The End
A stupor of grief succeeded to Leonard's passionate cries. He became
so much depressed, physically as well as mentally, before the end of
the day, that Mr Davis was seriously alarmed for the consequences. He
hailed with gladness a proposal made by the Farquhars, that the boy
should be removed to their house, and placed under the fond care of
his mother's friend, who sent her own child to Abermouth the better
to devote herself to Leonard.
When they told him of this arrangement, he at first refused to go and
leave _her_; but when Mr Benson said:
"_She_ would have wished it, Leonard! Do it for her sake!" he went
away very quietly; not speaking a word, after Mr Benson had made the
voluntary promise that he should see her once again. He neither spoke
nor cried for many hours; and all Jemima's delicate wiles were called
forth, before his heavy heart could find the relief of tears. And
then he was so weak, and his pulse so low, that all who loved him
feared for his life.
Anxiety about him made a sad distraction from the sorrow for the
dead. The three old people, who now formed the household in the
Chapel-house, went about slowly and dreamily, each with a dull wonder
at their hearts why they, the infirm and worn-out, were left, while
she was taken in her lovely prime.
The third day after Ruth's death, a gentleman came to the door and
asked to speak to Mr Benson. He was very much wrapped up in furs and
cloaks, and the upper, exposed part of his face was sunk and hollow,
like that of one but partially recovered from illness. Mr and Miss
Benson were at Mr Farquhar's, gone to see Leonard, and poor old Sally
had been having a hearty cry over the kitchen fire before answering
the door-knock. Her heart was tenderly inclined just then towards any
one who had the aspect of suffering; so, although her master was out,
and she was usually chary of admitting strangers, she proposed to Mr
Donne (for it was he) that he should come in and await Mr Benson's
return in the study. He was glad enough to avail himself of her
offer; for he was feeble and nervous, and come on a piece of business
which he exceedingly disliked, and about which he felt very awkward.
The fire was nearly, if not quite, out; nor did Sally's vigorous
blows do much good, although she left the room with an assurance that
it would soon burn up. He leant against the chimney-piece, thinking
over events, and with a sensation of discomfort, both external and
internal, growing and gathering upon him. He almost wondered whether
the proposal he meant to make with regard to Leonard could not be
better arranged by letter than by an interview. He became very
shivery, and impatient of the state of indecision to which his bodily
weakness had reduced him.
Sally opened the door and came in. "Would you like to walk upstairs,
sir?" asked she, in a trembling voice, for she had learnt who the
visitor was from the driver of the fly, who had run up to the house
to inquire what was detaining the gentleman that he had brought from
the Queen's Hotel; and, knowing that Ruth had caught the fatal fever
from her attendance on Mr Donne, Sally imagined that it was but a
piece of sad civility to invite him upstairs to see the poor dead
body, which she had laid out and decked for the grave, with such fond
care that she had grown strangely proud of its marble beauty.
Mr Donne was glad enough of any proposal of a change from the
cold and comfortless room where he had thought uneasy, remorseful
thoughts. He fancied that a change of place would banish the train of
reflection that was troubling him; but the change he anticipated was
to a well-warmed, cheerful sitting-room, with signs of life, and a
bright fire therein; and he was on the last flight of stairs,--at the
door of the room where Ruth lay--before he understood whither Sally
was conducting him. He shrank back for an instant, and then a strange
sting of curiosity impelled him on. He stood in the humble low-roofed
attic, the window open, and the tops of the distant snow-covered
hills filling up the whiteness of the general aspect. He muffled
himself up in his cloak, and shuddered, while Sally reverently drew
down the sheet, and showed the beautiful, calm, still face, on which
the last rapturous smile still lingered, giving an ineffable look
of bright serenity. Her arms were crossed over her breast; the
wimple-like cap marked the perfect oval of her face, while two braids
of the waving auburn hair peeped out of the narrow border, and lay on
the delicate cheeks.
He was awed into admiration by the wonderful beauty of that dead
woman.
