 20. Jemima refuses to be managed. It was no wonder that the lookers on were perplexed as to the state of affairs between Jemima and Mr. Farkahar, for they, too, were sorely puzzled themselves at the sort of relationship between them. Was it love or was it not? That was the question in Mr. Farkahar's mind. He hoped it was not. He believed it was not, and yet he felt as if it were. There was something preposterous, he thought, in a man nearly forty years of age, being in love with a girl of twenty. He had gone on reasoning through all the days of his manhood on the idea of a staid, noble-minded wife, grave and sedate, the fit companion, inexperience of her husband. He had spoken with admiration of reticent characters full of self-control and dignity, and he hoped, he trusted, that all this time he had not been allowing himself unconsciously to fall in love with a wild-hearted, impetuous girl who knew nothing of life beyond her father's house, and who chafed under the strict discipline enforced there. For it was rather a suspicious symptom of the state of Mr. Farkahar's affections, that he had discovered the silent rebellion which continued in Jemima's heart, unperceived by any of her own family, against the severe laws and opinions of her father. Mr. Farkahar shared in these opinions, but in him they were modified and took a milder form. Still he approved of much that Mr. Bradshaw did and said, and this made it all the more strange, that he should win so for Jemima, whenever anything took place which he instinctively knew that she would dislike. After an evening at Mr. Bradshaw's, when Jemima had gone to the very verge of questioning or disputing some of her father's severe judgements, Mr. Farkahar went home in a dissatisfied, restless state of mind which he was almost afraid to analyze. He admired the inflexible integrity and almost the pump of principle evinced by Mr. Bradshaw on every occasion. He wondered how it was that Jemima could not see how grand a life might be, whose every action was shaped in obedience to some eternal law, instead of which he was afraid she rebelled against every law and was only guided by impulse. Mr. Farkahar had been taught to dread impulses as promptings of the devil. Sometimes if he tried to present her father's opinion before her in another form so as to bring himself and her rather more into that state of agreement he longed for, she flashed out upon him with the indignation of difference that she dared not show to or before her father as if she had some diviner instinct which taught her more truly than they knew with all their experience. At least in her first expressions there seemed something good and fine, but opposition made her angry and irritable, and the arguments which he was constantly provoking whenever he was with her in her father's absence frequently ended in some vehemence of expression on her part that offended Mr. Falkahar, who did not see how she expiated her anger in tears and self-reproaches when alone in her chamber. Then he would lecture himself severely on the interest he could not help feeling in a willful girl. He would determine not to interfere with her opinions in future, and yet the very next time they differed he strove to argue her into harmony with himself in spite of all resolutions to the contrary. Mr. Bradshaw saw just enough of this interest which Jemima had excited in his partner's mind to determine him in considering their future marriage as a settled affair. The fitness of the thing had long ago struck him. Her father's partner, so the fortune he meant to give her, might continue in the business. A man of such steadiness of character, and such a capital eye for a desirable speculation as Mr. Falkahar, just the right age to unite the paternal with a conjugal affection, and consequently the very man for Jemima, who had something unruly in her, which might break out under a regime less wisely adjusted to the circumstances than was Mr. Bradshaw's, in his own opinion. A house ready furnished at a convenient distance from her home, no near relations on Mr. Falkahar's side, who might be inclined to consider his residence as their own for an indefinite time, and so add to the household expenses. In short, what could be more suitable in every way? Mr. Bradshaw respected the very self-restraint he thought he saw in Mr. Falkahar's demeanor, attributing it to a wise desire to wait until trade should be rather more slack, and the man of business more at leisure to become the lover. As for Jemima, at times she thought she almost hated Mr. Falkahar. What business has he, she would think, to lecture me? Often I can hardly bear it from Papa, and I will not bear it from him. He treats me just like a child, and, as if I should lose my present opinions when I know more of the world, I am sure I should like never to know the world if it was to make me think, as he does, hard man that he is. I wonder what made him take Jem Brown on as a gardener again if he does not believe that above one criminal in a thousand is restored to goodness. I'll ask him some day if that was not acting on impulse rather than principle. Poor impulse, how do you get abused? But I will tell Mr. Falkahar, I will not let him interfere with me. If I do what Papa bids me, no one has a right to notice whether I do it willingly or not. So then she tried to defy Mr. Falkahar by doing and saying things that she knew he would disapprove. She went so far that he was seriously grieved, and did not even remonstrate and lecture. And then she was disappointed and irritated for somehow with all her indignation at interference she liked to be lectured by him. Not that she was aware of this liking