Delphi Complete Works of Elizabeth Gaskell

by Elizabeth Gaskell

  “Yourself is none to boast on.”

  “Ay, but I were fat and rosy to many a one. Well, we walked on and on through many a street, much the same as Deansgate. We had to walk slowly, slowly, for th’ carriages an’ cabs as thronged th’ streets. I thought by-and-bye we should maybe get clear on ‘em, but as the streets grew wider they grew worse, and at last we were fairly blocked up at Oxford Street. We getten across it after a while though, and my eyes! the grand streets we were in then! They’re sadly puzzled how to build houses though in London; there’d be an opening for a good steady master builder there, as know’d his business. For yo see the houses are many on ‘em built without any proper shape for a body to live in; some on ‘em they’ve after thought would fall down, so they’ve stuck great ugly pillars out before ‘em. And some on ‘em (we thought they must be th’ tailors’ sign) had getten stone men and women as wanted clothes stuck on ‘em. I were like a child, I forgot a’ my errand in looking about me. By this it were dinner-time, or better, as we could tell by the sun, right above our heads, and we were dusty and tired, going a step now and a step then. Well, at last we getten into a street grander nor all, leading to th’ Queen’s palace, and there it were I thought I saw th’ Queen. Yo’ve seen th’ hearses wi’ white plumes, Job?”

  Job assented.

  “Well, them undertaker folk are driving a pretty trade in London. Well-nigh every lady we saw in a carriage had hired one o’ them plumes for the day, and had it niddle noddling on her head. It were the Queen’s Drawing-room, they said, and the carriages went bowling along towards her house, some wi’ dressed-up gentlemen like circus folk in ‘em, and rucks* o’ ladies in others. Carriages themselves were great shakes too. Some o’ the gentlemen as couldn’t get inside hung on behind, wi’ nosegays to smell at, and sticks to keep off folk as might splash their silk stockings. I wonder why they didn’t hire a cab rather than hang on like a whip-behind boy; but I suppose they wished to keep wi’ their wives, Darby and Joan like. Coachmen were little squat men, wi’ wigs like the oud-fashioned parsons’. Well, we could na get on for these carriages, though we waited and waited. Th’ horses were too fat to move quick; they never known want o’ food, one might tell by their sleek coats; and police pushed us back when we tried to cross. One or two of ‘em struck wi’ their sticks, and coachmen laughed, and some officers as stood nigh put their spy-glasses in their eye, and left ‘em sticking there like mountebanks. One o’ th’ police struck me. ‘Whatten business have you to do that?’ said I.

  *Rucks; a great quantity.

  “‘You’re frightening them horses,’ says he, in his mincing way (for Londoners are mostly all tongue-tied, and can’t say their a’s and i’s properly, ‘and it’s our business to keep you from molesting the ladies and gentlemen going to her Majesty’s Drawing-room.’

  “‘And why are we to be molested?’ asked I, ‘going decently about our business, which is life and death to us, and many a little one clemming at home in Lancashire? Which business is of most consequence i’ the sight o’ God, think yo, ourn or them grand ladies and gentlemen as yo think so much on?’

  “But I might as well ha’ held my peace, for he only laughed.”

  John ceased. After waiting a little, to see if he would go on himself, Job said —

  “Well, but that’s not a’ your story, man. Tell us what happened when you got to th’ Parliament House.”

  After a little pause, John answered —

  “If you please, neighbour, I’d rather say nought about that. It’s not to be forgotten, or forgiven either, by me or many another; but I canna tell of our down-casting just as a piece of London news. As long as I live, our rejection of that day will abide in my heart; and as long as I live I shall curse them as so cruelly refused to hear us; but I’ll not speak of it no* more.”

  *A similar use of a double negative is frequent in Chaucer;

  as in the “Miller’s Tale”:

  ”That of no wife toke he non offering

  For curtesie, he sayd, he n’old non.”

  So, daunted in their inquiries, they sat silent for a few minutes.

  Old Job, however, felt that some one must speak, else all the good they had done in dispelling John Barton’s gloom was lost. So after a while he thought of a subject, neither sufficiently dissonant from the last to jar on a full heart, nor too much the same to cherish the continuance of the gloomy train of thought.