"How beautiful she is!" said he, beneath his breath. "Do all dead
people look so peaceful--so happy?"
"Not all," replied Sally, crying. "Few has been as good and as gentle
as she was in their lives." She quite shook with her sobbing.
Mr Donne was disturbed by her distress.
"Come, my good woman! we must all die--" he did not know what to say,
and was becoming infected by her sorrow. "I am sure you loved her
very much, and were very kind to her in her lifetime; you must take
this from me to buy yourself some remembrance of her." He had pulled
out a sovereign, and really had a kindly desire to console her, and
reward her, in offering it to her.
But she took her apron from her eyes, as soon as she became aware of
what he was doing, and, still holding it midway in her hands, she
looked at him indignantly, before she burst out:
"And who are you, that think to pay for my kindness to her by money?
And I was not kind to you, my darling," said she, passionately
addressing the motionless, serene body--"I was not kind to you. I
frabbed you, and plagued you from the first, my lamb! I came and cut
off your pretty locks in this very room--I did--and you said never
an angry word to me;--no! not then, nor many a time after, when I
was very sharp and cross to you.--No! I never was kind to you, and
I dunnot think the world was kind to you, my darling,--but you are
gone where the angels are very tender to such as you--you are, my
poor wench!" She bent down and kissed the lips, from whose marble,
unyielding touch Mr Donne recoiled, even in thought.
Just then, Mr Benson entered the room. He had returned home before
his sister, and come upstairs in search of Sally, to whom he wanted
to speak on some subject relating to the funeral. He bowed in
recognition of Mr Donne, whom he knew as the member for the town, and
whose presence impressed him painfully, as his illness had been the
proximate cause of Ruth's death. But he tried to check this feeling,
as it was no fault of Mr Donne's. Sally stole out of the room, to cry
at leisure in her kitchen.
"I must apologise for being here," said Mr Donne. "I was hardly
conscious where your servant was leading me to, when she expressed
her wish that I should walk upstairs."
"It is a very common idea in this town, that it is a gratification to
be asked to take a last look at the dead," replied Mr Benson.
"And in this case I am glad to have seen her once more," said Mr
Donne. "Poor Ruth!"
Mr Benson glanced up at him at the last word. How did he know her
name? To him she had only been Mrs Denbigh. But Mr Donne had no idea
that he was talking to one unaware of the connexion that had formerly
existed between them; and, though he would have preferred carrying on
the conversation in a warmer room, yet, as Mr Benson was still gazing
at her with sad, lingering love, he went on:
"I did not recognise her when she came to nurse me; I believe I was
delirious. My servant, who had known her long ago, in Fordham, told
me who she was. I cannot tell how I regret that she should have died
in consequence of her love of me."
Mr Benson looked up at him again, a stern light filling his eyes
as he did so. He waited impatiently to hear more, either to quench
or confirm his suspicions. If she had not been lying there, very
still and calm, he would have forced the words out of Mr Donne, by
some abrupt question. As it was, he listened silently, his heart
quick-beating.
"I know that money is but a poor compensation,--is no remedy for this
event, or for my youthful folly."
Mr Benson set his teeth hard together, to keep in words little short
of a curse.
"Indeed, I offered her money to almost any amount before;--do me
justice, sir," catching the gleam of indignation on Mr Benson's face;
"I offered to marry her, and provide for the boy as if he had been
legitimate. It's of no use recurring to that time," said he, his
voice faltering; "what is done cannot be undone. But I came now to
say, that I should be glad to leave the boy still under your charge,
and that every expense you think it right to incur in his education
I will defray;--and place a sum of money in trust for him--say,
two thousand pounds--or more: fix what you will. Of course, if you
decline retaining him, I must find some one else; but the provision
for him shall be the same, for my poor Ruth's sake."
Mr Benson did not speak. He could not, till he had gathered some
peace from looking at the ineffable repose of the Dead.
Then, before he answered, he covered up her face; and in his voice
there was the stillness of ice.