of hers, but still it would have been more pleasant to be scolded than so quietly passed over. Her two little sisters, with their wide awake eyes, had long ago put things together and conjectured. Every day they had some fresh mystery together, to be imported in garden walks and whispered talks. Lizzie, did you see how the tears came into Mimi's eyes when Mr. Falkahar looked so displeased when she said good people were always dull? I think she's in love. Mary said the last words with grave emphasis, and felt like an oracle of twelve years of age. I don't, said Lizzie. I know I cry often enough when Papa is cross, and I'm not in love with him. Yes, but you don't look as Mimi did. Don't call her Mimi, you know Papa does not like it. Yes, but there are so many things Papa does not like I can never remember them all. Never mind about that, but listen to something I've got to tell you, if you'll never, never tell. No, indeed I won't, Mary, what is it? Not to Mrs. Denby? No, not even to Mrs. Denby. Well then, the other day, last Friday, Mimi Jemima interrupted the more conscientious Elizabeth. Jemima, if it must be so, jerked out, Mary, sent me to her desk for an envelope, and what do you think I saw? What? asked Elizabeth, expecting nothing else than a red-heart Valentine, signed Walter Falkohar, Pro Bradshaw, Falkohar, and company in full. Why a piece of paper with dull-looking lines upon it, just like the scientific dialogues, and I remember all about it? It was once when Mr. Falkohar had been telling us that a bullet does not go in a straight line, but in a something curve, and he drew some lines on a piece of paper, and Mimi Jemima put in Elizabeth. Well, well, she had treasured it up and written in corner W. F. April 3. Now, that's rather like love, is it not? For Jemima hates useful information, just as much as I do, and that's saying a great deal, and yet she had kept this paper and dated it. If that's all, I know Dick keeps a paper with Miss Benson's name written on it, and yet he's not in love with her, and perhaps Jemima may like Mr. Falkohar, and he may not like her. It seems such a little while since her hair was turned up, and he has always been a grave middle-aged man ever since I can recollect, and then have you never noticed how often he finds fault with her, almost lectures her? To be sure, said Mary, but he may be in love for all that. Just think how often Papa lectures Mama, and yet, of course, they're in love with each other. Well, we shall see, said Elizabeth. Poor Jemima, little thought of the four sharp eyes that watched her daily course while she sat alone, as she fancied, with her secret in her own room. Four in a passionate fit of grieving at the impatient, hasty temper which had made her so seriously displeased Mr. Falkohar that he had gone away without remonstrance, without more leave taking than a distant bow, she had begun to suspect that, rather than not be noticed at all by him, rather than be an object of indifference to him, oh, far rather would she be an object of anger and upbrating, and the thoughts that followed this confession to herself stunned and bewildered her, for once that they made her dizzy with hope, ten times they made her sick with fear, for an instant she planned to become and to be all he could wish her, to change her very nature for him. And then a great grush of pride came over her, and she set her teeth tight together and determined that he should either love her as she was or not at all. Unless he could take her with all her faults, she would not care for his regard. Love was too noble a word to call such cold calculating feeling as his must be, who went about with a pattern idea in his mind, trying to find a wife to match. Besides, there was something degrading Jemima thought in trying to alter herself to gain the love of any human creature, and yet if he did not care for her, if this late indifference were to last, what a great shroud was drawn over life. Could she bear it? From the agony she dared not look at, but which she was going to risk encountering, she was aroused by the presence of her mother. Jemima, your father wants to speak to you in the dining room. What for? asked the girl. Oh, he is fidgeted by something Mr. Falkahar said to me, and which I repeated. I am sure I thought there was no harm in it, and your father always likes me to tell him what everybody says in his absence. Jemima went with a heavy heart into her father's presence. He was walking up and down the room, and did not see her at first. Oh, Jemima, is that you? Has your mother told you what I want to speak to you about? No, said Jemima, not exactly. She has been telling me what proves to me how very seriously you must have displeased and offended Mr. Falkahar before he could have expressed himself to her as he did when he left the house. You know what he said? No, said Jemima, her heart swelling within her. He has no right to say anything about me. She was desperate, or she durst not have said this before her father. No, right, what do you mean, Jemima, said Mr. Bradshaw, turning sharp round. Surely you must know that I hope he may one day be your husband. That is to say, if you prove yourself worthy of the excellent training I have given you, I cannot suppose Mr. Falkahar would take any undisciplined girl as a wife. Jemima held tight by a chair near which she was standing. She did not speak. Her father was pleased by her silence. It was the way in which he liked his projects to be received. But you cannot suppose, he continued, that Mr. Falkahar will consent to marry you. Consent to marry me? Repeated Jemima in a low tone of brooding indignation? Were those the terms upon which