E-text prepared by Charles Aldarondo
and revised by Joseph E. Loewenstein, M.D.
RUTH
by
ELIZABETH GASKELL
First published in book form by Chapman and Hall in 1853
CONTENTS
I. The Dressmaker's Apprentice at Work
II. Ruth Goes to the Shire-Hall
III. Sunday at Mrs Mason's
IV. Treading in Perilous Places
V. In North Wales
VI. Troubles Gather About Ruth
VII. The Crisis--Watching and Waiting
VIII. Mrs Bellingham "Does the Thing Handsomely"
IX. The Storm-Spirit Subdued
X. A Note and the Answer
XI. Thurstan and Faith Benson
XII. Losing Sight of the Welsh Mountains
XIII. The Dissenting Minister's Household
XIV. Ruth's First Sunday at Eccleston
XV. Mother and Child
XVI. Sally Tells of Her Sweethearts, and Discourses
on the Duties of Life
XVII. Leonard's Christening
XVIII. Ruth Becomes a Governess in Mr Bradshaw's Family
XIX. After Five Years
XX. Jemima Refuses to Be Managed
XXI. Mr Farquhar's Attentions Transferred
XXII. The Liberal Candidate and His Precursor
XXIII. Recognition
XXIV. The Meeting on the Sands
XXV. Jemima Makes a Discovery
XXVI. Mr Bradshaw's Virtuous Indignation
XXVII. Preparing to Stand on the Truth
XXVIII. An Understanding Between Lovers
XXIX. Sally Takes Her Money Out of the Bank
XXX. The Forged Deed
XXXI. An Accident to the Dover Coach
XXXII. The Bradshaw Pew Again Occupied
XXXIII. A Mother to Be Proud Of
XXXIV. "I Must Go and Nurse Mr Bellingham"
XXXV. Out of Darkness into Light
XXXVI. The End
Drop, drop, slow tears!
And bathe those beauteous feet,
Which brought from heaven
The news and Prince of peace.
Cease not, wet eyes,
For mercy to entreat:
To cry for vengeance
Sin doth never cease.
In your deep floods
Drown all my faults and fears;
Nor let His eye
See sin, but through my tears.
_Phineas Fletcher_
CHAPTER I
The Dressmaker's Apprentice at Work
There is an assize-town in one of the eastern counties which was much
distinguished by the Tudor sovereigns, and, in consequence of their
favour and protection, attained a degree of importance that surprises
the modern traveller.
A hundred years ago its appearance was that of picturesque grandeur.
The old houses, which were the temporary residences of such of the
county-families as contented themselves with the gaieties of a
provincial town, crowded the streets and gave them the irregular but
noble appearance yet to be seen in the cities of Belgium. The sides
of the streets had a quaint richness, from the effect of the gables,
and the stacks of chimneys which cut against the blue sky above;
while, if the eye fell lower down, the attention was arrested by all
kinds of projections in the shape of balcony and oriel; and it was
amusing to see the infinite variety of windows that had been crammed
into the walls long before Mr Pitt's days of taxation. The streets
below suffered from all these projections and advanced stories above;
they were dark, and ill-paved with large, round, jolting pebbles, and
with no side-path protected by kerb-stones; there were no lamp-posts
for long winter nights; and no regard was paid to the wants of the
middle class, who neither drove about in coaches of their own, nor
were carried by their own men in their own sedans into the very
halls of their friends. The professional men and their wives, the
shopkeepers and their spouses, and all such people, walked about at
considerable peril both night and day. The broad unwieldy carriages
hemmed them up against the houses in the narrow streets. The
inhospitable houses projected their flights of steps almost into the
carriage-way, forcing pedestrians again into the danger they had
avoided for twenty or thirty paces. Then, at night, the only light
was derived from the glaring, flaring oil-lamps hung above the doors
of the more aristocratic mansions; just allowing space for the
passers-by to become visible, before they again disappeared into the
darkness, where it was no uncommon thing for robbers to be in waiting
for their prey.
