Ruth (33 page)

"Not all what?" asked Jemima, when she saw her mother was not going
to finish the sentence.

"Not all because Mrs Denbigh came to tea here," replied Mrs Bradshaw.

"Why, what else could he be thanking her for? What has she done?"
asked Jemima, stimulated to curiosity by her mother's hesitating
manner.

"I don't know if I ought to tell you," said Mrs Bradshaw.

"Oh, very well!" said Jemima, rather annoyed.

"Nay, dear! your papa never said I was not to tell; perhaps I may."

"Never mind! I don't want to hear," in a piqued tone.

There was silence for a little while. Jemima was trying to think of
something else, but her thoughts would revert to the wonder what Mrs
Denbigh could have done for her father.

"I think I may tell you, though," said Mrs Bradshaw, half
questioning.

Jemima had the honour not to urge any confidence, but she was too
curious to take any active step towards repressing it.

Mrs Bradshaw went on. "I think you deserve to know. It is partly your
doing that papa is so pleased with Mrs Denbigh. He is going to buy
her a silk gown this morning, and I think you ought to know why."

"Why?" asked Jemima.

"Because papa is so pleased to find that you mind what she says."

"I mind what she says! To be sure I do, and always did. But why
should papa give her a gown for that? I think he ought to give it me
rather," said Jemima, half laughing.

"I am sure he would, dear; he will give you one, I am certain, if
you want one. He was so pleased to see you like your old self to Mr
Farquhar last night. We neither of us could think what had come over
you this last month; but now all seems right."

A dark cloud came over Jemima's face. She did not like this close
observation and constant comment upon her manners; and what had Ruth
to do with it?

"I am glad you were pleased," said she, very coldly. Then, after a
pause, she added, "But you have not told me what Mrs Denbigh had to
do with my good behaviour."

"Did not she speak to you about it?" asked Mrs Bradshaw, looking up.

"No; why should she? She has no right to criticise what I do. She
would not be so impertinent," said Jemima, feeling very uncomfortable
and suspicious.

"Yes, love! she would have had a right, for papa had desired her to
do it."

"Papa desired her! What do you mean, mamma?"

"Oh, dear! I dare say I should not have told you," said Mrs Bradshaw,
perceiving, from Jemima's tone of voice, that something had gone
wrong. "Only you spoke as if it would be impertinent in Mrs Denbigh,
and I am sure she would not do anything that was impertinent. You
know, it would be but right for her to do what papa told her; and he
said a great deal to her, the other day, about finding out why you
were so cross, and bringing you right. And you are right now, dear!"
said Mrs Bradshaw, soothingly, thinking that Jemima was annoyed (like
a good child) at the recollection of how naughty she had been.

"Then papa is going to give Mrs Denbigh a gown because I was civil to
Mr Farquhar last night?"

"Yes, dear!" said Mrs Bradshaw, more and more frightened at Jemima's
angry manner of speaking—low-toned, but very indignant.

Jemima remembered, with smouldered anger, Ruth's pleading way
of wiling her from her sullenness the night before. Management
everywhere! but in this case it was peculiarly revolting; so much so,
that she could hardly bear to believe that the seemingly-transparent
Ruth had lent herself to it.

"Are you sure, mamma, that papa asked Mrs Denbigh to make me behave
differently? It seems so strange."

"I am quite sure. He spoke to her last Friday morning in the study. I
remember it was Friday, because Mrs Dean was working here."

Jemima remembered now that she had gone into the school-room on the
Friday, and found her sisters lounging about, and wondering what papa
could possibly want with Mrs Denbigh.

After this conversation, Jemima repulsed all Ruth's timid efforts to
ascertain the cause of her disturbance, and to help her if she could.
Ruth's tender, sympathising manner, as she saw Jemima daily looking
more wretched, was distasteful to the latter in the highest degree.
She could not say that Mrs Denbigh's conduct was positively wrong—it
might even be quite right; but it was inexpressibly repugnant to her
to think of her father consulting with a stranger (a week ago she
almost considered Ruth as a sister) how to manage his daughter, so as
to obtain the end he wished for; yes, even if that end was for her
own good.

She was thankful and glad to see a brown paper parcel lying on the
hall-table, with a note in Ruth's handwriting, addressed to her
father. She
knew
what it was, the grey silk dress. That she was
sure Ruth would never accept.

