I am off to London in an hour or two, and must speak with you first." On reaching his house, he ran upstairs to ask Jemima to breakfast alone in her dressing-room, and returned in five minutes or less. "Now I can tell you about it," said he. "I see my way clearly to a certain point. We must prevent **** and his father meeting just now, or all hope of ****'s reformation is gone for ever. His father is as hard as the nether millstone. He has forbidden me his house." "Forbidden you!" "Yes; because I would not give up **** as utterly lost and bad; and because I said I should return to London with the clerk, and fairly tell Dennison (he's a Scotchman, and a man of sense and feeling) the real state of the case. By the way, we must not say a word to the clerk; otherwise he will expect an answer, and make out all sorts of inferences for himself, from the unsatisfactory reply he must have. Dennison will be upon honour--will see every side of the case--will know you refuse to prosecute; the Company of which he is manager are no losers. Well! when I said what I thought wise, of all this--when I spoke as if my course were a settled and decided thing, the grim old man asked me if he was to be an automaton in his own house. He assured me he had no feeling for ****--all the time he was shaking like an aspen; in short, repeating much the same things he must have said to you last night. However, I defied him, and the consequence is, I'm forbidden the house, and, what is more, he says he will not come to the office while I remain a partner." "What shall you do?" "Send Jemima and the baby. There's nothing like a young child for bringing people round to a healthy state of feeling; and you don't know what Jemima is, Mr. Benson! No! though you've known her from her birth. If she can't comfort her mother, and if the baby can't steal into her grandfather's heart, why--I don't know what you may do to me. I shall tell Jemima all, and trust to her wit and wisdom to work at this end, while I do my best at the other." "Richard is abroad, is not he?" "He will be in England to-morrow. I must catch him somewhere; but that I can easily do. The difficult point will be, what to do with him--what to say to him, when I find him. He must give up his partnership, that's clear. I did not tell his father so, but I am resolved upon it. There shall be no tampering with the honour of the firm to which I belong." "But what will become of him?" asked Mr. Benson anxiously. "I do not yet know. But, for Jemima's sake--for his dour old father's sake--Iwill not leave him adrift. I will find him some occupation as clear from temptation as I can. I will do all in my power. And he will do much better, if he has any good in him, as a freer agent, not cowed by his father into a want of individuality and self-respect. I believe I must dismiss you, Mr. Benson," said he, looking at his watch; "I have to explain all to my wife, and to go to that clerk. You shall hear from me in a day or two." Mr. Benson half envied the younger man's elasticity of mind, and power of acting promptly. He himself felt as if he wanted to sit down in his quiet study, and think over the revelations and events of the last twenty-four hours. It made him dizzy even to follow Mr. Farquhar's plans, as he had briefly detailed them; and some solitude and consideration would be required before Mr. Benson could decide upon their justice and wisdom. He had been much shocked by the discovery of the overt act of guilt which Richard had perpetrated, low as his opinion of that young man had been for some time;and the consequence was, that he felt depressed, and unable to rally for the next few days. He had not even the comfort of his sister's sympathy, as he felt bound in honour not to tell her anything; and she was luckily so much absorbed in some household contest with Sally that she did not notice her brother's quiet languor. Mr. Benson felt that he had no right at this time to intrude into the house which he had been once tacitly forbidden. If he went now to Mr. Bradshaw's without being asked, or sent for, he thought it would seem like presuming on his knowledge of the hidden disgrace of one of the family. Yet he longed to go: he knew that Mr. Farquhar must be writing almost daily to Jemima, and he wanted to hear what he was doing. The fourth day after her husband's departure she came, within half-an-hour after the post delivery, and asked to speak to Mr. Benson alone. She was in a state of great agitation, and had evidently been crying very much. "Oh, Mr. Benson!" said she, "will you come with me, and tell papa this sad news about ****? Walter has written me a letter at last, to say he has found him--he could not at first; but now it seems that, the day before yesterday, he heard of an accident which had happened to the Dover coach;it was overturned--two passengers killed, and several badly hurt. Walter says we ought to be thankful, as he is, that **** was not killed. He says it was such a relief to him on going to the place--the little inn nearest to where the coach was overturned--to find that **** was only severely injured; not one of those who was killed. But it is a terrible shock to us all. We had had no more dreadful fear to lessen the shock; mamma is quite unfit for anything, and we none of us dare to tell papa." Jemima had hard work to keep down her sobs thus far, and now they overmastered her. "How is your father? I have wanted to hear every day," asked Mr. Benson tenderly. "It was careless of me not to come and tell you; but, indeed, I have had so much to do. Mamma would not go near him. He has said something which she seems as if she could not forgive. Because he came to meals, she would not. She has almost lived in the nursery; taking out all ****'s old playthings, and what clothes of his were left, and turning them over, and crying over them." "Then Mr. Bradshaw has joined you again; I was afraid, from what Mr. Farquhar said, he was going to isolate himself from you all?" "I wish he had," said Jemima, crying afresh. "It would have been more natural than the way he has gone on; the only difference from his usual habit is, that he has never gone near the office, or else he has come to meals just as usual, and talked just as usual; and even done what I never knew him do before, tried to make jokes--all in order to show us how little he cares." "Does he not go out at all?" "Only in the garden. I am sure he does care after all; he must care; he cannot shake off a child in this way, though he thinks he can; and that makes me so afraid of telling him of this accident. Will you come, Mr.
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