Thurstan and Faith Benson
You have now seen the note which was delivered into Mr Benson's
hands, as the cool shades of evening stole over the glowing summer
sky. When he had read it, he again prepared to write a few hasty
lines before the post went out. The post-boy was even now sounding
his horn through the village as a signal for letters to be ready; and
it was well that Mr Benson, in his long morning's meditation, had
decided upon the course to be pursued, in case of such an answer as
that which he had received from Mrs Bellingham. His present note was
as follows:
DEAR FAITH,--You must come to this place directly, where I
earnestly desire you and your advice. I am well myself, so
do not be alarmed. I have no time for explanation, but I
am sure you will not refuse me; let me trust that I shall
see you on Saturday at the latest. You know the mode by
which I came; it is the best for expedition and cheapness.
Dear Faith, do not fail me.
Your affectionate brother,
THURSTAN BENSON.
P.S.--I am afraid the money I left may be running short.
Do not let this stop you. Take my Facciolati to Johnson's,
he will advance upon it; it is the third row, bottom
shelf. Only come.
When this letter was despatched he had done all he could; and the
next two days passed like a long monotonous dream of watching,
thought, and care, undisturbed by any event, hardly by the change
from day to night, which, now the harvest moon was at her full, was
scarcely perceptible. On Saturday morning the answer came.
DEAREST THURSTAN,--Your incomprehensible summons has just
reached me, and I obey, thereby proving my right to my
name of Faith. I shall be with you almost as soon as this
letter. I cannot help feeling anxious, as well as curious.
I have money enough, and it is well I have; for Sally, who
guards your room like a dragon, would rather see me walk
the whole way, than have any of your things disturbed.
Your affectionate sister,
FAITH BENSON.
It was a great relief to Mr Benson to think that his sister would so
soon be with him. He had been accustomed from childhood to rely on
her prompt judgment and excellent sense; and to her care he felt that
Ruth ought to be consigned, as it was too much to go on taxing good
Mrs Hughes with night watching and sick nursing, with all her other
claims on her time. He asked her once more to sit by Ruth, while he
went to meet his sister.
The coach passed by the foot of the steep ascent which led up to
Llan-dhu. He took a boy to carry his sister's luggage when she
arrived; they were too soon at the bottom of the hill, and the boy
began to make ducks and drakes in the shallowest part of the stream,
which there flowed glassy and smooth, while Mr Benson sat down on a
great stone, under the shadow of an alder bush which grew where the
green, flat meadow skirted the water. It was delightful to be once
more in the open air, and away from the scenes and thoughts which had
been pressing on him for the last three days. There was new beauty in
everything: from the blue mountains which glimmered in the distant
sunlight, down to the flat, rich, peaceful vale, with its calm round
shadows, where he sat. The very margin of white pebbles which lay on
the banks of the stream had a sort of cleanly beauty about it. He
felt calmer and more at ease than he had done for some days; and yet,
when he began to think, it was rather a strange story which he had to
tell his sister, in order to account for his urgent summons. Here was
he, sole friend and guardian of a poor sick girl, whose very name he
did not know; about whom all that he did know was, that she had been
the mistress of a man who had deserted her, and that he feared--he
believed--she had contemplated suicide. The offence, too, was one for
which his sister, good and kind as she was, had little compassion.
Well, he must appeal to her love for him, which was a very
unsatisfactory mode of proceeding, as he would far rather have had
her interest in the girl founded on reason, or some less personal
basis than showing it merely because her brother wished it.
The coach came slowly rumbling over the stony road. His sister was
outside, but got down in a brisk active way, and greeted her brother
heartily and affectionately. She was considerably taller than he was,
and must have been very handsome; her black hair was parted plainly
over her forehead, and her dark, expressive eyes and straight nose
still retained the beauty of her youth. I do not know whether she
was older than her brother, but, probably owing to his infirmity
requiring her care, she had something of a mother's manner towards
him.
"Thurstan, you are looking pale! I do not believe you are well,
whatever you may say. Have you had the old pain in your back?"
"No--a little--never mind that, dearest Faith. Sit down here, while
I send the boy up with your box." And then, with some little desire
to show his sister how well he was acquainted with the language,
he blundered out his directions in very grammatical Welsh; so
grammatical, in fact, and so badly pronounced, that the boy,
scratching his head, made answer,
"Dim Saesoneg."
So he had to repeat it in English.
"Well now, Thurstan, here I sit as you bid me. But don't try me too
long; tell me why you sent for me."
