Ruth by Elizabeth Gaskell (well read books .txt) 📖

and he was proud of it. She stood in her white dress against the trees which grew around; her face was flushed into a brilliancy of colour which resembled that of a rose in June; the great, heavy, white flowers drooped on either side of her beautiful head, and if her brown hair was a little disordered, the very disorder only seemed to add a grace. She pleased him more by looking so lovely than by all her tender endeavours to fall in with his varying humour.

But when they left the wood, and Ruth had taken out her flowers, and resumed her bonnet, as they came near the inn, the simple thought of giving him pleasure was not enough to secure Ruth’s peace. She became pensive and sad, and could not rally into gaiety.

“Really, Ruth,” said he, that evening, “you must not encourage yourself in this habit of falling into melancholy reveries without any cause. You have been sighing twenty times during the last half-hour. Do be a little cheerful. Remember, I have no companion but you in this out-of-the-way place.”

“I am very sorry,” said Ruth, her eyes filling with tears; and then she remembered that it was very dull for him to be alone with her, heavy-hearted as she had been all day. She said in a sweet, penitent tone—

“Would you be so kind as to teach me one of those games at cards you were speaking about yesterday? I would do my best to learn.”

Her soft, murmuring voice won its way. They rang for the cards, and he soon forgot that there was such a thing as depression or gloom in the world, in the pleasure of teaching such a beautiful ignoramus the mysteries of card-playing.

“There!” said he, at last, “that’s enough for one lesson. Do you know, little goose, your blunders have made me laugh myself into one of the worst headaches I have had for years.”

He threw himself on the sofa, and in an instant she was by his side.

“Let me put my cool hands on your forehead,” she begged; “that used to do mamma good.”

He lay still, his face away from the light, and not speaking. Presently he fell asleep. Ruth put out the candles, and sat patiently by him for a long time, fancying he would awaken refreshed. The room grew cold in the night air; but Ruth dared not rouse him from what appeared to be sound, restoring slumber. She covered him with her shawl, which she had thrown over a chair on coming in from their twilight ramble. She had ample time to think; but she tried to banish thought. At last, his breathing became: quick and oppressed, and, after listening to it for some minutes with increasing affright, Ruth ventured to awaken him. He seemed stupefied and shivery. Ruth became more and more terrified; all the household were asleep except one servant-girl, who was wearied out of what little English she had knowledge of in more waking hours, and could only answer, “Iss, indeed, ma’am,” to any question put to her by Ruth.

She sat by the bedside all night long. He moaned and tossed, but never spoke sensibly. It was a new form of illness to the miserable Ruth. Her yesterday’s suffering went into the black distance of long-past years. The present was all in all. When she heard people stirring, she went in search of Mrs. Morgan, whose shrewd, sharp manners, unsoftened by inward respect for the poor girl, had awed Ruth even when Mr. Bellingham was by to protect her.

“Mrs. Morgan,” she said, sitting down in the little parlour appropriated to the landlady, for she felt her strength suddenly desert her—“Mrs. Morgan, I’m afraid Mr. Bellingham is very ill;”—here she burst into tears, but instantly checking herself, “Oh, what must I do?” continued she; “I don’t think he has known anything all through the night, and he looks so strange and wild this morning.”

She gazed up into Mrs. Morgan’s face, as if reading an oracle.

“Indeed, miss, ma’am, and it’s a very awkward thing. But don’t cry, that can do no good; ‘deed it can’t. I’ll go and see the poor young man myself, and then I can judge if a doctor is wanting.”

Ruth followed Mrs. Morgan upstairs. When they entered the sick-room Mr. Bellingham was sitting up in bed, looking wildly about him, and as he saw them, he exclaimed—

“Ruth! Ruth! come here; I won’t be left alone!” and then he fell down exhausted on the pillow. Mrs. Morgan went up and spoke to him, but he did not answer or take any notice.

“I’ll send for Mr. Jones, my dear, ‘deed and I will; we’ll have him here in a couple of hours, please God.”

