Delphi complete works of.., p.98
Delphi Complete Works of Elizabeth Gaskell, page 98
Mr Donne was on the point of asking some further questions about “Mrs Denbigh,” when Mr Hickson came in, loud-spoken, cheerful, hungry, and as ready to talk about his ramble, and the way in which he had lost and found himself, as he was about everything else. He knew how to dress up the commonest occurrence with a little exaggeration, a few puns, and a happy quotation or two, so as to make it sound very agreeable. He could read faces, and saw that he had been missed; both host and visitor looked moped to death. He determined to devote himself to their amusement during the remainder of the day, for he had really lost himself, and felt that he had been away too long on a dull Sunday, when people were apt to get hypped if not well amused.
“It is really a shame to be indoors in such a place. Rain? yes, it rained some hours ago, but now it is splendid weather. I feel myself quite qualified for guide, I assure you. I can show you all the beauties of the neighbourhood, and throw in a bog and a nest of vipers to boot.”
Mr Donne languidly assented to this proposal of going out; and then he became restless until Mr Hickson had eaten a hasty lunch, for he hoped to meet Ruth on the way from church, to be near her, and watch her, though he might not be able to speak to her. To have the slow hours roll away — to know he must leave the next day — and yet, so close to her, not to be seeing her — was more than he could bear. In an impetuous kind of way, he disregarded all Mr Hickson’s offers of guidance to lovely views, and turned a deaf ear to Mr Bradshaw’s expressed wish of showing him the land belonging to the house (“very little for fourteen thousand pounds”), and set off wilfully on the road leading to the church, from which, he averred, he had seen a view which nothing else about the place could equal.
They met the country people dropping homewards. No Ruth was there. She and her pupils had returned by the field-way, as Mr Bradshaw informed his guests at dinner-time. Mr Donne was very captious all through dinner. He thought it would never be over, and cursed Hickson’s interminable stories, which were told on purpose to amuse him. His heart gave a fierce bound when he saw her in the drawing-room with the little girls.
She was reading to them — with how sick and trembling a heart, no words can tell. But she could master and keep down outward signs of her emotion. An hour more to-night (part of which was to be spent in family prayer, and all in the safety of company), another hour in the morning (when all would be engaged in the bustle of departure) — if, during this short space of time, she could not avoid speaking to him, she could at least keep him at such a distance as to make him feel that henceforward her world and his belonged to separate systems, wide as the heavens apart.
By degrees she felt that he was drawing near to where she stood. He was by the table examining the books that lay upon it. Mary and Elizabeth drew off a little space, awe-stricken by the future member for Eccleston. As he bent his head over a book, he said, “I implore you; five minutes alone.”
The little girls could not hear; but Ruth, hemmed in so that no escape was possible, did hear.
She took sudden courage, and said, in a clear voice,
“Will you read the whole passage aloud? I do not remember it.”
Mr Hickson, hovering at no great distance, heard these words, and drew near to second Mrs Denbigh’s request. Mr Bradshaw, who was very sleepy after his unusually late dinner, and longing for bedtime, joined in the request, for it would save the necessity for making talk, and he might, perhaps, get in a nap, undisturbed and unnoticed, before the servants came in to prayers.
Mr Donne was caught; he was obliged to read aloud, although he did not know what he was reading. In the middle of some sentence the door opened, a rush of servants came in, and Mr Bradshaw became particularly wide awake in an instant, and read them a long sermon with great emphasis and unction, winding up with a prayer almost as long.
Ruth sat with her head drooping, more from exhaustion after a season of effort than because she shunned Mr Donne’s looks. He had so lost his power over her — his power, which had stirred her so deeply the night before — that, except as one knowing her error and her shame, and making a cruel use of such knowledge, she had quite separated him from the idol of her youth. And yet, for the sake of that first and only love, she would gladly have known what explanation he could offer to account for leaving her. It would have been something gained to her own self-respect, if she had learnt that he was not then, as she felt him to be now, cold and egotistical, caring for no one and nothing but what related to himself.
