Sunday at Mrs Mason's
Mr Bellingham attended afternoon service at St Nicholas' church the
next Sunday. His thoughts had been far more occupied by Ruth than
hers by him, although his appearance upon the scene of her life
was more an event to her than it was to him. He was puzzled by the
impression she had produced on him, though he did not in general
analyse the nature of his feelings, but simply enjoyed them with the
delight which youth takes in experiencing new and strong emotion.
He was old compared to Ruth, but young as a man; hardly
three-and-twenty. The fact of his being an only child had given
him, as it does to many, a sort of inequality in those parts of the
character which are usually formed by the number of years that a
person has lived.
The unevenness of discipline to which only children are subjected;
the thwarting, resulting from over-anxiety; the indiscreet
indulgence, arising from a love centred all in one object; had been
exaggerated in his education, probably from the circumstance that his
mother (his only surviving parent) had been similarly situated to
himself.
He was already in possession of the comparatively small property
he inherited from his father. The estate on which his mother lived
was her own; and her income gave her the means of indulging or
controlling him, after he had grown to man's estate, as her wayward
disposition and her love of power prompted her.
Had he been double-dealing in his conduct towards her, had he
condescended to humour her in the least, her passionate love for him
would have induced her to strip herself of all her possessions to
add to his dignity or happiness. But although he felt the warmest
affection for her, the regardlessness which she had taught him (by
example, perhaps, more than by precept) of the feelings of others,
was continually prompting him to do things that she, for the time
being, resented as mortal affronts. He would mimic the clergyman she
specially esteemed, even to his very face; he would refuse to visit
her schools for months and months; and, when wearied into going
at last, revenge himself by puzzling the children with the most
ridiculous questions (gravely put) that he could imagine.
All these boyish tricks annoyed and irritated her far more than the
accounts which reached her of more serious misdoings at college and
in town. Of these grave offences she never spoke; of the smaller
misdeeds she hardly ever ceased speaking.
Still, at times, she had great influence over him, and nothing
delighted her more than to exercise it. The submission of his will
to hers was sure to be liberally rewarded; for it gave her great
happiness to extort, from his indifference or his affection, the
concessions which she never sought by force of reason, or by appeals
to principle--concessions which he frequently withheld, solely for
the sake of asserting his independence of her control.
She was anxious for him to marry Miss Duncombe. He cared little or
nothing about it--it was time enough to be married ten years hence;
and so he was dawdling through some months of his life--sometimes
flirting with the nothing-loath Miss Duncombe, sometimes plaguing,
and sometimes delighting his mother, at all times taking care to
please himself--when he first saw Ruth Hilton, and a new, passionate,
hearty feeling shot through his whole being. He did not know why he
was so fascinated by her. She was very beautiful, but he had seen
others equally beautiful, and with many more _agaceries_ calculated
to set off the effect of their charms.
There was, perhaps, something bewitching in the union of the
grace and loveliness of womanhood with the _naïveté_, simplicity,
and innocence of an intelligent child. There was a spell in the
shyness, which made her avoid and shun all admiring approaches to
acquaintance. It would be an exquisite delight to attract and tame
her wildness, just as he had often allured and tamed the timid fawns
in his mother's park.
By no over-bold admiration, or rash, passionate word, would he
startle her; and, surely, in time she might be induced to look upon
him as a friend, if not something nearer and dearer still.
In accordance with this determination, he resisted the strong
temptation of walking by her side the whole distance home after
church. He only received the intelligence she brought respecting the
panel with thanks, spoke a few words about the weather, bowed, and
was gone. Ruth believed she should never see him again; and, in spite
of sundry self-upbraidings for her folly, she could not help feeling
as if a shadow were drawn over her existence for several days to
come.
Mrs Mason was a widow, and had to struggle for the sake of the six or
seven children left dependent on her exertions; thus there was some
reason, and great excuse, for the pinching economy which regulated
her household affairs.
On Sundays she chose to conclude that all her apprentices had friends
who would be glad to see them to dinner, and give them a welcome
reception for the remainder of the day; while she, and those of
her children who were not at school, went to spend the day at her
father's house, several miles out of the town. Accordingly, no
dinner was cooked on Sundays for the young workwomen; no fires were
lighted in any rooms to which they had access. On this morning they
breakfasted in Mrs Mason's own parlour, after which the room was
closed against them through the day by some understood, though
unspoken prohibition.