her rich woman's heart was to be given, with a calm consent of acquiescent acceptance, but a little above resignation on the part of the receiver? If you give way to a temper which, although you have never dared to show it to me, I am well aware exists. Although I hope the habits of self-examination I had instilled had done much to cure you of manifesting it. At one time Richard promised to be the more headstrong of the two. Now I must desire you to take pattern by him. Yes, he continued, falling into his old train of thought. It would be a most fortunate connection for you in every way. I should have you under my own eye, and could still assist you in the formation of your character, and I should be at hand to strengthen and confirm your principles. Mr. Falkahar's connection with the firm would be convenient and agreeable to me in a pecuniary point of view. He, Mr. Bradshaw, was going on in his enumeration of the advantages which he in particular and Jemima in the second place would derive from this marriage, when his daughter spoke at first so low that he could not hear her as he walked up and down the room with his creaking boots, and he had to stop to listen. Has Mr. Falkahar ever spoken to you about it? Jemima's cheek was flushed as she asked the question. She wished that she might have been the person to whom he had first addressed himself. Mr. Bradshaw answered, No, not spoken. It has been implied between us for some time. At least I have been so aware of his intentions that I have made several illusions in the course of business to it as a thing that might take place. He can hardly have misunderstood. He must have seen that I perceived his design and approved of it, said Mr. Bradshaw, rather doubtfully as he remembered how very little, in fact, passed between him and his partner which could have reference to the subject, to any but a mind prepared to receive it. Perhaps Mr. Falkahar had not really thought of it, but then again that would imply that his own penetration had been a mistaken, a thing not impossible certainly, but quite beyond the range of parableability. So he reassured himself and, as he thought, his daughter by saying, the whole thing is so suitable the advantages arising from the connection are so obvious, besides which I am quite aware, from many little speeches of Mr. Falkahar's, that he contemplates marriage at no very distant time. Any seldom leaves Eccleston and visits few families besides our own, certainly none that compare with ours in the advantages you have all received in moral and religious training. But then Mr. Bradshaw was checked in his implied praises of himself, and only himself could be his martingale when he once set out on such a career, by a recollection that Jemima must not feel too secure as she might become if he dwelt too much on the advantages of her being her father's daughter. Accordingly he said, but you must be aware, Jemima, that you do very little credit to the education I have given you when you make such an impression as you must have done today before Mr. Falkahar could have said what he did of you. What did he say? Asked Jemima, still in the low husky tone of suppressed anger. Your mother says he remarked to her, what a pity it is that Jemima cannot maintain her opinions without going into a passion, and what a pity it is that her opinions are such as to sanction rather than curb these fits of rudeness and anger. Did he say that? Said Jemima in a still lower tone, not questioning her father, but speaking rather to herself. I have no doubt he did, replied her father gravely. Your mother is in the habit of repeating accurately to me what takes place in my absence. The whole speech is not one of hers. She has not altered a word in the repetition. I am convinced. I have trained her to habits of accuracy, very unusual in a woman. At another time Jemima might have been inclined to rebel against this system of carrying constant intelligence to headquarters, which she had long ago felt as an insurmountable obstacle to any free communication with her mother. But now her father's means of acquiring knowledge faded into insignificance before the nature of the information he imparted. She stood quite still, grasping the chair back, longing to be dismissed. I have said enough now, I hope, to make you behave in a becoming manner to Mr. Falka if your temper is too unruly to be always under your own control, at least have respect to my injunctions, and take some pains to curb it before him. May I go? asked Jemima, chafing more and more. You may, said her father, when she left the room he gently rubbed his hands together, satisfied with the effect he had produced, and wondering how it was that one so well brought up as his daughter could ever say or do anything to provoke such a remark from Mr. Falkaher as that which he heard repeated. Nothing can be more gentle and docile than she is when spoken to in the proper manner. I must give Falkaher a hint, said Mr. Bradshaw to himself. Jemima rushed upstairs and locked herself into her room. She began pacing up and down at first, without shedding a tear, but then she suddenly stopped and burst out crying with passionate indignation. So, I am to behave well, not because it is right, not because it is right, but to show off before Mr. Falkaher. Oh, Mr. Falkaher, said she, suddenly changing to a sort of up-braiding tone of voice. I did not think so of you an hour ago. I did not think you could choose a wife in that cold-hearted way, though you did profess to act by rule and line. But you think to have me, do you? Because it is fitting and suitable, and do you want to be married, and can't spare any time for wooing? She was