An Understanding Between Lovers
It was well they had so early and so truly strengthened the spirit
to bear, for the events which had to be endured soon came thick and
threefold.
Every evening Mr and Miss Benson thought the worst must be over;
and every day brought some fresh occurrence to touch upon the raw
place. They could not be certain, until they had seen all their
acquaintances, what difference it would make in the cordiality of
their reception: in some cases it made much; and Miss Benson was
proportionably indignant. She felt this change in behaviour more than
her brother. His great pain arose from the coolness of the Bradshaws.
With all the faults which had at times grated on his sensitive
nature (but which he now forgot, and remembered only their kindness),
they were his old familiar friends--his kind, if ostentatious,
patrons--his great personal interest, out of his own family; and he
could not get over the suffering he experienced from seeing their
large square pew empty on Sundays--from perceiving how Mr Bradshaw,
though he bowed in a distant manner when he and Mr Benson met face to
face, shunned him as often as he possibly could. All that happened in
the household, which once was as patent to him as his own, was now
a sealed book; he heard of its doings by chance, if he heard at all.
Just at the time when he was feeling the most depressed from this
cause, he met Jemima at a sudden turn of the street. He was uncertain
for a moment how to accost her, but she saved him all doubt; in an
instant she had his hand in both of hers, her face flushed with
honest delight.
"Oh, Mr Benson, I am so glad to see you! I have so wanted to know all
about you! How is poor Ruth? dear Ruth! I wonder if she has forgiven
me my cruelty to her? And I may not go to her now, when I should be
so glad and thankful to make up for it."
"I never heard you had been cruel to her. I am sure she does not
think so."
"She ought; she must. What is she doing? Oh! I have so much to ask, I
can never hear enough; and papa says"--she hesitated a moment, afraid
of giving pain, and then, believing that they would understand the
state of affairs, and the reason for her behaviour better if she told
the truth, she went on: "Papa says I must not go to your house--I
suppose it's right to obey him?"
"Certainly, my dear. It is your clear duty. We know how you feel
towards us."
"Oh! but if I could do any good--if I could be of any use or comfort
to any of you--especially to Ruth, I should come, duty or not. I
believe it would be my duty," said she, hurrying on to try and stop
any decided prohibition from Mr Benson. "No! don't be afraid; I won't
come till I know I can do some good. I hear bits about you through
Sally every now and then, or I could not have waited so long. Mr
Benson," continued she, reddening very much, "I think you did quite
right about poor Ruth."
"Not in the falsehood, my dear."
"No! not perhaps in that. I was not thinking of that. But I have been
thinking a great deal about poor Ruth's--you know I could not help it
when everybody was talking about it--and it made me think of myself,
and what I am. With a father and mother, and home and careful
friends, I am not likely to be tempted like Ruth; but oh! Mr Benson,"
said she, lifting her eyes, which were full of tears, to his face,
for the first time since she began to speak, "if you knew all I have
been thinking and feeling this last year, you would see how I have
yielded to every temptation that was able to come to me; and, seeing
how I have no goodness or strength in me, and how I might just have
been like Ruth, or rather, worse than she ever was, because I am more
headstrong and passionate by nature, I do so thank you and love you
for what you did for her! And will you tell me really and truly now
if I can ever do anything for Ruth? If you'll promise me that, I
won't rebel unnecessarily against papa; but if you don't, I will, and
come and see you all this very afternoon. Remember! I trust you!"
said she, breaking away. Then turning back, she came to ask after
Leonard.
"He must know something of it," said she. "Does he feel it much?"
"Very much," said Mr Benson. Jemima shook her head sadly.
"It is hard upon him," said she.
"It is," Mr Benson replied.
For in truth, Leonard was their greatest anxiety indoors. His health
seemed shaken, he spoke half sentences in his sleep, which showed
that in his dreams he was battling on his mother's behalf against an
unkind and angry world. And then he would wail to himself, and utter
sad words of shame, which they never thought had reached his ears. By
day, he was in general grave and quiet; but his appetite varied, and
he was evidently afraid of going into the streets, dreading to be
pointed at as an object of remark. Each separately in their hearts
longed to give him change of scene, but they were all silent, for
where was the requisite money to come from?
His temper became fitful and variable. At times he would be most
sullen against his mother; and then give way to a passionate remorse.