  “Did you ever hear tell,” said he to Mary, “that I were in London once?”

  “No!” said she with surprise, and looking at Job with increased respect.

  “Ay, but I were though, and Peg there too, though she minds nought about it, poor wench! You must know I had but one child, and she were Margaret’s mother. I loved her above a bit, and one day when she came (standing behind me for that I should not see her blushes, and stroking my cheeks in her own coaxing way), and told me she and Frank Jennings (as was a joiner lodging near us) should be so happy if they were married, I could not find in my heart t’ say her nay, though I went sick at the thought of losing her away from my home. However, she was my only child, and I never said nought of what I felt, for fear o’ grieving her young heart. But I tried to think o’ the time when I’d been young mysel, and had loved her blessed mother, and how we’d left father and mother, and gone out into th’ world together, and I’m now right thankful I held my peace, and didna fret her wi’ telling her how sore I was at parting wi’ her that were the light o’ my eyes.”

  “But,” said Mary, “you said the young man were a neighbour.”

  “Ay, so he were, and his father afore him. But work were rather slack in Manchester, and Frank’s uncle sent him word o’ London work and London wages, so he were to go there, and it were there Margaret was to follow him. Well, my heart aches yet at thought of those days. She so happy, and he so happy; only the poor father as fretted sadly behind their backs. They were married and stayed some days wi’ me afore setting off; and I’ve often thought sin’, Margaret’s heart failed her many a time those few days, and she would fain ha’ spoken; but I knew fra’ mysel it were better to keep it pent up, and I never let on what I were feeling. I knew what she meant when she came kissing, and holding my hand, and all her old childish ways o’ loving me. Well, they went at last. You know them two letters, Margaret?”

  “Yes, sure,” replied his grand-daughter.

  “Well, them two were the only letters I ever had fra’ her, poor lass. She said in them she were very happy, and I believe she were. And Frank’s family heard he were in good work. In one o’ her letters, poor thing, she ends wi’ saying, ‘Farewell, Grandad!’ wi’ a line drawn under grandad, and fra’ that an’ other hints I knew she were in th’ family way; and I said nought, but I screwed up a little money, thinking come Whitsuntide I’d take a holiday and go and see her an’ th’ little one. But one day towards Whitsuntide, comed Jennings wi’ a grave face, and says he, ‘I hear our Frank and your Margaret’s both getten the fever.’ You might ha’ knocked me down wi’ a straw, for it seemed as if God told me what th’ upshot would be. Old Jennings had gotten a letter, you see, fra’ the landlady they lodged wi’; a well-penned letter, asking if they’d no friends to come and nurse them. She’d caught it first, and Frank, who was as tender o’er her as her own mother could ha’ been, had nursed her till he’d caught it himsel; and she expecting her down- lying* everyday. Well, t’ make a long story short, old Jennings and I went up by that night’s coach. So you see, Mary, that was the way I got to London.”

  *Down-lying; lying in.

  “But how was your daughter when you got there?” asked Mary anxiously.

  “She were at rest, poor wench, and so were Frank. I guessed as much when I see’d th’ landlady’s face, all swelled wi’ crying, when she opened th’ door to us. We said, ‘Where are they?’ and I knew they were dead, fra’ her look; but Jennings didn’t, as I take it; for when she showed us into a room wi’ a white sheet on th’ bed, and underneath it, plain to be seen, two
still figures, he screeched out as if he’d been a woman.

  “Yet he’d other children and I’d none. There lay my darling, my only one. She were dead, and there were no one to love me, no, not one. I disremember* rightly what I did; but I know I were very quiet, while my heart were crushed within me.

  *Disremember; forget.

