Ruth (56 page)

He left them, and rejoined Mr Benson. "Come home and breakfast with
me. I am off to London in an hour or two, and must speak with you
first."

On reaching his house, he ran upstairs to ask Jemima to breakfast
alone in her dressing-room, and returned in five minutes or less.

"Now I can tell you about it," said he. "I see my way clearly to a
certain point. We must prevent Dick and his father meeting just now,
or all hope of Dick's reformation is gone for ever. His father is as
hard as the nether mill-stone. He has forbidden me his house."

"Forbidden you!"

"Yes; because I would not give up Dick as utterly lost and bad; and
because I said I should return to London with the clerk, and fairly
tell Dennison (he's a Scotchman, and a man of sense and feeling) the
real state of the case. By the way, we must not say a word to the
clerk; otherwise he will expect an answer, and make out all sorts of
inferences for himself, from the unsatisfactory reply he must have.
Dennison will be upon honour—will see every side of the case—will
know you refuse to prosecute; the Company of which he is manager are
no losers. Well! when I said what I thought wise, of all this—when
I spoke as if my course were a settled and decided thing, the grim
old man asked me if he was to be an automaton in his own house. He
assured me he had no feeling for Dick—all the time he was shaking
like an aspen; in short, repeated much the same things he must have
said to you last night. However, I defied him; and the consequence
is, I'm forbidden the house, and, what is more, he says he will not
come to the office while I remain a partner."

"What shall you do?"

"Send Jemima and the baby. There's nothing like a young child for
bringing people round to a healthy state of feeling; and you don't
know what Jemima is, Mr Benson! No! though you've known her from her
birth. If she can't comfort her mother, and if the baby can't steal
into her grandfather's heart, why—I don't know what you may do to
me. I shall tell Jemima all, and trust to her wit and wisdom to work
at this end, while I do my best at the other."

"Richard is abroad, is not he?"

"He will be in England to-morrow. I must catch him somewhere; but
that I can easily do. The difficult point will be, what to do with
him—what to say to him, when I find him. He must give up his
partnership, that's clear. I did not tell his father so, but I am
resolved upon it. There shall be no tampering with the honour of the
firm to which I belong."

"But what will become of him?" asked Mr Benson, anxiously.

"I do not yet know. But, for Jemima's sake—for his dear old father's
sake—I will not leave him adrift. I will find him some occupation
as clear from temptation as I can. I will do all in my power. And he
will do much better, if he has any good in him, as a freer agent, not
cowed by his father into a want of individuality and self-respect.
I believe I must dismiss you, Mr Benson," said he, looking at his
watch; "I have to explain all to my wife, and to go to that clerk.
You shall hear from me in a day or two."

Mr Benson half envied the younger man's elasticity of mind, and power
of acting promptly. He himself felt as if he wanted to sit down
in his quiet study, and think over the revelations and events of
the last twenty-four hours. It made him dizzy even to follow Mr
Farquhar's plans, as he had briefly detailed them; and some solitude
and consideration would be required before Mr Benson could decide
upon their justice and wisdom. He had been much shocked by the
discovery of the overt act of guilt which Richard had perpetrated,
low as his opinion of that young man had been for some time; and the
consequence was, that he felt depressed, and unable to rally for the
next few days. He had not even the comfort of his sister's sympathy,
as he felt bound in honour not to tell her anything; and she was
luckily so much absorbed in some household contest with Sally that
she did not notice her brother's quiet languor.

Mr Benson felt that he had no right at this time to intrude into the
house which he had been once tacitly forbidden. If he went now to Mr
Bradshaw's without being asked, or sent for, he thought it would seem
like presuming on his knowledge of the hidden disgrace of one of the
family. Yet he longed to go: he knew that Mr Farquhar must be writing
almost daily to Jemima, and he wanted to hear what he was doing. The
fourth day after her husband's departure she came, within half an
hour of the post-delivery, and asked to speak to Mr Benson alone.

She was in a state of great agitation, and had evidently been crying
very much.