When Mr Benson caught Ruth's look of agony at her child's rebuffs,
his patience failed; or rather, I should say, he believed that a
stronger, severer hand than hers was required for the management of
the lad. But, when she heard Mr Benson say so, she pleaded with him.
"Have patience with Leonard," she said. "I have deserved the anger
that is fretting in his heart. It is only I who can reinstate myself
in his love and respect. I have no fear. When he sees me really
striving hard and long to do what is right, he must love me. I am not
afraid."
Even while she spoke, her lips quivered, and her colour went and came
with eager anxiety. So Mr Benson held his peace, and let her take her
course. It was beautiful to see the intuition by which she divined
what was passing in every fold of her child's heart, so as to be
always ready with the right words to soothe or to strengthen him. Her
watchfulness was unwearied, and with no thought of self-tainting in
it, or else she might have often paused to turn aside and weep at the
clouds of shame which came over Leonard's love for her, and hid it
from all but her faithful heart; she believed and knew that he was
yet her own affectionate boy, although he might be gloomily silent,
or apparently hard and cold. And in all this, Mr Benson could not
choose but admire the way in which she was insensibly teaching
Leonard to conform to the law of right, to recognise Duty in the mode
in which every action was performed. When Mr Benson saw this, he
knew that all goodness would follow, and that the claims which his
mother's infinite love had on the boy's heart would be acknowledged
at last, and all the more fully because she herself never urged them,
but silently admitted the force of the reason that caused them to be
for a time forgotten. By-and-by Leonard's remorse at his ungracious
and sullen ways to his mother--ways that alternated with passionate,
fitful bursts of clinging love--assumed more the character of
repentance; he tried to do so no more. But still his health was
delicate; he was averse to going out-of-doors; he was much graver
and sadder than became his age. It was what must be, an inevitable
consequence of what had been; and Ruth had to be patient, and pray in
secret, and with many tears, for the strength she needed.
She knew what it was to dread the going out into the streets after
her story had become known. For days and days she had silently shrunk
from this effort. But one evening towards dusk, Miss Benson was busy,
and asked her to go an errand for her; and Ruth got up and silently
obeyed her. That silence as to inward suffering was only one part of
her peculiar and exquisite sweetness of nature; part of the patience
with which she "accepted her penance." Her true instincts told her
that it was not right to disturb others with many expressions of her
remorse; that the holiest repentance consisted in a quiet and daily
sacrifice. Still there were times when she wearied pitifully of
her inaction. She was so willing to serve and work, and every one
despised her services. Her mind, as I have said before, had been
well cultivated during these last few years; so now she used all the
knowledge she had gained in teaching Leonard, which was an employment
that Mr Benson relinquished willingly, because he felt that it would
give her some of the occupation that she needed. She endeavoured to
make herself useful in the house in every way she could; but the
waters of housekeeping had closed over her place during the time of
her absence at Mr Bradshaw's--and, besides, now that they were trying
to restrict every unnecessary expense, it was sometimes difficult
to find work for three women. Many and many a time Ruth turned over
in her mind every possible chance of obtaining employment for her
leisure hours, and nowhere could she find it. Now and then Sally, who
was her confidante in this wish, procured her some needlework, but
it was of a coarse and common kind, soon done, lightly paid for. But
whatever it was, Ruth took it, and was thankful, although it added
but a few pence to the household purse. I do not mean that there was
any great need of money; but a new adjustment of expenditure was
required--a reduction of wants which had never been very extravagant.
Ruth's salary of forty pounds was gone, while more of her "keep,"
as Sally called it, was thrown upon the Bensons. Mr Benson received
about eighty pounds a year for his salary as minister. Of this, he
knew that twenty pounds came from Mr Bradshaw; and when the old man
appointed to collect the pew-rents brought him the quarterly amount,
and he found no diminution in them, he inquired how it was, and
learnt that, although Mr Bradshaw had expressed to the collector his
determination never to come to chapel again, he had added, that of
course his pew-rent should be paid all the same. But this Mr Benson
could not suffer; and the old man was commissioned to return the
money to Mr Bradshaw, as being what his deserted minister could not
receive.
