Delphi Complete Works of Elizabeth Gaskell

by Elizabeth Gaskell

  As for Mr Farquhar, he was almost weary of himself; no reasoning, even no principle, seemed to have influence over him, for he saw that Jemima was not at all what he approved of in woman. He saw her uncurbed and passionate, affecting to despise the rules of life he held most sacred, and indifferent to, if not positively disliking him; and yet he loved her dearly. But he resolved to make a great effort of will, and break loose from these trammels of sense. And while he resolved, some old recollection would bring her up, hanging on his arm, in all the confidence of early girlhood, looking up in his face with her soft, dark eyes, and questioning him upon the mysterious subjects which had so much interest for both of them at that time, although they had become only matter for dissension in these later days.

  It was also true, as Mr Bradshaw had said, Mr Farquhar wished to marry, and had not much choice in the small town of Eccleston. He never put this so plainly before himself, as a reason for choosing Jemima, as her father had done to her; but it was an unconscious motive all the same. However, now he had lectured himself into the resolution to make a pretty long absence from Eccleston, and see if, amongst his distant friends, there was no woman more in accordance with his ideal, who could put the naughty, wilful, plaguing Jemima Bradshaw out of his head, if he did not soon perceive some change in her for the better.

  A few days after Ruth’s conversation with Mr Bradshaw, the invitation she had been expecting, yet dreading, came. It was to her alone. Mr and Miss Benson were pleased at the compliment to her, and urged her acceptance of it. She wished that they had been included; she had not thought it right, or kind to Jemima, to tell them why she was going, and she feared now lest they should feel a little hurt that they were not asked too. But she need not have been afraid. They were glad and proud of the attention to her, and never thought of themselves.

  “Ruthie, what gown shall you wear to-night? your dark grey one, I suppose?” asked Miss Benson.

  “Yes, I suppose so. I never thought of it; but that is my best.”

  “Well; then, I shall quill up a ruff for you. You know I am a famous quiller of net.”

  Ruth came downstairs with a little flush on her cheeks when she was ready to go. She held her bonnet and shawl in her hand, for she knew Miss Benson and Sally would want to see her dressed.

  “Is not mamma pretty?” asked Leonard, with a child’s pride.

  “She looks very nice and tidy,” said Miss Benson, who had an idea that children should not talk or think about beauty.

  “I think my ruff looks so nice,” said Ruth, with gentle pleasure. And indeed it did look nice, and set off the pretty round throat most becomingly. Her hair, now grown long and thick, was smoothed as close to her head as its waving nature would allow, and plaited up in a great rich knot low down behind. The grey gown was as plain as plain could be.

  “You should have light gloves, Ruth,” said Miss Benson. She went upstairs, and brought down a delicate pair of Limerick ones, which had been long treasured up in a walnut-shell.

  “They say them gloves is made of chickens’-skins,” said Sally, examining them curiously. “I wonder how they set about skinning ‘em.”

  “Here, Ruth,” said Mr Benson, coming in from the garden, “here’s a rose or two for you. I am sorry there are no more; I hoped I should have had my yellow rose out by this time, but the damask and the white are in a warmer corner, and have got the start.”

  Miss Benson and Leonard stood at the door, and watched her down the little passage-street till she was out of sight.

  She had hardly touched the bell at Mr Bradshaw’s door, when Mary and Elizabeth opened it with boisterous glee.

  “We saw you coming — we’ve been watching for you — we want you to come round the garden before tea; papa is not come in yet. Do come!”

  She went round the garden with a little girl clinging to each arm. It was full of sunshine and flowers, and this made the contrast between it and the usual large family room (which fronted the north-east, and therefore had no evening sun to light up its cold, drab furniture) more striking than usual. It looked very gloomy. There was the great dining-table, heavy and square; the range of chairs, straight and square; the work-boxes, useful and square; the colouring of walls, and carpet, and curtains, all of the coldest description; everything was handsome, and everything was ugly. Mrs Bradshaw was asleep in her easy-chair when they came in. Jemima had just put down her work, and, lost in thought, she leant her cheek on her hand. When she saw Ruth she brightened a little, and went to her and kissed her. Mrs Bradshaw jumped up at the sound of their entrance, and was wide awake in a moment.

  “Oh! I thought your father was here,” said she, evidently relieved to find that he had not come in and caught her sleeping.