What became of such as Ruth, who had no home and no friends in that
large, populous, desolate town? She had hitherto commissioned the
servant, who went to market on Saturdays for the family, to buy her a
bun or biscuit, whereon she made her fasting dinner in the deserted
workroom, sitting in her walking-dress to keep off the cold, which
clung to her in spite of shawl and bonnet. Then she would sit at
the window, looking out on the dreary prospect till her eyes were
often blinded by tears; and, partly to shake off thoughts and
recollections, the indulgence in which she felt to be productive
of no good, and partly to have some ideas to dwell upon during the
coming week beyond those suggested by the constant view of the same
room, she would carry her Bible, and place herself in the window-seat
on the wide landing, which commanded the street in front of the
house. From thence she could see the irregular grandeur of the place;
she caught a view of the grey church-tower, rising hoary and massive
into mid-air; she saw one or two figures loiter along on the sunny
side of the street, in all the enjoyment of their fine clothes and
Sunday leisure; and she imagined histories for them, and tried to
picture to herself their homes and their daily doings.
And before long, the bells swung heavily in the church-tower, and
struck out with musical clang the first summons to afternoon church.
After church was over, she used to return home to the same
window-seat, and watch till the winter twilight was over and gone,
and the stars came out over the black masses of houses. And then she
would steal down to ask for a candle, as a companion to her in the
deserted workroom. Occasionally the servant would bring her up some
tea; but of late Ruth had declined taking any, as she had discovered
she was robbing the kind-hearted creature of part of the small
provision left out for her by Mrs Mason. She sat on, hungry and cold,
trying to read her Bible, and to think the old holy thoughts which
had been her childish meditations at her mother's knee, until one
after another the apprentices returned, weary with their day's
enjoyment, and their week's late watching; too weary to make her in
any way a partaker of their pleasure by entering into details of the
manner in which they had spent their day.
And last of all, Mrs Mason returned; and, summoning her "young
people" once more into the parlour, she read a prayer before
dismissing them to bed. She always expected to find them all in
the house when she came home, but asked no questions as to their
proceedings through the day; perhaps because she dreaded to hear
that one or two had occasionally nowhere to go, and that it would be
sometimes necessary to order a Sunday's dinner, and leave a lighted
fire on that day.
For five months Ruth had been an inmate at Mrs Mason's, and such had
been the regular order of the Sundays. While the forewoman stayed
there, it is true, she was ever ready to give Ruth the little variety
of hearing of recreations in which she was no partaker; and however
tired Jenny might be at night, she had ever some sympathy to bestow
on Ruth for the dull length of day she had passed. After her
departure, the monotonous idleness of the Sunday seemed worse to
bear than the incessant labour of the work-days; until the time came
when it seemed to be a recognised hope in her mind, that on Sunday
afternoons she should see Mr Bellingham, and hear a few words from
him, as from a friend who took an interest in her thoughts and
proceedings during the past week.
Ruth's mother had been the daughter of a poor curate in Norfolk,
and, early left without parents or home, she was thankful to marry
a respectable farmer a good deal older than herself. After their
marriage, however, everything seemed to go wrong. Mrs Hilton fell
into a delicate state of health, and was unable to bestow the
ever-watchful attention to domestic affairs so requisite in a
farmer's wife. Her husband had a series of misfortunes--of a more
important kind than the death of a whole brood of turkeys from
getting among the nettles, or the year of bad cheeses spoilt by a
careless dairymaid--which were the consequences (so the neighbours
said) of Mr Hilton's mistake in marrying a delicate, fine lady. His
crops failed; his horses died; his barn took fire; in short, if he
had been in any way a remarkable character, one might have supposed
him to be the object of an avenging fate, so successive were the
evils which pursued him; but as he was only a somewhat commonplace
farmer, I believe we must attribute his calamities to some want in
his character of the one quality required to act as keystone to many
excellences. While his wife lived, all worldly misfortunes seemed as
nothing to him; her strong sense and lively faculty of hope upheld
him from despair; her sympathy was always ready, and the invalid's
room had an atmosphere of peace and encouragement, which affected all
who entered it. But when Ruth was about twelve, one morning in the
busy hay-time, Mrs Hilton was left alone for some hours. This had
often happened before, nor had she seemed weaker than usual when they
had gone forth to the field; but on their return, with merry voices,
to fetch the dinner prepared for the haymakers, they found an unusual
silence brooding over the house; no low voice called out gently to
welcome them, and ask after the day's progress; and, on entering the
little parlour, which was called Mrs Hilton's, and was sacred to her,
they found her lying dead on her accustomed sofa. Quite calm and
peaceful she lay; there had been no struggle at last; the struggle
was for the survivors, and one sank under it. Her husband did not
make much ado at first--at least, not in outward show; her memory
seemed to keep in check all external violence of grief; but, day by
day, dating from his wife's death, his mental powers decreased. He
was still a hale-looking elderly man, and his bodily health appeared
as good as ever; but he sat for hours in his easy-chair, looking into
the fire, not moving, nor speaking, unless when it was absolutely
necessary to answer repeated questions. If Ruth, with coaxings and
draggings, induced him to come out with her, he went with measured
steps around his fields, his head bent to the ground with the
same abstracted, unseeing look; never smiling--never changing the
expression of his face, not even to one of deeper sadness, when
anything occurred which might be supposed to remind him of his dead
wife. But in this abstraction from all outward things, his worldly
affairs went ever lower down. He paid money away, or received it, as
if it had been so much water; the gold mines of Potosi could not have
touched the deep grief of his soul; but God in His mercy knew the
sure balm, and sent the Beautiful Messenger to take the weary one
home.
