Recognition
Saturday came. Torn, ragged clouds were driven across the sky. It was
not a becoming day for the scenery, and the little girls regretted it
much. First they hoped for a change at twelve o'clock, and then at
the afternoon tide-turning. But at neither time did the sun show his
face.
"Papa will never buy this dear place," said Elizabeth, sadly, as she
watched the weather. "The sun is everything to it. The sea looks
quite leaden to-day, and there is no sparkle on it. And the sands,
that were so yellow and sun-speckled on Thursday, are all one dull
brown now."
"Never mind! to-morrow may be better," said Ruth, cheerily.
"I wonder what time they will come at?" inquired Mary.
"Your papa said they would be at the station at five o'clock. And
the landlady at the Swan said it would take them half an hour to get
here."
"And they are to dine at six?" asked Elizabeth.
"Yes," answered Ruth. "And I think if we had our tea half an hour
earlier, at half-past four, and then went out for a walk, we should
be nicely out of the way just during the bustle of the arrival and
dinner; and we could be in the drawing-room ready against your papa
came in after dinner."
"Oh! that would be nice," said they; and tea was ordered accordingly.
The south-westerly wind had dropped, and the clouds were stationary,
when they went out on the sands. They dug little holes near the
in-coming tide, and made canals to them from the water, and blew the
light sea-foam against each other; and then stole on tiptoe near to
the groups of grey and white sea-gulls, which despised their caution,
flying softly and slowly away to a little distance as soon as they
drew near. And in all this Ruth was as great a child as any. Only she
longed for Leonard with a mother's longing, as indeed she did every
day, and all hours of the day. By-and-by the clouds thickened yet
more, and one or two drops of rain were felt. It was very little, but
Ruth feared a shower for her delicate Elizabeth, and besides, the
September evening was fast closing in the dark and sunless day. As
they turned homewards in the rapidly increasing dusk, they saw three
figures on the sand near the rocks, coming in their direction.
"Papa and Mr Donne!" exclaimed Mary. "Now we shall see him!"
"Which do you make out is him?" asked Elizabeth.
"Oh! the tall one, to be sure. Don't you see how papa always turns to
him, as if he was speaking to him and not to the other?"
"Who is the other?" asked Elizabeth.
"Mr Bradshaw said that Mr Farquhar and Mr Hickson would come with
him. But that is not Mr Farquhar, I am sure," said Ruth.
The girls looked at each other, as they always did, when Ruth
mentioned Mr Farquhar's name; but she was perfectly unconscious both
of the look and of the conjectures which gave rise to it.
As soon as the two parties drew near, Mr Bradshaw called out in his
strong voice,
"Well, my dears! we found there was an hour before dinner, so we came
down upon the sands, and here you are."
The tone of his voice assured them that he was in a bland and
indulgent mood, and the two little girls ran towards him. He kissed
them, and shook hands with Ruth; told his companions that these
were the little girls who were tempting him to this extravagance of
purchasing Eagle's Crag; and then, rather doubtfully, and because
he saw that Mr Donne expected it, he introduced "My daughters'
governess, Mrs Denbigh."
It was growing darker every moment, and it was time they should
hasten back to the rocks, which were even now indistinct in the grey
haze. Mr Bradshaw held a hand of each of his daughters, and Ruth
walked alongside, the two strange gentlemen being on the outskirts of
the party.
Mr Bradshaw began to give his little girls some home news. He told
them that Mr Farquhar was ill, and could not accompany them; but
Jemima and their mamma were quite well.
The gentleman nearest to Ruth spoke to her.
"Are you fond of the sea?" asked he. There was no answer, so he
repeated his question in a different form.
"Do you enjoy staying by the seaside? I should rather ask."
The reply was "Yes," rather breathed out in a deep inspiration than
spoken in a sound. The sands heaved and trembled beneath Ruth. The
figures near her vanished into strange nothingness; the sounds of
their voices were as distant sounds in a dream, while the echo of one
voice thrilled through and through. She could have caught at his arm
for support, in the awful dizziness which wrapped her up, body and
soul. That voice! No! if name, and face, and figure were all changed,
that voice was the same which had touched her girlish heart, which
had spoken most tender words of love, which had won, and wrecked her,
and which she had last heard in the low mutterings of fever. She
dared not look round to see the figure of him who spoke, dark as it
was. She knew he was there--she heard him speak in the manner in
which he used to address strangers years ago; perhaps she answered
him, perhaps she did not--God knew. It seemed as if weights were tied
to her feet--as if the steadfast rocks receded--as if time stood
still;--it was so long, so terrible, that path across the reeling
sand.
At the foot of the rocks they separated. Mr Bradshaw, afraid lest
dinner should cool, preferred the shorter way for himself and his
friends. On Elizabeth's account, the girls were to take the longer
and easier path, which wound upwards through a rocky field, where
larks' nests abounded, and where wild thyme and heather were now
throwing out their sweets to the soft night air.