Home, and Leonard — how strangely peaceful the two seemed! Oh, for the rest that a dream about Leonard would bring!
Mary and Elizabeth went to bed immediately after prayers, and Ruth accompanied them. It was planned that the gentlemen should leave early the next morning. They were to breakfast half an hour sooner, to catch the railway train; and this by Mr Donne’s own arrangement, who had been as eager about his canvassing, the week before, as it was possible for him to be, but who now wished Eccleston and the Dissenting interest therein very fervently at the devil.
Just as the carriage came round, Mr Bradshaw turned to Ruth: “Any message for Leonard beyond love, which is a matter of course?”
Ruth gasped — for she saw Mr Donne catch at the name; she did not guess the sudden sharp jealousy called out by the idea that Leonard was a grown-up man.
“Who is Leonard?” said he to the little girl standing by him; he did not know which she was.
“Mrs Denbigh’s little boy,” answered Mary.
Under some pretence or other, he drew near to Ruth; and in that low voice, which she had learnt to loathe, he said,
“Our child!”
By the white misery that turned her face to stone — by the wild terror in her imploring eyes — by the gasping breath which came out as the carriage drove away — he knew that he had seized the spell to make her listen at last.
CHAPTER XXIV
The Meeting on the Sands
“He will take him away from me! He will take the child from me!”
These words rang like a tolling bell through Ruth’s head. It seemed to her that her doom was certain. Leonard would be taken from her! She had a firm conviction — not the less firm because she knew not on what it was based — that a child, whether legitimate or not, belonged of legal right to the father. And Leonard, of all children, was the prince and monarch. Every man’s heart would long to call Leonard “Child!” She had been too strongly taxed to have much power left her to reason coolly and dispassionately, just then, even if she had been with any one who could furnish her with information from which to draw correct conclusions. The one thought haunted her night and day — ”He will take my child away from me!” In her dreams she saw Leonard borne away into some dim land, to which she could not follow. Sometimes he sat in a swiftly-moving carriage, at his father’s side, and smiled on her as he passed by, as if going to promised pleasure. At another time he was struggling to return to her; stretching out his little arms, and crying to her for the help she could not give. How she got through the days, she did not know; her body moved about and habitually acted, but her spirit was with her child. She thought often of writing and warning Mr Benson of Leonard’s danger; but then she shrank from recurring to circumstances, all mention of which had ceased years ago; the very recollection of which seemed buried deep for ever. Besides, she feared occasioning discord or commotion in the quiet circle in which she lived. Mr Benson’s deep anger against her betrayer had been shown too clearly in the old time to allow her to think that he would keep it down without expression now. He would cease to do anything to forward his election; he would oppose him as much as he could; and Mr Bradshaw would be angry, and a storm would arise, from the bare thought of which Ruth shrank with the cowardliness of a person thoroughly worn out with late contest. She was bodily wearied with her spiritual buffeting.
One morning, three or four days after their departure, she received a letter from Miss Benson. She could not open it at first, and put it on one side, clenching her hand over it all the time. At last she tore it open. Leonard was safe as yet. There were a few lines in his great round hand, speaking of events no larger than the loss of a beautiful “alley.” There was a sheet from Miss Benson. She always wrote letters in the manner of a diary. “Monday we did so-and-so; Tuesday, so-and-so, &c.” Ruth glanced rapidly down the page. Yes, here it was! Sick, fluttering heart, be still!
