Ruth, Elizabeth Gaskell [read this if TXT] 📗

usually chary of admitting strangers, she proposed to Mr. Donne (for it was he), that he should come in and await Mr. Benson’s return in the study. He was glad enough to avail himself of her offer; for he was feeble and nervous, and come on a piece of business which he exceedingly disliked, and about which he felt very awkward. The fire was nearly, if not quite, out; nor did Sally’s vigorous blows do much good, although she left the room with an assurance that it would soon burn up. He leant against the chimney-piece, thinking over events, and with a sensation of discomfort, both external and internal, growing and gathering upon him. He almost wondered whether the proposal he meant to make with regard to Leonard could not be better arranged by letter than by an interview. He became very shivery, and impatient of the state of indecision to which his bodily weakness had reduced him. Sally opened the door and came in. “Would you like to walk upstairs, sir?” asked she in a trembling voice, for she had learnt who the visitor was from the driver of the fly, who had run up to the house to inquire what was detaining the gentleman that he had brought from the Queen’s Hotel; and, knowing that Ruth had caught the fatal fever from her attendance on Mr. Donne, Sally imagined that it was but a piece of sad civility to invite him upstairs to see the poor dead body, which she had laid out and decked for the grave, with such fond care that she had grown strangely proud of its marble beauty.

Mr. Donne was glad enough of any proposal of a change from the cold and comfortless room where he had thought uneasy, remorseful thoughts. He fancied that a change of place would banish the train of reflection that was troubling him; but the change he anticipated was to a well-warmed, cheerful sitting-room, with signs of life, and a bright fire therein, and he was on the last flight of stairs—at the door of the room where Ruth lay—before he understood whither Sally was conducting him. He shrank back for an instant, and then a strange sting of curiosity impelled him on. He stood in the humble low-roofed attic, the window open, and the tops of the distant snow-covered hills filling up the whiteness of the general aspect. He muffled himself up in his cloak, and shuddered, while Sally reverently drew down the sheet, and showed the beautiful, calm, still face, on which the last rapturous smile still lingered, giving an ineffable look of bright serenity. Her arms were crossed over her breast; the wimple-like cap marked the perfect oval of her face, while two braids of the waving auburn hair peeped out of the narrow border, and lay on the delicate cheeks.

He was awed into admiration by the wonderful beauty of that dead woman.

“How beautiful she is!” said he, beneath his breath. “Do all dead people look so peaceful—so happy?”

“Not all,” replied Sally, crying. “Few has been as good and as gentle as she was in their lives.” She quite shook with her sobbing.

Mr. Donne was disturbed by her distress.

“Come, my good woman! we must all die–-” he did not know what to say, and was becoming infected by her sorrow. “I am sure you loved her very much, and were very kind to her in her lifetime; you must take this from me to buy yourself some remembrance of her.” He had pulled out a sovereign, and really had a kindly desire to console her, and reward her, in offering it to her.

But she took her apron from her eyes, as soon as she became aware of what he was doing, and, still holding it midway in her hands, she looked at him indignantly, before she burst out—

“And who are you, that think to pay for my kindness to her by money? And I was not kind to you, my darling,” said she, passionately addressing the motionless, serene body—“I was not kind to you. I frabbed you, and plagued you from the first, my lamb! I came and cut off your pretty locks in this very room—I did—and you said never an angry word to me;—no! not then, nor many a time after, when I was very sharp and cross to you.—No! I never was kind to you, and I dunnot think the world was kind to you, my darling,—but you are gone where the angels are very tender to such as you—you are, my poor wench!” She bent down and kissed the lips, from whose marble, unyielding touch Mr. Donne recoiled, even in thought.

Just then Mr. Benson entered the room. He had returned home before his sister, and came upstairs in search of Sally, to whom he wanted to speak on some subject relating to the funeral. He bowed in recognition of Mr. Donne, whom he knew as the member for the town, and whose presence impressed him painfully, as his illness had been the proximate cause of Ruth’s death. But he tried to check this feeling, as it was no fault of Mr. Donne’s. Sally stole out of the room, to cry at leisure in her kitchen.

“I must apologise for being here,” said Mr. Donne. “I was hardly conscious where your servant was leading me to, when she expressed her wish that I should walk upstairs.”

“It is a very common idea in this town, that it is a gratification to be asked to take a last look at the dead,” replied Mr. Benson.

“And in this case I am glad to have seen her once more,” said Mr. Donne. “Poor Ruth!”