lashing herself up by an exaggeration of all her father had said. And how often I have thought you were too grand for me, but now I know better. Now I can believe that all you do is done from calculation. You are good because it adds to your business credit. You talk in that high strain about principle because it sounds well and is respectable, and even these things are better than your cold way of looking out for a wife, just as you would do for a carpet, to add to your comforts and settle you respectively. But I won't be that wife. You shall see something of me which shall make you not acquiesce so quietly in the arrangements of the firm. She cried too vehemently to go on, thinking or speaking. Then she stopped and said, Only an hour ago I was hoping, I don't know what I was hoping. But I thought, oh, how I was deceived. I thought he had a true, deep, loving, manly heart, which God might let me win. But now I know he has only a calm, calculating head. If Jemima had been vehement and passionate before this conversation with her father, it was better than the sullen reserve she assumed now whenever Mr. Falkahar came to the house. He felt it deeply. No reasoning with himself took off the pain he experienced. He tried to speak on the subjects she liked, in the manner she liked, until he despised himself for the unsuccessful efforts. He stood between her and her father once or twice, in obvious inconsistency with his own previously expressed opinions. And Mr. Bradshaw peaked himself upon his admirable management in making Jemima feel that she owed his indulgence or forbearance to Mr. Falkahar's interference. But Jemima, perverse, miserable Jemima, thought that she hated Mr. Falkahar all the more. She respected her father inflexible, much more than her father pompously giving up to Mr. Falkahar's subdued remonstrances on her behalf. Even Mr. Bradshaw was perplexed and shut himself up to consider how Jemima was to be made more fully to understand his wishes and her own interests. But there was nothing to take hold of as a ground for any further conversation with her. Her actions were so submissive that they were spiritless. She did all her father desired. She did it with a nervous quickness and haste if she thought that otherwise Mr. Falkahar would interfere in any way. She wished evidently to owe nothing to him. She had begun by leaving the room when he came in. After the conversation she had had with her father. But at Mr. Bradshaw's first expression of his wish that she should remain, she remained silent, indifferent, inattentive to all that was going on, at least there was this appearance of inattention. She would work away at her sewing as if she were to earn her livelihood by it. The light was gone out of her eyes as she lifted them up heavily before replying to any question, and the eyelids were often swollen with crying. But in all this there was no positive fault. Mr. Bradshaw could not have told her not to do this or to do that without her doing it, for she had become much more docile of late. It was a wonderful proof of the influence Ruth had gained in the family that Mr. Bradshaw, after much deliberation, congratulated himself on the wise determination he had made of requesting her to speak to Jemima and find out what feeling was at the bottom of all this change in her ways of going on. He rang the bell. Is Mrs. Denby here? He inquired of the servant who answered it. Yes, sir, she has just come. Becker to come to me in this room as soon as she can leave the young ladies. Ruth came. Sit down, Mrs. Denby, sit down. I want to have a little conversation with you. Not about your pupils. They are going on well under your care, I am sure. And I often congratulate myself on the choice I made. I assure you I do. But now I want to speak to you about Jemima. She is very fond of you, and perhaps you could take an opportunity of observing to her, in short, of saying to her that she is behaving very foolishly, in fact, disgusting Mr. Farkeha, who was, I know, inclined to like her, by the sullen, fulky way she behaves in when he is by. He paused for the ready acquiescence he expected, but Ruth did not quite comprehend what was required of her, and disliked the glimpse she had gained of the task very much. I hardly understand, sir. You are displeased with Mrs. Bradshaw's manners to Mr. Farkeha? Well, well, not quite that. I am displeased with her manners. They are sulky and abrupt, particularly when he is by, and I want you, of whom she is so fond, to speak to her about it. But I have never had the opportunity of noticing them. Whenever I have seen her, she has been most gentle and affectionate. But I think you do not hesitate to believe me when I say that I have noticed the reverse, said Mr. Bradshaw, drawing himself up. No, sir. I beg your pardon if I had expressed myself so badly as to seem to doubt, but am I to tell Mrs. Bradshaw that you have spoken of her faults to me, asked Ruth a little astonished, and shrinking more than ever from the proposed task? If you would allow me to finish what I have got to say, without interruption, I could tell you what I do wish. I beg your pardon, sir, said Ruth gently. I wish you to join our circle occasionally in an evening. Mrs. Bradshaw shall send you an invitation when Mr. Farkeha is likely to be here. Worn by me, and consequently, with your observation quickened, you can hardly fail to notice instances of what I had pointed out, and then I will trust your own good sense, Mr. Bradshaw bowed to her at this part of his sentence, to find an opportunity to remonstrate with her. Ruth was beginning to speak, but he waved his hand for another minute of silence. Only a minute, Mrs. Denby, I