  “Thank you, Mrs Denbigh, for coming to us to-night,” said she, in the quiet tone in which she generally spoke in her husband’s absence. When he was there, a sort of constant terror of displeasing him made her voice sharp and nervous; the children knew that many a thing passed over by their mother when their father was away, was sure to be noticed by her when he was present; and noticed, too, in a cross and querulous manner, for she was so much afraid of the blame which on any occasion of their misbehaviour fell upon her. And yet she looked up to her husband with a reverence and regard, and a faithfulness of love, which his decision of character was likely to produce on a weak and anxious mind. He was a rest and a support to her, on whom she cast all her responsibilities; she was an obedient, unremonstrating wife to him; no stronger affection had ever brought her duty to him into conflict with any desire of her heart. She loved her children dearly, though they all perplexed her very frequently. Her son was her especial darling, because he very seldom brought her into any scrapes with his father; he was so cautious and prudent, and had the art of “keeping a calm sough” about any difficulty he might be in. With all her dutiful sense of the obligation, which her husband enforced upon her, to notice and tell him everything that was going wrong in the household, and especially among his children, Mrs Bradshaw, somehow, contrived to be honestly blind to a good deal that was not praiseworthy in Master Richard.

  Mr Bradshaw came in before long, bringing with him Mr Farquhar. Jemima had been talking to Ruth with some interest before then; but, on seeing Mr Farquhar, she bent her head down over her work, went a little paler, and turned obstinately silent. Mr Bradshaw longed to command her to speak; but even he had a suspicion that what she might say, when so commanded, might be rather worse in its effect than her gloomy silence; so he held his peace, and a discontented, angry kind of peace it was. Mrs Bradshaw saw that something was wrong, but could not tell what; only she became every moment more trembling, and nervous, and irritable, and sent Mary and Elizabeth off on all sorts of contradictory errands to the servants, and made the tea twice as strong, and sweetened it twice as much as usual, in hopes of pacifying her husband with good things.

  Mr Farquhar had gone for the last time, or so he thought. He had resolved (for the fifth time) that he would go and watch Jemima once more, and if her temper got the better of her, and she showed the old sullenness again, and gave the old proofs of indifference to his good opinion, he would give her up altogether, and seek a wife elsewhere. He sat watching her with folded arms, and in silence. Altogether they were a pleasant family party!

  Jemima wanted to wind a skein of wool. Mr Farquhar saw it, and came to her, anxious to do her this little service. She turned away pettishly, and asked Ruth to hold it for her.

  Ruth was hurt for Mr Farquhar, and looked sorrowfully at Jemima; but Jemima would not see her glance of upbraiding, as Ruth, hoping that she would relent, delayed a little to comply with her request. Mr Farquhar did; and went back to his seat to watch them both. He saw Jemima turbulent and stormy in look; he saw Ruth, to all appearance heavenly calm as the angels, or with only that little tinge of sorrow which her friend’s behaviour had called forth. He saw the unusual beauty of her face and form, which he had never noticed before; and he saw Jemima, with all the brilliancy
she once possessed in eyes and complexion, dimmed and faded. He watched Ruth, speaking low and soft to the little girls, who seemed to come to her in every difficulty; and he remarked her gentle firmness when their bedtime came, and they pleaded to stay up longer (their father was absent in his counting-house, or they would not have dared to do so). He liked Ruth’s soft, distinct, unwavering “No! you must go. You must keep to what is right,” far better than the good-natured yielding to entreaty he had formerly admired in Jemima. He was wandering off into this comparison, while Ruth, with delicate and unconscious tact, was trying to lead Jemima into some subject which should take her away from the thoughts, whatever they were, that made her so ungracious and rude.

