Ruth Becomes a Governess in Mr Bradshaw's Family
One afternoon, not long after this, Mr and Miss Benson set off to
call upon a farmer, who attended the chapel, but lived at some
distance from the town. They intended to stay to tea if they were
invited, and Ruth and Sally were left to spend a long afternoon
together. At first, Sally was busy in her kitchen, and Ruth employed
herself in carrying her baby out into the garden. It was now nearly
a year since she came to the Bensons'; it seemed like yesterday, and
yet as if a lifetime had gone between. The flowers were budding now,
that were all in bloom when she came down, on the first autumnal
morning, into the sunny parlour. The yellow jessamine, that was then
a tender plant, had now taken firm root in the soil, and was sending
out strong shoots; the wall-flowers, which Miss Benson had sown on
the wall a day or two after her arrival, were scenting the air with
their fragrant flowers. Ruth knew every plant now; it seemed as
though she had always lived here, and always known the inhabitants
of the house. She heard Sally singing her accustomed song in the
kitchen, a song she never varied over her afternoon's work. It began,
As I was going to Derby, sir,
Upon a market-day.
And if music is a necessary element in a song, perhaps I had better
call it by some other name.
But the strange change was in Ruth herself. She was conscious of
it though she could not define it, and did not dwell upon it. Life
had become significant and full of duty to her. She delighted in
the exercise of her intellectual powers, and liked the idea of
the infinite amount of which she was ignorant; for it was a grand
pleasure to learn--to crave, and be satisfied. She strove to forget
what had gone before this last twelve months. She shuddered up from
contemplating it; it was like a bad, unholy dream. And yet, there was
a strange yearning kind of love for the father of the child whom she
pressed to her heart, which came, and she could not bid it begone as
sinful, it was so pure and natural, even when thinking of it, as in
the sight of God. Little Leonard cooed to the flowers, and stretched
after their bright colours; and Ruth laid him on the dry turf, and
pelted him with the gay petals. He chinked and crowed with laughing
delight, and clutched at her cap, and pulled it off. Her short rich
curls were golden-brown in the slanting sunlight, and by their very
shortness made her look more child-like. She hardly seemed as if
she could be the mother of the noble babe over whom she knelt, now
snatching kisses, now matching his cheek with rose-leaves. All at
once, the bells of the old church struck the hour; and far away, high
up in the air, began slowly to play the old tune of "Life let us
cherish;" they had played it for years--for the life of man--and it
always sounded fresh and strange and aërial. Ruth was still in a
moment, she knew not why; and the tears came into her eyes as she
listened. When it was ended, she kissed her baby, and bade God bless
him.
Just then Sally came out, dressed for the evening, with a leisurely
look about her. She had done her work, and she and Ruth were to drink
tea together in the exquisitely clean kitchen; but while the kettle
was boiling, she came out to enjoy the flowers. She gathered a piece
of southern-wood, and stuffed it up her nose, by way of smelling it.
"Whatten you call this in your country?" asked she.
"Old-man," replied Ruth.
"We call it here lad's-love. It and peppermint-drops always remind me
of going to church in the country. Here! I'll get you a black-currant
leaf to put in the teapot. It gives it a flavour. We had bees once
against this wall; but when missus died, we forgot to tell 'em, and
put 'em in mourning, and, in course, they swarmed away without our
knowing, and the next winter came a hard frost, and they died. Now, I
dare say, the water will be boiling; and it's time for little master
there to come in, for the dew is falling. See, all the daisies is
shutting themselves up."
Sally was most gracious as a hostess. She quite put on her company
manners to receive Ruth in the kitchen. They laid Leonard to sleep on
the sofa in the parlour, that they might hear him the more easily,
and then they sat quietly down to their sewing by the bright kitchen
fire. Sally was, as usual, the talker; and, as usual, the subject was
the family of whom for so many years she had formed a part.
"Aye! things was different when I was a girl," quoth she. "Eggs was
thirty for a shilling, and butter only sixpence a pound. My wage when
I came here was but three pound, and I did on it, and was always
clean and tidy, which is more than many a lass can say now who gets
her seven and eight pound a year; and tea was kept for an afternoon
drink, and pudding was eaten afore meat in them days, and the upshot
was, people paid their debts better; aye, aye! we'n gone backwards,
and we thinken we'n gone forrards."
After shaking her head a little over the degeneracy of the times,
Sally returned to a part of the subject on which she thought she had
given Ruth a wrong idea.
