Ruth

Elizabeth Gaskell

• Publisher: Start Publishing LLC
• Year: 2013
• ISBN:
  9781625585332
• Topic: Letteratura
• Subtopic: Classici

Ruth is a surprisingly compassionate portrayal of a fallen woman in Victorian times. Ruth Hilton is an young orphaned seamstress who is seduced and then abandoned by gentleman Henry Bellingham. Ruth, pregnant and alone, is taken in by a minister and his sister. They conceal her single status under the pretense of widowhood in order to protect her child from the social stigma of illegitimacy. Ruth goes on to gain a respectable position in society as a governess, which is threatened by the return of Bellingham and the revelation of her secret.

XXVII. Preparing to Stand on the Truth

As Ruth went along the accustomed streets, every sight and every sound seemed to bear a new meaning, and each and all to have some reference to her boy’s disgrace. She held her head down, and scudded along dizzy with fear, lest some word should have told him what she had been, and what he was, before she could reach him. It was a wild, unreasoning fear, but it took hold of her as strongly as if it had been well founded. And, indeed, the secret whispered by Mrs Pearson, whose curiosity and suspicion had been excited by Jemima’s manner, and confirmed since by many a little corroborating circumstance, had spread abroad, and was known to most of the gossips in Eccleston before it reached Mr Bradshaw’s ears.

As Ruth came up to the door of the Chapel-house, it was opened, and Leonard came out, bright and hopeful as the morning, his face radiant at the prospect of the happy day before him. He was dressed in the clothes it had been such a pleasant pride to her to make for him. He had the dark blue ribbon tied round his neck that she had left out for him that very morning, with a smiling thought of how it would set off his brown, handsome face. She caught him by the hand as they met, and turned him, with his face homewards, without a word. Her looks, her rushing movement, her silence, awed him; and although he wondered, he did not stay to ask why she did so. The door was on the latch; she opened it, and only said, “Upstairs,” in a hoarse whisper. Up they went into her own room. She drew him in, and bolted the door; and then, sitting down, she placed him (she had never let go of him) before her, holding him with her hands on each of his shoulders, and gazing into his face with a woeful look of the agony that could not find vent in words. At last she tried to speak; she tried with strong bodily effort, almost amounting to convulsion. But the words would not come; it was not till she saw the absolute terror depicted on his face that she found utterance; and then the sight of that terror changed the words from what she meant them to have been. She drew him to her, and laid her head upon his shoulder; hiding her face even there.

“My poor, poor boy! my poor, poor darling! Oh! would that I had died–I had died, in my innocent girlhood!”

“Mother! mother!” sobbed Leonard. “What is the matter? Why do you look so wild and ill? Why do you call me your ‘poor boy’? Are we not going to Scaurside-hill? I don’t much mind it, mother; only please don’t gasp and quiver so. Dearest mother, are you ill? Let me call Aunt Faith!”

Ruth lifted herself up, and put away the hair that had fallen over and was blinding her eyes. She looked at him with intense wistfulness.

“Kiss me, Leonard!” said she–“kiss me, my darling, once more in the old way!” Leonard threw himself into her arms and hugged her with all his force, and their lips clung together as in the kiss given to the dying.

“Leonard!” said she at length, holding him away from her, and nerving herself up to tell him all by one spasmodic effort–“listen to me.” The boy stood breathless and still, gazing at her. On her impetuous transit from Mr Bradshaw’s to the Chapel-house, her wild, desperate thought had been that she would call herself by every violent, coarse name which the world might give her–that Leonard should hear those words applied to his mother first from her own lips; but the influence of his presence–for he was a holy and sacred creature in her eyes, and this point remained steadfast, though all the rest were upheaved–subdued her; and now it seemed as if she could not find words fine enough, and pure enough, to convey the truth that he must learn, and should learn from no tongue but hers.

“Leonard–when I was very young I did very wrong. I think God, who knows all, will judge me more tenderly than men–but I did wrong in a way which you cannot understand yet” (she saw the red flush come into his cheek, and it stung her as the first token of that shame which was to be his portion through life)–“in a way people never forget, never forgive. You will hear me called the hardest names that ever can be thrown at women–I have been, to-day; and, my child, you must bear it patiently, because they will be partly true. Never get confused, by your love for me, into thinking that what I did was right.–Where was I?” said she, suddenly faltering, and forgetting all she had said and all she had got to say; and then, seeing Leonard’s face of wonder, and burning shame and indignation, she went on more rapidly, as fearing lest her strength should fail before she had ended.

