An Accident to the Dover Coach
While Mr Benson lay awake for fear of oversleeping himself, and so
being late at Mr Farquhar's (it was somewhere about six o'clock--dark
as an October morning is at that time), Sally came to his door and
knocked. She was always an early riser; and if she had not been gone
to bed long before Mr Bradshaw's visit last night, Mr Benson might
safely have trusted to her calling him.
"Here's a woman down below as must see you directly. She'll be
upstairs after me if you're not down quick."
"Is it any one from Clarke's?"
"No, no! not it, master," said she, through the keyhole; "I reckon
it's Mrs Bradshaw, for all she's muffled up."
He needed no other word. When he went down, Mrs Bradshaw sat in
his easy-chair, swaying her body to and fro, and crying without
restraint. Mr Benson came up to her, before she was aware that he was
there.
"Oh! sir," said she, getting up and taking hold of both his
hands, "you won't be so cruel, will you? I have got some money
somewhere--some money my father settled on me, sir; I don't know how
much, but I think it's more than two thousand pounds, and you shall
have it all. If I can't give it you now, I'll make a will, sir. Only
be merciful to poor Dick--don't go and prosecute him, sir."
"My dear Mrs Bradshaw, don't agitate yourself in this way. I never
meant to prosecute him."
"But Mr Bradshaw says that you must."
"I shall not, indeed. I have told Mr Bradshaw so."
"Has he been here? Oh! is not he cruel? I don't care. I've been a
good wife till now. I know I have. I have done all he bid me, ever
since we were married. But now I will speak my mind, and say to
everybody how cruel he is--how hard to his own flesh and blood! If he
puts poor Dick in prison, I will go too. If I'm to choose between my
husband and my son, I choose my son; for he will have no friends,
unless I am with him."
"Mr Bradshaw will think better of it. You will see that, when his
first anger and disappointment are over, he will not be hard or
cruel."
"You don't know Mr Bradshaw," said she, mournfully, "if you think
he'll change. I might beg and beg--I have done many a time, when we
had little children, and I wanted to save them a whipping--but no
begging ever did any good. At last I left it off. He'll not change."
"Perhaps not for human entreaty. Mrs Bradshaw, is there nothing more
powerful?"
The tone of his voice suggested what he did not say.
"If you mean that God may soften his heart," replied she, humbly,
"I'm not going to deny God's power--I have need to think of Him,"
she continued, bursting into fresh tears, "for I am a very miserable
woman. Only think! he cast it up against me last night, and said, if
I had not spoilt Dick this never would have happened."
"He hardly knew what he was saying last night. I will go to Mr
Farquhar's directly, and see him; and you had better go home, my dear
Mrs Bradshaw; you may rely upon our doing all that we can."
With some difficulty he persuaded her not to accompany him to Mr
Farquhar's; but he had, indeed, to take her to her own door before he
could convince her that, at present, she could do nothing but wait
the result of the consultation of others.
It was before breakfast, and Mr Farquhar was alone; so Mr Benson had
a quiet opportunity of telling the whole story to the husband before
the wife came down. Mr Farquhar was not much surprised, though
greatly distressed. The general opinion he had always entertained
of Richard's character had predisposed him to fear, even before the
inquiry respecting the Insurance shares. But it was still a shock
when it came, however much it might have been anticipated.
"What can we do?" said Mr Benson, as Mr Farquhar sat gloomily silent.
"That is just what I was asking myself. I think I must see Mr
Bradshaw, and try and bring him a little out of this unmerciful frame
of mind. That must be the first thing. Will you object to accompany
me at once? It seems of particular consequence that we should subdue
his obduracy before the affair gets wind."
"I will go with you willingly. But I believe I rather serve to
irritate Mr Bradshaw; he is reminded of things he has said to me
formerly, and which he thinks he is bound to act up to. However, I
can walk with you to the door, and wait for you (if you'll allow
me) in the street. I want to know how he is to-day, both bodily and
mentally; for indeed, Mr Farquhar, I should not have been surprised
last night if he had dropped down dead, so terrible was his strain
upon himself."
Mr Benson was left at the door as he had desired, while Mr Farquhar
went in.
"Oh, Mr Farquhar, what is the matter?" exclaimed the girls, running
to him. "Mamma sits crying in the old nursery. We believe she has
been there all night. She will not tell us what it is, nor let us be
with her; and papa is locked up in his room, and won't even answer us
when we speak, though we know he is up and awake, for we heard him
tramping about all night."
"Let me go up to him," said Mr Farquhar.
"He won't let you in. It will be of no use." But in spite of what
they said, he went up; and to their surprise, after hearing who it
was, their father opened the door, and admitted their brother-in-law.
He remained with Mr Bradshaw about half an hour, and then came into
the dining-room, where the two girls stood huddled over the fire,
regardless of the untasted breakfast behind them; and, writing a few
lines, he desired them to take his note up to their mother, saying it
would comfort her a little, and that he should send Jemima, in two or
three hours, with the baby--perhaps to remain some days with them. He
had no time to tell them more; Jemima would.
