Ruth Goes to the Shire-Hall
In due time that evening, Mrs Mason collected "her young ladies"
for an inspection of their appearance before proceeding to the
shire-hall. Her eager, important, hurried manner of summoning them
was not unlike that of a hen clucking her chickens together; and to
judge from the close investigation they had to undergo, it might have
been thought that their part in the evening's performance was to be
far more important than that of temporary ladies'-maids.
"Is that your best frock, Miss Hilton?" asked Mrs Mason, in a
half-dissatisfied tone, turning Ruth about; for it was only her
Sunday black silk, and was somewhat worn and shabby.
"Yes, ma'am," answered Ruth, quietly.
"Oh! indeed. Then it will do" (still the half-satisfied tone).
"Dress, young ladies, you know, is a very secondary consideration.
Conduct is everything. Still, Miss Hilton, I think you should write
and ask your guardian to send you money for another gown. I am sorry
I did not think of it before."
"I do not think he would send any if I wrote," answered Ruth, in a
low voice. "He was angry when I wanted a shawl, when the cold weather
set in."
Mrs Mason gave her a little push of dismissal, and Ruth fell into the
ranks by her friend, Miss Wood.
"Never mind, Ruthie; you're prettier than any of them," said a merry,
good-natured girl, whose plainness excluded her from any of the envy
of rivalry.
"Yes! I know I am pretty," said Ruth, sadly, "but I am sorry I have
no better gown, for this is very shabby. I am ashamed of it myself,
and I can see Mrs Mason is twice as much ashamed. I wish I need not
go. I did not know we should have to think about our own dress at
all, or I should not have wished to go."
"Never mind, Ruth," said Jenny, "you've been looked at now, and Mrs
Mason will soon be too busy to think about you and your gown."
"Did you hear Ruth Hilton say she knew she was pretty?" whispered one
girl to another, so loudly that Ruth caught the words.
"I could not help knowing," answered she, simply, "for many people
have told me so."
At length these preliminaries were over, and they were walking
briskly through the frosty air; the free motion was so inspiriting
that Ruth almost danced along, and quite forgot all about shabby
gowns and grumbling guardians. The shire-hall was even more striking
than she had expected. The sides of the staircase were painted with
figures that showed ghostly in the dim light, for only their faces
looked out of the dark, dingy canvas, with a strange fixed stare of
expression.
The young milliners had to arrange their wares on tables in the
ante-room, and make all ready before they could venture to peep
into the ball-room, where the musicians were already tuning their
instruments, and where one or two char-women (strange contrast! with
their dirty, loose attire, and their incessant chatter, to the grand
echoes of the vaulted room) were completing the dusting of benches
and chairs.
They quitted the place as Ruth and her companions entered. They had
talked lightly and merrily in the ante-room, but now their voices
were hushed, awed by the old magnificence of the vast apartment. It
was so large, that objects showed dim at the further end, as through
a mist. Full-length figures of county worthies hung around, in all
varieties of costume, from the days of Holbein to the present time.
The lofty roof was indistinct, for the lamps were not fully lighted
yet; while through the richly-painted Gothic window at one end the
moonbeams fell, many-tinted, on the floor, and mocked with their
vividness the struggles of the artificial light to illuminate its
little sphere.
High above sounded the musicians, fitfully trying some strain of
which they were not certain. Then they stopped playing and talked,
and their voices sounded goblin-like in their dark recess, where
candles were carried about in an uncertain wavering manner, reminding
Ruth of the flickering zigzag motion of the will-o'-the-wisp.
Suddenly the room sprang into the full blaze of light, and Ruth felt
less impressed with its appearance, and more willing to obey Mrs
Mason's sharp summons to her wandering flock, than she had been
when it was dim and mysterious. They had presently enough to do in
rendering offices of assistance to the ladies who thronged in, and
whose voices drowned all the muffled sound of the band Ruth had
longed so much to hear. Still, if one pleasure was less, another was
greater than she had anticipated.
