The Forged Deed
Mr Wynne, the parish surgeon, was right. He could and did obtain
employment for Ruth as a sick nurse. Her home was with the Bensons;
every spare moment was given to Leonard and to them; but she was
at the call of all the invalids in the town. At first her work lay
exclusively among the paupers. At first, too, there was a recoil
from many circumstances, which impressed upon her the most fully the
physical sufferings of those whom she tended. But she tried to lose
the sense of these--or rather to lessen them, and make them take
their appointed places--in thinking of the individuals themselves,
as separate from their decaying frames; and all along she had
enough self-command to control herself from expressing any sign of
repugnance. She allowed herself no nervous haste of movement or
touch that should hurt the feelings of the poorest, most friendless
creature, who ever lay a victim to disease. There was no rough
getting over of all the disagreeable and painful work of her
employment. When it was a lessening of pain to have the touch careful
and delicate, and the ministration performed with gradual skill, Ruth
thought of her charge, and not of herself. As she had foretold, she
found a use for all her powers. The poor patients themselves were
unconsciously gratified and soothed by her harmony and refinement of
manner, voice, and gesture. If this harmony and refinement had been
merely superficial, it would not have had this balmy effect. That
arose from its being the true expression of a kind, modest, and
humble spirit. By degrees her reputation as a nurse spread upwards,
and many sought her good offices who could well afford to pay for
them. Whatever remuneration was offered to her, she took it simply
and without comment; for she felt that it was not hers to refuse;
that it was, in fact, owing to the Bensons for her and her child's
subsistence. She went wherever her services were first called for.
If the poor bricklayer, who broke both his legs in a fall from the
scaffolding, sent for her when she was disengaged, she went and
remained with him until he could spare her, let who would be the next
claimant. From the happy and prosperous in all but health, she would
occasionally beg off, when some one less happy and more friendless
wished for her; and sometimes she would ask for a little money
from Mr Benson to give to such in their time of need. But it was
astonishing how much she was able to do without money.
Her ways were very quiet; she never spoke much. Any one who has been
oppressed with the weight of a vital secret for years, and much more
any one the character of whose life has been stamped by one event,
and that producing sorrow and shame, is naturally reserved. And yet
Ruth's silence was not like reserve; it was too gentle and tender
for that. It had more the effect of a hush of all loud or disturbing
emotions, and out of the deep calm the words that came forth had a
beautiful power. She did not talk much about religion; but those
who noticed her knew that it was the unseen banner which she was
following. The low-breathed sentences which she spoke into the ear of
the sufferer and the dying carried them upwards to God.
She gradually became known and respected among the roughest boys of
the rough populace of the town. They would make way for her when she
passed along the streets with more deference than they used to most;
for all knew something of the tender care with which she had attended
this or that sick person, and, besides, she was so often in connexion
with Death that something of the superstitious awe with which the
dead were regarded by those rough boys in the midst of their strong
life, surrounded her.
She herself did not feel changed. She felt just as faulty--as far
from being what she wanted to be, as ever. She best knew how many
of her good actions were incomplete, and marred with evil. She did
not feel much changed from the earliest Ruth she could remember.
Everything seemed to change but herself. Mr and Miss Benson grew old,
and Sally grew deaf, and Leonard was shooting up, and Jemima was
a mother. She and the distant hills that she saw from her chamber
window, seemed the only things which were the same as when she first
came to Eccleston. As she sat looking out, and taking her fill of
solitude, which sometimes was her most thorough rest--as she sat at
the attic window looking abroad--she saw their next-door neighbour
carried out to sun himself in his garden. When she first came to
Eccleston, this neighbour and his daughter were often seen taking
long and regular walks; by-and-by his walks became shorter, and the
attentive daughter would convoy him home, and set out afresh to
finish her own. Of late years he had only gone out in the garden
behind his house; but at first he had walked pretty briskly there
by his daughter's help--now he was carried, and placed in a large,
cushioned easy-chair, his head remaining where it was placed against
the pillow, and hardly moving when his kind daughter, who was now
middle-aged, brought him the first roses of the summer. This told
Ruth of the lapse of life and time.
Mr and Mrs Farquhar were constant in their attentions; but there was
no sign of Mr Bradshaw ever forgiving the imposition which had been
practised upon him, and Mr Benson ceased to hope for any renewal of
their intercourse. Still, he thought that he must know of all the
kind attentions which Jemima paid to them, and of the fond regard
which both she and her husband bestowed on Leonard. This latter
feeling even went so far that Mr Farquhar called one day, and with
much diffidence begged Mr Benson to urge Ruth to let him be sent to
school at his (Mr Farquhar's) expense.
