Sally Takes Her Money Out of the Bank
The conversation narrated in the last chapter as taking place between
Mr Farquhar and Jemima, occurred about a year after Ruth's dismissal
from her situation. That year, full of small events, and change
of place to the Bradshaws, had been monotonous and long in its
course to the other household. There had been no want of peace and
tranquillity; there had, perhaps, been more of them than in the
preceding years, when, though unacknowledged by any, all must have
occasionally felt the oppression of the falsehood--and a slight
glancing dread must have flashed across their most prosperous state,
lest, somehow or another, the mystery should be disclosed. But now,
as the shepherd-boy in John Bunyan sweetly sang, "He that is low need
fear no fall."
Still, their peace was as the stillness of a grey autumnal day, when
no sun is to be seen above, and when a quiet film seems drawn before
both sky and earth, as if to rest the wearied eyes after the summer's
glare. Few events broke the monotony of their lives, and those events
were of a depressing kind. They consisted in Ruth's futile endeavours
to obtain some employment, however humble; in Leonard's fluctuations
of spirits and health; in Sally's increasing deafness; in the final
and unmendable wearing-out of the parlour carpet, which there was
no spare money to replace, and so they cheerfully supplied its want
by a large hearth-rug that Ruth made out of ends of list; and, what
was more a subject of unceasing regret to Mr Benson than all, the
defection of some of the members of his congregation, who followed
Mr Bradshaw's lead. Their places, to be sure, were more than filled
up by the poor, who thronged to his chapel; but still it was a
disappointment to find that people about whom he had been earnestly
thinking--to whom he had laboured to do good--should dissolve the
connexion without a word of farewell or explanation. Mr Benson did
not wonder that they should go; nay, he even felt it right that they
should seek that spiritual help from another, which he, by his error,
had forfeited his power to offer; he only wished they had spoken of
their intention to him in an open and manly way. But not the less did
he labour on among those to whom God permitted him to be of use. He
felt age stealing upon him apace, although he said nothing about
it, and no one seemed to be aware of it; and he worked the more
diligently while "it was yet day." It was not the number of his years
that made him feel old, for he was only sixty, and many men are hale
and strong at that time of life; in all probability, it was that
early injury to his spine which affected the constitution of his mind
as well as his body, and predisposed him, in the opinion of some at
least, to a feminine morbidness of conscience. He had shaken off
somewhat of this since the affair with Mr Bradshaw; he was simpler
and more dignified than he had been for several years before, during
which time he had been anxious and uncertain in his manner, and more
given to thought than to action.
The one happy bright spot in this grey year was owing to Sally. As
she said of herself, she believed she grew more "nattered" as she
grew older; but that she was conscious of her "natteredness" was
a new thing, and a great gain to the comfort of the house, for it
made her very grateful for forbearance, and more aware of kindness
than she had ever been before. She had become very deaf; yet she
was uneasy and jealous if she were not informed of all the family
thoughts, plans, and proceedings, which often had (however private in
their details) to be shouted to her at the full pitch of the voice.
But she always heard Leonard perfectly. His clear and bell-like
voice, which was similar to his mother's, till sorrow had taken the
ring out of it, was sure to be heard by the old servant, though
every one else had failed. Sometimes, however, she "got her hearing
sudden," as she phrased it, and was alive to every word and noise,
more particularly when they did not want her to hear; and at such
times she resented their continuance of the habit of speaking loud
as a mortal offence. One day, her indignation at being thought deaf
called out one of the rare smiles on Leonard's face; she saw it, and
said, "Bless thee, lad! if it but amuses thee, they may shout through
a ram's horn to me, and I'll never let on I'm not deaf. It's as good
a use as I can be of," she continued to herself, "if I can make that
poor lad smile a bit."
If she expected to be everybody's confidante, she made Leonard hers.
"There!" said she, when she came home from her marketing one Saturday
night, "look here, lad! Here's forty-two pound, seven shillings, and
twopence! It's a mint of money, isn't it? I took it all in sovereigns
for fear of fire."
"What is it all for, Sally?" said he.
"Aye, lad! that's asking. It's Mr Benson's money," said she,
mysteriously, "that I've been keeping for him. Is he in the study,
think ye?"
"Yes! I think so. Where have you been keeping it?"
"Never you mind!" She went towards the study, but thinking she might
have been hard on her darling in refusing to gratify his curiosity,
she turned back, and said:
"I say--if thou wilt, thou mayst do me a job of work some day. I'm
wanting a frame made for a piece of writing."