"On condition" of such a number of little observances that Ruth
thought Mrs Mason would never have ended enumerating them, they were
allowed during the dances to stand at a side-door and watch. And what
a beautiful sight it was! Floating away to that bounding music--now
far away, like garlands of fairies, now near, and showing as lovely
women, with every ornament of graceful dress--the elite of the county
danced on, little caring whose eyes gazed and were dazzled. Outside
all was cold, and colourless, and uniform, one coating of snow over
all. But inside it was warm, and glowing, and vivid; flowers scented
the air, and wreathed the head, and rested on the bosom, as if it
were midsummer. Bright colours flashed on the eye and were gone, and
succeeded by others as lovely in the rapid movement of the dance.
Smiles dimpled every face, and low tones of happiness murmured
indistinctly through the room in every pause of the music.
Ruth did not care to separate the figures that formed a joyous and
brilliant whole; it was enough to gaze, and dream of the happy
smoothness of the lives in which such music, and such profusion of
flowers, of jewels, elegance of every description, and beauty of all
shapes and hues, were everyday things. She did not want to know who
the people were; although to hear a catalogue of names seemed to be
the great delight of most of her companions.
In fact, the enumeration rather disturbed her; and to avoid the shock
of too rapid a descent into the commonplace world of Miss Smiths and
Mr Thomsons, she returned to her post in the ante-room. There she
stood thinking, or dreaming. She was startled back to actual life by
a voice close to her. One of the dancing young ladies had met with a
misfortune. Her dress, of some gossamer material, had been looped up
by nosegays of flowers, and one of these had fallen off in the dance,
leaving her gown to trail. To repair this, she had begged her partner
to bring her to the room where the assistants should have been. None
were there but Ruth.
"Shall I leave you?" asked the gentleman. "Is my absence necessary?"
"Oh, no!" replied the lady. "A few stitches will set all to rights.
Besides, I dare not enter that room by myself." So far she spoke
sweetly and prettily. But now she addressed Ruth. "Make haste. Don't
keep me an hour." And her voice became cold and authoritative.
She was very pretty, with long dark ringlets and sparkling black
eyes. These had struck Ruth in the hasty glance she had taken, before
she knelt down to her task. She also saw that the gentleman was young
and elegant.
"Oh, that lovely galop! How I long to dance to it! Will it never be
done? What a frightful time you are taking; and I'm dying to return
in time for this galop!"
By way of showing a pretty, childlike impatience, she began to beat
time with her feet to the spirited air the band was playing. Ruth
could not darn the rent in her dress with this continual motion, and
she looked up to remonstrate. As she threw her head back for this
purpose, she caught the eye of the gentleman who was standing by; it
was so expressive of amusement at the airs and graces of his pretty
partner, that Ruth was infected by the feeling, and had to bend her
face down to conceal the smile that mantled there. But not before
he had seen it, and not before his attention had been thereby drawn
to consider the kneeling figure, that, habited in black up to the
throat, with the noble head bent down to the occupation in which
she was engaged, formed such a contrast to the flippant, bright,
artificial girl who sat to be served with an air as haughty as a
queen on her throne.
"Oh, Mr Bellingham! I'm ashamed to detain you so long. I had no idea
any one could have spent so much time over a little tear. No wonder
Mrs Mason charges so much for dress-making, if her work-women are so
slow."
It was meant to be witty, but Mr Bellingham looked grave. He saw the
scarlet colour of annoyance flush to that beautiful cheek which was
partially presented to him. He took a candle from the table, and held
it so that Ruth had more light. She did not look up to thank him, for
she felt ashamed that he should have seen the smile which she had
caught from him.
"I am sorry I have been so long, ma'am," said she, gently, as she
finished her work. "I was afraid it might tear out again if I did not
do it carefully." She rose.
"I would rather have had it torn than have missed that charming
galop," said the young lady, shaking out her dress as a bird shakes
its plumage. "Shall we go, Mr Bellingham?" looking up at him.
He was surprised that she gave no word or sign of thanks to the
assistant. He took up a camellia that some one had left on the table.