Mr Benson was taken by surprise, and hesitated. "I do not know. It
would be a great advantage in some respects; and yet I doubt whether
it would in others. His mother's influence over him is thoroughly
good, and I should fear that any thoughtless allusions to his
peculiar position might touch the raw spot in his mind."
"But he is so unusually clever, it seems a shame not to give him all
the advantages he can have. Besides, does he see much of his mother
now?"
"Hardly a day passes without her coming home to be an hour or so with
him, even at her busiest times; she says it is her best refreshment.
And often, you know, she is disengaged for a week or two, except the
occasional services which she is always rendering to those who need
her. Your offer is very tempting, but there is so decidedly another
view of the question to be considered, that I believe we must refer
it to her."
"With all my heart. Don't hurry her to a decision. Let her weigh it
well. I think she will find the advantages preponderate."
"I wonder if I might trouble you with a little business, Mr Farquhar,
as you are here?"
"Certainly; I am only too glad to be of any use to you."
"Why, I see from the report of the Star Life Assurance Company in the
_Times_, which you are so good as to send me, that they have declared
a bonus on the shares; now it seems strange that I have received no
notification of it, and I thought that perhaps it might be lying at
your office, as Mr Bradshaw was the purchaser of the shares, and I
have always received the dividends through your firm."
Mr Farquhar took the newspaper, and ran his eye over the report.
"I've no doubt that's the way of it," said he. "Some of our clerks
have been careless about it; or it may be Richard himself. He is not
always the most punctual and exact of mortals; but I'll see about it.
Perhaps after all it mayn't come for a day or two; they have always
such numbers of these circulars to send out."
"Oh! I'm in no hurry about it. I only want to receive it some time
before I incur any expenses, which the promise of this bonus may
tempt me to indulge in."
Mr Farquhar took his leave. That evening there was a long conference,
for, as it happened, Ruth was at home. She was strenuously
against the school plan. She could see no advantages that would
counterbalance the evil which she dreaded from any school for
Leonard; namely, that the good opinion and regard of the world would
assume too high an importance in his eyes. The very idea seemed to
produce in her so much shrinking affright, that by mutual consent
the subject was dropped; to be taken up again, or not, according to
circumstances.
Mr Farquhar wrote the next morning, on Mr Benson's behalf, to the
Insurance Company, to inquire about the bonus. Although he wrote
in the usual formal way, he did not think it necessary to tell Mr
Bradshaw what he had done; for Mr Benson's name was rarely mentioned
between the partners; each had been made fully aware of the views
which the other entertained on the subject that had caused the
estrangement; and Mr Farquhar felt that no external argument could
affect Mr Bradshaw's resolved disapproval and avoidance of his former
minister.
As it happened, the answer from the Insurance Company (directed to
the firm) was given to Mr Bradshaw along with the other business
letters. It was to the effect that Mr Benson's shares had been sold
and transferred above a twelvemonth ago, which sufficiently accounted
for the circumstance that no notification of the bonus had been sent
to him.
Mr Bradshaw tossed the letter on one side, not displeased to have
a good reason for feeling a little contempt at the unbusiness-like
forgetfulness of Mr Benson, at whose instance some one had evidently
been writing to the Insurance Company. On Mr Farquhar's entrance he
expressed this feeling to him.
"Really," he said, "these Dissenting ministers have no more notion of
exactitude in their affairs than a child! The idea of forgetting that
he has sold his shares, and applying for the bonus, when it seems he
has transferred them only a year ago!"
Mr Farquhar was reading the letter while Mr Bradshaw spoke.
"I don't quite understand it," said he. "Mr Benson was quite clear
about it. He could not have received his half-yearly dividends unless
he had been possessed of these shares; and I don't suppose Dissenting
ministers, with all their ignorance of business, are unlike other men
in knowing whether or not they receive the money that they believe to
be owing to them."
"I should not wonder if they were--if Benson was, at any rate. Why,
I never knew his watch to be right in all my life--it was always too
fast or too slow; it must have been a daily discomfort to him. It
ought to have been. Depend upon it, his money matters are just in the
same irregular state; no accounts kept, I'll be bound."
"I don't see that that follows," said Mr Farquhar, half amused.
"That watch of his is a very curious one--belonged to his father and
grandfather, I don't know how far back."
