Ruth (43 page)

A child whom all that looked on, loved.

As in truth he was; and the proof of this was daily shown in many
kind inquiries, and many thoughtful little offerings, besides Mr
Farquhar's. The poor (warm and kind of heart to all sorrow common
to humanity) were touched with pity for the young widow, whose only
child lay ill, and nigh unto death. They brought what they could—a
fresh egg, when eggs were scarce—a few ripe pears that grew on the
sunniest side of the humblest cottage, where the fruit was regarded
as a source of income—a call of inquiry, and a prayer that God would
spare the child, from an old crippled woman, who could scarcely drag
herself so far as the Chapel-house, yet felt her worn and weary heart
stirred with a sharp pang of sympathy, and a very present remembrance
of the time when she too was young, and saw the life-breath quiver
out of her child, now an angel in that heaven which felt more like
home to the desolate old creature than this empty earth. To all such,
when Leonard was better, Ruth went, and thanked them from her heart.
She and the old cripple sat hand in hand over the scanty fire on the
hearth of the latter, while she told in solemn, broken, homely words,
how her child sickened and died. Tears fell like rain down Ruth's
cheeks; but those of the old woman were dry. All tears had been wept
out of her long ago, and now she sat patient and quiet, waiting
for death. But after this, Ruth "clave unto her," and the two were
henceforward a pair of friends. Mr Farquhar was only included in the
general gratitude which she felt towards all who had been kind to her
boy.

The winter passed away in deep peace after the storms of the autumn,
yet every now and then a feeling of insecurity made Ruth shake for an
instant. Those wild autumnal storms had torn aside the quiet flowers
and herbage that had gathered over the wreck of her early life, and
shown her that all deeds, however hidden and long passed by, have
their eternal consequences. She turned sick and faint whenever Mr
Donne's name was casually mentioned. No one saw it; but she felt the
miserable stop in her heart's beating, and wished that she could
prevent it by any exercise of self-command. She had never named his
identity with Mr Bellingham, nor had she spoken about the seaside
interview. Deep shame made her silent and reserved on all her
life before Leonard's birth; from that time she rose again in her
self-respect, and spoke as openly as a child (when need was) of all
occurrences which had taken place since then; except that she could
not, and would not, tell of this mocking echo, this haunting phantom,
this past, that would not rest in its grave. The very circumstance
that it was stalking abroad in the world, and might reappear at any
moment, made her a coward: she trembled away from contemplating what
the reality had been; only she clung more faithfully than before
to the thought of the great God, who was a rock in the dreary land,
where no shadow was.

Autumn and winter, with their lowering skies, were less dreary than
the woeful, desolate feelings that shed a gloom on Jemima. She found
too late that she had considered Mr Farquhar so securely her own
for so long a time, that her heart refused to recognise him as lost
to her, unless her reason went through the same weary, convincing,
miserable evidence day after day, and hour after hour. He never spoke
to her now, except from common civility. He never cared for her
contradictions; he never tried, with patient perseverance, to bring
her over to his opinions; he never used the wonted wiles (so tenderly
remembered now they had no existence but in memory) to bring her
round out of some wilful mood—and such moods were common enough
now! Frequently she was sullenly indifferent to the feelings of
others—not from any unkindness, but because her heart seemed
numb and stony, and incapable of sympathy. Then afterwards her
self-reproach was terrible—in the dead of night, when no one saw it.
With a strange perversity, the only intelligence she cared to hear,
the only sights she cared to see, were the circumstances which gave
confirmation to the idea that Mr Farquhar was thinking of Ruth for a
wife. She craved with stinging curiosity to hear something of their
affairs every day; partly because the torture which such intelligence
gave was almost a relief from the deadness of her heart to all other
interests.