After his death, the creditors were the chief people who appeared to
take any interest in the affairs; and it seemed strange to Ruth to
see people, whom she scarcely knew, examining and touching all that
she had been accustomed to consider as precious and sacred. Her
father had made his will at her birth. With the pride of newly and
late-acquired paternity, he had considered the office of guardian to
his little darling as one which would have been an additional honour
to the lord-lieutenant of the county; but as he had not the pleasure
of his lordship's acquaintance, he selected the person of most
consequence amongst those whom he did know; not any very ambitious
appointment, in those days of comparative prosperity; but certainly
the flourishing maltster of Skelton was a little surprised, when,
fifteen years later, he learnt that he was executor to a will
bequeathing many vanished hundreds of pounds, and guardian to a young
girl whom he could not remember ever to have seen.
He was a sensible, hard-headed man of the world; having a very fair
proportion of conscience as consciences go; indeed, perhaps more than
many people; for he had some ideas of duty extending to the circle
beyond his own family; and did not, as some would have done, decline
acting altogether, but speedily summoned the creditors, examined
into the accounts, sold up the farming-stock, and discharged all the
debts; paid about £80 into the Skelton bank for a week, while he
inquired for a situation or apprenticeship of some kind for poor
heart-broken Ruth; heard of Mrs Mason's; arranged all with her in two
short conversations; drove over for Ruth in his gig; waited while she
and the old servant packed up her clothes; and grew very impatient
while she ran, with her eyes streaming with tears, round the garden,
tearing off in a passion of love whole boughs of favourite China and
damask roses, late flowering against the casement-window of what
had been her mother's room. When she took her seat in the gig, she
was little able, even if she had been inclined, to profit by her
guardian's lectures on economy and self-reliance; but she was quiet
and silent, looking forward with longing to the night-time, when, in
her bedroom, she might give way to all her passionate sorrow at being
wrenched from the home where she had lived with her parents, in that
utter absence of any anticipation of change, which is either the
blessing or the curse of childhood. But at night there were four
other girls in her room, and she could not cry before them. She
watched and waited till, one by one, they dropped off to sleep, and
then she buried her face in the pillow, and shook with sobbing grief;
and then she paused to conjure up, with fond luxuriance, every
recollection of the happy days, so little valued in their uneventful
peace while they lasted, so passionately regretted when once gone for
ever; to remember every look and word of the dear mother, and to moan
afresh over the change caused by her death;--the first clouding in
of Ruth's day of life. It was Jenny's sympathy on this first night,
when awakened by Ruth's irrepressible agony, that had made the bond
between them. But Ruth's loving disposition, continually sending
forth fibres in search of nutriment, found no other object for regard
among those of her daily life to compensate for the want of natural
ties.
But, almost insensibly, Jenny's place in Ruth's heart was filled
up; there was some one who listened with tender interest to all
her little revelations; who questioned her about her early days
of happiness, and, in return, spoke of his own childhood--not so
golden in reality as Ruth's, but more dazzling, when recounted
with stories of the beautiful cream-coloured Arabian pony, and the
old picture-gallery in the house, and avenues, and terraces, and
fountains in the garden, for Ruth to paint, with all the vividness
of imagination, as scenery and background for the figure which was
growing by slow degrees most prominent in her thoughts.