The little girls spoke in eager discussion of the strangers. They
appealed to Ruth, but Ruth did not answer, and they were too
impatient to convince each other to repeat the question. The first
little ascent from the sands to the field surmounted, Ruth sat
down suddenly and covered her face with her hands. This was so
unusual--their wishes, their good, was so invariably the rule of
motion or of rest in their walks--that the girls, suddenly checked,
stood silent and affrighted in surprise. They were still more
startled when Ruth wailed aloud some inarticulate words.
"Are you not well, dear Mrs Denbigh?" asked Elizabeth, gently,
kneeling down on the grass by Ruth.
She sat facing the west. The low watery twilight was on her face as
she took her hands away. So pale, so haggard, so wild and wandering a
look the girls had never seen on human countenance before.
"Well! what are you doing here with me? You should not be with me,"
said she, shaking her head slowly.
They looked at each other.
"You are sadly tired," said Elizabeth, soothingly. "Come home, and
let me help you to bed. I will tell papa you are ill, and ask him to
send for a doctor."
Ruth looked at her as if she did not understand the meaning of her
words. No more she did at first. But by-and-by the dulled brain began
to think most vividly and rapidly, and she spoke in a sharp way which
deceived the girls into a belief that nothing had been the matter.
"Yes! I was tired. I am tired. Those sands--oh! those sands, those
weary, dreadful sands! But that is all over now. Only my heart aches
still. Feel how it flutters and beats," said she, taking Elizabeth's
hand, and holding it to her side. "I am quite well, though," she
continued, reading pity in the child's looks, as she felt the
trembling, quivering beat. "We will go straight to the dressing-room,
and read a chapter; that will still my heart; and then I'll go to
bed, and Mr Bradshaw will excuse me, I know, this one night. I only
ask for one night. Put on your right frocks, dears, and do all you
ought to do. But I know you will," said she, bending down to kiss
Elizabeth, and then, before she had done so, raising her head
abruptly. "You are good and dear girls--God keep you so!"
By a strong effort at self-command, she went onwards at an even pace,
neither rushing nor pausing to sob and think. The very regularity of
motion calmed her. The front and back doors of the house were on two
sides, at right angles with each other. They all shrunk a little
from the idea of going in at the front door, now that the strange
gentlemen were about, and, accordingly, they went through the quiet
farm-yard right into the bright, ruddy kitchen, where the servants
were dashing about with the dinner things. It was a contrast in
more than colour to the lonely, dusky field, which even the little
girls perceived; and the noise, the warmth, the very bustle of the
servants, were a positive relief to Ruth, and for the time lifted
off the heavy press of pent-up passion. A silent house, with moonlit
rooms, or with a faint gloom brooding over the apartments, would have
been more to be dreaded. Then, she must have given way, and cried
out. As it was, she went up the old awkward back stairs, and into the
room they were to sit in. There was no candle. Mary volunteered to go
down for one; and when she returned she was full of the wonders of
preparation in the drawing-room, and ready and eager to dress, so as
to take her place there before the gentlemen had finished dinner. But
she was struck by the strange paleness of Ruth's face, now that the
light fell upon it.
"Stay up here, dear Mrs Denbigh! We'll tell papa you are tired, and
are gone to bed."
Another time Ruth would have dreaded Mr Bradshaw's displeasure; for
it was an understood thing that no one was to be ill or tired in his
household without leave asked, and cause given and assigned. But
she never thought of that now. Her great desire was to hold quiet
till she was alone. Quietness it was not--it was rigidity; but she
succeeded in being rigid in look and movement, and went through her
duties to Elizabeth (who preferred remaining with her upstairs) with
wooden precision. But her heart felt at times like ice, at times
like burning fire; always a heavy, heavy weight within her. At last
Elizabeth went to bed. Still Ruth dared not think. Mary would come
upstairs soon; and with a strange, sick, shrinking yearning, Ruth
awaited her--and the crumbs of intelligence she might drop out about
_him_. Ruth's sense of hearing was quickened to miserable intensity
as she stood before the chimney-piece, grasping it tight with both
hands--gazing into the dying fire, but seeing--not the dead grey
embers, or the little sparks of vivid light that ran hither and
thither among the wood-ashes--but an old farm-house, and climbing,
winding road, and a little golden breezy common, with a rural inn on
the hill-top, far, far away. And through the thoughts of the past
came the sharp sounds of the present--of three voices, one of which
was almost silence, it was so hushed. Indifferent people would only
have guessed that Mr Donne was speaking by the quietness in which
the others listened; but Ruth heard the voice and many of the words,
though they conveyed no idea to her mind. She was too much stunned
even to feel curious to know to what they related. _He_ spoke. That
was her one fact.
Presently up came Mary, bounding, exultant. Papa had let her stay
up one quarter of an hour longer, because Mr Hickson had asked. Mr
Hickson was so clever! She did not know what to make of Mr Donne,
he seemed such a dawdle. But he was very handsome. Had Ruth seen
him? Oh, no! She could not, it was so dark on those stupid sands.
