Mr Bradshaw's Virtuous Indignation
So it was that Jemima no longer avoided Ruth, nor manifested by
word or look the dislike which for a long time she had been scarce
concealing. Ruth could not help noticing that Jemima always sought to
be in her presence while she was at Mr Bradshaw's house; either when
daily teaching Mary and Elizabeth, or when she came as an occasional
visitor with Mr and Miss Benson, or by herself. Up to this time
Jemima had used no gentle skill to conceal the abruptness with which
she would leave the room rather than that Ruth and she should be
brought into contact--rather than that it should fall to her lot to
entertain Ruth during any part of the evening. It was months since
Jemima had left off sitting in the schoolroom, as had been her wont
during the first few years of Ruth's governess-ship. Now, each
morning Miss Bradshaw seated herself at a little round table in the
window, at her work, or at her writing; but whether she sewed, or
wrote, or read, Ruth felt that she was always watching--watching. At
first Ruth had welcomed all these changes in habit and behaviour,
as giving her a chance, she thought, by some patient waiting or
some opportune show of enduring, constant love, to regain her lost
friend's regard; but by-and-by the icy chillness, immovable and grey,
struck more to her heart than many sudden words of unkindness could
have done. They might be attributed to the hot impulses of a hasty
temper--to the vehement anger of an accuser; but this measured manner
was the conscious result of some deep-seated feeling; this cold
sternness befitted the calm implacability of some severe judge. The
watching, which Ruth felt was ever upon her, made her unconsciously
shiver, as you would if you saw that the passionless eyes of the dead
were visibly gazing upon you. Her very being shrivelled and parched
up in Jemima's presence, as if blown upon by a bitter, keen, east
wind.
Jemima bent every power she possessed upon the one object of
ascertaining what Ruth really was. Sometimes the strain was very
painful; the constant tension made her soul weary; and she moaned
aloud, and upbraided circumstance (she dared not go higher--to the
Maker of circumstance) for having deprived her of her unsuspicious
happy ignorance.
Things were in this state when Mr Richard Bradshaw came on his annual
home visit. He was to remain another year in London, and then to
return and be admitted into the firm. After he had been a week at
home, he grew tired of the monotonous regularity of his father's
household, and began to complain of it to Jemima.
"I wish Farquhar were at home. Though he is such a stiff, quiet old
fellow, his coming in in the evenings makes a change. What has become
of the Millses? They used to drink tea with us sometimes, formerly."
"Oh! papa and Mr Mills took opposite sides at the election, and we
have never visited since. I don't think they are any great loss."
"Anybody is a loss--the stupidest bore that ever was would be a
blessing, if he only would come in sometimes."
"Mr and Miss Benson have drank tea here twice since you came."
"Come, that's capital! Apropos of stupid bores, you talk of the
Bensons. I did not think you had so much discrimination, my little
sister."
Jemima looked up in surprise; and then reddened angrily.
"I never meant to say a word against Mr or Miss Benson, and that you
know quite well, Dick."
"Never mind! I won't tell tales. They are stupid old fogeys, but they
are better than nobody, especially as that handsome governess of the
girls always comes with them to be looked at."
There was a little pause; Richard broke it by saying:
"Do you know, Mimie, I've a notion, if she plays her cards well, she
may hook Farquhar!"
"Who?" asked Jemima, shortly, though she knew quite well.
"Mrs Denbigh, to be sure. We were talking of her, you know. Farquhar
asked me to dine with him at his hotel as he passed through town,
and--I'd my own reasons for going and trying to creep up his
sleeve--I wanted him to tip me, as he used to do."
"For shame! Dick," burst in Jemima.
"Well! well! not tip me exactly, but lend me some money. The governor
keeps me so deucedly short."
"Why! it was only yesterday, when my father was speaking about your
expenses, and your allowance, I heard you say that you'd more than
you knew how to spend."
"Don't you see that was the perfection of art? If my father had
thought me extravagant, he would have kept me in with a tight rein;
as it is, I'm in great hopes of a handsome addition, and I can tell
you it's needed. If my father had given me what I ought to have had
at first, I should not have been driven to the speculations and
messes I've got into."
"What speculations? What messes?" asked Jemima, with anxious
eagerness.
"Oh! messes was not the right word. Speculations hardly was; for
they are sure to turn out well, and then I shall surprise my father
with my riches." He saw that he had gone a little too far in his
confidence, and was trying to draw in.
"But, what do you mean? Do explain it to me."