And then she returned to go into the study, carrying her sovereigns
in her apron.
"Here, Master Thurstan," said she, pouring them out on the table
before her astonished master. "Take it, it's all yours."
"All mine! What can you mean?" asked he, bewildered.
She did not hear him, and went on:
"Lock it up safe, out o' the way. Dunnot go and leave it about to
tempt folks. I'll not answer for myself if money's left about. I may
be cribbing a sovereign."
"But where does it come from?" said he.
"Come from!" she replied. "Where does all money come from, but the
bank, to be sure? I thought any one could tell that."
"I have no money in the bank!" said he, more and more perplexed.
"No! I knowed that; but I had. Dunnot ye remember how you would
raise my wage, last Martinmas eighteen year? You and Faith were very
headstrong, but I was too deep for you. See thee! I went and put
it i' th' bank. I was never going to touch it; and if I had died
it would have been all right, for I'd a will made, all regular and
tight--made by a lawyer (leastways he would have been a lawyer, if he
hadn't got transported first). And now, thinks I, I think I'll just
go and get it out and give it 'em. Banks is not always safe."
"I'll take care of it for you with the greatest pleasure. Still, you
know, banks allow interest."
"D'ye suppose I don't know all about interest, and compound interest
too, by this time? I tell ye I want ye to spend it. It's your own.
It's not mine. It always was yours. Now you're not going to fret me
by saying you think it mine."
Mr Benson held out his hand to her, for he could not speak. She bent
forward to him as he sat there, and kissed him.
"Eh, bless ye, lad! It's the first kiss I've had of ye sin' ye were
a little lad, and it's a great refreshment. Now don't you and Faith
go and bother me with talking about it. It's just yours, and make no
more ado."
She went back into the kitchen, and brought out her will, and gave
Leonard directions how to make a frame for it; for the boy was a very
tolerable joiner, and had a box of tools which Mr Bradshaw had given
him some years ago.
"It's a pity to lose such fine writing," said she; "though I can't
say as I can read it. Perhaps you'd just read it for me, Leonard."
She sat open-mouthed with admiration at all the long words.
The frame was made, and the will hung up opposite to her bed, unknown
to any one but Leonard; and, by dint of his repeated reading it over
to her, she learnt all the words, except "testatrix," which she would
always call "testy tricks." Mr Benson had been too much gratified and
touched, by her unconditional gift of all she had in the world, to
reject it; but he only held it in his hands as a deposit until he
could find a safe investment befitting so small a sum. The little
rearrangements of the household expenditure had not touched him as
they had done the women. He was aware that meat dinners were not
now every-day occurrences; but he preferred puddings and vegetables,
and was glad of the exchange. He observed, too, that they all sat
together in the kitchen in the evenings; but the kitchen, with the
well-scoured dresser, the shining saucepans, the well-blacked grate
and whitened hearth, and the warmth which seemed to rise up from the
very flags, and ruddily cheer the most distant corners, appeared a
very cozy and charming sitting-room; and, besides, it appeared but
right that Sally, in her old age, should have the companionship of
those with whom she had lived in love and faithfulness for so many
years. He only wished he could more frequently leave the solitary
comfort of his study, and join the kitchen party, where Sally sat
as mistress in the chimney-corner, knitting by fire-light, and Miss
Benson and Ruth, with the candle between them, stitched away at their
work; while Leonard strewed the ample dresser with his slate and
books. He did not mope and pine over his lessons; they were the
one thing that took him out of himself. As yet his mother could
teach him, though in some respects it was becoming a strain upon her
acquirements and powers. Mr Benson saw this, but reserved his offers
of help as long as he could, hoping that before his assistance became
absolutely necessary, some mode of employment beyond that of
occasional plain-work might be laid open to Ruth.
In spite of the communication they occasionally had with Mr Farquhar,
when he gave them the intelligence of his engagement to Jemima, it
seemed like a glimpse into a world from which they were shut out.
They wondered--Miss Benson and Ruth did at least--much about the
details. Ruth sat over her sewing, fancying how all had taken place;
and as soon as she had arranged the events which were going on
among people and places once so familiar to her, she found some
discrepancy, and set-to afresh to picture the declaration of love,
and the yielding, blushing acceptance; for Mr Farquhar had told
little beyond the mere fact that there was an engagement between
himself and Jemima which had existed for some time, but which had
been kept secret until now, when it was acknowledged, sanctioned, and
to be fulfilled as soon as he returned from an arrangement of family
affairs in Scotland. This intelligence had been enough for Mr Benson,
who was the only person Mr Farquhar saw; as Ruth always shrank from
the post of opening the door, and Mr Benson was apt at recognising
individual knocks, and always prompt to welcome Mr Farquhar.