"Oh, Mr Benson!" said she, "will you come with me, and tell papa this
sad news about Dick? Walter has written me a letter at last to say he
has found him—he could not at first; but now it seems that, the day
before yesterday, he heard of an accident which had happened to the
Dover coach; it was overturned—two passengers killed, and several
badly hurt. Walter says we ought to be thankful, as he is, that Dick
was not killed. He says it was such a relief to him on going to the
place—the little inn nearest to where the coach was overturned—to
find that Dick was only severely injured; not one of those who was
killed. But it is a terrible shock to us all. We had had no more
dreadful fear to lessen the shock; mamma is quite unfit for anything,
and we none of us dare to tell papa." Jemima had hard work to keep
down her sobs thus far, and now they overmastered her.

"How is your father? I have wanted to hear every day," asked Mr
Benson, tenderly.

"It was careless of me not to come and tell you; but, indeed, I have
had so much to do. Mamma would not go near him. He has said something
which she seems as if she could not forgive. Because he came to
meals, she would not. She has almost lived in the nursery; taking out
all Dick's old playthings, and what clothes of his were left, and
turning them over, and crying over them."

"Then Mr Bradshaw has joined you again; I was afraid, from what Mr
Farquhar said, he was going to isolate himself from you all?"

"I wish he had," said Jemima, crying afresh. "It would have been more
natural than the way he has gone on; the only difference from his
usual habits is, that he has never gone near the office, or else he
has come to meals just as usual, and talked just as usual; and even
done what I never knew him do before, tried to make jokes—all in
order to show us how little he cares."

"Does he not go out at all?"

"Only in the garden. I am sure he does care after all; he must care;
he cannot shake off a child in this way, though he thinks he can; and
that makes me so afraid of telling him of this accident. Will you
come, Mr Benson?"

He needed no other word. He went with her, as she rapidly threaded
her way through the by-streets. When they reached the house, she
went in without knocking, and putting her husband's letter into
Mr Benson's hand, she opened the door of her father's room, and
saying—"Papa, here is Mr Benson," left them alone.

Mr Benson felt nervously incapable of knowing what to do, or to say.
He had surprised Mr Bradshaw sitting idly over the fire—gazing
dreamily into the embers. But he had started up, and drawn his chair
to the table, on seeing his visitor; and, after the first necessary
words of politeness were over, he seemed to expect him to open the
conversation.

"Mrs Farquhar has asked me," said Mr Benson, plunging into the
subject with a trembling heart, "to tell you about a letter she has
received from her husband;" he stopped for an instant, for he felt
that he did not get nearer the real difficulty, and yet could not
tell the best way of approaching it.

"She need not have given you that trouble. I am aware of the reason
of Mr Farquhar's absence. I entirely disapprove of his conduct. He is
regardless of my wishes; and disobedient to the commands which, as my
son-in-law, I thought he would have felt bound to respect. If there
is any more agreeable subject that you can introduce, I shall be glad
to hear you, sir."

"Neither you, nor I, must think of what we like to hear or to say.
You must hear what concerns your son."

"I have disowned the young man who was my son," replied he, coldly.

"The Dover coach has been overturned," said Mr Benson, stimulated
into abruptness by the icy sternness of the father. But, in a flash,
he saw what lay below that terrible assumption of indifference. Mr
Bradshaw glanced up in his face one look of agony—and then went
grey-pale; so livid that Mr Benson got up to ring the bell in
affright, but Mr Bradshaw motioned to him to sit still.

"Oh! I have been too sudden, sir—he is alive, he is alive!" he
exclaimed, as he saw the ashy face working in a vain attempt to
speak; but the poor lips (so wooden, not a minute ago) went working
on and on, as if Mr Benson's words did not sink down into the mind,
or reach the understanding. Mr Benson went hastily for Mrs Farquhar.

"Oh, Jemima!" said he, "I have done it so badly—I have been so
cruel—he is very ill, I fear—bring water, brandy—" and he returned
with all speed into the room. Mr Bradshaw—the great, strong, iron
man—lay back in his chair in a swoon, a fit.

"Fetch my mother, Mary. Send for the doctor, Elizabeth," said Jemima,
rushing to her father. She and Mr Benson did all in their power to
restore him. Mrs Bradshaw forgot all her vows of estrangement from
the dead-like husband, who might never speak to her, or hear her
again, and bitterly accused herself for every angry word she had
spoken against him during these last few miserable days.

