Ruth (25 page)

In that body of Dissenters to which Mr Benson belonged, it is not
considered necessary to baptize infants as early as the ceremony can
be performed; and many circumstances concurred to cause the solemn
thanksgiving and dedication of the child (for so these Dissenters
look upon christenings) to be deferred until it was probably
somewhere about six months old. There had been many conversations
in the little sitting-room between the brother and sister and their
protegée
, which had consisted more of questions betraying a
thoughtful wondering kind of ignorance on the part of Ruth, and
answers more suggestive than explanatory from Mr Benson; while Miss
Benson kept up a kind of running commentary, always simple and often
quaint, but with that intuition into the very heart of all things
truly religious which is often the gift of those who seem, at first
sight, to be only affectionate and sensible. When Mr Benson had
explained his own views of what a christening ought to be considered,
and, by calling out Ruth's latent feelings into pious earnestness,
brought her into a right frame of mind, he felt that he had done what
he could to make the ceremony more than a mere form, and to invest
it, quiet, humble, and obscure as it must necessarily be in outward
shape—mournful and anxious as much of its antecedents had rendered
it—with the severe grandeur of an act done in faith and truth.

It was not far to carry the little one, for, as I said, the chapel
almost adjoined the minister's house. The whole procession was
to have consisted of Mr and Miss Benson, Ruth carrying her baby,
and Sally, who felt herself, as a Church-of-England woman, to be
condescending and kind in requesting leave to attend a baptism among
"them Dissenters;" but unless she had asked permission, she would
not have been desired to attend, so careful was the habit of her
master and mistress that she should be allowed that freedom which
they claimed for themselves. But they were glad she wished to go;
they liked the feeling that all were of one household, and that
the interests of one were the interests of all. It produced a
consequence, however, which they did not anticipate. Sally was full
of the event which her presence was to sanction, and, as it were,
to redeem from the character of being utterly schismatic; she spoke
about it with an air of patronage to three or four, and among them to
some of the servants at Mr Bradshaw's.

Miss Benson was rather surprised to receive a call from Jemima
Bradshaw, on the very morning of the day on which little Leonard was
to be baptized; Miss Bradshaw was rosy and breathless with eagerness.
Although the second in the family, she had been at school when her
younger sisters had been christened, and she was now come, in the
full warmth of a girl's fancy, to ask if she might be present at the
afternoon's service. She had been struck with Mrs Denbigh's grace
and beauty at the very first sight, when she had accompanied her
mother to call upon the Bensons on their return from Wales; and had
kept up an enthusiastic interest in the widow only a little older
than herself, whose very reserve and retirement but added to her
unconscious power of enchantment.

"Oh, Miss Benson! I never saw a christening; papa says I may go, if
you think Mr Benson and Mrs Denbigh would not dislike it; and I will
be quite quiet, and sit up behind the door, or anywhere; and that
sweet little baby! I should so like to see him christened; is he to
be called Leonard, did you say? After Mr Denbigh, is it?"

"No—not exactly," said Miss Benson, rather discomfited.

"Was not Mr Denbigh's name Leonard, then? Mamma thought it would be
sure to be called after him, and so did I. But I may come to the
christening, may I not, dear Miss Benson?"

Miss Benson gave her consent with a little inward reluctance.
Both her brother and Ruth shared in this feeling, although no one
expressed it; and it was presently forgotten.

Jemima stood grave and quiet in the old-fashioned vestry adjoining
the chapel, as they entered with steps subdued to slowness. She
thought Ruth looked so pale and awed because she was left a solitary
parent; but Ruth came to the presence of God, as one who had gone
astray, and doubted her own worthiness to be called His child; she
came as a mother who had incurred a heavy responsibility, and who
entreated His almighty aid to enable her to discharge it; full of
passionate, yearning love which craved for more faith in God, to
still her distrust and fear of the future that might hang over her
darling. When she thought of her boy, she sickened and trembled;
but when she heard of God's loving-kindness, far beyond all tender
mother's love, she was hushed into peace and prayer. There she stood,
her fair pale cheek resting on her baby's head, as he slumbered on
her bosom; her eyes went slanting down under their half-closed white
lids; but their gaze was not on the primitive cottage-like room, it
was earnestly fixed on a dim mist, through which she fain would have
seen the life that lay before her child; but the mist was still and
dense, too thick a veil for anxious human love to penetrate. The
future was hid with God.

