Ruth (7 page)

"I will take care and not tell again, sir," said Ruth, in a low
voice.

"Nay, Ruth, you are not going to have secrets from me, are you? Don't
you remember your promise to consider me as a brother? Go on telling
me everything that happens to you, pray; you cannot think how much
interest I take in all your interests. I can quite fancy that
charming home at Milham you told me about last Sunday. I can almost
fancy Mrs Mason's workroom; and that, surely, is a proof either of
the strength of my imagination, or of your powers of description."

Ruth smiled. "It is, indeed, sir. Our workroom must be so different
to anything you ever saw. I think you must have passed through Milham
often on your way to Lowford."

"Then you don't think it is any stretch of fancy to have so clear an
idea as I have of Milham Grange? On the left hand of the road, is it,
Ruth?"

"Yes, sir, just over the bridge, and up the hill where the elm-trees
meet overhead and make a green shade; and then comes the dear old
Grange, that I shall never see again."

"Never! Nonsense, Ruthie; it is only six miles off; you may see it
any day. It is not an hour's ride."

"Perhaps I may see it again when I am grown old; I did not think
exactly what 'never' meant; it is so very long since I was there, and
I don't see any chance of my going for years and years, at any rate."

"Why, Ruth, you—we may go next Sunday afternoon, if you like."

She looked up at him with a lovely light of pleasure in her face at
the idea. "How, sir? Can I walk it between afternoon service and the
time Mrs Mason comes home? I would go for only one glimpse; but if I
could get into the house—oh, sir! if I could just see mamma's room
again!"

He was revolving plans in his head for giving her this pleasure, and
he had also his own in view. If they went in any of his carriages,
the loitering charm of the walk would be lost; and they must, to
a certain degree, be encumbered by, and exposed to, the notice of
servants.

"Are you a good walker, Ruth? Do you think you can manage six miles?
If we set off at two o'clock, we shall be there by four, without
hurrying; or say half-past four. Then we might stay two hours, and
you could show me all the old walks and old places you love, and we
could still come leisurely home. Oh, it's all arranged directly!"

"But do you think it would be right, sir? It seems as if it would be
such a great pleasure, that it must be in some way wrong."

"Why, you little goose, what can be wrong in it?"

"In the first place, I miss going to church by setting out at two,"
said Ruth, a little gravely.

"Only for once. Surely you don't see any harm in missing church for
once? You will go in the morning, you know."

"I wonder if Mrs Mason would think it right—if she would allow it?"

"No, I dare say not. But you don't mean to be governed by Mrs Mason's
notions of right and wrong. She thought it right to treat that poor
girl Palmer in the way you told me about. You would think that wrong,
you know, and so would every one of sense and feeling. Come, Ruth,
don't pin your faith on any one, but judge for yourself. The pleasure
is perfectly innocent; it is not a selfish pleasure either, for I
shall enjoy it to the full as much as you will. I shall like to see
the places where you spent your childhood; I shall almost love them
as much as you do." He had dropped his voice; and spoke in low,
persuasive tones. Ruth hung down her head, and blushed with exceeding
happiness; but she could not speak, even to urge her doubts afresh.
Thus it was in a manner settled.

How delightfully happy the plan made her through the coming week!
She was too young when her mother died to have received any cautions
or words of advice respecting
the
subject of a woman's life—if,
indeed, wise parents ever directly speak of what, in its depth and
power, cannot be put into words—which is a brooding spirit with no
definite form or shape that men should know it, but which is there,
and present before we have recognised and realised its existence.
Ruth was innocent and snow-pure. She had heard of falling in love,
but did not know the signs and symptoms thereof; nor, indeed, had
she troubled her head much about them. Sorrow had filled up her days,
to the exclusion of all lighter thoughts than the consideration of
present duties, and the remembrance of the happy time which had been.
But the interval of blank, after the loss of her mother and during
her father's life-in-death, had made her all the more ready to value
and cling to sympathy—first from Jenny, and now from Mr Bellingham.
To see her home again, and to see it with him; to show him (secure
of his interest) the haunts of former times, each with its little
tale of the past—of dead and gone events!—No coming shadow threw
its gloom over this week's dream of happiness—a dream which was too
bright to be spoken about to common and indifferent ears.