"Never you trouble your head about my business, my dear. Women can't
understand the share-market, and such things. Don't think I've
forgotten the awful blunders you made when you tried to read the
state of the money-market aloud to my father, that night when he
had lost his spectacles. What were we talking of? Oh! of Farquhar
and pretty Mrs Denbigh. Yes! I soon found out that was the subject
my gentleman liked me to dwell on. He did not talk about her much
himself, but his eyes sparkled when I told him what enthusiastic
letters Polly and Elizabeth wrote about her. How old d'ye think she
is?"
"I know!" said Jemima. "At least, I heard her age spoken
about, amongst other things, when first she came. She will be
five-and-twenty this autumn."
"And Farquhar is forty, if he is a day. She's young, too, to have
such a boy as Leonard; younger-looking, or full as young-looking as
she is! I tell you what, Mimie, she looks younger than you. How old
are you? Three-and-twenty, ain't it?"
"Last March," replied Jemima.
"You'll have to make haste and pick up somebody, if you're losing
your good looks at this rate. Why, Jemima, I thought you had a good
chance of Farquhar a year or two ago. How come you to have lost him?
I'd far rather you'd had him than that proud, haughty Mrs Denbigh,
who flashes her great grey eyes upon me if ever I dare to pay her a
compliment. She ought to think it an honour that I take that much
notice of her. Besides, Farquhar is rich, and it's keeping the
business of the firm in one's own family; and if he marries Mrs
Denbigh she will be sure to be wanting Leonard in when he's of age,
and I won't have that. Have a try for Farquhar, Mimie! Ten to one
it's not too late. I wish I'd brought you a pink bonnet down. You go
about so dowdy--so careless of how you look."
"If Mr Farquhar has not liked me as I am," said Jemima, choking, "I
don't want to owe him to a pink bonnet."
"Nonsense! I don't like to have my sisters' governess stealing a
march on my sister. I tell you Farquhar is worth trying for. If
you'll wear the pink bonnet I'll give it you, and I'll back you
against Mrs Denbigh. I think you might have done something with
'our member,' as my father calls him, when you had him so long
in the house. But, altogether, I should like Farquhar best for a
brother-in-law. By the way, have you heard down here that Donne is
going to be married? I heard of it in town, just before I left, from
a man that was good authority. Some Sir Thomas Campbell's seventh
daughter: a girl without a penny; father ruined himself by gambling,
and obliged to live abroad. But Donne is not a man to care for any
obstacle, from all accounts, when once he has taken a fancy. It was
love at first sight, they say. I believe he did not know of her
existence a month ago."
"No! we have not heard of it," replied Jemima. "My father will like
to know; tell it him;" continued she, as she was leaving the room, to
be alone, in order to still her habitual agitation whenever she heard
Mr Farquhar and Ruth coupled together.
Mr Farquhar came home the day before Richard Bradshaw left for town.
He dropped in after tea at the Bradshaws'; he was evidently
disappointed to see none but the family there, and looked round
whenever the door opened.
"Look! look!" said Dick to his sister. "I wanted to make sure of
his coming in to-night, to save me my father's parting exhortations
against the temptations of the world (as if I did not know much more
of the world than he does!), so I used a spell I thought would prove
efficacious; I told him that we should be by ourselves, with the
exception of Mrs Denbigh, and look how he is expecting her to come
in!"
Jemima did see; did understand. She understood, too, why certain
packets were put carefully on one side, apart from the rest of the
purchases of Swiss toys and jewellery, by which Mr Farquhar proved
that none of Mr Bradshaw's family had been forgotten by him during
his absence. Before the end of the evening, she was very conscious
that her sore heart had not forgotten how to be jealous. Her brother
did not allow a word, a look, or an incident, which might be supposed
on Mr Farquhar's side to refer to Ruth, to pass unnoticed; he
pointed out all to his sister, never dreaming of the torture he was
inflicting, only anxious to prove his own extreme penetration. At
length Jemima could stand it no longer, and left the room. She went
into the schoolroom, where the shutters were not closed, as it only
looked into the garden. She opened the window, to let the cool night
air blow in on her hot cheeks. The clouds were hurrying over the
moon's face in a tempestuous and unstable manner, making all things
seem unreal; now clear out in its bright light, now trembling and
quivering in shadow. The pain at her heart seemed to make Jemima's
brain grow dull; she laid her head on her arms, which rested on the
window-sill, and grew dizzy with the sick weary notion that the earth
was wandering lawless and aimless through the heavens, where all
seemed one tossed and whirling wrack of clouds. It was a waking
nightmare, from the uneasy heaviness of which she was thankful to be
roused by Dick's entrance.
"What, you are here, are you? I have been looking everywhere for you.
I wanted to ask you if you have any spare money you could lend me for
a few weeks?"
