Ruth, Elizabeth Gaskell [read this if TXT] 📗

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, repeating 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 dour 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 after 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 habit 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 senseless 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