Losing Sight of the Welsh Mountains
Miss Benson continued in an undecided state of mind for the two next
days; but on the third, as they sat at breakfast, she began to speak
to her brother.
"That young creature's name is Ruth Hilton."
"Indeed! how did you find it out?"
"From herself, of course. She is much stronger. I slept with her last
night, and I was aware she was awake long before I liked to speak,
but at last I began. I don't know what I said, or how it went on,
but I think it was a little relief to her to tell me something about
herself. She sobbed and cried herself to sleep; I think she is asleep
now."
"Tell me what she said about herself."
"Oh, it was really very little; it was evidently a most painful
subject. She is an orphan, without brother or sister, and with
a guardian, whom, I think she said, she never saw but once. He
apprenticed her (after her father's death) to a dressmaker. This Mr
Bellingham got acquainted with her, and they used to meet on Sunday
afternoons. One day they were late, lingering on the road, when the
dressmaker came up by accident. She seems to have been very angry,
and not unnaturally so. The girl took fright at her threats, and the
lover persuaded her to go off with him to London, there and then.
Last May, I think it was. That's all."
"Did she express any sorrow for her error?"
"No, not in words, but her voice was broken with sobs, though she
tried to make it steady. After a while she began to talk about her
baby, but shyly, and with much hesitation. She asked me how much I
thought she could earn as a dressmaker, by working very, very hard;
and that brought us round to her child. I thought of what you had
said, Thurstan, and I tried to speak to her as you wished me. I am
not sure if it was right; I am doubtful in my own mind still."
"Don't be doubtful, Faith! Dear Faith, I thank you for your
kindness."
"There is really nothing to thank me for. It is almost impossible to
help being kind to her; there is something so meek and gentle about
her, so patient, and so grateful!"
"What does she think of doing?"
"Poor child! she thinks of taking lodgings--very cheap ones, she
says; there she means to work night and day to earn enough for her
child. For, she said to me, with such pretty earnestness, 'It must
never know want, whatever I do. I have deserved suffering, but it
will be such a little innocent darling!' Her utmost earnings would
not be more than seven or eight shillings a week, I'm afraid; and
then she is so young and so pretty!"
"There is that fifty pounds Mrs Morgan brought me, and those two
letters. Does she know about them yet?"
"No; I did not like to tell her till she is a little stronger. Oh,
Thurstan! I wish there was not this prospect of a child. I cannot
help it. I do--I could see a way in which we might help her, if it
were not for that."
"How do you mean?"
"Oh, it's no use thinking of it, as it is! Or else we might have
taken her home with us, and kept her till she had got a little
dress-making in the congregation, but for this meddlesome child;
that spoils everything. You must let me grumble to you, Thurstan.
I was very good to her, and spoke as tenderly and respectfully of
the little thing as if it were the Queen's, and born in lawful
matrimony."
"That's right, my dear Faith! Grumble away to me, if you like. I'll
forgive you, for the kind thought of taking her home with us. But do
you think her situation is an insuperable objection?"
"Why, Thurstan!--it's so insuperable, it puts it quite out of the
question."
"How?--that's only repeating your objection. Why is it out of the
question?"
"If there had been no child coming, we might have called her by her
right name--Miss Hilton; that's one thing. Then, another is, the baby
in our house. Why, Sally would go distraught!"
"Never mind Sally. If she were an orphan relation of our own, left
widowed," said he, pausing, as if in doubt. "You yourself suggested
she should be considered as a widow, for the child's sake. I'm only
taking up your ideas, dear Faith. I respect you for thinking of
taking her home; it is just what we ought to do. Thank you for
reminding me of my duty."
"Nay, it was only a passing thought. Think of Mr Bradshaw. Oh! I
tremble at the thought of his grim displeasure."
"We must think of a higher than Mr Bradshaw. I own I should be a very
coward, if he knew. He is so severe, so inflexible. But after all he
sees so little of us; he never comes to tea, you know, but is always
engaged when Mrs Bradshaw comes. I don't think he knows of what our
household consists."
"Not know Sally? Oh yes, but he does. He asked Mrs Bradshaw one day,
if she knew what wages we gave her, and said we might get a far more
efficient and younger servant for the money. And, speaking about
money, think what our expenses would be if we took her home for the
next six months."
That consideration was a puzzling one; and both sat silent and
perplexed for a time. Miss Benson was as sorrowful as her brother,
for she was becoming as anxious as he was to find it possible that
her plan could be carried out.
"There's the fifty pounds," said he, with a sigh of reluctance at the
idea.
