Ruth (32 page)

It was also true, as Mr Bradshaw had said, Mr Farquhar wished to
marry, and had not much choice in the small town of Eccleston. He
never put this so plainly before himself, as a reason for choosing
Jemima, as her father had done to her; but it was an unconscious
motive all the same. However, now he had lectured himself into the
resolution to make a pretty long absence from Eccleston, and see if,
amongst his distant friends, there was no woman more in accordance
with his ideal, who could put the naughty, wilful, plaguing Jemima
Bradshaw out of his head, if he did not soon perceive some change in
her for the better.

A few days after Ruth's conversation with Mr Bradshaw, the invitation
she had been expecting, yet dreading, came. It was to her alone. Mr
and Miss Benson were pleased at the compliment to her, and urged her
acceptance of it. She wished that they had been included; she had not
thought it right, or kind to Jemima, to tell them why she was going,
and she feared now lest they should feel a little hurt that they were
not asked too. But she need not have been afraid. They were glad and
proud of the attention to her, and never thought of themselves.

"Ruthie, what gown shall you wear to-night? your dark grey one, I
suppose?" asked Miss Benson.

"Yes, I suppose so. I never thought of it; but that is my best."

"Well; then, I shall quill up a ruff for you. You know I am a famous
quiller of net."

Ruth came downstairs with a little flush on her cheeks when she was
ready to go. She held her bonnet and shawl in her hand, for she knew
Miss Benson and Sally would want to see her dressed.

"Is not mamma pretty?" asked Leonard, with a child's pride.

"She looks very nice and tidy," said Miss Benson, who had an idea
that children should not talk or think about beauty.

"I think my ruff looks so nice," said Ruth, with gentle pleasure. And
indeed it did look nice, and set off the pretty round throat most
becomingly. Her hair, now grown long and thick, was smoothed as close
to her head as its waving nature would allow, and plaited up in a
great rich knot low down behind. The grey gown was as plain as plain
could be.

"You should have light gloves, Ruth," said Miss Benson. She went
upstairs, and brought down a delicate pair of Limerick ones, which
had been long treasured up in a walnut-shell.

"They say them gloves is made of chickens'-skins," said Sally,
examining them curiously. "I wonder how they set about skinning 'em."

"Here, Ruth," said Mr Benson, coming in from the garden, "here's a
rose or two for you. I am sorry there are no more; I hoped I should
have had my yellow rose out by this time, but the damask and the
white are in a warmer corner, and have got the start."

Miss Benson and Leonard stood at the door, and watched her down the
little passage-street till she was out of sight.

She had hardly touched the bell at Mr Bradshaw's door, when Mary and
Elizabeth opened it with boisterous glee.

"We saw you coming—we've been watching for you—we want you to come
round the garden before tea; papa is not come in yet. Do come!"

She went round the garden with a little girl clinging to each arm. It
was full of sunshine and flowers, and this made the contrast between
it and the usual large family room (which fronted the north-east, and
therefore had no evening sun to light up its cold, drab furniture)
more striking than usual. It looked very gloomy. There was the great
dining-table, heavy and square; the range of chairs, straight and
square; the work-boxes, useful and square; the colouring of walls,
and carpet, and curtains, all of the coldest description; everything
was handsome, and everything was ugly. Mrs Bradshaw was asleep in her
easy-chair when they came in. Jemima had just put down her work, and,
lost in thought, she leant her cheek on her hand. When she saw Ruth
she brightened a little, and went to her and kissed her. Mrs Bradshaw
jumped up at the sound of their entrance, and was wide awake in a
moment.

"Oh! I thought your father was here," said she, evidently relieved to
find that he had not come in and caught her sleeping.

