Leonard's Christening
In that body of Dissenters to which Mr Benson belonged, it is not
considered necessary to baptize infants as early as the ceremony can
be performed; and many circumstances concurred to cause the solemn
thanksgiving and dedication of the child (for so these Dissenters
look upon christenings) to be deferred until it was probably
somewhere about six months old. There had been many conversations
in the little sitting-room between the brother and sister and their
_protegée_, which had consisted more of questions betraying a
thoughtful wondering kind of ignorance on the part of Ruth, and
answers more suggestive than explanatory from Mr Benson; while Miss
Benson kept up a kind of running commentary, always simple and often
quaint, but with that intuition into the very heart of all things
truly religious which is often the gift of those who seem, at first
sight, to be only affectionate and sensible. When Mr Benson had
explained his own views of what a christening ought to be considered,
and, by calling out Ruth's latent feelings into pious earnestness,
brought her into a right frame of mind, he felt that he had done what
he could to make the ceremony more than a mere form, and to invest
it, quiet, humble, and obscure as it must necessarily be in outward
shape--mournful and anxious as much of its antecedents had rendered
it--with the severe grandeur of an act done in faith and truth.
It was not far to carry the little one, for, as I said, the chapel
almost adjoined the minister's house. The whole procession was
to have consisted of Mr and Miss Benson, Ruth carrying her baby,
and Sally, who felt herself, as a Church-of-England woman, to be
condescending and kind in requesting leave to attend a baptism among
"them Dissenters;" but unless she had asked permission, she would
not have been desired to attend, so careful was the habit of her
master and mistress that she should be allowed that freedom which
they claimed for themselves. But they were glad she wished to go;
they liked the feeling that all were of one household, and that
the interests of one were the interests of all. It produced a
consequence, however, which they did not anticipate. Sally was full
of the event which her presence was to sanction, and, as it were,
to redeem from the character of being utterly schismatic; she spoke
about it with an air of patronage to three or four, and among them to
some of the servants at Mr Bradshaw's.
Miss Benson was rather surprised to receive a call from Jemima
Bradshaw, on the very morning of the day on which little Leonard was
to be baptized; Miss Bradshaw was rosy and breathless with eagerness.
Although the second in the family, she had been at school when her
younger sisters had been christened, and she was now come, in the
full warmth of a girl's fancy, to ask if she might be present at the
afternoon's service. She had been struck with Mrs Denbigh's grace
and beauty at the very first sight, when she had accompanied her
mother to call upon the Bensons on their return from Wales; and had
kept up an enthusiastic interest in the widow only a little older
than herself, whose very reserve and retirement but added to her
unconscious power of enchantment.
"Oh, Miss Benson! I never saw a christening; papa says I may go, if
you think Mr Benson and Mrs Denbigh would not dislike it; and I will
be quite quiet, and sit up behind the door, or anywhere; and that
sweet little baby! I should so like to see him christened; is he to
be called Leonard, did you say? After Mr Denbigh, is it?"
"No--not exactly," said Miss Benson, rather discomfited.
"Was not Mr Denbigh's name Leonard, then? Mamma thought it would be
sure to be called after him, and so did I. But I may come to the
christening, may I not, dear Miss Benson?"
Miss Benson gave her consent with a little inward reluctance.
Both her brother and Ruth shared in this feeling, although no one
expressed it; and it was presently forgotten.
Jemima stood grave and quiet in the old-fashioned vestry adjoining
the chapel, as they entered with steps subdued to slowness. She
thought Ruth looked so pale and awed because she was left a solitary
parent; but Ruth came to the presence of God, as one who had gone
astray, and doubted her own worthiness to be called His child; she
came as a mother who had incurred a heavy responsibility, and who
entreated His almighty aid to enable her to discharge it; full of
passionate, yearning love which craved for more faith in God, to
still her distrust and fear of the future that might hang over her
darling. When she thought of her boy, she sickened and trembled;
but when she heard of God's loving-kindness, far beyond all tender
mother's love, she was hushed into peace and prayer. There she stood,
her fair pale cheek resting on her baby's head, as he slumbered on
her bosom; her eyes went slanting down under their half-closed white
lids; but their gaze was not on the primitive cottage-like room, it
was earnestly fixed on a dim mist, through which she fain would have
seen the life that lay before her child; but the mist was still and
dense, too thick a veil for anxious human love to penetrate. The
future was hid with God.