“In the middle of the damsons, when they were just on the fire, there was a knock at the door. My brother was out, and Sally was washing up, and I was stirring the preserve with my great apron and bib on; so I bade Leonard come in from the garden and open the door. But I would have washed his face first, if I had known who it was! It was Mr Bradshaw and the Mr Donne that they hope to send up to the House of Commons, as member of Parliament for Eccleston, and another gentleman, whose name I never heard. They had come canvassing; and when they found my brother was out, they asked Leonard if they could see me. The child said, ‘Yes! if I could leave the damsons;’ and straightway came to call me, leaving them standing in the passage. I whipped off my apron, and took Leonard by the hand, for I fancied I should feel less awkward if he was with me; and then I went and asked them all into the study, for I thought I should like them to see how many books Thurstan had got. Then they began talking politics at me in a very polite manner, only I could not make head or tail of what they meant; and Mr Donne took a deal of notice of Leonard, and called him to him; and I am sure he noticed what a noble, handsome boy he was, though his face was very brown and red, and hot with digging, and his curls all tangled. Leonard talked back as if he had known him all his life, till, I think, Mr Bradshaw thought he was making too much noise, and bid him remember he ought to be seen, not heard. So he stood as still and stiff as a soldier, close to Mr Donne; and as I could not help looking at the two, and thinking how handsome they both were in their different ways, I could not tell Thurstan half the messages the gentlemen left for him. But there was one thing more I must tell you, though I said I would not. When Mr Donne was talking to Leonard, he took off his watch and chain and put it round the boy’s neck, who was pleased enough, you may be sure. I bade him give it back to the gentleman, when they were all going away; and I was quite surprised, and very uncomfortable, when Mr Donne said he had given it to Leonard, and that he was to keep it for his own. I could see Mr Bradshaw was annoyed, and he and the other gentleman spoke to Mr Donne, and I heard them say, ‘too barefaced;’ and I shall never forget Mr Donne’s proud, stubborn look back at them, nor his way of saying, ‘I allow no one to interfere with what I choose to do with my own.’ And he looked so haughty and displeased, I durst say nothing at the time. But when I told Thurstan, he was very grieved and angry; and said he had heard that our party were bribing, but that he never could have thought they would have tried to do it at his house. Thurstan is very much out of spirits about this election altogether; and, indeed, it does make sad work up and down the town. However, he sent back the watch with a letter to Mr Bradshaw; and Leonard was very good about it, so I gave him a taste of the new damson-preserve on his bread for supper.”
Although a stranger might have considered this letter wearisome from the multiplicity of the details, Ruth craved greedily after more. What had Mr Donne said to Leonard? Had Leonard liked his new acquaintance? Were they likely to meet again? After wondering and wondering over these points, Ruth composed herself by the hope that in a day or two she should hear again; and to secure this end, she answered the letters by return of post. That was on Thursday. On Friday she had another letter, in a strange hand. It was from Mr Donne. No name, no initials were given. If it had fallen into another person’s hands, they could not have recognised the writer, nor guessed to whom it was sent. It contained simply these words:
“For our child’s sake, and in his name, I summon you to appoint a place where I can speak, and you can listen, undisturbed. The time must be on Sunday; the limit of distance may be the circumference of your power of walking. My words may be commands, but my fond heart entreats. More I shall not say now, but, remember! your boy’s welfare depends on your acceding to this request. Address B. D., Post-Office, Eccleston.”
Ruth did not attempt to answer this letter till the last five minutes before the post went out. She could not decide until forced to it. Either way she dreaded. She was very nearly leaving the letter altogether unanswered. But suddenly she resolved she would know all, the best, the worst. No cowardly dread of herself, or of others, should make her neglect aught that came to her in her child’s name. She took up a pen and wrote:
“The sands below the rocks, where we met you the other night. Time, afternoon church.”
Sunday came.
“I shall not go to church this afternoon. You know the way, of course; and I can trust you to go steadily by yourselves.”
When they came to kiss her before leaving her, according to their fond wont, they were struck by the coldness of her face and lips.
“Are you not well, dear Mrs Denbigh? How cold you are!”
“Yes, darling! I am well;” and tears sprang into her eyes as she looked at their anxious little faces. “Go now, dears. Five o’clock will soon be here, and then we will have tea.”
“And that will warm you!” said they, leaving the room.
