Ruth (19 page)

When the black gown, at which she had stitched away incessantly,
was finished—when nothing remained but to rest for the next day's
journey—Ruth could not sit still. She wandered from window to
window, learning off each rock and tree by heart. Each had its tale,
which it was agony to remember; but which it would have been worse
agony to forget. The sound of running waters she heard that quiet
evening, was in her ears as she lay on her death-bed; so well had she
learnt their tune.

And now all was over. She had driven in to Llan-dhu, sitting by her
lover's side, living in the bright present, and strangely forgetful
of the past or the future; she had dreamed out her dream, and she had
awakened from the vision of love. She walked slowly and sadly down
the long hill, her tears fast falling, but as quickly wiped away;
while she strove to make steady the low quivering voice which was
often called upon to answer some remark of Miss Benson's.

They had to wait for the coach. Ruth buried her face in some flowers
which Mrs Hughes had given her on parting; and was startled when
the mail drew up with a sudden pull, which almost threw the horses
on their haunches. She was placed inside, and the coach had set
off again, before she was fully aware that Mr and Miss Benson
were travelling on the outside; but it was a relief to feel she
might now cry without exciting their notice. The shadow of a heavy
thunder-cloud was on the valley, but the little upland village church
(that showed the spot in which so much of her life had passed) stood
out clear in the sunshine. She grudged the tears that blinded her
as she gazed. There was one passenger, who tried after a while to
comfort her.

"Don't cry, miss," said the kind-hearted woman. "You're parting from
friends, maybe? Well, that's bad enough, but when you come to my age,
you'll think none of it. Why, I've three sons, and they're soldiers
and sailors, all of them—here, there, and everywhere. One is in
America, beyond seas; another is in China, making tea; and another is
at Gibraltar, three miles from Spain; and yet, you see, I can laugh
and eat and enjoy myself. I sometimes think I'll try and fret a bit,
just to make myself a better figure; but, Lord! it's no use, it's
against my nature; so I laugh and grow fat again. I'd be quite
thankful for a fit of anxiety as would make me feel easy in my
clothes, which them manty-makers will make so tight I'm fairly
throttled."

Ruth durst cry no more; it was no relief, now she was watched and
noticed, and plied with a sandwich or a gingerbread each time she
looked sad. She lay back with her eyes shut, as if asleep, and went
on, and on, the sun never seeming to move from his high place in the
sky, nor the bright hot day to show the least sign of waning. Every
now and then, Miss Benson scrambled down, and made kind inquiries of
the pale, weary Ruth; and once they changed coaches, and the fat old
lady left her with a hearty shake of the hand.

"It is not much further now," said Miss Benson, apologetically, to
Ruth. "See! we are losing sight of the Welsh mountains. We have about
eighteen miles of plain, and then we come to the moors and the rising
ground, amidst which Eccleston lies. I wish we were there, for my
brother is sadly tired."

The first wonder in Ruth's mind was, why then, if Mr Benson were so
tired, did they not stop where they were for the night; for she knew
little of the expenses of a night at an inn. The next thought was, to
beg that Mr Benson would take her place inside the coach, and allow
her to mount up by Miss Benson. She proposed this, and Miss Benson
was evidently pleased.

"Well, if you're not tired, it would make a rest and a change for
him, to be sure; and if you were by me I could show you the first
sight of Eccleston, if we reach there before it is quite dark."

So Mr Benson got down, and changed places with Ruth.

She hardly yet understood the numerous small economies which he and
his sister had to practise—the little daily self-denials,—all
endured so cheerfully, and simply, that they had almost ceased to
require an effort, and it had become natural to them to think of
others before themselves. Ruth had not understood that it was for
economy that their places had been taken on the outside of the coach,
while hers, as an invalid requiring rest, was to be the inside; and
that the biscuits which supplied the place of a dinner were, in fact,
chosen because the difference in price between the two would go a
little way towards fulfilling their plan for receiving her as an
inmate. Her thought about money had been hitherto a child's thought;
the subject had never touched her; but afterwards, when she had lived
a little with the Bensons, her eyes were opened, and she remembered
their simple kindness on the journey, and treasured the remembrance
of it in her heart.

