Mother and Child
"Here is a parcel for you, Ruth!" said Miss Benson on the Tuesday
morning.
"For me!" said Ruth, all sorts of rushing thoughts and hopes filling
her mind, and turning her dizzy with expectation. If it had been from
"him," the new-born resolutions would have had a hard struggle for
existence.
"It is directed 'Mrs Denbigh,'" said Miss Benson, before giving it
up. "It is in Mrs Bradshaw's handwriting;" and, far more curious
than Ruth, she awaited the untying of the close-knotted string.
When the paper was opened, it displayed a whole piece of delicate
cambric-muslin; and there was a short note from Mrs Bradshaw to Ruth,
saying her husband had wished her to send this muslin in aid of any
preparations Mrs Denbigh might have to make. Ruth said nothing, but
coloured up, and sat down again to her employment.
"Very fine muslin indeed," said Miss Benson, feeling it, and holding
it up against the light, with the air of a connoisseur; yet all the
time she was glancing at Ruth's grave face. The latter kept silence,
and showed no wish to inspect her present further. At last she said,
in a low voice,
"I suppose I may send it back again?"
"My dear child! send it back to Mr Bradshaw! You'd offend him for
life. You may depend upon it, he means it as a mark of high favour!"
"What right had he to send it me?" asked Ruth, still in her quiet
voice.
"What right? Mr Bradshaw thinks-- I don't know exactly what you mean
by 'right.'"
Ruth was silent for a moment, and then said:
"There are people to whom I love to feel that I owe
gratitude--gratitude which I cannot express, and had better not talk
about--but I cannot see why a person whom I do not know should lay me
under an obligation. Oh! don't say I must take this muslin, please,
Miss Benson!"
What Miss Benson might have said if her brother had not just then
entered the room, neither he nor any other person could tell; but she
felt his presence was most opportune, and called him in as umpire.
He had come hastily, for he had much to do; but he no sooner heard
the case than he sat down, and tried to draw some more explicit
declaration of her feeling from Ruth, who had remained silent during
Miss Benson's explanation.
"You would rather send this present back?" said he.
"Yes," she answered, softly. "Is it wrong?"
"Why do you want to return it?"
"Because I feel as if Mr Bradshaw had no right to offer it me."
Mr Benson was silent.
"It's beautifully fine," said Miss Benson, still examining the piece.
"You think that it is a right which must be earned?"
"Yes," said she, after a minute's pause. "Don't you?"
"I understand what you mean. It is a delight to have gifts made to
you by those whom you esteem and love, because then such gifts are
merely to be considered as fringes to the garment--as inconsiderable
additions to the mighty treasure of their affection, adding a grace,
but no additional value, to what before was precious, and proceeding
as naturally out of that as leaves burgeon out upon the trees; but
you feel it to be different when there is no regard for the giver to
idealise the gift--when it simply takes its stand among your property
as so much money's value. Is this it, Ruth?"
"I think it is. I never reasoned why I felt as I did; I only knew
that Mr Bradshaw's giving me a present hurt me, instead of making me
glad."
"Well, but there is another side of the case we have not looked at
yet--we must think of that, too. You know who said, 'Do unto others
as ye would that they should do unto you'? Mr Bradshaw may not have
had that in his mind when he desired his wife to send you this; he
may have been self-seeking, and only anxious to gratify his love of
patronising--that is the worst motive we can give him; and that would
be no excuse for your thinking only of yourself, and returning his
present."
"But you would not have me pretend to be obliged?" asked Ruth.
"No, I would not. I have often been similarly situated to you, Ruth;
Mr Bradshaw has frequently opposed me on the points on which I feel
the warmest--am the most earnestly convinced. He, no doubt, thinks me
Quixotic, and often speaks of me, and to me, with great contempt when
he is angry. I suppose he has a little fit of penitence afterwards,
or perhaps he thinks he can pay for ungracious speeches by a present;
so, formerly, he invariably sent me something after these occasions.
It was a time, of all others, to feel as you are doing now; but I
became convinced it would be right to accept them, giving only the
very cool thanks which I felt. This omission of all show of much
gratitude had the best effect--the presents have much diminished; but
if the gifts have lessened, the unjustifiable speeches have decreased
in still greater proportion, and I am sure we respect each other
more. Take this muslin, Ruth, for the reason I named; and thank him
as your feelings prompt you. Overstrained expressions of gratitude
always seem like an endeavour to place the receiver of these
expressions in the position of debtor for future favours. But you
won't fall into this error."
Ruth listened to Mr Benson; but she had not yet fallen sufficiently
into the tone of his mind to understand him fully. She only felt that
he comprehended her better than Miss Benson, who once more tried to
reconcile her to her present, by calling her attention to the length
and breadth thereof.
