Delphi Complete Works of Elizabeth Gaskell

by Elizabeth Gaskell

  “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 manœuvring 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 manœuvring, 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 wa
y 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.

  “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: