Ruth by Elizabeth Gaskell (well read books .txt) 📖

man drew more and yet more back from his first assertion of belief, that they had been placed there.

Mr. Bradshaw wrote an angry and indignant reproach of carelessness to the Insurance Company. By the next mail one of their clerks came down to Eccleston; and, having leisurely refreshed himself at the inn, and ordered his dinner with care, he walked up to the great warehouse of Bradshaw & Co., and sent in his card, with a pencil notification, “On the part of the Star Insurance Company,” to Mr. Bradshaw himself.

Mr. Bradshaw held the card in his hand for a minute or two without raising his eyes. Then he spoke out loud and firm—

“Desire the gentleman to walk up. Stay! I will ring my bell in a minute or two, and then show him upstairs.”

When the errand-boy had closed the door, Mr. Bradshaw went to a cupboard where he usually kept a glass and a bottle of wine (of which he very seldom partook, for he was an abstemious man). He intended now to take a glass, but the bottle was empty; and, though there was plenty more to be had for ringing, or even simply going into another room, he would not allow himself to do this. He stood and lectured himself in thought.

“After all, I am a fool for once in my life. If the certificates are in no box which I have yet examined, that does not imply they may not be in some one which I have not had time to search. Farquhar would stay so late last night! And, even if they are in none of the boxes here, that does not prove–-” He gave the bell a jerking ring, and it was yet sounding when Mr. Smith, the insurance clerk, entered.

The manager of the Insurance Company had been considerably nettled at the tone of Mr. Bradshaw’s letter; and had instructed the clerk to assume some dignity at first in vindicating (as it was well in his power to do) the character of the proceedings of the Company, but at the same time he was not to go too far, for the firm of Bradshaw & Co. was daily looming larger in the commercial world, and if any reasonable explanation could be given it was to be received, and bygones be bygones.

“Sit down, sir!” said Mr. Bradshaw.

“You are aware, sir, I presume, that I come on the part of Mr. Dennison, the manager of the Star Insurance Company, to reply in person to a letter of yours, of the 29th, addressed to him?”

Mr. Bradshaw bowed. “A very careless piece of business,” he said stiffly. “Mr. Dennison does not think you will consider it as such when you have seen the deed of transfer, which I am commissioned to show you.”

Mr. Bradshaw took the deed with a steady hand. He wiped his spectacles quietly, without delay, and without hurry, and adjusted them on his nose. It is possible that he was rather long in looking over the document—at least, the clerk had just begun to wonder if he was reading through the whole of it, instead of merely looking at the signature, when Mr. Bradshaw said: “It is possible that it may be–-of course, you will allow me to take this paper to Mr. Benson, to—to inquire if this be his signature?”

“There can be no doubt of it, I think, sir,” said the clerk, calmly smiling, for he knew Mr. Benson’s signature well.

“I don’t know, sir—I don’t know.” (He was speaking as if the pronunciation of every word required a separate effort of will, like a man who has received a slight paralytic stroke.)

“You have heard, sir, of such a thing as forgery—forgery, sir?” said he, repeating the last word very distinctly; for he feared that the first time he had said it, it was rather slurred over.

“Oh, sir! there is no room for imagining such a thing, I assure you. In our affairs we become aware of curious forgetfulness on the part of those who are not of business habits.”

“Still I should like to show it Mr. Benson, to prove to him his forgetfulness, you know. I believe, on my soul, it is some of his careless forgetfulness—I do, sir,” said he. Now he spoke very quickly. “It must have been. Allow me to convince myself. You shall have it back to-night, or the first thing in the morning.”

The clerk did not quite like to relinquish the deed, nor yet did he like to refuse Mr. Bradshaw. If that very uncomfortable idea of forgery should have any foundation in truth—and he had given up the writing! There were a thousand chances to one against its being anything but a stupid blunder; the risk was more imminent of offending one of the directors.

As he hesitated, Mr. Bradshaw spoke very calmly, and almost with a smile on his face. He had regained his self-command. “You are afraid, I see. I assure you, you may trust me. If there has been any fraud—if I have the slightest suspicion of the truth of the surmise I threw out just now,”—he could not quite speak the bare naked word that was chilling his heart—“I will not fail to aid the ends of justice, even though the culprit should be my own son.”

He ended, as he began, with a smile—such a smile!—the stiff lips refused to relax and cover the teeth. But all the time he kept saying to himself—

“I don’t believe it—I don’t believe it. I’m convinced it’s a blunder of that old fool Benson.”