"Thank you, Mrs Denbigh, for coming to us to-night," said she, in
the quiet tone in which she generally spoke in her husband's absence.
When he was there, a sort of constant terror of displeasing him made
her voice sharp and nervous; the children knew that many a thing
passed over by their mother when their father was away, was sure
to be noticed by her when he was present; and noticed, too, in a
cross and querulous manner, for she was so much afraid of the blame
which on any occasion of their misbehaviour fell upon her. And yet
she looked up to her husband with a reverence and regard, and a
faithfulness of love, which his decision of character was likely to
produce on a weak and anxious mind. He was a rest and a support to
her, on whom she cast all her responsibilities; she was an obedient,
unremonstrating wife to him; no stronger affection had ever brought
her duty to him into conflict with any desire of her heart. She loved
her children dearly, though they all perplexed her very frequently.
Her son was her especial darling, because he very seldom brought her
into any scrapes with his father; he was so cautious and prudent,
and had the art of "keeping a calm sough" about any difficulty he
might be in. With all her dutiful sense of the obligation, which her
husband enforced upon her, to notice and tell him everything that was
going wrong in the household, and especially among his children, Mrs
Bradshaw, somehow, contrived to be honestly blind to a good deal that
was not praiseworthy in Master Richard.

Mr Bradshaw came in before long, bringing with him Mr Farquhar.
Jemima had been talking to Ruth with some interest before then; but,
on seeing Mr Farquhar, she bent her head down over her work, went a
little paler, and turned obstinately silent. Mr Bradshaw longed to
command her to speak; but even he had a suspicion that what she might
say, when so commanded, might be rather worse in its effect than
her gloomy silence; so he held his peace, and a discontented, angry
kind of peace it was. Mrs Bradshaw saw that something was wrong, but
could not tell what; only she became every moment more trembling, and
nervous, and irritable, and sent Mary and Elizabeth off on all sorts
of contradictory errands to the servants, and made the tea twice
as strong, and sweetened it twice as much as usual, in hopes of
pacifying her husband with good things.

Mr Farquhar had gone for the last time, or so he thought. He had
resolved (for the fifth time) that he would go and watch Jemima once
more, and if her temper got the better of her, and she showed the old
sullenness again, and gave the old proofs of indifference to his good
opinion, he would give her up altogether, and seek a wife elsewhere.
He sat watching her with folded arms, and in silence. Altogether they
were a pleasant family party!

Jemima wanted to wind a skein of wool. Mr Farquhar saw it, and came
to her, anxious to do her this little service. She turned away
pettishly, and asked Ruth to hold it for her.

Ruth was hurt for Mr Farquhar, and looked sorrowfully at Jemima; but
Jemima would not see her glance of upbraiding, as Ruth, hoping that
she would relent, delayed a little to comply with her request. Mr
Farquhar did; and went back to his seat to watch them both. He saw
Jemima turbulent and stormy in look; he saw Ruth, to all appearance
heavenly calm as the angels, or with only that little tinge of sorrow
which her friend's behaviour had called forth. He saw the unusual
beauty of her face and form, which he had never noticed before; and
he saw Jemima, with all the brilliancy she once possessed in eyes and
complexion, dimmed and faded. He watched Ruth, speaking low and soft
to the little girls, who seemed to come to her in every difficulty;
and he remarked her gentle firmness when their bedtime came, and
they pleaded to stay up longer (their father was absent in his
counting-house, or they would not have dared to do so). He liked
Ruth's soft, distinct, unwavering "No! you must go. You must keep to
what is right," far better than the good-natured yielding to entreaty
he had formerly admired in Jemima. He was wandering off into this
comparison, while Ruth, with delicate and unconscious tact, was
trying to lead Jemima into some subject which should take her away
from the thoughts, whatever they were, that made her so ungracious
and rude.

