Delphi Complete Works of Elizabeth Gaskell

by Elizabeth Gaskell

  After he was gone, Bessy wished he had asked her to walk part of the way with him into Highminster. She was all ready, her things laid out on the bed; but she could not accompany him without invitation.

  The little household tried to close over the gap as best they might. They seemed to set themselves to their daily work with unusual vigour; but somehow, when evening came there had been little done. Heavy hearts never make light work, and there was no telling how much care and anxiety each had had to bear in secret in the field, at the wheel, or in the dairy. Formerly, he was looked for every Saturday - looked for, though he might not come; or, if he came, there were things to be spoken about that made his visit anything but a pleasure: still, he might come, and all things might go right; and then what sunshine, what gladness to those humble people! But now he was away, and dreary winter was come on; old folks’ sight fails, and the evenings were long and sad, in spite of all Bessy could do or say. And he did not write so often as he might - so each one thought; though each one would have been ready to defend him from either of the others who had expressed such a thought aloud. ‘Surely,’ said Bessy to herself, when the first primroses peeped out in a sheltered and sunny hedge-bank, and she gathered them as she passed home from afternoon church -’ surely, there never will be such a dreary, miserable winter again as this has been.’ There had been a great change in Nathan and Hester Huntroyd during this last year. The spring before, when Benjamin was yet the subject of more hopes than fears, his father and mother looked what I may call an elderly middle-aged couple: people who had a good deal of hearty work in them yet. Now - it was not his absence alone that caused the change - they looked frail and old, as if each day’s natural trouble was a burden more than they could bear. For Nathan had heard sad reports about his only child, and had told them solemnly to his wife - as things too bad to be believed, and yet, ‘God help us if he is indeed such a lad as this!’ Their eyes were become too dry and hollow for many tears; they sat together, hand in hand; and shivered, and sighed, and did not speak many words, or dare to look at each other: and then Hester had said -

  ‘We mauna tell th’ lass. Young folks’ hearts break wi’ a little, and she’d be apt to fancy it were true.’ Here the old woman’s voice broke into a kind of piping cry; but she struggled, and her next words were all right. ‘We mauna tell her: he’s bound to be fond on her, and, may be, if she thinks well on him, and loves him, it will bring him straight!’

  ‘God grant it !’ said Nathan.

  ‘God shall grant it!’ said Hester, passionately moaning out her words; and then repeating them, alas! with a vain repetition.

  ‘It’s a bad place for lying, is Highminster,’ said she at length, as if impatient of the silence. ‘I never knowed such a place for getting up stories. But Bessy knows nought on ‘em and nother you nor me belie’es ‘em, that’s one blessing.’

  But if they did not in their hearts believe them, how came they to look so sad and worn, beyond what mere age could make them?

  Then came round another year, another winter, yet more miserable than the last. This year, with the primroses, came Benjamin; a bad, hard, flippant young man, with yet enough of specious manners and handsome countenance to make his appearance striking at first to those to whom the aspect of a London fast young man of the lowest order is strange and new. Just at first, as he sauntered in with a swagger and an air of indifference, which was partly assumed, partly real, his old parents felt a simple kind of awe of him, as if he were not their son, but a real gentleman; but they had too much fine instinct in their homely natures not to know, after a very few minutes had passed, that this was not a true prince.

  ‘Whatten ever does he mean,’ said Hester to her niece, as soon as they were alone, ‘by a’ them maks and wear-locks? And he minces his words, as if his tongue were clipped short, or split like a magpie’s. Hech! London is as bad as a hot day i’ August for spoiling good flesh; for he were a good-looking lad when he went up; and now, look at him, with his skin gone into lines and flourishes, just like the first page on a copybook.’

