Ruth (36 page)

There were so many small reasons that went to make up the large one
which had convinced Mr Bradshaw of the desirableness of this step,
that it was not likely that Ruth should guess at one half of them. In
the first place, Miss Benson, in the pride and fulness of her heart,
had told Mrs Bradshaw what her brother had told her; how he meant to
preach upon the Christian view of the duties involved in political
rights; and as, of course, Mrs Bradshaw had told Mr Bradshaw, he
began to dislike the idea of attending chapel on that Sunday at all;
for he had an uncomfortable idea that by the Christian standard—that
divine test of the true and pure—bribery would not be altogether
approved of; and yet he was tacitly coming round to the understanding
that "packets" would be required, for what purpose both he and Mr
Donne were to be supposed to remain ignorant. But it would be very
awkward, so near to the time, if he were to be clearly convinced that
bribery, however disguised by names and words, was in plain terms
a sin. And yet he knew Mr Benson had once or twice convinced him
against his will of certain things, which he had thenceforward found
it impossible to do, without such great uneasiness of mind, that he
had left off doing them, which was sadly against his interest. And if
Mr Donne (whom he had intended to take with him to chapel, as fair
Dissenting prey) should also become convinced, why, the Cranworths
would win the day, and he should be the laughing-stock of Eccleston.
No! in this one case bribery must be allowed—was allowable; but
it was a great pity human nature was so corrupt, and if his member
succeeded, he would double his subscription to the schools, in order
that the next generation might be taught better. There were various
other reasons, which strengthened Mr Bradshaw in the bright idea
of going down to Abermouth for the Sunday; some connected with the
out-of-door politics, and some with the domestic. For instance,
it had been the plan of the house to have a cold dinner on the
Sundays—Mr Bradshaw had piqued himself on this strictness—and yet
he had an instinctive feeling that Mr Donne was not quite the man to
partake of cold meat for conscience' sake with cheerful indifference
to his fare.

Mr Donne had, in fact, taken the Bradshaw household a little by
surprise. Before he came, Mr Bradshaw had pleased himself with
thinking, that more unlikely things had happened than the espousal
of his daughter with the member of a small borough. But this pretty
airy bubble burst as soon as he saw Mr Donne; and its very existence
was forgotten in less than half an hour, when he felt the quiet but
incontestible difference of rank and standard that there was, in
every respect, between his guest and his own family. It was not
through any circumstance so palpable, and possibly accidental, as the
bringing down a servant, whom Mr Donne seemed to consider as much
a matter of course as a carpet-bag (though the smart gentleman's
arrival "fluttered the Volscians in Corioli" considerably more
than his gentle-spoken master's). It was nothing like this; it was
something indescribable—a quiet being at ease, and expecting every
one else to be so—an attention to women, which was so habitual as
to be unconsciously exercised to those subordinate persons in Mr
Bradshaw's family—a happy choice of simple and expressive words,
some of which it must be confessed were slang, but fashionable
slang, and that makes all the difference—a measured, graceful way
of utterance, with a style of pronunciation quite different to
that of Eccleston. All these put together make but a part of the
indescribable whole which unconsciously affected Mr Bradshaw, and
established Mr Donne in his estimation as a creature quite different
to any he had seen before, and as most unfit to mate with Jemima. Mr
Hickson, who had appeared as a model of gentlemanly ease before Mr
Donne's arrival, now became vulgar and coarse in Mr Bradshaw's eyes.
And yet, such was the charm of that languid, high-bred manner, that
Mr Bradshaw "cottoned" (as he expressed it to Mr Farquhar) to his
new candidate at once. He was only afraid lest Mr Donne was too
indifferent to all things under the sun to care whether he gained or
lost the election; but he was reassured after the first conversation
they had together on the subject. Mr Donne's eye lightened with an
eagerness that was almost fierce, though his tones were as musical,
and nearly as slow, as ever; and when Mr Bradshaw alluded distantly
to "probable expenses" and "packets," Mr Donne replied,

"Oh, of course! disagreeable necessity! Better speak as little about
such things as possible; other people can be found to arrange all the
dirty work. Neither you nor I would like to soil our fingers by it, I
am sure. Four thousand pounds are in Mr Pilson's hands, and I shall
never inquire what becomes of them; they may, very probably, be
absorbed in the law expenses, you know. I shall let it be clearly
understood from the hustings, that I most decidedly disapprove of
bribery, and leave the rest to Hickson's management. He is accustomed
to these sort of things. I am not."

