Delphi Complete Works of Elizabeth Gaskell

by Elizabeth Gaskell

  The mother quivered as she lay in Margaret’s arms. Margaret heard a noise at the door.

  ‘Open it. Open it quick,’ said she to the eldest child. ‘It’s bolted; make no noise — be very still. Oh, papa, let them go upstairs very softly and carefully, and perhaps she will not hear them. She has fainted — that’s all.’

  ‘It’s as well for her, poor creature,’ said a woman following in the wake of the bearers of the dead. ‘But yo’re not fit to hold her. Stay, I’ll run fetch a pillow and we’ll let her down easy on the floor.’

  This helpful neighbour was a great relief to Margaret; she was evidently a stranger to the house, a new-comer in the district, indeed; but she was so kind and thoughtful that Margaret felt she was no longer needed; and that it would be better, perhaps, to set an example of clearing the house, which was filled with idle, if sympathising gazers.

  She looked round for Nicholas Higgins. He was not there. So she spoke to the woman who had taken the lead in placing Mrs. Boucher on the floor.

  ‘Can you give all these people a hint that they had better leave in quietness? So that when she comes round, she should only find one or two that she knows about her. Papa, will you speak to the men, and get them to go away? She cannot breathe, poor thing, with this crowd about her.’

  Margaret was kneeling down by Mrs. Boucher and bathing he face with vinegar; but in a few minutes she was surprised at the gush of fresh air. She looked round, and saw a smile pass between her father and the woman.

  ‘What is it?’ asked she.

  ‘Only our good friend here,’ replied her father, ‘hit on a capital expedient for clearing the place.’

  ‘I bid ‘em begone, and each take a child with ‘em, and to mind that they were orphans, and their mother a widow. It was who could do most, and the childer are sure of a bellyful to-day, and of kindness too. Does hoo know how he died?’

  ‘No,’ said Margaret; ‘I could not tell her all at once.’

  ‘Hoo mun be told because of th’ Inquest. See! Hoo’s coming round; shall you or I do it? or mappen your father would be best?’

  ‘No; you, you,’ said Margaret.

  They awaited her perfect recovery in silence. Then the neighbour woman sat down on the floor, and took Mrs. Boucher’s head and shoulders on her lap.

  ‘Neighbour,’ said she, ‘your man is dead. Guess yo’ how he died?’

  ‘He were drowned,’ said Mrs. Boucher, feebly, beginning to cry for the first time, at this rough probing of her sorrows.

  ‘He were found drowned. He were coming home very hopeless o’ aught on earth. He thought God could na be harder than men; mappen not so hard; mappen as tender as a mother; mappen tenderer. I’m not saying he did right, and I’m not saying he did wrong. All I say is, may neither me nor mine ever have his sore heart, or we may do like things.’

  ‘He has left me alone wi’ a’ these children!’ moaned the widow, less distressed at the manner of the death than Margaret expected; but it was of a piece with her helpless character to feel his loss as principally affecting herself and her children.

  ‘Not alone,’ said Mr. Hale, solemnly. ‘Who is with you? Who will take up your cause?’ The widow opened her eyes wide, and looked at the new speaker, of whose presence she had not been aware till then.

  ‘Who has promised to be a father to the fatherless?’ continued he.

  ‘But I’ve getten six children, sir, and the eldest not eight years of age. I’m not meaning for to doubt His power, sir, — only it needs a deal o’ trust;’ and she began to cry afresh.

  ‘Hoo’ll be better able to talk to-morrow, sir,’ said the neighbour. ‘Best comfort now would be the feel of a child at her heart. I’m sorry they took the babby.’

  ‘I’ll go for it,’ said Margaret. And in a few minutes she returned, carrying Johnnie, his face all smeared with eating, and his hands loaded with treasures in the shape of shells, and bits of crystal, and the head of a plaster figure. She placed him in his mother’s arms.

  ‘There!’ said the woman, ‘now you go. They’ll cry together, and comfort together, better nor any one but a child can do. I’ll stop with her as long as I’m needed, and if yo’ come to-morrow, yo’ can have a deal o’ wise talk with her, that she’s not up to to-day.’

