Delphi Complete Works of Elizabeth Gaskell

by Elizabeth Gaskell

  Before the medical men of Eccleston had had time to meet together and consult, and compare the knowledge of the fever which they had severally gained, it had, like the blaze of a fire which had long smouldered, burst forth in many places at once — not merely among the loose-living and vicious, but among the decently poor — nay, even among the well-to-do and respectable. And to add to the horror, like all similar pestilences, its course was most rapid at first, and was fatal in the great majority of cases — hopeless from the beginning. There was a cry, and then a deep silence, and then rose the long wail of the survivors.

  A portion of the Infirmary of the town was added to that already set apart for a fever-ward; the smitten were carried thither at once, whenever it was possible, in order to prevent the spread of infection; and on that lazar-house was concentrated all the medical skill and force of the place.

  But when one of the physicians had died, in consequence of his attendance — when the customary staff of matrons and nurses had been swept off in two days — and the nurses belonging to the Infirmary had shrunk from being drafted into the pestilential fever-ward — when high wages had failed to tempt any to what, in their panic, they considered as certain death — when the doctors stood aghast at the swift mortality among the untended sufferers, who were dependent only on the care of the most ignorant hirelings, too brutal to recognise the solemnity of Death (all this had happened within a week from the first acknowledgment of the presence of the plague) — Ruth came one day, with a quieter step than usual, into Mr Benson’s study, and told him she wanted to speak to him for a few minutes.

  “To be sure, my dear! Sit down,” said he; for she was standing and leaning her head against the chimney-piece, idly gazing into the fire. She went on standing there, as if she had not heard his words; and it was a few moments before she began to speak. Then she said:

  “I want to tell you, that I have been this morning and offered myself as matron to the fever-ward while it is so full. They have accepted me; and I am going this evening.”

  “Oh, Ruth! I feared this; I saw your look this morning as we spoke of this terrible illness.”

  “Why do you say ‘fear,’ Mr Benson? You yourself have been with John Harrison, and old Betty, and many others, I dare say, of whom we have not heard.”

  “But this is so different! in such poisoned air! among such malignant cases! Have you thought and weighed it enough, Ruth?”

  She was quite still for a moment, but her eyes grew full of tears. At last she said, very softly, with a kind of still solemnity:

  “Yes! I have thought, and I have weighed. But through the very midst of all my fears and thoughts I have felt that I must go.”

  The remembrance of Leonard was present in both their minds; but for a few moments longer they neither of them spoke. Then Ruth said:

  “I believe I have no fear. That is a great preservative, they say. At any rate, if I have a little natural shrinking, it is quite gone when I remember that I am in God’s hands! Oh, Mr Benson,” continued she, breaking out into the irrepressible tears — ”Leonard, Leonard!”

  And now it was his turn to speak out the brave words of faith.

  “Poor, poor mother!” said he. “Be of good heart. He, too, is in God’s hands. Think what a flash of time only will separate you from him, if you should die in this work!”

  “But he — but he — it will be long to him, Mr Benson! He will be alone!”

  “No, Ruth, he will not. God and all good men will watch over him. But if you cannot still this agony of fear as to what will become of him, you ought not to go. Such tremulous passion will predispose you to take the fever.”

  “I will not be afraid,” she replied, lifting up her face, over which a bright light shone, as of God’s radiance. “I am not afraid for myself. I will not be so for my darling.”

  After a little pause, they began to arrange the manner of her going, and to speak of the length of time that she might be absent on her temporary duties. In talking of her return, they assumed it to be certain, although the exact time when was to them unknown, and would be dependent entirely on the duration of the fever; but not the less, in their secret hearts, did they feel where alone the issue lay. Ruth was to communicate with Leonard and Miss Faith through Mr Benson alone, who insisted on his determination to go every evening to the Hospital to learn the proceedings of the day, and the state of Ruth’s health.

  “It is not alone on your account, my dear! There may be many sick people of whom, if I can give no other comfort, I can take intelligence to their friends.”