"Yes, there's the fifty pounds," echoed his sister, with the same
sadness in her tone. "I suppose it is hers."
"I suppose it is; and being so, we must not think who gave it to her.
It will defray her expenses. I am very sorry, but I think we must
take it."
"It would never do to apply to him under the present circumstances,"
said Miss Benson, in a hesitating manner.
"No, that we won't," said her brother, decisively. "If she consents
to let us take care of her, we will never let her stoop to request
anything from him, even for his child. She can live on bread and
water. We can all live on bread and water rather than that."
"Then I will speak to her and propose the plan. Oh, Thurstan! from
a child you could persuade me to anything! I hope I am doing right.
However much I oppose you at first, I am sure to yield soon; almost
in proportion to my violence at first. I think I am very weak."
"No, not in this instance. We are both right: I, in the way in which
the child ought to be viewed; you, dear good Faith, for thinking of
taking her home with us. God bless you, dear, for it!"
When Ruth began to sit up (and the strange, new, delicious prospect
of becoming a mother seemed to give her some mysterious source of
strength, so that her recovery was rapid and swift from that time),
Miss Benson brought her the letters and the bank-note.
"Do you recollect receiving this letter, Ruth?" asked she, with
grave gentleness. Ruth changed colour, and took it and read it again
without making any reply to Miss Benson. Then she sighed, and thought
a while; and then took up and read the second note--the note which
Mrs Bellingham had sent to Mr Benson in answer to his. After that she
took up the bank-note and turned it round and round, but not as if
she saw it. Miss Benson noticed that her fingers trembled sadly, and
that her lips were quivering for some time before she spoke.
"If you please, Miss Benson, I should like to return this money."
"Why, my dear?"
"I have a strong feeling against taking it. While he," said she,
deeply blushing, and letting her large white lids drop down and veil
her eyes, "loved me, he gave me many things--my watch--oh, many
things; and I took them from him gladly and thankfully because he
loved me--for I would have given him anything--and I thought of them
as signs of love. But this money pains my heart. He has left off
loving me, and has gone away. This money seems--oh, Miss Benson--it
seems as if he could comfort me, for being forsaken, by money." And
at that word the tears, so long kept back and repressed, forced their
way like rain.
She checked herself, however, in the violence of her emotion, for she
thought of her child.
"So, will you take the trouble of sending it back to Mrs Bellingham?"
"That I will, my dear. I am glad of it, that I am! They don't deserve
to have the power of giving: they don't deserve that you should take
it."
Miss Benson went and enclosed it up, there and then; simply writing
these words in the envelope, "From Ruth Hilton."
"And now we wash our hands of these Bellinghams," said she,
triumphantly. But Ruth looked tearful and sad; not about returning
the note, but from the conviction that the reason she had given for
the ground of her determination was true--he no longer loved her.
To cheer her, Miss Benson began to speak of the future. Miss Benson
was one of those people who, the more she spoke of a plan in its
details, and the more she realised it in her own mind, the more
firmly she became a partisan of the project. Thus she grew warm and
happy in the idea of taking Ruth home; but Ruth remained depressed
and languid under the conviction that he no longer loved her. No
home, no future, but the thought of her child, could wean her
from this sorrow. Miss Benson was a little piqued; and this pique
showed itself afterwards in talking to her brother of the morning's
proceedings in the sick-chamber.
"I admired her at the time for sending away her fifty pounds so
proudly; but I think she has a cold heart: she hardly thanked me at
all for my proposal of taking her home with us."
"Her thoughts are full of other things just now; and people have such
different ways of showing feeling: some by silence, some by words. At
any rate, it is unwise to expect gratitude."
"What do you expect--not indifference or ingratitude?"
"It is better not to expect or calculate consequences. The longer
I live, the more fully I see that. Let us try simply to do right
actions, without thinking of the feelings they are to call out in
others. We know that no holy or self-denying effort can fall to the
ground vain and useless; but the sweep of eternity is large, and God
alone knows when the effect is to be produced. We are trying to do
right now, and to feel right; don't let us perplex ourselves with
endeavouring to map out how she should feel, or how she should show
her feelings."
"That's all very fine, and I dare say very true," said Miss Benson, a
little chagrined. "But 'a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush;'
and I would rather have had one good, hearty 'Thank you,' now, for
all I have been planning to do for her, than the grand effects you
promise me in the 'sweep of eternity.' Don't be grave and sorrowful,
Thurstan, or I'll go out of the room. I can stand Sally's scoldings,
but I can't bear your look of quiet depression whenever I am a little
hasty or impatient. I had rather you would give me a good box on the
ear."