Sunday came, as brilliant as if there were no sorrow, or death, or
guilt in the world; a day or two of rain had made the earth fresh and
brave as the blue heavens above. Ruth thought it was too strong a
realisation of her hopes, and looked for an over-clouding at noon;
but the glory endured, and at two o'clock she was in the Leasowes,
with a beating heart full of joy, longing to stop the hours, which
would pass too quickly through the afternoon.

They sauntered through the fragrant lanes, as if their loitering
would prolong the time, and check the fiery-footed steeds galloping
apace towards the close of the happy day. It was past five o'clock
before they came to the great mill-wheel, which stood in Sabbath
idleness, motionless in a brown mass of shade, and still wet with
yesterday's immersion in the deep transparent water beneath. They
clambered the little hill, not yet fully shaded by the overarching
elms; and then Ruth checked Mr Bellingham, by a slight motion of
the hand which lay within his arm, and glanced up into his face to
see what that face should express as it looked on Milham Grange,
now lying still and peaceful in its afternoon shadows. It was a
house of after-thoughts; building materials were plentiful in the
neighbourhood, and every successive owner had found a necessity
for some addition or projection, till it was a picturesque mass of
irregularity—of broken light and shadow—which, as a whole, gave a
full and complete idea of a "Home." All its gables and nooks were
blended and held together by the tender green of the climbing roses
and young creepers. An old couple were living in the house until it
should be let, but they dwelt in the back part, and never used the
front door; so the little birds had grown tame and familiar, and
perched upon the window-sills and porch, and on the old stone cistern
which caught the water from the roof.

They went silently through the untrimmed garden, full of the
pale-coloured flowers of spring. A spider had spread her web over
the front door. The sight of this conveyed a sense of desolation to
Ruth's heart; she thought it was possible the state entrance had
never been used since her father's dead body had been borne forth,
and, without speaking a word, she turned abruptly away, and went
round the house to another door. Mr Bellingham followed without
questioning, little understanding her feelings, but full of
admiration for the varying expression called out upon her face.

The old woman had not yet returned from church, or from the weekly
gossip or neighbourly tea which succeeded. The husband sat in the
kitchen, spelling the psalms for the day in his Prayer-book, and
reading the words out aloud—a habit he had acquired from the double
solitude of his life, for he was deaf. He did not hear the quiet
entrance of the pair, and they were struck with the sort of ghostly
echo which seems to haunt half-furnished and uninhabited houses. The
verses he was reading were the following:

Why art thou so vexed, O my soul: and why art thou so
disquieted within me?

O put thy trust in God: for I will yet thank him, which is
the help of my countenance, and my God.

And when he had finished he shut the book, and sighed with the
satisfaction of having done his duty. The words of holy trust, though
perhaps they were not fully understood, carried a faithful peace
down into the depths of his soul. As he looked up, he saw the young
couple standing on the middle of the floor. He pushed his iron-rimmed
spectacles on to his forehead, and rose to greet the daughter of his
old master and ever-honoured mistress.

"God bless thee, lass; God bless thee! My old eyes are glad to see
thee again."

Ruth sprang forward to shake the horny hand stretched forward in
the action of blessing. She pressed it between both of hers, as
she rapidly poured out questions. Mr Bellingham was not altogether
comfortable at seeing one whom he had already begun to appropriate as
his own, so tenderly familiar with a hard-featured, meanly-dressed
day-labourer. He sauntered to the window, and looked out into the
grass-grown farm-yard; but he could not help overhearing some of the
conversation, which seemed to him carried on too much in the tone of
equality. "And who's yon?" asked the old labourer at last. "Is he
your sweetheart? Your missis's son, I reckon. He's a spruce young
chap, anyhow."

