Troubles Gather About Ruth
The next day the weather was brave and glorious; a perfect "bridal
of the earth and sky;" and every one turned out of the inn to enjoy
the fresh beauty of nature. Ruth was quite unconscious of being the
object of remark, and, in her light, rapid passings to and fro, had
never looked at the doors and windows, where many watchers stood
observing her, and commenting upon her situation or her appearance.
"She's a very lovely creature," said one gentleman, rising from the
breakfast-table to catch a glimpse of her as she entered from her
morning's ramble. "Not above sixteen, I should think. Very modest and
innocent-looking in her white gown!"
His wife, busy administering to the wants of a fine little boy, could
only say (without seeing the young girl's modest ways, and gentle,
downcast countenance):
"Well! I do think it's a shame such people should be allowed to come
here. To think of such wickedness under the same roof! Do come away,
my dear, and don't flatter her by such notice."
The husband returned to the breakfast-table; he smelt the broiled
ham and eggs, and he heard his wife's commands. Whether smelling
or hearing had most to do in causing his obedience, I cannot tell;
perhaps you can.
"Now, Harry, go and see if nurse and baby are ready to go out with
you. You must lose no time this beautiful morning."
Ruth found Mr Bellingham was not yet come down; so she sallied out
for an additional half-hour's ramble. Flitting about through the
village, trying to catch all the beautiful sunny peeps at the scenery
between the cold stone houses, which threw the radiant distance into
aërial perspective far away, she passed by the little shop; and, just
issuing from it, came the nurse and baby, and little boy. The baby
sat in placid dignity in her nurse's arms, with a face of queenly
calm. Her fresh, soft, peachy complexion was really tempting; and
Ruth, who was always fond of children, went up to coo and to smile
at the little thing, and, after some "peep-boing," she was about to
snatch a kiss, when Harry, whose face had been reddening ever since
the play began, lifted up his sturdy little right arm and hit Ruth a
great blow on the face.
"Oh, for shame, sir!" said the nurse, snatching back his hand; "how
dare you do that to the lady who is so kind as to speak to Sissy."
"She's not a lady!" said he, indignantly. "She's a bad naughty
girl--mamma said so, she did; and she shan't kiss our baby."
The nurse reddened in her turn. She knew what he must have heard;
but it was awkward to bring it out, standing face to face with the
elegant young lady.
"Children pick up such notions, ma'am," said she at last,
apologetically, to Ruth, who stood, white and still, with a new idea
running through her mind.
"It's no notion; it's true, nurse; and I heard you say it yourself.
Go away, naughty woman!" said the boy, in infantile vehemence of
passion to Ruth.
To the nurse's infinite relief, Ruth turned away, humbly and meekly,
with bent head, and slow, uncertain steps. But as she turned, she saw
the mild sad face of the deformed gentleman, who was sitting at the
open window above the shop; he looked sadder and graver than ever;
and his eyes met her glance with an expression of deep sorrow. And
so, condemned alike by youth and age, she stole with timid step into
the house. Mr Bellingham was awaiting her coming in the sitting-room.
The glorious day restored all his buoyancy of spirits. He talked
gaily away, without pausing for a reply; while Ruth made tea, and
tried to calm her heart, which was yet beating with the agitation of
the new ideas she had received from the occurrence of the morning.
Luckily for her, the only answers required for some time were
mono-syllables; but those few words were uttered in so depressed and
mournful a tone, that at last they struck Mr Bellingham with surprise
and displeasure, as the condition of mind they unconsciously implied
did not harmonise with his own.
"Ruth, what is the matter this morning? You really are very
provoking. Yesterday, when everything was gloomy, and you might have
been aware that I was out of spirits, I heard nothing but expressions
of delight; to-day, when every creature under heaven is rejoicing,
you look most deplorable and woe-begone. You really should learn to
have a little sympathy."
The tears fell quickly down Ruth's cheeks, but she did not speak.
She could not put into words the sense she was just beginning to
entertain of the estimation in which she was henceforward to be held.
She thought he would be as much grieved as she was at what had taken
place that morning; she fancied she should sink in his opinion if she
told him how others regarded her; besides, it seemed ungenerous to
dilate upon the suffering of which he was the cause.
"I will not," thought she, "embitter his life; I will try and be
cheerful. I must not think of myself so much. If I can but make him
happy, what need I care for chance speeches?"
Accordingly, she made every effort possible to be as light-hearted as
he was; but, somehow, the moment she relaxed, thoughts would intrude,
and wonders would force themselves upon her mind; so that altogether
she was not the gay and bewitching companion Mr Bellingham had
previously found her.
They sauntered out for a walk. The path they chose led to a wood on
the side of a hill, and they entered, glad of the shade of the trees.