Well, never mind, she would see him to-morrow. She _must_ be well
to-morrow. Papa seemed a good deal put out that neither she nor
Elizabeth were in the drawing-room to-night; and his last words were,
"Tell Mrs Denbigh I hope" (and papa's "hopes" always meant "expect")
"she will be able to make breakfast at nine o'clock;" and then she
would see Mr Donne.
That was all Ruth heard about him. She went with Mary into her
bedroom, helped her to undress, and put the candle out. At length she
was alone in her own room! At length!
But the tension did not give way immediately. She fastened her door,
and threw open the window, cold and threatening as was the night. She
tore off her gown; she put her hair back from her heated face. It
seemed now as if she could not think--as if thought and emotion had
been repressed so sternly that they would not come to relieve her
stupified brain. Till all at once, like a flash of lightning, her
life, past and present, was revealed to her in its minutest detail.
And when she saw her very present "Now," the strange confusion of
agony was too great to be borne, and she cried aloud. Then she was
quite dead, and listened as to the sound of galloping armies.
"If I might see him! If I might see him! If I might just ask him why
he left me; if I had vexed him in any way; it was so strange--so
cruel! It was not him; it was his mother," said she, almost fiercely,
as if answering herself. "Oh, God! but he might have found me out
before this," she continued, sadly. "He did not care for me, as I
did for him. He did not care for me at all," she went on wildly and
sharply. "He did me cruel harm. I can never again lift up my face in
innocence. They think I have forgotten all, because I do not speak.
Oh, darling love! am I talking against you?" asked she, tenderly. "I
am so torn and perplexed! You, who are the father of my child!"
But that very circumstance, full of such tender meaning in many
cases, threw a new light into her mind. It changed her from the woman
into the mother--the stern guardian of her child. She was still for a
time, thinking. Then she began again, but in a low, deep voice,
"He left me. He might have been hurried off, but he might have
inquired--he might have learnt, and explained. He left me to bear
the burden and the shame; and never cared to learn, as he might have
done, of Leonard's birth. He has no love for his child, and I will
have no love for him."
She raised her voice while uttering this determination, and then,
feeling her own weakness, she moaned out, "Alas! alas!"
And then she started up, for all this time she had been rocking
herself backwards and forwards as she sat on the ground, and began to
pace the room with hurried steps.
"What am I thinking of? Where am I? I who have been praying these
years and years to be worthy to be Leonard's mother. My God! what a
depth of sin is in my heart! Why, the old time would be as white as
snow to what it would be now, if I sought him out, and prayed for the
explanation, which should re-establish him in my heart. I who have
striven (or made a mock of trying) to learn God's holy will, in order
to bring up Leonard into the full strength of a Christian--I who have
taught his sweet innocent lips to pray, 'Lead us not into temptation,
but deliver us from evil;' and yet, somehow, I've been longing to
give him to his father, who is--who is--" she almost choked, till
at last she cried sharp out, "Oh, my God! I do believe Leonard's
father is a bad man, and yet, oh! pitiful God, I love him; I cannot
forget--I cannot!"
She threw her body half out of the window into the cold night air.
The wind was rising, and came in great gusts. The rain beat down on
her. It did her good. A still, calm night would not have soothed her
as this did. The wild tattered clouds, hurrying past the moon, gave
her a foolish kind of pleasure that almost made her smile a vacant
smile. The blast-driven rain came on her again, and drenched her hair
through and through. The words "stormy wind fulfilling His word" came
into her mind.
She sat down on the floor. This time her hands were clasped round her
knees. The uneasy rocking motion was stilled.
"I wonder if my darling is frightened with this blustering, noisy
wind. I wonder if he is awake."
And then her thoughts went back to the various times of old, when,
affrighted by the weather--sounds so mysterious in the night--he had
crept into her bed and clung to her, and she had soothed him, and
sweetly awed him into stillness and childlike faith, by telling him
of the goodness and power of God.
Of a sudden she crept to a chair, and there knelt as in the very
presence of God, hiding her face, at first not speaking a word (for
did He not know her heart), but by-and-by moaning out, amid her sobs
and tears (and now for the first time she wept),
"Oh, my God, help me, for I am very weak. My God! I pray Thee be my
rock and my strong fortress, for I of myself am nothing. If I ask in
His name, Thou wilt give it me. In the name of Jesus Christ I pray
for strength to do Thy will!"
She could not think, or, indeed, remember anything but that she
was weak, and God was strong, and "a very present help in time of
trouble;" and the wind rose yet higher, and the house shook and
vibrated as, in measured time, the great and terrible gusts came from
the four quarters of the heavens and blew around it, dying away in
the distance with loud and unearthly wails, which were not utterly
still before the sound of the coming blast was heard like the
trumpets of the vanguard of the Prince of Air.
There was a knock at the bedroom door--a little, gentle knock, and a
soft child's voice.
"Mrs Denbigh, may I come in, please? I am so frightened!"
It was Elizabeth. Ruth calmed her passionate breathing by one hasty
draught of water, and opened the door to the timid girl.
"Oh, Mrs Denbigh! did you ever hear such a night? I am so frightened!
and Mary sleeps so sound."