Now came the difficulty, and oh! for a seraph's tongue, and a
seraph's powers of representation! but there was no seraph at hand,
only the soft running waters singing a quiet tune, and predisposing
Miss Benson to listen with a soothed spirit to any tale, not
immediately involving her brother's welfare, which had been the cause
of her seeing that lovely vale.
"It is an awkward story to tell, Faith, but there is a young woman
lying ill at my lodgings whom I wanted you to nurse."
He thought he saw a shadow on his sister's face, and detected a
slight change in her voice as she spoke.
"Nothing very romantic, I hope, Thurstan. Remember, I cannot stand
much romance; I always distrust it."
"I don't know what you mean by romance. The story is real enough, and
not out of the common way, I'm afraid."
He paused; he did not get over the difficulty.
"Well, tell it me at once, Thurstan. I am afraid you have let some
one, or perhaps only your own imagination, impose upon you; but don't
try my patience too much; you know I've no great stock."
"Then I'll tell you. The young girl was brought to the inn here by a
gentleman, who has left her; she is very ill, and has no one to see
after her."
Miss Benson had some masculine tricks, and one was whistling a long,
low whistle when surprised or displeased. She had often found it a
useful vent for feelings, and she whistled now. Her brother would
rather she had spoken.
"Have you sent for her friends?" she asked at last.
"She has none."
Another pause and another whistle, but rather softer and more
wavering than the last.
"How is she ill?"
"Pretty nearly as quiet as if she were dead. She does not speak, or
move, or even sigh."
"It would be better for her to die at once, I think."
"Faith!"
That one word put them right. It was spoken in the tone which had
authority over her; it was so full of grieved surprise and mournful
upbraiding. She was accustomed to exercise a sway over him, owing to
her greater decision of character, and, probably, if everything were
traced to its cause, to her superior vigour of constitution; but at
times she was humbled before his pure, childlike nature, and felt
where she was inferior. She was too good and true to conceal this
feeling, or to resent its being forced upon her. After a time she
said,
"Thurstan, dear, let us go to her."
She helped him with tender care, and gave him her arm up the long and
tedious hill; but when they approached the village, without speaking
a word on the subject, they changed their position, and she leant
(apparently) on him. He stretched himself up into as vigorous a gait
as he could, when they drew near to the abodes of men.
On the way they had spoken but little. He had asked after various
members of his congregation, for he was a Dissenting minister in a
country town, and she had answered; but they neither of them spoke of
Ruth, though their minds were full of her.
Mrs Hughes had tea ready for the traveller on her arrival. Mr Benson
chafed a little internally at the leisurely way in which his sister
sipped and sipped, and paused to tell him some trifling particular
respecting home affairs, which she had forgotten before.
"Mr Bradshaw has refused to let the children associate with the
Dixons any longer, because one evening they played at acting
charades."
"Indeed;--a little more bread and butter, Faith?"
"Thank you. This Welsh air does make one hungry. Mrs Bradshaw is
paying poor old Maggie's rent, to save her from being sent into the
workhouse."
"That's right. Won't you have another cup of tea?"
"I have had two. However, I think I'll take another."
Mr Benson could not refrain from a little sigh as he poured it out.
He thought he had never seen his sister so deliberately hungry and
thirsty before. He did not guess that she was feeling the meal rather
a respite from a distasteful interview, which she was aware was
awaiting her at its conclusion. But all things come to an end, and so
did Miss Benson's tea.
"Now, will you go and see her?"
"Yes."
And so they went. Mrs Hughes had pinned up a piece of green calico,
by way of a Venetian blind, to shut out the afternoon sun; and in the
light thus shaded lay Ruth, still, and wan, and white. Even with her
brother's account of Ruth's state, such death-like quietness startled
Miss Benson--startled her into pity for the poor lovely creature who
lay thus stricken and felled. When she saw her, she could no longer
imagine her to be an impostor, or a hardened sinner; such prostration
of woe belonged to neither. Mr Benson looked more at his sister's
face than at Ruth's; he read her countenance as a book.
Mrs Hughes stood by, crying.
Mr Benson touched his sister, and they left the room together.
"Do you think she will live?" asked he.
"I cannot tell," said Miss Benson, in a softened voice. "But how
young she looks! Quite a child, poor creature! When will the doctor
come, Thurstan? Tell me all about her; you have never told me the
particulars."
Mr Benson might have said, she had never cared to hear them before,
and had rather avoided the subject; but he was too happy to see this
awakening of interest in his sister's warm heart to say anything in
the least reproachful. He told her the story as well as he could;
and, as he felt it deeply, he told it with heart's eloquence; and, as
he ended and looked at her, there were tears in the eyes of both.