"You'll not go for to think now that I've not more than three pound
a year. I've a deal above that now. First of all, old missus gave me
four pound, for she said I were worth it, and I thought in my heart
that I were; so I took it without more ado; but after her death,
Master Thurstan and Miss Faith took a fit of spending, and says they
to me, one day as I carried tea in, 'Sally, we think your wages ought
to be raised.' 'What matter what you think!' said I, pretty sharp,
for I thought they'd ha' shown more respect to missus if they'd let
things stand as they were in her time; and they'd gone and moved the
sofa away from the wall to where it stands now, already that very
day. So I speaks up sharp, and, says I, 'As long as I'm content, I
think it's no business of yours to be meddling wi' me and my money
matters.' 'But,' says Miss Faith (she's always the one to speak first
if you'll notice, though it's master that comes in and clinches the
matter with some reason she'd never ha' thought of--he were always a
sensible lad), 'Sally, all the servants in the town have six pound
and better, and you have as hard a place as any of 'em.' 'Did you
ever hear me grumble about my work that you talk about it in that
way? wait till I grumble,' says I, 'but don't meddle wi' me till
then.' So I flung off in a huff; but in the course of the evening,
Master Thurstan came in and sat down in the kitchen, and he's such
winning ways he wiles one over to anything; and besides, a notion had
come into my head--now, you'll not tell," said she, glancing round
the room, and hitching her chair nearer to Ruth in a confidential
manner; Ruth promised, and Sally went on:
"I thought I should like to be an heiress wi' money, and leave it all
to Master and Miss Faith; and I thought if I'd six pound a year I
could, maybe, get to be an heiress; all I was feared on was that some
chap or other might marry me for my money, but I've managed to keep
the fellows off; so I looks mim and grateful, and I thanks Master
Thurstan for his offer, and I takes the wages; and what do you think
I've done?" asked Sally, with an exultant air.
"What have you done?" asked Ruth.
"Why," replied Sally, slowly and emphatically, "I've saved thirty
pound! but that's not it. I've getten a lawyer to make me a will;
that's it, wench!" said she, slapping Ruth on the back.
"How did you manage it?" asked Ruth.
"Aye, that was it," said Sally; "I thowt about it many a night before
I hit on the right way. I was afeard the money might be thrown into
Chancery, if I didn't make it all safe, and yet I could na' ask
Master Thurstan. At last and at length, John Jackson, the grocer, had
a nephew come to stay a week with him, as was 'prentice to a lawyer
in Liverpool; so now was my time, and here was my lawyer. Wait a
minute! I could tell you my story better if I had my will in my hand;
and I'll scomfish you if ever you go for to tell."
She held up her hand, and threatened Ruth as she left the kitchen to
fetch the will.
When she came back, she brought a parcel tied up in a blue
pocket-handkerchief; she sat down, squared her knees, untied the
handkerchief, and displayed a small piece of parchment.
"Now, do you know what this is?" said she, holding it up. "It's
parchment, and it's the right stuff to make wills on. People gets
into Chancery if they don't make them o' this stuff, and I reckon Tom
Jackson thowt he'd have a fresh job on it if he could get it into
Chancery; for the rascal went and wrote it on a piece of paper at
first, and came and read it me out loud off a piece of paper no
better than what one writes letters upon. I were up to him; and,
thinks I, Come, come, my lad, I'm not a fool, though you may think
so; I know a paper will won't stand, but I'll let you run your rig.
So I sits and I listens. And would you belie' me, he read it out as
if it were as clear a business as your giving me that thimble--no
more ado, though it were thirty pound! I could understand it
mysel'--that were no law for me. I wanted summat to consider about,
and for th' meaning to be wrapped up as I wrap up my best gown. So
says I, 'Tom! it's not on parchment. I mun have it on parchment.'
'This 'ill do as well,' says he. 'We'll get it witnessed, and it will
stand good.' Well! I liked the notion of having it witnessed, and for
a while that soothed me; but after a bit, I felt I should like it
done according to law, and not plain out as anybody might ha' done
it; I mysel', if I could have written. So says I, 'Tom! I mun have it
on parchment.' 'Parchment costs money,' says he, very grave. 'Oh, oh,
my lad! are ye there?' thinks I. 'That's the reason I'm clipped of
law.' So says I, 'Tom! I mun have it on parchment. I'll pay the money
and welcome. It's thirty pound, and what I can lay to it. I'll make
it safe. It shall be on parchment, and I'll tell thee what, lad!