Miss Benson occasionally thought--and what she thought she was in
the habit of saying--that Jemima might have come herself to announce
such an event to old friends; but Mr Benson decidedly vindicated her
from any charge of neglect, by expressing his strong conviction that
to her they owed Mr Farquhar's calls--his all but outspoken offers
of service--his quiet, steady interest in Leonard; and, moreover
(repeating the conversation he had had with her in the street, the
first time they met after the disclosure), Mr Benson told his sister
how glad he was to find that, with all the warmth of her impetuous
disposition hurrying her on to rebellion against her father, she was
now attaining to that just self-control which can distinguish between
mere wishes and true reasons--that she could abstain from coming to
see Ruth while she could do but little good, reserving herself for
some great occasion or strong emergency.
Ruth said nothing, but she yearned all the more in silence to
see Jemima. In her recollection of that fearful interview with
Mr Bradshaw, which haunted her yet, sleeping or waking, she was
painfully conscious that she had not thanked Jemima for her generous,
loving advocacy; it had passed unregarded at the time in intensity
of agony--but now she recollected that by no word, or tone, or touch,
had she given any sign of gratitude. Mr Benson had never told her of
his meeting with Jemima; so it seemed as if there were no hope of any
future opportunity: for it is strange how two households, rent apart
by some dissension, can go through life, their parallel existences
running side by side, yet never touching each other, near neighbours
as they are, habitual and familiar guests as they may have been.
Ruth's only point of hope was Leonard. She was weary of looking for
work and employment, which everywhere seemed held above her reach.
She was not impatient of this, but she was very, very sorry. She felt
within her such capability, and all ignored her, and passed her by
on the other side. But she saw some progress in Leonard. Not that he
could continue to have the happy development, and genial ripening,
which other boys have; leaping from childhood to boyhood, and thence
to youth, with glad bounds, and unconsciously enjoying every age. At
present there was no harmony in Leonard's character; he was as full
of thought and self-consciousness as many men, planning his actions
long beforehand, so as to avoid what he dreaded, and what she could
not yet give him strength to face, coward as she was herself, and
shrinking from hard remarks. Yet Leonard was regaining some of his
lost tenderness towards his mother; when they were alone he would
throw himself on her neck and smother her with kisses, without any
apparent cause for such a passionate impulse. If any one was by, his
manner was cold and reserved. The hopeful parts of his character were
the determination evident in him to be a "law unto himself," and the
serious thought which he gave to the formation of this law. There was
an inclination in him to reason, especially and principally with Mr
Benson, on the great questions of ethics which the majority of the
world have settled long ago. But I do not think he ever so argued
with his mother. Her lovely patience, and her humility, was earning
its reward; and from her quiet piety, bearing sweetly the denial of
her wishes--the refusal of her begging--the disgrace in which she
lay, while others, less worthy, were employed--this, which perplexed
him, and almost angered him at first, called out his reverence at
last, and what she said he took for his law with proud humility;
and thus softly, she was leading him up to God. His health was not
strong; it was not likely to be. He moaned and talked in his sleep,
and his appetite was still variable, part of which might be owing
to his preference of the hardest lessons to any outdoor exercise.
But this last unnatural symptom was vanishing before the assiduous
kindness of Mr Farquhar, and the quiet but firm desire of his mother.
Next to Ruth, Sally had perhaps the most influence over him; but
he dearly loved both Mr and Miss Benson; although he was reserved
on this, as on every point not purely intellectual. His was a hard
childhood, and his mother felt that it was so. Children bear any
moderate degree of poverty and privation cheerfully; but, in addition
to a good deal of this, Leonard had to bear a sense of disgrace
attaching to him and to the creature he loved best; this it was that
took out of him the buoyancy and natural gladness of youth, in a
way which no scantiness of food or clothing, or want of any outward
comfort, could ever have done.