"Allow me, Miss Duncombe, to give this in your name to this young
lady, as thanks for her dexterous help."
"Oh--of course," said she.
Ruth received the flower silently, but with a grave, modest motion of
her head. They had gone, and she was once more alone. Presently, her
companions returned.
"What was the matter with Miss Duncombe? Did she come here?" asked
they.
"Only her lace dress was torn, and I mended it," answered Ruth,
quietly.
"Did Mr Bellingham come with her? They say he's going to be married
to her; did he come, Ruth?"
"Yes," said Ruth, and relapsed into silence.
Mr Bellingham danced on gaily and merrily through the night, and
flirted with Miss Duncombe, as he thought good. But he looked often
to the side-door where the milliner's apprentices stood; and once he
recognised the tall, slight figure, and the rich auburn hair of the
girl in black; and then his eye sought for the camellia. It was
there, snowy white in her bosom. And he danced on more gaily than
ever.
The cold grey dawn was drearily lighting up the streets when Mrs
Mason and her company returned home. The lamps were extinguished, yet
the shutters of the shops and dwelling-houses were not opened. All
sounds had an echo unheard by day. One or two houseless beggars sat
on doorsteps, and, shivering, slept, with heads bowed on their knees,
or resting against the cold hard support afforded by the wall.
Ruth felt as if a dream had melted away, and she were once more in
the actual world. How long it would be, even in the most favourable
chance, before she should again enter the shire-hall! or hear a band
of music! or even see again those bright, happy people--as much
without any semblance of care or woe as if they belonged to another
race of beings. Had they ever to deny themselves a wish, much less
a want? Literally and figuratively, their lives seemed to wander
through flowery pleasure-paths. Here was cold, biting mid-winter
for her, and such as her--for those poor beggars almost a season of
death; but to Miss Duncombe and her companions, a happy, merry time,
when flowers still bloomed, and fires crackled, and comforts and
luxuries were piled around them like fairy gifts. What did they know
of the meaning of the word, so terrific to the poor? What was winter
to them? But Ruth fancied that Mr Bellingham looked as if he could
understand the feelings of those removed from him by circumstance
and station. He had drawn up the windows of his carriage, it is true,
with a shudder.
Ruth, then, had been watching him.
Yet she had no idea that any association made her camellia precious
to her. She believed it was solely on account of its exquisite beauty
that she tended it so carefully. She told Jenny every particular of
its presentation, with open, straight-looking eye, and without the
deepening of a shade of colour.
"Was it not kind of him? You can't think how nicely he did it, just
when I was a little bit mortified by her ungracious ways."
"It was very nice, indeed," replied Jenny. "Such a beautiful flower!
I wish it had some scent."
"I wish it to be exactly as it is; it is perfect. So pure!" said
Ruth, almost clasping her treasure as she placed it in water. "Who is
Mr Bellingham?"
"He is son to that Mrs Bellingham of the Priory, for whom we made the
grey satin pelisse," answered Jenny, sleepily.
"That was before my time," said Ruth. But there was no answer. Jenny
was asleep.
It was long before Ruth followed her example. Even on a winter day,
it was clear morning light that fell upon her face as she smiled in
her slumber. Jenny would not waken her, but watched her face with
admiration; it was so lovely in its happiness.
"She is dreaming of last night," thought Jenny.
It was true she was; but one figure flitted more than all the rest
through her visions. He presented flower after flower to her in that
baseless morning dream, which was all too quickly ended. The night
before, she had seen her dead mother in her sleep, and she wakened,
weeping. And now she dreamed of Mr Bellingham, and smiled.
And yet, was this a more evil dream than the other?
The realities of life seemed to cut more sharply against her heart
than usual that morning. The late hours of the preceding nights, and
perhaps the excitement of the evening before, had indisposed her to
bear calmly the rubs and crosses which beset all Mrs Mason's young
ladies at times.