  As Margaret and her father went slowly up the street, she paused at Higgins’s closed door.

  ‘Shall we go in?’ asked her father. ‘I was thinking of him too.’

  They knocked. There was no answer, so they tried the door. It was bolted, but they thought they heard him moving within.

  ‘Nicholas!’ said Margaret. There was no answer, and they might have gone away, believing the house to be empty, if there had not been some accidental fall, as of a book, within.

  ‘Nicholas!’ said Margaret again. ‘It is only us. Won’t you let us come in?’

  ‘No,’ said he. ‘I spoke as plain as I could, ‘bout using words, when I bolted th’ door. Let me be, this day.’

  Mr. Hale would have urged their desire, but Margaret placed her finger on his lips.

  ‘I don’t wonder at it,’ said she. ‘I myself long to be alone. It seems the only thing to do one good after a day like this.’

  CHAPTER XXXVII

  LOOKING SOUTH

  ‘A spade! a rake! a hoe!

  A pickaxe or a bill!

  A hook to reap, or a scythe to mow,

  A flail, or what ye will —

  And here’s a ready hand

  To ply the needful tool,

  And skill’d enough, by lessons rough,

  In Labour’s rugged school.’

  HOOD.

  Higgins’s door was locked the next day, when they went to pay their call on the widow Boucher: but they learnt this time from an officious neighbour, that he was really from home. He had, however, been in to see Mrs. Boucher, before starting on his day’s business, whatever that was. It was but an unsatisfactory visit to Mrs. Boucher; she considered herself as an ill-used woman by her poor husband’s suicide; and there was quite germ of truth enough in this idea to make it a very difficult one to refute. Still, it was unsatisfactory to see how completely her thoughts were turned upon herself and her own position, and this selfishness extended even to her relations with her children, whom she considered as incumbrances, even in the very midst of her somewhat animal affection for them. Margaret tried to make acquaintances with one or two of them, while her father strove to raise the widow’s thoughts into some higher channel than that of mere helpless querulousness. She found that the children were truer and simpler mourners than the widow. Daddy had been a kind daddy to them; each could tell, in their eager stammering way, of some tenderness shown some indulgence granted by the lost father.

  ‘Is yon thing upstairs really him? it doesna look like him. I’m feared on it, and I never was feared o’ daddy.’

  Margaret’s heart bled to hear that the mother, in her selfish requirement of sympathy, had taken her children upstairs to see their disfigured father. It was intermingling the coarseness of horror with the profoundness of natural grief She tried to turn their thoughts in some other direction; on what they could do for mother; on what — for this was a more efficacious way of putting it — what father would have wished them to do. Margaret was more successful than Mr. Hale in her efforts. The children seeing their little duties lie in action close around them, began to try each one to do something that she suggested towards redding up the slatternly room. But her father set too high a standard, and too abstract a view, before the indolent invalid. She could not rouse her torpid mind into any vivid imagination of what her husband’s misery might have been before he had resorted to the last terrible step; she could only look upon it as it affected herself; she could not enter into the enduring mercy of the God who had not specially interposed to prevent the water from drowning her prostrate husband; and although she was secretly blaming her husband for having fallen into such drear despair, and denying that he had any excuse for his last rash act, she was inveterat
e in her abuse of all who could by any possibility be supposed to have driven him to such desperation. The masters — Mr. Thornton in particular, whose mill had been attacked by Boucher, and who, after the warrant had been issued for his apprehension on the charge of rioting, had caused it to be withdrawn, — the Union, of which Higgins was the representative to the poor woman, — the children so numerous, so hungry, and so noisy — all made up one great army of personal enemies, whose fault it was that she was now a helpless widow.

  Margaret heard enough of this unreasonableness to dishearten her; and when they came away she found it impossible to cheer her father.

  ‘It is the town life,’ said she. ‘Their nerves are quickened by the haste and bustle and speed of everything around them, to say nothing of the confinement in these pent-up houses, which of itself is enough to induce depression and worry of spirits. Now in the country, people live so much more out of doors, even children, and even in the winter.’

