Ruth (38 page)

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.