For Mrs Mason, though the first dressmaker in the county, was human
after all; and suffered, like her apprentices, from the same causes
that affected them. This morning she was disposed to find fault
with everything, and everybody. She seemed to have risen with the
determination of putting the world and all that it contained (her
world, at least) to rights before night; and abuses and negligences,
which had long passed unreproved, or winked at, were to-day to
be dragged to light, and sharply reprimanded. Nothing less than
perfection would satisfy Mrs Mason at such times.
She had her ideas of justice, too; but they were not divinely
beautiful and true ideas; they were something more resembling
a grocer's, or tea-dealer's ideas of equal right. A little
over-indulgence last night was to be balanced by a good deal of
over-severity to-day; and this manner of rectifying previous errors
fully satisfied her conscience.
Ruth was not inclined for, or capable of, much extra exertion; and it
would have tasked all her powers to have pleased her superior. The
work-room seemed filled with sharp calls. "Miss Hilton! where have
you put the blue Persian? Whenever things are mislaid, I know it has
been Miss Hilton's evening for siding away!"
"Miss Hilton was going out last night, so I offered to clear the
workroom for her. I will find it directly, ma'am," answered one of
the girls.
"Oh, I am well aware of Miss Hilton's custom of shuffling off her
duties upon any one who can be induced to relieve her," replied Mrs
Mason.
Ruth reddened, and tears sprang to her eyes; but she was so conscious
of the falsity of the accusation, that she rebuked herself for being
moved by it, and, raising her head, gave a proud look round, as if in
appeal to her companions.
"Where is the skirt of Lady Farnham's dress? The flounces not put on!
I am surprised. May I ask to whom this work was entrusted yesterday?"
inquired Mrs Mason, fixing her eyes on Ruth.
"I was to have done it, but I made a mistake, and had to undo it. I
am very sorry."
"I might have guessed, certainly. There is little difficulty, to be
sure, in discovering, when work has been neglected or spoilt, into
whose hands it has fallen."
Such were the speeches which fell to Ruth's share on this day of all
days, when she was least fitted to bear them with equanimity.
In the afternoon it was necessary for Mrs Mason to go a few miles
into the country. She left injunctions, and orders, and directions,
and prohibitions without end; but at last she was gone, and in the
relief of her absence, Ruth laid her arms on the table, and, burying
her head, began to cry aloud, with weak, unchecked sobs.
"Don't cry, Miss Hilton,"--"Ruthie, never mind the old dragon,"--"How
will you bear on for five years, if you don't spirit yourself up
not to care a straw for what she says?"--were some of the modes of
comfort and sympathy administered by the young workwomen.
Jenny, with a wiser insight into the grievance and its remedy, said:
"Suppose Ruth goes out instead of you, Fanny Barton, to do the
errands. The fresh air will do her good; and you know you dislike the
cold east winds, while Ruth says she enjoys frost and snow, and all
kinds of shivery weather."
Fanny Barton was a great sleepy-looking girl, huddling over the
fire. No one so willing as she to relinquish the walk on this bleak
afternoon, when the east wind blew keenly down the street, drying up
the very snow itself. There was no temptation to come abroad, for
those who were not absolutely obliged to leave their warm rooms;
indeed, the dusk hour showed that it was the usual tea-time for the
humble inhabitants of that part of the town through which Ruth had to
pass on her shopping expedition. As she came to the high ground just
above the river, where the street sloped rapidly down to the bridge,
she saw the flat country beyond all covered with snow, making the
black dome of the cloud-laden sky appear yet blacker; as if the
winter's night had never fairly gone away, but had hovered on the
edge of the world all through the short bleak day. Down by the bridge
(where there was a little shelving bank, used as a landing-place for
any pleasure-boats that could float on that shallow stream) some
children were playing, and defying the cold; one of them had got a
large washing-tub, and with the use of a broken oar kept steering and
pushing himself hither and thither in the little creek, much to the
admiration of his companions, who stood gravely looking on, immovable
in their attentive observation of the hero, although their faces were
blue with cold, and their hands crammed deep into their pockets with
some faint hope of finding warmth there. Perhaps they feared that, if
they unpacked themselves from their lumpy attitudes and began to move
about, the cruel wind would find its way into every cranny of their
tattered dress. They were all huddled up, and still; with eyes
intent on the embryo sailor. At last, one little man, envious of the
reputation that his playfellow was acquiring by his daring, called
out:
"I'll set thee a craddy, Tom! Thou dar'n't go over yon black line in
the water, out into the real river."