Mr Benson stood right under the casement window that was placed high
up in the room; he was almost in shade, except for one or two marked
lights which fell on hair already silvery white; his voice was always
low and musical when he spoke to few; it was too weak to speak so as
to be heard by many without becoming harsh and strange; but now it
filled the little room with a loving sound, like the stock-dove's
brooding murmur over her young. He and Ruth forgot all in their
earnestness of thought; and when he said "Let us pray," and the
little congregation knelt down, you might have heard the baby's faint
breathing, scarcely sighing out upon the stillness, so absorbed were
all in the solemnity. But the prayer was long; thought followed
thought, and fear crowded upon fear, and all were to be laid bare
before God, and His aid and counsel asked. Before the end Sally had
shuffled quietly out of the vestry into the green chapel-yard, upon
which the door opened. Miss Benson was alive to this movement, and so
full of curiosity as to what it might mean that she could no longer
attend to her brother, and felt inclined to rush off and question
Sally the moment all was ended. Miss Bradshaw hung about the babe
and Ruth, and begged to be allowed to carry the child home, but Ruth
pressed him to her, as if there was no safe harbour for him but in
his mother's breast. Mr Benson saw her feeling, and caught Miss
Bradshaw's look of disappointment.

"Come home with us," said he, "and stay to tea. You have never drank
tea with us since you went to school."

"I wish I might," said Miss Bradshaw, colouring with pleasure. "But I
must ask papa. May I run home and ask?"

"To be sure, my dear!"

Jemima flew off; and fortunately her father was at home; for her
mother's permission would have been deemed insufficient. She received
many directions about her behaviour.

"Take no sugar in your tea, Jemima. I am sure the Bensons ought not
to be able to afford sugar, with their means. And do not eat much;
you can have plenty at home on your return; remember Mrs Denbigh's
keep must cost them a great deal."

So Jemima returned considerably sobered, and very much afraid of her
hunger leading her to forget Mr Benson's poverty. Meanwhile Miss
Benson and Sally, acquainted with Mr Benson's invitation to Jemima,
set about making some capital tea-cakes on which they piqued
themselves. They both enjoyed the offices of hospitality; and were
glad to place some home-made tempting dainty before their guests.

"What made ye leave the chapel-vestry before my brother had ended?"
inquired Miss Benson.

"Indeed, ma'am, I thought master had prayed so long he'd be drouthy.
So I just slipped out to put on the kettle for tea."

Miss Benson was on the point of reprimanding her for thinking of
anything besides the object of the prayer, when she remembered how
she herself had been unable to attend after Sally's departure for
wondering what had become of her; so she was silent.

It was a disappointment to Miss Benson's kind and hospitable
expectation when Jemima, as hungry as a hound, confined herself
to one piece of the cake which her hostess had had such pleasure
in making. And Jemima wished she had not a prophetic feeling all
tea-time of the manner in which her father would inquire into the
particulars of the meal, elevating his eyebrows at every viand named
beyond plain bread-and-butter, and winding up with some such sentence
as this: "Well, I marvel how, with Benson's salary, he can afford to
keep such a table." Sally could have told of self-denial when no one
was by, when the left hand did not know what the right hand did, on
the part of both her master and mistress, practised without thinking
even to themselves that it was either a sacrifice or a virtue, in
order to enable them to help those who were in need, or even to
gratify Miss Benson's kind, old-fashioned feelings on such occasions
as the present, when a stranger came to the house. Her homely,
affectionate pleasure in making others comfortable, might have shown
that such little occasional extravagances were not waste, but a good
work; and were not to be gauged by the standard of money-spending.
This evening her spirits were damped by Jemima's refusal to eat. Poor
Jemima! the cakes were so good, and she was so hungry; but still she
refused.