  ‘But people must live in towns. And in the country some get such stagnant habits of mind that they are almost fatalists.’

  ‘Yes; I acknowledge that. I suppose each mode of life produces its own trials and its own temptations. The dweller in towns must find it as difficult to be patient and calm, as the country-bred man must find it to be active, and equal to unwonted emergencies. Both must find it hard to realise a future of any kind; the one because the present is so living and hurrying and close around him; the other because his life tempts him to revel in the mere sense of animal existence, not knowing of, and consequently not caring for any pungency of pleasure for the attainment of which he can plan, and deny himself and look forward.’

  ‘And thus both the necessity for engrossment, and the stupid content in the present, produce the same effects. But this poor Mrs. Boucher! how little we can do for her.’

  ‘And yet we dare not leave her without our efforts, although they may seem so useless. Oh papa! it’s a hard world to live in!’

  ‘So it is, my child. We feel it so just now, at any rate; but we have been very happy, even in the midst of our sorrow. What a pleasure Frederick’s visit was!’

  ‘Yes, that it was,’ said Margaret; brightly. ‘It was such a charming, snatched, forbidden thing.’ But she suddenly stopped speaking. She had spoiled the remembrance of Frederick’s visit to herself by her own cowardice. Of all faults the one she most despised in others was the want of bravery; the meanness of heart which leads to untruth. And here had she been guilty of it! Then came the thought of Mr. Thornton’s cognisance of her falsehood. She wondered if she should have minded detection half so much from any one else. She tried herself in imagination with her Aunt Shaw and Edith; with her father; with Captain and Mr. Lennox; with Frederick. The thought of the last knowing what she had done, even in his own behalf, was the most painful, for the brother and sister were in the first flush of their mutual regard and love; but even any fall in Frederick’s opinion was as nothing to the shame, the shrinking shame she felt at the thought of meeting Mr. Thornton again. And yet she longed to see him, to get it over; to understand where she stood in his opinion. Her cheeks burnt as she recollected how proudly she had implied an objection to trade (in the early days of their acquaintance), because it too often led to the deceit of passing off inferior for superior goods, in the one branch; of assuming credit for wealth and resources not possessed, in the other. She remembered Mr. Thornton’s look of calm disdain, as in few words he gave her to understand that, in the great scheme of commerce, all dishonourable ways of acting were sure to prove injurious in the long run, and that, testing such actions simply according to the poor standard of success, there was folly and not wisdom in all such, and every kind of deceit in trade, as well as in other things. She remembered — she, then strong in her own untempted truth — asking him, if he did not think that buying in the cheapest and selling in the dearest market proved some want of the transparent justice which is so intimately connected with the idea of truth: and she had used the word chivalric — and her father had corrected her with the higher word, Christian; and so drawn the argument upon himself, while she sate silent by with a slight feeling of contempt.

  No more contempt for her! — no more talk about the chivalric! Henceforward she must feel humiliated and disgraced in his sight. But when should she see him? Her heart leaped up in apprehension at every ring of the door-bell; and yet when it fell down to calmness, she felt strangely saddened and sick at heart at each disappointment. It was very evident that her father expected to see him, and was surprised that he did not come. The truth was, that there were points in their conversation the other night on which they had no time then to enlarge; but it had been understood that if possible on the succeeding evening — if not then, at least the very first evening that Mr. Thornton could command, — they should meet for further discussion. Mr. Hale had looked forward to this meeting ever since they had parted. He had not yet resumed the instruction to his pupils, which he had relinquished at the commencement of his wife’s more serious illness, so he had fewer occupations than usual; and the great interest of the last day or so (Boucher’s suicide) had driven him back with more eagerness than ever upon his speculations. He was restless all evening. He kept saying, ‘I quite expected to have seen Mr. Thornton. I think the messenger who brought the book last night must have had some note, and forgot to deliver it. Do you think there has been any message left to-day?’