  All was settled with grave composure; yet still Ruth lingered, as if nerving herself up for some effort. At length she said, with a faint smile upon her pale face:

  “I believe I am a great coward. I stand here talking because I dread to tell Leonard.”

  “You must not think of it,” exclaimed he. “Leave it to me. It is sure to unnerve you.”

  “I must think of it. I shall have self-control enough in a minute to do it calmly — to speak hopefully. For only think,” continued she, smiling through the tears that would gather in her eyes, “what a comfort the remembrance of the last few words may be to the poor fellow, if — ” The words were choked, but she smiled bravely on. “No!” said she, “that must be done; but perhaps you will spare me one thing — will you tell Aunt Faith? I suppose I am very weak, but, knowing that I must go, and not knowing what may be the end, I feel as if I could not bear to resist her entreaties just at last. Will you tell her, sir, while I go to Leonard?”

  Silently he consented, and the two rose up and came forth, calm and serene. And calmly and gently did Ruth tell her boy of her purpose; not daring even to use any unaccustomed tenderness of voice or gesture, lest, by so doing, she should alarm him unnecessarily as to the result. She spoke hopefully, and bade him be of good courage; and he caught her bravery, though his, poor boy, had root rather in his ignorance of the actual imminent danger than in her deep faith.

  When he had gone down, Ruth began to arrange her dress. When she came downstairs she went into the old familiar garden and gathered a nosegay of the last lingering autumn flowers — a few roses and the like.

  Mr Benson had tutored his sister well; and although Miss Faith’s face was swollen with crying, she spoke with almost exaggerated cheerfulness to Ruth. Indeed, as they all stood at the front door, making-believe to have careless nothings to say, just as at an ordinary leave-taking, you would not have guessed the strained chords of feeling there were in each heart. They lingered on, the last rays of the setting sun falling on the group. Ruth once or twice had roused herself to the pitch of saying “Good-bye,” but when her eye fell on Leonard she was forced to hide the quivering of her lips, and conceal her trembling mouth amid the bunch of roses.

  “They won’t let you have your flowers, I’m afraid,” said Miss Benson. “Doctors so often object to the smell.”

  “No; perhaps not,” said Ruth, hurriedly. “I did not think of it. I will only keep this one rose. Here, Leonard, darling!” She gave the rest to him. It was her farewell; for having now no veil to hide her emotion, she summoned all her bravery for one parting smile, and, smiling, turned away. But she gave one look back from the street, just from the last point at which the door could be seen, and catching a glimpse of Leonard standing foremost on the step, she ran back, and he met her half-way, and mother and child spoke never a word in that close embrace.

  “Now, Leonard,” said Miss Faith, “be a brave boy. I feel sure she will come back to us before very long.”

  But she was very near crying herself; and she would have given way, I believe, if she had not found the wholesome outlet of scolding Sally, for expressing just the same opinion respecting Ruth’s proceedings as she herself had done not two hours before. Taking what her brother had said to her as a text, she delivered such a lecture to Sally on want of faith that she was astonished at herself, and so much affected by what she had said that she had to shut the door of communication between the kitch
en and the parlour pretty hastily, in order to prevent Sally’s threatened reply from weakening her belief in the righteousness of what Ruth had done. Her words had gone beyond her conviction.

  Evening after evening Mr Benson went forth to gain news of Ruth; and night after night he returned with good tidings. The fever, it is true, raged; but no plague came nigh her. He said her face was ever calm and bright, except when clouded by sorrow as she gave the accounts of the deaths which occurred in spite of every care. He said he had never seen her face so fair and gentle as it was now, when she was living in the midst of disease and woe.

  One evening Leonard (for they had grown bolder as to the infection) accompanied him to the street on which the hospital abutted. Mr Benson left him there, and told him to return home; but the boy lingered, attracted by the crowd that had gathered, and were gazing up intently towards the lighted windows of the hospital. There was nothing beyond to be seen; but the greater part of these poor people had friends or relations in that palace of Death.