Mr and Miss Benson had about thirty or forty pounds coming in
annually from a sum which, in happier days, Mr Bradshaw had invested
in Canal shares for them. Altogether their income did not fall much
short of a hundred a year, and they lived in the Chapel-house free of
rent. So Ruth's small earnings were but very little in actual hard
commercial account, though in another sense they were much; and Miss
Benson always received them with quiet simplicity. By degrees, Mr
Benson absorbed some of Ruth's time in a gracious and natural way. He
employed her mind in all the kind offices he was accustomed to render
to the poor around him. And as much of the peace and ornament of life
as they gained now, was gained on a firm basis of truth. If Ruth
began low down to find her place in the world, at any rate there was
no flaw in the foundation.
Leonard was still their great anxiety. At times the question seemed
to be, could he live through all this trial of the elasticity of
childhood? And then they knew how precious a blessing--how true a
pillar of fire, he was to his mother; and how black the night, and
how dreary the wilderness would be, when he was not. The child and
the mother were each messengers of God--angels to each other.
They had long gaps between the pieces of intelligence respecting
the Bradshaws. Mr Bradshaw had at length purchased the house at
Abermouth, and they were much there. The way in which the Bensons
heard most frequently of the family of their former friends, was
through Mr Farquhar. He called on Mr Benson about a month after the
latter had met Jemima in the street. Mr Farquhar was not in the habit
of paying calls on any one; and though he had always entertained and
evinced the most kind and friendly feeling towards Mr Benson, he had
rarely been in the Chapel-house. Mr Benson received him courteously,
but he rather expected that there would be some especial reason
alleged, before the conclusion of the visit, for its occurrence; more
particularly as Mr Farquhar sat talking on the topics of the day in a
somewhat absent manner, as if they were not the subjects most present
to his mind. The truth was, he could not help recurring to the last
time when he was in that room, waiting to take Leonard a ride, and
his heart beating rather more quickly than usual at the idea that
Ruth might bring the boy in when he was equipped. He was very full
now of the remembrance of Ruth; and yet he was also most thankful,
most self-gratulatory, that he had gone no further in his admiration
of her--that he had never expressed his regard in words--that no one,
as he believed, was cognisant of the incipient love which had grown
partly out of his admiration, and partly out of his reason. He was
thankful to be spared any implication in the nine-days' wonder which
her story had made in Eccleston. And yet his feeling for her had been
of so strong a character, that he winced, as with extreme pain, at
every application of censure to her name. These censures were often
exaggerated, it is true; but when they were just in their judgment of
the outward circumstances of the case, they were not the less painful
and distressing to him. His first rebound to Jemima was occasioned by
Mrs Bradshaw's account of how severely her husband was displeased at
her daughter's having taken part with Ruth; and he could have thanked
and almost blessed Jemima when she dropped in (she dared do no more)
her pleading excuses and charitable explanations on Ruth's behalf.
Jemima had learnt some humility from the discovery which had been
to her so great a shock; standing, she had learnt to take heed lest
she fell; and when she had once been aroused to a perception of the
violence of the hatred which she had indulged against Ruth, she was
more reticent and measured in the expression of all her opinions. It
showed how much her character had been purified from pride, that now
she felt aware that what in her was again attracting Mr Farquhar was
her faithful advocacy of her rival, wherever such advocacy was wise
or practicable. He was quite unaware that Jemima had been conscious
of his great admiration for Ruth; he did not know that she had ever
cared enough for him to be jealous. But the unacknowledged bond
between them now was their grief, and sympathy, and pity for Ruth;
only in Jemima these feelings were ardent, and would fain have
become active; while in Mr Farquhar they were strongly mingled
with thankfulness that he had escaped a disagreeable position,
and a painful notoriety. His natural caution induced him to make
a resolution never to think of any woman as a wife until he had
ascertained all her antecedents, from her birth upwards; and the
same spirit of caution, directed inwardly, made him afraid of giving
too much pity to Ruth, for fear of the conclusions to which such
a feeling might lead him. But still his old regard for her, for
Leonard, and his esteem and respect for the Bensons, induced him to
lend a willing ear to Jemima's earnest entreaty that he would go and
call on Mr Benson, in order that she might learn something about the
family in general, and Ruth in particular. It was thus that he came
to sit by Mr Benson's study fire, and to talk, in an absent way, to
that gentleman. How they got on the subject he did not know, more
than one-half of his attention being distracted; but they were
speaking about politics, when Mr Farquhar learned that Mr Benson took
in no newspaper.
"Will you allow me to send you over my _Times_? I have generally
done with it before twelve o'clock, and after that it is really
waste-paper in my house. You will oblige me by making use of it."