"How much do you want?" asked Jemima, in a dull, hopeless voice.
"Oh! the more the better. But I should be glad of any trifle, I am
kept so confoundedly short."
When Jemima returned with her little store, even her careless,
selfish brother was struck by the wanness of her face, lighted by the
bed-candle she carried.
"Come, Mimie, don't give it up. If I were you, I would have a good
try against Mrs Denbigh. I'll send you the bonnet as soon as ever
I get back to town, and you pluck up a spirit, and I'll back you
against her even yet."
It seemed to Jemima strange--and yet only a fitting part of this
strange, chaotic world--to find that her brother, who was the last
person to whom she could have given her confidence in her own family,
and almost the last person of her acquaintance to whom she could look
for real help and sympathy, should have been the only one to hit upon
the secret of her love. And the idea passed away from his mind as
quickly as all ideas not bearing upon his own self-interests did.
The night, the sleepless night, was so crowded and haunted by
miserable images, that she longed for day; and when day came, with
its stinging realities, she wearied and grew sick for the solitude of
night. For the next week, she seemed to see and hear nothing but what
confirmed the idea of Mr Farquhar's decided attachment to Ruth. Even
her mother spoke of it as a thing which was impending, and which she
wondered how Mr Bradshaw would like; for his approval or disapproval
was the standard by which she measured all things.
"Oh! merciful God," prayed Jemima, in the dead silence of the night,
"the strain is too great--I cannot bear it longer--my life--my
love--the very essence of me, which is myself through time and
eternity; and on the other side there is all-pitying Charity. If she
had not been what she is--if she had shown any sign of triumph--any
knowledge of her prize--if she had made any effort to gain his dear
heart, I must have given way long ago, and taunted her, even if I did
not tell others--taunted her, even though I sank down to the pit the
next moment.
"The temptation is too strong for me. Oh Lord! where is Thy peace
that I believed in, in my childhood?--that I hear people speaking
of now, as if it hushed up the troubles of life, and had not to be
sought for--sought for, as with tears of blood!"
There was no sound nor sight in answer to this wild imploring cry,
which Jemima half thought must force out a sign from Heaven. But
there was a dawn stealing on through the darkness of her night.
It was glorious weather for the end of August. The nights were as
full of light as the days--everywhere, save in the low dusky meadows
by the river-side, where the mists rose and blended the pale sky with
the lands below. Unknowing of the care and trouble around them, Mary
and Elizabeth exulted in the weather, and saw some new glory in every
touch of the year's decay. They were clamorous for an expedition
to the hills, before the calm stillness of the autumn should be
disturbed by storms. They gained permission to go on the next
Wednesday--the next half-holiday. They had won their mother over to
consent to a full holiday, but their father would not hear of it. Mrs
Bradshaw had proposed an early dinner, but the idea was scouted at by
the girls. What would the expedition be worth if they did not carry
their dinners with them in baskets? Anything out of a basket, and
eaten in the open air, was worth twenty times as much as the most
sumptuous meal in the house. So the baskets were packed up, while
Mrs Bradshaw wailed over probable colds to be caught from sitting on
the damp ground. Ruth and Leonard were to go; they four. Jemima had
refused all invitations to make one of the party; and yet she had a
half-sympathy with her sisters' joy--a sort of longing, lingering
look back to the time when she too would have revelled in the
prospect that lay before them. They, too, would grow up, and suffer;
though now they played, regardless of their doom.
The morning was bright and glorious; just cloud enough, as some one
said, to make the distant plain look beautiful from the hills, with
its floating shadows passing over the golden corn-fields. Leonard
was to join them at twelve, when his lessons with Mr Benson, and the
girls' with their masters, should be over. Ruth took off her bonnet,
and folded her shawl with her usual dainty, careful neatness, and
laid them aside in a corner of the room to be in readiness. She
tried to forget the pleasure she always anticipated from a long walk
towards the hills, while the morning's work went on; but she showed
enough of sympathy to make the girls cling round her with many a
caress of joyous love. Everything was beautiful in their eyes; from
the shadows of the quivering leaves on the wall to the glittering
beads of dew, not yet absorbed by the sun, which decked the gossamer
web in the vine outside the window. Eleven o'clock struck. The Latin
master went away, wondering much at the radiant faces of his pupils,
and thinking that it was only very young people who could take such
pleasure in the "Delectus." Ruth said, "Now, do let us try to be very
steady this next hour," and Mary pulled back Ruth's head, and gave
the pretty budding mouth a kiss. They sat down to work, while Mrs
Denbigh read aloud. A fresh sun-gleam burst into the room, and they
looked at each other with glad, anticipating eyes.