  Leonard stood and listened. At first their talk consisted of vague and exaggerated accounts (if such could be exaggerated) of the horrors of the fever. Then they spoke of Ruth — of his mother; and Leonard held his breath to hear.

  “They say she has been a great sinner, and that this is her penance,” quoth one. And as Leonard gasped, before rushing forward to give the speaker straight the lie, an old man spoke:

  “Such a one as her has never been a great sinner; nor does she do her work as a penance, but for the love of God, and of the blessed Jesus. She will be in the light of God’s countenance when you and I will be standing afar off. I tell you, man, when my poor wench died, as no one would come near, her head lay at that hour on this woman’s sweet breast. I could fell you,” the old man went on, lifting his shaking arm, “for calling that woman a great sinner. The blessing of them who were ready to perish is upon her.”

  Immediately there arose a clamour of tongues, each with some tale of his mother’s gentle doings, till Leonard grew dizzy with the beatings of his glad, proud heart. Few were aware how much Ruth had done; she never spoke of it, shrinking with sweet shyness from over-much allusion to her own work at all times. Her left hand truly knew not what her right hand did; and Leonard was overwhelmed now to hear of the love and the reverence with which the poor and outcast had surrounded her. It was irrepressible. He stepped forward with a proud bearing, and touching the old man’s arm who had first spoken, Leonard tried to speak; but for an instant he could not, his heart was too full: tears came before words, but at length he managed to say:

  “Sir, I am her son!”

  “Thou! thou her bairn! God bless you, lad,” said an old woman, pushing through the crowd. “It was but last night she kept my child quiet with singing psalms the night through. Low and sweet, low and sweet, they tell me — till many poor things were hushed, though they were out of their minds, and had not heard psalms this many a year. God in heaven bless you, lad!”

  Many other wild, woe-begone creatures pressed forward with blessings on Ruth’s son, while he could only repeat:

  “She is my mother.”

  From that day forward Leonard walked erect in the streets of Eccleston, where “many arose and called her blessed.”

  After some weeks the virulence of the fever abated; and the general panic subsided — indeed, a kind of fool-hardiness succeeded. To be sure, in some instances the panic still held possession of individuals to an exaggerated extent. But the number of patients in the hospital was rapidly diminishing, and, for money, those were to be found who could supply Ruth’s place. But to her it was owing that the overwrought fear of the town was subdued; it was she who had gone voluntarily, and, with no thought of greed or gain, right into the very jaws of the fierce disease. She bade the inmates of the hospital farewell, and after carefully submitting herself to the purification recommended by Mr Davis, the principal surgeon of the place, who had always attended Leonard, she returned to Mr Benson’s just at gloaming time.

  They each vied with the other in the tenderest cares. They hastened tea; they wheeled the sofa to the fire; they made her lie down; and to all she submitted with the docility of a child; and when the candles came, even Mr Benson’s anxious eye could see no change in her looks, but that she seemed a little paler. The eyes were as full of spiritual light, the gently parted lips as rosy, and the smile, if more rare, yet as sweet as ever.

  CHAPTER XXXIV

  “I Must Go and Nurse Mr Bellingham”

  The next morning, Miss Benson would insist upon making Ruth lie down on the sofa. Ruth longed to do many things; to be much more active; but she submitted, when she found that it would gratify Miss Faith if she remained as quiet as if she were really an invalid.

  Leonard sat by her holding her hand. Every now and then he looked up from his book, as if to make sure that she indeed was restored to him. He had brought her down the flowers which she had given him the day of her departure, and which he had kept in water as long as they had any greenness or fragrance, and then had carefully dried and put by. She too, smiling, had produced the one rose which she had carried away to the hospital. Never had the bond between her and her boy been drawn so firm and strong.