He left them, and rejoined Mr Benson. "Come home and breakfast with
me. I am off to London in an hour or two, and must speak with you
first."
On reaching his house, he ran upstairs to ask Jemima to breakfast
alone in her dressing-room, and returned in five minutes or less.
"Now I can tell you about it," said he. "I see my way clearly to a
certain point. We must prevent Dick and his father meeting just now,
or all hope of Dick's reformation is gone for ever. His father is as
hard as the nether mill-stone. He has forbidden me his house."
"Forbidden you!"
"Yes; because I would not give up Dick as utterly lost and bad; and
because I said I should return to London with the clerk, and fairly
tell Dennison (he's a Scotchman, and a man of sense and feeling) the
real state of the case. By the way, we must not say a word to the
clerk; otherwise he will expect an answer, and make out all sorts of
inferences for himself, from the unsatisfactory reply he must have.
Dennison will be upon honour--will see every side of the case--will
know you refuse to prosecute; the Company of which he is manager are
no losers. Well! when I said what I thought wise, of all this--when
I spoke as if my course were a settled and decided thing, the grim
old man asked me if he was to be an automaton in his own house. He
assured me he had no feeling for Dick--all the time he was shaking
like an aspen; in short, repeated much the same things he must have
said to you last night. However, I defied him; and the consequence
is, I'm forbidden the house, and, what is more, he says he will not
come to the office while I remain a partner."
"What shall you do?"
"Send Jemima and the baby. There's nothing like a young child for
bringing people round to a healthy state of feeling; and you don't
know what Jemima is, Mr Benson! No! though you've known her from her
birth. If she can't comfort her mother, and if the baby can't steal
into her grandfather's heart, why--I don't know what you may do to
me. I shall tell Jemima all, and trust to her wit and wisdom to work
at this end, while I do my best at the other."
"Richard is abroad, is not he?"
"He will be in England to-morrow. I must catch him somewhere; but
that I can easily do. The difficult point will be, what to do with
him--what to say to him, when I find him. He must give up his
partnership, that's clear. I did not tell his father so, but I am
resolved upon it. There shall be no tampering with the honour of the
firm to which I belong."
"But what will become of him?" asked Mr Benson, anxiously.
"I do not yet know. But, for Jemima's sake--for his dear old father's
sake--I will not leave him adrift. I will find him some occupation
as clear from temptation as I can. I will do all in my power. And he
will do much better, if he has any good in him, as a freer agent, not
cowed by his father into a want of individuality and self-respect.
I believe I must dismiss you, Mr Benson," said he, looking at his
watch; "I have to explain all to my wife, and to go to that clerk.
You shall hear from me in a day or two."
Mr Benson half envied the younger man's elasticity of mind, and power
of acting promptly. He himself felt as if he wanted to sit down
in his quiet study, and think over the revelations and events of
the last twenty-four hours. It made him dizzy even to follow Mr
Farquhar's plans, as he had briefly detailed them; and some solitude
and consideration would be required before Mr Benson could decide
upon their justice and wisdom. He had been much shocked by the
discovery of the overt act of guilt which Richard had perpetrated,
low as his opinion of that young man had been for some time; and the
consequence was, that he felt depressed, and unable to rally for the
next few days. He had not even the comfort of his sister's sympathy,
as he felt bound in honour not to tell her anything; and she was
luckily so much absorbed in some household contest with Sally that
she did not notice her brother's quiet languor.
Mr Benson felt that he had no right at this time to intrude into the
house which he had been once tacitly forbidden. If he went now to Mr
Bradshaw's without being asked, or sent for, he thought it would seem
like presuming on his knowledge of the hidden disgrace of one of the
family. Yet he longed to go: he knew that Mr Farquhar must be writing
almost daily to Jemima, and he wanted to hear what he was doing. The
fourth day after her husband's departure she came, within half an
hour of the post-delivery, and asked to speak to Mr Benson alone.
She was in a state of great agitation, and had evidently been crying
very much.
"Oh, Mr Benson!" said she, "will you come with me, and tell papa this
sad news about Dick? Walter has written me a letter at last to say he
has found him--he could not at first; but now it seems that, the day
before yesterday, he heard of an accident which had happened to the
Dover coach; it was overturned--two passengers killed, and several
badly hurt. Walter says we ought to be thankful, as he is, that Dick
was not killed. He says it was such a relief to him on going to the
place--the little inn nearest to where the coach was overturned--to
find that Dick was only severely injured; not one of those who was
killed. But it is a terrible shock to us all. We had had no more
dreadful fear to lessen the shock; mamma is quite unfit for anything,
and we none of us dare to tell papa." Jemima had hard work to keep
down her sobs thus far, and now they overmastered her.
"How is your father? I have wanted to hear every day," asked Mr
Benson, tenderly.
"It was careless of me not to come and tell you; but, indeed, I have
had so much to do. Mamma would not go near him. He has said something
which she seems as if she could not forgive. Because he came to
meals, she would not. She has almost lived in the nursery; taking out
all Dick's old playthings, and what clothes of his were left, and
turning them over, and crying over them."