"I will do what you wish me," she said, after a little pause of
thoughtfulness. "May we talk of something else?"
Mr Benson saw that his sister's frame of mind was not particularly
congenial with Ruth's, any more than Ruth's was with Miss Benson's;
and, putting aside all thought of returning to the business which had
appeared to him so important when he came into the room (but which
principally related to himself), he remained above an hour in the
parlour, interesting them on subjects far removed from the present,
and left them at the end of that time soothed and calm.
But the present gave a new current to Ruth's ideas. Her heart was as
yet too sore to speak, but her mind was crowded with plans. She asked
Sally to buy her (with the money produced by the sale of a ring or
two) the coarsest linen, the homeliest dark blue print, and similar
materials; on which she set busily to work to make clothes for
herself; and as they were made, she put them on; and as she put them
on, she gave a grace to each, which such homely material and simple
shaping had never had before. Then the fine linen and delicate soft
white muslin, which she had chosen in preference to more expensive
articles of dress when Mr Bellingham had given her _carte blanche_ in
London, were cut into small garments, most daintily stitched and made
ready for the little creature, for whom in its white purity of soul
nothing could be too precious.
The love which dictated this extreme simplicity and coarseness of
attire, was taken for stiff, hard economy by Mr Bradshaw, when he
deigned to observe it. And economy by itself, without any soul or
spirit in it to make it living and holy, was a great merit in his
eyes. Indeed, Ruth altogether found favour with him. Her quiet
manner, subdued by an internal consciousness of a deeper cause for
sorrow than he was aware of, he interpreted into a very proper and
becoming awe of him. He looked off from his own prayers to observe
how well she attended to hers at chapel; when he came to any verse
in the hymn relating to immortality or a future life, he sang it
unusually loud, thinking he should thus comfort her in her sorrow
for her deceased husband. He desired Mrs Bradshaw to pay her every
attention she could; and even once remarked, that he thought her so
respectable a young person that he should not object to her being
asked to tea the next time Mr and Miss Benson came. He added, that he
thought, indeed, Benson had looked last Sunday as if he rather hoped
to get an invitation; and it was right to encourage the ministers,
and to show them respect, even though their salaries were small.
The only thing against this Mrs Denbigh was the circumstance of her
having married too early, and without any provision for a family.
Though Ruth pleaded delicacy of health, and declined accompanying Mr
and Miss Benson on their visit to Mr Bradshaw, she still preserved
her place in his esteem; and Miss Benson had to call a little upon
her "talent for fiction" to spare Ruth from the infliction of further
presents, in making which his love of patronising delighted.
The yellow and crimson leaves came floating down on the still October
air; November followed, bleak and dreary; it was more cheerful when
the earth put on her beautiful robe of white, which covered up all
the grey naked stems, and loaded the leaves of the hollies and
evergreens each with its burden of feathery snow. When Ruth sank down
to languor and sadness, Miss Benson trotted upstairs, and rummaged
up every article of spare or worn-out clothing, and bringing down a
variety of strange materials, she tried to interest Ruth in making
them up into garments for the poor. But though Ruth's fingers flew
through the work, she still sighed with thought and remembrance.
Miss Benson was at first disappointed, and then she was angry. When
she heard the low, long sigh, and saw the dreamy eyes filling with
glittering tears, she would say, "What is the matter, Ruth?" in a
half-reproachful tone, for the sight of suffering was painful to
her; she had done all in her power to remedy it; and, though she
acknowledged a cause beyond her reach for Ruth's deep sorrow, and, in
fact, loved and respected her all the more for these manifestations
of grief, yet at the time they irritated her. Then Ruth would snatch
up the dropped work, and stitch away with drooping eyes, from which
the hot tears fell fast; and Miss Benson was then angry with herself,
yet not at all inclined to agree with Sally when she asked her
mistress "why she kept 'mithering' the poor lass with asking her for
ever what was the matter, as if she did not know well enough." Some
element of harmony was wanting--some little angel of peace, in loving
whom all hearts and natures should be drawn together, and their
discords hushed.
The earth was still "hiding her guilty front with innocent snow,"
when a little baby was laid by the side of the pale white mother. It
was a boy; beforehand she had wished for a girl, as being less likely
to feel the want of a father--as being what a mother, worse than
widowed, could most effectually shelter. But now she did not think
or remember this. What it was, she would not have exchanged for a
wilderness of girls. It was her own, her darling, her individual
baby, already, though not an hour old, separate and sole in her
heart, strangely filling up its measure with love and peace, and even
hope. For here was a new, pure, beautiful, innocent life, which she
fondly imagined, in that early passion of maternal love, she could
guard from every touch of corrupting sin by ever watchful and most
tender care. And _her_ mother had thought the same, most probably;
and thousands of others think the same, and pray to God to purify and
cleanse their souls, that they may be fit guardians for their little
children. Oh, how Ruth prayed, even while she was yet too weak to
speak; and how she felt the beauty and significance of the words,
"Our Father!"
