Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Ruth by Elizabeth Gaskell (well read books .txt) 📖
- Author: Elizabeth Gaskell
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Jemima was ashamed of herself before Ruth, in a way which she had never been before any one else. She valued Ruth’s good opinion so highly, that she dreaded lest her friend should perceive her faults. She put a check upon herself—a check at first; but after a little time she had forgotten something of her trouble, and listened to Ruth, and questioned her about Leonard, and smiled at his little witticisms; and only the sighs, that would come up from the very force of habit, brought back the consciousness of her unhappiness. Before the end of the evening, Jemima had allowed herself to speak to Mr. Farquhar in the old way—questioning, differing, disputing. She was recalled to the remembrance of that miserable conversation by the entrance of her father. After that she was silent. But he had seen her face more animated, and bright with a smile, as she spoke to Mr. Farquhar; and although he regretted the loss of her complexion (for she was still very pale), he was highly pleased with the success of his project. He never doubted but that Ruth had given her some sort of private exhortation to behave better. He could not have understood the pretty art with which, by simply banishing unpleasant subjects, and throwing a wholesome natural sunlit tone over others, Ruth had insensibly drawn Jemima out of her gloom. He resolved to buy Mrs. Denbigh a handsome silk gown the very next day. He did not believe she had a silk gown, poor creature! He had noticed that dark-grey stuff, this long, long time, as her Sunday dress. He liked the colour; the silk one should be just the same tinge. Then he thought that it would, perhaps, be better to choose a lighter shade, one which might be noticed as different to the old gown. For he had no doubt she would like to have it remarked, and, perhaps, would not object to tell people, that it was a present from Mr. Bradshaw—a token of his approbation. He smiled a little to himself as he thought of this additional source of pleasure to Ruth. She, in the meantime, was getting up to go home. While Jemima was lighting the bed-candle at the lamp, Ruth came round to bid good-night. Mr. Bradshaw could not allow her to remain till the morrow uncertain whether he was satisfied or not.
“Good-night, Mrs Denbigh,” said he. “Good-night. Thank you. I am obliged to you—I am exceedingly obliged to you.”
He laid emphasis on these words, for he was pleased to see Mr. Farquhar step forward to help Jemima in her little office.
Mr. Farquhar offered to accompany Ruth home; but the streets that intervened between Mr. Bradshaw’s and the Chapel-house were so quiet that he desisted, when he learnt from Ruth’s manner how much she disliked his proposal. Mr. Bradshaw, too, instantly observed—
“Oh! Mrs. Denbigh need not trouble you, Farquhar. I have servants at liberty at any moment to attend on her, if she wishes it.”
In fact, he wanted to make hay while the sun shone, and to detain Mr. Farquhar a little longer, now that Jemima was so gracious. She went upstairs with Ruth to help her to put on her things.
“Dear Jemima!” said Ruth, “I am so glad to see you looking better to-night! You quite frightened me this morning, you looked so ill.”
“Did I?” replied Jemima. “O Ruth! I have been so unhappy lately. I want you to come and put me to rights,” she continued, half smiling. “You know I’m a sort of out-pupil of yours, though we are so nearly of an age. You ought to lecture me, and make me good.”
“Should I, dear?” said Ruth. “I don’t think I’m the one to do it.”
“Oh yes! you are—you’ve done me good to-night.”
“Well, if I can do anything for you, tell me what it is?” asked Ruth tenderly.
“Oh, not now—not now,” replied Jemima. “I could not tell you here. It’s a long story, and I don’t know that I can tell you at all. Mamma might come up at any moment, and papa would be sure to ask what we had been talking about so long.”
“Take your own time, love,” said Ruth; “only remember, as far as I can, how glad I am to help you.”
“You’re too good, my darling!” said Jemima fondly.
“Don’t say so,” replied Ruth earnestly, almost as if she were afraid. “God knows I am not.”
“Well! we’re none of us too good,” answered Jemima; “I know that. But you are very good. Nay, I won’t call you so, if it makes you look so miserable. But come away downstairs.”
With the fragrance of Ruth’s sweetness lingering about her, Jemima was her best self during the next half-hour. Mr. Bradshaw was more and more pleased, and raised the price of the silk, which he was going to give Ruth, sixpence a yard during the time. Mr. Farquhar went home through the garden-way, happier than he had been this long time. He even caught himself humming the old refrain:
“On revient, on revient toujours, A ses premiers amours.”
But as soon as he was aware of what he was doing, he cleared away the remnants of the song into a cough, which was sonorous, if not perfectly real.
MR. FARQUHAR’S ATTENTIONS TRANSFERRED
The next morning, as Jemima and her mother sat at their work, it came into the head of the former to remember her father’s very marked way of thanking Ruth the evening before.
“What a favourite Mrs. Denbigh is with papa!” said she. “I am sure I don’t wonder at it. Did you notice, mamma, how he thanked her for coming here last night?”
“Yes, dear; but I don’t think it was all–-” Mrs. Bradshaw stopped short. She was never certain if it was right or wrong to say anything.
“Not all what?” asked Jemima, when she saw her mother was not going to finish the sentence.
“Not all because Mrs. Denbigh came to tea here,” replied Mrs. Bradshaw.
“Why, what else could he be thanking her for? What has she done?” asked Jemima, stimulated to curiosity by her mother’s hesitating manner.
“I don’t know if I ought to tell you,” said Mrs. Bradshaw.
“Oh, very well!” said Jemima, rather annoyed.
“Nay, dear! your papa never said I was not to tell; perhaps I may.”
“Never mind; I don’t want to hear,” in a piqued tone.
There was silence for a little while. Jemima was trying to think of something else, but her thoughts would revert to the wonder what Mrs. Denbigh could have done for her father.
“I think I may tell you, though,” said Mrs. Bradshaw, half questioning. Jemima had the honour not to urge any confidence, but she was too curious to take any active step towards repressing it.
Mrs. Bradshaw went on—“I think you deserve to know. It is partly your doing that papa is so pleased with Mrs. Denbigh. He is going to buy her a silk gown this morning, and I think you ought to know why.”
“Why?” asked Jemima.
“Because papa is so pleased to find that you mind what she says.”
“I mind what she says! To be sure I do, and always did. But why should papa give her a gown for that? I think he ought to give it me rather,” said Jemima, half laughing.
“I am sure he would, dear; he will give you one, I am certain, if you want one. He was so pleased to see you like your old self to Mr. Farquhar last night. We neither of us could think what had come over you this last month; but now all seems right.”
A dark cloud came over Jemima’s face. She did not like this close observation and constant comment upon her manners; and what had Ruth to do with it?
“I am glad you were pleased,” said she, very coldly. Then, after a pause, she added, “But you have not told me what Mrs. Denbigh had to do with my good behaviour.”
“Did not she speak to you about it?” asked Mrs. Bradshaw, looking up.
“No. Why should she? She has no right to criticise what I do. She would not be so impertinent,” said Jemima, feeling very uncomfortable and suspicious.
“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 schoolroom 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 manoeuvring 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,
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