  “Jennings could na’ stand being in the room at all, so the landlady took him down, and I were glad to be alone. It grew dark while I sat there; and at last th’ landlady came up again, and said, ‘Come here.’ So I got up, and walked into the light, but I had to hold by th’ stair-rails, I were so weak and dizzy. She led me into a room, where Jennings lay on a sofa fast asleep, wi’ his pocket- handkerchief over his head for a night-cap. She said he’d cried himself fairly off to sleep. There were tea on th’ table all ready; for she were a kind-hearted body. But she still said, ‘Come here,’ and took hold o’ my arm. So I went round the table, and there were a clothes-basket by th’ fire, wi’ a shawl put o’er it. ‘Lift that up,’ says she, and I did; and there lay a little wee babby fast asleep. My heart gave a leap, and th’ tears comed rushing into my eyes first time that day. ‘Is it hers?’ said I, though I knew it were. ‘Yes,’ said she. ‘She were getting a bit better o’ the fever, and th’ babby were born; and then the poor young man took worse and died, and she were not many hours behind.’

  “Little mite of a thing! and yet it seemed her angel come back to comfort me. I were quite jealous o’ Jennings whenever he went near the babby. I thought it were more my flesh and blood than his’n, and yet I were afraid he would claim it. However, that were far enough fra’ his thoughts; he’d plenty other childer, and, as I found out after, he’d all along been wishing me to take it. Well, we buried Margaret and her husband in a big, crowded, lonely churchyard in London. I were loath to leave them there, as I thought, when they rose again, they’d feel so strange at first away fra’ Manchester, and all old friends; but it could na be helped. Well, God watches o’er their graves there as well as here. That funeral cost a mint o’ money, but Jennings and I wished to do th’ thing decent. Then we’d the stout little babby to bring home. We’d not overmuch money left; but it were fine weather, and we thought we’d take th’ coach to Brummagem, and walk on. It were a bright May morning when I last saw London town, looking back from a big hill a mile or two off. And in that big mass o’ a place I were leaving my blessed child asleep — in her last sleep. Well, God’s will be done! She’s gotten to heaven afore me; but I shall get there at last, please God, though it’s a long while first.

  “The babby had been fed afore we set out, and th’ coach moving kept it asleep, bless its little heart! But when th’ coach stopped for dinner it were awake, and crying for its pobbies.* So we asked for some bread and milk, and Jennings took it first for to feed it, but it made its mouth like a square, and let it run out at each o’ the four corners. ‘Shake it, Jennings,’ says I; ‘that’s the way they make water run through a funnel, when it’s o’er full; and a child’s mouth is broad end o’ th’ funnel, and th’ gullet the narrow one.’ So he shook it, but it only cried th’ more. ‘Let me have it,’ says I, thinking he were an awkward oud chap. But it were just as bad wi’ me. By shaking th’ babby we got better nor a gill into its mouth, but more nor that came up again, wetting a’ th’ nice dry clothes landlady had put on. Well, just as we’d gotten to th’ dinner-table, and helped oursels, and eaten two mouthful, came in th’ guard, and a fine chap wi’ a sample of calico flourishing in his hand. ‘Coach is ready!’ says one; ‘Half-a-crown your dinner!’ says the other. Well, we thought it a deal for both our dinners, when we’d hardly tasted ‘em; but, bless your life, it were half-a-crown apiece, and a shilling for th’ bread and milk as were possetted all over babby’s clothes. We spoke up again** it; but everybody said it were the rule, so what could two poor oud chaps like us do again it? Well, poor babby cried without stopping to take breath, fra’ that time till we got to Brummagem for the night. My heart ached for th’ little thing. It caught wi’ its wee mouth at our coat sleeves and at our mouths, when we tried t’ comfort it by talking to it. Poor little wench! it wanted its mammy, as were lying cold in th’ grave. ‘Well,’ says I, ‘it’ll be clemmed to death, if it lets out its supper as it did its dinner. Let’s get some woman to feed it; it comes natural to women to do for babbies.’ So we asked th’ chambermaid at the inn, and she took quite kindly to it; and we got a good supper, and grew rare and sleepy, what wi’ th’ warmth and wi’ our long ride i’ the open air. Th’ chambermaid said she would like t’ have it t’ sleep wi’ her, only missis would scold so; but it looked so quiet and smiling like, as it lay in her arms, that we thought ‘t would be no trouble to have it wi’ us. I says: ‘See, Jennings, how women folk do quieten babbies; it’s just as I said.’ He looked grave; he were always thoughtful-looking, though I never heard him say anything very deep. At last says he —

  “‘Young woman! have you gotten a spare nightcap?’

