Ruth, Elizabeth Gaskell [read this if TXT] 📗
- Author: Elizabeth Gaskell
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“Some one 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.
AN ACCIDENT TO THE DOVER COACH
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 you 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 have 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 consultations 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 its 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 that 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.
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 millstone. 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
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