Ruth (48 page)

"Now, don't let me hear you speak so," said Mr Bradshaw, blazing
up. "I can't stand it. It is too much to talk in that way when the
usefulness was to consist in contaminating my innocent girls."

"God knows that if I had believed there had been any danger of such
contamination—God knows how I would have died sooner than have
allowed her to enter your family. Mr Bradshaw, you believe me, don't
you?" asked Mr Benson, earnestly.

"I really must be allowed the privilege of doubting what you say in
future," said Mr Bradshaw, in a cold, contemptuous manner.

"I have deserved this," Mr Benson replied. "But," continued he, after
a moment's pause, "I will not speak of myself, but of Ruth. Surely,
sir, the end I aimed at (the means I took to obtain it were wrong;
you cannot feel that more than I do) was a right one; and you
will not—you cannot say, that your children have suffered from
associating with her. I had her in my family, under the watchful eyes
of three anxious persons for a year or more; we saw faults—no human
being is without them—and poor Ruth's were but slight venial errors;
but we saw no sign of a corrupt mind—no glimpse of boldness or
forwardness—no token of want of conscientiousness; she seemed, and
was, a young and gentle girl, who had been led astray before she
fairly knew what life was."

"I suppose most depraved women have been innocent in their time,"
said Mr Bradshaw, with bitter contempt.

"Oh, Mr Bradshaw! Ruth was not depraved, and you know it. You cannot
have seen her—have known her daily, all these years, without
acknowledging that!" Mr Benson was almost breathless, awaiting Mr
Bradshaw's answer. The quiet self-control which he had maintained so
long, was gone now.

"I saw her daily—I did
not
know her. If I had known her, I should
have known she was fallen and depraved, and consequently not fit to
come into my house, nor to associate with my pure children."

"Now I wish God would give me power to speak out convincingly what
I believe to be His truth, that not every woman who has fallen is
depraved; that many—how many the Great Judgment Day will reveal
to those who have shaken off the poor, sore, penitent hearts on
earth—many, many crave and hunger after a chance for virtue—the
help which no man gives to them—help—that gentle, tender help which
Jesus gave once to Mary Magdalen." Mr Benson was almost choked by his
own feelings.

"Come, come, Mr Benson, let us have no more of this morbid way of
talking. The world has decided how such women are to be treated; and,
you may depend upon it, there is so much practical wisdom in the
world that its way of acting is right in the long run, and that no
one can fly in its face with impunity, unless, indeed, they stoop to
deceit and imposition."

"I take my stand with Christ against the world," said Mr Benson,
solemnly, disregarding the covert allusion to himself. "What have the
world's ways ended in? Can we be much worse than we are?"

"Speak for yourself, if you please."

"Is it not time to change some of our ways of thinking and acting? I
declare before God, that if I believe in any one human truth, it is
this—that to every woman who, like Ruth, has sinned, should be given
a chance of self-redemption—and that such a chance should be given
in no supercilious or contemptuous manner, but in the spirit of the
holy Christ."

"Such as getting her into a friend's house under false colours."

"I do not argue on Ruth's case. In that I have acknowledged my error.
I do not argue on any case. I state my firm belief, that it is God's
will that we should not dare to trample any of His creatures down
to the hopeless dust; that it is God's will that the women who have
fallen should be numbered among those who have broken hearts to be
bound up, not cast aside as lost beyond recall. If this be God's
will, as a thing of God it will stand; and He will open a way."

"I should have attached much more importance to all your exhortation
on this point if I could have respected your conduct in other
matters. As it is, when I see a man who has deluded himself into
considering falsehood right, I am disinclined to take his opinion on
subjects connected with morality; and I can no longer regard him as
a fitting exponent of the will of God. You perhaps understand what I
mean, Mr Benson. I can no longer attend your chapel."

If Mr Benson had felt any hope of making Mr Bradshaw's obstinate
mind receive the truth, that he acknowledged and repented of his
connivance at the falsehood by means of which Ruth had been received
into the Bradshaw family, this last sentence prevented his making the
attempt. He simply bowed and took his leave—Mr Bradshaw attending
him to the door with formal ceremony.