Jemima came in, ostensibly to seek for a book, but really from that
sort of restless weariness of any one place or employment, which had
taken possession of her since Mr Farquhar's return. She stood before
the bookcase in the recess, languidly passing over the titles in
search of the one she wanted. Ruth's voice lost a tone or two of its
peacefulness, and her eyes looked more dim and anxious at Jemima's
presence. She wondered in her heart if she dared to ask Miss Bradshaw
to accompany them in their expedition. Eighteen months ago she would
have urged it on her friend with soft, loving entreaty; now she was
afraid even to propose it as a hard possibility; everything she did
or said was taken so wrongly--seemed to add to the old dislike, or
the later stony contempt with which Miss Bradshaw had regarded her.
While they were in this way Mr Bradshaw came into the room. His
entrance--his being at home at all at this time--was so unusual
a thing, that the reading was instantly stopped; and all four
involuntarily looked at him, as if expecting some explanation of his
unusual proceeding.
His face was almost purple with suppressed agitation.
"Mary and Elizabeth, leave the room. Don't stay to pack up your
books. Leave the room, I say!" He spoke with trembling anger, and the
frightened girls obeyed without a word. A cloud passing over the sun
cast a cold gloom into the room which was late so bright and beaming;
but, by equalising the light, it took away the dark shadow from the
place where Jemima had been standing, and her figure caught her
father's eye.
"Leave the room, Jemima," said he.
"Why, father?" replied she, in an opposition that was strange even to
herself, but which was prompted by the sullen passion which seethed
below the stagnant surface of her life, and which sought a vent in
defiance. She maintained her ground, facing round upon her father,
and Ruth--Ruth, who had risen, and stood trembling, shaking, a
lightning-fear having shown her the precipice on which she stood. It
was of no use; no quiet, innocent life--no profound silence, even to
her own heart, as to the Past; the old offence could never be drowned
in the Deep; but thus, when all was calm on the great, broad, sunny
sea, it rose to the surface, and faced her with its unclosed eyes and
its ghastly countenance. The blood bubbled up to her brain, and made
such a sound there, as of boiling waters, that she did not hear the
words which Mr Bradshaw first spoke; indeed, his speech was broken
and disjointed by intense passion. But she needed not to hear; she
knew. As she rose up at first, so she stood now--numb and helpless.
When her ears heard again (as if the sounds were drawing nearer, and
becoming more distinct, from some faint, vague distance of space),
Mr Bradshaw was saying, "If there be one sin I hate--I utterly
loathe--more than all others, it is wantonness. It includes all
other sins. It is but of a piece that you should have come with your
sickly, hypocritical face, imposing upon us all. I trust Benson did
not know of it--for his own sake, I trust not. Before God, if he got
you into my house on false pretences, he shall find his charity at
other men's expense shall cost him dear--you--the common talk of
Eccleston for your profligacy--" He was absolutely choked by his
boiling indignation. Ruth stood speechless, motionless. Her head
drooped a little forward, her eyes were more than half veiled by
the large quivering lids, her arms hung down straight and heavy. At
last she heaved the weight off her heart enough to say, in a faint,
moaning voice, speaking with infinite difficulty:
"I was so young."
"The more depraved, the more disgusting you," Mr Bradshaw exclaimed,
almost glad that the woman, unresisting so long, should now begin to
resist. But to his surprise (for in his anger he had forgotten her
presence) Jemima moved forwards, and said, "Father!"
"You hold your tongue, Jemima. You have grown more and more
insolent--more and more disobedient every day. I now know who to
thank for it. When such a woman came into my family there is no
wonder at any corruption--any evil--any defilement--"
"Father!"
"Not a word! If, in your disobedience, you choose to stay and hear
what no modest young woman would put herself in the way of hearing,
you shall be silent when I bid you. The only good you can gain is in
the way of warning. Look at that woman" (indicating Ruth, who moved
her drooping head a little on one side, as if by such motion she
could avert the pitiless pointing--her face growing whiter and whiter
still every instant)--"look at that woman, I say--corrupt long before
she was your age--hypocrite for years! If ever you, or any child of
mine, cared for her, shake her off from you, as St Paul shook off
the viper--even into the fire." He stopped for very want of breath.
Jemima, all flushed and panting, went up and stood side by side with
wan Ruth. She took the cold, dead hand which hung next to her in her
warm convulsive grasp, and holding it so tight that it was blue and
discoloured for days, she spoke out beyond all power of restraint
from her father.