Jemima was ashamed of herself before Ruth, in a way which she had
never been before any one else. She valued Ruth's good opinion so
highly, that she dreaded lest her friend should perceive her faults.
She put a check upon herself—a check at first; but after a little
time she had forgotten something of her trouble, and listened to
Ruth, and questioned her about Leonard, and smiled at his little
witticisms; and only the sighs, that would come up from the very
force of habit, brought back the consciousness of her unhappiness.
Before the end of the evening, Jemima had allowed herself to speak to
Mr Farquhar in the old way—questioning, differing, disputing. She
was recalled to the remembrance of that miserable conversation by the
entrance of her father. After that she was silent. But he had seen
her face more animated, and bright with a smile, as she spoke to Mr
Farquhar; and although he regretted the loss of her complexion (for
she was still very pale), he was highly pleased with the success of
his project. He never doubted but that Ruth had given her some sort
of private exhortation to behave better. He could not have understood
the pretty art with which, by simply banishing unpleasant subjects,
and throwing a wholesome natural sunlit tone over others, Ruth had
insensibly drawn Jemima out of her gloom. He resolved to buy Mrs
Denbigh a handsome silk gown the very next day. He did not believe
she had a silk gown, poor creature! He had noticed that dark grey
stuff, this long, long time, as her Sunday dress. He liked the
colour; the silk one should be just the same tinge. Then he thought
that it would, perhaps, be better to choose a lighter shade, one
which might be noticed as different to the old gown. For he had no
doubt she would like to have it remarked, and, perhaps, would not
object to tell people, that it was a present from Mr Bradshaw—a
token of his approbation. He smiled a little to himself as he thought
of this additional source of pleasure to Ruth. She, in the meantime,
was getting up to go home. While Jemima was lighting the bed-candle
at the lamp, Ruth came round to bid good night. Mr Bradshaw could
not allow her to remain till the morrow, uncertain whether he was
satisfied or not.

"Good night, Mrs Denbigh," said he. "Good night. Thank you. I am
obliged to you—I am exceedingly obliged to you."

He laid emphasis on these words, for he was pleased to see Mr
Farquhar step forward to help Jemima in her little office.

Mr Farquhar offered to accompany Ruth home; but the streets that
intervened between Mr Bradshaw's and the Chapel-house were so quiet
that he desisted, when he learnt from Ruth's manner how much she
disliked his proposal. Mr Bradshaw, too, instantly observed:

"Oh! Mrs Denbigh need not trouble you, Farquhar. I have servants at
liberty at any moment to attend on her, if she wishes it."

In fact, he wanted to make hay while the sun shone, and to detain Mr
Farquhar a little longer, now that Jemima was so gracious. She went
upstairs with Ruth to help her to put on her things.

"Dear Jemima!" said Ruth, "I am so glad to see you looking better
to-night! You quite frightened me this morning, you looked so ill."

"Did I?" replied Jemima. "Oh, Ruth! I have been so unhappy lately. I
want you to come and put me to rights," she continued, half smiling.
"You know I'm a sort of out-pupil of yours, though we are so nearly
of an age. You ought to lecture me, and make me good."

"Should I, dear?" said Ruth. "I don't think I'm the one to do it."

"Oh, yes! you are—you've done me good to-night."

"Well, if I can do anything for you, tell me what it is?" asked Ruth,
tenderly.

"Oh, not now—not now," replied Jemima. "I could not tell you here.
It's a long story, and I don't know that I can tell you at all. Mamma
might come up at any moment, and papa would be sure to ask what we
had been talking about so long."

"Take your own time, love," said Ruth; "only remember, as far as I
can, how glad I am to help you."

"You're too good, my darling!" said Jemima, fondly.

"Don't say so," replied Ruth, earnestly, almost as if she were
afraid. "God knows I am not."

"Well! we're none of us too good," answered Jemima; "I know that. But
you
are
very good. Nay, I won't call you so, if it makes you look
so miserable. But come away downstairs."

With the fragrance of Ruth's sweetness lingering about her, Jemima
was her best self during the next half-hour. Mr Bradshaw was more and
more pleased, and raised the price of the silk, which he was going
to give Ruth, sixpence a yard during the time. Mr Farquhar went home
through the garden-way, happier than he had been this long time. He
even caught himself humming the old refrain:

On revient, on revient toujours,
A ses premiers amours.

But as soon as he was aware of what he was doing, he cleared away the
remnants of the song into a cough, which was sonorous, if not
perfectly real.

The next morning, as Jemima and her mother sat at their work, it came
into the head of the former to remember her father's very marked way
of thanking Ruth the evening before.

"What a favourite Mrs Denbigh is with papa," said she. "I am sure I
don't wonder at it. Did you notice, mamma, how he thanked her for
coming here last night?"

"Yes, dear; but I don't think it was all—" Mrs Bradshaw stopped
short. She was never certain if it was right or wrong to say
anything.