Before the doctor came, Mr Bradshaw had opened his eyes and partially
rallied, although he either did not, or could not speak. He looked
struck down into old age. His eyes were sensible in their expression,
but had the dim glaze of many years of life upon them. His lower jaw
fell from his upper one, giving a look of melancholy depression to
the face, although the lips hid the unclosed teeth. But he answered
correctly (in monosyllables, it is true) all the questions which the
doctor chose to ask. And the medical man was not so much impressed
with the serious character of the seizure as the family, who knew
all the hidden mystery behind, and had seen their father lie for the
first time with the precursor aspect of death upon his face. Rest,
watching, and a little medicine were what the doctor prescribed; it
was so slight a prescription, for what had appeared to Mr Benson so
serious an attack, that he wished to follow the medical man out of
the room to make further inquiries, and learn the real opinion which
he thought must lurk behind. But as he was following the doctor,
he—they all—were aware of the effort Mr Bradshaw was making to
rise, in order to arrest Mr Benson's departure. He did stand up,
supporting himself with one hand on the table, for his legs shook
under him. Mr Benson came back instantly to the spot where he was.
For a moment it seemed as if he had not the right command of his
voice: but at last he said, with a tone of humble, wistful entreaty,
which was very touching:

"He is alive, sir; is he not?"

"Yes, sir—indeed he is; he is only hurt. He is sure to do well. Mr
Farquhar is with him," said Mr Benson, almost unable to speak for
tears.

Mr Bradshaw did not remove his eyes from Mr Benson's face for more
than a minute after his question had been answered. He seemed as
though he would read his very soul, and there see if he spoke the
truth. Satisfied at last, he sank slowly into his chair; and they
were silent for a little space, waiting to perceive if he would wish
for any further information just then. At length he put his hands
slowly together in the clasped attitude of prayer, and said—"Thank
God!"

If Jemima allowed herself now and then to imagine that one good would
result from the discovery of Richard's delinquency, in the return of
her father and Mr Benson to something of their old understanding and
their old intercourse—if this hope fluttered through her mind, it
was doomed to disappointment. Mr Benson would have been most happy
to go, if Mr Bradshaw had sent for him; he was on the watch for
what might be even the shadow of such an invitation—but none came.
Mr Bradshaw, on his part, would have been thoroughly glad if the
wilful seclusion of his present life could have been broken by the
occasional visits of the old friend whom he had once forbidden the
house; but this prohibition having passed his lips, he stubbornly
refused to do anything which might be construed into unsaying it.
Jemima was for some time in despair of his ever returning to the
office, or resuming his old habits of business. He had evidently
threatened as much to her husband. All that Jemima could do was to
turn a deaf ear to every allusion to this menace, which he threw out
from time to time, evidently with a view to see if it had struck deep
enough into her husband's mind for him to have repeated it to his
wife. If Mr Farquhar had named it—if it was known only to two or
three to have been, but for one half-hour even, his resolution—Mr
Bradshaw could have adhered to it, without any other reason than the
maintenance of what he called consistency, but which was in fact
doggedness. Jemima was often thankful that her mother was absent,
and gone to nurse her son. If she had been at home, she would have
entreated and implored her husband to fall back into his usual
habits, and would have shown such a dread of his being as good as his
word, that he would have been compelled to adhere to it by the very
consequence affixed to it. Mr Farquhar had hard work, as it was,
in passing rapidly enough between the two places—attending to his
business at Eccleston; and deciding, comforting, and earnestly
talking, in Richard's sick-room. During an absence of his, it
was necessary to apply to one of the partners on some matter of
importance; and accordingly, to Jemima's secret joy, Mr Watson came
up and asked if her father was well enough to see him on business?
Jemima carried in this inquiry literally; and the hesitating answer
which her father gave was in the affirmative. It was not long before
she saw him leave the house, accompanied by the faithful old clerk;
and when he met her at dinner, he made no allusion to his morning
visitor, or to his subsequent going out. But from that time forwards
he went regularly to the office. He received all the information
about Dick's accident, and his progress towards recovery, in perfect
silence, and in as indifferent a manner as he could assume; but yet
he lingered about the family sitting-room every morning until the
post had come in which brought all letters from the south.