"Leonard is not unprovided for. Those that honoured his mother will
take care of him. He shall never touch a penny of your money. Every
offer of service you have made, I reject in his name,--and in her
presence," said he, bending towards the Dead. "Men may call such
actions as yours, youthful follies! There is another name for them
with God. Sir! I will follow you downstairs."
All the way down, Mr Benson heard Mr Donne's voice urging and
entreating, but the words he could not recognise for the thoughts
that filled his brain--the rapid putting together of events that was
going on there. And when Mr Donne turned at the door, to speak again,
and repeat his offers of service to Leonard, Mr Benson made answer,
without well knowing whether the answer fitted the question or not:
"I thank God, you have no right, legal or otherwise, over the child.
And for her sake, I will spare him the shame of ever hearing your
name as his father."
He shut the door in Mr Donne's face.
"An ill-bred, puritanical old fellow! He may have the boy, I am sure,
for aught I care. I have done my duty, and will get out of this
abominable place as soon as I can. I wish my last remembrance of my
beautiful Ruth was not mixed up with all these people."
Mr Benson was bitterly oppressed with this interview; it disturbed
the peace with which he was beginning to contemplate events. His
anger ruffled him, although such anger had been just, and such
indignation well deserved; and both had been unconsciously present in
his heart for years against the unknown seducer, whom he met face to
face by the death-bed of Ruth.
It gave him a shock which he did not recover from for many days. He
was nervously afraid lest Mr Donne should appear at the funeral; and
not all the reasons he alleged to himself against this apprehension,
put it utterly away from him. Before then, however, he heard casually
(for he would allow himself no inquiries) that he had left the town.
No! Ruth's funeral passed over in calm and simple solemnity. Her
child, her own household, her friend, and Mr Farquhar, quietly walked
after the bier, which was borne by some of the poor to whom she had
been very kind in her lifetime. And many others stood aloof in the
little burying-ground, sadly watching that last ceremony.
They slowly dispersed; Mr Benson leading Leonard by the hand, and
secretly wondering at his self-restraint. Almost as soon as they had
let themselves into the Chapel-house, a messenger brought a note from
Mrs Bradshaw, with a pot of quince marmalade, which, she said to Miss
Benson, she thought that Leonard might fancy, and if he did, they
were to be sure and let her know, as she had plenty more; or, was
there anything else that he would like? She would gladly make him
whatever he fancied.
Poor Leonard! he lay stretched on the sofa, white and tearless,
beyond the power of any such comfort, however kindly offered; but
this was only one of the many homely, simple attentions, which all
came round him to offer, from Mr Grey, the rector, down to the
nameless poor who called at the back door to inquire how it fared
with _her_ child.
Mr Benson was anxious, according to Dissenting custom, to preach an
appropriate funeral sermon. It was the last office he could render to
her; it should be done well and carefully. Moreover, it was possible
that the circumstances of her life, which were known to all, might
be made effective in this manner to work conviction of many truths.
Accordingly, he made great preparation of thought and paper; he
laboured hard, destroying sheet after sheet--his eyes filling with
tears between-whiles, as he remembered some fresh proof of the
humility and sweetness of her life. Oh, that he could do her justice!
but words seemed hard and inflexible, and refused to fit themselves
to his ideas. He sat late on Saturday, writing; he watched through
the night till Sunday morning was far advanced. He had never taken
such pains with any sermon, and he was only half satisfied with it
after all.
Mrs Farquhar had comforted the bitterness of Sally's grief by giving
her very handsome mourning. At any rate, she felt oddly proud and
exulting when she thought of her new black gown; but when she
remembered why she wore it, she scolded herself pretty sharply for
her satisfaction, and took to crying afresh with redoubled vigour.
She spent the Sunday morning in alternately smoothing down her skirts
and adjusting her broad hemmed collar, or bemoaning the occasion with
tearful earnestness. But the sorrow overcame the little quaint vanity
of her heart, as she saw troop after troop of humbly-dressed mourners
pass by into the old chapel. They were very poor--but each had
mounted some rusty piece of crape, or some faded black ribbon.