Ruth was too much shaken to be able to speak all at once; but she
took Elizabeth in her arms to reassure her. Elizabeth stood back.
"Why, how wet you are, Mrs Denbigh! and there's the window open, I do
believe! Oh, how cold it is!" said she, shivering.
"Get into my bed, dear!" said Ruth.
"But do come too! The candle gives such a strange light with that
long wick, and, somehow, your face does not look like you. Please,
put the candle out, and come to bed. I am so frightened, and it seems
as if I should be safer if you were by me."
Ruth shut the window, and went to bed. Elizabeth was all shivering
and quaking. To soothe her, Ruth made a great effort; and spoke of
Leonard and his fears, and, in a low hesitating voice, she spoke of
God's tender mercy, but very humbly, for she feared lest Elizabeth
should think her better and holier than she was. The little girl was
soon asleep, her fears forgotten; and Ruth, worn out by passionate
emotion, and obliged to be still for fear of awaking her bedfellow,
went off into a short slumber, through the depths of which the echoes
of her waking sobs quivered up.
When she awoke the grey light of autumnal dawn was in the room.
Elizabeth slept on; but Ruth heard the servants about, and the
early farmyard sounds. After she had recovered from the shock of
consciousness and recollection, she collected her thoughts with a
stern calmness. He was here. In a few hours she must meet him. There
was no escape, except through subterfuges and contrivances that were
both false and cowardly. How it would all turn out she could not say,
or even guess. But of one thing she was clear, and to one thing she
would hold fast: that was, that, come what might, she would obey
God's law, and, be the end of all what it might, she would say, "Thy
will be done!" She only asked for strength enough to do this when
the time came. How the time would come--what speech or action would
be requisite on her part, she did not know--she did not even try to
conjecture. She left that in His hands.
She was icy cold, but very calm, when the breakfast-bell rang. She
went down immediately; because she felt that there was less chance
of a recognition if she were already at her place beside the tea-urn,
and busied with the cups, than if she came in after all were settled.
Her heart seemed to stand still, but she felt almost a strange
exultant sense of power over herself. She felt, rather than saw,
that he was not there. Mr Bradshaw and Mr Hickson were, and so
busy talking election-politics that they did not interrupt their
conversation even when they bowed to her. Her pupils sat one on each
side of her. Before they were quite settled, and while the other two
gentlemen yet hung over the fire, Mr Donne came in. Ruth felt as if
that moment was like death. She had a kind of desire to make some
sharp sound, to relieve a choking sensation, but it was over in an
instant, and she sat on very composed and silent--to all outward
appearance the very model of a governess who knew her place. And
by-and-by she felt strangely at ease in her sense of power. She could
even listen to what was being said. She had never dared as yet to
look at Mr Donne, though her heart burnt to see him once again. He
sounded changed. The voice had lost its fresh and youthful eagerness
of tone, though in peculiarity of modulation it was the same. It
could never be mistaken for the voice of another person. There was a
good deal said at that breakfast, for none seemed inclined to hurry,
although it was Sunday morning. Ruth was compelled to sit there, and
it was good for her that she did. That half-hour seemed to separate
the present Mr Donne very effectively from her imagination of what Mr
Bellingham had been. She was no analyser; she hardly even had learnt
to notice character; but she felt there was some strange difference
between the people she had lived with lately and the man who now
leant back in his chair, listening in a careless manner to the
conversation, but never joining in, or expressing any interest in it,
unless it somewhere, or somehow, touched himself. Now, Mr Bradshaw
always threw himself into a subject; it might be in a pompous,
dogmatic sort of way, but he did do it, whether it related to himself
or not; and it was part of Mr Hickson's trade to assume an interest
if he felt it not. But Mr Donne did neither the one nor the other.
When the other two were talking of many of the topics of the day, he
put his glass in his eye, the better to examine into the exact nature
of a cold game-pie at the other side of the table. Suddenly Ruth
felt that his attention was caught by her. Until now, seeing his
short-sightedness, she had believed herself safe; now her face
flushed with a painful, miserable blush. But in an instant she was
strong and quiet. She looked up straight at his face; and, as if this
action took him aback, he dropped his glass, and began eating away
with great diligence. She had seen him. He was changed, she knew
not how. In fact, the expression, which had been only occasional
formerly, when his worse self predominated, had become permanent. He
looked restless and dissatisfied. But he was very handsome still;
and her quick eye had recognised, with a sort of strange pride, that
the eyes and mouth were like Leonard's. Although perplexed by the
straightforward, brave look she had sent right at him, he was not
entirely baffled. He thought this Mrs Denbigh was certainly like
poor Ruth; but this woman was far handsomer. Her face was positively
Greek; and then such a proud, superb turn of her head; quite queenly!