A low grey cloud was the first sign of Eccleston; it was the smoke
of the town hanging over the plain. Beyond the place where she was
expected to believe it existed, arose round, waving uplands; nothing
to the fine outlines of the Welsh mountains, but still going up
nearer to heaven than the rest of the flat world into which she had
now entered. Rumbling stones, lamp-posts, a sudden stop, and they
were in the town of Eccleston; and a strange, uncouth voice, on the
dark side of the coach, was heard to say,

"Be ye there, measter?"

"Yes, yes!" said Miss Benson, quickly. "Did Sally send you, Ben? Get
the ostler's lantern, and look out the luggage."

Miss Benson had resumed every morsel of the briskness which she had
rather lost in the middle of the day; her foot was on her native
stones, and a very rough set they were, and she was near her home and
among known people. Even Mr Benson spoke very cheerfully to Ben, and
made many inquiries of him respecting people whose names were strange
to Ruth. She was cold, and utterly weary. She took Miss Benson's
offered arm, and could hardly drag herself as far as the little quiet
street in which Mr Benson's house was situated. The street was so
quiet that their footsteps sounded like a loud disturbance, and
announced their approach as effectually as the "trumpet's lordly
blare" did the coming of Abdallah. A door flew open, and a lighted
passage stood before them. As soon as they had entered, a stout,
elderly servant emerged from behind the door, her face radiant with
welcome.

"Eh, bless ye! are ye back again? I thought I should ha' been lost
without ye."

She gave Mr Benson a hearty shake of the hand, and kissed Miss Benson
warmly; then, turning to Ruth, she said, in a loud whisper,

"Who's yon?"

Mr Benson was silent, and walked a step onwards. Miss Benson said
boldly out,

"The lady I named in my note, Sally—Mrs Denbigh, a distant
relation."

"Aye, but you said hoo was a widow. Is this chit a widow?"

"Yes, this is Mrs Denbigh," answered Miss Benson.

"If I'd been her mother, I'd ha' given her a lollypop instead of a
husband. Hoo looks fitter for it."

"Hush! Sally, Sally! Look, there's your master trying to move that
heavy box." Miss Benson calculated well when she called Sally's
attention to her master; for it was well believed by every one, and
by Sally herself, that his deformity was owing to a fall he had had
when he was scarcely more than a baby, and entrusted to her care—a
little nurse-girl, as she then was, not many years older than
himself. For years the poor girl had cried herself to sleep on her
pallet-bed, moaning over the blight her carelessness had brought upon
her darling; nor was this self-reproach diminished by the forgiveness
of the gentle mother, from whom Thurstan Benson derived so much of
his character. The way in which comfort stole into Sally's heart was
in the gradually-formed resolution that she would never leave him nor
forsake him, but serve him faithfully all her life long; and she had
kept to her word. She loved Miss Benson, but she almost worshipped
the brother. The reverence for him was in her heart, however, and
did not always show itself in her manners. But if she scolded him
herself, she allowed no one else that privilege. If Miss Benson
differed from her brother, and ventured to think his sayings or
doings might have been improved, Sally came down upon her like a
thunder-clap.

"My goodness gracious, Master Thurstan, when will you learn to leave
off meddling with other folks' business! Here, Ben! help me up with
these trunks."

The little narrow passage was cleared, and Miss Benson took Ruth
into the sitting-room. There were only two sitting-rooms on the
ground-floor, one behind the other. Out of the back room the kitchen
opened, and for this reason the back parlour was used as the family
sitting-room; or else, being, with its garden aspect, so much
the pleasanter of the two, both Sally and Miss Benson would have
appropriated it for Mr Benson's study. As it was, the front room,
which looked to the street, was his room; and many a person coming
for help—help of which giving money was the lowest kind—was
admitted, and let forth by Mr Benson, unknown to any one else in the
house. To make amends for his having the least cheerful room on the
ground-floor, he had the garden bedroom, while his sister slept over
his study. There were two more rooms again over these, with sloping
ceilings, though otherwise large and airy. The attic looking into
the garden was the spare bedroom; while the front belonged to
Sally. There was no room over the kitchen, which was, in fact, a
supplement to the house. The sitting-room was called by the pretty,
old-fashioned name of the parlour, while Mr Benson's room was styled
the study.