Mr. Benson glanced up at him at the last word. How did he know her name? To him she had only been Mrs. Denbigh. But Mr. Donne had no idea that he was talking to one unaware of the connection that had formerly existed between them; and, though he would have preferred carrying on the conversation in a warmer room, yet, as Mr. Benson was still gazing at her with sad, lingering love, he went on—

“I did not recognise her when she came to nurse me; I believe I was delirious. My servant, who had known her long ago in Fordham, told me who she was. I cannot tell you how I regret that she should have died in consequence of her love of me.”

Mr. Benson looked up at him again, a stern light filling his eyes as he did so. He waited impatiently to hear more, either to quench or confirm his suspicions. If she had not been lying there, very still and calm, he would have forced the words out of Mr. Donne, by some abrupt question. As it was, he listened silently, his heart quick beating.

“I know that money is but a poor compensation—is no remedy for this event, or for my youthful folly.”

Mr. Benson set his teeth hard together, to keep in words little short of a curse.

“Indeed, I offered her money to almost any amount before:—do me justice, sir,” catching the gleam of indignation on Mr. Benson’s face; “I offered to marry her, and provide for the boy as if he had been legitimate. It’s of no use recurring to that time,” said he, his voice faltering; “what is done cannot be undone. But I came now to say, that I should be glad to leave the boy still under your charge, and that every expense you think it right to incur in his education I will gladly defray;—and place a sum of money in trust for him—say, two thousand pounds—or more: fix what you will. Of course, if you decline retaining him, I must find some one else; but the provision for him shall be the same, for my poor Ruth’s sake.”

Mr. Benson did not speak. He could not, till he had gathered some peace from looking at the ineffable repose of the Dead. Then, before he answered, he covered up her face; and in his voice there was the stillness of ice.

“Leonard is not unprovided for. Those that honoured his mother will take care of him. He shall never touch a penny of your money. Every offer of service you have made, I reject in his name, and in her presence,” said he, bending towards the Dead. “Men may call such actions as yours youthful follies! There is another name for them with God. Sir! I will follow you downstairs.”

All the way down, Mr. Benson heard Mr. Donne’s voice urging and entreating, but the words he could not recognise for the thoughts that filled his brain—the rapid putting together of events that was going on there. And when Mr. Donne turned at the door, to speak again, and repeat his offers of service to Leonard, Mr. Benson made answer, without well knowing whether the answer fitted the question or not—

“I thank God, you have no right, legal or otherwise, over the child. And for her sake, I will spare him the shame of ever hearing your name as his father.” He shut the door in Mr. Donne’s face.

“An ill-bred, puritanical old fellow! He may have the boy, I am sure, for aught I care. I have done my duty, and will get out of this abominable place as soon as I can. I wish my last remembrance of my beautiful Ruth was not mixed up with all these people.”

Mr. Benson was bitterly oppressed with this interview; it disturbed the peace with which he was beginning to contemplate events. His anger ruffled him, although such anger had been just, and such indignation well deserved; and both had been unconsciously present in his heart for years against the unknown seducer, whom he met face to face by the death-bed of Ruth.

It gave him a shock which he did not recover from for many days. He was nervously afraid lest Mr. Donne should appear at the funeral; and not all the reasons he alleged to himself against this apprehension, put it utterly away from him. Before then, however, he heard casually (for he would allow himself no inquiries) that he had left the town. No! Ruth’s funeral passed over in calm and simple solemnity. Her child, her own household, her friend and Mr. Farquhar, quietly walked after the bier, which was borne by some of the poor to whom she had been very kind in her lifetime And many others stood aloof in the little burying-ground, sadly watching that last ceremony.

They slowly dispersed; Mr. Benson leading Leonard by the hand, and secretly wondering at his self-restraint. Almost as soon as they had let themselves into the Chapel-house, a messenger brought a note from Mrs. Bradshaw, with a pot of quince marmalade, which, she said to Miss Benson, she thought that Leonard might fancy, and if he did, they were to be sure and let her know, as she had plenty more; or, was there anything else that he would like? She would gladly make him whatever he fancied.

Poor Leonard! he lay stretched on the sofa, white and tearless, beyond the power of any such comfort, however kindly offered; but this was only one of the many homely, simple attentions, which all came round him to offer, from Mr. Grey, the rector, down to the nameless poor who called at the back door to inquire how it fared with her child.

Mr. Benson was anxious, according to Dissenting custom, to preach an appropriate funeral sermon. It was the last office he could render to her; it should be done well and carefully. Moreover, it was possible that the circumstances of her life, which were known to all, might be made effective in this manner to work conviction of many truths. Accordingly, he made great preparation of thought and paper; he laboured hard, destroying sheet after