Ruth (55 page)

There was a faint hope, even after this discovery of many
circumstances of Richard's life which shocked and dismayed his
father—there was still a faint hope that he might not be guilty of
forgery—that it might be no forgery after all—only a blunder—an
omission—a stupendous piece of forgetfulness. That hope was the one
straw that Mr Bradshaw clung to.

Late that night Mr Benson sat in his study. Every one else in the
house had gone to bed; but he was expecting a summons to someone
who was dangerously ill. He was not startled, therefore, at the
knock which came to the front door about twelve; but he was rather
surprised at the character of the knock, so slow and loud, with a
pause between each rap. His study-door was but a step from that which
led into the street. He opened it, and there stood—Mr Bradshaw; his
large, portly figure not to be mistaken even in the dusky night.

He said, "That is right. It was you I wanted to see." And he walked
straight into the study. Mr Benson followed, and shut the door. Mr
Bradshaw was standing by the table, fumbling in his pocket. He pulled
out the deed; and opening it, after a pause, in which you might have
counted five, he held it out to Mr Benson.

"Read it!" said he. He spoke not another word until time had been
allowed for its perusal. Then he added:

"That is your signature?" The words were an assertion, but the tone
was that of question.

"No, it is not," said Mr Benson, decidedly. "It is very like my
writing. I could almost say it was mine, but I know it is not."

"Recollect yourself a little. The date is August the third of last
year, fourteen months ago. You may have forgotten it." The tone of
the voice had a kind of eager entreaty in it, which Mr Benson did not
notice,—he was so startled at the fetch of his own writing.

"It is most singularly like mine; but I could not have signed away
these shares—all the property I have—without the slightest
remembrance of it."

"Stranger things have happened. For the love of Heaven, think if you
did not sign it. It's a deed of transfer for those Insurance shares,
you see. You don't remember it? You did not write this name—these
words?" He looked at Mr Benson with craving wistfulness for one
particular answer. Mr Benson was struck at last by the whole
proceeding, and glanced anxiously at Mr Bradshaw, whose manner, gait,
and voice were so different from usual that he might well excite
attention. But as soon as the latter was aware of this momentary
inspection, he changed his tone all at once.

"Don't imagine, sir, I wish to force any invention upon you as a
remembrance. If you did not write this name, I know who did. Once
more I ask you,—does no glimmering recollection of—having needed
money, we'll say—I never wanted you to refuse my subscription to the
chapel, God knows!—of having sold these accursed shares?—Oh! I see
by your face you did not write it; you need not speak to me—I know."

He sank down into a chair near him. His whole figure drooped. In a
moment he was up, and standing straight as an arrow, confronting Mr
Benson, who could find no clue to this stern man's agitation.

"You say you did not write these words?" pointing to the signature,
with an untrembling finger. "I believe you; Richard Bradshaw did
write them."

"My dear sir—my dear old friend!" exclaimed Mr Benson, "you are
rushing to a conclusion for which, I am convinced, there is no
foundation; there is no reason to suppose that because—"

"There is reason, sir. Do not distress yourself—I am perfectly
calm." His stony eyes and immovable face did indeed look rigid. "What
we have now to do is to punish the offence. I have not one standard
for myself and those I love—(and, Mr Benson, I did love him)—and
another for the rest of the world. If a stranger had forged my
name, I should have known it was my duty to prosecute him. You must
prosecute Richard."

"I will not," said Mr Benson.

"You think, perhaps, that I shall feel it acutely. You are mistaken.
He is no longer as my son to me. I have always resolved to disown
any child of mine who was guilty of sin. I disown Richard. He is
as a stranger to me. I shall feel no more at his exposure—his
punishment—" He could not go on, for his voice was choking. "Of
course, you understand that I must feel shame at our connexion; it is
that that is troubling me; that is but consistent with a man who has
always prided himself on the integrity of his name; but as for that
boy, who has been brought up all his life as I have brought up my
children, it must be some innate wickedness! Sir, I can cut him off,
though he has been as my right hand—beloved. Let me be no hindrance
to the course of justice, I beg. He has forged your name—he has
defrauded you of money—of your all, I think you said."