He felt acutely the severance of the tie which Mr Bradshaw had just
announced to him. He had experienced many mortifications in his
intercourse with that gentleman, but they had fallen off from
his meek spirit like drops of water from a bird's plumage; and
now he only remembered the acts of substantial kindness rendered
(the ostentation all forgotten)—many happy hours and pleasant
evenings—the children whom he had loved dearer than he thought
till now—the young people about whom he had cared, and whom he had
striven to lead aright. He was but a young man when Mr Bradshaw
first came to his chapel; they had grown old together; he had never
recognised Mr Bradshaw as an old familiar friend so completely as now
when they were severed.

It was with a heavy heart that he opened his own door. He went to his
study immediately; he sat down to steady himself into his position.

How long he was there—silent and alone—reviewing his
life—confessing his sins—he did not know; but he heard some unusual
sound in the house that disturbed him—roused him to present life.
A slow, languid step came along the passage to the front door—the
breathing was broken by many sighs.

Ruth's hand was on the latch when Mr Benson came out. Her face
was very white, except two red spots on each cheek—her eyes were
deep-sunk and hollow, but glittered with feverish lustre. "Ruth!"
exclaimed he. She moved her lips, but her throat and mouth were too
dry for her to speak.

"Where are you going?" asked he; for she had all her walking things
on, yet trembled so, even as she stood, that it was evident she could
not walk far without falling.

She hesitated—she looked up at him, still with the same dry
glittering eyes. At last she whispered (for she could only speak in a
whisper), "To Helmsby—I am going to Helmsby."

"Helmsby! my poor girl—may God have mercy upon you!" for he saw she
hardly knew what she was saying. "Where is Helmsby?"

"I don't know. In Lincolnshire, I think."

"But why are you going there?"

"Hush! he's asleep," said she, as Mr Benson had unconsciously raised
his voice.

"Who is asleep?" asked Mr Benson.

"That poor little boy," said she, beginning to quiver and cry.

"Come here!" said he, authoritatively, drawing her into the study.

"Sit down in that chair. I will come back directly."

He went in search of his sister, but she had not returned. Then he
had recourse to Sally, who was as busy as ever about her cleaning.

"How long has Ruth been at home?" asked he.

"Ruth! She has never been at home sin' morning. She and Leonard were
to be off for the day somewhere or other with them Bradshaw girls."

"Then she has had no dinner?"

"Not here, at any rate. I can't answer for what she may have done at
other places."

"And Leonard—where is he?"

"How should I know? With his mother, I suppose. Leastways, that was
what was fixed on. I've enough to do of my own, without routing after
other folks."

She went on scouring in no very good temper. Mr Benson stood silent
for a moment.

"Sally," he said, "I want a cup of tea. Will you make it as soon as
you can; and some dry toast too? I'll come for it in ten minutes."

Struck by something in his voice, she looked up at him for the first
time.

"What ha' ye been doing to yourself, to look so grim and grey? Tiring
yourself all to tatters, looking after some naught, I'll be bound!
Well! well! I mun make ye your tea, I reckon; but I did hope as you
grew older you'd ha' grown wiser!"

Mr Benson made no reply, but went to look for Leonard, hoping that
the child's presence might bring back to his mother the power of
self-control. He opened the parlour-door, and looked in, but saw no
one. Just as he was shutting it, however, he heard a deep, broken,
sobbing sigh; and, guided by the sound, he found the boy lying on the
floor, fast asleep, but with his features all swollen and disfigured
by passionate crying.

"Poor child! This was what she meant, then," thought Mr Benson. "He
has begun his share of the sorrows too," he continued, pitifully.
"No! I will not waken him back to consciousness." So he returned
alone into the study. Ruth sat where he had placed her, her head bent
back, and her eyes shut. But when he came in she started up.

"I must be going," she said, in a hurried way.

"Nay, Ruth, you must not go. You must not leave us. We cannot do
without you. We love you too much."

"Love me!" said she, looking at him wistfully. As she looked, her
eyes filled slowly with tears. It was a good sign, and Mr Benson took
heart to go on.

"Yes! Ruth. You know we do. You may have other things to fill up your
mind just now, but you know we love you; and nothing can alter our
love for you. You ought not to have thought of leaving us. You would
not, if you had been quite well."

