Delphi Complete Works of Elizabeth Gaskell

by Elizabeth Gaskell

  “He’s old Nelly Brownson’s,” said they. “Her grandson.”

  “We must take him into a house directly,” said she. “Is his home far off?”

  “No, no; it’s just close by.”

  “One of you go for a doctor at once,” said Mr Bellingham, authoritatively, “and bring him to the old woman’s without delay. You must not hold him any longer,” he continued, speaking to Ruth, and remembering her face now for the first time; “your dress is dripping wet already. Here! you fellow, take him up, d’ye see!”

  But the child’s hand had nervously clenched Ruth’s dress, and she would not have him disturbed. She carried her heavy burden very tenderly towards a mean little cottage indicated by the neighbours; an old crippled woman was coming out of the door, shaking all over with agitation.

  “Dear heart!” said she, “he’s the last of ‘em all, and he’s gone afore me.”

  “Nonsense,” said Mr Bellingham, “the boy is alive, and likely to live.”

  But the old woman was helpless and hopeless, and insisted on believing that her grandson was dead; and dead he would have been if it had not been for Ruth, and one or two of the more sensible neighbours, who, under Mr Bellingham’s directions, bustled about, and did all that was necessary until animation was restored.

  “What a confounded time these people are in fetching the doctor,” said Mr Bellingham to Ruth, between whom and himself a sort of silent understanding had sprung up from the circumstance of their having been the only two (besides mere children) who had witnessed the accident, and also the only two to whom a certain degree of cultivation had given the power of understanding each other’s thoughts and even each other’s words.

  “It takes so much to knock an idea into such stupid people’s heads. They stood gaping and asking which doctor they were to go for, as if it signified whether it was Brown or Smith, so long as he had his wits about him. I have no more time to waste here, either; I was on the gallop when I caught sight of the lad; and, now he has fairly sobbed and opened his eyes, I see no use in my staying in this stifling atmosphere. May I trouble you with one thing? Will you be so good as to see that the little fellow has all that he wants? If you’ll allow me, I’ll leave you my purse,” continued he, giving it to Ruth, who was only too glad to have this power entrusted to her of procuring one or two requisites which she had perceived to be wanted. But she saw some gold between the net-work; she did not like the charge of such riches.

  “I shall not want so much, really, sir. One sovereign will be plenty — more than enough. May I take that out, and I will give you back what is left of it when I see you again? or, perhaps I had better send it to you, sir?”

  “I think you had better keep it all at present. Oh! what a horrid dirty place this is; insufferable two minutes longer. You must not stay here; you’ll be poisoned with this abominable air. Come towards the door, I beg. Well, if you think one sovereign will be enough, I will take my purse; only, remember you apply to me if you think they want more.”

  They were standing at the door, where some one was holding Mr Bellingham’s horse. Ruth was looking at him with her earnest eyes (Mrs Mason and her errands quite forgotten in the interest of the afternoon’s event), her whole thoughts bent upon rightly understanding and following out his wishes for the little boy’s welfare; and until now this had been the first object in his own mind. But at this moment the strong perception of Ruth’s exceeding beauty came again upon him. He almost lost the sense of what he was saying, he was so startled into admiration. The night before, he had not seen her eyes; and now they looked straight and innocently full at him, grave, earnest, and deep. But when she instinctively read the change in the expression of his countenance, she dropped her large white veiling lids; and he thought her face was lovelier still.

  The irresistible impulse seized him to arrange matters so that he might see her again before long.

  “No!” said he. “I see it would be better that you should keep the purse. Many things may be wanted for the lad which we cannot calculate upon now. If I remember rightly, there are three sovereigns and some loose change; I shall, perhaps, see you again in a few days, when, if there be any money left in the purse, you can restore it to me.”

  “Oh, yes, sir,” said Ruth, alive to the magnitude of the wants to which she might have to administer, and yet rather afraid of the responsibility implied in the possession of so much money.

