Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Ruth by Elizabeth Gaskell (well read books .txt) 📖
- Author: Elizabeth Gaskell
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“I don’t understand metaphysics.”
“I am not aware that I am talking metaphysics. I can imagine that if the present occasion be taken rightly, and used well, all that is good in her may be raised to a height unmeasured but by God; while all that is evil and dark may, by His blessing, fade and disappear in the pure light of her child’s presence.—Oh, Father! listen to my prayer, that her redemption may date from this time. Help us to speak to her in the loving spirit of thy Holy Son!”
The tears were full in his eyes; he almost trembled in his earnestness. He was faint with the strong power of his own conviction, and with his inability to move his sister. But she was shaken. She sat very still for a quarter of an hour or more while he leaned back, exhausted by his own feelings.
“The poor child!” said she at length—“the poor, poor child! what it will have to struggle through and endure! Do you remember Thomas Wilkins, and the way he threw the registry of his birth and baptism back in your face? Why, he would not have the situation; he went to sea, and was drowned, rather than present the record of his shame.”
“I do remember it all. It has often haunted me. She must strengthen her child to look to God, rather than to man’s opinion. It will be the discipline, the penance, she has incurred. She must teach it to be (humanly speaking) self-dependent.”
“But after all,” said Miss Benson (for she had known and esteemed poor Thomas Wilkins, and had mourned over his untimely death, and the recollection thereof softened her)—“after all, it might be concealed. The very child need never know its illegitimacy.”
“How?” asked her brother.
“Why—we know so little about her yet; but in that letter, it said she had no friends;—now, could she not go into quite a fresh place, and be passed off as a widow?”
Ah, tempter! unconscious tempter! Here was a way of evading the trials for the poor little unborn child, of which Mr. Benson had never thought. It was the decision—the pivot, on which the fate of years moved; and he turned it the wrong way. But it was not for his own sake. For himself, he was brave enough to tell the truth; for the little helpless baby, about to enter a cruel, biting world, he was tempted to evade the difficulty. He forgot what he had just said, of the discipline and the penance to the mother consisting in strengthening her child to meet, trustfully and bravely, the consequences of her own weakness. He remembered more clearly the wild fierceness, the Cain-like look, of Thomas Wilkins, as the obnoxious word in the baptismal registry told him that he must go forth branded into the world, with his hand against every man’s, and every man’s against him.
“How could it be managed, Faith?”
“Nay, I must know much more, which she alone can tell us, before I can see how it is to be managed. It is certainly the best plan.”
“Perhaps it is,” said her brother thoughtfully, but no longer clearly or decidedly; and so the conversation dropped.
Ruth moved the bed-curtain aside, in her soft manner, when Miss Benson re-entered the room; she did not speak, but she looked at her as if she wished her to come near. Miss Benson went and stood by her. Ruth took her hand in hers and kissed it; as if fatigued even by this slight movement, she fell asleep. Miss Benson took up her work, and thought over her brother’s speeches. She was not convinced, but she was softened and bewildered.
LOSING SIGHT OF THE WELSH MOUNTAINS
Miss Benson continued in an undecided state of mind for the two next days; but on the third, as they sat at breakfast, she began to speak to her brother.
“That young creature’s name is Ruth Hilton.”
“Indeed! how did you find it out?”
“From herself, of course. She is much stronger. I slept with her last night, and I was aware she was awake long before I liked to speak, but at last I began. I don’t know what I said, or how it went on, but I think it was a little relief to her to tell me something about herself. She sobbed and cried herself to sleep; I think she is asleep now.
“Tell me what she said about herself.”
“Oh, it was really very little; it was evidently a most painful subject. She is an orphan, without brother or sister, and with a guardian, whom, I think she said, she never saw but once. He apprenticed her (after her father’s death) to a dressmaker. This Mr. Bellingham got acquainted with her, and they used to meet on Sunday afternoons. One day they were late, lingering on the road, when the dressmaker came up by accident. She seems to have been very angry, and not unnaturally so. The girl took fright at her threats, and the lover persuaded her to go off with him to London, there and then. Last May, I think it was. That’s all.”
“Did she express any sorrow for her error?”
“No, not in words; but her voice was broken with sobs, though she tried to make it steady. After a while she began to talk about her baby, but shyly, and with much hesitation. She asked me how much I thought she could earn as a dressmaker, by working very, very hard; and that brought us round to her child. I thought of what you had said, Thurstan, and I tried to speak to her as you wished me. I am not sure if it was right; I am doubtful in my own mind still.”