“And then it will be over,” she murmured — ”over.”
It never came into her head to watch the girls as they disappeared down the lane on their way to church. She knew them too well to distrust their doing what they were told. She sat still, her head bowed on her arms for a few minutes, and then rose up and went to put on her walking things. Some thoughts impelled her to sudden haste. She crossed the field by the side of the house, ran down the steep and rocky path, and was carried by the impetus of her descent far out on the level sands — but not far enough for her intent. Without looking to the right hand or to the left, where comers might be seen, she went forwards to the black posts, which, rising above the heaving waters, marked where the fishermen’s nets were laid. She went straight towards this place, and hardly stinted her pace even where the wet sands were glittering with the receding waves. Once there, she turned round, and in a darting glance, saw that as yet no one was near. She was perhaps half-a-mile or more from the grey, silvery rocks, which sloped away into brown moorland, interspersed with a field here and there of golden, waving corn. Behind were purple hills, with sharp, clear outlines, touching the sky. A little on one side from where she stood, she saw the white cottages and houses which formed the village of Abermouth, scattered up and down, and, on a windy hill, about a mile inland, she saw the little grey church, where even now many were worshipping in peace.
“Pray for me!” she sighed out, as this object caught her eye.
And now, close under the heathery fields, where they fell softly down and touched the sands, she saw a figure moving in the direction of the great shadow made by the rocks — going towards the very point where the path from Eagle’s Crag came down to the shore.
“It is he!” said she to herself. And she turned round and looked seaward. The tide had turned; the waves were slowly receding, as if loath to lose the hold they had, so lately, and with such swift bounds, gained on the yellow sands. The eternal moan they have made since the world began filled the ear, broken only by the skirl of the grey sea-birds as they alighted in groups on the edge of the waters, or as they rose up with their measured, balancing motion, and the sunlight caught their white breasts. There was no sign of human life to be seen; no boat, or distant sail, or near shrimper. The black posts there were all that spoke of men’s work or labour. Beyond a stretch of the waters, a few pale grey hills showed like films; their summits clear, though faint, their bases lost in a vapoury mist.
On the hard, echoing sands, and distinct from the ceaseless murmur of the salt sea waves, came footsteps — nearer — nearer. Very near they were when Ruth, unwilling to show the fear that rioted in her heart, turned round, and faced Mr Donne.
He came forward, with both hands extended.
“This is kind! my own Ruth,” said he. Ruth’s arms hung down motionless at her sides.
“What! Ruth, have you no word for me?”
“I have nothing to say,” said Ruth.
“Why, you little revengeful creature! And so I am to explain all before you will even treat me with decent civility.”
“I do not want explanations,” said Ruth, in a trembling tone. “We must not speak of the past. You asked me to come in Leonard’s — in my child’s name, and to hear what you had to say about him.”
“But what I have to say about him relates to you even more. And how can we talk about him without recurring to the past? That past, which you try to ignore — I know you cannot do it in your heart — is full of happy recollections to me. Were you not happy in Wales?” he said, in his tenderest tone.
But there was no answer; not even one faint sigh, though he listened intently.
“You dare not speak; you dare not answer me. Your heart will not allow you to prevaricate, and you know you were happy.”
Suddenly Ruth’s beautiful eyes were raised to him, full of lucid splendour, but grave and serious in their expression; and her cheeks, heretofore so faintly tinged with the tenderest blush, flashed into a ruddy glow.
“I was happy. I do not deny it. Whatever comes, I will not blench from the truth. I have answered you.”
“And yet,” replied he, secretly exulting in her admission, and not perceiving the inner strength of which she must have been conscious before she would have dared to make it — ”and yet, Ruth, we are not to recur to the past! Why not? If it was happy at the time, is the recollection of it so miserable to you?”
He tried once more to take her hand, but she quietly stepped back.
“I came to hear what you had to say about my child,” said she, beginning to feel very weary.