Mr Benson stood right under the casement window that was placed high
up in the room; he was almost in shade, except for one or two marked
lights which fell on hair already silvery white; his voice was always
low and musical when he spoke to few; it was too weak to speak so as
to be heard by many without becoming harsh and strange; but now it
filled the little room with a loving sound, like the stock-dove's
brooding murmur over her young. He and Ruth forgot all in their
earnestness of thought; and when he said "Let us pray," and the
little congregation knelt down, you might have heard the baby's faint
breathing, scarcely sighing out upon the stillness, so absorbed were
all in the solemnity. But the prayer was long; thought followed
thought, and fear crowded upon fear, and all were to be laid bare
before God, and His aid and counsel asked. Before the end Sally had
shuffled quietly out of the vestry into the green chapel-yard, upon
which the door opened. Miss Benson was alive to this movement, and so
full of curiosity as to what it might mean that she could no longer
attend to her brother, and felt inclined to rush off and question
Sally the moment all was ended. Miss Bradshaw hung about the babe
and Ruth, and begged to be allowed to carry the child home, but Ruth
pressed him to her, as if there was no safe harbour for him but in
his mother's breast. Mr Benson saw her feeling, and caught Miss
Bradshaw's look of disappointment.
"Come home with us," said he, "and stay to tea. You have never drank
tea with us since you went to school."
"I wish I might," said Miss Bradshaw, colouring with pleasure. "But I
must ask papa. May I run home and ask?"
"To be sure, my dear!"
Jemima flew off; and fortunately her father was at home; for her
mother's permission would have been deemed insufficient. She received
many directions about her behaviour.
"Take no sugar in your tea, Jemima. I am sure the Bensons ought not
to be able to afford sugar, with their means. And do not eat much;
you can have plenty at home on your return; remember Mrs Denbigh's
keep must cost them a great deal."
So Jemima returned considerably sobered, and very much afraid of her
hunger leading her to forget Mr Benson's poverty. Meanwhile Miss
Benson and Sally, acquainted with Mr Benson's invitation to Jemima,
set about making some capital tea-cakes on which they piqued
themselves. They both enjoyed the offices of hospitality; and were
glad to place some home-made tempting dainty before their guests.
"What made ye leave the chapel-vestry before my brother had ended?"
inquired Miss Benson.
"Indeed, ma'am, I thought master had prayed so long he'd be drouthy.
So I just slipped out to put on the kettle for tea."
Miss Benson was on the point of reprimanding her for thinking of
anything besides the object of the prayer, when she remembered how
she herself had been unable to attend after Sally's departure for
wondering what had become of her; so she was silent.
It was a disappointment to Miss Benson's kind and hospitable
expectation when Jemima, as hungry as a hound, confined herself
to one piece of the cake which her hostess had had such pleasure
in making. And Jemima wished she had not a prophetic feeling all
tea-time of the manner in which her father would inquire into the
particulars of the meal, elevating his eyebrows at every viand named
beyond plain bread-and-butter, and winding up with some such sentence
as this: "Well, I marvel how, with Benson's salary, he can afford to
keep such a table." Sally could have told of self-denial when no one
was by, when the left hand did not know what the right hand did, on
the part of both her master and mistress, practised without thinking
even to themselves that it was either a sacrifice or a virtue, in
order to enable them to help those who were in need, or even to
gratify Miss Benson's kind, old-fashioned feelings on such occasions
as the present, when a stranger came to the house. Her homely,
affectionate pleasure in making others comfortable, might have shown
that such little occasional extravagances were not waste, but a good
work; and were not to be gauged by the standard of money-spending.
This evening her spirits were damped by Jemima's refusal to eat. Poor
Jemima! the cakes were so good, and she was so hungry; but still she
refused.
While Sally was clearing away the tea-things, Miss Benson and Jemima
accompanied Ruth upstairs, when she went to put little Leonard to
bed.