  ‘I will go and inquire, papa,’ said Margaret, after the changes on these sentences had been rung once or twice. ‘Stay, there’s a ring!’ She sate down instantly, and bent her head attentively over her work. She heard a step on the stairs, but it was only one, and she knew it was Dixon’s. She lifted up her head and sighed, and believed she felt glad.

  ‘It’s that Higgins, sir. He wants to see you, or else Miss Hale. Or it might be Miss Hale first, and then you, sir; for he’s in a strange kind of way.

  ‘He had better come up here, Dixon; and then he can see us both, and choose which he likes for his listener.’

  ‘Oh! very well, sir. I’ve no wish to hear what he’s got to say, I’m sure; only, if you could see his shoes, I’m sure you’d say the kitchen was the fitter place.

  ‘He can wipe them, I suppose, said Mr. Hale. So Dixon flung off, to bid him walk up-stairs. She was a little mollified, however, when he looked at his feet with a hesitating air; and then, sitting down on the bottom stair, he took off the offending shoes, and without a word walked up-stairs.

  ‘Sarvant, sir!’ said he, slicking his hair down when he came into the room. ‘If hoo’l excuse me (looking at Margaret) for being i’ my stockings; I’se been tramping a’ day, and streets is none o’ th’ cleanest.’

  Margaret thought that fatigue might account for the change in his manner, for he was unusually quiet and subdued; and he had evidently some difficulty in saying what he came to say.

  Mr. Hale’s ever-ready sympathy with anything of shyness or hesitation, or want of self-possession, made him come to his aid.

  ‘We shall have tea up directly, and then you’ll take a cup with us, Mr. Higgins. I am sure you are tired, if you’ve been out much this wet relaxing day. Margaret, my dear, can’t you hasten tea?’

  Margaret could only hasten tea by taking the preparation of it into her own hands, and so offending Dixon, who was emerging out of her sorrow for her late mistress into a very touchy, irritable state. But Martha, like all who came in contact with Margaret — even Dixon herself, in the long run — felt it a pleasure and an honour to forward any of her wishes; and her readiness, and Margaret’s sweet forbearance, soon made Dixon ashamed of herself.

  ‘Why master and you must always be asking the lower classes up-stairs, since we came to Milton, I cannot understand. Folk at Helstone were never brought higher than the kitchen; and I’ve let one or two of them know before now that they might think it an honour to be even there.’

  Higgins found it easier to unburden himself to one than to two.

  After Margaret l
eft the room, he went to the door and assured

  himself that it was shut. Then he came and stood close to Mr.

  Hale.

  ‘Master,’ said he, ‘yo’d not guess easy what I’ve been tramping after to-day. Special if yo’ remember my manner o’ talk yesterday. I’ve been a seeking work. I have’ said he. ‘I said to mysel’, I’d keep a civil tongue in my head, let who would say what ‘em would. I’d set my teeth into my tongue sooner nor speak i’ haste. For that man’s sake — yo’ understand,’ jerking his thumb back in some unknown direction.

  ‘No, I don’t,’ said Mr. Hale, seeing he waited for some kind of assent, and completely bewildered as to who ‘that man’ could be.

  ‘That chap as lies theer,’ said he, with another jerk. ‘Him as went and drownded himself, poor chap! I did na’ think he’d got it in him to lie still and let th’ water creep o’er him till he died. Boucher, yo’ know.’

  ‘Yes, I know now,’ said Mr. Hale. ‘Go back to what you were saying: you’d not speak in haste — — ’

  ‘For his sake. Yet not for his sake; for where’er he is, and whate’er, he’ll ne’er know other clemming or cold again; but for the wife’s sake, and the bits o’ childer.’

  ‘God bless you!’ said Mr. Hale, starting up; then, calming down, he said breathlessly, ‘What do you mean? Tell me out.’

  ‘I have telled yo’,’ said Higgins, a little surprised at Mr. Hale’s agitation. ‘I would na ask for work for mysel’; but them’s left as a charge on me. I reckon, I would ha guided Boucher to a better end; but I set him off o’ th’ road, and so I mun answer for him.’