Mr Bradshaw was rather perplexed by this want of bustling energy on
the part of the new candidate; and if it had not been for the four
thousand pounds aforesaid, would have doubted whether Mr Donne
cared sufficiently for the result of the election. Jemima thought
differently. She watched her father's visitor attentively, with
something like the curious observation which a naturalist bestows on
a new species of animal.

"Do you know what Mr Donne reminds me of, mamma?" said she, one day,
as the two sat at work, while the gentlemen were absent canvassing.

"No! he is not like anybody I ever saw. He quite frightens me, by
being so ready to open the door for me if I am going out of the room,
and by giving me a chair when I come in. I never saw any one like
him. Who is it, Jemima?"

"Not any person—not any human being, mamma," said Jemima, half
smiling. "Do you remember our stopping at Wakefield once, on our way
to Scarborough, and there were horse-races going on somewhere, and
some of the racers were in the stables at the inn where we dined?"

"Yes! I remember it; but what about that?"

"Why, Richard, somehow, knew one of the jockeys, and, as we were
coming in from our ramble through the town, this man, or boy, asked
us to look at one of the racers he had the charge of."

"Well, my dear!"

"Well, mamma! Mr Donne is like that horse!"

"Nonsense, Jemima; you must not say so. I don't know what your father
would say, if he heard you likening Mr Donne to a brute."

"Brutes are sometimes very beautiful, mamma. I am sure I should think
it a compliment to be likened to a race-horse, such as the one we
saw. But the thing in which they are alike, is the sort of repressed
eagerness in both."

"Eager! Why, I should say there never was any one cooler than Mr
Donne. Think of the trouble your papa has had this month past, and
then remember the slow way in which Mr Donne moves when he is going
out to canvass, and the low, drawling voice in which he questions the
people who bring him intelligence. I can see your papa standing by,
ready to shake them to get out their news."

"But Mr Donne's questions are always to the point, and force out the
grain without the chaff. And look at him, if any one tells him ill
news about the election! Have you never seen a dull red light come
into his eyes? That is like my race-horse. Her flesh quivered all
over, at certain sounds and noises which had some meaning to her;
but she stood quite still, pretty creature! Now, Mr Donne is just as
eager as she was, though he may be too proud to show it. Though he
seems so gentle, I almost think he is very headstrong in following
out his own will."

"Well! don't call him like a horse again, for I am sure papa would
not like it. Do you know, I thought you were going to say he was like
little Leonard, when you asked me who he was like."

"Leonard! Oh, mamma, he is not in the least like Leonard. He is
twenty times more like my race-horse.

"Now, my dear Jemima, do be quiet. Your father thinks racing so
wrong, that I am sure he would be very seriously displeased if he
were to hear you."

To return to Mr Bradshaw, and to give one more of his various reasons
for wishing to take Mr Donne to Abermouth. The wealthy Eccleston
manufacturer was uncomfortably impressed with an indefinable sense of
inferiority to his visitor. It was not in education, for Mr Bradshaw
was a well-educated man; it was not in power, for, if he chose, the
present object of Mr Donne's life might be utterly defeated; it
did not arise from anything overbearing in manner, for Mr Donne
was habitually polite and courteous, and was just now anxious to
propitiate his host, whom he looked upon as a very useful man.
Whatever this sense of inferiority arose from, Mr Bradshaw was
anxious to relieve himself of it, and imagined that if he could make
more display of his wealth his object would be obtained. Now his
house in Eccleston was old-fashioned, and ill-calculated to exhibit
money's worth. His mode of living, though strained to a high pitch
just at this time, he became aware was no more than Mr Donne was
accustomed to every day of his life. The first day at dessert, some
remark (some opportune remark, as Mr Bradshaw in his innocence had
thought) was made regarding the price of pine-apples, which was
rather exorbitant that year, and Mr Donne asked Mrs Bradshaw, with
quiet surprise, if they had no pinery, as if to be without a pinery
were indeed a depth of pitiable destitution. In fact, Mr Donne had
been born and cradled in all that wealth could purchase, and so had
his ancestors before him for so many generations, that refinement
and luxury seemed the natural condition of man, and they that dwelt
without were in the position of monsters. The absence was noticed;
but not the presence.