“Don’t be doubtful, Faith! Dear Faith, I thank you for your kindness.”
“There is really nothing to thank me for. It is almost impossible to help being kind to her; there is something so meek and gentle about her, so patient, and so grateful!”
“What does she think of doing?”
“Poor child! she thinks of taking lodgings—very cheap ones, she says; there she means to work night and day to earn enough for her child. For she said to me; with such pretty earnestness, ‘It must never know want, whatever I do. I have deserved suffering, but it will be such a little innocent darling!’ Her utmost earnings would not be more than seven or eight shillings a week, I’m afraid; and then she is so young and so pretty!”
“There is that fifty pounds Mrs. Morgan brought me, and those two letters. Does she know about them yet?”
“No; I did not like to tell her till she is a little stronger. Oh, Thurstan! I wish there was not this prospect of a child. I cannot help it. I do—I could see a way in which we might help her, if it were not for that.”
“How do you mean?”
“Oh, it’s no use thinking of it, as it is! Or else we might have taken her home with us, and kept her till she had got a little dressmaking in the congregation, but for this meddlesome child; that spoils everything. You must let me grumble to you, Thurstan. I was very good to her, and spoke as tenderly and respectfully of the little thing as if it were the Queen’s, and born in lawful matrimony.”
“That’s right, my dear Faith! Grumble away to me, if you like. I’ll forgive you, for the kind thought of taking her home with us. But do you think her situation is an insuperable objection?”
“Why, Thurstan!—it’s so insuperable, it puts it quite out of the question.”
“How?—that’s only repeating your objection. Why is it out of the question?”
“If there had been no child coming, we might have called her by her right name—Miss Hilton; that’s one thing. Then, another is, the baby in our house. Why, Sally would go distraught!”
“Never mind Sally. If she were an orphan relation of our own, left widowed,” said he, pausing as if in doubt. “You yourself suggested she should be considered as a widow, for the child’s sake. I’m only taking up your ideas, dear Faith. I respect you for thinking of taking her home; it is just what we ought to do. Thank you for reminding me of my duty.”
“Nay, it was only a passing thought. Think of Mr. Bradshaw. Oh! I tremble at the thought of his grim displeasure.”
“We must think of a higher than Mr. Bradshaw. I own I should be a very coward if he knew. He is so severe, so inflexible. But after all he sees so little of us; he never comes to tea, you know, but is always engaged when Mrs. Bradshaw comes. I don’t think he knows of what our household consists.”
“Not know Sally? Oh yes, but he does. He asked Mrs. Bradshaw one day if she knew what wages we gave her, and said we might get a far more efficient and younger servant for the money. And, speaking about money, think what our expenses would be if we took her home for the next six months.”
That consideration was a puzzling one; and both sat silent and perplexed for a time. Miss Benson was as sorrowful as her brother, for she was becoming as anxious as he was to find it possible that her plan could be carried out.
“There’s the fifty pounds,” said he, with a sigh of reluctance at the idea.
“Yes, there’s the fifty pounds,” echoed his sister, with the same sadness in her tone. “I suppose it is hers.”
“I suppose it is; and, being so, we must not think who gave it to her. It will defray her expenses. I am very sorry, but I think we must take it.”
“It would never do to apply to him under the present circumstances,” said Miss Benson, in a hesitating manner.
“No, that we won’t,” said her brother decisively. “If she consents to let us take care of her, we will never let her stoop to request anything from him, even for his child. She can live on bread and water—we can all live on bread and water—rather than that.”
“Then I will speak to her and propose the plan. Oh, Thurstan! from a child you could persuade me to anything! I hope I am doing right. However much I oppose you at first, I am sure to yield soon; almost in proportion to my violence at first. I think I am very weak.”
“No, not in this instance. We are both right: I, in the way in which the child ought to be viewed; you, dear good Faith, for thinking of taking her home with us. God bless you, dear, for it!”
When Ruth began to sit up (and the strange, new, delicious prospect of becoming a mother seemed to give her some mysterious source of strength, so that her recovery was rapid and swift from that time), Miss Benson brought her the letters and the bank-note.
“Do you recollect receiving this letter, Ruth?” asked she, with grave gentleness. Ruth changed colour, and took it and read it again without making any reply to Miss Benson. Then she sighed, and thought a while; and then took up and read the second note—the note which Mrs. Bellingham had sent to Mr. Benson in answer to his. After that she took up the bank-note and turned it round and round, but not as if she saw it. Miss Benson noticed that her fingers trembled sadly, and that her lips were quivering for some time before she spoke.
“If you please, Miss Benson, I should like to return this
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