"A christening is a very solemn service," said Miss Bradshaw; "I had
no idea it was so solemn. Mr Benson seemed to speak as if he had a
weight of care on his heart that God alone could relieve or lighten."
"My brother feels these things very much," said Miss Benson, rather
wishing to cut short the conversation, for she had been aware of
several parts in the prayer which she knew were suggested by the
peculiarity and sadness of the case before him.
"I could not quite follow him all through," continued Jemima; "what
did he mean by saying, 'This child, rebuked by the world and bidden
to stand apart, Thou wilt not rebuke, but wilt suffer it to come to
Thee and be blessed with Thine almighty blessing'? Why is this little
darling to be rebuked? I do not think I remember the exact words, but
he said something like that."
"My dear! your gown is dripping wet! it must have dipped into the
tub; let me wring it out."
"Oh, thank you! Never mind my gown!" said Jemima, hastily, and
wanting to return to her question; but just then she caught the sight
of tears falling fast down the cheeks of the silent Ruth as she bent
over her child, crowing and splashing away in his tub. With a sudden
consciousness that unwittingly she had touched on some painful chord,
Jemima rushed into another subject, and was eagerly seconded by Miss
Benson. The circumstance seemed to die away, and leave no trace;
but in after-years it rose, vivid and significant, before Jemima's
memory. At present it was enough for her, if Mrs Denbigh would let
her serve her in every possible way. Her admiration for beauty was
keen, and little indulged at home; and Ruth was very beautiful in her
quiet mournfulness; her mean and homely dress left herself only the
more open to admiration, for she gave it a charm by her unconscious
wearing of it that made it seem like the drapery of an old Greek
statue--subordinate to the figure it covered, yet imbued by it with
an unspeakable grace. Then the pretended circumstances of her life
were such as to catch the imagination of a young romantic girl.
Altogether, Jemima could have kissed her hand and professed herself
Ruth's slave. She moved away all the articles used at this little
_coucher_; she folded up Leonard's day-clothes; she felt only too
much honoured when Ruth trusted him to her for a few minutes--only
too amply rewarded when Ruth thanked her with a grave, sweet smile,
and a grateful look of her loving eyes.
When Jemima had gone away with the servant who was sent to fetch her,
there was a little chorus of praise.
"She's a warm-hearted girl," said Miss Benson. "She remembers all the
old days before she went to school. She is worth two of Mr Richard.
They're each of them just the same as they were when they were
children, when they broke that window in the chapel, and he ran
away home, and she came knocking at our door, with a single knock,
just like a beggar's, and I went to see who it was, and was quite
startled to see her round, brown, honest face looking up at me,
half-frightened, and telling me what she had done, and offering me
the money in her savings bank to pay for it. We never should have
heard of Master Richard's share in the business if it had not been
for Sally."
"But remember," said Mr Benson, "how strict Mr Bradshaw has always
been with his children. It is no wonder if poor Richard was a coward
in those days."
"He is now, or I'm much mistaken," answered Miss Benson. "And Mr
Bradshaw was just as strict with Jemima, and she's no coward. But
I've no faith in Richard. He has a look about him that I don't like.
And when Mr Bradshaw was away on business in Holland last year, for
those months my young gentleman did not come half as regularly to
chapel, and I always believe that story of his being seen out with
the hounds at Smithiles."
"Those are neither of them great offences in a young man of twenty,"
said Mr Benson, smiling.
"No! I don't mind them in themselves; but when he could change back
so easily to being regular and mim when his father came home, I don't
like that."
"Leonard shall never be afraid of me," said Ruth, following her own
train of thought. "I will be his friend from the very first; and I
will try and learn how to be a wise friend, and you will teach me,
won't you, sir?"
"What made you wish to call him Leonard, Ruth?" asked Miss Benson.
"It was my mother's father's name; and she used to tell me about him
and his goodness, and I thought if Leonard could be like him--"
"Do you remember the discussion there was about Miss Bradshaw's name,
Thurstan? Her father wanting her to be called Hepzibah, but insisting
that she was to have a Scripture name at any rate; and Mrs Bradshaw
wanting her to be Juliana, after some novel she had read not long
before; and at last Jemima was fixed upon, because it would do either
for a Scripture name or a name for a heroine out of a book."