  Many visitors came this day to the quiet Chapel-house. First of all Mrs Farquhar appeared. She looked very different from the Jemima Bradshaw of three years ago. Happiness had called out beauty; the colouring of her face was lovely, and vivid as that of an autumn day; her berry-red lips scarce closed over the short white teeth for her smiles; and her large dark eyes glowed and sparkled with daily happiness. They were softened by a mist of tears as she looked upon Ruth.

  “Lie still! Don’t move! You must be content to-day to be waited upon, and nursed! I have just seen Miss Benson in the lobby, and had charge upon charge not to fatigue you. Oh, Ruth! how we all love you, now we have you back again! Do you know, I taught Rosa to say her prayers as soon as ever you were gone to that horrid place, just on purpose that her little innocent lips might pray for you — I wish you could hear her say it — ’Please, dear God, keep Ruth safe.’ Oh, Leonard! are not you proud of your mother?”

  Leonard said “Yes,” rather shortly, as if he were annoyed that any one else should know, or even have a right to imagine, how proud he was. Jemima went on:

  “Now, Ruth! I have got a plan for you. Walter and I have partly made it; and partly it’s papa’s doing. Yes, dear! papa has been quite anxious to show his respect for you. We all want you to go to the dear Eagle’s Crag for this next month, and get strong, and have some change in that fine air at Abermouth. I am going to take little Rosa there. Papa has lent it to us. And the weather is often very beautiful in November.”

  “Thank you very much. It is very tempting; for I have been almost longing for some such change. I cannot tell all at once whether I can go; but I will see about it, if you will let me leave it open a little.”

  “Oh! as long as you like, so that you will but go at last. And, Master Leonard! you are to come too. Now, I know I have you on my side.”

  Ruth thought of the place. Her only reluctance arose from the remembrance of that one interview on the sands. That walk she could never go again; but how much remained! How much that would be a charming balm and refreshment to her!

  “What happy evenings we shall have together! Do you know, I think Mary and Elizabeth may perhaps come.”

  A bright gleam of sunshine came into the room. “Look! how bright and propitious for our plans. Dear Ruth, it seems like an omen for the future!”

  Almost while she spoke, Miss Benson entered, bringing with her Mr Grey, the rector of Eccleston. He was an elderly man, short and stoutly-built, with something very formal in his manner; but any one might feel sure of his steady benevolence who noticed the expression of his face, and especially of the kindly black eyes that gleamed beneath his grey and shaggy eyebrows. Ruth had seen him at the hospital once or twice, and Mrs Farquhar had met him pretty frequently in general society.

  “
Go and tell your uncle,” said Miss Benson to Leonard.

  “Stop, my boy! I have just met Mr Benson in the street, and my errand now is to your mother. I should like you to remain and hear what it is; and I am sure that my business will give these ladies” — bowing to Miss Benson and Jemima — ”so much pleasure, that I need not apologise for entering upon it in their presence.”

  He pulled out his double eye-glass, saying, with a grave smile:

  “You ran away from us yesterday so quietly and cunningly, Mrs Denbigh, that you were, perhaps, not aware that the Board was sitting at that very time, and trying to form a vote sufficiently expressive of our gratitude to you. As Chairman, they requested me to present you with this letter, which I shall have the pleasure of reading.”

  With all due emphasis he read aloud a formal letter from the Secretary to the Infirmary, conveying a vote of thanks to Ruth.

  The good rector did not spare her one word, from date to signature; and then, folding the letter up, he gave it to Leonard, saying:

  “There, sir! when you are an old man, you may read that testimony to your mother’s noble conduct with pride and pleasure. For, indeed,” continued he, turning to Jemima, “no words can express the relief it was to us. I speak of the gentlemen composing the Board of the Infirmary. When Mrs Denbigh came forward, the panic was at its height, and the alarm of course aggravated the disorder. The poor creatures died rapidly; there was hardly time to remove the dead bodies before others were brought in to occupy the beds, so little help was to be procured on account of the universal terror; and the morning when Mrs Denbigh offered us her services, we seemed at the very worst. I shall never forget the sensation of relief in my mind when she told us what she proposed to do; but we thought it right to warn her to the full extent —