"Then Mr Bradshaw has joined you again; I was afraid, from what Mr
Farquhar said, he was going to isolate himself from you all?"
"I wish he had," said Jemima, crying afresh. "It would have been more
natural than the way he has gone on; the only difference from his
usual habits is, that he has never gone near the office, or else he
has come to meals just as usual, and talked just as usual; and even
done what I never knew him do before, tried to make jokes--all in
order to show us how little he cares."
"Does he not go out at all?"
"Only in the garden. I am sure he does care after all; he must care;
he cannot shake off a child in this way, though he thinks he can; and
that makes me so afraid of telling him of this accident. Will you
come, Mr Benson?"
He needed no other word. He went with her, as she rapidly threaded
her way through the by-streets. When they reached the house, she
went in without knocking, and putting her husband's letter into
Mr Benson's hand, she opened the door of her father's room, and
saying--"Papa, here is Mr Benson," left them alone.
Mr Benson felt nervously incapable of knowing what to do, or to say.
He had surprised Mr Bradshaw sitting idly over the fire--gazing
dreamily into the embers. But he had started up, and drawn his chair
to the table, on seeing his visitor; and, after the first necessary
words of politeness were over, he seemed to expect him to open the
conversation.
"Mrs Farquhar has asked me," said Mr Benson, plunging into the
subject with a trembling heart, "to tell you about a letter she has
received from her husband;" he stopped for an instant, for he felt
that he did not get nearer the real difficulty, and yet could not
tell the best way of approaching it.
"She need not have given you that trouble. I am aware of the reason
of Mr Farquhar's absence. I entirely disapprove of his conduct. He is
regardless of my wishes; and disobedient to the commands which, as my
son-in-law, I thought he would have felt bound to respect. If there
is any more agreeable subject that you can introduce, I shall be glad
to hear you, sir."
"Neither you, nor I, must think of what we like to hear or to say.
You must hear what concerns your son."
"I have disowned the young man who was my son," replied he, coldly.
"The Dover coach has been overturned," said Mr Benson, stimulated
into abruptness by the icy sternness of the father. But, in a flash,
he saw what lay below that terrible assumption of indifference. Mr
Bradshaw glanced up in his face one look of agony--and then went
grey-pale; so livid that Mr Benson got up to ring the bell in
affright, but Mr Bradshaw motioned to him to sit still.
"Oh! I have been too sudden, sir--he is alive, he is alive!" he
exclaimed, as he saw the ashy face working in a vain attempt to
speak; but the poor lips (so wooden, not a minute ago) went working
on and on, as if Mr Benson's words did not sink down into the mind,
or reach the understanding. Mr Benson went hastily for Mrs Farquhar.
"Oh, Jemima!" said he, "I have done it so badly--I have been so
cruel--he is very ill, I fear--bring water, brandy--" and he returned
with all speed into the room. Mr Bradshaw--the great, strong, iron
man--lay back in his chair in a swoon, a fit.
"Fetch my mother, Mary. Send for the doctor, Elizabeth," said Jemima,
rushing to her father. She and Mr Benson did all in their power to
restore him. Mrs Bradshaw forgot all her vows of estrangement from
the dead-like husband, who might never speak to her, or hear her
again, and bitterly accused herself for every angry word she had
spoken against him during these last few miserable days.
Before the doctor came, Mr Bradshaw had opened his eyes and partially
rallied, although he either did not, or could not speak. He looked
struck down into old age. His eyes were sensible in their expression,
but had the dim glaze of many years of life upon them. His lower jaw
fell from his upper one, giving a look of melancholy depression to
the face, although the lips hid the unclosed teeth. But he answered
correctly (in monosyllables, it is true) all the questions which the
doctor chose to ask. And the medical man was not so much impressed
with the serious character of the seizure as the family, who knew
all the hidden mystery behind, and had seen their father lie for the
first time with the precursor aspect of death upon his face. Rest,
watching, and a little medicine were what the doctor prescribed; it
was so slight a prescription, for what had appeared to Mr Benson so
serious an attack, that he wished to follow the medical man out of
the room to make further inquiries, and learn the real opinion which
he thought must lurk behind. But as he was following the doctor,
he--they all--were aware of the effort Mr Bradshaw was making to
rise, in order to arrest Mr Benson's departure. He did stand up,
supporting himself with one hand on the table, for his legs shook
under him. Mr Benson came back instantly to the spot where he was.
For a moment it seemed as if he had not the right command of his
voice: but at last he said, with a tone of humble, wistful entreaty,
which was very touching:
"He is alive, sir; is he not?"
"Yes, sir--indeed he is; he is only hurt. He is sure to do well. Mr
Farquhar is with him," said Mr Benson, almost unable to speak for
tears.
Mr Bradshaw did not remove his eyes from Mr Benson's face for more
than a minute after his question had been answered. He seemed as
though he would read his very soul, and there see if he spoke the
truth. Satisfied at last, he sank slowly into his chair; and they
were silent for a little space, waiting to perceive if he would wish
for any further information just then. At length he put his hands
slowly together in the clasped attitude of prayer, and said--"Thank
God!"