While Sally was clearing away the tea-things, Miss Benson and Jemima
accompanied Ruth upstairs, when she went to put little Leonard to
bed.

"A christening is a very solemn service," said Miss Bradshaw; "I had
no idea it was so solemn. Mr Benson seemed to speak as if he had a
weight of care on his heart that God alone could relieve or lighten."

"My brother feels these things very much," said Miss Benson, rather
wishing to cut short the conversation, for she had been aware of
several parts in the prayer which she knew were suggested by the
peculiarity and sadness of the case before him.

"I could not quite follow him all through," continued Jemima; "what
did he mean by saying, 'This child, rebuked by the world and bidden
to stand apart, Thou wilt not rebuke, but wilt suffer it to come to
Thee and be blessed with Thine almighty blessing'? Why is this little
darling to be rebuked? I do not think I remember the exact words, but
he said something like that."

"My dear! your gown is dripping wet! it must have dipped into the
tub; let me wring it out."

"Oh, thank you! Never mind my gown!" said Jemima, hastily, and
wanting to return to her question; but just then she caught the sight
of tears falling fast down the cheeks of the silent Ruth as she bent
over her child, crowing and splashing away in his tub. With a sudden
consciousness that unwittingly she had touched on some painful chord,
Jemima rushed into another subject, and was eagerly seconded by Miss
Benson. The circumstance seemed to die away, and leave no trace;
but in after-years it rose, vivid and significant, before Jemima's
memory. At present it was enough for her, if Mrs Denbigh would let
her serve her in every possible way. Her admiration for beauty was
keen, and little indulged at home; and Ruth was very beautiful in her
quiet mournfulness; her mean and homely dress left herself only the
more open to admiration, for she gave it a charm by her unconscious
wearing of it that made it seem like the drapery of an old Greek
statue—subordinate to the figure it covered, yet imbued by it with
an unspeakable grace. Then the pretended circumstances of her life
were such as to catch the imagination of a young romantic girl.
Altogether, Jemima could have kissed her hand and professed herself
Ruth's slave. She moved away all the articles used at this little
coucher
; she folded up Leonard's day-clothes; she felt only too
much honoured when Ruth trusted him to her for a few minutes—only
too amply rewarded when Ruth thanked her with a grave, sweet smile,
and a grateful look of her loving eyes.

When Jemima had gone away with the servant who was sent to fetch her,
there was a little chorus of praise.

"She's a warm-hearted girl," said Miss Benson. "She remembers all the
old days before she went to school. She is worth two of Mr Richard.
They're each of them just the same as they were when they were
children, when they broke that window in the chapel, and he ran
away home, and she came knocking at our door, with a single knock,
just like a beggar's, and I went to see who it was, and was quite
startled to see her round, brown, honest face looking up at me,
half-frightened, and telling me what she had done, and offering me
the money in her savings bank to pay for it. We never should have
heard of Master Richard's share in the business if it had not been
for Sally."

"But remember," said Mr Benson, "how strict Mr Bradshaw has always
been with his children. It is no wonder if poor Richard was a coward
in those days."

"He is now, or I'm much mistaken," answered Miss Benson. "And Mr
Bradshaw was just as strict with Jemima, and she's no coward. But
I've no faith in Richard. He has a look about him that I don't like.
And when Mr Bradshaw was away on business in Holland last year, for
those months my young gentleman did not come half as regularly to
chapel, and I always believe that story of his being seen out with
the hounds at Smithiles."

"Those are neither of them great offences in a young man of twenty,"
said Mr Benson, smiling.

"No! I don't mind them in themselves; but when he could change back
so easily to being regular and mim when his father came home, I don't
like that."

"Leonard shall never be afraid of me," said Ruth, following her own
train of thought. "I will be his friend from the very first; and I
will try and learn how to be a wise friend, and you will teach me,
won't you, sir?"