  ‘I think he looks a good deal better, aunt, for them new-fashioned whiskers!’ said Bessy, blushing still at the remembrance of the kiss he had given her on first seeing her - a pledge, she thought, poor girl, that, in spite of his long silence in letter-writing, he still looked upon her as his troth-plight wife. There were things about him which none of them liked, although they never spoke of them; yet there was also something to gratify them in the way in which he remained quiet at Nab-End, instead of seeking variety, as he had formerly done, by constantly stealing off to the neighbouring town. His father had paid all the debts that he knew of, soon after Benjamin had gone up to London; so there were no duns that his parents knew of to alarm him, and keep him at home. And he went out in the morning with the old man, his father, and lounged by his side, as Nathan went round his fields, with busy yet infirm gait; having heart, as he would have expressed it, in all that was going on, because at length his son seemed to take an interest in the farming affairs, and stood patiently by his side, while he compared his own small galloways with the great shorthorns looming over his neighbour’s hedge.

  ‘It’s a slovenly way, thou seest, that of selling th’ milk; folk don’t care whether its good or not, so that they get their pint-measure of stuff that’s watered afore it leaves th’ beast, instead o’ honest cheating by the help o’ th’ pump. But look at Bessy’s butter, what skill it shows! part her own manner o’ making, and part good choice o’ cattle. It’s a pleasure to see her basket, a’ packed ready to go to market; and it’s noan o’ a pleasure for to see the buckets fu’ of their blue starch-water as yon beasts give. I’m thinking they crossed th’ breed wi’ a pump not long sin’. Hech! but our Bessy’s a clever canny wench! I sometimes think thou’lt be for gie’ing up th’ law, and taking to th’ oud trade, when thou wedst wi’ her!’ This was intended to be a skilful way of ascertaining whether there was any ground for the old farmer’s wish and prayer, that Benjamin might give up the law and return to the primitive occupation of his father. Nathan dared to hope it now, since his son had never made much by his profession, owing, as he had said, to his want of a connection; and the farm, and the stock, and the clean wife, too, were ready to his hand; and Nathan could safely rely on himself never, in his most unguarded moments, to reproach his son with the hardly-earned hundreds that had been spent on his education. So the old man listened with painful interest to the answer which his son was evidently struggling to make, coughing a little and blowing his nose before he spoke.

  ‘Well, you see, father, law is a precarious livelihood; a man, as I may express myself, has no chanes - in the profession unless he is known - known to the judges, and tip-top barristers, and that sort of thing. Now, you see, my mother and you have no acquaintance that you may call exactly in that line. But luckily I have met with a man, a friend, as I may say, who is really a first-rate fellow, knowing everybody, from the Lord Chancellor downwards; and he has offered me a share in his business - a partnership, in short’ - He hesitated a little.

  ‘I’m sure that’s uncommon kind of the gentleman,’ said Nathan. I should like for to thank him mysen; for it’s not many as would pick up a young chap out o’ th’ dirt, as it were, and say “Here’s hauf my good fortune for you, sir, and your very good health!” Most on ‘em when they’re gettin’ a bit o’ luck, run off wi’ it to keep it a’ to themselves, and gobble it down in a corner. What may be his name? for I should like to know it.’

  ‘You don’t quite apprehend me, father. A great deal of what you’ve said is true to the letter. People don’t like to share their good luck, as you say.’

  ‘The more credit to them as does,’ broke in Nathan.

  ‘Ay, but, you see, even such a fine fellow as my friend Cavendish does not like to give away half his good practice for nothing. He expects an equivalent.’

  ‘“An equivalent?”‘ said Nathan; his voice had dropped down an octave.’ And what may that be? There
’s always some meaning in grand words, I take it; though I am not book-larned enough to find it out.’

  ‘Why, in this case, the equivalent he demands for taking me into partnership, and afterwards relinquishing the whole business to me, is three hundred pounds down.’

  Benjamin looked sideways from under his eyes, to see how his father took the proposition. His father struck his stick deep down in the ground; and, leaning one hand upon it, faced round at him.

  ‘Then thy fine friend may go and be hanged. Three hunder pounds! I’ll be darned an’ danged too, if I know where to get ‘em, if I’d be making a fool o’ thee an’ mysen too.’

  He was out of breath by this time. His son took his father’s first words in dogged silence; it was but the burst of surprise he had led himself to expect, and did not daunt him for long.