Of course the challenge was not to be refused, and Tom paddled away
towards the dark line, beyond which the river swept with smooth,
steady current. Ruth (a child in years herself) stood at the top of
the declivity watching the adventurer, but as unconscious of any
danger as the group of children below. At their playfellow's success,
they broke through the calm gravity of observation into boisterous
marks of applause, clapping their hands, and stamping their impatient
little feet, and shouting, "Well done, Tom; thou hast done it
rarely!"
Tom stood in childish dignity for a moment, facing his admirers;
then, in an instant, his washing-tub boat was whirled round, and he
lost his balance, and fell out; and both he and his boat were carried
away slowly, but surely, by the strong full river which eternally
moved onwards to the sea.
The children shrieked aloud with terror; and Ruth flew down to the
little bay, and far into its shallow waters, before she felt how
useless such an action was, and that the sensible plan would have
been to seek for efficient help. Hardly had this thought struck her,
when, louder and sharper than the sullen roar of the stream that was
ceaselessly and unrelentingly flowing on, came the splash of a horse
galloping through the water in which she was standing. Past her like
lightning--down in the stream, swimming along with the current--a
stooping rider--an outstretched, grasping arm--a little life
redeemed, and a child saved to those who loved it! Ruth stood dizzy
and sick with emotion while all this took place; and when the rider
turned his swimming horse, and slowly breasted up the river to the
landing-place, she recognised him as the Mr Bellingham of the night
before. He carried the unconscious child across his horse; the body
hung in so lifeless a manner that Ruth believed it was dead, and her
eyes were suddenly blinded with tears. She waded back to the beach,
to the point towards which Mr Bellingham was directing his horse.
"Is he dead?" asked she, stretching out her arms to receive the
little fellow; for she instinctively felt that the position in which
he hung was not the most conducive to returning consciousness, if,
indeed, it would ever return.
"I think not," answered Mr Bellingham, as he gave the child to her,
before springing off his horse. "Is he your brother? Do you know who
he is?"
"Look!" said Ruth, who had sat down upon the ground, the better to
prop the poor lad, "his hand twitches! he lives! oh, sir, he lives!
Whose boy is he?" (to the people, who came hurrying and gathering to
the spot at the rumour of an accident).
"He's old Nelly Brownson's," said they. "Her grandson."
"We must take him into a house directly," said she. "Is his home far
off?"
"No, no; it's just close by."
"One of you go for a doctor at once," said Mr Bellingham,
authoritatively, "and bring him to the old woman's without delay. You
must not hold him any longer," he continued, speaking to Ruth, and
remembering her face now for the first time; "your dress is dripping
wet already. Here! you fellow, take him up, d'ye see!"
But the child's hand had nervously clenched Ruth's dress, and she
would not have him disturbed. She carried her heavy burden very
tenderly towards a mean little cottage indicated by the neighbours;
an old crippled woman was coming out of the door, shaking all over
with agitation.
"Dear heart!" said she, "he's the last of 'em all, and he's gone
afore me."
"Nonsense," said Mr Bellingham, "the boy is alive, and likely to
live."
But the old woman was helpless and hopeless, and insisted on
believing that her grandson was dead; and dead he would have been
if it had not been for Ruth, and one or two of the more sensible
neighbours, who, under Mr Bellingham's directions, bustled about, and
did all that was necessary until animation was restored.
"What a confounded time these people are in fetching the doctor,"
said Mr Bellingham to Ruth, between whom and himself a sort of
silent understanding had sprung up from the circumstance of their
having been the only two (besides mere children) who had witnessed
the accident, and also the only two to whom a certain degree of
cultivation had given the power of understanding each other's
thoughts and even each other's words.
"It takes so much to knock an idea into such stupid people's heads.