I'll gie ye sixpence for every good law-word you put in it, sounding
like, and not to be caught up as a person runs. Your master had need
to be ashamed of you as a 'prentice if you can't do a thing more
tradesman-like than this!' Well! he laughed above a bit, but I were
firm, and stood to it. So he made it out on parchment. Now, woman,
try and read it!" said she, giving it to Ruth.
Ruth smiled, and began to read; Sally listening with rapt attention.
When Ruth came to the word "testatrix," Sally stopped her.
"That was the first sixpence," said she. "I thowt he was going to fob
me off again wi' plain language; but when that word came, I out wi'
my sixpence, and gave it to him on the spot. Now go on."
Presently Ruth read, "accruing."
"That was the second sixpence. Four sixpences it were in all, besides
six-and-eightpence as we bargained at first, and three-and-fourpence
parchment. There! that's what I call a will; witnessed according to
law, and all. Master Thurstan will be prettily taken in when I die,
and he finds all his extra wage left back to him. But it will teach
him it's not so easy as he thinks for, to make a woman give up her
way."
The time was now drawing near when little Leonard might be
weaned--the time appointed by all three for Ruth to endeavour to
support herself in some way more or less independent of Mr and Miss
Benson. This prospect dwelt much in all of their minds, and was in
each shaded with some degree of perplexity; but they none of them
spoke of it for fear of accelerating the event. If they had felt
clear and determined as to the best course to be pursued, they were
none of them deficient in courage to commence upon that course at
once. Miss Benson would, perhaps, have objected the most to any
alteration in their present daily mode of life; but that was because
she had the habit of speaking out her thoughts as they arose, and she
particularly disliked and dreaded change. Besides this, she had felt
her heart open out, and warm towards the little helpless child, in a
strong and powerful manner. Nature had intended her warm instincts
to find vent in a mother's duties; her heart had yearned after
children, and made her restless in her childless state, without her
well knowing why; but now, the delight she experienced in tending,
nursing, and contriving for the little boy--even contriving to the
point of sacrificing many of her cherished whims--made her happy
and satisfied and peaceful. It was more difficult to sacrifice her
whims than her comforts; but all had been given up when and where
required by the sweet lordly baby, who reigned paramount in his very
helplessness.
From some cause or other, an exchange of ministers for one Sunday was
to be effected with a neighbouring congregation, and Mr Benson went
on a short absence from home. When he returned on Monday, he was met
at the house-door by his sister, who had evidently been looking out
for him for some time. She stepped out to greet him.
"Don't hurry yourself, Thurstan! all's well; only I wanted to tell
you something. Don't fidget yourself--baby is quite well, bless him!
It's only good news. Come into your room, and let me talk a little
quietly with you."
She drew him into his study, which was near the outer door, and
then she took off his coat, and put his carpet-bag in a corner, and
wheeled a chair to the fire, before she would begin.
"Well, now! to think how often things fall out just as we want them,
Thurstan! Have not you often wondered what was to be done with Ruth
when the time came at which we promised her she should earn her
living? I am sure you have, because I have so often thought about it
myself. And yet I never dared to speak out my fear, because that
seemed giving it a shape. And now Mr Bradshaw has put all to rights.
He invited Mr Jackson to dinner yesterday, just as we were going into
chapel; and then he turned to me and asked me if I would come to
tea--straight from afternoon chapel, because Mrs Bradshaw wanted
to speak to me. He made it very clear I was not to bring Ruth; and,
indeed, she was only too happy to stay at home with baby. And so I
went; and Mrs Bradshaw took me into her bedroom, and shut the doors,
and said Mr Bradshaw had told her, that he did not like Jemima being
so much confined with the younger ones while they were at their
lessons, and that he wanted some one above a nursemaid to sit with
them while their masters were there--some one who would see about
their learning their lessons, and who would walk out with them; a
sort of nursery governess, I think she meant, though she did not
say so; and Mr Bradshaw (for, of course, I saw his thoughts and
words constantly peeping out, though he had told her to speak to me)
believed that our Ruth would be the very person. Now, Thurstan, don't
look so surprised, as if she had never come into your head! I am sure
I saw what Mrs Bradshaw was driving at, long before she came to the
point; and I could scarcely keep from smiling, and saying, 'We'd jump
at the proposal'--long before I ought to have known anything about
it."
"Oh, I wonder what we ought to do!" said Mr Benson. "Or rather, I
believe I see what we ought to do, if I durst but do it."
"Why, what ought we to do?" asked his sister, in surprise.
"I ought to go and tell Mr Bradshaw the whole story--"
"And get Ruth turned out of our house," said Miss Benson,
indignantly.