"I am sure I am very much obliged to you for thinking of it. But do
not trouble yourself to send it; Leonard can fetch it."
"How is Leonard now?" asked Mr Farquhar, and he tried to speak
indifferently; but a grave look of intelligence clouded his eyes as
he looked for Mr Benson's answer. "I have not met him lately."
"No!" said Mr Benson, with an expression of pain in his countenance,
though he, too, strove to speak in his usual tone.
"Leonard is not strong, and we find it difficult to induce him to go
much out-of-doors."
There was a little silence for a minute or two, during which Mr
Farquhar had to check an unbidden sigh. But, suddenly rousing himself
into a determination to change the subject, he said:
"You will find rather a lengthened account of the exposure of Sir
Thomas Campbell's conduct at Baden. He seems to be a complete
blackleg, in spite of his baronetcy. I fancy the papers are glad to
get hold of anything just now."
"Who is Sir Thomas Campbell?" asked Mr Benson.
"Oh, I thought you might have heard the report--a true one, I
believe--of Mr Donne's engagement to his daughter. He must be glad
she jilted him now, I fancy, after this public exposure of her
father's conduct." (That was an awkward speech, as Mr Farquhar felt;
and he hastened to cover it, by going on without much connexion:)
"Dick Bradshaw is my informant about all these projected marriages
in high life--they are not much in my way; but since he has come
down from London to take his share in the business, I think I have
heard more of the news and the scandal of what, I suppose, would
be considered high life, than ever I did before; and Mr Donne's
proceedings seem to be an especial object of interest to him."
"And Mr Donne is engaged to a Miss Campbell, is he?"
"Was engaged; if I understood right, she broke off the engagement to
marry some Russian prince or other--a better match, Dick Bradshaw
told me. I assure you," continued Mr Farquhar, smiling, "I am a very
passive recipient of all such intelligence, and might very probably
have forgotten all about it, if the _Times_ of this morning had not
been so full of the disgrace of the young lady's father."
"Richard Bradshaw has quite left London, has he?" asked Mr Benson,
who felt far more interest in his old patron's family than in all the
Campbells that ever were or ever would be.
"Yes. He has come to settle down here. I hope he may do well, and not
disappoint his father, who has formed very high expectations from
him; I am not sure if they are not too high for any young man to
realise." Mr Farquhar could have said more, but Dick Bradshaw was
Jemima's brother, and an object of anxiety to her.
"I am sure, I trust such a mortification--such a grief as any
disappointment in Richard, may not befall his father," replied Mr
Benson.
"Jemima--Miss Bradshaw," said Mr Farquhar, hesitating, "was most
anxious to hear of you all. I hope I may tell her you are all well"
(with an emphasis on _all_); "that--"
"Thank you. Thank her for us. We are all well; all except Leonard,
who is not strong, as I said before. But we must be patient. Time,
and such devoted, tender love as he has from his mother, must do
much."
Mr Farquhar was silent.
"Send him to my house for the papers. It will be a little necessity
for him to have some regular exercise, and to face the world. He must
do it, sooner or later."
The two gentlemen shook hands with each other on parting; but no
further allusion was made to either Ruth or Leonard.
So Leonard went for the papers. Stealing along by back
streets--running with his head bent down--his little heart panting
with dread of being pointed out as his mother's child--so he used to
come back, and run trembling to Sally, who would hush him up to her
breast with many a rough-spoken word of pity and sympathy.
Mr Farquhar tried to catch him to speak to him, and tame him as it
were; and, by-and-by, he contrived to interest him sufficiently to
induce the boy to stay a little while in the house, or stables, or
garden. But the race through the streets was always to be dreaded as
the end of ever so pleasant a visit.
Mr Farquhar kept up the intercourse with the Bensons which he had
thus begun. He persevered in paying calls--quiet visits, where
not much was said, political or local news talked about, and the
same inquiries always made and answered as to the welfare of the
two families, who were estranged from each other. Mr Farquhar's
reports were so little varied that Jemima grew anxious to know more
particulars.
"Oh, Mr Farquhar!" said she; "do you think they tell you the truth? I
wonder what Ruth can be doing to support herself and Leonard? Nothing
that you can hear of, you say; and, of course, one must not ask the
downright question. And yet I am sure they must be pinched in some
way. Do you think Leonard is stronger?"