At first, it appeared like any common grove, but they soon came to a
deep descent, on the summit of which they stood, looking down on the
tree-tops, which were softly waving far beneath their feet. There was
a path leading sharp down, and they followed it; the ledge of rock
made it almost like going down steps, and their walk grew into a
bounding, and their bounding into a run, before they reached the
lowest plane. A green gloom reigned there; it was the still hour of
noon; the little birds were quiet in some leafy shade. They went on a
few yards, and then they came to a circular pool overshadowed by the
trees, whose highest boughs had been beneath their feet a few minutes
before. The pond was hardly below the surface of the ground, and
there was nothing like a bank on any side. A heron was standing there
motionless, but when he saw them he flapped his wings and slowly
rose, and soared above the green heights of the wood up into the very
sky itself, for at that depth the trees appeared to touch the round
white clouds which brooded over the earth. The speed-well grew in
the shallowest water of the pool, and all around its margin, but the
flowers were hardly seen at first, so deep was the green shadow cast
by the trees. In the very middle of the pond the sky was mirrored
clear and dark, a blue which looked as if a black void lay behind.
"Oh, there are water-lilies," said Ruth, her eye catching on the
farther side. "I must go and get some."
"No; I will get them for you. The ground is spongy all round there.
Sit still, Ruth; this heap of grass will make a capital seat."
He went round, and she waited quietly for his return. When he came
back he took off her bonnet, without speaking, and began to place
his flowers in her hair. She was quite still while he arranged her
coronet, looking up in his face with loving eyes, with a peaceful
composure. She knew that he was pleased from his manner, which had
the joyousness of a child playing with a new toy, and she did not
think twice of his occupation. It was pleasant to forget everything
except his pleasure. When he had decked her out, he said:
"There, Ruth! now you'll do. Come and look at yourself in the pond.
Here, where there are no weeds. Come."
She obeyed, and could not help seeing her own loveliness; it gave
her a sense of satisfaction for an instant, as the sight of any
other beautiful object would have done, but she never thought of
associating it with herself. She knew that she was beautiful; but
that seemed abstract, and removed from herself. Her existence was in
feeling, and thinking, and loving.
Down in that green hollow they were quite in harmony. Her beauty was
all that Mr Bellingham cared for, and it was supreme. It was all he
recognised of her, and he was proud of it. She stood in her white
dress against the trees which grew around; her face was flushed into
a brilliancy of colour which resembled that of a rose in June; the
great heavy white flowers drooped on either side of her beautiful
head, and if her brown hair was a little disordered, the very
disorder only seemed to add a grace. She pleased him more by looking
so lovely than by all her tender endeavours to fall in with his
varying humour.
But when they left the wood, and Ruth had taken out her flowers, and
resumed her bonnet, as they came near the inn, the simple thought of
giving him pleasure was not enough to secure Ruth's peace. She became
pensive and sad, and could not rally into gaiety.
"Really, Ruth," said he, that evening, "you must not encourage
yourself in this habit of falling into melancholy reveries without
any cause. You have been sighing twenty times during the last
half-hour. Do be a little cheerful. Remember, I have no companion but
you in this out-of-the-way place."
"I am very sorry, sir," said Ruth, her eyes filling with tears; and
then she remembered that it was very dull for him to be alone with
her, heavy-hearted as she had been all day. She said in a sweet,
penitent tone:
"Would you be so kind as to teach me one of those games at cards you
were speaking about yesterday, sir? I would do my best to learn."
Her soft, murmuring voice won its way. They rang for the cards, and
he soon forgot that there was such a thing as depression or gloom in
the world, in the pleasure of teaching such a beautiful ignoramus the
mysteries of card-playing.
"There!" said he, at last, "that's enough for one lesson. Do you
know, little goose, your blunders have made me laugh myself into one
of the worst headaches I have had for years."
He threw himself on the sofa, and in an instant she was by his side.
"Let me put my cool hands on your forehead," she begged; "that used
to do mamma good."
He lay still, his face away from the light, and not speaking.
Presently he fell asleep. Ruth put out the candles, and sat patiently
by him for a long time, fancying he would awaken refreshed. The room
grew cool in the night air; but Ruth dared not rouse him from what
appeared to be sound, restoring slumber. She covered him with her
shawl, which she had thrown over a chair on coming in from their
twilight ramble. She had ample time to think; but she tried to banish
thought. At last, his breathing became quick and oppressed, and,
after listening to it for some minutes with increasing affright, Ruth
ventured to waken him. He seemed stupified and shivery. Ruth became
more and more terrified; all the household were asleep except one
servant-girl, who was wearied out of what little English she had
knowledge of in more waking hours, and she could only answer, "Iss,
indeed, ma'am," to any question put to her by Ruth.
She sat by the bedside all night long. He moaned and tossed, but
never spoke sensibly. It was a new form of illness to the miserable
Ruth. Her yesterday's suffering went into the black distance of
long-past years. The present was all-in-all. When she heard people
stirring, she went in search of Mrs Morgan, whose shrewd, sharp
manners, unsoftened by inward respect for the poor girl, had awed
Ruth even when Mr Bellingham was by to protect her.
