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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Book online «Ruth by Elizabeth Gaskell (well read books .txt) 📖». Author Elizabeth Gaskell
Could it be false? Could there be two Ruth Hiltons? She went over every morsel of evidence. It could not be. She knew that Mrs. Denbigh’s former name had been Hilton. She had heard her speak casually, but charily, of having lived in Fordham. She knew she had been in Wales but a short time before she made her appearance in Eccleston. There was no doubt of the identity. Into the middle of Jemima’s pain and horror at the afternoon’s discovery, there came a sense of the power which the knowledge of this secret gave her over Ruth; but this was no relief, only an aggravation of the regret with which Jemima looked back on her state of ignorance. It was no wonder that when she arrived at home, she was so oppressed with headache that she had to go to bed directly.
“Quiet, mother! quiet, dear, dear mother” (for she clung to the known and tried goodness of her mother more than ever now), “that is all I want.” And she was left to the stillness of her darkened room, the blinds idly flapping to and fro in the soft evening breeze, and letting in the rustling sound of the branches which waved close to her window, and the thrush’s gurgling warble, and the distant hum of the busy town.
Her jealousy was gone—she knew not how or where. She might shun and recoil from Ruth, but she now thought that she could never more be jealous of her. In her pride of innocence, she felt almost ashamed that such a feeling could have had existence. Could Mr. Farquhar hesitate between her own self and one who–- No! she could not name what Ruth had been, even in thought. And yet he might never know, so fair a seeming did her rival wear. Oh! for one ray of God’s holy light to know what was seeming, and what was truth, in this traitorous hollow earth! It might be—she used to think such things possible, before sorrow had embittered her—that Ruth had worked her way through the deep purgatory of repentance up to something like purity again; God only knew! If her present goodness was real—if, after having striven back thus far on the heights, a fellow-woman was to throw her down into some terrible depth with her unkind, incontinent tongue, that would be too cruel! And yet, if—there was such woeful uncertainty and deceit somewhere—if Ruth–-No! that, Jemima with noble candour admitted, was impossible. Whatever Ruth had been, she was good, and to be respected as such, now. It did not follow that Jemima was to preserve the secret always; she doubted her own power to do so, if Mr. Farquhar came home again, and were still constant in his admiration of Mrs. Denbigh, and if Mrs. Denbigh gave him any—the least encouragement. But this last she thought, from what she knew of Ruth’s character, was impossible. Only, what was impossible after this afternoon’s discovery? At any rate, she would watch and wait. Come what might, Ruth was in her power. And, strange to say, this last certainty gave Jemima a kind of protecting, almost pitying, feeling for Ruth. Her horror at the wrong was not diminished; but, the more she thought of the struggles that the wrongdoer must have made to extricate herself, the more she felt how cruel it would be to baffle all by revealing what had been. But for her sisters’ sake she had a duty to perform; she must watch Ruth. For her lover’s sake she could not have helped watching; but she was too much stunned to recognise the force of her love, while duty seemed the only stable thing to cling to. For the present she would neither meddle nor mar in Ruth’s course of life.
MR. BRADSHAW’S VIRTUOUS INDIGNATION
So it was that Jemima no longer avoided Ruth, nor manifested by word or look the dislike which for a long time she had been scarce concealing. Ruth could not help noticing that Jemima always sought to be in her presence while she was at Mr. Bradshaw’s house; either when daily teaching Mary and Elizabeth, or when she came as an occasional visitor with Mr. and Miss Benson, or by herself. Up to this time Jemima had used no gentle skill to conceal the abruptness with which she would leave the room rather than that Ruth and she should be brought into contact—rather than that it should fall to her lot to entertain Ruth during any part of the evening. It was months since Jemima had left off sitting in the schoolroom, as had been her wont during the first few years of Ruth’s governess-ship. Now, each morning Miss Bradshaw seated herself at a little round table in the window, at her work, or at her writing; but, whether she sewed, or wrote, or read, Ruth felt that she was always watching—watching. At first Ruth had welcomed all these changes in habit and behaviour, as giving her a chance, she thought, by some patient waiting or some opportune show of enduring, constant love, to regain her lost friend’s regard; but by-and-by the icy chillness, immovable and grey, struck more to her heart than many sudden words of unkindness could have done. They might be attributed to the hot impulses of a hasty temper—to the vehement anger of an accuser; but this measured manner was the conscious result of some deep-seated feeling; this cold sternness befitted the calm implacability of some severe judge. The watching, which Ruth felt was ever upon her, made her unconsciously shiver, as you would if you saw that the passionless eyes of the dead were visibly gazing upon you. Her very being shrivelled and parched up in Jemima’s presence, as if blown upon by a bitter, keen east wind.
Jemima bent every power she possessed upon the one object of ascertaining what Ruth really was. Sometimes the strain was very painful; the constant tension made her soul weary; and she moaned aloud, and upbraided circumstance (she dared not go higher—to the Maker of circumstance) for having deprived her of her unsuspicious, happy ignorance.
Things were in this state when Mr. Richard Bradshaw came on his annual home visit. He was to remain another year in London, and then to return and be admitted into the firm. After he had been a week at home he grew tired of the monotonous regularity of his father’s household, and began to complain of it to Jemima.
“I wish Farquhar were at home. Though he is such a stiff, quiet old fellow, his coming in in the evenings makes a change. What has become of the Millses? They used to drink tea with us sometimes, formerly.”
“Oh! papa and Mr. Mills took opposite sides at the election, and we have never visited since. I don’t think they are any great loss.” Anybody is a loss—the stupidest bore that ever was would be a blessing, if he only would come in sometimes.”
“Mr. and Miss Benson have drunk tea here twice since you came.”
“Come, that’s capital! Apropos of stupid bores, you talk of the Bensons. I did not think you had so much discrimination, my little sister.”
Jemima looked up in surprise; and then reddened angrily.
“I never meant to say a word against Mr. or Miss Benson, and that you know quite well, Dick.”
“Never mind! I won’t tell tales. They are stupid old fogeys, but they are better than nobody, especially as that handsome governess of the girls always comes with them to be looked at.”
There was a little pause; Richard broke it by saying—
“Do you know, Mimie, I’ve a notion, if she plays her cards well, she may hook Farquhar!”
“Who?” asked Jemima shortly, though she knew quite well.
“Mrs. Denbigh, to be sure. We were talking of her, you know. Farquhar asked me to dine with him at his hotel as he passed through town, and—I’d my own reasons for going and trying to creep up his sleeve—I wanted him to tip me, as he used to do.”
“For shame! Dick,” burst in Jemima.
“Well, well! not tip me exactly, but lend me some money. The governor keeps me deucedly short.”
“Why! it was only yesterday, when my father was speaking about your expenses, and your allowance, I heard you say that you’d more than you knew how to spend.”
“Don’t you see that was the perfection of art? If my father had thought me extravagant, he would have kept me in with a tight rein; as it is, I’m in great hopes of a handsome addition, and I can tell you it’s needed. If my father had given me what I ought to have had at first, I should not have been driven to the speculations and messes I’ve got into.”
“What speculations? What messes?” asked Jemima, with anxious eagerness.
“Oh! messes was not the right word. Speculations hardly was; for they are sure to turn out well, and then I shall surprise my father with my riches.” He saw that he had gone a little too far in his confidence, and was trying to draw in. “But what do you mean? Do explain it to me.”
“Never you trouble your head about my business, my dear. Women
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