They stood gaping and asking which doctor they were to go for, as if
it signified whether it was Brown or Smith, so long as he had his
wits about him. I have no more time to waste here, either; I was on
the gallop when I caught sight of the lad; and, now he has fairly
sobbed and opened his eyes, I see no use in my staying in this
stifling atmosphere. May I trouble you with one thing? Will you be
so good as to see that the little fellow has all that he wants? If
you'll allow me, I'll leave you my purse," continued he, giving it to
Ruth, who was only too glad to have this power entrusted to her of
procuring one or two requisites which she had perceived to be wanted.
But she saw some gold between the net-work; she did not like the
charge of such riches.
"I shall not want so much, really, sir. One sovereign will be
plenty--more than enough. May I take that out, and I will give you
back what is left of it when I see you again? or, perhaps I had
better send it to you, sir?"
"I think you had better keep it all at present. Oh! what a horrid
dirty place this is; insufferable two minutes longer. You must not
stay here; you'll be poisoned with this abominable air. Come towards
the door, I beg. Well, if you think one sovereign will be enough, I
will take my purse; only, remember you apply to me if you think they
want more."
They were standing at the door, where some one was holding Mr
Bellingham's horse. Ruth was looking at him with her earnest eyes
(Mrs Mason and her errands quite forgotten in the interest of
the afternoon's event), her whole thoughts bent upon rightly
understanding and following out his wishes for the little boy's
welfare; and until now this had been the first object in his own
mind. But at this moment the strong perception of Ruth's exceeding
beauty came again upon him. He almost lost the sense of what he was
saying, he was so startled into admiration. The night before, he had
not seen her eyes; and now they looked straight and innocently full
at him, grave, earnest, and deep. But when she instinctively read the
change in the expression of his countenance, she dropped her large
white veiling lids; and he thought her face was lovelier still.
The irresistible impulse seized him to arrange matters so that he
might see her again before long.
"No!" said he. "I see it would be better that you should keep
the purse. Many things may be wanted for the lad which we cannot
calculate upon now. If I remember rightly, there are three sovereigns
and some loose change; I shall, perhaps, see you again in a few days,
when, if there be any money left in the purse, you can restore it to
me."
"Oh, yes, sir," said Ruth, alive to the magnitude of the wants to
which she might have to administer, and yet rather afraid of the
responsibility implied in the possession of so much money.
"Is there any chance of my meeting you again in this house?" asked
he.
"I hope to come whenever I can, sir; but I must run in errand-times,
and I don't know when my turn may be."
"Oh"--he did not fully understand this answer--"I should like to know
how you think the boy is going on, if it is not giving you too much
trouble; do you ever take walks?"
"Not for walking's sake, sir."
"Well!" said he, "you go to church, I suppose? Mrs Mason does not
keep you at work on Sundays, I trust?"
"Oh, no, sir. I go to church regularly."
"Then, perhaps, you will be so good as to tell me what church you go
to, and I will meet you there next Sunday afternoon?"
"I go to St Nicholas', sir. I will take care and bring you word how
the boy is, and what doctor they get; and I will keep an account of
the money I spend."
"Very well; thank you. Remember, I trust to you."
He meant that he relied on her promise to meet him; but Ruth thought
that he was referring to the responsibility of doing the best she
could for the child. He was going away, when a fresh thought struck
him, and he turned back into the cottage once more, and addressed
Ruth, with a half smile on his countenance:
"It seems rather strange, but we have no one to introduce us; my name
is Bellingham--yours is--?"
"Ruth Hilton, sir," she answered, in a low voice, for, now that
the conversation no longer related to the boy, she felt shy and
restrained.
He held out his hand to shake hers, and just as she gave it to him,
the old grandmother came tottering up to ask some question. The
interruption jarred upon him, and made him once more keenly alive to
the closeness of the air, and the squalor and dirt by which he was
surrounded.
"My good woman," said he to Nelly Brownson, "could you not keep your
place a little neater and cleaner? It is more fit for pigs than human
beings. The air in this room is quite offensive, and the dirt and
filth is really disgraceful."