"And what does the doctor say?" asked she, after a pause.
"He insists upon quiet; he orders medicines and strong broth. I
cannot tell you all; Mrs Hughes can. She has been so truly good.
'Doing good, hoping for nothing again.'"
"She looks very sweet and gentle. I shall sit up to-night and watch
her myself; and I shall send you and Mrs Hughes early to bed, for you
have both a worn look about you I don't like. Are you sure the effect
of that fall has gone off? Do you feel anything of it in your back
still? After all, I owe her something for turning back to your help.
Are you sure she was going to drown herself?"
"I cannot be sure, for I have not questioned her. She has not been in
a state to be questioned; but I have no doubt whatever about it. But
you must not think of sitting up after your journey, Faith."
"Answer me, Thurstan. Do you feel any bad effect from that fall?"
"No, hardly any. Don't sit up, Faith, to-night!"
"Thurstan, it's no use talking, for I shall; and, if you go on
opposing me, I dare say I shall attack your back, and put a blister
on it. Do tell me what that 'hardly any' means. Besides, to set you
quite at ease, you know I have never seen mountains before, and they
fill me and oppress me so much that I could not sleep; I must keep
awake this first night, and see that they don't fall on the earth and
overwhelm it. And now answer my questions about yourself."
Miss Benson had the power, which some people have, of carrying her
wishes through to their fulfilment; her will was strong, her sense
was excellent, and people yielded to her--they did not know why.
Before ten o'clock she reigned sole power and potentate in Ruth's
little chamber. Nothing could have been better devised for giving her
an interest in the invalid. The very dependence of one so helpless
upon her care inclined her heart towards her. She thought she
perceived a slight improvement in the symptoms during the night, and
she was a little pleased that this progress should have been made
while she reigned monarch of the sick-room. Yes, certainly there was
an improvement. There was more consciousness in the look of the eyes,
although the whole countenance still retained its painful traces of
acute suffering, manifested in an anxious, startled, uneasy aspect.
It was broad morning light, though barely five o'clock, when Miss
Benson caught the sight of Ruth's lips moving, as if in speech. Miss
Benson stooped down to listen.
"Who are you?" asked Ruth, in the faintest of whispers.
"Miss Benson--Mr Benson's sister," she replied.
The words conveyed no knowledge to Ruth; on the contrary, weak as a
babe in mind and body as she was, her lips began to quiver, and her
eyes to show a terror similar to that of any little child who wakens
in the presence of a stranger, and sees no dear, familiar face of
mother or nurse to reassure its trembling heart.
Miss Benson took her hand in hers, and began to stroke it
caressingly.
"Don't be afraid, dear; I'm a friend come to take care of you. Would
you like some tea now, my love?"
The very utterance of these gentle words was unlocking Miss Benson's
heart. Her brother was surprised to see her so full of interest, when
he came to inquire later on in the morning. It required Mrs Hughes's
persuasions, as well as his own, to induce her to go to bed for an
hour or two after breakfast; and, before she went, she made them
promise that she should be called when the doctor came. He did not
come until late in the afternoon. The invalid was rallying fast,
though rallying to a consciousness of sorrow, as was evinced by the
tears which came slowly rolling down her pale sad cheeks--tears which
she had not the power to wipe away.
Mr Benson had remained in the house all day to hear the doctor's
opinion; and now that he was relieved from the charge of Ruth by
his sister's presence, he had the more time to dwell upon the
circumstances of her case--so far as they were known to him. He
remembered his first sight of her; her little figure swaying to and
fro as she balanced herself on the slippery stones, half smiling at
her own dilemma, with a bright, happy light in the eyes that seemed
like a reflection from the glancing waters sparkling below. Then he
recalled the changed, affrighted look of those eyes as they met his,
after the child's rebuff of her advances;--how that little incident
filled up the tale at which Mrs Hughes had hinted, in a kind of
sorrowful way, as if loath (as a Christian should be) to believe
evil. Then that fearful evening, when he had only just saved her
from committing suicide, and that nightmare sleep! And now, lost,
forsaken, and but just delivered from the jaws of death, she lay
dependent for everything on his sister and him,--utter strangers a
few weeks ago. Where was her lover? Could he be easy and happy? Could
he grow into perfect health, with these great sins pressing on his
conscience with a strong and hard pain? Or had he a conscience?