  “Is there any chance of my meeting you again in this house?” asked he.

  “I hope to come whenever I can, sir; but I must run in errand-times, and I don’t know when my turn may be.”

  “Oh” — he did not fully understand this answer — ”I should like to know how you think the boy is going on, if it is not giving you too much trouble; do you ever take walks?”

  “Not for walking’s sake, sir.”

  “Well!” said he, “you go to church, I suppose? Mrs Mason does not keep you at work on Sundays, I trust?”

  “Oh, no, sir. I go to church regularly.”

  “Then, perhaps, you will be so good as to tell me what church you go to, and I will meet you there next Sunday afternoon?”

  “I go to St Nicholas’, sir. I will take care and bring you word how the boy is, and what doctor they get; and I will keep an account of the money I spend.”

  “Very well; thank you. Remember, I trust to you.”

  He meant that he relied on her promise to meet him; but Ruth thought that he was referring to the responsibility of doing the best she could for the child. He was going away, when a fresh thought struck him, and he turned back into the cottage once more, and addressed Ruth, with a half smile on his countenance:

  “It seems rather strange, but we have no one to introduce us; my name is Bellingham — yours is — ?”

  “Ruth Hilton, sir,” she answered, in a low voice, for, now that the conversation no longer related to the boy, she felt shy and restrained.

  He held out his hand to shake hers, and just as she gave it to him, the old grandmother came tottering up to ask some question. The interruption jarred upon him, and made him once more keenly alive to the closeness of the air, and the squalor and dirt by which he was surrounded.

  “My good woman,” said he to Nelly Brownson, “could you not keep your place a little neater and cleaner? It is more fit for pigs than human beings. The air in this room is quite offensive, and the dirt and filth is really disgraceful.”

  By this time he was mounted, and, bowing to Ruth, he rode away.

  Then the old woman’s wrath broke out.

  “Who may you be, that knows no better manners than to come into a poor woman’s house to abuse it? — fit for pigs, indeed! What d’ye call yon fellow?”

  “He is Mr Bellingham,” said Ruth, shocked at the old woman’s apparent ingratitude. “It was he that rode into the water to save your grandson. He would have been drowned but for Mr Bellingham. I thought once they would both have been swept away by the current, it was so strong.”

  “The river is none so deep, either,” the old woman said, anxious to diminish as much as possible the obligation she was under to one who had offended her. “Some one else would have saved him, if this fine young spark had never been near. He’s an orphan, and God watches over orphans, they say. I’d rather it had been any one else as had picked him out, than one who comes into a poor body’s house only to abuse it.”

  “He did not come in only to abuse it,” said Ruth, gently. “He came with little Tom; he only said it was not quite so clean as it might be.”

  “What! you’re taking up the cry, are you? Wait till you are an old woman like me, crippled with rheumatiz, and a lad to see after like Tom, who is always in mud when he isn’t in water; and his food and mine to scrape together (God knows we’re often short, and do the best I can), and water to fetch up that steep brow.”

  She stopped to cough; and Ruth judiciously changed the subject, and began to consult the old woman as to the wants of her grandson, in which consultation t
hey were soon assisted by the medical man.

  When Ruth had made one or two arrangements with a neighbour, whom she asked to procure the most necessary things, and had heard from the doctor that all would be right in a day or two, she began to quake at the recollection of the length of time she had spent at Nelly Brownson’s, and to remember, with some affright, the strict watch kept by Mrs Mason over her apprentices’ out-goings and in-comings on working days. She hurried off to the shops, and tried to recall her wandering thoughts to the respective merits of pink and blue as a match to lilac, found she had lost her patterns, and went home with ill-chosen things, and in a fit of despair at her own stupidity.

