Authors: Elizabeth Gaskell
She shut her eyes, until through the closed lids came a ruddy blaze
of light. The clouds had parted away, and the sun was going down in a
crimson glory behind the distant purple hills. The whole western sky
was one flame of fire. Ruth forgot herself in looking at the gorgeous
sight. She sat up gazing, and, as she gazed, the tears dried on her
cheeks; and, somehow, all human care and sorrow were swallowed up in
the unconscious sense of God's infinity. The sunset calmed her more
than any words, however wise and tender, could have done. It even
seemed to give her strength and courage; she did not know how or why,
but so it was.
She rose, and went slowly towards home. Her limbs were very stiff,
and every now and then she had to choke down an unbidden sob. Her
pupils had been long returned from church, and had busied themselves
in preparing tea—an occupation which had probably made them feel the
time less long.
If they had ever seen a sleep-walker, they might have likened Ruth
to one for the next few days, so slow and measured did her movements
seem—so far away was her intelligence from all that was passing
around her—so hushed and strange were the tones of her voice. They
had letters from home announcing the triumphant return of Mr Donne as
M.P. for Eccleston. Mrs Denbigh heard the news without a word, and
was too languid to join in the search after purple and yellow flowers
with which to deck the sitting-room at Eagle's Crag.
A letter from Jemima came the next day, summoning them home. Mr Donne
and his friends had left the place, and quiet was restored in the
Bradshaw household; so it was time that Mary's and Elizabeth's
holiday should cease. Mrs Denbigh had also a letter—a letter from
Miss Benson, saying that Leonard was not quite well. There was so
much pains taken to disguise anxiety, that it was very evident much
anxiety was felt; and the girls were almost alarmed by Ruth's sudden
change from taciturn langour to eager, vehement energy. Body and mind
seemed strained to exertion. Every plan that could facilitate packing
and winding-up affairs at Abermouth, every errand and arrangement
that could expedite their departure by one minute, was done by Ruth
with stern promptitude. She spared herself in nothing. She made
them rest, made them lie down, while she herself lifted weights and
transacted business with feverish power, never resting, and trying
never to have time to think.
For in remembrance of the Past there was Remorse,—how had she
forgotten Leonard these last few days!—how had she repined and been
dull of heart to her blessing! And in anticipation of the Future
there was one sharp point of red light in the darkness which pierced
her brain with agony, and which she would not see or recognise—and
saw and recognised all the more for such mad determination—which is
not the true shield against the bitterness of the arrows of Death.
When the seaside party arrived in Eccleston, they were met by Mrs and
Miss Bradshaw and Mr Benson. By a firm resolution, Ruth kept from
shaping the question, "Is he alive?" as if by giving shape to her
fears she made their realisation more imminent. She said merely, "How
is he?" but she said it with drawn, tight, bloodless lips, and in her
eyes Mr Benson read her anguish of anxiety.
"He is very ill, but we hope he will soon be better. It is what every
child has to go through."
Mr Bradshaw had been successful in carrying his point. His member had
been returned; his proud opponents mortified. So the public thought
he ought to be well pleased; but the public were disappointed to see
that he did not show any of the gratification they supposed him to
feel.
The truth was, that he had met with so many small mortifications
during the progress of the election, that the pleasure which he would
otherwise have felt in the final success of his scheme was much
diminished.
He had more than tacitly sanctioned bribery; and now that the
excitement was over, he regretted it; not entirely from conscientious
motives, though he was uneasy from a slight sense of wrong-doing; but
he was more pained, after all, to think that, in the eyes of some of
his townsmen, his hitherto spotless character had received a blemish.
He, who had been so stern and severe a censor on the undue influence
exercised by the opposite party in all preceding elections, could not
expect to be spared by their adherents now, when there were rumours
that the hands of the scrupulous Dissenters were not clean. Before,
it had been his boast that neither friend nor enemy could say one
word against him; now, he was constantly afraid of an indictment for
bribery, and of being compelled to appear before a Committee to swear
to his own share in the business.