The traditions of those bygone times, even to the smallest social
particular, enable one to understand more clearly the circumstances
which contributed to the formation of character. The daily life
into which people are born, and into which they are absorbed before
they are well aware, forms chains which only one in a hundred has
moral strength enough to despise, and to break when the right time
comes--when an inward necessity for independent individual action
arises, which is superior to all outward conventionalities. Therefore
it is well to know what were the chains of daily domestic habit which
were the natural leading-strings of our forefathers before they
learnt to go alone.
The picturesqueness of those ancient streets has departed now.
The Astleys, the Dunstans, the Waverhams--names of power in that
district--go up duly to London in the season, and have sold their
residences in the county-town fifty years ago, or more. And when the
county-town lost its attraction for the Astleys, the Dunstans, the
Waverhams, how could it be supposed that the Domvilles, the Bextons,
and the Wildes would continue to go and winter there in their
second-rate houses, and with their increased expenditure? So the
grand old houses stood empty awhile; and then speculators ventured
to purchase, and to turn the deserted mansions into many smaller
dwellings, fitted for professional men, or even (bend your ear lower,
lest the shade of Marmaduke, first Baron Waverham, hear) into shops!
Even that was not so very bad, compared with the next innovation on
the old glories. The shopkeepers found out that the once fashionable
street was dark, and that the dingy light did not show off their
goods to advantage; the surgeon could not see to draw his patient's
teeth; the lawyer had to ring for candles an hour earlier than he was
accustomed to do when living in a more plebeian street. In short, by
mutual consent, the whole front of one side of the street was pulled
down, and rebuilt in the flat, mean, unrelieved style of George the
Third. The body of the houses was too solidly grand to submit to
alteration; so people were occasionally surprised, after passing
through a commonplace-looking shop, to find themselves at the foot of
a grand carved oaken staircase, lighted by a window of stained glass,
storied all over with armorial bearings.
Up such a stair--past such a window (through which the moonlight fell
on her with a glory of many colours)--Ruth Hilton passed wearily one
January night, now many years ago. I call it night; but, strictly
speaking, it was morning. Two o'clock in the morning chimed forth
the old bells of St Saviour's. And yet more than a dozen girls still
sat in the room into which Ruth entered, stitching away as if for
very life, not daring to gape, or show any outward manifestation of
sleepiness. They only sighed a little when Ruth told Mrs Mason the
hour of the night, as the result of her errand; for they knew that,
stay up as late as they might, the work-hours of the next day must
begin at eight, and their young limbs were very weary.
Mrs Mason worked away as hard as any of them; but she was older and
tougher; and, besides, the gains were hers. But even she perceived
that some rest was needed. "Young ladies! there will be an interval
allowed of half an hour. Ring the bell, Miss Sutton. Martha shall
bring you up some bread and cheese and beer. You will be so good as
to eat it standing--away from the dresses--and to have your hands
washed ready for work when I return. In half an hour," said she once
more, very distinctly; and then she left the room.
It was curious to watch the young girls as they instantaneously
availed themselves of Mrs Mason's absence. One fat, particularly
heavy-looking damsel laid her head on her folded arms and was asleep
in a moment; refusing to be wakened for her share in the frugal
supper, but springing up with a frightened look at the sound of
Mrs Mason's returning footstep, even while it was still far off on
the echoing stairs. Two or three others huddled over the scanty
fireplace, which, with every possible economy of space, and no
attempt whatever at anything of grace or ornament, was inserted in
the slight, flat-looking wall, that had been run up by the present
owner of the property to portion off this division of the grand old
drawing-room of the mansion. Some employed the time in eating their
bread and cheese, with as measured and incessant a motion of the jaws
(and almost as stupidly placid an expression of countenance), as you
may see in cows ruminating in the first meadow you happen to pass.