And so spring (
gioventu dell'anno
) came back to her, bringing all
the contrasts which spring alone can bring to add to the heaviness of
the soul. The little winged creatures filled the air with bursts of
joy; the vegetation came bright and hopefully onwards, without any
check of nipping frost. The ash-trees in the Bradshaws' garden were
out in leaf by the middle of May, which that year wore more the
aspect of summer than most Junes do. The sunny weather mocked Jemima,
and the unusual warmth oppressed her physical powers. She felt very
weak and languid; she was acutely sensible that no one else noticed
her want of strength; father, mother, all seemed too full of other
things to care if, as she believed, her life was waning. She herself
felt glad that it was so. But her delicacy was not unnoticed by all.
Her mother often anxiously asked her husband if he did not think
Jemima was looking ill; nor did his affirmation to the contrary
satisfy her, as most of his affirmations did. She thought every
morning, before she got up, how she could tempt Jemima to eat, by
ordering some favourite dainty for dinner; in many other little ways
she tried to minister to her child; but the poor girl's own abrupt
irritability of temper had made her mother afraid of openly speaking
to her about her health.

Ruth, too, saw that Jemima was not looking well. How she had become
an object of dislike to her former friend she did not know; but
she was sensible that Miss Bradshaw disliked her now. She was not
aware that this feeling was growing and strengthening almost into
repugnance, for she seldom saw Jemima out of school-hours, and then
only for a minute or two. But the evil element of a fellow-creature's
dislike oppressed the atmosphere of her life. That fellow-creature
was one who had once loved her so fondly, and whom she still loved,
although she had learnt to fear her, as we fear those whose faces
cloud over when we come in sight—who cast unloving glances at us,
of which we, though not seeing, are conscious, as of some occult
influence; and the cause of whose dislike is unknown to us, though
every word and action seems to increase it. I believe that this sort
of dislike is only shown by the jealous, and that it renders the
disliker even more miserable, because more continually conscious than
the object; but the growing evidence of Jemima's feeling made Ruth
very unhappy at times. This very May, too, an idea had come into her
mind, which she had tried to repress—namely, that Mr Farquhar was in
love with her. It annoyed her extremely; it made her reproach herself
that she ever should think such a thing possible. She tried to
strangle the notion, to drown it, to starve it out by neglect—its
existence caused her such pain and distress.

The worst was, he had won Leonard's heart, who was constantly
seeking him out; or, when absent, talking about him. The best was
some journey connected with business, which would take him to the
Continent for several weeks; and, during that time, surely this
disagreeable fancy of his would die away, if untrue; and if true,
some way would be opened by which she might put a stop to all
increase of predilection on his part, and yet retain him as a friend
for Leonard—that darling for whom she was far-seeing and covetous,
and miserly of every scrap of love and kindly regard.

Mr Farquhar would not have been flattered if he had known how much
his departure contributed to Ruth's rest of mind on the Saturday
afternoon on which he set out on his journey. It was a beautiful day;
the sky of that intense quivering blue which seemed as though you
could look through it for ever, yet not reach the black, infinite
space which is suggested as lying beyond. Now and then a thin, torn,
vaporous cloud floated slowly within the vaulted depth; but the soft
air that gently wafted it was not perceptible among the leaves on the
trees, which did not even tremble. Ruth sat at her work in the shadow
formed by the old grey garden wall; Miss Benson and Sally—the one in
the parlour window-seat mending stockings, the other hard at work in
her kitchen—were both within talking distance, for it was weather
for open doors and windows; but none of the three kept up any
continued conversation; and in the intervals Ruth sang low a brooding
song, such as she remembered her mother singing long ago. Now and
then she stopped to look at Leonard, who was labouring away with
vehement energy at digging over a small plot of ground, where he
meant to prick out some celery plants that had been given to him.
Ruth's heart warmed at the earnest, spirited way in which he thrust
his large spade deep down into the brown soil, his ruddy face
glowing, his curly hair wet with the exertion; and yet she sighed
to think that the days were over when her deeds of skill could give
him pleasure. Now, his delight was in acting himself; last year, not
fourteen months ago, he had watched her making a daisy-chain for him,
as if he could not admire her cleverness enough; this year—this
week, when she had been devoting every spare hour to the simple
tailoring which she performed for her boy (she had always made every
article he wore, and felt almost jealous of the employment), he had
come to her with a wistful look, and asked when he might begin to
have clothes made by a man?