“Oh, can’t he come sooner?” asked Ruth, wild with terror.

“‘Deed no! he lives at Llanglas when he’s at home, and that’s seven mile away, and he may be gone a round eight or nine mile on the other side Llanglas; but I’ll send a boy on the pony directly.”

Saying this, Mrs. Morgan left Ruth alone. There was nothing to be done, for Mr. Bellingham had again fallen into heavy sleep. Sounds of daily life began, bells rang, breakfast-services clattered up and down the passages, and Ruth sat on shivering by the bedside in that darkened room. Mrs. Morgan sent her breakfast upstairs by a chambermaid; but Ruth motioned it away in her sick agony, and the girl had no right to urge her to partake of it. That alone broke the monotony of the long morning. She heard the sound of merry parties setting out on excursions, on horseback or in carriages; and once, stiff and wearied, she stole to the window, and looked out on one side of the blind; but the day looked bright and discordant to her aching, anxious heart. The gloom of the darkened room was better and more befitting.

It was some hours after he was summoned before the doctor made his appearance. He questioned his patient, and, receiving no coherent answer, he asked Ruth concerning the symptoms; but when she questioned him in turn he only shook his head and looked grave. He made a sign to Mrs. Morgan to follow him out of the room, and they went down to her parlour, leaving Ruth in a depth of despair, lower than she could have thought it possible there remained for her to experience, an hour before.

“I am afraid this is a bad case,” said Mr. Jones to Mrs. Morgan in Welsh. “A brain-fever has evidently set in.”

“Poor young gentleman! poor young man! He looked the very picture of health!”

“That very appearance of robustness will, in all probability, make his disorder more violent. However, we must hope for the best, Mrs. Morgan. Who is to attend upon him? He will require careful nursing. Is that young lady his sister? She looks too young to be his wife?”

“No, indeed! Gentlemen like you must know, Mr. Jones, that we can’t always look too closely into the ways of young men who come to our houses. Not but what I am sorry for her, for she’s an innocent, inoffensive young creature. I always think it right, for my own morals, to put a little scorn into my manners when such as her come to stay here; but indeed, she’s so gentle, I’ve found it hard work to show the proper contempt.”

She would have gone on to her inattentive listener if she had not heard a low tap at the door, which recalled her from her morality, and Mr. Jones from his consideration of the necessary prescriptions.

“Come in!” said Mrs. Morgan sharply. And Ruth came in. She was white and trembling; but she stood in that dignity which strong feeling, kept down by self-command, always imparts.

“I wish you, sir, to be so kind as to tell me, clearly and distinctly, what I must do for Mr. Bellingham. Every direction you give me shall be most carefully attended to. You spoke about leeches—I can put them on, and see about them. Tell me everything, sir, that you wish to have done!”

Her manner was calm and serious, and her countenance and deportment showed that the occasion was calling out strength sufficient to meet it. Mr. Jones spoke with a deference which he had not thought of using upstairs, even while he supposed her to be the sister of the invalid. Ruth listened gravely; she repeated some of the injunctions, in order that she might be sure that she fully comprehended them, and then, bowing, left the room.

“She is no common person,” said Mr. Jones. “Still she is too young to have the responsibility of such a serious case. Have you any idea where his friends live, Mrs. Morgan?”

“Indeed and I have. His mother, as haughty a lady as you would wish to see, came travelling through Wales last year; she stopped here, and, I warrant you, nothing was good enough for her; she was real quality. She left some clothes and hooks behind her (for the maid was almost as fine as the mistress, and little thought of seeing after her lady’s clothes, having a taste for going to see scenery along with the man-servant), and we had several letters from her. I have them locked in the drawers in the bar, where I keep such things.”

“Well, I should recommend your writing to the lady, and telling her her son’s state.”

“It would be a favour, Mr. Jones, if you would just write it yourself. English writing comes so strange to my pen.”

The letter was written, and, in order to save time, Mr. Jones took it to the Llanglas post-office.