Into whole labyrinths of social ethics Mr Benson's thoughts wandered,
when his sister entered suddenly and abruptly.
"What does the doctor say? Is she better?"
"Oh, yes! she's better," answered Miss Benson, sharp and short. Her
brother looked at her in dismay. She bumped down into a chair in a
cross, disconcerted manner. They were both silent for a few minutes;
only Miss Benson whistled and clucked alternately.
"What is the matter, Faith? You say she is better."
"Why, Thurstan, there is something so shocking the matter, that I
cannot tell you."
Mr Benson changed colour with affright. All things possible and
impossible crossed his mind but the right one. I said, "all things
possible;" I made a mistake. He never believed Ruth to be more guilty
than she seemed.
"Faith, I wish you would tell me, and not bewilder me with those
noises of yours," said he, nervously.
"I beg your pardon; but something so shocking has just been
discovered--I don't know how to word it--She will have a child. The
doctor says so."
She was allowed to make noises unnoticed for a few minutes. Her
brother did not speak. At last she wanted his sympathy.
"Isn't it shocking, Thurstan? You might have knocked me down with a
straw when he told me."
"Does she know?"
"Yes; and I am not sure that that isn't the worst part of all."
"How?--what do you mean?"
"Oh! I was just beginning to have a good opinion of her, but I'm
afraid she is very depraved. After the doctor was gone, she pulled
the bed-curtain aside, and looked as if she wanted to speak to me. (I
can't think how she heard, for we were close to the window, and spoke
very low.) Well, I went to her, though I really had taken quite a
turn against her. And she whispered, quite eagerly, 'Did he say I
should have a baby?' Of course, I could not keep it from her; but I
thought it my duty to look as cold and severe as I could. She did not
seem to understand how it ought to be viewed, but took it just as if
she had a right to have a baby. She said, 'Oh, my God, I thank Thee!
Oh! I will be so good!' I had no patience with her then, so I left
the room."
"Who is with her?"
"Mrs Hughes. She is not seeing the thing in a moral light, as I
should have expected."
Mr Benson was silent again. After some time he began:
"Faith, I don't see this affair quite as you do. I believe I am
right."
"You surprise me, brother! I don't understand you."
"Wait awhile! I want to make my feelings very clear to you, but I
don't know where to begin, or how to express myself."
"It is, indeed, an extraordinary subject for us to have to talk
about; but if once I get clear of this girl, I'll wash my hands of
all such cases again."
Her brother was not attending to her; he was reducing his own ideas
to form.
"Faith, do you know I rejoice in this child's advent?"
"May God forgive you, Thurstan!--if you know what you are saying.
But, surely, it is a temptation, dear Thurstan."
"I do not think it is a delusion. The sin appears to me to be quite
distinct from its consequences."
"Sophistry--and a temptation," said Miss Benson, decidedly.
"No, it is not," said her brother, with equal decision. "In the eye
of God, she is exactly the same as if the life she has led had left
no trace behind. We knew her errors before, Faith."
"Yes, but not this disgrace--this badge of her shame!"
"Faith, Faith! let me beg of you not to speak so of the little
innocent babe, who may be God's messenger to lead her back to Him.
Think again of her first words--the burst of nature from her heart!
Did she not turn to God, and enter into a covenant with Him--'I
will be so good?' Why, it draws her out of herself! If her life has
hitherto been self-seeking, and wickedly thoughtless, here is the
very instrument to make her forget herself, and be thoughtful for
another. Teach her (and God will teach her, if man does not come
between) to reverence her child; and this reverence will shut out
sin,--will be purification."
He was very much excited; he was even surprised at his own
excitement; but his thoughts and meditations through the long
afternoon had prepared his mind for this manner of viewing the
subject.
"These are quite new ideas to me," said Miss Benson, coldly. "I think
you, Thurstan, are the first person I ever heard rejoicing over the
birth of an illegitimate child. It appears to me, I must own, rather
questionable morality."
"I do not rejoice. I have been all this afternoon mourning over the
sin which has blighted this young creature; I have been dreading
lest, as she recovered consciousness, there should be a return of her
despair. I have been thinking of every holy word, every promise to
the penitent--of the tenderness which led the Magdalen aright. I have
been feeling, severely and reproachfully, the timidity which has
hitherto made me blink all encounter with evils of this particular
kind. Oh, Faith! once for all, do not accuse me of questionable
morality, when I am trying more than ever I did in my life to act as
my blessed Lord would have done."
He was very much agitated. His sister hesitated, and then she spoke
more softly than before.