“And, Leonard,” continued she, in a trembling, sad voice, “this is not all. The punishment of punishments lies awaiting me still. It is to see you suffer for my wrongdoing. Yes, darling! they will speak shameful things of you, poor innocent child! as well as of me, who am guilty. They will throw it in your teeth through life, that your mother was never married–was not married when you were born–”

“Were not you married? Are not you a widow?” asked he abruptly, for the first time getting anything like a clear idea of the real state of the case.

“No! May God forgive me, and help me!” exclaimed she, as she saw a strange look of repugnance cloud over the boy’s face, and felt a slight motion on his part to extricate himself from her hold. It was as slight, as transient as it could be–over in an instant. But she had taken her hands away, and covered up her face with them as quickly–covered up her face in shame before her child; and in the bitterness of her heart she was wailing out, “Oh, would to God I had died–that I had died as a baby–that I had died as a little baby hanging at my mother’s breast!”

“Mother,” said Leonard, timidly putting his hand on her arm; but she shrunk from him, and continued her low, passionate wailing. “Mother,” said he, after a pause, coming nearer, though she saw it not–“mammy darling,” said he, using the caressing name, which he had been trying to drop as not sufficiently manly, “mammy, my own, own dear, dear, darling mother, I don’t believe them–I don’t, I don’t, I don’t, I don’t!” He broke out into a wild burst of crying as he said this. In a moment her arms were round the poor boy, and she was hushing him up like a baby on her bosom. “Hush, Leonard! Leonard, be still, my child! I have been too sudden with you!–I have done you harm–oh! I have done you nothing but harm,” cried she, in a tone of bitter self-reproach.

“No, mother,” said he, stopping his tears, and his eyes blazing out with earnestness; “there never was such a mother as you have been to me, and I won’t believe any one who says it. I won’t; and I’ll knock them down if they say it again, I will!” He clenched his fist, with a fierce, defiant look on his face.

“You forget, my child,” said Ruth, in the sweetest, saddest tone that ever was heard, “I said it of myself; I said it because it was true.” Leonard threw his arms tight round her, and hid his face against her bosom. She felt him pant there like some hunted creature. She had no soothing comfort to give him. “Oh, that she and he lay dead!”

At last, exhausted, he lay so still and motionless, that she feared to look. She wanted him to speak, yet dreaded his first words. She kissed his hair, his head, his very clothes, murmuring low, inarticulate, moaning sounds.

“Leonard,” said she, “Leonard, look up at me! Leonard, look up!” But he only clung the closer, and hid his face the more.

“My boy!” said she, “what can I do or say? If I tell you never to mind it–that it is nothing–I tell you false. It is a bitter shame and a sorrow that I have drawn down upon you. A shame, Leonard, because of me, your mother; but, Leonard, it is no disgrace or lowering of you in the eyes of God.” She spoke now as if she had found the clue which might lead him to rest and strength at last. “Remember that, always. Remember that, when the time of trial comes–and it seems a hard and cruel thing that you should be called reproachful names by men, and all for what was no fault of yours–remember God’s pity and God’s justice; and though my sin shall have made you an outcast in the world–oh, my child, my child!”–(she felt him kiss her, as if mutely trying to comfort her–it gave her strength to go on)–“remember, darling of my heart, it is only your own sin that can make you an outcast from God.”

She grew so faint that her hold of him relaxed. He looked up affrighted. He brought her water–he threw it over her; in his terror at the notion that she was going to die and leave him, he called her by every fond name, imploring her to open her eyes.

When she partially recovered, he helped her to the bed, on which she lay still, wan and death-like. She almost hoped the swoon that hung around her might be Death, and in that imagination she opened her eyes to take a last look at her boy. She saw him pale and terror-stricken; and pity for his affright roused her, and made her forget herself in the wish that he should not see her death, if she were indeed dying.

“Go to Aunt Faith!” whispered she; “I am weary, and want sleep.”

Leonard arose slowly and reluctantly. She tried to smile upon him, that what she thought would be her last look might dwell in his remembrance as tender and strong; she watched him to the door; she saw him hesitate, and return to her. He came back to her, and said in a timid, apprehensive tone:

“Mother–will they speak to me about–it?”

Ruth closed her eyes, that they might not express the agony she felt, like a sharp knife, at this question. Leonard had asked it with a child’s desire of avoiding painful and mysterious topics,–from no personal sense of shame as she understood it, shame beginning thus early, thus instantaneously.

“No,” she replied. “You may be sure they will not.”