By this time he was mounted, and, bowing to Ruth, he rode away.
Then the old woman's wrath broke out.
"Who may you be, that knows no better manners than to come into a
poor woman's house to abuse it?--fit for pigs, indeed! What d'ye call
yon fellow?"
"He is Mr Bellingham," said Ruth, shocked at the old woman's apparent
ingratitude. "It was he that rode into the water to save your
grandson. He would have been drowned but for Mr Bellingham. I thought
once they would both have been swept away by the current, it was so
strong."
"The river is none so deep, either," the old woman said, anxious to
diminish as much as possible the obligation she was under to one who
had offended her. "Some one else would have saved him, if this fine
young spark had never been near. He's an orphan, and God watches over
orphans, they say. I'd rather it had been any one else as had picked
him out, than one who comes into a poor body's house only to abuse
it."
"He did not come in only to abuse it," said Ruth, gently. "He came
with little Tom; he only said it was not quite so clean as it might
be."
"What! you're taking up the cry, are you? Wait till you are an old
woman like me, crippled with rheumatiz, and a lad to see after like
Tom, who is always in mud when he isn't in water; and his food and
mine to scrape together (God knows we're often short, and do the best
I can), and water to fetch up that steep brow."
She stopped to cough; and Ruth judiciously changed the subject, and
began to consult the old woman as to the wants of her grandson, in
which consultation they were soon assisted by the medical man.
When Ruth had made one or two arrangements with a neighbour, whom she
asked to procure the most necessary things, and had heard from the
doctor that all would be right in a day or two, she began to quake
at the recollection of the length of time she had spent at Nelly
Brownson's, and to remember, with some affright, the strict watch
kept by Mrs Mason over her apprentices' out-goings and in-comings on
working days. She hurried off to the shops, and tried to recall her
wandering thoughts to the respective merits of pink and blue as a
match to lilac, found she had lost her patterns, and went home with
ill-chosen things, and in a fit of despair at her own stupidity.
The truth was, that the afternoon's adventure filled her mind; only,
the figure of Tom (who was now safe, and likely to do well) was
receding into the background, and that of Mr Bellingham becoming
more prominent than it had been. His spirited and natural action of
galloping into the water to save the child, was magnified by Ruth
into the most heroic deed of daring; his interest about the boy
was tender, thoughtful benevolence in her eyes, and his careless
liberality of money was fine generosity; for she forgot that
generosity implies some degree of self-denial. She was gratified,
too, by the power of dispensing comfort he had entrusted to her,
and was busy with Alnaschar visions of wise expenditure, when the
necessity of opening Mrs Mason's house-door summoned her back into
actual present life, and the dread of an immediate scolding.
For this time, however, she was spared; but spared for such a reason
that she would have been thankful for some blame in preference to
her impunity. During her absence, Jenny's difficulty of breathing
had suddenly become worse, and the girls had, on their own
responsibility, put her to bed, and were standing round her in
dismay, when Mrs Mason's return home (only a few minutes before Ruth
arrived) fluttered them back into the workroom.
And now, all was confusion and hurry; a doctor to be sent for; a mind
to be unburdened of directions for a dress to a forewoman, who was
too ill to understand; scoldings to be scattered with no illiberal
hand amongst a group of frightened girls, hardly sparing the poor
invalid herself for her inopportune illness. In the middle of all
this turmoil, Ruth crept quietly to her place, with a heavy saddened
heart at the indisposition of the gentle forewoman. She would gladly
have nursed Jenny herself, and often longed to do it, but she could
not be spared. Hands, unskilful in fine and delicate work, would be
well enough qualified to tend the sick, until the mother arrived from
home. Meanwhile, extra diligence was required in the workroom; and
Ruth found no opportunity of going to see little Tom, or to fulfil
the plans for making him and his grandmother more comfortable, which
she had proposed to herself. She regretted her rash promise to Mr
Bellingham, of attending to the little boy's welfare; all that she
could do was done by means of Mrs Mason's servant, through whom she
made inquiries, and sent the necessary help.