No one henceforward could induce Jemima to enter into conversation
with Mr Farquhar. She suspected manoeuvring in the simplest
actions, and was miserable in this constant state of suspicion. She
would not allow herself to like Mr Farquhar, even when he said things
the most after her own heart. She heard him, one evening, talking
with her father about the principles of trade. Her father stood out
for the keenest, sharpest work, consistent with honesty; if he had
not been her father she would, perhaps, have thought some of his
sayings inconsistent with true Christian honesty. He was for driving
hard bargains, exacting interest and payment of just bills to a day.
That was (he said) the only way in which trade could be conducted.
Once allow a margin of uncertainty, or where feelings, instead of
maxims, were to be the guide, and all hope of there ever being any
good men of business was ended.

"Suppose a delay of a month in requiring payment might save a man's
credit—prevent his becoming a bankrupt?" put in Mr Farquhar.

"I would not give it him. I would let him have money to set up again
as soon as he had passed the Bankruptcy Court; if he never passed, I
might, in some cases, make him an allowance; but I would always keep
my justice and my charity separate."

"And yet charity (in your sense of the word) degrades; justice,
tempered with mercy and consideration, elevates."

"That is not justice—justice is certain and inflexible. No! Mr
Farquhar, you must not allow any Quixotic notions to mingle with your
conduct as a tradesman."

And so they went on; Jemima's face glowing with sympathy in all Mr
Farquhar said; till once, on looking up suddenly with sparkling eyes,
she saw a glance of her father's which told her, as plain as words
could say, that he was watching the effect of Mr Farquhar's speeches
upon his daughter. She was chilled thenceforward; she thought her
father prolonged the argument, in order to call out those sentiments
which he knew would most recommend his partner to his daughter. She
would so fain have let herself love Mr Farquhar; but this constant
manoeuvring, in which she did not feel clear that he did not take a
passive part, made her sick at heart. She even wished that they might
not go through the form of pretending to try to gain her consent
to the marriage, if it involved all this premeditated action and
speech-making—such moving about of every one into their right
places, like pieces at chess. She felt as if she would rather be
bought openly, like an Oriental daughter, where no one is degraded in
their own eyes by being parties to such a contract. The consequences
of all this "admirable management" of Mr Bradshaw's would have been
very unfortunate to Mr Farquhar (who was innocent of all connivance
in any of the plots—indeed, would have been as much annoyed at them
as Jemima, had he been aware of them), but that the impression made
upon him by Ruth on the evening I have so lately described, was
deepened by the contrast which her behaviour made to Miss Bradshaw's
on one or two more recent occasions.

There was no use, he thought, in continuing attentions so evidently
distasteful to Jemima. To her, a young girl hardly out of the
schoolroom, he probably appeared like an old man; and he might even
lose the friendship with which she used to regard him, and which was,
and ever would be, very dear to him, if he persevered in trying to be
considered as a lover. He should always feel affectionately towards
her; her very faults gave her an interest in his eyes, for which
he had blamed himself most conscientiously and most uselessly when
he was looking upon her as his future wife, but which the said
conscience would learn to approve of when she sank down to the place
of a young friend, over whom he might exercise a good and salutary
interest. Mrs Denbigh, if not many months older in years, had known
sorrow and cares so early that she was much older in character.
Besides, her shy reserve, and her quiet daily walk within the lines
of duty, were much in accordance with Mr Farquhar's notion of what a
wife should be. Still, it was a wrench to take his affections away
from Jemima. If she had not helped him to do so by every means in her
power, he could never have accomplished it.

Yes! by every means in her power had Jemima alienated her lover, her
beloved—for so he was in fact. And now her quick-sighted eyes saw he
was gone for ever—past recall; for did not her jealous, sore heart
feel, even before he himself was conscious of the fact, that he was
drawn towards sweet, lovely, composed, and dignified Ruth—one who
always thought before she spoke (as Mr Farquhar used to bid Jemima
do)—who never was tempted by sudden impulse, but walked the world
calm and self-governed. What now availed Jemima's reproaches, as she
remembered the days when he had watched her with earnest, attentive
eyes, as he now watched Ruth; and the times since, when, led astray
by her morbid fancy, she had turned away from all his advances!

"It was only in March—last March, he called me 'dear Jemima.' Ah,
don't I remember it well? The pretty nosegay of green-house flowers
that he gave me in exchange for the wild daffodils—and how he seemed
to care for the flowers I gave him—and how he looked at me, and
thanked me—that is all gone and over now."

Her sisters came in bright and glowing.

"Oh, Jemima, how nice and cool you are, sitting in this shady room!"
(She had felt it even chilly.) "We have been such a long walk! We are
so tired. It is so hot."

"Why did you go, then?" said she.