"Mrs Morgan," said she, sitting down in the little parlour
appropriated to the landlady, for she felt her strength suddenly
desert her--"Mrs Morgan, I'm afraid Mr Bellingham is very ill;"--here
she burst into tears, but instantly checking herself, "Oh, what
must I do?" continued she; "I don't think he has known anything all
through the night, and he looks so strange and wild this morning."
She gazed up into Mrs Morgan's face, as if reading an oracle.
"Indeed, miss, ma'am, and it's a very awkward thing. But don't cry,
that can do no good, 'deed it can't. I'll go and see the poor young
man myself, and then I can judge if a doctor is wanting."
Ruth followed Mrs Morgan upstairs. When they entered the sick-room Mr
Bellingham was sitting up in bed, looking wildly about him, and as he
saw them, he exclaimed:
"Ruth! Ruth! come here; I won't be left alone!" and then he fell down
exhausted on the pillow. Mrs Morgan went up and spoke to him, but he
did not answer or take any notice.
"I'll send for Mr Jones, my dear, 'deed and I will; we'll have him
here in a couple of hours, please God."
"Oh, can't he come sooner?" asked Ruth, wild with terror.
"'Deed no; he lives at Llanglâs when he's at home, and that's seven
mile away, and he may be gone a round eight or nine mile on the other
side Llanglâs; but I'll send a boy on the pony directly."
Saying this, Mrs Morgan left Ruth alone. There was nothing to be
done, for Mr Bellingham had again fallen into a heavy sleep. Sounds
of daily life began, bells rang, breakfast-services clattered up
and down the passages, and Ruth sat on shivering by the bedside in
that darkened room. Mrs Morgan sent her breakfast upstairs by a
chambermaid, but Ruth motioned it away in her sick agony, and the
girl had no right to urge her to partake of it. That alone broke the
monotony of the long morning. She heard the sound of merry parties
setting out on excursions, on horseback or in carriages; and once,
stiff and wearied, she stole to the window, and looked out on one
side of the blind; but the day looked bright and discordant to her
aching, anxious heart. The gloom of the darkened room was better and
more befitting.
It was some hours after he was summoned before the doctor made his
appearance. He questioned his patient, and, receiving no coherent
answers, he asked Ruth concerning the symptoms; but when she
questioned him in turn he only shook his head and looked grave. He
made a sign to Mrs Morgan to follow him out of the room, and they
went down to her parlour, leaving Ruth in a depth of despair, lower
than she could have thought it possible there remained for her to
experience, an hour before.
"I am afraid this is a bad case," said Mr Jones to Mrs Morgan in
Welsh. "A brain-fever has evidently set in."
"Poor young gentleman! poor young man! He looked the very picture of
health!"
"That very appearance of robustness will, in all probability, make
his disorder more violent. However, we must hope for the best, Mrs
Morgan. Who is to attend upon him? He will require careful nursing.
Is that young lady his sister? She looks too young to be his wife?"
"No, indeed! Gentlemen like you must know, Mr Jones, that we can't
always look too closely into the ways of young men who come to
our houses. Not but what I'm sorry for her, for she's an innocent,
inoffensive young creature. I always think it right, for my own
morals, to put a little scorn into my manners when such as her come
to stay here; but, indeed, she's so gentle, I've found it hard work
to show the proper contempt."
She would have gone on to her inattentive listener if she had not
heard a low tap at the door, which recalled her from her morality,
and Mr Jones from his consideration of the necessary prescriptions.
"Come in!" said Mrs Morgan, sharply. And Ruth came in. She was white
and trembling; but she stood in that dignity which strong feeling,
kept down by self-command, always imparts.
"I wish you, sir, to be so kind as to tell me, clearly and
distinctly, what I must do for Mr Bellingham. Every direction
you give me shall be most carefully attended to. You spoke about
leeches--I can put them on, and see about them. Tell me everything,
sir, that you wish to have done!"
Her manner was calm and serious, and her countenance and deportment
showed that the occasion was calling out strength sufficient to meet
it. Mr Jones spoke with a deference which he had not thought of using
upstairs, even while he supposed her to be the sister of the invalid.
Ruth listened gravely; she repeated some of the injunctions, in order
that she might be sure that she fully comprehended them, and then,
bowing, left the room.
"She is no common person," said Mr Jones. "Still she is too young to
have the responsibility of such a serious case. Have you any idea
where his friends live, Mrs Morgan?"
"Indeed and I have. His mother, as haughty a lady as you would wish
to see, came travelling through Wales last year; she stopped here,
and, I warrant you, nothing was good enough for her; she was real
quality. She left some clothes and books behind her (for the maid was
almost as fine as the mistress, and little thought of seeing after
her lady's clothes, having a taste for going to see scenery along
with the man-servant), and we had several letters from her. I have
them locked in the drawers in the bar, where I keep such things."
"Well! I should recommend your writing to the lady, and telling her
her son's state."
"It would be a favour, Mr Jones, if you would just write it yourself.
English writing comes so strange to my pen."
The letter was written, and, in order to save time, Mr Jones took it
to the Llanglâs post-office.