am quite aware that in requesting your presence occasionally in the evening, I shall be trespassing upon the time which is, in fact, your money. You may be assured that I shall not forget this little circumstance, and you can explain what I have said on this head to Benson and his sister. I am afraid I cannot do it, Ruth began, but while she was choosing words delicate enough to express her reluctance to act as he wished, he had almost bowed her out of the room, and thinking that she was modest in her estimate of her qualifications for remonstrating with his daughter, he added blandly. No one so able, Mrs. Denby, I have observed many qualities in you, observed when, perhaps, you have little thought it. If he had observed Ruth that morning, he would have seen an absence of mind and depression of spirits not much to her credit as a teacher, for she could not bring herself to feel that she had any right to go into the family purposely to watch over and find fault with any one member of it. If she had seen anything wrong in Jemima, Ruth loved her so much that she would have told her of it in private and with many doubts how far she was the one to pull out the moat from anyone's eye, even in the most tender manner. She would have had to conquer reluctance before she could have done even this, but there was something indefinably repugnant to her in the manner of acting which Mr. Bradshaw had proposed, and she determined not to accept the invitations which were to place her in so false a position. But as she was leaving the house, after the end of the lessons, while she stood in the hall, tying on her bonnet and listening to the last small confidences of her two pupils, she saw Jemima coming in through the garden door, and was struck by the change in her looks. The large eyes so brilliant once were dim and clouded, the complexion sallow and colorless, a lowering expression was on the dark brow, and the corners of her mouth drooped as with sorrowful thoughts. She looked up, and her eyes met Ruth's. Oh, you beautiful creature, thought Jemima, with your still, calm, heavenly face, what are you to know of Earth's trials? You have lost your beloved by death, but that is a blessed sorrow. The sorrow I have pulls me down and down, and makes me despise and hate everyone, not you, though. And her face changing to a soft tender look, she went up to Ruth and kissed her fondly, as if it were a relief to be near someone on whose true pure heart she relied. Ruth returned the caress, and even while she did so, she suddenly rescinded her resolution to keep clear of what Mr. Bradshaw had desired her to do. On her way home she resolved, if she could, to find out what were Jemima's secret feelings, and if, as if from some previous knowledge, she suspected they were morbid and exaggerated in any way, to try and help her right with all the wisdom which true love gives. It was time that someone should come to still the storm in Jemima's turbulent heart, which was daily and hourly knowing less and less of peace. The irritating difficulty was to separate the two characters, which at two different times she had attributed to Mr. Falkahar, the old one, which she had formerly believed to be true, that he was a man acting up to a high standard of lofty principle, and acting up without a struggle, and this last had been the circumstance which had made her rebellious and irritable once. The new one, which her father had excited in her suspicious mind, that Mr. Falkahar was cold and calculating in all he did, and that she was to be transferred by the former, and accepted by the latter as a sort of stock in trade, these were the two Mr. Falkahars who clashed together in her mind, and in this state of irritation and prejudice she could not bear the way in which he gave up his opinions to please her. That was not the way to win her. She liked him far better when he inflexibly and rigidly adhered to his idea of right and wrong, not even allowing any force to temptation and hardly any grace to repentance compared with that beauty of holiness which had never yielded to sin. He had been her idol in those days, as she found out now, however much at the time she had opposed him with violence. As for Mr. Falkahar, he was almost weary of himself, no reasoning, even though 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. Falkahar 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, willful 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 to. But she need not have been afraid. They were glad and proud of this attention to her, and never thought of themselves. Ruthie, what gown shall you wear tonight, your dark grey one, I suppose? Ask 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 Mama 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 smooth as close to her head as its waving nature would allow, and plated 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 chicken skins, said Sally, examining them curiously. I wonder how they said about skinning them. 