But when he had dismissed the clerk, and secured the piece of paper, he went and locked the door, and laid his head on his desk, and moaned aloud. He had lingered in the office for the two previous nights; at first, occupying himself in searching for the certificates of the Insurance shares; but, when all the boxes and other repositories for papers had been ransacked, the thought took hold of him that they might be in Richard’s private desk; and, with the determination which overlooks the means to get at the end, he had first tried all his own keys on the complicated lock, and then broken it open with two decided blows of a poker, the instrument nearest at hand. He did not find the certificates. Richard had always considered himself careful in destroying any dangerous or tell-tale papers; but the stern father found enough, in what remained, to convince him that his pattern son—more even than his pattern son, his beloved pride—was far other than what he seemed.

Mr. Bradshaw did not skip or miss a word. He did not shrink while he read. He folded up letter by letter; he snuffed the candle when its light began to wane, and no sooner; but he did not miss or omit one paper—he read every word. Then, leaving the letters in a heap upon the table, and the broken desk to tell its own tale, he locked the door of the room which was appropriated to his son as junior partner, and carried the key away with him.

There was a faint hope, even after this discovery of many circumstances of Richard’s life, which shocked and dismayed his father—there was still a faint hope that he might not be guilty of forgery—that it might not be no forgery after all—only a blunder—an omission—a stupendous piece of forgetfulness. That hope was the one straw that Mr. Bradshaw clung to.

Late that night Mr. Benson sat in his study. Every one else in the house had gone to bed; but he was expecting a summons to some one who was dangerously ill. He was not startled, therefore, at the knock which came to the front door about twelve; but he was rather surprised at the character of the knock, so slow and loud, with a pause between each rap. His study-door was but a step from that which led into the street. He opened it, and there stood—Mr. Bradshaw; his large, portly figure not to be mistaken even in the dusky night.

He said, “That is right. It was you I wanted to see.” And he walked straight into the study. Mr. Benson followed, and shut the door. Mr. Bradshaw was standing by the table, fumbling in his pocket. He pulled out the deed; and, opening it, after a pause, in which you might have counted five, he held it out to Mr. Benson.

“Read it!” said he. He spoke not another word until time had been allowed for its perusal. Then he added—

“That is your signature?” The words were an assertion, but the tone was that of question.

“No, it is not,” said Mr. Benson decidedly. “It is very like my writing. I could almost say it was mine, but I know it is not.”

“Recollect yourself a little. The date is August the third of last year, fourteen months ago. You may have forgotten it.” The tone of the voice had a kind of eager entreaty in it, which Mr. Benson did not notice—he was so startled at the fetch of his own writing.

“It is most singularly like mine; but I could not have signed away these shares—all the property I have—without the slightest remembrance of it.”

“Stranger things have happened. For the love of Heaven, think if you did not sign it. It’s a deed to transfer for those Insurance shares, you see. You don’t remember it? You did not write this name—these words?” He looked at Mr. Benson with craving wistfulness for one particular answer. Mr. Benson was struck at last by the whole proceeding, and glanced anxiously at Mr. Bradshaw, whose manner, gait, and voice, were so different from usual that he might well excite attention. But as soon as the latter was aware of this momentary inspection, he changed his tone all at once.

“Don’t imagine, sir, I wish to force any invention upon you as a remembrance. If you did not write this name, I know who did. Once more I ask you—does no glimmering recollection of—having needed money, we’ll say—I never wanted you to refuse my subscription to the chapel, God knows!—of having sold these accursed shares?—Oh! I see by your face you did not write it; you need not to speak to me—I know.”

He sank down into a chair near him. His whole figure drooped. In a moment he was up, and standing straight as an arrow, confronting Mr. Benson, who could find no clue to this stern man’s agitation.

“You say you did not write these words?” pointing to the signature, with an untrembling finger. “I believe you; Richard Bradshaw did write them.”

“My dear sir—my dear old friend!” exclaimed Mr. Benson, “you are rushing to a conclusion for which, I am convinced, there is no foundation; there is no reason to suppose that because–-”

“There is reason, sir. Do not distress yourself—I am perfectly calm.” His stony eyes and immovable face did indeed look rigid. “What we have now to do is to punish the offence. I have not one standard for myself and those I love—(and, Mr. Benson, I did love him)—and another for the rest of the world. If a stranger had forged my name, I should have known it was my duty to prosecute him. You must prosecute Richard.”

“I will not,” said Mr. Benson.

“You think, perhaps, that I shall feel it acutely. You are mistaken. He is no longer as my son to me. I have always resolved to disown any child of mine who was guilty of sin. I disown Richard. He is as a stranger to me. I shall feel no more at his exposure—his punishment–-” He could not go on for his voice was choking. “Of course, you understand that I must feel shame at our connection; it is that that is troubling me; that