  “‘Missis always keeps nightcaps for gentlemen as does not like to unpack,’ says she, rather quick.

  *”Pobbies,” or “pobs,” child’s porridge.

  **”Again,” for against. “He that is not with me, he is ageyn me.”

  — Wickliffe’s Version.

  “‘Ay, but young woman, it’s one of your nightcaps I want. Th’ babby seems to have taken a mind to yo; and maybe in th’ dark it might take me for yo if I’d getten your nightcap on.’

  “The chambermaid smirked and went for a cap, but I laughed outright at th’ oud bearded chap thinking he’d make hissel like a woman just by putting on a woman’s cap. Howe’er he’d not be laughed out on’t, so I held th’ babby till he were in bed. Such a night as we had on it! Babby began to scream o’ th’ oud fashion, and we took it turn and turn about to sit up and rock it. My heart were very sore for the little one, as it groped about wi’ its mouth; but for a’ that I could scarce keep fra’ smiling at th’ thought o’ us two oud chaps, th’ one wi’ a woman’s nightcap on, sitting on our hinder ends for half the night, hushabying a babby as wouldn’t be hushabied. Toward morning, poor little wench! it fell asleep, fairly tired out wi’ crying, but even in its sleep it gave such pitiful sobs, quivering up fra’ the very bottom of its little heart, that once or twice I almost wished it lay on its mother’s breast, at peace for ever. Jennings fell asleep too; but I began for to reckon up our money. It were little enough we had left, our dinner the day afore had ta’en so much. I didn’t know what our reckoning would be for that night lodging, and supper, and breakfast. Doing a sum always sent me asleep ever sin’ I were a lad; so I fell sound in a short time, and were only wakened by chambermaid tapping at th’ door, to say she’d dress the babby before her missis were up if we liked. But bless yo, we’d never thought o’ undressing it the night afore, and now it were sleeping so sound, and we were so glad o’ the peace and quietness, that we thought it were no good to waken it up to screech again.

  “Well! (there’s Mary asleep for a good listener!) I suppose you’re getting weary of my tale, so I’ll not be long over ending it. Th’ reckoning left us very bare, and we thought we’d best walk home, for it were only sixty mile, they telled us, and not stop again for nought, save victuals. So we left Brummagem (which is as black a place as Manchester, without looking so like home), and walked a’ that day, carrying babby turn and turn about. It were well fed by chambermaid afore we left, and th’ day were fine, and folk began to have some knowledge o’ th’ proper way o’ speaking, and we were more cheery at thought o’ home (though mine, God knows, were lonesome enough). We stopped none for dinner, but at baggin-time* we getten a good meal at a public-house, an’ fed th’ babby as well as we could, but that were but poorly. We got a crust too for it to suck — chambermaid put us up to that. That night, whether we were tired or whatten, I don’t know, but it were dree** work, and th’ poor little wench had slept out her sleep, and began th’ cry as wore my heart out again. Says Jennings, says he —

 
; “‘We should na ha’ set out so like gentlefolk a top o’ the coach yesterday.’

  *Baggin-time; time of the evening meal.

  **Dree; long and tedious. Anglo-Saxon, “dreogan,” to suffer, to

  endure.

  “‘Nay, lad! We should ha’ had more to walk if we had na ridden, and

  I’m sure both you and I’se* weary o’ tramping.’

  *”I have not been, nor IS, nor never schal.” — Wickliffe’s Apology,

  p. I.

  “So he were quiet a bit. But he were one o’ them as were sure to find out somewhat had been done amiss when there were no going back to undo it. So presently he coughs, as if he were going to speak, and I says to myself, ‘At it again, my lad.’ Says he —

  “‘I ax pardon, neighbour, but it strikes me it would ha’ been better for my son if he had never begun to keep company wi’ your daughter.’

  “Well! that put me up, and my heart got very full, and but that I were carrying HER babby, I think I should ha’ struck him. At last I could hold in no longer, and says I —

  “‘Better say at once it would ha’ been better for God never to ha’ made th’ world, for then we’d never ha’ been in it, to have had th’ heavy hearts we have now.’