AN UNDERSTANDING BETWEEN LOVERS
It was well they had so early and so truly strengthened the spirit to bear, for the events which had to be endured soon came thick and threefold. Every evening Mr. and Miss Benson thought the worst must be over; and every day brought some fresh occurrence to touch upon the raw place. They could not be certain, until they had seen all their acquaintances, what difference it would make in the cordiality of their reception: in some cases it made much; and Miss Benson was proportionably indignant. She felt this change in behaviour more than her brother. His great pain arose from the coolness of the Bradshaws. With all the faults which had at times grated on his sensitive nature (but which he now forgot, and remembered only their kindness), they were his old familiar friends--his kind, if ostentatious, patrons--his great personal interest, out of his own family; and he could not get over the suffering he experienced from seeing their large square pew empty on Sundays--from perceiving how Mr. Bradshaw, though he bowed in a distant manner when he and Mr. Benson met face to face, shunned him as often as he possibly could. All that happened in the household, which once was as patent to him as his own, was now a sealed book; he heard of its doings by chance, if he heard at all. Just at the time when he was feeling the most depressed from this cause, he met Jemima at a sudden turn of the street.
He was uncertain for a moment how to accost her, but she saved him all doubt; in an instant she had his hand in both of hers, her face flushed with honest delight. "Oh, Mr. Benson, I am so glad to see you! I have so wanted to know all about you. How is poor Ruth? dear Ruth! I wonder if she has forgiven me my cruelty to her? And I may not go to her now, when I should be so glad and thankful to make up for it." "I never heard you had been cruel to her. I am sure she does not think so." "She ought; she must. What is she doing? Oh! I have so much to ask, I can never hear enough; and papa says"--she hesitated a moment, afraid of giving pain, and then, believing that they would understand the state of affairs, and the reason for her behaviour better if she told the truth, she went on--"Papa says I must not go to your house--I suppose it's right to obey him?" "Certainly, my dear. It is your clear duty. We know how you feel towards us." "Oh! but if I could do any good--if I could be of any use or comfort to any of you--especially to Ruth, I should come, duty or not. I believe it would be my duty," said she, hurrying on to try and stop any decided prohibition from Mr. Benson. "No! don't be afraid; I won't come till I know I can do some good. I hear bits about you through Sally every now and then, or Icould not have waited so long. Mr. Benson," continued she, reddening very much, "I think you did quite right about poor Ruth." "Not in the falsehood, my dear." "No! not perhaps in that. I was not thinking of that. But I have been thinking a great deal about poor Ruth's----you know I could not help it when everybody was talking about it--and it made me think of myself, and what I am. With a father and mother, and home and careful friends, I am not likely to be tempted like Ruth; but oh! Mr. Benson, said she, lifting her eyes, which were full of tears, to his face, for the first time since she began to speak, "if you knew all I have been thinking and feeling this last year, you would see how I have yielded to every temptation that was able to come to me; and, seeing how I have no goodness or strength in me, and how Imight just have been like Ruth, or rather worse than she ever was, because I am more headstrong and passionate by nature, I do so thank you and love you for what you did for her! And will you tell me really and truly now if I can ever do anything for Ruth? If you'll promise me that, I won't rebel unnecessarily against papa; but if you don't, I will, and come and see you all this very afternoon. Remember! I trust you!" said she, breaking away. Then turning back, she came to ask after Leonard. "He must know something of it," said she. "Does he feel it much?" "Very much," said Mr. Benson. Jemima shook her head sadly. "It is hard upon him," said she. "It is," Mr. Benson replied. For in truth, Leonard was their greatest anxiety indoors. His health seemed shaken, he spoke half sentences in his sleep, which showed that in his dreams he was battling on his mother's behalf against an unkind and angry world. And then he would wail to himself, and utter sad words of shame, which they never thought had reached his ears. By day, he was in general grave and quiet; but his appetite varied, and he was evidently afraid of going into the streets, dreading to be pointed at as an object of remark.
Each separately in their hearts longed to give him change of scene; but they were all silent, for where was the requisite money to come from? His temper became fitful and variable. At times he would be most sullen against his mother; and then give way to a passionate remorse. When Mr.
Benson caught Ruth's look of agony at her child's rebuffs, his patience failed; or rather, I should say, he believed that a stronger, severer hand than hers was required for the management of the lad. But, when she heard Mr. Benson say so, she pleaded with him. "Have patience with Leonard," she said. "I have deserved the anger that is fretting in his heart. It is only I who can reinstate myself in his love and respect. I have no fear. When he sees me really striving hard and long to do what is right, he must love me. I am not afraid." Even while she spoke, her lips quivered, and her colour went and came with eager anxiety. So Mr. Benson held his peace, and let her take her course.