It must not be supposed that this was effected all at once, though
the intermediate stages have been passed over. On Sunday, Mr
Bellingham only spoke to her to receive the information about
the panel; nor did he come to St Nicholas' the next, nor yet the
following Sunday. But the third he walked by her side a little way,
and, seeing her annoyance, he left her; and then she wished for him
back again, and found the day very dreary, and wondered why a strange
undefined feeling had made her imagine she was doing wrong in walking
alongside of one so kind and good as Mr Bellingham; it had been very
foolish of her to be self-conscious all the time, and if ever he
spoke to her again she would not think of what people might say,
but enjoy the pleasure which his kind words and evident interest in
her might give. Then she thought it was very likely he never would
notice her again, for she knew she had been very rude with her short
answers; it was very provoking that she had behaved so rudely. She
should be sixteen in another month, and she was still childish and
awkward. Thus she lectured herself, after parting with Mr Bellingham;
and the consequence was, that on the following Sunday she was ten
times as blushing and conscious, and (Mr Bellingham thought) ten
times more beautiful than ever. He suggested, that instead of going
straight home through High-street, she should take the round by the
Leasowes; at first she declined, but then, suddenly wondering and
questioning herself why she refused a thing which was, as far as
reason and knowledge (_her_ knowledge) went, so innocent, and which
was certainly so tempting and pleasant, she agreed to go the round;
and when she was once in the meadows that skirted the town, she
forgot all doubt and awkwardness--nay, almost forgot the presence of
Mr Bellingham--in her delight at the new tender beauty of an early
spring day in February. Among the last year's brown ruins, heaped
together by the wind in the hedgerows, she found the fresh green
crinkled leaves and pale star-like flowers of the primroses. Here and
there a golden celandine made brilliant the sides of the little brook
that (full of water in "February fill-dyke") bubbled along by the
side of the path; the sun was low in the horizon, and once, when they
came to a higher part of the Leasowes, Ruth burst into an exclamation
of delight at the evening glory of mellow light which was in the sky
behind the purple distance, while the brown leafless woods in the
foreground derived an almost metallic lustre from the golden mist and
haze of the sunset. It was but three-quarters of a mile round by the
meadows, but somehow it took them an hour to walk it. Ruth turned
to thank Mr Bellingham for his kindness in taking her home by this
beautiful way, but his look of admiration at her glowing, animated
face, made her suddenly silent; and, hardly wishing him good-bye, she
quickly entered the house with a beating, happy, agitated heart.
"How strange it is," she thought that evening, "that I should feel as
if this charming afternoon's walk were, somehow, not exactly wrong,
but yet as if it were not right. Why can it be? I am not defrauding
Mrs Mason of any of her time; that I know would be wrong; I am left
to go where I like on Sundays. I have been to church, so it can't be
because I have missed doing my duty. If I had gone this walk with
Jenny, I wonder whether I should have felt as I do now. There must
be something wrong in me, myself, to feel so guilty when I have done
nothing which is not right; and yet I can thank God for the happiness
I have had in this charming spring walk, which dear mamma used to say
was a sign when pleasures were innocent and good for us."
She was not conscious, as yet, that Mr Bellingham's presence had
added any charm to the ramble; and when she might have become aware
of this, as, week after week, Sunday after Sunday, loitering ramble
after loitering ramble succeeded each other, she was too much
absorbed with one set of thoughts to have much inclination for
self-questioning.
"Tell me everything, Ruth, as you would to a brother; let me help
you, if I can, in your difficulties," he said to her one afternoon.
And he really did try to understand, and to realise, how an
insignificant and paltry person like Mason the dressmaker could be an
object of dread, and regarded as a person having authority, by Ruth.
He flamed up with indignation when, by way of impressing him with Mrs
Mason's power and consequence, Ruth spoke of some instance of the
effects of her employer's displeasure. He declared his mother should
never have a gown made again by such a tyrant--such a Mrs Brownrigg;
that he would prevent all his acquaintances from going to such
a cruel dressmaker; till Ruth was alarmed at the threatened
consequences of her one-sided account, and pleaded for Mrs Mason as
earnestly as if a young man's menace of this description were likely
to be literally fulfilled.
"Indeed, sir, I have been very wrong; if you please, sir, don't be so
angry. She is often very good to us; it is only sometimes she goes
into a passion; and we are very provoking, I dare say. I know I am
for one. I have often to undo my work, and you can't think how it
spoils anything (particularly silk) to be unpicked; and Mrs Mason has
to bear all the blame. Oh! I am sorry I said anything about it. Don't
speak to your mother about it, pray, sir. Mrs Mason thinks so much of
Mrs Bellingham's custom."
