body moving from its intense stillness.

“Mr. Bellingham?” asked he, astonished at the name.

“Mr. Donne, I mean,” said she hurriedly. “His name was Bellingham.”

“Oh! I remember hearing he had changed his name for some property. But you must not think of any more such work just now. You are not fit for it. You are looking as white as ashes.”

“I must go,” she repeated.

“Nonsense! Here’s a man who can pay for the care of the first hospital nurses in London—and I doubt if his life is worth the risk of one of theirs even, much more of yours.”

“We have no right to weigh human lives against each other.”

“No! I know we have not. But it’s a way we doctors are apt to get into; and, at any rate, it’s ridiculous of you to think of such a thing. Just listen to reason.”

“I can’t! I can’t!” cried she, with a sharp pain in her voice. “You must let me go, dear Mr. Davis!” said she, now speaking with soft entreaty. “No!” said he, shaking his head authoritatively. “I’ll do no such thing.” “Listen!” said she, dropping her voice, and going all over the deepest scarlet; “he is Leonard’s father! Now! you will let me go!” Mr. Davis was indeed staggered by what she said, and for a moment he did not speak. So she went on— “You will not tell! You must not tell! No one knows, not even Mr. Benson, who it was. And now—it might do him so much harm to have it known. You will not tell!”

“No! I will not tell,” replied he. “But, Mrs. Denbigh, you must answer me this one question, which I ask you in all true respect, but which I must ask, in order to guide both myself and you aright—of course I knew Leonard was illegitimate—in fact, I will give you secret for secret; it was being so myself that first made me sympathise with him, and desire to adopt him. I knew that much of your history; but tell me, do you now care for this man? Answer me truly—do you love him?”

For a moment or two she did not speak; her head was bent down; then she raised it up, and looked with clear and honest eyes into his face.

“I have been thinking—but I do not know—I cannot tell—I don’t think I should love him, if he were well and happy—but you said he was ill—and alone—how can I help caring for him? How can I help caring for him?” repeated she, covering her face with her hands, and the quick hot tears stealing through her fingers.

“He is Leonard’s father,” continued she, looking up at Mr. Davis suddenly. “He need not know—he shall not—that I have ever been near him. If he is like the others, he must be delirious—I will leave him before he comes to himself—but now let me go—I must go.”

“I wish my tongue had been bitten out before I had named him to you. He would do well enough without you; and, I dare say, if he recognises you, he will only be annoyed.”

“It is very likely,” said Ruth heavily.

“Annoyed—why! he may curse you for your unasked-for care of him. I have heard my poor mother—and she was as pretty and delicate a creature as you are—cursed for showing tenderness when it was not wanted. Now, be persuaded by an old man like me, who has seen enough of life to make his heart ache—leave this fine gentleman to his fate. I’ll promise you to get him as good a nurse as can be had for money.”

“No!” said Ruth, with dull persistency—as if she had not attended to his dissuasions; “I must go. I will leave him before he recognises me.”

“Why, then,” said the old surgeon, “if you’re so bent upon it, I suppose I must let you. It is but what my mother would have done—poor, heart-broken thing! However, come along, and let us make the best of it. It saves me a deal of trouble, I know; for, if I have you for a right hand, I need not worry myself continually with wondering how he is taken care of. Go get your bonnet, you tender-hearted fool of a woman! Let us get you out of the house without any more scenes or explanations; I’ll make all straight with the Bensons.”

“You will not tell my secret, Mr. Davis,” she said abruptly.

“No! not I! Does the woman think I had never to keep a secret of the kind before? I only hope he’ll lose his election, and never come near the place again. After all,” continued he, sighing, “I suppose it is but human nature!” He began recalling the circumstances of his own early life, and dreamily picturing scenes in the grey dying embers of the fire; and he was almost startled when she stood before him, ready equipped, grave, pale, and quiet.

“Come along!” said he. “If you’re to do any good at all, it must be in these next three days. After that, I’ll ensure his life for this bout; and mind! I shall send you home then; for he might know you, and I’ll have no excitement to throw him back again, and no sobbing and crying from you. But now every moment your care is precious to him. I shall tell my own story to the Bensons, as soon as I have installed you.”

Mr. Donne lay in the best room of the Queen’s Hotel—no one with him but his faithful, ignorant servant, who was as much afraid of the fever as any one else could be, but who, nevertheless, would not leave his master—his master who had saved his life as a child, and afterwards put him in the stables at Bellingham Hall, where he learnt all that he knew. He stood in a farther corner of the room, watching his delirious master with affrighted eyes, not daring to come near him, nor yet willing to leave him.

“Oh! if that doctor would but come! He’ll kill himself or me—and them stupid servants won’t stir a step over the threshold; how shall I get over the night? Blessings on him—here’s the old doctor back again! I hear him creaking and scolding up the stairs!”

The door opened, and Mr. Davis entered, followed by Ruth.

“Here’s the nurse, my good man—such a nurse as there is not in the three counties. Now, all you’ll have to do is to mind what she says.”

“Oh, sir! he’s mortal bad! won’t you stay with us through the night, sir?”

“Look here!” whispered Mr. Davis to the man, “see how she knows how to manage him! Why, I could not do it better myself!”

She had gone up to the wild, raging figure, and with soft authority had made him lie down: and then, placing a basin of cold water by the bedside, she had dipped in it her pretty hands, and was laying their cool dampness on his hot brow, speaking in a low soothing voice all the time, in a way that acted like a charm in hushing his mad talk.

“But I will stay,” said the doctor, after he had examined his patient; “as much on her account as his, and partly to quieten the fears of this poor, faithful fellow.”