  ‘I should think, sir’ -

  ‘“Sir” - whatten for dost thou “sir” me? Is them your manners? I’m plain Nathan Huntroyd, who never took on to be a gentleman; but I have paid my way up to this time, which I shannot do much longer, if I’m to have a son coming an’ asking me for three hundred pound, just meet same as if I were a cow, and had nothing to do but let down my milk to the first person as strokes me.’

  ‘Well, father,’ said Benjamin, with an affectation of frankness; ‘then there’s nothing for me but to do as I have often planned before - go and emigrate.’

  ‘And what?’ said his father, looking sharply and steadily at him.

  ‘Emigrate. Go to America, or India, or some colony where there would be an opening for a young man of spirit.’

  Benjamin had reserved this proposition for his trump card, expecting by means of it to carry all before him. But, to his surprise, his father plucked his stick out of the hole he had made when he so vehemently thrust it into the ground, and walked on four or five steps in advance; there he stood still again, and there was a dead silence for a few minutes.

  ‘It ‘ud, may be, be the best thing thou couldst do,’ the father began. Benjamin set his teeth hard to keep in curses. It was well for poor Nathan he did not look round then, and see the look his son gave him. ‘But it would come hard like upon us, upon Hester and me; for, whether thou’rt a good ‘un or not, thou’rt our flesh and blood, our only bairn; and, if thou’rt not all as a man could wish, it’s, may be, been the fault on our pride i’ the - It ‘ud kill the missus, if he went off to Amerikay, and Bess, too, the lass as thinks so much on him!’ The speech, originally addressed to his son, had wandered off into a monologue - as keenly listened to by Benjamin, however, as if it had all been spoken to him. After a pause of consideration, his father turned round:

  ‘Yon man - I wunnot call him a friend o’ yourn, to think of asking you for such a mint o’ money - is not th’ only one, I’ll be bound, as could give ye a start i’ the law? Other folks ‘ud, may be, do it for less?’

  ‘Not one of ‘em; to give me equal advantages,’ said Benjamin, thinking he perceived signs of relenting.

  ‘Well, then, thou may’st tell him that it’s nother he nor thee as ‘ll see th’ sight o’ three hundred pound o’ my money. I’ll not deny as I’ve a bit laid up again’ a rainy day; it’s not so much as thatten, though; and a part on it is for Bessy, as has been like a daughter to us.’

  ‘But Bessy is to be your real daughter some day, when I’ve a home to take her to,’ said Benjamin; for he played very fast and loose, even in his own mind, with his engagement with Bessy. Present with her, when she was looking her brightest and best, he behaved to her as if they were engaged lovers; absent from her, he looked upon her rather as a good wedge, to be driven into his parents’ favour on his behalf. Now, however, he was not exactly untrue in speaking as if he meant to make her his wife; for the thought was in his mind, though he made use of it to work upon his father.

  ‘It will be a dree day for us, then,’ said the old man. ‘But God’ll have us in His keeping, and’ll, may-happen, be taking more care on us i’ heaven by that time than Bess, good lass as she is, has had on us at Nab-End. Her heart is set on thee, too. But, lad, I hanna gotten the three hunder; I keeps my cash i’ th’ stocking, thous know’st, till it reaches fifty pound, and then I takes it to Ripon Bank. Now the last scratch they’n gi’en me made it just two-hunder, and I hanna but on to fifteen pound yet i’ the stockin’, and I meant one hunder an’ the red cow’s calf to be for Bess, she’s ta’en such pleasure like i’ rearing it’.

  Benjamin gave a sharp glance at his father, to see if he was telling the truth; and, that a suspicion of the old man, his father, had entered into the son’s head, tells enough of his own character.

  ‘I canna do it, I canna do it, for sure; although I shall like to think as I had helped on the wedding. There’s the black heifer to be sold yet, and she’ll fetch a matter of ten pound; but a deal on’t will be needed for seed-corn, for the arable did but bad last year, and I thought I would try - I’ll tell thee what, lad! I’ll make it as though Bess lent thee her hunder, only thou must give her a writ of hand for it; and thou shalt have a’ the money i’ Ripon Bank, and see if the lawyer wunnot let thee have a share of what he offered thee at three hunder for two. I dunnot mean for to wrong him; but thou must get a fair share for the money. At times, I think thou’rt done by folk; now I wadna have you cheat a bairn of a brass farthing; same time, I wadna have thee so soft as to be cheated.’