"Do you know what has happened?" she asked, in a low, hoarse voice.

"Yes. I know all," he answered. "It makes no difference to us. Why
should it?"

"Oh! Mr Benson, don't you know that my shame is discovered?" she
replied, bursting into tears—"and I must leave you, and leave
Leonard, that you may not share in my disgrace."

"You must do no such thing. Leave Leonard! You have no right to leave
Leonard. Where could you go to?"

"To Helmsby," she said, humbly. "It would break my heart to go, but
I think I ought, for Leonard's sake. I know I ought." She was crying
sadly by this time, but Mr Benson knew the flow of tears would ease
her brain. "It will break my heart to go, but I know I must."

"Sit still here at present," said he, in a decided tone of command.
He went for the cup of tea. He brought it to her without Sally's
being aware for whom it was intended.

"Drink this!" He spoke as you would do to a child, if desiring it
to take medicine. "Eat some toast." She took the tea, and drank it
feverishly; but when she tried to eat, the food seemed to choke her.
Still she was docile, and she tried.

"I cannot," said she at last, putting down the piece of toast. There
was a return to something of her usual tone in the words. She spoke
gently and softly; no longer in the shrill, hoarse voice she had used
at first. Mr Benson sat down by her.

"Now, Ruth, we must talk a little together. I want to understand what
your plan was. Where is Helmsby? Why did you fix to go there?"

"It is where my mother lived," she answered. "Before she was married
she lived there; and wherever she lived, the people all loved her
dearly; and I thought—I think, that for her sake some one would give
me work. I meant to tell them the truth," said she, dropping her
eyes; "but still they would, perhaps, give me some employment—I
don't care what—for her sake. I could do many things," said she,
suddenly looking up. "I am sure I could weed—I could in gardens—if
they did not like to have me in their houses. But perhaps some one,
for my mother's sake—oh! my dear, dear mother!—do you know where
and what I am?" she cried out, sobbing afresh.

Mr Benson's heart was very sore, though he spoke authoritatively, and
almost sternly.

"Ruth! you must be still and quiet. I cannot have this. I want you
to listen to me. Your thought of Helmsby would be a good one, if it
was right for you to leave Eccleston; but I do not think it is. I
am certain of this, that it would be a great sin in you to separate
yourself from Leonard. You have no right to sever the tie by which
God has bound you together."

"But if I am here they will all know and remember the shame of his
birth; and if I go away they may forget—"

"And they may not. And if you go away, he may be unhappy or ill; and
you, who above all others have—and have from God—remember
that
,
Ruth!—the power to comfort him, the tender patience to nurse him,
have left him to the care of strangers. Yes; I know! But we ourselves
are as strangers, dearly as we love him, compared to a mother. He may
turn to sin, and want the long forbearance, the serene authority of
a parent; and where are you? No dread of shame, either for yourself,
or even for him, can ever make it right for you to shake off your
responsibility." All this time he was watching her narrowly, and saw
her slowly yield herself up to the force of what he was saying.

"Besides, Ruth," he continued, "we have gone on falsely hitherto. It
has been my doing, my mistake, my sin. I ought to have known better.
Now, let us stand firm on the truth. You have no new fault to repent
of. Be brave and faithful. It is to God you answer, not to men. The
shame of having your sin known to the world, should be as nothing to
the shame you felt at having sinned. We have dreaded men too much,
and God too little, in the course we have taken. But now be of good
cheer. Perhaps you will have to find your work in the world very
low—not quite working in the fields," said he, with a gentle smile,
to which she, downcast and miserable, could give no response. "Nay,
perhaps, Ruth," he went on, "you may have to stand and wait for some
time; no one may be willing to use the services you would gladly
render; all may turn aside from you, and may speak very harshly of
you. Can you accept all this treatment meekly, as but the reasonable
and just penance God has laid upon you—feeling no anger against
those who slight you, no impatience for the time to come (and come it
surely will—I speak as having the word of God for what I say) when
He, having purified you, even as by fire, will make a straight path
for your feet? My child, it is Christ the Lord who has told us of
this infinite mercy of God. Have you faith enough in it to be brave,
and bear on, and do rightly in patience and in tribulation?"