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 northeast 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 coloring of walls and carpets 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 leaned 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. Denby, for coming to us tonight, 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 misbehavior, 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 arrest 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 into conflict with any desire of her heart. She loved her children dearly, though they all perplexed her very frequently. Her son was her a special 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 so about any difficulty he might be in. With all her dutiful sense of the obligation which her husband had forced 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. Falkahar. Jemima had been talking to Ruth with some interest before then, but on seeing Mr. Falkahar she bent her head down over her work, went a little paler, and then 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. Falkahar 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 wine a skein of wool. Mr. Falkahar 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. Falkahar, and looked sorrowfully at Jemima. But Jemima would not see her glance of upgrading, as Ruth, hoping that she would relent, delayed a little to comply with her request. Mr. Falkahar 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 behavior 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 have not dared to do so. He liked Ruth soft, distinct, unwavering. No, you must go, you must keep to what is right. Far better than the good-natured yielding to Entity he had formally 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, anyone else. She valued Ruth's good opinions 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 size 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. Falkahar 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. Falkahar, 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. Denby a handsome silk gown the very next day. He did not believe she had a silk gown, poor creature. He had noticed that dark gray stuff this long, long time as her Sunday dress. He liked the color. 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. Denby, 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. Falkohar step forward to help Jemima in her little office. Mr. Falkohar 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 learned from Ruth's manner how much she disliked his proposal. Mr. Bradshaw, too, instantly observed. Oh, Mrs. Denby, need not trouble you, Falkohar. I have servants at liberty at any moment to attend to her if she wishes it. In fact, he wanted to make hay while the sun shone and to detain Mr. Falkohar a little longer, now that Jemima was so gracious. She went upstairs with Ruth to help her put on her things. Dear Jemima, said Ruth, I am so glad to see you looking better tonight. You quite frightened me this morning, you look 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 am 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 am the one to do it. Oh, yes you are. You have done me good tonight. 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. My mom 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 are 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 to Ruth, six pence a yard during the time. Mr. Falkahar went home through the garden way, happier than he had been this long time. He even caught himself humming the old refrain. 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. 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 favorite Mrs. Denby is with Papa, said she. I am sure I don't wonder at it. Did you notice, Mama, 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 at all what, asked Jemima, when she saw her mother was not going to finish the sentence. Not all because Mrs. Denby 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 peaked tone. There was silence for a while. Jemima was trying to think of something else, but her thoughts would revert to the wonder what Mrs. Denby could have done for her father. I think I may tell you, though, said Mrs. Bradshaw, half questioning. Jemima had the honor 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. Denby. 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. Falcaja 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 on 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. Denby had to do with my good behavior. Did she not speak to you about it? Asked Mrs. Bradshaw looking up. No, why should she? She has no right to criticize what I do. She would not be so impertinent, said Jemima, feeling very uncomfortable and suspicious. Yes, love, she would have had a right, for Papa had desired her to do it. Papa desired her. What do you mean, Mama? 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. Denby, and I am sure she would not do anything that was impertinent. You know, it would be 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. Denby a gown, because I was civil to Mr. Falkohar 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 smoldered anger, Ruth's pleading way of willing her from her sulleness 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, Mama, that Papa asked Mrs. Denby 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 schoolroom on the Friday, and had found her sisters lounging about and wondering what Papa could possibly want with Mrs. Denby. 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, sympathizing manner, as she saw Jemima daily looking more wretched, was distasteful to the latter in the highest degree. She could not say that Mrs. Denby'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 was the gray silk dress that she was sure Ruth would never accept. No one henceforward could induce Jemima to enter into conversation with Mr. Falkohar. She suspected maneuvering in the simplest actions and was miserable in this constant state of suspicion. She would not allow herself to like Mr. Falkohar, 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. Falkohar. 