"Someone has forged my name. I am not convinced that it was your son.
Until I know all the circumstances, I decline to prosecute."

"What circumstances?" asked Mr Bradshaw, in an authoritative manner,
which would have shown irritation but for his self-command.

"The force of the temptation—the previous habits of the person—"

"Of Richard. He is the person," Mr Bradshaw put in.

Mr Benson went on, without taking any notice. "I should think it
right to prosecute, if I found out that this offence against me was
only one of a series committed, with premeditation, against society.
I should then feel, as a protector of others more helpless than
myself—"

"It was your all," said Mr Bradshaw.

"It was all my money; it was not my all," replied Mr Benson; and
then he went on as if the interruption had never been: "Against an
habitual offender. I shall not prosecute Richard. Not because he is
your son—do not imagine that! I should decline taking such a step
against any young man without first ascertaining the particulars
about him, which I know already about Richard, and which determine me
against doing what would blast his character for life—would destroy
every good quality he has."

"What good quality remains to him?" asked Mr Bradshaw. "He has
deceived me—he has offended God."

"Have we not all offended Him?" Mr Benson said, in a low tone.

"Not consciously. I never do wrong consciously. But
Richard—Richard." The remembrance of the undeceiving letters—the
forgery—filled up his heart so completely that he could not speak
for a minute or two. Yet when he saw Mr Benson on the point of saying
something, he broke in:

"It is no use talking, sir. You and I cannot agree on these subjects.
Once more, I desire you to prosecute that boy, who is no longer a
child of mine."

"Mr Bradshaw, I shall not prosecute him. I have said it once for all.
To-morrow you will be glad that I do not listen to you. I should only
do harm by saying more at present."

There is always something aggravating in being told, that the mood in
which we are now viewing things strongly will not be our mood at some
other time. It implies that our present feelings are blinding us, and
that some more clear-sighted spectator is able to distinguish our
future better than we do ourselves. The most shallow person dislikes
to be told that any one can gauge his depth. Mr Bradshaw was not
soothed by this last remark of Mr Benson's. He stooped down to take
up his hat and be gone. Mr Benson saw his dizzy way of groping, and
gave him what he sought for; but he received no word of thanks. Mr
Bradshaw went silently towards the door, but, just as he got there,
he turned round, and said:

"If there were more people like me, and fewer like you, there would
be less evil in the world, sir. It's your sentimentalists that nurse
up sin."

Although Mr Benson had been very calm during this interview, he had
been much shocked by what had been let out respecting Richard's
forgery; not by the fact itself so much as by what it was a sign of.
Still, he had known the young man from childhood, and had seen, and
often regretted, that his want of moral courage had rendered him
peculiarly liable to all the bad effects arising from his father's
severe and arbitrary mode of treatment. Dick would never have had
"pluck" enough to be a hardened villain, under any circumstances;
but, unless some good influence, some strength, was brought to bear
upon him, he might easily sink into the sneaking scoundrel. Mr Benson
determined to go to Mr Farquhar's the first thing in the morning, and
consult him as a calm, clear-headed family friend—partner in the
business, as well as son and brother-in-law to the people concerned.

While Mr Benson lay awake for fear of oversleeping himself, and so
being late at Mr Farquhar's (it was somewhere about six o'clock—dark
as an October morning is at that time), Sally came to his door and
knocked. She was always an early riser; and if she had not been gone
to bed long before Mr Bradshaw's visit last night, Mr Benson might
safely have trusted to her calling him.

"Here's a woman down below as must see you directly. She'll be
upstairs after me if you're not down quick."

"Is it any one from Clarke's?"

"No, no! not it, master," said she, through the keyhole; "I reckon
it's Mrs Bradshaw, for all she's muffled up."

He needed no other word. When he went down, Mrs Bradshaw sat in
his easy-chair, swaying her body to and fro, and crying without
restraint. Mr Benson came up to her, before she was aware that he was
there.