"But, Thurstan, everything might have been done to 'lead her right'
(as you call it), without this child, this miserable offspring of
sin."
"The world has, indeed, made such children miserable, innocent as
they are; but I doubt if this be according to the will of God, unless
it be His punishment for the parents' guilt; and even then the
world's way of treatment is too apt to harden the mother's natural
love into something like hatred. Shame, and the terror of friends'
displeasure, turn her mad--defile her holiest instincts; and, as for
the fathers--God forgive them! I cannot--at least, not just now."
Miss Benson thought on what her brother said. At length she asked,
"Thurstan (remember I'm not convinced), how would you have this girl
treated according to your theory?"
"It will require some time, and much Christian love, to find out the
best way. I know I'm not very wise; but the way I think it would be
right to act in, would be this--" He thought for some time before he
spoke, and then said:
"She has incurred a responsibility--that we both acknowledge. She is
about to become a mother, and have the direction and guidance of a
little tender life. I fancy such a responsibility must be serious and
solemn enough, without making it into a heavy and oppressive burden,
so that human nature recoils from bearing it. While we do all we can
to strengthen her sense of responsibility, I would likewise do all we
can to make her feel that it is responsibility for what may become a
blessing."
"Whether the children are legitimate or illegitimate?" asked Miss
Benson, drily.
"Yes!" said her brother, firmly. "The more I think, the more I
believe I am right. No one," said he, blushing faintly as he spoke,
"can have a greater recoil from profligacy than I have. You yourself
have not greater sorrow over this young creature's sin than I have:
the difference is this, you confuse the consequences with the sin."
"I don't understand metaphysics."
"I am not aware that I am talking metaphysics. I can imagine that if
the present occasion be taken rightly, and used well, all that is
good in her may be raised to a height unmeasured but by God; while
all that is evil and dark may, by His blessing, fade and disappear
in the pure light of her child's presence. Oh, Father! listen to my
prayer, that her redemption may date from this time. Help us to speak
to her in the loving spirit of thy Holy Son!"
The tears were full in his eyes; he almost trembled in his
earnestness. He was faint with the strong power of his own
conviction, and with his inability to move his sister. But she was
shaken. She sat very still for a quarter of an hour or more, while he
leaned back, exhausted by his own feelings.
"The poor child!" said she, at length--"the poor, poor child! what
it will have to struggle through and endure! Do you remember Thomas
Wilkins, and the way he threw the registry of his birth and baptism
back in your face? Why, he would not have the situation; he went to
sea and was drowned, rather than present the record of his shame."
"I do remember it all. It has often haunted me. She must strengthen
her child to look to God, rather than to man's opinion. It will be
the discipline, the penance, she has incurred. She must teach it to
be (humanly speaking) self-dependent."
"But after all," said Miss Benson (for she had known and esteemed
poor Thomas Wilkins, and had mourned over his untimely death, and
the recollection thereof softened her)--"after all, it might be
concealed. The very child need never know its illegitimacy."
"How?" asked her brother.
"Why--we know so little about her yet; but in that letter, it said
she had no friends;--now, could she not go into quite a fresh place,
and be passed off as a widow?"
Ah, tempter! unconscious tempter! Here was a way of evading the
trials for the poor little unborn child, of which Mr Benson had never
thought. It was the decision--the pivot, on which the fate of years
moved; and he turned it the wrong way. But it was not for his own
sake. For himself, he was brave enough to tell the truth; for the
little helpless baby, about to enter a cruel, biting world, he was
tempted to evade the difficulty. He forgot what he had just said, of
the discipline and penance to the mother consisting in strengthening
her child to meet, trustfully and bravely, the consequences of her
own weakness. He remembered more clearly the wild fierceness, the
Cain-like look, of Thomas Wilkins, as the obnoxious word in the
baptismal registry told him that he must go forth branded into the
world, with his hand against every man's, and every man's against
him.
"How could it be managed, Faith?"
"Nay, I must know much more, which she alone can tell us, before I
can see how it is to be managed. It is certainly the best plan."
"Perhaps it is," said her brother, thoughtfully, but no longer
clearly or decidedly; and so the conversation dropped.
Ruth moved the bed-curtain aside, in her soft manner, when Miss
Benson re-entered the room; she did not speak, but she looked at her
as if she wished her to come near. Miss Benson went and stood by her.
Ruth took her hand in hers and kissed it; then, as if fatigued even
by this slight movement, she fell asleep.
Miss Benson took up her work, and thought over her brother's
speeches. She was not convinced, but she was softened and bewildered.