A governess in Mr Bradshaw's family! Why, she might be a Percy or
a Howard for the grandeur of her grace! Poor Ruth! This woman's
hair was darker, though; and she had less colour; altogether a more
refined-looking person. Poor Ruth! and, for the first time for
several years, he wondered what had become of her; though, of course,
there was but one thing that could have happened, and perhaps it was
as well he did not know her end, for most likely it would have made
him very uncomfortable. He leant back in his chair, and, unobserved
(for he would not have thought it gentlemanly to look so fixedly at
her if she or any one noticed him), he put up his glass again. She
was speaking to one of her pupils, and did not see him.
By Jove! it must be she, though! There were little dimples came out
about the mouth as she spoke, just like those he used to admire
so much in Ruth, and which he had never seen in any one else--the
sunshine without the positive movement of a smile. The longer he
looked the more he was convinced; and it was with a jerk that he
recovered himself enough to answer Mr Bradshaw's question, whether he
wished to go to church or not.
"Church? how far--a mile? No; I think I shall perform my devotions at
home to-day."
He absolutely felt jealous when Mr Hickson sprang up to open the door
as Ruth and her pupils left the room. He was pleased to feel jealous
again. He had been really afraid he was too much "used-up" for such
sensations. But Hickson must keep his place. What he was paid for was
doing the talking to the electors, not paying attention to the ladies
in their families. Mr Donne had noticed that Mr Hickson had tried to
be gallant to Miss Bradshaw; let him, if he liked; but let him beware
how he behaved to this fair creature, Ruth or no Ruth. It certainly
was Ruth; only how the devil had she played her cards so well as to
be the governess--the respected governess, in such a family as Mr
Bradshaw's?
Mr Donne's movements were evidently to be the guide of Mr Hickson's.
Mr Bradshaw always disliked going to church, partly from principle,
partly because he never could find the places in the Prayer-book. Mr
Donne was in the drawing-room as Mary came down ready equipped; he
was turning over the leaves of the large and handsome Bible. Seeing
Mary, he was struck with a new idea.
"How singular it is," said he, "that the name of Ruth is so seldom
chosen by those good people who go to the Bible before they christen
their children. It is a pretty name, I think."
Mr Bradshaw looked up. "Why, Mary!" said he, "is not that Mrs
Denbigh's name?"
"Yes, papa," replied Mary, eagerly; "and I know two other Ruths;
there's Ruth Brown here, and Ruth Macartney at Eccleston."
"And I have an aunt called Ruth, Mr Donne! I don't think your
observation holds good. Besides my daughters' governess, I know three
other Ruths."
"Oh! I have no doubt I was wrong. It was just a speech of which one
perceives the folly the moment it is made."
But, secretly, he rejoiced with a fierce joy over the success of his
device.
Elizabeth came to summon Mary.
Ruth was glad when she got into the open air, and away from the
house. Two hours were gone and over. Two out of a day, a day and a
half--for it might be late on Monday morning before the Eccleston
party returned.
She felt weak and trembling in body, but strong in power over
herself. They had left the house in good time for church, so they
needed not to hurry; and they went leisurely along the road, now and
then passing some country person whom they knew, and with whom they
exchanged a kindly, placid greeting. But presently, to Ruth's dismay,
she heard a step behind, coming at a rapid pace, a peculiar clank
of rather high-heeled boots, which gave a springy sound to the walk,
that she had known well long ago. It was like a nightmare, where the
Evil dreaded is never avoided, never completely shunned, but is by
one's side at the very moment of triumph in escape. There he was by
her side; and there was a quarter of a mile intervening between her
and the church; but even yet she trusted that he had not recognised
her.
"I have changed my mind, you see," said he, quietly. "I have some
curiosity to see the architecture of the church; some of these old
country churches have singular bits about them. Mr Bradshaw kindly
directed me part of the way, but I was so much puzzled by 'turns to
the right,' and 'turns to the left,' that I was quite glad to espy
your party."
That speech required no positive answer of any kind; and no answer
did it receive. He had not expected a reply. He knew, if she were
Ruth, she could not answer any indifferent words of his; and her
silence made him more certain of her identity with the lady by his
side.
"The scenery here is of a kind new to me; neither grand, wild, nor
yet marked by high cultivation; and yet it has great charms. It
reminds me of some parts of Wales." He breathed deeply, and then
added, "You have been in Wales, I believe?"
He spoke low; almost in a whisper. The little church-bell began to
call the lagging people with its quick, sharp summons. Ruth writhed
in body and spirit, but struggled on. The church-door would be gained
at last; and in that holy place she would find peace.
He repeated in a louder tone, so as to compel an answer in order to
conceal her agitation from the girls:
"Have you never been in Wales?" He used "never" instead of "ever,"
and laid the emphasis on that word, in order to mark his meaning to
Ruth, and Ruth only. But he drove her to bay.
"I have been in Wales, sir," she replied, in a calm, grave tone. "I
was there many years ago. Events took place there, which contribute
to make the recollection of that time most miserable to me. I shall
be obliged to you, sir, if you will make no further reference to it."
The little girls wondered how Mrs Denbigh could speak in such a
tone of quiet authority to Mr Donne, who was almost a member of
Parliament. But they settled that her husband must have died in
Wales, and, of course, that would make the recollection of the
country "most miserable," as she said.