Ever since the Wednesday when she had accompanied Mary and Elizabeth,
at Mrs Bradshaw's desire, to be measured for spring clothes by the
new Eccleston dressmaker, she had been looking forward to this
Saturday afternoon's pleasure of making summer trousers for Leonard;
but the satisfaction of the employment was a little taken away by
Leonard's speech. It was a sign, however, that her life was very
quiet and peaceful, that she had leisure to think upon the thing at
all; and often she forgot it entirely in her low, chanting song, or
in listening to the thrush warbling out his afternoon ditty to his
patient mate in the holly-bush below.

The distant rumble of carts through the busy streets (it was
market-day) not only formed a low rolling bass to the nearer and
pleasanter sounds, but enhanced the sense of peace by the suggestion
of the contrast afforded to the repose of the garden by the bustle
not far off.

But besides physical din and bustle, there is mental strife and
turmoil.

That afternoon, as Jemima was restlessly wandering about the house,
her mother desired her to go on an errand to Mrs Pearson's, the new
dressmaker, in order to give some directions about her sisters' new
frocks. Jemima went, rather than have the trouble of resisting;
or else she would have preferred staying at home, moving or being
outwardly quiet according to her own fitful will. Mrs Bradshaw, who,
as I have said, had been aware for some time that something was wrong
with her daughter, and was very anxious to set it to rights if she
only knew how, had rather planned this errand with a view to dispel
Jemima's melancholy.

"And, Mimie, dear," said her mother, "when you are there, look out
for a new bonnet for yourself; she has got some very pretty ones, and
your old one is so shabby."

"It does for me, mother," said Jemima, heavily. "I don't want a new
bonnet."

"But I want you to have one, my lassie. I want my girl to look well
and nice."

There was something of homely tenderness in Mrs Bradshaw's tone that
touched Jemima's heart. She went to her mother, and kissed her with
more of affection than she had shown to any one for weeks before; and
the kiss was returned with warm fondness.

"I think you love me, mother," said Jemima.

"We all love you, dear, if you would but think so. And if you want
anything, or wish for anything, only tell me, and with a little
patience I can get your father to give it you, I know. Only be happy,
there's a good girl."

"Be happy! as if one could by an effort of will!" thought Jemima, as
she went along the street, too absorbed in herself to notice the bows
of acquaintances and friends, but instinctively guiding herself right
among the throng and press of carts, and gigs, and market people in
High Street.

But her mother's tones and looks, with their comforting power,
remained longer in her recollection than the inconsistency of any
words spoken. When she had completed her errand about the frocks, she
asked to look at some bonnets, in order to show her recognition of
her mother's kind thought.

Mrs Pearson was a smart, clever-looking woman of five or six and
thirty. She had all the variety of small-talk at her finger-ends
that was formerly needed by barbers to amuse the people who came to
be shaved. She had admired the town till Jemima was weary of its
praises, sick and oppressed by its sameness, as she had been these
many weeks.

"Here are some bonnets, ma'am, that will be just the thing for
you—elegant and tasty, yet quite of the simple style, suitable to
young ladies. Oblige me by trying on this white silk!"

Jemima looked at herself in the glass; she was obliged to own it was
very becoming, and perhaps not the less so for the flush of modest
shame which came into her cheeks as she heard Mrs Pearson's open
praises of the "rich, beautiful hair," and the "Oriental eyes" of the
wearer.

"I induced the young lady who accompanied your sisters the other
day—the governess, is she, ma'am?"

"Yes—Mrs Denbigh is her name," said Jemima, clouding over.

"Thank you, ma'am. Well, I persuaded Mrs Denbigh to try on that
bonnet, and you can't think how charming she looked in it; and yet I
don't think it became her as much as it does you."

"Mrs Denbigh is very beautiful," said Jemima, taking off the bonnet,
and not much inclined to try on any other.