Ruth (34 page)

"What was this terrible demon in her heart?" asked Jemima's better
angel. "Was she, indeed, given up to possession? Was not this the old
stinging hatred which had prompted so many crimes? The hatred of all
sweet virtues which might win the love denied to us? The old anger
that wrought in the elder brother's heart, till it ended in the
murder of the gentle Abel, while yet the world was young?"

"Oh, God! help me! I did not know I was so wicked," cried Jemima
aloud in her agony. It had been a terrible glimpse into the dark,
lurid gulf—the capability for evil, in her heart. She wrestled with
the demon, but he would not depart; it was to be a struggle whether
or not she was to be given up to him, in this her time of sore
temptation.

All the next day long she sat and pictured the happy strawberry
gathering going on, even then, in pleasant Scaurside Wood. Every
touch of fancy which could heighten her idea of their enjoyment, and
of Mr Farquhar's attention to the blushing, conscious Ruth—every
such touch which would add a pang to her self-reproach and keen
jealousy, was added by her imagination. She got up and walked about,
to try and stop her over-busy fancy by bodily exercise. But she had
eaten little all day, and was weak and faint in the intense heat of
the sunny garden. Even the long grass-walk under the filbert-hedge,
was parched and dry in the glowing August sun. Yet her sisters found
her there when they returned, walking quickly up and down, as if to
warm herself on some winter's day. They were very weary; and not half
so communicative as on the day before, now that Jemima was craving
for every detail to add to her agony.

"Yes! Leonard came up before Mr Farquhar. Oh! how hot it is, Jemima;
do sit down, and I'll tell you about it, but I can't if you keep
walking so!"

"I can't sit still to-day," said Jemima, springing up from the turf
as soon as she had sat down. "Tell me! I can hear you while I walk
about."

"Oh! but I can't shout; I can hardly speak I am so tired. Mr Farquhar
brought Leonard—"

"You've told me that before," said Jemima, sharply.

"Well! I don't know what else to tell. Somebody had been since
yesterday, and gathered nearly all the strawberries off the grey
rock. Jemima! Jemima!" said Elizabeth, faintly, "I am so dizzy—I
think I am ill."

The next minute the tired girl lay swooning on the grass. It was an
outlet for Jemima's fierce energy. With a strength she had never
again, and never had known before, she lifted up her fainting sister,
and bidding Mary run and clear the way, she carried her in through
the open garden-door, up the wide old-fashioned stairs, and laid her
on the bed in her own room, where the breeze from the window came
softly and pleasantly through the green shade of the vine-leaves and
jessamine.

"Give me the water. Run for mamma, Mary," said Jemima, as she
saw that the fainting-fit did not yield to the usual remedy of a
horizontal position and the water sprinkling.

"Dear! dear Lizzie!" said Jemima, kissing the pale, unconscious face.
"I think you loved me, darling."

The long walk on the hot day had been too much for the delicate
Elizabeth, who was fast outgrowing her strength. It was many days
before she regained any portion of her spirit and vigour. After
that fainting-fit, she lay listless and weary, without appetite or
interest, through the long sunny autumn weather, on the bed or on the
couch in Jemima's room, whither she had been carried at first. It was
a comfort to Mrs Bradshaw to be able at once to discover what it was
that had knocked up Elizabeth; she did not rest easily until she had
settled upon a cause for every ailment or illness in the family. It
was a stern consolation to Mr Bradshaw, during his time of anxiety
respecting his daughter, to be able to blame somebody. He could not,
like his wife, have taken comfort from an inanimate fact; he wanted
the satisfaction of feeling that some one had been in fault, or else
this never could have happened. Poor Ruth did not need his implied
reproaches. When she saw her gentle Elizabeth lying feeble and
languid, her heart blamed her for thoughtlessness so severely as to
make her take all Mr Bradshaw's words and hints as too light censure
for the careless way in which, to please her own child, she had
allowed her two pupils to fatigue themselves with such long walks.
She begged hard to take her share of nursing. Every spare moment
she went to Mr Bradshaw's, and asked, with earnest humility, to be
allowed to pass them with Elizabeth; and, as it was often a relief
to have her assistance, Mrs Bradshaw received these entreaties very
kindly, and desired her to go upstairs, where Elizabeth's pale
countenance brightened when she saw her, but where Jemima sat in
silent annoyance that her own room was now become open ground for
one, whom her heart rose up against, to enter in and be welcomed.
Whether it was that Ruth, who was not an inmate of the house, brought
with her a fresher air, more change of thought to the invalid, I do
not know, but Elizabeth always gave her a peculiarly tender greeting;
and if she had sunk down into languid fatigue, in spite of all
Jemima's endeavours to interest her, she roused up into animation
when Ruth came in with a flower, a book, or a brown and ruddy pear,
sending out the warm fragrance it retained from the sunny garden-wall
at Chapel-house.