So he went. But now she would have been thankful for the unconsciousness of fainting; that one little speech bore so much meaning to her hot, irritable brain. Mr and Miss Benson, all in their house, would never speak to the boy–but in his home alone would he be safe from what he had already learnt to dread. Every form in which shame and opprobrium could overwhelm her darling, haunted her. She had been exercising strong self-control for his sake ever since she had met him at the house-door; there was now a reaction. His presence had kept her mind on its perfect balance. When that was withdrawn, the effect of the strain of power was felt. And athwart the fever-mists that arose to obscure her judgment, all sorts of will-o’-the-wisp plans flittered before her; tempting her to this and that course of action–to anything rather than patient endurance–to relieve her present state of misery by some sudden spasmodic effort, that took the semblance of being wise and right. Gradually all her desires, all her longing, settled themselves on one point. What had she done–what could she do, to Leonard, but evil? If she were away, and gone no one knew where–lost in mystery, as if she were dead–perhaps the cruel hearts might relent, and show pity on Leonard; while her perpetual presence would but call up the remembrance of his birth. Thus she reasoned in her hot, dull brain; and shaped her plans in accordance.

Leonard stole downstairs noiselessly. He listened to find some quiet place where he could hide himself. The house was very still. Miss Benson thought the purposed expedition had taken place, and never dreamed but that Ruth and Leonard were on distant, sunny Scaurside-hill; and after a very early dinner, she had set out to drink tea with a farmer’s wife who lived in the country two or three miles off. Mr Benson meant to have gone with her; but while they were at dinner, he had received an unusually authoritative note from Mr Bradshaw desiring to speak with him, so he went to that gentleman’s house instead. Sally was busy in her kitchen, making a great noise (not unlike a groom rubbing down a horse) over her cleaning. Leonard stole into the sitting-room, and crouched behind the large old-fashioned sofa to ease his sore, aching heart, by crying with all the prodigal waste and abandonment of childhood.

Mr Benson was shown into Mr Bradshaw’s own particular room. The latter gentleman was walking up and down, and it was easy to perceive that something had occurred to chafe him to great anger.

“Sit down, sir!” said he to Mr Benson, nodding to a chair.

Mr Benson sat down. But Mr Bradshaw continued his walk for a few minutes longer without speaking. Then he stopped abruptly, right in front of Mr Benson; and in a voice which he tried to render calm, but which trembled with passion–with a face glowing purple as he thought of his wrongs (and real wrongs they were), he began:

“Mr Benson, I have sent for you to ask–I am almost too indignant at the bare suspicion to speak as becomes me–but did you–I really shall be obliged to beg your pardon, if you are as much in the dark as I was yesterday as to the character of that woman who lives under your roof?”

There was no answer from Mr Benson. Mr Bradshaw looked at him very earnestly. His eyes were fixed on the ground–he made no inquiry–he uttered no expression of wonder or dismay. Mr Bradshaw ground his foot on the floor with gathering rage; but just as he was about to speak, Mr Benson rose up–a poor deformed old man–before the stern and portly figure that was swelling and panting with passion.

“Hear me, sir!” (stretching out his hand as if to avert the words which were impending). “Nothing you can say, can upbraid me like my own conscience; no degradation you can inflict, by word or deed, can come up to the degradation I have suffered for years, at being a party to a deceit, even for a good end–”

“For a good end!–Nay! what next?”

The taunting contempt with which Mr Bradshaw spoke these words almost surprised himself by what he imagined must be its successful power of withering; but in spite of it, Mr Benson lifted his grave eyes to Mr Bradshaw’s countenance, and repeated:

“For a good end. The end was not, as perhaps you consider it to have been, to obtain her admission into your family–nor yet to put her in the way of gaining her livelihood; my sister and I would willingly have shared what we have with her; it was our intention to do so at first, if not for any length of time, at least as long as her health might require it. Why I advised (perhaps I only yielded to advice) a change of name–an assumption of a false state of widowhood–was because I earnestly desired to place her in circumstances in which she might work out her self-redemption; and you, sir, know how terribly the world goes against all such as have sinned as Ruth did. She was so young, too.”

“You mistake, sir; my acquaintance has not lain so much among that class of sinners as to give me much experience of the way in which they are treated. But, judging from what I have seen, I should say they meet with full as much leniency as they deserve; and supposing they do not–I know there are plenty of sickly sentimentalists just now who reserve all their interest and regard for criminals–why not pick out one of these to help you in your task of washing the blackamoor white? Why choose me to be imposed upon–my household into which to intrude your protégée? Why were my innocent children to be exposed to corruption? I say,” said Mr Bradshaw, stamping his foot, “how dared you come into this house, where you were looked upon as a minister of religion, with a lie in your mouth? How dared you single me o...