"And I would often rather you would speak, if ever so hastily,
instead of whistling. So, if I box your ears when I am vexed with
you, will you promise to scold me when you are put out of the way,
instead of whistling?"
"Very well! that's a bargain. You box, and I scold. But, seriously,
I began to calculate our money when she so cavalierly sent off the
fifty-pound note (I can't help admiring her for it), and I am very
much afraid we shall not have enough to pay the doctor's bill, and
take her home with us."
"She must go inside the coach whatever we do," said Mr Benson,
decidedly. "Who's there? Come in! Oh! Mrs Hughes! Sit down."
"Indeed, sir, and I cannot stay; but the young lady has just made me
find up her watch for her, and asked me to get it sold to pay the
doctor, and the little things she has had since she came; and please,
sir, indeed, I don't know where to sell it nearer than Carnarvon."
"That is good of her," said Miss Benson, her sense of justice
satisfied; and, remembering the way in which Ruth had spoken of the
watch, she felt what a sacrifice it must have been to resolve to part
with it.
"And her goodness just helps us out of our dilemma," said her
brother, who was unaware of the feelings with which Ruth regarded her
watch, or, perhaps, he might have parted with his Facciolati.
Mrs Hughes patiently awaited their leisure for answering her
practical question. Where could the watch be sold? Suddenly her face
brightened.
"Mr Jones, the doctor, is going to be married, perhaps he would like
nothing better than to give this pretty watch to his bride; indeed,
and I think it's very likely; and he'll pay money for it as well as
letting alone his bill. I'll ask him, sir, at any rate."
Mr Jones was only too glad to obtain possession of so elegant a
present at so cheap a rate. He even, as Mrs Hughes had foretold,
"paid money for it;" more than was required to defray the expenses
of Ruth's accommodation; as the most of the articles of food she had
were paid for at the time by Mr or Miss Benson, but they strictly
forbade Mrs Hughes to tell Ruth of this.
"Would you object to my buying you a black gown?" said Miss Benson to
her the day after the sale of the watch. She hesitated a little, and
then went on:
"My brother and I think it would be better to call you--as if in fact
you were--a widow. It will save much awkwardness, and it will spare
your child much--" Mortification she was going to have added, but
that word did not exactly do. But, at the mention of her child, Ruth
started and turned ruby-red; as she always did when allusion was made
to it.
"Oh, yes! certainly. Thank you much for thinking of it. Indeed," said
she, very low, as if to herself, "I don't know how to thank you for
all you are doing; but I do love you, and will pray for you, if I
may."
"If you may, Ruth!" repeated Miss Benson, in a tone of surprise.
"Yes, if I may. If you will let me pray for you."
"Certainly, my dear. My dear Ruth, you don't know how often I sin; I
do so wrong, with my few temptations. We are both of us great sinners
in the eyes of the Most Holy; let us pray for each other. Don't speak
so again, my dear; at least, not to me!"
Miss Benson was actually crying. She had always looked upon herself
as so inferior to her brother in real goodness; had seen such heights
above her, that she was distressed by Ruth's humility. After a short
time she resumed the subject.
"Then I may get you a black gown?--and we may call you Mrs Hilton?"
"No; not Mrs Hilton!" said Ruth, hastily.
Miss Benson, who had hitherto kept her eyes averted from Ruth's face
from a motive of kindly delicacy, now looked at her with surprise.
"Why not?" asked she.
"It was my mother's name," said Ruth, in a low voice. "I had better
not be called by it."
"Then, let us call you by my mother's name," said Miss Benson,
tenderly. "She would have-- But I'll talk to you about my mother some
other time. Let me call you Mrs Denbigh. It will do very well, too.
People will think you are a distant relation."
When she told Mr Benson this choice of name, he was rather
sorry; it was like his sister's impulsive kindness--impulsive in
everything--and he could imagine how Ruth's humility had touched her.
He was sorry, but he said nothing.
And now the letter was written home, announcing the probable arrival
of the brother and sister on a certain day, "with a distant relation,
early left a widow," as Miss Benson expressed it. She desired the
spare room might be prepared, and made every provision she could
think of for Ruth's comfort; for Ruth still remained feeble and weak.
When the black gown, at which she had stitched away incessantly,
was finished--when nothing remained but to rest for the next day's
journey--Ruth could not sit still. She wandered from window to
window, learning off each rock and tree by heart. Each had its tale,
which it was agony to remember; but which it would have been worse
agony to forget. The sound of running waters she heard that quiet
evening, was in her ears as she lay on her death-bed; so well had she
learnt their tune.