"And the sentimental feelings which he is guided by prompt him to
keep it, to the inconvenience of himself and every one else."
Mr Farquhar gave up the subject of the watch as hopeless.
"But about this letter. I wrote, at Mr Benson's desire, to the
Insurance Office, and I am not satisfied with this answer. All the
transaction has passed through our hands. I do not think it is likely
Mr Benson would write and sell the shares without, at any rate,
informing us at the time, even though he forgot all about it
afterwards."
"Probably he told Richard, or Mr Watson."
"We can ask Mr Watson at once. I am afraid we must wait till Richard
comes home, for I don't know where a letter would catch him."
Mr Bradshaw pulled the bell that rang into the head-clerk's room,
saying as he did so,
"You may depend upon it, Farquhar, the blunder lies with
Benson himself. He is just the man to muddle away his money in
indiscriminate charity, and then to wonder what has become of it."
Mr Farquhar was discreet enough to hold his tongue.
"Mr Watson," said Mr Bradshaw, as the old clerk made his appearance,
"here is some mistake about those Insurance shares we purchased for
Benson ten or a dozen years ago. He spoke to Mr Farquhar about some
bonus they are paying to the shareholders, it seems; and, in reply to
Mr Farquhar's letter, the Insurance Company say the shares were sold
twelve months since. Have you any knowledge of the transaction? Has
the transfer passed through your hands? By the way" (turning to Mr
Farquhar), "who kept the certificates? Did Benson or we?"
"I really don't know," said Mr Farquhar. "Perhaps Mr Watson can tell
us."
Mr Watson meanwhile was studying the letter. When he had ended it, he
took off his spectacles, wiped them, and replacing them, he read it
again.
"It seems very strange, sir," he said at length, with his trembling,
aged voice, "for I paid Mr Benson the account of the dividends myself
last June, and got a receipt in form, and that is since the date of
the alleged transfer."
"Pretty nearly twelve months after it took place," said Mr Farquhar.
"How did you receive the dividends? An order on the Bank, along with
old Mrs Cranmer's?" asked Mr Bradshaw, sharply.
"I don't know how they came. Mr Richard gave me the money, and
desired me to get the receipt."
"It's unlucky Richard is from home," said Mr Bradshaw. "He could have
cleared up this mystery for us."
Mr Farquhar was silent.
"Do you know where the certificates were kept, Mr Watson?" said he.
"I'll not be sure, but I think they were with Mrs Cranmer's papers
and deeds in box A, 24."
"I wish old Cranmer would have made any other man his executor. She,
too, is always coming with some unreasonable request or other."
"Mr Benson's inquiry about his bonus is perfectly reasonable, at any
rate."
Mr Watson, who was dwelling in the slow fashion of age on what had
been said before, now spoke:
"I'll not be sure, but I am almost certain, Mr Benson said, when I
paid him last June, that he thought he ought to give the receipt on
a stamp, and had spoken about it to Mr Richard the time before, but
that Mr Richard said it was of no consequence. Yes," continued he,
gathering up his memory as he went on, "he did--I remember now--and
I thought to myself that Mr Richard was but a young man. Mr Richard
will know all about it."
"Yes," said Mr Farquhar, gravely.
"I shan't wait till Richard's return," said Mr Bradshaw. "We can soon
see if the certificates are in the box Watson points out; if they are
there, the Insurance people are no more fit to manage their concern
than that cat, and I shall tell them so. If they are not there (as
I suspect will prove to be the case), it is just forgetfulness on
Benson's part, as I have said from the first."
"You forget the payment of the dividends," said Mr Farquhar, in a low
voice.
"Well, sir! what then?" said Mr Bradshaw, abruptly. While he
spoke--while his eye met Mr Farquhar's--the hinted meaning of the
latter flashed through his mind; but he was only made angry to find
that such a suspicion could pass through any one's imagination.
"I suppose I may go, sir," said Watson, respectfully, an uneasy
consciousness of what was in Mr Farquhar's thoughts troubling the
faithful old clerk.
"Yes. Go. What do you mean about the dividends?" asked Mr Bradshaw,
impetuously of Mr Farquhar.
"Simply, that I think there can have been no forgetfulness--no
mistake on Mr Benson's part," said Mr Farquhar, unwilling to put his
dim suspicion into words.
"Then of course it is some blunder of that confounded Insurance
Company. I will write to them to-day, and make them a little brisker
and more correct in their statements."
"Don't you think it would be better to wait till Richard's return? He
may be able to explain it."
