Ruth (62 page)

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 sheet—his eyes filling with
tears between-whiles, as he remembered some fresh proof of the
humility and sweetness of her life. Oh, that he could do her justice!
but words seemed hard and inflexible, and refused to fit themselves
to his ideas. He sat late on Saturday, writing; he watched through
the night till Sunday morning was far advanced. He had never taken
such pains with any sermon, and he was only half satisfied with it
after all.

Mrs Farquhar had comforted the bitterness of Sally's grief by giving
her very handsome mourning. At any rate, she felt oddly proud and
exulting when she thought of her new black gown; but when she
remembered why she wore it, she scolded herself pretty sharply for
her satisfaction, and took to crying afresh with redoubled vigour.
She spent the Sunday morning in alternately smoothing down her skirts
and adjusting her broad hemmed collar, or bemoaning the occasion with
tearful earnestness. But the sorrow overcame the little quaint vanity
of her heart, as she saw troop after troop of humbly-dressed mourners
pass by into the old chapel. They were very poor—but each had
mounted some rusty piece of crape, or some faded black ribbon.
The old came halting and slow—the mothers carried their quiet,
awe-struck babes.

And not only these were there—but others—equally unaccustomed to
nonconformist worship: Mr Davis, for instance, to whom Sally acted
as chaperone; for he sat in the minister's pew, as a stranger; and,
as she afterwards said, she had a fellow-feeling with him, being a
Church-woman herself, and Dissenters had such awkward ways; however,
she had been there before, so she could set him to rights about their
fashions.

From the pulpit, Mr Benson saw one and all—the well-filled Bradshaw
pew—all in deep mourning, Mr Bradshaw conspicuously so (he would
have attended the funeral gladly if they would have asked him)—the
Farquhars—the many strangers—the still more numerous poor—one or
two wild-looking outcasts, who stood afar off, but wept silently and
continually. Mr Benson's heart grew very full.

His voice trembled as he read and prayed. But he steadied it as he
opened his sermon—his great, last effort in her honour—the labour
that he had prayed God to bless to the hearts of many. For an instant
the old man looked on all the upturned faces, listening, with wet
eyes, to hear what he could say to interpret that which was in their
hearts, dumb and unshaped, of God's doings as shown in her life.
He looked, and, as he gazed, a mist came before him, and he could
not see his sermon, nor his hearers, but only Ruth, as she had
been—stricken low, and crouching from sight, in the upland field by
Llan-dhu—like a woeful, hunted creature. And now her life was over!
her struggle ended! Sermon and all was forgotten. He sat down, and
hid his face in his hands for a minute or so. Then he arose, pale and
serene. He put the sermon away, and opened the Bible, and read the
seventh chapter of Revelations, beginning at the ninth verse.

Before it was finished, most of his hearers were in tears. It came
home to them as more appropriate than any sermon could have been.
Even Sally, though full of anxiety as to what her fellow-Churchman
would think of such proceedings, let the sobs come freely as she
heard the words:

And he said to me, These are they which came out of great
tribulation, and have washed their robes, and made them
white in the blood of the Lamb.

Therefore are they before the throne of God, and serve
him day and night in his temple; and he that sitteth on
the throne shall dwell among them.

They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more;
neither shall the sun light on them, nor any heat.

For the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall
feed them, and shall lead them unto living fountains of
waters, and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes.

"He preaches sermons sometimes," said Sally, nudging Mr Davis, as
they rose from their knees at last. "I make no doubt there was as
grand a sermon in yon paper-book as ever we hear in church. I've
heard him pray uncommon fine—quite beyond any but learned folk."

Mr Bradshaw had been anxious to do something to testify his respect
for the woman, who, if all had entertained his opinions, would have
been driven into hopeless sin. Accordingly, he ordered the first
stonemason of the town to meet him in the chapel-yard on Monday
morning, to take measurement and receive directions for a tombstone.
They threaded their way among the grassy heaps to where Ruth was
buried, in the south corner, beneath the great Wych-elm. When they
got there, Leonard raised himself up from the new-stirred turf. His
face was swollen with weeping; but when he saw Mr Bradshaw he calmed
himself, and checked his sobs, and, as an explanation of being where
he was when thus surprised, he could find nothing to say but the
simple words:

"My mother is dead, sir."

His eyes sought those of Mr Bradshaw with a wild look of agony, as
if to find comfort for that great loss in human sympathy; and at the
first word—the first touch of Mr Bradshaw's hand on his shoulder—he
burst out afresh.

"Come, come! my boy!—Mr Francis, I will see you about this
to-morrow—I will call at your house.—Let me take you home, my poor
fellow. Come, my lad, come!"

The first time, for years, that he had entered Mr Benson's house, he
came leading and comforting her son—and, for a moment, he could not
speak to his old friend, for the sympathy which choked up his voice,
and filled his eyes with tears.