His uneasy, fearful consciousness made him stricter and sterner
than ever; as if he would quench all wondering, slanderous talk
about him in the town by a renewed austerity of uprightness; that
the slack-principled Mr Bradshaw of one month of ferment and
excitement might not be confounded with the highly-conscientious and
deeply-religious Mr Bradshaw, who went to chapel twice a day, and
gave a hundred pounds a-piece to every charity in the town, as a sort
of thank-offering that his end was gained.
But he was secretly dissatisfied with Mr Donne. In general, that
gentleman had been rather too willing to act in accordance with
any one's advice, no matter whose; as if he had thought it too
much trouble to weigh the wisdom of his friends, in which case Mr
Bradshaw's would have, doubtless, proved the most valuable. But
now and then he unexpectedly, and utterly without reason, took the
conduct of affairs into his own hands, as when he had been absent
without leave only just before the day of nomination. No one guessed
whither he had gone; but the fact of his being gone was enough to
chagrin Mr Bradshaw, who was quite ready to pick a quarrel on this
very head, if the election had not terminated favourably. As it
was, he had a feeling of proprietorship in Mr Donne which was not
disagreeable. He had given the new M.P. his seat; his resolution,
his promptitude, his energy, had made Mr Donne "our member;" and Mr
Bradshaw began to feel proud of him accordingly. But there had been
no one circumstance during this period to bind Jemima and Mr Farquhar
together. They were still misunderstanding each other with all their
power. The difference in the result was this: Jemima loved him all
the more, in spite of quarrels and coolness. He was growing utterly
weary of the petulant temper of which he was never certain; of the
reception which varied day after day, according to the mood she was
in and the thoughts that were uppermost; and he was almost startled
to find how very glad he was that the little girls and Mrs Denbigh
were coming home. His was a character to bask in peace; and lovely,
quiet Ruth, with her low tones and quiet replies, her delicate waving
movements, appeared to him the very type of what a woman should be—a
calm, serene soul, fashioning the body to angelic grace.
It was, therefore, with no slight interest that Mr Farquhar inquired
daily after the health of little Leonard. He asked at the Bensons'
house; and Sally answered him, with swollen and tearful eyes, that
the child was very bad—very bad indeed. He asked at the doctor's;
and the doctor told him, in a few short words, that "it was only a
bad kind of measles, and that the lad might have a struggle for it,
but he thought he would get through. Vigorous children carried their
force into everything; never did things by halves; if they were ill,
they were sure to be in a high fever directly; if they were well,
there was no peace in the house for their rioting. For his part,"
continued the doctor, "he thought he was glad he had had no children;
as far as he could judge, they were pretty much all plague and no
profit." But as he ended his speech he sighed; and Mr Farquhar
was none the less convinced that common report was true, which
represented the clever, prosperous surgeon of Eccleston as bitterly
disappointed at his failure of offspring.
While these various interests and feelings had their course outside
the Chapel-house, within there was but one thought which possessed
all the inmates. When Sally was not cooking for the little invalid,
she was crying; for she had had a dream about green rushes, not
three months ago, which, by some queer process of oneiromancy she
interpreted to mean the death of a child; and all Miss Benson's
endeavours were directed to making her keep silence to Ruth about
this dream. Sally thought that the mother ought to be told; what were
dreams sent for but for warnings? But it was just like a pack of
Dissenters, who would not believe anything like other folks. Miss
Benson was too much accustomed to Sally's contempt for Dissenters, as
viewed from the pinnacle of the Establishment, to pay much attention
to all this grumbling; especially as Sally was willing to take as
much trouble about Leonard as if she believed he was going to live,
and that his recovery depended upon her care. Miss Benson's great
object was to keep her from having any confidential talks with Ruth;
as if any repetition of the dream could have deepened the conviction
in Ruth's mind that the child would die.
It seemed to her that his death would only be the fitting punishment
for the state of indifference towards him—towards life and
death—towards all things earthly or divine, into which she had
suffered herself to fall since her last interview with Mr Donne.