"No, sir!" said Mr Bradshaw, sharply. "I do not think it would be
better. It has not been my way of doing business to spare any one,
or any company, the consequences of their own carelessness; nor to
obtain information second-hand when I could have it direct from the
source. I shall write to the Insurance Office by the next post."
Mr Farquhar saw that any further remonstrance on his part would
only aggravate his partner's obstinacy; and, besides, it was but a
suspicion--an uncomfortable suspicion. It was possible that some of
the clerks at the Insurance Office might have made a mistake. Watson
was not sure, after all, that the certificates had been deposited in
box A, 24; and when he and Mr Farquhar could not find them there,
the old man drew more and yet more back from his first assertion of
belief that they had been placed there.
Mr Bradshaw wrote an angry and indignant reproach of carelessness to
the Insurance Company. By the next mail one of their clerks came down
to Eccleston; and having leisurely refreshed himself at the inn, and
ordered his dinner with care, he walked up to the great warehouse of
Bradshaw and Co., and sent in his card, with a pencil notification,
"On the part of the Star Insurance Company," to Mr Bradshaw himself.
Mr Bradshaw held the card in his hand for a minute or two without
raising his eyes. Then he spoke out loud and firm:
"Desire the gentleman to walk up. Stay! I will ring my bell in a
minute or two, and then show him upstairs."
When the errand-boy had closed the door, Mr Bradshaw went to a
cupboard where he usually kept a glass and a bottle of wine (of which
he very seldom partook, for he was an abstemious man). He intended
now to take a glass, but the bottle was empty; and though there was
plenty more to be had for ringing, or even simply going into another
room, he would not allow himself to do this. He stood and lectured
himself in thought.
"After all, I am a fool for once in my life. If the certificates are
in no box which I have yet examined, that does not imply they may not
be in some one which I have not had time to search. Farquhar would
stay so late last night! And even if they are in none of the boxes
here, that does not prove--" He gave the bell a jerking ring, and it
was yet sounding when Mr Smith, the insurance clerk, entered.
The manager of the Insurance Company had been considerably nettled at
the tone of Mr Bradshaw's letter; and had instructed the clerk to
assume some dignity at first in vindicating (as it was well in his
power to do) the character of the proceedings of the Company, but
at the same time he was not to go too far, for the firm of Bradshaw
and Co. was daily looming larger in the commercial world, and if any
reasonable explanation could be given it was to be received, and
bygones be bygones.
"Sit down, sir!" said Mr Bradshaw.
"You are aware, sir, I presume, that I come on the part of Mr
Dennison, the manager of the Star Insurance Company, to reply in
person to a letter of yours, of the 29th, addressed to him?"
Mr Bradshaw bowed. "A very careless piece of business," he said,
stiffly.
"Mr Dennison does not think you will consider it as such when you
have seen the deed of transfer, which I am commissioned to show you."
Mr Bradshaw took the deed with a steady hand. He wiped his spectacles
quietly, without delay, and without hurry, and adjusted them on his
nose. It is possible that he was rather long in looking over the
document--at least, the clerk had just begun to wonder if he was
reading through the whole of it, instead of merely looking at the
signature, when Mr Bradshaw said: "It is possible that it may be--of
course, you will allow me to take this paper to Mr Benson, to--to
inquire if this be his signature?"
"There can be no doubt of it, I think, sir," said the clerk, calmly
smiling, for he knew Mr Benson's signature well.
"I don't know, sir--I don't know." (He was speaking as if the
pronunciation of every word required a separate effort of will, like
a man who has received a slight paralytic stroke.)
"You have heard, sir, of such a thing as forgery--forgery, sir?" said
he, repeating the last word very distinctly; for he feared that the
first time he had said it, it was rather slurred over.
"Oh, sir! there is no room for imagining such a thing, I assure you.
In our affairs we become aware of curious forgetfulness on the part
of those who are not of business habits."
"Still I should like to show it Mr Benson, to prove to him his
forgetfulness, you know. I believe, on my soul, it is some of his
careless forgetfulness--I do, sir," said he. Now he spoke very
quickly. "It must have been. Allow me to convince myself. You shall
have it back to-night, or the first thing in the morning."
The clerk did not quite like to relinquish the deed, nor yet did
he like to refuse Mr Bradshaw. If that very uncomfortable idea of
forgery should have any foundation in truth--and he had given up
the writing! There were a thousand chances to one against its being
anything but a stupid blunder; the risk was more imminent of
offending one of the directors.