Mr Bellingham's "blood of all the Howards" rose and tingled about
his ears, so that he could not hear Ruth's answer. It began by "Hush,
Thomas; pray hush!" but how it went on he did not catch. The idea of
his being Mrs Mason's son! It was really too ridiculous; but, like
most things which are "too ridiculous," it made him very angry. He
was hardly himself again when Ruth shyly came to the window-recess
and asked him if he would like to see the house-place, into which
the front door entered; many people thought it very pretty, she said,
half timidly, for his face had unconsciously assumed a hard and
haughty expression, which he could not instantly soften down. He
followed her, however; but before he left the kitchen he saw the old
man standing, looking at Ruth's companion with a strange, grave air
of dissatisfaction.

They went along one or two zigzag, damp-smelling stone passages, and
then entered the house-place, or common sitting-room for a farmer's
family in that part of the country. The front door opened into it,
and several other apartments issued out of it, such as the dairy,
the state bedroom (which was half-parlour as well), and a small room
which had been appropriated to the late Mrs Hilton, where she sat,
or more frequently lay, commanding through the open door the comings
and goings of her household. In those days the house-place had been a
cheerful room, full of life, with the passing to and fro of husband,
child, and servants; with a great merry wood fire crackling and
blazing away every evening, and hardly let out in the very heat of
summer; for with the thick stone walls, and the deep window-seats,
and the drapery of vine-leaves and ivy, that room, with its
flag-floor, seemed always to want the sparkle and cheery warmth of a
fire. But now the green shadows from without seemed to have become
black in the uninhabited desolation. The oaken shovel-board, the
heavy dresser, and the carved cupboards, were now dull and damp,
which were formerly polished up to the brightness of a looking-glass
where the fire-blaze was for ever glinting; they only added to the
oppressive gloom; the flag-floor was wet with heavy moisture. Ruth
stood gazing into the room, seeing nothing of what was present. She
saw a vision of former days—an evening in the days of her childhood;
her father sitting in the "master's corner" near the fire, sedately
smoking his pipe, while he dreamily watched his wife and child; her
mother reading to her, as she sat on a little stool at her feet. It
was gone—all gone into the land of shadows; but for the moment it
seemed so present in the old room, that Ruth believed her actual life
to be the dream. Then, still silent, she went on into her mother's
parlour. But there, the bleak look of what had once been full of
peace and mother's love, struck cold on her heart. She uttered a cry,
and threw herself down by the sofa, hiding her face in her hands,
while her frame quivered with her repressed sobs.

"Dearest Ruth, don't give way so. It can do no good; it cannot bring
back the dead," said Mr Bellingham, distressed at witnessing her
distress.

"I know it cannot," murmured Ruth; "and that is why I cry. I cry
because nothing will ever bring them back again." She sobbed afresh,
but more gently, for his kind words soothed her, and softened, if
they could not take away, her sense of desolation.

"Come away; I cannot have you stay here, full of painful
associations as these rooms must be. Come"—raising her with gentle
violence—"show me your little garden you have often told me about.
Near the window of this very room, is it not? See how well I remember
everything you tell me."

He led her round through the back part of the house into the pretty
old-fashioned garden. There was a sunny border just under the
windows, and clipped box and yew-trees by the grass-plat, further
away from the house; and she prattled again of her childish
adventures and solitary plays. When they turned round they saw the
old man, who had hobbled out with the help of his stick, and was
looking at them with the same grave, sad look of anxiety.

Mr Bellingham spoke rather sharply:

"Why does that old man follow us about in that way? It is excessively
impertinent of him, I think."

"Oh, don't call old Thomas impertinent. He is so good and kind, he
is like a father to me. I remember sitting on his knee many and many
a time when I was a child, whilst he told me stories out of the
'Pilgrim's Progress.' He taught me to suck up milk through a straw.
Mamma was very fond of him too. He used to sit with us always in the
evenings when papa was away at market, for mamma was rather afraid of
having no man in the house, and used to beg old Thomas to stay; and
he would take me on his knee, and listen just as attentively as I did
while mamma read aloud."