Some held up admiringly the beautiful ball-dress in progress, while
others examined the effect, backing from the object to be criticised
in the true artistic manner. Others stretched themselves into all
sorts of postures to relieve the weary muscles; one or two gave vent
to all the yawns, coughs, and sneezes that had been pent up so long
in the presence of Mrs Mason. But Ruth Hilton sprang to the large old
window, and pressed against it as a bird presses against the bars of
its cage. She put back the blind, and gazed into the quiet moonlight
night. It was doubly light--almost as much so as day--for everything
was covered with the deep snow which had been falling silently ever
since the evening before. The window was in a square recess; the old
strange little panes of glass had been replaced by those which gave
more light. A little distance off, the feathery branches of a larch
waved softly to and fro in the scarcely perceptible night-breeze.
Poor old larch! the time had been when it had stood in a pleasant
lawn, with the tender grass creeping caressingly up to its very
trunk; but now the lawn was divided into yards and squalid
back premises, and the larch was pent up and girded about with
flag-stones. The snow lay thick on its boughs, and now and then fell
noiselessly down. The old stables had been added to, and altered into
a dismal street of mean-looking houses, back to back with the ancient
mansions. And over all these changes from grandeur to squalor, bent
down the purple heavens with their unchanging splendour!
Ruth pressed her hot forehead against the cold glass, and strained
her aching eyes in gazing out on the lovely sky of a winter's night.
The impulse was strong upon her to snatch up a shawl, and wrapping it
round her head, to sally forth and enjoy the glory; and time was when
that impulse would have been instantly followed; but now, Ruth's eyes
filled with tears, and she stood quite still, dreaming of the days
that were gone. Some one touched her shoulder while her thoughts were
far away, remembering past January nights, which had resembled this,
and were yet so different.
"Ruth, love," whispered a girl who had unwillingly distinguished
herself by a long hard fit of coughing, "come and have some supper.
You don't know yet how it helps one through the night."
"One run--one blow of the fresh air would do me more good," said
Ruth.
"Not such a night as this," replied the other, shivering at the very
thought.
"And why not such a night as this, Jenny?" answered Ruth. "Oh! at
home I have many a time run up the lane all the way to the mill, just
to see the icicles hang on the great wheel; and when I was once out,
I could hardly find in my heart to come in, even to mother, sitting
by the fire;--even to mother," she added, in a low, melancholy tone,
which had something of inexpressible sadness in it. "Why, Jenny!"
said she, rousing herself, but not before her eyes were swimming
with tears, "own, now, that you never saw those dismal, hateful,
tumble-down old houses there look half so--what shall I call them?
almost beautiful--as they do now, with that soft, pure, exquisite
covering; and if they are so improved, think of what trees, and
grass, and ivy must be on such a night as this."
Jenny could not be persuaded into admiring the winter's night, which
to her came only as a cold and dismal time, when her cough was more
troublesome, and the pain in her side worse than usual. But she put
her arm round Ruth's neck, and stood by her, glad that the orphan
apprentice, who was not yet inured to the hardship of a dressmaker's
workroom, should find so much to give her pleasure in such a common
occurrence as a frosty night.
They remained deep in separate trains of thought till Mrs Mason's
step was heard, when each returned, supperless but refreshed, to her
seat.
Ruth's place was the coldest and the darkest in the room, although
she liked it the best; she had instinctively chosen it for the sake
of the wall opposite to her, on which was a remnant of the beauty
of the old drawing-room, which must once have been magnificent, to
judge from the faded specimen left. It was divided into panels of
pale sea-green, picked out with white and gold; and on these panels
were painted--were thrown with the careless, triumphant hand of a
master--the most lovely wreaths of flowers, profuse and luxuriant
beyond description, and so real-looking, that you could almost
fancy you smelt their fragrance, and heard the south wind go softly
rustling in and out among the crimson roses--the branches of purple
and white lilac--the floating golden-tressed laburnum boughs.
