Ruth (61 page)

Indeed, however much Mr Davis might labour with all his professional
skill—however much they might all watch—and pray—and weep—it was
but too evident that Ruth "home must go, and take her wages." Poor,
poor Ruth!

It might be that, utterly exhausted by watching and nursing, first
in the hospital, and then by the bedside of her former lover, the
power of her constitution was worn out; or, it might be, her gentle,
pliant sweetness, but she displayed no outrage or discord even in her
delirium. There she lay in the attic-room in which her baby had been
born, her watch over him kept, her confession to him made; and now
she was stretched on the bed in utter helplessness, softly gazing at
vacancy with her open, unconscious eyes, from which all the depth of
their meaning had fled, and all they told was of a sweet, child-like
insanity within. The watchers could not touch her with their
sympathy, or come near her in her dim world;—so, mutely, but looking
at each other from time to time with tearful eyes, they took a poor
comfort from the one evident fact that, though lost and gone astray,
she was happy and at peace. They had never heard her sing; indeed,
the simple art which her mother had taught her, had died, with her
early joyousness, at that dear mother's death. But now she sang
continually, very soft and low. She went from one childish ditty to
another without let or pause, keeping a strange sort of time with
her pretty fingers, as they closed and unclosed themselves upon the
counterpane. She never looked at any one with the slightest glimpse
of memory or intelligence in her face; no, not even at Leonard.

Her strength faded day by day; but she knew it not. Her sweet lips
were parted to sing, even after the breath and the power to do so had
left her, and her fingers fell idly on the bed. Two days she lingered
thus—all but gone from them, and yet still there.

They stood around her bedside, not speaking, or sighing, or moaning;
they were too much awed by the exquisite peacefulness of her look
for that. Suddenly she opened wide her eyes, and gazed intently
forwards, as if she saw some happy vision, which called out a lovely,
rapturous, breathless smile. They held their very breaths.

"I see the Light coming," said she. "The Light is coming," she said.
And, raising herself slowly, she stretched out her arms, and then
fell back, very still for evermore.

They did not speak. Mr Davis was the first to utter a word.

"It is over!" said he. "She is dead!"

Out rang through the room the cry of Leonard:

"Mother! mother! mother! You have not left me alone! You will not
leave me alone! You are not dead! Mother! Mother!"

They had pent in his agony of apprehension till then, that no wail of
her child might disturb her ineffable calm. But now there was a cry
heard through the house, of one refusing to be comforted: "Mother!
Mother!"

But Ruth lay dead.

A stupor of grief succeeded to Leonard's passionate cries. He became
so much depressed, physically as well as mentally, before the end of
the day, that Mr Davis was seriously alarmed for the consequences. He
hailed with gladness a proposal made by the Farquhars, that the boy
should be removed to their house, and placed under the fond care of
his mother's friend, who sent her own child to Abermouth the better
to devote herself to Leonard.

When they told him of this arrangement, he at first refused to go and
leave
her
; but when Mr Benson said:

"
She
would have wished it, Leonard! Do it for her sake!" he went
away very quietly; not speaking a word, after Mr Benson had made the
voluntary promise that he should see her once again. He neither spoke
nor cried for many hours; and all Jemima's delicate wiles were called
forth, before his heavy heart could find the relief of tears. And
then he was so weak, and his pulse so low, that all who loved him
feared for his life.

Anxiety about him made a sad distraction from the sorrow for the
dead. The three old people, who now formed the household in the
Chapel-house, went about slowly and dreamily, each with a dull wonder
at their hearts why they, the infirm and worn-out, were left, while
she was taken in her lovely prime.

The third day after Ruth's death, a gentleman came to the door and
asked to speak to Mr Benson. He was very much wrapped up in furs and
cloaks, and the upper, exposed part of his face was sunk and hollow,
like that of one but partially recovered from illness. Mr and Miss
Benson were at Mr Farquhar's, gone to see Leonard, and poor old Sally
had been having a hearty cry over the kitchen fire before answering
the door-knock. Her heart was tenderly inclined just then towards any
one who had the aspect of suffering; so, although her master was out,
and she was 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 come 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 connexion 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 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 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.