"I did not know Jemima was a Scripture name," said Ruth.
"Oh yes, it is. One of Job's daughters; Jemima, Kezia, and
Keren-Happuch. There are a good many Jemimas in the world, and some
Kezias, but I never heard of a Keren-Happuch; and yet we know just as
much of one as of another. People really like a pretty name, whether
in Scripture or out of it."
"When there is no particular association with the name," said Mr
Benson.
"Now, I was called Faith after the cardinal virtue; and I like my
name, though many people would think it too Puritan; that was
according to our gentle mother's pious desire. And Thurstan was
called by his name because my father wished it; for, although he was
what people called a radical and a democrat in his ways of talking
and thinking, he was very proud in his heart of being descended from
some old Sir Thurstan, who figured away in the French wars."
"The difference between theory and practice, thinking and being," put
in Mr Benson, who was in a mood for allowing himself a little social
enjoyment. He leant back in his chair, with his eyes looking at,
but not seeing the ceiling. Miss Benson was clicking away with her
eternal knitting-needles, looking at her brother, and seeing him,
too. Ruth was arranging her child's clothes against the morrow. It
was but their usual way of spending an evening; the variety was given
by the different tone which the conversation assumed on the different
nights. Yet, somehow, the peacefulness of the time, the window open
into the little garden, the scents that came stealing in, and the
clear summer heaven above, made the time be remembered as a happy
festival by Ruth. Even Sally seemed more placid than usual when she
came in to prayers; and she and Miss Benson followed Ruth to her
bedroom, to look at the beautiful sleeping Leonard.
"God bless him!" said Miss Benson, stooping down to kiss his little
dimpled hand, which lay outside the coverlet, tossed abroad in the
heat of the evening.
"Now, don't get up too early, Ruth! Injuring your health will be
short-sighted wisdom and poor economy. Good night!"
"Good night, dear Miss Benson. Good night, Sally." When Ruth had shut
her door, she went again to the bed, and looked at her boy till her
eyes filled with tears.
"God bless thee, darling! I only ask to be one of His instruments,
and not thrown aside as useless--or worse than useless."
So ended the day of Leonard's christening.
Mr Benson had sometimes taught the children of different people as
an especial favour, when requested by them. But then his pupils were
only children, and by their progress he was little prepared for
Ruth's. She had had early teaching, of that kind which need never be
unlearnt, from her mother; enough to unfold many of her powers; they
had remained inactive now for several years, but had grown strong
in the dark and quiet time. Her tutor was surprised at the bounds
by which she surmounted obstacles, the quick perception and ready
adaptation of truths and first principles, and her immediate sense of
the fitness of things. Her delight in what was strong and beautiful
called out her master's sympathy; but, most of all, he admired the
complete unconsciousness of uncommon power, or unusual progress. It
was less of a wonder than he considered it to be, it is true, for
she never thought of comparing what she was now with her former self,
much less with another. Indeed, she did not think of herself at all,
but of her boy, and what she must learn in order to teach him to be
and to do as suited her hope and her prayer. If any one's devotion
could have flattered her into self-consciousness, it was Jemima's. Mr
Bradshaw never dreamed that his daughter could feel herself inferior
to the minister's _protegée_, but so it was; and no knight-errant of
old could consider himself more honoured by his ladye's commands than
did Jemima, if Ruth allowed her to do anything for her or for her
boy. Ruth loved her heartily, even while she was rather annoyed at
the open expressions Jemima used of admiration.
"Please, I really would rather not be told if people do think me
pretty."
"But it was not merely beautiful; it was sweet-looking and good, Mrs
Postlethwaite called you," replied Jemima.
"All the more I would rather not hear it. I may be pretty, but I know
I am not good. Besides, I don't think we ought to hear what is said
of us behind our backs."
Ruth spoke so gravely, that Jemima feared lest she was displeased.
"Dear Mrs Denbigh, I never will admire or praise you again. Only let
me love you."
"And let me love you!" said Ruth, with a tender kiss.