  To explain this, it should be told that some of the bills, which Benjamin had received money from his father to pay, had been altered so as to cover other and less creditable expenses which the young man had incurred; and the simple old farmer, who had still much faith left in him for his boy, was acute enough to perceive that he had paid above the usual price for the articles he had purchased.

  After some hesitation, Benjamin agreed to receive the two hundred, and promised to employ it to the best advantage in setting himself up in business. He had, nevertheless, a strange hankering after the additional fifteen pounds that was left to accumulate in the stocking. It was his, he thought, as heir to his father; and he soon lost some of his usual complaisance for Bessy that evening, as he dwelt on the idea that there was money being laid by for her, and grudged it to her even in imagination. He thought more of this fifteen pounds that he was not to have than of all the hardly-earned and humbly-saved two hundred that he was to come into possession of. Meanwhile, Nathan was in unusual spirits that evening. He was so generous and affectionate at heart, that he had an unconscious satisfaction in having helped two people on the road to happiness by the sacrifice of the greater part of his property. The very fact of having trusted his son so largely seemed to make Benjamin more worthy of trust in his father’s estimation. The sole idea he tried to banish was, that, if all came to pass as he hoped, both Benjamin and Bessy would be settled far away from Nab-End; but then he had a child-like reliance that ‘God would take care of him and his missus, somehow or anodder. It wur o’ no use looking too far ahead.’

  Bessy had to hear many unintelligible jokes from her uncle that night; for he made no doubt that Benjamin had told her all that had passed, whereas the truth was, his son had said never a word to his cousin on the subject.

  When the old couple were in bed, Nathan told his wife of the promise he had made to his son, and the plan in life which the advance of the two hundred was to promote. Poor Hester was a little startled at the sudden change in the destination of the sum, which she had long thought of with secret pride as money i’ th’ bank’. But she was willing enough to part with it, if necessary, for Benjamin. Only, how such a sum could be necessary, was the puzzle. But even the perplexity was jostled out of her mind by the overwhelming idea, not only of ‘our Ben’ settling in London, but of Bessy going there too as his wife. This great trouble swallowed up all care about money, and Hester shivered and sighed all the night through with distress. In the morning, as Bessy was kneading the bread, her aunt, who had been sitting by the fire in an unusual manner, for one of her active habits, said -

  ‘I reckon
we maun go to th’ shop for our bread; an’ that’s a thing I never thought to come to so long as I lived.’

  Bessy looked up from her kneading, surprised.

  ‘I’m sure, I’m noan going to eat their nasty stuff. What for do ye want to get baker’s bread, aunt? This dough will rise as high as a kite in a south wind.’

  ‘I’m not up to kneading as I could do once; it welly breaks my back; and, when thou’rt off in London, I reckon we maun buy our bread, first time in my life.’

  ‘I’m not a-goin to London,’ said Bessy, kneading away with fresh resolution, and growing very red, either with the idea or the exertion.

  ‘But our Ben is going partner wi’ a great London lawyer; and thou know’st he’ll not tarry long but what he’ll fetch thee.’

  ‘Now, aunt,’ said Bessy, stripping her arms of the dough, but still not looking up, ‘if that’s all, don’t fret yourself. Ben will have twenty minds in his head, afore he settles, eyther in business or in wedlock. I sometimes wonder,’ she said, with increasing vehemence, ‘why I go on thinking on him; for I dunnot think he thinks on me, when I’m out o’ sight. I’ve a month’s mind to try and forget him this time, when he leaves us - that I have!’

  ‘For shame, wench! and he to be planning and purposing, all for thy sake! It wur only yesterday as he wur talking to thy uncle, and mapping it out so clever; only, thou seest, wench, it’ll be dree work for us when both thee and him is gone.’

  The old woman began to cry the kind of tearless cry of the aged. Bessy hastened to comfort her; and the two talked, and grieved, and hoped, and planned for the days that now were to be, till they ended, the one in being consoled, the other in being secretly happy.