"Oh! sir," said she, getting up and taking hold of both his
hands, "you won't be so cruel, will you? I have got some money
somewhere—some money my father settled on me, sir; I don't know how
much, but I think it's more than two thousand pounds, and you shall
have it all. If I can't give it you now, I'll make a will, sir. Only
be merciful to poor Dick—don't go and prosecute him, sir."

"My dear Mrs Bradshaw, don't agitate yourself in this way. I never
meant to prosecute him."

"But Mr Bradshaw says that you must."

"I shall not, indeed. I have told Mr Bradshaw so."

"Has he been here? Oh! is not he cruel? I don't care. I've been a
good wife till now. I know I have. I have done all he bid me, ever
since we were married. But now I will speak my mind, and say to
everybody how cruel he is—how hard to his own flesh and blood! If he
puts poor Dick in prison, I will go too. If I'm to choose between my
husband and my son, I choose my son; for he will have no friends,
unless I am with him."

"Mr Bradshaw will think better of it. You will see that, when his
first anger and disappointment are over, he will not be hard or
cruel."

"You don't know Mr Bradshaw," said she, mournfully, "if you think
he'll change. I might beg and beg—I have done many a time, when we
had little children, and I wanted to save them a whipping—but no
begging ever did any good. At last I left it off. He'll not change."

"Perhaps not for human entreaty. Mrs Bradshaw, is there nothing more
powerful?"

The tone of his voice suggested what he did not say.

"If you mean that God may soften his heart," replied she, humbly,
"I'm not going to deny God's power—I have need to think of Him,"
she continued, bursting into fresh tears, "for I am a very miserable
woman. Only think! he cast it up against me last night, and said, if
I had not spoilt Dick this never would have happened."

"He hardly knew what he was saying last night. I will go to Mr
Farquhar's directly, and see him; and you had better go home, my dear
Mrs Bradshaw; you may rely upon our doing all that we can."

With some difficulty he persuaded her not to accompany him to Mr
Farquhar's; but he had, indeed, to take her to her own door before he
could convince her that, at present, she could do nothing but wait
the result of the consultation of others.

It was before breakfast, and Mr Farquhar was alone; so Mr Benson had
a quiet opportunity of telling the whole story to the husband before
the wife came down. Mr Farquhar was not much surprised, though
greatly distressed. The general opinion he had always entertained
of Richard's character had predisposed him to fear, even before the
inquiry respecting the Insurance shares. But it was still a shock
when it came, however much it might have been anticipated.

"What can we do?" said Mr Benson, as Mr Farquhar sat gloomily silent.

"That is just what I was asking myself. I think I must see Mr
Bradshaw, and try and bring him a little out of this unmerciful frame
of mind. That must be the first thing. Will you object to accompany
me at once? It seems of particular consequence that we should subdue
his obduracy before the affair gets wind."

"I will go with you willingly. But I believe I rather serve to
irritate Mr Bradshaw; he is reminded of things he has said to me
formerly, and which he thinks he is bound to act up to. However, I
can walk with you to the door, and wait for you (if you'll allow
me) in the street. I want to know how he is to-day, both bodily and
mentally; for indeed, Mr Farquhar, I should not have been surprised
last night if he had dropped down dead, so terrible was his strain
upon himself."

Mr Benson was left at the door as he had desired, while Mr Farquhar
went in.

"Oh, Mr Farquhar, what is the matter?" exclaimed the girls, running
to him. "Mamma sits crying in the old nursery. We believe she has
been there all night. She will not tell us what it is, nor let us be
with her; and papa is locked up in his room, and won't even answer us
when we speak, though we know he is up and awake, for we heard him
tramping about all night."

"Let me go up to him," said Mr Farquhar.

"He won't let you in. It will be of no use." But in spite of what
they said, he went up; and to their surprise, after hearing who it
was, their father opened the door, and admitted their brother-in-law.
He remained with Mr Bradshaw about half an hour, and then came into
the dining-room, where the two girls stood huddled over the fire,
regardless of the untasted breakfast behind them; and, writing a few
lines, he desired them to take his note up to their mother, saying it
would comfort her a little, and that he should send Jemima, in two or
three hours, with the baby—perhaps to remain some days with them. He
had no time to tell them more; Jemima would.