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

>“It must be at present,” he said, in a decided manner. “Perhaps, before long you may have some employment; perhaps it may be some time before an opportunity occurs.”

“Hush,” said Ruth; “Leonard is moving about in the parlour. I must go to him.” But when she stood up, she turned so dizzy, and tottered so much, that she was glad to sit down again immediately.

“You must rest here. I will go to him,” said Mr. Benson. He left her; and when he was gone, she leaned her head on the back of the chair, and cried quietly and incessantly; but there was a more patient, hopeful, resolved feeling in the heart, which all along, through all the tears she shed, bore her onwards to higher thoughts, until at last she rose to prayers.

Mr. Benson caught the new look of shrinking shame in Leonard’s eye, as it first sought, then shunned, meeting his. He was pained, too, by the sight of the little sorrowful, anxious face, on which, until now, hope and joy had been predominant. The constrained voice, the few words the boy spoke, when formerly there would have been a glad and free utterance—all this grieved Mr. Benson inexpressibly, as but the beginning of an unwonted mortification, which must last for years. He himself made no allusion to any unusual occurrence; he spoke of Ruth as sitting, overcome by headache, in the study for quietness: he hurried on the preparations for tea, while Leonard sat by in the great armchair, and looked on with sad, dreamy eyes. He strove to lessen the shock which he knew Leonard had received, by every mixture of tenderness and cheerfulness that Mr. Benson’s gentle heart prompted; and now and then a languid smile stole over the boy’s face. When his bedtime came, Mr. Benson told him of the hour, although he feared that Leonard would have but another sorrowful crying of himself to sleep; but he was anxious to accustom the boy to cheerful movement within the limits of domestic law, and by no disobedience to it to weaken the power of glad submission to the Supreme; to begin the new life that lay before him, where strength to look up to God as the Law-giver and Ruler of events would be pre-eminently required. When Leonard had gone upstairs, Mr. Benson went immediately to Ruth, and said—

“Ruth! Leonard is just gone up to bed,” secure in the instinct which made her silently rise, and go up to the boy—certain, too, that they would each be the other’s best comforter, and that God would strengthen each through the other. Now, for the first time, he had leisure to think of himself; and to go over all the events of the day. The half-hour of solitude in his study, that he had before his sister’s return, was of inestimable value; he had leisure to put events in their true places, as to importance and eternal significance. Miss Faith came in laden with farm produce. Her kind entertainers had brought her in their shandry to the opening of the court in which the Chapel-house stood; but she was so heavily burdened with eggs, mushrooms, and plums, that, when her brother opened the door, she was almost breathless.

“Oh, Thurstan! take this basket—it is such a weight? Oh, Sally, is that you? Here are some magnum-bonums which we must preserve to-morrow. There are guinea-fowl eggs in that basket.”

Mr. Benson let her unburden her body, and her mind too, by giving charges to Sally respecting her housekeeping treasures, before he said a word; but when she returned into the study, to tell him the small pieces of intelligence respecting her day at the farm, she stood aghast.

“Why, Thurstan, dear! What’s the matter? Is your back hurting you?”

He smiled to reassure her; but it was a sickly and forced smile.

“No, Faith! I am quite well, only rather out of spirits, and wanting to talk to you to cheer me.”

Miss Faith sat down, straight, sitting bolt-upright to listen the better.

“I don’t know how, but the real story about Ruth is found out.”

“Oh, Thurstan!” exclaimed Miss Benson, turning quite white.

For a moment, neither of them said another word. Then she went on—

“Does Mr. Bradshaw know?”

“Yes! He sent for me, and told me.”

“Does Ruth know that it has all come out?”

“Yes. And Leonard knows.”

“How? Who told him?”

“I do not know. I have asked no questions. But of course it was his mother.”

“She was very foolish and cruel, then,” said Miss Benson, her eyes blazing, and her lips trembling, at the thought of the suffering her darling boy must have gone through.

“I think she was wise. I am sure it was not cruel. He must have soon known that there was some mystery, and it was better that it should be told him openly and quietly by his mother than by a stranger.”

“How could she tell him quietly?” asked Miss Benson still indignant.

“Well! perhaps I used the wrong word—of course no one was by—and I don’t suppose even they themselves could now tell how it was told, or in what spirit it was borne.”

Miss Benson was silent again.

“Was Mr. Bradshaw very angry?”

“Yes, very; and justly so. I did very wrong in making that false statement at first.”

“No! I am sure you did not,” said Miss Faith. “Ruth has had some years of peace, in which to grow stronger and wiser, so that she can bear her shame now in a way she never could have done at first.”

“All the same it was wrong in me to do what I did.”

“I did it too, as much or more than you. And I don’t think it wrong. I’m certain it was quite right, and I would do just the same again.”

“Perhaps it has not done you the harm it has done me.”

“Nonsense! Thurstan. Don’t be morbid. I’m sure you are as good—and better than ever you were.”

“No, I am not. I have got what you call morbid, just in consequence of the sophistry by which I persuaded myself that wrong could be right. I torment myself. I have lost my clear instincts of conscience. Formerly, if I believed that such or such an action was according to the will of God, I went and did it, or at least I tried to do it, without thinking of consequences. Now, I reason and weigh what will happen if I do so and so—I grope where formerly I saw. Oh, Faith! it is such a relief to me to have the truth known, that I am afraid I have not been sufficiently sympathising with Ruth.”

“Poor Ruth!” said Miss Benson. “But at any rate our telling a lie has been the saving of her. There is no fear of her going wrong now.”

“God’s omnipotence did not need our sin.”

They did not speak for some time.

“You have not told me what Mr. Bradshaw said.”

“One can’t remember the exact words that are spoken on either side in moments of such strong excitement. He was very angry, and said some things about me that were very just, and some about Ruth that were very hard. His last words were that he should give up coming to chapel.”

“Oh, Thurstan! did it come to that?”

“Yes.”

“Does Ruth know all he said?”

“No! Why should she? I don’t know if she knows he has spoken to me at all. Poor creature! she had enough to craze her almost without that! She was for going away and leaving us, that we might not share in her disgrace. I was afraid of her being quite delirious. I did so want you, Faith! However, I did the best I could; I spoke to her very coldly, and almost sternly, all the while my heart was bleeding for her. I dared not give her sympathy; I tried to give her strength. But I did so want you, Faith.”

“And I was so full of enjoyment, I am ashamed to think of it. But the Dawsons are so kind—and the day was so fine–-Where is Ruth now?”

“With Leonard. He is her great earthly motive—I thought that being with him would be best. But he must be in bed and asleep now.”

“I will go up to her,” said Miss Faith.

She found Ruth keeping watch by Leonard’s troubled sleep; but when she saw Miss Faith she rose up, and threw herself on her neck and clung to her, without speaking. After a while Miss Benson said—

“You must go to bed, Ruth!” So, after she had kissed the sleeping boy, Miss Benson led her away, and helped to undress her, and brought her up a cup of soothing violet-tea—not so soothing as tender actions and soft, loving tones.