Mr Donne did not dislike the answer, and he positively admired the
dignity with which she spoke. His leaving her as he did must have
made her very miserable; and he liked the pride that made her retain
her indignation, until he could speak to her in private, and explain
away a good deal of what she might complain of with some justice.
The church was reached. They all went up the middle aisle into the
Eagle's Crag pew. He followed them in, entered himself, and shut the
door. Ruth's heart sank as she saw him there; just opposite to her;
coming between her and the clergyman who was to read out the Word of
God. It was merciless--it was cruel to haunt her there. She durst
not lift her eyes to the bright eastern light--she could not see how
peacefully the marble images of the dead lay on their tombs, for he
was between her and all Light and Peace. She knew that his look was
on her; that he never turned his glance away. She could not join in
the prayer for the remission of sins while he was there, for his very
presence seemed as a sign that their stain would never be washed out
of her life. But, although goaded and chafed by her thoughts and
recollections, she kept very still. No sign of emotion, no flush of
colour was on her face as he looked at her. Elizabeth could not find
her place, and then Ruth breathed once, long and deeply, as she moved
up the pew, and out of the straight, burning glance of those eyes of
evil meaning. When they sat down for the reading of the first lesson,
Ruth turned the corner of the seat so as no longer to be opposite to
him. She could not listen. The words seemed to be uttered in some
world far away, from which she was exiled and cast out; their sound,
and yet more their meaning, was dim and distant. But in this extreme
tension of mind to hold in her bewildered agony, it so happened that
one of her senses was preternaturally acute. While all the church
and the people swam in misty haze, one point in a dark corner grew
clearer and clearer till she saw (what at another time she could not
have discerned at all) a face--a gargoyle I think they call it--at
the end of the arch next to the narrowing of the nave into the
chancel, and in the shadow of that contraction. The face was
beautiful in feature (the next to it was a grinning monkey), but it
was not the features that were the most striking part. There was a
half-open mouth, not in any way distorted out of its exquisite beauty
by the intense expression of suffering it conveyed. Any distortion of
the face by mental agony implies that a struggle with circumstance is
going on. But in this face, if such struggle had been, it was over
now. Circumstance had conquered; and there was no hope from mortal
endeavour, or help from mortal creature to be had. But the eyes
looked onward and upward to the "Hills from whence cometh our help."
And though the parted lips seemed ready to quiver with agony, yet
the expression of the whole face, owing to these strange, stony,
and yet spiritual eyes, was high and consoling. If mortal gaze had
never sought its meaning before, in the deep shadow where it had
been placed long centuries ago, yet Ruth's did now. Who could have
imagined such a look? Who could have witnessed--perhaps felt--such
infinite sorrow, and yet dared to lift it up by Faith into a peace
so pure? Or was it a mere conception? If so, what a soul the unknown
carver must have had! for creator and handicraftsman must have been
one; no two minds could have been in such perfect harmony. Whatever
it was--however it came there--imaginer, carver, sufferer, all
were long passed away. Human art was ended--human life done--human
suffering over; but this remained; it stilled Ruth's beating heart
to look on it. She grew still enough to hear words which have come
to many in their time of need, and awed them in the presence of the
extremest suffering that the hushed world has ever heard of.
The second lesson for the morning of the 25th of September is the
26th chapter of St Matthew's Gospel.
And when they prayed again, Ruth's tongue was unloosed, and she also
could pray, in His name, who underwent the agony in the garden.
As they came out of church, there was a little pause and gathering at
the door. It had begun to rain; those who had umbrellas were putting
them up; those who had not were regretting, and wondering how long
it would last. Standing for a moment, impeded by the people who were
thus collected under the porch, Ruth heard a voice close to her say,
very low, but very distinctly,
"I have much to say to you--much to explain. I entreat you to give me
the opportunity."
Ruth did not reply. She would not acknowledge that she heard; but
she trembled nevertheless, for the well-remembered voice was low and
soft, and had yet its power to thrill. She earnestly desired to know
why and how he had left her. It appeared to her as if that knowledge
could alone give her a relief from the restless wondering that
distracted her mind, and that one explanation could do no harm.
"_No!_" the higher spirit made answer; "_it must not be._"
Ruth and the girls had each an umbrella. She turned to Mary, and
said,
"Mary, give your umbrella to Mr Donne, and come under mine." Her way
of speaking was short and decided; she was compressing her meaning
into as few words as possible. The little girl obeyed in silence. As
they went first through the churchyard stile, Mr Donne spoke again.
"You are unforgiving," said he. "I only ask you to hear me. I have a
right to be heard, Ruth! I won't believe you are so much changed, as
not to listen to me when I entreat."
He spoke in a tone of soft complaint. But he himself had done much
to destroy the illusion which had hung about his memory for years,
whenever Ruth had allowed herself to think of it. Besides which,
during the time of her residence in the Benson family, her feeling of
what people ought to be had been unconsciously raised and refined;
and Mr Donne, even while she had to struggle against the force of
past recollections, repelled her so much by what he was at present,
that every speech of his, every minute they were together, served
to make her path more and more easy to follow. His voice retained
something of its former influence. When he spoke, without her seeing
him, she could not help remembering former days.