And now all was over. She had driven in to Llan-dhu, sitting by her
lover's side, living in the bright present, and strangely forgetful
of the past or the future; she had dreamed out her dream, and she had
awakened from the vision of love. She walked slowly and sadly down
the long hill, her tears fast falling, but as quickly wiped away;
while she strove to make steady the low quivering voice which was
often called upon to answer some remark of Miss Benson's.
They had to wait for the coach. Ruth buried her face in some flowers
which Mrs Hughes had given her on parting; and was startled when
the mail drew up with a sudden pull, which almost threw the horses
on their haunches. She was placed inside, and the coach had set
off again, before she was fully aware that Mr and Miss Benson
were travelling on the outside; but it was a relief to feel she
might now cry without exciting their notice. The shadow of a heavy
thunder-cloud was on the valley, but the little upland village church
(that showed the spot in which so much of her life had passed) stood
out clear in the sunshine. She grudged the tears that blinded her
as she gazed. There was one passenger, who tried after a while to
comfort her.
"Don't cry, miss," said the kind-hearted woman. "You're parting from
friends, maybe? Well, that's bad enough, but when you come to my age,
you'll think none of it. Why, I've three sons, and they're soldiers
and sailors, all of them--here, there, and everywhere. One is in
America, beyond seas; another is in China, making tea; and another is
at Gibraltar, three miles from Spain; and yet, you see, I can laugh
and eat and enjoy myself. I sometimes think I'll try and fret a bit,
just to make myself a better figure; but, Lord! it's no use, it's
against my nature; so I laugh and grow fat again. I'd be quite
thankful for a fit of anxiety as would make me feel easy in my
clothes, which them manty-makers will make so tight I'm fairly
throttled."
Ruth durst cry no more; it was no relief, now she was watched and
noticed, and plied with a sandwich or a gingerbread each time she
looked sad. She lay back with her eyes shut, as if asleep, and went
on, and on, the sun never seeming to move from his high place in the
sky, nor the bright hot day to show the least sign of waning. Every
now and then, Miss Benson scrambled down, and made kind inquiries of
the pale, weary Ruth; and once they changed coaches, and the fat old
lady left her with a hearty shake of the hand.
"It is not much further now," said Miss Benson, apologetically, to
Ruth. "See! we are losing sight of the Welsh mountains. We have about
eighteen miles of plain, and then we come to the moors and the rising
ground, amidst which Eccleston lies. I wish we were there, for my
brother is sadly tired."
The first wonder in Ruth's mind was, why then, if Mr Benson were so
tired, did they not stop where they were for the night; for she knew
little of the expenses of a night at an inn. The next thought was, to
beg that Mr Benson would take her place inside the coach, and allow
her to mount up by Miss Benson. She proposed this, and Miss Benson
was evidently pleased.
"Well, if you're not tired, it would make a rest and a change for
him, to be sure; and if you were by me I could show you the first
sight of Eccleston, if we reach there before it is quite dark."
So Mr Benson got down, and changed places with Ruth.
She hardly yet understood the numerous small economies which he and
his sister had to practise--the little daily self-denials,--all
endured so cheerfully, and simply, that they had almost ceased to
require an effort, and it had become natural to them to think of
others before themselves. Ruth had not understood that it was for
economy that their places had been taken on the outside of the coach,
while hers, as an invalid requiring rest, was to be the inside; and
that the biscuits which supplied the place of a dinner were, in fact,
chosen because the difference in price between the two would go a
little way towards fulfilling their plan for receiving her as an
inmate. Her thought about money had been hitherto a child's thought;
the subject had never touched her; but afterwards, when she had lived
a little with the Bensons, her eyes were opened, and she remembered
their simple kindness on the journey, and treasured the remembrance
of it in her heart.
A low grey cloud was the first sign of Eccleston; it was the smoke
of the town hanging over the plain. Beyond the place where she was
expected to believe it existed, arose round, waving uplands; nothing
to the fine outlines of the Welsh mountains, but still going up
nearer to heaven than the rest of the flat world into which she had
now entered. Rumbling stones, lamp-posts, a sudden stop, and they
were in the town of Eccleston; and a strange, uncouth voice, on the
dark side of the coach, was heard to say,
"Be ye there, measter?"
"Yes, yes!" said Miss Benson, quickly. "Did Sally send you, Ben? Get
the ostler's lantern, and look out the luggage."