Two years had passed away--two long, eventless years. Something was
now going to happen, which touched their hearts very nearly, though
out of their sight and hearing. Jemima was going to be married this
August, and by-and-by the very day was fixed. It was to be on the
14th. On the evening of the 13th, Ruth was sitting alone in the
parlour, idly gazing out on the darkening shadows in the little
garden; her eyes kept filling with quiet tears, that rose, not
for her own isolation from all that was going on of bustle and
preparation for the morrow's event, but because she had seen how
Miss Benson had felt that she and her brother were left out from
the gathering of old friends in the Bradshaw family. As Ruth sat,
suddenly she was aware of a figure by her; she started up, and in the
gloom of the apartment she recognised Jemima. In an instant they were
in each other's arms--a long, fast embrace.
"Can you forgive me?" whispered Jemima in Ruth's ear.
"Forgive you! What do you mean? What have I to forgive? The question
is, can I ever thank you as I long to do, if I could find words?"
"Oh, Ruth, how I hated you once!"
"It was all the more noble in you to stand by me as you did. You must
have hated me when you knew how I was deceiving you all!"
"No, that was not it that made me hate you. It was before that. Oh,
Ruth, I did hate you!"
They were silent for some time, still holding each other's hands.
Ruth spoke first.
"And you are going to be married to-morrow!"
"Yes," said Jemima. "To-morrow, at nine o'clock. But I don't think
I could have been married without coming to wish Mr Benson and Miss
Faith good-bye."
"I will go for them," said Ruth.
"No, not just yet. I want to ask you one or two questions first.
Nothing very particular; only it seems as if there had been such a
strange, long separation between us. Ruth," said she, dropping her
voice, "is Leonard stronger than he was? I was so sorry to hear about
him from Walter. But he is better?" asked she, anxiously.
"Yes, he is better. Not what a boy of his age should be," replied
his mother, in a tone of quiet but deep mournfulness. "Oh, Jemima!"
continued she, "my sharpest punishment comes through him. To think
what he might have been, and what he is!"
"But Walter says he is both stronger in health, and not so--nervous
and shy." Jemima added the last words in a hesitating and doubtful
manner, as if she did not know how to express her full meaning
without hurting Ruth.
"He does not show that he feels his disgrace so much. I cannot talk
about it, Jemima, my heart aches so about him. But he is better," she
continued, feeling that Jemima's kind anxiety required an answer at
any cost of pain to herself. "He is only studying too closely now; he
takes to his lessons evidently as a relief from thought. He is very
clever, and I hope and trust, yet I tremble to say it, I believe he
is very good."
"You must let him come and see us very often when we come back. We
shall be two months away. We are going to Germany, partly on Walter's
business. Ruth, I have been talking to papa to-night, very seriously
and quietly, and it has made me love him so much more, and understand
him so much better."
"Does he know of your coming here? I hope he does," said Ruth.
"Yes. Not that he liked my doing it at all. But, somehow, I can
always do things against a person's wishes more easily when I am
on good terms with them--that's not exactly what I meant; but now
to-night, after papa had been showing me that he really loved me
more than I ever thought he had done (for I always fancied he was so
absorbed in Dick, he did not care much for us girls), I felt brave
enough to say that I intended to come here and bid you all good-bye.
He was silent for a minute, and then said I might do it, but I must
remember he did not approve of it, and was not to be compromised by
my coming; still I can tell that, at the bottom of his heart, there
is some of the old kindly feeling to Mr and Miss Benson, and I don't
despair of its all being made up, though, perhaps, I ought to say
that mamma does."
"Mr and Miss Benson won't hear of my going away," said Ruth, sadly.
"They are quite right."
"But I am earning nothing. I cannot get any employment. I am only a
burden and an expense."
"Are you not also a pleasure? And Leonard, is he not a dear object of
love? It is easy for me to talk, I know, who am so impatient. Oh, I
never deserved to be so happy as I am! You don't know how good Walter
is. I used to think him so cold and cautious. But now, Ruth, will you
tell Mr and Miss Benson that I am here? There is signing of papers,
and I don't know what to be done at home. And when I come back, I
hope to see you often, if you'll let me."
Mr and Miss Benson gave her a warm greeting. Sally was called in,
and would bring a candle with her, to have a close inspection of
her, in order to see if she was changed--she had not seen her for
so long a time, she said; and Jemima stood laughing and blushing in
the middle of the room, while Sally studied her all over, and would
not be convinced that the old gown which she was wearing for the
last time was not one of the new wedding ones. The consequence of
which misunderstanding was, that Sally, in her short petticoats and
bedgown, turned up her nose at the old-fashioned way in which Miss
Bradshaw's gown was made. But Jemima knew the old woman, and rather
enjoyed the contempt for her dress. At last she kissed them all, and
ran away to her impatient Mr Farquhar, who was awaiting her.