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. Falkohar, 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. Falkohar 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 can say, that he was watching the effect of Mr. Falkohar'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 feign have let herself love Mr. Falkohar, but this constant maneuvering 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 speechmaking, such moving about of everyone 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 consequence of all this admirable management of Mr. Bradshaw's would have been very unfortunate to Mr. Falkohar, 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 behavior made to Ms. 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 toward 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. Deninby, 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. Falkohar'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 forever, 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. Falkohar used to bid Jemima due, 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 time 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 nose-gay of greenhouse 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 have been to Scorside Wood to gather wild strawberries, said Elizabeth. Such a quantity! We've left a whole basket full in the dairy. Mr. Falkahar says he'll teach us to dress them in the way he learned in Germany. If we can get him some hock, do you think Papa will let us have some? Was Mr. Falkahar with you? Asked Jemima a dull light coming into her eyes. Yes, we told him this morning that Mama wanted us to take some old linen to the lame man at Scorside Farm, and that we meant to coax Mrs. Denby 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 reply to 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 it not 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. Denby 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 tail. Now Mary was out of breath. Mary fanced herself with her bonnet, while Elizabeth went on. You know, where the gray 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 underfoot. We did so wish for Leonard, put in Mary. Yes, but Mrs. Denby gathered a great many for him, and Mr. Falkahaw 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 to, to-morrow. Yes, we thought of such a capital plan. That's to say, Mr. Falkahaw thought of it. We wanted to carry Leonard up the hill in a king's cushion, but Mrs. Denby 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. Falkahaw 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 a- 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 out her sister 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. Falkahaw's eyes, a position she 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 forfeited it by her own doing and her own fault. For if he was 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. Denby, no money, no connection, encumbered with her boy? The very action which proved Mr. Falkahaw 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 two, one so infant 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 color flushed up into Jemima's sallow face as she became aware that even while she acknowledged these excellences on Mrs. Denby'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 savor 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 scar-side wood. Every touch of fancy which could heighten her idea of their enjoyment and of Mr. Falkahar's attention to the blushing, conscious Ruth, every such touch which would add a pang to her self-reproach and keen jealousy was added to 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. Falkahar. Oh, how hot it is, Jemima! Do sit down and I'll tell you about it, but I can't tell if you keep walking so. I can't sit still today, 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. Falkahar 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 gray 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 from a ma, Mary, said Jemima, as she saw that the fainting fit did not yield to the usual remedy of a horizontal position and 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 vigor. 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, with her 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 someone 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 assistants, Mrs. Bradshaw, received these entities 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 invalent, 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 endeavors to interest her, she roused up into animation when Ruth came in with a flower, a book, or a brown and ruddy pair, 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. 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 unregreted 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 affected 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 undeciding and re-deciding before it was possible for her to go, her only comfort was in the thought that dear Mrs. Denby 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 governors 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 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 landowner and tenant did not quake prophetically at the introduction of manufacturers. 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 purant 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 someone 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 shrank from the knowing look with which this was said. He hoped that Mr. Pillson 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, traveling, want 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. Descentre? 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 done. 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. Dunn 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 incumbrances during the forthcoming election. End of chapter 21