"I am not sure. He is growing fast; and such a blow as he has had
will be certain to make him more thoughtful and full of care than
most boys of his age; both these circumstances may make him thin and
pale, which he certainly is."
"Oh! how I wish I might go and see them all! I could tell in a
twinkling the real state of things." She spoke with a tinge of her
old impatience.
"I will go again, and pay particular attention to anything you wish
me to observe. You see, of course, I feel a delicacy about asking
any direct questions, or even alluding in any way to these late
occurrences."
"And you never see Ruth by any chance?"
"Never!"
They did not look at each other while this last question was asked
and answered.
"I will take the paper to-morrow myself; it will be an excuse for
calling again, and I will try to be very penetrating; but I have not
much hope of success."
"Oh, thank you. It is giving you a great deal of trouble; but you are
very kind."
"Kind, Jemima!" he repeated, in a tone which made her go very red
and hot; "must I tell you how you can reward me?--Will you call me
Walter?--say, thank you, Walter--just for once."
Jemima felt herself yielding to the voice and tone in which this was
spoken; but her very consciousness of the depth of her love made her
afraid of giving way, and anxious to be wooed, that she might be
reinstated in her self-esteem.
"No!" said she, "I don't think I can call you so. You are too old. It
would not be respectful." She meant it half in joke, and had no idea
he would take the allusion to his age so seriously as he did. He rose
up, and coldly, as a matter of form, in a changed voice, wished her
"Good-bye." Her heart sank; yet the old pride was there. But as he
was at the very door, some sudden impulse made her speak:
"I have not vexed you, have I, Walter?"
He turned round, glowing with a thrill of delight. She was as red as
any rose; her looks dropped down to the ground.
They were not raised when, half an hour afterwards, she said, "You
won't forbid my going to see Ruth, will you? because if you do,
I give you notice I shall disobey you." The arm around her waist
clasped her yet more fondly at the idea, suggested by this speech, of
the control which he should have a right to exercise over her actions
at some future day.
"Tell me," said he, "how much of your goodness to me, this last happy
hour, has been owing to the desire of having more freedom as a wife
than as a daughter?"
She was almost glad that he should think she needed any additional
motive to her love for him before she could have accepted him. She
was afraid that she had betrayed the deep, passionate regard with
which she had long looked upon him. She was lost in delight at her
own happiness. She was silent for a time. At length she said:
"I don't think you know how faithful I have been to you ever since
the days when you first brought me pistachio-candy from London--when
I was quite a little girl."
"Not more faithful than I have been to you," for in truth, the
recollection of his love for Ruth had utterly faded away, and he
thought himself a model of constancy; "and you have tried me pretty
well. What a vixen you have been!"
Jemima sighed; smitten with the consciousness of how little she had
deserved her present happiness; humble with the recollection of the
evil thoughts that had raged in her heart during the time (which she
remembered well, though he might have forgotten it) when Ruth had had
the affection which her jealous rival coveted.
"I may speak to your father, may not I, Jemima?"
No! for some reason or fancy which she could not define, and
could not be persuaded out of, she wished to keep their mutual
understanding a secret. She had a natural desire to avoid the
congratulations she expected from her family. She dreaded her
father's consideration of the whole affair as a satisfactory disposal
of his daughter to a worthy man, who, being his partner, would not
require any abstraction of capital from the concern, and Richard's
more noisy delight at his sister's having "hooked" so good a match.
It was only her simple-hearted mother that she longed to tell. She
knew that her mother's congratulations would not jar upon her, though
they might not sound the full organ-peal of her love. But all that
her mother knew passed onwards to her father; so for the present,
at any rate, she determined to realise her secret position alone.
Somehow, the sympathy of all others that she most longed for was
Ruth's; but the first communication of such an event was due to
her parents. She imposed very strict regulations on Mr Farquhar's
behaviour; and quarrelled and differed from him more than ever, but
with a secret joyful understanding with him in her heart, even while
they disagreed with each other--for similarity of opinion is not
always--I think not often--needed for fulness and perfection of love.
After Ruth's "detection," as Mr Bradshaw used to call it, he said he
could never trust another governess again; so Mary and Elizabeth had
been sent to school the following Christmas, and their place in the
family was but poorly supplied by the return of Mr Richard Bradshaw,
who had left London, and been received as a partner.