"Oh! we wanted to go. We would not have stayed at home on any
account. It has been so pleasant," said Mary.

"We've been to Scaurside Wood, to gather wild strawberries," said
Elizabeth. "Such a quantity! We've left a whole basketful in the
dairy. Mr Farquhar says he'll teach us how to dress them in the way
he learnt in Germany, if we can get him some hock. Do you think papa
will let us have some?"

"Was Mr Farquhar with you?" asked Jemima, a dull light coming into
her eyes.

"Yes; we told him this morning that mamma wanted us to take some old
linen to the lame man at Scaurside Farm, and that we meant to coax
Mrs Denbigh to let us go into the wood and gather strawberries," said
Elizabeth.

"I thought he would make some excuse and come," said the quick-witted
Mary, as eager and thoughtless an observer of one love-affair as
of another, and quite forgetting that, not many weeks ago, she had
fancied an attachment between him and Jemima.

"Did you? I did not," replied Elizabeth. "At least I never thought
about it. I was quite startled when I heard his horse's feet behind
us on the road."

"He said he was going to the farm, and could take our basket. Was not
it kind of him?" Jemima did not answer, so Mary continued:

"You know it's a great pull up to the farm, and we were so hot
already. The road was quite white and baked; it hurt my eyes
terribly. I was so glad when Mrs Denbigh said we might turn into the
wood. The light was quite green there, the branches are so thick
overhead."

"And there are whole beds of wild strawberries," said Elizabeth,
taking up the tale now Mary was out of breath. Mary fanned herself
with her bonnet, while Elizabeth went on:

"You know where the grey rock crops out, don't you, Jemima? Well,
there was a complete carpet of strawberry runners. So pretty! And we
could hardly step without treading the little bright scarlet berries
under foot."

"We did so wish for Leonard," put in Mary.

"Yes! but Mrs Denbigh gathered a great many for him. And Mr Farquhar
gave her all his."

"I thought you said he had gone on to Dawson's farm," said Jemima.

"Oh, yes! he just went up there; and then he left his horse there,
like a wise man, and came to us in the pretty, cool, green wood. Oh,
Jemima, it was so pretty—little flecks of light coming down here and
there through the leaves, and quivering on the ground. You must go
with us to-morrow."

"Yes," said Mary, "we're going again to-morrow. We could not gather
nearly all the strawberries."

"And Leonard is to go too, to-morrow."

"Yes! we thought of such a capital plan. That's to say, Mr Farquhar
thought of it—we wanted to carry Leonard up the hill in a king's
cushion, but Mrs Denbigh would not hear of it."

"She said it would tire us so; and yet she wanted him to gather
strawberries!"

"And so," interrupted Mary, for by this time the two girls were
almost speaking together, "Mr Farquhar is to bring him up before him
on his horse."

"You'll go with us, won't you, dear Jemima?" asked Elizabeth; "it
will be at—"

"No! I can't go!" said Jemima, abruptly. "Don't ask me—I can't."

The little girls were hushed into silence by her manner; for whatever
she might be to those above her in age and position, to those below
her Jemima was almost invariably gentle. She felt that they were
wondering at her.

"Go upstairs and take off your things. You know papa does not like
you to come into this room in the shoes in which you have been out."

She was glad to cut her sisters short in the details which they were
so mercilessly inflicting—details which she must harden herself to,
before she could hear them quietly and unmoved. She saw that she had
lost her place as the first object in Mr Farquhar's eyes—a position
she had hardly cared for while she was secure in the enjoyment of it;
but the charm of it now was redoubled, in her acute sense of how she
had forfeited it by her own doing, and her own fault. For if he were
the cold, calculating man her father had believed him to be, and had
represented him as being to her, would he care for a portionless
widow in humble circumstances like Mrs Denbigh; no money, no
connexion, encumbered with her boy? The very action which proved Mr
Farquhar to be lost to Jemima reinstated him on his throne in her
fancy. And she must go on in hushed quietness, quivering with every
fresh token of his preference for another! That other, too, one so
infinitely more worthy of him than herself; so that she could not
have even the poor comfort of thinking that he had no discrimination,
and was throwing himself away on a common or worthless person. Ruth
was beautiful, gentle, good, and conscientious. The hot colour
flushed up into Jemima's sallow face as she became aware that, even
while she acknowledged these excellences on Mrs Denbigh's part, she
hated her. The recollection of her marble face wearied her even to
sickness; the tones of her low voice were irritating from their very
softness. Her goodness, undoubted as it was, was more distasteful
than many faults which had more savour of human struggle in them.