Besides these, there were stately white lilies, sacred to the
Virgin--hollyhocks, fraxinella, monk's-hood, pansies, primroses;
every flower which blooms profusely in charming old-fashioned country
gardens was there, depicted among its graceful foliage, but not in
the wild disorder in which I have enumerated them. At the bottom of
the panel lay a holly-branch, whose stiff straightness was ornamented
by a twining drapery of English ivy and mistletoe and winter aconite;
while down either side hung pendant garlands of spring and autumn
flowers; and, crowning all, came gorgeous summer with the sweet
musk-roses, and the rich-coloured flowers of June and July.
Surely Monnoyer, or whoever the dead and gone artist might be, would
have been gratified to know the pleasure his handiwork, even in its
wane, had power to give to the heavy heart of a young girl; for they
conjured up visions of other sister-flowers that grew, and blossomed,
and withered away in her early home.
Mrs Mason was particularly desirous that her workwomen should exert
themselves to-night, for, on the next, the annual hunt-ball was to
take place. It was the one gaiety of the town since the assize-balls
had been discontinued. Many were the dresses she had promised should
be sent home "without fail" the next morning; she had not let one
slip through her fingers, for fear, if it did, it might fall into the
hands of the rival dressmaker, who had just established herself in
the very same street.
She determined to administer a gentle stimulant to the flagging
spirits, and with a little preliminary cough to attract attention,
she began:
"I may as well inform you, young ladies, that I have been requested
this year, as on previous occasions, to allow some of my young people
to attend in the ante-chamber of the assembly-room with sandal
ribbon, pins, and such little matters, and to be ready to repair any
accidental injury to the ladies' dresses. I shall send four--of the
most diligent." She laid a marked emphasis on the last words, but
without much effect; they were too sleepy to care for any of the
pomps and vanities, or, indeed, for any of the comforts of this
world, excepting one sole thing--their beds.
Mrs Mason was a very worthy woman, but, like many other worthy women,
she had her foibles; and one (very natural to her calling) was to
pay an extreme regard to appearances. Accordingly, she had already
selected in her own mind the four girls who were most likely to do
credit to the "establishment;" and these were secretly determined
upon, although it was very well to promise the reward to the most
diligent. She was really not aware of the falseness of this conduct;
being an adept in that species of sophistry with which people
persuade themselves that what they wish to do is right.
At last there was no resisting the evidence of weariness. They were
told to go to bed; but even that welcome command was languidly
obeyed. Slowly they folded up their work, heavily they moved about,
until at length all was put away, and they trooped up the wide, dark
staircase.
"Oh! how shall I get through five years of these terrible nights! in
that close room! and in that oppressive stillness! which lets every
sound of the thread be heard as it goes eternally backwards and
forwards," sobbed out Ruth, as she threw herself on her bed, without
even undressing herself.
"Nay, Ruth, you know it won't be always as it has been to-night. We
often get to bed by ten o'clock; and by-and-by you won't mind the
closeness of the room. You're worn out to-night, or you would not
have minded the sound of the needle; I never hear it. Come, let me
unfasten you," said Jenny.
"What is the use of undressing? We must be up again and at work in
three hours."
"And in those three hours you may get a great deal of rest, if you
will but undress yourself and fairly go to bed. Come, love."
Jenny's advice was not resisted; but before Ruth went to sleep, she
said:
"Oh! I wish I was not so cross and impatient. I don't think I used to
be."
"No, I am sure not. Most new girls get impatient at first; but it
goes off, and they don't care much for anything after awhile. Poor
child! she's asleep already," said Jenny to herself.
She could not sleep or rest. The tightness at her side was worse than
usual. She almost thought she ought to mention it in her letters
home; but then she remembered the premium her father had struggled
hard to pay, and the large family, younger than herself, that had to
be cared for, and she determined to bear on, and trust that when the
warm weather came both the pain and the cough would go away. She
would be prudent about herself.
What was the matter with Ruth? She was crying in her sleep as if her
heart would break. Such agitated slumber could be no rest; so Jenny
wakened her.
"Ruth! Ruth!"