The jealous dislike which Jemima was allowing to grow up in her heart
against Ruth was, as she thought, never shown in word or deed. She
was cold in manner, because she could not be hypocritical; but her
words were polite and kind in purport; and she took pains to make
her actions the same as formerly. But rule and line may measure out
the figure of a man; it is the soul that gives it life; and there
was no soul, no inner meaning, breathing out in Jemima's actions.
Ruth felt the change acutely. She suffered from it some time before
she ventured to ask what had occasioned it. But, one day, she took
Miss Bradshaw by surprise, when they were alone together for a few
minutes, by asking her if she had vexed her in any way, she was so
changed? It is sad when friendship has cooled so far as to render
such a question necessary. Jemima went rather paler than usual, and
then made answer:

"Changed! How do you mean? How am I changed? What do I say or do
different from what I used to do?"

But the tone was so constrained and cold, that Ruth's heart sank
within her. She knew now, as well as words could have told her, that
not only had the old feeling of love passed away from Jemima, but
that it had gone unregretted, and no attempt had been made to recall
it. Love was very precious to Ruth now, as of old time. It was one of
the faults of her nature to be ready to make any sacrifices for those
who loved her, and to value affection almost above its price. She
had yet to learn the lesson, that it is more blessed to love than
to be beloved; and lonely as the impressible years of her youth had
been—without parents, without brother or sister—it was, perhaps,
no wonder that she clung tenaciously to every symptom of regard, and
could not relinquish the love of any one without a pang.

The doctor who was called in to Elizabeth prescribed sea-air as the
best means of recruiting her strength. Mr Bradshaw, who liked to
spend money ostentatiously, went down straight to Abermouth, and
engaged a house for the remainder of the autumn; for, as he told
the medical man, money was no object to him in comparison with his
children's health; and the doctor cared too little about the mode in
which his remedy was administered, to tell Mr Bradshaw that lodgings
would have done as well, or better, than the complete house he had
seen fit to take. For it was now necessary to engage servants, and
take much trouble, which might have been obviated, and Elizabeth's
removal effected more quietly and speedily, if she had gone into
lodgings. As it was, she was weary of hearing all the planning and
talking, and deciding and un-deciding, and re-deciding, before it was
possible for her to go. Her only comfort was in the thought that dear
Mrs Denbigh was to go with her.

It had not been entirely by way of pompously spending his money that
Mr Bradshaw had engaged this seaside house. He was glad to get his
little girls and their governess out of the way; for a busy time was
impending, when he should want his head clear for electioneering
purposes, and his house clear for electioneering hospitality. He was
the mover of a project for bringing forward a man on the Liberal
and Dissenting interest, to contest the election with the old Tory
member, who had on several successive occasions walked over the
course, as he and his family owned half the town, and votes and rent
were paid alike to the landlord.

Kings of Eccleston had Mr Cranworth and his ancestors been this many
a long year; their right was so little disputed that they never
thought of acknowledging the allegiance so readily paid to them.
The old feudal feeling between land-owner and tenant did not quake
prophetically at the introduction of manufactures; the Cranworth
family ignored the growing power of the manufacturers, more
especially as the principal person engaged in the trade was a
Dissenter. But notwithstanding this lack of patronage from the
one great family in the neighbourhood, the business flourished,
increased, and spread wide; and the Dissenting head thereof
looked around, about the time of which I speak, and felt himself
powerful enough to defy the great Cranworth interest even in their
hereditary stronghold, and, by so doing, avenge the slights of many
years—slights which rankled in Mr Bradshaw's mind as much as if he
did not go to chapel twice every Sunday, and pay the largest pew-rent
of any member of Mr Benson's congregation.

