Ruth by Elizabeth Gaskell (i read book .txt) 📕

desire you and your advice. I am well myself, so do not be alarmed. I have no time for explanation, but I am sure you will not refuse me; let me trust that I shall see you on Saturday at the latest. You know the mode by which I came; it is the best both for expedition and cheapness. Dear Faith, do not fail me.—

“Your affectionate brother. THURSTAN BENSON.

“P.S.—I am afraid the money I left may be running short. Do not let this stop you. Take my Facciolati to Johnson’s, he will advance upon it; it is the third row, bottom shelf. Only come.”

When this letter was despatched he had done all he could; and the next two days passed like a long monotonous dream of watching, thought, and care, undisturbed by any event, hardly by the change from day to night, which, now the harvest moon was at her full, was scarcely perceptible. On Saturday morning the answer came—

“DEAREST THURSTAN,—Your incomprehensible summons has just reached me, and I obey, thereby proving my right to my name of Faith. I shall be with you almost as soon as this letter. I cannot help feeling anxious, as well as curious. I have money enough, and it is well I have; for Sally, who guards your room like a dragon, would rather see me walk the whole way, than have any of your things disturbed.—Your affectionate sister,”

It was a great relief to Mr. Benson to think that his sister would so soon be with him. He had been accustomed from childhood to rely on her prompt judgment and excellent sense; and to her care he felt that Ruth ought to be consigned, as it was too much to go on taxing good Mrs. Hughes with night watching and sick nursing, with all her other claims on her time. He asked her once more to sit by Ruth, while he went to meet his sister.

The coach passed by the foot of the steep ascent which led up to Llan-dhu. He took a boy to carry his sister’s luggage when they arrived; they were too soon at the bottom of the hill; and the boy began to make ducks and drakes in the shallowest part of the stream, which there flowed glassy and smooth, while Mr. Benson sat down on a great stone, under the shadow of an alderbush which grew where the green flat meadow skirted the water. It was delightful to be once more in the open air, and away from the scenes and thoughts which had been pressing on him for the last three days. There was a new beauty in everything from the blue mountains which glimmered in the distant sunlight, down to the flat, rich, peaceful vale, with its calm round shadows, where he sat. The very margin of white pebbles which lay on the banks of the stream had a sort of cleanly beauty about it. He felt calmer and more at ease than he had done for some days; and yet, when he began to think, it was rather a strange story which he had to tell his sister, in order to account for his urgent summons. Here was he, sole friend and guardian of a poor sick girl, whose very name he did not know; about whom all that he did know was, that she had been the mistress of a man who had deserted her, and that he feared—he believed—she had contemplated suicide. The offence, too, was one for which his sister, good and kind as she was, had little compassion. Well, he must appeal to her love for him, which was a very unsatisfactory mode of proceeding, as he would far rather have had her interest in the girl founded on reason, or some less personal basis, than showing it merely because her brother wished it.

The coach came slowly rumbling over the stony road. His sister was outside, but got down in a brisk active way, and greeted her brother heartily and affectionately. She was considerably taller than he was, and must have been very handsome; her black hair was parted plainly over her forehead, and her dark expressive eyes and straight nose still retained the beauty of her youth. I do not know whether she was older than her brother; but, probably owing to his infirmity requiring her care, she had something of a mother’s manner towards him.

“Thurstan, you are looking pale! I do not believe you are well, whatever you may say. Have you had the old pain in your back?”

“No—a little—never mind that, dearest Faith. Sit down here, while I send the boy up with your box.” And then, with some little desire to show his sister how well he was acquainted with the language, he blundered out his directions in very grammatical Welsh; so grammatical, in fact, and so badly pronounced, that the boy, scratching his head, made answer—

“Dim Saesoneg.”

So he had to repeat it in English.

“Well, now, Thurstan, here I sit as you bid me. But don’t try me too long; tell me why you sent for me.”

Now came the difficulty, and oh! for a seraph’s tongue, and a seraph’s powers of representation! But there was no seraph at hand, only the soft running waters singing a quiet tune, and predisposing Miss Benson to listen with a soothed spirit to any tale, not immediately involving her brother’s welfare, which had been the cause of her seeing that lovely vale.

“It is an awkward story to tell, Faith, but there is a young woman lying ill at my lodgings whom I wanted you to nurse.”

He thought he saw a shadow on his sister’s face, and detected a slight change in her voice as she spoke.

“Nothing very romantic, I hope, Thurstan. Remember, I cannot stand much romance; I always distrust it.”

“I don’t know what you mean by romance. The story is real enough, and not out of the common way, I’m afraid.”