She did not understand that such exhaustion is but the natural
consequence of violent agitation and severe tension of feeling. The
only relief she experienced was in constantly serving Leonard; she
had almost an animal's jealousy lest any one should come between her
and her young. Mr Benson saw this jealous suspicion, although he
could hardly understand it; but he calmed his sister's wonder and
officious kindness, so that the two patiently and quietly provided
all that Ruth might want, but did not interfere with her right to
nurse Leonard. But when he was recovering, Mr Benson, with the slight
tone of authority he knew how to assume when need was, bade Ruth
lie down and take some rest, while his sister watched. Ruth did not
answer, but obeyed in a dull, weary kind of surprise at being so
commanded. She lay down by her child, gazing her fill at his calm
slumber; and as she gazed, her large white eyelids were softly
pressed down as with a gentle irresistible weight, and she fell
asleep.
She dreamed that she was once more on the lonely shore, striving to
carry Leonard away from some pursuer—some human pursuer—she knew he
was human, and she knew who he was, although she dared not say his
name even to herself, he seemed so close and present, gaining on her
flying footsteps, rushing after her as with the sound of the roaring
tide. Her feet seemed heavy weights fixed to the ground; they would
not move. All at once, just near the shore, a great black whirlwind
of waves clutched her back to her pursuer; she threw Leonard on to
land, which was safety; but whether he reached it or no, or was swept
back like her into a mysterious something too dreadful to be borne,
she did not know, for the terror awakened her. At first the dream
seemed yet a reality, and she thought that the pursuer was couched
even there, in that very room, and the great boom of the sea was
still in her ears. But as full consciousness returned, she saw
herself safe in the dear old room—the haven of rest—the shelter
from storms. A bright fire was glowing in the little old-fashioned,
cup-shaped grate, niched into a corner of the wall, and guarded on
either side by whitewashed bricks, which rested on hobs. On one of
these the kettle hummed and buzzed, within two points of boiling
whenever she or Leonard required tea. In her dream that home-like
sound had been the roaring of the relentless sea, creeping swiftly on
to seize its prey. Miss Benson sat by the fire, motionless and still;
it was too dark to read any longer without a candle; but yet on the
ceiling and upper part of the walls the golden light of the setting
sun was slowly moving—so slow, and yet a motion gives the feeling of
rest to the weary yet more than perfect stillness. The old clock on
the staircase told its monotonous click-clack, in that soothing way
which more marked the quiet of the house than disturbed with any
sense of sound. Leonard still slept that renovating slumber, almost
in her arms, far from that fatal pursuing sea, with its human form of
cruelty. The dream was a vision; the reality which prompted the dream
was over and past—Leonard was safe—she was safe; all this loosened
the frozen springs, and they gushed forth in her heart, and her lips
moved in accordance with her thoughts.
"What were you saying, my darling?" said Miss Benson, who caught
sight of the motion, and fancied she was asking for something. Miss
Benson bent over the side of the bed on which Ruth lay, to catch the
low tones of her voice.
"I only said," replied Ruth, timidly, "thank God! I have so much to
thank Him for, you don't know."
"My dear, I am sure we have all of us cause to be thankful that our
boy is spared. See! he is wakening up; and we will have a cup of tea
together."
Leonard strode on to perfect health; but he was made older in
character and looks by his severe illness. He grew tall and thin, and
the lovely child was lost in the handsome boy. He began to wonder,
and to question. Ruth mourned a little over the vanished babyhood,
when she was all in all, and over the childhood, whose petals had
fallen away; it seemed as though two of her children were gone—the
one an infant, the other a bright, thoughtless darling; and she
wished that they could have remained quick in her memory for ever,
instead of being absorbed in loving pride for the present boy. But
these were only fanciful regrets, flitting like shadows across a
mirror. Peace and thankfulness were once more the atmosphere of
her mind; nor was her unconsciousness disturbed by any suspicion
of Mr Farquhar's increasing approbation and admiration, which he
was diligently nursing up into love for her. She knew that he had
sent—she did not know how often he had brought—fruit for the
convalescent Leonard. She heard, on her return from her daily
employment, that Mr Farquhar had brought a little gentle pony on
which Leonard, weak as he was, might ride. To confess the truth, her
maternal pride was such that she thought that all kindness shown
to such a boy as Leonard was but natural; she believed him to be