Accordingly, Mr Bradshaw had applied to one of the Liberal
parliamentary agents in London—a man whose only principle was to do
wrong on the Liberal side; he would not act, right or wrong, for a
Tory, but for a Whig the latitude of his conscience had never yet
been discovered. It was possible Mr Bradshaw was not aware of the
character of this agent; at any rate, he knew he was the man for his
purpose, which was to hear of some one who would come forward as
a candidate for the representation of Eccleston on the Dissenting
interest.

"There are in round numbers about six hundred voters," said he; "two
hundred are decidedly in the Cranworth interest—dare not offend Mr
Cranworth, poor souls! Two hundred more we may calculate upon as
pretty certain—factory hands, or people connected with our trade
in some way or another—who are indignant at the stubborn way in
which Cranworth has contested the right of water; two hundred are
doubtful."

"Don't much care either way," said the parliamentary agent. "Of
course, we must make them care."

Mr Bradshaw rather shrunk from the knowing look with which this was
said. He hoped that Mr Pilson did not mean to allude to bribery; but
he did not express this hope, because he thought it would deter the
agent from using this means, and it was possible it might prove to
be the only way. And if he (Mr Bradshaw) once embarked on such an
enterprise, there must be no failure. By some expedient or another,
success must be certain, or he could have nothing to do with it.

The parliamentary agent was well accustomed to deal with all kinds
and shades of scruples. He was most at home with men who had none;
but still he could allow for human weakness; and he perfectly
understood Mr Bradshaw.

"I have a notion I know of a man who will just suit your purpose.
Plenty of money—does not know what to do with it, in fact—tired of
yachting, travelling; wants something new. I heard, through some of
the means of intelligence I employ, that not very long ago he was
wishing for a seat in Parliament."

"A Liberal?" said Mr Bradshaw.

"Decidedly. Belongs to a family who were in the Long Parliament in
their day."

Mr Bradshaw rubbed his hands.

"Dissenter?" asked he.

"No, no! Not so far as that. But very lax Church."

"What is his name?" asked Mr Bradshaw, eagerly.

"Excuse me. Until I am certain that he would like to come forward for
Eccleston, I think I had better not mention his name."

The anonymous gentleman did like to come forward, and his name proved
to be Donne. He and Mr Bradshaw had been in correspondence during
all the time of Mr Ralph Cranworth's illness; and when he died,
everything was arranged ready for a start, even before the Cranworths
had determined who should keep the seat warm till the eldest son came
of age, for the father was already member for the county. Mr Donne
was to come down to canvass in person, and was to take up his abode
at Mr Bradshaw's; and therefore it was that the seaside house, within
twenty miles' distance of Eccleston, was found to be so convenient
as an infirmary and nursery for those members of his family who
were likely to be useless, if not positive encumbrances, during the
forthcoming election.

Jemima did not know whether she wished to go to Abermouth or not.
She longed for change. She wearied of the sights and sounds of
home. But yet she could not bear to leave the neighbourhood of Mr
Farquhar; especially as, if she went to Abermouth, Ruth would in all
probability be left to take her holiday at home.

When Mr Bradshaw decided that she was to go, Ruth tried to feel glad
that he gave her the means of repairing her fault towards Elizabeth;
and she resolved to watch over the two girls most faithfully and
carefully, and to do all in her power to restore the invalid to
health. But a tremor came over her whenever she thought of leaving
Leonard; she had never quitted him for a day, and it seemed to her as
if her brooding, constant care was his natural and necessary shelter
from all evils—from very death itself. She would not go to sleep at
nights, in order to enjoy the blessed consciousness of having him
near her; when she was away from him teaching her pupils, she kept
trying to remember his face, and print it deep on her heart, against
the time when days and days would elapse without her seeing that
little darling countenance. Miss Benson would wonder to her brother
that Mr Bradshaw did not propose that Leonard should accompany his
mother; he only begged her not to put such an idea into Ruth's head,
as he was sure Mr Bradshaw had no thoughts of doing any such thing,
yet to Ruth it might be a hope, and then a disappointment. His sister
scolded him for being so cold-hearted; but he was full of sympathy,
although he did not express it, and made some quiet little sacrifices
in order to set himself at liberty to take Leonard a long walking
expedition on the day when his mother left Eccleston.