He paused; he did not get over the difficulty.

“Well, tell it me at once, Thurstan. I am afraid you have let some one, or perhaps only your own imagination, impose upon you; but don’t try my patience too much; you know I’ve no great stock.”

“Then I’ll tell you. The young girl was brought to the inn here by a gentleman, who has left her; she is very ill, and has no one to see after her.”

Miss Benson had some masculine tricks, and one was whistling a long, low whistle when surprised or displeased. She had often found it a useful vent for feelings, and she whistled now. Her brother would rather she had spoken.

“Have you sent for her friends?” she asked, at last.

“She has none.”

Another pause and another whistle, but rather softer and more wavering than the last.

“How is she ill?”

“Pretty nearly as quiet as if she were dead. She does not speak, or move, or even sigh.”

“It would be better for her to die at once, I think.”

“Faith!”

That one word put them right. It was spoken in the tone which had authority over her; it was so full of grieved surprise and mournful upbraiding. She was accustomed to exercise a sway over him, owing to her greater decision of character, and, probably, if everything were traced to its cause, to her superior vigour of constitution; but at times she was humbled before his pure, childlike nature, and felt where she was inferior. She was too good and true to conceal this feeling, or to resent its being forced upon her. After a time she said—

“Thurstan dear, let us go to her.”

She helped him with tender care, and gave him her arm up the long and tedious hill; but when they approached the village, without speaking a word on the subject, they changed their position, and she leant (apparently) on him. He stretched himself up into as vigorous a gait as he could, when they drew near to the abodes of men.

On the way they had spoken but little. He had asked after various members of his congregation, for he was a Dissenting minister in a country town, and she had answered; but they neither of them spoke of Ruth, though their minds were full of her.

Mrs. Hughes had tea ready for the traveller on her arrival. Mr. Benson chafed a little internally at the leisurely way in which his sister sipped and sipped, and paused to tell him some trifling particular respecting home affairs, which she had forgotten before.

“Mr. Bradshaw has refused to let the children associate with the Dixons any longer, because one evening they played at acting charades.”

“Indeed! A little more bread and butter, Faith?”

“Thank you; this Welsh air does make one hungry. Mrs. Bradshaw is paying poor old Maggie’s rent, to save her from being sent into the workhouse.

“That’s right. Won’t you have another cup of tea?”

“I have had two. However, I think I’ll take another.”

Mr. Benson could not refrain from a little sigh as he poured it out. He thought he had never seen his sister so deliberately hungry and thirsty before. He did not guess that she was feeling the meal rather a respite from a distasteful interview, which she was aware was awaiting her at its conclusion. But all things come to an end, and so did Miss Benson’s tea.

“Now, will you go and see her?”

“Yes.”

And so they went. Mrs. Hughes had pinned up a piece of green calico, by way of a Venetian blind, to shut out the afternoon sun; and in the light thus shaded lay Ruth—still, and wan, and white. Even with her brother’s account of Ruth’s state, such death-like quietness startled Miss Benson—startled her into pity for the poor lovely creature who lay thus stricken and felled. When she saw her, she could no longer imagine her to be an impostor, or a hardened sinner; such prostration of woe belonged to neither. Mr. Benson looked more at his sister’s face than at Ruth’s; he read her countenance as a book.

Mrs. Hughes stood by, crying.

Mr. Benson touched his sister, and they left the room together.

“Do you think she will live?” asked he.

“I cannot tell,” said Miss Benson, in a softened voice. “But how young she looks! quite a child, poor creature! When will the doctor come, Thurstan? Tell me all about her; you have never told me the particulars.”

Mr. Benson might have said she had never cared to hear them before, and had rather avoided the subject; but he was too happy to see this awakening of interest in his sister’s warm heart to say anything in the least reproachful. He told her the story as well as he could, and, as he felt it deeply, he told it with heart’s eloquence; and as he ended, and looked at her, there were tears in the eyes of both.

“And what does the doctor say?” asked she, after a pause.

“He insists upon quiet; he orders medicines and strong broth. I cannot tell you all; Mrs. Hughes can. She has been so truly good. ‘Doing good, hoping for nothing again.’”

“She looks very sweet and gentle. I shall sit up to night, and watch her myself; and I shall send you and Mrs. Hughes early to bed, for you have both a worn look about you I don’t like. Are you sure the effect of that fall has gone off? Do you feel anything of it in your back still? After all, I owe her something for turning back to your help. Are you sure she was going to drown herself?”

“I cannot be sure, for I have not questioned her. She has not been in a state to be questioned; but I have no doubt whatever about it. But you must not think of