  The truth was, that the afternoon’s adventure filled her mind; only, the figure of Tom (who was now safe, and likely to do well) was receding into the background, and that of Mr Bellingham becoming more prominent than it had been. His spirited and natural action of galloping into the water to save the child, was magnified by Ruth into the most heroic deed of daring; his interest about the boy was tender, thoughtful benevolence in her eyes, and his careless liberality of money was fine generosity; for she forgot that generosity implies some degree of self-denial. She was gratified, too, by the power of dispensing comfort he had entrusted to her, and was busy with Alnaschar visions of wise expenditure, when the necessity of opening Mrs Mason’s house-door summoned her back into actual present life, and the dread of an immediate scolding.

  For this time, however, she was spared; but spared for such a reason that she would have been thankful for some blame in preference to her impunity. During her absence, Jenny’s difficulty of breathing had suddenly become worse, and the girls had, on their own responsibility, put her to bed, and were standing round her in dismay, when Mrs Mason’s return home (only a few minutes before Ruth arrived) fluttered them back into the workroom.

  And now, all was confusion and hurry; a doctor to be sent for; a mind to be unburdened of directions for a dress to a forewoman, who was too ill to understand; scoldings to be scattered with no illiberal hand amongst a group of frightened girls, hardly sparing the poor invalid herself for her inopportune illness. In the middle of all this turmoil, Ruth crept quietly to her place, with a heavy saddened heart at the indisposition of the gentle forewoman. She would gladly have nursed Jenny herself, and often longed to do it, but she could not be spared. Hands, unskilful in fine and delicate work, would be well enough qualified to tend the sick, until the mother arrived from home. Meanwhile, extra diligence was required in the workroom; and Ruth found no opportunity of going to see little Tom, or to fulfil the plans for making him and his grandmother more comfortable, which she had proposed to herself. She regretted her rash promise to Mr Bellingham, of attending to the little boy’s welfare; all that she could do was done by means of Mrs Mason’s servant, through whom she made inquiries, and sent the necessary help.

  The subject of Jenny’s illness was the prominent one in the house. Ruth told of her own adventure, to be sure; but when she was at the very crisis of the boy’s fall into the river, the more fresh and vivid interest of some tidings of Jenny was brought into the room, and Ruth ceased, almost blaming herself for caring for anything besides the question of life or death to be decided in that very house.

  Then a pale, gentle-looking woman was seen moving softly about; and it was whispered that this was the mother come to nurse her child. Everybody liked her, she was so sweet-looking, and gave so little trouble, and seemed so patient, and so thankful for any inquiries about her daughter, whose illness, it was understood, although its severity was mitigated, was likely to be long and tedious. While all the feelings and thoughts relating to Jenny were predominant, Sunday arrived. Mrs Mason went the accustomed visit to her father’s, making some little show of apology to Mrs Wood for leaving her and her daughter; the apprentices dispersed to the various friends with whom they were in the habit of spending the day; and Ruth went to St Nicholas’, with a sorrowful heart, depressed on account of Jenny, and self-reproachful at having rashly undertaken what she had been unable to perform.

  As she came out of church, she was joined by Mr Bellingham. She had half hoped that he might have forgotten the arrangement, and yet she wished to relieve herself of her responsibility. She knew his step behind her, and the contending feelings made her heart beat hard, and she longed to run away.

  “Miss Hilton, I believe,” said he, overtaking her, and bowing forward, so as to catch a sight of her rose-red face. “How is our little sailor going on? Well, I trust, from the symptoms the other day.”

  “I believe, sir, he is quite well now. I am very sorry, but I have not been able to go and see him. I am so sorry — I could not help it. But I have got one or two things through another person. I have put them down on this slip of paper; and here is your purse, sir, for I am afraid I can do nothing more for him. We have illness in the house, and it makes us very busy.”

  Ruth had been so much accustomed to blame of late, that she almost anticipated some remonstrance or reproach now, for not having fulfilled her promise better. She little guessed that Mr Bellingham was far more busy trying to devise some excuse for meeting her again, during the silence that succeeded her speech, than displeased with her for not bringing a more particular account of the little boy, in whom he had ceased to feel any interest.

  She repeated, after a minute’s pause:

  “I am very sorry I have done so little, sir.”