  Jemima was ashamed of herself before Ruth, in a way which she had never been before any one else. She valued Ruth’s good opinion so highly, that she dreaded lest her friend should perceive her faults. She put a check upon herself — a check at first; but after a little time she had forgotten something of her trouble, and listened to Ruth, and questioned her about Leonard, and smiled at his little witticisms; and only the sighs, that would come up from the very force of habit, brought back the consciousness of her unhappiness. Before the end of the evening, Jemima had allowed herself to speak to Mr Farquhar in the old way — questioning, differing, disputing. She was recalled to the remembrance of that miserable conversation by the entrance of her father. After that she was silent. But he had seen her face more animated, and bright with a smile, as she spoke to Mr Farquhar; and although he regretted the loss of her complexion (for she was still very pale), he was highly pleased with the success of his project. He never doubted but that Ruth had given her some sort of private exhortation to behave better. He could not have understood the pretty art with which, by simply banishing unpleasant subjects, and throwing a wholesome natural sunlit tone over others, Ruth had insensibly drawn Jemima out of her gloom. He resolved to buy Mrs Denbigh a handsome silk gown the very next day. He did not believe she had a silk gown, poor creature! He had noticed that dark grey stuff, this long, long time, as her Sunday dress. He liked the colour; the silk one should be just the same tinge. Then he thought that it would, perhaps, be better to choose a lighter shade, one which might be noticed as different to the old gown. For he had no doubt she would like to have it remarked, and, perhaps, would not object to tell people, that it was a present from Mr Bradshaw — a token of his approbation. He smiled a little to himself as he thought of this additional source of pleasure to Ruth. She, in the meantime, was getting up to go home. While Jemima was lighting the bed-candle at the lamp, Ruth came round to bid good night. Mr Bradshaw could not allow her to remain till the morrow, uncertain whether he was satisfied or not.

  “Good night, Mrs Denbigh,” said he. “Good night. Thank you. I am obliged to you — I am exceedingly obliged to you.”

  He laid emphasis on these words, for he was pleased to see Mr Farquhar step forward to help Jemima in her little office.

  Mr Farquhar offered to accompany Ruth home; but the streets that intervened between Mr Bradshaw’s and the Chapel-house were so quiet that he desisted, when he learnt from Ruth’s manner how much she disliked his proposal. Mr Bradshaw, too, instantly observed:

  “Oh! Mrs Denbigh need not trouble you, Farquhar. I have servants at liberty at any moment to attend on her, if she wishes it.”

  In fact, he wanted to make hay while the sun shone, and to detain Mr Farquhar a little longer, now that Jemima was so gracious. She went upstairs with Ruth to help her to put on her things.

  “Dear Jemima!” said Ruth, “I am so glad to see you looking better to-night! You quite frightened me this morning, you looked so ill.”

  “Did I?” replied Jemima. “Oh, Ruth! I have been so unhappy lately. I want you to come and put me to rights,” she continued, half smiling. “You know I’m a sort of out-pupil of yours, though we are so nearly of an age. You ought to lecture me, and make me good.”

  “Should I, dear?” said Ruth. “I don’t think I’m the one to do it.”

  “Oh, yes! you are — you’ve done me good to-night.”

  “Well, if I can do anything for you, tell me what it is?” asked Ruth, tenderly.

  “Oh, not now — not now,” replied Jemima. “I could not tell you here. It’s a long story, and I don’t know that I can tell you at all. Mamma might come up at any moment, and papa would be sure to ask what we had been talking about so long.”

  “Take your own time, love,” said Ruth; “only remember, as far as I can, how glad I am to help you.”

  “You’re too good, my darling!” said Jemima, fondly.

  “Don’t say so,” replied Ruth, earnestly, almost as if she were afraid. “God knows I am not.”

  “Well! we’re none of us too good,” answered Jemima; “I know that. But you are very good. Nay, I won’t call you so, if it makes you look so miserable. But come away downstairs.”

  With the fragrance of Ruth’s sweetness lingering about her, Jemima was her best self during the next half-hour. Mr Bradshaw was more and more pleased, and raised the price of the silk, which he was going to give Ruth, sixpence a yard during the time. Mr Farquhar went home through the garden-way, happier than he had been this long time. He even caught himself humming the old refrain:

  On revient, on revient toujours,

  A ses premiers amours.

  But as soon as he was aware of what he was doing, he cleared away the remnants of the song into a cough, which was sonorous, if not perfectly real.

  CHAPTER XXI

  Mr Farquhar’s Attentions Transferred

  The next morning, as Jemima and her mother sat at their work, it came into the head of the former to remember her father’s very marked way of thanking Ruth the evening before.

  “What a favourite Mrs Denbigh is with papa,” said she. “I am sure I don’t wonder at it. Did you notice, mamma, how he thanked her for coming here last night?”

  “Yes, dear; but I don’t think it was all — ” Mrs Bradshaw stopped short. She was never certain if it was right or wrong to say anything.

  “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.