She was roused from this holy abstraction by the sound of Miss
Benson's voice. It was very much as if she had been crying.
"Look, Ruth!" it said, softly, "my brother sends you these. They are
the first snowdrops in the garden." And she put them on the pillow by
Ruth; the baby lay on the opposite side.
"Won't you look at him?" said Ruth; "he is so pretty!"
Miss Benson had a strange reluctance to see him. To Ruth, in spite
of all that had come and gone, she was reconciled--nay, more, she
was deeply attached; but over the baby there hung a cloud of shame
and disgrace. Poor little creature! her heart was closed against
it--firmly, as she thought. But she could not resist Ruth's low faint
voice, nor her pleading eyes, and she went round to peep at him as he
lay in his mother's arm, as yet his shield and guard.
"Sally says he will have black hair, she thinks," said Ruth. "His
little hand is quite a man's, already. Just feel how firmly he closes
it;" and with her own weak fingers she opened his little red fist,
and taking Miss Benson's reluctant hand, placed one of her fingers
in his grasp. That baby-touch called out her love; the doors of her
heart were thrown open wide for the little infant to go in and take
possession.
"Ah, my darling!" said Ruth, falling back weak and weary. "If God
will but spare you to me, never mother did more than I will. I have
done you a grievous wrong--but, if I may but live, I will spend my
life in serving you!"
"And in serving God!" said Miss Benson, with tears in her eyes. "You
must not make him into an idol, or God will, perhaps, punish you
through him."
A pang of affright shot through Ruth's heart at these words; had
she already sinned and made her child into an idol, and was there
punishment already in store for her through him? But then the
internal voice whispered that God was "Our Father," and that He knew
our frame, and knew how natural was the first outburst of a mother's
love; so, although she treasured up the warning, she ceased to
affright herself for what had already gushed forth.
"Now go to sleep, Ruth," said Miss Benson, kissing her, and darkening
the room. But Ruth could not sleep; if her heavy eyes closed, she
opened them again with a start, for sleep seemed to be an enemy
stealing from her the consciousness of being a mother. That one
thought excluded all remembrance and all anticipation, in those first
hours of delight.
But soon remembrance and anticipation came. There was the natural
want of the person, who alone could take an interest similar in kind,
though not in amount, to the mother's. And sadness grew like a giant
in the still watches of the night, when she remembered that there
would be no father to guide and strengthen the child, and place him
in a favourable position for fighting the hard "Battle of Life." She
hoped and believed that no one would know the sin of his parents, and
that that struggle might be spared to him. But a father's powerful
care and mighty guidance would never be his; and then, in those hours
of spiritual purification, came the wonder and the doubt of how far
the real father would be the one to whom, with her desire of heaven
for her child, whatever might become of herself, she would wish
to entrust him. Slight speeches, telling of a selfish, worldly
nature, unnoticed at the time, came back upon her ear, having
a new significance. They told of a low standard, of impatient
self-indulgence, of no acknowledgment of things spiritual and
heavenly. Even while this examination was forced upon her, by the new
spirit of maternity that had entered into her, and made her child's
welfare supreme, she hated and reproached herself for the necessity
there seemed upon her of examining and judging the absent father of
her child. And so the compelling presence that had taken possession
of her wearied her into a kind of feverish slumber; in which she
dreamt that the innocent babe that lay by her side in soft ruddy
slumber had started up into man's growth, and, instead of the pure
and noble being whom she had prayed to present as her child to "Our
Father in heaven," he was a repetition of his father; and, like him,
lured some maiden (who in her dream seemed strangely like herself,
only more utterly sad and desolate even than she) into sin, and
left her there to even a worse fate than that of suicide. For Ruth
believed there was a worse. She dreamt she saw the girl, wandering,
lost; and that she saw her son in high places, prosperous--but with
more than blood on his soul. She saw her son dragged down by the
clinging girl into some pit of horrors into which she dared not look,
but from whence his father's voice was heard, crying aloud, that in
his day and generation he had not remembered the words of God, and
that now he was "tormented in this flame." Then she started in sick
terror, and saw, by the dim rushlight, Sally, nodding in an arm-chair
by the fire; and felt her little soft warm babe, nestled up against
her breast, rocked by her heart, which yet beat hard from the effects
of the evil dream. She dared not go to sleep again, but prayed. And
every time she prayed, she asked with a more complete wisdom, and
a more utter and self-forgetting faith. Little child! thy angel
was with God, and drew her nearer and nearer to Him, whose face is
continually beheld by the angels of little children.