The curtains were drawn in the parlour; there was a bright fire and a
clean hearth; indeed, exquisite cleanliness seemed the very spirit of
the household, for the door which was open to the kitchen showed a
delicately-white and spotless floor, and bright glittering tins, on
which the ruddy firelight danced.

From the place in which Ruth sat she could see all Sally's movements;
and though she was not conscious of close or minute observation at
the time (her body being weary, and her mind full of other thoughts),
yet it was curious how faithfully that scene remained depicted on
her memory in after years. The warm light filled every corner of the
kitchen, in strong distinction to the faint illumination of the one
candle in the parlour, whose radiance was confined, and was lost in
the dead folds of window-curtains, carpet, and furniture. The square,
stout, bustling figure, neat and clean in every respect, but dressed
in the peculiar, old-fashioned costume of the county, namely, a
dark-striped linsey-woolsey petticoat, made very short, displaying
sturdy legs in woollen stockings beneath; a loose kind of jacket
called there a "bedgown," made of pink print; a snow-white apron
and cap, both of linen, and the latter made in the shape of a
"mutch;"—these articles completed Sally's costume, and were painted
on Ruth's memory. Whilst Sally was busied in preparing tea, Miss
Benson took off Ruth's things; and the latter instinctively felt that
Sally, in the midst of her movements, was watching their proceedings.
Occasionally she also put in a word in the conversation, and these
little sentences were uttered quite in the tone of an equal, if not
of a superior. She had dropped the more formal "you," with which
at first she had addressed Miss Benson, and thou'd her quietly and
habitually.

All these particulars sank unconsciously into Ruth's mind; but they
did not rise to the surface, and become perceptible, for a length of
time. She was weary, and much depressed. Even the very kindness that
ministered to her was overpowering. But over the dark, misty moor a
little light shone,—a beacon; and on that she fixed her eyes, and
struggled out of her present deep dejection—the little child that
was coming to her!

Mr Benson was as languid and weary as Ruth, and was silent during all
this bustle and preparation. His silence was more grateful to Ruth
than Miss Benson's many words, although she felt their kindness.
After tea, Miss Benson took her upstairs to her room. The white
dimity bed, and the walls, stained green, had something of the
colouring and purity of effect of a snowdrop; while the floor, rubbed
with a mixture that turned it into a rich dark brown, suggested
the idea of the garden-mould out of which the snowdrop grows. As
Miss Benson helped the pale Ruth to undress, her voice became less
full-toned and hurried; the hush of approaching night subdued her
into a softened, solemn kind of tenderness, and the murmured blessing
sounded like granted prayer.

When Miss Benson came downstairs, she found her brother reading
some letters which had been received during his absence. She went
and softly shut the door of communication between the parlour and
the kitchen; and then, fetching a grey worsted stocking which
she was knitting, sat down near him, her eyes not looking at her
work but fixed on the fire; while the eternal rapid click of the
knitting-needles broke the silence of the room, with a sound as
monotonous and incessant as the noise of a hand-loom. She expected
him to speak, but he did not. She enjoyed an examination into, and
discussion of, her feelings; it was an interest and amusement to her,
while he dreaded and avoided all such conversation. There were times
when his feelings, which were always earnest, and sometimes morbid,
burst forth, and defied control, and overwhelmed him; when a force
was upon him compelling him to speak. But he, in general, strove to
preserve his composure, from a fear of the compelling pain of such
times, and the consequent exhaustion. His heart had been very full
of Ruth all day long, and he was afraid of his sister beginning the
subject; so he read on, or seemed to do so, though he hardly saw the
letter he held before him. It was a great relief to him when Sally
threw open the middle door with a bang, which did not indicate either
calmness of mind or sweetness of temper.