"They can't make us do that," said her brother. "I do not think they
would try."
"Yes, Mr Bradshaw would try; and he would blazon out poor Ruth's
sin, and there would not be a chance for her left. I know him well,
Thurstan; and why should he be told now, more than a year ago?"
"A year ago he did not want to put her in a situation of trust about
his children."
"And you think she'll abuse that trust, do you? You've lived a
twelvemonth in the house with Ruth, and the end of it is, you think
she will do his children harm! Besides, who encouraged Jemima to come
to the house so much to see Ruth? Did you not say it would do them
both good to see something of each other?"
Mr Benson sat thinking.
"If you had not known Ruth as well as you do--if during her stay
with us you had marked anything wrong, or forward, or deceitful, or
immodest, I would say at once, 'Don't allow Mr Bradshaw to take her
into his house;' but still I would say, 'Don't tell of her sin and
her sorrow to so severe a man--so unpitiful a judge.' But here I
ask you, Thurstan, can you, or I, or Sally (quick-eyed as she is),
say, that in any one thing we have had true, just occasion to find
fault with Ruth? I don't mean that she is perfect--she acts without
thinking, her temper is sometimes warm and hasty; but have we any
right to go and injure her prospects for life, by telling Mr Bradshaw
all we know of her errors--only sixteen when she did so wrong, and
never to escape from it all her many years to come--to have the
despair which would arise from its being known, clutching her back
into worse sin? What harm do you think she can do? What is the risk
to which you think you are exposing Mr Bradshaw's children?" She
paused, out of breath, her eyes glittering with tears of indignation,
and impatient for an answer, that she might knock it to pieces.
"I do not see any danger that can arise," said he at length, and with
slow difficulty, as if not fully convinced. "I have watched Ruth, and
I believe she is pure and truthful; and the very sorrow and penitence
she has felt--the very suffering she has gone through--has given her
a thoughtful conscientiousness beyond her age."
"That and the care of her baby," said Miss Benson, secretly delighted
at the tone of her brother's thoughts.
"Ah, Faith! that baby you so much dreaded once, is turning out a
blessing, you see," said Thurstan, with a faint, quiet smile.
"Yes! any one might be thankful, and better too, for Leonard; but how
could I tell that it would be like him?"
"But to return to Ruth and Mr Bradshaw. What did you say?"
"Oh! with my feelings, of course, I was only too glad to accept the
proposal, and so I told Mrs Bradshaw then; and I afterwards repeated
it to Mr Bradshaw, when he asked me if his wife had mentioned their
plans. They would understand that I must consult you and Ruth, before
it could be considered as finally settled."
"And have you named it to her?"
"Yes," answered Miss Benson, half afraid lest he should think she had
been too precipitate.
"And what did she say?" asked he, after a little pause of grave
silence.
"At first she seemed very glad, and fell into my mood of planning how
it should all be managed; how Sally and I should take care of the
baby the hours that she was away at Mr Bradshaw's; but by-and-by she
became silent and thoughtful, and knelt down by me and hid her face
in my lap, and shook a little as if she was crying; and then I heard
her speak in a very low smothered voice, for her head was still bent
down--quite hanging down, indeed, so that I could not see her face,
so I stooped to listen, and I heard her say, 'Do you think I should
be good enough to teach little girls, Miss Benson?' She said it so
humbly and fearfully that all I thought of was how to cheer her, and
I answered and asked her if she did not hope to be good enough to
bring up her own darling to be a brave Christian man? And she lifted
up her head, and I saw her eyes looking wild and wet and earnest, and
she said, 'With God's help, that will I try to make my child.' And I
said then, 'Ruth, as you strive and as you pray for your own child,
so you must strive and pray to make Mary and Elizabeth good, if you
are trusted with them.' And she said out quite clear, though her face
was hidden from me once more, 'I will strive, and I will pray.' You
would not have had any fears, Thurstan, if you could have heard and
seen her last night."
"I have no fear," said he, decidedly. "Let the plan go on." After
a minute, he added, "But I am glad it was so far arranged before I
heard of it. My indecision about right and wrong--my perplexity as to
how far we are to calculate consequences--grows upon me, I fear."
"You look tired and weary, dear. You should blame your body rather
than your conscience at these times."
"A very dangerous doctrine."
The scroll of Fate was closed, and they could not foresee the Future;
and yet, if they could have seen it, though they might have shrunk
fearfully at first, they would have smiled and thanked God when all
was done and said.