Now, Mr Bradshaw knew that the house and grounds of Eagle's Crag were
exorbitantly dear, and yet he really thought of purchasing them. And
as one means of exhibiting his wealth, and so raising himself up to
the level of Mr Donne, he thought that if he could take the latter
down to Abermouth, and show him the place for which, "because his
little girls had taken a fancy to it," he was willing to give the
fancy-price of fourteen thousand pounds, he should at last make those
half-shut dreamy eyes open wide, and their owner confess that, in
wealth at least, the Eccleston manufacturer stood on a par with him.

All these mingled motives caused the determination which made Ruth
sit in the little inn-parlour at Abermouth during the wild storm's
passage.

She wondered if she had fulfilled all Mr Bradshaw's directions. She
looked at the letter. Yes! everything was done. And now home with her
news, through the wet lane, where the little pools by the roadside
reflected the deep blue sky and the round white clouds with even
deeper blue and clearer white; and the rain-drops hung so thick on
the trees, that even a little bird's flight was enough to shake them
down in a bright shower as of rain. When she told the news, Mary
exclaimed,

"Oh, how charming! Then we shall see this new member after all!"
while Elizabeth added,

"Yes! I shall like to do that. But where must we be? Papa will want
the dining-room and this room, and where must we sit?"

"Oh!" said Ruth, "in the dressing-room next to my room. All that your
papa wants always, is that you are quiet and out of the way."

Saturday came. Torn, ragged clouds were driven across the sky. It was
not a becoming day for the scenery, and the little girls regretted it
much. First they hoped for a change at twelve o'clock, and then at
the afternoon tide-turning. But at neither time did the sun show his
face.

"Papa will never buy this dear place," said Elizabeth, sadly, as she
watched the weather. "The sun is everything to it. The sea looks
quite leaden to-day, and there is no sparkle on it. And the sands,
that were so yellow and sun-speckled on Thursday, are all one dull
brown now."

"Never mind! to-morrow may be better," said Ruth, cheerily.

"I wonder what time they will come at?" inquired Mary.

"Your papa said they would be at the station at five o'clock. And
the landlady at the Swan said it would take them half an hour to get
here."

"And they are to dine at six?" asked Elizabeth.

"Yes," answered Ruth. "And I think if we had our tea half an hour
earlier, at half-past four, and then went out for a walk, we should
be nicely out of the way just during the bustle of the arrival and
dinner; and we could be in the drawing-room ready against your papa
came in after dinner."

"Oh! that would be nice," said they; and tea was ordered accordingly.

The south-westerly wind had dropped, and the clouds were stationary,
when they went out on the sands. They dug little holes near the
in-coming tide, and made canals to them from the water, and blew the
light sea-foam against each other; and then stole on tiptoe near to
the groups of grey and white sea-gulls, which despised their caution,
flying softly and slowly away to a little distance as soon as they
drew near. And in all this Ruth was as great a child as any. Only she
longed for Leonard with a mother's longing, as indeed she did every
day, and all hours of the day. By-and-by the clouds thickened yet
more, and one or two drops of rain were felt. It was very little, but
Ruth feared a shower for her delicate Elizabeth, and besides, the
September evening was fast closing in the dark and sunless day. As
they turned homewards in the rapidly increasing dusk, they saw three
figures on the sand near the rocks, coming in their direction.

"Papa and Mr Donne!" exclaimed Mary. "Now we shall see him!"

"Which do you make out is him?" asked Elizabeth.

"Oh! the tall one, to be sure. Don't you see how papa always turns to
him, as if he was speaking to him and not to the other?"