"Oh, Jenny!" said Ruth, sitting up in bed, and pushing back the
masses of hair that were heating her forehead, "I thought I saw mamma
by the side of the bed, coming, as she used to do, to see if I were
asleep and comfortable; and when I tried to take hold of her, she
went away and left me alone--I don't know where; so strange!"
"It was only a dream; you know you'd been talking about her to me,
and you're feverish with sitting up late. Go to sleep again, and I'll
watch, and waken you if you seem uneasy."
"But you'll be so tired. Oh, dear! dear!" Ruth was asleep again, even
while she sighed.
Morning came, and though their rest had been short, the girls arose
refreshed.
"Miss Sutton, Miss Jennings, Miss Booth, and Miss Hilton, you will
see that you are ready to accompany me to the shire-hall by eight
o'clock."
One or two of the girls looked astonished, but the majority,
having anticipated the selection, and knowing from experience the
unexpressed rule by which it was made, received it with the sullen
indifference which had become their feeling with regard to most
events--a deadened sense of life, consequent upon their unnatural
mode of existence, their sedentary days, and their frequent nights of
late watching.
But to Ruth it was inexplicable. She had yawned, and loitered, and
looked off at the beautiful panel, and lost herself in thoughts of
home, until she fully expected the reprimand which at any other time
she would have been sure to receive, and now, to her surprise, she
was singled out as one of the most diligent!
Much as she longed for the delight of seeing the noble
shire-hall--the boast of the county--and of catching glimpses of the
dancers, and hearing the band; much as she longed for some variety to
the dull, monotonous life she was leading, she could not feel happy
to accept a privilege, granted, as she believed, in ignorance of the
real state of the case; so she startled her companions by rising
abruptly and going up to Mrs Mason, who was finishing a dress which
ought to have been sent home two hours before:
"If you please, Mrs Mason, I was not one of the most diligent; I am
afraid--I believe--I was not diligent at all. I was very tired; and
I could not help thinking, and when I think, I can't attend to my
work." She stopped, believing she had sufficiently explained her
meaning; but Mrs Mason would not understand, and did not wish for any
further elucidation.
"Well, my dear, you must learn to think and work too; or, if you
can't do both, you must leave off thinking. Your guardian, you know,
expects you to make great progress in your business, and I am sure
you won't disappoint him."
But that was not to the point. Ruth stood still an instant, although
Mrs Mason resumed her employment in a manner which any one but a "new
girl" would have known to be intelligible enough, that she did not
wish for any more conversation just then.
"But as I was not diligent I ought not to go, ma'am. Miss Wood was
far more industrious than I, and many of the others."
"Tiresome girl!" muttered Mrs Mason; "I've half a mind to keep her
at home for plaguing me so." But, looking up, she was struck afresh
with the remarkable beauty which Ruth possessed; such a credit to the
house, with her waving outline of figure, her striking face, with
dark eyebrows and dark lashes, combined with auburn hair and a fair
complexion. No! diligent or idle, Ruth Hilton must appear to-night.
"Miss Hilton," said Mrs Mason, with stiff dignity, "I am not
accustomed (as these young ladies can tell you) to have my decisions
questioned. What I say, I mean; and I have my reasons. So sit down,
if you please, and take care and be ready by eight. Not a word more,"
as she fancied she saw Ruth again about to speak.
"Jenny! you ought to have gone, not me," said Ruth, in no low voice
to Miss Wood, as she sat down by her.
"Hush! Ruth. I could not go if I might, because of my cough. I would
rather give it up to you than any one, if it were mine to give. And
suppose it is, and take the pleasure as my present, and tell me every
bit about it when you come home to-night."
"Well! I shall take it in that way, and not as if I'd earned it,
which I haven't. So thank you. You can't think how I shall enjoy it
now. I did work diligently for five minutes last night, after I heard
of it, I wanted to go so much. But I could not keep it up. Oh, dear!
and I shall really hear a band! and see the inside of that beautiful
shire-hall!"