She did not answer this last speech any more than the first. She
saw clearly, that, putting aside all thought as to the character of
their former relationship, it had been dissolved by his will--his
act and deed; and that, therefore, the power to refuse any further
intercourse whatsoever remained with her.
It sometimes seems a little strange how, after having earnestly
prayed to be delivered from temptation, and having given ourselves
with shut eyes into God's hand, from that time every thought, every
outward influence, every acknowledged law of life, seems to lead us
on from strength to strength. It seems strange sometimes, because
we notice the coincidence; but it is the natural, unavoidable
consequence of all truth and goodness being one and the same, and
therefore carried out in every circumstance, external and internal,
of God's creation.
When Mr Donne saw that Ruth would not answer him, he became only the
more determined that she should hear what he had to say. What that
was he did not exactly know. The whole affair was most mysterious and
piquant.
The umbrella protected Ruth from more than the rain on that walk
homewards, for under its shelter she could not be spoken to unheard.
She had not rightly understood at what time she and the girls were to
dine. From the gathering at meal-times she must not shrink. She must
show no sign of weakness. But, oh! the relief, after that walk, to
sit in her own room, locked up, so that neither Mary nor Elizabeth
could come by surprise, and to let her weary frame (weary with being
so long braced up to rigidity and stiff quiet) fall into a chair
anyhow--all helpless, nerveless, motionless, as if the very bones had
melted out of her!
The peaceful rest which her mind took was in thinking of Leonard.
She dared not look before or behind, but she could see him well
at present. She brooded over the thought of him, till she dreaded
his father more and more. By the light of her child's purity and
innocence, she saw evil clearly, and yet more clearly. She thought
that, if Leonard ever came to know the nature of his birth, she
had nothing for it but to die out of his sight. He could never
know--human heart could never know, her ignorant innocence, and all
the small circumstances which had impelled her onwards. But God knew.
And if Leonard heard of his mother's error, why, nothing remained
but death; for she felt, then, as if she had it in her power to die
innocently out of such future agony; but that escape is not so easy.
Suddenly a fresh thought came, and she prayed that, through whatever
suffering, she might be purified. Whatever trials, woes, measureless
pangs, God might see fit to chastise her with, she would not shrink,
if only at last she might come into His presence in Heaven. Alas!
the shrinking from suffering we cannot help. That part of her prayer
was vain. And as for the rest, was not the sure justice of His law
finding her out even now? His laws once broken, His justice and the
very nature of those laws bring the immutable retribution; but if we
turn penitently to Him, He enables us to bear our punishment with a
meek and docile heart, "for His mercy endureth for ever."
Mr Bradshaw had felt himself rather wanting in proper attention
to his guest, inasmuch as he had been unable, all in a minute, to
comprehend Mr Donne's rapid change of purpose; and, before it had
entered into his mind that, notwithstanding the distance of the
church, Mr Donne was going thither, that gentleman was out of the
sight, and far out of the reach, of his burly host. But though the
latter had so far neglected the duties of hospitality as to allow
his visitor to sit in the Eagle's Crag pew with no other guard of
honour than the children and the governess, Mr Bradshaw determined
to make up for it by extra attention during the remainder of the day.
Accordingly he never left Mr Donne. Whatever wish that gentleman
expressed, it was the study of his host to gratify. Did he hint at
the pleasure which a walk in such beautiful scenery would give him,
Mr Bradshaw was willing to accompany him, although at Eccleston it
was a principle with him not to take any walks for pleasure on a
Sunday. When Mr Donne turned round, and recollected letters which
must be written, and which would compel him to stay at home, Mr
Bradshaw instantly gave up the walk, and remained at hand, ready to
furnish him with any writing-materials which could be wanted, and
which were not laid out in the half-furnished house. Nobody knew
where Mr Hickson was all this time. He had sauntered out after Mr
Donne, when the latter set off for church, and he had never returned.
Mr Donne kept wondering if he could have met Ruth--if, in fact, she
had gone out with her pupils, now that the afternoon had cleared
up. This uneasy wonder, and a few mental imprecations on his host's
polite attention, together with the letter-writing pretence, passed
away the afternoon--the longest afternoon he had ever spent; and
of weariness he had had his share. Lunch was lingering in the
dining-room, left there for the truant Mr Hickson; but of the
children or Ruth there was no sign. He ventured on a distant inquiry
as to their whereabouts.
"They dine early; they are gone to church again. Mrs Denbigh was a
member of the Establishment once; and, though she attends chapel at
home, she seems glad to have an opportunity of going to church."