The subject of Jenny's illness was the prominent one in the house.
Ruth told of her own adventure, to be sure; but when she was at the
very crisis of the boy's fall into the river, the more fresh and
vivid interest of some tidings of Jenny was brought into the room,
and Ruth ceased, almost blaming herself for caring for anything
besides the question of life or death to be decided in that very
house.
Then a pale, gentle-looking woman was seen moving softly about; and
it was whispered that this was the mother come to nurse her child.
Everybody liked her, she was so sweet-looking, and gave so little
trouble, and seemed so patient, and so thankful for any inquiries
about her daughter, whose illness, it was understood, although its
severity was mitigated, was likely to be long and tedious. While all
the feelings and thoughts relating to Jenny were predominant, Sunday
arrived. Mrs Mason went the accustomed visit to her father's, making
some little show of apology to Mrs Wood for leaving her and her
daughter; the apprentices dispersed to the various friends with whom
they were in the habit of spending the day; and Ruth went to St
Nicholas', with a sorrowful heart, depressed on account of Jenny, and
self-reproachful at having rashly undertaken what she had been unable
to perform.
As she came out of church, she was joined by Mr Bellingham. She had
half hoped that he might have forgotten the arrangement, and yet she
wished to relieve herself of her responsibility. She knew his step
behind her, and the contending feelings made her heart beat hard, and
she longed to run away.
"Miss Hilton, I believe," said he, overtaking her, and bowing
forward, so as to catch a sight of her rose-red face. "How is our
little sailor going on? Well, I trust, from the symptoms the other
day."
"I believe, sir, he is quite well now. I am very sorry, but I have
not been able to go and see him. I am so sorry--I could not help it.
But I have got one or two things through another person. I have put
them down on this slip of paper; and here is your purse, sir, for
I am afraid I can do nothing more for him. We have illness in the
house, and it makes us very busy."
Ruth had been so much accustomed to blame of late, that she almost
anticipated some remonstrance or reproach now, for not having
fulfilled her promise better. She little guessed that Mr Bellingham
was far more busy trying to devise some excuse for meeting her again,
during the silence that succeeded her speech, than displeased with
her for not bringing a more particular account of the little boy, in
whom he had ceased to feel any interest.
She repeated, after a minute's pause:
"I am very sorry I have done so little, sir."
"Oh, yes, I am sure you have done all you could. It was thoughtless
in me to add to your engagements."
"He is displeased with me," thought Ruth, "for what he believes to
have been neglect of the boy, whose life he risked his own to save.
If I told all, he would see that I could not do more; but I cannot
tell him all the sorrows and worries that have taken up my time."
"And yet I am tempted to give you another little commission, if it is
not taking up too much of your time, and presuming too much on your
good-nature," said he, a bright idea having just struck him. "Mrs
Mason lives in Heneage Place, does not she? My mother's ancestors
lived there; and once, when the house was being repaired, she took me
in to show me the old place. There was an old hunting-piece painted
on a panel over one of the chimney-pieces; the figures were portraits
of my ancestors. I have often thought I should like to purchase it,
if it still remained there. Can you ascertain this for me, and bring
me word next Sunday?"
"Oh, yes, sir," said Ruth, glad that this commission was completely
within her power to execute, and anxious to make up for her previous
seeming neglect. "I'll look directly I get home, and ask Mrs Mason to
write and let you know."
"Thank you," said he, only half satisfied; "I think perhaps, however,
it might be as well not to trouble Mrs Mason about it; you see, it
would compromise me, and I am not quite determined to purchase the
picture; if you would ascertain whether the painting is there, and
tell me, I would take a little time to reflect, and afterwards I
could apply to Mrs Mason myself."
"Very well, sir; I will see about it." So they parted.
Before the next Sunday, Mrs Wood had taken her daughter to her
distant home, to recruit in that quiet place. Ruth watched her down
the street from an upper window, and, sighing deep and long, returned
to the workroom, whence the warning voice and the gentle wisdom had
departed.