Part 51 (1/2)
”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 partners.h.i.+p, 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 d.i.c.k? 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 pa.s.sengers killed, and several badly hurt. Walter says we ought to be thankful, as he is, that d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k'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 a.s.sumption 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.