Mr Donne was on the point of asking some further questions about "Mrs
Denbigh," when Mr Hickson came in, loud-spoken, cheerful, hungry, and
as ready to talk about his ramble, and the way in which he had lost
and found himself, as he was about everything else. He knew how to
dress up the commonest occurrence with a little exaggeration, a few
puns, and a happy quotation or two, so as to make it sound very
agreeable. He could read faces, and saw that he had been missed;
both host and visitor looked moped to death. He determined to devote
himself to their amusement during the remainder of the day, for he
had really lost himself, and felt that he had been away too long on a
dull Sunday, when people were apt to get hypped if not well amused.
"It is really a shame to be indoors in such a place. Rain? yes, it
rained some hours ago, but now it is splendid weather. I feel myself
quite qualified for guide, I assure you. I can show you all the
beauties of the neighbourhood, and throw in a bog and a nest of
vipers to boot."
Mr Donne languidly assented to this proposal of going out; and then
he became restless until Mr Hickson had eaten a hasty lunch, for he
hoped to meet Ruth on the way from church, to be near her, and watch
her, though he might not be able to speak to her. To have the slow
hours roll away--to know he must leave the next day--and yet, so
close to her, not to be seeing her--was more than he could bear. In
an impetuous kind of way, he disregarded all Mr Hickson's offers of
guidance to lovely views, and turned a deaf ear to Mr Bradshaw's
expressed wish of showing him the land belonging to the house ("very
little for fourteen thousand pounds"), and set off wilfully on the
road leading to the church, from which, he averred, he had seen a
view which nothing else about the place could equal.
They met the country people dropping homewards. No Ruth was there.
She and her pupils had returned by the field-way, as Mr Bradshaw
informed his guests at dinner-time. Mr Donne was very captious
all through dinner. He thought it would never be over, and cursed
Hickson's interminable stories, which were told on purpose to
amuse him. His heart gave a fierce bound when he saw her in the
drawing-room with the little girls.
She was reading to them--with how sick and trembling a heart, no
words can tell. But she could master and keep down outward signs of
her emotion. An hour more to-night (part of which was to be spent in
family prayer, and all in the safety of company), another hour in the
morning (when all would be engaged in the bustle of departure)--if,
during this short space of time, she could not avoid speaking to him,
she could at least keep him at such a distance as to make him feel
that henceforward her world and his belonged to separate systems,
wide as the heavens apart.
By degrees she felt that he was drawing near to where she stood.
He was by the table examining the books that lay upon it. Mary and
Elizabeth drew off a little space, awe-stricken by the future member
for Eccleston. As he bent his head over a book, he said, "I implore
you; five minutes alone."
The little girls could not hear; but Ruth, hemmed in so that no
escape was possible, did hear.
She took sudden courage, and said, in a clear voice,
"Will you read the whole passage aloud? I do not remember it."
Mr Hickson, hovering at no great distance, heard these words, and
drew near to second Mrs Denbigh's request. Mr Bradshaw, who was very
sleepy after his unusually late dinner, and longing for bedtime,
joined in the request, for it would save the necessity for making
talk, and he might, perhaps, get in a nap, undisturbed and unnoticed,
before the servants came in to prayers.
Mr Donne was caught; he was obliged to read aloud, although he did
not know what he was reading. In the middle of some sentence the
door opened, a rush of servants came in, and Mr Bradshaw became
particularly wide awake in an instant, and read them a long sermon
with great emphasis and unction, winding up with a prayer almost as
long.
Ruth sat with her head drooping, more from exhaustion after a season
of effort than because she shunned Mr Donne's looks. He had so lost
his power over her--his power, which had stirred her so deeply the
night before--that, except as one knowing her error and her shame,
and making a cruel use of such knowledge, she had quite separated him
from the idol of her youth. And yet, for the sake of that first and
only love, she would gladly have known what explanation he could
offer to account for leaving her. It would have been something gained
to her own self-respect, if she had learnt that he was not then, as
she felt him to be now, cold and egotistical, caring for no one and
nothing but what related to himself.
Home, and Leonard--how strangely peaceful the two seemed! Oh, for the
rest that a dream about Leonard would bring!
Mary and Elizabeth went to bed immediately after prayers, and Ruth
accompanied them. It was planned that the gentlemen should leave
early the next morning. They were to breakfast half an hour sooner,
to catch the railway train; and this by Mr Donne's own arrangement,
who had been as eager about his canvassing, the week before, as it
was possible for him to be, but who now wished Eccleston and the
Dissenting interest therein very fervently at the devil.
Just as the carriage came round, Mr Bradshaw turned to Ruth: "Any
message for Leonard beyond love, which is a matter of course?"
Ruth gasped--for she saw Mr Donne catch at the name; she did not
guess the sudden sharp jealousy called out by the idea that Leonard
was a grown-up man.
"Who is Leonard?" said he to the little girl standing by him; he did
not know which she was.
"Mrs Denbigh's little boy," answered Mary.
Under some pretence or other, he drew near to Ruth; and in that low
voice, which she had learnt to loathe, he said,
"Our child!"
By the white misery that turned her face to stone--by the wild terror
in her imploring eyes--by the gasping breath which came out as the
carriage drove away--he knew that he had seized the spell to make her
listen at last.