"Well, I won't this time"--recollecting that there might be some
awkwardness in accounting to his mother for the means by which he
had obtained his very correct information as to what passed in Mrs
Mason's workroom--"but if ever she does so again, I'll not answer for
myself."
"I will take care and not tell again, sir," said Ruth, in a low
voice.
"Nay, Ruth, you are not going to have secrets from me, are you? Don't
you remember your promise to consider me as a brother? Go on telling
me everything that happens to you, pray; you cannot think how much
interest I take in all your interests. I can quite fancy that
charming home at Milham you told me about last Sunday. I can almost
fancy Mrs Mason's workroom; and that, surely, is a proof either of
the strength of my imagination, or of your powers of description."
Ruth smiled. "It is, indeed, sir. Our workroom must be so different
to anything you ever saw. I think you must have passed through Milham
often on your way to Lowford."
"Then you don't think it is any stretch of fancy to have so clear an
idea as I have of Milham Grange? On the left hand of the road, is it,
Ruth?"
"Yes, sir, just over the bridge, and up the hill where the elm-trees
meet overhead and make a green shade; and then comes the dear old
Grange, that I shall never see again."
"Never! Nonsense, Ruthie; it is only six miles off; you may see it
any day. It is not an hour's ride."
"Perhaps I may see it again when I am grown old; I did not think
exactly what 'never' meant; it is so very long since I was there, and
I don't see any chance of my going for years and years, at any rate."
"Why, Ruth, you--we may go next Sunday afternoon, if you like."
She looked up at him with a lovely light of pleasure in her face at
the idea. "How, sir? Can I walk it between afternoon service and the
time Mrs Mason comes home? I would go for only one glimpse; but if I
could get into the house--oh, sir! if I could just see mamma's room
again!"
He was revolving plans in his head for giving her this pleasure, and
he had also his own in view. If they went in any of his carriages,
the loitering charm of the walk would be lost; and they must, to
a certain degree, be encumbered by, and exposed to, the notice of
servants.
"Are you a good walker, Ruth? Do you think you can manage six miles?
If we set off at two o'clock, we shall be there by four, without
hurrying; or say half-past four. Then we might stay two hours, and
you could show me all the old walks and old places you love, and we
could still come leisurely home. Oh, it's all arranged directly!"
"But do you think it would be right, sir? It seems as if it would be
such a great pleasure, that it must be in some way wrong."
"Why, you little goose, what can be wrong in it?"
"In the first place, I miss going to church by setting out at two,"
said Ruth, a little gravely.
"Only for once. Surely you don't see any harm in missing church for
once? You will go in the morning, you know."
"I wonder if Mrs Mason would think it right--if she would allow it?"
"No, I dare say not. But you don't mean to be governed by Mrs Mason's
notions of right and wrong. She thought it right to treat that poor
girl Palmer in the way you told me about. You would think that wrong,
you know, and so would every one of sense and feeling. Come, Ruth,
don't pin your faith on any one, but judge for yourself. The pleasure
is perfectly innocent; it is not a selfish pleasure either, for I
shall enjoy it to the full as much as you will. I shall like to see
the places where you spent your childhood; I shall almost love them
as much as you do." He had dropped his voice; and spoke in low,
persuasive tones. Ruth hung down her head, and blushed with exceeding
happiness; but she could not speak, even to urge her doubts afresh.
Thus it was in a manner settled.
How delightfully happy the plan made her through the coming week!
She was too young when her mother died to have received any cautions
or words of advice respecting _the_ subject of a woman's life--if,
indeed, wise parents ever directly speak of what, in its depth and
power, cannot be put into words--which is a brooding spirit with no
definite form or shape that men should know it, but which is there,
and present before we have recognised and realised its existence.
Ruth was innocent and snow-pure. She had heard of falling in love,
but did not know the signs and symptoms thereof; nor, indeed, had
she troubled her head much about them. Sorrow had filled up her days,
to the exclusion of all lighter thoughts than the consideration of
present duties, and the remembrance of the happy time which had been.
But the interval of blank, after the loss of her mother and during
her father's life-in-death, had made her all the more ready to value
and cling to sympathy--first from Jenny, and now from Mr Bellingham.
To see her home again, and to see it with him; to show him (secure
of his interest) the haunts of former times, each with its little
tale of the past--of dead and gone events!--No coming shadow threw
its gloom over this week's dream of happiness--a dream which was too
bright to be spoken about to common and indifferent ears.