  “Oh, yes, I am sure you have done all you could. It was thoughtless in me to add to your engagements.”

  “He is displeased with me,” thought Ruth, “for what he believes to have been neglect of the boy, whose life he risked his own to save. If I told all, he would see that I could not do more; but I cannot tell him all the sorrows and worries that have taken up my time.”

  “And yet I am tempted to give you another little commission, if it is not taking up too much of your time, and presuming too much on your good-nature,” said he, a bright idea having just struck him. “Mrs Mason lives in Heneage Place, does not she? My mother’s ancestors lived there; and once, when the house was being repaired, she took me in to show me the old place. There was an old hunting-piece painted on a panel over one of the chimney-pieces; the figures were portraits of my ancestors. I have often thought I should like to purchase it, if it still remained there. Can you ascertain this for me, and bring me word next Sunday?”

  “Oh, yes, sir,” said Ruth, glad that this commission was completely within her power to execute, and anxious to make up for her previous seeming neglect. “I’ll look directly I get home, and ask Mrs Mason to write and let you know.”

  “Thank you,” said he, only half satisfied; “I think perhaps, however, it might be as well not to trouble Mrs Mason about it; you see, it would compromise me, and I am not quite determined to purchase the picture; if you would ascertain whether the painting is there, and tell me, I would take a little time to reflect, and afterwards I could apply to Mrs Mason myself.”

  “Very well, sir; I will see about it.” So they parted.

  Before the next Sunday, Mrs Wood had taken her daughter to her distant home, to recruit in that quiet place. Ruth watched her down the street from an upper window, and, sighing deep and long, returned to the workroom, whence the warning voice and the gentle wisdom had departed.

  CHAPTER III

  Sunday at Mrs Mason’s

  Mr Bellingham attended afternoon service at St Nicholas’ church the next Sunday. His thoughts had been far more occupied by Ruth than hers by him, although his appearance upon the scene of her life was more an event to her than it was to him. He was puzzled by the impression she had produced on him, though he did not in general analyse the nature of his feelings, but simply enjoyed them with the delight which youth takes in experiencing new and strong emotion.

  He was old compared to Ruth, but young as a man; hardly three-and-twenty. The fact of his being an only child had given him, as it does to many, a sort of inequality in those parts of the character which ar
e usually formed by the number of years that a person has lived.

  The unevenness of discipline to which only children are subjected; the thwarting, resulting from over-anxiety; the indiscreet indulgence, arising from a love centred all in one object; had been exaggerated in his education, probably from the circumstance that his mother (his only surviving parent) had been similarly situated to himself.

  He was already in possession of the comparatively small property he inherited from his father. The estate on which his mother lived was her own; and her income gave her the means of indulging or controlling him, after he had grown to man’s estate, as her wayward disposition and her love of power prompted her.

  Had he been double-dealing in his conduct towards her, had he condescended to humour her in the least, her passionate love for him would have induced her to strip herself of all her possessions to add to his dignity or happiness. But although he felt the warmest affection for her, the regardlessness which she had taught him (by example, perhaps, more than by precept) of the feelings of others, was continually prompting him to do things that she, for the time being, resented as mortal affronts. He would mimic the clergyman she specially esteemed, even to his very face; he would refuse to visit her schools for months and months; and, when wearied into going at last, revenge himself by puzzling the children with the most ridiculous questions (gravely put) that he could imagine.

  All these boyish tricks annoyed and irritated her far more than the accounts which reached her of more serious misdoings at college and in town. Of these grave offences she never spoke; of the smaller misdeeds she hardly ever ceased speaking.

  Still, at times, she had great influence over him, and nothing delighted her more than to exercise it. The submission of his will to hers was sure to be liberally rewarded; for it gave her great happiness to extort, from his indifference or his affection, the concessions which she never sought by force of reason, or by appeals to principle — concessions which he frequently withheld, solely for the sake of asserting his independence of her control.