As he hesitated, Mr Bradshaw spoke, very calmly, and almost with
a smile on his face. He had regained his self-command. "You are
afraid, I see. I assure you, you may trust me. If there has been any
fraud--if I have the slightest suspicion of the truth of the surmise
I threw out just now,"--he could not quite speak the bare naked word
that was chilling his heart--"I will not fail to aid the ends of
justice, even though the culprit should be my own son."
He ended, as he began, with a smile--such a smile!--the stiff lips
refused to relax and cover the teeth. But all the time he kept saying
to himself:
"I don't believe it--I don't believe it. I'm convinced it's a blunder
of that old fool Benson."
But when he had dismissed the clerk, and secured the piece of paper,
he went and locked the door, and laid his head on his desk, and
moaned aloud.
He had lingered in the office for the two previous nights; at first,
occupying himself in searching for the certificates of the Insurance
shares; but, when all the boxes and other repositories for papers had
been ransacked, the thought took hold of him that they might be in
Richard's private desk; and, with the determination which overlooks
the means to get at the end, he had first tried all his own keys on
the complicated lock, and then broken it open with two decided blows
of a poker, the instrument nearest at hand. He did not find the
certificates. Richard had always considered himself careful in
destroying any dangerous or tell-tale papers; but the stern father
found enough, in what remained, to convince him that his pattern
son--more even than his pattern son, his beloved pride--was far other
than what he seemed.
Mr Bradshaw did not skip or miss a word. He did not shrink while he
read. He folded up letter by letter; he snuffed the candle just when
its light began to wane, and no sooner; but he did not miss or omit
one paper--he read every word. Then, leaving the letters in a heap
upon the table, and the broken desk to tell its own tale, he locked
the door of the room which was appropriated to his son as junior
partner, and carried the key away with him.
There was a faint hope, even after this discovery of many
circumstances of Richard's life which shocked and dismayed his
father--there was still a faint hope that he might not be guilty of
forgery--that it might be no forgery after all--only a blunder--an
omission--a stupendous piece of forgetfulness. That hope was the one
straw that Mr Bradshaw clung to.
Late that night Mr Benson sat in his study. Every one else in the
house had gone to bed; but he was expecting a summons to someone
who was dangerously ill. He was not startled, therefore, at the
knock which came to the front door about twelve; but he was rather
surprised at the character of the knock, so slow and loud, with a
pause between each rap. His study-door was but a step from that which
led into the street. He opened it, and there stood--Mr Bradshaw; his
large, portly figure not to be mistaken even in the dusky night.
He said, "That is right. It was you I wanted to see." And he walked
straight into the study. Mr Benson followed, and shut the door. Mr
Bradshaw was standing by the table, fumbling in his pocket. He pulled
out the deed; and opening it, after a pause, in which you might have
counted five, he held it out to Mr Benson.
"Read it!" said he. He spoke not another word until time had been
allowed for its perusal. Then he added:
"That is your signature?" The words were an assertion, but the tone
was that of question.
"No, it is not," said Mr Benson, decidedly. "It is very like my
writing. I could almost say it was mine, but I know it is not."
"Recollect yourself a little. The date is August the third of last
year, fourteen months ago. You may have forgotten it." The tone of
the voice had a kind of eager entreaty in it, which Mr Benson did not
notice,--he was so startled at the fetch of his own writing.
"It is most singularly like mine; but I could not have signed away
these shares--all the property I have--without the slightest
remembrance of it."
"Stranger things have happened. For the love of Heaven, think if you
did not sign it. It's a deed of transfer for those Insurance shares,
you see. You don't remember it? You did not write this name--these
words?" He looked at Mr Benson with craving wistfulness for one
particular answer. Mr Benson was struck at last by the whole
proceeding, and glanced anxiously at Mr Bradshaw, whose manner, gait,
and voice were so different from usual that he might well excite
attention. But as soon as the latter was aware of this momentary
inspection, he changed his tone all at once.
"Don't imagine, sir, I wish to force any invention upon you as a
remembrance. If you did not write this name, I know who did. Once
more I ask you,--does no glimmering recollection of--having needed
money, we'll say--I never wanted you to refuse my subscription to the
chapel, God knows!--of having sold these accursed shares?--Oh! I see
by your face you did not write it; you need not speak to me--I know."
He sank down into a chair near him. His whole figure drooped. In a
moment he was up, and standing straight as an arrow, confronting Mr
Benson, who could find no clue to this stern man's agitation.
"You say you did not write these words?" pointing to the signature,
with an untrembling finger. "I believe you; Richard Bradshaw did
write them."