The old came halting and slow--the mothers carried their quiet,
awe-struck babes.
And not only these were there--but others--equally unaccustomed to
nonconformist worship: Mr Davis, for instance, to whom Sally acted
as chaperone; for he sat in the minister's pew, as a stranger; and,
as she afterwards said, she had a fellow-feeling with him, being a
Church-woman herself, and Dissenters had such awkward ways; however,
she had been there before, so she could set him to rights about their
fashions.
From the pulpit, Mr Benson saw one and all--the well-filled Bradshaw
pew--all in deep mourning, Mr Bradshaw conspicuously so (he would
have attended the funeral gladly if they would have asked him)--the
Farquhars--the many strangers--the still more numerous poor--one or
two wild-looking outcasts, who stood afar off, but wept silently and
continually. Mr Benson's heart grew very full.
His voice trembled as he read and prayed. But he steadied it as he
opened his sermon--his great, last effort in her honour--the labour
that he had prayed God to bless to the hearts of many. For an instant
the old man looked on all the upturned faces, listening, with wet
eyes, to hear what he could say to interpret that which was in their
hearts, dumb and unshaped, of God's doings as shown in her life.
He looked, and, as he gazed, a mist came before him, and he could
not see his sermon, nor his hearers, but only Ruth, as she had
been--stricken low, and crouching from sight, in the upland field by
Llan-dhu--like a woeful, hunted creature. And now her life was over!
her struggle ended! Sermon and all was forgotten. He sat down, and
hid his face in his hands for a minute or so. Then he arose, pale and
serene. He put the sermon away, and opened the Bible, and read the
seventh chapter of Revelations, beginning at the ninth verse.
Before it was finished, most of his hearers were in tears. It came
home to them as more appropriate than any sermon could have been.
Even Sally, though full of anxiety as to what her fellow-Churchman
would think of such proceedings, let the sobs come freely as she
heard the words:
And he said to me, These are they which came out of great
tribulation, and have washed their robes, and made them
white in the blood of the Lamb.
Therefore are they before the throne of God, and serve
him day and night in his temple; and he that sitteth on
the throne shall dwell among them.
They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more;
neither shall the sun light on them, nor any heat.
For the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall
feed them, and shall lead them unto living fountains of
waters, and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes.
"He preaches sermons sometimes," said Sally, nudging Mr Davis, as
they rose from their knees at last. "I make no doubt there was as
grand a sermon in yon paper-book as ever we hear in church. I've
heard him pray uncommon fine--quite beyond any but learned folk."
Mr Bradshaw had been anxious to do something to testify his respect
for the woman, who, if all had entertained his opinions, would have
been driven into hopeless sin. Accordingly, he ordered the first
stonemason of the town to meet him in the chapel-yard on Monday
morning, to take measurement and receive directions for a tombstone.
They threaded their way among the grassy heaps to where Ruth was
buried, in the south corner, beneath the great Wych-elm. When they
got there, Leonard raised himself up from the new-stirred turf. His
face was swollen with weeping; but when he saw Mr Bradshaw he calmed
himself, and checked his sobs, and, as an explanation of being where
he was when thus surprised, he could find nothing to say but the
simple words:
"My mother is dead, sir."
His eyes sought those of Mr Bradshaw with a wild look of agony, as
if to find comfort for that great loss in human sympathy; and at the
first word--the first touch of Mr Bradshaw's hand on his shoulder--he
burst out afresh.
"Come, come! my boy!--Mr Francis, I will see you about this
to-morrow--I will call at your house.--Let me take you home, my poor
fellow. Come, my lad, come!"
The first time, for years, that he had entered Mr Benson's house, he
came leading and comforting her son--and, for a moment, he could not
speak to his old friend, for the sympathy which choked up his voice,
and filled his eyes with tears.