Jemima would not have been allowed to come so frequently if Mr
Bradshaw had not been possessed with the idea of patronising Ruth. If
the latter had chosen, she might have gone dressed from head to foot
in the presents which he wished to make her, but she refused them
constantly; occasionally to Miss Benson's great annoyance. But if
he could not load her with gifts, he could show his approbation by
asking her to his house; and after some deliberation, she consented
to accompany Mr and Miss Benson there. The house was square and
massy-looking, with a great deal of drab-colour about the furniture.
Mrs Bradshaw, in her lackadaisical, sweet-tempered way, seconded her
husband in his desire of being kind to Ruth; and as she cherished
privately a great taste for what was beautiful or interesting, as
opposed to her husband's love of the purely useful, this taste of
hers had rarely had so healthy and true a mode of gratification as
when she watched Ruth's movements about the room, which seemed in
its unobtrusiveness and poverty of colour to receive the requisite
ornament of light and splendour from Ruth's presence. Mrs Bradshaw
sighed, and wished she had a daughter as lovely, about whom to weave
a romance; for castle-building, after the manner of the Minerva
press, was the outlet by which she escaped from the pressure of her
prosaic life, as Mr Bradshaw's wife. Her perception was only of
external beauty, and she was not always alive to that, or she might
have seen how a warm, affectionate, ardent nature, free from all
envy or carking care of self, gave an unspeakable charm to her plain,
bright-faced daughter Jemima, whose dark eyes kept challenging
admiration for her friend. The first evening spent at Mr Bradshaw's
passed like many succeeding visits there. There was tea, the equipage
for which was as handsome and as ugly as money could purchase. Then
the ladies produced their sewing, while Mr Bradshaw stood before
the fire, and gave the assembled party the benefit of his opinions
on many subjects. The opinions were as good and excellent as the
opinions of any man can be who sees one side of a case very strongly,
and almost ignores the other. They coincided in many points with
those held by Mr Benson, but he once or twice interposed with a plea
for those who might differ; and then he was heard by Mr Bradshaw with
a kind of evident and indulgent pity, such as one feels for a child
who unwittingly talks nonsense. By-and-by, Mrs Bradshaw and Miss
Benson fell into one _tête à tête_, and Ruth and Jemima into another.
Two well-behaved but unnaturally quiet children were sent to bed
early in the evening, in an authoritative voice, by their father,
because one of them had spoken too loud while he was enlarging on an
alteration in the tariff. Just before the supper-tray was brought in,
a gentleman was announced whom Ruth had never previously seen, but
who appeared well known to the rest of the party. It was Mr Farquhar,
Mr Bradshaw's partner; he had been on the Continent for the last
year, and had only recently returned. He seemed perfectly at home,
but spoke little. He leaned back in his chair, screwed up his
eyes, and watched everybody; yet there was nothing unpleasant or
impertinent in his keenness of observation. Ruth wondered to hear
him contradict Mr Bradshaw, and almost expected some rebuff; but Mr
Bradshaw, if he did not yield the point, admitted, for the first time
that evening, that it was possible something might be said on the
other side. Mr Farquhar differed also from Mr Benson, but it was in a
more respectful manner than Mr Bradshaw had done. For these reasons,
although Mr Farquhar had never spoken to Ruth, she came away with the
impression that he was a man to be respected, and perhaps liked.
Sally would have thought herself mightily aggrieved if, on their
return, she had not heard some account of the evening. As soon as
Miss Benson came in, the old servant began:
"Well, and who was there? and what did they give you for supper?"
"Only Mr Farquhar besides ourselves; and sandwiches, sponge-cake, and
wine; there was no occasion for anything more," replied Miss Benson,
who was tired and preparing to go upstairs.
"Mr Farquhar! Why they do say he's thinking of Miss Jemima!"
"Nonsense, Sally! why he's old enough to be her father!" said Miss
Benson, half way up the first flight.
"There's no need for it to be called nonsense, though he may be
ten year older," muttered Sally, retreating towards the kitchen.
"Bradshaw's Betsy knows what she's about, and wouldn't have said it
for nothing."
Ruth wondered a little about it. She loved Jemima well enough to be
interested in what related to her; but, after thinking for a few
minutes, she decided that such a marriage was, and would ever be,
very unlikely.