"My dear sir--my dear old friend!" exclaimed Mr Benson, "you are
rushing to a conclusion for which, I am convinced, there is no
foundation; there is no reason to suppose that because--"
"There is reason, sir. Do not distress yourself--I am perfectly
calm." His stony eyes and immovable face did indeed look rigid. "What
we have now to do is to punish the offence. I have not one standard
for myself and those I love--(and, Mr Benson, I did love him)--and
another for the rest of the world. If a stranger had forged my
name, I should have known it was my duty to prosecute him. You must
prosecute Richard."
"I will not," said Mr Benson.
"You think, perhaps, that I shall feel it acutely. You are mistaken.
He is no longer as my son to me. I have always resolved to disown
any child of mine who was guilty of sin. I disown Richard. He is
as a stranger to me. I shall feel no more at his exposure--his
punishment--" He could not go on, for his voice was choking. "Of
course, you understand that I must feel shame at our connexion; it is
that that is troubling me; that is but consistent with a man who has
always prided himself on the integrity of his name; but as for that
boy, who has been brought up all his life as I have brought up my
children, it must be some innate wickedness! Sir, I can cut him off,
though he has been as my right hand--beloved. Let me be no hindrance
to the course of justice, I beg. He has forged your name--he has
defrauded you of money--of your all, I think you said."
"Someone has forged my name. I am not convinced that it was your son.
Until I know all the circumstances, I decline to prosecute."
"What circumstances?" asked Mr Bradshaw, in an authoritative manner,
which would have shown irritation but for his self-command.
"The force of the temptation--the previous habits of the person--"
"Of Richard. He is the person," Mr Bradshaw put in.
Mr Benson went on, without taking any notice. "I should think it
right to prosecute, if I found out that this offence against me was
only one of a series committed, with premeditation, against society.
I should then feel, as a protector of others more helpless than
myself--"
"It was your all," said Mr Bradshaw.
"It was all my money; it was not my all," replied Mr Benson; and
then he went on as if the interruption had never been: "Against an
habitual offender. I shall not prosecute Richard. Not because he is
your son--do not imagine that! I should decline taking such a step
against any young man without first ascertaining the particulars
about him, which I know already about Richard, and which determine me
against doing what would blast his character for life--would destroy
every good quality he has."
"What good quality remains to him?" asked Mr Bradshaw. "He has
deceived me--he has offended God."
"Have we not all offended Him?" Mr Benson said, in a low tone.
"Not consciously. I never do wrong consciously. But
Richard--Richard." The remembrance of the undeceiving letters--the
forgery--filled up his heart so completely that he could not speak
for a minute or two. Yet when he saw Mr Benson on the point of saying
something, he broke in:
"It is no use talking, sir. You and I cannot agree on these subjects.
Once more, I desire you to prosecute that boy, who is no longer a
child of mine."
"Mr Bradshaw, I shall not prosecute him. I have said it once for all.
To-morrow you will be glad that I do not listen to you. I should only
do harm by saying more at present."
There is always something aggravating in being told, that the mood in
which we are now viewing things strongly will not be our mood at some
other time. It implies that our present feelings are blinding us, and
that some more clear-sighted spectator is able to distinguish our
future better than we do ourselves. The most shallow person dislikes
to be told that any one can gauge his depth. Mr Bradshaw was not
soothed by this last remark of Mr Benson's. He stooped down to take
up his hat and be gone. Mr Benson saw his dizzy way of groping, and
gave him what he sought for; but he received no word of thanks. Mr
Bradshaw went silently towards the door, but, just as he got there,
he turned round, and said:
"If there were more people like me, and fewer like you, there would
be less evil in the world, sir. It's your sentimentalists that nurse
up sin."
Although Mr Benson had been very calm during this interview, he had
been much shocked by what had been let out respecting Richard's
forgery; not by the fact itself so much as by what it was a sign of.
Still, he had known the young man from childhood, and had seen, and
often regretted, that his want of moral courage had rendered him
peculiarly liable to all the bad effects arising from his father's
severe and arbitrary mode of treatment. Dick would never have had
"pluck" enough to be a hardened villain, under any circumstances;
but, unless some good influence, some strength, was brought to bear
upon him, he might easily sink into the sneaking scoundrel. Mr Benson
determined to go to Mr Farquhar's the first thing in the morning, and
consult him as a calm, clear-headed family friend--partner in the
business, as well as son and brother-in-law to the people concerned.