"Father, I will speak. I will not keep silence. I will bear witness
to Ruth. I have hated her--so keenly, may God forgive me! but you
may know, from that, that my witness is true. I have hated her,
and my hatred was only quenched into contempt--not contempt now,
dear Ruth--dear Ruth"--(this was spoken with infinite softness and
tenderness, and in spite of her father's fierce eyes and passionate
gesture)--"I heard what you have learnt now, father, weeks and weeks
ago--a year it may be, all time of late has been so long; and I
shuddered up from her and from her sin; and I might have spoken of
it, and told it there and then, if I had not been afraid that it was
from no good motive I should act in so doing, but to gain a way to
the desire of my own jealous heart. Yes, father, to show you what a
witness I am for Ruth, I will own that I was stabbed to the heart
with jealousy; some one--some one cared for Ruth that--oh, father!
spare me saying all." Her face was double-dyed with crimson blushes,
and she paused for one moment--no more.
"I watched her, and I watched her with my wild-beast eyes. If I had
seen one paltering with duty--if I had witnessed one flickering
shadow of untruth in word or action--if, more than all things, my
woman's instinct had ever been conscious of the faintest speck of
impurity in thought, or word, or look, my old hate would have flamed
out with the flame of hell! my contempt would have turned to loathing
disgust, instead of my being full of pity, and the stirrings of
new-awakened love, and most true respect. Father, I have borne my
witness!"
"And I will tell you how much your witness is worth," said her
father, beginning low, that his pent-up wrath might have room to
swell out. "It only convinces me more and more how deep is the
corruption this wanton has spread in my family. She has come amongst
us with her innocent seeming, and spread her nets well and skilfully.
She has turned right into wrong, and wrong into right, and taught you
all to be uncertain whether there be any such thing as Vice in the
world, or whether it ought not to be looked upon as Virtue. She has
led you to the brink of the deep pit, ready for the first chance
circumstance to push you in. And I trusted her--I trusted her--I
welcomed her."
"I have done very wrong," murmured Ruth, but so low, that perhaps he
did not hear her, for he went on, lashing himself up.
"I welcomed her. I was duped into allowing her bastard--(I sicken at
the thought of it)--"
At the mention of Leonard, Ruth lifted up her eyes for the first time
since the conversation began, the pupils dilating, as if she were
just becoming aware of some new agony in store for her. I have seen
such a look of terror on a poor dumb animal's countenance, and once
or twice on human faces. I pray I may never see it again on either!
Jemima felt the hand she held in her strong grasp writhe itself free.
Ruth spread her arms before her, clasping and lacing her fingers
together, her head thrown a little back, as if in intensest
suffering.
Mr Bradshaw went on:
"That very child and heir of shame to associate with my own innocent
children! I trust they are not contaminated."
"I cannot bear it--I cannot bear it!" were the words wrung out of
Ruth.
"Cannot bear it! cannot bear it!" he repeated. "You must bear it,
madam. Do you suppose your child is to be exempt from the penalties
of his birth? Do you suppose that he alone is to be saved from the
upbraiding scoff? Do you suppose that he is ever to rank with other
boys, who are not stained and marked with sin from their birth? Every
creature in Eccleston may know what he is; do you think they will
spare him their scorn? 'Cannot bear it,' indeed! Before you went
into your sin, you should have thought whether you could bear the
consequences or not--have had some idea how far your offspring would
be degraded and scouted, till the best thing that could happen to
him would be for him to be lost to all sense of shame, dead to all
knowledge of guilt, for his mother's sake."
Ruth spoke out. She stood like a wild creature at bay, past fear now.
"I appeal to God against such a doom for my child. I appeal to God to
help me. I am a mother, and as such I cry to God for help--for help
to keep my boy in His pitying sight, and to bring him up in His holy
fear. Let the shame fall on me! I have deserved it, but he--he is so
innocent and good."
Ruth had caught up her shawl, and was tying on her bonnet with her
trembling hands. What if Leonard was hearing of her shame from common
report? What would be the mysterious shock of the intelligence? She
must face him, and see the look in his eyes, before she knew whether
he recoiled from her; he might have his heart turned to hate her, by
their cruel jeers.
Jemima stood by, dumb and pitying. Her sorrow was past her power. She
helped in arranging the dress, with one or two gentle touches, which
were hardly felt by Ruth, but which called out all Mr Bradshaw's
ire afresh; he absolutely took her by the shoulders and turned her
by force out of the room. In the hall, and along the stairs, her
passionate woeful crying was heard. The sound only concentrated Mr
Bradshaw's anger on Ruth. He held the street-door open wide, and
said, between his teeth, "If ever you, or your bastard, darken this
door again, I will have you both turned out by the police!"
He need not have added this, if he had seen Ruth's face.