Not many weeks after this, the poor old woman whom I have named
as having become a friend of Ruth's, during Leonard's illness
three years ago, fell down and broke her hip-bone. It was a
serious--probably a fatal injury, for one so old; and as soon as
Ruth heard of it she devoted all her leisure time to old Ann Fleming.
Leonard had now outstript his mother's powers of teaching, and Mr
Benson gave him his lessons; so Ruth was a great deal at the cottage
both night and day.
There Jemima found her one November evening, the second after their
return from their prolonged stay on the Continent. She and Mr
Farquhar had been to the Bensons, and had sat there some time; and
now Jemima had come on just to see Ruth for five minutes, before the
evening was too dark for her to return alone. She found Ruth sitting
on a stool before the fire, which was composed of a few sticks on the
hearth. The blaze they gave was, however, enough to enable her to
read; and she was deep in study of the Bible, in which she had read
aloud to the poor old woman, until the latter had fallen asleep.
Jemima beckoned her out, and they stood on the green just before the
open door, so that Ruth could see if Ann awoke.
"I have not many minutes to stay, only I felt as if I must see you.
And we want Leonard to come to us to see all our German purchases,
and hear all our German adventures. May he come to-morrow?"
"Yes; thank you. Oh! Jemima, I have heard something--I have got a
plan that makes me so happy! I have not told any one yet. But Mr
Wynne (the parish doctor, you know) has asked me if I would go out as
a sick nurse--he thinks he could find me employment."
"You, a sick nurse!" said Jemima, involuntarily glancing over the
beautiful lithe figure, and the lovely refinement of Ruth's face as
the light of the rising moon fell upon it. "My dear Ruth, I don't
think you are fitted for it!"
"Don't you?" said Ruth, a little disappointed. "I think I am; at
least, that I should be very soon. I like being about sick and
helpless people; I always feel so sorry for them; and then I think I
have the gift of a very delicate touch, which is such a comfort in
many cases. And I should try to be very watchful and patient. Mr
Wynne proposed it himself."
"It was not in that way I meant you were not fitted for it. I meant
that you were fitted for something better. Why, Ruth, you are better
educated than I am!"
"But if nobody will allow me to teach?--for that is what I suppose
you mean. Besides, I feel as if all my education would be needed to
make me a good sick nurse."
"Your knowledge of Latin, for instance," said Jemima, hitting, in
her vexation at the plan, on the first acquirement of Ruth she could
think of.
"Well!" said Ruth, "that won't come amiss; I can read the
prescriptions."
"Which the doctors would rather you did not do."
"Still, you can't say that any knowledge of any kind will be in my
way, or will unfit me for my work."
"Perhaps not. But all your taste and refinement will be in your way,
and will unfit you."
"You have not thought about this so much as I have, or you would not
say so. Any fastidiousness I shall have to get rid of, and I shall
be better without; but any true refinement I am sure I shall find
of use; for don't you think that every power we have may be made to
help us in any right work, whatever that is? Would you not rather be
nursed by a person who spoke gently and moved quietly about than by a
loud bustling woman?"
"Yes, to be sure; but a person unfit for anything else may move
quietly, and speak gently, and give medicine when the doctor orders
it, and keep awake at night; and those are the best qualities I ever
heard of in a sick nurse."
Ruth was quite silent for some time. At last she said: "At any rate
it is work, and as such I am thankful for it. You cannot discourage
me--and perhaps you know too little of what my life has been--how set
apart in idleness I have been--to sympathise with me fully."
"And I wanted you to come to see us--me in my new home. Walter and I
had planned that we would persuade you to come to us very often" (she
had planned, and Mr Farquhar had consented); "and now you will have
to be fastened up in a sick-room."
"I could not have come," said Ruth quickly. "Dear Jemima! it is like
you to have thought of it--but I could not come to your house. It is
not a thing to reason about. It is just feeling. But I do feel as if
I could not go. Dear Jemima! if you are ill or sorrowful, and want
me, I will come--"
"So you would and must to any one, if you take up that calling."
"But I should come to you, love, in quite a different way; I should
go to you with my heart full of love--so full that I am afraid I
should be too anxious."
"I almost wish I were ill, that I might make you come at once."
"And I am almost ashamed to think how I should like you to be in some
position in which I could show you how well I remember that day--that
terrible day in the school-room. God bless you for it, Jemima!"